#well . whatever i drew it on the plane
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It's not NOT confirmed (?)
Bonus:
#trolls#trolls 3#trolls band together#dreamworks trolls#floyd trolls#floyd#trolls floyd#john dory#trolls john dory#brozone#before anyone says anything. we literally know bruce was hitting it raw JDFJJWKDKVNEJDKVJEJFJVJENE#i may delete that tag later#clay trolls#trolls clay#branch trolls#trolls branch#bruce trolls#trolls bruce#HE LOOKS SO WACK IN THAT DRAWING AUGH#well . whatever i drew it on the plane
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Which Witch
Part 2 of 2 / Faerie masterlist
Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish/witch!reader
13.3k words - AO3 - Part 1
Warnings-tags: 18+ Minors DNI. Explicit sex. Fae!AU. Blood magic. Faerie magic. Angst. Tenderness. Comfort. Pining. Sex magic. Praise kink, light breeding kink. Magical dubious consent. Possessive Johnny, Protective Johnny.
"I'm not beat up by this yet, you can't tell me to regret,
Been in the dark since the day we met,
Fire, help me to forget." - F + TM
Johnny has never experienced a headache before.
The feeling is surprisingly uncomfortable, and has been blooming behind his eyes since the other day, when you advanced on him outside the pub in the mortal realm, when you caught him off guard with your fury, your heartbreak.
He tries not to think about that part, too much.
Tries not to think about the torment he saw in your eyes.
Tries not to think about his plans, laid to waste, to ruin. A dream, crumbled into a nightmare.
He tries not to think about the ache that’s settled beneath his ribs since the second you snatched your hand from his grasp and stomped away, the pressure of your magic making the stitching of the mortal realm feel too thin, too fragile.
He tries not to think about the extra weight of something that’s been added to him, nestled there in his side, the heavy feel of a magic that feels not unfamiliar, but alien at the same time.
“Bloody hell.” Gaz whispered. “No wonder ‘uve been keepin’ her a secret.” He whistled, low and sharp, as they watched you cross the street and slowly disappear from view, red and purple magic angrily arcing off from your body and tainting the air with a tart, burnt aftertaste.
You were the only being on the street, besides them. All the mortals had gone off, pushed by you, sent scurrying by your power. “That’s one powerful little wi-“
“That’s enough.” Johnny snarled in his face, the ferocity, intensity of his tone, the words spat at his own brother surprising them both, signaling Kyle to step back, out of precaution, with a gentle hand raised. Johnny panted harshly, while his magic thrashed inside of him, desperate to get out, wild and nearly out of control, fully brimming with the chaos that he knows so well.
It yearned for something, desperately.
“Easy, Soap.” Price had been on them then, appearing from where he had been inside the bar, inserting himself between their two bodies, like he needed to protect Kyle, a ridiculous sentiment by any of their standards.
“Sorry.” Johnny drew the word long, shaking his head from the pressure beating inside his skull. “’m sorry, Gaz. I dinnae- I-”
“It’s alright mate.” He assured, reaching out, clasping a hand on Johnny’s shoulder. It was warm, and comforting, and he nodded in response.
“I think you should probably get home. You’ve been here… too long.” Price follows up, and Johnny couldn’t argue. He felt drained, suddenly. Tired. A feeling that happens for them, from time to time. Especially when they’ve been in the mortal realm for an extended period.
“Alright.”
He thinks this discomfort, this ailment, whatever it may be, will pass, once he’s been home for more than a few days. He imagines it’s just a side effect of being in the mortal realm too long, and he can practically hear Price telling him he needs to stay put, stay in Faerie for a while, or at least until his magic settles and his body adjusts to its rightful plane.
After all… his kind doesn’t take sick. They can suffer magical ailments, wounds from weapons or other Fae, but to fall ill is incredibly rare.
And usually only happens to those of them who are incredibly stupid.
Still, the headache rots and spreads throughout his brain, festering in his magic until it becomes an unruly, ungovernable thing that barely recognizes him, and his muscles become excruciatingly sore, useless in his body when he tries to exert himself in any way.
The Isle itself seems restless, the sea raging tumultuously beneath the bluffs, the forests shielding themselves from the light of the sun. Johnny can feel her magic, biting and gnawing against him, yearning and screaming, the wind whistling through the oldest trees with a shriek that hurts his ears.
All the while, something else aches within him. An unbearable longing that builds and builds like a dark grey cloud growing heavy with rain.
“It’s your soul.” The Nereid, Ce, tells him softly. “You’re soul sick.”
“What?”
“Someone has bound themselves to you. Your soul, your magic, is woven together. When you’re separated, your soul will mourn for theirs.” The image of you pointing at him flashes through his mind, your gaze enraged, haunted, while you cursed him up and down.
Surely, you did not mean for this?
Simon watches him knowingly, before pulling her into his arms, rubbing his hand over the swell of her belly where their child sleeps, blissfully unaware.
“Do you know, who it could be?” She questions, and he grimaces, eyes flicking to Simon who betrays nothing, only gives him a subtle nod.
“A… witch. From the mortal realm.” She stiffens in Simon’s lap, and then shakes her head in disbelief.
“A mortal witch could not cast a binding such as this, nor survive it.”
“Well, ah… dinnae believe she’s entirely mortal.” She turns, looking between them, before glaring openly at her husband.
“The only immortal witches who still live in the mortal realm are the elemental witches…” she trails off, looking out the window to where the sea crashes on the shore, something distant flickering in her gaze, realization settling heavily upon her. “What have you done?”
“You were my priority.” Simon utters, face shuttering, eyes going grim. Johnny shifts nervously in the chair. Ce is sharp, intelligent, and it doesn’t take too long before she’s whispering her confirmation of the truth.
“The song. She’s a blood witch.” He nods, unable to break the eye contact. Simon holds her hip firmly, but she doesn’t look away from Johnny, and before he even realizes, he’s spilling more secrets.
“Blood spinner.” Her eyes widen, and then rips Simon’s hand free from her body, standing unsteadily on her two legs. Her balance has gotten better in her time here, but she still struggles with managing her new walking appendages, something that always keeps Simon hovering near by, just in case he needs to catch her.
“You must find her.” She implores Johnny, while turning on her heel to poke a finger into Simon’s chest. “You’ve no idea what you’ve done.”
“Little huntress-“ He begins, but is swiftly cut off.
“No. Do not use your sweet words to try to placate me.” She turns her nose up from him, while facing Johnny. “You must, she’s in danger. Blood witches aren’t meant to be bound to others. The effects could be catastrophic, the binding could kill her.” His heart speeds to a halt. The binding could kill you.
The feeling Johnny had a few days ago outside the pub compounds inside of him, the yearning infused with his chaos, the wild piece of his magic surging in his blood, eager to be set loose. He closes his eyes and reaches inside himself to settle his power, to soothe the uncontrolled pieces that are climbing closer to the top.
When he looks back to them, he realizes Simon is standing more than a few paces away, Ce shielded behind his body.
“It’s the binding! It can drive you mad, control your magic if you're separated too long.” She calls from around his shoulder, trying to peek out even though there is a formidable mass blocking her.
“Perhaps she planned this, Johnny.” Simon proposes, a sentiment that Johnny balks at. Were you capable of such a thing? His wife shakes her head reverently, and mouths a no.
Danger.
Catastrophic.
When he thinks about the way you looked when you thrust your finger into his face, fiery and full of rage, he realizes it’s much, much more than what he thinks he knows, or what he believes.
You tricked me, you Fae bastard.
Had you tricked him in return?
The lock on your flat’s front door is not complex. It’s not even spelled for intruders, or unwanted guests, something that’s always sat uneasily within Johnny, even when he was taking full advantage of it. His magic knows this lock well, is intimately familiar with it, and plies the deadbolt free with ease, door swinging wide like it’s been expecting him, just like every other time before.
You tossed in your sleep, brow furrowed, distress written across your face as you shook your head back and forth, trapped in your own dreams, your memories, your nightmares.
Your body, still battered and bruised, slowly healing from whatever had happened to you on Samhain, trembled beneath the sheets, and you made small, terrified mouth sounds against your pillow.
“You’re safe now, dove, you’re safe.” He stroked a thumb across your temple, down the apple of your cheek, whispering to you softly, sweetly. His own magic worked quickly, dragging you under, lulling you into a deep sleep, a near coma. He had hoped it would be enough, to keep you from waking while he worked, while he healed you from whatever ordeal you had been put through, whatever torture you had been subjected to.
He built you the sweetest dreams he could conjure, images of his own realm, lush forests and sparkling aquamarine seas, the moss-covered stone bluffs of the Isle, the three moons when they’re full, the sparkle of the night sky, webs of worlds and starlight stretching out as far as any being could see.
He had tried, so desperately, to burn the image of you from the previous night out of his mind, when you first answered his knocking with your broken soul and tearful eyes, abused body halfway hidden by the door.
What happened to you? Who could mistreat you in such a way?
He hadn’t known then, but he wanted to, urgently. Wanted you to tell him everything, wanted you to make him your tool, your harbinger of revenge. He wanted to kill for you, destroy for you, burn this entire realm for you. He wanted to lay all his promises at your feet, wanted to tell you that no one would ever touch you again, that no one would ever harm you if he was here.
He cursed himself. Cursed the truth. Cursed the spell that you put him under, the one that didn’t even exist.
He had gotten so lost in thought, lost in staring down at your now relaxed face, that he almost didn’t realize the sun was rising, the soft rays of light seeping across your room from under the curtain startling him into withdrawing his magic so he could allow you to wake and return with a coffee, maybe a pastry, some sort of breakfast sweet that mortals seemed to be overly fond of.
He leaned over you for a quick moment, unable to help himself, breathing in the scent of your hair, your skin, your very soul. It intoxicated him, the sweet citrus and balsam mixing with the minerality of blood, of earth, creating something that seeped through his own being, pulling him closer and closer until he grazed his lips across your temple so gently, he’s not sure he’s even made contact.
“I’ll be back soon.” He whispered above your ear, even though he knew you couldn’t hear him. “Have a good morning, sweet Fern.”
“Fern.” He calls, before stepping across the threshold, but there’s no answer. There’s no sound or sign of movement, no echo of your voice down the hall. “Fern!” He tries again. His blood feels hot under his skin, and he’s nearly feverish, off balance and unsteady, while the spot beneath his ribs throbs in pain.
He expects to see Jet, or hear her hiss, considering how much the little creature loathes him, but when there’s no sign of her either, something prickles along the back of his neck.
“Do not hide from me, little witch. I know what’s happened.” He calls, raising his voice, projecting it with a touch of magic so it rings down the hall, through every room, into your personal library, and beyond.
When there’s still no answer, his sense of discomfort grows, and like there is a hook in him, in his very soul, he can feel his magic being tugged along, down the hall to your bedroom.
When pushes the door open, his heart slams to a halt. Fear is the foreign sensation that pours through him, paralyzes him. It’s fear that anesthetizes him as he stares at you, crumpled on the floor, surrounded by books, ancient grimoires and other texts, your magic drained from your body like someone has bled you dry, eyes wide in agony and a rasping breath on your lips. The room smells like mineral, like clay rich soil, like earth, and he chokes on it when he realizes the stain that darkens the carpet beneath you is your blood.
“Oh, little witch.” He murmurs, kneeling by your side, wide palm slipping behind your neck gently. “What have ye done?” He tucks you into his chest, and you mumble something as he carries you to your bed, trying to lay you flat, propping your face up so he can look into your eyes.
“N-no.” you push against him weakly.
“Shhh, Fern. It’s okay.”
“Don’t.” you hiss, and blood leaks from your lips. His magic thrashes, barely contained, bubbling up and trying to break free.
“Tell me what to do.” He pleads, desperation rising in him like the swell of high tide, threatening to tip him over into fathomless depths, places where he cannot swim, or survive.
“Lea… leave.” You moan, and he shakes his head. “Leave. I don’t… I don’t need your ‘elp.”
“No.” He refuses, cradling your face between his hands, and you blink at him slowly, eyelids heavy, expression disorientated. Long seconds pass and you look… confused suddenly, like you don’t recognize him, like all the vitriol and venom that you were spitting a moment ago has suddenly disappeared, and he feels a surge of your magic, the snapping of something, the binding, twisting, and tugging at the two of you.
“Johnny?” You mumble, and a smile breaks across his face, a small one, an encouraging one, something he hopes brings you comfort.
“Aye. It’s me, dove. It’s me. ’m here.” You tremble in his grasp, and more blood drips from your mouth. The sight of it is enough to loosen the hold on his power, and the room floods with bright light, illuminating every corner in the flat, and every detail on your face.
You need help. You need help, now. Badly.
He’s never wanted to have your name as frantically as he does in this moment. He wants to force you to tell him what to do, how to fix whatever this is, he wants to reach inside your magic and your mind and root around in your soul until he can pull the answer free from your lips.
A terrible thought forms in his mind. It’s wrong, and one he is sure you will hate him for, one he knows you will punish him for.
If you live.
Danger. Catastrophic.
Blood witches aren’t meant to be bound to others.
The binding could kill her.
Ce’s warning plays over and over in his mind, and when you cough again, blood splattering on his forearm, his magic makes his mind up for him, spreading forward to try to soothe you, cocooning you in a soft, twilight embrace that tries to lull you to sleep.
He pulls you back into his arms, tucking you against his body and concentrating his power on the thrum of your heartbeat, the power in your veins. He needs to blink the two of you to the closest door, and the only one that’s remotely doable is in Sherwood Forest, nestled among a ring of birch trees that all lean suspiciously inward.
“Fern.” He tries to get your eyes to focus on him, jostling you slightly as he strides away from your room. “Fern, I need… I have to take ye away.” Your brow furrows, and somewhere in the very back of his mind, he remembers how cute you are when you look at him like this, when you’re well, and not suffering.
He comes to halt in the kitchen, where Jet sits on her haunches atop the table, watching him with her head cocked.
“She’s dying.” He explains to her, and Jet scowls before she answers him, disdain dripping from her words.
“Because of you.”
“What happened?”
“The binding was an accident. She lost control.”
“She needs help. Is there anyone?”
“Not here… she’s been shunned. Thanks to you.” She glares at him, and he shoves down his urge to scream. Jet slinks towards him, eyes wise and wandering, sizing him before she sits down next to where he’s got you hovering above the table in his grip. “You’ll have to take her.”
“I cannae. I need her name.” She flicks her gaze to you before hopping from the table, walking to where the door creaks open on its own.
“You need to get it on your own.”
“She’s dying, Jet.”
“I know you won’t let that happen. After all, this was your plan, was it not?” She says before slipping outside, into the night.
You shiver against him, and he tightens his arms around you instinctively, lowering his nose into your hair, trying to find the sweet balsam and citrus scent under the sour smell of scorched earth and black blood. It’s there, but barely. There’s hope.
“Little witch.” He taps your cheek, trying to get you to concentrate on him, to look at him. “Fern, will you give me your name?” He coos sweetly, sugaring his voice with honey, dropping his glamour to pull your focus. It’s wrong, he knows this, so wrong, a true violation, but what choice does he have?
He won’t leave you to die.
You lick your lips, and he smiles, fully aware that he’s probably partially blinding you, scrambling the signals in your magic and mind, his own power pulling desperately at the binding to get you to comply.
Come on, sweet Fern.
Give me your name, dove.
He grips your hand, twisting your wrist until your palm is facing him, and for the first time without his glamour, he lets himself kiss you there, right on the heel below your thumb, dabbing his magic into the veins that vibrate just beneath your skin. He pushes, and then for good measure, pushes again, until your lips are cracking on an intake of breath, and your free hand is reaching for his, bloodied fingers smearing your ichor across his skin as you slowly speak, mouth forming the one thing he’s needed all along, the thing he’s wanted more than anything since the day he’s met you.
Your name. Given to him. By you.
It sinks into him, heating his own blood with the power of your admission, pulsing through his magic until it’s settling in that spot behind his ribs, the same spot that’s been aching since the last time he saw you, the place where the binding is nestled.
“Okay.” He coos, and then repeats your name, while you nod. “Okay, hold on to me.” He whispers, and then pulls everything in the flat tight, all the magic that’s spilled from your body, all the magic that he’s let run wild since he got here. He moves himself, and you, into the blink, and then the ground shifts, room tilting and splitting until the walls are fading into trees, the tile of your kitchen becoming grass under his feet, and your ceiling is a night sky. You squeeze your eyes shut and bury your face in his chest, and he knows it’s because the blink is uncomfortable, disorientating for those who are not Fae. Lesser creatures usually don’t even survive it.
But you are no lesser creature.
This fact, this truth, is the thing he takes comfort in as he barrels towards the door, his magic breaking through the threshold and crashing through the planes until he’s stumbling into Faerie with a blood covered witch curled against his chest.
“Are ye hungry?” Eilean asks from the threshold of the room, not willing to cross inside, but eager to see if she can help at all.
“No.”
“Should I bring some wine?” She tries, voice dipped in hopeful inflection. He rubs a palm over his face in part exasperation, part exhaustion.
“Please. Wine would be lovely, thank ye Eilean.” He placates her, and he doesn’t need to turn to know she’s smiling with approval.
He wouldn’t turn, regardless. He doesn’t dare look away from where you lay against the pillows in a bed that seems far too big. Where you lay, alone. Sleeping. Unconscious now, for far too many days. You’re weak, so weak, from travelling here, from trying to exist in this realm, a realm that you were not made for, a realm that no one seems to know if you can even persist in.
The Isle cradles you, fosters your survival. She holds you firm, holds you as he would, a casket of stone and sea weaving around your body, protecting you from anything. Everything.
Sometimes he fears she may be protecting you from him.
The waves crash against the rocks far below where he sits and you lay, sea ravaging against the rock, water pounding against stone over and over, the repetition enough to carve out caves and patterns in the walls, to change the physical manifestation of the Isle, to alter the very ground he lives on, walks on. The ground that he had hoped, one day, you may walk on with him. Beside him. The place he had hoped you might embrace with all her horror and secrets, that you might accept as a place of your own.
His hope fades with every breath you draw. It flickers like a flame being doused out.
Every now and then, you fidget beneath the blankets, body shivering and shaking, subdued whimpers escaping your lips as you twitch. He fears the binding may not need to drive him mad, because watching you suffer, watching you sleep endlessly, may do it regardless, in the end.
However, the bleeding has stopped, a small thing that Johnny is immensely grateful for, even though no one knows why.
“She needs time.” The healer tried to tell him, their effervescent magic embracing you in a halo while they worked to stop the blood that had started leaking from your eyes and nose, as well as your mouth. “Her magic is overloaded by the binding. The best thing you can do for her is stay close by. She will wake on her own time.”
“Her temperature-“
“We do not know. There are some things at work here, even we do not understand.” They explained, sympathy pooling across their face.
They wished him well after that, instructing him to call for them should they be needed further.
He didn’t know how to ask them to stay. He didn’t know how to tell them that for the first time in his eternally too long life, he was truly scared.
“How is she?” This voice, this one that calls to him from the threshold, speaking to him in his mind, startles him in the armchair, even though he knows it belongs to his brother. He turns to see Gaz, who watches him through lowered lashes. He’s keeping his distance, as every other being has, unsure about how Johnny will react with another coming so close to his… witch. “Price says ya’ve been holed up in here for days. Thought I’d come check, see if anything was needed.”
“Come in.” Johnny implores, out loud, and Gaz does, hesitantly, watching his brother for any changes, any indication he may lose control. Once he gets about two meters away, Johnny holds his hand up, a signal to stop, and Gaz conjures a chair, brimming at the seams with sun kissed light, a neat trick that benefits him when he plops down in it, like he too, is exhausted and weary.
“Well?”
“She’s… ‘m not sure. She still hasn’t woken, and her temperature, her body is hot to the touch. Too hot. But she’s stopped bleeding, which I take as a good thing.” He hasn’t left your side, constantly feeding the binding his own magic in hopes it would help give you some strength or help heal you.
“She’ll be alright.” Kyle encourages lowly, smiling at him. “She has you to look out for her, after all.” Johnny nods, even if he doesn’t believe it.
“Thank ye, for comin’.” He whispers, clearing his throat.
“We’re family, Johnny. Even when you run away to this damn Isle with a blood witch that you’ve stolen from the mortal realm.” He laughs with a wink, and Johnny’s lips curl into a very subtle grin.
“Not much better than Simon, am I?”
“Well, you didn’t drag us all around the mortal realm for nearly a decade so, that’s something.” He sighs, leaning back, slinging his feet over the arm of the chair. “Besides. I’m not exactly exempt either now.” Johnny nods, and he watches the flicker of discontent that washes over his brother, the way his magic pulses through him and the chair before returning to stasis.
Now, it’s his turn to ask.
“How is she?” Gaz shakes his head.
“Violent.” The word gives Johnny pause, and he feels his sympathy grow. His brother is the gentlest of them, the most kind. The one who others seek out, for comfort, for care. The one who wields the sun’s light itself. “Won’t let me near ‘er. Won’t eat. Won’t open the door, only yells at me through it. Hardly even speaks to her sister.” He pauses, pinching the bridge of his nose with graceful fingers. “She wants me to let her die.”
“And will ye?” He doesn’t respond right away, and they both just watch where you lay in the bed, silent.
“Don’t think I can. I feel… something for her. It’s different, from anything I’ve felt before. It’s-“
“Frightening.” Johnny finishes for him, and some tension leaks from his body. It is unlike them both, to feel fear. To feel fear and acknowledge it.
You twitch, eyes moving behind closed lids, and Gaz gives him a nod as he rises.
“See you soon?”
“Aye.”
It’s late, two days later, when you start to wake. Your temperature has gone down, and you’ve finally slept peacefully through an entire night. The moons have already risen, and Johnny has the drapes tucked open, so the room is illuminated in a silvery purple glow that shimmers across the floor and onto the bed. Your lashes flutter, and he feels the influx of magic in the room, ebbing and flowing, growing stronger and stronger, spilling from you as you swim closer and closer to consciousness, your eyes slowly opening, brow furrowed, discontent pulling your lips downwards in a frown. The wild yearning cries out inside of him, chaos beating in his heart, and he struggles to contain it.
“What’s…” your voice trails off as you look around, and Johnny waits for the moment when you find him in the chair by your bedside.
It happens fast. Your expression goes from confused, maybe a little contrite, but still curious, to rage filled, and startled. Fear reflects in your gaze, and his stomach drops.
“Fern.” He tries to calm you, and you hold your hand in front of your body like you’re trying to ward him off.
“Stay away from me.” You hiss. You try to sit up, try to move away from him, but your body is too weak, physically, and you sink down to your elbows in a second while you press yourself against the headboard. “What did you do to me? Where am I?” He stands, casting a little bit of magic out, trying to relax you, but you beat him back with your own before you’re yelling as loud as you can. “Help! Help! HELP ME!” you scream, voice drenched in horror, and a piece of his heart chips away in an instant.
You’re terrified of him.
There’s a noise, behind him, like a soft chiming of bells, and then he feels the shadow of Eilean’s magic, her presence unmistakable. He holds a hand out to stop her in the doorway, and you gasp aloud, palm covering your mouth, eyes round with shock when you see her.
“Oh. My gods.” You look from her, back to him, and then around the room, tracking out the window to where the three moons glow, bathing the sea below in silky shades of lilac, before you try even harder to shuffle yourself away from the edge of the bed, your hands fully shaking. “You stole me.” You whisper it between your fingers. “You took me. We’re… we’re in Faerie.” Tears are coursing down your cheeks, breaths coming in frantic little puffs that grate at his soul, the spot beneath his ribs aching as you cry.
“I thought… ah thought I was goin’ lose ye.” He croaks. “I dinnae- I had no other choice.” You’re breathing too fast, too short, and he wants to tear at the unfathomable distance between you and him that seems to be widening by the moment.
“Get away from me.” You half yell, half cry at him, tone dripping in disdain, in fear. “Get away!” you scream, and the demand physically pains him, like you’re ripping him apart, like you’re taking a knife and jamming it up underneath his ribs, hollowing him out, destroying him from the inside.
He stumbles from the room, clutching his side like he’s been wounded, and your magic lashes forward to slam the door shut behind his back with a finality that hits like a killing blow.
“Well, she’s scared. And rightfully so.” Ce says with a hand on her hip, leveling Johnny with a look that he can feel burning through his skin. “I managed to get her to listen to me long enough so I could… explain everything.” He straightens.
“What did you tell her?”
“The truth.” She sighs, and shifts her weight, reaching for where Simon stands. He takes her outstretched hand and brings her into his body, wrapping her up with a supportive arm around her waist. Johnny eyes the doors of the bedroom, clearly overeager, and she shakes her head immediately. “She doesn’t want to see you.”
“But-“
“She’s traumatized. She was used by you, betrayed by you. And then you kidnapped her from the only home she’s ever known.” At that, she gives Simon a healthy glare, and he has the good sense to look at least, somewhat ashamed. “It gets worse, I’m afraid.” Simon watches closely, and Ce looks at Johnny with a face full of sadness. “The binding… she may not be able to undo it.”
“What?”
“It is powerful magic. Magic that she did not intend to cast. It came… from the heart.” Johnny lets his eyes slip shut at her words, jaw clenching tight. “You need to prepare for what is to come, if she cannot reverse it.” She ghosts a hand over her belly and implores him with a meaningful look, one that cannot be understated or misunderstood.
The magic that feels like you, the fibers that he believes are the binding, seem to flex within his power, like it’s being pulled, and he involuntarily takes a step towards the door.
“Soap.” Simon beseeches, and Johnny stops short. “You must give her some space for now.”
They’re right. He knows, they’re right. He’s violated you, forced your name from you, stole you from your home, betrayed you in every way.
But the binding, the burning ache in his side, cries out to him. Begs him to go to you. Begs him to take you into his arms, complete the binding right then and there, and steal you away forever.
He grits his teeth.
“Alright.”
Days pass, and Johnny fights himself every step of the way. He fights his magic, which has grown unruly and uncomfortable again, fights the gaping hole that seems to be forming in that spot behind his ribs, fights what he is sure now is the binding, the incessant pull that tries to drag him into your orbit. He fights how he feels, the deep-laid emotions that he’s spent months trying to bury, and the feelings of discontent, of missing something. Someone.
The estate is heavy with your ghost. Eilean keeps him informed of your comings and goings, your visits with Simon’s wife, your days spent locked in his library. She says you’re physically better, but tire easily. You only sleep for short moments at a time, like him. Johnny tries to tell himself he does not care that you refuse to see him. He tells himself that it does not bother him, that you were so willing to shut him out completely, so eager to escape him. He tells himself that the sound of your fear, of your cries for help are not burning into his memory, that they are not entrenching themselves into his soul, driving him mad. He tells himself it’s just the binding. That the binding is driving him to the brink, that the binding is to blame for his near descent into madness.
But he knows, it’s not responsible for everything, It’s not responsible for the yearning in his soul, his heart, his magic. For the wild edged chaos that brews out of control in his veins.
It's love. His heart bleats in the quiet hours of the night, when he holds his breath and feels for you through the estate, when he catches the barely-there scent of citrus and blood in a hallway where you must have recently lingered. It’s love. His mind screams when he closes his eyes to rest for a few precious moments, and all he can see is your face, smiling at him, giggling in the golden light of your kitchen at dusk. It’s love. His magic shrieks at him to go to you, to hold you, to tell you everything. To tell you about the way his power rioted in his blood the moment he saw you, the way his magic exploded in his chest the first time you shared your heart, your mind, your life with him, the way he knew after that very first day, that no other being would ever possess him, except you.
Eilean walks with you in the garden. He tries not to watch too closely, warily waiting for something to happen, for a decision to be made that he will not be able to fight, no matter how hard he tries. She delights you, when she shows you how to sow your magic into the fabric of Faerie, how to connect with Isle as you connect with the earth of your home realm.
Johnny does not allow himself the hope that lights in his soul, when she looks up at where he stands in the window, and nods. An approval. A yes. A piece of herself, given to you.
As time crawls by, he cannot stop himself from thinking about you, every waking moment. He cannot stop himself from wondering how you’re faring, if you need him, if you’re feeling well. His magic never lets him sleep, never lets him come, keeps him on the edge eternally, pacing, tossing, and turning while his mind is invaded by thoughts of you.
It is one of these nights, when he’s drowning in too many feelings, along with two bottles of wine, pacing fruitlessly, that Gaz blinks into the kitchen with an irritated huff.
“Look sharp. Been callin’ ya for hours.” Gaz spits, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt. “Bloody hell, Soap. Get yourself together. Simon sent for us.”
The meeting is a long one.
Simon outlines recent inquiries, payloads for work, demands of their presence in places across the realm, old contracts that have long laid dormant being renewed with a fresh round bloodshed.
It is the same song and dance. The same battle cry of blood and victory.
Fae and mortals are not as different in their hearts as they seem, he muses, reading over a potential contract, a high paying job for the removal of a seated power. It comes with a catch, a royal child who requires protection, and he places it on the top of the list for consideration. Children cost extra.
He is not surprised, when both Simon and Gaz seem hesitant to agree to anything, especially work that will take them away from extended periods of time.
Johnny says nothing but shares their feelings. The idea of leaving the Isle for any amount of time makes his magic churn in his veins. Even now, anxiety builds like a storm inside him, and he agonizes about returning.
“It’s not optimal.” Simon declares, while Price smirks from where he sits with his arms crossed.
“Ye going soft, Riley?” Johnny ribs him, and Simon scowls.
“I’ll show you soft, Soap.” He shoots back, while Gaz chuckles.
“I’m not opposed to taking it easy, for a bit.” Price offers something, an inquiry that caught his eye, a short engagement, not very far away, while Simon counters it with a different one that’s even less time. They bicker, back and forth, back and forth, and Gaz slowly becomes more interested in a half open book laying on Simon’s desk than he does the conversation.
Johnny loses interest completely. The spot beneath his ribs is pounding like his heart, and his magic is swelling violently in time with the binding. When he says his goodbyes, no one is surprised.
“I want to know.”
“Witch business is no business of the Fae.”
“Fern is my business.” She laughed at his demand, the echo of it scraping across the front his mind like he had been scratched by her claws.
“So possessive.” She murmured. “Over a witch who does not even know the truth of who you are.”
“Jet.” He warned, and she growled a sigh.
“Divination is not practiced here as it practiced in your realm. It requires a sacrifice, and the visions are not easy, even for a powerful witch like Fern. It extracts a higher toll.” His blood curdled in his veins, and her tail whipped back and forth, green eyes watchful from where she sat in the kitchen. “Her participation is not voluntary.”
“They force her?”
“They’ve forced her since she was a child. The coven only cares for their power, their vanity, their immortality, and without the blood spinner, without the Divination, they would have none of it.” He pictured you, a small girl, alone, defenseless, victim to practices of your coven, your magic and mind a tool for them to use, to take advantage of, to torture. She licked her paw before rising to all fours, casting an underhanded glance at him. “The way they see it, Fern belongs to them. The blood spinner is not a being with a soul, but a thing to be used as the coven sees fit.” Outside, the wind howled, spurred on by the tethers of magic that spun from Johnny, the chaos that reveled in his distress, ropes and ropes of rage and desperation twisting together with the force of his power, sowing down deep into the earth, and expelling into the sky. “Should one protest… well.” She didn’t finish, just fixed her gaze beyond him, out through the window where the sky swirled with violent hues of black and purple.
“Her parents.” Jet refused him a response, but he didn’t need one to know the truth. “She doesn’t know.” He continued, and she slunk from her perch to the corner of the table.
“Have you considered what will happen, after your damage is done? What the coven will do when they discover her betrayal? Or worse…. you and your brothers are not the only ones who go bump in the night here. Fern is a magnet for creatures. Without the protection of her coven, she will be a target. She will be vulnerable.” She studied him, and he felt the shadowed point of her power, probing along his own, trying to peer into his mind.
He let a swirl of chaos break free, pushed out into the open.
He let a sentiment slip through, into her sight.
He had considered it, had planned for it. Anticipated it.
She met his eyes with her own, and understanding, recognition occurred between them.
“You plan to take her.”
He blinks onto the veranda of his own home, eager to escape the argument, rubbing his neck in exasperation when he catches the scent of balsam and citrus, mineral and blood, coming from the garden.
It’s you. You’re in the garden.
“Hello.” Johnny calls, stepping into the grass but no further, allowing you to see him, to recognize him as a non-threat. The light from the moons spills down your back and across your skin, making you shimmer under their glow, illuminating you in the brisk night air. The flowers around you are all in bloom, even in the middle of the night, and his lips quirk to the side with a smile when he realizes it’s your doing, velvety petals blossoming across the grounds in large swatches, vibrating with the signature of your magic.
You’re sitting amongst a variety of plants, long vines that stretch and strain towards where your fingers dance to entice them into reaching for you.
“Hi.” You don’t bother to lift your eyes, and it stings a little, disappointment settling heavy in his stomach. He takes a deep breath.
“I was hoping we could talk.”
“About what?” you bristle, and he grinds his teeth. About us? About the binding? About what happened? About how sorry I am? About how I cannot stop thinking about ye? Worrying about ye? Obsessing? He settles on, what happened, hoping that will ease you open to talking.
“About what happened.”
“About what happened, which time? The time when you used me to get information so your brother could abduct a Nereid, or the time you stole my name from me and then stole me from my own realm."
Well. Fuck.
“What’s wrong, Johnny? Cat got your tongue?” You latch onto his silence and dig in, not sparing him from your venom. His temper flares, needled on by the discomfort that is restless in his magic, and he pushes back at you.
“I will not apologize for doing what needed to be done to save ye, dove.” He snaps, drawing to his full height, and you glare at him, fury twisting your face into something that’s a little scary, and a little enthralling.
“Save me?” you hiss, incredulous. “Save me? You didn’t care much about saving me when you used me to get what you needed.” You stand, forgoing your plants to face him, fingers pointed to the ground, a hot flare of magic stretching across the space between him and you.
“I never wanted to hurt ye, I wanted to bring ye with me, but it was too late before ye knew the truth and I had no chance to explain.” He counters, and you laugh, the sound all sour and wrong, harsh, and unforgiving.
“You thought I would just go with you? You tricked me. You took advantage of me.” He feels the ground shifting, feels the earth growing under his feet, and your magic pulsing around him, strong and eager, pushing and pulling at something he cannot see. What is this? “You lied to me. You betrayed me.” The forest at your back groans, like the Isle herself is protesting this battle of wills, like she objects to the clash of power. The pressure in the air rises, and then something is tightening around his feet, restricting his boots, and tying him to the ground.
Roots.
There are tree roots, crisscrossed across his toes, snaking up his ankles.
“Fern.” He warns.
“Johnny.” You mock, and the magic crests, more gnarled plant life coming to sprout from the ground, lashing across his wrists, tying them tight to his sides wrapping him up like rope. “You won’t fight back?” you taunt, mouth curving into a wicked little smile. Another tendril of green binds around his forearm, and he grunts with effort to stay calm.
“No.” he grits out.
“No? No?” you hiss and step closer, bare feet pressing the grass down between your toes. You look like a predator in this moment, eyes sharp and narrowed, stalking closer to your prey. You’re enchanting, and unsettling, and the binding hums inside of him.
The plants twist past his forearms, tightening against his circulation, curling up his biceps and stroking the skin of his shoulders.
His power flares, distressed, confused.
In battle, if you were a foe, he’d already have struck you down, dealt you a killing blow.
“Fern. Stop this.” The vines squeeze him, and then crawl up his neck, holding firm beneath his jaw.
“Do you know what they wanted to do to me, Johnny? After they found out what I did?” He chews on the inside of his cheek, trying to wait you out, trying to see if you’ll draw back. “Answer me!” your voice cracks, and so does his heart.
“No.”
“They wanted to burn me at the stake.” You whisper, the words enough to take his breath. His magic thrashes. The spot underneath his ribs aches. “It wasn’t enough to shun me. They wanted to kill me.” He shakes his head furiously.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I-“
“No, don’t say that. You’re not.”
“Ah wouldn’t have let them. No one will ever touch ye again Fern, I swear it.”
“Why even bother with more of these lies? You just needed to help your brother, and you didn’t care who was collateral damage. You used me.” You break, and a tear glitters on your cheek, refracting the light of the moons. “Just… just like them.” Oh, dove.
“No, no. That’s not… It’s not true. Ah care for ye, ye’ve meant something to me since the first day I laid-“
“Stop.” The plants squeeze him, and any tighter they’ll probably be strangling him. Cutting off his air. He fights against them, just marginally, enough to give himself some breathing room, and is surprised when they don’t loosen so easily. “I’m stronger here. Eilean taught me, how to feel this earth. How to hear it breathing, find its water, its blood.” You explain, tone bitter, and he nods a slow agreement.
“Of course.” Of course, she did. Because she likes you, dove. She accepts you. She wishes for you to make your home here. With me. With us.
He doesn’t try again, doesn’t flex in the web of plants that you’ve wrapped him in, just stands completely still, waiting. He urges his power to settle, to resist the call of blood and battle, to stand down as you seethe.
If he tried, only a little harder, he could shred the vines and roots in an instant. He could break free.
But a large part of him, spurred on by the gaping hole that’s been left by your absence, the pain that’s nestled in his diaphragm, doesn’t want to.
Most of him wants to stand here and take it, take everything from you.
It’s no more than he deserves, and he knows it.
Your hands are shaking, fingernails gleaming in the moonslight when you hastily wipe your cheek, and he wants so badly to reach for you. To hold you. To tell you how sorry he is. How he wishes he could take it all back. How he never wanted to hurt you.
“I trusted you.” It’s a whisper on the wind, spoken to the earth, to the sky, to anywhere but him. The words are hollow, like there’s nothing left there for him, like you’ve written your story, and his pages are long over.
“Ah know.” He murmurs. Your tears drip onto the grass, and he watches each one splash while dread swallows his heart whole. The ache in his ribs burns, magic howling through his limbs, tugging and digging against him to act, to move.
In the end, he doesn’t move at all. He stands trapped in the vines you’ve grown around him, stands trapped in time as you walk past him and up the veranda into the estate. The wind shrieks through the trees, whipping around where he stands immobile, and he watches the light in your room on the second-floor flick on, a warm yellow glow seeping out from behind the curtains as you peek around them, gazing down to where he stands, still like a statue in the garden below.
He stands there until your room goes dark.
The light sparkled across your skin, your hair, your eyes. He had never been fond of the mortal realm’s sun, always finding it too harsh, too abrasive, but the way it shone on you in that moment, he wasn’t sure he had loved anything more.
“Which was your favorite, then?” You extended the thing in your hand towards him, the fragrant, sweet ice cream treat, and he politely shook his head to decline.
“Ah dinnae care much for it, if ‘m being honest.”
“What?” Your other arm stayed looped in his, allowing him to subtly press his hip against yours, feel the warmth of your skin through the fabric of your skirt as the two of you took long, loping steps down the park’s path. “How can you not like ice cream?” You frowned. “We sampled so many. You didn’t like any of them?” He considered explaining he only sampled them because it allowed him to stand to so close you in that tiny shop. That he liked it because he was able to wrap his fingers around yours when you passed him the tiny spoons.
“The mint was alright.” He told you instead, and you huffed. “The lavender one too.” You gave him a curious look, and he couldn’t help himself, too eager to see you smile, too weak to resist the promise of your laughter. “It seems, I am overly fond of plants.”
The sea roars beneath grassy knoll where he hides. He swears it’s screaming your name, calling to you, crying about you.
He tries to clear his mind.
It’s why he comes here. To think. To be alone. To be unbothered. The hill is tucked away from his home, and he sits in the shadow of an ash tree, staring at the sky, waiting to settle, waiting to feel at peace.
A fool’s errand.
His mind is incapable of rest. It can only dwell on one thing, his desperation, his desire, his longing for you. The yearning in his heart that now works in tandem with the binding, trying to drag him towards you every waking moment of the day, trying to force him into your path.
You’re in the hallway when he returns, stack of books clutched to your body.
“Fern.” He chokes out, dumbstruck. He had planned a speech, for this, after what happened in the garden. A plea. A desperate sonnet of sadness and guilt. But in this moment, with you standing in front of him like a wild animal that may dart away at any moment, everything escapes him. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, his brain feels blank.
You’re frozen, looking back at him, eyes wide, and a tiny sliver of relief fractures through his heart when he doesn’t smell any fear on you.
“Hi.” You whisper, and like a magnet, he cannot stop himself from stepping closer.
You do not flinch, or move, or even look away. You just… stare at him.
“Are ye well?” He tries, and you swallow so loud he can hear it rattling in his brain.
“I… am. Are you?”
“As well as I can be.” I’m in love with ye. I’ve been in love with ye. I’m sorry. All of these things echo in his mind, circling his consciousness but none of them come to the forefront. Instead, he stammers out a: “Ye look… beautiful.” Bleedin’ gods. It’s a massacre. He tries to smother his grimace and you give him a funny look.
“Thank you.”
“Are ye, getting on well here?” He motions to the too long, too wide hallway that seems to stretch farther and farther every second, and you nod slowly.
“Yes, you have… a lot of books.”
“Ah… ‘ve always been fond of them. The books.” He agrees, and your lips flick upwards in a polite smile. His heart races.
He takes another step.
It’s too much. You shrink away, moving backwards, and he curses himself.
“Sorry-“
“I should go.” You gesture the leather-bound volumes in your grasp.
“Of course.” He concedes, and you incline your head to him before turning around.
His magic screams through his body the entire time he watches you walk away.
You’ve made yourself at home in the library. He tries to push away the glee that it brings him, the fire that it stokes within him, the urge that it encourages. The binding warbles inside his magic, his soul, as he passes the door every day, tugging and dragging him until he’s trying the handle one morning, ignoring his prior commitments, opting to slide inside the heavy wooden doors just for a chance to see your face.
“You have books from my ho- from the mortal realm.” He winces, when you cut your words off abruptly and reroute them, all while staring at him from the desk in the library. Your fingers stroke the corner of a volume that lays open in front of you, and he takes a step closer, slowly, hesitantly, waiting to see if you’ll spook.
You don’t. You don’t even fidget, or flinch, just gently turn the pages as if everything is normal.
“Would ye like to see something special?” He cannot help it, this desire to impress you, to tempt you. He wants to catch you, keep you, hold you in a thrall like you hold him in yours. He thinks he should probably feel guilty, for using the things he knows you love so dear to entice you, to gentle you to him and draw you out, but he can’t find it in himself to feel poorly for it. He’s worried sick. He wants to see you smile again. Wants the life to come back to your eyes.
He wants his sweet Fern. His little witch.
He gestures to a book, one that sits in a glass case on a table next to his side, black binding shiny and perfect as if it were brand new and not thousands of years old.
“What is it?” You cannot help yourself, brushing past him to lean over the glass, eyes wide and curious.
“It’s a grimoire.” You inspect it with a frown, and he threads his magic through the air and into the glass, evaporating it into its original form, tiny spheres of sand that disappear before your eyes. You startle, and he smirks when you look up at him.
“Doesn’t look like any grimoire I’ve ever seen.” Your hand cautiously hovers above the spell book, and he can feel your magic probing along the edges, testing, seeking.
“It’s from a Netherworld.”
“Which?” you blurt, and then look half embarrassed, before tacking on a soft spoken, “And how?” He’s not surprised that you know of them, but it feels uneasy, knowing you may have been exposed to something from those realms, some sort of monster or creature, a Demon or worse, an Angel.
“The Below. I travel there, sometimes.” Your jaw goes slack, and you study him closer, something foreign flickering across your features before they turn doleful.
“I have seen them.” What? You turn a page with your magic, being careful not to let your fingers directly touch the pages. “Through Divination. I’ve seen both the Below, and Above.” You shudder, and his heart thunders, blood rushing through his ears.
A mortal witch, who’s not a mortal at all. Who spins blood and can see through realms, into the Below and Above. Places not even Gaz or Price dare travel to.
Formidable indeed.
“Dove, that’s… that must have been frightening.” Another page turns beneath your fingers, and you shrug.
“I have been Divining since I was a child. I’ve seen many things. It’s how I knew where we were, when I woke up,” Rage rips through him, unbridled and coarse, rousing his magic into a whirlwind of anger, the feel of it as violent as when he first learned the truth. It makes his blood boil in his veins, makes the shelves in the library vibrate in anticipation, his magic bouncing around the room, seeking to destroy, to sow chaos, to obliterate.
“Johnny.” Simon’s voice calls, echoing inside his skull, and he tenses, muscles turning to stone as he feels for his brother, locating him and Gaz outside, in the hall.
“Not now.” He grits in response, but he hasn’t forgotten his prior engagement, and knows trying to put it off is pointless.
When they come closer, when Simon pulls the doors wide, he bares his teeth, tension filling the air of the library. They stand at a respectful distance, not stepping inside, leagues away at the opposite end of the room, but he still feels overly exposed, can feel the pull of possession as he instinctually positions himself between your body and theirs.
You frown at his brothers before stepping into the shadow of his body, close enough that you brush against him, your fingers tracing a barely-there circle on the inside of his wrist.
“Why did you do it?” You break the silence, whispering to the ceiling, and he frowns.
“Do what?”
“Make me fall in love with you.” You still do not look at him, but he cannot tear his eyes from you, mouth wide with shock, the space beneath his ribs pulsing with chaotic magic, his heart beating too fast to count. “You could have just… used your magic. You could have taken what I knew, by force. Why did you spend all that time with me?” The confession slowly takes shape across his tongue, heavy and raw, ready to drip like honey from his mouth to yours.
“I- are ye in love with me, Fern?”
“Answer the question.”
“I knew what I had to do, to help my brother but ye were unexpected. The worst, and most wonderful surprise of my eternal existence.”
“Johnny.” Simon’s insistence echoes across his mind and he feels the urge to turn on them both, to banish them from the estate, from the Isle, from his life, just to keep his time with you from being interrupted.
‘Bloody terrible timing.”
“Clearly. But this cannot be delayed.” He clenches his jaw, and pulls your hand into his, smoothing a palm over your knuckles.
“I’ll be back later, if ye want to talk more.” It’s a hopeful thing, this sentence. Something that carries so much weight, without even being a question. Something that has the power to crush him, without a mere thought.
“Okay.” You whisper.
“Okay?” your head bobs, and you look down at the book with mock interest.
“I do not forgive you but, I’d like to… talk. Yes.” Yes. Yes. The word rings between his ears. He can work for your forgiveness, he can spend the rest of his existence earning it, if this means you’ll let him. If you’ll speak to him.
“Later then?” He manages to get out, and then squeezes your hand in a goodbye after you nod.
He does not see the way you stare at your own fingers after he leaves, does not see the way your magic explodes throughout the library, before settling back against your skin like a warm embrace, your side of the binding fluttering in your heart.
“My home is alive.” He told your sleeping form, words quiet as he watched for any sign of you waking. “The place where my home is built, where I was born. The Isle. She chooses, who can stay, who can make their life there. She is a complex thing, a wild thing. Like you.” You twitched, and he paused, holding still as he waited.
When you didn’t rouse, he pushed a small spark of chaos into your sleeping mind, drawing you in deeper, settling you into your wildest dreams. “Jet told me, about what ye’ve been through. About what the coven has done to ye, forced ye to do… and I think, the Isle would accept ye. Ah think she would like ye, and welcome ye, Fern. With me.” You shivered, and he instinctually warmed the room, raising the temperature until you settled.
“Johnny.” Price called inside his mind, insistent, but patient. “We have business.” He sighed.
He had already been here too long tonight, and his brothers waited for him.
The kiss to your hair was fleeting. Gentle. Sweet. Punctuated with a whisper lost on the breeze from the open window.
“Gods, what have ye done to me little witch?”
“Ye come out here often.” He says quietly from the door, standing just beyond it after spotting you on the veranda, and you nod slowly in response, eyes dragging away from the sky to his, before returning upwards. The night is soft. Calm edged and serene, the breeze carrying a hint of sea spray from the foam below.
“I’ve never seen so many.”
“Stars?”
“Planets.”
“Surely there are other planets besides your own?” He knows there are, he’s seen them in sky, in the mortal realm.
“Yes, but not like this. There’s… there’s nothing, like this.” Your lips part, throat bobbing with a breath and he feels a strange tightening his chest as he watches you take it in. You look so amazed, so enchanted, so captivated by something he views so ordinary, that he too, tilts his head back to look up at the dizzying number of planets. Hundreds of worlds swirl in the inky darkness above them, their colors so vibrant they shine like gemstones, blinking in and out of the velvet backdrop that is the night sky. “There are so many worlds. So many places.” you whisper to him, a smile full of awe sloping across your lips. “Do you go to them? These worlds?”
“Some.”
“Some.” you parrot. “Some.” you laugh, like the notion is absurd, which it probably is, to you. Something inconceivable, improbable. “They’re beautiful.” Your hand raises to reach for them, as if you could pluck one right out of the night and hold it in your palm. He watches, entranced by the way the three moon’s light shimmers across your face, bathing you in a purple silver glow, spilling over your shoulders and across your skin graciously, framing you like a star, a celestial being. His throat feels dry.
“Aye. They are.” You lapse into silence, and he enjoys the feeling of being near you, his magic humming happily in his being, peace settling over him while you watch the stars, transfixed.
“Johnny.” You breathe his name, sweet and syrupy, magic dripping from each syllable. You look a little dazed, exhaustion pulling at your features, and he indulges in a daydream where he kisses your forehead, pressing a hint of power against your skin, wrapping you in a soft cocoon of his magic to comfort you. “I… I’d like to kiss you.” The words break him from his imaginations, and he jerks, pulling away to inspect your face, to see if were alright. Or if you were reading his mind. Or if you had become possessed by some Demon, some evil creature appearing here to make him suffer more than he already was.
But all he sees is his dove. His Fern. His little witch, face soft and open, expectant.
“Would you deny me, Johnny? After everything you’ve done?” You raise an eyebrow, and his heart sings, magic humming along happily, binding trilling in his body. You’re teasing him.
“Ye never have to ask.” The words are the same ones he said on Samhain, and he restrains his movements, keeping his body slow and steady while he leans into you, lowering his mouth to yours, the warmth of your lips against him sending his heart soaring, the intoxicating scent of you, the feel of your magic, the light caress of your fingers against his hip all amplified in this realm, and by the binding that seems to be stitching the two of you together by every moment.
He follows your lead, giving you space when you begin to ease off from him, and explosions rattle his soul as he stares down at you and your cautious smile.
“I love ye, Fern.” Your eyes go wide, and you startle, stepping a half pace away. “I dinnae how to tell ye, after everything. Ah ken, ah… there’s nothing that can be said, to make up for my treachery, for what I did to you.” He can feel the binding, the sailor’s knot tightening around the two of you, dragging you into one another, can feel the distinct signature of your magic, swirling around him, can smell the sweet citrus and blood dipped in balsam that floods his dreams. It’s enough to make his head spin.
“Johnny, this- this is the binding, it’s...” He shakes his head in rebuttal and reaches for your hand.
“I’ve loved ye since the first day I set foot in the shop. I’d burn the realms for ye, Fern.”
“You used me.”
“And ye will never know how I regret it, how I wish I could change it.” Let me love you. Let me hold you. Let me have you. The swell of the tide within him crests, magic churning into an excessive force, the binding burning, screaming, yearning against his lungs, and he pushes and pulls at it, twisting it up into something he struggles to contain. “Break the binding or leave it intact. It won’t change the way I feel.”
“I-“ Your words are snatched from your mouth when you draw a quick breath, bending at the waist, flat of your palm pressed to your belly with a soft groan.
“Fern?” His hand hovers at the small of your back, just above your skin.
“Sorry, I- I just had a cramp, is all.” You straighten, faint grimace sunken into your expression, and he frowns.
“What do ye need?”
“Nothing, I’m just gonna go lay down, I think.” You’re still holding your stomach, and worry froths in his heart, his mind as he watches you wince.
“Ye sure? Do you need-“
“I’m sure.” You wave him off, already turning away. “Goodnight, Johnny.” You murmur over your shoulder.
“Sleep well, little witch.”
The shockwave that ripples through his home in the small hours of the morning startles him from restless sleep. It jolts him into a panic, the binding clawing at his mind, his magic, tugging and pulling him towards something.
Towards you.
“Fern?” He calls, body teetering at the threshold of your room.
Are you dreaming?
Are you ill?
He can smell you from the doorway, balsam and citrus tinged with the scent of sour fruit, distress permeating through the air to where he stands, waiting. Holding his breath for answer.
“Fern.” He tries again, firmly, but you don’t respond, only moan into your pillow, the sound of your pain tearing at his heart until he’s blinkingacross the room, coming to lean over your trembling form, panic hammering inside his skull. “Hey, dove. Are ye with me?” He pulls you towards him, holding your face between his palms. Your eyes are nearly black, pupils so large they dot out your irises, and you thrash in his grip, nails digging into his skin while you cry out.
“Jo-Johnny. Johnny.” You’re sweating, sheets soaked beneath you, and the heat that’s blaring from your skin curdles his stomach.
The binding. The magic. It’s burning you from the inside.
You whimper, and his heart breaks for you, bleeds for you while you bury your nose in his neck, panting heavily.
“I’m here.” He tries to hold you steady, cradling the back of your head in his hand, the sear of your skin far too warm to be comfortable, the effect of the binding boiling in your blood.
You’re suffering. You’re suffering, and it’s his fault. He did this. He caused this.
Ce’s warning echoes sharply in his mind.
“You need to prepare for what is to come, if she cannot reverse it.”
The guilt fissures his heart in two.
“It hurts.” You try to tell him, weakly, and his frustration builds, the magic inside of him compounding, yearning to lash out.
“Ah know, Ah know it does.” The words are little comfort.
“Please. Pl-please make it stop.”
He can’t. He shouldn’t.
“It hu-hurts Johnny. Please. It burns.” You’re breaking apart in front of him. Inconsolable. Desperate. Dying.
“Shhh. ‘ve got ye.” He tries to calm you, holds you tight against him, pressing your body to his but all it does it make you squirm more, make you cry out against him, your voice broken with distress.
“Please! Please-“ you beg, and he slams his eyes shut.
He shouldn’t. He can’t.
But you’re in pain.
You could die.
The binding is heating your body past any measurable sense. You were not made to survive such a thing.
When he looks at you now, he knows his insistence on refusing this is pointless. He is too weak to give you up. He is not strong enough to say no. He has loved you since the day he first laid eyes on you. He would do anything to save you, to keep you alive.
Even if it meant this.
Even if it meant completing the bond the only way he knew how.
“I’m here, I’m here.” He kisses your breastbone, trails his lips down between your breasts, sucking marks into your skin, tasting the salt of your sweat like a dying mortal. “I’m going to make it okay.” He wants to take his time, wants to savor you, wants to have you the way he’s always dreamed about, slow and sweet, taking you apart piece by piece like you deserved.
There’s no time for that now.
“Johnny.” You whimper, something broken in your voice, a desperation unlike he’s ever heard before and it stings.
“Shhh. I’m going to take care of ye.”
A broken moan rises from your throat when he moves your body, shifting you underneath his weight, pinning your hips and teasing his tongue around one your nipples, nipping across you with his teeth just enough to sting your skin, to jolt you.
“I- I need- I want-“ You try to explain it, to direct him, and your magic flourishes forward, your hands gripping onto his shoulders for salvation.
“I know what ye need, Fern. Ah know.” His fingertips stroke over your navel, over where your lower belly tenses under his touch, and then to your cunt, where scorching heat mixes with liquid fire, your body wet and ready for him, desperate for him, magic burning you with arousal, with an undeniable need for him.
“Touch me.” You plead, and his lips find the inside of your thigh, dragging towards where you’re dripping, citrus and blood flooding his senses.
You taste like everything he’s ever dreamed of. Pressure builds up his spine, magic and desire burning like a fuse as he presses his tongue against your clit, and you shiver in his grasp when he lavishes you there.
His palm presses against your belly, holding you firm, muscles and sinew rippling under his touch, your voice peaking with a cry when he swirls around your swollen bud, over and over, working you relentlessly.
“Come for me, come on. Let me make it better, dove.” It won’t, and he knows it, knows only one thing will, but he hopes to the gods it will stave off some of your pain. He rasps against your skin and you keen, rocketing into an orgasm within a moment’s time, sharp and fiery, but only a balm for the burn of the binding, the incessant tugging beneath his ribs humming with miserable bliss over the moan of his name on your lips.
You’re still strung taut, seizing, the heat of your skin blazing against him. You tug fruitlessly at his clothes, fingers knotted up in his shirt, his pants, and he swipes a hand across your cheek to press his thumb against your tongue as he divests himself with one hand and a snap of magic.
His fingers are wet with you, with your spit, your arousal, and he coats himself with it, stroking the length of his cock, kissing the crown to your opening while he stares down at you indulgently.
His Fern. His dove. His little witch.
“Please.” You breathe your plea into him, into his mouth, his skin. “Please, it’s- I need you.” You choke and he pushes, your eyes going wide as he batters his way into your body, the tight clench of your walls strangling him as he moves. “Gods-“ you gasp, and he strokes some hair from your face, lips pressing sweetly to your cheek, your jaw to soothe you, to quiet the discomfort from the stretch.
“I know, I know.” He murmurs, keeping his movements slow and steady, watching how your expression eases, how your body adjusts, how your brows unknit with each passing moment. You relax around him finally, face going slack with bliss as he folds one of your knees back towards your shoulder. “That’s it, good… good girl.” He hums over your ear, before pressing a gentle kiss there. “Take me so well. So perfect.” He needs to fill you, own you, fuck you full and possess every inch of your being. It’s the only way, the only way to soothe your soul, to soothe his own. It’s always been the only way, since the day he saw you. Since the first time he kissed you, in the shadow of Samhain.
His heart flutters, the binding clawing at his power, wrapping itself around your heart, stitching across the bridge between your bodies to reach the other side, encasing itself and him in the warmth of blood magic, of your magic. It only grows stronger as his hips stroke, his body moving inside of yours, gasps of pleasure falling from your lips.
Your muscles clench around him, desperate, and it feels right. Everything feels right, it feels fated, it feels meant to be. Like you were made for him, born for him. You, his equal. You, his balance. He pads over your clit with a press of his fingers, moving against you in time with his thrusts and your power surges to meet his, interweaving until it’s impossible to discern your beginning and his ending.
“I’ve always wanted ye here with me.” He nips along your collarbone, tracing a bead of sweat up the skin of your neck to your jaw. “I broke into the flat, just to watch ye sleep, every night after Samhain.” He punches his sentence with thrust of his cock, brushing against your cervix, and you keen. “I’ve loved ye. Dreamt of ye. I have betrayed ye,” you mumble something, lashes fluttering, and he swallows your words with his mouth before continuing. “and will spend the rest of my existence, our existence, apologizing for my transgressions.” Your body shifts with him, the rhythm he set upon your clit forcing you forward, spine curling you into him, his name a whisper on your lips.
“Johnny, Johnny.”
He fucks into you harder, wild, primal, full of ferocity and you cry out, shuddering beneath him, squeezing around his cock. The urge to fill you, to breed you, is too strong to fight, and the binding croons to him in your voice, spurring him onwards.
“Gods, dove.” His voice is broken song, a plea, and you respond with a melody of your own. “Ye belong to me.” You nod in a daze, lips forming a word that sounds like please. “Going to give ye my come. Keep ye forever.”
“Ye-es.”
“Sweet Fern.” He coos when he feels it, the build of your climax, ushering you along with the press of his body. “My good girl, coming all over my cock. Like ye were made for it.” You hiss, and then your orgasm is washing you away, your voice shouting his name as you come. Your eyes spark, celestial light glittering beneath the black pools that have expanded across your irises, and your fingernails dig into the skin of his shoulder, blood trickling down his chest, slicking between your bodies. It spills and spills, running like a river over the two of you, tracking across your breasts, down his abdomen, across your belly, down your thighs. It flows wildly, freely, rushing from him and towards you, spurred on by your mastery of it, your mastery of him.
You’re spinning him. You’re taking and taking, the binding drinking his magic in greedily, digging and scratching beneath the surface of his chaos, sowing vines that sprout and flourish, that tie him to you. His side of the binding shrieks in glee, in elation, and bends for you, arcing between your bodies to imbue you with cosmic pieces of chaos, a blend of blood and bedlam, boiling in your veins. In his.
Blood continues to gush from his body, his mouth full of you, of citrus and blood, of earth and balsam. You inhale him, pushing your tongue past his teeth, swirling in the mess there, and when you pull away, he can see the stains of ichor on your teeth under the curve your half-moon smile.
Your magic strangles him, strengthening itself, solidifying your power, absorbing what it can of his mayhem. The binding purrs, it sings to him, it sings to you, the sound chiming through his mind, echoing off the hollowed-out coves of the Isle, vibrating through its dark forest. He shouts against it, with it, orgasm just on the peak, both his body and yours trembling violently.
“Mine.” He snaps, and you answer easily.
“Yours.” You nod, burying your face in the crook of his neck. He cradles you there, back of your head in his palm, and then he thrusts up into your body as hard as he can, overcome with need, with the burn of the binding, with love. It’s so much, the pull of the magic, the wildness of your heart seeping into his own, and he spills as deep as he can into your body, filling you with himself, plugging his come deep, your own body sucking him in desperately while you cry and shake in his arms.
His Fern. His dove. His little witch.
Ancient celestial light streams through the curtains, the proof of an entire day passing, the rising of the moons stirring you from where you have slept for the last few hours, body and binding finally sated, skin scrubbed clean from the stain of his blood.
You blink, heavily with exhaustion, and he pulls you into his body, unable to resist cuddling you close, breathing you in and wrapping an arm around your back to still you when you start to fidget. You smell different now, like a swirling storm of him and you, and his free hand drifts to your navel possessively.
“Johnny.” You murmur, and he answers by pressing a kiss to your forehead.
“I’m here.” He whispers. “Ye can rest dove. It’s okay.” You settle against him, and just as he’s starting to drift into his own star lit slumber, you sigh.
“You should start makin’ a list.”
“Of what?” You kiss his chest, lips soft against his skin.
“Of all the things,” you yawn, breath hot and sweet, and he wants to drag his tongue over your skin again, take you apart while he savors every tremble, every moan that leaves your body. “you’re going to do over the next hundred years to make it up to me.”
“One hundred years?” he chuckles in jest, but his heart soars.
He knows, there is more hardship to come. He knows, the pain, the suffering, that you will experience, that you will unleash on the mortal realm, on him, when you learn the truth about your parents, about your coven. He knows the challenge ahead.
But in this quiet moment, with you in his arms, nothing about it feels like the end.
Only the beginning.
“Careful." you breathe into him. "Or I’ll make it two.”
#peaches writes#which witch#john soap mactavish#fae au#johnny soap mactavish#john soap mactavish x reader#fae!johnny#john soap mactavish x you#fae!au#john soap mctavish x reader#johnny soap mctavish x reader#cod x reader#fae!soap#soap mactavish#soap mw2#magic!au#magic au
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💿⚛️ davejade headcanons
sorry for leaving you guys waiting on this for like a week lol i kept being like “tomorrow for sure” but falling asleep but anyway here it is. i might add more to this if i think if anything but reblogs might not reflect the up to date source version so you can always find it here
most of these are pointing out stuff thats basically canon anyway but whatever lol. basically canon headcanons
dave tries to impress jade to get her attention because he likes her
this ones for you *misses hoop by 5 feet*
he doesnt mind jade’s inane riddles honestly. he isn’t perturbed by how she just knows things like rose is, because he doesnt think into it too far. he trusts her
he spends a lot of time indulging in her interests and showers her in his music and poetry
they draw things for each other a lot <3 jade has the pictionary modus and seems pretty good at drawing and of course dave sent her sbahj as furries in the mail. sending jpegs over the internet is BABY NONSENSE. real boys send their childhood friend/crush pictures they drew for them through the INTERNATIONAL POSTAL SYSTEM to an unspecified island in the middle of nowhere, pacific ocean that gets packages dropped by plane so the recipient can tangibly hold it and hang it in their room
actually i was going through the commentary and hussie addresses it as such:
“Also notice her SBaHJ furry poster, which was clearly a very thoughtful gift from Dave”
aww
jade would give dave a "cool" plushie of a tiger or something nd he keeps it on his desk . froot’s beautiful idea
he loves her plushie sensibilities. so much less unnerving than his bro’s phallic puppets. they're still soft but no cognitive dissonance this time about the softness coming from foam puppet ass hoorayyy
theyre still reading homestuck on act 4 but they understood them instantly
jade humors dave’s ironic cool facade because it makes dave feel more comfortable without feeling too exposed, but it’s because of this that he feels like he can open up to her because she isnt prying. (im still not over the smile here btw. only jade could make dave smile after a fucked evening where he spilled juice on his turntables and accidentally skewered an innocent crow with his sword and broke his window this mf is TYPING. also getting a bit of joy out of the fact that the only visible suit on his cards-themed bedcover in this panel is a heart)
but he knows that jade is not unaware of what he's hiding. couldnt even refute her lol
from the knight’s perspective, it’s “i’m not as [blank] as i appear. i want you know that about me if i know you well and trust you, or i DON’T want you to know that about me if i DON’T know you well. the reason is that i want to know that i can trust you to avoid turning my insecurity into a Whole Thing”
basically she allows dave to take initiative when HE feels comfortable and confident in sharing the things he’s self-conscious about. this really helps him be comfortable and form a strong bond with her
dave would wrap his arms around her to “ironically” imitate a pair of tangle buddy squiddles (while actually concealing genuine affection basically unbeknownst to himself) but he winds up looking just a little too into it for just an “ironic” bit yall……
jade is slower to realize her deeper feelings since she shows love to everyone (so long as theyre deserving of it!!!) it just hits her one day that she actually Likes him in a special way, while for dave it is more dynamic and gradual but very on the downlow, expressed in creative acts and services
once dave actually recognizes he’s really caught feelings for her down the line, dave and jade happily do the tangle buddies hug all the time. its like their handshake. its their weird couple thing
these two when together as a unit they do not give a shit about what other people think of them
this shit lol:
Creative Fucking Powerhouse the two of them
davejade ass song to me
jade is quite spacey and super appreciates dave’s level-headedness and steady pragmatism while at the same time not being a rigid stick in the mud about it. for example when they were acting as each others’ server players dave was advising her but it was appreciated by jade
sorry its just literally socionics duality LITERALLY THIS IS THEMMM (also i spent WAY too much time making these graphics and integrating texts from multiple sources please appreciate it)
fittingly with that, as ouroborista writes about the opposite space-time aspect dichotomy,
Space and Time are the fundamental Aspect pair. Their job is to make shit take place. To create novelty. Between them they span not only all of existence but also the inseparable twin approaches of any creative project. Space goes for breadth, for ideas, for expansive, holistic input, while Time goes for needlepoint focus and a rapid-turnover ability to pull through on the prompt. There’s a reason why these are the two Aspects necessary for any successful session of SBURB.
jade is literally always having a little giggle about him. dave is a funny guy. lame court jester ass boyfriend
he’d draw his post-ironic fursona and show it to her with the usual deadpan expression on his face, eyes obscured by his shades. but jade will look at it and when he sees her smile and laugh it makes it all worth it. his cheeks feel warm and he’ll smile slightly like “heh heh”. dave the type to smile like an idiot over anything jade does like his mouth keeps making a thin line and hes trying to fight it but . Jade
dave thought jade looked absolutely stunning in her 3 in the morning dress his mouth probably stupidly hung open the tiniest amount seeing her after swapping into it
of course she only wears it for what she considers "very special occasions"…..spending time with dave seemed to be a very special occasion :)
jade think dave looks sharp in his suits!!
imagine jade adjusting daves crooked bowtie and lapel and his palms start to sweat and he darts his eyes from behind his shades and chews the inside of his cheek she making him nervous bro 💯
jade is definitely the teaser and dave is the teased. still i dont think jade teases dave as much as john and rose which is why he feels more comfortable opening up to her about his shit. her teasings are much lighter and inconsequential
despite how funny and informal he is dave is a classy well-put-together romantic. he is responsible and harmonious in how he choses to present himself. remember when he got secondhand embarrassment from rose when she was drunk before her date with kanaya and he suggested to her and kanaya that the two reschedule? … he’d NEVER do something like that. sober. suit is ON. hair is neatly combed. he is right on time, not too early not too late, and his first words are “yo whats up”
dave has this designated driver energy about him
after dogtiering jade’s dog ears can perk and flatten, adding even more expressiveness
jade has so many hobbies and interests i think she’d get dave into horticulture somehow unironically
theyre both the kinda mf to ask “would you still love me if i were a worm”
dave’s hands are warm
jade’s skin can be cool to the touch in some places like the back of her arms or shoulders and dave places his hands there to warm them. or by rubbing them or something
idk just some associations space is cool and time is warm to me. the vaccuum of space is cold and time is associated with gears which are associated with generating heat and dave’s classical element is fire and jade’s is earth and her planet is initially covered in snow and daves is covered in lava idk…. just makes symbolic sense i guess but its also cute in its own right
dave would love going to the beach with jade on earth c cause the ocean is so boob i mean boob i mean boob i m,ean boob i mean SHIT . blue. blue
this Fucking animation bro
she infodumps about science and he sits his ass down to listen
jade does this (excuse the fact that the url is roselalonde)
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Since I’m in lovvvvve with Jimin being all subby… may I please request reader sucking/edging jimin off until he begs for her pussy🔥🙈
Thank you and I love youuuu happy jihope month 💜🫶🏼
HI JAZ ILY 🥺 i kinda cheated a little bc my brain...... really wanted to write fleshlight porn idk i have no excuse. but i hope this still gives you what you were looking for 🥰 stan sub!jimin forever and ever !!!!
~taking jihope drabble requests all month!!~
pairing: sub!jimin x dom!reader
wordcount: just over 1k but i won't tell if u don't
contains: subbbbbby jimin, reader is pretty soft w him 🥰, edging with a fleshlight hehe, orgasm control/denial, crying, quick mention of brat taming, one face slap, dumbification if u squint, mentions of ownership, teasing, BEGGING, noona kink (sorry 🙈), unprotected sex, jimin comes immediately, we love him anyway
~*~
Jimin’s got his mouth dropped open, tongue lolling out, showing off the places where he’s soft and pink the whole way down.
Eyes closed, lids flickering, keeping time with the pace of his hips. Twitching, shaky, humping up into the toy in your hand as you work it over his cock. The slide is easy, his shaft slick from his own mess of precum and the thick squirt of lube you prepped him with.
There’s a loud squelch for every sloppy pass of silicone down his length, a dirty fucking sound, but Jimin is too gone for the sour-shame shivers that drew his nipples up tight when you first started pumping him. He’s chasing the feeling entirely now, all animal. Brainless.
You want to take him in your mouth and bite down– on the fat muscle of his tongue, the weeping head of his flushed-dark dick, everywhere.
Chew him up and spit him out, pretty baby boy.
“Y-yeah,” Jimin pants, tongue thick in his mouth. “Oh, fuck.”
The muscles of his thighs roll and flex as he fucks himself closer, his cock rabbiting up into your grip, strokes punctuated by desperate little whines, wet gasps. His voice is wrecked, wrung out with pleasure. “Just like that, fuck, fuck–”
All at once, you pull the toy off and watch as denial crashes over Jimin like a wave.
He collapses against the bed, a shattered groan torn from the back of his throat. Shivering, hips still jerking with enough force to smack his useless cock against the flat plane of his stomach, like he’s trying to get himself over that so-close edge untouched. His balls are drawn up tight, surely heavy and aching with pent-up release, enough that a fresh, fat teardrop of it leaks from his slit.
When you drag your gaze back up his body, you find more tears glittering at the edge of his lash line.
You shift up to straddle Jimin’s spread, shaking thighs as his hips finally still; you’re so turned on you may very well be dripping wetness too.
“Are you going to be a good boy now? Not a little brat anymore?” you ask softly, and he nods, bottom lip twisted between his teeth.
“Use your words.” You know he’s not too far gone for it.
“Y-yes. I will,” he sniffs. “Be so good.”
It’s so easy, the pliant way he moves when you grab his jaw with your hand, tilting his chin up to force his gaze to follow. Doesn’t even flinch at the slap you deliver to his cheek, just because you can.
“Then tell me who owns you.”
“Noona does,” that sweet little broken voice mewls.
“Yeah? Who does your cock belong to?”
“Noona,” Jimin answers as you tighten your grip on him again, pressing the blunt edge of your nails into the smooth, soft skin beneath them. “To noona. My cock belongs to noona.”
“That’s right, baby. It’s mine to do whatever I want with. To play with for as long as I want, hmm? Even all day?”
“Love it,” he gasps. There’s a flush to his skin all over, blooming hot want; his chest heaves with it. “Love it when you play with m-my cock all day. ‘Cause it’s y-yours.”
“Aw, baby.” That deserves its own reward. “You are a good boy, huh?”
His fingers twist helplessly in the sheets when you flick a thumb over the brown bud of his nipple, just once. It kicks through him like an electric shock, you can feel it, his hips bucking up between your legs.
“Yeah,” he whines. Reiterates, “‘M yours.”
So fucking perfect. “Why don’t you tell noona what you want, then?” you purr.
A tear drips down Jimin’s face as he breathes his confession like a sinner. Like he’s ashamed to even ask for it, good boy that he is. “Want noona’s pussy.”
“Is that right?”
All it takes is your thighs spread a little wider for you to sink low enough that the folds of your cunt kiss his glossed-wet shaft. Jimin outright moans when you roll your hips, dragging your pussy along his needy cock once, then again.
“Just like this, baby?” You move slow for the delicious slide of him over your clit, and it’s torture good enough to have you both leaking slick.
It takes Jimin three tries to get the word out. “Inside,” he finally whimpers. “Want in, noona.”
“Yeah, you wanna fuck me? Is that it?”
A sob wracks his chest as you keep grinding your slit on him, slow-burn sparks popping in your gut as he loses it beneath you. “Please, noona. Wanna come, wanna fill it up, be a good boy. Please let me in.” He’s babbling, spine arching up like his body’s pleading too.
“Oh, baby,” you murmur. “How can I say no when you ask for it so pretty?”
Jimin’s shuddering like a plucked string, as if every inch of him is hovering on the edge of indulgent blackout pleasure. He’s still begging, an endless pleasepleaseplease drooling out over his tongue until you finally, finally line yourself up to the fat head of his cock and let him stretch your pussy open.
You’re halfway down his shaft when he gasps, “I’m coming.”
“Good boy,” you rasp, greedy for it now as you take him entirely. “Give me what’s mine. Did so good, saved it all for me.”
You can feel the hot pulse of his cock squeezed tight by your walls, pouring out thick spurts of cum, giving back everything you worked up in him. Tears spill down his face, the sweet fucked-up relief kind, like his whole body is shattering to pieces, coming all the way apart.
Jimin takes his time with his long-denied orgasm, his hips shoving up in twitchy aftershocks until he’s worked his way through the last of it. His cock throbs, spent and empty inside of you.
“What do you say, baby?” You reach both hands up to swipe your thumbs over the tear tracks on his face.
“Thank you, noona,” Jimin breathes, his voice softer without that raw edge of need coloring his words. He nuzzles his cheek into the palm of your hand, smudges a kiss there too. The creases under his eyes deepen in an afterglow smile, all the desire shot through him now replaced by the molten warmth of praise.
“You know the rules.”
You tip forward to grab your small purple bullet off the nightstand, then let it drop carelessly onto Jimin’s torso, where it tumbles down to rest in the hollow dip beneath the swell of his ribcage.
“Keep that pretty little cock where it belongs and make noona come, too.”
#jimin smut#jimin x reader#jimin x y/n#bts smut#bts x reader#simp47koreancrackheads#mbox 📮#jihope month 🌹#jihope month drabbles 💌
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Hawaiian Tropic🌺
Parings: Elvis Presley x reader
Summary: You and Elvis enjoy your honeymoon in Hawaii just days after exchanging vows in Vegas at the international hotel
Song for fic: Hawaiian Tropic-Lana Del Rey
🌺🌺🌺🌺
The sound of crashing waves welcomed you and Elvis as you stepped off the private plane the both of you owned, your hearts filled with anticipation and love. The both of you had exchanged vows just days ago, promising to be there for each other through thick and thin, and now the two of you were ready to embark on your dream honeymoon in the enchanting island of Hawaii.
Hand in hand, you and Elvis walked through the airport, your smile radiant and infectious. The scent of tropical flowers filled the air, reminding the both of you that you were entering a world of bliss and tranquility.
Elvis, dressed in a stylish Hawaiian shirt, he couldn't help but gaze at his beautiful wife. Your eyes twinkled with excitement, and your (hair colour) hair cascaded like silk down your shoulders. You were the love of his life, and he couldn't wait to share this romantic adventure with you.
Upon arriving at their secluded beachfront villa, you and Elvis were greeted by a breathtaking view of the turquoise waters and swaying palm trees. The warm tropical breeze caressed your skin, whispering promises of unforgettable moments to come.
As the two of you settled into your luxurious accommodation, Elvis pulled you into his arms, your bodies swaying to a melody only the toe of you could hear. "Satnin,’ can you believe we're finally here? Just you and me, in this paradise of love."
You rested her head against his chest, soaking in the rhythmic beating of his heart. "Elvis, this is a dream come true. I'm so grateful to be spending this time with you, away from the world, where it's just us."
Your Days in Hawaii were filled with romantic walks along the pristine beaches, exploring lush rainforests hand in hand, and discovering hidden waterfalls. Each moment deepened their connection, and the two of you fell even more in love with every passing second.
One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Elvis surprised you with a private concert on the beach. With his guitar in hand and his voice as captivating as ever, he serenaded you with your favorite songs, creating an ethereal atmosphere as the waves crashed against the shore.
You couldn't help but feel your heart swell with love as Elvis poured his soul into the music. His voice resonated through you, each word a testament to your love. In that moment, you knew that your love was destined to last.
🌺🌺
As the honeymoon days drew to a close end, you and Elvis stood on a cliff overlooking the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean. The sun cast an orange glow across the horizon, painting the sky with hues of gold and pink. It was a moment of pure serenity.
Elvis wrapped his arms around you, holding you close. "My darling, these days have been a glimpse of heaven. I promise to love you fiercely, to protect you, and to be there for you until the end of time."
Tears welled up in your eyes as you looked into his deep, soulful gaze. "Elvis, you've given me a love that surpasses anything I could have ever imagined. I'm forever grateful to have you as my husband."
The both of your lips met in a tender kiss, sealing your love in that moment, in that paradise. With hearts full of gratitude and a future brimming with endless possibilities, you and Elvis Presley walked hand in hand, ready to face whatever life had in store for them.
In the enchanting island of Hawaii, their love shone brighter than the sun, a testament to the power of two souls finding their forever in each other's arms.
You and Elvis decided to spend your last day in Hawaii on the beach, the two of you found yourselves on a secluded section of the beach, away from prying eyes. The sand was warm beneath your feet as the two of you strolled along the shoreline, your laughters filling the air.
Elvis couldn't resist the mischievous twinkle in his eye as he scooped up a handful of wet sand. With a playful smile, he tossed it at you, hitting you playfully on the shoulder. You decided to get back at Elvis by picking wet sand and throwing it him.
"(Y/N), you're in for it now!" Elvis chuckled, as he started running away from you, his bare feet leaving imprints in the sand.
Giggling, you chased after him, the soft sand sinking beneath your steps. The crashing waves accompanied your laughters, as the two continued your playful chase along the water's edge.
Elvis suddenly came to a halt, turning to face you with a mischievous grin. He bent down, grabbing more sand, and swiftly launched it towards you, hitting you square in the chest.
Laughing uncontrollably, you retaliated by picking up a handful of sand yourself. You aimed carefully, watching as the grains of sand flew through the air, landing on Elvis's shoulder.
Elvis pretended to be shocked, dramatically clutching his chest. "Oh, my heart! You've wounded me with your sandy attack, my love!"
The playful banter continued as the two chased each other, your laughter echoing across the beach. The sand clinging to your skin, turning your playful antics into a delightful mess.
Eventually, the two of you collapsed onto the sand, breathless and covered in a mixture of sand and giggles. The both of your eyes met, and in that moment, you both felt an overwhelming rush of love and joy.
Elvis reached out, brushing the sand off of your cheek, his touch gentle and full of adoration. "My love, these carefree moments with you are the ones I treasure the most. You bring out the childlike joy in me."
You smiled, your heart full of love for the man who always knew how to make you laugh. "Elvis, you remind me that life is meant to be enjoyed, to be filled with laughter and love. I'm grateful for every moment we share."
With the sun beginning its descent into the horizon, casting a warm golden glow over the beach, you and Elvis sat side by side, your fingers intertwined. You both watched as the waves crashed against the shore, basking in the serenity of the moment.
In that peaceful embrace, you both knew that your love was not only built on passion but also on the foundation of friendship and playfulness. Together, the two of you had created a love that could withstand any storm, even as the sand stuck to your bodies, reminding the both of you of the joy you both have found in each other's arms.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting hues of orange and pink across the sky, Elvis leaned in to press a soft kiss to your forehead. "I love you, my beautiful (Y/N). Let's continue to make memories together, forever."
With a heart full of love and a newfound appreciation for the simple pleasures in life, you leaned into Elvis's embrace, feeling the warmth of his love surround you. In that moment, you knew that your time in Hawaii was just the beginning of a lifetime of happiness and adventures together.
🌺🌺🌺🌺
#austin butler x reader#elvis presley x reader#elvis presley fluff#austin butler fluff#austin!elvis x reader#austin butler#elvis x reader#50s elvis#austin!elvis fluff
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Injurious Distance
@flashfictionfridayofficial prompt - "soaring above"
A vague unease spread through Crawley. He froze in place with his drink raised halfway to his lips.
He glanced around, but there was absolutely nothing going on in the courtyard. Unless you counted the ducks wandering through. They looked pretty peaceful, though.
Frowning, he put down the beer and stood. Brilliant light reflected off every surface, the Egyptian sun almost overwhelming. Maybe he was just getting a headache from that?
But no, this was something totally different. He was decently sure that it had nothing to do with anxiety, either. It felt new.
Closing his eyes, Crawley touched his fingers to his temples and cast his awareness out. He searched the metaphysical landscape, seeking the source of the malaise.
He found it out in the desert. The sense of wrongness increased as he focused. Something was definitely wrong, and although it was dim, he recognized the presence even at a great distance.
It was Aziraphale. Something was wrong with Aziraphale.
“Shitshitshit.” Crawley opened his eyes again, marched to the wall, and peered out. But no, of course Aziraphale couldn’t be close enough to see. He must be way, way out there. Too far to reach on foot in time to stop whatever bad thing must be happening.
And Crawley was on the wrong side of the Nile, anyway. A river and half a desert between him and Aziraphale.
Only one option, then.
Crawley pulled his wings into the physical plane and gasped at the deep, throbbing aches. He drew a few deep breaths as he leaned on the wall, bracing himself. This would be bloody miserable, but Aziraphale needed him apparently.
Jaw clenched, Crawley launched himself into the air. The first flap of his wings made his vision dim, which was honestly not so bad considering how damn bright it was.
But the subsequent flaps hurt too, and a hiss slipped though his gritted teeth. He ignored the pain and just flew anyway. He was used to pain. He’d been in pain ever since he Fell.
This wasn’t the type of pain he felt most often, though, and he wasn’t as well practiced at ignoring it. His wings only hurt when he manifested them, and he didn’t manifest them often.
He also hadn’t flown at any point in the past thousand years or so. He was definitely out of practice.
Still, the landscape passed swiftly underneath him. He soared above the Nile, across the sandy desert, over the shade of oases. Still no sign of Aziraphale.
The brilliant light of the midday sun was even more miserable from here. Crawley flicked a hand and miracled a pair of dark glasses, then crammed them on his face. That dropped the light level some, and he sighed in relief. At least that was one thing that hurt less.
His wings were not hurting less. The deep ache has graduated to a full burning now, a searing agony that might have dropped him out of the sky if he hadn’t been so intent on his goal. He had to find Aziraphale.
Finally, he spotted a figure sprawled in the sand below. Not moving.
Breathless, Crawley dove. He hit the ground hard enough to send shooting pain through his legs, too, and he yelped as he stumbled to a halt beside the limp form.
Aziraphale turned, looking up at him with glassy eyes. “Craw…ley?”
“Hi, yep. What’s wrong with you?” Trembling with pain, Crawley crouched down beside the angel and prodded his arm. “Are you hurt?”
“Not very much.” Aziraphale just laid there. “I got a trifle robbed by bandits, and they hit me rather a lot. My tummy hurts.”
Crawley hovered a hand over Aziraphale’s belly, focusing his attention on the injuries, and inhaled sharply. “Oh, Satan.”
Aziraphale looked around again. “Oh no, where?”
“Er.” Crawley awkwardly patted Aziraphale’s arm. “Not here, s’ okay. I just meant that you’re really hurt. Bleeding internally.”
“Well, why didn’t you… say so?” Aziraphale replied, cross.
“I just did.” After a deep breath, bracing again, Crawley swept one wing up to shield Aziraphale from the sun. Last thing Aziraphale needed was heat stroke. “How do you feel aside from your… tummy?”
“Sore.” Aziraphale screwed his eyes shut. “And rather warm.”
“Nh, yeah. S’ a hot day.” At least Crawley had gotten here quickly, despite the distance. “Listen, I’m gonna heal you. Just lie still.”
He swallowed hard, then channeled a careful healing miracle into the area. Aziraphale moaned as he repaired the damage, and Crawley murmured an apology. But discomfort was better than Aziraphale discorporating from internal bleeding.
After the miracle, Aziraphale opened his eyes again. He blinked a few times, then gave Crawley a tiny smile. “Oh. That feels much, much better. Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.” Exhausted, muscles trembling, Crawley collapsed into a seated position. He kept his wing up despite the pain. “You’re not hurt anywhere else?”
“I suspect I’m a touch banged up all over, but that was the only serious thing. I think.” Sniffling, Aziraphale blinked a few times and glanced around. “Goodness, I’m awfully far out in the desert. How did you find me?”
Oh shit, Crawley did not want to try to explain that. Especially when he wasn’t really sure himself. But he tried not to lie to Aziraphale, in general. “Er. I felt that you were in danger.”
“You what?”
“I felt that you were in danger.” Crawley’s wings ached even more as he got more stressed, and he glared. “I dunno how it works, I just felt it. Came looking for you.”
Aziraphale smiled, reaching to squeeze his hand. “Well. However it works, I do appreciate it.”
Embarrassed, Crawley grumbled vaguely and looked away. It really was undemonic to rush to the aid of an angel, but Aziraphale was his friend. Helping him was worth both embarrassment and pain.
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✨ Weekly Tag Wednesday ✨
Thanks for the tags @mybrainismelted @heymrspatel @creepkinginc @deedala @energievie @darlingian I'm having a bad mental health day and reading through your responses is bringing me a lot of joy ❤️
Name: Jess
Age: A Nosho and a half
First Pet? My dog Chelsea
First Word? Absolutely no idea. It was probably something sarcastic.
First Celebrity Crush? Jonathan Taylor Thomas (JTT!), followed quickly by Leo and Joshua Jackson. Ahh the days of Tiger Beat posters.
First IRL Crush? Gary, he did not know I existed. BUT he grew up to be even more handsome so no shame.
First kiss? Ryan (I think his name was Ryan? I can picture his bleached hair. It was an awful kiss.)
First Car? A white Jeep Cherokee Laredo with pink and teal stripes fondly called the 'Super Jeep' by everyone in my class
First apartment/house/dorm/whatever away from your parents? A truly horrible basement apartment my sister found me in Montreal. The vibes were NOT vibing.
First time on a plane? I was very lucky and travelled a lot from a little age
First cellphone? Ummmm some shitty LG probably?
First concert? Sheryl Crow came through my tiny town for reasons I don't understand
First Foreign country you visited? England or Hawaii (guess that's 'Merica), can't remember
First sport you ever played? Cycling at 28. I did not sports before that, I read books like the dork I am 🤓
First career aspiration? A writer
And finally… tell me about the first time you wrote/drew/created/whatever something that made you think "wow": Hmmm never really been proud of my writing until now. I used to write I was just well aware it was awful. Or it was like a press release and there was nothing 'wow' about it.
Proving once again I cannot do one word answers lmao
Tagging you wonderful humans. No pressure, just saying hi! @gallapiech @mickeysgaymom @francesrose3 @sandrashaine @ninjacrowworld @sgtmickeyslaughter @gardenerian @stocious @transmurderbug @transmickey @tv-obssessions @ms-moonlight-inn @rayrayor @samantitheos @blue-disco-lights @sluttygallavich @batty4steddie @such-a-barbarian @gallavichsuperfan @guinguin1984 @doshiart @spookygingerr @ifallonblackdays @bellezabelize @callivich @look-i-love-u @krysmiss @palepinkgoat
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Platonic!SWF 2 x VA!Reader
Part 1
Next |
Word count: 1k
Warnings: I don't know how the real world works apparently
Notes: I finally gave into my temptations and made one despite the fact that I have zero experience writing for real people. Lemme know how it goes.
I'll be honest, it's mostly gonna be JR, Bebe and Tsubakill, with half Mannequeen/1Million and not so much of LadyBounce, Wolf'Lo and Deep n' Dap.
Ling looked up from her phone. "Hey, Kristen. You said we wanted another person right?"
Kristen looked at her in confusion. It was about a week before they had to send in their member count and while she satisfied the team requirements with five, it couldn't hurt to have an extra person for safety.
"Uhm.Yeah. Why? Do you have someone?"
Ling went back to staring at her phone and scrolling through something. "Yeah. Just a sec. Any minute now."
Whatever it was that Ling was waiting for drew the rest of the people in the studio in. Audrey and Emma briefly stopped their playful banter about a tik tok dance to look at their oldest member. Latrice took out an earbud from where she was working on a choreograph. Kristen walked over to where Ling was and peered at her screen. She was staring at the Jam Republic 'Meet Our Artists' page. Over and over again, each time, reloading the page.
She eventually scrolled to the name she was looking for. [Name]. Upon further clicking of the profile the name to pop up was '[Name] Zhang'. Below that was a description of her accomplishments in dance.
"Yes!" Ling nearly shouted, pumping her fist. "Guys, meet my sister, the potential 6th member of the Street Woman Fighter 2's Jam Republic team."
She turned her phone to face her other team members. They all came to crowd around her to look at her phone. "Wah! She looks so young!" Audrey, the youngest in the group, looked quite interested in a potential younger member.
"She is. She's 19 and just transferred to a Cal State from Community college in Cali." Ling looked at her sister's picture. "She's working towards a major in theatrics and the best part is... She's a voice actor."
Emma looked a bit perplexed. "If she's a voice actor, how is she in Jam Republic?"
Ling only smirked. "She is a choreographer and a voice actor."
Kristen smiled at the older girl. "Well, can we see a video of her dancing? I don't want to exactly say now but I want to see her skill level first."
Latrice butt in. "Wait—. Does she go by any pseudonym or something like that?"
That brought everyone's attention back to Ling. "Uh. Yeah. I think she goes by Sino in the show biz. Like she uses [Nsme] Zhang as her dance name and everything else uses Sino."
Latrice looked excited. "You mean the Sino who choreographed some of the Descendants 3 dances at 15? The one who helped with the live action Mulan fight scenes?"
Everyone was taken aback by Latrice's excitement as well as the supposed new information. "Let me ask."
Ling opened her phone contacts and clicked on a contact named 'the talented 🎤'.
"Yup. According to her, that's it." Ling looked up from her phone.
Audrey looked at Ling. "You must be so proud of her to do that at such a young age."
Ling smiled at their current youngest member. "I am."
Everyone could hear the pride in Ling's voice. Her eyes lit up again before she opened YouTube on her phone and showed them a short of what seemed to be [Name] dancing a choreography to 'Boyfriend' by Dove Cameron. It was quite the sexy song and somehow it fit [Name] very well. Her moves were very flowy but held a lot of energy. Her sultry expressions worked well, making her seem older than she actually was. [Name] finished in a floor pose before she got up, giggling a bit and the video cut.
Everyone collectively awed at the adorableness that was displayed at the end of the video. “Yeah. I’ll add her if she wants. Do we need to get her a plane ticket as well?”
“No need. She’s at the University of Seoul as a student exchange student for the semester. Going there for theatrics, dance and, surprisingly, foods." Ling looked at her phone again.
It rang and she picked up. The screen showed [Name], seemingly in bed. "Hey, Ling Ling. What's up?"
[Name]'s voice was soft, but rough. She was supported by a red covered pillow, her hair was thrown in a messy bun that rested on her head and her phone seemed to be propped against the head end of the bed frame. Her sleepy, half-lidded eyes were framed by round black glasses. "Hi [Name]. I'm with the girls here."
Ling panned the camera, each member waving at the screen.
"Hi."
"Hello."
"Hey."
"Hiii!"
"Hello to Kristen, Latrice, Emma and Audrey, I believe." [Name] looked up, trying to remember each member's name by face. When she got confirmation that she was right, she smiled a soft smile. It took a lot for everyone to not 'aww' at her cuteness.
"So, is there a reason you are calling me…" She seemed to look slightly to the upper left corner of her phone. "... at 06:15 in the morning? Like I can understand a text but a call?"
The girls exchanged glances and a chuckle. "Uh yeah. That would be my fault." Kristen said.
[Name] raised her eyebrow, "Mmm. And why is that?"
"Well I was wondering if you would like to be a part of our group for Street Woman Fighter 2. While 5 people is enough, it would make me feel better if we had another, you know?" Kristen looked a bit shy as she spoke.
[Name] pushed the bridge of her glasses up her nose as her face contorted into a contemplating look. "On what days? I have three classes on Saturday and that's it."
Due to [Name] being an exchange student, she didn’t need to take the necessary classes that most Korean students must take and it just so happened that her classes/lectures were all on the same day. Theatrics first thing in the morning at 08:00 and would span out for 2 hours. Food started at 13:00 and again ended two hours later. Dance would not begin until 18:00 and go till 20:00. (I must preface this by saying that I have never been in an exchange program before so not all of this is accurate. And yes, I use military time, if I have to do math for the ‘normie’ people, then you can do math for me.)
“Mhm… We don’t know yet actually. We can just catch you up on things when you’re not here.” Ling propped her phone on the studio mirror and sat back.
[Name] rubbed her eyes behind her glasses before pushing up the frame. “Yeah, sure.” She yawned.”My apartment building was rented out for people so i can only assume that would be for the competition. So tell them not to worry about the room placement for me.”
She scrubbed her hand over her face, brought her book in front of her before looking at the camera. “All right, If that’s all, I’mma get back to reading.”
“Nah. All good here, sis, thanks. Love you.” Ling picked up the phone as everyone waved behind her.
She ended the call, smiling at her two worlds meeting.
#swf 2 x reader#tikitsune's writings#street woman fighter 2#street woman fighter 2 x reader#bebe x reader#jam republic (swf 2) x reader#tsubakill x reader#mannequeen x reader#1million x reader#¿ladybounce x reader?#¿wofl'lo x reader?#deep n' dap x reader
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weekly tag wednesday! 💫
thanks for the tag @energievie @deedala @creepkinginc @rereadanon @heymrspatel @darlingian @transmurderbug @sgtmickeyslaughter 💜
Name: jessie
Age: 34
First Pet? some fish! and then my beagle 🩷
First Word? mama, i think
First Celebrity Crush? i didn't have any when i was a kid. i don't know when i started having crushes on celebrities but i was a lot older and don't remember who the first was.
First IRL Crush? i started having irl crushes when i was like 5 lmao. i had a crush on my friend in kindergarten and he was my ~boyfriend~
First kiss? i genuinely have no idea. the thing is, when i was like 13-17 i kissed everyone i knew lmaoooo. i was a makeout machine. i don't know who the first one was and it's been driving me crazy for years!
First Car? a 2001 saturn sl1 lol. it was dark green with a beige interior and it was a grandpa car and i loved it
First apartment/house/dorm/whatever away from your parents? i moved out when i was 19 and my first place was literally 300 sq feet and it was in the woods and it was actually kinda scary lol. i didn't even live there for a year.
First time on a plane? trip to france when i was 16
First cellphone? sidekick when i was 17, that thing was sick
First concert? i don't know the first time i was brought to see live music as a kid, but the first time i bought tickets and went to a show was marilyn manson ughh. TWENTYYY years ago. i am old
First Foreign country you visited? canada
First sport you ever played? i was dragged kicking and screaming to soccer for traumatization rituals
First career aspiration? well you see i thought i was going to be the best veterinarian in the world because i simply understood animals better than everyone else
And finally… tell me about the first time you wrote/drew/created/whatever something that made you think "wow" i can't think of a specific time. maybe just when i got super into drawing in middle and high school and was like hey wow i could be good at something, that's cool.
tagging @howlinchickhowl @whatwouldmickeydo @whatthebodygraspsnot @gallawitchxx @gardenerian @mmmichyyy @crossmydna @sisitrip @ohkate @palepinkgoat if you feel like playing 🖤🌸
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weekly tag game! thank you for tagging me @mybrainismelted! 🫂
Name: kakak
Age: almost 33 (on friday!)
First Pet? we always had lots of pets but my mom had two bordercollies when i was a kid and one of them was "mine" (he followed me around) and the other was my brothers (he followed my brother around) - cliff and viggo.
First Word? i have no idea. i do know i said håka (my brother) and göt (porridge) pretty early though.
First Celebrity Crush? that one dude from westlife. no not that one, the other one.
First IRL Crush? his name was rickard and we slow danced once and i about passed out.
First kiss? my first boyfriend, jimmy.
First Car? hyundai accent ls. i drove into a ditch two weeks after getting it.
First apartment/house/dorm/whatever away from your parents? i moved out in the bgeinning of high school because the commute was shit. it was a, eh studio? i think it's called in english.
First time on a plane? i went to cyprus with my granddad and his family.
First cellphone? some brick nokia in first grade.
First concert? actual well known band? die antwoord in like, 2018?
First Foreign country you visited? norway, like most swedes.
First sport you ever played? i didn't. i was a horse girl.
First career aspiration? author or vet. like most lil girly kids.
And finally… tell me about the first time you wrote/drew/created/whatever something that made you think "wow" i wrote a lot of short stories as a teenager and published them online, and i remember thinking i was so ~cool and ~smart for writing it and finishing it. i still have it somewhere but i don't dare read it.
tagging from my notes (if you feel like it): @transmurderbug @transmickey @creepkinginc @jessieoneday @spacerockwriting @sleepyheadgallavich @jackdanielsxorangejuice @iansw0rld @doshiart @mickeym4ndy @ian-galagher @vintagelacerosette @rereadanon @iandarling @mmmichyyy @darlingian @krysmiss @nyhmeriah @just-survive-here 🖤
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Feel Better
A/N: I have so many other projects I need to be working on, but I had a migraine yesterday which inspired this- which began innocently as a hurt/comfort and ended in Elriel smut. 🫠
Warning: Explicit, NSFW
Elain had a headache. A terrible, pounding pressure inside of her skull that would not relent, no matter how much remedy powder she ingested or peppermint she placed on the fluttering pulse of her wrist and neck.
As soon as she had finished training with Rhys, as they had taken to doing twice a week in the evenings, she had dragged herself to her room and drew herself a hot bath in the dark. Two faelights in the corner of the room the only light she allowed in, as even the gentle golden glow flickering from them threatened to send another searing bright light through her temple.
The training sessions only seemed to aggravate her mind, stirring up the latent power of her visions like a dust cloud that had been laying peacefully dormant before she had begun the exercises meant to enforce her shields, as well as draw out whatever she could from her prophecies. An admittedly somewhat desperate attempt to control at what she was given, and when.
Elain was tired.
Beyond the sessions with Rhys, since spring had made its appearance in Velaris she had thrown herself headfirst into gardening once again, a welcome distraction from the sharp shears being taken to the tightly wound vines of her mind.
And then of course, there was him.
Elain sunk into the water, which was still so hot that steam curled up and around her bare body like wisps of smoke and shadow. She did not hiss in pain, but rather groaned in relief at the temporary redirection of agony from her head to the top of her skin, already turning bright pink in the near boiling water.
She threw her unbound curls up loosely at the top of her head, and rested her neck against the curled porcelain lip of the white tub. The cool surface above the water a balm to her near fevered flesh.
Closing her eyes, she relished in the peace of darkness, the quiet. Embraced the scald of the water lapping at the top of her chest and everywhere beneath it.
And then, a shift in the very matter of the room before her. So subtle, so silent, it was a miracle that she could detect it. But she always could, and seemingly always a moment before anyone else did.
She treasured those seconds, that singular breath plucked from the tapestry of time when it was only her that could sense him.
When she finally opened her dark brown eyes again, pupils wide and dilated, she watched the shadows cast by the faelights across the room stutter, and then smoothly lengthen, stretching toward her across the room.
The toe of a worn leather boot made its appearance first, emerging from the dark form on the floor like a shell revealed by a shrinking tide. Then the leg of a pant, a broad, leather-covered chest, and then finally, a sharp face so beautiful it was if he had been hand-carved by the Mother herself.
She watched as he pulled himself through the darkness, stepping out of the shadows and into the light.
He watched her in turn, assessing as he drank her in. A thirsty, starving male.
Dull, lifeless eyes met his own hazel ones. Blue half moons had begun to emerge through the delicate skin above her cheeks, somewhat hidden by a smattering of freckles that had begun to emerge in the early summer sun. But there was no part of her that he did not see.
The space between her brows was furrowed, and he longed to smooth it away, to heal any hurt that she felt with whispered kisses to wherever she felt pain.
Azriel said nothing, as he approached her. His shadows racing ahead of him to take up sentry in front of the bobbing faelights, dulling them even further, while a second traitorous bunch rushed for Elain, wrapping themselves like silk around her aching shoulders and neck, twisting in her bound curls and sliding across the planes of her face, providing a cool relief to her burning forehead and rosy cheeks.
So, a headache then, he surmised.
The shadowsinger shooed the errants wisps of darkness away from Elain as he walked to stand behind her in the tub, sinking down to his knees on the bathroom floor.
Elain made to say something, to start to get out of the tub, but he silenced her with a gentle hum as he placed her scarred hands on the perfect, pale skin of her shoulders. They too, had not been immune from the sun’s rays, and were covered in a light layer of smattered freckles.
With the first squeeze of his hands, thumbs running up the back of her neck and then back down again, Elain let out a low sigh and let her eyes flutter shut once more.
Just as he used those hands to inflict unspeakable horror on traitors to their Court, so could he also use them to soothe, he had discovered. He could see them as something other than the horrible tragedy and pain that they had witnessed, and could now appreciate the comfort, the relief that they could bring Elain. The strength of his hands could coax even the deepest knots from her muscles. The ridged, mangled texture of his fingers could only aid in his attempts to make her scream as he brought her pleasure.
“Beautiful,” she had once told him. And now, with the female before him leaning into his touch, a beacon of light even as she suffered, he could finally believe her.
Elain took deep breaths as he worked, breathing in each note of his scent like a glass of wine as she drank him in, melting under his touch. Even as her head continued to pound, the tightness at the base of her neck and shoulders had begun to dissipate, and she let the rest of her muscles still submerged relax under the lapping water of the tub.
When she could not bear his distance any longer, and her muscles felt loose and light, she beckoned him, needing the relief that the feel of his skin on hers brought in a way that nothing else did.
“Can you hold me?” She asked, her voice a rough whisper in the silent room.
Azriel leaned down and pressed a warm kiss to the back of her neck.
“Always,” he breathed, tickling the point of her ear with a gentle tug of his teeth.
Leather boots were lined up neatly by the door, soon joined by the rest of his training gear, and the tunic and soft pants wore underneath.
Bare footsteps made their way back to her across the tiled floor, and Elain leaned forward, her body slow and heavy after he had massaged her so thoroughly.
The water rose as he sank down behind her, gently tugging her back against his chest once he was seated. His wings outstretched and hanging over the side of the smaller tub not built for Illyrians, let alone two fae.
Azriel bent his head down to press a kiss to the wet skin of her neck, breathing in slowly so as to appreciate the honey and jasmine and earthiness that was unique to Elain. Her scent a balm to his own headaches, his own troubles.
Elain’s scent shifted as he worshipped the fluttering pulse he found there, wrapping his arms around her chest to keep her close.
“I know something else that may help…”
His voice was a low, dark rumble in her ear, and she relished in the vibration of his chest she felt against her back.
Azriel slid his large hands over the tops of her smooth thighs underneath the water, before slipping them underneath either of her knees, lifting slowly to bring them to rest on the outside of his thighs, parting her for him.
His intentions made clear, Elain let out a desperate, “Yes, please.”
He loosed a low hum of approval.
“Relax then, dear…”
He moved to sink further into the tub, using gravity to shift her higher on his chest so that she could lean her head back, tilting to rest her nape against his shoulder and breathing in his delicious scent emanating from the pulse of his neck.
She couldn’t help but watch with hooded eyes as he set her skin alight underwater.
One hand reached back up to palm her breast, a firm, indulgent rub. Every now and again pausing to circle and then tug gently on its point.
The other trailed lazily from the top of her knee, up her inner thigh. Skimming the skin so gently but still managing to tighten a knot in her lower belly.
He started by tracing a finger up the center of her, almost as if it was an afterthought as he parted her slit only to end at the pleasure of her peak, circling the sensitive nub with a firm touch.
They both watched as it hardened under the small circles of his ridged flesh, and Elain felt a pressure against the small of her back. Evidence of his own arousal.
She tried to reach behind her, to grasp him. But he merely chided her with a low hum and tightened his one arm around her as he continued lathing attention to her breast.
“Close your eyes, my love.”
Elain obeyed, and the soothing balm of darkness greeted her once more. She felt the unmistakeable whisper of a shadow slide across the bones of her cheeks and come to rest over her closed eyelids. Its cold touch helping to alleviate any remaining furrow between her brows.
That feeling in her belly tightened as he slid two fingers into her, curling and stroking even as the small circles of his thumb at her apex continued.
“Azriel,” Elain moaned his name sweetly, turning her flushed cheek to meet the hollow of his shoulder.
He felt her core tighten around him suddenly.
How he loved worshipping her. How he had become addicted to her pleasure, ever since the night that he had begged on his knees to taste her.
“Good girl, you’re so close…” he soothed, recognizing the tells of her body so well that he could chart her like a map.
Her loosened muscles tensed in his hold, and he gently pinched a nipple as he decided to see how much more she could take before she fell of the edge.
A third finger made its way inside of her, filling her deliciously as the knot inside of her belly pulled.
Her breaths came quicker, fast huffs of breath against his neck as she writhed beneath him.
“You deserve this…” Azriel praised, voice low and rough as he curled those three fingers against the spot inside of her that he had sought out on their first sacred night together.
Elain fell, bucking beneath him as she cried out and water splashed over the edge of the tub. He only held her tighter to him, whispering praise and adorations in her ear as she saw stars.
“Yes, Elain, good girl…”
Blinding pleasure so potent that it sent shivers from the top of her head to her toes, eradicating the stubborn pressure in her head with its radiance.
When at last she regained composure, and the blindfold of shadows had slipped down and returned to its post, Elain let herself full sink back against Azriel’s warm chest as he wrapped his arms around her fully once more.
“Do you feel better?” He asked, pressing a kiss to the side of her temple.
“Actually, yes,” Elain sighed, light returning to her eyes as she turned and looked up at him, a playful glint returned to her expression. “Now, do you have a headache?”
Azriel laughed. He was so, helplessly in love.
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You promised me better kill
Graves X Rusalka Reader.
The powerful and rich Philip Graves has it all - money, connections, and a beautiful woman at his side. But something is off with her and wrong. Very, very wrong.
A Rusalka is a being from Eastern-European folklore. They are not mermaids and don't have a fish tail but are connected to water. They are supposedly very beautiful and are linked in stories to drowning and cannibalising men who want them harm.
CN sexual harassment, cannibalism, gore, blood. Graves has the wrong type of sugarbabe. <3
From afar she was a pretty set of tits and ass, a sweet face turned eye candy, turned girlfriend, turned unpaid assistant to her rich and powerful man.
From afar she was pretty lips - smiling and whispering nice words with that slightly unplaceable accent as she did a secretary's work for the Shadow himself, Commander Philip Graves.
From afar she was a lucky girl being spoiled and protected from the world by the secretive founder of the infamous Shadow Company, always dressed up nicely and pleasing to see hanging from his arm.
Yes, from afar it was a nice sight - her and the man.
The pinnacle of success. The living american dream. The big house and perfect hair and black AMEX.
But getting a bit closer the scenery disintegrated into pieces, rotten and decaying. Like him. Like her.
It started on a private jet. Graves and a selected handful of men in his charge were travelling back home to the US. He had wanted it to be a relaxed occasion. A nice reward to travel more private after all the blood and grime and hustle.
“Hey commander!” One of the rookies called as he leaned back and pressed against the pretty girl. “Hadn’t expected you to be the type to share.”
She only stared at the bottle of water in her hands, watching the little waves caused by the vibrations of the plane.
“I hardly have a say in what she does. Or who.” Philip Graves called back as he opened up another bottle of champagne. Of course it was champagne even if any sparkling wine would have done it for a bunch of men drinking it just for the air of exclusivity and hardly the taste.
“Well then, doll.” The man tried seductively. “Would you mind sitting on my lap?”
She looked up, cold eyes that pierced into his and warned him that he might regret it.
“Why?” Her words peeled off her tongue like drops of water.
“Because you have a nice ass I want to feel it, sugartits.”
She smiled, beautiful and hot and dangerous with lovely red lips and sharp teeth.
Instead of a word she leaned over, raising her leg gracefully over his lap and up until she straddled him. The short skirt she wore sliding up slightly only helped up further by the calloused hands that grabbed her bum.
“You are a wild one.” The man huffed in surprise. “Adventurous. I like that. I can see why Graves has you.”
“Has me?” She asked, confused. “I have him. And now, I have you too.”
The man chuckled. “Sure. Whatever you say, honey.”
Her fingers trailed up his shoulders and up to the collar of his shirt.
“I like your shirt. Nice colour.” She stated. “Would you mind getting it off for me for what comes next?”
The man's eyes wandered behind her to the commander.
“Told you, I have no say in this.” Graves declared with a shrug and turned away to attend to the other men further up the plane in the passenger area, leaving the man alone with her.
“Well then, allow me to get out of this.” The man stated and slightly leaned away from the girl in his lap, unbuttoning his silken shirt and throwing it onto the floor.
She hummed approvingly, nodding as if he had done something good.
“Alright, dear, let’s continue this to its logical conclusion.” He mused and grabbed her by the hip.
“Yes. Agreed.” Another pragmatic nod from her that slightly confused him. “I am hungry.”
“Allow me to satisfy-”
She leaned closer, grabbing him by the neck and bit him.
With a gurgling sound paired with the crunch of tendons and bones being torn and crushed, she drew blood and a mouthful of flesh. His armed flailed up, confused at first and he wanted to shove her off but she only swatted away his weakening arms. Next was an attempt to scream. He wanted to call for help but she grabbed him by the jaw, forcing his mouth shut with inhuman strength and leaving nothing but a muffled sound out of his desperate lips. His eyes turned from dazed, to panicked, to lifeless as she held him like that until he stopped moving. Then, she took another bite, tasting and finally grimacing disapprovingly before sliding off his lap.
“Having fun?”
It was Graves standing in the room, shielding her from the sight of the other men on the plane.
“You promised me better kill, Philipp.” She cleared her throat. “This one tasted like bad financial decisions since 17, alcoholism and a couple of failed marriages.”
“Not my problem, you are a picky eater.” He said casually.
“I could always eat you.”
He nodded as he grabbed a blanket and strategically placed it over the dead man while closing his eyes. With a bit of good will he looked like he was sleeping.
“You could.” Philipp Graves admitted. “But I am hardly tastier than him.”
The girl eyed first the dead man, then the commander. Some considered Graves good looking, his smile may even pass as charming. And the man knew how to dress himself while also never skipping a chance to work out and enjoy a homemade meal. But she knew better than to be tricked by looks, a good life and a bit of hair gel.
“Yeah you are right.” She concluded. “You are old. And your meat would be too tough.”
“Right.” He sighed and grabbed a serviette to tenderly wipe off the blood from her face. “Just my meat would not help you with your little culinary adventures. Imagine the hustle of getting off this plane while having to explain a body.”
She shrugged and grabbed the silken shirt on the floor with her nice ass up for a short little moment.
“I don’t. That’s your job, Philipp.” Her eyes gleamed up at him - innocently and big, enticing and inviting with that sweet mouth and cute face of hers. “Look at this, Phil. The colour of my new shirt is so pretty. It works with my skin. You never get me stuff like this.”
She pulled off her bloodied blouse, standing in front of him half-naked before slowly buttoning the new shirt over her bare chest without losing eye-contact. He dared not to look down, to peak at her bare body and beautiful curves and luscious skin so close he could feel the heat emanating off of her as she moved.
He swallowed.
“Pardon me, Princess.” He huffed. “I’ll think of that the next time I’mma getting you something pretty. Right after I’ll clean up this mess of yours.”
Her fingers trailed up his chest until it brushed over his shoulders, neck and chin. The commander held his breath as she leaned closer and got on her toes before she gave him a little peck on the cheek, her breasts brushing up to him for a moment too short to enjoy yet to close not to notice.
“Thank you, Philipp. You are the best.”
She wandered off, joining the other men again and leaving Graves alone with the body draped like a sleeping person and a bloody blouse on the floor.
He allowed himself a short moment, standing there and taking it all in. Then he grabbed the blouse, hid it under the blanket with the body and returned to join his men and the woman in his life everybody believed to be his.
#supporting womens rights is out supporting womens wrongs is in#grimmwriting#philip graves x reader#philip graves#cod mw2#cod modern warfare#cod graves#cod philip graves#rusalka
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sometimes it feels like teeth
chippin away at @febuwhump with day 12: semi-conscious. A reunion in the alienage for Ariya & Cyrion, where she must face the fact that she cannot save them all.
read it on ao3 here
Female Tabris & Cyrion Tabris | Rated T | 1629 words | CW: mercy killing, blood & injury, illness, slave trade
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No sooner had the slaver’s corpse hit the floor than Ariya was at the cage, shaking hands picking open the lock. The metal door sprang open and she pulled each of her captured family from the brink of despair. Some did look ill; before she could even speak, Alistair pulled poultices from their packs and set to work.
Thank you, she mouthed.
“Amore.” Zevran gestured to the back of the cage with his chin. A few figures remained and the bottom of Ariya’s stomach dropped out as she recognized the familiar dips and planes of her father’s silhouette. He was staring directly at her, mouth parted in disbelief.
“Papa,” she breathed, and then she was at his side, running battered hands over him, checking for injuries, praying incoherently that she had not arrived too late. His arms came around her and squeezed.
“I’m fine, da’len, I’m fine,” her murmured. Tears choked his voice, but when she pulled back they were tears of joy that matched the bittersweet smile on his face. “You came back for us. My darling girl.”
“Of course I did. I’m sorry I—“ her guilt swallowed her apology, surrounded as she was by the echoes of those already gone. Was that Valendrian’s blood on the wall? Leah’s tooth in the corner? “I should have gotten here sooner.”
“That you came at all is a miracle.”
A noise behind him drew Cyrion from the bubble of reunion. He grimaced and held out a hand when Ariya looked beyond him.
“You probably shouldn’t—“
“It’s okay, papa,” she said softly. “Whatever it is, I’ve…seen worse.”
Cyrion’s face fell. He shifted aside so Ariya could see the reason he’d remained in the cage. One of the younger elves was propped in the corner, skin ashen and sallow. Her hair was brushed away from her face from gentle caresses to soothe her suffering.
“Oh, Gwen,” Ariya whispered. She knelt beside her father and took a clammy hand. Gwen’s hazy eyes slid in and out of focus, but her head lolled in the direction of Ariya’s voice.
“Ari?” she mumbled. “issat you?”
“Yeah. It’s me.”
“Gwendollyn was one of the first taken,” Cyrion said grimly. “I doubt she’d still be here if not for how sick she is.”
“Why is she so much sicker? The rest of you seem fine?” No sooner had she voiced the thought than the chilling realization that they might not actually be fine came to Ariya. But her father shook his head and gripped her leg reassuringly.
“We’re alright. Relatively. Gwen was—well—“ Cyrion drew aside Gwen’s dirty tunic, revealing a bandage that covered most of her abdomen. The blood that soaked it was dark—darker than it should be, even wounded like this, and the Blight in Ariya’s veins called out to this distant cousin of disease.
“Jumped in front of Mara’s little boy,” Gwen muttered, fingers fluttering vaguely over the wound. “Made a bad cough already worse and now we’re here.”
Ariya squeezed her hand. “For Tommy, of course. Oh, falon.”
“Just following your example.” Her lips twitched like they were trying to smile. “Since you were gone, someone else had to be the hero.”
“I don’t feel much like a hero today.”
Gwen’s brow dipped. “Of course you are. All these” —a cough wracked her wasting frame— “all of our family. You saved them—again.”
“I’m not so sure I did,” Ariya sighed. “The damage to the alienage…”
Cyrion winced.
“It will heal,” said Gwen, a faraway smile painted on her face. “Doesn’t it always?”
“Speaking of healing—“
“Amore—“ Zevran knocked against the cage, rattling the bars so they echoed in the now empty chamber. The last of the freed elves had left with Alistair and Morrigan as their guards back to safety. Piles of Tevinter corpses had been shoved aside and scraped of any valuable loot— including a beautiful dagger with snakes wrapped about the hilt, which glinted where Zevran spun it between his fingers.
“We need to be going,” he said, not unkindly. They’d traveled together enough that he recognized what Ariya had not yet acknowledged and there was sympathy in the smile he gave her. “The arl awaits our counsel and” —he tapped the documents tucked safely in his belt— “we have information that should be shared.”
“Of course.” To Ariya’s surprise, Cyrion stood readily, dusting his hands. Her confusion was only momentary, though, as he said, “Between the two of us we can probably move Gwen, I’d have done it myself if not for the condition of my knees.”
“Papa…” Ariya did not look at her father. Her eyes stuck on Gwen’s sallow face, tracing the bony edges of her weakened body, looking for something that defied what she knew to be true. But there was nothing. Ariya knew it, Zevran knew it, and, judging by the resignation in Gwen’s eyes, she did too. Only Cyrion still deluded himself.
Now Ariya had the unenviable task of giving words to dread and despair.
“She’s not just ill, papa,” Ariya said. “She’s…it’s a Blight sickness. Even if we took her back to the alienage, it would only be so she could die a painful death in lacking comfort.”
“What—but—we cannot leave her here! The cots in the alienage are rough, I know, but they are better than a cold floor and a cage. And if you intend to depart—well, I will not leave her to die alone.”
“Of course not.” Ariya’s hand rested on the hilt of her sheathed dagger, waiting. She still wasn’t looking at her father, but instead watching every half-conscious twitch of Gwen’s face. It seemed that she was slipping farther with every passing second, her eyes glazed and drifting, unseeing.
“How do you know for sure?” Cyrion demanded. “It could just be a rare disease—not that these Tevinters knew anything, but Alarith might have some potion, or know something!”
His fervor made Ariya wonder—Gwen had been a good friend, yes, though never so beloved by her father. But there had been a gap when Duncan took Ariya from the alienage; it seemed her father had filled it with another. She could not begrudge him that, but it still made her heart ache up into her throat.
“No.” She shook her head and finally met her father’s sputtering directly. “It is the Blight. I can sense it, now.”
I am not the daughter you remember went unspoken. There are things I can do now that you never wanted for me.
But this is how it is.
“I see. What do you propose, then?”
Ariya’s hand clenched around her dagger “It is unpleasant but…” she glanced down. “I’m sorry, Gwen, I’m so sorry. But a quick death is kinder, in the end.”
A long sigh deflated what little tension Gwen still held. Her head jerked in the semblance of a nod.
“Would you believe me if I said it was a relief?” she asked weakly. “I have felt it coming for days now. And—“
Her voice trailed off, eyes drifting around the room aimlessly before snapping back to Ariya. She blinked rapidly.
“If it is to be this way, I am glad it is you, falon.”
“I understand.” And she did, though she could not share the sentiment. Ariya pulled her dagger free. “You might not want to watch this,” she told her father.
“It’s okay, da’len,” Cyrion echoed. “Whatever you do…I’ve seen much worse, now.”
A pause, then Ariya nodded. She grasped the back of Gwen’s head, her fingers tangling a grip in the greasy strands of her short hair. In the depths of her foggy eyes, Ariya saw a world long lost: afternoons scampering about the alienage, swiping meat pies from window sills and climbing things that ought not be climbed. It hurt, so she squeezed her eyes tight, hot tears spilling over her cheeks.
One of Gwen’s clammy hands brushed over her knuckles, too weak for a proper grip.
“It’s alright,” she slurred, her awareness fading with every passing second. “See Deidre again. And rest. I want to rest.”
“You deserve to rest,” Ariya whispered, a steel to her heart as much as a pleading for her friend. She opened her eyes and brought the dagger to Gwen’s throat. It shook and steadying her hand was a useless endeavor.
“I am sorry, my friend,” she said. It was not as unfamiliar a pose as she would have hoped. But even after all this time—well, perhaps she should only start to worry if it did get easier. “May the Maker guide you safely in the Beyond.”
A smile spread across Gwen’s face just as Ariya slashed the dagger down. Blight-tinged blood sprayed from the mortal wound, but Ariya did not flinch. In a cold sort of horror, she realized she’d already offered the rag she carried to her father before any sort of anguish clenched her heart.
But such was the nature of war. It hardened even the softest soldiers—and Ariya had never been one of those.
She reached out and closed Gwen’s eyes. At her side, Cyrion sniffled, wiping his nose on her bloody, mucked up rag.
“We should go,” she said, a soft, gentleness to the request that she hadn’t bothered with for months.
“My little girl,” Cyrion said, so quietly she almost missed it. It wasn’t really for her anyway. “What happened to my little girl?”
Her heart clenched. I told you not to watch, she thought. I said you didn’t want to know.
But now he did. She tucked the bloody cloth into her pack and gestured for her father to go before her, so he would not have to look at her as they went.
There could be no turning back.
#febuwhump2024#febuwhumpday12#my writing#oc: ariya tabris#tabris#dragon age#dragon age fanfic#dragon age origins#dao#cyrion tabris#ws: nothing but my aching soul
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SATURDAY NIGHTS (ALRIGHT FOR FIGHTING)
Pairing: Rooster x Reader
Summary: Rooster is a dirty cheat but a good f:0ck
When Rooster proposed, “Whoever can withstand the most G’s for the longest time gets to be in charge of the losers actions for 24 hours.” and you replied with “Deal.” you didn’t realize how big of trouble you were about to find yourself in.
It has started off easy, pulling a kind 3 g’s and finally working your way up. Banter flew back and forth between you two as you pulled straight up, feeling the burn of gravity trying to pull you back down.
“6 g’s.” Rooster said, voice straining.
You looked down to check your gage. 5.9. You accelerated and pulled up into an even sharper vertical climb. “6.2” You reply.
You could hear his heavy breathing, fighting against the urge to pass out. His plane flew by, jet wash making yours tip slightly to the side. “6.3.” He called out.
Your vision was darkening but the idea of letting Rooster win over you was enough to keep you going.
You righted your plane and continued your climb up. The dial pushed 6.3 and was beginning to tick to 6.4 when another round of jet wash hit your system and your plane began to tilt more dramatically than the first time.
Rooster had positioned himself right in front you, not allowing you to go any faster and causing his engines to burn right in front of your aircraft. Cheater.
Warning lights began to appear and you had to make a call. Continue right behind and risk having to eject when things went south or tap out.
God, you hated Rooster.
“I’m out.” You say, voice hoarse. In a beautiful backwards dive, you let yourself fall, relishing the feeling of the g’s coming off.
“I knew you couldn’t handle it.” There was an audible smirk in his voice as he fell, joining you in the descent.
Once back on solid ground, out of your aircrafts and flight suits, Rooster made his way up to you, smiling like a kid in a candy shop.
“You ready to do whatever I say?” You rolled your eyes and crossing your arms. “Don’t be like that darlin’, a deal’s a deal.”
“You cheated!” You cried, pushing him back. “That should nullify the entire thing.”
“We never put any rules on it.” He defended. “No rules in war, anyways.”
You clenched your teeth. “We’re not in war.” You grit out.
“We’re always in war.” He said, taking a step forward and motioning between the two of you.
“Fuck you, Rooster.” You didn’t know what you expected his response to that would be, but definitely not him grabbing you by the arm and dragging you off to a storage closet.
He threw you inside and locked the door behind him.
“Get on your knees.” He growled out.
Heat flared through you - a mixture of anger and arousal.
“What?” You balk as he pulled at his belt.
“I said” he took two steps to you, long legs closing the distance quickly. A rough hand found it’s way to your shoulder and he pushed you down. “to get on your fucking knees.”
“You’re crazy…” you mumble, getting onto your knees nonetheless.
Rooster, finally getting his belt undone and pants unzipped, pushed them down to his knees, leaving his boxers on. Well now you definitely knew why they called him Rooster.
Your mouth watered as you watched him touch himself. He groaned out as he teased himself through the fabric. He looked down on you, eyes half lidded. “I’m in charge of you.”
A shiver of excitement rushed through you. Until this point, you had no idea there was even a tiny bit of sub in you but the way he spoke those words left you wanting him to talk like that more.
You looked up at him, big doe eyes, attempting to act innocent in hopes he would be rough again. He was. He grabbed your chin and stuck his thumb into your mouth, rolling it around on your tongue.
When you sucked on his finger, you were rewarded with a groan and his cock visibly twitched in his boxers. You kept sucking, closing your eyes and hallowing your cheeks. When he tried to pull his hand back, you bit down lightly.
His hand drew back quickly and swatted at your cheek. “Be a good girl for me.” You felt yourself clench around nothing at his sickeningly sweet tone. You repositioned so that you were sitting on your ankle, gently rolling yourself over your heel.
“You’re not cumming tonight unless it’s around my cock.” He said, making you halt your motions. You whined at the lose of friction and hoped he may take mercy on you. No such luck. “If you can prove yourself to be good, maybe I’ll fuck you.”
You were determined to show him just how good you could be.
You pulled down his boxers in a swift motion, eyes widening at the way his cock bounced up and against his chest.
Christ, how were you meant to get all this in your mouth?
You took your time, taking the tip into your mouth and swirling your tongue around. Rooster groaned, throwing his head back and tipping his hips further into your mouth.
You dropped your jaw, squeezing your thumb in hopes it would help you not gag. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of gagging around him.
You lowered yourself, nose pressing against his pubes. He had a musky scent that would probably be a turn off on anyone other than him.
Rooster thrusted his hips forward, shoving his cock further down your throat. You pulled back, sputtering at the sudden intrusion.
“Jesus fuck, Rooster, warn a girl next time.” You scolded.
When he looked down on you, you would swear it was biblical. Any anger disappeared.
His shirt was riding up and his abs were beginning to peak out. The overhead lights left a halo glow over his golden brown hair and a light glisten of sweat was beginning to form over his collarbones.
“Sorry babydoll, your mouth just feels so good.” Fuck him and his stupid dirty mouth. You felt a wave flow through you, squeezing your legs together.
Nothing went undetected by him.
“You like that, huh?” He asked, slowly moving his hips forward, back into your awaiting mouth. You swallowed around him, relishing in the way he groaned. “You like being talked to like a slut?”
His breath was labored as he gently gripped your chin. Bits of drool was collecting in the corners of your mouth and he wiped it away with his thumb.
Your hand came up to grip at his strong thigh, feeling it tense under your touch.
Rooster kept using your throat, chasing his high. You could tell he was trying to not gag you but failed as he got closer to his release.
He hit the back of your throat repeatedly, moaning out and cursing how god damn good you felt around him.
“Fuck, if your mouth feels this good, I can only guess what your pussy feels like.”
You moaned around him, hoping that he would come back for a second round and find out. His cock laid heavy and twitching on your tongue. When you ran your nails down his thigh, he bucked forward and you tasted the salty pre-cum in the back of your throat.
You ran your nails over him again, hoping for a similar reaction. He gave you what you were looking for, gripping into your hair roughly and using you for his own pleasure.
“Shit, gorgeous, your so good for me. Feel so good around my cock.” His voice was strained, pre-cum dribbling faster. “Where do you want me?”
He pulled out long enough for you to answer, stroking his cock as he waited.
You coughed, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “In my mouth, can’t let it get on my uniform.” You moan out, desperately chasing his hips, hoping to get him back into your mouth.
“Jesus,” he groaned as he sunk back into you.
Rooster began thrusting harder and faster, biting his lip to hold back his moans. He gripped your hair again as he came down your throat. You swallowed around him, trying to keep it all from coming out.
You felt some threaten to spill from your checks and you placed your hand beneath your mouth, keeping it from getting on your shirt.
When he pulled out, gasping and sweaty, trace amounts of cum came with it, falling into your hand. You swallowed all that was in your mouth before looking up at him. When you had his full attention, you made a show of licking your hand, trying to channel your inner porn star, sucking each finger clean.
“God damn baby, if I had known it would be this easy to get you on your knees, I would have cheated on a bet a long time ago.”
You jumped up quickly, wiping your sticky hand over his shirt.
“You little fucker.” You hissed. He laughed, tucking himself back into his boxers and pulling up his pants.“So you agree you cheated?”
He smirked, lop sided and goofy, sweat gleaning on his forehead. He pulled you in by the back of your neck, kissing you roughly.
His mustache tickled your upper lip as he deepened the kiss.
Slowly, it changed from hungry and desperate to a softer, more gentle kiss.
He pulled back, pressing your foreheads together. He took your clean hand and pressed it to his chest, allowing you to feel how it heaved.
“Meet me at my bunk tonight. 8:00.” He breathed. He pressed a quick kiss to you lips, pulled back and fixed your hair.
Bradley smiled down at you, eyes crinkling. Your heart was racing. He had caught you, hook, line and sinker.
“Don’t be late, that’s an order.” And with that, he gave a soft pat to your cheek and turned on his heel, out the door.
You pulled out your phone and checked the time. 5:38.
Well, you waited until Rooster had been gone long enough for you to leave without it looking suspicious, seems like you were going to have to shave.
#rooster smut#bradly bradshaw#rooster top gun#bradley bradshaw#bradly bradshaw smut#bradley bradshaw smut#top gun smut#rooster x reader#rooster x reader smut#bradly bradshaw x reader#bradley bradshaw x reader
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Thinking of Scott and my headcanon that he’d have a multitude of kids, both blood and adopted, and I can’t help but compare him to Bruce Wayne…
I could so see Scott as Batman…
But.
But that got me thinking. Thinking of Virgil.
Virgil as Robin.
Adult Virgil.
In Robin’s outfit…
The tights…
Thank you for sending me an ask :D
I doubt this answers your question and really, I'm not sure what it is. I've seen a few Batman movies, old and new, but he's never really been my fav. I also haven't seen the Batfam series that I see bouncing all over Tumblr, so I really have very little knowledge of the Batman family you are referring to.
However, when I presented the concept to Virgil, this was the result. He didn't answer your question, but he definitely expressed his opinion. You have my apologies.
Have 900 odd words of weirdness ::hugs::
-o-o-o-
No.
This wasn’t happening.
What was he thinking?!
Virgil caught the elevator down to the hangars, ignoring the chill in the air as he strode out with a fist full of fabric. He stomped past the hulking mass of the ‘new, more effective’ Thunderbird. Slim, black as midnight, and decked out in all the stealth tech they had. She no longer even sounded like a Thunderbird…now more a creature of the silent night.
But he could paint it any colour he wanted, the rocket plane was still Thunderbird One.
Scott’s Thunderbird.
Their father’s Thunderbird.
As always, the thought of Dad clenched his heart. The reasoning behind all of this…this stupidity…was understandable and clear.
It just made it harder.
He jumped down the few remaining stairs and strode down into what had once been a storage cave.
The glow of electronic equipment outshone whatever darkness had originally been there.
A silhouette sat in the cacophony of electronic read outs.
Virgil set his feet down hard and straightened his spine.
“Scott Carpenter Tracy!”
The silhouette rotated slowly on the office chair he had designated command central. Blue and green lit up a face shadowed by life and tragedy. “What do you want?”
“I’m not wearing this!” He threw the fistful of fabric in his brother’s face.
Scott didn’t even flinch, letting the material hit his face and drop into his lap. Calm eyes, ever so dark, looked up at him. “Why not?”
“Because it’s stupid!” He gestured around the room. “This whole thing is stupid.” He drew in a breath. “Do you think Dad would have wanted this?”
Scott shot to his feet far too smoothly, belying the weight the man had lost rotting down here in his ‘batcave’. “Dad wanted to save people. And they killed him for it.”
“So, you’re doing what? Skulking in the dark, sneaking around, seeing threat everywhere? For what purpose? What do you hope to achieve except losing your family.”
“He took our family! He killed Dad and with that…everything!”
“So we don’t matter?”
His brother stepped closer, his voice dropping into a whisper, his hand reaching up to cup Virgil’s face. “Of course you matter. You’re my brothers.” An indrawn breath. “I’m doing this for you. To protect you. All of you.” His voice caught. “I can’t lose any more.”
“But we can lose you?” His own voice broke. “We never see you any more. You’re distant with Allie, you argue with Gordon, and we’ve all lost John…he’s almost as bad as you, disappearing into the darkness. Scott, it’s all falling apart.” A steadying breath. “Dad would never have wanted this.”
Scott turned away, silent a moment while the room flickered dark light over his features.
He slowly bent down to pick up the crumpled fabric off the floor. “I wanted you with me, Virgil.” He turned, holding up the costume in one fist. “This was me offering you a place at my side.”
“As what? A vigilante? In tights?” He had tried it on. Tight was an understatement, he might as well parade around naked. That outfit wasn’t hiding anything. “I thought I always had a place at your side. That is where I’ve been all my life. Do I suddenly need tights to prove it?”
“Virgil-“
“I love you, Scott. More than you know. You are the centre of my world. I will follow you into hell itself. You know that.” A shaky breath. “This is me asking you not to go there.” He swallowed, so much hanging on this. “Please.”
“It’s just a costume-“
“You’re kidding me, right?” Grief fought with anger. “You’ve disassembled Dad’s dream, warped it beyond recognition-”
“How?! We’re still saving people!”
“No! I’m saving people. You’re playing judge and jury! We are not the police, Scott!”
“He’s out there! Someone has to step up and stop him! To save everyone, to save you, he needs to be stopped!”
“If this is what you are saving me for, then I don’t want saving.” There was such bitterness in Virgil’s voice, it chilled even him. “Please, Scott.” Please. “Come home.”
His brother turned away and Virgil’s heart broke.
“I have to do this.” It was little more than breath.
Virgil swallowed and straightened again. he knew he would follow his brother. He meant it when he said he would follow Scott into hell.
Didn’t mean he wouldn’t fight to save his brother with tooth and nail.
“Dad said everyone was worth saving. Even Gaat.”
His brother snarled. “Get out.”
“Scott-“
“I said get out!”
Virgil stood his ground. “Make me.”
It was a play on trust, one Virgil was terrified he was beginning to doubt. Scott had never raised a hand to him, ever. But this man, consumed by his obsession with Gaat, was not the man he had grown up with.
When Scott didn’t answer, a glimmer of hope sparked in Virgil’s heart.
But then his brother turned away and sat back down at his parade of monitors and simply refused to engage. He ignored Virgil as if he didn’t exist.
Virgil’s heart slowly sunk into his belly. But he stood there for a long time, desperate for a glimpse of the brother he knew.
But the silhouette just sat staring at the monitors tracking activity across the planet, waiting for a sign to launch.
For a situation.
For a signal.
Eventually Virgil turned and slipped away, the battle lost for yet another day.
But there would be more days and more battles, and as long as Virgil lived, he would fight.
To save his brother.
Because that is what he did.
Everyone was worth saving.
Especially those he loved.
And especially from themselves.
-o-o-o-
#thunderbirds are go#thunderbirds#thunderbirds fanfiction#virgil tracy#scott tracy#nuttyfic#though not my best#Virgil isn't very happy#this is no where as light-hearted as it should be
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A song, is what it takes.
Summary: Reader is Spencers twinsister and the team is trying to get Elle and Reader together, but Spencer doesn't know.
I lost the request but im still gonna write it. I hope its alright. Also english isn't my mother tongue, so there will probably be some mistakes.
Pairing: Elle Greenaway x Fem!reader
Genre: Fluff
Category: Oneshot.
Warnings: Kissing.
No matter what was going on, it seemed like something was drawing you and Elle together. Everytime you'd have a case, and had to be briefede you'd always seem to end up sitting next to the girl you couldnt be normal around. She's too beautiful. There was something about her, that drew you in. You had only known her for a couple of months, and still you were all over the place. Everytime you'd have to stay at a hotel while working on a case, or just finishing one, you'd be paired up with Elle.
Elle Greenaway, your colleague. Its not that you minded sharing a room with her, it just always made you stutter, hesitate and make your palms sweat just a little bit. You'd end up sitting together on the plane home. Or on the way over to where the case would take place. You two would always end up talking alot together, whenever this happened. It was like you never ran out of topics, words, themes or whatever, when you two were sat together. You two could talk together to the end of time. What you didn't notice was that when you were in a deep conversation with Elle, the rest of your coworkers would pair up and stare at you two in the background. They would whisper about you two, and their next moves. They'd smile at their small accomplishments even though you two weren't aware of your true feelings to each other yet. But that's what they were here for. To help you on the way.
Well, the only one on the team who was oblivious to the shipping of you two was Spencer. He wasn't included when the others got together to admire you two from afar. Normally you didn't really think anything of it. It was probably all just a coincidence that no matter what you were doing at work you somehow ended up talking or working with Elle somehow. The team wished to accomplish that one of you would finally ask the other out. But you never did. Then they tried to start mentioning how cute you two were, to maybe encourage you. Spencer even thought sometimes the team was mad at him or making him feel left out. For example that time where Spencer was about to sit next to you but then Derek shoved the chair away from him, giving him a knowing look. Trying to tell him why with his eyes, but Spencer didn't catch on. Instead he furrowed his eyebrows, and looked around confused. His hands in his pockets trying to understand what had just happened. He still didn't catch on when Elle came in and took the seat next to you, leaving Spencer with the chair on the other end of the table. He might've felt like the team liked you better than him. Even though the team never had a favorite. Well, maybe they had a favorite ship. Hopefully soon, a favorite couple.
There were of course some times where the team didn't have to do anything to get you two closer, or give you sweet moments. That's probably also why you fit so well together. You didn't need someone to force you together. You just needed a little reasurence.
Like that one time where you were on a case, during late fall:
You were shivering, from the cold breeze. The wind brushing your hair and shoving to the trees making their leafs rattle together. The leafs were dark brown and orange. The trees almost being dead, since winter was nearing. You tried hugging yourself and moving around to keep yourself warm. You started to regret not bringing a jacket or at least a warmer shirt, but you thought that You could handle the weather. It didn't seem that cold, when you got ready for the day. You could hear the wind swirl around your ears and the cold causing your ears and cheeks to go red. But then you saw her standing in front of you, and then your cheeks went red for a whole different reason. She was standing there with her jacket in her hands, holding it infront of her. She was looking at you with a small subtle smile and it was such a gentle caring expression she held. Her eyes studying your face for a moment before speaking up. "You seem cold" Her voice almost made your knees melt. But you couldt let yourself move. Being so close to her and having her full attention made butterflies erupt in your stomach. "I am" You answered, slowly stopping rubbing your arms. Her lips were slightly parted, her lips being a faint soft pinkish, redish color. "Here. Take my coat" She said softly. It wasn't a demand, nor was it a question. Your lips turned upward at her thoughtfulness.
"Thank you" You said, as she held out the coat for you to fully take. You took it calmly from her grip, brushing fingers as you did so. Eye contact didnt seem to be a problem betweent you two. Your eyes were glued to each other, not being able to look away, as you put it on. "Elle, Y/N!" Derek called, interrupting you and Elle. Elles head whipped around, and you walked up next to her, to see what Derek wanted. But you weren't paying attention. Your mind was still foggy from the way her eyes could shine so brightly, even if it was so gloomy outside. Oh, and the feeling her fingers quickly but softly touching yours.
Then there was the time where you were on a little vacation with Derek and Elle in Jamaica. It was night and the summer breeze was brushing against your legs, as Elle asked if you wanted to dance. There was music and that dance floor, where other couples and people were enjoying the night. You nodded at her, and she took your hands following you to the dance floor. You were both smiling at each other, and softly swaying to the sounds of the music. You could even feel the vibrations of the music under your feet. Her arms resting around your neck and yours resting around her form. Her skin was so soft, and having her touching you felt like heaven. It felt rare. Like you had to cherish this feeling and moment forever. As long as you possibly could.
Earlier that day you and Elle had played Volleyball with some guys at the beach. You had been laughing and enjoying the game together the whole time. You couldnt help but admire Elle during the whole game. You also felt a sickening feeling in the pit of your stomach, everytime one of the guys had flirted with Elle. Now you couldnt quite read if Elle was into it or not, but it still hurt. But it was like you could feel the bond between you and Elle getting stronger and closer. It's not easy to explain, it's something you feel.
But right now you were at a bar, with most of the team. Spencer had been persuaded, Hotch had agreed to go shortly, Gideon didn't go and the rest of you were quite enthusiastic. Penelope, Derek, Emily and JJ were on the dance floor. Then there was you, Spencer, Elle and Hotch sitting by a table just calmly chatting. Hotch had exused himself, getting his coat on. He had a family to go home to, so he didn't stay for that long.
While he was getting his things, Penelope had made her way over to all of you, but only with the intention of interacting with you and Elle. You were sitting next to her, leaning your head on the palm of your hand. You had placed your elbow quite close to Elle without noticing. Penelope dragged the two of you onto the little stage in the bar. Yes, she was actually making you two do karaoke. You'd have to be really brave and confident to do karaoke. Strangers gathered in a bar and amateur singers putting on a perfomance. You'd need to be secure in your singing and perfomance. Now, its not like you and Elle were bad at singing. But you could always be better. The whole time you both had been stuttering out words of rejection, and walking hesitantly. But then she shoved the microphone in your hand. "Come on, it'll be fun" She almost pleaded and gave you a small pouty look. The music had already started to play and when you looked behind Penelope you saw a bunch of people looking at you waiting for the small show to begin. Oh, right then you felt like you wanted to just run away and hide. Hide from the world, and make everyone forget about you and everything you've ever done. But then Elle sighed, and tool a hold of the microphone is shifting it lighty. Now you were both holding it, so you could both access it.
You had both started to sway to the music, trying to get comfortable. You both started singing and at first it was awkward. You weren't even looking at the audience, and your shoulders were tense. But just like music always does, it gets to you. Music can do so much to a person. Make them feel all kinds of different emotions and think a bunch of different things. It can even say things for you.
You were holding the microphone in your right hand, and Elle was holding it with her left. Since you had to hold it together to both participate as much as you could, you were close. Your bodies were so close to each other. You could almost feel her breath on your skin. You were subconsciously moving yourself closer to her, feeling the warmth of her body more and more. Elle herself felt her mind go blurry. She couldnt think straight. It was like, it was only you two in the world. In the moment. The words you were singing belonged to a sweet, soft love song. When you were singing those words to one another, looking into each others eyes getting more and more lost, you were singing words you'd longed to tell her for a long time. Words so she could understand how you feel about her. Elle even felt like her legs were going to betray her in that moment. Never had she been more infatuated with you in that moment. All of a sudden Elle understood her feelings for you completely. It all made sense. And you. You had just been waiting for a sign. A way. I think everyone knew what you were feeling for Elle, but yourself. It was complicated, really. You were aware of these feelings and emotions, but you had never actually thought: What if i asked her out? What if she was mine?
It was like you just weren't going to do anything. But in that moment, you wanted to. You wanted to try and see if maybe Elle wanted to too. Then the song ended. And everyone clapped, causing you to snap back to reality and out of the little spell you both had been under. You both smiled looking around to see the team smiling and clapping along. You had no idea, that the whole time while you and Elle were singing together, they had been gushing and whispering about you two at the table you had claimed for the night. Spencer was also clapping along, but he wasn't wearing that amusing look like the rest. He was more casual. You put the microphone back in it's place, and joining the rest of the group with Elle. Hotch had stayed, when he realized what Penelope had been doing.
"Not bad" Derek smiled, leaning on the table. "Thanks" You muttered, sitting back in your seat. You were both blushing crazily. You'd had to be absolutely blind not to be able to see it. It was so obvious. Everyone had noticed the romantic interest you two had in each other....well, all except for your brother, Spencer. You and Spencer could talk about alot of stuff together. Discussing things and topics, talking about childhood memories but you didn't really talk much about the others love life. And you definitely didn't want to talk about your interest in Elle, afraid of her finding out. "That was really cute!" Penelope commented, her voice full of excitement. Hotch decided to leave after having watched you and Elle's little moment. The others quickly made conversation again, but you and Elle were silent. Your knees brushing against the others once in a while. You couldnt think clearly. Your mind was too focused on Elle. Her long dark hair looked so elegant as it bounced around, and her chocolate brown eyes shining. She truly was captivating. You didn't even notice you'd been staring, until she turned to look at you. You made eye contact immediately. None of you looked away. You just sat there. Looking. It might've looked awkward in 3rd person, but it wasnt to either of you. You could feel the connection between you two. There was just something there. Something strong. For a moment you started to wonder if she even felt the same, or if it was just you.
But then she kissed you. All of a sudden her lips were on yours. Infront of everyone. Her lips were so soft, and feeling the warmth from her body again was something you'd never want to end. One of her hands ended up on the side of your face. You of course kissed her back. It took a few seconds to register what had just happened, but when you became aware, you immediately kissed her back. It felt so safe and secure. Your heart was beating so fast, you might've believed it would've beated all the way through your chest, like you were in a cartoon. Then you both pulled away, after some time to not only get some air but to see each others reactions. But then you looked around you to see your colleagues looking absolutely shocked but happy at the same time. Eyes wide, eyebrows raised and small smiles tugging at their lips. "Wow." JJ almost mumbled. "Argh! Finally!!" Penelope clapped her hands, and jumped in her seat. Through your whole life with your twinbrother Spencer, you had never seen him more confused before. He was absolutely shunned. Eyes wide and mouth agape. "What?" Spencer managed to say, even though he looked absolutely speechless. You bit your bottomlip to stop a smile forming on your face, and as your elbow rested on the table before you, you took your hand covered the top of your face so your eyes were hidden from the people around you. Elle snuck one of her hands into the one you held on your lap, to hold it softly but secure. "You two are so cute" JJ said sweetly to you two, so maybe you'd feel less embarrassed. You sneaked a glance over all of them and sighed. They seemed okay with the fact you were two girls. But then again that wasn't really your biggest question. The thing you wanted to know was what you and Elle were going to do now between the two of you. Go on a date and take it from there, or forget this thing? You just hoped Elle wanted the same as you. You giggled, feeling trapped. "Thank you" You said, answering JJ's recent remark. You looked at Spencer giving him a slight awkward smile. He took a breath before closing his mouth again. He looked down and then up again. "What is going on? Why do none of you seem so shocked?" Spencer questioned out of pure curiosity, pointing to you two. "Spencer, its been so obvious. We've all been pushing them together the last couple of months" Emily stated. "You have?" You then asked. Now Spencer was even more confused. How come you didn't even know? Elle didn't seemed that surprised, meaning she must've been well aware. "Yeah. Why do you think you always end up sitting together whenever we're at work or doing anything in general?" It sounded from Emily. She herself seemed surprised you hadn't noticed. "Yeah, or that one time in Jamaica. I invited both of you for a reason" Derek explained. You let out a breathy laugh. "Oh" Was all you managed. "Or today when Garcia forced you to sing" Emily mentioned. You then looked at Elle. "Why did i not know any of this?" Spencers high-pitched voice sounded. He was furrowing his eyebrows, and looking around pure baffled. You all let out a laugh, at the sound of your brother. You were sure he was happy for the both of you, but right now he just needed some answers. And you were just happy to finally have gotten closer to the girl you'd been dreaming of. Turns out that the whole time it had been the team who had been drawing you and Elle together.
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Thank you for reading!
#criminalminds#elle greenaway#ellegreenawayxfemreader#elle greenaway x reader#fanfiction#fanfic#spencer reid#bau team#criminal minds fanfiction#criminal minds fic#criminal minds fluff#criminal minds fandom#Elle Greenaway fluff#fluff#request
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