#dawn's work inbox

[wildelydawn]

291.

[sacredsorceress]

logan howlett x f!reader / inbox

there is just something about logan being a gentleman.

sure he's the definition of rough around the edges and his patience is very thin with most people, but i just know that when he found his woman, he'd be the definition of chivalrous. he's old school: opening the door for you, giving you his jacket when there's even a slight breeze... and he won't mention any of it. he'll do it all wordlessly as if its second nature. and if you do point it out to him he'll just make a snarky comment in return or say nothing, instead wrapping his arm around you and pulling you close to his side because what is there to say? of course he takes care of you. he considers himself damn lucky to be the one to do so.

if some guy was rude to you, or god forbid, hit on you? he'd be on them in seconds, grabbing their shirt and asking them if that's how they think they should be treating a lady. (it's a rhetorical question and a warning. if they give the wrong answer? lets say you'll be cleaning blood off his shirt that night).

on nights where he drives the two of you home, he'll be constantly glancing at the passenger seat, rubbing circles onto your thighs. and if some asshole ran a red, forcing logan to slam on his breaks, his first instinct would be to fling his arm over you, holding you back against the seat. when you wake up from the commotion he'd just run his thumb against your temple and tell you in a hushed voice that "it was nothing, sweetheart. go back to sleep."

if someone on the team brought you up in a negative manner when you weren't there (rare, it would probably just be scott trying to get a rise out of logan) he'd turn red: "don't you talk about her" and "keep her name out of your goddamn mouth". because who the fuck thinks they can talk about his girl??

he's not big on PDA but that doesn't mean he's not touchy. anytime you'd walk up the stairs he'd let you use his arm as your own personal railing. before he left for work in the morning, no matter how late he was, he'd make sure to kiss you on the forehead before he left. and if he had a job where he'd have to wake up at the crack of dawn? he'd make sure to get out of bed as quietly as ever and if you so much as stirred, he'd brush your hair back with a "shhh" and a kiss before he got ready for his long day. but it would be okay because he could get through anything knowing he'd be coming home to you at the end of the day.

anyway as rough as logan can be, he's obsessed with his partner and wants to do nothing more than take care of them. and that my friends makes logan the ultimate gentleman.

a/n: just a little blurb because i am obsessed with this idea. my inbox is open if anyone wants to share more thoughts on logan cause ahhh!!

[httpsserene]

I have been having SUCH a thought since the Thigh Riding, and I NEED to tell you.

We know reader has been loving Max and Charles’ thighs, but have you seen those silicone thigh toys? They’re basically ridged pads you strap to your thigh and…well you can guess what they do with them.

I just- I feel like it would elevate it, their sweet girl opening up to the world of toys whilst in the comfort of something she loved.

httpsserene’s 1K Special | Track Limits

summary: she’s oversensitive and hates vibrators. max and charles introduce her to something better.

༊࿐ ⊹ ˚. this is from december 2023, jesus christ. about fucking time right, @vetteltea? this has been haunting me in my sleep ever since this hit my inbox, now it’s y’all’s problem too < 333 psss, next post will either be toasty part two (toto) or a smau! (if you’re unsure about what these specific thigh toys are, look up “grinding pad sex toy” to get an idea of what i’m referencing).

view the full track limits table of contents.

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downforce — 𝐜𝐥. 𝟏𝟔 & 𝐦𝐯. 𝟏 charles leclerc x max verstappen x fem!black!reader 2.4k words. thigh riding. sex toys. non-penetrative sex. edging. praise kink. corruption kink. implied dom/sub dynamics. coming untouched. sub!charles. sub!reader. dom!max.

You’ve deeply repressed the memory of your orgasm-deprived outburst that kick started your sexual exploration with Max and Charles. Vaguely, you can remember saying that you possibly considered the thought of buying a vibrator to get yourself off since riding your pillow wasn’t enough anymore.

[…you’ve become depraved enough to consider buying a vibrator, but all packages delivered to this apartment have to be approved by max or charles to be sent up, and you’re definitely not bold enough to go out and buy one (and risk being seen by one of their fans or have to physically talk to someone to buy one)...]

[…you seem to have missed the fact that you sent their minds reeling and continue venting, “i don’t know what to do, maxy!  i’ve been doing the same thing, and it’s NEVER failed me before. it’s cruel that it stopped working when you guys left me for more than a month! no matter how i did it–if i did the exact same things i’ve always been doing, or tried something new, nothing worked! i was literally just considering buying a fucking vibrator! a vibrator, charles, i’d rather run naked in the street than buy that online and have to put in this delivery address–”

charles gently presses finger against your mouth, shushing you. he pulls you into a deep hug, rubbing a hand up and down the length of your back , the motion pacifying you. he hums, and it vibrates through his chest to yours, “mmm, we’re home now, mon ange. there’s no need to run in the streets naked–” “definitely not,” max jumps in, reacting possessively at the implication of other people seeing you undressed. charles rolls his eyes and continues (like he’s not just as jealous as max), “or buy a vibrator. i know it must be so frustrating…”]

Charles was right. You didn’t have to go streaking or buy a sex toy to get off, your boyfriends took care of you. That night, you were satisfied by riding Max’s thigh. Then a few days later, you learned how to pleasure your men with handjobs. A couple of days after that you were fingerfucked into an altered mental state, then followed up with watching Charles cum untouched as Max ate him out. You had Max’s mouth on you next and weeks later in a Spanish villa, you allowed them to take your virginity.

The five days you three spent in that villa were filled with pleasure, as Max and Charles fulfilled every request of yours without question. In bed, on the sofa, from the kitchen floor to the dining table, from the hot tub to the bathroom shower, horizontally, vertically, parabolically, from dusk to dawn—the two years of relationship you had without sexual intimacy had been put to rest. The understanding, the vulnerability, and the trust rooted within everyone had led to that moment. It was worth it.

So, one would understand your confusion when Max drops the idea of sex toys in conversation with you and Charles on a random morning. With an audible noise of confusion, you tilt your head up at him adorably, and genuinely question, “Why would I use a toy when I have you two?” Your tummy tightened when that sentence caused Charles to look at you with dripping molten eyes and Max’s mumbled grumble about corrupting your innocence goes unheard. Minutes later, you were bent over the kitchen island, the skirt of your sundress shoved up around your waist, and your white panties dangling off of one ankle as they took turns eating you out. Needless to say, you forgot about the subject of conversation the moment they knocked your legs open.

Eventually, they do manage to have a chat about toys without it devolving into sex. 

“Schat,” Max grabbed your attention, the clink of his silverware resting on his plate further interrupted your focus on spinning pasta onto your fork.

“Yes, Maxy?” you responded, meeting his eyes with a smile.

“After this discussion, we will never bring this up again if you are adamantly against the idea,” you brought your fork to your lips, munching away with a look of puzzlement, the Dutchman continued, “But, Charlie and I were talking…and we think, that—with your approval, of course—that there’s a chance you may enjoy experiencing and learning about sex toys, and how good they can make you feel. As long as either one of us is using them on you—and, with your hatred of them—they’re also not vibrators.”

You choked on your pasta, Charles making a noise of surprise as he rushed forward to pat you on the back.

Airways now cleared, you looked at Max with watery eyes, “There was not enough foreshadowing to let me know where the conversation was going. And, fuck vibrators. They are way too strong.”

The Monegasque’s eyes brightened with humor, “Hm. I think vibrators are nice, especially when they’re in Max’s hand.”

“You’re a menace and a freak,” the older man responded, “And she’s chronically sensitive. Don’t tease.”

Charles tugged at one of your curls, chuckling as he saw the brown skin of your cheeks redden.

“I mean,” you paused to play fight with your boyfriend, batting his hand from your hair cutely, “You guys haven’t been wrong with anything you’ve introduced me to. If you think that I might enjoy something…I guess I can try it. And, you’ll stop if I tell you to, right?”

“Always, mon ange.” “Of course, liefje.”

“Okay, then. I just don’t think there’s a toy that I’ll like?”

A smirk spread across Max’s lips when he glanced over at Charles, like they knew something you didn’t. His blue eyes were alight with humor as they looked back at you, “Let us worry about that.”

You did such a good job of letting your boyfriends “worry about sex toys” that you ended up forgetting the conversation happened. Until tonight, when you walked into your bedroom to see Charles on the bed completely naked, save for—what appears to be, a pink silicone pad strapped around his tanned, muscular thigh.

You freeze in the doorway, mouth parted, struggling to process the sight in front of you. The brunette is ruined. His hair is damp with sweat, strands of curls stuck to his forehead, and green eyes moist with dried tear tracks painting the ruddiness of his cheeks. His lips are bitten red, swollen, and moist with his spit—Max’s too. The bruises start on his collarbone, deep red marks brush along his clavicle and pecs, and there are visible imprints of teeth around his right nipple. Traces of Max’s unforgiving grip are painted on his waist, thumbprints obvious to your eyes. His cock looks painful; burning red, twitching randomly, the vein on his underside raised, and precome has been leaking out of his tip for a while if the puddle by the base is any telling. 

Employing his skill for perfect timing, the en-suite door opens, and Max steps into the room with a bottle of lube in his hand. 

“Charlie?” Max coos, walking over to the delirious man, pouting sympathetically when the brunette’s head falls forward to rest on his hip, ruffling his hair and scratching along his scalp. “Aren’t you going to thank our pretty girl for putting an end to your torture?”

“–rci, merci,” the exhausted man mumbles messily. Max hums in content, dropping the lube on the bed and gesturing for you to come closer. Tripping over your feet in haste to follow his order, you ask softly, “How long have you had him like this?”

“Around forty-five minutes,” Max shrugs, dismissively, “He was getting too excited as we waited for you to join us.”

Swallowing shakily, you inquire, “Excited about what?

“Your new sex toy.” 

You gasp and Max’s eyes flutter across your face as he gages your reaction. Max sees you shift on your feet and casts look downward; your thighs are pressed together for friction—you’re aroused.

“Do you want to try it?”

“Yes, Max.”

The Dutchman smiles at you, reaching out to tuck a stray curl behind your ear, and leans forward to press a multitude of chaste kisses on your lips, laughing lowly when you whine with displeasure as he ignores your attempts to deepen them. “You’re being so brave for me. Take your clothes off, pretty girl.”

Bare in the blink of an eye, you look at your older boyfriend for his next direction.

“Our Charlie,” Max starts, helping the fucked-out man sit up straight, “Has been so kind to volunteer his thigh to you. Strapped around it,” he pauses to slap his hand down beneath the toy, smirking at Charles’ delayed yelp, and squeezing the meat of his muscle warmly, “Is a ridged silicone pad designed to simulate the vulva and clit as you grind. The waves and spikes of silicone are malleable and soft,” Max drags his finger across them demonstratively, “and are smooth and bouncy as you slide across it, allowing for a continuous rubbing sensation—I did my research.”

Giggling nervously as your eyes flicker between Charles’ cock and the daunting pink slab of plastic, “I can tell. Um—I just ride it like it’s his thigh?”

Max nods and offers you his hand for stability as you move to straddle the pad. Charles blinks, raising trembling hands to rest on your hips, staring at you with hazy eyes. You sigh, tangling your hand in the nape of his hair and using it to pull him forward into a kiss. His lips are clumsy but eager as they move against yours, whimpers muffled into your mouth and beard scratching along your chin. He tries to tug you downwards to have you firmly sit on the pad but is halted by Max.

“Greedy, both of you,” Max snorts, picking up the forgotten bottle of lube and uncapping it to lightly drizzle some on the toy's surface, “I know you get wetter than the ocean but, better safe than sorry.”

He pats you on the ass in encouragement, and you shake your head with shame as you lower yourself down on the silicone, draping your arms around Charles’ shoulders and pausing to acquaint yourself with the new feeling. The chill of the lube startles you but aside from that, the toy is…comfortable. The raised hump sits perfectly against the curvature of your cunt and already, you’re anticipating the focused stimulation it will provide. 

Max sits behind Charles and the bed sinks under his weight, barely jostling the Monegasque’s thigh. However, it’s enough of a movement that it causes one of the soft spikes to clip your clit, pushing a quiet noise of surprise from your lips.

“Oh,” you murmur airily.

Trying to hide the quirk of his lips, Max leans forward to whisper directly into Charles’ ear, “This seems awfully familiar to the first time she rode my thigh, no?”

You whimper audibly, knowing that he purposefully spoke loud enough for you to hear his words. Refusing to fixate on Charles’ reply, you circle your hips, breath catching as the various textures set your nerves ablaze. You understand that Max added the lube to prevent any unwanted roughness—it’s rendered unnecessary as your arousal starts to leak. Digging your nails into the younger man’s back, you rock your hips back and forth slowly, moaning freely as the waves are a consistent friction against your labia. 

“It’s–fuck—i-it’s good.”

“Stuttering already,” Max tuts, and you feel the heat in your cheeks radiate down to your bouncing chest. Your rhythm roughens; dragging yourself along the toys in desperation, toes curling at every random press of the spikes against your outer lips and clit. Charles gasps in relief, your quickened pace causing his cock to bounce and rub against his abdomen in his puddle of precome. He gets lucky on every few grinds when you undulate forwards and his cock bounces to glide against your navel. His hands grip firmly around your hips and shove them into a jerkier motion, keeping you close to him so his reddened length can be soothed against your skin constantly. 

The change in angle and position has caused the spikes to form a barrage around your clit and the waves drag over your entrance, teasing you with the feeling of being opened up. Dropping your head to hide your face in Charles’ neck, you muffle your pitchy moans and shrieks by tasting the sweat beading on his skin.

“I’m jealous, schatje,” Max speaks, “I almost want to pull her off of your thigh and have her sit on my face.”

Fresh tears spill from Charles’ eyes as he begs, “N-no-no—mmmph—please, ‘m close.”

Your hips start to rabbit against the toy, and the texture between your legs is overwhelming but too pleasurable to consider slowing. 

Max yanks Charles’ head backward with a fist in his hair, “Do you want to cum, Charlie?”

The man in question babbles incoherently, chest trembling from lack of oxygen as he continues to sob; he tries to nod, but can’t, thanks to Max’s firm grip. The burning of his scalp doesn’t subdue him, it encourages him to keep tugging so the pain floods endorphins through his body. 

“You know what to say,” Max states calmly, the words sending shivers down your spine. Your own body starts to tingle as you taste your orgasm on the tip of your tongue; you’re too delighted at the new sensations to let any embarrassment build from reaching the edge quickly.

Charles struggles to get his tongue, lips, and vocal cords to cooperate. You see a frantic look light in his eyes, sure he’s trying to puzzle out what language he’s sane enough to communicate in. He manages to verbalize sounds that could be likened to Max’s name if you brush past his whimpers and cries.

“Plea–,” Charles tries to push the word out pitifully, “—ah, sss'il te pla—” his cock bumps against your navel, and his words cut off, eyes rolling back before he can finish begging.

A humorous laugh leaves Max; this is the easiest way Max has ever made the younger man lose his speech. He softens, and gives into the pillow prince, “You did so good, Charlie. You tried your hardest for me, yeah? You begged so prettily tonight, almost as pretty as you look. Such a good boy, Charles. You can cum.”

Strikingly, the approval works for both you and Charles. Twin cries of pleasure erupt as your orgasms blur your vision and burn through your muscles. The feeling of Charles’s cum splattering against your stomach sends another burst of light through your skin as you continue to grind fitfully on the silicone pad. A lake of wetness puddled on the poor man’s thigh, that squelches as you move. 

Charles is rendered silent as his cock continues to pulse even when the flow of his release ceases. Max brings his hand down to squeeze at his base and Charles releases a choppy scream as it pushes another couple of ribbons out of him. His hips thrust upwards with every string, forcing hisses of over sensitivity to slip from you as it drags the soaked pad against your cunt. You would happily crawl off his thigh, but you haven’t regained feeling in your legs yet. 

Thankfully, Charles deflates back into Max, his cock finally softening and slowly losing some of its flush. Tears start to leak from his eyes again, his chest shuddering through little sobs. You whimper softly at his tears and Max pulls you both to rest comfortably in the bed, as he shushes you two through the comedown. When the tears, shivers, and shakes halt, a pleased tilt of lips rises to Charles's face as his eyes dance between you and Max. 

The Dutchman unclips the toy from Charles’s thigh and smirks at the wet peeling noise that sounds.

“So…I assume this toy has your approval?”

© httpsserene - do not reupload. photos in header image are from pinterest. divider by @cafekitsune.

[thatlotuscookie]

sung jinwoo x fem!reader (kinky hcs 1/2)

mdni, nsfw ahead. more jinwoo thirsts, can't get enough he's so sexy- for those in my inbox: im working on your requests!! this was getting long so here's part two: sung jinwoo kinky hcs 2/2 solo leveling masterlist

Dom and sub dynamics Jinwoo? A sub? Yeah right. This man REEKS of dominance, and he knows it. The way he commands in battle? That authority bleeds straight into the bedroom. He loves seeing you submit, watching you melt under his control. The moment you hesitate or disobey? Oh, he relishes in punishing you, pinning you down, making you beg, reminding you who’s in charge. But don’t get cocky thinking you can top him. Even when you’re on top, he’s still running the show. His grip on your hips? His deep, controlling thrusts? That possessive glare? You’re still nothing but his pretty little plaything, completely at his mercy.

You were on all fours, trembling, cheeks flushed, thighs slick from being edged for what felt like hours. Jinwoo stood behind you, dawned in a black buttoned dress shirt, sleeves rolled up like he was about to fucking work—and he was. "Arch your back more. That’s right. Let me see that perfect fucking ass." His hand came down with a sharp slap, making you yelp. "You follow my rules in this room, understand? I say when you come. I say how you come." He dragged his cock along your soaked slit but didn’t push in, just enough to make you sob. And the smirk on his face? Smug fucking bastard. You begged, voice cracking. And he leaned forward, whispering against your ear: "Good little thing. Obey me, and maybe I’ll let you cum tonight."

Breeding/pregnancy kink (You already know it) Jinwoo is possessive as hell, and nothing screams ownership more than filling you up with his seed. The thought of watching your belly swell with his child? Oh, fuck yes. That’s his mark, something no one else can ever erase. He loves the idea of you being completely dependent on him; needing his protection, his strength, his everything. And don’t even try to act like you’re not into it. He sees the way your body shivers when he growls about knocking you up. The way you tighten around him when he presses down on your stomach, whispering how good you’d look carrying his child. Yeah. You fucking love it, and he knows it.

He had your legs folded damn near to your chest, his cock buried so deep you SWORE he was rearranging your guts. "I’m going to knock you up tonight, darling. You hear me? You’re leaving this bed full of my fucking cum." His voice was low, primal. His eyes were locked on your face, watching every twitch and moan as he fucked into you harder, deeper, sloppier. His hands gripped your hips, bruising, possessive—like he could shove every last drop of his seed into you with sheer force. "You’re going to be so fucking full. I want you waddling around, dripping with me. Swollen and needy, knowing I did this to you." And when he came? He didn’t pull out. He thrusted harder, like he wanted to fuck the pregnancy into you right then and there.

Sensory derivation/blindfolds Jinwoo loves fucking with you. Taking away your sight? Your ability to predict what comes next? Oh, that’s a power trip he enjoys far too much. The way you whimper, every nerve heightened as his fingers ghost over your skin, barely touching you? He watches you squirm, desperate for more, but he won’t give it to you. Not yet. He’ll drag it out, teasing you with soft kisses before sinking his teeth into your skin. And when you’re finally begging for him? He’ll take you apart completely.

Your vision was gone—blacked out by the silk blindfold Jinwoo tied on you, his voice the only thing guiding you in the dark. You didn’t know where his mouth would land next—your collarbone? Your stomach? The inside of your thighs? Every breath, every whisper sent shivers down your spine. "Look at you. So fucking needy. So unsure. It's cute watching you squirm, wondering where I’ll touch next." And then—bam. His mouth latched onto your nipple, teeth grazing just enough to sting. You gasped, arching, completely at his mercy. He chuckled. "You’re adorable when you don’t know what’s coming. Keep whining like that, and I’ll make it even worse for you."

Edging and overstimulation (type SHIT??) Jinwoo is a cruel, merciless bastard when it comes to control. You think you get to come just because you want to? Absolutely not. He’ll edge you over and over again, watching the frustration twist your face into something pathetic and needy. He gets off on it—seeing you beg, your body shaking as you plead for release. But he’s not done until he decides you’ve had enough. And when he finally lets you go? Oh, you’d better prepare yourself. Because he’s not stopping at just one.

You’d already come twice. You were a sobbing, ruined mess, legs trembling, barely able to form a coherent word. Jinwoo? He wasn’t done. "One more." He growled as he shoved two fingers back into your soaked pussy, curling just right, his thumb rubbing circles on your clit like it owed him rent. You wailed, hips jerking, trying to move away—but he gripped your thigh and pinned you down like a wild animal. "You don’t fucking get to say no. Not until I say you’ve had enough. Come again, now." And when you screamed through your third, fourth, fifth orgasm, tears rolling down your cheeks? He just laughed, that cocky son of a bitch. "There’s my good little mess."

Marking and BRANDING Jinwoo wants people to know you’re his. Hickeys? Bites? Scratches? He doesn’t give a fuck if they’re visible. In fact, he wants them to be. You’ll be walking around with his teeth marks on your thighs, bruises on your hips from how tightly he held you down. Your lips? Swollen from how fucking deep he kissed you. You’re a walking testament to the fact that you belong to him and only him. And if anyone dares to look at you the wrong way? He’ll just have to SHOW them who you belong to.

You shouldn’t have worn that low-cut top out. That’s what started it. Jinwoo’s jealousy? Explosive. The moment you got home, he was on you. He shoved you against the wall, kissing you like an animal. His mouth latched onto your neck, sucking hard, biting until your skin turned purple and raw. "Wanna show off? Fine. I’ll give you something to show." He yanked your shirt down, exposing your chest, then sank his teeth right over your heart. Hickeys, bruises—every inch of you claimed. And when he finally finished marking you? He stepped back, admiring his artwork. "Next time you leave this house, everyone’s going to know you’re mine. Covered in my fucking brand."

[wonderlandwalker]

The promises we cling to | Finnick Odair x reader

thg masterlist / inbox / part two

summary: this is basically just me starting with the "people are watching / then lets give them something to look at" prompt and maybe getting a little lost in the process

word count: 3.6k

tags / content warnings: angst, fluff, violence, blood, injury that whole shebang, I actually proofread this one but that doesn't mean I spotted everything sorry in advance

a/n: apparently the only time I'm capable of writing is when im less than a day away from my constitutional law final and delusional because i've been awake for 38 hours so hopefully this will give me enough dopamine to actually get a passing grade

Finnick knows how this works; he’s known it since he was fourteen years old and first stepped foot in an arena. Since the moment he lost sight of you, since the bloodbath separated you, Snow’s words haunt him with every cannon he hears: "She is just another thing I can take from you."

And yet—

He still dares to believe you’re alive.

Not because the Capitol hasn’t tried. Not because the odds are kind. But because you promised. You swore you’d fight. And Finnick clings to that vow like a prayer, even as the arena’s cannons rattle his bones. Last night, he’d counted the fallen—your name absent from the sky’s grim ledger. But three more cannons have split the air since dawn, and now—

Now he’s not sure what to believe. The rational part of him—the part carved into survival by years of Capitol cruelty—knows the truth: They’re playing with him. But the other part, the raw and bleeding thing behind his ribs, doesn’t care. The rebels’ plan echoe in his head, "Stay put. Wait for extraction." But he’s itching to move, to act, to do something besides sit here and wait. Every muscle in his body is filled with restless energy, his fingers tapping a precise rhythm against his trident. The inaction is worse than any challenge the arena could give him. He wants to run back into the jungle, to tear through the branches until he finds you, but he knows you. That's the cruellest part.

He knows how you think, the way you map escape routes before you even enter a room, the way you always have a back-up plan for your back-up plan. And right now, this beach is your plan. It’s the rendezvous point you had all agreed on before the Games even began, a secret strategy the rebels had managed to lay out. If he leaves, he risks missing you. If he stays, he risks leaving you to die alone. The dilemma claws at his ribs, and around him he can hear the others strategise, but their words blur into static. All he can hear is the phantom echoe of your voice in his head as you tell him it will be okay. Johanna catches his eye from across the beach, her glare sharp enough to cut. “Stop pacing. You’re making me twitchy.” He forces himself to let out a deep breath, focusing on the movement of the water in front of him. He needs to put himself back together; he needs to stay here.

But then—your scream. It tears through the jungle, a sound so visceral his body moves before his mind catches up. He’s already sprinting, the grip on his trident tight as his instincts kick in.

"Finnick, stop—!" Johanna’s voice is lost to him over the rushing of blood in his ears. The trees blur as he runs; he doesn't think about the careers that could be close by, the traps that he could trigger or the fact that he’s doing the exact opposite of what he’s supposed to. The flicker of movement to his right catches his attention, and he’s about to change directions when the jabberjays descend. They’re a swarm of wings and needle-sharp cries as they surround him, their voices stitching together into an illusion of you: your gasps, your sobs, the way you’d whispered his name before being forced apart. He stops moving and staggers to his knees. It’s not real. He knows it’s not real. Knows that Snow’s fingerprints are all over this new form of torture. But logic means nothing when his hands are shaking, when his lungs refuse to work, when every instinct screams to run, find, save—

Johanna grabs his shoulder, her nails biting through his skin. "Breathe, Odair."

The jabberjays' cries fade into the jungle's chorus, leaving Finnick hollowed out and raw. Johanna's grip on his shoulder remains, her fingers digging into muscle like she's the only thing keeping him from splintering apart.

"Get up," she hisses, voice low and urgent. "We need to move before those things lure anyone else here." Finnick's hands still tremble as he pushes himself to his feet. The phantom echoes of your voice cling to him, sticky as blood. He wants to argue, to plunge back into the green hell after you, but Johanna's right—the sound of the jabberjays could be a beacon for every tribute left in the arena.

The walk back to the beach is a blur of snapping branches and Johanna's muttered curses. When they break through the treeline, Beetee's head jerks up from the makeshift radio he's been tinkering with, his glasses flashing in the sunlight. "Did you find—?"

"No," Johanna cuts him off, shoving Finnick toward the water. "Go clean up before I toss you in the water myself.” Finnick's gaze drifts to the treeline, his fingers twitching at his sides. You promised you'd fight. He just needs to believe you're still fighting.

You wake to the taste of copper and dirt. The world swims into focus slowly—first the ache in your ribs, then the sticky warmth of blood matting your hair to your scalp. Somewhere in the chaos of the bloodbath, a blow to the head had sent you sprawling into the undergrowth, separating you from the others. The jungle hums around you, deceptive in its tranquillity. Every rustle of leaves could be a mutation, every snapped twig a Career hunting for stragglers. The beach is your only chance—you know Finnick will be waiting there, even if it kills him. You press your back against a tree, lungs burning, and your ribs scream where a Career’s boot found its mark yesterday, but you know you need to keep moving; too much time has passed already. You know the way his voice cracks when he’s trying not to beg, the way his hands shake after nightmares, you know he’s counting cannons, just like you are—each one a fresh wound. So you bite down on the pain and move.

The arena doesn’t kill you quietly; it creeps in through the cracks—the stench of rotting foliage, the too-sweet tang of tracker jacker venom lingering in the air, the way your own sweat stings the cuts on your palms. So you move in bursts, pausing to listen between steps. The arena's traps are everywhere.

When the jabberjays come, their shrieks weaving together your name in Finnick's voice, you almost believe it's real. Your chest cracks open with want, but you bite your tongue until you taste blood. The jabberjays' voices fade, but their poison lingers in your bones. You press a trembling hand against the rough bark of a tree, counting breaths until the phantom sound of Finnick's screams stops echoing in your skull. Every rustle of leaves sends your pulse skittering. The wound on your ribs throbs in time with your footsteps, a fresh bloom of pain with each misstep. You try to focus on the memory of Finnick's hands steadying you after nightmares – his thumbs brushing your wrists in slow circles. Breathe. Just breathe.

The first hint of salt air cuts through the jungle's rot. Your knees nearly buckle at the scent – it smells like Finnick's skin after swimming, like promises whispered against damp hair. The ground begins to slope downward. Somewhere beyond the trees, waves crash in a rhythm you'd know blind. You're close now. So close. A twig snaps; you freeze, muscles coiled.

Then—a sound. Not a cannon. Not a mutation. A rhythmic tap, too precise to be accidental. You know that sound, like you know the hitch in Finnick’s breath when he wakes from nightmares. Like you know the way his fingers drum against your hip when he’s impatient, when he’s afraid, when he’s trying to pretend he isn’t either. The beach is close. You know that rhythm, the way his hands move when his mind is racing, when the nerves he’d never admit to are fraying his control. And just like that, you’re running; you’re reckless. You can smell the sand now; you can almost hear their hushed voices. But the arena has one last cruelty in store.

You feel it before you see it, that split-second prickle at the back of your neck, the sudden hush of the jungle like the arena itself is holding its breath, and you know the fatal mistake you’ve just made. Memories crash over you like a riptide. The bouncing of his knee under the kitchen table on the morning of the reaping, the way he’d flinched when your fingers brushed his wrist, then clung to you like you were the only anchor in a storm. You remember the Tuesday he’d shattered a teacup at 3 a.m., his breathing coming out in jagged bursts. You hadn't asked him why; it didn't matter why. You had just slid down beside him, pressing your forehead to his temple until his lungs remembered how to work.

And that damned peach pie, the memory of flour dusting his lashes as he’d laughed at your frantic perfectionism, only to turn pale as a ghost when you’d yelped at the oven’s burn. His hands, so careful, always so careful, cradling your blistered palms while his voice stayed as steady as the tide. “Breathe, sweetheart. It’s just pie.” It had been his mother’s recipe, the first thing he trusted you with that hurt to share, and you were more upset over messing it up than the burn on your hands. And that night on the beach, salt air clinging to his lips as he whispered “Promise me” with a desperation that carved itself into your bones. The version of Finnick the Capitol moulded was gone; there was only the raw, trembling truth of him.

It had reminded you of the first time you met. The way Finnick’s laugh had faltered when your eyes locked across the room years ago—like he’d been sucker-punched by his own heartbeat. The Capitol’s golden boy unravelled in an instant. The sun was starting to rise over the water, the soft light showcasing the tension in his shoulders.

You’ve seen Finnick Odair wear a hundred masks, but this—this restless hesitation, his fingers worrying the edge of his sleeve—is new. You open your mouth to ask him, but he speaks first. “I know you like to tease me about the clichés I tell you.” His voice is rough, like he’s been screaming into the tide. “But I need you to know I mean every fucking word.” When he turns, the look on his face steals your breath. This isn’t the polished charmer from your early days or even the fractured man who once sobbed into your collarbone after a Capitol party. This is something rawer. Something terrified.

Your fingers find the nape of his neck on instinct, threading through sweat-damp curls. He shudders, leaning into your touch like a dying man offered water. “I know,” you whisper. “No.” His hand clamps over yours, pressing your palm flat to his pulse. It’s racing. “When I say I’d die for you, I mean it. Let me mean it.” The words are a blade between your ribs. “Finn—”

“We’ve both known what will happen at the reaping, even if we pretend we don’t.” His thumb traces your knuckles—so gentle, so at odds with the fire in his eyes. “You’d walk into that arena alone just to spare a stranger. That stubbornness is why I—" He chokes. “But you have to let me be selfish too.” A tear slips down your cheek, but he catches it before it can fall from your face. “Promise me.” His voice cracks.“Promise you’ll survive, even if I don’t.”

You want to argue. To shake him until his teeth rattle. But the plea in his gaze is a mirror of your own soul. “I promise.” His exhale is a seismic thing, like he’s been drowning for years. You seize his wrist before he can pull away. “Promise me too. That you’ll fight, no matter what.” There’s a flicker of agony in his eyes, but just like you had known, he knows you need to hear him say it. “I promise I’ll try.” There are so many unspoken words as he looks at you. So many more clichés you know he wants to give to you, so many reassurances you wish you could give him, but the one promise you have always shared is louder than ever: you won’t let them have the satisfaction of knowing they can break you.

So maybe this is how it was always meant to be. The thought comes to you with eerie clarity as Brutus enters your line of vision and his fingers crush your windpipe. You’ve kept your promises, you’ve fought like hell, and now—now you’ve made it back to him, even if only for a final heartbeat. Your vision tunnels, and every gasp is like a knife being dragged through your lungs, but you don’t stop moving. Your fingers reach for the blade embedded in your palm — the one you’d taken from another tribute hours ago, the one still slick with your own blood. Brutus snarls as you drive it into his wrist, and for one glorious second, his grip loosens. You suck in a fractured breath, but then his other hand slams you against a tree. “Is that all you’ve got?” His breath is rancid, and stars burst behind your eyes, the world around you fracturing into fragments as he lifts you off the ground, once again stealing your breath from you.

You think of Finnick, the real him, the one who kissed you like he was starving as he trailed a path all over your body, who whispered against your thighs like he was reciting a prayer. Just as you’re about to give in to the memories, throught the static in your ears, you hear it, and Brutus’ head snaps toward the sound.

"Get your fucking hands off her."

The voice is raw with fury, edged with something worse—terror. Brutus actually flinches. It’s a voice you’d recognise anywhere; you’d know it underwater. In a hurricane. At the end of the world. Finnick.

You hit the ground hard, your lungs screaming as they try to reclaim the air you’ve been gifted once more, but all you can process is him. The unmistakably feral look twisting on his face as he slams into Brutus like a tidal wave, the sickening crunch of his fist meeting jawbone—once, twice—each blow precise and vicious, the way his trident lies abandoned behind him; he didn’t even bother using it. This isn’t combat; this is butchery. Your vision swims as you stagger upright, only to collapse again. Every gasp feels like swallowing broken glass, but you have to get to him—

Crack.

The sound isn’t just heard. You feel it in your bones. Brutus’ head snaps sideways, his knees buckling as Finnick drives an elbow into his temple. There’s no finesse, just a boy who’s spent too many years sharpening himself into a weapon, finally cutting loose.

A wet cough wrenches from your throat, and Finnick’s head whips toward you so fast it’s a miracle his neck doesn’t break. For one fractured second, his rage falters. You’ll remember that look forever. How his eyes went wild, how his breath hitched—like he’d just watched you die. The sound of your wheezing seems to snap him out of his trance. Though he’s covered from head to toe in blood spatter—none of it his—he has never looked more fragile to you. He rushes to your side, dropping to his knees as one hand cradles your face while the other takes yours, pressing your palm against his ribcage to help you steady your racing breaths. His thumb strokes your cheek in slow, uneven sweeps—a nervous habit. The blood smearing your skin is thick, still warm, but you can’t bring yourself to care, not when Finnick is looking at you like this, like you’re dawn breaking over the ocean after the longest night of his life.

Despite the ache in your arms, you lift your free hand and catch his—the one that had been tracing restless patterns against your skin—and press his palm to your chest. You know the steadying rhythm of your heartbeat is one of the few things that can anchor him now. A spark flickers to life in his eyes as they roam your face, as if he’s memorising the proof that you’re here, alive.

“I’ve missed you.” The words are too small for the weight in your chest, but they’re the only truth you can grasp. His chuckle is rough, warmth bleeding into the sound, and it reignites the dull ache in your heart—then fans it into a wildfire when he murmurs, “I missed you more.” You can feel the want boiling inside him—the way his adrenaline sings for him to crush you against his ribs, to kiss you like he’s pouring every unsaid vow into your lungs. But he hesitates, fingers twitching against your collarbone. Still afraid, still fragile.

“I’m okay, Finn. I promise.” A smile ghosts his lips, but his next words are barely audible. “Everybody’s watching.” He doesn’t need to say anything else. You remember the first oath you ever swore to each other: Don’t let them in. Don’t let them twist this. Your relationship was never just yours—it was a stage play for all of Panem, a performance where even you sometimes forgot where the script ended and the truth began.

Yet here he is, clinging to another promise—the one where he swore to shield you, even from himself. You see it in the way his jaw tightens, the way his hands hover like he’s afraid touch might shatter the illusion of control. He’s trying so damn hard to be what you need: steady, selfless, safe. But the irony is delicious. His restraint is the proof you crave. It screams what the cameras will never understand—that this, right here, is the most real thing either of you has ever had. So you tilt your chin up, your voice a challenge and a dare as you scan his face: “Then let’s give them something to look at.”

Your words are another whisper, so quiet you fear they might dissolve before they reach him—but then his head snaps up, his gaze scouring your face like a man reading a map in the dark. And then he breaks. He lunges forward, lips crashing into yours with a desperation that steals your breath. It’s overwhelming, it's perfect, the familiarity of his mouth against yours is everything you had been craving since you last saw him. You kiss him back like it’s the only language left to you, pouring every unsaid ‘I love you’ into the press of your lips. His touch is featherlight yet feverish, hands tracing your arms, your spine, as if trying to memorise you through his fingertips. And in this fragile bubble of shared breath and tangled limbs, you find it—the truth you’ve been starving for.

Finnick kisses like it’s his salvation. His teeth catch your lower lip, tugging gently, insatiable, while his arm bands around your waist, hauling you flush against him until not even air separates you. You feel the frantic thudding of his heartbeat where your chest meets his, a wild counterpoint to your own. When he groans into your mouth, it’s a sound you want to bottle. It’s not enough. Even now, with his skin against yours and his pulse thundering under your palms, you’re already aching for more—more of him, more of this, more of the way he makes the world vanish.

A very deliberate cough shatters the daydream you’d been lost in, and the two of you spring apart like kids caught making out behind the gym. “You two never fail to disgust me.” Johanna’s voice is flat, devoid of even her trademark sarcasm, and the heat that floods your cheeks is embarrassingly familiar. “If you’re done trying to swallow each other’s faces, we’ve got shit to do.”

Finnick snaps back to reality first, hauling himself upright before pulling you up with him. His hands linger, like he needs the contact to convince himself you’re really here. Johanna rolls her eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t stick, already stalking back toward the clearing—but not before you catch her gaze flickering over you, her lips twitching like she’s fighting a smile. Of course she cares, she's the one who introduced the two of you to begin with.

“I think she might actually be glad I’m not dead.” You murmur, and his laughter is warm against your ear. The sound settles something in your chest, a reminder: You’re here. You’re together. Maybe, against all odds, things will be okay.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he jokes back. “She’s just relieved she won’t have to suffer through my moping anymore.” The lightness in his grin tells you everything—he’s found his footing again. And so have you. But as Finnick’s thumb brushes your wrist, you both hear it: another cannon in the distance. The Games aren’t over yet.

[prequel: The masks we wear]

[writesvani]

dear me | 06

lawyer! jeonjungkook x privatechef! reader

SUMMARY: Once upon a time, Jungkook and you were everything. Best friends who shared every moment, every secret—except one: you were in love with him. But life changed. High school ended, real life began, and slowly, you drifted apart, the distance between you growing too wide to cross.

The end. Except it isn't.

One day, after a long day at work, you open your email to find a message from 13 years ago—written by your younger self. A letter you’d forgotten, sent by a service you paid to remind you of your youth, your love for him. As the emails keep on coming and you keep reading, the flood of memories hits you, and you realize something heartbreaking: you never stopped loving him.

But now, it’s too late. Jungkook is about to marry someone else. Or is he?

estranged childhood best friends-to-friends-to-lovers?CHAPTER FIVE

TRIGGER WARNINGS: jealousy, insecurity, unresolved feelings, envy, emotional discomfort, love triangle, heartbreak, sexual content (brief), mentions of underage drinking

comment here for Dear Me taglist;

SERIES M.LIST;

— previous chapter // next chapter (pending...)

wc: 5,7k // date: 13th of April

CHAPTER SIX — The Orbits; happy reading my gummies...

AN: ok, hold on to your seats because we’re officially diving into jk and nina’s brains. things are about to get messy—real plot and action is kicking off in the next chapter, i swear! i repeat—no more slow burns, no more introspection, we're getting down to business (just kidding, still slowburn but with more action).

the note goal for this chapter is 350 notes, and i KNOW you all can do it! let’s see how fast we can hit that and get to the juicy stuff. buckle up because shit’s about to get WILD and i’m here for it!!

Days blur into each other, slipping through your fingers like sand. Jungkook and Nina return to Philly, and for a moment, it’s almost like they were never here—almost being the key word. Because even though they’ve left, remnants of them linger. In Cape May. In the air. In the spaces Yoongi and you exist in. And nothing feels the same anymore.

Especially now that you and Jungkook are trying—fumbling, grasping—to pull your friendship back from the dead. As if you can undo time. As if you can stitch back something that once burned to the ground.

But at least you’re both trying. Really trying. And that has to count for something, right? Because for years, neither of you did.

You slip back into your routine—waking up at dawn, reviving yourself with that first sip of coffee, going to work with a carefully practiced smile, soothing your evenings with green tea. Everything is the same. Almost.

There’s a small, barely-there adjustment—one that seeps into your days so effortlessly, you don’t even realize how much you’ve come to crave it.

The familiar ringtone cutting through the silence at night—Jungkook calling after he gets home, his voice laced with exhaustion, asking about your day like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The occasional pings of your phone while you're working—stupid reels, TikToks, things that make you roll your eyes and smile at the same time.

It’s a welcome disruption. The kind that sneaks into your heart without a warning. The kind you didn’t know you needed—not until it became something you couldn't imagine your days without.

And it’s Wednesday.

Your hands clam up with sweat at the thought—because you know what that means. Another email is waiting in your inbox.

You never read the last one.

You were too caught up in making amends with your ex-best friend, too wrapped up in the chaos of that night at The House. By the time you remembered it a day later, you made a decision—you ignored it.

Because opening it would mean stirring up old ghosts, unearthing things best left buried. And you couldn’t afford that. Not now. Not when you and Jungkook had just started to rebuild something that had been left in ruins for years. Not when you were supposed to stand beside him at his wedding.

You didn’t need the reminder of who you used to be. Of the way you used to love him.

So you let the email sit there, untouched, unread. Like ignoring it could erase its existence. Like not clicking on it could save you from what was inside.

Like it could stop the past from clawing its way back to you.

But you don’t have enough willpower to leave the email unread.

Not when you sink into your sofa, legs stretching out, fingers curling from exhaustion.

Not when the warmth of your laptop presses against your thighs, a steady reminder of the task you’ve been avoiding.

Not when the email feels like it’s pulling you in, its presence too loud, too obvious—read me, read me.

You take a long, steadying breath, feeling the weight of your own hesitation. You shift in your seat, trying to ignore the way your body tenses. You take a small sip of your tea, the warm liquid a weak comfort against the unease curling in your chest.

And then, with a resigned exhale, you click on last week’s email.

“Dear me, how’s it going? Today was so boring. Ugh, I had a math exam—already?! It’s only been two weeks of school, and they’re already testing us like we’re some kind of math geniuses. Doesn’t that suck?”

You skeem through the screen, snorting a little at the memory of dreading those endless math problems. You never understood how anyone could actually like it—rules on top of rules with zero fun. The irony that you, of all people, hated math, considering you love sticking to routines and schedules, isn’t lost on you. Still, math was just too much. Too many numbers, too many formulas. You did ace it every time, though.

“Anyway, enough of the math (because seriously, ew). I’ve got something way more fun to talk about—this weekend! Jungkook and I were just wandering around town, and we found the coolest place ever. It’s called ‘The House.’ Kinda a cheesy name, I know. But trust me, the place is amazing.”

And there it is—the mention of that place. You knew it was coming. The House. It had to be. Your memory’s kinda shot, but you remember the first time you and Jungkook stumbled across it, back when you were just starting high school. The discovery was like an initiation or something.

“Jungkook actually loves the name. I guess he’s just as lame as the people who decided to call it The House,” you laugh at the thought. “Anyway, there’s this guy who works there. Not much older than us, but let me tell you, he gave us free drinks. Like, actual alcohol. Isn’t that insane? I swear, this guy’s probably underage, too, but he knows his stuff. Knows drinks like the back of his hand.”

A grin tugs at your lips. Ah, Alex. Underage drinking with him, the wild nights, and laughing until dawn. Good old days. Some things never change, though. Alex still has his talent for mixing drinks—and, considering Yoongi’s wild hangover after your last night out, it seems that talent has only gotten stronger with time.

“So that guy—his name’s Alex, I think—got us so fucking drunk. I’m talking plastered, like, can’t even stand, slurring our words drunk. We were the only two people there, plus Alex behind the bar, and we were giggling like maniacs on crack or something. It was all fun and games until... Well, something weird kinda happened. Like, it’s still a blur, but it was off.

So, Alex, poor guy, was trying way too hard to flirt with me—honestly, it physically pained me, but he’s chill, I guess. But then I turned to look at Kook, and he was just staring at me. Not like normal, you know? It was like... I don’t know, there was something in his eyes. I was like, okay, whatever, maybe it’s the booze messing with me, but then, HE JUST REACHED OVER AND TOOK A PIECE OF MY HAIR—MY BANGS OR SOMETHING—and TUCKED IT BEHIND MY EAR.”

The flash of the memory cuts through you, sharp and sudden, like a slap across your chest. You’re frozen, unable to move, as the past rushes back in full force. Jungkook and you, drunk for the first time together that night. You remember it so clearly—laughing, carefree, the three of you in your little world at the bar. You were talking to Alex, totally lost in the conversation, but when you turned around to say something to Kook, to pull him into the moment with you, he wasn’t just there.

He was watching you. Not in the way a friend watches, no. It was like... he was devouring you with his eyes, as if he was memorizing every detail, committing you to memory. It felt wrong. Or maybe, it felt too right.

And then, slowly, unsurely, his hand reached out—tentative at first, like he was still figuring it out. His fingers brushed against your hair, and you still hear Alex’s soft chuckle echoing in the back of your mind. And then Jungkook tucked that strand of hair behind your ear, like he was marking something—claiming it, claiming you.

That was the moment. The one that shifted everything. The moment you started questioning what had always been there, lurking just beneath the surface.

“Look, I don’t even know what happened, but am I delusional if I think that was like a sign or something? He looked at me in a way friends don’t look at each other. In a way I look at him. UGH, I DON’T KNOW. Maybe we were just too drunk. We didn’t mention it the next day. We only talked about how fucking cool The House and Alex are.”

You didn’t mention it, of course. You didn’t mention the way your heart had hammered against your chest, like it was about to leap out. It’s not like it meant anything to Jungkook. Poor guy had no idea he’d just fed into your fifteen-year-old fantasies. He didn’t know how something so small, so simple, like tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear, would leave you drowning in thoughts of him for years to come. He didn’t know how desperately you’d fallen for him in that moment, like some kind of hopeless, lovesick fool.

But that’s what you were.

“Okay, I am indeed delusional, but IDFK, sometimes it really seems like he likes me and then the next second it looks like I'm completely in the friendzone.”

As you skim over the screen, a long, tired sigh escapes your lips. You can’t help it. You feel bad for the teenage version of you—for the girl who lived in that strange limbo of almosts and maybes. She had no idea where life would take you and Jungkook, no clue about all the detours and heartbreaks that would come. And you feel desperately bad for her because seeing these words now? It feels like a punch to the gut.

Because no—Jungkook never liked you. Not like that. Not the way you hoped. You know that now, with painful clarity.

But there’s still a part of you, buried deep beneath all the years and healing and pretending, that held onto that teenage hope like a lifeline. And you secretly hate yourself for it.

“Anyways, let’s talk about Yoongi and Nina. Ugh. I love them both, they’re awesome. Yoongi is like an introverted and calmer version of me and I love it. We started hanging more during the past week (I literally forced him to hang with me and I know he secretly loves it) and we honestly hit it off. We read the same books, listen to the same music and hate the same celebrities which is honestly a valid reason to be friends with a person.”

You laugh under your breath. Jesus. Your fifteen-year-old self was so deep into celebrity drama it was practically a personality trait. You vaguely remember how emotionally invested you were in the whole Justin and Selena saga, and how Yoongi—quiet, unbothered Yoongi—was secretly just as obsessed. He’d never admit it out loud, but you still remember that one time he actually gasped when Justin posted Hailey for the first time.

And as much as you love the version of Yoongi that exists in your life now—the calm presence, the one who brews his own coffee and rarely checks his phone—there’s something so precious about those early days. The ones spent breathing in the dusty scent of the school library’s old books, crafting burner Twitter accounts to defend Selena Gomez’s honor, sharing earbuds at lunch and blasting Mobb Deep like you were way tougher than you actually were.

You miss it. God, you do.

But your friendship with Yoongi has grown into something so solid, so real, that maybe letting go of those chaotic teenage selves was worth it. Maybe growing up didn’t mean losing everything.

Maybe, just maybe, it meant finding something better.

“And Nina is just as awesome as Yoongi. She’s so shy—too shy. Every time Jungkook or I talk to her, her face lights up red like the tomatoes my granny grows in her garden. It’s kind of adorable. She always sides with Justin instead of Selena, though—I swear, she has way too much empathy for men. It personally offends me, but oh well. She’s just nice like that. Nice to everyone. It’s her thing.

She’s also a huge One Direction fan. I never really got into them, but Kook likes a few of their songs, so now the two of them spend an ungodly amount of time debating over which era was the best. I just sit there and watch, but I secretly love it. It feels like she’s slowly letting us in—bit by bit. Like we’re earning her trust in this soft, careful way that feels almost sacred.”

A smile tugs at your lips, uninvited but warm. Those early teenage years—the chaos of pop culture wars, the desperate need to belong somewhere, to someone. That’s what your world was made of back then. And Nina? She was a huge part of it. You remember how much you adored her. How protective you felt over her—like she was a little sister you never knew you wanted until she was suddenly just there. Fragile and kind and yours.

But as the warmth settles in your chest, so does the ache. Because losing Jungkook felt like losing your whole heart, sure—but Nina? Losing her meant losing one of your limbs. A quieter, tender kind of pain that still hasn’t found its resolution.

“Nina and I started studying together a week ago and it’s great—we make notes together, quiz each other, and honestly? I prefer studying with her over Kook or Yoongi. Kook always ends up getting distracted—we’ll sit down to revise and five minutes later we’re playing GTA San Andreas or watching The Fast and the Furious for the hundredth time. Yoongi, on the other hand, just refuses to study with someone else. He says it’s ‘not efficient’ or whatever.”

You chuckle softly, then continue reading.

“It’s different with Nina, though. She asks the right questions. We fill in each other’s blanks. She’s so calm and patient, too—it makes me a little jealous, honestly. I wish I was like that. I hope being around her more will help me become a bit more grounded.”

There’s a dull wound gnawing at your soul. You forgot—or maybe you tried to forget—just how much she meant to you. As a friend. As a confidant. As a person. Life’s cruel like that. It doesn’t steal people from you all at once. No, it does it slowly. Quietly. So slow, in fact, you don’t even realize how much of yourself you’ve lost in the process.

You chew your bottom lip, trying to keep that pain from crawling any further.

“Anyways, that’s all for this email because I can’t keep this too long (mom only lets me use the computer for 3 hours a day and I’m not planning on wasting all the time writing emails, sorry). Next one’s coming next week and girl, you better be reading my mails. Love love love you. Hope you’re okay.

Love,

You.”

You lean back into your seat. Take a sip of your tea. Drag a cigarette to your lips and let the smoke curl around your thoughts. It shouldn’t feel this heavy—this is life, right? You meet people, you grow close, and then sometimes, you drift. You lose. You rebuild. You grieve. You move on.

But still, it pangs. Hard. It plays a cruel little melody with your heartstrings because the confusion is unbearable. How do people let this happen? How did you let it happen?

Younger you would be livid if she knew. If she knew you let two of the most important people in your life just... go.

Yes, you’re trying with Jungkook. You’re piecing it back together, but God only knows if it’ll ever be the same. If either of you will ever look at each other the way you did before the world got in the way.

But Nina?

With Nina, you don’t even know where to begin. Don’t know what to say. Don’t know if she’d even want to hear it.

Your phone startles you out of the haze. The ringtone slices through the stillness, weaving itself with the nausea bubbling in your stomach and the frantic beat of your heart drumming against your ribs.

You answer with a soft yawn, stretching your legs across the sofa. “Hey.”

“Hey, what’s up?” Jungkook’s voice filters through the speaker, casual and warm. You can picture him settling onto his own couch, probably lounging like he always does—comfortably careless. Nina’s name drifts into your mind before he even says it. She’s probably there, too.

“Literally nothing, dude,” you say, voice light. “Just clocked off work and catching up on some emails.”

“Anything interesting?”

Your throat tightens. Technically, yes. So much he’d find interesting. Actually, another email—the one from this week—is open and glowing on your screen, practically mocking you with its presence. Your gaze flits to the subject line like it might catch fire. But you can’t bring yourself to read it. And you definitely can’t talk about it. Not to him. Not right now. Not with everything the way it is.

So you laugh a little, fake and breezy. “Nah, not really. You know how it is… What are you up to?”

“Nothing. Nins is showering and I’m just waiting around,” he says, like it’s the most ordinary sentence in the world. “We’ll probably throw on a movie or something.”

You nod even though he can’t see you, fingers tightening slightly around your phone. “Sounds chill,” you manage, and it does sound chill. So chill it hurts.

Because that used to be you.

You were the one he used to wait on. The one he used to watch movies with, no matter how shitty the plot was or how many times you’d both seen it already.

You’re not mad.

You can’t be.

But something inside you sinks a little lower, like a small ship finally giving in to the stormy sea it’s been fighting for years.

“She still into that British drama stuff?” you ask, keeping your voice teasing, light.

“Yeah,” he chuckles, and your chest aches at the sound. You love his laugh. Always have. “We’re rewatching Skins because apparently she has to analyze every character’s trauma.”

You laugh too, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Sounds like something she’d do.”

A silence falls—not awkward, but not quite comfortable either. You hear the distant sound of running water shutting off and your mind starts to race.

She’ll come out soon. He’ll go. The call will end. The moment will be over.

And still, you haven’t said anything. About the email. About the memory. About the way your heart never really stopped hurting since the moment you realized the person you used to love just didn’t love you back.

“Hey, Jungkook?” you say suddenly, a little more breathless than intended.

“Yeah?”

You hesitate. You could tell him. About the night at The House. About the way you still remember how he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered. About how that moment—so small, so stupid—changed everything for little you.

But instead, you smile again. That same smile you’ve used to hide everything since you were fifteen.

“Never mind. Just—miss hanging out, that’s all.”

There’s a pause. A flicker of something—regret, maybe—settling into his tone. “Yeah. Me too.”

And when the call ends, and the silence returns, you’re left staring at the glowing screen. The unfinished email waits. Lingering. Like everything you never had the guts to say.

Jungkook’s eyes instinctively flick to the doorway the moment he hears the soft creak of it opening.

There she is.

Nina.

Her hair is piled into a messy bun on top of her head, loose strands sticking to her neck where the steam from the shower still clings to her skin. The faint scent of lavender body wash fills the room in a subtle wave as she pads in barefoot, a white towel tucked securely around her body.

There’s nothing performative in her movements—no sultry glances, no dramatics. She’s just moving through her space, through their space, the way you only do when you’ve truly settled into someone. She flips through her side of the closet, humming quietly under her breath.

And then the towel drops.

Not with flourish, not like a scene out of a movie. Just a simple, unconscious surrender to routine.

Jungkook watches as she pulls on her soft cotton pajama top—the one with a tiny faded strawberry embroidered near the collar—and he feels something stir in his heart.

Comfort, maybe.

Or peace.

Because this is what they have.

A life.

Unapologetically safe. And at this point, nakedness isn’t charged with tension or expectation—it’s just another part of being known. Entirely.

“You look serious,” Nina says suddenly, her voice light as she buttons her top, “Who were you talking to, baby?”

Jungkook blinks, as if snapped out of something. “Oh. Uh, just Y/N.”

She turns, crawling into bed beside him and tossing the blanket over her legs, the corners of her mouth tugging up into a soft smile. “That’s good. How’s she doing?”

“Same old.” He shrugs, pulling her into his arms like he’s done a thousand times before. His voice is steady, but something about it feels a bit... muted.

“I’m really glad you two found your way back to each other,” she murmurs, resting her cheek against his chest. “It’s a good thing. You’ve been through so much together.”

Jungkook swallows. The words settle somewhere low and tight in his stomach.

He is glad. Truly.

But the discomfort that creeps in at the edges of his mind is undeniable.

Why does it suddenly feel like something unspoken is dragging itself between the syllables?

“Yeah,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Me too.”

But even as he says it, he can’t shake the heaviness in his chest—the flicker of hesitation he tried to ignore during the call. The way he glossed over your name. The sudden ache when he heard you say you missed hanging out.

He closes his eyes, holds Nina tighter.

And wonders what it says about him—that he feels safest in the arms of the woman he loves, but part of his heart is still stuck in a memory he never dared to fully face.

“Did you tell her we’ll be back home for good after the wedding?” Nina’s voice is gentle as she peers up at him, her eyes wide and gleaming with that kind of innocent excitement that used to calm Jungkook.

But right now, it makes his chest tighten.

He swallows hard, like the truth’s caught in his throat. “No… I haven’t yet.”

Her brows pinch. “Why not?”

And there it is. The question he’s been avoiding even asking himself.

There’s no real reason—at least not one he can explain out loud. Not one that wouldn’t sound like betrayal. Or weakness. Or something worse.

They are moving back. In just a month, they’ll be packing the last of their things, saying goodbye to their big city apartment, and driving back home—for good. To plan the wedding. To settle into their new house, the one with space for a nursery. To build a future, one with everything they’ve both talked about for years now.

An adult life. A family. A home.

But still, he hasn’t told you.

“I just… haven’t had the right moment,” he lies, fingers absently brushing the hem of Nina’s sleeve as she cuddles closer.

The truth is messier. Uglier.

The truth is—he’s scared.

Because being close to you again always comes with a double edge. One side soft, glowing, nostalgic. Full of laughter, comfort, history. The part of him that missed you more than he realized. The part that aches for the ease of how things once were.

But the other side… the other side is dangerous.

It whispers in quiet moments. Sneaks up when Nina’s laughter fills the room but his mind is somewhere else entirely. It’s the part that remembers how your eyes used to find his in crowded school hallways. How your voice used to sound when you were teasing him about his hair or his favorite songs.

“Okay,” Nina says finally, not pushing further, her voice already melting into sleepiness as she settles against his chest.

Jungkook closes his eyes and tries to will the thoughts away.

He has everything he ever said he wanted.

Nina’s body is warm and soft against his, the quiet rhythm of her breathing syncing with his own as she flicks through Netflix absentmindedly. Her hair fans out over his chest, strands tickling his skin, and the faint scent of her shampoo mixes with the smell of their shared apartment—familiar, grounding.

She’s beautiful. Stupidly beautiful. The kind of beautiful that catches him off guard in the middle of mundane moments like this. And right now, Jungkook feels it more than ever—this throb inside of him, a pull he can’t quite name.

He wraps his arms around her tighter, needing the weight of her, the steadiness. His fingers find her chin, tilting her head just slightly before he leans in and kisses her. It’s slow at first. Then deeper. Not rushed, not urgent—just full of something that shouldn’t be named.

She lets the remote drop.

His hands move to her hair, threading through it like a lifeline. He presses his lips to her jaw, her neck, and then to the curve of her shoulder. She sighs into him, body turning to meet his.

They move together like they’ve done this a hundred times before—because they have. But something feels different tonight. Quieter. Needier. Not desperate in a physical sense, but emotional. Jungkook doesn’t understand why. He just knows he needs this. Needs her.

When they’re done, tangled in sheets and soft silence, her head resting against his shoulder, his eyes drift up to the ceiling.

And the truth—that heavy, restless truth—lingers.

They’ll be back in Cape May in less than a month. Back to the town that raised them, shaped them, bruised and blessed them.

Back to you.

Yeah, he hasn’t told you yet.

He could blame it on timing. He could say he forgot. But really, it’s because every time he thinks about telling you, something yells, "Don't do it."

So, he keeps the truth buried deep in the quiet corners of his mind.

At least for now.

If there’s one thing Nina has always used to define herself, it’s realism. She sees the world for what it is—not for what she wishes it to be. She reads people like well-worn pages, watches patterns, notices silences more than words. And maybe that’s why she’s always known the truth.

She’s the love of Jungkook’s life.

But you?

You’re his soulmate.

Not in the cliché, eye-roll-inducing way, where he’s secretly pining for you while sleeping next to her. No—it’s not about unspoken love or stolen glances. It’s worse, in a way. More subtle. More cruel. This kind of connection doesn’t scream. It hums. It lingers. It shows up in the quietest of moments—the way he softens when talking about you, the unintentional tenderness in his voice, the hesitation before he mentions your name.

Nina has learned to live with it. She’s adapted. She knows him like the back of her hand—she’s memorized the tiny shifts in his mood, the twitch of his jaw when he’s overthinking, the way he taps his foot when trying to make a decision. She’s mapped him, studied him, loved him through every version of himself.

But she wishes she didn’t have to study him so hard.

She wishes it came naturally, the way it came with you.

That part hurts.

Nina doesn’t feel insecure about your dynamic with Jungkook. She’s not one to fall into jealousy’s clutches. She knows her place in his life—she knows where she stands, and more importantly, what she cannot be. She cannot be his soulmate the way you are. She cannot be that magnetic force, that other half. And, strangely, she’s okay with that. She's accepted it because that’s how life works. You can't fight fate.

But she's still human. And sometimes, just sometimes, being human stings.

The sting isn't a deep wound, but it's there—quiet, like a splinter under the skin. And it flares up unexpectedly when Alex, that now lowkey irrelevant presence in their shared world, made his comment. He said it so casually, like a joke, but Nina saw through it immediately. His words stung more than she wanted to admit. She played it cool. Laughed through it. Gotten drunk minutes later and pretended like it never happened. But Nina knew the truth buried beneath that comment, knew the way he genuinely thought you two would have something more than just a friendship.

It wasn’t a joke to him.

And maybe it shouldn't matter to her.

But somehow, it did.

Jungkook and you—there was a weight to it. It wasn’t just the past you shared or the way he lit up when your name came up in conversation. It was something deeper, something Nina couldn’t even fully name.

Her heart twisted, but she refused to let it show. She couldn’t. She was Nina—practical, composed, grounded.

But sometimes, even the strongest of us feel the earth tremble beneath our feet. Even the most realistic of us falter in the face of truth we don’t want to see.

So logically, the selfish part of her—the deeply human part—was relieved when you were gone. When you weren't a presence in their life. When she didn’t have to watch him recalibrate every time your name appeared on a screen.

But now that you’re back, she’s surprised by how steady she feels. Maybe even grateful. Because the truth is—she missed you too. More than she ever let herself admit.

You were her friend once. Maybe still are, in some broken way.

And now you’re back to him.

And just like that, somehow, back to her too.

Because even if it’s complicated, even if it aches in all the quiet places of their hearts—both of them need you.

Each in their own messy, untranslatable, heartbreakingly honest way.

Jungkook’s soft snores fill the bedroom like a lullaby. But Nina? She’s wide awake. Restless. Her body’s still, but her mind won’t shut off. She’s been tossing for hours, trying to count sheep, breaths, memories—anything. Nothing works.

So, she does what anyone would.

She grabs her phone.

The screen glows harsh in the dark as she opens Instagram, her thumb swiping through stories like it's a lifeline. Mindless. Automatic. Until—

There it is.

Your face.

A new selfie.

It’s a pretty one. Really pretty.

Nina stares at it for a moment longer than she wants to admit. Her stomach twists, and she doesn’t know why.

Maybe she does.

She wonders if Jungkook’s seen it already.

Wonders if it made him smile.

She doesn’t want to care.

Before she can stop herself, she replies to the story.

“OMG GIRLIE, you’re so pretty.”

It’s genuine.

You reply almost instantly.

“TYYYY soo much.”

That should be the end of it.

But something gnaws at her.

That tiny thing—the one that keeps clawing at her ribs every time Jungkook mentions your name.

“We should totally have a coffee again once we get back.”

The words slip out too easily. Too casual. Too light for how heavy they feel.

Your reply is harmless.

“Sure! Hope you guys will come to visit soon.”

There it is. The knife twist.

You still think it’s a visit.

Nina stares at your message. Then, her thumbs type before her brain can catch up.

“Visiting? Girl, we’ll be back there for good in a month.”

The second she hits send, her stomach sinks.

She shouldn’t have said it.

She knows that.

Knows it too well.

You take a second to reply. Just a second. But it’s enough to send Nina’s mind spiraling into a familiar place. She stares at the screen, unmoving, unsure whether to lock it and pretend this conversation never happened or to keep waiting like she’s waiting for a sign—something small and stupid to validate this little mistake she just made. And it was a mistake. She knows it. Telling you about the move wasn’t her news to share, wasn’t something she was supposed to say. But it slipped out anyway, like her subconscious wanted you to hear it from her. And maybe it did.

Nina wonders what you’re feeling on the other side of the screen. Are you surprised? Confused? Are you smiling to yourself, maybe rereading her message to make sure you understood it right? Or are you disappointed? Maybe even a little hurt that it was her who told you instead of Jungkook. Secretly—silently—Nina hopes you are. And God, she hates herself for that. But the feeling still lingers, low in her stomach like guilt wrapped in jealousy, disguised as justification.

She doesn't think she's a bad person, though. At least, she tries not to. She’s loved you for years in the kind of quiet, complicated way only someone who has watched from the sidelines can love. Appreciated you, even when it stung. She knows what you mean to Jungkook. Knows he lights up in a different way when your name comes up. But she’s tried not to mind. Tried to carve a place for herself in his orbit without being bitter about yours. Still, there’s something cruel about always being the second kind of important. The “I chose you” important. Not the “I couldn’t help it” kind.

Because that’s the thing about you. You were never a decision. You were never something anyone had to choose. You were just... you. Effortless. Natural. The sun in a sky people plan their days around. Nina, on the other hand, always felt like something circumstantial. Picked because of proximity. Picked because she stayed long enough. She was Yoongi’s twin. She was Jungkook’s girlfriend, now his fiancée. She’s proud of those roles, grateful for them even. But it’s hard to ignore the ache that whispers: You were the one who waited in line. She was the one who got in for free.

And so, maybe that’s why she said it. Why she let it slip even when every fiber of her being warned her not to. Just once, she wanted to be the one to say something first. To watch your reaction and feel like she had the upper hand, even if just for a moment. She knows it doesn’t fix anything. It doesn’t change the fact that Jungkook didn’t tell you himself. And that silence? That’s what eats away at her the most.

Because if he hasn’t told you, it means something. Nina doesn’t know exactly what—but she’s smart. She’s always known she wasn't his soulmate. She's the woman he wants to build a life with, sure. But the difference is: you didn’t have to be wanted. You already were.

taglist: @lovingkoalaface @santiiagopopegarcia @jadaocon1 @asyr97 @gukieater @themwordsblog @whatevevrerr @amarawayne @tititania @guwol @reallygenerouskoala @bgfdcvbnjk @kyljjk @whoa-jo @taekritimin123 @minimoninini @upo1313 @polnaraffsrack @tatzzz-25 @orphicepiphany @coletaehyung @bjoriis @epiphany-n @kimyishin @eegyo @dearmyfavoritepeople-bts @parkinglot-nights @mar-lo-pap @evrsncenewyork @jjeonjjk7 @minghaosimp @cerulean1riz @anumita-2007 @vantelover1306 @vynmin @nadzzzblog @jnghs @lachimolalajeon @joonwater @choijay-07 @notsevenwithyou @mononoaware16 @sky-23s-world @auroresce @sadgirlroo @arcadiaem @kokoandkookie @nakyra2 @kissyfacekoo @butterymin

[corensweat]

🌲 road trip.

scott miller x reader Synopsis: when your camping trip with scott gets cut short because of a work emergency, you nearly kill him and every member of storm par, intent on making your ire well known on the drive home. but when you push scott too far, his impatience has other plans. or “If I have to pull over, you won’t be able to walk for a week.” Word Count: 13.3k Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI!!!, no use of y/n, bdsm, established dom/sub dynamic, pet names (honey, sweetheart, baby), brief mentions of serial killerisms (teasingly… maybe), semi-priv public sex (in a truck), scott has a whore mouth (again), groping, belting (f! receiving), spanking/slapping (f! receiving, breasts & v), oral (m+f), nippleplay (f! receiving), unprotected pinv, orgasm denial, fingering (f), cumplay, breeding A/N: when the "just a quick one shot" turns into a beast... oops? 😬 thank you to my proud sponsor aka the scott rot™️! if you enjoyed, pls feel free to reblog or give it a like and as always, my inbox is open if you want to chat!!! 🤍

On hour two of the drive back to OKC, you think you’ve lost your mind.

What had begun as a much-anticipated weekend road trip with Scott — an incredibly overdue escape, though you weren’t exactly keeping track — had swiftly turned from enjoying the fresh, open air and the promise of an entire weekend distraction-free, to a mountain of frustration that battled the ones in the distance. All because your charming, secretly sentimental boyfriend had wanted a picture of you and the sunset for his lock screen.

If you weren’t so upset about it, you probably would’ve laughed.

But this was the fourth (fourth!) time that something had gotten in the way of your Scott Time, and, look — you needed it. So. Fucking. Badly.

Which was why when his phone had gone off again, after Scott had ignored the voicemails Javi left him, you were so, so very tempted to hurl the fucking thing into the pond. Instead, you sat there, already trying to think of a way to get your lick back with the fact that he was the one who’d insisted that going off the grid meant going off the grid and electronics simply took away from the nature of it all, the hypocritical ass. And you’d watched, with dawning realization and equal devastation, as Scott’s entire demeanor had shifted from peeved that Javi even had the audacity, to shutting his mouth and speaking in yes, sir’s and I understand, sir’s.

Oh, Marshall Riggs was going to get an absolute earful the next time y’all sat down for Sunday dinner.

But first, you had your sights set on Scott. And, quite frankly, he deserved every second of petulant that you were giving him.

When he adjusted the air conditioning, you dropped the temp lower. When he found a good station on the radio, you changed it. When he asked for one of the snacks by your seat, you munched on it first, mumbling a fake apology when you passed him a small piece. And when you finally started talking, it was one word answers: yes, no, dunno, sure, fine, whatever.

And every time he gripped the steering wheel just a little tighter, you felt vindicated by the fact that it was ticking him off.

Good. You were ticked off. And unbelievably, atrociously bored. There were only so many things you could do in his truck while you were half giving him a cold shoulder. And, well, after the last time you’d reached for the volume and he’d caught your wrist with a stern ‘knock it off’, like you were a child, you’d resorted to pouting out the window, then sifting through his middle storage, and then snooping through his glove box.

All of which were boring, in the exact way that only a man’s truck could be boring. Who didn’t have a car Chapstick, but could have packs of gum hidden everywhere? And where were the just-in-case napkins? And what did he even use pliers for?

Your brattiness — no, curiosity — wins over the agitation that still simmers just under the surface. You turn to Scott with a mischievous grin as you hold up the pliers. “Be honest. Are you secretly a serial killer?”

Scott glances at you, then at the pliers, before rolling his eyes with a faint smirk. “Caught me,” he deadpans, his voice carrying just enough sarcasm to draw out your giggle.

“I knew it.” You dig further into his glove box like you expect to find a pair of gloves, which stupidly has you giggling because you’d lost your mind, see, and there was no way there’d actually— Oh. Shit. He really did have gloves. “You’re the worst serial killer I’ve met. Your whole murder kit is in here and you haven’t even tried to kill me yet?”

“Getting close to it, honey,” Scott quips, a teasing edge to his voice that makes your heart flutter. His eyes stay fixed on the road, but you catch the slight twitch of his lips, betraying his amusement.

Until you keep it up, making an exaggerated show of pulling out every item you find, each discovery more dramatic than the last. The subtle tightening of his jaw tells you that rummaging through his stuff is getting more of a rise from him than your earlier silence had. His grip on the steering wheel tightens, the whites of his knuckles glowing under the moonlight, and you can’t help but feel a thrill of satisfaction at the sight.

Curling your knees to your chest with his newest item in your lap (a bundle of zip ties), you bat your lashes up at him with feigned innocence. “Am I bothering you, baby?”

“Nope.” Scott, to his credit (you pretend it’s not because you’re his girlfriend but because he just chooses to be kind), swallows down whatever shitty retort is on the tip of his tongue as he shakes his head. “Not at all.”

His eyes flick briefly to you, then back to the road, as if anchoring himself, before he plasters one of his obnoxiously fake smiles on that doesn’t reach his eyes. Your own smile slips at the blatant irritation bubbling just beneath the surface, hating that look, knowing he knew you hated when he was fake with you. He reaches over, his hand finding your knee — not in the usual affectionate squeeze, but more as a grounding gesture, a silent plea for you to stop before you push him too far.

“You might want to close that now,” he adds, his voice soft but laced with an unmistakable edge as he jerks his chin toward his still-open glove box. “Before I really lose my patience.”

“But...” you start, pouting a little, your fingers lingering on the edge of the glove box. “I was just having fun. I mean, what else could be in here? Secret spy gadgets? Hidden treasures?”

Scott’s grip on the steering wheel tightens. His patience is fraying, each word clipped and precise as he says, “Close. It. Now.”

You relent, closing it with a dramatic flourish and an equally exaggerated sigh. “Okay, okay. Glove box exploration time is over.”

Scott exhales, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction. “Thank you,” he mutters, though his eyes still carry a hint of irritation as he changes the radio station a couple of times, scowling at the country crooning through his speakers, before just shutting it off.

“You sure you’re okay?” You test, still pushing his limits. You figured that Scott knew you better than that. That you knew him better than that. Nearly seven months together — again, not that you were counting — and he really thought you couldn’t tell when something was off?

You continue, “Just because… Well, you seem a little stressed. Is it because you didn’t get to tie me up and torture me back there by the pond? I mean, I’m sure you’ll get another chance someday, like when cows fly, but—”

“Are you done?” Scott huffs, shooting you a look.

You don’t back down from it, leveling him with your own hard expression. When he’s forced to return to the road, breaking eye contact first, that prideful part of you purrs. He sighs. “I don’t like this any more than you do, but I don’t have any other choice. So sit down, shut up, and stop fucking with my system, please.”

He says the last through gritted teeth, and as much as you loved to antagonize him, you knew when to push and when to not. Putting the last of the stuff back where you’d found it exactly how you’d found it, you stuff your hands under your thighs and pout quietly until he visibly relaxes again.

“You’re not being very nice,” you mumble, the silence that encases you both too much to bear.

Scott runs his tongue over his teeth, then looks over at you, his expression hard. “And you’re lucky I haven’t spanked your ass raw for that attitude yet.” Surprise must flash across your face, because a smirk twitches at the corner of his mouth that he quickly masks. “What? Did you think I would just let all that slide?”

“No.”

Maybe.

“Liar.”

Damn it.

Before you can say anything else, Scott reaches over, gently but firmly tilting your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze as his eyes leave the road for a second. “Do I need to remind you of the rules?” he asks, his tone shifting from frustrated to something far more controlled and deliberate — each word laced with a quiet authority that sends a shiver down your spine and makes your blood run hot.

It’s a tone you’ve come to know all too well, one that signals a subtle shift in the dynamic between you, a reminder of exactly who’s in charge.

To anyone else, it might have sounded like another classic Scott lecture — a stern word from someone who was used to being in control. But you knew this side of him intimately well, understood the depths of what he was really asking. This wasn’t just about a conversation or setting you straight; it was a command, a subtle but potent assertion of the power he held over you.

“Answer me,” he prompts, his voice dropping to a low, steady hum that makes your pulse race. “Yes or no, honey.”

“No,” you breathe, testing the waters of defiance.

“Let’s try that again.” Scott’s grip remains steady on the wheel, but the weight of his gaze feels like a tightening hold around you. “No, what?” he asks, his voice low and demanding, leaving no room for anything but the correct response.

You swallow. The tension between you is thick and electric. “No, sir.”

He holds your gaze for a moment that feels like an eternity, long enough for you to actually worry about him being behind the wheel. But a quick glance at the road reassures you — he’s in complete control, staying perfectly between the lines, maintaining a comfortable distance from the cars ahead and behind.

His eyes flicker to your mouth, lingering there with a deliberate intensity. “We’ll see.”

A noise of discontent escapes you immediately when he returns to his side of the truck as if nothing happened, all the air leaving your lungs. We’ll see. That was it? No good girl? It’s a reprimand all on its own, defiance filling you quickly.

What was the point of his rules if he wasn’t going to listen to them?

First with his phone, which had gotten you here in the first place, and now this. You pout, crossing your arms as you glare at the car in front of you, hating everything about this weekend. God, you’d both been so exhausted from the drive to the campsite that you hadn’t even touched him like he’d promised you could **— **on top of the week he’d already instructed you not to touch yourself.

And now Scott was going to be buried in work again. He’d drop you off at home just to drive another hour or two to who the hell knew where, and from there it was back to the office to get the paperwork rolling, call the banks, pouring hour after hour into making sure this deal went through. All because Riggs had decided his time off was more important than yours.

But it wasn’t. You’d waited eons for this. And you were damned if you were going to let both him and Scott stop you.

Slowly, so slowly, you angle yourself toward your boyfriend, his eyes distant as he readjusts in his seat and fishes absentmindedly for a piece of gum to smack on. For a moment you can’t help but admire him, appreciating the way he filled out the seat, the way his jaw worked with the gum, how when he got lost in his thoughts and had a particularly interesting idea he swiped his fingers along his perfect, full mouth.

He was masculine without any effort, intelligent and calculating, and, despite this weekend, was the most attentive boyfriend you’d ever had.

And you ached for him.

Just that tone shift alone — from Scott to sir — had spiked your temperature, leaving you warm with the lack of air conditioning. You knew better than to reach for the knobs, even if the thought of him pinning your wrist down had your thighs pressing together. So you shift forward to unzip his jacket you’d stolen, meaning to shimmy it off, when you catch his eyes on you.

Instead of taking it off completely, you let the gray fabric bunch to your elbows. His eyes slide from the way it now sits on you to your white tank top before focusing back on the road, his gum making that unmistakable snap! he always did. “What’re you doing?” He asks, stealing another glance as you wriggle in the seat.

“Just hot, baby,” you hum, which wasn’t a lie.

But there’s no way to be subtle as you collect your hair into a ponytail and tie it with your scrunchie, just like there’s no way Scott can be subtle as he zeroes in on your hair being up or the fact that your tits jiggle with every bump or dip in the road. His hand flexes on the wheel, quick to snap his attention to the mirrors, as if he’d been checking them in the first place.

You bite back a smile.

By the time Scott is pressing on the brakes, an accident brings the two-lane down to one, one foot is propped up on his dashboard, your head turned to face him with every sigh that leaves your lips. With nothing to pull his attention now other than the slow crawl, his eyes catch yours again, his guard dropping as he falsely believes you’ve listened.

And that’s when you make your move.

“Baby,” you groan, wetting your lips as your fingers brush across his sleeve. Your other hand rests against your knee, slipping down along your thigh while you bat thick lashes up at him. “Can you turn the air on, please? I’m dying.”

“Mhm.” Scott does, following the invisible line your fingers paint across your skin as the air kicks on. The cool air is welcomed and the content noise that leaves you isn’t entirely fabricated. When his hand drops to rest on your thigh, you know he feels how flushed you are under his cold touch. And you know he feels you arch into it. “How’s that? Better?”

“’ Little.” Not even close, but you play it up now that you’ve got him. “Still too hot.”

“Sorry, honey,” Scott’s deep voice is genuine, frowning a bit as he squeezes your thigh. “Got it the lowest it can go. Need me to roll a window down?”

You shake your head. “It’d just bring all the hot air in.” Something he should’ve known, but you couldn’t blame him for being a little distracted. You press on, confident, still inflecting that whine in your voice. “Your hand feels good, though.”

His touch inches up your thigh in response, sure that he’s not even aware he’s doing it. As your touch moves in time with his, you drag your free hand across your chest, pressing against the leather of his seats and pushing a strap off your shoulder. The cool air directly hitting you causes a flurry of goosebumps to rise and your nipples to poke through the fabric, chest rising and falling as you make a show of overheating.

Scott snaps his gum again, removing his hand to tug gently on his jacket. “What did I say about going through my stuff?”

“Oh, you left it at my place. I didn’t think it’d be a big deal.” You try to play innocent, but the smile you give him is nothing short of mischievous as you intentionally arch up into his touch. “Do you want it back, sir?”

He’s quiet for so long that you think he’s returned to the road. Instead, his eyes are locked on the thin tank top that clings tight around you. A quiet hum echoes in the back of his throat as he runs his knuckles over the swell of your breast, dragging slowly across your nipple, before he seems to think better of himself and places both hands back on the wheel.

“Keep it.” He grunts, “It looks better on you, anyway.”

“Really?” Despite how you try to hide the happiness from your voice, you fail miserably. Scott didn’t offer many liberties, especially not with his personal belongings. You don’t let the distance keep you far, unhooking your seatbelt and leaning over the center divider to beam up at him.

“Really.” Your heart pitter-patters in your chest when he hums again, pressing a quick kiss to your lips. His eyes slide back to the road, still at a slow crawl. “Don’t get any ideas, honey.”

Oh, you had about fifty different ones, most of which included seeing how far you could go down this new avenue. You drop a kiss to his shoulder, nuzzling against his cold skin, slipping your arm through his and guiding his hand back to your thigh. Scott squeezes again, a small warning to behave. But since when did you do that?

“Come on,” he taps an index against you after a few minutes, “Buckle up. Safety first.”

“But—” You pout, wrapping your arm around him tighter. He could drive with one hand, and besides, you were barely moving enough for a seatbelt to matter. “You feel so nice. And you’re always away for sooo long, baby. And now you’re gonna be gone again?” Brushing your nose along his jaw, you let your hand drop casually to his thigh. “I just miss you.”

“It’ll only be for a few days.” He shifts under you, chewing his gum slower. No doubt weighing whether he should let this continue or end it early.

“A few days too many.” You feel him inhale as your touch roams, sliding over his muscled thigh and across the zipper of his jeans. He’s already half-hard, the outline of him growing more apparent as you continue, “Do you know how lonely it gets without you? Knowing I can’t cuddle you… Kiss you… Touch you?”

You grope him where you know his weak point is while leaning up to scrape your teeth against his earlobe. His hips lift of their own accord as he instinctively searches for more, his grip on the wheel tightening as he squeezes your thigh in his big hands.

You hide your smile as he thickens under your palm. And smile wider at the growl in his voice as he orders, “Behave.”

“Am I breaking any rules, sir?” With your lips at his ear, every needy breath against him has Scott tensing in response.

Your shorts ride up — and so does his hand, until he’s close enough that you can grind your clothed heat into him. It’s just a single roll of your hips, keeping pressure where you crave him, but it has you whining all the same.

“Please, I missed you so much… I miss touching you, feeling how big you are in my hands…” You drag your palm against his thick length, fully straining against his zipper now, his breath coming out heavy as you grip him. “Please, please, just let me taste you. I’ll be such a good girl, I promise. Wouldn’t I look so pretty with your cock stuffed down my throat? Sounding so pretty as I choke on you?” You whimper against him, the sound small and needy. “Please, sir?”

The combination of your fingers wrapped around him and the feel of your tongue lapping at that sweet spot on his neck has Scott groaning, the noise coming from deep in his throat. Before you can react, he presses you firmly back into your seat, keeping you pinned with his hand across your sternum while you try to fight against the distance he forces between you two.

“Behave.” His gaze meets yours, dark and heavy and no-nonsense.

Your cunt clenches at the authority in his tone, nipples peaking in response. Scott slips his palm under the fabric of your shirt, kneading your heaving chest and rolling the hardened nub between his index and thumb. You writhe at the sensation, a moan spilling out of you, until he pinches you hard enough that you gasp. Just as quick as it happens, he pulls out just enough to bring his palm down roughly against your tit.

The sting of the impact has you arching off the seat as your cry pierces the silence.

Scott presses his index to your mouth in warning as the police lights finally illuminate his truck, the accident off to the side. You’re breathing too heavy to pay attention to it beyond that, not caring about anything happening outside of this truck, and you pass by quickly without any incident.

The air is still heavy as you meet his gaze. And you can’t help when your fingers grip the sides of your shorts to bunch the material in your hands, greedily grinding into the taut seam aligned perfectly with your center.

Scott watches it all silently. “You want to be my good girl?” His fingers draw invisible lines down your thigh, spreading your legs apart with just a touch. You comply easily, nodding as he smooths his hand along your skin and ignites a fire inside you. “Then fucking act like one.”

There’s no warning when he slaps your pussy hard, the denim digging painfully into you. Your hands fly out to grip whatever you can as your hips stir against the pain, crying out as another smack sounds, punishing your disobedience.

And still, you can’t help but whine out for him. “But I need you! I’ve been so, so good this whole time, I swear. Even when you told me not to touch, even when I wanted to so badly— I listened, I swear I did.” Pouting over at Scott, you whimper. “Please, I promise.”

“Go on. Keep it up. Do you think you’re listening now?” His hand tightens to a fist as he rests it hard against the center divider. His gaze pings to the time display on the dashboard, then to you. “The more you misbehave, the longer you wait. Was a week too short, honey? Do we need to extend it to two? Three? Can you even wait that long without disobeying me again?”

You can barely answer, only whimpering out as you press yourself into his arm, careening out of the seat. His hand clasps hard around your wrist when you reach for his zipper again, cutting off whatever noise is in your throat with a low growl.

“If I have to pull over,” he grits out, looking you dead in the eyes, “You won’t be able to walk for a week.”

You level his hard gaze with your own even as your heart pounds heavy, his threat thinly veiled as his grip tightens around your wrist.

And you swear you don’t mean to, but the words tumble out of your mouth before you can stop them. “Can you go that long without fucking me? If I can’t touch, neither can you. Not a kiss, not a hug, I won’t even let you fuck my mouth!”

As your frustration boils over, you breathe raggedly against yourself, fighting to rip your hand out of his strong grasp. He’s quiet as he watches you, the look in his eyes betraying nothing that simmers underneath the surface.

Calmly, too calmly, he continues driving, following the road as the dark trees pass you by. When he moves off the pavement to turn down a dirt road, your heart flies to your throat.

“What are you doing?” You squeak, looking behind you as if expecting anyone else to follow, but it’s just you on the solitary single lane, his tires crunching on the dirt road. “Scott?”

His mouth stays shut, turning into a clearing of trees. You usually love the outdoors, but the forest around you looks foreboding and eerie, the trees looming large overhead. You glance out the window to the night sky, but there’s not even a twinkle of starlight here. Just inky black nothingness.

He shuts the engine off, taking the headlights with it.

You think you stop breathing.

“Get in the back.” His order is quiet against the silence but travels along your skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. “Now.”

As much as you want to protest, the words catch in your throat, refusing to form. Instead, you wordlessly climb over the center divider, dropping his zip ties into the cupholder with a deliberate clink. Your bags, shoved angrily into the back when he’d asked you to pack up, tumble to the floor, landing in a haphazard pile as you settle into the backseat.

The sudden darkness engulfs you, your eyes straining to adjust to the dim light. You can barely make out Scott’s silhouette, his intense gaze fixed on you before he opens his door with a determined click.

Silently, Scott slips out of the driver’s seat, the slam of each door echoing through the night like a final verdict. You hold your breath as he rounds the truck, each crunch of his boots against the twigs and leaves sounding louder than meant to be. The backseat door opens, and he slides in beside you, the leather creaking softly under his weight.

You find your breath again when his hand, warm and steady, smooths around your ankle, his touch both grounding and possessive. He makes room for himself, his presence filling the confined space with an electric charge. The air grows thick with anticipation as you sit there, the darkness around you deepening, your heart pounding in your chest.

Scott’s fingers trail up your leg with deliberate slowness, each movement precise and controlled. His eyes never leave yours, the intensity of his gaze holding you hostage. “You didn’t think I’d let you off that easily, did you?” he murmurs, his voice low and commanding, sending a shiver down your spine.

Your eyes dart to either side of you, searching for some sort of escape. But it was too dark outside to see, the woods maybe terrified you a little bit without Scott by your side, and even if he chased after you — and you weren’t bratty enough to do that — you had absolutely no idea how to get back to a road, let alone the road.

And, well, you didn’t really want to get away from him. Just the punishment you knew he would dole out for your disobedience.

Still—

“I thought we had to get back to the city,” you squeak out, voice trembling against your better efforts as you try to plead your case to deaf ears, “Riggs– Riggs said you needed to be back, right? And you know how far my place is from your office, and—”

“We have time for this,” Scott interrupts, his voice firm, a low rumble that leaves no room for argument. He presses his index to the pout of your mouth, silencing you. It sends a jolt of electricity through you, your breath hitching as you squirm under his grip, eyes wide and pleading.

If you were a deer in headlights, Scott was a hunter. And he was a damn good hunter.

Scott’s beautiful mouth curves into a grin, his eyes darkening with a hint of amusement. He leans in closer, his presence overwhelming, the scent of leather and the outdoors mingling with his intoxicating scent. The tension in the air thickens, every sound amplified by the stillness of the night. The rustling leaves outside, the distant hoot of an owl, even the faint hum of the truck’s cooling engine — all seem to echo the pulsing beat of your heart.

You can feel the rough texture of his jeans against your skin as he shifts, making himself comfortable, his body pressing against yours in the confined space. His hand, warm and commanding, moves from your mouth to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over your lips.

“You’re not going anywhere until I say so,” he states, his eyes gleaming, all possession and affection. His words wrap around you like a promise, binding you to this moment, to him.

You swallow hard, your throat dry, the gravity of everything sinking in. Scott’s eyes lock onto yours, a silent command for your complete attention. His other hand slides down your arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake, before settling on your waist, pulling you even closer.

“Relax,” he whispers, his breath warm against your ear. “You’re safe with me.”

Your lashes flutter as a noise sounds in the back of your throat, caught between a plea and a whimper. You trusted Scott more than anything, and knew, without question, without fear, that he would never do anything you didn’t want.

And god, you wanted him bad enough that it ached.

“I need you to understand a few things, honey,” Scott continues, his voice still that deadly calm, his finger dragging slowly down your chin, tracing a deliberate path down the column of your throat. “I can tolerate you being upset. I’m not happy about it, either, despite what you might think.”

He pauses for a moment, letting his gaze lock onto yours, his eyes dark and unwavering. “But what I won’t tolerate,” he says, his tone sharpening as he closes his hand around your throat with a possessive grip, “is your disrespect.”

“But—”

“Shut up.” Scott’s voice is a low, dangerous growl as he tightens his hold on you, his thumb pressing firmly into your pulse. The pressure is confident and calculated — the kind of control that comes from having done this countless times before. “I’m not done.”

Defiance bubbles up and fights Scott at every turn, and despite the way you wriggle under him, your eyes grow hazy with need at the feel of his hand around your throat. God, you knew exactly what those hands were capable of; sweet, delicious torture, doling punishment and reward with equal passion. “But—”

“Why can you never fucking listen?” His voice drops to a growl that vibrates against your ear, his body shifting so that his weight presses down on you. You whimper at the added pressure, your fingers instinctively fisting the fabric of his shirt, trying to hold onto something solid.

Scott notices. With a swift motion, he knocks your wrists away, gripping both of them together with a firm, unyielding hold. When he pins them above your head, possessive and commanding, you can’t help but moan, growing pliant under his weight.

“Maybe I do need to remind you of my rules,” he says, his voice a dangerous purr, “since you seem to like breaking them.”

He leans in closer, his breath warm against your cheek. Every word is low and steady, completely in control. “You’re going to pay attention now, aren’t you? You’re going to listen to every word I say.”

Your pulse races under his thumb, the pressure making it difficult to focus on anything other than the commanding presence of his body pressed against yours. The conflicting emotions — fear, need, frustration — swirl together, drawing the breath from your lungs.

Scott’s eyes meet yours again, the dark intensity he’d first set on you softening slightly. “Do you trust me?” He asks, his voice barely more than a whisper, carrying with it both a challenge and an invitation.

“Yes, sir,” you breathe. Always.

“Good.” He presses a tender kiss to your temple and cheek, nudging his nose into the curve of your shoulder and kissing the column of your throat. Your body responds in kind, arching up into his generosity, the calm before the storm, as he slowly releases his hold on you. One tap against your wrist is a silent order to keep them there, and you thread your fingers together, looping them into the door grip as he kisses his way back up to your mouth. “Because you’re going to hate me tonight.”

You want to tell him that such a thing is impossible — there was nothing Scott could do that would make you hate him, no matter how much of a pain in the ass he was sometimes — but he doesn’t give you a chance to speak. Lifting you up, or at least as much as he can in the truck with his hulking size, Scott draws a hand around the curve of your waist, pushing his jacket aside to expose more of you.

“Take this off.” He orders. His expression melts back into one of superiority, one you’re all too familiar with, and you try not to pout when he continues with, “I changed my mind. I want it back.”

“Want what back?” You hum, fingers twitching. You debate the pros and cons of pointing out that you can’t take off his jacket with your hands still pinned in place, but bite your lip instead. You were already pushing the envelope — a lot — by feigning innocence.

“You know what.” Sensing that you’re still… sort of… listening, Scott, taps your wrist twice, freeing you of your position. Under his tone, your fingers close around the material of his comfortable clothing, lifting to slip it fully off your frame. You drop it next to your stuff with your eyes trained on his. “When I’m convinced you can behave, I’ll consider giving it back.”

That snaps your mouth shut. Pressing your lips together, you nod as you place your hands back in their previous position, the only tell that he’s satisfied by your change of heart being a slight twitch of a smile.

“I didn’t say you were done,” he drags his gaze along the length of you, his touch following where his eyes roam until he hooks a finger around the belt loop of your shorts. “Take these off, too, and turn around.”

Electricity charges through you at the command in his voice. Your movements are slow, careful, as you try not to bump into anything as you slide out from under him and remove your shirt. Your shorts follow, but he stops you as you hook your thumbs under the waist of your panties, both of his large hands sliding on your hips to face you opposite him.

He’s massive against you, your back pressing against his chest as his hands roam freely, trailing up the length of you and then down your arms to place your hands back in their previous position, fingers curling around yours in a silent gesture. And then his touch returns, calloused fingertips dragging over every spot of your soft skin, cupping your breast in his hand as he sighs against your neck.

You feel the hard length of him straining against his jeans as he pulls you to him, every caress coaxing a fire in you. Even though you want nothing more than to touch him, to take him into your hands, he has you caught. You really wanted that jacket.

And you hated disappointing him.

His touch wanders to your ass, squeezing the flesh in his hand before he smooths a hand up your spine, signaling for you to bend over. You comply with shallow breaths, the warmth of him missing when he puts even more space between you.

“How many times do you think you disobeyed me tonight, honey?” He asks, the question making your heart stutter. He continues to knead your skin, but with your angle, you can’t see anything happening behind you. “I’ll let you guess.”

You try to think back, but everything is hazy now. When you got in these moods — which was more often than not — you had a hard time telling which rules were broken and which weren’t, because, well, you tended to do it a lot. And you knew Scott well enough by now that even if you guessed any number, it wouldn’t be specific. It wouldn’t be right. Guess lower, and he’d add more. Guess higher, and he’d use your number, then remind you of the true one after it was all said and done.

A gasp escapes from you as your eyes flutter shut. Fuck. “I– I don’t know, sir.”

If he’s surprised, he doesn’t let it show. Instead, he just hums, adjusting the twisted straps of your underwear higher up on your hips. “Thirty-two times.” He lets that sit heavy in the air for a moment, your breath stalling in your throat. “You know what happens when it gets that high, honey.”

“You use the belt,” you whisper, the words barely audible.

Scott nods. “Mhm. I use the belt.” The soft, metallic clink of his buckle coming undone is followed by a steady hand against your hip, smoothing circles along your skin as you begin to tremble in anticipation. “Shhh. You know the rules. Count.”

The first point of contact is always the worst. He lets the moment play out, your body tensing and easing as you wait for any sign that it’s coming, but he gives no indication when he stops touching you. And then the sharp sting as leather meets your rear, the folded-over halves biting into you with practiced efficiency.

Your eyes squeeze shut, fingers tightening around the handle as you gasp out, “One.”

By the end, your muscles are taut and your backside is red and flaming, your whimpers spilling freely from your mouth. It takes more effort than you’d like to admit to hold yourself up, trembling with exertion. Scott rubs his hand along your curves, having given equal attention to both cheeks, a content noise sounding in the back of his throat as you still careen toward him.

“Last one, honey. You’re doing so good.” He praises quietly, the only encouragement you need as his belt goes sailing toward you again, leaving another welt in its wake.

“Thirty-two!” Escaping through gritted teeth, you jerk forward with the impact, breathing hard and heavy when you hear the clink of his belt falling to the floor.

Scott taps twice along your stomach as he brings you up to his chest, careful to leave space between you as he smooths over your sore muscles, easing the pain. He presses kisses along your throat, your shoulder, letting you shake against him as you lulls you down from the high, every touch soft and affectionate. “That’s it, I know… Shhh… Did so good for me, honey…”

Each sweet nothing brings you down, continuing to press kisses against your skin until your breathing evens out. Scott sets his hands to your hips, holding you firmly, nudging the space just behind your ear.

“If you just listened, I wouldn’t have to punish you.” He reminds, letting your hands drift over his. Despite the softness of his tone, you still catch the authority seeping through every word, and you know it’s far from over. “I don’t like how you spoke to me today, honey.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” you breathe, meaning them truthfully. Scott presses another kiss to your skin in acknowledgment. “I was just upset. I wanted to spend this weekend with you, and—”

“Am I not making this time now?” He questions, cutting you off. When his touch wanders between your thighs, fingers circling your clothed clit, soaked despite his brutal treatment, he groans against you. “What was it you said earlier… That I couldn’t touch you? That you wouldn’t let me?”

Vaguely, through your hazy mind, you remember saying that. But you keep your mouth shut, quiet little noises escaping as he continues to please you, easing away the pain he’d caused. Your desire for him, so neglected because of his orders, coils deep inside you as he recites your perfect tempo — having spent hours exploring, learning, and committing what you enjoyed to memory.

“Let’s make one thing abundantly clear,” he continues. “Every part of you is mine to touch, spank, suck, lick, and fuck as I please. Any time. Any day. Any place. Those are the rules you agreed to. If I want you just like this…” Adding pressure, he holds you up as your knees buckle against him, “I will, for as long as I want. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” Your words come out shaky, breath hitching with every skilled circle of his fingers. “I understand, sir.”

“Then show me you understand.” Within a second his touch is gone, leaving you delirious as you search for him. You hear the rustle of fabric behind you, twisting to watch him slip off his shirt, then ease himself down on the backseat with a foot firmly planted on the floor. His fingers hover over the button on his jeans, flipping it open as his dark gaze trains on you. “Come here.”

You comply immediately, drawing forward as his hand slips in your hair. Scott pushes down the restricting fabric, slipping his hand into his black briefs, freeing himself from his jeans. Your mouth waters at the sight of him, thick and veiny and dripping with precum, his fist stroking himself as he holds you there, coating his length with his desire.

“Look what you do to me,” he whispers, drinking in every shallow breath, the way your eyes remain fixed on his hand, how your hips stir with every twist like you imagining yourself riding him. “Even when you’re a fucking brat, I can’t get enough of you, honey. Always so fucking hard for you. You have no idea…” He releases himself to cup your chin, spreading himself over the swell of your mouth. You greedily taste what he offers, tongue lapping at him before sucking on the tip of his thumb. “I’d spend an eternity inside you if I could.”

Those words — the claim, the rare admission — makes your heart somersault in your chest.

Without waiting for his command, you crawl between his legs and sink to draw your hand along his jean-clad thigh, a silent plea echoing in your eyes. As he wets his lips, you grip his length in your hand, his girth barely allowing you to wrap fully around him. Scott’s breath hitches as you stroke him exactly how he prefers, your hand sinking lower with each slow, deliberate movement.

He’s hot and heavy in your hand, the tip of his cock as pink as his lips, and you pay special attention to it, thumb smoothing along the sensitive underside of him. The soft action has his hips bucking up into your touch, breath hissing between his teeth as he wraps your hair around his fist.

No matter how many times you were in this position, nothing changed how exhilarating it was to have brief a moment of power over him.

When you move to take him into your mouth, your tongue flat and eager, Scott wraps his fingers around your throat, that playful glint in his eyes replacing quickly with hellish intent.

“Did I tell you that you could touch?” He murmurs, releasing his grip on your hair to pluck your hand off him.

You want to point out that he didn’t seem to have a problem with that when he’d been half-thrusting into your hand, but the look in his eyes silences the retort on your lips. So you let him grip your wrist, and your throat, sure he can feel the heavy pound of your pulse as you whimper at the interruption.

“I just want a little taste,” you plead, jutting your bottom lip out and batting your thick lashes up at him through a heavy-lidded gaze.

Scott just shakes his head. And you feel the coil of defiance begin again.

“Don’t you want my tongue on you, sir? Licking up every thick inch of you? Seeing how much I can take in my hot little mouth?” You know you’re pushing it with how his grip on your wrist tightens, but fuck, you needed to feel him, to touch him, especially after he’d denied you the pleasure of it for so long.

You shift so your free hand wraps around his shaft again. Scott grunts as he watches you play with him, your small hand moving effortlessly along his girth. With both his hands occupied, he has nothing to stop you from doing what you want, what you need, as your gaze flickers down to openly admire his masculinity. “Don’t I look so pretty when I choke on you, baby?”

Despite how his gaze darkens and he twitches in your hand, Scott releases your wrist enough to rest his hand on the edge of the backseat, his brow raising. “You’d look prettier if you listened, sweetheart.”

The condescending nickname rolls through you, your face twisting in disgust at it — he knew you hated it, knew it reminded you of the old men who often tried to make passes at you. It disgusts you enough that you release him from your grip, watching a smile slowly spread on his face.

“I thought I told you not to call me that,” you whisper, not trusting your voice to sound weak with his fist still around you.

“And I thought I told you to listen, but you don’t seem to be doing a good job of that even after the belt.” He shifts his grip from the front of your neck to the back of it, pulling you closer. “What’s my name?”

You hesitate at how hard his gaze is trained on you. “Sir.”

He nods. “And what did you call me earlier?”

Oh. As the dots connect, realization flickering across your features, Scott’s eyes mirror your understanding. He doesn’t give you a chance to say it, continuing, “Until you can learn to listen, you don’t get to cum until I say so.”

You wait for a day, an end time, something that’ll make counting the days at least a little worthwhile — but it never comes. Instead, he just stares at you, waiting for you to defy him again, waiting for you to open your mouth, to push back. But his fingers twitch like he’s going to reach for his belt again, and the thought of that on your already raw backside makes a whimper escape.

“I understand, sir.”

His gaze softens for a moment — and a small part of you hopes that he changes his mind, that he’ll take it back… But Scott was never that type of man. Once something was final, it was final. No amount of begging or pleading could win your case.

He cups your face in his hands like he knows what he’s asking may push you past your breaking point. Never in the months you’ve been together has he implemented something indefinitely, but you’ve never pushed back this much. When his mouth roams over yours, gentle given the circumstances, you taste the sharp spearmint of his gum as his tongue explores you, soothing your whimpers and whines until you’re somewhat relaxed under his touch.

“Are you going to be a good girl if I let you blow me, honey?” He asks, lips ghosting over your mouth, your jaw, pressing a kiss against the column of your throat. You nod, not trusting your voice. “I mean it. No whining. No pleading. No biting.” His gaze flickers up to yours as a memory passes through both of you, your cheeks heating up, caught. He knew you too fucking well. “If I want you to choke on me, you’re going to choke. If I want you to wrap those pretty lips around my head, you will. And if I want your mouth not on me at all…”

“I’ll listen, sir,” you promise, breathless, squirming with need.

Scott’s eyes flash with approval, pressing one more kiss to your mouth before he settles back down against the leather. You follow, slow, cautious, your hands pressing into his thighs as he grips himself.

And when you wrap your lips around him, everything else fades away. You take him at his pace, slower than you would prefer but dutifully obeying his silent instructions, your hair coiled around his fist. The taste of him on your tongue has your eyes glazing over with desire, flickering up to watch him watch you, your head bobbing around his length, spit sliding down his shaft as he makes you take him deeper, deeper, until he’s hitting the back of your throat and there’s still inches between you.

Scott groans as he pushes you further, trained on how your body instinctively fights him, taking his cock entirely in your mouth when your nose brushes the soft skin of his abdomen. Your core drips with need, soaking your panties, at the guttural sound that escapes him: all masculine and intoxicating. You crave more of it, more of his approval, more of him — but he pulls you off with a pop, a trail of saliva traveling from his swollen head to your mouth, before doing it again and again, each time longer than the last.

“So fucking good,” he pants, pulling you off him again, his eyes blown as you suck on his tip like a lollipop.

Your tongue swirls around his head, wrapping your hands around the rest of him that you don’t swallow, little moans escaping.

And then he’s pressing you back down again, his grip holding you stationary as he thrusts into you like he can’t help himself, every action powerful and erotic as the sound of your throat taking his vigorous pace fills the truck. As he fucks your mouth, you knead your breast in your hand, pinching hard at your nipple when the desire to slip your hand between your thighs nearly overcomes you.

Scott watches it all with a growing arousal, his voice deep as he groans. “Fuck, honey, just like that. Want you to remember this next time you think of talking back,” he says, eyes closing briefly at how good you feel. “So fucking perfect with my cock down your throat. Does that make you hot, honey? Wanna rub that fucking clit while I fuck your face?”

You moan around him in response, something between a yes and a please that sounds more muffled than an actual word. Every time you take him deeper you feel that hot flash of aching desire pulse through you, your blood hot, sure that even through your panties you were dripping all over his leather seats.

The thought has your eyes rolling to the back of your head.

Scott’s growls turn positively primal as he pulls you off. “Keep making that face and I’m gonna cum right down that pretty throat.” He lifts enough to bring you to your knees, wrapping an arm around you to pull you flush against him as he drags his heavy touch along your naked frame. “You don’t want that, do you, honey? Fuck, I can smell how soaked you are for me.”

He wastes no time as he slips his hand beneath your panties, fingers sliding easily between your slicked folds as he groans. “My dirty girl. You like my filthy fucking mouth, honey, is that it?” Scott pushes a finger inside you, your body arching up into his as you nod, a breathy noise escaping. “Like when I tell you how good you feel? How fucking hard it gets me? How I dream about fucking you every single night when I’m away?”

God, yes. You assumed — but never asked — about what he thought when he couldn’t be near you, but the confirmation that you were on his mind just as much as he was on yours makes you clench around his finger.

“I’m gonna taste you,” Scott promises, his voice ragged. “And then I’m gonna fuck you so hard they’ll hear you in the city.”

It’s all the warning you get before he presses you down onto the seat, his mouth capturing yours as he settles atop you. Your body is pliant underneath his, gripping every inch of him, while he trails his mouth along your soft skin. Fuck, you felt like heaven to him — so smooth to his calloused hands.

And you made the prettiest noises when his mouth descended on your nipple, sucking and flicking at the hardened nub before giving equal attention to the other, all too aware of how your hips roll helplessly as he kisses his way down your tummy.

“I love how desperate you get,” he groans, hooking his fingers under the waistband of your panties, drawing them down your legs. He nudges your legs apart with his nose, dragging his teeth along the sensitive skin of your thigh. Thick fingers spread your folds apart as he takes you in, the touch making you reach for something to hold onto.

“Please,” you whine, running your fingertips along his shoulder, propping yourself up as he sucked a possessive mark into your thigh. Scott just hums, moving to the other, relishing in the sharp intake of breath as he nips at you. “Please make me feel good, sir?”

“You gonna be good for me?” He asks again, blue eyes flicking up to meet yours, his question serious as he nears the apex of your thighs.

You nod, tongue darting out between your lips as his focus momentarily breaks, darting down to watch how his fingers slide effortlessly over you, teasing your clit. “I’ll be good, sir, I swear.” Just as long as he keeps touching you like that, you’ll agree to anything.

Scott hums, playing with you for long enough that you think he’ll tease you into oblivion. But then his tongue darts out. licking a hot stripe up your center, and he groans, and you… You have just enough time to fall back to seat before his mouth is upon you.

The way he claims you with his tongue makes the wait worth it. Scott isn’t shy about feasting on you, his wet fingers slipping to spread your thighs further apart for him, lapping at you like your pussy is a melting ice cream cone on a hot summer day. Every swirl of his tongue, every flick against your clit, every long drag that has you gasping for breath, your mouth falling open while he readjusts his grip to keep you steady.

Scott groans as he collects your desire on his tongue, pulling back enough to revel at how spread open you are for him. He spits, the lewd action making your head spin, before his fingers rub it through your folds, circling your entrance while his other reaches up to knead your breast.

“I wish we had hours for this.” The admission is low in his voice, ragged from claiming you, pressing a kiss to your thigh as you try to still your hips against his torturous fingers. “Just as sweet as I remember, honey. Better. Fuck, you taste so…”

He doesn’t finish his thought, descending upon you again as his mouth attaches to your clit. You cry out at the special attention he gives it, teasing you just right, his tongue swirling and flicking and lips closing around the sensitive bundle of nerves. Your hips move on their own accord, fingers digging into his brown curls as you grind in time with his tongue. Scott gasps as his touch abandons you to stroke himself, the angle uncomfortable in the cramped space of his backseat.

You clamp down on your bottom lip when your orgasm builds faster than you expect it to, hoping to stifle the increase of noise as he brings you closer and closer. Scott just keeps his brutal pace, those dark blue eyes drinking in the sight of you.

“Sir—” Your breath comes out hot when he groans, the vibrations of it nearly toppling you over the edge. You want so desperately to listen, fighting the way he coaxes it quicker, something heady and mischievous sparkling in those eyes, but it’s too much, he’s too much, that invisible rubber band pulling tighter and tighter, your control slipping, the wet sounds of his tongue dragging over your heat too much to bear—

You scream out as Scott pulls away entirely from you, all that tension coiling tight with nowhere to release, and watch helplessly as his expression flickers somewhere between smug and disappointed. You tremble against the loss, little twitches that give away how close you were from disobedience, your whine high and keening.

“Oh, honey, were you close?” Scott coos, his tone full of condescension as he rests his cheek on your thigh, an evil, wicked, vile grin teasing the corners of his mouth. You glare at the dimple in his cheek. “You think I’m dumb enough to not know when you are? That your pussy doesn’t tell me when you’re trying to be quiet? I know all your tells, honey. Every. Single. One.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to reply, his palm coming down hard against your open heat. The slap has you spiraling, a cry escaping you as your back arches up off the leather, the pain lingering uncomfortably as your ass grinds against the seat. Scott wastes no time crawling up your body, swallowing all your pitiful noises as you taste yourself on his tongue.

His teeth sink into your bottom lip as he pulls away. “Not tonight, honey.”

Your heart seizes in your chest at the confirmation — having suspected it, but half-hoping that he’d forgive your past sins if you were good enough. Scott just grins, lifting so all his weight isn’t settled atop you, running his hands down the still-twitching frame of your body, pushing his jeans down further as one hand drags along your hip.

“Please?” You beg, taking his face in your hands, blinking big doe eyes up at him. “I can’t—”

“You can.” His confidence in you is unwavering, pausing his movements to give you his undivided attention. One kiss, two, three, to the corner of your mouth, each softer than the last, bringing you down from a high he stole away. “We’ll test those limits properly another time. I have so many ideas…” He trails off with a groan, seeming to think better of listing all the ways he could make you bend to his will. “But you can. And you will.”

A whimper escapes at the finality, but you manage a weak nod. It’s all the encouragement Scott needs to draw your leg around his hip, slotting himself between your parted legs. The weight of him dragging through your slicked folds presses a gasp into his shoulder, your arms sliding around his broad frame.

And then he’s sinking into you, stealing the breath from your lungs as your taut body stretches to accommodate his size.

He’s massive — and delicious and throbbing and every other perfect word in the dictionary as you forget how to breathe, how to think, the more he buries himself inside you. You hear his strangled moan against your neck as your head tosses back, pulling him closer, hissing as he draws back just to press right back into you.

He works you just like that for what feels like hours, pushing and pulling, slow as he presses kisses to your skin, holding your hips steady. You know he’s holding himself back, that he’s letting your body get used to him after so long apart, after little more than a press of his fingers and tongue at your entrance. It makes your heart flutter in your chest — he could have fucked his way ruthlessly through you and you would’ve taken every second of it just the same, but the fact that he pauses to take his time now, to lengthen a moment that he shouldn’t be having in the first place…

God. You loved him.

You both moan as he bottoms out inside you, his hips driving forward just a little further on instinct. “Fucking missed this,” Scott pants, careful as he slides a palm under you, lifting your ass off the seat to thrust inside you again. Your gentle touch trails across his broad shoulders and down his arms, a silent message for him to keep going.

And then he fucks you like he promised.

It’s a combination of everything: the time apart, the time you had left, how neither of you could seem to get close enough to each other. He splits you apart and brings you back together with every snap of his hips, filling you exactly how you need, gasping against each other as you angle up to meet him halfway.

Your mouth presses feverishly to his, the sound of your desperate moans filling the small space against the way your body greedily accepts his. Scott stalls his tempo just enough to pull away, sliding his hands back to your hips to lift you onto him before returning to his brutal pace, the new angle giving you a perfect view of his cock stretching you out.

“Being so good for me,” Scott hums, pleased, his fingers splaying over your belly as he ruts deeper into you. The intensity of it, of him, makes you blink back stars as his heady gaze is trained on yours, grabbing onto him as he continues, “Feels so fucking good, honey, fuck.“

Your eyes slip down to watch as he slides in you, the sight of him hard and coated with your arousal making you moan. Scott grips the back of your neck to keep you there, your body curled up into whatever mold he desires, pressing your knee back to the cushion as he shifts himself closer.

“Dirty fucking girl, you like that?” Scott’s voice turns guttural with how you tighten around him, your pretty moans like music to his ears, “Like watching your little pussy take my cock? Seeing how fucking good I stretch you out?”

You nod, another moan spilling from your mouth, only to whimper when he slides fully out of you. The crude smack of his cock against your clit only makes you hotter, your skin on fire as he plays with you, always in control. “Tell me,” he groans, teasing as he grinds himself against you. “Let me hear you, honey.”

“I love it,” you pant, unable to tear your gaze away from his thick length. You want desperately to reach down and press him where you crave him most, but you resist, fingers curling into fists at his sides as you plead, “Please fill me up, sir, I need it. Need you to fuck me, need you to claim me, need you to make this little pussy all fucking yours, please.”

It’s all Scott needs to press into you again, his pace hard and demanding with your wishes. He slides an arm underneath you to hold you steady, his teeth leaving marks on your neck, your shoulder, your collar, pressing moans into your skin with every rough piston of his hips, the sound of skin on skin, and your hard, labored breathing filling the space. And then he’s flipping you over, your hands and knees pressing into the leather as you push back against him, delirious with the new angle as he tugs you up, your back to his chest.

The possessive, strong grip on your waist slides up to knead your breast while he thrusts into you from behind, his lips at your ear, growling every profanity under the sun.

“This what you want, honey?” His hips snap hard into you, the contact against your sensitive ass making your eyes roll back into your head. The mix of the pleasure and the pain he gives you is unlike anything else you’ve ever felt. Scott always finds the perfect balance, his hand sliding between your thighs to tease your clit, your body wanton against him. “Being claimed? Owning you completely?” At your answering moan, he grins. “Could you handle it? Being mine in every way?”

“Yes,” you moan, trying in vain not to swirl your hips and failing, searching for more while he rolls your nipple between his fingers. “I’m already yours, sir.”

“Yeah, honey, I feel it.” They come out strangled as you clench around him, your body responding eagerly to every touch. “So sweet right now, aren’t you? Wanna cum so badly, don’t you?” You whimper out as he angles himself deeper inside you, hitting that spongey spot in time with his ministrations. It’s hard to breathe, hard to think, as he finds the perfect pace to drive you closer to the edge, dangling just on the precipice of release. “Bet you’d agree to anything right now just to cum, wouldn’t you, honey?”

Head tossing back against his shoulder, you dig your nails into his jeans where you hold him to you, looking at but not seeing the reflection of how he commands you, his mouth drawing along your neck. “Please,” you beg, trembling with the exertion of holding yourself together. “Scott— Sir, please, I’m so close—”

“I know.” Cooed, mockingly, along the column of your throat, he ceases every torturous move as he stills inside of you, his hands quick to press your hips down against his. The sudden lack of attention makes you cry out, chest heaving, as he steals your orgasm away again, the frustration and desire mixing until you’re growling through clenched teeth.

Scott just grins, watching it all with a gleeful expression, that dark look swirling in his eyes as he doesn’t dare move an inch. “You can be as nice as you want, honey,” He presses a patronizing kiss to your shoulder, that alone having you twitching against him, small little sounds that you can’t control escaping as he toys with your fraying edges. “I’m still not letting you cum tonight.”

“But—” You think better against talking back, clamping your mouth shut as you whimper again. “When?”

“When you’ve earned it.” Scott slides his hands over your body, dragging along your peaked nipples, taking both breasts in his large hands and groaning as he touches you. “You want to earn it, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you gasp automatically, your hands fisting handfuls of his brown locks as he sucks another possessive mark on you. “Please, sir.”

“How far would you go?” His voice carries that inquisitive tone that speaks of danger, the kind that has your cunt fluttering around him in response. He grunts against you at the sensation, still unmoving, just thick and hard and throbbing in you enough to leave your mind reeling. Your breath stalls when his touch wanders down to press at your belly. “Would you let me cum inside you?”

Every thought in your brain scatters at those words, wanting and needing before you can even voice it. He’s never asked; always pulling out to paint your chest, your back, your face. But the way he asks, his voice quiet yet desperate, the unmistakable edge to it that tells you he’s been thinking about it for a while, waiting for the right time, the right moment — suddenly his insistence on if you’d brought your birth control comes to the front of your mind, and you know. Know he’s been planning this. That if it weren’t here, it would’ve been sometime this weekend.

Scott is patient as he lets it all sink in, studying you, waiting for a shift of an expression, or your body responding against his desires. Something dark awakens in him at your whimper of approval.

“You’d look so fucking pretty like that,” he continues, slowly resuming his pace, much slower now than it was before, as he groans every fantasy he’s dreamt of for the past week into you. “So full of my cum… It wouldn’t all fit, would it, honey? But you’d beg me, wouldn’t you? Beg me to fuck it deeper in your sweet cunt?” Your breath labors as he grunts out, teeth sinking into your skin. “Beg me to put a baby in you?”

Fuck, yes.

You writhe against him with every word out of his mouth, your moans spilling freely as you nod, desperate, agreeable, unaware of how much he wanted it, obsessed about it. How the sight of you in his clothes made him want to put a ring on your finger, how every time you came over to his place he had to fight to ask you to move in, how the idea of your belly swollen with his child made him so horny he couldn’t think about anything else some days, how the thought of you and forever were so intertwined to him now that he couldn’t imagine anyone else to spend the rest of his life with.

All sappy, sentimental things that he didn’t dare voice, locked tight between his teeth, letting only a little spill out.

The need to own you, to claim you, was overwhelming. Scott wanted nothing more than to fuck you hard enough to make your brain flicker off until you couldn’t even speak, until you were completely at his mercy, until every drop of him was spent inside you. Possession and desire bleed into one — just waiting, aching, throbbing, bruisingly so, for your voiced consent.

“I need it,” you finally choke out, trembling, your voice utterly broken. “Please give it to me, sir? Please, please, pretty please?”

Scott moans, long and deep and loud, as he buries his face in the curve of your neck. And then he’s pounding into you, every muscle of his body pulled tight as you wrap around him like velvet perfection, his grip hard and unyielding against your hips as every rough slam of his hips into yours sends your body jolting forward. Your hand slaps to the window in front of you, leaving prints against the foggy glass, and he follows greedily, pressing his weight into you as he spreads your thighs further apart with a growl, fucking you into the seats.

Your orgasm painfully lingers, every needy moan spilling from your mouth only driving him further into you, wild with need, no longer the controlled man you knew but something more animalistic, primal.

“Fucking take it just like that,” he growls, not even sounding human, every word gritted through his teeth as you feel every thick inch of him around your slick walls, his hand slotted between your thighs to part your folds, sinking deeper until there’s no space left. “F-fuck, that’s so fucking— Perfect, honey, fuck— Pussy’s fucking made for me—”

He’s close — you can feel it in the way his thrusts grow uneven as he chases his release, the way he roughly grasps your chin to kiss you, sloppy and more tongue than lips, how his fingers leave Scott-shaped bruises wherever he grips you, his blunt nails biting into your hip, your sides, your breasts as he struggles for purchase. You don’t realize you’re sobbing in pleasure until he wipes your tears away, until he praises how good you’re being taking him like this, groaning when your body responds eagerly to his positivity.

You dance in time with him, meeting him halfway, angling your hips up just right. And you feel, rather than hear, the way Scott moans in ecstasy as he finds that perfect spot in your heat, numb to anything and everything that isn’t his thick cock pounding your weeping, used hole.

You think you cum — or maybe it’s just the last shreds of sanity leaving as Scott reaches his peak, nothing but your eyes rolling to the back of your head as he fills you with his seed, rutting up against you until it’s painful, the warmth of him spreading into you. His heart pounds against you as he slips his hand to your belly, pressing you closer, his breath hot and ragged against your skin as his hips twitch until he’s emptied out, fucking the last drops of his cum into you exactly like he’s dreamt.

And when you come down your orgasm sits uncomfortably high and untouched, a broken sob escaping you as he pulls out with a wet pop.

You feel his cum slide down your swollen cunt and flinch with sensitivity as he’s quick to collect himself on his fingers, fucking it back into you. The tension coils tightly inside of you until you’re sure you’re begging him to stop, the pleasure and pain completely overwhelming, exhausted with the effort of obeying his orders as he presses his digits into your used hole.

When you think just about to break, he stops.

And you know you’re going to kill him as he steals your release for a third time.

“Good girl,” Scott whispers, pressing kisses along your soft skin, his hands soothing every part of your twitching frame. You don’t have the strength to ask for more as he pulls you into his arms after sliding your panties back into place, letting you come down as he finds his peace in caring for you, murmuring sweet nothings while your body is pliant against him.

You nuzzle into him when you feel more in control of yourself, your heart slowing to a more steady pace. His name falls softly from your lips, your arms snaking around him to hold him close, his fingertips soft along the small of your back.

When he presses his mouth to yours, you melt into his embrace, exploring him lazily until he’s pulling away, brushing your unruly hair out of your face. “Mine.” He praises with a smile, that dark expression gone, leaving nothing but bright, shining blues you could drown in for hours. “All fucking mine. I own you.”

“Mmm,” Despite the weary in your bones, you can’t help but smile back, a giggle escaping, “Do you?”

Scott doesn’t need to slip his hand between your legs for you to get the picture, just hooks a finger along the waistband of your ruined panties. “You just let me prove it, honey.” He leans forward to kiss you again, slower this time, before pulling away with a regretful sigh when the distinctive chime of his phone goes off. “Need help getting back in your seat?”

“Already?” You whine.

“Gotta go, honey.” He taps your hip, twice. Non-negotiable. “Come on, before the bears smell you and want you for themselves.”

That has you cracking a grin. “You wouldn’t fight a bear for me?”

“What do you think the murder kit is for?” One last kiss to your mouth. “’Course I would. Just not tonight.”

You pout further, but let him grab your long-forgotten clothes off the floor, making yourself presentable again before he does the same. And when you settle back into the passenger seat as he starts the engine, you let your head rest against the window, bubbly and content and happy. Even if you know it won’t last when he has to leave.

As Scott drives through the familiar city streets, you hate the knot of apprehension that clogs your throat when your mind wanders too far about him being gone. Out on the field, anything could happen, even if it was just one of his routine visits. The people he spoke with — if he approached the wrong one, it would be so easy for them to lash out. Scott was a big man, he could take care of himself, but that didn’t stop your fears from pressing down against you.

His hand is firm on your thigh, thumb stroking soft lines in your skin as he catches your expression. And then his truck takes a turn in the opposite direction of your apartment, heading toward his house.

“Where are we going?” you ask, your voice tinged with confusion as you try to shake off your emotions.

Scott’s grip on the steering wheel tightens just a fraction, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. “My place,” he answers simply. “You’ve been up all night, and I’m not about to drop you off and leave you alone like that.”

You frown, the earlier emotions fighting to come back; you glance quickly out the window, cheeks flaming as you’re caught, hating that he’d noticed your weakness. “I’m fine, Scott. I can—”

“No,” he cuts in gently, but firmly. “You need rest. And I’ll rest better knowing you’re somewhere comfortable.” His eyes flick toward you, catching your reflection in the dim light of the street lamps. “Besides,” he adds, his voice lowering to something more intimate, “I’ve got a bed that’s been missing you.”

It’s not a request, and the way he says it makes your heart skip. You know he’s right. As much as you’d wanted to protest, the thought of sleeping alone in your own bed feels wrong, especially with the lingering warmth of his touch still buzzing under your skin.

By the time you pull into his driveway, the familiar sight of his place is almost a comfort in itself. Scott’s fingers brush over your thigh before he parks the truck, a silent reassurance. “I’ll be gone for a few days,” he murmurs, shutting off the engine, “but I want you here. I want you safe.”

The words hang in the air between you, heavy with a meaning he’s too stubborn to say out loud, but you feel it all the same. He reaches over to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb lingering on your cheek. “Let me make sure you’re okay.”

You nod, unable to find the words, so you just lean into his touch. Scott doesn’t need more than that. He’s out of the truck and rounding it to your side before you can even blink, opening your door and offering his hand.

“Come on, let’s get you inside,” he says softly, tugging you out and pulling you close against him. His arm slips around your waist as he guides you to the front door, his hold steady and reassuring.

Once inside, the warmth of his home envelops you both, and you feel the tension in your shoulders start to melt away. He’s quick to guide you to his bedroom, knowing the layout of his place better than anyone, but still taking the time to make sure you’re comfortable, handing you one of his shirts to sleep in.

As you slip under the covers, Scott pauses at the edge of the bed, eyes lingering on you. “Get some sleep,” he tells you, his voice gruff but tinged with affection. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

You reach for him, and he doesn’t hesitate to slide in beside you, pulling you against his chest. For a moment, you both just lie there, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear soothing you into a drowsy haze. Scott presses a kiss to the top of your head, his hand resting protectively over your hip.

“Sleep, honey,” he murmurs, his voice the last thing you hear before sleep claims you.

In the morning, you wake to the sound of his alarm, the room still dark. Scott’s already dressed, but he hasn’t left yet. He sits on the edge of the bed, watching you with a softness in his eyes that he rarely lets show. He reaches out, brushing his fingers through your hair as you try to rustle yourself awake.

“Go back to sleep,” he says quietly, his thumb grazing your cheek. “I’ll be back in a few days. Promise.”

Before you can respond, he leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, lingering just long enough for you to feel the warmth of his lips. You smile, eyes fluttering shut as you drift back into a peaceful slumber, the last thing you feel is the comforting weight of his hand slipping from yours.

When you finally rise, well rested but achey from the night’s exertions, the sun is high in the afternoon sky and his house is empty, his truck missing from the garage. You wander into the kitchen in search of a cup of tea, pulling the kettle out from underneath his cabinet. And when the steaming mug is in your hands, settling into the breakfast nook that overlooks his backyard, your eyes fall upon his jacket, folded neatly atop all the stuff he’d unpacked while you were sleeping.

And you know he loves you as much as you love him.

[piastriprincess]

honey  ,  you’re  familiar ⸻  max  verstappen  x  reader  .

featuring  max  verstappen  ,  established  relationship  ,  domestic  ,  fluff word  count  0.8k author’s  note  MY  FIRST  REQUEST  !!  genuinely  so  excited  to  have  been  able  to  write  this  for  you  and  i  hope  i  executed  what  you  wanted  .  ngl  i  got  a  little  bit  carried  away  and  it  ended  up  way  longer  than  expected  but  i  hope  you  still  like  it  !  my  inbox  is  still  open  ,  so  please  request  anything  you  want  and  thank  you  so  much  for  reading  ! title is from from eden by hozier .

56:  a  warm  palm  and  a  flannel  shirt .

You wake with a jolt, the Monaco light filtering through the gauzy curtains. Max had been gone for two long weeks for the grueling double-header, and you must have fallen asleep before he got home. It's happened before, but it always takes you a moment to get used to the weight of his arm draped over your waist, the warmth emanating from his body as he clings to you. You open your eyes slowly, blinking against the warm dawn, and there he is, curled beside you, breath steady and even. He looks younger when he sleeps, almost peaceful, like the weight of the world he carries on his back has finally slipped off. 

It’s hard not to wake him up. You want all the time you can get with him. But you can’t bear the thought of him losing those precious, peaceful moments. So you press a soft kiss to his shoulder and slip out from under the duvet. 

The apartment is cold, in that early morning way, where everything is quiet and still around the edges. The flimsy sleep shirt and shorts you’re wearing do nothing to protect you from the flat, air-conditioned chill. Your bare feet pad to Max’s closet, slowly rolling back the door and grabbing a flannel hanging on the rack. You’d bought it for him long ago, in a joint effort with Victoria and Sophie to get him to wear anything but that hideous Red Bull merch. But you should have known it wouldn’t work. Your Max is stubborn, and you end up wearing the button-down more often than he does — it’s soft and warm, and it smells like his slightly smoky cologne. It dwarfs your small frame, but with the sleeves rolled up it works just fine. 

You start the coffee on autopilot, measuring out the grounds carefully, methodically. The water bubbles inside the pot, gleaming in the pale light. You’re humming a song you heard the other day, something about a man slithering home to his lover’s door, and Jimmy is curling around your ankles in that familiar way. Max is home, and for the first time in two weeks the ache in your chest begins to lessen. 

“You look better in that than I ever did,” his voice sounds from behind you, still rough from sleep, and you smile to yourself, turning around. His blonde locks are messy, eyes still weary. But he’s real, he’s here in front of you, and your heart is swelling so much you think it might burst out of your chest. 

“You always say that,” you reply softly. 

“I always mean it,” he says, so matter-of factly, and extends his hand to you, palm up. 

You take it, because of course you do, fingers trailing over his. His fingertips are calloused, scratchy from years of slipping over steering wheels and bending the strongest machines in the world to his even stronger will. When you feel them, you understand how people speak his name with fear and awe. But his palms are soft, warm. This is the Max you know — the one who rubs your feet when you can’t fall asleep, who speaks with a softness reserved just for you, who smiles at you like you hung the stars in the sky. 

Your fingers stay intertwined for just a moment. Then he pulls you into him and wraps his arms around you, holding you like he’s holding something precious he’s afraid to break. “Good morning to you, too,” you giggle as he buries his nose in your hair, breathing in the familiar clean scent of your shampoo. 

“Missed you, liefje,” he mumbles, his hands skating down your sides to rest on your waist, and not even the flannel can stop the goosebumps that erupt where his bare skin touches yours. 

“I’ve only been out of bed for five minutes,” you protest, but you’re smiling. 

“That’s five minutes too long,” he states, letting go and nudging you back to look at you. Something slow settles in his gaze, and his eyes gleam in the morning light as he lifts you effortlessly onto the counter. 

“Max,” you protest halfheartedly as he settles in between your legs, his thumb grazing tenderly over your cheek. His lips meet yours, slow and soft, and you thread your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. He sighs against your mouth, and you press yourself closer, closer, like you’re making up for two weeks of lost time.

The coffee is cold by the time you get around to pouring it, but it didn’t matter. You two had all the time in the world.

[hamilton-here]

𝑀𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝒯𝒽𝒶𝓃 𝒥𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝒜 𝒩𝑒𝑒𝒹

Authors Note: Hi everyone! I hope you’re all well. Really appreciate the support. In honour of the Met Gala coming up here's something quick I wrote. Feel free to comment suggestion or advice below. Lots of love xx

Summary: After a glamorous night at the Met Gala. Lewis and his assistant share a quiet, intimate car ride back to the hotel, where the chemistry between them becomes undeniable and the line between professionalism and something more starts to blur.

Warnings: slight sexual content (first time properly writing something like this - I’m sorry if it’s bad)

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

You never intended to work in Formula 1. You weren’t into racing, didn’t know the drivers, and couldn’t tell you the difference between a Mercedes and a Ferrari.

But when a job offer landed in your inbox, personal assistant to Lewis Hamilton it felt too surreal to turn down.

The position was meant to be temporary. A few months. Media scheduling, flights and hotel bookings, the occasional errand. You were organized, unshakably calm, and not remotely dazzled by the celebrity.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

But working with Lewis meant entering his world, not the public one that flashed across headlines and magazine covers but the real one.

You saw him in the quiet hours before dawn, phone pressed to his ear as he strategised with engineers.

You watched him before race weekends, quiet and closed-off, the nerves settling deep in his shoulders.

You learned the rhythm of his silences, the way he’d absently scratch Roscoe behind the ears when things got overwhelming. You memorised how he took his tea with no sugar but with oat milk or sometimes chamomile when he couldn’t sleep.

You were there when he didn’t speak for hours after a tough qualifying. You were the one who quietly rerouted his flight after a brutal media day, booked the spa that helped him breathe again. You didn’t just work for Lewis, you started to understand him in and out.

And that scared you.

Because somewhere between early morning debriefs and late-night planning sessions, something shifted.

He noticed too.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

It was the night of the Met Gala that things really began to change. The grand event was nothing like you had ever imagined.

The glamor, the flashing cameras, the laughter, and the chatter. Lewis stood out effortlessly in his custom Valentino suit, the kind of outfit that commanded attention.

You on the other hand, were supposed to blend into the background, as you had so many times before. Clipboard in hand, headset clipped to your ear, double-checking logistics while the world’s eyes focused on him. You were just the assistant, the one who made sure everything ran smoothly behind the scenes.

But that night was different. The clock was ticking down to the event, the last-minute adjustments were being made and then, of course, the dreaded moment you’d hoped to avoid.

His stylist, the one person who was supposed to make sure everything was perfect, had suddenly bailed. And there you were, standing outside the dressing room, catching your breath as the final piece of the puzzle unraveled.

Lewis was standing there, suit jacket half-buttoned, frustration evident on his face. He wasn’t in a panic, but the nerves were starting to show. His sharp eyes flicked to you, but it was more of a passing glance than anything.

“Hey, um, cou - could you - ?” He gestured awkwardly at the final button on his shirt. “It’s just this one. The stylist isn’t here and she usually does it for me.”

The request caught you off guard, but you nodded without thinking moving toward him. You weren’t sure why you were the one chosen for this, but it felt like something beyond mere convenience. You grabbed the button of his shirt, adjusting it carefully your fingers brushing the fabric, the sensation strange but familiar in the most unspoken of ways.

As your hands moved, his eyes followed you in the mirror. There was a weight in the room that you couldn’t quite place.

His eyes flickered to meet yours, and for a moment the world outside the room felt muted. The bustling Met Gala, the celebrities and the flashing lights. It all faded as you met his gaze in that reflection.

“You’re the only one who doesn’t treat me like a brand,” he said softly, voice quiet but meaningful. “Like I’m just a thing to be managed.”

You froze for a moment, trying to swallow the lump in your throat. The weight of his words, the vulnerability laced in them, had you questioning everything you thought you knew about him. You had seen him at his best and at his worst. But this side of him which was raw, honest, and real was something you hadn’t expected.

“I’m just doing my job,” you replied, your voice steady, but it didn’t feel like a proper answer. Not to him. Not to you.

He smiled, but it wasn’t one of those bright, confident smiles you saw in the press. It was softer, as if he trusted you just a little bit. “I think you’re doing more than that,” he said quietly, more to himself.

You finished buttoning his shirt, but the air between you was different now. You could feel it in your bones the electric charge, the soft pull that existed just beneath the surface. There was an understanding between the two of you now, one that transcended your official roles. He wasn’t just the superstar you worked for. In that moment he was a person. And so were you.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Later that evening, after the cameras had moved on and the guests began to trickle out the night took another turn.

The Met Gala was winding down, the last few drinks were being poured and the air was thick with glitz and glamour. But Lewis, ever the enigma seemed content to slip out of the spotlight for a while.

You caught him in a quieter corner of the venue, away from the crowds with his gaze lost in the distance. He wasn’t checking his phone, nor was he concerned with anything happening around him. He seemed to be peaceful, a stark contrast to the image the world often had of him.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The car ride back to the hotel was quiet, the sounds of the city night and the hum of the engine the only things filling the space.

The lights illuminating outside the window blurred as you sat in the backseat, a space across from him. But it felt much farther. The weight of the evening had settled in, and despite the extravagant event you both seemed to want the silence. The peace, of some kind, after the madness of the Met Gala.

Lewis leaned back in his seat, his hand resting lightly on the leather armrest. His tie had been loosened, the top button of his shirt undone, his usually impeccable appearance now slightly disheveled and somehow that made him seem more human. More real. The shift in his demeanor from the confident, public figure to this softer quieter version of himself was disarming.

You had expected him to be a little more distant on the ride back, maybe pulling back into that headspace he often retreated into before a race or a big media moment. But he didn’t. He didn’t close off. Instead, he turned his head slightly, catching your eyes.

“Are you okay?” His voice was low, thoughtful, with an edge of concern.

You blinked, unsure of what to say, but the honesty in his voice made it easy. “Yeah. It’s just been a long day I guess.”

He nodded slowly, a slight frown tugging at his lips. His gaze shifted back to the window, staring out at the streetlights passing by.

There was something unspoken between you two now. Something that wasn’t in the official brief of your job description. It was more than professional. It was now personal.

And somehow, it wasn’t as easy to pretend anymore that it didn’t affect you.

The car slowed as it approached the hotel entrance, the driver signaling for the valet. The movement broke the fragile silence between you, but it didn’t entirely end it. When the car stopped and the door opened, you both stepped out. The cool night breeze hit your skin like a jolt of reality.

You waited for him, your heels clicking against the pavement as you followed him into the hotel lobby.

His usual confidence was there but there was something else, something more grounded and more real about him tonight. The public face was gone, and in its place, there was the man behind it. The man you had been getting to know more and more in the past few months.

Once you reached the elevator, the ride up was equally silent. You pressed the button to his floor, and as the doors closed there was a tension in the air that neither of you could ignore. His hand rested against the railing, fingers tapping lightly and you couldn’t help but glance at him. Wondering to yourself what he was thinking.

When the doors opened, the silence was almost deafening as the two of you stepped out walking down the hallway. His room was just a few doors down and you both made your way toward it, the quiet hanging between you.

And then, in a split second something shifted again. Lewis stopped in front of his door, his back to the frame. His eyes locked with yours, and for the first time that night there was no rush. No distractions. No outside noise. Just the two of you.

It was subtle at first, just the way he turned his body slightly toward you with the slight tilt of his head. But then it happened, as if some invisible force was drawing you together. You took a step closer, and your breath caught in your throat.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to. His eyes were searching yours, asking without words if it was okay. If this was okay.

And somehow, you knew. You knew it was. That small, quiet space between you both where the walls you had built up around your professional roles fell away, revealed a rawness neither of you had expected. It felt like you were meeting him for the first time all over again this time, in a way that was far more vulnerable.

Before you could second-guess it, before the noise of the world could creep back in. You closed the gap between you, leaning forward slowly. His lips met yours tentative at first, like you were both testing the waters. But there was no hesitation after that. His hands found their way to your waist, pulling you closer as you melted into the kiss. The soft pressure of his lips giving way to something deeper as he let out a small groan.

There was no rush. No expectation. Just the quiet understanding that this moment belonged to the two of you.

When the kiss finally broke with a string of saliva connected, you were both breathless, your forehead resting gently against his. His hands stayed on your back, warm and grounding. Keeping you close.

Neither of you moved for a moment, just savoring the quiet intimacy of the moment. The Met Gala, the bright lights, the hustle it all seemed miles away now. In that small, dimly lit hallway there was only him and only you.

Lewis’s voice broke the silence, his words barely above a whisper. “I’m not sure how to do this,” he confessed, his hand gently brushing the hair from your face, his touch almost reverent.

“You don’t have to know,” you whispered back. “We’ll figure it out.”

The words hung in the air, a promise of something unknown but worth exploring. You were no longer just his assistant. And he was no longer the 7x formula 1 champion you worked for.

For the first time, you were just two people. Two people who had been orbiting each other for so long, without really seeing it. Until now.

Without saying anything more, he gently guided you to his room, the door clicking softly behind you.

The world outside, with all its expectations and roles, faded into the background. And all that remained was the quiet understanding that this was a beginning.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The golden lamplight painted the space in warm hues, casting soft shadows that danced along the walls. But you weren’t looking at the room. You were only looking at him.

Lewis stood in front of you, holding your hand like he wasn’t quite ready to let go. His eyes searched yours, as if needing to be sure you were really there. Not as his assistant, not as a part of the job but as you.

You stepped closer until there was barely any space left. Your other hand came up to rest against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your palm.

Your lips found each other again, but this time slower, deeper. Not rushed. Not frantic. Just full of everything you couldn’t say. His hands came up to cradle your face as if he was memorising every inch of it, like he was afraid this would all disappear if he blinked.

He pulled you closer until you were pressed against him. The kiss turning softer, more reverent. A shared inhale. A shared exhale. Like he was breathing for you and you for him.

When he finally pulled back, he didn’t say a word just looked at you like you were the most delicate and important thing in the world. And then, with a quiet gentleness that undid you completely he guided you toward the bed, never breaking eye contact.

Lewis’s chest rise and fell rapidly as he laid you down, his usual confident composure crumbling in a second. His fingers traced your jawline starring into your eyes softly as if asking if you wanted this. With a slightly nod his fingers trembled undressing you, revealing your skin.

His body pressed against yours, every muscle tense with restrained passion as he fights the urge to take you completely.

[wildelydawn]

242.

[spanktony]

GOT HER OWN. — karina. (part one)

“𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗰𝗮𝗻 𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗴𝗲𝘁 𝗶𝘁. 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝗶𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗶𝗻 𝗶𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵, 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝗶𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗶𝗻 𝗶𝘁.”

in which — y/n is a valorant streamer who loves trolling and chasing a spot on the top 10 valorant clutches list. when katarinabluu, a high-ranked player, takes the #1 spot, y/n throws shade during their stream—only for katarina to clap back online.

pairing ! —streamer!karina x streamer!gn!reader

genre ! — smau w a little bit of written text, enemies to lovers, comedy

warnings ! — kys/kms jokes, swearing, this is very bad 😕

featuring ! — aespa, yunjin (le sserafim), keeho (p1harmony), minji (newjeanz), and more

a/n: this isn’t a long series just a 2 part (maybe) series (part two)

it was a routine you followed every month: react to the top 10 valorant clutches of the month video, hope to see one of your clips make the cut, and play it cool if it didn’t. at this point, it was less about the recognition and more about the banter with your chat.

you weren’t the most well known valorant pro out there—your channel had a decent amount of subscribers, but it was nowhere near the top 100. you had a pretty loyal following that you had worked hard to build since your first few days on youtube and twitch.

and as the months passed, your fan base was only getting bigger.

today was no exception. you had set a stream up for your regular wednesday afternoon time slot. you were going to try and squeeze in a few rounds with a few friends before you had to get ready for your night classes.

but first, you needed to react to the new list. it had dropped the night before, and your notifications had been buzzing ever since.

your fans loved hyping you up every time these compilations came out, spamming your inbox with messages like “this has to be your month!” or “if you’re not on this list, we riot.” it was all in good fun, but deep down, you couldn’t lie—it’d be nice to finally see your name make the cut.

“alright, chat,” you said as the stream went live, your usual intro music playing softly in the background. “you know the drill. top 10 valorant clutches of the month. place your bets now: am i finally on this one, or are we adding another ‘rigged’ tally to the scoreboard?”

username: no way they missed that icebox play last week right?

username Manifesting y/n at #1 this time!

username if you don’t make it we ride at dawn

username 💀💀💀💀💀💀💀

username they’re saving your clip for a ‘top fails’ compilation 😭

you chuckled, rolling your eyes. “hilarious. let’s just get into it, yeah?”

you pulled up the video and hit play. as the countdown began, your commentary started up right away.

clip #10 was decent, a 1v4 clutch with some clean sheriff shots. “not bad,” you admitted, nodding approvingly. “but let’s be real, chat. i’ve done better.”

clip #9 featured an insane operator flick. “okay, now that’s spicy,” you said, impressed. “still waiting for my clip, though.”

by the time it got to the top three, you hadn’t seen your name, but you weren’t surprised. “alright, here’s the moment of truth. if i’m not in the top three, i’m officially calling this list a scam.”

then, the #1 clip began to play. the name on the screen caught your eye immediately: katarinabluu.

your face froze for a second as the clip began—an ace on icebox, clean headshots, and a flick with an operator that sealed the round. it was an undeniably impressive play, but your competitive streak refused to give in.

“that’s it?” you said, pausing the video. you shrugged. “but let’s be real—if that’s #1, this list is definitely rigged.”

username who the hell is that

username y/n who???

username: HELLO??? KARINA’S GONNA SEE THIS

username not you dragging her when she’s literally better than you ☠️

username 😭😭

you leaned back in your chair, smirking at the chat’s chaos as the messages flew by faster than you could read.

“what? i’m just saying!” you said, raising your hands in mock defense. “she’s good, but if that’s the best clutch of the month, then clearly the editors need to broaden their horizons. my icebox clip was cleaner.”

the chat exploded even more.

username oh you’re done for

username: why are you here starting beef w karina i can’tttttt

username: Plz she’s gonna roast you so bad

username 100% she’s gonna watch this later and go feral

username you done fucked up 💀

you laughed at their reactions, brushing it off as just another day of trolling with your viewers.

a/n: lolll idk how i feel about this 😔

part two

[soap-ify]

can you do a smut to fluff comfort where simon is overstimulating them and being super degrading and they safeword? Then Simon takes care of them and is basically just super sweet.

this has been sitting in my inbox for so long :( so sorry anon i hope you like it!!

cw — smut at first, degradation, use of safeword, gentle aftercare and lots of comfort.

simon had been frustrated that day, very frustrated after coming back from work. and you felt like trying something new for him.

“fucking slag… look at you takin’ this cock so well.” he spat bitterly, his girthy cock mercilessly ploughing into your tight cunt, his hands gripping your hips in a hard and bruising manner. “too dumb to even speak now, eh? only good for takin’ some cock.”

he had asked you so sweetly at first, if he could take his frustrations out on you, and you had agreed because you wanted to please your boyfriend so badly. plus some crappy porno made you think that rough sex can be amazing. silly reason, yeah.

but right now, all those insults spewing out of his mouth seemed genuine and scary, messing up with your head while your body was all sensitive from already orgasming a few times before. it was overwhelming, too overwhelming — and you knew that if you don’t speak up now, you’ll break down horribly anytime soon.

but god, you felt so guilty. you were supposed to be relaxing him, not turning it onto yourself.

“r-red…!” you managed to choke out, tears sliding down your cheeks as your fingers digged into his shoulder blades, causing simon to halt almost immediately.

“what?” his voice was gruff, eyes still a bit glossy from fucking you, though his grip had loosened significantly and worry was soon blooming onto his face.

“red…” you repeated weekly, lips wobbling as you quickly looked away, not wanting him to look at you crying over something like this.

simon gently eased himself out of you and rolled by your side, his calloused hands cradling your face. “oh, love… did i hurt you? was it too much?” he may have been sounding concerned and still reserved though he was internally panicking inside, wanting to rip and beat some sense into himself.

“yes,” you sniffled and nodded, your hands trembling as you leaned into his embrace, soft pants leaving your lips. “too rough..”

“fuck, m’sorry. so sorry, love. got carried away for a second, i-” he paused, his heart aching terribly with guilt and concern as he saw your face all soaked with tears. it soon dawned on him how mean he was being, even if you had agreed to it. he should’ve known that you were probably not used to this, maybe not even into it.

he slowly got up from the bed and helped you off the bed, his burly arms supporting you. he took you over to the bathroom and soon ran a warm bath for you, helping you sit in the bathtub, your little winces making his heart sink.

“i didn’t mean any of those words, y’know…” he pressed a soft kiss on your forehead, his fingers gently caressing your head.

“i know…” you sniffled and smiled up at him sheepishly. “maybe i’m too soft for all that.”

simon sighed softly and sat by the edge of the bathtub, not caring about himself at all right now. all of his focus was solely on you, helping you clean yourself and dry up once you were done, dressing you in some comfortable pajamas.

once he came back after cleaning himself up, he sat down on the edge of the bed and looked over at you, his once stern brown eyes now soft with love and pain. “i’m so sorry, i mean it…”

“don’t apologise, si…” you gently wrapped your arms around his neck, his hands supporting your hips as he carefully propped you on top of him once he laid down, caressing your lower back.

“i love you… never wanna hurt you, y’know. m’so proud of you for speakin’ the safeword. so proud of you.” he smothered your head with chaste kisses, his breath caressing your skin.

“i love you too…” you mumbled softly, exhaustion soon taking over you. you let his heartbeat lull you into sleep alongside his soft murmurs, feeling safe once again.

[sumplys]

waking up the morning after w john walker :)

chapel — j. walker

Kiss me forever where only death remains.

John Walker explores the traces of love he left on you the night before.

warnings: genderless reader, implied sex, bruising, reader is kind of a cuck. [0.6k words]

notes: please continue to leave john walker requests (or any other characters for that matter) in my inbox! if i’m familiar with the character, i will consider writing!

main masterlist

Dawn’s whispers of sun flickered through thick black-out curtains, New York’s sunrise sky finding consciousness.

Pinned beneath Johnathan Walker’s sheets, your lips were swollen, bruised pink with the pressure of his lips.

Your eyes traced his bare chest, auburn freckles scattering over his scarred skin.

He stopped wearing a shirt to bed as spring turned to summer, and you were eternally grateful for the passing of seasons.

The sight before you—Captain John Walker domesticated and flushed, the thin veil of sweat clinging to the roots of his pale tresses remnant of the night prior—it was enough to make your chest swell.

Your whole life you’d wished for something aggressive; the rough pressure of lips under a brewing storm, but like you and John had both learned, humans will drown in passion.

John’s careworn fingers brushed over the stretch of your collarbone, dipping into the hollows your anatomy made.

Being with John was antithetical to that fervour. It was quiet devotion; a natural instinct.

His touch faltered over a cluster of blooming bruises, bringing his thumb to trace the mulberry flush over your neck.

He admired the marks, physical proof of labour of his love, like words etched in your skin.

“Good-morning,” you whispered, beaming up at him like the soundless echo of the sun.

He dipped his head, blonde curls falling over his eyes as he pressed a deep kiss into the bow of your lips.

“I like these,” his tone just shy of nervous as he dragged a fingertip down the stretch of your skin, still enamoured with his work.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he murmured, doe-eyed, staring down at you.

A giggle erupted from your throat, giddy, “Well, get a good look now.”

He pursed his lips, pale brows knotting.

“I’ll have to cover them up when we go to work.”

He shook his head, his throat grating with a pent-up groan, “Please, please say you won’t.”

You pressed your open palm into the blonde stubble of his jaw, ignoring his plea, “You look really good right now, you know.”

His rough hands moulded against your hips, fingertips digging into sheer cotton.

“Yeah?” he asserted.

“Yeah.”

“You look good too,” he whispered, nipping the sensitive skin against your pulse.

He quieted as his mouth found yours, his begging silenced against the heat of your lips.

Your nails curled into the scruff of blonde tresses, leaving a swell of vermillion scratches down his neck.

Muscle wrapped around your waist as he slid you over his hips.

Each embrace of your mouth drew him into a fervour—growing feral, his technique diminished as his kiss grew sloppy.

John sighed into your ear, a growling rasp, “I’m going fucking crazy.”

His tongue moved with vehemence, softly running against the pink of your lips.

More marks to come.

[bonefall]

Update + Reply Bundle

Heyo all, it's been a while with some radio static and I've got a bundle of bits to reply to here!

If you're wondering where I've been, it's actually that things got MEGA busy on my end. Between the new year, a small promotion at work, getting a license to operate an X-ray machine for extremities (i have no idea how this happened man i have an applied science degree in dead people), learning some Java, and making travel plans to visit my partner overseas, it's been hectic but good.

But I ain't gonna pay it no mind, because every 6 months in queensland a man is torn apart by a crocodile the Warrior Cats never stops. I have also been passively ruminating on the Family Tree and keeping up with checking the inbox. Before I get to ShadowClan and the Glitch Warriors, I'll tackle all the other things.

SO reply time;

Changing Skies Reactions (On Moonpaw's sister being stillborn, the ShellFern cheating situation, etc)

The Flipclaw/Myrtlebloom Family Tree Fix plumthrift is soooo back

Other Fun Stuff (Which character should be allowed to say fuck. Names I'd like to use in other Clans.)

(NOTE; not addressing anything submitted about BB!ASC just yet, I want to put all my plans together first)

CHANGING SKIES REACTIONS

My honest feeling is that they don't know what a chimera is, BUT, I'm actually glad about that.

I would 100% rather they go with having her be possessed by a dead stillborn rather than them making her rare, ultimately harmless genetic quirk "the reason" why she's haunted. The stillborn haunting is the sort of concept I've come to accept in the setting (though I do have my critiques and reservations about another Evil Voice plotline, especially given the shitshow that was Splashstar in the last book of ASC), but there are DEEP layers to how messed up the implication of "zygote souls" would be.

Others have been joining into the convo in the meanwhile, tho. In essence, I agree with @mothdapple's thoughts on the subject. I hope the voice isn't wholly evil, and I hope that the haunting doesn't stem from her chimerism.

I'm betting that she gets a weird shipping moment with one of her cousins tbh. Especially if she survives this arc and doesn't become a medcat. You just know they'll open up the next arc with her and Sunkit being mates with 400 babies if you ship her with a girl too hard lmaooo

@dawn-sunlight

MANNNNN. You CANNOT convince me that I'm not correct about this at this point. The first 4 times it might have been coincidence, but they seem to have pinpoint accuracy for sinking popular LGBT headcanons and hetconning straight romance into old material.

That's Riverstar, Blossomfall, Ivypool, Leopardstar, Onestar (they replaced a firestar scene man), and now Thriftear and Flipclaw in one fell swoop?

Not to mention how everyone was joking around about "Old Woman Yuri" with Tawnypelt and Leafstar and then BAM, Sudden Crowfeather.

Like idk. Watch Barley get a super edition called Barley's Boo where it's revealed he once fell in love with a beautiful BloodClan she-cat who he had to leave behind, until it's revealed she's in WarriorClan now, so he leaves the barn to get her pregnant before dying. And also she's his first cousin.

That's a joke but if Apollo hits me with the dodgeball I hope he kills me in 1 hit

THE FLIPCLAW/MYRTLEBLOOM FAMILY TREE FIX

thank god. This is actually an extremely easy fix for me, now. All the pre-emptive cleaning I've done for the BB!ThunderClan family tree has paid off.

I Don't Rewrite Arcs Until They're Done, BUT, I have discussed the previous options at length before and how I intend to fix it. If you're reading along but need to catch up on the convo and context, follow these links in order,

Summary and Intro: BB!ThunderClan and the Propositions (ShellFern, StormCherry, FlipBay, or PlumThrift)

Anon ShellFern argument

Anon StormCherry argument

Hypokit Moonpaw Designs for All Four Options

Phantom of the Opera FlipBay Moonpaw

StormCherry Voter who changed their mind for FlipBay or PlumThrift

All caught up? Nice.

PlumThrift is sooooo back. It's basically what they've shown in the first book of CS. Soccer moms and their weird ass kid who they're desperately pushing to be an overachiever LET'S GOO. The most likely thing that will happen is that Moonpaw is a PlumThrift kitten-- unless something big changes.

(Though I am a little bit saddened that I can't do the cool Phantom of the Opera mask thing which came from Bayshine... unless Moon was honor sired, of course. Or maybe adopted. Hmm...)

For Oakkit, Sunkit, and Hazelkit though, I'm leaning towards what anon mentioned. Their canon parents are Myrtlebloom/Flipclaw, so it would be very easy for me to change to FlipBay because of my pre-emptive fixes. It'll match canon, and I have also grown fond of the idea of the two silly dads.

(plus then it's extra easy to have Moonpaw come from the first surrogated litter which was for PlumThrift to raise, and the second litter is for FlipBay. Biologically full siblings, socially cousins.)

That said, there's still a small chance they get shuffled over to ShellFern. Or, more radically, I might end up sending them over to StormCherry. If that doesn't happen though, don't worry, I'm still keeping Honeyfur and Leafshade in my back pocket in case there's no other opportunities to give them kids.

I will say this for certain though-- PlumThrift BB!Moonpaw would never have full siblings. She will be the only child they ever raise. If the canon parents ever have another litter, they would immediately get shuffled to FlipBay or someone else.

Sunbeam's kittens are, of course, Finchlight's. im punting that other thing into RiverClan. GIT.

OTHER FUN STUFF

I do actually want more mushroom names broadly, because sapient cats would actually be REALLY interested in fungi. I'd even say they'd be more interested in them than flowers. A lot of edible fungi have a chemical compound that makes them smell and taste like meat, so imo, they should be kind of like natural snacks or treats you can find while out and about.

Kinda like how humans have fruit, a culture of cats would have mushrooms. I plan on researching and writing a VERY elaborate mushroom guide at some point explaining this all in-depth (which I will be going thru my little "rolladex" of artists to illustrate it, when it's time), so I don't want to dive into the details just yet.

But in terms of names...

Something I wish I'd been able to do more of is weird, hard-to-translate prefixes. Scents that humans overlook, more time-related names about seasons or crepuscular events, categories of birds and invertebrates, etc.

Petricorfur, Prey-scent-tail, Arionbelly (a particularly large slug for eating), Rascalheart (a particularly feisty bit of prey that gives you a good chase), Thermalhawk (a thermal is a rising wind that allows birds of prey to soar more easily) etc.

If I was going back and scrounging up Glitch Warriors for other Clans, or just generally shaking up the prefixes, I would add names with these "themes" into each Clan;

Thunder: Sweet things and more wood-related terms Nectar, Drupe, Sap, Pith, Grain, bark textures like Fissure, Scale, Tessel.

River: More aquatic animal terms, poetic imagery, and "beautiful" things Caddis, Cray, Salmon, Roe, Mussel, Pearl, Dazzle, Twirl, Dance, Sway, Mirror (for the state of water when it's absolutely calm).

Wind: Sounds, events around the time of birth Bellow, Hiss, Roar, Crackle, Swale (if born around the time of a muirburn), Journey (if born out of camp), Drowsy (for a long birth)

Shadow: Mushrooms, wetland terms, fermentation effects, names that might otherwise sound like insults to other Clans Cake, Candle, Jelly, Parasol, Elf, Sphagnum, Gas, Drake (male duck), Muck, Peat, Bog, Fizzle, Bubble, Rot, Blight, Gnat, etc.

Sky: Cars and Suburban Terms Truck, Bike, Cycle, Wheel, Asphalt, Lawn, Fence, Board, Shingle, etc.

I also really want to put Vetch in someplace. It's a pretty normal and common kind of flower, I just think the name is neat.

@angelinelitalady

Firestar's Quest Chapter 5: "ARE YOU TELLING ME SKYCLAN HAD TO LEAVE BECAUSE THERE WEREN'T ENOUGH FUCKING TREES????"

Canon? I will never not answer Bumble, you're going to have to give me two guns to ask this kind of question because there isn't a version of me in any nearby timelines that would say anyone except Bumble. It should be a rocket launcher, actually. We need to give her the nuclear codes. In BB I'd give it to Spotty. It would be REALLY funny. 25% of the story is preventing the rise of TigerClan and the other 75% of the story is taking the gun away from her.

HAPPY LUNAR NEW YEAR ALSO! IT'S SNAKE TIME BABEYYYY

@magewolf-the-artist

Do it! Go ahead! I can put it over in the Fan-Fanart post if you'd like. I should really make a section there for written art, too.

Everything about BB and everything WC-related I put on this blog is open source, from Clanmew, to plot threads, to Clan Culture, etc. PLEASE reference what you'd like if you're inspired by anything you see here!

The only thing I ask is that you keep that spirit of mutual collaboration alive. If you add onto Clanmew, allow others to reference it too. Talk about your thought processes. Encourage people to be inspired by what you did and make versions of their own. That's the beauty of fandom.

My end-game goal is for BB to result in a "skeleton" of chapter-by-chapter notes, the sort of thing you would hand to a ghost writer, so that it's essentially bones that anyone could take and write out themselves. This will take a looooong time because it's more about me having fun along the way, so if you want to write something, go ahead!

Never, never worry about "getting something wrong." You can change things, you can grow as a writer with time, wisdom, and practice. The worst piece of art is a piece that is never made.

[hcneymooners]

✸ TRITWWISIYTSTICS ⤷ chapter iv. you cannot touch her without [not] touching me.

read on ao3.

masterlist: here.

cw: discussions of death, discussion of grief, paige "special operations" bueckers folding in the face of azzi's tears, sexual & romantic tension.

notes: hello, my doves. i hope you enjoy this .in the face of the current news, i'm trying to escape more than ever. despite how easy it is to slip into american individualism, the brunt most likely will not be felt by us. so, if any of my middle eastern followers need support or an ear at this time, please feel free to message me. besides this, i would love to know anything you would like to tell me about this chapter. my inbox is always open. i love you.

there was a sudden shift, as if paige had always known some things, but her body finally had obtained the permission to begin to understand them. she knew what it felt like to become attached, and every moment she spent swaddled in bed with azzi increased the drone of the emotion. 

life was easy behind the canopy. when the curtains were closed, there was only darkness and the near body heat of the other woman. then the sun flooded in, and life was hard again, but it was made bearable by the swan curve of azzi’s neck as she slept opposite paige. 

she had known azzi was beautiful, but something fully convinced her in the days following the incident with kit. paige would lie curled in a crescent moon, her long fingers raising to pull back the canopy so that the sun could spill onto the slackened part of azzi’s full lips. her curls, dark and usually tucked away behind a faded silk scarf, cascaded in pieces as the knot began to loosen. 

paige sometimes gave in, letting her hand float over azzi like a phantom as she tucked the curls back in. she wondered if azzi knew that she touched her, if she felt paige’s fingertips brush across her forehead as she adjusted the smallest things to make her doubly comfortable. her brow would twitch, her brows thick and feathered, and paige would be cursed with shame.

was her desire leaking out of her? was it unappealing how lonely she was? 

was it obvious how right azzi’s weight felt along her body when they forgot themselves and rolled together?

then one morning, it was different. paige had woken before the sun, as was her habit, and was carefully lifting a strand of hair that had fallen across azzi's cheek when azzi's eyes opened. not the slow flutter of gradual waking, but the immediate alertness of someone pulled from sleep by touch.

they stared at each other in the pre-dawn darkness, paige's fingers still suspended between them, the curl wound around her index finger like remnants of a crime—a heist maybe. an emotional draw. azzi’s eyes were almost golden, unnaturally seeing as the sky bled pink and lilac around them.

“good morning,” azzi whispered, her voice rough with sleep.

paige's hand dropped as if burned. “sorry. i was just—”

“you’re alright, paige,” azzi's eyes were soft, unaccusing. “it's okay.”

paige felt something give inside of her at the reassurance, her shoulders relaxing and her body falling further into the sheets. the silence stretched between them, heavy with things neither could name. then azzi shifted, trying to push herself up, and her face contorted with pain.

“oh,” she breathed, her hand flying to the back of her neck. paige thought that for a moment, she felt a twinge underneath her own skin. “i must have slept wrong.”

paige was upright immediately, the careful distance she'd been maintaining forgotten. “what hurts?”

“mmm. my neck, my shoulder.” azzi's voice was tight, her face shuttered into a chapel-worthy image of suffering. she tried to turn her head and winced. “i can barely move it.”

paige's hands hovered over her, wanting to help but afraid to touch without express permission. after weeks of phantom caresses, the idea of touching azzi with purpose, with her consent, felt entirely too much. it would undo her to have her hands upon her, to work the pain free and release her into something far more gentle.

“can i—” paige started, then stopped. azzi's eyes found hers in the dim light.

“i need to bathe,” azzi said quietly. “but i don't think i can reach my back like this. my arms won't—” she demonstrated, trying to lift her arm behind her head, and her breath hissed between her teeth.

the request hung in the air between them, simple and impossible.

“okay,” paige said, her voice steadier than she felt. “um, yeah. i can help."

they moved slowly in the dawn, paige's hand ghosting along azzi's lower back as she helped her sit up, then stand. azzi's nightgown clung to the curves of her body, and paige forced herself to look away, to focus on the mechanics of movement rather than the way the fabric revealed the line of azzi's spine. 

the curve called to mind the mountains, the bend of them under snow and rain,

the bathroom was small, cramped, and paige found it an odd echo as she fit azzi into the same tub she’d been in on the night she arrived. paige turned on the taps, testing the temperature with her wrist while azzi stood behind her, silent and watchful.

“it'll take a few minutes to fill,” paige said, not turning around. she could feel azzi's presence like heat against her back.

“paige, could you look at me? please?”

she turned. azzi was looking at her with an expression she couldn't decipher, but wanted more than anything to understand. it was vulnerable and determined, a collision of conflict. 

“this doesn't have to be strange,” azzi said softly. “we're adults. i'm hurt, and you're helping me. that's all.”

but even as she said it, they both knew it wasn't true. nothing between them had been simple since that first night when paige had appeared in her yard like an answer to a question azzi hadn't known she’d posed. they answered to one another, acting as solutions to the emptiness they both had felt.

“right,” paige said, her voice barely above a whisper. “just helping.”

the water continued to run, filling the silence between them with something that sounded near absolution. azzi smiled fondly, stepping forward and tugging idly at a blonde lock of hair before reaching down and dragging her shift up to her hips.

paige was unable to help her flush. there was something about a woman, about one having the same body as you, so full and tender. both reachable and unreachable, working in the same ways but also different. the soft dip of azzi’s hip was revealed, and paige thought of getting her teeth around the bone. 

instead, she turned away and focused on rolling her hair into a bun, the circle loose and golden like a man-made halo.

after the bath, paige was anxious to provide further assistance. azzi allowed her to help with breakfast.

the world came into flaky gray, the dawn the only color it seemed they would see for the time being. still, the outlook was beautiful. azzi’s garden was flourishing, despite the cooler weather, and paige was surprised to see new sprouts. beyond the lush green and dark dirt were packs of deer, made wild by time and the return of the earth to how she used to be. gnarled antlers curled from the diamond skulls of some, while others only had the bushy ends of their ears and legs longer than what paige was used to.

she watched as azzi opened the front door, stepping out momentarily to toss a homemade mix to feed them. she had changed into a loose, white button-down over green cotton pants, and her hair was drawn into a soft loop at the apex of her head. once she was back inside, they began to focus on feeding themselves.

breakfast was nothing exceptional, but paige felt it was as you tended to when you made something with your hands. it ways it was luxurious: fans of smoked salmon, blushed and thin, and slightly charred slices of flatbread. next to it was a dollop of strawberry preserves—handmade, azzi told her, her eyes darkening with the grief of memory—and a small thimble of blueberries.

they worked mostly in silence, azzi occasionally providing guidance and course-correction to paige when she got too zealous. eventually, the space was filled, azzi interrupting it with the smooth slide of her voice. paige watched the tremble of her throat as she spoke, the line brown and strong and falling in as she took a breath.

“you want to ask me something. i can feel it.”

paige urged her skin not to transform into the peony pink of embarrassment, her head ducking as she focused on her task.

“sorry.”

“i didn’t say that it bothered me.” azzi set down her knife, turned, and placed her palm over the back of paige’s hand. she plucked a string of salmon skin from it. “ask.”

paige stopped then, turning so that she could gaze directly at azzi with an open curiosity.

“what happened to inês?”

the effect was immediate. azzi had picked up the knife in between the space where the question had been asked and her giving permission, and so the blade slipped, slashing her open and ugly, a ragged red line blooming across the extension of her finger. her mouth opened in a near soundless circle of anguish, but paige was the one who audibly cursed.

“shit. are you okay?”

“mmm,” azzi hummed, her finger now between her lips. she sucked until the bloodflow ceased, then released the flesh and reached for a towel to wrap around it. she spoke as she tended to herself, her voice already gone raw with aged grief.

“inês was my sister. not by blood, but she was the only person i had left. we’d been close before the collapse, brought together by living in the same gilded life. i had a terrible fear of losing her even before…this. i knew she was the only one who truly knew me; she was every single good thing. if she was gone, then i was left with something puckered and scabbed, a wound i could only find rot in.”

azzi set down the towel, let it fall open to reveal the split of her skin.

“everyone told me it was irrational to fear things like that. to have such avid anticipatory grief of losing your loved ones when they were living right beside you: breathing, drinking, eating. but then she did die, and the loss was enormous, just as i feared it would be. it felt like a bodily collapse to walk into this house and find her on the floor.

“and she’s everywhere. she’s inside me, inside of me, around me. even when every leaf around me is as dead as any corpse, i still smell jasmine. the thought of her is cloying. i can hardly breathe. that, i learned, is grief.”

paige felt helpless as she watched azzi go elsewhere, her eyes growing glassy in the weak light.

“after my parents died, it was only us. in some ways, i died first, and she kept hauling my body around, refusing to allow me to deteriorate. we found this cabin, fixed it up. she wanted to be an engineer, but she didn’t have the chance to finish. this was her restitution for her unfinished dreams.

“she made me garden, made me cook. she held me when i couldn’t repress the deaths of my family any longer and kept holding me after. she was younger than i was, so i fell into mothering her despite her self-sufficiency. she allowed it. most of our friendship was her allowing me different things, and me attempting to make up for my selfishness.”

“azzi—”

azzi held up a hand.

“i was different then. spoiled, but never rotten.” she paused, seemed to brace herself. “she got sick. i don’t know how she contracted it, but she was infected by something viral, and it ate away at her. i learned that it was possible for a viral infection to predispose you to a secondary fungal infection, leading to a coinfection. it occurs because viral infections can weaken the immune system, making the body more vulnerable to fungal pathogens. she was being destroyed cyclically.

“the commune wasn’t what it is now, and medically, i wasn’t either. there was a point where her skin was just…gone. i could see the bone, i could see the muscle. she was so open, and i wanted there to be a way for me to crawl into her and drag the disease all out.”

paige could feel her horror gathering at the base of her throat, mimicking the same slide that azzi’s tears were performing down the slant of her face. paige watched as her sadness slid down and straight off of her.

“i convinced her to let me go for a day, maximum, to try to find someone who could help. it ended up being two. there was a storm, and a branch fell, struck me. i was in the woods just beyond our property, knocked out cold.  when i came to, i just knew. i could feel it. i was one less person than i was before.

“still, i ran. i ran so quickly that i thought my heart would burst. i found her halfway out of the cabin. she’d been trying to find me. her hand was outstretched. she’d crawled, blood and bone, to try to be where i was. and i was nowhere to be found.”

“azzi, that is in no way your fault.”

azzi turned then, her face flush with emotion. she was trembling bodily, her eyes wide with memory and self-loathing.

“yes, it was, paige. i never should’ve left. i never should’ve left her here. what did i think i would find? i could’ve—”

“could’ve what? stayed and watched her rot without trying to find another option?” paige had forgotten herself, had slid back into the pointed delivery she used when squad members were too grief-stricken to get back up.

she saw the blow land, azzi stumbling backward and catching herself on the counter’s edge. paige stepped toward her, stopped when she flinched.

“fuck. that’s not—fuck. azzi, ‘m sorry. i didn’t mean to say that.”

azzi’s face crumpled. paige was reminded that they truly didn’t know each other. “you did.”

“no,” paige refuted, pressing a hand over her mouth for a second. “no, i didn’t. i meant that you tried, azzi. someone you loved was dying, and you went out into the world and tried to find someone who could keep them alive.”

azzi gazed at her, eyes half-lidded with devastation. paige stepped closer.

“sweetheart, you could’ve done nothing. you could’ve—you could’ve sat there and watched her fade with a shrug. some people do that shit, and then still have the nerve to feel guilt. they deserve it. you don’t.”

“you don’t know me,” azzi said, her voice swelling with a sob.

“i know people just like you, azzi. i’ve seen it all, i promise. inês loved you so much, and i don’t have to know her to understand that. do you think she’d accept your version of the story?”

azzi had no answer, and paige watched her face flood with numerous emotions as she tried to think of one. eventually, she let her head fall as she wiped underneath her nose. “i’d like to finish.”

paige nodded. “okay.”

“i had to burn her. i tidied up her ashes, put some in her jewelry box after i emptied it. i’d spend days rolling around in her bed, the sheets unwashed, as i tried to catch whatever it was that had taken her from me. i wanted to go to her so badly; i would’ve licked off the same spoon if that meant i could’ve been diseased in the same way. i was so irrational in the initial aftermath. i couldn’t even bathe.”

azzi retreated into herself, shoulders curving as if ashamed.

“then one day…i don’t know. i just got up. i left her in that box on the dresser in her room and took off the sheets. i burned them too. then i came back, locked her door, and never looked back. i left her in there because i was unable to see any part of her without wanting to slit my own throat.”

she looked at paige then. “i found that life had moved on. i didn’t, but i kept myself alive just enough because i knew it would’ve mattered to her. it was november, winter was coming, and i kept thinking of my mother. i wasn’t chasing death, but i wouldn’t mind if she and i found ourselves in the same place. it was easier to continue when there was no goal, no threshold to cross. just the truth of it.”

paige couldn't stand it anymore. the careful distance she'd been maintaining, the way azzi held herself like a criminal, shame twisting her limbs into limp flesh. it all crumbled as she stepped forward and pulled azzi against her chest. azzi went rigid for a heartbeat, as if she'd forgotten what it felt like to be held, and then she collapsed.

the sob that tore from her throat was guttural, years of carefully contained misery finally finding its exit. paige felt it reverberate through her own ribs, a small earthquake, as azzi's hands clutched at the fabric of her shirt, holding on as if paige might disappear too. her tears soaked through the cotton, warm and endless, and paige found herself rocking them both slightly, the way you might comfort a child waking from the throes of a nightmare.

“i’ve got you,” paige murmured into the crown of azzi's head, her voice thick and almost unfamiliar. “i've got you, sweetheart.”

azzi cried until she had nothing left, her body shaking with the force of it, and paige held her through all of it. she thought of drew, of lauren, of all the people she'd never been able to hold as they left her. but azzi was here, solid and breathing in her arms, and that had to be enough.

when the storm finally passed, azzi pulled back slowly, her face blotchy and swollen but somehow lighter. she wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand, looking almost embarrassed by the display.

“i'm sorry,” she whispered.

“don't,” paige said firmly, cupping azzi's face with gentle hands. “you don't have to apologize for this.”

they stood there for a moment longer, breathing each other in, before the ordinary world called them back. they were almost nose to nose. this close, paige could see every smile line beginning to rise along azzi’s face. she wanted to emphasize them, to make her happy again. the thought almost felled her.

azzi's stomach gave a soft rumble, and they both looked toward the abandoned breakfast preparations with something like relief.

“we should finish,” azzi said, her voice hoarse but steadier now.

“yeah,” paige agreed, reluctantly letting her hands fall away. they hovered above azzi’s hips, unsure of their purpose.“we should.”

they moved around each other carefully in the kitchen, the air between them changed, but not uncomfortable. azzi wrapped her cut finger properly while paige salvaged what they could of the salmon and bread. 

“you mentioned you kept thinking of your mother. like her…?”

“death?” azzi provided. “no, it was something else. something she used to say.”

paige hummed in acknowledgement, but didn’t push. azzi conceded anyway.

“winter always trembles into spring. that’s what my mother would tell me,” azzi said quietly. “transition was her favorite. everything begins to melt, and the world is filled with weeping. everything weeps and trembles and bleeds. the world weeps and trembles itself straight into joy.”

“we’re going into winter, aren’t we?”

“yes,” azzi said, “but the reminder is kind.”

paige was silent beside her, hands methodically tucking sachets of spices into the slit body of the other salmon they’d pulled from the freezer. then she spoke, sudden and breathless by her standards, as if she was afraid the words would flee her.

“i would like to see you tremble,” she told azzi, “in the same way. straight into joy.”

azzi didn’t look at her, but her hands shook. she could hear the promise in paige's voice. she knew paige would be just as precise in preparing her body as she was in preparing their meal.

i will not weep, azzi thought to herself, because i will not melt.

her desire was never frozen. regularly, it threatened to strangle her.

paige turned to her, took her chin with a hand smelling of the sea, and tipped her face upward as she used her other hand to wipe something from the undercarriage of azzi’s lip. there had still been a drop of blood from where she’d sucked at her cut.

azzi watched, pupils widening as if underneath the thumb of a drug, as paige seemed to consider the streak of red, almost as if to swallow it.

she found herself disappointed when she washed it off.

© hcneymooners.

[bamsywrites]

And Comes Dawn pt 11

Pairing: Sauron/Halbrand x Reader

Summary: The Deciever has a question for his Sweet One.

Tags: fluff. Like FLUFF. He may be deranged but he's got a soft spot. Also, told you I was gonna make the Annatar bow angsty.

Notes: the fic is out of order now because I have a lot going on and ITS MY FIC OK OK. Not having to have everything in order has given me so much inspo that within the next 24 hours there could be 2 more parts and 2 other things too soo. I love you all. Thank you for your support. My dms and inbox are always open, also if you wanna give me like a lil tip it would be appreciated.

Halbrand leaned against the archway to the library and watched you as you read through the scrolls and histories. It's how you'd spent your days since coming to Eregion. He worked on the elven rings, and you were here, reading. It was endearing to him that you sought knowledge in such a way. Proof that he had made the right choice in you.

There had to be three. Just as there had to be three rings.

Him with his power and darkness.

Galadriel with her wisdom and light.

You with your goodness and warmth to balance them out.

Three.

Though, he only desired you. Only loved you. You were what he was doing all this for. He had to create a lasting peace. He had to make Middle Earth safe and perfect. He had to overcome this pesky issue of your mortality. He could not allow you to live in a broken world. He would not allow you to come to harm, and, selfishly, perhaps, he could not let you die. The rings were for you. His ambitions and goals revolved around you.

All for you.

At least, that is what he made himself believe. If he was truly honest, he had different motives as well. Motives of power and control. Motives that would have driven him down this path if you'd never met. His deception was so great that he was able to hide that away. He was able to believe the ends justified the means. And if you were what was at the end, there was no depravity he could not justify.

Watching you now, you were breathtaking with your eyes focused and strands of hair falling in your face. You'd taken full advantage of the beautiful wardrobe and styles of the elves. Intricate, delicate strands of silver were braided through your hair. You wore a dress of light blue with more silver, and the delicate chains only served to accentuate your curves. He had thought you were beautiful in the Numenorian garb, but now you looked stunning. Breathtaking. He'd seen the most beautiful of the elves, the Silmarils, the light of creation. Yet you were greater than them all.

“I know you're there,” you spoke, the ghost of a smile playing at your lips, but your eyes never moved from the page.

“And yet you stare only at your books. My heart can not help but break.” He teased. “I will not be shamed for staring at the most beautiful woman I have ever laid my eyes on.”

He smirked at your blush, approaching you and wrapping his arms around you from behind. He noticed that the back half of your hair was pulled up and tied into a bow. He chuckled softly and rested his chin on your shoulder. “What do you read now?”

“A tale of a human and elf falling in love,” you relaxed into his embrace.

He pressed a kiss to your shoulder, your neck, up to your cheek before turning your head so he could capture your lips in a soft kiss. “Last week, it was the fall of elven cities. This week, it's romance. You never cease to amaze me.”

“You are easily amazed, then.”

“Do not doubt yourself, sweet one.” He pressed a kiss to your nose, turning you around in his arms and lifting you to sit on the edge of the table. “I am in awe of you always, but recently, I'm in awe of these things you do with your hair. A bow?” He teased softly, pressing his forehead to yours.

“Do you not like it,” The way you looked up at him, seeking his approval, it mirrored the expression you wore when you were on your knees begging for him. His fingers tightened on your hips, restraining from taking you on the table.

“I do. It suits you.” He smiles softly, his eyes softening as he sees your bright smile.

“Perhaps you could grow your hair, and I can do it to you. I've seen elves of all kind wear it,” there was an excitement to your voice as you spoke.

He chuckled, “Perhaps one day, if we are parted, I will wear it as a reminder of you when my heart yearns for you.”

“You jest.”

“I do no such thing. You have plenty of things to remember me by,” his fingers traveled down to the intricate necklace of copper he'd made for you at the forge in Numenor. You always wore it. “I shall have the hair bow.”

You frowned, and his thumb traced the downward turn of your lips, his head tilted in a silent question. “Perhaps if I were to have more coin, I could get you something. Perhaps…”

Your words were muffled as he pressed a kiss to your lips. His hands held your face as he deepened it. It was only when he felt his body react that he pulled away. His nose brushed yours. “You have given me more than enough.”

You smiled up at him, face flushed and lips swollen. His thumb gently caressed your cheeks.

“I don't intend to ever be parted from you,” he whispered softly, tucking your hair behind your ears. “I mean it.”

He pulled away, searching his pockets for a moment before pulling out a ring. It had a silver band and a small blue gem at the center. He knew it was more than a simple band. He knew of the power he placed in it. The materials he snuck from the forge to add to it. It would need to be perfected in time to come, but for now, it would do what he needed it to. It would increase your lifespan, heal your wounds faster, and It created a connection with him, wherever you were.

It also served as a symbol. That you were his. That his feelings for you were real. His intentions were true.

He looked at it for a moment before looking at you. “ In elven culture, it's customary to give your betrothed a silver ring that you wear until marriage. At that time, they were traded for gold bands. I added a bit more. A gem as blue as the waters that brought us together.”

You gasped softly, looking at the ring and then to him.

“It's the custom of your people to ask the family but you have none. The family who warded you is gone as well. I have no one to ask for your hand but you. As such, I felt that I should give you the same proposal in which I would have given your father.”

He stood up straight, one hand on your chin directing you to look at him. “You fill me with a warmth I've never known. I no longer know who I am if not with you. I was lost and astray, without hope or purpose. It was as if the gods themselves put you on my path. You are a beacon of hope, your smile my purpose. There is nothing I would not do for you, no trial I would not face. I love you. I adore you. I have never thought of children until I met you, and now I know I want to make you a mother. I want to make you my wife.”

He brushed away a tear that had fallen from your eyes, “I give you the choice, I would never force anything upon you. Do you want that? Do you want me?” He took a deep breath, shaking his head. “Fuck, I'm so nervous I can't talk. Just tell me, yes or no? Will you marry me?”

You laughed, nodding your head. He slid the ring onto your finger before lifting you and twirling you around. As he set you down, you looked at the ring on your finger.

“I never thought I'd be betrothed. I never thought I'd choose who I could marry.” You smiled up at him, and it filled him with joy unimaginable.

“I never thought I'd give a woman a romantic speech or truly want to settle down.” He rested his forehead against yours once more. “I'm a changed man thanks to you. Near unrecognizable to that drifter on the raft.”

“That is true. You will be a king soon.” You gasped suddenly as a realization dawned on you. “ I'm going to be a queen. Me? A queen” you laughed softly at the thought.

He chuckled, pressing a quick kiss to your lips. “That is true. As soon as my business here is done, we can return to the southlands and be wed, and you can meet all your subjects.”

You wrinkled your nose, “I'm not sure I like the thought of having subjects.”

“Of course you don't, “ he rolled his eyes but didn't stop smiling. “Why don't we go back to our chambers, and I can show you how devoted of a subject I am?”

Your cheeks turned red, and you buried your face in his neck. He placed a kiss on your head, “I'll kneel and worship my queen.”

“Halbrand,” you spoke, pulling back and giving him a look.

“I'll fill you with my warmth.”

"Stop it!” You smacked his arm,causing him to laugh deeply and wrap his arms around you for a tight hug.