#the posts in the weekends and friday will be out two hours before the other days | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

peachesofteal · 11 months ago

Text

The Pit

COD masterlist Part 1/2 - Part 2

Ghost/Soap/female reader 6.3k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ MDNI, dub con, kidnapping, manipulative hurt/comfort, whump, the guys shave you, humiliation, forced orgasm, predator/prey, medical inaccuracies. Clothed males/naked female. The Pit by Silversun Pickups. Horror-ish. Misery inspired.

Winter in the mountains can be cruel.

This is something you’ve always known, even as a child. You were raised with it. Chose to return to it after school, decided to make a go of it, of a life here, as an adult. You knew what you were getting yourself into, long cold winters that felt both bleak and promising, unblemished blankets of snow possessing the ability to be stunning, while also lethal. Winters were dangerous, silent killers that left corpses in their wake and no amount of lupine or paintbrushes, glacier fed lakes or springtime moose calves could make up for the hell that winter wrought. Winter brings most living things to the knife’s edge of survival, forcing most to bow beneath the weight of its fury, backs breaking with the burden of just existing in an environment that truly acts, and feels, inhospitable.

Although, there are those who do more than survive the cold, violent stretch of winter.

There are predators who thrive.

“You closin’?” Your coworker, the new one, asks from where she’s settled across the dark wood bar, two amber Budweiser bottles empty in front her idle hands, eyes wandering to guys posted up by the loneliest pool table in fifty square miles.

“I am.” She casts the only window in the entire place a surreptitious glance, fingers peeling away at a label. It’s snowing, has been for hours, flakes fat and wet, fluffy enough that the density of the snow on the ground is light, but dangerous, as it hides the real risk underneath; packed snow sitting with a slick sheen of ice on top.

“You still trying to make it over Fall River pass tonight?” You nod.

“Yeah. Supposed to see my brother and his new place this weekend.”

“Fall River? Is that even open right now?” Andy, a regular who lives a few streets over from you, chimes in, twisting an empty rocks glass in his fist. You pull the bottle of Jameson from the rail and tip it vertical, honey brown liquid sloshing like a wave until his glass is halfway full, and he gives you a flirty kind of smile, the same one he’s been giving you for a year now. Yeeesh.

“It is. I could go around, but it just takes too long. And it’s Friday. I’m not trying to be stuck on the highway with weekend traffic.” You complain, and they both commiserate your opinion. The traffic is brutal, especially in the winter. Driving in hazardous conditions is considered to be a talent more than an innate ability here, and people often overestimate their aptitude for it, causing crashes and delays that get the highway shut down for hours, or even days, at times. You shrug. “I’ve had my snow tires on for weeks. Might as well get some use out of them.” Andy snorts.

“Like you haven’t been gettin’ good use out of them? First real snow was before Halloween this year.” You nod. He’s not wrong. You did get dumped on two weeks before the end of October, twenty-three inches piling up within two days, before half the area was even ready for it. You throw him a polite smile, one that you hope reads like ‘okay thanks for the concern, we’re done now’ and he sighs. “Well, drive safe.”

Fall River pass, it turns out, is not open. It’s closed by the time you split off from the interstate and start the windy, switch-backed trek in your jeep, flashing orange and yellow lights dotting the top of a barricade just barely visible through the speckled snow flying by in your headlights.

Fuck. You could have sworn the DOT website said it was open. You take a deep breath, quelling the anxiety that roils your stomach. Okay. Not the end of the world. There’s another road. A less maintained option, but… you’ll be fine. You’ve driven in worse.

The other road, a sharp, narrow, desolate path that cuts through a large swath of unmanaged forest just outside the national park, is easy at first. You’ve been driving the same jeep for years, a 2007 two door Wrangler, and you know how it handles like the back of your hand. With snow tires, it could pretty much cut through anything, even unplowed, fire watch roads like this one.

Which is why, after the first few miles, your nerves fully settle, and you allow yourself to relax a little bit behind the wheel, easing the jeep across the dips and slicks in the road as you cautiously build speed, snow falling fast through night, growing thicker the higher you travel into wilderness territory, and the farther you left modern civilization behind.

An hour creeps by, and then two. Long enough that you’ve now realized you’re the only one using this road, fresh snow blanketing the woods around you, topography and vegetation starting to change as you encroach on what you assume must be eleven thousand feet. You’ve seen this road on google maps once, or twice maybe, having noted it for future travel just in case of a situation like this. It runs perpendicular to Fall River, and eventually meets another, one that must be similar, on the other side of the range. The secondary road is one that takes you along the ridge, and then down, you’re pretty sure, although you can’t be one hundred percent certain, because you lost cell reception before you even turned off from Fall River.

Still, won’t hurt to check and see if you have this area downloaded.

You pull your phone from the center console, thumbing at the screen, allowing your eyes to linger too long without looking back up through the windshield. No one else is out here. It’s not like you need to worry about oncoming traffic. The little SOS insignia blinks at the top corner, and you tap on the map icon, hoping it will bring up your geo location so you can glance at the satellite image of the area.

You’re so fixated watching the little circle of death try to load, that by the time you look up and see the tree laying across the road, it’s far too late. You do the first thing you were always taught not to do in winter conditions, and slam on the brake, shoving the pedal to floor, heart rate sky rocketing as you panic and lose total control of the jeep. You spin, shoulders and chest jamming against the seatbelt, headlights flashing off into the woods, illuminating an endlessly dark web of trees, bark and branch scratching across the paint as you careen off the road, tipping too precariously onto two wheels and then rolling.

Time, your life, stands completely still for a moment. You see every individual fiber of the pine needles, every uniquely designed snowflake, every single droplet of blood that floats away from your face and through midair as you crash through the forest, your grasp on consciousness slipping farther and farther away, the jeep finally coming to a stop on its side, your head cracked against the driver’s window, stars and streaks spawning out across your vision, headlights finally blinking out completely, leaving you alone in the dark. Your head spins like you’re still rolling, and the only sound in the dead silent snow is your harsh breathing, frantic terror bubbling up through your throat as pain surges through your body.

It's freezing, but you feel surprisingly warm.

You’re going to die out here. No one knows you took this road, you don’t have service, by the time they find you, it’ll be too late. You’ll be a bled out, frozen corpse, long gone and-

You lose your train of thought quickly. Everything starts to fracture, fissures forming in your consciousness, part of you already losing the battle to the inevitable, darkness pulling over your eyes like a knit hat, lungs heaving just a little harder with each breath.

You could just close your eyes. Just for a moment.

Light sweeps across the ground, flashing across your face. You think, if you were truly with it, in your right mind, you’d think it was too bright. You’d say it was blinding.

But you can’t formulate anything of the sort, mind too busy slipping away, falling into an inky black depth, just barely on the verge when you feel a gloved hand on your skin, the lilt of an accent on the wind.

Sleep.

You’re drifting. Falling through a stardusted, molasses filled haze, your mind ebbs and flows with consciousness; soft and warm feelings contrasted with sharp pain that bites through your body as if it’s slowly trying to eat you, chipping away piece by piece.

There are words, voices. There are hands too, fingers walking across your skin, limbs being moved, arranged, always with pain that’s followed by a hushed whisper of apology, a confusing sentiment in the dark. Your eyes won’t open. Your mouth won’t work. Your head is stuffed with cotton, wispy strands of connections that can’t quite get there, scrounging along the walls of your skull, trying to meet in the middle. You’re drowning, sinking to the bottom of a macabre pool, the one that’s infected your synapses and kept you just inside the shelter of delirium.

You try to call for help, but you can’t.

You try to swim to the surface, but the grisly black of your mind is never ending.

You’re dying, the tiny sliver of rational thought assures. Or you’re already dead.

Despair swells, and if you could feel your face, you’d think you were crying, lost to the sweeping desolation of your pain. It steals your breathe. Your sense. Everything becomes secondary to the obliterating agony that you feel.

Something touches your cheek. Your eyes fight to open, straining against the heaviness that weighs on them, just barely blinking wide enough to let some light in, your vision fuzzily trying to focus.

Wood beams come into view. A ceiling? Where-

You try to turn your head but an electric shock rattles through your brain, forcing you to slam your eyes shut again, world spinning on an uneven axis as something on the edge of your sight shifts. A monster. A man?

Something is said, whispered, and then everything fades away, your mind and body slipping beneath the waves of darkness.

The next time you surface, you manage to cling to consciousness long enough to take stock of your surroundings, realizing you’re tucked into a soft, warm bed almost immediately, something hot near your feet, pillows fluffed beneath you. A hand stitched quilt is spread across the top of copious other blankets and sheets, and your fingertips scratch against the fabric. Flannel.

You’re also awake long enough to truly experience the pain you’re in.

One thousand tiny knives rattle around in your skull, slicing into the soft matter of your brain, tearing you apart piece by piece, everything in you unmoored and off balance. Searing pain radiates up your leg, through your arm and wrist to your head and neck, and when your instinct urges you to try to move, your body screams in protest, the pain so intense that you cry out.

That’s when you see him.

A man steps towards you from the edge of your peripheral, and you freeze in terror.

“Shhh. We’re not goin’ hurt ye. Ye had a terrible accident. Pure luck we found ye when we did, dove. Ye would’ve died out there.” He coos in an accent, inching closer, and you manage to get a better look at him, recognition failing immediately. An accident? An accident… memories come flooding back, broken clips of the jeep spinning, rolling, the woods, the fear. Who is he? Where are you? Brilliant blue eyes look down at you with concern, handsome face tweaked into worry, furrow in his brow partially covered by the long strands of an overgrown mohawk. He’s pretty. “Can ye follow my finger?” He presents one in front of your nose, but it splits into two, and then three, just the attempt to focus enough to make your head throb, and a whimper escapes from your throat. “I know, I know.” There’s a ceramic mug in his hand, and he carefully lifts it to your lips, encouraging you as he tips it back, warm, sweet liquid washing down your throat. You can’t even move your arms to push him away, and when he seems to be satisfied, his thumb wipes the corner of your mouth. “Good love. Well done.” You feel woozy all of the sudden, maybe even a little nauseous, and you think you could be hallucinating when another man appears at the foot of the bed, handsome, but in a rugged way, watching you with honeyed brown eyes, the broadest, biggest thing you’ve ever seen.

“Those bones need setting.” He says, and the pretty one grimaces, fingertips trailing along your cheek.

“Maybe tomorrow. I’m still worried about the concussion.” His thumb cards across your brow.

“It’s been three days, Johnny. Can’t put it off too much longer.” Three days? Your brain latches onto the time. Three days of what? Since when? You’re starting to fade, trying to focus on what they’re saying but losing the battle horrendously when the blankets shift, warmth tucking down around your waist and shoulders, unable to react or even speak when they both press a kiss to your forehead, affectionate and longing touch that startles you until you’re losing the battle to sleep.

It's snowing.

You don’t have to see to know. There’s something about how it hangs in the air, how the world sounds during a snowfall that blankets everything: houses, trees, mountains… your mind.

You love the snow. Even as a child, winter was your favorite. Winter brought you a sense of calm, of peace. It’s what brought you back here, kept you here, even amidst the perils. The feeling of a forest, lying still beneath the soft spun expanse of white, the crisp smell of the air the morning of a big snow, the eternal quiet that exists in the night when everything is dampened by the weight of a million, billion, uniquely crystalized webs of frozen water.

This snow feels different. It doesn’t feel like a velvety white, candy-coated dream world; but a nightmare… one filled with pain, anxiety. Where are you? What’s happened?

And why do you hurt so fucking bad?

“You’re awake.” A deep voice says from your side, and you flinch on instinct, immediately wishing you hadn’t as lightning sharp pain zings through you, your voice breaking with a cry. “Easy.” He cautions, and your head stops swimming long enough for you to realize it’s the brown eyed man, the bigger one. He’s sitting in a chair that looks far too small for his width, watching you with an intensity that makes you feel exposed.

“Where… am I?” You manage to choke out through stiff lips, your head spinning and the world tilting at the same time. It sours your stomach, more than you thought possible, and you try to swallow the burn of bile that’s racing up your throat.

“Are you going to be sick?” He strokes your face, the touch nearly sweet, but confusing, and you hold your tongue, unsure. He sighs, expression shifting into disapproval, and then a frown. “Tell me.”

“N-no, I don’t-“ You can’t even finish your denial before your stomach is heaving and he’s springing into action, shifting you onto your side where a clean bucket sits right next to the bed. You wail in misery, pain shooting through your leg and arm, your ribs, bile and spit leaking from your mouth.

“It’s alright, that’s it.” A hand soothes up and down your back as you dry heave, sputtering on nothing, tears dripping to the wooden floorboards with a splash.

“Nnrgh-“

“I know, I know. Poor thing.” He coos, and it sounds… endearing, so sweet yet… frightening, like the poison of a predatory, a pretty display meant to draw you in before it snaps a set of jaws shut around your face.

Somewhere, nestled inside the last shards of your sanity, an alarm bell whistles, but the intensity of your pain quickly drowns it out, and you cry aloud.

“Hurts.” He rolls you back to your original position, arranging you like a doll. “It hurts.”

“I know it does, sweet girl, I know. We’re going to fix it.” A cloth dabs at your forehead and then down to clean your mouth, just as the man with the mohawk appears on the bed, one knee down, leaning over you, worry rife in his features.

“Poor baby. Were ye sick again?” Again? You blink up at him. What is going on? He presses a glass to your lips, urging you to drink, and then pulling it away after you’ve had a few sips with a gentle “not too much.”

“Who are you?” The water is cold, refreshing, but a ting acidic, and you wonder if it’s well water, maybe?

“I’m Johnny.” He’s setting up something beside you, organizing it, but you can’t turn your head to look, and can’t quite catch it from your peripheral. “An’ this is Simon. Or Si, but ye probably willnae be callin’ him that quite yet.” Quite yet? What? Did they find you? Did they rescue you? Why can’t you remember?

“What happened.” You try again, gritting your teeth.

“Ye had an accident, remember? We talked about it yesterday. Ye rolled off the road, ended up nearly down the mountain, in the thick of the trees. Ye’re lucky the one didnae impale ye.” Impale?

“And you found me?” You're starting to feel tired again, all the sudden, woozy and weird, exhaustion pulling at your limbs. Shouldn't you be in a hospital? Why haven't they taken you to a doctor?

“Aye, we did. Pulled ye out, brought ye home.” Home?

“You don’t have to worry.” Simon, the bigger one, tells you. “We’re going to take care of you.” Take care of who? Everything is foggy, clouded, and you try to shake your head in confusion.

“I don’t… why-“

“Storm is pretty bad. One of those, once in a lifetime types. Pass is closed.” You close your eyes. Of course. The pass is closed. You guess you’re lucky. They could have left you to die, and you could have never been found. You could have frozen to death. Bled out.

“Thank… thank you.” Johnny hums, and then you ripple in shock as he leans forward and brushes his lips against your mouth in a kiss. This… this is not normal? Are Scottish people just… more affectionate?

“Want ye to know, if we didnae have to do this, we woudnae.” What?

“Do what?” Simon casts you a mournful glance, rising from the chair. He’s got piece of leather in his hand, like a cut from a belt, and your eyes dart between them, fear freezing solid inside your pores. Do what?

“Bite down on this, precious.” Simon instructs, placing the swatch against your bottom lip, and you jerk away in protest, pain burning through your body.

“Do what?” You try to sound strong, demanding, but it comes out a little less than timid, and he gives you a sad smile.

“Your femur is broken.” A warm hand rests on your leg, over the covers, and you try to click the pieces together. “And I suspect your radius is, too. We need to set them.”

Oh. Oh no.

“N-no, no, you… you ca-can’t.” You stutter. They can’t. A doctor should be doing that, shouldn’t they? Johnny hovers over you, placing his palm on your belly, stroking upwards to the middle of your chest, the other holding firm across your collarbone. His touch is gentle, but strong, and his thumb rubs in a cautious motion against your skin, lightly grazing the underside of your breast. It feels weird, and wrong… intimate in a way that makes you shiver. “Please. Please, please… don’t-“

“It’s alright.” He shushes you, and the pressure increases against your body as Simon wedges a thick finger between your teeth, slipping the worn leather in your mouth, bracing around your wrist, his other hand holding your elbow. You gasp for air, adrenaline fueled by pain and fear coursing through you, and Johnny coos, telling you ye’ll be alright, that ye’re with them now, and they’ll take such good care of ye.

“Take a deep breath.” Simon urges, and you stare at him, wide eyed, pulse thundering in your ears.

“Ye’ll probably pass out, bonnie. We’ll get the second one done while ye’re down, and I already gave ye somethin’ for the pain.” He assures, like it’s supposed to relieve you, and your nostrils flare as something tightens against your arm. Simon’s grip.

This can’t be happening. This has to be a nightmare. How can this happen? No, nononono-

There’s a crack. A crunch. Burning, obliterating torture rockets up your arm, exploding inside you like a shot. You scream and bite down at the same time, raw misery trying to claw it’s way out of your throat. You think you’re crying, hallucinating from the pain, having a heart attack, fucking dying, all at once. It hurts, it hurts so bad, stop, please-

“We’re sorry, we’re sorry.” Simon soothes, thumb wiping your cheek, but you can hardly hear him, your brain starting to sever itself from reality, floating away as you slip inside the dark tomb of your mind, losing yourself to the fog as they both stare down at you, sickeningly saccharine concern layered overtop the faces of wolves, predators licking their maws in preparation for a meal.

You sleep and wake in a haze.

You sleep. Your dreams are torments, visions of being chased through the mountains by monsters, being pinned to the ground, teeth tearing into your throat with no preamble, or nightmares of drowning, being swallowed by the ocean, lungs sputtering with concrete laden sea water.

You wake. Your vision blurs, mind scrambled by pain, vaguely aware of being moved, carried to the bathroom, held upright over a toilet, gentle touch soothing up and down your back, heavy palm cupping curve of your skull when your head is tipped back and something is dribbled past your lips. You blink blearily with stone weighted lids, taking in the room bit by bit, the wrought iron bed frame, crackling flames sparking in a fireplace, mountain of pillows sagging with the imprint of your body. Your limbs are wrapped and unwrapped, immobilized, and shifted, and the pain is enough to make you gasp for air, tipping you over into the decaying depths of unconsciousness again and again.

You sleep. Restless, chilled. Ice spreads from the nerves in the tip of your nose to your brain, your fingers, and you try to burrow it deeper, seeking the comfort of the pillows, but finding warm skin and muscle instead. In your sleep, it’s lovely. It’s comforting. Even when you’re rolled to your side, something sticking under your tongue, you chase the heady thick heat that seems to roll off the limbs around you.

You wake. There are voices, deep and rumbling, bouncing through the room. Warm water dabbing down your neck, your belly, your legs. You’re too hot, uncomfortable and smothered until you hear a sharp pitched snarl accompanied by a yank, and then there’s a void of emptiness around you.

You sleep.

You wake. The pain starts to change, melting into something that’s consistent, throbbing, but a little less sharp, unless you move, and then it shrieks through your nerves like an electrical shock, vibrating your jaw shut.

You sleep.

You wake. They’re there. Simon is dabbing a cool washcloth across your forehead. You try to flex away on instinct, but firm hands stop you, holding you in place.

“Hey there, dove.” Johnny whispers, smiling. It’s a shy kind of smile, sweet, and the world spins. You grapple with reality, trying to remind yourself where you are, what happened. The fire snaps and pops behind Simon, who stands at his side, massive hand on his shoulder. “Made ye some breakfast. Think ye can eat somethin’?” Breakfast? A steaming bowl of oats sits cradled in his hand, spoon at the ready. Nausea roars, enflamed by the pain in your bones, and you shake your head. “Ye need to eat. Been givin’ ye soup for the past few days, but ye need more carbs.”

“I- I don’t understand.” You try to explain your confusion, hundreds of questions brewing on your tongue, trying to spill out.

“You’ve been in and out consciousness for the last week.” Simon explains, and your eyes widen.

“What?” Panic knots, twisting you up tight, heart fluttering in your chest.

“We had to sedate you. Needed to keep you still through the first part of the healing process.”

“You… you drugged me?” You stammer, and Simon smiles, but it’s not sweet like Johnny’s. It’s severe. It’s dangerous.

“Soft calluses form around fractures, after they’ve been set.” He sits down on the other side of the bed, across your hips from Johnny. “Your breaks aren’t in casts, so we needed to minimize your movement until the calluses could strengthen.”

“Ye willnae be able to walk on the leg, or lift anything with that arm, but we’ll help ye.” Johnny assures. “We’ll be here for ye, as ye get better.” The words don’t compute, and you look at both of their faces, sweeping back and forth, blue eyes to brown, brown to blue, until the only thing that you can think of blurts out of your mouth:

“Where’s my phone?” There’s a flash of discontent in Johnny’s features, but it’s quickly smoothed away, and you wonder if it even there in the first place.

“I imagine it’s somewhere near where your jeep rolled. We weren’t exactly concerned with finding it, considering we were trying to save your life.” Simon’s hands flex in the sheets, and then relax, serious look on his face, and guilt swamps you. Right. They saved your life. You could have died. And the pass is closed. Maybe this is all… as normal as it can be, given the situation. Calm down.

Still…

Didn’t Johnny kiss you?

The spoon clinks against the bowl, jolting you back to the moment, eyeing the scoop of oats as it drifts closer to your mouth, lips parting on instinct.

The first bite is difficult, an insipid, unsavory lump sliding down into your stomach, toothy grin stretching across Johnny’s face as you swallow. The second bite is easier. So is the third, and you manage a few more after that until you start to feel wooly, head fuzzy and stomach sick. “I can’t.” You bleat, and he nods sympathetically.

“Alright, ye did good.” Sleep tugs, insistent again, strong surge of fog pulling at your eyes, and you yawn.

“Tired?” Simon’s already moving, hovering, patiently adjusting your pillows and lazily urging you into them. “You should rest.” You’re too weak, too miserable to argue, so you let yourself fade to black, easily falling back into the webbed slush of sleep.

You drift in and out for days after that. A bright spot of consciousness here and there before it dissipates and you fall into oblivion, and you find yourself embracing it as often as possible, trying to escape into yourself, away from wooden beams and potential predators that flank you.

You’re content to let it stay that way, hiding away behind closed lids for as long as possible, until the morning you feel the washcloth.

“Sh-sh-shhh.” Johnny hums when you garble out a distressed question, tipping a glass to your mouth. Cold liquid rushes across your tongue, and you have no choice but to swallow, confusion webbing across your thoughts. Simon has the blankets pulled away, chilled air nipping and your skin, and you moan. It’s strange, like you’re exposed, half floating like you’re high, and half spiraling through your pain.

“It’s okay, we’ve got you.” They’re repositioning you, arms and legs like a little doll, and you frown. “Jus’ need to get you clean.” Clean? The washcloth coasts across your neck and down to your chest, warm water soaking a trail down your breasts. You’re naked, fully, a hot palm against your hip, skin on skin contact registering as you blink fuzzily, watching the way Johnny focuses on you, concentration shining in his stunning blue eyes.

Water sloshes. Squeezing and dripping, and then the warm, nearly hot cloth is being pressed against you, stroking over your nipples, washing the underside of your breasts. It feels nice, and you whine a little when it pulls away. Simon chuckles.

“Do ye like that?” Johnny coos, reapplying the cloth to your belly. “Does that feel good?” Does it? Is it supposed to? Your vision doubles then realigns, and you stare at the underside of Simon’s jaw, mesmerized by the scar on his chin, the width of his neck. He readjusts you, again, slowly moving your knees apart, spreading your legs, and heat climbs through your bones to your cheeks.

You’re naked. They’re fully clothed.

“We’re goin’ clean this up a bit.” Simon murmurs, a thick finger tracing along your slit, through the soft curls between your legs, and you balk. Clean what? How?

“My… my-“ you can’t even get the words out, too embarrassed, and he nods, sliver flash of a razor twinkling in his hand. The air in your chest sputters.

“Your hair.” Johnny works the washcloth back and forth, water dripping down your skin to the towel that’s been placed under your hips, you can only lay there in mortification when you feel yourself getting wet, tepid arousal roaring to life between your legs. “If you’re a good girl for us,” Simon continues, spraying a big glob of shaving cream into Johnny’s palm, “we’ll give you a treat afterwards. How’s that sound?”

“A treat?” You squeak, and then whimper, Johnny’s fingers creeping down your slit, rubbing the cream across your pubis and labia, heel brushing against your clit. You make a noise of a protest, but it falls on deaf ears.

“Ye’re alright.” He coos, bumping against the swollen bud again, and you try to stop the moan that builds in your chest with no success, slamming your eyes shut and trying to disappear into the pillows. “It’s natural, dove. Ye dinnae need to feel embarrassed.” He leans forward, slotting his mouth against yours, lips soft and fragrant in a pillowy sweet kiss that lasts too long, his eyes blissfully closed in front of your almost crossed ones.

“Please…” you whisper, but you’re not sure what you’re asking for, and Johnny coos at you, bending at the waist to get a better vantage point between your legs. You shake your head, eyes wide with disbelief, with fear, your mind trying to catch up, trying to rationalize what’s happening at the same time as your body is betraying you, slicking the cream that’s lathered between your thighs, clit pulsing with desperate need.

“I- I don’t want you to… shave me.” You whisper. You don’t want them to touch you… there, and the panic that’s pulsing between your ears continues to rise as your protests go unnoticed. Just saying it out loud makes you want to die of embarrassment, and Simon clucks.

“We have to take care of you, sweet girl.” Simon grips your thigh, fingers pressing into flesh, and the cool blade of the razor moves against the grain with a flick of his wrist, drawing back to a bucket for a rinse before a repeat, breath frozen in your chest as he slowly eliminates the curls of your pubic hair. “It will be easier to do that, to see what you need without all this.” He hums, the smile of a wolf coy on his face. “Stay nice and still for us.” They work in tandem, perfectly synchronized, and your unwanted arousal starts to overpower the pain that’s radiating from your broken bones. It’s been so, so long since you’ve been touched by anyone, and your body does not care that you didn’t want this, or agree to it, too eager to be satisfied, to be touched in anyway it can get, and it gets worse, more intense the longer it goes on, the precise movements of their hands, the slow and methodical approach to your cunt. “Almost done.” Simon tells you, and the side of his finger passes over your clit unintentionally, and you whine. “I know, I know. You’re bein’ so good. Such a good girl.” Your good hand is shaking, gripping the sheets, and when he finishes, Johnny wipes you down with a clean cloth, passing over your clit again and again, electric shocks sparking in your belly. You’re paralyzed, helpless, and yet… soaked. Desperate. The warring emotions tear at you, shame and fear and desire rendering you speechless.

“I think ye need some relief, dove.” Johnny hums, looking from your pussy to Simon, both of them tilting their heads to stare between your legs. “Poor thing is so swollen, Si.”

“Do you want to touch her, Johnny? Give her a reward?” Simon asks him, so sweetly, and Johnny shimmies down to be eye level with your pussy, tongue darting out to lick his lips.

Half of you screams no. Half of you shouts yes.

All you can do is watch, helplessly, as they settle themselves between your legs, Simon over Johnny’s shoulder, tempering his frenzied excitement with assured patience.

“Will ye show me how?” He’s eager, and you frown, confused.

“Johnny’s never made a girl come before,” Simon tells you gently. “You’ll be his first.” Oh my god. “Will you help him? Tell him what feels good?” Your brain melts. You don’t know what to say, mouth half open, staring at the both of them, and after a few seconds, Simon sighs like he’s exasperated with you, before ducking back down next to Johnny and murmuring softly to him, probing along your cunt, finger dipping into your hole, swirling in the wetness gathered there and then moving up to your slit. You gasp, eyes nearly rolling back in your head.

“She likes that.” Johnny groans, breath blowing over your exposed flesh, and Simon takes his hand, thumb over thumb, guiding him in small circles around your clit.

“Nice an’ slow at first, when you’re rubbin’ her clit. Feel how hard it is?” He instructs, pressing a kiss to the side of Johnny’s head, and he nods enthusiastically, looking up at Simon with wide, puppy dog eyes, sappy and saturated with love. It’s sweet, and affectionate, like they’re the only ones in the room, in the world… and you’re intruding on a private moment between these two men and your body. Like you’re a bystander. Or a doll. It’s confusing, your brain trying to sort everything that’s happening into neat little boxes that keep overflowing or falling apart, fracturing under the weight of your helplessness, the shock and fear that’s nearly made you dizzy. “See how her little hole is clenchin’ like that? It’s ‘cause she’s empty, needs to be filled up. When she comes, she’ll get real tight.” He explains, your body enflaming in mortified heat. They’re pushing you closer and closer to an orgasm, and Simon increases the speed as your hips jolt.

“Fuck.” You hiss.

“That’s it.” Simon coaches. “Are you close, sweet girl? Gonna come for us?” You shake your head, but even if you wanted to close your legs, you couldn’t. You’re trapped, lost in a sea of wild waves that break directly over your head, one after another until you’re drowning, gasping, muscles so tight they burn, pain in your arm and leg a secondary concern behind the pressure in your belly, the zap of your clit as they drag you too easily to the bottom, before sending you breaking through the surface.

You come with a distressed moan, hips jerking, and then a raspy plea for them to stop, telling them it’s too much, you’re too sensitive, to which Simon wraps his hand around Johnny’s wrist and pulls his hand away.

“We can’t overwhelm her just yet. Gotta wait until she’s healed up, hm?” He murmurs, reaching for the cloth. You blink at the ceiling, drifting, floating away, little boxes in your mind broken up into gnarled pieces that don’t make sense.

What just happened?

You stay silent, blank, as they settle you, cloth cleaning between your legs, blankets being fussed with around your body, pillows plumped. Simon curls some of your unruly hair behind your ear, swooping down until the breadth of his body blocks out all the light in the room, lips brushing over your ear. “What a good girl you are, dove. Did so well, letting Johnny give you an orgasm. So sweet for him.” He tucks you in a little tighter, and Johnny ducks around him, kissing you gently, like you’re made of glass, thrilled smile tugging at his cheeks, unfettered joy the last thing you see before your eyes slip shut.

The next time you wake, Johnny is in bed with you. It’s dark, a flickering orange glow casting shadow across the room, and you startle at the weight of his arm stretched across your chest, cradling you close, half curled around you like a cat. You turn, face to face, his mouth slightly agape, breath blowing over your cheek. You can’t get enough leverage on one leg to slide out from under him, and when you squirm, he only tightens his grip, pinning you to the bed. You’re overheated, and when you peek over his shoulder to get a look at the fire, you see Simon instead, sitting upright in a chair, fully awake, watching you. White hot fear shocks your system, forcing your eyes down in disbelief, surprise, his chair creaking in the night. Your breath stops in your chest, and then there’s a hand smoothing over your forehead, as he leans past you to brush his lips against Johnny’s, and then rough stubble presses against your cheek with a jagged whisper.

“Sweet dreams, little dove.”

#peaches writes #dub con #ghost x soap x reader #soap x ghost x reader #ghoap x reader #john soap mactavish #ghost x reader x soap #simon riley #simon riley x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #Ghoap #soap x reader

1K notes · View notes

shurisasthmaticgf · 4 months ago

Text

wait a damn minute: max verstappen x black fem! reader

summary: in the midst of the biggest worldwide IT outage you realize your name has come up at the worst time possible

author's note: i wrote this on friday when the entire thing happened, i thought i posted it but turns out it was camped out in my drafts still. this is my first max fic so i hope it's an enjoyable read! feedback and comments are always appreciated and highly encouraged, i like to know what you all think of my work!

warnings: google translated dutch

the hungarian grand prix was only days away and you couldn't wait to surprise your boyfriend with a visit. it killed you to miss his races but you'd recently been promoted to a new position in your company which required more days in office than remote. you'd managed to balance work and personal life pretty well but when you weren't missing due to your new job, you had something else happen last minute. finally, after weeks of working long hours on end in an office, you were in the clear to start remote working more frequently.

you managed to clock out of work right on time so the minute the clock hit 6:00 pm, you were logging out and grabbing your already packed bag. one of your coworkers passed by you in the elevator, he was the only one around your age in the entire department so immediately you both clicked. he lightly bumped you with his shoulder and commented, "three side profiles and a headshot or selfie." you furrowed your brows in confusion and he clarified, "photo requests for my husband of course." the two of you burst into laughter as you teased, "was the autographed photocard not enough for you, théo? i even decorated it and put it in a holder for your desk." the young man smiled fondly thinking of the small 3x4 inch card that sat on the corner of his main monitor. he brushed one of his locs from his face and dramatically sighed, "fine i won't be pushy...i only want the selfie." you shook your head and refused with a chuckle, "i'm not asking toto wolff for a selfie, théo." your coworker let out a fake sigh of disappointment and lightly pushed you in the other direction as you parted ways to your cars. you laughed and called out, "i'll see what i can do, no promises though!" his face lit up and he blew your air kisses before calling out a goodnight.

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

just thinking about seeing your boyfriend racing again brought butterflies to your stomach. although he was doing well this season a few problems had cost him a few wins here and there. fans had jokingly mentioned that you not being at races was the cause of the missed first place wins because coincidentally, every race you've ever attended, max has won exactly that. for weeks fans have asked about your whereabouts and you'd practically ghosted them simply because you were working so much. you were known as one of the more down to earth f1 WAGs who had no problem interacting with fans in person and over social media. so you suddenly not showing up for max and not interacting with people online made them wonder what was going on with you during the past few weeks. now that work had chilled out, you were happy to be back online again, and even happier to be able to make it out to hungary this weekend.

the moment you stepped into your apartment you made a beeline for your bedroom to change out of your professional clothes. you snatched a pair of scissors, a spray bottle, conditioner, a towel, a comb, and a crumpled up paper bag and cozied up on the couch with shrek queued on the tv. you sprayed your head with the warm water in the bottle and spread a glob of conditioner all over the roots of your hair. you pulled one of your braids forward and snipped the end before unraveling it and picking out whatever knots formed in the 6 weeks your hair had been tucked away. thankfully this time it didn’t take too long to get your braids out, only 3 hours compared to the usual 5 when you didn’t have your boyfriend’s help.

right as the last strands of synthetic hair slipped out of your own curls, your phone rang the familiar tune and a picture of your boyfriend flashed on your screen. a warm smile spread across your face as his camera turned on to show face. you braided you hair on each side to get it out of your face as you spoke, “hi my love how was your day?” he rolled over to his side and grumbled sleepily, “long, usual press day so you know how that goes.” you frowned slightly, “i wish i was there with you today.” max hummed and admitted, “i do as well. but your work is more important so i can deal with this.” you watched as his eyes lingered on your face and you giggled while moving out of the frame shyly, “stop looking at me like that.” although it was dimly lit in hotel room you could see the light pink tint to his cheeks as he smiled, “i can’t admire my lovely girlfriend?” he yawned mid sentence and you insisted, “as much as i love talking to you i know you’re tired and you need to go to sleep. so i’ll talk to you tomorrow, yeah?” he sleepily agreed and murmured, “welterusten mijn liefste.” you blew him a kiss and whispered softly, "goodnight baby." [goodnight, my love]

instead of heading straight to sleep you chose to wash your hair rather than waiting until the morning to do so. the flight you managed to snag last minute to hungary was set for tomorrow evening and you hadn't packed anything. not wanting to get onto a plane with a damp head of coils, you decided to just deal with it tonight. the entire process didn't take as long since you were speeding through just so you could sleep. by the time you were done it was around 2 AM and you were more than happy with the results. a dozen thick twists hung past your shoulders until you wrapped them up into a scarf and covered them with your bonnet to head to bed.

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

when you woke up in the morning you noticed your phone had over 50 missed calls, messages, and emails. your mind conjured up the worst possible thoughts as you called your boyfriend to see what was the matter. max answered on the first few rings and you anxiously stammered, "baby? maxie? what's going on are you okay? where are you?" on the other line max answered clearly confused on what you were talking about, "schat? i am fine, i'm heading to the track. nothing is wrong here, what are you talking about?" you started to calm down realizing that he was fine but you responded, "i thought- didn't you blow up my phone early this morning? i was worried something happened and-" your boyfriend interjected with a calm tone, "y/n, i promise you nothing is the matter-"

an incoming call from théo, your coworker cut max off and you spoke up, "i'm sorry i think it's work related because théo is calling me." max let out an annoyed sound and you laughed, "i don't get why you don't like him." max scoffed, "he is too touchy and handsy with you." there was a playful groan, "oh god here you go- max, we've been over this. théo is a 27 year old gay man from san francisco who's convinced he's princess diana's reincarnate. he's the least of your worries okay?" max conceded, "okay fine i guess...but i still have my eye on him." another call from théo interrupted your conversation and you added, "but he's blowing up my phone so i need to see what's wrong. i'll talk to you later okay?" max agreed and bid you goodbye before hanging up the phone.

meanwhile you answered théo's call and he was literally running through what looked like the parking garage of his high rise. he panted, "you- you nee-...oh god i'm out of shape- you need to get up right now.. i'll be there to pick you up in fifteen minutes so be ready downstairs." you looked around confused and your coworker/ friend explained, "there's some massive outage or something happening. i know we had off today but they're calling the entire office in to see if we can figure it out." you were already climbing out of bed and you pressed for more information, "what do you mean an outage?" théo shrugged and wiped sweat from his brow as he tried to make himself look less winded, "i dunno i was thinking a breach or something? whatever it is we'll find out but we gotta go right now babes." you hurriedly grabbed an outfit from your closet and started to get dressed and ready to go, keeping him on the line.

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

when you finally managed to get to his car, théo pointed to your phone and told you, "check twitter too, the fans are making jokes that you did something to the platform." despite having no idea what the hell he was talking about you opened twitter to see the flood of tweets under your name on the trending topics list. a pit formed in your stomach and you nearly fainted when you realized what he was talking about. you were completely new to this job and panic coursed through your veins on the thought of losing everything you worked hard for. the look of panic drew a laugh from your best friend and coworker as he jested, "they're funny aren't they?!" you shook your head and nearly shouted, "no it's not i'm gonna get fired!" théo waved off your concern, "girl the issue is definitely not from you and nobody thinks so. besides, dante from marketing and eleni from HR were sending the funny ones to our group chat...not that this isn't serious but just to make light of a shitty situation you know?" you shifted in your seat unsure how to feel and he promised, "i guarantee it's fine."

when you actually got to work with théo you were pulled into a meeting where you all were briefed about the situation. they clarified that they knew it was an issue with an update that was sent out early in the morning. after the meeting your boss told you that he knew you weren't supposed to be working today but you did need to stay and potentially over the weekend as well to help your team mitigate the issue as much as you all could. despite it being a global issue and not directly an issue from the monaco office, you knew that he meant he needed you there to help deploy the solution when it came through. he let you have a fifteen minute break to rearrange your travel plans and make the cancellations you needed before having you start work.

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

the work day ended later than usual, the later hours were spent at your home office while you were on meetings with other people on your team. luckily you were able to catch up with the results of max's first and second practice sessions through peeking at live updates while you worked. when you got the okay to clock out, you nearly fell asleep on your desk but waking back up when your boyfriend's ringtone jump scared you.

you kept your head on the desk as you opened the video call, "hey you." max's features softened when he noticed the look of exhaustion on your face, "it was that bad huh?" you gave a silent thumbs up and sighed, "i wish it didn't happen...i was so excited to come surprise you and finally be there to see you again. i'm sorry i can't make it work." max rushed to your defense, "er zijn nog genoeg andere races over in het seizoen, je kunt in plaats daarvan naar die races komen kijken." you let out an annoyed groan, "i know but i wanted to be there this time. now you'll have bad luck." max chuckled at the mention of the running joke of you being his lucky charm, "it's alright. don't worry your pretty little head about me. now come on let's go to sleep, i know you're tired." you shuffled your feet against your bedroom floor as you took your phone with you to get ready for the night. [there are plenty of other races left in the season, you can come and watch those races instead.]

as you lay in bed with your lights off max asked, "did you see they asked me about you today?" you hummed a soft, "nuh uh." he smiled at the memory and explained, "i was in an interview and they mentioned that your name was trending on twitter and asked if i saw it. i only saw that your name was trending but i didn't see what for so they told me fans made jokes that you crashed the mercedes, mclaren, and williams servers so that i could win this weekend." a sleepy smile crossed your lips and you asked, "what'd you say?" he turned over in his bed and answered, "i told them it wasn't you because you don't make mistakes in your work. you're too good at what you do. also that you aren't the one that sends out the updates so people don't need to use your name in a bad light." you grinned wider already knowing what he was going to say, "and how did that go over?" max let out an sigh and small chuckle, "the guys have been making fun of me all night for it." you let out the loudest laugh max has heard from you in weeks making him somewhat more fine with getting teased by his friends.

your laughter subsided and you told him, "tell me about something interesting." max thought for a moment then started rambling on about the geologic history of the netherlands, watching as your eyes started to droop with the passing minutes. falling asleep with your boyfriend still on the phone became a habit especially in the early days of you dating. but now you were spending more time with him that occurrences like this just started happening once more, leaving you missing his presence at night. as for now, this was the best you could get.

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

the end.

365 notes · View notes

almostfoxglove · 4 months ago

Text

I'LL CARRY IT

written for my angst challenge

Rating: Explicit (18+)

Pairing: Javier x f!Reader

Word Count: 5.9k

you can read on ao3 too, if you like!

SUMMARY: Your childhood best friend returns to Laredo a celebrated hero. When he shows up at your bar shackled by grief, you drag him home for the night. CW: Heavy alcohol consumption and brief reference to the death of a parent. A fair bit of yearning.

Takes place somewhere in S3E1 after the wedding but before Javier returns to Colombia.

part II | series masterlist | masterlist

12:00 A.M.

At first you mistake it for a good thing. Last shift before your weekend, two hours to go, and the long-gone local hero back in his hometown smoking a cigarette at your bar. Your break over, you slink from the backroom into the riotous din of The Last Man Standing—one of Laredo’s many dives—to reclaim your post behind the bar. Place is a hellhole as often as it is crowded and tonight’s no different, and yet you’re halfway to a smirk. Pleased to see an old friend.

He hasn’t looked up, hasn’t seen you yet, so you busy yourself with the guy who flags you down to order the second he spots you. Fine by you, the guy tips well the later it gets and it’s already after midnight, and regardless, you don’t mind having an excuse to observe The Javier Peña, DEA agent extraordinaire, at a distance. Top button undone, cigarette vanishing in his hand, eyes glued to the ring-stained bartop as smoke shivers out between his lips. Quite the celebrity now. Been home three weeks if the rumors are true but you’ve yet to see him. You figured he’d call, but he didn’t—not that you’re surprised.

Eight years feels like nothing now. Maybe he’s a hero to everyone else, but to you Javier looks exactly the same as he has his whole life—all that’s changed is the depth of his misery. How he doesn’t look up for anything or anyone, except to shrug off the occasional shoulder clap from some drunk stranger.

When you’ve served the guy his drink and collected your tip—30%, thank you sir—you shake the nerves loose from your shoulders and slide up, glass in hand.

“Well shit,” you say when you’re in front of him, and Javier slowly lifts his eyes. You smile, all rogue. No shake to your voice at all as you pour a whiskey blind. “This the part when I ask for an autograph?”

Javier’s dark brow dips in the middle and you might as well be twenty-eight again. Twenty-one. Eighteen. Eleven. All the ages you’ve been with him in all the years you’ve known him. Because this, right here—that little furrow that looks like a frown if you’re not looking close enough—is exactly how he’s always been. How he’s always looked at you after time spent away.

Sure, there’s never been this much away . This much radio silence. The kind of parting that comes with getting older, getting further—something you once would’ve sworn only happens to everyone else. You’ve made your peace with it. Wished him well from the wrong side of the hemisphere. You’ve had lives of your own.

Seems he can still cut a tiny hole in your chest when he withholds a smile.

Javier spears smoke from the corner of his mouth as you slip his empty glass behind the bar and replace it with the fresh pour, watching as he nods in a tired, humorless way. “Not signing shit for you,” he gruffs, and snubs his filter into the crystal ashtray beside his glass.

One-two-three-four-five others sit beside it, ashed in their grave.

So he feels about as bad as he looks.

“Awful snappy for a man hoggin’ a barstool,” you reply.

The corner of his mouth flinches but doesn’t pull. He picks up his glass, eyes sagging away from you. “Nice to see you too,” Javier concedes.

1:00 A.M.

Friday means it’s crazy, means the rest of your shift slingshots by, and most of the night someone else is working Javier’s side of the bar so you lose track of his drinks. The windows of the bar have fogged, giving the world beyond a kind of eerie glow.

You do your best to watch him, holding in your stomach a knot of newborn worry, but there’s always someone shouting for another drink. Now and then you catch some guy in a cap lumbering up to him to boast loudly of his pride, and though it’s microscopic—invisible maybe to everyone else—you see the way Javier shrinks in on himself. Folds.

The smoking, too, goes on. You sweep past him on your way to a booth in the corner, tray of shots balanced in hand, and accidentally inhale a sour cloud as he blows it out. You try to stifle your cough as you reach the table, doling out the silver glasses slick with tequila. On your way back to the bar, Javier catches your eye and snuffs the spent cigarette with an apologetic look. Pendant lights sway in his eyes like fireflies. You shake your head like he’s being silly, squeeze his shoulder briefly as you pass, and the roar of his body beneath your palm blazes like a campfire. The kind of heat that blackens everything to char.

You think he’s had four drinks, maybe five, but not for sure.

2:00 A.M.

Only the drunks remain to kick out into the bog of late-summer, all that humidity that ruins your hair. You like most of ‘em. Most swagger out with a slurred night, sweetheart as you usher them safely into their cabs. Then all that’s left is your childhood sweetheart slumped over at the bar. Dated for two weeks in sixth grade—broke up over god knows what, probably him stealing your favorite gel pens—and were inseparable ever after. The second that kid sloped into your classroom, all gangly limbs attached loose as rubber bands and dark curls drifting vagrantly into his eyes, you just knew. Didn’t know how, didn’t know why—but you knew that boy would be home, and he was for years.

Look at him now. Passed out drunk, lips parted, cheek squished flat beside his empty glass. His cigarette flares from his limp hand beside his face. You shoo off your coworker with a friendly gnight before slipping the cigarette from Javier’s fingers to crush in the crystal tray with its brothers.

You go about cleaning up around him. He doesn’t wake for anything—not even when you have to count all the coins in the till for the night—which also, is new. Javier’s always slept like shit, even when you were kids and there wasn’t much to sweat over. Woke up if someone in the other room dared to breathe too deeply.

Guess a bathtub’s worth of whiskey will take anybody out.

When it’s time to go, you slip your hand up his spine to rest between his shoulder blades. “Alright, cariño,” you say softly. “Time to go home.”

Javier stirs, but only barely. A grunt, a shallow breath, a flutter in his lashes. You pat his back firmly, not harshly, but enough that he sniffs and grunts again, awake.

“Blue’s still up there,” he mumbles with his eyes closed.

Grinning, you lift your face to the ceiling fan overhead—one of two dozen in this place, none of which run and all of which droop with a rainbow of bras tossed into the rafters. Above you now sways the strap of a pale blue bra mildewed with dust. Would’ve been your twenty-first when you shot that up there, and it’s never fallen.

“I’m a decent shot,” you say.

Now he grins, just half his lips, but a real one all the same. “I remember.”

“Course you do, I was better than you.”

At your teasing, the grin snaps clean off his face and his real frown replaces it. “No’anymorre,” he slurs.

Your heart plummets. You can see, now, the bruised darkness beneath his closed eyes as you rub a small circle in the middle of his back. If you were already home you’d pull him into your arms, but he can’t rot on this stool all night. In your silence, Javier cracks one eye at you. “Can’t drive,” he groans.

“No shit,” you say, forcing a soft grin, and he mumbles some gibberish that sounds like it’s supposed to be Spanish. “Come on, work with me here.”

His eye shuts again as he grimaces, face still smushed against the bartop. His hair’s a mess so you comb it back, but the fucker still won’t budge. Rolling your eyes, you lift his arm and drape it over your shoulders to help him off the stool, his body warm and pliant. More solid than you remember him being before. Layers of slender muscle built up like the rings of a tree.

When he rises, gravity lurches and you stagger under his weight, catching yourself against the bar.

“Careful now,” you warn him playfully.

Javier turns his face towards yours, close enough in this awkward position that his nose presses against your cheek. He reeks of smoke and shitty whiskey. A little of sweat. You’d mock him for it if he were anywhere within a hundred miles of sober, but he’s a lost cause for now. Your arm fits snug around his waist. To his credit, he makes an effort to stay on his feet. Turns his head down to watch his boots as you walk him outside like he’s focusing intently on putting one foot in front of the other. You pinch his side and he hmphs at you.

“Could’a just called, you know,” you say as you walk him to your car. The street is all empty parking spots and shuddered windows and packs of thirsty mosquitos, cicada song chirping densely in the air. Your car sleeps down the block alone, black as the sky and in need of a wash, green-strung beads hanging in a loop from the rearview mirror inside.

“Wanted t’ seeyou,” Javier says.

You nudge your head against his cheek gently. “I missed you too,” you say.

As you drive, streetlamps stripe past the windows. Brick buildings sit squat and lightless, bodegas shackled for the night, and a wilful trash bag balloons with a passing breeze, blowing across the road with a quiet, swimming grace. In the passenger seat, Javier slumps against the door, temple pressed to the half-open window. You think he’s asleep until he licks his bottom lip.

“Saw Lorraine,” he mumbles, those dark eyes closed away, like he can hardly keep himself awake.

You turn back to watch the empty road. Stop at the stop signs just for show. No one’s out here but you at this hour—Laredo is a ghost town.

“Heard Danny was gettin’ married,” you reply.

Javier exhales profoundly: slow, labored, loud. He’s always been a pouty drunk, but this is something else. “You weren’t there,” he says.

“Had to work.”

“Liar.”

You roll your eyes even though he isn’t looking at you to see. He’ll feel it. Always does. Drumming your fingertips against the steering wheel, you fight back a smirk. “Fucked one of the groomsmen last year,” you admit. “Didn’t feel like havin’ a reunion.”

When you glance at him again, Javier has opened his eyes a sliver to smirk at you, the corner of his mouth pulled into his dimpled cheek. “Julien?”

You frown at the road. “Mateo.”

“Shit,” mumbles Javier, still smirking.

“Somethin’ like that,” you agree.

At the next red light his eyes are closed again and despite the fact that he’s, what, thirty six now? Javier looks like a child to you. Spine hunched, torso sunken. Shoulders broader than ever but curled in on themselves, like if he only had the room he’d be small as a seed. Fetal and miserable. A thousand years older on the inside than anyone should ever have to be.

“Starin’ a’me,” he scolds, his words slumping into each other.

You huff quietly, caught. “Shut up,” you say. “Just remindin’ myself what you look like. Think you got uglier.”

He growls darkly, unamused.

As you turn at the next light, the green-beaded rosary sways from the rearview mirror. If he had his eyes open Javier would recognize it. His mother’s—passed to you before she died. You aren’t one for praying but you’ll die with it in your hands, you think. That’s the kind of person she was to you. Eternal.

Beside you, Javier mutters something unintelligible, his breath fogging the window.

“Hm?”

“Seein’ anyone yet?” he repeats, and shifts to loll his head back against the seatrest.

You gasp softly, feigning offense. “Yet? Ouch, baby,” you tease.

“Didn’t mean it like that,” he grumbles.

“I know,” you say, as you turn into the suburbs. Quiet starter homes lurk in the dark, kids’ bicycles lying like skeletons in their yellowing lawns. “I’m being mean.”

“I like y’mean,” Javier replies, and finally opens his eyes as if he can sense you’re getting close to home, even though he’s never seen this place. He stares through the windshield glazed and distant, and you try not to stare like you’re concerned. He looks destroyed, you think. Obliterated. Sure, you’ve kept up with the news. Devoured everything you could about the quest to tackle Escobar, terrified Javier’s name would appear in the black ink that stained your fingers, reporting he was dead. That he’d be another casualty, and you’d not have said goodbye.

You know you’ve got no clue what really happened down there. That you never will. But you can see it choking him, hanging from his neck like a noose that’s just biding its time before it pulls.

“Nah, it’s just me,” you say, dragging your eyes off him again. “Think the two weeks we dated was about the closest I ever came to love.”

You’re joking, all foxish grin, but Javier doesn’t laugh. He just stares into the middle distance looking like a ghost. “Sixteen,” he mumbles.

“What?” you say.

He sighs. “Was sixteen days,” he annunciates, and your heart sputters.

Then his face folds in on itself suddenly; he pales, then greens. “Gonna b’sick,” he says.

3:00 A.M.

“Christ, you got heavy,” you groan, hobbling slanted up your porch steps. Though more alert, Javier is no less useless in walking, and though he mumbles shame-riddled sorrys he can’t much help you here. You hold him tightly to you, fingers pinching into his hip as he leans, hot as a furnace against your side in the worst of summer. You don’t care.

It doesn’t matter that it’s been eight years. It could be forty, and if Javier showed up on your doorstep ready to fall, your response would only ever be give it to me. I’ll carry it.

He grunts as you prop him against the side of your house to fish out your keys. “All muscle,” he teases, voice deep and coarse.

“Glad you haven’t shed your ego,” you snark.

You give the door a shove as the lock turns. Javier tips his face up to look at the sliver of moon left out to wink from the sky as if he’s saying a prayer. He reeks of sick—his shirt stained in one spot on his chest where he failed to aim away from himself—and while he stares up at the dark rash of night you work open the buttons of his shirt to take it off. Despite puking in your car, he’s still too lost to the world to notice your hands until you’re halfway down. Maybe in another life you’d be staring at his chest as you uncover it. The broad slopes of muscle, his stomach, the dark path of hair trailing towards his jeans. But in this life, you aren’t that to each other. You don’t get to be.

“Cariño,” Javier says, and one of his hands covers yours as you pinch the last button. Looking down at you now, concerned through hazy eyes. Summer hangs wetly in the air; his curls lay damp against his skin, licking his temples, the nape of his neck.

You shrug his hand off yours, offering a small grin. “Gotta get this in the wash, Javi,” you tell him. “Not allowed to get in my bed smelling like puke.”

Cicadas sing from their trees. Your house, small as it may be, is a welcoming place. All red bricks and white shutters. The swing on the porch sways behind Javier, giving the occasional squeak. You shuck his button-up off his shoulders and ball it in your hands before catching his eye. “Can I trust you to stay upright while I put this in the wash?” you ask, one eyebrow arched.

He scowls, all pouty bottom lip—trying to make you laugh, even now. You huff as if exhausted, sarcastic and a little pleased. He’s in there, the person you’ve loved. Somewhere buried.

When the laundry is running you find him on your porch swing, horizontal. One bare arm dangling off the seat, his eyes closed again. Skin that’s usually golden washed silver by moonlight. In this heat there’s no reason for you to cover him but still you feel the nagging urge. Even with you here with him, you hate the thought of anyone coming out onto their porches or lawns to see him like this—out of control. You rouse him just enough to lift his head so you can sit at the end of the swing, then lay his head in your lap. He hums. A low, gravelly sound of pleasure. Glad to feel you beneath him in this small way.

“M’sorry, baby,” Javier murmurs groggily, nuzzling his cheek against your leg as you stroke the hair away from his face again. He’s flushed, damp and sweaty, and even with the shirt gone could use a shower but you’d never say so. At this point, you’ve seen him in every state—sunny and terrible and everything in between—and don’t fear any of them. Don’t hate any of them. Never could, because all of them are him, so how could you.

“Cleaned up your puke before,” you reply. “Nothin’ I haven’t seen.”

He sighs, and with no small effort rolls himself onto his back with a grunt—the swing sways with the movement, rocking you both. Then once more, this time to his other side to face you. You chuckle softly as he settles, one of his arms reaching behind you to wrap around your hips, and for a while you drift back and forth with the porch light off and the moon’s claw cutting through the dark.

It’d be something close to heaven if it weren’t for his pain.

“Wanted to call you,” Javier sighs, after a long while of cricketing quiet. “After—”

Nothing.

You wait.

The rest of whatever he was going to say dissolves, never follows. Never becomes something for you to hold, to know, to carry. He keeps all the weight.

“Could’ve,” you say, hand in his hair again, how he always used to like. Even when you were kids he always wanted to be touched. His head in your lap, your hand in his hair to scare off his bad dreams. You could never tell a soul without destroying him—and you never wanted to. The way you were for each other was just that: for each other. Everyone knew you were close, inseparable at school. But the depth of that bond was a secret no one had to know. How his body needed to be close to yours to settle, to breathe, sometimes to sleep.

Javier’s nose scrunches as he fights off some stabbing thought. You stroke your thumb across his temple, trying to get him to look at you, but he won’t.

“Tell me,” you whisper.

Two words you never say. A question you never ask. He’s so far past drunk he’s practically a child—maybe it’s wrong to ask him like this—but you’d do anything to relieve even one ounce of this suffering.

Eventually, he exhales deeply, breath warm against your hip. Behind you, you feel his hand stroke your back, slipping beneath the hem of your shirt. “Thought you’d hate me,” he mumbles.

Your heart splinters. Every cell in your body wants to pull him against you, pull him into you, swallow the ache. “Should know better than that by now,” you say.

The shoulder he isn’t laying on bobs with what must be a shrug. “Been a while.”

“Been a long time,” you agree. Not angry, not bitter, not blaming—it’s been a long time. It’s nothing to you now but a fact. Seeing him again has erased the nag of your neglected longing.

With a gruff, Javier’s arm tightens around your back and he pulls himself closer, his forehead nuzzling your hip bone. “Feels like a’undred years,” he says, his voice hoarse and broken.

There isn’t anything you can do but card your fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp with featherlight nails. You let your head fall back against the brick of your house. Exhausted, but you won’t sleep. You’ll stay awake with him all night if he needs it, if he asks you. Even if he doesn’t.

4:00 A.M.

“No more water,” he begs. “Please.”

In your kitchen, just the stove light on, he’s sobering. Not sober —but he can stand up on his own. Leaning back against your counter, both hands outstretched to rest upon the laminate. Cool light splits his face in half—one bright and weary, one lost to shadow. You roll your eyes and hold one hand out to accept his water glass which he passes you with a grateful sigh.

You listen to the harsh rush of water draining into the kitchen sink—a stark disruption to the eerie quiet of the middle of the night in which it feels like you and Javier are the only people left on earth.

Behind you, Javier groans, watching the glass fill again.

“It’s for the nightstand, baby,” you assure him as you pass it back.

He pouts at it, arms drooping at his sides. Trying again. Digging for your laugh. With expectant eyes you pick up his hand and cup it around the glass, and when you let go and he doesn’t drop it you let a smile creep slowly across your face. Satisfied, he straightens a little, swaying slightly, and nods. He looks down at the floor, his bare feet, and his face blues. Darkens like he’s remembering.

You lay the palm of your hand over the center of his chest and beneath it Javier’s heart throbs steadily. His lungs expand. His blood moves. Alive—whether he feels it or not—and a comfort to you.

Though you’ve lived in this house only three years and Javier’s never once seen or stepped foot in it, he trails through the narrow halls to your bedroom like he knows it well. Sloppy footsteps, yes, and always with you behind him braced to catch any sudden fall, but he makes it in the end. Water sloshes over the lip of his glass as he sets it down. Then—still in his jeans, which hug his thighs so tightly you’re surprised he doesn’t try to peel them off—he crawls into your bed, on top of the duvet. In the doorway you pause to watch him and get a vision of another life in which he does this every night, at ease in your home because it’s his home too.

It is a terrible thought, weak and troubling. It’ll burrow if you let it, so you kick it away. While you strip free of your work clothes, you watch him in the small mirror above your dresser; his head flops into your pillows, cheek smushed, eyes sliding closed. Those dark lashes, those parted lips. Always exactly the same. He doesn’t even glance in your direction—he doesn’t need to peek at your body. He’s seen you before. You him.

“Was Mateo worse than me,” he asks from the bed, like he’s read your mind. No surprise. For years, you would’ve sworn he could.

You blush, though he’s not looking. “Javi,” you say softly.

“Sorry,” he sighs.

In a t-shirt, you pad around the other side of the bed to crawl over the covers and curl onto your side to face him, one hand beneath your cheek. “Sex in college is supposed to be bad,” you tell him, grinning.

His brows pinch together, bracketing his forehead. “Shouldn’t've been with you,” he mumbles.

Yes, he’s how you remember. Ever chasing some rabbit hole to plummet down to avoid the cavern to which he’ll give no name. He’s got one hand buried under his pillow—how easy it is to think of your things as his—and the other lies between you, limp. You take it in your own, pull it to your lips, and press them to his knuckles. “We were kids,” you say, sure to smile against the back of his hand so he’ll feel it.

He huffs. “Drunk.”

“That too.”

“Better now, I swear.”

You laugh. Can’t help it. Silver light from the moon puddles over you, illuminating half his face, the curve of his shoulder, the slope of his arm. Even miserable, probably in a blackout, one foot hanging sadly off the edge of the mattress, Javier is someone who draws laughter out of you with ease, same as when you were kids. You kiss the back of his hand again, still grinning, and watch the frown dissolve from his face. He’s always been beautiful in a way that never seemed fair, but you think it might be getting worse with age. No one should look so good in this state, but there he is.

“Sure hope so, baby,” you tease.

Now he cracks one dark eye to squint at you, the corner of his mouth loosening, curling into his cheek. Then there’s that dimple. Your heart patters. You’ve missed him. “Could show you,” Javier smirks.

You roll your eyes. “You aren’t showin’ me shit right now.”

His bottom pink pops again, pouting as he broods, yanking another chuckle from you while he murmurs something you miss. Something that ends with good though.

“Hm?” you say.

“You smell good though,” Javier murmurs, and though soft you hear it this time. That almost whine.

“Well, when you put it that way,” you tease, and like magic, he laughs. Smile lines crinkle beside his eyes, nose scrunching. Beautiful. It is, you think, the best of him—how he looks when he actually laughs. It takes over his face.

As you both settle, he scooches closer on the bed, squeaking the mattress. You feel the warm plume of his breath whisper over your face as he sighs. He has, it seems, only a match of levity at a time. It sparkles, flares, and smokes out too quickly.

It isn’t a frown that replaces it, but despair. “Gonna feel like shit tomorrow,” he mutters, no louder than a whisper. No need to speak any louder when you’re lying this close. Your lips press to his knuckles again and this time he squeezes your hand, the muscles in his forearm briefly tensing. Freckles dot his bicep like stars.

“You feel like shit right now,” you whisper in reply.

Javier nods, face folding like he wants to cry. But he almost never does, not even in front of you.

5:00 A.M.

You drift into brief tides of sleep with the warmth of him around you, his face in the crook of your neck. For most of your life, you’ve chalked up the ease with which you touch each other to an echo of your childhoods—a time in which touch is given often and without judgment. There has never been hesitation between you, not in this way. Even now, eight years since the last time you saw him, Javier slots against you in a way that just feels right—new, broader shoulders and all.

His slow, deep breaths warm your neck, your collarbone. You couldn’t wiggle out of his arms if you tried, and though it’s warm even with the window open, even with both of you on top of the covers, you don’t want to. Eight years is a long time to go without this.

When he stirs with a tortured groan, you nudge your lips against his forehead. “S’okay,” you mumble, and the whine that snakes out of him rattles your chest and slices clean through your heart. Wrapping a hand around the back of his head, fingers threading through curls, you pull him closer, and his arms tighten around your waist.

Maybe it should feel wrong when Javier nuzzles into your neck to kiss you softly beneath the jaw, but it doesn’t.

“Baby—” he croaks, and you hush him, petting his hair.

You don’t want him to say it. You never say it. If he says it now, it’ll ruin you.

“I know, Javi,” you whisper, squeezing your eyes closed so tight you see a rain of stars. “I know.”

“Y’ never let me say it,” he mumbles against your throat, his breath fogging your skin.

“You don’t need to,” you say.

“Wanted to, you know,” he replies, his voice so gentle you feel it pass from his chest to yours in a shallow tremor.

You chuckle softly from the darkness behind your eyes, like opening them will break the spell. “Oh yeah? When?”

He shrugs, his body loose and boneless. The heat of him is making you sweat.

“The whole time,” Javier mumbles, and you wish suddenly that he weren’t so close because he must hear the sudden racing of your heart. “Pensé que me casaría contigo.”

If he didn’t hear its racing, you think, there’s no way he misses when it stops. Your Spanish is mediocre at best but you catch fragments, piece it together. I thought I’d marry you.

Your forehead wrinkles as a sudden urge to cry slams into you, shattering your bones. At least you manage to pat his back teasingly, feigning coolness, steadiness. Pretending he hasn’t toppled you.

“Think you’re confusing me and Lorraine, cariño,” you tease quietly, hopeful that the wetness in your eyes doesn’t taint your voice.

Silence stretches like an elastic threatening a snap, a sting, a burn. But Javier exhales in a way that feels like he’s asleep again, like all of this is just nonsense cooked up in some drunken dream. Soon sleep is dragging at you sweetly, loosening your limbs again. You grow heavy, face slack, your limbs indistinguishable from his. When he whispers again you hardly hear it and the words don’t stick. You’ll forget them when you next wake for real. But he says them all the same.

“Not confusin’ you with anybody.”

Then you’re gone, sucked away. Asleep.

6:00 A.M.

The yellow morning leaks through your bedroom. You wake to a glint in your eyes: sunlight reflecting off a picture frame on your dresser. You and Javier twenty years ago dressed for junior prom, hidden now by the blinding. Squinting, you groan a soft mph sound as you wake, desperate to bury yourself in sleep again.

In your brief slumber the two of you have remained braided—two strands of clinging ivy. Against you, Javier groans, humming tiredly against your throat, and you feel his hand slip up the hem of your shirt again, his palm flat over your spine.

Half asleep, you let him.

Half asleep, you let yourself remember.

You’re twenty five again. Just a few years out of college, both of you home for the summer. Out in the long grass in Chucho’s yard, you stretch yourselves out to sunbathe in the Texas summer, watching bumblebees laze drowsily between blooming thistles. Beside you, Javier lies on his back with both hands cradled beneath his head while you read, those yellow aviators over his eyes.

“Could get a place together,” he says. So casual, so simply.

Looking up from your book, you see the pink collar of sunburn around his neck and grin to yourself. “We’d get sick of each other,” you lie.

Javier only shrugs, unaware, you think, that you spent all of college in love with him. In freshman year, you’d stumbled home together after a party and he’d kissed you against your front door, waking you from what you realized then had been a lifetime of slumber. You’d never considered kissing him before, but all of a sudden it was obvious. You thought this is what your lips should have been doing all this time.

But it never happened again. The sex was awkward, clumsy—you’d only done it once before—and you told yourself that’s why he never tried again. You never tried either. Now it’s a joke you tell each other, trying to make the other person blush.

The thought of sharing an apartment with him sends a river of panic through your veins. It would kill you to watch him bring Lorraine home. To hear him fuck someone else through the wall. It's bad enough watching her starry eyes whenever he walks into a room. Bad enough watching him kiss her, hands pressed to the small of her back.

“If you say so,” he says, looking not one bit disappointed.

Half asleep, you let yourself dream you said yes.

7:00 A.M.

You don’t know who leans in—if you tilt your head down or if Javier tilts his up, if it starts in your sleep—only that when you next stir the morning is darkening to gold and orange. Panels of windowed sunlight crawl slowly across your legs, and you are kissing.

Javier’s lips melt against yours. It’s nothing like when you were kids. Eighteen and nervous wrecks, your teeth always getting in the way.

It’s different now. You know how to kiss each other like you’ve had the practice, like it hasn’t been almost two decades since last you tried. Pliant and sleepy, his tongue licking gently into your mouth. His mustache scratches sweetly against your skin. When a breathy sound whimpers from you, he cups your jaw, his other arm locking snug around your waist. There’s no rush to it, no progression. You don’t strip down and fuck—both of you content with only this: the soft murmurs you breathe into each other. The lifetime of wanting in every kiss.

Because you have wanted him, you realize. Not just in college, but before then and every day since. Maybe from the first day he walked into your sixth grade class and felt like home. Even these last eight years when you’d accepted that he was gone from your life for good, your friendship having reached the end of its life, you wanted him.

He grunts when you nibble gently at his bottom lip, and you smile. Then he moans. And it’s perfect, somehow, like he’s dug around in the cabinets of your mind to know exactly how you want to be kissed. Deeply, patiently. All tongue and breath and yielding lips, your hands in his hair, the fire of him enveloping you.

You say nothing; you talk with your touch.

He stripes his tongue along your bottom lip: I’m sorry.

You tug at his curls: I’m sorry.

He kisses the corners of your mouth: I’m sorry.

You lick the hinge of his jaw: I’m sorry.

His thumb strokes the apple of your cheek: I’m sorry. I’m falling asleep.

You tilt your head to better taste him: I don’t want to fall asleep.

But you do. The tide drags you out, your body molten, exhausted, hypnotized. Your lips still touching as you fall into a dream.

8:00 A.M.

When next you open your eyes, you’ve rolled towards the window and the weight and warmth of his arms is gone. You don’t bother turning over. Don’t bother reaching for him.

You know the bed will be empty on his side, cold.

327 notes · View notes

adventuringblind · 10 months ago

Text

The Wolf, The Bunny, and the Muppet

Carlando X Reader

Genre: Smut

Summary: Carlos makes plans, Lando doesn't follow them, and punishment ensues. She's just trying to look cute, is that really so hard?

Warnings: Mildly dark Carlos, Denial, Overstimulation, Bondage, Degradation, Praise, PinV, Marking, Heavy subspace, Lando being a pain, BDSM, unprotected sex (not condoned), crying, anal with mild prep,

Notes: So... this is a thing. I fell in love with this towards the end. Dark Carlos is my new favorite thing. Hope the requester appreciates my effort because this was A LOT. Jk, kinda, but I do hope you like it!!

Side note: feeding my praise kink fuels my motivation to write. I am lacking that currently.

Masterlist // Request Form // My Website // buy me a Ko-Fi

It's not often Carlos makes a pre-planned effort to put a scene together. He's calculated, sure, but he can also go with whatever the situation calls for.

This weekend is different. He has something he wants to try and has made his partners aware of the plan. It's not often he gets to delve into non-sexual domination. The kind that builds up into something more.

He'd been very clear about the rules after getting them off on Thursday. Hopefully enough to satisfy them (Lando) until Sunday night where he would tear them apart and put them back together.

Lando has always been the trickier of the two. She does whatever Carlos says. Lando can but chooses not to.

Needless to say, that if Lando breaks any of the rule's things will become significantly more difficult for everyone involved. Mostly for himself, but Carlos also doesn't really want to put that much effort into doing something different.

Friday is easy. Lando isn't pent up, both are dressed in outfits he'd picked out, and haven't complained about it. Not that he's expecting it. He's not going to put them in something they aren't comfortable with.

Friday practice goes well. Enough for Carlos to have the energy to tease the pair. He leaves them wanting more, for obvious reasons. There is something so satisfying about having to people who love and trust you, begging for anything you give them. Carlos loves this feeling; addicted to it like a drug.

The climate they are racing in is warm enough that Carlos can comfortably have the female wear a dress that barely brushes the tops of her thighs. It's skimpy, and he loves it. He loves the attention she's getting and how people are gawking at her. There is a primal satisfaction deep down because he knows full well she's his.

On the other hand, he had to wrestle Lando's hoodie away from him. The risk of overheating left Carlos is a predicament. The result being a grumpy Brit who wants to die of a heat stroke but complied regardless.

He manages through qualifying fine. Knowing he's going to find his girl in the garage waiting for him. Carlos gets through media with a PR approved smile. Still eyeing Lando and the fact that he is back in his sweatshirt.

Carlos edges him for hours when they get back to the hotel. His precious girl sits right at his feet, waiting patiently for direction. Eyes glazed over at simply being made to watch and wait.

Lando is sweating horrifically. Carlos left him in the sweatshirt, making him regret his earlier misdemeanors. The Brit is slobbering on the sheets, begging for some reprieve. Carlos helps him take a cold shower when he thinks Lando has learned his lesson.

He makes the podium on Sunday. He's elated, walking on cloud nine. Satisfied with his adrenaline-fueled kisses to his lovers in a back corner before he heads to do media.

It's back in the garage when Charles starts laughing at an Instagram post. It draws Carlos' attention. He looks over to see what's on the screen, only to clench his jaw in utter disbelief.

Lando, is openly flirting with Oscar. His smug look says he knows exactly what he's doing. Of everyone, it had to be Oscar. It could've been Max for all he cared. Oscar just grates on his nerves with the way he looks at Lando.

He ends up having to stay later than expected. Lando had said he was heading back to the hotel to order dinner for them since he was done. Maybe try to make amends for his earlier stunt.

Carlos takes his girl with him. He watches her shudder as he praises her for being all weekend. Not like he expected anything different. Carlos broke her a long time ago. He's still breaking Lando.

He keys the room open, expecting to see food on the table and Lando sitting patiently. What he hears instead is Lando moaning. The sheets shifted around underneath his writhing body.

Carlos just stands and watches for a minute. Lando is clearly aware he's is but making no attempt to stop. The sounds he's letting out are exaggerated and whiny. Terribly desperate for something Carlos won't give him.

"Mmm - Oscah..."

And Carlos snaps. Any semblance of self-restraint disappears. The stoic facade he was trying to keep dissolves into a fiery anger. Red hot and boiling in his stomach.

Carlos storms over to Lando and flips him without any difficulty. He pins him with one hand and undoes his belt with the other. "What a fucking brat. You can't be a slut for one second can you?"

Lando is whining underneath him. It's a pathetic noise, and Carlos soaks up every bit of it. "Desperate little thing." He wraps Lando's wrists in his bet and tightens it. The Brit lay bare and vulnerable at the mercy of Carlos' decisions.

Carlos spares a glance at the female. She has stripped her own clothes and is kneeling by the bed. He wants to drown in the sight and ravish her until neither of them can breathe. "Must you ruin my plans, Landito?"

"Just wanted to feel you."

"Yeah, you're going to feel me for weeks after I'm done with you."

Carlos motions for the girls to come to him on the bed. She crawls to him, big eyes clouded with want. "You're so perfect, amour. I'm going to reward you for being so good this weekend. Lando will watch and take notes."

Lando whines as Carlos rolls him onto his back. Rough and calloused fingers grip at Lando's hips. They tease the sensitive areas where Lando needs him most. Cock achingly hard and dripping.

"Stay put and I might let you cum tonight."

Carlos moves closer to the angelic female, looking at him like he is the only thing in the world. He strips off his own clothes and pulls her body closer to his. The skin on skin alone has her eyes rolling back.

He pushes her head lower. Her mouth opens to receive his cock with no hesitation. She wraps her lips around him with such skill that Carlos can only get lost in it. Hand buried in her hair if only to worship her. There is no need to guide or hold as he bucks his hips up and hits the back of her throat.

It's impossible for him not to take advantage of her mouth. It is harder to stay away from the edge of ecstasy. But he manages, he pulls her off him and slams his lips onto hers.

His fingers slips into her cunt with ease. Wet from the weekend of waiting. The anticipation of feeling him finally comes to fruition.

"Sir, please - I need you." The brg falls from her lips like it's her first language. All she knows is him; drowning in the way his fingers rub against her g-spot. "Need to be filled by you."

Carlos can't deny the girl anything. He burries himself in her. Eye's burning holes into Lando's as he snaps his hips at a relentless pace. "How does it feel knowing this could've been you?"

Lando whines and pouts, hips bucking towards the spainard to find the friction he needs. Carlos grants him nothing but a handprint on his ass. Tears spring into his eyes at the sting. It grants Carlos a sick kind of satisfaction.

His girl pants his name. Her tongue sticks out of her mouth in search of him. The only satisfaction she gains is from being good for Carlos.

He feels her tighten around him, alerting him that she's on the edge. "Wait for me, I'm almost there." He whispers against her skin. She scratches at his back as he picks up the pace. Her own way of claiming him, it sends Carlos' head spinning.

She's begging for it but waiting so patiently. The control he has over her is intoxicating. He could keep her like this forever, but she's been good and deserves a reward.

"Cum for me, you've been so good princessa." She tightens around him, walls refusing to let up. Her body jolts in the pleasurable waves of dopamine and serotonin.

Carlos finishes with a few sloppy thrusts, painting the inside of her white. The only thing left is their heavy breathes as they bask in the high.

Carlos praises her as he pulls out. She whines at the loss of him, so he places a hand on her hip to ensure she knows he's present while in a vulnerable headspace. It's endearing how she needs him.

"See that Lando? Do you think you can be good? Can you listen to my words like the good boy I know you are?"

Lando is sobbing. Putty in the hands of Carlos. Broken and beautiful. Just the way he should be.

Carlos takes pity on him. Places Lando in-between the girls' legs. He waits, unmoving inside of his perfect girl.

He drips lube all over his fingers and takes care in opening up the Brit, but leaves him right enough to ensure a bit if a sting still.

Lando is keening. He's trying so hard not to move; to be good for Carlos.

Carlos takes his time sinking into the Brit. Each movement sends him further into the warmth of his Carlos' perfect girl. Lando is sobbing now, begging for anything Carlos is willing to give.

Carlos finally gives in. He show the two of them to mercy. Teeth clamping onto Lando's neck to mark him and fingers pinching the girls nipples causing her to shreik.

Perfect for him.

His.

All his.

Carlos fucks them into overstimulation. He's relentless and refuses to let the moment go to waste. Not when they are sobbing in pure ecstacy.

They chant his name, and he feeds off it. He could live in this place. Only hearing them worship him for the rest of his life.

Finally, he slows. He pulls out gently and whispers words of encouragement and praise. He kisses up and down their bodies and worships them because they are completely his.

He cleans them up with gentle hands, let's them know how much he loves and adores them.

Carlos cuddles them to sleep. The feeling of their hearts beating on either side of him only sends him further into the chasm of adoration for the two.

Hearts that are beating with his in tadem.

Hearts that beat for him.

396 notes · View notes

octuscle · 1 year ago

Note

My professor is such a pain in the ass! I tried turning him into an average dumb college frat guy, but it’s not working!

Whew! Indeed, your professor is a tough nut to crack. He's as stiff as if he'd swallowed a stick. On time like a Swiss watch. And the strictest teacher imaginable. I'll see what I can do. Time is pressing, it's Friday and the exam period starts on Monday.

07:30. Your professor's shiny Volvo rolls into the faculty parking lot. He's always on time to the second. His suit may be cheap, but it's immaculate. And he walks into the staff room with his hair perfectly parted. No one notices the small tattoo on his forearm.

When he arrives at your lecture, it's like a sensation: he's not wearing polished Oxfords, he's wearing sneakers. Pretty cool, pretty expensive sneakers. And WHITE socks! He's never been seen wearing anything like that before. And you swear his stomach is flatter. Normally his jacket always conceals a tummy bulge. But now his silhouette is perfectly slim. Unfortunately, it doesn't change anything about his lecture. He's way too fast, firing his questions like a sniper in the direction of the students who weren't paying attention. He's a pain in the ass, and that hasn't changed yet.

During the lunch break, the professor is seen wearing jeans for the first time. Pretty crisp fitting jeans. He really has a tight ass. And damn: Does he actually have a beard shadow? Normally he's always perfectly shaved. You're sitting in the canteen with your bruhs when he approaches you and asks "All gud, bruhs? can one of you give me uh fag? I must have forgotten mine at home…" You are far too surprised not to give him a cigarette. "You're such uh lifesaver, dude," says your professor and asks what you're up to this weekend. You tell him about your plans to go to the sports bar, work out in the gym and maybe take a trip to the beach on Sunday. "Sick thing" replies the professor. "See you around, bruhs!" He leaves you with your mouths hanging open.

The professor leaves the parking lot in his open-top Mustang with loud hip-hop music and screeching tires. You grin broadly. Your plan seems to be working. You are sure of it when you meet the next day at the gym. Your professor has a cool haircut, a stylish beard and looks like he's a regular at the tattoo parlor. You greet each other with a fist bump. And when he takes off his sweaty T-shirt after two hours, you say goodbye with a chest bump. Damn, this guy has a killer body.

On the beach, your prof disappears from time to time with random people and goes to the trunk of his Mustang. Shit, he's selling drugs. Hashish or apparently steroids and other stuff. And at sunset you see him lying on his towel smoking pot while one of the musclemen from the gym massages his nipples. Fuck, the boner in his surfer shorts is impressive. You're very pleased with yourself. You don't need to be afraid of tomorrow. It's a good thing you didn't waste the weekend studying.

Hot picture, you think to yourself on Monday morning when you see your professor's latest post on Instagram. And then you read the caption: "Sicc training 2 start the new wk. Now let's go kicc sum student ass. I luv it when i c the airheads sweating over my exam questions"

Pic found @marechais

#male tf #muscle tf #reality change #chronivac #male transformation #muscle transformation #inked man #age reduction #jock tf #nerd to jock

456 notes · View notes

forlix · 1 year ago

Text

𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱𝘀・779 / 𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴・hyunjin x gn!reader / 𝗴𝗲𝗻𝗿𝗲(𝘀)・fluff, established relationship, intentional lowercase / 𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿'𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲・inspired by That ig post and my own recent visit to tokyo. happy birthday, @astraystayyh; consider this my official proposal (˘⌣˘ )♡

𝟭𝟳:𝟱𝟮 — when you slip out the hotel’s double doors, you’re stunned to find the world has gone completely dark.

just a few hours ago, you were oohing and ahhing at the colorful chaos of tokyo as the van trudged slowly along the jammed freeway. now, blue has been overtaken by obsidian, and the illuminated city sprawls beneath an invisible horizon like stars plucked from the empty sky.

“the sun sets early here, huh?” hyunjin hums as he appears at your side. his dark hair is scented and silky from his shower, his broad shoulders outlined by the denim trench coat he’s thrown over a black turtleneck—the most beautiful boy on earth, and he’s yours.

“i was j-just thinking that,” you answer through chattering teeth, and your boyfriend’s chuckle hits the air in the form of a silver cloud.

“i told you you’d need this.”

he drapes a puffer jacket around you; his arm follows, draws you near. you slot into his side perfectly.

“better?”

your eyes lock with hyunjin’s, then flicker downwards. the doormen are busy loading a luggage cart. the foyer is empty for the most part. empty enough.

“better,” you respond, moments before you lose yourself in the warm pressure of his lips.

soft hair tickles your cheeks like butterfly wings. hyunjin’s been tempted to cut it recently, complaining that it’s getting too long. you’ve been rejecting the notion vehemently, and this is one of many reasons why. your fingers skim over the base of his neck, and the air that hyunjin sucks through his teeth whistles past your parted mouth.

“cold,” he whines.

a giggle escapes your throat. “sorry.”

recently, your and hyunjin’s schedules have been clashing so awfully that you really only see each other before and after bed. both of you are well accustomed to these cycles of mutual scarcity by now; it is enough, during such times, just falling asleep to the sound of the other’s voice, or waking to kisses scattered across every inch of exposed skin and a quiet, melancholy “see you tonight, angel.”

but then, you miraculously stumble upon a free weekend that coincides with the last leg of hyunjin’s tour. he’s on the phone with staff within seconds of hearing the news; your boarding pass arrives in your inbox later that night; now, here you are, in japan on a friday night, burrowed in your boyfriend’s arms, your sights set on a tiny udon joint in the back alleys of shinjuku.

going out in public with hyunjin feels like you’re playing poker. dispatch is your opponent and the deck is always rigged. ninety-nine percent of the time, you prefer to circumvent the game entirely.

you’re all in, tonight.

“it’s a twenty-seven minute walk.” dark locks fall into hyunjin’s face as he looks at the navigation app on his phone. “is that okay?”

“you tell me. you’re the one who rehearsed for three hours today." you reach for the loose strands; tuck them behind the cuff of his ear. “maybe we should just take the subway.”

“but i wanna explore the city with you.”

“and we can, after your concerts.”

“i only have you for two days. let’s start now.”

the funny look you give him says, we have an apartment together, idiot, and he hastens to add—

“okay, i only have you here for two days. it’s different.”

that, you can’t argue with. hyunjin takes your lack of a retort as his cue to begin your journey, dragging the both of you onto the sidewalk.

“i will not be the one answering to chan when you oversleep tomorrow,” you mumble.

his hand stretches out where it rests on your shoulder, silently asking for yours. you oblige before you even process his request, your fingers sliding thoughtlessly in the spaces between his.

“deal.” hyunjin presses a swift kiss to your temple, your eye squinting shut at the contact.

if you’re being honest, you hardly remember the walk to the restaurant. all the bright lights are beautiful but get old quickly, eventually blurring into a forgettable, fluorescent mass.

what you do remember is hyunjin’s excited gasp when he recognizes the anime being advertised on a distant billboard. hyunjin’s flawless japanese as he helps an old couple with directions, and the proud smile he wears afterward (he’s been practicing). hyunjin’s fingers pulling you close by the loops of your jeans, his mouth slanting over yours for the ninth, tenth time with no justification except for you’re just so pretty. hyunjin’s hair fluttering over his eyes when he tilts his head at the camera, the resulting picture so maddeningly beautiful that it becomes your new wallpaper right away.

what you do remember from that evening, and what you would remember in every iteration of your life, is hyunjin.

(you remember the udon, too. it was very good.)

🔖 (send an ask to be added)・@astraystayyh・@like-a-diamondinthesky・@fire-08・@starsandrqindrops・@txtxlz・@laylasbunbunny・@strayghibli・@nuronhe・@seungminsapuppy・@vivisoni・@skzms・@moon0fthenight・@sweetpickledjins・@svintsandghosts・@nhyunn

637 notes · View notes

hornyfor-redacted-onmain · 9 months ago

Text

Secret Secret Chapter 4

OT8 Straykids x reader, ABO AU

Masterlist | Next Part

The rest of the week passed by surprisingly easily. You got around to meeting everybody else on the team, and you did your best to remember their names (thankfully most of them were older than you, which allowed you to easily pull the Oppa or Unnie card when you forgot). They were all kind and helpful, and at the worst indifferent to your presence, which allowed you to make it through the week fairly easily.

You were busy with promotional translations and working out the translation for a few videos that would be dropping the next week, so you saw little of the others as you spent most of your time on your computer. Even so, you managed to find some free time to meet up on Friday with Maya, who was swamped with picking out and modifying all the MV outfits that were scheduled for the end of the month.

When she plopped onto her chair with a sigh, you could only give her a sympathetic look. “Hey, you sure you have the time to have coffee with me?”

“I need a break. Believe me, this caffeine hit is the only thing keeping me going right now.”

“Looking forwards to the weekend?” You asked, knowing that she got Saturday and Sunday off.

“Hmm, I’m definitely going to enjoy my weekend,” Maya confirmed, sipping her coffee. “My girlfriend’s birthday is on Sunday, so we’re planning a small party to celebrate. What about you?”

“I think I’m just going to relax at home.”

You still had to come in on Saturday for a quick meeting to confirm the projects you had worked on that week before they were posted, but it would only be for an hour or two, which left the rest of the weekend free. Normally you and Sooyoung would go out, but you weren’t really feeling it, especially after what happened last week.

Maya lifted her head and gave you a soft smile. “Do you want to come to the party?”

“What time is it?”

“We’re planning for noon. A nice little lunch and then just a hang out afterwards. It’s just going to be me and my girlfriend, a few friends, and some coworkers,” Maya said.

You nodded in understanding. “I’ll probably stop by for a bit. Just send me the address.”

Both of you realized the issues immediately after you spoke, and she was pulling out her phone before you could even say you didn’t have her number out loud. The two of you exchanged numbers and had a comfortable conversation for a few minutes to finish your drinks. Your lunch officially ended when Maya received a text. She scowled.

You shared a knowing look. “Duty calls.”

-0-0-

The company building was practically empty this early on a Saturday morning. On the one hand you were mad at having to be awake so early on the weekend, but on the other hand you appreciated them getting this out of the way so you would have the rest of the afternoon free. The guard nodded in greeting to you as you passed to the elevators, and you smiled in return.

The meeting passed by pretty quickly, all things considered. Soojin, Jeonhui, and the head advertisement manager all joined you, along with a couple of other employees, and you went over the promotional material. You felt a little nervous when presenting your work, but nothing seemed out of place, and they quickly moved on to the next person with little to no words.

Maybe somebody else would have been offended by the way they seemed to look past you, but you took comfort in the indifference, knowing that it was the lack of attention that allowed you to be where you were now.

The meeting was over just as the clock struck 11, and Jeonhui wished you a good weekend as you were leaving. A few of the other employees lingered behind to talk with each other, but you weren’t close or comfortable enough to any of them to join them. You just wanted to go home.

The elevator reeked when you opened it.

The smell of spoiled milk and rotten strawberries hit you, and you immediately clamped a hand over your nose. Disappointment, anger, fear. Your omega was immediately on guard, and you felt like your heart had dropped down to your stomach.

“Ugh, what is that scent?”

“Is that … an omega?”

The other employees who had been behind you walked over, and even when the elevator doors closed once again, the air still lingered with the smell of an omega in distress. It made your hackles rise, and you felt the need to find that omega and comfort them, while another part of you wanted to run. An omega in distress usually meant danger.

You swallowed hard.

The female employee wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Gross. What’s an omega even doing in the building to begin with?”

“Probably one of the trainees. They like to come around and practice on weekdays, as if the extra effort changes the fact that they’re an omega’s.” The male employee said, waving his hand in front of his nose. “Disgusting.”

“That’s omegas for you. Think they deserve the world just because they’re so dainty and fragile. Ugh, I can’t stand them. Why does the company even allow omegas to audition anymore?”

“I don’t think they do. Must have just presented.”

“Let’s just take the stairs. I’ll get a cleaner to sterilize the elevator.”

The two employees walked away, either ignorant of or completely unaware of your rapidly changing mood. Their words echoed in your head, and you found your eyes welling up with tears, not self-consciously, but in anger. Anger at the way they talked so callously about another person, most likely a child.

They way they so nonchalantly and openly admitted the prejudice against omegas in the work force. And the way that neither one of them even thought for a second to go looking for that poor omega in need of help.

You weren’t like them.

You took the elevator, stopping on every floor you had access to and sniffing the air from the hallways. One of the upper floors, where the practice rooms could be found, had a lingering scent, but it was faint, which told you the omega had probably come from there.

You then checked the office floors below them, but they were surprisingly empty. Finally, you found yourself on a floor that you had yet to see, but the second the doors opened you knew it was the right one.

It was the studio floor, which held recording studios as well as production studios.

And it reeked.

The scent in the elevator had already begun to dissipate, so the strong smell was a good sign that the omega was still in the area. Why a trainee would be on the studio floor was beyond your knowledge, but you were on a mission. Your own omega snapped her jaws at the thought of the harsh cruel words from your fellow colleagues.

Gross.

Disgusting.

I can’t stand them.

You knew even if you had been a beta those words would have been offensive to you, and the fact that they said it so easily made your skin boil. You were grateful for your own scent blockers because there was no way they wouldn’t have noticed your soured mood otherwise.

You followed the smell past the entrance area, which had a small kitchen area where coffee and snacks were available, for those who didn’t want to go all the way down to the cafeteria. Or, part of you considered, for those who stayed late enough that the cafeteria would be closed. You thought of Chan, the way the other staff members warned you to keep an eye on him.

‘He’s a workaholic,’ One translator had mentioned in passing. ‘It’s admirable, if not a little stupid.’

Thinking of the alpha made your chest ache.

It felt almost fitting that the farther down the hall you went, in the opposite direction from the recording studios and instead towards a series of locked and labeled doors, when you realized where exactly the scent was leading you. Nearly at the end of the hall, you found a door labeled ‘3racha’.

The door was closed, but the scent told you there was someone inside.

You felt most of your anger dissipating.

On the one hand, you found yourself almost relieved. If there was anybody that you had gotten to know in this past week that you would trust with a distressed omega, it was Chan. He had 2 omegas on his team. He was a comforting figure. And above all else, he was a good man. You trusted him to have the situation handled, and to provide the compassion necessary for the situation.

But on the other hand, your omega refused to leave without making sure that the other was okay. It was survival mentality, the need to stick together, especially in a world like this that would so easily shove the weak and underappreciated away.

But checking in on the other omega would mean having to confront Chan, and you weren’t ready to have to deal with him just yet. You couldn’t look him in the eye without your omega’s want bubbling up, and this close to the surface, you wouldn’t be able to suppress it.

You didn’t really get to make your decision before the door opened, and you startled, legs tensing as you considered running.

A young girl who couldn’t be older than 15 nearly smacked right into you, and she quickly raised her wide-eyed gaze to meet with your own, mouth opening in shock and her scent hitting you with a burst of surprise. Strawberries and milk, sweet and pleasant despite the worry that it conveyed.

“Oh, I- Sorry!” She bowed so low that her hair flipped over her head, the strands hitting you in the face. And then she realized what had happened, lifting her head up with a gasp. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to- are you okay?”

You raised your hands to show her you meant no harm.

“Hey, it’s okay, no need to apologize.” You eyed her tear-stained cheeks. “Are you okay?”

She dropped her gaze. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

You wanted to pull her into a hug. You had to remind yourself she didn’t know you, and that would be weird.

‘It wouldn’t be weird if she knew you were an omega’ your own omega grumbled in your head.

You ignored them.

“You should go home, Jisoo. Your parents will get worried,” A voice said from behind the girl, and your eyes snapped up. “Don’t worry about today. Everything will be okay.”

“Thank you, Oppa.” Jisoo gave you a weary look, but bowed to you nonetheless. “Have a nice day, Unnie.”

“Get home safe,” You answered back, and her shoulders relaxed slightly.

You both watched Jisoo make her way down the hall, the newly presented omega now calmer and safe. Your omega settled at the confirmation, and you felt your energy level drop, prompting you to press your hand against your forehead and close your eyes to let out a huge sigh.

“You know, I think you’re the last person I expected to find on this floor,” Changbin mused.

When you opened your eyes, you saw the beta watching you with a curious look, and you winced. Now that you had calmed down and everything was okay, you realized your behavior might have seemed erratic and confusing to anyone who wasn’t aware of your true presentation. Which Changbin was not.

You suddenly wished that it had been Chan inside the studio instead.

“There was a distressed scent in the elevators, and I … was worried,” You explained, trying to make yourself sound nonchalant. “I just wanted to make sure everything was okay.”

He pushed his tongue to the inside of his cheek, eyes drifting from your figure to the wall behind you. “Well, it’s a pretty shitty situation, I can’t lie.”

“I heard the company isn’t allowing omega trainee’s anymore.”

“Yeah, they made the decision last year.” Changbin shook his head. “She’s devastated. I calmed her down, told her I would try to figure something out, but ….”

He trailed off, a frown pulling at his mouth. You couldn’t smell him, his sweater doing a good job of hiding most of his scent from you, but you could tell just by his body language that he was angry. You felt a sense of reassurance at that.

Maybe Chan wasn’t the only best option for this situation.

“Are you two close?” You wondered, thinking about the direct path Jisoo had made from the practice rooms. “She headed straight here once she realized what was going on.”

“Were not particularly close, but Chan has told the trainees multiple times that if they ever need anything, they can come to us for help. I just happened to be the one here today.”

You nodded. “They look up to you guys, don’t they?”

“I think all trainee’s look up to idols,” Changbin said, running his hand through his hair. “I kind of wish Chan had been here instead. Or maybe even Jisung. I’m not sure how much I helped her.”

“I think you did a good job. She didn’t smell distressed anymore,” You reassured him.

Changbin’s eyebrows twitched down for a second, even as he nodded. “Yeah, I guess.”

You both stood there in silence for a few seconds. Eventually, you sighed again.

“Well, I guess I should get going. Umm, I guess have a good weekend,” You said.

“You too.”

When you got to the end of the hall, right before turning the corner, you glanced back. Changbin was still standing at the doorway, watching you with a thoughtful look on his face.

-0-0-

Maya’s girlfriend, Isa, was an amazing cook, and judging by the gleeful look on her face as everyone practically devoured the food, you had a feeling she knew. You practically moaned the moment you took your first bite. A beta you assumed was one of her friends melted in his seat, and then jokingly asked Isa for her hand in marriage.

“You’ll have to fight me for it,” Maya joked.

“Don’t tempt me.”

You giggled, and Isa leaned over her side of the table to smile at you. “How’s the food?”

“I’m normally not the type of person to encourage the birthday girl cooking her own meals, but hot damn. I can see why they put you in charge of the cooking,” You praised.

Isa beamed. “Exactly! That, and Maya burns water.”

“It was one time!”

The rest of the table laughed loudly, and Maya rolled her eyes. The other guests began to converse between themselves, and Isa eyed you with a small smile.

“So, you’re the new translator,” She began, and you paused with your fork an inch from your mouth. You nodded. “How’s it going? Maya tells me you joined at an inconvenient time, what with the tour starting up soon.”

You raised your eyebrows. “Oh? She told you about that?”

“I’m her girlfriend, she tells me everything,” Isa said nonchalantly.

“Everything?”

Isa grinned, leaning closer. “Everything. Maya’s nice and quiet and gets her job done, so sometimes people are very loose lipped when around her. You’d be surprised by the amount of drama that goes on in that fancy building of yours that nobody every hears about.”

“Oh? Like what”

She simply winked. “I’ll tell you later.”

Later turned out to be while you were washing dishes, a task you decided to take up to get away from the room full of alpha pheromones. You knew they weren’t doing it on purpose, since they were under the impression you were a beta and had no way of knowing about your sensitive omega nose, but it was still enough for you to get overwhelmed.

Isa eyed the kitchen door where Maya was with the other guests, and then she was leaning in close to you as she passed by. “Two of the stylists are hooking up.”

“What?!” You nearly dropped the plate you were holding.

“JYP tried to get one of his nephews into the company, but he bombed his audition so badly that he couldn’t even use nepotism to save it.”

You let out a sharp noise of surprise. “Oh my god, Maya really does tell you everything.”

“Yup.” Isa smirked. “Want to hear more?”

“I’m not sure I should,” you protested, but after a moment of her just staring at you knowingly, you broke out into a smile. “Oh, who am I kidding. Tell me everything!”

“Well, I’m not quite sure about this one, because it’s more recent, but apparently one of the idols is having a lovers spat with another one of his members.”

You blinked in surprise. “That’s definitely news to me.”

“Yeah. She was complaining about how the recent photoshoot had to be delayed an extra hour because Felix refused to be in the same room as Chan.”

“Wait, Felix and Chan are the ones fighting?”

Isa paused. “Oh, yeah. I forgot you were working with them. Don’t let Maya know I told you anything, it’s supposed to be kept hush hush.”

“Right. I won’t say anything,” You promised.

-0-0-

“Why are you and Felix fighting?”

The words were out of your mouth before you could stop them. In your defense, you would have said anything in that moment, if just to end the awkward silence that had fallen over you and Chan when the two of you found yourselves alone in the meeting room.

You hadn’t intended to be alone with him. You weren’t even supposed to be in the meeting room in the first place. You had been passing by after dropping off some papers that Jeonhui had asked for, and just happened to almost get hit by a door as it opened, with Felix storming out. You both paused and stared at each other for a second in surprise.

“Oh, hey.”

Your eyes darted towards the open door, where you could see a dejected Chan standing with his hands on his hips. “Hey.”

Felix gave you a strained smile as he passed you by, and you watched him go for a second before you entered the meeting room yourself. Chan only lifted his head a fraction as you walked in. You closed the door behind you, and the two of you lingered in that awkward silence before you finally decided to break it in the most stupid way possible. You knew the question was out of line the second it was out of your mouth.

Why had you even walked into the room to begin with? Why hadn’t you just walked away?

Chan finally lifted his head completely, and you froze at the sight of his eyes.

They were red.

“Shit.“

Your hand reached blindly behind you for the door handle, but before you could grab it Chan was suddenly at your side, hand gripping your wrist tightly. Your breath caught in your throat, the sudden bitter scent of his alpha hitting you in the face.

He swallowed hard. “Don’t go.”

“I don’t think I should even be here,” You admitted, but you allowed him to pull your arm back in front of you anyways. “Chan, your alpha-“

“I know,” He whispered, closing his eyes. “It’s okay, I’m not … I can’t stand watching another omega walk away from me right now. Just … stay.”

With his alpha so close to the surface, you found it hard to refuse. While you could have just stood there, allowing him a moment to come down from his headspace on his own, there was something so painful about watching Chan battle with his own emotions and instincts. It was an impulsive decision, much like the choice to walk into the meeting room, much like the need to say something.

You grabbed his hand, the same one still holding you, and brought it up to your lips. With a soft kiss to the inside of his wrist, Chan let out a shudder, and he easily allowed you to pull him closer until his face was pressed against your neck.

While your omega scent was still covered with the artificial scent of beta, it would have to do. You softly allowed him to scent you, and it only took a few minutes before Chan came back to himself with a sharp inhale.

He pulled away from you so quickly he stumbled on his feet. “Shit, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” You reassured him, licking your lips. “You needed some grounding.”

“Fuck.” He ran his hand down his face.

You gave him a sympathetic smile. “That bad, huh?”

“Felix is really mad this time. I think I fucked up,” He said.

“Mind me asking what happened?” Chan was silent, and you took a hint. “Right, none of my business then.”

“No, it’s definitely your business.”

You paused from where you had started to turn back to the door. “Sorry?”

“Felix is mad because of the omega I slept with last week. You.”

“What?”

“He wants to meet you.”

“What?”

Chan let out a sigh, and he pulled out a chair to sit down. After a moment of consideration, he offered one of the chairs for you, and you were quick to take it since it felt like your legs were seconds away from giving out on you. The more he talked, the more dizzy you felt.

“Explain,” You said, staring Chan down.

“Felix knows I slept with an omega last week. I let it slip that I was still in contact with you, accidentally, and now he thinks that I might be having a serious relationship with you- well, the omega. He wants to meet you, and when I told him he couldn’t, he got upset. He thinks that … he thinks I might be trying to replace him.”

“That’s ridiculous,” You said with a scowl.

“I know. I thought it was just a petty little argument, but he … I think he actually believes it. He got so upset, yelled that me not wanting him to meet the other omega was suspicious and that if it wasn’t serious I would have just said that, and I obviously can’t explain it-“

“Because of me.”

“Because it’s complicated,” Chan corrected, rubbing his face again. “This isn’t on you, sweetheart. This is my problem.”

You scoffed. “Are you kidding me? Your omega is mad at you because of me, Chan. He thinks you’re replacing him with me. And if you told him the truth, none of this would be an issue.”

“If he thought it was just a one-night stand, then this wouldn’t be a problem anyways. I’m the one who fucked up here,” Chan argued.

“Why would he even think it was more than that anyways?” You wondered.

Chan froze.

You found yourself letting out a small laugh as he just stared at you with wide eyes, not wanting to believe the first thought that ran through your head. But the second thought, and then the third, all felt less convincing. Your smile dropped pretty quickly.

“Chan. Why would Felix think it was more than a one-night stand?”

He ran his fingers through his hair, then down his face, and then he shot to his feet to turn away from you completely. You shook your head in disbelief.

“You can’t be serious,” You breathed.

“This was before I knew you were a part of the company. I told him the morning after, before the meeting, and I obviously didn’t have the chance to explain what happened.”

“Jesus, Chan! You were planning on courting me?”

“Yes, I was.”

“Fuck.” You slumped back in your seat. “Why didn’t you just tell him I rejected you or something?”

“He would know I was lying. I wouldn’t have had time to ‘meet up’ with you this past week because we’ve been busy, and if he thought I did after he asked to meet you, he would have been even more pissed at me for ignoring him.” Chan explained. “It’s just … I thought I’d have time to come up with something, but it’s been a very stressful week.”

“Fuck,” you repeated.

Chan turned back around, giving you a tired look. “Yeah, fuck.”

He shook his head, and with his hands on his hips, he began to pace the length of the meeting room. You glanced a look at the clock and realized that you needed to get back to your desk before someone noticed how long you had been gone. You needed to finish your work for the day. You needed to leave the room and hope that nobody caught you here with Chan. What you needed to do was clear.

But you couldn’t think about any of that. You could only think about the strained smile on Felix’s face as he passed you by, the havoc that Chan had to have gone through for his alpha to take over, the fact that their relationship was being strained because of you. You closed your eyes, but you could still hear the footsteps as Chan paced.

“Tell him.”

The footsteps paused, and you opened your eyes to give Chan an even look.

He didn’t turn around. “What was that?”

“Felix,” You clarified, letting out a soft sigh. “Tell him the truth.”

Chan spun around with wide eyes. “Are you serious?”

“I’m not letting your pack relationships fall apart because of my choices.”

“You don’t have to do this.”

You tilted your head to the side. “Do you trust Felix?”

“With my life,” he said with no hesitation.

“Then so do I.”

The two of you stared each other down. Your head still felt fuzzy, but your chest no longer felt like there was a weight holding you down. You pulled yourself up from the seat, and only took a second to gain your composure.

You gave him a nod. “Well, I got to get back to work. I’ll see you later.”

“Wait, that’s it?”

You didn’t bother answering him, instead making your way towards the elevators with an urgency that only grew the further you got from him. The dizziness had gone away, and as the reality of the situation started to dawn on you, so did your clarity. Being that close to Chan, letting him scent you with his alpha so close to the surface, had been a terrible decision. Your body felt hot, and you were grateful for your scent blockers.

Today was chalking up to be a horrible day.

You were going into pre-heat.

152 notes · View notes

sigmasemen · 6 months ago

Text

YOUR BEAUTY IS SIMPLE.

chigiri hyoma x reader tags: fluff, gossiping, girl talk, cutesy relationships, flustered reader, established relationship, short.

taglist: n/a currently.

characters: chigiri hyoma, hyoma’s sister, reader, (non romantic) mentions of isagi yoichi, chris prince, reo mikage, nagi seishiro, rensuke kunigami, meguru bachira.

word count: 625

extra: FINAL REPOST FROM A TWITTER THREAD. technically i’m also gonna make a kaiser one but that isn’t posted yet!! wish this was longer but im lazy + i get to post the rest of my fics soon since i’ll have enough backlogged !!

many people assume that when you started dating chigiri, he would automatically care for your skincare and routine constantly. everyone assumed he would be making sure you’re taken care of always.

it was… partially true.

sure, he did care about taking care of you. he’d comb his fingers through your hair slowly before you two fell asleep. he would brush your hair and help you out of bed in the mornings you weren’t feeling the best.

it wasn’t as major as people made it out to be. it wasn’t constant. he did it when you two were both open.

what was becoming a constant was his big sister doing your nails every weekend. you’d come over an hour early for chigiri, then get stopped by her when she saw you walk in.

the conversations ranged from your day, to a childhood memory, to her skin care routine, it just mattered on how you two were feeling. but on this day, the conversation had trailed off into chigiri.

since he had been away from his sister for a while because of soccer, you were there to give her all the updates.

“oh! and he made friends with this guy named yoichi isagi.”

“oh… the black haired undercut? i see why! he’s so, so sweet, isn’t he?” her shrill voice made you briefly stiffen.

“he’s very sweet! they get along well, along with reo, nagi, bachira, kunigami, the… british coach guy? hyoma has had an easier time making friends with people.”

“maybe manipulating teenagers into thinking they have to only care about themselves makes them clingy towards people with very similar experiences?”

it seemed about right… “why are you thinking about it like that?”

“i’m just happy my brother doesn’t only have some freaky guys talking about ego in his ear… that facility annoyed me,” she brushed her fingers against your collarbone, “besides, he’s always talking about you.”

you knew she saw your little twitch as her lips curved into a smile, “mhm, always. it’s like all he thinks about is you!”

you didn’t care, you don’t care, it doesn’t matter, it isn’t important, why would it matter? “what does he say?” fuck.

“oh… y’know,” she was dragging this out, “he mentioned that he wanted to take you on a date this friday. like a little surprise. he had a rose and everything on order…”

“oh! yeah… cool.”

…

it was impossible to remain casual. “what else?”

the words of his sister continued to fuel your ego more and more. it shouldn’t have made your heart feel this warm for your cold-hearted princess of a boyfriend to be secretly saying this cute stuff about you, but it did. it made you want to burst out into tears and run into his arms.

the entire time she spoke, your leg bounced as a tick to show joy. your hands fooled around with each other as a mechanism to calm down. it wasn’t that these worked, but it was worth a shot.

“then he grabbed a bonsai plant, which he said he hated, and wanted to give you it because it reminded him of you! he carried it around the entire store and—”

the click of a lock shot both of your head straight to the door. chigiri. you swung your body to be facing the window instead of him. though you couldn’t see it, a light was pulled from his eyes briefly.

“hm. how are you two?”

you willingly ignored the conversation you had been having previously in a feeble attempt to suppress your feelings. you were just focused on calming that blush on your face. the stupid blush your boyfriend didn’t even know he caused… you hoped to give him the same sort of embarrassment one day.

#chigiri x reader #chigiri hyoma x reader #chigiri hyoma #bllk #bllk x you #blue lock #x reader #cupid’s bangers

92 notes · View notes

rosielovesf1 · 6 months ago

Text

lucky 🍀 | AA23

alex debuts an... interesting... new hair for race weekend, and y/n is to blame after a little too much to drink

word count: 1.5k

warnings: none!

author's note: MY WRITER'S BLOCK IS CURED WOOHOO SO NOW TWO POSTS IN ONE NIGHT!!!! this season seems to be the anything can happen type, so i am crossing my fingers and toes to see alex on the podium at some point. anyway, this was literally so fun to write i hope you enjoy :))

“alright kids, you’re home.” george russell did not imagine this would be his friday night when he had left his home a long six hours earlier. if he’d known that he would be assigned the role of babysitter for his former teammate and his girlfriend, he maybe would’ve stayed home. or at least worn shoes that he liked a little less, as his favorite trainers were currently sporting a new, puce green stain.

“thank youuuu, george,” y/n slurred, her eyes hazy and unfocused. her boyfriend didn’t look any better, practically putting all of his weight on poor y/n. she didn’t seem to mind though, one hand braced against the couch for balance, one hand wrapped around his waist to keep him upright.

if only the world could see the wholesome “parents of the paddock” now, george thought. satisfied they were safe and taken care of, he shut the front door quietly behind him, grinning as he made his way to carmen who sat in the passenger seat of his car. now that y/n and alex were home, they’d likely sleep it off and stay out of trouble. right?

well… not quite.

as george pulled out of the driveway, inside, alex and y/n had managed to remember that couches could be sat on, not just leaned up against. they collapsed onto the soft cushions, alex sighing contently as he pulled y/n to sit between his legs. she cuddled into his chest, craving warmth after what had been a very cold night out in a very tiny dress.

just as y/n was starting to fall asleep, alex started to shift underneath her. she groaned and just wrapped her arms around him tighter.

“love, i’m so thirsty.”

y/n shook her head, trying to get back to the drowsy state she’d just left. “too comfy.”

he poked her arm in response, and she ignored it best she could until it was unbearable.

“stop it!”

“i need water,” he moaned dramatically, starting to unwrap his arms from around her.

“i’m thirsty too, but i’m being nice and not moving.”

“you’re not being nice, you’re being lazyyy.” he drew out the last letter, and she turned her head only to stick out her tongue at him.

“fine. i’ll take you with me.” y/n didn’t mind what he did, as long as she didn’t have to walk or do anything other than shut her eyes tight against the blurriness that came with a few (okay, a lot) too many shots of vodka. alex pushed himself off the couch, and y/n wrapped her limbs around him tightly until he safely deposited her to sit on the kitchen counter.

there was the sound of the cabinet door opening and closing, and the gurgle of the tap broke through the otherwise silent apartment.

“i can hear you gulping.” y/n said, eyes still squeezed shut. “share please.”

the three glasses of water each they downed helped somewhat- y/n’s stomach had settled and her head was spinning less, but now she just had the lack of inhibition and craving for spontaneity that alcohol fostered.

from her perch on the counter, she could sit with her legs wrapped around alex’s torso, his head relaxing back into her chest as he stood with his back to her. she ran her fingers gently through his hair, smiling as an idea formed.

“when’s the last time you dyed your hair, love?”

“mmm. it’s been a while. last year, maybe?”

y/n felt a rush of excitement, but tread carefully to avoid spooking her poor unsuspecting boyfriend.

“what if you let me dye it?”

his posture became a little less relaxed, a little more alert. uh oh. say yes. she chanted silently in her head. say yes, say yes, say yes.

“have you ever dyed hair before?” not a full yes, but this was good. it wasn’t a no. there was still a possibility.

“i did rina’s hair just last month.” sure, your sister changed her hair so often that she had simply laughed at your botched dye job, rocking the streaky blue until she was able to get into a proper salon the next week. but experience was experience. he hadn’t asked about the outcome.

“okay.”

“okay?” you squealed and planted a kiss on his cheek, wrapping your arms underneath his chin and resting your head on top of his. he just laughed, relaxing even more into your embrace if that was even possible.

“alright, come on, i think i have dye under the sink.”

“wait, now? i was thinking next week after the race, love.” but you didn’t want to wait that long, you wanted to do something fun now, while the world looked a little brighter than usual and you could practically feel the blood pumping through your veins. you decided to test your luck and hopped down from the counter, pulling him along towards the small hall bathroom, grinning when he just followed along.

alex sat down on the toilet lid while you rummaged through the messy sink cabinet, finally finding what you’d desperately hoped was still there in the back corner- bleach, and the remnants of a dye kit you’d bought when your sister had encouraged you to try red hair (spoiler alert, it was a very bad idea). there definitely wouldn’t be enough red dye to do alex’s entire head though, and you frowned as you tried to work out a solution.

suddenly, the perfect idea struck. after mixing the dyes, you happily got to work. alex was content to just relax into the pressure of your fingers in his hair, and before you knew it, your masterpiece was complete. after a quick rinse, and a change into comfier, cleaner clothes for both of you, you fell into bed. there was only time for a quick goodnight kiss, and by the time your head hit the pillow, you had practically already fallen into a deep sleep.

which is why, when you woke up the next morning, cursing the bright sunlight of the gorgeous fall morning, the previous night wasn’t totally clear at first. you cringed at the memory of puking into the dirty club bathroom, but there was nothing hideously embarrassing up until george bringing you and alex home. however, at the thought of what your drunken brain had thought was a good idea once the two of you were left to your own devices, you shot up in bed, staring in horror at the sleeping boy next to you.

alex’s hair. dear god. you couldn’t help the gasp that escaped your lips, and then cursed yourself as all the movement and noise had alex stirring in bed. he smiled up at you with sleepy eyes, getting halfway through “good morning” before clocking your expression.

“what?” he sat up in bed, sheets sliding down as his worry increased. “y/n, what’s wrong?”

“alex, love, i’m so sorry.” it was all you could do but apologize, and alex looked confused until he spotted himself in the mirror hanging to the right of your bed.

his jaw dropped as he turned his head left and right. you just winced, apologizing over and over. but you stopped mid sentence when his look of shock turned into a grin, and then a full blown, stomach-hurting laugh. he dropped his head into his hands, shoulders shaking.

you couldn’t help it- that type of laugh was infectious.

“i’m so sorry, love,” you groaned between giggles, leaning into alex’s shoulder. “i don’t know what i was thinking.”

it took him a couple seconds to get back the breath to reply, but when he did it was clear that there was nothing but amusement in the situation.

“don’t be sorry, y/n,” he wrapped an arm around your shoulders and squeezed tight. “i’m surprised we didn’t do worse with how plastered we were last night.”

“remind me that shots are very, very bad the next time we go out, please.” the dull throb in her temples was her body’s way of agreeing with that statement. in a serious tone, she looked up at him, determined to fix the situation. “i’ll find you an appointment at a salon before the race, i promise.”

“are you kidding?” he turned to look at himself again in the mirror, running a hand over his hair. “i’m definitely going to get bullied by the grid, but this can only be good luck.”

and despite your protests and offers to fix it, he remains resolute in having the absolutely horrid dye job for the entirety of the race weekend. and when he manages to achieve the practically impossible- a podium in a williams- after crediting the team’s immense efforts, it isn’t his stellar driving that he wants to discuss in post-race interviews. no, he attributes his success to his new hair, which he makes sure to emphasize was done by his lovely girlfriend.

even though your drunken mistake is now a very popular topic of conversation in the f1 world, you can’t help but feel any emotion besides all-consuming pride.

@alex_albon: best weekend ever. biggest thanks to the team, and my new barber @ y/n-l/n for the lucky hair

@y/n-l/n: HE DID IT!!!!!!!! endlessly proud of you AA23 <3

#f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #f1 x y/n #f1 fic #f1 #williams f1 #williams formula 1 #alex albon #alexander albon #williams racing #aa23 x reader #aa23 #george russell

89 notes · View notes

sunflowervoltwentyeight · 5 months ago

Text

Happy 28th! Here is my June 2024 fic rec, organized by word count, from longest to shortest. You can view my other fic recs here. Enjoy!

Oxford AU Series by stylinsoncity / @aliensingucci (130k)

Come As You Are (77k) “I think it could be like this all the time,” Harry says. “I know it doesn’t make sense but I think you should consider it. I could make you happy if you let me.” louis is a professor of literature at oxford and harry is his newest and most eager protege. both are caught in a story about forbidden love, loss and second chances, in which one is on the brink of heartbreak and the other comes along when he's needed most. Overwhelmingly You (47k) more reflections post-oxford. Notes on Oxford (5k) glimpses at life before, during and beyond oxford, in no particular order

Satellite by suspendrs / @suspendrs (100k)

“It’s been three years since I’ve had a proper hot meal,” Louis says finally. “I have no idea where my family is, or if any of them are even still alive. The only reason I’ve been able to keep myself alive for as long as I have is because I keep to myself, stay guarded, stay hidden. It’s the only way I know how to live,” he says.

Harry wants to cry, but he tries to put on a brave face when Louis finally meets his eyes. “You’re safe here. You don’t have to be so guarded around me,” Harry says quietly, earnestly.

“That’s very sweet of you,” Louis says, putting his fork down. “But yes I do. Especially around you.”

Or, Louis needs a house. Harry offers him a home.

Just Pretend by kingsofeverything / @kingsofeverything (90k)

Louis Tomlinson is a divorced dad who doesn't date. What free time he has, he likes to spend with his teenage daughter, and if he wants to take someone home, he does it when she's spending the weekend with her mom.

Then he meets Harry Styles, another divorced dad with a teenage daughter, who convinces him it’s a good idea to pretend they're dating to keep their kids happy.

Into The Midnight Sun by summerwine @smrwine (63k)

Every day without Louis was a never ending blue Monday. Every day went without his sweetness and warmth and the radiant colours of his flame. The tenor of his voice became unfamiliar and muddled between going so long without the sound of it and getting lost with every other voice clouding Harry’s memory.But he was here now, warming Harry’s bones with lips like summer. Every moment in his arms felt like a Sunday stroll through London. Beautiful and stormy and feeling every bit like home. or, It's 1983, Harry embarks on his first world tour and Louis is a budding actor in LA. Life spent apart isn't easily adjustable, but somehow they make it work.

Everything of Mine Is Yours by blueskiesrry / @blueskiesrry (33k)

"Did you two have a good time?”

Harry in his bathroom, brushing his teeth with frizzy hair and tired eyes. Harry on the couch cuddled up with Posy, cradling her in the crook of his elbow, humming a soft song. Harry laughing with his friends in a pub on a Friday night, a flower field in his eyes. Harry in his bed tucked under the covers, naked against fresh sheets like a shock of moonlight cutting through a storm.

“Yeah,” he says. “We did.”

or: With Harry in New York finishing up his PhD and Louis in London working as a solicitor, they try to navigate their eight year situationship including almost-daily phone calls, the occasional indulgence of casual phone sex, and endless gossip sessions as the feelings they have for each other get harder to ignore.

Changing Weather (For Worse or For Better) by haztobegood / @haztobegood (3k)

Five times it's raining and one time it stops.

Spoon Time by shiptattou / @wecantalktomorrow (2k)

There was nothing going on between them outside of the normal bro-pal-laddy-dude things every other set of best friends did. All sets of best friends did things like this. You know, hanging out every day, staying up late, and chatting until the wee hours which usually ended up as a sleepover and bed-sharing. There is nothing going on between them.

That is what Harry was going to keep telling himself and everyone around them, anyway because it is the truth, after all.

#28th appreciation #june fic rec #monthly fic rec #larry fic rec #fic rec #hlcreators #read

83 notes · View notes

joeyalohadream · 3 months ago

Note

I wish you would write a fic where Bucky gets a call that Gale has been in an accident or something, goes to pick him up, Gale isn’t even badly hurt but Bucky still loses his mind and Gale ends up comforting him lol (if u can’t tell im a sucker for hurt gale and hurt/comfort in general lol) .

Also i saw u posting that u feel like u ramble/write too much and i just wanted to say, im so obsessed with ur writing that i eat up anything u write like if u were to post ur shopping list i would probably read it and love it so PLS ALWAYS WRITE TOO MUCH. Thank u for sharing w us ❤️‍🩹

Hi! So sorry this took me so long!

aaaand thank you so much, anon! Your kind words made me feel all warm and fuzzy! (p.s. my shopping list is cat food and wine LOL). I'm glad you enjoy my rambling!

Here is the fic I wrote for your request! 4,047 words of a bit of angst and fluff and some sweetness. Hope you like it!

If you'd rather read a word count like that on AO3, find it here!

It’s six o’clock and John is hungry.

His day had been a good one, but a long one. Flying right seat to several cadets on their second week of actual flying. Witnessing the joy, the reverence the young pilots had experienced behind the yolk had brought back memories of a time when flying had been his favorite thing in the world. Back before it was tainted by terror and death and dread.

It eases something within him to know that he can still find the beauty in it after years of growing to hate something that had once been the thing that made him feel alive.

But it’s Friday night now and his feet will be firmly on the ground for the weekend. A weekend that was supposed to start with a homecooked meal, lovingly prepared by Gale.

With Gale in school and John working full-time, they spend most of their week like passing ships. Evenings are typically a rushed affair of leftovers or a meet-up at the diner half way between the base and Gale’s campus.

Friday nights are John’s favorite though. Gale is out of class by three and home by four. He spends the two hour stretch of time between then and John’s arrival at six cooking the most delicious meals John has ever tasted. A skill he’d developed while trying, and mostly succeeding, in putting some meat back on to their bones after they came home.

But it’s six o’clock and there is no dinner waiting for him. The lights are all off and Gale’s truck is not in the driveway.

He walks through the house, turning on a lamp here, flipping a switch there and tries to temper the feeling of dread that starts prickling under his skin.

After everything they’d been through, it had taken them both a significant amount of time to quell the unrealistic expectation that something was wrong whenever they weren’t within sight of each other.

Neither of them had fully managed to overcome it. Gale calls his office at least twice a week from the payphone at school between classes just to say hello.

John pours himself a glass of water and takes a sip, leaning against the freshly painted cabinets. The soft green hue offers a peaceful warmth in the small kitchen. It had been their project last weekend.

Gale sometimes stays late after his lecture to help some of the younger students that struggle with the concepts. His genius.

But he doesn’t do that on Fridays because Friday nights are their nights.

So why isn’t he here?

He pushes off the counter and takes two steps to the icebox. Opening it reveals the steaks that Gale had prepped for tonight. He contemplates getting them out and trying his hand at making the meal but shuts the door and the thought down immediately.

Despite spending his time practically draped over Gale’s back, chin hooked over his shoulder on the Friday evenings he is home in time to watch him cook, John hadn’t managed to pick up the skill.

Instead of studying the technique, he studies Gale’s confident movements as he chops and tenderizes and slices and measures and stirs. Gale’s hands create nourishment for them while his own hands typically trace the soft skin a Gale’s still too flat belly, the delicate curve of his trim waist, sometimes drifting to skim his pert rear if Gale lets him get away with it.

The thoughts bring a smile to his face. But looking at the clock on the wall that tells him Gale is now over two hours late wipes it away.

He walks back to the front door and out onto the porch to stare down the long driveway that leads up to their home, willing headlights to turn onto it. But time ticks by and the sun is dipping lower on the horizon and Gale still isn’t where he’s supposed to be.

John knows the route Gale takes to and from campus. He’d driven him several times back before they’d acquired a second truck. He fingers the keys in his pocket, wondering how much Gale would rib him for driving the hour to his school when it turns out he just lost track of time.

But it’s Friday night and Gale doesn’t lose track of time, especially when time is leading to them spending their evening wrapped around each other.

John flinches as the silence of the evening is interrupted by the sound of their telephone ringing in the kitchen. Relief floods him a moment later and he slams the screen door open and takes long strides back into the house.

“You better have a good explanation for why I’m not eating a big, juicy steak right now,” he says into the receiver, a smile already pulling at his lips as he waits for Gale’s exasperated tone to filter back through to him.

But there’s silence for a beat and then a throat is cleared and then John’s heart starts to pound a little faster.

“Um, hello,” a voice that is distinctly not Gale comes through the connection. “Is this John Egan?”

“Yes,” John replies, switching the phone to his other hand, hoping it’s less wet. It’s not. “Who’s this?”

“I’m a nurse at Lakeside Memorial,” she supplies and John’s knees go weak. “I’m calling because your friend, Gale Cleven, was brought in about an hour ago. He was in an accident.”

Words won’t form, but some unintelligible noise escapes his mouth in response. For a moment, he’s not in their softly lit, freshly painted kitchen. He’s in a phone booth in London and it’s the worst moment of his life.

He went down swingin’.

The cord stretches its length as his legs decide to stop functioning and he slides down to the floor, back pressed against the green cabinet doors.

“Mr. Egan, are you still there?”

Is he? Or is he back on the bombed-out streets of a city he never should have gone to?

“I’m here,” he grinds out as he closes his eyes and reminds himself to breathe. Pictures Gale in front of him, one hand planted on his chest, the other cradling his cheek. Breathe, darlin’, he’d say. He’s said it to him countless times since they’d reunited back in the Stalag. He’s said it to him in their bedroom, in their yard, in this kitchen. He needs to know if he’ll ever hear him say it again. “Is he okay?”

“I can’t give out medical information over the phone,” the nurse tells him, and John tightens his grip on the phone, anger rising, but she continues before he can spew it over the line. “But Mr. Cleven asked me to call you himself.”

He takes a deep breath, the slightest bit of relief mixing with the dread coiling itself around his heart.

“You understand?” The nurse’s voice is back in his ear. She couldn’t tell him how he was, but she told him enough to let him know that he was well enough to be talking and that’s enough for him to know that Gale is still here. He nods and then remembers he’s alone.

“Yes, I understand,” he says. “Lakeside Memorial?”

“That’s correct,” she confirms, sounding patient. John imagines she makes these calls every day. He wouldn’t like that job. “Come in through the emergency room doors and we’ll get you sorted.”

“Thank you,” his voice wobbles a bit too much, but he can’t bring himself to be embarrassed. There’s a click over the line that tells him she’s hung up, so he lets the phone drop and then presses the heels of his hands to his eyes and presses hard. He chokes on his next inhale and feels his shoulders shake.

But Gale needs him. He’s hurt and he wants John to come to him and he needs to get up off this floor, right now.

The room sways a bit as he gets to his feet, head feeling fuzzy. He thinks maybe he hasn’t been breathing correctly since the nurse’s voice came through the phone instead of Gale’s.

Breathe, darlin’.

In through his nose, out through his mouth. It helps a bit.

----

Physically, He slides into the driver’s seat of their new pick-up truck and starts the engine. That phone call left him with only questions and his hands sweat as they grip the leather of the steering wheel. His foot feels numb as he presses it to the gas in order to go find answers.

Mentally, he’s sliding into his seat on a train car that’s leading him to a destination with no answers to be had, no sweet smile or soft laughter or dazzling blue eyes waiting for him. No joy, only pain. No Gale. Because he went down swingin’.

The crushing sadness that had invaded every nerve in his system after he’d walked out of that phone booth all those years ago suddenly feels like it never went away. Like he could wake up and realize that this year of domestic bliss hadn’t happened. Like Gale wasn’t his and Gale wasn’t here, and Gale wasn’t anywhere. He shakes his head, as if he could physically knock the horrible images out of his mind.

Headlights shine through his windshield, streetlamps coming on along the road as the sun continues setting. He knows the way to the emergency room. It’s on the way to Gale’s campus. His body operates on auto pilot to get him there, his head is in the clouds or in the dirt or somewhere else entirely.

He needs Gale to be okay. It’s hard to breathe again.

Gale would be so angry at him for driving like this. Gale will be so angry with him for driving like this.

----

It takes him a moment to realize why every head in the room turns to him when he walks through the door. His hands shake as he straightens out his uniform jacket and runs fingers through his curls, realizing he forgot his cap. Not very officer-like to be out in public without the proper uniform.

To his surprise, it takes barely a word from him for a young orderly to lead him to Gale. No argument about how he’s not family, even though he is Gale’s only family. No odd looks about why it isn’t Gale’s wife or mother or father coming to see him.

He thinks his feet might be numb and he finds that odd, but they still put in the work and follow the man in scrubs to a row of curtained off exam rooms. Further relief crackles in his chest when he realizes they’re headed for one specific curtain. Gale isn’t in surgery or in a private room. He’s in the same kind of place John had sat a few months ago when he’d needed stiches on his thumb.

Maybe he’s okay.

Please be okay.

His heart rate increases as the orderly gestures him forward and then turns to leave. He takes a steadying breath, ducks around the fabric and is greeted with two sky-blue eyes and a sheepish looking smile directed his way.

“You’re here,” Gale breathes out, the sound of utter relief in his voice. John stares at him. He thinks the numbness in his feet might be creeping up into the rest of his body. “John?”

The small smile Gale had thrown him upon his arrival is wiped away as concern twists his features and John wants to laugh but all he can do is stare for some reason. He’s staring intently at the younger man, watches as his brows furrows and he shifts on the plastic wrapped table he’s sitting on.

“John,” Gale tries again, a wince pulling his features down for a moment. “You with me?”

The curtain draws open. The shrill sound of the metal rings grating against the pole makes John cringe and snap his gaze away from Gale to take in the sight of a white-haired nurse with a friendly smile, kind eyes and a clipboard in her hand.

“Is this the friend you mentioned?” She addresses Gale, walking over to where he’s sitting awkwardly hunched on the exam table. “The one you served with?”

John swallows and straightens his shoulders as the nurse’s eyes find his. He hears Gale clear his throat and mutter a quiet, “yes, ma’am.”

His hands are sweating where they hang uselessly at his sides. He can breathe easier than he managed to on the drive over, now that he has Gale in his sights, but his heartbeat is too fast, rabbiting away in chest like its being chased by a predator. His eyes flit from the nurse to Gale and back again and he knows he should speak, but his tongue feels heavy, and his mouth is dry, and he feels like maybe he should be the one sitting on the exam table.

“Nurse Amy,” Gale comes to his rescue. “This is John Egan. John, this is Nurse Amy. She’s the one that called you after making sure I was alright.”

Gale is looking at him with understanding and patience, concern and a little bit of what looks like desperation. His beautiful face is all bruised up, small cuts around his temple. Just like Regensburg. There’s blood on the collar of his shirt, not a lot, but it’s Gale’s and it’s not supposed to be on the outside of him, not ever again.

John’s breath hitches and Gale leans forward, eyes softening. “Which I am, John. I’m alright.”

He hears the nurse make a tutting sound, but he can’t take his eyes off Gale again. Ever again, maybe.

“X-rays came back, Mr. Cleven,” she says, all business. “You were correct in your self-assessment. No broken bones.” John watches as Gale nods as her, but his eyes immediately drift back to John. “But you do have a slight hairline fracture in your wrist, so we’ll need to wrap it.”

“Fine,” Gale clips out, polite but impatient. “Can you just give us a few minutes? Need to talk to my friend here about the truck.”

“I’ll be back in ten to wrap that wrist up for you, try to keep it still,” she agrees and then she’s gone and they’re alone.

“I don’t care about the damn truck,” John finally finds his voice, even if it sounds rough to his own ears.

“I know that,” Gale cocks his head a bit, his own voice sounds a little off now that John’s ears aren’t ringing as badly as before. “What’d you want me to tell her? Get out so I can have a moment alone with my fella?”

John wants to laugh; he loves it when Gale teases him. But a choking sound comes out instead and he shakes his head and just breathes. Gale starts to slide off the table and it makes John stumble forward, hands outstretched.

“Wait,” he says as he reaches Gale’s knees. He looks him over again, hating the evidence of any kind of violence on a man as sweet and gentle as Gale. “Just, stay there. Don’t move.”

“John, I’m fine,” Gale reaches out with his left hand, his right laying motionless across his lap. John’s eyes trace over the abraded skin and the already swollen looking joint. “Can you say the same?”

John pulls a face but can’t contradict the man sitting in front of him. He needs to pull himself together. Gale is here, he’s not blown to bits over Germany or lost behind enemy lines. But any kind of unknown right now is too much for John. He places a hand over one of Gale’s knees, lets his thumb start a back-and-forth motion, lets the repetitiveness of it soothe them both.

“You’re in the emergency room,” John points out. “People that are ‘fine’ don’t really get brought here.”

“Wasn’t my choice,” Gale grumbles, looking petulant and John kind of wants to shake him a bit. “You looked worse than me when you walked in here. Are you okay?”

“Tell me about all this?” He motions to Gale’s face, frowning and ignoring how Gale looks annoyed at him for brushing past his own question.

“Just got a bit banged up,” Gale tells him. John squeezes his knee and eases a bit at the eye roll it gets him. “Hit my head on the window when I hit the tree.”

“You hit a tree?”

“So that I wouldn’t hit the dog that ran out in front of me.”

And John wants to reprimand him. Wants to remind him that it’s a golden rule on the road not to swerve and cause more damage just to avoid an animal. But he also knows that the man in front of him would rather suffer these consequences than to ever take the life of someone’s pet. It’s one of the thousands of things he loves about him.

“Of course,” he returns, finally allowing a small smile to graze his own lips. It wobbles a bit at the look of relief it brings out in Gale’s eyes. “You’re really okay?”

“Mild concussion and a bruised jaw and you heard about the wrist. Everything else is superficial, I promise.” Gale tries to soothe, but all John can think of is how much worse this could have been. He closes his eyes, his breathing picks up a bit and then there’s a warm pressure on his chest and a matching one on his cheek.

“Breathe, darlin’,” Gale’s low voice whispers out between them and John shudders, letting his weight fall forward a bit against the strength behind Gale’s hand. “Just breathe. I’m right here. I’m okay.”

It takes him a few moments to grasp it, to accept it. Gale is hurt. But he’s okay. He’s going to be okay. The dueling sensations of relief and fear war inside of him to brew a nasty storm that leaves him feeling exhausted.

“This one really freaked you out, huh?” A thumb strokes over his cheek and John leans into the sensation. “I’m sorry, John.”

“God, baby,” John lets out on an exhale, opening his eyes and finding those beautiful blues looking right back at him. “I think I’m gonna have to homeschool you from now on. Can’t let you outta my sight.”

Soft huffs of laughter ripple from Gale and he looks up at him, amusement dancing across his face. “You an expert in advanced physics, Major?”

“You might just have to switch your major, Major.”

Gale grins at him and shakes his head and it feels so good to make him happy. It’s John’s favorite thing in the world.

“How about we settle for you driving me around again for a while? Just like old times,” Gale asks. “I might’ve totaled the truck.”

John nods an affirmative, ignoring the way the mention of their truck makes his pulse spike unpleasantly again. Gale removes his hand from his face, a grimace pulling at his brows as he lowers the injured limb back to lap.

“She told you to keep that still,” John chides, feeling foolish for not remembering sooner. “What am I gonna do with you, huh?”

Gale smiles up at him, a little innocent, a little playful.

“Whatever you want, John.”

This time the spike in his pulse is a pleasant one as he imagines all of the ways he can take of this man in the coming days.

“I’m holding you to that,” John tells him. It’s his turn now to reach out and cradle a bruised jaw, he frowns again at the bruising painted across the delicate skin and lets his thumb caress it for a moment. Gale’s eyes fall shut.

“It’s almost been ten minutes, Bucky.”

“I know, Buck.” He leans down and presses his lips to Gale’s forehead, lets them linger for a moment. Then another. Noses his blond hair and breathes him in. Overly bright blue eyes watch him step a respectable distance away to await Nurse Amy’s return.

He feels unsteady, but less like he might shake apart. Gale smiles at him from the table and he feels a little better.

----

Nearly an hour later, Gale’s wrist has been splinted and wrapped, he’s holding a bottle of painkillers that John knows he’ll have to fight to get him to take and he’s clumsily signed the abundance of paperwork with his left hand. It’s completely dark when they exit the emergency room, walking close enough together that their shoulders brush as they move.

A few steps from the truck, Gale stops in his tracks and John halts to match him, worry ratcheting back up.

“It’s Friday night,” Gale mutters, sounding a little frail. John pictures them savoring steaks and roasted vegetables and a pie after dinner and understands where his thoughts have strayed. After living in such a state of hypervigilance with stakes too high to contemplate for years of their lives, they now take the time to enjoy every slow moment of peace they can get together. Missing one feels monumental sometimes. John will just have to make this weekend one to remember.

“Hey,” John reaches out to squeeze his shoulder. “There’s always tomorrow and the next day. And every day after that.”

Gale gives him a small smile, nods and lets John usher him to the truck, waiting patiently for John to open the passenger door for him. He stops again, one leg in the truck and looks back at John, brows pulled down in a frown.

“Are you sure you’re good to drive?”

John can’t help but laugh. “What? Are you going to drive us home, Mr. Concussion?”

“It’s only a mild one,” Gale grumbles. John rolls his eyes and pushes Gale up and into his seat, shutting the door on him before he can protest.

When he gets himself behind the wheel, Gale’s hand covers his before he can put the key into the ignition.

“Buck,” John starts, but one look at the concern in Gale’s eyes stops him from complaining.

“Think maybe, you started panicking when that nurse called ya.” There’s understanding in Gale’s gaze and John swallows heavily, images of a phone booth blurring with their soft green cabinets. “And I don’t know if you’ve really stopped yet. I hate the thought of you driving over here like that.”

And John understands where he’s coming from. They both have their bad days. They’re growing less frequent all the time, but they’ve been a witness to nightmares, to bouts of sadness and rage and fear and panic. He hates to see Gale like that, and John knows the feeling is mutual. The thought of it happening while one of them is alone is a reality they have to live with.

“I had to, Buck,” John points out. He doesn’t bother denying the allegation. “The only way I was going to be okay was to make sure you were okay.”

Gale ducks his head slightly for a moment, still not used to being the most important person in anybody’s world. But John’s been slowly teaching him how to accept it and he can’t help but smile when tired blue eyes lift back up to meet his.

“Slide your sweet self over here and let me feel ya while I drive,” Johns lifts his arm and rests it along the back of the bench seat. “That’ll be enough to keep my head on straight while I get us home.”

A moment of contemplation later, Gale slides over until his shoulder is tucked under John’s armpit. He rests his uninjured hand on John’s thigh, fingers gripping the fabric of his trousers and John smiles into his hair before reaching around him to start the truck.

“Take the back roads?” Gale looks up at him through his lashes and John’s heart rate finally settles into a normal rhythm now that it’s reason for beating is resting against him.

“You read my mind, sweetheart,” John presses his lips to the top of his head and turns onto the unlit road leading away from town, away from prying eyes.

Gale turns his body slightly on the seat and makes himself comfortable, settles with his head pillowed on John’s chest, arm draped over his waist. John lets his arm rest around his back, holding him close and planning on never letting him go.

#clegan #bucky x buck #clegan fic request #tender buckies #mota fanfic #mota fic #JoeyAlohaWrites

87 notes · View notes

channieskies · 1 year ago

Text

EAT [LEE KNOW]

Pairing: Chef|Lee Know + AFAB|Reader

Genre: Smut, Drabble

Synopsis: After a successful cooking class, you book another night with the brilliant and handsome man that taught the class. Only to find out you booked the wrong Chef Lee.

A.N: Please reblog or leave a like or comment to let me know how you feel. I'd love a little feedback. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it. This was barely proofread, please disregard the mistakes.

Word Count: 3,000 + [~13 minute reading time]

Warnings: MINORS DNI! This post contains nsfw material. Please do not interact with it if you are under the age of 18. Do not translate or repost to other sites. NSFW warnings are under the cut.

Disclaimer: This story does not reflect the real lives or personalities of Stray Kids. I do not know them personally. This is purely a work of fiction.

Warnings⚠️: MINORS DNI! This post contains nsfw material. Please do not interact with it if you are under the age of 18. Do not translate or repost to other sites. Unprotected sex [please wrap it before you tap it. This is fiction, and I control the narrative. Real life is scary, so please be safe], creampie, oral (male and female receiving), anal play, food play (please let me know if I missed any)

_______________________________________________

Being single sucked. Especially when it comes to eating meals. That being said, single and lazy just didn't mix well. You dreaded making meals for yourself, but your pockets told you needed to. So when your friend invited you to a cooking class with the world-renowned chef Lee, you were ecstatic. The class lasted about three hours from start to finish. There was wine and food, and chef Felix was one of the most beautiful men you'd ever laid eyes on. Well, at least in your opinion, he was. Your Saturday night was almost complete. Almost. Being single really, really sucked.

By the time you left, you were tipsy, full of good food, and a little wet from your interactions with the sexy deep voiced chef. He had such a pretty smile and beautiful freckles littering his face like stars. You were completely taken by him. The rest of your weekend seemed to fly by without a hitch. So, by Monday morning, you were ready to sign up for a private lesson with the chef. Your friend told you the company she went through for the lessons and the rest was history.

The next week seemed to creep by. It usually does when you are excited for something. By the time Friday came along, you couldn't wait to get out of work and get home, practically speeding on your way there. You got ready for your lesson, took a shower, and put on a date night outfit that you had stored away since you learned long ago that the dating pool was trash. You waited patiently for eight to roll around so you could see chef Felix again.

When the buzzer rang to let you know someone wanted to come up, you quickly rushed over and rang them up. You rubbed your nervous hands on your skirt as you waited for your bell to ring. When it finally did, you inhaled a quick breath before opening the door. With a wide smile on your face, you spoke, “Hi I'm Y/n-- wait- you aren't Felix.” The smile quickly slid off your face as you examined the young man in front of you.

He had soft brown hair, downturned pouty lips that resmbled a cat, and very hard to miss bunny teeth that you noticed as he smiled. He was taller than you , though you wouldn't say he was a giant, nowhere near it, really. He had on a gray sweater with cute little geometric patterns all over it and dark denim jeans. He had a large canvas bag full of groceries in one hand while the other gripped what seemed like an apron.

“Sorry to disappoint you.” He flashed you a mischievous smirk. You could tell something more was behind it. “I’m the head chef, Minho. Chef Lee Minho. Felix is my sous chef. He took over classes while I was away in France on business. I can't promise to offer the same experience since we are two totally different chefs, with different styles. But I promise to make it worth your while.” How could you say no to that? His dazzling smile was very convincing, and it's a part of the reason you let him in. you stepped back and widened the door a little more for him to come in.

“You have a beautiful home.” Minho complimented as he took a look around your downtown apartment. It had a rustic and industrial charm to it with its exposed brick and high ceilings. It was a nice apartment, especially considering you had gotten it for dirt cheap.

“Uh.. thanks.” You clapped your hands to draw his attention away from your bare walls - your apartment desperately needed decor. But you didn't have the time to do all of that. “Shall we get to cooking?” you asked and pointed to your nearly spotless kitchen. He followed you to it and put down his bag. You both washed your hands first, and he helped you with an apron that came free of charge when you purchased a class. Once you were prepped and ready, you got started.

It started off slow. He explained the menu and told you a little about his background. He was from Korea but studied in Japan before traveling to different Asian countries to learn different cuisines. He moved back to Korea and started training under Chef Baek Jong-won, one of the most renowned chefs in Korea. Then he became head chef at one of the oldest restaurants in Seoul before opening his own restaurant that now sits at one Michelin star. “So how about we start with green curry, then stir fried glass noodles with vegetables for an entree, and coconut custard filled donuts with a frosted pineapple drizzle for dessert?”

You honestly thought all that sounded a little complicated for someone who admitted to being lazy when it came to cooking, but it also all sounded incredibly delicious. “Sounds delicious.”

He was surprisingly easy to work with. He explained why he did the things he did and helped to customize them for everyday life. He stood to the side of you, his body touching your side ever so lightly as he guided your hand. You could feel his breath on your as he concentrated on the task at hand. You tried to swallow the thoughts that plagued your mind, like how good he smelled or how nice his hand felt on top of yours. your mind even dove as deep as your imagining his pretty face between your legs.

You let out a shaky moan as your mind slowly delved deeper into the abyss. “Are you okay?” He pulled away slightly to look over your face from the side.

“Y-yeah, it just smells so good.” He smiled and let out a sigh of relief, thinking that maybe he had made you uncomfortable by being too close. To make the atmosphere a little lighter, he asked if he could play a little music in the background. You agreed, hoping the music would help you take your mind off things. He synced his phone with your Bluetooth speakers, and Club boynnd's “naturally” softly started to flow from them.

He moved back to your side and reached for the spoon, his hand landing on top of yours once again. “Want to taste?” His voice sounded so smooth as he asked. Of course, you nodded, absentmindedly pressing your thighs together. He let you taste the chocolate you'd melted. He smeared the warm chocolate across your bottom lip, and your tongue almost instantly darted out to taste it. Your eyes met as you took your bottom lip into your mouth. You tasted the slightly sweet yet bitterly sticky substance on your tongue.

“It's delicious, chef.” It was like your eyes were locked in a battle, waiting to see who would cave for the other, first.

“May I taste it too?” You nodded, unsure of what move he was going to make. With the same spoon, he dipped it back into the chocolate, smearing it on your lips once again. He searched your eyes for affirmation, and you nodded.

It was like a switch went off. The next thing you knew, you were sitting on the counter, trapped between his strong veiny arms. His lips were on your, savoring the remnants of chocolate that resided on your lips. Your arms rested on his shoulders as your fingers found refuge in his soft hair.

Your tasks had soon been forgotten about as you passionately made out in your kitchen. The song switched to Kelela’s “Blue Light”, but neither of you could hear a thing at the moment. He pulled back and took your hand in his. He isolated your index finger, making it stand alone. He dipped that finger into the chocolate and put it into his mouth. He took it on, sucking every last bit off your finger. “Delicious.”

The way he looked at you as he said it made your womanhood ache with need. He pulled you down off the counter, turning you around, fingers moving up your back, signaling for you to bend over. He moved back briefly to turn off the burners on the stove. The last thing he wanted to do was burn down your kitchen. He was back behind you in no time, his pelvis pressing against your ass as he leaned forward. “I just wanted to let you know that I enjoy eating just as much as I enjoy cooking.” He let out a short, humorous, puff of air.

With that said, he pressed his lips to your slightly exposed neck, nipping that skin and leaving tiny marks. First, it was the apron, the strings untied, the fabric falling right to the floor. His fingers trailed under your shirt, pushing the fabric up. He wanted it off, and you took the hint, pulling the clothing up and off, tossing it on the floor. He trailed kisses down your back, letting his agile fingers work on removing your bra. The straps fell, but with your arms on the counter, the bra partially stayed in place. Next was your skirt, which he didn't bother unzipping.

He rolled your tight skirt down under your ass, relishing in the sight and his recent accomplishment. He licked his lips, his hands rolling over your skin. He tugged your panties and your skirt all the way down and crouched down behind your. “Wow..” You looked back to see what he was doing, only to feel his warm hand spreading your cheeks. “Fuck… I can't wait to taste you.” And that he did. He leaned in and bit your ass softly, not hard enough to leave a mark but hard enough to mark your gasp at his actions. His tongue traced the indents his teeth left before you pressed a chaste kiss to it. His breath was hot on your entrance as he moved his attention to your waiting pussy. “I guess someone is a little turned on.”

You chuckled lightly at his accusation. “Says the one who was all in my personal bubble. It's hard not to feel something when a man as sexy as yourself is that close.” You admitted not knowing what had come over your. Nothing was said on his end as he dug into his meal. He dipped his tongue into your entrance just to pull it back, a trail of your wetness following the pink muscle. He wanted to just taste your first. His tongue slipped back in his mouth, and he grunted.

“You taste amazing.” He went back for a second helping trailing his tongue from your clit all the way to your asshole and back again. you lived alone, there was no need for you to conceal the way he was making you feel. Your voice bounced off the open walls of your kitchen and living area, mingling with the music. He pulled away just before you came, much to your disappointment.

“Maybe I should make things a little sweeter. Turn around for me.” You almost questioned what he meant by that only to remember this was a kitchen, and he was a chef. This was his playground. He stood to his feet and grabbed the spoon for the chocolate, raking a hefty amount into it and smearing it over your breast and down your stomach.

Next came the cinnamon sugar that he carefully sprinkled over it. He stood back, admiring his work before nodding at the final project. “Now all that's left to do is eat.” He smirked as he moved closer, his body trapping you against the counter again. He left kisses from your mouth to your chest, where he started to lick the chocolate, cinnamon-sugar from your skin. He sucked on your nipples making sure not a bit of the sugary concoction was left.

He nibbled and licked his way down your stomach until he was face to face with your womanhood. He lifted your leg and put it over his shoulder before his face was back between your legs, helping you to reach the orgasm you missed out on before. Your fingers were tangled in his brown hair, tugging on the tresses hard as you came. Your legs shook and almost gave out, but thanks to his grip on your thigh and the counter, you stayed in place. “I could eat out every day with you.” He said as he pulled away, his mouth a glistening mess from his meal. He put your leg down and guided you down to the floor where he was.

He moved in for a sloppy kiss, letting you taste yourself on his lips. He pulled away to discard his apron and his almost suffocatingly hot sweater. You were presently surprised by how well built he was. With his apparent affinity for sweets and the handsome yet cat-like face he sported, you didn't expect him to look like that at all under all that clothing. Even the scar on his stomach was something to be admired. He noticed you staring, so he lifted your chin with his index finger. “Enjoying the view?” You bit down on your bottom lip and nodded. you were thirsty and would willingly admit it.

“Let's not stare too long, I still have things I want to do to you.” Your heart was racing from his words. “Would you like a taste before I start the next course?” He tilted his head down and looked at you through his damp bangs. It was hot in the kitchen even with the burners off.

You pretended to think about it, already knowing your answer. “I'd love to taste,” he grabbed the bowl from the counter while still on his knees.

“Have at it.'' You weren't a skilled chef, but you are good with your mouth. Before you even touched the chocolate, you made sure his pants and boxers were discarded.

It was your turn to be in awe once again. How were you this blessed to have a man ready to fuck you, who not only had a gifted tongue but a gorgeous cock as well? You wasted no time. The angry veins and the fact that his member was at attention for you made you even more eager to have him in your mouth. You dipped your fingers in the chocolate and painted a few stripes on the shaft of his cock before licking it off and taking him into your mouth. His hand rested on the patch of hair right above your neck as he gently guided your head up and down his length.

You were amazing. It took every bit of him not to cum in your mouth. Your hands worked on his balls for added pleasure, your tongue twisted around the tip every time you pulled back. His eyes were rolled back, it was his turn to groan along with the music. You pulled away, a hand twisting around the shaft of his member. “Cum for me.” you stuck out your tongue, rubbing the underside of his tip over your wet muscle. His eyes closed, his hand gripping the back of your head as he released into your mouth. you let the liquid dripped from your tongue and down your chin. You only managed to get a little of it down.

“Fuck..” He was spent but his stamina was no joke at all. Plus he was enjoying how sexy you looked under the overhead potlights. your skin glistened with sweat and he could smell your sex as he still had spots of your wetness on his face. “How does it taste?” Your tongue darted out to lick up the mess on your chin and he used his thumb to rake up what was left. You sucked on his thumb, letting it go with a pop.

“I need to be inside you now. Like, right now.” He stood and helped you up. He bent you over the counter once more. To him, you were so fucking sexy it wasn't hard for him to get hard again, seeing that he was already semi-erect. He fluffed himself, his eyes transfixed on the view of your ass and glistening pussy on display. You were bent over just waiting for him to completely devour you.

That alone was enough to get himself hard again. Lifting one leg and letting it rest on the surface. He slid in your wet entrance, your walls wrapping around his member, squeezing it. He gripped your ass cheeks as he slowly started to pound into you, not even concerned if you adjusted to him or not. His member slid in and out of your creamy wetness as you screamed his name over and over. You loved how he filled you up. You couldn't get enough of how good he felt.

Sweat beads rolled down his cheeks. It felt like a sauna in the kitchen, even if it was an open space. But that didn't deter him at all. He had a goal in mind. He wanted to see his cum drip from your cunt. Just the thought causes his member to twitch inside of you. One hand wrapped around your throat as the of his thumb readied to slide into your asshole. He let spit drip from his mouth and used it as a lubricant. He rubbed his thumb over the hole before sliding it in and bending it as he fucked your. You choked out a moan.

So, that was the kind of man he was? Your eyes rolled back as he pulled his thumb out to slide it right back in. You knew you wanted to fuck Chef Lee, you just weren't expecting it to be a completely different one from the other night. But you weren't complaining. The gorgeous man who was currently drilling you into oblivion was perfectly fine to you.

His fingers tapped on your throat, “Cum for me, Y/n. Cum on this dick so I can cum inside of you.” You let out a euphoric sigh, your hand gripping at his wrist. your walls convulsed, squeezing and hugging his cock as you came for him like he asked. He grunted feeling just how tight you had gotten. His thumb slipped in a little more as his pace picked up. your leg shook, his pace sending you straight towards the edge of your third orgasm.

He snapped his hips into you a few more times before his seed glazed your walls as if they were the dessert he described earlier in the evening. He pushed in before pulling back. He pulled his thumb out of your ass, watching it slowly go back to its original tight ‘o’. He spread your cheeks and looked at the white substance that peeked out of your hole. Satisfied with his work, he took a seat on the floor as you slid to your knees, still gripping the counter. His cum slid out your cunt due to the awkward position you were sitting in, which caused him to chuckle.

“Looks like we have a mess to clean up.” He said speaking of the disaster zone your kitchen had become. There was chocolate on your rugs and smeared on the cabinets and cum and spit on the floor in multiple spots from your messy blowjob and his cream pie. There was a buzzing noise as your little robot vacuum made its way into the kitchen for its scheduled cleaning. There was silence between you both as you watched it work before they burst out laughing. This was a cooking lesson neither of you would forget.

_______________________________________________

A.N: Please leave a like or comment to let me know how you feel. I'd love a little feedback. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it.

_______________________________________________

[Rewrites, Reposts, and Translations are Prohibited]

#lee know smut #lee know × reader #lee know x reader #lee know x y/n #lee know x you #lee know x female reader #neverendingdreams #lee minho smut #lee minho skz #lee minho x reader #kpop smut #reader insert #skz au #lee know au #skz smut #☁️ ✍️#channieskies writes #stray kids x reader

361 notes · View notes

peachesofteal · 11 months ago

Text

Who wants to read the first like 1.4k of the winter ghoap fic even though it has absolutely no ghoap in it?

Winter in the mountains can be cruel.

Although, there are some who do more than survive the cold, violent stretch of winter. There are predators who thrive.

“I am.” She casts the one window in the entire place a surreptitious glance, fingers peeling away at a label. It’s snowing, has been for hours, flakes fat and wet, fluffy enough that the density of the snow on the ground is light, but dangerous, as it hides the real risk underneath; packed snow sitting with a slick sheen of ice on top.

“You still trying to make it over Fall River pass tonight?” You nod.

“Yeah. Supposed to see my brother and his new baby this weekend.”

“It is. I could go around, but it just takes too long. And it’s Friday. I’m not trying to be stuck on the highway with ski traffic and the tourists in their rental cars.” You complain, and they both commiserate your opinion. Weekend traffic is brutal, especially in the winter. Driving in hazardous conditions is considered to be a talent more than an innate ability here, and people often overestimate their aptitude for it, causing crashes and delays that get the highway shut down for hours, or even days, at times. You shrug. “I’ve had my snow tires on for weeks. Might as well get some use out of them.” Andy snorts.

Fuck. You could have sworn the DOT website said it was open. You take a deep breath, quelling the anxiety that roils your stomach. Okay. Not the end of the world. There’s another road. A less maintained road, but… you’ll be fine. You’ve driven in worse.

An hour creeps by, and then two. Long enough that you’ve now realized you’re the only one using this road, fresh snow blanketing the woods around you, topography and vegetation starting to change as you encroach on what you assume must be eleven thousand feet. You’ve seen this road on google maps once, or twice maybe, having noted it for future travel just in case of a situation like this. It travels perpendicular to Fall River, and eventually meets another, one that must be similar, on the other side of the range. The secondary road is one that takes you along the ridge, and then down, you’re pretty sure, although you can’t be one hundred percent certain, because you lost cell reception before you even turned off from Fall River.

Still, won’t hurt to check and see if you have this area downloaded.

You’re so fixated watching the little circle of death try to load, that by the time you look up and see the tree laying across the road, it’s far too late. You do the first thing you were always taught not to do in winter conditions, and slam on the brake, slamming the pedal to floor, heart rate sky rocketing as you panic and lose total control of the jeep. You spin, shoulders and chest jamming against the seatbelt, headlights flashing off into the woods, illuminating an endlessly dark web of trees, bark and branch scratching across the paint as you careen off the road, tipping too precariously onto two wheels and then rolling.

Time, your life, stands completely still for a moment. You see every individual fiber of the pine needles, every uniquely designed snowflake, every single droplet of blood that floats away from your face and through midair as you crash through the forest, your grasp on consciousness slipping farther and farther away as you’re jostled around, the jeep finally coming to a stop on its side, your head cracked against the driver’s window, stars and lights spawning out across your vision, headlights finally blinking out completely, leaving you in the dark. Your head spins like you’re still rolling, and the only sound in the dead silent snow is your harsh breathing, frantic terror bubbling up through your throat as pain surges through your body.

It's freezing, but you feel surprisingly warm.

You’re going to die out here. No one knows you took this road, you don’t have service, by the time they find you, it’ll be too late. You’ll be a bled out, frozen corpse, long gone and-

You lose your train of thought quickly. Everything starts to fracture, fissures forming in your consciousness, part of you already losing the battle to the inevitable, black pulling over your eyes like a knit hat, lungs heaving just a little harder with each breath.

Sleep. You could just close your eyes. Close your eyes, and sleep.

Light sweeps across the ground, flashing across your face. You think, if you were truly with it, in your right mind, you’d think it was too bright. You’d say it was blinding.

But you can’t formulate anything of the sort, mind too busy slipping away, falling into an inky black pool, just barely on the verge when you feel a gloved hand on your skin, the lilt of an accent on the wind.

Sleep.

#peaches writes

139 notes · View notes