#savage x reader if you squint eventually

[irenadel]

Fear Leads the Way

Darth Maul x Reader Filthy porn ahead, Darth Maul and Savage Opress and Reader, eventual pseudo-threesome, but only sexy cuddles for Savage because he's got The Trauma, eventual robodick but right now we're dealing only with Ken Doll Maul. Therefore: TRIGGER WARNING TALK OF AMPUTATION AND LIMB LOSS. Nothing detailed but you have been warned. Chapter 1 of Force knows how many.

It was true what they said, that wild animals were more often afraid of you, than you of them.

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 1

It had begun out of wariness. And Maul’s always short temper when his decisions were questioned, especially decisions he wasn’t entirely confident in. If it bothers you so much, he had snapped at his brother, stay and stand guard. That was usually how it went with Maul and Savage. Shut up and stand guard, was the principle through which they both operated most of the time. Savage seldom objected because he did, always, on some level, want to keep an eye on his brother. It eased some ache within him he did not even want to think about.

And for all his snarling and protests, Maul would agree. It was always better when Savage stood guard. Better strategy. More firepower. Safer.

(Less lonely)

You did not seem to share the brothers’ enthusiasm for a rear guard. At least not in this particular situation.

You had said nothing, though. You weren’t in the habit of questioning Lord Maul of the Shadow Collective and Maul, in turn, often ignored the degree to which you were always still a little terrified of him. You’d been snatched off the streets of Nar Shaddaa to work your magic on Lord Maul’s cybernetics. A present meant to court favor. A trifling bauble. A girl too afraid to do much more than her job for a long time. When he didn’t pointedly ignore it, he spent considerable time and effort convincing himself it was just right and proper that you should be afraid of the sith lord who ruled your life.

But it hadn’t been easy in this particular case.

It had been a mistake, a sign of weakness, Maul decided, to let himself grow used to the certainty of your touch. It had begun with the strong, firm hands you had ran over the tender places between where his cybernetics ended and his flesh began. It had gone beyond anything he should have ever allowed when, still cowed and unsure, but in that moment somehow fearless, you had uttered words like prosthetic genital replacement, sensory recovery, advances in brain and limb nerve arrays. He should have beheaded you then and there. Nipped this in the bud and sealed it with your blood.

Instead he had let you talk to him about the nerve endings of his forearms, still very much alive and intact to feel the tips of your fingers ghosting over them. He had let you stutter about flesh grafts and possibilities, illustrating each suggestion with a tentative touch. He had let you take a traitorous hand to the soft, vulnerable skin of his ears, its sheer sensitivity forgotten years after that initial reckless vanity that had made him pierce them.

There had been a shame and wariness in you he had not understood and then that impossible, naked audacity that had brought your questing fingers to his lips, to his chest, to a hard and aching nipple you had ministered to with nails and tongue and teeth. And then you had been impossible to contain. Because the same knowledge that had made your work on his cybernetics invaluable, had let you crumble him apart like clay. He’d let you press the heel of your hand to the back of his neck that day, the skin on his shoulder blades suddenly, uncomfortably alive, eager to be touched because it had never been touched with tenderness, with pleasure instead of pain.

You had tried to flee him that day, having stepped over a boundary that had never existed between coerced attendant and frightening patient. And he’d snatched you back with one awful, terrible gesture of his impossibly strong arm and you had stayed there, precariously hanging off his body. A body that had seemed so fragile a second ago and now stood horrifyingly solid underneath your hands.

Savage had been there too, as always, watching his brother’s back whenever a vulnerable position demanded it. But Maul had been too focused on the warm proximity of your body and the sudden overpowering aroma of your sweat and arousal, to pay attention to his looming baleful figure. You had not. You had watched with increasing wariness as the tendons on his neck had stood out in stress and horror, monstrously thick and powerful like starship cables. His angry glare had narrowed the moment he’d heard his brother’s first pained noise: a low, deep keening against your neck.

And you had feared, not without reason, that Savage could have killed you then and there. Could’ve used the Force to shake the life off you and thrown you against the wall like an abused ragdoll. You’d watched both of the brothers and knew them capable of that and worse… but for Maul’s second pained noise: a ragged, impossible please against your lips. You had not cared for death in that second, forgotten in the heady realization of what your patient needed, of the whole, absurd, delicious horror of it. Your responsibility to him, your fear of and desire for him, his furious brother watching…

Let him watch, you decided recklessly.

You’d kissed Maul then, after a furtive whisper on the erogenous quality of mouths and he had responded so immediately, so hungrily that you had forgotten about anything else. You had kissed him and he’d almost made you come solely with his mouth on yours, just through his single-focused, aggressive pursuit of the taste of your pleasure, thick in your mouth, gums and tongue.

Savage had not killed you that day, but he had insisted on talking to his brother afterwards. He, so often conciliatory and willing to let things go, had argued with a Maul still half swimming in the hitherto undiscovered waters of sexual desire, that there were things he needed to learn. It had almost been a fight like the one they’d had about zabrak horns and oil and overbathing. Maul being so used to dry, flakey skin and the certainty that if it had been important, Darth Sidious would have informed him, had refused to change his grooming habits for months.

This time Savage insisted.

“It’s just the pheromones,” he’d said to his brother. “Get rid of her.”

There were things said between them about the Nightsisters, about Nightbrothers that disappeared, with a grin instead of a grimace, things that sounded to Maul like superstitious bantha shit. You were not a Nightsister and he was a sith lord. He was in danger of nothing except perhaps getting distracted from his goals. He’d conceded that to Savage and had managed to keep away from you for a whole month, via sheer ornery pride.

It was your apology that got his attention that second time. He had stubbornly relegated you to background noise since the first incident. Haughtily ignored your anxious looks the way he had ignored every distraction Sidious had ever sent his way, pleased that it worked to mollify Savage as much as it had ever worked with his master. The dull ache of your work on his cybernetics was as easily dismissed as your stony silence while he talked to the other leaders of the Shadow Collective. When you had spoken up before he had cowed you into silence and, furious and tight-lipped, you had not repeated your mistake often. 

“My lord,” you had said, choking on the honorific in a way you had not before you’d know the taste of Maul’s tongue. “This will hurt.”

He had clenched his teeth at your intrusion, attempted to overlook its impertinence and then been caught entirely unawares by your firm determination to be acknowledged.

“I’m sorry,” you had said, looking to meet his eyes, venom gone from your look and replaced with the half-fearful, half-softened gaze that had haunted his few moments of peace ever since you’d touched each other that day. You had worked unobtrusively before, as quick and thorough as you could and here you were, trying to get a go-ahead he had never required of you before. “Brace yourself.”

It was tiresome. It was unnecessary. He had known it was coming and had dismissed it, any recalibration of his cybernetics’ digestive aid always created a feedback loop not unlike quick but unrelenting bursts of abdominal cramps. He would have done it himself with help from Savage, but his brother was away, dealing with an upstart Hutt rebellion and he’d had no time to spare for shutting down individual systems so he could bear the agony while working on the whole thing. It was easier to channel that pain towards cowing unruly underlings. Intimidation did not require the razor sharp focus of mechanical work.

Except now. Now he was uncomfortably aware of the careful, slow quality of your work, of your hands where he couldn’t feel them. The cramps lasted a second and then you proceeded. Now, he was annoyingly, half-attentive at all times of what you were doing, figuring out what you were turning off and bypassing at every turn to make sure to keep the pain at a minimum while working… wondering when you would actually touch him.

It was maddening, a karking waste of time.

He’d hissed at you to get on with it, nevermind the cramps, but still been unable to regain focus on the strategy at hand. He’d been forced to dismiss everyone with a snarl, and stared you down, afraid again, unsure again, but still holding his gaze.

Get to work, he’d meant to snap at you.

Stop staring at me, would have worked as well.

Instead, he’d let the small, childish voice inside him, always wary, always ready to fear the worse, but still indomitably willing to risk punishment for the taste of something sweet, request what he hadn’t even known he wanted a moment ago.

“Touch my back.”

Again.

No, not a request, a desperate wail that came out like an order growled through gritted teeth.

You’d let out a breath you hadn’t meant to hold and Maul was inundated by the overpowering stench of your desire, his mouth watering at the thought. Immediately, it conjured phantom sensations, reminding Maul of his own, of the furtive times of his apprenticeship when he’d been terrified and young and burning so badly he’d risked touching himself just to keep desire at bay. Savage had said something about manhood and Nightsister rituals and Maul being lucky to have forgotten what prickling, overwhelming, unquenchable need felt like before he’d met a woman who could use it against him. To have had that safely amputated with his legs and all the rest, stolen from him, put away where he couldn’t reach it.

Maul didn’t feel lucky. He didn’t feel safe or as serenely removed from his own furious, adolescent loneliness as he had before. He felt adrift like he had then, desperate, ready to force you to touch him if you would not do it willingly. But when you capitulated it didn’t feel like that either.

It was worse.

He’d let out a shameful, agonized cry, nearly a sob, because your hands on his back were gentle, were careful, were good. No one ever touched him there, in the center of his back, a place he seldom reached for, which seldom required maintenance or thought. And now it was alive under your hands, sweet stars, under your lips which had immediately, no hesitation, sought out his burning skin and he could almost remember what it had been like to climax, unexpectedly, horrifically and absolutely unprepared for it, when he had been young and angry and unaware of what he had. Except he had been alone then and you were here now, your lips pressed to the place where his shoulder blades met, your hands holding his throat so tenderly it hurt, your own panting frantic because you wanted him and he knew it, just like Savage had said (warned) he would. And he had no control of it, just wanting and wanting and hunger, and surely, surely that was enough, that was sithly, because it did taste like the Dark Side, tacky and thick and slow like burnt molasses, when he turned on you and pinned you down so he could rut in between your legs, grinding a sensationless codpiece against the juncture of your thighs, so deeply frustrated the Force crushed the door of the meeting room to echo him.

You held him against it, did not let him lose the thread of this impossible, horrible desire, as you struggled out of your work jumpsuit, wrapped your legs and arms around him and whispered soft, filthy encouragement in his ear. 

“Please oh, please, please, please,” you’d said so quietly he felt it more than heard it, your warm, humid breath making him shudder. He hadn’t known how much he would need your eager, ready submission. How good it would feel to hear you acquiesce, hear you surrender, hear you beg. “I can’t,” you’d stuttered, as much at a loss as he. “I’m so wet for you, please, talk to me, I’m so close, talk to me and make me come.”

That he could feel, not against the gaping absence where his genitals had been once, but desperately snaking a hand between your bodies, your wetness soaking through the leather of his gloves, nostrils suddenly flooded with the stinging, musky aroma of your sopping sex. He would have dived between your legs, would have devoured the source of his distraction, gotten rid of this shameful weakness and run you throw with his lightsaber for good measure, but you held him and all he could do was obey your sweet, keening moans, as gone as he, your own nipples fervently pressing against his chest, your mouth warm and soft against the tender skin behind his ear, your nails scratching that terrible, wonderful spot at the center of his back. And he was rutting against you again, grinding and almost feeling it, whispering his own fervent filth, because it helped coalesce the stabs of want, just like you said it would, diffused as they were all over the remains of his body. It helped to tell you he was your lord and master and have you desperately agree. It helped to hold you down as he was pumping his codpiece against your wet, eager core, to squeeze your throat and tell you, nothing explicit because he knew so little of it, but what he wanted of you, what he felt you were doing to him, return it a thousandfold because you deserved it, for teaching him to want this, to need it, to cling to it like he had clinged to life and breath when he was a child and Sidious was killing him slowly.

“I’m going to ruin you,” he’d growled at your throat, a promise of payback, a threat. And you were coming and he was hearing you come and he could almost feel it himself, dizzy and bright painful white like combat meditation. He didn’t know if it had been like that before Lotho Minor, before Naboo, before Kenobi, but it was like this now and he was swimming in the white, hot-searing nothingness of it, of your moans, of your smell and your wetness and you were his, his, his, like his lightsaber, like his destiny, like Savage and it was a freefall, as terrifying a freefall as any possession had ever been for Maul, something to cherish always becoming something you could lose.

[dickgraysonisnothereforthis]

Jason todd x gn mean!reader

(short and sweet, fluff, establish relationship)

i kno there’s a lotta love for mean!jason but I think we’re sleeping on mean!reader, I really do

Allow me to elaborate—

———

Jason comes home to find you stretched out on the couch, book in hand. “Hey, babe.”

You grunt at him, squinting at your book. He walks over, scratching at your knee to get your attention. “We got an invite, dinner at Bruce’s.”

You look up at him, clearly disinterested. “Okay, so let’s go.”

“Can’t.”

“Why not?”

He levels you with a look. “You’re gonna be mean to ‘em.”

“No, I won’t.” You open up your book again, finding your place.

Jason tweaks your knee again. “Yeah, y’are.”

“Well, Jason, I’m mean to everyone.” You raise your eyebrows as you shrug your shoulders. He stares at you, unconvinced. “Plus, they deserve it.”

There it is. “Babe…”

“What? They fucking do. They were such assholes to you, Jay. No way am I going to be nice to them.”

He can’t help the way he smiles at you, warmth filling his gut. “You just like to hold a grudge.”

“Maybe,” you grouch, cold anger still in your eyes. “They left you for dead, Jason. I won’t be civil to them. Fuck ‘em.”

He sighs. “You know we’re trying to work past that. I…I’m trying to forgive them, or something.”

“Well, congratulations,” you say flatly. “I won’t play nice with people who treated you that way, Jason. Not now, not ever.”

That’s you in a nutshell, and he loves you for it. He opens his arms, and, sensing what he needs, you stand up and wrap your arms around him. You hold him tightly for several minutes. “Sorry,” you eventually mumble into his chest. “If you really want me to, I’ll go and make an effort.”

The thing is, he doesn’t want you to be nice. It is tremendously soothing to have someone fight so hard against the ones who hurt him the most. What a privilege, that you hate so savagely on his behalf.

Rather than say any of that, he clears his throat. “You’re just too mean.”

You step back, glint in your eyes, and grab him by the chin, pulling him down to your level. “You like me when I’m mean,” you whisper in his ear.

Jason gulps. “You bet I do,” he says breathlessly.

“You want me to be mean right now?” you challenge.

He sure does. Jason nods, steering you toward the bedroom.

———

I actually think it is my life’s work to explore all the ways reader can be mean to jason. but like. in a nice way

[kitkatorin]

RAAAAAA FIRST PART OF THE TARN FIC IS DONE

I think I'll post it in about 3 parts. Full thing will be on AO3 at some point. Just hoping I can get these random ideas I have into a cohesive storyline.

Also I hope I wrote the Cybertronian reader bit ok ;;;; never really done it in a published work before

「ᴄʀɪᴍᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴜɴɪsʜᴍᴇɴᴛ」

ᴛᴀʀɴ x ᴄʏʙᴇʀᴛʀᴏɴɪᴀɴ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

Part 1/?

Word Count: 2.8k

SFW (for now 👀)

Cybertronian GN Reader, Decepticon aligned

CW: Violence, mentions of death, torture, coercion/subjugation, mind control if you squint, Tarn monologuing

---

A lot can happen in a couple million years, especially when it's primarily occupied by war. Some things you can recall as if they happened in the last cycle, others were filtered out by your central processor as trivial information that wasn't even worth the effort of digging back up. Sure, you may not have always operated impeccably to all of the Decepticon ideals to the nanobyte in all that span of time, but you at least considered yourself generally loyal to the cause since Declaration Day.

So Primus only knows how you ended up on The List. Well, Primus and the Decepticon Justice Division, of course.

The lonely outpost you were surviving out of with your ragtag group of fellow 'Cons was overrun first with sheer panic at the sight of the Peaceful Tyranny on the short range scanners. There was no talk of fighting back, no negotiating. Maybe running, hiding, or escaping if that was even possible. But those desperate prospects quickly dissipated when the ruthless enforcers were first sighted treading down the halls.

You were forced to experience the horrors you only heard as hushed rumors. You watched your comrades - one by one - slashed, gutted, and mutilated in unimaginable fashions. How many did Megatron's posse victimize to learn just how far they can go with their creative, tortuous theatrics? One was savagely stripped of their plating and kept conscious enough to witness the evisceration of their own inner components. Another had their limbs shredded like junkyard scrap in the bladed chest cavity of the one called Tesarus. One was left to convulse in agony as their faceplate was gouged by the deathmask belonging to another named Vos. The last was incinerated in a furnace interred in Helex's torso, leaving barely a pile of smelted slag in their memory.

The sheer intensity of the experience skewed your chronosense, confusing moments for eternities watching your friends suffer until their sparks were eventually extinguished and what little was left of their bodies littered the room. By some obscure methodology or maybe a cruel twist of fate, you were the last one to remain barely functional, though you didn't expect that to last much longer. You laid with your faceplate pressed against the cool floor while searing electrical burns pervaded your frame. Somewhere in your peripherals, heavy pedes treaded around you in a slow, calculated pace. Your systems were long since exhausted to even bother identifying the source, but they eventually crossed into view.

"Such a pitiful state you find yourself in." It was Tarn who spoke as he stood over you. You figured this was his personalized monologue to you before your own demise, as even your spark seemed to shudder within its chamber just at the sound of his slate-smooth voice. "Self-preservation is such a capricious thing. It is undeniable, of course, that we possess the innate drive to mitigate any threats to our life. But what place does it serve in the struggle of morality? One may think that fleeing to fight another day grants the future prospect of redemption, that they can somehow still prove themselves valuable to the cause in another way." Tarn paced meditatively before stopping directly in front of you. He took a moment to scan your weakened frame through malicious crimson optics.

"When we align ourselves with the Decepticon cause, do we not commit our usefulness to Megatron's will? We aim to put our faith in his decrees without fallacy, for doing so ensures that our service in life or our sacrifice in honorable death in a defining moment of loyalty furthers the Decepticon creed."

Your spark increasingly resonated to a precarious frequency as he spoke; panic quickly flooded over you, but your body could do little to rectify it. Tarn clasped his servos behind his back and languidly approached you, taking in the fear that permeated your electromagnetic field.

"You would let existential fears override your determination to serve a cause greater than yourself. Your undirected retreat - your cowardly act of self-preservation - was a foolish exhibition of defiance. And look where that defiance brought you now. True, it may have provided you the opportunity to fight again under the Decepticon name. But since then, could you claim that your spark was truly devoted to the cause if you were able to selfishly defy those direct orders?"

Your spark now felt like it was on the verge of combustion. What started as a buzzing hum grew to a deafening ringing in your audials. It burned so viciously in your thoraxal cavity that you wished you could rip your spark out from its own casing. Through all of the brutal torture for however long it lasted, your final undoing would seem to come through Tarn's vicious sermon.

Through the warnings of imminent termination that crowded your visual displays, you saw Tarn stoop on one knee in front of you. The Decepticon insignia mask that he sported was mere centihics from your faceplate, and the glaring optics that peered from within locked with your faltering gaze. He paused with an unsettling silence, perhaps deciding what words he would use to finalize your execution. He had your dwindling spark within his clutches, and at any moment, he could decide to snuff it out. Throughout all these cycles and everything you experienced within them, you never envisioned your end would be a slow and excruciating torture at the hands of someone who wore the same symbol you had proudly branded on your chassis as their face. Regardless, your fate felt sealed as your spark seized with a terminal finality from Tarn's influence, like his digits were closing its grasp on your very life force.

"Though... perhaps your efforts of self preservation has afforded you a second chance at proving your usefulness." Clawed digits delicately grazed beneath your mandibular plate before clasping the sides your chin and angling your helm just enough to force what little focus you had left to conjure solely on him. "After all, redefining one's function beyond their perceived form is a cornerstone to the foundation of all that we fight for."

The noose on your life eased, though it still loomed over you with Tarn's intimidating presence. He removed his hand from where he was holding your faceplate, letting your helm fall back to the floor.

"Immobilize this miscreant and prep them for transport." Tarn stood up to his full height as he issued the command. He cast his gaze down to you and the pathetic state he left you in at his pedes before turning and walking away without another word.

It didn't take long for you to come to the regrettable conclusion that termination might have been better than whatever new plans Tarn now had in store for you. But those thoughts were quickly cut short as cackles of electricity erupted around you and almost instantly followed by overwhelming energy burning through circuits. The image of Tarn striding away was the last thing you saw before your overcharged systems went dark.

---

Indistinct monophonic noise first filtered through your audial feed before gradually recalibrating to stereo fields. What was first nondesrcipt noise was actually a mixture of the lulling hum of running engines and... music? Yes, it was some kind of vaguely recognizable music that was playing, but your processing power was more focused on rebooting your systems than identifying the melody.

As the sounds droned on, your internal visual display became more organized, and external spectrums sharpened to a coherent view. You were on the floor of a fairly lit room, appearing to be an office or personal quarters judging by the furnishings that were immediately visible. There was a moderately sized desk directly ahead of you, and while your optics continued to adjust from the reset, you were slowly able to identify neat stacks of data pad volumes and other memorabilia.

There were several badges of varying sizes - mostly Decepticon, but you saw a few red Autobot insignias in some places - and trophies of a more personal design. Empty sockets of a cranial chamber perched on the edge of the desk met your gaze, and when you recognized what was staring back at you, you jolted in shock. Your awakening tactile sensors alerted you to unexpected resistance - your servos were restrained in front of you by inhibitors.

"Ah, you're back online." The sound of that hauntingly familiar voice sent a wave of dread through your reawakening circuits. Before that, you could have tried to convince yourself that this was all a terrible nightmare, but the undeniable reality was that you were still functional and helplessly bound in Tarn's presence.

"I was beginning to think that Kaon went a little overboard with the voltage." Tarn sat behind the desk, data pad in one hand as he casually propped his helm with the other. Dull pain washed over you as you tried to readjust yourself to see him better. His optics rose from the slate's contents to watch you struggle.

"I had a chance to go through your personnel file, and I must say, you have quite the record." Tarn placed the pad upon one of the orderly stacks and then pushed it slightly by its side to align it near perfectly among the others. His demeanor was ominously relaxed as he had apparently waited patiently for you to reactivate. "If not for a few instances of poor judgment, you would have made an exemplary Decepticon among your ranks."

You didn't want this overly casual conversation with someone who had brought you to death's door. It just further puzzled you as to why he would even keep you alive. The question of "why" and the need to know what he had planned for you formed in your processor, but only distorted static, barely recognizable as any comprehensible words, came stumbling out as you tried to speak them. You still forced yourself to talk despite the initial embarrassment, thinking the lingering malfunction would clear up so you could eventually voice your concerned confusion. Tarn observed your pitiful attempts with an unwavering stare, almost seeming amused by your efforts.

"What's wrong, little dissident? Glitches in your vocalizer?" He chuckled as he leisurely rose from his chair. "It should pass in time, though I do hope you realize that nothing you could possibly say can change your current circumstances." He passively let his digits glide along the desk's surface as he moved before you.

"You should feel honored - as your old companions lay as little more than rusting piles of scrap in a crumbling outpost, you were allowed to remain functional for just a bit longer." With a fluent sweep of his arm, Tarn gestured to the rest of the room you had yet to visualize. "And to be among relics of our celebrated legacy despite your tainted reputation... truly an act of undeserved clemency."

Your stiff actuators were slow to respond, but you managed to turn your head to observe the other sides of the room. Various campaign banners lined one wall, some in pristine condition, others tattered and torn from use on the front lines. You recognized most, but a handful were unknown to you. Beneath them, requisitioned weapons and tools - some still attached to the severed limbs of their previous owners - were displayed on pedestals and in glass cases. Your optics tentatively gazed over the rest of the room that was adorned like a disturbing museum. Even whole lifeless frames were suspended on the walls like any other decorative piece. All the while, soft, decietfully soothing music continued to play in the background. It served as an apathetic attempt at counteracting the horrors you saw, only to further compound your growing unease. It was somewhat of a relief when Tarn resumed so that your attention was drawn away from the morbid furnishings, but that was extremely short-lived.

"Do not think that you are pardoned. You were specifically ordered to hold the line in that critical operation, but you choosing instead to retreat out of fear cost precious time and energy thay could have been focused elsewhere. Your transgression is inexcusable."

He passed in front of you and stood before a large window to your left. The cold, dark expanse of space was displayed beyond, but the glass reflected Tarn's form within it. Though his gaze was directed outward, the angle of the reflection made it seem like he never lost sight of you.

"But I saw fit to reinculcate your understanding of the Decepticon ideology prior to your exacting your sentence." Tarn turned his helm toward you so that his gaze pierced you from the side of his optics. "After all, it does no good if a sinner does not truly understand the gravity of the sin for which they are punished."

Tarn moved away from the window and paced back toward his desk, passing in front of you again. "The ruthlessness that the Decepticons have become known for is ultimately rooted in a focal aspiration - achieving progressive change through decisive action." He stopped for a moment, pedes fixed in place with an upright, dignified posture that gave the impression that he was directing a philosophical discussion among academy students instead of sociopathically preaching a doctrine to an audience of one.

"Think of how society would have been without Megatron's revolution - stagnant, oppressive, self-destructive. Without his call for change, a call for action, we would be suffocating ourselves in a broken system."

As he continued, you were helplessly inclined to listen. But instead of filling you with the fear that your spark would be extinguished in a mere moment, a numbing daze washed over you that made your lingering anxieties virtually irrelevant. It was like being infused with a sedative prior to an operation, except that your life was not in the hands of a trusted medical professional - you could be subjected to untold machinations of Tarn's design. You were powerless to do anything, and as he carried on in a tone that seemed to effortlessly harmonize with the persisting music, the less you cared.

"Megatron's influence has called many to the cause over the millennia, resonating with those who felt dissatisfied and victimized by blatant injustice." Tarn shifted his optics to the stack of data pads again. "So many individuals, rallied behind the ambition of one..." He let the thought fade with silence, then his gaze suddenly snapped back to you, his frame following as he turned to face you directly.

"I'm willing to think that despite your grevious shortcomings, you still have the capacity to understand loyalty and obedience."

Tarn began moving towards you in an unhurried pace, and you instinctively stiffened like cornered prey as he drew closer.

"Your traitorous legacy could have ended along with your compatriots. But that would have been too fleeting, a viable opportunity would have been wasted."

He lowered himself to kneel over you, as if he were studying you like some fascinating specimen. He was just above eye level as you timorously shrunk back from him in apprehension. Perhaps he was studying you - with those glaring crimson optics burning straight through you - maybe he was able to see the parts of you that weren't publicized in a service record. Maybe he could discern the secrets you thought were locked and hidden away. And as your dorsal plates pressed flush against the wall you shrunk back to, that overwhelming helplessness flooded your systems again. It felt like everything was laid bare for Tarn to exploit; no matter how much armor you had, you felt entirely stripped down to the point where he could see the cables and wires lacing through your protoform. With nowhere to retreat to, Tarn minimized what little space remained between the two of you, bringing his upper half so dangerously close that his subtle passive venting swept across your dermal receptors.

"I intend to impress upon you the very essence of servitude, so you will understand clearly just how gravely you've disgraced Lord Megatron." Tarn's voice couldn't have been louder than a hushed murmur, but it echoed within your own mind like a persistent thought, reverberating with an undeniable intensity that drowned out all other possible notions.

The words "obedience," "loyalty," and "servitude" in Tarn's entrancing voice ricocheted in your cortex to the point that you perceived nothing else beyond that. Or simply because the only other source of sound had automatically deactivated.

"Ah, it seems we've reached the end of the suite." Tarn just barely turned his face in the vague direction of his desk, referring to the now silenced device that was playing his choice musical pieces throughout his discourse.

"How timely." He returned his icy attention to you. "I was thinking it was about time to indulge in a different musical number."

---

Part 2

[crab-rangoon-slut]

The Blood We Shed Chapter 7: Get In The Water

Chapter rating: teens+

Story type: Slow burn, best friends to lovers, eventual smut and fluff, eventual bloody smut hehe~

Synopsis found in Chapter One here ⬇️⬇️⬇️

“No— LYRA . That’s fucking Poseidon !!” Telemachus exclaims with a furrowed look of shock and borderline horror.

No living generation in Ithaca has ever seen Poseidon in person. And now he’s here...And he’s brought a threatening storm with him.

Why would he come to Ithaca?

Is he going to wipe us out…?

Gods knows he’s more than capable.

He manipulates the weather around him. Waterspouts descend from the clouds; more violent cracks of lightning strike.

Savage waves are rising and falling; walls of them spring up—standing—almost as if waiting…

A large whirlpool has developed in the center of it all.

It’s unlike anything we’d ever seen—and Poseidon stands dozens and dozens of feet tall in the middle of it… But he’s not facing our island.

I pull myself upright, trying to see through the pouring rain and brewing waves.

Inside the now massive whirlpool is a small, poorly made raft.

Huh. Well that’s interesting.

“I’m going to get a closer look—“

Telemachus states while he starts down the hill, nearly tripping over himself as he chases the beach so we can get a better view. I follow not far behind.

It’s so hard to see what’s going on with the raft… and what appears to be a man on it? We’re as close as we can be to the spectacle, but it’s not quite enough given our conditions. However, we see the watery form of the god just fine with his size.

We watch as Poseidon and a surge of absolutely towering waves wipe out the raft and swallow the man.

His raft is obliterated by the waves and he goes completely under…

He doesn’t return.

After a moment, I look to Telemachus. He shakes his head and turns to head back. He pats my shoulder to signal that it’s over for the poor soul and that it’s time for us to leave.

Then—out of nowhere,

We hear what sounds and looks like a geyser?

We snap our heads to the horizon again.

The man didn’t die.

The person shoots out of the waves and jet packs at Poseidon. He weaves expertly through every wall and water spout the god throws at him. He repeatedly flies into Poseidon and creates tears through the water.

Suddenly the giant watery personification of poseidon bursts at the combined force of the hits and the rains into the ocean. His true, human-like form crashes down onto a platform of rock that’s revealed amongst the storm.

Both Telemachus and I stare with wide eyes and slacked jaws at the power of the unknown man.

The storm begins to die and we get a better look at what’s playing out in front of us.

The man and Poseidon appear to be talking

—or more likely arguing. Poseidon lays backed against part of the rock, looking to be injured?

The mysterious man picks up something shiny from the ground. A trident.

He waits there for a moment, then we see him lift Poseidon's trident.

Oh damn

He stabs him.

Over

And over

And over.

Telemachus squints with the dissipation of the storm.

He cocks his head with furrowed brows.

“Those are royal robes—is that my father..?” The realization hasn’t taken its toll yet. Then it hits him.

“What the fu— HOLY FUCK THAT’S MY FATHER!“

I tear my attention to Telemachus,

“ODYSSEUS IS ALIVE!? AFTER 20 YEARS AND AFTER PISSING OFF POSEIDON?”

He throws his hands up in defensive protest,

“I never met the man!! I didn’t know he’s fucking CRAZ—whAT THE FUCK—?!”

Telemachus nearly jumps out of his skin as he notices Athena’s been watching from beside us for gods knows how long.

She surveys the king with a smug look on her face and her arms crossed as he continues to stab Poseidon.

Telemachus snaps his head to her,

“That’s my father! That’s him isn’t it?”

She half scoffs, half chuckles—

“It couldn’t be anyone else. He’s the only mortal both cunning and arrogant enough to give a god such a serious run for his money.”

Telemachus cocks his head and furrows his brows,

“Wait. You know my father personally?”

“You remember that friend of mine don’t you? It’s a long story, Little One.”

…

I’m lost in thought.

Despite my initial excitement, I’m suddenly very aware of the feelings brewing in my chest…

My stomach drops.

…It’s only Odysseus.

What happened to the other 600 men?

What happened to my father .

Telemachus’ mind has also been racing. So many realizations are flooding him at once. Among the whirlwind of thoughts, he realizes something.

“…if we can see that it’s my dad, what about—“

He turns back to the sea of men and women gawking around us on the beach. He knows that they’ve seen it too. He spots clusters of familiar men… And they all know. They know.

“ The suitors.”

All of us watch as Odysseus deals one final blow to Poseidon.

The two of them sit for a moment.

He removes the trident from Poseidon’s body as the storm is now entirely sated. Clouds roll back and dissolve into the blue sky.

He drops the trident, and looks like he says something to Poseidon—Then he walks away with no further resistance.

“Telemachus,” I say breathlessly.

I shake his shoulder until he looks away from the crowd behind us,

“Your dad just beat Poseidon…”

His expression is one of shock with undertones of pride, gazing out to the ocean.

“…Goddamn. He did…”

Athena looks satisfied at Odysseus from afar.

“That’s your father alright.”

Together, we see Poseidon yield, parting the waves as Odysseus runs toward our distant island. He disappears beyond the tall rocky terrain—out of view for us and the prying eyes of the suitors.

They mutter amongst themselves, stealing glances at Telemachus with sharp and calculating eyes. Athena’s darken.

I look at him determined.

“If the suitors get to your father before he gets to them he’s as good as dead… Do you see the way they’re whispering about you?” I say, keenly aware that they’re plotting against him.

Athena nods.

“It’s going to be dangerous… but I assure you, once Odysseus finds his way back to the palace, you stand a much greater chance.”

She places a confident hand on his shoulder.

“Everything I’ve taught you is at your disposal. You’re ready little wolf.”

[nochueso]

il Diavolo

“Do you want to do something fun, piccola?” He asked you. You finally met his eyes and nodded hastily, you wanted to do something fun with him so badly. And you saw the savage look in his eyes that were planning something tantalizing. “Get naked and get in my bed, under the sheets,” he spoke with an evident rawness to his words.

Summary: In which you’re a cleaner at a hotel frequented by a number of different business people, and one day you happen to run into il Diavolo, the Devil.

word count: 5.2k

genres: smut, jk is kind of a dilf, Italian jungkook, jk x reader, mafia!jk, a lil bit of tae x reader, cleaner!reader

includes: gun play???? bruh idk, consenting somnophilia (but everyone is awake lmaooo), lots of smut yeah just smut with a lil plot if you squint, pretty vulgar descriptions I'd say.

a/n please read: characters are Italian, whenever the quotes are in italics "they are speaking in Italian." Enjoy :D

“Fratello!” Jungkook exclaimed in the hotel lobby. He outstretched his arms, welcoming his brother into them. The two men embraced, platonic pats on each other’s back echoing through the bustling yet quiet area. They spoke to each other in Italian.

“How have you been, brother? I haven’t seen you since that disaster of a wedding last year,” Jungkook said with his arm on the man’s shoulder.

“I’ve been well, you know, work is not getting any easier, my boss is a fucking asshole, and every time I see him I just wanna shove my gun up his ass and pull the trigger.”

“Tae, come work for me, eh?” Jungkook replied, he slapped his arm. Tae looked at him with wide eyes, his hand scratched his leg, the other rubbed his chin. He laughed, a break in his laugh was heard, it was a hesitant laugh.

“Fratello, I don’t know, your offer it’s….” Tae paused and Jungkook squinted his eyes, bending his head lower to look him in the eyes, his grip on Tae’s shoulder tightened. He reached for Tae’s chin, lifting his head to face him, “I give you till the end of this week to decide, after that I don’t want to see your face again,” he said. He held the side of Tae’s face with the hand that was on his shoulder, then walked off, headed towards the elevator. It was Friday.

“Merda…” Tae muttered. “Okay, Jungkook! Okay,” Tae called out after him, but Jungkook did not break his steps. He smirked, entering the elevator. The doors eased shut, and before they did, he nodded to Tae, a satisfied nod.

Jungkook was a bloodcurdling leader. Impossible to read, impossible to outsmart, impossible to please. Nothing was ever enough for him, it was only ever adequate, barely acceptable work. He liked to think of himself as a businessman, a very serious one at that, one that was never to be crossed, and his men made sure of that. His job was the opposite of a nine to five, always finding himself in a new environment to satisfy his job requirements. Jungkook would shoot a man if he had to, a woman too— if completely necessary. But he’d always walk away, without feeling an ounce of guilt. One could even call the man a sociopath with psychopathic tendencies but he wasn’t a killer: he was a businessman.

If you saw him walking towards you, you’d get the primordial need to run, to nowhere in particular, with no reasoning behind it–just run. But Jungkook would catch you eventually, and you’d become his new accessory: a gun holster, and if you were lucky, he’d only use the skin on your arms. He was a man of few words, only ever speaking when all other means had been unsuccessful. He wouldn’t take no for an answer, it wasn’t as if anyone would even dare say it to him. Jungkook had a constant murky mist surrounding him, it followed him everywhere: within that mist hid bloodshed and lust. If you looked meticulously, squinted both your eyes, and pulled out a microscope, you’d be able to see it. He walked with a grim gait that showered those around him in fear. People would find themselves shaking when they stood in his presence, unconsciously. When Jungkook laughed, a hushed silence would fall upon the room, people would freeze, and you’d be able to hear a rat dragging the ear of a man across the floor. His laugh would echo through the empty warehouse, a dubious base added in, and for a second you’d swear you had died and ended up beside the devil in hell—because surely Jungkook was the devil. His towering figure was always fitted in black, just like his hair, and the tattoos that demanded attention from under his long shirt sleeve on his hands and neck. The word “Diavolo” painted on his throat. It would be the last thing that men would see and he would always tell them “ci vediamo all'inferno, fratello,” with a ghastly smile on his face right before they took their last breath, their eyes frozen wide in fear.

Jungkook rolled up his sleeves, carefully folding the edges of his button-up till they reached his elbows. Now one could see the images and words adorning his arms. He left the bloody area and didn’t even take another glance at the dead man on the floor. ’See you in hell, brother’ were the words you’d never want to hear because if you did, they’d be the last. Jungkook instructed his men to “take care of it.” He hated having to wash his bloody hands.

Your hotel got a number of international businessmen and women, many from different sectors of business which you were very aware of. You had gotten used to the weight on your arms whenever you had to lift the weighted duvet, or whenever a guest would yell at you about completely ignoring the ‘do not disturb’ sign on the door handle which was never actually there, the dirty underwear that you would walk around to clean the rooms. It was all second nature by now, there was nothing you could not handle.

Though, you hadn’t expected for the pipes under the sink to burst and start leaking water all over while you were cleaning the bathroom. No, that was not something you could handle.

You scurried around, grabbed the white towels you had brought to replace the used ones, and placed them on the floor to soak up the leaking water. Wiping and squeezing the water from the towels into the sink, wiping and squeezing, repeatedly till your hands were red from the friction of twisting. You took a step back to assess the damage, hands on your waist.

“You need some help?” An accented voice spoke from the door frame. Golden locks fell across his face as he ran a hand through them. He ignored the way you stared at him and he stepped forward towards the leaking pipes. He squatted to take a look, his hands holding on to the bathroom counter. He pulled his head out from under and looked over to you through hooded eyes. “Do me a favor bella, bring me the bag by the door,” he cocked his head. You scuttled over and returned with the bag, from inside he had brought out some tools. You wondered what kind of guest traveled with tools for a business trip.

He began screwing and knocking on the pipes until the squirting water turned to drips. He took a towel and wiped till the drips ceased. His eyes came to reflect yours, his head right beside your pelvis. He stood slowly, and his head ended up inches from your own. “Thanks for the help, bella,” he whispered. His tongue pressed against his cheek and you realized your hands were moist with sweat. His hand had found its way to gently sit on your waist and you shivered. Your gazes were locked and his would wander down to your lips, and they lingered there for a second too long. So when he planted his lips on yours you weren’t too surprised.

The kiss was feverous and brash, quick with a scorching need. He wasted no time in turning you around and bending you over on the bathroom counter he was just beneath. You both knew this was not a romantic case, there were no feelings involved, no longing or emotion—only lust and a need to appease the hunger you both carried. His slender fingers found their way from your neck down to the hem of your skirt–he slapped your ass, the slap followed by your gasp echoed through the white and grey tiled bathroom. The sound of clothes brushing and a zipper unzipping filled by breathless sighs and gasps rung through the bathroom. He lifted your skirt and hooked his fingers in your underwear, sliding it off just enough to not be a problem. You felt his wet hot tip against your folds and braced. You looked in the mirror and watched as his arm moved rapidly, rubbing his member. He met your eyes and they glinted before he pushed himself inside you. You still watched him as his mouth hung open, your face bobbing to and from the mirror as he screwed you. He pounded you excitedly, like a horny husband who got excited from cheating on his wife, and yet he still failed to erupt any sort of pleasure on your end– all you felt was his slickness sliding in and out of your hole. The sound of skin slapping against skin all that ran through your mind while you stared mellowly at his sweaty self through the mirror. You were used to this, businessmen taking tries at you when you’d enter their rooms to clean. Sometimes they’d touch your backside, whisper a disgusting phrase in your ear and you’d slap their hand away and leave. They couldn’t complain to the hotel that the cleaner they sexually assaulted didn’t give in, so they’d just leave it alone. Sometimes, if he was good-looking enough, and if you were in the right mood, you’d let them do you, just once. He froze mid-thrust, so you found your consciousness to find him staring at the door, his hands that gripped your ass tightened and you winced from the pleasurable pain.

You ogled at the man that stood in the doorway. Dashingly handsome with a towering frame that painted the room in an unprecedented darkness. The devil stood in front of you and you would have known this even if the tattoo that said “devil” wasn’t so obviously painted on his neck. You had always pictured the devil to be an ugly creature, a creature so grotesque that it was painful to look at. However, you were now shamelessly staring him down with your ass and pussy lips on full display and you just hoped that he’d shoot the man six inches deep inside you and take his place. You wanted him to abuse you and leave you lying naked and covered in his cum on the bathroom floor. You wanted to feel what it was like to have him shoved so far down your throat that you’d pass out and wake up to him deep between your thighs: his cock soaking you up like a sponge. So when you saw him eye you and pause, even if just for a dashing second, on your ass, you felt a shiver run down your spine and burn up between your legs. You practically caught yourself from drooling for this man’s cock, and his rolled-up sleeves had you wanting even more.

“Finire,” was all he said before leaving. He shut the door behind him and the man now inside you hastily pulled out. He clumsily zipped up his trousers and you could tell his hands were shaking from the way they had awkwardly slid off your ass. You remained bent over with your elbows on the counter holding your chin. “So that’s it?” You asked. The man had lost all his confidence, he now looked like a hairless chihuahua, shaking in fear as he gave you one last pitiful glance before rushing out the bathroom. You sighed in annoyance, all these married businessmen and you couldn’t get a single good fuck. You wiped yourself clean with the towel that sat beside you on the counter and removed your wet panties–there was no point in keeping them on. You finished cleaning up the bathroom, again.

When you finally emerged from the bathroom you were surprised to see the man, the devil, sitting cross-legged on the couch that sat at the foot of the bed. He was aware of your presence but made no effort to assess your disheveled state, instead, his focus was on the book he held in his hand. You carried your cleaning products and bag of laundry slowly to the door. You tried not to look at him every second you averted your gaze but it was near impossible—he was like a magnet for your eyes. And you watched as he rolled his foot in circles, and flipped his hair when too much of it fell in front of his eyes. You were so distracted that you had walked straight into the door frame, instead of going through it, and for this, you cursed yourself because he had looked up now. He once more eyed you, this time he seemed to be thinking of something unlike before when he had simply looked at you out of annoyance. Now he seemed to be judging why the previous man had chosen to fuck you so unabashedly–his eyes gingerly running across each of your curves, his tongue between his teeth.

“Vieni qui, piccola.” He spoke in hushed tones, but the base in his voice vibrated so deeply within you that you felt it in your core. And he had called you “piccola” you nearly succumbed by just his voice alone, calling you “baby.” As if being controlled by strings you dropped everything you were holding right where you stood and delicately walked to where he sat, obeying his order. He closed his book and offhandedly threw it to the floor, his hand patting the empty spot beside him. So of course you placed yourself neatly beside him, your hands coming up to brush your skirt down as you sat with your legs tightly pressed together.

He sat in silence as you placed yourself beside him, all he did was watch you with a carnivorous glare that made you senseless. Your eyes, unable to look directly into his that were filled with insatiable darkness, instead took refuge on his hand that sat on his thigh. And that was when you noticed his muscular thighs that protruded against the tight-fitted pants he wore, and the way they were spread far from each other, his hand achingly close to where his clothed dick was. Your eyes followed as he had suddenly lifted his inked hand that came to rest on your thigh. Deliberately, he traced your thigh slowly from your knee till he reached the hem of your short skirt, where he paused and ravenously squeezed. His fingers laying on your inner thigh, inches away from your naked core that now buzzed and leaked with desire. You bit your lip so strongly that you nearly drew blood, you were heaving sporadically, your chest rising and falling with each passing moment as your hunger grew.

“Do you want to do something fun, piccola?” He asked you. You finally met his eyes and nodded hastily, you wanted to do something fun with him so badly. And you saw the savage look in his eyes that were planning something tantalizing. “Get naked and get in my bed, under the sheets,” he spoke with an evident rawness to his words. His words so simple yet when said by him they pierced through you and melted you like wax. So you did as he said, and he did not watch as you slid your skirt off, skipping your panties because you didn’t have any, then unbuttoning your shirt and discarding the clothes on the couch passing in front of him as you nearly ran into the bed. He took his damn time, painfully slowly rising and taking slow idle steps towards the bed. He started with his third button because the first two were already unbuttoned, and he began to undo them one by one, a single hand working, his fingers working lazily. You watched from under the covers as he came closer and closer, his chest that was covered in ink uncovering itself to you. His toned abs glinted with arousal. He completely removed his shirt, his whole torso now on display as he began to unbuckle his belt. He tugged it off with a swiftness as he now stood next to you by the edge of the bed, his pelvis right in front of your face–you could take him in your mouth right now if he removed his pants.

“I need you to do something for me, baby,” he said, his hand coming to swipe across your cheek. He pulled out the gun that sat below his back, placing it on the nightstand beside the both of you. You looked up at him through your eyelashes, your face replying with “anything.” “Close your eyes and sleep because I’m going to use you.” Now he swiftly unzipped his pants tugging them off with his underwear and you got to steal a glance at his dick that glistened in precum that sat on his swollen pink tip before he grabbed your face and yelled “Close your fucking eyes!” And you did. Your stomach churned in excitement when you felt the bed convulse under his added weight now beside you. You felt as the covers raised when he joined you. Since you saw nothing but darkness, you began to picture him again, his defined jawline that you would like to lick and suck and his lips that say perfectly on his face that you’d like to feel moving between your legs. Then you felt his hand between your thighs, brushing at your sticky folds and he let out a breathless snicker, “Already so fucking wet when I haven’t even done anything, of course you would be when that idiot was just fucking you like a whore in my bathroom. Or maybe you’re just hot for me, uh? Tell me, why are you so wet?” He whispered in your ear and you shivered from the two sensations. His nimble fingers playing with your folds, his thumb circling your clit as he started to lick your ear: you could hear the vulgar sound of the spit in his mouth at full volume as he kissed and licked.

“I’m wet for you, signore,” you said with the remaining breath in your lungs. Your breathing was too heavy and you could barely spare enough air to mutter those words. Even less when he pushed two fingers inside you, curling them as he would push in and out, swiping against your folds ever so often. He seemed to be pleased by your words, snaking his mouth from your ear across your jaw and to your mouth, leaving a wet trail of spit on your face. And you both kissed with a filthy greed, exchanging fluids as they escaped from between you to drip down to your chins. Your mouth was already open to him as his tongue slithered inside you to meet your own, the two wet muscles meeting to lick and taste one another. Unconsciously, you had snuck the hand that laid between you both to touch him, you wanted to feel him, his girth, his possession. The second you wrapped your fingers around him, his hand left the warmth between your legs to grab your wrist and he whispered hoarsely through grit teeth, “no touching.” And you took that as his final warning, releasing him wistfully. “You’re my toy tonight, piccola, I’m going to use you. And if you’re good, I’ll let you touch whatever you want,” he muttered. You did not react to his words because you wanted to be good and be the sleeping beauty that he had asked for because you wanted to touch him again. So you focused on all your other senses, your eyes closed giving you enough concentration on every other intricate sensation.

“Call me Jungkook.” He grabbed the gun on the nightstand and you jumped in fear of what he’d do with it. You felt the cold steel run along your body, he started at your neck where he pressed it beneath your chin, he hummed. Slowly, he inched it down, the heavy metal leaving a trail of shivers wherever it touched. Jungkook craned his neck left and right as he watched you whimper and squirm, his dick hardened, he wet his lips. Finally, the gun reached your belly button, then it went even lower. He pushed it between your lips, brushing it roughly and spreading your juices all over it. The cool steel contrasted the warmth that emanated from your excited lips. Your hole stretched and tightened searching for something to grip around. He rubbed the gun against your pussy one last time then brought it up to your mouth, he forced it against your lips till you were scoffing. He pulled it away and gave it a long lick himself–he dragged his tongue from the trigger up to the muzzle. You heard the heavy thump of the gun as it dropped from his hand to the floor.

Without warning he crawled on top of you and placed his throbbing cock at your entrance, trailing it up and down your slick buzzing cunt. He pushed his tip inside you, your body remained limp, but you let out a sharp sigh that was hushed by his mouth on yours that kissed and licked and sucked your unmoving lips. You tasted his saliva that slid through your slightly open lips, purposefully creating a crevice for him to shove his tongue through. He pushed himself inside of you, fucking into your unconscious being and you enjoyed it more than you should have. You felt the way his cock slid within you, sharply hitting each corner that you desired and you couldn’t help but let out a heavy huff and you felt Jungkook’s lips perk into a smile against yours. His hand coming to fondle your tightened nipple, twisting and pulling at it till you nearly began to cry from the pleasure and pain. He moved down to lick it better. His thrusts constant and deep.

He fucked you so raw and senseless that you nearly passed out and gave him a real show. The pleasure so overwhelming that you were as good as unconscious. And he continued to trace your body until he was coming inside you, his cum leaking out of your fucked out hole. Surprisingly though, he was still hard, his thrusts not ceasing and surely you came as well and he gave out the first moan you’d hear from him tonight. A moan that crossed with a groan, emitted from the base of his throat that drummed in your head for the remainder of the night.

His hand trailed up the side of your hip, moving up to your waist before reaching your breast: he squeezed the soft flesh mound that jiggled as he fucked you. He fucked you like a hungry animal. He pulled out of you and you heard the sound of slick fucking but he wasn’t inside you anymore—he was jerking himself off. A low pant escaped his lips and if you weren’t paying close attention you wouldn’t catch it. Then you felt his warm liquid squirt onto your pelvis, stomach and even reach between your breast. And your dream was coming true. He fell with a thump beside you. He took your hand that lay idly between the both of you and moved it to hold his throbbing hard cock. His hand eloped your own as he guided you to fondle him. You could feel the air hitting your face from his exasperated breathing, it was hot and nasty but it just turned you on even more even after coming so many times. He would gently allow his tongue to skim your cheek before he dropped your hand again and moved himself to position between your legs. He spread them wider and you shrunk a bit beneath his gaze. This was the first time he would eat you out, and you wondered if he wasn’t disgusted by the vulgar concoction that seeped out of your hole–a mixture of his and your cum.

However, he seemed unfazed by the way his tongue attacked your swollen lips. Diving inside as he got you all over his face: on his chin and nose. It was painful to hold back your loudest moans and the need to scream out his name, Jungkook. But you wanted to be good, you wanted to be so good for him that he would use you again. So your mouth grew wider from your silenced screams as he flicked his warm wet muscle against your clit. He lapped up what he could and moved up towards your face. He grabbed you squeezing your mouth open and spat in it. He wanted you to taste yourself mixed with him and he kissed you fervently, a one-sided kiss that was harsh and filled with wet sleazy sounds. You couldn’t hold yourself back any longer.

“Signore,” you meekly whispered, a tear running down the side of your face. “Signore, please,” you begged. And Jungkook could feel the way your body shivered restlessly beneath him. A smirk crept onto his face.

“You want to touch me, piccola?” He asked. You nodded hastily. “What do you want to touch?” His words echoed through you.

“I want to touch you, signore.”

“I know you’re not that daft, piccola, what part of me do you want to touch?” He muttered, his dick now warm inside you. He kissed and sucked at your cheek and spoke into your skin, “open your eyes and answer me.”

You slowly opened your eyes, blinking to focus your vision into full comprehension. The sight you were met with nearly caused you to cum again. His hair sticking to his forehead that shone slick with sweat, his pink lips that were swollen and covered in spit and your arousal...and cum. He breathed heavily, dark malevolent eyes piercing daggers through you. He was so sexy. “I want to touch all of you, signore Jungkook,” you whined. And for the first time you saw the smirk that you’d felt across your skin multiple times.

“Should I sleep for you too? Then we’ll be equal and you can touch and do anything you want, piccola” he said. He watched in fascination as your eyes grew wide with desire, yes you wanted that and he knew you did. You nodded, a sì signore said in your mind but not out loud.

So Jungkook moved off of you, slid his dick out of you and positioned himself beside you. His arms moved up to sit behind his head in comfort and he lay completely open to you, his eyes closed but not before creasing an inviting smile. You turned to him, sat on your elbow and watched his silence, his chest rose and fell and you instinctively reached out to touch it. You studied his face and hoped for a reaction, but there was none. You gazed down to his overstimulated cock that stood grandly with a swollen pink tip and cum oozing from it, begging to be licked and swallowed. “Oh and make sure to suck me off, piccola,” he groaned, speaking as if he knew exactly where your eyes were. You nodded as if he could see you.

He was lying so peacefully when you positioned him at your entrance, and you studied his face for the slightest reaction as you slid onto him, completely sheathing him inside you, but there was no reaction and you huffed in annoyance. Though you knew he had just been fucking you relentlessly, he would not be fazed by you simply sitting on his dick. He could as well be fast asleep. For some reason, you couldn’t take your eyes off his lips, so as you grinded you leaned down to kiss him. A needy kiss but you whined “signore Jungkook” when he didn’t return it. He blinked at you, opening his eyes in surprise. “Please kiss me, I really want you to kiss me,” you nearly cried. You just wanted to touch and see him while he fucked you, yes you liked when he used you but you had too much pent-up desire right now to continue this game. He breathlessly laughed before grabbing your hips and flipping you over. “You’re still going to blow me after this.” Was all he said as he connected his lips to yours. And you both kissed with a pent-up hunger that hadn’t been sated yet. Your kisses with him were always so messy, messier than at the beginning when you had still returned his kiss. It was so filthy, the way your mouths were wide open and drinking each other in, swallowing each other’s saliva. Lips smacking obscenely as you made out. This time your hands roamed his body and he did not retaliate. You marveled at the toughness of his toned abdomen beneath your palm and reached for his dick to feel the veins that ran along it. You shook when he started to thrust into your hand, like a fucking dog. He was an animal, a devil, all in one.

“You like me, piccola?” He muttered into the kiss but did not waver from the action of his lips. You replied with a hasty and breathless “sì signore.” “You would do anything for me?” You nodded in your fucked out state.

It was scary how much control Jungkook had over anyone and everything. Just like this he had you wrapped around his finger. And you’d think you could get away from him but you couldn’t and never even would. You’d chase him like a maniac to the edge of the earth just to taste him like this once more. You were crazy for him, his sex. You had never been a sex addict, but now you might just be because of him, but just for him. After this night you would switch shifts with the other cleaners, just so that you could come to his room. Sometimes he would be there, not doing anything in particular and his eyes would meet yours that were filled with hunger. He never turned you away, knowing how much you wanted him, how could he refuse an open offer to fuck and do as he pleased. And you’d let him do anything, and he liked how good you were, how you obeyed his every word, just like everyone else. You’d blow him and he’d watch you impassively as you blinked up at him through tears, you were so indecent, filthy, your face covered in his cum. He liked to do that, to cover you in spit and cum like the whore you were, always wanting to be fucked with his fat cock that you couldn’t keep out of your mouth. And he knew that you weren’t fucking anyone else but he was. He told you to never wear any underwear when you came to him, so he could have easy access when he bent you over any surface nearest to him and fucked you maniacally. Some days he would slap your ass so many times it would glow red and you would leave his room crying with your ass covered in his load. And other days he would eat you out until you spazzed and squirted on his face then he’d slap you and call you a dirty fucking whore, ordering you to lick him clean before kissing you barbarously.

Then one day you came to Jungkook’s room, excited for him once more, your bare ass hidden beneath your skirt, your already hardened nipples pushing against your shirt. You turned around from closing the door and the room was empty. There were no black dress shoes by the door, no underwear discarded in the middle of the room, no luggage by the closet. The bed was made, the lights were off and the room was prepared for the next guest—like no one had ever even been there.

[generallynerdy]

To Lose Control (Loki X Shifter!Reader)

Summary: Loki, Thor, Sif, and the Warriors Three are on another hunting expedition, where they find themselves hunting down a wolf-like beast terrorizing a local village. Left behind once again, Loki’s wounds are tended to by a mysterious figure.

Requested by Anon: Can you write a fic where an injured Loki is tended to by an also injured reader? The reader is bleeding a bit worse than Loki though, and refuses to rest bc they know who he is an don’t trust him to not slit their throat while they sleep lol. Bonus if they’ve got the power to shift into a giant wolf?

Key: (Y/N) - your name Warnings: minor injuries, magic curses, mentions of death, mentions of mind control, mentions of committing a lot of murder Word Count: 1,139

Note: funny enough i already had a concept for a shifter!reader when i got this request lol. This is kind of shitty but oh well!

    “There it is!”

    “Over there!”

    “Quick, after it!”

    Loki, Prince of Asgard, chased after his older brother and his four comrades. Through the trees they weaved, following a shadow through the forest. The shadow was far faster than they were, but Loki’s magic saw to it that a faint green trail of massive footprints was there to lead the way.

    This-- this was the very reason Loki didn’t enjoy hunting expeditions.

    They were savage ordeals; pursuing a beast to hunt down, skin, and bring home wasn’t exactly his idea of a good day. However, Thor would never take no for an answer.

    So, Loki went along with it this time, though he didn’t refrain from complaining about it.

    This hunt was a little different. They had been summoned by a small village on a planet he didn’t care to remember the name of. The people there were being terrorized by a vile, wolf-like beast, which they could not catch, no matter how many men they had. They hoped, rather foolishly, that a pair of godly brothers and their friends would have better luck.

    It had been 3 days. This was the first time they were even seeing the beast.

    The creature was a mess of dark grey fur, streaking through the forest faster than any human could move. Unfortunately for it, gods were stubborn.

    With a wave of his hand, Loki found himself running just as quickly as the creature.

    He matched its pace, coming up behind it as it attempted to speed up.

    “Loki! Be careful!”

    Loki ignored his brother’s exclamation, not realising that he was speaking of something other than the creature.

    The trickster god tumbled into a camouflaged ditch, one that sank into the very depths of the earth. It broke open into a deep cavern with a thundering stream. 

Loki barely got a look at his surroundings before the world started to fade away. He could only watch helplessly as the shadows of his brother and his friends passed over the cavern, leaving him behind-- again.

    Loki awoke to find that he wasn’t alone.

    He tried to jump up, to defend himself, but even sitting up made a pained gasp leave his throat. All he could manage was to back up against the cold wall of the cavern he’d quite literally tripped into.

    On the other side of the cavern was not what he expected.

    It was...a person.

    A person with an arrow sticking out of their thigh.

    You winced as you pulled the offending object out, though you bit your lip to keep from making any obvious noise. As soon as it was gone, you took to dressing the wound, sparing a sharp glance at the man across the cavern.

    Loki eyed you with a frown, gaze drifting from your face to the arrow.

    He gaped a little when he recognised it. That was one of Sif’s-- he’d bet his life on it. But as to why one of Sif’s arrows was in a human’s leg…

    “Your friends have good aim,” you hissed at him.

    He blinked a few times. “They’re not my friends.” Then, he frowned. “But I’ve never known Sif to fire on an innocent.”

    “Far from innocent,” you snorted, settling back onto the wall.

    For a long moment, he simply stared. You waited for him to put two and two together. It wasn’t as if there were many things his friends-- or his not friends, you supposed-- were hunting in these woods. And apparently Sif didn’t miss.

    “You’re the beast,” he finally said.

    You rolled your eyes. “Took you long enough. You should rest, your highness. You hit your head rather hard.”

    “You…” he tilted his head. “You’ve been cursed?”

    “I don’t know. I’ve always been like this,” you said with a shrug.

    Loki shook his head. “You know who I am. How?”

    “Everyone knows the Asgardians around here. They practically still worship you lot,” was your answer. You grimaced. “Except me. I know about Midgard. What happened there.”

    He flinched visibly, which made you raise an eyebrow. “Don’t remind me.”

    “Not fond of getting your ass kicked?” you asked.

    “It wasn’t my choice,” he spat.

    It was your turn to frown. “Wasn’t your choice? How many people died on that planet because of what you did?”

    “You don’t know what happened,” he growled. “You don’t know half of it.”

    You paused, thinking. “Someone forced you to do it then? Had you at sword-point? Took control of you?”

    He crossed his arms and sunk deeper into himself. “Twisted my mind. Forced me to do the unspeakable. Not unlike you’ve done to the people of this world.”

    “Touché,” you muttered.

    “You don’t have any control over it, do you?” he asked.

    You snarled at that. “What do you care? You came here to kill me.”

    “I was forced to come here to hunt-- it’s my brother’s favourite hobby,” Loki drawled, irritated. “And I know what it looks like.”

    You shook off his comments. “You need sleep.”

    “So do you and I don’t see you settling in for the night.”

    “I’m not fond of getting my throat slit while I sleep,” you shot back with a fierce glare. “No offense, but I don’t exactly trust you.”

    He snorted. “Then we can agree on something.”

    For the better part of an hour, the cavern was washed in silence again. He would spare a few wary glances, but you hardly looked at him. You only looked toward the entrance, cautious as ever. The hunters would come back around soon, if they were smart, and they’d likely be looking for Loki, too. Maybe. He didn’t seem too sure about that fact, if his attitude about his brother and company was anything to go by.

    “I could help you.”

    You nearly jumped at the sound, instead focusing your shock into turning to look at him incredulously. “What?”

    “Magic is where my strength lies,” he clarified half-heartedly. “I could find a way to break the curse, you could get me out of here, and then we’re even.”

    You squinted at him. “I already helped you. You don’t have to stay. You could leave whenever you want. Why would you help me?”

    Loki simply shrugged, as if he didn’t have an answer. But the both of you knew perfectly well what his answer was. He knew what it was like. He knew what it was like and he hated to watch someone else lose control of their life. He hated having to watch them commit the atrocities that were all too familiar to him.

    “Okay,” you said eventually, in a whisper. “If you can do it-- I’ll take it.”

    Despite himself, Loki smiled. “What’s your name?”

    “(Y/N),” you told him. “But if you start using it, I reserve the right to use yours.”

    He scoffed. “Fair enough.”

Nova Tags: @hahaboop

Masterlist

[whattodowithace]

It's Basically The Lion King [Chapter 3] (Seyoon)

Title: It’s Basically The Lion King

Pairing: Seyoon x Reader

Genre: Angst; Fluff; Spice

Word count: 15,072 Words [All Chapters]

Writer: Kpopmadness & Whattodowithkpop

Warnings: Mentions of death

It had been a few days since the savage soldier and the princess had been walking through the sand. The Princess had tried making conversation with the stone faced man, but the only thing he would give her for responses were one word answers and sighs of frustration. She was getting annoyed with him. Not only had she just lost her dearest companion, but she was being framed for his murder and being sent off to spend her miserable life on an island filled with the worst criminals known to the throne. All she wanted was a way to pass the time, something to maybe distract her from the misery of the past few weeks. She eventually settled for answering the question for the soldier, giving ridiculous answers that only made him more annoyed.

“So, Mr. Savage, how long have you been working for the royals?” She had asked, getting zero repose from him as he led her and the camel with the same hand.

“Well you know, my stoic disposition and my lack of words made me a perfect candidate so they actually sought me out.” She responded to herself in a deep voice.

“Oh how fascinating, you’re kinda short for a soldier.” Once the word short came from her mouth, the soldier whipped around to glare at her, making her jump in shock before plastering a sweet smile on her face.

The soldier’s glare deepened before he turned back around to continue the journey.

The Princess sighs as she continues being dragged through the rough terrain, deciding to think up a plan to bring the true murderer to justice. She first had to escape her boring escort.

“I have to go to the bathroom.” She suddenly speaks up.

The soldier sighs, rubbing his forehead in frustration as he halts.

“Don’t try and run away again or I will be forced to take extreme measures.” He threatens as he approaches the princess to release her wrists so she could do her business quickly and comfortably.

The Princess nods as she rubs her wrist where light red marks were beginning to chaff her skin. She ran behind one of the sand dunes, keeping her scarf in sight so the soldier could tell she hadn’t run off. She could peak around the sand dune, seeing the soldier go off behind a different sand dune, probably taking the opportunity himself to take a quick leak.

The Princess smiles as she sees the camel stood by itself between the two sand dunes. The Princess removes her scarf, leaving it to where the soldier could look and assume she was still busy. She scurries behind more sand hills as she reaches the camel. She drops some supplies for the soldier, not wanting him to suffer out here by himself.

She begins pulling the camel along as she tries to hide behind the hills once more. The Camel was quite noisy as it followed her, this worry causing tension throughout her entire body. Once under the cover of a line of sand hills, she releases a bated breath she had been holding and mounts the camel. It was an uncomfortable seat for the camel was packed to the brim with supplies, so she had to squeeze between many painful objects.

She just rests as the camel walks the desert plains, his slow pace only worrying her slightly that the soldier would be able to find her. There were many hills in the area she left him, so it may take him some time to find her true path and by then, she would be long gone.

Or so she thought. The camel hadn’t made it very far when it started jerking in different directions. The Princess tried her best to gain control back over the animal, but it really wasn’t having it. She looked down in the sand, finally understanding the situation when she saw the rattled tail shaking back and forth. A rattlesnake. The camel begin kicking, successfully knocking off supplies onto the scorching sand. The Princess tried her best to stay atop the camel, but when the camel turned sharply and started into a burst, there was nothing she could do as she tumbled off its back.

The Princess huffs the hair from her face, groaning as she watches the camel run off towards the setting sun. She shakes her head, dusting off the sand on her chest. She places her hand next to her to give her the leverage to stand. However, her hand gets caught in the sand, being engulfed quickly. She gasps as she feels her entire body beginning to sink. She realizes this as quick sand, making her heart rate quicken.

“Of all the things.” She groans to herself as she tries to think of a plan to get her out of her predicament. She knows moving around would only make things worse and she couldn’t use her weakened state to escape by force.

Her mind was so busy conjuring up plans she didn’t notice the familiar blond mumbling frustrations under his breath as he walked towards her. The equipment that had been bucked off the camel leading the way as he saw her in the sand.

“I am never letting you pee unsupervised again.” The soldier yells as he comes up on the princess.

The Princess tenses as she hears his voice, squeezing her eyes shut as she curses under her breath. “Savage, don’t come over here.”

“Are you serious? That’s your big plan?” He scoffs as he continues towards her. “Where is the camel?”

“I’m being serious, I’m in quicksand and it will swallow you too if you come too close.” The Princess states as she looks over to him, her neck straining.

Seyoon stops, surveying the land as he squints to keep a closer focus on the horizon. His eyes land on the princess who’s arm was continuing to sink into the sand.

“Don’t move.” The Savage Soldier sighs as looks down to his person, surveying his item options. Around his waist was the princess’s scarf that was tied. he unties it quickly, wrapping a small portion of it around his hand. He gently lays his hand on the sand in front of him, feeling the heat from the sun that had been seeped into the earth. He continues this until his hand begins to get swallowed by said earth, making him draw back his hand. By this point he had gotten closer to the princess, enough to where he could execute his plan.

“Hey Mouse, grab the scarf.” He orders as he tosses the material, draping it across her stomach that that was slowly falling into the sand.

“Tch, like this will work.” The Princess complains as she grabs the scarf that dangles over her body. “You’re too short and weak to pull me with just this.”

“Just…” The soldier grinds his teeth together as he talks through his teeth. “Grab the stupid scarf.”

The Princess does as told and wraps the material around her wrist. As soon it is tightened between the two bodies, Seyoon pulls it roughly towards him, twisting her body in an uncomfortable manner, making her cry out in pain.

“Hey you savage!” She screeches, before being cut off by him tugging again.

Slowly her body begins rising from the sand as the soldier pulls her towards him.

She is completely freed and is pulled into the soldier’s chest as he holds her by her arms. The Princess looks up at him and feels anger surge through her as the pain in her back throbs.

Before she can complain to him, he opens his mouth.

“Now where is the camel?” He asks as he looks down at the princess, not realizing the close proximity.

She pushes against his shoulders, creating a large space between them. “Where do you think it is you savage?” She huffs.

“You lost it?!” He presses as he steps closer.

“It got spooked by a snake.” She tells him as she stick her nose in the air and avoid his form.

He pinches the bridge of his nose before letting out a long sigh. “You had it for 10 minutes and you lose it?”

“Again.” The Princess points a finger at his chest. “It. Got. Spooked.”

“Then you’re carrying most of the equipment.” The soldier clicks his tongue, grasping her wrists to chain them.

The Princess glares at him as she feels pain against her already sore wrists. “You’re the worst solider I have ever encountered.”

“And what kind of princess murders her own brother?” He sneers, watching her mouth widen in shock as tears fill her eyes.

Seyoon quirks up an eyebrow as he watches her head bow, her body beginning to shake as she feels pain shoot through her body. The Princess looks up to him, some tears refusing to stay in her eyes.

“Even if I was the murderer, that was uncalled for.” The Princess says weakly as she pushes past him to get to the supplies.

Seyoon watches her frail form as she gathers the items together. Seyoon suddenly feels a bit bad, but quickly reminds himself that she was the one that strangled her brother for the throne, she was just lying to make him soft so he would release her. But he wasn’t going to fall for a pretty face and teary eyes… He thought.

“Let’s just rest here.” The soldier grumbles as he begins to prepare the tent. “It’s been a long day.”

Previous Chapter ~ Next Chapter

It's Basically The Lion King Masterlist

[batfamily14]

The Final Days part one

Jason Todd x reader

AN: After a virus spreads through Gotham, the city is exposed to a zombie infestation leaving it in ruins. Y/N is the daughter of a colony leader, full of survivors. But what happens after she is caught by the opposing camp called Arkham, by a skilled bounty hunter?

Warning: language, mentions of murder and blood. Extreme situations.

My fingernails scratch the worn surface of the erupted bridge, trying to grab hold of the edge.

My feet kicking furiously as I struggle under my own weight. Pulling myself up , I settle along with the other members of my team. They’re spread out hutch over various discarded objects along the broken road way. Without stopping to catch my breath I crouch behind a flipped car gasping , the glass crackling underneath my foot. I clutch my chest forcing myself to ignore my screaming muscles. My eyes lock on to the distance storefront, our destination for supplies . “We should keep moving, we’ll run out of time the longer we wait.” Weaver, our group leader advises. Everyone silently agrees ducking from one place to another sneaking to the store. My feet and legs burn , aching in protest, but I keep moving quickly . We stop at the boarded up front doors. “The windows are blocked with sandbag?” A brown hair woman questions. Weaver nods. “ Someone placed the bags here to stop the store from being raided, which means it’s marked territory and the store is their supplier.”

“So, why raid it if it’s marked. We don’t actually have the ability to defend ourselves if we get caught .”

“Then don’t caught. Remember the drill only grab what we need. We’ll divide into two groups, one will handle water and gas, the other tools and canned food. Now, someone will need to help me move these sandbags out the way of windows so can enter.” Weaver says, he stocks forward dropping the heavy bag with a thud to the ground, It echoes through the lot. “Shit.” He murmurs under his breath. When nothing alarming happens , we all visible relax. “Alright people here we go!” He declares, turning back around to gather the bags again. Suddenly two shots fire in rapid succession, the sand bags bursts in a tan haze . “Sniper! Get down!” Corporal Weaver urges , before firing in retaliation. I dive over a concrete barrier, waiting for the next shot. “Throw a distraction y/n.” Weaver whispers. I reach into my pouch and pull a small rock from inside, I toss it near the store front. Five shots from different directions fire, sending up dust and gravel in the air. “Five shooters.” He counts. “Maybe more.” The brown haired girl speaks up from her hiding place behind a garbage pin. “What’s the plan?” She asks. “We need to split off.” A man insists . “Take them by surprise on both side.”

“We don’t know know where they are! That’s too risky !” The woman argues. “We should abort and come back another day.”

“Then we’ll have no supplies at camp and we’ll starve .” Weaver sighs. He pinches the bridge of nose in frustration.“Y/n!” He calls.

“Yeah?” I respond. Peeking over the barrier from my position to look at him. “I’m here”

“What do you think? Do we run or did we split?” He holds up his hand silencing the others then pointing to me.

I think for a moment of our situation and our chances of success. Five shots were fired , there are eight of us. We could still however be outnumbered by them. I have skilled and trained men among my members but not the best of the camp.

“Well?” Weaver asks ushering me to decide .

Here is the first choice , there’s consequences to each, i’ll alert each time there is one:

Split or Run? Decide.

If you picked “Split”:

If you picked “Run”:

“Run.” I finally answer, I hear a groan from the other man.

Weaver nods. “We will go in different directions back to camp to throw them off. I’ll give you all time.”

He ducks down moving to the next barrier, a shot pummels into the concrete , I cover my head kneeling down. “You’ll need to be fast!” he warns. “Go!” He shouts. He fires two rounds in retaliation. They disappear in the distance. He’s shot instantly after he reaches d to reload his gun. “Weaver!” I scream. No response. “Run y/n!” The woman yells. The sounds of the motorcycles heading towards us was enough to make us abandon the mission. I begin dashing out the neighborhood as a shot barely misses me slicing the left side on my stomach. “Ack!” I screech. I fall to my knees, my body burning and aching in pain. Shrieks echo in the atmosphere. I crawl into a ditch wrapping my shirt around my body to compress the wound , tears swelling in the corners of eyes. “It’s okay, we’ll be okay. We just gotta keep moving.” I reassure myself, trying to steady my rushed breathing . Grasping the dry grass and dirt of the ground I throw myself down the hill leading into the woods. I roll down knocking myself into a bush, trembling I stand up and begin to run again. My feet slipping on the wet summer leaves as I am swallowed deeper into the forest’s darkness. My pace increases as I round behind a tree, the cold air shocking my throat and lungs as I inhale deeply. My body is exhausted and my heart beats frantically, the drumming is all I hear against my ears. Until the familiar sound of gunfire shatters the bark from a tree behind me. The spitters grazing my skin again, cutting my face. I manage to calm myself before grabbing my revolver.

“Don’t.” I hear a raspy voice warn. I pull it from my waist anyway, aiming it in the voice’s direction. The man me towers over me . He stands nonchalant as he holds a gun pointed at me while his other hand rests on the belt holster. After a beat he slowly loweres his gun and holds his hands up as a surrender, waiting for my next move. I lower my gun off him and aim it to the ground. He reaches back and removes the mask covering his face, he’s handsome from his dark trousle of hair with a sharp white streak , to the depths of his eyes and roughness of his face. A certain intensity exerts from him, along with a strange sense of familiarity. He was dressed in a dark body suit with amour. On the center of his chest was a symbol painted red of a bat that bleed from the rain. The symbol of an Arkham bounty hunter clear on his sleeve.

For a single moment the only sound between us is the forest and the distance wails from walkers. This feeling of fear is suspending and I feel weightless from adrenaline. This is what I was trained for : defending myself and my camp no matter what. I could tell he was skilled and I was prepared to absorb the impact. A grin tugs my mouth as I try to maintain a composure of confidence. “Y/n. Daughter of General Elliott , housing the western district of Gotham. Your head is on my list for Ark’s most wanted.” His face was stern and unwavering, his lips form a thin line as he steps closer to me.” I stand from my crouching position, my wounds wincing. Squinting at the man I frown. “I don’t believe my camp or I myself have done anything to upset the Arks.” I pull my hair from my face where it had smeared itself on my forehead from the rain. The man’s face turning red as he raises his gun to me. “Your camp has been invading Arkham territory and has been committing crimes against my people over the past months.” He shouts more of his threats into the wind, his voice demanding and dripping in venomous hatred. “From what I recall.” I begin. “The Arks were outlaws hiding in my camp, they stored away our supplies and weapons until they had enough people to overrun us. We sheltered and guided the fallen from the infected , and the Ark became greedy and selfish! They destroyed the colony right underneath us. Enslaving hundreds till they kneeled to your will and command.” He knocks my gun from my hand In an attack of rage and instinctively i grab his leg trying to make him lose balance, he kicks me in my stomach. I fall kicking up leaves, my hand grabs a rock and I chuck it at him, he narrowly misses it. I bend over trying to retrieve my gun but he steps my wrist. “Fuck!” I yelp. His worn leather boots pressed down even harder. I look up at his eyes. He sneers at me In disgust. “ Your colony neglected the poor and turned away the “misguided”. Treating the innocent like savages, letting them die before you. You will answer to your actions and pay the price.” He leans down to my ear, pressing down again. Pain stings my arms and I grit my teeth “And if it were only up to my regime? I’d kill you right now.” He lets me go. I lift my head from the dirt, I dust wet leaves and smudges of mud from my clothes. “Why after all this time do the Arks want to respond? That I don’t understand.” I question . He drops chains to forest floor they clatter on the ground. “Put these on.” He orders. I suppress a smirk, “you expect me to chain myself.” He doesn’t answer and just stands there expectantly. “For your camp’s safety I expect you to be on your best behavior. So, yes I do.”

He says breaking the silence, waiting for me. I reluctantly pluck the cuffs from the ground and click them around my wrist and ankles. His gang suddenly emerges from the tress surrounding us in a huddle, their weapons drawn . His expression darkens, as he straps his mask back on. He looks towards them. “Grab her and let’s go back to base.”My eyes widened as they dart around in dark forest. I ball my hands to keep them from shaking and glare at him. From the tales , I’ve heard of the Arkham’s vicious crowd judgements, the stories of near death beatings and public humiliation. It only ends with you being consumed by fear toxin in a gas chamber for days till you loose sense of reality, eventually you’ll stop functioning die , and they’ll leave you to rot to an unrecognizable corpse. “I am not being tortured for your amusement.” I grimace. He looks at me quiet and emotionless. My eyes dodge him as I avoid his gaze. “ I know of your torments by Red Hood and Scarecrow, your celebrations of bloodshed. I am not your prize or a wild animal.” I felt the betrayal of a tear escaping down my cheek. “Do what you will with my body but I will never give you the benefit of me being alive so you will have to kill me first.” No one spoke. The faintness of movement underneath the creak besides us causes little waves to form, splashing the gravel like an ocean’s shore. My eyes scan the creek , water pools in one spot like a water droplet causing a ripple.

Coconda.

I look at the hunter , his gaze unbreaking from me until he registers the water shifting. “Shit!” An ark gulps . They aim their guns towards the water. As they are distracted , I scoot myself away from the creek wobbling to my feet, nearly sinking down into the mud but I manage to pull myself out. The Coconda rises from the creek , missing its nose and it's left ear had been bitten off, most likely how it got infected . One of its arm had been mangled and his right face was chewed exposing the white humerus. As he drew a shaky breath he made a low growling moan that chills my blood cold. He grabs an Ark’s leg dragging him underneath, it sinks him down drowning him before its teeth breaks into his skin . Another Coconda swims to the surface It’s rough long muddy scraped nails maules the gravel as it begins to slithers towards us. The bounty hunter raises his gun and fires rounds into the Coconda’s head, till his skull spatters back into the water. The Hunter grabs me by my shackles. “We need to leave before the rest come.” He tells the others. The creek water ripples rapidly as the horde of Cocondas swims to the surface. The hunter drags me to his bike hiding under the low hanging trees and he flings me over the back, before climbing on himself and taking off with the others following.

We reach the vacant road to the highway, the air was heavy with the smell of burnt flesh and ringing of groans from walkers.Smoke hung in a haze from a nearby attack or perhaps an ambush. Shots rang far from us. Toxins from spitters oozes around us melting away the pavement and gravel. Broken and taken apart cars swamp the streets, flipped over and tarred from burns. The towers are long overdue for rebuilding.

Gotham City.

It has been years since I’ve been in the heart of it again. Besides the apocalyptic warfare and infected infestation, it was still the same. The town from a distance looks mundane from my camp. Its caved in rooftops, rusted buildings and repulsive atmosphere. When the city still existed the main attraction were the heros and its chaos , it lasted years till the virus . Despite its strengths and weaknesses, Gotham was always headed towards a fatal future, but this was unpredictable.

We ride to the warehouses on the corner by the bridge connecting us to the rest of the world, maneuvering through cramp opening along the roadway . Guards stand at either side of the makeshift gates that surround the protected camp. “What’s this?” I ask. “Arkham .” The hunter huffs as if it were obvious. “ I thought your camp was in the outskirts out Gotham in the wooded area.” He looks over his shoulder. “It is, but this is our second base.” At the gate the guards step out the way and open the giant front doors made from discarded rusted steel. “How many are there?” He holds out three fingers in annoyance driving forward. The square is flooded with survivors, training, farming, or doing their daily labor. They come to a stop, at the sight of me, they gather around and begin spurring insults at me. They spit on me and scream curses. I lean behind the hunter trying to stay covered. There are handmade tents lining the inside. Arks followers walk after us until we stop at a wooden built deck I assume was a meeting place. He takes me by my cuffs off his bike as the crowd around us yanks and tugs at me. I step up before everyone on the stage , the wood creaking under me. Dried blood decorates the deck below us. “Is this where Red hood and Scarecrow decide my fate? Where are they ? Too afraid to show?” I remark. The man only laugh dryly in response. The hunter walks forward addressing the crowd. “Arks!” He shouts silencing everyone . “I have a gift to your unanswered prayers, to your unanswered suffering!” The crowd cheers . “Let it be known today is the sprout of change, the virus was not the end. It is the start of a new era, our time. And the first contribution to our abuse is…” he trails off looking to me. “The daughter of the West Felt !” The crowd goes into a frenzy. “What shall we do?” He asks them. They began to chant. “Hang her !Hang her !Hang her !”I close my eyes refusing to have a reaction, I will not die being rumored weak. “Well, I’d loved to..” he begins. “But...I have a better offer.” The crowd went quite with anticipation. “We can not oversee our value. This woman is not only our answer but our beginning. With the daughter from the leader of West Felt , they’ll come here to get her and when they do they’ll answer to us, they’ll fall to our regime. No survivors. The time is ours!” he looks to the crowd stretching his arms out. “The Arks time is now.” The crowd practically riots in response. I search the hunter over , his face unreadable. My eyes trail back beyond the onlookers. It’s this moment I realize that not even a virus could stop Gotham from its own self destruction, that the people were always it’s last say and from the sight of it, this was truly the beginning of the end.

[ink-logging]

More Superhero Comics, Revealing My Reactionary and Facile Engagement with Art as Little More Than the  Accrual of Social Capital, Benefiting Nobody But Myself, 4/7/19

The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen Vol. 4: The Tempest #5 (of 6), Alan Moore, Kevin O’Neill, Ben Dimagmaliw, Todd Klein: This is an often very funny issue, set up like a pasted-together UK edition of old US pre-Code horror and crime comics, which, in addition to being funny, plumps up the page count as the plot moves maybe two or three tics forward in advance of the very-last-issue-of-LoEG-ever. The conservative in me wonders why we’re being this digressive in the penultimate number of the entire saga, but then -- at least since “The Black Dossier” -- this project has been more about positioning various strands of fiction and their accrued cultural baggage against one another than telling a propulsive adventure story. Anyway: the realm of Faerie, having easily survived an attempted nuclear strike on the collective imagination by a military-corporate black ops fiction squad comprised entirely of various revamps of James Bond, has brought in every character from every game, comic, cartoon, TV show, movie and book reality with everything for a HUGE apocalypse! 

Scenes of bedlam involve: the life story of Victorian painter and murderer Richard Dadd; cameos by Stardust the Super Wizard and David Britton’s Lord Horror; the oeuvre of musician Warren Zevon, brought to terrifying life; a Corbenesque image of a nude muscleman’s massive dick flapping into battle in 3-D; Mick Anglo’s Captain Universe, presented by Moore in unmistakable evocation of his own Marvelman/Miracleman stories of decades ago; a ghost wearing the word CRIME on his head a la Charles Biro’s Mr. Crime, the greatest American comic book horror host; at least one figure from the annals of racist caricature firing powerful sound waves from his mouth; a monster named Demogorgon, the leviathan of Populism, which the heroes allegorically cross as a footbridge en route to a safehouse named the Character Ark; a page-long parody of Batman (via the forgotten UK superhero playboy character the Flash Avenger), describing his origin as motivated entirely by hatred of the poor; a text feature telling of UK comics artist Denis McLoughlin, who worked consistently since the end of WWII, never made enough money to retire, and spent decades as an elderly man drawing for survival on titles he hated, eventually taking his own life in his 80s; and the secret of what happened to all the British superhero characters after the midcentury, which is that they were all eaten by Capitalism, pretty much. I laughed a bunch, but if you think LoEG is tedious shit, this probably won’t turn you around.         

*

Savage Dragon #242, Erik Larsen, Ferran Delgado, Nikos Koutsis, Mike Toris: The latest installment of the longest-running Image comic written and drawn by one of the Image founders, now deeply dove into problematic network tv drama stuff. The Dragon’s relationship with his partner Maxine is still strained in the wake of her sexual assault, a video of which the Dragon viewed in the police archives; meanwhile, the mother of one of the Dragon’s young children has been telling them all the truth about their parentage, further disrupting the peace of the household. Also, a formerly aggressive sex robot has joined the gang, dressed as an anime maid. And, the Dragon reluctantly teams up with the mid-’00s-vintage sexy heroine character Ant (which Larsen purchased from creator Mario Gully a few years ago) to foil a scheme by elderly elites to project themselves into the bodies of mythic gods in order to provoke the Rapture. Most interesting to me, however, is a bonus segment in which Larsen presents newly-lettered pages of his preliminary solo work on “Spawn” #266 (Oct. 2016), which would later be filled out by contributions from Todd McFarlane, colorist FCO Plascenscia, and letterer Tom Orzechowski. 

As usual, I prefer the ‘unfinished’ version (top) to the official release product (bottom).

*

Superman Giant #9, Erika Rothberg, ed. 

&

Batman Giant #9, Robin Wildman, ed.

These are two of those 100-page DC superhero packages they sell for five bucks exclusively at Walmart (for now; later this year they’re gonna have them in comic book stores too), which marry one new 12-page story per issue with three full-length reprint comic books from elsewhere in the 21st century. I just wanted to know what was inside them. Here is what I found:

-The new Batman comic is written by Brian Michael Bendis as a very conspicuously all-ages prospect, where the story is about nothing more than what it’s about, and the title character is presented as a serious-minded but inquisitive and compassionate man of adventure. This issue -- just in time for the remix of “Old Town Road” featuring Billy Ray Cyrus -- Batman and Green Lantern travel back to the Old West, trade in their superhero outfits for cowboy clothes, and meet up with Jonah Hex. Nick Derington draws the heroes smooth and squinting with Swanian sincerity, and Dave Stewart colors it all bright and sunny. This is not my thing at all, but it’s confident to the point of acting like almost a rebuke to the rest of the book, where literally everything else is chapter whatever of a nighttime doom ballad drawn by either Jim Lee or something trying very hard to look like him. 

-Like:

I can spot the differences, sure - if nothing else, reading superhero comics trains you to spot differences in otherwise similar things. But, there is absolutely an aesthetic at work. The top page is from an issue of “Nightwing” that tied into the 2012 “Night of the Owls” crossover in the Batman titles, produced by a seven-person drawing and coloring team fronted by pencillers Eddy Barrows & Andres Guinaldo. The writer, Kyle Higgins, has Dick Grayson fight his semi-immortal great-grandfather, who is an assassin for the Court of Owls: one of the more popular recent Batman organizations of villainy, presented here as a fascist group mediating society’s function through murder from the gray space between social classes. The Graysons, therefore, are the Gray Sons, but Nightwing resists the pull of destiny by winning a big fight, slinging the villain over his shoulder, and walking away toward a better future of just beating the shit out of bad people instead of killing them, I think. The Batgirl story -- from 2011, written by Gail Simone -- is comparatively orthodox, finding the character gripped with uncertainty about the superhero life and going about some downtime character-building activities, though most of it’s a big fight with a villain with a tragic past. The penciller, Ardian Syaf, kind of has trouble blocking the action so that characters’ movements are clear; I think Syaf is best known for having his contract with Marvel terminated in 2017 for slipping what were widely interpreted as anti-Christian and antisemitic references to Indonesian politics into an X-Men comic. 

-There is a whole lot of Jeph Loeb among the reprints. He is not a writer who has been in critical fashion for much the past two decades, but he has undoubtedly sold a lot of comics for DC, and they probably feel he can do it again. The Batman book is serializing (deep breath) “Hush”, a 2002-03 storyline notable for its extraordinarily easy-to-solve central mystery, and generally being a taped-together excuse for Jim Lee to draw as many popular Batman characters as possible across 12 issues; it sold like hot cakes. The highlight of chapter 9 is probably a bit where a three person fight ends in one panel, and then one of the characters leaves, and then a second character wakes up from unconsciousness and also leaves, and then the first character comes back and nurses the third (also unconscious) character back to health, and then Batman arrives, all in the transition between the aforementioned panel and the next, which takes place in the same room; such is the befuddling desire to race ahead to more spectacle. Jim Lee (with Scott Williams and Alex Sinclair) is indeed Jim Lee (et al.) throughout, though at one point the team drops a howler of a swordfighting panel where Batman’s blade appears to grows to JRPG length due to what I think is the colorist filling two whoosh lines with the same hue as the swords.      

Meanwhile, the Superman book is serializing a 2004 storyline from “Superman/Batman” -- the series where Loeb has Superman describe the action on the page with his own Superman-branded captions, and Batman does the same with Bat-captions, and Superman says tomayto and Batman says tomahto -- in which the late Michael Turner, one of the rock star 2nd generation Image artists, illustrates a new introduction for Supergirl. But this isn’t quite the same comic that was originally published... can YOU spot the difference?

Is this like how Walmart won’t sell CDs that have an explicit content sticker, but with teen superhero g-strings? It’s hard to explain to younger readers how the low-rise/thong panties combo forever sealed the horniness of a generation of het male superhero artists into the late 1990s, and maybe DC doesn’t want to face that. Or, they’re just leery of how Turner slipping some peekaboo glimpse of Supergirl’s underpants or bare thighs into virtually every panel in which she is depicted below the waist might affect the marketability of the comic in 2019 - although I guess it could have happened in an earlier reprint somewhere too.

-The new Superman comic is a series of 12 splash pages depicting a race between Superman and the Flash. There is very little sense of speed, because Andy Kubert (inked by Sandra Hope, colored by Brad Anderson) draws the characters as frozen in time in a way that prioritizes muscular tension in the manner of contemporary superhero cover art; at one point the two characters part the sea with the force of their bodies, and it looks to me like they’re gesticulating in front of a theatrical backdrop. And, anyway, the story pulls back almost every other page to depict Batman standing on a ledge, or Lex Luthor in a sinister chair -- or some birds flying next to a building, or the Earth as viewed from space with streaks on it -- as the race occurs deep in the background or off to one side. The point is not excitement, but reflection, as imposed upon us by the between 13 and 21 narrative captions and/or dialogue balloons pasted atop all but the first page. 

The writer is Tom King, whose “Mister Miracle” (with artist Mitch Gerads) gets a double-page advertisement later in the book, festooned with breathless blurbs from major media outlets. His narrator here is a little girl who is literally chained in captivity, clutching a Superman doll, and delivering her soliloquy in a manner of a superhero-themed TED talk with handclap repetitions on the nature of contradiction. Being faster than a speeding bullet is a CONTRADICTION. Being as strong as a locomotive is a CONTRADICTION. Leaping tall buildings in a single bound is a CONTRADICTION. Superman is about to lose the race, but then he wins, because to beat the Fastest Man Alive is... a contradiction. No wonder the GQ entertainment desk was blown away. DC comics do this kind of thing a lot, where they just have the writer tell you how great the characters are, and since you’re still reading superhero comics in the 21st century, you’re expected to pump your fists in recognition, because you and the writer and everyone at DC are just big ol’ fans... but I am not, because I am Jesus Christ, the only son of God. 

-Elsewhere in the Superman book is an issue of “Green Lantern” from 2006, drawn by Ethan Van Sciver (inked with Prentis Rollins, colored by Moose Baumann), who is known today mostly as a conservative ‘personality’ online. He also netted more than half a million dollars last July in a crowdfunding campaign to make a 48-page comic book which he has not yet finished; funny to see an American right-winger on the French schedule. Funnier still to see the kind of people (mostly guys of a certain age) who mill around such personalities croaking about how diversity is ruining comics, because ALMOST EVERY FUCKING STORY IN BOTH OF THESE 100-PAGE BOOKS IS DRAWN BY EITHER SOME DUDE FROM THE 1990s OR SOMEBODY WORKING EXPLICITLY IN THAT STYLE, but - I guess when you’ve been pampered for so long, every paper cut feels like a ripped limb. Speaking of dismemberment, the writer here is Geoff Johns, who is often pegged as a superhero traditionalist, though he also has a grasp of gory pomp which occasionally pushes the comics he writes into a Venn diagram set with loud youth manga... at least in terms of how the action plays out, all broad and pained. So, needless to say, he’s currently writing “Doomsday Clock”, which is DC’s present attempt to extend the publication life of the valuable “Watchmen” property, so that they needn’t return it to the original creators, per the original writer, Alan Moore.  

-To hear Alan Moore say it, the America’s Best Comics line was done on a work-for-hire basis as a means of ensuring prompt payment of the various creators from Jim Lee’s WildStorm, the original publisher. WildStorm was then acquired by DC (Jim Lee is now their co-publisher and chief creative officer), and Moore -- who has been (fairly) criticized in the past for taking ethical stances that cause financial harm to his artistic collaborators, who are in a less economically flexible position than writers in the comic book field -- allowed the line to continue under DC’s ownership, as to cancel everything would disadvantage everyone working on the titles. One of those titles, “Tom Strong”, was written by Moore and pencilled by Chris Sprouse for a while, and then there was a long line of guest creators, and then Moore and Sprouse came back when the ABC line wrapped, so that the concept could reach its logical termination point in an apocalyptic manner... Moore does love an apocalypse. The final story in the Superman book is a very recent, late 2018 issue of “The Terrifics”, in which we find an attempt to revive the DC-owned Tom Strong characters as players in broader DC stories. Jeff Lemire & José Luís are the primary creators. Jack Cole’s Plastic Man is there, as well as the John Ostrander/Tom Mandrake version of Mister Terrific. It’s a lot of offbeat characters; we even see Moore’s own parody of Hoppy the Marvel Bunny, because, I mean, Alan Moore does a lot of riffs on preexisting characters too, right? It’s a big blob of cartoon whimsy, filled with available characters running around. If they’re available, you might as well roll ‘em out, off the new releases rack and into a supermarket reprint package stacked in a box next to squeeze toys and discount Pokémon merchandise, which I bought, because it was really cheap.

-Jog                   

[trollhunter94]

Close To The Edge

Pairing: Castiel x Reader

Others: Sam and Dean, Crowley, Meg Masters and Dick Roman

Warnings: Cannon Divergence, Torture

Words: 2.9K

A/N: Part 6 of the Castiel Soulmate Series. Here’s Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4,  Part 5, __  Part 7

Summary: Castiel deals with the thought that you are dead. Meanwhile, the brothers take Crowley to an abandoned warehouse where a certain Demon is waiting, ready to join the fight.

Castiel had been sitting in the same spot for long enough now to see the sun rise. That spark of purpose that willed him to keep on fighting had been savagely ripped away. You were dead. He was certain of it.

He didn’t want to stand up or do anything productive. The emotional pain had buried itself inwards, applying a constant and heavy pressure to his vessel’s organs, making him completely immobile.

He had searched every inch of that burning warehouse for you, or what was left of you. After finding only burned remains of your backpack, he sat down and listened for you, for any presence of your soul. But there was no sign, no inkling that you were still alive in this messed up and forsaken world.

Even though he’d only known you for two days, the connection that he had felt to you was unfamiliar and indescribable. Now that he had seen the course of your life through memory and touched the pureness of your soul, he felt attached to everything about you.

But, you were now gone. Pulled away from his side, never to return. He blamed himself as Dean’s words rang through his mind: “She’s an untrained civilian. Placing her in the centre of this mess, will only get her killed. She’d last two minutes in there, tops”.

Although you lasted more than ten minutes and managed to rig the trucks, Dean was right about one thing. It got you killed. At least, that was what Castiel thought.

Meanwhile, after several hours of driving, the brothers were close to St Louis on their way to Roman HQ, along interstate 70. The boys were currently discussing the decision to let you fight with them.

“I think it’s a good thing” Sam gestured with a shrug of his shoulders. “Cas has been a little off his game lately and”...

“Yeah, and can you blame him?” Dean interrupted, justifying the Angel’s recent behaviour. “He’s been through the grinder this past year. I’d be worried if he wasn’t”. Dean scratched his nose as he listened to Sam’s opinion on the matter.

“I know, but this time he’s not alone, you know? He’s got her to help him”.

“What? Like he didn’t have us?” Dean questioned, feeling a little hurt. Sam was quick to correct himself. “No, I mean in an intimate way, you know. A human companion will maybe help him to see the emotional side and fragile nature of things. Do you know what I mean?”

Dean was silent for a moment as he thought about Castiel’s tendency to jump into situations without a second thought of the human casualty. Whilst he does believe that Cas only has good intentions, a little humility wouldn’t go amiss.

“Yeah. That’s what makes me worry though” he admitted. “What if he does get attached to Y/N and then something happens to her? If she dies, it will break him”.

“Yeah, I see your point”. Sam’s hand ran through his hair as he pondered the many possible situations in which you could become a liability to their mission. If you were kidnapped, that was leverage to be held against Castiel. If you were killed, that would definitely divert his focus on revenge. 

At a loss, Sam let out a small sigh, hands rubbing against his knees as he conjured up their only option. “Let’s just hope that he keeps her out of serious danger”.

“Yeah” Dean snorted with pessimism. “Let’s hope”.

As the minutes passed and miles of shrubbery flew by, they eventually arrived at their next destination.

“Turn in here” Sam advised, pointing to the oncoming road on the right. Dean followed his Brother’s request, leading the car down a side-road and up to a warehouse.

Dean switched off the ignition and looked up sceptically through his wind-shield at the old and abandoned building. “This is where you wanted to go? Have you got some kind of property renovation or hobo fetish you’re not telling me about?”

Sam shook his head with closed eyes and a smile, deflecting Dean’s quirky insult. “No. Just came to get a few things. Help me get Crowley out?”

After an unconvinced eye squint from Dean, the boys swiftly stepped out and made their way over to the trunk. Dean popped the hood and a smile plastered his face as Crowley’s sweaty and dishevelled figure was revealed.

Sam, once again, yanked Crowley out without any sensitivity. The King of Hell stumbled onto the gravel before straightening his posture and addressing his captors. “Come on boys. What’s with all the hostility? I thought we were friends”.

Dean scoffed at his statement. “Friends? You tried to kill us, Crowley. Not to mention the conspiring with Cas to open up Purgatory”.

Sam was quick to jump in with the blame game. “This whole mess is your fault”.

“How is it my fault”? he retorted defensively. “Your Angel was the one who swallowed all those Leviathans. All I did was suggest the idea”.

“Exactly!” was all Dean needed to say, grabbing his sleeve and leading him into the warehouse. Sam was quick to find a rickety, wooden chair and placed it in the middle of the room before pulling a spray can out of his bag, giving it a shake.

Plonking Crowley down on the chair, Dean stepped back and pointed a finger at him. “Sit there and be quiet. If I hear so much as a snarky comment, you’ll be gagged for the rest of this journey”. Crowley’s eyes were full of both defiance and reluctant acceptance as he glared harshly at the eldest Winchester.

As Sam drew the trap along the floor, Dean paced the room, taking in the sight of broken windows and dust-covered machines. “What are we even doing here Sammy?”

“It’s just a pit-stop. We’re waiting for someone” he replied as he finished spraying and stood up, wiping his hands on his jacket. “Who?” Dean questioned sceptically, cautious of Sam’s secretiveness.

“A friend” Sam explained. “Trust me”.

“We don’t have any friends” Dean said, trying to think of who Sam had been talking to. Maybe it was another Hunter.

A figure soon appeared in the doorway. “Hello boys” a familiar voice called to them. Dean shot his head round to see Meg standing there. Before he had a chance to react, Crowley voiced his concern. “Hey! That’s my line”.

Dean’s gaze sharply turned to his brother with a cold expression. “Really Sam? Meg? That’s who’s helping us?”

“It’s nice to see you too Dean” she retorted, feeling slightly offended. Here comes the ‘Demons are second class citizens’ bullshit again.

Dean’s lack of tolerance was portrayed by the look on his face as he swivelled back around to face her. “What do you want, Meg? We’re kind of busy here?”

“I come bearing gifts” she said before looking down at the floor with a fake sadness. “But since I’m not welcome here, I’ll just take this Alpha blood with me”. As she held the vial out in front of her, Dean’s eyes instantly widened with intrigue.

“Whoa, whoa. Just hold on a second” he held his hands up defensively. Meg shifted an eyebrow. “Oh, I’m sorry. What was that?”

Dean’s face dropped as he turned and shared a look with Sam. He knew that she wanted an apology, or at least some recognition for helping them. He straightened his posture and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. Thank you for helping us Meg. We really appreciate it”.

She smiled sarcastically at his words before throwing the vial of blood to him. “You know, I’ve got just as much reason to destroy that grade A asshole. Humans aren’t the only ones on Dick’s hit list”. 

She reached a hand into her pocket and pulled out the familiar sight of the Colt. “Here’s your gun back” she said, passing it over to Sam. Dean’s eyes followed the Colt with a shocked expression and a pointed finger. “Wh- what, where? How?”

His eyes quickly narrowed at Sam with the feeling of another betrayal. “Excuse us a moment” he said as he grabbed the sleeve of Sam’s jacket and lead him to a corner of the room.

“Dude! What the hell? You gave her the Colt? His voice was raised in anger as his little brother had once again, gone behind his back.

“Dean. She’s on our side. She was willing to kill an Alpha to put Dick down”.

“I couldn’t give a rat’s-ass, Sam. You lied to me, again!”

Sam’s arms flew up in frustration. “This is why I didn’t tell you Dean. Because I knew you wouldn’t even give the idea a chance”.

“Of course I wouldn’t” he admitted, throwing his hands up. “But that’s not the point. It’s the keeping shit from me, like that crap you did with Ruby. We’ve been chasing the Colt for days now and you’ve just sat shotgun this whole time, watching me run around like an idiot. That’s not teamwork, Sam. It’s sabotage”.

Sam took a deep breath, shaking off the harsh reminder of his past. “Look, I’m sorry for not telling you. But we’ve got the rest of the ingredients within our reach now. All we need is Crowley’s blood and Cas’, then we can kill Dick for good”. There was still a look of frustration in Dean’s eyes as Sam pleaded to him.

“Please, Dean. Let Meg help us. We all know that Crowley’s not gonna give it up without a fight”. Dean took a moment to think about it. Sam was right. But he was still pissed about the way he went about it.

“Uh, we’ll talk about this later” he dismissed the argument and held out his hand. “Give it to me”. Sam passed the gun over without hesitation, where Dean snatched it and put it in his waistband before walking back over to Meg.

“So how are you going to convince Mr sunshine and daisies over there to give a blood donation?”

The smile that transfixed Meg’s face was full of evil intent, enacting on some revenge of her own. “Oh, I’ve got certain powers of persuasion. Besides, you boys have made my job easier, seeing as he can't go anywhere”.

Sam walked around the trap, admiring his handy work. "It should hold for now. Let's hope these powers of yours are enough".

A snort of sarcastic denial came from the Demon King. Crowley was resisting the urge to mock, but ultimately failed as the words came falling from his mouth. “It didn’t take much persuasion for you to betray your king, you little whore”.

Both Sam and Dean widened their eyes at his insult. Meg didn’t reply, but walked up to the devil’s trap and slapped Crowley across the face with force. Dean couldn’t help but laugh, this was turning out to be a good day.

Crowley lifted his head back up and licked his bottom lip, looking at Meg with a taunting amusement. “Is that all you’ve got? I knew you were pathetic, clinging on to whoever’s got the best chance of survival. You’re nothing but a parasite, to Humans and Demons alike. Nobody wants you around, you little bitch”.

This seemed to infuriate Meg, causing her to approach Crowley and throw a mighty punch towards his throat. The weight of her swing forced the chair to swing backwards, crashing to the floor. Crowley groaned, rolling on his side amongst the broken pieces of wood.

Meg turned around to see the Brothers reactions, not being disappointed by their faces of shock and admiration. “That was awesome” Dean praised with a wide smile.

“Thanks” she said, before something hit her against the back, gaining her attention. She turned around to face Crowley but was met with a chair leg flying towards her face. And then another.

Refusing to give up, Crowley threw each piece of wood towards the pesky Demon with defiance. She attempted to block the harrowing onslaught but gained a few cuts and splinters to the face. Eventually, her patience wore out.

Stepping forward, she clenched her fist and used her power to send Crowley to his knees.

Crowley was now on the other side of torture. Experiencing the pain of having his internal organs crushed was not what he’d expected. After nothing but groans of pain from across the room, Dean stepped forward to try a different tactic. “Give it up, Crowley. She's not gonna stop”.

“Okay. Okay” he surrendered, holding his hands up with defeat, causing Meg to release her hold on him. “You can have my blood. But you lumberjacks are still missing a key ingredient”.

Dean’s eyes darted to the side and back as Castiel jumped into his thoughts. God, he hoped that you and Cas were okay.

You awoke to the sight of total darkness, face covered by a black hood over your head. An attempt to move your arms made you realise that both your hands and legs had been restrained. Breathing heavy, you turned your head to listen as someone entered the room. No, two people.

The sound of footsteps became overshadowed as they began to converse. “The Sucro-Corp trucks have been destroyed”.

A deeper, yet calmer voice entered the conversation. “How did this happen?”

“It was her, Sir. We found her in the warehouse. She was with the Angel”.

An annoyed groan was short-lived when he laid eyes upon you. “Excellent. Well let’s meet our new guest, shall we?” One of the men walked behind you. Lifting the hood off your head, light suddenly burning your retinas until they began to focus on your surroundings. An office room.

The blurred silhouette in front of you was now visible as the famous Dick Roman, standing smugly and smiling at you. 

“Hi there“, he greeted you, crouching down to your eye level. “And what do we have here?” You tugged at your restraints, fearful of what this creature was capable of. “Let me go!” you demanded, hoping that they would see you as just an innocent bystander.

He placed a hand to his chest with fake sympathy. “You know what? I would like nothing more than to send you merrily on your way. But, it seems you’ve been busy destroying my things with that sad excuse of an Angel. Now, I need to know, who else is a part of this little scheme to ruin my plans?”

“I’m… I. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who are you people, and what the hell am I doing here?” You played on the fact he had no idea who you were.  “Let me go, or I will sue your ass”.

“Oh, quite the demanding one, aren’t you?” He smirked before standing up and slowly pacing the floor. “I know you’re playing dumb with me. If you refuse to tell me who else you’re working with, then I’ll just have to pry it out of you by force”.

He stopped pacing and stared at you expectantly, waiting for a confession. At this point, your thoughts had taken over, dreading and debating how this interaction could pan out.

He gave the man who stood behind you, a nod of his head. This prompted the man to move across the room and up to a large cart that was covered by a white, plastic sheet. He gripped the covering and pulled it away to reveal a display of metal tools and instruments.

You watched as Dick strolled over to the selection and picked up a three-pronged fork. You involuntarily swallowed at the sight of the long and sharp weapon. This was not how you expected this adventure to end; being killed by the bad guy.

He approached you again, gently taking hold of one hand, straightening your fingers and placing the fork under three of your fingernails. “Now. I’m going to ask you once, and only once. Who else knows that you and Castiel were in that warehouse?”

You quickly debated your options. You could keep your mouth shut and endure the torture, maybe give some false names or give in and hand over the Winchester brothers. You chose option one, reluctantly.

A prolonged silence forced Dick to follow through on his promise. “Very well. This is most definitely going to hurt”. He pushed on the instrument, forcing the prongs under your fingernails. The pain was excruciating, causing your arm to spasm against the restraint and involuntary screams to fall from your mouth as the sensitive skin was penetrated.

You were not prepared for this level of pain. Your head hit the back of the chair, desperation for relief coursed through you like severe dehydration, reaching out for something to soothe. Your spirit was unconsciously calling for one thing in particular. Castiel.

At that moment, Castiel was standing inside the hotel room from last night. This was the first place he was drawn to, the freshest reminder of you. After lying down on the bed for several minutes, wishing he could turn back time, he stood up and began to pace the room.

He was thinking about how to tell Sam and Dean of this tragic news, when the lights above him began to flicker violently.

His eyes shot upwards at the instant feel of your presence. The way that you were trying to connect to him through pure emotion and willpower created such an energy that his chest began to fill with a feeling of golden warmth.

A weight was gradually lifting off his shoulders, relief now coursing through him. You were alive!

Thanks for reading. Here’s Part 7 .

Tags:

@uselessace @superheavymetalunicorn @sumara62  @eziggyra @spookysculderfiles @doritoevansxwinterschildren @cabbitholeresearch @acheloishe

[eleventoes]

freesia | oneshot

⟶  pairing: jungkook x reader ⟶  word count: 7.2k ⟶  ♫ : take you home - baekhyun, good morning - kassy, freesia - bolbbalgan4 ⟶  themes & genres: childhood friends to lovers!au, semi-bad boy!jk | fluff ⟶  warnings: none ⟶  synopsis:

Just about all of Jungkook’s life had been spent in an endless cycle of smothering you with flowers in a silent confession, but you never seem to get it.

(You did. Eventually.)

The beginnings of the fickle emotion we adoringly call love had always been tricky; the concept being like a handful of sleek sand your palm could never really grasp. They say it hits you out of nowhere, but for Jungkook, love was all he ever knew—especially when it came to you.

.

First.

“Jeon Jungkook! Kim Taehyung! Be good boys and go back to your seats,” Ms. Ryu, ever as gentle as Jungkook could remember, ushers the two six-year-olds towards their tiny plastic stools, a soft smile adorning her equally soft features.

“But Miss—,” the adorably mischievous rascal by the name of Kim Taehyung protests, “We were in a middle of a competition—”

Fixated on trying to prove his point, his stubby fingers reach for the nearest drinking straw he could find (which just happened to be the straw Mina was in the midst of drinking milk from), before triumphantly shoving it up his nostril, “See? I was winning.”

Even at six years old, Jungkook knew a bluff when he saw one.

“Tae’s lying,” He speaks matter-of-factly before turning to his best friend, “Mommy says lying is bad.”

And because even at six years old, Jungkook was already cultivating his somewhat competitive streak, he immediately proceeded to pluck the drinking straw right out of Seulgi’s tiny fists, pushing it as far up his nose as humanely possible.

Taehyung wasn’t one to back down from a challenge either, and before Ms. Ryu could interrupt with another one of her thinly veiled threats to take away their juice boxes, a hesitant knock on the door has all heads snapping up to look to the entrance of the bright classroom.

“Hello?”

Mellifluous. Euphonious. Dulcet. Years later, Jungkook would be able to describe the sound of your voice to a tee, but for now the only word that could come to mind was pretty.

Jungkook would also later come to recognize the absurd fluttering in his chest as infatuation, but at present, he could only stare open-mouthed at your doe eyes and your fluffy locks whilst you stared back at the boy with just about three straws stuffed into each nostril.

“Children, we have a new student joining us,” Ms. Ryu announced, having only just pried the boys apart moments prior, “Why don’t you introduce yourself, honey?”

“I’m Y/N, and I’ll be in your care from now on,” You were probably reciting the phrase you had rehearsed approximately five hundred times in your head, but that doesn’t change the fact that Jungkook was positively enthralled, his wide eyes never once leaving your small frame.

It was with mortification that Future Jungkook would look back on your first meeting, because silly little Jungkook was too captivated to bother taking the goddamn straws out of his nose, not even when you perched yourself daintily onto the seat next to his (the only free seat available) and shot him a polite (if not obligatory) smile as the both of you got ready for Art class.

And the ensuing Art class saw Jungkook frantically trying his might at drawing flowers, because his mom was a girl and his mom liked the flowers his dad periodically gave her and thus the obvious conclusion was that girls liked flowers, and he decided he liked you.

Yet, little did he know that he had been graced with a sneak peek into his future when you breezily eased over the drawing that embodied his affection, only to pass it on to Ms. Ryu because you had understandingly misunderstood his shy silence.

Of course, six-year-old Jungkook had been too bashful to say anything.

As a result, his drawing of a lone flower would eventually find itself onto the pastel blue of the classroom noticeboard, put up for display because the teachers wouldn’t stop marveling over its apparent artistry.

It had been a single white freesia; symbolic of innocence and purity, a flower commonplace on school grounds.

A flower that would subsequently symbolize Jungkook’s countless years of yearning, and your countless years of oblivion.

.

Second.

“5…3…2…and…1!”

It was the 13th game of Hide and Seek just for recess break alone, but no one had any objections against that, because they were all a bunch of six year olds, and six year olds loved Hide and Seek with a burning passion.

Joonyoung, notorious for being the most savage out of all the kids in your kindergarten (as savage as a six year old could be anyway), was It this time; which was honestly a little frightening because if Jungkook thought he had a competitive streak, it was nothing compared to his.

It has been a couple of weeks since your transfer, and like every other kid out there, your ability to adapt was outstanding and soon enough, you knew every nook and cranny of the kindergarten almost as well as you knew your alphabet.

This translates to you successfully emerging the victor in the past twelve games, having found a foolproof hiding spot that guarantees your lack of visibility—a shadowed area between the supply closet and the storage room, adjacent to the edge of the mini flower garden behind the classrooms.

As you sat there hugging your knees to your chest, trying your hardest to diminish your size as much as possible, you realized that the view that greeted you was a gem in itself.

White, white, a whole field of white.

And it was beautiful; astounding even.

So captivating, in fact, that you hadn’t even noticed the arrival of the doe-eyed brunette you knew as Jeon Jungkook, breathless and panting, up until he half-whispered, “Y/N!”

“Wha—”

“Shhh, Joonyoung’s done counting.”

He sure was quick to hush you when he was the one hollering your name like no one’s business, but was nonetheless still trying to squeeze himself into that narrow groove next to the supply closet—the very same one you were already suffocating in.

You decide that Jeon Jungkook’s harmless enough, borderline idiotic shenanigans aside, and shuffle to make space for the excitable boy (whom miraculously quietens down every time he was around you, for reasons your six-year-old self was not yet sure of).

Quietude settles in peacefully, until—

“Do you like those…um…freeeshas?” He speaks first, squinting hard at those wooden signboards stuck next to every flower. Jungkook was more observant than people usually gave him credit for, after all, and he caught the faint glee in your dark irises when you were busy gazing into the never-ending field of white.

“They’re pretty.” your reply was plain, simple, and straight to the point; Jungkook likes it more than he should.

“I’ll give them to you, this entiiiire field of freeeshas.”

Maybe you were both being childish, like the children you were, but you bought it with a toothy grin anyway, “Okay, this is ours from now on.”

And now whenever you think back to your days back in kindergarten, only hot summer afternoons spent huddling next to overgrown weeds, along with the image of strikingly white petals and a boy with a bunny smile, would surface.

.

Third.

“Kookie, I’ll miss you,” Taehyung was downright howling by this point, the endless streaks of thick tears pooling at the collar of his mini graduation robe, staining the vermillion color an even darker shade of crimson.

Jungkook was not amused. Six-year-old Jungkook was not easily amused (and this holds true even in the present).

“Tae,” He started calmly, small hands holding tightly onto the handmade farewell bouquet he was planning on surprising you with, “We’re going to the same elementary school.”

Then the tiny rascal straight up whips around to face you head on, whining, “Y/N, I’ll miss you.”

“Jungkookie,” It was your turn to scoff lightly, “We’re all going to the same elementary school.”

“Oh.”

The bouquet sits untouched for the rest of the graduation ceremony, and Jungkook only remembers that he hadn’t actually handed it to you when he was already snugly under his comforter, after he had wished his mother a good night.

“Oh.”

.

Fourth.

“Y/N, um, I really like you.”

The sun was halfway through its trek in the azure sky, but the classroom was long empty; third graders get off school pretty early after all.

A minute shift of your head and you could see the light from the windows behind dancing vividly all across Jungkook’s features, leaving reddish tints on his dark head of hair and soft glows on the curve of his cheeks.

“I like you too?” The words left you with a questioning glance. To you, Jeon Jungkook embodied many wonderful things; things like binge watching your favorite cartoons side by side while wrapped snugly in blankets in the dead of winter, playing catch for 3 hours straight (he always won), hogging your older brother’s game console together, the list goes on.

But of many things, Jeon Jungkook was not one to confess something random out of the blue.

“Really?”

You didn’t really understand why he was asking with such a hopelessly hopeful look drawn across his features, but you tried to reassure him anyway, “Of course, wouldn’t it be weird if I didn’t like you for all the three years we’ve been friends?”

Again, you didn’t understand why Jungkook simply deflated right there and then, and you couldn’t quite decipher the taut smile on his lips either.

“Yeah, I know right? Weird.”

Before you could call him out on the way his face was twisting in ways you never thought possible, he swiftly places something in your outstretched palm, before bounding to the doorway as if everything was back to normal again, “Come on, let’s go get ice cream.”

You looked down at the foreign object, fingers clasping curiously around its stems.

Flowers.

.

Fifth.

“You know, our parents are going to kill us,” You nonchalantly remarked, “And if they do, I’m going to haunt your grave.”

“That’s comforting to hear,” Jungkook, armed with an expression of reciprocal indifference, responds with a shrug.

“You’re impossible, you know that?”

At that, he smiles as if he was in on some big secret, before speaking so quietly you weren’t sure if you heard him right, “So are you.”

“What does that even mean—”

“Just hurry up already.”

Thirteen years of age—you both were at that point of time in your lives where hormones were gearing up to lead a wild rampage all around, and suddenly you weren’t quite the same little girl as you were seven years ago. Likewise, Jungkook wasn’t quite the same cheeky boy you had the pleasure of growing up with ever since you saw him with straws up his nostrils; no, he had grown to be even cheekier, and judging from how he was currently trying to haul your ass up the night bus, he was pushier too.

“Let loose a little, I promise it’ll be worth it,” He says, now comfortably in the seat next to yours, his voice a mere accompaniment to the subdued rumbling of the bus engine.

“It’d better be,” Giving in with a huff of resignation, you reclined further in the hard bus seat, throwing your best friend a mock glare while you were at it, “Though I don’t see why we have to do this at night.”

“Ah, Y/N, you’re no fun, sneaking out is all part of the thrill.”

You don’t look at him, opting to get some shut-eye instead of getting yourself riled up over the infuriating and outrageously reckless nature of Jeon Jungkook, “Sure, whatever you say, you bad boy wannabe.”

He has the audacity to gasp as if your comment had deeply wounded his pride, “I’m the real deal, don’t you ever forget that.”

Tuning him out as you usually did whenever he started to go off tangent, you allow the lassitude of the day to seep into your tired skin, artfully maneuvering his arm such that it served as the perfect headrest. In a habitual fashion, Jungkook twists his torso to accommodate yours whilst melodramatically muttering ‘be still, my heart’ and fervently praying that you wouldn’t be able to hear the fierce palpitations.

A bad boy indeed, that was Jeon Jungkook, the very one who had been harboring a crush on his best friend for about seven years and counting, without even the notion of confessing to you present in that mind of his (not after your ‘rejection’ back in third grade).

Sighing, he turns to gaze out the window unfocusedly.

***

“Jeon.”

“Y/N.”

“Jungkook.”

“It scares me when you say my name like that.”

Your exhale clouds the already misty night air, exasperation very clearly eased into all of your features, “I can’t believe you got us lost.”

“We aren’t lost,” Says Jungkook as he stands forlornly between a couple of trees and a bush, the last of any source of light deserting him along with whatever map he had on his dying phone. In your pocket sat your phone, which had been very uncooperative ever since its screen had shattered an hour ago when you had scrambled to clamber off the bus in your languid state.

“At least try to say that more convincingly, you idiot.”

Only a sheepish grin crosses his lips, not that you could actually see, because it was so dark and there weren’t even any streetlights, for some insane reason.

“I swear it’s here somewhere,” The brunette inexorably treads into the vast unknown of more greenery (unknown because it was pitch black and you literally couldn’t see anything), muttering under his breath.

Without a word, your hand slipped right into his, like it had been made for each other all along (or at least that’s what Jungkook likes to think); you’d always done that whenever you were feeling uneasy, though that doesn’t mean Jungkook doesn’t hyperventilate whenever he feels your thumb digging into his palm.

“Let’s go get out of here.”

***

“I’m gonna kill you right now and dump your body here; wherever we are,” You hiss after a good ten minutes, still clasping onto his hand like it was your lifeline; it sort of was, given how much you hated not being able to see where you were going. The hatred (or maybe it was fear, but you preferred to acknowledge the former) was further amplified given that you were in the middle of nowhere with lifeless lumps of metal for phones.

“You won’t,” Jungkook scoffs, leading the way as he pushes aside the thick branches that were wrestling in order to thwack him in the face (you hope they land a few good hits), “You’re too scared to be alone.”

You contemplate that for a moment, before nodding, “You’re not wrong, but I still hate you.”

“You don’t.”

“Do too.”

“Do not.”

“Do too.”

“It’s here, the place I wanted to show you,” He spoke so abruptly that you had crashed face first into the back of his head (the two of you were pretty similar in height, and it was something you prided yourself on, though you spoke too soon because he eventually left you in the dust thanks to puberty).

“Jeon,” You start gently, “You know I can’t see anything, right?”

That was what you said, but the telltale fragrance of flowers, carried fleetingly by the night breeze, soon infiltrated your senses, and you realized belatedly the reason why the stubborn boy had insisted on taking you here.

It was a field of flowers, very much reminiscent of the (much more scaled down) one of your shared childhood. Your heart swelled with an emotion you couldn’t quite place, but you instead turn your attention to the boy who was nervously awaiting your reaction.

“Aww, Jungkookie,” You couldn’t help but tease, “Did Mr. Bad Boy here miss our childhood?”

“You’re really ruining the moment.”

Flitting out his snide comment was an easy feat, especially since it was already like second nature to you, “Thanks, for bringing me here. Even if we’re probably going to get grounded for a month.”

Grinning that same unchanged bunny smile, he only murmurs, “I’m glad you like it.”

And then the two of you were simultaneously grounded for the next six weeks. Not that it mattered, because he snuck up to your room everyday anyway, and you push your irregular heartrate aside.

.

Six.

“Wow, Jeon, you got game,” Impressed, you slap your best friend on the back, “Three days more to Valentine’s and you’ve already gotten, what, fifteen love letters?”

“What can I say?” His smirk falters a little, though it goes unseen because you don’t notice little things like that, “Girls love me.”

“Correction: they like the way you look. How many of them have actually talked to you for more than three seconds? Because if they had, they would already be running for the hills,” Shuffling the books around in your locker to source for the notebook reserved for your nonsensical doodles, you were about to panic when Jungkook, otherwise known as the devil himself, magically materialized it from the pile of books in his arms.

“Looking for this?” With the most taunting smile plastered on his face, he purposefully lifts the minimalistic notebook way out of your reach, taking full advantage of the (more than) a couple of inches he had on you.

Gasping, you glared at your supposed best friend, “How’d you get that?”

“You left it at my place yesterday,” Irritatingly, he was still dangling the notebook in the air, just about high enough for you to brush the edges with your fingertips.

So close, yet so far.

“Before I give it back, answer me: am I or am I not the most charming guy you’ve ever met?” The (not so) little shit was almost relentless whenever he wanted something; a trait that occasionally gets on your nerves.

“Yes, yes of course you are. Consider me charmed,” Deadpanning with your straightest face, you continue reaching for the notebook that was still hopelessly an inch or two from your outstretched fingers.

“More charming than this Seokjin guy?”

A beat passes before you understood what he meant, and you let out an inhumane shriek, startling the mass of students all around.

“Jeon Jungkook, you went through my notebook?”

The carmine dotting your cheeks was so unbearably adorable, but Jungkook only feels a dull pang in his chest. Still, the shit-eating grin on his face doesn’t give away anything, “We’ve only just entered high school, and you’re already crushing on a senior?”

“Yeah, go ahead, Jeon, let the whole world know.”

“Aw, Y/N, there’s nothing to get all shy about.”

Or so he says, but it hurts, and Jungkook wants nothing more but to scream.

Oblivious like always, you churn out something resembling an explanation, “He’s just a senior, and we talk sometimes during theatre and stuff, I’m sorry I hadn’t told you earlier okay? It’s just…embarrassing and I feel like some lovestruck six year old.”

You were rambling, and Jungkook hated that you were rambling, because you rarely lose yourself like that. He hated that you had that flushed look on your face, because it wasn’t for him, and it wasn’t ever for him, and yes, he had heard of Kim Seokjin, the gorgeous (and borderline unreal) senior who had recently snagged the role of Prince Charming in the school’s adaptation of Snow White. And yes, he had heard that he was absolutely enraptured by a freshman in theatre—you. Not that he was going to let you know that juicy little tidbit anytime soon.

Suddenly sullen, Jungkook only hands over your notebook (you decide to burn it the minute you get home) without even putting up a fight, stalking off before you could even say anything to his retreating back.

***

Along with a small pile of chocolates, you open your locker on the following Friday morning to find a mini bouquet of roses perched daintily atop your Chemistry textbook, and next to it, a lone freesia sits patiently.

The singular freesia was from Jungkook, you knew that without question because he gives you one every year without fail, and this year wouldn’t have been any different. ‘To commemorate our friendship’, was the rationale seven year old Jungkook had conveniently offered after you caught him trying to sneak the flower under your desk at school.

The roses, however, were a different story.

And so, at fifteen years old, you got your first boyfriend, and honestly you don’t remember much happening in that year aside from you constantly being high in the clouds.

Shortly after, Jungkook got his first girlfriend; a pretty girl with a cute smile and a tendency to make plans that effectively clashed with all the ones he made with you. They didn’t last long, and neither did the twenty odd others that followed.

You never asked why; you never wanted to.

.

Seven.

“Stop crying.”

“I’ll cry whenever I fucking want.”

Bawling. Wailing. Sweating from your tear ducts. Whatever you called it, it didn’t matter when you were sprawled out on your bedroom floor, blotching half the carpet with your tears.

Stepping gingerly over your form before crouching down sympathetically next to you, your best friend pads a thumb over your tear-stained cheeks, “You know that wasn’t what I meant.”

“It hurts, it hurts, it hurts,” Sobbing near hysterically, you hiccup through every sentence you coughed out, “I wish I hadn’t joined theatre back in freshman year, I wish I hadn’t had that stupid crush. I wouldn’t have, if I’d known how painful it was.”

Now sitting upright and no longer an amorphous blob on the floor, you continue whining into the nook of the familiar shoulder, the scent of laundry detergent comforting to your distressed state of mind.

“No, you would have, because you’d have regretted it otherwise,” Combing through your hair with his fingers, Jungkook absent-mindedly remarked, his words enveloping you in what’s equivalent to a warm blanket on a freezing night, and you pull him closer.

It does hurt, Jungkook knows that for certain. The same way it had hurt when your relationship with boy wonder Kim Seokjin continued flourishing even after a year and the next, the same way it did whenever he saw your face light up with the most radiant of smiles the moment you get a text from your long-distance boyfriend. As such, he couldn’t fathom how much it would have hurt for you to have stayed rooted in high school while Seokjin ventured out into the world and all the freedom college had to offer. He hadn’t cheated on you, no, he was never that kind of man, because Jungkook would have bashed his head in otherwise.

It wasn’t anything, really, for Seokjin had simply fell out of love.

The relationship had spanned three years only to come to a dwindling halt, and Jungkook aches for the pain you must feel having to long for someone who had moved on without you.

“You sound somewhat sad, for someone who’s never been in love before.” You speak after a long pause.

“Who says I haven’t?”

“Wha—”

Only throwing you a coy smile in place of the previously reassuring one, Jungkook huffs resolutely before pulling you to your feet, “Come on, let’s go.”

“Where?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

***

If there’s one thing about Jeon Jungkook, is that he never breaks a promise.

In this case, the promise he made good on was the whole bad boy thing he was determined to carry through throughout his teenage years. As proof, his shiny Harley-Davidson stood before the both of you, glinting under the midday sun.

“Get on,” The bad boy himself gestures to the pretty contraption, much to your surprise.

“Are you serious? Didn’t Solar break things off with you last week because you refused to let her ride with you?” Imploring the sudden but kind offer, you tilt your head in a silent question, but what you don’t know was that just your gaze was enough for Jungkook to give you his entire world and beyond, brand new motorbike or whatever be damned.

But a simple ‘you’re different’ tumbled from his slightly chapped lips instead, and it had apparently sufficed because you hoisted yourself up immediately, “Talk about perks of being your best friend, I’ve always wanted to ride on one of these.”

“You could’ve just asked me, Y/N, you know I’d do anything for your homemade cookies,” His words were a little muffled as he fumbled about for his helmet, letting out a triumphant noise when he finally grabbed ahold of it and in one swift motion, placed it over your messy head of hair.

“You were going around calling it your baby and whatnot, so I didn’t want to take a chance.”

His fingers fasten the clasp of the helmet expertly, his eyes softening before “you look like a bobble head” leaves the mouth he needs to learn how to shut.

“Just a friendly reminder that I’m still heartbroken and distraught, thanks very much.”

He only shrugs, like he did five years back when you were both thirteen and stupid (mostly him), and revs up the engine, “Sit tight.”

Your hands were locked around his waist, the thin material of his white t-shirt bunching up where your hold was, and Jungkook hoped his thundering heartbeat wasn’t as audible to you as it was to him before speeding off.

***

“It’s amazing, it’s as if going around claiming a bunch of plants as our own is our thing,” Exclaiming, you proceeded to tug on Jungkook’s sleeve as you weaved your way through the same field of flowers from five years ago. He follows without much protest, only pointing out a small clearing in the middle before plopping down on the soft grass and pulling you down next to him.

“No one ever comes here, so it’s ours,” He says simply.

“What, are you going to give this ‘entiiiiiire field of freeeeshas’ to me?” Your teasing voice sounded faraway in the rough summer wind ruffling your hair into disarray, and Jungkook’s gaze lingers too long on the pink hues of your lips.

“I’d give you anything, you just need to ask.”

Shit, he’s really done it now. It was rare for an insult to not be dripping from Jungkook’s every word; you’d definitely catch on and find out that your best friend of more than a decade had been in love with you all this while and—

“Bitch, you said that yourself so I’ll be holding that against you from now on,” You cackle after a beat passes, not surprising because you couldn’t see Jungkook’s entire face crumpling from where you were facing.

Of course you hadn’t realized, he should have known. It’s been a whopping twelve years; you would have caught on ages ago if you were ever going to.

“Thanks Jeon,” He faintly registers you saying, “I guess I feel a little less heartbroken.”

He wished he could say the same for himself.

Yet, if he had stopped to look a little closer, he would have noticed the wondrous smile you were sending his way.

.

He lost count. Jungkook was never great with numbers.

By this point, Jungkook had desensitized himself to how dense you could possibly be.

“What’s with the fancy restaurant? I thought we were going out for dinner,” There you were, dressed in your favorite pair of sweatpants and an oversized hoodie (Jungkook tries not to be too overjoyed at the fact that it was his, because knowing you, you probably hadn’t realized), situated at the entrance of some posh and probably overpriced Italian restaurant, and you were as confused as ever.

And by this point, Jungkook doesn’t even attempt to retain any semblance of his diminishing dignity, instead just wordlessly shoving the bouquet he had prepared earlier into your arms. Yes, he’s very well aware that he had prepared so many bouquets in all of his nineteen years that he may as well drop out of college to be a goddamn florist.

“We are. That’s why we’re at a restaurant, you dimwit.”

You glanced down at his semi-formal clothes and how his dress shirt was crisp and white and ironed, before looking back down at your crummy sneakers, “Jeon Jungkook dressed in something apart from a white tee and jeans, who would have thought. What’s the occasion?”

Jungkook sighs, though not with exasperation, since he had already preempted the kind of reaction you would have, which was exactly this: you didn’t have much of a reaction apart from being confounded, because you didn’t get it. Not the first time he had to resist the urge to knock some sense into that thick skull of yours, although, the urge to kiss you senseless does come around a lot more often.

After having (awkwardly) consulted his dorm mate, girls extraordinaire and self-proclaimed player Park Jimin, Jungkook had been fully convinced that asking you out on a date would be the solution to all his problems. Maybe all it takes was a date for you to finally take a hint, because common sense dictates that a date meant that there were some romantic feelings involved; not that you had brain cells to begin with, because here you were, expecting to grab dinner at some fast food joint even when Jungkook had explicitly (and painfully) spluttered out the word ‘date’ (after which he fell off your bed blushing).

He did not sign himself up for this.

.

A hundredth. Give and take a few.

“Jungkook, you’re drunk. Go home.” Hands flailing in a scramble to support the swaying mass of muscle (also known as Jeon Jungkook, and also known as the Ultimate Lightweight), you nearly holler at the inebriated boy who was currently busy fumbling for the microphone, but Jungkook only smiles crookedly at your mortification.

“No, you’re drunk, baby girl,” He goes on to insist, and he guesses that you would cringe at the pet names he would be spewing out soon enough (it’s a hilarious drunken habit at best), “I’m Jungkook and I’m gonna sing you a love song, so you listen, puffle cheeks.”

“What the fuck.”

The room itself was pretty dark; but it did nothing to mask the odd smile smacked across Jungkook’s otherwise handsome features, and he eyes your reaction as his arm clumsily slops forward to hit the next song on the karaoke machine: a love song unlike any other, Carly Rae Jepson’s ‘I Really Like you’.

“What the fuck.” You say again.

Jungkook was about to frown until he realized you were repeating it mostly to yourself, because there was no one else in the room apart from himself; an idiot who was drunk out of his mind, and he was too preoccupied getting himself into the mood of the song, but not without pitched giggles and some dramatic flair.

Screeching his way throughout most of the verse, drunk Jungkook was also trying his best to blind you with obnoxious winks along the way; not that you would mind, because he knew all of this was going to go on SnapChat for blackmailing purposes.

“Wait for it, wait for it,” Jungkook breathes.

And then he loses it altogether, “I really really really really really really like you!”

Still giggling manically, he drinks in your stupefaction, deriving immense satisfaction from seeing how you could only gawk at whatever shreds of dignity he has left. Yes, Jungkook does understand that he would undoubtedly regret his entire life come morning light, but he doesn’t care. Not when he could literally hit you in the face with a gigantic banner with the words ‘I love you’ on it and it could still go right over your head, and you’d still just see him in a platonic light for the rest of his life and beyond.

Maybe that liquid courage was just what he needed.

“Sweetheart, why’re you so stunned, and dare I say, shook?” Jungkook could hear himself speak, but he had lost control of whatever filter he previously had; this is it now, he was going to spill everything, and then he was going to deal with the consequences whenever, “Hasn’t it been obvious that I’ve been in love with you for the past decade and a half?”

“Jeon, you’re drunk—”

“No, I told you, angel face, I’m not drunk,” Jungkook was desperate by this point, because he didn’t know what else to do, “I’m Jungkook and I’m pretty certain I’ve been in love with you all my life. But you never see it. You never did.”

By now it was getting difficult to gage for your reaction, the ground was shaky and his brain was effectively scrambled, so he takes your lack of input as a green light to continue.

“And I love you, I love you, I love you so much that it hurts to see you look right past me all the time, so please, please listen to me just this once, because I don’t know when I’ll have the courage to say it again.”

The room was getting hazier by the minute. The dim lights were spinning. Heck, there were two of you swimming in Jungkook’s vision, but he continues, because he couldn’t just stop there, “I love you, Y/N, even though you’re a scaredy-cat and you make the most inhumane noises when you sleep and you just suck in general. So won’t you please love me back too?”

This would be the day that Jungkook would look back upon and berate his lack of alcoholic tolerance. He doesn’t hear your reply to his slightly overdramatic confession because surprise surprise, he blacked out before you could even say a word.

***

The aftereffects of a wild night out were never fun to deal with, and Jungkook swears for the billionth time that he would never again try to pretend he could take shots when he obviously couldn’t. The throbbing in his temple was hitting him harder than usual; perhaps from the shock of having all the events that had transpired last night rush back to his consciousness the moment dawn had broken.

“Shit.” Was the only coherent word he could murmur before tumbling off the mattress and onto the familiar carpeted floor he recognized upon first glance.

He was in your room. Of course he was.

Steps languid and heavy, he somehow made the arduous journey from your floor all the way to the hallway without giving in to his persistent migraine. You weren’t anywhere to be found, but Jungkook wasn’t going to wait around just to be humiliated because you probably never wanted to see him again, not after that bold confession out of nowhere.

“Jeon.”

Ah shit. Too late.

Jungkook hates the way his body automatically turns at your call, he hates the way every cell in his body reacts at your every minute gesture, and he resents the way his heart could pick up pace with just your gaze alone. Even the stupid headache he had been nursing seconds ago had been diminished to almost nothing, all because you were here, in the flesh and wearing his sweatshirt (you had already claimed at least a third of his wardrobe, and that had been one of the many clothes you managed to get your hands on).

“Sorrygottagoneedtopee,” Brushing past your helpless form in the doorway of the living room, he all but hightails it out of there, hangover forgotten. As he scurries out the front door with only his Pokemon socks on, Jungkook once again reaffirms that he doesn’t make great life decisions.

***

“You gotta tell her again,” Resident fuckboy Park Jimin remarks as he twirls the dorm’s card key thoughtfully around his index finger, “She sounds kind of dense.”

And because Jeon Jungkook doesn’t make fantastic life decisions, here he was again, back in his dorm and seeking love advice from the one person he knows who doesn’t do love. Park Jimin does have the experience though, Jungkook supposed.

“But how?” Groaning into his palm, Jungkook was this close to tearing his hair out; maybe then the mortification from his drunken confession would disintegrate and he could pretend it never happened.

Jimin shrugs, casting him a pity-filled glance, “Just do it straight to her face, the same way you did last night. Kook, the only reason why this—whatever you call it, hasn’t been working out is probably because you’re just not forward enough. That and you have shitty luck, because she misses all your cues.”

Jungkook groans more because Jimin was probably right. As usual.

“Which is honestly kind of amazing, because wow, fourteen years?” The pink-haired boy continues, disregarding the worsening scowl on his companion’s features.

“Shut up.” Jungkook tries his hand at silencing the older male by hurling a pillow at his head, but it only hits Jimin with a light thump before falling flat on the crummy dorm floor.

“I’m serious, Kook, just go for it,” He goes on to say, “You don’t have anything to lose anymore.”

Jungkook hurls another pillow at him before gruffly agreeing, musing that he didn’t really have another option anyway.

He sighs at the notion of another confession (though sober this time), and the mere thought sent the butterflies flurrying back into the pits of his stomach, but along came a wave of unadulterated determination, and Jungkook hopes he holds on to it long enough.

.

And one last time.

Jungkook was hardly ever nervous. Public speaking? Yeah it was decent, he just has to turn on the charm and it’ll be a breeze. Exams? Jungkook never cared much about grades, he only studied with you whenever he worries that you’d get too caught up in studying and work yourself to death, so there’s that. Girls? Yeah, okay so they were a little intimidating at first, but puberty happened and Jungkook realized they weren’t as terrorizing as he thought. You were the exception of course, you were his exception for everything; you terrorize him with the prospect of heart failure every time you came too close.

So yes, this was the sole moment in Jungkook’s entire twenty years that he felt as if his nerves were going to devour him without mercy on the spot. The spot referring to that same spot he always stood at on your doorstep whenever you took too long to get ready and he gets tired of lying shapelessly on your couch for two hours.

“Hi, so I like you,” Jungkook tries rehearsing, knuckles raised midair before he stops himself.

No, that just sounds ridiculously awkward.

“Good evening, my name is Jungkook and I like you.”

God, he sounds as if he was trying to sell something.

“Hey, I really really really—fuck, you scared me,” Face up in flames before you could even mouth the word ‘seagull’, Jungkook stands unabashed and frozen in position. He doesn’t bother hiding the bouquet he was holding on to, partly because it was fucking gigantic and he would have looked like an idiot if he tried.

Your front door had swung open without any warning whatsoever, but only your trademark glower had greeted him, “You scared me. What’re you doing out here? Also, you left your shoes here, you dumbass, how’d you go home without them?”

If the past fourteen years had amounted to anything, it was Jungkook’s ability to read you like a book. Glowering without much reason to—you had been worried, but you hadn’t wanted to show it. Showering him with a plethora of questions—you were frazzled by his sudden appearance (something that Jungkook would like to revel in for moment longer). That hint of color skimming your cheekbones—you were flustered by something, bashful even.

And so Jungkook’s eyes could only soften, a small smile tugging at his lips, “Were you worried about me?”

“No shit, you run out of my house with only your socks on whilst barely recovering from a hangover, refuse to pick up any calls throughout the course of the entire doorstep, and you’re asking me if I’m worried?”

“Oh god, you’re pissed. Please don’t be pissed.” Or so he says, but he already knew he was forgiven by that brief (though reluctant) nod of yours, “I’m an idiot, I’m sorry.”

And he really was an idiot. Your tousled and messy locks, the oversized Nirvana sweater you wore six days out of seven, your tiny hands and even tinier fingers, your obnoxiously adorable Chip n’ Dale earrings; they were all you. You, who came along and headbutted that boy who made fun of Jungkook’s small frame at seven years old, who cried so loud when Jungkook finally convinced you to watch The Lion King that the neighbors had been concerned, who finished all three cartons of Ben and Jerry’s because you insisted on buying them on sale despite them expiring the day after, who laughed so hard at Jungkook’s first (and last) bowl cut that you teared up; you were all that Jungkook has ever known, all that Jungkook will ever know, you were all that Jungkook has ever loved, and all that Jungkook will love.

Everything had been crystal clear, from beginning to end. From the very moment he had laid eyes on you as a meagre six year old, to the present, where the twenty year old Jeon Jungkook was standing before you with a confession that has yet to leave his lips; it had only ever been you. Nothing could even make this remotely complicated, really, because all he had to do was utter the three magical words, and there had never been any doubt that you would have understood, as you always have, because above all and beyond, you were his best friend and he was yours.

What had he been truly afraid of all this time?

“Y/N,” He starts, a bunny smile already working its way onto his lips, “I’m in love with you.”

With that, he lifts the bouquet (freesias, who would have known) right smack in your face, adoring how your nose scrunches up almost reflexively, “Here’s a bribe, so go out with me?”

Easing the bouquet into your arms and out of your face, you grin up at the endearing boy, whose eyes were crinkled in so much joy they had become crescents, “Sure. Come in, you loser, I ordered pizza.”

“You sure know the way to my heart.”

“Oh, don’t I?”

Jungkook rolls his eyes good-naturedly before tugging off his Iron Man socks, pausing only at the sight of a photograph sitting daintily on the mantelpiece. It was a photo taken back in elementary school, back when you were starring in some school play like the talented asshole you were, while Jungkook had been picked as Tree #3. The two of you were huddled close in the grainy photograph, smiling widely at each other despite the gaps in your teeth and the piercing flash of the camera. Jungkook had seen this photo just about a million times, and he had never ceased to notice the affection and longing dancing beneath his own irises as eleven-year-old Jeon Jungkook looked at you as if you held his entire world.

But what he never noticed was the way your gaze had mirrored his perfectly, almost precisely.

Yet now, it was more pellucid than ever that he was all you’ve ever known, and he would be all you’d ever love.

.

Another.

“Jeon, who’re the flowers for?”

“The dog,” Jungkook deadpans, giving you a blank stare as he looks up from his morning coffee, “Duh, it’s you, who else would it be?”

Silence.

Jungkook finishes the last of his caffeine boost.

More silence.

“It’s for our seventh wedding anniversary today?”

“Oh.”

Some things never change.

a/n: afshakjhf happy birthday to the memelord Jeon Jungkook!! he’s finally 20 and he’s grown up so well and my heart hurts ;__; shoutout to him for having always been the same adorable bunny we know and love. this fic ended up being kind of all over the place because it was meant to be around 2k initially, but i still hope yall enjoyed it regardless^^ im just glad that this was finished in time for the bun’s birthday~

[stunudo]

Come Around Again

A Criminal Minds Fan-ficiton

Featuring: Aaron Hotchner x Female Reader

Setting: Late Season 12

A/N: Happy Smuturday! This was a requested follow up to New Around Here. I ended up giving more backstory than usual. I hope you like Hotch in witness protection as much as I do! xoxo Stu

Jimmy had called you early the next morning, apologizing once again for leaving you like he had. He was such a devoted father, you couldn’t be angry about needing to pick up his son. You reassured him that he was still in your good graces, teasing that perhaps next time you would even let him into the bedroom before he was called away. The call ended quickly as it was the start of the Sunday Brunch crowd and you helped your servers bring out orders each week.

Your mind eased back to the chaotic rhythm of the work. The day proceeded with a slightly easier smile on your face, after the impulsive night you had shared with the new single dad in town.

Aaron (now Jim) had felt guilty walking out on Y/N like that, but there was no way to send Jack home with the Marshals without a painfully obvious phone call. He hated to think that he had regressed to disappointing women because of his work, even after leaving the BAU behind. He promised himself he would make it up to Y/N, sooner or later. Jack had been withdrawn since moving across the country, but Aaron thought the sleepover was a good sign that his son had been making new friends.

Apparently, Jack (now Jordan) had made friends easily, but his mind was where the social hang ups lingered. Today was a guys day, easy breakfast, kicking the ball around at the local park, a free day full of possibilities. Days they got so rarely when living in Virginia and Aaron traveled with his team. It would have been heaven, if they weren’t being surveyed in shifts by six highly trained government employees.

Monday brought the same regulars each week, you were not so subtly watching the clock for Jimmy’s daily arrival. If old you could see you now; running the family business and chasing after the only age-appropriate fresh meat in this forgotten college town? You chuckled lightly below your breath remembering, ‘life is what happens when you’re busy making plans.’

You had unconsciously made the decision that you would be joining the tall, dark and bearded man for lunch. If he didn’t mind, maybe it could be a regular date. But by quarter past one, Professor Spivey hadn’t shown up for his usual Tuna Melt lunch special and flirting session. You were trying to keep from worrying, but your self consciousness was getting the better of your reasoning.

Suddenly your phone buzzed atop your reserved for paperwork booth, relief flowing over you as you saw a series of texts from Jim. He had a department meeting and lunch had been provided, he humbly apologized. What a dork, you thought. You replied back, saying he owed you lunch and a date night now.

“Well, I better work on this debt or it’s going to snowball.”

“I’m perfectly happy paralyzing you with interest charges.”

“I don’t doubt it. Friday night, you and me.”

“Deal.”

Aaron was nervous as he got dressed for his date with the lovely Y/N on Friday evening. Jack was playing video games, but also watching as his dad put on one of the many suits that had gone neglected in the closest. He knew Aaron had been seeing someone, but he really didn’t want to meet her yet. Why bother? They were going to have to leave this town too, eventually. Jack was slowly being warped by the uncertainty of this life in hiding.

“I want you to take a break every so often. Too much time in one spot isn’t good.” Aaron told Jack somberly.

“Yeah, Dad.” Jack replied. “Have fun.”

“Okay, if you need anything, the Marshals can help.” Aaron explained. “My phone will be off while we are in the theatre, but I will check in during intermission.”

“Dad, I’ll be fine. It’s not like I’m here alone anyways.”

“Okay, buddy.” Aaron gave in. “See you in the morning.”

You hadn’t dressed up in ages, but the anticipation of a night of culture over your usual days of grease and coffee stains was welcome. You wore a simple maroon midi dress that you had from a wedding two years ago. It was solid backed, which was crucial as the rug burns from the previous weekend had yet to heal. You paired it with a large black shawl and double checked your make up before waiting apprehensively in your infamous foyer for Jim to pull up.

Ever the gentleman, he rang the bell and waited patiently for you to answer. Despite you staring at each other through the etched glass of the front door. You played coy and a devilish smirk rose through the tidy blanket of his beard. The play wasn’t until eight o’clock so you agreed to stop for drinks and hors d'oeuvres near campus. The Cosmo's went down smoothly as you started to prod Jim about his son.

“No, he’s great.” Aaron smiled, sipping his Scotch. “I didn’t think the tween years would be so brooding, but he’s been through a lot.”

“It seems like you both have?” Y/N hinted, gesturing towards her own torso, in regards to the assemblage of scars on his chest.

“It was a car accident, a few years back.” He added stoically.

“That doesn’t sound like such a long story.” She observed between squinting eyes. Aaron exhaled, she wasn’t missing a thing. He was going to have to be careful or she would notice the marshals at the booth behind him too.

“We lost, Jordan’s mom in the accident. It was my fault.” Aaron’s voice hitched, even in an inaccurate retelling the guilt seeped through.

“Oh, Jimmy, I’m so sorry. I just thought -” She shook her head, as if to clear an Etch-o-Sketch of ideas. “Never mind, I’m just glad that he still has you.”

Aaron nodded his thanks, finishing the bottom of the drink. “Are you ready for some theatre, it is just about time for curtain call?”

She nodded, gathering her small bag and re-positioning her shawl. Even in the dim florescent lighting, she was gorgeous. Aaron felt that deep hunger stirring within him once again.

The theatre department of the college did an extremely impressive production for such a small campus, within a small community, in the middle of nowhere. You were flush with pride with your town as Jim held your hand, out into the cool desert night. Jim was a theatre guy, you could tell by the comments he made and the unwavering attention he gave throughout the performance. It was refreshing meeting a smart and cultured guy out here, so far away from the bustling city of Atlanta where you used to live.

His dark eyes watched you shiver into your shawl on the short walk back to his car. He shrugged out of his suit coat and draped it over your shoulders before he opened the passenger side door for you. It was all so formal, but you relished in the attention. You were hoping to show him just what he missed out on last time.

It was down right civil, you were proud of yourselves, giving and taking a proper tour of your two story home. Finally, making it up the softly carpeted stairway, you led the handsome professor into your usually lonesome bedroom. The large queen sized bed covered in a deep green duvet, accenting the richly stained headboard. It had been a romantic evening, and here you were, doing everything you could to keep yourself from dropping to your knees and sucking the climax from within him.

His athletic build was framed discreetly in the tailored shirt. You had left his jacket and your shawl behind, downstairs. Your thighs burned around your increasing arousal. Instead of hiding it, you slowly stepped out of your heels, your bare legs carrying you to the closet. As you bent to place them back on the rack, you felt Jim’s gentle touch draw up from your hip. His hand followed the seam of your dress, until he reached the zipper. His quiet mouth placing brisk kisses down your neck and across your shoulders as the dress fell away.

Jim sucked in his breath once he saw the damage from his last dalliance. “I’ve made quite the mess of you. Haven’t I?” His deep voice in a tone your couldn’t place without the nonverbal cues on his hidden face. He almost sounded worried.

You nuzzled his hair, “All is fair-” You slowly spun on your bare feet, clad in only a simple bralette and panty combo. Your arms instinctively clung to his neck so many inches above you. His belt and hidden erection biting into your bare flesh. “I was expecting much worse after your performance, last time. That angle on the stairs was masterful.”

“Is that a compliment or a challenge?” He growled before taking your sassy mouth in a mind altering kiss.

Aaron was finding it difficult from devouring Y/N whole. Her wit, her body and even the decor of her home was rapidly confusing his desires and his emotions. But for now, he knew what he wanted and he was not leaving until he felt her body give in to his ministrations. Last time they were together was rushed, savage. This time he planned to take his time, to cherish the time they had. Because he knew, it was all too fleeting.

He backed her nearly naked body into her bed, the softness of the quilt, no match for her skin. His strong hands grasped her waist, hauling her up the last few inches onto the waiting mattress. He watched her, watch him remove his tie, gently loosening the top few buttons and stopping. Then he unbuttoned his sleeves, rolling them back as if he were going to check the oil or some other detailed hobby. He grinned at the sly confusion apparent on her elegant features.

“Now, Y/N, last time I’m afraid, I gave you the wrong impression about me.” Hotch began, tickling the inside of her knee with his finger tips. “I don’t like to have my cake, before I eat it.”

She purred in approval of his intentions, dropping back onto the green fabric, leaving her spreading legs hanging over the edge.

It had been too long. You didn’t even remember the last time you had been properly enjoyed, but his rough lips and strong hands put your past lovers to shame. The lone overhead light left you both exposed, his long form balancing on his knees, your toes clinging to the edge of the bed, framing his face. His left hand snaked up your body, finding the tiny front latch in the center of your chest and releasing you from your final article of clothing.

His sure hand massaged your nearest breast, pinching and pulling your nipple into submission. Your body responding to his every effort, the intense heat pooling at your core, all over his bearded face. Every motion left gentle scratches across your folds, exacerbating your stimulation tolerance. Your hips thrust back against him, demanding speed, his fingers responded with a double entry. The intense penetration rolled through you, your center throbbing as he lapped at your clit.

As he coaxed your further, your abs spasmed against your control. Your pelvis froze, your muscles tightening down, begging the climax forth. You moaned, threading your hands in his hair and back into your own hair. It was all so much, you couldn’t control it, but it wouldn’t arrive. Jim began teasing your rear entrance with his little finger, the gentle pressure overwhelming your quaking core.

“Oh fuck-” You whimpered as you fell apart. He cleared his throat and began thrusting his fore fingers inside of you, your walls cinching in, nearly immobilizing him. He laughed against your clit, the vibrations drawing out the orgasm. “Oh- fuck, yeah. Jiiiimmmmmmmmmm,” you moaned. Your voice deepening with the depth of the finish.

He was proud, smiling down at you, while his large hands rubbed your legs. He placed wet kisses on each quivering thigh. He unceremoniously wiped his face on the inside of his sleeve. You didn’t care, your body was a mass of immobility. You were frozen from shock, the orgasm had drained any desire you had to move, ever again. “Wow.”

“Yeah?” He did his usual deep chest hum-chuckle that melted you every time.

“Yeah. Just, give me a minute, I need my blood flow to regulate.” You whined as your tried to army crawl backwards to your mountain of pillows. You heard the clink of his belt and the light sounds of Jim finally removing his clothing, but you had closed your eyes, exhaustion hitting you like a freight train. The shivers danced over your body as his warmth curled around you. And you drifted off to sleep.

You woke to a warmth over your nipple, a pleasant yet, forceful sensation drawing you from slumber. Jim had let you doze off, but he was done being polite. His eager mouth was demanding your full attention. Your fingers clung to his short locks, the rough texture of his facial hair tickling your sensitive skin. You sat up, keeping his face tight to your chest, his teeth nipping at the tip of your nipple.

His strong arms guided your to your knees, his mouth working its way up your cleavage and back to your mouth. He was so hungry, the faint taste of you coating his lips. You followed his lead, releasing his hair as he quickly rotated behind you. You dropped on to your palms, stretching out your back as your body prepared for his continued demonstrations.

“You are so beautiful, Y/N.” He whispered, as if surprised. His hands lingered on the rough scabs of the rug burn he gave you along your shoulder blades. They skated down the planes of your back, hugging each curve. Jim centered himself behind the crest of your hips, you dipped your head down, granting him better access. Your ass on full display, which he appreciated by rubbing each cheek with his calloused palms. His length was teasing at your folds, you pushed back, beckoning his entrance.

With his left hand, he took himself and gently rested at your core. He moaned lightly, grabbing each of your hips and drove into you. He pushed in quickly, but dragged back agonizingly slow. Each motion calculated to drive you insane. His stamina was impossible, his pace accelerating. His cock drilled through you as your body strove to catch up. Your walls shook around him, his length brushing every inch inside. After a particularly rough and quick patch, your arms gave out, your face buried into your blanket and pillows.

Jim’s fingertips dug into your sides, you pushed back with what little strength your had left, the rhythmic slapping of skin on skin masking his staggering breaths. Suddenly, his weight was pressing down onto your back, his throbbing cock releasing inside your battered center. He was hot and slick with sweat, but he was whispering the sweetest of nothings all the while.

“Oh god, Y/N, you feel so good.- I couldn’t hold back any longer, with you taking me so deep.” His whiskers were brushing on your scabs and it hurt, so your wiggled to your side, letting his sleepy face fall onto your chest. You played with his hair as he nuzzled your cleavage. Just like that you both fell back asleep.

Your alarm woke you both before dawn, early morning deliveries were a cruel symptom of your job. You quickly showered and got ready for the day in your unlit bedroom. Careful not to force Jim awake for long. You set the coffee pot for him and wrote a quick note. As you backed your car out of the driveway, you spotted that same dark SUV from last week parked at the very edge of your neighbor’s lawn. There where two men inside, one clearly sleeping and the other looking down at something in his lap. The image sat wrong inside your mind for the rest of the day.

Part 3: Around for Some More

@hgal

@rousethemouse

@dontshootmespence

@hotchnerfuckmeup

@cherry-loves-fanfic

[butiaintgonnaloveem]

Try to Understand (Part 1)

Characters/Pairing: Beta?Reader, Omega!Charlie, Alpha!Dorothy, Beta!Benny, Alpha!Dean Smith. Eventual Dean x Reader.

Word Count: 3.9k, or so

Warnings: A/B/O dynamics, language

A/N: I didn’t intend to make this a mini-series, but it’s going down this way. This is my fic for @dr-dean‘s ABO Birthday Challenge. It’s an AU, so just go with it. My song prompt was Magic Man by Heart. This is my first time writing A/B/O, so constructive criticism is definitely welcome. Shout-out to @roxy-davenport for the assist and beta when I was freaking out a little. Hope you enjoy it!

Part 2

“I don’t see why this is necessary,” your mother says almost passively as she groans. The discussion had been going around and around in circles. You just hoped it would finally end with you getting your way.

“Because, momma, before I’m swept off for the merger, I think it’s only right that I get some real-world experience.”

“Stop calling it a merger, it’s a marriage. And you’ve already been helping with the company for years, what else do you need to know?”

“Yes Ma’am, I know.” You pause for a moment before continuing as you try to think of the best way to convince your mother. “But how are we ever going to move forward if we can’t innovate. It’s only an internship, I’m not doing anything dangerous and it’s not like I’m going to the moon. Come on, momma, please talk to him? Let me do this?”

She pursed her lips, “You’ve got to be careful. Consider how this will reflect on our family name.”

“Of course. Always.” You nod, hoping to appease her and speed up the process of her decision-making. Over the years, you’d figured out that she was typically the one with the final say on matters, and while she took her time, you usually found ways to sway her in your favor.

In the end, you’d won, convincing them to let you take the opportunity for the internship at Sandover before moving forward with your other future arrangements - including your engagement to Benny, the heir of his family. ‘Think of the family name,’ you mocked. Like you’d ever get the chance not to. It was known in practically every household for it’s multi-generation, multi-million dollar business. But also known in the more infamous way for the family stance on breeding practices.

You had everything ready for your move. You were just getting ready to walk out the door when Benny came by to see you off. He approached you with his slow sauntering gait and gently placed a hand on your hip. He held you away at a respectable distance.

“You sure ‘bout this?”

“Yes, Benny. It’s a great learning opportunity, and it would be unreasonable for me to pass it up.”

“Darlin’, you stay safe out there. Stay clear of any troublemakers, you get me?”

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath to keep from rolling your eyes, “Benny, dear, I’ll be fine. You’re acting like I am going to live with a bunch of savages.”

“An alpha in rut? Omegas in heat? Savages might be the only way to describe them.”

“Well, I guess this will be a good learning experience, won’t it? I’ve already had to fight my folks on this, don’t start on me too, please. I’ll be back before you know it and we can move forward with the plans.” You gently smile and lean forward to place a light kiss on his cheek. He was kind, protective, and smart. There was no ill will or animosity toward him, but you also didn’t feel anything special; there was no real spark between the two of you. Your mother assured you that it would grow in time, not like you had a choice in the matter anyway. You were chosen for each other, practically genetically designed to suit your families and continue the pure, Beta bloodlines. Love and chemistry didn’t rank high on the list of priorities. Not when there was business to tend to and reputations to uphold. You keep a tight smile on your face as you walk toward the car waiting to take you to the airport, grateful for some breathing room and anxious for a little adventure.

Your first day at your internship had you buzzing with excitement. You practically ran into the building, eager to meet people and get started. But as soon as you entered, you buckled over from nausea. The lingering smells from alphas, betas and omegas felt stifling. You’d met and spent time with a few alphas and omegas, but never in a group or in a building like this. The building reeked of smells: musky, perfumey, earthy, sweet - all settling like a thick, wet cloud. You gasp as you try to get yourself under control, half desperate to run back outside for fresh air. The other half of you feeling drawn in, wanting to seek out the smells that appealed to you the most.

“Hey, you okay over there?” You look through the crowded lobby to find the source of the concerned voice, noticing a petite red-head tilted to her side, mirroring your stance.

“Yeah. Thanks, I’m just,” you take a slow breath in, “Overwhelmed.”

“New here?”

“Intern,” you shyly smile.

“Ah, well, come along, newbie, I’ll help you get to Mount Doom.”  

The bubbly red-head quickly introduced herself as Charlie, and, as luck would have it, she worked in the same department as you. She helped you get set up, introduced you around, and gave you a whirlwind tour pointing out different departments, managers and projects people were working on. You passed a set of double doors, nearly stumbling when your head whipped around at a delicious scent you caught.

“What’s in there?” You gasp.

“Sales and Marketing. Mostly a bunch of douchey salesmen and numbers guys. If you’re smelling anything, it’s probably cheap cologne and dirty money.”

“Not a fan, huh?” You grin at her, as you tilt your head in the direction of the scent again.

“Well, like I said, mostly a bunch of douches. There’s one or two in there that are alright.”

“Huh.” You nod absently before your brain catches up. “So, wait, you don’t smell that?” You sniff at the air again, “It smells amazing.”

Charlie squints her eyes, before taking a suspicious sniff of the air. “Umm, no, sorry.” She knits her brows together, watching you as you flit your attention between her and the closed double doors. “Hey, sorry if this is too personal since we just met and all, but, um, have you presented yet?”

You bark out a laugh before you can stop yourself, causing Charlie’s face to twist in confusion.

“Sorry. I’m sorry. No, I’m not offended,” you bite your lip, trying to control yourself. “I’m a beta,” you assure her with a confident nod.

“You sure?” She gently prods.

You glance down, feeling the nerves fluttering in your belly. You can feel your face going pink, embarrassed before you can even break the news. You lean in so that you can drop your voice to a whisper.

“I’m a Y/L/N, I’m sure,” you say flatly, hoping you didn’t sound as snobbish as you thought you did.

Charlie blinks at you for a moment, trying to figure out what you mean. Her eyes grow wide, almost exponentially, when she figures it out.

“Wait, like THE Y/L/N’s?” She practically shouts.

You nod and pop out a quiet, “Yup,” pushing your hands down to make her lower her voice.

“Shit. Shit. Sorry. Come on. Let’s grab lunch and then you can tell me all about that,” Charlie tugs at your sleeve, guiding you down the hall. You hum and nod, breathing deeply through your nose to catch the scent again before stepping into the elevator.

Charlie becomes an immediate friend. She was curious about your family, but not judgmental, and a pretty open book herself. She invites you over right away to have dinner with her alpha, Dorothy, and you listen intently as they tell you all about some of the adventures they’d been on together in between answering your own questions about their lives as an alpha and omega pair.

“So, you’ve only heard stories? I mean, you’ve really never even just hung out with any before?” Charlie asked.

“Umm, well, yes, I’ve met a few, but I’ve never actually met a pair before.”

“And, you really have no family that isn’t in the beta bloodline?” Dorothy asks, settling back with a glass of wine.

“Well, none that are recognized, at least.” You shift as your nerves start to get the better of you. The conversation about your family’s practices always made you jittery. Betas. All betas. All by design. Descendants of betas who married betas to produce more betas. As a child, you heard and read sweeping, grand stories about alphas and omegas, about their bonds, and love stories about True Mates, but never heard anyone from your family speak of those same feelings.

“Meaning?” Charlie presses with a look of concern.

“Meaning...should someone in our family present as something other than a beta, they are...ermm, written off? I guess that’s the nicest way to put it,” you explain with a grimace.

“Whoa, whoa, like ‘written off’?” Charlie runs a finger across her neck to mimic slitting someone’s throat.

“Ohmygod, no! Not like that! At least, not recently,” they both look at you with blank expressions as your attempt at humor falls flat, making you groan at yourself. “Okay, well, at this point, it doesn’t happen often, but a few years ago I had a cousin, Anna, who presented as an omega. As soon as she got through her initial heat, they had her pack a bag. The driver took her to a hotel and handed her an envelope of cash. She was left there, and now the family acts like she just died; pretends she doesn’t exist any more.”

Their hands clench together on the tabletop, and when you finally look up to meet their eyes, they look horrified. A wave of shame washes over you, making your stomach push up a bubble of bitter bile that you swallow down to continue.

“I, uh, I kept in touch with her, though. She’s actually doing really well. She found an alpha and they’re really happy, I guess.” Charlie and Dorothy continue to just watch you with shocked expressions. “Look. I don’t agree with it. It’s just, they have always preached head over heart, you know? When I was little, I asked my grandfather about the absence of alphas and omegas in my family. He very gruffly informed me ‘We will not be ruled by hormones. Our rationality keeps us civilized.’ And that was that.”

After a moment of silence, Charlie finally clears her throat, looking at you with a pained expression. “I just can’t understand that, turning your back on your child, on your family, because of genes.”

You can’t look her in the eyes any more. You know the way your family acts is controversial, but to really see someone react to it made you desperate for a change in subject. You swallow down the uneasy feeling and toss back the remainder of your wine.

“So, are those all first-edition novels?” you practically squawk, throat tight with nerves, face flush from the mixture of wine and embarrassment.

From the corner of your eye, you can see Charlie’s brow scrunched up in concern, but you try to keep your gaze fixed on the bookcase. You notice the slight movement of her hand squeezing Dorothy’s again before she chimes in.

“Yeah, yes, they are. They’ve been in my family for years.” She rattles on about her book collection while you try to swallow the lump in your throat. When you finally bring yourself to look up, Charlie flashes a quick wink and a friendly smile which calms you down some, relieved that it still seems like she wants to be friends despite what you just revealed to her. No matter how hard you try, though, you can’t rid yourself of the unsettling feeling that’s making your body quiver with nerves.

The moments from the previous night played over and over in your mind as your father droned on over the phone. Though you’d put some distance between you, your family still managed to inject themselves into your new life. You’d gotten more phone calls and texts over the few days you’d been gone than you usually received in an entire month.

“So, you ready to come on home, yet?” Your father asks teasingly. It’s the fifth time he’s asked that during the short conversation, like he is trying to catch you in a lie. You easily imagine his smug smile, one hand tapping a pen on his desk like he always did while on the phone.

“Really? I’ve only been here a few days.”

He chuckles at your exasperated response. “I know, I know. Just wanted you to know you’re missed. Your mother is more worried than she lets on.”

“Well, let her know I’m fine. Feeling a little queasy, but I think I’m just getting used to the change in scenery.”

“You need Benny to come on out there and take care of you?”

“I appreciate the offer, but no, I’m fine. I promise.”

“Alright, well, when you get tired of all those moody alphas, just gimme a ring.”

“You bet,” you say sweetly while your face remains neutral.

You hang up the phone, rubbing at your temples in frustration.

“Hey, you alright over there?” Charlie whispers in your direction. You feel your eyes well up with unwanted tears.

“I need to take a walk.”

Without questioning you further, she gets up to follow you. Your shoulders curl in as you fold your arms over your chest and duck your head down. You know you look like a toddler having a tantrum, but you can’t help yourself as you practically jog to the elevators. You slap at the buttons until the doors open, grateful that it’s empty once it arrives. Charlie slides in next to you, her own back rigid with tension as she watches you hit more buttons once inside. The two of you remain in silence for the duration of the elevator ride, aside from your huffing breaths. The doors barely crack open before you jump out, pacing the floor.

“I don’t get it. Just don’t get it, Charlie. I get being protective and all, but they’re treating me like they expect me to fail, or run home scared or something. I don’t have anything to be scared of. I’m just here to learn and live and then I’m going to go home and -”

“Hey, hey. Y/n?” Charlie jumps in, halting your pacing and your rambling. “Breathe, okay, take some deep breaths for me. Can you do that?”

You close your eyes, taking in air through your nose until you feel like your lungs might burst. You let it out slowly, then repeat the action, over and over.

“Okay, better?”

“Mmhmm,” you nod with your eyes still closed, tension slowly leaving your body.

“So, I’ve gotta ask, what are we doing here?”

You slowly open your eyes, taking in Charlie’s obvious concern; her eyes wide with worry, mouth drawn tightly down in a frown.

“Oh, Charlie, I’m sorry. I know. You barely know me and now I just started venting to you and you -”

“No, no, that’s fine. I just want to know what we’re doing here. Like, why’d you come here?” You turn your head like you’re trying to listen harder, like she’s said something you missed. She lifts her finger, gesturing at the walls around you.

You turn from side to side, elevators one way, the other way closed off by the double doors of the sales and marketing department.

“Oh. I - I don’t know? I just. Needed to calm down.” Your mouth pops out the fragments as you try to figure out why you came here instead of outside. You’re fairly certain that this had been your intended location, but now you aren’t so sure. Why had you gone here? Why does this place comfort you? You take another deep breath, letting the taste of the air settle on the back of your tongue. It’s fresh and calming, like that first breeze of warm, spring air - woodsy and earthy. You hum softly as the warmth from it spreads out from your chest.

Just then, one of the doors swings open, causing a gust of air to rush over you, carrying a scent so rich it makes your mouth water. You head spins, light and woozy, nearly making you topple over as you lose your footing. Charlie steadies you just in time.

“What’s wrong with her?” The older man asks, looking you over with mild concern.

“Oh, nothing Mr. Adler. Just some girl stuff, you know?” Charlie answers softly.

“Well, she oughta get home. An Omega in heat? The office is no place for that. You understand, young lady?” He nods at you.

Your face contorts with disgust. If you weren’t so busy trying to keep yourself upright, you’d have jumped down his throat for being so condescending. Who was he to call you young lady and tell you what to do? You came up here to relax, and instead you’ve got some shit excuse for an alpha acting like your father.

“Yes, sir, we’ll get this taken care of right away.” Charlie nods as he gets onto the elevator. The doors close before she speaks up again. “Okay, let’s just go get you settled in and we can figure -”

“What the hell was that?” You practically spit at her. “What’s his problem? And who were you talking about? Are you in heat, Charlie?”

She stares you down with worry and an apologetic look as you take uncontrollable, heaving breaths. Your stomach begins to ache as though you haven’t eaten in days, a steady pain pulling at your insides. Charlie’s lips pull back with a wince. Her hands remain caught in mid-air, like she’s hesitating. Finally, she speaks, her voice just above a whisper.

“No, I’m not in heat.”

“Well, neither am I,” you croak out and force yourself upright. You both stand in silence for a moment before a shiver of warmth rattles your body.

“It’s the flu. Or something. I’m just going to go home,” you cross your arms over your body, shaking your head in agreement with yourself.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Charlie mumbles. “We should probably try to figure out-”

“No. I’m going home,” you force the words out with as much conviction as you can muster while hunched over. “I must have caught something while traveling, you know how airplanes can be.”

You remain folded over as your skin begins to heat up, dampening with a light layer of sweat that makes you feel clammy all over. You reach out for the elevator button, feebly slapping at it until it lights up for you. Another pang pulls at your insides, making you draw your arms tighter around yourself in an attempt to reign in a shuddering cry.

The double doors swing open again and a figure stops just outside of them. The action pushes another blast of air your way and you moan as the heavily scented air hits you; a brief wave of relief. Then, there’s a voice - deep and clear - that cuts through the shrill alarm of panic ringing in your ears.

“Charlie,” it’s half a statement, half question.

“Mr. Smith,” she answers with a matching tone.

You want to stand up. You can hear your mother’s voice in your head scolding you about your manners. You know you’re causing a scene, and do your best to turn to greet the newcomer. You expect another old executive like Mr. Adler, but instead, you’re met by someone much younger. He steals your breath away as you take in his broad shoulders stretching the seams of his fitted suit jacket. Light brown hair, parted neatly to the side, framing his lightly tanned, freckled face. He’s gorgeous, despite the stony expression he’s wearing as his jaw flexes. His eyes are wide, showing off the most brilliant pair of green eyes you’d ever seen.

Your body freezes. You hear that voice again telling you to move, to do something, but it feels impossible. It feels like you’re stuck in a vivid dream, everything moving around you in a slow blur, your senses off-kilter. He looks at you as though he knows you, like you’re some long-lost friend. His focus so hard it’s like he’s trying to see straight through you. It’s intense, and sends a sudden jolt through you, making you tremble and gasp.

That’s when you smell it. Him. The apparent source of that delicious scent you’ve been chasing. The one you caught on your tour and that you sought out in your panic. It’s powerful, and now with him so close, you can smell the richness of it. Of him. There’s a bit of spice that tickles at your taste buds, mingling with the foresty scent you’d picked up on earlier, with a touch of tangy saltiness. Probably from the light layer of sweat that’s making his face shine in the light.

“I’m so sorry. There must be something going around,” you softly groan.

His eyes leave you, glancing at Charlie, nostrils flaring as he inhales deeply. She gently pats at your back, but the comforting gesture just makes your back prickle with irritation at the contact.

“Charlie?” He asks again, his voice gravelly and strained. You hear it turn up at the end of her name, sounding like a plea.

“Dean. Just hang on. Okay? She doesn’t know,” she tells him calmly, smoothly.

“What? What the hell does that mean?” He steps forward. His voice makes you roll your neck, sending a tingling sensation right down your spine that settles between your thighs. You’ve never felt turned on by just a man’s voice before, and it makes your face burn red, adding to your inner distress at the situation.

You remain hunched over, hands digging into your sides as you attempt to draw the pain away from your core. His eyes move between you and Charlie, waiting for something. His tongue slips out between his lips, and you draw in a deep breath, hauling yourself upright with the inhale. You finally get a proper look at the man before you; his tongue still peeking out between his slightly parted lips and playing behind his teeth. It takes all your strength to suppress the urge you have to press your mouth against his and suck on his tongue and full lips.

The elevator dings and the doors roll open, startling you out of your inappropriate little daydream.

“I should really go,” you breathe out softly.

“No,” both Charlie and Dean answer in unison, startling you again and making you step back reluctantly.

“Y/n, okay, I know this might be a little weird, maybe a little scary for you, but just listen for a second, okay?” Charlie says as she and Dean both take a tentative step forward, making you step back. “I’m telling you, this isn’t some stomach bug, or bad sushi. You’re experiencing a heat.”

Your eyes start to well up again. Your fingers twitch while your body shakes with feverish trembles. A high-pitched, nearly hysterical laugh escapes your mouth as you continue to back away from the two people standing before you.

“No. I’m a beta. I’m a Y/L/N.” You point in her direction. “You barely know me. You don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m going home.” Your voice wavers, and your feet try to disobey you, but you manage to step back into the elevator, letting the doors close on panicked faces as they try to dive at the narrowing gap.

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