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mochimooon · 5 months

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DTF Only (Super Like) - levi ackerman x reader 18+

pairing: Levi Ackerman x afab! Reader summary: You were supposed to take a break and spend Saturday evening alone, until an elusive match arrives at your door. word count: 5k+ notes: Eighth and final part of DTF Only. I'm sure ya'll already know what happens here. warnings: smut, explicit content, explicit language, praise kink, vaginal fingering, oral sex (f! receiving), vaginal sex, unprotected sex, fluff ☻ masterpost☻

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT 18+ !!

The week had been a fun ride.

Explore, experience, experiment. Tinder was your gateway for all three, giving you the chance to try things you’ve always wanted to try, and discover ideas that stroked a carnal fix you suppressed for years.

It was liberating, it boosted your self-confidence, and it was a much-needed distraction. The scrolling, the messages, the attention, the hook-ups were all fun…until they weren’t anymore.

By Saturday night, you’re burnt out, body aching, and overall bored of Tinder. You should have seen this coming.

Or maybe you should have spaced them out more, but everything is trial and error. It’s something to consider if you decide to dive back into the dating pool. There was just something lacking in Tinder; something that left you unfulfilled. But you were clueless as to what.

For now, you couldn’t care less to ponder. All you wanted to do was soak in a bubble bath and veg out on your couch to enjoy the peace and silence of your own space.

And after you got dressed in your PJs, that’s when it hits you. This is the first time since the breakup that you have been entirely alone.

No dates, no girls’ night. Only you and your thoughts.

You wonder what Colt is up to right now. If he’s spending his Saturday with his friends, his brother, or if he’s out on dates too.

You grab your phone from your nightstand, padding down the hall to the living room. You hadn’t touched your phone all day as you had left it on silent.

Checking the hidden messages, you ignore the new ones from the men earlier this week to tap on the last text exchange with Colt.

It was from over a week ago, hours before he saw you to break up.

Can we talk later today?

You knew when you got that message. The ending had slowly played out before Colt made it official. You didn’t break down, you didn’t beg. You didn’t jump for joy either. You just listened and let it happen.

With a sigh, Colt’s messages are swiped clean, and seconds later, his number is erased.

Still, you don’t feel devastated. Though a part of you does mourn the end of the relationship, the end of a routine you had gotten too comfortable with. If you two were still together, he’d be over right now, either seated on the couch with his arm over you or having vanilla sex in your bedroom.

It might not have been riveting, but you do miss the company, the complacency. And that’s why it’s for the best that you and Colt are no longer together.

The doorbell chimes as you settle into the couch, phone replaced with the TV remote.

You didn’t make plans with anyone tonight, and it’s a rare occasion to have a visitor arrive unannounced.

Wrenching the door open, your neighbor, Levi, stands with a package in his hand.

His eyes glance down momentarily, and you remember how tiny your PJ shorts are. “Not interrupting your night, am I?”

You shrug, tilting your head. “Nope. I haven’t seen you around in a few days.”

“Was out of town for business. Got back earlier, and thanks to jetlag, I’m just waking up. I stopped by the mailroom before it closed, and this was delivered to my box.”

Perplexed, you take the package with your first name printed on the label. Yet another unexpected surprise.

“I’ll let you get back to your date night.” He motions to turn a heel.

The laugh escapes you before you can stop it, and Levi turns back with a raised brow. “No date night, not anymore. We…broke up.”

Because he lives next door, it made sense that Levi was privy to your relationship, even to a degree, considering you’d have Colt over a lot.

Levi hums, impassive as he usually is. “That’s rough. Sorry to hear.”

Again, your feelings are indifferent. “It’s fine. No hard feelings. No regrets.”

“Then that’s all that matters.”

“Yeah, it was a good relationship, just wasn’t meant to last.”

“At least you know that now. The last thing you want to do is marry someone that wasn’t right for you.”

You fold your arms, leaning against the doorframe. “True. Now I’m back to square one. It’s not so bad though, just different.”

Levi makes a noncommittal sound. “Embrace it. Change won’t kill you.”

You smile sincerely at that. Change feels weird despite the complacency, but the best thing for you to do is to keep trying, to learn what it is that you really want.

It’s the longest exchange you’ve had with Levi, and out of all your neighbors, he’s your favorite. Simply because he was nonchalant, minded his own business, and had this self-assured authenticity to him, an unconventional sort of charm.

“Anyway,” you say, shifting the topic and standing more lax against the door. “Any big Saturday night plans?"

Levi doesn’t blink. “None. After that nap, I’ll be up all night, and my apartment could use some cleaning.”

You hum, musing that you should do the same after such a busy week. However, a different thought enters your mind and you widen the door before you can think it through. “What about some tea? I was going to heat up the kettle."

Maybe deep down, you’re really struggling with being alone, but you wouldn’t have invited him inside if he never dropped by to begin with.

Levi steps forward, waiting for you to clear the way for him. “What kind of tea?”

You smile faintly, shutting the door. “I’ve got a few options. I was thinking chamomile if that’s what you like.”

“No, I prefer black tea.”

You bite back a laugh, looking over your shoulder. “You’re particular, aren’t you?”

Levi blinks at you, an answer in his stare.

While you should be offended by his curt response, you’re not. It’s a reprieve from having to force a personality around someone you barely know, and you appreciate Levi being himself.

“Alright, I’ll make two.”

You wander over to the kitchen island, shaking the package by your ear. “Have a seat. The remote should be on the couch. If there’s anything you want to watch, be my guest.”

“Nothing really to watch on a Saturday,” Levi says, flipping the TV on anyway.

“Yeah, true. I was going to check Netflix for something.” The words trail off, distracted with rummaging through the kitchen. You grab clean mugs, black tea bags, and get the kettle going.

Lastly, you grab a paring knife, curious to open up the package. You don’t remember ordering anything as you scan the label again. Addressed to you, but with Levi’s apartment number.

Cutting into the box, you peel away the excess plastic and your mind goes into orbit.

It’s an anal plug, made of metal with the end molded into the shape of a heart, adorned with a red stone.

The memory floods back before you get a chance to read the note buried in the box.

Before Zeke sent you off the other night, he offered to spoil you (his words, not yours) with a prettier toy, implying he’d like another session with you in the future.

You humored him but froze up when he asked for your apartment number. Thank goodness, Levi didn’t open it.

Shoving it back in the box, along with the unread note, you turn back to the kettle in time.

“So, how often do you travel for business?” you ask, prepping the tea.

Levi looks past his shoulder and then back at the TV. “Once or twice every few months. I wouldn’t mind cutting back on it.”

“Oh? That's not so bad, you get a little vacation.”

“It’s not glamorous when it’s for work. Not every hotel is alike either. A lot of them are fucking filthy.”

You pause, holding back another laugh while you grab honey from the cupboard. Very, very particular.

“Have you ever stayed at The Helos?” You open the fridge for the carton of milk.

“Our company used the conference hall for a day. I haven’t spent the night, but the glamour doesn’t mean shit. It’s in the busiest part of the city, therefore probably one of the dirtiest hotels in the area."

Arranging everything out on a tray, you walk over to join Levi on the couch, and set it down on the coffee table.

You gesture to the mugs. “If you want any extras to add, let me know.”

Levi flits a look at you, and reaches for a mug, ignoring the honey and milk. He takes the string of the tea bag, dipping it a few times in the tea before letting it sink back to the bottom.

You welcome the moment of silence, adding your mixes to your mug, plucking the tea bag out with a spoon, and swirling it together.

Levi takes a tentative sip of his mug. “Not bad.”

You quirk a brow. “Could be better?”

“Could be stronger. I like to steep it for a while.”

“Any stronger and you’d be up all night. Consider it a favor,” you add with a tease.

Levi sips anyways, giving you a sidelong stare. “I don’t expect to fall asleep tonight. But I can find ways to stay busy.”

He licks his lips, and you’re unaware of his steely eyes watching you bring the piping hot mug to your mouth.

Levi clears his throat. “What about you? Been busy since the breakup?”

The tip of your tongue blazes, distracted with the week’s memories replaying in your head. You set the mug down, scoffing lightheartedly. “Yeah, it’s stupid, but I was kind of peer pressured into joining Tinder.”

Levi says nothing, mask unreadable.

You have no problem filling the silence. “Matched with a couple of guys, went on dates, et cetera.” You wave a flippant hand. “It was an experience.”

“That’ll keep anyone busy.” There’s a faint humor to his words. Of course, Levi’s not that much older than you are. You’ve seen him bring a date or two home, you wonder if he’s given Tinder the old college try.

“Have you ever done it?”

Levi’s response is smooth and firm. “No. My colleagues tried to get me on it. It’s a waste of time.”

“Not your thing?”

“Too many idiots online.” He doesn’t mince his words, nor does he falter when he looks at you. “No offense.”

You laugh at his honesty. “There are a lot of characters on the platform.”

“Clowns, you mean.”

Again, you laugh, wholehearted, like before. Everything that comes out of Levi’s mouth is so subtle yet blunt. Witty without trying to be, an edge to his tone that’s wrapped in silk. Now he’s a character, one that you wouldn’t mind getting to know better.

“A few here and there. I liked exploring out of my comfort zone. It’s been so long since I’ve dated, I’m a little out of practice. It was fun dating for the sake of it but…”

You pause, back to ruminating on the breakup. It’s not Colt you miss, it’s something else that you can’t pinpoint at the moment.

“If this is how dating really is, I’m not sure it’s for me anymore. Call me geriatric,” you laugh. “If I wanted anything serious, I won’t find him on my phone. I prefer to meet the old-fashioned way.”

Levi shrugs, the mug ghosting his lips again. “You still can. Anything’s possible.”

You tilt your head, catching him watching you with pointed interest as he takes a sip.

Meanwhile your tea is tepid compared to the warmth spreading along your face and neck, averting your gaze. “Maybe. I suppose I’ll just have to keep my eyes peeled.”

Levi reaches over to set his mug down, leveling you with a serious look. “You could have saved yourself the effort, if you looked hard enough.”

You turn back to him. “I thought that’s what I was…” Your words clip unfinished.

There’s something different about Levi’s eyes. He's hard person to read, but where the rest of his expression is impassive, it’s his eyes that talk. And those eyes flit to your lips, sliding to your neck, and back to your curious gaze.

He doesn’t falter, unfazed to be caught staring at your mouth that’s split open mid-sentence. While subtle, you did notice his eyes linger for a few seconds more on your neck.

You had forgotten about the hickey left behind. By Eren or Zeke, or whoever, you don’t even remember now. Nor do you care, mesmerized with Levi a few centimeters away, a fantasy planting itself in your mind of his lips marking your neck.

“Where else should I have looked?” You can barely hear yourself.

Levi’s eyes never leave yours. He motions closer like he’s dragging himself through time to get to you.

You feel the brush of his fingers against yours as he gently pries the mug from your hand and sets it down.

He’s much closer now, you can see the flecks of dark blue in his grey irises. The night sky peeking through clouds.

Your pulse flares at the hand sliding up your neck. Levi’s thumb gently presses the hickey, clicking his tongue. For a split-second, you’re worried his touch will disappear.

It doesn’t. Fingers crawl up your nape, caressing your scalp while Levi’s thumb strokes the shell of your ear. His warmth fans over your lips as he speaks.

“Now do you know…” His lips ghost yours. “Where you should have looked?”

Your eyes flutter closed, melting into the kiss.

Levi holds the back of your head securely, pressing his weight forward, having you slide from the couch cushion.

You allow him to guide you onto your back, all the while he continues to kiss you gently, swallowing each other’s faint moans.

You caress his sharp jaw, fingers inching to the back of his neck. When they brush against the fresh cut in the back of his skull, Levi growls.

He pulls your face deeper with delicate authority, biting your lower lip. Your head sinks back, gasping into his mouth as his tongue slips in.

Fingers sneak into the back of his hair, tugging lightly, spurring Levi’s own hand to slide down your chest. Through your thin PJ top, he gives your breast a light squeeze, gauging your reaction, and applies more pressure when you respond in favor.

Another moan slips out the same moment he releases your mouth. Lips latch onto your neck, warm breath burning the goosebumps coating your skin, thrusting you into delirium.

You gasp at the teeth grazing your pulse.

“This okay?” Levi breathes, scraping his teeth again.

You nod, puffing out a hum.

“I’m going to mark you,” is the only warning you get before your neck stings with teeth on skin.

You sag into Levi’s touch, though your hand travels to his chest, wrinkling his shirt in your fist.

A humored growl creeps into your ear. Strong hands seize your waist, your legs fall apart, and Levi tugs you closer to his front.

A deep mewl rises in your chest, thighs twitching to meet the bulge in his pants.

Levi's hand wraps behind your nape again to slot his mouth along yours. The other hand works its way up your thigh, lightly scratching at the bare skin.

He revels when you shiver, digging his nails a little deeper but not enough to break skin. “You like that.”

Levi’s name drops from your mouth, weighing with need.

Levi breaks away to pepper your neck with kisses, nipping at the skin. His hand slips under the hem of your shorts, pressing his thumb into the flesh of your thighs. Your body twitches under his pressure and he chuckles.

“Eager for something?”

You whine, breathless.

Understanding your silent pleas, Levi pushes into the skin of your thighs, groaning as you buck against his bulge. “Very eager…”

He pushes back a little to give you some air and your eyes peel open.

A faint smile spreads across Levi’s lips. For someone so indifferent and perpetually unimpressed, it’s an endearing vision, and one that pools warmth between your legs.

Levi’s hand climbs higher, coming into contact with your wet pussy. “Tch. No panties?”

You supply your response with a lidded gaze.

“You’ve made a mess already, brat. I haven’t even touched you there yet.”

He observes you for a moment, checking for any shred of hesitation “Yeah?”

You soak in his expression, heart fluttering at the tender look he’s giving you. Patient and calm, despite the primal need to touch each other deeply.

“Please,” you say before he kisses you again. “Ah…Levi…”

He presses a finger on your clit, rubbing in languid circles, slick dripping onto his fingertips. After one long heated kiss, he draws away, using his free hand to hook into the waistband of your shorts, sliding them off so fast, your vision spins.

Levi’s lowered himself between your legs, lightning flickering behind his grey eyes to be met with your bare, dripping pussy. He flits his gaze to yours, breath hot against your folds. “Beautiful. So messy, so wet…”

Desperate for contact, your body sinks along the couch, but Levi doesn’t touch you there yet. Instead, he says, “Did your boyfriend leave you that dissatisfied? He never saw his girlfriend for the fiend that she really is?”

It’s strange how everyone around you was aware of the disconnect between you and Colt. Friends and strangers seemed to view you two as an odd match, and you were clueless as to why.

“He could never keep up with you,” Levi continues. “I could always tell how bored you looked, how dry your energy was around him, like he was an obligation.”

He takes your hand then, tying your fingers with his in a firm yet delicate grip.

The gesture takes you aback, awakening a need you didn’t realize you had been searching for.

Intimacy.

That’s what you and Colt had lost a long time ago, even when still together.

It’s illuminating. This entire time, your indifference had left you blind to what you truly wanted: feeling safe, feeling seen, feeling connected.

While the sex you had this week was great, no man on Tinder was capable of feeding that need. And it was your neighbor who held the key this entire time.

You squeeze his hand. “Levi…”

He smiles, thumb stroking the back of your hand. “I’m going to take care of my girl.”

The affection fills you like a mouthful of honey, so sweet, so tender, and something to savor.

Slender fingers slide past your folds, and you sigh in bliss. They pump inside of you, slow and experimental. His serenity and pace are very much akin to his personality. Even in the brewing storm of ecstasy, Levi’s patient, playing you like an instrument with an intuitive touch.

“Oh…Levi…” You can’t stop saying his name. Every ounce of your pleasure belongs to him.

“Does my girl like that?”

You bristle, nodding your head.

“And…does my girl like this too?”

Your breath hitches, thigh twitching at the drag of Levi’s tongue along your clit.

A third finger presses into the sensitive spot against your walls, stretching you open, pain mixing with pleasure.

“You like being full, don’t you?” All three fingers curl, tongue swipes against your clit again a few more times.

Biting your lip, you nod, unable to look away from Levi’s gaze. Intoxicated by his tranquility, in no rush to get his own fix, despite the strain in his voice.

“You’re going to cum for me,” he says, the authority is distinct. “Keep your eyes on me. I want to see you when I make you cum. And you’re going to always remember my touch.”

Your eyes blink, lidded and heavy, taking in a deep inhale.

Levi’s husks. “My girl knows best.”

The nickname is sugar-sweet in your ears, and you shiver.

He works his fingers faster, licking your clit, building up the momentum.

Your hand squeezes around his as you feel the intensity rise.

Levi moves your hand, guiding you to press it flat against your lower stomach. He keeps his hand atop yours, together, applying more pressure there.

Your confusion is surpassed by a sensation you’ve never felt before. “Oh…Levi…it’s—”

Levi swallows, eyes trained on yours, a desperation in his gaze, like he refuses to miss this moment.

Your mouth hangs open wider as your walls clamp around Levi’s fingers, the pressure in your lower belly heightens, heralding the beginnings of a climax.

He breathes your name. “Cum for me.”

He presses both your hands down, while his fingers push something deep inside of you. The combined sensations shatter your resolve.

You cry out as something rushes forth, spraying Levi’s face and fingers, soaking his wrist and shirt. The orgasm flows out of you in a wave of satisfaction that you never knew was possible.

Every inch of your body twitches from the release, every drop of blood in your body running warm, and curling your toes. A kind of pleasure that had been waiting to be roused for so long.

Levi continues to pump his fingers inside of you to ease you back down to earth, as his tongue laps up the mess.

He hasn’t let go of your hand, and you don’t have the heart to let go either.

A beat passes like this, slow and silent, without any pressure to interrupt the moment. You bask in it, the stillness, the quiet, and in Levi’s everlasting attention. And when he resurfaces, mouth and chin shining with moisture, his looks at you.

“So messy.” He smirks, bringing your hand up to kiss your knuckles.

A tease hangs off the edge of your lips. “I thought you didn’t like messes.”

“I don’t like filth,” comes his blunt response, but you hear the softness in his tone. “I don’t mind a mess like this. Not when it’s coming from you.”

Sweet and lewd, a beautiful blend that is distinctly your neighbor.

He falls forward, mouth capturing yours in a heated kiss that a renewal of desire simmers. His mouth is hungry, yearning, desperate and you feel the return of his bulge between your legs. Regardless of how spent you feel, you lift your hips up for friction, aching to feel his dick inside of you. He breaks away.

You meet Levi’s eyes and without saying a word, you both work together to undo his belt. He slides his pants and boxers down to his thighs, setting his cock free.

You drink in the sight. Erect, flushed red at the tip, sizeable…your pussy flutters, wanting to be filled. You take the shaft, stroking lightly, peering up.

Levi’s eyes fall shut for a moment, breathing stilted the closer your thumb gets to his tip. Precum drips onto your hand and Levi snatches up your hips and pulls you astride.

With a final look, he lifts you up, sinking you onto his lap.

The pressure is better than you could have imagined, pushing past your sore walls with a pulsing sting that fades when he’s fully sheathed.

“Oh…” he moans. “My girl’s pussy feels like a dream.”

“Levi, please…” you whimper, grinding on his lap. You grin as he clicks his tongue.

A hand smacks your backside.

Levi bares his teeth, reeling you in to meet his eyes. “Be patient, brat, or I’ll leave you like this all night.”

You whine and that gets you another smack to the ass.

Despite the bite in his tone, Levi revels in taunting you. “Don’t think I’m serious? We can stay like this. My dick nestled deep into your pussy that you’ll be dripping all over my lap before I make a move.”

You’d be remiss to say that you don’t enjoy his taunting. If Levi lives to torture, you’d gladly accept. But that doesn’t stop you from begging. “Levi…please. I want you to fuck me.”

You bristle, feeling his dick twitch inside of you. Biting back a moan, you wait with thinly-veiled patience.

But Levi’s composure is slipping too, regardless of his bluff. “Don’t look away. I’m going to fuck you like this.”

Arms wrap around Levi’s neck and hands hook onto the flesh of your thighs.

Levi’s hips buck up, plunging himself in a deep thrust.

He grunts with every snap of his hips, never tearing his gaze from your face, wanting to imprint your expression along his vision.

Every thrust strokes the sensitive spot in your walls, firing every nerve that has you seeing stars.

“Touch yourself for me,” Levi breathes, fucking into you in a steady tempo.

Your eyes are trained on him, bringing your hand to your mouth, wetting your fingertips. As ordered, you don’t look away, catching the clench in his jaw at your lewd display. Lowering your hand, you touch your clit, gasping at the added pleasure.

“Levi…” you moan.

Levi’s licks his lips, thrusts are consistent though they’re becoming shaky. “Fuck…that’s—who’s fucking you.”

“You, Levi.”

Levi’s eyes flit down, watching your fingers rub yourself while his cock splits you open. His gaze crawls back up to meet yours. “I’m going to cum in your pussy. I’m going to make it mine.”

A sharp thrust has you nodding your head furiously. “Yes—please—I want to feel you.”

Silence ensues, but nothing else needs to be said. The exchange of your bodies and sounds are enough to fill the quiet, enough to convey how connected and safe you feel. The first time in ages.

You cum for the second time; fingers tremble from the overstimulation.

Levi’s thrusts lose their rhythm. He grabs onto you tighter, imprints bruising your flesh. A few more sharp snaps of his hips and he cums inside of you, releasing a hearty moan.

The world falls silent again, save for the heavy breathing.

You brush away his bangs clinging to his forehead, aroused to see your neighbor in such a state.

“You okay?” he sighs, eyes finding yours, hand finding your jaw.

You nod, allowing the afterglow to take control. Unable to stop yourself, you lean closer, wrapping your arms around his neck, pressing your chest against his.

Levi pulls you closer, resting his chin on your shoulder with arms holding you in a protective embrace.

Time passes but you’re not aware of that. Too comfortable, nestling your head against Levi’s neck. You hold him tighter, and he reciprocates, strong arms keeping you close.

Eventually, you slide off of him, inwardly relishing at his seed gushing out of you.

You give him space as he drags his pants back on, but leaves the belt undone.

On wobbly feet, you find your shorts discarded by the tray of tea that has gone cold.

Your shorts fall back to the coffee table, the living room jostling in your vision. “What—?”

Levi pats your bare ass, keeping a secure hold of you over his shoulder. “You don’t need those tonight.” He steps away from the couch, turning around. “I'm just getting started with you."

“Where are we going?” you say.

Levi comes to a still. “Your bedroom. Unless you want me to take you to mine?” He motions to the door. “Of course, our neighbors will get a glimpse of your ass, but if you prefer—”

You squirm, shaking your head. “No, no—my room is perfect!” Although that thought doesn’t bother you either. For now, you pack it away, pleased to spend your evening with Levi.

Spinning a heel, Levi carries you down the hall. “Good answer.” ...

A few months later…

Your phone buzzes on the coffee table. You reach for it, careful not to spill the tea Levi’s prepared for you.

Opening up the new notification, you scoff.

At your side, Levi takes a sip of his mug, curious and nonchalant. “Another dick pic?”

Courtesy of Eren Jaeger.

You had abandoned Tinder a long time ago, having lost interest after getting closer to Levi. It didn’t take you long to delete your profile as you settled in a comfortable new routine with your neighbor.

The connection between you two was gradual. After your break-up, you didn’t want to rush into anything, and Levi was fine with the slower pace. Neither of you were seeing other people, and while you two had yet to label anything, you were practically exclusive.

During the week, he’d drop by for dinner if he wasn’t out of town for business. And on Saturday evenings, you’d be over at his place where he’d make tea, preparing it how you liked.

And of course, the sex never got old. It was phenomenal every time.

Pieck and Ymir were surprised, hardly knowing anything about your neighbor beforehand, but they were happy for you nonetheless, and even got along well with Levi.

You barely gave the ghosts of Tinder’s past enough thought.

You never heard from Porco after that one time. Reiner was back where he lived and sent you a few pictures of his dog before all communication stopped. Connie had invited you to watch his band play and after you told him you were seeing someone, he extended the invite to Levi as well.

Jean also took it in stride, a gentleman to the core. Pieck and Ymir were surprised that you let him go, but the chemistry wasn’t quite there like it was with Levi.

Zeke was a ghost most of the time, only popping in to send you lewd text messages that you had him blocked. Until weeks later, he’d reach out again via a new number.

And then there was Eren, who was just beyond shameless that even Levi found his efforts humorous.

Try-hard, was Levi’s word of choice after you had regaled him with your misadventures on the dating app.

Much like Zeke, Eren would reach out after a period of crickets, and oftentimes with a nude picture. You had ignored him for while, and finally told him you were talking to someone else, to which he gave you an egotistical response.

Sure, let me know when that’s over ;)

“I think I’m going to change my number now.” You delete the message and block him this time.

Levi wraps an arm around you, kissing your temple. “If you want to, go for it. Or if you want, I'll get rid of that brat for you."

You snuggle closer to him, endeared with his integrity even when it's a threat against Eren's life. You really like Levi. “For his sake, I’ll just change my number.”

There’s another buzz and this time it’s Levi’s phone.

You push off as he picks it up and types a quick message. Likely his colleagues. “Is it important?” you say.

Levi sets it back down, taking you in his arm again. “No. Hange asked if I wanted to catch a movie with them and Erwin tonight, and I said I was with my girlfriend.”

Your heart skips a beat, and yet Levi takes a long sip of his tea, eyes on the TV playing.

“I’m your girlfriend?”

Levi shifts to look at you with furrowed brows. “Yeah.” It’s simple and short.

“And you’re my boyfriend,” you supply, hope brightening your voice.

The corner of Levi’s lips curl. “Yeah.”

Since the start, everything was so easy with Levi. Simple and peaceful. Even with a routine, there was no stagnancy. Each day was like a new one with him.

You hadn’t thought of Colt in a while, and whenever he’d creep into your mind, it was with a fondness of a past, you were happy to have moved on from.

Hindsight told you that change would be positive. And hindsight told you that Levi’s right, change won’t kill you.

With nothing else to add, you press against your boyfriend’s side, every part of you fulfilled again. The End ! ◡̈

That's the end of our Tinder journey lol! Thank you for reading!!! 🩵 ☻ masterpost☻ taglist: @moonmalice @daisynik7 @theragethatisdesire @squidalapobre @arlerts-angel @shepnicolo @porples-blog @jeanboyjean @fictional-d-supremacy

#levi x reader #levi ackerman x reader #levi ackerman x you #levi ackerman #snk x reader #aot fanfiction #aot x reader #Levi smut #attack on titan fanfiction #levi ackerman smut #snk #mochi-writings #attack on titan #dtf only series

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etfrin · 4 months

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❝ꜱᴏᴜʟꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴄʀᴜꜱʜ❞ — chapter four | coriolanus snow

「ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ:」 NSFW | Coryo being Coryo, elitism, panic attack (nothing too graphic), mentions of death, mentions of blood (just a tiny bit), male masterbation near the end of the chapter | lmk if i forgot anything

「ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ:」 young! Coriolanus Snow x fem! Reader

「ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ:」 they meet up in the library, Coryo has a panic attack, and low-key has issues 💀 but hey, he fucks his fist in the end of the chapter also let's his paranoia win lmao

「ᴀ/ɴ:」 reposting this!! Hope y'all like it!

beta read by @nowitsmissing

series masterlist | navigation | previous chapter

You didn't disappoint.

He couldn't help the heavyweight leaving his chest, his shoulders relaxing and his face in a smile (which he quickly hides) as he sees you. You were sitting on a chair, a stack of books in front of you, parchments all over the table, cookies in a box and you were writing something with your pen.

Was it instinct? Was it the bond? He will never know but you look up and meet his gaze. Your eyes narrowed at him, for being late he reasoned but he noticed that you relaxed as well, your body nearly sagging into the chair.

“You're late,” you greet him as he sits across from you. He shrugged, his eyes looking at the cookie and he ignored the clench of his stomach. He had cabbage soup again for dinner, the tasteless veggie didn't do anything to satisfy his hunger. It served as a reminder instead of why he needed to win the Plinth Prize.

He replied, “Death does that.” He tried to keep his voice sad yet composed. How sad could one be when you lose a family who is poison with perfect teeth.

“Should have stayed at home to mourn then.”

“I plan to do that at the funeral.”

Your eyes meet his briefly when you hear his answer, he notices that your eyes are red. Like it would be when you're crying. He couldn't wrap his mind around why you would be crying. Arachne was never a friend to you, a district girl, if anything you were the one who received most of her scorn. And yet you were with tears in your eyes, instead of him, a Capitol boy, someone with the same blood as hers.

What does that say about him?

“I plan to do the same too… She's family after all.”

Not yours. He wanted to reply but didn't. He gave you a nod and went back to his work. Ignoring the way your hand subtly (not so much) wiped the tear away from your cheek, and the growl of his stomach when he smelled the chocolate chip cookies sitting right in front of him.

Hours bleed and both of you were still working with minimal talking. He wanted to ask what you were so diligently reading and jolting down. His mind is plaguing him with the fact that you have better ideas than him. You seemed well prepared enough with all of the books that were left open around you.

You make a soft humming noise, “Your father was a co-founder of the Hunger Games.” You chuckled, though Coriolanus didn't know what was funny. “And here you're writing a proposal on how to improve the Games. Like father, like son.”

You give him a small smile. And then it turns into a frown when you notice that the cookies remain untouched. “I made these for us, ya know. I promise that they don't have cyanide in them. You can try but no promises if it's good or not. As the cook I am biased but I would love your opinion.”

His lips quirked up at your joke. You always had an uncanny sense of humor and you were never hesitant to showcase. He was glad to finally have permission to taste those mouth-watering cookies. “Thank you,” he manages to reply cordially as he takes a cookie for himself to munch on.

Your eyes were innocently wide as you watched him eat the cookie. You had stopped your writing, the quill resting on the side of your proposal. He realized that you were waiting for his comment, waiting for his approval. And he squirmed in his seat as he realized that you were hanging onto his words for something as simple as a cookie.

“It’s delicious,” he said, his tongue licking his lips to get the remaining cookie crumbs. He smiled a smile that wasn't calculated like every one of his interactions with his peers were. He smiled a smile reserved for a soulmate he couldn't have.

He sees your grin when you hear his opinion. Your face brightens up and you give your attention back to your work with vigor. It made Coriolanus realize your confidence was a facade, just like his perfection was. There was a certain joy in knowing that for Coryo.

And the bonus point is the fact that you asked for his opinion on nearly everything since childhood, even after getting closer with Sejanus, it's his approval you sought.

It was such a heady feeling that always fed to his ego and calmed his mind down from jealousy. Even if your proposal was better than his, in the end, it didn't matter if he simply lied to your face about it.

Soon, he was over with his proposal. The cookies were now finished and his body filled with the rare satisfaction of not having an empty stomach. He looks at you and sees that you are revising your written proposal now.

He bites his tongue to distract his mind from the fact of how pretty you looked like this. Your lips parted, your eyes focused (will it be focused on him like that if he ever kissed you, or will your eyes glaze over with pleasure?). He hated how he felt at that moment, like a teenage boy with a crush.

He decided to distract himself with something better. Your proposal. “I check yours. You check mine?” He suggested, quirking his eyebrow for an extra measure to convince you.

You frown for a moment and he has to fist his hand to make sure he doesn't come forward and smooth the wrinkles away. “Sure,” you reluctantly agree, a hint of hesitation clear in your eyes.

“What?” He smirks, leaning forward a bit (close, close, but too far). “Afraid I will steal your ideas?” He asked his tone just a tiny bit condescending.

You looked down. Backing away from his challenging gaze, taking the fun out of it. “More like you'll laugh at my face,” you muttered.

Now it was his time to frown.

“That was one time.”

“One time too many,” you replied.

And then you add, “Give me yours first, and then if I like it I will give you mine.”

He grits his teeth, already knowing that your district stubbornness won't have you backing away. “Fine,” he said and he held the assignment in front of you. Yours for the taking.

Your fingers brush his as you take over the papers. The touch sends an electric jolt down his spine as he retrieves his hand back quickly. His breaths are shallow and cheeks burning, eyes diverted away from yours as the soulmate bond flares up.

It happens rarely, often in the comfort of his home that he feels his need for you. Like an addict. His need to be close to you, his need to hold, kiss, and love you.

It's a phenomenon restricted to those who try to reject their partners despite knowing who they are. And what better example was for that than Coriolanus Snow.

He could feel the blood rush. A high that was crashing, and he was the urge to just fuck it. Fuck you, claim you against the shelves, kiss you. Something, anything that would calm his baser instincts. But it didn't work like that.

He wasn't a District animal, he was a Capitol boy and he won't be losing control in this manner.

But he was so close to it and the worst part of it all? You weren't even doing anything except reading his paper, your shoulders relaxed as you leaned back in your chair. Your tongue peeking out to lick your dry lips, as you flick over the next page.

One of your hands on the table and your fingers tapping an unknown tune on the wood of the table. It was overwhelming. He felt his senses going haywire and he needed to be away, alone from you.

He stood up, ignoring the sound of a chair scratching the expensive floor. “I'll be back,” he said, his mind anxious but his face had no expression whatsoever. You didn't even look at him, just nodded, and that somehow frustrated him.

‘Look at me,’ he wanted to yell, ‘Look at the state I am in because of you.’

But he didn't, so he rushed to the bathroom. Closing the stall with the lock, and pulling down the lid so he could sit on it. He takes in deep breath, pulling his sleeves up as he begins to feel his legs shake, tapping the tiles with a tic, tic noise. He begins to pay attention to the noise more than his chaos of the mind, letting everything simply fade away as his breathing gets to normal. It takes a while, his shirt now sweaty clinging to his skin, and his curls now messed with his hands constantly running through it. But he was feeling better now, despite his throat being parched.

After washing his face several times in the sink, he gets himself outside of the bathroom. He frowns when he notices the time. He was there for nearly twenty minutes. Embarrassing, how was he going to explain that? Fuck.

Turns out he didn't have to because you were gone. He feels bewildered as he reads the note you left on the table.

‘Had to go! Will submit your proposal along with mine by tonight!’

He grits his jaw, he hadn't permitted you to do such a thing. Even though a part of him did feel grateful that he wouldn't have to walk the extra mile to submit his work. He still felt angry though, and it wasn't admittingly your fault.

But you were the cause of it. And with the current circumstances, it's not like he could punish you for it. He wanted to, there's no denying that.

When he reaches home, his anger boils, waiting to be spilled around those around him. Grandma'am was asleep, he ignored Tigris when she had sweetly asked if you were present. He locked his bedroom door, it was a miracle he hadn't slammed it shut.

He was mad. He was frustrated, so much so that he couldn't explain. He lets out a growl, his hands in a fist, as if he wasn't sure that the wall would break had he punched it. He would have.

You weren't a drug (you were). He wasn't an addict (he was).

So why did he crave you so much? Why just a few moments alone with you has him in ruin?

‘District, district,’ he repeats in his mind, ‘You’ll never be Capitol. No matter how many proposals you write to damn your people. No matter how much money you have, or how many years you have lived in the Capitol.’

Even when he was lying on his bed, his breath was labored, his skin too hot. He couldn't stop replying to the time he had spent with you today. It was impossible not to.

You were so you.

Perfect. Flawed. Beautiful. Horrible. Everything and nothing. You made him feel like he had fire in his heart but he was a Snow. It was so jarring.

He was simply a teenage boy, and you made everything so complicated just by existing. You made him hot, burning, and fuck, he hated how he felt right now. That the anger melted away but the fire didn't. That the blood rushed from his head to his cock. He couldn't help it.

It's your fault that you made him succumb to this state. It's in you that he had one of his hands under his blanket, his eyes shut, his teeth digging into the flesh of his lower lip. He muffled a whine, as he gripped his hard cock.

The pain he felt as he bit his lips couldn't compare to the relief that came as he slowly began to stroke his cock. He strokes it slowly, savoring the sin he was indulging himself in. When he felt blood in his mouth from how hard he had bit himself, he used his free hand to muffle his soft groans instead.

He felt so boyish as he continues to fuck into his fist now, his hips rolling upwards as he continues. His pre-cum coating his length and acting as the lube. His thumb rubs against his sensitive, leaking cockhead. It makes him groan so loud that for a moment he feels like Tigris has heard.

He stops for a moment, his breathing heavy as he waits to hear footsteps. He doesn't hear one and sighs in relief. He begins to stroke his dick again, this time the pace quick and rough. His other hand wandered down his body to cup his balls, his face buried into his flimsy pillow, his teeth biting onto it. His saliva dampens the pillow, creating a wet stain that he would later feel embarrassed about.

He whines into the pillow, wanting to cum. He was so close, he just needed… needed…

You.

“Fuck! Fuck!” He groans and then moans your name as the mere thought of you has him cumming. His eyes roll back and he gasps, his blanket ruined. His cheeks burn as he realizes the cycle he's in but he couldn't care less when his bones are jelly and his mind is filled with euphoria.

When he did come back to his senses, he didn't let his shame overwhelm him. Instead, he changed his sheets, the stained ones in the laundry basket (it was his turn to wash tomorrow). He sat in front of his desk, ignoring how early light seemed to be sweeping into the room from the window. He takes out some parchment, quill, and ink.

He begins to write.

Just in case, you steal his work.

No point in trusting someone from the district, right?

NEXT PART

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androgynealienfemme · 1 year

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"Yes, it's true: I was the type of young femme who managed the girls basketball team in high school, just to be able to take in the sight of all those butches parading their muscles up and down the court. I found Girl Scout camp to be femme heaven and reveled in being able to explore my athletic self and still maintain my femmeness. And, to my horror, I have to admit pushing Tina away from my breasts in the back seat of a Buick while attending Mount Saint Mary Seminary. And then there was feminism... Although I came out as a "gay" woman before reading The Feminine Mystique, the seventies brand of white feminism had me trimming my nails and cutting off my hair. Soon I was outfitted in farmer jeans and high tops. And still I was told by my "sisters" that I didn't "look like a dyke" (read: I didn't look butch). I began to lead two lives- one as an outrageous, skirted, lipsticked femme while I worked in and traveled with carnivals, and another as an imitation butch back home in the women's community. Eventually, I pulled the pieces of my being back together and proclaimed boldly, "I am a working-class lesbian femme." So I had maybe six years reveling in unleashing my seductive femme self when, as lives go, mine changed: slowly at first and then more dramatically. Recurring back pain and limited range of mobility were finally diagnosed. Soon after came decreased mobility. No more mountain climbing. No long mall walks in search of the perfect piece of sleaze. No more standing against kitchen walls being gloriously fucked by some handsome butch. I stopped using alcohol and drugs, became ill with what is now known as CFIDS (Chronic Fatigue Immune Dysfunction Syndrome), and began to use a three-wheeled power chair. The more disabled I became, the more I mourned the ways my sexual femme self had manifested through the nondisabled me: cruising at the local lezzie bar, picking up a dyke whose eyes refuse to stray from mine, dancing seductively, moving all of me for all of her. Cooking: love and suggestion neatly tucked into the folds of a broccoli quiche. Serving my date in varying, sleazy clothing, removing layers as the meal and our passion progressed. And making love... feeling only pleasure as my hips rose and fell under the weight of her. Accomplishment and pride smirked across my face as her wrists finally submitted to the pressure of strong persistent hands. There are the ways I knew to be femme, to be the essence of me.

It's been five years now since I began using my wheelchair. I am just awakening to a new reclamation of femme. Yes. I still grieve the way I was, am still often unsure how this femme with disabilities will act out her seduction scenes. I still marvel when women find passion amidst the chrome and rubber that is now a part of me.

There have been numerous dates, lovers, relationships, sexual partners, and fliterations along the way. Cindy, Jenny, Ellie, Emma, Diane, Dorothy, Gail, June, Clove, Lenny, Cherry, Diana, Sarah I, and Sarah II. You have all reminded me in your own subtle or overt, quit or wild ways that I am desirable, passionate, exciting, wanted.

Yes I am an incredibly sexual being. An outrageous, loud mouthed femme who's learning to dress, dance, cook, and seduce on wheels; finding new ways to be gloriously fucked by handsome butches and aggressive femmes. I hang out with more sexual outlaws now- you know, the motorcycle lesbians who see wheels and chrome between your legs as something exciting, the leather women whose vision of passion and sexuality doesn't exclude fat, disabled me.

Ableism tells us that lesbians with disability are asexual. (When was the last time you dated a dyke who uses a wheelchair?) Fat oppression insists that thin is in and round is repulsive. At times, these voices become very loud, and my femme, she hid quietly amidts the lists.

Now my femme is rising again. The time of doubt, fear, and retreat has passed. I have found my way out of the lies and oppression and have moved into a space of loving and honoring the new femme who has emerged. This lesbian femme with disabilities is wise, wild, wet, and wanting. Watch out.

-"Reclaiming femme... Yet again" Mary Francis Platt, The Persistent Desire (Edited by Joan Nestle) (1992)

#lesbian #lesbianism #lesbian history #disabled lesbian #lgbt history #gay history #butch femme #femme lesbian #feminism #lesbian feminism #the persistent desire #intersectionality #disability history #disability rights

2K notes · View notes

yeyinde · 1 year

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past and pending | John Price x f!Reader

"Fuck, love," his voice carries the taste of cigars and scotch when it rumbles in your ear. You smell the heady Maduro on his skin when you sink your teeth into the freckles on his shoulder. He tips his head forward; his rasping groan is heavy with smoke. "The things you do to me."

(you haven't stopped thinking of what it would feel like to burn your lips on his cigar, and numb the sting with the scotch on his tongue.)

warnings: smut; literal filth; kiiiiiinda an illicit relationship(?) but ya'll are consenting adults; power imbalance by proxy; breeding kink (slight); gendered reader; female anatomy; little substance just pure filth

notes: alt title was: when ur boss has baby fever and ur like, well damn, i guess i'm taking one for the team; this man is sooo damn fine, and Barry Sloane is a 1.88m snack (and tbh, scousers always make me a little weak in the knees)

Price looks like he smells of cigars whiskey cheap leather and hickory and i am feral.

It starts in Madrid.

(Though, if you're being honest with yourself, it really starts on a motorway outside of Dorset.)

Scotch in one hand, cigar in the other, he stands on the balcony, and gazes out at the water in the distance. Eyes fixed, crystalline, on the families below playing in the sand. A gaggle of children. Their mothers lean over the railing of the tapas below, shooing them off to find their fathers.

The sounds carry through the streets, bouncing off of the stucco. High-pitched giggles from the kids playing in the cobblestone roads. The admonishing calls of their parents. Laughter from passersby.

You watch him from the doorway. Catch the longing in his eyes; wistful and melancholic.

A family. Children.

It's not your mission—this isn't what you're here for—but there is an ache in his gaze that makes you bite your tongue, words stifled in your throat.

You've never seen your Captain look like this.

He notices you—has probably known, you don't doubt, that you were there from the start—but there is something almost painful about the way he gives himself one more moment of this, one more fleeting glance, before he has to take up the mantle of a commander, of a leader.

When he turns to you, it lingers in his eyes. A shade of mourning you can't quite understand. Can't quite reconcile about the man who, hours earlier, was barking out well done! and nice shot! when you took down an enemy operative. A bullet an inch below the eye. He clasped you on your back, grinned wide under the moustache, and it tasted of gunfire when he leaned in close.

("Mm, got 'em right in the fuckin' head!")

John Price is a man you'd never thought could feel anything except the high of the challenge, the chase. He smelled of scotch, Maduro, and gasoline. His voice was always ragged, and hoarse, from how loudly he bellowed on the battlefield, a roar that echoed in the distance.

This—

This is new. Different. It's both softer and sadder than you'd ever imagined him, and how it fits inside the man you'd known as one of the only people you could genuinely trust, is jarring. And simply put: it doesn't.

The idea of his longing fills you with a visceral ache.

(You're a good soldier. You wonder if you could—)

"Ready, then?" He asks, and digs his teeth into the cigar until it dents. The glass is placed on the dresser, empty. His lips stain the rim, and you think about bottle caps and Iceland.

You can't stop staring at him, now. Like an idiot. Like a—

Silly little girl with a crush.

You fluster. Force a nod when his brows buoy, bunching in concern. Bewilderment. You're not acting like yourself.

(You really haven't been since Reykjavik when he turned to you, and said—)

It's pushed aside when he takes one last drag, chest swelling with the inhale, and breathes out, words a plume of smoke.

"Let's get these steamin' bastards."

If Madrid started it all, then his hand on your thigh is certainly the cataclysmic finale, the end.

Well, that isn't entirely true.

It's the offer of a cigar. A little scotch.

(Maybe more than a little, really.)

Alone in a tapas in Madrid, he orders too much food for two people, and a bottle of their best scotch.

Asks, gruffly in aborted Spanish, if he can have a smoke, too.

(You end up having to translate both his Spanish and English to the befuddled waiter; the heavy accent renders his words to nothing but growled smoke.)

The mission was a success. Gaz perched on the loft across the street, the man cornered by Price, his only exit cut off by you—it was as smooth as one could go. Easy, almost. Effortless.

It should have been the first sign that things were going to unravel, quite quickly, from that point on.

Gaz declines the invitation. Laswell in your ear, well, you've earned it. You should have said no, too. Stayed in your room, ordered out, and poured over the piles of documents that will be waiting for you sooner or later. Red-tape means every moment must be noted down, each breath counted. Each step. Each choice. It's a mountain.

But Price had his face turned toward the streets when he asked. The breadcrumbs of his gaze led you to a woman holding a blue swaddle in her arms, cooing down at the lump hidden under soft cashmere. Old ladies congregated around her, faces lit up with joy.

He watched for a moment, and you saw that aching thing in his eyes when the woman peeled back the layers, showing off a ruddy-cheeked baby with a smattering of curly brown hair on his tiny head.

A catch, then, in your throat, when the words were out before you could stop them: I want to.

"...to go," you added hastily, flushing brilliantly under the lights in the hotel room. His hotel room. The one used to reconvene, to plot, to plan. The one that reeks of him—

The man you captured is held in a prison by the authorities, departing tonight under the cover of darkness. His weapons sit in the corner. Focus. You stare at them to ground yourself. "With you, that is."

Price turns, eyes finding yours when you lift your chin—automatic, magnetic: your Captain looks at you, and you offer a nod in response.

The longing is thick, palpable. It burns, and it aches, because it isn't for you. It's for some unattainable thing he's decided not to pursue.

You taste the flavour of it when he speaks, when he clears his throat, and gives a gruff good in response.

It, of course, is not good.

It's very bad.

Dangerous, even.

The attraction you feel toward Price—Captain, boss; off-limits —isn't anything new. It's not incipient, but it hasn't had a chance to take root, to hold firm. You haven't let it.

You'd felt the same swell of intrigue before; a fledgling thing that always dissipates before trouble starts. This should have been no different.

(But trouble comes quicker than you'd expect.

And you've always been rather good at lying to yourself.)

The look in his eyes. The tightness in your chest. Scotch on your tongue.

It festers when he leans over, eyes pools of cerulean, and says, want a cigar?

And now—

Now:

Your lungs are heavy with smoke that, apparently, isn't supposed to be there.

Not supposed to inhale, dove, he tells you, words rough from his own puff, and drenched in humour.

You sputter, knuckles pressed to your mouth to stop yourself from looking foolish in front of your Captain. Too late, of course. His eyes dance with mirth, lips crooked with the tang of it.

You duck your head. "Fuck, that's disgusting."

"Don't blame the cigar." He grins, easy, relaxed. The bucket hat on his head looks out of place in a tapas in Centro, but he's never felt more touchable to you when he's bathed in the mundane.

(At least it isn't the leather jacket, the beanie—)

You swallow down the acrid taste of tobacco on your tongue, sending him a sharp glance from the corner of your eye. "Who do I blame, then? The teacher?"

Price lets out a soft huff, a little chuckle under his breath, and tips his head in concession. "Yeah, alright. My fault, love."

Love. It makes your chest feel tight. Head dizzy. You can blame it on the pungent concoction of cigars and scotch, but it sits too heavy in your chest for you to pretend.

You drop your gaze to the table, to the half-eaten plate of setas al ajillo that sits in front of you as if it will somehow have an answer in the oil. That you might find god amongst the sauteed mushrooms, and he'll smack sense into your head. Don't be stupid. Don't be—

"Another?" He rasps, the word sticks to his throat.

The smoke from the cigar makes your head feel gummy. It's a balm that soothes over all the little voices in the back of your head that scream at you to stop. This is a bad idea, they say. You'll regret it in the morning.

But—

You want to impress him. Stupid. Price meets your stare when you lift your head. A smile. A nod.

He doesn't mention the way your hand trembles when you take the cigar proffered to you between a thick thumb and forefinger. He has a burn scar on his first knuckle. A round circle.

It's not the way you'd hold a cigar.

Your eyes linger for a moment on the burn, mind startlingly empty, as if refusing to partake in piecing together whatever it means, if only for his privacy. His own sense of untouchability.

Price is the core of the group. The man who everyone—even Ghost, to some extent—relies on, and absolutely respects. It's ironclad. Unshakeable.

He's the man who is always looking at you, at others, first. When something happens, his eyes are drawn to everyone else, making sure they are stable on their feet as the world around them crashes, and burns.

You know because, now, you're always watching him.

A silly little girl with a crush.

It began in Reykjavik.

A slurry of imported chemicals drafted by a man with an abhorrent agenda led you, Price, and Laswell on a chase through the city. It was close, down to the last nanoseconds. And then—

"You alright?"

Shaken. Terrified. You turn to him, and he's there, watching you. Eyes drawn tight. Taut, humourless smile pulling on the corners of his—for once—clean-shaven face.

It's hard to begin to grasp the words necessary to properly convey what you felt at that moment. Panic. Horror. Dread. Fear. They come close, but they miss that unnameable feeling of your heart leaping into your throat when the seconds ticked down to five, four, three…

Too late. Too—

And then a gunshot. A bullet in the man's head. Success. It felt too close to be considered a win. Like grasping at victory with the tips of your fingers as it fumbles from hand to hand. Narrowly snatching the win from the jowls of defeat that nipped at you.

"S-sir—"

He's there. Hand on your shoulder, firm and steady: it's the only thing that keeps you from toppling over.

"Mm, stay alert," he mumbles, eyes cutting back to the throng of agents—on loan from Norway as Iceland hadn't the means to take care of it on their own, the very same people whose pride refused to allow you any intel, almost leading to—

"Eyes, ears are everywhere."

It's the solid weight of his presence, his unmovable utilitarianism, that reinforces the liquid relief in your knees, giving it the stability needed to congeal, to harden.

Iceland was the first taste of reality. The first mission where you realised every single second mattered.

"Did good," he says under his breath, and nods at you when you turn, bewildered, to him. "Might not seem like it, but you held yourself up. Did what needed to be done. Good job."

There is a softness in his eyes, one that you can't place, but it makes your pulse race.

And now, that same something swims in his cerulean gaze, slightly misted from the scotch, but remarkably the same.

You drop your gaze again. His stare is heavy—its not oppressive, or intense, but its—

A lot. Weighed down by something that has been steadily building since you bunkered down in a frozen bivouac on the fringes of the Arctic. Each breath of plume of pure white. Nestled tight together under a single insulated blanket, sharing heat. Keeping each other from the white death looming at the edge of the door.

It sits there, now. The tendrils of frostbite in his eyes: memories of when the snow piled so high outside your door, you'd begun to fear that this little shack was going to be your icy prison.

His chest under your chin. Heat bleeding into you.

("Gotta stay warm," he'd rasped, gaze flickering to you in steady intervals. "Can't turn the heat on. They'll see us.")

In the morning after everything, he found you on the terrace overlooking the landscape, the rolling hills of white in the distance. Back in the sanctum of your hotel. The one free from tundra and sleet. From the howling winds that slammed against the shack you both holed up in for the night. Surveillance. Your first taste of it.

"You good?" He murmurs. It's a loaded question, and feels more like a test.

Still—

"I will be." A lie.

"Go on." He calls it.

You turn to him. "We—;" the words are heavy on your tongue. Blame, and anger, and— "if they shared information with us, we would have gotten to them sooner."

And then you bite your tongue, eyes darting across the barren balconies. Eyes and ears are everywhere, he'd said. Test: failed.

"Mm, yeah," he mumbles. His presence is comforting. A kinship born from ice and darkness. He leans against the railing beside you, fingers looped into the straps on his tactical vest. "Could have done a lot of things quicker."

"Why did we need to wait?"

His laugh is caustic. "Bureaucracy."

"Sounds pointless when people are waging chemical warfare on the innocent."

"Mm, you're not wrong." He adds, his breath a plume of white when he huffs. "But red tape is the line that keeps us in check. Can't go around shooting whoever looks at us funny."

"But—"

"I agree, though." His words are low, and doused in the residuum of anger from missions you've yet to experience. A chasm is carved between you. An uncrossable moor. "Fuckin' politics."

His hand is almost as heavy as the steel in his eyes when he pulls it free from the strap on his chest, and lays it on your shoulder. "Get some rest. Maybe a bloody drink if you can. They only got vodka," he spits the word out like it's blasphemous, and considering he's never too far away from a cigar in one hand, and a scotch in the other, you think, to him, it might be.

It's a dismissal. A nice chat, have a lovely day, ta. He's your Captain, a man who shares each success with everyone, but bears the weight of each failure on his own. This debacle only reinforced the notion that you can't keep operating in the strict lines given to you, but there is very little you can do to stop it.

Fuckin' politics, you think. And then—

Cacoethes.

"I mix a mean vodka cranberry," the offer is out before you can swallow it down. "I mean—it isn't scotch, but—"

He pauses by the door, hand in stasis over the handle. The silence is stifling.

"Sorry," you murmur, chastised. Embarrassed. "I didn't—I hope I didn't cross a line."

He turns his head, brows drawn together.

(You wonder if he, too, thinks of the cabin. Of the bottled water shared between you, the heavy breath that settled in the middle of the negligible space that separated you, turned toward each other to protect your vulnerable pieces from the frigid cold.)

Then, a flash of teeth. His moustache wobbles. "Sure," he murmurs. "If you can make it taste like it isn't vodka, I'll go for one. Not much of a pint, but…"

"Should have taught me how to smoke in Iceland," you say, reaching for the proffered cigar in his hands. Your eyes slide over the burns, the pock marks in his flesh that could not be self-inflicted, but you turn from them; your gaze, instead, fixed on him. "Might have kept us warm."

A rasping chuckle falls from his lips. He has a smear of ash in the corner. A dollop of oil on his beard by the seam of his mouth. "Iceland," he repeats the word, and it sounds like an old friend, filled with a touch of fondness you can't quite capture when you think back on the time spent there.

(A panic attack in the shower stall, head full of vodka and cranberries— definitely not a pint, he rasped, but still took another swallow; your eyes were fixed on the bob of his Adam's apple—and him. Run. Run. Don't look back—

Alright? His eyes are on you. On Gaz. Laswell. He makes his rounds between everyone, silently checking in. It warms you, and makes you think of the taste you caught on the rim of the water bottle. Hickory. Smoked sandalwood. Scotch. Your nose pressed tight to his chest. The heavy weight of his arm around you. Gotta get up, lo—

Love. You wonder if that's what he was going to say before he cleared his throat, and looked away from you.

A lie. Yes.

He calls it. Yeah?

No. Never. The way the amber light from the early morning sun caught the lazuli in his eyes made your heart shatter, and ever since he pulled you from the wreck years ago, you haven't stopped thinking of what it would feel like to burn your lips on his cigar, and numb the sting with the scotch on his tongue.

A tight smile. Distant. Hidden. Always, Cap.

He relents.

You wished he pushed. Gave you a reason to spill your vodka-filled guts on the tarmac to rid yourself of this rut you'd fallen into. An endless stasis of does he, he can't, could he, he might, don't get your hopes up—

His hand is between your shoulder blades. A soft smile in your direction.

—too late.)

"Ah, Reykjavik," it's a slow burn when he speaks, heavy with smoke. Voice thick, full of static. His eyes catch yours. Price leans in close, as if he's sharing a secret; something confidential and meant only for you. The heady scent of hickory fills your nose. You roll the scotch in your glass, but taste vodka on your tongue. "Might have, but then we would've had to keep it lit while running away from the terrorists in the snow."

"I've seen you keep one lit in a hurricane, sir."

There is something coarse in the way he huffs; a gravel-filled husk of droll mirth that rumbles from his chest. His knuckles brush yours when he passes the cigar over. "Only time I ever lost one was when our heli went down in Mexico. Simon got an earful that day."

"Amazing."

The cigar is less intense when you let it fill just your mouth until the smoke is stagnant between your teeth. It's—sweet. Robust.

"You sound very impressed," he husks again, words pitched low. "But I'll have you know it was my last good one. Quite a shame."

Fingers touch again. You wonder if it's on purpose. If he, like you, can't get enough of the warmth on your skin. If it makes him think of the chill—

"It sounds like one. I don't know how you finished the mission at all, sir."

"I had a spare." He smiles, but it's taut around the edges. Then: "none of that—," he stops, clears his throat again. Lower, barely a whisper, he adds: "none of that sir stuff here. Just call me—"

"Cap?" You breathe, heart thudding in your chest. The scotch. The cigar. Maybe, it was packed with weed. A little nicotine. Something that might make your heart race, your palms sweat. Your stomach burn.

"John."

Your heart pounds, but it's off-rhythm. An irregular beat. The pattern is wrong, the crescendo stutters. It's not—

"John," his name is caught in your throat; a corrugated wobble of a breath barely recognisable as a word, but he finds it, anyway. His eyes lift, catching yours. It's heavy. Oppressive. You think of his arm on your waist, his breath in your ear—

Another tight smile. His eyes are liquid sapphires. "Yeah, love."

Love. Love. Twice, now, he slipped and uttered it.

(Lo—

Thrice, then, if you count Iceland.)

"John—," you need to stop. To put distance between yourself and this man who is wholly off-limits before the wet tip of the cigar, once clipped between those full lips, will become a crutch. Addicting.

You don't know where it starts.

The cigar in your mouth makes him groan low in his throat. Your eyes drop when he shudders. His hand on your thigh. Voice in your ear.

"Gotta stop this, love."

The first thought: he knows.

The second: he knows.

There is a chasm between them. In that paradoxical degree of separation lingers a firm, judicious no. It is resolute. Ironclad.

But the sheath is made of latex. Your hands feel the sting of the rubber bands when your fingers pluck at the bonds holding it all back.

"And if I don't want to?" Your lashes fan your cheeks, eyes peering up at him through the wisps cresting over your pupils. Tongue peaks out. A tease. "John? "

His pupils dilate in response, blown wide until pits of coal eclipse the sapphire; a black hole lined with a thin halo of blue. The hairs on his upper lip flutter when he heaves out a breath through his nose.

John's smile is tight. A fleeting thing that flickers across his face before disappearing into a hard frown. "You don't know what you're getting into, love—;" he stops himself, clears his throat. Your name falls from his lips, saturated in smoke.

You meet him. One step back, one step forward. A dance until those blues fix themselves solely on you.

Maybe, it's the scotch. You've always been more brazen with amber than clear.

His Adam's apple bounces when your hand drops, covering his. Your fingers stroke the powerful hands that hold your flesh firm between scarred fingers; nimble and dexterous despite the thickness of them.

"Then show me."

His groan tastes of tobacco and ash.

It should be awkward, and uncomfortable, but it isn't.

Price's hand curls over your waist, tucking you to his side as you lean against him, hip bumping into his thigh, hand settled on the warmth of his back.

You wonder if everyone around you can tell that you're going home with this man, your boss, and he's going to fuck you when you get there. It feels sacrilegious. Wrong.

But not even the spume of trepidation that wells inside of your gut is enough to stop you from getting this. Him.

You want it. Need it.

Your hand slips over his chest on the corner of the street. His eyes flash, caught in the light from the veranda.

Does he feel it, too, you wonder? All those moments that lead up to this? Soft words over the comm. Late nights spent pouring over coordinates and maps, reaching for something at the same time. Hands brushing. Eyes meeting over the median. Smiles shared. A world in the dead of night when everyone else had long gone to bed. You should have, too. You didn't. You stayed up as long as you could, soaking up his company.

Mornings met by the coffee maker.

No tea, it seems.

They have tea, sir.

Not the good kind.

You're just picky.

Look at this—it almost makes you ashamed to be British.

Only that?

He's untouchable—well: should be, rather; but Price is anything but. He's a constant amid many raging storms, a rock in times when the world feels like it's spiralling down toward some cataclysmic abyss and your fingers aren't quick enough to reach out and catch it.

But he is.

Always.

Your failsafe. Your security net. The only man on the planet who will rage against insurgents and terrorists, and politicians and red tape in equal measure for his team. He'll risk his neck, offer his jugular, if it means you can finish the mission.

Gaz in your head. He said something to me once… stuck to me, y'know? We get dirty, and the world stays clean.

It bludgeoned into you then just like it does now. It's the perfect iteration of exactly who Price is. He's not a hero. He doesn't pretend to be one. But if him gunning down a man on the fringes of society means that innocent people in the cities get to sleep at night without even knowing what he, and his men, sacrificed, he's content. He never asks for anything except the freedom to keep peace—however it comes about: in a hail of bullets, a fist against a man's jaw until he spits out blood and teeth and the truth, or in cuddling together on the verge of hypothermia so people in a country he has no connection to can continue to live without fear.

John is—

Well. It was inevitable, wasn't it?

They can't forge a man like him into existence, and expect you not to feel overwhelmed in his presence.

This feels inevitable.

And sure—human resources and internal affairs might have opinions about that, but it's been brewing since he pulled you from a burning wreck on the motorway (a small travesty in what could have been calamitous had you not decided to trust the SAS with an impeccable moustache, and your gut, and broke every rule in the book), and then looked you in your soot-covered face, and asked: have you considered a transfer?

Your drug enforcement days slipped into the past when he offered you a spot on his team.

And now—

Your lip is raw from the cigar burn, but the taste of scotch on your tongue soothes the ache. His hand is heavy on your waist, flesh hot to the touch like he is burning up in a fever.

A woman wanders past, the same one you saw earlier with a baby swaddled in blue, but—

Price only has eyes for you.

"C'mon, love," he husks in your ear, his breath heavy with smoke and scotch, and sending shivers racing down your spine. "Wanna come back with me?"

And you—

("I'll follow you—")

"Anywhere, John."

His hands are reverent when they brush across your skin. The heavy weight of his palms pressing against the back of your thighs makes you tremble. His rough skin feels good as it grazes yours, touch softer, more gentle than you thought he'd be.

It's a strange contrast—you'd come to expect gruffness with your Captain. His voice, his words, his practices all carry the same abrasive lilt to you, and you assumed that he'd fuck you the same way. Rough hands, brutal commands barked out.

It's none of that. It's—

His eyes peer down at you, spread out below him, and he carries the same tenderness in his eyes as when he stared at the women from before. Families. It settles inside of you. This unexpected way he handles you so gingerly makes your heart pound, and makes your core knot.

He looks at you as if you're the best thing that has ever happened to him.

And you can't be. It's impossible, isn't it? This man who'd lived many lives before you even knew how to shoot a gun, or tie your shoelaces, should not be looking at you as if you'd offered him salvation.

But he is.

You press the back of your forearm to your crown, arching your back for him. His eyes are drawn to your body, to the way you open up for him, and the darkening of his eyes makes you pant.

Your hand reaches up to his chest, palm pressed against the thick bed of unruly auburn hair that covers his pulse, and the feel of his thick body over you makes your cunt throb with need. You want him. You want him so badly that it hurts.

"This what you want, love?" He husks in your ear, beard tickling your skin. "Want me to fuck you, yeah?"

It had sprung up when you first tumbled into the room. The dance is familiar—the steps ingrained in your head, now muscle memory—but he isn't just any partner. You stood before him, unsure for the first time since you caught that aching sense of wishfulness in his eyes and knew that you wanted whatever permeated in those cerulean depths to look at you, and hold you in the same regard.

Now—

Your body is fever-hot, and he stands by the minibar, offering you scotch.

"I want you—," the words tumble out, a breathless lull in the otherwise silent room, broken only by the glass nozzle clanking against the side of the cup he set out. You've shocked him. You swallow thickly when he turns, brows lifting.

"I want you." You repeat, firmer this time.

"Are you—"

You skip the introductory waltz and immediately jump into a tango when you breathe: I want you inside me, John.

You know he aches for it. You can feel him twitching inside of you; deep and full. The head of his cock nudges against something soft in your cunt that makes you spasm around him, whimpering.

"Yes, sir…" you pant, heavy and breathless. The way you address him makes him grunt, makes his hips cant into you, the movement tinged in desperation. "Fill me up."

Price groans, rolling his hips into you. Each thrust knocks the air from your lungs until only the cloying smoke from his cigar resides inside. You're dizzy, dazed. He fucks you like he's worshipping you—each time he moves inside of you, he aims for that gummy place that has your nails digging into his sides, legs locking around his waist, caught on the bend of his thighs, as he rides you through it.

He tastes of smoke. Loam. Sandalwood. Butterscotch. "Please," you murmur, tongue laving over the indents of your teeth in his skin. You wish it was permanent. "It's your own fault, Captain."

"Yeah?" He grinds his cock inside of you until your eyes roll back, mouth dropping open as white-hot pleasure spools in your core. "Sounds like you need some discipline then, soldier."

Fuck —

He does it again, thrusting into you this time until he's seated in deep. You whine at the bliss flooding your core.

His hand lifts from your thigh, and you blink your eyes open, watching as his tongue sweeps across the pad. His eyes are wicked in the soft light spilling from street lights outside; bluer than the wide, open ocean.

You shiver when they drop to your cunt, spread out for him and stretched taut over his twitching cock. A frisson passes; waves crashing against the shores, frothing white.

His hand drops, thumb pressing against your clit. "Gonna cum for me?" He murmurs, a sonorous knot in the quiet room. You hear the roar of the ocean in the distance. Humid breeze flutters through the open balcony.

Anyone can hear you. Can hear how badly you want your Captain to fill your cunt, to make you see stars, and swaddles of blue—

You keen low in your throat when his thumb rubs tight circles over your throbbing clit, cock knocking against the gummy walls of your cunt. His head brushes your womb, presses there tight for a moment until your back arches in that deep-seated ache, that quiver of pleasure-pain that lacerates through your core.

"Fuck, fuck—," you whimper, needy and breathless, hips working in time with the insistent press of his thumb, working you in small, shallow circles. "Cap— Captain, please—"

"Fuck, love—," he throaty words a bitten, jagged plea that sticks, thick and molten, between his molars. You can feel him twitch within you. Feel the way he batters into that spongey nook inside of you that has the Aurora Borealis flashing behind your lids. "You're a cheeky little thing, aren't you?" He pants, bending down to press his teeth over your raw neck, already bitten and bruised, chafed by the coarse hair of his beard.

His groan rolls out of him; dredged up from deep within his chest. The rumble of pleasure, the sloppy way his hips snap into you, now, all practise and control dissociating with his desperation to get you to cum on his cock so he can fill your pussy up with cum, deep enough that it floods your womb—

"Cum for me—!" He snaps, the words chewed out and broken, punctuated by a deep grind of his cock. "Need to feel your pussy cumming on my cock, love; you want it, don't you? If you be a good girl and cum for me, I'll fill your pussy up—"

Your toes curl at the wrecked, raw tone of his voice, breaking over the end. He wants it. You feel him throb within you at just the thought.

"Yeah," you whine, that spooling coil in your belly pulling tighter and tighter with each brutal thrust, each nudge of his cock as it bludgeons inside of you. "Want you cum inside my pussy, John—"

His head tips, forehead dropping to rest on yours as his eyes roll back, fluttering with the sultry plea that drips from your cigar-singed lips.

You taste smoke when his thumb presses against you, the other sliding over your body until he has a palmful of your breast in his grasp. Each roll of his hips makes you see white; tendrils and wisps of smog fill your eyes until all you can see is a hazy blue through the curtain of snow. Fog on your breath. His words in your ear.

It pinches taut when he turns his head, beard scraping your skin, and presses his lips to your temple. Slurred words that taste of tobacco. "Need to feel you cum on my cock, love —"

Liquid bliss spumes deep when you cum—a deluge of euphoria richer than scotch, and more addictive than nicotine.

His name is a choked sob into the thick blanket of desire that weighs down on you.

He drops, his torso flat against your chest as he slots his mouth over you, tongue delving deep as he ruts into your pulsing cunt, fluttering like a heartbeat as you cum around his cock. He groans into the messy kiss—hickory and smoke and the bitter tang of scotch—and you feel him jerk within you before he pushes in as far as he can. He doesn't stop until your cunt swallows him to the base, where he sits taut against the seal of your cervix. And then you feel it. You feel him throb deep inside of you, stuffed full of his cock, and a molten spume spills out when he cums.

He's cumming inside of you, filling your pussy up—

Your cunt clenches, a soft flutter against him at the thought of it, the feeling.

His head lifts, then, and you can see the draw of his brows, the clench of his jaw, the grunts that slip out, deep and punctured, from between the grit of his teeth, and you think you could get addicted to the sight of him in bliss.

Your hands slide over the slick bulk of his back, nails raking softly over the skin as he shudders against you, heaving from exertion.

"Christ," he rasps in your ear, whiskey-timbered and heady with malt. "You're gonna make me lose my goddamn mind, love."

You tip your head back, grinning. "What is it you like to say, Cap?" You purr, fingers dancing over the indent of your teeth. "We're all a bit crazy."

You lay with your head tucked on his shoulder. His arm is bent at the elbow with his palm under his head; your hand rests on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart under your skin.

It's—

Cosy. A little moment where you feel liquid and blissful, eyes lidding as you peer at his naked chest—flushed roseate, peppered with auburn that that runs all the way down to the indent of his groin—and map the dusting of rust-coloured freckles that peak through the wisps of coarse hair. It's domestic. Basking in the acrid afterglow of your illicit coupling.

Your index presses into a thick patch of hair just below his pectoral, catching the curls on the tip until they wrap around your finger. He rumbles deep in his chest, and pulls the lit cigar up to his mouth, biting it between his teeth, before dropping his hand down on yours.

Cerulean peaks through a thick breath of ashen smoke. You feel shy, suddenly. Demure. Maybe, it's the scent of sex and tobacco thick in the air, the taste of spice and scotch on your tongue, or the way his cum stains your inner thighs, leaking out of you, and drenching the sheets below. Proof, then, that you fucked your Captain.

Most people start at the bottom of the totem and work up. It was a running joke amongst your class when the physical demands of the role became too much, and the drills got harder, and harder the more you sloughed through the ropes.

All the way to the top. The easy way. On your knees, soldier, you'd pass between each other in covert secrecy, eyes fatigued but grinning wide. How easy it would be, comparatively, to just lay back and let your drill sergeant have his fill. It was all chatter. Jokes. None of it was real, and if anyone of you ever had the notion to act on it—

That has never been your goal. Sergeant, Lieutenant, Captain—none of it meant anything to you until a hand appeared out of dense, black smoke, a gruff: c'mon, now, I got you following. It still doesn't. Not really. Does he know that, though? That you'd followed along dutifully behind him, not over some sense of grandeur or hero-complex, but because you admired the shape of him, the grit.

John's hand slides over yours, fingers tangling between the brackets of your own until you're locked together, palm pressed against palm.

There are years worth of things you want to say, but they dissolve in the malt still saturating your tongue.

Price's hand is rough. Scarred and weathered; aged and worn.

Your hands don't quite fit together. His brackets are too wide for your slender digits to rest without being swallowed whole by him. His fingers are the exact opposite: too wide, too thick. The seam between your knuckles aches when he slides his into the gaps. Like everything about him, this, too, is stretched taut.

Still. Still—

His hand folds over yours, devouring your palm, and suddenly all your listing axes are righted, centred. The ground you walk on is firm, solid.

It's always like that with him, you find.

His warmth bleeds into your palm.

Price shifts. His hand slips from behind his head to take hold of the cigar in his mouth. The knob of his wrist rests on your shoulder, cigar dangling between his fingers.

You wonder if this is the moment when we shouldn't have, we can't come in.

He clears his throat, always a low rasp as if he'd just gotten done screaming. Hoarse and rough. You don't think you can go back to before when you didn't know what your name sounded like falling from his lips when he cums—

"You don't know what you do to me, love."

Don't hope—

"And what is that?" You peer up at him through the wisps of auburn.

His eyes make your pulse race. A lagoon in the middle of the Arctic. A deep, endless pool of blue.

Price offers you the cigar, and bends down to press his sweaty forehead against your temple when you lean up and take it.

Scotch. Hickory. Smoke.

A motorway in Dorset. Your superiors snapping at you to leave it alone. You followed him then, and when he mumbles in your ear, words drenched in malt and petrol, you know you'll follow him even now.

"You make me want things, love. Things I shouldn't."

You catch his clear blues in yours. The cigar burns when you press it to your bottom lip, catching the taste of him on the end.

"You have no one to blame but yourself," you whisper, squeezing his too-big hand in yours. "I learned from the best, you know."

"Cheeky—"

—he takes you back to Iceland when your allotted off-time mysteriously syncs together: a fumbling romantic at heart. he has no idea what he's doing. wooing, courtship, and long-lasting were never words in his vocabulary, but he tries.

—on his phone, you catch a glimpse of what he was looking at so intently on the plane: romantic places in Iceland: romance for idiots

—it doesn't surprise you, then, when you find the article yourself that he sticks to each individual one like it's a personal mission. flowers. chocolates. "don't know what's so special about these bloody things. do you really like them?"

—it surprises you, even more, when you press your lips to cheek, murmuring, "i like you more," and see the flash of roseate flooding his cheeks.

—Gaz is firmly on team "i don't want to know" but too bad for him, he's the only one you can really tell.

"please tell me he doesn't wear The Hat... y'know...," his face looks a little ashen when he says it. You smile. "...Please. No, you can't—hey! You can't just walk away—!"

#john price #john price x reader #john price x you #captain john price #captain john price x reader #cod mw2 #cod #cod mw #cod mw2 fic #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #he's daddy asf #captain john price x you #cod price #captain price #captain price x reader #captain price x you

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margokesses · 5 months

Text

Cannot stop thinking about thresh and reaper in the hunger games movie. Two black boys who are shown to really strong and could easily take out the other tributes. And how they're precieved as violent because of it.

But when they enter the arena they're seen as the exact opposite. The only death that we see thresh take on screen is clove bc she kept bragging about rue's death. Which we can tell hurt him bc if you look at scenes before the games he seems to be protective of her. And he could have easily killed katniss but he spares her life because katniss humanized rue.

And with reaper. We're told that he killed a peacekeeper in his district and he threatens snow but in the arena its shown that the only thing he cares about is protecting dill. He even defends her from attackers in the beginning and tells her to stick by his side.

And I cannot stop thinking about rue's death. And how although it is violent (a spear through her body) it's not shown in a grotesque way (I don't think we even see blood when she pulls it out). And with dill it's a similar situation. A girl with tuberculosis who drinks water that she doesn't know is filled with rat poison. And when she drinks it she doesn't convulse or do anything dramatic she just lays down and dies.

And I can't stop thinking about how those deaths are instantly humanized. Katniss and reaper both scream in anger when they find out about it. They cry about it. And then they instantly mourn her. Katniss stays with rue until the end and sings with her until she passes and then gathers flowers to give her a proper burial. And it's the same with dill. Reaper grabs her body (and the other tributes and removes their weapons) and he covers them with the flag of the capitol. To show that they're the cause of tributes deaths.

And then katniss and reaper bodly faces the camera and expresses disdain for what's going on. Katniss raises the 3 finger salute and reaper screams "are you gonna punish me now??"

And I cannot stop thinking about how when thresh dies you don't see any of it you just hear screams. And when marcus is in the arena he is tied up and beaten and shown as an example bc he ran away and he could have easily died a violent death from the other tributes. But he is given a mercy killing by another tribute. And when Jessup dies. It's because he has rabies from protecting Lucy gray from the bats on the train. But he also dies in a non violent way bc he was given water to scare him away and he just ends up accidently falling. And how when reaper dies its him being engulfed in snakes because he finally accepted his fate.

And idk this probably doesn't make sense bc it's currently 4am in the morning but as a Black fan I am glad that in a world where my people are constantly dehumanized and our graphic deaths are released in video format for the world to see and be desentized too....

It's nice to not see anything violent and dehumanizing about us in a series about kids dying to the death. Like everyone knows that the black kids are gonna die but they could have done something really violent with them and it's nice to not see that happen.

#the hunger games #tbosas #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #reaper ash #thresh #rue #jessup diggs #marcus #dill #hush ke #my only critique is the colorism in rue and dill casting but that's a topic for another time

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mphountitled · 7 months

Text

𝙎𝙩𝙪𝙙𝙮 𝙂𝙖𝙢𝙚𝙨

Jung Woo-Young x fem!reader

Being forced by his label to learn English fucking sucks but his tutor makes it just a little more bearable

Warnings: Wooyoung as his own warning, Language, Fluff, Mutual Pining, Idol x English!Teacher, Sapiosexual!Wooyoung, Slight!Jealousy, Academia Talk, Humor, Teasing, Smut (+18), heavy make out sesh, Slight Pervy!Wooyoung, Whimpering!Wooyoung, Dirty Talk, Degradation Kink, Praise Kink, Dry Humping, Grinding, Brattiness, Self Degradation, Neediness, Slight Dub/CON, Dom/Sub undertones

Ft. Wooyoung and his canonical degradation kink

"What you need to understand is that Shakespeare used a significant amount of his time cautioning his audience against the perils of this mortal coil." Despite your vexation warming the pits of your stomach, you're thankful that your voice does not relay how utterly irritated you actually are. Your back is straight, giving nothing away of your exhaustion as you point to your copy of a Literature textbook.

"So, maybe I should've initially explained that the biggest theme of this sonnet is grief," you explain, drearily, letting your fingers knot into your curls as you soldier on through the text.

You could almost hear your coworkers discrediting you right now. How could one manage to hit the holy grail in getting chosen to tutor a bunch of stars and utterly fail at it in the process? Your PhD is mourning her sorrows.

"That is bad tutoring on my part, I apologise, Mr Jung, Sir," it is virtually impossible to bend into a full on bow in your current position on the chair adjacent to his bed so you settle for a quick nod of the head while skilfully avoiding eye contact.

"That's okay," Wooyoung lazily waves a hand in front of his face, "I just nearly threw up from hearing you call me 'Mr Jung'. Girl, I cried during Frozen 1 and 2... I am not the one you should be calling Mr Jung."

His ears visibly perk up just a little higher at the sound of your unprofessional, slightly airy chuckle. It has him practically scrounging for the need to hear you laugh like that again, to see your head be thrown back in a careless guffaw that only he is able to see.

But the moment ends as quickly as it began and you're visibly punishing yourself for your unprofessionalism by assuming your stoic academic role demeanour more.

"I think Mr Jung might be a little bit more professional." You finally look up at the boy sitting lazily against the headboard of his impressive king sized bed. Out of all the members you taught, you had only ever been permitted to see the inside of Wooyoung's bedroom - under the guise that he simply cannot function by being forced to sit on uncomfortable dining room chairs.

You sit opposite the bed, on a chair, to maintain some semblance of your dwindling professionalism,

"Mr Jung is so boring though!" He exclaims, throwing his head backwards and letting it sink into his mountain of fluffy pillows, "Wooyoung is completely fine! Or perhaps Baby. Or even Sexiest Man You've Ever Had The Pleasure Of Seeing," his lips curl into a smirk, "Your choice."

The text book is long forgotten amongst the dispersed sheets as Wooyoung glances up at you from his perch against his pillows. Of all the members, Wooyoung is also especially difficult to work with, not in any academic capacity, just in the sense that his advances are endless. And whether he actually means it - whether that twinkle in his eye accompanied by that cheeky grin was really real, or just endless teasing due to his innate flirtatious design. You might never really know.

"I can't in good conscious refer to you by that last option." You reply with a light shrug before crossing your legs in front of you, "I've met Choi San, and I'm not in the business of lying to you,"

"Oh! That's how we're gonna play now!? You're just gonna bring up another man in my presence? I thought the relationship we had was something special?"

"I'm an underpaid, mediocre teacher," You forget yourself and snort through a chuckle, "I have no time to forge special relationships."

He is stunned and slightly turned on by your cool commitment to the banter, not expecting you to hit back with such a quick jest.

As Wooyoung watches you from behind the few loose strands framing his face, his long hair loose, he realises he enjoys associating you with that forbidden word, even if it is just in his head.

Relationship.

"I'm not really into that negative self-talk." He says, watching you intently, "You're a good teacher."

"You're just saying that," You swat at the air in front of you, before burying your chin into your chest - that shy streak of yours rearing its head. He noticed that every sliver of a compliment led you to the involuntary need to disappear and Wooyoung wanted to correct that as best as he could.

"I say some stuff sometimes to make people feel better, yes," you finally look up at him from your scattered notes. His eyes are characteristically bright and his glistening lips are pulled into a small smile, "But this is not one of those times," He forces out, fighting against a familiar warmth pooling in the depths of his stomach.

"Right," you clear your throat, before assuming the role of tutor once again, "So… Sonnet 71 -"

In your periphery, Wooyoung raises his hand. Without looking up from your notes you reply, 'I know what you're gonna ask, Wooyoung but no, unfortunately you cannot refer to it as 'Sonnet 71'. Not many people care nowadays but the ones that do, want you to refer to the poem by its full title: 'No Longer Mourn For Me When I Am Dead.'" there's a bravado that graces your tone as you settle into your tutelage. It allows you to assume an almost elevated role as your eyes scan the text while simultaneously stringing a web of tantalising words together.

Wooyoung tries to focus on exactly what it is you're actually saying, he really does, but soon, you're stifling a quiet yawn before stretching your left arm over your head. He does not believe you intended for your breasts to push up from the low dip of your v neck, but that's exactly what happens and that pool of lava that has been welling in his stomach slowly rushes to his cock. Needless to say, Wooyoung slyly grabs the textbook onto his lap.

"So Shakespeare's great caution is that of grief. It's okay to mourn your loved ones but not to mourn them in routine, because that then can become a second death, equally as detrimental. Are you listening, Wooyoung?" his head snaps up from your chest, to the sound of the light scolding in your voice and he can instantly conclude that he is hard. He's not sure why, but your tone has his resolve weakening, and his head spiralling further into a fog.

"Please tell me, you're listening, Wooyoung. This is very important," He nods slowly with his shoulders hunched, and his eyebrows curved into crescents. He did not trust himself to speak, not when your words had him imagining you scolding him petulantly while he plowed into you from behind. Screaming at him to stop being so bad while he forced his hard cock deeper and deeper. He can vividly imagine your tight walls gripping his cock like a fucking vice while his fingers squeezed your nipples until they ached.

"Look, Wooyoung, I've been trying to be nice but it's been 3 hours and we're still on the first sonnet," he stopped his head from nodding profusely at the degradation that wants to seep into your tone while he watches you with darkened eyes. His fingers curl slowly into the ends of the open book on his lap, as he pushes his textbook into his lap. "We've done this long enough, Wooyoung," you continue with your ample chest beginning to rise and fall and the first signs of your bra strap, peeling from underneath your top. "You should know this, Wooyoung"

"Fuck," He involuntary groans, while he moves his textbook slightly, enough to create friction but not nearly enough to achieve the friction he actually desires. Before he gets completely ahead of himself, he stills his movements, opting to distract himself by speaking, instead.

"O-okay but if this is a poem about grief, why the hell am I seeing him talk about summer."

"Summer?"

Wooyoung nods, humming. "This man is talking about summer," he says, pointing to the book on his lap.

"Wooyoung…" You instinctively get up from your perch on your chair, advancing on him. Wooyoung visibly swallows as you plop yourself next to him, shoulder to shoulder as you peer over into the book on his lap. While your eyes frantically scan the printed ink, Wooyoung watches you from the side, trying to pen your face to memory, especially from having you so close.

"Wooyoung, this isn't the right poem!"

He watches you with slightly hooded eyes, completely unaware to anything outside of the tone of your voice

"It isn't?" He shakes his head, agreeing instantly with your scolding but not really hearing what you're saying. His words are slurred and his tone is distracted.

"Oh my gosh- you've completely missed the entire poem."

"I have?"

"Jesus, you haven't been listening to me, have you-"

He's already shaking his head as he leans in, muttering a quiet, "I haven't," as the tips of his fingers find the underside of your chin and drags you towards him. Dazed.

You're utterly dazed as soon as your lips connect with his. Somehow, the entire concept of space and time and everything in between seems utterly useless, the words on the page seem frivolous and everything outside of this moment feels like it shouldn't have the right to exist. He is kissing you and soon you are kissing him back, filling the boy with an unprecedented sense of elation at having his attraction to you validated. He is so elated in fact, he pushes off his text book and, without breaking the kiss, manoeuvres you onto his lap instead.

You're gasping into his mouth as soon as you feel his bulge connect with your core, "I know, I know, I'm sorry," He murmurs drunkenly into your kiss, taking the time to push his tongue into your mouth and brush up desperately against yours. The tone of his voice steals all composure, and soon you're pushing against him, rushed and hurried, like a raging fire before the embers set. You and Wooyoung are absolutely unstoppable as his hands travel up and down the sides of your body, hungrily searching for any sliver of skin, needing to feel your body heat searing into him.

The very moment your hands slither into his thick, grown-out hair, he is utterly done for, bucking into your hips until his bulge was brushing hungrily against your core. A torrid moan espaces your throat when Wooyoung dips into the crook of your neck, nuzzling into the softness of your skin and the comfort of your perfume while hands travel down your hips, urging you to move in tandem with him.

"So good," He mumbles against your skin, "You feel so good, baby." But your mind is flooded with a tempest of conflicting feelings and emotions as you pull lightly on his strands and follow along with his movements.

"Wooyoung…" you're panting breathlessly, suddenly painfully aware of how much your body responded to him.

"God, I love it when you say my name," He slurs as he continues to push up into you, finally settling into a needy but effective flow of movements.

Your panties are utterly soaked underneath your silk maxi skirt as the boy below you splays wet, lascivious kisses along your collar bones. Once he sees you're moving in tandem with how he needs you to, he releases one hand on your hip to paw desperately at your breasts.

"You've been-" your head is spinning as you try to formulate your sentence, "You've been sitting here with a hard on, my entire lesson?" Your words only spur his movements as Wooyoung clamps down around your torso, pushing you further down against his cock. "Fuck!" He screeches almost involuntarily at the delicious friction created by the heightened speed.

"So bad…" He murmurs drunkenly, as he begins to push up against your clit in a dangerous display of desperation, "I.. b-been so bad- m'sorry," Your head is thrown back into a moan stuck deep in your throat as you listen to the boy's needy whines, "m'so sorry, you're just so pretty," your hops move faster against his, not quite sure if this is a dream and too freaking terrified to find out as you hunt down the remnants of your oncoming orgasm.

"Wooyoung- you're gonna m-make me-"

Your hips are utterly restless against his, as you begin to grind down with immense passion. Wooyoung's head is spinning with the inevitability of making you cum. All he wants to do is make you happy. Think of how proud you'd be if he made you cum without even touching you really. You'd be so freaking happy you might just let him slide his cock inside your wet, slippery folds...

"O-Oh God, fuck- I'm cumming!" His hips rut erratically against yours, pushing agaisnt your clit until you're sent hurtling into your own orgasm. You're both moaning, whimpering messes as you grind against each other, Wooyoung clutching against your torso, with his head buried in your chest as your fingers pull mindlessly at his hair. He is in utter heaven, surrounded by the softness of your curves, with his head against the roundness of your chest. There is nothing better than this. Everything else is secondary.

"Fuck, I hate Shakespeare's but I'll read a 1000 of his poems if it means I get to do that again," he is the first to speak amongst your ragged, loud breathing.

"Wooyoung?"

"Hm?"

"Shakespeare only wrote 154 poems,"

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