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loversandantiheroes · 4 years ago

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Hotel Hobbies - Part 2

Jack “Whiskey” Daniels x f!Reader Author’s Note: This was not going to be a multi-chapter thing, but then people liked it and Whiskey wouldn’t shut the hell up so here we are, folks. I no longer know where this is going so strap the fuck in I guess. This is so long and I am so sorry. Edited for a cleanup 10/5/2020 Summary: A co-worker gives the Reader a little nudge, which backfires just a bit when Whiskey runs unexpectedly late. Warnings: Public sex, exhibitionism, angry sex, mild choking/breath play, oral sex (f! receiving), fingering, dirty talk, rough sex, spitting, spanking, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex (do as I say not as I fictionalize), creampies, come eating, vague allusions to Whiskey’s job and all the dangers contained therein, Whiskey is a service top and I do not take criticism, very brief mention of Whiskey’s past, exactly one (1) use of Spanish that I hope I didn’t fuck up too badly. Rating: Explicit / NSFW / 18+ / How much clearer can I make this? Word Count: 12k+ (oh GOD do not look at me I have no idea what happened) Previous: Prelude / Part 1 / Interlude Taglist: @ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa @oloreaa @the-feckless-wonder @sarcasmisakindofmagic

The conference drags on into its fourth day in a parade of excessively bored people in suits and pencil skirts toting stale danishes and overpriced coffee; the only comforts provided to distract you from the mobius circle-jerk of tedious corporate bullshit. Most of the assembly hall does little more than nod blandly as yet another guest speaker goes through their presentation, the topic of which you forget at least six times throughout the course of it. Half of the attendees aren't even bothering to take notes anymore. The company could've filled the room with potted plants in cheap suits and gotten a better result. At least the plants would provide a little oxygen to the atmosphere.

It certainly doesn't help your case that half of your brain is circling endlessly around Whiskey. You scribble down a set of shorthand bullet points in your notes and try to blink away the image of his arms straining against taut ropes. You sip your coffee and remember the heat of his tongue chasing the taste of his namesake in your mouth. When you cross your legs and feel the deep, pleasant twinge between them, for a split second all you can think about is the way he felt sinking down into you with his teeth against your neck.

The time absolutely crawls by. There's moments when you half expect to look up at the old analog clock on the wall and see the hands start running backward. Of course this would be the day the presentations run long, wouldn't it? Restless and fidgety, you eventually give up on your notes completely and just resign your attention to the clock and whatever obscenity your brain wants to conjure up from the night before.

Claudia, one of your only work friends that actually opted to attend this fiasco, gives you increasingly amused looks throughout the morning, glancing up at you over her phone (on which, you can't help but notice, she has been playing Bejeweled for the past hour with the brightness turned down). After you check the clock for the fifth time in twenty minutes, unable to really keep yourself from sighing angrily through your nose, she shakes her head at you, laughing quietly.

"So what's his name?" she whispers, leaning over conspiratorially.

You give her a glare, but she only raises her eyebrows expectantly. Goddamn it, why does the entire universe find it so funny when you're irritated?

"Whiskey," you mutter back, glowering.

She has to clamp a hand over her mouth to stop a snorting giggle from being loud enough to cause a disruption. "Oh my god," she sputters. "Are you fucking a biker?"

And okay, maybe that is a little funny. You shake your head, mutter back, "Cowboy."

Claudia grins so wide her shoulders pull up with it. "Save a horse," she whispers, trying to dodge out of the way when you elbow her to cut off the rest of the joke. Three people behind you simultaneously shush the two of you, and you toss a dirty look over your shoulder, settling back into your seat.

A few seconds go by before Claudia's leaning back over to quietly add, "The dick must be good to get you this distracted."

"Shut up," you shoot back, but you're already smiling.

When the presentation ends, the entire auditorium raising up on creaking knees to shuffle out to break for lunch, Claudia's hand clamps down on your arm.

"I'm buying lunch and you're going to tell me everything."

So you do. Parked in her conservative little hybrid over styrofoam boxes of take out, you tell her. Damn near everything, too. She listens with rapt attention, this not being the first time she's poked you for details of your love life, such as it is, but judging by the look on her face it's possibly taken the top spot as the most memorable.

"So you're gonna see him again," she says finally as you tell her about Whiskey's invitation before slipping out the door this morning.

You settle back, trying to make yourself look suitably apathetic before answering in the hopes of not being completely transparent. "I dunno. Maybe."

She rolls her eyes. "Oh please. You're gonna see him again. You've been spaced out with dickbrain all day, there's no way you're turning down that invitation."

You wave the end of your plastic fork threateningly. "I will stab you, I swear."

"Not with this many witnesses," she says with a wave at the horde of pedestrians outside on the sidewalk, blatantly ignoring the shanking motions you make in warning.

When she doesn't drop that annoying, knowing look, you start jabbing at your food, rolling a piece of cucumber around the styrofoam. "I mean...ok yeah I thought about it."

"All morning," Claudia provides.

"Fuck you," you counter lightly, and resist the urge to fling the chunk of cucumber at her. "I just...I don't know. I don't think it's a good idea."

"Oh my god, why not?" she cries, head thrown back in exasperation.

"Well it's not exactly fucking sensible, is it?"

"Honey if you were worried about being sensible you wouldn't have fucked a cowboy you picked up at a hotel bar," she says with a shake of her head.

"Did you miss the part where he tried to convince me he was James fucking Bond? I mean c'mon Claudia. That's gotta be...I dunno, some kinda red flag."

She scoffs, flapping a dismissive hand. "Oh please, when the bullshit's that obvious I don't even think it counts. It’s not like you bought it anyway. Besides, honesty is the backbone of a solid relationship, if you're just poking fun it's more like a bonus. As long as he's not married and not a serial killer, who gives a shit? You’re overthinking the shit outta this, hon.”

That’s...well that’s not wrong. It’s honestly irritating how not wrong that is.

When you don’t give a response save for the idle sounds of plastic scratching on your takeout box, Claudia groans. “God are you really gonna make me talk you into getting yourself laid? Okay, if you wanna be rational about it, fine, here's some rational thought for you." She pops out her thumb, ticking off digits as she lists. "He's hot. He likes to eat pussy. He's a fuckin' sub, which - holy shit, girl. Holy actual fucking shit. Plus he's packing and he actually knows what to do with it. Oh, and he bought you fuckin' breakfast!" She wiggles her fingers as she thrusts her hands out towards you. "Seven outta ten, babe! My god, if you don't fuck him I'll do it for you just so I don't have to eat another shitty continental breakfast."

You laugh, but there's a hot flush creeping up your face, and you have to stare out the window for a minute until it starts to wind back. It's almost successful, until you think of Whiskey again. This time, though, all you think of is him outlined in the door, looking back at you with his face too shaded to see. And then your cheeks flare hot again, not with that lingering sense of want, but with a flighty kind of panic.

And just like that you pin it down, your stomach twisting on itself as you finally put words to that moment of apprehension. Whiskey doesn't scare you. His lines don't scare you. The way he fucks you doesn't even scare you. But that moment that he lingered does. It scares you because you think maybe what was going through his head is the same thing that's been going through yours, a fine little thread looped around every remembered pleasure: the worry that you're about to develop a taste for something that you'll never have the chance to get again.

Maybe it's better to leave it. To chalk it up as a fluke and not risk finding out that he'd feel just as good the second time as he did the first. Cut it off now before that lingering taste turns into a full-blown craving.

Claudia sighs, closing her takeaway box. "Look, hon. I'm not trying to tell you what to do. It just sounds to me like you're overthinking this. You don't need to be fucking sensible all the goddamn time. So what if you're thinking with your pussy right now? You had fun. He was fun. You have the option to have more fun. You are entitled to have some fun. So, hey: fuck sensibility and have some fucking fun."

You nod. It's reflex at first, but slowly becomes more deliberate. More sure. "Okay. Yeah. You're probably right."

"I am always right, thank-you-very-much," she corrects, and then promptly shrieks as you launch a slice of cucumber into her hair.

⁂

The trick of it all, you remind yourself that evening as you cross the hotel lobby for the elevator, is not to think about it. Because if you think about it, really think about it, you will find a way to talk yourself out it. Sensibility is as much of a hindrance as a help at times. But you've decided now: the absolute last thing you want to be tonight is sensible. You've been bored out of your mind all week, and as much as you're loathe to admit it, Whiskey has been the only bright spot in the whole affair. At least he's given you something to look forward to, even if it is just the prospect of getting railed until you forget your own name.

You take the time to change when you make it to your room. Grab yourself a short, but blisteringly hot shower, and conveniently forget your panties when you redress. Eventually you make your way down to the bar with your heart almost strangling you with the way it's seemingly lodged itself in your throat. Whiskey's nowhere to be seen, which isn't a complete surprise. He always seemed to turn up a little late in the evening before. Not wanting to deviate too far from your own habits, if only to make yourself a little easier to spot, you take your familiar place at the far end where you've been set up for so many nights in a row. You order your drink, make friends with the closest basket of pretzels, and you wait.

And wait...and wait.

Your eyes are half on the clock and half on the door, flicking back to that last at every sign of movement. Despite the fact that you're practically nursing your drink, the bartender refills your glass twice over the course of the night. When he offers a third, you shake your head. Your face feels like it's burning. The bartender nods and wanders away, either oblivious to the growing anger on your face or determined not to end up the recipient of it.

It's nearly midnight when you finally push yourself off the bar stool, throwing down enough bills to cover your tab and storming off. He stood you up. You cannot fucking believe it. What's worse is you feel like you should believe it. Should've expected it. As if a man that strutted around like a preening rooster and fed you a bullshit James Bond story would have a streak of honesty.

You punch the elevator button hard enough to make your hand tingle, pushing your way through the doors as they open and hitting the button for your floor. The walls of the elevator are mirrored, and you duck your head, not wanting to know what your face looks like just now, twisted up in anger and more than a little shame. The doors hang for a moment before sliding closed. At the last possible second a hand darts in, stopping them. Broad. Tanned. Tattooed. The man of the hour leans through the doors as they retreat, and gives you a grin.

"Room for one more?"

Your stomach does a back flip, blood rushing in so many directions you're not sure if you've got enough left to power a response. If this little scenario had played out even half an hour earlier, you might've laughed. Might've fallen back into that easy bitchy banter the two of you seemed so good at. Might've even kissed him. But not now. Now you've built up too much steam, and every little ounce of anger – earned or not – that you'd had percolating for this man since you first laid eyes on him bursts out of your mouth in two words, laced with as much venom as you can muster.

"Fuck you."

You can practically hear the record scratch in his head. The smile falls, eyebrows ratchet up so high you can't see them for the brim of his hat. It's satisfying in an awful sort of way. Like scratching an itch hard enough to draw blood. Too late to take it back now, though. You lash out at the elevator panel, punching the button marked CLOSE DOORS, and Whiskey side-steps neatly inside.

"All right," he says slowly. "That is not exactly the reaction I was hoping for."

"Yeah, well tough shit, cowboy," you all but spit, raking a hand through your hair. You keep your eyes down. Forward. Anywhere but on him. It's hard, too many reflections. Even the distorted shape of his silhouette in the door makes your blood boil.

"I know I'm late," he starts, hands raised, and the low and placating tone of his voice hits you like lighter fluid on a match.

"You don't fucking say?"

His hands drop. "Can I at least explain myself?"

Laughing too loud and too sharp, you shrug, shoulders pulling up hard. "Yeah, sure, why not? Let me guess, rough day at Spy HQ? Assassination appointment run over? Or were you just hiding behind the fucking dieffenbachia to see how long I'd stick around before I came to my fucking senses?"

The shrill sound of your own voice almost makes you wince. You're overreacting. It's not like you're unaware of it. But you're pissed off, and worse now, you've committed to being pissed off. Backing down now is damn near impossible, never mind actually apologizing.

Whiskey takes a step forward, his eyes gone all puppy dog again; wide and imploring under twisted brows. "Look, I don't blame you for thinkin' the worst. I know I left you waitin', and I apologize for that -"

You roll your eyes, mouth twisting into a smile that shows too much teeth to be kind. "Christ, y'know what, don't flatter yourself. I like that bar. The pretzels are nice and they don't water down the liquor. I didn't show up for you."

"Oh horseshit," he snaps. He doesn't raise his voice, but there is a whip crack of impatience in it. "If you didn't want to see me tonight you wouldn't have turned up at all. You and I both know that."

Fuming, you jam your hand into your purse, fishing out his flask and tossing it at him hard enough that it hits him square in the chest. He catches it on the rebound.

"Here. You forgot this."

Whiskey turns it over in his hands, thumping the metal against his palm. "Right. I see," he says slowly, slipping the flask into his pocket. Under that thick drawl, there's a twinge of something that might be disappointment. "Just came to do the decent thing and return a man's property."

"Yes." Part of you sinks, screaming in frustration. But it's like you're a spectator now, just watching yourself sabotage the only thing that'd brought you a shred of joy all week just because your pride and temper won't allow any other option.

One hand falls to his hip, the other rubs idly across his mouth. He's scowling now, quite spectacularly at that, and for a second you think you've finally dealt enough of a blow to his pride to piss him off. Then he steps in close, jaw set. The way his eyes travel up and down you sends a flush through your body, and you're not sure if you want to slap him hard enough to knock the mustache off his face or kiss him until his lips bleed. His gaze lingers at your hip, your curves quite plainly displayed under the tight skirt. He reaches out. The back of his fingernails barely brush the fabric.

"Do you always make returns without any panties on?"

You try to swallow, but find your mouth has gone suddenly bone dry, your throat sticking with a sharp and painful click. "Fuck off," you try to tell him, but it comes out a croak.

"You know what I think?" Whiskey continues, and the tone would nearly be conversational if it weren't for the way he's looking at you, eyes perfectly black and hungry under the shade of his hat. "I don't think you're just mad because I'm late. I think you're mad because I can get a rise outta you. Part of you kinda likes it. Enough to wanna come back for a little more of it. And you don't know what to do about that. Bet you can't even decide if you wanna throttle me or ride me 'til you can't come anymore. Bit of both, maybe, huh?"

Oh fuck you very much, Mister Perceptive. "Christ, you and your fucking ego-"

"Oh to hell with my fucking ego, and yours too." He leans in close enough that you can smell aftershave and a fainter, acrid smell that, if you weren't so fucking preoccupied, you might recognize as spent gunpowder. "If you want me to go, just fuckin' say it. But don't bullshit a bullshitter. If you wanted rid of me that bad you would've tossed me out on my ass last night before I'd even finished coming."

Your jaw works, and you push yourself a little harder against the handrail just to keep from slapping him. How dare he-

How dare he what, exactly? Be right? Again?

You clench your jaw, gripping the handrail on the wall tight enough that the corners dig into your fingers. Glare at him like you're trying to light him on fire. He doesn't flinch.

"What you did last night...that made for a hell of a first impression," he says slowly, and the low rasp of his voice almost curls your toes. "One I don't expect I'm liable to forget this side of fuckin' doomsday. Shit, I don't even know your fucking name and I ain't been able to shake the thought of you all damn day. Now you can believe that or not, and I wouldn't blame you if you didn't. But the only thing I'm asking from you right now is to be fucking straight with me. If you want me to go, you fucking tell me, and I'm gone. But if you want me to stay, honeybee I swear I will make up for every second you had to wait."

"Fuck you, Whiskey," you breathe. It's all you've got left, all you can even think to say, but it's too soft. It's too hard not to believe him when he's looking at you like that. Even if he's still got your teeth on edge, ready to bite, the fire in your belly is sinking lower every second. And there's no way to mistake the low rasp of your voice for anger.

He leans in, hovering barely an inch away from you, and tips your chin up with his knuckle. "That ain't an answer, honeybee."

His lip curls into a smirk and for a second all you can think about is running your tongue out to follow the curve of it.

"You can punish me if you like," he offers in a low, darkly sweet voice. The fingers on your chin trace a path along your jaw, up to your ear, and down the side of your neck as he talks; a three-point constellation drawn in goosebumps. "Lord knows I deserve it. Tie me up again. Ride my tongue until you've had your fill and never lay a finger on me. I don't mind a bit. I'll probably come in my fucking jeans like a goddamn high school virgin while you do it, too."

Oh god. It's too hot. It's too hot and he's too close and it feels like there's no air left. Those words took the last of it and left you with nothing. And then your lungs finally unlock, hitching in air so pitifully loud that for a second his eyes drop first to your mouth and then lower to watch the buttons strain on your blouse.

His tongue brushes up against the back of his bottom lip, a strange gesture, but one you can't drag your eyes away from. And the bastard just keeps talking.

"Then again, maybe the way you've been acting up you'd be more inclined for a little punishment yourself. I could take you upstairs. Turn you over my knee and put my hand to that pretty little ass until it blushes like a ripe summer peach. I'd bet you'd drip just as much and twice as sweet, too. I'd kill for a taste of you right now. Fuck, if you really want I could just hike that skirt up and fuck you right here and now. I am a flexible man and I am willing to take you any way you'd see fit to let me. But only if you let me. I ain't here to play bullshit games, and I will not take anything you don't want to give. So I need you to tell me, honeybee. Do you want this? Yes or no?"

Everything inside you burns and twists. Fuck, you want that. All of that. And all you have to do to get it is unstick your stubborn, too-sharp tongue and admit that you want it. That even without the excuse of three shots of tequila on top of a few too many cocktails, you still want it.

You're burning up. There's sweat on your palms. It squeaks as you twist your hands over the railing. He hasn't just turned the tables on you, he's flipped the whole fucking room and cornered you with it. And God help you, it's infuriating how much you like it.

"Hate you. So much."

"Hm." His hand falls away, and you miss the touch instantly. "So you keep sayin'. Decision time, honeybee. You pick or I'm picking for you and we're both gonna be disappointed in that result."

There is a long long beat where that threat hangs between you. Any hope that he might just push forward and take you anyway – push you into the wall and fuck you ragged right here and now without another word – bleeds away as you stare him down, your wordless challenge going unanswered. His gaze is iron; hard and unyielding, and you know if you wait even one more second, this...whatever the hell this is, will be over. Permanently.

Swallowing the last of your pride like so much cheap liquor, you seize the front of his shirt, dragging him forward even as he starts to back away.

"Yes. Fucking goddamn it. Yes, I want this."

"Yeah?" He leans in, nose brushing your cheek. Somehow it's that little gesture that sets off a bomb's worth of butterflies in your stomach.

"Yes."

The heat of his hand is almost shocking as it glides up your thigh and underneath your skirt, his thumb stroking up and finding only bare skin. Whiskey grins. "Knew it."

You choke back a sigh. "Smug bastard."

"Yes ma'am." His thumb brushes up and down your slit idly, slow and considering. He glances around, quirks an eyebrow, and offers: "Here?"

Following his glance, you spot the hunk of plastic mounted in the top corner of the elevator. "Camera. Fuck."

"Sure enough," he drawls, still grinning. "You want to give the boys 'n' girls in the security booth a show, or d'you want to go someplace a little more sensible?"

Sensible. God, If he'd chosen any other word, you might've agreed. Private. Safe. Anything but fucking sensible.

"Fuck sensibility. Fuck security, too. Just shut up and fuck me."

He laughs through your kiss, the touch of his lips too gentle by miles. The last thing you want right now is gentle. You don't fucking deserve gentleness after all that. And so you rake your teeth across his bottom lip, roll your tongue against his. When you nip at his tongue, Whiskey breaks off, cupping your sex with a warm, calloused hand.

"You're gonna eat me alive, honeybee," he growls. He parts you with a thick finger, drawing the pad of it from your entrance to your clit and back again. "Mm, I have been thinkin' about this all day," he murmurs before his finger sinks into you.

Sighing, you curl your arms around his neck, knocking his hat off to run your fingers through his hair and muss up that razor-clean side part. His hand works unhurried between your legs. You rock against it, listening to the obscene smacking sound as he works you open.

"All that fuss and you're wet for me already, darlin'," Whiskey says wonderingly.

All you can do is groan, chasing the sensation of the heel of his hand pressing against your clit. "Shut up and kiss me."

You tug at his hair, try to urge him forward, but he doesn't budge. He sinks down to his knees instead, right hand never leaving the wet heat of your cunt.

"I'll kiss you, baby," he says, pushing up your skirt and lifting your right leg over his shoulder. "Don't you worry."

And he kisses you: a warm, wet slide of lips and tongue where he's got you spread. Gasping, you grab the back of his head. He looks up at you, only the crinkles at the corner of his eyes proof of his smile, and his eyes slip closed like a man savoring his favorite meal.

"Jesus." The word comes out in a squeak as his mouth works on you, your throat tightening in an effort to keep quiet. A second finger joins the first and you whimper, tightening reflexively against the stretch. Christ those fingers are thick. Shuddering, you work your fingers in his hair and pull him closer, your eyes wandering up to the reflection in the far wall. The view is mesmerizing: your back arched, skirt hiked up to your waist, with Whiskey's head buried in between your legs like a man trying to slake an ungodly thirst. The view on the left is even better. From there you can watch his mouth work against you, catching a glimpse of his tongue, wet and shining as it slips between your folds. He sways forward on his knees like a charmed snake, a growing bulge straining against the dark blue denim of his jeans.

There's a gentle ding, and for a moment you're so scrambled you think maybe your phone's going off. And then the elevator doors slide open. An older looking gent with a battered briefcase stands frozen on the other side, eyes wide as dinner plates as he takes in the same view you've been admiring in the mirrored walls of the elevator.

For a single spaced-out second the only thing you can think is, Going down?, which makes you erupt into a fit of breathless, senseless giggles.

The newcomer's mouth hangs, flapping uselessly over words he can't quite formulate. He might be trying to apologize for the intrusion or insist you repent and turn to Jesus. You don't know and you don't care.

Whiskey looks up at him over the line of your thigh, lips glistening. "Get the next one," he snarls, and punches the CLOSE DOORS button.

He plants a rough, sucking kiss at the top of your cleft as the doors close again, utterly unperturbed. "Penthouse, darlin', if you please."

Oh he would be in the fucking penthouse, wouldn't he? Panting, you fumble a hand out trying to find the button just as Whiskey slides in a third finger and you cry out, almost swiping every button in the center row by accident.

The elevator hums to life and begins to move. The red light on the security camera flashes benignly and you stare at it for a long beat while Whiskey gets right back to work, moaning hungrily between your legs. Someone's watching this. The thought excites you more than it should, adding fuel to the already roaring fire Whiskey is so eagerly stoking with his tongue. You roll your hips, swearing roundly. It's not enough. It's fucking glorious, but it's not enough. You know what you need.

"Fuck me," you gasp. "Goddamn it, Whiskey, gimme your cock."

He glances up at you through thick lashes, eyebrows raised. "Is that what you want, honeybee?" he asks.

You bear down on his fingers hard as if to answer and he clenches right back, thumb and pinky giving him leverage against your pubic bone as he grips you tight, fingers stroking along your walls. It's only by virtue of the handrail and the support of his shoulder that you don't sink straight to the floor. Christ that backfired.

You nod fervently, head spinning.

A roll of his shoulder unseats your leg, and he stands. His left hand wraps around your throat, thumb against your jawline, and that's so fucking perfect you can't stop yourself from whimpering. In a flare of desperation you grasp his wrist, urging him to grip your neck just a little tighter. Chuckling, he brushes his lips against yours – soft and strangely tender – while he fucks you steadily with his fingers.

"Shoulda known you'd like that. Well? Cat got your tongue? Come on, darlin', lemme hear it."

"Yes."

"Louder. Tell me you want me to fuck you."

"Oh god-d-d-damn it!"

He chuckles darkly, fingers coaxing inside you. "You can do it, honeybee. I know you want it. I just need hear you say it."

You bare your teeth. "I want you to fuck me."

"Good girl." He grins down at you, wide and wolfish. "Now: ask me nicely."

Oh he would, wouldn't he?

"B-bastard," you snarl, then begin to laugh.

"Oh come on now," he croons, eyes darting between your lips and your own heavy-lidded stare. "I'm sure you can get along without your pride for an hour or two. It ain't so bad. And I promise I'll make it worth your while. C'mon."

You groan, grit your teeth, and hiss out: "Please."

He crooks his fingers and you gasp like you've been burned. "'Please' what?"

"Please fuck me. Please fuck me."

He slots your trembling thigh between his legs, pressing the clothed, solid length of his cock against you. "With this? Hm?"

"Fuck, yes." You writhe, feel it twitch, and he rolls against you in response.

"Come for me first, honeybee. Then I'll fill you up good and proper. Cross my heart."

His fingers press into you harder, spreading gently as he draws them back. Your legs begin to shake so badly that he has to pin you to the wall to hold you up. The rail digs into your back. You'll bruise tomorrow, but you're not sure you've ever cared less in your life.

"You gonna come, for me?" he asks, rutting a little more enthusiastically against you when he feels you begin to tense and flutter around his fingers.

Squeezing your eyes shut tight, you nod, feeling the drag of his lips on your cheek.

"Uh-uh. Talk to me, darlin', I wanna hear it. I want you to tell me every single time you're gonna come, you understand me? Count them out. Let's see just how many you got in you tonight."

"Oh you ass!" You moan and laugh all in the same breath.

"You like it," he says simply.

He kisses you, warm and deep, and you bite his lip for the audacity. "Don't stop. Fuck, I'm close."

He turns your head, slides his hand around to cup the back of your neck. "Open your eyes, honeybee. Watch yourself."

You try. Everything's a blur; inside and out. Fuzzy and disconnected and hot. Blinking to clear the fog, you can see your reflection caught between the wall and Whiskey's body. Your eyes are dazed, unfocused. His cheek is against yours, a look of utterly indecent hunger on his face, lips red and swollen where you've bitten him. He's pressed up against you too tightly to get a good view, but you can see his arm pinned between your bodies, and the flex of muscles working underneath his jacket.

There is, you note with a fuzzy sort of disconnect, a small, ragged hole in the arm of his jacket.

But before you can put any more thought to this discovery he presses his thumb down against your clit – no friction, only a firm, rolling pressure – and that's all you need. If it wasn't for the his body against yours, you'd buckle. As it is, trapped between him and the wall, all you can do is quake and cry out, arms tightening around his shoulders as you come.

He hums indulgently, kissing your cheek. "Count it out."

Panting, you pull hard on his hair until he groans. "One."

"Good girl," he murmurs. Slowly his hand withdraws, giving one last slow swirl over your folds before he sucks you greedily off his fingers.

There's the muffled sound of a zipper and you could almost laugh – finally! But then the elevator slows and stops, doors sliding open with a soft ding. Whiskey glances sidelong at the open door, corner of his mouth pulling up in a half-cocked grin. The disappointed whine you give as you hear him zip himself right back up is wholly involuntary.

"Well wouldn't you know it," he says, pulling away from you and stooping for his hat. It's all you can do not to whack him on the back of the head – or on the ass – as he turns away, wiggling your skirt back down over your hips instead.

He gives a ridiculous wink towards the security camera with his hat held to his chest. Your stomach gives a neat little flip as you look up at that blinking red light – god, you'd forgotten it was even there.

"Sorry to blue-ball ya and run, fellas." He gets an arm around your waist, tugging you into the hall at an easy, languid pace, as if nothing had happened. As if your legs weren't still quivering, with the evidence of your orgasm running in sticky trails down the inside of your thighs.

"Betcha money, marbles, or chalk they'll be jerkin' off over that for weeks," he says jovially, pulling you to his hip when he feels you start to wobble. "C'mon. Let me get you in a bed before I say to hell with it all and fuck you out here on the goddamn floor."

Your knees tremble again; at least one part of you has full support of that particular idea. As the door opens you pull him back to your mouth, kissing him hard even as he steers you by the hips through the suite. You barely see any of it. Recessed halogen lights. The sparkle of painstakingly cleaned glass and marble. Little else. A grunt escapes you as you fetch up hard against the wall and Whiskey crashes into you. The sudden pressure against his groin leaves him winded, rocking forward against you with a shuddering groan.

"Tell me how you want it," he says, words mangled against your mouth. The salt-musk taste of you still clings to his tongue, sharp against some faint remnant of sweet mint.

One hand slips down, squeezing your breast through the material of your blouse. The room spins giddily like a tilt-a-whirl, still riding the coattails of your last orgasm. "Hard," you breathe. The skirt you chose is too fucking tight, and you have to reach down to drag it back up your thigh just to hook a leg around him. "Don't you dare be gentle."

He chuckles as you press into him. "How hard is hard? I can be a little rough if you let me off the leash."

Frustrated, you slip your hands under his sports coat, nails biting into his shoulders through his dress shirt. "Fuck, do I have to spell it out for you?"

"Yeah," he says, and his voice has reached that breathy, sonorous pitch that sends a hot-cold shiver rocketing down your spine. "Yeah you do. A little honesty would be appreciated tonight."

One good shove and his jacket slips to the floor. "That's funny coming from Double-O-Cowpoke."

"Not my fault you don't believe me." It's pitched like a joke, light and breezy, but there's something in his eyes. Sharp and peculiar and gone almost before you can be sure it was really there, but makes your stomach clench with a sudden surety that the next words out of his mouth are completely genuine. "I ain't lied to you yet, honeybee."

And that almost brings you to a halt. Your hands splay out on his shoulders, pushing back to look at him more clearly. If that's true. If that's true...oh god, why would he have told you?

The question is halfway to your lips before he surges his way forward again, his mouth crashing into yours and kissing you hard and urgent and bruising. A faint sound of protest rises in your throat and you push back a little, not wanting him to stop but wanting him to wait because...because....

And the rest of that thought flutters away. He doesn't stop kissing you. He just doesn't stop. And he's moaning as his tongue licks into your mouth and his teeth scrape over your lips like it's the most decadent thing in the world. You grasp at his face, wrists caging in his neck, feeling his pulse race along next to your at such a frantic speed it's almost alarming. Your last little shred of rational thought all but begs you to push him back a little harder, to make him look at you and ask him what's wrong...and then it just flutters away because God this is what you want. This. This, this, this.

"You want it hard?" he rasps into your mouth, rutting up against you hard enough to drive you back into the wall.

Breathless, you nod. Work your fingers through the mess you've made of his hair. "Ruined you last night, didn't I?" You tighten your grip, use your knuckles for leverage and pull.

Whiskey groans, slipping his hands under the bunched hem of your skirt to grip your ass and grind you down against him. "Goddamn right you did, honeybee."

"So ruin me back." The thick denim that covers his fly is rough, but you rub against it all the same, shuddering at the coarseness against your tender skin. "Fair is fair. Right?"

His eyes slip closed and he buries his face against your neck for a moment, breathing unsteady. "Jesus, girl, you're gonna soak straight through my jeans," he mutters. "All right, honeybee. All right. I only got one rule. If I do anything you don't want, you tell me. 'Cause I ain't stopping unless you do. Not tonight. Got it?"

"Whiskey-"

He gets a grip on your chin, levels your eyes on his. "You tell me 'no' or you tell me 'stop.' Got it?"

"Yes." Patience exhausted, you wrench his belt open. "Now come on."

Buttons patter to the floor as he tears open your blouse. And that's good. That's fair. And what's even better is the rough way he puts his hands on you, yanking your bra down to knead and squeeze your bare breasts. When you finally free his cock there's only a brief moment to savor the warm, solid length in your grip before his fingers clamp down on your nipples. The sensation is so sharp and bright and sudden that you yelp, arching up on your tip-toes.

"Hands off, honeybee," he warns.

Whimpering, you flatten your hands against the wall.

"Too much?" he asks softly, that funny little furrow deepening between his eyebrows.

A groaning laugh slips out of you, and you arch your back, pushing your breasts against his hands. "Not enough."

"Fuck, ain't you just the sweetest, dirtiest thing." He twists and you cry out, hips bucking forward. His cock drags against your hip and you chase it, trying to pin it between you.

"Oh, c'mon. You promised," you whine.

"Oh I'm gonna keep my promise, baby, don't you fret. I want you just as fucked-out as you had me. Wanna see you so goddamn cock dumb your eyes roll back. Bet you've been thinking about this all day, too, haven't you?"

The wall warms under your hands as you fight not to push back more. And maybe that's what does it. A little mental-short circuit. Because God knows you haven't been able to think of a single fucking thing other than this. But the denial is on your lips so fast it must be involuntary, a reflexive need to find his buttons and push: "You wish."

Whiskey raises an eyebrow, lip curling. For a second he's amused, seeing the game you want to play. And then it's like a switch flips. Suddenly this isn't the man who'd begged for the privilege of fucking you last night. This isn't even the man who'd put his grateful mouth to your cunt in the elevator. This is the man he'd pretended to be right up until you got his hands tied. The cowboy get up wasn't the costume – this is. This smile. This infuriating swagger.

"Oh, really?" he says, and for the first time you realize just how much that drawl had begun to soften around you, because now that dial's ramped right back up to 11. "You turn up tonight without any goddamn panties on, ride my fingers like a coin-op pony, beggin' to get fucked all the while, and then you try and tell me you ain't been thinkin' about me? I felt how hard you came. How fucking wet you were." His hand darts between your legs as quick a snake-strike, fingers carding through your folds. "Are. Ain't no face left to save, darlin'."

He's in your space, radiating heat, his fingers stroking against your swollen sex, stoking your own fire all over again. But the fire those words kindle burns a little quicker and a little hotter. Without a second thought you strike out, palm tingling as it finds its target against his cheek.

For a moment Whiskey doesn't even seem to breathe. He just stands there leaning heavy against you with his eyes closed and his nostrils flaring. Redness blooms against his cheek. When his eyes open again, the way they bore into you, glittering and eager takes your own breath away.

He hums, that low, pleased sound. But now it slips lower and lower into a breathy rumble that lances straight through you. "Do it again."

Swallowing hard, you slap him again. Harder this time. For a moment the only reaction he gives is the way his cock bobs sharply, slapping against your thigh.

Then he growls, seizing the back of your neck and crushing you to him. You crane up, half expecting a kiss, but his thumb snags the corner of your mouth. He drags it open until your jaw hangs, tilting your head back. A choked sound that's a little too plaintive to be a protest slips from your open mouth a second before Whiskey spits into it.

"Swallow."

You do, sucking hard on his thumb for good measure.

"You nasty little thing," Whiskey says, his voice slow and dark as molasses. His eyes glaze over a little as he works the ball of his thumb against your tongue, watching the way your lips purse around it. "Maybe you are the one that needs the punishin'."

He leans against you, breathing hard as he considers this thought. You frown a little, catching his thumb with your teeth, hoping he'll get the hint and give you something better to put in your mouth. But then his grip loosens, one hand disappearing behind you. Hints, it appears, are completely off the table tonight.

"In," he growls, throwing open the bedroom door. "Now."

Whiskey leads you inside, hitting the lights with his elbow. The room is furnished in that same drab but sparkling minimal style, an impressively large bed swallowing up the majority of the space. One wall is nothing but windows behind drawn shades, a sliding door leading out to a small, isolated balcony.

He steers you directly to the bed, sitting on the edge and pulling you across his lap to straddle his knee. You let out an indignant little yelp at the treatment, but then he shifts his leg under you and the indignance crumbles. It presses against your mound just right, urging you open, and you grind down with a gasp, trying to find a little relief.

Whiskey tuts. "Oh now look at that. Try to tell me you ain't been thinkin' about takin' my dick and then rub on me like a goddamn cat in heat."

There's the sound of a zipper – not his this time, but your own – and then a little tickle at your hip as he undoes the skirt and wrestles it down your legs. He pushes your blouse up, bunching the material up around your shoulder blades. For a second you think he means to pull it off, but then he twists the fabric around his hand. The garment draws up tight, leaving your arms, still in the sleeves, pinned to your sides.

You moan a little when you feel his hand slide across your ass. He bends over you, and you feel the wet heat of his mouth against your ass cheek. A sweet, languid swirl of his tongue before he bites down. You jerk hard enough that your clit drags against the rough weave of his jeans and you cry out, the sound muted by the bedspread.

The pressure of his knee aches beautifully against your cunt, your breathing so shallow and quick it makes you lightheaded. You know what's coming, and you know what you asked for. The last thing you wanted was to be sensible. And this – well this might be the least sensible thing you've ever done.

You buck your hips up sharply. Searching for his hand. "Do it."

The first strikes are quick and brisk. They tingle, warming your skin, but don't hurt. Not yet. This is just a tease of the real thing. A warm up. The tips of his fingers trace the first reddening outline of his hand against your skin, a match for the not-yet faded print against his cheek. Crooning, he kneads your buttocks, spreading them apart, making the slick folds of your pussy slide against each other.

"Sweet Jesus will you look at that. Open that up, baby. Lemme see just how fuckin' wet that gorgeous little pussy is."

You gasp, grinding down again, and then first real slap lands across your ass, unexpected and jarring. The sting is enough to make your eyes water, but the impact drives you forward, almost encouraging your hips to grind into him. A second strike lands on the other cheek, then back to the first, alternating each time. You rock with it, caught between the hot stinging slap of skin on skin and the building heat between your legs.

"This what you wanted?" Crack.

"Fuck!"

"Is it?" he demands. His hand descends again. Crack.

"Yes!" You kick out, struggling not because you want to, but because you have to. And it only makes it worse. Or better, or – God, you don't even know now. It's more. It's just more. His knee digs in harder and your poor neglected cunt throbs with a misplaced ache and you swear you have never needed to feel yourself filled up more than you do right now.

"You gonna behave?" Crack. "You gonna stop lyin' to me now?" CRACK.

"Yes!" The word leaves you in a shuddering sob, thighs clamping down around Whiskey's leg. One more, God help you, one more and you'll tip over, you'll come all over his knee, you're so close.

And then he stops, rubbing and kneading the hot flushed skin, and you whine in desperate frustration as your orgasm begins to retreat.

"Goddamn. Prettier than a Georgia peach," Whiskey says thickly. His hand strays, slips down between your cheeks and presses against the splayed lips of your pussy. You writhe under the sudden attention, feeling the tips of his fingers slide around your clit. "And damned if you don't drip twice as sweet."

"Please." Warmth trickles from the corner of your eyes, blooming against the bedspread.

The swirl of his hand is lazy, almost soothing but for the way it keeps you so frighteningly close to the edge. "Truth first, honeybee. C'mon. You know what I wanna hear."

"Ye-yes," you mutter. "Goddamn it yes. I've been thinking about fucking you all day. All goddamned day...God, Jesus, fuck, and then you didn't show. Thought you'd ditched me. Made me want - want it and then ditch me."

You bury your face in the quilt. It's a fucking cop out and you know it. You don't just want it. You want him. Fuck, what is happening?

Again you feel his mouth against your ass cheek, open and wet, but this time his tongue is almost cool by comparison. "There now. I didn't ditch you, baby. Wouldn't fuckin' dream of it." His voice is low now, placating, nearly apologetic. And then his fingers are slipping inside you again, stroking and curling. "I'm right here here, baby. Right here. Just a little late, is all."

You whine, trying to wriggle back to drive him in deeper. Those thick fingers are like fucking magic but you need more than they can provide. Desperate now, you clutch your fingers back towards him, find his shirttail and tug at it. "Jack. Please."

It doesn't even register to you that you've called him by his name – God, you didn't even think you remembered his name – until the fingers inside you still. If it wasn't for the hammering of your heart in your ears you might've heard his breath catch.

Slowly he twists his fingers inside you, pressing down until you shudder. "What is it, honeybee?" he mutters. The hoarseness in his voice is familiar. You wish you could see his face. "Tell me what you want."

"Please fuck me. Please. I waited all fucking night."

He rolls you off his lap, leaving you dangling half off the bed and folds over you, cock nestled against the heat of your reddened ass. There's a sticky slide to it; you're not the only one that's wet.

"Hand to God, baby, I'll make it worth every minute. On my fuckin' life." The pained edge in his voice sets the room spinning, and for one mad moment you find yourself trying to grab onto the bedspread to keep from rolling away. Whiskey leaves a kiss against the back of your neck before he draws back, the hand fisted in your shirt tugging you along just a bit.

There's a long, wavering moment when his touch leaves you entirely and you almost protest before you hear him frantically shedding his clothes behind you. Then his hands return, his left winding back into your shirt, his right warm and strong against your back. The blunt, weeping head of his cock nudges between the swollen lips of your pussy. He stays there for an infuriatingly long moment, enough that you cry out your frustration into the bedclothes.

And then he finally makes good on his promise.

You go up on your toes, legs straining as he breaches you. After all the hours you spent thinking about it, all the hours you waited, it's bliss. But the pure, unadulterated stretch of it laces that bliss with a white-hot line of fire that only serves to make it all the more urgent. Maybe it's the angle, bent in half with your ass up and your legs closed. Maybe it's just how overwrought you are already. Maybe...fuck, you don't know, maybe somehow he's even harder than the night before. All you do know is that he feels so big you can't hardly stand it. It's so much, bridging the gap between pleasure and pain until it's just an overwhelming sense of pressure and fullness that has you clenching and fluttering around him. As if your body can't make up its mind if it wants to expel the intrusion or welcome it deeper.

He has no right to feel this good. None. But goddamn it you're so glad he does.

"Fuck," he mutters shakily, fingers biting into your hip. "This what you wanted, honeybee? Huh? This what you been waiting for?"

You can't find the air to give him an answer. Whiskey's still moving forward, you're not even sure how. Christ how much more of him is there? He leans forward, pushing you into the mattress, pushing down into you until you start to shake, until he hits that buried junction inside you that sends a flare of heat rocketing clear down to your toes and your stalled orgasm rears up again so sudden and so close that it's startling.

Every muscle in your body tenses, straining. The whine that breaks out of your gaping mouth is pitiful. "Shit, oh shit, Jesus fuck, Jesus fuck-fuck-fuck-"

He feels it. He must. There's no way he can't. "Oh fuck, that's it honeybee," he croons, working his free hand under you to circle your clit as he sinks that last broad inch into you. "Come on. Come all fuckin' over me."

For a second everything shorts out, all senses lost in a white-out. The only tenuous connection you have to your body lies in the grounding pressure of his cock inside you and the faint but rapid fluttering of his pulse in it. And then you're slamming back to yourself with a ragged cry, blood roaring in your ears and coming so hard that you nearly buck off of him entirely. Your arms flex, bend, bunched cloth digging deeply into your skin until you feel rather than hear the seams rip. And then the tightness is gone, Whiskey's hand unwinding immediately from your shirt to stroke up and down your back.

There's a lump in your throat when you finally find enough air to speak: "T-t-two."

Whiskey groans. "Beautiful. Fuck, you shake so pretty when you come for me. I could watch you do that all night. Might just, at that." He drags the torn wreck of your blouse off you, popping the clasp on your bra and bending to place an open, humid kiss in the valley along your spine.

He rocks forward and back, one hand clamped into soft flesh at your hip, humming tunelessly. "Been wantin' to bury myself back in this sweet pussy from the minute I woke up. Ain't been able to think of nothin' else. Just this," he says, drawing back slowly before burying himself to the hilt and rolling his hips against you.

You clamp your teeth down on your lip, fighting the haze. It's hard to swallow. Hard to breathe. But he's rolling into you slow, far too fucking slow. And that isn't what you need. You try to push yourself up on your elbows, but he thrusts forward, a little more force in it this time, and your arms give out.

"Ha-harder," you pant, voice thick and muffled by the quilt. You turn your head, claw the hair out of your face. "F-fuck me harder, god-d-d-damn it. Make me fuckin' feel it tomorrow. Big-dicked b-bastard, oh my God, don't you stop."

He breathes out a laugh, folding over your back. The pressure against your tender ass stings like hell, and you hitch in a hissing gasp as Whiskey's mouth finds your cheek. He kisses you, or does his best to. The angle is strange and your face is half-smashed against the bed, but his mouth slants over the side of yours, tongue dragging against your lips until you open for him, letting him lick against the sharp points of your teeth.

"Careful what you wish for, honeybee," he whispers, grinding forward in a maddening circle. "Words like that will get you in a whole mess of trouble."

The air leaves you in a whooping rush as he stands, dragging you up against his chest, your back bowing to try and keep the searing length of him pressed where you need it. And then – ah god – his hand is around your throat and his teeth are sinking into your shoulder, and you're suddenly glad he can't see the way your eyes flutter and roll back.

Not that he even needs to see it, because just then Whiskey groans into your skin as a rush of wetness courses down his cock.

"Fuck, is it that good, baby? Hm?" His voice quavers as his body impacts yours like a sledgehammer. "My dick finding all the sweet spots in that pretty little pussy for you?"

You grapple at him, find where he clings to you and grip his hands, inadvertently encouraging him to press his hand just a little harder against your throat. And there goes the room again, looping and floating as he starts to move, really move, driving forward harder and harder. You stumble, going up on your toes, some choked and desperate noise caught in your throat somewhere under his hand. Sparks pop behind your eyes, faint and wavering like fireworks reflected on choppy waters. And then the pressure eases, air rushing into your lungs once again. The fire in your belly flares up at it like a backdraft.

"M-more," you grate out. "Oh f-fucking God please more. D-don't...d-d-don't-"

"Don't you worry, baby. Ain't gonna stop," he mutters harshly against your ear. "I'll give you all you want. Ain't stopping 'til you tell me to stop."

You shake your head, or at least try to, the movement restricted by his hand. "N-no. Never. Fuck, never-never stop. Right there f-fuck-"

Whiskey growls out something low and broken and unintelligible as you clamp down on him, your body chasing that bright, blazing heat whether you want it to or not.

"Oh fuck, are you comin' again for me already, angel? Shit, you are, aren't you? Got yourself all riled up today and now you just can't stop. C'mon then, baby. Come on my dick. You feel like fuckin' heaven when you come. Pussy's so good it oughtta be fuckin' blasphemy. C'mon, honeybee, do it for me, come like you fuckin' mean it-"

Before you can breathe a word it hits you and it hits you hard, muscles seizing up so tight it's like they're trying to wring the pleasure out of you. You ride through maybe three or four near-blinding shocks of it and then your knees, traitorous things, finally give out underneath you. The only thing that keeps you up is Whiskey's arms wrapped tight around you, clutching you to him, suspending you on his dick as it grinds up brutally against your g-spot.

"Got you, honeybee," he grunts, rhythm never faltering. "I got you. Keep comin' for me, baby, keep comin'."

And god help you, you are. You're still quivering, still coming, and then his hand falls away from your neck to cup against your sex, palm flat against the rigid little knot of your clit. He doesn't even rub, it's just a heat and a pressure and it's like your whole body stutters upward, launching towards a second, higher peak. Whiskey lets out a broken groan against your neck as you bear down on him so hard it nearly hurts and you wail at the unexpected, overwhelming force of it.

Everything spins off and away in the aftermath, senses blown out like a bad circuit. Sounds are swallowed up in a high, persistent ringing. You haven't got the strength to force your eyes back open. There's a shift and a feeling of soft cloth beneath you and when the haze starts to lift you find you're on your knees on the bed, shoulders down and ass up with Whiskey draped over your back. He murmurs things against your cheek, your ear, your neck. You can't hear a word of it over the ringing in your ears.

You turn your head, knocking your forehead against his by accident. "Thr- I- f-four?" Your voice jumps in your throat, but you can't quite make it steadier. "I...I don't-"

"Honeybee," he drawls, his cock giving a hard, desperate twitch inside you. He grins at you indulgently, gathering your hair up in one broad hand and pulling. "Good girl."

A shudder goes through you as you realize he's still fucking you. Deep, swift strokes that send tingles sparking through you. He drags his cock out of you and drives it back in, pulling it over your blazingly sensitive nerve endings like a bow over violin strings. Like it's a privilege to do it. Like it'd be a fucking crime to stop.

He drags two more orgasms out of you like this. Shuddering, slow-building things that overtake you like flood waters, rising up with an aching, consuming crawl unmindful of the pounding pace Whiskey holds to like a clockwork battering ram. It's only when you gasp out a broken cry of "S-sih-s-six!" that Whiskey's hips finally begin to falter, stuttering and slowing at the feeling of your overworked pussy milking his cock again. His grip on you tightens as he tries to steady himself, tries to hold on, groaning his own restrained pleasure through gritted teeth.

"Tight - fuck! Goddamn it girl you get so fucking tight when you come. So fuckin' wet. Sweet Jesus. I don't know how m-much more of that I can fuckin' take."

"God, fuck, do it, just do it," you whine, reaching back for him with hands that can't stop shaking. "C'mon Jack."

He laughs at that, but it's a little frayed and frantic at the edges. He brushes the hair out of your face, working his fingers into it and giving it a tug. "I – ungh! Oh s-shit – I got... your p-permission this time, honeybee?"

You hum, nodding, and hitch in a breath as he grinds in particularly deep. "Please."

His rhythm falters again, hips canting suddenly at a hard angle. "W-where? Fuck, fuck, where do you want me, baby? Hurry."

"In-inside. Inside me. 'S what you wanted last night? Right?"

Whiskey makes a broken sound, lurching against you. "Y-yeah. Oh shit, yes. Jesus fucking Christ, honeybee."

Growling, he flips you over and slides in deep, pushing your knees up almost to your shoulders and staring raptly down at your face even as his own contorts. The length of him inside you stiffens even more, pushing in so deep his hipbones grind painfully against your own.

And then he breaks with a cry, his whole body locking up with the force of his climax. His head drops between your breasts and his back arches high, fists punching deep divots into the mattress on either side of you. He rocks through it, jerking at every pulse and spasm, and you can't help but shiver at the warmth that pools inside you as he comes.

"Fuck, fuck. Nngh, ho-holy shit." He almost says more, but another tremor wracks his body and it chokes off into a broken mess of Spanish - "¿Que chingas me estás haciendo a mi mujer?"

Winded and boneless, you scratch your nails weakly across his scalp, working your fingers down his neck to his shoulders. "Better be a compliment."

"You have no idea," he pants open-mouthed against your skin. Instead of elaborating he just eases himself out of you and crawls his way down, trailing his mouth over your skin until he's settled between your legs, staring at whatever disaster he's made of you and groaning softly in appreciation.

Take a picture, you almost say, it'll last longer. But before you can work up the air and energy to put breath to the quip he's drawing his tongue against you, cleaning up the mess he's made with a desperate, greedy reverence that sets your knees trembling on either side of his head.

Whimpering, you clamp your lower lip in your teeth, shuddering up against the warm heat of Whiskey's mouth. "Careful," you warn. "Oh, G-God, careful."

The only answer you get is a low moan and the feeling of his fingers sinking diligently back into your cunt, coaxing out the trickling remnants of his orgasm.

A high, lazy heat begins to build again, over-sensitivity easing back into something warm and sweet and giddily aching. Your hands cradle the back of Whiskey's head, carding through his sweat-soaked hair as he licks his own come out of you. It's not a thing you've ever really given much thought before – bodily fluids were always more an incidental part of sex for you than anything else – and you're not sure if he's enjoying the act itself or just the strange submissive edge of it. Curiosity gets the better of you and you glance down at him, expecting to see him staring intently up at you over the rise of your mons, gloating over the state he's put you in. Fuck, he's made you come so many times you're sure he'll never let you forget it.

Only he isn't. His eyes are closed, face lax with a blissful intoxication as he tastes himself inside you, holding your thighs up and apart to let him work his tongue and fingers in deeper. The sight of him so clearly lost in the moment, not goading or gloating, just rapturously gone is maybe the single most erotic thing you've seen in your whole life. And that sweet, lazy heat suddenly licks up to a blaze.

The sudden clench you give is impossible to miss from Whiskey's vantage point, and he groans against you. "One more, honeybee," he almost pleads, breaking away from you with a sucking pop just long enough to gasp air. "You can gimme one more, can't you? I know you can. C'mon baby. Lucky seven."

He lowers his head once more with a decadent hum and you throw yours back as he sets to more deliberate work, hooking his arms around your thighs to keep you right where he wants you.

"God, you greedy b-bastard," you rasp out. The stimulation to your worn nerves leaves you quaking, wriggling underneath him. You're not sure you can stand another one, but a deep, hungry part of you is desperate to find out.

He growls at that, more in agreement than in offense, and when your hands scrabble at his he parries them without even glancing up, seizing your wrists and yanking you down even tighter against his mouth.

You nearly kick him in the ribs when you come. It's not your fault. Honestly it's his for working you up to this point. To this high, nervous overload that's barely left you any control over your body. It doesn't seem to faze him, though. Your heel glances off his side as your shaking legs lock around his back and he just keeps going, like he hasn't even noticed, like he isn't even here. Like the world has spun down smaller and smaller and the only thing left is his mouth and your cunt and leaving that would mean the end of everything.

But it's too much. Goddamn it, it's too much.

You sob, wrench your hands out of his grip and push at his head. "S-s-seven. Sev-seven. F-f-fuck, Jack. No more, n-no more, please, stop, I can't, I can't– "

He's pulling away before you even finish, pressing one last biting kiss against your thigh before crawling shakily over you to put his mouth to yours with a surprising gentleness. The taste on his lips is heady, musky and sharp. His arms tremble at the strain of keeping himself from slumping over on top of you, gasping raggedly between each kiss like they’re just as necessary as air.

For the longest time you can’t even move, you’re far too wrung out and exhausted to even try. All you can do is lie underneath him and do your best to remember how to breathe between slow, lazy kisses. Eventually you work up enough breath to speak. "'M sorry," you whisper hoarsely.

Whiskey shakes his head, trying to focus his eyes. "What for?"

"'Two minutes and a cigarette.'" You bring up a hand, patting his cheek with an awkward bonk. "I stand corrected"

A look of comical confusion takes over his face, brows knitting together, until he finally remembers the jab you'd made after you'd tied him up the night before. "Shit," is all he says before he dissolves into giddy laughter. His arms finally give out on him and he rolls to keep from toppling onto you.

You roll with him, tucking your head into his shoulder and giggling. It aches. The muscles in your abdomen so overworked that even laughing hurts, but somehow that just makes it funnier.

You’ve nearly composed yourselves when Whiskey tries to prop himself up on an elbow that immediately slides out from under him and almost smacks you in the head, and that just sets you both off all over again. Giving up entirely, you just lay there, shoulder-to-shoulder, laughing like a couple of punch-drunk loons.

"You hungry, honeybee?” Whiskey asks breathlessly when he’s got himself back under some semblance of control. “I could eat a goddamn horse."

Now that he mentions it you realize just how long ago lunch was, and your appetite, which had so far taken a backseat to both your temper and libido, roars back to life. "God yeah, actually. 'M fuckin' starving."

So for the second time today, you get room service on Whiskey's dime. Or his employer’s dime, he insists. You're not sure if that's better or worse. It's a little ridiculous. Even more so when you think to look for a clock and realize just how late it is, but you're absolutely famished and the second he's on the phone asking in a pleasantly fuck-drunk voice for a couple hamburgers and french fries you're stomach's growling so insistently you're almost certain the staff on the other end of the line heard it.

He's chuckling as he hangs up the phone, draping over you to nuzzle into your neck. For the first time you notice just how much his mustache tickles, and you squirm under him, giggling all over again.

"Love me a woman with an appetite," he mumbles, nipping playfully at you.

"God, what the fuck are we doing?" you stutter out through your giggles. It's not meant to be a real question. You’re practically a space cadet right now, and you can’t remember the last time you were this giddy after sex. But Whiskey shifts a little, pulling back to look down at you, and you can't quite parse the look on his face. "Never had a one-night-stand like this before.”

"Hm." He drops his head a bit, tapping an idle finger against your collarbone. "Think the repeat offense kinda cancels out the one-night-stand idea, honeybee."

"You didn't strike me as the repeating kind."

"Mm. Didn't strike you as the kind who could hold his dick up for longer'n a minute, either. So I'll try not to take offense at your continued misjudgment of my character." His eyes wander away from yours, pulling up his well-worn crooked smile with some degree of effort. "But if you're looking for a polite way to tell this old man you've had your fill, there ain't no need to beat around the bush about it."

You might've appreciated the easy out once. After tonight, though, you're almost offended at it. You're not in the habit of begging for things you only have a mind to dispose of. A little of that flighty panic starts to take hold, and you tamp it down. Fun. This is just for fun. Even if you do want a little more. Fuck, don’t start overthinking it now.

"Is that what you want?" you ask, and it's only the curiosity in your voice that keeps it from sharpening into an accusation.

Whiskey shakes his head, a bit of incredulity in his eyes. "What I want...shit, what I want is to get me somethin' nice an' artery-clogging to eat and then get some fuckin' sleep. Preferably next to the woman who has fucked me ragged two nights running, if she happens to be amenable to that kind of thing. That's as far as my wants go right this second."

The deflection is so clumsy it’s almost funny. “Chickenshit,” you mutter.

Whiskey blinks down at you, shocked for a moment before you give him a teasing smile. “Fuckin’ comedian,” Whiskey says, snorting laughter. “Ain’t no softening that tongue of yours, is there?”

“You never know.” You shift a little, heart hammering as you consider your next words. "How much longer are you going to be here?"

The crooked smile slips, becoming softer. "Well. That sorta depends on you, honeybee. My work's all wrapped up. But if you're gonna be around a bit longer and are lookin' for a bit of company I might be convinced to stay a bit longer."

You feel the smile creep up on your face before you can stop it. "I wouldn’t mind a little continued reprieve from corporate hell. Under one condition," you insist, waving a finger at him.

Schooling his face into a parody of gravitas, he nods expectantly. Proceed.

"I need to know something first. Some things. Plural."

He cocks an eyebrow. "How many is plural?"

You consider for a second, squinting. "Three."

"All right," he says, resting his chin against your shoulder. "Fire away."

You pop out your thumb. "Are you a serial killer?"

He stares at you for a long, silent beat before his eyes slip closed and he shakes his head, his chest hitching with stifled laughter. "No, honeybee, I am not now nor have I ever been a serial killer."

You nod, grinning. "Okay, one down.” You pop out your pointer finger. “Are you married?"

The levity bleeds out of his face with a swiftness that makes you regret the question instantly, sure he's about to drop a bombshell directly on your head that's going to leave you hating him and yourself. But he shakes his head, holds up his ringless left hand as if in proof, as though nobody having an affair would've ever thought to slip a ring off beforehand. But then, very quietly, he adds: "Was. But not for a long time."

You nod dumbly, mutter, "Okay.”

For a second you wonder if you should apologize – you’ve clearly tripped on something raw by accident – but then he's poking you in the ribs and drawing in a sharp breath. "And number three?"

A little grateful, you pop out your middle finger ask your last question: "What do you do? What do you really do?"

The corner of his mouth gives a twitch. "Shit, is that all? Well. Officially, I'm a businessman. I own a sizable amount of shares in the Statesman distillery company. Which, incidentally, is where that fine stock of bourbon whiskey came from," he adds.

You lean back, eyeing him carefully. You don't think he's lying. And yet....

Your fingers find the catch of a scar against his ribs. "You're scarred to shit for a liquor tycoon, cowboy."

The twitch turns into a grin. "I have been known to get a little rough-and-tumble once in a while."

"I don't know if I believe that story any more than I did the James Bond bullshit."

Whiskey huffs a laugh. His jeans are in a puddle at the end of the bed and he drags them up, pulling out a thick leather wallet out of the back pocket. From one of the compartments he pulls a business card embossed in gold and black and hands it to you.

Jack "Whiskey" Daniels, Statesman Distillery, Kentucky.

You blink at it, giggling a little. "Jesus Christ that is actually your name?"

"More or less. Been Anglicized for flavor, among other things."

"What was it before?"

There's an odd sharpness in his eyes when he looks at you, a shrewdness you'd never have expected from the costume cowboy you'd met down in the bar. For a moment you're sure that not only is he not going to answer, but that you've overstepped a line you weren't even aware existed.

"That's four questions," he says, "not three."

"I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours," you add with a tilt of your head.

The corner of his mouth curls slightly, and the sharpness fades. "Well now, how can I resist that a bargain like that?" He pauses a moment, as if reconsidering, then adds: "It was Joaquin."

"Joaquin?"

"Mm." He nods. There's only a moment of quiet before he tilts his hips to the side, jostling you. "C'mon, darlin. A deal's a deal."

You roll your eyes, staring up at the ceiling. And you tell him your name. He repeats it back, and you don't need to see his face to know he's smiling.

"Pleasure to meet you," he says. "Literally."

"Jackass."

#agent whiskey #jack whiskey daniels #agent whiskey x reader #agent whiskey x you #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character fic #citrus variations #spicy spicy content babes #I really didn't mean for this to end up this long but here we are I guess #ao3 version and fic masterlist will be updated shortishly

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luninosity · 4 years ago

Text

Okay, so, some Falcon and the Winter Soldier thoughts (will have some spoilers) for episodes two and three. General non-spoilery comment first: I feel like these were both *okay* episodes - neither as good as the first, but I didn’t dislike them, either. I’m still really curious to see how we’re going to wrap this all up in three more episodes; it doesn’t feel like we’re halfway done yet!

Okay, more spoiler-y notes below the Read More, not in any real order, just as I think and type. I’ll probably forget some things, but for now, here’re some thoughts...

--I like ep 3 slightly more than ep 2, mostly because of Zemo!

--I actually really love Zemo here (I liked him in Civil War, too): complex, sardonic, enjoying poking at people, a villain we do feel sympathy for even as he’s still sharp enough to remind us that he is a villain. Daniel Bruhl has always done a fantastic job flipping between calculated cruelty, wry humor - the whole “I am a Baron” moment was great - and pain that for him is still raw, about the loss of his family. (Some things’re awfully cliche - look, the supervillain’s playing chess and reading Machiavelli in his cell? really? - but, y’know...sure. Why not. We expect some cliches in the superhero genre, and this is an inoffensive one.)

--also Zemo dancing. That’s it. That’s everything.

--moving on from that: I’m also really liking how they’re writing John Walker. He does have charm, and there’s a certain amount of sympathy - especially as we see him worrying about filling the Captain America shoes, in ep 2 - but we’re also getting this really subtle sense of wrongness about him. He’s clearly vindictive and angry when things (and people) don’t act according to his mental script for them, and he’s willing to use his name and power to do things like get Bucky released...which in context and given our sympathies for Bucky is a good thing, but...it’s also an indicator of his willingness to do what he wants, because he can. (To be fair, Steve Rogers also often did that! - but Steve earned our trust, both in narrative and character. From his first introduction to WWII leadership experience to all the Avengers stuff, Steve consistently acts to protect people, and he’ll also listen if someone else has a good idea or if someone needs to talk, like with Wanda.) So I’m really liking this slow-fuse character development.

--mixed feelings about Sharon. I love that the show’s acknowledging how much she sacrificed for our main heroes, with no reward. On the other hand, she also clearly knew the consequences that could happen; she said as much at the time. The level of bitterness seems like a lot. But I’m also interested in everything we still don’t know about her - if she’s not the Power Broker herself, she’s obviously Up To Something. So that should be fun.

--hey, look at that X-Men location, with Majipoor! Also a nod to Wolverine’s favorite bar there, I think?

--I love heist and disguise plots!

--I also really like Bucky’s having to revert to the Winter Soldier - Sebastian Stan does it so brilliantly, with so many layers of emotion: not wanting to, loathing it, recognizing the necessity, shutting off all emotion and just coldly doing it, hurting but covering it up...just fantastic, and you know I love some hurt/comfort, and this seems like such a great set-up for emotional hurt

--but! this also seems like...a weird plot hole, kind of? Bucky’s pretty famous at this point, right? I imagine the criminal underworld knows he’s been pardoned and deprogrammed, right? or do they assume Zemo, with his knowledge of Hydra, still has some special control over him?

--along the same “this seems like someone didn’t think this through” path, Sam, you’re a professional, turn off your phone on a mission. Oh my god. Face-palmingly stupid - and I think somewhat lazy writing, as the writers plainly needed a giveaway, and went for the first idea they had. Even if it made a main character look incompetent.

--the Flag Smashers and Karli are...fine. They feel very Generic Marvel Villain - not the big space alien type, but the other type, the “I have a personal loss and motivating pain so I’m a little sympathetic but also Clearly Evil, watch me kill civilians so the audience won’t ever find me TOO sympathetic” type. Meh. Fine. Zemo’s more interesting, but...fine.

--Anthony Mackie is such a fantastic actor - every bit of his reaction to the Isaiah Bradley reveal is so good. The anger, pain, frustration, ferocity...heartbreaking. Actually that whole scene is so good - his emotions at discovering this secret history are palpable, and it’s so painful, because we also understand why Bucky would keep the secret - as someone who knows about pain and trauma and being experimented on, and knowing Isaiah wants to be left alone - we feel really deeply for both characters here, and it’s great.

--I actually liked the abrupt swing from the Isaiah Bradley encounter to the casual everyday racism of the cops on the street - is it subtle, no. But it’s not meant to be: it’s meant to be standing up and shouting about how not that much has really changed, and about how pervasive racism is. I know some reviews were all, “this was just too much!” or “too forced!” but...look, it needs to be shouted sometimes for people to hear.

--Bucky’s notebook being Steve’s, oh, ouch, my feelings. If I had the time and energy to write fic...

--(also, if I had the time and energy to write dark!fic: where’re my fics in which Zemo’s implication about the Winter Soldier “doing anything you want” gets played with? what or who does Bucky have to do to keep the undercover charade going? so many Bad Wrong Kinky power dynamics and explorations of consent and what this would do to Bucky’s head, here, and honestly I’d totally read them all, just saying.)

--Sam and Bucky together...I don’t know. This is one of the elements that I’m not actually a huge fan of, but I think it’s partly a personal genre / sense of humor thing that’s not clicking for me, personally, again. Like...

--I don’t find people shouting aggrievedly at each other to be funny? I’m not sure why it is.

--I mean, I get that they’re doing, like, eighties buddy cop movies, but...it got old really fast then, and it’s not something we needed to bring back. It’s not clever, and it’s...well, shouty and annoying.

--(I say this as someone who genuinely likes the first two Lethal Weapon movies...but the significant difference is, I think, we’re also shown in both those movies that Riggs and Murtaugh care about each other. They don’t want to be partners initially, and they don’t get along initially, and they do argue over tactics**...but they immediately feel responsible for each other and act to protect each other even as they argue, because it’s the right thing to do and we’re shown moments of them awkwardly trying to connect, because they both have that deep sense of...protectiveness...that makes them Good People - like, if they learn something that the other person needs to know, they tell each other. They protect each other’s families / love interests. So by the end of the second movie, with that fabulous character death fake-out, Murtaugh’s initial shock and grief is real and powerful and painful, and so is his genuine relief when the worst isn’t true - and it’s all earned.) (**however, they tend to argue tactics *before* jumping in - “is it 1, 2, 3, go on 3? or 3, then go?” And then once that’s established, they go ahead. That makes a difference as far as...well...competence and teamwork!)

--(Sam and Bucky, as far as I can tell, don’t do the above, and just...maybe shouldn’t be working together?)

--I also don’t find grown men acting like my youngest nephew, when he’s having a temper tantrum, to be funny. Staring contests? Random insults? Sulking in silence? Oh, grow up.

--(Also, yes, writers, we see you with the “couples therapy” and “get closer and make your legs touch” and “landing on top of each other as they hit the ground” moments. I, at least, personally, am very tired of...I don’t know that I’d call it queerbaiting exactly, but this idea that we’re supposed to find these moments funny...because why? Because, ooh, they’re two men getting close to each other, physically or emotionally? Why is this a thing we need to draw attention to? Do you think you’re doing some sort of fan service? Please either make Sam/Bucky happen or stop doing this.)

--both Sam and Bucky are highly competent and professional agents, or they should be. They should know how to work in the field - even with people they may not like - and adapt to shifting strategy, make best use of available assets, include people in the plan, etc. I can’t help but compare this to something like, say, Leverage, which also has a team who mocks each other and makes jokes but clearly absolutely respects each other’s capabilities, has a plan going in and tells everyone what the plan is, and adapts (and trusts each other to adapt) on the fly as necessary, and does it all without random insults about someone’s (PTSD-related) staring and “robot brain”.

--one of the very specific moments that bothers me a lot is the ending of the therapy scene (yay for showing heroes in therapy! but also I’m pretty sure she’s...not a great therapist?). Bucky finally opens up and says something real, about his own self-doubt and wondering whether Steve was wrong about him....and Sam just...brushes it off and goes, “we’re done here,” basically. Not only does that feel wildly out of character for former counselor Sam, it feels cruel. I really deeply dislike that moment the more I think about it. Makes me want to scream.

--Sam insults Bucky way more than the other way around. It’s starting to feel very one-sided (it’d be better if more clearly reciprocal, though it’s still not a dynamic that’s my favorite), and again, feels out of character - maybe this is Anthony Mackie’s sense of humor, but Sam isn’t Mackie, and Bucky isn’t Seb, and it reads as...a weird unbalanced power-trip thing to me. And also out of character for Sam, who can be sarcastic (”If you guys eat that sort of thing,” about breakfast, when Steve and Nat have randomly shown up at his door) but that’s not the same as just throwing unprovoked insults at a person who’s trying to recover from trauma, and a lot of those insults seem to center on things that were done to Bucky, that he had no choice in (the staring, the arm, etc), and that feels....it just feels mean, to me. Make fun of things he’s had a choice in / can do something about, if you have to - hair, clothes, liking “old people’s games” like gin rummy or pinochle, not knowing who Beyonce is, I don’t know, there are so many options that aren’t cruel! Do that instead. Let Bucky have a good comeback for once, too!

--the action scenes are action scenes. Also fine.

--Sam might be right about destroying the shield, and the show may even be (unintentionally?) setting that up as the best outcome, but that’s a problem for the future, Sam; get it back first. Also it’s a problem you caused by giving the shield up - did you really trust the government to leave it unused in a museum? You’re not that naive.

--overall, it’s...a perfectly fine show, so far, I think? Solid, and interesting, but not great. I think some of what doesn’t work for me is because it doesn’t work for me personally, as far as the shouty insult-heavy action “comedy” bits that I’m not enjoying, but I think they’re doing what they aimed for with it, so in that sense, I guess it’s working? There’s a lot of really cool stuff around the edges - John Walker, Isaiah Bradley, that Dora Milaje stinger, the bigger world of a history interwoven with racism and superpowers, the chillingly effective use of Bucky’s past - but I wish I liked the central Sam-Bucky relationship more. Individually they’re wonderful - they’ve both had such powerful scenes dealing with family, trauma, and consequences - but I feel like, in the effort to do the buddy comedy dynamic, the writing has just made me really sure that they actually genuinely don’t like each other? To such an extent that if they show any affection / caring / interest in each other in the last three episodes, it won’t be believable. (I mean Sam and Bucky, not Mackie and Seb. Mackie and Seb’re adorable.)

--I just want to think about Zemo dancing some more.

#the falcon and the winter soldier #tfatws spoilers #spoilers #fatws spoilers #thoughts

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talkfastromance4 · 4 years ago

Text

Poolside part 3-- It all started in Cabo (c.h)

Copyright talkfastromance4 © All works is intellectual property of the author. All rights reserved. Any redistribution or reproduction or any part or all contents in any form is prohibited. You may not, without written expression and consent from the author, distribute works amongst other social media platforms

a/n: welp, here it is! This is a prequel to how it all started. Thank you all for your messages about parts 1 and 2 and for being patient while I write this one! Catch up on the others below

Part One || Part Two

Word count: 7.3k (honestly didn’t want to stop writing)

Warnings: casual drinking, an unwarranted attempt at being picked up by a random guy, minor blood (from a scrape), slight voyeurism if you squint, and I think that’s it.

donate to my ko-fi here :)

Masterlist

Enjoy! :)

• • • •

You and your best friend, Morgan decided to go on a two-week vacation in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico. You’ve heard numerous times how the beaches are beautiful, and the nightlife is always exciting. After a stressful last few month of work, so many changes happening all at once, you were itching to go on your two-week getaway.

With enough saved up you and Morgan were able to rent out a beautiful villa just a little bit off the resort. The amenities included four bedrooms and two baths, a private pool and a small portion of the beach was secluded in the back. To celebrate, you both had a glass of champagne on the flight then slept the rest of the flight so you would have enough energy to go out for dinner and maybe a drink or two.

The taxi arrives at the villa and it’s gorgeous, high ceilings and wide windows with the pool half enclosed and half open to the natural weather. Vibrant green plants were placed around the whole house and you could already smell the fresh salty ocean air.

“This is incredible,” Morgan gushes meeting you back in the kitchen after you explored the area. “Let’s pick our rooms, shower, and head to the resort for some margaritas.”

“Sounds like a great plan to me,” you grin rolling your luggage to a room on the right. It had a large window with a great view of the pool and the ocean beyond, but you paused when you already saw an open suitcase. “Hey, Morgan, did you pick this room already?”

“No? Why, does it seem more like me?” she asks skipping up next to you then she spots the open suitcase. “What--?”

“Who are you?”

An extremely tall man with gold curls and eyes the color of the ocean appears from the bathroom of the room causing you and Morgan to scream at his sudden appearance.

“What are you doing in our villa?!” you exclaim, eyes wide.

“Your villa? This is our villa,” ocean eyes says in confusion.

“Nice, are you maid service? We need extra towels in the bathroom,” another voice says behind you, this one is much deeper.

You and Morgan spin around slowly meeting the eyes of the new unwarranted guest in your vacation home. He’s shirtless with a baseball cap on over dark hair and your eyes glide over the muscles and tattoos on his chest. In the midst of your bewilderment, his words finally register with you and you’re filled with a bitterness.

“We aren’t your maids; this is our villa. I think there’s been a mistake,” you answer him, fingers tightening on the handle of your suitcase.

“Oh, well, we booked this months ago,” the tattoo guy says.

“So, did we. Now get out.”

“I don’t think so,” he grins, “we’ve been waiting for this trip and this was the best villa on the resort. You ladies must have gone to wrong one.”

Scowling, you glare at him for a moment longer before pushing past him into the kitchen. There’s a phone hanging on the wall with a list of numbers for the resort next to it, the front desk was the first one listed.

“What are you doing?” Tattoo man asks standing on the other side of the counter.

“Calling the front desk so they can tell you that this is our villa. You boys must have gone to the wrong one,” you retort, and he smirks while you dial the numbers for the front desk. When the lady picks up you explain the situation quickly and he’s still smirking at you as you listen to her explanation.

Apparently another villa was under repairs and this was the only one that held four bedrooms and could be split between two parties. You were supposed to get an email explaining the situation and offering one of the better suites in the hotel but the deadline for that was a week ago. Unfortunately, you didn’t get such email and there are no other rooms available, but she offered to look at nearby resorts.

“No…no, that’s um, all right. Thank you for clearing that up,” you say dejected. When you hang up the phone, Morgan and ocean eyes joined the rude tattoo guy.

“What’s the verdict?” Morgan asks eying up the tall strangers.

You explain the situation to them with a hint of bitterness.

“So, it seems like we’re going to have to share,” you huff crossing your arms. You were looking forward to having this place to yourself and now you have to worry about two strange men? You’ll need a vacation from this vacation.

“Fine by me,” tattoo guy grins. “I’m Calum, and this is Luke.”

“Y/N,” you respond and point to Morgan, “and she’s Morgan. I don’t really want to share with two guys we don’t know. What if you’re killers and you’ve escaped here on the run from the cops?”

Calum grins cockily, and for some reason his attitude really irritates you.

“We aren’t killers, we’re just two dudes who want a nice trip. We probably won’t be around here much, sweetheart, so you girls can enjoy the amenities. We’ll be out clubbing.” He knocks his knuckles on the countertop then turns to his room.

Morgan gives you a look as you share the same thought.

“Rule number one don’t bring random girls back here,” you follow him into the room next to Luke’s.

“Rules? You can’t tell us what to do, sweetheart,” he shakes his head and pulls on a tank top on from his open suitcase.

“I can if I don’t want strange girls here. I don’t want to see them running around naked while I’m trying to relax. And stop calling me sweetheart,” you add.

“We weren’t even planning on bringing girls back here, don’t worry,” Luke says shooting Calum a look. “We promise to stay on our side of the villa while you’re here and won’t bother you.”

You glance between him and Calum who is now on his phone texting away at someone. You let out a sigh. “Fine, I guess that will work. We’ll do the same.”

“Awesome. Now that’s sorted, we’ve got dinner reservations,” Calum announces to Luke and they head to the front door. You follow him out, ready to rant and rave with Morgan as soon as they’re gone when Calum turns around. “Oh, you should google us, and you’ll see why we wanted this hidden villa in the first place,” he smacks the doorframe then shoots you a wink, “See you later, sweetheart.”

“Google them? What are they, princes or something?” you scoff and find Morgan already pulling out her phone.

“Calum seems to like you,” she gives you a sly smile as she types in their names. You roll your eyes in response and then she gasps. “No way.”

“What? Who are they?”

“They’re famous, like super famous. Look,” she holds her phone up to you and you see they’re in a band.

“And they don’t want to bring girls back? That’s…”

“Kind of sweet.”

“I mean…yeah. But Calum needs to fix his attitude.”

***

The first few days the four of you made sure to steer clear out of each other’s way. The guys would get up early and be out the door before you or Morgan woke up and did your own thing of sunbathing and going into the ocean of your secluded beach.

On the third night, you and Morgan decided to check out the resort party bar where booming music could be heard faintly every night. You decided to put on a blush pink satin halter top with white shorts and silver sandals. Before heading out the two of you took a shot to get your blood flowing.

The party bar was crowded with people dancing, mingling and right off the bat you noticed Calum and Luke off to the side with drinks in their hands. Calum met your gaze smirking as he lifted his glass then took a sip from the straw. His cocky attitude rubbed you the wrong way and you needed another drink pronto.

“Hey! There’s Luke and Calum, we should say hi,” Morgan says pointing but you grab her elbow and lead her away from them.

“We said we’d keep our distance, remember?”

“Yeah, at the villa,” Morgan giggles as you sidle up to the bar. “Calum’s looking at you.”

“I don’t care,” you shake your head but suddenly become very self-conscious of every move you do. The bartender takes your order, making the drinks quickly and the music is exotic mixed with the perfect tempo for dancing.

You and Morgan have two drinks while still at the bar, talking about the excursion you have planned tomorrow of going on a hike in the jungle. A familiar song came on and Morgan was yanking you onto the dancefloor so you can dance. Feeling warm and electric from the alcohol, it’s easy to dance along with everyone else. Calum is completely out of your mind now as you and Morgan twirl around each other. For the first time you’re feeling free and relaxed after such a long time of stress hanging over you. You made a mental note to set up a massage.

Bailando by Enrique Iglesias comes on and you’re really feeling the groove of the music, trying to rotate your hips with the beat when you feel hands on your waist helping to guide you. Looking behind you, you’re met with an attractive guy who smiles at you and you’re feeling yourself, so you let him dance with you. Morgan tells you she’s going to use the restroom and you nod absently knowing she’ll return as soon as she’s finished.

Once you get the hang of it, you’re the one leading his hips with the song, his fingers hook into the loops of your shorts and your arms are in the air letting go. You continue dancing until your throat feels parched and you need a drink.

As you start to walk away, you’re yanked back right against the guy you were dancing with, his other hand slipping over your ass in a possessive way you weren’t a fan of.

“Where’re you goin’ baby?” his voice is slurred, and you can smell the overwhelming amount of tequila in his breath. It was so potent it made your own stomach spin.

“To get a drink,” you try to pull away while also trying to remove his hand from your butt. “Thanks for the dance.”

“C’mon, you can’t dance with me like that and just leave. Let’s go somewhere more private.”

“No.”

Then he has the nerve to try and kiss you but you’re still leaning as far back as you can without falling over—his grip on your wrist is tight. You feel his lips nudge yours before he’s forcefully shoved away, and you stumble with the motion.

“I think it’s time for you to leave,” a familiar voice says.

“Calum—”

“Who the hell are you?”

“Doesn’t matter, get out of here,” Calum says then turns to you. Concern is in his dark brown eyes and you’re taken aback. “Are you all right?”

“Hey man, I was dancing with her first. She’s mine.”

“Excuse me? I’m—”

“She’s not your property,” Calum squares his shoulders and uses his height to his advantage. The guy takes a wavering step back. “Now leave or I’ll make you.”

He ends up walking away and Calum turns back to you. In your drunken state you’re embarrassed of the situation and irritated that Calum had to save you from a creep like that. The irritation wins over in emotions.

“Are you okay?” Calum asks.

“I’m fine. Thanks,” you mutter and leave the dancefloor to try and find Morgan. She’s talking with Luke and it looks like they’re having a great time. Not wanting to ruin your best friend’s moment, you avert your course to the trail leading back to your villa.

“Where are you going?” Calum follows you and your irritation grows.

“Back to the villa. You don’t have to come with.”

“Why do you seem pissed?”

“Look, I appreciate you yanking that asshole off me, but I can speak up for myself as well,” you mumble. The more you walk the more you realize how drunk you are, and you’re reminded of how dry your throat is. You need water immediately.

“Are you seriously mad at me for helping you? Who knows what he could have done if I didn’t step in?”

“I just said thank you!” you throw your arms up in the air and your body decides to move with them. The concrete of the pathway swirls in your vision but warm arms wrap around you.

“You can barely walk,” Calum sighs trying to get you standing straight.

“I’m fine,” you grumble trying to shove him off you, but his grip is strong. It doesn’t feel weird like with the guy from the dancefloor, it actually feels really nice.

“Let me help you back, please,” he huffs then adjusts himself, so he only has one arm around your waist. “I don’t need you breaking an ankle.”

You turn your head up to glare at him and groan when the stars are moving in circles. You clutch your head, closing your eyes but that somehow makes it worse.

“That’s what I thought.”

“Shut up,” you grumble.

The more you walk the more your stomach starts to feel uncomfortable and you know this feeling all too well. Through your heavy lids you can see the villa not too far off and you’re filled with relief at being able to go into the bathroom on your own so you can get sick. You will not throw up on Calum’s shoes. Glancing down you see he’s got sandals on and it makes you laugh at the thought of getting puke on his toes.

“You’re an interesting drunk. Angry one minute and now you’re giggling,” Calum sighs but you can hear the humor in his voice.

“Thinking it’d be funny if I puked on your toes,” you giggle.

“Shit, you’re gonna be sick?”

“No. Bathroom first, please, but don’t bring your toes. Does that rhyme? Please, toes…” you laugh some more.

Once you’re finally inside, you stagger your way to the bathroom falling to your knees just in time. You hold the porcelain of the toilet as the alcohol exits your system and someone is rubbing your back.

“Go—”

“I’m not leaving you in here while you’re sick. I’m not a dick,” Calum interrupts you.

When your stomach is empty and you feel a little less drunk, Calum helps you stand up and brush your teeth. He mentions to get water before he leaves, and you stare yourself down in the mirror. Your eyes are bloodshot and there’s a flushed look to your cheeks. What a night this has turned out to be. You wash your face the best you can, making sure to get as much make-up off when Calum returns with a water bottle.

Not knowing your status, he helps you hobble back to your bedroom where you crawl happily onto the bed.

“Anything else you need?”

“Help me change?” you ask, and his eyes go wide, his mouth opening in shock. You snicker at his response and wave him off. “I’m kidding. I got it.”

“You’re unbelievable,” he shakes his head moving to the door.

“Hey Calum,” you call, and he turns around, “Thank you. For everything.”

“You’re welcome. Now get some sleep, sweetheart. You’re a hot mess.”

You shake your head at his jab and pull off your clothes slipping under the covers. The night replays in your mind and then continues in your dream where Calum appears. His hot, sturdy hands grip your waist and you fall into a perfect rotation with his hips. You link your fingers with his then his lips move to your neck, singing softly to you with whatever song is playing.

You fall into a deep sleep then wake up still feeling the pressure of Calum’s firm but gentle grasp on you.

***

The next day after a long morning of waking up and recovering from a night of drinking, you and Morgan head out for your hike through the jungle. The two of you instantly regretted your decision of drinking last night while trekking through the humid forest. Beads of sweat trickled down your arms and the middle of your back but the view at the top of the hill was well worth it.

From this vantage point you could see the arched formations of El Arco, the ocean water as blue as the sky. You’ll have to find a way to get to the natural rock formation. The descent was much easier, and you and Morgan took plenty of photos while laughing at how unruly your hair was and the dirt that covered your arms and legs in patches.

The thought of the pool at your villa sounded heavenly and you couldn’t wait to take a dip.

Unfortunately, when you returned to the villa, Calum was already in the pool with a can of beer. Despite his helpfulness last night, you felt embarrassed that he had to do all that in the first place, his cocky grin still set your irritation off. Your head was throbbing from the hike and all you wanted to do was jump into the pool.

“Oh, hey,” Luke greets with a smile from the kitchen. “I just made some lunch if you guys want something to eat.”

“I’m starving. Climbing a mountain is hard work,” Morgan says making a bee line to the counter.

“It was a hill and we didn’t climb it,” you giggle but she waves you off already in quiet chatter with Luke.

Sighing, you step down into the pool area, Calum notices making his way to you in the water.

“You look worse than last night, sweetheart,” he grins taking a long pull from his drink.

You roll your eyes with a sigh and cross your arms. “Are you going to be in there long?”

“Maybe,” he shrugs leaning on the ledge with his arms. “It’s big enough for the both of us, great for getting off sweat from…” his eyes linger down your body, “strenuous activities.”

“I’ll just wait until you’re done.”

“Oh, come on, get in here,” he chortles. “I promise I’ll behave. The water’s really nice for a hot day like this. There’s some drinks in the fridge, help yourself.”

Taken aback by his offer of beverages, you’re left frazzled for a moment. The water does look tempting and Calum’s biceps are all too alluring reminding you of the dream you had about him last night. Your cheeks instantly heat up at the recollection.

But you won’t give in no matter how hard you want to. You tell yourself it’s the principle of the thing, an agreement between the four of you that you’d stay out of each other’s way.

“I’ll say yes to the drink,” you smile, “enjoy the pool.”

With that, you turned on your heel and went to take a cool shower instead. Maybe the pool will be open later tonight and you could take a dip.

***

“Good morning ladies,” Calum announces while you and Morgan are having breakfast on your sixth day of vacation. “I hope you don’t have plans today because you’re coming with us to El Arco by the sea cliffs.”

“Really?”

“Well…you and Calum are,” Luke says pouring himself a cup of coffee. “Morgan and I are going to look at all the shops and try the different restaurants.”

You look from Luke to Calum and Morgan who is very interested in the oatmeal in her bowl, avoiding eye contact with you completely. This was all obviously orchestrated but why?

“Are you sure?” you ask Calum who is wearing a black tank top and black swim trunks. He looks

“Yeah I’m sure. Morgan said you were ogling them on your hike, but she thinks they looked scary,” Calum explains.

“I wasn’t ogling them,” you sniff but secretly you’re excited to see them up close. There’s also a beach you heard about near the archway, total seclusion and relaxation. “But I appreciate the invite, when do we leave?”

“As soon as you’re done with breakfast,” Calum grins. “I rented a boat that will be waiting for us at the marina.”

Anticipating a boat full of other people, you were surprised to see it would just be you and Calum on the boat. You were filled with nerves at being alone with him and at the thought of possible getting lost at sea. How did he know where you were going? Does he frequent trips to the cliffs a lot?

Wordlessly, you hand him the two coolers of food and drink then bags of towels and small chairs to stick in the sand. You were the last thing to get into the boat and Calum held out his hand to you. Hesitantly, you took his hand (your dream resurfacing) and he helps you into the boat.

“So…it’s just us, then?” you ask resting your hands on your waist.

“Yup,” he rubs his hands together before untying the ropes of the boat from the dock. He pushes away from the pier, inserts the key and the boat rumbles to life.

“And you know where you’re going?”

“Yes, sweetheart, now sit back and relax. You’re safe with me,” he winks and turns the boat around in the water. You have no choice but to heed his words by sitting down.

You choose to sit at the front of the boat where you can feel the sea spray on your face and let your hand glide through the waves from the movement of the boat in the water. The sun is high and beating down on you in the best way. Calum banks to the right and then you see the cliffs appear, they’re much larger in the water than up on the hill and you’re awestruck at the foundation.

A few other boats are anchored around the small little island, some of the patrons are seated on the beach. Thinking you’ll be anchoring by them; you sit up a little straighter then furrow your brows in confusion when Calum continues on past them.

“Where are you going?” you ask turning around to face him. The wind is blowing his dark curls and his cheeks are a little tinted pink from the sun.

“Somewhere where there isn’t a lot of people. Don’t worry, you’ll like it.”

Continuing to arch around the cliffs, you catch sight of an even more secluded portion of a beach that is completely void of other people. The sand is white and blinding under the sun with some rocks along the shore. It’s the perfect spot and you’re actually really grateful that Calum chose this secluded area; you didn’t want to be around other people that much either.

Calum brings the boat as close to the shore as he can before dropping anchor. Peering down you can see the water will come up to your knees when you exit so it will be easy to transfer your belongings from the boat to the beach. He hops out of the boat effortlessly then holds out his hands.

“I’ll bring everything onto the beach if you want to hand it to me.”

“I can help too,” you say defiantly but ultimately hand him the heaviest cooler first.

As he’s setting up the chairs, you want to prove yourself to him so you grab the last cooler, setting it on the back of the boat so you can get out safely. You misjudge a step in the ladder making you bump against the boat with your shin. You feel something scrape against your skin and you cry out at the searing pain of the sharp cut and the salt water.

“Are you okay?” Calum asks.

You grab the cooler without responding, pushing through the water to the edge of the beach. At the fresh air hitting your scrape, you let out a hiss in relief and then the following throb after. You drop the cooler next to the other one so you can examine your leg. Sure enough, there is a scrape with fresh blood trickling down onto your foot.

“Damn it,” you mutter.

“Shit. What did you do?”

“Missed a step on the ladder and cut myself on something from the boat.” You grab onto the outer part of the cut trying to see how long it is, but more blood oozes out.

“Sit down, there’s a first aid in the boat,” Calum sighs splashing back into the water.

Again, you sit down in one of the chairs he set up trying to keep your leg in the air so the blood can stop flowing to that spot. He kneels in front of you when he returns, a small white box next to him. He rifles through it until he finds alcohol swabs.

“This is going to sting,” he glances up at you as he rips the paper open.

“I know, I can handle it,” you nod bravely.

He smiles quickly then takes your calf in his large hand, resting your foot on his thigh swiping the alcohol swab down your leg. It stings and pricks at your skin while he cleans the saltwater and sand away from the open cut. When the blood is clear, except for the small bead still rising to the surface, he puckers his lips and blows delicately on your leg.

You watch him as he continues to grab Neosporin and a large bandage. He squirts the clear gel on the band-aid then presses it onto your shin. His fingers press on the adhesive making sure it’s sticking properly. Calum rubs his thumbs on your leg softly. Having him touch you gives you goosebumps and the dream you had of him resurfaces once more.

“Thanks.”

“I told you I’d get everything off the boat,” he snaps the kit shut.

“This isn’t from the cooler,” you scoff, “I missed a step.”

“I knew I’d need this, you’re so clumsy Y/N.” His tone is mocking but the smile he gives you is kind and you can’t help but smile back.

“You aren’t wrong,” you laugh, “I trip over everything.”

“I can carry you back into the boat when we leave so you don’t get any more saltwater on it.”

“I’m still going swimming I hope you know.”

Calum sighs then sits in the chair next to you. “You’re something else.”

“Back at ya,” you sigh.

When the sun became too hot you decided it was time to head into the water. It was calm and so blue as it kissed the shore; you just had to experience it yourself. Standing from your chair, you remove your shorts and tank top stepping through the hot sand and sighing as the water rolls over your feet.

“Be careful,” Calum calls but you wave him off dismissively and venture further. The water is warm as it hits against you and you dunk yourself into the ocean, ignoring the dull throb in your shin because it’s so worth it to be in the water.

“You’re a little adventurer, aren’t you?” Calum’s deep voice startles you when you rise up from the water.

Not expecting him to be so close to you, you let out a small scream tripping on your feet before you steady yourself. You spit out the saltwater you slurped up.

“You don’t creep up on someone like that when they’re underwater!” you scold splashing water at him. You try to keep your gaze on his face rather than on his tattooed muscular chest.

“I thought you saw me,” he laughs then grabs hold of your elbows pulling you with him as he backs up. “You make me nervous out here.”

“Why?”

“A shark could smell your blood and I don’t really feel like fighting a shark today.”

“I’m not even bleeding anymore thanks to your nurse skills. Are these shark infested waters?” you follow him closer to the shore until the water is just below your chest.

“No but knowing your luck one will find you.”

You shake your head at his ridiculousness but are also very flattered that he’s nervous about your safety. His constant mood swings towards you are giving you whiplash.

“Thanks for your concern,” you answer drily walking around him.

The two of you swim silently for about an hour then head back to shore. You’re relaxing in the sunshine, popping grapes into your mouth complimentary of Calum’s snack preparation. The sound of the waves crashing against the rocks and the wind gusting through the overhang of the cliffs has you in a complete state of bliss.

“How’s your leg?” Calum asks, his voice equally as calming as your surroundings.

“Fine,” you shrug opening your eyes to see him already looking at you. They shine a lighter brown in the sun. “It barely hurts Calum.”

“I’m sorry about the way I’ve been acting. I went through a not so good breakup before this trip. It was supposed to be me and her instead of Luke. I guess I was still a little bitter about it and placed that bitterness on the first pretty girl I saw.”

You stare at him in shock, mind reeling at his apology and his pretty comment.

“I’m sorry you went through a bad break-up; those are really tough. I was pretty bitter too but from work. Guess I took it out on the first handsome guy I saw.”

He gives a shy smile then chortles softly holding up his can of White Claw. “Truce?”

“Truce,” you nod knocking your own can of Truly against his. You each take a drink then he sighs.

“Honestly, this little trip of ours to this beach helped calm me. It’s so quite and peaceful out here.”

You finish off the rest of your drink, the bubbly alcohol already taking effect and you feel lighter than air. “You know,” you sigh standing up from your chair. You peer down at him with your hands on your hips, “There are other ways to take out your bitterness.”

“Oh yeah? Like what?” his eyes are playful taking you in.

“Other strenuous activities,” you smirk and make your way back into the water. It’s refreshing to the touch after sitting in the sun. You splash some water on your face then Calum is joining you.

“Care to share these types of strenuous activities?” he quirks his eyebrows up as he swims closer to you. His muscles rippling in the best way.

“You’re a smart guy, I think you can figure at least one of them out.” You lower yourself into the water walking backwards as he circles around you. It’s like a dance, he moves forward, and you fall back, circling with the motion of the waves.

“I might need a little bit of help,” he smirks pushing forward.

As you fall back your foot touches something slimy and rubbery at the same time. It catches you off guard and you scream lurching forward right into Calum’s arms. His arms are strong around you holding you up in the water.

“Something touched my leg!” you shriek trying to push him away from where your foot was. He laughs at your reaction, your legs getting tangled together. “It’s not funny! Weren’t you just talking about sharks?”

“I don’t think a shark would come this close to the shore, sweetheart.”

You feel the rumble of his voice against your cheek, his skin warm against yours and you’re reminded of the dream again. When you remove your cheek from his chest, his arms loosen their grip but still circle your body against his. Your eyes meet his and something shifts between you.

He cups your cheek, water droplets glide down your neck and he traces your lips with his thumb inching his face lower and closer to yours. You incline your head to his, eyes falling shut when his lips ghost over yours and he stops. Your heart races.

“Want to help me get rid of my bitterness?” he mumbles, lips brushing against yours.

“Yes,” you exhale.

He captures your top lip between his, he tastes of saltwater and the spiky lime of his beverage making you crave more of him. You let out a huff, opening your lips already meeting his tongue with yours and you wrap your arms around his neck. If you would have known kissing him felt this good you would have done it the first chance you got.

His fingers tickle your lower back before he grips you tighter against him, your bodies are flush against one another as you continue to kiss in this small oasis. Unfortunately, you feel the band-aid on your shin start to peel off from the water and you lift your leg.

Calum hooks his hand under your knee hoisting you upwards with a small grunt. You giggle against his lips, loving where his mind is going but for the wrong reason.

“My band-aid is coming off,” you whisper in between a kiss.

“Yeah it—oh, shit,” he looks down and sees the strip peeling off your leg. “Okay, let’s get out of here.”

His lips are on yours once more as he pushes through the water to the shore. You kiss him back eagerly, never wanting to stop until he sets you down on the large towel next to your chairs.

“Sit down, I’ll get the kit,” he says. His hands roam over your back and down your ass, giving you a gentle squeeze then steps away from you.

You fall back onto the towel easily, his kiss made your knees weak and you watch him gather the supplies he needs from the white box. You scoot back a little so he can kneel on the towel. He takes your foot in his hand resting it against his thigh like before and gently peels the bandage off. The cut doesn’t bleed so that’s a good sign, maybe the saltwater helped a little.

“We’ll have to properly clean it when we get back,” he murmurs dabbing at it with the edge of the towel. He opens another band-aid placing the strip over your wound. His thumbs rub the adhesive just like before then to your surprise presses his lips to the bandage. “All better.”

Your breathing becomes shallow as his lips kiss a line up to your knee, your heart jolts as he kisses the knee cap. You wonder if he’ll keep going, you silently beg that he will. Calum shifts on the towel so he’s climbing over you and you lay back easily as he hovers over you. The water falls off his body in cool droplets, his chest pressing against yours.

This time, you drag his lips to yours with your hand on the back of his neck chasing for that saltwater and lime taste of his kiss. Very gently, he lowers his body down until you’re touching every inch. You feel him smile before slipping his tongue in your mouth and you can’t help the moan you make. Your hips lift against his and he grips your knee in his hand hooking it onto his waist.

Your back arches so you’re closer, fingers tangling in his curls and you thrust your hips once more.

“Someone’s eager,” he mumbles then kisses your jaw.

“Can you blame me?” you sigh tilting your head so he can kiss your neck. With his lips and the sun beating down on you, you’re warm all over.

“No,” he smiles against you, his thumb rubs the side of your knee. “I’ve dreamt of doing this since that first day you arrived.”

“Funny, I dreamt of you too.”

“First day?”

“No, third day,” you giggle, and he pinches your waist making you giggle. He leans on his elbow, his leg still poised between yours with his hand running up and down the side of your thigh. When his fingers skim under you’re your suit you grab his wrist stilling his movements.

“I’m sorry. I can—”

“No, I want to but…” you glance around you, “I don’t want to get sand in places it shouldn’t be.”

“Fair enough,” he laughs and gives you a quick kiss. “Want to head back?”

“No,” your hands glide down his shoulders and arms, “let’s stay here a while longer.”

You ended up staying until dusk exchanging more kisses. You catch the glorious colors of blazing oranges, bright pinks and flaming reds of the sunset on your boat ride back. Calum carried you to the boat so you wouldn’t get your injured leg in the water again or tripping on something while you carried the coolers or chairs back.

You stood behind him with your arm wrapped across his chest so you could lean down and kiss his cheek or his temple. His skin is hot from laying outside all day and he smells like fresh saltwater and sunscreen.

You’re both quick to bring in everything from the car and find that Luke and Morgan are nowhere in sight. Not having reception on your little beach, you check your phones to see they went out for dinner and dancing and won’t be back until later.

Calum gives you a boyish grin then bites his lower lip as he pulls you against his chest, his fingers lacing with yours.

“We have this whole place to ourselves.”

“I know,” you smile, “what should we do?”

“Wanna go for a dip in the pool? Get all this ocean water off us?”

You’re quick to agree letting him lead you to the pool area. The pool lights cast a cerulean glow from the water and shimmers on yours and Calum’s skin. The water is cool as you descend the steps, fingers still held loosely in Calum’s. It continues to cool your skin, finally feeling the effects from being in the sun all day and you probably got a sunburn but with the way Calum turns around and looks at you? You don’t care.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs cupping your cheek then gives you a deep kiss.

You’re filled with an inescapable desire for him, needing to be closer, needing to feel him on every part of your body. You brush your fingers over his stomach then tug on the waistband of his swim trunks.

“I’m sick of being in this suit, aren’t you?” you ask, fingernails tickling below his waistband. His breath hitches as he watches you untie the top part of your suit. The strings fall over your shoulders and you unclip the fastening against your back then you ball up your top tossing it next to you on the ledge.

Feeling smug about the way Calum’s eyes are practically devouring you, you take the situation in your own hands and press yourself against him nibbling on his lower lip. He groans on your mouth, his hands wandering down to your bottoms. Lips still connected; you help him by stepping out of the bottoms which he tosses next to your abandoned top.

His hands glide up your body cupping your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples and you moan at the touch. He moves his lips from yours to your jaw and he starts to suck lightly on your neck, it sends shivers down your body. Wanting to pleasure him as well, you yank down his trunks and take him in your hand. You stroke him lazily, the moan he leaves against your skin has you smiling in his hair.

“Can I play with you, too?” he whispers kissing your shoulder and you nod. With one hand still cupping your breast he latches his mouth to your nipple, tongue swirling in tantalizing motions and his other hand cups your sex.

You’re moaning against each other, your strokes faltering when he slips a finger into your pussy and his teeth scrape against your hardened bud.

“Fuck, Cal,” you exhale circling your thumb over his slit.

“Wanna feel you,” he sighs lifting his head. He tries to kiss you, but the motions of your hands only make you nudge against one another.

“Please,” you nod.

He takes his finger out then lifts you onto his hips, your back presses against the wall. Your foreheads knock together as he directs himself to your entrance, his tip clips your clit as he inserts himself. Your mouth opens from the stretch the further he pushes; each one ripples a newfound pleasure within you. He tightens his fingers on your hips thrusting all the way in and you groan at finally being filled.

“You feel fuckin’ amazing,” he pants pulling his hips back and then pushes forward.

You meet his thrusts easily and the vigorous motion creates waves within the pool water. Calum leaves sucking kisses all along your chest as you tilt your head back on the ledge in ecstasy. The dull rub of the wooden floor on the back of your head doesn’t compare to how Calum’s making you feel as he fucks into you at a rapid pace.

“Yes! Right there!” you gasp when he hits a certain spot. Calum’s hands grip the edge of the pool as he drills into you, your orgasm is rising, rising, rising until it topples all over you. You swear you see stars and through your eyelids, you can see the moon shining as well. He’s making you feel so good that galaxies are being formed.

Calum’s low grunts and moans spur you on for an even longer orgasm until his body tightens, his thighs clench beneath yours as he fills you with a new type of warmth. He sighs your name on your skin and you can’t help the dazed smile that forms on your lips.

When his body settles against yours you lift your head the same time he does, your fingers stroke his cheek. You’re dazed and blissed out in the best way possible.

“I’m glad we got thrown together in this villa,” he tells you, eyes staring into yours.

“Me too,” you smile fondling with his dark wet curls.

“I don’t…when we get back home…can I take you out?”

“Do you have a secret beach back in LA?”

“No.”

“Hm, well, then I don’t know…” you tease, and he kisses away your giggle. You melt against him, it’s so easy to get lost in his lips and the way he makes you feel. “I guess I’ll make an exception.”

“You’re too kind, sweetheart.”

He pulls out of you slowly, both of you hissing from the loss and then the skin on your arms and shoulders pinches. Your sunburn is starting to appear more.

“I think we should get out, I got sunburnt,” you scrunch your nose at him.

“Of course, you did,” he shakes his head at you adoringly. He pecks your lips. “Come on, we’ll take a shower and I’ll rub some aloe all over you.”

“How sexy,” you laugh.

In the shower, he massages his fingers into your scalp as he washes your hair and you do the same. When you’re both finished you can see how sunburnt you actually are, and Calum lays you on his bed. His hands and fingers are gentle as he rubs aloe and then lotion onto your skin trying to hydrate it. Afterwards, you fall asleep easily, exhausted from the day’s adventures.

Calum’s fingers trail up and down your bare back, calming you. This trip wasn’t what you expected, it was way more, and you couldn’t wait to spend the rest of your vacation with Calum.

“My paradise just got better because of you, sweetheart,” he whispers in your ear. You turn your head on his pillow to press your lips to his, a silent agreement.

• • • •

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reversecreek · 4 years ago

Photo

MEET THE NPCS...

BOBBY YANG, “BIG BOB” .

1. how old are they and what do they look like?

thirty-four. implausibly tall. the day magda first saw a sketch of slenderman she thought of him. when her aunt shelly pulled up the dirt road to abernathy creek magda remembers seeing him through a dusty back window with his head bowed to avoid getting tree leaves in his eyes, joint between his lips, dungarees dirty and half unbuckled. one side of his hair is buzzed with no apparent style intention and he has a weed leaf tattooed behind his left ear. an elephant on his thigh. a name on his ankle he often wears a plaster over. once it soaked through and fell off in the creek and, newly glossy in the sun, nine year old magda reached to give it a blunt and shameless prod. big bob never explained who the name belonged to, he only reached to thumb at the minari growing by the water bed and talk about the fact it was a "versatile little sucker”.

2. if applicable, where and when did they meet your muse?

big bob introduced himself as such and magda raised her eyebrow in disbelief, the soul of a disgruntled pensioner in a seven yr old’s body. magda didn’t rly talk to anyone when she first arrived in her new home, verging on mute. she was angry at the move, angry that her dad hadn’t called her when she got there, angry that she didn’t know her mother’s voice to imagine it telling her everything was okay. the world made her so angry she didn’t want to acknowledge it. she sat outside in silence for a long time letting a ladybug crawl over her hand, and big bob didn’t ask anything of her, he only schlepped closer and presented her with a buttercup. she looked at it like it’d spat in her face but took it nonetheless. it was strange having an actual bed, if you could call a bare mattress that, used to sleeping on the sofa in shelly’s old trailer, and the springs nipped at her like a dog demanding treats, so she wandered outside in one of shelly’s big tie dye shirts like a nightdress, searching for the moon. big bob was standing out there already in the overgrown grass, stark naked, chin lifted to gawk at the moon himself. magda didn’t disturb him. this is when she first discovered his habit of naked sleepwalking. abernathy creek felt like a bird house overrun with all kinds of eccentric, squawking parakeets. it was a lot for a seven yr old to take in. this was a strange reality she’d never signed up for, swallowed by the commune to overheat inside it’s belly.

3. what kind of a presence do they have in your muse’s life? do they have a positive or negative relationship?

bob’s definitely a character. three times now he’s slipped hallucinogens into magda’s tea without her knowing under the impression that this is just harmless fun and he’s actually helping her by pushing her little boat to bob along the ocean of enlightenment, once at as young as 16. every time she realises he’s like “y’just got bobbeddddd!” and magda’s like here we go ig. told her the raw earth has healing properties to explain why he’d dug up the grass just to rub his hands in the soil and lay there like a panting, overheated dog. he’s an important component to abernathy creek and oversees a lot of the agriculture there. rigged up the irrigation system himself using copper pipes that magda suspects were stolen. the beat up camper van that’s usually parked up behind abernathy and hidden under leafy branches appeared when he did, apparently, although he insists it belongs to everyone. he leads the crusades to drive it up to the mountains and take a group of abernathy creek residents shroom picking. he’s in charge of drying them for selling, too. jack of all trades, really. magda claims not to care for him (or anyone) but she still walked out onto the grass, took his hand and lead him inside whenever she found him sleepwalking at night in her teens. once a group of kids were daring each other to get closer when he was out there and magda threw a stone so hard at one of their shin’s it split it open and made them scatter. but again, magda “does not care about him”. the jury is not convinced.

4. are they revered in irving? do they have bad blood with anyone?

honestly everyone in irving probably thinks he’s a rly strange guy and i won’t fk around. he kind of is. wears many necklaces around his neck n one is just a pouch that has a prehistoric mosquito encased in a little piece of amber inside. sometimes magda wonders if he likes to play up to his reputation by putting it on a little bit. once she saw him suddenly jerking his head like a pecking chicken and saying “g’warn GET” to scare a random middle aged hiker into galloping in the opposite direction in the trees near abernathy. has a masterful knowledge of bird songs and can imitate them all impeccably. sometimes does this instead of replying with words. never cares about the holes in his shoes where his toes poke out. always seems to be turning a rusty coin between his fingers like it helps him think. he makes moonshine that will knock u off ur feet tho which is always a good time if ur lucky enough to try it. he has a very rich n warm voice like a log fire or a gooey chocolate brownie. even with all of his oddities he sounds kind. he’s very unconventional n doesn’t abide by rules of society a lot but he’s quite funny n a good time. makes engaging smalltalk if u treat him with respect. weird but admittedly a tiny bit wonderful.

OTIS WOLFE.

1. how old are they and what do they look like?

forty-six but he looks older. the skin beneath his eyes is subtly purpled like it’s been dyed by a lick of beetroot juice. he has a very charismatic walk which doesn’t sound like it makes sense but it does to look at him. he walks everywhere buoyantly and with purpose. very high energy in his good days. lives everything in large quantities, good and bad. always used to wear a tan leather bomber jacket when magda was growing up but he forgot it w her one visit n it’s the only time she’s known him to call up two days after leaving to ask if she’d seen it. magda lied and said she hadn’t. she still has it to this day. sleeps in it on her bad days. otis has a smile so big it shines like live wires are sparking in his mouth. magda’s fingertips prickle like she’s an hour recovering from shoving a fork into a plug socket whenever she sees it. she used to think that’s what excitement felt like. that used to be true.

2. what kind of a presence do they have in your muse’s life? do they have a positive or negative relationship?

it’s very complicated. magda knows her dad isn’t a good person but she knows he isn’t a bad person either. sometimes it’s more frustrating to see things in grey because you just want something solid to take shape that u can actually put ur finger on. she finds herself perpetually stood at a fork in the road between believing in him still and deciding he’s no good. sometimes she’ll start walking in one direction only to realise it loops back on itself and she’s right back where she started. otis has given her a lot of fun “adventures”. taught her how to juggle. they stayed in a hotel on someone else’s credit card once and racked up a gargantuan tab ordering every form of room service and renting godzilla and the matrix on pay per view when she was 11. sometimes he’d use her in gimmicks where she had to lie and pretend she had a health condition so they could get a few bucks off charitable strangers on a street corner and under the veil of youth magda found playing up these roles funny because who would ever believe that? wasn’t everyone in the world so stupid except them? it was nice being part of his team. his “little wolfie”. but then a lot of things weren’t nice either. he’s left her stranded on the side of the road with nowhere to go on more than one occasion. he’s passed out in motel corridors and she’s had to lug him into a bed. he’s forgotten almost every birthday apart from one where he sent a card with five dollars inside and handwriting so squiggly she could tell he was drunk when he wrote it. he doesn’t know she likes to sing because he’s only ever listened when he’s fallen asleep. otis is all of magda’s heart and that’s why sometimes she likes to forget that it’s beating.

3. are they revered in irving? do they have bad blood with anyone?

he’s very flighty n rarely in irving any more tbh but was more when magda was younger n his visits were a little less sporadic. probably owes a bunch of people money for some reason or another. smashed up fannie’s recently when he turned up drunk and got ahead of himself on a giddy n frenzied rampage in the name of “fun” n “just having a laugh”. magda’s aunt shelly really doesn’t get on with her brother n thinks he’s a complete deadbeat waste of space n resents him a lot for the impact he’s had on magda. magda remembers being little and peeking through a crack in shelly’s trailer door when he turned up drunk one time to collect her for a visit n shelly wouldn’t let him in. something along the lines of “you don’t give a rat’s ass about that little girl” and “she worships you, y’know that? most of the time, you don’t even remember her name”. magda crept back onto the sofa and pretended to be asleep by the time she came inside.

4. if your muse is no longer in contact with them, how did the relationship end? did your muse get closure over this?

magda slowly stopped trying to keep in contact over the years. it got embarrassing trying so hard when she didn’t get much back. like pushing a boulder all the way up a hill only to watch it roll back down again. it’s probably contributed a lot towards magda’s inability to really try with people like she should, especially when her heart’s involved. she doesn’t want to be humiliated again. magda hasn’t spoken to her dad in person in almost a year. they had a phone call about seven months back but it turned out to be a butt dial and he hung up because he was in the middle of a conversation at some bar about the moon landing conspiracy. magda’s playlist that i have for her is called “a rodeo clown in a revolving door” which is basically the role otis serves in magda’s life. always in and out. never constant. gone more than he’s there, especially lately. idk if magda will ever get closure over that. she certainly hasn’t now. pouts my fuckable lips to the side w a hand on hip and triple f’s prominent.

#irvingtask002 #magda | muse #drugs tw #alcoholism tw #i said i was gna do hunter too but i simply just dnt have the energy i wont lie. so big bob n otis are all i have to present...... holds ban #omg. bang.#mayb i do more editions of this task for magda in future bc #i have hunter n shelly tht i wna write up....

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forgottenpasta · 5 years ago

Text

Lifeline | 06

Summary: What happens when a witch curses seven vampires to share one fated mate between them? BTS x Reader, Vampire!au, Idol!au

Pairing: Ot7 x Reader

Genre: Angst, Fluff, Smut, Fantasy

Word count: 15.4k

Warning: mentions of sex work, mentions of murder, violence, blood, language.

Ch.1| Ch.2| Ch.3| Ch.4| Ch.5

A/n: Enjoy!

“You’re getting me Beyoncé’s autograph or I’m going to kick you out of our apartment.”

Staring unseeingly at the blinking line of the cursor below the wall of coding you’d managed to do since morning, you half listened to Jisoo’s threats in your ear, wondering when you would heed your stomach’s grumbling and finally grab a bite. You had only had a cup of coffee and a muffin in the morning, stuffing the bready, crumbly goodness in your mouth while informing Jisoo about your imminent departure to America in a matter-of-fact tone, as if you were only going to go to the grocery store to pick up some eggs.

If she only knew that I’m going as their grocery myself. Nothing like flying your food along with you.

You grinned at your lame attempt at diet humour.

“You pillock, you’re not even listening to me!”

Wrinkling your nose, you focused back on Jisoo’s churlish voice. “What the fuck is a pillock, Jisoo? Have you been watching those overdramatic British cooking shows again?”

“I hear judgement in your voice, Y/n.”, Jisoo sniffed in offence. “And I do not care for it.”

Leaning back on your plush office chair, you chuckled with delight. “Why, pardon me madam, which old English lady are you trying to imitate right now?”

“Shut up.”, Jisoo grumbled. “I know what you’re trying to do. I want that autograph. And I will only settle for Rihanna as a substitute. I’m going to exploit your lofty connections, now that you’re all chummy with world-famous celebrities.”

“Jisoo,”,you said her name at the tail end of a long-suffering sigh.“When I told you about the award show the boys will be attending, at what point did I say that I’ll be sitting at the VIP section, drinking champagne with the who’s who of Hollywood? I’ll probably be in an obscure cramped hotel room with another member of the staff, eating shitty room service while watching them on the tv like the rest of the world. And besides, I don’t think Beyoncé and Rihanna are even gonna be there.”

Jisoo was silent for about five seconds.

“Then what’s even the point? Flop.”

A soft knock on your office door distracted you. You looked up just as it swung open to reveal one by seven of the reasons you had difficulty breathing several times a day.

“Jisoo, can I call you back?”, you mumbled distractedly before hanging up on Jisoo’s protesting voice.

You were only human. You couldn’t multitask while Jimin was leaning against your office doorjamb looking like all your sins manifested. In a casual long sleeve t-shirt and sweatpants, his hair uncharacteristically swept off his forehead and delicate silver earrings dangling from his earlobes.

A knowing grin graced his mouth as you blatantly checked him out, amusement dancing in his eyes.

With a cough you straightened in your chair. “What’s up?”

Cringing, you inwardly smacked your forehead. What’s up? Really?

It didn’t seem to matter that in the three days since you’d come back to office, they all (barring one) made sure to see you in flesh at least once a day. Actually came up with all sorts of excuses to visit you, “run into” you, “accidentally” catch you while you were leaving the restroom, just “happen to be” in the cafeteria when you came down for lunch. That last one was Hoseok not even trying to be subtle.

Your mind still half fried and scrambled itself trying to process all the attractiveness surrounding you.

“Your friend doesn’t ask too many questions, does she?” Jimin appraised your twitching form, thankfully ignoring your childish greeting.

You frowned. “Were you eavesdropping?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t have to. I can tell you what Namjoon and Jin are talking about one floor above us.”

Of course he could. Sometimes they looked so approachable that you forgot they were not human and could probably break your neck with a snap of their fingers.

“What are they talking about?” You pressed.

He just smiled.

Well, it was worth a try.

“Jisoo��, you answered his earlier question instead. “doesn’t ask too many questions because she trusts me and wants the best for me. She’s happy thinking Namjoon is so head over heels for me he’s willing to take me across the globe with him.”

“She’s not far off.” He pushed off the threshold, sauntering inside.

“You’re kidding right? If Namjoon had his way this curse would be broken and he’d be in Gina’s arms while my dead body floats face down in the Han river.”

Laughing at your morbid imagination, you paid no mind to the way he effortlessly swung up one of the chairs in front of your desk and placed it beside your own, plopping down on it heavily. He eyed the coding on your monitor curiously as you turned to face him.

Absentmindedly, you concluded that his side profile must have been sculpted by the gods.

“Don’t exaggerate, Y/n.” An elbow on the armrest, he cupped his face in one palm, giving you his best impression of a cherub. No innocence about him though. “Besides I wasn’t talking about Namjoon.”

There goes your poor heart, fluttering in your chest like a hummingbird on steroids.

Scratching the back of your neck, you chuckled nervously. Was he flirting with you? How did you reply to that? You were woefully inept at this.

“It’s so surprising,” he tilted his head, gazing at you thoughtfully. “That you have no qualms kissing Jeongguk like that in front of us, but you’re blushing at the mere mention of me falling for you.”

Did he have to put it like that? And was he really falling for you? You doubted that. He was really glib with his words. And you were awkward yes, but not a fool.

“That you have no problem letting Taehyung—”

“Jimin.”, you cut him off, not ready to go down that line of questioning yet. You were not sure of the answers yourself. Instead you turned the tables on him. “If I ask you something, will you answer honestly?”

The change of subject didn’t go unnoticed by him. He smirked at you sideways, but let it go. “Depends on what you ask, love.”

If he wanted to throw you off by using that endearment, he was…succeeding.

You cleared your throat. “You still haven’t told me why you call me that, but that’s something for another day. Tell me,” you leaned forward into his personal space. Two could play at this game. “Why don’t you have your share of reservations about me? Just like the others.”

“What do you mean?” His eyes flickered to your lips for a second and you wondered if you weren’t a fool for trying intimidation tactics on a vampire. He wasn’t in the least bit intimidated.

“I mean,” you try to lean back but Jimin’s hand on your elbow stopped you. You swallowed harshly, but continue on. Curiosity about the only member who’d always been kind, considerate and accepting of you burned. Now you had your chance. “You don’t seem to be taking this curse like a curse at all. Don’t you want a mate of your own? Like Namjoon. Not one that you have to share with six other vampires?”

For a few seconds Jimin gave you a blank stare. Then he let go of your elbow abruptly. You almost toppled into him but manage to catch yourself at the last second. He didn’t meet your eyes when he replied, “Does it matter?”

Classic evasion. You couldn’t count how many times you’d used the same phrase when you didn’t want to answer something.

“It matters to me.” You told him softly, this time reaching your hand out to place it on his arm. He eyed it sceptically. “I’d like to know.”

He scoffed, the bitter smile on his lips surprising you. “No, Y/n, you really won’t. You think I’m some angel who has your best interests at heart. Well, truthfully I don’t want to disavow you of that notion. It works in my favour.”

Whatever you’d expected to come out of his mouth, it wasn’t that. What was he suggesting? How did you believing he was a good person work in his favour?

“What do you mean?”, you echoed his earlier words.

“It means,” he mimicked you, but instead of just invading your personal space, his hands circled your knees and spread your legs apart, pulling you to the edge of your chair with a quick jerk. With a shocked yelp, you clutched his shoulders for balance, your eyes widening as he wedged his firm thighs in between your splayed legs. “That you’re incredibly naïve and I like it.”

The skirt you were wearing was bunched up at your hips now, you tried pulling it down in order to not flash Jimin your plain white cotton panties but he didn’t let you move. You huffed in irritation. “Is there a reason why you have me in this position right now? And I’m not naïve.”

He ignored your add on, gently caressing the back of your thighs. “Just keeping you in place so you don’t run away screaming.”

Restraining a full body shiver at the deft stroke of his hands on your bare skin, you gulped. Where was he going with this? “Why would I do that?”

Jimin smiled, his fond gaze on you didn’t fill you with warmth like it usually did. When he spoke it was with a chilling intensity that set all your alarms blaring.

“I don’t see you as a curse, because you’re not, Y/n. Not for me. You’re the sign I had been waiting for, for so long. A reward really. For everything I’ve been through. You were owed to me.”

A shuddering exhale left you. One at a time.

“What have you been through?”, you whispered.

A glassy glaze took over his eyes, as if your question transported him somewhere else. “Do you remember the Haeundae serial murders?”

“Um vaguely.” You frowned, thoughts a mixture of confusion and apprehension. “I wasn’t even in middle school then. Several escorts from one of Busan’s red light districts were found with their throats slit. They bled to death. Right?”

“Wrong.” Jimin’s grip tightened on your thigh, his gaze vacant. “They were bitten and drained. Slitting their throat was an attempt at cover up. A very sloppy one at that.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “H-how—”

“My mother was likely an escort. I wouldn’t know, I never met her. She left me, a squealing newly born baby, in an open drain pipe in Haeundae.” He laughed, the sound broken and manic. “Infanticide by drowning in fucking gutter water.”

Goosebumps broke out on every inch of your bare skin. Not because of all he was telling you, but because the pain in his eyes felt too much, too real, too soon. It took you several, agonisingly long seconds to find your voice. Still it came out barely audible. “You’re not dead.”

“No, I’m not.” Dare you say there was pride in his voice. “I’m a natural born vampire. That’s the only good thing the sperm donor passed on to me. We’re fucking resilient, even as newborns.”

“Your father was a vampire?”

He nodded stiffly. “My mother couldn’t have been. Vampires aren’t prone to sex work.” He sneered, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “Biohazard and all.”

Lest they kill their partners in the throes of passion.

You shivered. He wasn’t saying as much but you could read in between the lines. And the picture that was painting itself in your head was inhuman. Did his father force himself on his mother? Giving her a ‘monster’ baby who she abandoned? You didn’t have the gall to prod him but you didn’t have to. The torment on Jimin’s face told you all you needed to know.

Does he feel guilty on behalf of his father? Even though his mother left him to die.

“How did you survive?”

At your timid question he looked at you, really looked at you for the first time since he’d started going down the black hole of his family history. Or lack of one.

As if impulsively, Jimin’s hands on your legs smoothed to your upper thighs, almost underneath your skirt. He observed your every twitch and shuffle with interest, making you squirm even more.

“A deer shifter who also worked the nights in the same area found me. She took me in. My earliest memories are of her standing in the kitchen of her tiny, dinghy apartment. She couldn’t afford better even working night after night, selling herself to all and sundry. In those memories, she’s severing the carotid artery of a chicken before draining its blood in a glass for me.”

“She took care of you.”, you breathed, searching for some warmth, some fondness in his eyes for this unnamed person. You found none.

“She was afraid of me.” He gritted his teeth, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “I can barely remember any conversations we had. Fuck, I don’t even remember her name. Maybe she never told me. Can’t blame her, really. She was housing a predator in her sorry excuse of a fucking house and she damn well knew she was prey.”

“As soon as I turned eight she packed up her bags and vanished, leaving me to come home to an empty apartment. I remember being so confused and scared, I thought something had happened to her. I was ready to go out and knock down the doors of every pimp in the city who may have harmed her.”

Your hands clasped together behind his nape as his voice broke at the last word. There were no tears in his eyes but you knew he must be holding them back with herculean effort, not wanting you to see him cry. You wanted to tell him that it was okay, he could cry, sob, break down in front of you.

He has gone through so much.

Jimin closed his eyes on a stuttered exhale. “Guess she thought I was old enough to fend for myself.”

Heart breaking at his pain, you slid your palm to cup his cheek gently. He turned his face, nuzzling closer, a hand left your thighs to circle your wrist instead, keeping it in place as he inhaled sharply, scenting the blood rushing beneath your skin.

Not knowing what to say to console him, you let him do as he pleased, shivering when he placed an open mouthed kiss on your pulse, his teeth barely grazing your skin.

His next words shot a chill down your spine, making you go rigid with fear.

“So I fended for myself. I half drank those whores and slit their throat to let them bleed out, covering it up as senseless murder.”

“Y-you killed them?”

He placed another kiss on your wrist, rubbing soothing circles on your skin with his thumb. You were anything but soothed, you were downright terrified and shocked. Maybe you were naïve, when he’d asked about the murders you’d thought he lost someone dear to him because of them.

Maybe he did.

“Did you k-kill the deer shifter too?”

He didn’t hear your timid question, or if he did he ignored it. Eyes still closed, his hoarse voice belied a deep seated agony he kept under lock and key everyday. “I was a child. I didn’t know what I was doing, I had nothing. Just that cloying ever present hunger for revenge, for something. The need to belong somewhere, have someone. The thirst for blood was nothing compared to the thirst to lash out. Take what should have been mine from the beginning.”

A tear escaped the corner of your eyes, and you pursed your lips to restrain more from following after it. “We-were you hoping,” you paused to swallow harshly “that your m-mother was amongst those you killed?”

He opened his eyes at that, staring into space without really looking. Again he didn’t answer you. You sensed he was far away, reminiscing painful memories.

“The ones the police found were only the beginning. I got better at it, choosing my targets carefully.”, he chuckled wearily, his breath hot against your palm. “You couldn’t begin to imagine how many lonely, destitute prostitutes roam the Busan streets. Ones nobody gives a fuck about when they go missing.”

Everything had turned upside down. Yet again. Whenever you thought you had begun to understand these otherworldly men posing as beloved artists, they went and messed up your perspective of not just them, but your entire world.

Jimin was a cold blooded killer. Yet he was loved by millions.

In the clusterfuck of your multifarious emotions, one stood out. You still felt sympathy for the poor eight year old boy whose mother left him to die as a new born, whose guardian abandoned him, who no doubt had no clue why he was what he was…essentially a monster.

It terrified you, this compassion. He’d just confessed to murdering innocent people.

But he was a child.

Pulling your hand from his grip, you interlaced your fingers in your lap, voice curt when you asked, “W-when did you stop?”

Gritting your teeth at the stutter, you tried again. “Why did you stop?”

Jimin ran his tongue against the inside of his cheek. Seemingly back to the present again, he studied your reactions closely. You tried to maintain a poker face, but you knew you failed when his eyes fell to your trembling hands.

“You’re afraid of me.” He declared it as fact. A small, cynical smile appeared on his face. “Well, at least you didn’t run away screaming like I thought you would.”

“I still might.”

Jimin reached up to wipe your cheek. You flinched in reflex. His eyes hardened as he pulled his hand away.

“BangPD found me hunkering beside an alleyway dumpster when I was 13.” Sighing, he looked away from you. Suddenly he seemed tired of it all. Maybe he thought he’d revealed too much. He still continued on. “I’d just recently finished a kill, there was blood on my ratty clothes, on my mouth.”

“He took you in?”, you guessed.

“He knew what I was.” Jimin nodded, then smiled. A genuine smile this time. “Because he knew others like me too. He introduced me to the boys. Namjoon, Jin, Yoongi, Taehyung, Hoseok and Jeongguk. I was the last to join them.”

The torment that was there in his eyes moments earlier, disappeared, and you knew Jimin had found his place in the world when he came here, when he met the others. His next words told you as much.

“For the first time I felt like I belonged.” Jimin leaned back, running a hand through his thick hair, letting it fall over his forehead. “For the first time I wasn’t alone anymore, wasn’t scared of what I was. The guys taught me everything I know, they made me everything I am right now. They felt like home.”

Meeting your eyes, he corrected himself. “They feel like home.”

Things were starting to click into place. And the more they did, the more you realised how wrong you were. “And you don’t want to lose that feeling. Ever.”

He nodded, raising an eyebrow. “You see? I would do anything for them.”

You were so far off. He wasn’t accepting of you because he somehow fell for you in the short time you’d known each other, you weren’t a special snowflake he couldn’t bear to live without.

No, this was just pure self preservation and self regard. He was just looking out for himself.

If it wasn’t clear enough, he spelt it out with you. “ I don’t ever want to lose this feeling, Y/n, and as long as you’re in our life I won’t have to. To answer your earlier question, I am more than fine with sharing you.” he laughed, shaking his head. “Ecstatic even. I would gladly forego having a mate of my own if it meant staying with the boys forever.”

So, he doesn’t feel anything for me?

Inwardly, you rolled your eyes. Why did it even matter? You didn’t feel anything for them either. They were just a very immoral, a-burden-on-your-conscience stepping stone to success.

He is using me, I’m using them. Even Steven.

That would have been true, except for the butterflies in your stomach every time they were near, the wetness between your legs every time one of them touched you and the sheer space they had begun to occupy in your thoughts.

And for that reason Jimin’s reasoning for wanting you stung even more.

“Y/n?” Jimin’s soft voice made you straighten up and look at him. For a moment, the angelic beauty of his face be-spelled you. He looked so innocent, so harmless. One would think he wouldn’t even hurt a fly.

I wonder how he looks when he’s in a rage, desperate enough to kill without a second thought.

“Are you okay?” Jimin glanced at where you were wringing your hands in your lap.

“Yeah.”, you said, a little too quickly. Cracking your knuckles, a nasty habit you’d picked up from constantly typing on the computer, you purposefully stared at your monitor where a montage of you and Jisoo in Jeju was playing as screensaver. “I..um..just thought maybe I should get back to work.”

Jimin chuckled, shifting back to free your trapped legs. “Alright. I know a dismissal when I hear one.”

You peered up at him as he stood up, feeling a bit intimidated when he met your eyes.

“For what it’s worth,” he bent over to whisper in your ear and you shivered “you feel like home too, love.”

Then he kissed your cheek.

You scowled as he left your office.

Why the fuck did he have to do that?

~.~.~

Minjun scratched his head, hesitation clear on his face. He clearly didn’t want to be having this conversation with you.

“You’ve made good progress, Y/n, and I like where you’re going with this, but you won’t be here for the next few days since you’re ahem—”, he cleared his throat awkwardly and you restrained a resigned sigh. He improvised, “Since you’ll be um assisting Bangtan the next few days.”

How pg-13.

“Minjun-ssi—”

“Should I assign someone else to takeover for the time being? Till you’re back to resume your work.”

“I don’t think there’s need for that.” You gave him a smile, hoping it looked sincere enough. “I can work on the trip. Gotta do something on those 11 hour flights, you know.”

“Y-yeah.” He didn’t meet your eyes. Was he actually intimidated by you? He had never been before, regarding you with casual indifference like he did most other employees under him. “If you’re sure. I wouldn’t want you to be swamped by work when you have other things occupying you.”

Holy fuck. He was intimidated by you. Your eyes almost bugged out of your head. What did he think? That you’d tell the boys to fire him if he made one wrong move?

Mistaking your expression for something else, he hastened to clarify. “I-I meant, I didn’t mean—”

Before you could stop his train wreck self, someone else did. A light knock on the door had him shutting up immediately. You both turned as the door opened.

A pretty blonde stuck her head in, a smile lighting up her face as she spotted you.

You frowned. Did you know her?

“Jinhee.” Minjun was similarly confused. “What are you doing here?”

The woman named Jinhee stepped in, and you distractedly noted that she was a ten on the attractiveness scale. The simple figure hugging plaid dress and heels she had on made her look simultaneously formal and smoking hot. A look that screamed that she dressed for both the office and the after hours. You were immediately envious of her dressing sense, especially considering that most days only sheer will power prevented you from rolling up to the Bighit building in pyjamas and stained t shirts.

She gave you a subtle once over, as if gauging exactly what was going through your mind. “I’m here to take Y/n-ssi with me, she’s needed somewhere else.”

Minjun nodded immediately, as if you were a highly distinguished individual and he’d taken too much time out of your busy schedule. “Of course, of course.”

Getting up you collected all of your stuff, not wasting a second to hightail it out of the room. You wanted to thank the pretty blonde for saving you as she immediately fell in step with you.

“Where are we going? Did Sungmin want to see me?”, you asked instead, glancing at her briefly.

She was silent for long seconds, almost making you think she wasn’t going to answer, before she flashed a smirk your way. “No, Min Yoongi does.”

Suspicion arose quickly. “Yoongi?” You raised your brows at her. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, why?”, she asked, wide-eyed. “Aren’t you close with all of the boys? You sound surprised.”

Your hackles rose immediately. The way she’d emphasised the word ‘all’ didn’t go unnoticed by you either.

Narrowing your eyes, you gave her a warning look. “Why are you asking me this? Who are you, by the way?”

“Oh I’m sorry, I forgot to introduce myself.”, she gave you a sheepish smile, but you saw right through her faux pleasant demeanour. “I’m Park Jinhee. I’m a stylist with the costume department. In particular, I arrange the boys’ stage looks.”

You gaped at her, impressed. No wonder she had impeccable dressing sense, and to think she came up with all those drool worthy, panty melting outfits the boys rocked on stage? Whew.

Will she mind if I ask for her autograph?

“Also, I’m Taehyung’s fuck buddy.”

Will she mind if I punch her in the face?

“W-what?”, you stuttered in shock, shaking your head.

Jinhee tossed all semblances of politeness out the window. “You heard me, Y/n. Me and Taehyung fuck. Occasionally. To be honest, I want to do more than just fuck him but he’s never been the romantically inclined one. That’s more Jimin’s style.”

A muscle jumped in your jaw as you grit your teeth. The way she spoke so casually, so intimately about them had you on edge. If she only knew what Jimin’s style actually was.

Romantic? If you’re into serial killers…

Morbidity aside, you quickly composed a poker face, though your insides teemed with unexpected turmoil. “What am I supposed to do with this information? I’m sorry to break it to you but I’m not the best at relationship advice.”

“Oh but you are.”, she exclaimed, turning to you with a saccharine sweet smile. “You managed to snag six of the seven most coveted men in this country, heck dare I say, in the world. You Michael Phelpsed in the relationship department, Y/n.”

Six.

Arriving at the elevators, Jinhee quickly pressed the button and as if she read your mind again, went on to clarify, “But you didn’t get the hottest among them, am I right? I have never seen Taehyung around that cute little office you got along with that impressive promotion. All of the others pay frequent visits though, do they not?”

The chilling look from you just made her snicker in delight. In just one breath she had made sure you knew that the entire building was aware how you’d gotten your position, as well as implied you were fucking six of them quite openly.

“Jinhee.”, you spoke calmly, even though on the inside you were anything but. “I would shut up if I were you.”

“Why? Did I lie?” The elevator doors opened and she clutched your elbow, all but dragging you inside with her. Swiping her card, she pressed for the floor where their personal studios were. “Or did I struck a nerve? Don’t worry, I would do the same if I were you. We all gotta hustle somehow. If you think I’m judging you, I’m not.”

“What makes you think I care about your opinion?” You brushed off her hand from your arm and looked down your nose at her. “I’m not interested in having this conversation with you, Jinhee.”

Suddenly, all cheeriness vanished from her face, the seriousness in her eyes startling you. “But I am. Interested in Taehyung that is. I don’t give a single fuck about you sleeping with the others. However, if you so much as breathe near Taehyung, the consequences won’t be good for you.”

There it was. She had finally come to the point, you were wondering when the threats would pour out, since her infatuation with Taehyung wasn’t well masked. If she only knew that you’d already done much more than breathe the same air, that he’d has his tongue down your throat and his fingers inside you not too long ago.

You pushed up the collar around your neck, suddenly conscious of the place where he’d sunk his fangs. Pursing your lips, you gave her a long hard contemplative stare, then you sighed.

“Have you told Taehyung how you feel about him? Maybe you should do that, instead of warning others off him.”

From the surprise on her face, that clearly wasn’t what she’d expected you to say. She shook her head. “He’s not the type to take confessions seriously. He would just laugh at me.”

Probably true. “Try it anyway.”

You knew the only reason you were encouraging her to open up to Taehyung was because you knew he didn’t feel the same way. He couldn’t. You were his mate, no matter how much he wanted to deny the fact. And the one thing you were coming to know from all the time you’d spent with the boys, was that they were not attracted to anyone else the way they were to you. At least, not anymore.

Ever since that day at the office, Taehyung had been avoiding you like the plague. You weren’t going out of your way to cross paths with him either, mostly because you were mortified at what you’d allowed to let happen that day. But Taehyung’s reason for not facing you were much deeper than that. You suspected he loathed the changes being mated had brought with it.

Slyly, you glanced at Jinhee sideways. “You said you were fuck buddies. I’m sure you two have been going at it like rabbits ever since he returned.”

Her cheeks coloured at that, and knowing how cavalier she had been just moments before, you guessed it wasn’t because of shyness. “He hasn’t-he’s been busy. I guess.” She cleared her throat, darting her eyes everywhere but at you. “Their comeback is around the corner.”

The elevator dinged open and you both strode down the hallway, Jinhee fidgeting beside you. Oh, how the tables have turned.

“Really?”, you pretended surprise. “Then I’m sure he needs to relieve some stress. Why don’t you help him?”

“I told you he’s been busy.�� She glared at you, clearly directing some pent up frustration at the wrong person. “It’s not like I haven’t tried. He keeps turning me down without so much as a glance my way. Clearly he got more than enough stress relief at wherever he’d fucked off to when he was gone.”

Yoongi’s studio came in sight and you slowed down to give Jinhee a sympathetic pout.

“So much for being fuck buddies.”

“You bitch.” Jinhee seethed. You ignored her, knocking at Yoongi’s door instead. “You better heed my warning and stay away from him or—”

Rolling your eyes, you cut her off, knocking again. “Or the consequences won’t be good for me. Yeah, yeah. Whatever, Jinhee, goodbye.”

“Why you little—”

“What the fuck is going on here?”, Yoongi’s grumpy voice yelled as he pulled open the studio’s door the tiniest bit. Through the sliver of the crack, he peered down at you with a scowl, the headphones perched on his head a little askew, his newly dyed blonde hair sticking in all directions. He looked scary and adorable at the same time.

Biting your lip, you tilted your head to meet his eyes. “You wanted to see me?”

The scowl deepened, if that was possible. “No, I didn’t.”

You snapped your head towards Jinhee at that, who was walking backwards to the elevator again, facing you with a cheerfully bitchy grin on her face. You should’ve known Yoongi wouldn’t invite anybody to his personal studio.

Abruptly, he grabbed your arm and pulled you in. “But since you’re here anyway, I can make use of you.”

The last thing you saw before the door slammed shut was Jinhee’s grin vanishing.

“This feels like a prank.”, you breathed, gazing around at Yoongi’s cozy work space like you were in the inner sanctum of Satan’s abode.

Yoongi looked offended. “Do I look like a pre-pubescent kid to you?”

You grinned.

“No, don’t answer that.” He held up a finger, waving it at your face indignantly. “And wipe that stupid grin off your face or I’ll throw you out.”

“Such harsh threats.”

“Remind me why I invited you in here again?”

“You didn’t invite, you manhandled me in like a caveman.”

“Right.” Yoongi adjusted the headphones, positioning them so only one side covered his ear, then he pointed at the small sectional placed sideways along the length of the small room. “Sit down, Y/n, and make yourself as invisible as possible. I don’t want it to feel like I actually have another person present in here with me.”

Blinking at his absurdity, you absentmindedly took a seat, regarding him owlishly. “You pulled me in here to be decoration?”

“No, that implies you’re aesthetically pleasing.”

“Hey!”

Yoongi held up his hands, leaning against the opposite shelf full of random figurines and trophies. “I’m in a stump, okay. I just need some inspiration.”

“Why are you in a stump?” Pulling back into the comfy back cushion, you rested an arm along the backrest, practically melting into his sofa before eyeing him up and down. For all intents and purposes it looked like you were an evil moustache-twirling movie villain checking out the innocent, shy virgin.

A hot, sinful, non-virgin who’s glaring at me like I ran over his puppy.

You straightened up with a cough. “I mean, your new album’s already done, right?”

He raised a haughty brow. “So? What has that got to do with anything? I don’t make music because I want to cram it into albums and assembly line them out just to make a quick buck.”

You were pretty sure he was making more than just a “quick buck” from all his royalties.

“No. I meant that you already have so much on your plate, right?”, you improvised, that was totally not what you’d meant. “You have to memorise the new songs, choreography and I know you guys have been practicing and shooting day in and day out. You can put off composing for a bit.”

Yoongi smirked, and you swear you saw a hint of pity in his eyes, making you scowl.

“Oh, you mortal. The trifling restrictions of fatigue and overwork are so human. Vampires are above such waste of time.”

You ran your tongue along the inside of your cheek, a habit you’d picked up from Jeongguk. Did you really think Yoongi was going to appreciate your show of care?

“Well, then. Let’s hear it.” You waved your hand in a “get on with it” motion.

“What?”

“Your new music. Maybe a second opinion on it will help.”

“Yeah, no thanks.”, he deadpanned.

Your middle finger itched to salute him.

“This feels strangely symbolic.”, you huffed, crossing your arms across your chest. Yoongi’s eyes briefly dipped to your breasts but they were back on your face before you could call him out. “You don’t actually need me but I’m here anyway. I’m going to be accompanying you guys across the world, wasting my precious time and company money, just to sit prettily on a couch somewhere in a hotel room, just like I’m doing right now. I feel useless.”

“Keeping us fed isn’t being useful enough for you?”

You could tell Yoongi regretted his words as soon as they came out of his mouth.

His slight cringe at his demeaning rhetorical question was masked by his usual stoic expression in just a few seconds, but you didn’t do anything to mask your hurt, flinching as if he’d slapped you.

Standing up, you rushed towards the door. There was only so much verbal sparring with Yoongi you were equipped to endure.

When you pulled the doorknob the door didn’t budge. Checking to make sure the it was unlocked, you pulled again. No luck.

“I didn’t mean that.” Yoongi’s soft whisper came from directly behind you. You glanced up to see his hand on the smooth wooden surface, a flat palm keeping the door firmly shut. You hadn’t even heard him move.

“That’s a weird way of apologising.” You futilely pulled on the knob again. It’s like it was suddenly made of reinforced steel. “Let fucking go.”

Yoongi chuckled huskily, his breath tickling the hair at the nape of your neck. You shivered, all too aware of his close proximity.

“If I let go and you pull at the same time, you’re gonna get a face full of wood. Unless you want a few teeth removed, I suggest stepping back.”

Huffing in annoyance, you spun to face him, your back pressed to the door as he crowded you against it. “Unless you want to get socked in the jaw, I suggest apologising. Right now.”

Try as he might he couldn’t suppress the amused grin that took over his face. The fucker was laughing at you. The audacity.

“I’m warning you, Yoongi, I’m gonna wipe that shit-eating grin off your face with my fist.” You stomped your foot.

His smile just widened, he was looking down at you as if you were circus amusement. “I’d like to see you try, baby.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Not that word.

“Don’t “baby” me. You haven’t earned it and it’s not gonna work.”

“Hmm.”, he hummed, leaning closer with a contemplative look. His other hand came up to join the first in trapping you against the exit. “How do I earn it?”

Two could play at this game.

Circling your hand around his waist, you pulled him closer, catching him off guard. His eyes widened in shock. You smiled evilly. “Say “I’m sorry I’m such a douchebag, Y/n. I took my perma-bitchy attitude a little too far and I’m ashamed at my asshole-ish behaviour. Committed to repenting, I will reflect on my actions in order to not repeat them in the future.””

He raised an eyebrow, not fazed at all. “Did you just call me a douchebag, a bitch and an asshole all in one breath?”

“Yes. Now say it or you don’t get to call me baby. Ever.”

Letting out an agonized sigh, as if pained, he lamented, “You drive a hard bargain, Y/n.” The sudden sincerity in his eyes made you go still. “How about I apologise and tell you exactly how wrong you are. You’re the opposite of useless. You’re practically the most important person in our lives. And not just because of the obvious reasons.”

Tilting your head, you eyed him cautiously. Your noses were almost touching and at your wary expression he wrinkled his to bump against yours, startling you. If you weren’t mad at him you would have cooed at his cute antics.

“I’m listening.”, you said at length.

“I’m not a sappy guy unless I’m writing songs, Y/n—”

“I can tell.”

“—so I’m only gonna say this once.” He frowned. “Also, don’t interrupt me, got it ?”

He was expecting a response, so you rolled your eyes. “Yes, your highness.”

“Smartass.”

Brushing a few tendrils of hair off the side of your face, he softly cupped your left cheek. You couldn’t look away from his piercing gaze. “Metaphors are the only way I can describe what you are to us, Y/n. As immortals our instincts are primal things to us, as fundamental and true as the universe itself. A universe where you’re the sun and we revolve around you. Our centre and our light. We want you with us, everywhere we go, because like a pair of magnets we seek you out involuntarily, to complete us. Can’t you tell? Certainly you’re not oblivious to how one of us is always buzzing around your office like an overeager bee around a flower?”

Did he just call you a sun, a flower and a… magnet, all in one breath? No wonder he was making millions off of his writing alone.

You evaded his eyes, blushing hard. “That-that’s not true. Taehyung’s not like that.”, you hedged, going with the easiest anomaly to his explanation, although there were many more.

Yoongi sighed, hooking his finger under your chin to push your face up, eyes meeting his. The levity there was startling. “He’s always been stubborn as fuck and too used to getting what he wants. Both him and Jeongguk have always been the spoiled ones. But where Jeongguk has grown out of that phase, Taehyung will deny his own compulsions till the end of time if it meant he could continue being a tenacious asshole.”

“His own compulsions?” Were you purposefully fishing for flattery?

Yoongi obliged you with a chuckle, a mischievous glint in his eyes. He looked playful, a rare sight. “If you’re the sun, he’s Pluto. The outlier who wants to pretend he’s not with the rest of us, but still circling around you.”

You burst out laughing. “Yoongi, your metaphors are cheesy.”

He grinned at your mirth. “Get this.”, he paused. “If you’re a magnet, he’s steel. Trying so hard not to be attracted to you, but failing miserably.”

“Stop!” Yoour cheeks hurting from trying to contain the giggles. “That was straight up embarrassing! And not even scientifically accurate.”

He shrugged, snickering himself. “If my humour’s so embarrassing, why are you dying laughing.”

“I’m not.”

“Okay, then here’s another one.” You braced yourself as he pulled you impossibly closer. “He’s Kim Jong-Un and you’re a Kpop concert, he wants to bop along so bad but ca—”

“Fuck.” You slapped a hand over his mouth, cracking up again. “No, you’re not going there.”

He let you shut him up, his eyes almost disappearing into crescents above your hand as he watched you try to ease your hysterics. Suddenly he perks up, pulling you away from the door towards his computer.

“What?”, you breathed, still huffing out tiny giggles.

“I need you.”

At his blunt words, your heart clenched in your chest. But he just pushed you down in his chair, reaching for his mic and positioning it before you. He stood behind you, towering over your form as he pulled up an application on the screen.

“I need to record your laugh. For research purposes.”, he informed, clicking away at his keyboard.

He was giving you heart palpitations.

“For research purposes?”, you repeated dryly.

“Yeah. Did I stutter?” A few mouse clicks and he’s pushing the mic right up against your face with an expectant look.

You gave him owlish eyes. “You want me to fake a laugh?”

“Fake? Fuck no. Laugh like you were just now.”

“You were making me! With those terrible metaphors.”

He opened his mouth but you cut him off.

“No! Not anymore, please!”

He gave you a shit eating grin. “You leave me no choice then.”

You seized up. “Wha—”

You were so focused at the devil above you, you didn’t even notice his stealthy hands reach for your ribs around the sides of the chair. A swift movement, and his fingers were under your shirt, brushing against your bare skin.

“NO!”, you howled, immediately cracking up. You were so goddamn ticklish, and he couldn’t have known, but he just discovered another one of your human weaknesses to exploit.

“Yoongi! Stop, damn it, you stupid motherf—” At that he doubled up, peering at your upturned, red face below him as he sought your stomach. Trying to push his hands away didn’t work, he was too strong, so you reached up to slap that smug, evil grin from his face.

“You sound like a goat, but I guess I can work with it.”

Lies. He was enjoying this a little too much. Way too much. The feeling of your skin beneath his fingertips felt like heaven, your laughter music. He didn’t want to stop touching you, he wanted to explore. And elicit a much different reaction. He wondered if you’d let him record your moans too?

When his wrist accidentally brushed your bra, he knew he had to stop. His dick was twitching in his pants, threatening to salute you and expose his insouciance for what it was, a facade. He pulled away, finally letting you breathe.

Bracing yourself against his desk, you caught your breath, thoroughly winded. “I’m going to kill you, Min Yoongi.”

He patted your head patronisingly. “Okay, baby, I’ll be waiting. Right now, scram. I gotta get back to work.”

“Huh?” Your scrambled brain took a second to catch up while Yoongi rolled his chair away from the computer, grasping your shoulders and effectively pushing you out of it before occupying your vacated seat smoothly. Snatching a pillow from the couch, he put it in his lap, rolling back to face the computer and away from you.

You stood there, a little lost. One second you were in the chair, the other out of it.

“Close the door on your way out.”

The keyboard and mouse clicking resumed, punctuating your dismissal.

This mercurial, frustrating, sexy-as-fuck vampire!

With a huff, you strode towards the door. “Hope you fuck up all your demos, Min Yoongi.”

His amused laugh followed you out.

~.~.~

Two weeks later and its time for your first trip around the world as food for seven vampires. You were never going to let up on this joke, even if it was only for self-entertainment. After the Tickle-gate with Yoongi, the boys appearance around your office had become a little scarce due to their comeback approaching. For the last four days, you hadn’t even seen them. The day of the release had been yesterday and after a brief comeback showcase, they were flying off to America today. No music shows, no additional interviews. Their domestic promotions had certainly dwindled down ever since they reached global stardom. But their Korean fandom was as loyal as ever, considering they were already topping all domestic charts there were.

Would they still be loyal if they found out about me?

Not likely.

Which was why you were sure you were flying the 12 hour flight from Incheon to LAX in economy with the other staff. You looked forward to the full body cramp that was going to accompany your movie marathon. You had decided you were going to watch every vampire themed movie that was available, yes, even Twilight. The occasion demanded it.

A quick hug goodbye to Jisoo, with another promise of A-lister autographs you didn’t intend on keeping, and you were off. Time to meet the co-ordis who knew their secret. Especially Seulgi the vampire, who Jeongguk had given head to.

Your mood sky-dived. Suddenly, you wanted to turn tail and cuddle with Jisoo in your bed again.

Ryowook’s smiling face greeted you as soon as you stepped outside your apartment.

“What are you doing here?”, you asked, surprised to see the chauffeur.

“My day job, ma’am.” He opened the back door of the company Mercedes. “I have orders to take you to the airport.”

“Why wasn’t I told about this?” You slipped inside nonetheless. “And I could have just travelled with the other staff, this is waste of fuel and your time Ryowook-ssi.”

He smiled that patient smile of his, the one that told you were being ridiculous without a word out of his mouth.

You sighed. “Am I going to meet them at check-in?”

Another serene smile. “Certainly.”

You gave up, relaxing back into the expensive leather to watch the city zoom past.

A short drive and he was dropping you at Terminal 1. One of Bighit’s on-call bodyguards met you there, taking your bag and signalling you to follow him without a word. You did so, a little weirded out now. Why couldn’t they just have you travel with the staff? What was up with the whole passing you along like a relay race baton situation?

In a confused daze, you hurriedly followed the buff man as he bypassed the Terminal 1 entry gate, instead leading you along the side of the huge building and towards a smaller entrance manned by airport police clad in black and bearing assault rifles.

The signboard above read FBO in large bold letters.

“What’s an FBO?”, you asked the bodyguard, quickening your pace to catch up to him as he entered after showing his ID. They let you in after a brief look at your passport.

“Fixed Base Operator. The airport gives this terminal to all private jet companies operating here.”

Your feet tripped over nothing. “What?”

The man was already handing over your bag to a handsome man in a steward’s uniform, who quickly ran it through a scanner.

“Can I have your handbag too, ma’am?”, the young flight attendant blinded you with a too white smile.

You wordlessly handed it over, feeling as if you were in a twilight zone.

In less than ten seconds, you were off again. This time the flight attendant carried your bags for you as he led you and the bodyguard out the exit and onto the tarmac. In the near distance you could see the large commercial airliners taking off, some of them flying directly overhead. To your right were hangars, much smaller planes parked inside or out on the ramp.

Ahead of you stood a dark blue private jet the size of a large bus. The front cockpit part was long, the nose cone almost one fourth the size of the whole plane. It’s empennage was painted a bright gold and a golden stripe ran along its fuselage. It looked like it was made for royalty.

The air was heavy with jet exhaust fumes, but the atmosphere felt different than your regular plane boardings. No body checks, no lines, no waiting times, no airbridges and no snooty economy flight attendants that frowned when you asked for water.

The two men let you ascend the stairs built into the clamshell-style door first. Still quite not being able to process reality, you airily boarded the small plane, jaw hitting the floor with your first step in.

You thought it’d be cramped, the plane was pretty compact after all.

It was not.

Two plush leather recliner chairs, that looked like you could melt on them, were spaced evenly on one side. Four more faced each other in pairs of two, with a polished table in between, on another. Dim lights gave a regal ambience to the interior, every shiny surface reflecting a golden glow. A large tv was mounted on the wall and an open entryway led to the back. You spied a long L shaped couch piled high with throw cushions behind the recliners, complete with an electric fireless fireplace below the tv.

You didn’t know how long you stood there gaping.

“Is everything okay, ma’am?” The flight attendant’s voice made you snap your mouth close. The young man smiled apologetically when you turned to him. “If something’s not to your liking, please let me know.”

Not to my liking? As of three minutes ago I thought I was going to be doing contortions in a shoe box sized seat for the next 12 hours.

You shook your head at him, glancing at the bodyguard still standing at the entrance.

“You’re coming with?”

“I have orders to stand guard till the boys arrive in an hour.”

“In an hour?”, your brows raised. “Why am I so early?”

He side eyed the attendant, who quickly took the hint.

“Would you like some champagne, ma’am?”

Who wouldn’t? “Yes, thank you.”

After he left, the bodyguard answered you. “Precaution. No more than the necessary people should see you with them.”

“Ah.” Of course.

You hadn’t noticed but their fansites were probably camping outside already.

You wanted to ask why exactly you needed to be on the same plane with them, but held your tongue. He likely didn’t know why such odd whims struck those vampires.

Letting yourself marvel at space around you, you plopped down on one of individual recliners. Your back met the pillowy leather and the footrest elevated your feet, till you were practically draped over the chair in a relaxed puddle. The thing felt like a cloud surrounding you.

Soon, the attendant came back with a silver tray full of hors d’oeuvres and a flute of champagne. He set it on a pull out table that magically materialised from below the recliner.

“There’s a mini bar built into the armrest of every chair.” He tapped once and it flipped open to reveal neatly lined bottles of water, soda and alcohol. “You can adjust your chair from the controls on the other side.” He pointed to a sleek panel.

“Okay, thank you.” You smiled at him.

He beamed back. “Of course.” He pointed to a bell shaped button above you. “If you need anything, I’m one press away.”

You nodded, sighing when he left you alone. Sipping the bubbly drink, you let your thoughts drift to the ordeal ahead of you.

Ordeal because soon Taehyung was gonna be confined in a small space with you for an extended period of time. The first time you’d see his face after the humiliating incident in the conference room. Also because you still had difficulty facing Jimin after his unnerving exposition. Because you still didn’t know where you stood with Namjoon and didn’t want to “accidentally” do tongue acrobat with Jeongguk again. You were giving Yoongi the silent treatment for Ticklegate, so there was that.

So by process of elimination you were going to stick to either Seokjin or Hoseok like barnacles on a turtle this entire plane ride.

Mind made up, you took out your laptop to do some work while you waited for them.

You frowned when the sleek black screen of your computer took more than its usual half a second to light up. Glancing closer, you pressed the power button again, doing a double take when your blurry reflection on the screen shimmered.

Blinking a few times, you shook your head, clearing whatever cobwebs in your retina which were making you see things.

Nothing doing.

You squinted at the screen.

A black blob, eerily close to the shape of an almost skeletal hand, seemed to materialise over your shoulder in the hazy reflection.

Your heart pounded.

“You look comfortable, pretty girl.”

At the sudden voice, you shrieked, jumping ten feet in the air.

The rest of the boys came rushing into the plane at your panicked scream. All of them, except Taehyung who ambled inside without a care in the world, stared at you in confused worry.

“What happened?”, Namjoon demanded, scanning you from head to toe.

Placing a hand over your chest, you willed yourself to calm down. “Nothing. Hoseok just scared me.”

“Hobi.”, Hoseok corrected.

Yoongi smirked at your laptop. “Were you watching porn?”

At the reminder, you glanced down at your powered up computer, now showing you the login screen, demanding your password. No sign of creepy reflections anywhere.

Huh. Weird.

Maybe the last few weeks had made you paranoid.

“I’m not talking to you.”, you muttered, not looking up at him.

Yoongi rolled his eyes. “Dramatic much? I just tickled you a bit, you’re making a big deal out of it.”

“You did what?”, Jin asked, confused at the non-sequitur. Hoseok took the seat beside yours, making himself comfortable as the rest of the boys moved inside too.

You surreptitiously watched out of the corner of your eyes as Taehyung made a beeline for the door at the back, disappearing from your vision.

“Tickled her.”, Yoongi deadpanned. “For purely professional purposes.”

Jeongguk gave him an owlish look, dumping his backpack on the sectional. “Your kinks are getting weirder day by day, hyung.”

Hoseok ignored them, turning to you, concern etched on his brows. “You didn’t have any problem getting here, did you pretty girl? It was crowded outside.”

“I was early.” You chuckled, reaching for one of the dainty snacks the flight attendant had put out. “I hate airport security and I have an irrational fear about missing flights. Turns out I didn’t have anything to worry about.”

You gestured to your surroundings, chewing the savoury goodness slowly. Wow. Did they have a Michelin star chef on call too?

“Oh, yeah.” Hoseok looked around, as if noticing the extravagance for the first time. “I guess it is convenient.”

“That’s one way to put it.” You proffered up the tray to him. “Want some? It’s really good.”

Running a hand through his blonde hair, he eyed the tray as if you were offering him live snakes to consume.

“I’m sure it is. But I can’t.”

Frowning, you put the tray down. Were you missing something here? “I know you guys eat food. Jeongguk told me so the first day we...met.”

A chagrin smile appeared on his face. “We could. Human food has no nutritional value for us but we can still consume it to keep up appearances sometimes. A variety show or advertisements for fried chicken, things like that.”

Guess there was a lot you still didn’t know about them. They did ads for food they didn’t even eat. But then again, this was nothing compared to some of the other stuff you had come to know. “But you don’t like it?”

He shrugged. “It’s nothing compared to blood but some unmated vampires like it anyways. Jimin used to love eating candies.”

You frowned, reaching for another cheese and meat combo. “Used to?”

For a brief second, Hoseok’s mellow eyes flickered down to your jugular. He spoke before you could make something of it, his voice soft. “Everything tastes like dry ash on our tongues now that we’ve had your blood.”

That made you swallow down the antipasti prematurely.

He continued. “And you know we can’t drink any other blood. It’ll poison us.”

Namjoon’s suffocating, blue-tinged face flashed in your mind and you nodded.

“Ugh.”, you dithered, uneasy with the conversation and Hoseok’s focused gaze. “So...”, lamely, you tried changing the topic. “What am I doing after we land?”

A snide scoff made you turn in your seat to look at Namjoon sprawled on the chair behind yours. “Don’t tell me you’re still squeamish at every mention of blood, y/n.”

“What do you mean still? Am I supposed to be comfortable with it just because you’re vampires?”, you huffed, annoyed at his judgemental expression.

He glanced down at his phone, avoiding your eyes and you swear you heard him mutter “Gina was” under his breath but Jimin spoke before you could clobber him over the head for his audacity.

“I saw Taehyung after he returned. He looked like he’d just mauled a bear and I know he’d just been with you. How are you still not desensitised after all that?”

Jimin was perched on the table, his newly dyed black hair swept back off his forehead as he leant back on his hands.

You gave the breathtaking man a challenging look. “You’d know about desensitisation, wouldn’t you?”

Yoongi choked on air, Jeongguk’s eyes almost bugged out of his head. You heard Hoseok inhale sharply from beside you, but you didn’t look to see the other’s reaction, continuing as if you hadn’t dropped a I-know-about-Jimin-committing-murder sized bomb on their heads.

“Besides, the blood on him wasn’t mine.”

Jimin grinned, his eyes almost disappearing into crescent moons. He appeared the picture of loveable cuteness, except for the fact that he was smiling at the mention of his grave crimes. “Touché, love. But I know that it wasn’t yours. If there’s anything we’d never be desensitised to, it is the downright mouthwatering smell of your blood. No...,”, he rubbed his chin, faux contemplative, prodding your challenge by reminding you of the conspicuous brutality of their kind. “He’d done some desensitisation of his own before coming to you.”

The “he” in question was as silent as a monk with a mute vow, not a peep heard from the back of the plane. You glared at the doorway, knowing very well that Taehyung could hear even a pin drop from inside the bustling airport, let alone this conversation three metres away. He was sticking to his pretending-you-were-invisible agenda, it seemed.

The rest six of them were watching you closely. Now that they knew about your knowledge of their kinds’ propensity to violence, they likely were apprehensive about your reaction. Well, you’d give them none.

In a room full of predators who’ve declared you their only prey, vulnerability and fear would only feed into the control they thought they had over you.

You faced them again, shrugging.

Jimin smirked. “No snarky comments? Why this preferential treatment towards Tae? You like the ones who don’t give you attention, love?”

“Enough, Jimin.”, came Jin’s brusque command. He was seated at the table too, turning around to give you a soft, apologetic glance. “I think what they all want to bring up, in a round about, idiotic way, is that it’s been weeks since we last fed. Though, me, Namjoon and Yoongi can last a few weeks more, the younger ones might be feeling it.”

You froze. Of course. What the hell did you think they brought you here for?

“Whatever you’re thinking, baby,”, Yoongi cut off your musings, narrowing his perceptive eyes at you. “It’s probably bullshit. We would have brought you with us no matter what, anxiety would have eaten us alive if we hadn’t.”

“And I’m not feeling it.”, Hoseok rushed to add from beside you, gently taking your hand in his, stroking the pulse at your wrist with his thumb. “Hungry that is. My endurance isn’t the best, but it’s working as of now.”

“Taehyung fed from you not too long ago, I’m sure he’s fine too.”, Namjoon nonchalant voice came from behind you.

How Taehyung could tolerate them talking about him as if he wasn’t there, you’d never know.

Sighing, your gaze shifted to the remaining two who had yet to speak as to their appetite.

Jimin had an unreadable expression on his face as he contemplated you, his shirt riding up to expose his toned abdomen as he ran a hand through his hair, pushing the thick locks back off his forehead. A habit of his which you hadn’t taken long to notice.

Jeongguk regarded you with his head tilted. Unlike Jimin, you could read him like a book. His open, almost guileless eyes held a plea. He didn’t have to say it. He was the youngest, of course he was starving. He was always starving.

They didn’t say anything, leaving everything up to you.

“After we reach L.A we can…”, you trailed off, not knowing how to say it. The inexplicable pleasure their bites gave you was something you’d yet to foray into, but it wasn’t an altogether unpleasant experience. The opposite in fact. “Discuss it, I guess.”, you finished lamely, courage fizzling out at the last second.

You absolutely, could not let them know that maybe, probably, perhaps you wanted them to bite you too.

Laughter rang out from the behind the curtained doorway, the mocking tone of it clear as day. You scowled, turning back to your laptop. Great. He probably already knew. It wasn’t like you were subtle when you were with him.

The plane took to the air not long after, clouds encasing everything till the earth below was barely visible. You had sought your work to escape, though Hoseok managed to occasionally snag your attention with the effortless ease of his conversation.

Eventually he slipped away to join the others at the table, raucous laughter filling the small plane from their bickering and roughhousing. Being immortal creatures with untold strength, an ignorant human might expect the vampires to be sophisticated and mysterious, but these boys were as much a mix of puerile childishness (or in laymen’s terms ‘a bunch of idiots’) as one would expect of any young men in their twenties.

Of course, the polished but ‘normal’ surface they presented to the world, to their fans, to relate to was only skin deep. Scratch a little and you’ll find a horrifying reality few would be able to stomach. You wondered what someone else would do in your shoes. Some other girl, maybe one of their fans. Thank all the gods in existence for binding you to them so intrinsically or curse them for hurtling you into a grim world of cruelty you were ill-prepared for?

These questions plagued your mind as your fingers typed away on your computer. Somebody had pulled out UNO cards and you could hear the competitive Jeongguk loudly complaining about Hoseok’s shuffling as Yoongi dropped a draw four card on him just as he was about to win.

As you said, a bunch of ‘normal’ idiots. Not quite.

As you were examining your coding for errors, Seokjin came to sit down beside you. Unsurprisingly, like much of his personality, his cologne was the mild soothing kind instead of headache inducing intense.

You took a deep breath. “Not interested in card games?”

To your surprise, he pouted, long lashes fanning his downturned gaze adorably. He was wearing glasses, which suited his beautiful face criminally more than they ever did you.“No. They never let me win anyways.”

You found yourself smiling inspite of yourself. “You’re a sore loser then?”

“No.” He returned your grin. “I just think they’re disrespectful making me lose after everything I do for them.”

“Just say you’re bad at cards, hyung!”, Jimin shouted.

Both of you ignored him.

“They are disrespectful.”, you concurred.

“Thank you. But you’re sitting here by yourself, don’t you wanna join them?”

“No, I’m a sore loser too.” You tilted your head at your laptop. “Besides I have work to finish.”

Jin spared a fleeting glance at it, before furrowing his brows at you. “I know you were pretty much ordered to come with us, but this isn’t a work trip for you. You can put it off till you’re back. An impromptu vacation, maybe.”

Biting your lip, you considered his tempting words for all of two seconds. Cracking a knuckle on your other palm, you shook your head. “A lot of people doubt the integrity of my employment already. I have something to prove. This game could be big for me.”

Slowly, as if approaching a spooked deer, Jin extended his hands to yours. You watched as he took one of your hands in both of his, warm skin stroking your cold one. “The people you’re talking about, most of them are just jealous. They, along with anyone else who dares to look down on you, don’t deserve a spare thought in your mind. You have nothing to prove to anybody but yourself.”

His eyes showed nothing but sincerity and you found yourself leaning into his gravitational pull. He was a beacon of warmth and security. Akin to a down bed piled with soft blankets and feathery pillows after a long, tiring day.

“That’s easy to say but that’s not how real life works.”, you whispered.

Jin smiled, tugging your hand into his lap. “Real life works how I want it to work. If you want to be the most renowned software engineer in the country, then that’s what will happen. If I can’t fulfill your every wish then what kind of a mate am I?”

Your breath hitched. What he was saying was so morally skewed but it caused flutters in your chest nonetheless. Like a penguin offering a pebble to a mate he’d chosen for life. But no, there was no choice involved here.

“That’s—”, you cleared your throat, pulling back a little though he didn’t let you go far, tightening his grip on your hand. “That’s wrong, Jin.”

He shrugged. “I don’t care. Self indulgence often is. And seeing you happy because of me might be the greatest indulgence of all.”

You pursed your lips against a shy smile. That was the most romantic but fucked up thing anyone had ever said to you. He clearly didn’t have any reservations about nepotism. As long as he got what he wanted.

You wondered if no-moral-compass came complementary with the supernatural tag.

“You were typing for a long time. Do your fingers hurt?”, he asked softly, tugging your other hand into his lap too.

They didn’t, but you nodded anyway.

Biting his bottom lip in concentration, he got to work on your right hand. He touched you as if you were made of delicate china, tenderly massaging your palm with his long fingers. His hands were a work of art themselves, thin blue veins decorating his porcelain skin in the most beautiful patterns. As he caressed your wrist, you got lost in the repetitive motion of his hands, coming to when he moved to your fingers, stretching them not so gingerly.

“Ow.”

“Sorry, beautiful. You were cracking your knuckles, so I figured they needed a little tug.”, he murmured, not looking up from his ministrations.

“It’s a bad habit.” His intense focus made you wonder how much effort he was putting not to go overboard with his strength. He could crush your bones to dust in a matter of seconds no doubt.

Jin moved to your left hand, massaging it in the same manner till your hands positively tingled with static electricity.

“You’re so good at this.”, you complimented, sighing in contentment when he moved to your forearm.

Jin chuckled at the bliss on your face. “We don’t need it but massage feels good after a long practice anyway. We’re a slave to sensations as much as you humans. I’m used to doing this for the rest.”

“They should kiss your hands.”, you said thoughtlessly.

He stopped his movements for a second, continuing when you opened your eyes.

“Will you?”, he implored, smirking.

Maybe his massage had mellowed you out or maybe it was him, but you felt playful. You smiled coquettishly. “Do my shoulders and I will kiss your lips.”

Silence.

If this was a movie scene you would see tumbleweeds rolling out of nowhere. You almost regretted your words. But then...

Jin grabbed your upper arms and in one swift motion you were facing the other way, your back to him. His hands immediately attached themselves to your shoulders, rolling your muscles in a way that let slip an involuntary moan out of you two seconds in.

Jin tensed behind you at the sound.

“Fuck, pretty girl.”, you heard a groan from Hoseok. “Hyung’s massages are mediocre at best, you should have come to me if you wanted your shoulders rubbed.”

You suppressed a smile at his grumbling, Jin resuming his amazing, rhythmic motions.

Yoongi’s words were barely audible. “How is that fair? I’m not gonna massage no one, but I want kisses.”

That mercurial man, you swore he oscillated between a cynical, grumpy old man and mischievous cherub like a pendulum.

“It’s worth it, hyung.”, Jeongguk chimed. “I’m speaking from experience.”

Flushing at the reminder, you leaned back against the eldest, almost unconsciously. Skewed sense of morality aside, his presence was very comforting. You tuned the rest of them out when you felt Jin’s breath at the nape of your neck, making you shiver at the sensation.

He chuckled. “You’re so putty in my hands.”

You were. The dim lighting inside the cabin, the soft murmurs of the boys and Jin’s ministrations were working together to turn you into a sleepy puddle. Giving up against gravity, you let your back meet Jin’s chest, nestling into him without too much thought. You heard his breath hitch, but he accommodated you immediately, pulling you closer in by wrapping his arms around your waist till you were in his lap, your legs on the chair you previously occupied.

“Comfortable?”, he whispered in your ear.

“Mhm.”, you murmured, sighing when Jin put his arms around you, one hand reaching up to caress your tresses. “You make a great chair.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” He adjusted your position, stirring you a little away from sitting directly on his crotch and you blushed when you realised why, not commenting on it.

Letting yourself relax, you switched off your overworked brain for a while. For the last few weeks you had been constantly on your toes either stressing about your new job or coming to terms with being ‘fated’ to seven men. Maybe you would take up Jin’s suggestion and treat this trip as a vacation, when else were you going to get a luxury, all expenses paid week off?

As Jin placed a soft kiss on your head, you paused in your thought. If things continued as they were, this could be your new reality. Weeklong journeys to other continents just because the boys wanted you with them. The thought made you scowl. Was it really a vacation when you were shackled to them by the contract you had signed and promotions you had accepted?

“You know.”, Jin’s silky voice brought you out of your spiral down regret. “There’s a queen-sized bed in the back. If you want, you can nap till we land. Stretch out your limbs.”

You perked up, a bed sounded amazing. “Yes please.”

Jin brushed your hair behind your ear. “Do you want me to carry you?”

That made you jerk upright. “Ugh, no. I’m not a baby.”

“Tragic.”, he teased, making you wrinkle your nose at him. Before he let you go, he warned, “I want that kiss later. Don’t think I forgot.”

Flustered, you sprung up with a one-track mind and a tunnel vision aiming for the bed, noticing the other members either reading or on their phone, airpods in their ears. You could faintly hear music blasting from Yoongi’s. Must be nice having undamageable eardrums.

Beyond the entryway, the back of the plane was a decent-sized room which had windowsill seating on one side and a bed on the other. A bed which was occupied by the last person you wanted to face.

Taehyung lounged on the centre of the plush bed, reclining against propped up pillows. He paid you no mind, swiping through the ipad in his hand as if he hadn’t heard you come in.

Of course. You were invisible to him after all.

Rolling your eyes at his petulance, you changed course to the small door with the universal toilet sign illuminated above. You really needed to pee, not giving a single fuck about the rest of them being able to hear you while you did so. For some reason your usual shyness and jitters around hot boys had been obliterated ever since you had come in contact with them. You didn’t understand why, but suspected it was because of their assertiveness and power over you that made you throw caution to the wind so often lately, maybe your unconscious attempt at getting back some control over your life. Before them, you’d never have the nerve to use a guy as handsome as Jin as your personal masseuse and cushion. If they wanted your company, they would get that and everything that came along with it.

When you were done, you emerged to find the bed empty. Seeing your chance, you plopped face down on it, crawling lethargically towards the pillowcase as you shirked your hoodie. If he wanted to play hide and seek, he was more than welcome to ignore you and stay up-front while you slept the flight away.

Pulling the covers over yourself, you nuzzled the soft sheets, settling in for a good shut-eye, a luxury you had never before experienced on a plane ride.

But when do things ever turn out in your favour?

Just when your eyes were starting to droop Taehyung’s snide tone jerked you awake.

“Stowaways stay in the front.”

You sprung up like a spooked cat, gaze blurry. “Huh?”

There he stood, arms crossed and a blank expression on, looking like Adonis in a plain blue set of pyjamas. Unfairly stunning.

“You’re in my bed.”

Deliberately taking your time, you rubbed your eyes, yawning. You pondered your surroundings for a moment, enjoying the clenching of his jaw the longer you sat their playing dumb. “I don’t see your name on it.”

He was silent for a few moments regarding you with poorly concealed vexation. Then he uncrossed his arms, stepping towards the bed with eyes locked on you.

You gulped. Had you piqued the tiger already?

Thankfully he stopped a good distance away, bringing his hand up to the headboard. Your confused frown turned into horrified amazement at the light sound of scratching, your eyes going cartoonishly wide.

The nails atop his long, slender fingers had extended out, looking freakishly similar to claws. And even more bizarrely, they cut through the hardwood like it was nothing more than room temperature butter.

When his hand dropped, the letter V was etched onto the headboard, mockingly asking you ‘how about now?’.

“Did you just vandalise the plane?”, you blurted, shocked.

He sneered. “Are you gonna snitch to BangPD like the trusty little employee you are?”

You could tell a patronising jab when you heard one.

“Atleast I’m not a coward who can’t even face the person they accosted. But then again I would feel ashamed too.”

Taehyung scoffed, not entertaining your accusations for a second. “Accosted? I remember you begging me to make you cum. You fell apart on my fingers very willingly, Y/n. And I wasn’t ignoring you, not purposefully, you’re not that relevant.”

Actions and consequences. If you slapped him right now, what would happen? You were temptingly close to finding out.

“I seemed very relevant when you were dying for a drop of my blood, asshole.”

A smirk appeared on his face at the word ‘asshole’. He shrugged. “A necessary evil. Now get out of my bed.”

At his curt order, you sat up properly, the covers falling away from your form. Reclining back on your palms, you raised your brows at him. “Or what?”

Taehyung leisurely perused your sprawled figure, not hiding the fact that his gaze lingered on your chest. The tank top you wore under your hoodie was low cut, a hint of your cleavage visible. When you had put it on this morning, you didn’t think you’d take off your hoodie. Airplanes usually left you shivering with ten blankets piled on top of you.

Your hands itched to pull the fabric up, but that would be a sign of weakness. Instead you let him check you out, raising a mocking brow when his eyes met yours again. “You don’t seem eager to get me out of it.”

Taehyung ran his tongue inside his cheek, leering at you. “Now that I think about it…”

He loomed closer, planting a knee on the space beside you.

At first you thought he might get on top of you, but he merely climbed on, brushing past you to take up the other side. He perched himself like he had before, pointedly looking at you as he stole the two pillows you were going to hug yourself to sleep, propping them behind his back.

He promptly went back to scrolling on his ipad.

You huffed, slamming yourself down and pulling the covers over you. “If you try any creepy shit, I swear to God…”

He laughed, a loud yet pleasant sound. “Swear to all the Gods you want Y/n, they’re useless.”

You scowled at him. “What the fuck does that mean?”

Shaking his head, he smiled down at the lit-up screen, as if you were the funniest thing he’d ever seen. A circus clown. “Don’t fret over it, sweetheart. Thank your Gods that I’m a generous vampire willing to share his stuff, and go to sleep.”

Pissed off, you ignored the infuriating man, prioritising the rare experience of sleeping on a bed in a plane instead.

“Keep to your side.”, you threw out one last warning before pulling the covers over your head, effectively shutting him away.

The jet reached LAX at 9:30 pm. Jeongguk had come to wake you up half an hour before the landing. Taehyung wasn’t in the bed with you when you woke up but you found a pillow tucked by the side of you where the bed ended, as if to keep you from falling off. You couldn’t decipher your emotions to make out how you felt about that.

By the time you made yourself presentable again, making full use of the full size mirror in the room, the plane was taxiing on the tarmac. You heard the flight attendant tell the boys about the situation outside, something about a sizeable crowd being present. You joined them as they were telling him they’ll forego the VIP exit for the general one chock full of fans.

Curiosity made you ask, “Why not VIP? This one could be dangerous for you guys.”

Namjoon gave you a funny look, which the rest seemed to mirror. “Nothing’s dangerous for us Y/n.”

And they left it at that, likely not saying much because of the cabin crew present but you got the message nonetheless.

Us macho vampires are the danger, not the other way around.

Internally, you scoffed. Did they have to be so full of themselves all the time?

“You’ll use the VIP one. We can’t be seen together, hence the separate exits.”, Yoongi informed.

“Fine.”, you quipped, VIP meant you’d get a much needed shower sooner.

“We’ll leave first. One of our managers will escort you out fifteen minutes after we reach our cars.”, continued Yoongi. “Extra precautions just in case.”

Scowling, you pivoted around to head back to the bed, dreams of a shower delayed.

~•~•~

When you reached the hotel, the personal staff assigned to you informed you that the boys still hadn’t reached. Some official schedule that you frankly tuned out because you couldn’t care less. Jet lag was making itself felt and you wanted that shower yesterday.

“Your bags are in your suite already.”, the same bodyguard who had accompanied you to the plane informed you.

Suite.

No rooming with other staff then. You weren’t surprised, which made you annoyed. You didn’t want to start expecting this kind of treatment, it was way above your pay grade.

“Lead the way.”

As soon as you reached the rooms, you barely gave a second glance to the opulence surrounding you, instead making a beeline towards the bathroom. You thanked the staff on the way, kicking off your sandals to feel the plush carpet under your feet. A trail of discarded clothes followed you.

The bathroom was big. Bigger than your bedroom back home. A mix of french country and rustic, the interior looked straight out of a Good Homes magazine. The small chandelier above the granite bathtub made the centre piece, calling out to you like a siren. Letting yourself succumb to the pull of a nice bubble bath, you turned on the faucet, examining the rustic wooden countertop for your choice of fragrance from the smorgasbord on offer. Selecting cherry blossom, you poured almost half the small bottle in the rising water.

At last, when the water was almost ready to spill over, you turned it off, shirking your bra and panties. A satisfied moan left you as you submerged yourself in the hot water, closing your eyes as you let yourself sit back and loosen up.

Not keeping track of time, your thoughts didn’t even drift to the boys coming back, so the soft knock on the bathroom door startled you, water splashing over the tub at your movement.

“Yeah.”, you called out, wiping droplets off your face.

“Pretty girl?” Hoseok opened the door a crack, respectfully staying outside and not peering in yet. “Can I come in?”

Swallowing, you sat up in the tub, biting your lip. Maybe it was the warm water which had you feeling imprudent, maybe you’d become uncharacteristically impulsive, but you found yourself answering, “Okay.”

The door opened and the dancer ambled inside, pushing it closed behind him. His gait was languid, but his gaze on you was anything but. Although your bare shoulders were the only thing visible above the cloudy, bubbly water, he drank the sight up greedily.

Licking his bottom lip, he approached you. “Do you want some help?”

You watched him closely, nodding. “Can you wash my hair?”

His face lit up, instantly killing any regrets that could even take root within you. “Please.”

Again, you reclined back as he circled behind you. You heard him rummage through the toiletries on display. “Cherry blossoms?”

You hummed in affirmation.

“You have amazing taste.”

The denim of his jeans rustled as he kneeled beside the tub. Your lips parted in anticipation when he collected your hair together.

What was it about this trip that was making them take care of you so tenderly? In one way or another all of them could be capricious when they felt like it, but then they switched gears and made you a skittery mess with just one word or touch.

“What will I do while you’re all out doing your thing this week?”, you questioned to distract yourself from the tingles running down to your core at his touch.

He ran the hand shover over your hair, careful not to get any water in your eyes. “Anything you want. Some of the staff will be at your disposal if you want to see the city, just let Gian know about it first.”

“Who’s Gian?”

“Your personal bodyguard, the one who dropped you off at the plane.”

You sighed, tilting your head for Hoseok’s convenience. “Why do I need him? I can go sightseeing on my own. Nobody knows me”

“We know you can.”, Hoseok agreed, gently massaging your scalp with the cherry blossom scented shampoo. “But the fact of the matter is, there are other creatures like us out there. And we’re not the most loved among our kind.”

“Huh?” You were thoroughly confused. “Not the most loved. What does that mean?”

Hoseok took a deep breath, as if divulging something against his will, but his hands never stilled. “With our popularity, there’s a very high risk of our secret getting out. Although unbelievable, any slip up on our part could dearly cost the supernatural world. It’s an unspoken rule that we can never arbitrarily reveal our identity to humanity, ever.”

Though you knew the answer, you still asked. “Why?”

“Vampire hunters are real, Y/n. Many of them are human. Sceptics will jump on any chance to prove our existence and try to exterminate us. Supernaturals don’t like the amount of exposure we have because of this.”

Hoseok guffawed, laughing at some inside joke. You heard the clink of bottles as he reached for the conditioner. “Though it could be argued that we don’t like anyone apart from our own selves. We’re notoriously self absorbed creatures.”

Before you could think about them, the words were out of your mouth. “Are mates an exception?”

Hoseok stilled behind you. Then you felt his breath at your ear, not even hearing him move.

“Yes, we like you very much, pretty girl.” Softly, he pecked the skin below your ear.

You pouted. “Doesn’t seem like it.”

He chuckled, cascading the water over your head one last time. “I’m sorry we’re so difficult. I can’t imagine how you must feel having to manage seven men all pining for you.”

He turned the water off. “All done.”

“Okay.” You didn’t know what else to say to his words.

He didn’t get up, instead leaning one elbow on the edge to peer down at you. You met his eyes, upside down.

“We wanted to ask you something, pretty girl.”

“Shoot.”

“Would you like to accompany us to the award show? As our plus one.”

He was completely serious but you burst out laughing anyway.

“One plus to seven people? And what happened to precautions so nobody finds out about me?”

Smiling down at your laughing face he leaned closer ever so slowly. “You can come with us as part of the staff. Or we’ll get you VIP passes. We just want you there, this award is big for us.”

Pursing your lips, you booped his cute, upside down nose. “And who exactly is we?”

He grinned wide, not replying.

You huffed. “I haven’t brought anything suitable to wear if I go as a guest.”

Hoseok rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry about trivial shit like that. Leave it up to me.”

Gazing into his eyes, you blurted your honest answer without thinking too much about it. He had a way of making everything feel easy yet exciting.

“Fine. Okay.”

The next moment, his mouth was on yours, his bottom lip covering your top one and vice versa. The kiss was upturned and sloppy, evoking a recollection of Peter Parker kissing Mary Jane in an alleyway.

Hoseok’s tongue met yours eagerly and you tasted each other as if starved. Carding your fingers through his hair, you pulled him closer. His hands clutched your shoulders, keeping you in place for his thorough exploration of your mouth, making you moan at the delightful intrusion.

After a minute or an hour, you couldn’t tell, he pulled back, a wet sound accompanying the parting of your lips. He looked absolutely devastating with his mouth swollen and hair mussed from your hands, eyes half-lidded as he gazed at you with such barely veiled passion that you shivered.

He blinked at the goosebumps on your arms, forcefully pulling himself out of the lustful haze. “You must be cold, baby, the water’s cooling down.”

You almost reached for him when he got up, wanting to pull him back into another toe-curling kiss. But he was already making his way out the door.

“There are heated towels on the rack, pretty girl. Dry yourself up, I don’t want you getting sick.”, he ordered, smirking back at you one last time before he left you alone.

Grumbling under your breath, you did as bidden, wrapping your torso in one huge towel after wiping yourself down.

After taking out the plug from the tub, you stood in front of the mirror, hand combing your wet hair.

You were about to wrap your hair in another fluffy towel, when a movement in the mirror reflection made you go still.

It took a minute to register what you were staring at. The otherwise clear mirror was foggy at the edges due to the steam from your bath, but the hazy form developing itself behind you in the mirror could not be fog.

It was moving.

Then the mirror rippled. Like it was a silk sheet, not solid fucking glass.

The murky form was looking eerily close to a human figure the longer you stood there absolutely petrified and bewildered.

It spoke.

“Y/n!”

It’s hand, if it could be called that, reached out towards you and you were unsure if it was coming from behind you or from inside the mirror. You couldn’t move, all control over your muscles had been snipped, even though some part of your rational mind screamed at you to run, to call for your boys.

They would protect you.

“Come with me, y/n! They do not deserve you.”

You moved closer, entranced. But did you really need protecting?

The alluring voice beckoned you forward, and you complied, reaching your hand out to touch the wispy, skeletal one approaching yours. As soon as you were close enough, it lunged to grip you in its trap.

A piercing, excruciating pain flared up in your arm at the first contact with the apparition. The clawed creature was literally burning your skin away, smoke rising from where it clutched your forearm like a vice.

You bellowed out for your mates.

A/n: Please let me know what you thought, feedback keeps me writing.

#bts smut #bts fic #bts imagines #bts scenarios #ot7 x reader #bts angst #vampire bts #bts #jeon jungkook #kim namjoon #kim taehyung #kim seokjin #Jung HoSeok #park jimin #min yoongi #lifeline #part 6 #bts x you

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prorevenge · 4 years ago

Text

Mess with minors and my job? Lose your job and your boyfriend.

Tl;dr at the end because this is a doozy.

Alright circa 2014 I worked for a large movie theatre chain in a small Midwestern city. Job was pretty awesome outside of the shit pay and essentially no way to move up. I like to think I am good at my job and I try my hardest no matter where I work. In this particular situation I was one the most tenured employees at the theatre save for two other folks who had worked there part time on the side, and had full time jobs elsewhere.

So for the sake of this story I need to tell you about Jane (not actual name). Jane started working for the theatre 2 months before me. They worked elsewhere as a supervisor and was looking to move up at the theatre. Right after I started one of the managers left to work at a different theatre and the supervisor moved up. We had two managers, one general manager (basically the highest level at the theatre), and a supervisor which is a manager in training. (This is important.) Jane somehow got the supervisor position even though there was another person who essentially was promised the position due to their continued service at the theatre for almost 8 years. There were rumors about Jane sleeping with the GM when she started and this situation got them going again. I didn’t care too much because why would I, I am but a lowly peon in the corporate machine. Anyways Jane moved up and the tenured crew member left the company because they got screwed over.

Once Jane moved up we had a whole meeting about her moving up and how the theatre focuses on professionalism and ensuring no favoritism was happening. Specifically referencing how normal crew members shouldn’t fraternize outside of work with management.

Jane didn’t really listen to that though. She continued to hang out with the crew members who were mostly underage and would do various things like go drinking with minors, taking them to bars and buying them drinks or simply buying alcohol at a store and letting them drink at her house, I honestly have no issue with the drinking at home deal, just adding context, as well smoke weed with them and post pictures on Instagram. Oh yeah I forgot to mention Jane had a secret Instagram where they would post pictures of themselves with their friends from the theatre. They chose Instagram because none of their family or their boyfriend used Instagram and no one would know right?

Even more damning was her relationship with a 19 year old that worked at the theatre. She had a boyfriend who had been with her for years and honestly supported her for all intensive purposes. Not only did she have a 19 year old side piece, but also was messing around with a 17 year old. I even caught them messing around in the break room one time. She essentially threatened me with my job if I told anyone. Honestly she could’ve just told me to please be quiet and I would have just judged her silently.

Fast forward about a year or so and another one of the managers left for a new job. Jane obviously moved up and someone else took the supervisor position. Now I won’t go into too much detail, but despite my tenure and performance I was looked over for the promotion. A newer crew member who was really good friends with Jane got the position over me. This was confirmed by the other manager who let me know that Jane was definitely in good with the GM, who ultimately made the final decision. That being said I was beginning to sour and making minimum wage for years at a job that couldn’t give a shit about my efforts and continued performance. That being said I was preparing for an exit.

Before I get into my exit, it is important to note that Jane had and most likely still has a problem with me. I have talked about some issues I had with her, but I never escalated or even confronted her about anything she did to me up to this point. I honestly left it be. But I didn’t like her and the fact I didn’t like her or play along with her bullshit infuriated her. So much to the point where she made my life hell at the theatre. When she was a supervisor she didn’t have much power but when she became manager she began giving me shit shifts, convincing people that I was weird and to avoid me (I mean I am weird but not like avoid me weird), threatening me physically, threatening my job, her and her gang of misfit assholes also slashed my tires (I have no solid proof, but my car was parked in the employee lot and ya know only employees can get in), beyond that she also made fun of my girlfriend (my now wife) for having an invisible illness (MS), she would make her life hell because she had a disability and had some minor limitations. Add together all of this, plus my GF went off to college, plus getting looked over for the promotion, suffice it to say I found a new job.

I had a few close friends at the theatre including my now wife who I met while working there (silver lining right.) I had let a few of them know about the new job, but told them to keep it on the DL since it was still two weeks away. I had put my two weeks in with the GM and asked that he also keep it on the DL since Jane and her posse would fuck with me. I told him that I wanted to tell everyone myself so it kept him quiet.

Now the important thing about my new job is that it essentially paid me double my wages from the theatre. All of my friends were stoked for me, I was taking a job that would also have me making more than the managers at the theatre but also a job that put me on a better track in life. That being said with Jane and I butting heads on multiple occasions and her track record of messing with me, she decided to get one last attack on me. She started a rumor that I was just going to call out on all of my shifts the two weeks before my new job started.

With her last act of revenge in motion, the GM approached me and let me know that he wouldn’t be scheduling me the last two weeks. I tried to explain to him that the rumors were bullshit that I needed to work because it would be my only source of income. I told him that Jane started the rumor and I started to tell him all of the other stuff as well. He of course didn’t believe me and told me that Jane wouldn’t do what I was saying she would do. So it was her word vs mine. I contacted my new job who let me know that my start date was firm and that their budget wouldn’t allow me to start until two weeks later as originally planned. Now here I am essentially jobless for two weeks. Now I was upset, but I was also lucky. I was still living with family and didn’t have to pay rent, so I sucked it up and essentially told myself that I would just take a forced two week vacation. But Jane didn’t stop there. She escalated again by having one of her cronies call my new job and tell them that I got fired. I was luckily able to talk down my new boss by letting him know that this wasn’t the case that I put my two weeks in and everything else, but that was the last straw.

I left my last day at the theatre and while it was sad and I was upset that I wouldn’t be able to work out the last two weeks of my job that I had for years, I was focused and determined on revenge. Rule #1 of living a secret life and having a secret Instagram is not add every body and their mother to the page. I had a friend of a friend who also didn’t care for Jane let’s call them Joe. Joe and I had gone to high school together and briefly worked at the theatre together. He and Jane were part of the same group at the theatre until they had a small falling out. Nothing crazy but he wasn’t exactly happy with her. I talked to Joe and we discussed my issues with Jane over some lunch that I bought for him. (Food is the key to all revenge plots.) Once we ate and discussed my problems with Jane I asked for his help. I needed access to her Instagram. Ya know the secret one, showing her hanging out with underage employees, drinking alcohol and smoking weed with them, and also some mushy posts about her 19 year old boyfriend, as well as some moderately racy photos with her 17 year old fling. With very little discussion he gave me full access.

I took screenshots of essentially everything. We are talking 2-3 years worth of illicit and moderately illegal activity. More than enough to get her fired and to raise some questions in her relationship. I took the screenshots and I printed them on the most high quality paper/material that CVS had to offer. I also copied them too a few flash drives for good measure. I purchased two yellow padded envelopes (can never be too safe), and I filled them both with copies of all of the posts as well as a flash drive with additional copies. As well I included a note in each one for the appropriate parties.

One of the envelopes was taped to the back door of the theatre. There was somewhat of a blind spot so pulled into the parking lot from the rear and snuck around the corner mission impossible style to tape the envelope to the back door. On it was the GM’s name, as well in the letter I merely stated that one of their managers had a secret Instagram with a lot of damning evidence of not only favoritism, but also fraternizing with underage employees amongst other wrong doings. In the letter I also requested her immediate termination or the information would be provided to the district manager as well as our corporate office. I made sure to put it somewhere the GM would see on his morning sweep when he opened the theatre. The second folder and letter was delivered to her home by Joe. Joe agreed to this as I knew Jane’s schedule and had a good idea of when she would be gone and he knew where she lived from previous hang outs.

With both folders delivered it was only a matter of time. Before I knew it I was receiving death threats from Jane’s gang. All of them saying that they knew it was me and that Jane was going to come after me, that she never did anything to deserve this. It didn’t matter to me of course, I no longer worked there and would hopefully never have to deal with them again. From what I heard she was taken into the main office of the theatre and the GM let her have it. He ultimately had to fire her because there was very clear proof that she was in direct violation of many of the rules and conditions of her employment. As well her boyfriend with proof in hand kicked her out of his home.

Last I heard she moved farther north and hasn’t held down a solid job since. Her family didn’t want much to do with her once everything came out with her cheating on her boyfriend. Also the part about fooling around with a 17 year old tends not to sit well. In the end I started my new job without fail and moved on from that place. Haven’t see much of anyone from there since.

Tl;dr: Manager makes my life hell, continues to hang out and fool around with underage crew members, lives to regret it. Enjoy losing your job and your boyfriend.

(source) story by (/u/Ike09161995)

#prorevenge #by /u/Ike09161995 #pro revenge #revenge stories #pro revenge stories #pro #revenge #last10

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prisonhannibal · 4 years ago

Note

Do you have any cablepool fanfic recommendations bc I suffer daily trying to find good ones (especially comic based, but movie is fine too)

I think you might be a long distance telepath because I got an ask like this a while ago and didn’t answer it bc I needed time to think. and then I couldn’t find it in my inbox so I decided to just write a regular post, and while I was writing that post I got this ask!

ok these are in no particular order and I’m not using the actual plot summaries the authors used on ao3, just making stuff up or using quotes from the fic

one-shots

Landing on both broken hearted knees by rayguntomyhead (1.6k words, rated M)

Post Deadpool 2. Wade and Nate share a hotel room. I know what you’re thinking, it’s not that kind of fic. Nothing is going on with them yet.

Tropes by quakey (2.2k words, rated T)

Wade’s been reading TVtropes, and if Nate is fucking with him right now, Wade is gonna gut him like a fish and throw his bloody corpse in the sea for the sharks.

These days are great and so are you by bankrobbery (3k words, rated T)

Movie based. Wade gets kinkshamed by Weasel and hawaiian-shirt-shamed by Cable. They’re at the bar, basically

Motormouth by pavonine (13k words, rated T)

Wade can’t shut the fuck up, and this time it’s not even his fault! Wade’s been cursed to never be able to stop talking, which is really fucking inconvenient if you’ve got stuff you’re trying to not say.

also the norwegian prime minister is in it very briefly, and it was posted in 2013, when jens stoltenberg was the PM so I’m just gonna assume it’s him and bring your attention to this picture of him which I think is hilarious

Pressure points by denims (2k words, rated M)

Cable keeps casually touching him, which probably doesn’t mean anything (don’t listen to domino, she doesn’t know what she’s talking about), but it makes Wade feel weird. So, so weird.

Multi-chapter

Wade will f*** shit up for you by Quakey @withoutaconscienceorafilter (48k words, rated E, so minors stay away from this one, it’s the only thing on the list with actually NSFW scenes.)

The craigslist ad said “My name’s Wade and I fuck shit up professionally. So your ex getting married? I’ll crash that shit. Your job fire before their company picnick? I’ll show up with tequila and throw hands. Got some one one you hate an just wanna fuck their day up? I’m all over that shit. Serving all situations where we customize your service to your liking email me for pricing. Services guaranteed with video.” Maybe this is a horrible idea, and maybe he shouldn’t have, but Nate did answer it, so things are definitely about to get weird

I’m biased on this one because it was based on a post I made but it seriously is really good it’s super funny (almost choked to death trying not to laugh on the bus at one point) and in character and some of the scenes are so so so cute. Not sold yet? Hope is in it. AND Ellie. Hell yeah! This one is movie based, and I really like that it’s a regular non powered AU, but Nate’s arm+eye and Wade’s scars are still included. Like Nate has a prosthetic arm and Wade actually looks like Wade.

Fistful of shovels by surefall (28.6k words, rated T)

Now, you might be thinking, ms. Mutantapologist, this is tagged spideypool?? It is, but just trust me okay

Wade’s best friend, bromanciest of bros to ever bro, Nathan Summers is back in his life, and he’s really starting to get under Peter’s skin. They’re just too close, and Nathan is there all the damn time. List of things Wade’s weird time traveling BFF would look good in: 1. his own damn home. Nate and Peter get passive aggressive and competitive, Nate’s manipulative tendencies make an appearance, Peter is kind of a dick, and Wade’s honestly just happy to have his BFF back.

this is one of my favorite portrayals of their relationship dynamic tbh. just...their unbreakable bond...the way they keep coming back to each other through time and dimensions...that shit makes me cryyyy. and how well they know each other..the trust...the casual intimacy....how comfortable they’re with each other...also the dialogue in this is perfect, love their banter. This one is “screenshotting quotes and sending them to your friends” level funny. they also play mario kart and I think that’s nice.

Read Omake: Fistful of shovels for the Deleted Scenes Edition that has stuff that didn’t make it into the final fic or alternate versions of scenes. includes: Nate sending a shirtless selfie with ulterior motives, Nate being sort of a home wrecker (but at least he’s more honest about it!), aunt May, Nate being accused of being a bottom, etc.

Strangers by totallynotremus @totallynotremus (31k, rated T)

Nate plays games. Not weird manipulative mind games this time. Actual games. Online. With Wade and his friends. Wade feels targeted because come on, you behave mildly flirtatiously with the guy your friend group is gaming with online a lot acouple of times and suddenly your so called “friends” won’t stop harassing you about it. unbelievable. this one is also super funny

Motion Practice Universe: Cablepool Edition

I couldn’t put these in either category because they need to be in order and there’s one-shots AND a multi chapter fic so i’d have to separate them and that wouldn’t work. These are part of the (as of august 2020) 1,405,078 words long Motion Practice Universe, but you don’t need to read the rest of it to know what’s going on, I didn’t and it works 100% fine as a stand-alone storyline

Wade Wilson explains it all (or at least, how Clint’s keeping his job. Mostly keeping his job. It’s complicated.) by the_wordbutler (3.3k words, rated T)

Wade is trying to put together a fruit basket for Clint, because he’s a thoughtful friend (who does not get enough credit, hello?), unlike some other people. Example: his coworkers, who won’t let him focus on his super special important project (fruit basket!). And Nate, who’s eating an orange (from the fruit basket!😡) which has no business being that distracting.

it’s sort of an introduction to the next thing in the list, and I highly recommend reading it first. Definitely does a great job at showing what you’re gonna get from the full fic. Also, it’s cute and funny.

Admissions, Interrogatories, and other discoveries by the_wordbutler (150k words, rated M)

No, that wasn’t a typo, it really is 150k words. And I read it. Twice.

Basically, Wade is a criminal defense attorney, good job, you get to defend goat fuckers and other weirdos. Fun times. Nate’s a coworker, works in immigration and civil rights law, they do projects together. Just a bro he jokes around with, who sometimes brings Wade lunch, and whose arms Wade really likes to stare at, but that doesn’t mean anything, right?

this one is REAL slowburn (never in my LIFE have i experienced slow burn like this one holy FUCK), great relationship development and I just love their dynamic and banter in this one. Perfect dialogue and it’s really fucking funny, made me laugh out loud at several points! AND!! Hope is in it<3

What I learned on my summer vacation, an essay by Hope Summers by the_wordbutler (4.5k words, rated T)

Sequel to Admissions, interrogatories and other m discoveries. Wade, Nate, and ten year old Hope go to Disney World, and the beach. A lot of love and family<3 Wade took 3 sign language classes to talk to Hope (who’s deaf)

I’m sure I’m forgetting a lot of great ones but here’s what I could think of rn!!

#txt #cablepool #anonymous

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notcanoncompliant · 5 years ago

Text

I Never Doubted (pt. 1)

(first Starkercest woo)(it’s not going to be as long as I was thinking, but here’s the first 2,320 words)

I totes wrote this for @silkystark (I hope you like it! <3) and I know I always say I’ll have something done in like a day and then it takes me a week or longer...but I actually do have a part 2 already partially written and I promise (like, full pinky-promise, heart-crossing, needles-in-eyes promise) it will be up by tomorrow evening at the LATEST.

ANYWAY I HOPE YOU LIKE THIS FIRST BIT *hides under a blanket*

@plsstopgivingpetertrauma @tightaroundthewebslinger @readysetstarker @the-amazing-spidertwink @stxrker-fan-xx

******************************************************

When his mom had said "Your father wants to meet you", Peter hadn't really thought much of it.

He used to wonder where his biological father was, what the man might be like, whether this mystery person had ever actually wanted to meet him; but the resentment's mostly buried, now. The guy left before Peter was born, and Peter's mom remarried when he was six. Richard's a good man, a good stepfather (if a little distant); so, it wasn't with the hope of filling some kind of hole that Peter had agreed to the meeting. Now he seriously regrets not pushing his mom for at least a name (while simultaneously being very glad she's left the room). Tony Stark is standing in his living room. Billionaire, tech genius, philanthropist, Tony Stark. The man featured on the cover of every one of the considerable stack of magazines under Peter's bed. "Hi, Peter," Tony says, smiling a little, thought it's nervous and fades quickly. "I'm--" "Tony Stark," Peter interrupts faintly, "Wow, um--you're my--" "Yeah," Tony says. Oh, no. "It's--it's nice to meet you," Peter says, walking up and extending a hand that Tony takes. "You too, kid."

***

An hour later, Peter's back up in his room, flat on his back in bed. His jeans are on the floor, where they ended up when he'd hastily shed them after shutting himself in. He rests a shaking hand just above the line of his boxers, easing his fingers under the elastic waistband and staring up into the dark.

He's going on vacation with Tony Stark in a week. A father-son getaway. Christ. As he slowly, lightly drags his finger tips along the underside of his erection, base to tip and back, Peter lets himself think about the thrill of seeing Tony Stark perched in his favorite worn chair, asking questions and cracking jokes, everything about him confident and relaxed save for his long, thick fingers tapping random, ever-changing beats against the armrest.

Tony'd looked scandalized to hear that Peter'd never been on a real vacation. Whipped out his phone, done some digging, and asked if Peter'd ever been on a cruise. When Peter'd said 'no', he'd arched a brow and asked if he'd like to go on one, smiled when Peter had blushed and stammered out a 'yes, yeah, sure'.

Peter's never been on a cruise. He's never really been out on the ocean.

There are a lot of things Peter's never done.

He stops teasing himself long enough to push his boxers down, licks a moist stripe up his palm before returning his grip to his cock. Thinks about the warmth of Tony's hand, the roughness of the callouses. Would Tony offer to remedy his lack of experience the way he offered the cruise? Smirk the way he did when Peter had accepted, an unmistakable flash across his features, excited to be able to give this to Peter, to do this for him? To give him something he's never had? That's what fathers are supposed to do, right? Provide? Teach? "I’m sure you'll love it." The memory of those words, the warmth, the hint of something Peter could swear he saw in those too familiar dark eyes-- When he cums, he bites down on his other hand to keep Tony's name from spilling out of his mouth.

***

He doesn't tell Ned or MJ. There's no part of that conversation he wants to have, isn't really sure how to say it. It's...too big. They can tell something's happened (because they're his best friends, of course they can), but Peter can be stubborn when he needs to, and he spends every day at school resolutely deflecting every attempt either of them make to get him to talk. His time after school, though, he spends a lot more honestly. Jerking himself off to pictures and fantasies of the tech genius is a habit, an addiction, and not something he's trying all that hard to give up. The shame and the secrecy weave through the heat, give him something fresh to think about...and he does. Tony helps, if unknowingly. The billionaire texts him sporadically in the days leading up to the trip (regular things--questions he hadn't asked when they'd met, photos of things in his lab or the view of the city out the penthouse windows) but he keeps eccentric-genius hours, so sometimes Peter wakes up to messages timestamped at two, three in the morning. He gets himself off, not to the messages themselves, but to the idea that Tony Stark is paying attention to him, going out of his way to know Peter in some way, sending him little pieces of his life so Peter can be a part of it, even if they aren't physically near each other. By the night before the cruise, Peter's given up trying to justify it (there’s really only one flimsy justification, how Tony's never been and never will be his dad beyond the biological sense) and admitted to himself the knowledge isn't (maybe never has been) a deterrent. Just a new scenario, the latest in the endless procession of fantasies Peter's had since he was fourteen years old. He still feels the shame, the heaviness of it, but it thickens the heat instead of detracting from it as he settles back on his bed, naked and teased to full hardness.

When his phone buzzes, his cock jumps in his grip. No one else texts him this late, not on a school night.

>Hey, kid.

Peter bites his lip, stroking himself slowly as he types out a response with one hand.

>hey >why're you still up

>I could ask you the same thing. >I'm probably supposed to. >That's a dad thing, right? "Fuck," Peter gasps, pulling a little faster. >sounds like a dad thing >I'm sensing a 'but'. "How’d you know," Peter mutters into the dark, blushing and biting back a self-deprecating laugh. He turns, stretching to pull open his nightstand drawer, the near-empty bottle of lube calling his name. When he types out the next response, it takes him a little longer; his texting-hand is a little uncoordinated, most of his focus on running the slick fingers of his other over the tight furl between his cheeks. >BUT youre the one texting me at 2 am >You're right. Not a dad thing, is it.

Peter gasps, broken but nearly soundless, as he breaches himself with a finger, pumping a couple times before adding another--almost too quickly, but he wants to feel it right now; needs to. >i dont think youre supposed to ask my opinion on the subject >Your sass is a positive DNA test. >All Stark. A warm of curl of pleasure winds through him. >did you doubt it Peter's honestly not sure what he's asking for, but he needs the answer like he needed the too-soon stretch of that second finger. Wants a manifestation of his fantasy, to hear (see, read, whatever) that Tony hadn't immediately thought of him as his son, that he wants the same things Peter wants-- The response he gets is simple, and so, so loaded. >I never doubted you were mine. It knocks the wind out of him. He drops his phone to grab his cock, cumming in a few quick tugs, biting his lip to stifle a groan that's shaped like Tony's name.

****

Reality's an ugly thing, Peter decides when his mom drops him off at the port. He stands there during the awkward interaction between Tony and his mom, listens to them exchange casual (if slightly stilted) conversation. Tries not to flinch when his mom hugs him and tells him to behave himself... ...and then she's gone, and it's just him and Tony. His father. Fuck. "Alright, kid, let's do this," Tony says with a slightly tight smile. They drop off their bags, go through security and the first class line, making cursory small talk (how Peter's week went at school, and a couple of the questions Tony hadn't asked when they'd met the week before), Peter's anxiety building with each step, each word. (When Tony apologizes for texting him so late, Peter nearly chokes on his own spit. He manages to get out a "Yeah, no, it's fine, I was up, anyway", and isn’t sure if he does or doesn’t want Tony to know what he means.) In a masochistic twist, his brain decides to bring every fantasy-driven orgasm from the last few days to the forefront of his mind. By the time they've reached the door to the suite, he's screaming internally, guilty and hard as a rock in his jeans and praying Tony doesn't notice. He follows Tony through the door, to the inner soundtrack of his own panic. Tony'd be disgusted if he knew--Peter is disgusting, thinking about his father like this, sick for getting off on it-- A quiet curse pulls him out of his head. His frantic apology is on the tip of his tongue--I'm so sorry, Tony, Mr. Stark--and then he sees why Tony cursed. There's one bed. It's huge, but it's still just one. "I'll take the couch," Peter says quickly, because even sort of freaking out, he’s not going to completely throw away the potential opportunity to end up in bed with his number one fantasy. "Yeah, no," Tony says, wandering over to check the dresser drawers, "This is a new experience, kid. Your first time's not going to be on a couch. It's big enough to share." Peter's face heats, gut swooping. "It's--it's fine, really--"

Tony turns to give him a pointed, slightly amused look, and Peter's in hell. "Okay, yeah, that's. Yeah." "Good," Tony says, shooting him a smirk, "Now. I don't know about you, but I've been on a diet of protein bars, Gatorade, and scotch for the last couple days, and I'm ready for some actual food. Buffet or room service?"

****

"Aren't you darling!" They should've gotten room service.

MJ's said, before, that Peter's 'pretty', and Ned...well, Ned usually gives a helpless shrug in agreement. He doesn't hold it against either of them; he's aware of his baby face, knows he looks a little younger than his seventeen years. It usually doesn't cause him any problems or draw much attention, except for some of the 'negative' variety from his shittier classmates.

Everyone in the first-class dining hall, though, seem to think it's the best thing. At least six different people have made some kind of blatant comment over the last two hours, but many more of them are looking. A small, still-amorphous part of him is enjoying the attention, and...he maybe (definitely) likes the idea a little too much, that he's whatever they think he is to Tony, whether they believe they’re related or they’re sure Tony’s paying for his time. It doesn't help that Tony keeps touching him. Nothing explicit; the brush of a hand on his elbow or his shoulder, a palm at the middle of his spine, guiding and reassuring. He's leading Peter around, standing or sitting down, talking with these high-society strangers who keep shooting these looks at Peter, and after a while, all of Peter's energy is devoted to not reacting. Not flinching at every fleeting instance of contact. Not gasping whenever the now-familiar weight of Tony's palm presses at the middle of his back. Not giving any sign of all of it's wearing him down to the quick. "Um, thank you, ma'am," Peter smiles weakly at the white-haired lady, praying she's not about to actually try pinching his burning cheeks. "And so polite, too!" she croons. Peter steels himself, has to fight not to let his eyelids flutter closed when Tony squeezes him where his neck and shoulder meet. A reassuring, paternally-affectionate gesture that shoots straight to Peter's aching cock.

"Careful, I think he might implode. He's not used to the attention," Tony says, and Peter nearly whimpers at the warm, teasing tone. "Well, he better get used to it, an angel-face like that!" They keep talking, but Peter couldn’t say what about. Tony's hand is pleasantly heavy at the juncture of his shoulder, a thumb drawing slow, warm circles against the back of his neck. Peter has one hand under the table, gripping his own thigh for some semblance of control. He's losing it, though, imagining what it would be like cup himself through his pants, to touch himself while Tony touches him like this, easy and familiar. It would be nice, that comfort, that approval, that care-- "--eter, sweetheart." Oh. Peter’s eyes flip open (he hadn't even realized he'd closed them, oh, god) to Tony, gazing at him. He knows. Oh, fuck, he knows. "You're looking a little warm," Tony says, sounding appropriately concerned. "Why don't you say goodbye to Ms. Lancaster and we'll go back so you can lay down?" The woman is clearly eating this up, has noticed none of the tension, none of the heat, as far as Peter can tell when he looks up at her. "Sorry, um--bye, Ms. Lancaster, it was nice to meet you," he manages, and he didn’t know his face could get any warmer. "Nice to meet you, too, dear, both of you," she says, all charmed sympathy, "You just get some rest and try to enjoy the rest of your weekend!" After a last farewell exchange with Tony, she turns to leave. Tony rises from his seat, and Peter freezes. He can't stand up. Tony knows, but he hasn't seen-- That hand returns to his nape, flexing gently, and then Tony's bending down, breath warm at Peter's ear. "Take off your coat, fold it over your arm," Tony murmurs. Peter wordlessly complies, grateful and mortified all at once. He stands, shield in place in front of himself, and studiously avoids looking up at Tony. A hand settles low on his spine as they walk out of the hall, and Peter is so, so wonderfully, terribly fucked.

#starkercest #starker #tony stark x peter parker #nff #starker fanfic #starker fic #you guys i don't know

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crackedoutgiraffe · 4 years ago

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The Stars in Your Eyes

Part 2: Chapter 1 Part 2: Chapter 2 Part 2: Chapter 3 Part 2: Chapter 4 Part 2: Chapter 5

Master-list

A/N: Sorry this took so long to write. I haven’t really been in the right mindset to write this story. Thank you to everyone who comments, votes, and re-blogs! Ask to be added to the taglist.

2/20/2017

Reid was being held in the DC precinct. You spent all the time there that you could. Emily came in one morning to find you asleep on the chairs in the front office. JJ had been bringing him clothes and checking up on Diana.

Every time you got to see him your heart broke a little more. He kept a smile on his face, but deep down you knew he was hurting. Emily made sure that you were given enough sick time so you didn’t have to leave Spence alone.

The only day you weren’t with him was Friday. You had scheduled an appointment with your doctor to confirm your pregnancy, and she did. It was official in about 36 weeks you would welcome a brand new baby.

“Y/N,” Prentiss called, “a really good friend of mine is one of the best defense attorneys in DC, I was hoping it was okay if she represented Reid.”

You rubbed your eyes and yawned, “I’m okay with it, but you have to ask Reid. I don’t want to do anything against his will.”

“I understand,” she sighed. “Do you want to ask him now?”

You checked your watch, it was a little late, but we really needed this lawyer, “I suppose.” You stood from the uncomfortable chair you were sleeping in and went with Emily to his cell. The door creaked open and the two of you entered the cell block. You got to Reid’s cell and saw him sitting up, wrapped in a blanket.

“Hey,” he yawned. “You should be in the office.”

“I'm right where I need to be, you nodded. “You ok?”

“Yeah,” he said with a small smile on his face. “I'm ok. How's my mom doing?”

“She's doing well,” you haad been by to check on her every day for a few minutes. “JJ's been by to visit every day since your arrest. She explained everything to your mom. Cassie's been great. That makes a big difference.”

“I'm such an idiot,” when he hung his head your heart broke.

You wanted nothing more to hold him at this moment, “Don't, Spencer, don't. You were trying to help your mother.”

His eyes were sad, “I fell right into Scratch's trap.”

“He won't win,” you reached one of your hands through the iron bars. You watched as Spence stood from his bed and walked over to you.

“He already has,” he said as he interlocked his hand with yours.

You smiled at his touch, “just the battle, not the war. You didn't do anything wrong.”

“You and I both know that doesn't matter,” he looked you dead in the eyes. “All that matters is what the prosecutor can prove, and Scratch has stacked the deck against me. Even the FBI's abandoned me.”

“I know,” you brought your hands closer to you. “But we'll keep fighting.”

“I don't even have a lawyer,” he sighed.

“About that…” Prentiss interrupted. “I have a friend, Fiona Duncan. I've known her forever. Her father was in the foreign service, and we met in Italy when my mother was chargé d'affaires at the embassy there. After college, she was a Rhodes scholar. You'd like her. Anyway, now she's one of the best defense attorneys in D.C. I would like it if you would let me reach out to her about representing you.”

“Emily, I really, I appreciate it, but you helping me could destroy your reputation at the Bureau,” he turned toward your boss and let go of your hand.

“My battle, my choice,” she shook her head. “Please, let me help you. Tell me I can reach out to my friend.”

“Thank you,” he smiled and returned to you.

“Good,” Emily said. “Spencer, listen to me. We are gonna get you out of here, I promise.”

“Emily, I hate to ask this of you, but can we have a moment alone,” you gave her a warm smile and soft pleading eyes.

She returned your smile, “of course, I’ll be outside.” She started to make her way to the door; you didn’t talk until she had left.

“How stressed out are you?” you turned to Reid.

He furrowed his brow in confusion, “what do you mean?”

“I have some news for you, but if it’s going to cause you more stress, I won’t tell you.”

He brought your hand to his mouth and placed a soft kiss on the back of it, “whatever you have to tell me I can handle it.”

“I’m pregnant,” you blurted out. You watched as the words registered in his head. He let go of your hand. “Spencer?”

“Actually?” he asked.

You smiled, “actually.”

The mortified look on his face turned to a smile as he reached both his arms through the bars and wrapped you in a hug, “I’m going to be a dad!”

“Please keep your voice down, I haven’t told anyone else,” you sighed into whatever part of him you could.

“How far along are you?” he whispered, letting you out of the hug.

You smiled, “about four weeks.”

You watched as he dropped to his knees and put a hand on your stomach, “Hi there baby, I’m your dad.”

“And you’re going to be out in time to meet him or her,” you smiled at the love of your life kneeling on the floor. “I should let you get some sleep,” you sighed as he stood back up. He gave you a quick kiss and went to lay back on his bed. You walked toward the doors and waited for them to open.

When you arrived back in the waiting room, you saw Emily sitting in a chair on the phone. It was implied that she was on the phone with her lawyer friend, so you decided to get some sleep at home.

***

You woke up to a call from Emily saying that she was ready to meet with Reid. You quickly got dressed and made your way to the DC precinct. You found Emily and Fiona Duncan standing by the doors.

“You must be Fiona Duncan,” you extended your gith hand.

She reciprocated your handshake and smiled, “that’s me.”

“I’m Y/N. Thank you for defending my husband,” you smiled as the three of you walked into the precinct. You three walked to the interview room and talked for a minute before the officer brought Reid in.

“Spencer, hello,” she extended her hand for a handshake.

“Hi,” he gave her a small wave instead of a handshake.

“Fiona Duncan. Emily speaks very highly of you.”

“You, too,” Reid smiled. “It's nice to meet you.”

“I'm sorry to be meeting under these circumstances,” Fiona frowned. “Emily, Y/N, this is an attorney-client meeting. We'll need privacy.”

“Yes, of course,” you smiled.

“Are you ok?” you asked Reid before leaving. He gave you his answer with a kiss on the cheek. “All right. Bye.” The two of you were escorted back to the front desk by one of the officers. The only way you could think to pass the time was to tap your foot and pace the floor. Surely Emily was annoyed with you by now. Within an hour Fione came out of the shadows on a phone call.

“Alright, thank you,” Fiona’s heels clicked against the floor as she walked back. “That was the AUSA they want to make a deal.” The three of you made your way to Reid in silence.

“The AUSA has offered you a deal,” as Fiona delivered the news you watched as Reid’s face light up. “They want you to plead guilty.”

“They want me to plead guilty?” he repeated.

“To involuntary manslaughter,” Fiona sighed. “The offer’s for 2 to 5 years.”

Reid sighed, “2 to 5 years.”

“That's a lot of time,” you frowned. You tried to give him a look that said ‘hey i want you there to meet our child,’ but didn’t know if he understood.

“I understand,” Fiona nodded. “But it's all about perspective. It's a lot more than nothing, but a lot less than 25 to life, which is what you'd be facing if convicted.”

He turned to you, “do you think I should take it?”

“I think, given what's at stake, you owe it to yourself to carefully consider it,” you said.

“I don't think I can lie and say that I did this,” Spence hung his head. Your first reaction was to start rubbing his back. “Is that foolish?”

“No,” Fiona shook her head. “No, of course not. I don't want to see you plead guilty to a crime you didn't commit.”

“Or maybe I should cut my losses,” he looked at you. Seeming him so upset broke your heart.

“Well, the offer is so low, is that a good sign?”Emily asked. “Does it mean that the government thinks they've got a weak case?”

Fiona nodded, “possibly.”

“So that's good,” you smiled.

“Well, not necessarily,” Fiona said with a frown on her face. “It could also mean they're trying to clear the case quickly with minimal publicity. I honestly don't know what it means. And I'm not in the business of second-guessing good offers. Which this is. But I'm also not the one who will be doing time.”

“What would you do in my shoes?” Spence raised his head and looked at Emily.

“I'm not in your shoes,” Emily shook her head. “It's a decision only you can make. Whatever you decide, I'm always in your corner.”

We all are.

“Spencer, if you want to fight this to the end, I promise you I will bring everything in my arsenal to the battle,” the fact that Fiona was willing to fight for Spencer made you much happier. “But what I can't promise you is a better outcome than the one they're offering you today.”

Spence looked down at you. You could see the gears turning in his head, “I want to fight.”

You cleared your throat, “Fiona, can I talk to you in private for a moment?”

“Of course,” she nodded. The two of you left Prentiss and Reid alone to talk for a moment.

“I wanted to let you know that Reid and I are expecting a baby,” you fiddled with your hands and waited for her to respond.

“Y/N,” she sighed, “I am going to fight for him. I will give my all to clear his name.”

You met her eye-line and wrapped her in a hug, “thank you.”

***

You received a call on the day of Spencer’s arraignment that they had found the knife. Emily told you that they had offered a new deal of 5 to 10 years, but Spencer declined. You grabbed your keys and made your way to the courthouse.

When you entered you found Emily pacing the halls, “thank goodness you’re here,” she called when she saw you.

“Of course,” you wrapped her in a quick hug. “He’s still declining the offer?”

She nodded, “according to Fiona, yes.”

“That means we have to fight like hell,” you said as the rest of the team made their way to you. “I'm so glad you made it in time for the arraignment.”

“What did the kid decide about a plea?” Rossi asked.

“I don't know,” Emily shook her head. “I'm not sure he does.”

“I can't stand the thought of him being in prison,” Garcia said.

Emily shrugged her shoulders, “but 5 years is a lot less time than 25.”

“He must be agonizing over this decision,” you sighed.

“Well, whatever he decides, he has our full support,” Luke smiled.

“He knows that,” Emily placed a hand on you back. “It means a lot to him.”

“We have to prove that Scratch did this,” Walked sighed.

Emily nodded, “we'll get him.”

“They're calling his case,” you heard Fiona call from behind you. The eight of you made your way into the courtroom. You sat in the front next to Penelope.

“Case number 149-CR 0308, the U.S. versus Reid,” the bailiff announced.

“Ms. Duncan,” the judge started, “your client is an FBI agent, correct?”

Fiona stood from her seat, “that's right, your honor.”

“You're charged with murder, which is a very serious matter,” the judge addressed Reid directly.

He too stood from his seat, “yes, your honor.”

“All right, Ms. Duncan, does your client wish to enter a plea at this time?”

“He does,” she nods.

“And how do you plead, agent Reid?” the judge asked.

“Not guilty,” he announces.

“Thank God,” Garcia whispered.

“And as to bail?” the judge turns to face the other lawyer.

He stands from his seat and adjusts his suit jacket, “the people oppose bail and request remand, your honor.” The court was filled with various sounds. You almost had a heart attack there in your seat.

“Your honor, my client presents no risk of flight,” Fiona was trying her best to defend Reid.

“That's ridiculous,” the AUSA lawyer shouted. “The defendant was arrested after fleeing the murder scene in Mexico.”

“Those were extenuating circumstances,” Fiona sighed. “He'd been drugged against his will.”

“By failing to notify the FBI of his international travel, the defendant violated the Bureau protocol,” the AUSA lawyer’s voice was becoming very hostile.

“My client presents no flight risk,” Fiona started. “He has deep ties in this community. His mother suffers from Alzheimer's disease and schizophrenia and lives with him. He is solely responsible for her well-being. Additionally, he's been a decorated SSA with the FBI's behavioral analysis unit for over a decade.

“And as an FBI agent, he has contacts all over the world,” the lawyer seemed to be fed up with Fiona’s argument.

“Agent Reid would be willing to turn over both his personal and government-issued passports,” she continued.

“If he wanted a counterfeit passport, he could easily get one,” the other lawyer argued.

“He has no criminal history,” Fiona rebutted.

“The defendant is uniquely situated to evade law enforcement should he flee the jurisdiction.”

She turned to face the judge, “your honor, he wants to stay here and clear his good name.”

“He should have thought about his good name before sneaking across the border,” the lawyer quipped.

“I'm prepared to present multiple law enforcement character witnesses on his behalf right now,” you listened as everyone behind you shifted in their seats. “The witnesses are here in the courtroom, all highly respected FBI agents.”

“Simmer down, Ms. Duncan,” you could hear the bitterness in the judge’s voice. “It's almost 6:00 and I'm not inclined to hear from character witnesses. Actions speak louder than words, I always say.”

“We'd be willing to abide by a curfew and strict monitoring of his whereabouts at all times,” she offered.

“Too little too late, counselor,” she sighed.

“Your honor his wife is pregnant,” Fiona finished. You saw Reid look at her and then you. You could feel the eyes of everyone in the courtroom on your back. They felt like hot knives.

“If past behavior is the best indicator of future conduct, and I do believe it is, then your client presents a flight risk. Bail is denied. The defendant will be remanded to federal custody pending trial.” You jumped at the sound of the judge’s gavel. Spencer looked back at you before he was dragged away. The panic in his eyes was enough to make your already broken heart shatter.

You stood from your seat and leaned closer to Fiona, “how long before his case goes to trial?”

“It's a complicated case. 3 months,” she shook her head before turning to face Spencer who was being dragged away in handcuffs. “Spencer, I'm sorry. I will come and see you as soon as I can.”

The rest of the night you refused to talk to anyone. The team tried to comfort you, but nothing worked. You cried yourself to sleep that night and every night after for a week.

Taglist:

@la-vie-en-amour1 @vixengustin88

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #spencer #Criminal Minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfiction

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realitywarpinq · 5 years ago

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(reposting bc tumblr removed my post from the da tags and I’d really love to know other people’s thoughts on Thomas and O’Brien bc I wasn’t here when s1&2 were airing so missed all the fandom stuff)

I had a lot of thoughts about this and in trying to put them into words I had even more and yeah needless to say it got quite long so… anyone who wants to read some character analysis and my thoughts about why Thomas and O’Brien’s relationship played out Like That pls see below the cut!

I think if Siobhan Finneran had planned to stay on the show we might’ve got a better arc for the two of them. S3 to me plays entirely like, upon hearing she wanted out, jf scrabbled around for a way to make her exit organic because he hadn’t previously considered O'Brien ever leaving Downton. Then, for lack of something better, he discovered a great old plot unsticking device, Homophobia.

O'Brien displays two key ‘positive’ traits throughout three seasons - 1) loyalty and 2) the softer side of her that appears when looking after those she cares for/is sympathetic to (s1 Cora miscarriage - though ofc there’s a large element of guilt to that - s2 Cora’s spanish flu, Mr.Lang’s ptsd and s3 when Alfred arrives)

While O'Brien’s 'blood is thicker than water’ ideology towards the Alfred/Thomas situation makes sense for her character, I’ve always seen the progression of s3 as an absurd overreaction. I mean, while it would be frustrating that your friend was unwilling to help give your nephew a leg up in his profession it’s like… not the end of the world? And Thomas has a point - he worked hard for years to earn his position and Alfred barely knows where to put the serving spoons.

Thomas actively sabotaging Alfred’s work (ruining Matthew’s jacket) is definitely something to fall out over, but trying to have him exposed, fired, arrested and sentenced to years of hard labour???? Hello???? A Bit Much, perhaps??? Also, from whom do we think Thomas learnt to behave this way in the first place??

She’s a ruthless person who will use anything against someone to achieve her goals - in this case revenge and humiliation. To get Thomas to make a move on such an performatively masculine and heterosexual man is the ultimate power play. It communicates that even though they aren’t friends anymore Thomas still listens to what she has to say. She’ll always be the wiser of the two, like she’s been the puppet master behind their schemes, and as much as he thinks himself too smart to deign to help Alfred, she can manipulate him as easily as she would someone who hasn’t spent years as her accomplice (and should know exactly what she’s like and capable of.)

If Siobhan hadn’t been leaving the show this would’ve been the perfect “checkmate” moment for her. It’s the ace in her deck?? (idk anything about cards) it’s her final move. She’s clearly known about Thomas’ sexuality for years and this is her saying “See how easily I can use this against you? Exactly so get back in line.”

Of course then Thomas could’ve pulled out his trump card, the soap. And then O’Brien would choose whether or not to call his bluff, ultimately settling on shifting the power dynamic in their relationship to more equal footing - if it wasn’t such a terrible secret for her I honestly think she’d be impressed by his threat. She’d underestimated him and it appears he’s actually learnt well.

So, in this bad timeline in which she left the show, when Jimmy wants to put the issue to bed and she seems hell bent on seeing Thomas behind bars, that’s the part where it all seems excessive to me, stumbling into ooc behaviour.

But they had to raise the stakes in such an ooc way in order for the wedge between them to be irreparable because she HAS to leave. Since s1 they’ve been thick as thieves, and how do you break a bond that strong? Betrayal of the highest order, which is not something we’ve seen to such a degree from O'Brien until now. It’s vicious and unrelenting, and comes right after we’ve been introduced to a more empathetic side of her in s2. A backwards step for her character. It’s totally fine for characters to go forwards and backwards in their progressions as people, in fact it’s more realistic that way, but she runs away to India and is never seen again.

We know O'Brien has been at Downton a long time from the way everyone talks about her, and in explicit canon Thomas has been there for ten years at this point. So how could such a fiercely loyal person do such a complete 180 on the only friend she’s seemingly ever had, downstairs or up?

Because of this it’s only at this point that I truly cry bad writing. Everything up until then could possibly be worked out between Thomas and O'Brien - they’re both strong-willed, goal oriented people with very specific moral codes and loyalties, they know how it is; cross them and they have to get you back somehow.

It’s just a shame that Siobhan wanted to leave, really, even though I completely respect the decision.

I’m so curious as to where Thomas’ storyline would’ve gone if she’d stayed. Baxter never would’ve replaced her and he would’ve had at least one friend/ally during the conversion therapy/depression/social isolation storyline that led to *what it led to*, if they’d even decided to go down that route at all with Thomas still having someone on his side. I also wish we’d got to learn more about O'Brien as a person, seen the more human sides of her that we got glimpses of in s2. There would’ve been ways to do that without reducing or overdoing the antagonistic role of her character.

tldr; looking at their relationship in s1&2, I think the only reason it went wrong was because it had to. If it wasn’t for Siobhan Finneran leaving I think Thomas and O’Brien would’ve had some entertaining ups and downs but ultimately stayed friends or at least allies. Maybe they could’ve even helped one another achieve lives outside of service if the show wasn’t written by an upper crust Tory who punishes any of his working class characters who dare to dream above their station and repeatedly uses gay suffering as a narrative device ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

#downton abbey #thomas barrow #sarah o'brien #rob james collier #siobhan finneran

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abzzz3 · 5 years ago

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No Strings Attached (Chris Evans x Reader)

Summary: Requested by @my-name-is-alice-ayers (Part 1 of 2) - You and Tom have been broken up for a few months now and it’s taking a toll on both of you. At least Chris has always been by your side when you need him and one night you need it more that usual.

Words: 1,444

Warnings: Mentions of sex and masturbation, heavy kissing, I think that’s all

Notes: This is the first fic I’ve done in quite a while so my apologies if I’m pretty rusty, but I hope to be doing heaps more in the near future

---------------------------------------------------------------

“Now, (Y/N), what has it been like working so closely with Tom since your break-up? Especially since it’s come out that he has started dating Taylor Swift” The interviewer asked

You had to stop yourself from rolling your eyes at this question, this was at least the 8th time you had been asked this since starting this press tour for Avengers: Infinity War. Instead, you put on a honey sweet smile and answered the question the exact same way you have already.

“It honestly hasn’t changed the way we work together, Tom is still one of my best friends and he totally understood that right now I just want to put all my energy into my career. I’ve been really lucky with that, and Taylor is such a lucky woman to have him. And I mean, hey, worst comes to worst we all end up single in the end and I get another banger of an album to listen to by her.” You joked, all three of you laughing

Truth is, you hated seeing those two together. It was no secret between Tom and yourself that you both hated not being together, but you knew and explained to him that you have been working your whole life to reach the point you were currently at in the film industry, and wanted to do whatever you could to continue this amazing streak of movies you were currently having.

The interview ended pretty soon after that and Chris Evans and yourself left the room together, finally being done with your joint interviews for the day.

“Come on (Y/N), let’s go get you a drink” Chris says, wrapping an arm around you “I know the perfect spot”

You smiled up at him but said nothing. Chris has been there for you throughout all of this, your rock that you’ve been able to lean on no matter how busy he was.

. . . . . . . . .

“Okay, you have to tell me, did you ever have sex in costume?” Chris asked, half hiding his snickers behind his beer bottle

You snorted, leaning back into your bar stool and tilting your head back as though you were about to fall into a laughing fit.

“No, never! Neither of us would have been able to pull our bottoms off without help from the costume crew!”

“What about the good ol’ bump and grind?” Chris wiggled his eyebrows and then raised them half way up his forehead when he saw you go beet red “Oooh, there was a lot wasn’t there?”

“Shut up Chris, a woman has needs” You tried to defend yourself, not daring to look around the bar to see if anyone was watching or listening in.

The bar was in the basement of an old industrial style building, it was dark, covered in old number plates and advertising boards. The only people currently in there were middle aged and elderly men in biker outfits and young couples not wanting to be caught together.

“You, the Enchantress slash seductress, have needs?! I never . . .” Chris mocked shock

You laughed and elbowed him “Come on, I need some food” you said, hopping off the stool and grabbing your jacket

Chris smiled widely, jumped off the stool and headed to the door with you. The walk back to the hotel was a short one, with the sky overhead blanketed in dark blue velvet with starts scattered all across with their own special sparkles, though most of the sky was obstructed by multi-storey buildings. It made the view all that much more special, like humans had forgotten to appreciate the beautiful world we have been gifted and just wanted to reach higher for their own self-accomplishment but never wanted to actually look up.

“What are you thinking about?” Chris asked, gazing across at you with a small smile on his face

You walked inside the hotel lobby and headed for the elevator together

“Just how lucky we are to have such beautiful skies and nature, and how so many seem to not give it a second thought and take so much for granted” You answered

“You do love to think about happy things, don’t you?” Chris smirked

“You know where I’m coming from though, right? We’re destroying this world and each other with hatred and greed, while there are communities out there who don’t have clean water or education.” You rambled, getting obviously passionate

“You and Tom really are so similar” Chris commented as you walked out of the elevator and onto your floor

“I hope you’re only talking about good things”

You spun around, a little dizzy from the number of drinks you had had this afternoon, and saw Tom standing behind you. You both looked at each other and your mouth went dry while your palms went sweaty.

“Of course, I was just saying that both you and (Y/N) are so passionate about making sure this planet isn’t abused and everyone has the same opportunities” Chris explained, his usual smile plastered across his face

“I think our first all-nighter conversation was something along those lines, wasn’t it (Y/N)?” Tom looked over at you

“Y-yes, specifically our time working with UNICEF overseas” You agreed “I’m sure you and Taylor have all-nighters too, though” You smiled and headed towards your room, without another word

You picked up the hotel room phone and was greeted with reception

“Hello, how can I help you?” They asked

“Hi, could I please have a large bowl of chips and some garlic bread brought up to room 405?”

“Of course ma’am, is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Actually could you please also bring up two extra pillows?” You had a feeling you would be wanting to cuddle something or surround yourself with pillows tonight.

“Of course, I’ll be able to get those up to you in 20 minutes, is that okay?”

“That’s perfect, thank you very much and have a good night” You thanked

“You too ma’am, thank you again for choosing to stay with us”

You put the phone down just as Chris walked in

“Sorry about that, I ordered food for us” You said, looking over at him while you sat on the bed

“You don’t need to apologise (Y/N), I get what you’re going through” Chris replied, sitting next to you and putting his hand on your leg “You know I’m here for you”

You looked over at Chris, your faces not far from each other

“You know, I haven’t slept properly since Tom and I split” you mumbled to yourself and chuckled a little, after a moment

“What’s so funny?” Chris asked

“I’m just thinking about what I used to do some nights when I couldn’t sleep”

“What did you do?” Chris asked

“ . . . relax . . . privately . . .” you chose your words carefully, not wanting to say outright that you used to masturbate if you couldn’t sleep, but also wanted Chris to be able connect the dots.

It’s not like you hadn’t tried in recent months but it was either too soon after the break up or it just didn’t work.

“You mean you haven’t . . . since . . .?” Chris asked, watching you closely

“No” You answered simply, looking up at him

You both looked at each other in silence and you weren’t sure if it was the booze, the fatigue, the lighting or just the fact that you were actually looking at Chris now but you suddenly found Chris very attractive and wanted nothing more than to forget about Tom and everything else outside your hotel room, and that included the food you were waiting on.

“Can I . . . kiss you?” you whispered, lightly brushing Chris’s lips with your finger tips

“If you’re sure you want to and it’s not the alcohol speaking”

“Come on, you’ve seen me drunk before Chris, you know I’m fully aware of what I’m doing” You smiled, leaning in and kissing him.

First softly, then passionately, and it wasn’t long before Chris was kissing you back. You shifted yourself onto his lap and ran your fingers through his hair, while he placed his hands on your hips. The kissing began to become more passionate and feverish as you both began to be more needy for the other’s touch.

Then you were both shocked apart by the sound of a knock on your hotel door room.

“Room Service” Someone called from the other side of the door

You and Chris both laughed as you got off him and headed towards the door

“Let’s put this on pause”

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fullmetalscullyy · 5 years ago

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the way it was - chapter 2

everybody needs one true friend

summary: what if riza never went to war? riza hawkeye has just married the man she loves. six months into their marriage, an unexpected surprise stops her from following roy to the military. a canon divergence au that explores what might have happened had riza been unable to join the military. there will be plenty of family fluff, angst, and royai.

rated: m | warnings: no archive warning apply

chapter 1 | read on ao3

1909

everybody needs one true friend

someone who’ll be there ‘till the very end

“The war in Ishval has taken a turn today, as the State Alchemists have managed to subdue more than eighty per cent of the rebels within the state. The Hero of Ishval, Roy Mustang, played a large part in today’s victory –” Riza quickly turned the radio off. Usually she would hang onto every word, absorb every scrap of news, but at the mention of his name, she couldn’t bear to listen to it anymore.

He’d been hailed as the Hero of Ishval. Riza didn’t want to begin to imagine what he might have done to those people to earn that title. She withheld all judgement – she had no right to do so because she wasn’t there – but it made her worried. Very worried. He had been sent off to war eight months ago. That was a long time. Those eight months, and the actions he carried out within that time, may have changed him completely. Riza wouldn’t know what the man would return as until he was standing right in front of her.

On today of all days she didn’t want to think about the war either. Besides, the only news she trusted came from letters Roy sent. Of course, he didn’t tell her much about the conditions out there. He wouldn’t want her to worry. However, even those were coming few and far between at this point, now eight months into his service. While that thought worried Riza regardless, she didn’t let it get her down. She couldn’t. She had too much to do and concentrate on here, at home. Thinking about the lack of response only brought tears and worry, and that was best saved for her bedroom at night where no one was around to hear her cry.

“Sorry,” Rebecca apologised sheepishly.

“It’s okay,” Riza replied, keeping her voice even. She placed a hand on her swollen stomach and turned her gaze outside the window of the car.

“I hear about it so often at work it just becomes background noise,” her friend explained. “But hey,” she added, voice becoming more chipper. “Today is all about you, so let’s forget about that just now.”

If only it was that simple.

“Gracia Hughes is on her way to the hotel now. One of Roy’s sisters is picking her up in the car. You won’t be completely bombarded by his siblings,” Rebecca laughed, trying to lighten the mood. Riza managed a smile, but it quickly fell. Now it had been mentioned, all she could do was worry about him.

She hadn’t received a letter in over a month. She’d sent two since his last one, but no reply. At least today’s news meant he was still alive. That was one positive thing to focus on.

Chris – bless the woman – had a party already in full swing by the time Riza and Rebecca arrived.

Roy’s family had all migrated to East City for the day, it felt like. They were staying at a hotel in town, and had hired out the function suite for them to throw a baby shower for Riza. She begged them not to go through so much trouble, that she was more than happy to have it in her own apartment, but she received a few sympathetic looks.

“Riza, honey, we wouldn’t all fit.”

Her and Roy’s apartment was small, but it wasn’t that small, Riza had thought indignantly.

Sure enough, Roy had a large family. Some people were here who she’d never even seen before.

She gulped.

“Riza!” Vanessa squealed as she stepped out of Rebecca’s car. The blonde threw her arms around Riza’s neck, hugging her tightly. She was an incredibly beautiful woman, always made up expertly with makeup and fake eyelashes, which Riza had never seen before meeting Roy’s family. Her blonde hair tumbled down her back, effortless curls swishing as she moved. Her perfectly manicured nails were two different colours today. The nail polish alternated colour on each finger, a pattern of blue and pink. It was in celebration of Riza’s baby shower, Vanessa had beamed at her and Rebecca. She was a very sweet woman, and Riza would never admit this aloud, but Vanessa was Riza’s favourite. All of Roy’s adoptive sisters were amazing to her, but Vanessa had gone that extra mile every time and had made sure Riza felty included in everything they did together as a family.

She truly felt like she was a sister to them, and Riza would forever be grateful to them for that.

Also, Riza often caught the scoop of the gossip around Central too, thanks to Vanessa. At least once a week she would phone Riza and ask how she was doing, eventually turning the conversation towards animatedly talking about who she’d been on a “date” with that week. Riza had heard some things she probably shouldn't have, but Vanessa had connections to the higher ups in the military too. Roy had explained what his mother dealt in and how the bar was just a front. No wonder her organisation was so fruitful. Vanessa somehow managed to get the scoop on everyone. She could be both relentless and ruthless in her “innocent” questioning, and Riza was glad that kind of attention had never been directed towards her. She’d spill all she knew there and then because Vanessa was that good.

As she was drawn into Vanessa’s embrace, Riza almost gagged at the amount of perfume that invaded her nostrils – a smell she’d become quite sensitive to while pregnant – but managed to control herself. “How are you doing? Oh, come in, come in! We’ve been so excited about today for so long!”

Banners covered every wall of the function suite while balloons littered the floor, a sea of plastic and air. Every time someone walked through them, they were kicked gently up into the air. It was a carpet of pink, blue, and white.

Her mother and sister-in-law had outdone themselves. There was so much food. Platter upon platter covered every available table in the room. They had been arranged around the outskirts of the room to allow a mingling area for the guests to Riza’s baby shower, as well as dancefloor. The chairs were dotted about the room, some arranged in small circles where women sat chatting and laughing with each other already, their plates full of food.

“Riza,” Chris greeted warmly, a smile on her face. She pulled Riza into an unexpected hug, but Riza appreciated it all the same. It was nice to feel welcomed like this. Roy’s family had accepted her wholeheartedly after their marriage. After he’d left, his sisters visited her at home almost every day. It was a blessing to have the company, as well as another connection to Roy. “Welcome. How are you feeling?”

“I’m all right,” Riza reassured her.

“Still get sick?”

Riza shook her head. “No. Thank goodness that’s all behind me.” In the early months she’d been violently sick many times. After eating, she would vomit. Even the smell of cooking made her ill. She had to go to hospital overnight once to get a drip because she’d almost passed out. Luckily, she’d been at Chris’ in Central for the weekend, so someone was able to take her there.

“Good.” Chris Mustang was a woman of very few words, Riza had noticed this early on. At first, she’d worried she’d offended her in some way because her replies were always abrupt, her tone sharp, but Roy reassured her “that was just his mother”.

The baby shower was very graciously arranged by Vanessa. Riza assured her she didn’t need anything fancy, but Vanessa had pulled out all the stops. There was a mountain of presents in the corner already, and there were still women arriving, carrying large boxes in their arms.

Riza felt her eyes begin to fill up with tears.

“Hey, are you okay?” Rebecca asked quietly, noticing her change in demeanour.

“I’m fine,” Riza reassured her, voice wobbling. “Honestly, I’m alright. This is just… a lot. It’s… completely unexpected.” No one had ever done something for her before, on this large a scale.

Roy had proposed, but it was a way to offer her stabilisation shortly after her father died. The proposal hadn’t been a grand affair. It was a quiet question, murmured over the sound of the fire crackling beside them in her living room. The fire hadn’t been on in years in her childhood home, but they lit it that night. A signal of a new beginning. A beacon of light for both their futures. After nervously asking Roy what he was talking about, he’d gotten down on one knee, uncertainty in his eyes. They loved each other, but the marriage would be convenient for her, more than anything. They both never expected it to grow into something so wonderful when they had first discussed it after Berthold’s funeral. Those six months of marriage had been the best days of her life.

During and just after the funeral, they’d been very guarded and shy with one another. A year had passed since he’d left for the military and they’d both grown up, but something awoke inside of her after being finally freed from her father’s burden. Perhaps it was the intimacy of the act – Roy examining the skin of her back so closely – and then the anguish of the aftermath. He’d burned the most important parts of the tattoo in order to hide it and stop others from discovering its secrets. Roy had agonised over her request, but she just wanted to finally be free, she had whispered brokenly, her tone carrying the weight of the burden on her back. He couldn’t deny her of that. It had brought them closer together. They now shared a bond that no one else would ever know the extent of. One that couldn’t be broken.

He proposed a week after the funeral. She’d passed on the secrets of flame alchemy to him, and that was when their relationship turned. The night he’d finished studying her back was when they’d slept together for the first time. The feeling of his fingertips ghosting over his skin, the breath tickling her sensitive back, had made her boldly roll over and straddle his hips. He’d been astonished, and if Riza wasn’t so worked up, she would’ve laughed. As soon as her hands tangled themselves in his hair, he reciprocated eagerly.

Roy left – for what was supposed to be the last time – to take the State Alchemist exam. They celebrated in a similar fashion after he returned to her home, excitement on his face. He was finally on the way to achieving his dreams. Riza was happy for him.

They were married in her hometown a month after he’d become a State Alchemist. Riza. Married at eighteen. Roy was twenty-one. Their relationship had gone into overdrive with everything progressing so quickly, yet Riza was oddly calm about the whole situation. It just felt right, after everything they’d been through.

“I know, I didn’t expect there to be so much,” Rebecca admitted. “But you deserve it, Riza.”

Riza smiled gratefully at her friend.

“Now, I know something that will definitely cheer you up. That good for nothing husband left you to run off to war,” Rebecca winked playfully. “I think it’s only fair you get to open all the presents.”

Riza laughed quietly to herself. Surrounded by all this wonderful company and these amazing people who would do anything to make her day brighter or happier, Riza was sure she would be cheered up today. It would be just what she needed.

#royai #royai fic #royai fanfic #royai au #the way it was #emma writes

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imuybemovoko · 4 years ago

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I die inside while dissecting Jesus music

For this fun little exercise in self-torture, I’m going to find a weird worship song and dissect it. Today I feel like saying death-cult a distressing number of times so I’m going to find one that talks about how the next world is supposed to be better for this one.

I’m probably going to regret this. And probably cope by blasting metal while I do this.

I’ll go with a bit of low-hanging fruit for this first one: Even So Come. It’s attributed six ways to Sunday because like seven different artists/groups have a recording of it somewhere out public, but this lyric site thingy says Chris Tomlin. Some of these songs get wildly popular to the point where even as a church guitar guy (read: very large fan of this shitty music) I tended to find it a bit confusing to tell who originally wrote them. This is an example. I think it was probably Kristian Stanfill but uh... I can never be 100% sure. I’ve been wrong about ones I was way more sure about before.

This song is repetitive as fuck, like a lot of these, because what helps indoctrinate people more than literally singing the same words for 15 minutes?

Let’s get into this shit.

The song

I’ll spare you a few minutes of your life if you want to keep it. I already linked the lyrics, but I’ll give this a quick listen to make sure Stanfill doesn’t literally freehand some new lyrics during the video; if he does, I’ll discuss that too I suppose. The whole point of this is that I’m listening to this shit so you don’t have to. But if you really want to, then go off I guess. I can’t and honestly wouldn’t try to stop you. Unless this shit is triggering to you. In that case please don’t listen. It used to fuck me up hard when my brother would blast songs like this in the shower after I deconverted. I don’t want that happening to anyone out there. Tread with caution.

Okay. I wrote that while I was listening, and apparently he doesn’t yeet off into new spontaneous lyrics at any point. I think that’s more of a Bethel thing, but I don’t remember it being exclusive to them so I had to make sure.

Ok, let’s do this more or less in order. I’ll take it a verse at a time. But first, let’s talk formatting. The first two verses aren’t separated by anything, and the third is after the first chorus. After the third verse they play the chorus again, then the bridge. The AZLyrics entry under Tomlin lists it twice; Stanfill plays it twice. When I was on the worship team at a church, we’d typically play the bridge four times for extra drama. After this, they end with two tricks. First is that they play the first half or so of the chorus, then a whole chorus right after it. Again, this is for extra drama. The leader of the worship team at my old church would tend to point to one part of the song as the “climax” and we’d do a fair amount of this kind of shit leading up to it. In this particular case, it’s actually most of the chorus, leaving off only the “even so come” lines. The break is at a lyrically appropriate place more often than it’s just like “haha 2 bars into the chorus” or something like that because of course the message has to be consistent. After this, they fade the song out by repeating the last line or two, like, umpteen times to foster a contemplative mood. (It works. I’ve been on both ends of this dynamic. If you’re in a more charismatic crowd, my experience suggests that this final repetition is the most likely point where someone’s going to fall out and start speaking in tongues or something. Also, in those circles sometimes one of the vocalists, most often the team leader because of course, will give some kind of “word from God” to the congregation.) That’s the format, and it’s a very common one. At church camps and retreats and events like those, often they’ll loop choruses or bridges or ending tags or, sometimes (but far less often), verses and extend a song like this one to like fifteen or twenty minutes. In a typical church service they don’t really do it that way though because people might get impatient or something.

On to the lyrics of this song. I’ll address the verses in order, then the chorus and bridge, then talk ordering, because doing this chronologically would get annoying as fuck. The first verse is as follows:

All of creation All of the earth Make straight a highway A path for the Lord Jesus is coming soon

Notice the equivocation in the first two lines here. The author most likely believes this is an accurate thing to equivocate, and so do most of their audience.

The next two lines are a similar repetition, using both modern and more Biblically-flavored language, in reference to Mark 1:3. The particular language used is not altogether different from most English translations. These lines, both in the sense that the author intends and in their function in the song, are meant to prepare the listener for what follows: “Jesus is coming soon.” A reminder of the inevitable apocalypse most Christian sects teach and, in their view, the second chronologically of two most important events in the entire history and future of the world (the first being the crucifixion and resurrection of Christ). Every verse of the song ends with this reminder.

To boil the message of this verse down into one word:

(I have entirely too much fun with this image lol)

The second verse:

Call back the sinner Wake up the saint Let every nation Shout of Your fame Jesus is coming soon

“Call back the sinner” implies a return to origins and contains an implicit reference to the prodigal son in the parable in Luke 15. The implication is that being a “sinner” (and I’ll discuss the dichotomy in a second here) is a life of running away from God either by ignorance or by choice, and that they were originally with God. The typical narrative on the mechanisms of the fall of man seems to suggest otherwise because only Adam and Eve were technically originally with God and everyone else starts out separated because of that lovely little generational curse thingy, this is a bit of an odd take, but in light of the evangelical perspective that not only a god, but their god is so self evident that people have to make the active choice to not believe, this makes an entire hell of a lot of sense, and “calling back the sinner” could entail saying “lol stop wasting your energy running from what you know.”

The next line engages in a bit of common guilt-tripping. Saying “wake up the saint” implies that believers and churches have fallen asleep in some sense, and that’s actually a perspective referenced in the letters to the seven churches in Revelation, each church getting a different flavor of messaging like this. When churches and saints are called to “wake up”, it means to cease engaging in whatever behavior is apparently polluting their message, i.e. forgetting the original reason they’re doing this, normalizing “worldly” practices, bad leadership paradigms, etc. Thus, I’m inclined to read this line as something like “you’re better than the rest of humanity; act like it.

Also of note is this dichotomy established here between “sinners” and “saints”. This is, on paper at least, the only important distinction in evangelicalism. (In practice they have a lot of shitty perspectives on women because of Paul’s writings as well as some class and/or racial biases, unconscious or conscious depending on the particular congregation.) A “saint” is a “true” Christian, one who is “set apart” from the world by God. A “sinner” is literally anyone else. In addition to their entire laundry list of harmless actions that are considered sins, Evangelicals (and probably many other Christians honestly) will say that to be non-Christian is a sin. In my old church and its affiliates I often heard that to remain non-Christian for an entire lifetime is the only unforgivable sin, identifying it with the “blasphemy of the Holy Spirit” referenced in Matthew 12:31. There are a wide variety of perspectives on what this “blasphemy of the Holy Spirit” actually means, and I can really only confidently speak to Calvary Chapel’s perspective on that. In any case, this song makes use of the “sinner vs saint” dichotomy common in Christianity. I analyze it as a typical “us vs them” with an added twist that says “the ‘them’ can become us and that’s better”.

After this is a reference to the passages in the Bible that speak of the Gospel being spread to “every nation” and things such as that, and that every nation will come under Christ’s lordship at the end of time. Then there’s a reminder that the singer is awaiting this apparently fast-approaching end.

The third verse:

There will be justice All will be new Your name forever Faithful and true Jesus is coming soon

This third verse is mostly a reference to events predicted to occur after the second coming of Christ. In Revelation, among other places, there is a described sequence of events in which the world comes absolutely fucking unglued, falls under the thumb of a tyrannical world government run by some guy who lets himself get possessed by Satan, and then is yeeted by God and soaked in the blood of Satan’s armies at the final battle. A bit later, for some reason Satan has to be let go for a bit, but he loses hard once again. After this, God yeets the unbelievers into hellfire and makes a new world which he rules forever. In short, the collapse, battles, and Great Divine Yeet are what this “justice” describes. The remaining lines speak of this renewed world run by Jesus himself. Lastly, we have the reminder that this is all going to happen before very long here.

There’s a bit of a double-reference thing going on here and in the second verse too, and I’m honestly not entirely sure what to make of it, but it shows up often in contemporary Christian music. They’ll switch between referring to God in second person (Your name forever) and in third person (Jesus is coming soon). It seems ...most likely to be a matter of convenience, and I’m rather inclined to treat it as that because the other things I think of seem either counter-productive or very, very outlandish. Like, are they alternating between addressing God and addressing the listener? Maybe, but the message of this song is so much more listener-directed that I find that thought kinda weird.

In any case, that’s the verses.

Now let’s get to the chorus. This is repeated after the first two verses and again several times after the third, and it contains a lot of deeply cursed metaphors. I mean holy fuck.

Like a bride Waiting for her groom We'll be a church Ready for You Every heart longing for our King We sing Even so come Lord Jesus come Even so come Lord Jesus come

So the first two little couplets here refer to a metaphor found in several places in scripture where the church is the “bride” of Christ. This. is. CREEPY! In the old testament, the role of the wife is often analogous to that of property, so that’s deeply gross. Further, Paul says men are the head of women, i.e. have great authority over them, and women should be subservient. Jesus doesn’t honestly do a whole hell of a lot to resist this, and powerful women throughout most of the scriptures are either defined as attaining their power in “God-honoring” subservient ways like Esther or as dangerous demonic influences operating under the “spirit of Jezebel”. (”Jezebel” is literally a scriptural term for this kind of thing; one of the church letters in Revelation uses it. Many evangelicals/fundies add “spirit of” because of their borderline-animistic take on spiritual warfare. I might describe that in more detail in a later post. It’s a metaphor based on an old-testament queen who is presented as manipulative and narcissistic, taking the real power in the kingdom from her husband by manipulation and doing a great deal of damage with it.) Thus, in this context, I find the “bride” metaphors inextricable from a tyrannical, abusive relationship in which the man, or in this case Christ, is the absolute head. Biblical ideas on marriage and family life are an entire problem too, establishing what I feel very confident in describing as an abusive power dynamic. Thus, this song references a metaphor by which Christ is described as having abusive control over his people. @kristian stanfill thanks I hate it. @whoever the fuck wrote the bible thanks I hate it. The couplet in this song is describing a situation in which the church is waiting to submit to an abusive authority and it’s fucking disgusting and I hate that I used to live that way.

The next line, “every heart longing for our king”, indicates that it’s normative to strongly desire this power dynamic and expresses a probably-genuine (mine was) desire for more of Jesus on the part of the writer and the singer. So with these preconditions established, they say, “we sing, even so come, Lord Jesus, come”, repeating “even so come” and on twice for added weight. The chorus and bridge are, by the way, where this seems to get deathculty.

Remember that in referencing the coming of Jesus, they reference ideas that this world is shitty and being dead and in heaven/having the world destroyed by God and replaced is going to be a hell of a lot better. The Bible and many churches, particularly evangelicals, will even use language like “dying to oneself” to refer to the process of laying down one’s life for the cause of Jesus. Thus, death metaphors infiltrate their literal daily living. The general attitude that’s expected for people to have in those circumstances is one of “I won’t seek death actively but I will welcome it when the time comes”, and coupled with the way the other forms of abuse broke me, this had me fantasizing about dying in third-world countries for getting too annoying about Jesus. So that’s pretty wack, I suppose. This belief system is one that puts death on a very disturbing pedestal. This entire song is about preparing for the return of Jesus, which is going to bring a hell of a lot of death if it happens as they predict. This very deadly event is what “Jesus is coming soon” entails, and it’s one of two possible interpretations that I can think of to apply to these “even so come lord Jesus come” lines. The other is that they believe that Jesus is present with them when they worship (Matthew 18:20) and they seek to experience this presence. But the preparatory nature of this song, in my experience at least, puts very strong priority on the first sense, even though it can be, and in church settings often functions as, both. These lines are a plea for personal transformation and for the apocalypse. In the vanishingly unlikely event that the Christian version of the divine turns out to be true, billions will die in wars and disasters (some actively caused by God’s agents) and many of those same billions and many more people, including me, will be victims of the Great Cosmic Yeet and land in hellfire forever. And they want this to happen sooner rather than later. That’s literally the main point of this song.

So we wait We wait for You God we wait You're coming soon

This is the bridge. It’s typically repeated kind of a lot. Like, I mean holy fuck they repeat this. It’s literally just “we’re excited for the second coming of Christ”. You know, in case someone needed a reminder that they want billions dead, even more people yeeted into hellfire, and the entire world destroyed. Evangelical and fundamentalist strains of Christianity are literally a death cult.

So with that rant-filled analysis out of the way, let’s see if I can talk formatting without dying inside again or getting too pissed off.

On the lyric site I linked above (and I’ll link it again so you don’t have to scroll through whatever literal mountain of text and cursed images I’ve produced) this goes verse 1, verse 2, chorus, verse 3, chorus, bridge twice, weird most-of-chorus tag, chorus, the last two lines like several times over. Thus, already we have multiple repetitions of most concepts found in this song. Also, this two verses-chorus-third verse-chorus-bridge several times-chorus twice-ending tag format is quite common in contemporary Christian music, in the studio recordings, official lyrics, and chord sheets you’ll find out there. But I cannot stress enough that this structure, especially the bridge and latter choruses but the entire structure including the verses, is extremely modular. Anything can be repeated, or repeated more times. Anything can be re-inserted in another place. This is mostly a Bethel thing in my experience, but there can be instrumental breaks for one of the vocalists to yeet out entirely spontaneous lyrics. There can be massive empty instrumental breaks, or instrumental breaks with spoken words in them. And I’ve seen even less of that, but parts of other songs can be inserted just about anywhere too, and I’ve actually participated in that one on occasion. To an extent, any music can be handled in ways like this, but it seems to me like contemporary Christian music is consciously designed that way because its target audience goes nuts over long, “spirit-filled” songs played at church camps or an extra spicy church service.

It’s also worth noting, and if I end up doing a whole lot of these I’ll probably explain this in a great deal more depth, that these songs can get reasonably similar to one another. I think that’s because to a very large extent, the words and structure matter a hell of a lot less than the way they set the mood. You can get the same impact on a crowd of willing Christians from probably literally any combination of these songs. I always had my favorites but that didn’t seem to matter that much.

I’m inclined to say some of the same things about a lot of modern music, actually. It has common structures, a lot of music is interchangeable for certain moods, etc. But I can’t say a thing about the modularity of modern music. A song seems to be way more of a distinct unit in most environments. Mashups do happen, but massive repetitions of one piece of a song generally don’t in any context that I’m aware of. They’ll jam out on an instrumental for a while at concerts sometimes, but you really don’t get this, like, singing “Crawl on your belly til the sun goes down, I’ll never wear your broken crown, I took the road and I fucked it all away, in this twilight how dare you speak of grace” more than like the twice they do it in the studio recording from most groups like you do in very many Christian music settings. (The example chorus I put here was from Mumford and Sons- Broken Crown. It’s an amazing song, I totally recommend it lol it was the first one that popped into my head for this purpose.) Some other commonalities are present in a lot of modern music, but for the most part, that modularity would just come across extremely weird. I think just about every time I’ve either seen or been involved in the playing of Even So Come at a church, the musicians engaged in at least some degree of modularity, most often by repeating the bridge but sometimes uh... holy crap. Because of the extreme prolific use of these songs in church or retreat settings, I’m inclined to list the modularity as the single most important aspect of the formatting of this song and of many others.

#ex christian #contemporarychristianmusic #worship #i probably need therapy #dead inside

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