#i feel like it's rare for the female lead to be on the cover of a fan book?

[wildflower-otome]

Tengoku Struggle Visual Fanbook Cover

[biteofcherry]

Flood

Bucky Barnes x female reader x Steve Rogers; Bucky Barnes x Steve Rogers

Little Worshipper Masterlist

Main Masterlist

summary: Waking up between Steve and Bucky may finally make your desperate dreams come true.

warnings: smut; consensual; D/s undertones; power imbalance; orgasm denial finally leading to permission; degradation; slight objectification; creampie; aftercare is included;

This is a follow-up to Soaked.

You voted for those two ruining you this weekend, so here you go.

You rarely had trouble sleeping and being squeezed between two warm, solid bodies somehow deepened that state of bone-melting relaxation. Bucky and Steve worked better than a weighted blanket, even though neither of them laid on top of you. Their limbs were enough to make you feel anchored and protected. 

However, as blissful your sleep was, it was startled by your more active brain areas awaking.

And it was the supersoldiers’ fault, too.

Really, you couldn’t blame your mind from creating erotic images and rousing your unconscious body ready for what you desperately craved. 

You woke up just as your dream self was about to come (from having Bucky slap your clit, while Steve fucked your ass).

Darkness filled your vision as your eyes opened; it took a few long seconds for your eyes to adjust and notice contours. You hoped that your startled awakening didn’t stir anyone else from their sleep, but as your eyes met Bucky’s glinting gray-blue irises you realized it was too late to fake sleep. 

Your breath hitched as the lights very slowly filled the bedroom. Then Steve’s hand that’s been splayed on your hip traveled down your thigh. 

Bucky yanked the covers away, exposing your naked bodies. Steve gripped under your knee and forced your leg over his, spreading you open to their curious gaze. 

“So wet, starburst.” Steve’s voice was a velvety, soft caress, all the while his grip tightened when you instinctively tried to close your legs. “And we haven’t even touched you.”

“We were planning on it, you know,” Bucky reached out his hand and trailed a single digit along your collarbone and down over your breast. “On tormenting your sweet body while you slept. Getting you all nicely wet and needy.” 

“It seems your body already knows to prepare for us.” Steve hooks an ankle over your calf to keep your leg pinned as he moves his hand toward your pussy. “As a good little worshipper should.” 

When Steve’s fingers touched your slick folds, you couldn’t contain the gasp. Nor the way your hips rolled up, begging for more of the contact that has been denied to you for so long. 

They cooed at you in unison.

They moved coordinated, too.

Steve’s fingers spread your folds, tracing a line down and up, as Bucky flicked the pads of his fingers over your stiffening nipple. When Steve’s digit circled your clit, Bucky’s fingers moved to your other nipple, rubbing around it. 

They didn’t rush, but there was a steady increase of pressure and pace. They rolled you fully onto your back, with Steve still pinning your leg down. Bucky was pressed to your side, you felt the twitch of his dick against your thigh. 

Usually, you needed time with the foreplay, but somehow Bucky and Steve turned you into a writhing, pleading mess quickly. Perhaps it was the double teaming that overwhelmed your senses; or maybe the denial which kept you on the brink for so long. All it took was for Steve to draw a few eights across your clit and Bucky’s mouth to close around your nipple, and you were fisting the sheets and moaning. 

“Oh!” A high pitched keen bubbled on your lips as Steve slid a single finger inside you. 

“For someone so eager to take two supersoldiers, you’re very snug, starburst.” Steve angled his body, so that he could look down at your face as he pushed his finger in and out of your pussy. 

“I think it turns her on,” Bucky’s chuckle tickled your nipple, “that her tight holes will stretch around our cocks.” 

“She’s so tight, it’s going to feel like heaven.” Again, they talked to each other, speaking of you as if you were only a toy for them to use. To take whatever they gave you. 

Steve inserted a second finger and you nearly bowed in half from how good it felt. Your walls contracted and your breath turned ragged. 

You were so damn close. 

“Not yet,” Steve withdrew his fingers and you felt like bursting into tears.

Instead, you whined and kicked your free leg (since the other was trapped under Steve’s weight, as if he somehow predicted you’d be prone to kick him). 

Bucky grinned, sharing a knowing look with Steve above you. They both moved and for a split of a second you were terrified that they would just leave you all dripping and desperate. Again. But Bucky merely scooted back, while Steve knelt between your splayed legs. 

“Behave,” he admonished, tapping your puffy folds and the clit peeking from between them. 

“You’ll get to cum, no worries.” He dipped his fingers into your pussy, pumping them slowly a few times and then withdrawing. 

You watched, breath almost withheld, as he smeared your sticky juices along his hardened cock. That glorious, big cock, the sight of which had your walls clenching. 

“But you’ll be coming around me.”

Then he was pushing into you, angling his body forward, but not lying on top of you. His eyes held your gaze captive as he pushed the tip past the barrier of your hole. Your whole body tensed, heat filled you in a tsunami-intense wave, your toes curled. 

So much delicious torment. So much denial. And finally you were granted something you’ve been craving. That moment you realized it wasn’t even the orgasm that you wanted so much, but the ultimate intimate connection. 

Though your body definitely longed after that orgasm.

The men have strained you to that edge enough times that your body was primed to snatch it, before it disappears. Steve didn’t even fully sink in when the coil snapped.

Your own eyes widened in surprise as you cried out. Your cunt clenched tight, your muscles tensed. 

“Fuck, feels so good,” Steve goraned, his eyes not once leaving your face. 

“Looks fucking good, too.” Bucky moaned, stroking his length. His gaze swept back and forth between your face, the point where Steve’s dick was stretching your opening, and Steve’s face. 

Steve didn’t give you time to fall into that softly pliant, post-orgasmic state. He pressed in, shushing you as you made little mewling noises at the slight discomfort of his cock filling you more than you ever experienced. 

When he bottomed out, he slipped his hands beneath your buttocks and lifted your hips as he knelt up. Steve easily held your hips elevated; high enough your feet weren’t even touching the mattress anymore. You squeaked at the new position and the angle that allowed him to stay deep. 

“Now,” the corner of Steve’s mouth tugged upwards in a dangerous smirk, “let’s keep the needy worshipper cumming, since she claims to be so devoted.” 

Unexpectedly, Bucky was bending across your bowed body, his hot breath fanning the top of your mound as he leaned his head down to where you and Steve were connected. 

Steve slowly withdrew. Then Bucky’s tongue flicked over your clit. 

“Oh God!” Your moan was choked.

“Gods, little worshipper.” Steve corrected, amused. 

Then he started moving, hard and deep. You had no idea how Bucky was able to keep at it, but his tongue was merciless on your swollen clit; every few thrusts switching to lick inches of Steve’s cock as he pulled out. 

They had you screaming your release twice, squeezing tears out of your eyes from the intensity of sensations. It was bliss, being allowed to come after denial, but it was also overwhelming. Especially with the way you had zero control of your own movement, being used like a ragdoll. 

Through glassy vision you watched Bucky kiss his way up Steve’s torso; he bit lightly into Steve’s neck before capturing his mouth in an imperfect, hot kiss. Through the haze of your own blood pounding in your head and the sounds of slapping skin and your squelching pussy, you heard an awed “You look good together. You taste good together, too.” 

Bucky settled down beside you, bending down to nibble on your lips playfully. The way you panted into his mouth, your tongue shyly meeting his, seemed to please Bucky greatly. 

He traced a line down your arm and gently unclenched your fingers from around the crumbled sheet. Guided your hand to his hard cock, wordlessly showing you how to stroke him. He pushed two of his fingers between your open lips then rubbed your own saliva over your nipples. 

“Seems you like taking it, starburst,” Bucky hummed, tweaking your peaks. “Just being a good, obedient worshipper and taking whatever you’re given.” He pinched your nipple. “Say it.”

“I- I like it,” you complied, trying hard not to lose focus on how to move your fist over Bucky’s dick.

“Good girl.” Steve praised, gently lowering your ass to the mattress. 

“Good little worshipper, serving her gods-” he didn’t slip out, keeping his cock buried in your fluttering pussy as he settled his weight on top of you- “spreading for us like a perfect, eager vessel for our cum.” 

You moaned at that; a pinch of weak protest, but mostly a sound of pleasure from combined stimulation. Being filled and fucked, being used, being made to give Bucky pleasure, all the while being addressed as an object. 

“You think she’ll like being filled?” Bucky withdrew his hand from between your bodies as Steve’s chest crushed your boobs. 

“I think she’ll love it,” came Steve’s sure reply. At your glazed over gaze staring up at him in devotion, he chuckled darkly: “She loves being our cumdump.” 

Was it the spot Steve hit mercilessly as he fucked you, or the degrading words, but your body shattered in another orgasm. Much to their satisfaction.

“That’s it, starburst.” Steve’s breath turned ragged, hips slamming into yours in rough strokes. “Open up for my cum. No need to be shy about it. A worshipper is allowed to take pleasure from being used and filled.”

You spluttered incoherent noises; a staccato of whimpers as Steve sped up, chasing his release. A long, strained groan combined with your gasps as you felt the warmth of Steve’s spend spilling inside of you. 

Your cunt squeezed his throbbing cock - eagerly, as they predicted. 

Steve’s large hand framed your face; thumb and forefinger squeezing your cheeks slightly. His own face was flushed as he stared down at you; a strand of silky hair fell across his forehead.

“Thank me for filling you with my cum.” 

“Thank you for fucking me and filling me with your cum.” Despite your voice quivering, you were quick to follow his command. “Thank you for making me come.” You added hastily, too. 

Steve huffed a laugh; dark sternness of his features melting away, forming crinkles around his eyes. He leaned down, brushing his lips against yours. He kissed you slowly and almost tenderly, reinstalling that emotional connection. 

He was still gripping your cheeks when he ended the kiss and he used that hold to force your head to turn to the side. Your gaze immediately landed on Bucky’s cock and your hand still wrapped around it. 

“That’s right, little worshipper,” Bucky intoned almost menacingly, “you’re not yet done serving.”

He made you squeeze your hand tighter and speed your moves, then knocked your hand away. That’s when Steve slowly pulled out of you, a thick trickle of his cum leaking out of you in his wake. He sat back, leaning against the headboard and watching Bucky settle between your spread legs. 

Bucky’s gaze dragged from your face down your body. His eyes darkened and he licked his lips hungrily as he watched the white streak of cum seeping out of your pussy. He fisted his own cock, giving it a few more jerks as he stared at the mess of you.

“Do you know what will happen now?” Bucky lifted his eyes to your face.

“You’ll fuck me?” You asked hesitantly, though you sensed that it was more of you hoping than what was actually going to happen. 

Bucky flashed you a wolfish grin.

“No, starburst.” He shook his head. He bent your legs and pressed them against your chest, his hips pressing into your ass. 

“Now, I will fill my cumdump.” 

With that, he thrust his cock into your tight cunt. You were so hot and snug. And so fucking creamy. It was a dizzying sensation Bucky couldn’t compare to anything else. He cursed under his breath as he felt the mixture of your juices and copious amounts of Steve’s cum. 

Your eyes widened as you felt the hot spill of seed filling you. Bucky really didn’t need to fuck into you to reach his climax. 

That he simply used you as a vessel for his release had your post-orgasm softened nipples stiffen into hard peaks anew. The jolt of arousal shot straight to your clit, too. 

“Fuuuck!” Bucky groaned; his face contorted in pleasure, eyes closed. 

He stayed buried inside your pussy as his cock throbbed in last spurts. 

When he opened his eyes, amazement shone in his blue irises. He looked at Steve, some silent but meaningful understanding passing between the two of them. Then his gaze returned to you, just as soft and full of feeling.

Bucky stroked one of your calves and kissed your ankle. 

“You’re a perfect cumdump, starburst. A delightful little worshipper. We’re so damn lucky to have found you.” 

“She found us, if we’re being precise.” Steve chimed in. 

A few minutes later - after both Steve and Bucky had their fill of staring at your messy pussy and making a few more comments that were arousing you in a twisted way - Bucky carried you to the bathroom and into a bath. He didn’t join you in it, but was there beside you, tenderly cleaning you up. 

When you exited, the sheets on the bed had all been replaced with a fresh set and Steve was already halfway through making breakfast. They insisted on you sitting at the small, round dining table, wrapped in a blanket and being served food and tea. 

As you held the warm mug in both of your hands, sipping steaming brew slowly and watching Bucky and Steve move around the kitchen, you realized you didn’t feel any awkwardness or shame, which would be expected considering how they defiled you. 

They exchanged small smiles and sweet kisses between each other, but also with you. A brush of fingers on your shoulder when Steve brought you tea; Bucky pulling your feet to rest in his lap while he sat in the other chair at the table. They kept you included, as if it was most natural. 

For the first time in a very long time you felt wanted and cared for. 

And yeah, thoroughly used. In the best way. 

[yourbestprincess]

Mein Kleines Mädchen

Older!König (40s) Young!reader (18- early 20s)

Giant age gap but y’know, size kink, slightly hyper fem!reader, reader is a female, König is rough and also has a cute little German accent and calls you cute pet names in German, König is also your dads bestie but not anymore! Creampie, slut-shaming but also praise , fingering.

Hope I didn’t miss anything! XD

(Gentle reminder that König is HUGE, I'm pretty sure he's 6'10 which, if you're average hight, is ginormous.)

You’ve always thought König was overly attractive, but you would never do anything…I mean he was your father’s best friend.

He always eyed you when they hung out, which was rare because he was always deployed.

König was way bigger than you were, he merely towered over you when you two would talk. Which, to say the least, you loved.

You thought he was so attractive. From how big he was to his greying ginger hair to his blue eyes which looked at you in such a way that made your stomach flutter.

****

He was finally coming over today. You were finally in collage now, in your eyes a grown woman.

He was staying the night according to your dad because he got kicked from his apartment from being gone so long, to which you weren’t complaining.

It was so early; almost too early, but you heard a knock at the door. Even before he knocked you felt his presence. Your heart pounds as you peak out of your window to see his car. You walk down the stairs, only in an oversized white t-shirt that covered your tight black shorts. You clear your shirt of any wrinkles before looking through the peephole and opening the door.

“Guten Morgen, schatz.” He smiles softly. you notice that he’s still quite dirty.

“Oh, ‘morning König.” you smile back softly before letting him in, your heart still pounding in your chest, it feels like it’s gonna run away.

He gives you a lousy side hug and drops his bags on the stairs before giving you a forehead kiss.

“Mm.” He breathes you in “Schatz, where is your father?” He backs away slightly to give you some sense of personal space.

“He’s working today until about 8:30. Sorry, I should probably let you settle in and shower I know you’re tired and-“

“Shh, liebling. Stay with me, I suppose I need some company, ja?” He looks down at you, reaching his calloused hand over and putting it on the side of your head in which you lean into.

“Okay, well first let me draw you a shower.” You bite your lip gently before leading him into the upstairs bathroom next to your room. He follows you, humming something you swear you've heard before.

"Du bist so ein liebes kleines Mädchen" (You're such a sweet little girl) König snickers while trailing so close behind you that he's basically hovering over you.

He thought you didn't understand what he was saying. You really touched up on your German before he came back from whatever mission he was on. You knew he said things to you in German before, but he never thought you'd know. Not until now. Your blood wastes no time making your cheeks hot and red with straight fluster.

He grips your arm and turns you with his mere strength. "Oh dear. Du verstehst jetzt?" (Oh dear. You understand now?) He tilts his head, squatting down to your hight.

You try to look down but he forces you to look up at him with your practically pathetic puppy eyes. "Ja...since you got deployed again. I should've told you, but I just wanted to know what you were saying to me."

His eyes feel like they're staring sharply into your soul, like he was looking straight into your heart. He knows that your heart grows and yearns from him. "Ja? Good girl." His accent spills out more when he's eager.

"C'mon lieb." He stands back up letting you finish showing him to the bathroom. You turn on the shower and make sure its the perfect temperature for such a man. You set out a towel and an unopened bar of soap.

"Okay, there you go. You can..um meet me in my room when you're done." You say with just a little bit of excitement in your voice.

"Ja, liebling." He says with a soothing voice rather than before.

As you wait in your room, you change into a pink see-though lingerie dress with a matching pink thong. To top it all off, you wear some white thigh high socks. You sit pretty on your bed and wait for him to get out of the shower.

****

You hear a knock at your bedroom door. "Hey, Liebling? Can I come in?" You ignore it for a second but before you can cover up he busts through the door.

"Mein gott liebe. Scheisse... don't do this to me. You know I can't hold back." His is heavy. It's obvious that blood went to his dick just from looking at his towel.

"I don't want you to hold back." You say as he steps into the room. His hair wet and towel barley covers his v-line. He sighs and walks closer to you.

“Mein schatz…What a fucking tease are you? Gut Gott.” He towers over your small frame, lifting up your legs and pressing kisses on your thighs as he props them up on his shoulder. His cock is fully hard, it’s throbbing and oozing out pre-cum.

“Bitte…König. You know how many years I’ve been waiting for this..” Your panties are so soaked that it’s visible. Who knew you’d be such a slut for the man who was there when your father wasn’t.

He moves your panties to the side with his middle finger. He pushes his middle and ring fingers inside you and rubs his thumb on your throbbing clit. You cry and whine under his touch. He knows how bad you need him.

“Is this too much schatz? If it is, how am I going to put this cock in you? It craves you, you know that liebling?” He takes his hand away from your wet entrance and lets the towel fall to his ankles. His cock springs up, you can see pearls of pre-cum dripping onto your bed. He gives his drooling shaft a couple of pumps before spitting on his middle and ring finger to wet your entrance just enough to fit his massive cock.

“Ready liebe?” He shoves the tip past your entrance making your shutter and whine from the size.

“Ja, you’ll be okay mein schatz.” You bite your lip and cry with him going deeper, trying to fit his 8 1/2 inches in your tight pussy that’s just taking him so well.

“König…s'too much..Bitte! Pleasepleaseplease!…” You whine and moan from the pain. Your thoughts are clouded with pure white pleasure. You know how wrong this is, but, Mein Gott, is it worth it. You're gripping his back and begging for god knows what.

“Nimm es einfach wie ein braves Mädchen, ja? Getting close for me already, Gut gott." (Just take it like a good girl, yeah?) König can't help but notice how pathetic and weak you are under him. His blunt tip pushes against your g-spot over and over again until you're crying and going cock-dumb over him.

" Du liebst es einfach, wie eine Schlampe gefickt zu werden, nicht wahr? What a good fucking girl for me." (You just love getting fucked like a slut, don't you? What a good fucking girl for me.) You can feel his thrusts getting sloppier and heavier. His breath begins to hitch and he can't help but whimper just a little from how tight his Liebe is.

"König...gonna cum right now.. Vati... fuck- feels s'good..." Before you can even think about getting close, he pulls out of you and sits down on your bed, getting comfy before motioning you to sit on his lap. You slide off your panties and see-through dress, craving that skin to skin with him.

"Ja, that's it Mein Schatz, ease down on me, you've got it Liebe" As you sink down on his fat cock, he notices that it makes an indentation on your tummy.

"S'too much König... too big." You barely make out in whimpers and cries. He continues to thrust deeper into your sopping cunt. You really hope your dad isn't gonna come home anytime soon.

"Shh, It's alright, you'll be okay Mein Liebe. Just let me use this pretty pussy, ja?" He pushes his cock so far up into you that you were genuinely surprised on how he was able to bottom out in you. His thrusts are sharp and fast with so much power that you moan everytime he thrusts. König knows you're close from the way you're clenching down on him and how loud your moans are.

"Bitte... I need to.." You cry out before König's thrusts become sharper and somehow even faster.

"I know, I know. I'm gonna come with... scheisse- come with you, okay?" He can't stop grunting now, its all pleasure now. White pleasure clouds his visions.

"Christ- Ich liebe dich schatz- fuck. I always have. And look, now I get to fuck this little body of yours and even fill you up with my cum, eh?"

His vision returns to you, already cumming on his cock. So pathetic, you can't even speak. You're too entranced at cumming on his thick cock to even think. And now here he is, filling you up with his potent cum. He pumps and twitches just a few more times until you two ride out your orgasm.

****

"Was I too much Mein liebe?" He wraps his big arms around you as you snuggle into him. warm sheets cover your bodies.

"You were perfect. Everything and more than what I was ever expecting." He wraps you into him even tighter, pressing kisses on your forehead and soft lips.

"Ich liebe dich auch, König."

Your dad's gonna be so pissed when he finds out his little girl is getting fucked by his so called best friend.

[bubbles-for-all-of-us]

Still wanting requests? I have a couple…

Can I get a idiots in love with Carmy x reader where he suddenly get jealous and possessive when you are working out front and a customer keeps touching you leg or back when you’re taking their order. (I was a server & bartender for 11 years and the audacity of the men who thought that this was okay, but we couldn’t tell them to stop because we were afraid of getting in trouble!!!)

How would Carmy react when he sees it, and after when he is kind of heated talking to you in the office and you tell him that’s that is something all women have to deal with on a daily bases. Everywhere. How would he react to this info?

Not under my watch

It's pretty late. Dinner service is almost over. Everyone's already had more than a couple of glasses of wine. Your feet are killing you. You just want to sit down but still, you keep that plastered smile on your face because the last thing you need is for the customers to notice your tired face.

And there's this one table that you tried to visit as rarely as possible. A couple of duchy-looking bikers. From the moment they stepped in, you knew they were up to something. Just the way their gazes followed every female in the restaurant said it all. A cold shiver ran down your back as you reached for the menus, walking towards them. In a perfect scenario, you would have gotten Richie to cover this but he had slipped out to drive Eva to her ballet class so it was just you.

"Hello, welcome to the Bear. Is there something I could get you two straight away?", you say in a chirpy voice. The two of them look at you like hawks. As if they were checking what part to bite into first. "How about we start with your name, baby girl", you already want to gag but keep up that same smile, "I don't think that's necessary, sir", "Oh, but how will we get your sweet cheeks here when we're in need for you?", the other says, leaning back to check your ass. "I'll let you look through the menu and will be back shortly to take your order", you say, turning to walk away. Stopping to pick up empty plates from the other tables. Saying goodbye to some of the customers. Thanking them for coming and wishing them a lovely evening. Yet all that time you could feel eyes watching you. Following your every move. And suddenly you get hyper-aware of how your shirt feels a bit too low cut and your breasts feel too outlined by the tight material. How the skirt feels too low cut. And you suddenly wonder if you lean across the table, does it show too much? But it's all the things you've never thought about. Nothing that bothered you before those two came along. The uniform is professional and the whole staff wears it. You try to shake it off. Glancing towards the clock. Richie should be back any minute now. He'll take over. You'll be fine. A thought about telling something to Carmen crosses your mind but you quickly chase that thought away. He's busy. And those two aren't worth his time.

A whistle catches your attention and you see one of them waving you over. You grit your teeth. Feeling like a dog called by an owner. "Ready to order?", you get your pen ready. Trying not to meet any of their eyes. "I'd like some with these tender-looking thighs", You feel his fingers reaching for the back of your leg and you quickly step back. Panic rises in your stomach. "Sir, I would ask you to...", you start, "You'll be begging by the time I'm done, doll. Not asking", he states. "Bend over why don't you", You feel another pair of hands on your back and you want to move away but you're so scared. Your whole body freezes. You grip the pan in your arms as you stare ahead.

And may all the holy spurts be with them. Because Carmen decided to look through the little window that leads to the front. A habit of his now that you've been working here. It's his way of calming himself in a way. Watching you smiling and chatting with the people always makes him feel at ease. He loves nothing more than watching you in your element. But it's also his way of making sure that you are well. This is Chicago after all. Too many dodgy people sneaking around. And his blood stopped pumping when he catches those two men groping you.

And, holy hell, is Carmen ready to raise hell. I don't even think there would be a question as to what he would do. Carmen's dropping the spoon into the pot and storming through the kitchen door. Because this is not acceptable. He snatches a couple of utensils as he goes. Ripping the hands away from your body. Slamming the rough stranger's palms to the table before two sets of forks make contact with their skin. "You fuckers will be lucky to walk out of here in one piece", he barks out. The room fills with cries of pain and swearing.

You feel someone else's hand on you once more, jumping slightly, only to be met with Richie. It's all a blur after that. Richie says something to Carmen. You feel him touching your face but you're kind of looking past him. It's all just a series of events. And then you end up in Carmen's office with him kneeling in front of you. "My love", he breathes out, carefully pushing a strand of your loose hair away. It killed him seeing you like this. His little sunshine. Absolute ray of sunshine now nothing more but a grey sky. Oh, how much Carmen wanted to go there and just beat the daylight out of these creeps.

"I'm okay", you mutter, reaching to squeeze his hand that has been lying on your thigh. "You should have come to grab me, love", he growls lightly you know that he's not mad at you. He's mad at the whole situation. It's frustrating to him that this shit is happening right under his nose. "Carm, it's fine. It's not the first time and...", but his wild eyes cut you off, "What do you... What do you mean not the first time?". His breaths are shallow now. You lean forward to cup his face, "It happened all the time in my last job. Hand on the back. Hand on the leg". Carmen is shaking his head, "I'll fucking find them all and", "And nothing, love, no one cares". But Carmen huffs, "I care. I care and this will never happen again. You come and tell me any time someone is looking suspicious to you", he's pulling you closer to him. Wrapping you up in his arms, "No one will touch you like that again. Not under my fucking watch".

[a-soft-hornytiny]

False accusation.

Summary: They accuse you of betrayal. Little did they know they were making a big mistake. 

Word count: 1.5k+

Genre: Angst (good? ending)

Pairing: Ateez x neutral!reader

Warnings: Mafia!Ateez, toxicity, distrust, mention of a gun, slight violence (let me know if I missed something) be careful while reading.

Notes: my first ever mafia!ateez fic! The request was for a female reader but the gender is not mentioned. I hope that's alright! And the fluff fell really short, like almost non existent but this is how it felt right so it is what it is.. and yeah idk this feels rushed but I’m way too insecure about writing angst so feedback is very welcome. 

Taglist: under the cut (let me know if you wanna be added)

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Come on come on come on Your back was turned to the door as you nervously fiddled with your hands. It had already been a few months since you had found out about your boyfriends‘ jobs and at first you were shocked but it was them or going back to your boring everyday life. And even though it was morally questionable, you decided to stay with them.

It didn’t take long until they decided it would be best for you to live with them, to protect you. And although they never told you directly, you knew it was to control you as well. 

You had worked hard to gain their trust but recently they grew more suspicious of you. It was that you flinched when they came near you, that you always seemed to hide something and how nervous you were when they asked you what you were doing. You knew it would be troublesome for you if they found out but you were bad at hiding your emotions. Which was not ideal for the partner of eight highly experienced criminals.

Steps were heard in front of your door and you barely managed to hide what you were doing before Yunho entered your room. You turned around, sweat running down your forehead. 

“W-whats up?” You asked, nervously stepping forward before taking a deep breath. You needed to calm down, if you told on yourself now it would ruin everything. 

“Come outside.” Yunho’s voice was cold, giving you the shivers. He was scary. When you first met him, obviously outside of their work environment, you got to know him as a sunshine, but when you saw him angry for the first time, he was your personal nightmare. 

You stared at the ground as you followed him out of your room. You didn’t know where he was leading you but before you could ask, you were pressed face first against the wall. Your heart was beating up to your throat. 

“Do not dare to resist.” You whined quietly. You could recognise that voice anywhere. Another member that you rarely knew angry. He had pinned your hands against your back, pressing his whole body against you to fixate you against the wall.

“I promise I won’t!” Seonghwa’s face was right next to yours so you could feel his breath on your skin. “You better keep that promise.” He responded before pulling you away from the wall and guiding you into a room. But it wasn’t just any room. It was the room you had never been allowed to enter. The room out of which you sometimes heard loud voices in the middle of the night. 

Seonghwa harshly sat you down on a chair before leaving the room again. You were still in shock, unsure what was happening. It was an interrogation room. The chair you were sitting on was connected to the ground, just like the metal table in front of you. The gray walls were empty and the room generally felt cold. 

It didn’t take you long to recognise more familiar faces. One two three…. seven eight. All of them were here. Seonghwa and Yunho were standing right next to the entrance, Yeosang and Wooyoung covered the wall right behind you. Mingi, Jongho and San stood at the opposite side of the room. 

Before you could further inspect the room, hands slammed onto the table in front of you.

“Eyes on me.” Hongjoong growled, making you flinch. Fear was filling your body as you looked up to him. He stared right into your soul. This was the room where they uncovered all secrets, where they had no scruples. You were shaking.

“What is it.” He asked, although it sounded more like a statement. You had question marks in your eyes. “You’re hiding something from us. What is it?” You looked down onto your hands, all your nerves were overloaded with impulses. Too early. They couldn’t find out yet. Your plan would be ruined. 

“I-I’m not hiding anything.” A lie. A straight up lie. And you could feel that they knew. Suddenly you felt warm air on your neck.

“Don’t lie to us. We’re not dumb, little one.” You hadn’t even noticed how Wooyoung creeped up to you. You didn’t dare to turn around and look at him. His voice shook your soul. Little one. That cute nickname he had given you at the start of your relationship, usually making you feel precious, was now making you feel helpless. 

You felt tears swell up in your eyes. Don’t cry, you can not cry. You tried to tell yourself but it had no use. You felt horrible. You had let them into your heart and their distrust was hurting you deeply. But you couldn’t even be mad at them. You were hiding something. And they had made themselves vulnerable too.

“No need to cry love.. just tell us what you’re hiding.” San was kneeling down next to the table, resting his arms and head on the cold metal plate. He was smiling at you. But his eyes were cold. You felt a sting in your heart.

“I-…” Tears were uncontrollably running down your face now. “I’m sorry!” You cried out before burying your face into your hands. You didn’t want it to turn out like this but you should’ve known that they would misunderstand it. That they would think you would betray them. 

There was only one way out of this. You had to show them. But reaching into your pocket was a mistake. You heard a gun being armed. 

“Don’t move.” You froze immediately, only to look up and see Jongho holding his gun, pointed to the ground. 

“Please.. I just want to show you! You need to see it to understand.” Your voice was cracking with every word you were saying. Yeosang appeared behind you, putting both of your hands onto the cold table. “Where?” He demanded deeply. You shivered. “In my back pocket.” Your whole body was tense as Yeosang fished something out of your pocket and put it on the table. 

You let out a deep breath of relief as you saw them realize that the object wasn’t meant to harm anyone. 

“A bracelet?” Hongjoong asked, obviously taken aback. You nodded hesitantly. You felt the tension in the room slowly disappear.

“It’s for Mingi.” You said, causing him to look up curiously. “It’s the last piece of my.. my present for you. The rest is in the little casket under my bed.” You confessed. Yunho immediately stormed out of the room to see if you were telling the truth, leaving you in an uncomfortable atmosphere. 

But as you looked into their eyes, one after another, you saw the instant regret take the place of anger.

“I thought about it for a long time.. I can’t gift you anything that would be obviously linked to me or would connect all of you.” You slowly regained confidence to explain your behavior. “I wanted to surprise you.”

Yunho came in, putting the open casket onto the table. Their shock grew as they realized that you were telling the truth. 

A belly chain, a ring, a necklace, earrings, a choker, an anklet and a belt buckle. With the bracelet that was eight pieces. All of them were obviously self made. 

You forced a smile as you saw guilt forming in their eyes. The first one to apologize was Seonghwa. He stormed forward, embracing you into a hug. You were still tense but you slowly felt your fear fade away. 

“Put that damn gun away Jongho!” You heard Hongjoong whisper aggressively before you were let into the living room. You were now sitting on the couch, all eight of them in front of you, looking at you as if they just commited the most horrible crime. And in their minds they did. 

“Listen Y/n, there is nothing we can do to make this up to you.” Hongjoong started talking but you interrupted him. “Just take them.” You tried your best to forget the fear you felt and put all your love into that smile. 

You stood up, all your self made gifts in your hands. You stepped forward. The belt buckle for Hongjoong, the choker for Seonghwa, the ring for Yunho, the belly chain for Yeosang, the anklet for San, the bracelet for Mingi, the necklace for Wooyoung and the earrings for Jongho. 

Looking at them you wanted to feel love but the shock and pain was still sitting deep in your bones. The atmosphere was awkward, uncomfortable. You didn’t know how long it would take to work through this, the sound of a gun being armed still echoing in your brain. You had never realized how much danger you were in all the time. 

But you were willing to forgive them, no matter how much time it would take to heal. 

—————

Tags: @jonghoisbabie @multidreams-and-desires @little-precious-baby @yunhofingers-writes @serialee @crimsonbubble @cometoceantrenches @em--ilysm @deja-vux @kawaiiloli00 @ddeonghwva @aaaaajonghooooo @sansbun @cookies-n-joong @plonys @hijirikaww @nari-nim @yunkiwii @mingi-ivity @racheloveyunho @seongsangsgf @jhmylove @lizsvcks @yunhobabygurl @leoninadecorazones @kerra-that-one-random-fangirl @star1117-archives @hoshischeekss @yeosangsbiceps @euphoric-emily16 @anyamaris @shinestarhwaa

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[hazbinhotelxreader]

Carmilla x sick! Female reader!

Words:558

“Sick? Again?”

A/n: THANK YOU ALL FOR THE FOLLOWERS AND LIKES❤️❤️. It really makes me want to keep writing! Also this one’s shorter! Sorry if it is I’m just not sure what else to write for her

(Requested by: GothRoseXo on AO3)

Warnings: nothing, fluff

Info: basically the reader gets sick often and easily, and Carmilla is there to take care of her

It wasn’t rare for you to get sick, it was actually pretty common for you. Runny noses are often to come for you, and coughs, and fevers- maybe you have a poor immune system, or maybe you’re just exposed to a lot of germs often. Either way, it’s lead you up to this point. Cold, sick, and tired, laying in you and Carmillas shared bed.

You were laying under the covers, head rested upon the soft pillows. Your nose stuffy and your head throbbing, you were laying on your side with you eyes shut. Your girlfriend, Carmilla, came into the room, seeing you ill and tired. She sighed softly “sick again mi Amor?” She chuckled softly and sat next to you.

Your nose sounded stuffy as you sucked in some air to pull the mucus back in “yes..” you said, voice groggy from your illness, not feeling very well. Carmilla got up and grabbed a thermometer and some medicine.

“Here let me help you” she smiled softly and checked your temperature. She looked at you concerned. “A fever..you’re lucky it’s not as high as the last.” She said gently and handed you some pills and fresh water.

“Thank you dear..” you take the pills quickly, wanting to have some sort of pain relief from your sickness.

“Of course my love..” she gave you a soft kiss on your cheek, not caring if she could get sick too .

“Carmilla..I don’t want you to get sick too..” you say worried and gently push her away.

“It’s alright..a little illness won’t push me away from you..” she reassured and laid down next to you. Cuddling you to make you feel as comfortable as possible during your fever. You sigh and cuddle back, head resting in your lovers chest and her arms wrapped around your body

“What would I ever do without you?” You ask, breathing in and trying to relax. The pills for your headache and fever were kicking in a little, but it didn’t solve your sore throat or stuffy nose.

Carmilla chuckled “I’m not sure my love, you’d be completely lost without me.” She joked playfully, her large hand playing with your hair gently.

You chuckle at her joke, then turn away to sneeze, covering your nose in the process. Carmilla sat up and handed you a box of tissues to help you. “Thank you..” you said muffled into your hand and blew your nose.

“Of course…anytime my love” she gave a reassuring pat on your back. After you finished blowing your nose, you tossed the tissue onto the bedside table and laid back into your lovers arms. She left soft kisses on your face and neck, making you feel comfortable during the time of your illness, even if you told her to stop due to you being scared of her getting ill too.

During your time of being ill, Carmilla made you food, made sure you stayed hydrated, checked your temperature, and gave you medicine. Not to mention the affection she gave you while sick. And just like you said, She got ill as well. Leaving you to take care of your living girlfriend, but that’s not a very big problem.

[gloomwitchwrites]

Punch Bowl

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: established relationship / situationship, sharing, oral sex (male & female receiving), unprotected piv (wrap it up irl), multiple creampie, vaginal fingering, sex on top of and over a desk, cum swallowing, praise, anal sex, double penetration, multiple positions, light dom/sub dynamics, F/M/M/M/M

Word Count: 3k

At a required work holiday party, Captain Price leads you away to his office for a bit of fun. But the rest of Task Force 141 is interested, and for now, Price is willing to share you.

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // winter 2023 masterlist

Behind the drinks table, you stand with your arms crossed, watching the rest of the room. You’re on punch bowl duty because every fucking year someone manages to spike it. It’s never been on your watch, but over the years you’ve begun to suspect a few possible culprits.

But really you don’t give a shit, and you don’t want to be here anyway.

There is nothing you like less than being forced to attend a mandatory work holiday party. Your face always aches from smiling by the end of it, and you have no social battery. You’d much rather be at home with a glass of wine, greasy takeout, and a book.

Every time someone approaches the table, you snag a plastic cup, ladle in some of the bright red beverage, and hand it off only to do it all over again. The worst part are the extroverts who don’t know how to shut the fuck up and talk your ear off for fifteen minutes before they find another victim.

It is exhausting. And awful. And you’re about five minutes away from pretending to be sick so you can go home to that wine, takeout, and book.

A figure blocks the room out of the corner of your eye. You turn, and freeze, realizing who it is that’s stepped in front of you.

It’s Captain John Price.

When you make eye contact with him, he smiles, and it’s so sultry that you already know what he wants. That’s the thing about you and John. It’s a weird, friends with benefits situation that is quickly starting to fall into feelings. Which is absurd. The two of you shouldn’t get involved beyond what it already is, and yet every time the two of you come together, it’s more passionate than two people simply fucking.

“Captain Price,” you acknowledge, reaching for a plastic cup, pretending everything about this interaction is normal.

“I need to talk to you,” he replies.

I need to talk to you is just code for “I want to fuck you.”

You keep a straight face, even as Price’s mouth twitches with amusement. “What about?” you ask, ladling in some of the bright red punch into a plastic cup.

The upper half of Price’s body twists slightly, and then he’s reaching for a nearby recruit. Price grips their shoulder and spins them around.

“Cover the punch bowl.” There is a hint of a growl in his voice, and that surprises you.

“Yes, sir.” The recruit nearly stumbles around the side of the table, obviously flustered.

There is no negotiation with Price. Rarely do you ever push back when he wants to be inside you.

You simply step around the table and allow the nervous recruit to take your previous position. Price steps into your space and nods toward the exit. The two of you move casually, as if this is routine and not at all strange. You’ve done it plenty of times before, and so far, no one has said anything.

Even if they did, what would they say? You’re not even SAS, and he is not your superior. You’re stationed here for work, and you’ve had to interact with John on multiple occasions for your job. The two of you walking away to talk is normal. At least, on the surface.

You and Price move out into the connecting hallway. From there, the two of you head for his office. The moment he shuts the door behind you, Price pushes you up against it, trapping you with his body.

He plants one hand directly above your head while the other squeezes your hip. Price presses in, one knee slotting between your legs, forcing them to open to accommodate his muscled thigh.

“You want to talk?” you murmur as his lips move toward your mouth.

“We’re talking,” he replies, closing the distance.

Price’s tenderness is not a soft thing but a fiery heat that burns you from the inside out. His kisses are fierce, purposeful, and each one is a brand that you carry with you in the moments the two of you are separated. But there is a desperate, underlying movement to each of his touches and kisses. Price is wanton but never needy and rarely rushes.

Your hands go out to rest against his chest, but he’s bending down, sliding his hands over your ass and lifting you up.

“John,” you breathe, clinging to him as he deposits you on top of his desk.

“Fighting me on this?” he asks, sinking to his knees before you. Price lifts your bent knees, placing one over each of his shoulders.

Then his hands are sliding up your thighs to your hips. Once there, his fingers dig in and drag you to the very edge of the desk. The friction pushes on your skirt, forcing it to slide up to your hips where it bunches. At this angle, there is no way Price doesn’t see your red lacy underwear underneath.

“No,” you murmur as Price slides his index finger between the delicate fabric and your pussy. He lightly pulls, and then guides it to the side, revealing you to him.

Price lifts your hips one more time, guiding you a bit closer before his head dips to run his tongue along the soft flesh of your inner thigh. His tongue against your skin is divine, as if you’ve been apart for ages. Price licks, bites, and kisses until he leaves marks behind.

As he moves closer, the anticipation of Price tasting you begins to build. His warm breath is a caress against your skin, and it’s even more wanton when you feel it against your clit. Your fingers dig into the wood, and when you glance down between your legs, Price’s gaze moves upward, his mouth positioned at your opening.

You arch your back and flex your hips a bit to signal exactly what you want. But you know Price won’t deny you. He never does.

“Let your knees fall wider, love,” purrs Price. When you do, he licks your pussy from opening to clit.

It’s a deliberate, languid touch that lingers for a moment before Price does it again, this time swirling his tongue as he does so. Then, Price goes for it, flicking his tongue against your clit in quick, sharp bursts of movement that immediately make your toes curl.

Your orgasm blooms from nowhere, roaring forward as Price sucks your clit into his mouth. Falling back on your elbows, you moan loudly. One of your knees start to slip but Price is there to catch it, keeping your legs spread wide as he continues to lavish your clit.

You’re in absolute bliss as the orgasm hits in a series of waves that only dissipates once Price releases you.

“Do you want more?” he muses before teasing the opening of your vagina with the tip of his tongue. Your hips buck but Price’s hand presses down on your thigh, settling you back onto the table.

“Please,” you beg, voice a hoarse whisper.

“Only because you asked nicely,” he says, inserting two fingers inside you. Your body surrenders and you both groan with how nicely you take him. You almost collapse against the desk, your eyelids closing in pleasure at his touch.

Price bends his fingers to press upon that sensitive spot inside you and drags his fingers down and out, popping them into his mouth to suck them clean.

“Do any of you want a taste?” asks Price, his voice unusually loud for just the two of you. His fingers slip underneath the delicate lace as Price guides your underwear down your legs and past your heels.

Your eyes snap open and you push yourself up, the lazy haze of lust disappearing.

In front of you are Price, who kneels between your legs, and three other men. The door to the office is open, and a large man in a black balaclava shuts the door. It’s the rest of Task Force 141. John MacTavish, Kyle Garrick, and Simon Riley all linger near the door just behind Price.

You have no idea what Simon is thinking behind the balaclava, but Soap and Gaz have smirks on their faces. It’s not that you haven’t entertained the idea, because you have. All of them are sweet on you, even Ghost who is fucking terrifying to nearly everyone except you.

“I do, Captain,” replies Gaz, already moving to take Price’s place.

Price stands and steps out of the way, only for Gaz to immediately put his mouth on you.

“Oh, fuck,” you whimper, and you feel Gaz’s gentle laugh against your skin.

Price saddles up to the side of the desk. His hand grabs the back of your head, twisting in your hair, and then he guides you toward him, your body slightly bent. With his other hand, he undoes the front of his jeans.

Instinctually, you reach for him, grasping his cock the moment it’s free of the zipper.

“Just like that,” groans Price as you take him into your mouth.

You run your tongue along the underside of his cock before sucking him down again. With fist and mouth, you work Price until he’s murmuring your name. It’s growing more difficult to concentrate. Gaz is skilled, his tongue working in tandem with his fingers as he pumps them steadily in and out of you.

Soap and Ghost might be watching, waiting their turn, or both. But they’ll have their turn, and that excites you.

You choke around Price’s cock when it hits the back of your throat. Gaz swirls his tongue around your clit and that breaks you. The orgasm rises and you squeeze around Gaz’s fingers.

“That’s fucking beautiful,” says Gaz with a contented amusement that makes you feel gorgeous. It’s an appreciative comment, but you only have a moment to linger in it before Price’s hand on the back of your head keeps you in place.

“Can you swallow, love? For me?”

You nod, and then Price’s taste bursts on your tongue. He does not pull away, but makes you take all of it, and you are eager for every drop. Price draws away, his cock leaving your mouth in a wet pop. Some of your salvia sticks to the head of him, and he brushes it away along with whatever stays on your lips.

“Show me,” he says, and you open, revealing that you’ve swallowed every bit of him.

“Good girl. Good fucking girl.”

Gaz licks his lips, wiping off the bit of your release that still sits on his lips. He pushes up to standing, and then Ghost is right there, grabbing at you, dragging you off the desk. You nearly wobble when your feet hit the floor but he’s fast, making sure you don’t fall.

“I want you on your knees,” he says, and you immediately drop. “Eager. I like that,” purrs Ghost as he lightly traces the line of your jaw with his index finger.

When Ghost’s cock is free, you immediately wrap your fingers around the base, and you go for it. There is no teasing lick or kiss. You throat him, your lips hitting your hand as you do so.

“Fucking hell,” he groans. “You take it nicely. Don’t you?”

You moan around Ghost’s cock, basking in the praise. He is larger than Price, and you take as much as your throat will allow. The head presses roughly against the back of your throat, nearly causing you to gag. Instead of resisting, you relax into him, breathing through your nose, and that helps tremendously.

Your reward is another vocalization of Ghost’s pleasure. That deep, guttural moan of his goes straight to your pussy, and all you want to do is suck him dry. Fuck—suck all of them dry. Hollowing out your cheeks, you slide and bob your mouth along his shaft until Ghost nearly becomes a puddle at your feet. You may be on your knees before him, but you have all the control. It is thrilling. Having this power makes you bolder.

But the control is a fallacy, because the moment you begin to make this skull-faced man into a whimpering mess, someone is grabbing your wrists, pulling them behind your back as someone else latches onto the back of your neck.

You are held in place, and then Ghost does what he wants, fucking your mouth like you’re his little toy. With Price, the two of you usually share the control, switching the power between the two of you. But Ghost? He is completely domineering, steering this entire thing until you’re the one who is the whimpering mess.

“Fuck,” bites out Ghost, and then he’s yanking you off of him.

But he does not spill into his hand or on your face. Instead, he lifts you up, lightly plopping you down onto the desk. Your back hits the wood, and then Ghost is forcing your legs open, his hard cock sliding over your pussy.

“Eyes on me,” comes a voice near your head.

It’s Soap.

His large hand goes to your throat, then he’s tipping you back, and you’re opening wide, taking him down as Ghost pushes your legs wider to sink in. Your pussy flutters around Ghost, but your body is needy, and it greedily takes as much as he’s willing to give.

Ghost rolls his hips, pausing between each to help you accommodate to his size. Once you’ve taken him to the hilt, he begins to pound into you, every thrust bouncing you down Soap’s cock. Through the fabric of your oversized sweater, Soap palms your breasts, and this keeps you from sliding away from either of them.

You fall into a lust-filled haze. An orgasm roils up, passes through your body and out into your limbs. It sets every nerve alight, but neither of them stops. A second comes soon after, and it’s only then that you realize Ghost’s angle is the perfect alignment for him to rub on your clit as he thrusts into you.

Ghost’s thrusts become a stuttering thing that end with his own release. His hands go to your thighs. He guides them open, presses down on the insides, and Soap slips out of your mouth. He reaches over your body to also hold onto your thighs, keeping them open.

Everyone watches as Ghost fills you up, and when he slips out, he catches his release and presses it back inside. This is an act of ownership, but no one seems upset by it, which can only mean that they all plan to do this with you again. And that is something you’d never say no to.

All of you hang in the air for the moment, and then hands disappear only to be replaced by new ones. You’re flipped onto your stomach, and then dragged off until one foot is on the ground, one knee is on the top of the table, and you’re bent at the waist over the side of the desk.

Then Gaz is there, grasping your hips, taking Ghost’s place. He keeps you steady, thrusting upward in steady strokes that have you leaning back against him. Gaz’s head dips forward to rest against the side of your head, and the two of you is all there is until he comes, mixing himself inside you alongside Ghost.

But Soap does not take his place. Instead, Price steps up, sliding his hand to the back of your neck. He tugs gently, arching your neck and back so that you look into his face.

“How much more can you take, love?”

You lick your lips and consider. Already, you feel the soreness and ache slipping into your muscles, but it’s a good sensation, and you want more of it.

“Whatever you desire to give to me,” you answer softly, and Price’s expression is a pleased one.

With tenderness, Price eases your knee off the table, and releases his grip on your neck. “Go sit in Soap’s lap, love,” whisper’s Price, lightly smacking your ass as you wobble toward Soap.

Soap reclines in a chair in the corner. When you get close, he reaches out, grabbing you by the thighs, drawing you into his lap. You do not face him, but the room, your legs spread for everyone to see as Soap slides inside and starts bouncing you on his cock.

There is no embarrassment on your part. Your head falls back to lean against Soap’s shoulder as he takes control. Your eyes flutter, and you briefly glimpse Ghost kneeling between your legs. He pushes up his balaclava, and then your lids completely shut when his mouth comes down on your clit.

Ghost sucks it into his mouth, the tip of his tongue flicking against it at the same time. The contrast that is the two of them has you slipping into a whimpering mess. You cannot speak. There are only your fingers digging into someone’s flesh as the two of them bring you to yet another orgasm.

This orgasm has no end, and you don’t even realize Soap relinquishes control to Ghost until the large man is lifting you up, sliding his arms under your thighs to hold you aloft to fuck you while standing. The mix of them inside you begins to seep out around Ghost’s cock, and you can see everything happening between your bodies.

Your forehead rests against his shoulder, and then someone steps up behind you, pressing against your other entrance.

“Please?” It’s Price.

“Yes,” you groan as Ghost hits deep and it sends your back arching. It’s the only thing you manage to say, and it is a strangled sound.

Price is gentle as he eases in. The two of them take turns pumping in and out of you, until you’re a sweaty mess. Your sweater sticks to your skin, and you want it gone, but without the ability to form words, you simply deal with it, reveling in their shared taking

You surrender to them, allow them complete control. But you’re safe, protected, sandwiched between them. You slide one arm behind Price’s neck while the other rests on Ghost’s left shoulder. Removing your forehead from Ghost’s right shoulder, you lean back on Price and he turns his face into your neck, inhaling your scent.

“It could always be like this,” he murmurs into your ear. “Would you like that?”

You nod, and you feel his smile against the line of your throat.

taglist:

@glassgulls @km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @spicyspicyliving @childofyuggoth @tiredmetalenthusiast @coffeecaketornado @aykxz98 @kayden666 @36namey @pearljamislife @wrathofcats @keiva1000 @pertinentpostmortem @enfppixie @bbyfimmie

[upat4amwiththemoon]

hi! saw that your requests are open and if you want to could you write a fic with amelia shepard x reader. kind of a mental health fic where reader is struggling (depression or something) and either amelia and reader are a couple or reader is someone coming into the ER (or something else) but either way amelia decides to help R and eventually they become a couple (if they’re not already). i hope you understand what i mean?

anyway, thank you!

i’ll die anyway.

Summary: It’s still hard to find reasons to stay alive.

Pairing: Amelia Shepherd x female!reader

Warnings: depression

Word count: 824

a/n: Amelia Shepherd please cure my mental illnesses <3

masterlists | guidelines

Even though Amelia is oftentimes busy with her work, being the self proclaimed best neurosurgeon, she still makes time for her girlfriend, who unlike her, doesn’t have such a mess of a schedule. However, she just came to the realization that date nights haven’t happened in a while. She really hasn’t properly seen Y/N in a while.

Which is why, after arriving back home, Amelia’s first mission is to find Y/N. She goes up the stairs, towards their shared bedroom, still wearing her scrubs. She frowns as she steps into the room. No one is there. It’s dark and the bed is messy, which indicates Y/N has been there recently.

The sound of water hits her ears. Amelia knocks on the door opposite of their bedroom, trying to open it, but it’s mocked. “Y/N?” She calls out, growing worried at the silence coming from the other side. “Are you okay in there?” There’s slight humor to her voice, but it’s only there to mask her anxiety.

A quiet yeah comes from the other side of the door, but it doesn’t ease Amelia.

“You think you could open the door for me?” It takes a while, but eventually Amelia can hear the soft clink of the lock. She opens the door carefully, only peeking her head in first. When she sees fully clothes Y/N sitting under the running shower, she steps in the room fully, closing the door behind her so the warmth of the water wouldn’t escape. “What are you doing?” She has a gentle smile on her face as she kneels near Y/N. She recognizes the look in her eyes.

“I think I’m getting sick.” She whispers. Water droplets are getting all over her eyes and mouth, but she doesn’t seem to care.

“Sick?” Amelia shuts the shower off, getting no reaction from Y/N. She sets the back of her hand to her girlfriend’s wet forehead. “You don’t feel warm.” She states quietly.

Y/N hums. Her hands are hidden in the sleeves of the hoodie she’s wearing. It’s oversized, one of her favorites, mostly because it’s technically Amelia’s hoodie. Her eyes are unfocused, so she rarely blinks, only when water slides over her eyes.

“Maybe getting out of the wet clothes would help?” Amelia’s tone makes the sentence sound like a question, but it’s more of a request, as she is already helping Y/N up before she has a chance to answer. She leads her into the bedroom, not caring about the trail of water dripping to the floors. “I’m going to get you some clothes, okay?”

Amelia starts looking through their wardrobe, picking the coziest looking clothes for the both of them. She helps Y/N out of the wet clothes and into the clean ones before she changes out of her scrubs.

“Have you eaten today?” She’s pretty sure she already knows the answer, and it worries her, since she had a ten hour shift today. Y/N shakes her head, confirming Amelia’s fears. “Okay, I’m going to order us some food.”

After leading Y/N to the bed, she picks up her phone and orders the food that’ll arrive to their house the quickest. She sets her phone back down, making sure it’s not silenced so she’ll hear when their food arrives.

She sits down next to Y/N, leaning her bad against the backboard, she pulls Y/N’s back into her chest. “Can you tell me how you’re feeling?” Amelia pulls the covers over them before wrapping her arms around Y/N.

She sighs, slowly leaning the side of her head against Amelia’s. “I don’t know.” She whispers, her voice slightly wobbly. “I don’t feel anything but I’m feeling everything at the same time. It’s like I’m stuck in a hole and I can’t scream for help.” Taking a shaky breath, her voice turns almost too quiet for Amelia to hear, “it feels like it doesn’t matter if I’m dead or alive.”

“Maybe we could go meet up with a psychotherapist together tomorrow?”

Y/N hesitates. Asking for, or receiving help has never been something she can do easily. “I don’t think it’s that big of a deal.”

“But it is.” Amelia states in a way that leaves no room for arguments. “Mental health needs to be always taken seriously.”

Emotions mull through Y/N’s body. She feels guilty and bad for letting Amelia see, for making her worry, that’s not what she wants. She feels like going to psychotherapy would mame it worse, it’d solidify the fact there’s something wrong with her.

Amelia’s embrace turns tighter, bringing Y/N back to the present. Her hands have started shaking, she didn’t notice. “You don’t have to decide now.” Amelia whispers into her ear. “We’ll think and talk about later, okay?” Y/N nods, letting herself relax for now as she lays on her girlfriend, and tries to forget her worries.

[a-libra-writes]

can I please request for a Mordecai Heller x female reader? like reader is a showgirl who sings on stage like Mitzi one and tends to attract a lot of attention but backs out when they feel this murdercat plotting their death lmao. thank you 😁

heyo! I decided to do a looot of the cats for this one, since its p similar to my Peaky Blinders Jazz Singer post that I was fond of. GN Reader.

Being a Jazz Singer & Performer!

Rocky - When he was hired and met you for the first time, it was absolutely an "infatuation at first sight" situation. Pros!: He's unfailingly polite and sweet, he seems to play with even more energy when you two share a stage, his grin is very off-putting to creeps who shout up at the stage and harass you. Cons: He can get quite distracted when you two share a stage. Many times Zib has had to pull him back with the rest of the band, because he keeps unintentionally scooting closer to you.

The worst part of the Lackadaisy falling onto hard times is the fact you rarely worked there now - you had to sing at other clubs to make ends meet. One of Rocky's big motivators for getting the club back to its old self is you'd come back! Forever this time! (Probably). Rocky doesn't exactly have the time or money to visit the other clubs you work at, so he wants all of your attention during your infrequent visits to the Lackdaisy.

Freckle - Look, he's a shy kid, and the whole 'sneaking out under cover of night to do bootlegging/torpedo shenanigans' is still new. He doesn't have a lot of experience or frame of reference for what a good club singer is like, but Freckle thinks you've got to be one of the best. You have to be, right? Your voice is wonderful and you look positively celestial under the stage lights - wait, that's weird to think, right? Thank God he didn't say it out loud. ... He didn't, right?

Freckle hasn't the slightest idea of how to approach you, so it's up to Ivy and his cousin to drag him over and attempt conversation. It's... a little pitiable, but he's trying. That said, he's surprisingly outspoken and a little scary if someone tried to mess with you while you performed. You're used to the heckles and catcalls, but it's shocking to see that shy tabby jump up from his seat and raise his voice at them.

Ivy - She liked you from the moment she first saw you perform at the Lackdaisy, and that crush hasn't dulled over the months. She maaaay have kept a few posters that advertised the clubs you sang at, and may or may not have cajoled her way into those clubs so she could watch the show. She could easily sweet talk her way to backstage, too - seems you've got a fan.

When the Lackadaisy goes downhill, it's Ivy who wants to sweet talk you into returning. You'll bring in a crowd! The acoustics are great! Pretty pleeease? Her dad Ivy will pay you and not get in trouble until months later when the family accountant goes over the finances. Obviously she cares about the club's wellbeing, but she also wants to spend time with you! Though she's bold enough to just ask you outright. She's also bold enough to outright shout and fight anyone whose heckling you - throwing a heel is a favorite tactic.

Viktor - You're someone he saw often in the olden days, back when the club could afford to have you perform several times a week rather than once a month. Viktor never cared much for the cacophony the crowd and music made, though he knew objectively you were an excellent performer. Rather than endure the crowd, he'd listen to your voice drift across the caves backstage, rehearsing with the band or just by yourself. It was pleasant to listen to, and he could do so in private, either coming back from a job or about to go on one.

Once things began to fall apart, it's not as though he went around to clubs ... or anywhere, really. So if you stopped performing at the Lackadaisy, you might never see each other again. Choosing to stay (or at least do a few pity gigs) would lead to the surprising sight of the big, morose Slav working behind the bar and watching from there, rather than his previous hideouts. It's a little intense to be under that stare... but not all unpleasant? And given how sparse the crowd is, anyone making trouble and catcalling will get dealt with so promptly, they won't even have time to finish their wolf whistle.

Zib - Well, obviously he's going to be drawn in by an attractive singer. Come on. Zib can be smooth when he wants, chainsmoker-scent and rumpled clothes aside. The band likes to tease him mercilessly about it, but that doesn't stop him from cozying up while you two perform together and shooting his shot backstage after every show. Back when the Lackadaisy was thriving, he could afford to hang out at the other clubs you performed at; nowadays, though, that's not so likely.

Even so, starting up a friendship or even fling wouldn't be difficult. He's attracted to and interested in creative spirits, doubly so if you two had very different taste (so there's more to discuss!) and you got on well with the rest of the band. Late-night debates about this musician or that show over a game of cards and several bottles of wine, either together or with the rest of the boys, and waking up half-dressed and seriously hungover come sunrise. Opportunities for visiting would dwindle as the Lackadaisy's business dried up, though if you stayed on ... No, he wouldn't want that for you. If anything you'd be mentioning to him and the band that there's other places to perform to pay the bills. Well, it'd be food for thought.

Wick - Wick wouldn't call himself a music aficionado, especially what's listened to at these rowdy speakeasies, but he won't deny how hard it was to focus on his business associates when you were on stage. So when he discovered you often performed at his favorite club, it was a pleasant surprise. He really wanted to speak with you at some point, at least compliment the performance, but didn't want to come off as those typical entitled wealthy guys who get too fresh with ""lower"" class performers ... so sometimes you'd find flowers in the dressing room and an anonymous note of appreciation.

He finally gets a conversation when you're a guest at a posh party he's attending, or when you continue to perform at the Lackadaisy in spite of the dwindling crowd. It's a shame your large audience is missing, but at least it's way less awkward for him to strike up conversation when you come to the bar? He probably won't bring up the flowers. Oh god, what if you think that's weird. You probably assumed the flowers were some freak fan. Is he a freak fan? He's not, right? (It will take him like months of dating to finally admit to the flowers thing)

Serafine - A good-looking cat with a nice set of pipes is certainly someone she'd notice, especially if they were a regular performer at the Marigold Room and other places she frequented before that. If it was the former, she'd have plenty of chances to wink when you met eyes, "chancing" across you backstage or just being forward and chatting you up after the show. She certainly isn't shy about expressing her interest, and it could be a fun fling.

You do look adorable swinging your hips and swaying your tail along to the beat, not to mention the different get-ups you have to dress in. Serafine maaaay or may not have wanted to help pick a suit out, or help with make-up, or give you some of her jewelry to wear... It's half marking her territory and half she loves to lounge around your dressing room and be a pest. You'd never kick her out and she knows it. She'll do it in other clubs, too, though you have no idea how she keeps getting past security.

Nico - Like his sister, he has no qualms nor shame about trying to get your attention on stage. Unlike Serafine, though, he'd start doing it immediately and be a general pest after the show. The difference between his attention seeking and the other men's in the audience is he actually has some charisma when you two meet backstage, so you're only slightly inclined to tell him to buzz off. He wasn't much of a music expert, and he still isn't ... But he likes hearing you rehearse and hum to yourself, and it's endearing when he requests songs.

He's pleased when you get gigs at the Marigold Room, as it's easier to hang around before and after the show - and bonus, he gets to be extra aggressive with throwing creeps out to impress you! But if you're performing elsewhere then Nico will stop by. He might be bruised and/or bloody because he just left a job, but don't worry! Sometimes he'll even bring flowers or whatever - though without Serafine knowing, she'd never let him live it down.

Mordecai - He wouldn't approach you any differently from others - he'd still be his usual prickly, anti-social, often awkward self - in fact, he might avoid an avid performer, simply because they often have fans around them or at least people recognizing them. What could get his notice was someone whose real persona is very different from their ostentatious self on stage - more quiet and pensive, perhaps. Like any attempt at friendship, let alone romance, it's slow going with him.

That said, he's the type to admire professionalism in a performance. A well put together outfit, thoughtful musical arrangement (as if he's an expert ...). He wouldn't like a femme presenting singer have to wear skimpy clothes or tolerate a rowdy audience. If there was a questionable manager or creepy fan bothering them, Mordecai can deal with that, at least, not that he'd tell his friend/partner. Mordecai would generally glare down any touchy fans and annoying admirers like a jealous terrier. This amuses Mitzi to no end.

Asa - Simply put, he saw you performing at a ritzy party he was invited to and reached out to your manager so you might perform on a weekly basis at the Marigold Room. Very professional! He'd send flowers with his name to the dressing room afterward, would make sure you're finding everything to your liking and not being bothered by anyone. Requests to continue performing would bypass your manager to being nice, short handwritten notes.

Eventually he'd pay you extra and treat you to a nice dinner afterward, if you were comfortable with it. If you let the older man down, he's not too bothered. He'd continue the friendly business relationship and would still send flowers and so on. He'd rather keep you as a good business associate and continue to enjoy the performances than let his silly feelings get in the way. Alas, he is hopeless at discussions of your music. My guy called a ukelele a tiny guitar.

Wes - He never hung around the Marigold Room after hours - it's his workplace, and not really his vibe - but it's very hard to resist not sitting by for an hour (or three) with a drink while you finish your set. Sometimes you two will meet eyes, or he thinks you are, and he considers dropping backstage to say ... hello? He's an 'employee', so isn't checking up on you a normal thing to do? Make sure you're satisfied with the Marigold Room and all that. Right.

Ironically that's how he's finally able to meet the singer he's been mooning over for months. A drunk patron was getting too cozy on your way out, and Wes happened to be there. His face and ... charming demeanor is good for scaring off upper class wimps. So there's that. He's not so bad, though - clumsy, and prooobably realizes you're out of his league. You get to see more of his earnest side when you two meet outside of the Marigold Room, where his fellow murderous gangsters coworkers aren't watching yalls every move with popcorn in hand.

[chahnniesroom]

tenderness | chapter 8: all fall down

[noun] /ˈtendərnəs/

1. the quality of being gentle, kind, or loving

2. the feeling of pain, aching, or soreness

pairing: bang chan x female reader

summary: in a world where soulmates are rare and precious, you don’t know why the universe has decided to give you one. you never could have imagined that they would be an idol, and one that you worked with at that, or the challenges that would arise from your bond.

chapter word count: 4.1k

chapter warnings: injury, blood, sasaeng fans

a/n: i am not a doctor and i did minimal research on anything medical related

previous chapter | masterlist | next chapter | read it on ao3

Over the past few years, Chan has grown relatively used to large crowds. At concerts and events, he’s excited to have the chance to see so many faces and hear their cheers. So when their security team warns them that the airport is much busier than usual and to take extra care about sticking together, he takes it in stride and doesn’t think too much of it. The group is in varying states of tiredness and everyone just wants to get home. Airport crowds are a nuisance, but nothing new. 

They file out of the plane and line up before they reach the public area. Seungmin is leading the way, Chan is last as usual, and Jisung is sandwiched between Changbin and Minho near the back. A few staff pad the front and back of the line while security surrounds the whole group.

The second that the doors open, they’re subjected to the roar of the crowd that gets even louder when they spot them. Even with headphones in, Chan blanches at the sudden increase in noise and is thankful that his mask probably covered most of his reaction. It seems that the amount of people that usually greet them at the airport has more than doubled and they’re all desperate for an interaction. It's a cacophony of fans calling out their names, love declarations, and screams that make it hard to think.

Ahead of him, the kids are urged forward, but he can barely see them through the bright pops of camera flashes and the sea of bodies pushing at them. The bodyguard closest to Chan rests a hand on his shoulder casually, but his grip is like steel, both guiding him and making sure that they don’t get separated. 

Y/n must also be subjected to the ebb and flow of the crowd as she runs straight into Chan at one point, sparking the Charge between them momentarily. Chan looks back to make sure that she’s okay, but she just gestures for him to keep going, anything she might be trying to say being drowned out by the screams and hidden by the mask that she’s wearing. Knowing that he's definitely being filmed, Chan keeps his head down and swallows his concern. The last thing he wants is rumours that might involve Y/n or put any sort of extra attention on her.

The crowd reaches a fever pitch, and multiple cries for Jisung prompts Chan to look up again to search for him. When he finally manages to spot him, it becomes clear that he’s being helped up from the ground. Chan can’t tell if it’s a result of stumbling from poor visibility or an overzealous push from fans, but he attempts to tamp down the simmering anger that he feels building in his gut. He hates that he can't be there to protect Jisung and calm him down. Regardless of the reason that he fell, this wouldn't have happened if they were given more space. They're grateful for their fans, but this is too much.

They need to get out of here and now.

The screaming is deafening now and seems to be coming from all directions. He thinks he can hear security yelling directions, but it’s hard to decipher what they’re saying and who they’re saying it to. With the increased noise comes more pressure as people jockey for a closer position, mercilessly jostling other bodies out of the way. Chan tries to ignore it all, solely focused on getting everyone into the vans waiting for them and making sure they’re unharmed. 

The crowd surges forward and they're finally given the space that they need to reach the doors and spill out onto the outdoor concourse. From there it's only a short distance to where a manager is shepherding them into the idling vans. 

They had lined up based on dorms, so Changbin basically hauls Jisung into the van with Hyunjin, while Minho ushers all of the younger members into their vehicle with no time wasted trying to organise further.

Chan collapses into his seat and everyone in the van seems to let out a sigh of relief the second that the door closes, sealing them away from the frenzy and most of the noise. There's a brief moment to double check that all the members are present before they pull away from the curb.

Chan twists around to confirm there are no injuries. Other than some bruises and scratches on their arms, they're all relatively unharmed, but definitely rattled. Their fans are generally well behaved and respectful of personal space, so this type of encounter is unsettling, but a good reminder to stay vigilant. They're lucky that things didn't escalate to a point where somebody got seriously hurt, but that might not be the case next time. Chan makes a mental note to request some sort of increased security or additional protective measures to guarantee the safety of the members and all the fans. 

Normally, they would spread out in the van to give each other as much space as possible, but today, Jisung stays practically squished between Hyunjin and Changbin who have their arms wrapped around him and are trying their best to soothe him. 

Knowing there’s nothing he can do from where he’s sitting, Chan opts for pulling out his phone and shooting Y/n a quick text. He wasn’t able to catch a glimpse of her after he noticed Jisung fell and has no clue how much she did or didn’t see. He doesn’t want her worrying about their safety.

[5:17 pm - sent]

Sorry that was more chaotic than usual haha

Wasn’t expecting so many people to be there...

We’re all fine even if it looked crazy... 

Hope everything is okay on your side and see you at the dorms later

He keeps the messages succinct, knowing that Y/n likely won’t have a chance to read his texts until later. Just like with their regular schedules, the staff are all brought back to the company and sometimes she gets held back to finish something or go out for food or drinks. He’s hoping that the crowds died down after they left to make it easier to haul all the luggage and equipment away. 

He taps out another message to Minho to reassure him that everyone with him is physically okay, just unnerved and receives a similar response. They agree to all go to the 3RACHA+Hyunjin dorms instead of splitting up, sensing that everyone would feel a bit better if they stuck together for the time being. Relieved, he drops his phone into his backpack and settles into his seat. Without the rush of adrenaline from the airport and the high from the concerts, he can feel how exhausted his body is. It's worse than usual, a bone deep tiredness that doesn’t feel like it’ll be improved no matter how much he sleeps.

It’s the Charge, or lack thereof, he realises. The past few days have been such a blur of travelling and concerts that he hadn’t noticed that he’s barely spent any time with Y/n. He resolves to make up for it this week. They have a bit of a break before the next leg of their tour continues and while Chan has a lot that he wants to finish during that period, he can afford to set aside a few extra hours for Charging. Although he knows that he can probably power through with this level of energy- he’s done it in the past- he feels guilty thinking that it would mean Y/n has to do the same.

When they make it back to the dorms, he calls dibs on the shower, intent on burrowing into his bed the second that he’s cleaned off all the airplane grime. He feels significantly better after washing up and changing into clean clothes, so he wanders towards the kitchen to try to eat something as he waits for Y/n to get back. The second that he enters the living room, all conversations cut off and the members turn to look at him with grave expressions. 

Immediately, he’s on edge again and all the tension from earlier is back.

“Is everything okay?” he asks cautiously. It’s clear that Jisung, Felix, and Jeongin are crying and the rest of the members are suspiciously teary-eyed, other than Minho who just looks murderous. “Did something happen?”

He sits beside Felix, who’s on the couch closest to him and puts an arm around him. Felix instantly inches closer, buries his face into Chan’s neck, and starts sobbing freely, tears soaking into the front of Chan’s shirt and making him panic more. Chan surreptitiously pats him down, searching for some sort of injury, but finds nothing. It makes him feel better and worse at the same time. 

“We- Yonghwan called-” Changbin finally says. The words come out roughly, like it had been a struggle to get them out. “He said-” The tears that he’s been holding back finally come out and he can’t finish his sentence, wiping at his face roughly.

“What?” Chan demands, when nobody continues Changbin’s explanation. He hates this feeling of being in the dark, he wants to know what has made everyone this upset and what he can do to fix it.

“It’s Y/n.” Felix’s voice is rough and even deeper than usual from crying, Chan can feel it against his skin more than he can hear it. “Hyung…”

Chan didn’t think that his stomach could feel worse, but it seems to twist into a tighter knot at Felix’s words. On autopilot, he continues to rub Felix’s back, but his hands are now feeling weak and he’s glad that he’s already sitting. It takes a couple of deep breaths, but eventually Felix is able to calm down enough to speak again.

“Hyung… Y/n- There was a sasaeng… At the airport.” 

Everything seems to stop.

His mind, which was previously racing, can’t seem to process anything anymore and the next few moments feel like a dream or, more accurately, a nightmare. Felix is crying earnestly again and Chan vaguely thinks that he should be too, but instead he’s numb, detached from his emotions, unmoored. He’s aware of someone grabbing his bag and putting it into his hands, helping him into his shoes, and leading him into the lobby of their building, but it feels like his mind is no longer connected to his body. He doesn’t even remember when he put on the beanie or mask that he’s currently wearing.

He desperately wants this to be a nightmare, that someone will shake him awake and he’ll find out that he accidentally fell asleep the second he got home.

He’s jolted back to reality by a voice calling his name. It’s Felix, who is also holding onto both his shoulders. He’s stopped crying as hard, but unshed tears still glitter in his eyes and there are teartracks running down his face. It’s clear that he’s trying hard to keep himself together for Chan’s sake.

“Hyung, the car is here. Are you going to be okay going by yourself?”

“Yes,” he hears himself say. His voice sounds strange, void of emotion. He knows that he has to be okay, that really, there’s no choice because the chance of being recognised would be much higher if he goes with anyone other than staff. He has to be okay, for Y/n.

“Okay. Yonghwan-hyung is going to take you to the hospital.”

“Okay.” Chan starts to walk away.

“Hyung,” Felix calls out, voice still hoarse with emotion. “Promise me you won’t go on Twitter?”

“What? Why? I-”

“Just promise. Okay?”

“I promise.”

But it festers inside of him, not knowing what’s going on, not really. Yonghwan has barely spoken, other than a couple words to guide him into the car and reassure him that they were going to get to the hospital as fast as possible. 

After 20 minutes of being stuck in traffic, Chan takes out his phone and unlocks it. It’s clogged with notifications from various staff members, but they’re from half an hour ago and are ambiguous, just telling him to call different people. He swipes everything away without replying and opens up Naver with the intention to look up how far away they are from the hospital. Before he can get that far, he’s distracted by the trending search terms. 

‘Stray Kids,’ ‘Incheon Airport,’ and ‘Sasaeng’ are all in the top 10. His finger hovers over each one for a moment, before locking his phone. He doesn’t know if he wants to read an impersonal or speculative article that might overdramatise what happened.

He only lasts another minute before he reaches for his phone again. Even though he can still hear Felix’s voice warning him to avoid it, he can’t help but open the Twitter app. It’s probably going to be worse than reading articles, but it’s killing him to have so little information.

He needs to know what happened.

His Twitter timeline is pandemonium. There’s a mixture of tweets that can be separated into three different categories. The first are ones demanding that videos and photos be taken down, that post links to accounts calling that they be blocked, and warnings to avoid retweeting information. They’re mostly vague and the replies are littered with people asking what happened. Chan scours through them briefly, but all questions are met with ‘DM me’ or something similar.

The second is a set of hashtags trending, #thankyouskijigi, #prayforskijigii, that talk about how grateful they are that Y/n was there to protect Chan and general well-wishes for a quick recovery. This only heightens Chan’s anxiety. He’s not sure why he’s being named specifically, but nothing he can think of is good. Either way, it feels wrong to see that Y/n is being praised for being injured instead of Chan.

The last is what Chan is really searching for. Any photos or videos that he can find of the incident. He has to sift through a number of deleted posts and broken links. There’s a few that are easy to find, but they were clearly taken in the midst of the chaos and the blurriness means that it’s hard to see any details.

There’s an awful clip that Chan somehow manages to find. He’s thankful that he records his screen while watching it because when he clicks to see the replies, the video has already been either deleted by the poster or removed by Twitter. Whoever is filming it has unsteady hands, but they’re close enough that you can still see everything. Y/n is lying curled up on the ground clutching her stomach, the sasaeng nowhere in sight. Chan still can’t tell what kind of injury Y/n has, until she props herself up a bit more and peels back the baggy sweatshirt that she’s wearing to expose her abdomen more.

It looks bad. There’s blood and there’s lots of it.

The light-coloured shirt she’s wearing underneath makes the blood that’s seeping into it obvious in a way that the dark hoodie concealed. The splotch is alarmingly large and seems to be expanding every second even with Y/n’s hand pressed tightly against where the wound must be. It spills onto the floor now that the hoodie isn’t soaking it up anymore. The second that the injury is revealed, the crowd panics. Half the people recoil, while the other half rush forward.

The filmer is one of the latter, dropping their phone to their side so that you can’t see anything, but not stopping the recording. At first, Chan doesn’t think there’s anything else to the video. The audio keeps peaking, overwhelmed by the screaming, but in the last few seconds, he can suddenly make out Y/n’s voice. It’s surprisingly stable, though tight with pain.

“-please send medical services to Incheon Airport? At the terminal 2 arrival hall. There’s a young female who has been stabbed.” There’s a series of pauses and moments where Y/n continues to talk. She's obviously answering questions by the person on the other end of the phone. "I'm- she's conscious, yes… Yes, lucid… In the abdomen… Two times…”

The video ends abruptly and Chan’s left staring at his own face reflecting against his phone’s dark screen. 

He feels sick. 

He feels nothing.

He-

He closes the video and searches for another.

Pictures, videos, accounts from people who were at the airport, he saves everything. He continues frantically combing through as many links and tweets that he can, especially if they have descriptions of the sasaeng or capture her face clearly.

The best- or maybe the worst, based on the way that it makes Chan’s stomach drop- video is a livestream that somehow hasn’t been deleted or edited yet. It was taken by a fan who seems to be on a stepladder or something that provides them some extra height although if they’re further away. The video is an hour long, but Chan scans through the first section that’s from before they had arrived and starts to play when he first sees Seungmin appear.

This new angle makes it obvious how intentional everything was. There’s a distinct moment when the crowd that’s offscreen shifts, likely reacting to Jisung’s fall, and a corresponding ripple through the rest of the crowd. Chan remembers that, the sudden push as everyone wanted to see what was happening and a renewed effort from the security team to get them outside.

There’s a brief second when there’s a gap between the security team that’s just barely big enough for the sasaeng to slip through unnoticed. The first time he watches the video, he almost misses it. She heads directly towards Chan, partially aided by the general movement of the crowd, and it sends shivers down his back to know how close she was to him without him knowing. With nondescript clothes, a lack of a camera, and a mask covering the lower half of her face, she almost blends into the rest of the staff members. 

Before she can reach Chan, she’s intercepted by Y/n who looks like she’s aware of the sasaeng’s presence based on the purposeful step that positions her right in between the sasaeng and Chan. The sasaeng has no time to react and the two of them crash into each other and tumble to the ground.

After that, the video gets too shaky to see what’s happening and cuts off before showing anything else.

“Chan-ssi!” Yonghwan’s voice takes Chan’s attention away from his phone. When he looks up, he can see that the car is idling at the side entrance of the hospital that he normally uses. “Did you hear me?”

“Uhm.”

“Just go in and talk to the reception, tell them you’re looking for Y/n-ssi. They’ll take you to her. I have to go park the car and then I’ll join you.”

—

The person that helps Chan at the front desk seems to be familiar with Y/n's case right when he mentions her name. Her posture straightens and she checks Chan's ID to confirm that he's her soulmate before leading him away, pressing buttons on a pager as she does so. She walks briskly and stops in front of a closed door, sliding it open and motioning for him to enter before heading towards the nurses' station.

Chan steps into the room and when he sees Y/n, it feels like he’s been punched in the gut. He physically recoils, shoulder hitting the door frame as he takes a step back.

She looks so small, in the middle of the bed, hooked up to a number of IV’s, other tubes, and monitoring equipment. Her face is pale, more so than usual, and her eyes are closed. 

For one awful moment, all Chan can think is that she looks dead. 

He slowly approaches Y/n’s side and gingerly rests his hand on her exposed arm, mindful of all the tubes and cords that she’s connected to. The Charge has never felt so reassuring, a steady transfer of energy that reminds Chan that she’s still alive. The nurse excuses herself, but Chan barely notices, too focused on Y/n and the constant drone of the heart rate monitor.

He startles when the doctor enters the room.

“Ah, you are Y/n-nim’s soulmate?” he asks. When Chan confirms, he brightens. “Perfect! Before anything, let’s get you up on the bed with her so that you can Charge properly.”

The doctor helps Chan manoeuvre himself so that he’s curled around Y/n. He shrugs off his hoodie so that he’s just left with his t-shirt and shorts to match Y/n so that they can have as much direct contact as possible. Chan knows he usually runs hotter than most people, but Y/n’s skin is colder than usual, even with the warmth of the Charge between them.

Yonghwan appears partway through the doctor’s explanation of Y/n’s injuries which is probably for the better because other than confirming that she’s stable for now, he hasn’t been able to concentrate. Instead, he holds onto Y/n’s hand, the one that doesn’t have an IV line in it, and intertwines their fingers. He’s always marvelled at the size difference between their hands.

The moment Y/n's heartbeat picks up from the steady rhythm that Chan has now gotten used to, his seems to do the same. It’s close to sunrise, but Chan hasn’t even come close to falling asleep. The time has somehow both inched by, stretched out like pulling taffy, and passed in the blink of an eye. Embarrassingly, he didn’t even notice when the doctor, then later Yonghwan, left the room. Only realising when he noticed the lights dimming automatically when visiting hours ended.

He’s alternated between doom scrolling on social media, texting the group chat since most of the boys are still awake as well, and waiting for any sort of updates from Yonghwan or JYPE. He’s restless, but has done his best to barely move, not wanting to disturb Y/n or any of the equipment she’s hooked up to. 

She comes to slowly and Chan feels like he can barely breathe, chest tight with anticipation of her regaining consciousness. Her eyes flutter open and she squints, even though the lights have been dimmed almost all the way down.

He helps incline the bed slightly, lets her have the tiniest sip of water, just enough to wet her mouth, then gives her a little bit more once he knows she won't choke.

He can tell the second she's awake enough to recognise his presence. Her eyes widen and her heart rate speeds up. She tries to lever herself up, but Chan presses a hand onto her shoulder, keeping herself in place. She tries to put a hand on his arm and her eyes scan his form.

"Stay still, you're hurt," he chides gently when she makes a questioning noise.

"Chan?” she gets out.

“Yes, it’s me.”

“You’re safe?”

Chan doesn't know if he wants to laugh or cry at her concern. She's on some strong drugs and is still recovering from anaesthesia, it's obvious from the slight haze in her eyes, her sluggish movements, and the difficulty she seems to have putting words to her thoughts. Yet her first thoughts are about him.

"Yes, I'm safe. The rest of the boys are safe. They’re all at home," he reassures her. She doesn't seem to believe him, reaching for him again agitatedly.

“Were you hurt?” 

“Y/n, it’s okay. Everything is okay, I’m not hurt.” Chan takes Y/n’s hand in his again, pressing it against his chest so that she can feel his heartbeat. “Can you feel that? You protected me."

At that Y/n finally calms, settling back against her pillow. Before he can say anything else, she’s already drifted off again. With his free hand, Chan smooths out the hairs that frame her face and she subconsciously leans into his touch. Unable to help himself, he presses a careful kiss to her forehead.

He stares at her peaceful looking face, a mixture of guilt, fear, and worry churning in his stomach. He can’t believe that he was so close to losing her and he knows that he’ll do everything in his power to make sure nothing like this ever happens again.

previous chapter | masterlist | next chapter | read it on ao3

[kingofbodyrolls]

39,5°C (Fever) (m) | pjm

Thank you to everybody who follows, either for my own fics or my recs - it's much appreciated and means so much to me 🥹 So, for my 100th follower milestone, I give you this; I hope you like it 💜

Pairing: Jimin x reader (female, “Y/N”)

Genre/AU: Established relationship, non idol!au, pwp, smut, fluff if you squint

Rating: mature/explicit/R18

Word count: 6,2K

Summary: When you get sick you want three things; rest all day, eat your comfort food and have as many orgasms as you can.

Disclaimer: I do not own BTS or know them personally and this work of fiction is purely fictional and for entertainment purposes only. The actions and personalities described in the story do not reflect those of BTS— it’s just fiction. Also, if you would kindly read the tags/warnings before reading, that would be lovely: and if you don’t like whatever is described in the tags, just hit return and find something else to read. Thank you 🌸

Warnings/tags: Explicit smut in the form of, masturbation (female), fingering, nipple sucking/play, unprotected penetration (they are in an established relationship, but please use protection irl), some cock warming, a lot of orgasms, fucking while sick, OC is so fucking needy and desperate and Jimin just wants to please her.

This is mature/explicit content, so minors, please do not interact.

Main masterlist. Cross-posted to Ao3.

Morning light filtered through the curtains, painting the room in soft hues as you slowly roused from sleep. 

Blinking away the remnants of dreams, you stretched languidly, only to realize that the warmth next to you, Jimin, was absent. 

Confusion furrowed your brow, a dull ache throbbing at your temples. It was as if your mind was wading through a fog, struggling to piece together the events leading up to this moment.

A damp sensation beneath you snapped your senses awake. 

Panic fluttered in your chest as you registered the wetness on the bed. 

Your skin prickled with discomfort, a blend of clammy sweat and shivers that chased each other up and down your spine. Hot and cold sensations mingled, creating a disorienting dance across your flesh. Your body trembled and you felt a surge of arousal run to your core, a telltale sign of a fever. 

A hand to your forehead confirmed your suspicions - heat radiated from your skin, the feverish touch undeniable. The realization sent a sinking feeling through you, an unwelcome interruption to your routine. 

You contemplated checking your temperature, not just to provide a concrete reason for your absence from work, but also to validate the intensity of what you were experiencing.

With a resigned sigh, you fumbled for the thermometer, its cool surface a stark contrast to your fevered skin. 

As you watched the numbers climb, anxiety held its breath alongside you. 39,5 degrees Celsius glared back, a glaring testament to your body’s turmoil. ‘Yikes’ barely covers the magnitude of this fever, the word echoing like an alarm in your mind.

Reluctantly, you reached for your phone, fingers dancing over the screen to dial your workplace. 

Explaining your condition to your boss felt like admitting defeat, you were rarely sick, a palpable sensation of vulnerability washing over you. The conversation passed in a blur, your voice sounding distant even in your own ears as you negotiated the details of your sick leave.

Once the call ended, you were left with the weight of the day ahead - or rather, the weight of what wouldn’t be. You really love your damn office job. Resignation settled in as you acknowledged that rest was your sole agenda. 

This was no mere inconvenience; it was a mandate from your own body, an uncompromising insistence on self-care.

Your thoughts drift through a dense fog, each one a weighty presence that seems to slow time itself. 

Amidst this mental haze, a singular desire emerges, commanding your attention like a beacon in the darkness; to get off.

When you get sick, you’re out of commission, but Jimin possesses remarkable resilience, bouncing back from ailments with an almost enviable speed. He might slow his pace a tad, yet he’s soon up and running again, his vigor only temporarily dimmed. 

However, your own journey through illness is an entirely different narrative. When illness casts its shadow upon you, it’s as if the world grinds to a halt - a relentless fog that blankets your thoughts and body. 

You only want three things really; rest all day, eat your comfort food and have as many orgasms as you can.

It’s a craving that rises like a tempest, demanding to be acknowledged. 

The desire for intimacy, for the warmth and connection that only your boyfriend can provide, becomes a beacon in the haze of your illness. It’s a need that fluctuates in intensity, an ebb and flow that mirrors the unpredictable nature of your symptoms. 

In a daze, you squeeze your thighs together while dirty fantasies run through your mind.

Determinedly, you set your sights on the first craving: a day of uninterrupted rest. 

As the world outside continues its bustling rhythm, you cocoon yourself in a cocoon of blankets, the soft embrace of your bed a sanctuary from the demands of the day. A season of your cherished TV show flickers on the screen before you, its familiar characters and storylines a comforting companion in this isolated respite. 

Yet, even the most captivating narrative can’t entirely distract from the persistent itch of restlessness. As episodes blur into one another, you find your mind wandering, the confinement of your surroundings reflecting the confines of your own body. 

The hours stretch, each minute an elastic band tugging at your patience.

The promise of comfort food beckons like a siren’s call, and soon, the aromatic allure of pizza fills the room. 

You indulge in its cheesy embrace, the combination of flavors a temporary reprieve from both your physical discomfort and the monotony of your confinement. The first bite is a symphony of sensations - crisp crust giving way to a burst of savory satisfaction, a moment of bliss that lingers on your taste buds. But even indulgence has its limits. 

As the pizza slices dwindle and the ice cream follows suit, the novelty wanes, leaving behind a subtle undertone of longing. You try navigating the vast expanse of social media, but it yields little in the way of fulfillment, each swipe a fleeting encounter with curated lives that only serve to amplify the quiet void within.

Your energy reserves are far too depleted to muster the focus required for anything more substantial.

In time, you discover yourself reclined upon the bed’s embrace, solitary in Jimin’s absence, your eyes are gently shut, a willing surrender to the world’s demands, while the low sensual R&B beats of your beloved ‘dirty hoe’ Spotify playlist weave a cocoon around your senses, cradling you in a symphony of horny melodies on an endless loop. 

You rub your thighs together and get lost in the bliss of the feeling. You’ve got nothing to do. Might as well do yourself.

Your fingers glaze the top of your panties, digging deeper until you reach the spot just over your clit. 

Rubbing circles on your clothed clit, you spread your legs and throw your head back into the bed, already feeling the beginning of an arousal. You can’t help the sweet noises that escape your mouth, as you roll your hips in search of more friction. 

You press harder on your clit, imagining it’s Jimin’s hands instead of yours, knowing that he would be able to make you climax in a matter of minutes. 

Pinching your clit, you let out a high pitched moan as you feel the knot in your stomach forming. 

Images of Jimin flash before your eyes, him kissing you deliciously, fucking you like it was the last time.

Beads of sweat gather along the precipice of your hairline, a glistening testament to the fevered symphony playing out within. 

Each breath you draw is a ragged melody, a reminder of the battle your body wages against the searing heat that courses through you. You set a fast pace, rubbing mindlessly, as you pant for air. 

Almost there, you can feel it coming. 

In frustration, you pinch your clit again and come undone with a scream of Jimin’s name. 

Your body thrashes around the bed, as you come down from your climax. 

Your thoughts wade through a dizzying haze, an intricate labyrinth where clarity is but a fleeting visitor. Meanwhile, your body becomes a canvas of discomfort, a sticky and clammy landscape painted by the relentless brushstrokes of sweat. 

You register an uncomfortable wetness between your legs, and discard your soaked panties to the floor.

Your body remains a furnace, its warmth radiating through every fiber as you continue to draw breath in ragged gasps. Seeking relief, you shift onto your stomach, a desperate attempt to find a position that might offer some respite. 

Your hand gropes beneath the pillow, finding the cool touch of your phone. Fingers trembling slightly, you navigate to Instagram in pursuit of distraction, a temporary escape from the confines of your condition.

Yet, the respite is fleeting, evaporating like mist in the face of a relentless sun. Your desires surge once more, a hunger that refuses to be quelled. The allure of the digital world fades in comparison to the voracious craving that commands your attention, rendering your attempts at diversion feeble and futile.

You surrender to the tempest within, rolling onto your back as your hands traverse the landscape of your fevered body, fingers tracing the contours of your clammy skin. 

They land on your already pebbled nipples, and you give them a hard tug, moaning and rolling your hips mindlessly. 

Jimin's cotton shirt adheres to your skin like a second layer, a tactile reminder of the stickiness that has become an unwelcome companion. 

With a sudden resolve, you sit up, a surge of urgency propelling you as you shed the shirt in a swift motion, the fabric slipping away like the bonds of discomfort being cast aside.

In a matter of seconds, your hands return to your breast, cupping them like Jimin usually does. 

Your fingers run over your nipples again, and you feel a tingle run down your spine. As you tug and pinch your nipples, you imagine it’s Jimin doing it. 

The way he would lick your perked buds, occasionally giving them a light bite has your walls clenching around nothing. 

You moan, thinking about the pleasure Jimin usually delivers to you with his plush and wet tongue. 

One of your hands leaves your breast to travel down to your throbbing naked pussy. 

Spreading your legs, you find your clit and give it a few rubs. 

Your fingers glide easily, as your clit is covered in your earlier orgasm. Your fingers travel down to your folds, opening yourself up more. 

Sticking one of your fingers into your warm cunt is easy with the insane amount of arousal pooled there. 

You groan in pleasure, as you stick another finger into your clenching hole. 

Rolling your hips, you begin to fuck yourself as your other hand is pinching and tugging a nipple. 

Once more, a hazy fog blankets your thoughts, veiling your mental landscape in a disorienting mist. 

In this moment, your deepest wish unfurls - a longing for Jimin’s presence, his soothing touch, the steady rhythm of his breath and the unfaltering warmth of his embrace to tether you amidst the turbulence of your body’s rebellion. 

The feeble attempt you make to alleviate your distress pales in comparison to the soothing magic that Jimin's touch possesses. It's a stark reminder of the chasm between your efforts and his unparalleled comfort. 

Nonetheless, in this interim of absence, your makeshift remedy will have to suffice, bridging the gap between your yearning for relief and the eventual embrace of his return.

You think about Jimin fucking you with his thick cock, stretching your pussy deliciously. 

Hitting your g-spot, and thrusting into you with fervor, while his balls hit your folds. The imagination, a force as potent as it is relentless, takes hold of you with unyielding fervor, reducing the barriers between reality and desire to mere dust. 

In its wake, you sense the foundations of your resolve begin to erode, like cliffs succumbing to the relentless assault of waves. 

Squelching sounds fill the room, as you finger yourself frantically, searching for another release. 

A palpable tension simmers, coiling like a slumbering tempest just beneath the fragile surface of your composure and when the image of Jimin fucking you gets too much, you moan loudly as another orgasm coats your walls. 

Your chest rises and falls in desperate rhythms, each breath a struggle as you labor to coax your body into a state of surrender.

A gnawing sense of insufficiency takes root, an undeniable truth that settles like an ache in the core of your being. 

Compelled to fill this void, you reach for your laptop, your fingers dancing across the keyboard to unearth a video - a cherished artifact of you and Jimin. 

As the footage unfolds before you, you stick your fingers into your already drenched pussy again. 

As the symphony of sounds spills forth, a captivating crescendo that weaves through the air, your gaze becomes ensnared by the screen's luminous embrace, you fuck yourself again, while you rub your clit with your other hand.

“Ah, Y/N, you’re so tight! You’re taking me so well.” Jimin's voice pours forth, a mellifluous cascade that saturates the room, its dulcet tones mingling with the very air you breathe, a sweet intoxication that leaves you hovering on the edge of delirium, rolling your eyes while you search for yet another release. 

You add another finger into your throbbing pussy as the screen shows Jimin fucking you from behind. 

A moan leaves your lips, mixing with squelching sounds from your pussy and the obscene sounds from the laptop.

“This pussy was made for me, ah.” video Jimin says followed with a slap to your ass. 

Your pussy clenches around your fingers. Your clit is throbbing with your fast rubbing on it and you insert another finger into your cunt, finally feeling a small stretch. 

You feel your orgasm approaching rapidly, with the images of your home made porn playing before your hooded eyes unraveling you.

“Fuck! I’m coming!” and then you’re orgasming to the sound and visual of Jimin releasing inside your warm and spent pussy. 

Your body throbs with a weary cadence, each pulse echoing the exhaustion that courses through you, leaving you feeling spent, both physically and emotionally. 

The discomfort intensifies, a relentless reminder of your sticky, sweat-slicked state that clings to you like an unwelcome second skin, refusing to relent. 

You draw in ragged breaths, your lungs yearning for air as you hastily halt the video's playback, the sudden cessation of sound echoing the turbulence within your chest.

Tired, you envelop yourself in the gentle glow of the screen, as you dive into another episode of your treasured TV series. You lay in your bed, naked, with only the covers draping your legs. 

The door’s soft creak heralds Jimin’s return, his presence a soothing balm to the quietude that has wrapped itself around you. 

As his eyes fall upon your prone form nestled within the sheets, his gaze deepens with understanding - silent communication that transcends words. 

Without a syllable spoken, he knows about your illness.

A gentle smile dances at the corners of his lips, a mixture of concern and affection that paints his features. His voice, warm and tender, breaks the silence, the words like a soft caress against your weary senses. 

“How many, baby?” 

The question hangs in the air, laden with a delicate balance of worry and steadfast promise that he’s here to shoulder the burden of your discomfort alongside you.

With the mere entrance of Jimin's presence, a subtle electric current courses down the length of your spine, a tingling sensation that dances between the realms of anticipation and recognition, as you rub your thighs together and bite your lip, “Three.”

A gentle chuckle escapes from his plush lips, a melodic sound that unfurls like a whisper of warmth, as he strides toward the bed and eases down beside you, his presence a soothing balm to your discomfort.

“You know it’s a vital part of my self-care ritual whenever fever pays me a visit,” you protest, your lips pursing in a playful pout that hints at a mixture of defiance and endearing vulnerability.

“Yeah, I know about your fever horniness,” his laughter erupts with a resonant force, a vibrant symphony that reverberates through his entire being, yet his approach is marked by a smirk that dances across his lips, an alluring blend of amusement and intention.

“What do you need, baby?” 

His finger traces a tantalizing path over the sensitive expanse of your ass and thighs, each touch akin to a lightning bolt of sensation that ignites a perilous shiver, sending a cascade of exhilaration down the length of your spine. In its wake, a fresh wave of desire surges, pooling on your pussy.

A gulp tightens your throat, a visible testament to the sudden intensity of the moment, while your breath catches in your chest, a gasp that hangs in the charged air like an unspoken invitation, “Your dick and your tongue.”

“Hmmm, I don’t know,” a playful smirk graces his lips, a mischievous expression that hints at a secret understanding, as his touch traces a tantalizing path along the contours of your waist as he feels his dick throb with want.

“You started without me,” he utters the words in a mock pout, his tone a blend of teasing and longing, as his fingers dip down to your pussy with deliberate intent, trailing a path that ignites a symphony of sensations. 

You raise your hips in search of more of his touch.

“I’m sorry. But I couldn’t wait…” A frustrated whimper escapes your lips, a raw sound that encapsulates the intensity of your desires and the ache for more. 

You just want to get off again.

“I know, baby. You probably did so good by yourself, huh?” 

His gaze drinks in the contours of your naked form, an appreciative hunger that's palpable, causing goosebumps to rise like a symphony across the landscape of your skin.

“Not as good as when you touch me. I need your touch, Jimin.” 

In a voice etched with ragged urgency, you plead, the words a raw testament to the overwhelming desire that courses through you, while your lustful eyes blink rapidly, revealing the depth of your need.

He seizes a generous handful of your ass, an electrifying touch that sends shockwaves of pleasure reverberating through your being. In response, you groan, your very essence melting under the mastery of his hands, reduced to pliable putty that he molds with deliberate expertise.

You open your legs invitingly, showing him your glistening pussy, “Won’t you come taste me?”

A teasing flick of his tongue moistens his lips, a gesture loaded with an unspoken promise, as he inches closer to you, his presence a tantalizing magnetism that sends anticipation crackling through the air. 

His form hovers over yours, a suspended moment pregnant with the weight of desire and the thrill of what's to come.

“Since you asked so nicely.” 

In a voice dipped in seductive tones, he murmurs the words, a sultry invitation that hangs in the charged space between you, as he positions himself on his knees. 

The fabric of his shirt yields to his skilled fingers, sliding off his form in a fluid motion that reveals the sculpted contours of his body, each movement a declaration of intent. His bare chest emerges into view, an arresting sight that captures your gaze and holds it captive, a canvas painted with the contours of his sculpted form. 

Your eyes trace the lines of his delicious abs, his ‘Nevermind’ tattoo, a visual feast that leaves you with an insatiable hunger, and your fingers, guided by a magnetic pull, begin to explore his torso with a reverent touch.

He leans in with a calculated grace, his intent clear in the intensity of his gaze, as both of his hands find the curves of your breasts, his palms cupping them with a touch that conveys possession and longing. 

A moan of pleasure escapes your lips, a raw sound that encapsulates the exquisite sensation that courses through you, as his hands remain a source of warmth on your fevered form, a stark contrast that heightens the sensory journey. 

An involuntary surge of sensation propels your body, causing your back to arch with a fervent response, an unspoken invitation for more of his touch, as he begins to roll your nipples. 

He leans his head down, giving a nipple a quick lick before he captures it in his warm mouth. He sucks lightly at first, while he pinches your other nipple.

The melodic cadence of your sounds forms an intoxicating symphony, an improvised composition that resonates in the charged air, while a surge of arousal courses through you, electrifying your senses and heightening the fervor of the moment.

One of Jimin's hands embarks on an exploratory journey down the landscape of your body, a purposeful exploration that leads to your pussy, where his touch transforms into an unyielding grasp, squeezing your clit with a deliberate force that ignites a symphony of pleasure-pain.

You release a crescendo of uninhibited sounds, each one a testament to the exquisite sensitivity that courses through you, a maelstrom of sensations amplified by the presence of your already three orgasms.

His fingers, a skillful symphony of touch, bestow a few tantalizing rubs to your clit, a prelude to the main act that follows. 

With deliberate intent, he slides a finger into the depths of your wet pussy, each movement a rapturous dance that sends shockwaves of pleasure through your every nerve ending.

“So wet,” a chuckle, laced with both amusement and desire, escapes his lips, the room now painted with an intimate soundscape as the squelching echoes through the air. 

His single finger, a masterful conductor of sensations, explores the depths of your being, each thrust a declaration of intent that creates a symphony of pleasure only the two of you share.

He returns to his skilled ministrations sucking on one of your nipples, a sensation that unfurls like a velvet caress, while his other hand continues its purposeful exploration, working to fuck you open with a deliberate determination that merges pleasure with a heady sense of anticipation.

A surge of urgency courses through you, compelling your hips to roll with a fervent rhythm, an instinctive dance that strives to align with his thrust, seeking a nexus where desire and connection intertwine in a symphony of shared pleasure.

He skillfully introduces a second finger into the equation, his touch an intricate dance that navigates the canvas of your pussy with purposeful intent. 

His quest becomes a search for the elusive spot that ignites a cascade of sensations, a treasure trove of pleasure concealed within the intricate pathways of your body.

Your breaths escape in ragged bursts, a symphony of urgency that fills the air, each inhalation a desperate attempt to quench the growing fire within. 

As your chest heaves, you huff for air, the oxygen a lifeline that barely keeps pace with the tumultuous pace of your desires, all while a knot of anticipation tightens in the pit of your stomach, a tangible reminder of the impending climax.

A third finger joins the symphony of sensation, a deliberate intrusion that causes your pussy to clench around him, an involuntary reaction that amplifies the intensity of the moment. 

The palpable tightness he encounters tells him that you're teetering on the precipice of release, a knowledge that fuels his own desire.

With the dexterity born of desire, his free hand embarks on an exploratory journey, seeking out your other breast with a determined touch. 

His fingers dance with a skilled grace, deftly rolling its nipple, each movement a calculated rhythm that weaves an intoxicating tapestry of sensations, a tactile duet that resonates through your being.

“It’s so good, Jimin!” a gasp, unfiltered and primal, escapes your lips, the sound a testament to the exquisite pleasure that courses through you, as you endeavor to arch your back, an instinctual response that seeks to press your body into the electrifying path of his touch.

A low, reverberating hum escapes his lips, a resonant vibration that sends ripples of pleasure through your breast, the intimate connection between his mouth and your body forging a sensory bridge that defies words. 

Meanwhile, his fingers continue their masterful dance, striking your elusive spot with a relentless rhythm that sets your senses ablaze with each deliberate touch.

You feel it coursing through your body like a surge of electric intensity, each nerve ending awakening in a symphony of sensation. 

Your toes curl involuntarily, a physical manifestation of the overwhelming pleasure that radiates from within. 

Your hands seize Jimin's hips with a fervent grip, an anchor in the tempest of ecstasy as you succumb to the cascade of release, a moan escaping your lips like a melody, a reverberating chord that sounds eerily like his name.

You pant, your breath a delirious cadence that echoes the crescendo of sensations that have washed over you. 

Your body basks in the radiant afterglow of a fourth orgasm, a testament to the heights of pleasure scaled throughout the day, each peak and valley etched into your memory like an intricate map of desire.

Jimin's gaze rests upon you, his eyes hooded with a potent blend of desire and satisfaction, a witness to the tableau of your body's unraveling beneath the skilled ministrations of his hands and mouth. 

In this intimate exchange, unspoken understanding flows between you, a language woven from shared pleasure and the unbreakable bond you share. 

The depth of his affection knows no bounds, a love that transcends the ordinary and propels him to the edges of devotion. For you, he's willing to traverse any distance, cross any threshold, and brave any challenge. 

His heart beats in harmony with yours, a melody of adoration that echoes through the moments you share, an unwavering testament to the lengths he'll go to ensure your happiness and well-being.

He rises onto his knees with an irresistible allure, shedding the confines of his pants and boxers in a fluid motion that unveils his already hardened dick. 

The air seems to crackle with anticipation, the atmosphere thickening as his form becomes a portrait of primal need and unabashed vulnerability.

Your tongue darts out, an instinctual gesture that moistens your lips in a silent anticipation that hangs in the charged space between you, a silent agreement forged by desire. 

“Gawd. It’s so beautiful.” 

You say, the words a sultry whisper that hangs in the air like a secret promise, a declaration of intent that sets the stage for what's to come. 

Your hand reaches out, fingers wrapping around his cock with a teasing touch, each stroke a deliberate dance that fuels the fire of desire between you.

Jimin's chuckle, a featherlight sound that dances through the charged atmosphere, becomes an auditory caress that sends shivers down your spine. 

His form hovers over you, a poised predator basking in the thrill of the chase, the air practically crackling with the intensity of his presence.

"What do you crave now, baby?" he murmurs in a voice saturated with a potent blend of desire and longing, a low timbre that wraps around the words like a silken caress, igniting a spark of anticipation in the air.

“I want to be ravished,” your hips engage in a rhythmic dance, a deliberate movement that aligns with the symphony of sensations cascading through you, while the telltale sensation of sweat prickling down your forehead adds a tactile layer to the sensory landscape, a physical manifestation of the fevered desire coursing through your veins.

“I want to cream your dick,” you breathe, the exhalation a fragile bridge between reality and reverie, as the haze of desire blankets your thoughts in a seductive shroud. 

In response, a hiss escapes Jimin's lips, a sound that teeters on the edge of restraint, a symphony of shared yearning that hangs heavy in the charged air.

“I want you to come in my pussy.” You tease, the words a playful invitation that resonates with the promise of shared pleasure, your voice a delicate melody that dances through the charged atmosphere. 

Your hands find purchase on his thighs, fingers squeezing with an artful pressure that ignites a symphony of sensation, a tactile duet that harmonizes with the unspoken desires that course between you.

Jimin's hiss echoes once more, a sound that reverberates like a whispered plea amidst the charged tension, as if his very being is ensnared within a cloud of desire and longing. 

His dick, a pulsating ache that demands attention, throbs with an insistent rhythm, a relentless reminder of the friction and release that his body craves, a symphony of need that courses through his veins.

With a firm resolve that belies the intensity of his desire, he seizes his dick in a purposeful grip, aligning it with your pussy. 

The air seems to hold its breath, a suspended moment pregnant with anticipation, the magnetic pull between your bodies poised to culminate in an explosion of shared ecstasy.

Before he gives in to the tempest of desire that surges between you, a primal force that demands satisfaction, he seizes a pillow with a thoughtfulness that speaks volumes. 

With a gentle nudge, he situates it beneath your head, a gesture that adds a layer of comfort to the impending intimacy, a reminder that amidst the flames of passion, he's attuned to your every need.

Then, in a languid dance that seems to stretch time itself, he eases into you with a deliberate slowness, his cock head parting your folds in a teasing, torturous symphony of sensation. The exquisite friction becomes a dance of pleasure and anticipation, a measured cadence that ignites every nerve ending along the way, as he navigates the delicate balance between fervor and restraint.

His dick glides into you effortlessly, aided by the slickness that envelops him, a liquid promise of pleasure that makes every inch of his entry a journey of shared ecstasy. 

As he becomes one with you, your walls embrace him with a tantalizing grip, a response that reflects the profound connection between your bodies, a fusion of desire and intimacy that transcends mere physicality.

“Ah, you’re still so tight,” 

He releases a breath he didn't even realize he was holding, a sound that escapes in a mixture of relief and surrender, as he reaches the depths of your being, a tangible joining that renders him fully immersed in the euphoria of the moment.

You savor the overwhelming fullness that finally envelops you, a sensation that satiates the craving that has persisted throughout the day. 

It's the culmination of a desire that's been building, being filled to the brim with the thickness of Jimin's dick, a union that ignites a shiver coursing down your spine, electrifying every nerve ending. As the moment unfolds, he initiates a slow retreat, a movement that draws you both through a symphony of sensations, a dance that echoes the intimacy of your connection.

He surges forward once more, a determined movement that drives him to the very hilt, his relentless desire mirrored in each of his swift thrusts. 

With a masterful touch, he discovers your hidden spot in mere moments, a revelation that sends shockwaves of pleasure through you, the intensity of the sensation causing your vision to blur as the world momentarily fades, overtaken by the overwhelming cascade of ecstasy.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he pants, the rhythm of his breath a synchrony with the fervent pace at which he fucks you, his grip on your hips an anchor that thethers you to the reality of the moment. 

His dick plunges into you with an unyielding force, a declaration of possession that melds raw passion with an unspoken promise of unity. 

He artfully guides one of your legs up, positioning it against his torso in a deliberate display of intimacy, your foot finding purchase against his neck in a sensual image. 

With this angle, he plunges into you with a newfound depth, each thrust a revelation of pleasure that leaves you breathless, the arrangement of your bodies a testament to the choreography of desire that unfolds between you.

“Ah! Jimin!” you release a breathless moan, a symphony of pleasure and vulnerability that dances on the edge of bliss, a melody woven from the rawest depths of your desire.

“I’m so fucking close,” you pant with each measured breath, caught in the intoxicating rhythm of his thrusts, a symphony of desire that leaves you gasping for air between each electrifying connection.

One of his hands embarks on a deliberate exploration, seeking out your swollen clit with an intent that radiates through his touch. The glide of his thumb becomes a source of intoxicating sensation, igniting a cascade of pleasure that courses through your body.

“Ah!” a breathless cry escapes your lips, the sound a mixture of surprise and ecstasy as the sensations wash over you, while your body responds with an instinctual arch, a graceful curve that seeks to amplify the pleasure within the constraints of the position. 

“Fuck!” the word bursts forth, nearly a scream but instead a fervent exclamation, a testament to the overwhelming pleasure that courses through you. 

Simultaneously, Jimin's fingers continue their skilled dance, maintaining a tantalizing rhythm on your clit, while his dick delivers deep and forceful thrusts that threaten to unravel your senses entirely. 

With a primal scream that carries his name on its wings, your release squirts forth in a torrent, an explosion of sensation that engulfs his dick and fingers. 

The world around you dissolves into a white-hot haze, your vision momentarily obliterated by the intensity of the moment, as you pant in a frantic rhythm, each breath a lifeline that stitches you back to the reality of the room. 

The culmination of pleasure leaves you suspended in a euphoric liminality, every nerve ending aflame with the afterglow of ecstasy.

“Fuck!” Jimin's hiss reverberates in the charged air, a testament to the exquisite sensation that courses through him as your walls clamp around him, an embrace so tight that it borders on suffocating intensity. 

As the waves of your orgasm surge through you, a tempest of sensation that engulfs your being, his thrusts mirror the tumultuous rhythm of your release. 

Each movement becomes a study in controlled chaos, his own desire reaching a crescendo as he hurtles towards his own climax. 

“Ah! I’m coming, babe!” he pants with a rhythm that mirrors the frenzy of his desire, each breath a tangible testament to the passion that courses through him. 

With a final, hard thrust, he stills within you, his essence flooding your depths in a torrent of warm cum that paints your walls with an intimate declaration of shared intimacy. 

He surges forward, a final thrust that extends the boundaries of pleasure, his movements a testament to his need to savor every last fragment of the climax he rides out. 

The rhythm becomes a reflection of his own ecstasy, each thrust a stroke of intimacy that weaves a tapestry of shared release between your bodies, a culmination that leaves you both suspended in the aftermath of pleasure.

Despite the sheen of sweat that adorns your skin and the fever that courses through your veins, an urgent need propels you to draw him close, your arms enveloping his form in an embrace that defies the constraints of physical discomfort. 

Your body radiates heat, a testament to the fever's grip, yet the desire to feel his heartbeat against your own is a force that eclipses all else. 

“It’s hardly fair,” you remark with a playful huff, a mixture of exasperation and laughter tingling your words, “that you’re not even breaking a sweat.” 

The words carry a lightness that dances amidst the weight of your fevered state, the exchange a testament to the shared intimacy that allows for such candid moments even in the midst of vulnerability.

“I guess I’ve got better stamina, sweetheart,” he chuckles, the sound a gentle ripple that lingers in the air, even as his dick goes soft within the warmth of your pussy. 

With a tenderness that belies the intensity that has passed between you, he seals the moment with a sweet kiss pressed to your lips, a lingering connection that speaks of the intimacy shared and the unbreakable bond that defines your connection.

A blend of his cum and your own arousal trickles from your heated core, a physical reminder of the fervent exchange that has unfolded between you. 

He withdraws from you completely, a deliberate movement that creates a sudden void, a palpable absence that contrasts with the intensity of moments prior. 

Slumping down beside you, his breaths come in ragged pants, each exhalation a testament to the exertion of shared pleasure. 

The space between your bodies becomes a canvas that captures the echoes of your intimate dance, an image of vulnerability and release that lingers in the air like a whisper.

A sense of emptiness washes over you, an aftermath of the profound connection that has left a void in its wake. Your lips form a subtle pout, a silent plea that rests in the curve of your expression, a wordless request for the closeness and intimacy that you yearn to preserve. 

“Oh, I know that look,” he chuckles softly, the sound a warm caress that mingles with the air, as his hand sweeps through his blond hair. 

The knowing amusement in his eyes speaks of an unspoken understanding between you, a connection forged through countless shared moments, a familiarity that transcends words.

Beside him, you shift restlessly, a subtle squirm that speaks volumes about the growing hunger within you. 

Your thighs press together with a desperate urgency, a physical manifestation of the insatiable desire that has rekindled within your core. 

The air seems to crackle with anticipation, the atmosphere electrified by the magnetic pull between your bodies, a force that threatens to engulf you both once again in the flames of shared longing.

“Just give me an hour or two, then we can go again,” he chuckles softly, the sound a tender reassurance that carries within it a promise of more to come. 

His lips nuzzle against the delicate curve of your neck, a gesture that's both affectionate and possessive, the fervor of his kisses an echo of the passion that simmers between you. The intensity of his touch leaves a mark, a phantom sensation that lingers even after his lips have moved away, a tangible reminder of the connection that binds you together.

Author’s note: I get incredibly horny when I have a fever, so this idea popped into my head 😇 My husband calls it “fever horny” 🤣 I’m so sorry, am I the only who’s like this? 🫢

[rosanna-writer]

Love at First Sight's for Suckers (1/5)

Summary: [A Feysand Newsies AU] Rhysand had a reputation. A big reputation. But fortunately for Feyre, a newsie selling papers on the streets of Velaris, tabloid gossip about the handsome, charismatic, hard-partying war-hero of a High Lord's heir means business is booming. That is, until the city's newspaper magnates get greedy, Feyre finds herself an unwitting labor leader at the center of a strike, and Rhys becomes an unexpected ally... Warnings: None

A gift for @the-lonelybarricade, for @acotargiftexchange! @lbs-secret-santa is me!

LB, creating this for you has been such a blast, and I am definitely the luckiest secret santa in the world to have such a gem of a giftee. It's rare for someone to have both a talent AND a heart as big as yours—you're truly the High Lady of Feysand, not just because your fics are incredible, but because of the way you make new writers (including me earlier this year) feel immediately welcome and how you handle fandom nonsense with such grace and tact. I'm so glad to call you a friend <3

And sorry for an author's note that reads like an annoying award show speech, but there are SO MANY people I want to thank. The event organizers did such a thoughtful job creating an event that brought so many people together across the fandom; not just secret santa/giftee pairs, but people reaching out to new betas, roping new friends into secrecy shenanigans, and getting hyped about other gifts! @iambutmortal, @thesistersarcheron, @itsthedoodle, @wilde-knight, and @ablogofsapphicpanic have been the best betas/saucy Rhys pun brainstormers/secret keepers/DM screaming session partners, and the daily headlines would not have happened without their beautiful brains. I had SO MUCH FUN watching the excitement and creative energy grow and grow in the lead up to this reveal. And also @reverie-tales, thanks for being my unwitting cover to throw LB off my trail!

Anyway, you can find the first chapter Here on AO3 or under the readmore. Happy Holidays!

One Heir to Share? Rhysand's Rita's Threesome

Baring it All at Starfall! Rhysand Stuns in Daring Deep-V Shirt

Rhysand's Baby Blues: Heir's Latest Fling Spotted Shopping for Baby Clothes

Future High Lord’s High: Witchberries, Fae Wine, and Wild Starfall Benders in the House of Wind?

Lady of the Night or FUTURE Lady of Night? Rhysand's Girlfriend Shocks Royal Family at Nynsar

Un-Rhys-onable: Night's Heir Refuses to Kneel to High Lord

Heir Head! Rhysand Forgets Alphabet During Library Community Service

Rhysand had a reputation.

A big reputation.

Perhaps that was why after selling him the newspaper every day for the better part of a year, Feyre Archeron had long since decided that he was far too full of himself to be ashamed of anything.

As he did every Saturday morning, Rhys appeared on her corner like clockwork, wearing last night's clothes and his trademark smirk. If Feyre wanted to know what lucky male or female had gone home on his arm, she'd only have to check tomorrow's society pages, which were always breathlessly detailing the exploits of the Night Court's handsome, charismatic, hard-partying war-hero of a High Lord's heir.

Not that Feyre cared. There were more important things to worry about than Rhysand's love life, like where her next meal was coming from. She only kept up with it because his scandals sold papers like nothing else.

And she definitely didn't feel a stab of envy every time she read about his latest fling. That would be pointless—a lesser fae shadow-wraith like Feyre would never be Lady of the Night Court. The stir Rhys's Illyrian mother had caused made that obvious enough, even if she was the High Lord's mate.

"Good morning, Feyre darling," Rhysand drawled, the way he always greeted her.

"It's noon, Rhys," Feyre said. The nickname might have been overly familiar, but Feyre had noticed his eyes glittered like stars whenever she used it with him. And besides, after being up since dawn, she wasn't inclined to fall over herself currying favor with someone who'd just rolled out of bed.

"Then let me be the first to tell you that you look delicious this afternoon."

Feyre rolled her eyes, positive she looked the farthest thing from delicious in her threadbare leggings and sweater. If it were anyone but Rhys, she would have been sure they were being cruel. But he had enough of her goodwill that he could pay her teasing compliments and not end up with his teeth bashed in for his trouble.

"Did you give them anything interesting to write about last night?" she said, leaning back against a streetlight and crossing her arms over her chest.

Rhys picked at an invisible piece of lint on his tunic, which almost had Feyre rolling her eyes a second time. Despite being in last night's clothes, he didn't look the least bit disheveled—probably some spell he'd cast to ensure he looked irritatingly perfect as always.

"Mor needed a wingman again," he said.

Feyre relaxed, relieved at his answer. Rhys's equally beautiful cousin was the subject of plenty of headlines of her own, and the two were frequently seen together. The people of Velaris were fascinated by the pretty blonde former Hewn City princess–when the Herald ran a story about her, Feyre just had to shout "Morrigan" to turn heads and make sales. If the lead story was about her, Feyre could probably afford to eat tomorrow.

It had been a while, though, since Rhys had been spotted with someone new on his arm. Or with anyone other than Morrigan, his sister, or the two Illyrians he called his brothers actually. Feyre had rolled her eyes at the rumors of a secret relationship or a hidden love child—if you asked her, the most likely explanation was that there were only so many attractive people in Velaris with a weakness for violet eyes. Rhys was bound to run out of people to fuck eventually.

"Is that the truth?" Feyre said, a teasing smile playing on her lips. "Or did you actually find someone to settle down with?"

She'd meant it as a joke, but Rhys didn't smile. There was something hungry, almost predatory, in the way his gaze slid over her. Feyre found herself flushing, even as she stared right back. "Would you care if I did?" he said.

It felt like a challenge; Feyre lifted her chin. "Of course I'd care if you stopped causing scandals. I'm a newsie, and gossip sells papers."

"Of course," Rhys said, something in his expression seeming to shutter. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a gold coin, handing it to her. The value was far more than a single paper was worth, but he'd always insisted she keep the change.

Feyre pulled a paper from the bag slung over her shoulder and handed it to him, longways so there was no chance their fingers would touch. She'd let that happen once, and his fingertips brushing hers had sent a crackle of electricity along her skin that she'd been thinking about ever since. Her mind replayed it almost daily—and frankly, Feyre found that embarrassing.

She pocketed the coin. "Pleasure doing business with you."

When Rhys spoke again, he dropped his voice to a low, sensual purr that sent shivers skittering down Feyre's spine, heat washing over her despite the autumn chill that cut through her tattered clothes. " Everything is a pleasure when it comes to you, Feyre."

He flashed her one last feline smile, and Feyre tipped her cap as he winnowed away, trying not to blush. With her other hand, she fingered the coin in her pocket. It would go under the floorboard with the rest of the ones she'd stashed away. Only a few more until she could afford the one-way ticket to the Continent that she'd been dreaming of.

Velaris was wonderful— if you could afford a big, strong door to lock out the hustle and bustle. Feyre certainly couldn't, and she was dying to get away.

A flash of auburn hair and a shout of "High Lady!" across the street pulled Feyre from her thoughts. Lucien was striding towards her, a half-empty satchel of newspapers slung over one shoulder and carrying another paper bag in his hand. She raised a hand in greeting—she'd stopped cringing at the nickname a long time ago.

"Is the new spot over by the docks working out for you?" she said when he got closer, even though she knew the answer. Lucien could sell papers anywhere; he didn't even need the eyepatch and the sob story about being an Autumn Court orphan who'd found his way to Night—just his brilliant smile was enough.

Lucien shrugged, the gesture far too elegant for someone who'd spent his morning selling newspapers to sailors and fishmongers. "I can make anything work."

"Then why did you come looking for me?" Feyre said. With unsold papers still in his bag, there had to be a reason. The newsies bought the papers from the distributor each morning, starting each day operating at a loss until they'd sold enough papers to recoup the cost. Lucien still had work to do if he wanted to turn a profit.

He pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. "Isn't gazing upon your beautiful face reason enough?"

"You sound like Rhysand."

"And you're saying that like it's a bad thing. Trouble in paradise?"

Feyre resisted the urge to roll up one of the papers in her own bag and smack him with it. Lucien had overheard her speaking to Rhysand once and apparently decided the prince was in love with her. Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous.

"Rhysand isn't—"

" By the Cauldron, he'd follow you around like a lost puppy if you'd let him."

"He's just a flirt," Feyre said, the edge to her voice making it clear she didn't want to talk about this anymore. "What did you need me for?"

"Someone needs to finish my pickles," Lucien said, pulling a sandwich out of the paper bag. He handed Feyre half, along with the entire side of pickles it had come with, then sat down on the curb to eat, stretching his long legs out in front of him.

Feyre nibbled on the pickle, the first thing she'd eaten all day, and thanked the Cauldron for a best friend who hated them and shared them with her. Putting her papers aside, she sat down next to him. "Thanks, Lucien," she said, unwrapping her half of the sandwich. Lunch would be on her next—that had been their unspoken agreement for years, even when meals were sporadic and infrequent.

They lapsed into silence, more intent on eating than talking. It was comfortable, a much needed rest after a morning spent shouting headlines at passersby. Feyre's feet already ached from standing all morning.

After a few minutes, Lucien balled up the now-empty wax paper. "Now that you're fed, I think it's safe to mention that you're needed over by the Rainbow."

"Again?" Feyre said with a sigh.

"Bron and Hart are fighting over the same spot. The High Lady should step in."

Feyre wasn't sure when exactly it had happened, but at some point, she'd found herself the unofficial leader of the newsies of Velaris. She'd always kept an eye out for newcomers and lended them a hand—advice on selling papers and navigating the city was all she had, but Feyre shared freely. When there was a problem, she was usually the one to resolve it.

At some point, "High Lady" had gone from an ironic nickname for a poor girl on the streets to a mark of respect for a young woman who took care of her own.

"I'll talk to them," Feyre said, finishing her food and standing up.

Lucien started to thank her, but Feyre had already called on her magic, her body becoming nothing but shadow. Incorporeal like this, she could slip through walls and travel unseen—and crucially, it was faster than walking. As a lesser fae, it was the only magic she had at her disposal.

Even in the brightest sun, Velaris was full of shadows. And for better or worse, Feyre had made them her home.

***

Rhysand had planned to give himself time to read the news before he was due for a meeting at the House of Wind. Yesterday, he'd told himself he'd be up early enough to look over the agenda ahead of time. He'd wanted to be prepared, and his father would have his head if Rhys was late for official court business again.

But somehow, the High Lord's ire seemed incredibly far away last night, when the Cauldron only knew how many drinks he'd had and Mor was dragging him back to the dance floor at Rita's again, and dawn had nearly broken when he'd finally stumbled home.

Late or not, though, he still had to see Feyre.

The most important part of his day had become buying the paper from her. It wasn't about the news and never had been—every day, Rhys hoped that would be the day she finally took an interest in him that went beyond trading a few teasing remarks and rolling her eyes. He'd never flirted so much, so painfully obviously before, just to have it all go ignored like water off a duck's back.

And that had already been going on for a few months before the mating bond snapped.

Their fingers had brushed as she'd handed him the paper. Perhaps that brief touch skin-to-skin had been all it had taken for the urge to claim and taste and scent his mate to hit him with all the force of a brick to the head. Before he'd done something stupid, Rhys had winnowed away without an explanation or a goodbye.

After that, Rhys had resolved not to tell her, at least not until she showed some sort of interest back. But in the months since, he hadn't gotten her to even blush. And even if by some miracle, she did want him that way and accepted the bond, there was no guarantee she wouldn't resent him after a few decades as future Lady of Night. Her indifference was painful enough—Rhys wasn't sure he could withstand her hating him.

For the short flight to the House of Wind, Rhys let the chill in the air clear his head of thoughts of Feyre. He was supposed to focus today. Some of the city's most powerful merchants had asked for a meeting with his father, and as the High Lord's heir, Rhys was expected to be in attendance too.

The meeting room was already full when Rhys walked in, brushing his windswept hair back into place. From the head of the table, his father glared daggers at him.

Rhys ignored it, dropping into the empty seat that had been left for him. "I hope I didn't miss anything interesting."

He kept the smirk plastered on his face, even as his father pushed past his shields to speak mind-to-mind. We'll discuss this later. For now, get through this meeting without embarrassing me further. That's an order.

Rhys made a mental note to let Mor know he'd likely have to cancel their plans to go to the theater that night.

One of the merchants—Rhys had met him before but had forgotten his name—gave him a cold smile and said, "We were just discussing economic policy."

"Carry on, then," Rhys said.

As the meeting droned on, Rhys forced himself to focus, even if the subject matter was painfully dry. One day, he'd be High Lord, and if he wanted to be the sort of ruler the Night Court deserved, one who made things better, he needed to be knowledgeable and willing to listen.

But even then, he wasn't immune to letting his mind wander. At some point, he'd found himself thinking about how the sunlight had brought out the gold in Feyre's hair, when the sound of his name brought him crashing back down to reality.

"…but you'd know all about that, wouldn't you, Rhysand?" one of the merchants was saying, the sneer in his voice obvious.

Rhys felt his father's eyes boring into him, and it was clear this was some sort of test. He was supposed to be handling something, and Rhys didn't want to think about what sort of punishment might be in store for him if he made it obvious he'd stopped paying attention.

"Would I?" Rhys said, arching a brow in a way that he hoped looked imperious.

"With how many headlines you've been the subject of? I think by now you'd know a thing or two about what sells papers. If it weren't for you, we'd have gone under after the War."

Rhys's hands curled into fists under the table as he recalled exactly who this merchant was—Pulitzer, a newspaper magnate, the one who'd been complaining that circulation was down since the Treaty had been signed. Peace, apparently, was boring.

Peace that Rhys had bled for, had nearly died for when he'd been captured by Amarantha's army. Not that any of that mattered when profits were down.

"Then a bit more gratitude is in order," Rhys said, his voice low and deadly and all command, sounding every inch the future High Lord he was. It was so brief that Rhys nearly missed it, but his father's lips quirked up in approval. "If you have a request, I suggest you word it carefully."

It quickly became clear that Pulitzer and the rest of the owners of Velaris's major newspapers had come to grovel. Even if Rhys couldn't bring himself to care, it was true that the Night Court's newspaper industry was bringing in less money since the end of the war. They'd come to petition his father for assistance.

And to Rhys's relief, the High Lord's answer had been a quick and resounding no.

Of course, Rhys knew his father's answer had been more about safeguarding the Night Court's wealth more than anything else. That much was obvious when so many of their citizens were struggling, even in Velaris. It was something that Rhys vowed to change one day.

But Rhys's relief didn't last much longer. His father had told the newspaper moguls to figure it out themselves, and they'd quickly agreed that to fix their bottom line, they'd raise the price for the newsies who bought the papers to distribute each morning.

Newsies who were barely getting by as it was. Newsies who were already going hungry and sleeping outdoors even as the weather got colder. Newsies who'd been orphaned or disabled after the war and couldn't find decent work.

Newsies like his mate, and Rhysand certainly wouldn't stand for that.

[biteofcherry]

🧚🏻‍♀️✨Bippity boppity bow chicka wow oww! You’ve been visited by the Shameless Hoe Fairy, and now you must share a hoe drabble about:

Steve + “Are you trying to hide from me?”

Thank you for sending the Hoe Fairy my way, through all the trials and dangers of time zones 😆💖

Grateful for it, I wrote something slightly longer than a drabble? Oops.

I'm creating a new dark-ish universe here, so brace yourselves.

New World Order

soft dark!Steve Rogers x female reader

summary: After the snap and the breaking of the Avengers the world has turned into a darker place than it already was. Being under Steve Rogers protection should be your beacon of light, right? So why does it sometimes feel as if you're caught in a sticky web?

warnings: semi dystopian universe; soft dark Steve Rogers; manipulation; sprinkle of gaslighting; economical/situational power imbalance; dub-con; smidge of breeding kink; sex (p in v);

word count: 3k

Main Masterlist

A small creak startled you. Your body tensed and jerked, the jars in your arms almost falling to the floor. You held your breath, tightening your hold on the precious cargo.

The sound came from the other room, the one anyone from the compound could’ve walked into, so it shouldn’t scare you. Not when you made sure to cover any tracks leading to this special, secret unit, which you’ve discovered a few days ago. 

Slowly, careful not to make any sound that might alert whoever was roaming out there, you put the jars down on the shelf. One by one. Gently. You kept your breath shallow as you did, keeping your movements to the minimal. Then you stayed still, counting down seconds in your head and listening for any sounds from outside. 

As one minute passed into another, then another, until it was seven minutes, then eight, you began to relax slightly. 

No further sounds, steps, nor voices came. You assumed they were gone, whoever it’s been. 

With a little huff of breath, you turned around. The nose of your boot bumped into the box of supplies you sneaked inside. It made little to no noise, but it was enough for the domino to fall down completely.

Something clanked on the other side of the wall. Then the hidden passage in the wall opened. 

Bright daylight filtered through and the broad, dark silhouette filled nearly the entirety of the doorway. 

You lifted your hand to shield your eyes from the sudden burst of light, letting out a small squeak as you curled inwardly. It took you a mere second to recognize who caught you and while your heart eased at the realisation, there was still a part of you that feared the outcome.

“I was wondering what kind of mouse has been hiding in the walls,” came his soft, deep voice. “Turns out it’s my own little scrapper.” 

Captain Rogers walked in. Despite wearing heavy boots he still managed to move quietly. 

The wall closed automatically after him, leaving the two of you in a small room with light fixtures casting pleasant, but artificial glow from the ceiling. 

“Are you trying to hide from me?” His lips curled in a lopsided smile, but the way he slightly tilted his head made you aware that he wouldn’t like it, if you said yes. 

“Of course not,” you let out a nervous laugh, gripping the edge of the counter behind you. 

“Not from you, Steve.” Nervousness still buzzed inside you, spiking as he neared closer and closer. 

Steve Rogers, Captain America, could be a scary motherfucker, if he wanted to. Usually, however, it was reserved for anyone trying to harm people he protected. Or if his subordinates broke his rules in any way. 

He may not be the golden boy you remembered from the very few, rare press conferences and pap photos from a decade before. Too much has happened, since he was the poster of glorified values the government tried to sell. 

First, they stripped him of the crystal areola they put themselves on him. Named him a fugitive and a traitor, for wanting to protect his best friend and fight for justice. 

His other colleagues have turned away from him, leading to breaking of the Avengers formation, which was supposed to protect the people.

Then, when the ultimate threat appeared, the remaining politicians blamed Steve and the other heroes for being unable to defeat Thanos. Tony Stark never returned. So many others have dispersed into dust. For a few years - as the world around you spiralled into dystopian nightmare - phantom governments have been using Captain America and other Avengers as the arguments for why so many things were failing.

Living became hard. Well, even harder than it used to be. People turned jaded and distrustful, so very few still tried to show each other support. Unable to count on governmental help, people have started forming their own little groups. Little communities that took care of each other, but were very wary of anyone else. 

You met Steve when you shyly walked into one of the support groups he was leading. You’ve seen posters inviting people to the meetings, but for quite a long time you stayed away from them, because Captain America or not, these groups always meant selling your soul in some way. 

Steve lured you in with his patience and soft voice, but was firm in pointing out that if you’d like to take some of the provisions back home, or needed aid, you had to do some labour in return. 

You weren’t opposed to that, but you were wary. Still, you agreed. 

Each task seemed more and more important, or that’s what you told yourself, because with each you’ve somehow gotten to work closer and closer to the Captain himself. 

You worked dutifully, which was something Steve didn’t omit to praise you for on a few occasions. Which perhaps was the reason why he assigned you to a team that so often worked closely with him. 

As much as it filled your chest with warmth, your gut tightened each time he got a little closer.

And he always got closer. 

You always sensed his gaze on you. Felt your heart jumping whenever he grazed his fingers along your arm, in a seemingly innocent, sweet gesture. But there was something about his attention, about Steve himself, that made you feel uneasy.

He was charismatic, but also less lenient. 

Caring, but didn’t give second chances. 

Patient, but often merciless in his decisions. 

He was still Captain America, but bitter and darker. Worn-out and dirty, like his suit, with the trace of a star that used to shine hope to those who saw it. Now that faith trailed with darkness. 

When Steve approached you one evening, as your team was scavenging the territory the Captain and his Avengers have liberated from under the influence of bloodthirsty gangs, you felt that quickened pulse and whispers of self-preservation instinct telling you to be wary.

He said that he noticed you watching him. Which rendered you speechless for a moment. If anything, you always caught him looking your way. 

Did he really think you were the one checking him out? Was it why your gazes met every time?

You stuttered with your response, not quite knowing how to explain yourself. Steve offered you that disarming, comforting smile. He touched your hand. Slipped his fingers between yours, ever so slowly rubbing the pad of his index finger between two of yours. 

Such a small, meaningless gesture, but something about it had your cunt clenching in response, as if he was insinuating he wanted to rub you somewhere else. 

Before you managed to explain the situation, Steve turned the tables on you once again. He leaned in and confessed that he missed intimate touch, as well. That it was understandable and he felt honoured you would give him your attention.

Then he simply walked away, joining Natasha to make further decisions regarding the operation; leaving you dizzy with confusion and conflicting emotions. 

Was he right? Were you subconsciously seeking out his attention? Was your sense of unease in his proximity provoked by your attraction to him?

Because Steve Rogers was a very handsome man. From the soft strands of hair he had grown a little longer, to the way his broad chest tapered into narrow hips and possibly the sexiest ass you’ve ever seen. 

From that moment, the Captain often approached you, smiled at you, and touched you however briefly. The pounding of your heart increased each time, your thoughts still clouded. 

When he caressed your cheek one time, while having just returned all dirtied and splattered with blood from a mission abroad, your breath stuttered. He asked you to help him out with patching some bruises and you didn’t find the strength in you to deny a request from a wounded man. Captain America at that. 

He took you to his quarters. At Steve’s command, the AI closed the door after you. Your fingers trembled as Steve guided you how to unzip and take off his suit (since his shoulder throbbed so hard, he seemingly couldn’t do it himself). 

Steve’s fair skin was indeed marred with bruises and a few cuts, which you cleaned and patched. In response to your breathless “I better leave” after you were done, Steve slid his big hands onto your hips and softly asked you to stay. 

Perhaps it’s been too long since you kissed anyone. Or maybe his grip on you tightened enough for the fear of repercussions freezing you in place. 

With a tiny whimper, you gave in to his demanding lips and wandering hands. Despite your brain screaming at you to run away, your heart rate accelerated with pleasure, quickly drowning out the fear.

Steve had you sinking down on his thick cock right there, while he still sat in the chair and his suit was barely pushed past his hips. He groaned praises at how good you felt; how hot it was to feel your tight cunt stretching around him; how sexy you sounded struggling to take it all.

Even with some of your brain cells fighting against it, your whole body surrendered to Steve and the pleasure he drew out of you over and over again. 

Maybe he was right all along and you were starved for intimate contact. 

Maybe you were choosing to let him take you, so he wouldn’t hurt you or your family in any way. 

Later, as you laid in Steve’s arms, you debated with yourself how good it felt to be held and protected, and that maybe it was worth following Steve’s subtle commands. 

He took you again in the morning. On your side, sliding into your sore pusy from behind. When you hissed that it hurt, Steve slowed down, but didn’t stop. He distracted you by arousing other parts of your body - rolling and pinching your nipples, sliding his fingers between your lips and fucking your moth with them, using his wet digits to rub your clit. 

Both of you returned to your duties afterwards, but in the evening Steve simply wrapped an arm around you and greeted you with a kiss on your temple. Then guided you back to his quarters.

He talked to you about everything, asked about your past, as well simply about your day. 

But not once did he ask, if you wanted to have sex with him. 

As the days passed, the less brave and determined you were to reject him. Especially not after Steve started coming over to your quarters, to meet your parents and play this whole thing, as if you really were a couple.

So if he was this sweet and supportive, why did you still fear displeasing him in any way? 

“I mean I’m not hiding at all.” Your speech quickened slightly, as you explained your actions. “I may have hoped no one would find this spot that quickly. I would tell you about it, I was going to. But first I needed to, um, I wanted to-”

“Easy, honey.” Steve cupped your cheek.

He ran his thumb along your lip, cooing at you softly. 

He didn’t look angry, nor suspicious. Which lessened your worries. 

“So you found one of Tony’s panic rooms.” Steve took a quick look around. “Not many people know about their existence. Not many can find them.”

“It was actually an accident,” you laughed at that, remembering how you stumbled when changing light bulbs in a weird fixture in the main lounge room and instead of breaking the mirror on the wall the pressure of your fall activated sensor in the wall, opening the passage to this room. 

You told Steve the story, watching mirth form crinkles around his eyes. He kissed your forehead softly, before pulling away. Not enough to leave much space between your bodies. 

“And why are you storing provisions here?” He glanced at the jars and cans you stacked on the few shelves. 

“Just in case. We have a storage and everything is rationed generously, but-” your gaze dropped as you mumbled- “somemayhavebeenstolen.”

“What was that?” Steve’s tone chilled and you felt the hair on your nape standing to attention. 

With two fingers, he tilted your chin up. Blue eyes bore into yours, a Captain’s command in them snapped you into obedience without an order falling from his lips. 

“I think I’ve noticed someone sneaking out some portions. Often.” You admitted. “I wanted to make sure we wouldn’t suffer much loss, in case that person continued to steal.”

“Why haven’t you reported it?” Steve frowned, his hold on your chin turning into an unpleasant pinch. 

“Because the person I should report to first, is the one who takes it.” You also tried to convince yourself that maybe Walker simply was giving it away to someone in need. 

“You could’ve told me.” Steve pointed out, his frown deepening in displeasure. 

“But you always talk about the importance of chain of command,” you blurted out.

Which actually surprised Steve. His eyebrows arched up and then his disapproval was shifting into amused satisfaction once again.

“You’re so dutiful, honey.” Steve’s grin made you gulp nervously. 

His gaze slowly trailed down. When it returned to your face there was a possessive glint in the blue irises. A hot jolt stroke down your spine, pooling in your lower belly with heat in preparation for what was to come.

Because even if your lips wanted to part on a pitiful No, you knew Steve would take anyway. And he’d make sure your body was on board with his desires. 

“Why don’t you continue your impeccable service for your Captain, huh?” Steve dragged the zipper of your jacket down. 

It was butter soft brown leather; once belonging to Steve, but since it was too big on you, he graciously encouraged you to cut and sew it, so it fit you better. 

Steve parted the sides of the jacket, exposing your chest. One move was enough to yank down the stretchy top you had underneath. Your breasts spilled out and you clenched your fingers on the edge of the counter, forcing yourself not to cover yourself, even though you felt shy. 

Steve cupped your breasts with his hands; squeezed them and kneaded gently. The coarse fabric of his fingerless gloves provided additional sensation. He rolled one nipple under his thumb; pinched the other. His mouth swallowed each little moan of yours. 

He drew out a whine out of you as he tugged your bottom lip between his teeth, at the same time unzipping your jeans. Steve knelt down to take off one of your shoes and pull your leg free from the pant leg. Enough to have you spread for him as wide as he wanted. 

“Umm-” you swallowed hard as Steve stretched to his full height. 

He was so much bigger than you. So much stronger. Sometimes, when he had you in his arms, it truly made you feel safe. Other times it scared you; made you quickly comply. 

Steve picked you up so easily, sitting you on the narrow counter and standing between your legs. 

“I don’t have any more pills,” you revealed. “Contraceptives, I mean. Bruce said it will take a few weeks for the production to be finished, after that one ingredient turned out to be spoiled.”

Steve met your eyes. He listened to what you were saying, nodding his head intently as you spoke, but still unzipped his suit and freed his cock. 

You couldn’t help it, your gaze flicked down. Seeing it almost daily didn’t diminish the awe of the cock a primal part of your brain declared perfect. Your pussy clenched, growing wetter in preparation for what was inevitable. 

Steve’s hand closed around his girth and he gave a few pumps before guiding the angry-red tip into your hole. 

He slid inside with a groan. Your own choked cry responding. 

When he met slight resistance due to your position, Steve hooked his arms beneath your knees and pulled your legs upwards. Your ass tilted and your upper body angled backwards. It allowed him to sink fully in, until you felt that unpleasant pressure against your cervix and his balls met your buttocks. 

Then, as he bottomed out in your unprotected pussy, Steve regarded your words.

“Slight inconvenience. But we’re skilled in adjusting to new situations and challenges.” He rested his forehead against yours; his voice growing more raspy and breathless. “If fate wants us to have a child, then we will rise to that blessing as well.” 

He rocked his hips into you, his pelvis grazing your clit. You squeaked, bracing your hands on Steve’s shoulders. 

“Fuck, honey.” Steve withdrew a few inches then slowly thrust back in. “Your sweet cunt is so tight and wet for me.” 

It was tight, because he hadn’t prepared you thoroughly - sometimes it was a blessing, because there were other times when Steve was so focused on making you soaked that he turned you into an overstimulated mess. 

Also because his dick was so fucking thick. 

“My perfect pussy. Isn’t it?” Each stroke was a purposeful, unrushed torment, so that you felt those inches penetrating you. Owning you. 

“Y-yes, Steve. It’s yours,” you mewled when he poked your cervix again. 

“It was made to be filled, honey.” Steve’s pace started increasing. “Its purpose is to take my cock and milk every last drop of my cum, until your womb swells with it.”

There were protesting voices in your head, demanding that you shake your head no and that you tell him you didn’t want to get pregnant. But they never made it past the barrier of voices supplying that you always dreamed of having a family and that Steve would take good care of you. 

Even if the objections somehow made it onto your tongue, the moans and cries Steve was eliciting with each thrust and filthy word deformed them into agreement. 

“That’s it, honey. Taking your Captain so well. Going to take all my cum and thank me for it.”

[fizzyxcustard]

Just My Imagination.

Masterlist of fan fiction

Fandom: Spooks

Pairings: Lucas North x Original Female Character (Amy Holland)

Warnings: Undercover agents, angst, insecurity, anxiety.

Word count: 5725

Summary: From the imagine: "Imagine that you are on an operation with Lucas North, where you have to use a cover story that you’re in a relationship. Only Lucas plays the part a little too well."

Comments/Notes: Requested by anon. Requested as Lucas x Amy. THANK YOU. You know how much I love writing about Lucas and Amy. This piece was requested to be a romantic comedy, but I’m so sorry to say that it wound up just being angsty again. 

I hope you like the fic. As always, like, reblog and comment if you enjoy. If you wish to be added to any of my tag lists, let me know.

Operation Greenacre. 

Amy looked back over the folder in front of her, memorising all the information inside. Her name while on this operation was Amanda Reynolds, an office assistant in central London at a family law firm. Recently engaged to boyfriend of two years, Ben Waverley, aka Lucas North, her current operation partner. 

Amy and Lucas had been given keys to a one-bedroom flat where they would act out their pretend lives, hoping to gather more inside information from their next door neighbours, a couple who were potentially funding terrorists through their charity. 

“Are you sure you’re okay to do this?” Lucas asked, hovering at her desk. “If you don’t feel comfortable then tell Harry and we can stand you down.”  

“I don’t want to let anyone down,” Amy sighed, giving him an anxious and embarrassed smile. Next to Jo Portman, Amy was the closest in age to Lucas, so could easily pass off as his fiancée. However, Jo was on another operation. 

Lucas pulled a chair across from the desk opposite and sat down next to Amy. “Look, you’ve never done this before, and it’s kind of going against procedure here and taking a risk. You don’t have to say yes just to please Harry or to impress anyone. Your safety and wellbeing comes first.” 

“But the only other person is Ros.” 

“So?” Lucas asked, raising his eyebrows. “Ros and I have had cover stories before where we’ve been in a relationship. We can easily make it work.” 

Amy looked at Lucas and felt the butterflies flap more viciously in her stomach. The man was gorgeous, and in Amy’s mind her being seen as his fiancée was even more inconceivable than Ros taking the place. Ros Myers had the confidence and grace that Amy didn’t. Amy was of short stature, more curvaceous, with short dark hair and what she considered more ‘plain’ features. While Amy had proven herself as a damn good analyst and office based intel officer, her confidence waned when venturing into new situations, or when in the company of Lucas. 

*

Near the end of Lucas’ shift, he tapped on Harry’s door. 

Harry Pearce, government renowned intelligence officer and senior lead of Section D, raised his head. “Yes, Lucas. Come in.” 

Lucas closed the door behind himself and sat down opposite the middle aged man. “I want to talk to you about Operation Greenacre. I don’t think Amy is ready, Harry. I’ve got a feeling that she’s accepted this to try and prove herself to you.” 

“Is this because you’re concerned about having to watch out for her, or a genuine interest in her safety?” 

“I can’t believe you’d ask me that question,” Lucas scoffed. “I’m worried for her, not me. She’s not ready for field work. Can we just ask Ros to do it?” 

“Lucas, Amy has already agreed to this and your documentation is being processed. I can’t stop this from going ahead, and Ros has, as of this afternoon, been put onto Op Hickory. I trust that you’ll be able to help her; the two of you seem to work well together and there’s something about the way she interacts with you. There’s an ease and a trust I sense.”

“I’m not questioning how we work together. I’ve always got on very well with her.” 

Harry saw a very faint blush hit Lucas’ cheeks, which was quite rare for him. Not much seemed to faze him, but this conversation appeared to be bringing out the very first signs that Lucas may have been holding a secret close to his heart. 

**

Amy woke early the next morning and rolled over to see that it was quarter to five. She had only gotten a couple of hours sleep, sporadic through the night. Her mind was ablaze with all the details of her new life she was about to live. 

Amanda Reynolds. Thirty one years of age. Born in Manchester. Older brother named Thomas. Fiancee of Ben Waverley. A gorgeous man like him wouldn’t ever be interested in someone like me….

The thoughts had trailed off many times, departing from the facts she had to memorise. All she could think about was how appearing engaged to Lucas would seem so far-fetched. She had even looked upon the engagement ring many times, wishing that it was all for real. What an absolutely stupid dream. This woman that she was pretending to be, Amanda Reynolds, had a better life than she had ever had. 

**

At around half seven, after showering, pacing her flat with podcasts playing in her ears, Amy heard her front door buzzer sound. It couldn’t have been the postman, as he normally left all mail in the boxes in the lobby. Deliveries weren’t usually this early. 

Amy clicked the intercom. “Hello?” 

“It’s Lucas.” 

Just his voice was like a wave of pleasurable electricity. It ran down her spine and made her smile. “I’ll let you in.” 

As Amy opened her door, she saw Lucas walking up the hallway. He was dressed in blue jeans and a black shirt, with the top two buttons opened. He held something in his hands. 

“I hope you haven’t had breakfast yet, Aim,” he said softly. 

“I thought we were meeting at nine, at the flat,” Amy said stupidly. 

“I just thought you might like to have a bit of food first and relax a bit.” 

Amy let Lucas into her flat, feeling the familiar flutter of nerves begin to descend. 

“Malcolm has organised the moving van this morning, so a lot of the stuff should be there when we arrive later,” Amy told Lucas, stepping into the kitchen, with him just behind. 

“Come and sit down for a bit and don’t think about the op. Relax and take your mind off it.”

Amy looked down at the brown paper bag on the counter and then back up at Lucas, feeling something in her chest, an ache that she had never quite felt before. Not only was he gorgeous, but kind. He actually saw her, and made her feel like she mattered. Or was this purely to try and help her feel more confident to better the outcome of the op? A method of getting the best out of her. 

“Did you manage to get that sketch completed?” Lucas asked, taking a large bite out of a croissant. 

“Oh, I didn’t think you’d remember that,” Amy said. Only a few days earlier and Amy had been sketching a photo of her nephew at her desk in work. It was a gift that she wanted to give to her sister for her birthday. 

**

By the time that Amy and Lucas had made it to the flat where they would be spending at least the next couple of weeks, Amy felt a little more at ease. The two of them greeted the moving men. 

Every now and again, Amy would catch a glimpse of a shimmer of rainbow colours from the corner of her eye, as the sun caught the diamond on her left hand. 

It all felt natural as Amy and Lucas began putting items away after unpacking boxes. However, it all changed, when a tall red-headed woman came to their open door. She tapped on it and stepped over the threshold and into the living room. “Hello?” 

“It’s okay,” Lucas whispered to Amy as they remained together in the bedroom, still opening boxes. “You’ll be fine. I’ll be with you in a minute.” Then he winked at her, watching as her startled face disappeared out of view. 

“Morning,” Amy said, her face beaming at the sight of the redhead. “I’m guessing you’re a neighbour?” 

“I am. I’m Pamela from next door, at number five. I heard we were getting new neighbours. It’s been so long since anyone has lived here, and I was starting to wonder if they’d ever find tenants.” 

Amy chuckled nervously. “I’m Amanda. My fiancée Ben is still in the bedroom trying to put the bed back together, so he should be out in a bit.”

On cue, just as Amy spoke those last words, Lucas appeared and approached. He curled his arm around Amy’s waist and drew her in against him. “Hi, I’m Ben. I hate moving. It makes me do some DIY which is one of my pet hates.” 

As Lucas spoke, Amy was sure that she could feel Lucas’ fingers moving in an almost circular motion against her waist. She could feel heat rising up her body at the sensation of being in such close proximity of him. 

“Is that a diamond I see?” Pamela asked, her dark eyes growing bright. 

Amy raised her hand to show her new neighbour. “We’ve been engaged about two months now.” 

Lucas pulled Amy that tad closer as she spoke, feeling a deep warmth rise upward and fill him. Without even thinking, he placed a kiss on her temple. Her skin was so soft under his lips and he could smell strawberries, no doubt from her shampoo. 

“You’ll have to come over for dinner tomorrow,” Pamela offered. “We always enjoy hosting dinners for our neighbours. Ted is ever the showman.” 

“That sounds lovely,” Amy said, her voice ever so slightly teetering on the edge of nervousness. She could feel the change in her voice now that Lucas was touching her. 

“I’ll let you both get back to it. I’ll see you around no doubt.” 

As Pamela disappeared into her front door, Amy immediately pulled from Lucas. She turned away from him and dashed away into the kitchen, where she flicked on the kettle for a drink. Her heart was pounding in her chest and she could feel her legs shaking. For a few seconds, she watched out of the window, focusing on the clouds and took a deep breath. 

“Are you okay?” Lucas asked. “You did well, Aim.” 

“Yeah, I’m okay. Just a little flustered, that’s all.” 

**

The rest of the day was fairly lowkey, with Amy and Lucas putting the belongings away, which hopefully wouldn’t be needed for too long. At the briefing, Harry and Lucas had explained that they hoped that the undercover part of the op wouldn’t be any more than two or three weeks. Most of it hinged on Lucas being able to wind his way into Ted Delaney’s trust and gain any hints as to his reasoning and motives for working alongside terrorists. 

At around six there was a sharp knock at the door. 

Lucas opened the door, only to see Ted Delaney in front of him. Positive ID made from all the documentation that had been gathered prior to the undercover portion of the op going live. 

“I’m Ted from next door. Pam told me you’d moved in and that she’d invited you to dinner tomorrow. Thought I’d come over and extend my welcomes to you both.” 

Ted Delany was a man who was easily in his mid-fifties. His greying hair was swept back and oiled, and his grey eyes were piercing. His clothing showed that he had money and position: a well-tailored navy suit and shined shoes. 

“Would you like a drink with us?” Lucas asked. 

“Sure,” Ted said, flashing a broad smile. 

Lucas immediately approached the whiskey and vodka bottles that were neatly placed out on a small table next to a large bookcase. 

Amy could hear faint chatter as she remained in the bedroom. For a second, she stood with her back to the wall, took a deep breath and then exited. 

“Hey, babe,” Lucas said, seeing Amy. ‘Babe’ somehow felt wrong in his mouth, and he hoped that to Delaney the word didn’t come across too alien. “This is Ted from next door.” 

“Ted, this is Amanda. The love of my life and wife-to-be.” 

I think that may be a bit too much, Lucas. Amy mused. 

Amy sat down on the black leather sofa which was opposite a matching armchair, where Ted had perched himself. 

Lucas handed the glass of whiskey to Ted and then placed himself down next to Amy. His hand rested on her thigh, again doing that circular motion with his fingers. He looked at Amy, passing her a glance. “Do you want me to get you anything from the kitchen?” 

“You’re missing out on the good stuff, love,” Ted said with a hearty chuckle and raised his glass in the air. 

“No, I’m fine, thank you,” Amy replied. “I’ve never been able to hand alcohol particularly well. It just doesn’t sit well with me.” 

“I remember when we first met, and she tried to impress me by drinking a couple of pints,” Lucas said. “She’s always tried to impress me when there’s no need to. She’s perfect the way she is.” Lucas, on instinct, squeezed her leg. 

Amy felt a rod of red hot head swarm in her head, as if angry wasps were buzzing there. “I always felt I was out of your league, Ben, you know that.” 

“Pam was always like that with me, too. Some women might seem like they have confidence, but deep down they don’t, and feel they need to be something they’re not. In fact, they’ve always been the apple of your eye from the very beginning.” 

Lucas chuckled. “That’s definitely always been the way with her. She doesn’t see how amazing she is.” 

**

Ted only stayed for approximately twenty minutes, before leaving Amy and Lucas for the night. There was a silence that had grown between them both now, and as Lucas remained in the living room, Amy sat in the kitchen with a mug of tea between her arms, which were resting on the table. 

“Aim, what’s wrong?” Lucas asked, finally following her into the kitchen. “You’ve been quiet since Delaney left. Is it making you uncomfortable?” 

Lucas looked down at the table to see the engagement ring. It was in the centre of the table, not on Amy’s hand where it should have been for the op. 

“I can’t wear it, Lucas,” Amy said softly. “Not when it’s not real. I can’t close the door and still have it on my hand. It’s bad enough having to have you touch me.” 

“Amy…” 

“It doesn’t matter what I think. We see this op through and then go back to the grid and get on with things.” 

**

Lucas lay on the sofa, while Amy had the bed, and thought on her words. It’s bad enough having you touch me. Was she disgusted by him? That very thought made his jaw clench and an ache rise in his chest. That was why she had dashed from him when Pamela had been at their door; Amy found him disgusting and couldn’t stand him touching her. And that touch had been real, so real in Lucas’ mind. To hold Amy next to him had felt like everything was perfect, and nothing was an act. The kiss on her temple...that was all from Lucas’ heart. 

Amy tossed in bed, replaying the events. The way Lucas had touched her, and those words. They seemed to be somehow as though he was telling her, behind a mask of someone else, that…. Of course he wasn’t! 

Lucas is good at his job. He’s done this so many times before and played the part well to get what’s needed for the case and then move on. Nothing is different about this operation whatsoever. It’s just my imagination. 

Being in a different bed meant that Amy couldn’t quite get comfortable in the bed, and would keep peering out of one eye at the clock on the bedside table. The bed was big, enough space for her to roll around, but it reminded her of how isolated she felt. Cut off. Unwanted. 

It was just after four ‘o’ clock and Amy knew she wouldn’t sleep any more that night. It was like the night before, just a couple of hours made up of half hour dozing phases. A dull thump was already starting up behind her eyes. As Amy pulled herself out of bed, she heard the whishing of blood in her ears. 

She staggered out of the room and across the living room, heading for the kitchen. There, on the sofa, sprawled out was Lucas. He was on his back, mouth wide open. The patchwork quilt had fallen off him, so Amy tottered over to him, and placed the quilt back over his sleeping form. He twitched as the quilt touched him, let out a loud snore, and then rolled over. 

Amy made a cup of herbal tea and sat in the kitchen, her eyes stinging and head thumping. It seemed as if Lucas slept easily, not worrying about the operation and certainly not about the tension that had risen between them. Was it only Amy that sensed any kind of tension? She was starting to assume it was. 

By the time it had turned half six, Amy got dressed into a fresh strip of clothing, choosing jeans and a frilled white blouse: the attire of Amanda Reynolds. Amy Holland, MI5 analyst, would have opted for jeans and a rock band T-shirt with a waistcoat, or a bright coloured hoodie. Sophistication wasn’t something that Amy felt she had. 

The streets were fairly quiet and Amy slipped into a café, ordering two bagels and two Americano coffees. Then she walked back to the flat, feeling that she could finally find a sense of peace out in the chilled mid-March air. 

By the time Amy got back to the flat, she walked in to find that Lucas had vacated the sofa. She could hear the splashing of bathwater and an offkey singing voice coming from the bathroom. 

Amy giggled and placed the breakfasts down on the coffee table in the living room, waiting for Lucas to re-appear. 

When he finally made an appearance, Lucas sauntered over to the sofa and sat down, leaving a gap between Amy and himself. 

“I hope you like bagels,” Amy said, giving a smile. “You brought breakfast yesterday so it’s only fair I do so today.” 

***

Amy ventured out the flat after breakfast, deciding to get out of Lucas’ way for a few hours. The cover story was that Amanda and Ben were on annual leave for a week while they moved into their new property. Ben, being the owner of his own accountancy firm, had left the company in the capable hands of his best friend, and co-director, Patrick Lange. If any kind of phone call was needed to or from Patrick, Tariq had been asked to step in and lend his vocal skills. 

First off, Amy sat down in a coffee shop and watched people wander past the window; tourists, residents. Some of them she could tell immediately as residents of London, carrying briefcases or dressed sharp for an upcoming meetings. Tourists tended to walk slower, some with cameras around their necks, and gazed around in excitement and wonder. 

Her phone chimed. Well, Amanda’s phone. It was one of the many iPhones that were kept on the Grid specifically for operations, with disposable SIM cards. 

Ben: Are you sure you’re okay? You didn’t seem yourself this morning. Love you. Xxx

Of course all text messages had be sent in character, in case the devices were ever compromised. No personal devices were allowed. One very basic Nokia 3310 model was kept in order to report back to Harry in case any challenges occurred, and that was in Lucas’ possession. 

Amanda: Yes, I’m fine, sweetie. I’ll be back later.  xx

Sweetie. Acting out this whole made-up scenario was angering Amy. 

Amy continued on walking, disappearing in and out of shops. All of the money she had was in physical cash. No personal credit and debit cards were to be used while on operation. Every aspect of who she really was had been erased. For the next two or three weeks, Amy Holland didn’t exist. When she looked into a mirror, Amanda Reynolds looked back. Amy could imagine the reflection smirking at her, the diamond sparkling so brightly on her left hand, with Ben’s arm wrapped around her. Ben’s steel blue eyes looking back, his nose wrinkled in disgust at the mere sight of Amy. 

Like I’d ever look at you twice.

Back at the flat, Lucas put more items away, concentrating on the kitchenware. However, his mind couldn’t stop spiralling into thoughts of Amy. She was confusing him and it was twisting his gut so tight. Suddenly he got up from the tiled floor, where he had been putting pots and pans into the cupboards, and called her. 

“Amanda?” he asked. 

“Ben,” she replied matter-of-factly. 

“Are you alone?” he asked. 

“No one is directly around me.”

“We need to talk on neutral ground.” 

“Please, no. We can talk when I get back.”

“We have to be careful as we can be compromised, you know that.” 

“I’m on my way back now. We’ll talk more after the dinner. I’ll be back in about half hour.” 

The line then went quiet as Amy terminated the call. 

Lucas sighed in frustration. In all the months that he had known Amy, which was almost a year, he had never known her be so aloof. She was naturally a shier person, but he had never known her react like this. 

Amy got back to the flat within the half hour that she had promised. She stepped into the living room to see Lucas sat on the sofa. The gorgeous bastard looked up at her and smiled sadly. 

“After the dinner, we’ll go for a walk,” she proposed. 

***

Amy and Lucas prepared themselves for the dinner with their new neighbours at around six. 

Lucas was dressed in a black suit jacket and white shirt, with the top two buttons popped open. It was complimented nicely with a pair of dark jeans, giving a casual edge. 

Amy stepped out of the bedroom, her short pixie cut freshly washed and neatly brushed. She wore a black dress with frills on the wrist, and paired with black dolly shoes. Her whole look was sophistication mixed with a sense of comfort. 

As Lucas looked at her, he swallowed hard. She was wearing a dark eyeshadow and mascara which accented her deep green eyes perfectly. He could sense her discomfort at the get-up, knowing that this wasn’t her usual style, but he couldn’t help feel it suited her so well. 

Amy tried to avoid eye contact and made her way to the door in silence. 

Lucas followed on behind, feeling his stomach twist yet again at her distance from him. He grabbed a bottle of wine from the table by the door, and then closed it behind them. 

Pam was the one to answer the door. She grinned at her new neighbours and let them in. “Take a seat. Dinner won’t be too long now. I’m preparing smoked salmon, topped in my special sauce. Chef’s secret as to the recipe. Everyone who has ever tried it has raved over it.” 

“Good man!” Ted exclaimed, taking the bottle of red wine from Lucas. “Priorities.” 

Amy glanced around the living room, noticing that there was far less in it than hers and Lucas’ temporary abode. The flooring was wooden, and the lights bright. Everything felt too clean and sterile for Amy’s liking. She sat down on a black leather sofa, and then tensed as Lucas perched beside her. He took her hand and rested it on his knee, then caught her gaze and smiled, giving her a very slight nod. 

“So, how did you two meet?” Pam asked, preparing glasses as Ted popped open the wine bottle. 

“Do you want a coffee? You said last night you don’t drink,” Ted asked Amy, interjecting himself into the conversation before anyone else could speak. 

“Oh, yes, please. That would be perfect,” she replied with a grateful smile. 

Lucas began to talk, still holding Amy’s hand. He rolled out the spiel that he and Amy had been given as part of their briefing pack. Amanda and Ben had met through mutual friends at a Christmas party. 

The words rolled effortlessly off Lucas’ tongue, Amy mused. And how she wished all of it was true. To be loved, wanted, proposed to, lived with. She desperately wanted it all. Life was cruel. Rather than be dealt such a lucky hand, she instead had to act it all out, pretend, and live behind a happy mask, where her heart beneath was breaking. 

“You definitely struck lucky, love,” Pam told Amy with a wink. 

The conversation between Lucas and Ted seemed to flow without much thought. However, Lucas’ hand moving up Amy’s thigh, curling further into the inside of her leg. 

Shivers began to race up Amy’s spine as she felt his fingers caress her skin through her thin tights. 

Most of the conversation seemed to merge into a mindless chatter as Amy concentrated on Lucas’ hand on her leg. She studied the veins in the back of his hand, which then caused images of him touching her in more intimate places to flicker through her mind. 

By the time that dinner was ready and the group had moved into the dining room, which again was a sterile looking room, Lucas had finally got onto the topic of conversation that he needed: Ted’s work. 

The table was only small, considering that the flat was large. It gave way for more kitchen space and cabinets. This meant that Amy was sat directly next to Lucas again, with Pam and Ted opposite them. 

“How long have you owned the charity, Ted?” Lucas asked, slipping into his seat. 

Ted began to answer while Pam laid out all the dishes in the centre of the table, her hands covered in oven gloves. “The charity was actually started by my father, who died five years ago, so it was handed down to me. He always spent his life helping disadvantaged children; it was all he cared about.” Something flickered across Ted’s face. Resentment, anger? Lucas couldn’t quite tell. But maybe that was where he could probe further. 

“Are you alright, love?” Pam asked, sitting down directly opposite Amy. “You look a bit pale.” 

“It’s probably the new foundation I’m using. I decided to try a lighter colour as the one before, by Clinique was too dark.” Where had that response come from? Maybe Amy wasn’t quite as bad at this acting while undercover thing as she had originally thought. Suddenly she felt something on her leg and jumped. Thankfully, Pam had started talking to Lucas and Ted again, so none of them noticed her jump. Why was Lucas touching her leg? Their lower halves were concealed beneath the table, which meant he didn’t have to touch her in order for anyone to believe they were lovers. 

While Amy eat her meal, she couldn’t stop thinking about Lucas’ hand coming back to her leg. 

“So, how did you choose to propose?” Pam asked, grinning. “I always adore love stories.”

Lucas blushed and then looked at Amy, catching her gaze. Then, he touched her leg again. Only this time, Amy didn’t flinch. In fact, upon instinct, she leaned her leg into his touch. “I just knew that I couldn’t live without her in my life. I wanted to wake up next to her, have kids with her. Cliché, I know. So I took her away for Christmas, to New York where she’d always wanted to go, and proposed in front of the Statue of Liberty.” His eyes were still locked on hers as he spoke. 

A sudden wave of nausea hit Amy and she leaned to the side, away from Lucas. 

“Are you okay, babe?” Lucas asked. “She’s been like this on and off the last couple of days.” 

Pam’s bright blue eyes lit up in excitement. “Maybe it’s the pitter patter of tiny feet.” 

“I’m going to have to head back to the flat. I’m so sorry to both of you,” Amy said, bolting up from her seat. 

Lucas got up beside her and wound his arm around her waist. “Sorry to leave so abruptly, but she comes first.” 

“Of course,” Ted chuckled. “We’ll have to re-schedule for a better time.” 

Amy and Lucas bid their farewells to their guests and head back to the flat. Amy dashed inside and raced to the bathroom, slamming the door. Rather than vomiting, she got to her knees on the floor and felt the tears of sadness roll down her cheeks. 

The door opened and Lucas stepped inside. He looked down as she sobbed and fell to his knees beside her. “Aim, what’s wrong?” he whispered. “You’re scaring me.” 

“You don’t have to keep the act going, Lucas,” she snapped, glaring at him. “Pam and Ted aren’t here.” 

“Get dressed into something more comfortable and warmer. We’ll go for a walk,” Lucas said, his voice becoming authoritative. 

“I don’t want…”

“While we’re on this operation, I’m the senior officer. Please get changed and we’ll go for a walk.” Lucas felt a stab of shame as he spoke those words, knowing he was using his own position for gain, but he needed to know what was happening. Her behaviour was becoming more erratic. Not only was she worrying him for her wellbeing, but if she continued to act like this then the op would be compromised. 

Fuck the operation! I care more about her. 

Fifteen minutes later and Amy walked beside Lucas, the darkness and cold evening air wrapping tight around them. Once they were a few streets away from the flat, Amy and Lucas sat down on a bench in a small park. 

“You really are scaring me, Amy. What’s wrong?” he asked quietly. “This is me asking because I care for your wellbeing. It’s not an act.” The word ‘act’ dripped with anger. He noticed that, yet again, she’d taken the engagement ring off. 

Amy noticed him look at her hand. “I can’t wear that ring, Lucas. Please don’t make me wear it when I don’t have to.” 

“We’re on surveillance and undercover twenty-four seven with this operation. You shouldn’t take it on and off when you please like this. This goes deeper than that, Aim. I know you hate me touching you, and I’m sorry I have to do it.” 

“I know it’s all an act for the op, Lucas. Don’t apologise.” 

“Is it all an act?” he asked. His gaze locked on Amy’s. “I know I shouldn’t have touched you under the table. There was no need for that. The truth is, none of this has been an act for me.” 

Amy’s eyes were wide in shock and sadness as she stared at him. “It’s not just my imagination?” she whispered. 

“No,” Lucas replied with a smile. “And when you said about not wanting me to touch you…”

“I didn’t mean that I didn’t want you to touch me. It’s I…I’ve liked you for a while Lucas, and it was getting too much. Playing it all like a game when deep down it’s something I want. I’m living another woman’s life that I want.” 

Lucas slipped closer to Amy and cupped her cheek with his hand. “Is it me or Ben Waverley that you want?” 

“Of course it’s you I want.” Amy replied, her face broad with a huge smile. 

Lucas moved even closer to her still, until their lips touched. The kiss started as a simple peck, a moment of uncertainty, but Amy’s hand tugging Lucas’ jacket spurred him on. The kiss grew deeper, their tongues meeting and warmth rising. 

As they both parted, Lucas smiled upon the slight of Amy’s beautiful flushed cheeks. She looked so innocent and angelic in those moments; her eyes sparkling in happiness, her cheeks flushed and her lips plump. 

“Does this mean that if you want Amanda’s life that you’re planning on leaving MI5?” Lucas chuckled. “Pack up and go work as a solicitor’s secretary. We’d miss you.” 

“Maybe I don’t want that part of her life.”  

“If we do this, Aim, and have a relationship, we won’t be put together undercover again, you know that, don’t you?” Lucas asked. “Harry can’t risk any compromise. We’d be a weakness to each other.” 

“Maybe on this op we can draw strength from each other. It’ll definitely make the act easier to keep up.” 

Lucas and Amy walked back to the flat hand in hand. The whole time and Amy was beaming, unable to hide the happiness she was feeling in those moments. Her gaze would drift down to their joined hands every few minutes. 

Back at the flat, Lucas let Amy in ahead of himself, his hand brushing against her lower back. He followed on behind her and closed the door. The way she turned to face him and looked up smiling, her cheeks still flushed, made his heart skip and his stomach flutter. She was so beautiful, with innocence shining brightly in her eyes and love curling her lips upwards. 

Lucas stepped forward and wound his arm around her waist, drawing her in and then leaned down to kiss her again. 

Their kiss grew hot very quickly, with their bodies entwining. 

Amy opened her eyes slowly, looking up into the silver blue depths of Lucas’ gaze. That all too familiar smirk began to form in the corner of his mouth. 

Amy slipped out of his hold and walked slowly into the kitchen, looking down at the table. The engagement ring was still in the centre where she had left it. 

Lucas moved around her and picked up the ring. Then he gently lifted her left hand. “I know you don’t want to wear it, Aim, but please do this for me.” 

With a sigh, Amy watched as Lucas slid the diamond solitaire ring onto her hand. It felt as though the ring had been sized perfectly and belonged there. “Maybe one day I’ll have someone doing it for real.” 

Lucas smiled sadly, feeling a lump form in his throat. Words swarmed in Lucas’ mind. Just one sentence to respond to Amy’s sad comment. But the right one would not come. Instead, he remained quiet. Perhaps one day it might have been him putting a ring on her hand, and meaning it. However, for now, he would have to wait and see, and hope for that future to come. 

***

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[jeweled-blue-eyes]

If athy main flower is roses then wich one is jennette's?

Officially? I believe it's marguerite daisies. They are in her name, on her dresses, all around her.

In the language of flowers, daisies symbolize new beginnings and rebirth, in addition to love, cheerfulness, beauty, purity, innocence, hope, fun, and affection. They’re also commonly given to new mothers as a symbol of childbirth and motherhood. In spirituality, daisies represent faith and eternal life. One of the earliest associations of daisies with childbirth comes from the ancient Celtic people. Although it’s darker than the symbolism of motherhood and childbirth attributed to daisies today, the ancient Celts believed that when a child or infant died – especially in childbirth – the gods would cover their graves with daisies in an attempt to console those who were grieving the loss. Another early association of daisies with childbirth comes from Norse mythology. The daisy flower is associated with the goddess Freya who is a goddess of fertility, love, and beauty.

If you ask me I find Athy's association with roses a bit boring and cliche. Roses are beautiful but nearly every female lead has roses drawn around her. If it was ever special it's not anymore. Regarding Jennette and daisies I feel a similar way. It fits 50/50 I guess but the meaning is so universal it could also be applied to Athy. I like to associate Jennette with Angel trumpets and lp Athy with Bleeding Hearts.

Angel's Trumpet

Brugmansia suaveolens, Brazil's white angel trumpet, also known as angel's tears and snowy angel's trumpet. The Latin specific epithet suaveolens means “with a sweet fragrance”. Every part of Brugmansia suaveolens is poisonous, with the seeds and leaves being especially dangerous. Ingestion of the plants can cause disturbing hallucinations, seizures, paralysis, coma, memory loss, and death. Angel's trumpets are so lethal that they have been used throughout history and literature as a means of killing a person or committing suicide. Supposedly, it was even used as an execution drug for criminals. Traditional external uses have included the treating of aches and pains, headaches, infections, and as an anti-inflammatory. They have been used internally much more rarely due to the inherent dangers of ingestion. Brugmansia is a symbol of danger, but it also represents vivacity. It is thought to be heralding a time of transformation and rebirth.

Devil's Trumpet

Datura is a genus of poisonous flowering plants belonging to the family Solanaceae. Throughout history, there have been stories about this plant being used to make poisons, witches' brews or love potions. Due to its toxicity and the shape of the flowers, they were granted the common name of Devil’s Trumpet. In some religions and cultures, Datura symbolizes a powerful and dangerous plant. Pictured above is the Purple Queen Devil's Trumpet.

Bleeding Hearts

[leoniestarlee]

Illyrian Assassin (14)

Pairing: Azriel x OC

Word Count: 2.4k

Warning: past trauma, slow burn

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (10) (11) (12) (13)

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The smell of fresh bread greets my senses as I poke my head around the corner of the outside bakery wall, observing my surroundings for the baker that I know usually cooks at dawn. Only the sight of fresh bread, with steams of heat floating above, catches my eye. My stomach grumbles as my eyes jumps to the blocks of cheese near it, ready to be sold today.

Last night, Cassian and I got into a fight with Rhysand, leading to a vase being broken and none of us eating. Now that left me hungry and with the urge to go back to my old ways before Rhysand’s mother took me in.

The sun rises over the mountains, painting the sky in soft purple's and pink’s while shadows cover our camp. If I don’t move soon, then others will start to wake, and I’ll have to wait till tonight for dinner.

Not a chance that I’m waiting that long to eat again.

I pull the black hood of my cloak over my head and sink further into the shadows against the wall as I look around for any prying eyes. Once I know the coast is clear, I tuck in my wings and lower myself to the ground until my hands and knees are against the muddied ground. Not a sound comes from my movements—thanks to years of this—as I crawl toward the window near the wooden door leading into the bakery.

Two muffled voices sound from inside, and I use that as my advantage to rise to my knees, snatching a hot loaf of fresh bread. The heat of the bread makes me almost drop it, but I hold in my curse and shove the bread into the satchel slung around my shoulder.

“Are you sure it’s a shadowsinger?” One of the females inside asks the other, her question catching me off guard as I freeze.

I can’t help by earsdrop as the other female answers, “Yes! Mother above, he looked frail and sick with those shadows surrounding him.”

“He’s a bastard of one of the camp Lords. We both know how they get treated.”

Against my better judgement, I slowly stood up enough to look into the open window where I can see two Illyrian females. One kneads dough on the counter while the other watches her, her arms crossed across her chest with a disgusted look on her face.

“The High Lord will use that boy,” the one kneading the dough claimed.

I froze, watching them as they continued to make predictions on what will happen to the boy, but my mind can’t accept that there is a shadowsinger in our camp. An actual shadowsinger.

Rarely, did anyone see one, but now? Now even I get the chance to see this shadowsinger boy in real life. I can’t help but feel excited.

A bucket being emptied beside the bakery pulls me out of my excitement and I quickly drop down, hiding back in the shadows as I look around. Only a male is in my view, emptying a few buckets into the mud outside his small home. Must be one of our best warriors to get a stoned house like that.

I silence out the females talking in the bakery as I waited until the male went back inside his house. After a few long, painful minutes, he goes back inside, and I don’t waste any time snatching a fresh block of cheese. The sun rises higher, and the shadows start to slowly disappear as I round the corner, heading back toward my new home that isn’t a piss-poor tent.

“Aurora.”

I halt, my wings feeling heavier against my back as I tuck them in tighter at the powering voice behind me.

“My mother will kill you if she finds out you stole,” Rhysand said, grabbing my shoulder and facing me to him.

I give him an innocent smile, hiding the cheese behind my back as he furrows his brows at me. “But I didn’t steal anything.”

“Seriously?” He raises a brow before grabbing my arm and yanking it from behind my back to reveal the cheese. “I watched you steal it and the bread hidden in your satchel.”

I give up the fake innocence as I glare at him. “You were watching me that whole time? Creep.”

“I—Aurora, I’m not a creep,” he argues, running a hand through his raven-blue hair. “I woke up to Cassian sneaking out and when I noticed you weren’t home, I decided to follow him.”

“Wait what?” I ask him, my brows shooting to the top of my head. “Where the hell is Cass?”

The same surprise as my own covers his features. “You mean to tell me, that you and Cassian haven’t been sneaking out of the house these last few days to be alone in the woods?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?" I ask with a disgusted look at what he's implying.

He doesn’t answer, instead he grabs my hand and starts pulling me past the houses and training rings as I hold the cheese against my chest, not wanting to drop it by accident and waste the minutes I used to steal it.

By the time we’ve made it into the woods, the sun has risen, and the shadows don’t hide us anymore, making me pull down my hood. Rhysand still has a grip on my hand, but I don’t pull away as he pulls me further and further into the woods until even I know no one can hear us.

“Where exactly are you taking me?” I question him.

“Stay quiet,” he whispers, pulling me behind a boulder.

I give him a look, pulling my hand away. “Just because you’re the heir, doesn’t mean you can tell me—”

“Look!” He grabs my chin, forcing me to look over the boulder.

My eyes widen and I swat his hand away as I watch Cassian bark some instructions at a male around our age. The unknown male spreads his wings, looking as if he’s trying to jump into the sky.

“Who is that?” I whisper to Rhysand.

“Some new male in our age group,” he simply answers.

We watch as the male tries to fly but fails miserably and goes face first into the ground, making twigs snap under him as I cringe.

“He can’t fly,” I state.

“What Illyrian doesn’t know how to fly?” he snorts.

I face him, shoving him back. “I can bet that you wouldn’t know how to fly if your mommy didn’t bring you here.”

He sends me a glare, shoving my shoulder. “You only know how to fly because Cassian taught you.”

“And I know how to fight because Cassian taught me that too,” I argue back. “Want an example?”

“Can you two shut up and get over here,” Cassian’s voice booms toward us.

My eyes widen as I stand straight, looking back over at my bastard brother and the male staring at us.

“If you didn’t raise your voice then he wouldn’t’ve heard us,” I hiss at Rhysand, moving around the boulder and toward Cass and the male.

“My shadows told me you were watching,” the male informs me.

I halt next to Cassian, only now noticing the black shadows surrounding the male like a cloak. My lips can’t help but part in amazement at the shadowsinger before me. The same shadowsinger that the females were talking about.

“Holy shit,” Rhysand and I say at the same time, making Cassian snort.

I clear my throat, shoving the block of cheese in Cassian’s chest for him to grab before I walk toward the shadowsinger and extend my hand out to him. “I’m Aurora but call me Rory.”

He hesitates but reaches out, grabbing my hand. I’m quick to hide my shock as I look down at our hands, noticing the ridged swirls of scars that cover his own hand. What happened to him to cause that much scarring?

“Azriel,” he says quietly, snapping my eyes back up to him as he pulls away his hand.

I offer him a small smile with a nod. “No need to hide your scars from us. We’ve all got our own.” I pull up the sleeve of my cloak, revealing the deep silvered scar from my palm, curving around my wrist to my elbow. “I crashed into a tree and nearly tore my arm off,” I explain to him quietly.

“That was a terrifying day,” Cassian mumbles, pulling me back to his side and positioning his body in front of mine.

“I’m Rhysand,” the heir introduces himself with a nod that Azriel returns.

I take the cheese back from Cass, pulling a dagger out from my belt. “I got bread and cheese. Who’s hungry?”

Cassian turns around, raising a brow at me. “You stole that, didn’t you?”

I give him a sheepish smile. “It’s your favortie.”

He snorts, facing back to Azriel. “We’ll eat after we teach Azriel how to fly.”

I shrug my shoulders, offering Azriel a small smile. “Good luck.” I turn around, walking toward a distance tree. “I’ll be stuffing my gob with food while you three exhaust yourselves.”

“Rory! Wake up!” Willa shouted, making my body jolt up right as panic clouded my judgement and my knife that was once under my pillow is now held up.

“What is it?” I quickly asked, nearly tripping over my feet as I stumbled out of bed and into the darkness of my room.

My eyes found Willa standing at the end of my bed with an apologetic look. “Sorry,” she quietly mumbled, putting her hands up. “I couldn’t sleep, and you were talking in your sleep when I came in.”

I sighed, lowering the knife and raising a brow at her. “What have I told you about yelling to wake me up? You know it puts me on alert.”

“I forgot?” she said, but it sounded more like a question as she scratched the back of her neck.

I threw the knife on my bed before picking up my black robe and slipping it on. “Up to the roof?” I asked her, walking around my bed.

“Yes, please,” she whispered, holding a fur coat in her hand. Obviously, she had already planned to go up there before she came into my room.

I gave her a small smile, taking her cold hand in mine as I led her out of my room. “You know, there’s tonic’s you can take to help you sleep,” I offered, walking up the stairs.

“I don’t like tonics,” she grumbled, holding my hand tighter.

I snorted, letting go of her hand and helping her put on her coat as we continued walking toward the roof of the House. “I know, but I’m worried about the lack of sleep you’ve been getting these past few weeks.”

She went quiet, glancing left to right as we took the final few steps leading up to the open roof. I placed a hand on her back as we silently went toward the sparring ring in the middle of the roof.

“I’ll grab the blanket and pillows,” I said to her in a hush tone as she nodded, stepping into the sparring ring.

I walked over to the wooden makeshift walls full of different types of weapons before I found the chest I’d brought up here a few days ago, filled with blanket and pillows for Willa and me. When I’d reached the sparring ring, she was still standing, staring at Velaris below us.

“Are you okay?” I asked her, stepping into the ring and throwing down the blanket first. “You’re more quiet than usual,” I pointed out, dropping the pillows onto the blanket.

“I’m not sure,” she admitted softly, laying down and resting her head against one of the pillows.

I laid down beside her, the ground hard under my back as I looked up at the silver freckles in the dark blue sky above us. There were barely any clouds in the sky, but the moon shined down, illuminating the clouds of smoke that came from my mouth as I softly breathed out.

“Why haven’t you been sleeping?” I questioned her.

She stayed silent for a long moment before turning on her side to look at me while I continued to stare at the sky, patiently waiting for her to answer me.

“I have these dreams, or nightmares, I’m not sure which one it is,” she mumbled, and I turned on my side, tucking my hand under the side of my face against the pillow as I watched her. “It’s always the same thing and it scares me.”

“What is it?”

Her green eyes darted away from me as she tucked her knees to her chest. “It’s Azriel.”

“Azriel?” I took in a sharp breath, my hand resting on her arm before I could stop myself. “Has something happened?” If something had happened, I don’t know what I’ll do.

“Not yet.” She looked back up at me, grabbing my hand as pain and worry filled her eyes. “Something will happen to him. Something…bad.”

“I—Are you sure?” My heart gave out at the thought of something bad happening to Az. At the thought that whatever Willa has seen in her sleep is so terrible that it’s stopping her from sleeping.

She nodded, squeezing my hand. “He’ll get hurt on a mission.”

I stayed silent, not knowing what to say as panic set into my heart, freezing me in place. Azriel goes on a mission at least every two days. But Willa could be wrong. After all, they’re only dreams.

“He’ll be okay,” I assured her, pulling her into my arms. “It’s our Az. He’s been alive for over five hundred years, and nothing can take that shadowsinger down.”

“You don’t understand.” Her voice broke as she grabbed the front of my robe, digging her head into my chest. “It felt so real. It looked so real, Rory.”

“I’m sorry this is keeping you up at night,” is all I can say as I held her tighter, placing a kiss on the top of her head. “I’ll talk to Amren and ask her about you dreams, okay?”

“Nothing will help,” she breathed. “Sometimes I see it when I’m awake.”

My heart broke for my sisters’ torture as I placed another kiss on the top of her head. How long had she been dealing with this? How had I not noticed earlier? How do I stop this?

“I’ll figure out a way to help you,” I promised her, rubbing soothing circles on her back. “I hate it when you’re struggling.”

I hate it because this is what I wanted to protect her from. I wanted to protect her and Daisy from struggling, but perhaps I haven’t done enough. Perhaps…I’m not enough to protect them.