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sorchathered · 2 months

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Sacred New Beginnings

Chapter 5

A/N- this is NOT a finale guys! After much deliberation I decided I have too much to say for only 3 chapters, so we are on this train until I’m ready to give it up! 😂

Summary- it’s the morning after Mav and Penny’s wedding, and there are revelations to unpack as new drama unfolds.

Song inspo- Sunday kind of love- Etta James, You send me- Sam Cooke, Ironic- Alanis Morissette, Karma- Taylor Swift

Pairing- Jake Seresin x reader (oc Stormy)

Warnings- language, drinking, smut (wrap it up kids) minors dni.

Bradley wakes up to one of the worst hangovers he’s had in his adult life. He made it home and proceeded to drain most of his liquor cabinet after the wedding, it had been a bad day all around and seeing you and Jake wrapped up in each others arms after years of worrying was the icing on the cake. He knew logically he had no room to be pissed off, you knew everything now and there would be no salvaging your love life. He had hoped to explain it himself, maybe find a way to convince you it was nothing but in reality he knew that wasn’t the case. He’d continued a relationship with Mirage after you left, whether or not it was just sex didn’t really matter, he’d slept with someone else. His therapist had told him weeks ago that he believed Bradley was in love with the idea of love and having a family, less in the people he was in relationships with and while it had hurt to hear he knew somewhere in him it was true.

He’d loved the attention and adoration from his partners, and some part of him had loved Stormy once; but the two of you disagreed fundamentally on so many things. You were career driven, he wanted you to retire in the next 5 years so you could start a family, he wanted to stay in California and you had always dreamed of settling down south near your grandmother’s old home. When he’d seen you becoming more successful than him it had set a fire in him and he used it to burn your relationship to the ground. He didn’t deserve you, and he certainly didn’t get to dictate who you chose to be with after him.

As he stumbled through the house to let out his dog he appraised the damage. His clothes were scattered everywhere, liquor cabinet raided and somehow he’d left the fridge open. He was a mess right now, if his mother could see him she’d be so disappointed. He finally finds his phone in the couch cushions, messages and missed calls from Nat and Rueben clogging his notifications. He couldn’t dig into all of that right now, so he just called Nat to let him know he was ok, yanking the phone from his ear as she screamed into the phone.

“WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN?!”

“Jesus dude I was asleep what the hell is wrong? You have a key you could’ve just come over if it’s that serious, who died?”

“Bradley. You haven’t been on instagram today have you?”

“No, but I already know about Jake and Stormy so if they went instagram official I’d rather not-“

“Wait what?! Never mind that’s not what this is about. You need to go to Mirage’s profile, right now.”

Bradley scrolls through the app and clicks on her profile, expecting to see she decided to stop waiting on him and find a boyfriend now or something stupid like that, only to be met with a carousel of photos. Pictures of the two of them, and at the end a picture of a pregnancy test, two pink lines confirming something he never dreamed of. Not only had she hard launched them, but she also told the world he was going to be a father…without confirming with him first. He was fucked.

——————————————————————

Meanwhile on the other side of North Island Jake is waking up to his version of heaven. His bed may be empty but he can hear the soft sound of you singing, and the smell of coffee and pancakes has him wandering down the hall. Your hair is in a messy knot, you’ve got one of his Texas longhorn t shirts on and you and Patsy Cline are crooning “Walking after midnight.” Flitting back and forth between chopping fruit and flipping pancakes, you sway to the song (your grandmother’s favorite) and he’s sure this is the best morning of his life. He sneaks up behind you to spin you and you shriek and giggle, swatting him with the spatula as he kisses your cheeks and forehead.

“Morning Tex, how’d you sleep?” You say with a big grin, running your free hand over his tanned torso and you catch him close his eyes and shiver into your touch.

“Mm, I’ll be honest darlin’ might have been the best night of sleep in my whole life, ‘cept I woke up alone and almost thought you were a dream.” He plucks the spatula from your hand and hip bumps you away from the stove, taking over your spot cooking and you make your way to the coffee pot to pour him a mug.

“I uh- I cancelled my flight for this afternoon” you’re trying to be nonchalant about it but you can tell by the way his head snaps up he is holding on to your every word.

“And I may have asked Uncle Beau for a favor and extended my leave for the rest of the week… I hope that’s ok, I’m not ready to leave you yet.”

You look a little nervous as he turns the stove off and looks at you, but he takes two big strides and yanks you into his arms, pulling at your (his) shirt and kissing you hard and you know you had nothing to worry about.

You both laugh into each other’s mouths, he’s hoisted you into his arms and delicately places you on the kitchen table, rucking your shirt above your breasts as he nips and sucks on the exposed skin.

“Jake- breakfast” you breathe out and he grins up at you between your thighs

“I want you for breakfast first baby, then we can have pancakes. Be a good girl and take it ok?”

He brings you to your release three times before he lets you up, grabbing the plates from the counter and sitting you in his lap. Between bites you reach into his shorts and pull him free lining yourself up with him and he hisses into your mouth.

“What’re you up to sweet thing?”

“Shhh, wanna be close baby, need you”

You take turns feeding each other while you slowly rock yourself on Jake, and it definitely is the best morning either of you have ever had.

——————————————————————

Neither of you had even touched your phones since you left the wedding the night before, it was nearing 5 pm and you had spent the day watching movies and letting Jake fuck you in every room of his house, finally deciding the two of you needed to eat you dragged yourself to his room to get your phone off the charger to order takeout. When you turned your phone on you were bombarded with notifications, nearly deciding to just turn it back off once you noticed you had a notification from Bradley. You ordered dinner and continued to ignore the overwhelming amount of messages, annoyance etched on your face when you came back to the living room, and Jake reached for your phone already knowing you wouldn’t want to pop the perfect bubble of the day.

“You don’t have to look at any of this shit today if you don’t want to y/n, we can worry about it tomorrow.”

You sighed and ran your hand over your face, it wasn’t that easy even if he tried to make it that way. “Will you just look for me? Tell Nat I’m not interested in hashing out the drama tonight and we can talk at lunch.”

He nodded and scrolled through, but as you watched his face you immediately knew something was wrong.

“Ok maybe you do need to tell me, what happened? Is someone hurt?”

He shook his head but looked almost nauseous, so you yanked the phone from his hands, he didn’t even bother to try and keep it from you.

On the screen was almost 30 messages from Phoenix, begging you not to check instagram. It had been hours since her last message but she seemed insistent that you call her first. She picked up on the first ring, screeching into the phone before you could say anything.

“Jesus! Where the fuck have you been Stormy? I had half a mind to come over to Hangman’s to beat the door down.”

“We decided to shut our phones off, sorry Tash. What is wrong? Please tell me everyone is ok.”

“Everyone’s safe, it’s not that kind of emergency. But it’s not good y/n. Bradley apparently saw the two of you last night, and then…”

“Then what? What Nat?”

“Y/n…Mirage is pregnant.”

——————————————————————

You knew it was the wrong way to respond, Jake had dropped his fork right out of his mouth at Nat’s declaration; that definitely seemed like more of a normal response. You on the other hand looked unhinged as doubled over in laughter, gasping for air as tears poured from your eyes.

“Seresin, what’s happening? Is- is she laughing?”

Jake looks at you like you have 3 heads but still manages to take your phone from your shaking form,

“Yeah Phoenix it looks like it”

“Do we need to be worried?”

“Too soon to tell, let me figure this shit out and we’ll call you later.”

He hangs up and takes your hand, you’re coming down from it now as you swipe the tears from your face, still trying to stifle giggles.

“Oh God,” you gasp out “I’m so sorry, but you seriously can’t make this shit up can you?” You erupt into another round of giggles and now Jake can’t help but join in, this really is a shitshow.

Finally you settle and he looks at you with concern, but you wave him off and move your take out boxes to the coffee table as you scoot into his lap. Running your hands through his hair you lean in to kiss him and as much as he doesn’t want to he pulls back to get you to look at him.

“I’ll let you bury yourself in me if you need baby but you still gotta talk to me ok? What’s going on in that pretty head?”

You shake your head at him and peck his lips, you knew he wouldn’t let you get away with pushing it aside.

“Is it strange that I almost feel bad for him? He’s burned his whole world down, knowing what I know now I would never want to be around him let alone with him again, and while I have thrived in his absence he just keeps ruining his life. I don’t miss him, but I pity him. Does that make sense?”

It’s definitely not the response he expected, he thought you’d be hurt and that it would rehash all the emotional damage you’d dealt with, he can’t help but be impressed.

“You’re taking this a whole lot better than I thought sugar, I gotta be honest.”

You pull him close as you straddle his hips, running your nose along his cheekbone and press kisses to his face.

“Like I told you, I don’t miss him. I don’t want him. I want you. This isn’t avoidance Jake, I moved on and I want to spend the rest of my life with you if that’s what you want too. So can we stop worrying about Rooster and his emotional bullshit and just go back to being us?”

He lets you take the lead, settling into the couch with you and switching the long forgotten movie back on, whatever his wingman’s problems are don’t include him after all. He’s got bigger things on his mind, like getting you back to San Diego or requesting a transfer to Pensacola. Maybe getting the two of you a bigger house with a yard, a dog or two and a backyard big enough to fill with your own kids. As he falls asleep trapped under your warm embrace visions of what could be dance behind his eyes, and he makes a mental note to ask his mother for Grandma Seresin’s engagement ring.

Jake Seresin Masterlist

Thanks so much to @sailor-aviator, @mamachasesmayhem, and @bobgasm for talking me through this chapter!!

Tagging- @mamamaystbr @mamachasesmayhem @bobgasm @attapullman @roosterforme @pinkdaisies9285 @djs8891 @jessicab1991 @the-aspiring-fanfic-writer @mygyn @angelbabyyy99 @86laura11 @shanimallina87 @floydsglasses @jostan456 @kmc1989 @dempy @its-the-pilot @mrsevans90 @purelyfiction @nouis-bum

Let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!

#top gun maverick #jake seresin #top gun maverick fanfiction #jake hangman seresin #jake hangman fic #jake hangman x you #jake hangman smut #jake hangman x reader #jake seresin x reader #jake seresin fanfiction #jake seresin smut #Jake and Stormy #sacred new beginnings #snb

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wing-ed-thing · 2 years

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And they were roommates... (Kabuto x Reader)

Synopsis:

Word Count: 626

Tags/Warnings: @kakashiswilloffire Sick!Reader, Medication, Nuggets Not Specified to be Meat, Language, Gender Neutral Reader

Notes: I’m sick...

You woke up with a start to the loud banging on your door. Kabuto never did have a subtle knock. As soon as you opened your eyes the congestion hit you in full force. You felt it plug up the back of your nose. You parted your lips to yell out to Kabuto— who had started to knock again— but a fit of coughing escaped you before your words could. A string of expletives poured from your mouth between wheezes.

“I’m sick!” you managed, voice raspy.

“No shit,” came Kabuto’s retort. You could practically hear his eyes roll through the partition. “You’ve been hacking up a lung all night.”

Your door swung open. Light flooded into the dismal darkness of your room. Kabuto stood in your doorway, one hand in the pocket of his jeans and the other adjusting the mask on his face. Fog covered the lenses of his glasses. Even in his casual clothes he looked as chic as usual while you, in comparison, couldn’t have felt less presentable.

You slouched over in your bed, surrounded by sheets that could’ve used a good wash. A random assortment of things sat with you: a mostly empty box of tissues, a full box of tissues, a few forgotten notebooks, and a bag of cough drops that you were sucking on like candy. You ran a hand through your messy hair. Kabuto had seen you at worse points. Hell, he had seen worse in general.

“Have you eaten food?” You shook your head and he muttered some snarky comment or another under his breath. “When’s the last time you took ibuprofen?”

You barely had time to answer before Kabuto was gone, leaving the door to your room wide open. You glared at the opening in disdain, the hall light beaming loudly at you. You picked up a slipper from beside your bed and threw it, and only then did the door creak closed just enough for you to be satisfied. Groping though your nest of blankets, you turned on your side and laid back down.

But the light invaded your room once more.

You turned to glance over your shoulder.

“Sit up.” Kabuto motioned with his head, holding a plate and a large glass of water. You groaned in complaint but upon seeing Kabuto’s quirked eyebrow, you reluctantly did as you were told. He sat at the edge of your bed, placing the plate on your lap and holding the glass out to you. Accenting your five dinosaur nuggets were two pills. “I want you to drink all of this, okay?”

“You got it, doc.” You rasped before breaking out into another fit of coughs. Kabuto gently took the cup, hovering it from your grip so you wouldn’t spill. You turned away, face buried in your elbow. “Is this the kind of bedside manner you put on at the hospital?”

“No.” Kabuto was quick to answer. He almost laughed; you could see the faint sign of a smile though the little lines that formed at the base of his eyes. Kabuto put the back of his hand up to your forehead before he continued to prod at you to get an idea of some vital or another. “When one of us moves out, not only will you lose your free, at-home healthcare—” He accented his half-jest with a pointed look. —“but you’ll never find a nurse who’s as good as me. Remember that.” Your scoff turned into another cough.

“Aw what? You don’t want to live with me forever?”

You didn’t notice Kabuto’s half-second pause as you downed the rest of your water. Maybe down the road, given the two of you grow a bit smarter, you wouldn’t have to give up your free healthcare after all.

Thank you to all who liked, reblogged, followed and otherwise supported. Your support means so much and is greatly appreciated.

#kabuto x reader #kabuto yakushi x reader #kabuto yakushi #kabuto #naruto x reader #naruto reader insert #naruto x you #naruto x y/n #naruto fanfiction #naruto fanfic #x you #x reader #reader insert

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narrators-journal · 8 months

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Hello Man i have another request. The request is about narukami's personas( izanagi, Isis, magatsu izanagi, scatach,ishtar and atropos) watching narukami have sex with Margaret and making comnents. Apreciate dude

So, this took forever bc I struggled so badly trying to think of something for this plot. But! I got something worked out, and while it is, again, short, I hope it's at least kind of funny lol. I tried to balance some humor with some spice, but I don't know if it's very hot, y'know? Also, sorry if the persona are a bit lacking, I know very little of persona 4 personas.

CW: Voyuerism in a way, riding, mating press, both implied at least.

“Man, she’s noisy.” Scathach, a more matter-of-fact persona of Narukami’s muttered, sitting with the other personas in Narukami’s soul as they were given yet another show by their user and his velvet room assistant. “Is this even allowed? She’s supposed to guide him, I thought.” Atropos pointed out, fiddling with the rope she manifested from nothing as she spoke in a less invested tone. Bored of another of Narukami’s encounters. “I believe it’s frowned upon, but not exactly banned.” Ishtar hummed, watching the sight of Margaret’s full breasts bouncing as she rode the silver-haired wildcard with more interest than the others. “Though, if it is, I’m not complaining. I commend this woman’s energy.”

That made Megatsu snort, perching on his chipped, blood-stained sword in the blood-red trench coat he shared with Izanagi as he watched the ‘movie’ with the other scantily clad persona. “Wish I’d known of her sooner, maybe I could’ve made a few of these memories myself.” He hummed with an edge of darkness in his words, getting his perch kicked hard enough to rattle by the version of himself clad in a classy black version of the coat that was, naturally, kept in the line-up. “None of that. I’ll get the spray bottle.” Izanagi warned, the red-colored duplicate flipping him off, before going quiet.

Which, with his off-putting words now in the air, the gaggle of personas did as well. Sitting in silence as they listened to the soundtrack of Margaret’s panting, skin against slick skin, and moaned pleas. Watching as Narukami kept the woman’s hips at an even pace despite her lustful whines for more and the bliss-blown look in her golden eyes. Only breaking their viewing party when the warrior queen spoke once more. “Thinking of it, is anyone else weirded out by how many of us here are women?” “I noticed that too.” Atropos agreed, turning her head as best as the odd decoration around her head and neck would allow to look over the relatively scantily clad group of female persona. “Isis and I are the most clothed out of us, and even then I can’t tell if Isis just has feathers over her bare skin.” The feathered woman in question’s eerie mask just meeting the fate’s eyes in her usual silence, not confirming nor denying. “Do you think Narukami wants to sleep with us too?” Ishtar mused instead, fiddling with the fabric tied around her own healthy amount of chest while Megatsu was kept from commenting on that thought by the lightning fast blade of Izanagi’s weapon at his throat, so he kept quiet as the women chewed on Ishtar’s suggestion.

While they did, they watched as Margaret was rolled over to be on her back, her thighs lifted almost to her chest as said wildcard changed position to thrust deeper into the assistant’s welcoming warmth. Yet, none of them really wanted to voice further thoughts on the idea of being the one clutching their user’s sheets while they moaned out his name. So, Ishtar went ahead and took the initiative to change the topic. “How long have they been at this now? About an hour?” And Isis nodded, “Quite impressive to go this long this often.” “Maybe this is the reason he trained for so much stamina.” Megatsu joked with a slight chuckle, getting side eyed by the version of himself in a black trench coat. “Don’t imply that about Narukami. He might be a teenager, but surely he works for more than sexual prowess in his training.” Izanagi argued, Megatsu snorting at the point. “Ah yes, have to prepare to fight your wife for you. Because a teenager should totally be more concerned with a deific marital spat then pretty girls.”

Naturally, that snarky barb got the warped version of Izanagi slashed at, but just as the reskinned god grabbed his weapon from where it was embedded in the ground, Isis spoke to remind in that classic motherly mix of calm scolding and danger, “Settle down, right now. If you interrupt Narukami, you’ll get put in the compendium.” And obediently, the two left the argument for later. Returning their attention to the ‘movie’ once again.

“I still think she’s too loud.”

#Persona 4 #Narukami x Margaret #Persona #ask #Izanagi #Megatsu Izanagi #Ishtar #Scathach #personas #not sfw #spicy #lemon scented #Isis #Atropos

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gxrlcinema · 2 years

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happy five hundred followers, ilana <3 you are exceptionally talented, and genuinely such a kind person. i hope you’re having fun with this sleepover babe!

for my first ask {i’m going to send a few, hopefully tumblr doesn’t eat any!!} how about a song drabble ❄️ for kate bishop {bc i’m in love} with the lyrics “tell me where you are now. i could show up in the middle of the night to try to make up for the time we lost. try to put a little love in us” from chance by haley kiyoko

if this doesn’t spark any inspiration, feel free to dismiss xx

take a chance on me

A/N: This is longer than I wanted it to be and potentially incoherent.

winter wonderweek is over, thank you for participating!

You wake up in the middle of the night. It takes you a moment to get your bearings, blinking into the darkness of your bedroom. It takes you another moment to realize that your phone is ringing. You pick it up without looking at the caller.

“Hello?”

You hear heavy breathing and a choked out, “Y/n?”

You furrow your brow, sitting up in bed.

“Kate?”

Your high school best friend lets out a huff of air on the other end of the line. It sounds like relief.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, throwing back the covers and climbing out of bed.

“What? Wrong? Why would anything be-” she groans, something in the background clattering to the floor. “-wrong?”

You listen to Kate struggle with her surroundings while you stumble around your room, grabbing your clothes from the day before.

“Where are you? I’m coming over.”

“No! No, seriously, Y/n, I’m fine. There’s no reason to come over here.”

“Which is why you’re calling me at…” your eyes find the alarm clock on your bed stand. “2:47 in the morning.”

Kate groans again, less pained this time, more defeated. “You remember my aunt’s place downtown?”

You smile, victorious.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

+++

There’s a lot you don’t think about in the forty-five minutes it takes you to get across town. You don’t think about what kind of trouble Kate could’ve gotten up to (if it was anything like the antics you two used to get into growing up, it was cause for concern). You don’t think about how relieved she’d sounded when she heard your voice on the phone. And you definitely don’t think about everything that happened the night before you left for college. The dim lighting of Kate’s bedroom, the feeling of her calloused hands against your waist, the nervous furrow of her eyebrows, the taste of the champagne you’d snuck from her mom’s wine cellar, the way it tasted better directly from Kate’s lips…

That was three years ago, and you hadn’t spoken to Kate since. Until tonight, of course.

You take a deep breath before approaching the door to her aunt’s apartment. Your knuckles rap against the apartment door. You hear the murmur of voices inside before the door opens.

Kate looks… well, terrible actually. Her lip is split, and she’s got a big bump on her forehead. Her mascara is smudged under her eyes, and her signature curled ponytail is limp and askew. Her lips are a bit parted, big hazel eyes wide.

“You came,” she breathes.

“Of course I came,” you say.

“You two wanna maybe get out of the doorway?” a voice calls from inside the apartment.

“Right,” Kate springs into action, whatever the moment that hung between you was broken now. She pulls you into the apartment and shuts the door behind you.

The other voice is a middle-aged man, with short cropped dirty blonde hair and the same kind of scrapes that litter Kate’s face on his. Your eyes widen.

“Kate, is this…?”

Kate nods, coming between you and the man.

“Clint Barton, Y/n Y/l/n. Y/n,” Kate looks at you, her eyes communicating a bundle of nerves and excitement, “this is Clint.”

You put out your hand, and motherfucking Hawkeye shakes it.

“I still don’t think that this is a good idea,” Clint states, sharp eyes trailing over you.

You look down at yourself, suddenly wishing that you’d worn clean clothes. It’s not every day that you’re in the presence of an Avenger.

“We can trust her, Clint. And Y/n’s a nurse, she’s our best option to look at these injuries.”

You frown at Kate. “I’m not a nurse.”

Kate frowns, darts her tongue out over her lips. “Yes you are.”

“I’m a student nurse, I don’t technically have a license yet.”

“Okay, but you know medical stuff. You patched me up plenty of times when we were kids.”

“Yeah, but from the looks of your faces, I’m guessing this is probably more than a skinned knee.”

“You just need to believe in yourself a little mo-”

“I’m gonna go call my family,” Clint interjects, holding a flip phone up. “You kids work this out amongst yourselves.”

You nod, sighing. Clint walks into the other room.

Kate gives you her patented “sorry I got us in trouble” look, the one that has always been your kryptonite.

“What do you need me to do?”

Kate explains her injuries and provides you with a first-aid kit. You silently begin to address her various injuries. Kate’s knee bobs up and down at an unnaturally quick speed.

“So…” she says, after you hand her an ice-pack for her forehead. “Been a while.”

You sigh, flopping down onto the couch next to her. “Yeah. It has.”

Kate’s hazel eyes are on you again. You’re almost certain that the pain in them isn’t from her injuries.

“Look, I’m-”

“I’m so sorry, Kate.”

She frowns, her expression going sour. An ironic smile twists itself onto her face.

“Why are you sorry? I’m the one that just went and kissed you.”

You let out a half-hearted laugh. “It wasn’t anything I didn’t want.”

Kate’s eyebrows skyrocket, her head snapping back to look at you.

“What, did you think...?”

You cut yourself off. Looking at her, it’s becoming incredibly clear that she did think.

Her eyebrows furrow, revealing the wrinkles between her eyebrows. “You completely ghosted me. What was I supposed to think?”

You deserve it. It still hurts to hear.

“I was scared,” you say, choking up a bit. “I was just freaked out and I didn’t want to lose you but I was going to college and it was easier to just… avoid it.”

You look at Kate again. “I’m sorry. I was eighteen and everything was changing. I didn’t mean to make you think everything was your fault.”

Kate’s eyes are shiny. She swallows. “I uh,” she starts, trying to compose herself. “Look, I think there’s something sketchy about my mom’s fiance. And I kinda have a Russian gang coming after me.”

Your eyes bug out. It must be comical, because Kate can’t hold in a giggle. She quickly stifles it when you raise a warning eyebrow at her.

“Sorry. It’s been a long night. It’s just- you’ve always been there. When my dad died, when half the world disappeared and they didn’t even cancel AP exams. I wasn’t thinking when I called you. I just wanted you to be here.”

It’s so Kate. “Hey, everything’s kind of crazy and it’s absolutely going to get worse, wanna come?” But those hazel puppy dog eyes are your kryptonite, have been since the third grade.

“I can- I can be here.”

Kate’s smile lights up like a Christmas tree, and it occurs to you that this is your kryptonite too.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

#winter wonderweek #maybe you're my snowflake ❄️#Kate bishop x reader #kate bishop x you #kate bishop #Kate bishop fanfic #Kate bishop drabble

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theepisceswriter · 3 years

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Jjk dudes promising just the tip but breaking it like 2 seconds later please!

Bestie I know you wanted multiple JJK characters, and I’ll probably still give it you, but I had something similar to this in my notes with Toji, so I decided to make a little ficlet with him instead surrounding this idea....kinda.

Synopsis: Your toxic baby daddy Toji hits you up after not being heard from for months with that smirk on his face that you just can’t resist.

TW: Dub con might apply here but I did my best to make reader aware that Toji was 99.99% lying abt just the tip and knew abt his intentions from the start, but I guess you can interpret it how you want, fembodied!reader, Toji is a trigger warning on his own, manipulation, implied that you have a child together, pregnancy mention briefly, breeding kink, toxic relationship, 18+, MINORS DNI

Word Count: 1.7k

Your heart dropped to your stomach when you flipped your phone over to see ‘TOJI WOJI 🥺🧸🥰....is FaceTiming you.’ Whatever he was calling for couldn’t have been important or even worth your time listening to at all. It was edging on 12 am in the morning, the ungodly hours of the night where sin ran rampant and thoughts became loud as the world around you silenced, a concoction of emotions that meant nothing good. Especially when the last time you received a phone call from him this late it resulted in a booty call that led to you pregnant with a child that Toji barely came to see. Still, you found your thumb lingering over the green answer button and faintly tapping on it, hoping that it wouldn’t go through, but instead, you were met with the sight of Toji. The raven locks on his hair poking out like always, the same old scar over his lip, and the same basic black tee decorating his body. He looked exactly the same as you had last seen him except the outside lights of the world illuminated his face as he appeared to be in what you assumed was the driver’s seat of his car. You felt your heart clench in your chest, memories of your relationship before he up and dipped on you clouding your mind to the point where you were damn near in tears wondering why it had to end so abruptly; why he left you the way he did. But those tears were soon pushed back by with an anger that had you ready to hang up in his face. You were so conflicted when it came to him, always had been.

“What do you want Toji?”

“You. I miss you, y/n. I’ve been thinking a lot about you and our family.” God, here he went with this bullshit again. Just when you thought the cycle was over he always popped up again, little white lies about missing you and his child so he could find solace in your bed for a week or two before dipping like he always did. Apparently, he wanted to come in and talk things out, just talk and try to redeem your relationship. You knew he was just telling you everything you wanted to hear with an ulterior motive behind his words, but you couldn’t resist that grin on his lips and the compliments of how nice you looked even in your nightclothes.

He was too good at this because the next thing you knew he was sitting on the couch in your living room with his legs manspreading out and trying to inch his way closer to where you sat on the opposite end. Your arms crossed and staring daggers into him while all he did was look at you as fondly as he could, as if he were genuinely envisioning a future with you and the child he left you within this moment.

“What the fuck do you really want Toji?” Your voice had a bite to it that left him smirking at your attitude and digging deeper into his mind to pull out lines he knew you wanted to hear, lines he knew would get him that satisfactory ending of you giving into his sweet talk and bold advances as he scooted a couple of inches closer to you. So close that his hand was able to rest on the part of your left thigh that the shorts you were wearing left exposed, gently kneading the area with his palm.

“You know you look good right?” You scoffed and rolled your eyes ready to push his hand off of you but his other hand blocked you from doing so, bringing both of your arms over your head and adjusting the two of you so that you were now smushed between him and the cushioning of the couch. As mad as you wanted to be at him you just couldn’t. He had indestructible shackles placed over your heart that tugged with each time he forced himself back into your life just like how they were now.

Flashbacks of the night you got pregnant suddenly came flashing before your eyes. The vivid imagery of the way he had your legs folded to the point where your ankles were by your ears as he pounded into you ruthlessly from above, hand around your neck tightening your airways and making tears form in your eyes. Blissed dazed out in a space that was too similar to subspace, too out of it to even respond to the “I’m going to fuck a baby into you and how ever many I want after that. Use you like the slut you are and breed you so good.” That had left his lips at that moment.

Which is exactly what he did and here he was again, the two of you in the very same spot shimmied out of your clothes, and him ready to fuck a baby into you again once more.

“I just want you.” When he says it like that, voice soft and laced with what you hope to be some form of honesty, it’s easy to pretend like this is okay in a relationship—if that’s what you could even call this. That if you squinted your eyes hard enough and looked past Toji’s flaws that all this pain and suffering he put you through in the end would be worth it. Your feelings changing for him with each entrance and exit he made in your life. Always wondering what the two of you could’ve been if he was a better man. You had to be soulmates, there was no other explanation for why you kept coming back to each other. At least not any logical one that you could think of.

All the logical thinking left your mind the moment he pressed his lips to yours, those oh so soft lips that you missed and craved badly on nights when other men’s lips couldn’t contort to yours the way that he did.

This is exactly what he wanted—his gentle caresses and touch to distract you from the real reason why he was here. Which was only to use your body how he wanted before he went on with his life, not thinking about you again until he got horny once more. And it was the touch of his cold hands against your skin, working its way up to grope at your enlarged breast, that brought you back to this realization. Lips moving off of his immediately and backing up against the arm of the couch. Your lips opened in protest, only to be cut off by him speaking up first.

“You don’t understand how much I’ve missed your touch—your body. Do you know how much gorgeous you’ve become with a post-pregnancy body? Just looking at you is driving me crazy.” He continues on with his compliments. Each one hitting you straight into your heart and going up to your head to shush those thoughts that scream at you to not fall for his trap, but instead, you fell right into it. Allowing his to resume his position on top of you.

“We don’t even have to do much. Just the tip, I promise. I just miss the feeling of you around me so much.” It’s the first time this whole night that you were able to recognize one of his lies as just that, a bold-faced lie. You knew how he got when he was in the mood, how dark and clouded his mind got with lust to the point where he was a whole different Toji. But you let him believe that you believed that, a small okay leaving your lips along with a nod as you accepted his lips on yours once more; his tongue slipping past your lips to find yours, gently sucking on it and letting out a light moan at the familiarity of it. He didn’t even have to use his hands to guide his cock to your entrance because he was just that big, breaking away from the kiss to look at where the two of you connected and using his hips to guide his erect tip inside of the warmth of your cunt. For a minute, maybe even less, he kept his “promise” of inserting only his tip, but the feeling of your walls gripping on only the tip of his cock was enough for him to go crazy. Something on the verge of a whimper and a moan leaving his lips. He needed more of you and he was going to have more of you. Disregarding his promise like you predicted, he ruthlessly bucked his hips up against yours, his whole length entering you with ease from the build-up of your arousal that had taken the physical form of wetness.

“Pussy so wet just for me that you swallowed me whole.” He tried to pin it on you and if you weren’t stuffed to the brim with him right now maybe you would’ve rolled your eyes and told him how dumb he sounded, but you went along with it. He didn’t even give you time to adjust to him because even after months without touching each other he knew the pussy that he trained with constant fucking every week would remember his shape and form, adjusting your legs so they were folded up against your stomach and immediately getting to work.

“I might have to put another baby in you if this is what post-pregnancy pussy feels like. You feel so good and right around my cock, baby.”

Each thrust was like heaven on earth, his cock curved in just the right spots to his every sensitive area inside of you that left your toes curling and a faint white creamy line begin to form at the base of his cock. It had been so long since you’ve had a nice good fucking. You couldn’t remember the last time you felt so full, so good to the point where tears formed around the edges of your eyes. No one, not even the toys you had spent $100’s on tucked away in your closet, came close to the affect that he had on your body.

He always knew just what to do and just what to say to have you crumbling underneath him. One of your favorite but also most disliked quality that he possessed.

#I know you’re probably wondering where the child is at and I’m going to assume that it’s at someone else’s house rn #I didn’t feel that was too important to mention in the story lmao #Asks.#Spicy.#jjk x reader #jjk smut #jujustu kaisen smut #jujustu kaisen x reader #toji fushiguro smut #toji fushiguro x reader #toji fushiguro

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honeymoonjin · 3 years

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ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ot7 x reader || ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 5.9k || ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: smut - rated 18+

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ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs: cursing, panic attack

A/N: apologies for my tgm crimes here but i gotta keep you on your toes since you have the old plan. also i'm not going to spoil anything but day 25 has one of my fav scenes in the show so far ;;-; so please enjoy this chapter and i will continue to work hard to finish the following one and get back into the posting routine!

DAY TWENTY-FOUR

You’re roused from sleep by the feathered sensation of fingertips on your jaw. Twitching slightly, you try and move away from it, burrowing deeper into the warm, gently rocking pillow your head is propped up on.

Before you can slip back under, however, the fingers give one last attack: a sudden flick to your cheek that echoes with a thwack. You flinch and furrow your brows, grumbling your displeasure since your words haven’t quite found you yet.

“Get up, sleepyhead, unless you’d rather I just piss in the bed.”

That’ll do it. You shoot up so quickly your vision swims, one side of your face feeling cold without the comfort of Yoongi’s chest. “Fuck you, go pee,” you slur, eyes still half-closed, the morning glare peeking through a gap in his curtains.

Yoongi happily but hurriedly trots off to the bathroom, giving you a moment of respite to collect yourself. It takes a few moments to recall the previous night, not just the way Yoongi’s voice had made you cum in your room, but also the way it later lulled you to sleep as he told you hushed stories of his childhood or anecdotes from his days as a sex education teacher.

You can even hear his voice now, just barely slipping under the crack of the door, humming and singing under his breath as he washes his hands.

When he finally exits, you’re propped up by pillows, duvet tucked over your knees and eyes crinkled fondly at his bedhead.

“Oh, no,” he starts with a frown, “you better get that look off of your face.”

Your smile drops. “What?”

Taming his hair with a few flat strokes, he shakes his head. “I need somebody sane in this house to talk to. You aren’t allowed to fall in love with me, it’s conflict of interest.”

Mouth dropping open, it takes you a few minutes to note the subtle curl to his lips. “You dick! I’m certainly not planning on it, don’t flatter yourself.”

“Hey,” he defends in a drawl, no attempt at modesty as he shucks his pyjamas before browsing his chest of drawers, “it’s been done before. You come for the massive dick and stay for the massive heart.” He pauses, shoulder muscles flexing as he reaches in to a drawer, pulling out a pair of dark wash jeans. “Stop looking at my ass, I’m trying to lecture you.”

On the contrary, you lower your gaze and narrow in on it. “You’re starting to develop a little bubble butt, Yoongi. It’s very cute.” Not leaving him time to protest, you barrel on. “Besides, your dick isn’t that big.”

“That’s only because you’re comparing mine to hyung’s. And Namjoon’s. And… And Jungkook’s, I guess. And-” Suddenly he cuts himself off, throwing himself back on the bed with his back hunched in despair. “Fuck, do I have a small dick?”

“Mm, not really,” you dismiss easily, deciding to finally get out of bed and pick out your own clothes - selecting them from Yoongi’s drawers, of course. He makes no protest, still staring blankly at the jeans in his hands. “You just have steep competition here. There’s nothing wrong with small dicks, either. They’re cute.”

Now visible from your angle, Yoongi’s face twists in a grimace. “But my dick isn’t small, right?”

You shrug, slipping on one of his FG shirts and a pair of sweatpants loose enough that you have to knot the drawstrings. “If it helps you sleep at night.”

He spares one somber glance down between his legs before he slips on a pair of underwear, finally stepping into the jeans. There’s a brief period of comfortable silence, before he lets out a small sigh. “Can I… Can I confess something to you?”

Although a quip would be easy enough to say, you sense the joking is over. “Of course, Yoongi,” you assure instead, sitting cross-legged on the unmade bed beside him. He doesn’t meet your eye, busying himself with slipping a shirt over his head. “What’s up?”

Once he’s fully dressed, he still keeps his eyes low. “When you- On Monday, when you voted out Jin-hyung. I was so glad.”

You pause for a moment. “Because you wanted him out of the competition?” you venture, but he shakes his head dully.

“Because I thought he might look at me again if he didn’t have you.”

Something sinks in your stomach, cold enough to make you shiver. The guilt in Yoongi’s voice doesn’t conceal the open vulnerability of his expression as he fiddles with his bitten fingernails. “What do you mean, Yoongi?”

“What him and I had earlier wasn’t healthy, I know that,” he defends to himself, “but… I still miss it. I miss him. But even when I spoke to him after the elimination, all he would talk about was you. And I can’t even be mad, because I get it. And I- If I’m honest,” he murmurs, feet scuffing restlessly on the carpet, “I don’t even know what I’m wanting to achieve by telling you this, but I couldn’t stand not having anybody know about it. I never wanted it to get this messy. I told myself I wouldn’t let my feelings get caught up. But I think a little heartbreak would be worth it, for him. Is that stupid?”

You feel so unanchored, like there’s nothing for you to grab onto to steady yourself. More so, you feel entirely incapable of helping your friend like you so desperately want to. “It’s not stupid,” you begin, reaching out to cup one of his hands snugly between the two of yours, head resting on his shoulder in solidarity, “and I’m so sorry. Does he- does he know you feel this way?”

“I don’t think so,” Yoongi admits in a low voice, leaning into your touch. “If he does, then he must not like me since he’s not acknowledging it. And if he doesn’t, then he must have never even considered me like that. I know I was a distraction at best.”

You knit your brows together, deep in thought to try and find the right words to say. “Or perhaps he knows and he’s respecting your boundaries by letting you initiate, especially since he was the one who took advantage of you last time. And perhaps he doesn��t know, and it’s only because he’s so caught up in his own feelings that he hasn’t considered that you may feel the same. You just don’t know these things, Yoongi. I didn’t know how you felt either until you told me.”

He nods slowly, jerkily. “Yeah,” he says weakly. “Jungkook said almost the exact same thing, actually.”

You pull back slowly, curiosity colouring your tone. “Jungkook?”

Yoongi manages a shy smile, cheeks colouring slightly. “He approached me. We- we talk a lot, way more than hyung and I ever did. I know Kookie has a crush on me, and we said we’d take things slow, but dammit, I can’t help but like the kid.”

You let a surprised laugh bubble up your throat. “That- I was not expecting that, but I’m so glad, Yoongi. Even if you don’t have Jin, I’m glad you’re letting yourself be happy with others.”

His smile falters. “Is it greedy that liking Jungkook doesn’t make me want Jin-hyung any less?”

You go still, thinking of your own blooming feelings for... Well, for most of the people in this house, if not - at least a little bit - all of them. “I don’t know,” you answer honestly. “I’d like to think not.”

Yoongi lifts his gaze to you, carefully studying your face. “Do you ever worry,” he begins, so softly that you have to strain to make the words out, “that our feelings have been set up. By the show, I mean.” His brows furrow deeper. “We’re living in a practical paradise - luxurious house with no real jobs, our food is paid for, we’re literally getting rewarded to have sex. It’s so artificial, you know? So who’s to say that our feelings are artificial, too? I- I’ve been thinking about that a lot,” he admits with a pensive stare.

You can’t lie. You nod. “I’d like to think not,” you repeat hollowly, “but… I mean, yeah, this feels like some alternate reality, and thinking of any of you in normal, mundane, real-life scenarios seems so strange. Like, can you picture Hoseok sitting down and doing his taxes?”

Yoongi snorts, shaking his head in bemusement as a line of tension eases from his shoulders. “I hope he hires an accountant. I certainly wouldn’t trust him with my money.”

You let out a deep sigh and fall backwards onto the duvet, air punched out of you on impact. “The thing is, Yoongi,” you declare in a matter-of-fact tone, “we have no way of knowing what life will be like once all this is wrapped up so why even bother worrying?”

He turns slightly, just enough to watch you warily over his shoulder. “Maybe because I could get my heart broken?”

You pout at him. “Tell me how that’s any different from developing a crush in real life?”

He opens his mouth, furrows his brows, and closes it again. “I- Ugh. Fuck you for being correct.”

Pleased with yourself, you hide your grin as you playfully knock his side with your foot, making him recoil with a groan. “Be as cautious or as impulsive as you want, but even if all this is fake, you could’ve just as easily developed those feelings outside of the show. Like come on, if you saw Jin in the grocery store don’t tell me you wouldn’t fall in love on sight!”

Yoongi shakes his head again, a wry smile playing at his lips. “I see your point… and now I’m picturing Jin getting groceries and looking hot doing it...wow.”

You cackle at the dazed look on Yoongi’s face, using his arm to pull yourself up off the bed, patting him on the shoulder. “Good talk, champ. I’m off to chow down on the leftover pork from last night. Care to join me?”

His eyes glitter, but the doctor declines. “Yoonji said she blackmailed one of the production team to bring her fried chicken from her favourite place. She’s hiding it in the bunk room, but you didn’t hear that from me. She’s selling some to me for a small fortune, the little devil.”

“Less than half a week here and she’s already set up a black market,” you muse, “I think I may be in love with her, Yoongi.”

“Don’t you dare.”

While the kitchen is empty when you first arrive, it only takes the sizzle of pork belly in a saucepan to draw your roommates down.

Jin is first, silently rummaging in the pantry and fridge for some side dishes to add to the mix. In return, you begin boiling some hot water, adding instant coffee mix to two mugs.

As the others join, the line of mugs and glasses on the kitchen island grows, until even the two Min twins are hovering in the kitchen, looking suspicously still hungry after their illicit breakfast.

There aren’t enough chairs at the table to seat you all, but luckily Taehyung and Jungkook are happy hunched over the bench in the kitchen, sharing a set of Airpods and snickering at a seemingly endless stream of TikToks.

At the table, Namjoon, Hoseok and Yoongi chow down on their meals, the latter with a considerably smaller portion made up mostly of meat. Yoonji and Jimin are on either side of you, with Jin on one end, chewing slow to savour each bite.

It’s the first time in a while that you’ve all shared breakfast at the same time, and you’re struck with a deep feeling of fondness at this little family-like group you’re living with. Jimin sneaks extra strips of meat or spoonfuls of rice into your bowl when he thinks you’re not looking; Hoseok listens enthusiastically to Namjoon’s explanation of a summer school course he’s taking, even as he has to ask for clarification just about every second sentence; Yoongi splits his time between checking up on the two maknaes with a soft look, and scowling at his sister’s teasing comments.

“Any plans for the day?” Yoonji asks suddenly, tugging you out of your musings. She’s dressed sleekly in a black velvet mock neck shirt and high waisted denim shorts, her face as stark a resemblance to her brother as ever, with two sharp lines of black on her lids being the only visible makeup. “Except, I suppose, the mandatory fucking.”

You huff with pink cheeks, never growing used to hearing it so openly. “The days kinda blur together a little when you have no real responsibilities,” you admit, “I should probably find a hobby or something.”

Yoonji’s eyes crinkle in faux empathy. “Oh, honey, you’re gonna be so out of it when you return to the real world. You all will,” she adds, before shrugging, “except maybe Namjoon. Seems like academia doesn’t stop for anyone.”

You can’t help but agree. “He has more brain cells in his pinky finger than I do in my own body,” you swear, “he could break an arm and still type a thesis one-handed.”

Halfway through a mouthful of food, you’re rewarded to the ungraceful yet endlessly endearing sound of her snorting, a hand cupped over her mouth. After swallowing, she turns towards you to respond. “I haven’t known him for long, but that seems to check out. He’s quite the character, huh?”

You don’t miss the meaningful lilt to her voice, nor the quirk of a sharp brow. “He’s a good guy,” you reply under your breath, gaze darting down the table to where the man himself is engaged in an intensely enthusiastic discussion (okay, closer to a TedTalk) with Hoseok, now using pieces of meat to create an abstract diagram in his otherwise empty bowl. The latter looks bewildered, but is nonetheless paying deep attention to every word.

It’s impossible not to feel soft inside as you look at the pair of them, all complementary contrast. Hoseok with his slender nose and harsh facial structure and Namjoon with a round, gentle face. One of them dressed in sleek black and the other in oversized earth tones, the typically reserved one animated and the bubbly one focused in. It had taken you barely a month of shared living to become completely fond of these men, not just Namjoon and Hoseok but all of them, and as much as it was nice to have someone new in the Villa for a while, Yoonji’s presence makes you more aware of the fact that you and the seven guys had developed a certain equilibrium that seemed slightly off-balance with the change.

It makes you worry about what other disturbances this delicate system could hold, and if returning to the real world would be a shift large enough to permanently upend it.

Wishing to dispel the pessimistic narrative beginning to form, you focus in on Yoonji again. “Anyways,” you start, “how are you finding the Villa so far?”

“Certainly an interesting look behind the veil, though it’s really not ideal having to-” Yoonji’s cut off by the chirp of an incoming message on her phone. “Sorry, one sec,” she mumbles absentmindedly, but you don’t miss the way her face falls when she reads the message, immediately glancing directly across the table to where her brother sits.

To your growing concern, Yoongi is also reading a message on his phone, and he quietly excuses himself from the table, leaving his bowl half-eaten. He jerks his head towards the front door, and Yoonji manages a quick apology before they’re leaving the room.

All startled out of their separate conversations, the remaining members of the household sit in confused silence, enough that even Taehyung and Jungkook turn around from their phones.

“What’s going on?” Jungkook asks in a worried voice. “Where’s Yoongi-hyung?”

Nobody replies, Jin just shaking his head with a grim frown and leaving the table himself, going after them.

“Guys,” Taehyung says more insistently, eyes not leaving the empty seats at the table.

“They both got a text,” you say with furrowed brows, “Yoongi and Yoonji. Must’ve been bad news, judging by their faces.”

“Jin-hyung’ll find out what’s going on,” Namjoon assures, though it sounds more like he’s trying to convince himself, “let’s just clean up for them and wait for an update. Yeah?”

The two youngest nod solemnly, still with a single Airpod each bobbing in their opposite ears.

For a while, the group of you remaining sit in silence, as if caught up in some spell that would only be broken once Jin returned with some answers. The absence of Yoongi at the table is so much more pronounced, and you can’t help but feel the sickening worry swirl inside you when you look at his bowl, chopsticks strewn carelessly beside it.

Everyone is just waiting for bad news. You’ve felt this looming dread before, and it either came with a swoop of relief or a blow of despair. Your teeth find your thumbnail as you wait helplessly to see which one it’ll be.

It feels like an eternity before the door finally opens, making everyone jump, but only a few minutes have really passed. Jin is panting slightly, like he ran back from wherever Yoongi disappeared to.

“He’s-” he starts quickly, before a tremor passes over his face and he grimaces, jogging over and falling heavily into his chair at the table, face in his hands. “Their dad is in hospital. Heart attack.”

“Oh my god,” Namjoon breathes, brows knit together in sympathy. “Is he okay? Was it serious?”

Jin shrugs, looking up enough to run his hand over his face and take a shaky breath. “He’s alright for now, but apparently they need to make sure it doesn’t repeat anytime soon. If he settles, he’ll be fine, but there’s a chance that he might suffer another attack. Yoongi and Yoonji are going to the hospital now to stay with him until they’re more certain he’s stable. Just in case.”

“When is he coming back? Yoongi-hyung?” Jungkook’s eyes are wide, shiny. He can’t stop fiddling with his fingers, self-soothing.

“Not for a while, I don’t think,” Jin divulges with a pained expression. “He needs to be there for his family right now. That’s all I know, I’m sorry.”

The front door creaks, and all of you instinctively whip your heads towards it, as if Yoongi himself might be returning already, but you’re greeted with the weary face of Producer Sejin, joining you at the table, taking Yoongi’s old spot. Taehyung frowns deeply at the choice, turning his face away.

“What’s going on?” you ask quickly. “What happens to Yoongi? And us?”

“Yoongi is… He was in a rush to get going, understandably, so we didn’t speak in great depth. But he in short stated that he’d return when his father was in better health if the place was still open for him. I’ve got in contact with the higher-ups, and we’ve agreed to put the show on a temporary hold.”

“On hold?” Jungkook asks in a nervous voice. “What does that even mean?”

Sejin clears his throat stiffly and clicks his tongue. “Well. It means we’re putting a stop to the game for now, in short. If Yoongi is able to return by the end of the week, we’ll resume as usual. Otherwise, we’ll consider him to have permanently left the competition, and we’ll be forced to continue the game without him.”

You frown, fighting the urge to cry. This all feels so wrong, like he’s been taken from you with little hope of reunion, and discussing it like administration feels so clinical. “So we’re just sitting here, not knowing if he’s going to come back home, waiting around in limbo?” As soon as you finish, it feels like the word home lingers in the air longer than the rest of them. And perhaps this house doesn’t feel like home to you, but it certainly seems like six of the seven pieces of home are around you right now, and it’s not the same without him away. By the way the others are solemn and red-eyed, you probably aren’t the only one that’s begun feeling that way.

Sejin just shakes his head slowly, as subdued as you all are. “Listen, I know this isn’t ideal. The boss wanted to film it, make a big drama out of it, and then kick him off the show for views. I’m doing the best I can here to compromise and give him some dignity.”

Eyes widening, you stare at the round eyes of the cameras in the living room. “Are you- are you even allowed to say that?”

“I cut the camera feeds,” Sejin says in a defeated tone, “the show is officially off-air for technical difficulties. You can do what you want here while you wait - hell, you can leave if you want, just please be prepared to come back on the Sunday. We’ll have a discussion about whether Yoongi can return, and what we’ll do if he doesn’t. Understood?”

“Understood,” Namjoon offers up for the group, and the producer leaves with another sigh and an attempt at a comforting smile. You can’t help but feel bad for him, working such an emotionally draining job, especially when you’ve heard nothing but bad things about his employer.

Once the room falls into quiet again, Jin stands up, chair legs scraping against the floor. “Okay, I think we should decide as a group what we’re wanting to do. Stay or go?”

You open your mouth to give your two cents, but before you can, Jungkook suddenly chokes on a sob and covers his face with his hands, Jimin immediately scooting his chair closer to wrap an arm around his shaking shoulders.

“Hey, what is it?” Jimin asks quietly, but the room is so silent that you all catch it. “Talk to me, bun. What is it?”

Jungkook takes a few stuttering breaths to compose himself, sniffling. “I don’t want you all to leave too,” he confesses, Jimin’s thumb catching a tear dangling on the tip of his nose, “isn’t Yoongi-hyung enough?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” the elder promises, pressing a kiss into his hairline before looking up at the rest of you, eyes widening intentionally. “We’ll stick together through this until he comes back, yeah? It’s not all bad. The cameras are off, remember? We can have a break now, we don’t need to worry about the show. Isn’t that nice?”

After a moment’s considering, Jungkook nods slowly. “‘t is nice,” he admits begrudgingly. “But only if everyone stays.”

You can’t help but smile fondly, getting up yourself to come behind him, stroking his hair back. “We’ll stay, of course we’ll stay. Let’s spend some time together tonight, we can put on a movie and snuggle, how about that?”

He perks up at the thought of this, glancing around the table as the others nod in affirmation. “I’ll bring down the blankets,” he bargains, cracking a small smile, and the rest of the room relaxes, immediately bursting into sound as everyone arranges the necessary supplies for a good quality movie night, almost back to normal.

Jungkook, as the member of the Villa in most urgent need of a pick-me-up, is given movie choosing privileges, so the seven of you tuck in for a rewatch of his favourite Spiderman movies, perhaps the only thing that can keep him glued to the screen.

At first, the absence feels overwhelming to you. Try as you might through the opening sequence, you can’t shake it. Your mind counts heads without thinking, keeps looking at the space on the couch where Yoongi liked to put his feet up. Even though you know it’s his father who is unwell, not him, there’s the sick swelling in your stomach that makes you feel like his departure is final, and shortly after the title card plays out, you’re quietly excusing yourself and stumbling to the back door, in desperate need of fresh air.

It’s cold outside, a brisk wind cutting through you. You barely make it around the corner out of sight before your legs buckle, and you let yourself fall into a pathetic crouch, your weight propped up against the side of the house as you try to suck the chilled air into your lungs.

The panic creeps up on you in swells, the irrational fear that Yoongi would leave the show and you’d never see him again and everything would fall apart suddenly feeling like a whole tsunami crashing against you. Your fingers claw at the exterior wall as you fall back onto your behind, unable to even keep yourself in a crouch.

More so than the intrusive thoughts, it’s the image of Yoongi’s face falling, of him rushing out of the house in frantic distress that replays in your mind and leaves you suffocating. He looked so scared, your calm, reliable Yoongi. He was like a pillar, but that news was a fell swoop he couldn’t stay strong against. Your heart burns for him, cramping and aching in your chest.

For a moment, you picture yourself staying out here, gasping for breath until the sun goes down. You feel alone, more than ever since coming here, and even as the thought spooks you, there’s no energy in your body to do anything about it.

Just as your breaths start to sound more like death rattles and you curl your face towards the ground, a warmth envelopes your back, arms circling your middle and lifting you up.

“Hey, breathe, breathe with me, Y/n. I’m here.”

You recognise the voice. You recognise the built torso holding you steady, but your mind isn’t putting the pieces together, and so you simply squeeze your eyes shut and allow yourself to be maneuvered around there are hands on your face and a deep voice instructing you to look at me. I’m here; look at me.

You crack your eyes open, body heaving with the effort it takes to get any oxygen in your lungs, but you’re met with the soulful brown eyes of Kim Namjoon, narrowed in concern.

His hands are warm despite the frigid air outside, and you let yourself melt into him, eyes sinking to watch his lips mouth instructions, demonstrating exaggerated breathing for you to follow.

You feel distinctly like you might vomit, but you force yourself to match his breaths. The shuddering in and stilted out aren’t as fluid as his, but slowly your heart doesn’t thud in your ears and your body doesn’t shake as violently.

You feel damp, sweating all over, and your whole body aches, but your hearing begins to properly tune in again, coherence creeping back. “Na-Namjoon,” you gasp, wishing you had the energy to grab his arms or hug him or something other than lying limp against the wall of the house.

“Shh, hey, don’t strain yourself. Take it easy. I’m here.” He’s crouching in front of you, eyes locked onto you as he continues to hold you steady, jaw kept aloft by his hands. “Keep breathing, and it’ll go away. It’s a panic attack, I’ve had my fair share. You’ll come right.”

Trusting him despite the persisting burn in your chest, you let him coach your breathing for several more minutes, the heightened air influx making your head go light and floaty.

Once a counted breath turns into a yawn of exhaustion, you know the worst has passed. It leaves you boneless, not a single ounce of power left in your muscles, but you can breathe again, and it’s all thanks to the man across from you.

“I’ve never had one before,” you manage, voice cracking, “not like that.”

Namjoon’s lips press together in sympathy, and he turns to prop himself against the side of the house beside you, letting you continue breathing independently. “Is it Yoongi-hyung?”

You nod weakly, and the academic hums in confirmation. “I used to get panic attacks a lot in university. I used to hate them, thought they meant I was weak. Like I couldn’t handle the pressure as much as I thought I could. But, you know, these days I just figure I’m only panicking because it means so much to me. And I don’t think that makes me weak at all. It just means I care. Don’t feel ashamed about this, Y/n. All it means is that you care about hyung a lot.”

All the breath in your lungs leaves you in one rush as you prop your head in your hands, knees tucked towards your chest. “Yeah.” You wish you had something more appreciative to say, but your mind is waterlogged, weighed down and not functioning.

Namjoon doesn’t seem to mind the curt response. “I care about him a lot too. He’s like the glue for us, isn’t he? I’m worried to fall apart without him here keeping us in line. But we survived before we knew him and we’ll survive now. What’s better is supporting each other and waiting to see how we can support Yoongi-hyung, too.”

“You’re right,” you admit with a heavy breath, wiggling your toes to will energy back into them. “We’ll be okay.”

Namjoon bends sideways to bump your shoulder warmly. “That’s the spirit. Now; I’m happy to stay out here as long as you need, but Jungkook was the first one to notice you had been gone for a while, and I think he’s probably getting concerned by now. If you’re up to it, I can give you a hand to get inside and join the others again. What do you reckon?”

You lean your head back against the wall, taking a moment to consider. “What movie is he putting on next?”

“He mentioned wanting to check out Paw Patrol on Netflix.”

“Let me die out here,” you plead weakly.

Namjoon laughs, the sound like comfort itself, and stands up, offering you a hand. “Come on, kitten, up we get.”

In the end, the Netflix viewings manage to distract you for the rest of the night. When your limbs are tangled together and snacks are flowing, it’s easy to tune out of reality a bit and focus on the television screen in the comfort of shared company. Jungkook clears space on the couch for you the second you return, and clings to you for hours, his chin on your shoulder. You don’t complain, feeling soothed by the physical closeness. But the hours pass, and when the majority of you can no longer hold in your yawns, Seokjin gets up to turn the lights back on and clean up.

“Let’s get some rest,” he decides, and it’s that return to the real world that immediately dampens the atmosphere again, the group of you turning solemn. You pause to pull out your phone, sending Yoongi a quick message of support, and that you all missed him already, but no reply comes.

Without words being spoken, the seven of you remaining find yourselves flocking together as you make your way up to bed. Jin flanks the maknae as Namjoon and Hoseok lean heavily into each other, the four of them disappearing into Jin’s room. You naturally fall into step with the remaining two men, Taehyung linking his arm into yours and holding you close all the way to Jimin’s room.

Somehow, the house is too quiet. Even though Yoongi wasn’t a particularly noisy housemate, his absence cloaks the air.

You have no energy to shower. Washing your face is as much as you can manage, and Taehyung is even more despairing than you are, slumped on the toilet seat as Jimin cleans his face for him.

The uncertainty is what makes your heart flutter on edge, unable to wind down, and you know from the restrained looks of fear and distress in the guys’ eyes that they feel the same. The show would be undoubtably ruined if Yoongi couldn’t return. But more important than that, Yoongi would be ruined if he lost his father so suddenly.

Knowing Yoongi is hurting makes you ache, and you cling to your lovers like they’re your anchors in a churning sea, tucking your face firmly into Taehyung’s shoulder. It soothes you a little to be pinned between them, but the three of you still lie awake as the minutes blink by agonisingly slow.

At some point, you must fall into a fitful sleep, because when a sudden noise fills the room, it rouses you aggressively, and you almost kick Jimin’s shin in the process. Grunting, the half-asleep man rubs his face and twists around, fumbling on the nightstand for the offending noise.

It’s Taehyung’s phone, vibrating against the wooden table, and once Jimin blinks twice at the glaring screen he gasps and yanks the charger out, sitting up in bed. “It’s hyung,” he declares in a voice more vulnerable than you’d ever heard from him before. “Wake Tae.”

You force yourself to dispel those last few wisps of sleep from your brain, and gently shake Taehyung awake. According to the clock on the nightstand, it’s almost two in the morning, but your heart leaps as Yoongi’s face fills the phone screen, looking right at the three of you.

“I thought you would be together,” he states with a rueful smile, though you can see that it doesn’t quite reach his reddened eyes. “Sorry for calling so late.”

“Don’t apologise, hyung,” Taehyung whines, half of his weight on you as he leans in close, “we were so worried about you. How’s your dad?”

Yoongi’s brows furrow beneath mussed hair. “Not great,” he admits. “A little more stable, at least, but he’s pretty confused right now. Nurses worry that it might have affected his brain.”

Your heart sinks, both at the thought of a relatively young man suffering such awful health complications, but also at how Yoongi was trying to hide his exhaustion and distress. “Oh my god.”

“Mm, we should know soon what the damage is,” Yoongi explains further, rubbing his eyes with the hand not holding his phone aloft, “and if he’s alright I can head back h- head back to the Villa. He’s just been sleeping a lot today so… We don’t really know how he’ll be until he’s conscious for enough time. Yoonji’s with him at the moment, I just wanted to duck out and give you guys an update. Where are the others?”

“Jin-hyung’s room,” Jimin answers, even as he’s throwing back the covers. “They’ll want to hear from you themselves, just hold on a minute.”

You hear Yoongi’s voice echoing from the phone and strain to make out his words as Jimin heads to the door. “No, no, don’t wake them. I actually wanted to ask if you’d like to come visit? Of course none of you know my dad, and he doesn’t know you, but- Well, Yoonji and I could do with some company.”

You jump up, rushing to Jimin’s side. As he naturally accommodates your presence and pulls you flush against him, you lift your face up to the phone. “We’ll be there,” you assure Yoongi, “just please get some rest tonight. It’s been a rough day.”

Yoongi’s pained smile breaks your heart, and Jimin leads the phone back to the bed so that Taehyung can say a final goodbye before the three of you hang up and crawl, exhausted but somewhat relieved, back into bed.

#bts x reader #bts x reader smut #bts fanfic #bts smut #the gentlemen #tgm #yoongi x reader #jin x reader #hoseok x reader #namjoon x reader #jimin x reader #taehyung x reader #jungkook x reader

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gaiuswrites · 3 years

Text

King of Cups || Chapter 7

Chapter 7: The Fool

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | six

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: It all spills over.

Word count: 8.8k~

Rating: Explicit

Warnings/tags: SMUT (WE MADE IT FOLKS), thigh riding, fingering/hand job, very brief breathplay/choking, cum eating¿? Angst/emo shit (I'm so sorry i have no self control)

Notes: HI FRIENDS, wow it's been a minute. Sorry for the massive delay. For anyone wishing to start KOC, now would be the perfectly spicy chapter to do so! This chapter was Herculean. idk why. Love you guys, enjoy! x (gif credit : @djarinsgf)

“Maker,” you bemoan, shielding your face from the heavy beat of the suns.

You’ve known warmth—you were raised in warmth. This is beyond it.

It’s not just warm, it’s sweltering. The heat is oppressive, congealing the air to mist; you can barely see through it what with the sweat running into your eyes. Tall, craggy dunes line the valley of desert, trapping the planet’s hot pulse within their walls. Your steps crunch along the dry, pebbled earth as you swat at the gnats buzzing in ribbons around your head.

A muffled gurgle sounds from behind you and you slow to a halt, boots gritting into the cracked top soil.

“You doing alright back there, Munch?” you ask, craning your head to the child nestled into the carrier fashioned onto your back. A green ear pokes free from the top, and you can see the jewel of his black eyes peering at you through the gauzy cloth you draped over it. He grunts, and you give a small shrug—shifting the pack by the straps, eliciting a giggle out of him. “We can always turn back, okay? I’m not going to be mad.” Another noise, a happy coo this time, and you shimmy your shoulders again, jostling the bag playfully.

“Well, you just let me know.”

Your conversations usually unfold this way. They leave much to be desired, but you’d like to think you understand one another—in fact, you probably understand the kid more than you understand his dad.

You’ve grown close with him, you’ll be the first to admit it. You’re attached to each other. The little one has been your constant companion for these months and in some ways, you suppose he takes care of you just the same as you take care of him. The chamber of space can be lonely; it’s cold and unkindly reflective, stranding you to the echoed chain of your thoughts—but when he tugs at your hair or slobbers spittle down the front of him or crawls up into your lap to nestle into your tunic, it feels like you belong there—there on the Crest, streaming through the galaxy.

And maybe, simply, it feels good to do right by a child—as if you could make up for it somehow, within yourself. To do better than you were given.

Squinting, you raise your wrist to check the coordinates on your comm and shade a hand over the screen, blocking the glare cast onto the display. “Almost there,” you mumble, resuming your stride as you begin the last leg of the trek to the settlement you and Mando discussed that morning.

“What?” he asked, planted some paces away from you.

You hummed a curious note, glancing to him.

“What is it?”

You were trying to be small all morning—shrunken and shy, avoiding the thought and avoiding him all together. You quieted yourself, as if to not take up space, but the attempt was fruitless; of course he picked up on it – you get good at reading people on the job, he’d said – and of course he called you out on your behavior. You took a big gulp of your caf, gaze flickering down—increasingly more and more invested in the scuffs marked into the table you sat at.

“Dala,” he said pointedly, arms folding over the breadth of his chest.

Shit. Who did you think you were fooling? Playing possum with a Mandalorian?

Worrying your lip, you stood. You couldn’t bear to look up at him, just looming there across the table from you, so you paced around the deck as you rambled. “Okay, so you know how I’m still connected to the RRM channels? Well, I’ve been checking the message boards and I—there’s a settlement here out in the Wastes. It’s small and new and they’re looking for volunteers and—”

You whistled in a breath. Fuck it.

“And I want to help.”

Like the toggle of a switch, you went from having a career—having a purpose—to having nothing. And all your gratitude for the transport he’s offering couldn’t fill that empty lull that’s settled inside you.

“Would you be comfortable with letting me take the kid? I know I’m probably asking a lot—and I will fully respect whatever you decide—but I can keep him by me the whole time, I swear, I just—” You shook your head, pinching your eyes shut before sighing, “I need to be doing something. Anything.”

There was a long pause. You scratched at the torn skin around your cuticle, nervously searching the pitch of his wordless visor. He didn’t move a muscle. He didn’t even twitch.

“That’s fine,” he finally remarked, graveled.

You blinked, taken aback at his agreement, and all at once your fidgeting ceased and a bright grin broke out over your features in its place.

It nearly brought him to his knees.

“Wait, seriously?” you asked, bouncing on the balls of your feet and he nodded, a subtle tilt to his helm. “Maker, thank you,” you exclaimed, and without thinking you flew towards him, flinging your arms around his neck and sealing yourself to his armored frame. His arms escaped out from his chest in surprise, suspended and stiff, before falling measuredly to his sides. You could’ve been imagining it, but you swore you heard the distinct grit of his teeth grinding together under his helmet.

“Really Mando,” you beamed, pulling back to lay your eyes on him, to let him see the earnest there: you have no idea how much this means to me. “Thank you.”

You gave his shoulders a squeeze, thumbs brushing along the scratchy fabric of his cape before tearing yourself away. Swiping up your mug of caf, you wound down the corridor - airy, buoyant - back to your makeshift quarters to prepare for your outing. It took him another minute just to get his damn feet to move from the spot on the durasteel you welded him to.

Din told you to be safe.

You smiled, and promised you would.

You left the Crest before him and it was strange, surreal. For the first time, you stood in each other’s shoes, leaving Din there on his own while you set off into the world. He watched you go—you and his boy—watched you walk away into some great unknown without him.

And he didn’t like it.

He soured, somewhere in the deep of him—within that pit he called a gut, he twisted sick.

Your feet hit the ramp, dull and tinny, and it sounded like goodbye—it sounded like you leaving. It’s what it will look like when time and fate touch, and inevitability catches up with him. It’s what it will look like when he takes you home. You’ll walk out of his life, down that same ramp, and your steps will echo those same beats. You won’t look back.

And Din, with all his strength, all his unshakeable resolve—Din will let you go.

///

The encampment is settled into the shadow of a cliffside, seeking respite there from the blazing suns, the taupe of the canvas shanties camouflaging into the arid landscape. Some crawl their gaze up as you enter the village, and you offer them smiles they do not return. Others do not acknowledge your presence at all— unstirred as your footsteps sound past, their heads bound heavy towards the earth. It’s not long before a decisive voice cuts through the hush that’s claimed the settlement.

“Are you with the RRM?”

You turn and are greeted by a woman ducking out of a tent—the grey of her woven tunic browned with sand, heat collecting in her black, coiled hair.

“Yes, I’m with the Movement.” It’s not a total lie. Sure, you’re on leave, but that doesn’t discount you completely. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

With a sharp exhale like a prayer of relief, she makes her way towards you. “Where’s the rest of your division?” Her eyes narrow discerningly, flitting behind you as if expecting to spot the rear of your party trickling in.

“It’s, uh—it’s just me,” you confess, pressing your lips together in a thin smile.

She rakes a hand over her hair, over her face. The skin around her knuckles is split, the beds of her nails chalked with days of unwashed grime. “Alright,” she concedes begrudgingly, without any better option presented. “And who is this?” She nods to the child, emerging from the pack and staring curiously at her.

“This is—” You take a moment to consider it—consider the secrecy around the child, the bounties, the life on the lam. Less is more, you decide. Again, it’s not a total lie. “I’m babysitting.”

The kid grunts an emphatic patu.

You both share a look—a quirk of her dark brow, an apologetic heft of your shoulder—and she sighs. “Well, I’ll take all the help I can get,” she quips dryly with a wave of her hand, leading you into the settlement.

///

She’s coarse, this woman—Arlaani, she told you—matronly and effective. She has a calculating gaze and powerful shoulders that she holds steady as she shows you through the camp. There are lines around her eyes, carved into the curves of her mouth. She knows what you know—what all women learn: sometimes you must be hard in order to keep others soft.

You walk shoulder to shoulder, matching her long strides with your own.

“The Black Sun has taken the southern hemisphere; their numbers have only grown since the Battle of Yavin. Pirates, mercenaries, spice runners—they’ve ransacked one half of the planet and have the officials of the other half in their pocket,” she scowls. “They have stolen our land, our homes—we’re moisture farmers, mechanics, mothers and fathers. We are simple people and we have been forgotten by our government—by those who vowed to represent us, protect us.” Arlaani draws in a long breath. “We’re on our own out here in the Wastes.”

You survey the area; the lifeless ocean of rock and sand, the few scattered trees that have died on their feet—roots withering bone dry in the suns. “Why settle here if it’s so uninhabitable?”

She huffs a humorless laugh. “Because, it’s uninhabitable,” Arlaani explains. “No one robs a beggar. There is nothing in the Wastes the Black Sun wants.”

There are no buildings, no structures; the whole area is undeveloped and raw. Tents are dotted sporadically in clusters, crates of supplies and water canteens stationed every other one. Children dawdle idly, tired and overheated, leaning against boxes and posts—their bellies distended and skin parched taut. Flies land on their shins, on their cheeks. They do not go to shoo them away.

“The Movement supplied those for us when we landed,” she comments, nodding to the crates. “That was two months ago.”

“No one has come back to check on you since?” you ask, brows notching together.

She shakes her head solemnly, jaw set rigid. “Our little ones go hungry, our elders are sick with red fever. We will run out of water before the week is through,” Arlaani says before she turns to you, holding your gaze—the seriousness evident in the stone of her eyes. “I thank the gods you are here.” She presses a palm to your shoulder. You feel the weight of it, the weight of her—of the lives she carries on her back.

“I thank the gods.”

///

You stop by each tent delivering what little food and medicine you brought with you from the Crest, and after each encounter—the people so grateful, so weary—your mind strays further and further to Mando.

Din, you scold yourself. Not Mando, Din. Din Djarin.

You still can’t bring yourself to say it.

He spent that whole fateful day nearly two weeks ago bristling at the very sight of you, going out of his way to limp to the other side of the ship just to ignore you better, only to do you in for one final head spin and give you his name.

Two weeks, and you still haven’t said it. There’s no other excuse: plainly - pitifully - you’re scared. You’re scared he regrets it.

Because how horrible of a truth would it be? To be offered something out of carelessness or guilt; to be the product of pity, or even worse, a mistake that cannot be unmade, cannot be rectified. He can’t take his name back, can’t unspeak it any more than you can unhear it, and this fear, picking at you like an old scab—it’s so painfully human, so terribly universal:

what if I’m not worth it?

And isn’t it easier to neglect the answer, then it is to ask the question.

So you’ve buried his name for both of your sakes, keeping it somewhere secret and private, there to garner dust in the quiet of your mind.

You’re brushing through the draped entrance of a tent when you spot him: a small boy hiding behind a supply crate, the top of his dusted head poking out over the ledge. You catch him peering at you, and he ducks down shyly. A honeyed grin blooms across your face.

“I think we’re being watched Munch,” you coo. The little ball of robes blinks up at you from your arms, earning his nickname tenfold as he crams his mouth with a flakey cracker. “You want to say hi?” He hums in response and you crouch, letting him wiggle free from you to toddle over to the other child. With small steps, he eventually makes it over to the other and immediately, without hesitation or provocation, extends one of his crackers to him.

Your heart swells until it bursts, proud and beautiful in your chest.

Munch leads him out from behind the box, the two boys shuffling slowly through the dirt back to you. He can’t quite meet your eyes—his gaze lands somewhere around your chin, your collarbone, and you fold forward, bent at the knees to meet his height.

“Do you have a name, sweetheart?” you ask kindly.

He nods, nibbling quietly on the cracker, and you breathe out a chuckle. “Not much of a talker, huh? I can respect that,” you say, eyes crinkling fondly with a smile. “Well if you want to tell me, you can—or not. That’s okay, too.”

He nods again, and you fish out more salty treats from the sleeve in your pack, gently handing them to the other—a gesture he nervously accepts, dirty fingers trembling as he plucks them from your open palm. This boy is precious—sweet faced and cherubic, he must not be a cycle over the age of seven.

And the realization comes so suddenly that it blindsides you—struck by it, there between your lungs: Din was his age when it happened—when life happened to him. When this could have happened to him.

You can’t help but think of it—think of him and everything he told you that night he came bleeding through the Razor Crest. You can’t stop imagining him; Din as a little boy tucked away, his people—his parents—decimated overhead. He is a Mandalorian by proxy. Displaced from his home, from his past, saved by a sect with an affinity for orphans—to protect those who cannot protect themselves. The irony of it all is not lost on you:

Din is a refugee too.

You see him in this boy, and in all the faces here—in every set of eyes, young and old alike. Each are individual - idiosyncratic - but they each wear the same qualifiers. The same exhaustion. They each fight the same tired battle, leaving them with identical sets of marks.

Does Din? If you were to see him, truly see him, would you find them there? You’ve seen the scars he’s earned from being a Mandalorian.

You wonder if he has any from simply being a man.

Pushing yourself to stand upright, you cradle Munch back into your chest, his teensy claws riddling your shirt, and offer the boy your hand—outstretched in front of you.

He’s cautious. Too cautious for a boy so young, for a child who should know nothing but abundant love and fearless imagination. He shouldn’t have had to learn this lesson: that some hands should not be taken, that some people should not be trusted. He studies you, hesitant but hopeful, and you smile softly—cycles of hard-won patience and empathy curving the corners of your lips.

He lays his small hand in your own. You walk on together.

///

The day blows by like hot desert wind, chafing at your skin. Minutes have ripened to hours—morning has crawled to midday.

The three of you finish your rounds— distributing rations throughout the camp, pitching tents, taking stock of the dwindling supplies for you to relay to the Movement once you return to the Crest and have access to your holopad.

It’s then that you notice Arlaani again. She’s speaking in hushed tones with another man, the both of them hunched over a large carton. You see the concern ticked clearly along the man’s jaw, the dread grooved into her brow, her crossed arms. With a frown, you plop the child down onto a nearby petrified log and the other boy joins, hopping up next to him, all too happy to get off his feet. You tell them not to wander off— a kiss to Munch’s forehead, a ruffle of the boy’s hair— before making your way to the couple.

“Hey,” you call, jogging over. “Is everything alright?”

Arlaani wheels around as you approach. It hasn’t been long since you’ve seen her, but somehow she looks older. Hollowed, drained— like there’s less and less in her. “It’s the water,” she grits out, “sand mites have gotten to the crates, to the canteens.” She tosses you one of the flasks. It’s littered with holes, porous and leaking— the remnants of water splashing out of the orifices bitten into the sides.

Arlaani dives through the crate, rifling through the supplies. She’s tense, upset, her voice is rife with it. “They’re all like this. Ruined, fucking—” She heaves out a hissed exhale and props herself up on the edge of the box, neck bowed between her shoulder blades. “This was the last of it, and now—now…”

The man tries his best - how do you comfort marble? - as he places an arm around her, his thumb drawing patterns there, reassuring and calm but she wants nothing of it; she gruffly shrugs it off as if stung, weaseling out of his hold. “I can’t— I need to think,” Arlaani bristles, as she paces away from the settlement, receding deeper into the Wastes.

“I’m sorry,” he stutters, “I have- I have to—” His eyes follow her shrinking form, worry apparent in the shape of them. It’s so obvious. He’s terrified of that woman—probably loves her, too.

“Go,” you say, and with a knowing expression, he turns and trots after her.

Heavy footed, heavy hearted, you trudge back to find the children exactly where you left them. Once there, you collapse to the hard ground, dust and dirt puffing up as you recline onto the log. Your palms run over the earth—scooping up sand and rock and letting it slip through the cracks of your fingers, gaze trained out onto the encampment—the people milling about, the miasma of helplessness stifling the air.

This isn’t enough. You’re not doing enough— these impermanent little nothings, your measly good deeds. It’s not going to matter. They’ll be bones by the time the next wave of volunteers rolls through. They’ll be grain.

You need to do something that lasts, that outlives you when you leave.

You glance over to the kid and his new friend, their little legs swinging off the edge of the trunk, heels thumping against the old wood. They look to you, two pairs of big eyes—crackers in their tiny fists.

“You boys ever dig a well?”

///|||///

The suns roast into his beskar, blistering him from the inside out.

The day has been long and it’s only half over. It took him longer than it should have to gather himself— his fob, his rifle, his fucking head—and depart the Crest. Longer than it should have to hunt the bounty here—some marauder scum who’s number is up and luck has run out. Longer than it should have to set up his sniper’s nest, sculpted into the mountainside.

Din is distracted, has been all day— has been since you left.

He can’t stop feeling you. Your warmth pushing against his chest, your arms looping around his neck, the heat of your palms searing through his flight suit. Din can smell you on him still— like citrus and moss, you cling to his cowl from where you buried your head.

It’s intolerable. It feels like an infection with how it’s been building, how this has spread— slowly but surely rearing to an unignorable head. Serpentine and insidious as it crept through him, this growing affliction— this morbid curiosity that spoiled like rotting stonefruit into infatuation— slipping along his bones and organs, blemishing Din in faint little licks— imperceptible to the naked eye but there all the same.

How did this happen? How did he become this?

You’ve been more relaxed now, bolder in some ways. Transparent. Sometimes, you’ll touch his arm as you walk by him or sweep your hair from your neck when you sit by his side in the cockpit, star shine on your jaw. You’re quick with a laugh, lips pulling back into a pretty grin. He’s even caught you staring at him, there out of the corner of his eye—from where he steals those same glances under the safety of his helm.

He spied you once, just a glimpse of your backside, padding quietly away from the shower with only your underwear on, drops of water tracking down your spine. It was brief, you were fast—you must have forgotten your shirt in your bunk—but he had to lock himself in his quarters and fuck his hand before he could even think about piloting the Crest into the stratosphere.

Din is a lot of things, but he isn’t daft. A part of him knows. A part of him is aware that you are two very human people with very human needs—and that you’ve been ignoring these primal aches with premeditated dereliction for months now.

And you can only dance around each other so long before one of you snaps.

And Maker, he’s so desperate to be rid of you—to get you out of his fucking system; to let him sleep without dreaming of you, to let him wake without plunging into his briefs and jerking himself off. You are everywhere. In his ship, in his galley, in his thoughts. He has no privacy, he has no sanctity— he has no idea how you have managed to worm yourself so deep into every living part of him. Others have tried and they have failed, and you— you did it in your sleep. From that very first fucking night, curled up in his chair, gore and ash stained tunic rising with your slumbered breathing. You snored.

You fucking snored.

And now you’re killing him— just as the suns above, you are blistering him from the inside out.

His level-headedness has all but evaporated. He’s peeved. Not only is Din distracted, but he's angry— has been since he plodded up this damn hill, waiting for his quarry to pass through the ravine between the valley of mountains—because instead of performing his job, he’s consumed with you. All of you.

He kneels, flattening himself against the rocky sand— your hands, so small and soft against him— and unclips the rifle from the strap on his back—how good you’d feel on his skin—he aligns his sights— the weight of your breasts in his palms—

His helmeted head clunks to the ground and he loses his aim, a frustrated growl emanating out from him. Focus, Mando. Fucking focus.

Din reorients his crosshair, training it on the gang of pirates in the gorge below. They lean haphazardly over their speeders, their cargo nets packed full with different wares and spices, jeering loudly and chugging from the jugs of spotchka they undoubtedly looted earlier that afternoon. He inspects the rabble, searching for his target and—those pretty lips that smile so easy for him, stretched around his length.

Fuck. He pinches his eyes shut.

You whispering husky into his ear as you ride him, you bent over the pilot’s chair begging for his cock, you sprawled out over the deck while he laps at your sweet cunt.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck— he can’t do this. He can’t fucking do this. You’re everywhere everywhere everywhere— you buffer his vision, his senses, his sight. He’s blinded with you. You’re blinding him.

With an infuriated heave he shoves himself off the ridge of the dune, bounty-less, and reverses his course back to the Crest—heart beating furious and bloody against his ribs.

///

The settlers surround the trench, peering down at you as you work. Hours ago, when you originally proposed this idea to Arlaani, they insisted on helping— to which of course, you insisted they didn’t. And so they watch— the refugees, Din’s foundling, the nameless boy— mangling their hands restlessly, animated with an inkling of that all too lethal substance long sought after by those of all species and creeds: hope.

You sink the shovel into the dry earth and your muscles burn with the effort—the skin on your palms stings from the rough grate of the wooden dowel and the yawn of your back strains as you pitch forward.

You’ve missed this.

You’ve been so distracted. You’ve grown comfortable in your routines, you’ve let yourself go listless—living in blissful ignorance—all because of a metal man in his metal ship with the most impossible and darling child you’ve ever known. All because your body reacts at the very sight of him, all because your belly flips when he speaks, that modulated purr rumbling loose from his beskar, all because, because—

You like him.

You wish you didn’t—you hardly know why you do—but you’ve soaked your fingers enough times in your rack to realize that this thing residing within you burns.

You can’t even see his face, and you don’t have to. His presence alone— that raw, vacuous energy that surges from him—it’s addicting. It's engulfing. It makes you whimper into the night, massaging your pearled clit as your other hand muffles your moans and you come over and over and over again, chasing after the fantasy you so dangerously harbor for this man. The man who’s piloting you back to Coruscant—the man who sleeps just down the hall.

But that isn’t real. That’s not real life— that’s not your life. This is real—the fuchsia of the setting suns blazing through the horizon, the sweat on your brow. You’ve missed this— Maker, you need this. Working with your hands, making an impact. You’re wanted here and kriff, does that not feel so unabashedly right. To be wanted. To be important.

Your back groans, the sinew woven over your spine aching in protest and you know, without a doubt, you’ll feel this for the next week. Half of you dreads it—being cooped up and sore, lactic acid compacting your joints— while the other excites at the prospect; the memory of a good deed lasting long after it’s finished. That reminder always there, always present: see, there’s still hope in the galaxy. We can still do good. There’s goodness where you look for it.

You fling dirt over your shoulder as you burrow lower and lower. With each shove, the soil changes hue, changes density—the striations darker, more definitive. It’s less dry now, thicker too—turning from sand to clay the deeper you dig. Again, you drive the spade into the sod with a taxed grunt, when you hear a distinct, wet squish.

You pause, stilling your shovel in the dirt. Everything - everyone - freezes.

Adrenaline thrums through you as you drop to your knees, using your hands to brush away loose silt piled atop the loamy floor, excavating what lies beneath.

Prayers and hollers erupt above you and you lurch your focus up to the sound, a feverish grin plastered to your face. The little boy jostles the child excitedly, and his green talons rumple the other’s tattered tunic. Your head falls back, cushioned by the dirt wall and you laugh - gargled, relieved - as water begins to seep through the tired ground.

Bubbling up, bubbling up—unearthing.

///

The promise of ridding yourself of your soiled clothes was the singular thought that fueled your trek back to the Crest. Every inch of you was filthy, caked in dried mud and gritty sand and you wanted nothing more than to strip from those dirty layers and melt into your bedroll. The kid, that lucky little bugger, had passed right out; sun drunk from his long day, he’d slept the entirety of the return trip—stirring only once when you placed him in the hover pram and sealed it shut.

Your bones are worn. Your tissue, your tendons— every little scrap that keeps you stitched together craves sleep. You reckon you should feel miserable, what with the tell-tale stiffness already burdening your spine and the fresh callus from the shovel’s handle reddening your palm.

But you’re not miserable, not even close. No, you’re happy—you’re glowing; fulfilled and serene, humming as you wash your pants in the basin, kneading at the sopping fabric. You wring out the article, shaking free the excess droplets before draping it on a metal rung overhead. You peel off your shirt and bra band next, leaving you only in your underwear as you plop them into the bowl and begin to scrub at the stains, concentrating on a particularly dirty patch at the sleeve.

The grating mechanics of the Crest’s great jaw unhinging sends your stomach bounding frantic to your lungs.

Kriff—shit shit shit, he’s back early.

Clutching onto your modesty, you cover your breasts and scramble to your quarters, quickly shimming a loose tunic over your head. Its hem barely covers the curve of your ass and you tug long at the cloth before peeking cautiously from the doorway and tiptoeing out of your room.

“Hey,” you warble, rounding a corner as solid feet pound up the ramp—you can feel their reverberations in the floor under your own. You pad into the galley, pulling at your shirt as you go, to tidy up the washing you left unattended. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you so—”

You falter.

He’s there at the mouth of the ship, the ramp drawing slowly up behind him and he’s fuming; you can practically see the steam lifting from his armor and his breathing is labored—chest rising, plummeting violently. You both stand immobilized on opposite sides of the hull—you, bare-legged and exposed and Din, all but anonymous under the steeled fury of his armor. Finally, the sound dampens, ship shuddering as she seals shut—sealing you in—and the leather of his fist creaks in the silence hanging dense like smoke around you.

“Mando...?”

He doesn’t grace you with a response. Instead he begins to stalk forward, stripping weapon after weapon from himself with every thundering step—rifle, blaster, vibroblade—he sloughs it all, metal clanging against metal as they clatter to the deck.

“Hey, what’s wrong-”

He’s not stopping. Fuck, he’s getting closer and closer and instinctually you back up—staggering until you’re pressed against the bulkhead—his broad frame crowding you until all you see is the silver polish of his beskar. You jolt when his hands fly up and slam into the wall behind you, framing either side of your head, fencing you between his forearms. Your lips part, wide-eyed and confused, and you gulp around the nervous lump threatening your voice.

“Do you have any idea,” he seethes, “what you do to me?”

“W-What-” Your stammering is cut short as he slots his thigh between your legs and you have to tilt your chin to meet his visor, a gasp finding itself on your tongue.

“Strutting around my ship, putting your hands on me, that kriffing smile…” Din ruts his knee into your heat, and you’re practically hoisted onto your toes. Your core pulses against the blunt pressure, blood racing to the throb at your center.

Maker, you could fucking faint.

“Do you know how long I’ve thought about this—about you?” His voice is tar black—smooth like obsidian—and you succumb to it. You can’t speak; any and all language evaporating from the forefront of your mind, because he’s everywhere. He’s inescapable and smothering and his scent floods over you, intoxicatingly wild—like iron and sand and something dangerous. Something heady, carnal.

“Is this what you want?” he hisses.

You’ve gone dumb. You’ve imagined this, you’ve dreamt of this, but now it’s actually happening—here, in the flesh, it’s finally happening and you’re trembling with the reality of it. All you can muster is a shaky nod, tongue darting out over your lip.

“Tell me,” he orders, scanning your face behind the guise of his helm. You feel his gaze rove over your eyes, your cheek—fanning across your lips.

Your breath hitches.

“Yes,” you whisper, “yes I want this.“

It’s all it takes.

Din is rougher than he means to be. He wears this as he wears his armor, plating the soft parts of himself he doesn’t want anyone touching. He doesn’t know anything else. He doesn’t know how to be anyone else but this.

He grabs a handful of your waist, rooting you still as he rolls his thigh against you. You inhale an airy noise, grappling onto his other arm stationed by your head and you bite your lip, sucking it into your mouth. Your cunt spasms for him as he presses up into your mound, fightless against the groan that seeps through you.

“You like that?” he pants. ”You like fucking my thigh?”

Din manhandles your hips, his hold on you vicious as he rocks you back and forth on his plated leg, your clit catching on the cold edge of his thigh guard with each motion. It sends hot sparks down your spine and you trap a moan behind your teeth, letting the sound rumble there before you swallow it. His hand weaves up from your waist, the drag of his glove setting fire to your skin as he passes over the swell of your clothed breast, and you arch into his palm as he swipes a thumb over a nipple. “You want more?”

He splays his large hand, groping at your plump flesh, and pinches your nipple hard until it pebbles through your shirt. With each sharp twist, his intention becomes clearer: it won’t be enough to skate by on moans alone.

“I asked you a question.”

Din slides his other hand to the small of your back, drawing you flush to his front, and you can feel him— the outline of his firm length twitching under his flight suit against your hip. He cranes over you, intimidating and menacing and achingly devious. The panel of his visor has never looked darker.

“Use your words, dala,” he husks.

You should be embarrassed by this—by your need made evident through the soaked lining of your underwear—but you aren’t. The heat that stipples your cheeks isn’t born from shame, it’s sprung from lust—pure and primal—and you can’t afford to give it any further consideration because all there is is this man wrenching sounds from you like an animal— and he’s scarcely even touched you yet.

“Your fingers,” you whimper, “I want your hands."

He learned this lesson within those first weeks—relearns it every fucking day. You could ask him for anything - everything - and he would oblige.

He can’t say no to you.

He shifts out from between you, hooking into the elastic of your panties and tears them down your thighs to rest just above your knees, the spread of your legs keeping them from dropping to your ankles.

Patiently - tortuously - he scrapes up your legs, leaving embers in his wake as he trails higher higher higher to where you need him most. You’re shivering—nerve endings fried and frayed—and every atom inside you hums with anticipation, with unbridled impulse.

The orange tips of his gloves dimple your inner thighs - squeezing, massaging - before he tilts his helmet, angling himself to see you better, and paws your swollen lips apart.

Your pussy is drooling for him.

He moans something indecipherable— a curse in Mando’a—at the sight of you glistening for him under the dimmed lights like this, and immediately you buck your pelvis to him, hungry for his touch—and the pathetic noises babbling out of you prove too much for him to bear.

“Fuck this,” he snarls, ripping a glove off and tossing it aside, “I need to feel you.”

Your eyes have dilated with want, blackened as you watch Din retrace his bare hand—that gorgeous thing you’ve never seen, only ever fantasized about—back to your heat and slowly - so fucking slowly - pass a finger through your slit.

You throw your head back, knocking against the durasteel. The mewl that escapes you is inhuman.

He’s so warm. His tan skin is molten—it’s like he brought the sun in with him, as if he’s burning that star straight into your sex. You’re slippery with arousal; you can feel how glossed you are, you don’t have to look. You can hear it—hear the obscene squelches he’s stroking from your seam.

“Maker, you’re - shit - you’re wet,” he groans loudly, reveling in the way you pitch your hips—seeking his warmth, his friction. He’s been toying with you, drawing patterns along your pussy and playing with your puffy folds, but he hasn’t even come close to your clit. You know it’s no accident. Din is methodical in all things, he doesn’t make mistakes. This is a decision—it’s intentional. You think, perhaps, he’s looking to break you—some sort of retribution for these months you’ve spent swimming in circles around each other—and you think, perhaps, you’d let him.

That you’d like it.

When Din grants you mercy, finally gliding his index along your neglected bundle of nerves, reflexively you fist into his cowl, knuckles going pale.

“Stars-” you exclaim—just like that.

He handles your body like he does one of his pistols - practiced, unparalleled - encircling your clit with precision, his finger on your trigger—blinding, perfect agony swiveled into your sweet cleft.

When he pushes himself inside you, all the oxygen gets punched out of your lungs.

“Fuck, and so tight,” Din growls, bending at the knuckle to curl over that spongy spot of your walls that makes you gape, makes your brain go slack. Your arms scamper around his pauldrons, nails scraping sharp over beskar. The heel of his hand presses into your clit and you grind against him, each roll of your hips pleading a filthy please please please as you chase after the orgasm he’s baiting you with.

He responds to that, bourboned praise dripping smug from his smirk. “Fuck, look at you, so desperate—gonna cum for me already?”

You don’t have the wherewithal to formulate a response. He’s fit another finger into you, fucking up into you hard—fucking you exactly how you need him to. It feels like you are about to shatter right there on your feet. It’s almost unbearable, this mounting tension that’s climbing within you. You’ve been so starved for this, so deprived of a kind touch and a good fuck, and within no time at all he’s coaxing you to the ledge of your release.

“Mando,” you sob, entwining your fingers into his cape, grinding grinding grinding into his palm when suddenly, without warning, his ministrations cease—that burning coil abating to a simmer. You let out a rasped pant, collapsing forward onto his shoulder— your climax ripped away from you at the last, pivotal second.

Your eyes are screwed shut, you don’t see the movement—you can only feel it once it’s already there: the bounty hunter’s glove grating over your neck. You sputter out a gasp as he forces your jaw up to align with the chill of his visor, trapped in the unrelenting strength of his grasp. Your eyes clamber around the chrome boxing you in, gulping back the fear coalescing in your mouth.

“You say my name,” he gravels. “You say my name when I’m inside you.”

Your cunt spasms around the fingers still seated within you—aching for movement, aching to cum—and your lower lip quivers as he leers. “I gave it to you—say it,” he commands.

For a fleeting moment, in the remaining rational corner of your brain, it occurs to you that you’re terrified—that there may be no going back once you speak it. There’s no unmaking this choice. Like a door—a door that swings both ways—once it is cracked ajar, it cannot be closed again. Because you know yourself, you loathe to admit it, but you know his name will crumble you; that you will bend—that you will want to give and give and give to him— and still, despite, you lay onto the handle and fling that door wide open.

“Din.”

“Fuck,” he seethes. His reaction is visceral—the whole of him stiffens, leathered pads of his fingertips searing into your throat. “Again.”

“Din,” you whine as he rocks his fingers into your walls.

He moans, wanton and guttural, at the way his name tumbles from you like velvet. “Good girl—fuck, that’s good.”

He vanishes from your neck, bringing his hand down to cup his cock bulging painfully against the fabric there and your gaze snaps to it, saliva pooling in the well of your mouth. You slither your hand down his breast plate, over the paneling of his flight suit, trailing south until it lands on the hide of his glove. You stop, waiting there - breathless - until he nods curtly.

His hand falls away. You mold your palm to his length.

“Din,” you give freely, high-pitched and girly, and his cock brays under your hand. Fuck, he’s big—you can feel his mass through his pants and your pussy flutters around his fingers moving deliciously lazy inside you. Your eyes latch onto his, the brown of them hidden somewhere under the helm, and you can feel his own bore into you, weighing leaden there—

before you both simultaneously rupture.

Din’s fingers slip out of you to fiddle with the hem of his pants, unbuttoning in a clumsy flourish until he springs free with a groan of relief.

Maker.

He’s fucking divine—long and veined, with a patch of dark curls padding around the base of him. Din weeps for you already, frustrated and pent up from the confines of his restraints, beads of arousal dappling his head. He hisses as you swipe a digit over his cock, smearing his precum down the silken slope of him. You’re transfixed—the both of you staring as you wrap your hand around his shaft and he shudders, keening in to your touch.

“Mm, fuck you’re soft- kriff-”

Din dwarfs you—you barely fit around his girth—and he can’t help but buck into your palm as you begin to move in tandem. Din flicks at your clit, mirroring your pace as you get each other off. It’s awkward and lewd and perfect—both of you, a tapestry of woven limbs and sweat and you pump him harder and harder, choking his cock with your fist. You fuck him raw, the dry drag of your satin hand ripping curses from his mouth.

“Fuck, dala,” he pants, “I-I’m not—” I’m not gonna last. His words are snuffed out as you circle your wrist and brush a thumb over his leaking tip, forcing him to shiver. He doesn’t have to finish his thought, you understand plenty well. You’re dancing along that same precipice, flirting with the fall.

“Stars, yes,” you plead. Fuck, you want him to cum— you need him to. You need to make him feel good, to let him know that you’re here - you’re right here - and that he means more to you than you care to admit; that you want him—have since you first laid eyes on him, since he rescued you, since he took you back to the Crest and gave you the last of his bacta to heal all your splintered bits. That he deserves this—with all that he’s done for you, all that he’s doing for you—

with all that he his.

“Din—please.” Fuck, you don’t even know what you’re asking for—more of him, all of him—and a groan tears through his modulator at the sound of you begging his name—like he’s wounded, like it pains him to hear you say it.

It’s a race now—the two of you hurdling headlong towards this terrible, messy collision. You’re both sloppy—wet sounds and slaps of skin—as you stumble closer to the brink of release. He’s been rendered incoherent, chiseled down to the basest of grunts and broken words you don’t recognize. His thumb finds a devastating pressure on your swollen nub and your legs begin to vibrate, nearly unable to stand on your own two feet with how fucking perfectly he’s working your pussy.

This thing inside you feels giant - monstrous - and that slow wave that’s been building and building and cresting is here, upon you. You’re trapped in the barrel of it, and it’s going to crash at any moment and sweep you out to sea. Drown you—happily, gladly. “I’m - oh fuck—"

“That’s it, good girl,” he praises, tightening his circles on your clit. “Cum for me, cum on my hand-”

A crack of lightening streaks up your middle, the whole of you shaking as your orgasm rushes through, a sputtering cry let loose into the ship. You feel yourself gush, dripping past his thickness stuffing you full, dripping down your inner thighs. Din pulls out from you and you whimper at the loss—his absence leaving you gaping, leaving you bereft. You’re siphoning down air, dizzy from your release, when he raises his hand, glistening with your fluids, and traces your bottom lip—asking for entrance.

Fuck.

You part for him, eager and pliant, and he snakes two fingers inside—tasting your own tang and the leather residue left there, stamped into the whirls of his fingerprints. Your tongue swirls around them, laving him clean, and you drag over the ridges of his shaft— still hard and throbbing and waiting in your grasp. He bobs his fingers in your mouth, matching you thrust for thrust, and you let out a depraved little moan, humming around him, and all Din can do is watch.

Watch as he disappears between your lips—his skin pulling and catching on your plush flesh— watch as you suck on them, watch as he practically fucks your throat. And Maker, you take him so fucking well, letting him do what he pleases with your all too supple body.

He can’t even begin to imagine what his cock would look like—what it would feel like nestled in the hot cavern of your mouth, hollowing your cheeks to suck him like hard candy. Din doesn’t let himself—can’t. If he did, fuck, that’d be it. He’d be done for. He knows he’d cum in a flash and he wants to make this last—to hold on to this - onto you - for as long as he can, allow himself this singular concession. The only time, he convinces himself, the last time.

He won’t think about you again.

You quicken your rhythm and Din bucks wildly into your palm, his seizing and twitching alerting you to how close he is. He slides from your mouth, a string of saliva trailing along after as he clasps onto the back of your neck.

“I’m gonna cum, I’m—” Din knots into your hair, gripping you rough, panting frantic. “Fuck. Fuck, dala— cyare-”

With a hoarse shout, he slams his gloved fist into the durasteel and spills over himself in hot, thick pumps, spurts shooting out to splatter on your tunic, on his flight suit, on your knuckles. You ease him through it, his cum glazing down his cock before you slow to a languid stroke, his seed sticky under your palm. You’re panting, the both of you, spent noises reverberating ugly and loud against the metal sidings.

Din sinks his helmet to your forehead while you catch your breath, his cold beskar kissing your flushed skin—the density of it comforting, grounding. Your eyes teeter shut and you let yourself lean into him, a dazed grin tugging at your wet lips. This is— nice; so much gentler than the pace he drove not minutes before. Head to head, his hand buried in your hair, your arm slung over his hulking shoulders; your fingers thread into the askew fabric behind his neck to discover a sliver of skin treasured away underneath. You trace there - lightly, whispered - earning a fizzle of static sent whirring through his vocoder.

“Fuck,” Din mumbles, before unweaving himself and separating from you. Your legs have gone useless and rubbery—you almost face plant forward without him there— and by the time you blink open, he’s already tucked himself into his pants and picked up his glove, slotting it over those skilled fingers that had just filled you to the brim. He turns back round to find you staring at him through the haze of your afterglow, eyes glassy and fucked out; your fluids dribbling down towards your underwear still bunched above your knees, hair tangled with sweat and saliva and cum—his and yours.

You look wrecked—disheveled. You’re so fucking pretty it makes Din want to scream.

He picks up a stray rag from a crate and offers it to you, before silently sliding your panties back up to your hips in one dexterous swipe. He lingers there but for a moment, savoring the touch of you—grazing a digit into the crease of your hip. You’re rendered mute— your brain can hardly string a sentence together— but finally you manage, your voice weak when you find it again.

“Thank you,” you croak, wiping away the traces of him off your knuckles, and you smile coquettish, delirious. “That was… that was, uhm—I really enjoyed that.”

A quiet beat slogs by.

And then, everything shifts.

Din’s hand descends from your waist, holstering it to his side, and he moves away. He moves away from you.

You can feel it immediately—like a gust of chilled wind, the change in the air nips at you. Din’s armor is anything but warm—his presence, his aura, anything but inviting—but now, he seems farther from you than ever before, his visor tempered and steely.

You know him. You know this man. You’ve travelled with him, you’ve mended his ills, you’ve taken care of his son, you’ve spoken his name, you’ve laid prints on his skin and deeper still—

And here, before you, Din is white noise. Indiscernible. Unreadable.

Nervously, you twiddle with the frayed edge of the stained cloth, worrying your cheek. You swear, just for a second, that you see him inch towards you— you think you sense him, some part of him, breaching the chasm that’s formed between you. But it’s only a trick of the lowlight—a trick of your cruel heart, winged and errant beneath your ribs, misconstruing your thoughts to fancy.

Because he doesn’t. He doesn’t come to you like you want. He doesn’t touch you again, he doesn’t hold you like you need.

It feels like you’re withering—your legs too bare, your tunic too short, hair too mussed, eyes too bleary—everything feels wrong now, misplaced. “Din,” you start, you try—you try to keep attached to this tether, to this thin strand you’ve sewn between your bodies, but he shrinks back. He severs it. He is as you first met him. Rigid. Distant. A Mandalorian bounty hunter— the best in the parsec. He is as he was months ago, when you were strangers.

When you were nothing.

“I—” He silences himself, teeth clenching shut around the unspoken sentiment you so long to hear, and instead takes another step backwards. Farther away. Farther from you.

He stands straighter, impossibly taller, and you feel

small.

“Goodnight,” Din gives, his voice shrouded and cloaked by his modulator. He pivots on his heel, retreating into the depths of the Crest and leaves you there, the ghost of his hands on your neck, on your breasts, in your heat— still tingling from where they haunt you. Exhausted, you thud back into the bulkhead, unfocused and unseeing.

“Goodnight Din,” you murmur, but it falls upon deaf ears. He’s gone, and the empty hull swallows your words—burying them.

taggies:

@girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @pedros-mustache @miranhas-art @djarrex @bookloverfilmoholic @keeper0fthestars @misguidedandbeguiled @bookishofalder @helmet-comes-off @grumpymuffinmama @niiight-dreamerrrr @spideysimpossiblegirl @janebby @greatcircle79 @djarinsbeskar @sammysdaisy @whataperfectwasteoftime @mandobloggin @silver-streaked-wings

#din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x fem!reader #mando x reader #mando x you #mando x fem!reader #din djarin #the mandalorian #pedro pascal #star wars fanfic #the mandalorian fanfic #king of cups #mandalorian smut

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writing-in-april · 3 years

Text

Soured Nostalgia

Spencer Reid x Female Reader

Summary: When Reader moves their stuff in to Spencer’s apartment they find photos that he kept over the years. One photo of the past springs up memories of Spencer’s precious relationship with Elle.

A/N: hey heeeyyy everybody- here’s a fic I’ve been really excited to share with everyone. It’s my eleventh fic for my 30 fics in 30 days!!! This was the original request (I made it a little different lol I hope you like it)I had a fun time with it mostly cause I totally think Spencer and Elle had something going on at some point 😉 Plus I got to incorporate older angsty post prison Spencer and mention how he used to be a little baby ☺️ I’m curious to hear y’all’s thoughts about the Reidaway ship, or really anything so feel free to drop an ask to my inbox here. Thanks for reading and hope you enjoy!

Warnings: 18+, Smut, Joking about being jealous???, Reidaway in the past, Spencer being sad about the people who’ve left him, Sub Spencer, Only a bit of dry sex, Masturbation, Unprotected sex, Use of a belt to restrain, A few taps on the cheek, Reader’s hand is around Spencer’s throat for a second

Main Masterlist Word Count: 3.2k

Reminiscing on the past was difficult depending on how the story had ended. Memories that may have been happy could turn too painful because of the ending result. Age turned the memories into unreliable accounts as well, unable to truly remember how things had been back then and how you had truly felt.

Memories were still something to hold onto and cherish even though they got twisted with age and opinion. Nostalgia, a sentimental or wishful affection for the past, was an addictive feeling even if it made you cry. It remained addictive even if most of your past memories had hurt you with no sentiment attached. Everyone always chased the euphoric feelings they had when looking at the ghosts of their past. Sometimes even when looking back you can find something that had once soured had turned sweet again.

Spencer had many memories that he was no longer able to look back upon for a host of reasons. Most often it was because he could no longer bear to look back on a memory of someone who had left him. Whether it was his Dad, Gideon, Hotch, Blake, Elle, and many others, looking back at them just made him often feel like everyone in his entire life had left him.

That wasn’t true of course, he still had his Mom- and you. Even with his Mom there were still many of his memories with her were still stained with guilt, though that had gotten better with time and with your help.

You had begun helping him find the benefit in looking back, trying to make the soured nostalgia a bit sweeter again. It was getting easier as time ticked by for him to open up to you about everything in his past, the good and the bad. At first you had been staring at a wall that he had been building higher and higher throughout the years, it was daunting how tall it was. When you helped take a sledgehammer to it, making it crumble beneath your effort, he pulled away for a while. He felt comfortable by himself behind his own Great Wall until you showed him the benefits of sharing the secrets he held behind it. But, you still stayed, helping him as much as you could until he was willing to open up.

It had been many months since you started your effort to help him break it down. At some point in the last months you had both fallen into a relationship, a romantic one. What had once been a platonic relationship forged from shared interests evolved into a romance emerging from the rubble of his wall.

He had even given you a key to his apartment at one point, which he had never done with anyone except the bureau. Emily was the one that really had it, but that was strictly for work reasons. This was a show of trust which was much more helpful than his wall that had reached the heights of a skyscraper.

A simple key soon turned into you staying at his place more often than at your own. You had casually mentioned one day while watching one of Spencer’s favorite documentaries that you basically lived here now. It was a true statement, most of the clothes you wore on a daily basis had been given a spot in his dresser and the toothbrush you kept there was not the one you used for travel- that one was at your place. You had begun to put your mark on Spencer’s life in a more permanent way than before.

When he had spontaneously suggested the next day that you should move in with him, you knew that your small comment had stuck in his brain. It was easy to agree to, you had said you basically already lived here, plus living with the love of your life sounded like a dream. You only had a few things that you wanted to bring over and it was mostly decorative stuff that you could’ve let go if Spencer hadn’t insisted that he wanted you to make the space your own.

While turning the space that was once solely Spencer’s into something for you both, you had found a small clear box with a blue lid, filled with pictures. Spencer didn’t have a lot of personal pictures framed, there was one with you and him by the bed, one with the team by his desk, one with him and Morgan on the living room wall, and one with you two and his Mom also hung up in the living room.

When you had shown him the box he could tell you were curious, letting you look through it without a moment of hesitation. In the past Spencer would have been wary sharing his memories with you, but now he’d let you look. If only you could get him to look at the box with you.

You weren’t surprised he didn't want to look with you once you saw the people littered throughout the snapshots. Varying people that had left were in most of them, even some you never met.

Ones with Hotch and Gideon- even one from a long time ago with his father buried at the bottom. As you browsed through them you were glad he was able to hang up that photo of him and Morgan, at least they had parted with some closure. It also helped that he still saw him regularly, he had never fully left like some of the people from his past.

One picture in particular stood out to you, it was another team photo, they seemed more carefree in this one compared to now. There was baby Spencer, before you had known him, in a birthday boy hat smiling with the rest of the team. You guessed it was around his 23rd or 24th birthday, going by the slick back gelled hair he had sported in his earlier years. He seemed so much more different back then, perhaps more carefree compared to now. But, he also seemed much more unsure of himself, maybe a bit self conscious. In the photo you could tell he was nervous, just by the look in his eyes. He still had that same look in his eyes whenever he felt nervous.

Then you looked closer at where his eyes were focused on, there was a clear line of sight from him to Elle. Elle was way less nervous in this captured moment compared to Spencer, though from what you had heard she had always been like that.

Your gaze on the photo was broken when Spencer then came into the living room where you were sitting on the couch.

You decided to test the waters to see if he might want to take a look at the photo with you, “Why do you look so nervous in this photo?”

He stopped the path he had been taking, then stood still for a second before deciding to sit next to you on the couch. Straining his neck he gazed over at the photo you were holding in your hands. It was silent for a while as he looked over it, stopping to look at his old team. Some of the team still remained intact, namely JJ, but she wasn’t the same as she had been all those years ago. You let him take it from your hands, so he could look at it closer. He cleared his throat a little, though his voice still came out slightly raspy when he spoke, though he didn’t answer the question you had asked him,“It’s the only picture I ever had taken with Elle…”

“I know you guys were- close.” You didn’t ask your previous question again, sensing that it was still too much to talk about in specifics. What he was telling you right now was even more than what he told you, only telling you that she was his first, everything. Any supplemental information was from talking discreetly to JJ about it one night because you were somewhat curious.

Tiptoeing around the relationship you knew that they had previously was like walking through a minefield. You tried the best that you could to avoid making him too upset. When you got him to open up, it wasn’t by forcing him to talk all at once. Busting the wall down was done brick by brick, not all at once.

“I’m glad you aren’t jealous of her.” His comment was said with less sadness than before. It was nice to see a glimpse of the weight coming off of his shoulders, even if it was just for a moment.

“What? Do you want me to be jealous of her?” You teased, lightheartedly so he wouldn’t dwell on the sad aspect of their past relationship. He smiled softly which deepened when you playfully stuck your tongue out and crossed your arms.

“No- you’ve got nothing to be jealous about…” Any playfulness in his voice was erased as his sentence trailed off. You didn’t say anything for a moment in case he wanted to continue his thought. And, after a moment of silence he did, “I haven’t spoken to her since she left…”

“I know- I was just joking about being jealous. I know how much she meant to you…” His eyes moved away from you, at first you thought it might be because he was still feeling the pain of losing her all those years ago. But, there was something else in his eyes, it naturally made you curious, “What are you thinking about?”

“If you were jealous- what would you have done?” His mind must have shifted away from thinking about the ending of his memories with Elle, which was a step in the right direction. At least he wasn’t avoiding the topic all together, he was still talking about her in a sense.

You bit your lip, thinking about what direction you could take this in. You weren’t going to lie, your mind had gone straight into the gutter at his suggestion and by the look on Spencer’s face so had his.

“Hmmm…” You pretended to ponder while you moved from where you were sitting on the couch to sit on something better, Spencer’s lap. Straddling him then with ease you looked down at his face tracing his cheeks with your fingers. His pupils were blown wide now, almost completely devouring his iris that had become a small ring. He didn’t say anything yet, waiting for you to continue your thought obediently, “I think I would do things to you that I suspect she never did.”

He gulped hard, hard enough that you could hear it. You continued to trace your fingers along his face, sometimes picking a lock of his hair to twirl, waiting for him to say something else like you knew he wanted to. It only took a few more seconds of your touches and your eyes staring into his own before he asked, “C-Can you show me?”

You stopped your movements, pausing for dramatic effect before crushing his lips onto your own. He squared into your mouth at first, clearly taken off guard by your sudden kiss. Before he had processed what was going on enough to let you, you forced your tongue into his mouth, earning you a delicious moan from him.

When you moved again suddenly, separating your mouth with his for just a moment, he tried to chase your lips. Pushing a finger to his lips you then used that to push him back into the couch, then answering his question, “Gladly.”

You kept your finger on his mouth to seal them shut. He could have opened it easily to respond to you, but he wanted to see what you might do next.

Instead of going back to kissing him you started to pull his belt off of him. It was difficult with one hand, taking much longer than it would be with two. But, you still kept your finger rested in the position most people use to shush someone.

Once the belt had finally been pulled from the belt loops of his slacks you finally removed your finger from his mouth. He still remained quiet, his eyes following your every move intently. You then went to work, pinning his hands above his head, then beginning to restrain them with his belt.

“Did she do this to you?” Goading him while you looped the belt around his hands. You made sure to go as slow as possible while you restrained him just to make it last longer until you gave him what he wanted. You even began to grind down on his cock a little bit, it obviously ached to be free from its confines in his trousers by how strained the slacks were getting.

“No!” His voice was broken and breathy, exactly how you wanted it as you tightened the belt around his hand a little more.

Once you were satisfied that the belt was tight enough you got off of him to remove the shorts you had been wearing, along with the rest of your clothes. Normally when you were naked and Spencer was clothed it would be when you were underneath him as a sort of power play. In this position, where he couldn’t move without fear of consequences while you restraddled him completely naked was almost even more empowering.

To play with the dynamic even more you had him remain confined in his slacks for a while longer, while you touched yourself. You were already quite wet from seeing Spencer in this position and exerting that power by pumping your fingers in you while he could do nothing had you dripping onto his slacks.

Spencer’s jaw had gone slack while watching you moan above him, completely speechless from your actions. It was almost comical and entirely too easy to tease him about, “Close your mouth you might catch flies.” His mouth clenched shut at that. It soon fell slack again at your next words while you brought yourself closer to the edge with your fingers, “What? Did she never do this for you?”

All Spencer could do was sit there and take it, shaking his head side to side, only a little so he could keep his eyes on you. You decided to be merciful, pulling your fingers out of you just before you orgasmed. You wanted to finish at the same time as him anyway.

Finally, you pulled his aching cock out of his slacks. It was throbbing in your hand as you spread your wetness with the fingers that had been inside you. Because you had edged yourself earlier, you couldn’t take teasing him any longer. You lined the head of his cock that was red and weeping up to your entrance, sinking down as fast as you could take him. While you sunk down you rubbed your clit in slow circles, not enough to make you orgasm, but enough to make it easier to take him.

Once you had fully taken him you wasted no time, immediately beginning to build up a fast pace. And, of course you couldn’t help but goad him again,

“Did she make you feel this good?” Your pace you had chosen was rough, bouncing and rolling your hips with reckless abandon while he had to take it without being able to move. He could have thrusted up into you even without the use of his hands, but he had one too many of your punishments in the past to be willing to break the rules so explicitly. Now if he ever broke the rules now it was him subtly bending them. Though, you could tell by the way his eyes rolled back into his head that he had no intention of doing that tonight. It felt too good to be used like this by you.

He still had not answered you though, not on purpose, but you still needed an answer. Tapping his cheek a few times, just hard enough to get his attention. It caused him to whine, but he still didn’t give you an answer. Since that didn’t work you decided to ask again, “I asked you a question. Did she make you feel this good? Did she use you like this?”

To add an extra edge to your words filled with a deadly tone you reached one of your hands forward to grasp around his neck. To make him look at you directly you forcefully tilted his neck, eyes once again trained on yours. He finally found it in himself to answer, “It felt good with her, but it feels best with you! I love you!”

“Good.” You simply stated and dropped your hold on his neck so you could return it to its place on his chest, using it as leverage to help you continue your fast pace. Your orgasm was fast approaching, his cock hitting you in the perfect spot, all you needed was a bit more stimulation. When you brought your hand down to run fast circles onto your clit, you soon fell apart above him. Spencer couldn’t help but look up at you in awe, speechless at how beautiful you look while you writhed on top of him.

Your own release pushed Spencer close to the edge and he started to beg, “I’m gonna cum! Please, can I?”

His hands had tightened into fists above him, knuckles going white over the effort of keeping them right where you had placed them originally. You were pleased with the way he had begged, glad that he had asked permission before even thinking about cumming. You still left him in suspense for a bit longer as you continued to work yourself on his painfully hard cock. Pressing a few kisses to his exposed skin under his collar was admittedly just to torture him a bit longer before you finally gave the command.

“Cum for me then.” Spencer followed your command eagerly, taking only two more of you bouncing on top of him to release inside you with a groan. While he rode out his release his lips captured around one of your pebbled peaks, sucking hard to get one last moan out of you.

Slumping forward after you had both finished and you had taken the belt off his wrists with the promise you’d lotion them up after you cuddled. You rested your head on his shoulder, wanting to stay as close as possible for a little while longer. He started tracing his fingers up and down your spine, relaxing you even further, almost to the point of falling asleep.

Before your eyes closed shut in post coital sleepiness your mind wandered a bit back to Elle. Elle had been an important figure in his life, his first real connection with someone special. Sure you teased about being jealous, but you thought it was important to tell him that you were ok with him thinking back on her. You knew he loved you. It most likely would take time till he was able to think or talk about her without a sharp pain in his chest, reminding him of how it all ended.

He hadn’t told you exactly what had happened, but it wasn’t hard to fill in all of the gaps. You turned your head, eyelashes fluttering when you nuzzled into his hair. Then you spoke quietly just enough so the sound could travel the short distance to his ear, “You should frame the picture, you look cute in it. And, I meant to say it earlier, I love you too.”

Ask Me Anything

—-

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scarofthewind · 3 years

Text

The Lone Wolf || Werewolf!Thomas x Reader

A/N: Part three out of four to the slasher boys AU, link down below! I hope you are all doing well and yes requests are open for those who would like to throw something in there! I was today years old when I realized that Thomas Hewitt has blue eyes.

Warnings: NSFW, R18+, blood, gore, biting, breeding kink, wet & messy, squirting

word count: 3.1k Tip Jar (every bit helps!)

Series Masterlist

“You should eat something now that way it’s easier during the shift.” You spoke calmly to your lover who was busy testing out the chain that lined the basement; the chains that would prevent him from hurting you. His warm eyes looked over to you and he nodded, laying the metal links on the ground and following you upstairs. You watched him eye the locks on the door, checking to make sure they were strong enough, “You’ve checked them four times since this morning.” He looked at you and sighed, you could tell he was nervous, he always was on nights with a full moon.

“If I get out and hurt you-” He started but you shook your head and cupped his face.

“We’ve done this a million times and nothings happened.” He leaned into your touch, a glint of worry in his deep brown eyes. “Who knows, wolf you may not even try to eat me if you happen to escape.” Patting his cheek lightly, you turned and walked to the kitchen to make something to eat. Thomas mumbled something to himself before checking to make sure he had everything ready for the night. His senses were heightened and it was hard for him to not jump clear across the room and take you against the counter; balling his hands into fists, he went outside to calm his nerves, also making sure he had the backup trap ready if he happened to get out. You watched him from the kitchen window with a sorrowful look in your eyes. Before he met you he didn’t need to do this because he didn’t care what happened to the people around him; but you were different.

When you met, he was shifted, dark brown wavy fur and sapphire eyes staring at you intrigued by what it saw. You were a mortified lone hiker that just witnessed a group of people being torn apart by something inhuman. But there was something, some force of fate that drew you together. He never hurt you in wolf form that day and you doubted that he would ever, but you didn’t want to take the slight chance that he might.

When you both sat down for the early dinner, it was quiet between the two of you. The nerves and impulses emitting off of him made you chew your food quietly across the table. You barely had time to put the dishes in the sink before he went to the basement and you followed knowing it was you who had to chain him down. Thomas hated making you do it but the chains being made of silver burned him a lot less if he wasn’t the one handling them. No words were spoken as he stripped out of his clothes, throwing them in a heap across the room, and sat down in the middle of the cold floor.

“I hate this,” you said quietly, locking the chains around his feet, moving towards his hands. He cupped your face gently, giving you a knowing look. Continuing with his restraints, you cuffed his wrists and then put the last one around his neck. “This is animal abuse,” you joked and he quirked a lip at your comment, hiding a smug smile.

Before he could open his mouth, he grimaced, grunting in pain as it ripped through him, something was off about this shift and it bothered him. Thomas quickly looked at you, “Go to the guest house.”

You frowned, “Why? Is everything okay?” He wouldn’t look you in the eye as you asked and you bent down in front of him. His eyes were already that bright golden color you secretly loved.

“Go, I’ll come get you in the morning. Make sure to hide your scent just inc-” He stuttered when a loud crack came from his back and he clawed at the ground in pain. “Go now!” He yelled and you jumped, pressing a quick kiss to his lips before running out of the basement. Thomas could hear you running around upstairs and then the front door slam shut as you left the house. Everything in him burned with a fire he didn’t recognize and it scared him.

“This isn’t right,” he groaned as another spike of pain rushed through him and everything started to go black as the beast took over. He could only pray as he was closing his eyes that you would be safe.

Of course as you were in a rush to leave, you forgot to wear stuff that smelt like him. You didn’t realize your mistake until you reached the guest house, locking the door behind you and hiding in the bathroom. You could hear loud howls coming from the house and it made you shiver, knowing that he’d somehow gotten out. You tried to think of how he could’ve but the longer you thought it over the more confused you got. You’d locked every door and chained him up; the shift had happened quicker than before though and he had a look in his eyes that told you something wasn’t right.

A howl echoed through the woods near the guest house and you held your breath, sinking down into the bathtub and turning the lights off. The sound of the front door crashing open had your heart racing in your chest. You could hear the scuffling of paws on the floor as they neared the bathroom, a sniffing sound coming from under the door followed by a low growl. Everything went quiet for a second before a large hole was scratched through the door and you scooted far away in the tub. You whimpered, hearing the beast growl, it’s eyes meeting yours from the other side of the door. That’s when your heart stopped and everything you thought you knew about what he was flew out the window.

His eyes were blood red and glowing through the opening. The beasts mouth and snout were already covered in blood and the way it licked it’s lips you knew you were next. The window to the bathroom was already opened a smidge and before you could blink, your body moved on its own to get there. Your mind raced as you heard the door being ripped apart behind you, your feet pushing you to climb up onto the roof above you. You knew he wouldn’t fit through the window because of how big he was so you had an advantage getting up there. Just as you were about to climb fully onto the scratchy roof, a searing pain came from your leg and you tried your best to kick him off.

Tears welled in your eyes and you pushed yourself up, getting your leg away from the beasts mouth and limping over to the chimney, sitting against it for a second to examine the wound. A sob escaped your lips as you looked at it, knowing damn well what it meant. You tried your best to stop the bleeding but the moment you put pressure on the wound you cried out in pain. You could hear him down below, tearing everything to shreds and growling loudly. You knew if you didn’t fix the wound soon you’d have more bad damage than good by morning but going down to face that monster was not something you wanted to do.

A loud scratching came from the end of the roof behind you and you froze mortified that the creature was able to simply jump that high. There was a huff behind the chimney you were leaned against and a deep growl made the hair on your arms raise. “Thomas,” you cried, the wolf sniffing around the corner towards you. “Thomas please don’t,” you winced trying to move your leg towards you. “You’ll never forgive yourself,” you closed your eyes for a second, trying your best to calm yourself as the wolf came to stand in front of you.

When you opened your eyes to look at the monster, you let out a sigh of relief seeing those sapphire eyes staring at you softly. There was a sense of guilt behind them and before you could open your mouth, your wounds were being treated to as the animals licked them carefully. “You didn’t recognize me,” you stated, realizing that was why it attacked. Maybe your scent wasn’t enough for the wolf to remember you; you were thankful your voice was what clicked for him.

A soft sound of bones shifting made you look up to the man in front of you. Thomas’ eyes were wet as he faced the one thing he always feared; he’d hurt you. “I did this,” he frowned at his own words, examining your wounds and setting your leg down gently. His eyes met yours and you felt your heart ache. “I would’ve killed you, (Y/N),” he tried backing away but you grabbed him and used his sturdy body to pull yourself closer to him.

“You didn’t realize it was me, Thomas. I’m fine,” You replied, cupping his face gently and watching his eyes flicker before settling with their natural color.

“Don’t do that,” his voice broke, “Don’t act like this is okay, I bit you, you know damn well what that means.” He groaned, moving out of your grasp.

“I do but I don’t care. Something was off about this shift, we both felt it but we couldn’t predict this would happen-”

“It wanted to kill you, even after smelling that it was you. What the fuck is wrong with me?” He grimaced, moving away from you.

“Thomas stop,” you hissed when you tried to move, catching his attention for a second. “We’ll figure out what went wrong in the morning,” your heart ached when he shook his head, pulling at his roots.

“I love you,” you cried, your heart breaking in your chest for him and the fear of him pushing you away, “Don’t force me out, I don’t know what to do without you,” Thomas whined at your words and seeing the tears fall from your eyes made him pull you against his chest, rubbing your head softly as he hugged you. “Don’t tell me to leave because I won’t.” You sniffled, gripping is shoulders tightly as he helped you stand.

His chest rumbled with a growl at the thought of you leaving him, the possessiveness of the wolf inside him coming out. When he looked down at you and pressed his lips to yours, you could almost feel the grief inside him; you knew he’d blame himself until the end of time for hurting you. With ease, Thomas helped you back to the comfort of your home, making sure to take good care of your wound. He spent nearly an hour on it, being sure that it was clean and that it would heal nicely. When he was done wrapping it in gauze, he watched the way your eyes slowly closed, sleep starting to take over your mind.

Shuffling you around on the couch, he laid with you pressed into his chest, not daring to turn again for the fear of his other half going rogue.

He didn’t sleep.

***

You woke up around four in the morning, the small amount of light in the sky starting to brighten the living room. You could feel Thomas’ grip on you tighten when you moved your head up to look at him. His eyes were on yours in a second and he frowned, “Is it hurting?” He referred to your leg. Shaking your head you nuzzled his neck, breathing him in.

“You didn’t shift again?” Your fingers danced across his bare skin, reminding yourself that he was nude. “You were stronger this time if you managed to break through all those chains and get past your traps outside,” you said quietly.

“I didn’t recognize you, that’s not right, something had to have been off.” He replied; you could feel his heart ache. “I don’t know what to do,” he sighed, moving to sit up and rubbing his face with his hands.

“Hey,” you sat up with him and cupped his face in your hands. “We have a month until the next turn, we will figure it out before then. Don’t worry about it,” his eyes stared into yours and he nodded, resting his forehead against yours. “Love you,” you said softly, watching his eyes crinkle as a small smile formed on his face.

“Love you too.” Thomas pulled you closer and pressed a kiss to your lips, a familiar feeling buzzing through him at god-speed. If there was one thing you both enjoyed about his shift, it was the sex. It was hot, messy and always left you bedridden for a couple of days; the last time it got out of hand and the bed broke, much to your genuine shock. Before he could pull away, you wrapped your arms around his neck, moving to sit in his lap. Thomas’ hands went to your waist and he groaned at the feeling of you grinding down on his slowly hardening member. “You’re hurt,” he grunted against your mouth as he moved to lay you on your back, moving between your legs.

“I’m fine, I need you, Thomas,” you moaned when his lips went to your neck, immediately finding your sensitive spot and sucking on it. Your hands ran through his dark, curly hair, tugging gently on the roots as his hips worked against yours. The feeling of his hardened member against your thigh made you shiver. You paused to sit up and rid yourself of your bottoms, eager to feel his cock deep inside you. You made sure to be careful around your leg, slipping your pants and underwear off and letting them fall to the floor.

Thomas made quick work of your shirt and bra, leaving your breasts open for him to fondle. Your nipple hardened against his touch and he brought one into his mouth, lightly nipping at it. The feeling of your bare cunt dragging across his cock made you moan lightly, your juices already spreading along his shaft. The side of your neck where he’d bit you to show that you were bonded to him for life, slowly burned with a feverish desire. Thomas’ hands left your chest, moving between your lower halves and tapping your thigh for you to sit up for a second. His hand gripped the base of his cock, directing the tip to your entrance before you sunk down on him. Your legs shook by the time you were fully seated on it, he was far deeper than you were used to and the feeling made your head buzz.

Any other time of the month, Thomas was usually quiet when having sex. However, the minute his shift appears, he’s much louder. Possessive growls and rougher grips on your body, make it that much easier for your pussy to spasm around his cock multiple times. A sharp buck of his hips made you grip onto him quickly, rolling your hips in time with his movements. Tilting your chin up, Thomas pressed his lips against yours, swallowing your cries of pleasure as he moved faster, pushing you down on your back before leaning over you and thrusting like a mad man.

His mouth never left your skin, littering it with bruises and small bite marks that you knew would heal over time. When he moved to your neck, his teeth grazed the bite mark that bonded you, the scars were pale against your skin. His tongue laved over them, easing your mind before his teeth pressed into the wound. You winced, a small whine escaped your lips but the way your cunt tightened around his cock gave him the okay to keep going. Sinking his teeth in further to re-puncture the old scar, he fucked you deeper, moving your legs around to hit that one spot inside you that had you seeing stars.

The obscene amount of noise that was coming from your lower half made you flush, your juices running down the curve of your legs and ass, onto the couch below. A low growl came from the man as he removed his teeth from your mark, licking the blood off his lips and your skin before hiking your legs up to the one position that really made your pussy drench his cock. Your knees were practically by your ears as Thomas split your open, his cock thrusting into you at a steady but rough pace. “Cum inside me please,” you begged, looking up at him through watery lashes, the pleasure making everything intense. “I want your children, Thomas. Please, cum inside me,” you whimpered when he groaned deeply, his cock twitching inside you.

The simply thought of you being pregnant with his children made his heart flutter. His eyes focused on the way your pussy was creaming around his cock and the sight of his member bulging your stomach every time he moved. With rough fingers, he moved his hand to your clit, rubbing tight little circles around the hardened bud and watching you squirm.

It didn’t take long before the white hot pleasure of euphoria shook through you, your body convulsing for a second as he fucked you through your first orgasm of the night. “That’s my girl, can you cum again for me?” His voice made you shiver and you nodded as your thighs shook. He leaned his weight down a bit more and you knew exactly what he was trying to do the minute he did that.

“It’s going to make a mess,” you warned, looking at him as he smirked cheekily. “You’re cleaning the couch then,” you moaned as a particularly hard thrust made your cervix throb in pain. The way Thomas’ voice grew louder made it a sign to you that he was close and you wanted nothing more than for him to pump you full. Pressing his mouth to yours, he growled at the feeling of your gummy walls sucking him in. He moved his fingers back to your clit and worked his magic, leaving you a trembling mess as he brought you close to the edge again.

“You ready, pretty girl?” He asked, watching you nod before he rubbed your clit harshly, your walls tightening around him to the point where he was cumming within seconds. The feeling of his cock being drenched by your quivering little hole made him pull back for a second and watch as you squirted around him. Thomas let out a groan as he let out everything he had, watching your stomach bulge slightly before he let you move your legs down.

“I hope this time it works,” you panted, referring to the cum sticking to your inside walls. Thomas chuckled, pressing open mouth kisses along your face before connecting his lips with yours. “I love you, Thomas.” You said gently, looking up into the deep blue eyes you adored so much.

“I love you too,” He replied, kissing you once more.

#thomas hewitt x reader #Thomas Hewitt #tcm #TCMB #leatherface #leatherface x reader #texas chainsaw the beginning #Texas Chainsaw Massacre #😈.smut #🏵.original work #horror imagines #horror x reader #slasher x reader #slasher imagines

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whump-a-la-mode · 3 years

Note

Would it be possible to get the aftermath of a heroic whumpee who went up against someone incredibly far out of their league? Kind of along the lines of that one time Dazzler went up against the Juggernaut on her own (A heroine with light projection powers vs a villain with the power of unstoppable force) and ended up being beaten to the point where she was too weak to move. The other heroes become her caretakers for a little while. I loved that arc and could really use something similar.

I can hardly describe how much I love this prompt. I absolutely adore it, and I can only hope that you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! I think I’m somewhat familiar with Dazzler, though when I looked through the wiki, I couldn’t find anything about this story? The wiki may just be incomplete, though. It reminds me of a story arc of the original ms. marvel, too!

This is absolutely one of my favorite kinds of whump, and I really hope that I did it justice. Thank you so much for the ask!

CW//Medical settings, poison, therapy, paralysis, inability to speak, self-hatred, low self-esteem, hair-pulling

The metal doors at the entrance to the Metropolis General Emergency Room swung upon with the force of a thunder clap. And, just as thunder, they too heralded lightning.

Or, at the very least, light.

A pair of lab-coats pushed forth a gurney on ratta-tatta-tattling caster wheels, footsteps crashing on the floor in even rhythm. Close behind, an entourage of two sprinted in close pursuit: A pair of heroes in civilian clothes.

“Lux!”

To the person laid upon the gurney, the voice felt to be emanating from a thousand miles away. Or more. Maybe a couple thousand, or a million... It was hard to think about numbers when their mind was stuffed with cotton, and their vision was dominated by blurry white ceiling tiles.

“What in the world happened to them?” The doctor that spoke had had all sense of clinical professionalism drained from their tongue.

“We don’t know.” A hero, outfitted in jeans and sweater, replied in a single, slurred sound. “We just found them, and-”

It was too loud. Far, far too loud-- Lux felt as though the full force of the ocean had made the sudden decision to crash into their eardrums. And, beneath at all, the caster wheels refused to stop their clitter-clatter. Spikes piercing their temples, they let out the tiniest of cries.

A tiny sound, and all eyes were on them.

“Lux!”

“Lux, what in the world happened to you?”

“What the hell did you do?”

“Talk to us!”

“Wake up!”

“Wake up.”

“Lux. Lux, what did you do?”

Lux, what did you do?

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The support beam shook against the force of the body, hurled at it. Shudders rocked from the base to the top, threatening for the thousandth time the structural stability of the building.

And the structural stability of Lux’s ribs.

With several hoarse coughs, the hero struggled to hands and knees, joints wobbling as though the ground they were braced against were the epicenter of an earthquake.

They could taste it.

They could taste what they had been inflicted with, more than they could feel it. The wound upon their side had long since gone numb-- at the very least, the poison had that benefit to it. Now, the sensation had migrated to Lux’s tongue. A bitter flavor of burnt coffee.

Even if they had the chance, they had no desire at all to examine the gash that had been torn across their side. They’d heard the stories, seen the headlines.

Lux knew what happened to Mercury’s victims.

That was why they were here, after all.

“Had enough yet, kid?”

The voice was booming, sounding from the other side of the half-toppled warehouse. In their weakened state, Lux could barely raise their head high enough to meet the eyes of their foe.

Mercury’s height was unimportant, as was their general stature. After all, it was hard to focus on his body. It was hard to focus on anything but the claws-- terrible, wicked things curling outwards from his knuckles.

A single slash from them, and flesh would begin to curl away, to rot. To necrose.

The wound they had been inflicted with was already a death sentence. But, not an immediate one-- Lux had a bit of time left on death row.

A bit of time to make this right.

Shivering, the hero stood to their feet, facing their opponent from a hundred foot’s distance. It was the most ridiculous of match-ups. A chihuahua against a pit bull. A garden snake against a cobra.

That didn’t mean that Lux couldn’t try.

“Firefly wants another round, then?” The villain’s voice curled, almost as venomous as their blades. “Try me, kid.”

And try they did.

Hands balled to fists at their side, Lux took one, single step forth, stomping onto the warehouse’s concrete floor with a decisive strike.

It was as though a bomb had gone off.

The world was swallowed, all at once, by white. Light engulfed each shadow, each color, until the universe was as blank as unexposed photo paper.

It was merely a distraction, a smokescreen. But they needed time to recover. Time to catch their breath.

Time to remember why they were doing this.

In the world of heroes, Mercury had a particular nickname-- “The Untouchable.” He was the lion in the zoo. No one dared get near him, much less touch him. It was a death sentence, to be slashed by his claws. The heroes were terrified of him, and that gave him a free license to tear the world to shreds.

It was from one of their villainous informants that Lux had heard of the plan initially. The water supply. Mercury had found a way to distill the poison held within their claws, and they intended to release it into the city water supply.

To kill every last citizen of Metropolis.

But the others turned merely a blind eye. No one would touch the villain. They had resigned themselves to dealing with the aftermath.

That would mean deaths. That would mean ‘acceptable causalities.’

To Lux, there was no such thing as an acceptable causality. Only a problem that needed to be solved.

Their teammates had insisted, begged, nearly, that they not be so careless. But, when had Lux even been known as the careful one?

Not once in their life.

“Stop this, Mercury!” The hero snapped into the expanse of white. “Just-”

Lux did not so much as see the fist before it connected. Did not so much as feel the claws, raking their neck.

Not before the world went from black to white.

Lux, what did you do?

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━��━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“You did it.”

Those were the first words that Lux heard clearly, after escaping from their haze. Consciousness teased them as the world above turned from colors to shapes to vision.

White tiles, spotless and all in a row. Their perfect nature was threatened only by an out-of-place beeping that nearly forced the hero to once more fall to sleep.

But, they managed to cling to consciousness as they turned their head to the side, revealing a figure, interrupting their view of the tiles overhead.

A figure. A person. A-

“You did it, Lux.”

Nora. Nora, their friend, their teammate, their comrade. Not Mercury. Not a villain. If Nora was here, then they were safe. The hero had an almost supernaturally calming way about herself, located somewhere between her wispy tangle of black hair and the way her movements imitated the performance of a dancer.

But, wait- Why wasn’t she in uniform? No, now she bore only the clothes of a civilian.

No. No, of course she wasn’t wearing a uniform. Lux had gone on a mission, yes. But it hadn’t been with their team.

They’d tried to stop Mercury, and-

“The water’s safe.” Nora’s voice was only just as smooth as her movements. “Mercury’s been contained. You did it.”

“And by god, what were you thinking?!”

The shout sent a stabbing agony through the side of Lux’s skull. That was more so the reaction they had expected.

Nickel. The most paranoid superhero on planet Earth.

Lux struggled to open their lips, to bring forth an explanation. To state that they had been doing what was right. That they had been doing what a hero should have done.

And yet...

And yet, their lips refused to so much as twitch. Too, their tongue sat dead in their mouth, numb and useless.

The only muscle in their body that functioned was their heart, which in that moment began to race.

“You could’ve died!” Nickel’s tirade continued, despite the fact that the target was showing not a single reaction. “Or worse! You could’ve died, or worse, or both! That was so stupid.

Don’t give me the silent treatment, dammit. Explain yourself!”

Lux wanted so desperately to do so. Their heartbeat turned, now, to a pounding tattoo within their skull, the pedal of a bass drum, slamming against the inside of their cranium.

They couldn’t move.

A twitch of the head. A blink, maybe. That was all. That was all they had left.

Lux had saved the world.

Their vision began to swirl.

Lux had saved the world, but what had they given up in exchange?

Telling when the hero fell unconscious was nearly impossible. Yet, when their eyes at last drifted closed, it became clear that whatever wakefulness they had had was now extinguished.

That left two heroes, one proud and one paranoid, leaning over a hospital bed. Shivering both in their own rights, Nickel and Nora stood. It was with great care that the room’s entrance was pushed open. The doctor that did so walked backwards-- their hands were quite thoroughly occupied by a clipboard.

Nickel and Nora said not a word, as speechless as their teammate. They both knew that this was the bringing of news.

This doctor was the bearer of their friends fate.

“They’re going to live.”

That was what they started with.

“With medical care, Lux will survive this ordeal. However, they will need to stay under intensive care until their immediate symptoms subside.”

Nora stared blankly for a long moment, before whispering:

“They aren’t moving. They aren’t talking.”

The doctor could manage only the more sympathetic of nods. Again, they repeated themself, but, this time, with an addition:

“Lux is going to live. But, most likely, they will never be the same. The poison has taken its toll on their system. There’s no cure. No antidote.

One day, they may be able to move, or speak. But, they have a very, very long road ahead of them.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Very, very long was an understatement.

No, the doctor would have been better have describing Lux’s journey as a highway from Moscow to Las Vegas.

“The rains in Spain fall mainly on the plain.”

“Da ra’zz spa- ff mm a pla.”

“The rains in Spain fall mainly on the plain.”

“Za ree z’pa fa ma- play.”

“One more try. The rains in Spain-”

“Nnn- oh! No!”

The lab-coated doctor sitting before Lux set down their clipboard with a heavy sigh, sending only another bubble of rage rising in the hero’s chest. They balled their hands into fists, shaking them furiously before placing their open palms upon their temples.

Lux hated this. Lux hated every last minute, every last instant of this. They hated the doctor. They hated the doctor’s office they had to sit in, walls covered from floor to ceiling with charts of vowels and consonants. More than anything, they hated their exercises.

It should have been simple! Eight words. Eight simple words. If they could repeat them properly, then they would never have to go to one of these stupid appointments ever again.

But, they couldn’t. They couldn’t say eight simple words. In fact, they couldn’t even say one.

A month in the hospital, and Lux could not so much as speak. It made them want to tear their hair out! In fact, they would do that, had they had the motor control for it.

But, they didn’t. They didn’t have anything.

The last month had been the longest of the hero’s existence. Hell, those thirty days had felt to be longer than the rest of their entire life, put together! Thirty days and thirty nights of utter hell.

When they had gone off to face Mercury on their own, Lux had been very well prepared to die. They had not been prepared for this.

From the outside, the progress that the hero was making was undeniable. They had begun in a state of complete and utter paralysis, able to move their head, their eyes, and not a thing else. It was only with thrice-a-day physical therapy that they had begun to move. First, it was only moving their head. Then, their arms. Their legs. By the end, they could even sit up, with the help of a helping hand.

Every day, Lux’s teammates visited. And, every day, they congratulated their friend on their progress.

But, as far as Lux was concerned, it had been a month, and they hadn’t made an inch of progress. As hard as they tried, they were still laid up in a hospital. Still broken. Still useless.

They knew that their friends were trying. They knew-- it was evident on their expressions. Those constant, stupid looks of pity. They would never speak about their own lives, about their missions. The villainous plots they’d stopped, the battles they’d won. No. They focused only on the mundane: Where they’d gone for lunch, how they’d spent their evening.

It was out of pity. Lux knew that. It was all pity. But, in all truth, those were the only moments during which they ever felt, truly, like themself. Like Lux.

Like a hero.

So they’d heard, the media had praised them, lauded them for their victory. But they never spoke of the sacrifice it had taken.

Their friends’ visits were the only parts of the day that Lux had to get forward to. The rest of their life was filled with... this.

“Lux.” The doctor coaxed. “You need to do your exercises. You’re already getting so much better! But you won’t make any progress if you don’t try.”

“Don’ thwaa ex- thwaa ta.”

“Don’t want exercises, want talk?”

Lux narrowed their eyes. But, that had been what they were trying to say. The fact that it needed to be repeated, interpreted, however, made them feel sick.

“You need your exercises, Lux. How about we just try one more time? I know you can do it. You’re already doing so well!”

Eight simple words. Eight simple words, and Lux could be a hero again. Eight words, and they could be a person again.

“Okay, Lux. Repeat after me: The rains in Spain fall mainly on the plain.”

“Tha ran-”

Yet, that was all they could make out. Lux’s throat ran dry of words, void of syllables. They couldn’t speak before, and now, they couldn’t so much as make a sound.

They never cried in front of others. Never. Yet, that rule had been broken in the hospital already a dozen times. And, so it seems, this would make thirteen.

Lux’s chest was wracked with heavy sobs as they buried their face in their hands. Soon, tears leaked from beneath their shaking fingers.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“I’m right here for you, Lux. Lean on me all you need.”

Nora’s voice carried the same cadence as water, meandering through a stream. Too, of course, did her gestures. A gentle, yet firm hand took Lux by the wrist, wrapping their arm around their comrade’s shoulder.

“It’s going to be hard, okay? It’s going to be hard. It’s okay to get tired. And you don’t have to get it on your first try. Or your fifth. Or your hundredth.”

Lux stopped listening on the last part.

This was it. The final gauntlet. Nearly an entire season spent within hospital walls-- now came their test. Everything counted on it. As far as they were concerned, it was a matter of life or death.

If they succeeded, they were home free. They could be brought home by their teammates-- of course, while still attending outpatient physical therapy, but still! They would be home.

And, yet, if they failed? They would be placed back in their hospital room. They would continue to be useless, a burden on both doctor and friend alike.

Everything was riding on this. Lux took a deep breath, and opened their eyes to face their challenge:

A hallway.

They had studied it extensively. Seven feet in width, and perhaps twenty in length. A tiny little thing, used only to get between two particular rooms. It was in the very depths of the hospital; that was why they were using it. There was no chance of distraction, of interruption.

“Are you ready, Lux?”

“Yesthh.”

“Okay.”

Their weight was leaned, nearly entirely, upon Nora. But, that didn’t matter. It wasn’t a test of standing on their own. If that was the test, they’d never get out of this hellish place. All they had to do was make it to the end of the hallway, with help. They could go slowly. They could lean. They could rest.

They only had to make it to the end.

Nora placed one foot forward, waiting for Lux to do the same, which they did, slowly and shakily. It was in this manner that they moved. One foot, one foot, staying always in the slowest of locksteps.

For Nora, it was simple.

For Lux, it was agony. Their knees felt mere milliseconds away from buckling, legs straining under the weight of the rest of them, even as the vast majority of it was leaned onto their friend.

Five feet. Five tiny, minuscule steps. That was how far Lux made it.

And then they were falling.

They did not remember the fall, not really. One moment, their knees had given out. And, the next, they were on their side, on the carpet.

Shaking.

This had been it. This had been their chance. All they had to do was walk down a hallway, that was it! Then, they could have gone home. Then, they could have been with their friends.

Then, they could have finally been a hero again.

And they’d failed. They’d failed the simplest of tasks.

In that moment, a certainty struck Lux like a dagger to the chest: They were never going to get better. Never. It didn’t matter how many exercises they did, how many doctors they saw. This whole thing was pointless! They were going to be worthless until the end of time.

On the floor, Lux screamed. It was a babbling, incoherent thing, as most sounds they made were. Too, they began to thrash, slamming their fists into the floor as they howled in anguish.

Then, they weren’t thrashing anymore. They couldn’t.

Lux had no need to open their eyes to tell what was happening. They knew Nora’s footsteps, knew the sound of her racing over. The feeling of her, hauling them into her arms. Holding them close.

They knew, also, the sounds of doors opening. Of more footsteps, familiar footsteps. Of chattering voices. Their friends’ voices.

Their whole-

Lux’s breath caught in their throat.

In order to avoid distraction, it had only been them and Nora in the room. They had assumed that it was only Nora who had visited that day. And, yet, they knew these voices.

Their whole...

Their whole team. Their whole team had come to watch. They counted every voice, every pair of footsteps. Every last one of their friends had come to watch them succeed.

But, they’d only watched them fail. Lux expected heckling, expected to be berated.

They did not expect the half-dozen pairs of arms, wrapped around them. They didn’t expect to be the center of a group hug.

“You’re doing so well.”

“You got so far!”

“Just a little more practice, and you’ll be back out there fighting crime in no time.”

“You’re almost there!”

“That’s the furthest you’ve been able to walk yet!”

“We’re proud of you.”

Lux’s tears did not stop.

And, yet, they realized something:

They were no longer tears of sorrow.

#hero whumpee #whump #whumper #whumpee #caretaker #whump community #hero x villain whump #hero villain prompt #hero x villain #hero villain scenario #hero villain whump #whumpblr #whump blog #whump scenario

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skeezsbbygirl · 4 years

Text

dive + bang chan

hello lovelies! \ (•◡•) / im sorry it took so long for me to post another scenario since i had to deal with school stuff :/ this is for anon who requested for a crush!chan, i hope you enjoy!!

REQUEST BOX IS CLOSED.

"-and that's why I'm never skipping training."

You could faintly hear Felix's rant in the background -- something about having to train harder and longer during the week in payment of skipping three days worth of swim practice. But your mind was too preoccupied with the sight you were met with as soon as you entered the university's swim center, and no, you weren't gawking at the intricate details -- which probably cost a fortune -- that embellished the swimming grounds, it was more of a someone who caught your attention.

"They're here!" Jisung cheered from the farther edge of the olympic-size pool. "Lix!" Chris called out for the boy beside you, who was still cursing the older male under his breath and possibly in his head too, as you could just imagine him mentally listing off ways to push the black-haired male into the pool, judging by the look on your best friend's face.

"He can swim, you idiot," you deadpanned which caused Felix to stop in his tracks, staring at you in shock. "How did you even?" he asked, voice softening as his eyebrows contorted in confusion. Instead of giving him an answer, you lightly smacked his right arm, earning a yelp from the male. "Don't even think about it," you playfully scolded him.

"Today was arm day," he complained as he rubbed the spot where your hand met his flesh a few seconds ago. "I'm sorry, but you knew you had that one coming," you replied. "Are you psychic or something?" Felix questioned, his attention still on you with his hand still rubbing the same spot.

You just rolled your eyes at him as you neared Felix's teammates, sitting beside Jeongin and Seungmin, who immediately made room for you the moment Jisung acknowledged -- well practically announced -- your presence as you stepped foot inside the swim center. You were met with a chorus of various greetings, to which you smiled and waved in return. "Hey, you haven't been visiting us for a while," Seungmin noted and the other boys agreed. And in that moment, you quickly tried to rack your brain with a plausible excuse. "I'm a med student and finals are coming up, what do you expect?" you joked.

"I think Chan-hyung can help. He has a lot of spare time nowadays," Hyunjin offered, shooting a knowing look towards your direction. You almost choked on your saliva, but you managed to regain your composure and shrug off Hyunjin's attempt to embarass you infront of the whole team, especially infront a certain someone.

"Yeah, (y/n). I took some of the courses that you have now," Chris agreed, totally oblivious to what the younger male was hinting at, which made you breathe a sigh of relief. "I might have to take your offer," you paused as you shifted your gaze towards Felix and his run away accomplices, "But it seems like you have your hands full."

Everybody, except for Chris, Minho, and Seungmin, groaned in annoyance. "You didn't have to remind him," Changbin whined.

Chris chuckled at the younger one's response. "They got an earful from coach this morning. He’ll be supervising them during training, which means I have some time to kill."

"I'll let you know," you flashed him a small smile, biting the insides of your cheek in your attempt to suppress a full grin.

At this point, Hyunjin could've just blurted out that you had been catching feelings for their team's captain.

Chris, better known as Chan to his teammates, was the swim team's captain. He was quite popular alongside his teammates as he broke records, did well in his academic endeavors, and practically looks like a living embodiment of a god -- so needless to say, he attracts a lot of attention.

A year ago, you didn't think that you'd actually have a chance at being in the same circle of friends, but with Felix being your best friend and making it on the team, you were immediately welcomed into their group. You got to know more about them, way past those senseless rumors thrown around the campus. A few months into hanging out with them, you guys looked out for each other like family, but you saw Chris in a different light. He might have dropped hints here and there, but you weren't really sure if he was being playful or serious.

Sure, he'd ask you to hang out with him once in a while and he treats you sweetly. But, maybe he was being friendly? Or worse, maybe he just saw you like a little sister?

However, the both of you had gotten even closer over the past few weeks, since Chris has been teaching you how to swim. You took up his offer in order to skip your swimming classes next semester, but this would only be possible if a member from the team taught you the course and gave you a pass. It was a win-win situation, you lessen your load next semester and you get to spend more time with Chris.

"Alright boys, let's do some laps," Chris commanded, making his teammates sigh in defeat, following his orders nonetheless. "You sure you're okay here, (y/n)?" Chris asked you as he got up from his seat. You nodded, "Yeah, don't worry."

Two hours passed and the boys were finally done, all showered and ready to head home. "Bub, let's go. I'll walk you to your dorm," Felix spoke as he approached you, grabbing your bag for you and helping you up from your seat with his free hand. "I'll see you guys tomorrow," Felix turned towards his teammates. "Bye guys," you smiled and waved, the guys happily returned your gesture and told you to head home safely.

"I'll let you know," Felix mocked you in his best impression of your voice as soon as you guys exited the building, referring to your interaction with Chris a couple of hours ago. "I do not sound like that," you gasped, faking an offended expression. Felix laughed and continued his comical representation of you. "But seriously, ask him out already, " he said, assertion evident in his tone. "If it were that easy, we'd be dating for three months now," you argued. "It is that easy. I'm pretty sure hyung likes you back," Felix insisted, still set on convincing you to confess.

"Alright, I'll think about it, okay?"

[Two days later...]

The library was less congested during the early hours and considering that it was a Sunday, most students are out cold -- either passed out in their bed due to lack of sleep within the whole week or passed out due to a hangover. You settled for a seat at the second floor, near the computer section, making it easier for you to access the printers in case you needed to print out reviewers that you missed. Once you got your stuff laid out, you started your task.

A few hours into your self-proclaimed study session, a hand gently placed a drink on your desk, causing you to look up at the owner.

"Chris."

You greeted him with a smile as you gestured for him to take a seat beside you. "I figured you'd be here," he said, a light chuckle erupting from his lips. He carefully slid the takeout coffee cup closer to you. "Chai tea, it's good for you," he claimed. You muttered a 'thank you' and sipped the warm drink, which instantly spread throughout your body, allowing you to relax and ease some of the tension that was collectively gathering on your shoulders.

"Training?" you asked as you noted Chris' attire, the team's signature sweater, black shorts, and black vans. "Yeah, I'm heading out in twenty minutes," he replied and you nodded. "But I decided to stop by and check to see if you were here, and maybe ask you to hang out later," he added and quickly averted your gaze as a sheepish smile formed on his lips.

“Yeah, I’m down,” you agreed, taking another sip of the drink that was in your possession, suddenly finding the cup interesting -- your attempt to conceal the blush that dusted your cheeks.

Chris cleared his throat and stood up. “Cool, well I should get going before the boys accuse me of being late,” he said. A soft laugh escaped your lips, knowing full well that the boys would try anything to evade their punishment and pin it on their captain. “I’ll see you later,” you replied, flashing him a smile as he did the same and went on his way.

A couple of hours later, you decided to conclude your study session and head back to your dorm. As soon as you stepped out from the building, a message notification from your phone stopped you in your tracks.

[Chris]: 7 pm at the swim center, bring a change of clothes

[You]: another swimming lesson??

[Chris]: you’ll see ;) i’ll pick you up, beautiful.

[You]: alright, see you later :)

[Chris]: later, bub

You smiled at your phone. This is what you mean by Chris’ actions hinting at something that crossed the line of being a good friend. Sure, Felix -- even Hyunjin and Jisung -- calls you a nickname every once in a while, but with Chris, it comes off different, it feels different. You feel butterflies in your stomach every time he graces you with a sweet gesture.

But you try to push those feelings and fantasies away, not wanting to expect anything from him and end up getting disappointed, or maybe end up hating him for not reciprocating your feelings. After all, Chris is a nice guy, you’re pretty sure he’s just looking out for you as a friend, plus he probably just wanted to get your swimming course done and over with.

The time he had set for you both to meet quickly rolled by as you were now walking alongside Chris, your bag hung from his shoulders as he insisted on carrying it for you when he came and picked you up from your dorm.

“Go change, I’ll wait here,” Chris said, handing you your things and walking off towards the bleachers where his gym bag was settled.

Soon, Chris was leading you towards the pool, taking off his shirt before jumping into the water. He extended a hand for you to take and you easily complied, feeling his grip tighten as you sit at the edge of the pool, carefully easing yourself into the water.

As you landed, you came face to face with Chris. You averted your gaze from him and cleared your throat.

“Today’s the last day of your course, by the way,” Chris spoke, your hand still within his hold. “Really? Already?” you exclaimed, looking up at him. “Yeah, so do your best,” he answered.

You nodded earnestly, wanting to make him proud in a way and of course, getting to get a free pass for your swimming class next semester.

Chris went over the whole course that night, asking you every now and then if you had anything that you wanted to clarify. He showed you various techniques and tips on how to swim better in order to prevent yourself from getting injured.

“Your posture on that last lap was better,” Chris complimented as you demonstrated the last pointer he gave you. “Thank you, captain,” you teased, which earned you a laugh from the male.

You eased yourself up on the side of the pool, with your legs still in contact with the water. “Chris, thank you for doing this,” you beamed and as you spoke, Chris approached you, his hands coming up to your knees as he settled himself between your legs. Your eyes widened at his sudden movement, not sure where your hands should go so you opted to place them at your sides.

“Anything for my favorite girl,” Chris answered.

You stared at him wide-eyed, unsure of how to respond. What was he up to?

“Chris, stop joking around,” you replied as you lightly hit his arm in a joking manner. And as you did, Chris caught your hand and placed it on his shoulder, repeating the same motion on your other hand. He moved closer, his face now inches away from yours.

“I’m serious, (y/n),” Chris stated as he snaked his arms around your waist. “You know I didn’t just sign up for this in order to help you. I did this because I wanted to get to know you better, I wanted to be close to you, I wanted your attention,” he added, his brown orbs staring intently at yours -- desperately trying to convince you that he was dead serious. He wouldn’t play with your feelings like that, no way.

“You had my attention since day one, dummy,” you breathed out. “I like you a lot, Chris.”

Upon hearing your confession, Chris broke into a cheesy grin. The tip of his ears turning red as he giggled from embarrassment. “I like you a lot too, (y/n),” he responded, leaning an inch closer to rest his forehead on yours. He stared down at your lips, making your breath hitch.

“Can I?”

You nodded and he then closed the gap between the two of you. You could feel your senses going into overdrive as he kissed you, softly at first, and then with a shift of intensity that evoked new sensations you never thought existed or at least, those that you never thought you would be capable of feeling.

You pulled away first. Chris’ eyes were hazy, his facial expression mirroring yours as you looked at him with such affection.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered as he planted a peck on your forehead. “Well, you’re ethereal,” you replied, making Chris chuckle. He leaned in for another kiss, but you turned away, making him kiss your cheek instead. Chris looked at you in confusion.

“I would really like to kiss you again, but I’m getting cold,” you giggled. “Right, of course,” Chris agreed as he pulled away from your embrace, easing himself out of the pool and coming to your aid as he stood you up.

After an hour or so, the both of you finally exited the center with your hands in his. You shuddered as the night breeze grazed your skin. Chris noticed and stopped you in your tracks. He gently dropped your bags on the ground as he pulled a black hoodie from his bag.

“Arms up, babygirl,” he ordered, sliding the said article of clothing over your head and letting it fall onto your frame. “Better?” he asked while he fixed your hair, tugging some of the strands that were caught within the fabric. “Yeah, thanks,” you replied, giving him a quick kiss on the lips.

“So, do I get a pass on the course?” you questioned as the both of you continued your walk towards your dorm. Chris hummed in thought, “Under one condition.”

“And that is?” you asked, raising one eyebrow at him. “You say yes to being my girlfriend,” he answered, making you blush. “I thought the answer was already obvious,” you stated. “I wanted to hear it from you, though,” Chris insisted.

“Yes, Chris. I’ll be your girlfriend.”

“What was that?”

“I said yes, I’ll be your girlfriend.”

“I can’t hear you, (y/n).”

You playfully rolled your eyes at him and walked ahead, leaving him a few feet behind you.

“Babyyyy,” Chris called for you, kissing your cheek as he caught up with your pace. “I was just kidding,” he cooed. “And since you’re my girl, you have to be present in all of my swim meets from now on,” he added. “First row seat?” you asked to which Chris nodded in response. “Finally!” you cheered as Chris beamed at your reaction.

“You excited to see me up close?” he asked, a cocky grin forming on his lips, certain that you would agree, but you decided otherwise.

“No. I’ve always wanted to see Hyunjin up close,” you deadpanned and Chris’ grin fell, only to be replaced with a small pout. You bit your bottom lip in order to suppress the smile that was tugging on your lips. You eventually gave in when you heard Chris’ reply.

“It’s the way he throws his hair back, huh?”

You let out a laugh. “You see right through me,” you gasped, placing a hand on your chest as you faked a shocked expression. Chris gave you a look which halted your comical antics. “Alright, I’ll stop,” you said.

“My eyes will only be on you, I promise,” you assured, tugging at Chris’ sleeve in order to make him lean down, grabbing the opportunity to plant a kiss on his lips as he complied with your gesture. “It better be,” he replied and pulled you closer to him.

[The next day...]

“Nice hoodie, (y/n),” Jisung noted as you approached their table at the cafeteria with Chris by your side, who was holding two trays of food. The boys immediately looked up and cheered upon hearing Jisung’s teasing. “Fucking finally,” Felix exclaimed, “I thought I’d have to lock you guys up and force you to confess to each other,” he added dramatically which earned him a chorus of laughter from the others.

“Shut up, Lix,” you whined, but you couldn’t resist a smile as you saw their reactions.

As you and Chris sat down, he gently pushed one of the trays towards you, asking you if you needed anything else. You shook your head and muttered a small ‘thank you’.

“Hyung, I need more water,” Changbin fake whined, batting his eyelashes at the older male. “Go get your own,” Chris replied, not even sparing the younger lad a glance. The boys laughed hysterically, dragging out their amusement for as long as they could.

Soon enough, the laughter died down as you guys engaged in conversation, only to be interrupted by Seungmin who reminded everyone of the time.

“I’ll see you later, then?” Chris asked as the others took care of clearing the table. You nodded and planted a kiss on his cheek. “You missed, baby,” Chris joked, earning him a light slap on his arm. He faked a hurt expression, hissing in pain to add into his dramatic act.

“Now, I’m injured. Looks like I have to skip training,” Chris lifted his shoulders in a half shrug, intertwining his arm with yours and pulling you towards the opposite direction where his members were headed. You halted his playful attempt as you pulled away from his grip.

“Chris, no,” you giggled at his actions. “I’ll meet you as soon as my classes are done, okay baby?” you assured as you gave him a kiss on his lips.

“Fine,” Chris sighed in defeat.

“Hyung, hurry up!”

“Save your smooching for later and somewhere private!”

The both of you chuckled upon hearing the boys’ hollers. “One more for good luck,” Chris requested as he leaned in and gave you a peck. “Now, go,” you said, pushing him away and watching him jog towards the boys.

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yandere-daydreams · 4 years

Text

Kinktober - Day Twenty-Eight

Prompt: Size Kink

Pairing: Malleus/Reader (Twisted Wonderland)

TW: Dub-Con, AFAB!Reader, Revoked Consent, Implied Double Penetration, Mentions of Blood, Mention of Death, and Non-Graphic Violence.

Malleus Draconia, Prince of the Fae, heir to the throne of the Valley of Thorns, was exactly two-hundred and two centimeters tall. Six and a half feet, seventy-nine inches - eighty, if you rounded up. And, for the sake of argument, you were.

Two-hundred centimeters tall, with the horns.

You… were not two-hundred centimeters tall, and you didn’t have horns.

You didn’t usually mind. He was taller than you, sure, but he was taller than most, and if his height wasn’t enough to make his company seem small, his scoff and his cold stare and his condescending, patronizing, oh-so-superior demeanor would be. Not to imply you didn’t like Malleus, you loved him, but he had a way of eclipsing you, making you into something… lesser, than you really were. It was more apparent than it usually was, like this, his hair disheveled and his chest nearly touching yours and your head tilted back, eyes cast upward in a vain attempt to see his face, but there was little comfort in the indulgence, in the intimacy of being nestled in your boyfriend’s lap as he smiled lovingly, adoring you as he would any treasure. It was reassuring. You wanted to be reassured, and you wanted to let Malleus make you feel safe, and yet, just being so close to him was nerve-racking. You couldn’t help it, anyone would be intimidated. You had a right to be, honestly.

It was bad enough that he was so big, but you could handle that. Or, you thought you’d be able to, at least.

You just didn’t understand why their had to be two of them.

Luckily, he seemed to sense your discomfort, your anxiety. Despite being able to feel his cock-- no, cocks, one pressed against his stomach and the other caught in his fist, Malleus pumping lazily as you lifted yourself onto your knees, he was quick to cup your cheek with his unoccupied hand, pressing a light kiss into the top of your head, his lips lingering against your scalp as he spoke. “Is something wrong, my love?” The question was asked softly, sweetly. You wanted to melt into it, and you tried your best to, burying your face in the crook of his neck and attempting to ignore your trepidation. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were scared of me.”

You were, but you couldn’t admit that. All night, he’d been so patient, spending hours stretching you open with his fingers and his tongue and making you cum until the oversensitivity was almost too much to take, until you were dripping onto him from just the hint of contact - it was the least you could do to give him what he’d worked so hard for. “It’s nothing, I just….” You tried to sound cautious, as you explained yourself, but it came out wavering, meek. As faltering as your faith that he wouldn’t split you open and break you, in the process. “I didn’t think it’d be so…”

There was a breathy chuckle, a smirk soon pressed against your skin. You couldn’t see his expression, but you knew him well enough to picture exactly what kind of face he was making, and it did little to soothe your embarrassment. “You didn’t think it’d be so big?”

Rotten prince. Arrogant bastard. You could’ve slapped him, you could’ve grabbed your clothes and left him, aching and unsatisfied, for the tone he’d used alone, but any rebuttal you might’ve had hitched in your throat as his hand dropped to your waist, palm pressing into your hip as he guided you downward, onto him, your slick cunt struggling to take so much as the head of his cock. Something between a moan and a whine forced its way out of your throat before you could stifle it, but that was all you could communicate before your jaw locked involuntarily, your knees shaking and your whole body curling towards him, curling away from him, clinging to Malleus in an attempt to escape the awful, abrupt searing and fall into the hot bliss of being so full, of knowing that you’d barely taken half of him and were already struggling, of thinking that maybe, maybe if you’d had the will to move on your own, you would’ve been able to trace the shape of his cock bulging out of your stomach. It felt good. It felt good, and it felt terrible, and if you loved Malleus any less, you thought you might be able to hate him for it.

On his part, there was another airy chuckle, one that faded into a low groan as you clenched around him. “See? My favorite human’s a resilient one.” His voice was shaking, now, but only barely, the slight tremble hardly noticeable under your pulse and your own heavy breathing. His grip tightened, fingertips digging into your side, but you couldn’t say you were much better, your nails burrowed into his shoulders, close to breaking the skin, if he’d been any weaker. “So good to me… so fucking tight. It feels like I could just--”

Again, his grip tightened, his other hand coming to steady your shaking form. For a moment, the gentle nudges you were comforting. For a moment, they stayed comforting, and for a brief, precious moment, you thought you might, actually, really enjoy this.

Then, he stopped pushing and started shoving, and any hope you had dissolved in the blink of an eye.

It hurt. More than anything, it hurt, his cock pounding into your cervix as your hips were forced to slot against his, your small moans turning to ragged sobs in less than an instant. There was a spark of pleasure, an undeniable heavenly pressure, but those were quick to fade, fleeting, and the tension was still there, the awkward twitching and the sudden notion that you were going to die, and Malleus was going to be the one to do it.

That was what it felt like, honestly. You hadn’t been ready, you hadn’t been prepared, and now, you were going to burst open or start bleeding or shatter, like a plane of glass hit with something solid and heavy and that wouldn’t stop thrusting into it. Malleus didn’t waste time, wrapping an arm around your waist as he held you to his chest, keeping you as close to him as possible while he ground into you, doing so little but making you feel too much. He barely had to move, barely had to buck his hips to abuse that sensitive spot at your core, to make tears cloud your vision and pussy drool every part of you go stiff every time he found something new to rip through. “That’s it,” He muttered, the words whispered, more for him than yourself. “I knew you could take it, knew you could take me. So good, so beautiful, so perfect.”

He was bleeding, now, he had to be, something cold and thick running over your hands as your nails tore thin, jagged lines in his arms, but Malleus didn’t seem to care, didn’t seem to notice. When you whimpered, he only hummed. When you cried out, he cooed, like you were throwing a tantrum. Like you were a pet that needed to be calmed down, before it could be doted on. “Please,” You gasped, when you finally remembered how to. “Please, please stop, I don’t think I can-- I think I’m going to break if you--”

“You’ll be fine.” He didn’t say anymore more, he didn’t have to. In the blink of an eye, the space between one second and another, you were thrown onto your back, the air forced out of your lungs as Malleus thankfully, forgivingly, mercifully pulled out, drawing back until you could only feel the tip of his cock. You let yourself take a deep breath, the shock fading and relief taking its place, but his voice broke through what little reprieve you’d been able to find. “You’ll be fine, and I’ll take care of it, if you’re not. You’re making me feel good, and that’s what you want, right? To make you lover happy?”

You tried to shake your head. You tried to yell, to do anything, but the refusal died on your tongue as something else prodded at your entrance, massive and leaking and just as monstrous as the first intrusion. If Malleus cared that you hadn’t answered, if he cared about you at all, his lust outweighed his guilt. It must’ve. You didn’t think you could stand the thought that he’d do this with a clear head.

Malleus was so big, so imposing, so strong, so important. You’d always told yourself you didn’t mind, and to an extent, you hadn’t. You’d never had a reason to.

You’d managed to forget that, when you’re used to being the biggest person in the room, it's easy to ignore the complaints of creatures so insignificant.

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lightsovermonaco · 3 years

Text

Patience is a Virtue (NSFW Max Verstappen)

Masterlist

HAPPY BIRTHDAY to @acollectionofficsandshit !!! Last minute present, which hasn’t been beta’d, but I hope you enjoy ♥

Max had been so busy the past few weeks, what with preseason testing and gearing up for the first race in less than a week. You had not been able to attend testing this year, Red Bull having only allowed essential personnel to travel to Bahrain. It had been two weeks since you had seen Max’s face in person instead of being separated by phone screens.

Considering Max’s packed schedule, you had fully expected to celebrate your birthday alone. It had been enough of a surprise that he had shown up at the door of the apartment you shared in Monaco earlier that day, having flown home from London to help you celebrate. You had lounged about watching cheesy movies and trading kisses all day before Max had informed you he had something to show you.

“No peeking,” Max said, one hand on your shoulder and the other on your hip as he guided you along. “Step down.”

Cautiously, you feel with the toe of your shoe for the step. Seagulls crow and you can smelly the briny sea, but that could mean you were anywhere in the city. You didn't have any definitive context clues as to where you were.

“Where are you taking me?”

“I told you it’s a surprise. Was the whole “close your eyes’ thing not clear?” He squeezed your shoulder. “Besides, we’re here.”

“I can open my eyes?” You asked, wanting to be certain. Max’s whispered affirmation was a wisp of breath against your neck.

Your eyes blinked open, taking a moment to adjust to the brightness of the setting sun. Max’s arms wound around your middle, his chin resting on your shoulder. A small table set for two sat on a sandy private beach, complete with flickering candles and a waiter standing by.

“Daniel came up with this, didn’t he?” You teased, placing your hand on his corded forearm.

“He may have helped with the specifics,” He conceded, and pressed a kiss to your cheek. “Charles is the one that let me borrow his villa.”

You hummed in appreciation of the gesture. “So you are friends.”

“Jury’s still out on that one.”

You laughed and let Max lead you to the table. He pulled out your chair, letting you get settled before leaning in for a kiss. Being apart for so long had made him more affectionate than usual. Not that you were complaining.

Glasses of wine were poured before the waiter retreated back to the house, presumably to give you and Max privacy. Max leaned back, letting the last dregs of sunlight warm his face. It was the most beautiful sight you had ever seen.

Your eyes traced the line of his neck, up the angle of his strong, stubbled jaw. Muscles rippled as he took off his signature flat-brimmed cap, running his fingers through his hair before replacing it backwards on his head. And god, you could’ve jumped on him right there. Noticing your stare, Max grinned, his foot finding yours under the table.

“Keep undressing me with your eyes like that and we won’t get to enjoy the lovely meal Daniel planned out.” You bit your lip to suppress your smile. Your assumption that Max hadn’t come up with this on his own was right, then. It was far too cheesy for it to have been all his idea.

You reached for his hand, threading your fingers together. “Maybe I’d rather undress you and eat at home.”

“Daniel would be upset that his efforts went to waste.” Mischief glinted in Max’s baby blues.

“I wouldn’t call them wasted,” You murmured, running your bare foot up Max’s calf. “After you leave tomorrow, I’ll be all alone for another week. I think Daniel would understand if I had other activities in mind for tonight.”

Max leaned back and stretched his arms over his head, fully aware that he was torturing you. Your mouth watered from more than just the delicious smell of grilled steak. A wicked grin split his face. “We’re having dinner,” He said, tone leaving no room for a challenge.

“But-”

He moved lightning quick, his hand gripping your thigh under the table. “I said we’re having dinner. Understood?”

“Yes,” You breathed, heart pounding. The dominance in his voice melted any protests that had sprang to your lips.

“Good girl,” He murmured, then sat back like nothing had happened when the server brought out your meal. As soon as Max thanked him, you dug in. Golden, perfectly seasoned potatoes and carrots, and a perfectly cooked steak with a delicious, sweet sauce. You shoveled it in, eager to get home.

“Take your time,” Max warned. “Or you’ll just be sitting there while I finish mine.” Indeed, he cut his steak agonizingly slow, deliberately dragging it out. You tried to match his leisurely pace, but couldn’t keep your mind from wandering. Your leg bounced impatiently. Max once more gripped your thigh, giving you a stern look.

“Patience is a virtue.”

Silence dominated the last of the meal, your body lined with tension. You couldn’t wait to get him home, having wanted to do so since the moment he turned that damned hat backwards. The sun had set by the time he tipped the waiter. You practically lept from your seat when he stood, grabbing his hand and racing for the street.

Max was stronger than you, of course, and when he dug his heels into the sand you had no choice but to halt. “I said patience, my schat.” My treasure.

Your stomach flipped. Just when you thought you couldn’t want him more, he pulled out the rarely used Dutch term of endearment that never failed to drive you wild. You had to get him home, or else you’d beg for him to take you right there on the beach in front of Charle’s vacant home.

Reading the plea on your face, Max relented with a sigh. “Alright, we won’t take a walk along the water like I planned.” He waved a hand. “You know the way home.”

You wound through the streets with practiced ease, your feet having traveled the path between Charles’ home and your apartment countless times. At one point you had to stop at a street crossing, bouncing on your toes.

The hand Max placed on your ass made you freeze. “Anxious?” He murmured, breath tickling your neck. You only nodded, not trusting yourself to speak. You could only imagine what he would do to you when you were alone.

After two more agonizing blocks, you were home. You rounded on Max the second the door closed behind you, lips crashed to his and your hands tugging his shirt up. Setting his cap on the kitchen counter, you left a trail of clothing from the front door to the threshold of the bedroom. Stripped down to your underwear, you wound your arms around Max’s neck and jumped, wrapping your legs around him.

He caught you with a grin. “Happy birthday, baby.”

“Uh huh,” You replied automatically, jerking your head towards the bed. Max took the hint, laying you back and stripping off his shorts and boxers, leaving him bare before you. The beauty of his body never ceased to amaze you, no matter how many times you saw it.

Max sank to his knees at the edge of the bed, eyes never leaving yours as he slid his hands behind your calves and pulled. You gasped, legs falling open. The sudden heat of his breath on your core shocked your system, sending a shiver up your spine. “Please,” You whispered.

Your knee jerked when his lips met your inner thigh, dangerously close to where you needed him. His mouth trailed up to your hip, where he bit down hard enough to leave a mark. You gasped again, hips rising off the mattress.

“T-tease,” You breathed, head spinning like a top.

“Makes it sweeter when I finally feast.”

And feast he did.

Max had your panties off in record time, immediately dragging his tongue through your slick folds. His nose bumped your clit with each swirl of his tongue. A low moan tore from your throat. Reaching down, you tangled your fingers in his chocolate hair and encouraged him further with the grinding of your hips to his face. His hum of approval rocked through you, snipping the thread of sanity you’d been clinging to.

Your thighs tightened around his head when he slipped a finger inside you, his tongue devouring your clit like it was his last meal. He tapped thrice on your knee, his silent signal that he wanted your eyes on him. It took every ounce of your willpower to meet his request, gazing down at him between your legs.

His confident wink sent you over the edge, golden pleasure coursing through you hot as a wildfire. His tongue lapped at your center, letting you ride through the pleasure. Only when you whimpered softly did he remove his finger and mouth, his chest heaving.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” He asked, words coated in desire. You managed a nod. “Turn over.”

You tried to obey, you really did, but your limbs wouldn’t cooperate. With a growl of impatience, Max flipped you on your stomach. Fingers dug into your flesh as he hauled you up by the hips, face to the bed but ass in the air.

You rock your hips back, brushing the length of his cock. “That’s my girl.”

In one swift movement, he seats himself to the hilt inside you. You don’t need any time to adjust, thankfully, because Max doesn’t waste a second. The obscene sounds of skin on skin fills the room as he slams into you. Fingers tangled in your hair yank you to your elbows, and you looked over your shoulder at Max.

His name was a plea, the only word in your vocabulary as he fucked you senseless. The sting of your scalp was a sharp contrast to the delicious pleasure flooding through you with each thrust of his hips. More than once your limbs turned to jelly, relying on Max to hold you up. He angled his hips to hit that sweet spot inside you with each thrust.

“Max, please-”

“Fuck, I never get tired of how wet you get for me,” Max grunted, increasing his pace until the force of it was enough to make you see stars. “Such a good girl, always ready for me when I want you.”

The praise had your walls tightening on his cock, a whimper escaping your throat. "M-Max-"

"Me too," He grunted, slamming into you twice more before spilling his seed inside you. He gave a few lazy strokes as you followed his lead, your second orgasm of the night draining any energy you had left. Max eased out of you and ran a cloth he had grabbed from the nightstand between your legs.

"I could use a shower after that," You murmured. Max's rumbling laughter sounded at your ear.

"That can be arranged, birthday girl."

#HAPPY BIRTHDAY BESTIE #my writing #max verstappen #formula 1 #formula 1 fanfiction #formula 1 fantasy #formula 1 fanfic #formula 1 rpf #f1 rpf #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen one shot #max verstappen fanfic #max verstappen imagine

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1engele · 3 years

Text

daybreak | sal fisher x fem!reader - 8. solo

Previous | Next

[warnings: underage drinking, smoking, weed, near death experience?, crying]

"never have i dealt with anything more difficult than my own soul." — You leave the roof late in the night. Sal had gotten up and retreated into his apartment a little while earlier—but you'd decided to stay and make sure he didn't come back there.

Three days pass. They all consist of fleeting glances and irresolute tension. Things remain the same with the group dynamic, except for between you and Sal. Neither of you seem to know how to continue from that conversation on the roof. No one else notices, though. They'd never suspected anything from the beginning, it seems.

The beginning of your involvement with Sal involved a little bit of buildup and then a snap which resulted in a sexual encounter (or two).

Now it was a bit different. Now things were a little less lighthearted.

It's a Saturday—you'd planned to spend it inside as usual. That's until your phone starts ringing.

You flip your phone open, read over the contact, and answer the call.

"Hi, Ash."

"Y/N," she starts. You hear the excitement to continue in her voice. "There's a party tonight."

"Oh?" You get up from your seat on your bed.

"Some stoner Larry has connections with invited him and said to bring friends. He wants to bring us—save for Todd. He doesn't do parties."

"Wait," your eyebrows furrow. "Me?"

"Yeah!" She says from the other end of the line. "It'll be fun. Cmon."

You bite your lip nervously, anxiety knotting in your stomach. "I don't know. I've never really.."

Ashley is momentarily silent on the other line. She must be contemplating what to say to convince you. "Sal's coming too. Parties aren't necessarily his thing, either—so maybe you guys could try it out together?"

You open your mouth and then promptly close it. Something inside of you suddenly really wanted to go to this party. "Um... alright. Okay."

"Cool! What're you gonna wear?"

You look toward the drawer that contained your clothes and bit your lip. "Not sure yet. I'll update you on that."

"Okay, don't forget to text me! See you at eight."

The call declined from the other line. The phone that held the phone to your ear slipped into your lap. You pressed your lips together and tried to ignore the familiar feeling of sickening nausea and anxiety.

You don't rush yourself on getting ready for the party, because the time you're due to be done won't be for a while.

You take your time with the hours you have. You shower, take your time on eyeliner, mascara, and lipgloss—and finally decide on what you'll wear.

You decide on a square neck white cropped tank with short sleeves and your nicest pair of light blue, slightly washed out jeans. You slid on your favorite, sort of chunky white sneakers over white socks.

It isn't long after you finish when Ashley calls and informs you she's arrived at the apartments and Larry and Sal have already joined her out in the car. You give yourself a once-over in the mirror and then leave the apartment.

Your mother was nowhere to be found. She's either at work or drinking with her coworkers.

Once you've opened the door and climbed into the Ford Fiesta, you immediately realize your predicament—Sal is the only person in the backseat with you.

The drive there is decently long and painfully tense. Neither you nor Sal know how to speak to each other, so no words are exchanged beneath the heavy metal music emitting from the radio.

When you finally arrive at the party, it's recognizably crowded, drunken teenagers are flowing from the front door, in and out, and there's a good amount on the lawn. The newest radio hit is playing on a considerably loud speaker, and the vibrations are notable even from a distance.

"Woah," Larry says, staring at the house as Ashley pulls onto the side of the road. "Didn't realize he was so popular."

You all exit the Ford Fiesta and cross the road. You cringe as you watch someone vomit onto the grass, and another person ripping from a bong in the wide open.

Smoke flies into your face and your eyes as you enter the home. You cough, waving a hand as you blindly follow after your friends.

Eventually, the four of you find yourself on two couches directly facing each other. You on one, Larry and Ashley on the other. Sal is stood to the side.

Larry materializes a bottle of Fireball that you guessed he stole from someone on the way in, opens the cap with his teeth, and takes several gulps.

"Where did you get that?" Ashley laughs over the music, pulling the sleeves of her lavender sweater over her hands.

"Stole it," he looks to Sal and directs the bottle toward him. "Want some?"

"Sure," Sal replies, to your surprise—taking it from Larry's grasp and walking away and in your direction.

"You're drinking that?" You ask him, testing the waters.

"No, actually," you watch Sal round to the other side of the couch to linger behind you. "I'm limiting him. He'll thank me later."

Once he's out of your field of vision, you tip your head back and gaze up at him—your perspective on him being upside down. Your gaze zeroes in on the bottle of Fireball he's clutching in his hand.

"Hey," you say, meeting his eyes. "Give me some."

It was time to give him that excuse—the excuse to break the ice.

He leans in a bit, gesturing toward you with the bottle. "You want it?"

A grin pulls at your glossed lips. Instead of reaching for the bottle, you open your mouth and tilt your chin up.

Sal looks on for a moment but laughs once he realizes what you want. Everyone else at the couches seem decently distracted with each other and the overall environment—so he doesn't seem to worry about it too much.

He reaches his hand around and towards your neck, gripping your jaw in his fingers and holding you firmly. You feel his cold rings press into your skin when he tips your head further back just a bit—and then steadily pours a shot-amount of Fireball into your mouth with his other hand.

Sal stops at the right time, looks on as you pull back and sit up, and cautiously watches the back of your head as you assumedly swallow the whisky. But when you turn a bit in your seat to peer at him over your shoulder, you're holding your mouth closed and pressing a closed fist to your lips while soundlessly giggling.

"What?" He laughs, a hand moving to the top of the couch. He leans in a bit. "Can you not swallow it?"

Your shoulders shake slightly as you continue to laugh. You shake your head up and down.

"Do you need to spit it out?" Sal asks, his tone warming into concern.

You shake your head from side to side. You meet his eyes and swallow, gasping as the liquid slides down your throat and burns all the way down. You cough, the flavor of cinnamon and what tasted like Big Red gum overloaded your senses.

"God," you breathe out, giggling all the while. The alcohol is gross but you're feeling good. "It's not great."

"Yeah, that's why I'm holding Larry off, so he won't be puking his guts out later."

You look up to the boy, who's sat on the arm of the couch opposite to you. He's busy talking to some equally stoned guy, so you can't manage to catch his eye—but you catch Ashley's.

She had this look of astonishment on her face.

Had she been watching what happened? When Sal poured Fireball in your mouth?

Your face grew hot thinking about it.

Sal wanders away from you again, and you find yourself drinking more than you should. Eventually, your rationality disappears.

It's been a few hours and Sal hasn't seen you for a while. So when he hears about a girl wearing a white crop top walking across the roof of the house, he feels like he's going to vomit.

It takes him a record time of 6 seconds to get out of the door and onto the lawn. Upon looking up at the roof, his suspicions are confirmed. He shoulders past multiple people to place himself near the front of the crowd and gazes up in horror.

"Sal!" You yell, gesturing toward him with something between a wave and a point. "I'd recognize that hair anywhere!"

Multiple heads within the crowd turn away from you and towards him. He puts aside his social anxiety and the wave of unease that washes over his body and tries to focus on you. "Please come down," he rushes out, raising his voice just enough for it to be audible over the crowd.

You laugh like he's told a hilarious joke and he quickly realizes his mistake. That's the worst thing he could've told your intoxicated self. You move toward the edge of the roof, shaky and uncoordinated. "You want me to jump?"

"No!" He exclaims, his hands flying up, fingers splayed. "No. Don't do that!"

"Holy shit!" He hears Larry shout from somewhere closer to the front door of the house. Sal guesses he's just now catching wind of the current situation. Moments after, both of his brunette friends are at his side.

"What the hell is going on?!" Ashley yells, verdant eyes glued to the sight before them.

You lost your balance once again, but this time a bit worse—your foot catching on a shingle on the roof and effectively knocking the red solo cup out of your hand. It dropped onto the downward slope of the roof and the liquor inside of it spilled down the side.

Whenever Sal witnessed the toe of your white sneaker catch onto that shingle, he felt as though his very soul had been ripped from his body. Immediately after he watched you regain your footing and stable yourself, though—his heartbeat calmed to a steadier pace.

"I'm going up there," he stated beneath the chatter.

Both Ashley and Larry's heads whipped toward him.

"You'll kill yourself!" Larry exclaims incredulously. Ashley opens her mouth to assumedly second Larry's statement, but Sal cuts her off by walking away.

"Not before she does," he mutters, pushing his way through the density of bodies and forcing his way through the front door. His senses are disoriented like he's been submerged beneath water as the volume of the music scratched at his eardrums and pulsed the innards of his skull. Adrenaline courses through his blood like a drug whilst he shoulders past both mindlessly drunk and carelessly high teenagers.

Sal doesn't spare them a second glance, but their unconcern does remain in his mind. The fact that they're continuing their lives while he feels as though something that's growing into something of importance in his is about to be taken from him... it's mind-numbing.

He's never been an optimistic person, he's always tried to view things in the way they're most likely to happen—and all that's beneath that two-story house is a long drop and concrete. If you fall, you'll break your head open and you'll die.

He finally makes it to the stairs. He makes a break for it then, tripping over his own feet multiple times. Anything could happen in this amount of time, and he knew no one else was going to help him.

Sal's thoughts grow more and more disordered as he navigates the dark halls of the house. The music seems to have only grown louder, the deafening mixture of guitar and drums taunting him.

He remembers the window on the outside of the house. Sal estimates which room it would be, locates it, and approaches the door. He turns the knob, but it doesn't fully rotate.

The door is locked from the inside. Of course. Who would have a party and leave the bedroom unlocked so people could fuck all over your comforter?

He bites out a curse only he hears and prepares himself to force the door open.

Sal grabs the doorknob tightly, prepares himself, and rams the side of his body into the wood. He doesn't even feel the pain, just does it again, and again.

He goes until that half of his body is numb.

The door finally budges, and he wastes no time entering the room. He doesn't hesitate when he reaches the double-hung window he'd been seeking. He grips it at the bottom and pulls it up and open, clenching his teeth together painfully.

Sal stares out at the vastness of the night, the golden streetlights, and how they shine down on the crowd of people below him. They all seem to be looking at the same place, up, but not at him—and he can only swallow thickly.

Carefully, Sal moves to sit on the windowsill, gripping what was above him tightly, his legs outside. He then ducks to leave the room and shivers as cool air hits the front of his neck.

He starts walking the roof, steadily—like his life depends on it. Because.. it does.

Or yours. Yours depends on it.

"Y/N!" Sal calls as he finally reaches a point where you're in his line of sight. Momentarily, he's worried he'd scared you. But you turn your head, meet his eyes, and smile. Despite that, your face spells fear all over it. Something must have sobered you up a bit while he'd been inside.

"I'm going to come to you. Do not walk towards me!"

You blink lazily, because you were drunk, and nodded. You shivered, hugging yourself. It didn't seem to do much, though. Your arms were bare.

"Fuck," he breathes, gazing down at the fall that could await him if he misstepped and immediately reverted his gaze. Blood rushes between his ears as he steadily makes his way towards you.

"Please don't fall!" You suddenly exclaim, your hair tussling in the breeze. A strand blows over your face, so you quickly raise a hand to move it back in place.

He looks up from his feet and stares you in the eyes. "I won't," he affirms, you and himself, continuing across the roof. "Just stay put, okay?"

It doesn't take long to get over to you. He's mostly sober, so it isn't hard on that part. What's difficult is calming his steady heart.

He's not scared of falling. Not necessarily scared of injury or death. But he is scared of not making it to you.

Once he's at an arms reach of your shaking form, he reaches out a hand, palm facing the darkness of the sky.

You seem to read his mind, slowly grabbing his hand. Sal maneuvers your joint hands to where your palms press together and your fingers are interlaced. He doesn't know if it's the blood rushing through his ears or the distance from the ground, but it's as if everything below becomes very quiet.

You meet his gaze, your pretty eyes glossy with tears. The eyeliner you were wearing had just begun to collect beneath your lower lash line.

He squeezes your hand and leads you to be in front of him.

It's not long after that that he's gotten you off of the roof. Sal watches you slip through the open window before turning toward the density of people beneath him on the ground. He breathes in as he catches both Larry and Ashley's eyes—he can't read their expressions, but he wouldn't be surprised if there was shock written all over it—and then ducks back into the window.

As soon as the window is shut and it meets the windowsill once more, Sal whips his head toward you. "Y/N-"

Before he'd saw your face, and the language of your body as you were sat on the edge of the bed, he was going to scold you, and then go downstairs and find you some water and sober you up—all of that falls down the drain when he sees the stream of tears falling down your face. Every time you blink, more drop—quickly staining your cheeks with black makeup.

"Oh," he breathes, suddenly speechless. "Y/N-"

You attempt at taking a breath in, it seems—but it's a failure because it hitches and turns into a shoulder-shaking sob.

"I'm sorry," you cry, roughly dragging the tips of your fingers beneath your eyes. This only smears the running mascara further. "I'm just drunk."

Sal momentarily feels like breaking down in tears himself, that's how much this entire ordeal stressed him out. He approaches your trembling body and crouches down in front of you.

"Hey," he says, softly. "It doesn't matter whether or not you're intoxicated. Your feelings still matter, okay?"

You sniffle, still attempting to wipe your tears away, and reluctantly nod. "I'm sorry," you try again.

He places his hands on your knees and squeezes them firmly. "It's okay."

You jerk into a sob, leaning forward and pressing the side of your face on his shoulder. You slowly tuck your arms beneath his and cross them over the expanse of his back, palms flat on each shoulder blade. The convulsive gasps were hard to stop, making it hard to breathe.

Sal breathed out softly against the prosthetic, raising his arms and encasing them around your torso.

He didn't wonder about the reason for your tears. Assuming things wouldn't help you anymore.

"I don't know why I did that," you whisper, quieting yourself to swallow your saliva. "Maybe I do. I think I was trying to prove something to myself."

He finds himself holding you tighter, your chest pressed to his, feeling your heartbeat through the fabric that separated you both—oddly enough, even at this moment, it reminds him of that night in the car. You had been even closer to him then, though.

"It was stupid," you murmured. "Why would I do that, after what we had talked about last night?"

"What if we jumped together?" he remembers saying.

"Some things can't be explained," he replies earnestly. "You don't need to know why you did what you did. It was stupid, though. I'd probably walk across the roof of a two-story house for you again, but.."

You pull back and meet his eyes, your face wet. The majority of your makeup had been cried off and your lipgloss had been smudged.

You must've sensed his examination, breaking the visual contact and sniffling. "I know I look ridiculous right now."

Sal smiles. He knows she can't see it, but maybe she'll hear it. "I don't think so," he murmurs, looking off to the side. "I think that's a bathroom. You can clean up in there if you want."

You follow his gaze and then return your eyes to his and laugh a bit. You still sound drunk, he notes. Obviously. He'd poured a good amount of Fireball into your mouth and watched you drink plenty of other things.

"Feels kinda weird using a stranger's bathroom," you laugh, your breath hitching from the earlier crying.

Sal rolls his eyes humorously, gripping your knees tighter as he pulls himself off of the floor. "The guy who lives here is Larry's friend—and a stoner. I doubt he'd mind. And if he does get mad, I'll take responsibility for it. I forced that door through, anyway.."

Your gaze swivels toward the door, which is not shut but mostly closed. When he glances to where you're looking, he notices it seems a bit.. crooked.

He inwardly cringes. "I'll pay for it. Come on."

Sal follows you into the bathroom. You seem reluctant to enter first, so he does, opening the door and reaching to the side to turn the lights on. They do what they're supposed to—eventually. They're momentarily unresponsive before becoming alive—the illumination brightening the room with a dull yellow hue.

You step onto the tile and began to search for whatever it was you needed. You kneeled at one of the cabinets below the sink, opened it, and ducked your head lower.

"Oh!" You exclaim quietly, reaching in and pulling out two things. A bottle of half-empty makeup remover and a bag of some cotton rounds.

"Maybe he has a girlfriend?" He hears you say to yourself, standing up, nudging the cabinet closed with your foot, and placing the things you found beside the sink.

Sal reaches over and closes the door. He'd rather not have to witness the sight of some drunkards wandering in and fooling around on the bed.

"Lock it," you say. "I'd rather no one- no one see me like this."

His hand was already on the doorknob, so he just reaches down a bit and locks the door.

He watches you struggle a bit with the bag of cotton rounds, trying but failing to open it, so he reaches forward and delicately plucks it out of your grasp.

Sal slides the makeup remover over and pats the place on the counter it was previously. "Sit."

You peer into his eyes inquisitively but waste no time hoisting yourself up and onto the cold surface.

After that, he plucks the bottle of makeup remover off of the counter and douses the cotton round in the liquid. He reaches forward from the distance that your knees created between the both of you, but you spread your thighs and press the heel of your shoe into his lower back, pulling him in so he's between your legs.

Sal doesn't see it suggestively, because you're drunk—but he's glad you asked him to lock the door because, with his luck, Larry or Ashley would find their way into the bathroom and get all of the wrong ideas.

The firmness just beneath his navel presses into the edge of the counter as he cups one side of your face and began wiping away at the eyeliner and mascara and everything it messed up.

"Thank you," you say sweetly, blinking at him with appreciation in your eyes. "Where'd you learn how to do that?"

He remembers a silhouette. Her back was turned to him, golden hair cascading just past her shoulder blades. He remembers blue eyes that looked a lot like his own staring into a mirror, a hand which adorned a wedding ring wiping away makeup from the day.

"Read it on the label of the bottle," he replies, meeting your eyes and looking away.

As he's finishing up, he hears a rapping of knuckles against the locked door. He tosses the used cotton rounds into a trash bin in the corner and then locks eyes with you curiously.

"Occupied," he calls out, still looking at you. The knocking only gets louder, which makes you laugh.

"He said it's occupied!" You yell over the unintelligible music downstairs, your words breaking into a giggle. You press your knees against his waist, and he doesn't even realize it when his hands meet your thighs.

The knocking ceases, fading into a voice. "Is that you guys in there?"

Fucking Larry. Speak of the goddamn devil—that's what he would've said if he'd come knocking sooner.

The both of you seem to be thinking the same thing, locking eyes in terror. You quickly get off of the counter, and Sal unlocks the door and swings it open.

Sure enough, he's standing there—in all of his glory and highness. Larry blinks, the whites of his glossy eyes tinted red. He looks between the both of you before speaking. "Why were.."

"I had to pee," You choose to deadpan.

Sal feels himself grow even paler than he already is. "I came in.. after.. that."

Larry intakes a mouthful of whatever is in the red solo cup he's holding in his tan, lanky fingers, and swallows thickly. "Okay," he croaks, instinctively cringing as the alcohol passed through his chest. He gestured the cup toward you. "Uh..crazy stunt you pulled up there, huh?"

Sal saw your face shift in his peripheral vision. "Huge lapse of judgment," you reply.

"Nobody could tell who you were, so don't worry about that," the brunette smiles a bit. He returns his attention to Sal. "They've started playing country," sure enough, Sal hears the sound of a banjo from the speakers downstairs, effectively punctuating Larry's statement.

"Yeah.." Larry mumbles, sipping his drink and looking up and through his eyebrows. "Ash said to come find you guys so we can leave."

It doesn't take much, after that.

As you're leaving, Larry pulls the door open and furrows his brow at the condition of the hinges. "Wow. How old is this thing?" He mumbles.

Sal hears you snort.

The three of you descend the stairs, skirting past countless teenagers standing on the steps drinking or smoking. Sal makes the mistake of letting you fall behind and feels you stumble and smack him in the back. It's easy to steady himself, quickly gripping the railing—but he's concerned about you, so he turns around.

A guy with a cigarette balancing in his teeth is eying you with frustration pulling at his features. His gaze pulls from your face and down your body absentmindedly.

"Watch it," he murmurs.

"Sorry," you breathe, jerking your head away and meeting Sal's eyes worriedly. Keep walking, you express in the hues of your eyes.

Sal reaches forward and interlaces your fingers with his as he'd done on the roof. He makes a show of it, too—so the guy with the cigarette sees the rings on both of his hands. Sal gives him a distinct look when they lock eyes, rolls his jaw, and lets you lead him down the stairs, instead of the other way around.

By the time you're all nearly shot from weaving through the multitude of sweaty bodies and navigating through plumes of smoke thicker than fog, the three of you find Ashley petting what he'd assume is the host's dog.

No one questions it.

"You good to drive?" Larry asks, placing his cup on a nearby surface.

"Oh, yeah," she rises from her crouch beside the dog. The animal walks away, his golden tail wagging excitedly at the next person who would give him pets. "A gross sip of something put me off of drinking tonight a while earlier. And, uh.. the whole roof thing dried me out."

You sigh. "I'm sorry about that. It sobered me up, too."

She shakes her head, a wispy strand of light brown hair falling over her face. "It was stupid, yes, and I hope you don't do it again, but all that matters now is that you're safe."

Ashley blinks kind green eyes at you and smiles, reaching forward, taking your hand, and leading you away. Sal hears you laugh and follow after her as both of you head for the front door.

He turns to look at Larry once he loses sight of both of you in the crowd. He examines Sal with bleary dark eyes and looks as though he's about to say something, but he doesn't get to.

Even over the blaring country music, Sal hears a yell and then some fearful shouting. He whips around toward the sounds, which were toward the front of the house.

Red and blue flashing lights shine through the windows.

"Shit!"

"Ah, fuck," Larry groaned, nimbly wrapping his fingers around Sal's wrist and dragging him into the density of the panicked crowd. "Did you see where they went?"

Sal shakes his head. "No," he knows you're intoxicated. Panic settles in. He chews his lip, his eyes desperately scamming for a girl wearing a white top squared at the neck—you. "Y/N's had a lot to drink, Larry. If the police-"

"Don't worry about the Five-O, let's worry about the girls," Larry replies absentmindedly, keeping his firm hold on Sal.

"They must've gone to the Ford," Sal shouts over the music, which, for some reason, is still playing. "We were leaving anyway. I'm sure they're in the car."

Larry releases Sal and motions toward the back of the house. "There's a back door. I'll text Ashley and tell her to drive down the block and we can meet them on foot."

It was an agreeable plan. Waltzing out of the house and walking straight up to the car wouldn't be wise.

Larry does what he'd said he'd do. Turns out, Sal was right, they had made it to the car moments before the police had rolled up. Ashley informed him it was two squad cars and four officers. Seemed like overkill for a house party—but he wouldn't know. He didn't do this often.

When Larry was on the phone, Sal was very tempted to ask about Y/N, but refrained.

On the way to the back door, they crossed through the kitchen. Larry snatched an unopened bottle of alcohol of a brand Sal didn't recognize and carried it along with him for the road.

As soon as they made it out of the house, they both made a break for it, running between houses and into multiple different backyards on their way.

They slowed down once they were at a measurable distance from the party, gasping for air. Sal panted against the prosthetic, placing his hands on his knees and slowing his gasps into slow breaths, attempting to calm his racing heart.

They stood on the side of the road, the music in the distance (albeit a lot quieter) still pounding into the night.

Sal lowered himself down onto the curb. Larry joined him, raising the bottle he'd chose to bring with him to his mouth, and opened the steel cap with his teeth. He spits it onto the road and gestures it toward Sal.

"Bottoms up," he said, bringing it to his lips and taking several gulps.

Sal rolled his eyes playfully, eyebrows rising as Ashley's Ford Fiesta cruised down the road and slowed to a stop in front of them. He stood up from the curb and pulled Larry off of it as well.

They entered the car, sliding into the backseat. Larry continued to down the beer he'd found as Ashley turned around in her seat.

"The night's still young," she says. "Any ideas of what we could do?"

It's really not. Sal's a bit disoriented so he doesn't know what time it is but he wouldn't be surprised if it was 3 AM.

You then turn around in the passenger seat and grin mischievously. "Let's go to the lake."

Oh, great.

#sally face #sally face x reader #sal fisher x reader

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