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hamsterclaw · 11 months

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Drift Kings

You and your brother Seokjin live completely separate lives, until one day when your worlds collide.

Pairing: Jimin x f! reader, Yoongi x f! reader

Genre: Drifting, street racing AU, smut

Word count: 9.5k

Rating: 18+

Warnings: Explicit sex, swearing, mentions of drugs, cigarette smoking, illegal street racing

You know from the first time you lay eyes on Park Jimin that he doesn’t belong in your world.

He’s physically blessed, that much is obvious to anyone with eyes, but he’s all wrong.

His suit is beautifully tailored, but the material’s wrong. His shoes are expensive but in that modern, stylish way that screams new money.

You doubt any of the jewelry he has on is inherited.

He catches you staring, assumes it’s because of his good looks rather than that you’re finding him lacking.

He has the audacity to give you a once over of his own, like he has the right to judge you like you judged him.

You stay perfectly still, let him look.

You’re a Kim, and you’re used to people staring at you.

His lips curl in a smile that looks closer to a sneer.

‘You should wipe that sour look off your face, princess, before the wind changes.’

You’re too surprised to snap back at him, and a moment later, he turns away, like he’s the one dismissing you.

You’re still staring at his back when Seokjin, your brother, arrives with Yoongi.

‘Were you waiting long?’ Seokjin asks politely, gesturing for you to go ahead of him into the private room he’s reserved for dinner.

‘Not long,’ you say, still thinking about the very beautiful man who’s just cut you down.

***

Seokjin, is as unmarked as he ever was, at least from what you can see whilst he’s dressed in a three-piece suit.

You’re glad.

Your brother’s always loved cars. When you were growing up, he spent every spare moment in Yoongi’s family’s auto workshop, similar to how you spent every moment in your father’s office, learning the ropes of your family business.

There was a Kim needed to take over the company, and thankfully, your family didn’t have any qualms about which Kim sibling it was.

A life in business would have killed your brother, totally unlike a life spent drag racing on Mount Samo, you think, uncomfortable with the irony.

If your parents were still alive, they’d probably have things to say about Seokjin’s lifestyle.

At least he’s always with Yoongi.

Min Yoongi.

You sneak a glance at him over your plate as you eat.

Around you and Seokjin, his normally serious face relaxes into a smile, perfect teeth flashing often, eyes crinkled at the corners.

Your brother’s closest friend, you spent most of your teenage years swinging between a desperate crush on him and a desperate need not to be perceived by his intense, penetrating gaze.

Now that you’re older, the heat of your crush has settled into a burning ember he occasionally stokes by turning up when you meet Seokjin, all dark eyes and deep voice and the odd flattering comment that has the power to set your heart aflutter.

Apart from all that though, you know enough about Min Yoongi to know he’s got the heart of a hustler, and fierce loyalty to your brother. If your brother ever went down, Yoongi would be right there with him fighting to the bitter end.

‘You look tired, sis,’ Seokjin says, dropping a dumpling onto your plate.

‘I’m just closing on a three year contract with the Moiwa group,’ you say, not denying it. You’ve been working on a lucrative partnership with the tech company for months, and you’re finally on the home stretch.

You’re not sure how much Seokjin knows about the family business, he rarely attends board meetings, like you’ve never seen him race.

Seokjin loosens his tie, wincing slightly as he does so.

‘How’s your collarbone?’ you ask.

Four weeks ago Seokjin had broken his collarbone and three ribs on Mount Samo. He hadn’t told you about it, but as you are each other’s next of kin, you’d found out anyway.

‘Healing,’ Seokjin says, making up for his brevity with a brilliant smile.

You know what they call your brother on the circuit.

Chaebol. Often said with a sneer, despite the fact that he can put together an Evolution IX blindfolded and drive it in a way that credits all the tuneups he can afford to pay for.

‘I hurt my shoulder,’ Yoongi tells you, teeth flashing in the half-smile-half-snarl that makes you feel lightheaded when it’s directed at you.

‘I’m sure you have plenty of people to take care of it for you,’ you say, straightfaced.

Yoongi blinks, and his lip curls again. ‘Don’t you want to?’

You laugh. ‘Are you trying to be cute? It doesn’t suit you, Yoongi.’

‘Stop flirting with my sister, Yoongi,’ Seokjin interjects, distracting you from Yoongi’s pout.

He turns back to you. ‘Are you free this weekend? I was planning to visit Daejeon.’

‘I’m free,’ you agree.

Your parents’ graves are in Daejeon. You and Seokjin go a couple of times a year.

Your phone rings. It’s your PA, Daeun.

‘I should go,’ you say, apologetic. ‘It’s hectic right now at work.’

‘At least finish your food,’ Seokjin urges.

‘I’ll pick up something before I get home,’ you reply.

Seokjin frowns. ‘I’ll drop food off at your place.’

You smile. ‘I’ll see you this weekend, ok? Keep my brother out of trouble, Yoongi.’

‘And you stay out of trouble too,’ you add.

Yoongi throws you another grin. ‘For you,’ he promises.

‘This weekend,’ Seokjin says.

Both men rise as you leave the room.

***

Seokjin wanted to drop by Yoongi’s workshop on your way to Daejeon, and you have to admit, it’s been a while since you’ve seen his crew.

Jung Hoseok, the angel-faced mechanic turned racer who has a smile and personality that can light up a room and drives like he’s halfway to heaven.

Jeon Jungkook, the youngest, a baby brother to all who of recent years seems to be trying his hardest to hide the facts of his pretty face and endearingly cute little shit personality, by getting tatted and pierced and wearing exclusively black.

There’s an unfamiliar person though, and as he turns to greet Seokjin upon your arrival, you realise it’s the beautiful man who sneered at you in the restaurant.

‘Y/N, this is Park Jimin,’ says Seokjin.

Park Jimin gives you a smile that makes you long to slap him.

‘We’ve met. Turns out, I wasn’t far off when I called you a princess.’

His comment makes your hackles rise.

‘I wish I could say it’s a pleasure,’ you say coolly.

‘How did you meet?’ Seokjin asks.

‘It was at the restaurant that night,’ you tell Seokjin, trying to shut down the line of questioning.

You turn to Yoongi, who’s leaning against a workbench, watching the whole exchange with a bemused look on his face.

‘I’ve never met anyone who doesn’t like Y/N,’ Hoseok remarks, kindly. ‘It must be your fault, Jimin.’

You laugh. ‘I’m sure I have a lot of enemies, Hobi.’

If Seokjin’s the chaebol racer, and Yoongi’s the drifting king, you’re the ice princess of Cheongdam-dong.

You’re well aware that your family’s laissez-faire attitude to succession isn’t necessarily shared by all. You’ve grown so weary of the misogyny in your society that it barely even registers to you, now. You learned long ago to apologise for daring to carry on your family business lineage.

You completely miss the look that passes between Seokjin and Yoongi.

‘I’ll be back by nine,’ Seokjin says to Yoongi.

That gets your attention. ‘A race?’

‘We’ll look after him,’ Jungkook assures you sweetly.

You roll your eyes in mock exasperation. ‘Who’s going to look after the rest of you?’

***

Seokjin parks the car, cuts the engine.

You unbuckle your belt, and you both walk around to the trunk to get the flowers you brought.

Seokjin asks, casually, as you walk down the path to your parents’ graves, ‘How’s work going?’

‘Still busy,’ you say, shading your eyes against the brightness of the afternoon sun.

‘The deal came through,’ you tell him. ‘I spent most of last night celebrating with my team.’

‘Congratulations,’ says Seokjin. He’s had the foresight to put on sunglasses, you can’t see most of his face.

‘Thanks,’ you reply. ‘How’s the Supra coming along?’

Seokjin and Yoongi are working on tuning up a fourth generation Supra for a client from Hong Kong.

‘It’s coming along,’ Seokjin says. He smiles wryly. ‘Jungkook keeps asking if he can ‘road-test’ it.’

You laugh along with him.

‘Yoongi says he’ll let him if he can rebuild it after,’ Seokjin continues.

You know Jungkook’s talented, but he’s not as skilled as either your brother or Yoongi.

‘You can come watch the race tonight, if you want,’ Seokjin offers.

He’s never invited you before.

‘Sure,’ you say.

‘We’ll head off when we get back,’ Seokjin says.

You’ve reached the graves.

Seokjin kneels down to lay the flowers on the ground.

You wonder if it’ll ever get easier.

***

You’re sitting in a corner of Yoongi’s workshop, watching as Seokjin and his crew get ready.

The atmosphere’s crackling with anticipation, a wild energy that has adrenaline thrumming through your veins.

Seokjin and Yoongi are hunched over the popped engine hood of Yoongi’s Nissan GT-R, talking quietly.

Jungkook and Hoseok are roughhousing by the workbench. Jungkook’s dressed in black leather and motorcycle boots, a chain round his neck, and you wonder, again, when the maknae started to become such a menace.

Jimin’s sitting on the raised walkway over Yoongi’s workshop, arms on the railing, feet dangling off the edge.

He catches you looking at him, and the slow smirk that spreads over his face is, to your chagrin, equal parts infuriating and attractive.

You can’t deny it, he’s not your usual type but he’s so fucking attractive you almost can’t stand to look at him.

His blond hair is styled back, a stray lock falls across his brow as he stares at you, almost in his eyes. His full lips are curved, smile lines crinkling the corners of his eyes.

The way his jacket’s lifted, with his arms braced on the railing, shows off his flat stomach, the plain t-shirt he’s got on doing nothing to hide how cut his torso is.

Beside you, Seokjin clears his throat.

‘You can ride with me,’ he says. He glances up at Jimin as he speaks, and you wonder how long Seokjin was watching before you noticed.

***

You’ve been in Seokjin’s Honda before, but never on a race day.

The interiors are black leather, he’s modified the sound system, of course, but most striking to you is the way the engine vibrates with power, even when he’s driving the speed limit en route to Mount Samo.

Up ahead, Yoongi’s leading the convoy. You’d glimpsed the flash of his grin as he’d cut Seokjin off at an intersection a couple miles back, and the barely leashed ferality of it had made you fantasise, for the umpteenth time, about sleeping with him.

Bringing up the rear are Jungkook, Hobi and Jimin, keeping tight on Seokjin’s tail.

You look around with interest at the cars idling at the summit when Seokjin slides smoothly into a spot next to Yoongi.

Seokjin cuts the engine, and you get out.

You’d expected Seokjin to get a reaction, your brother is striking even when he’s not driving a midnight black Honda, crimson racing stripes cutting the car in half lengthways, but to your surprise, there are an equal number of eyes on you.

Yoongi’s lit a cigarette, the glow of the lit end reflected in his dark eyes as he moves over to make a space for you next to where he’s leaning.

Smoke curls around your face as he asks, polite as ever, ‘Do you mind if I smoke around you?’

‘I don’t,’ you reassure him.

Yoongi nods. ‘I usually just have the one.’

His lips curl. ‘Then another when I win.’

Seokjin says. ‘Jimin will drive you back down when he’s scouting. We’ll see you at the bottom.’

‘Scouting?’

‘For police,’ Seokjin explains.

You look at him sharply.

‘If you want, Jimin can drive you home right now,’ Seokjin offers.

It occurs to you then, just how separate yours and Seokjin’s lives are.

Yours is a world of meetings, boardrooms, euphemisms for what one really means.

And Seokjin’s is this, nighttimes and headlamps so bright they light up the city, and a physical rawness you never see.

Your brother looks chaebol but inside? He’s this.

‘I’ll stay,’ you say. ‘Good luck.’

Seokjin’s gaze lingers on you, but he doesn’t say anything else.

When Jimin arrives Seokjin takes him aside. They have a conversation you can’t hear, they’re several feet away and Hobi’s trying to show you pictures of his new puppy.

There’s a shift in the atmosphere, the deafening roar of engines, blinding lights as three new cars arrive.

One looks like it’s heading straight for your brother’s Honda.

You tense as it approaches at full speed, screeching to a halt barely a foot from the front bumper.

Seokjin raises an eyebrow, and beside him Yoongi straightens up, grinds the remnants of his cigarette to ash under his boot.

‘Who’s that, Hobi?’ you ask, as the driver gets out.

He’s tall, like your brother, good looking in a flashy way, and the way he stares at your brother as he approaches makes your skin crawl.

There’s a tattoo running up the side of his neck, next to a jagged scar.

You slip past Hoseok and go to stand next to Seokjin.

‘Hyunjin,’ Seokjin says, neutral.

Yoongi just stares back, lip curled in a sneer.

‘Seokjin,’ the man replies. ‘Ready to be driven off a mountain?’

You tense, and Hyunjin’s gaze shifts to you.

‘I’ll be waiting for you at the bottom,’ Seokjin replies, but Hyunjin barely reacts.

He’s still staring at you.

‘Who’s this?’ he asks.

‘The person who’ll make you pay if you do anything to my brother,’ you snap.

He raises an eyebrow, gaze shifting between you and Seokjin thoughtfully.

‘You must be the ice princess. I didn’t think you’d be quite this pretty. I guess Seokjin keeps you hidden away for a reason.’

‘Shut up,’ Yoongi growls, as Seokjin shifts so he’s in front of you.

You realise Jungkook and Hoseok are behind you.

Hyunjin just laughs.

‘I’ll see you at the bottom, princess. If I beat your brother can I have a kiss?’

Seokjin says, voice low and even, ‘What about winner gets the loser’s ride?’

Your eyes widen. You know how many hours Seokjin put in on his car in Yoongi’s workshop.

Hyunjin scoffs. ‘I’m going to enjoy driving your car.’

He gives you another long look, and then he’s turning on his heel.

‘Go with Jimin,’ Seokjin says, glancing at you. ‘I’ll see you down there.’

You’re hesitant. ‘Seokjin —- that guy —-‘

‘Don’t worry,’ Seokjin says. ‘I’ll beat him.’

His expression softens.

‘It’s not my first race,’ he reminds you gently.

You realise Jimin’s got his car pulled up next to you, door open, waiting.

‘Good luck,’ you say, still uncertain.

Seokjin nods, waits until you get in the car, closes the door after you.

***

Jimin drives in silence, navigating the hairpin bends that make Mount Samo a drifter’s dream with a competence that makes you wonder why he’s not racing himself.

‘Is my brother going to be all right?’ you ask, plaintive in the quiet of the car.

Jimin doesn’t answer immediately, and you’re wondering if he heard you when you catch him looking at you in the rearview mirror.

‘Your brother will be fine,’ he says finally. ‘We’ll wait for him at the finish.’

You’re thinking about the way Hyunjin sneered at Seokjin.

‘Is it always like that?’ you ask.

Jimin takes his time answering this question too.

‘Seokjin and Hyunjin have a history,’ he tells you. He turns to you briefly.

‘You should ask Seokjin about it.’

‘Have you known Seokjin long?’ you ask.

Jimin glances at you again.

‘Not long. We started working together a few months ago.’

‘Do you race?’

‘Occasionally.’

‘Are you any good?’ you ask.

Jimin changes gears, slows to a stop.

‘Never good enough for you, princess,’ he says, flicking his gaze at you.

You feel chastened. It’s fair enough, you know that you can be a snob. It’s a learned behaviour, from your years trying to prove yourself as leader of the Kim conglomerate, but Jimin wouldn’t know that, and you doubt he’d care.

‘I’m sorry,’ you say.

Jimin parks the car, turns up the music. He glances at the clock on the dash.

‘Your brother’ll be down in twenty minutes. We’ll have an extra car to drive back - which is why Hobi and Jungkook rode together on the way here.’

‘The wager,’ you say, a question.

‘The wager,’ Jimin confirms.

‘It was all planned then?’

Jimin laughs, short. ‘Hyunjin’s predictable.’

He glances in the rearview. ‘I’ve never seen anyone drift like your brother.’

You’re processing this when he says, referring to your apology, ‘It’s fine. I’ve been nothing but a dick to you since we met.’

‘Are you any good at your job?’ Jimin asks.

There’s the faintest hint of taunting in his voice. You can’t blame him in all honesty.

You decide to tell the truth.

‘I’m inexperienced but I have a good team.’

You look out the window.

‘I don’t have a problem carrying responsibility. Out of the both of us, I was the better choice. Corporate life would have killed Seokjin.’

You press a thumb to your temple, massaging the tension headache that’s threatening to come away.

The silence in the car is deafening.

You glance at Jimin.

He’s staring at you, unreadable.

‘I’ll wait outside,’ you say.

You push your door open and step out into the cool darkness of the night.

A light rain starts to fall.

Behind you, Jimin gets out of the car. A moment later he drapes his jacket over your shoulders, the fabric warm from his body heat.

All he says is, ‘They should be here soon.’

***

Your heart accelerates when the gleam of headlights cuts through the dark.

The rain’s stopped but the tarmac of the road still glistens with wet.

You can’t see who it is, blinded as you are.

The car comes to a smooth stop not six feet from where you and Jimin, and a handful of others, are waiting.

The door opens as your vision begins to adjust, and your brother steps out.

He looks around, spots you and Jimin, lifts his hand in a wave like butter wouldn’t melt.

There’s a wave of cheering, drowned out by the roar of Yoongi’s Nissan as he cruises past, stops a little way past your brother’s car.

You don’t even notice when Hyunjin and the rest of the racers arrive, caught up as you are in the overwhelming wave of relief that your brother and Yoongi are all right.

You lose Jimin in the crowd that surges forward, eyes only on your brother as Hyunjin tosses keys on the ground at his feet, disgusted.

Your phone vibrates in your pocket. You check it distractedly as you head for Seokjin.

It’s an unknown number.

You’re swiping to answer when you collide with what feels like a brick wall.

You’d be off your feet if an arm hadn’t curled around you to steady you.

You look up into Hyunjin’s face.

‘Where’s my kiss, princess?’ he asks. His grip around your waist feels like steel.

You lean back.

‘I don’t remember promising you one,’ you tell him, bringing your arms up against his chest, trying to put more distance between you.

He laughs, holds tighter, starts walking you backwards.

‘Get off me,’ you warn.

‘Or what?’ he asks. ‘You gonna call your brother to come save you?’

‘She’s got more than one friend here, actually,’ comes a voice from behind you.

You turn to see Jimin, hands loose by his sides, expression hard.

‘She asked you to get off her,’ Jimin points out.

Hyunjin’s hand tightens painfully around your wrist for a heart stopping moment before he scoffs and drops it.

‘Maybe next time, princess,’ he says.

He leers at you as he steps away.

‘Are you ok?’ Jimin asks, nodding to your wrist.

‘I’m fine,’ you say automatically, despite the throbbing in your wrist. You’re used to showing no weakness.

Seokjin and Yoongi have reached you.

‘What happened?’ Seokjin asks, an edge to his voice.

‘We saw that fucker head straight for you,’ Yoongi says. The feral spark’s back in his eyes, he looks like he’s spoiling for a fight.

You tug the cuffs of Jimin’s jacket down over your wrists.

‘Nothing happened,’ you say.

Seokjin doesn’t believe you, you can tell, but you don’t want to talk about it.

Finally, he says, ‘I’ll drive you—‘

‘I can drive you home,’ Jimin says. ‘It’s on my way.’

***

You sit in the passenger seat of Jimin’s car, waiting as he grabs something from the trunk.

He gets in, tosses a heat pack into your lap.

‘He grabbed you pretty hard,’ he says. ‘You can use that if you feel sore.’

You look at it for a moment.

‘Thanks.’

‘I’m sorry I lost you for a moment there in the crowd,’ Jimin says, shifting the car into gear as he pulls out onto the road.

‘I’m not a kid,’ you say.

The heat pack feels nice.

‘You’re definitely not a kid,’ Jimin agrees.

His gaze flicks over you, so quick you wonder if you imagined it.

‘You don’t even know where I live,’ you say, with a flicker of amusement.

‘I’ll drive you anywhere you want,’ Jimin replies.

For the first time, he smiles at you, lips curving, eyes crinkling at the corners. ‘Where do you want to go, princess?’

***

Your back’s against the front door of your apartment, your head thrown back as Jimin presses heated kisses to your neck.

He’s beautiful, dark eyes and gleaming skin, you keep wanting to watch him but he’s kissing you so well it’s hard to keep your eyes open.

He’s got one hand under your top, smoothing circles over your skin, the other curled over your ass, squeezing your flesh.

‘Jimin,’ you breathe, your hand braced on his shoulder, fingers curling into the hair on the nape of his neck.

‘Yeah,’ he murmurs, silvery voice making you tingle. ‘Touch me, if you want.’

You slide a hand over the hardness of his torso, feeling the ridges of his abs, the tautness of him.

Skin over muscle over bone.

He’s hard all the places you’re soft.

You can’t stifle a moan as he rolls his hips against yours.

‘Where’s your room,’ he grunts, pulling a whine from your lips as he lifts his own lips from your skin.

You point, and he knits his fingers with yours, tugging you with him as he heads for your bedroom.

The door closes behind you, and in front of you, Jimin shucks his t-shirt, pulling it over his head.

His beauty stops you in your tracks.

Jimin grins. He tilts his chin at you, all golden skin and bright eyes.

‘Stop staring,’ he says, bold, ‘and take your clothes off.’

You can feel your skin heat as Jimin fixes his gaze on you, watching as you fumble with the buttons on your blouse, undo the fastening on your jeans.

You can’t meet his gaze when you’re in your bra and panties.

Jimin takes two steps forward, dropping his own jeans.

You’re still looking down, so the bottom half of him comes into view first.

The waistband of his boxer briefs, stretched over taut skin, the very obvious bulge just beneath. Thighs so muscled your own thighs tighten against each other.

He lifts your chin gently so you’ll look at him.

‘Why so shy, princess? Look how hard I am.’

He doesn’t wait for a reply, lips meeting yours in a kiss that’s surprisingly gentle.

He walks you backward onto the bed, takes a moment to look at you laid on your sheets. His hand strokes over his rigid cock once, then he’s lowering himself on top of you.

He’s gentle, but you can feel the coiled power in his muscles as he grinds himself into the softness between your legs.

‘You really are a princess,’ he murmurs into the dip between your breasts, so lightly you know he’s just teasing.

He kisses the round of your breast, tongue flicking around your areola tantalisingly until you’re soaked, your hips seeking friction against his hardness.

‘Jimin,’ you plead, maddened with arousal.

‘Don’t worry,’ he soothes. ‘I’ve got you. Panties off.’

You lift your hips to pull your panties down.

There’s a rip of foil, a barely suppressed groan from Jimin as he unrolls the condom onto himself.

He positions himself above you, slides into you like he’s been doing it his whole life, and you moan, eyes squeezing shut at the stretch of him.

‘You like that?’ he asks, silvery voice deep now, breath hot against your skin.

‘Yeah,’ you cry.

He props himself on one arm, rolls his hips against yours.

‘Fuck,’ he groans.

He picks up the pace, eyes on you, flicking between your face and how he’s making your tits bounce with the force of his thrusts.

He’s glistening with a sheen of sweat now, hair flopped over his face, damp.

‘Look at you, princess,’ he murmurs, voice dropped low, breathless. ‘Look how well you take me.’

He flattens a hand over the curve of your lower belly, thumb flicking over your clit, purposeful, firm, making the pleasure build.

Slows, lifts your hips so he can fuck you deeper.

The curve of his cock hits so good you’re crying out with each rock of his hips against yours.

You come with a gasp of his name, and Jimin drops down on you, grinding, hips working.

‘Fuck,’ he groans, deep in his chest. ‘Take it, baby.’

You wind a hand around his neck, and his lips meet yours again, tongue licking into your mouth as he fills the condom.

‘Shit,’ he groans, pulling out, knotting off the condom, tossing it carelessly.

You’re breathless still, heart hammering in your chest, but you sit up, admire how he looks sprawled out on the covers of your bed, flushed and glowing.

‘You were right, you know,’ Jimin says.

He’d been looking up at the ceiling, but now he flicks his gaze at you.

‘You’re too good for me.’

You scoff. ‘Shut up. I never said that.’

Jimin laughs. ‘I didn’t say it was going to stop me from pursuing you.’

You raise an eyebrow. ‘Pursuing me?’

‘I said what I said,’ Jimin says.

He sits up, muscles flexing, hair pushed back. He drops a kiss on your exposed shoulder, teeth flashing as he follows it up with a playful nip.

As you’re getting up, picking up your clothes, you notice a flash of gold half-out of the pocket of his jeans.

You lift it out, curious.

Jimin says nothing as you rub your thumb over the gold badge, turn it over to see his ID.

‘You’re a cop,’ you say. It’s not a question, you have the proof in your hand, but it comes out querulous anyway.

‘I’m a cop,’ Jimin replies.

You’re trying to process. ‘Does my brother know?’

‘Seokjin knows,’ Jimin says.

He gets up, starts getting dressed too.

‘It’s illegal to race on Mount Samo,’ you say.

‘I’m undercover,’ Jimin tells you. He reaches for his badge, and you let him take it out of your loose grip.

‘What are you investigating?’ you ask.

‘Currently, your ass,’ Jimin says.

You crack a reluctant smile. ‘Could have told me you were a cop before we slept together.’

‘I usually wait for a second date before I get the handcuffs out,’ Jimin shoots back.

You laugh, but your mind’s still racing, wondering why Jimin’s hanging around with your brother and Yoongi.

You’re so preoccupied with your thoughts it takes you a moment to realise Jimin’s watching you.

‘I should get to bed,’ you say, feigning a yawn. ‘I’ve got a busy day tomorrow.’

Jimin asks, quietly, ‘Is there anything you want to ask me?’

You’re troubled, but you force a smile.

‘I’ll save my questions for when I’m less tired,’ you say.

Jimin’s got his jacket on, you’ve both moved out of the bedroom.

He says, ‘I’d like to see you again.’

Your smile becomes a little less forced.

‘Yeah,’ you agree.

Jimin looks like he wants to say more, but all he does is nod, flash you a smile before he leaves.

The click of the latch falling into place as he pulls the door to sounds oddly final.

***

You’re tired.

You’ve been in and out of meetings all day. On top of that there’s been a problem with the city planning committee over the new property you’ve just acquired.

It was a hard fought battle but you’d managed to pip your competitor, Jungcorp, to the post. You’re not sure why Jungcorp had fought so hard for it, it’s an abandoned tower block in an unglamorous part of the city, but the land’s invaluable to you for development.

As far as you know Jungcorp’s got no vested interests in property development.

You look up, exasperated, as there’s yet another knock on your door.

It’s past 8pm, your feet are sore and all you want to do is go home and take your bra off, if you could only just finish reading and sign off on the city planning committee’s requirements.

Plus you thought you’d sent everyone from your executive team home.

Your frown softens when you realise it’s Jimin.

You’ve been texting back and forth since you hooked up, he’s called you a few times, but you’ve been too busy to meet.

‘How’d you get in here?’ you ask, getting up to greet him.

‘I’m a cop, remember?’ Jimin says. He looks as pretty as ever, dressed all in black, silverware in his ears.

‘I have security,’ you point out.

‘Jaebeom?’ Jimin asks, feigning innocence. ‘We used to work together.

You roll your eyes.

‘I thought you wouldn’t mind me dropping by unannounced like this,’ Jimin says, ‘because I brought food.’

He brings his arms round from behind his back to reveal a bag of food that makes your stomach growl, loudly and ungracefully.

‘When did you last eat?’ Jimin asks.

‘I had a protein shake for lunch,’ you say, eyeing him as he sets out boxes of noodles. ‘They’re apparently a complete meal.’

It’s Jimin’s turn to roll his eyes.

‘Prawns or chicken?’ he asks, holding out chopsticks to you.

You reach out and grasp his hand instead.

‘I’ve missed you a little,’ you say, tugging.

Jimin lets you pull him closer. ‘Yeah? I’ve missed you a lot.’

He’s close now, head tilted to yours, face barely inches away.

‘A lot?’ you ask, staring at his lips.

‘Yeah.’ His voice is husky now, and he dips his head to yours.

You meet him more than halfway, lips already parted.

Jimin’s hand curls around the back of your head as he slants his own to kiss you deeper.

‘I lied,’ he murmurs, crowding you against the edge of your desk.

‘I didn’t just come to bring you food. I came because I knew you’d look fucking sexy in your work clothes.’

He kisses you again, hips pressed against yours, hand slipping down to cup your ass.

You slip your arm around him, sighing a little as he kisses you, lips warm and sweet.

‘Eat, before we get distracted,’ Jimin says, pulling away.

You whine, disgruntled, but he’s insistent.

The noodles are hot, tasty, satiating the hunger you’ve been suppressing all day.

‘Thanks,’ you say, as Jimin gets up to clear away the food.

You’d help, but it’s the longest break from work you’ve had all day, and now that you’ve sat down on the comfortable sofa you’re not sure you can muster the willpower to get up.

Jimin looks at you knowingly.

‘Want a ride home?’

‘I should probably get back to work,’ you say, regretfully.

Jimin says, ‘You look exhausted. Here, I’ll take you home.’

You find yourself picking up your things, letting Jimin help you on with your coat, following him to the lifts.

Jimin curls an arm around you, and you lean into him as you wait for the lift.

He smells good, but more than that, he feels good, solid, his shoulder corded with muscle under your cheek.

‘You can lean on me,’ Jimin says. There’s a teasing lilt to his voice, but he holds you tighter when you try to pull away.

In the car, Jimin leans over to help you fasten your belt.

‘I can do it,’ you say, but he just smiles.

‘I said you can lean on me,’ he tells you. He starts the engine, puts on soft music, a lo-fi beat.

‘Sit back, princess. I’ve got you.’

You want to tell him to stop calling you princess but you’re so comfortable and warm the words won’t leave your lips.

You blink awake to find that Jimin’s parked outside your apartment building.

‘Sorry,’ you mumble, trying to orientate yourself. ‘Did I sleep the whole way?’

‘You talk in your sleep,’ Jimin tells you.

Now you’re fully awake.

‘What did I say?’

‘I didn’t know you liked my ass that much,’ Jimin says, thoughtfully.

‘What?’

He laughs. ‘Go to bed, princess. Want me to walk you up?’

‘I’ll be all right,’ you tell him. You hesitate, hand on the door handle.

‘Thanks, Jimin.’

‘Anytime, princess.’

He waits until you’re inside the doors before he drives away.

***

Yoongi rolls himself out from under the body of the Subaru he’s working on just as Seokjin approaches.

He stares at the pictures Seokjin hands him, jaw tightening, anger sparking, hot and bright, within him.

‘Does she know?’

‘Jimin says she doesn’t seem to know,’ Seokjin says, voice low, furious.

Yoongi hands him back the pictures, lip curled in disgust.

‘I think you’d better fucking tell her,’ he says.

‘It’s not just that,’ Seokjin says. ‘I got this, too.’

Yoongi listens to the recording on Seokjin’s phone, swears.

‘Shit, that asshole’s asking to be fucked up.’

‘Call the guys,’ Seokjin says, voice hard. ‘We get her and then we show him what happens to people who fuck with us.’

***

You’re hurrying, running late. You’re meeting a client from Norway in the busiest part of the city at 7pm sharp.

You glance at your watch just as the light goes green at a multiway intersection, watch the numbers indicating how long you have to cross tick down as you walk briskly across the white stripes on the road.

There’s a thunderous roar, a wave of screams, and the throng of people crossing with you disperses rapidly as you look around to see where the noise is coming from.

The crowd’s clearing, but you stay where you are in the middle of the intersection because you recognise the midnight black Honda with the red racing stripes heading straight for you, the sleek silver Nissan keeping pace alongside it.

Your brother drives slightly past you and executes a 90 degree turn so his car’s across your path, lengthways, tyres screeching.

The acrid smell of burning rubber fills your nostrils, but you almost don’t notice it, because three other cars surround you in quick succession, boxing you in.

To your left, Yoongi, dark eyes scanning you as if to assure himself you’re unharmed.

To your right, Hobi, his face more serious than you’ve ever seen him.

Behind you, Jimin, a shadow behind his blinding headlights.

Seokjin leans across the passenger seat, pushes the door open.

‘Get in,’ he says.

***

You have questions, but Seokjin waits until you’re out of the busiest part of town, when the streets get a little wider, the lights less bright, before he starts talking.

You realise he’s taking you to his apartment.

‘What’s going on?’ you ask.

‘Hyunjin threatened you,’ Seokjin says, terse, jaw tense as he navigates the expensive neighbourhood his apartment’s in.

‘He threatened me?’ you ask, sure you’ve heard wrong.

Seokjin glances at you. ‘The land you just purchased.’

You frown. ‘The square footage we fought Jungcorp over?’

‘Jungcorp is Hyunjin’s grandfather’s company,’ Seokjin says.

The puzzle pieces click into place.

You let out a low whistle. ‘Shit. And he calls you chaebol.’

‘The company’s in trouble,’ Seokjin says, ‘and they’re being investigated for running drugs out of Jamsil.’

He slides into a space in the underground car park, cuts the engine.

‘You know Jimin’s part of the narcotics squad.’

‘He didn’t say what he was investigating,’ you reply, sliding out the door, walking with Seokjin to the private lift.

Seokjin punches in the code, activates the lift, and a moment later you’re walking into his apartment.

There are pictures scattered across the coffee table in the lounge, and for once you don’t stop to admire the view of the city.

They’re all pictures of you. Full colour, high resolution.

Pictures of you in your office, walking into your apartment, at a client dinner. Even, to your horror, one of you in your bed, asleep.

‘Who took these?’ you ask. Your voice comes out tremulous, you barely recognise it.

‘Hyunjin had them sent to me,’ Seokjin replies.

You have to sit down.

‘They want you to give up the Jamsil property and land,’ Seokjin tells you.

You’re struggling to take all this in.

‘Or what?’

Seokjin doesn’t want to give you the details of what Hyunjin threatened to do to you.

‘You should stay at mine until this settles down,’ is what he settles for.

You look up at him.

‘I can’t give up the Jamsil land, Seokjin. It’s the biggest victory I’ve had since I took over the company.’

‘No victory is worth your life,’ Seokjin points out.

Logically, you know your brother is right, but you don’t know if he knows how hard you’ve fought since you took control of the reins of the Kim conglomerate.

The times you were challenged over decisions the board would have praised you for, if you were a man.

The tears you cried in secret when your spirit was battered and bruised from pretending you were immune to the snide comments, the demeaning remarks.

You know you’re stronger than the adversity you faced but it’s never been easy.

Seokjin studies your face, a look in his eyes that makes you wonder how much your older brother really knows.

‘Yoongi’ll take you home to get your things. I’ll fix us dinner for when you get back.’

***

Yoongi never really seems to expect anything from you when you’re together.

It’s a trait that you’ve come to appreciate more and more as the years go by.

He listened to your naive prattling about your friends on the odd occasion when he picked you up after school, never commenting except to ask if you wanted ice cream.

He picked you up sometimes when you were back from college, letting you choose the music you wanted to play, handing you snacks silently, sometimes smoking out the open window.

He drives quietly now, changing gears so seamlessly you barely notice even though you’re staring at his hands.

You remember once, a couple years ago, when you’d met by chance when you were walking to the metro after a disastrous blind date.

You’d been so stung by the experience the indignation had tumbled out of you, words jumbled, as he’d pulled up alongside you and offered you a lift.

Yoongi had listened all the way to your apartment, murmuring support in the lower range of his vocal register, a reassuring rumble if not any actual words.

As soon as he’d stopped the car you’d unbuckled your belt, intending to turn to him and thank him, and instead, you’d looked at him looking at you, his hair pulled back from his forehead in a tiny ponytail, eyes dark and unreadable, and you’d leaned forward and kissed him instead.

Yoongi had grunted a little, and you would have pulled away, if he hadn’t cupped the back of your head and sought your lips with a hunger that thrilled you all the way to your bones.

Heat had pooled in your belly, down low, as he licked boldly into your mouth, slid his big hands around your hips to steady you.

You’d pulled away, breathless, more than a little aroused, and he’d quirked a brow at you.

A question.

You think that if you’d showed any uncertainty, Yoongi would have stopped, and so you didn’t.

You’d taken his hardness in your mouth with a confidence fueled by the reverent, affectionate way he said your name, had learned what he liked by the way his breathing quickened until it was laboured gasps, then a single uttered, emphatic ‘fuck’ as he spilled down your throat, hand clenched on the steering wheel.

He’d given you a feral smile, thumbed away a smear of his cum from the corner of your mouth and put his hand up your skirt like it belonged there.

You’d come crying his name, once with his tongue buried deep in your cunt and another time on his cock as he drilled you into your bed.

He’d left in the morning, a kiss on your forehead and a goodbye so sweet it’s never mattered to you that you’ve never talked about that night since.

You sometimes wonder if he still thinks of it. You’ve never asked.

You look out the window as Yoongi drives.

He reaches into the centre console, tosses a packet of chocolate fish into your lap.

‘I’m not a kid, you don’t have to bribe me with snacks,’ you grouse, but you open it anyway.

The chocolate reminds you that you haven’t eaten all day.

‘Stop being cute and I won’t buy you snacks,’ Yoongi says, reasonably.

‘I’m not cute.’

He just snorts.

‘Want one?’ you offer.

‘You look like you need them more than me,’ Yoongi says, but he accepts the fish you place in his palm.

He walks you up to your building once he’s parked, waits in the living room as you pack a bag.

Once you’re back in his car you turn to him.

‘Did you see those pictures?’

Yoongi’s jaw tightens. ‘Yes.’

‘Seokjin’s worried,’ you say.

‘He’s your big brother,’ Yoongi says, neutral. ‘He worries about you like you worry about him.’

‘I’m fine,’ you tell him.

‘I’m not,’ Yoongi says. He glances in the rearview, signals to turn. ‘I’m angry.’

You put your hand on his arm. ‘You’re always angry,’ you point out, gently.

Yoongi huffs out a breath. ‘No one comes for you, especially not some half assed wannabe racer like Hyunjin.’

You’re touched at his anger on your behalf.

Yoongi looks at you. ‘Seokjin and I will take care of it.’

‘I can’t give up the Jamsil land, Yoongi. I’ve finally clawed myself some credibility.’

‘Fuck that,’ Yoongi agrees. ‘You’re not giving up jack shit for that asshole.’

His lip curls in a half snarl. ‘We’re not giving in even if I have to chain you to me to keep you safe.’

You raise an eyebrow at him.

Yoongi raises an eyebrow back.

He stops in front of the private lift to Seokjin’s apartment.

‘I think you’d like being chained to me,’ you say, unable to resist.

The smile he gives you is a mix of rueful and cocky.

‘Of course I fucking would. I’d make you like it too.’

He unlocks the doors so you can get out, rolls down the window as you get into the lift.

‘I think about that night all the fucking time,’ he tells you, voice low.

You look up at him in surprise, but don’t have time to reply before the lift doors shut between you.

***

Seokjin sets a plate in front of you.

‘Eat,’ he urges.

You pick up your chopsticks and dig in.

‘The responsible thing to do would be to tell you to give up the land,’ he says. ‘That’s what our parents would tell you to do.’

His words set off a pang of sadness that resonates in your chest.

‘If our parents were still here I wouldn’t be running the company,’ you reply.

‘I don’t want you to give up the land. I know how hard you fought for that victory.’

Seokjin takes another bite.

‘I know how hard you’ve been fighting.’

‘Running the company was always what I wanted,’ you tell him. ‘It’s just that it was supposed to be with dad at the helm whilst I found my feet.’

It’s the first time you’ve ever come close to hinting that it hasn’t been easy.

There’s sadness in Seokjin’s eyes.

‘I can put in some time at the company. I’m a Kim, too.’

‘The company is what I want,’ you say, very gently, ‘but it’s not what you want.’

Seokjin sighs. ‘What I want is for you to be happy. I am.’

You snort. ‘You have three broken ribs and a fractured collarbone.’

Seokjin smiles. ‘And you have no injuries. Let’s keep it that way.’

You clink your glasses in a toast.

‘So, Jimin, huh?’ Seokjin asks, sly.

You blink at him but don’t say anything.

Your brother manages to smirk at you anyway.

***

You’re in the gym in your brother’s building, running through your PT routine when there’s a flicker of reflection in the floor to ceiling window you’re facing.

Jimin.

‘Seokjin said you’d be down here,’ he says.

You look up at his reflection in the glass.

‘I’ve got a meeting with my board tomorrow,’ you say. ‘They’re going to want to congratulate me on the Jamsil acquisition.’

You get up from the mat, turn around, and realise he’s as sweaty as you are.

Jimin tilts his head, blond hair falling over one eye. He’s wearing a grey hoodie, unzipped, a white t-shirt underneath that’s moulded to his torso, sweatpants, hands shoved in his pockets.

The gold pendant he wears glimmers in the low light of the gym.

There’s a faint bruise on his jaw.

Unthinking, you step forward and brush a thumb over it lightly.

‘What happened?’ you ask.

Jimin stays perfectly still as you touch him.

‘Just some bangers down by the river,’ he says, vague.

‘Hurt anywhere else?’ you ask.

‘Check me over and see,’ he says, an invitation.

He’s ready for the kiss you press on him, sliding his arms around you, hands warm on the gap between your top and leggings.

You lose yourself in his kisses, only realising he’s walked you backward when your back hits the glass.

The cool press of the window against your shoulder blades is a startling contrast to the warmth of him.

Shit, why’s he so warm?

Jimin’s more insistent than usual, you can feel his erection, already rock solid, nudging at your core even between your layers of clothing.

He grunts, fingers tugging at the zipper down the front of your top, working your breasts free, hands cupping you possessively, pinching your nipples.

You’re aware anyone could walk in but you’re struggling to care, at least whilst Jimin’s hot mouth is pressed against your skin and he’s murmuring filth to you as he touches you.

You’re the one who ends up tugging your leggings down. They’re barely at mid thigh before Jimin’s surged forward, entering you to the hilt in one stroke.

‘Shit, Jimin,’ you gasp. It’s tight like this, your legs pinned together.

‘Turn,’ Jimin commands.

He pulls out, turns you, one hand cupping your cheek so your face doesn’t hit the glass, the other pressed into the small of your back so your hips are angled perfectly for him to enter you again.

He fucks you hard, drilling you into the glass, cock gliding in and out of you at a pace that makes stars form behind your eyelids.

You’re not wet enough but the friction adds to the thrill.

Your nipples tighten harder against the cold of the window.

‘Look at you,’ Jimin groans. ‘Fuck, I’m gonna come so hard.’

His hand kneads the flesh of your ass, squeezing so hard you know he’s going to leave handprints.

He groans again, long, drawn out, into the back of your neck as he spills.

You’re stil recovering when he turns you around again, drops to his knees, pushes his head between your thighs.

He looks up at you, flushed, breathless still from fucking you, eyes dark as he licks up into your cunt.

He hooks his hands over your bared thighs, parts you with his thumbs, and laps at your clit.

‘Jimin,’ you gasp.

‘Yeah, fuck,’ he moans. He’s flicking at your clit with the tip of his tongue, slow circles, fingers sliding into you, curving, pressing.

You can see his come leaking out of you, dripping down his hand as your cunt spasms around his fingers.

He keeps up the pace, fingers moving in and out of you, lips suctioning at your clit, and your fingers tighten in his hair as you come.

He moans like he loves the taste of you, licking at your arousal until your knees weaken.

You get re-dressed in a hurry, Jimin helping you with most of it, shucking off his hoodie and pulling it tight around you.

‘Come on. I’ll put you to bed.’

You’re boneless from your orgasm, weary from the stress of the last few days.

You lean on him as you head back up to Seokjin’s apartment.

Jimin waits, seated on the edge of your bed as you take a shower, pulls back the covers so you can get in.

You grasp his wrist as he gets up.

‘Where are you going?’ you ask, sleepy.

‘I’ve got more to do, princess.’

Jimin presses a kiss to your forehead.

‘It’ll be over tomorrow, ok?’

‘Yeah?’

You’re so tired you can barely keep your eyes open.

‘Yeah. Promise.’

You want to ask more but you’re asleep before he leaves your room.

***

You love the view from your office, in the nighttime but also on days like today, when the sun blazes bright, laying out the city before you.

In the distance, the silhouette of Mount Samo.

It always reminds you of Seokjin.

Seokjin had asked you to back down from the deal on the Jamsil land, just until he could ‘take care of things’, but your board meeting’s been planned for months.

The success of the acquisition was meant to be the cherry on the top of the cake, the final step in proving your worth to the company.

You’d tried, at dinner last night, to articulate to Seokjin how much you needed this, but had found yourself too close to tears for comfort.

You think maybe at the end he’d understood.

You breathe in, slow, trying to get your head in the game before you face your board.

Your PA buzzes with a reminder.

You take one last look at Mount Samo in the distance and turn.

Time to go.

The walk to the meeting room’s never felt so short.

Everyone rises when you enter.

You scan the sea of faces around the U-shaped table and are about to sit when the glass door swings open.

The murmur through the room makes you turn sharply.

Your brother, tall and broad and exquisitely coiffed, walks up to stand beside you at the head of the room.

All eyes are on you, but Seokjin doesn’t seem affected in the slightest.

He leans over, and says, simply, ‘I was wrong.’

You search his gaze, and realise how wrong you were to think Seokjin has no idea what you’re going through.

The realisation makes warmth course through you.

You compose yourself enough to say, ‘That’s why our parents left the company to me, brother.’

The laugh you share makes the tension ease in a way it hasn’t in days.

You turn back to your board.

‘Let’s begin.’

***

The meeting is a success.

Maybe you’re just flying high off the reaction to your report, but you think you’ve made a significant step towards proving your abilities.

Seokjin, beside you, loosens his tie as he starts the car.

‘Where are we going?’ you ask.

‘You’ve done your bit,’ Seokjin says, glancing in the rearview as he pulls out of the space he’s parked in.

His jaw tightens. ‘It’s time to do mine.’

***

You’ve never really been on Mount Samo in the day before, and the hairpin bends that Seokjin’s manoeuvring with ease are making you a little queasy.

Seokjin glances at you in the rearview mirror, amusement on his face.

‘I could drive this blindfolded,’ he tells you.

‘That’s not as reassuring as you think it is,’ you mutter, trying to keep your eyes straight ahead instead of gaping over the sheer drop you’re inches away from.

‘What have you got planned?’ you ask.

‘We’ve actually already carried out the plan,’ Seokjin tells you. ‘I thought you’d like to be there for the final part.’

You’re curious, thinking back to the night before, when Jimin met you in the gym and then left because he had things to take care of. You’d never heard Seokjin come back, you’d assumed that you’d been asleep and that he’d been quiet.

For the first time, you notice the dark circles under Seokjin’s eyes, marring his normally perfect complexion.

It strikes you that although you’ve been bemoaning your brother’s lack of involvement in your work life, you know very little about what he gets up to.

‘What did you do, Seokjin?’ you ask.

‘Nothing Hyunjin didn’t have coming to him,’ Seokjin replies.

He shrugs.

‘I set him up to meet again today so he could have a chance to win back the car I won from him the other day. I gave Jimin all the pictures Hyunjin sent me, the threats he sent against you.’

Seokjin’s lips thin into a hard line.

‘Hyunjin’s car’s been captured on CCTV in a notorious spot in Jamsil that the narcotics squad have been monitoring.’

You’re staring at your brother.

‘There are traces of narcotics in the trunk.’

Seokjin blinks. ‘Jimin knows I won the car, but he left with you that night so he hasn’t seen it driven by anyone other than Hyunjin.’

You see what your brother’s done.

You turn to him, realising only now, how carefully he’s been watching you this whole time.

Seokjin’s voice is carefully neutral. ‘This is the kind of thing your big brother gets up to.’

Seokjin doesn’t know about everything in your life, and you don’t know everything about his.

All you know is, he’s your brother, and you can stand up for him like he stood up for you.

You put your hand on his, where it’s loosely curled over the gear shaft.

‘Guess you’re a good big brother after all.’

Seokjin fixes his gaze on your joined hands, throat bobbing as he swallows.

‘I’m the best,’ he agrees, giving you a crooked smile.

***

When you make it to the summit, Yoongi’s already there, peering through binoculars.

‘Hey princess,’ he says, shifting over on the hood of his car to make room for you.

He hands you the binoculars, casual. ‘Check this out.’

You hold the binoculars up, and Yoongi gently pushes you in the right direction, fingers warm under your chin.

The scene’s a few hundred feet down from the summit, and for once you’re not distracted by the vertiginous drop.

There’s Hyunjin’s distinctive car flanked by a tactical team, all clad in distinctive blue and yellow jackets over bulletproof vests.

Hyunjin, hands above his head.

A flash of blonde hair you’d know anywhere.

Jimin cuffing him and guiding him to an armoured van.

Beside you, there’s the clink of a lighter as Yoongi lights a cigarette.

You lower the binoculars.

‘I guess that’s that.’

Seokjin lowers his own binoculars.

‘Guess so.’

‘Your boyfriend’s a good cop,’ Yoongi remarks.

‘He’s not my boyfriend,’ you reply.

Yoongi’s dark eyes fix on you with interest, but all he does is hum, noncommittal.

It’s barely a quarter of an hour before a car pulls up to the summit, parks beside Seokjin’s.

Jimin steps out, still in his regs, a sight for sore eyes.

He looks tired, but he smiles when he sees you.

‘We’ve got him,’ he tells you.

‘We saw,’ you say.

‘I’ve got to go down to the precinct, then they’re sending me down to Gwangju.’

He hesitates. ‘I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. It could be months.’

You reach out and give him a hug.

He smells faintly of sweat and gunmetal, and you think you like it.

‘I guess you should call me when you’re next in town then,’ you tell him, close so only he can hear.

Jimin turns his head, lets his lips brush your cheek.

‘Is that an invitation, princess?’

‘Take it however you want it,’ you reply.

Jimin laughs. ‘I will.’

He gives you a look so heated your skin warms. He nods at Seokjin and Yoongi, gets back in the car.

You all watch him drive off.

Yoongi finishes his cigarette, grinds it into the dirt at his feet.

‘Dinner?’ Seokjin suggests.

‘Yeah,’ you agree.

Yoongi curls his lip at you, that familiar slow smirk that makes your heart skip a beat.

‘Wanna ride, princess?’

Seokjin rolls his eyes. ‘See you guys at the restaurant.’

You guess he really is the best brother ever.

©hamsterclaw 2023

#jimin smut #yoongi smut #jimin fanfiction #yoongi fic #bts smut #bts fanfic

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50cal-fullauto-astarion · 11 months

Text

horny, sulky, kinda mean, kinda roughhousing könig thought bc it's my birthday, it's 2:50am, i have been horny like a fuckin werewolf for like a week now. f!reader ig for talk about pussy.

So our man König doesn’t keep normal hours—not that you do, but dude is two days back from KorTac and pretty much strung out on the “fun” amphetamines KorTac req officers pass out like candy if you even wave smth that looks like a form at them. So kind of out of the worst of it, exhausted, but wired and feeling kind of shitty and toothy and wound up.

He wants to fuck. Easiest way to diffuse, decompress, and he’s hard as shit by the time he lumbers his way into bed with you—over you—all around you. You were reading off your kindle, not anymore. He plucks that shit right out of your hand and puts it behind him, tangling those long, heavy limbs around you like a boa constrictor.

“Was wondering when this was going to happen,” you say, hissing when he’s none to kind in nipping the skin of your neck, wrapping his arms around your torso, pushing your breasts up under your t-shirt. “Shit, you’re moody,” it’s half a laugh, and a grapple at not immediately just folding and giving into him. You like to bite, too.

“Give me your mouth,” he grunts, nose pushed into the spot behind your ear. He’s pushing down your underwear, singlemindedly stripping you down. His words make your skin humid, “Gonna play with your pussy, want you fucking wet for me.”

You give that little bit, turning your head over your shoulder, smirking into a kiss that drives deliriously deep as soon as contact is made. König isn’t a prim kisser, but a primal one. It’s not a clean act; sloppy, yes, and somehow tinged with something kin to restrained violence. Challenge? Dick swinging? Maybe something more biblical in nature—gluttony, or greed.

He’s a fearsome thing, and he may only be beautiful to you. A needful thing, too, twisting nest of starved serpents—6 feet 10 inches and pushing-300-lbs of fucking muscle, battering-ram-body housing more than thirty years of neglect-crushed memory out for retribution.

But you never were a target. He didn’t have a choice in that matter. You both know good and goddamned well that you picked him. Everything he gets away with is at your allowance, and good fucking Christ, he loves you for it.

His cock throbs against your bare ass through his boxers as his arm wraps around you, craning his hand to pump two big fingers into your sopping cunt, angling his wrist so he can press and rub your clit with his thumb.

Man’s got his perversions, and he’s the most physical person you’ve ever met in your life. He’s had a fraction of the sex he’s fantasized about, but you’ve covered hectares of that ground since you’ve gotten together. He’s a quick study, and his mind’s a nightmare of steel trap memory. He never forgets what you like.

Two fingers turn to three, and he almost pushes it to four—assured torture, too much stretch too fast—before you snap a hand around his wrist and buck hard back against him, seething his name in warning. “Don’t fucking dare.”

“Ja. Ja, Schatzi,” he mumbles, breathing hard and too collected. You’re both sweating already, and the bed feels too damn warm, but neither of you shift. The spooning position is perfect as-is, only needs acted upon. In the mean time, he draws his slicked fingers up, leaving them in the air before your mouth in question. He groans and shudders harshly when you take the digits into your mouth, almost laughing at the ever-fresh amusement of your own taste. Salt and cold coins, your own metallic tang a complement to the one on his skin. His voice shakes as he warns, “Time, now. It’s time, bitte, aw, fuck.”

Just like that, he sinks right into you, to the base, balls pressed tight against your lips due to your body’s contortioning to meld against his form. An ungodly moan bellows out of his throat, rattling from his chest into yours, arms tightening around you. You meet the fuck-weird noises, turning your head to keen into your pillows and pressing back against him. Your hand anchors behind you on his hip, as if pinning him in place, affixing your bodies together.

You both hang in a moment of suspension, hearts pounding, minds blank, stomachs rising as if careening over a hill with momentum not sparing you a moments reprieve.

When that finally snaps, you have to force him to focus, to fuck, and he’s slow about it, grinding into you as your cunt sucks him deeper.

That huge hand you know so well drops between your legs, right back to toying with you. Oh it doesn’t take long to get you off, bent in half on your side, holding onto him and gasping as you’re hit with wave after wave of pleasure.

He’s not subtle to signal when it’s his turn. He pulls you back up and clamps his teeth into your shoulder, biting down hard through the fabric of your shirt, fucking you rough, now, and unheeding, like an animal in heat. When he finally finishes, spasming and jolting all over now that his balls have been emptied into you, he leaves his heavy arm over your waist, keeping you close. “Good shit,” he mumbles, throat sticking to itself it’s so dry as he pants, parched, “we split a smoke?”

You’re not much better, even though you’ve bravado to fucking spare. “I smoke. You go the hell to sleep now,” you try to sound stern and dismissive, but there’s a laugh in your tone some place. And fondness, undeniably. You feel his grin against your neck, his body purring mhm in question. “Feel better?” you ask, at length, stroking the hair on his forearms.

“Yes,” he says after a moment, weak and sweet with relief, “can sleep now.” A pause, you can hear him thinking. “Won’t, though. Because you were an asshole and had to bring it up first.” His laugh wheezes, low and susurring.

#konig #könig #call of duty #cod mw2 #mw2 #konig mw2 #konig call of duty #konig x reader #teehee and as usual it's just my oc dressed up as a reader yall know the drill by now

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netherfeildren · 7 months

Text

Austerlitz

Pairing: Simon (Ghost) Riley x F!Reader

Summary: The day he left for his hideous war, the dream changed. The house was still there, but now neither of us lived in it anymore. And when he finally came back, if that’s what you could even call it, he was nothing but a Ghost.

-OR-

Ghost goes away, comes back in a maybe dream.

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: I know very little about COD so AU I guess; Heavy Angst; Unreliable Narrator; Is Ghost a ghost or a Man? Who tf knows; More feelings than fucking sorry about that; PWP; Rough Sex; Creampie; Grief Study; Mean Ghost; Size Difference; Complicated Relationships; Dom/sub Undertones

A/N: Wanted to post and then got pissed off and didn't want to post and then got pissed off that I was pissed off.

So anyways, here's my Ghost.

Word Count: 4.2K

Read on AO3

[AUSTERLITZ]

The first time my mother had the dream, it was our engagement.

They were always the same—the dreams—the house, our home. Sometimes I was there, sometimes it was only him, but the house remained. Always the image of him inside that place that belonged to us. Even if I wasn’t all the time there.

They went on for years, this idea living inside my mothers mind; different variations of our togetherness or not, parties, children, him, him, always him there. Once, he was even there with another woman, and amidst her sleep she knew it was wrong, that I should have been there but was not. It didn’t birth mistrust, that already lived between us in different ways regardless. It didn’t send me running home to him demanding answers, but it birthed fear. Fear of what could be lost—of what there was to lose.

A lot, it turned out.

It was like this fear that lived so painfully sentient within me, the fear of losing him, the fear of how much I loved him was so strong and so powerful and so pulsating that I'd given the infection of it to my own mother. She worried for me and for us the way I worried for him.

And there was guilt then—for me, from me. I felt guilty, I felt like I was doing this to her, making my own mother afraid. Sending her these dreams with my own worrying mind of a perfect life that could have been so easily lost, of all my happiness and wants and desires of him and how easily it could have all been destroyed.

The last time she dreamt of the house, months after he’d gone in my real waking life, the house was alone. Abandoned. Falling down on its own bones. A bad omen. And there was something so– I couldn’t say… but that was my confirmation, really, more than the years or the silence or the reports of missing, unknown, no answers or responses or clues to what could have happened, it was that dream of hers that told me it was all over in a real way.

She said she’d walked through the dream house, and all the ghost memories had been there: him and I, an engagement, a marriage, a happiness, losses and family and life. But everything was falling down around the past, and it was all alone, and she knew in her heart that he was gone and that I was alone now.

My real fear had gone to her dream fear had come back to my real life, and there was no true abandoned house, but there was an abandoned I.

You’d begged—before he’d gone the last time, on your knees, hands clasped, tears—wrought. You’d begged, please, Simon—don’t go, please. Please, don’t leave me. You said last time was the last time. Please, don’t go again—I have the worst feeling about this one. He’d not listened. Chasing a mission, a tour, the salvation of the world or the loss of himself, not me, which was the only distinction that mattered. But he’d gone, and the bad feeling had swelled and swelled swollen until it’d burst. Until there was some uniform on your doorstep speaking words of missing in action, comms gone dead, Simon—maybe dead, maybe not, just gone. Unfindable, but come along with a sick sort of satisfaction that you’d been listed as his next of kin when he’d never even been able to tell you that he loved you. But these were the words now, said with tongue and teeth not belonging to him, not my wife but the woman I love, the woman that’s important to me, my kin.

Simon Riley, code name Ghost: missing in action.

It’s been such a long time now, and you don’t know if that man you loved, love, is still alive or dead or missing or gone or just nothing.

All he is—is not—

—Here. And the before—it’d been complicated. Real and not real, hard, good, never easy. The complicated nature of a thing born from a complicated man such as he was. Occlusive, reclusive, reticent. But so good. So much, that it never really mattered if it was all growing pains, or just pain. How could you know? But when you were in the thick of it, it didn’t actually matter, that answer. It felt good, that was the only focus. Even when it didn’t. You loved him, that’s what mattered. He loved– war, being a ghost, fucking you, having you, maybe you.

You’d had certainty in some ways, that he wanted you, that he was closed off and silent and serious, and that he’d come back because he always said he would, and he always did the things he said. That he was a creature of habit. But everything else—uncertain.

Your mother hadn’t had the dream in years. Memory had become hard to reach, murky, but the sound of his voice, that remained. The only one that did, only because you held onto it with vapor fingers. And it was so clear, the baritone of it, the way it sounded when he was calling you his sweet girl, the way it sounded when he was telling you he was going or telling a lie. That had stayed no matter how far out to sea you’d tried to toss it.

Your last conversation: don’t be a stranger, you’d said. And it was in jest, or desperation, you can’t remember anymore. Something like please, please, don’t go away forever, please, don’t turn into someone I don’t know anymore.

There are things you remember very clearly. Others you’d been granted the mercy of forgetting—the way it felt when he slid inside you, no mercy there.

How do I know if these are growing pains or just pain?

The memory of him is distorted now, preserved under glass, entirely untouchable; just there, and the stopping point is invisible, but it’s still just there.

And you still love him because it’s impossible to let go of a ghost. A thing like that haunts you.

You’d left the home you’d become a woman in, left your country and your mother, after he’d gone missing; found somewhere far and cold and nothingful, and it all reminded you of him in a way that let you know you’d never outrace this feeling. But you’d needed to run and disappear the way you told yourself he’d had to. That excuse, blame, you placed on him, Ghost, leaving that last time, despite the way you’d begged him to stay, please, Simon, don’t go. As if the idea of him just not wanting to be with you at all was more comforting than the reality of, well, he did, but just not more than he needed to chase his duty to violence.

[When they’d come to tell me he was gone—but not really gone for sure—no one has died, they’d said, and I’d thought, just me, and violently. It was the last slap in the face, punch to the gut, fist down my throat and all the oxygen gone through a vacuum—stolen.]

Years: you’d lived with the vertigo of heartbreak, your whole life muffled. And you’d wanted to be alone with the enormity of your devastation and the Ghost shaped hole that’d been left in your body, so you’d come here, to this place you were in now, and you’d learned to be cunning like a fox, a cold that burned. You were not yourself anymore, something else, but something that didn’t hurt as much. A new version that fit that final dream image of an abandoned, forgotten home.

You walk all the time now, through the Ždánice and along the wet meadows and towards nothing. In lieu of doing something else, now you walk.

You find it on one such—it’s just like the dream—walk. Circles and circles around the Slavkovský rybník, back into the trees you go, and then it’s just there falling in on itself, eaten dead by the green overgrowth; the dream house. Your mother’s voice within your ear, I had a dream about the two of you, he’s yours, he was your husband, he was your fiancé, he was the love of your life, I had a dream about it all. There is a house.

He’d liked to smoke, when he was stressed or angry or happy or sad or just. Cloves because he could be a jackass sometimes, like when he was buying cigarettes. You smoke them now too—a griefful jackass, even still. Obviously you’re trying to hold on without saying it out loud, like being kin. Tongue slick, sucking on the stick until it’s all gone, just a stub, and standing there in the waning gray light—the sun doesn't come out much now, it’s wonderful—you watch the house.

You wonder if your mother sent it to you with her own missing. You wonder if he’ll be in there if you go inside. You feel like if you do, you’ll die in there, find something real bad, real real.

When you’re done with the lie of the cloves, you exchange the butt for a leaf, feel the smooth, dry edges of it. Folding it slow and careful between your fingers, thinking, trying to follow the path of veins, trying to decide if this is the dream house or not, trying to decide if you’ll really die in there or not. There are no more sounds, there haven’t been in a long time, and so you can't tell if it’ll really matter or not.

Recently, or years ago, you’d watched a video of a trio of swans doing battle, a rarity, the fact of three. They’d mauled each other, first two overtaking the third, and then the co-conspirators, turning their violence on each other. This is how you feel, at battle within yourself; your past, present, future, all fighting to leave you dead and bloodied, floating bloated in the water.

Horrible thoughts.

[We’re fighting a war on three fronts: me, him, fact.]

But there’s only dream here now. No Ghost.

You decide on the house—walk inside.

It’s only bones within, guts on display, covering ripped away. And very sad, very familiar.

You pass through it slow and floating, not looking where one foot goes in front of the other. You’re inside your mother’s dream just like she’d seen it so many times, returned to the womb, and like she’d said: there’s your engagement, a rarity of happiness, glorious intimacy, possibility, there’s your Ghost.

You’re not paying attention when your foot goes through the floorboards, to the knee first, jarringly painful, then the rest of your body gone through the rot. The only thing fizzing through your stupidly shocked mind is that you knew this would happen before you’re hip smashing, skull bashing ten feet down onto the basement floor. Cement ground, laying on your side and gasping like an eviscerated fish. The fist down your throat pulling all the oxygen out is back.

And all you can think, as you lay there, only a wink before pain that knocks you into sleep, is—and really, get a fucking grip, get your priorities straight—I tried to fuck so many other men to wedge the memory of you out, bring the sounds back. I’ve tried other people and other tastes and other lives, and I can't. I can't. I want you so much, I miss you so bad. I dream of you, of the way you felt inside of me, of how wet I get for you even still, wet for a maybe dead man, and how much my cunt hurts because it is so wanting. How much it hurts to love a thing that’s gone and how the physical pain is almost as bad as the one in the heart.

And then an ice blue, cold that burns. “Wake up, darling.” He’s always had the bluest eyes that’ve ever been.

“Ghost?”

“Simon.”

The jut of his chin, it’s the same. The one you missed. You come awake or alive. “Simon, you’re not really here. How did you find me?” Your body doesn’t hurt the way it should.

“Been lookin’ for you,” he says, runs his big thumb up the curve of your cheekbone, and you turn your face into his hand almost involuntarily. He even smells like a ghost, and you can’t remember if you actually ever even fell or not.

“Ghost?” You ask again—confused, full of sleep and someone else's dream.

But he shakes his head slow, and you can’t see his mouth behind the mask, but you see the smile in his eyes, joy above the skull. “No, baby. Simon,” he says again.

“You were looking for me?” His hand moves into your hair, cupping the small bowl of your skull in the big pool of his palm, the other coming to your neck, thumb at your pulse, just to feel, just to hum along to it.

“I was.” His accent is different, and you can’t hear sounds anymore, but this sound is different—you can tell.

“Where’ve you been?”

“Told ya—lookin’ for you.” Jut of your chin propped against the jut of his palm, pads of his fingers against the ledge of your orbital bone. He presses soft, probes gentle, lets himself be tickled by the fan of your lashes.

You close your eyes and tell the truth, “I wish you wouldn’t. I might hate you now. I wish you’d let me go. It’s been such a long time.”

“I know, baby.” But he doesn’t know, not really, not how bad.

You’re laying on something soft, no more hard basement you can’t really remember, and you let yourself slump into it while he touches your face. “I can’t believe I’m still here,” basement or with him or someone else's dream, you can’t tell which you mean. “I can’t believe I'm still here all these years later. You’re like a ghost.”

He agrees, “I am a ghost,” and contradicts himself.

You open your eyes again, swallow the blue. “I thought you said you weren’t.” No answer—but he hunches over you, large and brutish and falsely undiscerning, without any answers ever. “You’re not a ghost. You’re a real man, and you have to stop haunting me.”

“Not haunting, only looking.” He bends, reveals his mouth, kisses you for the first time since he’d gone, and it’s the same as before, but not. Always a beautiful, hidden mouth that he’d had.

There is nothing that Simon Riley does that is gentle, even when he is being gentle.

It’s always with a punch behind it, always with a scream behind it. Always with the certainty that he does not know how to be gentle, but that he’ll try to be so anyway. If only for you.

He tastes like cloves and ghosts. Lips warm, dry and smooth, tongue slick and demanding. He presses his big thumb bone between your molars, pries your jaw open so you’re mimicking the dying fish again and licks inside of you.

Ah—so this is how it’ll be, you think, mean.

The inside of your cheeks pinch hard enough between his grip and your teeth that you’re sure the mouthful of come he’ll be giving you soon’ll be seasoned with blood. You moan into him, take his breath on your tongue, the dream flips and switches in your mind. Rolodex of memories and unrealities. Where have you been? You ask again because the demand feels necessary, the answer, life-hinging.

He shoves you belly back, tells you, “Sometimes you talk too fuckin’ much,” and swings one tree trunk thigh over your middle so he’s straddling you, caging you, crushing you. A fist twisted in your hair so he can pull and handle you as he pleases. “Open your mouth,” so that he can lick inside again, taste you again. “It’s all just the same,” he whispers, and you can’t tell what he means. Doesn’t he see you’re the fox in the marsh now, cold enough to burn? Nothing’s the same since he went away.

You try and scratch at him, shove the behemoth away, mountain versus the moth, yank him closer—too. You bite his tongue, and then it isn’t only your own blood in your mouth, but his too. It only feeds him more. When he lets his weight fall heavier on your belly, ribs compressed, you feel the ridge of his hard cock.

You couldn’t ever keep him, but you could always make him hard.

“Ghost.”

“Not a ghost.” He tells lies now.

“It’s not all the same,” you gasp when he comes up from the well, hand at your tit, hard and punishing. “Can’t you tell?” And you say it angry or affronted. “How can you look at me and not tell? How can you look at me and not care?” About what you’ve done to me, is what you don’t say.

This makes him pause, even as he mauls you, and the blue is not ice but not warmth either. Jagged, perhaps, even though it always is a little bit so, but punctuated in a different way. Only discerning now, nothing un– about it.

“How can you look at me and think I don’t?” His words have teeth, and you want him to chew you up and spit you out. Maybe then he’ll recognize you better.

“You’re always going to choose something else over me,”—an accusation. “Because I wanted you to come back so badly,”—an explanation. You don’t remind him how he didn’t, and he doesn’t say that he wanted to. But he’s here, and maybe that’s all that matters, maybe it’s enough for you to let him slip his fingers up beneath your shirt, nipple punished between his thumb and index, mean and nasty. Other hand down the front of your jeans, sliping against your wet, fingering your cunt.

He doesn’t work hard at making space for himself in your too tight hole, merely tugs your pants down to your knees, tangled and trapped in him the way you’d always been, and with a hand on his cheek you find purchase to turn yourself over, shoving at his jaw roughly as you go. “No—like this. Like this,” you demand, belly down, ass up. “I don’t want to look at you when we do it. I don’t want to do it looking at your face,” you tell him even though you do love him.

He’s quiet for one victorious second, big hands wrapped around your hips, fingers flexing, swallowing it. “Are you trying to hurt me?”

“Yes.” He shifts, hooks you over his arm across your belly, hips up, cunt presented, swollen, needy sex like a wound. “Is it working?”

You listen to the drag of his zipper, the shift of his clothes. You close your eyes, enjoy the return of sound.

“Always.” And then it’s the warm, blunt press of a cock that’s going to hurt, and you feel very calm, entirely hungry. The pain in your cunt will be the kind you’d ask for in a few seconds; he notches, swipes, presses mean again at your clit.

“Let’s not pretend we’re something we’re not—you’re not—real.” And when he wedges himself into your too-long-untried cunt, it hurts. It hurts in a real way. Like he’d rip you in half and not care if he could. Hurts in a mean way.

He starts off hard, unforgiving, like he’s taking the pound of flesh he feels he’s owed for being made into a Ghost right here, fucking you on the dirty, cold floor.

Hunched over you, bulging arms braced around your head, wrist clasped in a death grip, breath in your ear, and he fucks you like an animal. A groan and a spit, and he’s telling you, “You’re so fucking good, best cunt in the whole goddamn world.” The wet squelch, the splash, splash, the moan like a whore agrees with him.

“It always hurts,” you tell him, whispered between a sob for more or harder.

“You like it,” and it’s a pant ending of a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth where a tear rests. Something gentle to remind you that even as a monster, he’d never hurt you in a way that couldn’t be turned back. Maybe.

“What if I don’t anymore?”

He swings his hips back, cunt dragging, when he pushes in again it’s to batter against your womb. “Don’t you?”

“Don’t stop,” is all you can say. You press your hips back, spread your knees as far as your tangled jeans will let you, back arched like you need it more than you can even say. Bent and pummeled to defy nature or some such other thing, and his balls slap heavy and stinging against your clit, cockhead at your womb again, again.

“Come on my cock, be a good girl.” Like he knows you’re just there already, pulsing and throbbing and ready to soak him, wet cheek fucked raw against the ground with every one of his pounding thrusts. His fist is so tight in your hair, around your wrist, it burns almost worse than your knees against the old wood, hand gone to numbness.

But it’s so hard to give someone so much when they never give anything in return, and it pains you to do it now. Your stomach pulls tight, heat all swirling in your pelvis. “You’re never good for me,” you moan, cunt twisting into a knot. And then you come, fluttering around his pouding length, the slap of his thighs against your ass. He shoves your shirt up so that your breasts are naked to the cold air, fingers digging too hard to be for anything other than his own vindication. It makes you come harder, cry harder.

And then like a switch, soldier on display, he flips, goes slow and soft and languid. Long deep thrusts, pressing your belly down into the ground and stretching out on top of you—longer than a river, broader too, similarly overpowering. His whole too heavy weight pressing all the air out of you, prone and caged and power stolen. He slams into you, but it’s slow and punctuated and precise now. Tip at the front of your cunt so that you know exactly what it is he wants from you, another one.

“Do you ever wish I was a better man?” He asks between thrusts.

You can’t lie. Look at you—fucked and frozen. “No.” The hurt hurts good, you like it like this. You like that he’s a Ghost.

He kisses your mouth now, gives you his tongue to taste. Cloves and you love him so much and it seems so unfair that it be so short, the love, when the forgetting is so long.

“Can you tell me that you don’t love me?” It’s a begging, it is. “That you never did—so that I can forget.” He pulses and throbs inside of you, thrusts get harder. He’s about to fill you full of come. “So that I can move on. Force me, please.”

He presses his mouth to yours again and with teeth, the bunch of his mask suffocating you. “Can’t lie to you, darling. I never could,” —not the lie you want.

And you should’ve expected it, he’s never been the merciful sort. When you beg please, please, you’re not sure if you’re asking for more of his come, for harder, for mercy, for the lie. Like so many other things now, it doesn’t really matter. He sends you into another orgasm, and he’s lazy about letting you milk him. Mouth slick against your own, breath panting hot against your cheeks, white blond lashes, too long and too pretty for such a beast, tangling with your own.

He lets it be slow. He lets it last.

And one more time is better than a last time—the once more negates the lastness of it. Now, it only exists in perpetuity. This is the lie you’ll tell yourself as he throbs and spurts once more, whispers your name into the shell of your ear, asks for his back. I got one more time. I got one more time. Now it all lives on forever, Simon. Now the house is no longer abandoned. Now we’ll exist here in this memory like so, forever.

He’s gone when you open your eyes again, sleep or unconsciousness, maybe he never was. And as you right yourself, your clothes and the thick leak from the overwrought place between your legs—no, he was, or was he?—your body doesn’t hurt as it should, only cunt-sore, looking at the dark you shaped hole in the floorboards next to you. You can't tell if the hurt now comes from the want or the truth, sound is gone again.

Outside, there’s snow on the ground. When you look up, it’s falling from the sky, against the surface of the pond, lost to the dark. A celebration happens somewhere, across the distance, in the town, you don’t know for what—or can’t remember. There are fireworks in the sky mixing with the ice.

You realize, or you think, or you hear someone say—does it really matter, it comes off the wind or the trees—a reminder that you’d come here to mourn something. To this place you lived in now. To the dream house.

[I’m mourning all the things that happened to me. I’m mourning the way I’ve been, the way I was. It was terrible, I hated how I’d been, but I still have to grieve her. I have to not hate that poor girl I used to be.]

The barium, copper lights go off and off and off, and it’s bombs dropping, pyrokinetic shelling, your life imploding, the end of everything. Him—a ghost.

Once there was only dark. If you ask me, the light’s winning—now.

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jackles010378 · 2 months

Text

F**kin Perfect

Deans had enough of y/n putting herself down all the time, so he finds a very public way of telling her just how f**kin perfect she is in his eyes 💚

Dean Winchester x y/n

Y/n had always been aware that she looked different from other girls. Her curves, which she had inherited from her mother, were more pronounced. While some may consider this a blessing, she couldn't help but feel insecure about her body. Society's standards of beauty had been etched into her mind, leaving her constantly comparing herself to others.

Dean Winchester, her best friend, had always supported her. He loved her just the way she was and often tried to boost her self-confidence. But Y/n's constant self-deprecating comments about her body were beginning to wear on him.

One evening after hearing Y/n make yet another jab at herself whilst she was trying on outfit after outfit to wear to Sam and Eileen's engagement party, Dean couldn't take it anymore.

As they made it to the bar for the party he could see y/n fidgeting in the dress she had picked out. He could see her pulling it down to try and hide her thighs, he could see her trying to pull the sleeves further down her arms. He could see her trying to hide herself in the corner from everyone in the darkest part of the room. Dean sighed and decided he was going to do something, he was going to confront her. It leading to a heated argument about her appearance.

"Y/n, why do you insist on putting yourself down all the time?" Dean's frustration was evident in his voice. "You're beautiful, and it kills me to see you tear yourself apart like this."

Y/n looked at him, tears welling up in her eyes. "But Dean, I don't look like other girls. I don't fit into society's idea of what's attractive. I feel like I'll never be enough."

Dean's heart ached as he listened to her. He took a step closer, his voice softer, "Y/n, beauty has so many different forms. It's not about fitting into some mold. It's about being comfortable in your own skin. And trust me, you are more than enough."

Y/n's tears fell, her voice choked with emotion, "I wish I could see myself the way you see me, Dean." Dean sighed and looked around the room till his eyes landed on the stage in the centre of the bar. A small smirk played across his lips as he walked towards the dj and whispered something in his ear.

Dean tapped the mic a few times to grab everyone's attention, mainly y/n as he spoke. "OK guys, I just wanna say how happy I am you all could make it to celebrate the engagement of Eileen and Sammy, Eileen your gonna need alot of shampoo and conditioner because Sammy here uses a helluva lot" that earned a few laughs and a roll of eye from Sam.

When everyone thought Dean was finished he continued "now I don't do this very often, mainly only when I'm in my baby cruising down the highway or maybe when I'm in the shower. But I wanna sing a song for you all, mainly for one person in particular. I wanna let her now that she is amazing, beautiful and just perfect, just the way she is..........."

With that Dean nodded to the dj and the song started to play...

Made a wrong turn, once or twice

Dug my way out, blood and fire

Bad decisions, that's alright

Welcome to my silly life

Mistreated, misplaced, misunderstood

Miss knowing it's all good, it didn't slow me down

Mistaken, always second guessing, underestimated

Look, I'm still around

Pretty, pretty please, don't you ever, ever feel

Like you're less than fuckin' perfect

Pretty, pretty please, if you ever, ever feel like you're nothing

You're fuckin' perfect to me

You're so mean,

When you talk,

About yourself, you were wrong

Change the voices,

In your head,

Make them like you instead

So complicated, look happy, you'll make it

Filled with so much hatred, such a tired game

It's enough, I've done all I can think of

Chased down all my demons, I've seen you do the same, oh

Pretty, pretty please, don't you ever, ever feel

Like you're less than fuckin' perfect

Pretty, pretty please, if you ever, ever feel like you're nothing

You're fuckin' perfect to me

The whole world's scared, so I swallow the fear

The only thing I should be drinking is an ice cold beer

So cool in line, and we try, try, try

But we try too hard and it's a waste of my time

Done looking for the critics 'cause they're everywhere

They don't like my jeans, they don't get my hair

Exchange ourselves and we do it all the time

Why do we do that, why do I do that?

Why do I do that?

Yeah, oh, oh pretty, pretty please

Pretty, pretty please, don't you ever, ever feel

Like you're less than fuckin' perfect

Pretty, pretty please, if you ever, ever feel like you're nothing

You're fuckin' perfect to me, yeah

You're perfect, you're perfect

Pretty, pretty please, if you ever, ever feel like you're nothing

You're fuckin' perfect to me

Dean jumped off the stage after he finished singing and made a bee line for y/n who was still in tears and still hiding in the dark corner.

Dean gently cupped her face, his thumb wiping away her tears. He leaned in, his lips gently brushing against hers.

Y/n's breath caught as Dean's kiss enveloped her, melting away her insecurities. In that moment, their argument dissolved, and an intense passion ignited between them. The power of their connection was more than either of them could resist.

As they kissed, the weight of their emotions cascaded into a torrent of desire. Every touch was a declaration, every caress a promise. In that intimate moment, Y/n felt a surge of self-acceptance and love.

Their lips only broke apart when the need for air became undeniable, but their souls remained intertwined. They gazed at each other blocking out everyone and everything, realizing that this passionate exchange had opened a new chapter in their relationship.

Dean gently brushed a strand of hair behind Y/n's ear, his voice filled with sincerity, "You're fuckin perfect just the way you are, Y/n. Never forget that. And if you need a reminder, know that I'll always be there to show you."

Y/n smiled, the weight of her insecurities lifting a little bit "Thank you, Dean. I can't believe you got up there, just to sing that to me" her head dipped the next words struggling to find their way out "I love you."

Dean smiled back, his eyes twinkling. "I love you too, Y/n. And together, we'll face any challenge, including those aimed at your beautiful curves."

From that day forward, Y/n embarked on a journey of self-love and acceptance, supported by the unwavering love of Dean Winchester. Their passionate makeout session had become the turning point that transformed not only Y/n's perception of herself but also their friendship into something deeper and more profound.

Been a minute since I wrote something, I heard this song and thought of Dean 😂 hope you guys enjoyed it 🥰

I could totally see Dean rocking out to p!nk on the sly 😂🤘🏻🤘🏻🤘🏻

TAGLIST: @happyfurylight @k-slla @cevansbaby-dove @kaleldobrev @janineb86 @deans-daydream @alternativeprincess94 @angelbabyyy99 @cheynovak @winchesterwild78 @suckitands33

#jensen ackles #dean winchester #jackles #jensen ross ackles #supernatural #spn cast #deanwinchtser #jensen ackles gifs #soldier boy #beau arlen #dean winchester x y/n #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester fanfic #dean winchester fic #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester fluff

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ihavemanyhusbands · 2 years

Text

Wrapped Around Your Finger

Hannibal Lecter x Fem!Reader

Also on AO3

Summary: Hannibal decides to switch things up a bit, relinquishing his power to you.

WC: 1.8k words

Warnings: SMUT! (18+ only, minors dni), light bondage, femdom-ish? (not really tho lmao), oral (f receiving), p in v, unprotected sex (don't do it at home), that's all I can think about so lmk if I missed anything!

------

Rachmaninov's Piano Concerto No.2 drifted out of the living room speakers. Outside, there was a thunderstorm, rain falling heavily and ceaselessly, the wind howling. There would be glimpses of lightning between the drapes, and you counted the seconds before the low growl of thunder would follow.

There was a fire in the hearth – yes, a hearth! You were dating a very fancy guy , after all – crackling softly. The room smelled pleasantly of firewood and old books and him. You had a glass of white wine in one hand, your body loose and languid, warm all over.

It was simply the perfect night to stay in.

You were slightly bent over, looking at a section of his book collection. Cookbooks were the vast majority, which wasn't surprising, but your interest was also piqued by tomes on art history, natural sciences, and even anatomy.

You picked one up at random and leafed through it absently. Dr. Lecter -- as you sometimes still liked to refer to him -- was such an exciting man, knowledgeable on things that you had never even imagined. He had undoubtedly expanded your palate, but you had to admit he'd expanded your mind quite a lot too.

You wore no pants, only the shirt Hannibal had been wearing earlier, which just barely reached your knees. He was down to his briefs, lounging on a chaise and absolutely devouring you with his gaze.

"Are you going to read to me?" Hannibal asked, directing your attention back to him.

Though his tone was teasing, he secretly wished that you would. He did love your mellifluous voice, especially when reciting sonnets. Or moaning his name to the wind, like a ravenous wolf called to the full moon.

You blushed, a bit timid that you'd been caught so utterly distracted. "Sorry, just poking around..."

He smiled, feeling a little smug. "Find anything interesting?"

“Hard not to.” You said, approaching and swinging one leg over him, straddling his hips.

His free hand immediately came to rest on your thigh, thumb tracing fire on your skin.

Your voice hitched as you added, “Y-you know, you can tell a lot about a man by what he has in his home.”

“Oh? And what have you discovered about me?”

You chuckled, setting down your glass. “You like to ask a lot of questions.” You leaned down to plant a kiss on his lips, adding, “And you like being in control.”

“I suppose I do,” he returned the kiss with fervor, swiping his tongue over your bottom lip. You shuddered against him, and he pressed closer to you.

“Oh, but that reminds me…” he continued, suddenly pulling away. “I’ll be right back.”

You plopped down on the chaise as he got up and headed down the hall to his bedroom. You watched his muscular back as he retreated, biting your lip. You felt a little lightheaded from the sudden influx of arousal, so you lay back, rubbing your thighs together. He always knew how to get you going, but he did have a bit of a tendency to be a tease. He wasn’t like Will, who loved getting straight to the point.

Not that you were complaining about either of them.

When Hannibal came back into the room, he handed you a black box. There was a piece of paper with your name on it on top, and you traced your fingers over his refined penmanship. Your eyes then widened, and you couldn’t help but panic a little bit at the prospect of forgetting something important.

“A gift?” You squeaked.

“Of sorts,” he smirked, utterly devious.

“What for? Oh, Hannibal, you shouldn’t have.”

“Just open it, darling.”

So you did, sliding the top off to reveal the last thing you had expected – lengths of crimson-colored rope. Not just any rope either, but silk rope, the expensive-looking kind. You blinked, momentarily shocked, but when you looked up at him, his smirk had only grown.

“I thought we could do something fun– turn the tables a bit.” He purred, kneeling before you. “You have been such an angel with me, and perhaps it is time I surrendered to you.”

“And you want me to…” you trailed off, eyes flicking down to the ropes in your lap.

His eyes were a bewitching flame that kept you captivated. “Yes, sweetness. And perhaps next time, they can go on you. It’s only fair, you know?”

“Are you sure?”

“One hundred percent.”

You smiled, all sharp teeth ready to sink into his divine flesh. You captured his lips in a fierce kiss, pressing yourself flush against him. You felt his teeth graze your lower lip, making heat pool in your belly.

When you pulled away, you tied his arms behind his back, one resting over the other. You figured you’d keep it simple tonight, even if you were already imagining all of the patterns you wanted to tie all over his body. You could make him into an utter masterpiece – not that he wasn’t already one.

You kissed his neck and up to the back of his ear, feeling his chest heaving against yours.

“You okay?” You whispered against his skin, and he nodded.

Your eyes roamed over him, your hands soon following, sliding over the expanse of his chest. Up to his shoulders, down his arms. Then they stopped at the edge of his briefs, fingers teasing the elastic.

“This is all mine, isn’t it?” You said, biting your lip.

“Yes, my darling, all of me,” he breathed, and his breath hitched as your hand wandered lower, cupping his length over his briefs. “And what parts of you will you give to me?”

“The tastiest bits, of course,” you smiled, and his eyes mirrored the hunger you felt. “Stay on your knees for me, will you?”

Stepping back, you ever-so-slowly began to unbutton the shirt you wore. He was unable to tear his gaze away from you and all the skin you were revealing. You still had Will’s teeth marks on your inner thighs, now a faded pink and yellow. His eyes lingered on this detail, and he swallowed hard.

You let the shirt fall off your body, pooling on the hardwood floor. Next, your thumbs hooked on the sides of your underwear, a little lacy black number you knew he loved. Your hips swayed as you pulled it down ever so slightly, looking coy as you teased him.

He strained against the ropes, wanting to touch you, to retaliate for this delicious torture you were making him go through. But he needed to be good, he reminded himself. He was rather enjoying how things were unfolding, after all.

You felt a sudden thrill at watching him squirm, loving that you had such an effect on him. Your underwear also fell to the ground, and you approached him slowly, a mischievous glint in your eye.

“So, would you like a taste?” You asked huskily.

In response, he eagerly leaned forward, which made you chuckle a little. You bent down until your lips were only a hair’s breadth apart, and you whispered, “Can you say please?”

“Please,” he breathed, and you pulled back a little as he tried to kiss you. “Please, I want to taste all of you.”

Satisfied, you planted a quick, chaste kiss on his lips before standing back up. You ran a hand through his hair, pulling his head back a little. Then, leaning on one of his shoulders, you draped your leg over his other shoulder, pulling him closer.

In the next moment, his face was buried in your cunt. He was absolutely ravenous, licking you with an almost trance-like gusto. He shifted against his bindings once more, wanting to add his hands into the mix, but to no avail. His frustration only fueled him on, and you dug your hands into his hair once more.

Arching your back, you completely lost yourself to the sensation, baring the column of your throat to the skies as your eyes fluttered closed.

“That’s it, right there,” you encouraged, words melting away into a moan.

You let out a shuddering breath as his tongue began to trace slow circles around your most sensitive spot. Then his teeth were then added into the equation, adding just enough pressure to make lightning bolts of pleasure shoot through you. Almost involuntarily, you began to rock your hips, seeking more, more, more.

Greedy thing, he thought to himself, both amused and absolutely bewitched. He hummed deeply in approval, and that coil in your stomach wound tightly, just on the brink of snapping.

“H-Hannibal,” you breathed, muscles tensing. “I-I’m gonna…”

With a keening wail, you stumbled over the edge, heat rippling throughout your body. Your legs turned to Jelly as you gripped his hair tighter, grinding your cunt against his face with wild abandon. He moaned deeply, utterly lost in the all-encompassing feeling of you. You panted, your movements slowing as you rode out the aftershocks, coming down from your high.

You straightened, pulling your leg back and letting go of his hair. He smiled up at you beatifically, the lower half of his face glistening. He loved the sight of you trembling like that, face and chest flushed, eyes glassy with stars. How you would feign demureness after orgasm, as if ashamed to have displayed such carnality; Such wantonness.

We are made of flesh and fault, he recalled you saying once.

A moment later, when you were feeling much more merciful, you untied him and lightly massaged his arms. But he immediately descended upon you, kissing all over your body – adoring every inch of you. Your thighs gripped his hips, urging him closer, and he happily complied. When he sank into you, it felt like two pieces of a puzzle finally coming together, where they belonged.

You clung to him, digging your nails into his biceps. Your eyes once more fluttered close, but he immediately said, “No. Look at me.”

You complied, gazing into those intense amber eyes of his. “Good girl,” he praised with a small smile, giving you a quick kiss.

The words were like a flame licking over your skin. He could feel you clench around him, which elicited a low moan. He went harder, faster, his pace losing control. You could tell he was close, and you stretched up to kiss him, biting his bottom lip. His muscles tensed and he cursed under his breath, your name soon following. He reached his own climax, holding you close to him.

Then the two of you lie sprawled on the floor, breathing hard, limbs tangled. Your head lay on his chest, listening to the rapid beating of his heart. You kissed him on the ribs, right atop it, and sighed contentedly.

“So, about the next time we do this…” you trailed off, a playful edge to your tone.

He chuckled, stroking your hair. “Oh, you have no idea what I have in store for you.”

--------

#hannibal x fem!reader #hannibal lecter x reader #hannibal fanfiction #hannibal smut #minors dni

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music-in-my-veins14 · 5 months

Text

youtube

#F**kin' Perfect #P!NK #Pink #Music #Youtube

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pomefioredove · 5 months

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*ੈ✩‧₊˚ intro and guidelines

inbox: 0 | pending requests: 0 | pending matchups: 6 | in queue: 5

requests are closed!

🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸

you can call me dove or claudette. she/he. 🇺🇲🇫🇷🇧🇪 EN server

typical DNI criteria applies! please just be nice to me 😓

I am neurodivergent and my english isn't perfect always, be patient with meeeee

ult fave is epel (my son) followed by rook (married) and vil (divorced with split custody). also a big lilia and cater enthusiast. rollo is the reason I got into twst in the first place don't even get me started. I kin him actually

all of my writing can be found here | memes | asks | matchups | noble bell au

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↓ request guidelines ↓

I only write for:

NRC students + rollo, neige, che'nya

character x reader

gender neutral reader*

SFW (no sex, no extreme violence stuff like that)

other stuff:

request as many characters as you like!

fluff, angst, hurt/comfort etc all acceptable

I queue posts daily! be patient!

(please be patient)

please don't request anything to do with intimate partner violence

I'm not super knowledgeable on all topics so I may turn down anything I feel I'm unable to do, such as specific illnesses, or character!readers from things I'm not familiar with

I can/have/will write about most disabilities, being disabled myself!

*if a request includes an f/m reader but breaks no other rules, I'll just change it to gn

if you sent something while requests were closed, there's a chance I just never got around to doing it. sorry!

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disastercyborgecho · 23 days

Text

The End.

These are my final prompts for @summer-of-bad-batch

Excerpt:

'The era of the clone trooper was dying a quiet death.

I used this last piece to try and explore, from the perspective of my favorite character, much of my own struggles, which is part of the reason I became so attached to him in the first place. The Bad Batch are essentially Echo's second chance at life, but more importantly, they keep giving him more chances. They are such a perfect example of how important finding joy within struggle is, and they remind me why I love Star Wars so much in the first place. Because really, in the end, the point of Star Wars is to have hope. In the face of everything, hope is our greatest weapon.

Anyway I hope you enjoy, this piece is very dear to my heart

---

Prompt: “Stop touching me!” // “I’m not touching you!”

Prompt: Crashing Hard

Prompt: Light in the Darkness

***

I did my job, I paid my dues, Love is for fools (Because nobody gives a F*ck)

---

Echo never realized how much he was terrified of change until he found himself on a beach on Pabu watching the waves crash over the sand near his mechanical feet, Rex leaning a heavy shoulder onto his own. They had not spoken for several minutes now, and the silence was heavy in Echo’s throat.

It had all started when Rex had suggested they take a break from the endless violence and suffocating despair of their tiny freedom movement for their brothers. Echo had fallen asleep over his datapad again, trying to figure out a way to save just a little more of their kin because it felt like they would never catch up to the endless death, the endless decommissioning of their brothers as though they were just reactive pets. It was a spiral that repeated in Echo’s head every moment he had to think.

Rex had shaken him awake, the ship smoothly falling out of hyperspace as Echo had startled and flinched back into reality. His dreams were stained red now, and he always felt exhausted when he woke up.

“How much time?” He asked Rex.

Rex shifted a little, his hand still on Echo’s shoulder, and he glanced out at the stars and the approaching planet, where they were attempting to pick up more of their brothers abandoned with little to no resources, starving slowly for a New Empire.

“Few more minutes before landfall,” Rex said. He sounded just as tired as Echo.

The mission went on without a hitch. It still hurt.

Physically, Echo was slower now, he knew it. His body broke down faster and faster, the mechanics popping and clicking at the joins and his already unsteady immune system cracking further and further. Even the slow and steady process of loading up cargo from the base they were quietly dismantling made Echo sweat heavily through his layers of clothing and armor. But he never minded pushing past chronic pain and rasping breath when it mattered. No, what really weighed down the ex-ARC was the hollow faces of their newest rescues.

The boys didn’t put up a fight. They rarely did anymore. Early on in the clone rebellion, many of their brothers still believed in the rhetoric of the Empire and the Cause. Were ready to die for it. But now, they had all been abandoned. It was cheaper for the Empire, lacking the Kaminoan facilities to actively decommission large amounts of clone troopers (and whose fault was that), to simply post clone troopers at far-away bases and planets that were barely in the grasp of the Empire, and then simply forgetting about them. If the clones were lucky, rations would be sent every other month or so, but as time dragged on, more and more of them were not. There was less battle now, less blood and violence, for Rex and his rebellion to rescue their brothers. Now it was just fighting the passing of time. Every new face Echo saw was empty from loneliness and starvation and the general emptiness of someone who’s had their purpose stripped away from them with no explanation or warning. He could only imagine the thousands more that would never find a new community within the family Rex was doing his best to collect.

The era of the clone trooper was dying a quiet death.

Now, on the beach, Echo thinks that he might have been dying a quiet death too. A somber march towards the end full of rusting metal and clammy skin in solidarity with every single brother who would die in an empty base with an empty stomach and an empty heart. Echo thinks that Rex might have been able to see it, in the bags under his eyes that matched Rex’s own. In the names of those they couldn’t quite save, carefully scratched into the back of Echo’s datapad. Numbers for those that they never learned the names of. For those who never even got a name in the first place.

Echo fisted the sand in his hand aggressively and looked away from his brother and once, a long time ago, his commanding officer. He didn’t deserve this. Not with so much to still do. So many to still save. Rex laid a hand on his shoulder. It was calloused from holding a blaster and starting to wrinkle and stain from sun damage. It was familiar. Echo leaned into it despite the anger boiling in his stomach.

Because Rex had asked him to leave.

He had taken Echo to Pabu with a suggestion of a break, and then sitting him down on the beach while Omega dragged Hunter and Wrecker further down the shoreline to search for shells, he had turned to look at his younger brother, and in a soft voice, suggested that he stay on Pabu. Permanently.

“We’re getting old, Echo. The work will never be done. But after all of this, after everything you’ve done, don’t you think you deserve the rest? You have a family here. People who love and miss you. People to grow old alongside of.”

Echo wanted to tell Rex that he was his family, but a familiar feeling of being sliced right down the middle choked him up. It felt like the moment where he had stood at the entrance of the Havoc Marauder for the first time, staring out at a group of people he would die for, had died for, knowing that he could never go back to them. That his place was with these strangers who had shown more acceptance of his new body than those he shared a face with. Than those he had shared everything with. Echo didn’t say anything.

Rex took it as disagreement because he knew Echo so well, and he shook his head.

“Look vod’ika, this isn’t any easier for me than it must be for you. I just, I want better for you. You deserve better. You deserve to find a life, even for just a few more years, outside of, of this.” Rex gestured at himself, at his battered armor, and the dark lines under his eyes, and Echo wanted to punch him. Because Rex was everything, and the work they did together was everything, and couldn’t Rex see that underneath it all, Echo was nothing?

And Echo was terrified that underneath it all, he really was nothing.

“There’s, there’s more to do, Rex,” he answered instead. “There’s always more to do.”

He tried to pretend that he didn’t sound defeated as he said it.

He tried to pretend that he didn’t already know how this was going to go.

That for the second time in his life, he was going to have to split his heart in two, standing in a doorway of somewhere that was strange and unfamiliar, watching his family leave him behind because for the second time in his life, he wasn’t enough.

Echo didn’t know if there were any parts of his heart left to pick apart. So he stayed silent, and refused to look at Rex, and tried not to cry. It felt wrong in a place as beautiful as this, the sunset starting fires on the palm fronds and the water in bright oranges and reds, dancing along the horizon in a joyful celebration of another day gone.

“Please, vod’ika,” Rex whispered, his hand still on Echo’s shoulder. “Please look at me, please say something.”

Echo could only watch the sun slip away and gasp around his lungs turning to stone.

Empty.

“Breath, ori’vod,” Crosshair unceremoniously dropped into the sand on Echo’s other side. He had been sitting a ways away with a book, watching Omega, Hunter, and Wrecker, but Echo hadn’t even noticed him move. He didn’t touch Echo, didn’t worm his way into the spaces Echo had carved out and left empty in case someone needed a place to rest. That wasn’t their way, it never had been. Echo appreciated it. It was just as familiar as the callouses on Rex’s hands, but right now, it felt safer. He took a deep breath.

“I…” He stopped. Took another breath. Started again. “I don’t have anything left.”

Leaning back, Echo let the last little moments of sun warm his face, closing his eyes to the onslaught of emotions tangled up inside him. His brothers were silent, letting him untangle the knots one by one. Out of anyone, Rex and Crosshair both knew how much it took to tug on those strings, not knowing what would happen when they were straightened out. What would be left. Echo continued.

“I know that it’s time to let go. I get it. I’m slowing down, I’m not as… as useful. But do I really deserve this? There’s still so many brothers left behind, and how can I–How can I call them my brothers if I give up on them? If I stay here, and, and what? Retire? I’m drowning on dry land and it feels like no one in the entire galaxy cares about us, about anyone else at all, and what am I supposed to do about it? There’s so much death and we know exactly who’s responsible, but all we can do is just sit here and be angry, and I have been angry for so long now. I don’t know how much longer I can do it. But if that’s the only thing I can do? Then what right do I have to stop? What right do I have to rest?”

It was Rex’s turn to stay silent. Echo swiped away the tears that were running down his cheeks, cold against the sunburnt skin. He didn’t expect an answer. But Crosshair had never been great about keeping his mouth shut.

“I spent a long time being angry.” Crosshair began. He was running his fingers along the spine of his cracked novel, something about romance that he wouldn’t admit to enjoying.

“I spent so much time being angry, that I forgot why it was important that I was at all. I spent so much time hating you all, hating that I had been left behind, that I forgot why it was important that I was angry in the first place.”

“Why was that?” Echo asked, softly.

Crosshair finally looked at him, smile lines only just starting to form around his eyes and mouth. His eyes were burning, staring straight at Echo, as if he was trying to silently whisper ‘I see you, I see you, I see you’ with every second.

“Because I loved you. You’re my family.”

And in a heartbeat, Echo got it.

Down the shore, Omega squealed as she was lifted up by Wrecker as he cackled. He tossed her into the air and she lifted her arms up, curls whipping in the breeze as she looked as though she was flying, if just for a moment, before landing safely back in Wrecker’s arms. Squirming away as he began to tickle her, laughter bounced down the beach and Hunter joined in the playful teasing.

“Stop! Haha, stop!” Omega cackled. “Stop touching me!”

The whole time she was wiggling in joy, which kind of ruined the admonishment, a grin plastered on her face. Hunter and Wrecker’s expressions mirrored her, and Wrecker scooped her up again.

“I’m not touching you!” And he tossed her into the air once again.

Omega’s excited howl was heard easily by the three other men on the beach, and none of them could resist cracking a smile at her exuberance.

“Sometimes,” Rex said, “The hardest thing we can do in the face of tyranny, is to laugh.”

Crosshair nodded, and he turned to Echo one more time, finding his eyes one more time to make sure his brother truly understood.

“You are allowed to enjoy this. You are allowed to experience happiness, when it is something that they have tried so hard to keep from us.”

Finally, he leaned into Echo, Rex taking up his other side, holding their brother securely between them. And Echo collapsed. His body shook from the terror and the rage that had been coiled up in him for so long with nowhere to go. He mourned the loss of countless of his family, thousands that he never got to know. He mourned his own body, and what time had taken from him that he would never get back. But he also shook from the sheer unadulterated hope that flooded through him. Because he was still here, and he had a family who loved him unconditionally, and none of them had ever thought that this was a future any of them would ever see.

Crosshair pulled him into a keldabe and held him there firmly. Rex had his hand on Echo’s back, the other gripping the back of his neck. Omega's laughter danced with Hunter’s and Wrecker’s as they chased each other along the sands of their home.

“You’re allowed to live, Echo,” Crosshair whispered. “We all are.”

***

AO3

I can't believe I managed to finish every single prompt. It was often a challenge, but I'm actually really proud of the work I've done for this. If you'll allow me to be sappy for a moment, this was really my first foray into this community, and I am so glad that I'm here. It has been the most accepting, creative, and kind group of people that I've ever had the pleasure of talking to.

Thank you.

The song 'Lithonia' is paired with this because I found it held the two themes in this well. When you listen at first, it is the anger at loss and apathy and the meaninglessness in life. But as you read, perhaps listen to it again. Perhaps this time, it can be the freedom of knowing that it doesn't matter. And because it doesn't matter, you are free to exist in any way that brings you joy and peace.

#star wars #clone wars #clone troopers #bad batch #clone force 99 #the bad batch #arc trooper echo #echo #ct 1409 #cryptids writing #summerofbadbatch2024 #tbb crosshair #the bad batch crosshair #clone trooper crosshair #clone trooper rex #commander rex #captain rex #Spotify

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