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nerdygirlramblings · 5 months ago

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Stuck on Reader being someone like Penelope Garcia from Criminal Minds, stationed in the US under Laswell

Off to See the Wizard (1)

eventual poly!141xfem!reader

TW: mentions of canon-typical violence

"You'll find exfil three klicks north, far side of lake," you say. You have the intel about their op open on the monitor to your left; the time in the corner reads 6:30pm. Your stomach grumbles, reminding you you skipped lunch, and you tell yourself you'll eat dinner when the op is done. Your eyes flick back to the time on the monitor in front of you. You can see Task Force 141's helicopter waiting; local time reads 4:00am. It's been a long few days, and you can't imagine how tired they are.

"tch, lass, 's a loch," Sergeant MacTavish whines. Despite sounding a little like a toddler needing a nap, his breathing pattern tells you he's moving quickly, trying to stay quiet.

"Copy that, Sergeant," you chuckle back. "Exfil's north of the loch." You wait a beat before adding, softly, "Get home safe, boys."

Captain Price's voice rumbles in your ear, "Copy that, Oz." He, too, waits a beat and says, "Thanks for the help."

You roll your eyes at the nickname: Oz, like the great and powerful wizard of. When you asked, Sergeant Garrick said it was due to how you seemed to anticipate their needs when you're Watcher. You tried telling them over and over again anyone doing your job would do the same, but they all swore you were Laswell's best. Their best. "You know there's no place like home, luv, and you make sure we get back every time," the Sergeant said. It made your heart flutter to hear it, and you have no idea how much their affection for you grows each time your magic gets them home safely.

You pull yourself out of your musings and focus on the drone feed for the next twenty minutes, needing to see all four heat signatures make it to the helo. As they cross into view, you immediately notice something off. They aren't filing in one at a time like usual. There's one out front and three together behind the first man.

"Bravo-6, what happened? I'm seeing unusual movement at the helo,” you say. You wait several long moments, listening to the crackle of satellite communications. You're about to say more when the Captain sighs.

"Gaz took a bullet," he said calmly. "It's a through and through, and Ghost already put Celox on it."

You try to calm your breathing, but even though you know, you know, these men have dangerous jobs, you can't help your reaction. One of your boys - not yours, not yours - is hurt, and you're an ocean and a half away. "Bravo-6, I'm putting in a forward call to your temporary base," you tell him as you bring up the base's medical building information over the op intel. "They'll be waiting on the tarmac for you." You haven't spoken to them yet, but you will make sure someone is there to take care of Sergeant Garrick.

"See, Oz, always ten steps ahead," the aforementioned soldier chuckles in your ear. Despite the distance, you can hear the strain in his voice.

“Don’t try to sweet talk me, Sergeant,” you scold. “Keep your strength,” you say more softly. “I- we want you back in one piece.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he responds quietly.

Your office is quiet for the next few weeks. Laswell directs most operations to other groups, giving the 141 time to rest and recover, and while you support whomever Laswell tells you, your work is mostly with the 141. You've been their primary point of contact for nearly a year now.

Despite not covering them in the field, you're a bloodhound, following any scrap of gossip about your boys. You know after the bullet tore through his thigh on that last op, Sergeant Garrick - “Gaz, please, Oz. Or Kyle,” he insisted softly when you checked in - had multiple surgeries to repair the wound.

Months back, during an op that had them embedded on a snowy tundra for more than two weeks, you found yourself chatting quietly to whomever was on watch during your shift. You were their anchor to the real world, "Oor very ohn angel on the airwaves," Sergeant MacTavish cooed. One long, quiet night - local time - Lieutenant Riley mentioned some of the things from home they missed. You squirreled the information away, as you did everything you learned about them.

While Kyle was in surgery, you sent a care package to their barracks, timing the delivery with their return to Hereford. You needed to feel like you were doing something to aid in everyone's recovery. You didn't expect to receive a call from Captain Price - "None of this Captain stuff, yeah? Yer not one o' my men. It's Price or John to you, dove." - thanking you for "making the barracks feel a little more like home."

While Kyle recovers, Laswell sends the others out sporadically on short missions. You make sure to be on this side of the monitor when any of them are deployed. It's superstitious, but you fear what will happen if you aren't there to watch their backs. You keep Sergeant MacTavish from walking right into a hostile camp whose heat signatures barely registered on the drone. You'd missed it too, until a blip from what had to be the terror cell's servers made you look closer. Afterwards he says,"Ya watched me clear the place, bon. Ya knoo how ah got mah name. 'S time ya use it, ya ken?"

Another time you're watching John and Lieutenant Riley on a mission to liberate human cargo. The Lieutenant is in his sniper nest, waiting for the buyer, plying you with his dry humor as he's done before, and this time you have a response. "Hey, Lieutenant, why do seagulls fly over the sea?" You give him a moment to think before continuing, "Because if they flew over the bay, they'd be bagels."

He groans and follows with, "If we're trading jokes that bad, Oz, call me Simon. No leftenant in his right mind would chuckle at that rubbish." Unlike the others, he didn't want to give you the choice of using his call sign. He was no Ghost to you.

As each man offers more of himself to you, you fall harder. You are not aware they do it because they are all falling for you too and are trying to break down the walls between you.

Five weeks after Kyle's surgery, he's deemed fit for duty, and Laswell mentions an op that's going to embed the boys in the desert for close to two months at least. She wants someone forward at Hereford, acting under her direct authority, to minimize delays with intel, communications, and decisions. Unbeknownst to you, Price has all but demanded Kate send you.

She comes into your office early, startling you as you read over the details of the 141's new operation. It worries you: eight weeks embedded in Uzbekistan, where intel says there's been an uptick in black market trafficking of both weapons and people. The 141 are being tasked with sorting enemy from friend, identifying their buyers, routing their sources, and cutting off the supply chain. It's a massive undertaking, one you're sure will take longer than predicted. Your heart aches for what your boys will have to do.

Laswell stands in your doorway and says your name, pulling you from dark daydreams. "Yes, ma'am?" you ask.

"You got a go bag?" You don't answer. In theory you know what a go bag is, but you've never needed one in all the years you've worked for her, and she knows it. "I have a forward assignment for you. Three months, maybe more." She reads the confusion in your face and continues. "The 141's new op is bigger than we've done in quite some time. I need eyes and ears I trust over there, able to make smart decisions on the fly, and they need someone whose priority is a successful mission, and that includes getting them home safe." She pauses and lets the information settle. Then she holds your gaze. "That's you, Oz. I know it, and more, the boys know it. Other than me, you're our best chance of pulling this off the way it needs to be done."

You don't even need a moment to think. "What should I bring, and when do I leave?"

Laswell smiles wide.

In short order you're boarding a military transport with two duffle bags and a hard-side case full of your tech. Laswell said you'd be put up in the barracks and be given a secure workspace in one of the base's office buildings.

The flight is uneventful, so you spend the time mentally preparing for finally meeting the 141 in person. You feel like you know them from the little glimpses you've had into their lives, but this will be your first true interaction with them. You hope they aren't disappointed to see the woman behind the curtain.

You're going over your role for the hundredth time when the plane finally lands. You grab your bags and follow other personnel off the back of the bird into a damp, overcast day. Your watch says 11:00, but with the weather, it could be any time really. You want to settle your things down and find the base canteen for lunch before setting up your work space. As much as your heart thrums in your chest about finally meeting your boys, you remind yourself this is a job.

Price stands inside the open hanger door, watching everyone exit the transport. Laswell told him you'd be arriving today, and he wants to be here to greet you. He knows if he said something - if the boys knew you were the intelligence specialist Laswell was sending them - he'd have had to fight them all to stay away. He knows they're all a little in love with you. If he's honest with himself, he is too. Which is why he needs to run interference, or they might scare you off.

He finally sees a woman in civvies with a nondescript duffle bag slung over each shoulder and rolling a shiny silver piece of luggage that screams fancy technology. He walks over, catching your eye as you take in the details of your new surroundings. You don't startle much as he approaches; he likes that you keep your cool. That combined with the look on your face that isn't delight or awe, just a cool calculation, filing information away for later, raises you in his esteem even more. You slow your stride until he's right in front of you.

"Hello," you say cordially. Price is a little surprised. You're usually much warmer than this. But then he realizes he's never seen your picture and only knew it was you because everyone else on the plane was clearly a soldier. Perhaps you don't know who he is. Yet.

"Oz, dove, so glad to have you," he rumbles, holding out a hand. He sees the moment his words hit, your eyes opening a fraction wider, mouth popping open a bit.

"Oh! Captain Price?" You're hesitant but proffer your hand to shake his. You know his voice over comms, but in person, the rich timbre is more rounded and melodic. You'd question it, but he's the only one who's ever called you dove.

"'s me," he replies, warm hand wrapping around yours, "An' I'm not yer Captain, remember?" You feel his callouses against your palm, and you smile widely at him. His moustache twitches, and you see his crows feet crinkle. He seems pleased.

He reaches over and snags one of the duffles from your shoulder before you can muster a protest. He leans down for your equipment, but you hold fast to the handle. "Sorry, sir. Can't let this go 'til I've got it in a secure location." He hums at that, and you swear his smile grows.

"Knew you were who we needed here,' he says quietly. He looks you over again. "You must be tired. Let's get you settled, yeah?"

"That sounds lovely," you tell him. You follow in his wake as he makes his way across the base. He points out various buildings as you pass them: medical (not that you'll need it), gym (not that you'll want it), armoury (not that you're allowed in it), mess (not canteen), and various office buildings. Price stops at this last destination, leading you to the secure room (keypad entry only and you get to set the code) where you drop your equipment. For now, it's enough that it's in a safe place. You can set it up after some food and sleep. The 141 doesn't ship out for this op for another week, so you have time to settle in.

After you lock the door behind you, Price takes you past the training grounds to where the classrooms and barracks are. "This isn't much, but it's ours," he says, a little bashfully, ushering you into a small building on the edge of the training ground. You notice 'TF 141' painted in black over the door of the grey building. "Welcome to your temporary home away from home."

You stand in the entryway and look at Price. Clearly your emotions are all over your face because he huffs out a laugh. "Didn't Laswell tell you we were putting you up in our barracks?"

You splutter, shocked. No, she certainly did not! "She simply told me the barracks. I had no idea I'd be..." You wave your hand around the space. How will you cope with basically living with these men whom you've grown so fond of? You panic. They'll be able to read your feelings a mile away. They're highly trained SAS soldiers.

Price waits you out, silently cataloguing your physical changes. Your eyes dart around, never staying on one thing for long. You're breathing just a hair faster now, and through your mouth as if desperately trying to fill your lungs. There's a bead of sweat forming at your hair line. He can tell you're nervous, but he doesn't realize he's the cause, him and the rest of the 141, so he says, "If it's a problem, Oz, we can find a bunk in the women's quarters with the recruits. Laswell and I jus' thought you might prefer the quiet of personal quarters instead."

You quickly come back to yourself. "No, no, it's fine!" You know your voice is pitched too high, but you can't help it. You're being offered a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to live with these men and you refuse to lose it. "I was just a little surprised," you rush to continue. "I don't mind if you all don't." You look at Price and hope your smile isn't as deranged as it feels.

He chuckles softly, and the sound causes warmth to blossom in your chest. "A'right then. Come see the place, then I'll introduce you to the boys." He points down a short hallway to the left, noting where his and Leftenant (not lieutenant like you've been calling him) Riley's offices are and telling you there's one the Sergeants use that you're welcome to. In front of you are a pair of double doors Price says hide the common room and kitchen area. There's a door to your right he takes you through, and this is the living quarters with a communal bathroom at the far end. Most of the doors are closed, though a few are propped open. "Most task force units have nearly a dozen members, but we only got us four, so there's plenty of extra space. Take any open room ya want, dove." You almost ask where everyone else is to position yourself best, but in the end you take the interior room closest to the bathroom.

Your last stop is the shared space. You aren't sure what to expect from a space shared by a group of men with such very different personalities, but stepping in, it reminds you of the fraternity living spaces you'd been in during college. Two worn but comfortable looking couches and a mixed collection of wingback chairs and recliners are arranged in front of a large television. Wires peek out from an entertainment center under it, and you suspect more than one gaming system is hidden behind the doors. A few bookshelves stand like sentinels along the back wall, covered in various books and movies and games. To the left is a small kitchenette. You see an electric kettle and coffee maker on the counter next to a microwave and hot plate with cabinets beneath. There's a small refrigerator too.

You take in all these details in an instant before settling on the most important thing: the other members of the 141, who have all sat up, conversation forgotten, as Price leads you into the room. You barely have time to consider what they must make of you as Price starts introductions. He starts with his men, pointing first to a man who is the living embodiment of the Tasmanian Devil Looney Tunes character, all compact muscle and startlingly blue eyes with the most ridiculous, and completely against regulation, haircut you've ever seen. "That's Sergeant John MacTavish, but you can call him Soap." Price must not know you've been urged to do just that. He continues around the room to an absolute beast of a man: nearly as broad as he is tall in his seat and covered entirely in black. "Leftenant Riley, goes by Ghost." You blink; that's not at all what he told you, though you realize he never gave you his callsign at all. "And Sergeant Kyle Garrick. We call 'im Gaz." Price is pointing to a brown-skinned man who, if you weren't seeing him with your own eyes, you wouldn't believe really looked that good.

You're about to introduce yourself to the room when you catch a slight smirk on Price's face. He puts a hand on your lower back so gently you think it's an unconscious gesture. With a little pressure, he pushes you further into the space the men inhabit. "Boys, meet Laswell's intelligence agent, Oz, the Great and Powerful."

an: Whelp, this spiraled quickly out of my control. There is absolutely more as I haven't even gotten started.

series masterlist | main masterlist

#cod #poly!141 #poly!141 x reader #tf 141 #tf 141 x reader #nerdygirl says #john price #simon riley #johnny mactavish #kyle garrick #off to see the wizard

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lxvvie · 1 year ago

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Couples Shit with Simon Riley, Part 2:

Thinking Simon is asleep when he isn't. Or so he says. Case in point: Simon in all his cattiness made you his pillow. Your nails were working miracles scratching along his scalp which had him dozing off and lightly snoring. Or so you thought. You heard him grumble, "Why'd you stop, luvie?" when you moved your hand. He'll deny he was asleep, too, like the peepaw that he is.

To piggyback off the first point, Simon will sometimes quietly grab your hand and put it back on his head if you stop scratching his scalp. If you stop a second time, he will have experienced a betrayal man and cat were never supposed to know, and it's Affection Denied™ for the rest of the day lmao.

Texting each other when you're in two separate rooms because you don't feel like talking out loud. Sometimes, you'll text him some crazy shit that'll warrant him leaving the room he was in to silently judge you.

Absolutely loving to watch him shave in the morning because Simon is so sexy when he's concentrating, eyebrows furrowed, and those brown eyes staring intensely in the mirror.

You and Simon shit-talking each other in bed because you'll complain about being hot with the covers and cuddle pile you two have going on but never really doing anything to change it. You two actually can't get a good night's sleep without being up under the other.

Simon banning you from watching horror films because, for the hundredth bloody time, he didn't hear shit, love. He actually did and it was the neighbors but he can't be arsed to get out of bed.

Speaking of neighbors, it's you and Simon lying in bed, listening to the neighbors make sex and when it's done, Simon goes, "Mm. A new record," and he sounds so unimpressed which causes you to guffaw. Oh my fucking god—

Getting in the dog house with Simon because when your hands are cold, you stick them down in his pants to rest on his thighs because it's hilarious to see him jump and that's what he gets for not turning the heat up. Simon counterargues that he did turn it up. Three degrees.

Introducing Simon to the wonders of Spa Day at home because his skin needs some TLC. Simon looking like someone's stressed auntie with a ciggie dangling from his lips, wearing a really comfortable bathrobe you got him, and eye masks on.

You two treating it like the end of the world whenever one of y'all gets sick (Simon to a lesser extent) because how in the hell will you get your daily dose of affection?

Going all out and having a whole-ass reveal party for your newest edition to the family, Pup. You gave the boys shirts to wear in celebration. You wore Dad, Simon wore... Mom????, Kyle got Uncle, Soap got... Big Brother??? and Price got... Grandfather. Grand. Father. "Congrats, Cap'n." "Shut up."

Pranking Simon by calling him some random guy's name just to see his reaction. Simon stops what he's doing, judges you in Ghost, and goes, "Who the fuck is Anthony?" After that, it's on sight for Anthony. Whoever the fuck that is. Simon gets you back, though, and he's all, "Ask Anthony" "Oh? You love Anthony, too?" "Sorry sweetheart, Simon is taken. Better go to Anthony." Real funny, asshole.

Simon thinking you're about to go down on him. Not the way he thinks, though. You've situated yourself between his thighs, put his legs on your shoulders, and lower your head to... blow raspberries in his tummy. Like... whole-ass tunes. The disappointment on his face is immeasurable. But then you have him chuckling because you're fuckin' adorable looking up at him like that and your raspberries are ticklish.

#2queued4u.#call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty modern lovefare.#simon ghost riley #ghost call of duty #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon riley x reader #cod x reader #cod x you #call of duty x reader #call of duty x you #x plus size reader #x poc reader #x black reader #task force 141

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lostintransist · 3 months ago

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The Price is Wife | Part 2

Part one here *Part one includes ace!wife!reader coming home to find John has brought home a boyfriend and packs a bag to spend the night at a hotel because why would John need a wife if he has a boyfriend???

Tear stains on your cheeks led to a cool washcloth on your face before packing all of your clothes back into your luggage. You didn't know if you would be able to book this same room for another few nights.

Digging your nails into the palm of the other hand you focus on breathing. The bright color on your nails makes you think of John. Fuck. He had paid for this set. Dammit all and beyond, you didn't want your marriage to end. You love John, he had to be one of your best friends. With a little wine in your glass you would even call him your soul mate. He would laugh and lay a kiss at your cheek, thanking you for the honor.

You loved that man so much you couldn't, wouldn't, stand in his way of being truly happy. John longed for more physical affection than either of you was comfortable with. You knew that John would thrive under the kisses of his boyfriend. Guess you would request a transfer at work and file uncontested.

Halting those thoughts before you started sobbing again you flap your hands at your face to keep your eyes from leaking. Your makeup was done lightly today, knowing you would be crying most of it off in John's office after work despite the setting spray.

Three meetings. That is all you had to get through today. You could buy yourself comfort food on the way to the hotel. Might even splurge and rent an overpriced movie. Yeah. That sounded like a plan.

First meeting drags, sending the following two into overtime and you to missing lunch and clocking out an hour later than you originally planned. The idea of putting food in your face makes you nauseus. Any food will taste like sawdust right now.

The first person to notice something is wrong is the gate officer. Office Madida had been letting you on and off base for a few years now. The man's bright smile fit so neatly on his dark skin that to see him without one would almost signal the end of the world.

"Ah! Mrs. Price, here to see your husband?"

Offering a wan smile you nod, "I'm a bit late. Would you call his office to let him know I'm here?"

"Of course! Give me a moment," Madida grabs the phone from its cradle and punches in a series of numbers. He looks you over smile slipping as he takes in the whole of you. "You doing alright Mrs. Price?"

The title slices at you. It won't be yours for to much longer. Your wan smile is now watery.

"Not really, but I appreciate you noticing."

He holds up a finger as he speaks into the phone. "Yeah, I've got Mrs. Price at the gate. She's asking that Captain Price can meet at his office?" He lifts a brow at you to confirm. At your nod he continues, "I'll send her in now. No, she won't need an escort she's been visiting her husband for nearly a decade."

Fuck a duck, your next anniversry would be ten wouldn't it? A hiccuping sob bursts past your lips. The hand you slap to your mouth doesn't prevent Officer Madida's sharp look as he hangs up the phone.

"Go and park Mrs. Price. Give me five minutes to get a replacement out here and I will walk with you."

You do as commanded, tears streaking down your face as you settle the car into park. Madida opens the door and reaches in to turn off the engine when he arrives. Thankfully you have nearly sobbed yourself out when he arrives. He walks close to you, deference and defense in his body language.

Officer Madida leaves you after John's voice rings out at your knock. Stepping into his office feels like the first time you did two weeks after you had gotten married. He introduced you around the base, proud to show off his new wife. The same drab brown covered the walls, a blanket you had crocheted him for your first wedding anniversery lay across the couch he kept for naps. The only real change in the room had to be the drawn look across John's face.

For a man who should have been happy to lose a wife and gain a husband he looked dreadful. Deep eye bags and his unkempt beard tell of a hard night. Maybe as hard as yours.

John rose slowly as you shut the door behind you. His eyes searched yours.

"Are you ready to talk now?" The gravel in his voice stings as if you were flung across it.

The lip quiver starts first. "What is there to talk about John? Why would you me when you have a boyfriend now? We are friends who sometimes kiss and share tax benefits and a flat. That's not much compared to someone who can love you the way you deserve and fills your needs and your bed."

Tightening your nails into your palms and your arms around your ribs you watch your husband round his desk. John's broad hands settle on you, one at your face and the other on your elbow. Your eyelids drift closed at the familiar, safe touch.

"Why would I want to trade one love for another?" John whispers, voice breaking.

Lifting a hand to lay across the one on your face you open your eyes and match his tear filled gaze.

"I can't see your boyfriend being okay with you keeping a wife. I can't be the reason you don't get to be happy."

John's hand slide around to the back of you, pulling you into a hug.

"The first thing I did," John spoke into your ear, "When Nik kissed me out of the blue was tell him about my wife. The woman who holds me as I cry and pokes fun at me until we both laugh. My best friend, my soul mate. I told him about our arrangement, and how anything with him could not hurt what I have with you. You're allowed to be selfish."

You are sobbing now, wrinkling John's shirt with your tears and your grip. Selfish isn't something you have ever been allowed to be. Asking for your parents to show up to important dates in school, graduation, etc were always met with cries of being selfish. Your sibling had an event that day already, or they had a work event. John had been the first to put your first.

Being put aside so often by those that claimed to love you it only made sense to step aside before John could do the same.

"No, I'm not. Selfish is always the word people use to say I am asking for to much." Sobbing harder the past pains work their way out through your grip on your husband. "Why didn't you tell me John? I would have understood. I want you to be able to be loved the way you deserve."

"Honestly?" He chuckled a bit, "I was so excited for the two of you two meet that I didn't think it through."

Pulling back from John you give him a look he is expressly familiar with. Sometimes your brilliant, SAS-trained, Air Force Captian was dumber than a box of rocks. At this point, you chalked it up to a function of testosterone.

"You forgot to tell your wife that you were bringing your boyfriend home?" The deadpan delivery has John's ears pinking up.

"Nik also called me an idiot after I explained that you were heading to a hotel for the night. He was looking forward to meeting you. If you're okay with it he is probably outside the office waiting to talk to you," John gives you the softest of smiles.

There is a light knock at the door.

"I want you both, and if there is anything you need from me to keep both of you I will do anything to make that happen." John speaks with the seriousness that made you believe he would fight god and win.

Pressing a light kiss to your lips John opens the door to his lover. Nik observes you with a cool indifference. The deepening wrinkles around his eyes tell you he might also be nervous.

"Would you like to see my helicopter?" His accent is thicker today than when he introduced himself last night.

You nod, and John offers your hand to his boyfriend. Nik takes your hand, tucking it into the corner of his elbow as the two of you wander further onto base. Passing no one on your way neither of you is ready to break the silence.

Leaving the building behind both you and Nik take a deep breath. Glancing at him you find Nik looking at your already. Both of you laugh out your big breath of air.

"I hate being in the base buildings for too long. Makes my skin itch," you offer.

"I dislike all the brown," Nik replies in return.

"What did John tell you?" You broach the subject first.

"He told me of his wife. Of her kindness, her self sacrificing ways, of the kisses you share, and the happiness that fills him up so much that I fell in love with coming from you."

No change in his tone or side glance at you. The feet attached to your body would have been rooted to the ground if Nik did not keep careful pressure on your hand, pulling you forward to the helicopter now within sight.

The ache in your chest that had started last night when John called Nik his boyfriend flared to life again, an improperly cared for fire.

"First thing you will need to learn," you cover your mouth with a hand, "Is that you can't say nice things like that to me. I cry if you are too nice to me and you are in love with John so you don't want to comfort his wife."

Nik blinks at you slowly, observing. He gives no inclination as to what he saw but lets your hand fall as you reach his helo. He opens the side door and invites you to sit down with a pat of his hand. Sitting next to you Nik does not say anything for a long time. Swinging your feet you prod at your emotions until you can parse them out enough for words. Your palms wear patterns up and down the thighs of your pants.

"I don't want to lose him, Nik. But he deserves to be happy and I know he will be happy with you. He's talked about you before, for years now, I just never realized he liked you more than as a friend. A word from you and I will file the paperwork today. It's an odd agreement between us. I knew it would end for him one day when he found someone to love and love him in return." Your voice breaks as you fight back the sobs. As if the cliffs could fight back a storm.

He pulls your hand from your lap, threading his wide fingers between yours. Hair dots his knuckes. He does not offer platitudes, or unfounded words, simply holds your hand as you weep.

"You love John. I also love John. Part of the love John carries is for you alone, and it would shatter him to lose you," Nik pauses until your sobbing has slowed enough to hear him again. "Give us a chance to learn to love each other, as friends and as those who love the idiot that is John Price."

Someone else calling John an idiot sparked a bark of laughter.

"I would love to learn to love you Nik," squeezing his fingers tight in yours you stand.

Nik joins you. Releasing his hand from yours he settles both against your face. Placing a kiss to one cheek and then the other, he finally places a kiss on your lips. The two of you share a smile and a nod of understanding. This would be a time of transition and of growth, but you both loved John enough to make room for the other.

The kiss Nik pressed to your lips did not go unobserved. Kyle, with a twisted and complicated relationship of his own he kept under wraps, saw Nik kiss John's wife. Turning and sprinting across the base he found his lovers, Simon and Johnny, reviewing paperwork from their last mission.

"Nikoli is a fucking homewrecker and is trying to get with Mrs. Price!"

That brought all work to a hard standstill.

Part 1 | Part 3 | Bonus

Masterlist

#cod #fanfiction #captain john price #john price x reader #john price x nikolai #nikoli #lostintransist #lostintransist writing #ace!reader #The Price is Wife #poly 141 #but specifically Simon and Johnny and Kyle

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bigtreefest · 3 months ago

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Cinnamon Rolls

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Summary: Steve has to decide which is the lesser of two evils: waking you up from your nap, or letting the cinnamon rolls in the oven burn.

Word count: 1,686

Content/warnings: fluff! Kissing, cooking, Steve being too perfect and sweet, tickling

A/N: hehehe, thanks to @thezombieprostitute for always indulging my thots and whims, especially regarding my love for cinnamon rolls and cinnamon roll-like men.

Comments, reblogs, and asks are especially appreciated!

Dividers by @mikeykuns

Main Masterlist

You looked over the back of the couch and towards the kitchen in the open living area of the cabin you and Steve were staying in for the weekend. Tony had insisted, of course, that the two of you take some time off and away from the city, which at this point, didn’t take much convincing, even for two people who worked themselves to the bone as much as you and Steve.

The past three weeks had been grueling, as you guided Steve and the rest of the Avengers through a mission in a South American city via coms. It was a series of sleepless nights and food rations, but worth it for the safety of the world. Both you and Steve were willing to pay that price, but afterwards, somehow Tony talked you into taking him up on his offer for alone time in his remote property upstate.

It was nice, but cold, which you would’ve complained about if you hadn’t had a personal heater in the form of your super soldier husband. The same man who was bent over the oven right now, sliding in a tray of something that he wasn’t letting you see. What you were happy to look at in the meantime, though, was that ass, somehow still so plump and prominent in a pair of flannel pajama pants that you’d hardly seen him take off since you’d gotten here. One of your favorite sights, that probably would be until the end of time, was Steve when he was relaxed and comfy. And you knew he loved to see you the same way, wearing a pair of old sweats and his Army hoodie that he’d gotten soon after joining this century.

The view earned him a cat call whistle, and when he stood and closed the oven door, you were sure the blush on his cheeks wasn’t just from the heat in the kitchen. It was nice how much you could still make him a little bashful after all this time.

You watched his eyes, full of amusement and affection as he rounded the corner of the couch to move towards where you were curled up in a blanket by the fire.

“You gonna tell me what you and those buns have got cooking, good looking?”

Steve let out a lighthearted chuckle and the corners of his eyes creased, still as beautiful as ever. He shrugged as he lifted the soft throw blanket and settled in against the armrest before gesturing for you to snuggle up to him.

“No way. It’s a surprise. You can guess once it’s done, though.”

You sighed as you laid a hand and your head on his chest, adjusting until you were comfortably laying with him, legs tangled. Steve reached for the book you had turned upside down on the coffee table to keep your page and looked over a few lines.

“The Hobbit, huh?”

You nodded, the rustling sound of his threadbare hoodie on your ear just covering his faint heartbeat.

“Yeah, Bucky lent it to me.”

Steve exhaled a laugh through his nose, a boyish grin rising on his face. “That’s the least he could do. Punk stole my copy back in the day, then gave it to some girl he never saw again after he was done.”

You smiled in response to the way he reminisced about the old days. You absolutely loved when Steve would bring up his childhood memories. They were so different from yours, yet so full of parallels. Kids will be kids, after all.

You put your chin on his chest to look up at him, met with sparkling blue eyes, reflecting the bright light that bounced off the snow outside the windows.

“Of course he did. He was a charmer, wasn’t he?”

Steve leaned down for a kiss as you stretched to meet him.

“For sure. Not as much as me, though, of course.”

You playfully rolled your eyes along with him. “Right, of course. I’m sure you were a real heartbreaker back in the day.”

Steve’s eyebrows lowered and the corners of his lips turned upward in a sarcastic smile. “Left and right.”

You placed a reverent kiss on his sternum before resettling yourself on his pec, squishier than usual from not having been to the gym in a few days. It was perfect.

You smiled to yourself. “Well, I’m glad those days are behind you.”

Steve brushed a hand up and down your back. “I’d never break your heart, you know, I’d rather work to fill it with love every day. Forever if I can.”

Steve always knew exactly what to say to have you blushing, too, even if it was unintentional. The words that spilled out of his mouth warmed you from the inside out with how sincere they always were. You patted his belly gently, “and I hope to do the same for you.”

Steve hummed before he held the book back up in his line of sight.

“Glad we’re on the same page. Speaking of which, you want me to read for you?”

You nodded again, tucking a hand up under his hoodie, warming your cold fingers against his abs. “Mmmhmmm.”

Steve cleared his throat and began, his voice a smooth, deep rumble conducted through his chest and across your body. It was one of the best sounds, one of the best feelings, to be curled up close to him and taken care of. Cherished.

The gentle cadence of his voice carried in the cozy air around the couch as your breaths began to even out. Steve sensed it as your body relaxed into his, fully softened in a light slumber. He finished the page he was on just to make sure you were fully out before marking where he stopped and placing your book back on the table. He continued lulling you to sleep gently, his blunt fingertips drawing circles between your shoulder blades. Steve basked in the sunshine of enjoyment that came from how safe he knew he made you feel.

He sat there for a second, satisfied with everything in his life. With you, everything hard he’d gone through before was worth it. Nothing could break the feeling of fullness in his heart.

And then he smelled it. The cinnamon rolls. How long ago had he put them in? He craned his neck to look at the timer on the stove. They were just past halfway done. And Steve would rather die than move you right now when you were so peaceful. He considered his options and pulled out his phone.

Tony, can you remotely turn off an oven up here?

No. What part of ‘everything’s off the network except whatever you bring up there’ did you not understand?

Steve sighed to himself. He thought Tony was joking. Could he actually have a place somewhere so disconnected? He knew there was at least a Wi-Fi router, but really? Nothing else? Tony Stark has changed.

Why? Doing something else that’s keeping you from the oven?😏

Yes. But not like that. Steve rolled his eyes and opened up a different text conversation.

Sam, can redwing open doors?

Yeah, but the door probably won’t close again. He’s got lasers. You need help?

Steve sighed again. That wouldn’t work either.

No, I’ll figure it out.

One more try. Maybe Bucky and Nat?

Hey. Either one of you close to Tony’s place in the mountains? I got a favor to ask.

No. We’re at dinner in the city. Why? Everything ok?

Steve bit his lip in contemplation.

Yeah. Nothing I can’t handle. Thanks anyway.

He locked his phone and set it on the coffee table next to your book, running a hand over his face. He could do this. Maybe he could carefully carry you to the kitchen, just to take them out, then go back to the couch? But would that disturb you too much?

Maybe he could stuff pillows into his spot and you wouldn’t even realize you were clinging to something else. Yeah. That could work.

He looked back over at the timer on the oven. It had just reached two minutes left. Okay, he was gonna do it. Just move carefully and quietly and quickly to hit the button so the timer didn’t startle you awake.

But it was too late. Before he could even move a muscle, you were stirring. Eyes still closed, your nose rose to the air, taking a deep breath of the scent that had permeated the cabin. A smile took over your face and your eyes finally fluttered open, landing on Steve. Your voice held a light rasp to it.

“Cinnamon rolls. My favorite.”

Steve nodded. “Uh huh.”

You shifted to straddle his waist, arms clinging around his torso. “Cinnamon rolls made by my favorite cinnamon roll.”

Steve laughed at the long running joke of what you always called him, moving to sit up, big hands holding you steady against him. He stood with your body wrapped around his and made it to the oven before the loud beeping started, shutting everything off and setting the tray on the counter.

“Of course, darling.”

He set you on the granite beside the stove, kissing your nose at your whine at the loss of his touch. He opened the fridge and pulled out a container of cream cheese icing he had made, setting it in your hands as he sifted through the drawers for a knife.

You took off the lid, swiping a finger through the frosting and sucking it off with a moan.

“Dang, that’s good.”

You scooped up another bit, holding it out for Steve, but when he opened his mouth, you booped it onto his nose. With a giggle, you went to kiss it off but Steve was too quick, whisking you away back to the couch.

“Ohhh, you’re gonna get it.”

Before you knew it, you were kicking and laughing so hard that your stomach hurt, surrounded in a world of love and warmth with your husband. Even though this was a short trip, every day with him felt like this on the inside.

Bonus A/N: ohhhh sweet Steeb. Gimme this cinnamon roll🥺

Taglist: @hawkeyes-queen @ronearoundblindly @mercurial-chuckles @steviebbboi @thiquefunlover63

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2kyo7 · 4 months ago

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♱ 𝐋𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐕𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐘 ♱ | LUNE

pairing ; adrian tepes , trevor belmont , sypha belnades x female reader

ཐི ➥ summary ; As the world begins to pay the toll of Dracula's rage, four unlikely heroes must band together and defeat him--no matter the price.

warnings ; swearing, blood consumption, biblical references (like one), mind control stuff

word count ; 3.9k

notes ; i’ll be starting a taglist here but i’m unsure about how long it’ll be kept open, so if u want to be added just reply to this post 😋😋!! i’d like to note that my wattpad always has an extra chapter posted b4 tumblr, so please check it out!!!💕💕

FOR WHAT FELT LIKE HOURS, a thick quietness overcame the corridor-but this was soon after replaced with fast sounds of movement as Trevor extended the whip on his side while Sypha created hot flames in her palms. The fire served as a small light source alongside the glow of Alucard's eyes, and a pair of unknown purple hues in the near distance.

"How insolent, you come into my home and threaten...me with toys and child's play?" The feminine voice laughed, her words booming throughout the castle in waves. In the darkness three more pairs of dark glowing eyes emerged, "speaker! Belmont! Stand down." Alucard tried his absolute best to keep the situation under control, but was only met with retaliation. They watched aimlessly while the trio of eyes flown across the room in circles around them, hysterical laughter following each of the moving figures. Each chanting their own retorts, successfully unnerving both Sypha and her equally edged accomplice Trevor.

"Shameless, entering our abode to taunt us with incantations and artillery..."

"Look at how their faces cage magnificent red! Imagine the taste."

"Expel of them swiftly, the filthy things."

Each voice spoke their truths with little to no hesitance, all wearing differentiating voices and identities. The insults continued unwavering, even as Alucard attempted to speak over them, but once more his efforts were wasted. "ENOUGH." That is, until the undeniable presence spoke above all noise made about, causing the feminine voices to become silenced as they no longer lofted about the room teasingly—instead standing beside one another near a grand window which now only served for decoration as no light shown through its glaring transparency.

"Now...step forth." Within a moment's time, Trevor along with Sypha obey the spoken orders in perfect sync. Similar to a solemn soldier and his commander. They weren't themselves. Mind clouded with an endless fog, and no matter how far they ran or how hard they fought-the thickness prevailed, neither of them were in control. "Much better, wouldn't you agree girls?" Mingled snickers could be heard from behind the imposing figure.

Suddenly a single pair of candles lit inside the room,

"every word you speak, any move you make; are no longer yours alone. Instead they will belong to me for however long I shall please." The light now provided a reveal for their perpetrators face, a woman appearing to be around her early 40's stood over them, looking down from her raised pedestal. Her most striking features were of course, her encapsulating amethyst-tinted eyes, the woman was...breathtaking for a vampire.

"...and soon I'll know your own mind better than you ever will." After her speech, quietness overcame the room once more, of course there had been the shallow grunts sounding from Sypha and Trevor, but those too would be silenced in the coming minutes-once their minds grew tired and the enchantment took full affect.

Finally, Alucard would step up. His mind curiously unaffected from a true blood's power, "I apologize on behalf of my companions...it seems they should've been better educated on certain matters." He lowered his head before giving a curt bow. "It's been too long, Jacquelin." Various gasp fill the room, the loudest coming from 'Jacqueline' herself.

"Do my eyes deceive me? No, I'm never wrong!" She steps over the black railing, promptly gliding down to gather a better look at the boy...no...man in front of her. Placing her hand to his icy cheeks, Alucard neither denies nor accepts the touch. "My it is you sweet Adrian, time seems to have wavered in your fortune."

Alucard hummed in response to her praise, a smile playing along his face, though he himself felt lukewarm. "As much as I appreciate the compliments, I think I'd be more appreciative if those two would be sincerely sparred." Jacquelin huffed, crossing her arms, she walks circles around the frozen duo, observing them. "Interesting. A hunter and a speaker, what are you planning?"

"Why ask when you already know?" There's slight edge to his tone, not enough to be considered hostile, but present all the same. Jacquelin smiled jeeringly, lines forming around her mouth, "their insight isn't near as concise in comparison to yours." She neared Sypha, fiddling with the arm of her clothing. Eyes beginning to glow dangerously bright. "I wanted to hear it directly from you, all that knowledge. Locked away and hidden. Share it with me, won't you?"

"Enough with the spectacle darling, you'll scare our guest." A fourth and final voice entered the room, this one pronounced and deep, echos bouncing off the walls until reaching Adrian and Jacquelin. "Oh but it was only a bit of fun." She began to hone her full attention onto her husband, floating up towards him almost magnetically, the man captured his wife within a gentle embrace, a smile too playing on his face upon seeing hers. The man was tall and fibrous, a well groomed salt and pepper beard adorning his face. He'd also be dressed lavishly in dark clothing, similar to his wife and children. In fact, his children mostly favored him aside from their most distinguished feature. "All in good taste, I assure you Louviers."

Adequately, Jacquelin releases her control with a simple and dismissive wave. Immediately the two returned to their defensive stance, "what the hell just happened?" Trevor questions, confused and wary as ever. Alucard twisted his head to look back at them, "calm yourselves, a solution has just been reached."

"Surely you know by now that this would be a fight you stood no chance of winning." Jacquelin giggled from behind her hand. "Mother, is the fun over already?" Emerging from behind was a heavily pregnant woman, sporting the same purple eyes as she Jacqueline. "Unfortunately your father cut it short. Disheartening isn't it, Lyevre?"

Before anything else could be said, the two other sisters revealed themselves from their shadowing positions. "Perfect everyone's here! Langrené, Lyevre, and (Name). Come greet our guest." The man bequeathed his daughters forward, calling each of their name's in order of birth. "My dear, I have an even more wonderful idea." Jacquelin interject, grin broad as day. "What better way to become reacquainted than dinner, Adrian has much to discuss with us but I am simply famished."

Jacquelin didn't have to utter another sentence, she felt the back of her hand be pleasantly kissed by soft; familiar lips. "Say not another word my love." With a snap of his fingers servants seemed to appear from thin air to aid their master's request. "Please show our guest to their rooms-assure they are in close quarters to one another." Louviers begins to lead himself and his wife elsewhere into the castle, eyes forever trained on Jacquelin. "And prepare a rather humane meal tonight, will you? In customary accommodations to our visitors."

Upon his parting words, workers scampered around them, immediately going to work without a minute to lose. A handful of them ushered the trio deeper into the castle, both Trevor and Sypha looked to Alucard with worry and doubt (he'd lost count of the reoccurring action), but wordlessly, they trailed along.

Alucard could feel a singular pair of eyes following his every move; down to the slightest shift in breaths, to the numbered amount of times his eyelids had fluttered themselves shut. He knew the gaze all too well-but the familiarity did nothing to stop him from turning to face its truth. THERE YOU STOOD head held high, eyes low with distain, betrayal, anger. The same look you'd given him all those years ago as he walked through your castle doors for the final time. If looks could kill, Alucard would've already been sent to the underworld three thousand times over.

Some things truly never change.

The reluctant heroes would be gathered for dinner that same night, instead of sending an undead servant to fetch for them-the second Dauvillier sister stood ecstatically in front of Alucard's door, her knocks persisted until the door was opened. "Adrian! Whatever took you so long to answer?" It had only been a few seconds...he wanted desperately to counter. "It's rude to keep a lady waiting, where have your manners gone?" From behind her Alucard could see an already exhausted Trevor, but a particularly joyful Sypha.

"My apologies, Lyevre...may I?" Alucard held out an expecting arm for her to take, one which she gladly accepted, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "Of course!"

Together they gracefully traveled arm in arm towards the dining room, the gesture done out of pure politeness. Sypha and Trevor trailed a few paces behind, observing the decor of the castle halls. "Who is the lucky gentleman?" Alucard gestures to the golden ring adoring Lyevre's finger, a beautiful amethyst gem embedded on its surface. She began giggling cheerfully, like a young peasant girl in love.

Lyevre was the kindest out of her sisters, her upbeat personality complimented by a soft tone of voice made it easy for anyone--vampire or not--to fall for her charms. Long dark hair flowed behind her, nearly exceeding the length of the silky lilac robes she wore. Material optimizing her comfort. Especially in her current state.

A free, dainty hand reaching to message her round stomach. "You'll meet him at supper, he's quite the catch I must say." Alucard's eyes widened, deciding to humor her statement with blandishments. "He must be quite the sire indeed, to earn your affections." Once more Lyevre laughed softly, "quit your flattery Adrian, if my husband catches ear-well, he can get very jealous."

Remaining in easy conversation, they'd finally reached the dining area. The room itself was grand enough to hold unending banquets and balls. The decor (similar to the rest of the castle) was decorated rather darkly, accented with their family's signature color; purple.

"EXCELLENT, you've finally arrived! Hurry take a seat so we may begin dinning." As her father spoke, Lyevre left Alucard's side to seat herself beside her younger sister, you. Only sparing their group a revolted glance before returning yourself to scratching at your empty porcelain plate. Sypha rushed to sit across from Lyevre, seemingly continuing their earlier conversation, while Trevor cautiously moves to seat himself in front of Langrené—the eldest sister—who couldn't even bother to regard him whatsoever, instead choosing to further debate her father on foreign matters.

Langrené was undoubtedly the most cutthroat of your sisters, the strongest too. Like all firstborns, she had been burdened with the duty of upholding the family's name, assuring its success without fail. She was beautiful as she was menacing; having no need for charms Langrené much rather preferred utilizing threats and favors to gain advantages. Her hair sat styled in a half-updo, barely reaching below her shoulder blades. Dressed in thick but modest purple fabrics that left much to be imagined, only a single shade away from black.

Lastly, it came Alucard's turn to find himself a place amongst the group. There remained only two arrangements; the unoccupied chair beside Lyevre, (unmistakably left vacant for someone that wasn't him) and the empty seat crossways from yourself. Taking notice of this you scoff, a corner of your lip upturned high in the air. "Un-bel-ievable!" You say aloud, earning the attention of Lyevre. "Don't be rude fleur. Your playmate has come to see you, isn't that lovely?" She gestures for Alucard to continue his movements, "it's true, we haven't seen one another in ages...I've missed you quite dearly."

You flinch at his closing words, heart racing ever so slightly off pace. The feeling didn't last long. Crossing your arms over the expanse of your chest, you turn to face elsewhere in an effort to avoid his hallowing gaze. "And whose fault may that be?" Alucard leaned back into the furniture with a small sigh, he hadn't expected to be welcomed back by you warmly. Especially considering the circumstance of his last parting, but it's as if over the course of years your stubbornness had impossibly amplified.

Other qualities had amplified also since your last interaction, so long ago. Out of all your sisters you were unabashedly the most pampered, expected of the youngest. You hadn't grown up with the same hardships and pressures as your eldest sister; nor were you taught the importance of discipline and kindness like your older. You were allowed to flourish without the bidding of rules or the weight of power. And flourish in ways you might.

At the sight of tears or the howl of your voice, anything you desired was yours alone to own. Mountains of luxurious gowns, the sweetest of virgin blood, toys carved from that of diamonds and gold. You'd known to work for nothing, so you'd grown to work for none. Everything existed in your delight, and things that did not were simply forgotten. What reason would you have to learn the art of swordsmanship? Or needlessly drown yourself in studies for hours on end? To even master the works of your inherited abilities seemed so utterly pointless, what purpose could it ever serve?

Adorning your form was a dress suitable for only those bearing the royalist of blood, the material clouded down your shoulders in puffy sleeves leaving them bare for all to witness. Your cleavage wore minimal coverage as well; the top half of your chest displayed in a fashionable manner. Intricate designs cascaded along the expensive fabric accompanied by a number of matching laces and bows, effectively tying the outfit elegantly together. Hair styled similarly to Lyevre's, but never quite as long-wavering just above your hips.

Yes, you'd grown with assurance. Perhaps a little too much.

Before he could think to carry his dialogue much farther, an abrupt noise cuts through all others. Jacquelin stood at the far-most end of the table, similar to her husband, she held high in the air a empty wine glass awaiting to be filled by soothing, rich liquid; in her opposing palm rested a golden fork-made from only the purest materials. "Now that almost everyone has been gathered," she cuts quick eyes to Lyevre, "let us dine in each other's company and enjoy this nostalgic rekindling."

Instances after servants appeared to fill empty glasses and carry in their arms trays of an unending feast, stacked with various amounts of food; red meats, fish, poultry, wheat, vegetables and fruits. This was the grandest of grand dining. More food had been dished out in a single night than either Sypha or Trevor would see years to follow.

At first they looked upon the display with fearful eyes. Justifiably so. Anyone should be once having their minds bent and nearly broken beyond comprehension-but such the humanity of hunger would entice even the most durable of beings. Sypha couldn't help but to recall a faithful tale told by the ages of Eve and the forbidden fruit. While Trevor remembered the teachings of his youth, bribery the killer of fools.

Still, she stuffed her cheeks full like a rodent. Thanking every silent servant that wordlessly cleared her plates or offered her new feedings. And he, had drunken himself into a spell of his own. One glass after another downing his hearty throat.

The Dauvilliers—your family watched with mixed expressions of amusement, disgust, and wonder. Looking upon the two humans gouging themselves as if the latest spectacle. The scene akin to how fae tempt the human mind with simple trickeries for entertainment until their untimely deaths. Alucard felt a feeling of shame wash over him like a cold water, knowing that he himself was at least partially susceptible to such humane behavior. But in the same breath he too felt anger, knowing this was the extent of humanly worth to man-feeders like you. He swallowed his accursed thoughts, they would do him no good here.

Louviers' laugh was effusive, wiping his lips of any excess food that might've escaped with a pearly white cloth. "I'd forgotten how delightful watching humans feast can be, what a splendid idea darling." He looked to his wife who'd just finished her 5th glass of blood wine and showed little sign of stopping. "Yes, it's truly a show indeed. How many ages has it been since we last partook in the practice?"

"Far too long I must say." Louviers glances to Trevor's empty bottle, commanding someone to "bring his friend another drink" as he'd articulated. Simultaneously his middle daughter humored Sypha in a similar fashion, admiring how she'd been essentially inhaling her meal.

"Are all humans this desperate for food...poor things." Alucard knew the question was lined with false worry-faux concern-but Sypha was none the wiser. He noticed the way Lyevre's eyes started to faintly glow, whispering sugar-coated nothings into the shell of her ear. You happily indulged in your sister's game, holding a slice of ripe, delectable pomegranate to her lips, coaxing her to unwilling taking another bite. "You are not yet full are you, Speaker? Go on eat just a little more." Lyevre's control left Sypha's mind after uttering those few but haunting syllables; now turned thoughts at the forefront of her mind.

Alucard could only hold his tongue. At the end of the day, it was your family's help he required, and if becoming party tricks for only a few hours would spare humanity from certain doom-so be it.

"Enough of this," Langrené finally took it upon herself to speak above your family's joyous cries after silently watching for nearly the entirety of dinner. There was not even a passing glance of amusement to be seen; instead evident irritation and displeasure. She rose from her place at the table, the palm of her cold hand slamming against the table and with it, plates of food and utensils begin to levitate from the table's surface. Her voice carried oh-so effortlessly across the room, causing a number of servants to stop in their tracks, fearing they've made a grave mistake.

"You know I tend to quickly tire of games, Adrian Fahrenheit Tepes, so tell me of your being here-tell me now or leave with that of which you came."

Alucard knew his next few words could change the course of history itself, but he wondered not of what "that" Langrené spoke of meant, but he feared it all the same; perhaps his limbs? Or maybe she referred to the two humans he'd been traveling with for days on end; who were, as of now, incapable of forming a coherent sentence. At this moment (the wrong one), Alucard finds his humanity to be more dawning than ever. The weighted gazes of your family, combined with the various object spinning around overhead; Alucard attempts to straighten his posture, but even then he struggles to find the words.

"It is unfortunate that I am unable to access the mind of other's as can my mother and sister—if I could—this entire ordeal would have concluded the moment you graced the doorstep of this family. For dear Adrian, it does not take enchanted forces to know this is no mere reunion of old ties."Alucard remembers how he practiced throughout voyage here, he'd practice in perfect paragraphs how'd he would sway your family. His words buttered by reasoning, smooth with certainty. Curious is the mind.

"Mon petit amour, calm yourself. There exist not a soul who doesn't know our dear Adrian has been through a great deal." Jacquelin's fingers danced in the air, and soon everything returned to its rightful place among the table, including Langrené. Smiling she said, "Go ahead Adrian, you have the floor."

Alucard nodded in thanks, clearing his hoarse throat once his thoughts finally settled. "As you may have caught wind, no more than a year ago now-my mother was killed-falsely accused of witchcraft." There were no gasp of surprise, nor the fall of drinks, instead scarce pity. "My word, how truly regrettable it is to hear. That woman was remarkable for her kind." Louviers subtly shook his head, gaze casted downward onto his finished plate of food. Jacquelin hummed, taking another sip, "I'd heard rumors, but talk can be ever-so cheap."

"The news was rather unfathomable to me also, I mean the Count Dracula allowing his bride to murdered? Impossible!" Lyevre held a dramatic hand over her heart, breath appearing to leave her body as she spoke. "They say she was burned alive at the stake, is it true? I must declare, such punishments become more common with each passing day." The eldest sister grinned, Alucard could only ponder what seemed so tickling about his mother's death. He held his tongue once more.

"Hmph, such is the nature of humans. How does it feel to be controlled by fear, Adrian? Or do you prefer Alucard, now?" Your eyes-your words too, were filled to the brim with such contempt, such repulse, Alucard wondered who exactly he looked to in that moment. True bloods weren't notorious for their compassion towards humans, but you were a different entity entirely. "The same way you are controlled by hunger. (Name)." He was quick to shoot back, but careful in his tone. Your venomous glare sharpened, if not amidst a discussion, you'd pounce across the table and show him what. "I am...grateful...for your words, Dauvilliers. So you must know that following my mother's departure has been my father's wrath. Not only upon those responsible, but all of humanity."

"Goodness, how could we not? Just before your arrival we'd been deliberating our next plan of action, right Louviers..." she didn't give a chance to respond. "...but then I caught smell of a prophecy, that just might be our solution." Jacquelin's smile never faltered, instead growing as she rested her chin on the inside of her palm. "Feel absolute to correct me if I'm mistaken." She looked to Alucard, who sat as composed as one could. "Of course not Jacquelin, you never are."

Like a tale as old as old as the times; Alucard spoke of the story-fated heroes destined to rescue humanity's people. The soldier, the hunter, the scholar, and the true blood. Billions of lives rested in their balance, but only if they can acquire the final piece.

"Ah...allow me to clarify. You mean to recruit one of us, in hopes that we may kill your father? Alucard I must applaud you for your bravery, disguised as stupidity." Langrené stood from the table, beginning to walk away. "You are dismissed, I'm afraid you'll have to find some other willing vampire to do your biddings. Begone."

"My daughter, do not act out with such haste. Who are we to deny any prophecy if it means our safety?" Louviers' words halted his child in her tracks, "don't be ludicrous father, I won't allow anyone of this family to die for the sake of mortals. Mother, please reason with him!"

Jacquelin sat buried beneath contemplation. Though her oldest daughter has been arranged to inherit the family's title, the decision is still her's alone to make. "Your father is right, this is not our choice to make as forces beyond have already pronounced their judgment." Her expression shifted into that of rage, had she finally grown mad in her age, Langrené could not help but think. "Then who shall it be mother? Perhaps father who does not even carry the eyes, or I, the next to inherit this legacy? Maybe you are considering Lyevre who—may I remind you—is with child? No, I'm completely deluded. It is yourself, you wish to be a savior. Don't make me laugh."

She took a long pause before answering, the room falling silent. Aside from Langrené's heavy breathing, and Trevor's incessant mumbles. "Not at all Langrené, for it is your youngest sister; (Name), who shall fulfill this pending prophecy."

———

taglist: open

@foulbreadpeanut , @uhnanix

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hahaifolded · 3 months ago

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I had this thought earlier but never knew how to fit it in so why then we just do a

Imagine if… You, as the POC! Intelligence Officer, got hit with some sort of enemy “sex pollen”-esque thing and have to rely on a conflicted 141. (Warning: MDNI, Bad smut, ANGST, long as fuck) - also instead of a gender neutral reader, it’s more of AFAB reader because I don’t know how to write GN!smut so my bad)

So imagine, at this point, the 141 had began to ice you out and you are still trying to figure out what happened. So in an attempt to get back in their good graces, you decide to do a late-night mail sesh. Maybe you could find some sort of holy grail of intelligence that will prove your worth again.

So you’re so determined in finding something that you start opening envelopes and packages without little care. With so little care that you rip into a weird looking package and immediately get sprayed with some weird powder. You jump back, but it’s too late, you’ve already inhaled the foreign substance.

Trained for a situation like this, you sound off the alarm, alerting the base of the tainted package. You’re immediately taken into medical to monitor your health.

The 141 are immediately made aware of the situation and rush to the infirmary. The four pace outside, devestated that you were hurt and they weren’t with you.

Their blood goes cold when the base’s head doctor calls the four in the hallway, brow furrowed. They listen intently as the doctor explains you were hit by a new toxic agent that just entered the black market. They all sigh in relief when the doctor explains that the medical team had gotten word of it weeks prior and figured out a way to combat the agent’s effects. However, relief quickly turns into the weirdest mix of shock and arousal when the doctor explains…

“The agent attacks the hypothalamus, making the body go into overdrive. The quickest way to negate its affects while also flushing it from the body is rigorous intercourse. So if you want to save your intelligence officer, someone will need to go in there and give them a hand.”

After explaining your exact state (lucid but incredibly horny), the doctor leaves the four to decide who was going to help you. Johnny, Kyle, and Simon all look at their captain, unsure on what this meant in terms of the pact.

“This is for them, not us,” Price announces. The other three nod. Kyle opens his mouth to ask how would they decide, but before he could say anything, Ghost walks to your door and turns your doorknob.

“Woah, woah, woah. Who said you could do it?” barks Soap. Kyle joins Soap in glaring down at the Lieutenant.

Ghost slowly opens the door. “I’m the only one who won’t enjoy this.” And with that, he walks in.

You really didn’t think this could get much worse. Instead of making life easier for your boys, you just stressed them out. And now in order to save your life, your poor lieutenant has to take one for the team and touch you. Fuck, you’d rather die than let that poor man go through with this.

Despite the growing heat between your legs, you try to shrink yourself in as Ghost enters the room. Fuck, he looks good. Strong, big, powerful. Shit, you wanted him. But he didn’t want you.

So lost in your thoughts, you didn’t realize how close Ghost had gotten until he was practically hovering over you. Not really, but that’s how close he felt as he sat by your side.

“You okay, pretty thing?” You couldn’t help but moan at that. You tried to fold yourself further in, but Ghost wasn’t having none of that. He gently turns you towards him, forcing your body to spread out.

“Shh, it’s okay,” he soothes. He caressed your face. “I know the situation sucks, but let me help. Please. I— we, we can’t lose you,” he pleas. You were caught off guard. You had never heard your lieutenant so soft before.

“But,” you try to stabilize your voice, but you couldn’t hide the strain in it, “you don’t want this.” You try to leave his grasp to further sell your point, but Ghost holds you down. He leans towards your face and stares straight into your eyes.

“I want this. I. Want. You,” he enunciates each word. You didn’t think you could get any hotter. You stare straight into his eyes to search for any hesitation or disgust. Instead, Ghost’s eyes are twinkling, clear sign he’s smiling under that mask. Fuck, that mask. Maybe you do have a mask kink.

“Promise?” You whimper.

Ghost leans down and digs his face in your neck. “Promise.”

That’s all the confirmation you needed. You sit up and throw yourself against your Lieutenant. You push him against the bed and crawl over him. Fuck, you knew he was big, but feeling him under you made the size difference even more glaring. You weren’t necessarily tiny yourself but damn did he make you feel small. That alone makes you go dumb.

And Ghost knows he said that he wasn’t going to enjoy this but fuck did he feel good. He wished y’all’s first time wasn’t under these circumstances but it is what it is. Your entire body pressed against his, begging for more. If this was going to be a one time thing, then Ghost was going to savor it to its fullest. He moved further in the bed and pushed you deeper on his lap. He grabbed your back and rocked you against his groin. You immediately cry in pleasure at the extra fiction. Ghost needs to hear that again.

“Do that again,” he begs. He rolls you over and starts to drive his hips into yours. You moan which only fuels the Lieutenant more. There’s no way you don’t feel what you’re doing to him.

“Come here, pretty thing,” Ghost pleads. He tears his mask off. Now it’s the moment of truth. You look up and stop rocking against him. Shit, did Ghost fuck up?

No actually as you crash your lips against his. You moan against his mouth, eager to taste your Lieutenant. Not one to waste an opportunity, Ghost reciprocates your kiss with the same fervor.

You’re the first to break for air. He moves down towards your neck as he fumbles with the button of your pants. Ghost couldn’t believe his luck. After weeks of ignoring you, he’s now about to devour you whole. You continue to moan against his neck as he continues to rock against your hip. As much as he loves to hear your moans, Ghost needed something more.

“Say my name. Say my name, baby. Say Simon, say Simon,” Simon babbles. You just moan in response. Ghost grinds harder into you, hoping it will egg you on to say his name. Instead, of saying his name however, you grab at his shirt, tugging it up his torso.

Understanding what you want, Ghost gets up and takes a good look at you. He stares down and takes in your heaving chest, your gaping mouth, and your empty eyes. Your empty eyes. That makes Simon’s blood run cold.

What the fuck is he doing?

He treats you like shit for weeks and now suddenly he’s going to be your knight in shining armor by fucking you while you’re under the influence. What kind of man is he.

“I can’t do this.” Ghost jumps off the bed in disgust. He rushes out of the room, unable to be in the same space with you a moment longer. He is greeted by a sitting Price and Soap. They both jump up in shock, surprised to see the lucky Lieutenant maskless, but fully clothed. Before anyone can say anything, Ghost rushes past them, leaving the two confused.

“What the fuck happened?” asks Soap. He strides towards your door and peaks inside. It doesn’t look like you’ve been satiated so what happened? John stays silent. He recognized that look in Simon’s eyes.

“Soap, go. I’ll check on Ghost,” John states. Soap didn’t need to be told twice.

The door slamming nearly sobers you up. If your body wasn’t already hot, you know it would be burning in shame. Ghost didn’t want you. Ghost got a taste and couldn’t go through with it. Ghost… Simon was disgusted by you.

You’re so lost in your thoughts that you fail to notice the Scottish sergeant enter the room until he slips in your bed. He maneuvers your head so its between his bicep and chest. You try to pull away, not wanting to disgust another member of your team, but Soap doesn’t allow it.

Pulling you back in, he whispers against your head, “no, no, none of that. I’m here to help, mo ghraidh.” He pulls you in closer so your body is right against his. “Nearly killed L.t. when he went in your room first.” You let out an airy gasp in response which only eggs Soap on. He slides his hand down your torso until it reaches the top of your pants. He toys with the buttons and breathes against your head, “let me help, please.”

Fuck, you need this. You need him. You moan out a yes in his ear and further press yourself against him. He immediately slips his fingers down your pants and underwear and gets to work.

“Jesus, you’re wet,” breathes out Soap. In any other circumstances, Soap would have been worried for Ghost, but he couldn’t help but feel grateful right now. He has you exactly where’s he wanted for the longest time: moaning, wet, and begging for more. He alternates between rubbing your clit and slipping a few fingers in you which only makes you moan. To his delight, you dig your face into his neck, nipping at every piece of skin you could get.

With every moan and nip, Johnny felt his pants get tighter and tighter. However, as much as Johnny wanted to ravage you, he had to remain poised. Sure the doctor said you were still cognizant, but that doesn’t mean you wanted this… or at least wanted this in this way. So Johnny remained professional… controlled. He’ll let you take what you need and that’s it. Your pleasure was his main task at hand.

And fuck was he giving it to you. You had to give it to your sergeant, he was good with his fingers. You pull your pants down as you knew with a little more space, Soap would be able to get you to see stars in no time. Intuitive as always, Johnny helps you, one hand on your pants and another on you.

“Yes, yes, yes,” you babble against his neck. You needed more. More of Johnny. You stretch your head further up, landing wet, hot kisses against his jaw. Just a little more and your lips would be against his. Just. A. Little. Mo—

“Ah, ah, ah,” tsked Johnny. He slowly pushes your head down and curls his arm over it. “Whores don’t deserve kisses,” he growls in your ear. The room only gets hotter, but not in the fun way. The reality of the situation suddenly washes over you. Here you are, bottoms off, getting fingered by your fully clothed co-worker who frankly hasn’t said a single word to you in weeks. Is he even enjoying this?

“Stop,” you gently cry. You push on his chest which he responds by holding you tighter in his grasp. He says something, but you are so overwhelmed by shame and embarrassment, you fail to hear him. You fight against his grasp and begin to squirm. Realizing the situation, Johnny releases you from his grasp, allowing you to scoot fully away from him.

“Get out,” you state. You reach for the bed’s sheets and cover yourself as your body burns from both shame and arousal.

“Wait, I wasn’t talking about y—,” he begins, butyou interrupt him, asking him to leave once more. Shame clearly painted all over your face. That was the last thing Johnny wanted you to feel in this moment.

“Please mo ghraidh, I didn’t—“

“GET OUT JOHNNY…please,’ you cry. Johnny’s heart shattered as he sees tears brim your eyes. Realizing his time was up, he got up and left the room.

Much to his dismay, Johnny is met with his Captain and recovered Lieutenant. He just looks down and joins the pair at the bench, silent but very clear in his message: he fucked up.

The three sit in silence. John is the first one to speak as he asks about Kyle’s whereabouts.

“You have to do it.”

“What?”

“You have to do it,” Ghost states. His voice emotionless and hollow. “We have no clue where Kyle is and he’s not answering his phone. They don’t have a lot of time and Johnny and I already messed up.”

John takes in a sharp breath. It’s not like he didn’t want to because Lord knows that he wants to. He just didn’t think he deserved to. How does the man who ordered for your isolation get to accompany you in your most vulnerable state,

“Save them,” adds Johnny who shifts in his seat, clearly still affected by his time with you.

Price shifts his gaze from the two men to your door. Determined to save you, he rises from his seat and opens the door.

You grip on the sheets harder as the door lets in a harsh glow of light in, another reminder of your situation.

“It’s fine. I can handle it,” you groan out as you cover yourself with the bed sheet.

“You know I can’t do that, sweetheart.” You squeeze your legs together at your captain’s deep voice. He timidly approaches the bed and takes a seat at the edge of the bed. He tries to shrink himself to no avail. “I don’t know what got into Ghost and Soap and I promise you, I will have a word with them, but right now, you’re my priority. So tell me, how can I help?”

You shrink yourself further in the bed, fighting every nerve in your body telling you to mount your captain.

Your captain slides his body towards you with one of his arms leading. “This isn’t your fault, sweetheart. It’s never been your fault.” You can’t help but look at him as his voice falters. You’re taken aback when you see guilt flash across his face.

“Please, let me make this right,” he pleads. On your most desperate nights, it’s been your captain’s dominance that’s gotten you to unwind, but right now, your captain’s unexpected submission was making your entire body burn with desire.

Unable to fight the urge anymore, you look straight into Price’s eyes and slowly took the covers off yourself. His eyes widened as your bare legs were unveiled. He kept his eyes on yours, trying to be as respectful as he could. You stretch out your legs and slowly spread them.

“Say it,” your captain breathes out.

“Eat me,” you whisper.

Those two words are all that John needs. He lunges forward and hooks your legs over his shoulders. It’s time - just the moment he dreamed of for months.

John dug his face in your cunt and got to work. He wasn’t sure who moaned louder, you or him. With how wet you were, John knew his beard was just soaked but he could care less. All he cared right now was making you scream over and over and—

“Fuck captain,” you screamed. John pulls you in closer, lifting your entire lower half off the bed and closer to his face. He wanted to feel you finish on his lips. The louder you got the tighter his pants became. He couldn’t believe he was denying himself and his boys this. You are perfect.

As your screams turn to whines, John slowly lays you down to catch his breath which isn’t long as he begins to pepper your inner thighs with kisses.

“Better?” he asks. You shoot him a quick glance before tugging his hair and pulling him up. John eagerly follows your lead. His eyes catch the ways your gaze shyly glance down at his lips. Not wanting to deny you anymore, he passionately takes your lips, kissing you with the same fervor he had when he ate you out. To his delight, you kiss back just as fiercely.

Despite the orgasm, your body aches for more. As you tasted yourself on Price’s lips, you toy with his pant buttons, hoping he’ll indulge you with something bigger.

“Say it,” Price jests against your lips. You feel his lips curl into a smile. You can’t help but laugh at the irony of the situation.

“What’s so funny?” he asks. His eyes crinkle with joy. It’s been awhile since you’ve seen those eyes.

Without a second thought, you answer “you’re looking at me like I haven’t been a pain in your ass these past few weeks.” You giggle, trying to hide the pain you’ve felt these past few weeks.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh c’mon John, let’s be honest here,” you start. “You and the rest of the guys have treated me like shit for weeks now… for good reason though,” you quickly add. Oblivious to your captain’s inner turmoil, you push him on the bed and begin to feather kisses all over his face. “But don’t worry, maybe I can make it up right now,” you joke. Fueled by the drug in your system, you pull John’s pants and underwear down, revealing his well-endowed member.

“You really don’t have to,” John pushes back as your breath hit his dick. Despite it being the a dream come true, he couldn’t let you pleasure him under the guise of ‘you making it up to him.’ If anything, he should be making it up to you. He hurt you. He made you feel worthless. He doesn’t deserve your kindness. He should be on his knees for week and erasing every ounce of doubt in that pretty head of yours. He doesn’t deserve to feel good. He deserves to suffer.

And to your dismay, his body agrees. Within your own mouth, John’s dick softens. You try to ignore it and reason it was all in your head. But as the extra limb got softer and softer, shame overtook your body. Are you really that undesirable?

John gently tugs on your head and asks that you let him try. His voice is tight (with embarrassment). John scoots to the edge of the bed and tugs on his dick, hoping to revive it. You watch as it refuses to come back.

“Fuck,” he barks. He glances back at you and assures you it’s not your fault. Despite his reassurances, you can’t help but feel disgusted by yourself. Three men, three busts. One walked out, another didn’t want your touches, and now your captain is unable to get it up. You inch yourself away from John until your back hit the bed’s frame. You grab the sheets once more to cover yourself.

You break the silence that had filled the room. “It’s okay. You can stop now.” John’s shoulders slump.

“Sweetheart—“ he starts but you really didn’t want to hear it.

“It’s fine. You don’t have to excuse yourself,” you try comforting your captain who you think is distraught by his performance. “I know it’s not your fault.” You see John’s back slightly straighten before it relaxes once more. “You can g—.” Before you can even let out that “o,” John shoots up from the bed and pulls up his pants. As he strides out the exit, you can’t help but yell out a quick, “thank you for trying.”

Price freezes at that. With the door slightly agape, he sadly mutters, “I’ll get Kyle.” And with that, you’re alone once more.

Kyle couldn’t help but glare at his exiting captain. He couldn’t believe his luck. Bad enough Ghost was the who got to help you but now you’re telling him that Ghost AND Soap AND now Price all had the chance to help you but all fucked up.

“Un-fucking-believable,” he spits as Price leans against the wall, shame written all over his face. “I leave for what? 30 minutes? And you all got your dick wet without helping them.”

“I didn’t even pull it out.” “Technically my fingers were the ones that got wet.” “My dick wouldn’t even get hard.”

Kyle glared them all to silence. “It doesn’t matter if THEY’RE still dying.” Gaz couldn’t believe his team. Determined on saving you, he strides to your door, leaving the other three to wallow in their guilt.

“Baby?” Kyle calls out. His heart breaks as he takes in your heaving, sweaty body. You quickly glance at Kyle and let out mix of a groan and moan. Not wanting to waste another minute, he crawls in your bed and presses you against him. “I’m right here, baby. I’m right here.”

“Kyle?” you groan out. You try to leave his grasp but Kyle wasn’t having it. He begins to kiss your neck and caress your body over the sheets.

“I’m right here. Let me make you feel better,” Kyle begs. He can’t lose you. You’ve been slipping from his fingers for weeks, but now, he’s going to hold on to you and never let go.

While Kyle didn’t want to let you go, all you want to do is escape. You are done. It’s bad enough that your teammates ignore you for weeks, but now, while you’re at your lowest, they all come get a quick taste and gag. You aren’t even angry. Just hurt. And really confused because why does Kyle care so much?

“Use me.” You stop pushing against him and look up at him. Your entire body began to burn at the idea of using Kyle “Gaz” Garrick for your pleasure. And it seems like Kyle noticed your excitement.

“You like that?” he whispers in your ear. “You on top,” he kisses your cheek, “or I’m on top,” a kiss to your other cheek, “I could be on my knees,” a kiss to your forehead, “or you could be on your knees,” a gentle kiss on your nose, “we can do whatever you want.”

Your head starts to ring by the contrast between Kyle’s dirty promises and sweet kisses. You aren’t sure what’s hotter, free rein with a special forces sergeant or for once, after weeks, being in complete control of your own pleasure.

“Take it off,” you command. To your joy, Kyle immediately starts to strip. Now determined to put yourself first, you rip the covers off your body and take off the last few articles of clothing on your body. As soon as Gaz finished, he began to crawl over your body. However, not wanting to be under him anymore, you push him on his back and climb on top of him.

“Take whatever you need,” Kyle breathes out which only makes you wetter. You couldn’t help but moan when you felt Kyle’s already hard member between your legs. You grab his dick and slowly ease yourself on it. You groan in delight as Gaz’ dick filled you up. Determined to end this once and for all, you start to bounce. Your moans, Kyle’s groans, and skin slapping fill the room. In another life, this would have been a dream come true. Instead, this is just a means to an end. While you try to ignore the implications of you sleeping with your sergeant and really the entire 141, Kyle beings to babble.

“You’re perfect,” Kyle groans, “everything I’ve dreamed of.” As he starts to spew our compliments, you can’t help but cringe. Of course, the only time Kyle compliments you is when you’re riding his dick.

“I love y—.” Unable to hear such a lie, you bend over and shut him up with a kiss. Wanting to end this dream-turned-nightmare, you begin to bounce furiously. Kyle begins to whine against your lips. His hands grip your bottom as he uses his legs to bounce up in you. You really wish he actually wanted you like this.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, Kyle!” you scream in pleasure as your orgasm hits you. You slump against Kyle’s chest as your body tingles in pleasure. It’s short lived as the reality of the entire situation hits you like a bus.

Kyle caresses your back and whispers every sweet thing he’s been wanting to say for weeks. Right now, the only thing that mattered was making sure you feel cared for.

However, it seems like that’s the last thing you want as you suddenly climb off him and quickly hide under the covers. He calls out your name and asks you to come back. “Hey, come back. Let’s can cuddle for a bit and make sure it’s completely out of your sy—“

“No need. I feel better now. You can leave,” you rush out.

“Baby, c’mon, let m—“

You sit up and glare at Kyle with watery eyes. “I’m not your fucking baby,” you spit out, “And I’m not Ghost’s pretty thing. I’m not Soap’s mo ghraidh and I’m not Price’s sweetheart. I get it, okay? So stop pretending like you care and just leave. I’m fine now. You got the job done.” You lay back down with your back towards Kyle. His heart breaks as he catches the way your shoulders shake. Realizing that the damage was done, Kyle slowly gets up, gets dressed, and leaves.

— — —

Kyle winces as he’s greeted by the bright light of the hallway and the hopeful faces of teammates.

“How’d it go? Are they okay?” Johnny shoots up from his seat, eager for his fellow sergeant’s answer.

“They’ll live.” Johnny cheers as Price and Ghost physically relax.

But, their joy is short-lived as your sobs reach their ears. The four look at each other, all questing whether it was all worth it.

Word Count: 4350

More Thoughts

#cod x poc!reader #cod fanfic #cod angst #cod x reader #simon riley x reader #john mactavish x reader #john price x reader #kyle garrick x reader #141 x reader #tf 141 x reader #cod smut

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meowpupp · 1 year ago

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as a thank you for hitting 1k followers, and an apology for my absence, I would like to share my take on poly!141.

poly141! x recruit!reader. 1.5k words. mentions of sex, although no smut. yet.

you're a sweet little thing. smart as a whip, nerdy, and confident. having spent most of your post highschool graduate years studying, youve acquired numerous impressive qualifications. while most people your age in university were out partying, getting blind drunk, hooking up, you were studying.

a tech genius. that's what laswell had sold you as to price. he had been hesitant to allow any new members at all, especially ones so young. and yet, taskforce 141 sees two new additions. the newest little tech genius who's climbing quickly through the ranks, and another soldier. someone by the name of roach.

at first, you weren't amused. as a woman in the military, your life was already difficult enough. being assigned to an all male taskforce felt like your worst nightmare. but after some convincing from laswell, and realizing this would be the fastest way to make a name for yourself, you sign the papers.

your first week is smooth, albeit awkward. you and the other new recruit, roach, get along fairly well. he's funny, a little dorky, but obviously skilled. he isn't as intimidating as the others, being almost as young as you. you find yourself gravitating to him often, often staying up late together, eating meals together, and even training together. you make quick friends.

and so, it's only natural that you both end up becoming… closer. late night talks turn into makeouts, and makeouts turn into grinding. it's somewhat clumsy however… as if the two of you can quite place the power dynamics.

the others, however, are much more of a challenge to get along with. you're cautious, aware these men have been in this business much longer than you. the four of them- price, ghost, gaz, and soap- are a power unit. it takes weeks for you to find your place within the team.

price tries to be welcoming, although it doesn't quite work. there's this sense of authority and power around him that makes you feel small, almost submissive. his gruff voice sends shivers down your spine each time he speaks over comms, panties growing wet each time he gives you a direct order.

it's almost as if he knows, whispering your name rather than your military nickname. his voice sounds almost seductive. it makes you feel like a pervert, imagining him growling in your ear each time you get off.

price has a way of always remaining in control and not just with you. the power dynamics within the task force are subtle yet well established. there seems to be a chain of command that follows their ranks. price on top, then ghost, then gaz and soap. you notice how they all drop casual innuendos, their affection for each other, corssing over the boundary of just friendliness.

ghost barely looks, let alone, speaks to you for the first month. you're unsure if he even likes you. on the field, he's sharp and alert. you occasionally hear him share banter with the others, but never feel brave enough to join in. the man is intimidating, almost three times your size, a quiet sort of confidence and dominance that follows him around. he's the one you train with most often.

ghost is ruthless. he slams you into the matt, somehow always ending up between your thighs, his big hands holding them apart and pinning you down. you can't help but memorise the sight. your Lieutenant, panting, slightly sweat as he holding you in such a lewd position, glaring down at you.

it's your favourite fantasy to think about late at night as you touch yourself, unaware that the walls are so thin that ghost himself hears you whimper his name. he strokes himself in time with the slick noises of your cunt, imagining how desperate you must look.

gaz isn't intimidating, per say. he isn't distant like ghost or unapproachable like price. the man has such a casual confidence and arrogance around him. he's the first to speak to you, ask you about yourself. throughout your career, you've met many military soldiers. most the men fit into two categories, misogynistic dicks who don't believe you have a place within the ranks, or disgusting perverts who want a quick fuck (most of them have wives, even kids.) but gaz is refreshing. he fits into neither.

he often starts conversations with you. asking questions and truly listening as you speak. little do you know he records each one, saving them for when he's alone late at night. something about the way you speak, your tone, the quiet rasp or accent, it makes him stupidly hard. he's not above recording you while you workout, standing just close enough to capture each huff and grunt as you lift. it's those recordings that get him off the quickest, wondering how whiny youd sound if he held a vibrator to your clit, didnt let up until you were crying and covered in slick.

and soap. the man is difficult for you to read. your first impression is that he's one of those men who fit into the ‘misogynistic asshole’ category. apart from your initial meeting, he practically ignores you.

you can tell its not deliberate. he just seems more immersed in the natural, pre-established dynamic of the taskforce. the one that doesn't include you. it takes a while, but after a month or two, your interactions become more common.

he turns out to be very respectful- even helpful. due to your background in tech, you skipped a few ranks when you joined. soap helps you in the shooting range. standing behind you, body pressing into yours from behind, correcting your posture before you fire.

you even create games with each other. he gives you little quizzes. theyre normally about gun components, military jargon, or even field upgrades. with each quiz he promises a ‘reward.’

its embarrassing whenever you blush and grow wet when he says it. the rough growl of his voice, combined with the accent he has, all makes you dizzy. you don't even notice how he plays it up, practically purring out the word, smirking as you squirm, making sure to graze his fingertips over your hot skin.

it's obvious that after a month or two, that roach is significantly more acclimated than you. it feels unfair. your relationship with each member is steadily growing, yet something about how roach interacts with them is so different. it's like you're missing a puzzle piece.

it isn't until one night when you're venting your frustration that roach reveals the reason he's clicked with them so quickly.

“It's like an initiation,” he smirks, eyes flicking away from you, “think of it kind of like…. hazing.” his eyes are almost predatory as he meets yours again, so unlike the goofy persona he usually has, “if you like, I could speak to price. they have started to discuss inviting you in.”

it's as if everything made sense now. it wasn't your fault. it was another case of discrimination, you being left out because you didn't fit into their stupid boys club.

ever since that conversation with roach, you have become frustrated, irritable, and short with them all. you fulfilled all your required tasks but refused to engage with them any further. denying invites to the pub, ignoring gaz when he tried to speak, training alone, no longer asking soap for help.

after about a week of this, price calls you to his office.

a sick sense of unease and anxiety settles in your gut. the man is so intimidating, and this surely wasn't a positive meeting. you've never been in a position like this. all throughout school, you were a grade A student, and within your years in the military, you've always maintained basic respect and politeness. you've never been in trouble with a CO.

when you step into his office, however, all your expectations are subverted. price sits at his desk, smoking a cigar. roach leans against it next to him. the two of them are speaking lowly.

price notices you first. his eyes carry an emotion you haven't seen before. lust. he's staring at you as if you're some sort of prey. with a smirk, he blows out a large puff of smoke. it curls around him, only making him more intimidating.

“if you were feeling excluded, sweetheart, you should've made me aware.” he leans back in his chair. suddenly, the room feels so small, your body getting hot, “id be more than happy to include you.”

roach walks towards you, guiding you further into the office. he doesn't let you sit, however, instead standing behind you, hands groping your hips. his fingertips slip under your shirt, brushing the sensitive skin of your stomach.

he kisses your neck, “price wants to see how pretty you are,” his hands slide further up, taking your shirt off, “let's give him a show, yeah?”

cont.

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obsessivelullabies · 1 year ago

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— being mafia!tf141's assistant.

warnings : possessive, yandere behavior. fem reader.

a/n : i've never written mafia before? i hope this makes sense?? i plan to write four different parts for each of them individually!

— in all honesty, your relations with the mafia were completely accidental. you were a naive young woman in search of work. being some rich guy's assistant sounded easy enough. you did find it a little funny how there was no traditional interview process, just a bunch of slightly sketchy paperwork sent your way. luckily for you, you got the job!

— you were told an address, so you showed up. it turned out to be a massive house, which was even more shady. as you stood outside the door, a little too frightened to knock, you realized how sketchy it all was.

as you were lost in thought, the door swung open, revealing a muscular, shirtless man. he was only adorned in a pair of black boxers, he looked slightly peeved.

"who the fuck are you?" he acknowledged you after eyeing you up and down.

your eyes gazed on his firm chest due to how he nearly towered over you with his height. "i'm the new assistant.." you practically squeaked back at him.

the man grinned suddenly, his demeanor changing. "come in," he stepped aside, allowing you inside their home.

— the place was slightly cluttered as he showed you around, he introduced himself as soap. you assumed, or rather, hoped, it was a nickname. soap was immediately very touchy feely with you, slinging his arm around your waist or shoulder, running his large hand down the small of your back, stopping at your hips.

— soap showed you what your jobs were, things such as cleaning, cooking and basically whatever one of the men needed at the moment. he told you about the three other men, gaz, ghost and price. from what you gathered; they ran some kind of business. every mention of it was vague, yet you picked up that price was the 'boss' of sorts.

— after a lot of chatter, soap left your side and allowed you to work. the next man you met was just coming home, he was dressed fancily, seeming to be in a rush. he was quiet and polite, taking the time to introduce himself. gaz. soap hadn't said much about him.

— gaz was a sweetheart to you, asking you questions about yourself, apologizing for the slight mess in their home. you were excited to work for the two; both seemed pleasant to be around.

— the first two weeks of your job went by smoothly, soap and gaz would often lounge in whatever room you were in, chatting mindlessly to you. you would even say you bonded with the two.

— soap adored how good of an assistant you were. he loved eating your cooking, how you always made sure he liked your efforts. you were so obedient. so perfect for him.

— gaz had grown attached to your pretty little voice. you were so polite. he found it so cute how naive you were, how you never questioned what he did for work. he had a petname for you, ‘gorgeous’. with how much he called you it, you wondered if he even knew your real name.

— when price and ghost returned from their ‘business’, they were both relived to finally have some help. they showed it in different ways.

— at the start, ghost basically ignored you. his skull mask frightened you anyway. he only spoke to you to give you commands, yet over time, your charm grew on him. still, he wasn’t very talkative. he’d request your silent company. something to make him feel less alone.

— price, the boss, was very dominating. he appreciated your hard work, which soap and gaz had told him about. price thought you were adorable as a small animal. something to be protected and pet. every morning when you first got to work, you would make his tea for him. these slowly became his favorite moments.

— the longer you worked for them, the more mysterious they all became. they were vague whenever you hinted at your curiosity. you decided not to pry.

— you were unaware how possessive they’d all became. how they vied for you and yours affections. when price practically demanded you work longer hours, you just assumed you were a super good assistant.

— the four men became obsessive over you after only a few months. your life had gotten.. complicated ever since. especially when you learned what they really did.

masterlist.

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all-purpose-dish-soap · 1 year ago

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WAIT I LOVE THAT PUSHUP FIC. can you do one with Gaz and the reader daring him to say their name in between push-ups, and Gaz catches on, but does it anyways.

10 / 1,186 words / takes place immediately after doing push-ups with Gaz

...

You watch Gaz from the corner of your eye, listening to him say your name in that low voice with each rep, grunting with concentration. Music to your ears.

His toned arms are tense with each push-up he executes. Gaz doesn’t work out to be buff or get attention. It’s all about function and utility on the battlefield for him, which means he’s not one for showing off. But you appreciate it, and you can tell he notices it by the smirk curving his lips.

He knows what you're doing. He knows exactly why you made that little request of him.

"You want me to keep going?" he asks.

"I have no problem with that.”

"Can't imagine you would."

"Hey. Less talking; more counting reps."

"Did I say I was in the market for a personal trainer?"

"I think you did, in fact," you tell him facetiously. You're still sprawled over his back, admiring how your weight barely seems to affect him each time he lowers and then pushes himself back up. "Lucky you have me here to keep you on track."

"Yeah, lucky me." He grunts a laugh and does another pushup. "Because that's my problem. Staying on track."

"I hear a lot of chatter and not enough saying my name between reps, mm?"

"Think I'd better stop doing that. You like it too much."

"And you said you wanted a challenge. Do you cut corners in the field, too? Does Captain Price know?"

He lowers himself again and holds at the bottom for a moment to increase the tension and stress on his muscles. "You're asking for it, you know that?"

You smirk, shifting yourself a little to fit more snugly against the curve of his back. "Are you threatening me, Gaz?"

"You wish." He chuckles, hardly sounding as winded as he should. "You'd be lucky for me to pay you that much attention."

He's not wrong. But still, the nerve.

Luckily, you notice you haven't heard him counting aloud, either. "What rep are you on now?"

He pauses at the bottom of his rep, then lifts up again, not quite as fast as before. "Sixty-three."

"Liar. You lost count, didn't you?"

"Of course not. You think you're really that distracting?"

You grin. "You said it, not me."

He pauses his rep at its apex this time. You glance at him, sensing the gears turning in his head. For a second, you wonder if you should be proud of yourself--if you've struck him speechless with your blistering wit.

Then he bends his elbow and drops one shoulder almost to the floor, dumping you unceremoniously off his back. You land ungracefully on your stomach with a gasp.

There's a strange look in his eye. Thirst for vengeance. You scramble to right yourself, but it's too late. Gaz drags you off the ground like it's nothing and pulls your back to his chest. He wraps his much thicker arm around your bicep and leans back, forcing your arm over your head in what you vaguely recognize as a submission hold.

You huff, trying to squirm free. His other arm comes around across your midsection to keep you in place. The fact that you're pinned in his lap doesn't escape you.

"Now who’s the distracted one?" His voice is right at your ear. "You want to tell me again how many reps I did?"

"Fifty-five. I counted."

His grip tightens. He leans back just a little more, causing your back to arch. "Try again."

You grab his arm with your free hand and try to dislodge it. Its no good. His arms are like steel. He doesn't budge an inch.

"Told you you were asking for it." His breath is warm on the shell of your ear. "Count again. Or I'll turn this half nelson into a full nelson."

Your cheeks warm. "Perv."

"You started it. Or don't you want me to say your name again?"

"I have a perfectly innocent explanation for that."

"Let's hear it, then. Go on."

"Um." You squirm a little more in his hold. His breath in your ear is making you feel crazy. "It's actually... because..."

"Because?" He's smiling now, his arm tightening against your skin. You can feel every thick muscle in his biceps and forearms. "Because what?"

You struggle to keep some kind of half-baked explanation centered in your mind. Fuck, fuck, fuck, you can't think about his chest pressing flush to your back. Or his thighs squishing your ass. Or his arm around your midsection, so close to your breasts you swear he'd brush the underside if he so much as flexed.

"Because what?" He asks again, and his voice is so husky it makes you forget all your rational thoughts. "Tell me."

"... Sixty-three," you mutter.

He laughs, the rumble of it shaking his chest against your back. "So which one of us lost count, boss?"

"I did."

"Yeah, you did." He shifts, easing the pressure on your arm. He doesn't release it completely, though. "If you wanted to hear my voice so bad, there are better ways to ask, yeah?" His other hand begins to wander down your side. Your skin burns under your workout tank. "But if you want to be a cheeky little brat about it..."

Before you can react, he bites down on your ear. Not cute and flirty, but hard enough that it hurts. Especially when you squawk and try to pull away.

"Ow!" You shove your elbow into his solar plexus.

He lets go of your arm, gasping and wheezing with laughter as he leans back. You're both surprised at how much force you packed into that elbow jab.

He smiles, though. His heart is racing from adrenaline, and when he looks at you, all pouty and out of breath, he realizes it's a good thing he's not still holding you or he might really do something stupid. He likes how quick you are, how feisty.

"That's mean," you snap.

"And calling me a pervert wasn't?"

"No! And even if it was, your thing was worse."

"Oh, yeah?" His usual soft grin turns roguish. "You wanna get even? Bite me back?"

"Gaz!"

"Then you still owe me." He stands up, stretching until his tired arm muscles pop. "So I'd better see you here tomorrow, same time. What do you say?"

You stand slowly, watching him grab his gym bag. "What if I say no?"

"I'd say you're shirking your duties as my trainer. And my counterweight. Besides, you wouldn't skip a chance to have me say your name again." He pulls the straps up over his shoulders and winks at you. "Right, boss?"

You open your mouth and close it right back up again.

Gaz has just enough self-control not to bite his lip at that rather cute expression. "Good."

He walks away, leaving you red-faced and speechless behind him.

He's right. You'll definitely be back tomorrow.

...

part 1 / [part 2] / part 3 / part 4 / part 5

more Gaz / masterlist tag

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luvly-writer · 3 days ago

Text

Aretia: A Cultured Duchess

Xaden Riorson x Gamlyn! Reader

Masterlist

Aretia Village Market – Late Morning

The small market just beyond the Riorson Estate buzzed with life—vendors calling out prices, colorful awnings fluttering in the wind, and the scent of grilled spices drifting from the food carts. Y/n strolled between the stalls, the breeze tugging at her curls, her smile easy and radiant.

It didn’t take long.

“Oh, gods above, look at her!” cried one of the elderly women selling embroidered shawls. “What a vision!”

“She’s so pretty,” another gasped, clasping her wrinkled hands like she was witnessing a blessing descend from the skies. “No wonder he’s so broody—had to keep her secret from the rest of us or we’d have stolen her!”

Y/n laughed, warm and sincere. “You’re all far too kind,” she said, cheeks flushing.

One of them—Mirey, the oldest—held up a bolt of deep red Tyrrish silk. “Come here, sweet girl. This color? It’s you. Let me tie it in your hair, just a little knot, like we used to in the old days. The Heir's Consort deserves it.”

Y/n blinked. “Oh—I’m not—”

“Yet,” another woman chimed in with a knowing smile. “We know that boy. Stubborn, but once he loves, it’s for life.”

They giggled and fussed, tying the silk delicately in her hair, offering little honeyed sweets wrapped in leaves, and pressing tiny bowls of spiced rice and pickled vegetables into her hands to “try, just try, darling.”

She was glowing by the time she made it back up to the estate.

Riorson Estate, War Room – Midday

Xaden stood at the edge of the table, arms crossed, listening intently as Brennan laid out troop supply routes on a large map. His focus was razor-sharp—until the door opened behind him.

He glanced up casually.

And his breath caught.

Y/n stepped in, wrapped in affection and color—golden silk glinting in her hair, laughter in her eyes, and the faintest shimmer of powdered sugar on her cheek. Behind her, two castle maids were whispering and giggling like they were watching a fairy tale unfold in real time.

Brennan followed his gaze and smirked. “You’re useless to me now,” he muttered under his breath.

Xaden didn’t even argue.

His eyes softened as she crossed the room, barely able to contain the smirk tugging at his mouth.

“What happened to you?” he asked, voice low and rough as he reached to brush a smudge of honey from the corner of her lips.

“The market,” she said sweetly. “Your people are very persuasive. I’ve had six kinds of food, three silk recommendations, and about twenty compliments on how handsome my broody Tyrrish heir is.”

He raised a brow. “Heir, huh?”

She shrugged, smirking. “Their words. I didn’t correct them.”

“Good,” he said, pulling her closer, his voice dropping to something only she could hear. “I wouldn’t want to remind them that I haven’t made it official yet. They might beat me to it and start planning a wedding without us.”

She laughed, resting a hand on his chest. “I think they already have.”

Behind them, Brennan sighed and rolled up the map. “I’m taking my rebellion and leaving. You two are gross.”

The maids giggled. Xaden kissed Y/n’s forehead, silk brushing his cheek, and didn’t let her go for the rest of the afternoon.

Aretia Village Market – Midafternoon

Y/n tugged gently on Xaden’s hand, lacing her fingers with his as she led him past the main gate, down the winding hill path that opened into the vibrant village square.

It was busy again—children weaving between carts, elders seated under bright canopies, the air fragrant with grilled meats and sweet dates. But this time, it was Xaden who was being fussed over.

“Well, well, look who came down from the mountain!” Mirey called out from her embroidery stand. “The Riorson boy himself!”

Xaden chuckled under his breath, the sound low and rare, as another elder grinned wide.

“Y/n, how did you manage this? The last time we saw him smile like this he was six and got two pastries instead of one.”

“He’s not as scary as he looks,” Y/n replied with a grin, squeezing his hand.

“Speak for yourself,” Xaden murmured to her, lips brushing her temple as he leaned in. “I am scary. Just... selectively.”

That got him a laugh, and even a playful swat from one of the women.

As they moved from stall to stall, the people eased around Xaden with a mix of respect and affection—offering updates, thanking him quietly for protection, inviting him to try spiced cider or fresh breads. And Y/n watched him, eyes soft. His usual edge dulled just enough for his warmth to bleed through. He wasn’t just a soldier or a rebellion leader here. He was home.

They passed by a stall of handwoven garments, and the vendor—a spry woman with salt-and-pepper braids—held up a cream and gold Tyrrish blouse with intricate embroidery at the neckline. She smiled at Y/n.

“This would look gorgeous on you, darling. That skin of yours? That smile? You’d be the sun in our whole damn valley.”

Y/n smiled kindly, hand brushing the fabric. “It’s beautiful, truly. But I don’t think I’d wear it. I’m usually in black rider leathers or... well, black rider leathers.”

The vendor smiled knowingly but didn’t push. Y/n stepped away.

Xaden didn’t.

He looked at the blouse. Then at Y/n, who was trying not to glance back. He knew she liked pretty things. His mouth quirked. He turned to the vendor and handed her a few coins without a word.

When Y/n looked back, he was already folding the blouse gently under his arm.

“Xaden—”

“You like it.”

“I said I wouldn’t—”

“You like it,” he repeated, and that crooked smirk was entirely too pleased with himself. “And just because you usually wear black leathers doesn’t mean I wouldn’t appreciate you in this. Or out of it.”

“Xaden,” she hissed under her breath, cheeks flushing.

The vendor cackled. “Good gods, if your father and aunt could see you.”

Xaden just winked at her. “They'd be laughing too hard.”

Y/n rolled her eyes, but her smile was uncontainable. When they walked back up toward the estate, the blouse tucked under her arm, she reached out to lace their fingers again—and this time, Xaden was the one pulling her close.

Later That Night – Riorson Estate, Xaden’s Room

The manor had quieted. The halls, once bustling with meetings and the distant echo of sparring, now lay wrapped in silence, broken only by the crackling of the fireplace in Xaden’s room.

He had gone to the bathing room to wash off the dust of the day, leaving Y/n curled up on his bed, supposedly reading. But the moment the door shut behind him, her eyes flicked to the carefully folded blouse he’d placed on the edge of his dresser.

The cream fabric shimmered gently in the firelight, the gold thread almost glowing. Her fingers brushed it once. Twice. Then she stood.

It slipped over her head like it had been made for her—light, soft, adorned with delicate swirls and traditional Tyrrish motifs at the collar and cuffs. She glanced at herself in the mirror, turning a little.

Her lips quirked. Maybe he had a point.

The door creaked open.

She turned around just in time to see Xaden walk in, towel slung around his neck, hair damp and curling slightly at the edges.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

Time froze.

His eyes dragged over her—slow, reverent, darkening with something molten. The blouse fell to mid-thigh, brushing against her bare skin, and she swore she saw his chest rise, then fall, like he’d been punched with the sight of her.

“…Well?” she said, feigning innocence, hands smoothing the hem.

He blinked. Once. Then again.

“That is,” he said slowly, “not what I expected to walk into.”

“You bought it for me.”

“I did. And now I’m wondering if that was a mistake, because if this is how you look in it…” He trailed off, jaw clenched slightly. “I might never let you wear anything else again.”

She laughed, stepping forward, the blouse swaying with her hips.

“You like it?”

He didn’t answer with words. Just crossed the room in three strides and pulled her flush against him, his hands warm and steady on her hips. His lips brushed her jaw, then her neck.

“I adore it,” he whispered. “But not as much as I adore you.”

She smiled against his mouth as he kissed her, slow and soft, one hand drifting up to tangle in her hair.

“You’re so gone for me,” she teased.

“Utterly,” he murmured, kissing her temple. “And you in this blouse? Y/n… I’m doomed.”

A few days later – Riorson Estate Grounds

“Where the hell is she?” Ridoc muttered, scanning the tree line past the market trail for what felt like the fifth time. “She was supposed to be at sparring two hours ago.”

“She didn’t check in with Garrick either,” Rhiannon added, brows furrowed. “Xaden?”

He was already stalking through the courtyard, jaw tight, eyes stormy. “She was exhausted last night. I told her to rest.”

“But she’s not in her room,” Ridoc pressed. “And this is Y/n. She’s not you—she doesn’t skip out on training unless she has a reason.”

Xaden didn’t respond, just turned and headed toward the estate gate, frustration building in his spine, his chest. He hated this—this hollow ache of not knowing where she was, the way his hands had started to shake slightly as time passed. Y/n never vanished without a word.

Until now.

And he hated how much it terrified him.

They made it halfway down the trail toward the village when a familiar laugh, like sunshine through thick clouds, danced on the wind.

Xaden stopped.

There she was.

Coming up the dirt path, hair braided in delicate Tyrrish knots, brilliant red and golden silks woven between the strands. Her cheeks were rosy from the sun, her eyes sparkling as she walked with a small basket of pastries, a few rune-marked beads in her hand.

She paused when she saw them—Xaden, Ridoc, Rhiannon, Garrick, Bodhi—all frozen mid-mission.

Her smile faltered. “What’s wrong?”

“You disappeared,” Xaden said, voice low, controlled, but not quite hiding the panic that had been clawing at his ribs.

Y/n blinked, confused. “I told Kaia I was going to the market.”

“Kaia didn’t tell anyone,” Ridoc added quickly. “I thought something had happened.”

Her face softened with understanding, and she stepped closer, holding out her hand as if to say I’m here, I’m safe. “I’ve been going to the market between training when I can. Trying to learn the knots the weavers use. A few words of the language. The kids there have been helping me pronounce them right.” Her lips curled. “I’m still terrible.”

Xaden stepped closer, looking at the silks in her hair, the way the elder women had tied them with such care. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I wanted it to be for me,” she said softly, “and for you. I don’t want to just love you, Xaden. I want to love the land that made you, the people who shaped you, the language that lives in your blood.”

He stared at her—no words, no breath—just awe.

Ridoc, from behind, muttered, “Good gods, she’s going to ruin him.”

Y/n raised an eyebrow at him, then looked back at Xaden, who finally took the last step forward and gently cupped her face, fingers brushing over the silks.

“She already has,” he whispered.

And then, without shame or care for the watching squad, he kissed her forehead and pressed his against hers, exhaling like her presence alone was air.

She smiled. “You’re not mad?”

“No,” he said. “But if you vanish like that again, I will send an aerial search.”

She laughed and kissed his cheek. “Duly noted.”

A few nights after – Riorson Estate, Their Room

The fire in the hearth was low, casting a soft amber glow across the stone walls. Y/n sat cross-legged on their bed, a worn Tyrrish book of runes and phrases resting in her lap, brows scrunched in concentration.

Xaden leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching her mouth move as she whispered through the words under her breath.

“Shai’en dra vyr—” she tried again, frowning. “No, that doesn’t sound right.”

“It’s not,” Xaden said, voice low and amused. He pushed off the door and came to sit beside her on the bed, tugging the book gently from her hands. “You’re saying shadow rises in fire. What you want is Shai’en dra’vyr. The ‘vyr’ holds the emphasis.”

She looked at him, eyes narrowing. “And how would you know that?”

He arched a brow, smug. “I grew up speaking it, remember?”

She squinted, teasing. “Right, the Tyrrish heir with secret linguistic skills.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” he murmured, brushing a curl off her cheek, “but I’ve been listening to you practice for weeks. It’s… kind of adorable.”

Her cheeks flushed. “Adorable?”

“Painfully so.” He opened the book and pointed at a line. “Here—try this one.”

Y/n sat up straighter and repeated it slowly. Her accent still bent some syllables, but she nailed the structure. He smiled, nodding.

“That was better.”

She beamed, clearly proud of herself. “Thanks, Professor Riorson.”

He rolled his eyes. “Do not call me that.”

“Oh, I absolutely will.”

Xaden leaned in close, his voice warm against her ear. “Keep teasing me and I’m going to start testing your conjugation mid-kiss.”

She laughed, turning her head to meet his gaze. “That a promise?”

He chuckled, resting his forehead against hers. “You learning Tyrrish… it means more to me than I can say.”

She kissed the corner of his mouth. “You don’t have to say it. I already know.”

He smiled softly, then reached for her hand and guided her finger across the script in the book. “Come on, vy’reh, let’s keep going.”

Y/n’s heart fluttered at the word—Tyrrish for beloved. She squeezed his hand.

“Okay. Teach me.”

They had settled down in their bed after Xaden had helped her practive a few times. The candlelight flickered gently, casting shadows that danced across the pages of the Tyrrish language book lying open on the floor beside the bed. Y/n was curled into Xaden’s side, her head resting on his chest, finger idly tracing one of his scars. The silence was warm—thick with the kind of peace that only came after hours of being wrapped in one another.

Then she stirred slightly, voice hesitant but hopeful.

“Vy’reh sai dra…” She paused, biting her lip.

Xaden tilted his head, brow quirked. “What was that?”

She sat up a little, cheeks already flushing. “I was trying to say something, but I think I butchered it.”

He reached out and tucked a curl behind her ear. “Say it again.”

She took a breath and tried, slowly. “Vy’reh sai dra ven daren.”

He blinked, completely still.

She frowned. “Did I say it wrong? I meant—”

“You didn’t.” His voice was low, a little rough around the edges. “You said it right.”

Y/n tilted her head. “Really?”

He nodded, gently pulling her back into him. “You are my heart’s delight. That’s what you just said.”

She smiled shyly. “Yeah. That’s what I was trying to say.”

Xaden didn’t answer right away. He just pulled her closer, burying his face in the crook of her neck, lips brushing her skin. “Say it again.”

She giggled, whispering against his shoulder, “Vy’reh sai dra ven daren.”

He pressed a kiss to her temple. “Gods, I’m never going to recover from that.”

“You’re so dramatic,” she teased.

“Only when it comes to you.”

He shifted so their foreheads touched, his eyes locked on hers. “One day, you’re going to say that to me in front of a full room, and I’ll drop to my knees.”

Y/n laughed softly. “Noted. I’ll keep practicing.”

“Please do. I want to hear it every day. A hundred different ways.”

Author's note: I have to be so honest, this chapter and the ones that follow are my absolute favorites! Like the absolute delight I got from writing them was incomparable.

Taglist: @eepyfaerie @dreamdragonkadia @hiraethjules @nikfigueiredo @galaxystern08 @taleiaargenis @minidemont @poeticbookwormcat @eternallyrosyfire @shadowhuntyi @bubble300 @messageforthesmallestman @iheartshopping @lagrandeourse @readinf @barbreadsbooks @optimisticsoulstarfish @locatinginspo @lxnvmvrzx @im-a-weirdo-for-life

If you want to be added to the taglist, leave a comment. <3

#iron flame #violet sorrengail #xaden riorson #fourth wing #fourth wing imagine #fourth wing x reader #fourth wing xaden #xaden riorson x reader #ridoc fourth wing #ridoc gamlyn #xaden riorson imagine #xaden and sgaeyl #xaden riorson x y/n #ridoc x reader #ridoc and aotrom #onyx storm #the empyrean #of light and shadow

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radawaycunt · 11 months ago

Text

Bloodhound

Also on AO3

Pairing: Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x Fem!Reader

Summary: Before meeting the ghoul, you worked as a courier. After striking a mutually beneficial deal with him, you become a bounty hunter, but it’s clear that your dynamic is much more complicated than that.

WC: 2.5k words

Warnings: MINORS DNI THIS FIC IS 18+, pet play (implied), porn with little plot, dom/sub dynamics, mentions of violence, both praise and degradation, light dehumanization, the ghoul calls you ‘mutt’, unprotected p in v (DO NOT), radiated creampie (dw they use radaway after the fic is over lmao), oral (m receiving), aaaand thats all i can think of but lmk if i missed anything!

A/N: Shoutout to @finniestoncrane who posted an amazing fic w/ the same kink that made me feel brave enough to post this dirty lil fic i could not get out of my head these past weeks :D

——————

A loud, high pitched whistle made you pause mid-sentence. You recognized it as a sign that time was almost up, and you better get some answers before he lost his patience altogether.

You sighed, closing your eyes for a moment before looking back at the small shop’s vendor.

“You said you heard he was going north?” You asked.

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Yes, heard him mention something about one of those mini-marts. You know the kind. There’s two on the way to Shady Sands that might be worth checking.”

You swallowed hard, but hid your discomfort. “And he was gone yesterday morning? Alone?”

“Yeah, as far as I know he arrived alone, too.”

“You weren’t curious enough to ask?”

“Not the kind to ask raiders more questions than I need to.”

You stared at him for a moment, trying to gauge if he was telling the truth or not. He had no reason to be helping raiders, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t have other reasons to lie.

He cleared his throat and looked around to make sure no one was eavesdropping. He’d been eyeing the clunky, collar-like tracking device around your neck, unsure of what it meant or who exactly was tracking you. Clearly, he didn’t intend to find out.

“Alright, I’ve told you enough. You better get out of here before anyone else starts asking questions.”

You nodded once, knowing better than to push your luck. You took three caps out of a hidden pouch on your belt and tossed them at him.

“Thanks,” you said, turning on your heel and making your way back out of the narrow alleyway.

The ghoul was leaning against the wall just out of view, the brim of his hat pulled low. You caught the edge of his grin as you approached, and he pushed off the wall to fall into step next to you.

“Well?” He asked, keeping his voice low and casual.

You relayed the information you’d acquired about the target — a bounty he’d picked up a few days earlier, at another settlement. A raider had wreaked havoc there and killed two in the process, so the families were looking for some justice.

Easy enough to take care of, the ghoul had figured, and all for a decent price. So he’d immediately put you on his trail, as he always did. Much easier for smoothies to be asking questions and actually get some answers — Not everyone tolerated his kind.

You had a few opinions on what to do next, but you kept them to yourself, knowing he wouldn’t want them unless he’d specifically asked. He hummed, the gears in his mind already turning.

You peered at him sideways, wondering what his strategy would be. He didn’t often let you in on them unless it was necessary, but based on what you’d experienced so far, you at least trusted his cleverness.

“Good girl, that’s real useful,” he said finally, seemingly satisfied with what he was coming up with.

He flicked your chin up with his knuckle in what could almost be called affection, but not quite. You carefully hid the secret pleasure you felt at his praise, averting your gaze. Somehow, even at his meanest, he always managed to make it sound so good — at least in the same way a bruise felt good.

Formerly, in your life as a courier, you’d been severely underestimated many times. Traveling alone, especially, had its disadvantages, but it wasn’t brute strength that had so far kept you alive. You were cunning too, in your own way.

Always keenly observant of your surroundings, picking up clues that most would miss. You were generally pretty reserved anyway, preferring to stay quiet and listen. It was easy for you to blend in with your surroundings, seemingly harmless, and people often let their guard down around you. Big mistake on their part.

The ghoul had taken notice of you, though. It had been months ago, at some repurposed saloon further up north, where there was a lot of foot traffic. It was really easy to get jobs there, or exchange information, so you often passed through. As it happened, so did he, and he’d kept an eye out after you initially caught his attention.

Once he’d learned just how useful you’d actually be to him, well… he just couldn’t pass up an opportunity like that. He had a certain way with words, exuding charm, knowing very well how to get what he wanted. Despite most people’s apprehension of ghouls, you didn’t really mind them as long as they weren’t feral and trying to bite your face off.

Clearly, he wasn’t that type. So, you’d made an agreement of sorts with him, splitting the profits sixty-forty for every bounty fulfilled. Easy money, you figured, and some company to boot. More safety in numbers, after all, especially with someone as skilled as him.

But from the get go, he always made it abundantly clear that he was the one calling the shots. There had been no room for argument on that, though strangely enough, you had felt a certain sense of freedom by submitting to it.

The tracking device he’d clasped around your neck soon after was just a little extra precaution, he had said. You had relatively free rein, but still he didn’t let you stray too far. And if you did, then his lasso would work as a makeshift leash to drag you back.

Later on, when you’d developed a system of communication without words – especially for greater distances – you realized it’d felt more like training, in a way. Bending you to his will, sometimes with more charm, others with what he called discipline. And soon enough, after nights of growing closeness and a simmering tension, rewards also came into play.

In the end, it all worked out, and before you knew it, the two of you were running like a well oiled machine. The hunter and his bloodhound.

You started the trek north, taking advantage of the daylight. You kept your eyes peeled for any distinct tracks or other clues. When you saw an old, rundown shack in the near distance, you glanced back at him and then trotted off as soon as he nodded.

Once you’d cleared it, you returned to where he was and continued on your way. Three more times, you checked abandoned buildings, but there was nothing of note in any of them.

The first mini-mart you arrived at turned out to be more useful. The ghoul helped you interrogate a couple of raiders you’d found holing up there. They weren’t very forthcoming at first, but you left the jostling to him, given that it was his specialty.

Soon enough, he managed to knock a couple of answers out of them, and then you were on your way again. You settled in an abandoned, half-collapsed house for the evening, a fire burning before the sun even finished setting.

He sat on the other side of it, silently sharpening his machete, lost in thought. You looked off into the middle distance, unbothered by the quiet. It was a welcome reprieve after a long day, when all you wanted to do was unwind.

But that wasn’t to say it was always easy, even if you were on the brink of exhaustion. Sometimes you just needed a little extra help to get you there.

The ghoul noticed the tense set of your shoulders and your restless shifting. He heard the soft sighs you weren’t even aware you were letting out, short and almost impatient. But what could you possibly be waiting for?

His eyes lingered pensively on the tracking device, like a mark of his ownership, before trailing lower, towards your chest. He licked his lips, a few ideas coming to mind.

“Say… how would you like a little treat for doin’ such a good job today?” He drawled, a roguish grin on his face as one of his hands came to rest heavily on his belt buckle.

Your attention was drawn there, but you quickly looked back up at his face. Instead of giving in to the impulse to nod eagerly, you bit your lip and decided to test the waters just a little bit.

“A treat, hmm?” you said, slightly tilting your head to one side, a sly smile tugging at your lips.

He nodded, adjusting his position lazily, hips bucking. “Oh yes, I’m feelin’ quite generous today, and you’ve earned it.”

This time you couldn’t hide the effect his words had on you, and he chuckled. Truth be told, you’d had this in mind all day, a craving that would not go away until you had him. It was why you’d gone the extra mile, knowing it wouldn’t escape his notice. He’d gotten real good at reading your moods, after all.

“Come sit pretty for me over here, why don’t’cha?” He said and tapped his foot on the ground, spurs jingling softly.

You made your way over to him and knelt at his feet. He bent forward, looming over you, and grasped your chin with a gloved hand.

“Well, ain’t you just the most obedient little thing? I’ve got you well trained, don’t I?” he said, his eyes roaming over your face. “Go on now, get your treat.”

He let go of your face and leaned back, adjusting his hips to bring them closer to you. Your fingers shook only slightly as you deftly undid his belt, then bent your head to undo the zipper with your teeth. There was a low sound of approval in his throat as you tugged his pants down, along with his underwear.

Your mouth watered at the sight of his hardening cock, the head of it lazily resting against his lower abdomen. You were about to curl your fingers around the shaft, but he shook his head.

“No hands,” he said, clicking his tongue. “You don’t need to use your hands anymore.”

You nodded, sticking out your tongue as your head dipped once more. You licked a long, languid stripe up the length of it, making it twitch in response. He sighed a rough good girl as his legs widened to adjust his position, a gloved hand resting on your head.

Your lips wrapped around the tip, teasing it with little flicks of your tongue. He grunted, his hips jutting upwards. Your mouth was warm and wet and inviting as his cock slid inside it with ease. His head tipped back in ecstasy for a moment before he looked back down to watch you take it deeper into your throat.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he said, his voice thick with lust. “I must’ve been real lucky to find such a good lil cocksucker like you.”

You moaned around him, shifting your knees as you felt yourself growing wetter. Your head bobbed up and down at an almost hypnotic pace, hands straining at your sides to keep yourself from using them.

When you reached the base, his cock fully sheathed in your throat, he kept your head down for a moment. You fought the urge to gag, breathing slowly through your nose.

Then he let you come up for air, the lower half of your face a slobbery mess as you panted. Your eyes were glazed over with desire as you looked up at him, and his cock twitched.

“Such a pretty mutt, aren’t’cha? I bet you’re all soaked and ready for me,” he rasped, holding your gaze as your tongue lavished his balls with some attention.

He sucked in a breath through his teeth, feeling himself start to near the edge. But he didn’t want to get there quite yet, and he didn’t want it to be in your mouth this time.

Still, he allowed himself a moment longer, his hand pushing your head to press your face against his cock, hips rocking slightly. Your tongue was still out, trying to catch whatever skin it could, and he let out a deep groan.

“Alright, don’t get too excited now. Turn around and let me take a look.”

You did as told, hastily pulling your pants and underwear down to your knees and presenting yourself for him. You watched him tug his gloves off over your shoulder, appraising you with hungry eyes, and then he knelt behind you.

“My, oh my…” he said as some of your arousal dripped onto the ground. “Just as I thought… Let’s see if she’s ready for me.”

You felt the head of his cock prodding at your entrance, slowly pushing inside. Eagerly, you pushed your hips back to take more of him, but he stopped you by grabbing your hips.

“Easy, easy,” he chuckled. “You want me to fuck you that bad, huh?”

You nodded, whimpering a little as he thrusted shallowly, stretching you further to accommodate him.

“Please,” you breathed, your voice broken by desperation, and he pushed your head to the ground.

“It’s cute when you whine like a bitch in heat,” he cooed, fingers digging into the flesh of your hips. “Now stay there and take it like the good girl I know y’are.”

Once he was able to fully slide in and out of you with little pushback, his thrusts gradually got faster. You moaned with each rough snap of his hips, deliriously chanting fuck, fuck, fuck under your breath.

He felt impossibly deep at that angle, practically driving you into the ground. One of his hands cracked down on your ass, making you flinch from surprise, your cunt squeezing him hard.

He growled at that, fucking you harder while tugging your hips backwards to meet his thrusts. He was repeatedly hitting a sensitive spot that had your vision going white, eclipsing everything else.

“God damn, this pussy’s so good to me,” he groaned, smacking your ass once more. “You enjoyin’ your treat? Huh?”

“Yes,” you gasped, legs kicking slightly at the intensity, eyes rolling to the back of your head. “I-I’m gonna… Can I cum? Please?”

He was pleased that you’d still thought to ask, but he was too keen on pleasing you at that moment to deny you. “Go on, I’ve got you. Come all over my cock.”

The orgasm rocked throughout your body, every one of your muscles taut as you unraveled. His name spilling from your lips as a whimper, something to cling onto. The way your cunt greedily, and oh so sweetly, squeezed his cock then had him right behind you.

A rough, feral sound escaped him as his hips snapped against you one last time, spilling hotly inside of you. Your walls continued to flutter in the aftermath, milking out his own pleasure.

After, he pulled out to get a look at the mess he’d made of you. Hummed with self satisfaction as he saw his spend trickling out of you, like another mark of his ownership.

Your head swam as if you were drunk, but still you smiled at him over your shoulder beatifically. Mischief danced in your eyes, but he’d already known it had been your plan to end up there all along.

“Always so eager to please.” He returned the grin slyly. “Maybe I ought to give you treats more often, if you keep it up.”

Perhaps it hadn’t been his intention, but you took those words as a challenge all the same.

--------

#cooper howard x reader #the ghoul x reader #cooper howard x you #the ghoul x you #cooper howard smut #the ghoul smut #fallout smut #fallout fanfiction #cooper howard fanfiction #the ghoul fanfiction #minors dni

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 2 years ago

Text

Songs That Sound Like Sea-Foam (II)

AU MASTERLIST || PART III

PAIRING: Fisherman!John Price x F!Mermaid!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 5.7k

WARNINGS: Blood, abduction, violence, intense gore, death, swords & firearms, angst, hurt/comfort, nakedness, etc.

A/N: Guys, whatever you do, don't imagine Price in a white tunic holding Mermaid you in one arm and weilding a sword in the other. I'm frothing at the mouth.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You sit on your black rocks once more, the darkening sky warning of an oncoming storm that you can feel seeping into your bones. In your loose grip, you fiddle with John’s necklace.

He’d given it to you only recently as a gift, seeing as you enjoyed the shininess of it so much, and you’d taken great pleasure in keeping it around your neck. Out of all of your treasures and trinkets, somehow these measly metal discs had become your favorite. The necklace is smooth under your caress, and you look down at it adoringly, eyes soft and lips curved with delicate affection.

The cove, as always, was quiet above the call of seagulls and the lapping of waves; the whispering ripples from your tail as it sways under the water. You had gotten content with this—the silence. Because you knew it would be filled by the low gravel of an accented voice soon enough; would be swept away by the chuckles you could wring from beard-hidden lips.

John was something to look forward to, and you loved the way he looked at you.

Water hits the top of your head.

Blinking out of your honeyed thoughts you look up to the crying sky as small slaps of droplets slide across your cheeks. Lashes flinch at every motion, and you glance back to the empty cove before lowering the necklace to your scaled lap.

Confusion slithers in like an eel to your heart as your eyes slide over the growing waves. The yawning mouth of the entrance sits abandoned of any small fishing ship.

For three, beautiful, sand-covered, months, John had never missed a day to come and see you. Rain or Sun.

A prick of a sharp fish's spine enters your brain. The rain comes down now in sheets. Lightning and thunder fight, and if you look close enough, the remnants of ancient lightning birds battle overhead with a flurry of black wings and their insatiable need for blood. Yet, still, your eyes stay frozen on the cove entrance as the water rises and rises.

With a thinning of your lips and the violent pushing from the torrent as it swallows your rocks, you clench your hands over John’s necklace and push off your perch with a shove of your palms.

Water encompasses you, scales dull, and fins limp as the general calmness from the encompassing water holds you in a constant sway. Your brows furrow.

Why wasn’t he here? You ask yourself, sinking among the seaweed and the schools of quick fish. Concern mingles with hurt. Do…do you think he’s alright?

Human ways were still confusing to you, even if John had been helping you understand them and giving little clam-shells of information. But they seemed…like violent folk. Angry and selfish, from what John had said about their wars and squabbles. The thought of your fisherman potentially being in danger on land was terrifying to you.

There wouldn’t be anything you could do if that happened.

Your fingers tighten around the strap of his necklace as you stare at the surface, back lightly hitting the bottom of the cove with a puff of sand. Crabs scatter as your tail twitches, your lungs sighing in their own special way.

John can take care of himself, you reason. He’s just a little late is all.

John’s never late. Your face creases, but you stuff the thought down, twisting on your side and bridging the piece of jewelry to your lip—kissing it once as sand digs into your skin. Holding the fisherman's property to your pounding heart, you close your eyes and wait as any lonely and loyal Merwoman would; tail held in close and the reverberations of a rabid downpour above you.

—

You wake up to the darkness of night. Blinking, you sigh to yourself and move a slow hand to rub at your eyes. After a moment of fatigued confusion as to why you weren’t in your cave, you realized why you had been out here in the first place.

John.

Arms pushing you up, your mind fights to wake itself, laced with algae and fatigue. How long have you been asleep? Has the storm stopped? Surely you hadn’t slept the entire day away. You pull the fisherman's necklace over your head as you stare at the sand below you. No fish were slipping past besides one that brushes your tail, which you found odd, but didn’t think much of it.

Shaking your head, you feel sluggish and put the necklace back on with a huff. You worry what John will think of you perhaps missing his late visit and smile slightly in humor.

The fish brushes your tail again.

Scales shimmering, you turn with an annoyed pull to your lips, fins scraping something hard and rough even as it’s saturated by the water of your cove. When you spot it, not only the rope but the shadow of the large hunting ship above you, your body drains of any life that had once lived in your lungs. It wasn’t nighttime.

Eyes widening at the loop that was parading around your tail, you don’t have time to move before it tightens with a force that leaves your mouth opening in a bubbled scream; ruthlessly jerking your body along the seafloor.

Desperately, your hands rip along the rocks and weeds of the bottom of the cove, getting torn and shredded in their soft nature as easily as paper. Your body smacks into every little object with a rattling to your bones that makes you sob. Red saturates the water as you’re manhandled in long and steady intervals back and up.

No amount of rampaging your tail does can break the rope, and with a last-ditch effort as the sandy floor gets farther and farther away, you twist around and tear at the woven cord with sharp nails. Adrenaline pumps, pupils tiny and panicked.

No! No, not like this! You can imagine the pain of it now—the hooks and the ripping of scales from your supple flesh. Even now the tiny ones under the dig of the vice are peeling away in long strings of red to disappear behind you as you’re thrust upward. They’re delicate, don’t these monsters understand? They’re beautiful and treasured and they’re destroying them!

You scream in pain at the pulling of your spine; a large creaking in your muscles.

But as you gain a small sense of feral hope when the rope begins to fray from your grip, the iron net squashes any belief of surviving.

It slams into you as John would cast his own for his prey—but this one is larger and full of cruel, curved, spikes. Is this what your parents endured? What the harpies had meant? The iron sinks far quicker than rope, and it traps you in a dome of hell before you can mutilate yourself out of the maw.

Oh, Gods, it was going to peel your skin away.

True fear pounded in your breast, and with a cry of John’s name from under the water, you watched with horror as the net descended onto you and your bloody wounds.

They drag you above waves and the first thing you do is thrash and wail so loud the seagulls shriek in surprise. There’s crimson staining the waters sloshing at you with combative ease, the violent storm from before now a light slapping at add to your fear. In the wake of open air, the curved spikes dig into your flesh as easily as a unicorn’s horn can penetrate a wyvern’s armor. Skin everywhere is assaulted and peeled to a tautness of bodily torture.

Oh, and your precious tail.

It hurt so badly, like nothing you had ever experienced before.

“John!” You scream as your body strikes the side of the large ship, voice cutting out and leaving a bawling yell behind. Your form was being pulled by steady hoists and barked orders.

All around you can hear laughing—joking. Loud exclamations of approval.

You’re sure they’ve dislocated your tail right at the joint, how could they not have? The ream of their strong arms and ruthless greed. Oh, your tail, your precious, beautiful tail.

Long streams of salty tears fly down your dripping face; arms pushing the spikes away from your neck and face with futile action. The net and rope were your earthly graves.

They slam you to the deck like a fish.

Jerking and slapping around, your arms hit the wood with a bird-paced heart. The iron rattles and keeps you down like a weight.

Brokenly gasping through loud cries, the sudden jeering faces from all around leave your fear all-consuming.

They were ugly—broken teeth and sun-destroyed skin. Eyes that bugged and scars that could be from either a sword or a Strix’s claws. More than likely it was from meager squabbles with crewmates. But you balk back nonetheless, terrified and bleeding profusely.

They were going to rip you to pieces.

Inside your chest, your lungs are rising and falling quickly, and the hands that glide along your form make you want to burn your skin off. They grip at you, yanking you around as your hair gets caught in the gaps between the iron. With nail and tooth your bite and claw, but how many were there? Ten? Twenty?

There’s uproar and more jokes as you fight back; body lifted and spikes torn out of skin as you arch your back and howl in agony. Their hands are not John’s. They don’t caress your smooth skin with reverence or holiness—this is cruelty. This is a sadistic pleasure.

“Isn’t it our lucky day, Lads?!” A high and grating voice bellows out, and finally free of the net, all you can do is cry and flip your tail uselessly along the polished wood as they throw you down. Your vision blacks and slowly comes back—hair matted and skin slick with more than water.

It hurts to breathe too much. Whimpering, your cheek presses itself into the deck as footsteps take someone closer.

“Holy God, would ya look at that down there, eh? A true maiden of the sea,” A thunderous belt of achievement from everyone leaves you flinching, eyes tight shut to try and focus on anything but the excruciating way your skin throbs and gushes blood. “Though we’d have gotten all of them by now!”

Haggard laughs and rotted smiles.

A hand snaps to wrench your face upward, and you yowl and grasp at your head as your delicate strands go tight.

“Now who’s the little beauty we have here?” Whoever this man was, he had no standing on John. On your Fisherman.

Loose skin and an age-rotted tunic, a belt at his waist holding a scabbard with a gold sword and twin pistols. He had only one eye—brown as a pile of mud—with a black eyepatch over the other.

Your fluttering lashes took in a cracked-lipped grin of approval; whether at your battered appearance or the nature of your species, you knew not. But you didn’t like the way he was glancing at your tail as if it was made of gold one bit.

“Lords above, did ya have to be so brash, Lads?” Spittle slaps your face and you fight again with the hands in your locks to get away. The man’s hold jerks your face back and forth until you stop with bile building in your throat. “Wrecked her silky skin, you did!”

Being thrown back, your skull slams the deck before you hurl your guts in a sputtering of air and crimson. Many laugh and kick at your already broken scales. You grit your teeth and refuse to cry out.

“Get ‘er tied up and in the Hold for storage. If the scales are good enough, we’ll peel ‘em tomorrow.”

“Peel?!” Your face whips into a twisted glare, and pain leads to fast anger; wrath, even. The men grow gradually silent at your outburst and the leader comes to a slow stop—his back to you. “How dare you?” You gasp out, hands pushing your body slightly backward until the agony makes you stop with a lip-bitten whine. “How dare you do this to me? What have I done to you and your men? You’re nothing but senseless cowards who shy at something that lives its life differently! Am I only a pile of coin for you?!”

Your blood runs over the deck and seeps into the grain. Staining it with your memory and presence like a ghost that’s not yet dead. Loose scales shimmer and drip red. They were damaged and dull—your flesh was mangled.

The leader turns back and smirks with blackened teeth. “More than a pile, Little Dearie. Far more. And if those hooks had been kinder, the King would have loved a beauty like you in his collection.” A look is slid down your body with a knowing chuckle.

He stalks off and you peel back your lips to say more, but a stained rag is shoved into your mouth instead, shutting up your rageful screeches and any hope of a peep of potent song despite not knowing these devils’ names.

By the time they chuck you in the Hold, body bouncing along the wood, and shut the hatch with a reverberation of wood, you had managed to rip someone’s ear clean off and break another’s arm; but there was only so much you could do. They had bound your hands behind you with a blow to your spine.

Curled up and longing for the sea, for John, you hold the only thing you have left.

Silver discs on a chain, the metal smooth and the only thing now shining. You feel it hit your breastbone and sob as the headache of blood loss begins to set in. Laughter echoes from above your dark prison.

—

John saw the blood in the water before he saw the scales being pushed back and forth on the beach. Caught in that gentle push and pull now that the storm had ceased beyond a light drizzle—bright and reflecting the misty sun; far more vibrant than a fish or a sea serpent. But the blood.

Christ, there was blood in the water.

Blue eyes stare blankly at the sea-foam at the shoreline, red and bubbling, John’s pupils small and the lashes held back even as a salty breeze hits them with a burn. At his sides, his hands slowly close into fists.

Jumping off the side of his ship, the man lands in thigh-deep water, gritting his teeth before he shoves his way to the sand and black rocks of land. He doesn’t know what drives his actions, or why he’s doing this, but with quick hands, he snatches up what scales he can find and keeps them in his palm; mind on fire.

Anyone could see the fury in John’s gaze—a growing hatred for what was just beyond sight. When he has all he’s able to carry, he wades back through the water and gets himself back atop his boat easily with one hand.

Walking quickly and soaked, he pushes aside a small cloth atop a barrel; seeing a gold box hidden under it. He opens it deftly, and while he puts the damaged and torn scales inside, John glances at the expensive and elegant twin cuff bracelets that sit in blue velvet.

When he had been away buying them for you, he should have already been here. Wasted time.

I left her here alone. Knowing what could happen if I did. A growl bounces under his beard, face going red with anger. The two of you had quickly become enraptured with each other—drunk off flesh and touch like non-sentient animals.

And something had taken place while he was away. You were gone, the fisherman knew. The water wasn’t as clear, the fish were terrified, and the blood alone proved this—the scales. This wasn’t an accident.

And it had something to do with that ship he’d seen on the horizon with his narrowed eyes not minutes prior. The Captain was slowly re-taking over the man.

“Fuck!” John curses, teeth bared as he spins and readies his sails. With violent pulls at the ropes, letting the mainsail shift down in a flurry of white sheets, he turns the vessel around in no time at all. It was as if Poseidon himself was pushing the ship forward to that small dot on the ocean line, far, far away.

Deadly purpose bled into his heart, and the early afternoon sun forced him onward with hellfire following at his heels. He re-wraps his gift in the meantime, only taking a single scale from inside and putting it in a small pouch on his belt before walking to another barrel and pausing. This one was older, more sun-bleached.

John deserted the service years ago, but not long enough to forget how the world of men can be. With a grunt on his thinned lips, the brunette rips the top off and grasps inside.

With an experienced hand out came a sheathed Cutlass, the leather of the handle worn and indented to his very grip. It found a place on his belt, and John wasted no time in making the Flintlock pistol follow.

A fisherman he may be, but in his blood John would always be a killer. He knew how to fight dirty and fight well—carve skin and not flinch at the sparks of gunpowder. There was no hesitation as to what he would do to get you back.

In his chest, there was a weight of rage and concern as he glared at the far-off Hunter’s ship.

“What the hell have you done to her?” He growls, beard back and eyes narrowed. His hands clenched and unclenched with loathing.

John’s thoughts go to the horror stories he’d heard about Merfolk and them getting caught in the open ocean, when he’d found you he had been surprised. He felt his heart beat faster when you were around, his blood would spike with love and affection.

It was strange, unheard of, but he can’t stop it now that it’s happened.

No one touched you with their cruel hands and lived.

John didn’t like it, but he hung far enough away from the Hunter’s ship so that the cover of night hid him. Dark stars hung at his head, tunic blowing in the chilled breeze when the waves took him close enough—all was silent. Asleep.

Lantern light slid along the waves, and with deft fingers, John anchored his ship with measured efficiency a small distance away. Looking over the side, the fisherman grunts under his breath and sets his shoulders. Without a single glance in hesitation, he slips silently off the deck into the water.

Immediately, John kicks his legs and resurfaces with a puff from his nostrils, whipping his head to the side to dispel water. Making no sound, the man swims the distance between vessels, hearing the creak of the still and bulky form of the Hunter’s ship ten times his own sitting above him.

“Fuckin’ bastards,” he grumbles to himself and thinks of your condition intensely. His heart hammers even in the clutches of the frigid waters. But beyond the insult, no other words needed to be spoken—the prior Captain was a man of action.

Violent Action.

John wades to the side of the wooden structure, the waves threatening to smash him tight into the hull and skin him against the barnacles, but he braces himself and grabs ahold of the knife at his belt, next to his cutlass. In his stupor to get to you quickly, he’d forgotten that his Flintlock would be completely useless now that it had been submerged in water.

Grunting and trying to remain as quiet as possible, the man sets his blade into the side of the ship into the thin slits available. In his free hand, he takes up his cutlass and does the same. In a feat of impressive upper-body strength that leaves his muscles bunching and tensing—veins visible from the side of his neck—John huffs breaths as he climbs the ship one panel at a time.

He groans and sends the blades back in at opposite intervals, the firm thunk-plunk, thunk-plunk, bouncing off the dark air as the moon shines bright. But no one awakens.

The Fisherman pulls himself up the side of the ship and swiftly ducts behind a pile of large crates on deck to gather himself, wiping his forehead with his arm.

“C’mon Sweetheart,” he mutters, “hold on just a little longer.” Duel wielding both weapons, narrowed eyes look across the open area—the stain of blood all along the wood. Glimmering in the low light catches John’s fiery gaze.

Scales. Your scales. Littering the deck and scattered all over.

If possible, the man becomes even more enraged, knuckles going white over his blades. The man stationed on deck was asleep across the way; leaning back and snoring. John locks eyes on him and hides back a vicious smirk. Quickly sneaking over and staying near the edge of the lantern’s lights, the ragged-looking man awakens to a blade at the base of his throat and a voice in his ear.

“The woman,” John speaks slowly and deeply, accent rolling out. The watchman tenses in his grip, but John grits his teeth and grits out, “Where the fuck is she?”

“W-woman?” Usually, the brunette could paint himself a patient man, like a flag fluttering in a breeze waiting for the next bout of heavy winds without care or concern. But this was different.

By God, if these pathetic fortune-seekers had hurt you even in the slightest bit…

John presses the blade harder to the man’s throat, thighs shifting in agitation, glaring at the far-off water beyond this stranger’s shoulder.

“The woman.” Blood falls down the blade edge, crimson. A tiny whimper. “The one that you stole away like an fucking animal.”

“The fish?” The tone was incredulous but with a snarl the voice continues, whispering pitifully out in fear over the night’s silence. “She’s in the Hold! I swear it, Sir, on God’s green earth I do—”

John slits the man’s throat and takes his leave before the body drops, blood spraying into the air with a garbled cry.

—

You don’t sleep so much as you fall unconscious from the lack of blood. Inside your head, your brain is fuzzy and light—everything swirling like a jewel’s many faces reflected onto a wall. The rocking of the Hunter’s ship, while something you should be used and accustomed to, made you sick at times until only the watery bile that fell from your lips hit the wood.

At some point, you’d given into the call of nothingness at the lack of seawater and the violent shivering of your shoulders. Your tail had gone completely numb.

Everyone knew that Merfolk needed the sea to survive—you couldn’t live without feeling its loose arms around you for long periods, pulling you in and filling your airways.

This was torture.

But whoever was ripping up cloth at your limp side was muttering you back into the darkness of the Hold.

“I’m right ‘ere, c’mon, Love. Open your bloody eyes.” Hands pressed to your face, tilting it and hissing before a thumb slid along the swollen skin of a cut. “I’ll rip them to pieces…mark my word. They’ll not live through this.”

It sounded like…

Gripping at your binds and gag, both items slipped away right before the larger cuts on your body were suddenly packed with strips of rough material. Occasional whispers of words and curses wafted out.

“...J-John?” Your voice is rough, shattered, but at the same time you manage to force open an eye.

Tight blue eyes meet yours immediately, and his voice softens to a painful degree as he addresses you. “That’s it, atta girl. Just keep focusing on my voice, then, yeah? Come back to me, Sweetheart.”

Tears well your ducts, lips quivering.

John was curled over you and had ripped up the bottom of his tunic to make strips of bandages to try and stop the bleeding. He came for you, gruff voice and large frame, all.

“How are you—” Your voice breaks into body-shaking coughs, but that doesn't deter the man. He carefully puts a hand forward and tilts you into his arms; head resting on his chest. Your ears twitch to the sound of his heartbeat, loud and fast. You cling to it like a lifeline as those calluses graze your skin once more.

How was he here?

“What have they fucking done?” John’s voice is dark and volatile, his hand stroking your matted hair. “What did they do?”

He’s not so much asking you as he’s asking himself. You breathe in a wheeze, not noticing the crimson staining John’s clothes—none of it his or yours in the slightest. The other men on the ship weren’t the Fisherman’s priority, only you; always you. But whoever had been in his path had met the unfortunate end of being on the opposite side of his blade.

When he’d found you like this….it was like his entire chest had fallen still. His eyes wide with horror and fear.

John had never felt something that visceral before, except when you hadn’t been in your cove.

“Oh, my Beauty.” Chapped lips press to your forehead, breathing you in as arms curl around you. “Let me bring you home.”

You shake and cry silently into his neck, weak hands coming to grasp at his neck.

“They’re going to take my tail.”

“No,” John’s answer is immediate and firm, pulling you closer until you might slip into his skin. “No, they’re not doing a damn thing to you. I promise, Love, not a single person will ever touch you again, you hear?”

You burrow into his neck, this fisherman’s flesh soft under your force. Hands keep you to him, and with another kiss on your cheek, they tighten and gently move you into the clutch of his arm.

John looks down at you with great distress, eyes flickering over every sign of abuse and hurt. The men whose throats he’d slit in their sleep deserved to be awake and see the blade descending for their neck, he thought.

“I’m going to lift you, Sweetheart, eh?” He grunts to push aside the hatred in his tone, not wanting to scare you. He gazes around the Hold and at the low ceiling—the insistent rocking from the waves just outside.

You suck down greedy breaths and nod slightly, shaking in his arms. John’s eyes crease in sorrow but has no option but to continue; the both of you can’t be here when the remaining men wake or discover the bodies.

Your Fisherman frowns but does what he’s able to both quickly and effectively lift you, your tail hanging limp and dripping blood from the fins. When you tense and whine, John shushes you quietly.

“Hush, now, it’s alright. It’ll all be over soon, I’ve got you. I’m taking you back home if it’s the last thing I damn-well do.” Your teeth grit with held-back pain, every movement was agony and to think made it worse.

Home? Home wasn’t safe anymore. Like taking a knife to the heart, the thought makes the torment all the worse.

John holds you in one arm, head under his ear and rubbing against his beard as his muscles strain to keep you right to him with his torn tunic and blood-freckled skin. In his free hand, he wields his Cutlass and exits the Hold slowly, eyes surveying the scene.

The scores of bodies were only a fraction of the men of this ship—only one side of the crew’s quarters that ascended up to the deck. John knew the anatomy of a ship well, certainly one like this.

His only question was why such an unsavory bunch was living on a King issued hunting vessel in perfect condition. Was the bastard hiring pirates for his extermination game?

“If I ever get my hands on him…” John shuts himself up as someone groans in their sleep from the far wall.

He glares in the general direction and puts his body between yours and the straight direction that he walks—sword parallel to the ground and knife at his belt as a backup. Ready and wound for a fight.

“You..you came for me?” You ask softly as John carries on, your blood leaving a crimson trail behind the two of you; your mind is loose to all except the way your Fisherman’s thumbs run circles in your rent scales, fingers gripping under your tail joint which aches and hurts. His bicep is curled at the small of your back.

John carries you like you weigh nothing.

“‘Course,” the brunette's eyes slide to yours, true honesty and firmness behind his words. You flutter your lashes at the fatigue in your body and his feet speed up, speaking into your scalp and nuzzling his beard into you. “No one messes with my girl.”

“I’m not a…girl, John,” you remind, softly.

The smirk on your head gives you strength, fear steadily draining like contaminated liquid.

“No,” he whispers, “no, not quite. You’re something far more lovely, aren’t you?”

Your heart swells, tears dripping down your cheeks once more before lips slide them away with brushes of a kiss. He carries you up the stairs quickly, sword at the ready.

Lantern light makes you squint, hands tightening around John’s neck.

He hums to you, a small melody that you can latch onto to help focus—it keeps your mind working as everything else falls away. John’s warm flesh and his lungs, the sound of his pulse.

He came for you. No man would do that besides him—no specimen of any species. No one except John.

Your Fisherman.

You’re halfway to freedom, feeling the sea air on your flesh and longing for the depths of untouchable waves. You peek from John’s neck and blink delicately, what little scales still intact shimmering, and fins aching for water.

“John,” he begins to pick up his pace, but still glances in attentive question. “I need to be in the water. I can’t go long without it.” You already felt a bit stronger by just being by the open sea. The man nods and you smile deeply, face twisted. You kiss his cheek deeply. “You have my thanks, Fisherman.”

His tight expression gradually loosens with care and love. “Doubted me, then?”

“Perhaps only a little,” he kisses your lips, cheeky smiles peeling his beard.

“Well, we’ll have to fix that, eh?” The man’s face is lit by lanterns, stars like a crown above his head that illuminate the small scars and the sheen of sweat like a portrait of a good man.

Perhaps humans were truly more magical than you had been taught to believe, for no mortal man would do this for anybody.

In the midst of him carrying you over to the edge of the ship, he’s only three feet from the drop when the familiar sound of a Flintlock hammer being clicked back hits his ears. You feel John lock up, and your eyebrows crease in confusion; not common to the model of metal and wood.

Looking over his shoulder, you strangle down a raspy gasp.

“John—”

“I know, Love.” He whispers, turning slowly with his sword at his hip. The stranger with the eyepatch has his weapon leveled with the brunette’s chest. “Easy, let me handle it. Keep focusing on me.”

“A thief in the night!” The leader calls, and alarm from below deck start to rise in question at the noise. John grits his teeth and his stance widens. “Thought to make off with my prize, did ya? I’ve not seen you before on this ship.”

“Hell,” John grits out, loudly now that he’s caught. You burrow deeper into him and he shields you, voice hot with rage. “Save me the fuckin’ monologue. She isn’t yours—to own or bloody take.”

As he speaks he points his cutlass in the leader’s general direction, holding it aloft with a strong and pale arm. The leader smirks, and soon the pound of rushing feet enter the deck—men holding weapons and clubs. You make a noise of tension and John tries to shift you farther into his grip even more.

Your tail hangs and brushes the deck, gaining some feeling back to it gradually.

The leader laughs. “What that creature is, Mate, is enough gold for a whole moon’s time in rum and pleasure.” His single eye falls on you as the crew gets closer, crowding in and yelling.

John shuffles back and snarls like a boar, pointing his sword’s tip from one chest to another.

“Keep your bastard eye off of ‘er, you prick. Find your score elsewhere. She’s coming with me.” So sure he sounds that you yourself believe it. Your chest swims with pride.

The crew closes in, but jumping at this stage was dangerous. The ones with firearms could aim in the water before you both could get away and John didn’t know if you could swim still. Your fins were torn and tail flinching with damaged nerves.

Eyepatch barks a vile laugh, “...I think he loves the beast!” John’s body winds even farther and your eyes slip to the side of his red face. He grunts stiffly, hair damp. Everyone follows in their amusement, mocking the two of you. “I knew that necklace around her neck meant something.” Your body stills and you glance down at John’s gifted silver. Blue eyes flash to the same, but as if suddenly realizing the nakedness of your top surrounded by such brutes, your Fisherman pushes on the back of your spine to shove your chest into his own with a panicked look. You grunt in surprise, but let him. “No greedy Mermaid would bother with a trinket like that! A piece of rubbish metal. It means something to her—and I’ll bet that something is you, Thief.”

Me, greedy? Your eyes narrowed into slits. If you knew his name, you’d sing his death song in an instant. Your Fisherman’s face goes stiff, knowing the predicament the two of you were in. There was no way he was giving you up.

But himself…

Tiny lids narrow on the arrogant leader.

“Do you trust me?” John whispers to you, suddenly, as all sides were surrounded and the water just as dangerous as the deck.

Face creasing, you say, confused and worried, “Of course.”

“...Then forgive me.”

He throws you from the side of the deck, and whirs to run his blade through the nearest man.

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jjungkooksthighs · 1 year ago

Text

Claws of Carnality | jjk (m) (16)

Pairing: alpha jungkook x omega reader

Genre: (fluff, angst, and smut) abo/werewolf, fantasy

Rating: 18+/nsfw

Word Count: 14.3k (We really said it's been almost a year so we're going to write thirty plus pages)

Summary:

At the bathhouse, you discover your alpha is much worse is off than you originally anticipated. You tend to him, but some scars never fade.

Warnings: MAJOR CHARACTER INJURY, LOTS OF BLOOD MENTIONS, GORE, MENTIONS OF BROKEN BONES, MENTIONS OF LOSS OF BODY PARTS, dom!jungkook, alpha!jungkook, sub!reader, omega!reader, cursing, praising, possessive!jungkook, teasing, marking, manhandling

Author's Note:

It's been awhile since I updated. Honestly, the grown-up life is rough. That's all I really have to say to answer for the extended hiatus with this story and my other one. Mental health has been going up and down periodically and it really was so hard to write through it all. I spent about two weeks going back and forth with the chapter. I wondered if it would ever make it to a post several times because things kept getting deleted. I finally decided to just sit down and write and not stop. This is the final result. Thirty-one pages. I hope you enjoy. I'm sorry that this isn't the long-awaited mating chapter that I know you guys all really want to see, but it is important to me that the characters are nuanced and that their connection is not one built purely on the basis of desire. Sure, that is part of it, but there's much more to it. So much more depth and meaning when we build relationships with people. Especially romantic ones. Enjoy!

To read more, click here for the masterlist.

“O-over there, alpha,” you quietly suggest, “It would be easier for me to-“ you flounder in flusterment when the strong arm circled around your front curls possessively around you- “I-It would be easier for m-me to tend to you if you sat down on the bench.”

The male makes a deep, rumbling sound as he draws in another heavy breath of your intoxicating pheromones, “As you wish. But it will cost you for being so irresistible.”

The sound goes straight to your cunt, and you have to bite into your cheek to keep from making the sound of need that your wolf begs you to release. You shift where you stand, hoping that the quaint press of your thighs together will somehow trap the slick from where it is secreted from your sex.

“What…what is the price I must pay for my transgression?” You ask, hoping that balms, ointments, and medicinal solutions splayed on the tray you hold in your hands don’t fall from how much your heart pounds in your chest.

It’s hard enough as it is not to look down, for he is completely, utterly, and mouth-wateringly naked.

“Two things,” his uninjured arm tightens even more around your front, his hand bunching itself in your skirt as he groans at the fresh scent of desire that drifts from you. “The first is you will not leave my sight. I want you as near to me as you can be.” He noses at the side of your throat, your lashes fluttering in the warm sensation of his breath as he utters, “It was a second hell to leave you after that duel and be without you, but I wanted to respect the tradition–and your decision– had you chosen to prepare yourself for me.”

His words have affection swirling in your chest.

This male really was something special. Even after battling three other wolves and being severely injured on your behalf, he still put your needs before his own.

And really, how could you deny him his request when that was all that you wanted, deep down? To just be by his side. Forever his loyal, loving, doting mate.

“You needn’t ask me that, alpha, for it was already in my mind.” You faintly confess.

He likes that answer.

You know based on the way he presses his mouth to the oily gland along your throat. It is gentle and soft, and it is so different from what you’d seen on the glen not too long ago during his duel.

So much violence and so much pain he was capable of bringing, but with you, he would never harm a hair on your head. So great was his love for you that he would protect you from that even if it meant taking those scars onto his body.

He’d given his oath to you that he would do exactly that, and gods, he had kept to it.

It is why you let him maneuver you forward away from the watery basin you’d found him in and toward the long ebony wood bench that almost stretches from one end of the chamber to the other. A tall pillar of white wax holds a flickering wick that is set in brass lanterns hanging from the ceiling on each side of the bench, and in front of its legs are caged candles guarded by glass that have high, bright flames.

“How agreeable you are being. If you can so easily agree to that, then the second of my terms is this.” He turns you both before the front of your knee can make contact with the wood, the arm he has encircled around your waist spinning you so that you face him.

His hand never leaves your side, his fingers remaining entrenched in the sea of your skirts. Somehow, none of the vials fall from the tray you clutch onto.

Golden irises that burn with more intensity than the fire beside him have you utterly struck by their luminousness as he demands, “You will promise me that if this,” he jerks his chin toward his mangled form, “is too much for you, you will tell me. I said before that I only wanted you to tend to me, and I meant it. But if you are uncomfortable, you must say so.”

Again, he was putting you first. Despite the fact that he was hurting, he was still choosing your comfort over his own.

Just how much more could your heart swell for this male?

You shake your head, finding your voice full of doubtlessness and confidence that surge into you as you say, “I want to do this, alpha. I spent years studying the art of medicine and herbal treatments so that I could one day use it to help others.” You rise on your tiptoes to osculate your lips against his. “I would be lying if I told you I hadn’t secretly wanted to learn it mostly for situations like this.”

He smirks against you, his mouth lingering near yours as he teasingly prods, “Situations like this? Are you saying that you thought about getting me shirtless and all alone so you could touch me under the guise of that excuse?”

Heat races to your cheeks and that confidence you’d had before vanishes with it. Soon, you’re blushing as you blurt, “No! I mean, yes! I mean….alpha!”

Years ago, you had never entertained the idea that this male before you would ever become yours. That you would ever be able to have a moment like this with him. He had been a constant thought in your mind from the moment you’d first laid eyes on him when you’d been but children, and as you both grew older, his presence in your mind and thoughts had only grown stronger.

But apart from your dreams and musings, he’d been so far for you to reach with all the duties and responsibilities that had been thrust on you from such a young age. So many other omegas had vied for his attentions, and with all of them clamoring for one look in their direction whenever he had returned to the compound from his exploits deep in the forest or in the forge where he had been stationed, you had never been able to get close enough with a constant herd of wolves –female and male alike– around him.

His rank had drawn many to him, each of them hoping that the next in line to be the ruler of the pack would select them to be part of his inner circle. Any selected by him would instantly rise in rank upon his ascendance to becoming Pack Alpha, and so naturally he had had to be guarded in his interactions and limited in his contact with others beyond his work in the forge as the pack’s only blacksmith beside his father.

Rumors had spread fast in his unannounced absences that he would take with his father for increasing increments of time the older he became, because when he returned to work at the forge, there were bags under his eyes that had become more mature, had become hardened with the calluses on his hands as he worked them day after day.

Sometimes he would return with a new wound on his body that he tried to hide under the various furs he draped over his body. You knew because of the chitter of the omegas that would inevitably gossip about in front of the fire in the omegean den on your way back to your chambers after a long night in the archives that you went to after you left the schoolhouse for the day.

Those were the nights that you found your paws bearing down on the grassy ground as you ran through the hills deep in the woodland in your journey toward your favorite creek that was tucked away behind a wall of vines, deep into the forest, that no one but you knew about.

Or so you had thought.

He’d been there, too. From a distance, of course. From the moment you stepped out of your chambers, he’d been able to smell you. The wind had a cunning way of carrying that to him no matter where he was, and he was helpless to the wolf in him he had been learning to control that bayed and bayed until he listened and tracked that captivating scent that made everything else in the world fade away.

You wonder, as he urges you between his legs that he opens for you in invitation to stand between, just how much he had to sacrifice to be sitting before you now.

Your alpha observes your expressions change from embarrassment to concentrated concern, and he tugs on the invisible cord tying you both together that is the bond you now share. You let him in without hesitation, your thoughts becoming known to him as he draws on the connection.

He can hear your thoughts, can feel your emotions, can see your memories if he taps into it. In the developing stage of the bond, you wish you knew how to show him all of your dreams of him, all of your memories of him, and all your thoughts that you’ve ever had of him.

There’s something that you want him to see, but gods, your voice just won’t work the way you want it to under the emotion that cracks and breaks it. So, you let him see a memory you’d kept buried deep in the trenches of your mind for many, many moons. One that no one but he would ever carry.

It had been a rainy, stormy night. So heavy was the rain that it pelted your skin even through the thick coat of your white fur as you’d torn through the earth with paws too eager to rush you away from the center of your stresses and away to the woodland where it all melted away with the streaks of color that passed by you in your inhuman speed as you ran, ran, and then ran some more.

Thunder had rumbled through the sky on this particular night so loud that even your eardrums rang after the deafening strikes of sound that cut through the sky as lightning flashed before your eyes from under the canopy of trees.

The forest was vast, but that night, it had seemed all too small for you.

You hadn’t stopped until your lungs screamed for air, your haunches burning from how hard you’d pushed them, the bolt of white light in the sky similar to the color of the flame that had burned in the stone fireplace set in the middle of the wall on one end of your chambers while you’d carefully, attentively read the letter left to you on your windowsill.

Such a beautiful poem about a boy who had come to love the girl he admired from afar. And so meticulous had each letter been etched onto the parchment. You knew whoever had written it had taken much time to compose it with each swirl and curve of each syllable.

You had left it on your bed while you had gone to find another book to hide yet another letter from your secret admirer with no name, but had not noticed the shadow that had swept under your door to reveal your father, who had taken one look at the letter on your duvet before anger had turned him cruel at the prospect of his perfect little girl being corrupted by some hormonal male.

He'd cast the parchment into the fire despite your ardent pleas not to, the tears falling quickly when he’d let that fury burn you with pokers of curses and chastisements for your lack of purity.

He had always been adamant that you were to study the ways of the pack and devote yourself to teach its art to the youth. Those letters, to him, were nothing but distractions. Distractions that made you no better than the common whore in the fantasies they would ineluctably fill your head with.

Or so he had said.

That was why you had found yourself bounding through the forest that night with tears in your eyes not even the rain could wash away. But that night, fate had had other ideas.

You’d intended to go to the cave by the creek. You had never made it inside.

You’d stopped behind one of the oak trees on the edge of the forest floor before the soil turned to rock by the stream, the wide-mouthed cave beyond occupied by two figures.

Just by the smell of them, you knew they were of the same blood. One was older with their more muted, aged smell and one was younger.

You knew the scent of the younger one. That scent of blooming gardenia, pear and black vanilla. The same one that lingered on the letters left to you on your windowsill.

Each time the lightning pierced the black sky, their figures flashed. And each time, the two were locked in combat. Each held only a small iron dagger, their fighting leathers more than enough protection for them both lest either were struck by the other.

Unable to look away, you found yourself moving closer until you hid safely behind a thick, bountiful bush and could discern voices. Their voices. Only bits and pieces could be made out through the rainstorm, but it was enough.

“…too slow, son….can’t keep putting your arm up like that…too open and easy for me to…”

The next split of white light through the black sky illuminated them both, and the slightly shorter male with hair the color of ebony had a knife at his throat. It was held there by his father, who shook his head in disapproval as he gripped the younger male’s forearm in a vice-like hold.

“…cannot protect her if you cannot protect yourself. You are not ready.” The older male had decided. “Until you are, you will not see her. Even from afar.”

Another lightning bolt ruptures the clouds covering the moon, and a younger Jungkook had let his dogma guide his blade as he had voiced:

“Eventually I will be. And when I am, she’ll be mine. Not even her father will stand in my way.”

The next time the streak of lightning found its way through the atmosphere, the older male had been twisted around, his arm held behind his back while the younger alpha had pressed his blade to his father’s throat.

A self-satisfied grin with pointed canines protruding from under his upper lip had made your beating muscle in your chest stutter as he had released his father from the binding hold he’d had on him.

You could have sworn he looked right at you from behind the mess of leaves and brambles.

When the white fulmination cleaved through the clouds once more, your heart stopped when his father had quickly captured his son’s wrist to the hand that held the dagger by his neck only to bend forward and rotate forward, effectively flipping Jungkook onto his back. Jungkook, who had been unprepared for such a technique, had been brought to the craggy ground with a grunt, his other hand shooting out to grab for something, anything, to find purchase in as his knife fell from his fingers. Jungkook was fast, but his father had simply been faster.

The older male had easily used the momentum of move to step around and over Jungkook’s now prone form. Jungkook, who had been propped up on one elbow with a sharp looking rock held in his now bleeding hand from the blade of the dagger that had cut into his palm in the fall. It laid too far for him to reach, the essence of his defeat staining it.

White electricity strikes yet again, the deep rumble of thunder loud under the pounding of blood in your ears.

“Distracted. She occupies your mind even now. That…is dangerous, son.” The older male with gray streaking the black hairs stuck over his eyes had said. “Too dangerous for you to be allowed near her until….oncoming rut is over...”

That was the last thing you heard before there had been a flare of heat on your right, the rift of lightning arcing along the old oak’s stump beside you as the clouds clashed and loud sound pierced the earth.

You hadn’t even flinched. That didn’t matter. The only thing that did was the alpha on the ground who’s scent clung to the parchments that made you blush, smile, and kick your feet while you coveted them close to your chest as you wished to the gods that whatever force was keeping him from your side would release him.

The fascination that had turned every letter of his had tilled the very hard edge with which he spoke as he growled, “No. I cannot go through that again. You cannot make me.”

“Won’t I?” His father flipped the dagger in hand. “You’re on the ground right now because you cannot keep your mind off her. What is to stop you from venturing into her chambers tonight when you inevitably begin thinking of how good she smells? Of how pretty she looks when-“

Jungkook had pushed up on his hand, the other holding the rock slicing the air close to his father’s thigh. Each side of the older male’s mouth pulled downward, the metal of his dagger gleaming as sparks had flown upon impact of the pointed edge of the rock hitting the blade with such force.

“Don’t.” Jungkook’s jaw tensed. “Do not dare to say the things I mutter in my sleep when you have me chained to the fucking trees.”

His father had shrugged. “Then become stronger for her. Until you can, you’ll stay here, deep in the woods. Far away from her.”

The cords in the younger alpha’s neck went rigid as he scowled. “I will find my way to her. One way or another.”

With that, he’d pulled his knees toward his chest before punting his father in the chest with his feet. Such energy he’d used to push himself back from the older male as he’d used the force of the action to drive his feet over his head in a backward roll, his bleeding hand reaching around the hilt of the curved dagger on the ground. When he’d gotten to his feet once more, he had bared his teeth with determination set into those expressive features of his.

His father had nodded in approval, “That’s the spirit, son. Never accept defeat. That’s how you win.”

The clash of metal had soon become drowned out by the outpour of rain, but not even the water could snuff out the iotas of light that came at each powerful strike of their blades against each other.

Hours must have passed, but you swore it felt like it had only been minutes as your eyes followed the younger male everywhere he went, his wild dark locks sticking to his forehead and sides of his face as he moved with purpose and confidence.

There was an art to his movements as he continuously, mercilessly brought down his blade on his father’s. Time and time again.

Whether he held a quill or a blade in his hand, he was filled with purpose. Purpose that was entirely carved by you.

It had taken his father being backed into the stream for you to realize that you were too close. And that the air had become too thick to push air through your lungs as the organs in your chest contracted too deeply?

Why had it suddenly become so difficult to breathe?

Jungkook wades into the stream up to his calves, not willing to let up on his father despite the water urging him with its flow against him.

The closer he got, the more labored your breaths became.

You needed to shift. You needed to shed your heavy furs that had been drenched by the rain.

But to do that, you had to leave him.

So, you did. Quietly, you slipped into the night, careful not to make any sound lest you drew any attention to yourself. You hadn’t known you’d been holding your breath until you found your way back to your chambers, your footfalls light as your furs had begun to fall away from you. After you’d collected the rainwater you’d left in a barrel outside your window in several smaller bowls and emptied them into the cauldron hung over the metal hook above your fireplace to heat what would be your bathwater, your hands had sought the comfort of the thickest bound book that you kept on your bookshelf.

You had been too hasty to get to the dog-eared page you’d marked in the book, accidentally tearing the page before finding what you’d come to your book for. Inside it was tucked your favorite letter left to you on your windowsill. One that you found yourself rereading night after night.

It read:

The moon pales in comparison to the light that twinkles in your eyes,

The stars tremble in awe of your brilliance,

The night must blanket them and still, you offer more warmth,

Warmth that not even the sun can make as pleasant,

Warmth that the clouds could not even shade,

Warmth that no rain could fall with,

The flowers around us bloom, but none blossom with the beauty and grace of you,

The seedlings take root, but gods, none do so like the one you’ve planted in me,

The water they draw into themselves is life-giving, but yours is so much nourishing,

Still I sit here, hoping that you will allow me to bask in your radiance,

Still I sit here, promising that I will grow stronger in body, soul, and mind to be at your side,

Still I sit here, thinking of you when I cannot see, hear, or touch you as I do in my dreams.

Wait for me, my beautiful flower who only becomes more alluring under each moon.

Wait for me, and I will be your loving attendant,

Wait for me, and I will be yours.

You are forbidden to me now, but soon, you will not be. Soon, I will make you mine.

You will never have to look longingly at the wolves who hold and dote on each other while your only partner is the books you keep in your library. I will be everything you want me to be if that is what pleases you.

You will always have a shoulder to lean on, an ear that will listen, a hand that will caress you.

You will always have me.

You will never have to spend your nights crying into your pillow alone because of your father. I will be there to hold you close. I will be the fists that pummel him to the ground for daring to hurt you. Or anyone else that meddles your happiness.

All I can do for you now is watch over you from afar. Guard and protect you from the males I know you do not desire. From the females that have become venomous in jealousy of your unmatched intelligence, spirit, and beauty. From the threats that loom deep in the forest.

I hope you can forgive me for keeping my name and a face a secret from you. I suspect by now you have figured out who I am. And if you have, you will then understand why I commune with you this way.

The elders, nor your father, would allow it since you have not yet presented. Besides…it looks like I have some developments myself that I need to make. You have so consumed my mind and body that I can no longer make sense of certain things.

You are everywhere and yet, you elude me. It is the most tragic of ironies.

Until we meet again, my fair flower. I will see you long before you see me, but you can always find me in our dreams.

Always.

-Your Alpha

The air here had been clammy, too, so when you had let your thumb brush at the corner, the oils from it smudged the ink. Panic stole your breath and you not wanting to blemish the beautiful lettering, you’d slipped the parchment under your pillow and gone to the window to open it in hopes of letting some crisp, fresh air in.

Even here, you could still hear the clang of metal from the forest under lightly falling raindrops. You had let your body move on its own when you’d leaned out from the ledge of your windowsill that was only a few feet from the ground, the baser part of you subconsciously trying to be near to him despite the space between you.

That muggy draft that had clung to your ribs still did not dispel as the cold drops trickled down your body, the tears of the sky slow in their consolation as they dribbled along your arm as you lifted it up and stuck it out of the window.

It still wasn’t enough.

You needed to be able to breathe. And thankfully, you knew just what to do from all the books you read.

Hot water could provide relief to respiratory issues.

Your eyes landed on the largest of the wooden bowls you’d used to collect water from the barrel of rainwater outside, each of your hands holding it as you’d dipped it into the cauldron over boiling water, careful not to let it burn your fingers as you brought it to the tub, the sloshing of it causing you to stare down at it to see your reflection.

Your mouth was ajar with partially sharpened teeth that had not fully shifted back yet, your face flushed with redness and your eyes… your dilated pupils, now the color of the sun where they were usually silver like the moon, glowed back at you.

You blinked rapidly, surprise lighting up your face as you gaped.

Your wolf had been scratching at your psyche to do something about the irremovable weight that felt like it was pushing against your organs.

Another bout of thunder rolled through the sky from outside the semi-circular opening in the wall along the far end of the small, square room. The accompanying flash of lightning brought with it the deadly gleam of daggers behind your eyes, the image of Jungkook’s blood staining it in your mind’s eye as the suffocating pressure in your chest worsened.

You’d had to sit on the edge of the tub, unable to get air between your lips and before you could think, you raised the steaming bowl over your head and let it pour over you.

Its cascade down your flesh had immediately silenced your wolf, who preened at the hot sensation of the liquid all over your flesh. Everywhere the water touched, it washed away the uncomfortable weight that had smothered you so.

When you looked into the mirror across the room, the gold in your irises had been swept away with the last drop of water to leave only silver.

Your surprise had been doused until its remnants became distress as you looked up at the moon, your hands coming together before your bosom as you bowed your head in deference to ask, “Please, gods, do not let him suffer for me. Wherever he is, please, protect him from harm. Keep him safe.”

You’d gone to bed that night without bothering to dry off, the lightest of layers heavy on your skin as hushed prayers and pleas for his safety left your lips while you held the letter he’d left you against your thudding heart.

Words have a way of failing you when he’s around, but that? It was so much easier. So much better when you couldn’t find language sufficient to let him know what you wanted to say.

He seems to understand, because then he’s releasing your skirts and grabbing the wooden tray of salves, gauze, and other medicinal solutions with his uninjured hand and, lost in his eyes, you don’t even realize he’s put it beside him until his voice finds you through it all.

You need not worry for me, my love. I have everything I need right here. I may have had to grow up faster than everyone else around us, but I would do it all over again if it meant that you would be mine.

You only notice your hands are empty when you go to brush your forehead against his, your unoccupied hands lifting to cradle each side of his face as your eyes burn with the tears that threaten to fall.

“You are too good to me, alpha. I promise you that you will never have to be alone again. Not now, and not ever.” You pledge as you kneel between his legs, reaching for the thick roll of white translucent fabric with a loose, open weave. You take it between both hands, your mouth setting in a thin line as you rip it so that you have two moderately sized pieces while your alpha takes in the image of you on your knees before him.

“Nor do you, my love. I am officially yours now, just as you are entirely mine. No one can deny us from each other anymore.” He professes, lifting his unharmed arm so he can sweep your hair out of your face while you work.

It was no small thing to allow an omega to do this. The action was something of a rite that went back to the earliest of their ancestors. When an alpha was harmed in battle or in the hunt for prey, the omega that he let dress his wounds, by doing so, accepted the bond between them. To allow an omega to see an alpha at their most vulnerable…it was a very special, intimate moment.

And you knew of that. He knows because the thought surfaces in your mind the moment you daub the dry fabric against the top of each pectoral where four dark and furiously red lines curve diagonally downward and end on each side of his pelvis. Blood beads the incisions that Yoongi’s serrated claws had left, and the tears that had threatened to fall before fight against the entrapment of your eyelids as you try to blink them away.

“It hurts, doesn’t it, alpha?” You ask with the guilt weighing at your words as you uncork one of the small ovular vials containing a yellow liquid, the woody-sweet scent pungent in your nostrils as you use the oil left by crushed eucalyptus to clean your hands before you pour it onto the strips of fabric you’d just torn and after, you push the cork into the vial and set it down before you.

You let guilt drag each of your hands containing the gauze downward very lightly as you follow the large virgules of red. Where you normally would admire the strong, defined contours of his chest, now, the sight of it has woe whispering in your ear.

His skin is hot to the touch. As if fire burns under his flesh. So fuming and inflamed in the redness that surrounds the gaping, curling lacerations. Both sides of his sternum have been raked– no, ripped–through by sharp claws. Yoongi had cut into your mate’s skin eight blood red half-moons; four on either side of his chest that were turned away from each other, their ends incurving from the base of his neck all the way down his torso and even along his hip bones. Layers of crimson ooze and leak down his body like water, and the sight has something in your bosom tightening in on itself as your vision becomes cloudy.

Somewhere down between the middle of his pectorals, the cloths become too saturated and heavy with blood to soak up any more.

Perhaps the tangibility of his suffering is what finally has the tears falling down your cheeks, the burning in your eyes unavoidable no matter how many times you try to blink it away.

Despite that it feels as if fire sears him everywhere Yoongi’s claws had been, there is worse pain to be felt. Like the gut-wrenching punch that is delivered to his belly when he sees the first of your tears slide down your face.

With the hand he has on your chin, he tilts your chin up as he answers honestly, “Nothing harms me more than watching the light of my life weep for me.”

“I…I can’t help it, alpha.” You respond dolefully, your own stomach dropping to the bowels of your body at the high volume of blood he’s losing so quickly. He’d already turned the entire tub of water he’d been in red, and still he bled. If this kept on…

You don’t let that thought continue. You can’t.

You drop the sopping cloths into an empty glass container you’d put next to the roll of gauze only to take the roll between your hands once again. This time, you do not stop unraveling it until you have much thicker stretches of cloth folded into squares. You do not forget to grab the vial of yellow fluid once more, the viscous oil slow to make its journey to the cloths. You lightly press them against the spots you had had the other ones placed against. The second you put them to his mutilated flesh, they slowly turn crimson. The more they are stained with his lifeblood, the more you are soused with leaden compunction.

It burns, yes, but your sadness smolders him more.

“You are blaming yourself for this.”

It is not a question. It’s a statement.

You draggle each of the gauzes down along the underside of his pectorals, letting them rest there as you watch them turn completely red with his blood.

Momentarily, you wonder if the silvers he’d put on you before would be able to numb the contrition that pulls your spirits away from you.

Your mate will not have any of that.

He runs the pad of his thumb along your chin as he coaxes, “Peer into my eyes, Y/N.”

Unquestioningly, you do. He’s more than earned your obedience. What you see in the depths of those orbs is unending and bottomless in the plunge to the part of him that he would never show anyone else. The part of him that he had kept buried and sunken in wait for the right creature to unearth it. So many masks he had had to wear when so many had ulterior motives and designs around him, but this creature before him? He would break them all to pieces so she could see him for what he really was.

Once, he had asked his father how he would really know if anyone wanted him for him and not his power or his rank. His father had simply laughed and told him: You won’t. All you can do is watch and wait to see someone’s true colors when they think no one else is watching.

This creature before him who cried in the face of his pain and suffering did so out of pure, genuine sorrow. He could feel it sinking your spirits, your very thoughts through the bond. He could see it deep in the valley of your eyes that are, even in the guilt that tries to make them cloudy, drizzling with love for him.

There was no doubt in his mind that you were true and that you were absolutely, unequivocally his. That is why he allows the walls of his reservedness to crumble as he confides:

“Hear my words, my love. This is a result of my own weakness. I teased you before about you wanting to do this. But know that you are only in this situation because I wasn’t strong enough to do what I needed to do.” He doesn’t let go of your chin. With his other hand, he places it between your breasts. The action has him sucking his lip between his teeth as excruciating pain shoots through his upper bicep where the flesh has been torn from limb. A river of red gushes from the open wound, but it matters little to him when pangs of your heart are slower even than his as if it, too, was sulking itself in blame. Despite the way his split blood vessels cry more tears of blood in the movement, he goes on with a grimace, “I know what you’re thinking, my sweet, beautiful girl. You are not to blame for this. Do not pity me. Do not feel guilty for me. If anything, I should be the one pitying you for having to tend to me for such serious injuries.” He leans forward, his lips meeting the flesh between your brows, “I’m sorry you had to see that. And I’m sorry I didn’t come back to you with only a scratch. But I meant every word of what I said when I made that oath to you that I would protect you with my body. My body can be mended. My soul, if it lost you, could not.”

The male before you shouldn’t even be able to move in his condition.

And yet, he does.

For you.

Your own emotions crack and fracture under the seriousness of his words and unhesitant ministrations. Each is packed with the mass of his candor and you can’t stop yourself from pouring your heart out to him.

“You ask me to simply accept this…this agony that you must be feeling, alpha, and I,” you cry out,” I cannot! I care too much for you to simply turn off my emotions. I cannot do it!”

You lift the strips of soddened fabric away from his chest through eyes full of tears, your sight descending to where you hold them in your now shaking hands as you place those, too, in the same glass bowl as the others. “You ask me not to blame myself, but your wounds…they are there because of me. And they are serious. Serious enough that if this keeps on, you-“ Your sniffle, shaking your head in unwillingness to finish the unbearable thought. You take the gauzy roll in your hands once more and unwind it, you have to rely on muscle memory because at this point, the constant slew of tears is too much for you to see through.

Your alpha’s eyes soften as you try to rub at your own, your tear-streaked cheeks sullied by the tracks the salty water had left, the fresh blood that now covers your hands a stark contrast to the darker, dried blood he’d painted on you earlier during the Smearing.

Why did that make you look even more beautiful to him?

“I’m not asking you to simply turn a blind eye to your feelings, sweetheart. Such a task would be difficult for anyone with a heart to attain.” He brings his lips under one of your eyes, the tang of salt and iron left on his lips as he does. “What I ask is that you try not to blame yourself for my errors. It is my misjudgment that earned me more scars. These are not the first, and they likely will not be the last.” He turns his head so he can leave a soft, featherlight kiss under your other eye. “These scars shall be proof of the trial I had to face to earn you. And I would take hundreds of thousands more of these for you. If I had lost an arm or leg tonight, I would have been alright with it. Your smile and your happiness are worth that much to me.”

The sound of the white fabric shredding between your fingers is muffled under his voice. It’s as if your senses have been dulled to all but him. Even the firelight fails to crackle in your ears amidst the steady beat of his own heart while you tremblingly let the lip of the vial teem with the oil that smells of honey, mint, and citrus.

“My happiness should never come at the expense of pain or suffering, alpha,” you murmur mournfully as you eye the bawling gashes of scarlet.

You crimp the gauze into two thick squares once they have been wetted with the oil before holding them down over the underside of each of his pectorals. You wait until the part in contact with his frayed skin is steeped in scarlet before you flip each of them over and depress them along the arched curvatures going in opposite directions toward each side of his pelvis.

His lips tighten, wrinkles forming where none existed before when you tenderly wipe away at the jagged ends of each of the four lines on either hemisphere of his torso where Yoongi’s claw had pierced the deepest, not bothering to hide his expression from you now at his most vulnerable. There was nothing to hide now. No reason to keep his pain from you when he knew that doing so would just upset you more.

It pains you to see him like this. You wish there was a way for you to make it all disappear, but unfortunately, there were no medicinal or herbal remedies that had the power to do that.

“Such is our way, omega. It is my duty to protect you. I will never neglect that obligation if it ensures your safety." He hisses when you gingerly drag the gauze along the same path upward to collect the stray rivulets of crimson that had dripped from the top of his wounds.

The incinerating flare of flames feels like it is scorching him from the inside out under each slash and tear in his flesh left by Yoongi’s claws, and each time you attempt wiping away the bloody tears his body weeps, more of his life essence is there to replace it.

The oil offers a mild cooling sensation, but it is similar to throwing a block of frozen ice into a roaring bonfire.

You note the lack of stoppage of blood flow from those wounds, concern turning your lips down even more. What you had been reluctant to think about before was becoming all the more possible now. Even if you did keep trying to refuse it.

Worry soon lugs you asunder with the guilt that swims densely about you, and your brows furrow as you instruct, “Alpha, I need you to lie down now. You aren’t having any changes in the blood loss and I fear that something bad may happen if you lose too much more.”

He nods, but the action has a dot spotting his vision and no matter how many times he blinks, it remains. Soon, there are more. And as he holds your watery gaze, more tears trek down the contours of your cheeks.

Something in his chest twinges that has nothing to do with the wounds Yoongi had left.

“As you say, my love.” He brings one knee carefully up toward his chest, his foot resting on the edge of the wood as he asks “What will you have me to do with this arm of mine? It’s in bad shape.”

You grab the now near-empty vial of eucalyptus oil that you’d set on the ground between your knees and return it to its place on the tray, your mind easily supplying you with the answer to his question after having spent so many nights hunched over tomes about medicinal treatments and herbal remedies as you rise, one of your hands wrapping around his nape and the other laying itself over the palm he has pressed between your breasts. The arm that palm is connected to is the one that Yoongi had mangled such that you can see bone between the split mess of muscles bordering it.

You can only imagine how much agony he must be in. If you could take it into yourself, you would.

Not that he would let you, though.

His promise to you had been made not only out of love for you, but out of pride as an alpha. An alpha that could not protect their mate was not deserving or worthy of her. It was an alpha’s responsibility by right to be the source of security and protection for his omega. An alpha who could not guarantee that for his omega had failed her.

Or so the tradition had held.

“You need to relax this arm and let me maneuver it so that it rests by your side. What I’m about to do will require a certain position,” you urge him down by the back of his neck, and while you know your measly strength could never compete against his, the fact that he allows you to move him so readily is an obvious display of trust. His back is laid atop the bench first, and you are delicate in the way you guide his head down until it, too, comes to a rest on the wood. “And it…it will hurt. I’m going to have to move your arm so we do not risk further injuring it. After that, I will need to clean it before applying pressure where the worst of the damage is.”

With conviction clearer than any concoction you could give him, he asserts, “Do what you have to do. You know what needs to be done. You have trained and studied well. It goes without saying that you have my trust. All of it.” He adds.

Gods, you couldn’t have asked for a more perfect mate.

“Let me be the voice of reassurance this time, alpha,” you express while you curl your fingers around the hand of his that is placed along your sternum. Your other cups the underside of his forearm and, scrupulously, you usher it to his side before slowly and surely straightening it. He grimaces, and to distract him, you assure, “I’ll do everything I can to fix you. I promise, alpha.”

You monitor the bone in his arm that shifts in the movement, the middle of his humerus exposed and clearly fractured. From the dark line running perpendicular to the bone along the end closest to his elbow, you know instantly that he’s suffered from a transverse fracture to the bone. Honestly, you had expected worse with the way Yoongi had thrashed his head with Jungkook’s poor arm trapped between his teeth. Those teeth had managed to pierce halfway through the vessels and muscles lining his upper arm, the punctures still gushing blood.

It should have been impossible for him to have moved it. And yet…

“How did you move this arm when your bone has been broken, alpha?” You ask, swallowing the emotion that wants to be let out as you assess him.

His brows scrunch together and he answers like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “The pain was inconsequential next to the sadness that pooled in those pretty eyes.”

You fight the burning at the edges of your vision as you silently take your skirt between your fingers, the soft material pliable under your fingers. You don’t say anything. All you can do is let your hands work as you find the slit cut into it and tear along the line.

“What are you doing, my love?”

It is a question not asked out of doubt, but genuine curiosity.

The sound of ripping fabric ceases as you pull a sizable amount of the organza away from you and turn it inside out before placing it onto the tray beside his head and grabbing for the rectangular glass canister next to the eucalyptus oil.

I have to clean it. It’s infected already, and if I don’t get the bacteria out, your condition will worsen. Once I clean it, I will have to mobilize and brace it. A piece of my skirt should be the outer layer so as not to discomfort you.

You don’t trust your voice not to rupture, so you gently push the words to him through the bond as you grab the roll of cotton wool beside the gauze and unwind it before pressing it to your lips, closing your eyes, and silently begging for the mercy of the gods to take pity on him. To save him.

You knew what to do, but there was only so much that herbs and medicinal solutions could do.

You discard the thought like one of the blood-stained gauzes before you. You couldn’t afford to think like that. Especially not when you’d promised to put him at ease as he had always done for you.

When you bring the wool away from your mouth, you lift the lid from the container and the musky, earthy smell of the ginger poultice you’d prepared weeks ago joins the scent of muted iron in the air as you dip the wool into it several times to ensure its transfer onto the material.

The ginger will not hurt you, alpha. The pressure I will have to put on you will, however.

“I meant what I said, omega. Do what you need to do. I can take it.” He confides, opening his mouth so he can bite onto it.

I know, alpha. I know. More than anyone.

You pick up the considerably long, thick strip of wool from where you’d left it in a heap atop of the open poultice, bending over him before straightening it out so that it ran the length of his upper arm. Thankfully, it was just wide and long enough to completely cover his arm.

With one hand holding one end and your other hand on the other, you bring it down over the split skin from just under his shoulder to just above his elbow.

Just as you’d told him, there is no burning sensation as the gelatinous, thick solution is applied and spread across his sheared muscles, blood vessels, and bone. The blood spurting from the ruptures in his flesh is quick to permeate into the cotton, but you’d expected as much.

The ginger and eucalyptus have antioxidants, antibacterial, antiseptic, and disinfecting properties good for fighting infections. That’s why I chose to have Namjoon collect them from my personal store that I made.

Have I ever told you how attractive I find your intelligence?

Yes, alpha. You have.

You smile through the tears as you untwist more cotton wool from its spool, careful to lay it flat over the existing layer you’d just put over him. It, too, becomes saturated with his life’s essence within seconds.

He needed something else. Something to help boost the efficacy of the poultice. And you knew just the thing.

You scan the tray, evaluating the vials and containers left on it as you note the last addition you had yet to make. There, in the middle, was the small wooden box no longer than your hand and no taller than your pinky. You flip open the latch, the powder inside a brilliant yellow with the hint of orange tang under your nose.

His irises follow your every movement as you peel the layers of cotton wool up and off of him, disposing of them both in the same bowl as the other discolored fabrics.

When you unravel the dressings this time and steep them in the poultice, your other grabs a considerably sized clump of the crushed turmeric powder and sprinkles it all over his slashed open arm.

Three handfuls of that later, you are satisfied with the way the powder has been packed over the gash and surround it with several strips of the material lathered in the ginger solution.

The turmeric has curcumin in it, which can enhance granulation tissue formation and wound contraction. It also decreases inflammation and oxidation and can increase antioxidant capacity of the body, which means it helps fight compounds that could damage you.

The words are recited just as you had written them in one of your journals, and you busy yourself remembering that in lieu of your mind wandering to darker, scarier thoughts as his life’s essence clings to your hands while you rip apart more strips of cotton and run them all through the container of poultice.

Keep going, my love. Tell me more.

He feels the quiver of your hands as you lay each rectangular cloth down over his raw, chafed abrasions lining his chest, his uninjured arm wrapping around your thigh to steady you as his temples begin to ache.

The ginger root that this poultice was made from speeds along the healing process for cuts and abrasions among the other qualities it possesses. You won’t have to worry about these dressings falling off.

Underneath each dressing you affix to his front, his very cells feel as if they are being engulfed in an inferno. One that only blazes hotter every second that passes.

The gingerols and shogaols are compounds in it that will work as a natural adhesive to the cotton and to your skin without sticking or gluing it to you.

His second lack of response has you tilting your head in confusion.

You had said before that the poultice was not meant to feel like that, so whatever was happening, he was certain that you were not the cause. Perhaps it was just some strange side effect of blood loss? How odd that this sensation did not spread to his arm. He really should have studied more.

I’m fine, love. I think. My chest… it feels like I’m burning up from the inside. Have you any idea what that could be?

You’d read many books on herbology and medicine practices. None had ever described that as a symptom of blood loss.

With worry making your mouth go drier than cotton, you examine the way he blinks rapidly as if trying to get something out of his eyes.

W-what else ails you, alpha?

More dots have begun to occupy his sight, and no matter how many times he tries to close and open his eyes, they will not dissipate.

I cannot see properly. It is like there are dark circles blotting parts of my vision.

That was definitely a symptom of blood loss. But the burning sensations? That wasn’t characteristic of the lesions that had been cut into his skin. Nor was the ceaseless gush of scarlet from his chest injuries.

You recall the events that had brought you both here, identifying that it had only been Yoongi that had managed to harm your alpha. He’d been bitten on his arm and struck by claws on his chest. Two different points of contact with two different mediums.

You compare the two areas where he’d been mutilated, spotting the angered, puffed up flesh just that became more raised the closer it got to his now covered traumatisms on his torso. Like something was agitating it from the inside. His arm, however, mangled as it is, is not as badly puckered up around the gash despite the blood he’s losing. Which brings you to your next observation: His blood drips slowly and languidly from his chest wounds where it wells and spurts from his arm. With as deeply as Yoongi had pierced through him, he should have been losing more.

What is going on in that pretty head of yours, my love? Have you…have you discovered something?

There’s a slight pause between each of his unhurried words through your bond. As if it took effort to pull them forth.

You push through the distress that wants to drag you down, forcing yourself to focus and do everything that you could to aid him as you turn your attention to his arm now that you had taken care of his chest wounds.

You needed to stop the river of red that streamed down his arm. Without removing the cloth you’d set over it, you use your teeth to shear the white open-weaved fabric from the now nearly depleted roll it had once been spun around.

I will have to apply pressure as I said before to make sure the medicines set on the punctures in your arm. It…it’s going to hurt, alpha. If you want, you can bite onto my skirts. I don’t mind.

The offer earns you a nod, and so you rise to stand by his side and a wad of your skirt in your hands, hoping that he doesn’t mention the way that they shake as you do.

Forgive me, alpha.

It’s all the warning he gets before you place the dressings over the first layer covering his arm and push into the afflicted area, mindful of where his bone has been broken and avoiding that as you squeeze. Unlike the ruptures along his chest, this area does not nearly scald you.

He curses, his teeth grating into the fabric of your skirt as you apologize over and over again, guilt leaving tangible evidence of itself on your face while you cry for him.

Anyone else would have flinched, but not your alpha. No, he simply screws his eyes shut as he hisses through the material between his lips.

I’m sorry, alpha. I’m so, so sorry. But you have to stay like this for five minutes. I have to try to make the bleeding stop.

The dots that had been impairing his vision increase and the ache in his temples he’d felt before turns into a fierce throbbing as the world begins to dim around him while the claw marks along his chest ripple forth with black blood.

You perceive the way his eyes begin to flutter closed, the arm he’s wrapped around your thigh beginning to loosen. A tremble overcomes his body in the way that it suddenly is as if it’s gone down many degrees, and at that, a lump of dread drops into your stomach.

Not wanting him to slip into unconsciousness, you squeal. “N-no! Stay with me, a-alpha!”

Your voice cleaves through the barren desert that has set upon your throat.

I’m sorry, my love…I’m trying, but…it’s cold, yet my body feels like it’s on fire.

There are longer standstills between his words now. Like each one has to be dug up from the recesses of his mind.

Why has it suddenly become a….a blizzard in here? Why does…does my head feel…feel like someone is…is pounding… into it?

The dread in your belly is joined by another chunked mass of fear as his responsiveness slows with the unseen ice that encases and numbs him. When his good arm falls limply to his side from where it had been encircled around your thigh, you snivel, shaking your head vigorously back and forth as you whisper through a cracked voice, “No, no, no, no, no. This can’t be.”

As his eyelids tiredly droop, that’s when the panic grips your organs and wrings them out.

You had to stay strong. And you could not panic. Doing so would only stress him further.

But that thought is difficult to keep under the fleeting consciousness of your mate before you, who squeezes his eyes shut before opening them wide in effort to keep awake as you had instructed as he shivers.

You swallow around a brittle, sandy throat, wiping your hands on your bodice before your attention sifts around the room in search of something, anything, to help you. You start with the tray. The bowl of blood-soaked, soiled gauze and wrappings sits on its edge, the rolls of gauze and cotton wool in front of it. Next to them, the rectangular wooden box of turmeric powder remains beside the canister of ginger extract. Around them, the vial of eucalyptus lays on its side where the other glass containers of assorted colors and contents are placed. Three had been unused.

The first was a smaller brown bottle of oil secreted from crushed neem kernels you’d plucked from the seeds yourself. The second was a moderately sized canister of milk-colored paste you’d boiled and ground from coconuts. The last was a large flask of honey.

All would work to stop the bleeding. Five minutes had felt an eternity with his continually shallow breaths in your ear, his heart rate weakening under the lack of blood to push through his body. You hadn’t understood why your vocal cords felt so sore, but when you release him and the mewling coming from your mouth dies out, that answers the question.

You waste no time emptying the bottle of neem oil over each of his wounds as you sniffle, “Keep looking at me, alpha. Don’t go to sleep. I-I need you awake for me.”

Despite the gnawing pain in his temples and the ever increasing temperature that boils the parts of him under the skin of his thorax, he battles the darkness that wants to swallow him as he tries to stay in the light of your eyes that shine glassily down on him while you pour the honey, with unsteady hands, along each striation channeling his chest and arm before adding another lining of gauze over his crimson turned bandages.

“One more, alpha. One more, and then I can make a splint for your arm.” You don’t care anymore about the snot that runs down your nose with the tears trailing it as his skin begins to lose its color.

He nictates through bleary, dimmed orbs, and the sight twists your heartstrings.

You keep your hands busy, because you know the moment you stop is the moment he could slip through your fingers.

You cover both hands in the creamy mixture and with the first pass of your fingers against his sternum, you wrench your hand back in the overwhelming heat that scorches you like a blazing sun.

“You’re burning up, alpha.” The words are choked out. “It’s gotten worse.”

He says nothing. Doing so would cause it to sear him even more.

His pained expression is answer enough. And the discomfort of the sensation it had brought was nothing compared to what you knew he faced. For him, you would cross any sea of fire. For him, you would do this. No matter the cost.

So, you gently trail your fingers around the reddened, plowed planes of his chest to surround all sides of the new contours there in the substance.

You shake the canister over his arm so that thick dollops land over the flesh there so you can spread them around, too.

Once you’re certain no part of him is bereft of your attention, you straighten and scour the room for anything you could use as a splint. There alone atop the cabinet by the door, was a clipboard with paper. No doubt a visitor’s log.

It was the perfect length for his arm.

Before you leave his side, you check his vitals for any unseen changes. Still he attempts to combat the throes of sleep that wish to pull him asunder, but the most serious of his wounds have now been disinfected and dressed.

“Alpha,” you prod, “I’ll be right back, okay? I need to get something to stabilize your arm.”

You wait for him to give a slow incline of his head, the action causing him to wince as explosive pain fires through his temples.

You turn, but the watchful glance you keep on him remains as you make your way across the room. You do not miss the way his fingers along his good arm twitch as if searching for you.

Your fingers close around the edge of the board of wood, your own chest splintering at the sight.

You return to him within seconds, but gods, it had felt like hours.

This time, you walk over to the side of him where his bad arm now rests, one of your hands wrapping around the underside of his arm to coax it only an inch upward. He lets you so you can slip the board underneath it as you observe him for any fluctuations in symptoms. His pupils are stagnant and idle, but they do not stray from you even as his breathing begins to slow and his heart beats become fainter and fainter.

Worry sets in your veins as you take the piece of your skirts that you’d torn earlier and tie it around the board of wood and the bandages you’d put there.

When you press your index and middle finger to the pulsating vein along his neck, it beats feebly.

He needed to replenish the blood he’d lost before it was too late. And you knew, right then, exactly what you needed to do to fix that.

However, no matter how much you flipped through the pages of the books you’d read in your mind, the answer to his inquiries and asymptomatic conditions he’d alerted you to did not match what you knew of blood loss. Whatever he had described was clearly something else. Something that Yoongi must have done since he’d been the only one to successfully injure your mate.

Yoongi, who had bitten him on the arm and his claws on Jungkook’s torso where, surprisingly, Jungkook had explained the worst of his pain to be. Where you yourself had felt it to be in the irate ire of the wounds there so hot to the touch.

It is with that identification that you scrap the books you’d read about common ailments in lieu of one you’d been hunched over for many weeks trying to memorize in its abundance of knowledge. One that had detailed poisons and toxins. There was one that matched what you had seen and heard from him. One that, if introduced into the body, was capable of corrosive necrosis in cells and had sensations and symptoms that matched what he’d described. One that was odorless, colorless, and impossible to cure.

It must have been dappled on Yoongi’s claws. He must have known about the deadly poison carried by a large fungus that even necromancers hesitated to harvest. It was capable of causing the entire bodily organs and tissues to break down and feel as if they were burning in their degradation when the toxins turned the cells against each other.

Jungkook’s eyes close, and horror clods your ribs and bowels of your body.

You had to keep him awake. For fear of losing his life, you had to keep him from sinking into the darkness.

Stay with me, my mate. My alpha. My love. Please, don’t leave me.

The words course like a ravine through the bond, the waters of your affections evident in the tracks they leave down your cheeks as you lift your leg up and over so you can sit astride him, desperation making you move before your mind can. The raindrops of your sadness fall over him like a fall downpour, and soon, his entire chest is wet with the salve of your handmade solutions and sadness.

The longer his eyes stay shut, the closer he dangles to that dangerous idea you’d kept rejecting and denying. That idea became more real by the moment.

You promised me, alpha. You promised me that you wouldn’t leave me! I can’t do this without you!

Distress takes control as the rush of thoughts spill from you and you bring your hand to your teeth that you had subconsciously sharpened in the iron that now falls across your tongue.

I can’t do this without you, alpha. Life without you was life without meaning. Life without you was like having silver thrust on me every day from the moment I woke to the moment I fell asleep: gray, senseless and deadening.

Something warm trickles from the sides of your lips when all of your now edged, serrated upper teeth easily prick and slice through your palm and you suck a mouthful between your lips.

The taughtened muscles around his eyes and mouth slacken, the movement of his irises behind his lids moving this way and that. As if he was still trying to search for you in the darkness. The gentle thud of his heart is all that you hear in your ears anymore. No other sounds matter.

You speak to him through it, hoping with everything in you that doing so will give him something to hold onto.

I love you, alpha. I love you more than anything in this world. So please, come back to me. Come back to me so I can express it to you, show it to you, and make more wonderful, beautiful, colorful memories with you.

You take his chin between the fingers of your other hand, lifting it before using your thumb to part his lips.

With the hand you’d just bitten, you hold it over his mouth only to turn your palm to the side before curling your digits in, your nails sinking into the fragile flesh to cut into it so that more streaks of crimson dribble down, the dark drops of your blood falling between his lips.

Adam's apple bobs as he tries to swallow it, but it’s not enough.

As you watch your blood spread across his tongue, you can’t help but notice how his skin has gone whiter than sleet, his usual golden glow drained with his life’s essence as he continues to shudder beneath you.

The faint presence of him dwindles in the bond like candlelight that the cold darkness schemes to snuff out, but still he is kindled in yours as you lean forward, your mouth seeking him.

Take my blood, alpha. Drink and replenish what you have lost. It is the only way.

The last sound of you is tucked in his mind just as your mouth slots itself over his, the mouthful of your blood that you had drawn forth from your hand soon emptied into his as he swallows it weakly. You mindfully set your bleeding hand between the middle of his sternum, the thick redness sobbing for him, too, as it spreads down his torso and seeps into the coverings draped across his chest.

With the first swill of you down his throat, the throbbing in his temples begins to dull and the air around him starts to warm.

It’s as if your blood had passed life into him, for his tongue eventually sweeps at the excesses of your mouth for the remnants that percolate from the small scrapes your teeth had left in your cheeks. You let him lick it, and with each pass of his tongue over each one, the muscle beating under your hand on his chest beats steadier. Stronger. Louder.

He required more. Way more after all that he had lost. And you? You intended to give it to him.

When he’s lapped all of your quintessence up, you pull away only to bring the hand you’d bitten to his lips in offering.

With his eyes still closed, he can’t see it, but he can smell it.

The tang of iron is powerful enough to summon his mouth to it, his baser being taking over as he closes his mouth around your open palm.

His teeth pierce through you easily and when your blood bursts forth from the punctures and he sups it without hesitation.

The violent, searing pain stemming from the claw marks along his torso where your blood had permeated through his bandages starts to lessen amid the ache that is dispelled in his skull. The quavering of his body soon ceases in the absence of the chill he’d felt before.

He wraps his lips tighter around you, and when he extracts your essence this time, it is with more urgency.

You run your other hand through his dark, ebony hair, the color slowly returning to his cheeks as he drinks from you.

“Take as much as you need, my love. You will require quite a few mouthfuls to, ah-“

You pause when he detaches from your hand, licking at the stray droplets of your blood before gripping your forearm to bring your wrist to his nose so he can inhale and run his lips longingly along it. His head falls back as he does, the pink muscle slipping between his lips to taste the remnants of you there, too.

“Want to…bite you…right here. Can I?” He asks hoarsely yet huskily.

You’re already answering before he’s even finished. “I’m all yours, alpha.”

The implications of this are not lost on you. By puncturing your scent glands where they produce the oils and scent of you the most–seconded only by your neck–his bite will forever leave his trace where he’d enter you. No other wolf would be able to take in your succulent smell without his lingering odor behind it.

From where you are seated on his lap, you swear you see his eyes roll back behind his lids.

When his canines elongate such that they protrude from his upper lip and he penetrates your flesh along the middle of your wrist, your blood eagerly teems into his mouth. Just like the first time he’d bitten you, there is no pain in the sharpness of those teeth. What was urgency before becomes hunger now as he feeds on you, his cheeks hollowing as he quaffs the life-giving nectar you have produced just for him.

You shudder as he draws deep, gulping mouthful after mouthful and all the worry you’d had before is sapped away as he does.

Your flavor is so fucking saccharine on his tongue, and each time your essence washes down his throat, his body surges with vitality and energy.

He can’t get enough of it. It’s too good. You’re too good.

More he takes and more he swallows like a crazed male, and you allow it as your own lids lower while you ogle him as the released endorphins stored in the glands along your wrist flood you in pleasure as you mindlessly–instinctively– rut your hips into his.

“Do I taste good, alpha?” You moan softly, your body growing limp as the fingers you’d twisted and twined around his locks loosen.

You taste sweeter than sweet.

His good arm shoots out so his fingers can splay around your hip to steady you as he indulges in the pulses and pangs of strength that return to him with each consuming swig of your lifeblood, your hips helped back and forth by the hand he has on one of them as your moans turn to whimpers.

You taste something like pineapple, grapes, strawberries, and everything good in this world.

When his eyes open, he looks at you like you’re a fucking goddess. Like you’re some kind of deity, and he is some servant beneath you.

He revels in the revelation that graces him as he takes in the sight of you atop him.

Your crimson-stained lips have slightly fallen ajar to reveal still jagged, pointed canines, remnants of red still flecking the sides of your mouth. Your silver irises have been glazed by desire, the daubing of crimson along your lids creating a deprived picture.

The dried, dark paint of his own blood that he’d smeared all over you was still there, but the new addition of his scarlet handprint between your breasts and streaks the same color all along your skirt and bodice are all the more depicting of a debased creature.

You straddle him, your gown ripped unevenly along one of your legs to reveal one bare calf and thigh.

How he had fucking ruined you.

His once pure, innocent goddess that must have been a fallen, divine being sent to him to save him.

“J-Jungkook,” you whine when your vision begins to darken at the edges as his teeth bury themselves deeper into your flesh so he can cravingly command more of you down, “I…I-“

The strong hand on waist pulls you down over his hardening member, your breath hitching when you remember he’s entirely naked beneath you.

“Even goddesses have their limit. I can see it,” he groans around your wrist as he savors the way you sag forward, your thighs loosening from where you’d been squeezing him between them. “I can feel it.”

He takes one more mouthful of your rich, piquant ichor, your front slumping forward until your head rests in the crook of his neck.

With your jugular vein so close to his ears, the rhythm set by the tune of your heart beats far too slow. The sound snaps him out of his craze instantly as the hand on your waist clutches you tighter as if you might slip away if he doesn’t hold you close enough.

“Goddess? Do you mean…me?” You drawl out the words through the tingling sensation in your head.

Despite the loss of your blood, affection courses through you when he attentively dislodges his teeth from you and makes sure to catch the bright red drops that run forth from the two new dark blots along the underside of your smaller wrist. As he does, he affirms, “You saved me.”

The hand at your waist gives you another comforting squeeze before it journeys up along your side, your shoulder, and then down your arm until his digits close around your wrist so he can rub soothing circles into it. “I was so lost in the darkness, omega, but your voice…I followed it back to you.”

“Me?” It’s all you can say. The rush of endorphins fades with the extraction of his teeth, and your hips slow to still as his words sober you.

One side of his lips turn up at that. “Yes, my love. You.” He coaxes your wrist upwards so he can kiss you where his teeth and yours had been. “You, the light of my life. The reason for my being, The purpose of my existence.” His head falls to the side as he shepherds your hand toward the palpitating muscle along his chest. “I once thought of you as my queen, but I see now that you’re so much more than that.” He places your hand right above his heart, and you’re so mesmerized by those beaming irises of gold that you don’t even realize what he’s done when those warm, calloused fingers brush along the side of your cheek until they rest in your hair and his palm holds the edge of your jaw to coax it upward as he brings his mouth near to yours. “Your voice is a song that even the muses envy. Your body is the drink of the gods that even they would fight wars for. Your mind and soul are so perfect and good that even demons would wish they could bottle them.”

His eyes twinkle with sincerity as he goes on, both fondness and affection for him taking turns to cleanse you of the desire you’d felt before so that something much deeper can fill your entire being.

“Shhh, alpha… you need to rest now. This can all wait until later.” Your words are throaty and full, for your heart has somehow found its way there, too. “You lost a lot of blood and-“

He seals your mouth with his, and like wax under a newborn wick, you melt into it. He’s warm and gentle in the warmness that he emanates that no candle ever could. The quiet intimacy of it has your lids falling to a close, the air around you making way for you both as you share each other’s breath.

There was nothing quite like this. Nothing like the way that your fingers sought any part of him that they could as they both encircled his uninjured wrist, unwilling to let him go. Nothing like the way your body was perfectly molded against his, the kiss akin to a butterfly’s wing in its softness that could take your breath away. It was the water that quenched after a drought. It was the furs that gave such comfort on a winter’s night. It was the rain and a flame all at once.

And gods, he couldn’t bear even a second’s separation from her. Truly, he’d never been so blessed with the gift of life until now. Until you. Hell would surely have frozen over before he would relinquish this: your mesmerizing, mellow eyes; your pliant, pretty lips; your stuttered, stammered breaths whenever he looked at you; your smaller, tinier hands that loosed and tightened around his wrist as he held you.

But his damned lungs just had to get some air, and so he had been forced into breaking the kiss.

When his mouth parts from yours, he breathes heavily. “I do not need rest when I have you. Imaginings and visions leave little to be desired when their source is on top of me like this. And,” the other side of his lips lift up and you’re sure that thudding in your ears gets louder as he does, “It would be rather impolite not to pay my respects to you, my divine little deity. You were–are–magnificent.”

You try to hide your face in his neck, your cheeks heating up at his praise. He won’t have any of that, and so he urges it back up.

Looking into those eyes is like looking into two orbs spun by the sun. That warmth that emanates over your skin like warm rays makes everything else lackluster, and even his voice carries that vivid color of emotion as he voices, “Do not hide from the truth, my love.”

You make a sound of questioning, not understanding what he’s just said. It’s as if there’s a fuzzy blanket around your body and mind, your disoriented thoughts too sluggish to formulate for you to say much more.

He chuckles lightly, his chest moving up and down gentle enough to not jostle you.

“You do not know it, but I shall help you see.” He offers, nosing at your jawline as he does. “Allow me to show you what you did to me, my love. I think you’ll find the evidence of your miracles when you do.”

He releases you, a quiet whine leaving your lips at the absence of his touch. Soft lips are there to soothe you when his mouth brushes where his hand had been at the edge of your jaw. There he presses his lips as he tells you, “Look down, my love.”

You’d been expecting to see more blood spilling from the open wounds arcing down both sides of his chest, his bandages completely soaked through with his life’s essence.

You did not expect to see one of the lines of gauze you’d laid down over the lacerations lifted in the air by your alpha to reveal a deep gash completely closed, the angry red slash now only a faint line of pink.

As if it were nothing but an old war scar.

At first, you think you might be seeing things.

You blink owlishly at him, and he grins only to pull back another strip of fabric that you’d used to pack another wound.

It, too, is only a faded, paled remnant of what it had been minutes ago.

Your fingers lethargically draw down his torso where the flesh that had been raised and furious is now smooth and normal.

There is no pain that festers there with the poison that had been set upon him by Yoongi’s claw. Its dissipation had had nothing to do with your medicines. He knows that now. It had been you.

Your lids have begun to grow heavy as sleep begins to beckon, and all you can do through the drowsiness that has set as you rest one of your temples against his shoulder so you can still stare at him as you manage the only word you can summon in your dumbfounded state. “How?”

“My mother used to tell me stories about our ancestors. It was said that the first rulers of our kind, who were chosen by the gods, were given abilities no others possessed.” Your mate tosses the soiled dressings into the bowl before he reaches for his splinted arm wrapped in bandages. “Abilities that made the rest of our kind lower their heads in awe.” He unties the knot you’d made out of the ripped fragment of your gown you’d affixed the wooden board to, and while he does, he tells you, “She told me that the king and queen of our kind were fated by their souls. That the first omega’s songs of mourning had so moved the gods when he’d been killed trying to protect her that they gave her the power to heal him through her kiss.”

Slumber drags you away from him, his voice fading the more it tugs and tugs you as he goes on. “So powerful was she that the other wolves revered her as a goddess in her capacity to mend and restore not only the physical body, but the soul and mind as well. And her king? He was vested by the gods who took pity on him with strength, speed, size, and stamina that no other could match.”

Distantly, you think you see a glimpse of the linens you’d put around his arm being peeled back to uncover what you had thought had been a mangled mess of bone and flesh. But no longer. Now, just like his chest, there are only small grazes and punctures that have since been pulled together with slightly darker cicatrix marring him.

When your lids fall closed and sleep takes you from him, he uses that arm to secure you close as he attentively watches over you. In your ear, he confides, “Rest up now, beautiful deity. You shall need it for what is to come, my love.”

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