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cdragons · 9 months ago

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Fuck Everything, But Mostly Fuck You - Part 3

Previous Part

Summary: You have never, EVER, in a million years hated anyone the way you hated Felix fucking Catton. But goddamn, Oliver Quick was a fucking close runner-up.

Warnings- MDNI 18+, slight mention of blood, sexual harassment, Felix is delulu and kind of a pig, Reader just wants some fucking peace, Michael is Michael and the best, Oliver is Oliver (the worst)

Author's Note: Thank you so much to everyone who commented and reblogged! I didn't expect this story to gain so many readers, and this was a challenging chapter to write - but only because there were some scenes I couldn't add because it would have gotten too long otherwise.

If there was a God out there, you prayed for the coming term to be as wonderful as this holiday had been for you.

You really wanted to kick yourself in the pants for making such a fucking cheesy wish at night watching the stars with Michael.

Right now, you were leaning to rest your head against a bookshelf in a slant position. You had a splitting migraine that began from the moment you woke up and worsened with nausea from your tutorial. And you couldn’t even go back to your dorm for the rest of the day because your lab course for your gen-ed didn’t allow for absences.

“What’d she do now?” came a voice on your right.

You looked to the right and were blinded by a white and blue-striped button-down shirt with short sleeves tucked into a pair of tan khaki pants.

Your knight-in-silver-framed glasses, Michael Gavey, everyone.

All the guy was missing was a pocket protector with pens and tape wrapped around the bridge, and he would have matched every bullied kid in every high school movie set in the 80s.

You turned around to lean your back against the bookshelves and slowly lowered yourself until your butt was parallel to your feet. Blowing the stray hairs out of your face, you remembered to take deep breaths to prevent you from blowing up at your only friend.

“No,” you sighed, “well – yes, but nothing I can’t handle.”

Do you love your classes? Yes. Was Daria Martin still your art teacher, and did she still like you? Yes. Are the rest of your teachers mostly assholes that think all Americans are Appalachian hill-billies? Also, yes. But were you still not excelling and scoring in the top ten after every exam? Naturally, no doubt about it.

But were you as invisible and unnoticed as you were before the break came? No. Did anyone with a pulse give you side-eyed glances after your stunt with the 24/7 shit-faced He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named? Pretty much, yes. Did most of your problems come from one mythic bitch in a 5’3” flesh suit that had the ‘Juicy’ logo plastered on her ass? Namely, one in particular, Annabel – who was your assigned student partner in your tutorial.

Was your new name among the student body now “Psycho Bitch”? …Unfortunately, yes.

…Okay, so this term has not been going as well as you had hoped during the break.

Annabel hated you – like hated-HATED you. And you had no idea why.

You were pretty sure you were less than blank air to her last term, but now she was determined to make your life a living hell. Last term, she skipped every other session to do whatever Annabel did. But now, it felt like she came to every tutorial for the opportunity to tear apart your work.

You’re pretty confident she was the one who started your new “name” about a few weeks ago when the weather began to warm up.

It’s not as if you were a stranger to being picked and prodded by the people born with silver spoons on their tongues and blessed with golden-tipped wings. You were a public-school kid from grades K-12 who went to Townsend Harris for those last four years. Townsend Harris High School was a public school, but make no mistake – it was just as full of the same bullshit hierarchy that made up every private school in Manhattan.

"Open the doors to all. Let the children of the rich and the poor take their seats together and know of no distinction save that of industry, good conduct, and intellect."

What crock. You only survived those years because every kid knew that your dad was an NYU professor who knew the Dean of Admissions of Columbia. You couldn’t recall how often you wished you had joined your friends at Flushing High or even Bayside.

However, regardless of the snide snarks and bullshit snickers pointed at you, you were left alone for the most part.

Sure – it sucked; that goes without saying. It was naïve of you to assume that people would grow out of the need for drama once they walked through the ivory doors and marble floors of higher education. It was stupid of you to think that everyone would forget about your outburst at Bodleian while they were getting drunk on the New Year.

And while Annabel was one migraine-inducing problem, she wasn’t the worst part of returning. No, that title belonged to her boyfriend, a whole other can of monkeys.

The worst part – the worst part of EVERYTHING – was how Felix fucking Catton was incapable of just leaving you the hell alone. It was like he had a little antenna sticking out of his head specifically for you whenever the two of you were within a ten-foot radius of him. Everywhere you went, it was as if you had a giant blinking arrow above you screaming, “Felix Catton’s New Toy”!

No, you were less than a toy – you were a joke, a gimmick.

God, you should have just stuck to your original plan and applied to any SUNY school that would have accepted you without even looking at your application.

But no, your good-Samaritan-obsessed college counselor called your parents and complained that you weren’t “putting yourself out there” enough. And now you were over thirty-four hundred miles away from home, stuck with the worst people ever. It was like a thousand tiny prickles were running on your skin as your mind filled with static.

Whenever Felix called out to you, it was to invite you to a party or get wasted. One time, he walked up to you insanely plastered and invited you for a quickie in the men’s bathroom. You were in an empty lecture hall since your usual spot in the library was taken, and Michael was still in class, so you didn’t see the point in trying to find an open spot.

Somehow – without you noticing – the guy plopped himself next to you and asked if there were any rooms in the building where he could smoke a joint in.

“Pretty sure you could open the window in the bathroom to smoke in there,” you replied absentmindedly.

And then he put his hand ON YOUR THIGH, leaned to your ear to whisper, “Wanna get out of here to join me? We don’t have only to get high.”

You grabbed all your shit and booked it – out of the building and all the way to your dorm to take a shower that lasted for around twenty minutes. You wanted to get rid of the smell of nicotine and overpriced aftershave. The scent of him on your skin made you wish you could tear it off.

And in your panic, you left your bike at the building’s entrance.

When you returned to retrieve it, it was after dark, and you recruited Michael as your tall and bony human shield.

“Do not ever walk home alone at night,” your mom told you every morning you left for school.

You tried not to think about the haunted look in her eyes each time she told you.

“Wanna skip the dining hall tonight? We can walk to Crowley Street and order take-out at that Pakistani place you like so much.”

Oh, that perked you right up. Jannahs Express was a broke college student’s paradise. The food was cheap, and the owners took pity on the international students. It was slightly more expensive in the UK, but it was the closest you could find with food on par to Kababish on Broadway in Queens. You stifled a laugh remembering the sight of Michael drinking the entire pitcher of water after you dared him to try a dish at ‘regular.’

“Seriously? Do you think you could take more than ‘English-mild’?” you asked as you stood up. “How did you survive your mom’s cooking for so long? She made us Indian food on our last night.”

“Mum grew up in London, and she had neighbors teach her how to make it the traditional way. You’re the only person who could take that level. Lilypad and I got Dad’s taste buds.”

Choking on your spit from laughing at the image of Gregory Gavey’s face turning firetruck red, you felt the migraine slowly disappear.

“Yeah, I’ll bet. God, I can’t imagine the look on his face when –”

A familiar voice that left a bitter taste in your mouth after hearing interrupted your conversation.

“Hey, (Y/N). Can we talk?”

You and Michael turned your heads to find Oliver Quick – Michael’s former friend, your former acquaintance – and the sight of him soured the mood instantaneously. You narrowed your eyes to dangerous slits to show your displeasure seeing him as one corner of your lip curled to show a sneer. You never liked the guy. There was just something about how he acted and presented himself. He had a profound desperation to impress everyone around him.

So much so that he immediately dropped Michael after becoming Felix Catton’s new pet. As evidenced by the oversized gray zip-up hoodie blanketing him. Felix’s, no doubt.

Fuck, you hated him.

“Ugh, what do you want?” you snapped, taking a bit of pleasure in seeing how your voice made him flinch.

“Look, can we –” his eyes hastily darted to Michael, then you, then behind him to make sure no one was watching him “– can we talk in private?”

Seriously? That’s how he wants to play this?

In the corner of your eye, you saw how tightly Michael clenched his fists. He was obviously still hurt from the time his ex-friend treated him like shit.

Oh, this will not do.

“Oliver,” you snarled as you crossed your arms over your chest, “whatever the hell you have to say to me, you can say in front of Michael.”

“Can you please not do this now?” he begged with pathetic eyes. How very in-character of him.

“Tick tock, Quick. Are you going to talk, or do I have to throw a drink in your face again? But this time, I’ll smash the glass on your face, too.”

Seeing the look on his face gave you almost a perverse sense of joy. Maybe this is why bullies exist.

“Do you think you’ll be at the pub sometime this week?”

What the fuck? Was he serious? His question caught you completely off-guard. You expected him to ask for notes or even help with homework, as his grades have slipped since becoming an official Felix Catton fanboy.

“At the pub – Oliver, when have I drunk alcohol in the entire time we’ve known each other?”

“You’ll turn nineteen this year, right? It’s only illegal if you’re under 18,” he tried to put out convincingly.

“Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. But you’re forgetting the part where I’m still an American citizen. Just because it’s legal for me to vote doesn’t mean it’s okay for me to drink yet.”

“No one cares about that here!” he almost shouted. “Just come with me to the pub at King’s Arms for the next few nights.”

“No fucking way,” you scoffed. “My parents would kill me if they found out I drank on a school night. Also, in case you forgot, we still have our test tomorrow in History. And I, for one, don’t need to get sloshed every night to feel important.”

Michael tugged on your sleeve and nodded at the small crowd forming around you three. You sighed in silence, agreeing that it wasn’t worth it. You both tried to walk away, but you were grabbed and stumbled back, which caused you to drop your books.

“Ow! Are you kidding–” but a wince broke your complaint as Oliver’s hold on your arm tightened to a painful grip. Your eyes traveled to his face, and you were shocked to see the anger shining in his eyes.

“Why do you have to make everything so fucking difficult?” he grit out. “Are you trying to ruin my life?”

The way his nails dug into your skin made you curse under your breath. Seeing you in pain broke Michael out of his shock at how someone as meek as Oliver Quick could show so much aggression. He rushed to get him off you.

“Are you fucking mental?” he hissed at Oliver once he managed to separate to two of you.

But Oliver’s nail left red scratch marks down to your wrist, even breaking the skin enough to cause little beads of blood to escape. This enraged Michael like you have never seen. Staring at the evidence of his former friend’s clawing, he walked forward and pushed him to the bookshelf before grabbing his shirt with both hands.

“What’s wrong with you?” Michael yelled. “She already said no!”

You wiped the blood off your arm with an old travel tissue pack you stole from the plane you took from JFK to London last summer. God, everyone was staring at you guys now. You needed to find a way to contain the situation. If any staff catches you, all three of you may risk trouble. Trouble that would jeopardize your scholarships. You grabbed Michael’s hands to get him to loosen his grip.

“Look, I’ll hear you out–” you looked around and cringed at everyone’s stares, “–just not here.”

This calmed Oliver’s rage enough to get Michael to let go.

“Okay,” he whispered, “okay – yeah. Let’s go outside.”

The three of you grabbed your shit and quickly exited the library. You went to the same area behind the building with no windows – ergo, no bystanders to gawk at you.

“Okay, we’re outside. Look, I’m sorry about your arm. But can you please just –”

You lifted your hand to stop him.

“Okay, look. I only said I would hear you out to make you and Michael stop fighting,” you stated matter-of-factly. “None of us could afford to get in trouble with the faculty and staff, and it was getting too out-of-hand. Oliver, I am not going to King Arm’s tonight or any night you ask me. I have my own life, so don’t drag me into yours.”

Oliver gaped like a fish for a few seconds before speaking.

“But you have to! Please! If you do, then maybe he’ll –”

“WHO?” you interrupted, shouting. “Who will be there? Who is so important that you act so fucking psycho for five minutes ago?”

This was too much for you to deal with everything on your plate already.

“Cut the vague bullshit already! Why are you desperate for me to be there? It’s so –” You froze as an epiphany struck down you.

Oh, hell fucking no…

“Are you hoping that Felix will be there?” you asked through clenched teeth.

You felt like a volcano ready to blow with his slight nod. And like a volcano – you blew.

“You mean to tell me that you risked all our asses, attacked, and humiliated me for fucking FELIX CATTON?!”

You couldn’t believe it – you couldn’t fucking believe it. Felix Catton took up so much of your life already; once again, he felt it necessary to take more of it for himself.

How much more could one man take? How much more did he want until it was enough?

He had taken so much – more than any person other than yourself had any right to own. Your education, your peace, and what was next? Your body? Your life? Did he intend to bleed you dry of everything like a parasitic vampire he and his kind pretended not to be?

You were going crazy, insane, and running yourself tired all at once. The absurdity of it all made you laugh. You laughed and laughed and laughed until you were gasping for air. You laughed so hard that tears spilled from your eyes as you doubled over.

“Oh my god,” you gasped, “oh my god! That’s it. Of course, it is. What else could it be?”

Standing straight, you kept laughing, but you were staring at Oliver with an answer clear in your eyes.

“He got bored of you,” you accused him, “didn’t he? So quickly?”

God, how you relished how red his face turned. If you were smart, you would have stopped taunting there – but you were too tired of everything to care.

“It’s been what? A month? Maybe two?” you further pressed. “He really just loves to go through all his toys, huh?”

“(Y/N),” Michael whispered in your ear, “let’s just go.”

He looked at Oliver with disdainful eyes before softening them to look back at you.

“He isn’t worth it. Come on, let’s get your cut cleaned up before we leave.”

You let Michael gently drag you away from the hurricane mess that was Oliver Quick, leaving him to stew in anger and wallow in self-pity on the chilly spring night.

A few days later, you and Michael were walking back to his dorm after watching one of the most notable movie franchises starring one of Hollywood’s best actors.

“How could you not love Pirates of the Caribbean?” you cried. “Johnny Depp is beyond brilliant!”

“Oh, so acting drunk in front of an expensive camera is now considered brilliant?” he quipped back. “Shit, I should have just gone into acting instead.”

“I’m sorry, do you not remember his jar of dirt? That scene was completely improvised, by the way – including his fall.”

“Oh – not the stupid jar of dirt! Lil’ kept buggering me all summer doing that scene after I took her to see it!”

“Oh, I meant to ask. What did Lily think of the books I got for her birthday? Were they weird?”

“Are you kidding? She loved them. She keeps going on about how she wants to be Annabeth for Halloween. Oh, by the way, she’s making me dress up as Luke and wants you to go as Thalia.”

Your jaw dropped in shock. “Seriously?! Yes, let’s do it. I am so in.”

“She is aware that Luke’s the villain, right?”

“Don’t worry about it so much. She wants to share these memories with you. And you are such a good brother, Mikey.”

“I am never going to escape that name with you,” he groaned, “am I?”

“Nope!” you happily confirmed. “Never! When I write my speech at your wedding, I will mention it at least fifteen times.”

“I’ll allow six.”

“Twelve.”

“Ten, take it or leave it.”

“Ten it is. Pinky-swear.”

You held out your pinky to show sincerity. And like someone raised correctly, Michael respected the sanctity of the swear by reciprocating.

“Perfect! Now that that’s settled, is it okay if I crash at your place for the night? It’s so late, and we don’t have classes tomorrow morning.”

“Yeah, sure,” he replied. “Just make sure you – Annabel.”

Wait, what? You stopped walking and turned to look at your friend in confusion.

“Annabel?”

He pointed it out in front of him with a slight nod.

“Annabel,” he confirmed.

Indeed, it was Annabel. But she was sitting slumped against the hallway’s walls with vomit all over her blue dress.

Felix had been going mad for the past few months since his and Farleigh’s return to Oxford. It was already almost May, and he hadn’t come any closer to getting (Y/N)’s attention.

What could he possibly be doing that was so wrong?

He invites you to parties or a drink with you every time he sees you. He had hoped that being friends with Ollie would have given him an “in” with you, but there was no such luck. Did you really have no idea how he felt about you? How much more obvious could he be?

He remembered how happy he was when he realized that Oliver knew you. It was that night at the pub at Kings’ Arms. He recalled it so vividly.

Felix was silent throughout the entire transaction. The sight of you coming over entirely transfixed him. Your hair had two small braids on the side that were attached with small yellow butterfly clips. You were wearing black denim overalls with vintage-looking patches sewn onto the fabric. Your shirt was a light blue-dyed shirt-sleeved t-shirt with splotches of navy blue. It must have been something you made when you were little. The fabric looked soft and worn down. But the size was small enough to hug the curves of your upper torso perfectly. The way the fabric stretched across your tits made him salivate.

After he introduced himself to you, you only responded with a grimace and a slight nod of acknowledgment. He invited you to join him and his friends for a drink, but you only ignored him. His words were meaningless breezes to you – white noise in the background that added to the clang and chatter in the room. He wasn’t even paying attention to Oliver until you threw that drink at him.

“Fucking cunt-rag!” you called Ollie after throwing Farleigh’s drink in his face. You shoved a middle finger for added effect. “Don’t ever show your face in front of me again.”

Grabbing your coat, you stomped away from the table.

Absentmindedly handing his friend some tissues, Felix had to know what your deal was with Oliver. Were you two dating or just friends? He didn’t know how he felt about his new friend being romantically involved with his angel.

“Wait, do you two know each other?” he asked.

“What?” asked Oliver – not understanding his idol’s question before his mind finally registered it. “Oh, yeah. Yeah, she’s a friend of a friend.”

“Were you two ever, like ‘together’?” Felix had to know.

Oliver’s eyes widened a bit before shaking his head and panickedly answering.

“No, no, no. We have a few classes together – that’s it.”

Felix couldn’t believe his luck. Ollie must really be his hero.

“Do you think you could introduce us?” he asked excitedly – his molten chocolate eyes were shining ablaze with hope.

“Uh, yeah, sure.” Oliver quickly agreed – anything to keep his attention on him.

Felix felt like leaping to the sky. He could run a marathon with how much energy was flooding throughout him. He clapped his hands before grabbing Ollie’s face with both hands and smacking a wet kiss on both cheeks.

“Oh, thank you! Thank you!” Felix went up to get him another pint. “You’re my hero, Ollie. You really are.”

As he lay on his bed, he tried to remember every interaction with you. His last one with you was something he could admit went horribly wrong.

He wandered on the grounds when he stumbled on a building with your bike on the rack. Figuring that you were just in a lecture, Felix figured he could try to catch up with you when it was done. It wasn’t like he had anything important later. He would stay near the entrance and try to catch your attention when you walked out.

Simple.

And because he was God’s favorite, he found you sitting in the middle of an empty classroom. You were taking notes while reading a massive textbook while lightly bobbing your head to whatever was blasting through your earbuds.

Sliding to the seat next to you, he smoothly asked you if there was any room where he could smoke. You didn’t even bother to look at him while answering him – too fixated with your studies to pay attention to him.

Knowing that he had to get you to look at him through more direct actions, Felix impulsively put his hand on your thigh before asking you if you wanted to join him. He even joked, saying that you didn’t only have to get high.

But seeing the terror in your eyes threw him off. He quickly wanted to tell you that he was only joking. If you knew that he wasn’t being serious, maybe you would ease up around him. But before he could apologize, you frantically stood from your seat to gather your books in your bag before running out of the room.

Felix groaned into his hands as he recalled how fast you ran out of the room and away from him.

“Felix, you’re a fucking idiot,” he softly insulted himself.

God, what the hell was wrong with him? Why did he think that someone as studious as you would ever consider getting high with some bloke in the bathroom of an academic building?

Every step he tried to take forward with you felt like he was going ten steps back. He needed to find a way to get on your good side.

Maybe Ollie could – no, that was a dead end. Fuck, he needed a drink.

Lying on his bed, Oliver stared at the ceiling of his room. Annabel had just left with the bottle of vodka they had been drinking out of for the past half hour. He wanted to cry.

Why was everything going wrong?

But he knew the reason. It was you.

He was so naïve to think you wouldn’t be an obstacle. You had practically ruined everything from the beginning. It wasn’t just when you refused to help him the other day but also that night at the pub at Kings’ Arms.

While Felix was ordering him a drink, Oliver sat bewildered at the sequence of events that had transpired in the past five minutes. First, Felix invited him over to sit with him and his friends. And when things had been so well, you interrupted his excellent time by asking where Michael was. When you realize he has left your friend alone, you ask for Farleigh Start’s drink before throwing it in his face. You then called him a “cunt-rag” before storming off like a goddamn child.

Luckily, Felix hadn’t listened to you speak. But that was only because he stared at you – stared at you like he was born to worship you. Even worse, Felix asked him if he could introduce the two of you at some point. The way Felix’s eyes widened in glee when Oliver agreed enraged him – even more than when you insulted and almost humiliated him in front of Felix.

Staring at his back, Oliver figured Felix’s attention on you wasn’t something to worry about. He was only interested in you because you were pretty. As much as you infuriated him, Oliver admitted that you had a rare and genuine beauty to you. He didn’t know whether it was your indifference for Oxford’s gods and kings or your dedication to keeping in touch with your American roots – but it was enough to enrapture Felix Catton temporarily.

No, Oliver Quick had no reason to worry. He would be enough for Felix. And then you would be an afterthought, and he’d be Felix Catton’s everything.

Oliver had to find a way to ensure you wouldn't be a problem anymore. You'd comply - there would come a time when you won't have a choice.

Let me know if you want me to write the full scene of Reader throwing the drink at Oliver!

Tagging: @ethereal-athalia, @arcielee, @valeskafics, @asa-do-your-thing, @aphroditesmoon, @axelsagewrites, @the1999kid, @poolnoodlerescuer, @aemondsbabe, @winterblu2, @abaker74, @whereismymindnow, @agustdeeyaa, @iamavailablesstuff, @bonnieblue0606, @st-eve-barnes, @nyxthoughtss, @immyowndefender, @ilovemydinoboi, @ahristata, @cxp1d, @jinsoulorbitzen12, @temptation-waits, @bollzinurmouth, @jcngw0ns, @seababehh, @destinydestnation, @lankyboi4, @mindless-rock, @cassavacakes

Please comment and/or reblog your thoughts and if you want to be added to the taglist!

#saltburn x reader #saltburn #saltburn crack #saltburn au #michael gavey x reader #felix catton x reader #farleigh catton #farleigh start #venetia catton #oliver quick #michael gavey #saltburn 2023 #saltburn movie

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fashionsfromhistory · 1 year ago

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Dress

1893

Conventional in style for its time, with a close fitting boned bodice, defined yoke, tight sleeves with epaulettes and full puffed top sections, this two piece dress nevertheless shows the influence of artistic dress on the materials from which it has been made. Originating from the attempts to reform ugly aspects of women’s clothing, artistic dress favoured muted colours and softly textured fabrics, and by the 1890s some of these preferences had found their way into more mainstream fashion worn by middle class women with cultural interests. The fine silk twill of the dress’s body, the velvet and soft wool of its sleeves, collar and hem, and the ‘antique’ lace of its yoke were all favoured components of artistic dress, as were its simple grey shell buttons that celebrated the unpretentious beauty of natural materials. Sludgy shades of green such as olive and sage were a reaction against the brashness of synthetic dyes, and both greens have been used in the silk’s printed design of ‘faded’ pink and yellow honeysuckle with light sage foliage on a dark olive ground. This design, albeit on a different scale, evokes some of the textiles and wallpapers produced by the firm of Morris & Co, set up by William Morris to provide items of interior design that accorded with his artistic and socialist principles. One such example is the block printed cotton ‘Honeysuckle’ of 1876, depicting pale flowers and foliage on a dark ground.

John Bright Collection

#dress #fashion history #historical fashion #1890s #19th century #turn of the century #1893 #victorian fashion #victorian #silk #wool #velvet #green #brown #john bright collection

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autumn2may · 1 year ago

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i got this ad on FB and was thinking "what is this company smoking"

then @aughtpunk said something important:

"okay but the fan art of that combo would be INSANE"

DO IT TUMBLR YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO

. . .

I put this in the alt text, but i'm dying so i'm posting it here so no one misses it.

[ID: Image shows a FB ad from SHEIN. Copy reads: Free shipping, Casual + Unique Styles, Your Personal Wardrobe.

There are two images. The first is a long-sleeve olive green sweater with cute knit patches of different height mushrooms. The mushrooms have white stems and a red caps with white dots. There is one above were each breast would be and then one on each sleeve near the cuff. I think there are more on the other side of the cuff.

BUT the sweater only goes down to the top of wear the breasts would sit. The rest of the sweater is missing ON PURPOSE.

The piece is labeled: Mushroom Pattern Bell Sleeve Crop Sweater.

The second image is an pale, acid-washed pair of jeans. But it's not a full pair of jeans. It's literally a thong.

The piece is labeled: Low Rise Booty Denim Shorts.

At the bottom of the image is the FB bar of Like, Comment, Share, all of which are unchecked.]

#clothing #style #fan art #weird stuff #weird ads #draw this challenge #clothes #fanart #style guide #fashion tumblr #art #oc sketch #please draw this #shein

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bluelancess · 9 months ago

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Untouchable | Elriel fic part 1/3

Summary: The inner circle is having one of their usual dinner parties, during which Azriel can't help but shoot death glares to Lucien across the table, Elain is the only one who manages to calm him down.

Tags: secret meetings, forbidden love, secret relationship

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Read on AO3.

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Chapter 1: This is falling in love in the cruelest way

The Townhouse was exceptionally quiet today, the only sound filling its empty walls came from Elain’s soft humming in the kitchen. It was a melody she had heard a couple of days back while strolling along Velaris’ farmer’s market. She thought it was sweet, sounded almost a little magical to her ears, she had stopped on her tracks to give her full attention to the street performers, marveling at the way their expert fingers played the instruments, and at how they could attract a large crowd after only playing a single enchanting note. She was most definitely not doing the song justice, but humming helped her keep her mind away from dangerous black holes that always threatened to swallow her whole, the same way baking and gardening did.

She was adamant on never letting her mind take her away again.

Ever.

Elain put the final touches to the delicious meal she was cooking for dinner, and cleaned the palms of her hands on the front part of her light-blue apron. Roasted rosemary potatoes, grilled chicken with lemon zest, honey and mustard, various vegetables she had seasoned earlier; broccoli, peas, a tomato salad with basil and olive oil.

Cooking kept her busy and occupied most of the time. And it filled her with joy to be able to be helpful in any way she could. Besides, today was one of the Inner Circle’s weekly dinner meeting. Rhysand made it almost mandatory, and considering everyone was busy doing their own thing nowadays, having an afternoon where they could catch up on everything else other than work-related subjects, was a refreshing change.

Elain had dessert finishing baking in the oven, a blueberry crust pie she was going to serve alongside some vanilla ice-cream and whipped cream, when Nuala and Cerridwen entered the kitchen, both walked as silently as a ghost would. It used to perturbe Elain at the beginning, them being so silent, but with time she had gotten used to their presence, their company.

“The table is set,” Nuala said. “We can finish up here.”

“Thank you,” Elain smiled at her, and slowly removed her apron. Cerridwen extended her hand towards her, so Elain could hand her the clothing item covered in flower. “Is Feyre still asleep?”

Nuala nodded softly. “She and the babe, both.”

Elain chewed on her lower lip, concealing the smile that had formed after picturing the image in her head. Feyre lying on her bed, Nyx resting on top on her chest, the tiny wings tucked in, his little chubby hands holding onto Feyre’s gown like he used to do when he slept in that position as if scared Feyre might put him in his crib as soon as he fell asleep.

“I’ll go change,” Elain told them both, “then I can check up on them.”

“We’ll clean up here.”

“Thank you.”

With that, Elain exited the kitchen, and took slow, soft steps towards the stairs. She had already chosen the gown she would wear for dinner. A lavender satiny dress that hugged her curves in all the right places, with hug shoulders, long slit sleeves and a cirde skirt that reached a little under her ankles that flowed when she walked, making her her feel like a real-life fairytale princess. It was her favorite dress as of late. She hadn’t worn it for other people yet, she was waiting for an special occasion.

This seemed like the right time.

Considering Az would be here any minute.

Just thinking about the Shadowsinger brought a wave of unbearable heat cursing through her, warming up her cheeks, her neck, her ears. She needed to learn to control herself, if she wanted whatever was going on between them to remain private.

Any time she stopped to remember they way Az had looked that one night he came knocking on her window at three in the morning, her whole body shivered, the memory carefully stored in a special place in her heart. It had been the night everything shifted, everything changed, for her. For Azriel.

No one knew about it.

No one could.

Elain had been awake twisting and turning on the sheets, as per usual since their moment at the Winter Solstice, that cursed night that some days, the bad days, she wanted to desperately forget. Forget the way he had touched her and made her light up with so much want, so much need… She had never felt so alive before. Only to end with him pushing her away, such a regretful look in his eyes, telling her that it had been a mistake. But then… there were the good days, those days were she thought about him and hoped, prayed to whatever had interest in hearing her pleas, to have a second chance. To ask him all the questions roaming her head. All the doubts eating at her.

She never imagined he was feeling the same way.

But then, as if he were almost as desperate as her, he’d come in the middle of the night, looking like he’d also had been tossing and turning, so many sleepless night catching up to him. She opened the window with her heart on her throat, and he whispered to her to come with him. Only for a moment. He begged with his eyes, a desperation that was so painfully palpable, Elain’s whole chest squeezed at the sight of it.

Breathless, she took his hand that night.

It was the first time he took her flying, just for the fun of it. They had made it a habit now. He would knock on her window, she would open it, and he would scoop her in his arms, kiss her brow and marvel at her laughs when he would take off, holding her close to him, showing her the sky. It was those moments, that made Elain feel like she was actually free.

Elain opened the door to her bedroom, and froze at the threshold, her brown eyes going wide, her traitorous heart beating so fast it reverberated in her ears.

Azriel brought his index fingers to his lips and it was pure luck she didn't scream when she saw him; sprawled on her bed, boots still on, his wings so big they barely fit the mattress. She licked her lower lip, feet glued to the floor. He looked at her like he wanted to eat her alive, and Elain’s cheeks warmed up. He chuckled, darkly, softly and motioned for her to come forward with his hand, she shook her head like she couldn't believe what he was doing.

After taking a deep breath, Elain quickly looked over her shoulder before closing the door behind her. She didn’t have time to give a single step, before Azriel got to his feet, and closed the space between them in two exact and calculated steps.

“You’re insane,” she breathed, lifting her head to look at him in the eyes, he was so tall, it never stoped amazing her, so tall, and so beautiful. Azriel hands went to her cheeks, holding her so gently as if he were scared to hurt her.

“I missed you,” he simply replied, lifting a shoulder, one of his thumbs caressing her lower lip, his face getting nearer to hers, she could almost taste him. After a couple of weeks meeting in secret, delighting herself with his company, Elain had realized that Azriel liked to tease her. So much. He liked to take things so painfully slow, until she was barely breathing and begging him to touch her, to kiss her, to give her everything. “Just thinking about the fact that I have to sit on that dinner table, unable to touch you for hours, was driving me crazy.”

Azriel left a phantom kiss on her right cheekbone, then moved to the bridge of her nose. Elain closed her eyes at the contact, savoring the feel of him. Her hands roaming him from his shoulders, down to the muscles of his chest. She loved the way his Illyrian leathers felt under her fingertips. She dreamed of the day she finally would have the opportunity to peel them off of him.

But she couldn’t. They couldn’t.

Not yet.

It was too risky, everyone would to know they had been together, their scents would mix, there would be no denying it. And although Azriel was usually cocky and confident when it came to the fact the he most definitely would win a blood duel against Lucien, she couldn't even fathom the idea of Az risking his life in that matter for her. Az kept distributing tiny kisses along her face, like he wanted to pain it all with his lips. It was certainly torture having to wait until they were finally free to fall into the lust consuming their bodies, their souls. But she was completely sure it’d be worth the wait.

“So you decided to cheat and get a little taste before dinner?” She asked, and he hummed, as he kissed her eyelids, the tip of her nose, the right corner of her mouth. So soft, so gentle.

“Hmm,” he muttered, “I was actually hoping you wanted to skip dinner altogether.”

“Because that wouldn’t be suspicious.” He kissed the left corner of her mouth now, and a groan left Elain’s throat, Azriel ignored it and moved down to her jaw. “How long have you been here anyway?”

“About half an hour,” he replied, voice low, no more than a rumble, but she heard it perfectly, felt it everywhere. He kissed right under her earlobe and Elain bit her lower lip hard, tying to conceal the moan escaping her. “You smell so good.”

She melted against him the the words, reality crashing into her like a hard wave. Remembering where they were, who that house belonged to.

“Rhys could get home any minute,” she breathed, he groaned at the name of another male leaving her mouth when he was licking up the column of her neck, her hands grasping his uniform as if she needed it to remain standing. Cauldron, he was killing her.

“I don’t care,” Azriel replied, sucking gently at the sensitive, pale skin, his hands angling her head, exposing her neck just the way he wanted, the way he needed. “Maybe I should just leave a mark right here,” he whispered, and gently kissed right under her jaw. “Everyone can come to their own conclusions.”

“You wouldn’t.” She teased him, somehow, for some reason, the idea sparked something in her, something feral. She wanted him to claim her, to show everyone that she was his and he was hers.

That they had chosen one another.

Damn the consequences.

“Someday I will.” He told her, making it sound like a threat. He couldn’t hide the smile of surprise when she let out a breathy moan, as if she could just picture the idea in her head and loved it.

Elain was about to just grab his beautiful face, get on her tippy toes, and steal a long kiss from his lips, when Azriel stepped away from her, so fast she almost lost her balance. A knock on the door had her spine straightening, her heart jumping.

“El, are you there?” Feyre. It was her sister’s voice, still sleepy from the nap she had been taking with Nyx.

She turned around, the door was behind her, she had been pressed against the wood by Azriel's solid body. She swallowed hard, running her fingers through her hair, her face, her neck, she could still feel Azriel lips on her skin, the wet strokes of his tongue, the little painless bites. She was definitely flushed.

She looked over her shoulder, Azriel was nowhere to be seen, but in the corner of the room, right under the door that connected to her dressing room, a little shadow was peaking, sharp like a knife, as if getting ready to attack if she needed it to.

“Elain?” Feyre knocked again, and Elain forced herself to take one, two long breaths before turning the knob and opening the door.

“Sorry,” she told her sister. “I was about to change my clothes. They’re covered in food... you know, from cooking and all that.”

Feyre yawned, her eyes were glassy and her cheeks rosy from sleep, Elain tried to block the view of the inside of her rooms, just to be sure. But Feyre ignored it, putting one of her hands on her sister’s shoulders and going inside, to lay face first on the bed.

“Dinner smells so good,” Feyre murmured. “I’m so hungry the smell woke me up. Also, Nyx started to cry. He was hungry too.”

“You had a good nap?” Elain asked, her voice sounded strange even to herself, but Feyre didn’t seem to notice anything out of the ordinary.

“Yes, I needed it.” After a beat, Feyre sat on the bed and looked at Elain, the relaxed look on her face from the last couple of seconds going away in a blink. “Actually, I came to talk to you about something.”

Elain took a couple steps towards her sister, sitting beside her on the side of the bed. “What happened?”

“I just spoke with Rhys, mainly to asked him what time he was coming home for dinner, and he mentioned to me Lucien is in the city. He came because he has some reports he need to give Rhys, and …” Feyre grimaced, she looked worried, almost guilty. “I know it makes you uncomfortable, so I told him to not even think about bringing him tonight before asking you.”

Elain couldn’t hear anything. Couldn’t breathe.

She hated this. Hated that cursed mating bond so much.

All she wanted was to be free of that male, but it was like he didn’t know when to give up. No matter how many hints she sent his way, or the fact that she made it her mission to stay as far away from him as possible. He wouldn’t budge.

She couldn’t understand how he could continue to pursue her, knowing that it wouldn’t get him anywhere. Lucien couldn’t be so naive to believe she’d change her mind with a couple of expensive gifts and awkward dinner parties where he didn’t even make the effort to see her, understand her.

But, even if she wanted to say no, this wasn’t her house. Not really.

It was her sister’s, and her mate’s. She was living there because they were kind enough to let her. Because they cared about her, yes, but that didn’t mean that sometimes, she wished she could have something that was entirely hers.

Just hers.

“Lucien is your friend, I don’t want you to not invite him because of me,” the words tasted wrong on the mouth, and the shadows slowly started gathering in the corners of the room, like steam from a boiling pot.

“Are you sure?” Feyre’s face changed, glowing, “You don’t have to talk to him if you don’t want to, I don’t want to ruin your night.”

“You won’t. It’s fine.” She tried to give her sister a smile. The truth was, at this point, after everything Feyre had done for her and their family, Elain was willing to do, to endure, absolutely anything for her sister. It was the least she could do.

No sacrifice seemed great enough. Not after everything Feyre had lost, suffered through for them. For her.

She could be an adult and enjoy one evening with Lucien. Put on a smile, pretend everything was perfect and delicious, and she was happy. Because she was happy. More than ever. She just had to remind herself that once the dinner party was over, and the guests went home, she could return to her little room, and maybe, just maybe, Azriel would be waiting for her.

And if he was, she’d ask him to take her flying.

Feyre threw her arms around her sister and kissed her temple.

“Everyone is getting here in fifteen minutes.” Feyre stood up from the bed and walked towards the door. “I’ll see you downstairs.”

Elain closed the door as soon as her sister left, and rested her forehead on the cool wood. She felt the spymaster presence at her back, his eyes piercing, his shadows surrounding the four walls of her rooms like he wanted to keep her there, all to himself.

“Did you know he was on the city?” She asked softly, turning around to see him standing right outside her dressing room.

Azriel shook his head.

“Rhys ordered me to take care of other business today,” he replied, his voice lethal, scarred hands curling into tight balls, shoulders tense. She approached him, and softly put the pads on her fingers in his hands, willing them to relax, to open up for her and let her in, hold her.

“It’ll be okay.”

“I can’t stand it,” he groaned. “I can’t stand the way he looks at you. The smell—“ Azriel took her hands into his, closing his fingers around hers tight, the muscle on his jaw flexing.

“It’s not easy for me either.”

“Then let’s not go,” he looked at her like he wanted to whisk her away, show her everything, run and run until no one knew who they were. "Let's go somewhere else, just you and me."

“Az…” His name sounded so charged coming from her lips, like a prayer, a promise, the sweetest of secrets, something she only said when it was the two of them, alone. “We can’t.”

He let out a long sigh, and rested his chin on top of her head.

“Don’t ask me to be nice, then,” he said.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Good.”

————————————

this is going to be a 3 part little one shot so enjoy <3

#pro elriel #elriel #elain x azriel #pro elain #azriel x elain #acotar #azriel #elain archeron

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dantesdickferno · 9 months ago

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amaretto

Miguel/Reader | Explicit | Chapter 1/?

a/n: I brought this blog back from the dead to post this so I hope y’all enjoy. Gonna be a few chapters but not sure how many yet. Femdom reader, Bartender Miguel basically. Horny and angsty modern NYC AU, no powers. Bit of a slow burn (ish). Enjoy lol

***

The Basilica is, for all intents and purposes, a mediocre bar.

There’s a pothole steps away from the bar’s entrance that customers have to maneuver past in kitten heels and designer sneakers, and the embossed metal sign at the front of the door is almost completely covered in rust. It’s clearly an establishment that’s too pretentious to be a dive bar, but not exactly up to code enough to be an upscale cocktail bar either.

Recent attempts to rebrand the place as a hole-in-the-wall speakeasy have been successful, meaning that it’s now the common haunt for every art history graduate student, Bauhaus enthusiast, and unattainably gorgeous bisexual poet in lower Manhattan who’s willing to spend 17 dollars on a drink.

You stumble across the small chipped navy blue door after a brutal day at work. The patrons at the luxury handbag store you have the distinct displeasure of interacting with were particularly snippy today, and your pair of not-yet-broken-in oxfords feel more like a prison than a fashion statement at the moment. You need a drink to help forget the past ten hours ever happened just so you can do it all over again tomorrow. You’ve never heard of this place, but you don’t feel like getting on the subway just yet and looking for a bar that’s closer to home. This vaguely sketchy place will have to do.

The cozy interior of The Basicilia smells of cigar smoke and melting wax. Lit partially by candlelight, the brick walls and small antique cherrywood tables feel distant, yet homey. There are large gothic-style lanterns hanging from the low ceiling, and servers expertly move through the crowd carrying stainless steel trays full of thick-cut fries and bowls of green olives.

Despite the bar being relatively full, only one other person is sitting at the actual bar when you approach it—everyone else appears to be relegated to the various tables and benches strewn about the space, or hugging the walls holding glasses of craft beer.

With all of the fuss that sitting down on a stool, pulling off your winter coat, and hanging your things on a hook underneath the bar causes, it takes you a moment for you to see him.

But you do.

There’s a blur of movement in the corner of your vision as a tall man in a black button-down with rolled-up sleeves vaults over the bar wall and stalks over to the other end of the restaurant before knocking on a solid black door with the sole of his boot.

“Hey! You awake in there? They need help running food!” The man shouts, not waiting for a response before rushing back across the room and climbing back into the bar.

The sound draws a few eyes, but no one appears to be shocked—it seems to be a common occurrence here, judging by the way the person who appears to be the manager steps out of the previously kicked door looking bleary-eyed and sheepish, a pair of noise-canceling headphones around his neck and a set of keys jangling at his belt.

But your attention has been drawn elsewhere.

The man is tall enough to reach for a bottle of Belvedere vodka on the top shelf to hand to a nearby barback without straining. You notice his hands first—broad, veiny, with nails cut down to the bone. There’s a bandage wrapped around the middle finger on his left hand. A smattering of hair on his triceps, which are all muscle and sinew. And two tattoos—-a fang on his right bicep, and a bundle of marigolds on his left forearm. He leans onto the bar table to address you, his button-down snug around his chest.

Jesus fucking christ. If you had a drink you would certainly spill it.

“What are you getting,” he says—his voice raw from shouting, you assume—and his voice trends downward at the end of the sentence, as if he doesn’t want to ask you, as if it isn’t a question. You can’t even pretend to be offended—working in the service industry is a thankless task, and you know that well enough. But even you can admit that the level of tension in his jaw and the shuttered look in his eyes is disconcerting in a way that has to do with more than the fact that he presumably hates his job.

“A mojito, please,” you say, with less confidence than you’d normally have. You’re used to sitting at bars alone and making conversation with the bartenders, but tonight doesn’t seem to be going in that direction.

“A mojito?” The man repeats, and you know it’s the wrong choice somehow. Other than an almost imperceptible eye roll, he nods, turning his back to you to grab the right ingredients.

Still. It makes you curious.

“What’s wrong with a mojito?” you ask, watching the way his shoulders stiffen. It’s like his entire being is on constant guard, waiting for the other shoe to drop–you can see it in the way he turns back to look at you, his jaw set as he sets down a collins glass and starts picking damp mint sprigs out of a chilled metal container.

“First time here?” he says, and again, it isn’t a question. He places the mint leaves on a paper towel to dry before rubbing them on the rim of the collins glass and putting them in a separate pint glass.

“Yeah. What’s wrong with a mojito?” Normally you’d take your cue from the bartender and quit trying to make conversation, but something about him makes you want to poke and meddle, like touching a live wire with the tip of your finger.

“Nothing.”

“I won’t get offended. Is this one of those ‘what your drink of choice says about you’ things?” you probe, leaning onto the bar top. The other conversations seem to fade to a lull in the background of your mind, your sights set on tormented brown eyes and tense, broad shoulders.

“No.”

“Because that kind of seems like what this is—”

“No.”

“Then what is it? If you don’t mind me asking. I hope I’m not committing a major bar crime, or something.” He clearly minds, and the sigh he lets out is nothing short of torturous sounding, but he seems to indulge you anyway. You briefly register his hands reaching for various cups and bottles at an even tempo, his movements intentional as he makes your cocktail. He crushes mint and lime and sugar together with a blunt tool before opening a carafe of ice. A shiver runs through you, completely against your will, as you watch him work. You’ve always had a soft spot for competence.

“It’s more of a practical thing,” he explains, and you settle onto your stool, sensing a tangent incoming. “Mojitos aren’t complicated to make, but they take time. They have a lot of moving parts. And then once one person orders it, I get ten more people who saw me making it asking for it too, and I have to start the process over again. And then more people order it, and next thing you know I’m making mojitos for the rest of the night.”

“So when I ask for mojitos at other bars and they say they’re out of mint, are they lying?” you tease. He places your drink in front of you then, topping it off with a mint spring and a lime wedge at the rim of the glass.

“...Every bartender hates you,” he says in response, leaning in, and you give him a soft smile, sipping from the glass. It’s one of the best drinks you’ve ever had.

There isn’t an ounce of enjoyment to be seen in his eyes, or in the shadows of his face. But you swear you see a flicker of something there, like something that has long since lain dormant coming back to life—if only for a second–before it dissipates.

“What’s your name?” you ask, pushing your luck. Any spark that had once been lit is extinguished. He backs away, the lanterns from overhead casting shadows across his features that make him look like a stranger again. You silently curse yourself.

“I don’t do that,” he shakes his head, before venturing to the other end of the bar to help a seemingly new bartender whip up a martini. You wait patiently, watching the way his mouth moves and his hands gesture as he corrects the bartender on their…technique, or something. You have no idea. From afar, he looks equally as intimidating, if not more so. The lines of his body don’t indicate any kind of softness, and his shoulders are slightly hunched as if he’s ashamed of himself. You wonder if he does bicep curls in a concrete room for hours until he sweats out all of the vulnerability. Or maybe he runs from it, in the early morning, breath labored and lungs aching until his sneakers are worn out.

“You don’t do names?” you ask him as soon as he returns, and his time he doesn’t even pretend to hide his exasperation, rolling his eyes again before resting his elbows on the bar so that his face is inches away from yours. Your heart lurches. A quick glance around rewards you with a few of the patrons regarding you with a vague amount of interest—and concern.

“Listen. I’m not a therapy session bartender,” he says with enough disdain to cause your eyebrows to raise in surprise. “I like the theory of it. The drink making. That’s it. Talk to that guy,” he continues, gesturing to a fellow bartender with a man bun and gauges who’s currently chatting up the only other person sitting on the other end of the bar. “He’s chatty.”

This close-up, you can see the dark circles around his eyes, his slightly chapped lips. You get a brief urge to trace the wrinkles across his forehead with the pads of your fingertips, but you hold off, of course. The man seems like he’s too old for anyone. He’s lived a million lifetimes.

“I don’t want to talk to that guy,” you say, feeling emboldened. I want to talk to you. “No offense.”

Something in his expression flickers back to life once more, like a butterfly trying to fly without one of its wings.

“Miguel,” he says after a while, sounding pained. You tell him your name, and he gives no indication that he’s registered it.

“Do you wanna open a tab, or close it?” Miguel asks then, and his voice sounds weightier.

“...Keep it open.”

***

The bar is sweltering, but the cold, sour tang of the mojito keeps you cool as you watch Miguel make his way across the bar to help mix drinks for other patrons. You feel pinned to your stool somehow, like a bug under a microscope, even though Miguel doesn’t spare another glance in your direction. The music in here is alright, but not noteworthy. You wish you had someone to dance with.

The bartender with the man bun makes you another mojito before you can say otherwise, but it tastes different somehow. Too much mint maybe. Not enough bitterness. Miguel’s theory seems to be wrong; you scan the bar for other tall glasses with sprigs of bright green mint and find none. After brief consideration, you decide not to bother him any further by informing him of this fact.

The bar gets increasingly more crowded as the night goes on, and it becomes abundantly clear that Miguel isn’t going to check on you again. You want to believe it’s because he’s too busy, but you wonder if you made the wrong impression somehow. You wonder why you care. You hate that you do.

You settle your tab and gather your things before buttoning your coat and setting off into the night. Your two drinks have muddled your senses just so, but not enough to be completely disorienting. On the precipice of happy, maybe.

As you zip your coat up to your chin and walk down the sidewalk, you think about going home to your studio apartment and cuddling with your cat Cinnamon. You think about hopefully getting a few hours of sleep before the workday comes back around in the morning to swallow you whole once again. You think about the harsh line of Miguel’s jaw, about the fact that he’ll likely forget about you come morning.

“Every bartender hates me,” you repeat to yourself—a truly harrowing fact—before shaking your head and walking down the steps into the subway.

a/n: lmk if you enjoyed/if you wanna see more—mwah x

#dom reader #miguel o'hara #miguel x reader #miguel x y/n #miguel x you #miguel spiderverse #miguel spiderman #miguel smut #miguel 2099 #atsv miguel #atsv x reader #atsv fanfiction #atsv fic #atsv fandom #across the spid #sub miguel o'hara

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kth1 · 2 years ago

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Office Santa (M) [JJK]

Office Santa [Jungkook x Female Reader]

⟶ Pairing: Jungkook x Female Reader ⟶ Genre: Office!Au, Holiday Party!Au, Christmas!Au, PWP, One-Shot, 18+ ⟶ WC: 7.4k+ ⟶ Warnings: alcohol, swearing, oral (m), fingering, small tit-play, unprotected sex, etc ⟶ Summary: On the verge of leaving the office Christmas party, you find a reason to stay just a little bit longer. ⟶ Author’s Note: This came to me on a whim. It’s been a long while since I’ve written for Jungkook, so I’m happy I finally could muster something for you readers! Currently I have not gotten a beta, please excuse any grammar mistakes. If you see something, kindly message me and help your girl out. Other than that, please enjoy this little fic!

Masterlist ⁂ Mail Box

It’s your typical, over the top, annual Christmas office party. Suffering at the hands of HTU Tech’s lame excuse to extend congratulations to their employees for pouring endless hours of their life to keep the company on the ground. Being a lead systems engineer isn’t exactly what you wanted for yourself, but it comes easy when you surpass all your education with flying colors. It immediately landed you a career with one of the most renowned internet companies, and shortly after being hired you moved up the rankings.

But enough about you. You can care less about going on with your achievements as you aimlessly sip your dry martini. The olive speared stirrer gives you entertainment as you pretend to listen to your coworkers speak among another. Your true entertainment lands on the male standing across the busy room with his blonde hair teased and tucked behind a jeweled ear – showing off the dark undercut that hides beneath. The color is toned and perfectly compliments his gorgeous skin shade; you’ve always had thoughts of asking him who his hairdresser is.

He wears all black. A silk button up with sleeves rolled up his forearms and tucked in at the waist, secured with a belt with a gold chape. Drawings of black ink tattooed into his skin peek out on his right forearm — you have never once seen them all in their full beauty or how deliciously far up they roam on his body. But you would give a thousand hours, maybe more, of your precious time to find out.

He’s your supervisor, Jeon Jungkook. At the ripe age of 30, he is the youngest chief technical officer known to the area. His father, the CEO of the company is to thank for his current status. But from all you know of Jungkook, he’s a perfectionist at heart. If he couldn’t handle the stresses of a CTO, he probably wouldn’t be placed in such a position.

You have no complaints on the matter. Month in and month out, you’re greeted with his presence. And boy, do you have a massive crush on this stallion of a male. The funny thing is, you don’t need to admit such admiration out in the open. Jungkook surely knows simply by the way you interact with him. With hopeless eyes and kind gestures of doing nearly everything he asks of you, he has you eating right out of the palms of his hands without even trying.

Jungkook entertains it – your crush. With subtle glints of flirtations and constantly blessing you with his attendance in your office. You would even dare to say he enjoys a good venting session. You’ve become something like an open ear for him, someone he can just speak with during work.

It’s only stayed within work too – the contact. Not once have you and Jungkook interacted outside these building walls. Neither one of you attempted to do so. And perhaps that’s best.

Because as the crowded office continues to fill with 200 of HTU Tech employees, you realize how large the world is. How many obstacles and potential roadblocks there can be if you even attempted to speak to Jungkook outside of a work occasion. The safety of finding out more of him would only be the times in your office while you diligently type away at your computer and hack and create codings.

Your martini disappears over the course of time as you continue to glance over at Jungkook who casually sips from his whiskey glass. It’s filled with scotch and an orange slice – called a Rusty Nail. You reckon he’s been tipping those back for hours now. All the while the party continues to exist and expand, stretching into the colder hours of the night.

Jungkook catches your eyes a few times. It always sends heat to your body and your heart begins racing. You want to blame the alcohol or the infuriating holiday lights gleaming down brightly, but you know the truth.

Even when you are never given a real sign of Jungkook’s interest in you, nothing concrete, you still hope there can be something. You cling onto the idea of him maybe one day slipping like when one steps on black ice. Hidden and deadly. Where your feet take out from under you and you land straight on your ass. That’s what you secretly crave and pray for.

A waiter comes over with a tray and another dry martini for you and you happily grab at the thin glass stem, bringing the liquid to your lips as you touch the rim. You’re not drinking your sorrows away, you’re just trying to enjoy the rest of the party before you depart back to your lonely apartment.

“And you still choose not to dance,” one of your closer coworkers, Jessi, comments. Her lips are pursed in displeasure.

“I’m not much of a dancer,” you reply with a shrug.

The subtle heat burning down your throat from the alcohol is preferred in comparison to the pain your heels would endure if you danced the night away. Who wants their feet to be achy?

Jessi places a hand on your shoulder to give you an encouraging nudge, “I’m sure you’re lying.”

“It will be a secret you’ll never find out,” you stubbornly sit firm. You give her a brief warning look through the corner of your eyes, hoping she understands to not press you on the matter. “Besides, I’ll be heading out soon anyways. I’m getting uncomfortable being here longer than I need to be.”

A scoff resounds next to you, Jessi rolling her eyes while she admits defeat. She tosses her hair over her shoulder, leaning back into her chair as her eyes scan the dancefloor. It’s not that she needs you to go out there and enjoy herself, she’s perfectly fine on her own. But seeing her office buddy do nothing after dolling herself up is a bitter disappointment.

“I’m sure you’d catch the eye of you-know-who if you were out there.”

You shove yourself from the table, your chair protests with a skidding sound against the tiled floor below you. Your eyes snap to Jessi as you stand, gathering your minibag under your arm.

“I don’t need to dance to get his attention. I can easily have a conversation with him if I cared to. And I don’t,” you lie.

There’s a chime that rings from your cell phone. As you gather your coat from the back of your seat, you spy the notorious name on the bright screen in the palm of your hand. A small smirk grows on your lips before you chug the rest of your martini, letting the base of the glass on the table with a thud.

“See ya,” Jessi doesn’t spare you another glance. Already moved on to newer interests as her hand slides around the arm of the man sitting next to her. She knows she has lost you for the night, but unbothered by your quick withdrawal.

You gather yourself, walking away from the bulk of the party towards the stairs. With your nose in your phone, you walk your way towards your office one step at a time. Grinning ear to ear at the flutter of texts that gained your desperate attention.

[Superior J]: Where are you heading to?

[You]: Mind your business

[Superior J]: Is that any way to speak to your boss?

[You]: I didn’t realize I was texting the CEO…

[Superior J]: 🙄

[Superior J]: I’m still above you

[Superior J]: The gift exchange hasn’t happened yet

[You]: I know.

[You]: I’m just grabbing my gift from my office and heading out after 👍

Your feet have brought you straight to the frame of your office door, distant from the busy gathering. Quiet. A white board with writing and magnets hang on the outside, notes and random drawings are littered across its expanse. Your freshly manicured fingers press into the keypad that unlocks your door with a special code – 0711 – and with the click of the door closing behind you you step further into your personal office.

Inside, you flick on a small light after you place your belongings on top of your desk. Aimless papers are scattered around, loads of your hard work on full display as you piece everything together like a diagram. The mess only makes sense to you; if any prying eyes dare to decipher what you have riddled all across your entire office, they’d be stuck in here all week.

One of your filing cabinets – the one decorated like a snowman made out of office supplies – holds the gift for your Secret Santa. You placed it here because it was easy to remember.

A bluetooth speaker and small flowering bonsai plant kit. It blossoms a blush toned flower during the spring and even during the fall with proper care. The wireless speaker is just an added bonus to the gift. You tied red and green ribbons around each of them, a bit lazy on your end but still maintained your festive requirements. You’re positive that your office-buddy, Namjoon — the one in the HR department, would enjoy these given his love for soft instrumental music and plant-life.

Two taps hit the other side of your office door. From the blurred glass you can see the silhouette of a person who shifts on their heels. You step up to the door, swinging it open to reveal a tall and handsome Jungkook, standing there with two empty glasses secured between his fingers and a highly expensive bottle of red wine in the other. He holds them up with a toothy grin on his face. Jungkook’s jaw slackens as he slowly eyes you up and down, running his tongue along his pearly whites. Your heart skips a beat when his gaze jumps to lock eyes with yours. You can clearly see the powerful, hungered vigor brewing in those deep brown irises that glint with mischief. One single eyebrow raise and you already lose any leverage you thought you could have on him.

There is a weakness you have towards a man who looks fine in a dress shirt and pants. Even more of a weakness with someone who has styled locks, a sharp jawline, determined nature, and an alternative edge to their appearance.

Almost like a bad boy who dresses up far too nicely. Where blacks, grays, and the occasional tans are his color pallet. Form fitting to his toned body which you can only guess he must have based on how the clothes fit on him.

You sigh in defeat, opening up a way for Jungkook to waltz right past you and into your office as if he owns the place. He settles the bottle and glasses on an open space on your desk, already twisting the top off and pouring the sinful liquid equally between the two full-bodied wine glasses. The bottle reads 1990 Chateau Petrus; the name alone sends a chill down the base of your spine.

“Not too much,” you refer to the glass half full. Your office door closes behind you as you walk towards the desk. “I’ve had plenty enough to drink tonight.”

Jungkook lifts your glass toward you, his ring clad fingers draw your sight instantly. “It’s expensive, I requested this one personally when we hired the open bar,” he announces. “You’ll enjoy it.”

You give him a sly look as you narrow your eyes at him, holding up the glass to your nose to inhale a quick whiff. To label the smell – it smells expressive and sophisticated, like a ripe fruit mixed with vanilla aromas.

Almost like how you can describe the man who is standing in front of you.

He grins to himself as he waits to clink his glass with yours, a nonverbal cheer between the two of you – but for what? You don’t know. The dark red wine tastes extremely silky and mixed with a superb flavor concentration. Muscular but refined and toned.

Almost just like how you think he must be under those black clothes.

The two of you tilt back a delicious portion of the liquid and each settle with a coquettish moan. An unnecessary sound for both of your ears, but neither one of you protest the act.

“Not bad,” you state as your eyes watch the liquid swirl in your glass.

“Better than those dry martinis you enjoyed yourself with,” Jungkook teases. He decides to sit in your chair as he lounges back to find himself in a comfortable position. His free hand begins to flick through random pieces of paper among your desk while avoiding the coat and purse you have plopped on the surface.

“Probably better than that pathetic excuse of that scotch you favor so much.”

You see how the playful bluntness fuels Jungkook to another level. It stirs something inside him and possibly that is why he confines in you more often than so.

“Want to tell me what these papers are all about?” He points a few packets stapled together. “Important or just brainstorming?”

“Brainstorming is important,” you admit. You snatch a clump of papers up with one hand, placing them to the side in a bin and away from Jungkook’s prying eyes. “You wouldn’t have a chance of understanding this. It’s all disorganized right now. Besides, we’re not working right now. So unless you want to pay me for discussing work-related things, then I suggest you change the topic.”

You watch as Jungkook refuses to look up at you as his eyes remain busy looking at your etchings and symbols written on your desk. His tongue prods the inside of his cheek ever-so-slightly, just enough to know you’re winding him up. The lines in his cheeks stand out when he sucks in. You would be stuck there for ages just staring at how attractive it is until the shine of his earrings catches your attention, glinting in the low lighted room.

“Fair enough,” he speaks. His wine glass is emptied into his mouth before placing it to the side. Finally, he is ready to give you his undivided attention. “Then talk to me about your choice of attire for tonight,” his hand points as he nods at you. “This,” — he smiles with his eyes as they trail you from head to toe — “Has nothing to do with work.”

A crushed burgundy velvet dress stretches around each curve of your body all the way down to your ankles. It’s cut from spaghetti straps, dipping low enough to tease any eye of your upper chest. Personally, you love the feeling of the fabric as you run your hands across it. Not only does it feel great, but it also tames your nerves whenever they act up — coaxing you calm. To match the lovely piece, you paired a black leather jacket with shiny silver buckles. Your heels help you stand taller, strapped around the front of your foot with a classy rounded toe, sparkling with silver.

Of course this is not your typical work clothes; it is a holiday party after all. And you surely are not the only one who is ‘dressed up’ for the occasion. Even Jungkook wears a franicer brand of clothes. He’s just not entertaining the spirit with reds or greens.

Typically in a work environment, everything — and you do mean everything — is strictly business. There’s no foolish nonsense or slacking off in this office. When your superior, Jungkook, wants something he expects to receive it in a timely manner. Sure he plays around with the ideas of certain phrases or words that will leave a lingering thought in your head. Teasing you with lighthearted flirtation; that’s just how Jungkook communicates.

But the way he looks at you right now, as if you are a meal he wants to devour, ignites something deep inside of you, causing a wave of arousal to flood your senses. It’s nearly haunting with his hooded eyes hiding the lust that pools in them. It’s a different look than you’re used to and it’s turning you on, making your insides turn and do flips with excitement.

“It’s a holiday party,” you remind him of the obvious. Heat sparks inside your body, “It’s a perfect excuse to dress up. Do you like it?”

Jungkook contemplates his response with pursed lips. He gives you a questionable look, one that looks like he’ll ask you “are you serious?”

“Of course.” His words come out clean and smooth. There is no hesitation with the truth dripping from his lips. He announces his likeness with confidence as his eyes remain glued to you. “It’s different from what I normally see you in, even the make-up,” he states the obvious, “Maybe we should change the dress code.”

You laugh with a scoff, shaking your head as you favor another sip of your wine. “I don’t think most of the staff can handle dressing up to this extent every day for work.”

Jungkook leans forward in the chair to rest his elbows on his knees. He engages his direction at you, tilting his head to the left as bleached strands of hair carelessly fall flat against his face. You can tell he’s ran his hands through his golden mane at least a hundred times tonight with the lack of styled gel or hairspray — making his usual upkept style look disarrayed and messy. It’s so inviting to you, creating images in your head as if you were the one to run your fingers through it and fist it. Under the low light of your office you also still notice his black roots that protrude so dominantly from the blonde. It’s like a bright, beautiful sunshine trying to hide the darkness and failing to do so.

“I was talking about now,” he admits with a quick wiggle to his eyebrows.

You don’t take the hint at first. Thinking immediately how this can just be another trick up his sleeve to get you flustered. How your soft pining for months on end has only ever been a fun game for Jungkook and teasing and toying with you; you assume this is just another occasion.

So it’s no surprise to him when you still yourself in place, freezing under the pressure of a possible ‘what if' solution. The glass tightens in your hold as your mind washes over with endless thoughts of Jungook’s suggestive approach.

“Excuse me?” The words come out panicked, you don’t mean for it to.

Jungkook gives you that cheeky smile — the one that you know he’s satisfied with a good joke or when he first tastes a well made grilled pork belly (you can thank all the group office lunches for knowing this one). He stands suddenly, angling his body enough to lean his lower half against the edge of your desk. His movement makes you take a quick step back, but as you see him comfortably making himself a spot you ease up on the tension building inside of you.

He opens up his palm toward you and offers his hand to take. A clear cut sign that he’s requesting you. He moves his fingers in a come-hither motion, beckoning you to step in front of him.

“I’m saying you look absolutely stunning tonight, Y/n, and I want to see what you’re hiding underneath all that.”

The pounding of your heart only gets louder as it practically bursts out of your chest. You pray that Jungkook doesn’t hear it beating so rapidly. There’s a delay with your step, but you slowly reach out with your free hand nonetheless.

Jungkook pulls you in softly when his fingers hook around your palm, enclosing your hand with his. You slot perfectly right between his legs that act as a shield, caging you inside a smaller area and closing the space between the two of you. The warmth of his thick thighs barely touch either side of you, it sets a blaze within your body.

Tentatively, Jungkook caresses your wrist, guiding his hand up the underside of your arm to your elbow and soon to your waist. His fingers fiddle with the velvety smooth material of your dress, sketching small circles into the crushed pattern.

Heat takes over your body, you can feel it like flames are engulfing you. You’re far beyond a melting point. You’re being burned by the impressions his body is leaving on you, branding the memory and physical feeling to your skin. The ghost of Jungkook’s touch will now and forever come to your wake, reminding you how dangerously deadly he truly is to your well being.

“Don’t be shy,” he whispers as he politely takes the wine glass from your hold and places it aside.

Jungkook licks his lips when the palm of his hand wraps around the small of your back. He nudges you even closer, making your thighs squeeze between his. You’re face to face with Jungkook as your hands begin to clam up and pussy begins to drip onto your panties. You can feel your nerves messing with your body, shaking your hands when you gently slide them to his upper chest, feeling the way his pectorals flex under the first contact. Even through a silk material, you can tell he’s fully defined — ripped and plump. The tips of his nipples stand out as they harden because of you, roaming your digits across his full chest.

Oh, you’re such a whore for a good rack on a man. Even more of a whore for him with his strong shoulders that sit relaxed with muscle, high and mighty, stretching the black material painfully tight around them. The most sinful of whores when those are paired with long lengthy legs that are defined by the Gods themselves, in which your supervisor just so happens to have.

Jeon Jungkook is completely unfair to you. He quite literally hits all the check marks of what you find attractive in a man. And here he is, reeling you in like a fish caught on a line of his rod.

Speaking of that… You swallow thickly as you fight to look past his handsome chiseled features and toward his pelvis. Seeing how his dress pants bunch up from the angle of his legs but also from a hardening cock that is in the beginnings of straining against the material. That’s when you release a deep exhale of realization. Where you know this isn’t some game and what Jungkook is doing to you is because he is affected by you too.

“J-Jungkook?” you question with shock. The anxiety of fever courses through your body like race cars speeding on their track, running laps around in circles. You’re quite ready to burst like how a balloon does when too much air fills it up.

“Shh,” he attempts to hush you. He keeps his voice calm and low, maintaining confidence. His head leans towards you, slotting it dangerously close to the nook of your neck. Jungkook catches a whiff of your perfume as his nose runs up your skin. “I want to give you this if you let me.”

You shiver with a light moan escaping your throat. The contact alone makes your nipples rise and legs squeeze together. Your fists tighten on his shirt, accidentally pulling out the top button in the jist of the action.

“Give me what?” You dare ask.

Jungkook’s mouth hovers over your neck. Hot, heated breath fanning out. Your nails threaten to scratch over the fabric, talons coming to grip onto reality. He smiles with a hum, his eyes shutting as he nuzzles his face. His lips press into your pulsepoint, peppering small kisses up and down. You barely can feel the light sensation of the tip of his tongue leaving a line of saliva on your skin.

“My dick,” he states. “We don’t have too much time. They’re beginning to give out gifts downstairs.”

You gasp when Jungkook’s teeth scrap over you, pulling at the taut skin of your neck. He grins to himself when he hears your reaction and feels when you wiggle in his grasp. You can go weak at the knees in an instant from his touch, his heedy flattery. The one thing he doesn’t read from your body language or voice is any form of protest. And he takes it as a green light, to continue his pursuit to you.

“We shouldn’t,” you gulp. “What if someone is looking for us?”

“Nobody will be looking for you” – he kisses your jawline – “Because I’m your Secret Santa and I’ve already found you.”

You feel his fingers grip your jaw as Jungkook leans back just enough to stare up at you through lust filled eyes. He wears a lopsided grin. His beautiful brown eyes are trained on your lipstick covered lips and he can’t help but wonder how they look over his cock. With your sharp tongue and blunt responses he fully believes you can do wonders with this beautiful mouth of yours.

“Fuck,” you curse with an angered whine. You’re completely lost when you gaze over his features. Admiring the few and far speckled moles and freckles that decorate his caramel skin. “You’re infuriating, do you know that?” Your inflamed anger – anguish – takes over. The rage within you is not true fury. It’s the annoyance of how easily you become such a little vexed slut for him. Aggravated because you simply cannot say no to this man. “You’re so annoying!”

“You like me,” he teases. He raises his eyebrows to taunt you as well. “I could ask you to jump and you’ll say “How high?”.”

“You’re right,” you declare. To give him the satisfaction of being right. Your hands run up to hook around his sturdy neck, feeling the buzzed undercut on the tips of your fingers. “And you love it,” you throw shade back to him. Giving him a taste of his own medicine.

“I loved it the moment I realized how easy it is for me to get under your skin. Having such an obedient body underneath my guidance. Listening intentionally to each of my words.”

You know he’s referencing work, but he purposely uses certain phrases and sayings to draw your imagination to another realm. A different, dirtier, dimension.

Jungkook runs his hands along the sides of your body, crunching up pieces of your dress with his fists. He pulls you flatter against him, closing any proximity between the two of you, and finally you feel it. A hardened cock right against your front, caged inside the barricades of his pants. He holds you there, waiting for your move.

And you give in so easily. Pulling his face towards you as you lock your lips onto his, nearly smashing into another from all the months of pining and longing for his touch. You taste him the second he sneaks his tongue out, licking at the seam of your lips and prodding inside of your mouth. His hand reaches around to cup an asscheek, squeezing the bulk of it tightly.

You run your fingers up the base of his scalp, grooming his precious locks and messing them up further. Jungkook continues to push you onto him as you’re happily willing to lean your entire body. Pressing yourself further into the clutches of your supervisor.

“I want to suck you off,” you mumble against his lips. You hear the rattling of his belt buckle loosening up along his waist – Jungkook clearly would like that very much. “Right now!”

It’s all in a haste with the time constraints going against the two of you, so you waste no seconds in between. Dropping quickly to your knees as you assist Jungkook with releasing his cock from the obstacle of his zipper.

As it finally reveals, you don’t spare a moment to appreciate for all it’s worth. The length, the girth, the beautiful round of his mushroom cockhead – not even the beautiful protruding veins from the underside of his shaft.

None of that matters right now. You gobble down a mouthful before he’s able to shove the material of his pants down his thighs. Lips latching around the circumference of his cock as you stick your tongue out while sliding down further. You lather him up with your spit, making the glide of your mouth smoother as you coat him. He tastes a little salty, probably from a long day's use, but you like it. It’s almost hinted with a powdery musk that reminds you of sandalwood and rose petals – or maybe that’s just the alcohol confusing you. Whichever it may be, you fully devour the length of Jungkook with eagerness. Sliding his whole extent inside of your mouth and down your throat.

It reaches past the opening of your throat, stretching it wide to accommodate as much as possible. Your nose presses right into the trimmed pubes on his pelvis as you settle there to acknowledge and value the sweet, sweet soft whines escaping from Jungkook. His hand, running hot from how heated he’s become, places itself on the back of your head. Guiding you up and down on his shaft.

You’re slobbering all over him, using your fingers to pull his briefs and the elastic of his pants further down to not dirty them with your saliva.

Jungkook quickly becomes a mess of light tenor whines. It fuels your ambitions toward him, knowing you’re causing such an approving feeling of pleasure for him. He sounds amazing, even tastes amazing as you flatten out your tongue and lick right up his shaft.

But suddenly you rip away from his cock, pulsating with how close and desperate his orgasm is. He leans there, jaw-slackened and in a trance of betrayal from having pleasure ripped right out from under him and a fading climax.

Turning around, you tease the idea of your body as you raise your dress slowly. You look over your shoulder as you wiggle your hips, with the full intent to provoke Jungkook, to make him snap out of his daze. You use the high slit in your dress to reveal more of your upper thigh, showing Jungkook how easy of an access he can have. All he needs to do is come and get it.

Jungkook’s hands shoot out to grab at your elbows, pulling you back against him. Ass flat against the seat of his lap, molding you against him. You arch your back just enough to make your ass stick out more prominently, nudging right onto his slickened cock.

“Lift,” he pushes the material of your dress up. His hands roam greedily across your front, one dipping between the junction of your thighs to feel the sheer thong you wear and the other groping one of your boobs. Jungkook can feel how wet you are for him, using his rough fingertips to run along the slit of your folds, pressing the material of your panties into you. “You’re so dirty. So wet. I can’t wait to fuck you onto my dick.”

“C-Condom?,” you choke out a moan. He pinches at your nipple as his skillful fingers pull your panties aside and dips two of them into your leaking cunt. Jungkook’s face presses into your shoulder as he breathes out heavily, trying to draw your last breath out of you to make you breathless. “Jungkook! Condom!”

“I have one just for you,” he says with gruff. He plunges two fingers inside of your entrance, curling them sinfully once he hits the second knuckle. A sigh emits from his mouth, “Right in my wallet. Downstairs in my jacket.” He grasps your tit greedily, making it near to painful as he vigorously finger-fucks you. “Whoops,” he laughs sarcastically. Jungkook spreads his fingers in a scissoring motion, rotating them to spread your walls open. A sobbing moan leaves your throat as your legs begin to shake.

You clench around his fingers and dirty words – how carelessly he just so happened to forget a condom. But his mouth is not making love to the shoulder of your skin as the strap of your dress falls down your shoulder, his fingers spellbind you and coax your mind into thinking that being irresponsible is better tasting than sugar.

“You’re kidding me,” you laugh. You’re slickening up his fingers with your arousal, making it easier for him to shove another one in. You spread open your legs wider, letting your head fall back onto his shoulder.

“Will you let me fuck you like this?” He whispers against your shoulder. Lips tormenting you as he sucks against a piece of flesh. “Raw?”

His bewitching capability with his hands along makes you fall harder for the idea. It twists the thoughts into your mind and floods your senses with only wanting one thing – which is pleasure.

“Or,” he huffs, “Shall I finger you until you’re right on the brink of cumming into my hand. Then tear away that chance just how you did me? I can draw it out for hours, making your body ache with tense muscles and a teased pussy. Would you like that?”

“We’re in a time crunch,” you remind him. “There’s no hours here to have.”

“Then decide fast,” he bites. His fingers dive deeper into your pussy, producing an obscenely loud squelching noise.

Your mouth goes dry with how you desperately breathe. You need him. You want him.

“Fuck it. Make it fast,” you surrender.

Jungkook traps your body immediately under him, swapping your bodies and twisting you around to press you against the desk. He feels heavy and blazing warm, tension rising as his own desperation comes pouring out of him.

His hand collects the train of your dress and lifts it high above your ass as his hand presses you down against the top of all your scattered papers and coat. Jungkook grips his large hand around the naked base of his cock, tugging at it and squeezing every time it throbs in his hold. His fingers that were once inside your cunt now spreads your arousal over his cock, brushing the engorged head of his dick between your lubricous lips. The sensation itself is maddening enough to have you pushing your hips eagerly back to feel him. Wanting him to spear right into your walls.

“I knew you’d say yes,” he practically growls with a carnal rumble inside his chest. He places a hand on your hip; you can feel his nail digging deeply into your dress and surely will cause crescent indents on your skin.

“I said make it – Oh!”

You bite back your curses when Jungkook’s hips stutter forward on your impatient request, his length and girth starts entering you at a quick pace. Your lungs hurt from the excessive gasp you intake as shaky whimpers tumble from your lips. His enlarged dick, fully aroused and stiff, finally gets to explore the slipper velvet interior of your hot core.

Jungkook could care less with a slow adjustment for you, especially how you declared the needed pace of events. He refuses to go anything but fast, sinking himself to the hilt as you grit your teeth in an attempt to make it easier to endure.

“Shit,” you both simultaneously speak into the air.

Inch by tasty inch, he fills you to the brim with his cock. Pushing snug against your cervix and balls resting against your pussy lips. Jungkook drags his cock partly back out of your sobbing hole, a fresh coat of your glistening arousal casts a beautiful clear sheen on his raging erection. The sight makes him salivate, a mouth-watering and utmost beautiful scene he has ever seen. Just when you think you can breathe a breath of comfort, he sheaths himself back inside of you with a sigh of pure relief.

You crane your neck to look back at him, seeking the sight of Jungkook’s concentrating face and biting harshly down on his bottom lip. With a hand still tight on your hip, the other rests on your shoulder – using it to slink you back onto his pelvis as he runs full-blown assault on your cunt. Fucking into you hard, having your legs bang into the desk as you drool over your papers. His relentless thrusts hardly let up. His eyes glance over to yours briefly, seeing how they plead with a need.

He complies to you, knowing exactly how you want his lips on yours. Jungkook leans down, rolling his hips into you at a constant pace but pulls you up just a bit with his hand around your neck. Your body melts into his touch soon enough as his soft lips mold into yours, tense muscles relaxing as he calms you down with a languid kiss.

“I’m s-so close,” you whisper into his moistened lips. Soft whines already start to slip from your tongue. His pace quickens, knowing he, too, is also close to his release. “Jungkook,” you warn as your eyes shut with impending bliss.

Jungkook’s breath comes out quiet yet rugged. His rough hips continue to snap against your ass and increasingly becomes harder upon receiving your words. All those thoughts of seeing you wiggling underneath his body, all the times he’s pondered how your body feels against his fuels his imagination up until this point.

“Where do you want it?” He questions as his pelvis pounds into you.

You, on the last shred of your own sanity, dangle on a thin string. Your eyes shut tight, gleeful tears break the edges of your eyes and leak down your make-up. Your arousal builds with every heavy drag of his length against your insides. What stirs you the most crazy is hearing, and basking in full on glory, of the beautiful vocalization of Jungkook’s increasing pleasure. The sweet sounds of his lupine moans and guttural grunts as he loses himself inside you. It sounds like a sinful song and causes that tightening coil of tension in the pit of your stomach to snap open at any given moment.

Jungkook’s hold on your neck tightens as harsh trusts slam into you, each releasing an angry huff from his nose. He presses you into your desk, shifting the piece of furniture slightly with his strength. Your pussy flutters around his cock, arousal dripping down your inner thighs as you do nothing but wriggle under him.

“I d-don’t care,” you moan. You’re diving nose first into an ocean of pure bliss as your climax hits you so hard that your vision blurs. A loud sob falls from your lips and babbling curses soon follow. “Holy shit!”

“Look at you go,” Jungkook praises you proudly, kissing your cheek to your neck. “I’m going to bury myself in you,” he states. Smiling against your skin, “I hope you’re ready.”

And surely you are. Even though your pussy is spent from his onslaught, you continue to back yourself into him until he is ready to slip into madness. Make his entire body shudder before he vehemently plows his cock into you at least a dozen more times in sporadic, faltering thrusts. Jungkook’s eyes screw shut, hands gripping on either side of your hips and squeezing your flesh helplessly. Your walls continue to clench with excitement around his bulky shaft, making it his tipping point. Where he falls into himself and unloads everything inside of you as he holds you impaled on his pulsating cock. Spurting an abundant amount of his hot cum into every nook and cranny of your silky core, making sure not a single spot is left unpainted. His orgasm lasts for several moments as he stills, a strains growl resounding from his chest and a melodic whine slipping out of his pink lips. Drops of his sticky off-white fluid starts to trickle down your folds from bursting out the seams.

The two of you stay in that position for minutes until you’re drawn back to reality. Heavenly relief washes over the both of you as sensations that run through your body relax. You begin taking in your surroundings for the first time since you have both lost any notion of space and time, forgetting you’re in the middle of your closed off office, at work, where a holiday party continues to roar down the stairs. Your desk has shifted a good foot from its original resting place, papers have fallen or crumpled from your fist, and a mess has been made of your pussy.

Jungkook pants behind you, forehead resting on your back as he catches his breath, sweat dripping off the side of his face.

“Y/n,” he rasps, trying to recollect himself. “Are you good?”

You nod, a soft smile curling your lips. You wait for him to lean up and pull out until you stand up straight. Your hands feel around your hair, making sure everything is still in place. You pull up the straps of your dress and situate the body and skirt. Lastly, you cup your sex with your hand as you search for a solution of the mixture of both of your cum’s falling so freely from you. The nearest bathroom is down the hall, you can make it as long as there is nobody else around.

“I’m great.”

“Good,” he hums.

Jungkook tucks himself away and fixes his shirt and pants. In the low lighting you spy a small red scratch along his chest before he buttons it back up, knowing very well you have caused that mark on him.

He stands there as he watches you contemplate what you want to say. To break the silence, he clears his throat to gain your attention.

“So, I think I need to let you know something.”

Oh god, you think. What on earth does he have to say? What don’t you know? Potential bad possibilities immediately run through your mind as you glance at him, gripping your coat and purse quickly from the desk.

Does he have a partner? Is there something going on in the office? Will he ask you to not speak of this – not like you would risk that anyways. Will he say he realized he fucked up? Messing around with your own worker is frowned upon, office romances are not allowed. What does he have to say?

As you stand there waiting for him to speak, like a knife held above your heart, you expect to endure any pain coming your way. Mentally preparing to brush it off, forget about it and move on.

“I’m…” he begins. Jungkook takes a step closer, “I’m not really your Secret Santa. I just used that as an excuse to get you to stay a little longer before you left for the holiday.”

“Oh?” You blink. Your eyes scatter around your office as if you’re searching for an answer. Why lie about it. “Ok, so then who is?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugs. “I don’t really care either. But I'm sure whoever has gifts for us, they’ll be waiting for us downstairs.” His hand comes to grab yours, playing loosely with your fingers when he gets a hold of them. “I just wanted to give you a personal gift. I’m assuming you like it.”

You hold your coat tighter towards your body, “I do. And don’t worry, I won’t tell a soul.”

“I wasn’t worried,” he smirks. His other hand comes up to place his fingers under your chin, “You got a bit of drool…”

You narrow your eyes at him, but allow him to touch you. The trickling wetness from between your legs reminds you that you need to clean up and fast. So you take it as a cue to break contact with your boss, but you make sure to throw him a little remark back.

“And you have a bit of lipstick on your face,” you smile with fulfillment. “Might need to wash that off before heading downstairs.”

The two of you stand there smirking. Your deadly game of flirtations have stepped deeper into a new territory. Where the sex card now has come into play. How everything that may linger between the two of you can in fact become dangerous if you keep entertaining new domains. But neither one of you want to resist that temptation. This is exciting and new.

Before you can gather up Namjoon’s gift, Jungkook pulls you in for one last, chast, kiss on the lips. A parting goodbye for now. But a promising note for you to remember for the next time.

A reassuring reminder that tells you he is ready to play this game with you.

#office santa #bangtansorciere #armysource #networkbangtan #jungkook fanfic #jungkook smut #jeon jungkook fic #kth1 #jeon jungkook smut #bts smut #christmas!au #btsdreamcourt #thebtswritersclub #happy holidays bts #bts fanfic #oneshot #pwp #christmas jungkook

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apompkwrites · 2 years ago

Text

the "good" fairies || malleus draconia

masterlist characters: malleus (platonic), wren + marigold + veneta (ocs) genre: angst contains: abuse (of power), kinda rushed(?), servitude summary: the three advisors, otherwise known as the three good fairies, are responsible for (name)'s final test to become a royal servant. notes: hoo okay there's more ocs. pretty obvious who they're based on :) gonna try and ramp up on angst next chapter probably, so get ready for that whenever it's done :)) parts: [og post] | [previous] | [next]

you dreaded this side of the palace. it housed the more "royal" members of the staff, of course, not royal enough to surpass the queen or prince. just royal enough to be considered part of the higher court.

many royal advisors stayed on this side of the palace, often deliberating amongst each other to decide the best course of action for whatever issue was placed on their plates.

you knew that high-ranking members of the royal guard stayed here on occasion as well, both to protect royal advisors and to rest from battle or training. you caught glimpses of the familiar general that took over after the death of the prince's father.

but the group you dreaded the most in this side of the palace were the three "good" fairies, as they were lovingly named by the residents of the palace. of course, officially they were known as the three royal advisors, the top three that were in charge of directing the rest of the advisors in the castle.

wren, marigold, and veneta. the advisor trio that was respectable enough to interact with the queen of briar valley. and the only advisors that have some sort of influence over her decisions.

such as the idea of banishing you from briar valley entirely.

you had only heard it once when you happened to eavesdrop on them at a young age. on the other side of the door, you remembered hearing wren bring up the topic, marigold present the "positives" that came with it, and veneta urging the queen to at least consider it.

you were glad she had some semblance of mercy for you in her heart.

"where is that brat?!" ah, seems veneta's in one of her moods again. fortunately, you had heard stories of how the third advisor was in one of these moods. unfortunately, this would be the first time you would experience it yourself.

"patience, dear veneta," and there was the familiar honey-laced tone of wren, no doubt sitting up in a chair as if she were of royal blood herself.

"the little nightshade is taking their sweet time," marigold would point out, her sickeningly sweet voice sending chills down your spine.

to her you were taking your sweet time. but in reality, you had been standing outside of this door for a few minutes, gathering your exposure the way that miss leah taught you. you straightened your back, took deep breaths in and out, and swallowed the anxiety bubbling in your stomach.

three light knocks. just the way she taught you.

"finally!" you heard veneta groan on the other side. marigold and wren quickly shushed her before the latter opened the door.

wren stood at the forefront, her hands neatly folded in front of her reddish-pink dress, a far cry from the usual dark tones the castle utilized. that was a usual trend for the three advisors, donning colors too bright for the entirety of briar valley that it seemed they chose to be garish on purpose.

pink feathers lined the cuffs of her sleeves as well as the long slight down the middle of her dress, decorating her garb as if she had been a winged beastman. her curly brown hair was tied up in a bun, both neat and unkempt at the same time.

marigold stood to her right, her long blonde hair almost blinding and contrasting her olive green dress. little flowers decorated the slit down the middle rather than feathers like wren. although she had the "kindest" eyes out of the trio, it did not make her any less critical.

veneta stood to the left of wren, her full figure covered by the poofy blue dress that accentuated her curves. her hair was a bit more curly than wren's was but it was cut short into a bob rather than long. her face seemed to be permanently frozen into an angry pout.

"miss wren, miss marigold, miss veneta," you greeted the trio with a bow, your hands clutching onto each other desperately for some sort of comfort. "i will serve you to the best of my ability."

"better get you started then, huh?" veneta scowled down at you, mischief sparkling in her eyes.

you weren't sure you would live to the end of this trial run.

you expected veneta to be the bane of your existence, but no. surprisingly, wren and marigold posed more of a threat to your sanity than veneta did.

veneta was very vocal about her disdain towards you, often tripping you up when you went to serve them tea or muttering spells under her breath to mess with your appearance. she seemed to focus more on physical torment.

wren and marigold focused more on psychological torment. wren opted to order impossible tasks of you, such as lighting up all of the lanterns in the halls in a little under two minutes ("for it is proper for a servant to complete their tasks in a timely manner,"), while marigold delegated the more risky tasks to you, such as handling the creatures of the forest that disturbed the surrounding flora.

you were lucky you got any amount of sleep considering it wasn't uncommon for them to pass off their paperwork to you.

this is all temporary, you would tell yourself in the middle of the night, your handwriting getting sloppier with each minute that passed. this is all to prove them wrong.

just a few days more and you would be free from them.

"today is your last day as our servant," wren lamented, her picturesque smile seeming more threatening as time went on. "do try to fulfill your duties to the end. it'd be a shame for you to... tarnish your reputation before you officially become a royal servant."

"yes, ma'am," you hummed, bowing to the brunette.

"ooh, wren, what'll be their next task?" veneta asked excitedly, already jumping in her place. "will you send them there?"

"what do you take me for, veneta?" wren scoffed, waving her hand. "i have the perfect task for our little pest. one that will push them to their very limits."

there were times where you were unsure whether wren or marigold was worse in terms of impossible tasks.

"(name), fetch us proof of a slain beast laying deep in the woods, near the borders of the valley."

was it wren, who sent you to do impossibly long tasks in such a short amount of time, or marigold, who gave you impossible tasks of protection?

"the beast in question has no name, but is known for its gnashing teeth and serpent-length tails."

on that final day, you had realized just who was worst between the two.

"complete this task by the end of the day and you shall pass your final test." wren stared down at you as if you were nothing but a bug. her fingers formed a bridge that held up her chin, her smile twisting into a scowl.

with no doubt in your mind... it was her.

taglist: @brokenncrown @help-meplz @destinationdesignation @rainys-personal-garden @kalims @sxftiebee @luxaryllis @auld-a @the-dumber-scaramouche @ayra2452008 @tinywho-man @spadecentral @justeclem44 @bajifairyy @mulandi @sadimon @stormyovent0aster @sn00zl4x @f1fty-f1fty @bloomed-night-flower @madusas-girlfriend @b0nkers-papaya @arandomeroacher @randonamedcl @potabletable @meerpea @luvcalico @chlousp @prettyinblack231 @dindarasuum @mizucika @lunavixia @gasoline-eater @thesirenwashere @rainingdandelion @mariesakamari @potatohuman04 @illnesscomm

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #twisted wonderland headcanons #twisted wonderland imagines #twisted wonderland scenarios #twisted wonderland angst #twst angst #twisted wonderland malleus #twisted wonderland malleus x reader #twst malleus #twst malleus x reader #malleus x reader #twisted wonderland malleus draconia #twisted wonderland malleus draconia x reader #twst malleus draconia #twst malleus draconia x reader #malleus draconia x reader #black sheep

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conkreetmonkey · 1 month ago

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Bug was sent to your door for trick or treating

For the second day in a row, a figure was standing before the old submarine-style bulkhead, and once again it announced itself with a knock, what would have been a loud, hollow clang muffled by a thick pair of dark brown gloves, resulting in a dull metallic clunk.

"Trick or treat!" a rough yet polite voice called out in an enthusiastic yet contained half-shout, as if trying to make up for the weak knock but not wanting to full-on yell.

This visitor, unlike the last person to knock on that door, was not looking around confused, nor was it unsure of how it got there. It had come to the old door willingly, its trick or treating intentional rather than being commited in some sort of hazy fugue state. Indeed, this person was much unlike the last, not only in behaviour but in appearance as well, not looking at all out of place in the dimly-lit concrete hallway clad in crumbling institutional tiles, foul green slime accumulating under leaking iron pipes that snaked up and down the walls like metal ivy.

In other words, the creature standing there looked like a freaky-ass mad scientist.

It stood with its heavy-gloved hands behind its back, legs straight and chest forward with a polite grin that would have been charming if its teeth didn't look like it routinely gargled with pesto. Its broad, stout frame was clad in some sort of boxy lab jacket which hung down to its knees, made from a thick material coloured in a dull, unpleasant off-yellow reminiscent of creamed corn or rotten old wallpaper glue. Splatters of snot green something-or-other clung to its scuffed surface, long since having dried into rubbery, crusted-on stains. The jackets black buttons were fastened up to the top, a large circular collar snugly obscuring the wearers entire neck. Its sleeves were tucked into the gloves, and baggy canvas pants of army green were tucked into a heavy pair of brown leather work boots. No skin was showing below the chin, and the thick, loose-fitting nature of the entire outfit made it hard to discern much about the body underneath, aside from it being of a short and stocky sort. Its stature communicated confidence, intelligence and poise.

The thing inhabiting the outfit, of course, was a complete fucking freak.

Olive green skin clashed against ginger hair, sitting dry and frizzy against the back of the neck in a shoulder-length side part and growing on the face in thick yet uneven patches. Acne pocked the orcish humanoid's face, red pimples clashing against the earthy green and copper. The eyes were obscured behind opaque black welding goggles that rested atop a large nose and were fastened with a grey strap. With a broad rounded jaw, short forehead and prominent canines, the being simultaneously looked like a mutant created in a lab and like he created mutants in a lab, and would have looked just as natural being the monster strapped to a metal platform as it would being the mad doctor who flipped the switch, bringing the monster to life.

This goblin-like creature, reeking of formaldehyde and burning rubber, stood patiently just outside the metal door, its eyes lighting up with excitement as the valve in the center began to turn. With a series of mechanical squeaks and the creak of metal hinges, the door slowly slid open, revealing a familiar freak with wild pink hair and skin the colour of a spent fuel pool. Fitting, since he was munching on a stick of enriched uranium like it was a cucumber, glowing crumbs of neon yellow clinging to his lips as his face lit up with the joy of seeing a friend.

"Eh, Bugbug! Happy Halloween!" the blue thing said, wiping dangerously radioactive flecks of pure cancer onto his shirt with his hands, it lifting to reveal a definitionless belly with a slight nuclear glow shining through it from the inside, murky shadows of anomalous organs briefly visible before a curtain of thick green fabric obscured it once more. "It's not often you come to my door looking for a tasty treat!" he joked with a slight chuckle, the entire inside of his mouth stained flourescent highlighter yellow. Bug was less than amused, but it held its tongue. It and he both knew that it just couldn't stay mad at the little scamp, no matter how often he broke into its lab to slurp radioactive waste from sealed nuclear barrels, chug unattended beakers of biohazardous ooze, or munch on Bug's secret stash of yellowcake briquettes. The guy had a good heart, it knew, and as often as Bug grabbed him by his shirt collar to scream obscenities in his face and threw test tubes at him, it knew he was just a silly little guy, a lovable goober particularly prone to the toxic munchies, and its furious reactions were all in good fun, a slapstick game of cat and mouse that they both enjoyed.

Or at least that's what the blue thing believed. It was possible that Bug felt different, but he wouldn't know. He'd just assumed Bug hadn't really meant any of it, and fully anticipated his little snack seshies.

Pinching its nose, Bug took a deep breath and regained its happy expression. It was trick or treating, and it was out here to have fun; no use thinking about all the locks it still had to replace. "Happy Halloween, Conky!" it said, its cheery grin truly genuine. "Ah, hold on, I've got just the thing for you!" Conky said, holding up one finger as he reached behind the door, set his fuel rod down on something, and grabbed something else, plopping it down in Bug's hand with an excited grin.

It was a single breakfast sausage, cooked but cold, with little bits of dirt stuck to it.

"Happy Halloween!" Conky said, before pulling his door shut and turning the valve from the inside, leaving Bug alone in the gloomy little concrete box that Conky called his front doorstep.

After staring at its small greasy "prize" for a few moments, Bug started back up the stairs.

#thank you!!!#omg the drawing. you really recreated the room just as I described it?? ur craaazy omg #took me forever to decide what to give you lol. almost gave you a #brain in a jar #a butternut squash #a demon core #a weird egg #in the end I decided you could do with a good ol' sausy #Bug this was awesome thank you so much genuinely #I just hope I did right by your character... pls tell me if I got anything wrong about its appearance or personality #eeeeeeee I love inbox trick or treating #happy halloween #halloween 2024 #inbox trick or treating #conky lore

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paninicupcakke · 13 days ago

Text

Pumpkin Smash 🎃🦇

(Blunt trauma fic series)

Scout - Freddie

Medic - Conrad

(CW: grief, angst)

Luckily for the mourning doctor, a rookie Medic from another server was able to switch shifts with him after his recent incident. A Medic is no good if they waste company time continually sending themselves to respawn. A well deserved break was granted to him. Conrad still had some tedious paperwork to do but no messy lab work for today. Once done with said paperwork, he sat alone in his office. The annual BLU Halloween party would soon begin in just a few minutes. He silently sat there with a blank expression, dressed in one of the many costumes Rose had sewed for him. Conrad’s fingers slowly grazed the stitches running up his bell sleeves. His eyes shifted over to a trinket on his desk. A small porcelain figurine she had had gifted to him. Replicating one of his many pet doves. Unfortunately, he had to give many of them away during this time. He kept one of course but the care they all needed was too much to handle. Conrad slowly reached up to hold the tiny porcelain dove in his hand. Staring longingly at it before his eyes began to blind himself with tears. They flooded down his cheeks. His tear droplets had trickled onto his hand and onto the porcelain dove. Beginning to loudly weep with his head hunched over his desk. She was everywhere all the the time. It was difficult to not be reminded of her daily. His work desk was full of constant reminders. A framed photo of them both, the porcelain dove, the garments he was wearing that day. His beloved black brimmed fedora that he wore everyday. Rose had gifted it to him one day on the bus.

‘Every man needs a good hat.’

Her voice rung through his mind. Trying so desperately to mimic her exact voice and tone. Left alone with only reflections of the memory. Conrad quickly grabbed a fistful of tissues beside him and began blowing his nose and cleaning himself up. He opened one of the drawers to his desk and pulled out a compact mirror. Yet another reminder. Conrad took off his sunglasses and began cleaning up with more tissues. Placing his sunglasses back on, hoping to cover his puffy and drained eyes.

Freddie had been stood behind the doctor’s office door this whole time. Quietly listening to his colleague cry while he hung his head low in empathetic sorrow. He stood there with a warm bucket of chicken in his hands. The young man took several deep breaths before entering the doctor’s office. Pushing open the door with a wide, confident smirk.

“Party time! You hungry? Engineer just picked up all the grub for the party.” Freddie announced while eagerly walking up to the doctor’s desk. Conrad flinched slightly at his office door opening. He set the dove and compact mirror back down onto his desk, collecting himself and quickly putting back on his top hat. The Scout’s chipper demeanor and cute hat brought a small grin to the doctor’s cheeks.

“Perhaps later. I don’t want to get mein costume dirty quite yet.” Conrad replied while adjusting his sunglasses.

“C’mon doc, you can’t just live on olives and protein shakes. You gotta eat somethin’.” Freddie insisted while setting the bucket of chicken down onto a free spot on his desk. Conrad let out a small sigh, he disliked hearing the truth. Lately, eating and cooking became a chore he loathed entirely. Only eating foods that required little to no preparation.

“Fine. Only if you split a piece with me. I can’t eat all that.” Conrad replied. Freddie lit up and instantly grabbed a drumstick from the striped bucket. Eagerly taking a big bite from the deliciously fried and crispy chicken leg. Conrad snickered watching the man dressed as a chicken happily eating away at a fried drumstick.

“I’m assuming you’re a chicken?” Conrad asked raising an eyebrow. Freddie finished chewing and swallowed the tender piece in his mouth.

“Not just any chicken. I’m a cannibal chicken.” Freddie bluntly stated. Conrad let out a small chuckle. He stood up from his desk, adjusting his top hat and shirt collar.

“Nice get up. I always dig the vampire look.” Freddie complimented, eyeing the doctor up and down.

“Danke.” Conrad bashfully replied. Freddie handed the doctor the half eaten piece of chicken in his hand. Conrad quickly took off his gloves, shoving them into his back pocket before taking the greasy drumstick. He took a few small bites while walking over to the door of his office. Freddie grabbed the bucket of chicken and followed after him. Both men walked out of the doctor’s office and down the hallway. The Halloween party was held outside this year, on the back porch area of the BLU base. Conrad suddenly paused his steps once at the Scout’s bedroom door. Freddie stopped also, raising an eyebrow in confusion.

“You should grab a coat, it’s cold outside.” Conrad suggested. Holding his hands out to take the bucket of chicken from him while he goes to grab one. Freddie let out a sigh, handing him the bucket and quickly going into his bedroom. Grabbing the first button up coat he could find. Once lazily shoving his arms through the coat, both men continued down the hallway. All of the other BLU mercenaries were outside happily mingling. Conrad set down the bucket of chicken onto the kitchen counter nearby. Freddie went over to reach for the door handle to the back porch. Conrad had swiftly grabbed the Scout by the back of his shirt collar, stopping him in his tracks.

“Not so fast.” Conrad sternly said.

“Aw c’mon, what’s up?” Freddie asked impatiently. Conrad swiftly spun the young man to face him directly.

“You need to button this up. I don’t want you catching a cold again.” Conrad firmly said. Beginning to button up the young man’s coat closed. Freddie stood there, bashfully gazing up at the doctor’s face. Once finished, Conrad patted the Scout’s shoulder.

“There, now let’s go have some fun. Shall we?” Conrad said with a wide grin.

“Y-yeah.” Freddie shyly stuttered. Admiring the doctor’s eager expression. Fully aware that it might not last long. Appreciating it while he could. The Scout then frantically opened the backdoor and both men eagerly stepped outside. Gazing at the Halloween decor scattered all around the back porch. Hearing the soft oldies music come from their outside radio. A few of the other mercenaries glanced up at the doctor as soon as he exited the door. As if they had been waiting for him to come out. Especially Pyro and Engineer from their eager expressions. The last few Halloween’s, Conrad would have confidently walked out with his accordion in both hands. This was vastly different. He quietly gazed around at his colleague’s worried but eager expressions. He wanted nothing more then to march back inside and hide. Hit with a flush of embarrassment and shame. Conrad kept his composure and quickly walked over to one of the many tables and chairs set out. He sat down, frantically grabbing a piece of candy and unwrapping it. Desperately trying his hardest to keep a happy facade. This was it. Everyone of his colleague’s were fully aware that something was up with him. He would soon be found out in no time. Conrad anxiously chewed and finished the delicious piece of chocolate. Freddie had followed behind him along with Pyro. Both sat on each side of him. Engineer had walked over to their table as well, patting the doctor’s shoulder lightly.

“You look great doc. Here, you wanna be the designated pumpkin smasher?” Engineer asked with a kind grin. Handing the man a festive stick in orange and purple tape. It was a BLU Halloween tradition for one mercenary to smash a large pumpkin with the Red logo carved into it. Conrad was caught off guard by that question.

“I-I shouldn’t.” Conrad replied nervously. Afraid of losing his temper yet again.

“Please doc, we all took a vote and thought you might like to have a wack at it.” Engineer stated. Conrad took a deep breath, carefully taking the stick from his colleague. All three mercenaries walked alongside Conrad to the large pumpkin set up. A few other mercenaries also perked up and walked over to see the fun, mess ensue.

“C’MON DOC! BEAT THE CRAP OUT OF THAT PUMPKIN ALREADY!” Soldier loudly encouraged. Conrad chuckled slightly. Taking a step closer, slowly raising the stick up. The other mercenaries began to chime in and cheer him on. Conrad inhaled deeply before swinging the stick down and violently smashing the pumpkin open. Repeatedly beating it until it was a mushy pulp. Most of the mercenaries were cheering and hyping him up. Spy on the other hand was silent, carefully watching the doctor’s expression and movements. This was one way of getting to see the built up tension leave the suffering doctor’s being for just a moment. The Frenchman was determined to find out what was wrong with his fellow teammate. He never intended to be devious and spy on his colleague’s but he desperately felt concerned. He flicked his finished cigarette and cloaked behind the crowd of his loud teammates. The mercenaries were all preoccupied with praising the doctor. Spy had quickly vanished before everyone else had noticed. Or so he thought…

🎃

(The end! For this part…here’s some more loadouts of Freddie & Conrad :3)

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kassandras-one-braincell · 2 years ago

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Kassandra x Fem!Reader - Bulletproof .001

Summary: A series of bureaucratic catastrophes left you, the daughter of two oligarchs, a prime target for attack. With the threat of assassination imminent, the need for a strong security detail was critical. And the woman hired to oversee your personal safety was – well, easy on the eyes, to start, but nothing short of a lethal enigma.

Without her, you’d be six feet under. [mature]

Warnings: gun-violence

Word count: 3712

AO3 link here.

Return to Bulletproof masterlist here.

Minors, men and ageless blogs DNI. You will be blocked immediately upon interaction.

Quite honestly, if anybody other than the chief of police had introduced Kassandra to you as your new head bodyguard, you would have laughed. She had no air of sternness about her. Nothing about her screamed ‘I will give life and limb to protect you’; she greeted you with a lopsided smile, leaning against a doorframe, unfolding her arms to wave at you with two fingers.

Physically, however, you had no difficulty believing that she was a security hire. The Greek was exceedingly tall, her sleeves rolled up to reveal thick, corded forearms, leaving little to the imagination about the rest of her build, especially with her suspenders straining against the broadness of her shoulders. With her flawless olive skin, you might have believed she was a model for an athletics wear company who stumbled into the wrong job, if it wasn’t for the revolver holstered to her belt.

Sceptical, you offered her a smile and your gratitude for her service, knowing full well that there was a sizeable target on your back. She simply shook her head and laughed, “No need to thank me. The pay is a-ma-zing.”

From that encounter alone, you knew immediately that Kassandra was going to be nothing like anyone previously employed within your security detail. Initially, you had mixed emotions about such a realisation. While her casualness made her breathable to be around – which was welcomed, given how much time you’d be spending in close proximity to her – you couldn’t help but fret over how well she’d perform if someone was to make an attempt on your life.

Hopefully, of course, that would never happen.

After a few days under her protection, your queries about her professionalism were swiftly resolved. Kassandra was anything but lackadaisical, despite her laid-back manner of conversation with you. She didn’t see the merit in formality, reasoning that it would only make things uncomfortable with the amount of time you spend together. You warmed to her very quickly, for two reasons: her amicability, and her lack of concrete rules to your protection. Listen to her when she tells you there’s a threat, and don’t look inside her briefcase.

Naturally, the latter request warranted some curiosity from you. But she justified it with the fact that she kept an automatic firearm stowed inside at the very top, and she wouldn’t want you handling it to get to the files underneath. Reasonable enough, you thought, although her words sparked an interest in the contents of those files.

When she wasn’t contacting security organisations between your public appearances and meetings, she spent her time chatting to you as though you were a close friend, or working out, using the heaviest objects she could source in your temporary accommodations as weights, and fuck, if that wasn’t a sight. Oh, and offering you flirtatious remarks. Luckily for her, you couldn’t hope to resist that kind of attention from a woman matching her description. For your comfort, though, she never escalated things to a level that placed any pressure on you.

Asides from a couple of impromptu relocations, for three months, Kassandra never had to take an active role in your protection. That is, if one was to exclude the nights where she mysteriously excused herself from your company, never elaborating as to why beyond “it’s a security matter.” After the first few instances, this became the norm. You stopped giving your role as her principal much thought, except for that burning curiosity pertaining to the files in her briefcase.

Said curiosity was somewhat satiated one night. A sleep-disturbed night, for a reason you couldn’t quite place, holed-up in a safehouse. Kassandra had left on one of her security matters an hour before you retired to bed. But when you groggily trudged to the kitchenette to pour a glass of water, you noticed a folder spread out on the counter.

Quizzically, you inched towards the compilation of documents, observing a red sharpie left uncapped on top of the paper. A series of greyscale photographs of faces were messily stuck to the two-page spread on display, all of which had a name scrawled underneath them in biro, some accompanied by arrows and notes hastily scribbled in Greek.

Most interestingly, each portrait was annotated with a mark in bold red ink. Some had a large cross over them – you recognised a few as oligarchs whose deaths had been somewhat recently announced via the news – whereas others were marked with ‘INCARCERATED’. Two had a question mark by the corner. One had a series of numbers, separated by periods. “An IP address…?” you mused under your breath.

Frowning, you flicked through the folder, finding pages upon pages of the same contents but with different faces. The dreadful notion that all these people had it out for you made a lump form in your throat, one that was exceptionally difficult to swallow.

You flinched away from the folder when you heard the titanium door to the safehouse click open, followed by a resounding beep, signifying an authorised entrance. Eight smaller beeps sounded as the relocking code was punched in, followed by a sigh you recognised as Kassandra’s.

Rolling her shoulders, your bodyguard strolled into the kitchenette, pausing in her tracks when she saw you standing there. “Maláka,” she cursed softly.

Fumbling over your words, you rushed to form an apology. “I’m sorry, Kass. I know it’s none of my business—”

She simply smiled at you. In an instant, that guilt melted away.

“Of course it’s your business,” she shook her head. “You have a right to know about my sources, and the people who want you, well…”

“Dead,” you finished, having to steady yourself at the admission.

“Yeah,” she grimaced, rubbing the back of her neck. Taking a careful breath, Kassandra continued, “I only kept this from you because of how many people there are. I didn’t want you panicking.”

You forced a small laugh. “Probably easier to keep me in one piece if I’m calm, right?”

She gave you a sympathetic glance. “You,” she pointed at you, “are perfectly safe, okay?”

Nodding, you picked up your glass and twisted the faucet, focusing on the trickling of cold water to try to quell the newfound nausea you were feeling. “I trust you,” you said instinctively, just loud enough for Kassandra to hear over the tap.

Turning the faucet off, you spun on your heel to face your protector, taking a small sip. “Have a good night, Kass,” you bade, headed off to bed, despite being almost certain that you wouldn’t get a wink of sleep with this new knowledge of just how many people wanted you killed.

Thankfully for her, in your sleep-deprived state, you failed to notice the splatter of crimson decorating the sleeve of her shirt. Nor did you distinguish the sound of the sharpie being dragged in two lines across the portrait annotated with the IP address.

The two of you had a silent, mutual agreement to try to reinstate normalcy after that incident. The banter resumed full-swing, which served as a pleasant distraction from the paranoia clouding your judgement. Kassandra received the all-clear to escort you out of the safehouse after a few excruciating days, just in time to transport you cross-country to an important meeting.

Part of you found the usual extravagance of being welcomed into a fancy hotel ahead of your meetings exhausting. Another part found the high-society ordeal rather enjoyable.

At the present, though, with so many metaphorical rangefinders aimed at your forehead, extravagance was out of the question. You were covertly ushered into a room in a dingy single-story motel that Kassandra checked out, urged to keep your silhouette hidden from view as she swept the place and drew the curtains shut.

Ignoring the automatic rifle your protector left on the vanity for ease of retrieval, nothing seemed extraordinary within the cramped motel room. Two cup noodle pots sat empty on one night stand, your small suitcase unzipped and open on the other. Kassandra sat, resting her elbows on her knees, thoughtfully on the vanity chair, staring at the conundrum before her.

In each hand, you held a dress, having just posed the question of what to wear to your business meeting tomorrow.

“Well?”

“This is hardly my area of expertise.”

“You don’t need to be Anna Wintour to help me here,” you smiled, rolling your eyes light-heartedly. “Does the red one come across as a bit…much?” A car’s headlight illuminated the room from behind the curtains; with rehearsed ease, you stepped into the shadows of the room.

“A bit much as in ‘ooh-la-la’, or…actually, I don’t know what else you could mean,” she shrugged, leaning back into the chair, glancing at the window, eyes lingering until the lights shut off.

Eyes widening, you gave the garment a tenth once-over. “So your first thought was ‘ooh-la-la’?” Pouting, your gaze zeroed in on the bust. “I didn’t think the cleavage was dramatic.”

“The cleavage? I was talking about the skirt.”

“Oh, god, really? Is it that distracting?”

Kassandra grinned slyly. “I would be very distracted.”

Fighting off the warmth settling into your cheeks, you giggled at her implication. “Okay, the yellow it is, then.” Alas, your smile faltered as soon as a realisation dawned upon you. “Shit, wait, this was a gift from a rival brand. I can’t wear this.”

She feigned a dramatic gasp. “Scandalous,” she tutted, making you snort. “What a shame. I guess you have no choice but to wear that lovely red—”

A shriek pierced the night air from down the corridor.

Ice flooded your veins. You froze, mouth running dry. “Kassandra—”

Kassandra stood up immediately, her face void of any prior trace of amusement. Her expression hardened, her posture straightened. Without hesitation, she moved to the side of the bed, bending down and hooking her fingers under the frame. “Put your vest on and stay low,” she ordered. Authoritative. Methodical.

Unable to even blink, you remained deathly still.

Sternly, she repeated herself, eyes dark with lethal focus, “Vest. Now.”

A tremor set into your hands as the gravity of the situation began to dawn. Nodding, you shakily reached for the bulletproof vest in your suitcase, fumbling as you pulled it over your head while lowering yourself to the floor. Grunting, Kassandra quickly repositioned the bed, tugging the frame until it occupied the diagonal between the door and the window.

Sets of footsteps thudded through the hall. The violent rapping of fists against doors grew louder as the aggressors neared the room you resided in.

She dropped to her knees, reaching for the rifle on the dresser. “Is it on?”

Your fingers struggled to secure the velcro straps in your anxiety, the borderline arrhythmic hammering of your heart against your ribcage all but deafening. The fabric slipped from your fingertips every time you pinched it between them.

Steeled with concentration, she pulled you behind the bed. Momentarily, she let go of her gun, forcing your heart into your stomach. Deftly, she worked at the last couple of straps on the vest, unflinching when the car headlights filled the room with bright light once again. “I’m sorry,” you whimpered. Hearing the weakness in your voice only heightened your fear.

The Kassandra you were acquainted with would have offered you a few words of reassurance at the meagre apology.

This wasn’t her.

“Keep your back to the mattress and tuck your head into your body,” she instructed, resecuring her grip on her rifle. You wordlessly followed her order, making yourself as small as possible. “Don’t move until I tell you to. Don’t make a sound.”

A gunshot echoed from the room next door. You cried out in fear, quickly muffled by her hand. She didn’t move to shush you, nor did she remark about the teardrop colliding with the side of her palm.

When she removed her palm, she withdrew her phone from her pocket, punching in a few numbers, keeping her tawny eyes glued to the door. She dropped it the second she hit ‘dial’, army-crawling with the gun until she reached the vanity table, firmly out of your sight.

The world felt cold. Eerily cold. Cold, quiet, cold, cold—

Glass shattered as a tumultuous round of bullets soared through the window, effortlessly penetrating the mattress in an ear-splitting sweep. Lead speared itself into the wall in front of you, either side of your trembling, curled form. You clutched your head, forcing it further into your body as some of the bullets thumped against the Kevlar of your vest, dull pain bursting at across your back at the points of impact. You sobbed, obscured by the sound of open fire, too paralysed by fear to flinch.

Bile had reached the hollow of your throat by the time the bullets stopped. You didn’t know if Kassandra was hurt. You couldn’t tell if you were hurt. Teeth clamped down on your tongue until it bled to fight off the instinct to scream for her.

Petrified, you remained perfectly still.

The door swung open.

Two men’s voices muttered something unintelligible. You heard footsteps cross the boundary into the room.

Shattering the silence, a second round of lead ripped through the air, this time fired from within the motel. A shorter round. More precise. The moment it ceased, you could hear the sound of corpses crumpling to the floor.

You couldn’t, shit, you couldn’t fucking breathe. Not with a man’s silhouette peeking through the holes in the curtains, the murky shadow projecting itself partially onto the wall in front of you.

One-Mississippi.

Two-Mississippi.

Three-Mississippi.

Four-Mississippi.

Five-Mississi-

A short burst fired through the destroyed window from inside the room, the thunderous sound ricocheting from the vanity.

Kassandra.

The disjointed shade on the wall dissolved into blanket light.

You couldn’t have counted the next few seconds if your life depended on it. Time slowed, then rapidly sped up, then froze altogether when you heard the quiet call of your name through the nauseating fog in your brain.

“Are you hurt?” came the soft voice of your bodyguard.

You cried when your mouth wouldn’t open out of terror.

There was a panicked edge to her tone when she repeated the question.

Please, please, fucking talk.

Finally, some sound escaped the tightness of your throat. “I-I don’t know,” you stuttered weakly, mouse-quiet. But that was enough for Kassandra, even if she didn’t vocally acknowledge it.

Sand poured endlessly from the world’s hourglass, forming a dune large enough to host a desert before the sound of a helicopter sliced through the night. The chopping of the blades drew closer and closer to the motel. From a distance above, a loudspeaker boomed, “All clear.”

Faintly, over the roaring blades, you heard Kassandra shuffle out from under the vanity. Her shadow loomed over the mattress as she made her way to your side.

Leaning down, she wrapped an arm around your shoulders, her other hand still maintaining a vice-like grip on her rifle. “Stand up for me, angel,” she whispered, a familiar warmth now present in the syllables.

At first, you couldn’t shift from your position, the petrification having yet to wear off. But after a few murmurs of “you’re okay” spilling from her lips in a mantra, you uncurled yourself and found your footing.

Kassandra shepherded you over to the window frame, helping you through the jagged pane, ensuring you didn’t slice yourself on the broken glass. Following suit, she eased you onto the lower rungs of the airborne ladder, shielding you with her body from the air whipping at you. She held on with one hand herself, sweeping her sights for any lingering traces of your assailants as the ladder gradually ascended.

Two pairs of old hands helped pull you into the body of the helicopter. You blinked up, vaguely registering the face of the police chief through your shock. He ushered your trembling self towards a bench while his uniformed associate placed headphones on your ears, drowning out the blades with a painful ringing as Kassandra joined you inside.

Slowly, your hearing returned to you, albeit substantially muffled and coupled with a shrill tinnitus. The helicopter’s hatch closed, and after a short while, the headphones were lifted from your ears.

A paramedic approached you with a first aid kit, moving to kneel by your side, only to wind up face-to-face with the barrel of a rifle.

“Kassandra, what the fuck are you doing?” hissed the chief.

“Don’t you fucking touch her,” she spat, unrelenting. You had never heard her with utter anything with such venom before.

“Stand down.”

She forcibly positioned herself between your body and the chief’s. “No. Someone fucking tipped us off. I’m not trusting anyone, and that includes you.” Heart still pounding erratically, you hugged your knees, wincing at the sting in your back as you closed in on yourself.

“Christ, Kass, be reasonable here.”

She laughed bitterly, “Oh, I’m being unreasonable, am I?” The chief reached forward, and the direction of her aim shifted towards him. “One task force knew where she would be staying and what vehicle would transport her. You have a fucking mole, Jameson!” she snapped, thrusting the weapon forward until the barrel was flush against his chest.

The chief – Jameson – retained his composure. Hell, you were more disturbed by her performance than the person with a firearm digging into his ribcage. “And you have enemies. Lots of them, in case you forgot that you’re a hitwoman.” Your heart stopped. What? Before you were able to process the statement, he continued, “You may have been the target, not—”

“Bullshit, those were Verduci’s thugs. I recognised the watches. Family sigils on the straps, same blue-dyed Italian leather. I’ve been tracking that cunt for weeks. Trust me, she wants her dead.”

He sighed irritably, but nodded nonetheless. In the brief silence that followed, you mulled over the sinister elephant in the room.

Hitwoman?

In your post-traumatic state, the idea seemed initially implausible. Kassandra was a bodyguard. She was a kind woman, who diligently worked to secure your safety. As alarming as this…this violent side of her was, she operated on the defence, not the offence. She fired reactively, not proactively. At least, from what you saw of her.

Out of your sight, though, there may have been a different story. As your pulse settled into a rhythm once again, the puzzle pieces began to weave themselves together. The disappearances into the night. The folder; the name she gave, the one beginning with ‘V’ – that was familiar to you, having popped up a few times underneath various photographs. The red crosses. The IP addresses.

Kassandra was disposing of your assassins before they even had a chance to load their guns.

That terrified little part of your brain screamed for you to cower from her, but you were fortunately able to rationalise it into disappearing. Whatever her job description entailed had just saved your life, and she showed no signs of betraying that commitment.

Jameson’s was the first voice to cut through the uncomfortable quiet. He took a step back from you, flattening his palms in the air. The rifle remained poised in his direction. “I’ll contact central intel when we get to the hospital about your suspicions,” he breathed out. Pensively, he rubbed his chin, before turning to you. “She won’t let the medics near you, so I’ll ask now, are you in need of immediate medical attention?”

“I think I’m just bruised up,” you declined, forcing a small smile.

He nodded. His head tilted towards Kassandra, no longer fazed by the gun. “She’s in deeper shit than we thought.”

“I can take her off-grid,” Kassandra suggested, exhaling through her nose. Finally, she handed over the rifle. “Get me clearance to relocate her overseas. I can’t trust anyone in special forces with the location.”

Your tongue darted out to moisten your lips as you glance up at her. “Why would you need additional clearance?” you asked shakily.

She softened slightly, morphing back into the Kassandra you were better acquainted with. “I won’t be taking you anywhere traceable,” she explained. “And your parents can’t know about where you’re hiding. Nobody can. Without clearance, this would be an abduction. Especially since I’m outsourcing the pilot.”

“You’re what, sorry?” Jameson blinked.

Anxiously, you scratched at your wrist. Kassandra leaned against the curved shell of the helicopter. “You have a mole. I can count my contacts on one hand, and I trust Barnabas explicitly.” She challenged him, sighing, “Look, you can get me clearance, or it’s going down as an abduction. Her safety is paramount – I couldn’t give a shit about what the bureaucrats think.”

“Alright, alright. Do what you need to do. Just keep her in one piece,” he relented, throwing his hands up in defeat, making for the cockpit with his associate. The paramedic had long since left your side, leaving the two of you as alone as you could get.

Kassandra took a seat next to you on the bench, gingerly rubbing your upper back. “How are you feeling?”

Shrugging, you relaxed into the warmth of her palm. “Disoriented, I guess. Still processing what happen–ow—” you winced as she accidentally put pressure on a tender part of your spine. She swore, immediately retracting her hand, apologising. Smiling, you waved it off. “I’ll be fine, though. You seem to have a plan in mind.”

“My plans aren’t exactly orthodox,” she admitted, pulling a face. “But this is the safest option for you. We’ll get you somewhere off the map – somewhere warm. See it as a hopefully uneventful vacation.” Her hand found purchase on your shoulder.

“And if it becomes eventful?” you frowned.

Kassandra squeezed you reassuringly. “Then all you’ll need to do is what I tell you to, just like you did tonight. I won’t leave your side. You’ll be sick of me by the end of the week.” A laugh escaped you, slightly hoarse, but genuine all the same. “You will be. I’m insufferable,” she grinned.

Without realising, you leaned into her half-embrace, comforted by the weight of her hand and the notion of her remaining firmly at your side. Truly at ease, with the whistling of bullets miles in the past, you spoke in earnest.

“I find that very hard to believe.”

#kassandra #kassandra of sparta #kassandra x reader

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