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azsazz · 5 months

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Midnight Muse (Part 4)

Azriel x Reader [Art School AU]

Summary: You and your best friend Feyre have just moved into a new apartment for your sophomore year of college at art school. What you didn't know when you signed the lease is that you'd be living next to three rowdy boys.

Warnings: N/A

Word Count: 3,556

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3]

Notes: This story is so healing to me 😌

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A deep thrumming rattling the walls shakes you from your sleep. It vibrates through your chest, the ardent bass and pounding drums reverberating in your bones. The timber of the singer’s words swims in your head, throat and low, and you’re unable to pluck the words and make sense of them this early in the morning.

You blink once. Twice. Your eyelids feel like sandpaper and your head is stuffed with tiredness, a sharp pain settled behind your eyes despite the darkness of your room.

Night licks the walls, and you groan, rolling over. Shoving your pillow over your head, it does little to block the disruption coming from the other side of the wall. You don't know what time it is. If it is still night, it’s either too early, or too late.

Which means that the sounds on the other side of the wall have to be one of those rowdy boys.

After moving the vehicle when ‘Azzy’—as the final boy so lovingly said it—had finally moved that death-trap of a ride, you were beginning to think that things were starting to finally look up for the rest of your first night in your apartment. He had been gone and his roommates’ party seemed to be winding down, if the three giggling, drunk girls on the elevator ride down were any sign. They’d been gushing about one of the roommates, Cassian, she’d said. Some of her brunette hair was disheveled in her ponytail, as if someone had tried to run their fingers through their hair, or had wrapped said hairstyle around their fist. Gag.

“He kept calling me baby,” she gushed to her friends, who were both squealing with excitement. You could hardly contain the desperate urge to roll your eyes at their annoyance, how they were openly talking about the lines of muscle cording his body or the length of his cock with a complete stranger inside this tiny metal box with them. It’s not as if they were whispering, and you’d cut a glance at the girl swooning over one of your rude neighbor’s appendage.

Her piercing green eyes were clouded and shiny with drink. Her cheeks pinkened with a blush that looked permanent. Her lush lips swollen and top button of her shirt still undone, she looked everything beautifully fucked.

Your mouth turned into a sour line, wondering which of the boys had been the one to claim her tonight.

With each passing day, the dilapidated elevator seemed to work slower and slower. As if it was your destiny to be stuck in the confines of this metal contraption with the worst possible people…or trapped outside of it, anyway.

Eventually, the doors had screeched open, but even the shrill noise didn’t deter the gossipping girls’ conversation. They stumbled out of the elevator with a cheerfulness only alcohol and dick could conjure, giggling their way down the quiet streets.

It was a miracle that you didn’t have a parking ticket clinging to the window of your rental. You’d moved it both easily and quickly, something you would’ve been able to do if that bastard Azzy had given you the damn space when you’d asked him to move his sleek motorcycle.

And of course, as you cursed his name for the umpteenth time of the night, he’d appeared.

Cloaked in a worn leather jacket that clung to the curve of every muscle, he’d shown up. There was a tight line to his mouth, deep eyes reflectant of the nighttime sky, caressed by equally dark, thick lashes. He nearly looked as tired as you felt, slight rings around his eyes. His helmet, that, when he shucked off pulled his hair up in the most perfect directions, even more so when he ran his gloved fingers through it with that damned smirk on his face.

He hadn’t let your gaze linger on the handsomeness of it as a streak of mischief streaking across his eyes like a star as he taunted you. Azzy’s tone was deep and dulcet, unexpected for the jeer falling from his lips. It took your tired mind to shear through the thoughts of that mouth and hook onto his words, and the asshole’s smile only widened when you scoffed and retaliated.

Oh, how he had gotten on your nerves.

Again.

And now this, music flowing through the wall at Mother knows what hour.

You’re so exhausted, you could cry. Your body is sore with the efforts of moving, mind a muddled mess. Tears prick the back of your eyes, tightening your sinuses as you grit your teeth, trying to contain them. If the fabric of your pillowcase wets with a drop, you would never admit it.

How has the day from hell somehow managed to turn into the night from hell too? What the fuck have you done to deserve this?

Even more so, how do the other roommates deal with this? Are they all awake and listening to the music, long bored after the party has died down? Or do they delight in the fact, knowing you are their neighbor and have already complained about the noise once. Why not bother you again, when any normal person would be asleep?

Frustration courses through your veins like a lance, hot and unforgiving. The rush has those tears leaking from the corners of your eyes and you push to your knees, channeling every ounce of burning hot ire and rotting tiredness into your fists, pounding them against the thin wall.

Your chest heaves, labored with irritation. You don’t smash your fists against the wall again, hoping that the once will have gotten your message across to the boy on the other side of the wall. There’s something that niggles at your brain, telling you that you know which one is fated to be on the other side of the plaster.

There is no response for one breath, two. Then, a thump as loud as your own, answers. Just one, like you had done to him. The music rings a touch louder, and it sounds nearly clear as day, like you’re standing in the front row to a rock concert.

Prick.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•

Sighing in frustration, you tear another sheet from your drawing pad, crumple it up with all of the pent up rage and annoyance, charging it with all of your ire. So much so, that you fear it might burst into flames. You want to tear it to shreds and stuff those tiny pieces of paper right up your douchebag of a neighbor's ass.

Instead, you throw the paper over your shoulder and let your head collapse in your hands.

Music pounds loudly through the earbuds you’d stuffed into your ears when it became clear that the raging music next door would not be turned down. You’d considered marching over there to give him a piece of your mind or punch a hole through this very wall, but instead opted to blare music so loudly you can’t make out the lyrics.

Art had been your next attempt at blowing off some of the steam turning your cheeks red. You’d pulled out the well-worn sketchbook from your bag, along with the colored pencils you always had stuffed in there, and attempted to allow your mind to unleash whatever it wanted across the creamy pages.

Except, everything that came out was trash. Lines heavy with exhaustion and anger, deep and dark, nearly tearing through the pages. You’d broken the tips on four of your pencils and couldn’t find the sharpener you swore you’d put in the front pocket of your bag.

It’s as if your body didn’t know what to draw. The beginnings of sketches quickly turned into shapes of madness and sleep-deprivation, things you couldn’t even make out. A bat that had turned into a gruesome image, flesh tearing from its bones. A cloaked figure atop of a black stallion that made your stomach clench. A few soft strokes of a pair of lips with an incredible smirk. Your shoulders had begun to loosen as you worked through this, but once you realized what you had begun sketching subconsciously, you’d torn away that page too.

And that had been the last page in your sketchbook, the black of the back cover taunting you, laughing at you.

It didn’t matter anyway, because your stomach had soured at the thought of your last attempt. You’d shoved yourself away from your desk, spine rigid and bones vibrating with tension. On one of the scrap papers you’d written a list of supplies to get while out shopping; pencil sharpener, new sketchbook, earplugs.

You’d even managed to unpack most of the boxes in your room before the sun had barely licked the sky. Terrible, you know, because you’ve only gotten a little more than an hour’s sleep since moving into this hell hole of an apartment. You curse Feyre’s sister, Nesta, who had claimed that this was her favorite place to live all the years she’d gone to school here.

At least you have been productive in the hours since.

Now, you’re trailing down the roads in town, headed to the small art supply store.

You’d waited until it was late enough for stores to be opening, and the town is quiet on this mildly sunny morning. You bask in it, shoving your earbuds into your pockets as you waltz, coffee in hand and fresh air coursing through your lungs.

You might’ve been able to fall asleep even with the sun peeking through your blinds, but you’d been determined to purchase the supplies you need for classes in a few days. Not even the sight of Azzy’s empty parking spot could turn you around.

Something you will probably regret later.

Feyre had been dead asleep by the time you left, and you figure someone should be getting sleep even if you can’t. At least, that’s how your thoughts are now, who knows how you’ll feel if this shit is a nightly occurrence. You might just have to persuade her to switch rooms with you.

The bell at the shop rings when you enter, but there’s no one at the counter to greet you. This, you don’t mind, because you aren’t in the mood to pretend like your morning hasn’t been one of the shittiest ones you’ve had in a long time, and you’re not even hungover. Whoever is on duty is probably stocking the shelves or something anyway.

Your gaze wanders around the store, stuffed full of art supplies. It’s heaven. Painted lined up by color, a rainbow bursting with life. There’s an entire aisle dedicated to sketchbooks and papers of all sorts, canvases larger than your body stacked against the back walls, spray paints, pencils, ink, carving tools, clay—any and all supplies for most artists can be found here, and that is no easy feat.

The scent of the store draws the tension from your shoulders, settling you to your core. You can feel the recharging of your creative energy, your artistic inspiration opening her eyes to take in the view.

Maybe you can talk to the owner and convince them to let you move in here.

You take your time, shuffling up and down the aisles, taking everything in for all its glory. Pristine tubes of paint, swollen like plump berries, not yet crusted with colors. Pencils with graphite of all weights and strengths. You pluck a new HB pencil from its container and slip it into your basket. And maybe you grab a few more.

A kneaded eraser is added after that, and ah-ha, the sharpener you need. A kit of watercolor pencils catches your eye, but you pass them up, instead heading to the sketchbook area, to linger in the scents of fresh paper.

There’s the shuffling of noise in another aisle, and you gather that it must be the associate on shift. Music begins playing through a speaker by the front, and it’s much less grating than the kind that had awoken you. The chill indie music fills the space with even more life, and combined with the streams of sunlight sliding in through the glass windows, you think your day may be starting to brighten.

You end up with three sketchbooks in your basket—a feat in itself not to choose one of each—and continue trapezing through the store. You pass by the sculpting section and pause for a moment, wondering if you should take a class. Then, at the thought of clay thick against your skin, caked under your nails and embedded into your clothes, you decide against it.

You grab a can of fixative for when you take your drawing class uses charcoals, another messy medium you don’t care for. You don’t like the feel of the dry chalk against your hands, sticking between the creases of your fingers. It takes forever to get out.

You may not know what type of art you want to stick with, but you know that those are out.

And there are so many different types of art to try that it’s almost overwhelming. Well, anything in your current state of fatigue is overwhelming, but you haven’t found the one thing that you can see yourself doing everyday. You don’t even have an artistic style yet, and you’re still fresh enough in college to take all of the classes you want to, weed out the areas of art you don’t care for and narrow down what you do like.

Surely, you’ll figure it all out. Someday.

You take the longest in the paint aisle. Tubes upon tubes of color scream at you, and you admire each one. From oils to acrylics, gouache to watercolors, it surely is the biggest section. Not to mention the plethora of brushes hanging above. You’d added a painting sketchbook to your cart, small enough for quick and simple paintings. You don’t want to put too much pressure on yourself yet, but you’ve always wanted to try it out.

Reds of all shades, ochres that remind you of autumn, phthalos and umbers and titanium white stare up at you, waiting for you to take them home, squeeze the life from them so their colors burst on your canvas. You gaze even snags on a unique color, and you lean closer to read the name: dioxazine purple.

You forgo that, instead grabbing a tube of the most important colors, colors you can mix together to create any other color on the spectrum. It’s almost like a super power, being able to mix such colors from only a few, and you love it.

After adding a few brushes to your basket, you head towards the front of the store to check out, halting in your tracks when you see who is behind the counter.

No, thankfully it isn’t Azzy, but it is one of his roommates.

He’s leaning against the counter, swiping through his phone. His dark hair looks surprisingly neat, brushed back with dampness still clinging to it from his morning shower. He’s clad in a black t-shirt that leaves a patchwork of tattoos on display. There’s an over-the-top cup of coffee on the counter that puts your simple one to shame. His posture exudes an effortless confidence, and when he looks up and catches sight of you, a dimple deepens in his cheek.

“Fancy seeing you here, neighbor.”

You bite back the groan at the base of your throat, moving closer. All you have to do is pay for your things and leave. You don’t have to talk to him outside of the necessary cashier talk, and maybe he won’t even try to taunt you.

Yeah, right.

“Hi,” you grit, placing your basket on the counter. He peers into it and you tense, feeling judged. You have no idea what kind of art he’s into, if he even is at all, but you don’t like him knowing this part of you, not when he and his roommates have been nothing but rude to you. It feels too personal.

His eyes flicker back to your face, taking you in, and the color reminds you shockingly of that tube of paint you were just looking at. You don’t balk from his assessment of you, taking in your tired eyes and the downturn of your mouth. You want him to stop looking at you and ring up your things, but instead, he smirks.

There goes your lighter mood.

Surprisingly, the first thing out of this one’s mouth isn’t a taunt. “How are you this morning, darling?”

Darling? That thought makes you want to grimace, but you swallow it down in favor of trying to get out of here without your state of mind plummeting further.

“Lovely,” you try for a smile, but it feels forced. His lips twitch higher as he clocks it as well. “And yourself?”

“Fantastic.”

You nod, pinning the sour remark to the roof of your mouth. Yes, I’m sure your party was just lovely, unlike my night of unrest.

Jerk.

“Right…” you trial off, eyes flicking down to your basket in an attempt to tell him to hurry the fuck up without so bluntly saying hurry the fuck up like you so devastatingly want to.

“First year here?”

“Second,” you answer flatly, praying he starts moving. The muscles of his arms flex where they’re on display, and he reaches into your basket, examining the first tube of paint he pulls out. Ochre.

Not for anything specific, maybe say, eyes.

“I’m a junior,” he replies, picking up the check out gun as slow as possible.

“I didn’t really ask.”

That mirth-filled gaze sweeps over you again and you try not to duck your head, to fight off the fire of both a blush at his attention and your irritation at his slowness.

“That’s right,” he muses, and the ring of the scanner going off makes you blink. “I’m Rhysand. I think we’ve met somewhere once.”

It’s what you’ve been waiting for, the teasing. How he’d answered the door after sensitive Azzy had and slammed it again in your face. You remember him perfectly.

“Are all three of you always this insufferable?” You ask, cutting to the chase. It’s a rhetoric question, one you already know the answer to, but he’s responding anyway.

“Most call it charm,” he shrugs, grinning.

You don’t hold back the urge to roll your eyes.

“So, your roommate is pretty cute,” Rhys drawls, scanning another tube of paint. That’s two in the span of a minute. He should be fired for such things. You glance at the door, praying that his roommate doesn’t waltz right in, because that, you think, would mean that you actually have the worst luck ever. “She got a name?”

Your gaze cuts back to him, eyes narrowing. “Don’t we all?”

“And yet, I didn’t catch yours.” He cocks his head and flips another paint tube out of the basket.

You grit your name through clenched teeth, the grip on your coffee cup tightening. Your already thin patience is now threadbare. Only a few strings holding on to your sanity, but Rhysand is quickly sawing through.

“Nice name for a lovely girl, I’m sure,” he teases, but there’s nothing funny about it. These boys might be having their fun, but to you it was never something to laugh at, and the situation has only gotten worse. “And what’s your roommate's name?”

“Sorry, she’s not the secret fuck type,” you bite. Though, she might be, after her breakup with long-term boyfriend, Tamlin this summer.

Thankfully, your basket is nearly empty. You set your coffee on the counter, pulling your wallet from your purse in haste. The quicker you can pay and leave, the quicker you can hole back up in your apartment. Maybe take a nap on the couch.

“Trust me, darling. It wouldn’t be a secret.”

You can’t help but splutter the laugh that bubbles up your throat. You stare at him, incredulous. “That usually works, doesn’t it?”

His façade falters and you lift your chin with pride. Clearly, you’ve caught him off guard. “What?”

“The whole ‘darling’ thing. You just expect women to swoon at that, huh?” His smile is hesitant, and he takes the card you hold out to him. “That’s what I thought. Can I have my supplies now, darling?”

Rhysand takes your card without complaint, running your total. His mouth is set in a firm line now, shoulders tense. The aura in the entire shop has changed, but you don’t have the ability to care right now, itching to get away.

He hands you your card back and nearly shoves your bag off of the counter with a grumbled, “Az was right.”

It’s your turn to question him. “What?”

“You are grumpy.”

The hot sheath of ire is torn away. Your fingers curl into fists around the handle of your bag, the other around your coffee cup. The bite of heat only fuels the irritation sliding up your spine, and you are unable to keep the cadmium red staining your cheeks as you glare up at him.

“Tell me you’re shitting sunshine when you haven’t slept all night because of your roommate.” Rhys answering smirk is cutting, suggestive. It makes you blind with rage. Spinning on your heel, you shove yourself out the door before he can answer your anger with another sly remark.

Fucking assholes, all of them.

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Midnight Muse Taglist: @going-through-shit @honeycriess @natashachelsea @thisisew @kennedy-brooke @cat-or-kitten @sourapplex @magical-mischief-makers @reiincarnatiion @ccucumbers @secret-ly-here @throneofsmut @cami26cami @torchbearerkyle @a-frog-with-a-laptop @sevikas-whore @endless-worldss @vellichor01 @bangtans-jagiya @kalulakunundrum @pinksmellslikelove @sakurafrost3-blog @imxnotxhere @bookishbroadwaybish @justdreamstars @i-am-infinite @whichwitchisthebitch @i-am-a-lost-girl16 @sia-r @acourtofbatboydreams @hannzoaks @judig92 @ilikefictionalmen @harrystylesfan2686 @dr4g0ngirl

#azriel acotar #azriel au #acotar #azsazz #acomaf #acowar #azriel #azriel x reader #azriel/reader #art school au #acotar modern au #midnight muse

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mercurygray · 2 months

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March prompts: Daisy chain 😊

Poets couldn't make more perfect days than this.

The day was clear and warm, the last of the summer slowly dribbling away as autumn poked its head around the corner. Far away across the field the leaves were just starting to turn, and here in the grass everything around them was tall and brown with summer, full of daisies and the very last of the cornflowers.

This was one of the only places on the base they could go to be alone. Bucky was stretched out with his hands folded behind his head, uniform jacket tossed over the bag she'd brought the picnic in. The blanket he was lying on was her standard army issue one, pulled from the end of her bed, and Cord had a sudden thought that when they were done here there was a faint chance it was going to smell like him.

She turned her face up to the sun, closing her eyes and breathing deep. She could remember lots of afternoons like this, sitting out at the air races with her dad, ten or eleven years old and bored to death that they had to sit and watch another round of planes go by. He'd pulled up dandelions, in between the heats, and taught her how to make them into crowns, grabbing the longest and leggiest plants. I used to make these for your mother, he'd told her, hands moving gracefully in and out.

It wasn't until she was older that she realized that it wasn't ever her mother sending her away but her father taking her with - to share something that mattered to him, sure, but to get her out of the house for the afternoon, give her mother time to rest. That was early, when they didn't know how sick she was - or how much time she had left.

Two years later, when the grass was starting to grow over her grave, when the air races were back she asked to go. They sat in the outfield with their orange Nehis and wax-papered sandwiches, and Cord remembered aloud how her mom had always made them ham and cheese. Her father explained that was because it was easy, and he'd never told her how much he hated ham, and Cord realized then just how much her father missed her mother.

Her fingers still remembered the movements, after a few false starts - she snuck some cornflowers in, here and there, just to see how the blue looked.

"Here, sit up."

Bucky opened his eyes and sniffed, forcing himself upright, and she placed the circlet of flowers on his head and sat back on her knees to admire him, the sun touching the flowers with extra snap, their white faces brilliant in the sunshine.

He gingerly touched the crown, his fingers almost comically large next to the little daisies. "How do I look?" he asked. "Does this make me king of something?"

"Do you want to be king?"

"I do, yeah." His smile was all warmth and summer, eyes creasing with joy, and she thought for a moment of Puck, ready to make mischief.

"King of the pilots?"

"Nah, I'm already one of those," he said with a grin, leaning forward so his face was closer to her own, raising one hand to her face, his thumb tracing the line of her chin. "I want to be the king of kissing you."

He said things and meant them, John Egan, and she both knew that it was silly to argue and pointless to try. "Guess you'd better get started then," she said, and his lips were sudden and warm, his body urging her backwards until she was giggling in the grass, and he was opening her shirt, and the daisies were tickling her skin, and she was at home in his arms and queen of everything.

#asked and answered #orlissa #i have written a thing #mercurygraypresents #cordelia callaway #john egan x oc #masters of the air OC

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a-bang-for-your-bucky · 2 years

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Adrenaline Rush: Kiss Of Death

Summary: THE MEET CUTE: Eddie met Pretty Girl long before he was a rockstar.

Warnings: Explicit language, SMUT (P in V sex, protected sex, oral sex m/f receiving, fingering, dirty talk, Pretty girl has a thing for Eddie's hands) This is actual very soft for me.

A/N: The biggest thanks to @acrossthesestars for being the greatest Beta. Rockstar!Eddie would not exist without you!

It was a normal Tuesday night.

The band was set up to play at The Hideout. He didn’t expect a large crowd, they never had one. But something inside him tickled at the back of his mind, telling him tonight would be different somehow. He sat down in front of the dirty mirror, carefully tracing his lids with the eyeliner. He’d never admit, especially not to the guys in the band, but he loved the look, the way it made his eyes pop. Eddie tied his black bandana around his curls, pushing them out of his face. His Corroded Coffin shirt was cut off just enough to show a sliver of his stomach and the black, studded belt that held up his dark jeans.

“Let’s go, Munson. They want us on stage,” Gareth yelled, banging on the door. Eddie grabbed his faithful guitar, stroking his fingers over the strings lovingly. She was dark red, covered in black specs that created an intricate design. He slung it over his shoulder, adjusting it so that it was carried on his back, and made his way to the stage.

You were nervous.

You were in Hawkins, visiting your best friend for the first time in forever. She begged you to go to this bar with her and see a cover band.

“I swear, they are going to be the next Black Sabbath,” Julie gushed as she handed you a cropped top to go with the tight jeans that were already snug on your hips. “And the guitarist is so talented. I can only imagine what he can do with those fingers,” she purred.

“God, Julie.” You groaned at her comment. You were never one to shy away from your sexual desires, but you were seriously lacking in that department at the moment. You didn’t want to think about how talented a guitarist would be.

Your best friend rummaged around her closet, tossing clothes out behind her, until she squealed. “Perfect.” She turned to face you with a leather jacket. “This completes the look. Now I just need to tease your hair and you’ll fit right in.”

Julie insisted that you miss the first song, claiming that showing up fashionably late was cool now. There was no cover charge, which was great, because you only brought enough cash for a few drinks. The bar smelled like stale cigarette smoke and cheap beer. You wrinkled your nose, the smell wafting right into your face as the door opened.

Walking in, you immediately recognized the ending of “Into The Void” by Black Sabbath. Your eyes were drawn to the eccentric guitarist with long brown hair as he shredded the cords. Julie was right, he was very talented.

“Here, bitch. Drink this.” Julie shoved a cup into your face. You were wary, giving your friend an incredulous look. “Don’t worry, I got it directly from the bartender.”

With that reassurance, you downed the liquid, loving how it stung the back of your throat. Julie grabbed your wrist and pulled you closer to the stage. Just as the next song started, you raked your eyes over the guitarist. You could see his nails were painted black and rings adorned his left hand, one on each deliciously thick finger.

You subconsciously licked your lips, watching as he perfectly replicated the intro to Dokken’s “Kiss of Death”. You were even more surprised when the brunette stepped up to the microphone. His voice was lusciously smooth, like honey, yet he still had that rough, rock tone. The lyrics flowed with the music, making you sway to the beat. You watched as he seduced the crowd, drawing them in.

Eddie loved this song. Something about how dark and sexy it was sent shivers up his spine. Not to mention, the guitar parts were kick ass. He scanned the crowd, like he always did, only stopping when his eyes landed on you.

He drank you in, from the top of your teased hair to the fringed, heeled boots on your feet. You pulled him in with the way you were mouthing the words to the song. He leaned into the mic and looked you dead in the eye as he sang the second to last verse.

As she took me in her arms

I felt the devil's charm

Suddenly I see

The final destiny

With the kiss of death

The kiss of death

You felt the goose bumps erupt over your arms as you looked into dark brown eyes, warm like melted chocolate. You wanted to drown in them.

The set came to an end and the guitarist jumped off the stage, his Doc Martins thumping loudly when he hit the floor. He strode over to you, his long legs carrying him quickly.

Coming to a stop in front of you, he said, “Hi, pretty girl,” and smirked, dimples appearing at the corners of his mouth. “I’m Eddie Munson,” he introduced, sticking out his ring clad hand. You accepted it, instantly loving the way your more delicate hand fit into his. You told him your name, to which he complimented, “A beautiful name, for a beautiful woman”, before bringing your knuckles up to his lips.

Eddie walked you up to the bar, offering to buy you a drink. “Hey, Johnny! Whatever the lady wants, yeah?” He called out the man behind the bar. You asked for a beer, before thanking him. “So, what brings you to Hawkins?” He asked as Johnny handed him your drink.

“My best friend, Julie. She lives around here and practically dragged me out tonight. Apparently, I needed to see the guitarist with the really talented fingers,” you flirted, the alcohol making you braver than usual.

Eddie cocked a brow at your words and leaned into you, his lips right at the shell of your ear. ”Oh, pretty girl. You have no idea just how talented these fingers are.” His voice was deep, husky, and had heat blooming deep in your core.

Your thighs pressed together of their own accord, trying to alleviate the sudden need your body was feeling. You were at a loss for words, choosing to take a sip of your drink, trying to think of a sexy remark to make. Fuck, you were so out of practice.

A deep chuckle rippled from Eddie’s chest. “Didn’t take you as the speechless type, pretty girl.” Pretty girl. That fucking nickname would be the death of you.

“I guess you’re just lucky, Munson.” You bit your lip, hoping you looked as sexy as you thought you did. You reached out a hand, settling it on his bicep, slowly stroking it. “And, I would really like to find out how talented your fingers are.” You whispered, just as the drummer walked up.

“Eddie, we need you back, man,” the guy scoffed, grabbing at his arm. The brunette threw up his hand.

“Give me a minute, dude!” He yelled before turning back to you, his face flushed. “Wait for me?” He wriggled his long digits in front of you, a look of hopeful desire on his face.

You debated for a minute. You were leaving town soon. A quick fling with a musician wouldn't be so bad, right? “Okay, okay. Where do I meet you?” You agreed with a smile.

Eddie brushed a stray strand of hair back behind your ear. “Don’t worry. I’ll find you, pretty girl.”

After the show, Eddie kept his word. He found you at the bar with Julie, who nonchalantly slipped a couple of condoms into your back pocket as she hugged you goodbye. “No baby rockstars,” she whispered as she pulled away. She turned around to face Eddie and opened her mouth to speak, but knew you could handle yourself. “Have fun you two.” She waved good-bye as she walked out of the bar.

Extending a hand and taking yours, he spoke softly. “You still wanna go with me?” He asked, giving you a chance to back out if you changed your mind. You nodded, not trusting your voice. “Nuh-uh, I need words.” He lifted your chin with two fingers to get your eyes on him.

“Yes, I still want to go with you.” You told him confidently.

“Then let’s get outta here then, shall we?”

The ride back to Eddie’s place was a short, quiet one, neither of you really knowing what to say. He pulled up to a trailer illuminated by the orange glow of a street light. You took in the state of the home. There was a yellow couch sitting on the makeshift porch under an awning. It reminded you of home. You could see him slowly gaze over to look at your reaction. “It isn’t much, but it’s home.” He said, embarrassed.

You offered a comforting hand. “I grew up in a home just like this. We all start somewhere, Rockstar.” You could have sworn you heard him purr in contentment. “You gonna take me inside?” You questioned coyly, nodding your head toward the door.

Eddie jumped into action, slipping out his door, rushing over to yours before you could open it. “Milady,” he said, gesturing for you to exit, offering you a hand out of his van.

You thanked him, accepting the help. His hand was rough against yours, fingers calloused from the guitar strings. He walked up the small set of steps, opening the door. He led you inside, straight to his room. You giggled as he rushed around, picking up a few things, tossing them out of the way. It was cute, the way he cared so much.

As he continued to ‘clean up’, you took the opportunity to get a good look around his room. You immediately noticed handcuffs hanging from the wall. Interesting, you thought, wondering if he liked to use them on others or if he wanted them used on him. You slipped off your jacket, laying it on the dresser and took it upon yourself to take a seat on his bed, finding it surprisingly comfortable as Eddie left the room.

You heard rattling, like cans, before he returned seconds later. “Beer?” He offered, to which you gladly accepted. You popped the tab, taking a sip of the cold liquid then setting it down. Eddie did the same, downing his in a couple of chugs. He brought a hand up to wipe his mouth, the action hotter than it should have been.

“Hey, Eddie?” You called out. Those deliciously dark eyes met yours. “Can you kiss me now?”

He moved fast, his hands landing on your cheeks, the cold metal of his rings sent shivers down your spine, tilting your face up towards him. He molded his lips against yours and his tongue traced your bottom lip, begging for entrance, wanting to deepen the kiss. You parted your lips, your tongue meeting his, tangling together. He tasted like cheap beer and vanilla chapstick, a combination you knew now that you would always associate with him.

When he pulled back, slowly dropping his hands to your shoulders, you caught his bottom lip with your teeth, nipping lightly, and he hissed. “You’re gonna be trouble, aren’t you, pretty girl?” He guessed, shaking his head in disbelief. You shrugged nonchalantly, giving him your best innocent look.

He pulled you up to your feet by the top of your arms, sliding his hands down, toying with the band of your pants. “I wanna get you out of these jeans.” He breathed, eyes hungry as they roamed over your body.

An idea popped into your head and confidence surged through you - since you were sure you were never going to see him again. You planted your hands to his chest, giving him a small shove. Eddie fell backwards, ass landing on his bed with a ‘humph’. He cocked a brow as he watched your hands slowly go for the button of your pants.

You flicked it open with ease, spinning around so that your back was to him. Hooking your thumbs into the belt loops, you started to pull them down, bending at the waist to give Eddie a full show.

The second you spun around and started to remove your jeans, Eddie was a goner. You were going to kill him, he was sure of it. Then he saw the red lace of your panties. You did it, you killed him, and this was heaven.

Once your jeans were to your ankles, you kicked them off into a dark corner of his room. The air was thick with tension, and you could sense his eyes burning holes into your backside. You stole a glance over your shoulder, taking in the sight of him. His unruly curls were sticking out wildly around his black bandana, his brown eyes almost black with need, and his hands were twitching at his sides, like he was struggling not to touch you.

“Turn back and face me, pretty girl.” The tone of his voice was commanding, making you want to listen. So you did. “You listen so well. Fuck, you’re gorgeous.” He said, finally seeing the rest of you.

You felt hot under his gaze, blush creeping up your cheeks. A dark chuckle rumbled through his chest. “Don’t get shy on me now, baby. Finish your little striptease.” A large hand gestured for you to keep going.

You did as you were told, slowly dragging your hands up your sides, inching them toward the hem of your cropped top. You were drunk on the power you had over him. His stare was glued to you, mouth hanging open slightly. Wrapping your fingers around it, you yanked the top off your body, revealing the matching red bra.

Eddie lost his composure, shooting up off the bed and smashing his lips into yours. The kiss was all teeth and tongues. Pulling apart to breathe, you moved to rip the shirt from his body, taking the bandana with it. He shoved his jeans down, leaving him in his plaid boxers.

He maneuvered you around until you felt his bed at the back of your knees. Repeating your actions from earlier, he gave you a push, making you fall back, catching yourself on your elbows. Eddie dropped to the floor, tossing your calves up onto his shoulders, placing soft kisses to your thighs as he inched his way to your clothed pussy.

He stopped, hovering right over your center. You could feel each hot breath he took ghost over your skin. “Look at that. You’re fucking soaked. You ruined your pretty little panties,” he teased before licking a broad stripe up your covered slit, adding pressure when he reached your clit. The action had you whining his name, bucking your hips for more.

“Fuck me, you taste so fucking sweet,” he moaned before harshly tugging your underwear to the side. He lapped at your soaking folds like a man starved before suckling your sensitive bud between his lips.

“Oh my god,” You whimpered, all but grinding your cunt onto his face. Eddie hummed at your actions, moving his mouth a little faster, before you felt a finger prodding at your entrance. “Please, Rockstar, please,” you begged.

Eddie pulled back. “Yeah? You want me to use my talented fingers?” He grunted, dragging a digit up and down your slit, coating it in your slick. You nodded profusely, making him click his tongue. “Words, sweetheart.”

“Please, use your fingers,” you huffed in annoyance, making him smirk. He sank one slowly into you, making you moan wantonly. He worked it in and out gently, before pushing it deeper.

“Such a tight pussy. Don’t think my cock will fit, pretty girl.” He said in awe, before growling lowly, “Don’t worry, I’ll make it fit.” You clenched at his words. “Come on, baby. Gotta loosen up.”

“Then put those talented fingers to work, Munson.” You groaned, wiggling your hips in his face. He mumbled something about you being trouble before wrapping his lips around his index and ring fingers, coating them in his saliva. He slipped them into your cunt up to the cold metal of his rings, curling them up into that spot you never seem to reach yourself. “Oh, fu– God.”

“Eddie will do, sweetheart. Come on, make some noise for me.” He attached his lips back to your clit, taking it between his teeth lightly, before sucking harshly. He pistoned his fingers, hitting the right spot every time.

“Shit, fuck, shit, shit. Oh my god, Eddie.” You moaned loudly, your hands flying into his hair, tugging and making him groan. Your walls tightened around his digits, juices leaking out onto his hand.

“That’s it. Good girl, so good for me.” He praised, as your walls fluttered around him. He continued finger-fucking you slowly, helping you ride out your high.

When your breathing evened back out, he pulled his fingers from your heat, taking them into his mouth and sucking them clean. You watched him with heavy lidded eyes as he stood, removing his boxers. His thick cock sprung free, slapping against his lower stomach. It was rock hard and red at the tip and you knew you had to taste him.

You scrambled to your knees in front of him, ripping your bra from your body. “Shit. What’re you doing?” He asked, already knowing the answer. You looked up at him through your lashes, eyes pleading with him. “You wanna suck my dick? Is that it, baby?” That smirk reappeared on his face as you nodded, biting your bottom lip. “Go ahead, then.”

You lurched forward, taking him in your hand. He was hot and heavy as you slowly stroked him. Your tongue ghosted over the tip, licking up the bead of precum already leaking from him. Eddie hissed, his hips jerking forward as you took the head of his cock completely in your mouth.

It was your turn to make him a moaning mess.

You worked quickly, taking more and more of him until your nose touched the coarse curls at the base of his cock. You held yourself there, letting him relish in the feeling. “God damn, baby. You’re good, so fucking good,” he muttered, trying his best not to take control. He was already so close, and he hadn’t even fucked you yet.

You continued your ministrations, your mouth and hands working together as you enjoyed the taste of him on your tongue. Suddenly he pulled you away from him and you let out a bratty whine, like someone had just taken your favorite toy. “No need for that. I gotta fuck you before I come. Gotta feel that cunt wrapped around me.” He all but jerked you up, tossing you back onto the bed. He produced a condom seemingly out of nowhere, ripping it open with his teeth, before rolling it into place.

He peeled your ruined panties from your body, chucking them over his shoulder. He settled between your thighs, eyes glued to your dripping center. “Please tell me I can fuck you, pretty girl?”

“I think I’ll scream if you don’t.”

Eddie notched himself at your entrance, leaning over so you were face to face. “I promise you’ll scream if I do.” He said before slowly pushing into you, stretching you open more than his fingers. When he was fully inside you, he paused, letting you adjust to him. He leant down, capturing your lips in a tender kiss before he started a languid pace. “God-fucking-damn. You feel absolutely– shit. Amazing.” He was wrecked, totally ruined before he even got started.

Each slow drag of his cock pushed you closer to your second orgasm. “Eddie, oh god,” you whimpered, wrapping your legs around his back, pulling him closer, allowing him to hit that spot deep inside. You wrenched your eyes open, needing to take in the sight of him. Tattoos were littered across his chest and you ran your nails across the one over his heart, making him thrust a bit harder. “Fu-Fuck. Yes, harder, please.”

You had no idea what you were saying, you were so lost in the pleasure the two of you were building together. Eddie quickened his movements, wanting to feel you come undone on him. He adjusted his weight so he could slip a hand between your bodies. His talented fingers found your clit once more, adding perfect pressure, rubbing fast circles. It wasn’t long until your walls contracted, pulling his cock deeper into you, and you let out a loud moan of his name as you tipped over the edge, unintentionally dragging him with you. His hips stuttered as he emptied himself into the condom and he let out a low, drawn out “Fuck”, resting his forehead to yours. “Shit, pretty girl. I’m sorry.” He laughed out an apology.

You couldn’t help but laugh with him. “Sorry? For what? The best orgasms I’ve ever had?” You didn’t understand why this man was sorry. He chuckled as he pulled out of you with a hiss. You observed him as he removed the condom, tying it off. He climbed off the bed, walking out of the room. You weren’t able to stop yourself from checking out his naked ass. He came back with a pair of pajama pants slung low on his hips, carrying a washcloth. He knelt between your legs, carefully cleaning you up with the warm, wet towel.

You sat up on the bed, beginning to search the room for your clothing. He noticed, speaking up immediately. “Stay. I’ll make you breakfast in the morning,” he offered. How could you say no?

“Oh yeah? Breakfast huh? How does that work for your bad boy, rockstar image?” You taunted him, pulling a blanket over your naked body.

“Oh yeah. I make some mean pancakes, baby.” He said with a wink. “You want a shirt?” He asked, pulling one from his top drawer. You nodded, whispering a ‘thank you’ when he tossed it to you. You pulled it over your head, reading the print once it was settled on your body. Hellfire Club. “It’s my old D&D group. They still play on Friday nights.”

You hummed, not really sure what D&D was. He climbed into the bed next to you, wrapping a long arm around you. You rolled, curling into him, resting your head on his chest. You knew Eddie Munson was not going to be “just another one night stand”. What you didn’t know was Eddie fell asleep thinking the same thing about you.

*screams*

#eddie munson smut #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #stranger things smut #eddie munson x female reader #rockstar eddie munson #joseph quinn #kat writes

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loki-is-my-kink-awakening · 1 year

Text

Thanks @cha-melodius for the tag. Loved reading your fic fragments.

Rules: Pick five fragments from your unfinished WIPs and then tag five people to keep it going. Let’s have fun with it and help each other shape those fragments into published fics!

Okay, so before the fragments, I thought I'd have some cathartic confession of half finished stuff in my writing folder.

Loki - 8

Stranger Things - 6

Witcher - 4

Midnight Mass - 2

Our Flag Means Death - 1

And now, in no particular order...

1. Witcher

The first time Geralt caught Jaskier in a back alley, on his knees and wiping his mouth, it was just after they'd first met.

The brooding witcher stared at him while the man Jaskier had finished servicing dropped coins on the ground.

Jaskier ignored the man patting him on the shoulder and walking away. All he could feel was the unbearable weight of Geralt's stare. It felt like a physical blow to his skull.

"Are you just going to gawk or do you want something, dear witcher?" Jaskier asked, looking up as he pocketed the coins from the dirt.

2. Loki

The glitching only started after he spoke to not-his-Mobius. When the agent had stared blankly at him and asked who he was.

It was a question that hurt, not only because this Mobius didn't know him, but because Loki had often asked himself the same thing.

A chameleon. A trickster. A shapeshifter. These were all things Loki did, but who was he?

3. Our Flag Means Death

Stede let out a long breath as the altar boy fiddled with the drawer in the vestry. He really ought to get someone to build the church a new set because at some point they weren't going to be able to open it any longer and would have to smash the thing to get everything out.

He could see the boy sweating and Stede tried not to watch him too closely, distracting himself with ensuring the cords were on the right pages of the Bible. Honestly, he had heard the boy cuss before and didn't want to openly hear it again. He'd rather avoid the conflict.

4. Stranger Things

Steve stood by the bed, his hands twisting the edge of his shirt. He looked so small, all 5 foot 11 inches of him standing there and radiating nerves.

"Tell me what you want, sweetheart," Eddie crooned from the bedroom door. His hands clutched around the open door frame, allowing him to swing nonchalantly.

"I, um-" Steve stammered, opening and shutting his mouth while he tried to think of how to say the words floating around his head. He bit his lip again, making it red and swollen.

5. Midnight Mass

Riley leaned against the doorframe, looking at John standing on his path with his hands in his pockets.

"It's chilly tonight," he said, noting John's lack of a jacket despite it being almost winter.

John shrugged, walking up to the door, then stopped. He looked past Riley into the house, an eager look passing over his eyes.

"Can I come in?"

Tagging more than 5 like the rebel I am: @diabla616 @mimisempai @officerjennie @mojowitchcraft @the-evil-stick @insert-witty-user-name-here @goofgoofdildo @xianvar @echo-bleu @themanta @katwritesthings @katwriteswitcherthings @lambden @pherryt

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bonny-kookoo · 3 years

Text

Remedy | JJK x Reader | 💜☁️🔞🤖

Pairing: Jeon Jungkook x Reader

Genre: Android!AU, Android!Jungkook, AI!Jungkook

Warnings: mentions of war, PTSD, Panic attack, confused!Koo, soft reader, like my god I just wanna put her in my pocket and keep her safe, aka that’s what Koo wants to do, protective!Koo, praise kink, unprotected sex but izz fine Kookoo can’t knock her up anyways, soft sex, it’s very soft ngl, there’s a bird, some sad Koo, kook cries here and there, comfort and rehabilitation

Summary: JJK, Or J-Jungkook097 was a tactical fighter-type Android, used in modern war as a simple weapon and nothing more. Now retired after serious injuries, he has to adjust to modern life outside the war zone or he’ll get scrapped; and that’s where you come in, a rare human being ready to take on that challenge.

"Ah, what a waste, really." A worker says, looking the body of the Android over. "You sure you don't want him?" He asks, and the older worker shakes his head.

"I can't let him around my kids by himself, and I don't want him to snap around my wife either. He's not suited for my home and family." He says, looking the male robot over, before he pulls out his phone. "I think I know someone who just might take him." He says, hurriedly texting, before he gets a call back.

"Huh. Is he factory reset, or still running?" You ask, as Seokjin connects cords to the back of the android's neck.

"We tried to have him reset himself, but there's been problems." He explains. "He told us he did already, but that can't be true since he'd need a command to do it- his model isn't equipped with those AI options. Maybe his memory overloaded and deleted stuff as a survival protocol, we don't know. He's a military model, after all, they didn't let us see his original save data- they just downloaded it and went their way, leaving him for us to dismantle if he couldn't reset him properly for a new system." He says, as you type in some stuff, before viewing the screen you hold in your hand.

"So he's technically still running on his original warzone-system?" You ask Jin, and he nods, sighing. You furrow your brows, and the older male looks over at your tablet to see what you're looking at. "Are you sure? This is.. his AI settings are all set to.. look at this; companionable, friendly, all his settings are set to a companion-android, not a fighter type." You mumble, confused by this.

"Wait no no no that wasn't like that when I last looked at him." Jin says, taking the tablet from you as he types in some stuff. "Huh. This is weird." He says, showing you something. "Look at the protocol."

You do. "Huh." You say, looking at the last line of code.

Last change made by: JJK_OSADMIN

"He changed his own system." You say, and Jin is standing up now.

"I'm taking him with me, I can't let him-" He starts, but you do as well, placing your hands ontop of the Androids chest as if you're guarding him.

"NO! I already signed, I own him- Jin, I have to look into this- and he's set to friendly, he won't get hostile that easily." You try to reassure him, and he sighs after a while, taking his jacket from the chair close by.

"Keep me updated." He says, as he leaves you be.

The Android still sitting limply on your chair.

"Alright JJK. Time to wake up." You say, closing the small panel before you sit in front of him, waiting for his system to run the commands you had typed in before unplugging him. It takes a moment, but there's movement after that; his body slowly starting to sit properly, muscles moving into place, and system running it's diagnostics to detect any change in hard- or software made. It marks down his eyes, the small patches of skin re-made, and that his body-liquids had been replaced.

He feels good.

His eyes open slowly, iris moving and focusing in Various degrees before they meet your form. "Hello." He simply says. "Are you my new owner?" He asks, and you nod, expecting that question. He's not been factory reset, which means even though his memory was scattered, and his system had been changed, he was still aware of everything vital. He nods, before he looks around. "I'm now supposed to run on the companion protocol, correct?" He asks, and you shrug. He's confused, as you suddenly smile at him.

"I don't know." You tell him. "Companion, Individual- what would you like?" You ask, knowing it will bring his current system to it's limits. He's not made to make decisions like that, and you think it's quite endearing to see him suddenly think like that.

"I.. choose?" He mumbles, before he looks at you seriously. "I'd like to be given a small time frame to properly research before I come to a conclusion." He says, and your eyes widen.

You look at him, still friendly as ever. "So, you want to figure out what you want first?" You ask, and he nods, a bit hesitantly. "Okay. Just tell me when you've made up your mind then." You say, and he nods.

"What are my daily tasks?" He asks, and you shrug again. "This is frustrating." He says, and you laugh at that.

It's weird to hear it. But he notes it down as a positive response from you.

"Just don't burn the house down while trying to cook or something." You joke, and he seems to take it seriously.

"Why would I set your home aflame while attempting to cook? I'm not even capable of either task.." He says, and you get up, grinning.

"Don't worry so much. Just properly charge for now- we'll see what's gonna happen as it happens." You say.

He nods.

Jungkook knows that around 75% of fatal accidents occur in a mere household. He also knows, that a regular home is the safest place to live. Yet there he was, on the floor, holding his ears as an attempt to block out the sound of his nightmares. "Jungkook?" You ask, as you turn off the microwave. He's still shaking as you sit down in front of him, close- but not touching, unknowing if he would react to that negatively or not. "Can you hear me?" You ask, and he hesitantly retracts his hands from his ears, letting the sound in again. The beeping of the microwave is now gone, only the soft ticking of your clock on the wall and the buzzing of your fridge remain. "I'm sorry that scared you." You say, smiling apologetically as he shakes his head, face serious. His eyes move frantically as they glow an orange hue, showing his system status.

"No, I should apologize." He says. "I don't know why I displayed this reaction to a mere household object." He admits, and you open the microwave to take out your meal, before sitting down on the kitchen floor. "You shouldn't do that- the tiles are very cold-" He starts, but you wave him off.

"Its fine. Both." You say. "You're probably still confusing some sounds and things with your past use as a warzone model. So it's normal- your system has to adapt. You have to adapt." You say. "We all need some time to heal after what you've been through." You say.

He sits quietly after those words, watching you as he goes through his research on you. You're a very unusual individual, displaying a lot of behaviors he hasn't seen before. You take care of everything with a sense of care that makes him come to the conclusion that you're probably treating the machines and robots like living beings. Such as the oldschool robot-dog that he's seen under your living room table. It's currently charging, but he's seen you interact with it- genuinely displaying happiness and excitement at the very basic AI of the pet-robot that's missing a leg.

Its broken, just like him. But you're taking care of it, just like you take care of him.

You're very caring with him, too. He's seen you search for skin patches that match his color almost perfectly, even though they were more expensive than the usual models found in stores. You apologize for 'hurting' him, even though it's sometimes nescessary to repair him. You ask him about opinions, and let him roam around freely around the house.

You're a very friendly person.

And he, unknown to you, starts to create new files inside his system.

You're not there when he wakes up the next day.

He scans the house for any movement, but there is none that would lead him to the conclusion that you're there. There's no sign of you, and he becomes frantic, suddenly.

If his system would've worked properly like it should have, he would've remembered that you had told him yesterday that you would make a small trip to the local grocery store around the corner. But his system isn't working properly, already displaying several scenarios of you getting hurt, or vanishing, or leaving him alone.

He’d seen it before, so many times, hell; he’d been the reason of so many deaths in the first place and it never bothered him. So why was his internal system going absolute haywire at the mere idea of something happening to you? It was to be expected really- with how fragile you are, mentally and physically, it was bound to happen at some point. So why, if he knew it deep down already, did it make his pulse race and his skin feel weird?

You’d told him to stay home, but there was no way he’d be able to let you out of his sight. Because no, there were no emotions involved; they’d been restricted for him at the beginning after all, he was simply looking out for you. Probably a bug, maybe his system thought you were someone to be protected, a new mission to keep him occupied, that was probably it. It wasn’t because you had been so sweet with him, it wasn’t because of how gently you were in correcting him whenever he did something bad, it wasn’t because you were an absolute divine being in his eyes.

“Kook?” You said, an almost painful huff of breath escaping you when he crashed into you, holding you, his arms squeezing you a bit and his face burying itself into the crook of your neck, every sense drinking you in, saving the proof that you were okay, you were real, you were completely fine. “I-“ you started, and his eyes ripped open, suddenly realizing that he may be hurting you. As if burned he reacted, hands hovering over your shoulders as he looked you over.

“I apologize, I’m so sorry, does it hurt bad-“ he spoke hurriedly, eyes already glazing over with tears he didn’t even knew he could shed. Why did he suddenly feel so upset? His entire system was overloading, tears finally flowing and disrupting his sight so badly that he didn’t see your face anymore; sending him into panic even more. “I’m sorry- I’m-“ he pressed out, but there was nothing working anymore it seemed.

Only a few minutes later did he slowly come back to his senses, first thing he noticed being the way you held his body close, softly speaking to him while you were petting his head. It was such a weird sensation, yet it somehow soothed his mind back, as he realized that you were both on the ground. He was way too heavy, why were you doing that? But when he tried to get up, you held him tightly. “Take a Moment, Jungkook. You’re okay, I’m okay, just a breathe, yeah?” You said, and he nodded. “Let’s go back inside then yeah?” You softly said, and he nodded.

“But you need to buy groceries. We don’t have sufficient stock of-“ he started, but you giggled, the sound something he knew he liked. He didn’t quite know what to think of his newly found preferences for things, but he simply let it happen for now.

Because liking you could never be a mistake, he decided.

He calls out for you one day, his hands holding something you can't see yet. His eyes are wide open, his optics moving around frantically as he calls again. "Creator, please!" He calls, as you finally spot him, walking over as he looks at you with a worried expression. "Please- I don't know what to do. She flew against our window and probably has a concussion- you can help her, right?" He says, and you don't get curious as to why he immediately knows the birds gender and diagnosis; he can scan the tiny body, after all.

"Ah, come into the kitchen." You say, and he follows quickly, still delicately holding the tiny body in his palm, careful not to drop it. "Lets put her in a box and a nice quiet place, yeah? She'll recover on her own probably." You reassure him as he watches you place her in an old box without a lid. "Put her where you found her, okay? That way she'll know her way back easier." You tell him, and he nods, determined, as he walks back towards where he had found the bird.

Jungkook, in a way, was slowly changing nowadays.

He was a curious being, always eager to learn about the most mundane things. True to his purpose he picked up on things very easily; learning how to draw and paint very quickly. He had recently gotten interested in a video game you used to play before your work took over your time- and you loved seeing him have genuine fun with it.

He wasn't doing things anymore because they were asked of him. Or because they were an order.

He was developing hobbies, you'd noticed.

Of course you kept Jin updated about all of these things, and he had been happy to learn that his reboot was going well- joking around that he was glad he hadn't killed you in your sleep yet. And while, at first, you were quite wary of him walking around the apartment, nowadays, you couldn't imagine Jungkook even hurting a fly.

Just like with that tiny bird.

He was a gentle soul, simply a bit clumsy sometimes- apologizing over and over after breaking your alarm clock once, the alarm setting off another one of his 'episodes'- moments of flashbacks he got from his past purpose in war. You had reassured him and had let him watch as you fixed it again, praising him along when he gave you the right tools.

Praise. That was something he seeked as well.

And it wasn't just that he wanted aknowledgement of his own achievements. It was more your attention that he wanted. He wanted to be around you whenever possible, even sometimes dancing around the topic of maybe sharing a bed one day- but he had also been wary of hurting you in your sleep, by rolling over or something alike.

Always so thoughtful.

But he would be able to hold you that day; when you had complained about being tired, he had suggested a nap to you. Instantly taking on that chance, you laid down, rolling over as he was still on the couch with you, already having laid down prior. He was unsure at first where to put his hands, until he decided to just go for the common human way of affection; holding you close.

And he made a note inside his system, that he truly deeply enjoyed the feeling.

He finds you on the couch, crying, after an argument on the phone. That in itself isn't the issue he's having, however- it's the sudden wave of protectiveness rolling over him, drowning his senses as he walks over to you, his orange glowing eyes now scanning your form. "What did he do?" He asks, knowing that it was a former partner of yours, constantly calling you asking for money. It's a bad habit of yours that you can't seem to say no; and now that you did for once, he had bitten your ear off with bad remarks and names you'd rather not repeat. "I'll hurt him, just say the word. He needs to feel the same pain you do-" He's shaking a little, you can see it now; his hands unsure where to place themselves, his eyes watching over you, his breathing a little faster. He starts again, and you put a hand on his shoulder to stop his words.

“Jungkook no, he didn’t hurt me in like, a physical way.” You tried to explain, tears now forgotten as you try to calm the Android on your couch down- still absolutely terrified by your state. “I’m gonna be fine.” You say, but he doesn’t seem convinced. Or is it something else?

“But why am I hurting?” He asks suddenly, and your eyes widen. Well, why was he? Technically he was capable of understanding emotions, that wasn’t shocking. What was confusing to you however was just how he was able to share your pain. And it was obvious he did; the way his eyes glistened and his body shivered, overwhelmed by whatever was happening. “Why does it hurt to see you hurt?” He almost whispers, lost with the situation.

Jungkook was indeed a very weird android- you’ve noticed that long ago already. He was emotional, sometimes moody, and slowly began to develop an actual personality the more he was living with you.

Something his model shouldn’t be capable of.

And maybe that should scare you- maybe that should worry you, maybe you should call up support for answers, but you don’t. You do what’s best for yourself and what you think is best for him in that moment; you lean forward, and wrap your arms around him. And it doesn’t feel at all like an android you’re hugging in that moment, because an android wouldn’t cry with you. An android wouldn’t hold you like this, wouldn’t tremble in your hold like this. It makes it easy to forget that Jungkook isn’t human.

And that in itself is absolutely dangerous.

Somehow, his system had bypassed the blockade to his emotional capacities.

He had noticed it ever since you had been out to restock groceries by yourself, but he had been a little unsure back then. He now knows, for sure, that something had happened.

It was confusing, to say the least.

So many things were somehow suddenly starting to fall into place for him; his favoritism to being close to you, or his system failing whenever you weren't nearby. It also makes sense that he's standing right in front of your bedroom door that night, knocking as you open it. He feels a weird sense of protectiveness seeing you tired and vulnerable like that, and he sits down on the side of the bed where you join him. "Is everything okay?" You ask, and he shakes his head.

Nothing is okay, everything is confusing, and he's unsure what to quite think of all of this. "I feel.. confused. Scared. There's.. fear, in me, boiling up and interrupting my thoughts." He explains, and you nod.

"Feeling is scary, huh?" You ask, as he looks at you.

"How do you do it?" He asks, and you lean your head a bit to the side in question. "There's.. so much of it. How do you.. separate it, keep it in order? Its all over the place, and it's.. so distracting. Its so overwhelming- I can't seem to calm down." He mumbles, serious face turning frustrated as his fingers play with the fabric of his pants.

"We don't." You say. He looks at you for a moment, before you continue. "We just.. let it run through us, I guess. If you don't, it'll make you sick after a while. " You say, and he looks at you.

"But.." He starts. "I fear I might start to display reactions a male android model isn't supposed to openly display." He almost whispers.

"You don't have to openly do it." You reassure him, placing a hand on his shoulder, before moving a bit, body facing him as you open your arms. "It's just me; and I won't judge. You can be whoever you want with me, Jungkook." You say, and he lays down next to you in your arms, momentarily enjoying the quietness and closeness of the affectionate gesture.

"There are no bad feelings, Jungkook." You tell him, and he listens, as he lets them run through him, just like you told him. The sadness, the comfort of your body against his, the.. adoration he feels towards you. Everything, even though it hurts him, physically, something he only ever thought was a artistic way of describing emotions. "There are only wrong actions." You say. "If you feel the need to cry, cry. If you're angry, scream, shout, or find something to channel that into. But if you bottle it up-" You say, "they will lead to mistakes. They will bring pain, and they will bring remorse."

His voice is strained as he talks. "But how do I know when to act on them, and when not to?" He says, and you chuckle.

"You'll learn, Jungkook." You reassure him. "You'll learn."

And he nods against your shoulder, before you can feel him shake a little less, quiet sobs racking through his body until his exhausted body falls asleep to charge.

"Remarkable." Jin comments, as he watches the lines and lines of codes. "He has started to self-code his own system. He's quite literally learning." He says. "All by himself. This is amazing." He says, before he disconnects Jungkook.

"He's still a bit jumpy sometimes, and the microwave is still his worst enemy-" You say, as Jungkook reboots again, eyes slowly focusing as they start to glow again. "But he really is amazing." You say, and Jungkook beams at that, proudly smiling.

It's rare for an android to display such emotions, and he's still often very much void of any clear visual feedback in terms of facial expressions- but he's learning, and he's evolving, growing, in a way. Seokjin closes the panel on the back of Jungkooks neck, as the android stands up to walk closer to you. "Jungkook." Jin says, and the android turns towards the young man. "Do you look after her well?" He asks, and Jungkook nods. "Make sure she stays hydrated during the day, yeah? I highly doubt she's told you she struggles with that." He says, and you whine, as Jungkooks head whips around, eyes scanning your body as he furrows his brows.

"Creator, you need to drink at least 2.5 Liters of water per day. It's vital for your health, which is already very delicate." He says, and you glare at Jin for telling him anything about that.

"I'm fine- and also, please don't call me creator. I'm not anything like that." You say, picking up the walking puppy-robot as Jungkook nods.

"What should I call you then?" He asks, and Jin perks up.

"Call her baby!"

"Jin NO-!"

"No matter what she tells you-" Jin says, holding Jungkooks shoulders as he looks at him seriously. "She likes it." He says, and Jungkook, serious as ever, nods, noting it down, as you groan.

"I hate you both!" You say, and Jungkooks eyes widen.

"You.." He says, voice almost not heard over the laugh of Jin. "Hate me?" He asks, and you immediately regret your words. Jungkook still hasn't figured out sarcasm yet- the entire concept still a little too complicated for his system to grasp, so you walk closer to him, holding his cheeks in your hands.

"No no no, I don't, I could never-" You promise him, as he nods with already glossy eyes. "I just said it as a joke, okay?" You say, and he nods again, biting his lip a little before Jin clears his throat.

"I'll head off now." He says, already putting on his coat. "Thank you for letting me see him- it's really amazing to see him grow like that." He says, and you nod, giving him a short hug before he leaves.

And for some reason, Jungkook feels jealous, watching you so close to him.

Jungkook is in love with you.

He's come to that conclusion all by himself, and he's proud of it, but he's also very unsure about it. He has done a lot of research, scanned every source he could find and validate; and he has found a new interest in activities humans do in relationships to show their partner love and affection. He's not stupid, he knows what intimacy is, and is also aware that he's capable of doing these things with you; but he's also a little unsure, if you'd want that.

After all, there's nothing he could give you.

So one night, he stands in front of your door again, knocking, as you open it.

"Do you think.." He starts. "I'm capable of love?" He asks, and you look at him. "Because I think.. no, I am very sure I love you." He admits, and you get up, but there's no stopping him. "I don't know what it's like for you, but I have observed my newfound emotions, and there's a pattern I've detected; whenever I'm with you, around you, whenever you give me attention, or when you touch me, theres always the same emotions involved; there's this need to take care of you, to keep you safe, to be close." He rambles, and you listen to him as he talks, walking closer to you as his hands find your shoulders. "There's this.. urge, to partake in human intimacy with you. I want to.. show affection the common way, like kissing you, or holding you, things like that." Your cheeks grow a little red. "But I don't know if you are experiencing the same things. My research shows that.. that we could only do these things, if it's the same for you." He says, and then, almost as if hes whispering. "Is it?" He asks, and you struggle to answer. "Do you.. feel the same.?" He asks again, waiting for you to say anything at all.

You stay silent.

Its a sunday when a letter arrives at your home.

When you open it, there's several papers inside; Jungkooks personality tests, official papers that make it possible for him to leave on his own. When he reads them, he's serious, as he watches you smile at him.

"Jungkook, this is great, isn't it?" You say, trying hard to not let it show that you dread letting go of him. "You can finally get an apartment- maybe make something out of your talents, and earn a living. You're free to go now." You say, biting the inside of your cheek as he looks at you with wide eyes.

"But.." He starts, softly. "I'm yours." He states, and you shake your head, swallowing hard.

"Jungkook no.. you're you. No one owns you anymore." You say, and he suddenly shakes his head, throwing the papers in the kitchen sink as he walks towards you, his hands on your shoulders.

He looks at you, serious, as his optics focus on you. "You were the one who told me that every machine should be treated with respect." He states, as you look away from him, his hands shaking you a little as he tries to get your attention back on him. "You said even we androids have souls." He says.

"I did, but-" You start, but he cuts you off.

"And if we do, if we really do-" He speaks, his hands now holding your head, his face drenched in desperation. "Than it belongs to you." He states, and your eyes widen. "It's yours." He repeats. "If having it for myself means I have to leave you, I don't want it."

"I don't.. want to take advantage of you, Jungkook." You say. "You're.. everything is still new to you, I don't want you to regret this-" You start, and he leans down.

"I won't. I've run every possible scan I could, calculated every possible outcome, you know I can't lie to you. I could never regret this.." He says, as he leans down a little. "Can I..?" He asks, and you smile, jumping over your own shadow in a way, as you give him a nod. "I.. can you.. say it?" He asks. "Just once?"

You take his hands in yours, as you lean closer. "I love you, Jungkook." You say, and he gasps, his systems going absolute haywire in the best ways possible. He's again filled with emotions, but this time, they don't hurt; they make him feel light, as if he weighs nothing, they make him close his eyes because suddenly even the slightest light is too bright for his optics.

"Again." He asks, and you comply.

"I love you."

"Again."

"I love you."

He sighs, as his lips finally meet yours.

There's no magical fireworks or anything like that- but Jungkook decides that he doesn't need these things. The feeling itself, the emotions flooding his body are enough to outshine any beauty of reality itself. There's nothing he could ever compare to this, he decides.

He's unsure if Androids have instincts, but in that moment, for the first time, he doesn't care. This seems to be one of those situations to let his emotions run through him, lead him, show him what to do, he decides. His hands roam over your skin, ears catching every sound you make as he moves on autopilot it seems. He's letting go, he's finally doing something he really wants.

And it's all thanks to you- you've given him the chance to be himself.

You've given him the gift of feeling loved, as he finally comes as close to you as lovers ever could; entering you carefully, senses on high alert as he feels your walls around his length. He had been unsure of why pleasure seemed to be described as fun and intimate, but now he can relate to these claims fully. He's so full of love, so overwhelmed, that he simply rests his forehead on your naked shoulder, eyes closed as he simply lets himself feel. He doesn't care about his whines and groans, only focusing on you and your body, on the feedback every muscle sends to his systems, enjoying the way you make him feel.

Its truly magical, he notices.

He doesn't even notice his nor your orgasm at all, but it doesn't matter.

Because at the end of the night, he finally holds you close. Not like before, but this time, as lovers.

"I've given her exactly 0.26 milliliters of a 1 to 1 water and fruit sugar mixture every day at appropriate times." Jungkook seriously tells the vet, as he looks at the bird on the metal table.

"I see. Good job." He praises, before looking at you. "A warzone-type?" He asks, and you nod. "Barely noticable. I have one too, that's how I knew." He comments, before he turns to Jungkook again. "I'd say the bird simply likes your company, Jungkook. She just want's to stay with you That's why she comes back." He explains.

"Like me and Baby?" He asks, and you giggle at the nickname Jungkook keeps using.

"Yes, like you and her." Namjoon says, utterly entertained by you and Jungkook. "So I'd say let her be around. She's perfectly healthy, otherwise." He says, and Jungkook turns around, box in hand, as he smiles.

It's quiet that evening, sun slowly setting and drenching the walls of your shared apartment in a golden glow. Jungkook watches your sleeping form, leaned against him on the couch, as he simply remembers all of the things he's experienced because of you.

He truly is a machine capable of love.

Because you taught him how.

#bts imagine #bts #bts fanfic #bts fic #jungkook imagine #bts smut #bts jungkook #jeon jungkook #jungkook #Android Jungkook #robot Jungkook #bts reactions

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scapegrace74-blog · 3 years

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New Ways of Turning into Stone, Chapter 6

A/N Where does the time go? I lugged my laptop 7,000km round trip with the sole intention of working on this fic, but that apparently didn’t happen. For those who found the last chapter hard to bear, I apologize in advance. I am not quite finished being cruel. With that said, trigger warning for character death, childhood disease, suicide ideation. The chapter title is Sleeping in the Clouds.

The first five chapters are available on my AO3 page.

Five Months Later

A persistent mechanical bleating lifted Claire from the indeterminate depths of medicated sleep. The emergency contact number she provided to all her patients was programmed to forward to her mobile, where a particularly aggravating ringtone ensured she would never miss a call. Even at one am on a Tuesday night.

Fumbling for the device, she glanced at the unfamiliar number before answering.

“Doctor Beauchamp speaking.” Her voice was gritty and rough. She reached for a half-filled tumbler of water while waiting for the caller to identify themselves. Over the line she could make out muted traffic noise, and perhaps a distant foghorn, but no-one spoke.

“Hello?” she inquired, torn between concern that a patient needed her and frustration that she might have been woken by a misdialed number.

“If you’re one of my patients, you need to talk to me so that I can help you.”

There was an intake of breath, a weepy sniffle, and then the click of the call being terminated. A prickle of gooseflesh washed over her. She couldn’t say exactly how, but she knew who had called, and that he needed her.

One of the grim perks of her job was that she had backdoor access to reverse look-up for telephone numbers, in cases where there was a threat of self-harm or harm to others. As Claire hastily donned socks and grabbed a winter coat, she waited on hold for the PSAP operator to provide an address.

“We’re in luck, Doctor Beauchamp. It wasna a mobile number. In fact, tis a telephone booth. Gote Lane, in Queensferry. Down near the... umm, next tae the bridge.”

Without so much as a thank you, she hung up and frantically punched the app for an Uber.

Fifteen nail biting minutes and an excessive tip later, she stood in front of an empty phone booth. Predictably, the directory had been torn out, leaving only a thin metal cord and car-key graffiti inside the cramped interior. But on top of the phone itself she found a familiar ecru business card, her name and credentials embossed in black font.

“Damn it, Jamie,” she muttered to herself, palming the card.

If he’d hung up and started walking towards the bridge, she might be able to catch him if she ran all out, but something called her towards the nearby shore instead.

The tide was out, leaving a narrow strip of beach and sharp, slimy rocks exposed to the heavy air. Her nostrils were assaulted by the briny vegetative rot of the retreating sea.

On a weathered bench facing the river, encircled by a cone of foggy streetlight, sat a man, his eyes trained on the smudgy lights of the Queensferry bridge hovering high above. Even bundled in a heavy black jacket and watch cap, she would recognize his long limbs and the set of his shoulders anywhere. She let out a long breath of relief.

She approached the bench cautiously, not certain if her presence would be welcome. Instead of turning to greet her footsteps, Jamie addressed the bridge.

“Maggie passed t’day. I called ‘cause I wanted ye tae know, but then I couldna find the words tae tell ye.” Despite his refusal to look at her, his words were calm and without a hint of the bitterness she’d expected.

“Oh, Jamie. I’m so terribly sorry. I didn’t know her well, but she was a very special little girl who loved you dearly.”

He nodded in acknowledgement of her words, but didn’t reply. She shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, suddenly aware that she was still wearing her pajamas, her hair doubtless a veritable cumulus of tangled curls.

“Is there anything I can do?” she asked. “I still have some contacts at the hospital, I could...” she broke off, knowing it was ridiculous to offer professional assistance when she’d been the one to sever their relationship.

“Would ye, if it’s no’ too much tae ask, would ye mind jus’ sittin’ here with me fer a bit?”

He finally turned to look at her, and she could see the spider web of red veins that surrounded his irises, testimony to his heartbreak. His mouth, usually such an accurate barometer of his mood, was strangely inert. She nodded, unable to deny him such a simple request.

It was the time of night when the daytime symphony of the city broke into its component parts, every passing car, every lapping wave a single instrument singing its own plaintive song. They sat in silence for long enough that she could feel the damp creeping up the legs of her pajamas.

“Maggie loved tae cross that bridge,” Jamie said at last. “She’d lower her window, rain or shine, and stick her wee arm out, sayin’ it felt like she was flyin’.”

Claire smiled at the image, trying to picture the little girl with the giant imagination.

“What colour was her hair, Jamie?” she asked. “Was it red, like yours?”

“Nah, dark, like Jenny’s and our Da. But wi’ curls like mine and my Ma’s. A little like yours, actually, Sassenach. That is, before the chemo took it away.”

She grimaced, not knowing what topic to choose that wouldn’t lead Jamie on a path directly back to his grief.

“She fought sae hard,” he continued before she could attempt another distraction, “but the cancer wouldna let her win.” Tears were rolling down his cheeks, glinting in the sodium light like stars, but he didn’t seem to notice or care. “She was the best person I knew. Sounds strange tae say of a wee lass, but she truly was. An’ it made me a better person tae love her. What the fuck am I gonna do now?”

Jamie was looking straight at her, as though he truly expected her to offer useful guidance. All her training, her professional distance, fell away in the face of one broken man. She swallowed, searching for words that weren’t a platitude.

“You’re going to go on living, because she can’t. Because your happiness, when you are ready to feel it again, will be a gift to her memory.”

Jamie sniffed, then wiped his sleeve across his face. He placed his hand on the bench between them. Without allowing herself to think, Claire reached for it, finding his skin surprisingly warm. There was an agonizing fermata, when all the instruments held their breath, and then he turned his palm upwards to meet her own. Beneath the fog the river slipped by, blending endlessly into the sea.

"Look, Jamie, I know it’s not the right time, but I want to tell you that I’m sorry. For the way I treated you, and ended things, and...”

“Nay, Sassenach, it’s me who should apologize. I had no right tae throw my diagnosis at ye like some kinda weapon. An’ when I think of how I heedlessly brought up yer becoming a mother. I, of all people. Weel, suffice it tae say I’ve spent many an hour regretin’ my words an’ actions.”

She squeezed his hand, wordlessly declaring them equal in remorse.

“How have ye been?” he inquired, peering at her as though trying to read her state of mind on the planes of her face. She chuckled, looking away when the intensity of his gaze became too much.

“About the same, I suppose. Better some days than others. Geillis has started ordering my lunches for me, so I no longer have any excuse not to eat.” Jamie nodded, seemingly pleased with this news.

“And you? Are you still seeing Dr. Rafferty? I... uhh, I know his office requested your file.”

In fact, Giles Rafferty had called her the week after her confrontation with Jamie, wondering why his new patient’s record of treatment contained no more than his biographical details and the time and date of each of his appointments. She told him the same thing she’d told Geillis when she asked the same question in significantly cruder terms: that her weekly interactions with Jamie had never led to a professional diagnosis or a recommended course of treatment.

“Aye. He’s a good man, although tragically immune tae my charms. Unlike some.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Fraser,” she warned, although his rakish grin warmed her from the inside out.

“I’ll be darkening his doorway wi’ some frequency, after t’day,” he continued with a return to solemnity.

And yet you called me, Claire wanted to say, but didn’t. When his beloved niece had slipped away, hers had been the number he had dialed, despite everything. The very idea made her thoughts flit about like fireflies.

“I missed ye, Sassenach,” he confessed quietly after a time.

“I missed you too, Jamie.”

They sat together through the thin hours of the night, talking, sharing memories of Maggie, but mostly in silent companionship. As dawn brightened the eastern sky, the fog began to lift, revealing an overcast sky. The lights of the bridge blinked out, and the city’s music began anew. Claire wished futilely that day would never break, knowing that it would bring them both the pain of two very different kinds of goodbye.

Her hand, when Jamie finally let it go, felt strange, as though it had been separated from its source. She tucked it quickly into her pocket.

“I.. errr, I need tae be goin’,” Jamie said by way of apology. “Ian and Jenn will be needin’ me.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll just, um, call myself an Uber.”

They were both standing, neither seemingly knowing how to part.

Jamie opened his mouth, paused, shook his head in frustration, then looked away. Her traitorous hand escaped her pocket and found its way to his chest.

“I’ll be thinking of you. All of you. If there’s anything, anything at all..”

“How long until your no’ my doctor anymore? Ethically speakin’.” He was looking at her in a way that made the fireflies whirlpool about.

“What?” she asked to buy herself some time to breath.

“Before I go an’ face everything that is wrong about t’day, I want tae ken, how long must I wait before I can kiss ye again wi’out riskin’ yer reputation?”

“There’s no written timetable,” she stalled. “It’s a question of a doctor exerting undue influence or the exploitation of the patient’s trust, and there’s really...”

“Those rules are meant tae protect the patient, aye? So I should be allowed tae waive them, no’?”

“Jamie...”

“Fine, let me rephrase my question. Doctor Claire Beauchamp, when can I, James Fraser, ask ye tae look upon me as a potential suitor and no’ a former patient? Six months? A year? Two years?”

“You really are the most infuriatingly stubborn man,” she huffed.

“Aye, I ken. Sae, two years? Do we have an agreement, Sassenach?”

“Fine, yes, two years, but Jamie, I don’t expect you to...”

A finger was placed across her lips, silencing her protests.

“Two years are naught if I can kiss ye again once they have passed. Until then, Claire, please take care of yerself.”

She stood by the bench long after Jamie was gone, staring out across the river. A flock of geese flew by in formation, broad wings nearly touching the surface of the water as it reflected the steel gray clouds above. She thought of little Maggie, and her birdhouse surrounded by clouds. A sob wrestled its way up her throat, surprising in its urgency. And then, she allowed herself to cry.

#my writing #outlander

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regensia · 2 years

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@nezumivc103221 / Nezumi said . . .

[ from bar singer Nezumi | for Elias: ]

Years of undying loyalty, of being humiliated and stepped on, only to die in a knife brawl—what a day.

The thugs were chased away by sirens, scrambling off at the tiniest hint of authority, and Nezumi hid behind a dumpster. He pressed a hand against his bleeding side, then dipped into the nearest building. It felt like a miracle that the narrow wooden door opened up for him, inviting him into a cold stone hallway of a . . . church.

Nezumi had to snort at the irony.

Dressed in a skimpy dress, torn fishnet stockings and a leather jacket, he stood out like a sore thumb. His high heels clapped against the stone, then the carpet that lay stretched along the stage. He stumbled forward, breathing hard and feeling the wetness of blood stain his fingers.

It wasn't a stab wound, nothing that would kill him quickly, and Nezumi thought it poetically morbid to lay down in front of the cross and slowly bleed out to death. He smirked to himself; his red-painted lips formed a weary, but sincere smile. His body hurt, and the tips of his fingers were cold.

Gently, he levelled himself on the ground, smearing blood on the carpet. It was cleaner than he would expect, definitely better kept than the one at the club. The sight of it felt like home. So many times, he was on his knees, remembering the feel of the carpet against his skin, even the colour was similar—crimson—just like his blood.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," Nezumi muttered to himself, imagining the scene in the morning. He could only hope that he'd make for a pretty corpse.

Everyone had a rough past, himself included. It was hard not to be filled with the stirrings of judgement in seminary on his path to become a priest – so many of those men he learned alongside with were so unaware of their privileges of rather comfortable middle-class lives – but it was a challenge that he became grateful for. It taught him not only empathy, but to throw those judgements to the wind no matter the situation, for truly it wasn’t his role as a lowly servant of God to do so. Perhaps it was why his church in particular had become known for its open-door policy, not locking up after hours to prevent homeless vagrants from sleeping where they might not be hassled by police, granted that the church was kept in clean and acceptable state.

So there was no surprise when he heard the door open, heavy and aged wood unkindly to creaking and equally aged hinges, closing heavily. But Father Caldwell didn’t rush out to greet the newcomer, hands full of items he was preparing to use to clean the carpet. Candle drippings upon crimson fabric from alter servers turned out to be removed easily with an iron and an old towel, he had learned from the nuns. They had taught him many useful things that seminary did not, the more practical ins and outs of living a mortal life. How to clean, how to cook, how to garden... he left the garden to their more-experienced hands.

Threadbare towel and equally ancient corded iron in hand, extension cable looped around his arm, finally the priest strode into the main transept, seeing someone slouched upon the steps of the altar, body flattened as if to rest. In the dim light, it took the man a moment to recognize the scene, to understand that the scantily-dressed individual wasn’t resting, but likely was on the verge of unconsciousness. Though his first thought was to a drug overdose, seeing the red rug and old stone stained nightly maroon, a sure sign of blood.

“H-hey!” He almost cussed, but it hardly mattered as Father Caldwell dropped nearly everything in his arms, rushing forward to the individual. Already was his heart pounding and mind racing on the verge of panic; he was no longer cut out for this sort of lifestyle. He was sure he had left this stuff behind on the streets years ago, but already was he slipping back into that old mindset, a choice vocabulary accompanying it. “Oh no, oh fuck, are you okay?!” No answer was required there, even as he reached an uncertain hand out to the stranger’s shoulder to give a gentle shake, only to finally spot the source of the blood flow. He hadn’t seen a stab wound in some time either. Swallowing hard, the priest utilized the towel he had brought along, bundling it against the injury with pressure to attempt to slow the bleeding.

Who knew if it was the present or past self that then sought to comfort this man in a dress bleeding out on the altar? Regardless, brown gaze and hands steadied, speaking words of comfort like they were fact to them.

“You’re going to be all right. It’ll all be fine.”

#nezumivc103221 #✸ ANSWERED. ( ELIAS. )

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lazysublimeengineer · 3 years

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life is death we’re lengthy at

Title: life is death we’re lengthy at

Characters: Hanagaki "Takemitchy" Takemichi & Kawaragi Senju

Summary: A lost, fragile moment between two kindred souls before Takeomi arrives and shattered the remaining threads of peace that bound them together.

(A/N: I own nothing from this franchise except this fic of mine. A guest reader of mine from one of my fics asked me if I write for heterosexual pairings like for Senju x Takemichi. And my answer is yes and this request is dedicated to you my guest reader of mine. I write fics regardless if they’re heterosexual or not. I always consider if a certain pairing has the chemistry and potential to be great or not. And I already wrote Sentake one-shots in the past. But this time it will be in-depth with Senju as a woman as a canon reveals in the manga and Takemichi as a man. Also, apologies if I wasn’t able to write it as a fluffy and light one with just them hanging out as requested and it ended up total angst. Writing pure fluff is a challenging concept especially in TR verse. But I’m still hoping that you enjoyed this and maybe in the future I will be able to write a pure lighthearted story for these lovely characters.)

life is death we’re lengthy at

- Emily Dickinson

“Hanagaki…” Senju watched Takemichi’s face who was blank yet his eyes were wrought with undeniable shock and misery upon learning Draken’s untimely death. She was unsure of how to approach him in his current state but seeing him like this made something inside of her break.

Takemichi wasn’t crying this time.

But Senju knew that it was much worse.

From the first few interactions that she had with the blond, she knew that Takemichi was always an emotional person who wore his heart on his sleeve. His emotions were always reflected in his expressive blue eyes that reminded her of the depths of the ocean. She didn’t witness directly on his notoriety of crying at the things that would trigger his active tear ducts and would be dubbed as the crybaby hero by the people who knew him better. But somehow, she preferred seeing his genuine tears rather than this. How his face was devoid of anything and his mind was too far, far away as if his soul had already slipped away from his body.

Somehow Takemichi’s lack of response right now was much more terrible. His silence alone was suffocating.

Senju wanted to reach out to him and enveloped him into her arms just like he did earlier when he saved her from the gunshots that were meant for her.

But she couldn’t. Her body froze and all she could do now was to watch his silent wretchedness in quiet misery. She clenched her fists inside her oversized jacket, blinking back the fresh tears that threatened to fall out of her eyes.

No. She couldn’t lose her remaining cool and grace in front of Takemichi. She needed to have a presence of mind. What Takemichi needed right now was a break and an anchor to lean on in this miserable situation that they’re in.

“Hanagaki!” She called out to him as she finally approached him. “What’ll we do now?”

That seemed to erase out the daze from his eyes and brought him back to his senses and he looked at her with a trembling yet apologetic smile on his face. “Ah, I’m sorry about that Senju. I didn’t catch what you’re saying. Can you repeat that back to me…?” His voice was like a dying candle, growing fainter in each syllable that passed from his lips.

“Hanagaki…” Her eyes grew serenely downcast as she watched him struggled to get his bearings back together in vain yet she knew that with just one mighty push he would probably crumble down to the ground and break down crying.

It made something snapped inside of her and her feet automatically walked towards him and closed down the remaining distance between the two of them. Her arms encasing him in a light yet fragile embrace, fearing that he would shatter like glass if she didn’t handle him properly.

“Hanagaki it’s alright if you feel like crying… You don’t have to try so hard to stop those tears and you can let everything go…” She whispered in a hushed voice.

She felt him froze in her arms for a few seconds.

Senju tried to steady her breath and calm down her stuttering heart inside her chest. Takemichi was the one who was suffering right now but why does it feel like she’s the one who needed to be cradled right now and calms down her thundering heart inside her chest?

Every second that passed them by seemed like a lifetime. It’s as if they’re both in a space of vacuum where everything seemed to melt into nothingness and all they could feel and hear was the beating of their hearts that grew louder as each moment slipped them by.

That was until Senju felt that Takemichi shook slightly within her arms, his shoulders were quivering beside her. He wasn’t whimpering or anything but she could sense that he was slowly crashing down from the abyss of misery and the remaining control that he had was finally slipping away.

“I don’t understand anything Senju… Why is everything turning out like this…? Draken… He…” Takemichi’s breath hitched as his voice cracked.

“He died in front of me… And I couldn’t do a damn thing to stop it… Are we not allowed to be happy? Can’t we have a moment of victory without the asking price of taking someone’s life?” He added brokenly as his body quaked helplessly against hers.

Each word felt like a punch to the gut and Senju tried to have a tight grip on her emotions, refusing to cry in front of him. No. Takemichi does not need for her to lose control right now. What he needed right now was someone to lean on in his most vulnerable state. But hearing how defeated and tired he sounded didn’t seem to make it better.

“Hana-.” She paused before she continued speaking again and finally used his first name.

“Takemichi it’s fine if you feel tired… You can take a rest but I want you to know that you’re not alone in this fight. Draken is dead but I’m certain that he’s not blaming you for all of this and he still trusted you with his life until the very end.” She murmured as her hand had slowly moved in its own accord and rubbed on his back soothingly.

Takemichi’s breath caught in his own throat as he felt her soft hands on his back and his body went slack and pliant in her arms. The tight cord of tension in his body caused by his overwrought emotions was slowly replaced by a feeling of something peaceful and tranquil but the numbness was still there.

The gaping hole of wretchedness festered inside his heart.

Takemichi was only a breadth away from her. The opportunity was there to claim his lips in a gentle kiss to make him feel human again. To soothe his broken soul and troubled mind in the tranquility of her arms. And to pick up the pieces of his shattered heart from the onslaught of grief and anvil of burdens on his shoulders.

But was it the right thing to do?

In the end, Senju couldn’t do it.

Senju couldn’t take advantage of his defenseless state. She can serve as his steady rock in the storm of obstacles and his torment but she knew her place.

And it wasn’t inside his heart.

But for as long Takemichi needed her strength she will be there not because she owed him her life but because she wanted to.

That’s what her heart wished her to do.

‘As long as I’m breathing Takemichi you will never carry your burdens alone because I care about you too much.’ She thought with a wry smile on her face.

(A/N: This was inspired by the recent chapter of the manga. Wakui did really go there. At this point of the arc it was having a competition on who to traumatize more: Mikey or Takemichi. Reviews are fascinating. So, let me hear them from you.)

#spoilers #manga spoilers for chapter 224 #fanfiction #tokyo revengers #sentake #angst #hurt and comfort #relationship study #character study #takemichi hanagaki #takemitchy #kawaragi senju #senju

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remakethestars · 3 years

Text

CABIN 5 — ARES

Headcanons.

❝We shouldn’t equate being a badass with never feeling scared, with never needing self-care, with never being affected by the world. I mean, I think ‘badass’ comes with knowing what makes you feel comfortable and secure, and when something doesn’t, unabashedly saying, ‘Nah.’❞

— Kim Rhodes, The Wayward Podcast

Headcanon masterlist.

Ares is more than just the god of war.

He's also the god of civil order, courage, fear, masculinity, rage, rebellion, & violence.

TRIGGER WARNING: mentions of homophobia, blood (there’s a gif of bloody knuckles), mentions of death.

C5 kids have excellent posture because they're always training, so they're always wearing breastplates. And I assume breastplates improve your posture the way corsets do.

A lot of them do that thing cops & army people do with their vest where they kinda hang their hands from the collar? Bane does it in The Dark Knight Rises, though I must admit he kind of looks weird with his elbows out like that?

Also because they're always training, they've got a lot of scars.

They've got a lot of year-rounders.

Kicking the bed above to wake your bunkmate up.

Steel-toed boots.

Parachute cord laces with knots at the ends for quick donning & removal.

Laces are wrapped around the top of the boot & tucked in rather than tied — U.S. Military style.

You'd think C5 would have a really messy interior, but actually, their bunks are made with military corners, & they all live out of a tidy footlocker. Because most of them have an active-duty mom (Ares seems like an a$$hole who feeds on toxic masculinity, so if he is gay, I feel like he'd take it to the grave), so Ares expects them all to be dutiful — at least under his roof.

The laurels they receive are mounted above their bunk.

Most have a staple jacket or vest. Every time they win laurels, they find a patch on their pillow from Ares to be stitched on to their staple clothing item.

Which means they're all pretty decent at the backstitch or whipstitch.

A lot of them wear camouflage.

A.C.U. jackets over bronze breastplates.

There are no little strings hanging off their clothes. (I’ve heard them called I.P.s?) They burn that sh¡t off with a Bic lighter.

They grew up bouncing around all over the place. None of them really have a solid answer for, "Where are you from?"

Which means they're used to being the new kid & can make friends easily if they want to.

It also makes them very adaptable.

A lot of their belongings have those military moving stickers on them that never got peeled off.

Those belongings are actually pretty few. They're not materialistic; they travel light.

Obviously, I'd like to think of Ares as the god of army brats. 😅

They know their social security number on rote. And their mom's. And they probably still carry their I.D. card if they become year-rounders because their mom was K.I.A.

Set up a Missing Man Table in the dining pavilion for fallen half-bloods & a Missing Man Bunk in their cabin for their fallen siblings.

Work on 24-hour-time & the metric system.

Even the kids who don't have a military mom measure their lives in increments of 2–4 years.

Surprisingly punctual.

Know when to be quiet & respectful. If they got into trouble, their mom got into trouble too.

A lot of them take J.R.O.T.C. if they survive to high school & aren’t year-founders.

If you don’t know what that is, basically, the U.S. Army employs ex-Air Force, Coast Guard, Military, & Navy personnel to high schools across the country to teach classes that help kids develop into good leaders & overall citizens. They focus on current events, drills, government, history, & technology awareness & teach kids to do well with job interviews, studying, & test taking. I think they also do P.T. (physical training) once a week, so it gives a P.E. credit. (Source.)

It’s not for army recruitment, but if one does join the army, it helps.

Here’s a Tabbes video on it. She’s great.

Not innate weavers like C6, but they all know how to make a quick-deploy parachute cord bracelet & actively wear at least one.

Their E.D.C. (Everyday Carry) game is better than yours.

Boys probably wear their hair "high & tight" or in a crew cut.

Girls probably wear theirs in boxer braids.

They call camp rations M.R.E.s (Made Ready to Eat).

They jokingly call camp M.W.R. (Morale, Warfare, & Recreation).

They can all spot landmines instinctively — that's why none of then are worried about having them around their cabin.

C5 kids call each other by either a demeaning nickname or their surname.

R.B.F.s to end all R.B.F.s.

Some of them can instill anger or fear in someone just by looking at them. Just not as strong as their father or Phobos/Deimos, obviously.

One of them glares at you, & you feel an inkling of fear & think maybe you should reconsider.

Motor cycles & classic cars.

The older kids will teach the younger kids zippo tricks.

I like to think all of them have read Sun Tzu's The Art of War. C5 has a copy that's full of notes & diagrams in the margins.

I also think if they'd've been in the Battle of New York from the start, it would've gone differently; one of them would have questioned Percy's order for them to split up by cabin to cover certain places because, as verse seventeen of chapter six of The Art of War says, "For should the enemy strengthen his van, he will weaken his rear; should he strengthen his rear, he will weaken his van; should he strengthen his left, he will weaken his right; should he strengthen his right, he will weaken his left. If he sends reinforcements everywhere, he will everywhere be weak."

Of course, some C6 (Athena) kid would’ve countered with verse sixteen of chapter seven, which says, “Whether to concentrate or devide your troops, must be decided by circumstances.”

Honestly, I'm surprised none of the C6 kids said anything either; their mother's the goddess of battle strategy; you'd think The Art of War was their Bible.

Bloody knuckles.

Brass knuckles are for cowards.

Always armed to the teeth.

Some of them can turn every day objects into weapons, but it'll only last for a little while.

Knives that can be used against monsters & knives that can be used against mortals.

T5 has stab marks in it from where the older kids challenged the younger kids to I Have All Five Fingers.

🎶 i have all five fingers, and the knife goes chop, chop, chop 🎶

Carve their initials into their bunks & trunks.

My fancasts for Ares are Skeet Ulrich & Jon Bernthal. Jensen Ackles would kick a$$ too, though.

Visit my Ares cabin Pinterest board & my headcanon masterlist.

DISCLAIMER ━━━ I'm not a military brat, I wasn’t in J.R.O.T.C., & I.D.K. jacksh¡t. ━━━ These headcanons are what I consider to be canon in my fanfictions. They may be others’s headcanons I’ve subconsciously filed away in my noggin. If one’s yours and you want it removed or credited, please send me your post and let me know.

#Ares #Ares cabin #Ares kids #children of Ares #Percy Jackson #PJO #HOO #headcannons #headcanons #war #military #army brats #military brats #jrotc #remakethestars

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sapphicmsmarvel · 4 years

Text

Platonic! Hotch x Reader: Payback

masterlist

Reader is Jack’s babysitter. Y/N was hired the second Hayley went back to work after having Jack. Since Hayleys death, Y/N has stepped up to take care of Jack full time. That includes living at the Hotchner residences.

Spoilers for season 5 below:

Imagine hotch didn’t kill foyet, imagine it was Y/N. after hayley, they lost foyets trail and resumed their lives.

Lets pretend they didnt go back into protective custody. Bc obviously if this happened irl they would

Tw: foyet shit, stabbing with scissors.

“Y/N!” You felt a tiny human jump on top of you.

You immediately woke up, making sure not to jerk out of bed so you didn’t push Jack off of you. “What’s up little man?”

“Daddy said to wake you up!” You groaned at his answer, causing him to giggle.

“Did I oversleep?”

Hotch answered from the doorway, “no, I got called in early.”

“Oh shoot.” You immediately got up, Jack following. “I missed breakfast?” You asked as you pulled your sweater on.

“Breakfast didn’t even start.” He laughed. You liked seeing him at ease, he was your friend and he was always stressed. “But Strauss called and said there’s a lot of paperwork.”

“Want me to bring you lunch?” You asked as Jack led the way to the kitchen, you and Hotch following suit.

“If you find the time with him.” He pointed to the child skipping in front of you. “He’s extra energetic this morning. Said he had a good dream and now he’s happy.”

“I’ll make time, we can go to the park during lunch. Gives him some exercise.” You said as he sat down at the table.

“Aright, see you at noon, goodbye Y/N.” He squeezed your shoulder, then kissed Jack's head and said goodbye to him.

He walked out the door, and you couldn’t help but wonder what today would bring. One time….one time when he squeezed your shoulder and said goodbye, you went into protective custody away from Jack and Hayley. Then a month later, got a phone call saying Hayley was dead.

Not just dead, murdered.

And Foyet was still out there. But everyone was positive he’d move on. He took Hotch’s love away from him, so everyone assumed he’d moved on to a new victim.

Boy, you really hoped that was the case.

-----------------------------------

Hotch sat down at his desk, ready to start work, then he noticed something. Hotch loved you like a daughter. You were truly a blessing in his life. He even had a photo of you three on his desk.

And now that photo was gone. In it’s place, Hayley’s necklace.

Hotch’s stomach sank, he immediately called you and your phone went to voicemail. He sent you a text, “Foyet’s close.” He knew he had to think rationally, given that you and Jack were in danger. He couldn't mess it up.

He couldn’t lose you, too.

He knew Foyet wouldn’t harm Jack, Foyet wanted to punish Hotch, so he’d make Hotch see his son in pain, first losing his mother, then losing his sister-like figure. He ran to the team, they were at their desks, “meeting room, five minutes.” He needed those five minutes to discuss with Garcia.

He walked to her office and told her everything. And how he wanted her to hack into his security cameras and check on you. Which, she immediately did. He walked back up and told the team everything, then Garcia walked in.

“Sir?” Garcia asked.

“Yes?”

“I managed to get the security camera footage from your house.”

“Show it, now. On the big screen.”

It showed you and Jack in your bedroom, watching The Golden Girls (yes you got the boy into The Golden Girls he talks like Sophia all the time) That’s when you heard the bang.

Garcia enhanced the audio. You looked at Jack, “hey buddy, how bout you go read in our favorite reading spot, okay?” His heart sank at the fact you had to use part of the Protocall Words that you two had discussed. There was a code-locked room in the back of the house, that’s where he was going.

When Jack was at a safe distance away from you, you beeped your code into the mini safe that was beneath your bed.

“What is she doing?” Morgan asked.

“She’s getting ready to protect herself and Jack.” Emily answered.

“You armed her with a gun?”

Hotch nodded, “when everything with Hayley happened, she suggested being protected and learning how to defend herself and Jack if it came to it. I happily put her through classes so she learned every fighting skill she could.”

“Call all units you can, dispatch them. Discreetly, I don’t want this scaring Foyet into killing her.”

You checked to make sure the gun was loaded, then you put it into your waistband of your pants, you pulled your shirt over it to conceal it. You patted your pockets, Hotch was confused, then saw your phone light up on the table downstairs.

The cameras switched, you maneuvered the hall, moving quietly. Hotch saw you checking windows and when you didn’t see anybody outside, he knew you well enough that you were scared but wouldn’t show it.

The front door creaked open.

Hotch was holding his breath, you were his best friend, despite the 15+ year age difference, you both grieved Hayley, you both loved Jack. You both would do anything to protect each other and Jack.

He heard the team’s intake of breath. The cameras switched to Foyet’s entrance. He was wearing his mask and all black attire. Two camera views were side by side, you peering over the bannister, and Foyet maneuvering. When Foyet wasn’t looking, you tossed a shoe across the room, to a corner that Foyet couldn’t see. So it’d make a distracting bang for you to get to the Panic Room as you and Jack dubbed it. Foyet turned to go to the corner.

“She’s smart.” Prentiss said, keeping her voice quiet, as if Foyet could hear them. Hotch thought about going with the units. But he knew, he couldn’t move away from the screen.

You crept down the stairs, then you ran to the other hallway, where he couldn’t see you, except, he heard the rush of air and the rustle of clothes. He spun around.

You put the code to the locked room into the panel, the door popped open, but it beeped. Foyet ran up behind you and wrapped a headphone cord around your neck. You gasped from the lack of air, and as he pulled you away from the door, you kicked the door shut to lock again.

He dragged you through the living room, he threw you to the ground, stomach first. He ripped the gun from your waistband and threw it against the wall away from you two. He rolled you over and crawled on top of you.

As he sat up to hit you again, straddling your waist, you sat up quickly and did the only thing you could do.

You, quite literally, grabbed him by the balls.

All the males in the room flinched, and Garcia said, “go girl.”

He hissed in pain, then grounded out. “You’re a feisty one, aren’t you?”

“You have no idea.” You growled, rage filling your eyes. You spat in his face. He shot back, and you used that opportunity to let go of him and kick him where it really, really, hurts.

He flew back, hitting the glass table in the living room, breaking it with his impact. And, in the time it took for him to get back up and grab the gun again; you were gone.

He groaned, “dammit.”

Despite the lump in his throat, and the fact that his stomach was in his feet, Hotch smiled. Foyet had no idea what you were capable of.

He scoured the area where you disappeared too. He found himself in Hotch’s office.

Hotch watched as Foyet’s eyes saw the open closet door and crept towards it.

Hotch started tearing up, he was holding his breath. But he was unable to tear his eyes away from the screen.

But, what Foyet didn’t see, was that the door was left open so you could hide behind the door.

Then, he watched as you lept from behind the door and drove a pair of scissors into the Foyets neck.

-----------------------------------------------------------

The next few hours went by in a blur.

After, you stabbed Foyet, you sat down against the wall, waiting. He watched as you stared at Foyet dying on the ground. You didn’t raise your eyes from his body. Not to wipe his blood off your hands, not to wipe your bleeding nose, not even to check your busted lip or pick the crusted blood from your hair.

Instead, you watched as Foyet tried to fight, tried to get up and hurt you. But instead, you smiled. “Paybacks a bitch, huh?”

Foyet tried to move again and you mock-pouted, “aww, you mad you can’t control this situation or torture me? Fuck you.” You hissed, then Foyet took his dying breath.

A minute later, he watched SWAT enter his home, he watched officers peel the gun from your fingertips, he watched them guide you up. Then, you calmly walked to the panic room, looked at the Chief and said. “Kindly, back up, don’t let Jack see you. In fact, can you hand me a jacket and gloves so Jack doesn’t see this blood on me?” You requested.

What surprised him is that they listened to you, you covered up your body and hands. You then went to the couch, as if you had all the time in the world, you grabbed a blanket.

You pressed the code into the room, walked in, then walked out with Jack curled in the blanket, his face tucked into your shoulder. He didn’t have to hear, he knew you told him to close his eyes and not look.

Then the outside cameras showed you getting into an FBI vehicle. That’s when he turned away from the screens.

He raced to the doors, JJ readied first aid, Prentiss helped her, she wet cloths for the blood. The ten minutes drive felt longer, but then he saw you and Jack come through the doors. He immediately hugged you. He heard you sniff, so he held you tighter.

You were the one who pulled away, and you put Jack into his arms. You sniffed, while your eyes were teared up, you didn’t let them fall and swallowed them. You turned to go to first aid, your body was hurting. But then you saw Struass.

You knew of her, she interviewed you when Hayley was murdered, to see if Hotch was as put together at home as he was at work. You told her to never contact you again, you were furious when she had the audacity to ask if he was abusive.

“Miss. L/N. I just have a few questions-”

You cut her off, “Strauss, there are a lot of words I can use to describe you. But the fact, that you are questioning me, someone who just killed one of America’s most prolific serial killers, someone who has more trauma than your entire bloodline combined, someone who has dealt with more than you can possibly imagine, makes you a massive, heartless, cowardly, bitch.” You hissed, then you did something that Hotch would admire you forever for, you shoved her shoulder and pushed her out of the way. You nodded to JJ and Prentiss, who immediately followed you to clean you up.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Strauss paid for a hotel suite for you three to reside in. You had your room, Hotch and Jack had theirs. It was joined by a living room and kitchen. You’d be there for about two weeks. Maybe more. It all depended on whether or not you could step foot in the house again.

You weren’t going to quit your job. You loved them. But, you knew it’d take time to heal.

You had kept a stable mindset all through the process of that day. You got Jack tucked into bed, then you shut the bedroom door. You turned to find Hotch sitting on the couch.

“Hey big fella.” You smiled looking at Hotch.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N.” He said horsley.

“It’s okay. I signed up for this the second I signed that babysitters contract Hayley made.”

Hotch huffed a laugh, “she was so proud of that contract.” You nodded and smiled, you went to go sit on the couch next to Hotch. “Don’t let this eat you up inside, Mr. Hothcner.”

“How many times am I going to have to tell you to call me Aaron?” He smiled sadly.

“When you stop blaming yourself for me and Jack having to run earlier today, that’s when I will stop calling you Mr. Hotchner.”

“You know Hayley liked you cause you gave me shit. She’s probably laughing right now.”

“Oh one hundred percent.” You smiled, it was easier for you to smile right now than show sadness. And fear.

“What’d Struass want?” He asked, swirling his whiskey in the glass.

“Wanted to know if I was fucking my boss.” You said. “I told her to go fuck herself since she was so interested in who I was fucking.”

He laughed, a full throaty laugh. Then you said, “I’m sure you’re gonna hear about that on Monday.”

“Frankly, I don't think so. She’ll be too embarrassed.”

“Good, when she said she wanted to question Jack, I almost….” You shook your head. “I almost punched her in the face.”

“She’ll see how tough you are. She’s probably watching the footage right now.”

You grimaced, “did you see….”

“The full on ball grab? Yes, we all did.”

“Gah,” you rubbed your face. “I can’t believe my boss saw me yank someone's balls.”

He laughed again, “don’t worry, your pay just got promoted.”

“You already pay me enough, plus allow me to live the rent free.”

“You’re family, Y/N. Hell, the money can put you through therapy.”

You huffed a laugh, “I’m going to go to bed,” you got up. “Goodnight Aaron.” You smiled kindly. Then you walked away to your room without anything else.

The second your door latched, you started crying.

#Criminal Minds #criminal minds x reader #aaron hotchner #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x reader #Thomas Gibson #platonic criminal minds

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itmighthavebeenintentional · 3 years

Text

We've Got Tonight - Ch 4

Summary: “It’s not your job to do this, Andy. You make people happy. I was in the diner all of ten minutes, and you knew exactly how to get me to smile. You do normal, real things like garden and sing karaoke. Saving the world is my job, Sam’s job. Sometimes it’s even Cas’s job, but it’s not yours.”

Inspired by Bob Seger’s “We’ve Got Tonight”

Warnings: Major Character Death, More Major Character Deaths (sort of?), higher than show level violence, blood, light smutting, language, demons, apocalypse, inferred suicide, cult activity.

18+ ONLY, MINORS DO NOT PROCEED

Author’s Note: This story is set hazily around season 8. Just squint a little, and it’ll settle in somewhere. I wrote this story after certain big revelations in the show, but before other big ones; you’ll most likely be able to tell which. I play with time a bit in the story itself, so if things seem out of order, they are. Hopefully, by the end, all the pieces will fit together.

What the hell, let’s give it a shot.

EXTRA WARNING: THIS CHAPTER IS THE SOURCE OF MOST OF THE WARNINGS FOR THE STORY. Please don't kill me. THIS IS NOT THE LAST CHAPTER, I PROMISE. It's not over yet. I can't promise you won't hate me when it's over, but I will not leave you here. There's more.

Image and major edits by the incomparable @there-must-be-a-lock . Heavy editing and cheering by @thoughtslikeaminefield . Thank you both so much.

In case you missed it: Chapter 3 ItMightHaveBeenintentional’s Masterlist

...

We’ve Got Tonight

Ch 4

Pre-dawn is too damn cold, she decides. She has to visually check that her fingers are actually doing up the buttons to her ragged denim jacket. She lost sensation in her hands a while back, and it’s the only way to make sure they’re actually doing their job. Her jacket is utterly unsuitable for the current temperature, but she doesn’t expect to need it for much longer.

Just before sunrise, Crowley told her.

The sky is already lightening on the horizon, the medium gray more obvious than she would have thought against the stark black, but, then, she’s never had much occasion to be out quite this late before. She’s usually done at the diner by six, singing at the club by ten, and in bed by two at the latest. She hopes Crowley is punctual. She can’t decide if the waiting or the cold is worse.

Except that, yes, she really can. The waiting is definitely worse.

The sound of shifting gravel pulls her out of her thoughts, and she turns to find the King of Hell himself smiling beatifically at her. She shivers, not bothering to search out the source of her discomfort, as she is rather spoiled for choice at the moment. She’s out in the freezing dark, about to hand over her life and soul to a demon because deranged cultists got it into their heads that they should use her blood to start an apocalypse (and who knew there was more than one of those outside of Sunnydale, seriously).

Shivering is probably the most rational reaction she’s had in a while.

“Hello, darling. Pleasant evening with the boys?”

He’s got more sass in one off-the cuff remark than she has in her entire history, and for a moment she can only marvel at the affected innocence in his expression. It's almost convincing. She opts to remain silent rather than take his bait. He smirks, the expression natural and only a touch derisive.

“No surprises, then? No sidekicks to save you at the last minute from the bad, bad demon?”

“I thought the torture didn’t start until after you kill me,” she sighs, hugging her arms tighter around herself, a futile attempt to ward off the chill. Maybe she’s got a little spark in her, after all. He laughs, a friendly, personable chuckle that would set anyone else at ease, reassure them of his honorable, benign intentions.

“Come on, Crowley, what's the hold up? I was here on time. Can we just get this over with already? I could have gotten one more round in with Dean if we were just going to stand around, shootin’ the breeze.”

Even watching for it, she can only just see the tick in Crowley's jaw, the slightest tension that betrays...something. She doesn't know what or why, but Crowley has more than a little unhealthy obsession with the elder Winchester brother, and she is pleased she managed to crack his veneer even for the briefest moment.

At least I don't have to worry about Dean, Andy thinks, relief creeping into the sea of dread that is her stomach. Her deal with Crowley was not only about stopping the apocalypse but also keeping Sam and Dean and even Castiel safe.

“Once you're gone, I won’t harm a hair on their precious heads, nor any other part of them,” he swore to her a mere eighteen hours earlier.

“I’m hurt you don't find my company more pleasant, love,” he murmurs, taking a couple of steps closer. He slides his hands in his coat pockets, the very picture of nonchalance. “I do try my best to be cordial, even congenial, after all. But since you’re so very uncomfortable, I suppose you won't object, then, that I took the liberty of inviting a few friends whose company you seem to prefer. What a lovely party we’ll have when they get here.”

As if he’s summoned them, a pair of lights appear in the distance, growing larger with every passing moment. Headlights, she realizes; a second later, she hears the distinctive roaring of a very particular car engine, and before she can turn back to Crowley, the Impala leaps out of the darkness, skidding across the hard-packed dirt road, coming to a halt bare inches from the demon’s impeccably shined shoes.

Andy stumbles back, choking in the cloud of dust the car kicks up, only to hit something solid. Impossibly strong fingers dig into her chin, lifting her face out and away as cold, thin metal is pressed to the side of her neck, and only now does she freeze.

“Let her go, Crowley,” Dean growls, his gun drawn and aimed even before he exits the car. “This isn't her fight, and you know it!” On the other side, Sam and Castiel climb out, Sam drawing his gun and moving to flank the demon.

“I do heartily protest, sir,” Crowley says, his tone mild and conversational. The blade digs in ever so slightly under her ear, and a thin trickle of warmth slides down her skin to soak into her collar. Dean doesn't flinch, but his eyes narrow, and he readjusts his aim.

“Not only is the lady at the epicenter of this fight, she's gone and made herself the brightest star in the show. Ask her yourself, if you don’t believe me.”

“How-” she manages through fear-numbed vocal cords. Dean should be unconscious, snoring blissfully away in his bed where she left him. She made sure to leave no sort of trail they could follow, and she checked that they were all asleep or otherwise occupied before she took off.

“I wasn’t asleep, Andy,” Dean replies, leveling his gun at Crowley. “And I’ve been tracking since I was seven. Gimme some credit.”

“I wouldn't do that, if I were you, Moose.” Crowley’s words freeze Sam in his tracks, and the blade on Andy’s neck digs in a little deeper. The flow of warmth down her neck widens just a touch. The sheer smugness in Crowley’s tone sets her teeth on edge, breaking through her stupor, and she grabs the hand with the knife, pulling at it with all her might. She, of course, doesn’t make a dent in the demonic strength, but she’s got to try something.

If you asked her later, Andy would swear to you that the searing pain that drags along her neck parallel to her jaw line right then is pure Hellfire. Deep down in the darkest recesses of her mind where all the worst truths lurk, she knows she’s feeling the bite from Crowley’s knife, but in that instant all she is aware of is the agony of the wound, of Dean’s enraged roar, and the juxtaposition of Crowley’s gentle touch pressing her own fingers to something hot and slippery under her jaw.

“Hold pressure there, sweetheart, or you’ll bleed out too soon. Wouldn’t want you to miss the finale.”

Her knees buckle, and she drops, but somehow she stays upright long enough to see Crowley’s demons approach out of the darkness. She tries to warn the boys, but time moves with a dreamlike lethargy that betrays every one of her good intentions, and, anyway, her voice doesn’t seem to be working at the moment. The roar of gunfire all around her sounds faint in comparison to the rushing in her ears, and she is powerless to stop Crowley’s plans from reaching fruition.

“You...said...you wouldn’t...”

“Well, pet, you aren’t dead yet, are you? I’ve got, what, at least another three minutes before you snuff it, by my count. Plenty of time to conclude my business with the Winchesters and their featherbrained friend before you expire.”

Though he was right behind her only a moment ago, Crowley appears abruptly next to Castiel, who at the moment is distracted by two lesser demons both wielding machetes. She realizes as she watches Cas easily fend them off that they, just like Andy, are only a distraction, only bait to tempt the bigger players to overextend themselves.

Too late, she sees the perfection of Crowley’s plan. In all the confusion, she loses track of Sam, and she wrenches her eyes away from Dean’s staggering form only to watch as the angel blade in Crowley’s hand bursts through Castiel’s chest. Then her gentle, confused friend is gone in a flash. The demons vanish, and she can’t find Sam or Dean, can’t reach them, can’t make her voice work to call out.

The quiet is wrong, so out of place after the violent cacophony. The roaring is gone, the gunfire silenced, and all that’s left is a terrible wheezing, gurgling sound that takes her too long to recognize as her own labored breathing.

“Crow...ley…”

“I’m here, darling. What do you need?”

“Lying...bastard…”

“Now, now, sweetheart, are those really what you want your last words to be?” He lifts her easily from the ground, carrying her the few yards to where Dean lies sprawled in the dusty gravel. His shirt is stained black in the retreating darkness, and Andy can only be thankful that she won’t make it to sunrise to see what exact shade of red is spreading over him. Dean’s far hand scrabbles on the ground, stopping its frantic search only when it finds his brother’s.

Sam’s still form doesn’t return his brother’s grip.

“After all, I’ve done you a favor; I didn’t have to give you the opportunity to say good-bye. I can’t promise you adjoining cells, but I’m sure your torture will coincide with his occasionally,” Crowley continues conversationally, “so, really, the two of you should be thanking me that you’ll at least get occasional visiting privileges. It pays to be on good terms with the king, after all. And, who knows? After a couple hundred years of good behavior, I might even be persuaded to-”

“Why?” It’s all she can manage as he lays her on the ground. Dean reaches for her with his free hand, and she is just able to find his fingers. Their eyes meet, but her vision is blurring as breathing gets tougher, and she can’t see what he’s mouthing to her. Even his eyes, such a luminescent green only hours ago, are fading into the remaining dark of the night.

“The Winchesters, dear, it’s always been about the Winchesters. Oh, the fanatics and their doomsday ritual were real enough, as was your blood. I just simply took advantage of the situation, as any intelligent monarch would do. Settled things with the apocalypse groupies, rid myself of some major pains in my rear, and now I get you, to boot! I do love when a plan comes together.”

Dean’s fingers tighten in hers, and she tries to grip his back, but the harder she holds on, the less she can feel him.

She’s not really feeling much of anything but cold now.

“Shut...up...already.”

“Always ungrateful in the end, even after everything I do for them,” Crowley grumbles from above her. But then he does shut up, and she finally feels something besides the cold.

Relief. ...

Chapter 5

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writefightandflightclub · 4 years

Text

Out from the cold (Llewyn Davis x reader)

Summary: Llewyn (precious baby) needs your comfort, and oddly, looking after him comforts you too. Fluff but a lil angst to get to the comfort.

Author’s note: I’m doing soft blurbs bc you all deserve a hug from one of our fave fictional husbands. Let’s all destress and be comforted one blurb at a time, okay? (Dunno how many I can do but gonna try and blitz a few requests out tonight. I’m doing these quickly so they’ll be a bit scrappy, please forgive!) ALSO THIS IS EXCITING I’VE NEVER WRITTEN LLEWYN BEFORE AND I’M KINDA HAPPY WITH IT! LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK? (I love this movie so much, one of my all-time favourites, and one of my fave Oscar performances.)

Warnings: just Llewyn swearing, as per. Alcohol and cigs. No drunkeness. Mentions of homeessness / couch-surfing. Mention of abortion.

GIF by @digginmovies

It’s late when he shows up at your door. Or rather, it’s late when you find him in your hallway. You don’t know how long he’s been standing there, because he didn’t even knock. Perhaps he was too afraid to, but by the time you eventually stopped pacing your floorboards and threw a scarf around you, you’d come to fear the worst; that he’d been beaten and left in a gutter or some doorway, or perhpas that he was just stubbornly wandering the streets, preferring to freeze to death rather than “bother” you. Or worse than that... perhaps he’d finally struck lucky and you’d never see him again. Now that he no longer needed your couch, maybe he no longer needed you.

Anyway, all of your fears were entirely unfounded, and it was a shock to find him there, leaning up against the wall. The shortest missing person recovery mission ever known.

“Llewyn?” you question, sighing in frustration and unwrapping your suddenly suffocating red scarf.

His whole body is an apology as he turns his head towards you. Eyes apologetic. Shoulders apologetic. That sorry cord jacket is very, very sorry indeed. Hell, even his curls slump over his forehead in a despondent way, as if they’ve given up too.

This precious man. Why doesn’t he know how special he is? Why does he always dwell in the shadows, rather than allowing himself to be welcomed into this warm, light-bathed apartment of yours. Why doesn’t he realise that he is a light himself, and not a burden? That his presence alone can furnish and illuminate any room. Can compel audiences and, certainly, can move you to train your eyes on him as if he is a star under a perpetual spotlight.

Well, you suppose you should just be thankful that he’s here at all, because he always seems an instant away from slipping into shadow and never coming out again. You are thankful. You are always thankful to find him on your doorstep.

“How did it go?” you ask him, and Llewyn pushes himself up from the wall, despondently shaking his head. He stuffs his hands into his pockets and simply stands there as if forgetting any purpose which might cause him to move. You have to shuffle forwards yourself to give him the hug you feel he so desperately needs, even if he doesn’t know he deserves it. You wrap you arms around him, and it’s a little awkward, and he’s stiff, and he feels of wool and cord beneath your fingertips. Smells of frost and cigarette smoke, and like he hasn’t managed to run his clothes through the laundry in a few days. You make a note to do that for him, if you can coax him into a warm bath later.

“Can I please stay with you?” Llewyn asks in a small voice.

You don’t let go of him, willing him to soften against you.

“Llewyn, you dont have to ask me that, you live here.” You say it like it’s obvious, yet this simple fact is something you are endlessly trying to convince him of.

“I sleep on your couch, because I have no fucking money. Because I’m a piece of shit musician who can’t book a gig except for the Gaslight. And that’s only because I knocked-up a chick who gets me a slot out of pity some nights because she aborted my baby.”

“Llewyn!” you say, heartbroken and disbelieving that he could talk about himself in such a way, and looking, in your shock, like you might come for a piece of him too for thinking so little of himself. But, the world keeps kicking this poor man when he’s down, and he’s running out of energy to keep getting back up, so there’s something in you which can’t blame him.

“I’m just tired. I’m just so fuckin’ tired.”

You bring your hands to the sides of his face, that thick, soft beard under your fingertips.

“Llewyn,” you say softly, searching his melancholy eyes. You want to tell him how talented he is, how important. How special, like you have a hundred times before, but he won’t beleive you. Never does. So, instead, you try something you never have before. At least, not while sober. You dip forward and press a chaste kiss to his lips.

You pull away before his lips have time to react, though even if you had lingered, you’re not sure he would have. You swear that man is so touch-starved that he can no longer recognise affection. That he can no longer remember how to move his lips against another’s. You swear he’s too down on himself that he doesn’t remember how to respond to being wanted.

“Come inside. Your lips are like ice,” you say, and it’s true. You only wish you could thaw him.

Llewyn picks up his guitar case and finally follows you inside, taking his familiar spot on the couch and folding his arms around himself, not even taking off his scarf or jacket. Sometimes you worry that his chill goes all the way down to his bones. Just incase it can help with that, you make him some warm tea and wordlessly pass the mug to him.

“Thank you,” he says earnestly, leaning forward in his seat as you sit at the other end of the couch from him, watching him gripping the warm beverage in his fingerless gloves like he’s never known a warm touch like it.

You sit quietly next to him and allow him to thaw a little, watching the steam rising from the mug as he takes careful sips. It has begun to lash with rain outside, the percussive sound and howl of wind muffled against the window pane, and pleasantly soothing. At least, it sounds soothing to you; Llewyn probably thinks it’s that dark cloud following him around again.

“Have you eaten?”

“Waffles. Had some Gaslight money left,” he says in monotone, staring intently at a particular spot on your hardwood floor. He didn’t make nutritionally sound choices, it seems, but at least he’s had something.

“Good,” you nod. “And do you want to talk about the audition?”

“Nope,” Llewyn responds dejectedly, popping the “p” emphatically.

When he’s drained the cup he sets it down, eventually unwinding his scarf from around his neck and shuffling off his gloves and jacket. Without all his layers he looks a little like a lost baby bird without its nest, or like a winter tree without it’s covering of leaves.

You take a risk in an attempt to perk him up and head towards the vinyl player, dropping the needle on a record you know he likes. And then, you reseat yourself on the couch, a little closer to him this time.

Llewyn finally turns to you, elbows resting on his thighs, looking just a little less morose. “Got any wine? And cigarettes?”

Now, that you could do.

You oblige him, and before long you are sipping on a glass of red, and you let Llewyn rant freely about the audition he doesn’t want to talk about at his leisure, a cigarette bobbing in-between his lips as he talks, smoke wafting around his face and his hair like the ghost of his own curls. You let him rant about the cookie-cutter, soulless, talentless musicians who make it, and the blood-sucking label execs, and the tasteless consumers, and the whole damn thing, until his shoulders look a little less heavy. A little less apologetic. Until he forgets himself and picks up his guitar and begins to mindlessly pluck and strum away.

He starts to sing under his breath, because he can’t help but sing. Because it comes naturally to him, and suddenly he is the only light in your living room. He is under his own super trouper, against the backdrop of the rainy window pane. Light shining against melancholy.

As lovely as he is to look at, with the way his left cheek tugs up with his words and his brow creases with feeling, you close your eyes as his voice filters through into your bones, making you warm from within.

“I love it when you sing,” you say sincerely, and you don’t know it, but your simple, honest words are music to Llewyn’s ears. Those words are something he hears startingly seldom for a man with a talent like his.

Your eyes are still closed when you hear the chaotic thrum of strings as Llewyn sets the guitar down. Your eyes are still closed as Llewyn kneels before you and slides his hands along your thighs, palms down. Your eyes open just before he dips his head and presses a chaste, smoky kiss to your lips.

Your lips do not react. If Llewyn was too touch-starved to kiss you back earlier, you suppose you are too surprised that he might want you back. You want to kiss him, and apparently he wants to kiss you, but you are singing different bars of the same song. Your timing is all off. So, your lips do not meld with his, no matter how long you’ve waited for this. Wanted it. This time too, his mouth was even warm against yours. His hands warm against you. Thawing.

You smile at him, softly. Catiously. As if you might scare him off. As if he is a wild animal who has dropped to his knees for you.

Instead, he remains as you bring your hands back to either side of his face, and lose yourself in his dark, turbulent stare. It is you who suddenly feels catious, as if he is a storm which might swallow you. Might paint you in licks of grey if you don’t first heal his pain. His eyes are raw. Broken apart, and his beautiful soul so exposed beneath them. No wonder he is so guarded. Feels so vulnerable. His heart is so open and so wounded beneath the expletives and the apathy and the lucklessness, isn’t it? It would be so easy to break, like a lost bird far from its nest.

But this time, he stays. Llewyn simply looks right back into your eyes, for once. And when he undoubtedly notices your evident desire there, all he does is question why you are looking at him at all.

“Why do you want me?” he asks you, plainly, shaking his head softly. He doesn’t say more, but you swear you could guess his thought. You could have any Tom, Dick, or Harry. Or a Chad. Some rich, muscly dude with a centre part and a Corvette. I’m nothing. Nobody.

Your mouth forms a bashful, thin line, and you shrug your shoulders, placing your hands over his palms. You desperately want to show him he is somebody.

“I dunno. Why do you sing, Llewyn? Why do birds make music? I just do. I want you. My soul tells me I should, and I listen.”

He looks sad. So sad, So tired, and so you do the only thing your soul tells you to in this moment. You comfort him. You reach up and tangle your fingers into that mess of crotchet black curls on his head. You stroke him and soothe him, and he gives in to you, burying his head in your lap and letting you touch him. Letting you smooth your hands and your fingers and thumbs over his hair, his neck, his back, his shoulders. He wraps his arms around your lower legs and curls around them, still sat at your feet like a stray who refuses to be a house cat, despite how many times you try to coax him in from out of the cold.

“Llewyn, come lie with me a while?” you ask gently, and he looks up at you, unsure. Still, he clambers up from his position and is about to recline on the sofa when you grab his hand. “No, Llewyn. Come lie with me in my bed?”

He gulps, as if you might eat him alive, but he follows as you guide him as if it might be a relief to climb into your jaws anyway, and you lead him by the hand along the hallway and into your room.

He watches you with hesitant fascination as you shrug off your layers, down to your underwear. Then, he follows suit, letting his worn trousers and white t-shirt pool on to the floor at his feet, until he’s standing in only his patterned boxers.

You climb under the covers, shivering at the autumn chill in the room, and you hold the tented covers open for Llewyn to climb in after you.

“Y-You want me to... W-what do you wanna do?”

“Nothing you don’t want to, darling. But if you’ll let me, I just want to hold you.”

He hesitates, but he’s cold, and so, so alone, and he’s so tired of never having anything he wants. So tired that he’s willing to forget, just this once, that he can’t give you what you deserve. Or at least to stop consciously reminding himself of it.

He slots his soft, slim body under the covers, and you let the blanket fall over him. Then, you lie on your back and pull him on top of you, until his body covers yours and his head nestles on the cushion of your breasts.

It is quiet enough in the room that you hear him gulp again, but he doesn’t bolt. Once he’s settled, your wrap him in your arms, your fingers twining in his hair, carding through those thick, tangled curls. Your hands smooth up and down his back, until he is humming softly, his face entirely buried in your chest. “Sweet man,” you soothe, and listen to the sound of the rain outside, and the background noise of the record player filtering through. “I know it’s not much, but I love it when you sing. I wish I could give you riches for it, and record deals. But all I have to give in return is a little piece of my heart, and you steal a piece of it every time I hear your voice,” you whisper gently.

Llewyn is silent, and you wonder if you might have scared him off, but he seems quite content exactly where he is. You wish he would stay, but you know he has a cycle of houses, like a traitourous street cat with nowhere he feels deserving to call home.

For now though, he is here, and you begin to sing gently along to the song filtering through from the living room. It’s one of your favourites. One which Llewyn has sung for you many times before.

You look down at the side of his face, his eyes closed, his eyelashes fanned on his cheek, and his beard twitching as his full lips tug up into a faint smile. Finally.

“You have a pretty voice, dove,” he says, and your heart clenches at the pet name. At the fact you have finally found a way to make him happy. You should have realised it would be music.

“No, Llewyn. It’s nothing compared to you.”

“I dunno. You probably have more chance of making it than I do. Maybe you should have gone today instead.” You worry that he has been tugged back into a slump, but you see he is still smiling, and you recognise the humour in his tone, self-deprecating though it is.

By the next chorus, Llewyn begins to softly sing along too, and your heart flutters as his voice vibrates against your bosom.

You tug in a deep, happy breath, and exhale spring into the autumn room.

Llewyn props himself on to his elbows and shuffles up the bed, until his face is level with your own.

You regard him catiously, feeling suddenly as flighty as he usually is.

“What do you want to do?” you ask him, as his lips hover close to yours.

“Nothin’ you don’t want to,” he says, mirroring your words from moments ago.

This time, when your lips meet, softly, neither of you are surprised. This time, your mouths are both warm and moving together, like you sing the words to a shared song, both melding in time.

As Llewyn curls around your body and snuggles into you for warmth, you hope you can get him to stay. You hope you’ve showed him he doesn’t need to wander in the cold any longer.

He has your heart after all, and you need him to bring it indoors; out from the cold.

#llewyn x reader #llewyn davis x reader #inside llewyn davis #inside llewyn davis fanfiction #llewyn davis fic #llewyn angst #llewyn fluff #coen brothers #oscar isaac

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scripttorture · 3 years

Note

I have a character who was a slave but was rescued and freed after about 2 years in slavery and eventually goes on to rescue other people in slavery. While in slavery, he was punished often with denial of food as well as being whipped and beaten when he refused to work. He also had his tongue partially cut out as a punishment. I already have a good idea about the psychological effects he is going to have, but I’m struggling with the physical effects and how long it would take to recover

Part of the answer here depends on this character’s age because while adults can generally make a good recovery from periods of starvation the effects on children (especially young children) are a lot more long lasting.

The best places to start for the effects of starvation on adults are probably the Minnesota Starvation Experiment and the World Health Organisation (WHO, general link here, 1999 pamphlet on malnutrition in all ages here).

Recovery is generally pretty quick unless someone’s at the point where they’re near death.

Refeeding syndrome can be an issue in some cases (especially famine or forced labour camps) but it doesn’t have to be one here. If the character is eating normally (as opposed to being fed by IV for instance) then refeeding syndrome is less likely. My understanding is that this is because the body suppresses appetite during starvation so that it only takes in what it can manage (appetite recovers quickly as the patient regains weight.)

There’s a detailed NHS guide to refeeding in adult here. It should give you an idea of how at risk your character is and how much food he’ll be able to handle in his first few days of recovery.

A physical recovery period of around 1-3 months depending on the degree of starvation is reasonable. In this case by ‘recovery’ I mean being able to do normal physical activity, a return to previous healthy weight, or higher weight, return to normal appetite and nutrient levels.

Recovery can be delayed by additional illness: it’s easier for starving people to contract diseases or infections and it takes longer for them to fight them off.

There’s also a difference depending on whether you’re talking about a character who is consistently under fed and forced to work versus a character who is usually provided with enough food but sometimes denied food completely/on very reduced rations for periods of a few days. Consistent starvation and malnutrition is much more usual in slavery and… much more likely to be fatal.

A character that has short periods where food is denied them (no more then two days) and is then allowed to eat as much as they want is probably not going to need hospital supervision/treatment for starvation. If that doesn’t sound like your character then the procedure is usually just to let the person eat as much as they want of whatever they want. The difficulty for people at this sort of stage is more about organising giving out food then it is about keeping doctors on hand to monitor them.

Now I know less about this but I think there is some evidence that this sort of pattern of intermittent starvation (ie periods where the character is starved, then allowed to eat and this is repeated) can cause some pretty serious health effects. It can also make disordered eating behaviour more likely.

On a cosmetic level it’s also linked to weight gain.

Which ever option you’re picturing the following effects are all likely:

loss of muscle mass

lack of coordination

weaker bones

higher chance of hypothermia or heat exhaustion

fainting

poor circulation

higher chances of disease and infections

longer recovery time and more difficult recovery from disease and infections

A survivor can get to a point where they’re no longer at immediate risk before they’re back to full health. It takes time to recover bone and muscle mass. It takes time for the internal organs to get back to normal. It takes time for enough fat to build up so a person’s body can regulate heat properly.

There’s also a difference between someone being at peak physical fitness and getting back to average. My understanding is that if someone’s survived significant periods of starvation they’re… unlikely to reach peak physical fitness. If this character was an athlete or a super hero or otherwise had a physically demanding profession, they’re likely to notice a difference even when they’re ‘better��.

They could improve with time and practice but they may never get back to their prior ability level.

There’s evidence of epigenetic effects; the children of people who recover from starvation are likely to be shorter then the children of people who have never starved.

The Minnesota Starvation experiment theorised that after a successful recovery there were few long term effects of starvation. There’s some evidence now that this was an optimistic conclusion but it’s difficult to get a clear picture because of the ethics around studying starvation.

For young children starvation results in an adult who is:

physically weaker

less intelligent

more prone to illness

less able to fight off illness

has a shorter life expectancy

is physically smaller

Starvation of children represents a blunting of potential: they will never reach their full strength or intelligence even if they may be stronger/smarter then some individuals. And there is really nothing that can be done to treat that. They needed food over a crucial period and did not receive it. The damage is done and can not currently be treated or healed.

Beatings over a long period of time and forced labour both have a tendency to cause chronic pain in the joints. Shoulders and knees seem particularly common.

There are a lot of possible causes for this sort of chronic pain. Ligament and muscle damage s possible. Beatings with objects can cause bone fragments to uh break away and lodge in soft tissues. Soft tissues around joints can be damaged.

And there are also psychological causes or combinations of both physical damage and psychological causes.

For instance this is something I saw in an account from a survivor of child abuse. The survivor had been punished using standing stress positions and he found as an adult that he got shooting pains in the backs of his legs while stressed at work. With the help of his doctors he found that when he was stressed he leaned forward on to his toes, mimicking part of the stress position he’d been subjected to as a child. This put more strain on his legs and caused the pain.

These kinds of responses can be very difficult to stop.

What I’m trying to illustrate here is that disabling pain is really common in survivors and you don’t necessarily need to know a specific cause for it.

Chronic pain can cause long term problems to do with mobility and performing everyday activities. Most often it means that survivors need to rest more often, they may have less stamina and they might need to do things in ‘odd’/unusual ways in order to comfortably perform the activity.

For instance someone with chronic pain in their shoulders might struggle to hang wet clothes on a line that’s above their heads. So they might get in the habit of lowering the clothes line, attaching the clothes and then raising it by pulling on the cord at waist height. They might have trouble moving their shoulder to put on jackets, so they could use their body weight to ‘flip’ the arm joint to the correct position without involving the muscles of the shoulder.

Someone with knee pain would probably be more particular about the height of chairs in their house. They may stop keeping things in low drawers or shelves.

Consider where your character might have pain, what activities might make it worse and life style adaptions you can work in to your story.

These can actually be a great world building/character detail. Especially because healthy people have a tendency to assume these adaptions are eccentricities rather then necessity, prompting conversation between characters.

There is one part of this scenario that worries me: mutilating the tongue.

Cutting out tongues is one of those things that comes up a lot in fiction and is generally… less survivable then people assume. Tongues are not just for verbal communication: they’re a pretty essential part of how we swallow food and water, not to mention detecting whether said food/water is edible and they contain a lot of blood vessels. There’s a reason things like tongue splitting and tongue piercing don’t tend to show up as traditional body modification practices.

The process of partially removing a tongue is life threatening in and of itself. Victims can drown in their own blood. Inflammation can block the airways causing suffocation. Infection can make breathing, eating or drinking impossible (increasing the chance of death from infection.)

If the victim survives (some definitely did) they’d have trouble eating and drinking for the rest of their lives. This means malnutrition is likely, leading to shorter life expectancies and higher chances of disease (apart from the conditions malnutrition itself causes.)

It also means recovery from starvation would be significantly longer. Which means a longer period when the character’s more at risk from infection and disease as well as the general uh ‘problems’ starvation causes.

I’m not saying you’ve created an unsurvivable scenario. We know from history that some people have gone through stuff like this and survived.

What I’m saying is the survival rate is low. Those survivors (and your character) got lucky.

Keep that in mind when you write this scenario.

In terms of long term recovery I honestly have no idea how a removed tongue is treated, I’m not a medic. I can guess at some lifestyle adaptions though.

Because it makes eating more difficult I think it’s likely a survivors would have smaller meals and more frequent meals rather then large portions that might be cold/unpleasant by the time they’ve finished eating. They’d probably learn to cut their food into smaller pieces and might avoid tougher foods that require more chewing. Their sense of the taste and texture of food would be impaired which might effect their enjoyment of food which could in turn effect their motivation to eat and their recovery.

Overall I think the take away message here is that while most of the physical long term effects of slavery are not immediately life threatening they have a massive effect on long term quality of life.

A lot of survivors of modern slavery come out of similar time frames to this disabled by a combination of chronic pain, joint problems and untreated injury or disease.

One of the recurring themes in Kara’s interviews with slaves is that slavery physically ages people. The combination of extreme distress, physical abuse, overwork, sleep deprivation and malnutrition makes survivors appear much older then they are.

But the reasons why, the injuries and marks of abuse are often not immediately obvious.

I hope that helps :)

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Disclaimer

#writing advice #tw torture #tw slavery #tw starvation #tw scars #scarring torture #cutting out tongues #starvation #forced labour #writing recovery #writing survivors #writing slavery #writing victims #time frames #effects of starvation #chronic pain

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siempre-pedro · 4 years

Text

Silver & Gold

Pedro Pascal x Reader

Summary: It’s all fun and games until someone pins the other against a table and starts something they can’t finish at the SAG Awards

Warnings: Light Smut, endless sexual tension

Word Count: 1.6k

A/N: Let’s add this to my repertoire of award show-themed smuts. I’m still really rusty forgive me.

The afternoon of the SAG Awards was a blur, not because of the stylists or hair and makeup people buzzing around your room but the game Pedro decided to start when you woke up. Your phone blew up with congratulations and good luck messages and one photo of your boyfriend in his favorite Hugo Boss underwear…and nothing else.

So ensued the back and forth sending of scantily clad photos and cheeky messages. “Mi Amor, you are the death of me,” he tells you over the phone before your people arrived to get you ready. You bite your finger and grin, closing your legs. His voice was low and husky and god did that send you over the edge.

“When does the game end Pedro?” you ask twirling the ribbon of your silk bathrobe.

There’s a brief pause followed by a low chuckle on his end “Oh don’t know, whoever caves first?” he teases.

You laugh and lean against the cold cream-colored wall “In front of all those people? Pedro, I didn’t take you for that kind of guy,” you mock.

“I’ll stop when you stop.” You didn’t plan on stopping anytime soon. After you two hung up you documented and posted everything, and when no one was watching you let your robe slip off your shoulder and your chest just enough to get the idea, quickly snapping a photo to send to him before anyone could notice.

On the other end, Pedro hid his phone as he opened the photos from you, his pants becoming a little bit tighter with each one. Since for him getting ready for him was easy he opted to write out his thoughts ‘Jesus fucking Christ, Y/N? Do they see you doing that? If only they could see what I’m going to do to you later, their blushes will be redder than your ass.’

On the carpet, you did your best to keep it pg. Your dress was enough to let his imagination wander, it was a strappy long gold sequin dress with a plunging neckline and back. You didn’t tell him about it for a reason. You walked the confidence, your head held high and smiling towards the bright cameras, inching your way to Pedro who was almost nearly done.

When the actor heard the fans yell your name his head whips over and see your figure. His brown eyes blown with lust as he looked at you up and down. Your skin was glowing, and your gown was absolutely stunning. You glance over at him and wink before turning your attention to the cameras. He took it upon himself to come to you, concealing the lovesick puppy look. You turn to him like you were just friends, embracing him like you haven’t been sending nudes to each other all morning.

“Silver,” you comment with a smile as he pulls away.

“Gold,” he says shakily, his eyes trailing down to your almost bare chest, the thin spaghetti straps lying delicately on your collar bones. Your breathing made your chest rise and fall, the ungodly amount of gold highlighter you begged your makeup artist to apply sparkling in the sun. His eyes stared for a moment too long before you coughed and reminded him where you were “Do you think they noticed?” he asked between gritted teeth.

“Let’s hope not, babe. We should go, it’s going to start soon.”

It felt good to have the upper hand, he was a mess as he sat behind you in the building. You sat there amused next to your costar, chatting about the a-listers at the tables. Pedro sat there and listened to your every word, mind wandering back to the photos still saved on his phone. As he watched you, the strap of your dress slowly started to fall down your shoulder. He could only imagine ripping the whole thing off of you starting with that damned strap. Pinning you against the wall with his hand around your throat, leg in between your thighs and lips on your bare flesh. The man's legs spread a little wider, his erection rubbing against the fabric of his dress pants uncomfortably. He suddenly lunges forward and pulls up your strap, earning the attention of you and your costar. She didn’t notice the desperate look on his face but you did.

You turn around a little farther and watch him sit back in his seat, you put your hands on the back of the chair and rest your chin on your knuckles “Aww,” you pout, your eyes as wide like a doe’s “pobrecito,” you whine at him. Poor thing. Pedro took a deep breath and bit his lip, his eyebrows lowered in annoyance. He lowkey had a kink for you speaking Spanish to him.

You didn’t have that upper hand for long when Pedro got up on that stage to present, he pulled a trick out of his sleeve. It wasn’t much or too obvious, it was a wink. A wink in your direction in front of the acting elite and millions of viewers. Following that wink, he rubbed his upper thigh slowly with his fingers spread. Sure, it looked like he was smoothing out his pants, but it meant so much more. Your favorite thing to do was ride his thigh, it was the best way for him to pay attention to your and your sexual needs. You would gently ride him while he read a script, thinking nothing of it until he would throw said script to the side and grip your hips.

Fuck this guy. Fuck him. Fuck him for making you soaking wet in your seat, your clit dying to be touched by his fingers. You rose from your seat, knowing it was your turn to present after the commercial break. You rushed past the stagehands and lifted your skirt, dodging all the obstacles in your way. A woman on a mission you were. He noticed the clacking of your heels, his hands stuffed in his pockets as you made your way to him.

Pedro pulls out one of his hands and as you approached he puts in on your lower back, his hip bone purposely touching yours, making you stop walking “Oh pobrecita,” he growls in your ear, mocking your words from earlier. His fingers were trailing down your spine, sending a cold shiver throughout your body.

“Want to call it quits?” you ask him.

“But we’re having too much fun,” he chuckles, removing your hand from your back. Before you could protest you were whisked away on stage to present the next award. Keeping your thinning composure you came back to find your boyfriend leaning on the wall next to a supply closet. “You were excellent.”

You smirked and cocked your head to the side “Empty?” you ask, manicured finger pointed towards the door. His eyes look side to side before nodding slowly, you grin and made sure the coast was clear before being pulled inside.

Pedro grabbed you by the waist and hoisted you up on a nearly empty wood desk, pushing the extension cords to the ground so he could put his hands on either side of you. Once the door was locked you grabbed his lapel and pulled him in for a heated kiss. His strong hand wrapped in your Y/H/C hair and the other sliding up your leg. You instinctively pushed the silver jacket off him and let it fall to the floor, before you could mess with the buttons of his shirt Pedro forced your strap down and connected his lips with the soft skin of your breast. “Pedro,” you moan softly, moving your chest forward.

“You’re such a fucking tease,” he growls as his finger slips into your panties and onto your throbbing clit. You gasp and thrust your hips into his touch, gripping his shirt tightly.

“You started it,” you breathe, your head thrown back in pleasure. His fingers make swift circles, his knee forcing your legs to stay open.

“Where’s my good girl? Keep your legs open,” he commands, his lips sucking on your neck, nipping gently at the soft skin. You move your head and look down at him, fuck this was a sight to see. Pedro’s dark hair disheveled and his hand working its magic in between your legs. Your legs were nearly shaking, you take your hand and pull his hair, dethatching his teeth from your skin. His brown eyes looking up at you with such need, his soft lips turned up into a smirk.

“We don’t have long, please Pedro, I need more,” you beg him. He rolls his eyes playfully and slowly starts to sink to his knees, pulling your dress up higher with his free hand. As he starts to come closer to your core you hear PA’s and producers calling for you from outside the door. Pedro quickly moves and stands on his feet.

You jump down and start to readjust your dress in a panic “I look ok?” you whisper. He nods and hides behind the door so that no one would see him. You nod and pull open the door, your hands come up to your lear like you had lost your earring. “Sorry, I lost my earring. Tiffany would have a fit,” you laugh nervously.

The producer sighed in relief and pushed you towards the stage where you saw your costars and creator “We won?” you ask your friend. The woman looks at you and starts to laugh.

“Yeah and you got lucky,” she tells you and winks. You blush madly and look behind you into the wing. Pedro stands at the side clapping for you, his hair still disheveled and his shirt a wrinkled mess. Game over.

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal imagine #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal smut #the mandalorian #the mandalorian imagine #din djarin imagine #din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #din djarin smut

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meltwonu · 4 years

Text

s n a k e | e y e s [chapter 2]

pairing; snakehybrid!woozi x female!reader

this chapter’s notes; seokmin is a quokka hybrid in this and i know and if you dont know, quokkas actually spit out their food and eat it again but for the sake of seokmin not being gross in this, he doesn’t do that ok kjdhfks and also for those who dont know snakes smell by using their tongue so…. Very mild touching in this one( masturbation at the end hehe oops)!! I’ve also kinda changed some stuff around, not a big deal, but made it so it’d make more sense in this au!! hehe thank u for taking interest in snakehybrid!woozi 🥺💕

chapters; 1 - 2 - x - x - x

It’s a warm Sunday morning when Jihoon lugs his keyboard out into the sunroom. Mingyu’s already waiting there with the new hybrid at the adoption home, Seokmin. The smiley quokka-hybrid sleeps in the bedroom next to the snake hybrid and has a saccharine voice much like Jihoon himself. And despite Jihoon’s timid nature, he quite likes the company of the two younger hybrids.

“Hey Jihoon-hyung over here!”

There’s a clang when the keyboard accidentally taps the door frame to the sunroom and Jihoon has to pause to check for any scratches on the gift Seungcheol gave him.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, hold on. I need to plug it in.”

Jihoon shrugs off his jacket, tossing it into a corner while he goes to set up the keyboard by the other two lounging in the sun.

“I was wondering if we could try working on that song from last time, hyung?” Seokmin’s head tilts cutely to the side as he makes space for Jihoon on the floor. “Um, sure. I can try to remember how to play it.” Seokmin and Jihoon work together to craft a song while Mingyu watches in awe, scrambling to find the camera Seungcheol gave him so that he can snap some pictures of the two.

The three hybrids lounge in the sunroom for a few hours, basking in the warmth as they sing together, urging Mingyu to take part in it as well.

“You have a great singing voice, Mingyu! You should show it off sometimes too!!” The husky hybrid blushes, tail wagging furiously behind him. “Oh my god, shut up you’re embarrassing me!” Jihoon snickers as Seokmin and Mingyu really get into it, his fingers dancing delicately over the keys.

“Alright, time for lunch!”

The sudden voice breaks them out of their little tussle; eyes traveling to the figure standing in the doorway with a cart filled with food. “Seungcheol-hyung brought food!!” By nature, it’s Mingyu who gets up first, barreling into Seungcheol. He sheepishly apologizes, helping Seungcheol distribute the food between the three hybrids.

“Okay, I want you guys to enjoy your lunch because we have a special visitor afterwards! She’s actually a friend of mine and she’s kind of been wanting to adopt a hybrid so I asked her to come by. I know it’s really last minute but I figured she’d just come meet you guys. How’s that sound?”

“Yay, new people!” Seokmin replies cheerily with a mouth full of salad. Mingyu nods, he liked meeting new people, especially if they were friends of Seungcheol. Jihoon on the other hand feels his appetite leave him almost immediately. He hated it when people came to tour the adoption home. He knew the three of them weren’t the only occupants of Seungcheol’s adoption home but he still disliked the inevitable stares and questions he got.

“Um, yeah, that’d be...great.”

Jihoon tries to finish his food for the sake of not being hungry later but he can barely get it all down before Jeonghan pops his head into the room. “Hey ‘Cheol, your friend is here.” The two leave together, leaving the three hybrids alone once again.

“Hey, do you think hyung’s friend is gonna adopt anyone?” Seokmin stretches out onto the floor by the piano, Mingyu in tow. “Dunno, but hyung said that she was looking to adopt so maybe?” The two delve into mindless chatter as Jihoon sits alone with his thoughts. He was thankful most of the time that they didn’t have many visitors because all it brought him was unneeded stress.

There’s a knock on the door, Mingyu yelling “come in!” from his place on the floor before a female laugh can be heard, Seungcheol’s voice accompanying it.

“And these are the three muskateers. Come say hi, everyone!” They all get up from their positions, each of them introducing themselves to you as Jihoon lags behind. “This shy one is Jihoon, he’s a snake hybrid.” Jihoon’s lips press into a firm line as he stares off to the side; mildly uninterested and a little bit anxious.

“Oh, interesting, a snake hybrid!”

Jihoon mentally grimaces. Usually when people came hoping to adopt, there were two typical reactions they had towards him. The first one was confusion; mainly because Jihoon didn’t have any physical features that a snake hybrid normally had. The second one was usually fascination with him being a snake hybrid. Jihoon almost preferred the former because it usually meant he’d stay at the adoption home and wouldn’t have to do or change anything. The latter typically meant he’d potentially get adopted and whoever his owner was would find out he was too much maintenance for a hybrid that didn’t even look like one.

“If you don’t mind, do you think we can have a little chat together?” Your voice breaks him out of his thoughts as he finally looks you in the eye for the first time since you’d walked in. He’s hesitant, shooting Seungcheol a quick glance. “Um, Jihoon’s a little shy…”

“Oh, that’s okay then! I completely unders---”

“It’s fine. We can… talk.”

Jihoon’s palms feel clammy and his throat feels dry when Seungcheol escorts the other two hybrids out of the sunroom so that you can talk to him properly. The air feels awkward and somewhat tense when he turns his back towards you; settling down in front of the keyboard still placed on the floor.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to come off as harsh but what do you want? I’m sure Seungcheol told you about me or my history so...” You twiddle your thumbs, walking over to the windowsill to lean up against it as you watch him run his fingers along the keys.

“What do you mean?”

“You probably have a ton of questions right? Why don’t I have any hybrid features? Why do I look like a normal human? Do I have any weird appendages? How many times people have returned me here?” The room is quiet; only the sounds of the birds outside chirping filling in the awkward air.

“Not really. I didn’t come here looking to adopt a hybrid for the sake of their appearance or their rarity, I guess. I just… I don’t know, I guess I wanted a companion. I work at home a lot since I’m a writer and it gets lonely. Thought someone could keep me company. Or maybe someone wanted company.” Jihoon lets your words sink in, his fingers trembling as he presses down on a random key.

“Oh.”

A few days passed since meeting Jihoon and he had carefully agreed to you adopting him. The two of you had talked a little bit longer; Jihoon feeling more at ease with you than most of the people he’d met in the past. Seokmin had been sad that his new friend was leaving and Mingyu had been wary about the entire thing. But Jihoon had soothed them both; telling them that they’d probably see him soon anyway.

Seungcheol drives him to your apartment, Jihoon’s things in boxes in the trunk as he sits nervously in the front seat.

“Jihoon, I know you’re… this is a lot. It’s okay to feel anxious and nervous and.. I mean with everything in the past, I--”

“I know. You don’t have to feel sorry for me. It feels bad. Just… don’t be surprised when you see me back at the adoption place in like a week, okay?” He chuckles sadly, eyes focused on the scenery outside the window. Seungcheol sighs, hands gripping the wheel.

There’s three knocks on the door before you’re rushing to open it, vacuum still buzzing in the background as you all but rip the door open.

“Hey!” You shoot both the males a smile, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Sorry I was in the middle of cleaning but come in!” You give them space to enter, Jihoon toeing off his shoes and setting them by yours at the entrance as he balances his prized keyboard in his arms. Seungcheol sets one of the boxes of Jihoon’s things down on the dinner table, wiping the sweat off his brow.

“Sadly the elevator was broken so we had to take the stairs. Who would’ve thought carrying one box of things up the stairs would be the death of me. Can I have some water?” Jihoon snorts, taking in the features of his new home as he sets the keyboard down by the sofa.

“‘Cheol, you’ve got the stamina of a 90 year old man.”

“Hey, it’s not easy being old okay!” You pass him a glass of water, trapezing around the vacuum cord to turn it off. “I wanted to be done cleaning up before you got here, Jihoon. Sorry, I’m a little slow, I’m used to it just being me here and just living in my filth I guess.” He shrugs, “S’okay, Mingyu usually leaves a mess around the place anyway. Guess you can say I’m used to living in filth.” Seungcheol sputters, wiping the water off of his chin. You can’t help but laugh, patting Seungcheol on the shoulder as you gesture Jihoon further into your place.

“Let me show you around!”

Seungcheol decides to get more of Jihoon’s stuff out of his car as Jihoon walks behind you cautiously down the hallway, only stopping when you get to the door at the end of the hall. “Um, This place has three bedrooms and mine is on the opposite side but I wasn’t sure if you’d want the room that was next to mine or if you wanted space? I’m using the other room as a workspace right now, so you can put your stuff in here for now while you get used to the place… And then if you change your mind, we can switch some stuff around!” Giving him a small smile, you tug the door open, letting him enter first and for once, Jihoon is shocked. The room is much larger than any room he’s ever had and he takes notice of all the fancy heaters and humidifiers already placed around the room.

“Wow…”

“Sorry, is it, like, too much? ‘Cheol said you had some heaters and stuff in your old room but I thought I’d get you some new ones… Kind of like a housewarming gift?”

“This is… nice. It’s, um, very kind of you.” He can feel a soft blush wash over his skin as he tugs his sleeves down over his hands. “I… like it a lot. Thank you.”

When Seungcheol finally leaves after bringing up all of Jihoon’s things, it’s finally time for the two of you to settle in.

Jihoon’s safety net is gone and the reality of being in a new space has his anxiety spiking back up tenfold. “Hey, Jihoon?”

“Huh?”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you or anything but I thought we’d order out for dinner if that’s okay? I’d usually cook but I think we’ve both had a long day. What do you think?”

“O-okay…” You can basically feel the nervousness radiating off of him as he awkwardly stands in the middle of the living room. “Jihoon, do you want to, um, I mean, you don’t have to stay out here if you don’t want to? You’re free to roam around if you’d like.” He shuffles closer to the sofa, biting his lip as he stares out the window.

“It’s… okay, I should m-maybe, um, spend some time with you? If that’s okay?” By now, his past owners would send him off to his shoebox of a room, only calling him out when it was necessary. Usually, he’d immediately plug in his keyboard by now, tuning out everything until he was just focused on composing something until he was needed.

Instead, he inches closer to the sofa, sitting down on the plush material as you put the last bit of cleaning supplies away and plop down onto the other side. “Hey, Jihoon? Can I be honest with you for a second?” He turns to you, nodding curiously. “I’m gonna be real, I did some research on snake hybrids but I couldn’t find much… I’m kind of inexperienced with the whole hybrid thing and even more uneducated when it comes to snake hybrids so… is there anything I should know? Like, snakes smell with their tongue, right? So, is it the same for you? Sorry if that’s offensive or something!” You watch the blonde haired male lick his lips, his leg bouncing slightly.

“Um, technically that’s correct. But snake hybrids still can use their human noses, it’s just… more intense when we use our tongues. Uh…” A blush settles on his cheeks, his mind no doubt going in a different direction than he intended. “Just, yeah, m-more intense, that’s all. Some foods might be more off-putting for us because of that. And, to be fair, I don’t… have many features that most snake hybrids have anyway. It’s just my surroundings and I guess some of my mannerisms? I basically exist normally other than that.”

You nod appreciatively; glad that Jihoon was willing to open up to you, even if it was only a little at a time. It would take a lot of getting used to on your part and his, but he seemed okay for now, albeit still timid. “I just want you to know that even though I adopted you as a hybrid, I don’t want you to think that I think less of you. I think of us as equals!” You turn to him smiling; ecstatic when he turns to face you as well.

“You have the freedom to do whatever you want here as long as it’s not destroying stuff, I guess. And if you need anything, you’re more than welcome to ask me! I’m home a lot since I’m a writer but I do have to pop into my editor’s office every now and then. But if you want to go out and eat or… um, I dunno, maybe go for a walk in the park? I’m always down to go!” Now it’s your turn to blush as he watches you, his fingers interlocked in his lap as he sits there quietly processing what you’ve said.

“I… thank you, you’re a lot kinder than any of my previous owners.”

Jihoon is on cloud nine when you tell him that he can pick what dinner he wants to have, eyes scanning over all the options on the food delivery app on your phone.

“I mean, as long as you don’t run up a $100 bill on food, you can pick whatever you want!” He chuckles quietly, clicking on various items and adding it to the cart. “Thank you for letting me pick dinner.”

“Yeah, it’s no problem! It’s your first night here, I want you to feel comfortable. This also reminds me that I need to get you a phone, just in case and also so you don’t get bored.”

The pretty flush doesn’t leave Jihoon’s face the rest of the night, even as the two of you sit at the dinner table eating the fried chicken and soda combination Jihoon picked out. The cute snake hybrid apparently had an obsession with the sweet drink, downing cups of it as you took mental notes to buy some for him later. And for the first time, you see him genuinely smile as he eats, cute lips curving up as he polishes off the rest of the food.

A crumb sits at the corner of his lips, and by instinct you lean over, thumb already next to his mouth before you can even stop yourself. There’s a pause, Jihoon’s eyes wide as you swipe at the crumb, ready to settle back into your seat when Jihoon’s hand comes up, wrapping around your wrist and holding you there.

“I, oops, I should’ve just told you there was a crumb! Sorry!”

You laugh awkwardly, hoping he doesn’t accidentally snap your wrist because you just invaded his personal space. Instead, you watch as he brings your hand closer to his mouth, pink tongue peeking out as he swipes at your thumb. You try to not question it, convincing yourself it might just be a snake thing, so you let him do whatever it is he’s doing as he begins to nose at your palm. It feels ticklish; your hand wanting to close at the feeling, but you can’t deny the way your body heats up on instinct, the innocent gesture riling up your thoughts about the snake hybrid for some reason. There was no denying how handsome he was; blonde hair falling into his sharp eyes and a lean but slightly muscular form.

Trying to shake off your thoughts, your eyes flit to the hand currently wrapped around your wrist and you can’t help but admire how delicate and pretty his hands were. Again, your mind conjures up situations that you probably shouldn’t be thinking about right now and you really hope Jihoon can’t tell.

When he decides he’s done, he lets go of your wrist, quietly taking a sip of his drink before setting it down on the tabletop again. “Um, sorry. I don’t… I just wanted to, um, s-smell you? I guess, um, snake thing, probably. Just wanted to get to know my, uh, owner.” You nod at his explanation, settling back into your seat as you try to push out all the inappropriate thoughts you just had.

“You’re very warm.”

That night when you split off for bed, you wish him a good night's rest; making sure the snake hybrid has everything he needs before you make a beeline for your bedroom, hastily locking the door behind you as you get ready for bed. There really was no denying how attractive Jihoon was, but damn, he had literally just moved in today and your mind and heart were already racing. You try to think of everything but Jihoon when you slip under your covers for bed and hope that you can get a good night’s rest yourself.

But you feel bad. Really really bad. You’re almost certain satan has a special seat in hell for people like you.

But you can’t help the way your hands roam all over your body as you lay under the bed sheets, fingers deep inside your pussy as you imagine them to be Jihoon’s instead. It was questionably an innocent gesture earlier, but your mind can’t help but conjure images of his tongue all over your skin and his delicate fingers fucking you nice and hard. The contrast of his colder skin on your warm skin has your toes curling imagining him playing with your nipples and wrapped around your throat. Damn, you think, I really need to get laid soon or this’ll get bad.

You’re almost certain your lip is bleeding from how hard you’re trying to keep your moans in when you cum around your fingers; the image of a particular snake hybrid dancing behind your eyelids even when the bliss starts to ebb away.

Muttering curses underneath your breath, you get up, wiping your wet fingers onto your shirt as you tug it off and throw it into the hamper, sliding off your wet panties and chucking them in as well. Sighing, you really hope Jihoon’s sense of smell isn’t as strong as other hybrids as you step into your closet to get a change of clothes.

Realization hits you like a brick when the back of your head slams against the pillow once you lay back down.

This was going to be harder than you expected.

#woozi smut #seventeen smut #svt smut #seventeen scenarios #seventeen imagines #svt imagines #svt scenarios #snakehybrid!woozi #woozi scenarios #woozi imagines

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