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janumun · 2 months ago

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A Relentless Conquest (LaDS Sylus - NSFW)

Rated: NSFW/18+ Words: 10.7k Pairing: Sylus/Reader

Tags: dueling (Sylus fighting), semi-public sex, oral and vaginal sex, Sylus’s brand of manhandling, dry humping, praising, dirty talk, rough sex, wander in wonder AU/historical AU, based in ancient Mongolia, creampie, size difference, mild rich/poor class power dynamics

Summary: What happens when you end up catching the unwanted attentions of a sleazy magistrate on a day out in town? A duel for your honor — or lifelong imprisonment — is what awaits you. That is, until Sylus, leader of the exceedingly notorious Onychinus gang, and a man you dub reluctantly, an old acquaintance, intervenes and offers the immoral magistrate a deal he cannot refuse.

[A fic where Sylus engages in a precarious duel in order to free you from the clutches of a corrupt high official; wins the duel AND the prize at stake, you.]

Author’s Notes: The things the Wander in Wonder trailer did to me were unspeakable, I had to get started on this fic right away. Another long monstrosity so it took me quite a while to hammer it out smoothly. Some terms used within, to note: *tögrögs is an old Mongolian currency and *Lungtang is the Mongolian city used loosely within this fic’s setting, as per Sylus’s alleged outfit inspiration drawn from the Mongol’s hunting fit in the current event, “Wander in Wonder” . An amazing twitter thread for the rest of the inspirations drawn for the boys’ outfits can be found here.

Link to Ao3

Perhaps you should’ve considered your course of action through before you’d tossed yourself voluntarily into the metaphorical den of lions. Caleb did always tease you for your often impudent ways, declaring you’d get yourself into hot water someday.

You didn’t quite think past saving the small, unfortunate child in front, when he’d careened straight into the Magistrate, staining the sickly bone white of his gaudy robes with the treat he’d been brandishing in hand. An action of careless innocence that could’ve saddled the boy with a severe punishment of thrashings at best. And at worst —

You didn’t even wish to entertain the horrifying notion.

You whisper a quick note of warning to the trembling child in your arms before he’s nodding his assent, making a clean dash away from the Magistrate and his burly procession of hired cronies. They do not move to stop him; the official’s beady eyes sweeping cursory across his fleeing figure before he focuses upon you once more.

“Well then, speak up, girl. How do you plan on making up for the crimes of the filthy criminal you just let escape?” He leers at you, sending a frisson of disgust through your veins. “I do not mind much, provided you are able to compensate me in full.” He holds up two thick, swollen fingers. “two thousand tögrögs.” Your stomach revolts in near horror at the exorbitant price he names.

“Speak, lass, do you possess the means to compensate me?”

“...Apologies, Sire, I do not.”

The Magistrate clicks his tongue at you, as if that son of a cur had not already anticipated your answer; your garb alone giving away your status as a mere commoner while he stood, a tall, foolish braggart of a Magistrate, who’d been a constant source of worry amongst the townsfolk as of late. “What a pity. I guess we shall have to make you pay off with what you do have on person, shan’t we?”

His eyes rove down the length of your body in a manner greasy enough, it has your fingers itching to claw them out of his skull. Thoughts of the consequences of your actions extending to your family after — your grandmother and Caleb — are what stay your hands, firm by your side. You try and maintain that demure grace firm within your body instead.

“What else are we to do if she cannot pay for what she has cost me, yes?” The Magistrate flourishes his arms wide and turns, towards the crowd that has gathered to watch, setting the stage for his perverse demands. “An eye for an eye, an honor exchanged for honor; that is the Law of our Lungtang, is it not?”

None of the commonfolk dare to speak against the tyrant’s words, lest they make of themselves a new target to harass. And you do not blame them either, the burden of your reckless actions, yours to bear alone.

The man trundles forwards on heavy steps; the large, ugly stain left across his robes growing wider in your lowered line of sight before the expanse of his bloated, sweating hand fills your field of vision. The rings around his fingers, nearly engorging the base of them as he curls his hand about your jaw to heave your gaze up towards him.

The ugly, toad-like sweep of his tongue against the top row of black and gold teeth has a chill skittering down your spine. “You’re rather lovely, you know that?” He croaks in a low, creeping voice.

You bite harsh into your bottom lip to revolt against the bile that threatens to reflux past your throat and onto the bastard’s face. “What say you become my whore then, dearest? I’d treat you very...” A slimy slip of the hand down the expanse of your body, to settle at your hip. “ well . And if you please me, you could even climb the ranks and become first Mistress, you know?” You judder at the stench of his breath, nearly in your face now. Unable to help the revulsion he inspires in you and you know; the cur in front takes it for a show of abashed innocence, with the way his leer stretches wider across his face.

“I am far too plain and discourteous for a man of your stature, my lord. If there is anything else I could do for you in recompense, I would be more than delighted to offer my services.” The words uttered, sit sickly sweet on your tongue. “I have a good arm on me and can do any physical labor you may require of me.”

The rat makes a show of deliberating your words. “It’s a pity the only ‘physical labor’ I require of you lies within my bed, dear girl.”

You visibly recoil from his revolting touch at your arm; perhaps you aren’t able to quite keep your emotions from surfacing upon your face this time round as the man grabs at your forearm tighter, gaze darkening in simmering displeasure.

“You know the law, woman. If you wish to run scot-free without offering anything in return, you must put your life on the line and agree to a duel with the offended party.” He chucks a thick, swollen thumb back at his minions, voice seething into a threatening octave. “And I wouldn’t suggest that unless you want them to crush that pretty face of yours.”

You consider ending it all; cutting the bastard open for him to choke in a pool of his own gurgling blood. You think you could do it too, before his bodyguards could get to you.

And with the loss of their Master, they wouldn’t be able to hold you prisoner within the dungeons for too long: you hoped. The stray, wild thought is all you can see within your vision.

Your hand twitches for the dagger fastened right beneath your satchel, one Caleb had lent you for protection. Fingers barely grazing against the polished hilt of the blade, cobbling together courage to see your mad plan through.

Before large, thick digits are slipping against yours to halt — a fleeting touch of caution — from behind, fracturing your hasty plan entirely.

You’re barely able to comprehend the sudden, unnoticed proximity of your interloper, before a great arm is coiling fast about the expanse of your waist, snatching you swift from the Magistrate’s claws and firm against a warm, broad chest.

“Now, what have you gotten yourself into this time?” The well-known burr, welcome, in that moment stirs joy within your belly as you reach to crane your neck to meet eyes with that familiar scarlet.

“Sylus.” You croak in near disbelief.

He exhales, low, against the shell of your ear, before he slowly lets go of you. “I’m away from Lungtang for a mere fortnight, only to find you scrounging for trouble, upon return.”

Your irritation might’ve flared at his words if not for the phlegmy clearing of the Magistrate’s throat in front.

“And who do you think you are to touch my property so carelessly, insolent fool?”

Your ire directed from the man behind to the bastard in front. You feel Sylus’ hand soothe a flex about your shoulder.

“My bad, honoured Magistrate.” He sweeps an insouciant palm at him, the grin upon his face edged to a dagger’s point. “We did not think you would be gracing Lungtang so soon with your noble presence. Or we might’ve arranged for a far better reception, for your Grace.”

Each word that slips past Sylus’ lips is a sarcasm heavy barb that turns the official’s face in front purple with each syllable uttered. “That woman owes me, you dog. I shall make her my mistress, as is only fair I extract proper recompense from her for her grave offense.”

One of the Magistrate’s men behind scamper forward in that moment to whisper urgently into his ear. The official’s eyes nearly burst out of his sockets at whatever he’s learned, wide toady gaze skittering towards Sylus as if he is indeed a rabid beast that would bite if disturbed.

He thrusts an accusatory finger at him. “You are the Onychinus’ leader.” He spits. “That gang of lawless hounds.”

Sylus’s mouth quirk into a vicious smile at the allegation. “That I am.”

“You— you,” The Magistrate seems to sputter for the space of several moments before the man at his side mutters something else into his ear.

The official straightens at whatever he’s heard, clearing his throat, once. Twice. “I am willing to pardon your crimes.” He begins once more. “Provided you can prove yourself worthy in a duel against one of my men.” The crowd around you breaks into quiet murmurs. “But,” he continues. “if you lose, Onychinus dog, then along with your little woman, you shall give up your life to my service, your autonomous tyranny within these lands shall cease to exist and you shall follow my sole command.” He pauses for a moment’s breath, as if to let the weight of what he believes to have been a devastating challenge, sink in.

But all he earns from Sylus is a raised brow. “Sounds like a deal. Let us raise the stakes, though, shall we?” He cocks his head at the procession of guards right behind the Magistrate. “I’ll take on all your men, not just your best. Give you a real crutch to get started with.”

The crowd of onlookers erupts into gasps of surprise and gibbering discussion amidst the concerning blue coloring the Magistrate’s face at the taunt. You desperately clutch at Sylus’s arm. “Hey! What do you think you’re doing? Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

He meets your wide-eyed panicked gaze with a cool, gentle one of his own. “Calm yourself down, kitten. I’ll be fine.” A large hand, he places gentle at your head in reassurance but all it does instead is send your alarm flaring higher.

What had you roped the man into? Infuriating though he was. Sylus was a confounding acquaintance of years; you could not help be lured into irritation any time he were around — a man whose companionship you’d come to cherish in begrudging gratitude over your time together — but this is not what you’d wanted.

Your reeling thoughts fractured by the screeching Magistrate in front. “You think you’re all that, you shameless scoundrel? Oh, you’re just a man and I’ll make sure they break your limbs, bone by excruciating bone, before we drag you bloodied and defeated, to my estate.” He spits the time of the duel to be held tomorrow in that same fury before he’s turning on you both and trudging back off to where he came from, his procession of cronies falling along right in line.

And you’re left behind, with the metallic poison of your regret within your mouth and bone deep worry within your body as you stare up at Sylus’s form.

The next day arrives much too soon, even as sleep evades you through the entirety of your night, spent tossing onto much too warm sheets.

Now, having dragged yourself to dress and prepare yourself for the dreaded day, you trudge out of your home, chancing a brief, longing look upon the humble place over your shoulder, in case it were truly your last.

You hadn’t divulged the details of your itinerary for the day — which possibly entailed getting sold into slavery to a sleazy official, by the time noon rolled in — to Grandmother or Caleb and you preferred it remain that way for as long as possible. Your Grandmother was coming along in her years, with weakened nerves now and Caleb tended to be a frightful worrywart in matters concerning you.

“Someone’s starting the day rather early. That eager to see me fight, are you, kitten?” The familiar voice beckons. You toss a raised brow over your shoulder at your previously truant neighbour, now returned — his house having settled long vacant in his absence, over the course of his journey to Gods knew where. And the root cause of all your fretting; Sylus moves to join you by your side in two easy strides.

“Don’t you even dare try joke about it, you absolute madman,” you mutter darkly under your breath, reaching to knock a fist against the side of his torso.

The same old routine you tumble into, with him; you aren’t able to tamp yourself back from biting into the man as soon as he’s in your sights; the only person capable of wrenching out your honest, most reflexive reactions. And you hate the ease with which this incendiary of a man manages to drag them out of you.

“What took over you to throw that offer out at that bastard, when you all but had a nice, even playing field to yourself? Now you’re just—” Your mouth snaps shut against the rest of your words, bitterly swallowed.

How did you even begin to disentangle your bunched feelings on the matter? You knew how all of Lungtang chanted the tales of the fearsome Onychinus head. A conundrum of a man with a reputation as daunting as his influential mien, one that never failed to instil the fear of God in lesser men; criminals and bandits, who sought to rob their small town on the rare luckless occasion — dubbed this obscure town’s own Warrior God.

But to you, he was also just Sylus; the man you’d grown in close proximity to since your late teenage years and a person you’d grown to care for in the natural course of your odd tug-and-push relationship.

And though you remained constantly wary of the type of people Sylus associated with, in his particular line of work — a job you did not wish for, to bring even a modicum of harm onto your family by association with him, you could not help the restless agitation that needled at you each time Sylus left home, sometimes for weeks on end, on any number of his covert expeditions.

And each time he did, the very nagging, unwelcome thought intruded, that perhaps this time he might not make it home.

“Are you worried for me right now, kitten?” Sylus’s airy query breaks through your reverie, your gaze leaping to find his, fixated firm on you. Those scarlet eyes seem to lose part of their mirth at the face you’re sure you’re pulling.

You tear your gaze away first, choosing to watch the path you two trek on, instead. “Of course, I’m worried. What a silly thing to ask.” A muted wisp of words.

Ones that spark an immediate stroke of mild discomfiture at the admission; you prattle on before he can speak. “I know you’re strong, I know that. But just you against what — 13 or 14 grown men? More if that bastard intends on killing you. Anyone with half a wit and eye can see it’s a self-slaughtering mission from yards away. I don’t understand—” your indignant voice breaks, to throttle in much needed air into breath parched lungs. “I just don’t understand why you’d do that. I don’t understand you.”

Help me figure out what you’re thinking; are the words you wish to speak but your voice refuses to assist.

Sylus hums a low, throaty sound; in admission that he’s heard you.

And then he opens his mouth to speak. Divulging a ‘reason’ that makes no sense to your muddled mind, simple though his words are. “That cad disrespected you.” Garnet tips your way to meet your surprised gaze. “That’s reason enough, is it not?”

“I—”

“Don’t fret anymore.” he continues. “I won't lose, you have my word.” Long, tapered digits brush gentle at your temple, in reassurance of your worries. “And once I’m done with that weasel, he won’t ever be capable of crawling within a mile of you, let alone dare a finger your way again.”

The confession, sudden and honest, spurts warmth within your chest that readily clambers up your cheeks and floods down into your belly. A knot pulled tight within seeming to relax just that bit, in comfort of his words. Truly, he confounds you; this odd, beautiful man.

You capture his fingers against yours in an insistent hold, halting him in his tracks. “You better keep your promise to me, Sylus,” you speak, meeting his gaze, firm on yours. “Do not forget the prize that’s at stake here. You'll come out of there, victorious. I won’t afford you any other options, you hear me?”

A pleased grin edges across that beautiful mouth, skewing it wider. He angles forward, so that garnet gaze is level against yours. Flexing the catch of his digits in between yours before he’s sweeping your hand towards his parted mouth in a fleeting brush of lips against your knuckles. “If it is my victory the Lady commands, so it shall be done.” He elaborates, a mild tickled inflection to his thick baritone.

You disregard his little jibing use of the title for this one instance; his solemn promise you know he’s sealed to you; in the gentle grip of your fingers against his, garnet that refuses to stray until you see the resolve of his vow settle within that gaze too.

By the time your deliberately protracted journey finds its end at the arena, edging the outskirts of Lungtang, the Magistrate along with his chosen warriors are already there, positioned and waiting by the great stone pillars of the vast grounds.

The coming fight having attracted the townspeople to turn up in droves to watch the weaselly Magistrate take on their best warrior — hordes of curious eyes you feel boring into the two of you as you make your way towards where the Magistrate awaits.

“Here you are. Any later and I might’ve started considering you’d fled with your tail in between your legs.” The Magistrate crows out loud. “After all, my men shall soon prove how Lungtang’s criminal they so falsely worship as a hero, is more bark than bite.” The swarm of brutes — big and terrifyingly bulky — he’s brought along, laugh at their Master’s goading.

Sylus, however, remains unperturbed. “Is that so? I can’t wait to find out,” he responds, scrubbing an insouciant hand through his hair.

His apathetic response seems to key the Magistrate’s ire even higher, sputtering his rage at him. “Y-You absolute— you imbecile. I will crush you.” Creeping a hand forward for you now, “I’ll hold the girl with me. We might as well quicken ourselves, in preparation for when you inevitably fall and watch me claim my rightful prize.”

You steel yourself against the touch, palm rising to curb his approach with a polite denial but your companion is swifter; large hand darting forth to curl a harsh fist against the official’s greasy wrist.

“No.” Sylus speaks, voice a low, lethal burr you haven’t ever heard from him before. “I don’t think you will, Sire.” Whatever it is the foolish Magistrate discerns within your companion’s steady gaze, has him flinching in visible fright at the sight, sweat beading wide across his pale, swollen face.

He wrenches his wrist from Sylus’s grip, as if scathed just as you angle a curious look up at the Onychinus head; his face an impassive mask — hardly unusual — before it breaks into the tiny quirk of a self-assured grin when he catches you watching.

The Magistrate yelps in frustration, turning in on a ferocious heel. “D-Do not waste my time any longer than you have.” Barking the rest of his words; he heads toward the makeshift dais he’s had set up for himself at the edge of the ring. “Come onto the fields now so we can commence the match.”

“Sylus,” you place a hand at his arm to stall. “Duck down for a moment.”

He raises a careful brow at you and you think he’s going to refuse for a moment but then he surprises you in the wordless, compliant drop of his head close to yours. Allowing your eyes to trace his features; those familiar scarlet eyes steady against yours, the slope of his broad nose, sweeping into the bow of full, slightly scraped lips.

You realize you trust this man and what he’s offered you, whole-heartedly. And so, you wish to extend the same sentiment, reaching for the precious beads adorning your neck — an heirloom from your late parents, your most prized possession.

Plucking it up and over your head in between cautious digits before you reach to place it about his neck instead. Leaving part of your most priceless gift with him, just as you’ve decided to entrust him with both your Fates. “A charm,” you clarify, “for good luck. It has been my most invaluable escort and has kept me safe all these years.”

Sylus mutely treks delicate fingers across the worn beads of the chain, grasping it in between a loose fist, in acceptance of your faith.

“Return it to me once you’ve won.” You tell him, rapping a firm fist against the leather guard at his chest.

Large, warm digits move to curve about yours, gripping your fist against himself. “As if I could turn down such a heartfelt request, sweetheart.” A spirited grin tugs at his features. “I’ll bring your little treasure back to you in one piece.”

“Good, I’ll wait for it.” You respond. “Now, go out there and show them the might of our Warrior God.”

The Magistrate flourishes open an official scrolled document, no doubt detailing the terms of their duel as soon as Sylus shifts to take position within the field, on opposing side of the assembly of his hired goons.

You move to occupy a place up front, to stand among the vast gathered crowd, observing the proceedings as the Magistrate clutches the scroll up into the air and begins to drone out the conditions of the fight and the prize at stake — your belly stirs in nausea — you . “The duel shall be declared closed when all members of a party have been knocked unconscious; or killed, under the rare, unfortunate circumstance.” His beady eyes rove Sylus’s way. “Any objections?”

Sylus shrugs the question off entirely in the flex of an arm against his chest, in preparation of the duel. “Let us not waste our time debating inanity now, as you said earlier. Commence the fight.”

The Magistrate’s face colours a foul purple — you hope he may truly burst — but all he does is spew a cold, curt, “Begin.”

The arena hurtles into instantaneous chaos, along with the crowd’s rousing cheers and gasps of terrified delight as the Magistrate’s cronies hound Sylus all at once. Your body hunching forward on reflex to watch as the first set of blows streak straight for Sylus’s face but he ducks down with an agility, unusual to a man of his stature.

He catches two of the oncoming blows against his palms. Jamming his fists tight about their wrists before he contorts them sideways in a dull crackle of bone. The men immediately buckle to their knees in an agony of groans, their peers stepping over their fallen companions after, to grab for their opponent who springs out of their way, as if dancing the men around, with a noose placed about their grappling bodies.

A sharp jab comes right for Sylus’s side after, the crony tries and lands a hit against his ribs; the latter’s grasp flexing about his arm to break his momentum, wrenching him close into his body. Before Sylus jostles his elbow harsh into the man’s back.

Two men lunge for Sylus, aiming for his blind spot; your scraped call of warning lost amidst the thunderous din of the crowds as Sylus rounds upon his assailants. Grabbing the man he has on hand, fingers fisting tight into his garb before he hurls him onto the approaching minions, with a force violent enough, the three go bowling straight into the dirt.

The crowd’s cheer is raucous; wild as the grin that splits wide across Sylus’s face as he stretches his body tall to full length. “Come now, that’s surely not all of what you’ve got for me.” Sweat barely beginning to make itself known across the firm muscled expanse of his arms, his torso. He's hardly out of breath while his opponents gawk at him as if cornered against a rabid beast.

Your heart thrills in unexpected, startled pleasure to witness the strange, sensuous virility to his almost savage visage as he paces forward on swift, easy steps, within the ring.

You’d always known Sylus to hold a rich charisma compacted within that strong personality; an ability to entice all he came into contact with. A brilliant, perceptive mind along with that tacit, undeterred will; he’d brought flourishing business booming within Lungtang over his period of unofficial rule of the place. The uncrowned Onychinus King and a fearsome warrior; the first time you’d truly stood witness to what he was capable of, outside of devious negotiations, professional and unalike.

And to know, it was for you that he stood in that place now, socking down enemies with the streak of a great, terrifying beast that had your heart skittering within your chest and your blood thrumming within your ears, alongside the adrenaline roiling through your veins. He truly was an infuriatingly perfect man.

You joined your voice to the shouts of encouragement rolling off the townspeople, in waves for their Warrior God just as Sylus brings an opponent down to his knees with a violent sweep of his knee to his torso.

“Enough!” You hear the squeaked, enraged bellow of the Magistrate as he watches the proceedings with an increasingly incensed face. Whipping his reddening face towards the crowd to shake a threatening fist at them. “Quiet down before I have you all thrown into the dungeons!”

But the townsfolk refuse to relent; their cheers rising to a deafening roar as the Magistrate nearly tumbles out of his seat to thrust a trembling finger at the ring as Sylus tosses another of his men over his shoulder to taste the ground at his feet . The attendants at his side scamper towards the arena at once. A quick, urgent rush of communication seems to pass in between the attendants and Sylus’s remaining opponents. Before the servants are tossing weapons into the ring, ones the cronies lunge for as soon as they hit the field. Rising slow once more as they brandish their newly obtained unfair advantage at an unarmed Sylus.

A great wave of shock and indignance passes over the crowd just as you push past the row of onlookers to jostle yourself to the very front. “Hey! This was not among the rules!” You shout at the Magistrate. A sentiment the rest of the crowd joins you in mirroring but all it earns you is an insouciant shrug from the bastard, shedding any remaining responsibility of hosting a fair fight against Sylus. “And the rules didn’t indicate the participants were not allowed the use of tools at their disposal either. The opposing party’s principal should’ve brought his own if he wished for one, as well.”

“That’s not—” Your voice breaks in agonised distress just as the Magistrate turns away from you entirely to press his rotund body back into the comfort of his seat to watch his laid-out massacre once more. Son of a cur.

“Sylus!” You try and yell for his attention amongst the horrified cries of the crowd. “ Sylus, you don’t have to fight anymore! Get out of there, now! Sylus . ”

His gaze sweeps over the mass of spectators for that one split moment, as if foraging for yours. Until it seems to find and fixate upon you, his mouth forming slow shape over words you cannot hear but understand on instinct, “Stay right there.”

Your heart leaps and slams violent against the back of your breastbone with the crowd’s rising screams, just as a hefty brute lunges for Sylus; a battle axe heaved high above his head to strike a killing blow.

The first cleave of the blade, Sylus avoids, to the tumbling pummel of your frenzied nerves. The man’s fervent swings, he dodges left and right. Avoiding another enemy’s assault with a dagger aimed straight for his gut; Sylus streaks the side of his palm flat onto his wrist in a hit vicious enough, the knife goes flying out of his grasp to stick, hilt-up, useless onto the ground. Before Sylus pummels a heavy fist into the assailant’s face, plastering him down onto the ground.

The metallic chains of a flail come streaking for him, just as he side-steps past another heavy swing of the axe, catching the iron fetters of it harsh against his wrist. He ducks close into the enemy, manoeuvring the momentum of his attack into his own advantage, to wrench the man harsh into the fist he rams straight into his gut. Tumbling him sideways into the ground, unconscious.

The bulldozing axe wielding maniac, now in close proximity, careens straight for Sylus on a fervent bellow, sweeping a blow straight for his head. Sylus seizes his last standing opponent’s assault against the strength of a muscled forearm. Catching the brunt of the axe’s hilt at it before he shoves back on a ferocious, inhuman show of force.

Sylus, your heart hammers, lips forming shape over the syllables of his name in urgent prayer.

The momentum of the wide, stone blade pushed back in such violence, sends the wielder staggering back with the weight of it; Sylus turning that precious moment of weakness to his benefit as he lunges straight for his neck, seizing it within a thick fist. The core muscles of his arm, rippling with the force with which Sylus hauls him off his feet entirely to drive the man down onto the ground with a vicious snarl.

The combatant stops moving immediately, knocked out cold on the dirt; Sylus rising slow onto his feet as he stares at the man, chest heaving with the efforts of his strenuous exertion.

A grave’s quietude slumps across the gathered crowd for several, tense moments.

And then shatters into raucous chaos as the Conqueror of the duel is cheered to the high heavens; Sylus’s grin, wide and daunting, as he shifts off his fallen opponent, scrubbing a large hand back through sweat soaked locks as he starts ambling over toward the edge of your side of the arena.

And your heart — your silly little heart — soars from its place within your chest and out for him, the high of his victory, as if it were your own, throbbing brutal within your blood.

Before you know or comprehend it, your legs are moving; pushing past the crowds of onlookers, the wooden slates of your sandals skidding at dirt, as you fly across the ring toward Sylus. Your gaze entirely filled with your brilliant warrior’s expression shifting into surprise as you hurtle into him. And Sylus — that big, beautiful man understands — catches your careening body within his embrace; your momentum, he breaks against a half-swivel about his heel. Large, warm arms come tight about your body, wordless, without a question uttered, to seclude you further into that private space; just for you both in that moment.

Your arms stretching about the thick expanse of his neck as you hold on hard to him; Sylus’s low exhale you feel warm gently, into the crescent of your neck as he sinks into you. The people, his duel; none of it matter when you embrace him this close against you, the adrenaline of your unbound joy, his impressive triumph settling into your thundering heart, you feel pressed against him.

His soft, heavy laughter curls pleasant into your ears. “To the victor go the spoils, I guess.” He breathes. “Although this treasure seems particularly eager on jumping into my arms herself.”

“Of course I am.” You press yourself away from him enough to afford yourself a proper survey of his face. “Gods, you were brilliant. Thank you, Sylus.”

His thumb brushes just beneath your eye; a slow, testing touch. His gaze simmers in unusual, unexpected gentleness that siphons the breath from your lungs. “You need never thank me for anything, sweetheart, let alone this. I do not want it.”

Your own relief blooming into a smile, but before you can respond; an unpleasant, harsh voice fractures through the air — the Magistrate seething and raging as he makes his way over to you both, an army of guards right behind. Clearly, the man could not stomach a sore loss; rabid fire and venom within his gaze as he trudges toward you, screaming obscenities.

“Step back for a bit, kitten.” And you obey without further prompting, granting Sylus a wide berth for whatever he plans on doing.

He doesn’t spare a moment longer before he’s striding forward, snatching one of the Magistrate’s unconscious minions off the ground. Hoisting him high up by the scruff of his neck. The Magistrate’s steps stagger just then at Sylus’s mad display, perhaps sensing the disaster he’s called upon him.

But it’s far too late. “Here, have a present from all of Lungtang, Sire.” Sylus tows his arm back, wide, and aims — to the scurrying cries of the Magistrate — before he violently hurls the man in hand, right at the waddling official, bowling him and half his guards over like a stack of gambling plaques.

“Sylus.” You gasp at his insane spectacle.

Before the corrupt, toppled lot can even think to get their bearings back, Sylus is strolling back toward you; a quick flourish of a large hand thrown over his shoulder, in signal. “Take care of them,” he instructs out loud.

A swarm of dark clad men melt away, on his sole command, from the crowds, to pack around the Magistrate and his men, blotting their figures entirely out of your sight. “Come on.” Sylus’s voice fractures through your reverie, his frame crowding your field of vision.

“Whe— aah!” A hefty arm swoops beneath the back of your legs, sending frantic fingers scrabbling for purchase against the strength of Sylus’s shoulders as he hoists you up against his body. “What’re you doing?”

He flashes a devious grin up at you, completely at odds against the bewildered shock you know is wide across your face. “Time to get out of here, sweetheart,” is all he offers in response before he’s sweeping you away from the pandemonium he’s wrought and the boisterous crowd; discarding all of that well-earned glory behind.

The throng of on-goers tapers out the farther you get on to the road winding away from the arena; curious and awed looks alike garnered your way: at your position, and at the man — the infamous Onychinus head — who strolls easy through the streets of Lungtang, in possession of the strange woman he carries snug on the crook of an arm.

A flush creeping hot up your face the longer this spectacle goes on until Sylus’s pace — thank the Gods above — dwindles to a halt. “This should be far enough.”

“Yes, thank you. Put me down now.” Tapping fraught fingers against his shoulders in emphasis. Sylus raises a sculpted brow at you but relents, nonetheless. He steps past the mouth of the nearest back-street, well clear of people, before he helps you down onto your feet.

You lean a hand across his arm, taking a moment to scramble your bearings back.

“The brief walk back has you this out of breath, huh?” You turn a half-hearted frown at his mild ribbing; the man barely having broken a sweat himself, for having carried you all the way down here.

“I wasn’t the one who asked you to lug me the entire way, you know,” you return.

“What can I say, sweetheart? I’m rather protective of my treasures being made to rot too long among the grime.” He gently pinches your cheek in between thick, tapered digits; voice descending to a softer baritone. “And I won, as promised.” Long, tapered fingers skim heat across the angle of your cheekbone. “So, you’ll give me a pass this once, won’t you?”

Vivid scarlet flitters in inscrutable emotion to witness you cup careful palms about his own, as he touches you.

“You also pulled that insane stunt with that sleaze of a magistrate at the end there. I don’t know how you plan on getting out of that one,” you point out, but there is no actual heat to your accusation.

He exhales a half-laugh. “That’s probably long taken care of.” Stroking the fall of your hair back against your ear. “No one will come after you now.”

You step closer to him. “You do know I’m capable of worrying about you too, right? I’m not heartless.” His mouth quirks at your peeved admission. “...You’re important to me Sylus.”

A streak of something akin to surprise fulgurates for a moment’s notice within that garnet gaze, at your confession.

Your fingers trek a steady path against the painted beads of your necklace dangling at his chest. “Although I do hope you’ll never pull something like this on my behalf, ever again.” He'd brought it back to you, safe and unscathed, just as he’d said — a vow made, he had honoured.

Relief was still warm within your chest, along with the turbulence of long nursed vexing emotions, brought forth to the surface — for a man you’d known for almost half your life — by the day’s sequence of events. “I don’t think my heart could handle it.” You huff out a soft laugh.

An inscrutable emotion streaks across Sylus’s face, too quick to pick apart until it retreats entirely once more.

“Unfortunately for you,” long, tapered digits sweep about yours at his chest, capturing your hand steady within his grip. “that’s not a pledge I can offer you.” His whisper is low, throaty as it settles against you and you realize the sudden proximity of your positions.

His striking face is all that floods your vision. His gaze flickers from yours, down toward the bow of your parted lips — a remiss on his part, you can tell from how it rolls back swift to catch your eyes once more. If you did not know any better, you might’ve almost thought he meant to lean further and—

But was it really the mad conjuring of your mind and a reluctantly hopeful heart that wished to see what it thought it did? Or had you been this obtuse on purpose all along?

Your brow knits in consternation; this far removed from the persistent babbling of voices — your anxieties, the people, his duel, your uncertain fates at the time — and sequestered within the quiet alley; your roiling thoughts are loud and insistent.

“And why’s that, Sylus?” You ask quietly.

The skewed pull of his mouth is devastatingly beautiful even in its lack of mirth, this up close. “I think you know the answer to that, sweetheart. Or are you going to pretend otherwise?” His thumb strokes its gentle path across your knuckles — lighting an incendiary course — your hand still placed firm at his chest. “Whatever your choice, however, know it has always been yours to make.”

The muted, steady beats of his heart beneath your palm seem to thrum past the sensitive pads of your digits as they skim a line past his pectorals, and up your body, warming it from the inside out.

You swallow against the surge of a nervous fever that takes you all at once; ploughing past that pluck of anxiety at your chest, to bet your entirety on the one gamble you’re about to make.

“Come to think of it.” Pink tongue slinks past a mouth parched, to trek a slow path across your bottom lip, end to end; the intolerable burning intensity of Sylus’s scarlet gaze scouring each single motion, sending your light-headedness thrumming higher. “You haven’t truly won yet, have you, Sylus?”

“What?” He exhales heavily. His breathing has quickened just a snick higher, you notice, underneath your feathering ministrations. You’re fascinated by how he sounds much short of breath in this one instant than he did throughout the entirety of that match. The fact sending a deluge of warm pride and desire threading through your heart.

“A winner is only one when he has been crowned as such, and received his dues.” You clarify, shifting closer against him.

Stretching up on the balls of your feet until you’re a mere hair’s breadth from his face. “You however, have yet to claim your prize.” Sweeping forward until your lips are skimming against his in a tentative, testing brush of kiss — your hammering thoughts of uncertainty, of whether he wants this too, swiped clean with the soft, guttural choke of sound that slips past Sylus’s lips at your brazen initiative. And before you can bask under the simmering warmth of what that sound does to you, Sylus is curving a large palm firm within the thread of your locks, wrenching your mouth back against his in a bruising, fervid kiss.

Eager fingers skitter at the strength of his shoulders to ground yourself against the sudden, pleasurable onslaught just as he captures your waist within the ironed grip of an arm. Almost lifting you up entirely against him until you’re suspended barely at the tips of your toes.

His grunts are warm against the inside of your mouth as his tongue skims past the easy access of your parted lips to taste you against himself. The wet muscle sliding against yours before he sucks it into his own mouth on an approving groan of desire.

You're nearly nerveless by the time he parts from you on a wet stretch of sound, barely enough distance, his breath cascades hot against your damp lips with each guttural word, keying you higher. “This is getting a bit too dangerous, kitten. I suggest we stop here if you don’t wish to reach a point of no-return.”

“No. No,” Your hands flit in fervent frenzy from the stretch of his shoulders to bunch into the thick silver weave of his hair. “We don’t ever need to stop. I want this, I want you, if you do too.” Your mouth descending back against his in the dizzy crush of lips and tongue, Sylus’s groans of pleasure you drink down against your own moan.

“There hasn’t been a single moment where I haven’t desired you, sweetheart.” He whispers in harsh breaths into the pocket of space you allow him in between your kisses. “You’re the one who said it now. So, brace yourself.”

A hand you skim down the thick length of his neck, grazing at the base of his hair to support yourself against the large arms that cage your waist to lift until he’s driving you both back against the wall of the narrow alleyway, shrouding you deeper into shadows.

His kiss of gentle affection skids past the cut of your cheek, so at odds against the fierce brunt of his arousal you feel grinding into your belly. You buck against the touch just as Sylus eases you down, only enough you’re on your feet now; bodies still moulded tight against the shape of each other.

His mouth continues its work of feathering kisses across the curve of your cheek, down the delicate line of your jaw. His hips stroking against yours in gentle motions, sending the roll of his hard length against your stomach each time he guides you against himself, having you squirm in roiling pleasure, helpless against the insistence of his mouth and pelvis. Meeting his body with yours in the reflexive buck of your hips against his.

The elongated stretch of your skirt, sending a mild frisson of frustration through your nerves to feel the restriction of your movements against his. Groaning in soft defeat against Sylus’s mouth over yours, just as he cups a large hand about the angle of your pelvis. Caressing past the flare of your behind, rucking up the fabric within a tight fist to slide it, far too slow, up your legs.

A final brush of temporary farewell he kisses against your drenched lips before he descends, unhurried, down the length of your body; scarlet gaze refusing to relent from yours for even a single measured moment of mercy. A thick palm he traces, appreciative, down the curves of you as he pitches on to his knees.

Thumb warming its touch against the edge of a knee, your skirts bunched at the hand fastened about your leg as it caresses a slow, sensual path up higher. The glorious sight he is, down on his knees in between the willing split of your legs; undoing in its entirety — you shudder at the devastation he brings upon you when his fingers hone their target upon the cloth of your underwear at your hip. Skating a delicate path against the knot of it before his index slips underneath it to tug undone.

Wresting your underwear away entirely on his next sharp tug before he sweeps the mortifyingly damp cloth away from your body and under his nose for a long, obscene inhale. “You smell sweet, kitten. So much of this pretty nectar, all for me... I admit I’m more than a little flattered.” The skew of his devious smirk pulls wider at your choked sound of pleasure to witness him swipe your underwear down against his back, and pocket into the satchel at his belt.

“Sylus,” you reprimand half-heartedly, in distressed urgency.

“The victor takes it all, does he not? These are my spoils to have now, kitten.” His large palms are back at the skin of your legs, skimming a dizzying, scorching path up the quiver of your thighs. “Just as you are, the treasure I snatched for myself.”

“Let me indulge in my private feast, quietly now.” He baits in heated whispers, jaw falling open as he disappears in between the heavy folds of your skirt and — Heaven help you — the sound that scrapes raw past your throat to feel the tease of his broad tongue against your drenched slit, is unlike any you’ve ever heard before. The high-pitched squeal you cut off in the hasty wrench of your bottom lip into your mouth, heated desire clouding your swimming vision to tamp down your moans of arousal, lest any passers-by, just a few feet away from your shadowed alcove, spot the indecency of your display.

Thoughts drifting into emptiness — musing absent at how self-conscious you’d been while Sylus had carried you within his arms all the way out here; fully clothed then. And yet, here you were now, with your skirts bunched high up against your pelvis with that very same man’s wonderful tongue shoved deep inside you.

The hot pads of Sylus’s index and middle you feel skim against the tight bead of pleasure at your apex, just as the point of his tongue seeps in at your entrance, sending your hips stuttering into his steeled grip, fast at your pelvis.

You clamp a palm shut tight against your tapering moans, unable to smother them within yourself any longer. The heated plumes of your own breath crowding back against you with each shivered moan Sylus forces out of you.

His mouth brushes about the length of your folds, the bow of his upper lip bumping gentle at your tight bundle of nerves. Before he closes it within the searing heat of his mouth, sucking at your increasingly swollen flesh.

Sylus draws at the drenched slick of you like a man intent on devouring you whole, the thought drives your pleasure higher along with the rising euphoria bubbling within your body. A curious thumb parts your inner folds wider to admit the broad of his tongue deep into your slit. Your walls spasming against the breach of it as your hips judder down against the strength of his jaw.

“You’re close, aren’t you sweetheart? You can keep up a little longer.” His smothered encouragement, the vibrations of his thick voice right against your slit send you tumbling higher upon that precipice of sweet release.

The added, ruinous excitement of not being able to see him past the abundant frill of your skirts blazes you higher; the sole nervous anticipation of not knowing where he’d touch you next has you gushing on his tongue.

A low, soft curse you hear spill guttural against your folds, vibrating straight up into your womb, “You’re practically weeping on my tongue, sweetheart. I like that.” Your answering moan you bury into a bite of your sleeve as you fold your arm about your face; a full body quiver long having taken you. You no longer hold control over yourself. “Grind down on my face, relax yourself. Yes, there’s my good girl now.”

The praise having your walls grip hard at the fingers he’s worked into you now. Propelling them at an indolent, maddening pace into your depths.

“Sylus,” you pant harshly, mind numbing into a crescendo. “I don’t — hah — can’t — much longer.” Begging for a release so, so close at hand.

“Then don’t . Let yourself go.” His groans muted against the wet heat of you. “I’ll catch you when you fall.”

The crook of his middle and ring fingers up into you has you spasming against the intrusive stretch of them. Opening you up deeper; the deft pads of them scrounge up a spot against your frontal walls that has your mouth flying open on a silent scream, head falling back against the unyielding brick of the alley as your fluttering insides clamp down violent against his adroit handling of you. “Right here, is it?” You think you hear his muted whispers spill throaty against the sensitive expanse of your thigh.

Right at the junction of your hip as Sylus sinks a bite into the pliant flesh just as his thick fingers rub up against that same weak spot inside to have you disintegrating into senselessness right above him.

You can’t fathom how he’s brought you to such complete devastation in just a few, nimble strokes of his tongue and fingers into you, against you. Never having been dragged this fast or good to the precipice by your own hand, let alone another’s. He’s away each layer of defence, piece by excruciating piece, having worked you open so thoroughly as if he knew your body like his own.

Truly a man that sought relentless victory even in between the fall of your legs.

And it is only when that pleasure point is one keyed far too high, with the incessant press of his third finger up into your walls, stretching you open — so incredibly full of just his digits alone — does your body fall. No longer capable of protecting yourself against the battering deluge of a release so consuming, your knees buckle underneath the hefty intensity of his ministrations.

Sylus’s large hand, you feel warm about your rump, to curve its easy support about it, as he presses his face further into you. Waves upon waves of pleasure, drowning your keening cries against your well-abused bottom lip. A faint frisson of overstimulation stringing you higher to gain enough conscious thought back to catch his low, guttural growl searing harsh at your drenched folds, at the sensation of you gushing all over his tongue.

You quiver in nerveless arousal to feel the fleeting brush of his kiss farewell against your slit before he rises, slow, onto his feet once more. Your body clenches in on instinctual need to catch sight of his face once more. The slick that glimmers obscenely copious across his mouth and down the strength of his jaw, the untamed, almost bestial intensity to that barely tamped heat within scarlet, as Sylus sweeps a careful thumb against your wetness has you unfurling trembling digits forward to snag around his neck, dragging him down against yourself.

Consuming the ferocity of his kiss just as eagerly in the tongue you lap at his lips, slipping along the angle of his jaw; moaning softly at the taste of you that clings still to him. Restless fingers steal in between your bodies to reach for the arousal that strains delectable and intimidating against his trousers.

Flittering your digits about the catch of them as you work them open enough along with the thick fingers that aid you to release him free for your hungry gaze. Your audible gasp of pleasure Sylus captures against the pad of his thumb edging just past the part of your lips.

He’s incredibly blessed, bigger, girthier than any you’ve ever had before. The prospect of taking that thing inside your body simultaneously terrifies and excites you.

Your dazed musings Sylus fractures in the cup of your jaw in between firm, gentle digits. “Nervous?”

“...A bit,” you admit. Adding for good measure, “Nothing I can’t handle, though.” An expectant hand you move to curve about the breadth of him to make your point — fingers barely able to cup entirely about him.

Sylus’s laughter is a low, heavy burst of sound. “Don’t worry, kitten.” He reaches down to join his fingers against yours in languidly stroking the length of him. Coasting in close to your ear as he lays a kiss of dark, hoarse promise against it, “I’ll teach you to do more than just handle it.”

Your pleased moan you throttle against his quick, vehement kiss as Sylus gathers the folds of your skirt up to bunch about your hips. Fitting himself into the space he makes, his arousal glancing hot against your outer labia; feeling him so close to where your body clenches in on tense anticipation.

He withdraws from you on a wet slip of tongue, seizing your gaze within his. The firm fist he strokes at his length guiding the flared, slick head of him against your folds to lubricate in your wetness, bumping pleasant at your sensitive bead of nerves on each indolent stroke.

You buck your hips up against his in an impatient scratch of throaty sound. Slipping the head of him so close against your slit, it almost makes you dizzy with need.

You are not, however, prepared truly for the actual breach of him as he splits you open in pleasure so blinding, it streaks right against your tender bead and up deep into your belly. Sylus’s guttural groans brand hot against the crescent of your neck in overwhelmed desire, a muted swear swallowed into the bite of teeth he presses into it. “Relax yourself a little, kitten, you’ve gone too tight on me.”

You try, you truly do as you smother past your burning need to scream, for breaths to claw into your lungs; he feels too much, too good all at once, your body incapable of doing much else except accepting the slow propulsion of him deeper into your walls.

He feels almost too much for you to handle, spearing you open so far around him you didn’t even think yourself capable of such a feat. And yet, the copious arousal that slicks in between your bodies, with the voracious clench of your walls around the hard strength of him, sucking him inside, speaks volumes. Of how you’re thoroughly enjoying the feeling of being impaled upon his length.

“More,” you pant; the slow thrusts of his hips up into yours sending your lashes flittering shut, in overwhelming euphoria and need. “I need more, Sylus.”

He grunts in acknowledgment, large hands fixing hot fetters of flesh against either side of your pelvis as he thrusts into you, each swollen stroke of his arousal sending him impossibly deep, until you feel it may truly reach your womb.

Sylus heaves himself closer into you, nearly pinning you against the wall with the sheer strength of his towering body, the heavy pumping of his hips into you, sending euphoria skating through your veins. Intoxicated on feeling the way he moves within you.

A hand drifts up from your hip to grip at the flare of your waist beneath cloth as Sylus manoeuvres your body to thrust into you at an angle that drives him hard against your swollen spot of pleasure inside.

Your hands fly in agonized frenzy to clutch at his arms, his shoulders as you grapple with the blinding pleasure he’s carving into your body. His head skews downward to catch the sensitive flesh of your neck in between the bite of restive teeth, a low moan wrenched free of your throat. His mouth strokes down the length of your skin until he teeths at the fastenings of your collar, wrenching violent at the buttons before he scatters them apart. Mouth engulfing the exposed slope of your clavicle in fervid groans.

Your fingers skitter for purchase into the silver brush of hair at the base of his neck, tugging harsh with his increasingly heavy pace. A low whine clambering past your throat when his grip upon your body tightens once more in purpose, dragging his length to the near tip of him before he rams back into you on a guttural snarl so primal, it has you violently spasming about his thick shaft, your vision blanking in for a moment.

Sylus’s face is a flood of savage bliss and heated concentration — the sight along with his pleasurably punishing thrusts into your walls — has your heart nearly trying to rip past the bruising beat of it at your breastbone. Hips meeting his in stuttering thrusts as your body bows up, sharp, toward him to chase a height of euphoria so in sight.

“You’re moaning so loud, kitten.” His throaty chuckle stirs weighty into your belly. “Keep that up and you’ll draw us an audience.” Gnawing weakly at your bottom lip to instinctively tamp your sounds just as Sylus moves to drive into you on a particularly ruinous, deliberate thrust that has your legs buckling entirely underneath you.

But he’s there to catch you, thick forearms cording about the feeble, trembling plush of your thighs before he hoists you up entirely onto him; his hushed chuckle drifting into guttural laughter. “Why try being quiet on your own when you can just make use what you have at your disposal?” His lips drive against yours in a vehement kiss of teeth and tongue, devouring you, just the way he is in between your legs. You let yourself go at last, moaning unabated into the searing warmth of his mouth, Sylus’s pace turning to near-frenzied rutting, with the sounds he wrenches from your bruised throat.

He forces you deeper against the wall, spearing you helpless in between the cool stone at your back and the unforgiving intensity of his drilling thrusts pillaging your body. Golden deep pleasure roiling pleasant just beneath your skin, to push at the confines, until you feel like you could float out of it heavenward and never return to the ground.

Your fevered gaze snags against the painted beads of your gifted charm about his neck, swinging vehement with the force of his propulsions. Drifting absent fingers against the worn orbs of the necklace, mushed mind admiring how truly lovely he looks like this for you; coupled along with that tight knit of concentrated pleasure, it makes you believe he truly is all yours to have. As if he belongs to you, with you.

That sole, deranged thought sending arousal thrumming within, so blinding, your body quivers into the tight curve of a crescent, pressing hard against his chest, a peak so close, you can feel it stirring vicious into your belly. “You’re all mine to have, aren’t you? My great warrior,” you gasp against his mouth, trembling fingers sweeping for the broad strength of his shoulders as your nails drive in, harsh.

Sylus’s response; groaned heavy against your tongue, without hesitation. “You’ve always had me in my entirety, sweetheart.”

Your body has wholly given up — a leaden weight — within his grasp, held together only by the strength of Sylus’s arms curving steeled grips about your thighs. Pounding into you with each fervid roll of his hips slapping against the back of your thighs — the profuse flow of your arousal sweltering in between your already burning bodies, the obscene squelch of it each time he withdraws from your walls only to drive back in with savage, terrifying accuracy, rutting himself so good against the spot inside that has you quivering uncontrollably around the length of him.

Your combined sultry symphony so loud within your ears, drumming along with the thundering of your heart, you’re sure any passers-by crossing the mouth of the alley would be able to hear. Your cotton-fed mind so far gone, however, you’re no longer coherent enough to care about anyone hearing your claims upon each other’s bodies. So deeply entrenched in the sole existence of Sylus: his body, tongue, his bruising grip upon you, you love so much — scoring stinging crescents as your own signs of victory, across the broad strength of his shoulders, down the firm muscle of his arms, serving to drive him only harder into you until he’s knocking half-screams out of your throat. Swallowing them up against the hungry sweep of his tongue.

Sylus’s thrusts into your body have turned erratic, his guttural moans heating your skin into a blazing furnace. You’re so close to release, you can feel the heavy crest of its deluge approaching — golden and ruinous.

His grip upon the flare of your hip shifts, pressing you impossibly deeper against him, the new angle driving the length of him against your sensitive bundle of nerves on each hammering thrust. “A-Almost—” Gasping a breathless warning.

Hurtling you so high; the frenzied pump of his hips into yours, the constant stimulation at your swollen bead sending your walls spasming so violent, you feel Sylus loose a long, guttural groan deep into your mouth. You tumble off the precipice of release just as you feel the first thick spurts of his seed searing fire against your sensitized walls; Sylus’s sultry growls keying your frenzied release so high your fingers scrape across the back of his neck to tug him harsh against your mouth. Sinking your quivering, heated desires into a vehement bite at his chest, Sylus’s digits weaving tight into your hair at the back of your head, to hold you there.

His thundering pulse you moan against in appreciation, laving absent to soothe the reddening bite at his skin, as your body convulses with the still flowing spurts of his release, stroking at the intoxicating fever of your prolonged orgasm, filling you to the brim and over; the warmth of it you feel drip past your folds and onto his sturdy thighs.

Taking several, long much needed moments to compose yourself as your sweat-slick face falls, nerveless, to press your cheek against the damp expanse of his chest, body still suspended firm upon the corded strength of his arms, his cock nestled snug and thick within you.

You claw a much-needed gulp of air past a throat, long sore. “...I fear you may have to carry me here on out, as well, Sylus, because I certainly can’t move an inch right now.”

His amused chuckle drifts warm against the top of your head. “While joined together just like this?” He teases softly. “You may truly pass out of sheer embarrassment this time if I do, kitten.”

“Doesn’t matter,” you quip right back, half-hearted, canting a languid gaze up his way. “I think I’ll be long knocked out before any pesky shame kicks in, from how good this — you were.”

You feel Sylus’s length twitch within your walls at your words, groaning quietly at the growing strain of his arousal, back to half-mast already. Truly, was there a limit to the man’s enduring stores of stamina?

But perhaps, the real question was of your own insatiable appetite too, when it came to him, as you were only newly discovering — your wrecked body responding in the muted burn of arousal, kindling into slow fire within your belly, clenching weakly at him.

“Tell you what, sweetheart.” Sylus’s skewed grin tucks against your ear as he nuzzles at your cheek. “I’ll carry you out of here in my arms, as you wish, without the additional parade of our naked bodies. In return,” A kiss he feathers, against the angle of your cheekbone. “Come home with me.” He asks of you, softly.

You bury your approval in the nudge of your nose against him, catching his lips against yours in a gentle, chaste kiss, “Sounds like a done deal to me, my handsome warrior.”

End Notes: Thank you for reading! This was a very fun indulgence and I hope everyone who bagged Sylus’ card enjoyed his soft card story.

Tagging as requested: @samanthagnicole , @catboi-anon , @bitches4lifebro , @beebumbo , @hellinistical , @dangerousluv1 , @webmvie , @Cas-tiel13 , @aria-tempest , @raendarkfaerie , @lamentinee , @unhingedsillygod , @tiredas , @ladyparamount

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If you’d like to be tagged in my future stories, you can fill this short form here. If you’d like to be removed, shoot me a DM!

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netherfeildren · 5 days ago

Text

Busy, Dying. Part 1;

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: In an in-between place called his life, Joel Miller is alone. In search of a cure. In need of a miracle. In want of God.

Can I interest you in a cure for loneliness? She'd asked him in a language without words. Taking it is the easy part. Letting her go is impossible.

-OR-

an a/b/o soulmates AU

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: No Outbreak AU, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Soulmates AU, Infidelity, Cheating, HEA!!!!!, Angst, Fluff & Smut, Mating Bites, Knotting, Heat Sex, Breeding Kink, Group Therapy, Social Experiments, Basically puppy training for unsocialized Alphas, And by God that man will be house trained by the time she’s done with him!, Complicated family dynamics, Discussions of self harm, Depression, Existential Angst, Author returns not with a whimper but with a KNOT, I wrote this in a very unserious state of mind beware

A/N: Gray November, I've been down since July - but we're so back, baby. I’ve missed this so bad. I’ve missed you all, I won’t drone on and on. I hope you enjoy, and please talk to me in the comments. Update me on what I’ve missed, let me know how you’ve been and what’s happening in your life.

A great heartfelt thank you to all of my wonderful friends who so supportively cheered me on while I struggled to write this. Sincerely the best people I know.

Love you all madly.

Word Count: 6.5K

Read on AO3

Part 1;

The old linoleum tiles are the most peculiar shade of puce, and Joel has realized that there is someone sitting at the back of the room who smells… strange.

More brown than purple—an ugly color. There’s something about it that fascinates him.

The woman that is currently speaking tells of her husband; it’s the only tale she has to tell. She’s been doing it for weeks, and they all know it well by now. Older, omega, the woman, and at the latter and less comely stage of life. Most of them here can say the same. They usually give their names, those that get up to share—although it’s never a requirement when you attend, it is highly encouraged—the sharing, he means—but he never pays much mind to them—the names, that is. That’s not what he’s here for after all—to make friends. Although, he does see how that’d be the initial assumption.

Joel Miller is here for something more specific.

Six weeks he’s been showing up to these things now, and he’s yet to take a turn. He tells himself he’s working up to it.

What that specific thing is…he hasn’t quite figured out. He’s listening for it, though, and intently, even if he does skip over the names. It’s the details of what they’re telling that matter to him. The hows and intricate whys of what it is that brought them here today.

Her youth had been spent on a drunk, the woman is saying—her husband—and he’d been cruel to her in those days when there was still currency to spend in the form of her vitality. Joel nods at the puce—yes, he thinks, that’s usually the way of it. But later, there’s more to the story she reminds her audience, he drank himself into a fit, and had never been right since. The cruelty had been taken away from the marriage after that, and she’d been put in charge.

“But I wonder,” she says, “If sometimes I don’t miss it, the way he’d been,” —if the reason she was here now, with all of the rest of them that were just like her in their own unique ways, was that she’d been left lonely after her cruel husband had been exchanged for a sick one.

Joel nods again and wonders what sort of face the woman wears as she confesses but doesn’t bother to check. No matter, he knows they’re the same. If not in designation, then in heart.

It’s easy, that thing, he does it too, to wish for the bad. To want to hold on to it, the thing that hurts. Addictive, even, in some cases. Missing it is easy.

It’s why he’s here.

And it’s what they promise you. In their flyers and pamphlets, when they stand on the corners of streets talking people up wearing that look in their eye and that slouch in their step, when they smell it on you—or in the lack there of—a mate or a purpose.

Welcome to our meeting. We’re here to find the cure for loneliness.

That’s what they promise you when you come here.

It’d been that word: loneliness, actually, that had caught him. L-O-N-E-liness. There was something attractive about it to him. Not a label but a state.

You see, it was like this: Joel had seen a therapist once, several years ago, against his will and at the behest of another, who’d said all the wrong things in all the wrong ways.

“You sound depressed, Joel,” the therapist had told him.

He’d worn horn rimmed glasses and had a shiny bald head he could see the reflection of the overhead lights in. And worse—the non-scent of a beta which told him they’d never understand each other in the ways Joel longed to be understood. He’d—not hated him, necessarily—but felt an immense apathy for the man; more so than the regular apathy he felt for most things in his life.

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Very, very sad,” was the official diagnosis.

Joel hadn’t liked the sound of the word. The label. He did not like that a word so succinct could be ascribed to him and all that had happened to him in his life. There was no word for it. It just was.

But there was something different about a state of aloneness, which if attributed to himself, he could accept. He had been left alone, in ways. It was a tangible thing he could look around a room inside of himself and recognize.

They’re meetings, is what this place is—encounter groups this coalition offers where lonely demi humans can come to congregate, discuss their aloneness, what had led them to such a state; their lack of attachments, connections, mates—alpha, omega. Held in the basement of the Emmanuel Episcopal Church on Newbury street, right between his shop and house, although they never talk about religion which he likes because he doesn’t believe in religion.

God is still under review.

He wonders if the Catholics wouldn’t have them.

Sitting forward in his seat, the metal folding chair that always leaves his back aching something fierce, he presses his elbows into his knees to distract with alternative pressure. Focusing on his fingers woven together between his spread legs, he tries to pay attention to the man who’s stood up to speak now. Older than himself, late sixties, no children, no family, no nothin’; he’d run them all off.

But Joel is distracted.

The smell is stronger now. Stranger too. Something full bodied, but metallic like rust, astringent bleach, built in a way that forces saliva to pool heavy between his suddenly aching gums. A mask that sits atop something of a much different chemical architecture—that’s the strange part.

Or—no. The back of his neck itches, and Joel lifts a palm to cup his nape, quell the sting, feel the tender mark. No. The strange part is not the illusion of the smell. What it is, actually, is that he’s fairly certain what he’s smelling is someone else's blockers. Something which he’s positive he’s never consciously noticed on another person in the thirty plus years since he’d presented as an alpha.

He has, suddenly, the quite intense urge to peek over his shoulder, certain that he’ll be caught smelling things he has no business smelling. That there will be someone just there, breathing down the nape of his neck with accusation on their tongue—boo!

Silly. But he’d known today would not be a good day.

It’d started off wrong. The milk had gone sour overnight, the check engine light had come on in his truck, all his socks were suddenly mismatched with not a single pair to be found, and his usual route to work had been waylaid by some freak accident. A tree split in half, one side into a house, the other into the road. Not a sign of lightning in the sky all night long.

Perhaps he might be compelled to believe in God after all.

Joel does not like it when things are out of order or out of the ordinary. His life was organized in a way that never caused him strife or excess. And it was not that he was stuck in his ways, only that he enjoyed his routine and disliked when things were not as they should be. And this—whatever it is he’s smelling, whoever—is not as it should be.

The older gentleman, an Alpha too, is still speaking. He had a daughter, has, who no longer speaks to him. Won’t even take his money. He’d had a long career in government that’d filled him with greed and paranoia and a radical view of life that refused to align with the way young people saw the world now. Perhaps he’d tried to change at certain times, but he was old and set in his ways. Or maybe he hadn’t wanted to change as badly as he should have when he still had the chance to. Happily stuck in the past. His wife had died, and his daughter had gone away from him. Too tired of his mediocrity as a father to give him another chance.

The man sounds like he feels sorry for himself. Like he thinks himself the victim, and this one, Joel does look up at. He looks old and worn down, heavy beer pouch and thinning hair and sagging jowls. A sad and lonely man. Joel wonders if that’s how he looks to the other people in this room, as well.

“No man knows how bad he is until he has tried very hard to be good.” Joel blinks, looks at him more closely, tries very hard to find similarities between themselves. But no—not quite right, not the thing he’s looking for. Their plight is different. This man is not alone, he’s got his weakness to keep him company.

The one thing Joel had fought like hell to keep out of his repertoire of issues. He’d run from even the possibility of it as soon as she was dead, left Texas straight for the Northeast and from thereafter, everything he’d done, he’d done with a staunchness of character. If at the end of it, that staunchness was made up of apathy or numbness or dissociative fury, well, then at least he wasn’t still that man who’d been too weak to save his daughter.

That counted very much in Joel’s book.

An overabundance of cold numbness, little anger, everything a static haze—an abstinent winter. That was his whole life. But then, look at him now, he was here, wasn’t he? He’d taken that brochure handed to him on that last warm Tuesday weeks ago as he’d headed back to the shop from lunch.

Hello, sir. Could I interest you in a cure for loneliness? The young omega had said.

It’d started like anything—an experiment or a desperate ploy. The monotony had been steady going the past few years, getting older, colder. He’d grown hard and solitary around his wound, loneliness spread like a fungus, and he’d longed for any sort of change.

“A cure…how?” The terrible shrink had come to mind.

“Oh, nothing to fret over.” The young man had a nice smile, Joel remembers. Kind and straight toothed. Honest in the way that a stranger knocking on your door to sell you a Bible seems honest. “We call it an encounter group. People come, share, tell the tales of their designation and their lives. In the end, the result is different for different people. Some move on to a second step if they need more. Others find what they’re looking for just through the connection of sharing. But no matter the result, you’ll see, you’ll be cured. Promise.” He’d winked, smile deepening, giving him an appreciative once over at the end of his spiel. Joel had blinked back, surprised, confused, but curiosity peaked enough he’d obsessed over it for three short days before he’d found himself stepping into the molted incense smell of the belly of a church so dimly lit he was sure not even God peaked in this sad space any longer.

“It’s that easy?” Joel had asked, childlike in his throat-strangled hope.

“That easy.”

It seemed the smile had been honest enough to sell him the Bible.

The scent insists upon itself as the older gentleman finishes up, and Joel’s nose tickles with whatever it is it’s whispering at him. He wants to get up and walk out, run away, but suddenly his gut is tight and hot, and he isn’t sure he can actually stand up without disgracing himself in front of all these people. A wash of agonized heat moves through him, confused at what’s suddenly happening to his body.

“We have a newcomer today sharing for the first time,” Maria, the woman who leads the group, says at the front of the room. “Everyone give her a warm welcome, it’s her first day and already she’s brave enough to jump on up here.”

There’s the shuffling of bodies in their seats, a cleared throat, the man sitting behind Joel breathes so loudly he thinks he’s gotta have some sort of medical condition, the puce turns more hideous by the second, and his own heart is beating so hard in his ears the rush of blood is dizzying. He feels each thump of the thing against his breast bone in some sick imitation of a fist begging to be let out.

The new voice begins as nothing but a murmur.

An introduction—he misses the name. His breathing goes shallow, he’d tip over in his seat if he didn’t have both boots planted firmly against the puce. The voice gains strength and with it, Joel wishes he’d been paying attention from the start. He didn’t get to hear her name.

It’s a girl.

She’d run away from home in the spring of her sixteenth year to join the opera, she tells them. Had come upon the city in roaring spring and thought the rest of her life would be exactly like that, pure novelty in bloom, nothing like what she’d left behind. And was deeply disappointed when the reality was nothing such.

And Joel hears it, that disappointment in her voice at what she’d not been able to find after searching for it so religiously. This is what makes him look up at her. This, unlike all the others, he thinks he can relate to—just by the sound of her voice. The search for a thing lost which can never again be found. The fruitlessness of it all.

At that first vulnerable, terrified glance, she’s already staring at him, eyes catching like hooks.

He blinks once, twice—color—is sure he can hear the movement of his eyelashes passing through the air, the stick of his lids meeting—color—bright. This is it.

That wash of heat turns into a blaze, every single bead of sweat blooming on his brow is a tell evaporating into the ether. This is what he’d sensed from the start of the evening. Maybe even from the moment he’d seen that split maple.

“My mother always said I needed to be stronger, bolder, not so sensitive.” She looks away from him now. “I grew up in an angry house where you had to fight tooth and nail not to be overrun. Because of this, I left it at a very young age, and it was the greatest fight I could muster, abandoning that house of anger. I found myself something to bring me what I thought would be joy, a job and a city, and for a time, it was enough. But starting your lonely life so young…it’s hard.” After a pause of breath, “It’s been hard.”

“And it’s made me never want to have to—exert myself,” she says, searching for the right words, smiling when she finds them, and Joel has the urgency to smile back. “Now, I never want to have to be strong. I never want to have to try. I want to only be the way that I am. If that’s weak or sensitive or whatever it might be at any given moment, I don’t care. I don’t want to have to fight. I never want to be in an angry house again. I want someone who’ll see this in me and understand and never make me work for it, that they would give it to me willingly, easily, without me having to ask. Do you understand?” She looks about the room, and he hopes her eyes will land on him again, and even though they don’t, he feels she’s speaking directly to him. He nods, the hook of her temptation cast beneath his chin. “This is a fantasy. And it makes for a lonely existence. This idea of how I need it to be for it to be right—love.” She looks down at her hands folded atop the podium where they go to stand at the front of the group and share, and he wills her gaze to find him amidst the crowd again. “It’s so difficult. And this might seem very bad to you, weak willed, but it’s not. It’s only very honest. Which can never be a bad way to be.” That’s why she’s here, she tells them.

Finally, she looks back at him, and it’s that loneliness of two people amidst a crowd, facing one another, knowing themselves mirrored against the other and yet still disparate. There’s something indecent about the way she looks at him in front of all these people, the way he, in turn, looks back. A little bit like finding your own face on a stranger's body in a crowded room. Color rises to his face, and she gives him that same elusive smile from before.

He’s the one to look away this time.

As the crowd disperses for coffee and pastries after the last of the speakers, he searches for her. He needs to ask her name, feels as if he’s some blighted creature without it, swears he’ll never forgo attention during a meeting again if he can fish it out of her.

He finds her at the dessert table, Maria at her side and a hand at her shoulder. Something of a thank you is being imparted between the two women. The girl is saying she’s grateful for the welcome, grateful that they’d found each other.

Joel has things to be grateful to Maria for, too. His brother, mainly. It’d been pure chance that Joel had met her here, that she knew Tommy also. She’d met his brother on a summer trek to Wyoming where they’d become friends and had kept in touch afterwards. The woman has a thing about her that ingratiates people by sheer force of will. Perhaps it’s that she’s an alpha, too. Perhaps it’s just the charisma and wide smile. The fact that she has a countenance that takes no shit from anyone, that makes demands of a person whether they’ve got any give or not. But whatever the case, they’d realize their connection through Tommy, and she kept Joel updated on his brother whom he’d not spoken with in many years.

Watching the two women stand together and share that easy thanks that Joel so urgently owes, and yet which he cannot voice, he feels, suddenly, so angry. So awkward. So humiliatingly inexperienced. So unable to grapple with the pain of human contact, the fascination of it, the humiliating necessity.

That decade old anchor weighing him in place and the guilt of even thinking of it as such.

I feel decrepitly alone and odd, he thinks. And how strange, no? He was a normal man. He has a normal job. He lives in a normal house. Unexceptional in every sense. Everything in his life had been ordinary up until that one great tragedy. And then, as if none of the before had ever existed, it was as if everything afterwards was one great landslide of wrongness. The filth of it slinging mud all over his life so that nothing had ever been right after her.

So that now he cannot even approach this girl whose name he needs to know, and Maria, to whom he owes the last surviving connection to his brother.

As Maria turns to go, she gives him an encouraging nod, sending him into an agony of shyness. She’d sensed him hovering.

The girl remains at the dessert table, perusing the pastries. He can see her fingertips dancing over the golden, sugared confections, before she settles on a plain, glazed donut. He watches the bend of her elbow, bringing it to her mouth and thirty seconds later, the empty hand reaching for a napkin. He can’t help the huff of laughter it draws from him.

Watching the unknown creature with her back turned, he peers down the length of himself. Wood stain marred t-shirt, old work jeans and scuffed boots, he’d come straight from the shop. Looking back at her, she seems perfectly packaged and pristine. The two of them, different as chalk and cheese. He tells himself he shouldn’t do it, turn around and go, leave her alone, as he steps up beside her at the table.

Immediately, there’s the heat of her skin, the smell of her shampoo, and he realizes, and it’s silly because it should’ve been obvious from the get go, she’s an omega. The epiphany, not that she is one, but that he’d been too stupid and oblivious to notice, leaves him feeling vulnerable and angry.

Any sort of hello that’d been coming alive on his tongue immediately dies. And he’s about to make a run for it once again when she speaks up from beside him, “Would you like a donut?” Her small fingers are dancing over the pastries, searching once again. “I haven’t had one yet,” she lies, “I can’t decide which looks best.”

The dancing hand pauses over a golden brown puff pastry, seemingly coming to a decision, when she turns to look up at him. The scent of her isn’t just shampoo, not just the blockers he’d shockingly picked up on before, sharp, burning his nose. It’s her skin now, too. The dry sweat from hustling under her coat to make it to her first meeting on time salted along her limbs. Hot, sweet almonds. The shocking vermillion of the morning’s split maple comes to mind. He can smell her.

“A puff pastry?” She presses, quizzical crook to her brow at his silence and glower. “I think you really need something sweet. It’ll make you feel better.”

He wants to agree, to say he also thinks he needs something sweet. All he can manage is a short grunt because she smells…indescribable. Honeyed musk, something heady, like she herself had just got done baking, straight out of the oven and full of sugar into his waiting mouth.

That earlier anger, it kicks up a notch. Why isn’t he fucking saying anything?

She shrugs, as she lifts the puff pastry to her mouth he finally manages sound.

“You stink.”

He doesn’t know when he became such a liar.

A pause, mouth open, straight, white teeth ready to bite into the fluffy sweet bread. He can see her small, pink tongue, and it makes him go a little woozy.

He might be losing his mind.

She’s got elegant eyebrows that shoot straight up her smooth forehead. The look of her skin is glorious. “Excuse me?”

Now, there seem to be too many words spilling out of his mouth. “You need better meds or somethin’. Need to sort your shit out. Can’t go gallivanting about the world smellin’ like that.” Oh god, shut up.

“Excuse me!” She takes a huge bite of the pastry. “I do not gallivant,” she shoots back, mouth full of sugar and Joel goes hot everywhere. “What is wrong with you?” she demands, the pursing of a prim little mouth as she chews, eyeing him maliciously.

He hasn’t the damndest clue.

She is not wary of him in the slightest, which in turn tells him he needs to be wary of her.

Another large bite, inexplicably she extends her free hand towards him—potentially going into shock and entirely out of his depth when he takes it, the vulnerability of tendon and muscle soft beneath his strength—offering him a firm shake. She gives him her name.

In that moment, she has a look about her that tells him she’ll bite back if he isn’t careful, even if she hurts herself in the process.

And now he knows you.

“We might as well acquaint ourselves if you’re going to insult me. Don’t you think?” Peering up at him, he’s tall, well over six feet, and broad shouldered. Older, distinguished, but in a rough way, hewn oak, gray. “Are you typically this rude? Or is this a special occasion?”

Incredibly handsome.

“I’m being serious.”

“I do not stink. No one has ever said that to me, and my blockers are quality. It must be a you problem.” The puff pastry really is very good. And this man really is very handsome. Coming here today was a good idea.

One of the girls from the theater had suggested it, handing you a pamphlet with Looking for the Cure for Loneliness? emblazoned across the top, and even though she’d done it kindly, any other person would’ve taken the implication as an insult. Hey girl! No offense, but we all in the company think you’re super weird and have you heard about this support group for losers? Kind of like Omegas Anonymous!

Those hadn’t been her exact words, and you hadn’t taken offense. After the initial agony of embarrassment, you’d warmed to the idea. You’d heard of groups like these before. Congregations of demi humans where one could come to find community or connection. Be it socializing or support for people struggling with their designations and all that they implied, they served their purpose. And anyways, you weren’t in a position to be nitpicky.

It’s true, you’re alone.

So alone, in fact, that even the people around you could tell. Strangers, coworkers, your roommate and her girlfriend. Like some noxious cloud of loneliness following you around virtue signaling the desperate need for love and companionship and understanding you’re so in need of.

You increasingly saw yourself as a dancer on her toes, trembling delicately all over, vying desperately to survive to the end of the song. A monster with too many heads. A Cerberus of the richest caliber.

Two or three would’ve been acceptable—heads—but you'd long surpassed that and moved on to something unrecognizable and unpleasant. Desperately in need of a solution.

“Maybe you’re the one that stinks. Maybe it’s your upper lip.” And voila, the monster makes her debut.

“My—” The rude alpha, obvious, that one, lets out a choked sound, a deeper wash of color immediately flooding his cheeks. You dip your head sideways, appraising him as you polish off your second pastry. He has pretty bone structure, masculine, and after he’s done choking and spluttering, he can’t help but laugh a little bit. You see it.

Beneath a mouth that looks forbidding, perhaps even a little cruel, you can sense that he is not an unkind man.

Yet you’re not so green that you can’t recognize the gnawing hunger of loneliness in others. There’s always a reason people find themselves in places like these. His face, edged with the weariness of age, makes this obvious. He has good reason for subjecting himself to this.

Reaching for the lovely eclair you’d been deciding between earlier, you take a large bite of it. Almond cream and a thick layer of icing on top, humming happily as you chew while he stares at you like the three headed dog.

You hold the dessert out towards him, offering. Palm up, he shakes his head no, slightly disgusted look on his face.

“So. You come here often?”

He blinks. “Really?” Patronizing look on his face now.

“Why not? I am actually interested to know if this is worth my time.”

He rolls his eyes. Oh, he’s fun. “Yes, I come here often. Every Friday, for the past two months just about.”

“And you like it?”

“Is this the sort of place one likes?”

“Oh, come on. You never know what you might find.” He watches your mouth as you finish the eclair, swallowing hard. “Anyways, I think the world is kind of over out there. Don’t you? Might as well make the best of it in here.”

Thumb pressed against the edge of the table, he looks down, suddenly awash with shyness once again. A shy alpha, who’d of thought.

“What did you used to do?” He asks, motioning at the crowded room full of chatting alphas and omegas. You wonder how many of them will go home together for a fuck after this.

“When?” You ask, sure he means in lieu of this group, if you’d ever had another form of demi human community.

“Before this.”

“Before this? Nothing.” Smiling at him, certain he isn’t picking up on your teasing.

“Nothing?”

“Nope. I’ve always been here.”

“But— Don’t you…I thought...” He’s cute, shaking his head like you’re just too confusing to sustain. “You sing, right?” He pivots.

“Sing? Me? Whatever made you think such a thing?” The sly look on your face goes completely over his head and slides to the rest of the sweets. If he wasn’t watching, you’d have another.

“You said. You said you’re in the opera,” he gruffs back, looking visibly aggravated now.

Such fun.

“I’m a supernumerary,” you concede as you turn, making your way to an old relic of a pew along the far wall, tragically abandoning the desserts.

He follows as you go, sitting a respectful distance beside you.

“I don’t know what that is.”

“We’re the actors that fill the stage at the opera.”

“No singing?”

You shake your head, flirting with him. “I’m a wench, I’m a courtesan,” You bat your lashes, fingertips pressed coquettishly beneath your chin, “Part of a harem. I’m every woman you’ve never known. It depends on the opera.”

“I’ve never heard of that before.”

“I started as a stagehand when I first got to Boston. Worked my way up.”

“How’s it work? Lines or somethin’?”

“No lines. No anything. I’m a background actor—an extra, basically. If anything, I’m given some simple choreography direction, laugh, sigh, show fear, horror, shock. Whatever. I’m playing pretend without actually having to do anything.”

“No working for it.”

Your smile melts to blandness. So he’d been listening, then.

“Did you want to sing?”

“No. I wanted to be a supernumerary.”

“Strange. I’ve never heard of that,” he repeats.

“You did say, yes.” Now, the smile turns auspicious. Everyone’s here for something. “What do you do?” Perhaps this is it for him.

You eye the rest of the congregation, at the far exit, there’s a large alpha helping an omega into his coat.

“Got a shop, furniture, woodworking and such.”

“You make things?” He nods. “Ah, a man of creation.”

Sitting back to take him in, he’s got the beginning insinuations of silver speckling the dark hair at his temples, a well groomed beard, and large, intimidating hands.

His small huff of laughter is bashful, tinged with something disappointed. “No, nothin’ that grand.” And he’s got an accent heavy at the ends of his words, not Bostonian. Southern.

“But you know, I wanted to say…”

“Yes?” You press when he loses his courage, leaning towards him, inhaling deeply.

“Well, that I know what you meant earlier. Sometimes I can be the angry house.”

You blink once. Sit back. “I see.”

“It’s hard work. I have to try every day at it.”

Hard work being the house, or not? Two opposite sides of the same coin.

“How do you stop yourself?” You cast a line, fishing for his character.

“Don’t know. Keep myself cold, I think.”

“That’s no way to be.”

“No. It’s not.” He sounds amused. You want to bite him.

Everyone’s here for a reason.

“Ah, well. Perhaps that’s what’s brought you here then,” you say, twisting the toe of your sneaker against a scuff on the old hardwood, leaning forward on your palms wrapped around the edge of the pew.

“Maybe,” he says, but a sort of pained, exasperated sound follows it. Your hung head turns to peer at the handsome face, and he’s already looking at you.

There’s something animal afoot. Perhaps in terms of designation, sure, of course, like the rest of the alphas and omegas here. Your designations weigh heavily in the air. But also intrinsic to your two personalities. You feel you know him. That the two of you might have the same sorts of problems, desires. And as you stare at him, you think you may be equally measuring each other’s character, finding that similarity in one another.

His eyes move quickly between yours, over your face, and you can tell that prolonged eye contact isn’t his norm.

He has the most surprising set of bright hazel eyes like river stones.

Suddenly, you feel desperate to pull out a flicker of sexuality in the man, hear it in his voice. Sure, that with him, the experience would be entirely different, exhilarating. Perhaps a challenge. He seems to be more quiet and more patient than any other man you’d ever come across, but also more stern—taking in that soft mouth held so firmly. Far more remote too, by the far away look in his gaze. You want to see how he could be moved and what the sight of it would look like.

“Maybe not,” he finally continues. “I’m looking for something, I think.”

“Something like what?”

“Someone like me.”

“An alpha?”

“No,” he looks away, cringing. The word out loud seems a shock to him. “Did you listen to the woman at the start—missing the bad thing? I struggle…with that. Holding on, not letting go even when I know I should.”

You’re at an age now which sometimes makes it hard to realize or accept that what you’re living is your life. That it’s been time to grow up. That you have to remember to move forward when it’s your turn in line.

Which is to say, that you understand him—the difficulties of knowing when to hold on and when to give up.

“Sometimes you hurt yourself because you don’t have anything else to do. Sometimes, because the alternative is much worse.”

“Holding on ‘cause there’s nothing else to do?”

“Sure. Or you’re used to it.” You’ll be gentle with him, you decide. He’s in need of gentle handling despite the stern face; not a puzzle so arbitrarily solved. And those eyes are still so bright, he doesn’t seem like he needs any more hardship.

“Don’t know why I’m tellin’ you this,” he says, accent heavy.

“Well you did come here for a reason. Didn’t you?” Discreetly, you slide closer to his side, but he doesn’t notice. Apparently lost in the realization that perhaps this was what he’d come here for, to talk to someone, to have someone listen and relate. You’re almost positive he’s never gotten up to share with the group before in all his time coming to the meetings; doesn’t look like the type.

“I came here because I’m going to take better care of myself,” you tell him. “I’m going to try harder.”

“Harder at what?” He blinks as if attempting to come out of a dream.

“Everything. I don’t want to end up like my parents; drunk, angry, alone. I’m scared of it. I’ve avoided at least two of them.”

“I’m afraid of getting older,” the dream moves in his eyes. “That I’ll forget,” he says, but you don’t ask what.

All of a sudden, he seems very real. The swells of grief and loneliness moving through him so similarly, so close to the surface.

Springing up, you turn to face him and he follows to stand too. You can hear the crack of his knees unfolding, and when he lifts his left palm to stifle a gruff cough, the band of gold around his finger is paralyzing.

All of a sudden, he’d seemed like what you’d been looking for here too. There’s laughter coming from the church rafters.

“You’re a widower?” He wants to forget, he’d said he wants to let go.

Hadn’t he?

But instead, “What? No.” You stare pointedly at the ring, and he looks down at it also. “No,” he repeats.

“So’re you looking for a fuck, or what?” You try and hold back the bite it comes with, but you can’t.

“No. No. That’s not what I’m looking for.”

You don’t understand, impaired by your youth, you forget you’d chosen to be gentle with him. “Maybe it’s what you need,” you tell him, turning towards the exit before you can watch him cringe.

He follows at your heels, grabbing his coat from the hook by the doors before he’s stepping out after you into the fall blister. It’s cold and wet and glorious out.

“Don’t you have a coat?” He demands.

“Nope.” You start walking towards Arlington Street and the park.

“Did you walk here? It’s freezing out.”

“I did,” you turn back towards him, still moving, and he starts to follow.

“From where?”

“Downtown.”

“Where?” He scowls at your uncooperation, the married man. Alpha. The truth was that he’d smelt strange to you too. Like no one ever had before. As glorious and shocking as the cold. Like if snow had a scent. Disappointment churns in your gut alongside the excitement at the sight of him stalking after you.

“I don’t think you know it.” Your backward walk is interrupted as a hurrying stranger bumps into you, sending you staggering. Watch it, the Boston snark spits. The alpha turns to scowl, heavy boot forward like he’s half a mind to follow after the person you’ve just inadvertently assaulted.

And it occurs to you, “You didn’t tell me your name.” How silly of you. You’d been so distracted you’d forgotten to ask, and what if you never see him again after this? What if you can’t muster the courage to come back again next week? What if he can’t?

“It’s Joel.”

You think it sounds right.

“I might—know it.” Where you’re headed to. You smile at the dog with a bone. The disappointment pulses. “Is it far?” He presses. You shrug, looking over your shoulder. You’re going to lose yourself in the garden for a few hours, forget about him. “Why don’t you drive?”

“I like to walk,” you tell him, turning back.

He looks at you like he doesn’t like the things you say much less the way you say them much less the way you’re grinning at him. Perhaps he can see the disappointment and is disturbed by the sight of it, but the possibility seems too altruistic.

“You should try it sometime, Joel. You might like it too.”

His huge body seems to be shivering in the cold.

“I think…” The look on his face has turned suspicious now. He takes a step towards you. “You’re very strange. And you’re very young. I don’t think we should be friends.”

Your heart gives a demanding thump. “We’re not going to be friends.” When you’d first spotted him in the crowd, the strangest feeling had come over you. A tug behind your belly button, a scalding heat at the back of your neck, at your wrists. Perhaps it’s merely imagination, the look of disappointment you think you see on his face right before you turn away from him to continue on walking. “And I’m not that young anymore.”

You’d known today was going to be a good day. Extra cinnamon in your latte, a late start to your morning, warm in bed, no rain in the sky despite the cloud cover. And your director, late for rehearsals after some freak accident had befallen the roof of his house.

“That’s what all young people say.”

Part 2;

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

Updates Blog

#busy dying fic #vic fic #joel miller fanficition #the last of us au #joel miller x you #joel miller

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thepunkpanther · 2 months ago

Text

palestine fundraisers

UPDATED 09/25/24 REVAMPED 09/25/24*

this is a comprehensive list of fundraisers that are currently in my ask box. I will try** my best to keep this updated and would appreciate it if you share for reach. I'll sort the list both by vetted and unvetted, as well as their respective currencies. exchange rates can make it more difficult for some to donate.

* added vetted links, vetted by association links, and reverse image links for unvetted campaigns

* I'm trying out this list and will be considering whether it is the best way for me to keep up with the asks. I won't stop sharing GFMs either way, but I may go back to just sharing them individually.

USD: VETTED

@drfarhatblog link $10,034 USD raised of $29,500 target — vetted

@jawad236 link $2,722 USD raised of $30,000 target — vetted. account deleted, can't find link

@asmaamajed2 link $10,066 USD raised of $50,000 goal — vetted

@ahmadwaleed5 link $9,390 USD raised of $25,000 goal — vetted

@nadoosha-sd link $842 USD raised of $25,000 goal — vetted

@rasmi-gaza link $9,466 USD raised of $50,000 goal — vetted

@yousefjehad3 link $8,794 USD raised of $15,000 goal — vetted line #255

@familygazaamal link $1,404 USD raised of $30,000 goal — vetted line #55

@mayadayyad81 link $40,033 USD raised of $50,000 goal — vetted

USD: VETTED BY ASSOCIATION

@amalgheelan99 link $2,922 USD raised of $5,000 goal — vetted by association. account deleted, can't find link

@lamahourani7 link $2,734 USD raised of $10,000 goal — vetted by association

USD: UNVETTED — CLEAN REVERSE IMAGE SEARCH

@yasoyonis link $20 USD raised of $12,500 goal — unvetted but reverse image search is clean (proof x x)

@mohalwadya2 link $6,732 USD raised of $35,000 goal — unvetted but reverse image is clean (proof x x)

EUR: VETTED

@supportgaza link €31,238 raised of €55,000 goal — vetted line #155

@emkhaledfamily link €5,308 raised of €33,000 goal — vetted line #13

@mohammedatallah link €17,493 raised of €82,000 goal — vetted

@karamalmadhoun0 link €17,362 raised of €20,000 goal — vetted line #113

@mahaibrahim13 link £7,821 raised of £81,000 goal — vetted line #163

@bilalassadabedrou link €9,017 raised of €80,000 goal — vetted

@abedallhferwanagaza link €7,244 raised of €35,000 goal — vetted

@yasermohammad link €23,375 raised of €35,000 goal — vetted

@hassanmadi2 link €1,657 raised of €50,000 goal — vetted

@kalilahmad450 link €1,130 raised of €50,000 goal — vetted

@hadeelmekki link €16,995 raised of €35,000 goal — vetted

@abdelmutei link €13,380 raised of €25,000 goal — vetted

@ahmeedsworld link €18,562 raised of €80,000 goal — vetted

@shamraed link €1,223 raised of €35,000 goal — vetted line #8

EUR: UNCLEAR IF VETTED

@osama-family link £3,630 raised of £50,000 goal — unclear if vetted

@hanyfamily link €594 raised of €20,000 goal — unclear if vetted

EUR: VETTED BY ASSOCIATION

@maysaayahya85 link €639 raised of €35,000 goal — vetted by association

@abdalsalm link €1,896 raised of €50,000 goal — vetted by association

EUR: UNVETTED — CLEAN REVERSE IMAGE SEARCH

@m0hammedashraf link €15 raised of €50,000 goal — unvetted but reverse image search is clean (proof x x)

@moomensblog link €213 raised of €30,000 goal — unvetted but reverse image search is clean (proof x x)

@kareem-sd link €3,710 raised of €50,000 goal — unvetted but reverse image search is clean (proof x x)

@wejdan-32 link €1,933 raised of €20,000 goal — unvetted but reverse image search is clean (proof x x)

@aiamaher link €1,924 raised of €55,000 goal — unvetted but reverse image search is clean (proof x x)

@helpamalm link €1,296 raised of €53,000 goal — unvetted but reverse image search is clean (proof x x)

@ibrahem-4 link €262 raised of €30,000 goal — unvetted but reverse image search is clean (proof x x)

@mohammednasers-blog link €5,527 raised of €38,000 goal — unvetted but reverse image search is clean (proof x x)

and please check out these lists. some of them are far more comprehensive and helpful, have family sizes, gfm titles, and particularities such as illness or injuries

Vetted Gaza Evacuation Fundraiser List by @/el-shab-hussein & @/nabulsi

GazaVetters by @/gazavetters

The ButterflyEffect Project***

***I do not know who organized or vetted this list. The Butterfly Effect Project has contact information if you are curious and their instagram is here.

MORE LINKS AND RESOURCES

Daily Click for Palestine

Palestine MASTERLIST — an EXTREMELY thorough masterlist for educational and aid purposes

Operation Olive Branch — movement to support & amplify aid requests of Palestinian families

Connecting Gaza — eSims for Gaza

Palestine Academy — educating the digital space about Palestine to reclaiming the narrative

#palestine #free palestine

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amethystwrytes · 2 months ago

Text

Safe.

Pairing: Hwang Hyunjin X Fem. Reader X Lee Minho

Summary: A broke ER Nurse offers up her services to a large crime organization in exchange for much higher pay and benefits that are unconventional, but lucrative. The life proves to be questionable at best, and downright isolating at worst which leaves her feeling unsure, unstable and dangerous.

Warnings: Explicit language. Explicit depictions of sex (some chapters will be more explicit than others sexually). Violence. Blood. Trauma injuries. (Organized) Crime. Emotional manipulation. Me not knowing a single thing about medicine and relying on Google to give me accurate-ish information and the hope that I'm kind of explaining it correctly but knowing I'm probably not, so apologies to any reader who may work in medicine and is rolling their eyes at me lol. 18+ Only.

Chapter WC: 6k

AN: I have never ever in my life written a mafia fic, at least nothing I’ve ever posted or kept so…good luck. Additionally, this fic was originally all one doc which ended up being too much to handle, like Tumblr would not even try to meet me halfway. So I decided to break her up into chapters which I will post routinely until she's over. No idea how many chapters bc I’m still deciding on how to separate some of the later parts of the story…so hang tight with me.

-PART ONE-

It’s the blare of a phone ringing that wakes you in the middle of the night. You pull yourself to the edge of the bed and look at the two phones that lay on your bedside table. One is personal, in a shiny black case that in truth, hardly ever rings or blips anymore. The other is a silver phone, caseless, a little worse for the wear and the screen is illuminated with an unsaved telephone number. This particular detail doesn’t really matter, there’s only a few people who would be calling it, and they cycle through burner phones so often there’s no point in saving anything.

“Hello?” your voice is scratchy from sleep.

“We’re ten minutes out,” Changbin says urgently, skipping greetings entirely. You sit up and throw your feet over the edge of the bed.

“Who is it and how bad?” you ask, flitting around your bedroom switching lights on and grabbing a hair tie.

“It’s Hyunjin, and I don’t think he’s going to die but I can’t stop the bleeding,” Changbin grunts.

“Gun shot?” you assume, already downstairs and clearing the dining table, wondering what kind of trauma you need to prepare for.

“Stabbed.”

“Fuck,” you stop. Possibilities like artery and organ punctures start spinning around your head. You pray it’s not abdominal, but you know these men too well so you don’t ask, because you’re sure you already know the answer.

“We can’t take him to an ER, ___, his face is on every list in the city. You know they always keep informants in the emergency departments, we can’t take him there,” Changbin urges and it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself more than anyone else.

He’s correct. When Lee Minho, crime lord and your current employer first found you, you were working the night shift at the emergency department. You knew that because of the high crime rate in the city, many of the staff who sat at the check in and triage stations were also paid police informants, ready to dial up the officers to run any names or faces that looked sketchy, had a shady story, or came in with GSWs, or similar combative injuries.

“Okay. Okay, keep direct pressure on the wound and I mean a lot of pressure Changbin, it’s going to feel like you’re hurting him but trust me, lots of pressure. I’ll prep the dining room,” you tell him.

You take a deep breath and think. You start a pot of boiling water and lay out some clean towels on the counter. Then fly around the room opening drawers: Gloves, scissors, gauze, bandages, wound packing strips, disinfectant, antibiotics, stitch kit, and the silent prayer that no arteries, or internal organs have been compromised because you are not a surgeon and you will have to send them out to a hospital, which is more time wasted and gives Hyunjin a significantly lower survival chance.

You weigh a clean sheet down over the table just as you hear tires squeal into the driveway outside. You run to the door and unlock it, propping it open so they can carry him in.

“It’s bad ___, he’s out cold,” Felix grunts breathlessly as he and Changbin carry an unconscious Hyunjin into the room. All three are covered in blood and you don’t bother asking if it’s Hyunjins, theirs, or someone else's. The two of them are walking, conscious and breathing, so it doesn’t matter at the moment.

“Okay, it’ll be okay,” you blather in a much higher tone than you mean to.

You don the gloves and grab the scissors, cutting up the seams of Hyunjins black satin shirt, soaked with blood. Changbin keeps his hand pressed to Hyunjins left side, a balled up tee shirt gripped in his shaking fist.

“Bin,” you say softly, “I need to cut the shirt away, okay? When I say three I want you to pull your hand off,” you explain and he nods, “Felix, I need you to bring the pot of water and those clean towels from the kitchen in here for me,” you instruct.

You look at Hyunjins sweet face, ghastly pale, and lips several shades lighter than what they ought to be. He’s clearly lost a lot of blood and you briefly think of a transfusion, but have no way of performing one - most of these men have no idea what blood type they are anyway but even if they did you don’t have the means to do it.

“Okay,” you breathe deeply once the shirt is mostly gone, the scent of iron and copper floods your nose, “One…two…three.”

Changbin pulls the balled up, blood soaked cloth from the wound and you watch as the thick, red substance trickles out while you finish off the shirt. You hear Changbin gasp and curse under his breath.

“It’s okay,” you say, “That’s a fairly good sign, see how it’s a slow trickle and not a burst or spurt? That’s a good sign,” you repeat for him, grabbing a handful of gauze to press into the wound.

Changbin nods and backs away.

“No, no,” you stop him, “Go wash your hands, put some gloves on and come back here, Felix, you do the same. Quickly.”

The two men disperse to do as they’re told and you hold the gauze in place with one hand, wetting a towel to clean off the area with the other so you can see what you’re working on better. It’s on his left side, above his hip in the small of his waist. That significantly decreases the number of organs possibly punctured. Left kidney, lung, and/or possible intestinal damage - none of which are good news, but that will make it easier to look for tell tale signs, which as of right now you don’t see.

Changbin and Felix return, gloved up and ready to assist as you work diligently to stop the bleeding by packing the wound.

“How long was the blade?” you ask as you work. You stick your fingertip into the open flesh to feel it out. This seems to perk your patient up, Hyunjin jerks up on the table, screaming in agony and cursing the room. The good news is the wound isn’t as deep as you feared.

“Hold him down!” you yell and both men scramble to steady him. “Changbin? The knife?”

“Um,” Changbin shakes his head, “Small, smooth, no more than ten centimeters I’d say.”

Hyunjin gasps and goes eerily still on the table.

“___?” Felix cries, you can hear the fear in his voice.

“It’s okay, he’s responding to pain and that’s good, but he’s going to slip in and out of consciousness because of the blood loss,” you explain but you still see the fear on Felixes face, “Why don’t you tell me what happened Felix?”

He looks at you, eyes wide with fear and you give him a shaky but reassuring smile and a nod of encouragement, “We were ambushed. It was just supposed to be a collection run, so only the three of us went. As soon as we walked into their storehouse bullets were flying. Hyunjin knocked the gun out of the guys hand and he pulled a blade out of his boot as a backup,” Felix adds, “He stabbed Hyunjin but he got in one last punch that knocked the bastard out cold,” he smiles proudly.

“Was Hyunjin significantly taller than the man?” you wonder.

“Definitely,” Changbin nods, “Why does it matter?”

“Because it appears that the man stabbed into his side at a difficult upward angle, which prevented it from going in deep. That’s good, because that means it probably bypassed any of his organs. Felix, bring my stethoscope and the blood pressure cuff please, over on the end table.”

Felix runs over and you cautiously release the gauze. To your relief the bleeding seems to have at least slowed to a manageable rate.

You stuff the stethoscope in your ears and try to ascertain some vitals now that he seems stable(ish). His heart rate is lower than normal, but his lungs sound clear. Pupils are responding to light slowly but normally, and his blood pressure is low but stable. You grab his hand and press on his fingernails, O2 seems fine.

“What now?” Felix asks.

“I’ll need you two to lift him up a bit, I’ve got the wound packed but I’ll need to wrap a bandage around his torso to keep the packing in place, then, in an hour or so, if we’re lucky the bleeding will have stopped completely and I can clean him up and stitch it,” you say shakily.

The boys do as they’re told and you carefully wrap the bandage around him, making sure the wound is secured.

A knock pounds at the door as you lay him back down on the table, the three of you exchange glances and Changbin pulls the 9mm from his strap and makes his way toward the door with Felix tiptoeing behind as backup.

“It’s me,” a voice hollers from the other side and your little trio breathes a sigh of relief. It’s Lee Minho, obviously coming to check on one of his best.

Changbin opens the door and sweeps the front yard with his eyes for good measure before closing up again.

“How is he?” Minho stands over Hyunjins still body as you discard your gloves in a nearby bin.

“He’s lost quite a lot of blood, if we were at the hospital I’d imagine they’d call for a transfusion, which is impossible here - but if I can get him stable, he might pull through the blood loss thing. The wound wasn’t as deep as I thought it would be, but it’s quite a bleeder, so right now my primary focus is to make sure it’s completely stopped before sewing him up,” you explain.

Minho nods, and you watch as he quietly assesses the situation, considering his next move. You don’t know Hyunjin as well as some of the others. You do know he’s careful, cautious and very good at his job. The fact he was nearly bested this evening has you surprised, so you can only imagine the shock of the man standing in front of you. Minho taps his finger gently against his lips, then drags his hand across his mouth in frustration.

“I want retaliation for this,” he says quietly, darkly.

“Absolutely,” Changbin nods, “The motherfucker who did this has numbered days.”

“Find him,” Minho commands, “Find everyone who was there, I don’t care if you have to go to their homes where their god damned kids sleep, you find them, I want intel on them all, and we’ll go over it together. We’ll figure out who we can use for information, and who we’re going to,” he stops himself then and looks at you gently, “Well, who won’t be of any value to us.”

You appreciate the attempt at guarded candor, but you already know he means to murder them all. Knowing Minho, and how he probably feels he’s been screwed over tonight, he’s going to kill the valuable ones too - once he knows what he needs to know.

“I’m going to go wash up,” you say softly, “He should be alright for now. I’ll check him after I’m done. If anything happens just yell.”

When you’re safely closed off in the bathroom, you take the first calm breath since the phone rang, waking you from a dreamless sleep. You stare at yourself in the mirror and realize in addition to being covered in blood, you also still wear the black silk nightgown you wore to bed. You scoff, looking down at yourself, the lace hem falls across the top of your thighs, sticking to the skin with blood, and one thin strap hangs off your shoulder. You look like a dumpster fire. Your hair is in shambles as well. You start to take it down and decide to toss the nightie in the trash when the door to your bathroom opens. Minho.

“I sent Felix and Bin off, I need them to cool down a bit, they’re pretty keyed up,” he says, playing with the bottles and boxes on your bathroom vanity. “I’ve sent for Seungmin to stay with you and Hyunjin for a while as protection, I’ll stick around until he arrives of course.”

You clear your throat, “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing,” he whispers. He moves to stand behind you and you stare at each other in the reflection of the mirror. He takes two fingers and caresses your arm, hooking the rogue strap of your nightie and pulling it back into place on your shoulder. His other hand roams your figure, over your breast, down your ribs and waist, and stops on your hip as he gives it a gentle squeeze - never once taking his eyes off yours in the mirror. You say nothing, you don’t move.

“You look like a scared animal,” he chuckles, using his free hand to pull your hair off your neck, exposing it. His lips move in, his breath on the delicate skin, and he looks at your reflection once more, “Hm?”

You realize he’s asking for permission and you nod. His lips land right under your ear, his fingers spreading across your throat to gently pull you into him. You don’t stop the soft breath that escapes your lips and your hand flies to cover his as he continues to rub and squeeze your hip.

You’ve almost lost yourself in him, when you open your eyes and realize he’s spreading the blood on your arm around.

“Wait,” you gasp and jump away.

“What?” he frowns, and you see the flicker of rejection flash in his dark eyes, but he decides to suppress any reaction to it.

“You’re getting blood all over you,” you point to his hand, “I really do need to wash up and check on Hyunjin. I’ll need to monitor him constantly tonight to make sure there’s no change,” you say politely.

“Are you that scared of me, Kitten?” he asks, leaning over your sink to rinse Hyunjins blood away.

“I’m not scared of you Minho,” you tell him, and it’s mostly true, kind of. “You’ve been in my bed enough times that I think you know I’m not scared of you.”

“Yet you always send me away after,” he sighs, shaking the excess water from his hands. “It makes me wonder if maybe you only let me into your bed because you think you don’t have a choice, you know, due to our arrangement,” he motions broadly at the room.

You can easily see how he’d come to that conclusion. When you accepted his offer you went very swiftly from working your ass to the bone, on no sleep, in a shoebox of an apartment, with debt up to your eyeballs straight to having everything paid off, a credit card with essentially no limit, a huge, beautiful house on the edge of the city bought and paid for, and anything your heart desired. All of it was taken care of by him. So, yes, you could see how one might think you allow him to do whatever he wants just to keep things copacetic for him.

“Do you want honesty?” you ask, reaching into the shower to adjust the water.

“From my employees? I demand it, yes,” he nods. Well, there it is, you think. He looks at you as an employee, and you also look at him as your employer. The situation is so beyond wildly fucked that you’ve truly got no idea what you’re doing or why.

“I let you into my bed because I’m lonely, and you make me feel…not alone,” you tell him. “It has nothing to do with our arrangement. If I didn’t want to, I wouldn’t.”

“Good,” he nods, “but why are you lonely? You’re not my prisoner, you are free to come and go as you please, with the caveat of you being available when I need you, and for you to keep what you know and have seen to yourself.”

“I know that,” you allow your nightgown to fall to the floor, “What I don’t know yet is how to compartmentalize my normal life with this life, how to live them separately. How to be normal out there, and business here. So until I do, well, you don’t seem to mind my using you for human connection.”

“That’s understandable and I don’t mind at all,” he licks his lips as you slide your panties down and off your legs, “I know this was a big change for you, and I understand that what I ask of you is taxing, that what you see and hear is sometimes unfathomable.”

You cross over to him, naked, skin streaked with another persons blood, “Thank you for understanding,” you say, and kiss him, pulling him into you by his collar. His fingers slide down your stomach and slide between your slick. You whimper into his mouth as he pulls away.

He brings his fingers to his mouth, sucking them with a grin, “Wash up Kitten, but next time you don’t have one of my men bleeding on your dining room table, you’re mine.”

You wait for him to close the door before you step into the water. You watch the white floor of the shower turn into red swirls being pulled down the drain. You scrub and scrub your skin until it feels raw, wash your hair in case any blood made its way up there to dry out in the strands. You dry off, moisturize and put on comfortable clothes - a pair of old scrub pants and a tee shirt you don’t care about. You pull your wet hair tight out of your face and then pick up your ruined night dress, tossing it into the bathroom trash on your way out the door.

When you return downstairs you see Seungmin sitting in a recliner in the living room, scrolling his phone. Hyunjin continues to lay still on the dining table, and you walk over to check his vitals again, catching Seungmins attention.

“Good evening,” he nods stiffly and you give him a wry smile.

“Where did Min- Where did Mr. Lee go?” you ask him as you wrap the BP cuff around Hyunjins arm.

“He left. You don’t need to know where,” he answers you with an uninterested cadence, not looking up from his phone.

“Right,” you fight the urge to roll your eyes, “Of course.”

Hyunjins blood pressure is back to normal, albeit a tad low, but well in the realm of being acceptable. Resting heart rate has returned to the low 70’s, which is also a good sign. You finger the bandage at his side and it’s a relief to find that so far, no blood has seeped through the packing. That is indeed very good progress.

As you fix his bandage back a hand flies up, landing over yours and you jump, looking up just in time to see his eyes flutter open.

“Hey there,” you say softly, “How do you feel?”

“Like I got stabbed in a back alley,” he chuckles and lifts his head but immediately winces at the pain and collapses back onto the table with a painful sounding thud.

“Be very still,” you place your palm against his stomach softly. “You did get stabbed in a back alley and you’re far from ready to move around.”

“Changbin and Felix?” he rasps.

“They’re fine,” you answer, “They brought you here but Mr. Lee sent them home for the night, they were both very worried about you.”

“But they’re fine?” he looks at you seriously and you nod.

“Totally fine Hyunjin.”

He shakes his head, “Those motherfuckers have to be the dumbest in the entire country. We weren’t even there for any rifts, we just needed to collect the monthly gun sales. I knew when we walked in something was off, everyone felt so nervous, I should’ve turned tail and gotten Bin and Felix out as soon as I felt it.”

“She doesn’t need to know any of this, you ought to keep your mouth shut,” Seungmin calls from the living room.

Hyunjin smirks, “Why’d they send the mean, strict grandpa? I almost died, I at least deserve Jeongin or Jisung.”

You say nothing, but suppress a laugh and shrug your shoulders.

Hyunjin wiggles around feeling his pants pockets and produces a square brass cigarette case.

“Got a light Doll?” he places one between his lips and you walk to the kitchen for a lighter.

“As your primary care professional, I don’t really recommend this right now,” you say dryly, but light it for him and allow it.

“I’ve been a good patient though,” he sticks out his lower lip and you roll your eyes.

“I suppose,” you say.

“So when can I get out of here?” he asks between puffs.

You scoff, “Well. If we were in a hospital and I could send you for bloodwork and images and definitively rule out any organ damage, I could send you home a lot sooner. As it is,” you think for a moment, trying to be both medically practical but also realistic to what Minho will expect. “As it is, I need to watch you for at least three days. I’ll need to monitor your wound, obviously, but also any sign of infection like swelling or fever. If that happens it could be because the blade nicked something it shouldn’t have, like your intestines for example, or that the wound itself is trying to go septic.”

“Ew,” he grimaces.

“Exactly.”

“And will I have to bunk on this very nice, but extremely uncomfortable table during that time? Not gonna lie Doll, I’m getting pretty stiff, and not in the fun way,” he jokes.

“No,” you laugh, “Seungmin and I will help you to the guest room in a bit. First I’d like to unpack your wound, make sure the major bleeding stopped, and stitch you. Then I’ll clean you up and put a new bandage on, after that you can go to a real bed.”

“Stitches huh?” he blows out a big puff of smoke. “Is that, uh…you know, going to hurt?”

You grin, “Well, it won’t feel amazing, but it probably doesn’t hurt any worse than getting stabbed, and now we know you can handle that.”

“Right,” he chuckles.

“I’ll try and see if I have any more topical anesthetic in my supplies,” you pat his leg sympathetically.

🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️

“Fuck! It hurts…” Hyunjin grumbles, you pause your needle as he flinches and bites down hard on his bottom lip.

“I’m sorry, I’m almost done,” you tell him, going back to it, “aside from me sewing you up, how do you feel?”

“I’m fine,” he says shakily, you can see the sheen of sweat on his upper lip and forehead, see his fingers shaking between weak grips on the edge of the table.

“Cute, acting tough like that,” you click your teeth, “Now, how about you tell me the truth? I can’t treat you properly if you’re not honest about your symptoms.”

He looks down at you, despite his current state, the corners of his lips twitch into a smile.

“I feel like shit, there, you happy now?” he pouts.

From the corner of the room Seungmin sighs, “She needs you to be specific, idiot.”

“Why are you speaking?” Hyunjin snaps at him and you see Seungmin stiffen, face defiant, but you notice he sinks lower into the recliner and goes back to his phone.

“He’s right,” you say quietly, finishing up the stitches, “I need to know if anything’s hurting, burning or itching from head to toe,” you stand up and help him lie back down on the table, carefully holding his head in your hands. This brings your faces closer together, closer than you’d ever been to Hyunjin, and you can’t help but notice the sweetness of his face, the wild innocence of his dark eyes. He meets your gaze with the same intensity and you have to look away.

“So how about it?” you clear your throat, “How are you really feeling?”

“My head is pounding, I feel like I could drink ten gallons of water, my side is burning where you just sewed my guts back in, and I feel like I couldn’t lift a feather without passing out. That good enough for you sweetheart?” he half laughs, then winces.

“Yes, actually,” you quip, “The headache and weakness are both from the blood loss, I’ll get you some pain meds, and you can slowly start to drink some ice water for the dry mouth, I also want you on antibiotics, and Seungmin can help me get you to bed so you can rest.”

You gesture to Seungmin, “I went ahead and pulled the covers down, I just need you to help me get him on the bed,” you instruct.

Seungmin saunters over and Hyunjin reluctantly puts his arm around Seungmins neck, “Ouch! Fuck!” he cries and you look up from where you’re putting his feet on the floor.

“Maybe support the side he doesn’t have a stab wound on boys?” you point to Hyunjins right side.

“Right,” Seungmin grumbles.

Getting Hyunjin from the dining room just down the hall to the bedroom proves to be quite difficult, despite the trip only being maybe twenty, twenty-five steps. The journey takes every bit of his energy and when he hits the mattress with a painful sounding thud he’s out again.

“Is he going to make it?” Seungmin stands back and somehow looks both concerned and unbothered by Hyunjins pitiful state.

“Yes,” you nod, “He needs to rehydrate, and rest. When he wakes up I’ll get him some pain medication, start some antibiotics, and get some fluids in him. Will you run down to the store and get a case of some kind of sports drink? He’ll need the sodium.”

“No.”

“Pardon?” you turn to Seungmin.

“My orders aren’t to do your shopping, my orders are to stay here and protect the safe house,” he answers seriously.

“For fucks sake Seungmin,” you sigh, “loosen up. I’ll grab my keys and be right back,” you tell him, “but if he wakes up and needs something urgent you’re on your own and whatever happens will be on you.”

“Then I’ll deal with it. Just because you fuck the boss doesn’t make you the matriarch of the organization,” he says flatly.

You freeze, your mouth setting into a tight, defensive line. You fight the urge to slap him, you know that he’ll hit you back and his fist most definitely packs a bigger punch.

“Don’t talk to her like that,” Hyunjin says weakly from the bed, Seungmin nearly jumps out of his skin.

“It’s the truth,” Seungmin challenges softly.

“That’s not how you talk to someone who does so much for us, and besides I’d hate for that nasty remark to get back to Minho, you won’t be doing protection details for a while, I guarantee you that,” Hyunjin threatens.

Seungmin huffs and starts to stalk out of the room.

“You’re forgetting something,” Hyunjin says, weakly lifting a finger and pointing at you. “Apologize.”

Seungmins eyes narrow with rage, “I apologize,” he says through gritted teeth.

“It’s fine,” you sigh, knowing he doesn’t really mean it and also knowing that you don’t really give a shit if he does or not. “I’m going to get some things for Hyunjin, you boys play nice.”

You don’t give either of them the opportunity to respond, you just head for the door. You wait until you’re in the privacy of your own car, well, Minho’s car, before you cry.

Seungmins words cut deep, both embarrassing and insulting. You hadn’t really thought about anyone noticing that sometimes Minho slips away upstairs to your bedroom and because of that oversight you’d never really thought about how it would feel for others to know, and to comment on it. It feels lousy, turns out. It makes you feel cheap, and it makes you feel wrong.

🗡️��️🗡️🗡️🗡️

It’s almost daylight before Hyunjin wakes again. He slept through almost every vital check, and at the most would only stir in his sleep when you put the cuff around his arm or the cold stethoscope against his chest.

“What are you reading?” his voice pulls your attention from the page and you wiggle around in your seat, joints and muscles stiff from hours of sitting.

“It’s just a silly romance novel, nothing life changing,” you tell him, setting the book down. “Here, you need to drink,” you hand him a cup of blue Gatorade, a bit watery from the melted ice.

Hyunjin attempts to sit up but winces, “Never really thought about how much I use these muscles,” his smile is twisted with pain, but you’re impressed with his positivity.

“Here,” you stand up and reach around to fluff his pillows up so he’s propped. “How does that feel?”

“God you smell good,” he says softly, his nose centimeters away from your sternum, right between your breasts.

“Thanks,” you sit back down quickly.

Hyunjin watches silently, sipping the blue beverage as you make a ruckus on the side table shaking pills out of bottles.

“What’s all that?” he asks.

“Your meds, since you’re up and lucid I want you to go ahead and take some,” you tell him, handing him two pills to take.

“Can I at least know what I’m taking?” he chuckles, rolling them around his palm.

“The smaller white one is an Oxycodone, for the pain, and the big one is Cephalexin, an antibiotic just in case,” you explain.

He tosses the Oxy back onto the table and pops the antibiotic into his mouth. Off of your stare he shrugs, “I don’t take pain killers, used to have a bad problem with pills.”

“Oh, well, it’s mainly just Acetaminophen, I think this one is 800mg and only 200mg of oxy. I think wherever your boss gets my drugs - they keep the hard stuff. I’d like you to take something, for your head and for the wound, but if you don’t want to I can’t make you obviously,” you say, standing up.

“I’m fine sweetheart,” he lays his head back down on the pillows, and puts the empty cup on the table. “I like a little pain,” he winks.

“Suit yourself,” you grab your book and start out of the room.

“Hey, where are you going?” he calls.

“Just giving you some privacy to rest,” you shrug.

“Read to me,” he gestures towards your chair.

“You’re kidding?” you snort.

“I’ve slept all night, and I’m bored,” he pouts, “Please?”

You huff and plant your ass back into the chair, deciding not to point out that he may have slept all night but you haven’t.

“You really want to sit here and listen to my silly romance?”

“Absolutely.”

You sigh and open your book to the page you dogeared a few moments ago. To be frank you can’t remember what was happening, you’d zoned out and the words weren’t exactly sticking. You scan the page to find anything familiar.

You freeze. Oh good Lord.

“Why are you blushing?” he laughs.

“I just…it’s…it’s sort of at a spicy part,” you squirm.

“Nice, lay it on me,” he grins.

“Jesus…” you shake your head and clear your throat.

“...Scooping her into my arms, I lavish kisses on her mouth and neck. We strip each other bare, our love making frenzied. I make sure she orgasms before me, holding back until her body achieves its release. Right before I come I whisper “I love you” between each breath before my mind goes blank with pleasure. As we lie across my-,”

“That’s it??” Hyunjin scoffs.

“What’s it?” you look up at him.

“That’s supposed to be spicy? That’s barely salted!” he chuckles.

“Well, I suppose it’s meant to not be super detailed, leave a bit to the imagination,” you answer.

“That’s lazy,” he shakes his head.

“Well what would you have written then?” you challenge, closing the book and crossing your legs.

“I don’t know, I’m no writer,” he falters, “but I would’ve written something about how she feels, how it feels to push into her - tight and wet and warm. What she tastes like - from her lipstick, to her skin, to her cunt.”

You shift in your seat, squeezing your thighs together.

“They could’ve at least described her noises, how playing with her in different ways makes her sound different, what her tits look like when I’m fucking her, bouncing fast or slow. I don’t know, something with a little actual spice,” he shrugs.

“Well write a book then,” you say before he can go into any more detail.

“I’m just saying, they could’ve painted a better picture, fucking is supposed to be fun, that sounded boring as hell,” he scoffs, “Who ever actually whispers “I love you” when they’re fucking?”

“I don’t know, I guess people who love each other,” you grumble.

“Yeah? Is that what Boss man says to you?” he teases. It’s not the same menacing tone that Seungmin had taken with you concerning Minho, and you can tell by the lightness of Hyunjins eyes he doesn’t mean anything by it, but God, these men. They all need to be lined up and slapped across the face. You’re sick of it. Sick of the power struggle. In every situation, in every conversation they have to feel like they’re holding the power. You let Seungmins comments roll off your back and ignored them like a coward earlier, but Hyunjin will likely be here a few days and you need to establish that you won’t back down again, you can fight fire with fire.

So you straighten up and look him dead in the eyes, “No. When Minho fucks me he pulls my hair and slaps my ass and calls me his gorgeous little slut while his cum drips out of my mouth.”

Hyunjins mouth turns into the biggest grin you’ve ever seen and his eyes go wide as he points to you, “Now that is a goddamn page turner.”

You can’t help the laugh that escapes as you stand up and straighten yourself out, “Okay, storytime is over, I’m going to get a little sleep. Try to rest. I’ll make you some breakfast in a bit.”

“Okay,” he nods and settles back into the mattress, as you go to switch the lights he looks at you, his head cocking to the side a bit, “Do you like that though? The rough and ragged and dirty stuff?”

You shrug, “Sometimes, I guess. Sometimes though…I don’t know… I think I’d like someone to whisper how much they love me, it sounds nice.”

He nods, then looks back up at you, “I’m sorry, I won’t comment on you and Lee anymore.”

“See you later Hyunjin.”

Too tired to even attempt walking up the stairs you drag yourself over to the sofa and collapse.

Seungmin sits in his recliner nearby and blinks at you.

You point to the blanket folded over the back of his chair, “Will you hand-,”

He balls up the blanket and throws it, pegging your face with a smirk. You shoot him a death glare before covering yourself up and sinking into the cushions. You try not to think about his earlier comments regarding Minho. You try not to think about Minho. You especially try not to think about dirty talk with Hyunjin, or how it stirred something within you that you absolutely must not allow to grow.

Endnotes:

1. Tentatively tagging my Minho lovers - @katieraven @linocz @screamobubbles @simpforleeknaur @moni-logues - because Minho will be centric to the story. However, if you do not want to be tagged for any reason just DM me and I’ll remove you, no worries at all 💙🥰 Alternatively, if you’re seeing this and want to be added to the tag list just let me know somehow!

2. As usual, here’s your virtual smooch for making it this far. Mafia is soooo far out of my wheelhouse and honestly even though this chapter is super unbeta’d - I may have future chapters looked at bc I’m not really sure I’m hitting the mark. Any feedback on it would be swell, just be gentle with me 😂👍

#skz fanfiction #Lee Minho fanfiction #Hyunjin fanfiction #skz smut #lee minho smut #hyunjin smut #skz romance #hyunjin romance #lee know romance #Lee Minho #hwang hyunjin #hyunjin x reader #minho x reader #stray kids

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anniebeemine · 4 months ago

Text

cocktail hour- s.r x fem!reader

Summary: Spencer makes every wedding unbearable, but at least he’s fuckable.

Warnings: 18+, dom!Spencer, slight choking (once, nose pinching), hate/anger sex, p in v smut, a little bit of degradation

The first time you met Spencer Reid was at a mutual friend's wedding. It was one of those picturesque spring weddings with blooming flowers and soft, warm sunlight filtering through the trees. You had arrived at the venue, feeling excited to celebrate love, and ready to dance the night away. Little did you know, that day would mark the beginning of a complicated and often frustrating relationship with the man who was now standing across the room, glaring at you.

As you reminisced about that wedding, you couldn't help but smile at the memory of your first encounter with Spencer. You had noticed him immediately, standing awkwardly by the punch bowl, looking out of place but endearing in his own way. His tousled hair, mismatched socks, and slightly wrinkled suit gave him a charm that was hard to ignore.

Feeling a sudden burst of confidence, you walked over to him, striking up a conversation. To your surprise, Spencer had been incredibly engaging and intelligent, his eyes lighting up as he talked about his interests. The two of you had spent most of the evening together, laughing and talking. By the end of the night, you found yourself looking forward to seeing him again.

You both agreed to go on a date the following week, but it turned out to be a disaster. Everything that had seemed charming about Spencer at the wedding now seemed irritating. His endless stream of trivia felt like he was showing off. The date ended with a curt goodbye and a mutual agreement that it was best not to pursue anything further.

Since that ill-fated date, your paths had crossed mostly at weddings and funerals of mutual friends and acquaintances. Each encounter was marked by snarky comments and thinly veiled jabs, a far cry from the initial connection you had felt.

Today was no different. You were at another wedding, and as you observed Spencer from across the room, you felt a mixture of irritation and amusement. He was deep in conversation with one of the bridesmaids, his expression animated as he gestured with his hands. You rolled your eyes and turned back to the conversation you were having with a friend, trying to ignore the way your heart rate had picked up.

Later in the evening, as the guests moved to the reception area, you found yourself standing by the bar, nursing a drink. Spencer approached, and you braced yourself for the inevitable exchange.

"Fancy seeing you here," he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

You smiled sweetly, not missing a beat. "Well, it's not like I can avoid you forever. You seem to show up at every single one of these."

Spencer raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a smirk. "I could say the same about you."

The conversation continued, each of you taking subtle digs at the other, the tension between you palpable. Despite the animosity, there was an underlying current of familiarity and, dare you admit it, a hint of attraction. It was as if that initial connection had never fully dissipated, lurking beneath the surface of your interactions.

You found yourself wandering away from the main hall, needing a break from the noise and the incessant small talk. As you strolled through the corridors, you stumbled upon a window overlooking the gardens. The moonlight bathed the flowers in a soft, silvery glow, creating a serene and almost surreal atmosphere. You leaned against the windowsill, enjoying the quiet and the view. It was a perfect moment of peace, a rare respite from the chaos of the wedding. But it didn't last long.

"You're in my spot," a familiar voice said from behind you.

You turned to see Spencer standing there, his hands in his pockets and a bemused expression on his face.

"Your spot?" you replied, raising an eyebrow. "Are we really doing this?"

Spencer shrugged, stepping closer. "I've been coming to this spot since I got here. It's the best view of the gardens."

You sighed, shaking your head. "That's a bit childish, don't you think? Claiming a spot at a wedding reception?" He stood his ground. You rolled your eyes and began to walk away. “Whatever.”

Spencer smirked, his eyes glinting in the moonlight. "What's childish is you leaving because I'm here."

You opened your mouth to retort, but found yourself at a loss for words. Instead, you turned back to the window, deciding to stand your ground. "Fine. I'll stay."

The two of you stood there in silence for a few moments, the tension between you as palpable as ever. Yet, in the stillness of the night, something shifted. You barely had time to react before Spencer closed the distance between you, his lips crashing onto yours with a rough, needy intensity that took your breath away. His hands cupped your face, his fingers threading through your hair as he pulled you closer. The kiss was urgent, a fierce expression of pent-up emotions and unresolved feelings. Your own hands found their way to his shoulders, gripping tightly as you matched his fervor, losing yourself in the heat of the moment.

Spencer pulled back just enough to speak, his breath hot against your lips. "My room's upstairs."

You nodded, your heart pounding in your chest. "Lead the way," you replied, your voice breathless with anticipation.

Without another word, Spencer took your hand and led you through the corridors of the venue, his pace quick and determined. You followed eagerly, your thoughts racing and your body thrumming with excitement. The distance to his room felt like an eternity, but finally, you reached his hotel door.

He fumbled with the key for a moment before pushing the door open and pulling you inside. The door barely closed behind you before he was on you again, his lips capturing yours in another searing kiss. This time, there was no hesitation, no holding back. The urgency between you only grew as you stumbled towards the bed, your hands exploring anywhere you could reach.

Spencer pushed you away, causing you to land on your back with a flop. The motion sent blood rushing to your core.

“Look at you,” he cooed, his tone condescending. He yanked his tie off of his neck. “Hold ‘em out.”

You shook your head. “That’s not how this is going to go this time.”

He chuckled darkly, leaning over you. His hand came to land on your throat, one hand pulling yours over your head and holding you there. His hips kept yours in place. You shuddered at the sudden contact of his knee against your core.

“I bet you’re fucking soaked,” he added.

He’s right. You shook your head. “You keep me dry as a desert.”

You tried to budge against his arms, roll him over so you could straddle him. He’d gotten surprisingly stronger since the last wedding. Your lips parted to make a reply but all that came out was a pathetic mewl as his knee pressed against your core.

He snaked one hand up to your neck and pulled you up by it, choking the air from your throat. “That’s right. I’m gonna show you who you really belong to, who fucks you to a sloppy mess every time. Do you wanna see?”

He made a guttural sound in his throat before kissing you so roughly, you felt his perfect teeth clash with yours. He held his hand there, wrapped around your throat more lightly now, waiting to see if you would consent to this. Your mind was spinning so much, you couldn’t even think of the quickest way to do so.

“Show me,” you sputtered helplessly, feeling like a rag doll in Spencer’s commanding grip.

He dove at your collarbone with his mouth, biting you so hard you shrieked and leaving behind glaringly obvious bruises and hickeys. You began to move your hips, grinding on his knee. The layers of fabric blocked you from feeling him. He groaned, his left hand coming up to palm one of your tits. His right hand never left your throat as he continued his attack on your neck and collarbone. You smelled his cologne that lingered from the night and it was getting you drunk, you were sure of it.

“Dirty fucking whores don’t get to cum until I say.” His wild mass of curly hair, made even more wild by the night, fell into his ever-darkening eyes. You traced his body, lean and taught, with your eyes, right down to the suit he was still wearing. His cock was already straining against his slacks.

The two of you made quick work of ridding yourselves of all clothes. With the dress kicked to the side and left in your underwear, you pulled Spencer onto the bed. You positioned yourself over his torso, hovering your core over him. His hands came down to your waist. You quickly did what he had done to you and held his hands on either side of his head.

“You always get to be in charge,” you whined.

Spencer bucked his hips. “And that’s how it’s going to stay.” He ground into your cunt with his still-covered cock and you let out an unholy moan.

You let him sit up and place you on your back again. He pulled your underwear off, tossing them to the side.

“You’re so wet.” Spencer’s fingers expertly curled and reached into all the right places. “So wet. Who’s this for?”

You murmured something unintelligible, so blissed out you couldn’t think straight. He cleared his throat, although his eyes had gone just as cloudy with lust as yours had.

“I said—” He ripped his fingers out of you and shoved them deep into your mouth. “Who. Are you. So wet for?” It seemed that for a second, he forgot himself, his jaw dipped slightly as he watched you suck yourself off of his fingers. Then, with a small shake of his head, he recovered. He held his full bottom lip in his teeth, watching you squirm with need beneath him. He had withdrawn his hand from your mouth, placing it back around your throat instead. “That’s what I thought.”

“Dick,” you grumbled

“Tell me who it is that fucks you the best,”—he began removing his boxers—“who makes you scream the loudest,”—the boxers were discarded on the floor next to your dress—“and who’s dick you just can’t wait to come all over.” He thrust into you, forcefully but not rough.

“Oh my god,” you whined. “Spencer!”

He smirked. Spencer grunted with effort of moving out of you slowly. He stilled for a moment, allowing the blinding pain and pleasure to subside, and then immediately slammed back into you, now fucking you incredibly hard.

You moaned and wove your fingers into his hair, tugging to anchor yourself. Spencer hissed out a curse at the feeling and went down to his forearms to fuck you from a new angle. This allowed you access to his mouth, which you took eagerly. He was still rambling almost incoherent filth when you pulled him into a searing kiss.

The feeling of his cock stretching and pounding you was driving you crazy. Your orgasm built up so fast you thought it had to be a false alarm, but before you had prepared yourself, a scream was ripped from your body involuntarily. He squeezed your nose shut with his thumb and the side of his finger, and suddenly you had no air at all; you didn’t even care, you didn’t need air anymore, you just needed this.

It just kept getting bigger and bigger, it kept twisting in your core and you weren’t sure how much more you could take. He let go of your nose and you took a deep breath in, hearing the most deranged noise break out of your throat and peter out in your mouth with his hand keeping it inside. You were crying out his name, at least you were trying to, but it was all just incomprehensible sobs muffled under his hand.

It was too much, it was far too much, but you could already see yourself tomorrow morning, staring at the phone, trying to decide if it’s worth your pride to call him.

“Who fucks you good,” he panted.

You cried out his name followed by a loud moan.

“Let everyone hear how much of a whore you are for me,” he grunted.

He could fuck you in front of whoever he wanted if it was always gonna be like this; he could fuck you in front of your grandmother and you wouldn’t stop him— you were whipped.

“I’m almost there, Spencer,” you whined, starting to lift your hips up to meet his thrusts, to help him to the edge, not that he seemed to need it. But he readjusted his position, hands wrapping around your hips and using his entire weight to press down on them, effectively stopping your movement. You could tell he was close, his rhythm faltering and just as you were about to accept that wonderful, naughty, downright dangerous heat, he pulled out, which stunned you.

Spencer stopped to breathe and push his hair away from his face. The soft glow of the lamps highlighted the sheen of sweat over him.

“Awww, did you want something?” The condescending nature of the question made you moan in disgruntlement. He met your eyes.

“Then beg for it.”

You complied, shocked at the lewd nature of your pleas. “Please, Spencer. I need you back inside of me-”

He smirked, running the underside of his cock against your clit. You began to tremble again.

“So fucking needy,” he taunted.

Your chest heaves. "That's mean. You're mean."

"I never claimed otherwise. Here, middle and marriage." He guides your hand to your entrance. You push your fingers inside with his guidance. He leaves you to work on yourself and you do. You weren’t surprised that it led to this. The sensations build again, another orgasm on the horizon.

“Are you gonna cum already?”

You nodded. His hand came up, rubbing slow circles just around your clit.

“Please,” you panted. “Please let me cum.”

The words had slipped out in the haze of pleasure. His eyebrows raised in shock, a light chuckle escaping his lips. Completely and utterly whipped for him.

“Well, I can’t argue with that,” he smirked, pushing your hand away.

A sob of frustration escaped your lips. He was laughing at you and the shape he’d gotten you in; if you weren’t so hazed out from lust, you could have killed him. “Spencer, I am begging you to-”

“I want to watch you ride me. You deserve a treat.”

Despite being completely exhausted, you let him help you into his lap. He was surprisingly gentle as he helped you straddle him. He lined your pussy to his cock, and upon your nod of consent, he lowered your hips so that you could take him. You both cried out in pleasure as he filled you, stretching your walls with his length as you sank down fully. You looked down at him, and he was still smirking at you as his hands found yours, holding them behind your back with one hand. He began fucking into you at a rapid, hard pace, hitting every single spot perfectly. You were squirming over him. Your hips bucked in rhythm with his, your head thrown back. His free hand pawed at your chest, rolling one nipple before the other.

You began to tremble even more violently than before, the coil in your belly so impossibly tight as you braced yourself. You whimpered, bucking against him for any type of added friction, unable to get enough even with everything he was doing. The flutter of your walls around his cock made his eyes roll back in his head.

Spencer moaned violently, cursing as his fingers dug into your wrists with bruising force. It was the only warning he gave you before he came, a warmth spreading deep in your core with the sporadic thrusts he couldn’t seem to stop. He cut himself off with another vicious grunt when you came too. The flutter of your walls around him left him speechless, gripping your skin so tight you were sure there’d be bruises. He bucked once, then twice before stilling.

You both took a second to catch your breath. He let your hands go and you leaned forward, wincing as you placed your hands on his chest. Spencer let his arms fall beside him. He hadn’t moved, and he wouldn’t, and he didn’t seem to be particularly inclined to in the next few minutes either. You lifted your leg, looking at the mess you’d made on him. As the tip of his softening dick slid out of you, so did a white strand of his cum, leaking out of you in physical evidence that what happened actually just happened. Spencer groaned at the sight.

“I’ll get you a washcloth, just let me…” His head fell back again.

You collapsed beside him, closing your eyes in an attempt to ground yourself. “So who’s getting married next?”

“Next month on the 20th? Clyde and..." he huffed. "Can't remember her name."

You smiled to yourself. “I guess I’ll see you then.”

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reidx reader #spencer reid fluff #fanfic #spencer reid x you #spencer reid smut

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ressjeon · 2 years ago

Text

desperate | pjm (m.)

pairing: model!jimin x pa!reader

summary: being Jimin's assistant made you immune from his flirty tactics, but somehow you find it hard to resist him when he unusually becomes desperate.

rating: 18+ | word count: 3.8k

genre/au: smut (a bit of plot if you squint)

warnings/content: crude language, masturbation, fellatio, handjob, deepthroating, face fucking?, switch dynamics, a lot of pining ig, cheeky jimin that has many lustful thoughts and he's a brat too oml

a/n: been a long while and this is unplanned as always lmao. was supposed to be posted on the 14th but the universe said no so i couldn’t post it. anyways, this is for the 2nd anniversary of this blog’s official debut in this community so why not post a fic of the person who made me start writing in the first place, as the first fic of 2023 just like he was my first fic in this blog (just in time with vibe’s release, his solo album announcement and his official partnership with Dior too! 0.0). thank you Jimin for being my light, i love you 🥰

― masterlist — navigation — wips

You’re currently on your knees, helping Jimin out with his problem.

Not that kind, goodness no. He’s been doing practice poses for his shoot as soon as he arrived like he always does in each photoshoot. You ignored his flushed look when he entered the studio, already knowing his morning routine and went straight for the pre-shoot meeting. Everything was smooth until you noticed some stain on his black pants when you were checking him for any final touches.

So here you are now, dabbing the wet wipes around the spot on his thigh while he’s leaning against the frame of the glass partition behind him.

He’s lucky that most of the staff are not here yet so you have time to remove the stain from his pants, a cum stain that almost made you scream when he told you sheepishly that it was from some girl he fucked this morning before coming to the studio.

“are you still mad? i told you i didn't realize she’d be a creamer”

In any other situation, this would've been a strange exchange with someone you essentially work for. Jimin has no filter in the way he talks to you but you don’t really mind it as you do the same. You and he have grown closer to one another each day since you started working for him so these types of conversations became normal between you both.

It's one of the perks of Jimin hiring someone around his age for a personal assistant. You've been with him from the very start of his career, barely scraping anything during that time with the both of you fresh from graduation. When he initially asked you, you looked at him incredulously because his plan was quite risky. Jimin understood your hesitance but he was surprised when you finally agreed after a bit of consideration.

Your friends said that it must be the puppy eyes that he constantly gives you but no, you knew of Jimin during college. It’s common knowledge from your mutual acquaintances of how hardworking he is and you’ve witnessed it a few times before so you said yes because why not. You're both in the same boat anyways, still looking for other jobs and who knows, if this works then it will be great for your future careers.

You remember when Jimin got his very first paycheck, running up to you with a tight hug and asking you something that you’ve been wanting for a while. You were confused but then he cracked a smile and revealed that he wanted to treat you as a gratitude for doing your best to find casting calls and gigs for him. You were happy of course, with both of your hard work finally coming to fruition.

This dynamic you have with Jimin as a very close friend and colleague has been pretty balanced as the years go by. There are times when you fought, unavoidable with your contrasting personalities but you both became comfortable with one another regardless. This makes your teamwork efficient with more understanding from both sides as your relationship gets closer.

“believe me, it’s hers, not mine i swear” he adds, repeating what he explained earlier when you don’t answer him.

Thoughts aside, you do, of course, believe him because Jimin’s one of the most responsible guys you’ve ever known. He always comes prepared for photoshoots and arrives early to do last-minute check-ups despite what his shenanigans are the night before like earlier today. He’ll never go bare with anyone to avoid risks because he already experienced some scares before from past hookups.

No answer from you still but it’s partly because you've been in shambles on the inside with what you feel for him these days. You’re not only annoyed by this whole thing but you also felt uneasy at what he said. You’ve been used to it but you somehow felt the sting when he explicitly laid out his latest hookup.

You’ll never admit to yourself or him why because it would be unprofessional.

At the same time, you’ve also been fighting to focus only on finishing up what you’re doing, occasionally straying your eyes toward the glass windows to calm yourself down. He was practically naked in front of you, with his damn gold necklace where its round pendant dances around his belly button and pointing down to the huge bulge he was sporting. And it would’ve helped if he’s covered, at least while you’re still on the floor. But apparently, he felt the need to not zip it up and just wear it as it is, torturing you with his sculpted body.

You shouldn’t mind it but you’re a bit suspicious because Jimin’s always been involved in his photoshoots. He always consults with you regarding his outfits even if it’s not part of your job. He often asks for your input as well, discussing his ideas with you before he gives them a go. For this shoot, he picked this specific hooded jacket among all the ones that you’ve shown him, insisting on wearing it without anything under it because this one is apparently very loose.

Which became an immense distraction to you.

You remember zoning out earlier in the meeting room when Jimin was picking the final photos from his pre-shoot, trying all the concepts that he’s been wanting to do. You were already a mess with his slicked-back hair and exposed body along with his tight pants. And now you couldn't stop staring at his veiny hands as they hovered around the pictures. The gold rings on both of his index fingers didn’t help either, turning your focus on them instead of listening to him explaining to you and his stylist.

Jimin of course notices and teases you like always. Though he’s been doing it more frequently these days, adding more to the brewing tension between you.

He ran his fingers through the pinned pictures on the pegboard and casually picked up the pictures near where you were standing by the edge of the table. He leans closer and closer so you have to fight the urge to look at him, instead focusing your attention on talking with this stylist.

“you alright, __?”

You just scoff and roll your eyes at him, brushing him off with an excuse of being sleep deprived. He’s doing this on purpose, he could’ve lied to you earlier about fucking someone because how is he still hard? Thankfully he zipped up for now so his oversized jacket covers it but you knew he had a hunch about why you’d been acting weird around him right now.

Jimin's been smiling, knowing that his current hairstyle has been your favourite. He noticed it when he had his rainbow blond one last time where you couldn't stop touching his hair, hands constantly on it whether hair spraying it or simply tugging its strands whenever you can, reasoning that it's looking messy though it's not.

You couldn't stop looking at him too, eyes staying on him more than you ever did since working for him. That's why he specifically talked to the stylist and the photographer about bringing this hairstyle back for this photoshoot since it’ll also fit with his whole look. Also, you’ve been sneaking glances at him today which has been lifting up his mood. It just adds to how hard his dick is already, affecting you this much makes him very excited for today.

“Jimin, you can't do the shoot with this” you will yourself to ask, relieved that your voice came out sterned. When you look up at him, Jimin swears that his cock just twitched at the view of you in this position, his thoughts playing a different scenario where you’re giving him the suck of his life.

“then help me..” he mindlessly responded, totally not paying attention to what you’re referring to. He's not sure really, his mind’s still hazy and all he can think of is the ache of his balls from not being able to cum earlier.

“i’m trying” you grumble, ignoring his pouting. He’s adorable when he’s like this, and he uses that on you when he wants something. Sometimes it works when he combines it with his affectionate touches but you have to be strong this time. You’re not even sure what he’s specifically talking about but then you’ve also been occupied in trying to fight off your growing lust for him.

Jimin’s pout turns into a grin after catching your eyes flickering from looking anywhere and on his bulge again, he can sense how your hand’s so tempted to touch it with how much you’re gripping his pants. Your hand continues to fidget, eyes unfocused as you continue to wipe off that stain as hard as you can just in case. You don’t look annoyed now either, but you’re wearing a struggling expression that tells him just how conflicted you are at this moment.

You’re beyond torn because that fucking tent of his pants is dissolving your annoyance little by little with sinful thoughts already creeping up your mind the longer you stay down the floor.

“where are you looking at?”

“the city view looks good from here”

You automatically answer, clearing your throat in the process before gathering up the pack of wet wipes and the damp cloth along with a bowl of cold water from the ground. You avoid looking at Jimin’s face because you knew he was going to try something now that he noticed your slight slip of judgment.

“yeah, the view is amazing but my view from here is better”

“up or down?”

“both, but i’d say down. you’d say the opposite, right __?”

You almost dropped what you're holding at his remark but this is nothing new to you: Jimin shamelessly throwing his lewd innuendos at you at any chance he got. You indulge him in it, after all, it’s just harmless flirting between friends, something that you never expected when you took this job. Sometimes it's part of your banter, you doing the same thing to him which catches him off guard sometimes when he's focusing on something while working. You especially do it when discussions of his escapades come to light, which you helped in arranging because of his demanding schedules.

Yes, you’re this dedicated to your job even if it sometimes causes an ache in your heart.

“why? didn’t you fuck someone?” you deflect, not giving him the satisfaction of knowing how much he’s affecting you.

“yeah but i didn’t get to cum, couldn’t…” he trails off as he closes his eyes and grabs his crotch to hopefully feel a little bit of comfort but it's no use. He wants to tell you why he couldn't, wants to let you know who has been stopping him from getting off with other people but you don't care anyways.

“then get rid of it, you still have time”

You state with urgency, nervously looking around if anyone saw but everyone’s been doing their own thing. Patting his thigh, you stand up from your kneeling position and push aside your want to help him in getting rid of it. He might be good at hiding his expressions but he does look like he’s been struggling for hours since he arrived on set. Jimin didn’t do anything but huff before retreating to the dressing room to take care of his problem.

Now that most of the staff are here, you check in with them for any possible last-minute changes. It took your mind off Jimin a bit but your eyes couldn’t stop glancing at the door of his dressing room. You shake your head, pushing yourself to focus on your current task. It’s still early but you want to make sure Jimin’s ready when the scheduled time for his photoshoot is on. This is an important shoot for him so you just hope that he finishes as soon as possible to not keep everyone waiting.

After you’ve double-checked everything, you decide to fetch Jimin. Nearing his door though is making you more agitated than you already are. You’re about to knock when you hear his loud, sexy groan. fuck.

You haven't really heard how Jimin sounds properly because each time you catch him fucking someone, either during his breaks or random times when you need something for him to confirm, his partners’ moans usually overpower his so this is quite new, and you won’t deny that you'd love to hear more of it.

“oh fuck..fuck”

Jimin being this loud causes you to panic at the possibility of anyone in the studio hearing him like this. This might not be new for some of the staff but still, you just don’t want everyone to hear how he sounds like.

You took a deep breath before wandering your eyes around if anyone was watching but thankfully, everyone was busy.

He wonders if you’re listening, purposely moaning louder than he intends to as he fists his cock. You probably don’t care and if you ever catch him, you’ll just ignore his attempts and scold him for taking too long at this. It’s always been the case with you but he does find it amusing to piss you off more.

So when he hears the door opening, a smirk creeps up on his face before opening his half-lidded eyes.

“y–”

“shut up” you seethe as you approach his propping form on his vanity. He thinks it's just one of his imaginations again, indulging him with his fantasies. But when he feels you grab the chain of his wrap necklace towards you, his eyes open fully before releasing a small gasp. The smaller chain loop fastens gradually around his neck when you begin pulling its long chain gently while looking into his eyes. He maintains eye contact and you notice the hunger and mischief in them as you continue to pull his necklace.

“s-shit” he whines quietly, though the smirk still remains on his gorgeous face as his hand continues to stroke his cock even faster. His other hand reaches for the dark bottle of lube, bringing it in front of you before pumping its nozzle on his very angry tip.

He closes his eyes again, placing the bottle back on the table while his other hand spreads the lube around his dick. You’re speechless for a second with this whole show he’s putting on, pausing to watch him. It’s when his other hand comes up in an attempt to touch you to come closer that breaks your reverie, swatting his hand away.

You stare him down, brows scrunching while contemplating what to do next. This would be crossing whatever boundaries you have with Jimin both in your personal and professional relationship. You had to look away from him to think this through. You’re used to seeing him semi-naked with other people before but not like this. Him now naked from the waist down in front of you, his tight black pants pooling around his ankles.

It’s Jimin’s desperate whimpers that made your mind up. There’s no point in denying wanting the same thing he desires from you.

“i’ll help you but don't make a sound” you command and he nods, too fucked out to respond because all he wants is his release.

Your hand replaces his before you kneel on the hard floor, immediately swallowing his cock to not waste more time. One of Jimin’s hands is on your head at once, not gripping your hair but just holding onto you for support because fuck, your mouth feels so much better than his hands, hell it's even better than pussies he’s had before.

It’s you, of course, Jimin has always thought about how much better you’ll be at pleasuring him than others. He smiles after noticing your demeanour change as soon as your mouth envelops him. It must be the lube flavour that he specifically picked knowing apple’s one of your favourites. Your mouth is greedily sucking him in now, warm tongue lapping up the entirety of his cock.

"you were drooling for my cock earlier, hmm? bet you wouldn't mind sucking me off in front of everyone outside" his mocking tone shudders, his attempt of gaining control wavering with you being encouraged by what he said. You bob your head faster, opening your mouth more to take him deeper cause the view from where you are is spurring you to do more. Jimin in his fucked out glory is a sight to watch, his gold link earrings swaying as he tosses his head back, his plump lips getting swollen from him biting them to hold his moans in.

You want to see more of it.

When Jimin’s not closing his eyes from the pleasure, they never leave yours as he stares right into them. He surprises you when he gets up from leaning on the vanity, his hand moving from the top of your head down to the back of your neck to pull you closer to him. This made him push deeper into your mouth so you loosen your jaw, the new angle allowing more of his length in your mouth. As soon as his tip reaches the back of your throat, you’re unable to stop releasing gurgling moans when it nudges further.

“can’t..believe..you’re.. choking on my cock right now..”

Jimin rasps needily as he rolls his hips slowly, deeper with each thrust. The vibrations from your moans are not helping him in holding his orgasm longer. He’s been trying hard because he wants to prolong this, relish this view of you on your knees and your mouth on him because who knows if this will ever happen again. He’s losing himself, grinding on your face while his hand starts massaging your nape in time with his thrusts.

Now you’re confused because you for sure thought that he’ll start fucking your throat roughly the moment you allowed him but he’s not. You take a deep breath through your nose as you come up, readying your throat in case he’ll change his mind later when he’s close to cumming. But the way he’s touching your nape is making you relax, distracting you from your main reason for helping him in the first place.

He’s close already, his cock's been throbbing before you started bobbing your head earlier. His pace also changes a bit faster but is still slow and you’re confused as to why he’s been holding back. His breathing turns erratic and his lower abs are flexing. You know it so before he does so dig your nails into both of his meaty thighs before one of your hands leaves and pushes away his hold on your head.

You take him deeper until your lips reach the skin of his crotch, immediately pushing back when he grabs your head again, releasing his cock from your mouth which causes Jimin to whimper in frustration.

“that's for making me wipe other girl's cum on your pants” you glare at him, voice hoarse from taking him that deep in your throat. Standing up from kneeling was making your legs wonky, feeling numb from your previous position but your mind’s not on it with your prior annoyance resurfacing because of his attempt to pacify you.

Jimin, however, begins laughing.

Your brows rise from his reaction, totally not expecting this because you were really sure that you already got him under you.

“so you’re jealous after all,”

“i’m not, i wouldn’t help you if i were” you counter, avoiding his eyes as you pull his jacket back on him, it was slipping on one side already, showing his muscular arms and the tattoo on his ribs. Your fingers have minds of their own when you start tracing each of the letters, causing Jimin to shiver at your touches but the devilish smile remains on his handsome face.

“but you’re doing it to prove something, right?”

You don’t know how to answer him and you don’t want to tell him the truth because it’ll just feed his already massive ego. Instead, you grab his swollen dick, hot and heavy in your hands and begin stroking him roughly. The slick from the lube, his precum and your saliva made it easier for your plan. There’s no way you’ll let him, he’ll never be able to make you admit it.

The smile disappears from his lips as his whole body shakes with a cry, not expecting your punishing pace on him. You want to look at him, to watch his smug face morph back into a pliant one.

But you can’t.

Jimin couldn't cum earlier while fucking another girl because all he can think about is you and now you’re doing what exactly he’s been imagining for months, years. You’re still not looking at him, your brows scrunching in focus on jerking him off. He can’t stop himself from bucking into your hands when your thumb starts flicking his mushroom tip, nudging his frenulum with your index finger before squeezing his shaft each time you do it.

You’re honestly amazed at how Jimin manages to hold off his climax this long but it shouldn’t surprise you when he has such incredible control of his body. It’s when your other hand reaches out to pull his necklace again to pull him towards you, that he finally gives in. It never crossed your mind that modifying this necklace by combining it with his gold link could serve as an advantage for you when playing with him.

Jimin’s hand leaves the table to muffle his mouth, eyes somewhat begging you to let him cum. You smile and he lets himself go through a series of incoherent cries, still covering his mouth like you ordered him to. And despite knowing how loud he can be, you quickly move to remove his hands to finally hear the delicious moans that he’s been obediently keeping.

He continues to rock his hips despite the overstimulation, trying to catch your eyes and when you do look up, he’s back to purposely biting his lips as he gapes at you with his dark brown eyes.

He’s grinning while still biting his lips as he shoots more of his cum into your hands, it’s spilling all over but most of it landed on your black sheer top, especially on the sleeves.

“Jimin what the fuck! you came so much..” your enamoured eyes are focusing on his slit that’s still releasing loads of his sticky cum around your fingers.

“yeah, been holding them back” for you, he wants to add but he just chuckles, breathlessly and all giddy while eyeing you. It could be high from his mind-blowing orgasm but it’s more with how he basically just covered you with his cum.

You look cute when you’re annoyed, grumbling because of the stains on your sheer puffy top. Some of them are on your black leather pants too, and this just adds to his amusement as he watches you walking around frantically, looking for something to clean you both up with before his photoshoot finally commences in about a minute or so.

Jimin’s not sorry of course, seeing his cum stains on you is stirring something carnal in him. It's his way of marking you because you're his now, well, kind of. He'll just make sure to properly mark you next time.

e/n: i initially wrote this around the time it came out and during his birthday but wasn’t planning on posting it until later cuz i do have other priority fics but i just have to since i wasn’t able to post him last year 😭

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uriekukistan · 6 months ago

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fics for gaza 🍉 UPDATED POST

hi everyone! i'll be participating in the fundraising initiative led by @ficsforgaza! for more information on how to participate as reader, or as a writer, you can visit this post!

how it works: in exchange for donations to vetted fundraisers, i will write at a rate of 100 words per $1. as a reader, you can either choose to "sponsor" one of my current wips/ideas, or you can make a request! more info on my wips & making requests below the cut.

even if you aren't interested in sponsoring my writing, please consider donating to one of the fundraisers anyway, if you're financially able!

total raised: $46

reblogs appreciated!

sponsored wips ❀

step one: donate to a vetted fundraiser and screenshot your proof of donation and block out any personal information

step two: send me an ask with your proof of donation and which wip(s) you would like to sponsor. word counts will be kept updated as i receive sponsorships.

summer lovin' (Jujutsu Kaisen, Itafushi - Yuuji x Megumi & Inuokko - Yuuta x Inumaki, Beach AU, Fluff & Light Angst) : Boyfriends Yuuta and Toge set up their friends Megumi and Yuuji after watching them pine for each other. 1/10 parts sponsored, about 2500-3000 words a part

untitled touka birthday one-shot (Tokyo Ghoul, background Touken - Touka x Kaneki, Fluff & Light Angst) : Touka celebrates her birthday and feels the first semblances of home since the Anteiku Raid where everything went wrong. 0/1500 sponsored

untitled Yuuji POV one-shot of Dancing With a Stranger (Jujutsu Kaisen, Itafushi - Yuuji x Megumi, College/Dancers AU, Fluff & Light Angst) : Yuuji has a huge crush on Megumi, but the green-eyed ballerina doesn't seem to like him much... 0/7000 sponsored

requests ❀

step one: please read my rules and propose your request to me via dm first (i don't bite)! i haven't done requests since (checks notes) 2015, so i'm still not sure what i'm comfortable writing for others 😅

step two: once i've accepted your request, please send proof of donation for me to start writing! i will try to have your request done within a week, but life does happen, so please be patient with me 🙏

request rules

i write for jujutsu kaisen, tokyo ghoul, and death note.

i will write ships, character studies, or any general story you have in mind. i do not write x reader fics at this time.

i will not write anything nsfw, nor will i write any adult/minor or incest ships.

i will write heavier topics, such as mental illness, addiction, violence, toxic relationships, etc, but i will not be romanticizing them. these are serious issues and i will treat them as such, and do my best to portray them realistically.

if you have any questions about what i will or will not write, please feel free to send an ask or a dm!

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #tokyo ghoul #tokyo ghoul :re #tgre #death note #fanfic #itafushi #inuokko #meronia #mellodramattic #fushiita #satosugu #shokohime #nobamaki #free palestine #free gaza #palestine

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scummy-writes · 5 months ago

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Normalcy Bias

Rating: Mature

Pairing: Gilbert/Reader, Roderic/Reader

Words: 1383

Tags: Gilbert Route Spoilers, she/her refered to reader, angst, major character death, grieving, grieving sex, this is not dubcon.

Summary: It's an outcome that the four of you knew was possible, but only Gilbert had made the preperations in advance. Now, you're left struggling facing the inevitible.

It’s a desperate seeking of relief- one that seems to surprise you as much as Roderic.

The door closes shut behind the two of you, a faint click dissolving into the silence of the room, melding with the ringing echoing in your ears. Composing yourself seems impossible, you’ve been outwardly sobbing for hours, to the point of Roderic having to carefully remove you from the room before you cemented yourself to the spot, refusing to let your eyes stray from your lover for the last time.

Gilbert’s body would see no casket. There wouldn’t be an elaborate display fitting for his royal blood, nor a chance for you to say a final goodbye. His cremation would be swift, handled by Walter. His final order was in paper written long before you, a blatant refusal to let you take part any further from there. You knew there were a multitude of reasons for this, yet you still bit your lip near to the point of blood, trying not to seethe at your lover’s last wishes.

Irrationale blazed through you, difficult to keep in check as the thoughts raced. Walter would be the only one to have a proper farewell, to have the respite of an eulogy, the calm in having a say in his final words. To be at peace as he watched Gilbert’s body burn to ash, his remains left only to Walter’s knowledge.

Whereas you, the queen of Obsidian, would not even be privy to where your lover’s soul may rest.

A breath stuck in your lungs, clawing at your throat the more the visuals plagued your mind.

Those moments, where you clung helplessly to his corpse, biting through curses and tears until forced away against your will- that was it. Your final exchange with the one so near to you was a storm of emotions you swore to never show to him, and yet that’s what you left his body with. A bitter memory, words of malice towards fate thrown his way, everything aside from the words of love you wished you could leave now.

Heard through your ruminations, there’s a quiet shuffling behind you, cloth pooling onto the floor. You don’t want to glance back, you don’t want to accept what will happen next, but with your eyes downcast you can see Roderic’s robe forgone, familiar boots in your vision.

An intake of breath is what causes your voice to slip out, a feeble but determined don’t. It’s hoarse, pleading, but Roderic wasn’t to listen to you. He remained loyal, even with death between him and his lord.

His fingers find your chin, your jaws clenched tight as he gently tipped you up to face him. To see a shadow of Gilbert, a perverse gift left behind for you.

For the second time this day, you act out in ways you never wanted. It’s faster than your thoughts, yet Roderic’s cheek is twinged red all the same, his eyes wide for just a moment. In that crack, the first feel of violence held in your palm, you recognize all too much at once. How easy it was in your fury to strike another, how much of an illusion the man in front of you is.

Instead of rightful anger, instead of a dangerous glint in his eye, the grip on your wrist is with a tenderness you don’t deserve.

“It’s just a bad dream, little rabbit.”

“Don’t.”

“That’s all it is. And what do we do with bad dreams?”

It’s too much to look at him, to hear his voice come from those lips. Your gaze stubbornly looks aside, even as he pulls you closer to mutter in your ear.

“We do our best to forget.”

It’s wrong. Your skin crawls between the waves of heat running over your body, the claw of your grip a mixture of disgust and longing. Despite that, your heart sings, falling for the delusion currently massaging your inner thighs, spreading your legs apart to slot himself between.

How much could you be blamed for allowing it? For giving in through the tears, desperate for something more pleasant to be left in your lover’s wake? To look past the brief moments of hesitation, the uncharacteristic gasps and unsure touches.

But no matter how much you pleaded with your mind, none of it was the same. Just a pale shell of what used to be. His fingers were like a ghost upon your skin, mimicking familiar situations but askew from your memories just enough to send foreign shivers through you. Each drag of his cock along your inner walls, each kiss given to your lips and neck, so close to being him. But so far removed in reality.

Was this a sin? Was allowing your lover’s replacement to gaze upon your skin like he had - to etch his seed into your walls, to carve out a place of his own within you - a disservice to what you had called loyalty to your love?

The questions burned inside of you, while the twisting flurry of lust deep inside you burned just as bright. The emotions of shame and despair melded within your neediness, the imitation within your grasp eating away at your clarity.

It was wrong. You knew it to be so. But his skin still flushed with lust, eyes clouded over with the same neediness that screamed inside of you. Despite it all, how you wished to push him away and mourn differently, your warmth still clamped down on him all the same.

Sleep felt pointless. So out of reach and impossible to fathom, not while you stared up at the ceiling, the room draped in night. The moonlight barely gave the area a passing glance, yet instead of the childish fear that used to overtake you when he was still around, you felt nothing in your heart.

All that remained was apathy. The ache of your muscles, the nails you dug into your skin. A critical acceptance for the sins you committed tonight. An acceptance that, at the end of it all, Gilbert had known you far more than you knew yourself, knowing that you would fall so quickly.

A solemn prediction, that no matter the love and cherished memories you shared, you would still find comfort in his replacement in the end. That for all that was fought for, it was still never written for Gilbert to survive as long as he had. For Gilbert to be the last one fully encompassed in your love.

You don’t want to look at the man beside you, even as the sheets shuffle.

The apathy within you wells up into disgust at your desperate, primal urges, and Roderic is the outlet you crave to pour it into, repeatedly. An unfathomable rage, a grief so deep you wanted it to be etched onto another- to try and have a shred of equality in your sorrows.

Unreasonable, selfish thoughts- wanting to carve your frustrations out upon his skin, again and again, until the one mimicking your lover refused to look at you once more.

But for you, that too was never written.

Despite how you seethe, how you bite against his calm words and touches, there’s still a gentle caress to your cheek. So unlike the man you love(d). It’s shy, skittish even, and it takes you a moment to understand it’s partly due to the tears trailing your skin.

A wounded animal, that’s all you had been twisted into, regardless of the boiling under your skin.

You hate that he acknowledges that.

He notices the way you flinch away from him, the heat between you dissipated enough for false emotions to fade away, and the touch against your skin falters. Yet, persists in other ways. Through the trailing of the curve of your cheek, through your hair, until it lays at his side again.

The silence stifles you, makes your throat burn the more you’re forced to register your surroundings, the lingering scent of him still in abundance. The implications of that make your hands clench, digging nails into skin yet again to abide the pain.

Roderic’s voice is low, a whisper against the thunderous anger welling up once more inside of you, but the moment he speaks, ice cascades over your skin.

“I lost him too.”

[folds hands] well. well.

I was watching hannibal, and as spoiler-free as I can manage, the topic of funeral sex came up. They discussed, loosely, how after funerals or heavy losses, whether through death or another form of it, people will have sex as a way to handle the grief. Not all of the time, but sometimes the emotions would get overwhelming.

And I had to pause the episode midway through and I immediately slapped down like 300 words to this.

It's not perfect, but I wanted to explore the idea of what could happen when Gilbert dies, especially if it's pretty early on in their relationship. It made me realize how much lack of closure anyone in the situation would get. I have her irrationally angry at Walter, but in truth he'd likely have to hurry and dispose of Gilbert's body before anyone else saw it, and so he'd have a short amount of time for goodbyes as well.

I also wanted to put forth the consideration towards how Roderic may feel in all of this. I hope it's pretty clear that this was not dubcon or noncon, but just an abundance of overwhelming emotions getting to both of them. That their grief drove them to impulses.

coughs. anyway. I listened to the album 'hospice' three times while writing this and wanted to shrivel away. Thank u claudia, dice, mimi, and aqua for watchin me stream this wip and hear me ramble about it.

Ikepri Masterlist || Ikevamp Masterlist || Ikepri/Vamp Server

Taglist (Sign-up form here!): @m-mmiy @xbalayage @bubblexly @keithsandwich @nightghoul381

@katriniac @namine-somebodies-nobody @redsky-morning @rjthirsty @pawnkyyy

divider credit @/saradika

#ikepri #ikemen prince #ikemen prince gilbert #ikepri gilbert #gilbert von obsidian #ikepri gilbert von obsidian

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ohtobeleah · 11 months ago

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Was It Over? // Jake Seresin

-> Chapter Six:: [Conflict & Chaos]

Summary: As panic consumes Jake after finding out about your current medical condition, Jake calls your mother to fill in the gaps. Nurse Lydia escapes being taken to her supervisor and Jake lets loose on his mother who tries to stop him from leaving.

Warnings: Sick!reader. Breast cancer diagnosis. Jake Seresin x F!reader. Angst, hospital & medical inaccuracies. SLOW BURN ROMANCE/ Inaccurate medical information. Relationship turmoil. Overbearing mothers.

Word Count: 4.4K

Author Note: Okay Sick!wifey maybe there is another guy. Or not, who knows. My guess is a platonic friendship that will ultimately end in heartbreak.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

November 2nd

“You look like you've just been told you’re dying?” It was a voice you didn't recognise that pulled you out of the bottomless pit of worry you'd fallen into as you sat on the edge of the raised garden bed just outside your doctor's office. “It's okay, you were probably just told that so it's alright to look like your whole world’s just been flipped on its head.” The man shrugged as he came to sit beside you with his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

“Sorry, sorry–” You shook your head as you wiped your tears and dried your face, probably as patchy and puffy as ever. “Are you a doctor here?”

“Me?” the man smiled as he pointed to his chest with a scoff. “Oh no, no I'm uh–I’m a patient I guess.” The man corrected you as he watched you try to fix yourself up. Before you knew it there was a tissue being held out of you to take.

“Thanks.” You smiled softly with gratitude and accepted the tissue the man wouldn't be wanted back anytime soon.

“No problem.” He nodded. “I saw you come out of Doctor Parsons' office, she's got a pretty rough gig don't you reckon?”

“I'll say.” You agreed, Doctor Parsons probably wanted to go into her profession to help people, but nowadays all it seemed like was she was dishing out hard to swallow diagnoses. “You’re a patent of hers too?”

“Unfortunately, Pancreatic– what about you?” The man asked as you tried to wrap your head around the idea of exchanging diagnosis with another human being.

“I uh–I was just told I have breast cancer.” This complete stranger was the first person you told, before you mum, before your ex husband, before your kids or extended family. This stranger who was sitting next to you outside your local doctors office was the first person beside your doctor to know you had cancer, that your cells were dying–that you were, in fact, dying.

“Oh yeah? What's the going rate for that one?” This all seemed too normal, too calm to be talking about. It wasn't the reaction you'd ever expected although you weren't really thinking about how people would react. “Sorry, I'm being too nosy.” The man beside you reached out and extended his hand towards you. “I’m Jensen, I don't mean to pry, it's just I don't see an awful lot of young people come into this particular doctors office and when I saw you rush out like your world had just been rocked I couldn't help but to follow you out here.” Jensen smiled as you shook his hand. “I'm also incredibly self aware of how creepy that sounds, so again, I'm sorry.”

“No no–” You chuckled as you let go of Jensen's hand. “It's okay, it's just uh, fresh I guess, like ten minutes ago fresh.” You tried to explain the best you could. “Y/n, my names Y/n–”

“Damn Y/n that's hot off the press–” Jesne pressed his lips together in a fine line, he understood what it was like to feel the crushing weight of the world on your chest. He was only in for a chat with doctor Parsons the day he met you. “Listen, in the hopes of not being too forward, can I give you my number?” He asked with a caution laced between his words, ready for rejection. “Not in a, I'd like to take you out sometime, although I wouldn't be opposed.” You had to stop yourself from looking as shocked as you were. Were you really being picked up out the front of a doctor's surgery? “But in more of an I understand what you’re going through kinda way and if you ever need an ear to vent to about the not so glamorous journey you're about to go on, I'd very much like to be that person for you, I always wished I had someone when I first started my battle.”

“Uh, yeah–” You couldn't help but to smile through the dried tears on your face. “Sure, yeah that sounds really nice actually.” WHen you unlocked your phone the realisation that Jake, your ex husband, had been the last person you called dawned on you. He didn't know, he could never know. He wouldn't care enough to want to know. And yet here this stranger was, willing and ready to listen. “And for the record maybe when the dust settles I wouldn't be opposed to the idea either.”

***~***~***~***~***~

“I vow to be your faithful partner in sickness, and in health.” Jake could hear your vow’s ringing out inside his mind as he raced around his childhood bedroom getting his stuff packed to leave. Your voice sounded as if you were standing right before him, plaguing his mind with haunting memories of promises he’d failed to keep.

“I promise to love you unconditionally, to honor and respect you, and bring you solace in times of need.” Your voice was like a hauntingly beautiful memory reminding him of the vows you’d promised each other on your wedding day, right after his father had told him that happiness was essentially a hallmark card scam. Jake could hardly focus as he tried to compose himself enough to just think about what was going on for a second—but then his own voice echoed around in his mind, the voice of his former self who hadn’t yet ruined his marriage spoke up through the darkness of his fuzzy and fragile mind.

“I take you for better or worse, in sickness and in health, in chaos and conflict, through heaven and hell.” Jake felt an anger so deep and overwhelming that he stood from his twin bed and walked a few quick paces across his room to where his closest door was. The animalistic growl that left his body when Jake slammed his fist into the wooden door woke his mother who was sleeping soundly a room or two down the hall. She hadn’t been woken so abruptly like that in years. Not since her children were young adolescence.

With his busted hand and a pain in his chest he could only describe as emotional turmoil, Jake stumbled back over to his bed and picked up his discarded phone. He mulled over the decision for a few seconds before he went through his contacts to find probably the only woman who could give him more of the story.

Your mother, Mary O’Riley. Or as Jake affectionately called her for the better half of your relationship, Maz.

Jake's thumb lingered over her contact for a few seconds before he decided that yes, yes he needed more information. He needed someone to tell him this was all just some sick fucked up prank. He needed someone to tell him that you were in fact, alright, and that you weren’t lying in a hospital bed right now, without him there to hold your hand and tell you everything would be okay.

He’d promised you in sickness and in health.

Jake listened with anticipation and dread as the phone rang against his ear. It rang and rang and rang until finally at the very last second she could—your mother picked up the phone while she sat at your bedside.

“Jacob—“ He heard her coo into the speaker. “You—“

“Tell me she’s not sick Maz.” Was all Jake said. It was stern and filled with heartbreak. “Please, tell me right now that she’s not in the hospital right now.” Your mother could tell Jake was holding back tears through gritted teeth as she turned her head over to the nurses station to see Lydia almost hyperventilating over her mistake. “Maz! FUCKING TELL ME MY WIFE DOESNT HAVE BREAST CANCER!”

The sudden outburst made your mum jump nearly out of her seat as she pulled her phone slightly away from her ear, but it didn’t surprise her. Jake loved you so much, it was only natural he’d be in a state of shock finding out the way he had.

“Jake, sweetheart, I need you to sit down for me.” Mary cooed softly with a sincere expression of empathy. “Please, just sit down and I’ll explain what’s going on.”

***~***~***~***~***~

Lydia had never felt more stressed in her very short lived career. Once she had hung up the phone with who she now knew was probably your ex husband, Lydia's immediate plan was to come clean to your mum as she sat by your bedside. Luckily, your condition post op was pretty good all things considered and instead of taking up another room in the ICU, your surgeon said that it would be best for your recovery to be placed back in the room you would see out the next few weeks of chemotherapy in. There was no escaping the oncology ward, not even a stroke could save you as it seamned.

“Miss O’Riley?” Lydia’s voice shook as she walked into your hospital room to see you sleeping in a drugged out haze of pain relief post op. You weren't expected to be awake for another few hours or so to allow your brain time to rest. “I need to speak with you for a moment, if you have a second.” All of this was going on around you without your knowledge. And quite frankly you wouldn't have wanted to know anyway– I mean, who really wants to be told that their nurse accidentally rang your husband and violated your privacy accidently? Certainly not you.

“Is something wrong with my daughter?” Your mother asked as she held your hand, watching at the monitor told her you were stable, that your heart was beating and that you, despite the odds, would survive another day.

“No, no, your daughter seemed to be responding well post surgery–” Lydia's voice still shook with nervousness for the reaction her actions would invoke. “It's just that I’ve uh–” Lydia was only young, she had so much left to give to the healthcare industry, one mistake couldn’t end her career before it had even started could it? “I accidentally called your daughter's husband, I automatically assumed he would be her emergency contact because he was listed as her husband and–” Lydia tried to get her explanation out as quickly as she possibly could before your mother had a chance to speak. “I'm so sorry, I told him about her current medical condition.”

“Oh god.” Your mother groaned as she looked back to where you laid peacefully unaware that Jake now knew about your whereabouts and health status. “She didn't want him to know, at least not yet anyway.” Your mother explained as she sighed and ran her hands over her face.

“I'm so sorry, I just assumed and before I knew he was asking what the hell I was even talking about and then I looked further down the page and saw that you were listed as her emergency contact.” Lydia was currently seeing her entire career flash before her eyes. All your mother had to do was request to speak to her supervisor, request that she report she violated HIPAA, but she didn't. Your mother simply nodded and accepted the fact a young girl who was only just starting out had made a mistake wasn't life threatening.

“It's alright, just uh, he’s going to come, if I know that man he's going to be on the first flight here so as my daughters medically proxy, can you please adjust her visiting list and add Jake Seresin to the list.” Your mother knew Jake would be calling any minute now and that he knew there was no vacation away. Now that he knew what was going on. Mary fished her phone out of her handbag and sat it on your bedside table in anticipation. She was almost going to set a timer just to see how long it would take her son in law to call.

“You–you aren't going to report me?” Lydia was at this point, in tears. She was so overwhelmed that she could barely see. Your mother felt sympathy for the young woman and really didn't want to be a part of whatever reprimanding could come of a simple mistake. So, she simply shook her head, looked back at her phone for a fleeting moment before she turned to look at you and finally back to Lydia who couldn't have been more thankful for the words that came out of your mothers mother.

“No dear, no I'm not going to report you, mistakes happen–” Your mother pressed her lips together in a fine line as she reached up to touch your cheek with the pad of her thumb. “My daughter knows that all too well.”

***~***~***~***~***~

“Please, just sit down and I’ll explain what’s going on.” Jake listened to what Maz had said and he did what he was told. He had always respected your mum and her natural born wisdom that Jake clung to through the time he had known her. “Are you sitting down?”

“Yeah, yeah i'm sittin.’”

“Jake–” Maz sighed heavily into the phone. “Back in november when Y/n called you about taking the kids for christmas she was sitting in her doctors office.” Jake didn't speak, he listened carefully to every word your mother spoke. His head was spinning as his heart raced. Tears streamed down his cheeks as the realisation set in. “She’d just been told she has a very aggressive form of breast cancer– stage three A, triple positive grade three invasive doctoral carcinoma.”

“Wh-why didn't she just tell me?” Jake knew that the two of you had never been more divided in your marriage, but he always thought that if you were sick to this level, that you'd call and he’d come running. Come hell or high water Jake was going back to Rhode Island to be with you.

“That's a question you’ll just have to ask her.” Your mother replied. “But she's not alone, I'm with her right now, she uh–had a stroke only about an hour after she’d been admitted to oncology, good thing we were already in the hospital when it happened or else it could have been a hell of a lot worse.”

“Maz–” Jake croaked out. “I don't know what I'm supposed to do.” He cried softly into the phone, it broke your mothers heart. “Tell me what I'm supposed to do.” He wasn't asking if he should get a ticket on the next flight out, no. No Maz knew exactly what Jake was asking her and again, it wasn't a question she held the answers to.

“You just have to show up for her.” Was all your mother was able to say. “I dont have the answers this time Sweetheart, I’m not sure how to fix what's broken between the two of you, but I wanna know how soon you can get here–” Your mother paused as she tried to hold back her own tears. “She's not in a good way, she needs her husband Jake, she needs you here.”

Jake remembered that phone call, the one where you initially asked him to take the kids for christmas. He should have asked more questions, should have pressed you a little harder for information. Maybe, just maybe if he did back then, you would have crumbled and told him the truth.

“I'll be there as soon as I can Maz, consider me on the next available flight.”

***~***~***~***~***~

in sickness and in health, in chaos and conflict. It was the only thing Jake could tell himself over and over again as he walked down the large staircase of his parents place. in sickness and in health, in chaos and conflict. Jake had one thing and only one thing on his mind, getting back to you.

“Jacob?” Jake froze as he got to the bottom of the staircase, his mother stood at the top, dressing gown pulled snug against her as she folded her arms across her chest and frowned down at her grown adult son. “What’s going on? It’s almost four in the morning?”

“I just got off the phone with Maz—“ Jake explained as he watched his mum walk down the stairs, her eyes tired from a restless sleep. Having a home full of children and grandchildren didn’t help. “Y/n’s really sick, she’s uh—“ Jake wasn’t sure he wanted his mother to know about your diagnosis before he’d truly had a chance to process it himself. So, he didn’t divulge. “In the hospital, I just need to get back.”

“Get back?” Janeen frowned in displeasure at her son's decision to leave. “What do you mean get back, you only just got here.”

“My wife’s in the hospital Ma, I need to go and make sure she’s alright.” Jake didn’t think he’d have to spell it out, but he did. “I promised her in sickness and in health, unfortunately she’s taken a turn for the worse and she’s at the very least right now the mother of my children, so I need to go and be with her and figure out what’s going on.”

“Y/n is a grown woman who can take care of herself.” Janeen reached up to touch Jake's cheek, however, before she could run the pad of her thumb across Jake's scruffed cheek, he pulled away in anger. “She decided that when she left you? Or don’t you remember what that woman put you through?”

“Ma.” Jake clenched his jaw under the dim light of the main foyer. “I love you, I do, but you need to stop disrespecting her.”

“Disrespecting her?” Jake's mother scoffed as she watched him pick up his duffel bag and head towards the front door. “What about the disrespect she showed this family? The disrespect she showed you when she was unfaithful to her wedding vows and left you! She took your kids away from your Jacob and what? You’re running back to her the second she gets a runny nose?” Jake was holding his tongue between his teeth as his mother followed him out to the cars, he’d already called a taxi. “Honestly I never in a million years thought you’d settle for someone so—“

“MUM!” Jake snapped abruptly, he wasn’t proud of raising his voice with the woman who raised him, gave him life, but my god did she need to back off. “SHUT, THE HELL, UP!” Jake hissed as he saw headlights coming up the drive. “I’m leaving my children here until I figure out what’s going on but so help me god if I get back and your attitude hasn’t done a full three sixty about my wife, the love of my life, you will never see her, or our kids, or me, again!”

Janeen remained silent as she watched the taxi Jake had called pull up to where they were standing. She watched with teary eyes as he threw his bag into the back seat and greeted the driver kindly. He was an older gentleman. Probably mid sixties.

“I will call you when I know more but you have to stop degrading her, I’m the one who drove her away.” Jake had wanted to say this since the first comment his mother ever made about you way back in January just after he’d told her the two of you were separating. Jake took his mother in his arms, he towered over the smaller built woman with graying hair. He let his chin rest on the top of her head and didn’t hold back.

“Just because you never had the courage to leave dad when he stopped loving you the way he should doesn’t mean you get to project your pity on my wife for doing what you always wished you should have.” Jake had never felt such a weight lifted off his chest and immediately knew that the chances of him being invited back for next years Seresin family Christmas was probably a long shot. “You should ask Jasmine about her new nanny.” Jake finished as he pulled away. “I heard she's a really good people pleasure.”

***~***~***~***~***~

“Ordinary streets, Extraordinary stories.” Jake read over your shoulder as you jotted down some ideas for your latest project. “Huh, I like that, it's sorta catchy.” He smiled softly against your cheek before leaving a gentle kiss in his wake. His eyes lingered down to your book proposal for your publisher and continued reading as you sat at your desk, glued to your laptop like a woman on an impossible mission against time. “This collection of stories centers on the idea of ‘accidental death’ and the upheaval caused in the lives of those who lost a loved one in this way.” Jake read outloud over your shoulder in the dimly lit office. “I'm starting to think I should sleep with the lights on at night.”

“One eye open will do.” You mumbled back as you re-read your last sentence and continued on typing like your husband wasn't trying to coax you away from your work. “I have a deadline to meet, so shoo fly, don't bother me.” You teased as Jake moved your hair to one side and began to kiss the juncture of your neck and shoulder. Seduction was usually his strong suit.

It was no shock to Jake that almost immediately out of college you started writing non-stop about the things you were most passionate about. He thought you'd stick it out and become some wildly successful fiction novelist. Perhaps lean into your fascination with dystopian hierarchy, but no. You really came out of the left field when you picked up a publishing gig to write and publish not one, but three true crime biographies. The little bookshop on firth you worked at were so overjoyed for you when you’d told them the big news.

“You are working yourself to the bone, Honey.” Jake replied softly as his hands trailed down your stomach to feel the small but swelling baby bump that was growing bigger by the day.

“Says the guy still in his flight suit–” You fired right back without taking your eyes off the screen of your laptop. Your fingers worked fast to type the thoughts in your mind onto the screen before they were forgotten. If you let your mind wander too far away you'd lose your momentum. “Jake, I need to finish this chapter before bed.”

“No, no, what you need Hon, is to close your laptop and follow me to where I've run you a bath for your surely aching muscles, swollen feet and to ward off that impending cold I know you're coming down with.” Jake caught the way your fingers froze across the keys of your laptop at his thoughtful words, you hadn’t even mentioned feeling under the weather yet. “I heard you sniffling while cooking dinner–thought I better be proactive and try help you sweat it out.”

You felt the heat in your cheeks rising as a smile crept across your face. You looked down at the ring on your left ring finger and tried not to cry. You could have blamed it on the raging pregnancy hormones from the twin Seresin babies currently using your body as a host, but you knew it was just the overwhelming love you felt.

“You ran me a bath?” It was something you didn't know you needed until Jake had mentioned it.

“Not to toot my own horn or nothin but I lit your favorite candles too, even went as far as to put a few rose petals in the bubbles.” Jake watched as you spun around in your chair to face him with big teary eyes and an even bigger baby bump. “Gotta look after my girl, can't have the mother of my children feeling sick, now can I?”

“I'm intrigued to see what kind of special treatment I'll receive if I'm ever really unwell if this is what I'm getting for a runny nose.” You teased as Jake helped you up off your work chair. His hand went straight to the small of your back to guide you out of the study down the hall towards the bathroom where he had everything set and sorted for you.

“Hopefully we never get to the point where you're chronically ill.” Jake kissed your temple as he walked with you. “Never wanna see you sicker than a cold.” He explained as your eyes went wide with wonder and ore at the sight of your bathroom fully lit with candles. “But trust that I'll be right by your side, holding your hand through whatever may come.”

“You really didn't have to do all this for me.” You sighed as Jake started to help you undress. You watched him with love filled eyes through the mirror as his hands roamed your body, stripping articles of clothing from your pregnant silhouette.

“Nonsense, I'll always do things like this for you.” Jake shrugged it off like his actions were no big deal. To him at that moment they really weren't, he was just trying to help wherever he could. “But you should probably wake up now–”

“What do you mean?” A slow steady beeping broke through your mind as your body began to feel numb. “Jake—“ You frowned as the bathroom faded around you. “Jake?” You called out as you felt yourself feeling heavy and lethargic. “Jake—?”

“Sweetheart can you hear me?” Your mother asked as your surgeon tried to assess your ability to open your eyes. The small light that was shining in your eyes did little to cure your confusion.

“Jake?” You asked again as your eyes fluttered open, you groaned softly in annoyance to the light of the hospital room you woke up in. “Where’s Jake?” Everything was so blurry, so confusing, the last thing you remembered was getting ready for a bath, now you where here in a hospital room.

“He’s not here Sweetheart, do you remember what happened?” When you didn’t answer your doctor interjected to jog your memory.

“You had a minor stroke Mrs Seresin, lucky for you you were already on sight when it happened—do you remember why you’re here?” As you looked around at the Christmas lights that now decorated your hospital room and the small Christmas tree in the corner on the coffee table near the old recliner, you remembered.

“Oh.” That’s right you thought to yourself, you were separated. Jake didn’t care, not anymore. He’d stopped running baths for you years ago. “Oh, yeah—I remember.” You whispered before a single tear ran down your face.

“I remember everything.”

***~***~***~***~***

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#was it over? // jake seresin #tw: cancer #jake seresin fanfiction #jake hangman seresin #jake seresin x female!reader #jake hangman seresin x reader #topgun hangman #jake seresin angst #jake seresin imagine #jake seresin x reader #jake hangman imagine #jake hangman x reader

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runninriot · 8 months ago

Text

another one for the @steddiemicrofic april prompt fool

only fools

wc: 454 | rated: M | cw: mild/implied sexual content | tags: newly established relationship, boys in love making out, Elvis lyrics

Wise men say

It’s funny sometimes, how the radio seems to be playing the actual soundtrack to Eddie’s life.

Only fools rush in

Because boy, did they rush things

But I can’t help

and boy oh boy, did Eddie try his best not to,

Falling in love with you

yet failed so miserably.

He still can't really wrap his head around the fact that he's actually dating Steve Harrington now. Apparently. If the fact that he can feel Steve's mouth on his neck is anything to go by.

Or the stupidly romantic love confessions they shared earlier.

Or the fact that they're currently together on Eddie's bed - naked and horny and a little too love drunk to think straight.

Steve's hands in his hair, Eddie's fingernails scraping down Steve's back, the low sound of the radio mixing with the sound of their heavy breathing and wet kisses. It's like a dream, one Eddie had too many times before. Only this time it's real.

He's in bed with the king while The King sings a song about love and it's hard to accept that Steve's lips on his own are something he can just have now.

And fuck, does it feel amazing to lick deep into Steve's mouth and to suck on his tongue, to swallow each whimpering moan right out of him as their bodies are trying to fuse together. One middle grinding against the other, searching for something where they're hard and wanting, aching for more as their kisses become hungrier and their noises more desperate.

"God, baby. I want you," Eddie says and Steve answers by tugging his hair.

"Want you, too. Need you, Eddie."

Steve's on top of him before Eddie knows what's happening, arms raised above his head where Steve pins them down. Steve's mouth is everywhere all at once - his lips, his neck, his chest. Kissing and licking, soft little nibbles and rough bites; Eddie wants him to leave marks just so that tomorrow, when he wakes up from this hazy state of mind, there will be signs to prove what they did, what they are.

Some things are meant to be-

like they are. They must be. There's no way this would ever have happened if they weren't destined for each other. If life hadn't planned this all along.

Eddie's fingers dig into the firm flesh of Steve's ass because he can, he's allowed to, Steve told him he's his for as long as he wants him.

Oh, how Eddie wants him.

“Fuck me, baby."

Steve looks up at him, eyes full of stars, a smile brighter than the sun, and Eddie will gladly die a fool if it means he can have this in exchange.

#steddiemicrofic #steddiemicroficapril #prompt: fool #eddie munson #steve harrington #steddie #steddie ficlet #small riots

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lincolndjarin · 1 year ago

Text

Best Kept Secret

chapter nineteen : reverence (RE-UPLOAD)

ao3 link ✿ series masterlist ✩ main masterlist ✧

pairing : bodyguard!Din Djarin x afab!princess!reader

rating : 18+ mdni

word count : 7.3k

summary : mando takes you to the library in the city!! very cute and innocent day trip!!

warnings, etc. : language, teasing, smut, oral f!recieving, face sitting, din djarin consent king, body worship, fingering, p in v sex, unprotected sex, cum eating, size kink if you squint, overstimulation, multiple orgasms.

A/N : i had to change accounts so this is a re-upload of my ongoing fic bks!!

You really want to.

You couldn’t possibly want to more than you currently do.

It’s actually a bit mean. That he’s left you here in this state.

You tidy up the plates, setting them on the vanity before struggling out of your dress for a few minutes until you’re finally free of the damned thing, sulking off to the closet, wrapping yourself in the sheets, and tossing and turning restlessly.

“When you really want to.”

What a ridiculous time to decide to tease. You couldn’t have made your want clearer if you tried, of course it wasn’t just going to be because he had done as you asked, obviously you wanted it. Did you have to make it more blunt? If that’s what he wants you can certainly do that.

If he wants direct you can be direct.

Tomorrow.

Tonight, you’ll have to settle for a pillow shoved between your thighs to try and soothe the heat that’s building there, threatening to boil over.

✩

You’re grumpy in the morning. How could you not be? If anything you’re in a worse mood than you were last night because you’re still pent up and now your head is full of all sorts of ideas about how you can prove just how badly you want to. You're rifling through drawers when the girls get there in the morning.

When you finally turn to look at them you’re triumphantly holding up a white satin nighty, the two girls exchange a look of confusion before helping you dress. Lysa manages to find satin panties that go with it. Perfect.

The next step in your plan is your dress. You tell them specifically that you’re going out again today and that you’d like something a little more casual if possible.

Elaine manages to find exactly what you’re looking for. Of course it’s the furthest thing from casual, you’re expected to keep up appearances, but it’s definitely simpler than anything else they’ve dressed you in. It’s light pink, with layers, thin pieces of chiffon make up the skirt. The sleeves are shorter than you’re used to, and it might be the most breathable gown in your closet. It doesn’t even drag across the floor, the skirt ends at the middle of your calves.

But most importantly, it has buttons in the back, not your usual corset style.

Once you put on a pair of flats you’re feeling rather pleased with their work, other than detangling the sleep from your hair they’ve left it alone.

It’s like the girls can sense your excitement as they swiftly begin to take their leave.

“I’ll have Leo bring you a coin purse before you leave, my lady.” Is the only thing Elaine says before shutting the door behind them. Once they’re gone you rush to the closet, knowing Leo you’ll only have a few minutes. Searching through the pillows in your mess of a makeshift bed you finally find the one containing the book, gingerly opening to where you’ve tucked the necklace Din had given you before holding it up.

The knock on your door has you shoving the book back into the pillow case as you hastily clasp the necklace around your neck. The small silver flower charm dangles from the leather cord as you greet Leo, who hands you a far too large bag of credits before hurrying off. You’re left standing in the doorway staring at the Mandalorian, you give him a wide innocent grin.

“Good morning, Mando.” You hold the credits out to him. “Could you hold these for me please?” You bat your eyelashes at him, you know you’re laying it on a little thick but allegedly this is what he wanted.

He stiffens up a bit, clearly sensing that something is off about you, he hesitates for only a moment before taking them from you.

“Good morning, princess, are you ready to go?” His voice has a certain curiosity to it that only makes you smile wider.

“Of course.” You close the door behind you and he tucks the coin purse into his over the shoulder bag.

You walk very close to him. You can’t remember how to find the main entrance of the castle so he takes the lead. Once you’re in a hallway you’re certain is completely empty you briefly allow yourself to take his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“How are you this morning, my kar’ta?” You whisper before dropping his hand, the two of you turning down a hall with a few scattered guards that stand at attention when they see you approaching. He says nothing as you carry on, you smile as you pass them until you begin your descent down a staircase.

“I’m fine… how are you?” You can practically hear him furrowing his brow, you haven’t given him a good enough reason to directly question you yet but you can tell he’s already suspicious of your over the top actions.

“Absolutely wonderful.” You bump your shoulder against his and the modulator buzzes as he starts to say something but you’re already at the front gate and you don’t give him time to as you hold your wrist out to the man you know will attach your tracker, he grumbles as the man insists he wear one as well, warning him not to “lose” it again or we won’t be allowed to take you out anymore.

Before you know it you’re out the gate and making your way down the palace steps towards the landspeeder that is already waiting for the two of you. You stop in front of it before turning to face Din.

“Could you help me up please?” As you say it his helmet tilts ever so slightly to the side but he lifts you by your waist up into the backseat before pulling himself up to sit beside you. A few minutes after you start moving he puts his arm on the back of the seat as he leans down a bit to whisper to you, you know at the speed you're going that the driver can’t hear him.

“I know what you’re up to sarad’ika.” His voice is stern but there’s no actual upset behind it so you turn to smile at him.

He wanted you to want it.

So you’re going to show him just how badly you can want it.

“I have no idea what you mean.” You stare up into the visor through your lashes before you lurch forward slightly.

You’re already there.

“Why didn’t we just walk? It would have taken us less than an hour, it’s right down the street?” You frown as he jumps out, holding his arms out to help you out.

“I didn’t realize you would want to walk.” He says, setting you on the ground.

“Well I would.” You turn to the driver. “Don’t bother coming back, we’ll be walking home.” The woman driving nods before speeding off.

The building is massive. White marble steps lead up to large columns that line the entrance, it must be at least five stories, yet it seems like very few people are going in and out. He watches you take in the size of the building. Aside from the castle, it might be the biggest building on Naboo. Eventually you start making your way up the steps, the Mandalorian following closely behind you, when you reach the top he steps in front of you to hold the door open.

What a gentleman.

You hope for your sake that he’ll be feeling a little less like a gentleman later.

You want to stay focused on your poorly veiled attempts to seduce him but honestly the library is so breathtaking you lose focus of your task for a moment as you take in the shelves. It’s built like a ring, the center of the room is hollow going up, and much to your surprise, down. A railing keeps anyone who gets close from going over and you’re immediately drawn to it, the moment you put your hands on the rail to look down Din puts a protective hand on your waist.

It goes down as far as it goes up, you count six floors below and when you look up you count six above.

His grip tightens when you lean forward to try and see the bottom before pulling you away from the edge.

“I thought you were scared of heights?” He whispers, even though his tone is hushed it stands out in the jarring silence of the building.

“When I don’t expect them, this is fine.” Your eyes are wandering now through the wide expanse of shelves, your library back in the keep is probably the size of just one floor here. Oddly enough you haven’t seen a single person yet, or an employee. “Where is everyone?” His hand moves to the small of your back as he guides you towards the elevator in the back of the circular room.

“Everyone’s working right now, only a few droids are employed here, you’ll see them rolling around at some point.” Once he gets you on the elevator he’s pressing the buttons to take you to the top. You’re waiting for the doors to close as you give him an inquisitive look.

“The top?” He looks at you as you ask it, he’s tapping his foot as he waits for the doors.

“The basement levels are all academic nonsense, we’ll start at the top and work back to the ground floor.” You take a step to the left so your arm is against his. The doors finally shut and the two of you stand in the silence for only a moment before he turns his helmet to glare down at you. You can feel his gaze burning against your face.

If he has something to say he doesn’t voice it. And you’re happy to just rock back and forth on your heels until there’s a ding and the doors open. You step out ahead of him, the roof of the building is glass, sunlight streaming into the shelves. You find yourself quickly engrossed by the multicolored spines that line them. They’re organized by genre, and you currently find yourself surrounded by all the fiction you could ever possibly want.

You’re conflicted because you would love to spend the day trying to get under the Mandalorians skin, (and also just under him in general) but he’s taken you to the one place that might actually be able to distract you.

You can have your cake and eat it too if you play your cards right.

“Could you pick some for me? I loved the one you had me read yesterday, it was so exciting.” You grab his arm as you say it, there aren’t any droids to be seen on this floor and the entire building seems to be lacking cameras.

He begins to scan the shelves as you hold his arm, following next to him.

“So you aren’t up to anything, You’re just in a really good mood today?” His voice is low and secretive as he scans the shelves.

“I’m not you, I’m not always scheming to get the upper hand.” Except that’s exactly what you’re doing.

“You’re hilarious.” He takes something off the shelf tucking it into his bag before carrying on through the stacks.

You do this for a good hour.

You follow him through the maze of shelves, he picks out a book, puts it in his bag, you keep walking.

Eventually you manage to find your favorite. It’s a little funny, the juxtaposition of such an imposing and regal library housing your campy romance novels, but they have such a wide collection you completely forget about the task at hand briefly as you search through them. He wanders off at one point, never completely out of sight but he lets you look in private.

This is a good opportunity to enjoy the library while also making an attempt to work him up.

You look exclusively for books about men wearing helmets. Knights, stormtroopers, clone troopers, a pilot finds his way into the mix. But best of all there’s actually a few Mandalorian ones.

Ravaged by Two Mandalorians, Bound in Beskar, and Unmasking the Alpha (a Mandalorian Erotic Novella)

They all look obscene and if you're being honest, a little ridiculous but you take all three under your arm and go over to him, holding them out.

“Can you put these in your bag please?” You spread them out so he can see all the titles.

“You can’t be serious.” He sounds almost mortified.

“Those ones looked the most interesting to me.” You give him big doe eyes as you say it and he hastily shoves them in his bag before taking your arm and dragging you towards the elevator.

“We’re done on this floor.” Is all he mumbles as he presses the buttons to take you down one.

You had hoped maybe he’d just drag you home but sure, this is fine.

Except the next floor isn’t really all that sexy.

It’s a lot of technical stuff. Machinery, maintenance, all sorts of stuff you know he enjoys so you have no plans to rush him. He goes off on his own so you walk aimlessly until you find something you know he’s fond of.

Classic ships.

You have to flip through four books to find what you’re looking for but eventually you’re staring at the Razor Crest.

It was a military patrol craft, more importantly it’s a gunship. Seems like an odd choice for him, as strong as he is it’s hard to imagine him as a soldier.

He doesn’t seem like the type to follow orders.

“That’s my ship.” He’s looking over your shoulder as you close the book, putting it back in its spot.

“I thought you didn’t have a ship? Wasn’t that the whole reason you took this job?”

“It was my ship. Had a little accident.” He sounds genuinely saddened by the loss.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. I never would have met you if it hadn’t happened.”

That would be so sweet if it didn’t make you want him even more.

You settle on a smile.

“Next floor?” You say as you watch a droid roll past, seemingly vacuuming the nonexistent dirt on the carpet.

“Next floor?” You ask.

You’re back in the elevator.

You're on the next floor.

And you’re surprised to find that half of this floor is cook books. It’s a more than thorough collection, covering every sort of thing you can imagine, from every planet you can imagine.

He’s much less interested in this floor but you know exactly what you want.

It’s easy to find the first thing you’re looking for. A book on Naboo deserts. You quickly hand it to him before looking further, when you find the second book you’re looking for it’s just out of your reach.

Which is more than fine.

You stand on your tiptoes, your fingertips barely reaching the shelf it’s on and exactly as you knew he would, Din puts a hand on your waist and reaches up over you to get it, boxing you between the shelves and his body.

You “stumble” a bit in “surprise” when he does. You keep an innocent look on your face as your hips shamelessly grind back against his. His grip on your waist tightens and he holds you still as he gets the book down, turning you around so your back is to the shelves and you’re facing him.

“Really?” He hands you the book you had wanted and you immediately hand it back to him.

“What? You scared me, and this is for you.”

He stares down at it. It’s a children's cookbook. He scoffs, but much to your delight, puts it in his bag.

He clearly has more to say but as you give him yet another innocent smile he sighs and leads you back towards the elevator once more.

He pretends he doesn’t know exactly what you’re doing.

You pretend you don’t see him adjust himself in his flight suit.

You spend all your time on this floor trying to get him flustered. The only time you’re sure it works is when you drop a book and really take your time picking it up.

You catch him clenching and unclenching his fist afterwards.

On the next floor you manage to find your own Mando’a translation book. He hesitates when you hand it to him but eventually puts it in his bag.

On the last floor you tell him how excited you are to go home and read. He nods and any words he has in response seem to get caught in his throat.

When you’re finally done his bag is overflowing with books and you return to the ground floor, he sets them on some sort of scale near the entrance and a number comes up. He inserts about a quarter of the credits from the purse into the machine and then puts the books back into his bag.

“Why did you have to pay? Aren’t we just borrowing these?” He holds the door open for you to leave as you ask, following you out onto the steps.

“You can borrow them, you can also buy them, they’ll replace them quickly, I thought you might want to own some of these.” He leads you down the steps, the city seems to be getting busier, you must have spent your whole day inside without even realizing it.

It’s a beautiful walk back to the castle, you’re actually a little mad you didn’t get to walk this route earlier.

It’s also the first time you’ve seen the people of Naboo outside of the markets.

It’s immediately clear to you why they don’t like Kodo, or you assume, most of the royal family.

It’s clean, and it’s pretty here but you can tell the people are terribly overworked and more than miserable, you find yourself reaching into Din’s bag for the coin purse.

Before you know it you’re walking into the crowds handing out credits to anyone who will take them. Din stays close the entire time, his arm hovering over your waist without really touching you but you aren’t worried.

No one here is going to hurt you.

People come and go quickly with thanks and gentle squeezes of your hands until the bag is empty, once that happens you promise to come back with more another day.

You talk to the people that will get close enough, once the money’s gone most people shoot nervous looks at Din at scurry off but a few stay to chat, mostly older people who hold your hands tightly, you had planned on rushing home initially and making an attempt at tackling the Mandalorian onto the bed but now you want nothing more than to talk to the people.

Your people.

You wish you had talked to them sooner, that you had stopped that day in the markets because they’re all incredibly kind.

It’s probably because you’ve been cooped up and the only times you’ve been out you’ve always been distracted but this is the first time you truly feel like a princess.

The first time you’ve realized that you have subjects.

Once the crowd completely thins, you’re sitting on a bench with an elderly woman who’s holding your hands in hers as she tells you about her daughters store, she sells groceries and food items from what you can tell and you do your best to listen intently. The Mandalorian has given you a bit of space now that people have left, he’s standing against a brick building on the other side of the street, watching patiently.

“He is your protector?” The woman you’ve learned is named Vivian nods in his direction and you smile as his head adjusts slightly, of course he’s listening in.

“Yes. He’s my keeper.” Street lights are beginning to come on as the sun sets, shops around you are closing for the day.

“I haven’t seen a Mandalorian around here in quite some time.” As she speaks a group of children are approaching Din, none of them can be older than five, running around as their parents deal with their last customers of the day.

“He’s the first one I ever met. I thought they’d be different.” Surprisingly, the children aren’t afraid of him. If anything they’re intrigued, unlike the adults they know nothing of Mandalorians, they have yet to feel the unearned hesitancy towards them.

“How so?” The older woman's hands are wrinkled and soft as she holds yours.

“I didn’t think they’d be so kind.” Din crouches down to be at their height, giving the group a small wave. One brave little girl comes right up and slaps her chubby little hands against his knee, when he doesn’t react the rest of the group deems it safe enough to follow suit, soon he’s covered in little ones, all tugging at the Beskar and giggling until he settles on just sitting on the ground, letting them play.

“How is life in the royal family, my lady? Are you enjoying your time in the castle? The people almost didn’t believe you were real, no one’s seen you, we only heard tales of a young woman set to marry prince Harand.” She makes a face as she says his name. So it’s true, they don’t care for him.

“It’s perfectly well.” Your eyes are still focused on Din who is carefully pulling a toddler off of his back to set him down in front of him. It’s the most patient you’ve seen him be, he doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest by the onslaught of children, several have taken to just sitting in his lap playing with the belts that go across his chest. “If anything it’s just boring. Not a lot for me to do, just a lot of reading.” The woman hums, content on just watching the children with you once she realizes they’ve caught your attention.

He’s managed to settle the majority down, they all sit in front of him now, a few of the younger ones continue to tug at his armor and one little girl sits on his leg, her dark eyes sparkle in the street lights and her hair is done up in several little buns as she stares up at him in awe. It takes you a second to realize he’s playing a game with them, he holds out both his hands in closed fists towards the closest child, a little Rodian boy who excitedly points to his left hand which he opens to reveal a credit in his palm which he hands to the little one.

You catch a glimpse of his other hand.

There were credits in both of them.

He goes around through all the kids until every single one has won. You don’t realize until he’s done that you had run out of money earlier, he was using his own for this little game.

Once every child gets a chance to win he goes back to being a personal playground, he picks up one excited toddler who was drooling on his pauldron, setting him down in his lap, letting him hold one of his fingers.

“You’re right.” You jump a bit, you’d nearly forgotten you were sitting next to Vivian.

“I’m sorry?” You give her an apologetic smile, you’ve been so focused on Din you’d completely zoned out.

“He is kind.” She gives you a warm smile and you can’t help but smile back at her, she stands and you stand with her, letting her take your arm as you help walk her to her daughters storefront and you promise to visit again soon before returning to Din who is now handing little ones who cling to him to their respective parents. The little girl with the buns in her hair is refusing to let go, her chubby fingers wrapped around his cowl until he reaches into his bag, handing her one of the cakes from the markets before peeling her off of him and handing her to her parents, standing once they’re gone.

“You’re good with them.” When you speak he looks at you and then at the practically empty street before offering up his arm.

No one’s around, what’s the harm?

You take his arm and the two of you walk, the sun completely out of the sky now.

“I’ve had a lot of practice.” He says softly. Your eyes are trained on the stars above but he’s staring only at you.

“With your little one?” He pulls you closer as you say it.

“With my little one, yes.”

“I’m going to ask you something, and you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.” You tear your eyes from the stars to stare into the visor. He nods and you continue, looking back to the stars. “Who’s his mother?” He laughs slightly when you say it.

“I don’t know, I don’t know who his father is either. Is that all you wanted to ask?”

No. Now you have more questions than ever but you’ve already promised yourself you’d wait until he told you himself. So you nod.

“That’s it.”

“Okay.” He lets go of your arm as you approach the castle and shortens his steps so he’s behind you.

You go through the same routine as last time, turning in your trackers before being let in, you walk in silence up to your chambers. You both know what’s going to happen when you get there. When you open the door you turn to him, giving him the sweetest smile you can muster.

“Wanna come in so we can go through the books?” He hesitates for only a moment before nodding and stepping in. When you close the door you lock it as loudly as possible.

He carefully sets the books that you had picked for yourself onto your vanity along with four he picked out for you.

You walk to the center of the room, humming quietly to yourself as you slip your flats off. He turns when he’s done to look at you, standing firmly in place.

“I like that dress on you.” He says it so quietly you barely catch it, flashing him a smile.

“Thanks, I was hoping you’d like it.” You bunch up the skirt a bit, swaying it back and forth before making your way over to him, your fingers play with his gauntlet.

“Not tonight, princess…” He mumbles as you do which immediately has you frowning.

“I couldn’t possibly want it more Din.” You give him a reassuring look but he still shakes his head.

“What is this about? Seriously, no secrets, why won’t you touch me? I’m giving you permission.”

He’s silent for a moment and when he speaks his voice is small.

“I just got you back, I can’t ruin this again.”

“You won’t.”

“I don’t want you to think this is just sex for me.”

“I know it isn’t.” You bring your hand up to rest flat against his chestplate, over where his heart would be. “How many times have I asked you to leave me be and you have refused? I am asking you to stay and now you won’t do that either.”

“That was different.” His hand rests atop yours.

“How?”

You can tell he’s struggling to find the words but you know to just give him time, let him figure it out on his own. Just when you think he might give up and leave, he speaks.

“When you asked me to leave you alone I stayed because it was my job. It was my duty to protect you.” His visor is trained on your face as he speaks. “Now I leave because you are much more than that. You are not my job anymore, you’re my faith.” Your breath catches in your throat as he says it. “You have made me a devout man, princess.” Your hand moves to rest on the cheek of his helmet and he takes a small step forward before his fingers come up to play with the flower charm on your necklace.

You’re at a bit of a loss for words.

He tends to have that effect on you.

“I don’t just care for you, sarad’ika, I worship you.” His words are soft and hushed.

“Then show me.”

He doesn’t move so you bring your other hand to his helmet, like you’re cradling his face.

“Do you want me?” Your words are stern as you force him to hold your gaze.

“Always.”

“And you said you wouldn’t touch me again unless I wanted you to?”

“Yes.” The hand playing with your necklace drops, and you take a step back.

“I want it Din.” You reach your hands back to the buttons on your dress and with one sharp tug you hear them all clatter to the ground and you let the fabric fall into a heap on the floor. You’re standing before him in the white satin nighty, when he doesn’t move you go to turn off the lights in the room before you walk to the closet, opening the door. “I’m not going to force you if you aren’t ready, but I promise, I want it.” You leave him standing there in the dark, the door to the closet left open as you stand, shuffling through your sheets before clicking on the lamp, turning to give the door one last glance.

In all honesty you expect to hear your bedroom door open and shut.

Much to your surprise he’s standing in the doorway of the closet, the lamp light flickers off of the silver steel of his armor and he shuts the door behind him before he takes only a couple long strides to stand before you.

No words are spoken as he kneels in front of you, his hands holding your hips as you stare down at him.

“You want me to show you?” He whispers it in the dim glow that surrounds the two of you. You only nod in response. His hands move down your sides, down your bare thighs, your calves and your ankles before tracing right back up. “You’ll let me worship you?”

“Yes.” You whisper back to him and his hand reaches over as he turns off the lamp.

In the darkness you hear him shedding his armor, he stays in front of you, on his knees as he does.

You count the pieces of metal as they hit the floor.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven.

And finally there’s that hiss of air.

Eight.

His hands pull you down to your knees so you’re face to face with him and he guides your hands to the zippers on his flight suit, letting you pull the fabric off of him, tossing it somewhere behind him in the darkness before hastily pulling his face to yours.

It feels less like a kiss and more like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your lips with his.

He doesn’t tear the fabric from you this time, instead he carefully lifts it over your head before tossing that aside as well, in the pitch black you’re left only in your panties as he lays you back into the pillows and sheets, slotting himself between your legs his hand is lifting one slightly and you gasp as you feel him place a kiss to the inside of your ankle.

He doesn’t speak, which is a bit funny because previously that was all he did when you had sex but this time is different. Without a mask to hide behind he’s not the dominant man you knew.

Now he is your acolyte.

He doesn’t speak because he is to busy showing you his devotion as his mouth moves up your leg, leaving a trail of kisses until he reaches your thighs, he’s moved so he’s on his stomach as he throws your legs over his shoulders, sucking the meat of your thighs into his mouth, feverishly making sure not to miss a spot.

His lips are everywhere but where you want them.

You aren’t sure how long he does this but it feels like hours, he does nothing but gently nip at your thighs, soothing each little bite with a kiss or with his tongue until your hands find his hair, tugging gently.

“Mando please…” You whine as you pull at his curls.

“Say my name cyare, please.” It isn’t a demand, it’s not his usual commanding bedroom tone, it’s a plea. “I love when you say my name.”

Who could deny him that? When he sounds so fucking desperate?

“Din, please.” That’s all it takes for his fingers to tug down your panites, tossing them aside before he gets back into the position he was in. He doesn’t tease, he doesn’t hesitate, the moment he’s able to he’s diving into you, his tongue spreads open our folds before he sinks it into your heat.

Stars, that tongue.

You’ve thought about that tongue for a long time.

He’s used that tongue to tease you, to mock you, and to taunt you. But now he’s chosen to drive you mad with it.

He traces up and down your folds, his stubble scratches at you deliciously as he’s trying to find what you like the most as you fall apart against him, as he fucks your hole with his tongue his nose bumps against you clit making you groan, your fingers gripping the blankets around you.

He mumbles incoherently against your cunt before doing it again, letting you grind your face against him as he continues to mumble until finally you manage to sit up on your elbows through your gasps and moans.

“D-Din.” You stammer out but he doesn’t react in the slightest other than wrapping his arms around your thighs as he pulls you close to him. “Din! Fuck! Din I c-can’t hear you.” He still doesn’t so much as react to you so you finally just reach down, pulling him off of you by his hair, his breath is labored as his grip on your thighs loosens.

“Are you okay? What’s wrong?” You’re breathing just as hard as he is as he says it, his voice fills the darkness.

“I’m fine, I just, I can’t hear you.” You let go of his hair, bringing your hand down to caress his face, the bottom half of which is soaked.

“Kriff, sorry mesh’la.” His grip on your thighs tightens once more and one of his hands moves under you to rest against your spine as he rolls himself over. It’s as impressive as it is surprising, you squeal as it happens, your entire body is shifted from laying down to sitting upright in an instant. You have to lean forward to regain your balance. He’s on his back now with you hovering above his face on your knees. “I was telling you to sit on my face, sarad. It’ll be easier.”

You want to tell him that you’re too heavy, that you’re worried that you’ll hurt him but he pulls you down by your thighs before you can protest. From this angle his tongue pushes deeper into you and you can ride his nose, so any complaints you have die in your throat, especially when he starts moaning against your core.

Your fingers go to his hair, gripping his curls as he forces your weight down onto him, you can feel his hips grinding against nothing behind you as he does. Your orgasm is approaching rapidly and it’s clear that he can tell because his efforts somehow further as he moans again, the vibrations have you squeezing his head with your thighs.

Your vision goes white as he tilts his head up to suck on your clit sharply. The thread snaps and you’re cumming, the small room is filled with your moans as his tongue moves back at your hole and you can hear him obscenely lapping at your juices. You need a second to recover. As you sit up on your knees his face follows, trying desperately to lick you clean and you have to gently push him off.

“T-too sensitive Din. Give me a second.”

He immediately pulls away, sitting up so he can lay you down on the blankets, he goes back to kissing you wherever he can get his mouth as you catch your breath.

He travels across your hips, up your navel, you’re certain he kisses every one of your ribs until his lips settle on your breast, his tongue swirls around your nipple before pulling it into his mouth making your back arch up and into him.

You’ve never had someone pay attention to you like this. Sure, previously he had been the best sex of your life but this is entirely different. Without the helmet on he’s Din. Your Din. And Din seems to be considerably more shy than the Mandalorian you know. Without his helmet he definitely doesn’t talk as much, but his mouth is on you constantly.

You wonder to yourself as his lips move to your other breast if he’s ever gotten to do this with anyone else. Maybe he’s simply eager to put his mouth on something that isn’t a ration pack. Your thoughts are shut up as his hands spread your thighs and he cups your pussy before letting two of his fingers slide through your folds. His mouth moves up again, kissing every inch of your chest before settling on your neck.

He nuzzles his face into your neck before deeply inhaling your scent, groaning as his fingers find your still swollen bud. He doesn’t move though, waiting for your permission as they simply rest atop it, his mouth going to work on your throat.

“Yes Din, it’s okay.” You whisper as he nods, humming against your skin as he starts drawing circles against you, you’re moaning again, terribly loud, as he rubs lazy shapes into you. Your hands find purchase against his shoulders.

Gods, he’s broad. Significantly less broad than he looks with the armor on but he’s still just generally big. You let your hands wander across his body as he rubs your clit, it seems like he’s trying to see just how loud he can make you. He’s big but as you trace his scarred back you discover he’s surprisingly lean. The armor must bulk him up because he feels surprisingly lithe. His fingers sink into you and he begins to grind his palm against your clit as they do, you immediately gasp at the stretch.

“Maker-” His mouth covers yours, interrupting your sentence, when he pulls away he’s panting.

“There is no Maker. There’s only you.” His mouth is back on yours as he slowly moves his fingers in and out of you and you’re already close again as you scratch at his back. Eventually when you're a mess all over again, chanting his name, as you gasp for air he swipes his tongue across your bottom lip before pushing into your mouth. He keeps his hand still at this point, letting you chase your release as you ride his fingers until you’re seeing stars again.

He happily swallows your moans as you finish again.

You’re about to ask for another break but he’s sitting up on his knees, one hand on your waist as he whispers your name like it’s a prayer, and you feel the tip of his cock against your folds, you can feel the heat coming off of him.

“P-please, please gedet’ye. Ni linibar gar, s-sarad let me, please.” And he sounds so fucking needy. Like never before, he never asks, he takes, he makes you beg, yet right now he’s whining as he swipes his thick cockhead through your wetness, inhaling sharply through his teeth as he does.

There isn’t a world in which you could say no to him now.

You still feel like your body is coming down from you high, buzzing with ecstasy, but you sit up to grab him by the back of his neck, pulling him back down on top of you.

“Yes, Din, I’m all yours.” You barely finish the sentence as he pushes himself into your weeping cunt. His moan is animalistic as he leans down and bites down on your shoulder to muffle the pornagraphic sound.

And Maker it hurts. You’ve never felt so good while hurting you’re sure of it. Every nerve in your body is alive as he starts rocking his hips into you, slowly working himself into you. After several lewd moans and whines from the both of you he’s got himself fully inside your cunt, he kisses you softly between your eyes.

“Gods, please, move Din, please.” You manage to mutter out and he happily obliges.

He’s certainly never fucked you like this.

Not in the library, not on his birthday, not even during your first time.

No, this is like he’s trying to get you off as quickly as possible, like the only thing he can focus on is your pleasure. He’s immediately lifting your hips slightly so he can thrust perfectly against that spot inside of you.

You aren’t sure when you started crying, you’ve been overstimulated since your first orgasm so it doesn’t surprise you all that much, but he’s kissing the corners of your eyes, your tears sticking to his lips as he does. Much to your disappointment he slows his pace.

“Are you okay sarad? I can stop, or slow down.”

That’s the last thing you want right now.

“I’m- I’m fine Din, please.” You whine as you scratch at his shoulders.

You can feel him nod, both of your bodies are slick with sweat as he starts pounding into you again, significantly slower than before and you know he’s nervous about your tears.

It’s hard to come up with a plan because even though he’s thrusting you with less power than before your head is still clouded with lust and you can’t really think of ways to convince him that you’re fine.

You aren’t exactly sure what you’re doing but you grab his face in your hands before you whisper words you aren’t entirely sure you know how to pronounce but could never forget.

“Ner kar’taylir darasuum.”

His entire body tenses up, it’s like all the air in the room is gone and you’re about to apologize until you feel his forehead rest against yours.

“Say that again.” He sounds fucking wrecked.

“Ner kar’taylir darasuum.”

You still aren’t exactly sure what you’re saying but it works because his lips are on yours with a newly ignited passion and he’s slamming into you again, your legs wrapping around his waist.

“Fuck, you’re perfect. You know that? Fucking perfect.” He mumbles the words into your mouth as he pistons himself into you, his thrusts quickly growing sloppy. Your stomach feels like it’s cramping up as another climax builds, your fighting to catch your breath.

You finish first. His hand has to cover your mouth. You scream so loudly.

He follows shortly after, pulling out before jerking himself off, you feel him cum hit your stomach.

He collapses next to you and briefly the only sounds in the darkness are both your gasps for air until you bring your fingers down to your stomach to scoop up his seed before sucking them clean, savoring the salty metallic taste.

His knuckles brush against your arm.

“Are you happy now sarad?”

You wish he could see the dopey grin on your face.

“Yes.”

You know you won’t be able to keep your eyes open much longer as he pulls you against him, placing a kiss into your hair. He mumbles a few things in Mando’a that you don’t recognize but you do catch the end of his sentence before you succumb to sleep.

“Jate ca, ner kar’taylir darasuum.”

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