#i moved him into the sun for now to warm up

[luvvictoria]

I've been thinking abt a poly!tf141 with a fem!reader who like is from the country side AND I'M CRACKING, OH LAWD!!!

Task Force 141 had seen you kill a man from 700 meters away. They had seen you tear through enemy lines with the precision of a seasoned warrior, your movements deadly and efficient. But what they hadn't seen—what they couldn’t wrap their heads around—was the life you returned to after every mission.

Because while Ghost, Soap, Price, and Gaz spent their leave in safe houses, military bases, or the occasional urban apartment, you?

You went home.

To the countryside.

To your massive, luxurious farmhouse nestled in the hills of a quiet village, where the air smelled of fresh hay, wildflowers, and the occasional whiff of cow.

And when TF141 finally visited, they were not prepared.

The First Time They Saw the Farm : "What the fuck—" Ghost had been the first to say it when you pulled up to your estate in an old pickup truck, the gravel crunching beneath the tires as you parked in front of a sprawling wooden house with a red-tiled roof.

There were animals everywhere.

A massive black and white cow lazily chewed its cud near the wooden fence. Chickens and roosters strutted about like they owned the place. A gray donkey stared at them with judgmental eyes. Two ducks waddled past as if they were on a mission. Dogs barked excitedly at the sight of you, tails wagging. A cat lounged on the porch, stretching in the warm sun.

And then—a fucking horse trotted up to you, nuzzling into your palm like a puppy.

"Price," Gaz whispered. "She has a fucking farm."

"A fancy one at that," Soap muttered, still stunned.

"You lot gonna stand there all day?" You grinned, tossing your duffel bag over your shoulder. "Come on in. Dinner’s almost ready."

They were bewildered. They had spent years with you, fighting side by side, seeing you covered in blood, sweat, and gunpowder—and now you were leading them up the front porch of your cozy countryside mansion like a perfect little housewife.

And the worst part? They liked it.

You, The Deadly Soldier and The Perfect Housewife

Soap had expected you to relax on your leave. Maybe sleep in, drink some tea, read a book.

But no.

You were up at the crack of dawn, slipping out of bed before any of them could pull you back in, dressed in overalls and a white tank top, heading out to feed the animals like it was just another mission.

"Morning, sweetheart," Price murmured, leaning against the doorway as he watched you toss hay to the horses.

"Morning, Captain," you teased, kissing his scruffy cheek before moving on to collect eggs from the hens.

Ghost watched in silence, arms crossed, as you scolded a particularly feisty rooster. "You peck me one more time, and I swear to God, I’m making soup outta you."

Gaz almost choked on his coffee when you turned around and gave them the sweetest, most innocent smile.

"You boys want breakfast?"

Fifteen minutes later, they were sitting at a massive wooden table in your warm, sunlit kitchen, eating fresh farm eggs, homemade bread, and smoked bacon.

And Soap was ready to propose.

Domesticity With a Side of Chaos

Price: Loves sitting on the porch with a cigar, watching you work. He helps with repairs, fixes fences, and absolutely adores the peacefulness of your home.

Ghost: The animals are terrified of him at first (except the donkey—the donkey hates him). But the barn cats adopt him, curling up in his lap whenever he sits down.

Soap: Thinks farm life is the best thing ever. He learns how to milk a cow, names every single chicken, and gets way too attached to a piglet.

Gaz: "Babe, I love you, but this rooster is evil." (He got chased one too many times.)

And at night?

After a long day of farm work, you slip into something soft and lacy, curl up in their arms, and remind them that you’re not just a soldier, not just a farmer—you’re theirs.

They Never Want to Leave

By the end of their stay, not a single one of them wants to go back.

"You sure we have to leave?" Soap pouts, feeding the ducks.

"Darlin’," Price murmurs against your neck one night, arms wrapped around you in bed, "Ever thought about retirin’ here? With us?"

Ghost doesn’t say it out loud, but when he watches you laugh, your hands covered in flour as you bake bread, he knows he never wants to be anywhere else.

And Gaz?

He just sighs, watching the sunset over the hills. "I never thought I’d say this, but…I think I’m in love with farm life."

They were all in love. With you. With this. With the life they could have, if only they stayed.

Maybe one day.

For now, they’d enjoy every stolen moment in their countsyde paradise. But what if we make thing spicy ? A little bit, at least.

Ghost Was The First To Break

Ghost had held strong. Longer than the others.

While Soap got weak-kneed watching you bend over to pick up hay, and while Gaz couldn’t stop staring at your thighs in those tiny denim shorts, Ghost had kept his cool.

Until that damn sundress.

White. Light. Flowy. Just enough fabric to tempt, but never satisfy—clinging to your curves, slipping off your shoulders as you carried a bucket of water to the horses.

He had been cleaning his rifle on the porch, but his grip tightened the moment he saw the fabric sway with your every step.

And then?

You had the audacity to look over your shoulder and wink at him.

He dropped the rifle.

Soap Lost It In The Barn

Soap had always been shameless about his attraction to you.

But you?

You were even worse.

It was an accident—(was it?)—when you walked into the barn one night, looking for something. The others were inside, drinking whiskey in the house, but Soap had been alone, brushing down one of your horses.

And then he saw you.

Wet.

Covered in rain.

Your thin white blouse clung to you, completely see-through, nipples pebbled against the fabric.

"Lass," he had rasped, watching as you closed the barn door behind you, stepping forward, voice all honeyed and sweet.

"Johnny," you had purred, voice dripping with something that wasn’t innocence, "I’m cold."

He snapped.

The horse had seen things that night.

Price Was The Most Dangerous

Price was a man of control.

A man of restraint.

A man who knew how to bide his time.

But you?

You tested him.

You liked to push. You liked to see how far you could go before he gave in.

And God help you—you found his limit.

It was late. The others were asleep. You were making tea in the kitchen, standing on your tiptoes to reach a mug from the top shelf.

Price had walked in just as your nightgown slipped up your thighs.

It wasn’t fair.

The soft, white cotton. The little lace trim. The way your bare legs looked so smooth, so inviting—and the sleepy way you turned, so unaware of what you were doing to him.

You looked up at him, mug in hand, and smiled. "You want some tea, Cap?"

And then—his hands were on your hips.

Voice rough.

"You know damn well what I want, sweetheart."

Gaz Had It The Worst

Gaz?

Gaz was a goner the first time he saw you in nothing but boots and his shirt.

You had come in from the field soaked in sweat, hair messy, thighs speckled with dirt. You had tossed your muddy clothes into the laundry room, grabbed his green tactical shirt, and walked around the house like it wasn’t driving him insane.

"Babe," he groaned, rubbing a hand down his face, watching you stretch, the hem of his shirt riding up to dangerous levels.

You blinked. All innocent. "What’s wrong?"

Gaz was a patient man. A respectful man. A man who was about to lose his goddamn mind.

"Come here."

You smirked, walking over slowly, pressing your hands to his chest.

"You’re so easy to rile up," you giggled.

His hand wrapped around your throat.

"And you’re about to learn what happens when you push too far."

[skeltnwrites]

Break the Bed In— ⋆₊˚⌂

The first morning in your new home is slow and soft, spent tangled up in bed with Steve.

mdni 18+ fem/afab reader, p in v sex, oral (f receiving), switch!steve/reader, the fluffiest sweetest smut you'll ever read | 4k

a/n: this is dedicated to all my single ladies. happy valentine’s day you freaks! coincidentally i also moved houses yesterday so this feels extra fitting

── .✦

You wake well-rested; like every inch of you was unraveled and woven back together while you dreamt. Your wrist hangs off the side of the mattress, fingernails brushing the carpet. Your bed frame is a heap of wooden slats across the room, as is most of the furniture currently in your house. 

Steve’s arm is warm under your neck, his breath a steady string behind you. You flip over, your ear landing in the crease of his elbow. 

He’s softer in sleep. Cheek squished to his shoulder, lips pressed to a pout. He’s boyish in a lot of ways still, but growing less so the longer you know him. He’s got stubble and sun spots and smile lines. And you love each of those things, swearing he’s getting more and more handsome with them every day. Blame it on the lingering moving high but today the feeling triples. 

There’s a unique kind of joy in buying your first home together. It’s perpetual surprise, popping up in the most mundane of moments. It’s picking taupe over eggshell for the living room and it’s paying extra for matching key designs and it’s waking up beside your favorite person on a mattress on the floor. 

You stamp your lips into his skin in good morning, and again because it’s a satisfying warmth on your mouth. He smells sweet, like your new body wash since he couldn’t find his last night. You decide you like the scent on his skin better than yours. 

The quiet is strange but the farthest thing from unwelcome. No neighbors or roommates or parents to wake to. Just the soft hush of rain against the roof and the swish of your ankles underneath the blankets. 

Your fingers chase the hair from Steve’s eye socket, your thumb perching behind his ear. His pupils shift under his eyelids and he sighs the softest little sound you’ve ever heard. 

It’s cruel to wake him, certainly. He did most of the heavy lifting yesterday and was up organizing later than you were. But you’re feeling especially selfish this morning, tickling him awake with a swarm of several more arm kisses. 

There are worse things to wake up to, you reason with yourself as Steve hums, his fingers curling against the sheet. He’s quiet for a long beat and you decide maybe it's better to let him rest. 

But his lips part and he rasps out, “Mornin’.” 

“Mornin’,” you parrot. Your grin is immediate, spanning ear to ear with an overwhelming sense of gratitude. 

He smushes your face to his bare collar, the heel of his free hand climbing up his cheek. 

You turn to watch his eyes unstick themselves of sleep and continue to wonder how you got so lucky. You press another kiss to his chin. Another to the coarse thatch of hair on his chest. Another to his shoulder. You just can’t help yourself today. 

“It’s so quiet,” he murmurs, hand crawling under your shirt in a long splay up your spine. 

You beam, weaving a leg under his heavy one. “I know.” 

“We have a house.” 

“I know.” You sound as excited as you can be without yelling. 

He hums, the corners of his smile creeping wider, a hand steady on your back. 

Your finger twists a curl at his nape idly. “What’re you thinking?” 

Steve’s gaze flickers from the ceiling to you, eyes like old pennies under the clouds coloring your room a gloomy shade of gray. “Nothin’,” he whispers, lips skimming the corner crease of your eye. “Just happy.” 

You hum, one part agreement, two parts delight. “Can we get a dog now?” 

He huffs out a chuckle, vibrating the place where your chests kiss. “I can’t believe it took you this long to ask.” 

“‘Cause you always say no.” 

“‘Cause it didn’t make sense before.”

“So, we can?” 

He has a hard time pretending to hate the look you show him. Your jutted lip and raised brows show no mercy. He wants to say yes, of course he does, but he’s not as impulsive as he used to be. He’s a homeowner. His responsibilities extend beyond just himself now. 

“Can we unpack the house first? Then we’ll talk about it.”

You flick his collarbone. “Excuses. Excuses.” 

If there’s a fond way to roll your eyes at someone, he’s figured out how to do it. Steve knows you’re all drama. And he knows you’re over the moon with or without the promise of a dog. 

You bend out of his embrace and regret sitting the second you’re up. Your back aches twice its weight, muscles sore with yesterday's labor. 

But Steve relishes his view. You're in nothing but underwear and one of his shirts, the dip of your lower back exposed where the hem has scrunched up. He might buy you new pajamas if he thought you’d actually wear them or if he didn’t adore just how lovely his clothes look on you. 

And he doesn’t give you a chance to ask, his fingers automatically massaging a path up your aching shoulder. You squirm but you love it. You kiss his hand in thank you and carry it around your waist to play with. 

“Don’t get up,” he says. Pleads, practically.

You face him. “But we have sooo much to unpack.” 

“It can wait,” he argues. He steals your entwined hands for a persuasive set of kisses. One to each knuckle and then a flurry up your arm. And his hands are an equally convincing force, coercing you right back onto his chest. 

You’re putty, melting into his hot hands like candle wax. You throw a leg over his waist and settle down in a more comfortable straddle. The possibility of you falling back asleep jumps an alarming percentage. 

You bolster your chin on his sternum and meet his eyes. “But I really want that dog.” 

“More than me?” 

You hum debatably into his puckered lips.

He smiles hard and forgets about kissing you, pinching your side until you yelp. Your giggles spill through twin smiles, overlapping each other in layers. “Might have to put the house back on the market if you keep being so mean to me," he says.

“I’ll be nicer if we go look at the shelter today.” 

“Mm. Not letting this go are we?” 

You shake your head.

He pecks the corner of your mouth. “We’ll go–”

You see the shift in his expression before he even says anything. Your eyebrows jump in excitement. 

“If,” he tacks on quickly, “we finish downstairs today. Hmm?” 

“Mhmm. Easy.” 

“Easy,” he repeats. But not one lick of him believes you. It wasn’t easy carrying so many of your boxes yesterday and it certainly wasn’t easy getting you to pack everything up in the first place. 

But ultimately he’s amused. And he thinks you’re especially pretty when you’re confident. So Steve kisses you like he has something to prove. 

He gropes the swell of your ass mid-kiss and while it’s not unusual for him to do so playfully, you can’t perceive it in any way innocent when you’re pressed up against his morning wood. 

“Steve,” you scold lightly. 

He hums against your mouth, a faux sound of innocence. He knows exactly what he’s doing. 

You break apart with a wet smack. “Gotta unpack.”

“Have all day,” he says, words all smushed together so he can sew his lips right back to yours. 

“Mm-mmm.” You turn your cheek, but the hands on your waist don’t let you go far. “‘S, like, ten-thirty already.” 

He works a slow line past your jaw, spending extra time on the sensitive skin around your throat. Devious. 

“Steve.” 

“Hmm?” 

You push off his chest until you're sitting upright on his thighs.

His heart tick tick ticks under the flat of your palm. His pupils are wide, mouth kiss-bruised a bright shade of red. He’s so, so dreamy, all flushed and starry-eyed like this. He’s got you wrapped around his finger just as much as you’ve strung him with yours.  

You sigh. “Why do I let you win?” 

He smirks that stupid victorious smirk you love so much. “‘Cause you love me.”

“You’re so annoying.” 

“Me?” he laughs. 

“Mhmm. And a hypocrite.” 

The hand clasping your hip pressures you back down, the other cradling one side of your jaw. “A hypocrite?” he whispers. 

“Mhmm.” 

He fills the tiny space between you, half-lidded and heavy-handed in a fervent kiss. He’s not rough but he is eager. Open-mouthed and persistent like he’s trying to weld his face to yours. 

You meet him with the same intensity. It’s instinctual. The push-pull of your bodies, like you’re more one entity than two. You’ve been dating Steve long enough to know what he likes and what he doesn’t. You’ve made out more times than you can count. And he’s a simple man. You’ve got him hard, properly hard, in a matter of minutes. 

His bottom lip is pinned between your teeth, your chests rising and falling in sync. You grind back on his crotch and his breath hitches. 

“Ahh,” he pants. “Can I…” 

You don’t know what he’s trying to ask but you nod anyway. It’s not hard to piece together, though; not when he’s fisting the fabric of your shirt like it’s causing him physical pain to see you wear it. 

You help him hitch it up your back and down your arms to be tossed out of the way. Steve quickly stops you from lying back down. His large palms spread wide against your tummy, thumbs kneading either side of your belly button. He roves up your ribs attentively, studying how your skin pulls and dips beneath his fingers. 

You swear you feel him down to the divots in his fingerprints, the slow speed of his hands tantalizing. 

His thumbs pause at your breastbone, sweeping up and around your nipples as if he’s never played with them before. They perk up easily, to Steve's obvious enjoyment. 

He’s told you a thousand times how pretty you are, naked and not. And he doesn’t have to say it now for you to know he’s thinking it. 

He stares at your chest, your tummy, the soft stretch of your thighs, each like they’ve been carved from marble, destined to end up behind a glass at some museum he’s never been to. 

You get shy eventually, needling past his hold to hide in the slope of his neck. Your mouth peppers lazy kisses where it can reach. Soft ones, not nearly as greedy as before. You work your way up, suckling long enough to leave a couple of red rings in your wake. 

Steve's hips shift under yours as you arrive back at his mouth. He’s getting antsy, the finger fidgeting with the hem of your panties no longer satisfied. So maybe you shouldn’t be as surprised as you are when he holds your hips down and bucks up into your clothed cunt. 

Your jaw slackens, a broken moan dampened against his mouth. 

“Can be loud ‘s you want now,” he assures. His hands roam, around your ass and back up your sides. Soothing, but so feather-light you shudder. 

“Still have neighbors.” 

He hums in half agreement. Yes, you have neighbors, but their bedroom wall isn’t attached to yours. He imagines you’d have to scream bloody murder for the neighbors to hear you here. 

You slink back up to sit and Steve’s fingers fall to your hips. Your pelvis rolls into his. Again when he shudders. 

“Shit,” he sighs. 

“Feel good?”

His eyes disappear behind his lashes, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. “Mhmm.” 

You continue to work him through his briefs, a slow back and forth forming a hot puddle between your own legs. With one hand propped against his sternum, you force your eyes over to the stacks upon stacks of moving boxes in the room. 

“Condoms… condoms.” 

Steve almost misses your mumbling– and to his credit, you’re talking more to yourself than him– but he blinks out of his daze and sighs vaguely at the nearest box. “Fuck. Bathroom, maybe.” 

Not ideal. 

“Think I have one in my purse,” you remember, swaying heavily to the side to scan the floor beside the mattress. 

Steve’s hands fly to your waist to balance you as he huffs. “You mean your bottomless pit?” 

“Don’t shame me. It comes in handy.” The bottomless pit in question is spotted, half buried under yesterday’s clothes across the room. “One sec’.”

Steve grumbles as you climb off of him. But his heart turns in his chest as you saunter off. His love for you is always there. It’s the shape of you as you crouch, how you tip your purse upside down and fan the contents out across the floor with a hum. 

“Aha.” You pop up, waving a glossy, square packet as you skip your way back. “My trusty bottomless pit saves the day.”

You clamber back on top of him clumsily, planting yourself in his lap like he’s no more fragile than the kitchen barstool. 

Steve groans under his breath. You’ve got him really wound up and his patience is thinning. 

Your hips roll into his again, the curve of his cock a strong silhouette through two sticky layers of fabric. You scoot back on his thighs and palm him with modest pressure. 

“Babe,” he shudders, thumbs pawing the sides of your underwear again. “Please.” 

“So impatient,” you tease. 

You watch him intently. How his nostrils flare the second you break the seal between his hot skin and the band of his underwear. How his eyebrows crinkle together as you push the cotton down his thighs. 

His cock bobs free before you take it gently by the base. Steve’s not just a pretty face, and he’s not cocky for no reason. He’s well-endowed, a dusty shade of pink blended tan into the dark curls at his hilt. 

“Fuck, baby.” 

He shifts his gaze past you because he’s certain if you make eye contact with him this’ll be the shortest sex of his life. And even the half-blurry blob of you in his peripherals is still too fucking enticing. He forces his eyes up at the popcorn ceiling and traces the shapes in his mind. 

You spread the pearl of precum down a vein on the side of his cock, using the slip to tug him a handful of times. The slick dissolves, and your hand catches twice before you’re getting ready to spit in it.  

But Steve whines, “Need to feel you.” 

Your hand stops but the pad of your pinky trails a sneaky line from tip to base. “My hands not enough for you, Stevie?” 

“Not gonna– mm– last.” 

“Well, we can’t have that, can we?” 

You mean it rhetorically but he quickly shakes his head no. You forget how much you enjoy being in charge until you have Steve squirming under you. 

You stabilize yourself on his chest, hiking one leg up at a time until you’re underwear have been flung to the floor. The slick between your folds is more palpable as you sit back on his thighs, hot skin to hot skin. 

His eyelids flutter closed as you roll the condom on. He’s flushed up to his ears, breath nimble off his open mouth. 

“Ready?” 

He nods like you’ve asked something outrageously silly. 

You guide the head of his cock up to your folds, sinking down in one tedious stride. It’s a good kind of ache, scratching the deepest part of your tummy. 

His hips jerk involuntarily as you release your full weight onto them, his nails leaving crescents on your skin. “‘M not gonna last,” he warns again. 

“I’ll go slow.” 

It’s not much consolation. No matter what you do to him, he’s not gonna last. You’re too damn irresistible for your own good. 

You rock your hips forward and back in a continuous cycle. The pace is indulgent, just slow enough to make things last. Your eyes unfocus, your head tipping back. Every drag squeezes the coil in your stomach tighter. 

Steve’s eyes flick to yours, his voice wavering as he mumbles, “Tease me too much.”

“I do?”

“Mhmm.”

You smile softly at him and his eyes jump away. He’s drawing loopy patterns into the meat of your thigh to distract himself. And it doesn’t help when you cover his hand and sweep your thumb across every digit. He’s so focused on not blowing his load that he can’t even speak. 

You pause your rhythm and hum to yourself before continuing. “Know what I just realized.”

“Hmm?”

“Forgot the shower curtain.”

Steve exhales hard, words sticking to his teeth.“We’ll get a new one.” 

“I really liked that one.”

He can’t think straight long enough to tell if you’re purposely trying to distract him or not and he doesn’t care all that much either way. He just needs you to be the same level of fucked that he is. 

His hand trembles over to your pubic bone, thumb snaking right up to your clit. 

You nod as he presses. Right there. 

He rubs slow circles, a spark of pleasure each time he closes a loop. 

“Fuck,” you drawl simultaneously. 

You laugh, blissfully unaware as your muscles clamp around his cock. 

But Steve’s fingers pause on your clit, his other hand tense at your hip. “Don’t,” he shudders out. 

You close your mouth, a soft little apology grin that sends Steve’s stomach flipping. He’s so fucking in love it’s not even funny. 

“Sit on my face.”

You hum, so high on cloud nine you’re sure you’ve misheard him. 

“Let me taste you.”

Your breath stutters. He’s serious. 

“Come here,” he’s pushing you up and off him before you have much of a chance to process it. “Wanna make you feel good.” 

Your cheeks burn a hot shade of embarrassment, your tongue suddenly too heavy in your mouth. You wriggle up his body, guided by the relentless hands on the backs of your thighs. Steve’s eaten you out, but not like this. 

“Steve,” you manage. 

“What?” He knows you better than he’s known anyone in his life. He feels your shaking and he hears the rampant doubts coursing your mind. “I want to,” he promises, pressing a long, love-packed kiss to the soft flesh of your inner thigh. 

You’re unconvinced. You’re certain you’ll break his face the second you sit down. You’ll be so mortified you’ll have to break up with him if he doesn’t first. You’ll have to sell the house before you’ve even unpacked–

“Please?”

He’s not trying to be pushy or even funny as he bats his eyes. He just so genuinely craves to see you unravel in the same way you’ve spun him around. And yeah, he has a sweet set of brown eyes. Sue him. He loves you too much to look at you with any less adoration. 

You nod emphatically. 

It’s been a long time since you’ve been this nervous about sex with Steve, but you’ve learned just about everything there is to know about him since. You trust him in every capacity, especially in bed.   

He nips his way up your thigh, pulling you lower and lower until his breath is hot on your cunt. Steve licks a wide stripe up to your clit, sucking before swirling his tongue around the sensitive hood. And then his mouth starts lapping you like you’re his last meal. 

Your fist jerks, fingers knotted through the hair on his scalp, and he moans. You don’t hear it over the wet smacking as much as you feel it, the vibrations sending pleasure through you like a pulse. 

His tongue drives you to a mess. He’d push you completely over the edge if you didn’t stop him.

“Okay, okay,” you gasp, pushing up onto your knees. “We’re even.” 

He smirks and strokes down the backs of your calves. “Are we competing?” 

“You seem to think so.” 

He shimmies to a sit with an arm around your waist and bestows you with a fleeting kiss, lips washed with the taste of your juices. “Lay down.”

How the fuck could you say no to such a pretty face? 

You scooch down, face up on the sheets. Steve parts you by the ankles and crawls up your body, planting kisses like seeds. His teeth graze the inside of your wrist before he stretches it up and flat against the mattress above your head. 

Your fingers thread through his, his other hand steadying his cock at your entrance. He swipes the head up and down your wet folds before sliding in with a groan. There’s less resistance this time, a fluid in and out to his hips. 

His thrusts are languid. He indulges more closely in the taste of your mouth and the balmy feel of your waist. 

The winding in your tummy resumes, your fingers naturally finding your clit while Steve rocks into you. A heavier thrust and your lips detach, Steve’s rehoming to the skin beneath your jaw. He picks up his pace, puffing and panting into your neck in short bursts. 

Your legs wrap around his, the heel of your foot digging into his lower back. “Mm– Steve.”

“Yeah?” he huffs. 

“Mhmm.”

If the sounds you’re making are anything to go by, Steve thinks he’s doing a pretty good job. And you know he’s just as close to cumming. You know his little sounds and twisty little expressions like the back of your hand. How his stomach tenses and his breath catches. 

You burn the entirety of this to your brain, rubbing yourself faster, more in time with his movements. 

“‘M close,” he says, desperate and hopeful that you are too. 

You nod, focused on the high climbing higher each second. 

His hips stutter when you clench around him. The coil releases and you come undone simultaneously. 

“Fuck, ah– fuck,” he whines, sharp but breathy in your ear.  

Your fingers slow and his thrusts wane and the pleasure softens. Steve wobbles down onto you as gently as he can, taking your interlaced hand between your bodies. Your hearts kiss with each rise and fall of your chests. Steve mouths over the most accessible bit of skin under your ear, thumb sweeping the gentlest curves around your face. 

You exhale into his crown, raking a hand through the dark mop of curls damp at his nape. Your other eases down his back, savoring the contraction of his muscles as he breathes. You travel down the curve of his ass and give him a firm squeeze. “How’s your ass? Still sore?” 

He huffs at you, nose crushed to your neck. “I fall down one flight of stairs and I never hear the end of it.” 

“I told you to be careful.” 

“I was being– whatever.” His thumb continues to caress your jaw, his lips idle on your neck. 

This is Steve’s favorite part of sex. To hold and to be held, easing off a high that’s miles better than a good smoke. There’s nothing greater. 

“Should I check for bruises?” 

“If you kiss ‘em better.” 

Your chest aches with the sweet swell of laughter. Steve’s your person. You realize it time and time again. 

He peels himself off like you're double-sided tape. His hair’s still crazy despite your finger-combing and his eyes are just as heavy as they were when he woke up. He slides out of you with a hiss, sitting back to knot the condom and toss it toward a pile of bubble wrap. 

He looks back at you fondly. “Shower?” 

You shake your head. “Just lay with me.” 

“Downstairs isn’t gonna unpack itself, you know.”

“Shut up.” You palm his chest until he lays and you throw an arm across his middle. “This was your evil plan all along.” 

He chuckles, taking your hand to massage between both of his. “I’m just the worst aren’t I?” 

[gdinthehouseee]

Valentine's: KWON JI-YONG x READER

summary: a steamy valentine's date with ji-yong in his penthouse

word count: 6397

tags: fluff, mature (for spice? steam? there's no actual smut)

ao3 link

It was finally Valentine’s day. You had spent the night back at your own place, something you haven’t done in probably months ever since you started dating Ji-yong—practically already moved in together at his place instead. Last night, he told you he wanted this day to be special, so you figured you would go home for the night in order to put some real effort into your look tonight. Naturally, this morning, you spent hours making sure everything was perfect: everything from your outfit to the gift you bought him. At least it was easier to hide that. 

Finally, the sun had set and it was time for the real fun to begin.

The scent of something rich and savory fills the air as you step into Ji-yong’s penthouse, the warm lighting casting soft shadows across the sleek interior. Your eyes immediately land on him—standing by the kitchen counter, sleeves rolled up, a soft smile playing on his lips as he stirs a pot on the stove.

“You’re just in time, aein.” He says smoothly, glancing over his shoulder to give you a once-over. His gaze lingers a little longer than necessary. “Did you dress up just for me?”

You scoff, setting your bag down. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that? You’re the one who looks like you’re about to seduce someone.”

“Maybe I am.”

Before you can fire back, he closes the distance between you and reaches for your hand, guiding it to his chest dramatically. “Feel that? My heart’s racing already. You really do have that effect on me.”

“You’re ridiculous.” You roll your eyes, but your expression betrays you as you keep your hand over his heart.

“You know you love it,” he teases, tugging you closer until you’re nearly flush against him. “Now, if you’ll behave and keep me company, I might even let you taste what I’m cooking.”

He tilts his head, eyes sparkling with mischief and flickering towards your lips before meeting your gaze again. “Or, you could just taste me instead. Your choice.”

“Ji,” you whined. “What’s gotten into you?”

Thankfully, your bashful smile let him know that you were both enjoying his boldness. No matter how much you rolled your eyes or tried to act unaffected, the soft curve of your lips gave you away every time. Ji-yong lived for that—watching the way your defenses crumbled under his charm, the way your gaze flickered between playful defiance and quiet surrender. It was a game he loved playing, pushing just enough to make you flustered, but never too much to overwhelm you. And judging by the warmth creeping up your cheeks, he was winning.

“Am I not allowed to flirt with my girl?” He jokingly pouted, one hand remained over your hand on his chest while his other hand found its home at your waist. 

“Of course you are.” 

“That’s what I thought,” he said before pressing a quick peck to your lips. “C’mon, let my cooking impress you instead.” 

The countertop is lined with ingredients, a simmering pot sending out a rich, mouthwatering aroma. You watch as he moves effortlessly around the kitchen, confident in every step. He grabs a spoon, dips it into the sauce, and turns to you with that signature smirk still plastered on his face. “Here. Taste.”

You lean in slightly, expecting him to hold out the spoon properly, but instead, he lifts it higher—forcing you to tilt your head back as he guides it between your lips. The warmth of the sauce spreads across your tongue, but all you can focus on is the way Ji-yong’s gaze drops to your lips, his smirk deepening.

“Good?” He asks, his voice lower now.

You swallow, trying not to show how flustered you suddenly feel. “Yeah. It’s really good.”

He hums in satisfaction, but instead of stepping back, he raises a finger and swipes it across the corner of your lips. “You had a little something…” He brings his finger to his own lips and licks it off, his eyes locked onto yours the entire time. “Can’t waste it.”

You scoff, trying to ignore the warmth creeping up your neck. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he muses, tilting his head, “you’re still here.” He leans in just a fraction closer, his voice dropping. “Does that mean you like it when I tease you, jagiya?”

You roll your eyes and turn toward the counter, forcing yourself to focus on something—anything—other than the way he’s looking at you. “You clearly need supervision, so I’m helping.”

“Helping? That’s cute.”

“I know how to cook, you know.”

“Sure you do,” he teases, stepping behind you so close that you can feel his breath on your neck. Before you can respond, his hands slide over yours, effortlessly guiding them to the knife on the counter. “Let me see, then.”

Your fingers tighten slightly on the handle, heat radiating from his body behind you. “Ji-yong.”

“Hm?” He rests his chin on your shoulder, completely unfazed. “I’m just helping, right?”

You exhale sharply, trying to ignore the way his voice drips with amusement. “I don’t need you hovering over me.”

He hums as if considering your words, then suddenly reaches around you, grabbing an ingredient from the counter—brushing against you just enough to send a jolt up your spine. “Ah, my bad,” he murmurs, lips dangerously close to your ear. “Didn’t mean to get in your way.”

You whip around, intending to glare at him properly, but the moment you do, he lifts a small piece of fruit to your lips. “Open up, aein.”

“What—”

“Shh.” He taps the fruit against your bottom lip, a lazy smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Be good and try it.”

Despite your attempt to act like you were annoyed with him, you open your mouth, and he places it on your tongue, his fingers lingering a little too long. His eyes flicker down, watching the way your lips close around it.

“See? That wasn’t so hard,” he murmurs, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

You chew slowly, refusing to let him see just how much he’s getting to you. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

He grins. “Of course I am.” He picks up another piece, twirling it between his fingers. “The question is… are you?”

You swallow, willing yourself not to fall into his trap. Instead, you decide to turn the tables. Two can play this game. With a slow, deliberate movement, you step closer, reaching past him to grab a piece of fruit for yourself. He watches, amused, as you bring it to your lips—but instead of eating it right away, you pause. You roll the fruit lightly between your fingers, letting your lips hover just above it, pretending to inspect it. “Hmm,” you hum thoughtfully, glancing at him through your lashes. “I don’t know… do you think I should try it, Ji-yong?”

His smirk falters just slightly—his eyes flicker to your lips, then back up to meet your gaze. You don’t give him a chance to recover. Slowly, so excruciatingly slowly, you bring the fruit to your mouth and take a bite, your lips just barely brushing your fingers. Your tongue flicks out to catch the sweetness, and you swear you hear Jiyong’s breath hitch.

You let out a small, pleased hum as you chew, tilting your head. “Mmm. You were right. It’s good.”

His smirk is still there, but his jaw tenses slightly. “Glad you approve.”

You take another bite, even slower this time, then reach up with your thumb to wipe the juice lingering at the corner of your lips. His eyes track the movement immediately. For the final blow, you bring your thumb to your lips—just like he did earlier—and suck the sweetness away, holding eye contact the entire time.

Ji-yong stills. You see it—the exact moment the teasing backfires on him. His smirk wavers, his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, you even heard the way his breath hitched. For once, he doesn’t have a witty comeback.

Satisfied, you tilt your head. “Something wrong?”

Jiyong exhales, slow and measured, before abruptly closing the distance between you.

“Oh, aein,” he murmurs, tilting your chin up with just two fingers. His gaze is dangerously dark now, heated in a way that makes your stomach flip. “You really wanna play this game with me?”

You blink innocently. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He chuckles, but there’s a sharp edge to it now. His hand doesn’t drop from your chin—instead, his thumb brushes along your jawline, slow and teasing.

“You’re cute,” he murmurs, his lips so close you can feel his breath. “But you should know better than to tease me, princess.”

Before you can react, his other hand suddenly slides down, gripping your waist, pulling you flush against him. Your breath catches, and he grins, fully aware of what he’s doing to you.

“Now,” he says, voice nothing but smooth velvet, “let’s see how long you can keep up, hmm?”

Oh. You’re in trouble.

His grip on your waist tightens, holding you exactly where he wants you. His smirk is still there, but there’s something darker behind it now—something that makes your pulse skyrocket. He’ll be damned if he doesn’t finish this game he started. Not that either of you want to stop playing.

“You’ve been getting bold,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing slow, lazy circles against your hip. “Teasing me like that. Acting all innocent when we both know you’re not.”

You refuse to back down. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, keeping your voice steady despite the way your heart is slamming against your ribs.

Ji-yong lets out a low, knowing hum. “No?”

Before you can react, he shifts, caging you in completely—his arm sliding around your lower back, his other hand pressing flat against the counter beside you. He leans in, his lips dangerously close to your ear.

“Then why,” he murmurs, voice rich with amusement, “do you look like you’re about to melt?”

You inhale sharply, trying to keep your composure. But it’s impossible when his presence is so overwhelming—the scent of him, the heat of his body, the way his lips are hovering over your skin, never quite touching, but making you ache for it anyway.

You tilt your head up, meeting his gaze, challenging him right back. “If anyone’s about to melt, it’s you,” you whisper.

Ji-yong exhales sharply through his nose—a laugh, but barely. His grip tightens, his body pressing into yours just enough to make you shiver.

“Oh?” He muses, tilting his head. “That so?”

His hand on your waist slides lower, fingers grazing over the curve of your hip—slow, deliberate, teasing. He’s watching you, studying the way your breath catches, how your fingers clutch at the counter behind you.

You don’t know who moves first, but suddenly, the space between you is gone.

His lips brush against your jaw, featherlight, before ghosting down your neck. It’s barely a touch, but it’s enough to make your stomach tighten. However, he can’t help himself as he begins to kiss your jawline. Slow and soft pecks trailing down your jaw and your neck, until he reaches your collarbone.

“Still think I’m the one melting?” he murmurs against your skin, his voice so dangerously low it sends a shiver down your spine.

Your fingers instinctively grip his shirt, as if holding onto something solid will keep you from completely losing yourself in him. Of course, he notices, and he grins against your neck.

“You’re already falling apart for me.”

Your head is spinning, your breath uneven, but how could it not be? Ji-yong is right there, pressing against you like he has no intention of letting go—and God, he looks unfairly good doing it.

The dim lighting casts soft shadows over his sharp features, highlighting the mischief in his eyes, the slight smirk tugging at his lips, the way his hair falls messily over his forehead like he was made to look this effortlessly perfect. His jaw is so sharp it could cut, his skin so frustratingly smooth it’s unfair, and then—those lips. Lips that are so close to yours now, parted just slightly, so warm against your skin as he teases you without even trying. His scent—clean, expensive, intoxicating—wraps around you like a slow-burning haze, making it impossible to think of anything but him. And then there’s his hands—warm, and so damn sure of themselves, holding you in place, fingers pressing just hard enough to make your stomach tighten. His confidence, the way he looks at you like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you, has you completely undone before he even touches you properly. How is it fair that someone can look this good and know exactly how to use it? And worse—how are you supposed to survive it?

And then—

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP!

A loud, obnoxious timer shatters the moment.

For a second, neither of you react—both frozen, caught in the tension that had been building like a slow-burning fire.

Then, he exhales sharply, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he lets out a deep, frustrated groan. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he mutters, his grip on your waist flexing like he’s resisting the urge to just ignore it altogether.

You, on the other hand, are biting back a grin. “Ji-yong,” you say, feigning innocence, “I think something’s burning.”

His fingers tighten just slightly before he finally pulls back, shooting a glare toward the kitchen timer like it personally offended him.

“I hate that thing,” he deadpans, jaw clenching as he forces himself to step away from you.

You laugh, still breathless, but can’t help the way your lips curve in satisfaction. “You were the one who insisted on cooking.”

His eyes darken again instantly, and suddenly, you realize teasing him right now might be dangerous. He lets out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders back like he’s trying to shake off the tension that had just settled so thickly between you. His jaw is still tight, and you don’t miss the way his fingers flex before he finally forces himself to step away.

“You’re lucky I care about feeding you,” he mutters, tossing a glance your way as he checks on the food.

You cross your arms, watching the way his back muscles shift under his shirt as he moves around the kitchen. It’s almost unfair—even when he’s frustrated, he looks good enough to ruin you.

“I don’t know,” you muse, leaning against the counter. “Seemed like you cared about something else a lot more just now.”

Ji-yong pauses. For a moment, he just stands there, hands braced against the counter, before he slowly—so slowly—turns to face you again.

“Oh?” His voice is deceptively light, but his gaze? Dangerous. “Are you saying you’d rather skip dinner?”

“Didn’t say that.”

He hums, his eyes still too intense as he starts plating the food. “Good,” he murmurs, sliding a plate in front of you before leaning in just slightly. “Because you’re gonna need the energy later.”

Your stomach flips, and you hate how easily he turns the tables back on you. He grins, knowing exactly what he’s doing, before grabbing his own plate and nodding toward the dining table. “C’mon, aein. Let’s eat.”

You exhale, trying to calm the warmth in your cheeks, before following him.

He lights a few candles, their soft glow casting warm flickers of light across the sleek tabletop. The ambient dimness makes the setting feel far too intimate, like something straight out of a private five-star restaurant. He places the plates down with precision, adjusting them like an artist perfecting his masterpiece. A bottle of expensive wine appears next, because of course he has that on hand, followed by two glasses that catch the light just right. He even adds a small vase with a single rose—a dramatic touch, but so undeniably him. When he finally steps back, admiring his work, he catches you staring and smirks. “What?” he teases, tilting his head. “Didn’t think I’d put in the effort?”

Your gaze flickers back to Ji-yong, who’s watching you with that infuriatingly smug expression, clearly enjoying your reaction.

“I just…” You trail off, lips parting slightly as you glance at the setup again. “I wasn’t expecting all this.”

He leans casually against the chair, his smirk only growing. “You wound me, aein,” he sighs dramatically. “Do you really think I’d invite you over for dinner and not make it perfect?”

“Perfect, huh?”

He shrugs, stepping closer—too close. “Well,” he murmurs, eyes glinting as he reaches for the wine, “it’ll be perfect once you sit down and let me pour you a drink.”

You finally sink into your chair, still feeling a little dazed from how effortlessly Jiyong managed to make this dinner feel so special. He pours you a glass of wine first, his fingers steady and graceful, before taking his own seat across from you. For a moment, there’s a comfortable silence. The soft glow of the candles flickers between you, casting shadows over his sharp features. He watches you as you take the first bite, eyes filled with genuine curiosity.

“Well?” He asks, resting his chin on his palm, waiting for your reaction.

You pretend to consider, chewing slowly as if deep in thought.

His eyes narrow. “Don’t even—”

Before he can finish, you let out a dramatic sigh, setting your fork down. “I guess it’s okay…”

Ji-yong scoffs, rolling his eyes, but there’s amusement flickering behind them. “You’re such a brat,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Give me that.”

Before you can stop him, he reaches across the table with his own fork, stealing a bite from your plate. His expression shifts almost immediately—satisfaction mixed with pure smugness.

“Yeah,” he hums, chewing slowly. “Tastes like perfection. Just like I thought.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the small, genuine smile tugging at your lips. “You really know how to fish for compliments, huh?”

He tilts his head, a lazy grin forming. “I don’t need to fish for them. I already know I’m amazing.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Unbelievable.”

But as you glance around the table—the candles flickering, the way he watches you between bites, the small, intimate details he put into everything—you realize something: he didn’t have to do all this. When it comes to showing his love for you, Ji-yong loves extravagance, sure, but this dinner? This was different. This wasn’t for show. This wasn’t for anyone else. This was for you.

Your heart softens, and without thinking, you murmur, “Thank you, Ji.”

He pauses mid-bite, blinking at you like he wasn’t expecting that. “For what?”

You shrug, nudging a piece of food around your plate. “For this. For making it special.”

His smirk falters for just a second before something warmer takes its place. He leans back in his chair, watching you closely, his teasing tone now laced with something softer.

“Of course, aein,” he murmurs, lips quivering. “You deserve it.”

And just like that, your heart is completely gone.

Dinner continues at a slow, unhurried pace, both of you enjoying the food and each other’s company. The teasing ebbs into easy conversation, laughter spilling effortlessly between bites, and for a while, it’s just… nice. Comfortable. Like the world outside doesn’t exist. He watches you fondly as you take another bite, his elbow resting on the table, chin propped up on his hand. He’s been staring at you like that for a while now—like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

“What?” you ask, lips twitching as you meet his gaze.

“Nothing,” he says, swirling his wine glass lazily. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

“How cute you look when you’re enjoying your food.”

A flush creeps up your neck before you can stop it. “Oh my god, Jiyong—”

He grins, setting his glass down. “What? It’s true.” He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table as his voice drops just slightly, just enough to make your stomach flip. “You make the smallest happy noises when you like something. It’s adorable.”

Your mouth opens—ready to argue, ready to defend yourself—but then you realize you can’t even deny it. He must’ve been paying such close attention to notice that. And that realization? It makes your heart ache in the best way.

You clear your throat, playing with the stem of your glass just to avoid looking directly at him. “You notice too much.”

Jiyong exhales a soft laugh, shaking his head. “I just notice you.”

The words settle between you, gentle but weighted, sinking in like warmth spreading through your chest. There’s no teasing in his voice this time. Just honesty. That’s more dangerous than any flirtation. For a moment, you just look at him—this man who could have anyone, who could be anywhere, but right now, he’s here. With you. Watching you like you’re the only thing worth paying attention to.

“…You’re not so bad yourself, you know,” you finally murmur, a small smile tugging at your lips.

He starts grinning as if he had just won something. “Oh, I know.”

“Unbelievable.” You groan, tossing a napkin at him.

But even as you shake your head, you can’t stop the softness creeping into your smile. By the time dinner winds down, you feel light, warm, and completely at ease. The teasing has softened into something quieter, something closer, as you sit across from Jiyong in the glow of candlelight, your empty plates long forgotten.

Ji-yong finishes the last sip of his wine, then sets his glass down with a satisfied sigh. “Not bad for a home-cooked meal, right?”

You tilt your head, pretending to consider. “Mmm… I guess you can keep your title as a decent chef.”

He scoffs, clearly unimpressed by your lack of enthusiasm. “Decent?” He stands, making his way over to you, his smirk lazy but his eyes holding something softer. “Jagiya, you practically moaned over that food.”

Your jaw drops. “I did not—”

He laughs, reaching out to take your hand. “Come on,” he murmurs, his voice softer now, quieter. “I have something else planned.”

Before you can ask what, he tugs you up from your seat, guiding you toward the spacious living area. The city skyline stretches out beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, a breathtaking backdrop to the moment. But it’s not what captures your attention. It’s the way he holds your hand so naturally, like he was always meant to.

“What are we doing?” You ask, looking up at him.

“Dancing.”

He reaches for a remote and clicks a button. Within seconds, soft, slow music fills the space, blending seamlessly into the ambience of the night.

Your breath catches slightly. “You planned this?”

Ji-yong’s fingers thread through yours, his other hand settling lightly at your waist. His touch is warm, steady—so sure of itself, like he’s been waiting for this.

“I told you,” he murmurs, leading you into an easy sway. “I wanted tonight to be perfect.”

Your heart stumbles, warmth spreading through your chest like honey. How does he do this? How does he make you melt with just a few words?

“You’re so dramatic,” you tease, but your voice is softer now, barely above a whisper.

He grins, pulling you just a little closer. “And you love it.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t deny it because right now, wrapped up in his arms, your bodies moving in slow rhythm beneath the dim glow of the penthouse lights, you can’t remember a time when you felt this safe. And when Jiyong’s hand slides up your back, his touch gentle but grounding, you know—you don’t want this night to end.

His grip on your hand tightens just slightly before he lifts it, guiding you into a slow, effortless twirl. You let yourself spin under his touch, the motion making the hem of your outfit shift slightly, your hair catching the light just right. For that brief moment, everything feels weightless—dreamlike. But when you turn back to face him, you catch the way he’s looking at you. His gaze roams over you slowly, deliberately, like he has every intention of memorizing you. His tongue flicks out to wet his lips, his dark eyes drinking in every single detail as if seeing you for the first time.

Warmth rushes to your face as you clear your throat, shifting slightly under his stare. “What?” you ask, trying—and failing—to sound unaffected.

He tilts his head, amusement flickering in his expression as he tugs you closer again, resuming your slow sway. His voice drops, low and utterly sincere.

“You’re beautiful.”

Your breath catches. Not cute. Not pretty. Beautiful. And the way he says it—so effortlessly, like it’s just a fact—makes your heart stumble.

“Getting shy, are we?”

You groan, feeling the heat creep up your neck. “You are so—”

“Charming? Handsome? Completely smitten with you?”

You huff, looking away, but that only makes him grin wider. And then, in a move that’s entirely unfair, he leans in, his lips brushing just beneath your ear as he murmurs, “Don’t look away. I meant it.”

Your stomach flips.

Oh, he’s serious. So serious.

He pulls back just enough to look at you again, his expression warm, unreadable, and maybe even a little too tender. His hand lifts, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear with a touch so gentle it nearly undoes you.

"You should hear it more often," he muses, voice low and honeyed.

Your lips part, but no words come out—because how are you supposed to respond when he says things like that?

He watches your reaction, his teasing smile softening. His arms tighten around you as he spins you playfully again, stealing another lingering glance before pulling you back into him. His gaze is nothing short of adoring.

The soft melody still lingers in the air, but you stop moving first.

Ji-yong’s brow lifts as you take a step back, though his grip on your waist tightens, like he’s not ready to let you go. His lips curl. “What, done with me already?”

You grin, tilting your head. “Maybe.”

His smirk falters. Just slightly. You take advantage of the moment, slipping from his hold to retrieve something from where you’d hidden it earlier. You don’t miss the way his eyes follow you.

“Relax, I’m not leaving,” you tease, casting him a glance over your shoulder. “I just have something for you.”

When you turn back, holding a small, neatly wrapped box, Jiyong looks genuinely surprised. His gaze flickers between the gift and your face, and for once, he seems… speechless.

“You got me something?” He finally asks, like the idea never occurred to him.

You smirk, stepping closer. Close enough that he has no choice but to focus on you.

“Of course,” you murmur, trailing a finger down the front of his shirt, just to see his reaction. “What kind of partner would I be if I didn’t?”

Jiyong inhales, but his smirk returns—a little slower this time. “That’s what I normally say.”

“Not anymore.” You grin, pressing the box into his hands. “Now, open it.”

He watches you for a second longer, like he’s trying to figure out what game you’re playing. Then, finally, he pulls at the ribbon and lifts the lid.

The moment he sees what’s inside, his smirk fades.

The bracelet inside is sleek, but there’s a personal touch—a custom engraving on the inside. Jiyong’s thumb drags over it, his eyes lingering.

“You really know me, huh?” His voice is softer now.

“Obviously.”

His gaze snaps back to yours immediately. This time, there’s something different—an intensity that wasn’t there a second ago. For the first time tonight, you feel like you have him cornered. Slowly, you reach for his wrist, lifting it between both of yours. “Here,” you murmur. “Let me put it on for you.”

His fingers twitch slightly when your fingertips brush against his skin. You don’t rush. Instead, you take your time. He exhales slowly as you fasten the clasp, his usual teasing nowhere to be found. His gaze stays locked on your face, but there’s a flicker of something else. Something like anticipation. Restraint.

“You’re quiet.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “Am I?”

“Mmhmm.” You run your fingers over his wrist deliberately, letting your touch linger. “Wasn’t expecting that.”

His jaw tenses. Oh, this is fun.

You let your fingers trace the bracelet just a little longer than necessary, then glance up at him through your lashes. You can see it now—the tiniest hint of pink dusting his ears. He knows what you’re doing. And he can’t stop it. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, his voice coming out a little rougher than before. “You’re playing with fire, aein.”

You smile innocently. “I have no idea what you mean.”

His gaze darkens—and just like that, the shift happens. His fingers catch your wrist mid-movement, grip firm but careful. His smirk is back, a little lazier now, a little more dangerous. “You think you can tease me?” he murmurs, tilting his head. His thumb brushes against your pulse point, slow and deliberate. “That’s cute.”

Your breath hitches—not because of his words, but because of the way he says them. He steps closer.

“I should give you something too,” he muses. His grip doesn’t loosen. “Something to match.”

Your brows furrow, but before you can even question it, he releases you and disappears into the other room.

And when he returns, dangling from his fingertips, is a delicate necklace.

The necklace swings in Jiyong’s hand, glinting with the soft lighting as he holds it just out of reach. There’s a predatory look in his eyes, the glimmer of amusement dancing across his features as he teases you.

“Oh?” You raise an eyebrow, your voice playful but filled with challenge. “You really think I’m just going to beg for this?”

His smile widens, his gaze darkening slightly. “I don’t think you will. I know you will.” His voice drops an octave, dripping with confidence as he steps closer.

You refuse to back down, crossing your arms, determination flooding your veins. “I’m not begging.”

“Oh, but you will,” he murmurs, stepping closer. There’s a dangerous edge to his voice now, though the smile never fades. “You’ll ask. In your own way.”

You scoff, but there’s a flutter in your chest, excitement mixing with the heat he’s radiating. “You’re not getting ‘nice’ from me.”

The corner of his mouth tilts upward, a silent challenge flickering in his gaze. “We’ll see about that.”

Before you can respond, he pulls you into his chest in one swift motion, your back hitting him hard as he spins you around. You gasp, slightly disoriented, but you’re quickly steadied by his hands on your waist. You try to steady yourself, trying to resist the pull of his magnetic presence. “I’m not begging.”

Ji-yong’s lips brush against your ear, his voice low. “You don’t have to beg, but you do need to ask. Nicely.”

He’s testing you, pushing your limits with every word. The coolness of the necklace rests in his hand, so close you can practically taste it. But he doesn’t make a move to put it on you just yet. Instead, he slides the necklace slowly between his fingers, watching you with that quiet intensity. His lips graze your neck, sending shivers down your spine. You’re fighting to maintain control, to keep your composure, but it’s hard with the way he’s acting.

“You know, princess,” he whispers softly, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, “you’re making this harder than it needs to be.”

You try to focus, but his hands slide down your arms, slow, deliberate, every touch purposeful. He leans in, his lips just barely grazing the back of your neck as he savors the moment, lingering for far longer than necessary.

“I’m not begging,” you murmur, but the words are shaky now, losing their strength.

He laughs, soft and rich, a sound full of dark amusement. He moves back slightly, and for a moment, there’s nothing but silence between you two. You try to take a deep breath, but he takes his time, the necklace still dangling loosely from his fingers. Every second feels like an eternity as he looks you over—taking you in, analyzing you.

“Say please,” he demands suddenly, his voice cool and commanding, forcing you to look at him. You try to hold your ground, but the way he’s looking at you—like he’s already won—makes it impossible. His eyes flash darkly as he leans in again, his lips grazing your skin with a lingering kiss along your neck. The warmth of his breath makes your pulse quicken. The tension between you two only grows thicker, more suffocating, until you can’t keep your composure anymore. You shiver slightly, trying to breathe through the moment.

Finally, unable to stand the pressure any longer, you whisper it: “Please, Ji-yong.”

The second the word leaves your lips, his hand moves, quick and sure, as he slides the necklace around your neck. The cool metal is the only thing that cools the fire spreading through your veins. But even after he places the necklace carefully around your throat, his fingers linger for a moment longer than necessary. He adjusts the chain slowly, his fingertips grazing your skin with each touch, sending a jolt of electricity through you.

The way he looks at you now—the satisfaction in his gaze—is almost enough to make you forget everything else.

“Good.” He looks down at you, eyes dark with desire, lips curling just enough to show the power he’s taken from you. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

As he waits for your response, his eyes still locked on yours, you can’t help but smile, your fingers gently brushing over the delicate chain of the necklace he just put on you. The way the soft sparkle catches the light makes you pause, admiring how it fits perfectly around your neck, just like it was made for you.

You tilt your head slightly, your fingers lightly grazing the pendant as you gaze up at him. "You know," you start, your voice soft and filled with admiration, "I can’t stop looking at it."

He watches you, clearly intrigued. "Yeah? You like it?" His voice carries a hint of pride, but there’s something vulnerable in his eyes, too. It’s like he’s hoping you truly appreciate it.

You smile, your fingers gently tracing the necklace, and your eyes lift to meet his. "I love it," you say, your voice warm, sincere. "You really know how to pick the perfect gift."

Ji-yong's gaze softens, his earlier teasing gone as he watches you with a fond expression. "I’m glad," he murmurs, stepping a little closer, his hand gently brushing against yours. "It’s all for you, princess."

For a moment, you both just stand there, the sweet sincerity of the moment filling the space between you. The tension from before fades away, replaced by something softer, more intimate. You catch his eyes again, a small smile on your lips, feeling the weight of the gift and the gesture behind it settle in. You then continue to gaze at the necklace, your fingers tracing its smooth, delicate pendant as you let out a soft sigh. The way it catches the light only seems to make it more beautiful, but it’s not just the gift that’s leaving you speechless—it’s the gesture, the care behind it, and the way Ji-yong’s eyes are locked onto you, full of affection.

"It’s perfect," you say, your voice barely above a whisper, as you lift your gaze to meet his. You’re so focused on the warmth in his eyes, the way he’s watching you, that it’s almost like everything else disappears for a moment.

He steps closer, his hand gently brushing against your cheek as he leans in to kiss you softly. It’s tender, almost too gentle for the electric tension building between you. You can feel the heat of his body pressing into yours, and when he pulls back, his voice is low, almost growling with desire.

"You’re perfect," he murmurs, his lips hovering just above yours. "But I need you now."

Ji-yong doesn’t give you a moment to breathe. As soon as his words sink in, he’s on you again, his lips crashing against yours with a hunger that sets your skin ablaze. His hands move with purpose, gripping your waist, pulling you against him until there’s nothing left between you but heat. His kiss is demanding, his tongue sweeping past your lips as he takes everything you’re willing to give—and more.

A soft gasp escapes you as he presses you back against the nearest wall, his body molding to yours, his hands roaming your curves like he can’t stand a single inch of space between you. One hand cups your jaw, angling your face so he can deepen the kiss, while the other slides down, gripping your hip before tugging your thigh up against his. The sheer need in the way he holds you, in the way his fingers dig in just enough to make you gasp, sets your pulse racing.

His kisses grow more urgent, more desperate, as though he’s trying to drown himself in you. He pulls away for just a second, his breath warm against your lips, his eyes dark and full of heat as they flicker over your face. Then he’s back again, kissing you harder, deeper, as if he never wants to stop. His fingers tangle into your hair, tugging just enough to send a sharp thrill down your spine, and the sound you make has him groaning against your mouth.

"You're driving me crazy," he murmurs between kisses, his voice low and rough. "Do you even realize what you do to me?"

“I could say the same about you,” you whisper back, no longer being able to ignore the heat pooling between your legs. You try to squeeze your thighs together for some sort of friction, and he notices. Of course he does.

“Oh yeah?” 

“Yeah—”

“Good. Because I’m craving something much sweeter.”

taglist: @thanosscrossmain @maskedcrawford @mirahyun @riddlerloveb0t @onyxmango @sherrayyyyy @seunghyunwifey @petersasteri

[solxamber]

For the Valentine’s Day event

Cater, Romantic, APT. by ROSÉ and Bruno Mars.

Specifically the lyrics

“Kissy face, kissy face sent to your phone, but I'm trying to kiss your lips for real”

Always excited for your content!

And don’t overwork yourself! :D

"Don't you want me like I want you" || Cater Diamond

𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐲 𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞'𝐬 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭

𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐠: APT. by ROSÉ and Bruno Mars

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 760

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐬: Mutual pining, Friends to Lovers

It starts, like most things with Cater, as a joke.

A playful nudge here, a winking emoji there — an endless game of Are we? Or aren’t we? that neither of you have ever bothered to define.

You’re both out of NRC now, graduated and trying to figure out what adulthood means — which, for you, seems to be juggling work, friendships, and whatever this is with Cater.

It’s never been serious, not really.

Because Cater doesn’t do serious. He’s all smiles and filters and perfectly crafted captions. He’s the kind of person who knows exactly how to flirt without ever letting it get too real, like love is something that only happens on the other side of a camera lens.

But then there’s you.

And, well… you like to push buttons.

It’s a game between you.

A push and pull, a dance along the line of something real—so close to crossing, but never quite.

The stolen moments stretch between you: a lingering touch when you pass him something, a glance that holds too long before one of you looks away. The way your voice gets softer when you say his name, like it’s something precious, something that belongs only to you.

And Cater… Cater tells himself it’s fine.

It’s fine if you never say anything, because he’s good at this. At pretending. At keeping things light and easy, at making sure no one ever sees the part of him that wants.

But sometimes, it gets hard.

Like when you call him late at night, your voice warm and sleepy, saying, “Hey, you’re still up, right?”—and he always is, even when he wasn’t before.

Or when you lean into his space without thinking, close enough that he could just tilt his head and—

But no.

You don’t cross the line.

So he won’t either.

Until one afternoon, when the line between flirting and something more starts to blur.

It’s one of those lazy Sundays — the kind where the sky’s too blue and the breeze too warm to do anything productive. You’re at Cater’s place, sprawled out on his couch, scrolling through your phone while he fiddles with the playlist.

“Hey,” he calls from the other side of the room. “What do you think of this one?”

A sultry beat hums from the speakers — something slow and sweet, a little too romantic for a playlist that's supposedly just background noise.

You raise an eyebrow. “Feeling a bit sappy today, Diamond?”

Cater winks. “What can I say? I’m a man of many layers.”

You roll your eyes but your heart skips a beat — because that’s what he does to you. Makes you laugh, makes you want, makes you wonder if this little game you’re playing is ever going to end.

He flops down next to you, close enough that his thigh brushes against yours. He’s still grinning, but there’s something else in his eyes — a flicker of something that makes your stomach flip.

“You know,” he says, voice light but careful, “for all the kissy face emojis you send me… kinda rude you’ve never actually kissed me.”

Your brain short-circuits.

It’s not like Cater hasn’t said things like this before — he’s always toeing the line, always dangling his words just far enough out of reach that you can’t grab onto them.

But this time feels different.

This time, his voice is a little too soft. His smile is a little too real.

And maybe it’s the playlist or the lazy afternoon sun or the weeks of almost piling up in your chest — but before you can stop yourself, you lean in.

And kiss him.

Not a quick peck. Not a flirty brush of lips.

A kiss. Slow, lingering — the kind that tastes like every unsaid word between you.

For a second, Cater doesn’t move. His brain seems to short-circuit just like yours did, frozen with wide eyes and parted lips.

But then — oh.

Then his hand slides to your waist, his other hand tilting your chin up as he kisses you back, just as slow, just as deep.

And it’s not a joke this time.

When you finally pull away, breathless and a little dizzy, Cater just stares at you.

“Uh,” he says, voice hoarse, “was that… to prove a point or…?”

You burst out laughing, forehead dropping to his shoulder. “Shut up.”

He’s laughing too, but there’s a softness to it now — a sweetness underneath the usual teasing. His fingers are still resting on your waist, like he’s afraid to let go.

“So…” he starts again, and for once, his voice wavers. “Are we… still just flirting, or…?”

You tilt your head, biting your lip — the same playful glimmer in your eyes. “I don’t know, Diamond. Wanna kiss me again and find out?”

Cater laughs, breathless. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah, I think so.”

You grin, and it’s the same smile he’s always loved—the one that makes him feel like the world isn’t so scary after all.

And this time, when he leans in, he doesn’t hesitate.

Masterlist ; Valentine's Event

[star-har]

be mine (or whatever)

gojo satoru x reader | fluff

“You brought me all the way up here just to kill me, didn’t you?” you say, squinting at Gojo as you kick at the wildflowers near your feet. “Admit it. You got sick of me roasting your blindfold fashion choices, and now you’re gonna push me off the hill.”

Gojo scoffs, hands stuffed in his pockets. “Please,” he says. “If I wanted to kill you, I’d do it somewhere way less scenic. Maybe a dingy alleyway or the dumpster behind a McDonald’s.”

“Romantic,” you deadpan. “So this isn’t an elaborate scheme to murder me?”

“Not today, at least.”

“Then why’d we come all the way up here?”

Gojo shifts beside you, kicking at a rock. “Dunno. Just felt like it.”

You hum, turning back toward the view.

The city stretches out far below, bathed in the soft glow of golden hour. The lake shimmers, the sky looks like something out of a painting, and the warm breeze carries the scent of wildflowers.

It’s beautiful, and every part of you is glad to be seeing with Satoru. You’d never admit that to him, though.

“So,” you say after a moment, side-eyeing him. “Are you gonna tell me what’s in your pocket, or are we gonna pretend you haven’t been messing with it all day?”

Gojo freezes.

He plays dumb, tipping his head. “What?”

You narrow your eyes. “You suck at acting.”

“You suck at minding your business,” he shoots back.

You grin. “Satoru.”

“Sweetheart.”

You make a sudden grab for his pocket.

“HEY—!”

Gojo dodges, but you’re fast—fast enough to chase him through the field, laughing as he sprints away like his life depends on it.

“IT’S EMBARRASSING!” he yells.

“SO YOU DO HAVE SOMETHING!”

Gojo twists, but you grab his sleeve—yanking him back—and suddenly—

Suddenly, he’s really close to you.

Like close-close.

Like his breath is warm against your skin close.

Neither of you move.

The sun melts lower, golden light spilling between you, soft and unforgiving. And maybe it’s the angle, maybe it’s the way the wind tugs at your hair, or maybe it’s the way you’re smiling at him, carefree, full of life, so effortlessly you.

The sunset behind you looks dull in comparison.

The golden hues, the soft streaks of lavender and rose—the whole breathtaking masterpiece of it—none of it comes close.

For the first time in his life, Satoru Gojo forgets how to breathe.

Your voice pulls him back. “What are you hiding?”

Gojo exhales. Debates running. Debates lying.

Then, painfully, he pulls a tiny pink envelope from his pocket and holds it out.

You blink.

You take it.

It’s a stupid Valentine’s Day card, cheap and childish, a cartoon panda holding a heart. Inside, scrawled in his ridiculous handwriting:

Be mine (or whatever).

Silence.

Gojo watches your face, regretting every decision that led to this moment. “Look, just throw it away or something—”

But instead, you laugh.

Not teasing. Not mocking. Just soft.

And then—

Then, you step closer.

And kiss him on the cheek.

Gojo short-circuits.

It’s not long, not deep—just a simple press of your lips against his skin, soft and fleeting, but it knocks the wind out of him entirely.

When you pull back, he’s still standing there, dazed, ears pink, brain empty.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Satoru,” you murmur.

And as the sun sets behind you, painting the sky in every shade of hopelessly, stupidly in love, Gojo Satoru finally, finally understands what it means to lose.

———

Awee kill me (or whatever) !

[onlyyoucanhurtlikethis]

- I get to choose. kylian mbappe, one shot

Her new apartment in Madrid was small but chic—all clean lines and warm light, with windows that let the late-afternoon sun spill across the hardwood floors. The kind of place that felt temporary, like she was just visiting, even though she wasn’t.

Kylian stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching as she unpacked a box labeled ‘kitchen stuff’ in scrawled marker. He looked amused. And a little annoyed.

“You know this is unnecessary, right?” he said, leaning casually like he hadn’t just dropped his training bag by the door and claimed the space like it was his. Because, in his mind, it was.

She didn’t look up. “It’s my apartment. I like it.”

“You could’ve just moved in with me.”

She sighed, unwrapping bubble wrap from some overpriced glassware she already regretted buying. “I need my own space, Ky.”

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. “Why?”

She turned, leaning her hip against the counter. “Because I just moved countries for you. I love you, but I need to breathe.”

His jaw twitched. “So living with me is suffocating?”

She laughed, low and knowing. “You know how you are.”

“How am I?”

She shot him a look, sharp but fond. “Possessive. Controlling. Always needing to know where I am. Tracking my location like I’m your player on the pitch.”

He smirked, unapologetic. “That’s called caring.”

“That’s called being a control freak.”

He shrugged, stepping closer. His hands slid onto her waist, thumbs pressing into the sharp curve of her hips like he was staking a claim.

“You like it,” he murmured against her ear.

She tilted her head slightly, giving him more access. “Sometimes.”

His mouth skimmed her jaw. “Move in with me.”

“I literally just signed a lease.”

“Break it.”

“Jesus.”

His grip tightened, possessive and gentle all at once. “Or don’t. Just know my house is your house. Whenever you want. Key, alarm code, all of it. You come and go as you please.”

Her chest squeezed in that stupid way it always did when he said shit like that. “I know.”

He kissed her—slow, deep, like he had time to kill. She melted into it because, of course, she did. Her fingers slid into his hair, tugging just a little. He made that noise she liked, low and rough in his throat.

“You smell good,” he murmured against her lips.

“You say that every time.”

“Because it’s true.”

She rolled her eyes but kissed him again, nipping his bottom lip because she liked when his eyes went dark like that. His hands slipped under her shirt, thumbs brushing over bare skin. He didn’t push, but he could if he wanted to. They both knew it.

“I missed you today,” he said, quieter now.

Her heart squeezed again. “It’s been eight hours.”

“Exactly.”

She shook her head but smiled. “I missed you too.”

He grinned, all cocky and sweet, the perfect mix that made her weak. “See? Would’ve been easier if you just lived with me.”

“Out.”

“No.”

“I mean it. I have shit to do.”

He glanced at the half-unpacked boxes and raised a brow. “What, playing house?”

“Yes.”

He grabbed her wine glass, took a sip like he paid for it (he probably did), and flopped onto her couch, legs sprawled, completely at home. “Fine. I’ll supervise.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You are insufferable.”

He smirked, eyes glinting. “You love it.”

And she did. God help her, she really did.

Later, after the boxes had been ignored and the wine bottle emptied between them, they ended up on the couch, limbs tangled, the TV playing something neither of them cared about. His hand rested low on her stomach under her shirt, fingers tracing slow, lazy patterns. She let him, eyes half-closed, head on his chest.

“You know you’re going to end up staying at mine half the week anyway,” he muttered.

She hummed. “Probably.”

“So what was the point of all this?”

She tilted her head to look up at him, eyes soft but teasing. “The point is, I get to choose.”

He brushed a kiss to her forehead, a rare tenderness in the gesture. “Fair.”

Silence settled, the comfortable kind. She felt his breathing slow, his hand stilling against her skin.

“You love me,” he murmured sleepily.

She smiled against his chest. “You love me more.”

His low chuckle vibrated through her. “Debatable.”

She closed her eyes, feeling the weight of him, the steady beat of his heart under her ear. Madrid was new, a little daunting. But this—them—this was home.

[sobbingscripter]

Tags: [mlw][mdni][established relationship][oral (f! receiving)][fingering][shower sex][wrongful use of water][wet t-shirt][temple kisses][i don't make the rules, but there's a lot of them][grinding but not where you thinkkk~][maybe food play, idk][just the tip][missionary][mating press]

Wally had a plan.

A good plan, relatively thorough, and romantic. All of which were crucial to whether or not this date would go good.

A good, sweet morning wrapped up in the loving embrace of your arms, paired with the sweet, tightness of your cunt cockwarming him while the sun rises from just below the horizon. With the feeling of your fingers carding through his hair, your lips ghosting over his jaw and murmurs of sweet 'I love you's in the air.

Then, you'd have breakfast that HE learnt how to make. Through numerous WikiHow articles and YouTube tutorials.

Then, you'd go about your day where flowers would be mailed to your job, and the two of you would have a nice lunch. Specifically, a picnic in the park and for dinner, you'd have take-out and the scallions in the soup would be shaped like cute hearts, because if your love is in soup, it's eternal.

But noooooooooooo.

The universe has a fucked up way of ruining the speedster's hopes and dreams.

The takeout place burns down, the flower company doesn't get his order, he oversleeps so he doesn't get to make you the whole, magical experience of cockwarming while he feeds you breakfast.

"I'm sorry." Wally murmurs softly. "I should've planned better."

Rain continues to soak through his shirt, the fabric getting heavier and clinging to his torso in the way that makes your eyes linger, a slow smile spreading on your face as you unabashedly watch the way the shirt sticks to his tightly toned belly. Abs on display in the most demure yet slutty way.

"It's okay."

You reassure softly, although your eyes don't move from where you can see his nipples through his shirt.

"Are you seriously staring at my nipples?" Wally let's out a choked laugh, dimples deepening in his cheeks as he looks down at you, gingery hair wet and clinging to the back of his neck, as well as his forehead.

Your outfit's less soaked than his.

Seeing as he made a makeshift gazebo with his windbreaker, using his speed to his advantage to tie the arms to the lowest hanging branches and tucking either of the ends between messy and spiky edges of the branches.

Too small to accomodate both of you but good enough to keep you from thoroughly soaking your plaid Chanel skirt and you shift, your boots scuffing against the wet grass.

"Yeah." You hum softly. "They're so cute and like, hard."

Reaching out, you press down one of his perky nipples and Wally snorts. "Freak."

"Come stand with me. You're gonna get a cold." You chide Wally with a huff, grabbing the front of his shirt and tugging him out of the rain, his body pressed against yours and strong, muscular hands move to bracket your hips, his thumbs brushing over the flesh your fluffy knit sweater fails to over and he looks down at you.

Fucking hearts in his eyes.

The moment seems perfect right now. Raindrops pelting around you, the sound of wet grass sloshing underneath your boots as you shift at the feel of nipping cold and a warm hand moves to cup your cheek as Wally leans down, his lips pressed against yours. It's so sweet.

He kisses you like it's the only slow thing he'll ever do. Lips moving against yours in a slow, synchronised motion that you both seem to fall into so flawlessly, his hand on your hip shifts and instead, his arm's wrapped around your waist while your own hands interlace at the nape of his neck.

You can barely hide the giggle that leaves you when you feel the way Wally's hand lowers, taking the sweet and romantic opportunity to slide his hand beneath your skirt. Damp digits paw at the fat of your ass and you pull away.

"Creep." You mock him, nipping at his bottom lip and you see the pretty twinkle of his eyes as he stares down at you, a grin on his face, freckles dusted over his rosy cheeks.

"Guilty." He hums softly, before leaning forward, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear.

"We should get out of the rain, yeah?" There's a low huskiness to his voice, a sweet yet sultry tone that hints that there's a lot more waiting for you at home than there was waiting for you at the park.

And you nod your head, bashful and adoring as you murmur a soft 'mhm'.

˚˖𓍢ִִ໋❤️་༘🎀˚˖𓍢ִ🌹˚.

Hot water sprays down on your skin, and you let out the softest sigh, frozen bones easing at the warmth before the shower door is abruptly opened and Wally stands in all his freckled glory.

Hair still damp from the rain, that shit-eating grin on his face.

"Scoot over." He instructs, but he's already stepping over the threshold of the shower, shutting the door behind him and readjusting the showerhead to spray more in his direction.

Wally's always been a bit of a selfish showerer.

His body nearly presses yours against the tiled walls as he soaks up the scalding water, letting out controlled breaths before meeting your narrowed gaze and he lets out the softest little breath. And he reaches towards the temperature dial, shifting and switching it, until the water's a pleasant, lukewarm temperature before he hums.

"Upsy-daisy." He lifts you with ease, your knees hooked over the crooks of his elbows, your back pressed against his chest and he presses a sloppy kiss against your temple.

"Wally, what are you— oh..." The gruff complaints die in your throat when Wally shifts your body towards the shower stream, your thighs spread obscenely wide as the solid stream of water pelts down against your clit, and you purse your lips, brows knitting at the pleasure that's not quite enough to get you anywhere but it's nice enough for you to not want it to stop.

Wally hums in pride, freckled cheeks splitting into a grin as you feel the muscles of his core flex absentmindedly, his cock twitching to life, hardening and pressing itself against your neglected cunt. And he presses the sweetest kiss against your cheek, loving and adoring before he breathes your name so sweetly.

"Help me out?" He coos softly. "Just the tip, though. I wanna make you feel good."

You nod your head, biting your bottom lip as you reach down between your thighs, grabbing a hold of his cock and you give his tip a few swipes of your thumb, feeling the way his breath hitches against your back before you ease his flushed tip into your hole.

Just the tip.

Wally can't help the way he sighs at the warmth of your cunt, wrapped so sweetly around his leaky tip as you spasm so subtly. And he clicks his tongue, his hips twitching and giving you the most shallow thrusts, all as he reaches for the showerhead, detaching it and bringing it closer.

"Wally, I don't think—"

Your opinion dies quicker than you'd like to admit because when the water pressure changes, and Wally's controlling the placement, you feel your head tip back against his broad chest. Your lashes flutter closed and faint moans leave your parted lips as your thighs tense and flex, although they're still kept in a long distance relationship.

"You look so pretty." Wally coos sweetly, cheeks flushed and his wet body feeling slightly cold at the breeze that creeps into the bathroom and he dips his head, pressing a soft kiss against your lips before asking you, so sweetly.

"How do you wanna come?"

That question has no business making your cunt drool, walls and nerve endings burning with that sickening desire to come as many times as you can and you swallow.

Sure, this feels great but nothing beats—

"Your tongue and fingers."

You sigh softly, bringing up one hand to curl in his wet hair, nails scratching at his scalp so affectionately.

"Nasty, greedy girl. Tongue and fingers?"

Wally teases you but he wastes no time in setting you on your feet, placing the showerhead back on its spot and kneeling in front of you.

The muscles in his thighs spread out, his core tensing and his cock twitching upwards at the water that pelts down onto the two of you. It's a comforting spray, warmer than before so Wally must've changed the temperature while you were trying to find your brain.

And he guides one of your thighs to rest over his shoulder, the heel of your foot bumping against his back and Wally presses a kiss against your inner thigh. And he places your hands on his head, before lowering his head.

He drags his flattened tongue over your cunt, tasting your slick and feeling you throb against his tongue and he groans softly. Your fingers tangle in his hair, head tipping back against the condensating tiles and you let out the softest sigh. Your tummy tenses when he swirls his tongue around your clit, just before he dips it into your cunt, only for a little bit.

He can taste himself just a bit, the taste of his precum has drastically improved since you've started seeing each other.

Maybe because instead of living off energy drinks and take out, Wally's seeing fruit on a daily basis, instead of treating it like a distant relative.

Two fingers plunge into your cunt at a speed that makes your belly dip inward and your hands fist his hair tighter, a low moan leaving your lips and Wally lets out a boyish giggle.

"Yeah. Does it feel good?" He coos softly, juniper gaze lifting to glance up at your face, seeing the way your brows scrunch in that adorable way, the way your lips part to let out whimpers and whines as his tongue rolls around your clit, suckling at the bud until you let out a pitched moan.

Wally hurls you at your oncoming orgasm with the strength and speed that a cat knocks a glass off the table. And you nearly scream, your knees giving out beneath you but Wally keeps you steady as you buck against his face, his tongue and fingers working in tandem to draw out your orgasm for as long as possible.

Because he loves watching the way you crumble against a damp, tiled wall. Hair clinging to your forehead, face ruddy and hot breaths mingling with the steam in the air and you look so fucking gorgeous when you look down at him through bleary eyes. Watching as his tongue cleans up the slick that paints your puffy pussy with glossiness, licking along your thighs before Wally rises, forearms braced on either side of your head before he smiles down at you, head cocked and he presses a kiss against your forehead.

"You good, pretty?"

You can barely nod your head as Wally's hands move to bracket your hips, thumbs brushing over the protruding bones as his head dips to press kisses along the curve of your neck. Before his hand shifts, to squeeze the fat of your ass, feeling the flesh in his calloused palms and he groans softly.

"Shit." He breathes out before swallowing. "Okay, we're gonna finish showering, then you're gonna order pizza while I get the room ready and then we're gonna... Fix this Valentine's Day, okay?"

This is the most instructions Wally's ever given you. Literally ever.

And you can't deny that it's kind of sexy.

˚˖𓍢ִִ໋❤️་༘🎀˚˖𓍢ִ🌹˚.

"Wally, I'm eat—" Your words are broken up in a gasp, cheese, sauce and doe tucked into either of your cheeks and you shift, letting out a slurred whine while Wally's hands pry your thighs apart.

"Don't be selfish." Wally hisses, his tongue curling against your overstimulated clit, sensitive bud peeking out from between your folds and he forces your legs apart, your plate resting on your belly, and Wally lays down on his stomach as he sucks your clit so sweetly, peeking up at you over the decorated porcelain rim of your plate. And you whine, completely unsure of which route to take.

You could keep eating.

Or Wally could keep eating.

"Just keep eating." Wally's nose bumps against your clit, his tongue tracing hearts over your cunt before he flicks it just right, and he rests his head against the flesh of your thigh.

And he doesn't even pretend that it's tedious.

Delightful hums leave his lips in the form of low, reverberating groans, his grip on your thighs borders on almost clingy as he paws at whatever flesh he can get to and his sock-covered feet kick. You don't even have the time to question why his socks has your pictures on it before he's tucking two fingers away in your gummy walls.

Gently curling them, sweetly coaxing you towards another orgasm that has your heels digging into his back, your eyes rolling back and your hand nearly dropping the cheesy slice. And you whimper.

"Wally... 's too much, too sensitive...—" You gasp with a whine, lashes fluttering and tears brimming at the corners of your mouth as his fast flicks and his eagerness make you see God.

Wally ignores you.

Blatantly.

Only lifting his head to scowl at you before ducking back down, his feet kicking and his hips occasionally grinding against the messy sheets, a perfect hill for him to rub against like an animal in heat.

Needy, whiny and so, so achingly hard.

He lets out a familiarly whiny groan, tears brimming on his lower lashline, green eyes becoming bleary as he sucks, nips, drags his tongue and circles. All in perfect movements and God, being a speed freak really had it's perks.

Including the fact that he had the uncanny ability to make you come whenever he wanted to.

A walking, talking vibrator.

Wally coaxes your third orgasm out of you, slick dribbling down his chin and his palm, before he lifts himself, carding his fingers through his hair and staring at you with a heated gaze.

His broad chest heaves, his carved abdomen tenses and flexes, and his hands rest on your thighs, warm palms easing the almost painful burn in your core, and your gaze lowers. Lowers all the way to below that gingery happy trail and you swallow.

"Wally, did you come?" You question softly, lips pursed as you try not to let out a snort of laughter as pearly beads continue to be pushed out with each twitch of his still-hard cock.

"I got really into it." He's not even embarassed, simply moving the messy sheets out of the way and guiding your thighs over his, and notching the flushed tip of his cock at your sopping, slick-soaked pussy.

And he pushes into you, hands grasping the sheets before he stops. Abruptly.

"I need to pull out." Wally announces and you wish you could say he was joking. But his expression doesn't say he's joking.

"Like, right now?"

"Literally right now. Please don't move. I'll lose so much aura, baby, please. Keep still."

Wally begs you, and like a normal woman, and a woman in love, you obviously start to clench and spasm around his leaky tip. And Wally whines.

"You're gonna make me come..." He whimpers, bringing his hand up to bracket your face, forcing you to look away from him.

Wally knows you'll never let it down if you see the way he looks. All red and flushed, weak and teary-eyed as he tries to keep his cool.

He doesn't get why now, of all times, his stamina's playing games with him but he does know one thing.

"Can I come inside?"

Taglist:

@lucky-beheaded 🌻

@jasontoddswhitestreak 🌸

@allycat4458 🪻

@anesthesia-4rizzle 🎀

@feral010 ✨

@blckbarbiedoll 🌷

@custardpuddingprincess ⭐

@couldeatthatgirlforlunch 🦄

@theamazkngskye 🍄

@sleepyinsomniac 🌙

@ibreathesmut 🪸

@titchx0 🦆

@sl4y-s4turn 🪐

@whyiisgamora 👽

@queen-of-gotham 🦇

[doctorbitchcrxft]

In The Beginning | Metamorphosis | Supernatural Series Rewrite | Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader ( :0 ? )

Warnings: angst! alllll the angst. fire, burn wounds, canon gore,

Word Count: 4765

Mobile Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist

Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist

Supernatural Series Rewrite Playlist

The morning sun rose as you continued to frantically scribble in your journal anything and everything you could possibly think of pertaining to the apocalypse. 

Your laptop was opened to pinging the location of the Impala; you had no doubt the brothers would be on the move again soon. 

Sure enough, you were right. You followed the speeding car to a few states over. With the sun setting on a day full of driving and stalking the brothers, you were grateful when the beacon signaling the Impala’s location started heading toward a motel. 

You knew it would be too dangerous to stay at the same motel they did, and thankfully, found another just five minutes away. If the two men did set off again, you were close enough that it wouldn’t be hard to catch up to them. 

Being so close, yet so far from Dean was hurting you. It almost was a physical pain clawing at your insides. Everything was just wearing so heavy on your soul, and you wanted your person to comfort you. 

It had been a while since you had a warm shower. Sure, the water pressure wasn’t ideal, but at least it wasn’t a truck stop bathroom shower. And either option was superior to a sink bath.

You dried your hair with your towel, feeling too tired to take care of your hair in any other way. While you brushed your teeth lazily, all you could do was stare into your reflection. Your eyes were heavy, your hair was in sodden knots, and your face was pallid. 

Following a nighttime routine that was now considered a luxury to you after months of living in your car or an abandoned cabin made you feel like you were existing outside of your body. You felt completely detached from who you’d become when you were with the Winchesters. Despite Dean having come back, you could only think of your life in terms of before his death and after. Both versions of you felt like completely separate individuals. 

Thinking of Dean made you clutch the pillow beside you to your chest. Then, alone in your motel room, you slowly drifted off to sleep. 

***

You jolted awake to see Uriel standing at the foot of your bed. 

“What can I do for you?” you sighed, throwing your legs over the side of the bed and rubbing your hands down your thighs. 

Uriel tilted his head. “I’m surprised at you, (Y/N).”

You gave him a curious look. 

“You’re usually far more argumentative,” he finished. 

“I’m too tired to fight you,” you admitted. 

“There are things you don’t know about the Winchesters,” the angel told you. 

“Like what?” You stretched your arms back, yawning deeply. 

“Mary made a deal.”

That snapped you to attention. “Dean’s mom?!”

“Yes. A deal that resulted in Azazel returning to her home ten years later for Sam. For what; we don’t know,” he explained. 

You shook your head in disbelief. “Why the hell would she do that?” “Her mother, father, and John were about to die,” he responded. 

“Oh.” You stared at the floor, mind reeling with this new information. “What does that have to do with me?”

“You have to stop him, (Y/N),” he said. 

“Who, Sam?”

The angel nodded emotionlessly. 

“Wait, why? Stop him from doing what?”

His disdainful look quieted you down. “You ask far too many questions.” After a brief pause, he told you, “425 Waterman.”

“What does that mean?”

Before you could get an answer out of him, he was gone.

You plugged “425 Waterman” into a search engine and found it led to a seemingly abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town. With your duffel bag in hand, you set off.

****

Dean burst up from his bed, back in the present as opposed to 1973. Castiel stood near the hunter’s feet while he breathed out, “I couldn't stop any of it. She still made the deal. She still died in the nursery, didn't she?”

“Don't be too hard on yourself. You couldn't have stopped it,” the angel replied evenly. 

Dean stood at attention, shoulders bristling with anger. “What?”

Castiel’s reply was infuriatingly simple. “Destiny can't be changed, Dean. All roads lead to the same destination.”

“Then why'd you send me back?”

“For the truth,” the angel said. “Now you know everything we do.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Dean gave an incredulous look. 

Castiel looked over to the other bed which apparently hadn’t been slept in; Dean noted this as well. “Where’s Sam?” he asked. 

Castiel avoided his question. “We know what Azazel did to your brother. What we don't know is why; what his endgame is. He went to great lengths to cover that up.”

Dean gritted the question out through his teeth a second time. “Where's Sam?”

“425 Waterman.”

Dean grabbed his keys and jacket, stalling by the door for only a minute. “ ‘S, uh—”

Castiel turned back around to face him. 

“Is (Y/N) involved in all this? Does she know… anything?”

Dean’s face dropped in shock when the angel nodded. 

“What the hell are you guys doing to her?” the hunter asked, eyebrows knitting together. 

Castiel, once again, avoided his question. “Your brother is headed down a dangerous road, Dean, and we're not sure where it leads. So stop it. Or she will.”

**** You heard Sam asking, “Where’s Lilith?” from a distance away as you entered the damp, dark warehouse from its back door. Silently, you used the shadows to hide your own as you approached Sam and whoever he was talking to. 

“Kiss my ass,” the man responded. You could almost hear a taunting smile in his voice; no doubt he was a demon. 

“I'd watch myself if I were you,” Sam replied. 

“Why? Huh? Because you're Sam Winchester, Mr. Big Hero? And yet here you are, slutting around with some demon. Real hero.” That nearly made you falter. ‘Demon?!’ you thought. ‘Was that who I saw him with at the diner?!’

“Tell me about those months without your brother,” the demon continued. “About all the things you and this demon bitch do in the dark.”

‘Holy fuck, Sam.’

Through a rack of cardboard boxes, you were able to see Sam forcing the demon out of his vessel. Your eyes widened in shock, and you swore your heart stopped for a moment. 

A short woman with dark hair emerged from the shadows. “How'd it feel?”

Sam smiled. “Good. No more headaches.” He started to untie the man in front of him, and thankfully, he hadn’t seen you yet. 

“None?” the demon asked. “That’s good.” The man started to stir, and Sam helped him toward the door behind him. 

‘Thank god I came in from the back,’ you mentally remarked. 

Suddenly, the door opened to reveal Dean who looked very, very angry. 

Sam stopped in his tracks, and your heart nearly stopped. 

‘Oh, fuck.’

“So,” Dean sneered, “anything you wanna tell me, Sam?”

“Dean, hold on, okay? Just let me—”

“You gonna say, ‘let me explain’? You're gonna explain this? How about this? Why don't you start with who she is—” he pointed to the demon which you were equally curious about, “and what the hell is she doing here?”

The woman had a smile in her voice. “It's good to see you again, Dean.”

Your hand flew to your mouth. 

“Ruby?” Dean questioned.

That was who you’d assumed it was, too. 

“Is that Ruby?” Dean asked Sam, becoming angrier with each word. 

Suddenly, Dean attacked Ruby and shoved her against the wall she’d been standing against while watching the interrogation. 

“Don’t!” Sam cried, fighting Dean for the knife he was holding. 

Dean threw Sam against the wall, too, while Ruby struggled her way out of his hold. Suddenly, she had Dean pinned against the wall with her hand around his neck. 

Just as you were about to jump out and help him, Sam ordered, “Ruby, stop it!”

You held your breath as you waited for Ruby to release him. When she finally let him go, he taunted, “Well, aren't you an obedient little bitch?”

“Ruby,” Sam warned. 

When she still didn’t back off, he brought up the man who was possessed earlier. “Ruby, he's hurt. Go.”

With one more undoubtedly scathing look at Dean, she turned to help the man out of the room. 

“Where the hell do you think you're going?” Dean growled at her. 

“The ER. Unless you want to go another round first,” she smirked. 

When he didn’t say anything, she left. Dean and Sam just stared at each other for a long moment. 

“Dean,” Sam muttered. 

Dean just stormed out of the door after Ruby, leaving Sam behind. 

“Dean!”

****

“Uriel!” you called as soon as you got into your motel room. “We gotta talk, man.”

When you turned around at the sound of angel wings, you immediately began interrogating him. “What was that? How can Sam do that?

“Do you understand why you have to stop him in the event that Dean doesn’t?” the angel asked. 

“Wait, ‘stop him,’ how?”

“You know how,” he replied. 

Your eyes widened in surprise. “Wait, I’m not gonna kill him—”

“If Dean can’t stop him, you will,” Uriel insisted with that frustratingly assertive tone. “He’s on a dangerous path, (Y/N). One that will have devastating consequences.”

Uriel left you to stew on his words. You knew you could drive yourself crazy trying to understand what he meant by “devastating consequences,” but given how Revelations went, you were sure it wasn’t good. 

Still, the idea of having to kill your friend if Dean couldn’t “stop him”— whatever that entailed— was horrifying. If you and Dean did survive the apocalypse, he would never forgive you for killing his brother. Not to mention, you would never forgive yourself. 

You laid in bed for hours with your arms wrapped around yourself. It hurt to think. It hurt to cry. Being awake hurt. As you’d written in your journal, “Being Heaven’s bitch is no joke.”

****

The next day, you followed the Winchesters to Carthage, Missouri. How they hadn’t killed each other on the drive there, you weren’t sure.

It seemed they were on a stakeout of their own. With all of the “end of the world” business, you were relieved to be back on what seemed like a normal hunt. Granted, you tried to convince yourself that it was normal. Being in yet another stolen car while stalking Sam and Dean was by no means your preferred version of normalcy. 

You tried to get a closer look at the house Sam and Dean were staking out by using your pair of binoculars. All you could see through the kitchen window was a man in a clean white t-shirt holding a package of raw meat. At first, nothing seemed odd. Then, as if overcome by an insatiable need that rivaled that of a heroin addict, the man tore into the package with his bare hands. His chin and shirt became bloodied while he shoveled gobs of meat into his mouth. 

Your face contorted in a grimace, and you pulled the binoculars away from your face in disgust. 

****

Sam and Dean headed out for some dinner, and you took that as an opportunity to bug their motel room. You needed to understand what they did about this hunt given you hadn’t found any obituaries in the papers or news that could be tied to him, and your wildest idea ended up being the most logical, too. Bugging their room wasn’t ideal, and it required you to drop a few hundred dollars in a nearby tech store. You’d spent a few hours prior learning how exactly to hook them up to your computer remotely. 

Upon entering the room that you were completely positive was Sam and Dean’s, you found a balding, older man sitting at the table with a beer. 

He startled to his feet, and you drew your gun. He returned the gesture. 

“Who the fuck are you?” you sneered. 

“Could ask you the same question,” he replied. 

“Why are you in my room?” you asked, lying easily. 

“This ain’t your room,” the man grunted. 

“Oh, really?” You were beginning to doubt that you’d actually found the right room. ‘It definitely said ‘7’ on the door.’ 

“I know the boys this room belongs to. So unless you’re a groupie—”

The tension in your shoulders lessened slightly. “Wait, you know Sam and Dean?”

The man seemed surprised. “...Yeah. Friend of their dad’s. How do you know them?”

You smirked, stowing your gun. “Like you said: groupie.” You pretended you’d left something in their room during your most recent romp with Dean, and used that time to discreetly plant the bugs. You left so many that even if they found one, they would never find them all. 

“You found your necklace?” the man asked as you headed for the door.

“No,” you sighed, frowning a little. Then, you shrugged. “It’s alright. I can always buy another one.” 

You breathed out a sigh of relief when you’d made it back to your car without any further interruptions. With your headphones in your ears, you prepared for the long night of snooping ahead. 

You discovered the man’s name was Travis, and he did, in fact, know Sam and Dean’s dad. With pleasantries exchanged, Travis inevitably brought you up.

“You had time to stake out Montgomery’s house? Y’know, after you picked up that girl?” he laughed. 

When an uncomfortable silence passed, Dean said, “Travis, what girl?”

“There was a girl here earlier. She said she knew you two.” He sounded just as confused as Dean. 

“We ain’t been in town long enough to pick up any girls. That’d be record timing, even for me,” Dean joked despite his obvious alarm. 

“Oh, shit,” Travis cursed. “I— I’m sorry, boys, she said she’d left a necklace here? She wasn’t here for longer than five minutes. Just looked for her stuff and left.”

“What’d she look like?” Sam asked.

Travis described your height, hair color and skin color to the best of his memory, to which Dean chuckled coldly. It made your stomach drop just a little. 

“Oh, yeah. Old fling of mine,” he spat. “She just can’t let me go.” You knew he knew you were listening. It made his words cut you that much deeper, and you were sure that was exactly what he was intending.

****

Time went by of just sitting and listening to the Winchesters talk to John’s friend about how to kill a rougarou. You’d heard of them before; cajun folklore had always been incredibly interesting to you. 

Dean and Sam seemed to have made no effort to find any of the bugs given none of them had gone off-line. 

Something Sam brought up caught your attention. He said there are theories around rougarous who never turn because they never eat human flesh or “long pig.” 

It seemed Travis was moving around as he spoke. “Fact is, every rougarou I ever saw or heard of took that bite.”

“Okay, well, that doesn’t mean that Jack will,” Sam argued. It was just like listening to him argue with John, and that memory almost brought a smile to your face; reminiscent of a simpler time with no angels and no apocalypse. 

“So what do we do? Sit and hope and wait for a body count?” Travis argued.

“No, we talk to him. Explain what's happening. That way, he can fight it.”

Travis snorted. “Fight it? Are you kidding me?” He lowered his voice to almost a growl. “You ever been really hungry? I mean, haven't-eaten-in-days hungry?”

You had been. You’d let Steven have most of the groceries your father and mother had purchased for the week; especially since your father would purposefully ration your food to keep you small. It made you better at fitting into small hiding places. 

You knew Dean had been, too. You’d always figured he jumped at the chance for every burger he could get his hands on as a result of him giving up his own food for Sam when they were kids. 

“So somebody slaps a big, juicy sirloin in front of you, you walking away?” Travis continued. “That's what we are to him now: meat on legs. I'm sorry. I'm sure he's a stand-up guy, but it's pure, base instinct. Everything in nature's gotta eat. You think he can stop himself 'cause he's nice?”

Sam firmly responded, “I don't know. But we're not gonna kill him unless he does something to get killed for.”

The room went silent for a moment before you heard the door slam behind who you assumed was Sam. He was always one to walk away as opposed to continuing an argument. 

“What's up with your brother?”

Dean just muttered, “Don’t get me started.”

****

When the room finally went quiet that night, and Travis had left, you leaned your seat back to try and get some rest. With your computer plugged into its portable charger and the car completely silent, you curled up into the seat. 

Moving too far from the bugs would cripple your ability to access them. Thus, sleeping in the car, it was.

Suddenly, a terrifying thought crossed your mind. What Uriel was having you do was only going to incriminate you more if the FBI caught up to you. You were stalking two men. With a trail of men assumed dead behind you, they’d only think you were preparing for your next kill. Panic rose in your chest the more and more you realized you were becoming no different than a serial killer. Even if you did manage to make things up to Dean some kind of way, you’d never be able to look at yourself in the mirror the same way again. What had you become? And for what? 

You did your best to remind yourself that everything you were doing, you did for Dean. However, when you stacked all of your actions against one another, that really didn’t make what you were doing redeemable in your mind. 

Anxiety clawed at you, and you curled further in on yourself while sobs wracked your body. In the midst of your panic, you did the only thing you could think to do. You begged for Castiel’s guidance as you’d often done as a teenager. Except this time, he answered. 

“Why are you shaking?” a voice asked from beside you. 

You slowly pulled your hands from over your head and sat up to face him. “You—” you sniffed, “you answered?”

He nodded. 

“What makes this time different?” you asked, tears flowing freely. “Why answer now? Am I only important because I’m helping you now?” 

“You’ve always been important, (Y/N),” Castiel told you. “I just haven’t always been able to answer.”

That answer was less than satisfactory to you, but you accepted it, anyway. “Tell me I’m doing the right thing,” you wiped your nose with the back of your sleeve, and your cheeks with the tips of your fingers. “Please.”

He knitted his brows together. “You are. Why do you doubt?”

You laughed in spite of yourself. “Why wouldn’t I doubt? The boys hate me, Bobby hates me, I am… a stone’s throw from a serial killer.” You remembered Bela’s words and almost smiled at the memory of her. If only she knew how accurate she’d been. “I don’t even feel useful to Heaven. And I wish I could say I’m doing all this out of nobility or some moral obligation. I’m not. I just want Dean to be safe. And at least this way I can be close to him without hurting him more than I already have.”

Castiel seemed to ponder on your words as you spoke. “You are vital to the success of this mission.”

“Whose mission? God’s? Why has he started giving a fuck all of a sudden when he’s been on a coffee break for five-hundred-thousand years?” you scoffed. 

That seemed to confuse Castiel further. “You are angry at god. Why?”

“Again, Clarence, why wouldn’t I be?”

“Who is Clarence?” he asked. “My name is Castiel.”

You laughed, anger melting with the innocence of an immortal celestial being. “An angel from It’s a Wonderful Life. It’s a really good movie, actually.” You took a deep breath. “Look at my life, man. I’m staking out my ex-boyfriend and his brother. I haven’t had a real conversation with someone who isn’t an angel in almost six months. My family is dead by my hand. The only family I had left; I betrayed their trust for a god I don’t even believe in. And I don’t think there’s anything I can do to fix this.”

Castiel pondered for another moment. “I can’t help you with the Winchesters. The order you’ve been given came directly from Michael; Uriel was simply a messenger.—” “Whoa, wait, this is the second time I’m hearing a fuckin’ archangel is steering my ship. Why does he care about me?” you questioned. 

“I don’t question the orders, (Y/N). They just are.” You nodded, understanding what that felt like. You thought your days of blind obedience were over after your father died. If only you’d known. 

“I can help you stay hidden, though,” the angel told you. 

That piqued your interest. “You can?”

“Law enforcement won’t be hunting you anymore.” He put two of his fingers to your forehead, and the world went dark. 

****

The next time you woke up, you remembered Castiel’s words and immediately checked your laptop. You searched for any key terms related to your case, and they were all gone. A wide smile spread across your face. “Thanks, Clarence,” you whispered as you continued scrolling through files in disbelief. 

While that did make your job less stressful, you weren’t out of the woods yet. You couldn’t exactly run right back to the Winchesters; they didn’t even want to look at you anymore. Remembering that fact, you sighed and began your morning routine.

You drove to the nearest gas station to refill the car and brush your teeth and hair in the bathroom. You changed into a fresh set of clothes and took the best “sink shower” you could with the toiletries you had in a grocery bag. While this was by no means ideal, at least being hygienic in some way made you feel a bit better about your situation. 

It was early, but that was how you preferred it. You needed to get the jump on the Winchesters if you were going to be able to keep them from this hunt. You couldn’t let Dean end up in the line of fire again and risk showing up a second too late. 

If they already knew you were listening, what the hell? Why not try to shoo them out of town and back to safety at Bobby’s?

****

When you arrived at the Montgomery residence, no one was home. You figured they wouldn’t be; it was the middle of the workday. You’d used your morning to produce a makeshift flamethrower; just in case. With the time you had in the house alone, you looked for any signs that this guy really was a monster— any large amounts of dried blood in the basement or on furniture, for example— and were incredibly pleased to find none. 

Your stomach growled, begging for attention when you made your way back to your car. You sighed, knowing you couldn’t ignore your body any longer if you wanted to have a fighting chance against a rougarou. So, after grabbing yourself some dinner, you returned to the house. Nothing seemed off; around seven PM, the wife returned home. But where was Jack? A pit formed in your stomach, but you prayed he wasn’t out killing someone. 

Finally, around nine, Jack came back to the house. You gave him a few minutes inside before you’d go to the door to try and talk to him. He didn’t appear to have blood on his shirt or already morphed beyond human capability when he’d arrived, so that made you feel a bit better. 

However, when you knocked on the door, there was no answer. Fearing the worst, you burst through the door with your flamethrower. Much to your surprise, Travis was inside with Jack and his wife tied to chairs in the living room. 

“Uh, what’s going on here?” you asked. 

“I could ask you the same thing,” he replied. 

Jack’s wife seemed terrified; her hair was a mess, and there was a gag in her mouth. 

“What did she do? She’s not a monster,” you said, pointing to her. 

“She’s carryin’ a monster’s baby,” he said. 

“Wait, what?” You recovered from your momentary shock and thought of another viable solution. “Abortions exist, y’know. Just have her get one of those—”

`The woman screamed around her gag.

“Darlin’, I’m tryin’ to save you from getting set on fire, okay?” you quipped. “Relax.” Normally, you’d be much more sympathetic to a person in her position, but the last few months had hardened your already weary heart. 

Travis was looking at you like you had three heads. 

You laughed. “Wait, you find abortions abhorrent, but you’ll deep fry the mom and kid? You are screwed up, man.” “Look, kid, I’m not gonna be around another thirty years to come kill this kid before he kills someone else. This is how it has to be,” Travis huffed, clearly aggravated with your disruption of his hunt. 

“I don’t think it’s that cut and dry, though. I can’t believe I’m sayin’ that, but I don’t think it is,” you stated. “Look, I’ve been hanging out around their house a while now. I’m not seeing any ‘long pig’ or massive blood stains. I think we just need to chalk this one up to a messy home invasion and let these people go.” Your eyes were pleading despite your tone bordering on playful. 

“No-can-do, kid,” he said. He started to pour a can of gasoline on the floor around the couple.

The woman screamed around her gag again, struggling against her binds.

Just then, Jack burst out of his cuffs and jumped at Travis. You tried to lunge at Jack to get him off Travis, but that only resulted in you being thrown into a nearby wall. 

Painfully, you pushed yourself up amidst Travis’s blood curdling screams. 

When you’d finally gotten up from the floor, Jack had untied his wife, and she was bolting out the door in fear. 

With Jack having already eaten long pig and Travis long gone, you grabbed your makeshift flamethrower that had been thrown away from you. With your mind foggy and body aching, you lit the gas and aimed it at the snarling creature. In the process of lighting him up, you neglected to remember the gas Travis had poured all around the room. The entire room was ablaze within seconds, and the rougarou collapsed to the ground as he burned.

You turned to run to the door, but Jack sank his claws into your calf. With a yelp, you fell forward to the floor that was quickly becoming engulfed in flames. You kicked at Jack’s hand frantically, and then his face. You managed to get away from him as he breathed his last, the flames having completely subdued him. Smoke filled your lungs despite your body’s best attempts to cough it out. 

Flames were quickly encroaching upon the pristinely white front door of the house, highlighting its edges in a bright orange as you raced toward it. The doorknob was hot to the touch, but you powered through and got the door open. 

You limped as fast as you could out on the front lawn as the house blazed behind you. With your leg throbbing, adrenaline dropping, and head pounding, you collapsed to the floor. 

***

The first thing you felt was the pain. Hot, searing pain emanating from your right calf, a dull throb from the back of your head, and burning in your lungs. You began to stir, fitfully stretching your limbs. Then, you felt a sheet or a blanket had been placed over you. Where were you? The hospital? 

No, the light you were beginning to see as you opened your eyes was too warm and dim to be the hospital. 

‘Oh, fuck. Where am I?!’ 

“You look like hell,” a familiar voice said.

Your eyes shot open, and you tried to push yourself up on your right arm ignoring the burning in your left. It was then your eyes landed on him. 

“Dean,” you breathed out, eyes filling with tears. 

“Hey, sweetheart.”

Series Rewrite Taglist: @polireader @brightlilith @atcamillanorrman @jrizzelle @insomnia-bookworm @procrastination20 @mrs-nesmith @djs8891 @tiggytaylor @staple-your-mouth @jesstherebel @rach5ive @strawberrykiwisdogog @bruhidkjustwannaread @mxltifxnd0m @sunshine-on-marz @big-ol-boat @mgchaser @capncrankle @chervbs @simpingdeadcharacters @nesnejwritings @stillhere197 @tearsforhan @take-it-on-the-run @iloveyou2mia @maxinehufflepuffprincess @ohgeehowdigethere @seninjakitey @berarenado @s0urw00lf @princessleahorgana @quarterhorse19 @isla-finke-blog @silverdoragon @karacaroldanvers @gayandfairycore @examishbookwyrm @star-yawnznn @real-sharena-h @fandomloverrr @metalmonki @onlyangel-444 @yu-winchester @benniwiththefanni @daisychaingirl @immagods @missmieux @yoongi-holland @littledebbieinabigworld

[okiedokrie]

Good Morning, I love you.

Summary: A happy valentine's day to you!

Characters/Pairing(s): Jeonghan X Reader

Genre: Fluff

AUs/Trope info: Non-idol!AU, established relationship

Word Count: 200+

Warnings: Nothing I guess?

Rating: 16+

A/N: Dedicated to my lovely wifey <3 @hannieween

Good morning, I love you.

As the sun crosses into the realm of the living, showering the lands with a warm golden glow, I open my eyes to see you. Beauty incarnate, the one who I spent my night with, the one to walked with me into the dream world only to help me see the light again.

After the dark nights, fighting against all of our fears and insecurities, we hide our matches and daggers; because it's morning now, it's brighter now.

The sun shines through the sheer curtains and kisses your skin, the warmth from the gentle rays of morning light wakes you up slowly, gently with a tenderness that could only come from a lover.

You open your eyes to a sight for sore eyes, Jeonghan sitting up on the bed, his nose already buried in a book. “Good morning, my love.” He said with a subtle smile on his face. He leans downward, planting a curt kiss to your forehead.

“Good morning, my darling.” You say sweetly, you slowly blink at him as he moves, reaching for something under the bed. Closing his book with a dog ear, he sets it down on the nightstand as he finally procures the item he was rummaging for. 

He holds a bouquet of flowers that he had hidden from you the day before, reaching out across the bed to hand them to you. “Happy Valentine’s day, I love you.” He says and a smile continues to carve into your face. Thankful that you are able to start and spend the day with someone you adore.

[daydreamabout]

Worst Behaviour [ Tim Bradford Imagine]

Summary: Being on patrol with the person you date, can lead to a different behaviour.

The Los Angeles skyline gleamed under the fading sun, the golden hour casting long shadows over the city streets. Inside the LAPD patrol car, the low hum of the radio was the only sound, aside from the occasional click of Tim's pen as he filled out a report. Beside him, Y/N sat with her usual easy confidence, her eyes scanning the streets as she kept an alert watch on their surroundings. It had been a few weeks since they’d finally acknowledged what had been building between them for months. They were now an official couple, but the last thing they wanted was to broadcast it at work. The two of them were partners in every sense of the word—professionally, yes, but personally as well. They had agreed to keep things lowkey, for the sake of their careers and the dynamics of the team.

But the moment they were in the patrol car together, everything felt natural. They were comfortable, relaxed in each other’s presence. Tim found himself sneaking glances at her more often than he should, his heart warming when she caught his eye and gave him a small, knowing smile. However, the ease of their relationship didn’t erase the fierce protectiveness Tim felt over Y/N. It wasn’t anything new—he’d always had her back, but now, with the added layer of them being together, it felt like an instinct he couldn’t control.

"Tim, check out that guy," Y/N suddenly said, her voice low but firm. She was pointing at a man leaning against a streetlight on a corner, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his posture tense as if he were waiting for something—or someone. Tim’s eyes immediately locked onto the man, his instincts kicking in. His body tensed, hands tightening on the wheel. He had a gut feeling about the guy, and it wasn’t good.

“Stay alert,” Tim said, his tone clipped. "Let’s swing around and see if we can get a closer look."

Y/N noticed the shift in his mood. He was always serious about his work, but there was something different today—something protective and more intense. She didn’t question him, though. She knew that Tim’s instincts were usually right. They took the next turn, looping around the block to get a better vantage point. As they approached the man again, Tim slowed the car, scanning the area. But the guy had noticed them, his posture shifting, and now, he was walking toward the alleyway. “Tim, be careful,” Y/N warned, her hand instinctively hovering near her gun holster.

“I know what I’m doing,” he muttered, his jaw tightening as he brought the car to a stop a little too abruptly. His protective instincts were kicking in full force, and he didn’t realize just how close to the edge he was getting. Without waiting for a word from Y/N, Tim threw the car into park and opened the door. His instincts were screaming at him, urging him to approach the suspect. Y/N quickly followed suit, but as she stepped out of the car, Tim was already several paces ahead, moving toward the man with a determined stride.

"Hey, stop!" Tim called, his voice loud, authoritative.

The man turned, eyes narrowing as he saw the two officers approaching. His hands were still in his pockets, but there was a flicker of tension in his stance. He wasn’t giving them anything.

“Tim, wait up!” Y/N called out, her voice a little sharper now as she moved to catch up with him. But he was already too far into the moment, too fixated on the situation. He didn’t wait for her. As he got closer, the suspect made a sudden move, and Tim reacted instinctively, stepping forward and grabbing the man’s arm. He spun him around, slamming him against the brick wall of the alley.

“Tim!” Y/N shouted, her heart racing. She was there in an instant, grabbing his arm, trying to pull him back. “Let him go!”

But Tim was in full mode now, his emotions getting the better of him. “Stay back, Y/N,” he snapped, his grip tightening around the suspect’s arm. “This guy is up to something.”

Y/N’s heart pounded as she reached for his shoulder, trying to get him to focus. “Tim, he’s not resisting! You’re escalating this.”

“Just let me do my job,” he muttered under his breath, still not fully registering the way his tone had shifted. Before things could get any worse, Y/N stepped in front of Tim, placing herself between him and the suspect. She was calm, collected, but there was an unmistakable firmness in her voice. “I said let him go.”

Tim’s eyes flickered from the suspect to Y/N, and for a moment, there was hesitation in his gaze. The protective instinct that had overridden his reason slowly started to dissipate, but not without a few seconds of tension. The suspect, sensing the shift, quickly pulled away and started to back off, his hands still raised, signaling he wasn’t a threat—at least, for now. Y/N turned to her partner, her face a mix of frustration and concern. "You can’t do that. Not here, not like that. You can’t let your emotions control you on the job."

Tim’s chest heaved with a mixture of adrenaline and regret. He realized now that he’d crossed a line. “I just… I couldn’t let him—"

“I know,” Y/N said, cutting him off. She softened her tone, but there was still a firmness there. “But you can’t let your guard down like that. We have to work together, and that means trusting each other to keep things in check.”

Tim looked at her, his face serious. “I’m sorry. I just… I couldn’t help myself.”

Before she could respond, the sound of a car approaching made them both turn their heads. Sergeant Grey’s patrol car slid to a stop nearby, and he stepped out with his usual no-nonsense demeanor. His eyes flickered between Tim and Y/N, then to the suspect, who had quickly moved out of sight.

"Bradford," Sergeant Grey called, his voice gruff. "A word, please."

Tim’s stomach dropped. He could already tell this wasn’t going to be a friendly conversation.

“Yeah, Sarge?” Tim asked, trying to hide the guilt in his tone.

“Inside. Now,” Sergeant Grey snapped.

Tim exchanged a glance with Y/N. She didn’t say anything, but there was a look of silent understanding between them. She knew this was coming. Tim had let his protectiveness go too far again, and now he was going to have to answer for it.

---

A few minutes later, he sat in Sergeant Grey’s office, the door closed behind him. Sergeant Grey’s piercing eyes were on him as he leaned against his desk, arms crossed.

"You need to understand something, Bradford," Grey began, his voice cold but not without a hint of concern. “You can’t let your personal feelings cloud your judgment on the job. Y/N’s not just your partner. She’s your coworker, and you both need to be able to trust each other in dangerous situations. You’re the senior officer here. You need to lead by example.”

Tim swallowed, nodding. “I know, Sarge. I got carried away. She's just-”

“Everyone’s important to you, Bradford,” Grey interrupted. “That’s part of the job. But if you let your emotions take over every time someone even looks at your partner the wrong way, you’re going to make mistakes. You’ve got to keep your head in the game.”

Tim lowered his gaze, feeling the weight of his actions. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

Sergeant Grey softened slightly. “I’m not here to punish you, Bradford. But I don’t want to see this happen again. You’ve got a good partner in Y/N. Don’t let your personal feelings turn into a liability for both of you.”

Tim nodded again. “Understood, Sarge.”

---

Later that evening, as the patrol ended and the shift came to a close, Tim and Y/N walked to their car together in silence. The weight of the conversation with Sergeant Grey hung in the air, but neither of them spoke about it right away. They were still processing the incident—Tim, especially, feeling the weight of having crossed a line. Finally, Y/N spoke, her voice quieter than usual. “You okay?” she asked, her eyes meeting his. Tim ran a hand through his hair, letting out a frustrated breath. “Yeah. Just... I messed up, Y/N. I shouldn’t have let my emotions take control like that.”

She gave him a small, understanding smile. “We’ve both been there. But just remember, we’ve got each other’s backs, no matter what. And we’ll handle things together.”

His heart softened at her words, the tension easing in his chest. “Thanks. I’ll do better.”

Y/N reached out, lightly touching his arm. “I know you will. Just… remember to breathe, okay?”

Tim chuckled softly, the weight of the situation lifting just a little. “I’ll try.”

And as they got in the car and drove off into the night, the bond between them felt stronger than ever—two partners, not just in their work, but in everything.

[chariaki]

The classic meet cute!

Kento Nanami x reader

˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊

Kento Nanami's first time meeting you was when he went to his usual park, only to find it crowded, but in the midst of it all, he saw you, lovely under the sun's shine.

He had grown accustomed to spending his weekends in quiet solitude, usually nestled in a corner of the park, away from the chaos of the world. But today was different—today, the park was brimming with life, filled with kids running around, families having picnics, and pets playfully darting between the crowds. Apparently, there was a school event going on.

His eyes scanned the scene, but they paused when they landed on you. There you were, sitting in a beautiful sundress, your attention completely absorbed by a cat you were delightfully feeding. He couldn’t help but watch you for a moment— it's as if you sat in perfect placement under the sun's warm light—but the moment was short-lived.

The feline, a curious one, suddenly saw him and, before he could react, wrapped her tail around his leg.

Kento Nanami who froze, didn't know what to feel. It was a mix of emotions, the weird warm feeling from the cat on his leg—or was it because of you who sat sunkissed, and is now looking straight at him!?

Did he have something on his face? Or worse, a stain on his shirt from the sandwich he had just eaten?

You looked at him, and for a moment, as cliché as he disliked it to say, he felt like the world went in slow motion.

Kento Nanami whose heart skipped. Why were you staring at him for so long? He awkwardly looked down at his shirt and wiped his hands as if to check if there was something wrong with him.

"Hello!" he blurted, the pitch of his voice higher than usual.

Ugh, that was smooth.

You smiled, a soft gleam in your eyes. "Hi!"

You returned the same energy, easy and light.

Kento Nanami whose face flushed in embarrassment, and he turned away in a hasty retreat, hoping his awkwardness wouldn’t be the highlight of your day.

But as he turned, the universe had other plans.

The cat, apparently struck by Kento’s exit, decided your jacket was far more interesting than the crumbs you had been feeding her. She dragged it across the concrete floor, claws and teeth tugging at the fabric.

Kento didn’t even think. Before you could react, he was already moving—his body moved faster than his thoughts.

Perhaps it was the instinct to protect his peace. Perhaps it was the nagging thought that you’d be annoyed if your jacket got damaged...or perhaps it was simply because you were beautiful, and he wanted to see you smile at him again, and maybe... even talk to you.

"Hey—wait!" he called out, chasing after the cat with a surprising burst of speed, looking a little... ridiculous. He reached down and snatched your jacket from the cat’s persistent teeth.

With a little tug, Kento managed to get your jacket back—but it was slightly torn from the feline’s chewing.

He cleared his throat, trying to act cool. "Please excuse me about that... um, the jacket, I mean. I—"

"You’re not really a cat person, are you?" you said, laughing lightly.

"It seems so..," He muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "But... I would like to make it up to you. Let me buy you a new one?"

You paused for a second, then grinned. "Well, if you insist, I guess I could lend you my time, and let you treat me to a new jacket."

And just like that!

Kento Nanami found himself wanting to spend the rest of his afternoon with you, helping pick out jackets at a nearby store. He didn't expected to enjoy himself, but he did. You were easy to talk to, and the more time he spent with you, the more his heart felt lighter.

By the end of the day, he found himself walking home with his thoughts occupied by you.

He reached into his pocket and found a pink note folded inside. Unfolding it, he smiled when he saw your number written on it, with a little happy face.

(ෆ˙ᵕ˙ෆ)♡

The universe, it seemed, had a funny way of making him step out his shell and see more of the world—and for once, he wasn’t complaining.

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

Say it again

Written for the February pop-up challenge of the @steddieholidaydrabbles and for the Kissing Booth bonus card of the @steddiebingo

Prompt: Love (for both)

Rated: T

Tags: Post-Vecna; Everybody lives; Accidental love confessions; Cuddling; Getting together; Fluff

Eddie has a brief, panicked moment of disorientation when he opens his eyes - the horrified, instinct-driven lurch of your stomach that you get when you wake in an unfamiliar environment. Then, after a second, he recognizes the abominable checkered wallpaper and matching curtains and the feeling fades.

It’s strange, he thinks as he settles back down into the warm, fluffy sheets. It should’ve stopped feeling weird by now. Ever since his childhood home got turned into an interdimensional portal, it feels like he’s been waking up to a new sight every other week.

The beeping monitors and tubes and cables of the ICU. The plain, sterile white of the hospital room after that, once they deemed him stable enough to move. The peeling wallpaper and puke-colored carpet of the motel room he shared with Wayne in the first few weeks after he got released.

He has to admit, though, that this most recent view is his favorite so far. And it’s not because of the wallpaper.

Steve is a sight to behold this early in the morning - the soft, golden summer sun poking in through the curtains and tickling the tip of his nose, bringing out the caramel highlights in his hair. He actually gets the most ridiculous bedhead, Eddie has found out, the meticulously styled swoop half the town knows him for being the result of almost an hour of brushing and teasing and grumbling in front of the bathroom mirror.

There’s a lot of things Eddie has found out about Steve these past few weeks. 

How he takes his coffee in the morning (dash of milk, spoonful of sugar) and that he likes lots of syrup on his pancakes, but no butter. That he still has nightmares, just like Eddie, but that it helps to have another breathing, moving body close. That sometimes, in the early hours of the morning, he snores.

That he looks unbearably and heartbreakingly young and soft when he’s asleep like this. 

Following a sudden impulse, he reaches out to brush a stray lock of hair from Steve’s face. Steve’s nose wrinkles and his lashes flutter (he’s got incredible lashes, Eddie has found out - long and thick and honey-colored like the highlights in his hair) and then his eyes blink open.

Eddie tries to remove his hand, suddenly afraid he overstepped, but Steve catches it with a dexterity that seems unfair for a guy who just woke up, entwining their fingers on the pillow between their faces. He’s a hand-holder. That’s another thing Eddie has learned. 

For a few seconds, they both look at each other, taking in the curves and lines of each other’s faces, the play of light and shadow on skin and moles and scars. 

“Good morning,” Eddie finally whispers, a hushed and awed thing. 

Steve yawns and smiles. His eyes are more gold than hazel in the morning light.

He murmurs something. Two sleep-slurred words, half muffled by the pillows, so low that Eddie almost doesn’t catch them over the birdsong picking up outside.

Then he pauses. 

His eyes go huge.

“Shit. I mean- … I didn’t- … I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-”

Suddenly, he’s all nervous movement and tense muscles. He pulls his hand from Eddie’s grasp and tries to disentangle himself from the sheets wrapped around their legs, but this time, Eddie is the one who reacts faster than he thought possible. 

In one quick movement, he pins Steve’s wrists into the sheets and straddles his lap. The night was warm, and they’re both only in their boxers, but he doesn’t care.

“What was that?”

Steve, evidently, does care. He gapes up at him, lips slightly parted in surprise, a dark pink blush slowly creeping over his handsome face. His eyes flit over Eddie’s chest, his neck, the edge of his jaw and back to his chest, seemingly unsure where to settle.

“I-” he squawks. Clears his throat. Tries again, chin jutting out petulantly. “I have no idea what you-”

Eddie feels his own mouth curl into a grin. 

“Oh, you do,” he drawls. “You know exactly what I mean, big boy.”

He leans in, close enough to see his own breath stir the tousled strands of hair that have fallen over Steve’s forehead, close enough to feel the stutter of Steve’s breath catching on his own face. Close enough to feel the tingle of electricity in the thin sliver of space between their lips. 

“Say it again? I promise it’s fine.”

He waits, motionless, while the sun rises over the trees outside, basking the room in golden light and the moving shadows of the trees outside. Another thing he’s learned about Steve is that sometimes, he needs time to figure things out on his own. 

Sure enough, after a few seconds, Steve relaxes in his hold. The corners of his mouth curl upwards, even as his blush deepens and he lifts his head. It’s just an inch, but it’s enough. This time, when he speaks, their lips do brush. 

“Good morning, love.”

Eddie thinks he could get used to waking up like this for the rest of his days. 

More Steddie bingo

[lsunstreakerl]

Kink Prompt! Tentacles please!

you are not the only person that asked for this, so here I present to you all: lowbrow tastes, shallow writing, recycled characters, zero depth, and a ficlet that is intended to solely feed my own lazy ego. because tentacle smut is the way to do that, clearly.

anyways- only 2.3k of this is actually smut, just a heads up. the other 2.6k is just because I realized how absolutely comical the potential here was, and kept writing. the back half of this is a complete crackfic.

I was actually intending to write this with daniel until I did some digging and realized every other tentacle max fic I could find has maxiel, so I'm switching it up here.

HELLLOOOOO: this is pretty explicit, obviously written for a kink prompt fill. here ye be warned, smut ahead.

pairings: charles leclerc/max verstappen

relevant heads up: here we go. monsterfucking, tentacles, extremely dubious consent (due to:) aphrodisiacs, biological bondage, kind of a breeding kink? one sided breeding kink, overstimulation, implied mind break

crack tags: they're in the fic technically but I'm absolutely not taking them seriously- mpreg (kind of), eggs (actually just the one), extremely short lived parenthood. because nature.

The cove is beautiful. Max likes to come out here on evenings, watch the sun set. He'd gotten a few weird looks when he said he was taking a vacation in Italy alone, but he's needed his own space- his first season of F1 had been insane, and he's finally old enough to travel on his own, away from Jos.

So now he's got a private rented villa, and he gets to spend his evenings on the beach. He settles on his back, uncaring as sand gets into his hair. The sand is still warm, and the temperature is perfect, the slightest breeze.

He feels himself getting sleepy, eyes drifting shut despite his best attempts, the tide lapping at his feet. He drifts for a little bit, half awake-half not, semi-aware of the tide rising to his knees, but he's not worried yet- that's about as high as it goes.

Something brushes against his foot- stray seaweed, maybe. He doesn't pay much attention to it, relaxed and warm.

It ghosts over his shin, half wrapping around his ankle, and Max frowns, starting to sit up so he can pull it off-

It tightens, and then Max screams as he's yanked, dragged into the sea faster than he can react.

He snaps his mouth shut- he didn't get enough air before he went down, he's going to die to a vengeful jellyfish, the ocean has decided it hates him.

He's still being moved, but now there's the seaweed texture around his arms, and then something is settling over his eyes, muscular and thick.

It completely blocks out his vision, and Max is panicking, trying to fight back- kicking his feet, squirming away- but nothing works, the things don't even budge.

His chest is starting to burn for air, and Max goes limp, trying to conserve energy, even though he's probably going to die down here to some fucked up kind of squid.

And then the water breaks over his head, and Max takes a desperate, gasping breath. He tries to kick his legs out, but there's something firm wrapped around them, winding up his thighs- he's being lifted into the air before he's suddenly on his back, smooth stone underneath him.

He can breathe but he can't see, renewing his struggle to get away from whatever it is. It's definitely not seaweed- too muscular and smooth.

A thick band is wrapping its way around his waist, and the sensation of it sliding across his skin makes Max shiver.

There's a hot breath by his cheek, and Max freezes- feels teeth lightly scrape against his neck.

"You weren't supposed to be out there."

The voice is mostly smooth, tinged with a slight amount of roughness, the hint of a French accent, and Max could swear it sounds familiar, but he can't pinpoint where.

He's afraid to move.

There's another soft scrape of teeth, this time over Max's cheek, and he can feel another band sliding across his chest, resting near his neck.

"Do you know how many others were watching you? You are lucky I was there, or this would be going much differently."

Max doesn't understand- he can't see, he doesn't know what's going on, and he's starting to freak out about how many things are moving on him, slimy and strong.

"But you smell so pretty, and you were all alone."

Max's breathing picks up, ragged and desperate as he starts struggling again, yanking at his arms and legs.

There's a deep rumble around him, and he realizes a second later it must be the thing. Another thick band wraps around his thighs, yanking them apart and holding them there as the one around his neck fully wraps around, and Max realizes he's in danger.

"They would have loved to have you, yes. You fight so pretty,"

The voice moves away from him, speaks up again somewhere near Max's stomach.

"And you'll be such a good carrier, give such a pretty brood, yes? They all wanted you, but I'm the only one who gets you- I know what you need."

Max doesn't respond, feels like he's trapped in one of those cautionary tales they tell children- 'don't go to the cove alone or the sea monster will get you' kind of thing.

There's a smaller tendril making its way up Max's chest, curling near his cheekbone.

"If you had just stayed inside, this would not have been a problem, Max."

It knows his name. Max feels ice in his veins, suddenly much more afraid than he'd been a moment ago. This isn't random, it's personal.

His heart feels like it's going to beat out of his chest. He finally opens his mouth to talk-

"Please, I do not have what you want-"

He's cut off by the thing on his cheek shoving its way into his mouth, and he panics, thrashing again as it swells, keeps his jaw locked open. He gags when it brushes the back of his throat, and he thinks his eyes might be wet, but he can't tell with the band covering them.

Max makes a strangled whimper around it, and then there's a hand- a human hand- running its fingers along his cheek, tracing around his lips.

"Easy, Max. Give it a bit of time, it will be alright."

Max is shaking like a leaf, and there's saliva building up in his throat- but when he swallows, it's immediately building up again, and he realizes with horror it's not from him, it's from the thing- and if Max doesn't want to choke he has to keep swallowing.

There's another deep rumble next to him, and Max feels humiliated, mouth stretched wide as he practically sucks at it. It's doing something to his head, getting his wires crossed.

The rumble gets louder, and Max realizes he's relaxing, even in the grip of the thing.

"See, this is not so bad. You like this."

Max tries to find the strength to struggle again, but he can't find it- the best he can do is helplessly squirm against the tendrils holding him down, and all that achieves is a heightened feeling of sensitivity across his body.

There's a sensation sliding across his waist, down between his legs, and Max knows what's going to happen next, head dropping back as he tries to twitch his hips away. It's futile- the tendril slips easily across his skin, slick and hot when it wraps around his cock, and Max moans around the obstruction in his mouth- it feels better than it should, shoots electric sensations through his skin.

The thing rumbles again, and the tendril in his mouth swells before there's a larger rush of liquid, and Max really does choke on it, thick as it coats his throat before pulling out of his mouth.

Max is panting, and the one around his cock is wet and hot as it smoothly glides up to wrap around his tip.

The tentacles pull his thighs further apart, and Max has a feeling he can guess what's next, caught between fear-want-scared-need-it, shivering in the things grip.

It rumbles again- Max thinks it sounds like a he, wishes he could pinpoint where he recognizes the voice from.

Teeth graze over his shoulder, sharp pinpricks against his skin.

"Feeling better now, yes? You were just nervous, it's okay. I will take good care of you- better than the others would."

The teeth dig a bit harder, a slight pressure against Max's skin.

"I'll bring you the best food, give you the best den, you'll brood so pretty for me and be done in time for the racing season, I promise."

Max isn't really paying attention, too caught up in the sensation of everything, the way he's pulled bare and exposed on the rock, the way he can't even see and he still wants it-

He's an embarrassment to the bloodline. He pushes his hips up anyways, needy and wanting.

There's tentacles wrapping up his waist and arms, a smaller one brushing across his chest, and it has suckers on it, latches tight to his nipples, and Max bucks up, overwhelmed at the feeling, the way they rhythmically contract and squeeze.

Everything feels like a live wire- he's never had sex that comes anything close to this. He's flushed, and he's starting to feel overheated, like things are too much and not enough all at once.

He wishes he could see.

Then again- a smaller tendril pushes past his cock, teases at his hole, and he thinks maybe he's better off not knowing.

He's still panting into the open air, and the tentacle is just toying with him, smearing something wet and sticky around his thighs, teasing at pushing into him before it goes back to circling around him.

Max can't help the whine, embarrassing as it is, and the thing rumbles again.

"You are always so impatient- give it a moment, yes? Do you need a distraction, are you that desperate to brood for me? Want your first clutch that bad?"

Max doesn't even know what he's saying, just knows that it's too much, that he needs something to change- the tentacles on his skin making him tremble, the one around his cock not moving fast enough, the smaller one teasing him- something has to give.

"Please,"

His voice comes out raspy, fucked out from the tentacle that had been down his throat. He doesn't even know what he's asking for, doesn't know what the thing was talking about, just knows that he wants.

He shouldn't. He's been kidnapped off a beach by a terrifying creature he didn't know existed, and it's about to fuck him, he should be scared, should be furious, but instead-

Max just wants the damn thing to get a move on. He wants, he can feel the need burning through his bones, mounting by the second.

He can start to feel a strange sensation where the smaller tentacle had been, an aching need that he's never felt before- like when he needs to stretch a muscle.

The suckers on his chest tighten unexpectedly, and Max feels his eyes roll back into his head at the sensation, the way he can feel them swelling up- he doesn't want to think about what they might look like right now.

There's a softer rumble near his ear.

"You're almost ready, I promise. Doing so well for me, pretty little brooder, going to be perfect, aren't you?"

The teeth are scraping across his neck, digging in deeper than before, and Max feels a slight sting as they break skin, and then there's a tongue lapping at the wound.

He moans, starting to really feel the need between his legs, and ache to be stretched, be filled.

"Just for me, you're so perfect- no one else could handle you, they wouldn't know how-"

Max's weird tentacle captor has a possessive streak. That's fine- as long as he gets something in him.

"I am- I want, I'm ready, please-"

There's another ghost of hot breath against his skin, and then he can feel something press between his legs.

It's huge.

Max flinches, tries to push back away, but his limbs won't respond, held down tightly by tentacles.

"It's okay, you're okay- it feels much scarier right now, but you are ready for it, I promise."

Max trembles, fear trying to override the rest of his brain. He's never had anything in his ass before, maybe a single exploratory finger, but certainly not- certainly not something like this, it won't possibly fit.

The creature sighs.

"You are lucky I like you so much- it takes a very specialized diet to make this, and I don't like eating it."

The tendril from before pushes past Max's lips, pressing halfway down his throat in a smooth slide as he gags around it, desperately trying to breathe through his nose.

He can feel it pulsing, pushing something down his throat, and the suckers on his chest work harder for a moment, and Max is lost to the feeling, eyes rolling back into his head.

He barely feels the thing between his legs prod at his hole again, just acknowledges a deep pressure, finally starting to relive the ache.

He's drooling around the tendril in his mouth, and it makes a wet squelching noise when it pushes a bit further.

The ache between his legs is settling, and when Max tries to weakly move a leg he finds he can't- there's a huge tentacle working its way inside of him, and he's never felt this full in his life- completely stretched open at both ends, completely at the whim of the thing that's taken him.

He makes a wet noise around the one in his mouth when the larger tentacle starts moving, and then he feels it- bulbs and ridges, pressing up against his prostate- Max screams as his cock kicks, orgasm pushing through him.

There's a satisfied sounding rumble, but nothing lets up- if anything it gets worse- the biggest tentacle is moving in and out of him, feels too big to possibly be real, remolding Max to be whatever the creature wants, dangling between its tentacles.

There's another burst of fluid down his throat, and then Max loses track of everything.

He's faintly aware at some point later- could be minutes, could be hours- that the thing is letting out soft sighs, clearly building up to its own climax, but it feels like it goes on forever-

More time passes. Max is fully suspended in the air now, completely at the mercy of the tentacles as they core him out, irreversibly change him. Nothing else could ever hit him this deep, could ever fill him so thoroughly.

He's half submerged in the water when the thing finally finishes, and then there's so much pressure-

------

Max has never felt this exhausted in his life. He's lying limp on something soft, and something is in his mouth, holding his teeth apart as careful fingers set a wet cube on his tongue. The tentacle leaves his mouth, and Max instinctively starts chewing- it's fish, raw and springy as he swallows. His eyes are half lidded, and he's not sure he could move if he tried.

There's a soft rumble next to him.

"Hi, Max."

Max tries to pull himself together- everything feels fragmented and hazy, and he doesn't even know where he is.

Charles Leclerc is sitting next to him, carefully deboning a fish with his nails.

Max is so confused.

"'rles?"

Charles reaches over and runs a hand gently through Max's hair. They're sitting in a cave, water lapping at stone nearby, and there's a few lanterns set up. Max is half in a pool of water, submerged from the waist down.

His chest and arms are resting on some soft blankets, and his head is supported by a solid pillow. His chest hurts- sore and swollen.

"Yes."

Charles easily slices down one of the fish, and there's no way that's just his nails- he must have a tiny blade in there.

Max tries to shift, but he's sore, his entire body twinging when he moves his leg. Charles looks over at him, eyes flicking rapidly across his body.

"You should not be moving- I will bring you everything you need, don't worry."

Max is not any less confused, trying to piece together what exactly had happened to him.

He'd been on vacation, been on the beach-

He freezes. He thinks his fingers might be shaking, the soreness starting to make sense. Tentacle thing. Creature. Person. Whatever.

In him.

Charles and his too sharp nails, Charles and his French accent, Charles here-

Max is trembling. Charles tilts his head before understanding dawns in his eyes, and then he's setting the fish down, carefully dicing another cube off.

"I will explain, in a minute."

His hand comes to Max's jaw, and it's practically autopilot when Max opens his mouth, lets Charles place the fish back on his tongue.

Charles is providing for him. Some part of Max feels good about that, deep in his chest- he's never had a feeling like this before.

Chew, swallow.

He looks back up at Charles, who winces, fiddling with a fishbone between his fingers.

"I would like to start by saying I am sorry- but also that I was doing you a favor."

Max's jaw drops, and he immediately snaps it back shut at the way it aches, which-

"I'm sorry?"

Charles cringes.

"If it was not me someone else would have grabbed you."

Max glares.

"Off of the private beach I was on?"

Charles blinks at him, and his pupils are weird- vertical slits, and it almost looks like a second eyelid sliding horizontally across his eyes.

"There is no such thing as a 'private beach', Max, those waters belong to us more than they do to you."

"and who, exactly, is us?"

Something lifts from the water next to Max, deep blue, smooth and thick, and he instinctively tries to jolt away- it moves faster than he does, pins him back in place.

"Seriously, you should not be moving."

"Would you quit doing that-"

Charles frowns.

"Will you stop trying to move?"

"No!"

Charles throws his hands up, exasperated.

"Well, obviously I am going to keep doing that then."

He huffs at Max, exactly as bitchy as he's been their entire lives. It's weirdly normal in the face of everything that's happened.

"I am a part of a distinguished Monacan bloodline, thank you very much. We hunt in the ocean."

Max makes a strangled noise.

"So you're going to eat me?"

He feels one of the tentacles around his ankle squeeze as Charles looks alarmed.

"No! No, I'm not going to eat you, god. That's archaic. We don't eat people anymore, have not for hundreds of years."

Max side eyes him.

"Right. You just kidnap them to creepy caves and fuck them. Makes sense."

Charles' shoulders slump slightly, and he almost looks guilty.

"Sorry, again. I had a rut. I was not expecting it, and I go to Italy because there is no chance of grabbing someone I know, but you were there-"

Max's eyes widen.

"You've done this to other people?"

There's a small tentacle that angrily slaps the water, sends small droplets flying everywhere.

"Ugh, you make it sound worse than it is. They don't remember anything. Also- it is a local legend, so there's usually monsterfuckers on the beaches at night anyways."

Charles slices off another piece of fish, and Max opens his mouth, dutifully chews and swallows. The whole-

This dynamic is fucking him up. He's confused.

"So why me, and not a monsterfucker?"

Charles is messing with the fishbone again.

"Well- you are you, Max. I could not let any of the others take you off that beach- I would have had to kill them. And then you would smell like them, and I'd have to fix that, so really the whole thing would've happened twice."

"It didn't have to happen at all!"

Charles glares.

"You went to a cove, on a monsterfucking coast, and now you are upset?"

"Obviously I did not know it was a monsterfucking beach!"

There's a heavy sigh, and then Charles is sliding into the water with him, and Max can feel the tentacles sliding across his skin, wrapping around his thighs and waist and chest. Charles settles... somewhere in the middle of the small pool. Max can't see through the water, it's too dark, but he knows there's more tentacles down there.

Max actually doesn't mind being suspended in the water- he doesn't have to do anything, just gets to rest. It's easy on his aching muscles and joints, even if he's realizing he's hungry again.

Somehow, Charles knows, and there's a whip-thin tentacle that wraps around the sliced fish, bringing it back to land in Charles' human hands as he cuts another cube.

"Mate, just let me have the rest of it."

Charles looks pleased, and then Max can hear him rumble, the same sound he'd heard as he was having the most insane fuck of his life.

"What the fuck are you happy for? Give me that."

Charles hands him the rest of the fish, and Max tears into it, lets it slide down his throat. It's weirdly soft- his teeth slice through it like butter, meeting no resistance.

Charles is still rumbling.

"I'm happy because you are hungry, Max, it is a good thing. It means the babies are growing."

What.

"What."

Max cannot possibly have heard that right.

Charles looks mildly confused. One of the tentacles around Max's thigh tightens for a moment before it's winding around his leg, thick and distracting.

"The clutch, Max. They are small, so you were providing fine for them before, but they're almost ready now, so you are needing more of their diet- fish, mostly. I've been giving you some sea stars as well."

Max is broken, he's pretty sure. There's no other explanation.

"Sorry- I think maybe I am misunderstanding? You said babies? In me?"

His voice goes high at the end, because- he may have dropped out of school, but he's pretty fucking confident he can't have kids.

Charles has that stupid rumble going again- he sounds like a tiny little engine.

"Yes Max, the clutch. Your clutch, really, you are doing all the hard work. Most of them have probably eaten each other by now though, so it is the strong ones left that are wanting more food."

Max opens his mouth, but the only thing that comes out is a strangled squawking noise.

Babies. In him. His babies.

"They're eating each other?"

Charles looks fond, which is fucking ridiculous- Max must be having the weirdest dream of his life, it's the only possible explanation.

"Don't look so sad, that is just the way it is. You cannot possibly want to have all of them- that would be so many."

Max swallows. This is a dream. He's dreaming.

"How do I- Charles, I was not ready to be a father?"

"Brooder, technically."

"A parent."

Charles seems confused again before he snaps his fingers.

"Oh! No, they are not hybrids like me. I did not give you near enough material for that. They are just little things- maybe smarter than average. Stronger, because of you."

Max is confident his horror is showing on his face.

"Max, relax. It's alright."

The tentacles are moving against him, soothing motions down his sides and legs.

"You will probably only end up with one egg, and they are very independent- we'll find a good spot on the cove for it and then leave."

"Egg?"

"Max. I have tentacles- I'm not sure what else you thought it was going to be."

Dream, it's a dream, Max is dreaming. It's fine because it's not real, he's not going to lay an egg. An egg.

The rest of Charles' sentence catches up to him.

"Wait, we abandon it?"

Max is not ready to be a parent, but he's certainly not going to be a deadbeat.

Charles' tentacle snatches another fish as he starts deboning it for Max again.

"Well, yes. It is just nature, don't look so scandalized. I mean- I know I am too young to really be raising any kids, which means you are also, yes? It would be irresponsible."

"...but you fucked me anyways."

Charles shrugs, tossing the bones into a small pile.

"Like I said, I was in rut. Needed a brooder. It is fine as long as they aren't fully fertilized, obviously."

He pulls Max closer to him, tears a chunk of fish meat and pushes it between Max's lips.

"And you did a very good job. This is the most awake you have been in days, which is how I know it is almost time."

Max stops chewing. It's been curveball after curveball.

He swallows.

"Charles, how long have I been here?"

Charles rips off another chunk.

"About a week."

Max closed his eyes for a moment. He's not sure how exactly he can strangle Charles, but he's going to figure it out.

"A week? My family probably thinks I am dead-"

Charles waves off his concerns, presses the rest of the fish into his mouth. Max would be pissed at the blatant attempt to shut him up if he wasn't so hungry.

"It will be fine, Max. You can just say you had a journey of self discovery or whatever. We'll have a better plan next year."

Max is going to hyperventilate.

"What the fuck do you mean, next year?"

Charles tilts his head, blinking his eyes.

"I picked you, Max. You're my brooder- you smell like me, you've gone through some of the changes- it will get easier each year of course. You might get gills later down the line."

Max is feeling slightly faint.

"Also, your body remembers this, yes? This time next year it will remember it again. That's how it works."

"Changes?"

His voice is weak and thready. It's too much to process at once- can't possibly be real.

"Surely you noticed your teeth are a bit stronger- you have been ripping into the fish. This cycle was hard because it was your first, but- your body knows now, so it will start packing on the extra things you need over the year until it is this time again. You might have to work out harder, sorry."

A tentacle brushes across Max's chest and he jolts, sensitive.

"It will probably go to your chest. Not really anything noticeable- some extra muscle and fat. You will look like you just have impressive pecs."

Right. Eggs, teeth, gills, why not. Max has always wanted to be a fish person, it's a lifelong dream of his. Obviously.

His voice is still high when he speaks.

"Every year?"

Charles lets out another pleased rumble.

"Yes."

Max passes out.

------

He wakes up to a soft splashing noise, and it takes him a second to reorient himself, eyes adjusting to the dim lighting. He's in Charles' cave, still half underwater, resting on a little shelf. He's curled around something protectively- he knows what it is even if he doesn't want to admit it.

Max swallows before looking down. There's an egg in his lap.

Where the fuck is Charles.

He looks around. He's not hungry anymore, just exhausted, aching and tired. Charles is missing, and Max remembers what he'd said about others- curls a bit tighter around the egg. He's not sure what kind of shit he's gotten involved in- has no idea if some other thing like Charles might try to come into the cave.

Apparently they can smell him. He pets two of his fingers soothingly over the top of the egg, presses further back into the corner of his little pool.

There's something flashing underwater, little rectangular squares of light getting closer, and Max curls tighter around the egg, top lip curling. There's not a whole lot he could do against one of- whatever Charles is- but he won't make it easy.

A head pops out of the water and Max immediately chucks a fishbone at it, perfect athlete precision- nails the intruder directly in the forehead.

"Ow- Merde, what the fuck-"

"Where the hell were you?"

Max feels his heart rate start to slow now that he knows it's Charles. Still-

Charles holds up his hands apologetically.

"Sorry- sorry, really. I was looking for a good spot for the egg, I didn't think you were going to wake up yet."

Max looks down at the egg. It doesn't look special, but- it's technically his.

"Did you find one?"

Charles nods, drifts closer to Max.

"I did, yes. It's ready, and so are you- I went ahead and extended your stay at the villa, so all of your things are still waiting for you."

"So, what- I just go back to normal, pretend this didn't happen?"

Charles winces.

"You'll forget about it. Until next year, anyways."

"What."

Charles makes a face, all scrunched up and annoyed.

"Yes, and I'm realizing now I am going to have to put up with you getting offended all over again for a few years until you start naturally remembering it. Eventually you'll have enough chemical changes to your brain that the reaction to make you forget won't work anymore. That is what Lolo said, when I asked."

Max is going to kill him. He can't do it in the water, but- the next time they are on a track, he's going to run Charles off the road.

------

"Deep breath."

Max breathes in as deep as he can, fills his lungs before Charles plunges them both back underwater, swimming to a peaceful spot on the ocean floor. There's a small nook inside some coral, and that's where Max carefully sets the egg, adjusting it gently.

He stares at it for a moment. He's never going to be able to eat eggs again.

His lungs are starting to hurt, and Charles gently taps him on the chest before he's swimming them back to the surface, laying Max out on the beach.

Max takes a few heaving breaths, tries to get his thoughts in order. Charles watches him from the ocean, head poking out of the water.

"Bye Max!"

Max flips him off as he staggers to his feet, making his way back into the villa.

------

Max wakes up sore as fuck, stretched out in the villa bed. His head hurts, and he's thirsty. He twists his head to the side to get up, and there's a sticky note directly in front of him, his own scratchy handwriting-

NO MORE EGGS

YOU HATE CHARLES

[taintandviolent]

Harlem Nocturne ; Jimmy Darling x Reader

summary: When Elsa decides to host auditions for new acts, Jimmy Darling gets a front row seat to a free burlesque show.

word count & w a r n i n g s: 1.1K | female reader, burlesque/stripper reader, mentions of boners, teasing/flirting, no smut.

a/n: I was listening to spotify on shuffle and this idea absolutely VIOLATED my brain when the song Harlem Nocturne came on. besides, its' been a minute since I've written for my beloved boy. happy valentine's day! enjoy this short lil' somethin'!! banners by @/strangergraphics!

↓ full fic under cut! ↓ / ao3 link here! / I don’t have a taglist anymore, but please turn on post notifications if you’d like to be notified of future fics!

When Elsa had boldly told the troupe that she was going to be accepting auditions and wanted everyone to sit in on them, Jimmy Darling didn’t picture that he’d be front row for this. Not that he’s complaining. He isn’t. Not at all. His eyes are glued to you as you shimmy and float across the stage to the music that comes from the small record player in the corner. It's big band, and your movements are perfectly in sync with the instruments. Jimmy swallows, and reaches for the paper box of popcorn in his lap, taking a careful handful before bringing it to his mouth. He looks to his left to see Elsa with her arms crossed, languidly taking a draw of her cigarette. She seems pensive, but only because he knows her. Otherwise, her impassive face gives nothing away. His attention quickly returns to you, snapping back like a fresh rubber band. 

The sun is beating down on the fabric of the tent, warming it from the outside in. It’s warmed even further by all the bodies that now sit in front of you, watching your every move. Sweat dots your forehead, but you suspect that’s from the nerves. Maybe an unfortunate mixture of both. 

Despite wanting to focus on the handsome man in the front row, you smile and do your best to keep your attention on everyone in the crowd, even the women. Carefully angling your gloved hands to obscure your scantily-clad body, you flutter your fans in front of your body, dipping them down just enough to reveal a slice of bare collarbone, revealing that beneath those feathers, there was hardly anything. Bra straps were nowhere to be seen. 

In two sweeping motions, one arm after another, you bring the fans up above your head; the grand reveal. Your rhinestone-studded corset glitters in the modest show lights of the tent, all the little gems flickering like little stars. Even your nylons seem to shimmer – and Jimmy is starstruck. He feels heat blossoming in his crotch, and clears his throat. Next to him, Eve is watching, equally as interested, and she leans over, whispering. 

“This is really something, huh? She’s got talent.” 

“You can say that again.” 

You drop the fans beneath you, striding confidently towards the edge of the stage, with the gloved tip of your middle finger between your teeth. You yank once, twice, three times before the glove falls free, hanging lifelessly from your red-painted lips. You repeat the motion with your other hand, and toss it into the crowd. It lands on Jimmy’s leg, and he feels like he’s going to pass out. It’s still warm on his thigh. 

Your fingertips trail down the front of your body, raking over the rhinestones and the clasps. Quickly, you open the front of the corset, revealing all that delightful skin, and a pair of perfectly placed rhinestone pasties. The visual only lasts a second, and you shrug innocently at the man as if to coyly apologize. Jimmy’s fighting to keep his jaw off the floor, and he shifts awkwardly in the wooden chair, which creaks loudly in protest. His mind is whirring like a machine, well-oiled gears cranking with the thoughts of what’s in front of him. 

He swallows hard as you reveal your midsection to the crowd again, this time, opening it fully, exposing yourself to the troupe. As you dip down slightly, letting the corset drop to the floor, Jimmy leans forward and your eyes meet. You flash him a winning smile and a wink, straightening back up with a snap. Arms crossed above your head, you bump your hips to the left, then the right. 

Jimmy angles the popcorn box on his groin perfectly to hide his cock which is starting to swell within his dark jeans. His cheeks are flushed with embarrassment, but that doesn’t deter him from watching the rest of your act, which, from the looks of it, is drawing to a close.

As the music turns to static, you step to the front of the stage, waiting.

“Tell me, Mäuschen,” Elsa starts. “You think this… is worthy of my show? You’re taking your clothes off for the world to see.” 

With your chest heaving slightly, you clasp your hands in front of yourself and look out to the audience. You had all the confidence in the world a few moments ago, but now, standing nearly naked in front of these people, you feel like a fool. You frown slightly, but muster up the courage to respond to the heavily accented woman. “Fraulein Elsa,” you said, as you’d been instructed to do. “It’s an artform… it’s burlesque. It would bring in the crowds, that’s for sure!” 

She takes a long drag of her cigarette, blowing the smoke towards the stage. You withhold the urge to wave it away as the cloud travels in your direction. “This isn’t a peep show. It will only cheapen it. You may leave.”

The floor drops out from beneath you and takes your stomach with it. Hot tears of embarrassment prick at the corners of your eyes, but you blink them away. For a moment, you stand there, completely dejected. Before anyone can notice it, you pick yourself back up emotionally and nod once, dipping forward. 

“Th-thank you for your time.” You give a graceful bow before scurrying around the stage to collect your items and quickly make your way down the set of steps. You hear the woman shout for the next audition, and you round the corner, finding a secluded area of the tent to redo your corset. Disappointment bubbles in your stomach, and you fight off the burning desire to cry, to beg for her to reconsider. But, she was right. You weren’t like the other members of the show, you were just some broad taking her clothes off – it didn’t matter how pretty you were. Or weren’t. 

“I thought it was great. Your show, I mean.”

You jump slightly, freezing at the sound of someone’s voice. When you turn, you’re met with the guy from the front row. He’s holding your glove out to you, and looks sweeter than cherry pie, all brown eyes and soft smiles. You smile back at him, somewhat timidly, and take the glove, folding it up carefully with the other one and tossing them into the suitcase that you’ve brought. One of the caramel locks falls into his forehead as he nods, and he reaches up to push it back up with the rest of them. His fingers are long, and conjoined – something you’ve never seen before. You avert your eyes shyly, and finish doing up your corset.

“It’s a real shame she didn’t… I would’ve loved to have you.” 

He swallows hard. Another awkward moment fills the space between you two. “In the show. With us.” 

“Thanks,” you murmur quietly, as though you’re not to alert anyone that you’re talking. “It’s alright, you know. That’s show business.” 

Jimmy kicks at the dirt beneath his foot, and takes a step back. “I’m sure you get this all the time, with what you do n’ all, but I was wonderin’... maybe you’d like to get some food? There’s a diner real close and I – “ 

You cut him off with a nod. He lights up, in a different way than before, and you like that. Men always look at you a certain way, but the way he’s looking at you now sends a wave of joy through your core. 

“I’d love that.” 

[muzzlemouths]

@sinister-sincerely ;) Surprise~

You've gotta be the only person I know who specifically requests heavy angst for a valentines event, but who am I to argue! I'd be lying if I said I didn't have fun writing something so bittersweet.

Sun/Moon x Y/N Word Count: 3,750 Warnings: Mutual pining (but it's too late), hurt/no comfort

It’s exactly as you remember.

The stench of pizza grease still lingers in the air, rainbow puddles of gasoline hiding under minivans beside forgotten litter, every pothole in its place. The pizzeria greets you in its daunting enormity as you enter the mouth like a bitter swallowed pill.

You can’t say for certain what brought you to this point. How many restless nights and plaintive mornings you endured, how deep the sunken shadow beneath your eyes became until you couldn’t take it anymore. When days turned to weeks turned to months.

The earth orbits the sun in a slow, tedious loop and it is here, a year after it all, that you find yourself staring down the doors to the Superstar Daycare.

The day’s end sees parents lingering in droves around the doors. Some caught up in polite conversation, soccer moms and wine aunts sharing a good laugh, heels clinking against the sticky floor. While others tap their feet with impatient expectation and arms crossed over their chest. They check their phones and apple watches as if watching the time will make it move any faster.

Not you, though. Your feet, your time, your expectations, it all travels at a devastating crawl, and you would sooner turn around and wash your hands of this whole ordeal before you willed it to go faster. The drag of your feet is purposeful. 

You disappear into the crowd, and one by one they disappear from you. Parents and uncles and older siblings in various states of mood, their faces brightening when it’s their turn to scoop a teetering tot into their arms and ask about their day, crayon drawings and popsicle stick crafts haphazardly glued together still clutched in tiny hands. Their blurry faces pay you no mind as you stand at the center of it all, choking on the consequences of your own actions. Their numbers dwindle by the minute.

You had eventually learned to tolerate the giggling shrieks of daycare children, having worked enough shifts that the noise fell into the backdrop like everything else, but the quiet — when the doors closed for the last time and it was just you and them, free from the inhibitions of work — the quiet was your favorite part. Now it only proves to further your dread. 

There are a dozen people to hide between, then ten, then six, then four, three, two…

and then you’re alone.

Any minute now Sun will peek his head out the door to ensure that no one was missed. It’s a silly tendency, the checking and double checking and triple checking to an almost obsessive degree, but you’ve long since become fond of these little habits. How miserable, then, to have to rely on its inevitability because you’re too much of a coward to confront him yourself.

It’s this same fear that drives you to turn on your heel at the last second, reconsidering this whole plan to begin with. If you left now you wouldn’t have to see the look of betrayal on his face. If you were quick about it you could still make haste towards the exit and be out of eyesight before the door ever opened, and then maybe, if you were lucky, your heart would consider this a worthwhile attempt and would finally let you leave this all behind.

How silly to think life would be so kind. You’ve run out of chances to avoid this.

Light pours over your back in a soft rectangle curve, warm and, much like the face that greets you, familiar. His voice — a polite ‘Can I help you?’ that lacks recognition ��� forces you to a halt. You anchor yourself to the spot for as long as you can get away with until the flicker of determination that remains in your chest demands you to move, and only then do you greet him properly; face to face.

The state of him guts you. His dirt coated faceplate, paint chipping at the edges and thumbprints smudged en mass, built up gunk wedged into the grooves, it tells you all you need to know.

It tells you that he hasn’t let anyone help him since your disappearance.

There is something to be said about the emotional range of a robot who cannot express himself in the usual way. You considered yourself quite adept at understanding exactly what they were feeling at any given moment regardless and in spite of the lack of visual cues, rarely being hindered by their static smiles because you had other things to rely on, like the pitch in their voice, their postures, their gestures. 

But Sun looks your way in complete silence, not budging from his place within the doorframe as recognition takes hold.

Silence fills your lungs until its presence is suffocating and this, if nothing else, finally prompts you to speak up. It’s a mess — your guilty muttering of “Can we talk?” — and you’re grateful to have even managed that much, and surprised, albeit relieved, initially, when it does the trick to stir Sun from his stupor.

His response, though lacking words, can be heard loud and clear.

You scramble forward in a rush, just barely managing to wedge your foot in the door before he has the chance to finish shutting it in your face.

“Please,” you rasp, pride be damned. 

His faceplate tilts (in curiosity or frustration, you aren’t sure), and his voicebox clicks like an irked tongue. Though they remain fixated in place you can surely feel the way his eyes find the ugly scar at your jaw and follow it all the way down your shoulder. Another click. 

He widens the door.

It’s not the warm welcome you’ve come to expect over the years, but it’s likely the kindest greeting you’ll receive from him now, all things considered, so you do your best not to spit on the brittle olive branch and quickly duck beneath his arm to make your way inside.

The daycare brings a wave of emotions that immediately threaten the frail sense of composure you’re still clinging to. Memories, new and very, very old, all collect in the back of your throat and sting like fresh bile. 

You recognize every stain in the carpet that Sun could never get out, can pinpoint how long its been since he’s cleaned by how strongly the smell of bleach contends with freshly soiled diapers. You know by the back of your hand which slides will burn you all the way down and which are permanently sticky from sickly kids and parents who couldn’t afford to bring them anywhere else. You know where the craft supplies are hidden, where the movies are kept, where the toys are stored. You know how bright the stars will shine when the lights go out, and how quickly Moon will abandon his station to find another.

You know exactly where to look when either of them is hurt and hiding.

But Sun isn’t hiding, now, even though he is very much hurt. Instead he stands a few paces from your side, hand still on the door and back to you. He doesn’t run and he doesn’t hide and he doesn’t need to.

Because it is you who ran away. It is you who hid.

It’s you who disappeared to somewhere they could never reach.

“Sun, I—”

“Why are you here?”

His voice cuts through you deeper than even the guilt. You want him to be angry with you, to scream and cry and lash out so your apprehension feels justified, so you can feel like there’s still something to salvage from this relationship, even if it’s negative. Even if it hurts. It would be easier if it hurt.

Instead, Sun addresses you with dry, polite boredom. He speaks to you like a stranger. 

Then, again, arrives the silence. It permeates through flesh and bone to sink into your very core, a poison that takes root deep in the pit of your stomach and blooms into something horrid. Gnarled branches of grief and shame left unpruned for so long that they’ve made a husk of the person you used to be. 

How do you come back from that?

“We didn’t know—” his fingers vice against the doorknob until its metal warps inward, refusing to show you his face. “We didn’t know where you went, why — why you left. You didn’t say anything. Not to us or anyone we asked.” His arms pinch into their shoulder sockets, the neglected casings whining against the tension. “Believe me, we asked everyone.”

Branches twist and unfurl, spindly twigs of guilt tickling against the back of your throat, thick with vinegar. You can taste it on your tongue. It takes all of your strength to step towards him. “Sun, I—”

“Stop,” he rasps. “Don’t. Just — just stay there. Stay right there.”

It stings. You often mulled over how they might react to your return when the day came, but never did you consider that he might not even want to look you in the eye. Swallowing around that boulder draws tears to your eyes. Nevertheless, your feet remain planted where they are, resigned to have this conversation with the back of his faceplate. “I wanted to reach out—”

“I wasn’t finished,” he interrupts. His rays sink inward, briefly, face swiveling at an angle where you can almost see his eyes. “We thought…Moon thought he had killed you,” he admits. “For a short time after you left us, we convinced ourselves that this is what happened. We let ourselves believe it because — because,” he turns, finally looking you in the eye, “because the alternative is that you abandoned us like everyone else.”

Your cheeks warm beneath streams of bitter salt. Words evade you for the longest time, deaf to your pleas to say something, anything, because more than Sun looking expectant for an answer is he deserving of one. 

Sun shakes his head, unimpressed by your inability to pry your tongue from the roof of your mouth. “Two minutes,” he says.

That does the trick just fine. “Two—?”

“You have two minutes to explain yourself,” he clarifies.

Your nose twitches, sniffling. “And after?” You ask, terrified of the answer. If he shoos you from the daycare and bans your name forevermore you aren’t sure you’ll ever recover. It’s selfish to fear such things — you know, already — when your actions were undoubtedly what burnt that bridge in the first place.

His arms cross over his chest, fingers winding fiercely into the metal, and he nods towards the clock. It’s getting late, already. 

“In two minutes it won’t be my choice what happens to you,” he warns.

Your gaze follows his own, eyeing the time. There’s no telling how lenient Moon will be about hearing you out but, if memory serves, you won’t see half the patience that Sun is tentatively offering you now. You don’t have time to argue either way.

You search your heart for the words that need to be said and, when that fails to provide you with a linear path forward, you opt to blurt out the first thing that comes to mind, instead. 

“I didn’t know what to do,” you admit. Your thumb lifts to press into scarred flesh, and follows it all the way down to where it disappears beneath your shirt collar. It’s ugly and it’s deep and you will bear it for the rest of your life. “I didn’t know how to confront this.”

Looking up, Sun hasn’t moved from his spot. He doesn’t blink, and he doesn’t speak, but the way his fist digs into the fabric of his pants tells you that he remembers that night clearly. You’re sure he spent several days thereafter scrubbing your blood out of the carpet.

It was an accident. As much as one can accidentally attack a loved one with blind violence, that is. You tell yourself it wasn’t intentional and you had hoped that they had, too. Both of you knew the day would come eventually either way. A dog that used to bite will bite again, no matter how strong the bond between him and his owner is. And you aren’t his owner, anyway. You can’t even call yourself his friend — not anymore.

“I thought I’d have enough time to think things over while I was recovering,” you croak through tears. “Every day in that hospital bed was spent thinking of you and Moon. I was—”

“Angry?” Sun asks.

“No!”

“Then why—?” His voice twists with the same bitterness as the dread in your stomach, almost a plead. “Why didn’t you say anything? A phone call, a letter, anything—”

“I was scared!” Despair pours from your throat like a leaky faucet having finally burst. “I almost died, Sun. I — I wasn’t sure what to do, where to go from there. I thought I just needed time, but everything happened so fast, it all passed so quickly, and the company—”

“You were fired?”

Your teeth clatter sharply against each other, lips pinching together, tongue tied. The clock tick tick ticks away. “They told me if I didn’t return that week I shouldn’t bother coming back at all. I…I could have kept my job, I could have come back, put the nightmares up on the top shelf and hope that everything just went back to normal, but…”

“You didn’t have to figure it out alone,” he answers solemnly. “Had you told us what you were going through, we could have figured something out, helped you transfer to another department or— or at least given you space. We would have come up with something.” Sun’s shoulders slump forward with a quiet, mechanical clink. He rubs anxiously at his arm and looks away from you. “Did you even like us?”

Your heart squeezes like it’s going to burst and plummets to the soles of your shoes, aching the whole way. Every instance of the love you felt for them comes barreling down on you at once; every fond memory, every moment of laughter, every hardship that you faced together. You never got the chance to tell them. “Of course I do,” you exclaim. “I lo—”

The room plunges into darkness. There is no twitch or flicker of the fluorescents to warn you, no method of hastily restoring power, nothing to keep stripes from becoming stars. Bittersweet familiarity sinks its teeth into your skin with nothing more than the quiet toll of a bell. His gaze blankets you in crimson.

You inhale sharply and prepare for the worst. “Moon—”

“Get out,” he snarls.

You flinch a foot back, but go no further. “Let me explain—”

“No.”

Your brow creases, nose wrinkling to match. “I’m not leaving,” you declare. “Why won’t you hear out what I have to say?”

“You’re a liar,” he spits, each word threaded with anger. Unlike Sun, he has no problems advancing towards you step by slow, meandered step. “Why would we want to hear a liar speak?”

Your heart twitches in your throat, threatening to suffocate you with every breath. Sun accused you of a great many things, all of which you are surely guilty of, but being a liar isn’t one of them. “I didn’t—”

“You left us!” He snarls. “Promised you wouldn’t. Promised you weren’t like the rest. You lied. Liar, liar, liar.”

His outburst convinces you to fall back another step. At this rate he’ll corner you, walk you against a wall. He’ll— “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” you insist, blinking through tears. “Either of you.”

“Liar!”

You break into a sob. “I’m not—”

“Get out,” he repeats, not sparing you the patience to further plead your case. He’s nearly erased the distance between you. “Won’t ask again.”

The croak in his voicebox doesn’t stem wholly from anger, of that you are certain. You can trace it all the way back to that very night when he came back to himself, hands still painted red, claws cinched to the bone. 

He had rushed into action, even if it was in vain. Daycare first-aid kits offer little more than boo-boo bandaids and palm sized ice packs, and as it stood, you were bleeding out in his arms. Despite his own personal biases he had called out for help, and help answered in the form of red and blue lights that blinked just outside the window. 

Your memory of the event is still fuzzy around the edges even now, yet still, there are two things you remember without any doubt. First, that Moon trembled with such vigor that his casing bears scars to this day from the metal rubbing together, and second, that he spoke to you endlessly, tirelessly, until they took you away. The cadence from that night hasn’t disappeared with time. 

It isn’t anger, it’s fear.

A dog that has bit before will inevitably bite again, and a dog that fears losing what it loves will refuse to let itself love at all.

Against your better judgement, you firmly stand your ground. “I’m not leaving,” you tell him. “Not until I’ve said what I came here to say.”

“Aren’t you scared?” 

It catches you off guard.

“That’s what you told Sun, isn’t it? I might hurt you again,” he warns. “Run your skin beneath my claws, tear it to bloody pieces until there’s nothing left.” His hand twitches at his side. “Maybe this time I’ll really kill you. Aren’t you scared?”

Your feet remain planted in that spot even as every molecule of your being screams at you to run. You are anchored here, for better or for worse, even as he inches ever closer. Even as he raises his hand — old blood still caked beneath the claws — and lingers beside the old wound.

“Yes,” you answer. It halts him immediately, hand still poised at your cheek. “I’m scared, I’m terrified, that much is true, but…” your eyes trace him, each pointed nail and crimson stained finger, the lilt in his voice that spells remorse as deep and as wide as your own.

Despite it all, your eyes fall shut. “...I trust you.”

Moon remains stone still. You hear no whisper of his bell, can feel no greater heat from his vents. He surely watches you to see how much truth lies in your commitment, searching your face for any hint of malice and trickery, but he won’t find any. You’re done running. You’re through with hiding.

He lurches forward—

and embraces you fully, metal frame trembling on its hinges. 

“Thought we lost you,” he whispers. “You left. You left us.”

“I know,” you whisper in turn. Warily you echo the gesture, wrapping your arms around him and holding him close, closer than you’ve ever been allowed before. “I’m sorry,” your words spill across his chest. “I’m so, so sorry. I’ll never leave you again—”

“Don’t.” He pulls away abruptly, holding you back with locked elbows, and the sudden absence leaves you cold. “No more promises. We can’t—” he whines beneath the palm you bring against his cheek, but nevertheless relaxes into it. “Can’t handle it. Another broken promise.”

“But—”

“Please,” he mutters. “No promises. Just this is fine. This—” His hand travels meekly upward to rest atop your own. “This is enough.”

It stings, as it very well should, but you aren’t going to argue with him about this. A nod answers him, simple as. You have all the time in the world to prove to them that you aren’t going anywhere this time.

There are a million and one things to say now that you finally have the chance. A year’s worth of events to catch them up on and the whole night to discuss it all, just like old times. You’ll make new friendship bracelets, read each other stories, gossip and laugh and play. There is still something worth saving, here. They haven’t given up on you yet.

But rebuilding a relationship requires honesty, it requires communication, and there is still one secret you’re hiding. The question is, how do you go about it without tarnishing what you’ve only just salvaged? What should you say, and how should you say it? The amount of times you’ve stuck your foot in your mouth while trying to do the right thing is not insignificant. But if you don’t tell them now, you might not get the chance again.

“I still haven’t told you…” Your eyes follow the curve of his face, the familiar way with which he lets your hand cradle his cheek, and in spite of everything a smile sneaks its way forward for the first time in ages. “I never stopped loving you, you know,” you whisper. “I care about you both — more than I’ve ever had the courage to say.”

Slowly, surely, you find yourself stretching onto your toes, finally feeling brave.

His vents breath against your palms, warm steam tickling between your fingers. Telltale fumes itch beneath your nose that smell faintly of burnt wires and old oil. 

A sputtering core kicks into third gear as your face nears his. Electricity bounces from his casing to dance against your fingertips until you’re breathless and floating. You can almost taste the cold metal beneath your lips, just a breath standing between them now. Almost. Almost.

“You have to let us go.”

Your blood freezes over, paralyzing you to the core. You don’t immediately pull back for fear of what you might find. But you have to face the music eventually.

Moon is painstakingly careful as he cleans your tears with the base of his thumb. He looks you over mournfully as though taking in your presence one last time. Then he laughs, short and sweet. “Nap time is over, starlight.”

You wake up.

The pillow is wet beneath your cheek, salty and cold. You stare at the wall bleary eyed, feeling an ache in your chest that eats at you now more than ever. How pitiful, how cruel, to be haunted by missed opportunities. Guilty pleasures of received forgiveness and enough time to make things right. The chance to fix everything held just out of your reach.

You turn against your pillow to reach the other side, taking your blankets with you, but even with their weight at your shoulders you feel impossibly cold. There is nothing to reach for anymore.

The glow of a television paints your back. Turned to the news, it’s been left on all night. You remember now. You remember everything.

The reporter talks about a fire.

You try to will yourself back to sleep.

[theladyofbloodshed]

In an alternate universe where Nesta Archeron is Rhysand's mate.

Chapter Two

Elain was a doe. Her soft, brown eyes could persuade anyone to do anything with a simple slow blink of her eyelashes. Nesta watched from the window as Elain dug another hole in the soil with her trowel then turned her big eyes on the High Lord of the Night Court. He passed her a small pot from the table then resumed his conversation with the others. Nesta had never had any desire to garden in her life. She hated to think of creatures rummaging around the soil, worse still to have it beneath her immaculately clean nails. Yet, observing her sister smile at the high lord had Nesta gritting her teeth with jealousy for a reason that she could not name. She had no desire to be on her knees in the flowerbed with half a male’s attention upon her. Especially not his attention. So why was she jealous of Elain?

Nesta turned from the window before somebody looked up and spotted her. She collided with a hard chest and let out a little shriek.

The shadowsinger’s hands shot out to steady her. His grip was cool upon her forearms.

‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’

‘But lurking behind me at the top of the stairs is normal behaviour, is it?’

Azriel narrowed his eyes at her. ‘What were you staring at?’

‘Nothing,’ she hissed. ‘Aren’t bats meant to be nocturnal? Why am I being interrogated? Are you spying on me?’

He gave a soft chuckle. ‘Why are you so defensive?’

Noise from outside filtered in then hurried steps sounded up the stairs. Rhysand appeared, eyes wide and wary – although they resolutely refused to look her way as if Nesta was simply invisible. ‘I heard a scream.’

‘Nesta didn’t like what she saw outside.’ Azriel was already walking back down the stairs as he said, ‘You should convince her to come outside instead of lurking up here.’

They waited for the shadowsinger’s steps to fade before both made for the stairs. Both lurched back, afraid to touch the other.  Since that day on the roof where they journeyed to the Hewn City, Rhysand had not said a single word to her. He had been cruel and vindictive there, provoking Keir to try and get a reaction. Apparently, such events were common, but not to the extent the high lord pushed it last time. He even received a verbal bashing from Amren and Cassian, asking what the hell had been his intentions and whether he had spent too long beneath the mountain wearing a mask that he had a taste for it now.

The last words that he said to her lingered though.

Nesta Archeron, you will ruin me.

A dramatic thing to say from a preening high lord.

They remained in their stalemate at the top of the stairs. Still, Rhysand refused to even glance at her.

In passing conversation, she had asked Elain if the high lord was cold towards her and Elain had broken into a strange giggle. No, Rhysand was wonderful. So kind. So giving. Elain liked him. His inner circle liked him. Everybody in Velaris liked him. And if Nesta dared to say she had the feeling that he was deliberately ignoring her and refusing to acknowledge her existence then they would call her mad for it. None of them noticed how he’d subtlety leave the room if she entered or if she dared take a chair within a few yards of him then he’d stand and lean against the doorframe or suggest they move into the garden to capitalise on the beautiful weather.

‘Are you going or not?’ she snapped, gesturing to the top stair.

As he started to leave, Nesta had half a mind to push him. One good shove between his shoulder blades to see him fall. Then what would he do? Ignore her still? Pretend a spirit had done it?

She remained beside the window, watching the others in the garden. The weather had been unnaturally warm for the early summer so they were enjoying an afternoon with the sun beaming down upon them. After their lunch, wine had been brought out from the town house’s cellar. The high lord had returned to them, smiling easily as Elain strained to reach another small plant from the edge of the table from her knees beside the flower bed. He was all too happy to help, the generous and kind high lord he was.

The shadowsinger took a step backwards and lifted his head so that he was looking at Nesta. She couldn’t tell if he’d be able to see her from the glare of the light upon the glass, but the move had her rearing back just in case.

He knew something. Azriel had to. He was the spymaster. If anybody knew the slight nuances of people’s behaviour, it was him. But was there a way to ask if his high lord had a vendetta in a less obvious way?

Oh, this was pathetic. Nesta had never been careful with her tongue before. Had never worried if it cut.

‘Azriel, may we speak?’ Nesta asked, standing in the doorway of the house.

The group’s chatter stopped and all but one looked her way.

‘It’s a beautiful day,’ said Azriel. ‘You’re welcome to join us.’

‘Will you burst into flames if you see daylight, Nes?’

At Cassian’s comment, Feyre gave him a light slap around the back of the head that had the Illyrian grinning.

‘Nesta hates the sun,’ said Feyre.

She did not hate it. She liked the warmth. Liked that everybody seemed to have a better mood when the sun was up. But it made her sweat terribly. She’d flush red from heat. And her nights were spent thrashing upon the sheets trying to snatch a little sleep.

‘It’s a private matter. We spoke about it last week,’ she insisted, beckoning Azriel with a sweep of her fingers.

There.

Nesta knew she wasn’t imagining it.

The high lord clenched his fingers into fists so she could see the whites of his knuckles as she spoke. His nostrils flared as Azriel moved past him and his feet planted against the grass as though readying himself for a fight.

Her sandals – strange contraptions that bared her toes which were popular in Velaris – flopped loudly upon the tiled floor as Nesta led the way into the kitchen. Regret was already rising in her chest. She’d have to figure out an excuse for her nosy little sister to explain why she was having private chats with Azriel. Feyre might have been happily bedding the brutish Illyrian, but Nesta had no plans on ever welcoming a faerie into her own bed.

‘Well?’ She leaned against the counter, fingers folded together.

She hoped he might offer up an answer rather than her having to ask those excruciating questions.

‘Well,’ echoed the shadowsinger.

This was mortifying. In any other circumstance, Nesta would be simply overjoyed if a male paid her no attention. In fact, she’d quite like it if no male ever looked at her again. But Rhysand’s ignorance had become abrasive. She was the only one that he outright ignored.

Nesta cleared her throat. ‘Has your high lord got a particular issue with me?’

‘You’d have to ask him that.’

‘No. I am asking you as he does not have the manners to even wish me a good morning, and if he remains in a room that I enter, it is nothing short of a miracle. Have I done something to offend him?’

‘No.’

‘Then what is it?’

The shadowsinger eased out a sigh. Of the three, he was the most beautiful. He was a masterpiece carved from flesh. Soft, hazel eyes canvassed her face.

‘He doesn’t look at me. Won’t speak to me. You surely must have noticed it.’

‘You want him to talk to you?’

Her brows knitted together. ‘No. Not particularly a private conversation. I mean in general. He can return a greeting, can’t he? Or is the High Lord of the Night Court too good for such a thing?’

‘It’s compli-,’ he began before stopping at the sound of the back door opening.

Rhysand entered the room. The sun had dusted his cheeks, bringing a slight blush to them. He was pretty too. Nowhere near as utterly beautiful as Azriel, but permissible. Again, he bypassed her entirely. He pulled a glass jug from a cupboard then cut a lemon to squeeze the juice into it as though her and Azriel had not been in the middle of a private conversation which he interrupted.

‘Varian’s just arrived,’ he said over his shoulder to the shadowsinger. ‘Says its as hot here as Summer right now.’

Nesta would kill him. She’d wrap her hands around his throat and squeeze until she killed him. He was rude. Arrogant. Nesta hadn’t done anything to warrant this. When she had been mortal, he’d spoken to her just as he spoke to Elain. Now, her existence was scrubbed from his mind and it angered her greatly.

‘We’ve all been invited to their court for solstice. Well, except Cassian,’ Rhysand said with a laugh.

‘No leathers,’ protested Azriel.

Nesta asked, ‘Am I also invited?’

She had never seen the sea before and legends said that the Summer Court had the most beautiful, white sand beaches with glorious turquoise waters.

The high lord filled up the rest of the jug with water then turned to leave.

She gave Azriel a pointed look because Rhysand had just illustrated her point beautifully.

‘Nesta asked you a question,’ he said on her behalf.

The high lord nodded in acknowledgement though couldn’t offer her a single glance. ‘Yes. And I said before that we were all invited except for Cassian.’ He shrugged as though it was obvious then took another step back towards the doorway.

‘Look at me,’ she bellowed, stunning herself with the power laced within her words.

The high lord’s violet eyes slid to her and stayed there.

Her magic lurched in her chest like a bucket tipped on its side. She had to brace herself as power coursed through her veins. She noticed him fighting a similar battle; his magic eased out of him in tendrils of shimmering indigo. His fingers had turned white on the handle of the jug; its contents were turning to ice. Nesta stood in the eye of a tempest as her magic fought a way free from her. It burnt and ached her body as it rammed against the bars, demanding they break.

‘Stop looking at me,’ she said defeated, before striding from the room.

Vibes for chapter 3: