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kathaelipwse · 6 days ago

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Set Me Off || J.Wooyoung

Pairing: Wooyoung (ATEEZ) x Actress.Idol!Reader

Requested: Yes

Word Count: 7242 words : Reading Time: 26-ish mins

Trope: Idol x Actress | Slow Burn to Lovers | Hidden Relationship | He Falls First and Harder

Warnings: Mild language, mentions of hate comments, slow-burn tension, eventual mild intimacy (towards the end)

Synopsis: Everyone knows you as the queen of K-dramas, always cast in sweet romance roles. But your gritty new action film flips the script—and catches the attention of ATEEZ’s Wooyoung, who’s instantly obsessed. What starts as admiration turns into something deeper as secret messages, live chemistry, and late-night confessions unfold. Fame might complicate things… but love? That’s the real headline.

Author’s Note: This is my love letter to powerful women, supportive men, and the chaos that comes when celebrity crushes turn mutual. Expect flirty tension, viral moments, soft love, and a lot of heart.

Request are open <3

The award show pulsed with manufactured euphoria. Sequins shimmered under the relentless assault of camera flashes, a galaxy of idols clustered beneath the stage lights, their attention divided between the ongoing performances and hushed predictions of who would clutch the coveted trophies. It was the usual orchestrated spectacle: saccharine romance trailers that elicited polite applause, glossy cosmetic brand ads promising unattainable perfection, dramatic teasers hinting at future on-screen turmoil. Fluff and glitter, meticulously curated for maximum impact.

Then, the manufactured brilliance fractured.

The house lights bled out, plunging the auditorium into sudden darkness. A collective murmur rippled through the crowd, a momentary suspension of the carefully constructed reality.

The colossal screen, which had moments before showcased smiling faces and glistening products, dissolved into an absolute, consuming black.

And then your trailer began.

A cacophony of sound ripped through the silence: the sharp, concussive reports of gunshots, the high-pitched whine of tires fighting for traction, the chillingly distinct shick of a blade being drawn from its sheath. And then, you materialized. Stepping into the frame as if conjured from the shadows, clad in a black leather jacket that seemed to absorb the remaining light. Your eyes, sharp and assessing, cut through the darkness. Your lips, painted a defiant blood red, curved into a dangerous smile, a flicker of untamed fire dancing in their depths.

"Target acquired," a voice, low and husky – hers – drawled from the screen. The camera shifted, revealing her perched on a rain-slicked rooftop, a silhouette against the artificial twilight. Black leather molded to her form, a gun holstered with lethal grace against her thigh. Her eyes, lined with a stark precision, mirrored your own intensity. Her lips, too, were curved in a knowing smirk.

The entire auditorium held its breath. The low hum of conversation had vanished, replaced by a profound, almost reverent silence. The collective memory of your previous roles – the sweet ingenue clutching a notebook, the girl blushing over a tentative first kiss – seemed to evaporate into the charged atmosphere.

The images on screen shifted with brutal efficiency. You, a whirlwind of controlled violence, flipping a man twice your size with effortless ease, sending him crashing through a pristine marble table. You, a figure of fierce determination, shooting your way out of a towering high-rise as lightning split the stormy sky. You, smirking, a smear of blood a stark crimson against your flawless cheekbone, your beauty amplified by the raw power you exuded. You were terrifying. And undeniably, breathtakingly beautiful.

"Tell heaven I sent you," she murmured, her voice a silken threat before the deafening roar of an explosion ripped through the sound system. A car erupted in a fiery inferno behind her as she turned and walked away, her silhouette unwavering against the blaze. And then – another explosion, closer this time, the screen erupting in a blinding, white-hot flash. “Blood Petals” – A Netflix Original. Coming Soon.

Silence hung heavy in the air for a beat, two beats, an eternity.

Then, the dam broke.

A collective gasp swept through the auditorium, a wave of pure shock rippling through the assembled stars. A smattering of hesitant cheers broke out, quickly swallowed by the dominant sense of stunned disbelief.

ATEEZ? Their usual boisterous energy seemed to have been momentarily suspended. They sat frozen, eyes glued to the now-blank screen.

Wooyoung? He was a statue carved from disbelief. Utterly silent, his eyes blinked slowly, as if trying to process a reality that had just violently overwritten his expectations. It was as if his entire definition of an ideal had just materialized on screen, holding a grenade and a vendetta.

“Bro,” San whispered, nudging his arm gently. “Was that… her?”

“She just killed five guys and licked blood off her thumb,” Mingi muttered, his eyes wide and unfocused. “I didn’t know I was into that, but apparently, I am.”

Wooyoung remained unresponsive, his brain seemingly undergoing a complete system reboot. Finally, in a voice barely above a whisper, he breathed, “She’s so hot I think I blacked out for a second.”

And then – your cue.

Blinding spotlights flooded the stage, cutting through the residual darkness. You stepped into the incandescent glow, a vision ripped straight from the aesthetic of your trailer. Your gown, the color of deep red wine, clung to your figure like liquid night, sculpted to every curve and angle. The gloves reached past your elbows, adding an air of dangerous elegance, while the slit in the skirt climbed high enough to steal the breath from every lung in the room. Your hair was slicked back, revealing the sharp angles of your face, your expression a study in cool, lethal grace.

Every single eye in the auditorium was fixed on you.

Including his.

Wooyoung watched, his mouth slightly agape, as if you had indeed descended from the ceiling on a wire, a real-life embodiment of a Mission: Impossible fantasy.

You smiled – a cool, collected curve of your lips that somehow managed to convey both power and amusement – and your voice, smooth and confident, filled the stunned silence. “Best Performance Group: ATEEZ.”

A ripple of movement went through their section. They rose, a wave of applause finally breaking the spell. But Wooyoung? He moved as if through water, a dazed expression still clouding his features.

As Hongjoong stepped up to the microphone to accept the award, the unforgiving eye of the camera captured everything. The genuine gratitude on Hongjoong’s face, the supportive smiles of the other members – and Wooyoung. Wooyoung, who couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away from you. His eyes followed the line of your dress, the sharpness of your jawline, the knowing glint in your eyes, the subtle curve of your smirk. Your entire aura seemed to have him ensnared.

And then, as you gracefully handed over the gleaming trophy to Hongjoong, your eyes flickered in his direction. Just a fleeting glance. Just one subtle, almost imperceptible smirk.

It was over.

He was done.

Dead.

Buried under a mountain of newfound fascination.

Twitter exploded within minutes.

🎥 “wooyoung folded like a lawn chair watching her walk out I CANNOT.” 📸 “she smirked. he malfunctioned. we all saw it.”

Later that night, back in the familiar chaos of their dorms, the boys were starting to unwind, the adrenaline of the award show slowly dissipating. Everyone, that is, except for Wooyoung.

He was curled up in his bed, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled low over his head, the glow of his phone illuminating his face as he watched your trailer on repeat.

Click.

You walked out of the inferno, the flickering flames casting dramatic shadows across your face, a gun held loosely in one hand, the sharp snap of your heel against the imaginary concrete echoing in his ears.

“Target acquired.”

He exhaled, a long, shaky breath, as if he had indeed glimpsed something divine.

Yeosang cautiously peeked his head around the doorframe. “Are you… okay?”

“She blew up a car. In HEELS.”

“That didn’t exactly answer the question.”

“She’s so cool, guys,” Wooyoung continued, his voice a hushed reverence. “She used to be in all those fluffy romcoms, and now she’s killing people and being sarcastic and walking in slow motion away from explosions. I didn’t know I had a thing for powerful women who could destroy me.”

“Ah,” Seonghwa said, a wide grin spreading across his face. “You’ve fallen. Hard.”

Mingi punctuated the statement by throwing a soft pillow at Wooyoung’s head. “Confess already.”

“I can’t even breathe,” Wooyoung whispered into his blanket, his voice muffled. “She smirked at me. I think I transcended.”

Soon enough The Premiere night descended upon the city like an electric storm, the air crackling with anticipation. Paparazzi, an organized frenzy, lined the velvet ropes like a high-powered firing squad, their flashes a relentless barrage of light. Fans, a roaring wave of adoration, pressed against the barriers, their screams a fervent symphony of excitement. The rapid-fire click of camera shutters punctuated the night, a relentless soundtrack to the unfolding spectacle.

And then, the sleek black car pulled up to the curb, its tinted windows a final veil of mystery. The collective breath of the crowd hitched. The door swung open, and you emerged.

The world seemed to tilt on its axis. The carefully orchestrated chaos outside the theater erupted into pandemonium. Shouts of your name ripped through the air, drowning out everything else.

You were a vision sculpted from darkness and fire. Custom black silk, impossibly fluid, cascaded around you, embroidered with intricate gold threads that seemed to writhe and shimmer like molten lava. The dress, a masterpiece of design, clung to your form as if painted on, a second skin crafted by mythical beings. A dramatic slit revealed a tantalizing glimpse of leg with every step, while the low back hinted at a hidden strength. Your hair, swept up into a sleek, architectural style, framed your sharp features. Gleaming gold ear cuffs, like miniature sculptures, caught the red carpet lights, adding a touch of fierce elegance.

And your expression? Imperturbable. Powerful. The same captivatingly dark femme fatale aura that had sent shockwaves through the internet after the trailer’s release now radiated in person, amplified tenfold. You were a living, breathing myth, a fire-walking siren who had stepped out of the screen and into reality.

Even as you moved, the digital world was reacting in real-time. Edits began to coalesce on social media, capturing your every step, every glance. Tweets poured in, breathless and awestruck.

💬 “This isn’t a premiere. This is a coronation.” 💬 “She didn’t come to slay. She came to rule.” 💬 “Y/N is literally a Bond villainess and the Bond girl at the same time. My brain can’t comprehend.”

But it wasn't just your otherworldly glamour that held the crowd captive. It was the unexpected glimpses of the person beneath the formidable facade.

As you posed for the relentless cameras, a young female staffer behind you stumbled, her simple blouse slipping awkwardly off one shoulder. In a seamless movement, without a flicker of hesitation, you shifted your position, subtly placing yourself between her and the unforgiving lenses. Your head dipped slightly, and those who were close enough saw your lips move, a whispered word of comfort as the flustered staffer quickly adjusted her top, her face flushing with gratitude.

Moments later, as you made your way towards the theater entrance, a small gasp rippled through the nearby fans. A little girl, her bright pink frock a little too long, had tripped, her face crumpling in distress. Without a second thought, you knelt down in your breathtakingly expensive gown, your movements graceful and unhurried. Your long fingers gently smoothed the ruffled fabric of her skirt, and you carefully adjusted the tiny strap of her heel, offering a warm, genuine smile that melted away her tears.

Halfway up the grand staircase leading into the theater, you paused, your sharp eyes catching a minor imperfection. Your co-star, a usually impeccably dressed actor, had a crooked tie. With a playful shake of your head and a soft laugh that carried in the sudden lull of noise, you reached out and straightened it, your touch light but precise. A blush bloomed on his cheeks, making him look endearingly like a teenager caught off guard.

The internet, already teetering on the brink of collapse, finally shattered.

🎥 “She’s gorgeous, graceful, and kind? This woman’s a SIMULATION. There’s no way she’s real.” 🎥 Fan art, vibrant and immediate, flooded Twitter. TikTok edits set to soaring symphonic music, captioned with the simple, powerful words ‘Queen Energy,’ dominated FYPs. 🎥 # Y/NsEra surged to the # 1 trending spot worldwide, a testament to the captivating force you had unleashed.

And somewhere across the sprawling city, within the familiar, slightly chaotic haven of the ATEEZ dorms, Wooyoung was staring at his phone screen as if it had personally delivered a devastating blow.

She was perfect.

She was unreal.

And she had just posted a picture from the premiere – the black and gold dress shimmering under the intense lights, her gaze direct and magnetic, captioned with two stark emojis:

“🖤⚔️ Blood Petals, now streaming.”

He didn’t pause to consider the implications. He didn’t overthink. His fingers moved with a speed born of pure impulse. He just hit ‘follow.’

And three seconds later, in the small, interconnected universe of social media, the world seemed to tilt again.

💬 “WOOYOUNG FOLLOWED Y/N???” 💬 “We have contact. I repeat. We HAVE CONTACT.” 💬 “Not Wooyoung folding on MAIN like this. I’m deceased.”

Even his own group chat, usually a steady stream of memes and inside jokes, erupted into a flurry of panicked messages.

Mingi: BRO San: no way you just followed her like that Hongjoong: bold. very bold. Yeosang: should’ve made a finsta first lmfao Jongho: you’re so obvious it’s painful Wooyoung: leave me alone Seonghwa: she was really pretty though. and nice. and cool. Wooyoung: I KNOW. I KNOW SHE WAS AND SHE IS.

The next morning, the news broke with the quiet confidence of undeniable success. Netflix officially announced that "Blood Petals" had soared to the # 1 movie spot globally. It had cracked the Top 10 in over eighty countries within the first twelve hours of its release. Critics, who had once pigeonholed you, now lauded your performance, praising the stunning cinematography, the visceral choreography, and your terrifyingly captivating grace. Audiences were spellbound by the transformation, the seamless shift from the soft-spoken sweetheart of romantic comedies to the high-heeled harbinger of doom.

Wooyoung became a dedicated disciple of "Blood Petals." He watched it again and again, dissecting every scene, every nuance of your performance.

But it wasn’t just the movie that consumed him.

He delved into the archives of your public appearances, binging interviews where your witty, sarcastic answers were delivered with a playful smirk that sent a shiver of something he couldn’t quite name down his spine. He watched behind-the-scenes footage, charmed by your easy camaraderie with the stunt team, your genuine laughter at your own bloopers.

And then there were the fan edits. Oh, the fan edits. Compilations of your most striking moments – you in slow motion, flipping gleaming knives with deadly precision, a knowing smirk thrown over your shoulder as you walked away from fiery explosions, all set to a soundtrack of haunting melodies or pulse-pounding club beats.

He was whipped.

Fully.

Entirely.

Completely.

Even the sharp-eyed fans, masters of observation and deduction, sensed the shift in the cosmic balance.

💬 “They haven’t even breathed the same air publicly but I just KNOW he’s head over heels in love.” 💬 “He’s fighting for his life in that dorm right now, trying to play it cool but failing spectacularly.”

And they were right. Because even without a single shared glance captured by the cameras, without a single public interaction…

The ship, fueled by a shared smirk and a single, fateful click of a ‘follow’ button, had already irrevocably set sail.

A month had passed since the explosive premiere of "Blood Petals." Your face was plastered across magazine covers, your interviews were dissected frame by frame, and your social media notifications pinged with the relentless energy of a thousand buzzing bees. Your movie reigned supreme, a global phenomenon that solidified your transformation from rom-com darling to action icon. You were booked solid with appearances, endorsements, and talk show circuits.

But through the whirlwind of newfound fame, nothing – and absolutely no one – had managed to truly ruffle your carefully constructed composure. You were a seasoned professional, adept at navigating the chaotic landscape of celebrity.

Until today.

Stepping onto the brightly lit set of a reality show felt different. The studio lights blazed with an almost aggressive intensity, the screams of the live audience were a physical force, and a knot of pure, unadulterated nerves tightened in your stomach, pulling it taut like a drawn bow.

Because today, you were filming with Wooyoung.

Yes. That Wooyoung.

The one who had casually followed you on Instagram weeks ago, triggering an internet meltdown of epic proportions. The one whose award show fancam, capturing his utterly besotted gaze as you presented ATEEZ with their trophy, had inexplicably garnered four million views in a mere seventy-two hours. The one you had, in the quiet corners of your mind, secretly, foolishly, undeniably been crushing on since his debut days.

You’d handled the online frenzy with your usual cool detachment, offering a wry comment here and there, expertly deflecting any direct questions. On the outside, you were the epitome of unbothered grace.

But seeing him in person, sitting across from you at the brightly lit panel table, his fox-like smile radiating genuine warmth, the silver rings on his fingers catching the studio lights, his dark hair artfully messy in a way that somehow only looked perfect on him?

Yeah. Game over. All your carefully constructed walls crumbled like ancient ruins.

“Hi,” he said, his voice a smooth, slightly breathless murmur as you finally settled into your seat. His eyes held a spark of something… intriguing.

“Hey,” you replied, your voice betraying none of the internal chaos, maintaining your signature cool even as your heart rate decided to stage its own private rave.

He leaned in ever so slightly, a conspiratorial air about him. “You look… dangerous.” His gaze flickered over your outfit, a sleek black jumpsuit that hinted at the lethal grace you portrayed on screen.

A familiar smirk tugged at the corner of your lips. “That’s kind of the brand now, isn’t it?” You met his eyes, holding his gaze for a beat longer than strictly necessary.

The show kicked off, a whirlwind of bright lights and enthusiastic energy. Games were played with varying degrees of success, laughter echoed through the studio, and the usual delightful madness of variety television unfolded. You found yourself surprisingly at ease, bantering with the other guests, your sharp wit on full display.

And then, the host, a seasoned entertainer with a mischievous glint in his eye, turned to you mid-segment, a wide grin spreading across his face. He thrived on creating memorable moments, and the palpable energy between you and Wooyoung hadn’t escaped his notice.

“So, Y/N,” he began, his voice laced with playful curiosity, “people were absolutely obsessed with your bike scenes in Blood Petals. The way you handled that motorcycle in those incredible heels… Do you think you could still ride in heels in real life?”

Without missing a beat, you smoothly crossed your long legs, the movement drawing attention to the very heels in question – a pair of impossibly high stilettos. You casually flicked a loose strand of hair over your shoulder, your gaze steady. “Of course. I could ride in stilettos if I had to. Though I might prefer a slightly more… aerodynamic model than what I usually wear to premieres.”

The audience erupted in cheers and whistles, thoroughly enjoying your confident response.

But the host wasn’t finished stirring the pot. He clapped his hands together dramatically, his eyes twinkling. “Amazing! Absolutely amazing! Well, we have a bike right here on set for our next segment… Anyone here wanna volunteer to ride behind our action queen and, you know, test out her skills?” He punctuated the question with a wink at the camera, clearly intending it as a lighthearted joke. The cast members chuckled, anticipating the usual playful refusals.

Except for one person.

“Yes.”

Wooyoung’s voice cut through the laughter, clear and unwavering. He didn’t even blink, his expression utterly serious, calm, and brimming with a quiet confidence that sent a fresh wave of unexpected butterflies fluttering in your stomach.

The entire room seemed to freeze mid-breath. The camera zoomed in on the audience, capturing their collective gasp of shock and burgeoning excitement. Screams started to bubble up from the fans, a sound that was rapidly escalating into something bordering on feral. The other cast members exchanged bewildered glances, some wheezing with suppressed laughter, the staff members behind the cameras cackling with glee at the unexpected turn of events.

And you?

You turned your head slowly, deliberately, to look directly at him. His gaze was intense, a playful fire dancing in his dark eyes. He was smiling at you like the damn devil himself, an irresistible invitation in his expression.

So, of course, you said, your voice a low, challenging purr, “Let’s ride.”

The live segment instantly became legend.

A sleek, black motorcycle was wheeled onto the stage, gleaming under the studio lights. You swung your leg over it with an effortless grace that suggested you had indeed been born on two wheels, the sharp click of your stilettos against the pedals echoing in the sudden hush. Wooyoung hesitated for a split second – just enough to play it off as a moment of playful apprehension – before swinging his own leg over and sliding in behind you, his movements surprisingly fluid.

His hands hovered awkwardly in the air behind you, a palpable tension radiating from him.

“Is it okay if I—?” he started, his voice a hesitant murmur.

“Yes,” you said, cutting him off before he could even finish the question, a hint of amusement lacing your tone.

His hands settled on your waist, lightly at first, his fingers brushing against the fabric of your jumpsuit. Then, as the camera zoomed in for a close-up, his grip tightened subtly, a silent acknowledgment of the close proximity. His breath warmed the shell of your ear as he spoke, his voice a low rumble.

“You sure you’re good?”

“You’ve asked me ten times,” you said, a teasing lilt in your voice. “You nervous?”

“Just trying not to pass out,” he muttered, the words barely audible.

You pretended not to hear the slightly flustered admission, but the knowing smirk playing on your lips said otherwise.

The internet, predictably, imploded. Again.

💬 “The chemistry is NOT just acting. I refuse to believe this is just for the show.” 💬 “They’re touching like it’s a first date AND their third date at the same time. The awkwardness is endearing and the underlying tension is… palpable.” 💬 “Someone check on Wooyoung’s blood pressure. I think it just spiked into the stratosphere.”

After the exhilarating chaos of the live broadcast, as you finally had a moment to yourself, you opened Instagram. Your fingers hovered over his profile for a fleeting second before you made the decision.

And finally – finally – you tapped the ‘follow’ button.

Within mere seconds, the eagle-eyed fans noticed the digital acknowledgment. The news spread like wildfire.

💬 “Y/N FOLLOWED HIM BACK. WE’RE WITNESSING HISTORY UNFOLD BEFORE OUR VERY EYES.” 💬 “This isn’t just a ship anymore. It’s a luxury yacht sailing through international waters.” 💬 “They’re gonna get married and I can FEEL IT in my bones. Save the date!”

Meanwhile, back at the ATEEZ dorm, the atmosphere was one of bewildered amusement.

Mingi burst into the living room with theatrical flair, phone clutched dramatically in his hand. “YOU SAID YES ON LIVE TV?! TO RIDING BEHIND HER?! ON A MOTORCYCLE?!”

Yunho followed, shaking his head in disbelief, a wide, slightly incredulous grin on his face. “You looked like you were about to propose on that bike, hyung.”

Wooyoung simply shrugged, a goofy, lovesick grin plastered across his face – the grin of a man who was clearly, irrevocably, way too far gone. “I meant it.”

Mingi and Yunho groaned in perfect unison, collapsing onto the nearby couch.

“You’re down bad,” Mingi declared with mock solemnity.

“Embarrassing,” Yunho added, though the teasing tone lacked any real bite.

Wooyoung just flopped back onto the cushions, his phone already displaying a rapidly growing collection of fan edits from the show – snippets of your confident smile, his awestruck gaze, the charged moment on the motorcycle.

And he smiled, a soft, genuine expression that reached his eyes.

“Yeah,” he murmured, his voice laced with a quiet contentment. “I know.”

It starts the night after the variety show.

Your phone buzzes at 1:12 a.m. with a DM request.

Wooyoung.

You open it without hesitation.

@ wooyoung_official Hey… I hope this isn’t weird or too much but I just wanted to say I had so much fun filming today. I meant what I said about the bike thing, by the way. You were incredible. If I came off too strong, I’m sorry—I was just really nervous and trying not to make it obvious I’ve been a fan of yours forever lol. You’re insanely talented. And hilarious. And kind. I don’t usually DM people like this but… I didn’t want the day to end without saying thank you. Hope I wasn’t too much.

You stare at the screen, heart thudding. Not just because it’s sweet. But because it's real.

You reply faster than you probably should.

@ you That wasn’t too much at all. I had a great time too :) I’m glad it was you behind me on that bike. And if you were nervous, you hid it well. We should do that again sometime. (Maybe without the cameras.)

There’s a pause. Then another ping.

@ wooyoung_official …wait was that flirting Are we flirting now Because I’m ready

You laugh, then send your number as he had sent his.

From that moment, it takes off.

Texting every day. Morning check-ins. Late-night venting. Voice notes filled with sleepy laughter and dramatic reenactments of chaotic schedules.

You send each other memes, inside jokes forming faster than you can keep track.

He tells you about the stress of comeback season, the pressure to stay sharp, the ache in his bones from back-to-back rehearsals.

You talk about the constant need to be “on,” the way you sometimes feel like a product instead of a person, the weight of comments that cut deeper than they should.

And through it all, Wooyoung listens. Never tries to fix you. Just sees you.

And hypes you—loudly.

When you land another guesting on a show with him, fans immediately clock the shift.

The way he looks at you when you speak. The inside jokes mid-interview. The not-so-subtle way his hand brushes yours during games.

Clips go viral.

💬 “They’re literally in their own world.” 💬 “Why does Wooyoung look at her like that 😭😭” 💬 “Not him fixing her mic like a boyfriend.” 💬 “HE SAID SHE DESERVES TEN OSCARS??? GET HIM A RING.”

It gets worse (or better?) when he starts defending you online.

Any hate comment?

Deleted.

Any fan shading your acting?

He’s replying with full essays about your talent and work ethic.

He comments under your posts with things like:

💬 Queen behavior. 💬 She acts, she slays, she saves lives. 💬 Where’s your award? No seriously. 💬 No one’s touching her. I mean that.

And when you text him—

💬 you You really don’t have to defend me like that all the time, you know. 💬 wooyoung Yes, I do. You deserve someone who shows up for you. Always. I want to be that.

One night, after a long shoot, you break a little.

You text: “Some days I feel like I’ll never be enough no matter how hard I work.”

His reply comes thirty seconds later.

You don’t have to earn the right to rest. You’re enough just as you are. And I know this world is loud and cruel sometimes. But when you need quiet? I’ll be your quiet. When you need noise? I’ll be your loudest.

You cry.

And when he sends a sleepy voice note later saying:

“Just wanted you to hear my voice. In case it helps.”

—you fall asleep smiling.

One year. Three hundred and sixty-five days of whispered messages that painted the dawn, late-night phone calls that chased away the shadows, stolen secret coffee runs in disguise, the comforting rhythm of shared playlists weaving through your days, matching hoodies bought on a whim and worn in the privacy of your own spaces, a silent testament to a connection only you two understood.

You and Wooyoung had cultivated a world just for yourselves, a sanctuary built on stolen moments and shared laughter. It wasn't about hiding from the relentless glare of the public eye, though that was a necessary byproduct. It was about cherishing something precious, something untouched by the often-brutal scrutiny of public opinion. It was yours, and his, and belonged to no one else.

He had become your unwavering safe place, the calm in your often-turbulent storm. You, in turn, had become his soft landing, the quiet reassurance in the demanding world he navigated. You had shared everything – your fears, your triumphs, your silliest jokes, your deepest vulnerabilities.

Except for this.

Your next movie. A project shrouded in secrecy, filmed during snatched moments over the past six months. A bold, breathtaking action-romance that promised to redefine your range, where you played the lead opposite a talented rising actor. And yes – there were intimate scenes. A handful. Tastefully shot, with a closed set and an intimacy coordinator ensuring everyone felt safe and respected. Carefully choreographed, like any other dance sequence.

Necessary for the story, your director had emphasized, his artistic vision unwavering. And executed with professionalism and respect, you knew. You believed in the script, in the message it conveyed. You loved the complexity of your character. You just hadn’t… told him.

You had envisioned it as a surprise, a new facet of your artistry to share when the time was right, perhaps at the official trailer drop. But when the first press article landed, its headline screaming the word “intimate” in bold, accusatory letters… it wasn’t the carefully curated reveal you had planned.

Your phone began to vibrate incessantly, a relentless buzzing that echoed the growing unease within you. Notifications flooded your screen – concerned messages from your team, speculative comments from fans, and then, his name flashed across the display.

💬 Wooyoung: Can we meet? Just us. Please.

The café was a hidden gem, tucked away on a quiet, tree-lined street in the familiar bustle of Mapo-gu. The early afternoon crowd was sparse, mostly locals lost in their own conversations. No one paid you a second glance as you slipped inside. He was already there, seated in your usual corner booth, the familiar soft grey of his hoodie pulled low, the brim of his black cap shadowing his usually bright eyes.

As you slid into the booth opposite him, he looked up, and a sharp pang of something akin to guilt and worry twisted in your chest. He wasn't angry, not outwardly. But an almost palpable anxiety clung to him, a restless energy that made him seem smaller, more vulnerable than you had ever seen him. It was as if something was crawling under his skin, an invisible itch he couldn’t quite scratch.

"Hey," you said softly, your voice a gentle anchor in the tense atmosphere.

"Hey." He offered you a tight, strained smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. Then he exhaled sharply, the sound filled with a nervous energy. "I—I'm sorry. I shouldn't have dragged you out like this, I just… I couldn't keep it in. Not for another second."

Without a word, you reached across the small table, your hand finding his. His fingers curled around yours instantly, his grip surprisingly tight, as if he needed the physical connection to ground him. He took another shaky breath before the words finally tumbled out, quick, nervous, raw with vulnerability.

"I trust you. You know that, right? God, you have to know that. I trust you more than anyone I've ever met. But when I saw those articles, the way they were talking about it, the… the emphasis on those scenes… I—I just panicked. My head went somewhere I didn't want it to go. I know it's acting. I know it's your job, your art. But I couldn't stop imagining it, replaying scenarios in my head. I hate that I felt this wave of… of jealousy. It's so stupid. I hate that my brain spiraled like that. I just—God."

He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He looked down at your intertwined hands, his thumb tracing small, agitated circles on your skin.

"I think… I think I love you so much it scares me sometimes. It makes me… irrational. I don't ever want to be the guy who tells you what to do, what roles to take, what not to film. That's not who I am. But I'd be lying if I said it didn't make this awful knot form in my stomach, like I was losing you. Or worse… that I didn't deserve you, that someone else… someone else would see that side of you, that intimacy, and… and that I wouldn't be enough."

Your own chest tightened, a wave of empathy washing over you. You understood his vulnerability, the quiet insecurities that even his bright stage presence couldn’t always mask.

Without a word, you slid out of your seat, moved around the small table, and knelt down in front of him, your knees pressing gently against the worn wooden floor. You reached up, your hands framing his face, your thumbs gently stroking his cheekbones.

"Wooyoung," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. "You're allowed to feel all of that. Every single bit of it. You're not wrong for being scared, for letting your mind wander. It just proves how much you care. But you're not losing me. You've never even come close."

His dark eyes darted across your face, searching, questioning, glassy with unshed tears that made his eyelashes look impossibly long. “I just… it’s just that the way they wrote about it…”

"I love you." You leaned forward, pressing your forehead against his, the contact a silent reassurance. "I love you. Jung Wooyoung. Not anyone else. Not any character I play. Not any co-star I share a scene with. Just you. Always you."

He blinked slowly, a single tear escaping and tracing a path down his cheek. “You… you do?” The question was barely a whisper, filled with a mixture of disbelief and a fragile hope.

"I have for a long time," you confessed, your voice soft but firm.

Then you kissed him.

It was a tender kiss, slow and deliberate, a silent language of reassurance and unwavering affection. It deepened gradually, becoming a heartfelt expression of everything you had ever wanted to say, everything that words often failed to capture. His hands, which had been gripping yours so tightly, now moved to your waist, pulling you closer, his own lips finally responding with a fervor that spoke volumes of the restraint he had been holding onto.

You broke apart just enough to breathe, your lips still brushing against his.

"The scenes in the movie?" you said gently, your gaze unwavering. "They're choreography, Wooyoung. They're storytelling. They're a performance. Not emotion. That has never, and will never, be a part of what I feel for you."

You pressed a soft kiss against his jawline, feeling the slight tremor beneath your lips.

"My heart doesn't perform for a camera. It beats for you, and only you."

You stood, taking his hand, your fingers lacing together as if they were meant to be intertwined. You left the quiet café hand in hand, two figures melting into the anonymity of the afternoon shadows, a shared smile gracing your lips – the quiet, knowing smile of two people who had just reaffirmed something precious and unbreakable.

And maybe you had stolen something from the universe. The unwavering certainty of each other's love, a bond forged in vulnerability and trust. And that, you knew, was a treasure beyond measure.

Two years. Seven hundred and thirty sunrises witnessed through sleepy eyes, countless whispered "goodnights" across continents, an immeasurable tapestry woven from secret smiles exchanged across crowded rooms, stolen moments tucked away from prying eyes, phone calls that stretched into the velvet depths of midnight, sharing the quiet anxieties and exhilarating triumphs that came with navigating your extraordinary lives. It was about fiercely protecting something real, something fragile and precious, in a world that seemed determined to twist every genuine connection into a sensational headline.

But love, as it often did, bloomed in the quiet spaces, making you both a little braver, a little more willing to step out of the carefully constructed shadows.

So there was no dramatic announcement, no carefully worded statement released through official channels. No grand, orchestrated gesture, no notes app apology for… well, for simply finding happiness. Instead, you both eased into the public acknowledgment of your relationship with the same gentle tenderness that defined your private world—slowly, softly, like the first blush of dawn.

A seemingly innocuous selfie, posted amidst a flurry of solo shots, where a familiar black jacket was just-so-casually draped over your shoulders. A behind-the-scenes video from a shoot where a distinct, joyful laugh echoed in the background, a laugh that sharp-eared fans instantly recognized. A fleeting glimpse of a hand, undeniably his, resting near yours in a group photo.

The fans, those astute observers of every pixel and every shared glance, already knew. They had suspected, theorized, and meticulously documented every potential clue for months. Edits set to romantic ballads, intricate timelines of your subtle interactions, and countless “I swear they’re secretly dating” comments had flooded every corner of the internet you both inhabited.

So when it finally became “official”—just a casual, almost offhand, "yes, we’re together, and we’re really happy" during a lighthearted interview about your recent projects—the internet didn't explode in scandal. Instead, it melted with an outpouring of genuine joy and heartfelt congratulations. It wasn't a shocking revelation; it was a confirmation of something beautiful that they had already sensed. It was a celebration of a connection that felt real, honest, and earned.

And Wooyoung? He never stopped being your biggest fan, his unwavering support now blossoming into something even more profound. Every post you shared, no matter how trivial, received his immediate like, a digital affirmation that always brought a small smile to your face. Every press junket, every interview you gave, he watched with an almost reverent pride. Every stray negative comment, every whisper of doubt from the darker corners of the internet, he seemed to drown out with an even louder, more radiant display of his affection.

You weren’t just a fleeting “celebrity crush” in his eyes anymore. You were his. His partner, his confidante, his equal. His favorite person in a world filled with dazzling lights and fleeting connections.

And he was yours. The steady anchor in your often-turbulent sea, the warm hand that always found yours in a crowded room, the comforting voice that whispered reassurances in the quiet hours.

The premiere night of your latest film was, as always, a dazzling spectacle. The relentless flash of cameras, the chorus of voices calling your name, the crimson carpet stretching out like a runway leading into the starlit sky. You stood tall, radiating confidence in a gown of rich crimson velvet that seemed to absorb and reflect the light, your poise a silent testament to the journey you had navigated.

Wooyoung didn't walk beside you, his arm linked with yours for the cameras. That wasn't your story. But he was there, a steadfast presence tucked away in the guest section, the hood of his jacket pulled up, the brim of his baseball cap low, his gaze fixed on you with an intensity that made you feel like you held the very moon in your hands.

Every time your eyes met his across the crowded theater, a fleeting, private moment amidst the public frenzy, your smile softened, a genuine warmth spreading through you that had nothing to do with the flashing lights.

Later, as the buzz of the after-party began to fade, the air thick with congratulations and champagne bubbles, the two of you slipped away unnoticed, seeking the quiet solitude of a rooftop overlooking the sprawling cityscape.

The city hummed below, a symphony of distant traffic lights flickering like fallen stars, the faint wail of sirens a melancholic counterpoint to the gentle breeze that kissed your skin. You leaned against the cool metal railing, the vastness of the night sky stretching above you. He stepped up behind you, his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you close until your back rested against his chest, his chin finding the curve of your shoulder.

"You killed it tonight," he murmured into your hair, his breath warm against your ear.

You turned in his embrace, your hands finding his. “You always say that.”

He smiled, a soft, genuine curve of his lips that you knew so well. "Because it’s always true. You shine so brightly, you know that?"

A comfortable silence settled between you, the city lights twinkling like a silent audience. The air tasted like something sacred, a shared moment of quiet intimacy amidst the surrounding chaos.

“I don’t want to lose this,” you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper, the vulnerability of the past two years momentarily surfacing.

His grip tightened gently on your hands. “You won’t,” he replied, his voice firm, filled with a quiet conviction. “Not if we keep choosing each other, every single day. Not if we keep protecting this, our own little world.”

You nodded, a small, understanding smile gracing your lips. You leaned forward, resting your forehead against his, the familiar scent of his cologne a comforting balm.

And in that quiet space, between the distant hum of the city and the steady rhythm of your heartbeats, you both silently reaffirmed the promise you had made to each other long ago – to never let the relentless demands of the world, the intrusive glare of fame, the insidious tendrils of fear and doubt, or the deafening noise of public opinion come between the fragile, beautiful thing you had built.

The next morning, as the world began to stir, a blurry, zoomed-in shot surfaced on Twitter, quickly going viral. It was an imperfect capture of a perfect moment. You were laughing, your hand playfully covering your mouth, your head tilted towards Wooyoung, who stood close beside you, his hand gently, possessively, holding yours. The background was indistinct, the focus soft, but the emotion captured in that single frame was undeniable.

The caption, simple and heartfelt, resonated with millions:

“When your celeb crush becomes your person.”

And just like that, the world kept spinning, the endless cycle of news and gossip continuing its relentless churn. But for once, it felt like the universe was tilting ever so slightly in your favor, bathing your quiet, hard-won happiness in a warm, gentle light.

-- THE END

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bl4ckdevl · 14 days ago

Text

Emotions / Feelings

hyper-attentive. observes human behavior with eerie precision, but emotionally represses his own to ensure his survival.

self-deprecating underneath the mask of narcissism—his vanity is armor, not pride.

suffers from survivor’s guilt and unprocessed bereavement—especially due to his mother's abandonment.

emotionally fragmented. romanticizes loyalty, casts shields of delusion that see him absolved of blame, but fears true intimacy.

passionate but broken up into puzzle pieces. flashes of tenderness drowned in compulsive detachment.

shackled to a cyclical identity loop: soldier, tool, monster, man.

fatalist. Believes some people were made to be ruined. sometimes he thinks he is one of them.

finds comfort in control, and even deeper comfort in relinquishing it—but only to those he trusts he can take it back from at his leisure.

COLORS

Pale Gold (#ac7c59): glamour, vanity, artificial warmth. a manufactured charm he weaponizes.

Rusted Crimson (#4b2428): Internalized violence. blood he can’t wash off. the past that pulses beneath his skin.

White Silver (#7c7d72): mirror-like reflectiveness. cold intellect. clinical detachment.

Gunmetal (#404040): the steel discipline of his military conditioning. a soldier’s heartbeat.

Black (#000000): identity lost and found again in the refuge of the shadows. blank spaces. endless devastation.

Scents

burberry hero. smoky cedarwood, warm spices, pine. masculine, but not aggressive, for it's like a crisp autumn coat worn by someone who loves presenting a good mystery. it exudes a stormy mystique from his tailored clothing.

versace eros: green apple, tonka bean, vanilla, mint. a seductive, explosive power. divine danger all around. it's like a scent of a woman whose kiss you don't trust. and that's exactly why you keep chasing it.

the lip balm that tastes like beeswax and nicotine on a partner's mouth.

dried blood beneath fingernails, metallic tang he never quite forgets. charred meat, but it's wrong—it's too sweet, too pungent. like pork left in the sun too long, leaving it to bloat and become s ticky. it sours fast, you practically taste its sweet rot. you know its human.

hospital antiseptic and cold steel tables.

cordite smoke and burned ozone—gunfire aftermath. the acidic singe that cuts through the nostrils like a heated razor, followed by a cough full of fresh human ash and gut-wrenching fermentation, a foul ordeal that lays parasitic eggs in your memory. you'll never be able to escape it.

military-issued soap. strips everything down to skin and scars.

aftershave that doesn’t belong to him anymore, bought during better years.

cracked leather, gun oil, and scorched concrete.

CLOTHING

always tailored, always high-end name brands. even casual looks are calculated armor with big names attached to the fashion.

expensive coats with warmth he doesn’t feel. fancy leather dress shoes that never get scuffed.

military dog tags tucked away, never removed. mever fully worn either. military boots when he's training personnel.

scarves in winter. not for style—he hates how people stare at his face.

a different assortment of masks, never being able to guess the mood of the menace it hides.

hidden kevlar under civilian fabrics. he doesn’t trust peace to be permanent.

OBJECTS

a straight razor and hidden blade. not for shaving or cutting tomatoes for a caesar salad.

a small collection of sculpting knives. the kind that can shape or destroy.

medals that make him a decorated soldier, unsentimental but never discarded.

porcelain mask shards. he doesn’t keep them intentionally. they stay.

Vices / Bad Habits

weaponized charm.emotional manipulation dressed as intimacy.

hypervigilance. sees threats even in compliments. especially in kindness.

obsessive about symmetry. disfigurement fuels a compulsion to “correct” things.

keeps secrets like loaded guns.

tendency to romanticize violence in others when he recognizes his own shadow in them.

capable of brutal honesty, but prefers psychological implication.

shame-stained sexuality. sex and pain were introduced to him in the same breath.

idealizes suffering. finds meaning in trauma, even when it erases him.

Body Language

posture like a soldier at rest—never truly at ease.

smile like a blade tucked beneath a napkin.

tilts his head when amused or disarmed—often to disarm others.

touch-averse, unless he’s in control of the context.

if he allows proximity, he’s watching for your pulse before you know you’re bleeding.

neck and jaw tension telegraph emotional restraint.

the absence of blinking is intentional.

Aesthetics

rooftop vistas of manhattan at midnight. blood of family and foes still drying under moonlight.

burned-out orphanage windows. the ghosts don’t look like ghosts—they look like him.

surveillance tape grain over a therapist’s office. her voice. his paranoia captured and laid bare.

a memory of soft knuckles brushing a jaw once perfect. now marred beyond his own recognition.

3AM subway platforms. eyes darting. Dogs barking in the distance.

leather stretched over bone. velvet that feels like a wound. the taste of a confession unsaid.

tagged by: no one. old meme stolen from myself.

tagging: @sangiusd3vil @owestwind @citizenstarlight @castlevowed @contritioned @waruins @mythdoomed @metroeden @jur1sdr @personaei @injestigate @tornp4ge @dye127 @anarkissm @fightfected @all5horizons @wid0wd

#lamb identities / headcanons.

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kindersurprisebacterium · 2 months ago

Text

Betrothed (Soap/Reader)

CW: arranged marriage, victorian, churches, virginity, cunnilingus, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, unprotected sex (it’s the 1800s, deal with it), reader wears a wedding dress

Gender Neutral AFAB Reader, They/Them Used

WC: 4.1k

Writing this at work, forgive any formatting errors

Read on AO3

A soft knock echoed through the small farm house. Rushing to my feet, I ran to the top of the stairwell. My dress pooled around my legs as I crouched. A sliver of light slowly widened as my mother pulled open the front door.

I narrowed my eyes, trying to catch a glimpse of the man at the doorstep. Just barely visible over my mothers shoulder was his broad frame. The hardwood floors creaked beneath me as I moved closer to get a better look. If I had no say in this matter, I at least wanted to know what the man looked like.

He was handsome, canines glinting in the sunlight as he smirked. He wore a belted kilt, the deep blue tartan falling around his waist. In his clenched hand was a thick rope. The goat at his side bleated, jaw moving as it chewed on its cud. In his other hand was a satchel full of bank notes.

“The dowry,” he said, holding out the satchel. My mother took the leather pouch in her hands, gently pulling it open to peer at the bills inside. A soft hum rose from her throat. Nodding, she set the satchel aside.

“You can take the nanny to the pasture,” my mother held out a finger, pointing to the tattered fence.

Only for a moment did I catch a glimpse of those cerulean irises as they swept across the sparsely decorated parlor. His smile widened. Heat rushed to my cheeks as he waved. I stumbled to my feet, dashing into my bedroom. Squeezing my eyes shut, I took in slow breaths in a meager attempt to still my racing heart.

“Skittish thing, aren’t they?”

“Ow!” I hissed, bringing my gloved palms to my ribs. The corset smothering my chest dug into my skin, sending jolts of sharp pain down my stomach. Turning over my shoulder, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I looked artificial, manufactured, like a China doll. Every blemish on my skin was painted over, and a thick layer of blush was added to ‘liven me up’

I felt like nothing more than an item for purchase. At the cost of just seven hundred pounds and a goat, I was to be bought and sold to this man whom I didn’t know.

I would’ve never chosen this dress, or the tartan draped around my shoulders. I scrunched my nose at the unfamiliar pattern, shaking away the feelings within my bound chest.

This navy cloth was more than just an adornment. It was a reminder of my identity being stripped, myself being dissolved into the clan of this stranger. I wonder if the satchel of currency was worth it. The cost of my dignity seemed meager now in comparison to the rest of my life.

“Your laird is waiting.”

Sighing a pained breath, I stepped forward, fingertips toying with the laces of my corset. Without a word, my mother grabbed me by the bicep, walking beside me. Nausea pooled in my stomach as we turned into the corridor. The soft chatter of the guests seeped through the stone walls.

My hands trembled, fingers quaking as I clasped my hands together. The chapel doors were propped open. Streaks of colored light hit the tile floor. Taking in a shaky breath, the two of us turned into the chapel.

The organ whirred to life, a hymn rising out of the pipes. The antiquated mahogany pews creaked as the guests stood.

“Right foot first,” my mother whispered under her breath. Her nails dug into my skin, sure to leave behind angry red marks. I took a step forward, straightening my posture. Shoulders back, and chin up, just as my mother had told me.

Even though they wouldn’t be seen underneath my dress, I wore heeled shoes. My gate was unsteady, ankles threatening to roll under the strain.

My gaze landed on my soon-to-be husband. His tailored jacket complimented the tartan hanging from his waist. A small leather sporran was belted to the center of his kilt.

I kept my head held high, pursing my lips into a thin line as I slowly traveled up the aisle. Nearly two dozen eyes were upon me. My pulse pounded in my ears, pumping hot blood through my limbs. With a shaky step forward, I left my mothers side, rising to the altar beside my betrothed.

The man reached out, wrapping his fingers around my own. I glanced down at his hands, calloused and rugged from seasons of tending his ranch. His thumb stroked the back of my hand softly.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this company, to join together these two children of god in holy matrimony.”

My ears began to ring. I could feel sweat begin to ooze from my pores as the priest began his sermon. I took in a shaky breath, my hands trembling in his grasp. He squeezed my fingers, pulling my gaze up to him. He stared down at me with his bright cerulean eyes, plush lips curling into a gentle smile.

The droning words and formalities left my mind as my gaze locked with his. Pressure left my chest, my shoulders dropping as I exhaled my anxieties.

“Into this holy estate these two persons present come now to be joined,” the priest closed his book, looking up at the small gathering of people before the altar.

I glanced out at the audience before us. My mother narrowed her eyes, arms crossed firmly over her chest. She tapped her foot against the tile, soft clinking echoing throughout the chapel. The rows of seats behind her sat empty.

across the aisle was a more vibrant gathering of people. Sets of blue eyes landed on me, grins flashing as they watched the display before them. The party was dressed in tartans resembling that of the man before me. Clasped in their hands were bags of rice.

It was an odd display, one that lacked any sincerity. Despite the arrangement, my fiancé reached out, fingers gently turning my head.

“Wilt thou have this Man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony?” The priest stated at me with wide eyes, fingers tapping the altar, “Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”

Swallowing down my nausea, I nodded. “I do.”

The priest gestured to the two of us, handing us a delicately braided cord, adorned with hand embroidered emblems that matched the adornments on his sporran. The man took the rope, draping the tassels over our wrists. I watched as he took one end, glancing at me. I took the other end between my fingers, joining with his own and making a loose knot.

“With this cord I thee wed, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow: In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

The room erupted in unison with cheers and applause. His calloused palm cradled my cheek. Almost instinctively, I leaned into his touch. He stepped down from the altar, tugging me forward.

Rice landed in our hair as the group before us scattered handfuls. The man looked back at me, a wide grin on his face. He nodded toward the wide mahogany doors at the end of the aisle. I gripped the layers of tulle and lace around my hips, pulling my dress over my ankles and following behind him.

He pushed the doors open. The afternoon sunlight shined down on us as we rushed down the stairs. A stallion, adorned in handcrafted leather reigns, stood before us. I watched as my husband swung a leg over the horse before reaching out to me. The cord fell from our wrists, gasping, I gathered the cord, holding it tightly in my hand.

With a soft grunt he pulled me onto the horse. Heat rushed to my face as I marveled at his sheer strength. It didn’t show through his coat jacket, but I was sure he was hiding toned muscle underneath the layers of fabric.

I wrapped my arms around his waist, leaning my body against his. The horse shoes clicked against the pavement as we rode off down the street. I rested my cheek against his wool coat, my gaze skimming across the rolling green hills.

“M’ ranch ‘s just o’er the hills.” He said.

Humming, I rested my chin on his shoulder, glancing at the dirt road ahead. We slowly approached a wooded area, thick canopies casting shadows on the path. He was still smiling, blue eyes fixated on the ground before us.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“John,” he said, glancing back at me over his broad shoulder. I nodded, repeating the syllable in my head. My husband John. John my betrothed. A biblical name.

I took in the way my arms effortlessly wrapped around his waist. The way my chest pressed against his back. How my cheek felt against his coat. For something as impersonal as an arraigned mairrage, it felt like two puzzle pieces slotting together.

He hummed a hymn under his breath as he tightened his grip on the reins. The horse whinnied, shaking its head as we turned down another path. I narrowed my eyes, looking at the pastures ahead.

Neatly painted fences stretched along the hillside. A heard of cows stood in the tall grass, tails wagging as they picked at the foliage below their feet. Further down the path was a small cottage, much more quaint than I’d expect from a man of his class. Sheep bleated, drawing my attention to the other pen. A lone herding dog sat beside the fence line, panting in the hot summer air.

He swung his leg back over the stallion, guiding the horse to the stables with his hand still firmly on the reign.

“C’mon, down ye go,” he gestured with his hand. I glanced at the ground beneath me, pursing my lips together. My mouth went dry, legs shaking as I attempted to dismount.

John laughed, chest heaving as the sound bellowed from his belly. My lips curled down into a frown, fists gripping my skirt tight. His fingers wrapped around my wrist, pulling me off the horse. I yelped, grabbing at his coat as he pulled me into his chest. My feet kicked in the air, only to meet the firm earth beneath me.

“Promise I’ll ne’er be rough wit ye ‘gain after tha’” he gave my hip a soft pat before letting go of my waist. “N’less ye ask me to.”

I glanced away, hiding the blush that surely rose to my cheeks. I watched in my peripherals as he led the stallion to the stables. The silver hardware clinked as he hung the reigns up on the wall.

He brushed the dust from his hands, turning on his heel to face me again. A crooked smile spread across his face as he took in my expression. He took a step forward, his hand resting on my hip.

“Dinnae tell me yer shy.” His palm fit so perfectly on my hip, fingers toying with the tulle beneath his grasp.

“I’m sorry.”

“Dinnae ‘polagize,” he shook his head, his plump lips pouting. “C’mon. Let’s get ya inside. Yer stiff as a board.” He stepped forward, tugging me into his side.

My heart quickened as the smell of his cologne wafted over my senses. Panicked thoughts wrapped around my mind. My mothers words echoed in my head. A warning of sorts.

I gripped the thick fabric of my skirt. Nausea pooled in my stomach. Was this supposed to hurt? Consummating the marriage? If this was really my duty as a spouse, why was I to be forced into it.

His house was modest for someone of his class. Fresh crops sat on the drying rack beside the sink. The table was neatly set with plaid placemats and delicately carved silverware. My gaze drifted across the dining room, to the room just ahead. The curtains were still drawn, the only light being a small oil lamp.

He led me inside. I watched in the mirror as he stood behind me, fingers toying with the laces of my corset. I stiffened as the boning began to loosen around my chest.

I sighed when his stubble brushed against my shoulder. His lips were chapped as they pressed soft kisses against my skin. His calloused palms skated up my sides, fiddling with the hooks at the front of the garment.

“Is this okay?” He asked, pulling apart the fabric.

“Is this going to hurt?” I asked, my lip quivering. The mahogany planks beneath our feet creaked as he circled me. He reached out, gently cradling my face in his hands. I draped my own over his wrists. His heated breath wafted over my skin.

“Promise I’ won’,” his cerulean eyes dipped to my parted lips. “I’ll make ye feel s’ good.”

I let my eyelids flutter closed, taking in the rich sandalwood scent of his cologne. The warmth of his palms seemed to melt into my skin. Each breath he exhaled I drew in, soaking in the faint trace of tobacco on his breath.

“D’ye trust me?” He asked. Pursing my lips together, I nodded.

He continued undoing the latches at the front of my corset, fingers skillfully toying with the hardware. With a soft thud, the fabric fell to the floor. I drew in a deep breath, my ribs painfully expanding for the first time in hours.

“I’d never make y’ wear one of ‘em bloody things.” He huffed, fiddling with the thick ribbon around my waist. I leaned into his chest, nuzzling my face into his dress shirt as he toyed with my skirt. The layers of tulle slid down my thighs, dropping to the floor.

I felt his fingers skid across the sleeve of my chemise. Pulling back, I grasped his wrist.

“I don’t know if I can…” the words failed to fall from my tongue. His fingers gently wrapped around my wrist. I watched as he pulled my hands to his chest. My fingertips brushed against his suit jacket. Taking the lead, I pinched the fabric between my fingers and eased it over his shoulders.

I could feel his toned muscles beneath the thin dress shirt. With every little movement, they shifted beneath my touch. I dragged my fingers down his collarbones until i reached the top button of his shirt. With shaky fingers, I pulled at the fabric, only for it to slip beneath my grasp. I drew in a breath, pinching the fabric with my nails.

A deep laugh bellowed from his chest. He draped his hands over mine, skillfully undoing the buttons. I took in every inch of bare skin. My fingertips traced along the dark curls that adorned his chest.

He was left in just his kilt and his shoes. Heat rushed to my face as a deep rosy blush settled on my cheeks. He took my hand in his, stepping back toward the bed.

The mattress squeaked underneath my weight as I sat on the edge of the bed. John sank to his knees before me, staring up at me through his thick eyelashes. With a soft clink he undid the buckles of my heels, gently pulling the leather off of my feet. He pressed a kiss to my calve, slowly traveling up to my thighs.

My stomach fluttered as he reached higher and higher, kissing over my hipbones and my stomach before reaching my neck. His thick rubber soles thudded as he kicked them from his feet.

Heat pooled in my core, growing hotter and hotter as he rolled his hips against my own. I could feel something stiff poking my thigh with every rut forward. A soft noise fell from my lips involuntarily. Furrowing my brows, I pursed my lips in a vain attempt to quiet my bubbling nerves.

His fingers dipped beneath my thin chemise, lifting the fabric up over my stomach. I whined as he pushed the fabric over my chest. His pupils dilated, turning his cerulean irises into a deep navy. I lifted my arms, pulling the bunched up fabric from my shoulders.

His fingertips dipped beneath the hem of my knickers. I gripped the duvet, glancing down at his hands. He slowly tugged the fabric over my hips and down my thighs. He let the fabric fall to the floor, palms soothing over my calves.

“Spread your legs f’ me,” he mumbled, pressing a kiss to my knee. Propping myself up on my elbows, I obliged, slowly spreading my legs for my newly wedded husband.

He caught his bottom lip between his teeth, biting back a low groan. His palms skated up my inner thighs, pushing my knees even further apart. He leaned in, dragging his tongue up my core. I whined, pulling away from his face.

“John, what are you doing?” I asked, closing my legs.

“It’ll feel good, I promise,” he said, gently nudging my knees apart.

“It’s immodest,” I frowned.

“It’s what married people do, doll.” His gaze pierced through me, sparking alight my nerves. My heart pounded in my ears as he slowly leaned in once more. “Lay back f’ me,” he cooed.

His tongue licked a thick stripe up my core before curling around my clit. My eyelids fluttered closed, an unfiltered noise falling from my tongue. I reached out, carding my fingers through his curls, tugging gently at the locks.

Soft licks soon turned to messy open mouthed kisses. Saliva ran down my thighs, soaking into the duvet beneath me. He groaned against my skin, sparking jolts of pleasure up my spine.

My brows furrowed as I felt the intrusion of one of his fingers at my entrance. A dull aching ignited in my hips, growing as he pushed the digit inside of me. He sucked harshly on my clit, pulling my mind from the unfamiliar feeling of being stretched out.

I rutted my hips against his mouth as he slowly rocked his finger in and out of me. A stream of loud noises fell from my chest. Beads of sweat ran down my sternum as shallow breaths filled my lungs.

The pain of the intrusion soon melted into an even more unfamiliar sensation. My back arched off of the mattress, hips pushing against his face. He laughed, wrapping his lips around my clit. My thighs began to quiver as he sucked harshly.

I moaned as he pushed another digit inside of me. My cunt squelched around his fingers, my arousal running down his wrist. He didn’t relent for a moment, even when I squirmed underneath his touch. It was almost too much, and yet I couldn’t do anything but lay back and bask in the stimulation.

Pressure slowly built in my stomach. My muscles pulled tight, tensing further with every flick of his tongue.

“John- don’t stop, please!” I cried out, my voice breaking. Tears welled in my eyes, threatening to spill over. Pain sparked behind my eyes as they rolled to the back of my head. My lips parted in a slime my scream, drool spilling from the corner of my lips.

A wave of immense pressure surged through my body, pulling my limbs taut like the strings on a marionette. My toes curled, fingertips digging into the soft duvet. His name fell from my tongue, over and over, crescendoing into a scream. My cunt seized around his fingers, squeezing the digits tight.

He pulled away, blue eyes fixated on my fluttering cunt as he withdrew his sodden fingers. His face was glistening with my arousal. The mattress dipped as he kneeled on the edge of the bed. Leaning forward, he pressed his lips to mine. I could taste myself on his lips, his tongue tainted with musk.

His belt fell to the floor with a clatter. Pulling away, he wrapped his fingers around the base of his cock, stroking himself slowly.

“Lay against the pillows, love.” He cooed. Drawing in a shaky breath, I pulled myself further up the mattress. My head met the plush pillows, the soft cotton cradling my neck. He moved to kneel between my legs, hands hooking beneath my knees.

Heat rushed to my face as he pushed my knees to my chest. I turned away, cheek pressing into the pillow beneath me.

“C’mon, look at me, doll,” he spoke softly. I squeezed my eyes shut, my fingertips digging into the cushions. Gently, he grasped my chin, turning my head to face him. His lips met mine once more in a soft kiss.

I groaned against his mouth when I felt the intrusion of his cock. He slowly nudged his hips forward, sinking inside of me. I pulled away from his lips, looking down at where our bodies met. My eyelids fluttered closed as I took in the feeling of his cock, every brush against my nerve endings, and the feeling of his head nuzzling against my cervix. His lips traveled down my neck, whispering soft praises against my skin.

His hips rocked against me, starting at a slow pace. He bottomed out with every thrust, thick curls at the base of his cock meeting my own. The feeling of him inside me pushed the air from my lungs. My stomach tensed, my skin growing hotter with every bit of stimulation.

I crossed my ankles behind his back, keeping him flush against me. Groaning in my ear, he grinded his cock into me, twitching inside of me.

The dull ache of his cock stretching me out soon melded into pleasure. I felt undeniably full, nearly bursting at the seams, and yet I needed more. Soft whines fell from my tongue. My fingers raked up his back, leaving behind angry red trails of raised skin.

“You feel so good,” he grunted, pistoning his hips into me.

“Faster- faster please,” I whimpered, hooking my arms around the back of his neck. I pulled him into my chest, holding him still against my beating heart. I could feel his breath, his chest rising and falling, feel the rumble of his voice, and his fluttering heart which matched the pace of my own.

“Oh god- I love you!” He sputtered, his hips snapping against mine. Loud, rhythmic clapping filled the room.

“I love you too, John!”

His noises slowly climbed in pitch, growing louder and louder. The force of his hips against mine was enough to shake the headboard, thudding harshly against the wall. He pressed sloppy, open mouthed kisses to my neck, brows furrowing as he drew closer and closer to his climax.

I bit down on my lip, swallowing back the onslaught of sounds that threatened to spill over. I drew in a shaky breath, my back arching off of the mattress. His lips ran down my neck, leaving a trail of spit that traveled to my chest. I grasped his dark curls, pulling gently as his lips wrapped around my nipple.

“I’m so close- please, please!” I cried. Hot tears streamed down my cheeks, sinking into the pillows below.

My muscles seized under his touch, my legs wrapping tightly around his waist. Static washed over my frame as my nerves pulsed. Tinnitus swelled in my ears, muffling the low groans that fell from his puffy lips. Warmth flooded my insides, spilling down my thighs.

I whined as he pulled out. The bed shifted as he moved to lay beside me. His warm palms soothed over my stomach, fingers splayed over my sticky skin. I turned to my side, tucking into the embrace of my betrothed. He hummed, combing his fingers through my tangled hair.

“D’ye mean it?” He asked. Lifting my head from his chest, I glanced up at the man before me. His deep blue eyes flicked across my face, brows knitting as he awaited my response.

“Mean what?” I brought my palm to his chest. I could feel his pounding heart beat beneath my touch. Quick, yet steady. A rhythm that could lull me to sleep.

“D’ye love me?” He pursed his lips into a thin line.

Leaning forward, I pressed a soft kiss to his lips, pulling back to see his expression soften. He sighed, tensed muscle softening under my touch.

“Course I do,” I cooed, “my husband.”

“My husbands such a bore.” One of the ladies frowned, stabbing her needle through the thick cotton fabric. “He wants another child, but I’m not sure if I can bare to have intercourse again.”

Glancing up from my messy stitch work, I locked eyes with the group of women before me.

“Just have him do the thing with his tongue. Hell, my husband begs for it. Insatiable thing.” I chuckled, tying off my last stitch.

Silence fell between us. I glanced up, my amusement stopping abruptly when I was met with confused glares.

“Do yours not…do that?”

Masterlist

#ao3 fanfic #fanfic #read on ao3 #cod fanfic #cod fic #soap smut #soap x you #johnny soap mactavish #john soap mactavish #soap x reader #soap cod #johnny mctavish x reader #john mctavish x reader

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sonics-atelier · 15 days ago

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𝟑 𝐀𝐌 𝐒𝐡𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐧𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐓𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐁

Summary:Two grown men stuck in an airport at 3 AM decide that the only logical way to pass time is by committing fashion crimes in the duty-free store. Chaos, questionable life choices, and a near-ban from Terminal B ensue.

WC: 1.2 K. Read On AO3 or below the cut.

For 31 Days Of Tamcien, Prompt - Day 22 Stuck in an airport at 3am AU.

. . .

Airports at 3 AM were not designed for human survival. They were purgatories disguised as places of transit—sterile, soulless, and illuminated by artificial lighting that buzzed with the smug indifference of the eternally awake.

Tamlin, sitting stiffly in one of the least comfortable chairs ever manufactured, had resigned himself to misery. Their flight was delayed indefinitely due to what the bored voice over the intercom had called “operational challenges.” The phrase meant nothing, but it had efficiently crushed his last remaining shred of hope.

Lucien, on the other hand, seemed to be thriving on the chaos.

“This,” Lucien announced, stretching his legs across two seats, “is a test of our willpower. A battle against the forces of bureaucracy and fate itself.”

Tamlin exhaled sharply. “It’s just a flight delay.”

“Oh, is it?” Lucien tapped his chin. “You say that now, but what happens in another hour? Another two? Despair sets in. Madness takes root. We’ll start questioning reality. Who’s to say we ever even had a flight? Maybe this has all been a lie.”

Tamlin, who had spent the past forty-five minutes staring at the vending machine contemplating whether a $6 granola bar was worth selling his soul, did not appreciate the theatrics. “We’re not descending into madness. We’re just bored.”

“Exactly,” Lucien declared, sitting up suddenly. “Which is why we need entertainment. And since I don’t see a live orchestra conveniently stationed in the middle of Terminal B, we’re going to have to create our own fun.”

Tamlin sighed, already bracing for whatever nonsense Lucien was about to suggest.

Lucien stood, stretched, and gestured toward the glossy duty-free store, its pristine displays glittering under the fluorescent lights. “We,” he said with the gravity of a man about to propose a military campaign, “are going in.”

Tamlin frowned. “Going in where?”

“The store.”

“For what?”

Lucien’s grin was positively wicked. “We’re trying on the most ridiculous outfits we can find.”

Tamlin groaned, running a hand down his face. “Lucien, that’s—”

“Genius? I know.”

“I was going to say immature.”

“That too.” Lucien shrugged. “But look around you, Tam. We’re trapped in a liminal void. Time doesn’t exist here. There are no consequences. We must seize the moment before we start contemplating our mortality again.”

“I wasn’t contemplating my mortality.”

Lucien arched a brow. “Oh? So the six-minute-long staring contest you had with the vending machine was just for fun?”

Tamlin glared. Lucien grinned.

Tamlin exhaled. “Fine.”

And so it began.

Lucien, as always, threw himself into the endeavor with reckless enthusiasm. He vanished into the aisles, only to emerge minutes later wearing a blindingly loud floral suit in shades of fuchsia, emerald, and some deeply offensive shade of orange. A pair of oversized sunglasses perched on his nose, and in one hand, he held a designer handbag that he swung dramatically over his shoulder.

“I call this rich divorcée who just got custody of the yacht,” he announced, striking a pose.

Tamlin, despite himself, let out a short laugh. “You look ridiculous.”

“I look expensive,” Lucien corrected, adjusting the sunglasses. “Your turn.”

Tamlin, with great reluctance, allowed himself to be shoved toward the racks. He grabbed the first things within reach and disappeared into the fitting room. When he stepped out, Lucien let out an audible gasp.

“Oh my gods,” Lucien whispered, clutching his chest. “You look like a midlife crisis on legs.”

Tamlin scowled. He had somehow ended up in a tight leather jacket, ripped jeans that looked like they had been personally attacked by a knife-wielding maniac, and a pair of aviators.

“You’re one to talk, Mrs. Yacht,” Tamlin muttered.

Lucien beamed. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”

And it was.

It spiraled quickly. Lucien, in his quest for aesthetic chaos, made it his mission to push Tamlin into increasingly absurd outfits. Tamlin endured an offensively sequined blazer (“You look like a Vegas magician”), an oversized fur coat (“Ah yes, wealth”), and, at one point, an airport pilot uniform.

Lucien nearly doubled over with laughter when Tamlin stepped out in the crisp navy-blue jacket and hat. “Welcome aboard,” Lucien intoned in a mock-serious voice. “This is your captain speaking—our flight is still delayed. Please scream into the void.”

Tamlin yanked off the hat and threw it at him.

Lucien caught it and placed it on his own head, striking a dramatic pose. “You know, I think I was meant for a life in aviation.”

“You don’t even know how to drive a car.”

“Which makes this all the more thrilling.”

At some point, security started watching them with a sort of exhausted resignation. A store employee cleared their throat meaningfully when Lucien attempted to try on a third fur coat, but they hadn’t yet been kicked out.

“I give it another ten minutes before they call someone,” Tamlin muttered as they swapped their latest selections for something new.

“Then we have ten minutes to make the most of it,” Lucien declared.

Tamlin rolled his eyes but couldn’t quite smother the small smile threatening to break through.

Lucien returned in a full-length trench coat, his hair mussed as he adjusted the collar dramatically. “Do I look like I run a secret underground empire?”

Tamlin, suppressing laughter, nodded solemnly. “Very menacing.”

Lucien flourished the coat dramatically before eyeing Tamlin with a slow, assessing look. “Alright. One last one.”

Tamlin narrowed his eyes. “I don’t trust that tone.”

“You shouldn’t,” Lucien admitted.

Minutes later, Tamlin emerged in what might have been the worst ensemble yet: a designer tracksuit in a shade of neon green so offensive it could probably be seen from space. Lucien, upon seeing him, immediately collapsed into a chair, laughing so hard he nearly fell off.

“Oh, Tamlin,” Lucien wheezed. “You look like an Eastern European mobster who launders money through a nightclub.”

Tamlin crossed his arms. “You’re the one who picked it.”

“Yes, and I regret nothing.” Lucien wiped a tear from his eye. “Alright, we should stop before we actually get banned from this place.”

With great reluctance, they returned their ridiculous selections, changing back into their own, much more boring, clothes. As they left the store, a security guard gave them the kind of exhausted look usually reserved for parents of particularly hyperactive children.

Lucien stretched, a satisfied grin on his face. “Well, that killed some time.”

Tamlin shook his head. “You’re impossible.”

“I know.” Lucien bumped their shoulders together lightly. “But admit it, you had fun.”

Tamlin hesitated, then sighed. “Maybe.”

Lucien’s grin widened. “Good. Now, since we’re on a streak of questionable decision-making—wanna go find out if the baggage carousels are fun to ride?”

Tamlin groaned. “Lucien.”

“What?”

“…Lead the way.”

And so, in the liminal, fluorescent-lit purgatory of Terminal B, Tamlin and Lucien continued their descent into airport-induced madness, killing time with sheer, unrepentant chaos.

Somewhere, their flight remained delayed.

But at 3 AM, in a world where time seemed to stand still, that hardly mattered.

. . .

- @sonics-atelier 2025 ( do not repost or reuse in any way, shape or form )

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brokenheartwithheartbreak · 14 days ago

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Okay the response to the first snippet was basically like straight cocaine directly into my veins (thank you all for the kind words ��) so here’s another piece from much later that I still haven’t written the build up to. Praying to the muses I find the strength to actually finish this fic because it’s chewing on my braincells like gum.

Excerpt:

“I think you pushed her, I think you liked it.” Stiles said and Theo hadn’t been able to refute him, to say a damn thing, too busy staring down the hollow walls of his own memory and realising he doesn’t remember. Tara’s face blurs in his mind, drowned out by her shaking voice asking him to help her, the rushing sound of the water freezing her blood in her body, and the more he looks the more broken spaces he finds in place of memory, gaps of hours-days-years where his life blends and blurs into an indistinguishable existence punctuated by flashes of leather masks and cold glass eyes and hands inside his chest and learning the difference between death and failure.

There are sharp, over vivid memories too, brittle and plasticky around the edges, images that sit in his mind like misshapen shards, pieces of a different jigsaw slotted into the puzzle that makes up his own mind. Those, he thinks the Doctors manufactured, implanted, reshaped somehow. He still doesn’t know why, just that they feel wrong, oversaturated and too clear, like watching someone else manoeuvre his body, his mind, through the motion of his own mistakes, but that’s his life rolled into a neat little metaphor and the fact remains he can’t remember the first time he met the Doctors, doesn’t know if it came Before Tara or After Tara, doesn’t remember when they opened his chest for the first time to rip out his broken heart and fix him with heart-break, the first of countless tests he scratched and clawed and dragged himself through blood to pass, just barely, just enough to justify his continued existence even when it would have been easier to crumble into a puddle of bloody mercury and failed experiments alongside all the others, some buried, shuttered, unkillable part of him screaming and flailing to survive, survive, survive, even when death would be easier, kinder, simpler.

Deserved, justified, barely enough to pay for the lives he’s ruined and the lives he’s taken and most of him never even cared because each completed task, each passed test, meant success and the faintest flicker of hope of being Enough, of being complete, a success standing atop the pile of failures, the pile of bodies, the pile of children not as broken and twisted and desperately hungry for something like approval, like permission to take up space, to exist, to be something more than the weak little boy who maybe killed his sister but can’t remember.

There’s a sharp crack crack against the window by his head and he jolts, didn’t hear the heartbeat over the uneven pulse of his own, the hum of static beneath his skin. He’s reaching for the key in the ignition before he can turn his head to wave the deputy away - You need to move alone - I know I know - and he wasn’t sleeping - anymore - this time but he doesn’t know how long he’s been stuck chasing himself down familiar echoing hallways trying to trace back all the bad, horrible, fucked up things he’s done to one specific point in his life so he can put a finger on where exactly he stopped being human but it’s always a futile endeavour because he doesn’t remember enough about being human to know when it ended, so he’s just trapped here in some sort of limbo between a monster and a broken-boy, fucked up-boy, too scared to live too stubborn to die, filled up to his eyes with artificial rage and what he thinks is guilt - the gnawing rabid hunger that chews on his ribs every time he looks at one of McCall’s pack - and a pervasive cold he’s lived with his entire life since they put his dead sister’s dead heart in his chest and tried to make it forget she froze to death while he stood there and watched. He’s beginning to think on a deeper level that feeling might be loneliness, a constant reminder of his self imposed solitude, of the first life he watched drain away, of the first corpse he robbed for his own benefit, of the first person who trusted the innocent-boy, sweet-boy and didn’t see the monster lurking underneath.

He’s a cold corpse wrapped around his sister’s heart and maybe that’s the only reason there’s any good in him at all, her last act of vengeance, because she ripped it back out of him and watched him die just like he watched her freeze, over and over until he crawled out of the morgue and accepted he deserved it, she deserved it - it’s okay, you don’t have to stop - but somehow he’s still alive, he’s standing above ground with no idea which direction to walk his aching legs while Tara’s six feet deep, dead and rotting for a decade now even though he still hears her voice when his dreams get too deep.

Maybe it wasn’t just the ability to pump blood that the Doctors meant when they said her heart was strong, maybe his condition, his weakness, was more than just physical, maybe he’s predisposed to weakness, to the path of least resistance, because he’s learning that good is hard, is pain and bleeding and trying not to drown in the weight of a lifetime of mistakes, where once it had been so easy and painless to take what was needed, what he wanted, without a thought of who got hurt in the process, the collateral damage between him and proving himself to three ancient creatures who marked him as insufficient before he hit his teens and moved on to their next abomination, left him trailing behind to clean up the messes because where else was he going to go?

His fingertips barely brush the edge of the keys, cold and rigid and real where he feels soft and malleable and jagged all at once, and then there’s a crash loud enough to drown out his laboured heartbeat and he thinks oh a second before the riflebutt cracks into the side of his head. Pain flares, sharp and vice like, crumpling him sideways across the centre console as his broken window rains down around him, shitty confetti, and maybe he should have looked, checked it was a deputy not a hunter - not that the two are mutually exclusive - but he’s tired and thin and maybe this is easier than trying to justify his continued existence. That same buried, half dead thing somewhere in his chest roars indignation at his apathy, despite it all, and he hears himself growl, feels skin split under his claws as he moves on instinct, on muscle memory, to swipe at the rapid, human, heartbeat pulling his truck door open to finish the job, vision tainted red by the blood pouring from his forehead and filling his nose with the scent of copper and iron, familiar as always.

Electricity, muscles going rigid mid swing, limbs locked and useless. He hits asphalt, tastes ozone and acrid bile on the back of his tongue as every nerve ending burns, red vision turned to splotchy black as his lungs spasm, trying to remember how to work, how to live in a world that doesn’t want him but keeps dragging him back anyway. A cruel laugh rattles over his head and he wonders distantly if that’s what he sounded like when he tried to kill Scott, except there was no joy in that, just a task he needed to complete to justify his existence, to take what he wanted, what he thought he deserved, and he didn’t feel sorry for it then, only angry that he had to do it himself, that his plan splintered at the ends like a rotten thing, that Scott got to look at him with that betrayal and hurt and sorrow even while he told Theo he was barely even human.

He gets it, now, he thinks. Is learning what sorrow and remorse and consequences feel like and maybe it’s some sort of cosmic karma that has him out here, alone on the edge of town in a deserted parking lot with one flickering streetlight, folded into the earth that only spat him back out because he was needed to complete a task while three figures in masks stand over him and declare him a failure.

Something jabs into the side of his neck, the familiar cold intrusion of a needle, the familiar burn of something foreign entering his bloodstream, spreading through his muscles like molasses. The shock they gave him must have been enough to down an elephant, his fingers twitching uselessly against the shitty surface of the parking lot even as a brief burst of anger-fear-memory washes over him, eyes burning gold for a half second of adrenaline. He thinks he should get up, should roll to the side, brush off the taser like he’s somehow managed to brush it off every other time lightning has tried to finally stop his stolen heart, but his body isn’t his own anymore, again, and all he manages is a low, guttural growl, a thought of fangs and claws and blood splattering the ground.

A boot connects with his ribs, overexposed and brittle, devoid of the padding they once had, curved around his heart like a shield, their only purpose to try and hold him up. Something creaks, doesn’t quite break, but the impact is enough to roll him over, limbs like jelly, the familiar chemical cocktail of something sedative and immobilising. If he thought about it hard enough he could probably name all the different agents, the chemical compounds, rattle them off from a list in his head, hope he doesn’t get any wrong or it’s back to the marked out corner of the sewers that serves as his room with no dinner.

He doesn’t see the boot coming but it’s somehow not a surprise when it connects with his face and sends him reeling into darkness.

He wonders if Scott will at least mourn the loss of a soldier in this war, or just breathe a sigh of relief that he doesn’t have to worry about how long it’ll be before Theo stabs someone in the back to keep himself alive a few hours longer. He doesn’t know which he’d prefer, doesn’t think it matters.

Nothing else he’s ever done has mattered.

#theo raeken #teen wolf fic #teen wolf #fanfic #snippet #writing #someone send help this thing is going to be 20k+ at this rate #💀#Heart Writes tag

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