#thread: heavy price | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yeyinde · 1 year ago

Text

old, grizzled retired alpha!Price who gets stuck in his cabin with omega!Reader when the winter roads, the only way in and out of his domain, melt with the encroaching spring. and really. what's an alpha like him supposed to do when an untouched, unclaimed omega like you—so sweet, so desperate—is thrown headfirst into a vicious, blistering heat without any suppressants. it's not like either of you really have a choice, after all.

dub con; age difference; power imbalance; rough sex; size difference, size kink; abo dynamics: knotting; breeding kink (astronomical); mean!Price, Dom!Price; unsafe sex; oral (f!receiving); slight innocence kink; implied kidnapping; coercion; slight baby trapping; possessive, greedy Price pulling strings from behind the scenes, as per usual. this is basically Alpha John Price knotting Omega Reader in mating press, bullying you into submission

It's an accident, of course.

An unfortunate combination of poor timing and human error.

But this accident culminates in Price folding his body over you—mating press, you note a touch hysterically; you'd have expected him to be all tradition: presenting to an alpha on your hands and knees, cunt bare for the taking, waiting to be claimed. And while it might not be traditional, Price will claim you tonight. Bully his cock into your drenched cunt, split you wide on the thick of him, on his knot (fuck, fuck, fuck—), and keep you plugged up around him until the unexpected heat passes.

And really. What's an old, grizzled alpha like him supposed to do when an untouched, unclaimed omega like you—so sweet, so desperate—is thrown headfirst into a vicious, blistering heat. It's not like either of you really have a choice, after all. It's agony. It's want. Primal, instinctual. You need him. Ache with it. The urge, the desperation, to be filled. Claimed. Conquered. Owned.

As he presses bluntly against your drenching slit, notching heavy and insistent into your fluttering, aching hole, spilling slick in thick rivulets down your thighs, over the engorged head of his cock, you can't help but wonder how could you be so stupid?

“Spread your legs for me.”

The command rolls off of his tongue, slips—liquid, molten—down his chin, where it dangles for a moment. Pebbled hest. A globbing demand. You want to roll away when it starts to fall, unspooling slowly until it drips down to your chest, but you can't. You're stuck. Trapped. All you can do is watch helplessly as this barking order, matchstick casuistry, touches your kerosene-slick skin, igniting in a bloom of fire that spreads, rapidly, through your veins. Your body.

An Alpha's whim must be met. Even this one. This one—

Your former chief, boss. Now retired in the mountains, chiselling out a little place for himself in a corrie, pitching this log bivouac beside a marbled blue tarn. Cut off from the rest of civilisation every spring when the only way in—and out—melted into a raging, uncrossable stretch of river. The ravine frothing too furiously for boats to dock safely on either side. Trapped here with him until next winter—

(oh god oh god—)

You don't know how it got to this point. Scorched. Soaked. With him leaning over you, in all his tartarean glory, making demands of your body as easily as pulling on loose thread between his thick fingers.

You could blame Gaz for this.

Sat pretty at his desk, idling a jar of gun oil in his hands. Your gun is spread out on the desk, taken apart. Worrying his lip between his teeth, he said, “someone should check in on Price. Haven't heard from him in a while.”

Through a quick game of hierarchy, that someone ended up being you. Forced to trek halfway up a mountain just to make sure your mercurial boss didn't die over the winter. Bitten off more than he could chew and too much of a proud Alpha to admit defeat, and call for help.

You had enough suppressants to last you there and back. Three days. One in the morning, one in the afternoon. Price, despite his surly disposition, is an intense Alpha to be around—

Even for Betas.

Some, unintentionally, succumb to his whims without even a forethought spared on rationality. It's innate. He says something, and people listen—

Like now. Hours after you discovered your suppressants were gone, and his heavy, cloying scent thickened in the air, suffocating you. When he leaned against the thick log doorframe on the porch of his cabin, thick arms folded across his broad chest, murmured, “come all this way just to see me?” and all at once, the world fell out from under you—

Plunging you into his arms, his embrace. His growl in your ear, “you’re in heat,” he grunted, fists balled against your sides. “fuckin’ Christ—” and the death sentence he imparted on you: “either I take care of this, or your heat becomes too much for me, and I tear you to pieces. But it doesn't matter does it, mm? You can't make it back down in this state,” more snarling anger, dry heat. Scorching. His chin jerked to the river at the foot of the mountain. “In a few hours, It’ll be melted through. Uncrossable.”

Per usual, John Price leaves you very little room for choice, doesn't he?

Slowly, shakily, your pitched knees part, unveiling your bare cunt to the man towering over you with a condescending coo on his lips, red-hot desire in his smouldering Tartarean eyes.

“Tha’s it,” he murmurs, voice full of sarky delight. “Such a good omega for me, aren't you?”

It’s not meant to be answered—the jeer chock full of hyperbole. Despite this, your body responds instantly. Back arching, legs spreading out wider around the bulk of his frame, nearly flush against the warmed fur covering the floor of the cabin—wolf, he muttered proudly before he pushed you down against the soft pelt, mouthing teasing at your jaw. Chest heaving. Fingers curling, knotting into the pelt.

The urge to present for him is intense. An unanswerable call when he pins you down on your back, body a cage keeping you trapped where you lay. Open, inviting. All for him.

This surly, awful man—

His hands are rough, padded with calluses and hard, jagged scars that jut up from his flesh. It feels abrasive, sandpaper grit, when he leans down, hand pressed against your knee. The drag, then, when he lets it drop down the skin of your inner thigh, makes you keen in the back of your throat. Gnarled palms bleed heat into your soft skin. The contrast is dizzying—size, scale, texture; it all leaves you breathless. Victim to your own instincts, ones that scream at you to roll over. To run. To make this massive, virile alpha yours—

He cups your pussy in the palm of his hand, heel pressed against your clit, fingers sliding between your slit, touching your entrance with the tip of his middle finger. The way the length of it swallows you whole, long, thick fingers reaching beneath you, grazing the cheeks of your ass, sets you on fire in a way you've never felt before.

Price sees it. He must. He leans back on his haunches, broad chest heaving as he stares, transfixed, at his hand folding over you, wrist propped against your mons.

He groans low in his chest. When he speaks, desire scorches his words to cinders.

“Ever had an Alpha's cock here?”

His question is scorching.

In a small town, choice is slim. The ratio of alpha to omega, and beta to both, is skewed highly in the latter's favour. You think, Price included, there are maybe five eligible alphas in the whole township. Two omegas, yourself included. Everyone else—

Unbothered, unburdened by this horrific anomaly of genetics, of lingering animal instinct. A relic of when people were more beast than man.

But even with that, the suitors lining up ready to claim you since you arrived three years ago is negligible. Nearly nonexistent.

The shame of it is absurd. You know without any shadow of a doubt that your worth is not measured by the number of Alpha's wanting to claim you, but that prickling unease in the back of your head won't be quelled by common sense. Who cares, you want to scream. Who fucking cares—

“No,” you bluster; choking on your anger, your shame. Despite being an omega—rare as they are—everyone in town seemed soured by your scent. Adverse to the pungent pheromones you released innately.

“No?” He echoes, and the stab of worthlessness needling into your pericardium makes you want to howl, want to cry.

He doesn't let you. He leans down, hand resting on the floor beside your head, the other still anchored to your cunt, and presses his lips to the shell of your ear. His breath is a humid kiss that tickles across your flesh.

“Good.”

The praise bubbles in your marrow. You melt under the heat, whimpering. Head lulling to the side, exposing your neck. Offered up for him to take.

He huffs, chest expanding. The coarse bed of hair tangled on his sternum in a smattering of black catches on your nipples, the rough graze making you gasp, soundless, into the humid space between your bodies. Aching already and he barely touched you.

Price follows the twist of your chin, lips pressed flush to your ear. With him crowding so close, you can feel the rumble, the low vibration, through his chest before he even speaks. A soft purr, sultry and rich. Pulling you deeper into the throes of your submission with a startling ease.

“I don't share, and I'd hate to have to tear another alpha apart for touching you,” his beard scrapes against your cheek, words soaked in possessive fury at the thought alone. “You're mine.”

You want to fight against it. Against him. No one owns you. Has claimed you.

You have only ever belonged to yourself.

“M’not—”

Price shushes you with a nip, blunt teeth dragging down the plush flesh of your earlobe. “Don't fight it, love. Just—give in.”

You won't. Can't—

Despite the heat—heavy, oppressive, and wet, like the balmy swelter of a tropical jungle; bubbling dross on molten metal—you fight. Rage. Push back against the heady scent he exudes, ones meant to soothe, melt. Until you're malleable. Tensile. Mouldable to fit his needs, his desires, his cock. Putty in his scorching hands.

It bleeds through, though—noxious and potent. The acrid miasma of a wild, untameable man: leather, hide, and animal rot; bleached bones; felled timbre. A wet forest after a wildfire; charred wood, argillaceous soil. Damp. Cloying. Choking.

Reeking of authoritative power, he leans over you, breathes in the heaving exhales you let out. Lets the taste of you sit on his tongue, curl between his crooked teeth.

He's close like this. All fire, all heat. And underneath the scent of a pursuing alpha, you pick up hints of him. Of what he smelled like before, when you were his subordinate and he spent most of his days making yours miserable. Stale smoke, wet tobacco, old leather, dry whiskey.

You hate how much it calls to you.

Maybe sensing your defiance, or growing tired of this push-pull game, he huffs out a breath that sounds less aggrieved than you'd want it to, full of playful amusement. Like he expected this. Like he knew you'd fight back with brittle fists and wicked teeth.

Price pulls back, leaning against his haunches. Content now to devour you at a distance. His eyes leave a scorching trail from your heaving breast, your quivering stomach before fixing once again on the way your pussy is swallowed by his hand. His middle finger circles your sopping hole. The tease is a burst of pleasure, of sensation. A tickle, a taunt. The drag of it makes a loud, sticky noise; the unmistakable slosh, the squelch of just how wet you are for him.

And it is for him. All for him.

Your heat is an incipient bloom on the horizon—a slow, crawling sunrise. You shouldn't be this slick yet. This drenched.

The embarrassment blisters through you when he makes a choked sound in the back of his throat. A loan bitten, swallowed before it can fully form.

Price coos, voice scorched. Full of char. “All’fer me, mm? Such a good little omega.”

You hate it. Hate it, hate it, hate it—

—but nearly choke yourself on a moan.

He chuckles, dark and rich. The sound entirely too similar to crushing a fistful of charcoal, and you're reminded suddenly why he's unmated at the age he is.

Surly bastard. As approachable as a fucking grizzly bear in a rut.

Your lips twist, jerking downward. “Fuck you—”

He circles your rim once more, chuffing low as he does so, letting the slick noise of your soaked cunt speak on his behalf.

You bite back a snarl, letting it fizzle out in the back of your throat. However reckless you might be, however much you might dislike him, he's still an alpha. Snarling in his face would only get you bent over his knee (at best).

And at worst, well. Maybe they'll find whatever is left of you next spring.

Next spring.

Thinking about just how long you're trapped here with him—no phone, no service—makes you want to cry. To break down, to—

No. You can't. Won't. Not in front of him.

Not Price. The awful man who spent three years picking away at everything you've ever done. Writing you up for every little misstep. You wondered then, and you still wonder now, if he hated you because you were an omega who dared to work with him, as his equal, or if his brand of distaste was just for you.

(The latter, it must be—he’s always been so kind to Alex, an older omega.

You're just the exception.)

This sprawling train of thought is clipped when he sinks his finger into you, to the second knuckle, and you choke.

“Ah, fuck, don't—”

He curls his finger. “Protest as much as you'd like, but if you didn't want this, your pussy wouldn't be this fuckin’ wet would it, love?”

He's right. You hate him for it.

But he doesn't give you a chance to complain. He slips his finger out, the wet drag of your flesh pulling on him, unwilling to let go, is loud. Awful. You burn hot—hotter still when he groans at the noise.

“Such a good girl for me, ain't you?”

Price circles your entrance as he says it, pressing two fingers against your rim, rubbing. Gathering slick. You wish it didn't feel as good as it did—electric shocks of pleasure sparking at his touch, but the feel of it is a tease. You want more. Much more—

He presses those long, thick fingers inside again. Two this time. All you can do is mewl around the sudden stretch, the sting.

Your discomfort is a palpable thing. Unease, distress—the acid scent plumes around you, leaking from your pores. Price stops suddenly, fingers still crooked in a half knot inside you.

“You're tight,” he drawls, jowls working. Tensing. His eyes flash, heat lightning. “You—”

He cuts himself off abruptly, eyes narrowing into slits. They drop down to where he disappears inside of you, flesh stretched tight around him. Drilling into the way the slick runs down his fingers, over his knuckles, drenching the back of his hand, and he hums.

“Has anyone ever touched you here before?”

More shame. It bubbles in your chest, this awful, insidious thing.

It hasn't been for a lack of suitors, really. But rather, other things have always taken precedence over heats, over ruts. School, then your career. And well—

Betas around here don't seem very interested, either.

Maybe you have peculiar wants. Urges, needs, that you've always been hesitant to fill. A wellspool of desire that runs deep, vicious. You want to mate. For keeps.

Maybe they can scent that on you. A loud cry that says, stay away.

You take a shuddering breath before nodding shallowly, twisting your head away so you don't have to look at the patronising gleam swirling in frothing Tryhennian.

“Look at me.”

The command bludgeons your resolve. Your chin jerks back immediately. Desperate to obey. To listen. Frantic with the urge to quell the alpha, to soothe his plight—

But where you expect anger, you're met with the most peculiar sort of expression etching itself into his brow, his rugged face.

His lips parted, lax. The picture of surprise.

Your eyes widen. A gasp is ripped from your throat at the raw, fractured look in his eyes. It's new, this. Unexpected. Where you anticipated scorn is instead a slow, unwinding look of want, of greed, so thick, it glues to the air.

Patchwork hunger, predatory and damning, hews into your skin. Fine needles piercing, pricking, along your flesh.

Branded ownership. You feel it settle against your chest. Dig in when his chest expands with his, hissing inhale.

There's a dark tremble to his shoulders that makes your toes curl.

“I should take this slow, then, mm? Prep you. Get you nice and ready for my cock,” his words have you keening, arching for him. Achingly empty. His hand lifts, settles against your quivering stomach. The slightest pressure makes you shake, quieten; submitting to the touch. “But. I don't have the patience for that.”

He slots his thighs between your legs, pressing it tight against your cunt. The pressure—blissful pleasure; frantic at the touch—is almost your undoing, but there's a plexiglass between full submission and the urge to flee. Still. The heat is rapacious. The desire, the yearning, doesn't abate.

The haze is thick. So thick. It would be easy to slip under the veil, to let yourself go. To give in—

"Easy, omega," it comes out as a guttural rasp; the charcoaled command uttered in a mockingly placating tone. The sort one might use to soothe a wild animal or a startled mare. Fitting, of course, when you're rutting against the thick spread of his thigh, leaking slick all over him.

down girl, he doesn't say, but he might as well have because you're clenched tight around nothing, aching hollowly in a way that rings through your bones. You can't help it, you want to whine when he huffs, lips pulling downward in a frown. Disappointed in you, perhaps. But how do you fight instinct when you're hardwired to want to spread your legs at the pungent, lour stench of a virile alpha's incipient rut, the briny tang of his pre-cum saturating the air. A heady elixir that sends shockwaves of agonising need through your body.

It's too much. The burn of your heat is a vicious, deadly combatant. Knife to your jugular, hand around your throat, it demands compliance.

And when he reaches down to his stained slacks, drawing your eye to the tent in the front, to the dark pool at the front where he leaks his spend into the fabric, you keen. Jealousy scorching through you instantly at the sight; animal instinct that makes you want to bare your teeth at it because his cum is just for you, all for you—

Amusement pierces the air. Punctuates it with the heavy, noxious weight of his satisfaction.

He hums, reaches into his slacks. Curls his fist around the thick of himself.

“Want this, don't you?”

You gnash your teeth against your desperation, legs popping open further. Inviting. Eager.

“Of course you do. Want this—” he frees his cock, pulling it over the band of his trousers, and you choke.

It's wet with his spend, and angry looking. The mushroomed head engorged, swollen. Flushed a deep vermillion. Veins run the length of it. Pulsing with his need. His want.

Price groans, strokes his hand down his shaft. Pearlescent beads of pre-cum bubble up from the tip.

You ache. Suddenly, viciously. Hollow. Empty. You want him. Need him—

“Yeah? Want this fat cock inside of you, mm?”

And you, finally, give in—

"Please, please, Price—"

"No." He taps the head of his cock against your clit once, twice. A warning. A reprimand. You keen at the whitehot agony, the unfathomable burn of pleasure ripping through your body. He coos into it. Echoing your whimper with a derisive snort. Mocking. Cruel. You hate him. Hate him. Need him so badly you think you might go insane if he doesn't pry you apart right this instant—

"I'll give you my knot when I'm good and ready. Now, be good for me, mm?” His eyes are dark in the harsh flicker of the wood stove. Burning liquid black. Molten puddles of crushed sapphire. You hate the way he looks at you. Hate how it makes you want to roll over on your belly, soft and submissive, giving all of yourself over to this terrible man. “That's it. Good omegas get what they want. Bad ones get punished. And I don't think you'll like being taken over my knee, would you?"

His words send a fresh wave of heat through your veins. Hellfire. Scorching. You want to blame the fever on the stove burning away in the corner of the room, on a sickness you can't scrape off of your bones no matter how many times you chisel into your skin. An infection eating away at you from the inside out.

But it's futile. He doesn't care about your excuses. He never has—

“Spread yourself. Go on and show me that pretty cunt you want me to ruin so badly.”

Unspooled, liquid under his bulk, you don't even hesitate before your fingers unfurl from their fight knot in the fur, making a slow, timorous crawl down the supine length of your sun-scorched body.

Your flesh feels foreign, like it belongs to a stranger. To someone else. Each touch is a phantom whisper gliding along sweat-slicked skin; new and different, and not yours.

Not yours at all because your skin would never prickle with goosebumps over the sight of your chief kneeling between your legs, the hair on his thigh matted, slick with your wetness. The unruly black thatch darkening into a patch where you shamelessly rutted against him, eagerly seeking friction over the place you ache the most.

For him. All for him.

It's impossible. Impossible. And yet—

As your fingers curl over the tops of your thighs, notching into the soft, heated flesh at the bend of your hip and groin, you feel just how soaked you are for him. How wet. How eager. It stains your skin, reaches almost down your bent knees. Beneath you is a puddle drenching the fur.

Your fingers slip, sliding in the mess you made. You flush when he huffs, humoured by it all, and dip your chin away from the scorching, piercing look in his cerulean eyes, drilling holes in the apex of your thighs. Greedily taking in his fill as your fingers glide over your sopping folds, gingerly parting them. Presenting to him on your back. Ripe for the taking.

“One hand,” he rasps, words clicking in his throat. He holds his hand up, curling his fingers down and leaving his index and middle finger up in a pointed V. “And the other—” he swallows thickly, Adam's apple bobbing. “I want you to touch your clit for me.”

You follow his instructions, slipping your fingers between your folds, opening yourself up for him. Your other hand sits on your mons, fingertips brushing your swollen clit as heat floods you. Electric. Each touch is a shock of pleasure roiling down your spine, and more slick dribbles out of you, dripping down your aching, empty hole, down your ass, until it soaks into the furs below.

The scent of a needy omega fills the air. Your scent.

Where most are sweet, supple, yours has always had a bite. A tartness to it, an earthy tang. Boysenberry. Loam. Lemongrass. Beeswax. You bluster. Flushing. Embarrassment plumes up, mushrooming in the air—smoked orange peels, coral berry sour—and you wonder if he's repelled by it, this strange smell of yours—

Price’s head rolls back, nose pitched in the air. Breathing in deep, groaning with his exhale. Eyes fluttering, flashing. He eats it clean from the air. Mouth dropping open, panting.

It's then when the unmistakable musk of a pleased Alpha—smoked tobacco and sage—clots beside your scent do you feel the prickle of free will hewing into your periphery.

None of what he demanded of you carried the unignorable weight of a command. Before you can even think of the ramifications of that, he's moving. Heavy body falling, sliding down the furs. His hands come to rest, hot and firm, on your knees, spreading you wider, wider, to fit the boxy heft of his broad body between them.

He hovers over you, head bending to fit in the brackets of your thighs. Leading with nose, nostrils flaring, fluttering, as he pulls in deep lungfuls of your scent. Over and over, and—

His head bows. Humid air ghosting over your sopping cunt when he exhales. It's then when he dips his chin further, further, until the bottom of his face is flush with your pussy, mouth parting around a groan that reverberates through the floorboards, rattles your bones.

“You smell s’fuckin’ good, love,” he rasps, choked. His eyes are gyres. They might just swallow you whole. You fight back a shiver, resolve threadbare. Stitches coming apart. “Bet you'd taste even better.”

It's all the warning you get before he pushes his face into you, mouth dropping open to let his tongue lull out. Licking a scorching stripe from hole to clit. And, oh—

Oh.

Your head drops, eyes slipping closed at the liquid feeling between your thighs. The whitehot sensation of his tongue laving across your slit.

So this—this—is what you've been missing out on. Pure feeling. Molten. It blooms in your loins, knots tight like a spooled bow.

Your fingertips are in the way from him pressing his tongue flat against your clit, where you throb the most, and you move to pull your hand away. To give him access to everything, all of it. Every part of you he wants. It's all his, his, so long as he keeps doing what he's doing with his mouth, his tongue—

But his hand slashes through the air, snatching your wrist in a vice grip. Stopping your retreat. You whimper, hips flexing up, wanting his mouth. Needing more of what he's doing between your thighs.

“Look at me,” he demands. You obey. Instantly. His eyes are black holes. Everdark. Eclipsed, totally, by the bleed of his black pupils spreading out. You moan, thighs parting wider, wider. “Good girl. Such a good omega for me, aren't you?”

He doesn't let you answer. Draws your wet fingers to his mouth, pressing the pads against his lower lip, nails scratching his teeth. He breathes in, shoulders bunching up. Eyes fluttering again, rolling back in his head. And it's divine—

To have such a surly, contemptuous Alpha on his knees for you, fat, heavy cock drooping between his thighs, spitting a steady stream of spend onto the floor. Wasteful. You keen again, back arching. Needy. Wanting—

Price sucks in your fingers, tongue laving between your knuckles. The pressure, the feeling, is good. You like this. Like his mouth.

But your fingers are not where you want him.

“Please, Price. Please—”

He pulls off with a pop. Leans his cheek on your inner thigh.

“What do you want? Use your words, omega.”

Heat blooms in your chest, but you're long past the point of embarrassment anymore. Shame. It's all awash under the torrent of need. Desire. Swept in the rage of your heat. Nearly rendered delirious by it.

“Want your mouth.”

“Where?”

“M–my—” you swallow, fingers spreading your folds wider. Opening yourself up to him. He glances down, nostrils flaring once again. But he doesn't move. Won't. You groan, head rolling back. “My pussy. Please. Want your mouth on my pussy, Price—”

He groans, low. Dark. But then he's moving. Head bowing. His tongue is scorching. Whitehot. He drags it through your folds, teasing at your rim. Presses it inside, just a touch, a shallow thrust. And—

Ah.

You make a noise in the back of your throat. Awful, wet. Choking. The feeling of his tongue inside of you is good. Beyond words.

It slips in more. The full length. Stuffed. You keen, arching. Aching. Hips flexing, jerking against his mouth. He lets you ride his face like this, fucking your hole with his fat tongue, nose glued tight to your clit.

All you can do is sob his name, fingers curling, knotting, into his damp hair, holding him close.

His tongue leaves you, sliding up your seam until it cups your clit. Laves over it. He lifts his chin, and seals his mouth over you. Sucks—

The spool unravels. Pressure released. You flood around him, on him. Pussy gushing slick over his chin, drenching him. Drowning him.

Lips sealed over your throbbing clit, he moans low. Deep. Eyes rolling back in his head. Gyre blue.

“Tha’s it,” he coos, pushing two thick fingers inside your throbbing cunt. “Think you're about ready for my cock, ain't you?”

He doesn't let you answer. And—

You don't think you can form a coherent thought. Running on sensation. On instinct. You make to roll over on your belly, ass pushed into the air, ready for his knot, but he stops you. Hands squeezing your hips. Firm.

“No. I'll take you like this.”

And it's hard to reconcile the urge to present with his demands. His wants. You whimper. He answers it with a grunt.

“Stay still.”

You flatten to the fur, body melting. Lax.

“Good girl.”

The praise is a serrated knife to your jugular, cutting a jagged line across your skin. Spilling blood. You quieten under his bulk, now. Desperate. Docile. Collared in blood.

His hands push behind your knees, lifting your legs. Pushing, pushing. Until they rest under your ears. Spread open for him. Ready to be claimed, owned. Bred.

“Price, Price, please—”

He shushes you with a coo, pitching your heels over his shoulders. Shuffling closer until his heavy cock, hanging thick and fat between his legs, bumps against your ass. Your cunt. You whimper, back arching. Needing him to fill you up. Split you apart.

Ruin you—

“Gonna fuck you now. Knot you.”

It's a warning. A threat. You feel it trail over your skin, branding. A collar. You lift your chin, letting it settle there. So long as he makes you feel this good, he can do whatever he wants to you. Anything—

And so, he does.

His cock is a heavy weight against you, pressing. Pushing. He doesn't wait for you to adjust, for your body to acclimate to the burning stretch of him splitting you apart.

Your slick aids in the brutal onslaught of his cock prying your untouched flesh apart, chiselling open a space just for him to fit.

It should hurt more. And maybe it would if you weren't drowning in the throes of a vicious heat, numbed to everything but the way his cock feels as it slides, inch after inch, inside of you. Thick, fat. Pulsing. You pant shallowly, head turning. Chin pressing into your shoulder.

It's good. This burn, this ache. This madness—

“Christ—” he spits, sounding almost angry. Furious. You peer up at him, eyes wet with unshed tears. Through the murky haze, you catch the clench of his jaw, the prominent divot between his brows. Face tightening with pleasure. Rapturous. “This cunt was made for me, wasn't it, love?”

“Yes—” it's breathless. An airless whisper. “All yours, all yours, John—”

You repeat this as he reaches halfway inside of you. As he bends down, mouth feverish he slots it greedily over your lips in a bruising, sloppy kiss. You mutter it against his teeth, his tongue. He swallows your acquiescence, your submission, down with a moan. Drinks you in as he takes, takes, until you're full of him. Stuffed.

John bottoms out with a moan that trembles down your throat, balls pressed flush against your ass. Split apart on him. Claimed.

He settles, letting you adjust to the sensation. Content to simply mouth sloppy kisses over your face, your cheek, jaw. Nipping your skin. Basking in this, in finally having you stretched around him. His pleasure is ripe in the air. Heavy and acrid. Smoked leather. Fresh, and heady.

It's novice, this feeling. This pressure. This fullness. Your hand drops, falls, palm sliding between his heavy, hairy belly, resting over yours. Feeling the unmistakable bump of him rearranging your anatomy to fit—barely—in you.

He lifts up, elbow dropping to the floor beside your head so he, too, can feel for himself the way he fits within you. His hand comes to lay beside yours, flattening over the bulge of him protruding from your flesh. His cock jerks inside of you, twitching. The feeling makes your toes curl, your cunt throb.

“Like that, huh?”

Your nod is slowly, languorous. Everything feels unreal. Like you're staring at the world from underwater. Inky. Fractured. Raw.

The burn of the stretch is there, throbbing like a bruise. A contusion. He scents the sting, the ache, and slides his hand down, cupped over your swollen, stuffed pussy. Fingers tangling into the thick bed of curls grazing your mons. Price quells the burn with a swipe of his thumb rolling over your clit.

It has you clenching, tightening even further around him. Feeling the thick stretch thrumming inside of you. Plugging you up. And fuck—

If that doesn't just light you up from the inside out. Supernova. Blistering heat.

Pieces of yourself chip off, fluttering to the soft, downy fur below you with each heavy breath he takes. Your heat swells to a crescendo, breaking over the edge of your lingering cognisance. It's all sensation now. Pure, unfettered feeling.

And Price takes no time at all to exploit it. To batter your melting, liquid body into submission even further.

It starts with shallow grinds against the plug of your womb. Carving more space inside of you for him to fit, to ruin.

He fucks you like this. Cock heavy and fat inside of you. Giving you the full length until your rim catches on the burgeoning swell of his knot. Over and over again. Pulling deep, delirious moans from your throat. Breaking you to pieces on the spread of him seated deep. Tugging more and more compliance from your body, wringing pleasure out of every nerve ending.

The sounds are horrific, and had you any sense of self left to mull over them, your shame, embarrassment, would have burned you alive. The wet squelch of your cunt swallowing him down, over and over and over again—

“Needy little pussy,” he bites out, blunt teeth skirting over your pulse point. A tease.

The press of them heightens everything, elevating it to a tipping point.

This is what you were made for. What every atom in your body screams out to. Wanting. Needing to be spread out under him, this dark, awful man.

“I'm not going to claim you,” he's saying, words wet against your temple, tongue snaking out to catch the droplets of sweat beading on your hairline.

It makes you whine in dismay, desperate for his teeth buried in your skin.

“No, no, please—! I need it, John, I need it—”

“Then beg me. Beg for it—”

You do. It babbles out of you. Broken, fractured. Pleas, orisons, screamed to heavens; aching for his teeth on you, in you. Claiming you for his own. You want it more than you think you've ever wanted anything in your whole thing. Half of you, empty and vacant, hollow, begging to be filled. To be completed.

And really—

You've felt it from the beginning. This stirring, agonising want. Desire. A bone-deep yearning for the man who looked at you, up and down, and dismissed you with a charred scoff and shallow shake of his head.

“What's a little omega like you doin’ runnin’ around the woods, love? Ought to be at home—”

Where you belong.

It didn't make sense at the time. He's so different with everyone else—Alex, Farah—but reserves his scorn, his discrimination, just for you. Special little thing, aren't you?

But even still. Still. You tried. Struggled against the crushing weight of his derision, burying your fingers into the rubble, clinging on for three, devastating years until your nails broke, bled. Left stains on the pavement. Until he, stiff-lipped and clipped, told you he was retiring. Escaping the loose binds of a non-existent town on the fringes of civilisation for the sanctum of the wild, untamed forest. The mountains.

You wanted him to say, come with me, even if you might have gouged his eyes out for even asking. Tore his still-beating heart out with your bare hands.

But instead, he nodded at you. A quiet goodbye. Left you bewildered, furious, and unclaimed, unwanted, and now—

Those blood-stained fingers dig into the softness of his nape, biting flesh until it gives, breaks, under the jagged stumps of your nails, and you wrench him forward, into you, snarling mad. Apoplectic with fury at being denied so long.

“Fuck you,” you bite out, brittle with ire. Disobedient even through the noxious curdle of heat subduing your senses. Your rationale. “Fuck you, John—!”

His skin breaks first. The bitter scent of hot, wet pavement, pennies in the summer sun, sickly sweet iron, fills the balmy cabin. He groans, choked, throat bobbing, jaw clenching. You don't let him get anything out.

You pull him by the scruff of his neck into you, face buried in your collarbones. Heels dig in, sliding along the slick sweat of his broad back. Finding purchase against the knob of his spine, and pressing. Pushing. Kicking at him until he slots his hips into yours, pressed as deep as he could possibly go. Throbbing inside of you. Spitting molten spend as he wrenches you open.

The first person to ever do so.

He must know this, feel it simmering in the air, because he groans low, deep. It bubbles out of his chest, a half-bitten snarl saturated in the smoke of his desire. Feverish, possessive.

“Mate me,” you demand, head tilting back into the awaiting plinth of his palm, cushioning your crown. “Claim me.”

He—John, you think, delirious; gone—John places a tender kiss to your pulse point, soft despite the uneven, desperate way he fucks into you now. All that careful finesse falling to pieces under your foot, growing choppier as he sinks in deep. Pistoning shallowly into your sloppy cunt, taking. Taking.

“Please, John,” you breathe, clenching tight around him. Needing that last push to drop over this vertiginous precipice that yawns out, a growling, hungry chasm, before you. Heat spears into your marrow, drowning out all the fight inside of you. Dousing those flames until they're a smouldering heap; clumps of hot, wet ash in your hands. “Please take me—”

The growl he makes is inhuman. Lingering in the shadow of it is a mocking burst of laughter. Dark, hellish. He leans in close, mouth tight against your skin, and whispers, “already have, love.”

Those words lose any meaning when he opens his mouth wider, licking a stripe over your neck. A soothing rinse. And then he buries his teeth into your pulse, tearing through your skin. Claiming. Owning. It rips through you—all heat, sensation: blistering, inferno. You burn alive beneath him, smouldered under his possessive, heavy bulk.

Price leans back with a vicious, terrible growl. Blood dripping down his chin, mixing with the tacky slick of you still covering his face. Pinkish under the waning light of the dying sun.

The sight of it, the horrible throb in your throat, breaks over you.

His tongue flicks out, chasing the drops. With a swipe of his finger over your clit, you fall to pieces around him, clenching. Throbbing. Screaming with your release. Gushing around him as he grips you tight, working you through it, muscles fluttering, flexing. The deluge of pleasure is molten, spreading liquid through your body. Inescapable bliss.

He grunts, pace slowing to a sloppy grind. Letting you leech pleasure from the overfull feeling of being speared open on him. Knot swelling. Bumping into your rim. John gives you respite for a moment, content to hump against your messy cunt until you melt into the furs, panting with exertion. With pleasure.

He keeps his thumb pressed against your clit, stroking. Shoving you into the side of too much, of pleasure-pain. Overstimulated. You mewl, whimpering.

“Greedy girl,” he chides, cruel, and pulls back. The wet drag of his cock against your sore, sensitive walls is overwhelming. You keen, shaking under him. “Couldn't wait to cum around my knot, mm?”

He doesn't wait for your excuses. He never does. He just thrusts into you again, a slow climb until his knot bludgeons into you. Fatten up at the base of his cock. He holds it there, grinding it against your pussy as you arch, mewling at the sting of your hole being stretched further around the curve of his knot.

“You can take it,” he coos. The muscles in his shoulders flex. You reach out, petting along his chest. feeling him. All powerful, corded muscles hiding under a thick layer of pelt. Soft flesh.

His knot catches. Slips. He bullies it against your sore, stuffed rim, throwing the full heft of his weight behind his shallow grinds until finally, finally, your body yields. Giving in. Opening for him.

He sinks in with a broken groan, mouth dropping open. Lax. His shoulders slump under your hands as he pumps you full of cum. Plugged up tight on his fat, pulsing knot. It's too much. Too much. All you do is cling to him, nails biting into his flesh. Marking him like the bloody ring around your neck marks you as his.

Locked together, damned, he leans down. Huffs in your ear.

“Gonna fuck you full all spring until it takes, love. Until you're swollen, fat, with our kid.” His voice is a thunderclap. A promise. A threat. “Won't keep them lonely for long, though, will you? We'll give him a sister or brother. Gonna breed this pussy as much as I want, mm. Give us a big family. I've already started on the nursery for you. After your heat, I'll let you pick the colours, yeah?”

Satiated Alpha permeates the air. It's thick in the back of your throat, clogging your senses. Drowning you. Pulling you under.

The last thought before you sink below the waterline is a broken, fragmented sense of dread, confusion. It comes in a daze. Flickering embers. Quickly snuffed out by his palm gliding across your eyes, closing them.

“Sleep now,” he rasps, hips stuttering as he fills you with more cum. Uncomfortably full, it floods your cunt, locked tight against your womb. “Gonna need it when my rut starts later.”

And, docile, collared, you obey, drifting. Dazed. But wondering, in the back of your head, in the part of you not yet consumed by the ink-black darkness that eats away at you, why did he build a nursery for you if he didn't know you were coming today—

—swallowed, eaten. his teeth are buried in your neck once more, and all thoughts dissolve in an instant. Dissipate into the gnawing aether where he splits them between his molars, gulps them down.

nothing matters anymore. you belong to him—

The cabin reeks of satiated omega—sweet, pungent. Rotten apple peels, and burnt orange. It's this heavy scent—sex, loam, and you—that draws him out of his doze, tired eyes blinking against the flickering light of the wood stove pushed into the corner.

Price groans when he shifts, body aching. Muscles stiff, sore, from disuse.

It’s been a long, long time since he knotted an omega, and he underestimated the sharpness of your claws, your needle-like teeth. But he wears the marks, the scars, of your aggressive coupling on his shoulders, his back. Clawed up, torn. He grimaces when a clotting scab breaks, peels back from the wound. Blood drips down his spine in a steady, ticklish trickle.

It took a lot more than he expected to make you submit. Had to force you to take his knot twice more before you finally, fully, relented, slurring his name into the sheets as he rutted into you from behind, begging for your Alpha to fill you up.

Had you again after that—so soft and sweet for him now. Pulled you down on his lap, let you take what you wanted from him, sluggish and lazy, until he gripped your hips tight, fucking up into you as he thickened with his release. Plugged you up nicely as you drooled on his shoulder, lulled to sleep from three brutal rounds of fucking.

But the battle was worth the victory in the end. To have you tucked into his chest, purring with contentment and too blissed out from heat exhaustion to worry about anything else, was enough. More than, really.

Especially now, with you curled on him, snoring lightly, breath tickling his chest hair, he feels more sated than he ever had, breathing in the heaviness of your smell. Your thick miasma. New, now. Different.

His scent, his mere essence within you, changes your smell already. Chemicals admixing. Body moulding, morphing, to adapt to him. His presence. You smell like the sea, salt water. Algae blooms. He leans down, breathes you in. Tastes his own headiness in the back of his throat—charred timber, smoke; leather. It clings to you. A second skin.

No matter where you go, everyone will know you belong to him.

This thought, this truism, makes him purr. A deep rumble from the pit of his gut. Satisfaction rolls off of him in towering waves, hewing the air where it congeals into plumes of conquest. Hard earned, too—

Three years. It only took three years to get to this point. To chisel under your skin, to break you down in his paws. Fine powder.

He lifts his hand from your back, and scours it down his salt-slickened face. He feels heat blooming under his skin. A telltale flush of his approaching rut. Perfectly timed, too. And that reminds him—

He pushes away from you slightly, spent cock slipping free from your warm, drenched cunt. His cum drips out of you, a deluge that leaks steadily onto your thigh, the ruined fur below. It puddles there and stains the air with his unmistakable musk. The conquering of an omega in heat; claimed. Owned.

He doesn't go far. Can't. There's a possessive, needy thrill under his veins. A snarling growl in the back of his head, snapping rabid jowls at him. Demanding he stay close to his mate. His omega. Don't leave the nest, it warns, or another could crawl in, fill the empty space—

Price cuts that thought off with an aborted snarl. There are no others. He made sure of it. Bloodied his knuckles against every alpha within a one-hundred-square-mile radius of his territory. Growled in their faces, hand against their throat, and told them to stay away from, you, this pretty little omega.

Message received, of course. But you were a prickly little thing. Bitter. As much as he wanted to roll you on your belly, make you present your cunt to him, he knew he had to tread carefully. Baby steps until you were close enough to his jaws to snap up, all his. Always. Ever since you stepped foot into his domain, your tart scent coalescing perfectly with the pine, oakmoss, tang of him. You've been his before you even knew who he was—

Wily omega with your shaking fists and bared teeth. Skittish little thing. Needed to play his hand slowly, to box you into a corner before you were even aware of the walls closing in around you. Snapped up tight his maw. Bear Trap quick. Had to be smart about it, bide his time. Push and push until all you thought about was him.

(checkmate)

John reaches for the loose floorboard, prying it open, and pulls his cell phone out—one he knows he’ll have to bury in the yard before you wake. There are very few contacts on his list, and he idly scrolls through the messages (steaming Jesus, the smell o’er—ye sure ye don’ share, cap?; better take her, Price, before I do) before he finds Gaz’s.

The last message sent was hours ago from Kyle. on her way. but fuck, didn't realise how fast fake suppressants worked, chief. gonna have to find her quick. might not make it up the mountain smellin as good as she does—

Good boy, he types with one hand, the other petting possessively down your spine. Curled there, a weighty pressure. You found him in the end, right on the cusp of your burgeoning heat. Pawing desperately for the suppressants Kyle made sure wouldn't be there.

(His parting gift brought on by a conversation ages ago—

“why haven't you mated, cap? not gettin’ any younger.”

“haven't found the right one. ain't gonna settle.”

“more like, your shitty attitude scares all the pretty omegas away, huh?”

“that, too,” he bit down into his cigar. suddenly angry, viciously so. “‘cept one.”

Kyle followed his gaze, and—

“so, take her. she wants you. reeks like she does. you can smell it, too, can't you?” his eyes flashed. playful. “maybe that'll be my retirement gift to you.”

“not funny, Garrick.”

“m’not tryin’ t’be, cap.”)

Three dots appear almost instantly. It takes a moment. Then: fuckin’ prick. Another message from Kyle pops up seconds after. told you, didn't i? i wasn't bein funny. congrats, cap ;)

As if sensing the sudden whiplash of his mood—deep, proprietorial—you stir in his arms, mewling in confusion. John drops the phone, hiding it from view, and pulls you tighter in his arms. In his embrace. Mouth pressed tight to your hairline, he rumbles, “shush, shush. I got you.”

His words make you quieten slightly. Quelled under the susurrus lull of his bellowing purr. But there's still a deep ravine between your brows. Unease lashes the air, acidic. Bubbling up from deep within you.

None of this must make any sense to you. Mercurial boss to mate, but he knows you'll come around to the idea of him soon enough. After all,

he has you all to himself until winter.

all to himself.

His hand falls, cups your lower belly possessively. Covetous. You grimace in your sleep, shifting away from the heavy, oppressive brunt of his smell. Obsessive. Potent like a wildfire. Dangerous.

But there's nowhere for you to run. Nowhere to go except deeper into his arms, his hold. Gyves around your throat; a bloody ring of his teeth.

Price hums. “Best gift I've ever gotten.”

#captain john price x reader #john price x reader #alpha price #alpha john price x omega reader #idk how this is like 8k its all just smut lmao #captian john price #john price #price x reader #captain price x reader #captain price #cod #pricefics

8K notes · View notes

gloomwitchwrites · 20 days ago

Note

Oml 😭 you’re stories continue to make my day, thank you so much! I was wondering if I can just get some domestic fluff with the task force 141

You're so sweet! Thank you!! I can absolutely write some domestic fluff. I've been working on Dog with No Teeth and some more suggestive prompts, and this is such a great break from it. Expect softness and gentle!141.

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: domestic fluff, married life, softness, kissing

Word Count: 800

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // imagines & what if series

John Price

John wakes before you. He always does. It’s engrained in him—like clockwork.

In the soft rays of the early morning sun, John drinks his tea while reading over the weekend chore list you’ve made. It hangs on the fridge, clipped to the metal by a homemade magnet your youngest made in primary school. You have it in your head that you’re going to get up at a decent time and knock it all out.

It’s cute that you think so.

Especially since you’ve run yourself ragged all week, falling into bed completely knackered that you’re snoring in your sleep.

What you need is some rest, not an early morning full of activity. It’s the weekend. You belong on the porch with a blanket and book. With you in his lap, using him as a bed.

John finishes his tea and rinses out the mug, placing it in the dishwasher. He’ll make himself another once he wakes the children. Slipping into the bedroom, John goes for your alarm clock, turning it off. You deserve to sleep in. John can handle the work while you have some peace.

The littles won’t bother you. He’ll make sure you get some needed rest.

John "Soap" MacTavish

“Can you try this?”

Johnny comes around the kitchen island, leaning against the countertop as you scoop up some of the fluffy whipped cream. You present the spoon, an eager excitement glittering in your gaze.

Johnny opens his mouth, allowing you to guide the spoon inside. The tips of your fingers gently brush the underside of his chin. Closing his lips around it, you drag the spoon out slowly. The whipped cream melts on his tongue. It’s perfectly sweet.

“How is it?” you ask. “I’m a little worried it’s too sweet. Might overpower the lemon curd.”

“It’s perfect,” he purrs.

“Really?”

Johnny scrapes a bit of whipped cream off the top of the mixing bowl. Popping his finger into his mouth, Johnny sighs with contentment. Your smile grows, and Johnny can’t help but adore just how beautiful you are like this. It’s his favorite version of you.

As you reach for the lemon curd, Johnny grabs your hips, pulling you against him. A small giggle escapes you and Johnny loves the sound. Lowering his head, he teases the tip of your nose with his own until you’re flustered and wiggling. Only then does he close the distance for a kiss.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

It’s a Sunday afternoon. You and Simon have nothing to do. Nowhere to go. Peace and rest and simple pleasures only.

You’re snuggled up on the sofa, sinking against the cushions with a book in your hand. On the television, a trashy reality show plays at low volume. You’re not watching it, but it’s not for you.

Simon is curled up next to you, sprawled out and using your thigh as a pillow. A blanket is draped over him and covering your legs. He has one arm tucked behind your back and the other is resting across you, his large hand gently massaging the thigh he’s not resting his head on.

He’s watching the television, but his eyelids are heavy, chest moving in slow, shallow breaths. Sleep is creeping up on him.

Reaching out with one hand, you thread your fingers through his hair, lightly massaging his scalp. Simon sighs, snuggling a bit closer. Switching from his scalp, you move to his neck, and then his upper back, using your nails to tease his skin. You keep a languid place, moving back and forth across his skin.

There’s nothing better than this quiet moment with your husband. Shared. Simple. Perfect.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“Do you want some music?”

“I’d love that.”

Kyle walks over to the record player, fingers skimming over the collection of vinyl records. He reaches out to select one, and pauses.

“Just pick something,” you laugh, grabbing the dish soap.

“I will,” he chuckles softly, drumming his fingers against his bottom lip as he decides on which.

You roll your eyes, putting the stopper in the skin.

“Here we are,” says Kyle. As you start filling the sink with hot water, a jazzy number fills the room. Kyle grooves over to the vacuum, and you realize you’re grinning. Bopping his head and shaking his shoulders, Kyle switches on the hoover.

It’s routine then, the two of you moving around each other as you do your weekly cleaning. When you start dusting the ceiling fan, Kyle creeps up on you, hands falling on your waist.

“What?” you laugh, turning toward him, only to laugh harder as Kyle starts dancing up on you. “Stop,” you snort, playfully smacking at him.

“Dance with me,” he smiles, wiggling his eyebrows. Kyle offers you his hand, and you take it, the two of you coming together into a slow sway that makes you tingle everywhere.

taglist:

@glitterypirateduck @suhmie @z-wantstowrite @kylies-love-letter @keiva1000

@iloveslasher @ravenpoe67 @sadlonelybagel @nishim @arrozyfrijoles23

@voids-universe @itsberrydreemurstuff @sageyxbabey @glassgulls @miaraei

@weasleytwins-41 @eternallyvenus @chaostwinsofdestruction @cherryofdeath @ninman82

@fern-reads @waves-against-a-cliff @beebeechaos @smileykiddie08 @whisperwispxx

@jianyi22 @sethell @atpeacee @konigssweatyhood @dreamingoftomorrow

@katerinaval @morguethemagpie @galactict3a @sarah-the-bird-nerd @mikachu-bitez

@unclearblur @kurochan3 @sans-chara @all-by-myself98 @hisuccubus

@km-ffluv @thriving-n-jiving @carbonnite-copy @sobbangchan @codeseven

@youre-a-wallflower-charlie @tiredmetalenthusiast @sporadicpizzainternet @tessakate @mistresssolana

1K notes · View notes

swordsandholly · 9 months ago

Text

Cherry Bomb - tattoo parlor anthology

MDNI | poly 141 x fem fat reader | masterlist

Part Nine: The Expo

Your eyes widen to saucers as you climb out of John’s work van. The event hall in front of you is huge - the largest in the city. A big, glass dome with a high-end hotel attached. It glows in the morning sun. Lines of people have already formed out front. You passed them on your way around to the vendor entrance. It’s the twentieth anniversary for the Tattoo Expo, apparently, which means they expect massive crowds.

“I hate that Kyle couldn’t come.” You frown as a security worker hands over your badge. It’s fancy - heavy weight with brightly colored, neo-traditional graphics. Something about having the word VENDOR hanging around your neck makes your heart skip.

John sighs, heaving one of the boxes of his books onto your dolly. “Yeah. He tried but he couldn’t get his head out of the toilet long enough to do much of anythin’.”

You wrinkle your nose. Apparently he had caught some nasty stomach bug, poor guy. You thought about calling and checking in on him, but you worried that was too clingy. After… everything, you don’t want to come off as anything other than normal about it. Which you are. Totally normal.

At least Johnny was home for the day to help him out.

“Has Simon ever come?” You ask, titling the dolly pack to push into the convention hall.

John’s arms flex as he fights with his rolling tool box to get the handle back out so he can pull it. He just had to wear a sleeveless muscle tee, didn’t he? It’s rude, frankly. You look over his more rarely exposed shoulder and upper arm pieces - some more faded than others. Some more colorful, some better crafted. Part of you wants to reach out - to trace them the same way you want to with Simon. You want to ask him in detail about each one. Maybe he’ll let you, someday.

“Can you actually picture Simon in a convention hall?” He chuckles eventually, finally getting the toolbox rolling properly.

You laugh. “Guess not.”

The 141 booth sits in the center of the floor, surrounded by a few other big-name shops and figures in the community. You glance around at them, only recognizing a few. You don’t get much time to look around. There are only a couple hours designated for set up and you have to help hang all the flash options, get the cash box sorted, and be ready for the flood when it comes. You’ve mentally prepared for chaos, reading through pretty much every reddit and twitter thread you could find about convention disasters. You know that won’t happen here, and even if something did, John wouldn’t abandon you to it. Still, you feel better being mentally prepared for anything - no matter how unrealistic.

“Why do you still do these?” You ask, pinning one of the large flash sheets to the display board. “I mean - you don’t exactly have to get your name out there.”

“I enjoy them- the community. I was here when this was still bein’ held underground in an old warehouse.” John looks around, eyes scanning the rows of artists. He doesn’t share his thoughts, just stands there quietly for a moment with his hands on his hips. After a few beats he grumbles quietly, “Gettin’ old…”

You focus on setting up the front table where you’ll be stationed. John brought a few prints of work as well as several copies of his book. He brought a few signed ones as well, only selling them for about twenty more bucks than the usual price. You asked why he doesn’t mark them up more, but he just shrugged you off with a mutter of ‘I’m not all that’ before moving on to another task. You decided it was best not to argue that he is, indeed, all that. His books are literally filled until the late fall.

Maybe you shouldn’t be so proud of setting up a decently aesthetically pleasing display all on your own when you’re surrounded by real artists, but you still grin wide with your hands on your hips. It’s simple, with cards for each of the boys lining one sit and a roll of tattoo tickets for the day beside the cash box. The table cloth with the shop’s name looks nearly identical to the sign. One might call it lazy marketing, you find it charming.

“Somethin’ happen with you and Kyle?” John asks suddenly, back turned as he messes with something in his rolling tool box full of supplies.

You freeze, eyes wide and mouth dry. Did Kyle say something? You thought you’d been normal about it. Kyle hadn’t acted any differently - which shouldn’t have hurt your feelings - and you were sure you’d met him with the same level of normalcy. The past weeks race through your mind. Every moment, every interaction, picking each apart into threads in milliseconds.

“Uh, no? Why?” It comes out squeaky. Unsure. Lord, you really are a terrible liar.

John hums. He’s quiet for barely a beat, a moment that seems to stretch for lifetimes. You can almost feel your cells aging while you wait. “You’ve been quieter than usual around him. Just wanted t’make sure.”

“Oh.” Had you? You thought you’d been the same as always. Both of you totally moved on from… the incident. Well, except for those few times you caught yourself staring - zoning out while thinking about the way his lips pressed to yours. Imagining Kyle pulling you into the back room again. Another kiss with less nervousness and more heat. Actually bending you over the desk properly-

“Y’with me, love?” John snaps you back to reality.

“Yeah!” You jump and stutter. “Yeah. No. We’re fine. I’m… fine.”

You wonder if the giant guy in the weird homemade mask at the booth across from yours would smash your head in if you paid him. Let him free you from the torment of embarrassment. It had been eating away at you, if you’re honest with yourself, and now lying right to John’s face just feels… awful. He’ll find out. You know he will. Maybe he already knows as that was a test. Fuck if it was, you totally just failed.

The clock turns to nine, and you have no choice but to let that be a problem for your future self.

Something you realize rather quickly as the attendees begin to flood the hall is that John is a god here. People don’t meet his eye. They speak meekly, even to you, with voices low and faces flushed. The line for your booth stretches down the walkway as soon as the doors open - appointment tickets practically flying out of your hands. You overhear a pair of friends muttering about sleeping outside overnight to get in early enough for John’s booth. It makes your head spin.

You wonder if they’d still act that way if they saw him snoring open-mouthed at the desk in the back room mid-afternoon.

“Thought I heard 141 got a new front desk girl.” A syrupy southern accident lilts above you just as you finish selling tickets. He’s handsome. Blonde and blue eyed with a little scar gracing his cheekbone. Not much younger than John, you don’t think. Probably around Simon’s age.

You slip on your usual customer service smile. “Hello! How can I-”

“Graves.” John grunts behind you, not even looking up from the work in front of him. “What d’you want?”

“Just wanted to come see how you were.” The man - Graves - grins wide. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “And to meet your new front of house. Philip.”

You take the hand he holds out, giving a perfunctory shake and your name. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that John doesn’t like this guy, whoever he is, and you’re inclined to trust his judgement. You opt for basic small talk. “Are you an artist?”

Graves nods. “I own Shadow & Co. It’s a few blocks over from your place.”

Oh. You’d heard of them. They came highly recommended when you were looking for artists in the area initially. In the end you opted for John based entirely on vibes. The Shadow building is far too modern - to minimalist - for your liking. Too corporate.

“Y’know, we’re looking for a new desk girl as well.” Graves smiles. You do your best not to sneer at his use of desk girl. “We’re growing pretty quick - even if you wanted to split your time-”

“She’s full time with us.” John snaps - blatant irritation lining the edges of his voice. He still doesn’t turn around.

The blonde man pauses, glancing between you. Something passes over his eyes - some implicit knowing that you don’t quite get - but it’s gone just as fast as it came. He digs into his pocket, flipping open a too-new wallet and pulling out a business card. “Well, if you ever want to work somewhere more exciting-” you nearly laugh at that. “-give us a call, hm?”

You glance up to his face, then back down at the card. John’s tattoo gun continues to buzz behind you, but you can tell he’s slowed down. He’s listening. Before even really thinking you extend your hand, pushing the card he holds away from you.

“Thanks for the offer, but I’m very happy here.”

Philip scoffs, dropping the card on the table. “Keep us in mind, yeah?”

He disappears into the crowd easily - blending in just like his shop’s namesake. Your nose wrinkles. You snatch up the card and tear it in two. “Dickhead.”

You think you hear John chuckling behind you, but can’t be sure over the roar of the convention.

The day flies by - people bustle by your booth. You run out of signed books just over halfway through - prints not long after. Your voice feels hoarse from talking to so many people. The hall has grown quite hot and you’re sure that your hair looks insane at this point. Either way, you’re having a great time. You get to talk to a with full body trash polka that you like for some reason. You get to meet one of the people involved in the stage competition - her massive thigh piece holding some of the best color work you’ve ever seen. All in all, despite the discomfort, you think this ranks in your top ten favorite days. Maybe top five.

“Excuse me?” Murmurs a voice so soft you almost miss it entirely over the roar of the convention. When you look up, you’re met with a painfully young face. Definitely not old enough for the 17+ entrance requirement.

“Hi!” You put on your warmest smile. “How can I help you?”

“I, uh, I was just…” They stutter, shifting in place. “I- Are there any signed copies left?”

You look them over, a too-familiar pang in your chest. You know those eyes, that anxiety. The jumpy way they look around at the people passing by and tug at their sleeves. Your teeth sink into your lip and you look over at the three blanks that make up your entire left over stock. Glancing over your shoulder, you see John finishing with his current client - giving the man a firm handshake before turning to clean up his station. There’s a fifteen minute break until the next one - his last for the night - and as much as you don’t want to take up his precious little time to set up…

“Let me check!” You squeak, shaky as you grab one of the blanks with all the subtlety of a brick over the head and cross the few feet over to where John sits. You lean over to speak in his ear, low enough that the kid won’t hear you. “John?”

“Hm?” He hums, turning slightly on his stool.

“Can you sign this one?” You chew your lip. “I know you had a set amount but this kid looks so…”

He glances behind you at the teenager in question, bashfully staring at their feet.

“I’m sorry, I know you need to set up for the next-”

John cuts you off by taking the book from your hands and standing.

“Thanks, dove.” He gives you that lovely, warm smile and rolls his shoulders before making his way over to the front table.

The teenager’s eyes go so wide you think they might pop out of their head. You decide to hang back and not interrupt their moment. John sets the book on the table and grabs a sharpie from your back up stash of pens. The kid mumbles something you can’t understand. John’s voice lowers as well. You can’t hear them, but you watch John scrawl something in the book and hand it over. He pushes away the crumpled, messy wad of cash the teenager tries to give him, shaking his head and saying something else that you don’t catch. The kid looks like they’re about to cry, a wide, wet grin splitting their face as they say goodbye and practically prance away.

You melt, shoulders slouching and what you’re sure is a very stupid smile breaking out across your lips. You don’t know why you doubted him for even a moment.

“What’s that face?” John scoffs, cocking a brow at you.

“Nothing.” You shake your head and re-take your spot at the table.

The ending of the convention is rather uneventful. Some of the other booths begin clearing up early. You take the time to count the cash box - which is absolutely stuffed to the brim. John rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck about five times in the span of a few minutes. Maybe you could convince them to do a company yoga class. It’s easy to see how tense and tired they get. You file that idea away for later.

Luckily most of the booth set up belonged to the venue and, since you sold out of books and prints, you don’t have haul those back to the van. All you have to take is John’s rolling toolbox and tattooing table. All things that easily fit in your bag and dolly. Thank god. Neither of you speak much on the drive back to the shop - opting for comfortable silence. Your ears ring ever so slightly from the noise of the convention hall. When you were in it, you hadn’t realized just how loud it was. John’s eyes are locked on the road, the slight glow from the setting sun warming his skin.

The sun just disappears over the horizon as you put the last of the equipment in the backroom - stacked rather messily but that’s another problem for future you. You’ve been working for a grand total of fourteen hours and, somehow, it still has yet to hit you. Adrenaline and excited energy still pulse under your skin.

John sighs loudly, crossing each arm over his chest to stretch them out. “Could really go for a scotch right now. You want a nightcap?”

Your cheeks warm, still riding high from the excitement of the day you agree easily. “Yeah, that sounds nice.”

He gives you a gentle smile, softened further by the low street lights. “Let me show you a spot.”

The place John leads you to is small. Local. You sit at the bar and take a moment to look around. Three pool tables take up half the floor space. It looks like a small tournament is going on - a white board showing the matches and who will go against who next. Two ski-ball machines are tucked in a corner beside the bathroom, currently taken up by two younger men who you aren’t completely sure are drinking age. The lights and music are both low. One of the bartenders is posted up on the opposite end of the bar with two other people watching Shin Godzilla on the mounted television. It’s cozy and oh-so very John Price.

You get an easy sipper, something fruity and sweet as a treat for the long day you’ve had. It’s nice against the warmth of the summer evening. A heat that’s only aggravated by the one that settles in your spine whenever the guys are around. John especially.

“Think that kid was a little young for the event…” You blurt in a poor attempt to make conversation.

John nods along. “Definitely.”

“That was really nice of you. I didn’t want to… I don’t know.” You murmur, unsure why exactly the words won’t stop. You blame the drinks and exhaustion. Seems realistic enough. “They just seemed so sad.”

“Wasn’t nice. Just the right thing t’do.” John shrugs. His words come slow, almost as if he’s unsure if he should say them. Though, you find it hard to believe he has ever been unsure about anything in his life. “I know what its like… to need t’escape. Lied about my age just to enlist.”

Your eyes widen. “R-really?”

He hums. “They didn’t care much back then.”

For some reason you never thought about John’s childhood - his homelife. You know he has a mom somewhere. Kyle let it slip a couple of times - said she’s a really good cook. John doesn’t volunteer information about himself often, you gathered that much. He’s worse than Simon, somehow, which says a fucking lot.

“Did-” you mull over your words. “You didn’t grow up around here, yeah?”

It’s a clumsy attempt at getting him to talk, but it works well enough. He nods. “Hereford. My mum’s still out there.”

Score. “Do you visit her much?”

John shrugs, chuckling. “When I can. I could move back home and it wouldn’t be enough for her.”

You snicker.

“She’s the best woman I’ve ever known…” He murmurs, eyes far away. It’s only for a moment, but they look past you. Defocused in a way that seems to out of character for the hyper-aware man.

Your faces are close. Hunched in like school kids exchanging secrets and gossip during recess. Your eyes dart from his to his lips and back. It’s confusing. All of this. The intimacy you have with each of them in these moments is overwhelming. You like Kyle - you liked kissing Kyle - you really shouldn’t be wanting that from your boss, though. A co-worker is bad enough but John… John is off limits. You know that. Even so, you find yourself subconsciously leaning just a bit closer, eyes roving over the freckles you don’t see standing further away and the grey flecks in his eyes. You think, for barely a millisecond, that he leans in too.

Until he sits up straight, tossing back what little is left of his drink. “Let’s head out. Could go for a smoke.”

You nod, swallowing down your thoughts and following him out of the bar like a lost puppy. You’d follow him to the end of the earth, you think. Even if it hurts that you can’t get as close as you want, you’d go anywhere for him. Yeah, that’s definitely the drink and tiredness talking. Part of you also knows that it is undoubtedly true.

John rounds a corner to the side of the bar. It’s moderately lit, a single street lamp just down the way giving you just enough light to see. You lean against the wall beside John, the exhaustion beginning to cling to your eyes.

“Are you?” John asks suddenly.

“Hm?” You hum, unsure of what he’s asking about.

“Happy here?” He cuts the end off a cigar he pulled from the silver box that lives in his back pocket.

In the low light of the alley, his pupils overtake most of his irises. Dark and intense as he looks you over from head to toe. You see it, suddenly. The god that the others do. He’s not as physically large as Simon, or as loud as Johnny, but he fills every inch of any space he enters regardless. You suppose you became so used to being in that radius that you forgot just how much presence he carries. You’ve wrapped yourself in it like a blanket. A shield.

Your cheeks warm and you shuffle your feet. “I… yeah.”

“Good.” John sighs out a cloud of smoke. “It’d be a pain in the arse to replace you. The boys care about you too much.”

You stare up at him. You can feel something on the edge of his tone - some weight that you don’t understand. There always seems to be another layer to the things he says. Implications that you can’t understand, context that you’re missing. Part of you wants to ask, needs to ask, but the words get stuck in your throat. What would you say? You’re not even entirely sure what you need to ask. You know they care about you, and you care for them in turn, so why does it feel like there’s something missing?

“Does the boys include you?” You blurt, one again wishing that big guy from the convention was here to smash your head in like wile e. cayote and the anvil.

He looks you up and down, slightly taken aback while you debate on bolting. “Thought that was obvious.”

You scoff, still flustered. “You’re hard to read.”

“Am I, now?”

You nod. A comfortable silence falls over you, despite the awkwardness surely emanating from you. Your lip catches between your teeth, eyes on your feet. “John?”

“Dove?” He tilts his head, once again leaning ever so slightly closer to you.

“Thank you. For everything.” You murmur, voice low and unsure. “It’s… it’s really good here.”

“Think nothin’ of it, love.”

You look up at those pretty blue eyes. They always make your chest ache with some deep hole you haven’t been able to pin down. At first you could blame it on wanting to do well - to be a good employee. It’s more than that, though. It starts in your chest and seeps it’s way through the rest of you. A want. A craving. That’s the word. You crave those eyes on you. The weight of his hands, the fortitude of him.

You’re not sure who closes the gap - whether it’s you or him - but either way it closes. It’s too natural for the context of your relationship. You slot together too well. It’s not like with Kyle. John carries an intensity with him that Kyle never could. His beard scratches not unpleasantly. His lips are warm - you can taste hints of scotch and his cigar. He smells of spice and earth. Your hands rest on his broad shoulders - unsure of where to put them.

This is wrong. It’s messy. You already lied about Kyle, which he’ll surely find out. If he hasn’t already. What about Johnny? Or Simon? Will they think less of you? Are you less for this? For impulsively kissing your boss in some back alley? Will Kyle be angry if he finds out? Your thoughts surge, all chaotic waves crashing against each other in an attempt to make sense of this situation you find yourself in.

John’s arm wraps around your waist, pulling you closer into him. Your arms drape around his neck as you push onto your tips toes to meet him.

That’s a problem for future you.

A/N: Sorry this part took so long, I couldn’t decide if I wanted to escalate it or not but I want to get a move on with these boys

#poly 141 #poly 141 x reader #tf 141 x reader #141 x reader #captain john price x reader #captain john price #captain price x reader #captain price #john price x you #john price x reader #john price #kyle gaz garrick x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #john soap mctavish x reader #fem reader #plus size reader #fat reader

2K notes · View notes

cavillscurls · 2 months ago

Text

inescapable

clint “freaky tales�� x f!reader

Clint always gets what he wants—this time, you’re going to give it to him.

warnings/tags: MDNI. DARK CONTENT. dubious consent, and finely toeing the line of past non-con. stockholm syndrome. implied that reader was given to clint as a debt. clint is a hit man. explicit smut. unprotected piv. breeding/breeding kink. man-handling. choking. multiple orgasms. overstimulation. dacryphilia. pet names (baby, sweetheart, little girl, (2) princess, don’t know what came over me lol). sir kink. lots of praise despite his roughness. not beta’d and hardly proofread. wc: 1.5k

➻ a/n: we obviously know very little about this character thus far, so please, consider all of this au! i genuinely don’t know what this is! i just had the inspiration, and in these trying times, i cannot shy away from it. this is obviously much darker than what i usually write, so if that’s not your forte, no biggie. i’ll see you for the next one. <3

Time is but an allusion to you now. You’re not even quite sure when you lost track of it.

“That’s it. That’s a fucking good girl, fuck.”

Or when your predicament stopped feeling like a punishment and more like freedom. An escape from a life before, one hardly remembered, that brought nothing but pain, and struggle, and loneliness.

God, you were so lonely.

“I know. I know, baby. It’s so much.”

Even when you had it all, you had no one. Surrounded by those you called kin, meant to uphold you, protect you. But when it came down to it, you were just another pawn in the game. An asset. Something to be borrowed and bartered for the right price, or out of sheer, pathetic desperation.

They never cared for you, did they? Not really.

But he does. He wants you. He protects you. And at what cost? Pleasure that, once discovered, you couldn’t give up for the world. You would be lying if you said that, for some time, the obsession didn’t frighten you. Now, it only solidifies that freeing truth: he will never be like them. He will never let you go. You belong to him, and once you accepted it and all the privileges that came with it, you set your soul to rest.

Your brain is numb, nothing but white noise, and you tingle all over. It’s soothing. As is the weight of him—all of him, broad, and sturdy, and smothering—draped over your back and pinning you into the mattress. He’s shoved a pillow under your tummy, the perfect little angle for him to pound the tip of his cock against the deep spot that makes you see stars. His left hand pins one of yours beside your ear, threaded through the knuckles, and the other is wrapped securely around your throat, keeping your chin propped up enough that you don’t suffocate your face into the pillows.

You can’t see anything, anyways. Eyes glazed over, the luxury of air seemingly less important than the impending buildup in your belly.

You aren’t sure how many times you’ve come now—three, four? How many different ways he’s dragged your body across the too-stiff mattress, and folded it whatever way he pleases to see you squirm and leak all over him.

But this one is your favorite, you think. The heat and breadth of him, warm and everywhere all at once, the heavy sack of his balls tapping your swollen clit with every thrust. The one that makes you mindless, the one that makes you remember why this life, this new life, is so special.

“C’mon, little girl,” his gruff voice, a distant echo, finally breaks its way through the surface. It’s accompanied by a firm squeeze to your carotids, sending your eyes rolling back into your skull. “Talk to me. Tell me how you feel.”

You open your lips, but all that comes is a pool of drool and an indiscernible moan. Your thighs are shaking, and you can feel the mixture of slick, sweat, and come burning friction between your bodies.

You try once more. Long lost is the shame of how brittle or broken you sound; Clint accepts it all, and he never judges you for it.

“S-so g—ahh—f-full. M’so, so full, sir.”

His lips press into the back of your neck, and you swear you can feel them spread into a smile.

“Yeah?” he says, and it’s a little condescending. A little mean, but you don’t mind. Despite his nefarious ways and demanding job, Clint has placed you on a pedestal at the center of his universe. The way he plays you is just a reminder that there won’t be, can’t be, anyone else.

“Feel so fuckin’ full of this cock, huh, princess? Can’t even think straight.”

And you’re nodding, because he’s right. All else has lost its importance. All but the shape of him inside of you.

It hits you suddenly, a slight shift of his hips, and you’re gasping, babbling as if your life depends on it: “I’m g-gonna, I’m gonna come again. Please, p-please sir, can I-can I come?”

He places a wet, searing kiss against your jugular and loosens his grip on your neck to bury his hand in your hair. He yanks up, and your back arches off the mattress, adjusts his thighs so they’re cradling your ass and resumes his ceaseless pace.

Your feet kick desperately against the mattress, tears brimming your eyes and fingers digging into the sheets as you try to starve off an orgasm you know you’ll only see through upon his command, his permission.

“Hold on now, baby. Hold it,” he demands sternly, reaching his other hand around to palm at your tits, a squeal of ecstasy coming off your lips when he pinches one of the hardened nipples. “Just a little longer for me.”

You dig your teeth into your bottom lip until you taste iron, trying to focus on anything other than the tightly wound wire in your gut and the beast of a man behind you. You can’t help it, the way your slick walls start to flutter around him, dripping down to the base of his cock, and you hear him growl behind you until you’re being smothered again. He knocks the wind out of you, the entire weight of him pinning you down until the legs of the bed frame start to squeak and the headboard hits the wall.

He doesn’t hold you up, this time. Now, your noises are muffled into the pillows, and he drapes one of his calloused paws across the crown of your head, and presses his lips to your ear.

“So good, baby. Shit, you’re so fuckin’ tight. Perfect fuckin’ pussy,” he grumbles, his words slurred and heavy. “Gonna fill you up again, yeah? As many times as it takes, right?”

It’s the same spiel every time, only now, instead of panic, the prospect of it makes your heart thrum in your chest. Your belly stir with butterflies. Something like hope, delight.

And you’re nodding again, garbling yes, sir, yes sir, into the pillows, repeating the mantra to yourself—as many times as it takes.

Until your belly swells, and you’re full of him, a piece of him.

“That’s right, that’s it, sweetheart,” he’ll tell you. “Gonna keep you nice and full of me till it takes. Keep you both forever.”

Forever. Forever. Forever. It doesn’t sound so bad now, when you weigh it in an empty head run on nothing but the scent of him. You would want for nothing. You, and whatever this piece of him would come to be, protected, loved even, by a man you are supposed to despise.

“Now,” you suddenly hear him command, and your body does the rest of the work for you. Releasing the flood of euphoria and drenching your trembling limbs in it.

He’s grunting in your ear, cock swelling, and spilling inside of you with a roar. Even when he’s finished, he’s still thrusting into you—slower now, carefully fucking every last drop of his seed inside of you.

Every last drop is precious, he’d tell you those first few times, back when you would scream and thrash in a feeble attempt to get him out of you. As if you could ever conquer a man like him, an unmovable force, austere in his pursuit of anything and everything. He always gets what he wants, and what he wants now—

“Easy. Easy, there, sweetheart.” He’s petting the side of your head, turning it for you so that your cheek is pressed into the pillow and you can gulp down mouthfuls of air. “That’s right, deep breaths. Just gonna stay like this for a little while,” he coos, and you hardly notice the stretch of him, plugged all the way up inside of you, until he wiggles his hips a bit and a residual spurt of come leaks into you. You both groan in unison.

Your eyelids grow heavy as your breaths even out; even with the overwhelming sensation of him still all around you, inside of you, you feel an odd sense of peace. Every muscle in your body was pulled taut, now utterly relaxed, satiated. He must feel you settled, because he begins to trail open-mouth kisses across your shoulder, your neck, the base of your sweaty scalp.

“Have a good feeling about this one,” he whispers, and you shudder when one of his hands squeezes between your body and the mattress, and splays firmly over your belly. “Be all swollen before you know it, princess.”

He nibbles at your earlobe, and you whimper. He chuckles rather darkly in response.

“Yeah, you like picturin’ it, don’t you?”

Maybe it’s conditioned, or self-preservation.

“Yes…. yes, sir,” you sigh.

But you can almost hear it yourself. That semblance of truth come to the surface.

You trail a shaky hand under you, finding his, and laying it atop. If you try hard enough, you can feel the phantom outline of a different body, bigger, accommodating new life.

A new life is all you’ve ever wanted.

You feel yourself slip past the threshold of slumber before you can dwell on it any longer, but for a fleeting moment, you acknowledge that truth once more.

It feels strange.

It feels like home.

#clint freaky tales #clint freaky tales x reader #clint x reader #freaky tales #ppcu fanfiction #clint flood x reader #clint flood x f!reader

599 notes · View notes

moonlitstoriess · 2 months ago

Text

You Were Mine First- Lucien x fem!reader (2/2)

Summary: For one hundred years, Y/N carried the weight of a bond Lucien never felt. Then, one day, it was gone—severed, rewritten, given to another. She thought she could endure it. Thought she could live unseen, unnoticed. Until the day Lucien walked into her shop… and fate forced them face to face.

See masterlist

Previous part

Warnings: mention of injury, angst, miscommunication (gets resolved towards the end), fluffy end

Lucien shifted on his feet, running a hand through his hair. This wasn’t his problem. This wasn’t supposed to bother him this much.

But she’d left. Y/N had left.

And wasn’t that telling? How many times had he seen someone disappear overnight? How many times had someone been forced to run because of rumors—because of accusations? But this wasn’t some nameless, faceless person.

This was her.

The female who, for some reason, always had that ridiculous book of herbal remedies tucked under the counter when he came in, despite her pretending she never read it. The female who always kept her guard up around him.

The female who might’ve been a Hybern loyalist.

Lucien clenched his jaw.

That’s what the rumors said. That’s what the whispers had claimed for weeks now, hadn’t they? That she was hiding something, that she wasn’t who she said she was.

And maybe they were right.

Maybe he’d been a fool, walking into her shop every damn week, trading snide remarks, and thinking—what? That she was just some ordinary shopkeeper? That she wasn’t tangled up in something deeper?

So that means she really was what the rumors said? She really did support Hybern?

The thought made his stomach twist.

But then another voice in his head scoffed.

Everyone hides something, idiot.

Lucien exhaled sharply. He needed to get out of here.

But he didn’t move.

Because something was still nagging at him. A little thread, dangling just out of reach.

And then—click.

Arlena.

Her grandmother.

What if she hadn’t left?

Lucien’s heart gave a hard, single beat against his ribs.

Because he knew where Y/N’s house was. He had walked her back once, when he’d come across her on the streets, arms full of heavy bags, stubbornly refusing to ask for help even as she nearly dropped one. He had taken them from her without asking, ignoring her scowl and muttered complaints the entire way.

His feet were already moving.

Then he was walking faster. Then faster. Then nearly running.

And he had no idea what he was expecting to find when he got there.

The sun in Summer Court was relentless, a golden fire drenching the city of Adriata in warmth and light. The breeze carried the scent of salt and citrus, and the streets bustled with life—merchants calling out, waves crashing in the distance, silk-draped fae laughing as they walked past.

And yet, for Y/N, the brightness of this place had yet to reach the parts of her that had long since dimmed.

She had chosen Summer for a reason. Not just for the distance, not just to disappear. The land had been an old inheritance, a quiet place left behind by her mother’s bloodline—a side of the family she had never known well, yet had always carried within her. It was a small, unassuming property near the edge of the city, with enough space for a home and a shop. The perfect place to start over.

She had savings from her years running her shop in Velaris, a decent enough sum to buy the storefront she now stood before. The first few weeks had been exhausting—negotiating prices, hiring help for renovations, deciding what this shop would even sell.

It was nothing like her old store in Velaris. No trinkets, no delicate crafts.

Instead, her hands now worked with nature itself. Herbs, teas, salves, elixirs. People came to her shop not for decoration, but for healing, for energy, for sleep, for clarity. A new purpose, one that let her bury herself in the motions of work, in the careful grind of mortar against pestle, in the measurements and mixtures that demanded precision, leaving no space for intrusive thoughts.

But some nights, even potions could not drown out her mind.

Lucien knows.

Oh, Cauldron. He knows.

And yet… he still chose Elain.

How many times had she woken up, heart pounding, that thought looping like a curse in her head? How many times had she tried to make sense of it, only for every answer to twist the knife deeper?

She had spent countless nights staring at the ceiling, going over every word, every sentence, every interaction. Had it meant nothing? Had he truly been so disgusted by the truth that he couldn’t even face her before she left?

Her fingers tightened around the wooden door handle of her shop, her reflection caught in the glass.

She had tried to forget.

Tried to move forward.

But how does one move on when their mate has broken the bond and chosen another?

The sun was bright, the sky was endless, the waters shimmered like liquid gold. But in the end, even the Summer Court could not burn away the shadows curling in her heart.

"It’s crazy how life changes."

Lucien nodded slowly, his gaze focused on his hands—not seeing, not really listening. His mind churned with thoughts so tangled, he wasn’t even sure what Jurian was talking about.

A few weeks ago, he had run to Y/N’s home, desperate for answers, for something, for her grandmother. But Arlena was gone, too. The house was empty, untouched, a ghost of the life that had once been there.

Either way, Lucien had been left standing in the street, feeling something he hadn’t in years.

Lost.

After that, he gave up. He went back home, forced himself to push it all aside, to bury it in the corners of his mind where things he didn’t want to deal with went to rot.

It was easier than trying to hold onto something slipping through his fingers. Easier than chasing ghosts. He spent the following days with Elain during his stay, listening to her soft, soothing words, getting to know her, trying to connect with her like he had hoped to for the past year.

They spent the following days together, talking, laughing, sharing time in a way they never had before. And Lucien had tried, truly tried, to tell himself that this was it—that this was what he wanted, what he needed.

But now, weeks later, he realized it wasn’t the fairy-tale connection he had imagined.

He didn’t feel as happy as he thought he would.

Maybe it was his fault. Maybe he was just an ungrateful brat who couldn’t appreciate the beautiful, kind mate who had been right in front of him this whole time. Elain was everything he was supposed to want.

But maybe it was because he kept thinking about a certain shopkeeper who made Elain open up to him through her gifts in the first place.

Because somewhere deep down, his mind wandered back to Y/N.

But he couldn’t help it.

His mind kept replaying their conversations, the way she had spoken to him, her sharp words cutting through him like a blade—yet there was something there, something he couldn’t explain. A pull. A sense of ease when he was around her.

Why?

Why had she made him feel that way?

He had been around Elain, and it had always been careful, calculated. Everything had felt like a slow, hesitant dance. It wasn’t that he didn’t care for her, because he did, but...

With Y/N, it had been different.

It had been natural.

Her sarcasm, her cold demeanor—none of that had scared him off. It had intrigued him. She hadn’t expected anything from him. There had been no pressure, no attempt to make him fit into some mold of what he was supposed to be.

With her, he had felt like he could breathe.

So why did he keep thinking about her? Why did she keep creeping into his thoughts when he had a mate who, in many ways, was exactly what he needed?

It wasn’t fair.

And maybe that’s what it all boiled down to—fairness.

Maybe it wasn’t fair to Elain that his mind kept wandering back to Y/N, but there was something in the way they had connected. It had been real. It had felt like more than what he had with Elain, more than the gentle smiles and words he’d shared with her.

The more he thought about it, the more it became clear.

He wasn’t sure if it was because of how easy it had been to be around Y/N, or because of how guarded she was, but there had been something magnetic between them.

And that scared him. Scared him more than he cared to admit.

He shouldn’t even be thinking like this.

Lucien’s chest tightened as the thoughts swirled in his mind, making him feel like he was suffocating. Why had he thought there was something there between them? Why had he thought there was a connection?

The questions piled up. One after another, relentless, endless. He couldn’t find a way to quiet them.

His thoughts flickered back to Elain, and for a moment, guilt washed over him.

Why couldn’t he focus on her? Why couldn’t he just be satisfied with what he had?

But then, like a fresh wave, his thoughts returned to Y/N again.

Where was she now? What was she doing? Was she still in Velaris? Had she found somewhere else to go, somewhere safer? Was she still running from whatever had haunted her?

And, most importantly, why the hell did he keep thinking about her?

There was no answer, not really.

But one thing was clear—he couldn’t shake her.

No matter how many times he tried to bury it, no matter how many days he spent with Elain or how many nights he lost in conversation with her, his mind kept returning to Y/N. The girl with the cold exterior, the one who hadn’t wanted him in her life, but had made him feel like he belonged.

His chest tightened at the thought. He didn’t know what any of this meant, or what he was supposed to do with the feelings that twisted inside of him every time he thought of her.

But for the first time, he couldn’t deny the truth anymore.

Y/N had gotten under his skin, and he didn’t know how to stop it.

Lucien snapped out of his thoughts with a sharp flick to the head, the sudden jolt making him hiss and instinctively touch the spot where Jurian had struck him. "The hell was that for?" he growled, wincing at the mild sting.

Jurian raised an eyebrow, his arms crossed as he leaned back in his chair with a look that practically screamed, Are you kidding me? "You've been staring at your hands for the past five minutes," he remarked, voice dripping with sarcasm. "I figured I'd help bring you back to the land of the living."

Lucien gave an exaggerated sigh, slumping back further into his seat. He rubbed the sore spot on his head. "I can't hide it anymore," he admitted, his voice tinged with a mix of frustration and resignation. "I need help, J."

"One," Jurian began, his tone suddenly shifting to an almost exasperated, deadpan delivery. "How many times do I have to tell you to stop calling me that? It’s enough to make me lose my patience with you." He paused for a beat, clearly making fun of Lucien's sense of familiarity. "And two," he continued, leaning forward slightly with a smirk, "please, do tell. What has been gnawing at that pretty little head of yours? I’m dying to hear it."

Lucien inhaled deeply and leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping absently on the armrest. "You remember how you told me two months ago to visit Y/N’s shop?" he asked, his voice quieter now, careful not to give too much away.

Jurian nodded, raising an eyebrow. "Yeah, I remember. Thought it might work out for you, seeing as you were so... desperate for your little flower princess." His voice was thick with mockery, but Lucien wasn’t in the mood for it.

Lucien clenched his jaw for a moment, steeling himself. "Well, yeah. Her," he finally said, voice low and almost embarrassed. He could feel the weight of the words on his tongue. "I’ve been visiting her shop. And, at first, it was just to buy some gifts for Elain. You know, to finally get things to move forward with her. Things started... well, things started to feel like they were finally falling into place."

Jurian snorted, clearly waiting for the real meat of the story. "But?"

"But," Lucien continued, trying to steady his nerves, "it wasn’t just that. There was... her." He sighed, rubbing his face as if the words hurt to say. "It’s like there was this connection. Not with Elain—don’t get me wrong, I care about Elain—but with Y/N, it was different. I don’t know why, but it was easier to be around her. It was like... like I didn’t have to try so hard. And yes, she was cold, distant, but it was like she saw through me in a way no one else did. And now—now all these rumors are flying around."

Jurian's gaze turned calculating, but his voice was still light when he spoke. "Oh yes, Lord Theon’s ex-fiancée? I heard Lord Theon was in the middle of some important meeting when he got wind of the rumors. Apparently, he fainted right there in front of everyone."

Lucien’s eyes darkened as he leaned forward. "Yeah, that’s the one," he muttered, shaking his head. "But this... these rumors, J. I don’t know what to believe anymore. They’re talking about Y/N like she’s some sort of... monster. A traitor, even. I can’t... I won’t believe it until I see solid proof. Not from the mouths of gossips who can’t even get their stories straight." He leaned back, clenching his fists. "Her shop’s gone. She’s gone. I don’t know where she is, and it’s been driving me crazy. I’ve tried everything—asking around, checking everywhere... nothing. She’s just... gone."

Jurian watched him carefully, his expression turning more serious now. "And yet here you are, still obsessing over her," he noted, a flicker of amusement in his voice but something else, too. Something deeper. "Interesting."

Lucien ran a hand through his hair, looking down at his lap. "I don’t even know why I’m overthinking this," he admitted. "She’s no one to me. I barely know her. I haven’t even spoken to her for weeks, and yet here I am, losing sleep over her. I don’t know what I’d even say if I saw her again. But..." He trailed off, the weight of his unspoken words hanging between them.

Jurian let out an exaggerated sigh, shaking his head with an almost disdainful grin. "Oh, for the love of the Mother, Lucien," he muttered. "Always the same with you. Always caught up in your feelings for someone you think you can’t have." He crossed his arms and leaned forward, eyes narrowing slightly. "I’m starting to think you like torturing yourself."

Lucien froze, his gaze snapping up to meet Jurian’s. "What are you getting at?"

Jurian’s smirk faltered, and for a moment, his eyes turned dead serious. "Be ready by sunrise," he said, his voice clipped. "We’re going to find her."

Lucien’s heart skipped a beat. "What?!" he demanded, leaning forward in shock. "Are you serious? How do you know—"

Jurian stood abruptly, cutting him off. "For the Mother’s sake, Lucien. Just follow the damn orders."

Lucien’s chest tightened, the urgency in Jurian’s voice making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. "What orders? What are you talking about?"

"Don’t worry about it," Jurian snapped, his tone cold and commanding. "You’ll know soon enough. Just be ready."

Lucien stared at him for a moment, disbelief warring with his need to find answers. Find Y/N. But Jurian was already moving toward the door. Lucien stood up, unable to contain the wave of confusion and doubt that hit him. "J, wait—"

But Jurian’s voice was already fading as he disappeared into the hallway. "Sunrise, Vanserra. Sunrise."

And with that, the conversation was over.

Y/N was just closing up her shop, the scent of dried herbs and fresh lavender lingering in the air as the evening sun dipped low in the Summer Court. The street outside buzzed with the usual market hustle, but tonight felt different. There was a strange undercurrent she couldn’t shake. She brushed it off at first—perhaps it was just her nerves. But she was wrong.

As she placed the last jar of salve on the counter, a loud crash came from outside, followed by frantic shouts.

Y/N’s heart skipped. Without a second thought, she grabbed a small satchel, filled it with several healing vials, and tossed her cloak over her shoulders. Something told her she wouldn’t be returning here tonight.

The noise grew louder as she made her way toward the door. Her shop, a little haven of nature’s remedies, had been her peace, her sanctuary. But the world outside wasn’t so kind anymore. The scent of burning wood hit her as soon as she stepped outside. The cobblestones felt hot beneath her feet as she jogged toward the chaos.

When she turned the corner, she froze. A group of men, cloaked in dark robes, were holding down a merchant while another was ripping through his cart. They weren’t from around here—Y/N would have recognized them if they had been. Their movements were swift, practiced.

One of them saw her. The sharp, calculating look in his eyes made her blood run cold. He gestured to his comrades, and within moments, they were heading her way.

Y/N didn’t hesitate. Her fingers slid into the pouch at her waist, pulling out a small glass vial. The green liquid inside was her creation—a soothing balm for the mind, meant for clarity and focus, but it could also disorient anyone who wasn’t prepared for its effects. She uncorked it, letting a quick drop fall into the air between her and the oncoming attackers. The scent of mint, rosemary, and sage swirled around them, and within seconds, they stopped in their tracks, blinking in confusion.

She didn't wait for them to recover. She darted forward, using her agility to slip between them, knocking another vial out of her pouch. This one was for healing—applied in the right spot, it could make someone feel like they were reborn. She splashed it across the face of the closest attacker, watching as the flush of pain in his face faded, replaced by stunned relief. He staggered back, disoriented.

But there wasn’t time to waste.

“Who sent you?” she demanded, her voice cold, her heart racing.

The leader, now regaining his focus, scowled. “Does it matter?”

“Answer me,” Y/N pressed, her voice a low, dangerous hum. She kept one hand on another vial—this one a far more potent concoction meant to knock someone unconscious for hours. The threat in her tone was clear.

He seemed to hesitate for a moment. His eyes flickered to his men, who were recovering more quickly than she’d hoped. Then he finally spoke.

“We're just a few of many... but you're a lot more trouble than we anticipated, shopkeeper.” He gave a harsh laugh. “You'll be seeing more of us soon.”

Y/N didn’t wait to hear more. She turned, bolting through the alleyways of the Summer Court, her mind already calculating her next move. She couldn’t let them get away. She couldn’t let herself be dragged back into whatever mess this was—especially not after everything she had done to get away from it.

Her thoughts churned, a storm in her mind. Who were they? What do they want from me? But no matter what, she knew she couldn’t let them win. Not again. Not when she had worked so damn hard to build this new life, to carve out a little peace for herself.

The Summer Court was still bright and warm, the air still heavy with the scent of flowers, but Y/N could feel the storm building. Whatever game these people were playing, she wasn’t going to lose.

Lucien stood in the doorway of their shared quarters, staring at the crumpled parchment in his hands. He had been pacing for the past hour, the weight of his decision hanging over him. He had to leave, had to find her—find Y/N—but that didn’t mean he could just vanish without saying something to Elain.

His thoughts tangled, the words not coming easily. The last thing he wanted was to lie, but he also couldn’t tell her the truth. Not yet. Not until he had answers. Until he knew what the hell was really going on.

With a quiet sigh, he unrolled the parchment and began to write:

Elain,

I need to go with Jurian on a mission for a few days. Don’t worry, it’s nothing dangerous. I’ll be back soon, but I wanted to let you know. I’m leaving at sunrise and won’t be reachable for a while.

I’ll see you soon.

Lucien.

He set the quill down and stared at the letter, the words swimming in front of him. He wanted to say more, to apologize for his absence, to explain the chaos building inside him. But it wasn’t the time. He had a job to do, and for once, he wasn’t going to let his heart dictate his next move.

He folded the parchment carefully, sealing it with a wax stamp before using his magic to send it to her, hoping she would see it before he left. Then, with a deep breath, he turned on his heel, heading for the door.

The gnawing sense of urgency in his stomach had grown into a fierce hunger. The rumors about Y/N didn’t add up, and that only made it worse. Was she really the monster they were painting her to be? Or was it something more? Something deeper?

He wasn’t sure what he hoped to find—proof that she wasn’t the traitor, or maybe the confirmation that she was. The truth would hurt either way, but at least it would settle the chaos inside his mind.

The letter to Elain had been easy enough to write—too easy, almost. He couldn’t let her get involved in this. Not when the stakes were too high, not when he had no idea what was going to happen. He hated himself for keeping her in the dark, but there was no other choice.

His heart twisted in his chest, but he shoved the feeling aside as he pulled the door open to leave. He had no time for guilt. No time for second-guessing. He had a mission to complete.

Lucien walked down the hall with his footsteps steady but heavy, as if the weight of his own thoughts were trying to drag him back to his quarters. He caught sight of Jurian, leaning casually against the stone wall, arms crossed and looking annoyingly unbothered.

Jurian’s eyes flicked up when he heard Lucien approach, a smirk spreading across his face. "You ready to go, or are you going to stand there brooding all morning?"

Lucien’s lip curled, annoyance mixing with the raw energy that thrummed through his veins. "I’ve been up all night, and I’m still not sure if this is a good idea," he snapped, his voice clipped.

"Good idea? It’s a terrible idea," Jurian said, sounding almost cheerful. "But I figured you'd want to at least try to solve the mystery of the disappearing witch. Plus, you’ve been staring at your hands for a week now like they might hold the answers."

Lucien’s eyes narrowed, his fingers twitching at the mention of the damn hands. "Don’t start," he muttered, rubbing his face in frustration.

Jurian grinned wider, clearly enjoying the way he was getting under Lucien’s skin. "Oh, I’m just getting started, don’t worry." He pushed off the wall, stretching lazily.

"I’ve been searching everywhere. I’ve asked every damn person who might know, and it’s like she disappeared off the face of the Earth." His voice was tight with frustration, hands balling into fists at his sides. "I should’ve known better. Trusting the rumors, getting wrapped up in this... mess."

"You’re really going to blame yourself for this?" Jurian raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for self-flagellation, but this is just... sad, Lucien."

Lucien shot him a glare. "Not the time for jokes, Jurian."

The smile on Jurian’s face faltered for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly. "No, I guess not. You’re right," he said, his voice low. "We don’t know what’s going on with her. But we’re going to find out." His tone shifted again, becoming more serious. "It’s not like you have any other option at this point. You want this. You need this. And if it means going after someone you barely know, someone with half the city convinced she’s a monster, then you’ll do it, because you’ve already made up your mind."

Lucien’s chest tightened, the weight of Jurian’s words landing harder than expected. "I’m doing it because I need answers," he said, his voice steadier now. "Because this... it’s more than just rumors. It’s about what’s real. And if I have to track her down to find out the truth, then that’s what I’ll do." He paused, taking a slow breath. "But it’s not just about finding her. It’s about knowing who she really is. What she’s done, or... hasn’t done."

Jurian studied him for a long moment, eyes calculating. "We’ll find her. We’ll figure it out," he said with a nod, sounding more serious than before. "But if this goes south, Lucien... I want you to know, it’s not on me."

Lucien gave a dry laugh. "Of course it’s not on you. It never is." He clapped his hand to Jurian’s shoulder, trying to steady his nerves. "Let’s just get this over with. I can’t do this alone."

Jurian’s smirk returned, but there was something more behind it now—an edge. "Good. You’re finally admitting it."

Lucien shot him a look. "Don’t push it."

"Fine, fine," Jurian said, holding his hands up in mock surrender. "Let’s go find your best friend. But I’m warning you, if she turns out to be as bad as they say, I’m not sticking around for the emotional crisis that follows."

Lucien gritted his teeth, trying not to let the sarcasm get under his skin. "Just don’t slow me down, J. We have a long day ahead of us."

Jurian chuckled darkly, the sound echoing in the hallway. "After you, my brooding friend."

Lucien shot him one last look before heading toward the door, his heart pounding with every step. The mission was simple: Find Y/N. But the questions, the doubts, they lingered, gnawing at him, growing louder with every passing second.

And as he stepped out into the morning light, the only thing he was certain of was that nothing about this search would be simple.

It has to be Elain who sent those maniacs here.

Who else would it be? It makes sense. She had to be the one. All the signs point to her—quiet, calculating, the type to hold grudges until they fester. And why wouldn’t Elain go to such lengths? After everything that happened, it had to be her. She’d wanted to get rid of Y/N for so long, hadn’t she? She'd never let go of what happened. Of what Y/N took from her.

It’s so obvious, and yet... why would Elain care now?

She’s moved on, hasn’t she? Lucien’s at her side, everything she’s ever wanted right there in Velaris. The life she dreamed of. She has him, she has peace. She doesn’t need to keep trying to ruin everything Y/N has built, not now.

No. She was overthinking. This is just paranoia talking. What reason could she have for coming after me now? She reached her goal. She got her happy little ending, with the sunlight and the soft life, the happiness that should've been hers in the first place, that Y/N "took" away from her. That should be enough for her, shouldn’t it?

Y/N must be exaggerating.

But then, that little voice in the back of her mind—the one that’s been whispering to her for days—speaks louder, sharper, like the snap of a blade being drawn. Elain wouldn’t stop there. She never did. It’s not enough for her. It was never enough. She always had to be the one on top. And why should Y/N think she’s changed? Why should she think that her perfect, pristine world in Velaris is so flawless that she doesn’t feel the need to drag Y/N into the dirt one more time?

Elain sent them. Elain sent them.

Fury rises in her blood, hotter than anything she’s ever felt. It’s like a fire, wild and uncontrollable, consuming everything in its path. The bloodthirsty rage that’s been bubbling just under the surface for so long bursts free, flooding her mind with sharp, ugly images.

Let Elain think she’s won. Let her think she’s found peace in Velaris with her perfect life and her perfect love. She doesn’t know what Y/N’s been through, what she’s become. Elain has no idea what she’s turned into.

The moment Y/N steps closer to her house, the feeling intensifies. That familiar weight, that oppressive sense of ownership she has over everything here. It’s home. And the thought of someone daring to cross that boundary, to threaten what’s hers... It fills her with a need to destroy, to make them feel the pain she’s endured.

This ends now.

Y/N steps through the gate, the weight of her anger settling over her like a storm cloud, ready to break and wash away everything in its path. Her fists curl at her sides, knuckles white.

The world is a blur around her, but her focus is clear, sharp—so sharp it hurts. Elain thought she could do this, that she could manipulate and twist things from behind the scenes, that she could silence her.

Well, Elain’s about to learn that Y/N’s not something to be erased. She’s survived everything Elain could never understand.

Y/N feels the pulse of power in her veins, a power she’s learned to control, to shape with precision.

But at the same time, her mind is full of questions she can’t seem to shake, voices she can’t quiet.

Why would Elain care now? She has everything she wanted. She has Lucien. She has Velaris. She has... peace.

But the bloodthirsty part of Y/N screams, telling her the answer. Elain hasn’t changed. She’s still the same. She never stopped hating Y/N. She never stopped wanting her to pay for what she did.

And if Elain’s the one who brought this chaos to Y/N’s doorstep, if she’s the one who is responsible for all of this...

Y/N will make sure she regrets it.

The days stretched on, each one dragging heavier than the last. Lucien had expected a difficult journey, but what grated on him most wasn’t the exhaustion, the unrelenting pace, or even the unease curling in his gut. It was Jurian.

The bastard was too comfortable.

Even after days of walking through untamed wilderness, Jurian showed no signs of strain. He was always two steps ahead, moving with purpose, like a man who knew exactly where he was going. That, more than anything, was what made Lucien’s nerves prickle.

Because he didn’t.

Lucien had asked—several times—but every demand was met with the same infuriating response.

"You’ll see when we get there."

Or—

"Patience, Fox Boy."

Or, the worst of them all—

"You ask too many questions."

Lucien had never wanted to punch someone as much as he did right now.

The sun was dipping behind the treetops when Lucien tried again, this time without the usual exasperation in his voice.

"You owe me an explanation, Jurian."

Jurian didn’t even pause. "I owe you a lot of things, but an explanation isn’t one of them."

Lucien exhaled sharply, quickening his pace until they were walking side by side. "You’re leading me somewhere, but you refuse to say where. You’re dragging me across this entire damn territory on nothing but vague assurances and half-truths. And I’m supposed to just—what? Trust you?"

Jurian finally looked at him, eyes glinting with amusement. "That is how journeys usually work."

Lucien scowled. "Not when the guide is a lying bastard."

Jurian’s smirk widened. "Then maybe you should’ve stayed home."

Lucien’s temper flared, but he bit it back. He needed to stay sharp. Fighting Jurian wouldn’t get him answers—at least, not yet.

He settled for a different approach.

"What’s so damn important that you dragged me away in the middle of the night for this?" His voice was quieter now, more measured. "What aren’t you telling me?"

Jurian didn’t answer right away. He let the silence stretch between them, long enough that Lucien thought he wouldn’t answer at all. Then, with a casual shrug, he said—

"It’s about Elain."

Lucien’s stomach dropped.

His steps faltered for half a second before he forced himself to keep walking. "What about her?"

Jurian didn’t so much as glance at him. "Isn’t that what you’ve been wondering all this time?"

Lucien’s fingers curled into fists at his sides. "Don’t play games with me, Jurian."

Jurian let out a breath that was almost a laugh. "Then stop making it so easy."

Lucien swore under his breath. "What did you find out?"

"Not here," Jurian said easily, as if they were discussing the weather and not something that had haunted Lucien. "We need to keep moving."

Lucien let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Of course. Keep moving. Keep following you blindly, like a fool."

Jurian only smiled. "See? You do learn."

Lucien clenched his jaw so hard it ached.

He didn’t push further—not yet—but he felt it. That creeping, gnawing sense of dread curling around his ribs. Something was wrong.

And Jurian knew.

They traveled in silence for the next few hours, the tension between them thick enough to cut. The further they walked, the more Lucien noticed the shift in the land.

At first, it was subtle—just a feeling. The way the trees seemed to lean inward, their branches gnarled and twisted. The way the air grew still, heavier, like it had absorbed something dark long ago and never fully let go.

But by the time they reached the outskirts of the abandoned village, there was no ignoring it.

Lucien knew this place.

Not this village specifically, but places like it.

War-ravaged. Hollow. Ghosts of the past lingering in every shattered doorway and burned-out home.

The scent hit him first. Not fresh rot, but something old, lingering beneath the earth. The kind of decay that never fully faded, no matter how much time passed.

He stopped walking.

Jurian did too, his expression unreadable.

"What is this place?" Lucien asked, his voice quieter now, as if speaking too loudly would disturb whatever still lurked here.

Jurian scanned the ruins ahead. "One of the many casualties of the war."

Lucien didn’t need him to elaborate. He could see it—feel it.

The remnants of homes, long abandoned. Blackened, crumbling walls. A dried-up well in the center of the village square, its stones cracked from heat. Rusted weapons littered the ground, half-buried beneath dirt and dead leaves.

War.

"Hybern," he muttered under his breath, his throat tightening.

Jurian, for once, didn’t offer some sarcastic remark. "One of many villages that got caught in the crossfire," he said, voice quieter than usual. "People forget that it wasn’t just soldiers who died."

Lucien’s jaw tightened. "We’re going through it?"

Jurian nodded. "It’s the fastest way. Unless you want to add another three days to the trip?"

Lucien shook his head, already stepping forward. "Let’s get it over with."

He could hear it.

The echoes of screams. The clash of steel. The silence that followed when the battle ended and there was no one left to save.

Lucien didn’t argue.

They moved carefully, stepping over broken beams, past shattered doorways and collapsed roofs. The air was thick, suffocating. A graveyard without the graves. The silence here was wrong. No birds. No insects. Just the whisper of the wind through empty streets.

Lucien tried not to think about the people who had once lived here.

Tried not to wonder if they’d been innocent. If they’d fought. If they’d even had the chance.

Jurian, for once, didn’t make any snide remarks. He was watching. Not just the village, but the shadows between the ruins.

That’s when Lucien felt it.

A shift in the air.

A ripple through the silence, like something watching.

He stopped.

Jurian did, too.

"You feel that?" Lucien asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Jurian nodded once, hand moving toward his sword. "We’re not alone."

Lucien’s magic flared, crackling beneath his skin.

And then—

A shadow moved.

A flicker of something darting between the ruined houses. Too fast. Too smooth.

Lucien’s blood turned to ice.

"We need to go," Jurian said lowly, his voice calm, but firm.

Lucien didn’t argue.

They turned—

But the wraiths were already closing in.

The first wraith struck fast—a blur of darkness lunging from the shadows.

Lucien barely had time to react before his instincts took over. He dodged, twisting out of the way just as clawed fingers swiped at his throat. The air where he had stood shimmered, the wraith’s claws leaving behind a faint, sickly glow.

Poison?

"Shit," Jurian swore, unsheathing his sword in a single, fluid motion. "Run or fight?"

Lucien barely had time to answer. Another wraith rushed him, its form shifting between mist and flesh, solidifying only at the last second. He ducked, spinning on his heel as his dagger flashed in the dim light—slicing clean through the creature’s chest.

No blood.

No scream.

Just a horrible, hissing noise as the wraith reformed, its body pulling itself back together as if the wound had never been there.

Lucien’s pulse spiked.

"Fight," he gritted out. "And hurry."

There were more of them now.

Emerging from the ruins, peeling themselves from the shadows. Dozens.

Their eyes glowed—a color that wasn’t quite gold, not quite silver. Not alive. Not dead.

Jurian let out a short, humorless laugh. "Great."

And then they were on them.

Lucien fought like hell.

He moved with precision, dodging the wraiths' attacks as his blade flashed, slicing through their forms—only for them to reform again and again.

They were fast. Not solid for long enough to land a killing blow.

One lunged at his back—he twisted, barely avoiding its claws as another wraith swept toward his side.

Too many.

Then—

A blast of steel.

Jurian’s sword cleaved through the nearest wraith, cutting it clean in half. The creature dissipated, its shadowy form writhing before it melted into the ruins.

Lucien’s breath hitched.

Jurian grinned. "Gotta love blessed steel."

Lucien swore under his breath. "Could’ve told me that earlier."

"Where’s the fun in that?"

Lucien didn’t have time to respond before another wraith attacked.

Jurian’s blade swung—another kill—but the creatures weren’t stopping.

Lucien cursed. His magic flared, the heat of his power surging through his veins. He reached for it—grasped at it—fire burning at his fingertips.

The wraiths shrank back.

Lucien exhaled sharply. Fire. That’s what they feared.

Without hesitating, he unleashed it.

Flames erupted from his hands, roaring through the air, setting the ruins ablaze.

The wraiths shrieked.

They fled.

Dissolving into shadows, vanishing into the ruins.

And then—

Silence.

Lucien stood there, chest heaving, flames still flickering at his fingertips. The smell of burning lingered in the air.

Jurian let out a slow whistle. "Could’ve started with that."

Lucien shot him a glare. "I thought we were running."

Jurian smirked. "You wanted to fight."

Lucien rolled his eyes, shoving his dagger back into its sheath. "Next time, maybe warn me about the blessed steel before I nearly get my throat ripped out."

Jurian chuckled. "Noted."

Lucien glanced back at the ruins. The wraiths were gone, but that creeping unease still clung to the air.

He exhaled sharply. "Let’s get the hell out of here."

Jurian nodded. "Agreed."

And without another word, they moved on.

They didn’t stop until the sky bled red and gold, the last remnants of sunlight sinking below the horizon.

Lucien’s limbs ached, the wraith attack still burning in his muscles. They had covered miles since then, moving swiftly through the crumbling remains of another forgotten village. It had been abandoned long before the war with Hybern, yet the weight of destruction still lingered in the air.

Burned homes. Collapsed rooftops. Statues worn down by time and war.

A ghost town, untouched for years.

Lucien pulled his cloak tighter around him, his breath misting in the cold air. "Where the hell are we?"

Jurian didn’t glance back. "A place people don’t walk into unless they have a damn good reason."

Lucien scowled. "And what’s our reason?"

Jurian was quiet.

Too quiet.

Lucien’s irritation spiked. "Jurian."

Nothing.

"Jurian, I swear to the gods—"

Jurian sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "We needed a way through. This was the fastest route."

Bullshit.

Lucien stopped walking. "You keep saying we need to hurry, but you haven’t told me why."

Jurian paused, his back still turned. "Because if I told you, you’d think too much."

Lucien clenched his jaw. "And I’m not already thinking too much?"

Jurian finally turned. "Would you rather go back to Velaris? Back to the lie you’ve been living?"

Lucien’s blood ran cold.

His fingers twitched toward his dagger. "What the hell does that mean?"

Jurian didn’t answer. He just sighed, shaking his head. "We’re stopping here for the night. Keep your questions to yourself until morning."

Lucien barely resisted the urge to punch him.

But he let it go. For now.

The fire crackled between them, casting long shadows against the ruined walls.

Lucien sat with his back against the cold stone, arms crossed, eyes locked on Jurian. He still hadn’t gotten a straight answer.

And he was done waiting.

"You knew about the wraiths, didn’t you?"

Jurian didn’t look up from sharpening his sword. "Figured we could handle it."

Lucien let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "And the ruins? The fact that no one comes through here? That wasn’t a warning sign?"

Jurian finally met his gaze. "Do you trust me?"

Lucien’s stomach twisted.

Because he didn’t know.

He wanted to. Jurian had been the one person who hadn’t treated him like an afterthought, the one person who wasn’t waiting for him to fall in line with someone else’s plans.

But this—this secrecy,

Lucien leaned forward. "Tell me why we’re really here."

Jurian exhaled. "Because this place still holds remnants of the Cauldron’s power. And I need you to see something for yourself."

Lucien frowned. "The Cauldron was destroyed."

Jurian’s gaze was unreadable. "Was it?"

A chill ran down Lucien’s spine.

He had seen it shatter during the war. Seen the pieces scatter into nothing.

Hadn’t he?

Lucien’s fists clenched. "What aren’t you telling me?"

Jurian looked at him for a long moment, then simply said, "You’ll find out when we get there."

Lucien gritted his teeth. "That’s not good enough."

Jurian smirked. "It’s going to have to be."

Lucien swore under his breath.

He had a feeling that, whatever waited for him at the end of this road, it was going to change everything.

And he wasn’t sure he was ready for that.

The wind howled through the skeletal trees, rattling the bare branches like bones clacking together.

They had left the abandoned village behind at dawn, but the land only grew more hostile. The deeper they traveled, the colder it became. The quieter.

Too quiet.

Lucien had spent enough time in Prythian’s wild places to know when nature had gone still for a reason. And this place—the stretch of land leading to the Cauldron’s ruins—was wrong.

He glanced at Jurian, who was unnervingly calm. Like he expected this.

"How much farther?" Lucien asked, voice low.

Jurian didn’t answer immediately. He surveyed the forest ahead, gaze sharp, before murmuring, "A few more days. If we’re lucky."

Lucien scowled. "If we’re lucky?"

Jurian only kept walking.

Lucien followed, but the unease creeping up his spine didn’t leave him.

They set up camp in a clearing that night.

Lucien’s muscles ached. His exhaustion was bone-deep, but sleep wouldn’t come.

Because he could hear it.

Faint at first, like a whisper beneath the wind.

Something was out there.

Jurian was still awake, sitting by the fire, sharpening his blade. He didn’t react to the sound, didn’t even glance up.

Lucien narrowed his eyes. "You hear that?"

Jurian hummed. "Yep."

Lucien’s fingers twitched toward his dagger. "And you’re just—what? Ignoring it?"

Jurian finally looked at him, utterly unbothered. "No point worrying about something until it shows its teeth."

Lucien let out a sharp breath. "You’re insane."

Jurian grinned. "Probably."

Lucien rolled his eyes, but his grip tightened on his blade.

Because the whispering didn’t stop.

And whatever was out there... it was watching them.

It happened fast.

Too fast.

One second, the fire crackled peacefully. The next, shadows exploded from the trees.

Lucien barely had time to react before something slammed into him, sending him skidding across the dirt.

His head spun. He caught a glimpse of glowing eyes, of blackened flesh, before Jurian’s sword sliced through the air.

A shriek—a sound that shouldn’t exist—ripped through the night.

Lucien rolled to his feet, his blade drawn.

The creatures were wrong. Their shapes flickered, shifting unnaturally. They had too many limbs, too many eyes, their bodies twisting in ways that made Lucien’s stomach churn.

And they were fast.

He barely dodged the next attack, his instincts screaming. He slashed, his blade cutting through one of the creatures, but it didn’t bleed. It only shrieked, retreating into the darkness before another took its place.

"What the hell are these things?" Lucien growled.

Jurian’s expression was grim. "Remnants."

Lucien swore. "Remnants of what?"

"The Cauldron’s destruction left things behind," Jurian said, slicing through another. "Things that shouldn’t exist."

Lucien didn’t have time to process that.

Because one of the creatures lunged—

And this time, he wasn’t fast enough.

Pain exploded in his shoulder as claws raked through flesh. He staggered, his vision blurring.

Jurian swore. Then suddenly—

A flare of golden light.

Lucien barely registered it—barely registered the way the creatures shrieked and fled—before the world tilted and his knees hit the ground.

His vision swam.

The last thing he heard was Jurian muttering, "Well, that complicates things."

Then—darkness.

When Lucien woke, he wasn’t in the forest anymore.

The air was damp, thick with ancient power.

He groaned, forcing himself upright. His shoulder ached, but it had been bandaged.

Footsteps.

He turned his head just as Jurian entered. “Good. You’re awake.”

Lucien frowned. “Where are we?”

Jurian crouched by the fire, tossing him a waterskin. “We made it.”

Lucien’s stomach dropped.

He looked around, really taking in his surroundings. The cavernous walls. The stone pillars, cracked and covered in old runes. The lingering hum of magic, faint but unmistakable.

He knew this place.

Or at least, he thought he did.

Lucien’s mouth was dry when he said, “This is where the Cauldron was, isn’t it?”

Jurian’s expression was unreadable. “It still is.”

Lucien’s heart skipped a beat.

He shot to his feet, ignoring the throbbing pain in his shoulder. “That’s not possible. The Cauldron was destroyed.”

Jurian tilted his head. “Was it?”

Lucien’s breath hitched.

He felt it before he understood it—the low, thrumming pull of magic older than the world itself.

He stepped forward, the pulse growing stronger, rattling in his bones, in his very soul. His breath turned shallow, his heart hammering.

Something was wrong.

Something was breaking open.

And then—

The world snapped apart.

Pain ripped through him, tearing through flesh and bone, through his mind, his soul.

A vision struck—

Not a memory. A truth.

A vision of a golden afternoon.

A female stood before him—Y/N.

His heart lurched at the sight of her, at the sheer familiarity of her. His mate.

Not Elain.

Her.

Lucien saw it now—the moment it had happened. The moment the Cauldron had chosen her for him.

It had been gentle. A bond of warmth, of understanding. A bond that had existed before it had even been acknowledged, woven into the fabric of who they were.

Y/N’s eyes had widened, and Lucien had felt it too—that pull.

That undeniable, world-shattering pull of a true mate.

But then—

Then the vision twisted.

The Cauldron trembled.

It had been fractured, unstable from its own rebirth. It faltered.

Lucien watched in horror as its power surged, its mistake unraveling before him.

It was not meant to break bonds.

But it had.

The vision shifted—

To the King of Hybern.

To Elain.

To the final battle, the moment the Cauldron ripped him apart and rewrote fate itself.

Y/N's bond with him had been severed.

Destroyed.

And in its place—

The Cauldron had forced him onto another.

Elain.

A lie.

A mistake.

The Cauldron had realized too late what it had done, the wrongness of it, but its power had already been spent.

Lucien's soul had been torn in two, bound to a woman who was never meant to be his-while his true mate had been left behind. Forgotten.

She had believed he had rejected her.

Had abandoned her.

Had chosen another.

And he—

He had been living in a cage of fate's broken design.

Lucien gasped, the vision collapsing around him.

And as the truth settled into his bones, something within him shifted—

Something long dormant-long lost-

Snapped back into place.

His bond-his real bond-roared to life.

It hit him like a storm, like a fire that had never gone out, only buried beneath the ashes of deception.

And Y/N-

He could feel her.

Her breath.

Her heartbeat.

Her presence, far, far away-but there.

Alive.

Real.

His mate.

His true mate.

Lucien stumbled back, his chest heaving, his vision still spinning as the power of the Cauldron recoiled, leaving him standing in the aftermath.

His knees buckled, and he clawed for stability, gasping for air, for something to hold onto.

The world slowly pieced itself back together.

And when it did—

Lucien turned.

His gaze locked onto Jurian.

“You…” His voice shook, raw, disbelieving. “You knew this whole time.”

Jurian’s expression was entirely unrepentant. “Yep.”

Lucien’s hands curled into fists, his breath coming too fast, too sharp. “You knew this entire fucking time?”

Jurian grinned, leaning against a nearby pillar. “What can I say? Watching you torture yourself over the wrong female was the most entertainment I’ve had in centuries.”

Lucien growled, taking a step forward. “You—” His mind was racing, piecing it all together. “That’s why you suggested I go to her shop.”

Not a question.

A statement.

Jurian’s smirk widened. “Also guilty.”

Lucien’s stomach turned. “You planned this.”

Jurian tilted his head, smug as ever. “Maybe I just got tired of seeing you so blind and Y/N so stubbornly quiet about this whole charade. Decided to take things into my own hands.”

Lucien bristled, rage crackling through him. “And you didn’t think to tell me sooner?”

Jurian exhaled. “You forget—I was with the King of Hybern for a very long time. I know everything about the Cauldron. How it works. How it fucks people over.” His eyes gleamed. “And I knew you wouldn’t believe me if I’d told you outright.”

Lucien’s blood boiled.

His fists clenched.

And before he could stop himself—

He lunged.

He grabbed Jurian by the collar, slamming him into the nearest stone pillar.

“For a year,” Lucien snarled, his grip tightening, “a fucking year, you watched me tear myself apart for a female who wasn’t even mine—while you let my real mate believe I abandoned her?”

His teeth bared, his voice shaking with rage, betrayal, agony. “What in the Mother’s name is wrong with you?”

Jurian didn’t so much as flinch.

Didn’t even look surprised.

He just sighed. “Being a hero never really suited me.”

Lucien’s fury burned hotter.

Jurian clapped him on the shoulder—the audacity—and drawled, “Now, why don’t you let go of me so we can go get your true mate back?”

Lucien froze.

His grip loosened.

His chest heaved.

“You…” His voice wavered. “You know where she is?”

Jurian rolled his eyes. “Umm, yes? I know everything, you moron.”

Lucien’s stomach dropped.

Jurian smirked. “She’s in the Summer Court. Opened up a new little shop, actually. Real cute setup. You’d love it.”

Lucien didn’t wait to hear the rest.

He was already moving—pushing past Jurian, heart racing, mind spinning, body desperate to get to her.

To fix this.

To see her.

“I messed up,” he breathed, cursing himself, cursing everything.

Jurian followed lazily, shaking his head. “Yeah, no shit.”

Lucien's claws pressed into his palms.

Midway, Jurian reached for his shoulder in some semblance of camaraderie.

Lucien shoved him off. Growled. "We will talk about this. You have a lot to explain."

Jurian sighed, exasperated. "See, this is exactly why I was debating whether to tell you in the first place."

Lucien shot him a warning look, but he didn't stop.

Couldn't.

His mate was out there.

And he was done waiting.

The Summer Court had been kind to Y/N. More than she had ever expected.

The warm breeze brushed through her hair as she walked through the quiet, lamp-lit streets, the scent of salt and citrus filling the air. The Summer Court was nothing like Velaris—there was no suffocating weight of what had been stolen from her here. No reminders of what she had lost.

Her fingers curled around the small bag she carried, the last of the day’s earnings from the shop tucked safely inside.

She had built something here. A quiet life. A peaceful one.

The distant hum of the ocean waves was a familiar comfort as she hummed softly to herself, her steps light against the cobbled path. This life—it wasn’t the one she had imagined, not the one she had once dreamed of when she thought she had a mate. But it was hers.

Maybe she was never meant to have a mate.

And that was fine.

It had taken a long time—too long—but she was finally learning to accept it.

That didn’t mean she had forgotten. That didn’t mean she had forgiven.

One day, she would have her revenge. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, maybe not even a year from now. But one day, when they least expected it, she would make sure Elain Archeron paid for what she had done.

But for now, patience. Peace.

She exhaled softly, shaking off the thoughts as she reached her home. The small cottage was modest, but it was hers, a place untouched by the ghosts of the past. With a hum, she dug out her key and slid it into the lock, twisting it open—

And froze.

Her humming died on her lips. Her breath caught in her throat.

Jurian was leaning against her kitchen table, a plate of freshly baked pastries in hand, biting into one like he had every right to be here.

And Lucien—Lucien was standing near the window, looking as if his entire world had just been ripped apart.

Jurian was the first to speak, still chewing, still as smug as ever.

“Oh, Y/N, dearest. Sorry for not telling you about our arrival beforehand. Things just… got a little messy.” He gestured vaguely, swallowing another bite of her food. “But you really should be more logical with where you keep your keys. I mean, under a flowerpot? Really?” He sighed, as if truly disappointed in her lack of caution. “Anyway, I believe you need no introduction to this guy.” He jerked his head toward Lucien. “He desperately needs to talk to you. Also—” He licked his fingers. “Delicious pastries, as always. Your cooking skills never cease to amaze me.”

Silence.

Y/N stared. Lucien stared.

And then, at the exact same time—

“You know him?!”

Jurian only grinned.

Lucien’s head snapped toward her, eyes wide. “You know her?!”

Jurian, the absolute bastard, only took a sip from his glass before placing it down and answering with complete nonchalance. “Oh, yes. Lucien, see, Y/N and I have been friends for over a year now. Since the moment I knew about the whole Cauldron drama, I made sure to visit her shop and get to know her. And we’re now the closest of friends, aren’t we, Y/N?” His smirk was absolutely infuriating. “As for Lucien, well, that’s a long story, really, but let’s just say—”

Jurian never got to finish his sentence.

Because the moment the words closest of friends left his mouth, Y/N snatched the nearest thing within reach—her wooden fruit bowl—and hurled it straight at his head.

Jurian dodged, but not fast enough. The bowl smacked his shoulder, and a few apples tumbled onto the floor.

“Friends?!” Y/N seethed. “Friends?!” She turned her glare on him, fists clenched. “You barge into my home, with someone you know I can’t be around, eat my food, and now—now you admit to being my friend because of some—some Cauldron what?! And you were friends with him this whole time too?!” She pointed an accusing finger at Lucien, her voice rising with every word. “I cannot believe you, Jurian. I really can’t. Friends aren’t like this!”

Lucien took a hesitant step forward. “Y/N—”

“Shut up!” she and Jurian snapped at the same time.

Lucien’s mouth shut instantly, his jaw tightening.

Y/N took a deep breath, nostrils flaring. She jabbed a finger toward the hallway. “Go into the other room. Now.”

Lucien’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t argue. He turned and left without another word.

Jurian sighed dramatically, rubbing his temple. “You know, I really don’t get enough credit for all the effort I put into making people’s lives better.”

Y/N shot him a look that could have burned him alive. “What. The fuck. Did you do.”

Jurian raised his hands in mock innocence. “I fixed things.”

“You fixed things?” she echoed, voice dangerously low.

Jurian smirked. “Alright, fine. I didn’t. The Cauldron did. I just… helped speed things along.”

Her nails dug into her palms. “You better start talking. Now.”

Jurian only sighed, shaking his head. “You never did have any patience.”

Y/N reached for another throwable object.

Jurian immediately lifted his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright! Calm down, will you?” He glanced toward the hallway. “Just—just listen to him. Really listen. And then, then, you can kill me later. Deal?”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “I make no promises.”

Jurian grinned. “That’s my girl.”

Y/N huffed, turning on her heel before she could strangle him, pacing toward the hallway. Behind her, she heard Jurian call out, “Lucien! You’re up!”

Her hands clenched. Her heart pounded.

And as she turned to face Lucien once more, she steeled herself for whatever was about to come next.

The moment Y/N stepped back into the room, she regretted it.

Lucien stood near the window, but his usual sharpness, his composed demeanor, was gone. His broad shoulders slumped forward, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. And then—her gaze finally took in the bandages wrapped around his shoulder blade, the stark white fabric stained with hints of red.

She hesitated. Swallowed hard. “What the hell happened?”

Lucien stiffened, like he hadn’t expected her to speak first. “It’s nothing.”

She narrowed her eyes but didn’t push. Not yet.

Instead, she moved further inside, closing the door behind her with a quiet click. Silence wrapped around them, thick and suffocating. It was unbearable—too many things left unsaid, too much anger simmering beneath her skin.

And then Lucien let out a long breath, sinking into one of the chairs, pressing his hands into his face, fingers dragging through his unkempt hair. He looked—defeated. Like the weight of the world had finally broken him.

Y/N crossed her arms. “What is going on?” she demanded. “Why are you two in my house? What the hell is happening?”

Lucien inhaled sharply, like he was bracing himself. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse. “I’m so sorry.”

The words hit her like a whip.

She blinked. “What?”

His head lifted, and those amber eyes-so raw, so open in a way she had never seen before— locked onto hers. "I am so sorry for not knowing sooner."

She frowned, her heart beating just a little faster, even as confusion twisted through her. "Lucien, speak properly."

He exhaled. And then, barely above a whisper, he said it.

"You're my true mate."

Everything in her froze.

Her lungs forgot how to breathe, her body forgot how to move. It was like the world tilted beneath her feet, and she barely managed to remain standing.

The words repeated in her head over and over again, and yet she couldn't process them.

Couldn't believe them.

And then-a cold, bitter laugh escaped her lips.

Lucien's brows furrowed. "Y/N-"

"So she was right." Her voice dripped with ice.

Lucien looked at her as though she had lost her mind. "Who-"

"Elain," she spat. "She really did tell you, didn't she? That you were my true mate?"

Lucien's eyes widened, shaking his head. "No-"

But she cut him off, her voice rising. "No what?

No, you didn't believe her? No, you weren't disgusted by me like everyone else? Because that's exactly what she said. She told me that you knew. That you knew about the rumors. That you knew I was your mate and that you didn't care because you were repulsed by the idea of being tied to someone like me."

Lucien went still. A deadly, terrifying stillness.

"What did you just say?"

Y/N let out another cold laugh, but it didn't feel like laughter at all. "Don't act so shocked."

His voice darkened. "When did she come to your shop?"

She scoffed. "Two days before I left."

Lucien's entire body tensed. "She threatened you?" His voice was eerily calm, too calm, but there was an underlying rage in his tone that sent chills down her spine.

"She told me to leave," Y/N snapped. "Told me I didn't belong. That you were hers and that I needed to disappear. And guess what, Lucien?

Even here, I still can't escape her. Even here, she has eyes watching me. People attacked me because of her. Because of you."

Lucien shot to his feet so quickly the chair nearly toppled over. "What?"

YIN smirked cruelly. "Even here, I get no peace.

Even here, I am hunted because of the female you chose.”

Lucien's breathing was ragged now, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. His jaw was tight, his golden eye burning with fury.

Then, in a raw, unsteady voice, he whispered, "I swear, I had no idea."

Y/N just stared at him.

"If I had known," Lucien continued, voice cracking, "I would have—fuck." He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling harshly. "I never felt the bond before. The Cauldron chose Elain. And I thought-" His throat bobbed. "I thought that was it."

Y/N's lips parted, a sliver of something other than anger creeping into her. "You-" She hesitated. "You didn't reject the bond?"

Lucien looked at her like she had gone insane.

"Reject it?" His laugh was humorless. "I never even knew it existed."

She blinked, trying to process his words.

"For a year," he went on, shaking his head, "I tried to make someone who isn't mine love me back. And this whole time—" He exhaled roughly. "It wasn't even her."

Y/N's stomach twisted. "What do you mean?"

Lucien's gaze softened, an aching kind of sadness filling his features. "It was the Cauldron that bound me to Elain." His voice was barely a whisper now. "I had no idea you were my true mate."

Y/N couldn't speak. Couldn't think.

Lucien took a step closer, as if drawn to her. "If I had known..." He trailed off, his throat working, his voice breaking. "If I had known, I would have-"

He didn't finish the sentence.

He didn't need to.

Because in that moment, Y/N finally understood.

For so long, she had carried this pain alone. Had believed herself abandoned, discarded by the one who was supposed to be hers. But Lucien... he hadn't known. He never knew.

And now?

Now, he did.

And it changed everything.

he tension in the room lingered even after their argument had settled into an uneasy silence. Y/N sat stiffly, arms crossed, glaring at Lucien, who still looked shaken. Jurian, leaning back against the worn-out chair, exhaled heavily before breaking the silence.

“I knew,” he said simply, voice quiet but certain. “From the moment Hybern found the Cauldron.”

Lucien’s head snapped up, his amber eyes narrowing. Y/N’s stomach twisted. “What?” she demanded.

Jurian nodded. “The moment I saw what the King was doing with the Cauldron—saw the way it was twisting fate—I knew something was wrong. I saw the bonds forming, the way the Cauldron was interfering with them. That’s when I knew.”

Y/N frowned, still processing. Lucien’s jaw tightened. “You knew about me and Y/N?”

“Yes,” Jurian admitted. “And I knew when the Cauldron forced the bond between you and Elain that it wasn’t real.”

Lucien sat back, looking dazed. Y/N gritted her teeth. “And yet you didn’t tell him.”

Jurian turned to her, gaze sharp. “Would he have believed me?”

Silence.

Jurian sighed. “That’s why I started searching for you, Y/N. I knew you were out there, and I knew you’d have the truth he needed to hear. I couldn’t just go to him with claims—I needed him to see for himself.”

Y/N clenched her fists. “For a hundred years, I felt the bond. I carried that knowledge alone, knowing my mate didn’t even know I existed. And then one day, the bond just… snapped.” Her throat tightened. “I thought you had broken it, Lucien. That you had known about me and rejected me.”

Lucien flinched. “I didn’t knowingly break it. I—I had no idea.”

“Right,” she scoffed, but there was exhaustion in her voice now.

Lucien dragged a hand through his hair. “I thought Elain was my mate. I never even considered the possibility of another. I never felt the bond before, not until the Cauldron forced one on me.” He looked at her then, eyes desperate. “I would never have ignored you if I had known.”

Silence stretched between them again, filled only by the weight of the truth settling over them.

But then Lucien suddenly stiffened, his mind catching on something. “Wait,” he muttered, looking at her sharply. “You said Elain hasn’t left you alone. That she has spies watching you—even here.”

Y/N exhaled sharply. “Yes. A few days ago, I had a run-in with some of them. They said things—things only Elain could have known. It was clearly a message from her.”

Jurian sat up straighter. “How did they look?”

Y/N frowned. “I don’t know. They wore dark cloaks. Concealed their faces.”

Jurian swore under his breath. “That’s not Elain.”

Y/N scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Right. And I should believe you?”

Jurian leaned forward, voice low and serious. “Trust me.” The weight of his tone made both of them pause, their gazes locking onto him. “Those weren’t Elain’s spies. They were something worse. Sages of the Cauldron.”

Y/N froze. “What?”

Lucien’s brows furrowed. “Sages?”

Jurian nodded. “They’re a faction that still worships the Cauldron. They protect what’s left of its power, and they sense when something unnatural happens. If they’ve been watching you, it’s because they felt something shift.” His eyes darkened. “Like a broken bond that wasn’t supposed to break.”

Y/N’s stomach twisted.

Lucien straightened, eyes burning with new intensity. “Then they’re a threat.”

Jurian shrugged. “More than that. They might try to interfere if they think the bond is being restored.”

Y/N swallowed hard. “So… what now?”

Lucien turned to her, his face unreadable. “I can still feel the bond. You can’t.”

She nodded.

His jaw tightened. “How do I restore it?”

Jurian exhaled through his nose. “You have to sever the Cauldron’s bond first. You have to break your tie to Elain completely.”

Silence fell again as both Y/N and Lucien absorbed that truth.

Lucien looked away, expression unreadable. Y/N sat rigidly, mind reeling.

So that was the answer. The reason she couldn’t feel it anymore. The Cauldron’s interference had severed her side of the bond. And the only way to fix it—

She let out a shaky breath.

Lucien was staring at the floor, his expression unreadable. But when he finally spoke, his voice was certain. “You’re right.”

Jurian stood suddenly, clapping his hands. “Then get up, both of you.”

Y/N and Lucien blinked at him.

Jurian smirked. “We’re going to Velaris.”

“No way in hell am I going back to that place ever again.”

YN’s voice rang through the room, sharp and unwavering.

Jurian sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “Come on, YN—”

“Are you crazy?” she snapped, pacing furiously. “Do you even know what happened there? The rumors they spread about me? The lies? Elain practically controls everything over there. Her sister is the High Lady, her other sister is a Valkyrie. Do you think they’ll ever believe me? That they’ll ever like me?” She let out a bitter laugh. “They think I’m a traitor. That I betrayed them. That I was loyal to Hybern. And you—” she whirled on him, her anger burning through the room. “What is wrong with you, thinking I should just waltz back in there like none of that ever happened?”

Jurian’s jaw tightened, his patience wearing thin. “YN, I know what I’m doing—”

“Oh, do you?” she cut him off. “Because it seems like you’re just throwing me to the wolves.”

Jurian’s nostrils flared, his fists clenching at his sides. “You think I’d put you in danger? That I’d lead you somewhere you’d be torn apart without reason?” His voice was low, controlled, but there was frustration brimming beneath it. “I didn’t spend a whole year watching all this unfold just to push you into a losing battle.”

YN opened her mouth to snap back, but before she could, a voice—low, steady—cut through the tension.

“Enough.”

She froze, turning to see Lucien step forward. Jurian took a step back as Lucien came closer, his gaze fixed entirely on her. His golden eye flickered, his russet one locked onto hers with an intensity that made her breath hitch.

Then—so, so gently—he reached out, his fingers barely grazing her cheek. A featherlight touch, as if he feared she would flinch away, as if she were something delicate, breakable.

“Please,” he whispered, his voice raw with something she couldn’t quite name. “I want to feel our bond again. I want to be mated with you. I want you to feel the same. I want us to have what we were always meant to.” He swallowed, his fingers lingering against her skin. “Do you want that with me?”

YN’s chest ached. She had spent a century convincing herself that this bond, this mate, was nothing but a cruel joke played by the Cauldron. That Lucien had known and broken it on purpose. That he had chosen Elain over her.

But here he was—standing in front of her, asking her if she wanted this. If she wanted him.

Her thoughts swirled, chaotic and tangled. The years of resentment, the pain of watching him from afar, of knowing and then suddenly not knowing—the bond ripped from her as if it had never existed.

And yet…

“Yes,” she whispered.

Lucien exhaled, his fingers twitching against her cheek, but she wasn’t finished.

“But,” she continued, her voice steadier now, “it’s not something that can be fixed overnight. It will take time. There’s too much history, too much—”

“I know,” Lucien murmured, his eyes searching hers. “But we can work through it. We will work through it. If we both give it a chance.” His thumb brushed along her jaw, just once, before he pulled back slightly. “I already know my answer, YN. I just needed to know yours.”

She met his gaze, her heart pounding in her chest, and with a slow exhale, she gave him what he was asking for.

“Yes,” she said again, firmer this time.

Lucien’s lips parted, something flickering in his expression—something warm, something relieved.

“Then we need to face them,” he said softly. “We need to prove to them that we’re in the right. That you were never the villain they made you out to be.”

YN’s throat tightened. “But—”

“There are no buts,” Lucien interrupted, his voice gentle but firm. “If we want them to see the truth, then we can’t keep hiding. We can’t keep letting Elain’s version of events shape the world’s perception of you.” His russet eye darkened. “And if anyone knows more about these bonds—about what the Cauldron did—it’s Rhysand. You may not trust him, but he’s the only one who might have real answers.”

YN hesitated, her fingers curling into fists at her sides.

From the corner of the room, Jurian was watching them with a smirk, arms crossed as if he had known this exact moment would happen.

She scowled at him, then let out a long breath before shifting her gaze back to Lucien.

“Fine,” she muttered. “But if anything goes wrong—if anything—” she jabbed a finger at Lucien’s chest, “you’re winnowing us out of there immediately.”

Lucien’s lips twitched. “You have my word, ma’am.”

Jurian clapped his hands together. “Perfect. Now, let’s go break some illusions.”

The moment Lucien winnowed them into the townhouse, Y/N barely had time to catch her breath before the scent of roasted meat and spiced wine hit her. The flickering glow of candles on the dining table illuminated the shocked faces of Feyre, Rhysand, and Elain—mid-dinner, forks frozen halfway to their mouths.

The silence lasted all of two heartbeats.

Then—

“What the hell?” Rhysand was on his feet in an instant, shadows curling around him as his violet eyes locked onto Y/N with a feral snarl.

Feyre shot up as well, stepping protectively in front of Elain. “What are you doing here?” she demanded, her gaze cutting to Lucien, to Jurian, and then back to Y/N.

Elain’s expression had brightened the second she saw Lucien, her brown eyes lighting up in relief, in happiness—Lu, you’re back— but then she saw Y/N.

The warmth drained from her face like a candle snuffed out. Her lips parted in surprise before curling into something sharp, something cold. “What is she doing here?”

Y/N clenched her fists.

“That’s what I’d like to know,” Rhysand bit out, his power rippling through the room, the air thick with warning. His voice dipped into a growl. “Traitor's have no place in this city.”

Feyre’s hands clenched at her sides. “You betrayed us. You sided with Hybern—”

“I did not side with Hybern!” Y/N snapped, the words flying out before she could stop them.

“You expect us to believe that?” Elain’s voice was quiet, but full of venom. She lifted her chin. “After everything you did? The lies you told, the way you—”

“Don’t you dare,” Lucien cut in, his voice low, furious.

Elain blinked at him in shock. “Lucien, you—”

“I what?” Lucien stepped in front of Y/N, shielding her as he glared at Elain. “You think I’d just stand by and let you rewrite history?”

Elain’s face twisted, her usual soft demeanor fracturing into something hard. “You’re really choosing her over me?”

“Choosing truth over lies,” Lucien corrected, his russet eye burning with anger.

Y/N’s breath hitched. The sheer force of his protectiveness—his rage—made her head spin.

Elain flinched, but quickly masked it. “I don’t know what she’s told you—”

“Enough,” Jurian interrupted, stepping forward with a sigh, arms crossed. “Gods, you fae love the sound of your own voices.”

Rhysand snapped his gaze toward him, his power crackling in the air. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Jurian drawled. “Would you all just shut up for a moment?”

A tense silence settled over the room.

Rhysand’s expression darkened dangerously. “You think you can waltz into my home and speak like that—”

“Yes, actually,” Jurian cut in, entirely unfazed. “Since you all are so convinced of your own version of events, I thought it might be nice if, for once, someone told the truth in this godsdamned city.”

Feyre scoffed. “And you expect us to believe you?”

Jurian only smirked. “Oh, you will. Because this time, I have proof.”

Feyre hesitated. Rhysand’s brows furrowed slightly, as if considering whether it was worth listening at all. But Elain—Elain was already shaking her head, eyes wide with feigned innocence.

“This is ridiculous,” she said, voice trembling just enough to sound believable. “I never spread rumors about her. I never—”

“Cut the act, Elain,” Lucien snapped.

Elain flinched again, real hurt flashing across her face, but Lucien was unrelenting. “You knew exactly what you were doing,” he said, voice steady. “You wanted me to believe she was a traitor. You wanted all of them to believe it. And you succeeded, didn’t you?”

Elain’s lip trembled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about—”

“Are you sure?” Jurian said, tilting his head. “Because I have some very interesting letters in my possession. Letters sent from a certain Archeron sister to certain key figures in Velaris.” He pulled a stack of parchment from his coat and held them up lazily. “Want to guess what they say?”

Feyre’s expression wavered, her gaze flickering to Elain. “What… letters?”

Elain paled. “I don’t know what those are.”

“Don’t you?” Jurian’s smirk widened. “Shall I read them aloud? Or do you want to admit it now, before I air all your dirty secrets in front of your precious family?”

Silence.

Elain’s hands clenched at her sides. Her chest rose and fell in uneven breaths.

Then—Feyre turned to her, something cold creeping into her stare. “Elain…?”

Elain swallowed. “I—”

“You actually did this?” Feyre’s voice was barely above a whisper, but it cut through the air like a blade.

Elain’s composure finally cracked. “I—” She let out a breath, her hands shaking. “I had to! You don’t understand—”

“You had to?” Lucien’s voice was like ice. “You ruined her for what? So you could paint yourself as the innocent one?”

“I—” Elain’s voice hitched, and then, as if on instinct, she turned to Feyre. “Feyre, you believe me, don’t you?” Her eyes welled with tears, her lower lip trembling. “You know I would never—”

Feyre took a slow step back. “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

Silence pressed down on them all. Y/N barely felt like she could breathe, her chest tightening.

Then—

Rhysand exhaled sharply through his nose, his gaze like steel as he finally spoke.

“Into my office. Now.”

His voice was an order, absolute and final, his eyes cutting to Lucien, Jurian, and Y/N.

Lucien straightened, his face unreadable. Jurian gave a mocking little bow, a smirk still playing on his lips.

As for Y/N—she couldn’t stop herself from glancing back at Elain, who had slumped into a chair, face buried in her hands. Feyre stood over her, expression torn.

But before Y/N could process any of it, Lucien’s warm hand pressed against her back, guiding her forward.

They had won the first battle.

But the war had only just begun.

Rhysand leaned against his massive oak desk, arms crossed, violet eyes sharp with scrutiny as they landed on Y/N.

“Y/N.” The single syllable carried the weight of a century’s worth of accusations.

Y/N sighed. The room felt suffocating, and for a brief moment, she considered staying silent. But then—Lucien shifted slightly in front of her, his stance subtly protective, as if to remind Rhysand that no amount of power or authority would allow him to intimidate her now.

That small action settled something inside her.

So she met Rhys’s gaze head-on and spoke.

Rhysand’s Office – Truth Unraveled

Rhysand leaned against his massive oak desk, arms crossed, violet eyes sharp with scrutiny as they landed on YN.

“Y/N.” The single syllable carried the weight of a century’s worth of accusations.

That small action settled something inside her.

So she met Rhys’s gaze head-on and spoke.

“I knew about my mating bond with Lucien for a hundred years,” she said evenly. “I felt it snap into place the first moment I saw him. I felt it every day after that, the pull, the warmth, the… inevitability of it.” She inhaled sharply. “And then, one year ago, it broke.”

Rhysand didn’t react immediately, but his eyes darkened, assessing.

“I felt it break,” Y/N continued, her voice gaining strength. “One moment, it was there—the next, it was gone. At first, I thought it was something Lucien did. That he had chosen to reject it. The pain of that, of thinking he had knowingly severed what was between us…” Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. “It nearly destroyed me.”

Lucien shifted closer, as if the memory of her pain was enough to stir his own anger all over again. “I never broke our bond,” he said, his voice tight, restrained. “I never would have.”

Rhysand studied him. “Then how do you explain—”

“I explain it like this.” Jurian cut in, dropping a thick stack of aged papers onto Rhys’s desk with a smug grin. “The Cauldron did a shit job with the whole mating business.”

Rhys arched a brow, unimpressed. “You’re expecting me to believe the Cauldron—one of the most powerful forces in existence—messed up?”

“I’m expecting you to read before you make an ass of yourself,” Jurian shot back. “But then again, making an ass of yourself seems to be your specialty.”

Rhys’s jaw ticked, but he ignored him—for now. He flicked a hand, and the papers lifted into the air, pages flipping on their own. His eyes scanned the documents, and for the first time since they arrived, a flicker of uncertainty passed over his face.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never questioned it,” Jurian went on. “Lucien is mated to Elain—a female who can barely stand to be in the same room as him? And you? Your mating bond appeared at the exact moment Feyre needed you most?” He gestured lazily to Y/N and Lucien. “But these two? They felt the bond for a century, only for it to be ripped away the second Elain entered the picture?”

Rhysand said nothing, but the way his brows furrowed slightly told Y/N that he was at least considering the possibility.

“The Cauldron doesn’t make mistakes,” Rhys finally murmured, but there was doubt in his tone now.

Jurian snorted. “The Cauldron also created Hybern, Koschei, and—oh, I don’t know—every cursed thing to ever walk this world. I wouldn’t exactly call it flawless.”

Rhys exhaled slowly, setting the papers down. “This is… a long argument.”

“No shit,” Jurian quipped.

Rhys shot him a dry look before turning back to Y/N. “And you?” His voice was quieter now. “You believe all of this?”

Y/N lifted her chin. “I believe that what I felt was real. That what Lucien and I still feel is real.” She hesitated. “And I believe that Elain—your Elain—ruined my life. She threatened me in my own shop. Pretended to be a friend, only to turn out to be a foe."

A heavy silence fell over the room.

Rhysand took his time processing. Then, slowly, he straightened, stepping toward them—

Only for Lucien to subtly shift again, his body angled just enough to block any further approach.

Rhys paused. A flicker of something—maybe amusement, maybe understanding—crossed his face before he exhaled sharply. “Look,” he said, running a hand through his hair, “I apologize, Y/N.”

Her breath caught.

“But Elain is my family, too,” he continued, his voice measured. “And when I was faced with choosing between believing her—the soft, kind sister—and you, the one who had already been painted as a traitor, what choice did I have?” His gaze was piercing, like he was daring her to challenge him. “Rumour or not, as a High Lord, I take the safety of my people seriously. When I was told you were a traitor—”

“Oh, please,” Jurian groaned, rolling his eyes. “Spare us the ‘noble High Lord’ speech. You believed her because it was easy to believe her. And because you’re an arrogant prick.”

Rhys’s lips curled into a slow, predatory smirk. “No wonder after all these years, I still hate you, you insufferable sea urchin.”

Jurian placed a hand over his heart. “And yet, you still haven’t drowned me. Must be love.”

Y/N almost laughed. Almost.

Instead, she turned back to Rhysand, who was watching her again. “If you wish to say anything to Elain,” he said carefully, “you can. But I give you my word, we will deal with her.”

Y/N hesitated.

Then, she shook her head. “No.” Her voice was quiet. “Just tell her… that I pity her. And that I hope, someday, she finds peace.”

Lucien stiffened beside her, and even Rhys’s expression faltered for a moment.

Finally, the High Lord nodded. “Very well.” He crossed his arms again. “Now, let’s discuss what happens next.”

Y/N’s spine locked.

“You will be compensated,” Rhys continued. “And you are welcome in Velaris again. If you and Lucien wish to restore your bond—”

Lucien didn’t move.

Rhys sighed, rubbing his temples. “Fine. Compensation, freedom, all of that—done. But I assume you’ll need time to adjust?”

Y/N studied him. Then, slowly, she said, “I’ll decide on that myself.”

Rhysand smirked. “Fair enough.”

Lucien still didn’t relax, but Y/N found herself… lighter. Not at peace, not entirely. But lighter.

And for now, that was enough.

A year later, Y/N never thought this would be the life she was living now.

For a hundred years, she had carried the ache of an unfulfilled bond, the pain of watching her mate exist in another court, seemingly unknowing of her. And for one year, she had lived with the grief of thinking that bond had been shattered forever.

But now?

Now, she woke up each morning with the weight of Lucien’s arm wrapped around her waist, his breath warm against her skin, his presence as solid and certain as the rising sun. Now, the world was bright—vivid—colors she had forgotten seemed to have seeped back into her life, as if the bond’s return had repainted everything she saw.

It hadn’t been an easy road. Rhysand had helped them restore the bond—not out of guilt (though there was plenty of that) but because, deep down, he knew he had made a mistake. They had traveled across courts, met with creatures even Amren would hesitate to cross. The process had been slow, painstaking, but with every step, with every new piece they uncovered, something between her and Lucien clicked back into place.

And then—one day—it simply snapped back.

The moment it did, she had felt it, as if the universe had taken a deep breath and exhaled in relief. And when she looked into Lucien’s eyes—his real, warm, knowing eyes—she saw everything she had ever wanted staring right back at her.

At first, they took things slow.

Lucien came with her to the Summer Court, choosing to leave behind the baggage of his past and start anew beside her. They rebuilt their lives, not as broken pieces forced back together, but as two fae learning each other all over again—this time, without the weight of uncertainty, without the ghosts of what-if's haunting them.

Jurian, of course, refused to let them be too happy without his interference. He bought a home nearby just to be annoying, dropping in at the worst possible times.

Y/N had taken the compensation Rhysand offered—not as a favor, but as what was owed—and built something of her own. She had a place now, a home she had made with Lucien, a life that felt like it was hers again.

Their bond grew stronger with every passing day, deepening with shared experiences, whispered conversations under the stars, stolen kisses in the sunlit waters of Summer.

And when they finally gave in—fully, completely—when they stopped holding back…

The mating frenzy was ruthless.

YN chuckled just thinking about those months—months where they couldn’t be apart for longer than a minute, where just being in separate rooms felt wrong. Months where Jurian had been kicked out of their home more times than she could count, storming off with a string of curses because for the love of the gods, could you two just keep your hands off each other for one damn second?

(No, they could not.)

Lucien had proven to be as romantic as he was insatiable.

He left notes for her everywhere, tucked between bookshelves, slipped beneath her pillow, hidden in the folds of her clothes. Some were sweet—I love you more than words can say. Others were mischievous—I’d rather be tangled up with you in bed than doing whatever the hell I’m doing right now.

He woke her with kisses, pressed flowers into her palms for no reason other than to see her smile, whispered mine against her skin like it was a prayer.

He danced with her in the moonlight, slow and unhurried, even when there was no music. He traced the lines of her hands, the curve of her cheek, as if memorizing every inch of her, as if he still couldn’t believe she was real.

And when she woke up from old nightmares, from memories of pain and betrayal, he was always there—his hands steady, his voice soothing, his love unwavering.

As for Elain…

She got what she deserved.

Rhysand and Feyre had not taken kindly to the deception, to the lies that had unraveled their court’s foundation. It hadn’t been a harsh punishment—not exile, not death. But Elain had been stripped of the privileges she had grown accustomed to, forced to reckon with the consequences of her actions.

Even Nesta, cold and sharp as she was, had sent Y/N an apology. A simple letter. No excuses, no justifications—just acknowledgment of the wrongs done to her.

But none of that mattered anymore.

Because YN was here. Living.

A warm hand curled around her wrist, pulling her from her thoughts.

Lucien’s molten gaze met hers, a soft smirk playing on his lips. “You’re thinking too much again.”

She huffed a laugh. “And you’re distracting me again.”

His fingers traced slow circles against her skin. “That’s my job, isn’t it?”

She rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered as he pulled her against him, his arms caging her in, his warmth seeping into her.

And as he kissed her, slow and deep, she thought—

This.

This is what it was always meant to be.

“You are my sun, my moon, and all my stars.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Taglist: @forever-paramore28 @jaybbygrl @xxemmarldxx @theravenphoenix26 @moonlwghts @circe143 @rcarbo1 @onebadassunicorn @casey1-2007 @bambistuffsblog

#acotar #acotar x reader #fanfics #acotar imagine #acotar angst #acotar fluff #lucien acotar #lucien angst #lucien fluff #lucien x reader

456 notes · View notes

syoddeye · 3 months ago

Text

cygnet, plucked | price x reader | part three, final part two cw: dubcon, noncon, forced marriage, stockholm syndrome (kind of), endearments, vague/implied first time, grief, guilt, mild body horror, pregnancy mention a/n: many thanks again to the anon who originally suggested this. part one | part two | masterlist 🦢

The lake is choppy the day John marries you, its surface churned by a coming storm.

Cold water laps at your ankles, bare feet numb in the shallows. The hem of your dress drinks deep from the surface. Soaking up what memories it can before you're further bound to man.

John says marriage is sacred, unbreakable. A higher purpose. It's a slap in the face to what you lost.

The nameless friend he brought stands smirking between you, reciting empty words. Invoking a god you do not recognize, but curse all the same. You answer only when John squeezes your hands. The veil, stitched from your ruin, is a mockery. A whisper-thin shield.

John lifts it with reverence, eyes bluer with the lake beside him, darkening at the edges where clouds gather. He looks at you the way he did that night. Hungry and triumphant.

After slipping a thin gold band on your finger, he kisses you, deepening it until his friend chuckles. Holds your face as if you are delicate and cherished. And for one fleeting second, you hate him less for it.

But when his lips leave yours, you feel it. That hollow space. The sore spots between your shoulder blades. A rift not easily mended.

His friend claps him on the shoulder, bids you both well, and winks as John steals another kiss.

Thunder rolls over the water, threading through and shaking the trees in warning. You doubt he hears it that way. To him, it's nothing but weather.

The first drops hit before you reach the cabin, cool pinpricks that swell into a downpour. John's grip tightens, tugging you along as the storm swallows you both. He laughs as you stumble inside, slamming the door behind him, bracing against it like you've outrun something wicked.

His laughter fades as his eyes rake over you. Your dress clinging, veil slick to your skull. Shivering. He watches for a breath too long before turning toward the hearth.

"Strip," he says, kneeling to coax the fire back to life. "You'll catch your death."

He tells you he overspent on dinner, whatever that means.

The honeycomb drips viscous gold, pooling in the flat of a salted biscuit before spilling over your lips. John hums, pleased, pressing the next bite to your mouth. You chew, tasting the wildflowers.

His chest rises and falls beneath your cheek, solid and warm, still slightly damp. Tracing whorls of hair with your eyes. His arm is heavy around you, holding you firm in his lap, as if you might slip away between bites. He feeds you another, thumb brushing your lips.

With the fire and rain pattering the roof, it's almost tolerable. Nice.

Then his fingers bump against your lips, sticky and insistent. The last of the honey, scooped up and offered. You hesitate. He does not. Two fingers slip past your lips, pressing sweet and heavy against your tongue.

You suck them clean, head buzzing as he pets your tongue. Their rhythmic draw over the muscle elicits a ghostly tug at your nethers. A string of spit breaks and splatters on your breasts when he extracts them. He gathers it as he did the honey, then drags them between your legs.

Outside, the storm howls. The cabin groans under the wind, trees clawing at its walls. Rain batters the roof, thunder cracks, lightning splits the dark.

He puts you on your back. It's only proper, he says as he climbs over you, for a man to first lie with his woman this way. Separates them from the animal.

You don't bother pointing out that it's foolish, him justifying his acts. That you expect him to do whatever he damn well pleases.

Your tongue stays fastened to the roof of your mouth, holding back words that wouldn't change a thing. Self-loathing leaking out with every pulse of your puffy, needy cunt, your feathers soaked from his attentions.

What a creature he's reduced you to.

You go rigid when it's clear he's done playing around, that there will be no more easing you into it. You fold your arms tight, the same as when he sets down a plate of something unappetizing and expects gratitude.

John merely exhales through his nose, a near-silent huff, and keeps on. He grabs an ankle, yanking you closer with an unbroken focus. Your display is nothing more than a child's sulk.

"This was meant to be, honey," he muses, tucking his hands under your knees and opening them. "You and me, right here."

A heavy, hot weight slots into the crease of your thigh, and your head jerks up, unable to stop yourself from looking. It's flushed, redder than you imagined. Thicker, too. Crowned with a thatch of coarse, wiry hair that looks like it'll pull at your feathers.

He strokes himself, fist tight enough to push pearls from the tip, dribbling them over your swollen clit. You shudder, torn between repulsion and enthrallment, each equally strong and disorienting.

John licks his lip. "Arms around me."

You hug yourself tighter on instinct now that you've seen, up close, what he intends to shove inside you. He bristles.

"Fine. Be difficult."

Surprisingly, he doesn't force the issue, but—

"No matter how you deny it or fight it, this is where you belong." His jaw clenches, fingers flexing on your hips like he's barely keeping himself together, thumb pressing a shade too firmly into your skin. Like the fact of finally having you underneath him is almost too much. "Me and you. Me and my wife."

He nudges your lips apart with his length, exposing the core of your heat to it, and glides through until you're squirming. He keeps bumping your clit, purposely nudging the rim he worked open by the fireside. Then it catches for real, and the head alone makes you dizzy. Much bigger than his fingers. A blunter, harsher pressure.

You fought him on that third finger, back on his lap. You regret it now.

When he starts to push in, you picture egrets skewering fish. Impalement. Gasping, wide-eyed, and belly-up. Your arms fly open, startling a laugh out of him, abruptly cutting into a grunt as your nails sink deep into his furry chest.

John exhales hard through his nose, adjusting his grip, palms slick with sweat as he pulls at your hips. "Hell's sake, Shy," he mutters, voice threaded with frustration, but he tamps it down quick, replacing it with something softer and meant to soothe.

A hand lifts, and his thumb strokes over the hinge of your jaw, coaxing it loose. You're tense all over. His eyes are darker now, a thin ring of blue around the black swell of his pupils. The coldest part of the lake, where the light can't reach.

"Ain't doin' yourself any favors, it'll feel good, promise," he says, bracing an arm beside your head. Crushing your chest with his for another kiss. "Relax."

A deafening crack of lightning follows his words. A tree could come down on the cabin right this second, but he wouldn't even blink. Nothing would draw his attention away. That's obvious when he raises slightly and starts again with renewed purpose.

"John," His name cast as a lifeline. Desperate, grasping. "Too big."

"You're alright," he grits out, voice tight, breath uneven. His cheeks, florid beneath his whiskers, lift in a grin when he takes another inch. "That's a girl."

You hiss angrily, spitting mad. Pinned and helpless. Humiliated even as your heels jam into the small of his back.

It keeps doing that, your body. Moving of its own accord, traitorous thing. Clinging when it should let go, leaning in when it should recoil. Caught between the urge to shove him off and the quiet, irksome need to let him in deep.

In, in, in. Your head presses into the pillow beneath it, mouth falling open as he makes a place for himself in your body.

The pain blurs at the edges, numbing into something almost unrecognizable. No, unfathomable. A creeping, repugnant pleasure germinates where his cock drags. And just when your toes start to curl, coming around to the idea of it, to acceptance—he stops.

Confusion fizzes and pops between your ears, leaking steadily through the sieve he's punched in your skull. You slur the beginnings of a question, but the words sharpen, solidifying when he withdraws too suddenly. Something within stirs, sensing his intent, desperate to intervene.

"S-Said you'd take care of me," you choke out. "Be nice. Be nice."

John falters, swallowing hard. He stares down at you, so intensely you think he'll lash out, every bit of him flexed.

"This you saying you'll behave?"

You don't answer right away, breath hitching when his thumb drags over your ribs, just shy of tender.

"Well?" His patience draws taut over the word, a fraying thread poised to snap like his hips. "Say it, honey."

There's but one answer he'll accept.

"Yes," you lick your lips. "Yes, John. Please."

He waits a moment, waiting for you to take it back, then tests: "Arms around me."

This time, you oblige.

How kindly he keeps this promise. The minute shake in his arm from the restraint he shows from not simply barging in. Sweat sluices over the swell of his bicep, tracing the ridges of muscle and the veins pulsing beneath the hair on his arm.

His eyes brighten—just barely. A flicker of tenderness, the same glint you've caught in stolen moments. The longing he's kept at arm's length, from across the table, from the beam outside the cabin, from the doorway. Burned into the back of your neck at night where he confesses but never apologizes.

This time, he unhurriedly feeds you his cock again, bottoming out with a groan, and rubs a circle into your hip.

"This is where you belong," He echoes, half-growling the sentiment with a grind that has you noiselessly pulling him closer. "Not in the muck, not in the grass. Bet you were a pretty thing with wings, but as a woman?"

John doesn't finish the thought, instead fixing his gaze to where you're stretched around him, silently deeming you acclimated. He kept his word, now to keep the others. It's like he said—he'll teach you every little thing you need to know. He'll make it good.

You're not naive about what's happening when he begins to move. Apart from the men you've spied on, you've seen wild animals. But knowing doesn't stop your breath from catching in your throat or the moans that follow.

Noises indecent enough to heat your face, each languid thrust finding its mark. They'd scald you with white-hot shame if emptiness didn't seem so awful a notion now. His cock jerks at a particularly sweet sound that stutters and skips like a stone over water and ends with his name on a sigh.

His fingers dig in, guiding the roll of your pelvis to meet his, grunting out filth. How wet you are, how right you feel.

"Don't even understand what you do to me, do you?"

You don't. Haven't since you arrived. It's still a mystery why he chose your dress from the dozen on the shore. Surely, he hadn't known it was yours. Hadn't picked you especially, hadn't spied you before—your mind severs the thought at the root, a little hysterically.

John switches arms, planting the other elbow beside your head to bear his weight. The other disappears, but you don't follow its path. His breath grows rough, eyes half-lidded and weighted with devotion and its twin. He picks up the pace, rolling his hips harder, bludgeoning his thick cock into you with urgency.

He surprises you by wedging his hand between your bodies, trapping it on the feathered slope of your cunt. He thumbs your pearled clit, stroking over it in tight circles. It makes you clench down greedily, rewarding you with a roll of his eyes and flash of gritted teeth.

It's—He's—

You've no point of reference for this turmoil.

The closest thing is the storm outside, wild and unrelenting. Rain pelting the earth, flooding the soil, swelling the lake beyond its banks. A force that drowns and nourishes in equal measure, tangling ruin and rebirth.

And under your skin, your blood simmers into a rolling boil. It spreads, curling through every inch, pooling under your navel and tightening.

"Give it, honey. C'mon, can feel it," He rasps, punctuating his demands with an ungentle grind of his cock and a quick succession of firm pats to your clit. "C'mon, on my cock, now, Shy."

You don't fight him, but you don't make it easy either.

When you come, euphoria wrestles with doubt. A current that sweeps you away from him, tumbling hard and fast, only to throw you back, gasping for air. And through it all, John's voice, steady as the shore.

"That's it," he rasps, preening, "Knew you had it in you. My good girl."

Your vision returns in fragments, palms sliding from his shoulders, falling limp to either side of your head. He's still moving, the lewd slap of flesh on flesh and squelching loud in your ears. He's fully abandoned his earlier pledge, any pretense erased. Rutting and battering your walls with a singular goal. Exploiting how you've unraveled beneath him. Gives him the perfect excuse to unleash weeks of pent-up frustration, you think hazily.

He bears down on you when he gets close, breath heaving against your neck, your forehead. Chasing his release with such an effort, part of you understands why he must've played the waiting game with you. He's saved his fury, all of it, for this.

John finally follows with a prolonged groan, head tilted back, sinking to the hilt to spill deep. Cheek to cheek, whiskers scraping and sopping up stray tears. Shuddering above you, crushing until your ankles unhook from his back. Until the tension bleeds out of him, freeing him to move. Sated at last.

He lifts enough to press a lingering kiss to your temple, his eyes tiredly twinkling as he drinks in whatever stupefied expression you must be wearing. Then, with a sigh, he finds your mouth.

"Did so good, honey," he murmurs, "Knew you'd be perfect."

He lies with you for a couple minutes, humming at how you tremble around his softening cock as it drags out of you. Pulling out spend which he gingerly pushes back in, mouth twitching at the quivering of your thighs. He stands, wipes his hand on his flank, then staggers away, knees popping, to fetch a towel.

He cleans his excess spend from your thighs and lips, then tends carefully to your feathers. Though in the lantern light, it's as if a different veil has been lifted. All you have is the aftermath.

A belly full of cum. Finger-shaped bruises. A fierce ache. The spell breaks, and whatever idea of romance you had vanishes.

He stole your dress. Plucked and stripped you of your feathers, offering no alternative but the cage of his arms. Earthbound and alone, save for him. You're not yourself and never will be again.

Outside, the night hangs unnaturally still. You know it's a false hope. That this is just the eye of the storm.

When John crawls back into bed, his hand finds your stomach. He murmurs about the future—how fine a wife you'll become, how fine a mother you'll be.

His breath stirs your hair as he chuckles.

What'll it be, honey? A baby or an egg?

You nearly break apart all over again.

Babies. Cygnets. You don't know if it's possible. This union, this wretched coupling, is the first of its kind that you know of.

But from how he takes you again in the morning, nesting within you until he softens, if there is one man who could make it happen—

It's John.

You don't know what you want. Maybe you never did. The thought of leaving gnaws at you in the quiet moments when the fire is low and John's asleep, one heavy arm slung over your waist.

You could slip away. You could try.

But then what?

The forest is vast. The lake depressingly empty. The town full of strangers. And you are neither swan nor woman, not truly. There's no going back to your sisters, no wings to carry you home, wherever that is now. And even if there were—would you take them?

Would you abandon the warmth of his hands, the way he looks at you like you belong to him, like you belong somewhere at all? More precious than the matching gold on your fingers or the money hidden beneath a floorboard.

The guilt coils tight, constricts your ribs. You shouldn't hesitate. Shouldn't find comfort in the rough edges of this man, in the way he steadies you, feeds you, calls you honey and darling like he means it.

He stole from you. He broke you open and reshaped you into something else that fits into his world, not yours. He doesn't even know your true name.

And yet, when his fingers trace lazy circles against your skin, when he murmurs Shy in the dark, you wonder—if you had the choice, would you take it?

It's best to tuck away your past life. Fold it like the lace in the trunk beneath your marriage bed. Shove it into a dark corner and relegate it to a memory to take out on rare occasions, softened with time. Best to recall the sweetness and not let the bitter ruin it.

Months later, you wake from a nap and find feathers strewn across the bed. Your heart stops.

With a trembling hand, you reach for the small of your back, and feel smooth, bare skin.

A wail rises in your throat, but then a tiny kick flutters deep in your belly.

You swallow the grief.

#john price x reader #price x reader #i agonized over the tags so please dm me if i missed one or if you think i ought to add something. thank you!

633 notes · View notes

wendichester · 3 months ago

Note

I would like to request a story/one-shot of Dean. Please, my idea is to have the reader come back from trying to have a normal life after 2 years but being saved by Dean from the reader's abusive ex-boyfriend, who was possessed by a demon. The reader calls him from a motel after being attacked and almost killed. The reader would be the same age as Dean. I love angst, fluff, smut, action. I can't wait to read it.

ִֶָ་༘࿐ back to you,

summary. you left hunting behind for a normal life, but normal almost killed you. and when you call dean for help, he comes without hesitation.

pairing. dean winchester x reader

wordcount. 739

warnings. abuse, violence, blood, angsty and slightly smutty ; mdni!

notes. hope i managed to do your idea justice! thank you for the request hun 🩷

You don’t know why you dial his number.

Maybe it’s instinct—something buried deep, something you thought you let go of years ago.

Or maybe it’s because you know, without a doubt, that if you call, he’ll come.

The motel room is dimly lit, the air thick with copper and fear. Your hands shake as you press the ice pack to your ribs, wincing at the deep bruising beneath your shirt. The bedspread is stained with your blood—your ex’s blood, too, but it’s black, inky, curling in places it shouldn’t.

You knew something was wrong when he changed. When the apologies stopped coming, when the anger started twisting into something unnatural, something cruel. But you kept telling yourself this was what you wanted—a normal life. Stability. Something different than hunting.

Now, you’re paying the price.

The phone rings once. Twice.

Then—"Y/N?"

You almost sob at the sound of his voice. "Dean."

His tone sharpens immediately. "Where are you?"

You swallow hard. "Pinewood Motel, off Highway 6. Room 14."

"Are you hurt?"

"Yeah," you whisper, voice shaking. "I—he—" Your throat closes, bile rising at the memory of hands wrapped around your neck, snarled threats spilling from a mouth that wasn’t his.

Dean doesn’t need you to say it. "Stay put. I’m coming."

Then the line goes dead.

You barely register the roar of the Impala pulling in. By the time the knock comes—loud, insistent—you’re already up, crossing the room.

When you open the door, Dean is standing there, eyes wild, breath heavy like he broke every speed limit to get to you. He takes one look at you—swollen lip, bruised cheek, the dark stains on your shirt—and his jaw clenches, something lethal flashing in his eyes.

"Son of a bitch," he breathes, stepping inside.

You don��t realize you’re shaking until he reaches for you, fingers brushing over your arms, your shoulders, his touch careful, reverent. "Did he—?"

"He’s dead," you say quietly. "It wasn’t just him, Dean. He was possessed."

Dean’s grip tightens. His eyes flicker over you again, checking, cataloging. "You sure it’s over?"

You nod, but your voice wavers. "I think so."

Dean exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair before pulling you into his chest. It’s automatic—the way you fit against him, the way his arms wrap around you like he can hold you together.

"Jesus, sweetheart," he mutters. "What the hell were you thinking?"

You let out a choked laugh. "That I could have a normal life."

He pulls back just enough to look at you, fingers tilting your chin up. "And how’d that work out?"

"Really fucking bad."

His lips press together, something softer, sadder settling in his gaze. "You should’ve never left."

The weight of those words settle deep in your chest, guilt threading through your ribs. "I thought I wanted to."

Dean’s thumb brushes over your cheek, barely ghosting over the bruise there. His voice lowers, rough, but there’s something unbearably tender beneath it. "And now?"

You look up at him, at the concern carved into his face, the way his hands still tremble slightly where they hold you.

"I don’t want normal," you whisper. "I want you."

Something breaks in him at that. He breathes out your name like a prayer before his mouth crashes into yours.

It’s desperate, consuming. His fingers tangle in your hair, his other hand slipping under your shirt, tracing over bruises like he can erase them. Your hands pull at his jacket, needing him closer, needing him to ground you.

When he backs you against the bed, you go easily, gasping as he lowers you down. His lips never leave yours, not as his hands work your clothes off, not as he presses kisses down your neck, over your shoulder, mapping every place that hurts with his mouth.

"Mine," he murmurs against your skin, voice hoarse, possessive. "No one gets to touch you like this. No one but me."

And you don’t want anyone else.

The night is slow, filled with whispered apologies, soft moans, the warmth of him sinking deep into your bones. He doesn’t let go of you—not once. Even after, when the adrenaline fades and exhaustion crashes over you, he holds you tight, fingers laced with yours, his lips pressed to your temple.

"You’re coming back with me," he murmurs. "Not gonna let you go again. Nothing bad's ever gonna happen to you again."

You sigh, sinking into him, into home.

"Not going anywhere."

want be part of the taglist.ᐣ ⋆.˚ ★— @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing ⋆ @deans-daydream ⋆ @taurus0queenie33 ⋆ @ambiguous-avery ⋆ @krabog ⋆ @itsdearapril ⋆ @nymphet-quenn ⋆ @bluemerakis ⋆ @titsout4jackles ⋆ @lyarr24 ⋆ @hauntedrose555 ⋆ @chevroletdean ⋆ @dulcescorderitas ⋆ @blackmarketfruitrollups ⋆ @impala67rollingthroughtown ⋆ @rulesareshadesofgrey ⋆ @nervoussystems ⋆ @daryls-luvrr ⋆ @sunnyteume ⋆ @drakelover78 ⋆ @angelblqde ⋆ @mostlymarvelgirl ⋆ @whisperingdaze ⋆ @funkenniffler ⋆ @bossyblondie ⋆ @lieutenantchaos ⋆ @iluvnewtie ⋆ @dyhsversion ⋆ @lovewolfspirit ⋆ @kayleighwinchester ⋆ @s0urw00lf ⋆ @cursednevermore ⋆ @img14 ⋆ @onelonelybitch ⋆ @americanvenom13 ⋆ @iluvdeanwinchester ⋆ @idk6505 ⋆ @devilslittlehelper ⋆ @cloverleaf20 ⋆ @giggles1026 ⋆ @idontwannabehere7 ⋆ @beakaleak32 ⋆ @ocelotlist51 ⋆ @lelapine ⋆ @pwin098

#dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester fluff #dean winchester angst #dean winchester fic #supernatural #.docx #.req

463 notes · View notes

marzipanandminutiae · 6 months ago

Note

I hate how doing any kind of yarn craft basically means you can only produce plastic clothes or it's going to be 300$ in yarn minimum. Every yarn has some acrylic and the natural stuff is so wildly expensive. I would love to use 100% natural fibers but the options are limited

God, yeah. The price of natural-fiber materials is insane.

My average budget for like a full silk gown, trim and notions included, is around $200- and that's ONLY because I live near a discount fabric store that gets bolt-ends from big fashion houses and sells silk for like $10/yard. Wool is insane, for some reason- that place only has coating (heavyweight) and suiting (lighter but feels like plastic even though it's not), so making a dress or anything not outerwear from wool involves shopping online and some painful spending.

I just bought 6 yards of wool to make my Dream Dressing-Gown. It was $210 for JUST the wool- I still have to get lining fabric, possibly an embroidery machine pattern, embroidery thread (because my friend who's generously letting me use her machine only has polyester and rayon). Part of that was shipping from freaking Poland because finding a website that has non-stretch, dark green wool at any weight below "snow gear" in the States is nigh impossible.

(Or that actually discloses the weight in a meaningful way; that's another problem I've encountered. "Brushed wool!" Great, but how heavy is it? "It's wool!" Not helpful. It's like they can't fathom wanting to use wool for anything besides heavy outerwear. Which they probably can't, because that's all we're accustomed to seeing it as nowadays.)

Like I'm tempted to blame militant v*gans for the inaccessibility of silk and wool, but honestly, capitalism was probably just waiting for the excuse to turn all our clothes to crap. I doubt there's been enough outcry about them to push those fabrics out of reach, the way there has been for fur and leather (to clarify: pro-treating animals humanely, anti-plastic clothing, not opposed to the use of aforesaid materials if those animals are properly cared-for and humanely killed).

At least you can still find cotton and some linen things in stores- for now. They're still more expensive, though, and limited in what weaves are often seen. Cotton velvet, for example? Forget it.

It's so disturbing and frustrating.

#ask #anon #sewing #'Marzi how do you have the money to do that?' four housemates and I don't really have a social life besides like. day trips to Salem #and historical dances #so I spend Booze Money on fabric and such instead

559 notes · View notes

starsofang · 6 months ago

Text

CALL OF THE SEA / PART NINETEEN

pirate poly!141 x f!reader tw: NSFW, MDNI, not many for this chapter :p masterlist a/n: wanted so badly for this chapter to be longer but just as i finished a 60-hour work week, i fell down with the flu. boooo.

When a group of unhinged pirates invade your small village, you're whisked away from your peaceful home and thrown on to a voyage out at sea. Forced to obtain a new role as their medic, you have no choice but to accept your fate as you join their forces and aid them in their treacherous travels.

Price kept his promise when the time came, the next morning shifting to evening, the sun resting along the horizon. You’d spent the better majority sleeping off the pain, unable to stay awake for long while the parasite ate away at you from the inside and out.

Waking to a booming ‘Land ho!’ was the relief you needed to relax properly, the potential of you receiving urgent attention easing your worries momentarily.

You hadn’t had a proper moment alone, always waking to another man in the room watching over you, appearing just as tired as you. Gaz was often the one who took over, or in his place it was Soap. The Captain was making haste in steering to landfall in order to guarantee your spot in healing. He was wasting no time, keeping all hands on deck to make it happen.

You weren’t expecting Ghost, however, when you opened your eyes. He was lounged in Price’s chair at his desk lazily, eyes blinking sleepily at the floor, his fist on his cheek. He looked oddly comfortable, sat at ease rather than a man who seemed to always have a target on his back.

“Ghost?” you croaked, habitually attempting to sit up. It knocked the air out of your lungs immediately and you settled back down once you noticed Ghost tense up.

He grunted in response, eyes darting up from the floor to you. You’d hardly seen him since Graves’ unsettling show, and you were sure he was only in the room because he thought you’d be asleep long enough for him to switch shifts with somebody else.

“Y’alright?” he asked, gaze flickering down to your side where the bruising was becoming a disgusting black, almost resembling rotting flesh.

“We are almost there?” you asked instead, shifting the blanket over you subconsciously.

He nodded, taking his fist off of his cheek and leaning back in the chair. “Not too long now,” he responded. “Just sit tight.”

You fiddled with the hem of the sheets, picking at a loose thread. The air felt heavy with awkwardness, and it nearly suffocated you. You hated how strange it always felt in Ghost’s presence, like a force between you condemned you away from one another, but you weren’t too sure if it was you or him creating it.

Judging from previous actions, it was definitely him. He wasn’t an easy person to talk to—even after his apology.

“You don’t like me, do you?” you asked without a second thought. Once it came from your mouth, you instantly regretted it. If you were able to move on your free will, you’d have slapped yourself by now.

“What?” he grumbled.

You swallowed, peering up at the ceiling to avoid looking at him. “You do not seem very fond of me. Even after everything.”

You felt his stare on the side of your face. It was burning into you. “Is that so?”

You nodded once, a curt movement that was stiff and uncomfortable. Now that you had bitten off more than you could chew, the only solution was to continue gnawing.

“S’not that,” he answered. He shifted in his seat, tapping his fingers absentmindedly on the table. “You’ve already forgotten our talk? I’m not the type to repeat myself.”

“I have not.”

“Then why are you always stressin’ ‘bout it?” he huffed, almost like a child. At times, he surely acted like one—a rather rude one, but you digress.

“You seem tense with me,” you replied quietly, wondering why the conversation was brought up in the first place. It was never easy speaking of feelings with Ghost, and you were learning that the hard way. You didn’t understand why you felt compelled to begin something with no finish.

“I’m tense because you’re hurt,” he corrected, albeit a bit coldly. “S’not you.”

You gnawed on your lip as you stared into nothingness. Ghost was always an enigma, a puzzle piece you couldn’t quite fit anywhere, and the more you spoke with him, the more difficult it became.

You wanted to understand him, but how could you understand somebody who didn’t want to be understood? Then again, perhaps he thought the same of you.

“Has Graves done this before?” you asked, tone growing soft.

You knew Ghost was at the hands of Graves more than once. The unspoken trauma he held was evident simply in the way he fueled his hatred for the evil captain. If there was anybody who knew Graves for who he truly was, it was Ghost.

“Worse,” he said shortly, as if the matter was so simple to understand. It made your stomach twist up, imagining the horrors that lie along Graves’ past.

“Worse?” you murmured to yourself in disbelief.

Truly, what had Graves done? Surely, he had killed plenty. He held the card of death, dealing it to those unknowing. He played the game until he grew bored, tossing his pawns aside when he wanted a new one.

Were you simply his plaything for the time being? What would happen when he sought out a new one?

You turned your head to look at Ghost. You studied the skull ring that glistened on his finger, as well as the matching mask that locked up his true identity.

Ghost was just as much a pawn as you were—he was simply the last one standing.

“Why do you wear it?” you asked, and when his eyes simmered with confusion, you continued. “The skulls. They are his, yes?”

Ghost glanced down at his ring, wiggling his finger for good measure. “It angers him,” he explained calmly, toying with the ring with his thumb. “He takes pride in his ship. The skull flag on his ship is his staple—he thinks only those deserving are allowed the opportunity to flaunt it.”

“So… you wear it because he does not think you’re deserving, and it angers him?” you finished.

“I consider it a game,” Ghost shrugged. “He took what was mine. I take what’s his.”

You blinked, trying to piece together the puzzle. It made sense in your head, but you felt you were missing something.

“What did he take from you?”

Ghost finally looked at you, pupils blown with that familiar hatred you’d seen all this time. Now, though, you know it’s not for you.

“Everythin’,” he muttered. “I’ll be sure to do the same for him."

Ghost left rather quickly after that. You hated to see him go, but you knew a nerve was struck and he wanted to be alone—it was something he preferred. You could respect that.

Soap was the one who took charge, talking your ear off while you drifted in and out of sleep. He was lifting your spirits as always, trying desperately to get you out of the funk you’d been stuck in.

The conversation with Ghost took enough energy from you that it left you lifeless, resuming to your exhausted state and only offering an occasional hum of acknowledgment to Soap. You felt horrible for seeming so uninterested, but Soap didn’t seem to mind. In fact, if anybody were to understand, it would be him.

“After all this is over, I say we take a li’l vacation, aye?” Soap piped in. You glanced at him blearily, silently nodding in agreement. “Ye ever drink before, dove?”

You shook your head, causing Soap to gawk at you as if you’d just offended his entire family. “Never? Well, we’ll have to change that the second yer all fixed up. Get ye to a nice pub and drink yer sweet heart out. Yeeeah, that sounds real nice ‘bout now.”

He let out a dramatic sigh, shoulders slumping. Soap, ever the sweetest, always kept a peppy attitude for you, even if you could see the exhaustion lines forming on his face. He was so compassionate with you, and you feared you didn’t deserve it. It was your fault for all this mess.

“Yer first drink’s on me, aye? Hell, once yer back on yer feet, I’ll pay for all yer drinks, how’s that sound?”

“Bargainin’ to a sick bird, am I hearin’ that right?”

Both you and Soap looked to the door where the Captain stood, hand on the knob. He was so silent as he came in, presumably not to wake you in the case you were asleep.

“Ach, the girl deserves a drink after all this. M’just tryin’ to make her feel better,” Soap defended with a huff, shooing his hand.

Price snorted in amusement, stepping into the room. He made his way to your bedside where Soap sat, peering down at you and observing.

“How’s my dove doin’ today?” Price asked, his tone affectionate.

You caught a glimpse of Soap’s side eye towards the Captain’s behavior, evidence of confusion washing over his expression. He said nothing, only blinking slowly. You could practically see the gears in his head clogging up the workings in there.

Price looked a bit more hopeful that day, albeit sluggish. His smile was tilted as if his lips were too heavy to lift fully, his eyes were dimmed from the light you’d seen recently. You knew he was pushing past his limit, hardly sleeping and overriding his brain with too many steps in his plans.

“I’m fine,” you assured quietly, though you prayed he couldn’t see through it.

You weren’t fine at all. You felt like a vessel while your soul floated above your body and watched on as you slowly crumbled to ash. You no longer felt completely present, only forced into living from the consistent wakings for meals or check-ups.

The mess on your ribcage had blossomed into a murky pool of black, only spreading rather than weakening. The poisoned veins were like a wildfire, untamable as they slithered their way through your body and organs as if making them its collection.

You were a disastrous mess on the inside. On the outside, though you were gray and sickly with sunken bags beneath your eyes, you tried to present yourself as anything but, mustering up the strength to converse with each and every one of them when you weren’t sleeping.

It was easy for any of them to see it, though. The spark in your eyes had vanished and you resembled more of a corpse than a woman.

Price tilted his head, staring at you for a moment. His hand lifted and he brushed the back of his knuckles across your forehead, resting them there. What met him was warmth. While it would’ve been a comforting feeling, it made him more worried than anything.

“You’re still hot,” he murmured, more to himself. “Have she been like this all day?”

Soap shrugged, frowning. “She’s been asleep for half of it.”

Price glanced at Soap before sighing through his nose. “We’ve got just a couple of more hours. Think you can wait it out a bit more for me, dove?”

You nodded sluggishly. What more was another hour or two? You had already dealt with it for days. The pain wouldn’t subside regardless.

Price attempted another smile, one you couldn’t return. It pained him to see you in a state so depressing, but it wouldn’t be the last that you and his crew would go through hell. He’d seen Ghost in far too similar circumstances before.

He gave your cheek a soft squeeze, frowning to himself when even that didn’t wash away the hollow expression you wore. He felt like he was looking at the shadow of a person that once existed.

“We’ll come and collect you when it’s time,” he told you softly. You only hummed through a sigh, feeling the unfortunate taste of exhaustion once again.

Soap and the Captain shared a look before they exchanged a few quiet words you couldn’t hear. Price seemed reluctant to leave but did nonetheless, slipping the door closed with such gentleness that it didn’t dare disturb you.

Soap remained where he was, studying your every feature as you slipped back into that unforgiving dream state, unable to take his eyes off of you—not when they were so close to getting you to a healer.

He feared if he looked away for even a moment, you might just slip through his fingers.

You’d loved helping people ever since you were a child. You couldn’t remember much, but you knew for certain that you’d been that way all your life—the simple aid of carrying items for the elders in your village, helping the merchants set up for the day, caring for the younger children if they’d hurt themselves or scraped up a knee or two.

It was something you’d always known that soon developed into a bigger dream the older you got. An obsession, some would say, to the idea of being your village’s healer and curing them of their misfortunes. Medicine was a calling, and you listened to its guide, working day and night to learn and discover all new possibilities that you’d never seen before.

Yet, that love for helping others labeled you crazy. The village slowly lost their affection for you, turning their backs as if you’d never been apart of them, disgusted by the fact that a woman of your age was unmarried and childless.

You knew you were meant for more, yet the people who you’d spent your entire life becoming apart of had shunned you over your mere dreams. There was a great, big world out there to discover, but they wished to keep you confined to their little home and grant you misery for the sake of keeping tradition.

Women didn’t have dreams. They didn’t have hopes. How silly of a world was that?

You still wanted to pursue them. You had the whole world ahead of you, and you were angry that there was a possibility of it being snatched away from you, all because of one man. He was ruining the work you'd spent years prioritizing, and you'd be damned if you didn't get what you wanted.

Even as you lay, rotting away in Price’s cot, that desire never went away. It only blossomed, the need nipping at you like an aggravating tick.

It was a wonder how you hadn’t succumbed to the vile venom that Graves’ had slipped under your skin when he bashed his boot into the workings of your ribcage. How you were still alive was unfathomable, something even you didn’t understand after working for years to do so.

Was it simply will that people needed to survive? Was it determination? Or was it just you, the lucky one?

Your mind was muddled with these screaming thoughts as you remained in your unconsciousness. Yet, even asleep, you could feel your body being jolted, like somebody was slipping their arms around you and carrying you to a place unknown. You tried to wake up, but you were trapped in your own world as if needing to seek answers before escaping.

Your ears pricked at the sounds of voices. They sounded far away, muffled as if underwater, and inside your cafe of your mind, you fought to hear, to get a glimpse of your reality that you were missing out on.

“I don’t know, Cap. There are rumors swirlin’ that this woman works wonders, has the hands of the Gods workin’ with her,” a voice exclaimed. Gaz, as clever as ever. You’d know his voice anywhere.

“You speak nonsense,” another voice said. You recognized the gruffness as Price. He sounded closer than Gaz did, but you couldn’t pinpoint why. “We cannot get our hopes up over stories. She’s a medic, just as the others. We will not rely on foolishness to fuel our hope for dove’s recovery.”

You heard Gaz scoff, and you could nearly picture the tightening of his jaw and the slight downward curl of his lips—like a child pouting.

“You do not find it strange, Captain, that our dove hasn’t perished to the willingness of Graves’ curse?” Gaz asked. “Perhaps the rumors are true. Maybe this woman knew we were comin’, and that’s why dove’s held out for so long. Don’t you think a li’l extra hope is what we need?”

“We will know it when we see it,” Price retorted, clearly still unbelieving of Gaz’s claims. “I will not believe in such sorcery until it has been done to dove. What matters is healin’ her.”

“You have seen what Graves has done to others,” Gaz tried once more. “Sorcery is always possible.”

The captain didn’t reply, and you knew that meant he was stumped. You wished dearly to wake and speak with them yourself, to hear of Gaz’s story and to understand where Price is coming from. The desire to meet both their needs felt heavy, and it only grew the longer you went without it.

“Sorcery is what got us in this situation in the first place,” another voice joined in. You were surprised to hear Ghost chime in his own thoughts. It made you wonder if he spoke more when you weren’t around. “If you do not recall that, Gaz.”

You heard another scoff, one could only assume from Gaz. A tempered one, he was.

“Ever the so positive one, aye, Ghost?” Soap. There was no mistaking that heavy accent and chirpy tone.

You heard a snort, then Ghost speak, “Always.”

The world fell silent after that. If you listened close enough, you could hear the shifting of clothes and the crunch of dead leaves. You hadn’t a clue what was happening, though your best bet was that the ship had made landfall, and your path to getting healed was closer than ever.

So why did it feel like something else was beginning to unravel out of control?

514 notes · View notes

evilgwrl · 8 months ago

Text

TF 141 x Reader (Apocalypse!AU)

Immune: Six

WARNING: This is a 18+ Poly!141 series (MDNI)

CW: Oral (f & brief male receiving), barn sex yeehaw, PIV (no protection), praise, I love gaz sm he’s so fucking sexy and hot, titty sucking, more hickies!!!!

Masterlist

Your brow cocked towards the Scotsman, his arms folded against the width of his chest as he stared at you, Arctic blue orbs swirling with mischief as he stepped closer to you, chapped lips flushed against the heat of your forehead before he was strumming upstairs.

The day was sombre. The sky was roiling, a pall of menacing clouds enveloping the forest with a darkened haze, the soft jingles of the wind chimes sounding out to you as you rushed the horses into the barn, snouts whining and hissing out breathy grunts as a roll of thunder cracked through.

Bubbling heat simmered in the pit of your stomach; your body flushed with fervour as you scurried outside, your legs turning to mush as anxious feet padded against the soil, parched digits digging into reins. Your body ached with a needing demand, a need to be satisfied, not only by Price but by them all.

It was taboo. It should feel wrong. This wasn’t you. The growing ache that seethed between your thighs, only fed into the perpetual insistence that needed to be met. You needed to be fucked. Again, and again and again.

You rolled your eyes at yourself, the flush of iris visible as you trembled into the barn, pulling on Nancy as she trotted along, heavy hoofs skating across the already dirtied floors. As you secured the horses away, your eyes trained in on the door, the sound of heavy footsteps coiling into your stomach before Gaz appeared.

You weren’t quite sure what it was about him. He gave you a sense of comfort, his eyes gentle yet zealous, speckles of gold flaking through the endless diversions of umber. His presence was homely, settling around you like a forest fire, fusillading the anguished need you held for him. His smile was soft as he gazed at you, standing bashfully at the barn doors, chiselled arms pressed against the wood.

“Thought I would find you here,” he remarked, taking a step forward as he felt the spit of rain pellet down on his warm skin.

You raised a brow, “You looking for me?” Your tone was knowing, almost teasing as he let out a shy laugh, pearly teeth on display as his tongue kissed them, the simmer of the light reflecting against them. He was pretty, almost too pretty, the arrogant broil of his eyes sending a pit into your stomach as he stepped closer.

“Just felt like we, I, haven’t thanked you properly.”

“It’s alright, Gaz. Couldn’t exactly turn you all away, could I?” You tried to make light of the situation, your eyes averting to the floor as you shifted awkwardly.

“You gonna let me thank you, sweetheart? Hm?”

Your feet were clumsy, as you stumbled back, spine flush against a bale of hay as he stalked towards you. You felt like his prey, tantalising jaws snapping down on the silk of your flesh as he sucked the sweet liquor of your blood into his taste buds. Cadaverous hands groped at your thigh, melting the softness of the fat into his hands as he practically cooed at you.

His voice was patronising, threads of disdain lacing it as his grip found your knees, pulling them apart gently. Straw scratched at your legs, sending a jolt through you as you watched him through hooded eyes. His eyes were darker now, flushed over with desire as he pushed his crotch up against you, an evident bulge covered by denim petting your clad heat almost maliciously as you gulped down the air that flooded your organs.

Nails dug into your tender skin, crescent-shaped moons tattooing along the flesh as you whined. “I asked you a question,” he tsked, kissing along your jaw.

“Y-Yeah, you can thank me.”

The strain of your voice enveloped a laugh out of him, rough hands toying with your top before you lifted your arms up, bare chest on display as the cool air puckered up your nipples, his eyes darting between the two before his hands were wrapping around your neck, pushing against you slightly to arch your back before feverish lips were tugging at the buds, teasing them between his teeth before he would pull away and suck at the sore skin, tainted by hickies.

“Old man wanted to mark you up,” he growled as his hands released from your neck, toying with your tits as your core ached. The sensation was all too much, yet not enough. Greedy hips ground against the bulge that was pressed against you, a groan sounding out from between your tits.

“Are you gonna thank me?” You quipped, pulling at his hair as he clutched a nipple between his lips before pulling away with a subtle pop.

“Greedy, aren’t you? Just need to be filled up by us all?” Gaz smirked.

Your hips responded for you, pussy clenching around nothing as you panted, your breath wanton. His digits found your buttons, plucking at them before you raised yourself, letting him slide them off down you revealing your aching sex, thin cotton smeared against it as your slick darkened them. Gaz groaned in reply, rubbing at the wet patch feverishly as your lips found his neck, licking a stripe against his defined collarbone.

You swore, your voice lost in the crackle of the wind as he peeled your panties to the side, your aching cunt throbbing as he spread your folds apart, smiling in appreciation at the sloppy strings of slick webbing between your lips.

“Pretty fucking pussy,” he nodded as he pushed you back, throwing your legs over his shoulders as a rough thumb pressed against your clit, almost unsure if he wanted to use his fingers or mouth before he settled for both, his wet muscle toying with your entrance before plunging in, enveloping your gummy walls with his spit as his digit engulfed harsh circles around the sensitive nub.

Needy moans left your throat as you palmed at the hay below you, another hand buried in his hair, fingers digging into his scalp as your pussy rode along his tongue, chasing a desperate release.

His touch was electric, spreading zaps of energy throughout you, engulfing your spine as your back arched further at the torment of his tongue, his laps gargling against your slick as he teased you.

Feverish hands wrapped around the fat of your thighs, bruising touches doubling every sensation you felt as you mewled against him, bucking your hips as you chased your high.

Teeth grazed against your throbbing clit, the sensation almost overwhelming as you gasped out, full lips sucking the bud as you convulsed, the air thick with arousal as the breathy sounds of your moans sipped through the holes of the barn walls.

Rain slashed against the roof as you threw your head back, Gaz’s torture against your pussy stimulating every nerve in your cunt as you choked out, gasping for oxygen as you found yourself holding your breath, too focused on the pleasure he was wracking through you.

His assault was continuous, his muscle lapping at your heat, slick pooling below you as fingers tightened against the straw, scratching against your palm.

“Oh - fuck,” you whined, your voice raising an octave as pleasure coiled in your stomach, spindling through every muscle and nerve as your legs convulsed, your belly tightening until it snapped, sending your eyes rolling back as you clutched onto the bale below you, Gaz’s mouth moaning against your slit as you cried out.

Your actions were clumsy as you pushed his face away at the overstimulation, your clit swollen as you took in his pussy-drunk expression, full lips glistening with your arousal, a trail of spit dribbling down his chin as he smiled at you.

“Please fuck me,” you quipped, clutching onto his shoulder before a hand gripped at the tent in his pants, palming the aching member with need as he growled against your neck, nipping the tender flesh before his hands were at his belt.

Gaz nodded as you pulled him in roughly, your tongues lashing against each other as you hummed at the taste of yourself, the tangy feeling melting between your saliva as the Sergeant tore his slacks down his muscled thighs.

You broke the kiss, looking down at his member. He was longer than John with less girth, yet still staggering in size, the mushroom tip flushed a begging purple as silk pearls of pre-cum coiled down his aching length.

Needy hips aligned with yours as he flushed the tip against your folds, smirking at the gooey sounds of your wetness. You whined in anguish. You felt like you were in heat, your body craving your womb to be filled.

The burn stretched through you, your brows furrowing in pain as you pushed against his chest before his hands were against yours, soothing you as he kissed you, setting a bruising pace between your lips, his cock working through you inch by inch as you gasped.

“That’s it baby, relax for me. Good girl.”

His tone was soft as he praised you, working through the tightness of your gummy walls with ease before he bottomed out, heavy balls slapping against the crevice of your ass as your neck buried in the crook of his neck.

“Please, I need you,” you whimpered, lips nibbling at his neck, savouring the salty taste of his sweat before he chuckled, his hips bucking against your sweet spot, his tip kissing your cervix deliciously as he began to rock inside you, setting a slow pace as he felt every ridge against his cock.

His tongue was filthy as he spat out expletives, his pace quickening with every fleeting second as you bashfully choked out whines and moans into his skin.

“Taking me so fucking well, Jesus Christ.”

His strokes were brutal, rubbing against your cervix selfishly as your mouth sounded out babbles, your eyes rolled back as you felt the trickle of sweat pooling at the back of your knees.

The pleasure was white hot, engulfing you with demand as you submitted your entirety to him, falling limp as his hips slapped against your sensitive skin, his fingers tugging at your nipples through your slouched figure as you moaned.

His pace fastened once more before he grunted, pulling out as his cock pulsated with the need to cum. Your motions were sloppy as you gripped the shaft, knees buckling as you lifted yourself to the floor, his member coated with your slick as you hummed at the taste, tracing the veins with your tongue whilst another hand cupped his heavy balls, squeezing them with a gentle motion before gargling the remainder of his cock down the pillow of your mouth.

“Holy fuck,” he bucked, hips moving rhythmically before he spluttered out, his cum gushing down the naval of your throat as you coughed, swallowing down the thick liquid with a huff as the remainder dribbled out of your lip.

Gaz’s hand found your hair, stroking the sweat along your forehead as he pulled you up, resting you along the hay again before dressing you slightly, as well as himself, before tugging you into the plushness of his chest, lazy legs wrapping around his waist before he was jogging with you through the downpour of the rain.

Holy fuck balls I feel like my writing has gotten so SLACK!!!!!

1K notes · View notes

yeyinde · 9 months ago

Note

Would you consider writing a poly141 version of the babytrap universe? Completely understand if it’s not to your interest to write, but I would love to see that story play out in your delicious writing style :)

ohh, absolutely. i think the best way to do it would be to have poor reader, desperate for a family of her own, and making the stupid decision to hand her resignation into Price.

and then admitting, shyly, that there's no man in your life, just a donor waiting for you to sign the papers and make the deposit for the procedure. thanking him for everything he's done, of course; but you're excited for this new chapter in your life.

He accepts it. Sure. Smiles tightly, and says, "good luck." Calls a meeting after to discuss it with the rest of the team. Closed door. A little unusual, but nothing that immediately raises your hackles. You're too busy cleaning up your desk to really pay much attention to hushed whispers in Price's office. Happy to celebrate, too, when Johnny invited you out for drinks after. Tae say goodbye properly, he said, and looking back, you should have seen through the faux sadness draped over his brow. Picked up on the giddy excitement buzzing around him as he led you to the bar, as he offered to get you drinks. Handed you an open bottle. Tipping it back for you to drink more.

Keep goin’, doe. Drink ‘er up.

Another one. Another. Your head swims. Kyle is there, hands warm on your waist, breath rippling across the sweat gathering on the nape of your neck.

“C’mon, birdie. Have a shot with me.” He coos, bringing the glass to your lips, chest glued to your spine. “Can't believe you want a baby. Fuck, birdie, that's—”

Johnny murmurs something under his breath. You blamed the three glasses of whiskey sour (Price wouldn't let you have anything else) and a shot of tequila for why it sounded like,

hope it's mine—

To the left of you, Ghost snorts under his breath. Shifts in the stool that creaks, whining under his weight. You blink through fog seeping into your head, this strange, syrupy torpor that bleeds into the corners of your vision, makes everything feel muted, far away, and turned to him with a pout.

He'd been acting strange ever since Price told him your plans. Quieter, somehow. But—

There.

Everywhere.

Your fixed shadow. Looming in the corners.

You make to ask him what the hell he's doing, why he's following you around, but the words slosh out in a tangle. Incompressible.

Ghost huffs. His gloved hand lifts, falls to your throat, holding you steady with his thumb digging shallowly into your pulse.

“Careful,” he mocks, dragging the word out like he was speaking to a misbehaving child. It bristles through you, but your tongue is thick. Liquid in your mouth. “Got a big night ahead o’you yet, pet. Try not t’hurt yourself before I get to knock you up.”

Distantly, you think you hear Gaz say something—oi, mate, maybe—but there's a shrill ringing in your ear that drowns it all out. A cotton spooling in your head. You blink—foolishly—and lean into his palm, mouth dropping in surprise. Shock.

Horror.

“Wha—?”

But it's too late, of course. What you thought were the comforting threads of a warm blanket spooling over your shoulders was the silken strands of a spider's web the whole time. Caught in their trap.

And then you come to with a warm weight pressed against your back, a thick, hairy arm slung around your shoulders. Trapping you tight against a warm, broad chest.

“Want a baby, mm?” your captain coos in your ear, humid breath tickling your skin. Dampening it slightly as he leans in close, lips pressed to the shell—a warm, wet heat that makes you tremble—and adds: “fine, love. Since you want one so bad—”

An arm lashes out of the shadows dancing around the room; through the heavy haze, the fog in your head (the last thing you remember is being offered a drink by Johnny, another by Kyle—), you struggle to make sense of what's happening around you as rough, dry fingers curl over your knee, prying your thighs apart:

“—then we'll give it to you.”

You watch, dazed, dizzy, as cherryred knuckles slip down the valley of your spread legs, the ink on their thick fingers flexing, dancing, in the slip of pale moonlight until they curl into the hem of your panties, tugging the fabric roughly to the side.

The sudden swell of cold air on your exposed cunt makes you gasp. Your knees jerking, trying to fold together to hide yourself, preserve some modicum of modesty, but the hand on your flesh tightens. Prevents you from moving. It keeps you open for their gaze. Lets them all gawk at the wide knuckles pressed against the seam of your pussy. Flushed in the low light. Dripping—

In the murk, someone groans—

“Shoulda told us sooner you wanted a fuckin’ baby, sweet’art. Woulda given you one sooner before y’had to go an’ do somethin’ so foolish—”

Foolish. Like paying for another man to put a baby inside of you when that privilege belongs to them. And them alone.

And really—

You should have known better.

#theyre so competitive about it too :/#all eagerly trying their hardest to knock you up and then refusing to get a paternity test because thats *their* baby #a vicious cycle #poly 141 x reader #141 x reader #captain john price x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #kyle garrick x reader #johnny mactavish x reader #141drabbles

2K notes · View notes

gloomwitchwrites · 1 year ago

Note

Still in love/obsessed ex-husband

A still in love and obsessed ex-husband can be answered in various ways. I thought I'd make this one a little loosey goosey and stretch the definition of "ex-husband" here a tad bit. I also split "still in love" and "obsessed." My personal HC about these characters actions around those two phrases will certainly vary.

Anyway, here are four quick drabbles on the topic (And thank you for your patience as I fulfill requests.)

Find the Imagines & What If Series Masterlist HERE

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): reconciliation, fluff, light angst, suggestive themes, swearing, marriage, strained and established relationships, stalking

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price

“I still have it.”

“Have what?” you ask.

“Your wedding dress,” answers John.

“I told you to return it. And the ring.”

John shakes his head. “Couldn’t bring myself to do it. Still in my closet.”

“You don’t want to.”

“No.”

“Why?” you ask.

“You know why, love.”

You sigh. “Did you sign the papers?”

“No,” he answers automatically. “Why would I? When you’re clearly still in love with me.”

“John.”

“You promised me an army.”

“I’ve given you three,” you murmur, thinking of your children with him.

John smiles, and you melt. “We can make number four right here.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

“What’s this?”

“Nothing.”

“Show me.”

You keep your hand behind your back. Johnny grins down at you, one eyebrow raised. Johnny is fast, snagging your arm and bringing your hand into the light.

His gaze drops to the diamond on your finger.

“You still wear it,” he breathes.

“It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Oh, love. It does.” He steps closer, one warm hand cupping your cheek.

You lean into him, not wanting to admit out loud what still holds true in your heart.

“You still love me,” he teases.

“And?” you prompt.

He draws you close. “And I still want you.”

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“Signing this won’t change anything. You know this.”

Kyle is right and you hate that he is. Grasping the back of your neck, Kyle threads his fingers through your hair. Twisting. Gripping. Arching your neck.

He draws you forward, lips nearly brushing over yours. “You know I’d burn everything down for you. Walk any distance. I will never be rid of you. Never.”

Kyle’s words are searing. They sit heavy in your chest.

“Do you not feel the same?” He shakes his head. “I don’t believe that.”

The divorce papers are scattered across the kitchen table.

You swallow. “Shred them.”

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Ghost is a wraith.

He watches from the shadows. He knows your every step, who you talk to, and what your day looks like. He has always known. Even before you called him husband—and before that boyfriend—Ghost learned your habits.

He sits. Waits.

You glance over your shoulder with no idea how close he is, trying to find his in. Because he will. He will have you.

The current boyfriend will disappear.

Just like the last one.

Because Ghost made it happen.

All he needs is time and then, he can put his ring back on your finger.

Taglist:

@km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @spicyspicyliving @childofyuggoth @miaraei @coffeecaketornado @aykxz98 @kayden666 @unhinged-reader-36 @miss-mistinguett @keiva1000 @cherryofdeath @pertinentpostmortem @enfppuff @berarenado @saoirse06 @ninman82 @no-oneelsebutnsu @thewulf @hayleybarnesx @lxblm @ferns-fics @ooldcardigan @beebeechaos @enarien @sw33tsnow @kessi-21 @makayla-666 @lifes-project @burn1ngw00d @heeheehoohoohahahihi @lulurubberduckie @ravenpoe67 @jade1605 @contractedcriteria @lovely-ateez @gingergirl06 @kidd3ath @leed-bbg @blackhawkfanatic @suhmie @tulipsun-flower @ghosts-hoe @jaggersinclair @nomercyforthewarrior

1K notes · View notes

plasticflowersinahistorycemetery · 2 months ago

Text

exhibitionism

part III

Pairing: SugarDaddy!Ben x Fem!Reader

Summary: You agreed to his terms, but you don't really have any idea what that actually entails—not that it matters. Ben's going to show you exactly what it means to be his. Turns out the price of a drink might be a bit more than you'd originally thought.

Warnings: 18+!, Ben once again being his own warning, age gap, language, misogyny, drug consumption, smut (kissing, biting, marking, slapping, dirty talk, clitoral stimulation, overstim, forced orgasms, fingering, handjob, cunnilingus/oral, p in v, cum on face, throttling, rough sex, semi-public sex, somnophilia, sexsomnia, dub-con), mind games, manipulation, degradation, power imbalance, I may have missed some. (There's a bunch in this one, agh!)

Word Count: 7,146

A/N: I can only apologise for how long it's taken me to post this one -.- I went to the dentist today and (tw: mentions of drugs and painkillers) I had anaesthetic, then after I took strong painkillers—I really shouldn't have—and I felt like I smoked about an ounce of weed to myself for hours, so it took me a lot longer to finish this part up, edit, and then proofread. And honestly, I've probably still not done a proper job of it. The opening of this? Serious dub-con, which obviously is a big no-no... but it's this version of AU-richboy-motherfucker-Ben flaunting his fucking control. Possession. And I told y'all that this was gonna be a different breed of fic for me. I'm actively trying to make myself uncomfy (amongst other things) with this story, because it feels like good stories always leave you with a little pit in your stomach after reading. I got SO freaking excited when I got to writing about the bookstore and subsequent fucking because... bookstores are literally heaven. <3 like Reader obviously wasn't thriving in the boutiques, it wasn't her comfort-zone, but bookstores? Now that's where she can soak in the atmosphere, indulgently. I hope that comes across in my writing. Anyways, ramble over, here's part three... you know the goddamn drill: if the warnings above aren't evident yet, they certainly will be. I really hope you like this one. I really like it. All the love.

Without further ado: EXHIBITIONISM

Power is not taken. It is given.

A glance across the bar. A drink set down without a word. A hand at the small of your back, guiding you somewhere you don’t belong.

It starts small—a single indulgence, a breathless yes.

Then, suddenly, you are on display. Draped over his lap, diamonds at your throat, whiskey on your lips. A possession. A prize. A thing to be seen.

Because men like him do not love. They own.

You woke up floating.

Heavy-limbed. Warm. A deep, languid pull of pleasure threading through your veins, thick and honey-slow, drawing you up from sleep in waves. Your breath hitched, body trembling, hips shifting against something solid, something warm, the sharp, hot pleasure between your thighs sending sparks through your bloodstream, shooting up your spine like a live wire.

Fingers.

His fingers.

Two of them, deep, slow, curling inside you with perfect precision, teasing that gummy spot that had your stomach twisting, had your thighs clenching, had you already so fucking close before you even realised you were awake. A slow, lazy drag of his thumb over your clit.

You whimpered, body arching, eyes fluttering, and then, a wet, heavy pressure at your lips.

Thick. Hot. Ben’s cock, dragging slick precome across your mouth, smearing it slow as he watched you stir, watched you come back to yourself, watched you realise.

“‘Bout fuckin' time you woke up,” he murmured, low and smug, his voice gravel-thick, still warm with sleep, but dripping in satisfaction.

Your lashes fluttered, breath stuttering, body trembling as his fingers kept working you open, kept teasing you, kept coaxing you closer.

“Wanna come, sweetheart?” He murmured, voice mocking, silky, cock dragging over your jaw, your cheek, your mouth.

You whimpered, legs shaking, already so fucking gone.

Ben grinned, teeth flashing, watching you fall apart beneath him.

“Y’know, you make some real pretty noises in your sleep,” he mused, so fucking smug, fingers thrusting deep, dragging over that perfect spot, thumb circling slow, tight, making you clench down around him. “Didn’t even have to wake you up for it, you just started takin' it.”

You shuddered, body tightening, pleasure winding sharp, so close, so on edge, so ready to snap.

Ben laughed, voice low, taunting, his free hand dragging through your hair, fingers tightening at the base of your skull.

“Told you I was gonna give you a rough wake-up call,” he murmured, voice mocking, teasing, deliberate. “This is actually real fuckin' nice for you, huh?”

You tried to answer. Tried to breathe, but then his fingers curled deep, his thumb pressed down hard, and the pleasure hit you all at once, ripping through you, your body seizing, a wrecked, wrecked sob breaking free—

And the second your mouth parted, Ben pushed inside.

Thick. Heavy. Filling your mouth all at once, dragging across your tongue, pressing deep, holding you open, groaning loud, sharp, head tipping back as your throat fluttered around him.

“Jesus fuck, doll—”

Your breath hitched, body still trembling, still tight with pleasure, your own orgasm still wracking through you as Ben fisted his hand in your hair, thrust slow, shallow, letting you adjust, letting you feel it, letting you take it.

“So fuckin' good,” he groaned, hips pressing forward, deeper, savouring, owning. “Best fuckin’ way to wake up.”

Ben groaned, deep and wrecked, hips pressing forward, cock sliding deeper, thicker, stretching your mouth wide, making your throat flutter around him.

“Jesus fuckin' Christ on a cross, fuck—”

His fist tightened in your hair, keeping you right there, keeping you open, taking everything he was giving you. Your head was still fuzzy, still floating, drunk on pleasure, drunk on him, still warm and heavy-limbed from sleep and your orgasm, body loose and pliant.

You hadn’t even had time to think—to process—that you’d only known this man for maybe twelve hours.

It didn’t matter.

Because all you could focus on was how good he felt, how perfect he tasted, how completely he was using you, how his noises, his groans, his heavy, wrecked breaths, made you feel so special, so wanted, so fucking good.

Ben laughed, low and smug, watching you blink up at him, eyes glazed, lips stretched tight around him.

“Fuckin’ look at you,” he mocked, voice gravel-thick, dripping with indulgence, dragging his thumb over your cheek. “Still all fuzzy from coming, huh?”

His hips flexed, slow, testing, watching the way your throat fluttered, the way your body trembled beneath him.

You whimpered, barely aware, just accepting it.

Ben’s grin widened, something mean, something so fucking pleased.

“Fuckin’ knew you’d be good for me,” he muttered, hips snapping forward, a sharp thrust, shallow, controlled, but enough to make your eyes water, enough to make your breath stutter.

He groaned, deep, satisfied, tilting his head back. “Shit, sweetheart, your mouth—fuck.”

A slow, deep roll of his hips, a tightening of his grip in your hair.

“You just—fuck—you want it, don't you?” He murmured, voice thick, wrecked, smug. “Bet I could do whatever I fuckin' wanted to this pretty little throat, huh?”

A mocking hum, gravel-low, his free hand dragging down your cheek, thumb swiping at the spit collecting at the corner of your mouth. His hips jerked, breath catching, and suddenly, his grin dropped, his breath hitched. A sharp, wrecked curse, his grip in your hair tugging, fisting, tighter, rougher.

And then—

“Ah, fuck it. Your face is gettin’ painted.”

A sharp groan, his hips pulling back, his cock dragging from your mouth, hot and slick and aching, his grip tight as he stroked himself, the tip brushing over your lips, your cheeks, dragging over your tongue.

He jerked, groaned deep, wrecked, as his cum spilled hot across your lips, your cheekbones, your jaw, thick ropes of it painting your skin, dripping onto your tongue, dripping down your chin.

Ben hissed, smirking, breathing hard, watching you, taking in the mess, the sight of you, his, all fucked out and ruined.

Another groan, thick and low, as he pressed back inside, feeding you more, making sure you swallowed him down, making sure you took him completely.

“Good fuckin’ girl,” he muttered, gravelly, smug, satisfied. “Goddamn. You were made for this.”

Ben sank down onto the bed, pulled you up into his lap, then hummed low in his chest, fingers dragging slow over your cheek, collecting the mess he’d left there, his gaze hot, heavy, watching you.

“Made a real fuckin’ mess of you, huh?” He muttered, smirking, voice thick, wrecked with satisfaction.

You whimpered, body still boneless, still floating, still ruined from him.

Ben just grinned, dragging his cum-slick fingers down to your chin, scooping the rest from the corner of your mouth, then pressing it back against your lips.

“Open,” he murmured, mocking, fond, pressing slow, deliberate, watching your lips part for him, watching your tongue flick out, tasting him, yourself, everything.

A slow inhale, his smirk deepening as you sucked around his fingers, licking them clean, taking it all in like a good girl.

“There’s my girl,” he muttered, voice dropping low, pleased, rubbing his thumb over your tongue, feeling the way you suckled, letting him own you a little more.

Then he sighed, shaking his head, smirking like he was already thinking about how much worse he could ruin you later.

“You’re gonna have to put that dress back on,” he muttered, swiping his thumb over your swollen bottom lip, dragging it down slow, watching how your breath hitched at the touch. “But after we stop by your place, I wanna take you out.”

Your brows furrowed slightly, still floating, still coming back to yourself.

Ben grinned, amused, rubbing slow circles at your jawline.

“Wanna see what kinda shit you’d pick for yourself,” he murmured, “but I’m pickin’ some stuff too.” A pause. A knowing smirk. “Especially for when you’re here on weekends.”

You blinked up at him, then nodded, slow, hazy. But then, quietly, you murmured, “I don’t really need you to buy me clothes, Ben.”

A tut. A slow, mocking shake of his head.

“You gonna fuckin’ accept it,” he murmured, low, smug, indulgent, rubbing his hand up your bare thigh, gripping it hard, “or I’ll just pick shit myself and not give you a damn option.”

Your lips parted, surprised, but you just nodded again, giving in.

Ben grinned. “Good girl.”

You stretched, arms raising above your head, back arching like a lazy cat, letting out a small, contented squeaky noise, your body still heavy, still warm and loose from sleep and pleasure.

Ben laughed, low and rich, his grip at your thigh tightening before he leaned in, teeth flashing.

“Get your pretty ass up,” he murmured, eyes dark, hot, voice thick with warning, “before I bury my fuckin’ face between your legs.”

Your breath caught, a shiver running down your spine, but you listened. You slid off his lap, pulling your dress back on, the fabric still crumpled, still reeking of him, the night before still lingering on your skin, your hair, your lips.

Ben watched you the entire time, smirking, shameless, before standing himself, stretching broad and tall, his body all golden skin and lean muscle, before reaching for his jeans.

The way he wore them was devastating. Thick belt, silver buckle glinting, the fabric fitting in all the right ways, low on his hips, taunting, like he knew what he was doing.

Then—

A button-up, dark, crisp, sharp, his thick watch sliding over his wrist, rings slipping back onto his fingers, the weight of them clicking together, his hands dragging through his hair, pushing it back, off his forehead.

You stared.

Ben smirked.

Then he reached for you, grabbing your wrist, tugging you toward the bathroom, flipping the light on as he grabbed a toothbrush, pressing it into your palm. His own already between his teeth, moving slow, lazily, the domestic ease of it so stark against everything he had done to you this morning.

And yet—

It felt seamless. Like this was just what you did now. Like he was already making you part of his life.

You padded out into the living room, body still warm, still loose, still tingling with the aftershocks of everything he’d done to you. The air smelled thick with whiskey, smoke, and sex, last night still lingering in the space, still woven into the fabric of the night before.

Your dress shifted around your thighs as you bent down, reaching for your underwear where it had been left in front of the sofa—where he’d stripped you down, spread you open, and made you his.

A sharp tut broke the silence.

You stilled. Then, slowly, you turned your head, glancing over your shoulder at Ben, who was standing near the door, arms crossed, head tilted, watching you.

His expression was unreadable.

“No,” he said simply.

Your brows furrowed. “What?”

Ben cocked a single, thick eyebrow, eyes dark, knowing, and challenging. “You’re not puttin’ ‘em on.”

Your stomach dropped, a pulse of heat snapping down your spine.

You scoffed, straightening up, underwear still in your hand. “I can’t go out in this tiny dress without underwear on.”

Ben’s smirk was dangerous, his gaze taunting, smug, entirely too satisfied with himself. He tilted his head, that single brow lifting higher.

“You fuckin’ can,” he murmured, voice low, indulgent, a slow drag of his tongue over his bottom lip. “And you are.”

Your breath caught, thighs pressing together instinctively.

Ben grinned, catching it, seeing everything, knowing exactly what was happening in your head.

Then, sharp, commanding—

“Get over here.”

You swallowed, exhaling through your nose, and as you went to step forward. Your fingers instinctively twitched, your underwear still gripped in your fist.

Another sharp click of his tongue.

“Leave ‘em.”

Your breath hitched, but you obeyed. You dropped them back to the floor, the fabric crumpling, and walked straight to him, heart pounding in your ribs, stomach tightening.

Ben’s smirk deepened, pleased, his hand brushing over your hip, his grip warm and firm as he squeezed once, slow, deliberate.

“Good girl.”

A shiver snapped down your spine, and Ben just chuckled, pulling you toward the door, leading you out.

The morning air was crisp against your bare skin, the fabric of your dress barely covering anything, the cool breeze skating up your thighs.

Ben unlocked the car, a different one from the night before—sleek, low, expensive, a deep red, all money and power, loud and attention-grabbing. You swallowed as he slid in, the engine purring beneath his hands.

“Address,” he said, voice smooth as smoke and whiskey.

You gave it to him, and the moment he punched it into the GPS, his expression shifted—

Disgust. Absolute, unabashed disgust.

You bit your lip, fighting back laughter, because of course he’d be fucking horrified. His eyes flicked up to you, then back to the directions on the screen, then out the window as he turned onto the main road, lips pulling into a scowl.

You saw the exact moment he took in your neighbourhood, his hands tightening on the wheel, jaw tensing.

And you lost it. A loud, bright laugh escaped your lips, body shaking with it.

Ben just scowled deeper, one broad hand lifting to rub at his temple. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”

You wheezed, barely able to contain yourself as he made a slow turn onto your street, eyes flicking around, pure judgment written all over his face.

Ben sighed, exasperated, glancing toward the run-down building as he pulled up to the curb.

“If some dumb pussy touches my car, I’m killin' 'em.”

You cackled, throwing the door open and stepping out, gesturing dramatically for him to follow. Ben groaned, dragging a hand down his face, but ultimately stepped out after you, grumbling under his breath, already looking like he regretted every decision that led him here.

The building was old, not terrible, but definitely not nice. You led him inside, checking your post box, then heading toward the stairs. Ben sighed again, glancing around before following, dragging a heavy hand through his hair.

“No elevator?” He muttered, already annoyed.

You just grinned over your shoulder.

“Welcome to the real world, rich boy.”

Ben’s footsteps were fast, heavy, intentional, and before you could even react, he was right behind you, a sharp swat landing against your ass, making you yelp.

You twisted your head, wide-eyed, breath catching in your throat. Ben just smirked, pawing at you, hands gripping, squeezing, claiming, voice low and mocking.

“I live in the real world, sweetheart.”

You laughed, stepping higher, looking over your shoulder, eyes shining with amusement.

“This is my version of the real world.”

Ben huffed, shaking his head, grinning. “Yeah?”

His hands slid lower, fingers skimming the hem of your dress, pushing underneath, brushing over bare skin, and your stomach flipped.

“Not anymore,” he murmured, voice thick, certain, irrevocable. “My world’s yours now.”

You shook your head, lips parting to argue—

But then you heard it. A low chuckle. The rustle of fabric. And before you could react, cool air hit the backs of your thighs. Your dress was up, pulled high, your bare ass completely exposed, and your breath caught in your throat.

You gasped, yanking it back down, twisting on the stairs, glaring at him. “Ben!”

His brows furrowed, like you were being ridiculous, like this was a non-issue, like you hadn’t just been completely exposed in the middle of your apartment stairwell.

Then he grabbed your dress again, and pulled it back up.

Your breath hitched, mortified, eyes wide, hands fisting in the fabric, trying to pull it back down again, but Ben’s grip was firm, unyielding.

“Wanna see my pretty girl’s ass while she’s walkin’ up the stairs,” he murmured, eyes dragging over you, taking his time, savouring the view.

Your stomach twisted, heat rushing up your neck, panic spiking.

“Ben, it’s a public fucking stairwell!” You hissed, scandalised, horrified, twisting around, gripping the banister for support, shoving at his hand.

Ben just bit his lip, dark eyes dragging over your naked skin, taking his time, memorising it, owning it. Then, slowly, his gaze lifted, locking onto yours.

“If anyone looks,” he murmured, calm, deadly, quiet and certain, “I’ll break their fuckin’ neck.”

Your heart stuttered, stomach dropping, throat tightening.

Ben held your gaze, firm, unflinching, before patting your ass, voice mocking, teasing, but completely serious beneath it all.

“Better hurry up, sweetheart. Unless you want some poor fuck’s blood on your hands.”

Your face burned beet-red, humiliated, embarrassed, but soaked in arousal, body buzzing, pulse roaring in your ears.

You didn’t say another word. You spun forward, dragging him up the last flight, leading him to your hallway, heart pounding, the feel of his eyes on you the entire time making you shake with nerves and heat.

When you reached your door, you yanked your clutch open, fumbling for your keys, fingers slipping against the metal as you unlocked it, heart racing, feeling Ben’s presence at your back like a physical weight.

The door clicked open, and you dragged him inside before anyone could see.

Ben stepped inside, taking exactly one second to sweep his eyes over your space before exhaling slow, one hand dragging through his hair, the other planting on his hip.

His expression was unreadable.

But his silence spoke volumes.

Your apartment was small, modest, but yours. It had been built with limited space and even more limited funds, but that hadn’t stopped you from making it your own.

A cream loveseat sat opposite a vintage-looking armchair, both covered in pastel cushions, a soft throw draped over the back. A small wooden coffee table sat between them, lightwood, matching the side table nearby. More than anything, though—there were bookshelves.

Everywhere.

Overflowing, spilling over, double-stacked, books piled onto side tables, onto the nightstand, onto the floor, and Ben’s eyes dragged over them, taking in the titles, the bindings, the absolute literary graveyard you lived in.

Your space was gentle, artsy, laced with soft nostalgia and the kind of quiet beauty that made sense for you. Tiny artsy trinkets lined the shelves, a tiny wooden table with two mismatched chairs sat near the kitchen, a vase of wilted, dying wildflowers placed in the centre.

Ben exhaled again, slowly, hands planted on his hips, his head tilting as he took it all in.

You cleared your throat, moving toward the kitchen, voice casual. “Want a drink?”

No answer.

You glanced back, watching as he took slow steps, looking around, soaking it in, lips parted slightly, like he was seeing something he didn’t quite know how to process.

Then—

His eyes landed on the window. He moved toward it, pressing a broad palm against the frame, gaze flicking outside, the sound of traffic drifting up from below.

A quiet laugh, deep in his chest.

You furrowed your brows, stepping forward. “What?”

He turned, expression half-amused, half-something else, chin tilting toward the fire escape outside your window.

“That where you sit to read?” He asked.

Your brows furrowed further, eyes narrowing slightly. “Yes,” you answered, hesitant. “That’s where I like to read.”

Ben’s lips tugged down, an almost thoughtful frown, like he was considering something. A shift. A glance back at you.

“Where’s your bedroom?”

You scoffed, shaking your head, motioning for him to follow. “Come on.”

You led him toward the small hall, into a bedroom that was more of the same—small, but soft, delicate, lived-in. A double bed, lightwood frame, bedding pastel, frilly, a tiny dresser and matching single wardrobe standing against the wall.

Books were everywhere—stacked beside the window, stacked on the nightstand, tucked into the smallest corners, just waiting to be picked up and lived in.

Ben exhaled slow, stepping inside, eyes dragging over every detail, every piece of you, before something on the bed caught his attention.

A stuffed bear.

You saw it exactly when he did—

But he was faster. He reached down, fingers closing around the bear’s plush arm, lifting it up, inspecting it.

Your eyes widened, a horrified gasp catching in your throat, and in an instant, you lunged, snatching him back.

“That’s Eugene,” you blurted, clutching the bear to your chest, heart hammering, heat flashing up your face. “I’ve had him since I was a baby.”

Silence.

Then a deep, gravel-thick chuckle, low and amused, so fucking smug.

“Eugene?”

Your stomach dropped.

Ben smirked, arms crossing, head tilting. “That’s a stupid fuckin’ name.”

Your jaw dropped. “It’s not a stupid name!”

His grin widened, delighted, eyes dragging over you, still clutching the bear like your life depended on it.

“You’re adorable,” he muttered, shaking his head, grinning like the smug bastard he was.

You huffed, pressing Eugene tighter against your chest, scowling. But Ben just laughed, deep, rich, indulgent, before turning back to your tiny dresser, hands dragging across the wood, eyes sweeping your wardrobe, taking in the limited space, the minimal amount of clothing.

He nodded to himself, once, thoughtful, like he’d already decided something, and then turned back to you, grinning.

“You really are just a cute little thing, huh?”

You exhaled, shaking your head as you placed Eugene neatly atop the dresser, turning back to your drawers to pick something out for the day.

"Are you done judging my apartment yet?" You asked, voice dry, throwing a glance over your shoulder at him.

Ben nodded, too easily, like he’d made his decision already.

Then he said it.

"You’re not livin' here anymore."

You froze. Slowly, slowly, you turned to face him, blinking, lips parting. "Excuse me?"

Ben stood there, completely set, his expression final, unchallenged, like it was a decision already made. Like his word was law.

"I’ll find you somewhere nicer," he said, flat, casual, like it was the simplest thing in the world. "Not havin’ you livin’ in this shitty little space. In this—" He scowled, lips curling in absolute disgust. "—this fuckin' neighbourhood."

You laughed, loud, incredulous, because surely he was joking.

Ben’s brow lifted, his expression turning harder, sharper, annoyed.

"The fuck’s so funny?"

You shook your head, grinning, motioning vaguely around you. "I can’t just leave."

Ben’s grin dropped. His jaw ticked.

"You absolutely can."

Your stomach flipped, something tightening, something warning—

"You’re stayin’ at mine 'til tomorrow night anyway," he continued, voice even, matter-of-fact, like this was just how things were now. "Gives Butcher enough time to look into some places closer to my building."

Your breath hitched, your heart skipping a beat, panic flickering in your chest. "Ben—"

He wasn’t listening.

"I’ll make sure you got a little outside space, so you can read when it rains."

Your lips parted, words catching, sticking. This was too much. This was ridiculous.

"Ben, no," you breathed, shaking your head. "Ben, this is—"

Too much. Too fast. Too real.

You barely had time to process before he moved, gripping your ass, yanking you flush against him, his presence commanding, unrelenting, his hands rough, his voice dropping to something low, dangerous, final.

"Not fuckin’ up to you anymore."

Your breath left you in a rush, a shockwave rolling through your body, heart hammering, pulse roaring.

The gall of this fucking man.

Your stomach twisted, your mind spinning, thoughts racing.

You couldn’t just up and leave. What if this arrangement didn’t work out? Where the fuck were you supposed to go?

Then—

His mouth crashed onto yours. All tongue, all bite, all fucking force, like he wanted to brand you, consume you, remind you exactly who you belonged to now. You moaned into him, helpless, his hands kneading your ass rough, possessive, fingers digging in, owning you, staking his claim. He licked into your mouth, deep and hot, smothering, like he wanted to choke you with it, take you under completely.

You whimpered, weak, knees wobbling, head swimming, body giving in. You forced yourself to pull away, gasping, breaking the kiss reluctantly, shaken, breathless, every nerve buzzing, every limb weak.

Ben just grinned, cocky, satisfied, lips red, slick. Wrecked.

You exhaled, swallowing hard, turning back to your dresser. You pulled out two different outfits, laying them out neatly on the bed, before stepping back, arms outstretched, chin tilted up.

Ben’s eyes flicked to the bed, then back to you, his smirk deepening. A slow, pleased nod.

"Good girl."

Ben’s eyes were heavy on you as you slid into the sundress he’d picked, a soft cardigan draped over your shoulders, your fingers slipping into your chucks, tying the laces with quick, practiced motions.

He was silent, but you could feel him watching, like a predator tracking its prey, eyes dark, intent, cataloging every movement, every shift, every breath.

You ran a brush through your hair, smoothing the tangles from the night before, the tension of the morning still settling in your bones, still buzzing in your chest.

Ben slapped his hands together, breaking the silence, voice gruff, expectant. “Come on.”

He grabbed your wrist and dragged you back down to the car.

The drive was quick, the city flashing by in streaks of morning sun and steel, your neighbourhood disappearing into something sleeker, something richer.

You knew where this was going before he even parked.

Boutiques.

Your stomach twisted as he led you inside the first one, racks of silk and lace and delicate materials stretching out before you, the air filled with the scent of leather and perfume. The lights were too bright, blinding, like a spotlight shining straight at you—making it evident that you had no business standing around such extravagant and lavish fabric. Ben was already moving, hands skimming through hangers, eyes narrowed in focus, decisive, ruthless, sure.

He plucked a dress from the rack, holding it up. “This?”

You bit your lip. “Ben, it’s so expensive.”

He rolled his eyes, exasperated, before grabbing another. “What about this then? Fuck, sweetheart, come on.”

You hesitated, fingers twitching, eyes dragging over the price tags, heart pounding.

You couldn’t do it. You couldn’t pick.

Ben sighed sharply, grabbing you by the waist, pulling you against him in the middle of the store, uncaring, unbothered, completely indifferent to who was watching. Big, warm hands splaying wide against your back and waist, holding you there, possessing you.

Then—

A bite to your jaw, sharp and teasing, followed by a slow, lingering nip to your bottom lip. His voice, low and smug, a whisper just for you.

“If you’re a good girl and you pick some clothes and things you like…” A pause. A beat. “I’ll take you to a bookstore after.”

Your breath hitched, eyes widening, something bright sparking behind your ribs, something sharp and eager, something so painfully obvious that the second Ben saw it. His grin stretched slow, sinful, victorious. He had you.

You exhaled sharply, defeated, muttering, “Fine.”

Ben’s chuckle rumbled low in his chest, his hand squeezing at your waist before he released you. “Atta girl.”

So you picked.

Hesitant at first, but then more assured, more certain, fingers brushing fabrics, grabbing soft knits, casual blouses, comfortable dresses, things that felt like you.

And Ben did the same. Only, his choices were…

Less you. More him.

Thin straps. Short hems. Deep plunging necklines. Tight and revealing and scanty. But you didn’t argue, because in the next store, it only got worse.

Shoes. Strappy little heels, sleek and minimal, elegant and dangerous.

“These,” Ben murmured, holding up a pair of barely-there stilettos, eyeing them like a fucking prize. “I want you naked in these.”

Your laugh bubbled out before you could stop it, heat flashing up your spine, face burning.

Ben just grinned, pleased, slipping the shoes into the growing pile.

Then lingerie. Tiny, lacy, barely-there sets.

Ben was relentless. Piece after piece, holding them up, grinning as your face burned hotter, making mocking little hums when he found ones he particularly liked. By the time he was satisfied, your arms were full, your head spinning, the sheer amount of money spent on you making your stomach twist.

You chewed your lip, glancing at the packed bags, overwhelmed.

Ben watched you, saw it, and before you could spiral, a sharp clap of his hands, voice gruff, certain.

“Let’s go.”

You blinked. “Where?”

Ben’s smirk turned lethal.

“The fuckin' bookstore, sweetheart.”

Your heart jumped, something soft, warm, excited spreading through you, and before you could even process it, he had you in the car, heading across the city, taking you exactly where you wanted to go.

The scent of old paper and ink swelled around you, the quiet, reverent hush of the bookstore wrapping around your bones like a second skin. Dim amber light pooled in soft halos overhead, illuminating rows upon rows of shelves that loomed like cathedral pillars, stacked high with the kind of stories that felt like home.

This was sanctuary. A temple. A place that smelled like history and longing, the weight of every story pressing down on you in the most delicious way.

And then there was him.

Ben was flush against your back, broad and burning, radiating heat like a furnace. He was impatient, hands constantly on you, gripping your waist, your hips, fingers squeezing like he wanted to leave marks even through your brand-new clothes. Clothes he had insisted on buying you. Clothes he had piled onto counters, thrown into bags, spent more money on than you’d ever let yourself consider.

And yet, here? The bookstore? Here was where you would accept indulgence without argument.

You trailed your fingertips over the spines of classics, whispering titles under your breath. Poe. Wilde. Shelley. Darker works next, running over Dostoevsky’s bleak philosophies, Dante’s infernal descent, each one pulling at you with their heavy, inescapable gravity. Then, onto the poetic, the romantic—words spun like gold thread, woven into something aching and eternal.

This was everything.

Ben made a low sound behind you, something between a sigh and a growl, burying his face against the crook of your neck. His beard scratched deliciously at your skin as he nipped at the spot just beneath your ear, exhaling against you, his voice thick with something molten.

“Fuck’s sake, doll,” he muttered, hands slipping lower, gripping your hips, pulling you back into the hard line of his body.

“I’m standin’ here about to bust in my fuckin’ jeans and you’re—” he gestured at the shelves in front of you with a short, impatient movement, “—gettin’ all dreamy over a buncha fuckin’ books.”

You bit your lip, fingers closing around a particularly battered copy of Paradise Lost, trying and failing to ignore the way his grip tightened on you, fingers digging in, desperate to ground himself. His mouth trailed down, teeth scraping along your jaw, another groan pressed into your skin.

“Y’know what I wanna do?” He rasped, low and dangerous, his voice meant for violence, his words meant for you alone. “Wanna get you back to mine, spread you out, pump you full ‘til you’re drippin'. Make you sit on my fuckin’ face ‘til I can’t breathe, get you cryin’ all over me ‘cause you can’t take anymore—”

You exhaled sharply, knees going weak, thighs squeezing together instinctively as heat coiled low in your belly. You gripped the book tighter, trying to focus, trying to remember where you were, but Ben—Ben was relentless. His hands slid up beneath your brand-new shirt, rough palms skating across your stomach, fingers spanning wide against your ribs, holding you there, keeping you exactly where he wanted.

“Ben—” you tried, your voice coming out breathy, barely above a whisper.

“Fuck it,” he cut you off, tone edged with that gruff finality, like he’d already made up his mind. “Get ‘em all.”

Your brow furrowed, your dazed mind struggling to catch up. “What?”

“The books,” he said, like it was obvious, voice dripping with exasperation. “Fuckin’ get every single one of ‘em.”

You blinked, stunned, lips parting to protest, but he was already moving, reaching past you and plucking stacks from the shelves, shoving them into your arms like it was nothing. A dangerous glint sparked in his eyes, jaw ticking with impatience.

“Ben, I don’t need—”

“Don’t give a fuck what you need,” he gritted out, snatching the Paradise Lost copy from your hands and tossing it onto the growing pile. “You’ll take ‘em. Every last one.”

Before you could argue, before you could do anything other than gape at him, he grabbed you by the wrist, dragging you to the register, dumping the books onto the counter with an utterly dismissive wave of his hand. The poor cashier barely blinked, used to customers with too much money and too little patience, scanning them through as Ben shifted behind you, his hands back on you, his mouth back against your ear.

“Fuckin’ piece of work,” he muttered, voice bordering on a growl, like he couldn’t believe you. “Whole new fuckin’ wardrobe, and you get all soft-eyed over books instead.”

That broke you. You laughed—properly laughed, the sound bubbling up out of you before you could help it, head tilting back against his shoulder. And the thing was, he wasn’t even trying to be funny, wasn’t trying to make you laugh, but his delivery—the sheer frustrated disbelief in his tone—was hilarious.

He pulled back just enough to look down at you, scowling, but there was something softer behind the glare, something almost fond.

“You’re laughin’ at me,” he accused, his hold tightening, but you only laughed harder, trying to suppress the grin overtaking your face.

“A little bit,” you admitted.

Ben grumbled, but he couldn’t keep up the charade. His lips twitched like he was fighting his own smirk, like he couldn’t quite resist the way your laughter curled around him, soaked into his bones.

Still, he rolled his eyes, grumbling under his breath as he reached into his pocket and shoved a ridiculous amount of cash into the cashier’s hands without waiting for the total.

“C’mon,” he said, voice rough as he slung an arm around you, dragging you toward the door, his grip firm and possessive. “Gotta get you back before I fuckin’ lose my mind.”

You followed, books in hand, warmth in your chest, laughter still lingering on your lips. He was impossible. A wrecking ball of impatience and rough affection, of greed and need and unrelenting, all-consuming hunger.

And you didn't think you'd have him any other way.

The ride back to his building was a blur of neon streaks and city lights, the low rumble of the car vibrating through your bones as Ben floored it through intersections, breaking speed limits like they were a personal affront.

One hand gripped the wheel in a vice, the other flexed restlessly against your thigh, fingers twitching like he was barely holding himself back. You could feel the tension radiating off him, like a storm wound tight, ready to break.

He barely even put the car in park before he was out, throwing the door shut behind him. The books, the bags—he didn’t give a single fuck about them. Someone else would handle it. He jerked his chin at one of the building’s staff.

“Get that shit upstairs.”

Didn’t even wait for a response.

You had barely unbuckled your seatbelt before he was yanking open your door, grabbing your wrist, hauling you out onto unsteady legs. The air outside was thick and humid, but it was nothing compared to the heat coming off him in waves. He didn’t even slow his stride as he dragged you toward the building, toward the private elevator that led to his penthouse. No interruptions.

The second the doors slid shut, he was on you.

A snarl ripped from his throat as he shoved you back against the mirrored wall, mouth claiming yours in a brutal, consuming kiss, all tongue and teeth and hot, growling need. His hands were everywhere—knotting in your hair, yanking your head back so he could suck bruises into your jaw, your throat. His other hand was palming your ass, gripping hard, fingers digging deep like he wanted to leave bruises, like he wanted to brand you beneath his touch.

“Gonna ride me soon as we get in,” he growled against your lips, voice raw and wrecked with hunger. “Gonna fold you in half and fuck you ‘til you don’t know your own fuckin’ name.”

Your fingers clutched at his shoulders, at the thick muscles of his back, but it only spurred him on. He wedged a thigh between yours, pressed you down against the hard muscle, grinding you against him like he needed you to feel how desperate he was.

“I could fuck you right here,” he muttered, voice thick and dark with filth. “Right against this fuckin’ wall. Spread those pretty legs and fill you up. Bet you’d love it.”

Your nails dug into his biceps, thighs clenching around his leg, and he felt it—felt the way your body responded to every word. His grin was wicked, breathless.

“Yeah, you like that, don’t you?” His teeth scraped against your throat, tongue following the path of his bite. “Like me talkin’ about how I’m gonna wreck this tight little fuckin’ cunt. How I’m gonna stuff you so full of my cum, you won’t be able to fuckin’ walk.”

The elevator chimed. The doors slid open.

Before you could take a breath, he grabbed you, hauled you up, threw you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing.

You yelped, fists slamming against his back, but he just swatted your ass once—hard. Then again. And the third time? That one had you gasping, a sharp, stinging heat blooming across your skin. Instinctively, your hands scrambled down his back, gripping the thick muscle of his ass in retaliation.

He let out a rough bark of laughter, squeezing your thigh as he carried you through the front door to the penthouse.

“Grabby little thing,” he taunted, voice dripping with amusement. “You’re lucky I like it.”

You sank your teeth into the hard plane of his back, and he groaned, fingers digging into your thigh, pinching the tender flesh there.

Then he was moving. Fast. Determined. Possessed.

He stormed into the kitchen, sending a chair skidding across the tile in his path. He didn’t slow. Didn’t hesitate. Just reached out, knocked half the shit off the counter, and threw you down on it.

Air punched out of your lungs from the impact.

Your new pants? Gone. Ripped down with a single motion, tossed aside like they were nothing more than an obstacle. He shoved your legs apart, pushed your knees up to your chest, spreading you wide open for him.

His pupils were blown, his chest heaving, a primal hunger carved into the sharp angles of his face.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he breathed, voice hoarse with reverence. “Look at you.”

Then he was on you.

His mouth latched onto you like a man starved, groaning so deep it vibrated through your core. His hands—massive, greedy—held you open, kept you exactly where he wanted. His tongue worked you over, hot. Wet. Obscene. Licking into you like he wanted to consume every part of you.

He growled against you, the sound muffled, vibrating straight through your cunt. He licked deep, long strokes, sucked at your clit, shaking his head slightly like he was drunk on it.

“All fuckin’ mine,” he muttered, voice wrecked, spit-slick and desperate. “This fuckin’ pussy—mine.”

His eyes rolled back, fingers flexing against your thighs. He looked like a man unhinged, lost in it, absolutely devouring you like he needed it more than air.

“Fuck, doll—fuck—tastes so good—” He groaned, the sound pure filth, his hips grinding against the counter like he couldn’t not.

“Could fuckin’ die with my face buried in this pussy.”

And then he doubled down.

Sucked harder, licked faster, fucked his tongue into you with a desperation that sent you arching, gasping, hands scrabbling at the countertop. He growled, low and threatening, holding you down, keeping you there, keeping you open, making sure you took it.

“Takin’ it so fuckin’ good, baby—shit, you were made for this.”

Your vision blurred, your legs trembling in his hold. He was relentless, obscene, groaning into you like this was all he ever wanted, like this was the only thing that mattered.

And God help you, you loved it.

The second you shattered under his tongue, Ben pulled back with a sharp breath, his beard slick, his mouth bruised and swollen, pupils blown wide as he grinned down at you.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, exhaling through his nose, and then his gaze dropped to you—twitching, breathless, sprawled out like a wreck over his pristine marble counters.

“That was fuckin’ pathetic.”

You barely had a moment to recover before he was flipping you onto your stomach, dragging you back so your hips hung off the counter’s edge. His strength was effortless, his grip bruising as he yanked you where he wanted you. He didn’t waste time, didn’t ease you into it. One second you were catching your breath, the next—

Slap.

His palm cracked against your ass, hard enough to have you gasping, gripping at the counter.

“Fall apart the second I put my mouth on you,” he sneered, fingers digging into the fresh sting of your skin, kneading before delivering another hard slap. “Get so fuckin’ needy, huh?”

You moaned, toes curling against the tile, your hips pressing back instinctively. His rough chuckle scraped down your spine, dark and mean, and then you heard the metallic clink of his belt being undone. The sound sent a violent shudder through you, anticipation tightening every muscle in your body.

Ben grunted as he freed himself, his cock heavy and aching in his fist as he lined up, dragging himself through your slick folds before slamming inside, all the way to the hilt in one brutal thrust.

You screamed, arching, nails scraping against the counter, and he just groaned, sinking his teeth into your shoulder, biting down hard as he held himself deep.

“Fuck yeah,” he exhaled against your skin, thick fingers curling around your throat from behind, dragging you up, bending you back at an angle that made every thrust hit just right.

“So fuckin’ tight. Always so fuckin’ tight for me.”

You gasped, his arm unrelenting around your throat, holding you up like it was nothing, like you weighed nothing. He was using you, owning you, claiming you with every brutal snap of his hips.

The cold marble bit into your hipbones, a delicious counterpoint to the blistering heat of him. His free hand slid down, gripping at your ass, squeezing, groping, pulling you open wider so he could watch himself split you apart.

“Gonna keep you just like this,” he muttered, breath ragged, voice mean. “Bend you over every fuckin’ counter in this place—”

Slap.

“—Keep you stuffed so full of my cum you look knocked up.”

You whimpered, your body trembling under his relentless pace, every punishing thrust pushing you closer and closer to that breaking point again.

“You fuckin’ love it.” His teeth scraped against your jaw, fingers tightening around your throat, controlling the very air you breathed. “Love lettin’ me use you, huh?”

You moaned a broken yes, and he growled, the sound primal, vicious, something feral. His grip on your ass tightened, nails digging in before another sharp slap made you jolt in his hold.

“Yeah, you do.” He huffed a laugh, but there was nothing amused about it—just raw, unhinged possession. “Let me wreck this perfect little fuckin’ body. Let me have it—all of it.”

Your walls fluttered around him, that tight pull dragging a guttural groan from his chest. You were so fucking close—

Ben groaned, forehead pressing against your temple, his thrusts turning rougher. Sharper. Deeper.

“You don’t wanna take pretty clothes from me,” he gritted out, punctuating each word with another snap of his hips, “but you go all fuckin’ doe-eyed over some bullshit books.”

A sob of pleasure tore from your throat, your whole body tightening around him, and he felt it—felt the way you clenched, the way your legs shook.

“Yeah, that’s it, baby,” he groaned, fingers squeezing around your throat as his pace turned brutal, fucking into you like he wanted to break you.

“Fuckin’ come. Come for me—now.”

Your whole body seized, pleasure consuming you like wildfire, dragging a ragged cry from your lips. You convulsed in his hold, clenching down on him so fucking tight that he snarled, hips stuttering, burying himself deep as he followed you over the edge, spilling inside you with a vicious, guttural sound.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The only sound in the penthouse was your ragged breathing, the distant hum of city lights through the massive windows.

Ben exhaled hard, pressing a bruising kiss against the side of your face before muttering, voice still thick and wrecked with lust, “You ain’t goin’ back to that shithole.”

You barely had the energy to lift your head, still shivering, still trying to catch your breath. “Seriously?”

“You heard me.” He grunted, still buried deep inside you, his grip possessive, immovable. “You’re stayin’ here. Gettin’ you a real fuckin’ place. No more of that run-down, rat-infested shit.”

You huffed, a weak little laugh, but there was no arguing with him.

Not when he was still inside you. Not when his fingers were still bruising your hips, keeping you in place like he wasn’t done with you yet. Not when his teeth were grazing your shoulder again, voice dipping into something lower, darker.

“You’re mine, baby,” he murmured, breath ghosting against your damp skin. “And I take care of what’s mine.”

@mostlymarvelgirl @losers-clvb @lunaleah. @itshellfire @drakulana @sl33pylilbunny @suckitands33 @nevercameraready @kayleighwinchester @lyarr24 @imtheworst123 @podiumackles @spxideyver <3

#pfiahc writes #my writing #soldier boy x reader #the boys #soldier boy #soldier boy fanfiction #soldier boy smut #soldier boy x you #the boys smut #soldier boy fic #soldier boy au #the boys fanfic #the boys au #the boys fanfiction #soldier boy x female reader #the boys x female reader #the boys x reader #the boys x you

197 notes · View notes