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hanjisick · 3 months

Text

Orders.

genre. mafia au. bodyguard!lee know x fem!reader

desc. your father is an elite, high ranking official in a mafia family. after your first kidnapping, a bodyguard was hired to ensure your safety.

warnings. nsfw. fingering & sex. torture. kidnapping. murder. violence.

wc. 10k

✉️ : this is my first writing after a 9 month hiatus. i apologize for the unannounced break and i will be answering and writing again shortly. enjoy! :)

You sit in a wooden chair, wheezing and thrashing from days of sleep deprivation and torment. Your body aches, wrists bruised and bloody from the ropes, and you almost feel like giving in and spilling Daddy’s secrets— allowing them to kill you and the family.

But you knew better than that. You knew that you'd be saved.

The gunshots and cries for help weren't unexpected from above the dark bunker.

With an ear-piercing creak, the door swings open and the shadow of a man emerges through the doorstep, shoes squeaking with fresh blood underneath.

He doesn’t let out a single word as he kneels to grab your face and examine it. Your attention follows the ring on his finger. An insignia that he is part of the family. You can depend on him.

But still, you wince, sharply inhaling as his fingers aggravate your wounds.

“Don’t get their blood in my wounds, I don’t know what kind of freaks they are,” You grumble, voice husky from days of screaming.

You let him turn your head, retaining eye contact with the floor as you grit your teeth.

“Relax,” he mumbles, “I don’t bite.”

He leans closer to examine your wounds. “You took a lot of hits. How many people are here?”

He draws back as you reply, “Can’t tell you exactly.”

“About four of them grabbed me while I was leaving the house— stupid on their part, no wonder you were here so shortly,” You trail off before catching yourself back on topic.

“But I’ve only seen three different men since I’ve been here. Only to beat me and interrogate me. Don’t worry, I didn’t say anything to put Daddy at risk.”

“I heard two other unrecognizable voices. That would make nine people in the building that I know of. Of course, there could always be more. How many did you shoot?”

“Six,” he responds before looking down at your scrapes and wounds again.

You feel him caress your cheek once more, his cold skin sending shivers down your spine.

“You’re in bad shape.”

“If there’s more here, we need to get out as soon as possible. We can worry about my wounds as soon as these people aren’t on our ass.”

You struggle in your bounds, the ropes burning your already bloody wrists, “Could you untie me, first?”

“Don’t move.”

You obey his command, halting as he unties the ropes, uncovering the painful burn marks and blisters.

“That fucking hurt,” you rotate your wrists, “I could’ve gotten out without your help eventually, though.” Your voice is rough, breath coming out in harsh, sharp drags.

“Sure, you would’ve.”

You stumble to your feet as he pulls you into him for safety. He reeks of gunpowder and high-dollar cologne— presumably something that Daddy has made sure that he has the money for.

“Stay close to me, when we get to the front, you go out first and then I’ll leave right after.”

You follow the unfamiliar man out of the maze, almost slipping on the floor blanketed in blood.

You adjust to the bright sunlight— and it feels gentle against your damaged skin. It seems like time has stood still while you were captured. “Did Daddy order you a car?”

“Yes,” he answers, “Some men are waiting out front to take us to the closest hospital— which isn’t too far.”

“I’m being hospitalized?” You follow him into the backseat, finally slacking for a moment ontop of the fresh leather.

“It’s not my choice to have you taken to the hospital, it’s the orders.”

“Do I have a statement to tell the nurse?” You look at him in concern.

“Am I supposed to say, ‘Oh, I was kidnapped by Daddy’s enemies! By the way, he’s in the mafia! Who wants to arrest Daddy?’”

“Tell them you fell down the stairs.” His flat tone contrasts your own, remaining unfazed.

“How would that cover up my wrists' burn marks?” You hold up the bloody and bruised dents, “Nobody gets these from falling down the stairs. There's way too much blood— and some of it isn’t even mine.”

He raises an eyebrow, looking over to the burn marks on your wrist and then back to you.

“Then tell them you accidentally burnt yourself while cooking.”

“Are you even listening to me? Are you stupid?”

He doesn’t respond for a moment, not seeming to care about the situation.

“It’s not hard to pay them to be silent.”

“How about I tell them that I was heavily bullied at school and a couple of classmates did this to me? I think that could work.”

You two arrive at the front entrance of the emergency room, he follows behind you, strolling through the automatic door.

“I’m fine, really, I was just beaten by classmates,” You lie through your teeth to the front desk, “My boyfriend took me here to get it checked out.”

He raises an eyebrow.

You comply with the nurses as they check your weight and interview you.

“I don’t have any stab wounds, at least I don’t think so— I don’t remember what they did to me. I was held captive for a few,” Your voice trails off as you wince at a sudden pang.

You glance down at your bleeding side and are unexpectedly whacked with all of the distress that you had been repressing at once.

Your vision starts to fade, face pale as a ghost.

The man rushes over as they carry you to a bed, and he kneels beside you to review your condition. Your body is pale and cold, breathing jagged and rapid.

You hear the whispers of the staff panicking. One nurse checks your pulse, and another elevates your legs.

“I need my blood sugar up,” the first words that come out of your mouth sound weak and painful.

You look over at the man beside you.

You need to lie. But you don’t even know his name.

“Boyfriend,” you determine, “please get me a sugary drink from the vending machine.”

A subtle smirk forms upon his lips, but it vanishes as soon as it appears.

“Fine,” he rises to his feet.

You hiss as the nurses sterilize your wounds, shrieking and thrashing on the mattress at the sting. You try to stay still, but the pain is intolerable.

Footsteps echo and you find the man returning with a chocolate bar, which he holds out to you. He brings it close to your lips and holds the chocolate against your mouth for you to take a bite, “Slowly.”

“I told you to get me a drink,” You disregard his command, biting the chocolate quickly, almost aggressively.

His lips turn up, amused by your action.

The nurses finish stitching up your deep gashes and bandaging your wounds, recommending that you stay the night.

“Pay for the bill with Daddy’s cash and let’s get out of here,” you state coldly, “I need to shower and get all of this blood out of my hair. I don’t want to stay here.”

“As long as you can walk by yourself, we can leave right away.” He replies. The man takes out a wad of bills quickly counts the money and pays for the bill.

You stay speechless until entering the car.

“Who are you?”

“I’m your bodyguard. Your father hired me to look out for you after the kidnapping.”

You nod in acknowledgment. “Will you be staying at the estate with me? Or is it a ‘only when I leave the house’ kind of deal?”

“My primary duty is to protect you from anyone or anything that could harm you, whether that be outside or inside the house. I could go wherever you wish me to follow you, and I will be there.”

“You won’t sleep in bed with me though, right?”

He stays silent for a moment.

“You are correct, I am here to protect, nothing more. I will not sleep next to you. I am merely your bodyguard and take your orders.”

“Good boy,” you grin, “I bet Daddy will pay you very nicely. Why else would you take this job? How much does he give you? Either way, I’m sure you have enough to buy a mansion.”

The bodyguard holds back an eye roll. “I will have more than enough money. Not only that but he also provides me with a home.” He adds with a smirk.

“Good.” You reply.

You fall silent, allowing him to drive, taking in the past few days.

You were never worried about surviving, You understood that Daddy would handle it. But you didn’t expect to be as hurt as you were.

He could’ve saved you sooner.

“When we get home, order the chef to make me something sweet, I deserve a treat,” you state, “I’m going to shower and you are not allowed to enter my bathroom under any circumstance. Even if I’m dying.”

“You would die before letting me enter your bathroom? I get it.” He retorts.

Once you both arrive at the estate, you stumble out of the car. You don’t linger for him.

You’re welcomed by a handful of workers as you enter the home, but ignore them as you make a beeline up the stairs and towards the bedroom.

The door locks behind you and the room is silent. You feel the weariness creep on as your wounds sting. You lean against the door, sliding down.

After a moment of peace, you head towards the shower to comb the dried blood out of your hair.

You scrub your face carefully, avoiding the stitches above your eyebrows.

You wash your body entirely, removing the blood stains with soap, water, and a wash rag. Then you comb out the dried blood.

Once you finish, you dry yourself off and dress in a plain, silk nightdress.

Leaving your bedroom, you turn to look for your guard. He is at the doorway of your room when you walk out. His eyes roam around your body for a brief moment, examining the nightgown.

“Do you require assistance?”

“Did you place an order for something sweet, like I asked?” You peer at his suit, moving in to adjust his tie.

He follows your hand as it moves, eyeing you for a few moments before he utters, “I did, the chef will be bringing it to your room once it’s prepared.”

“Good boy.”

You look up at his face once you are pleased with the positioning. You grimace at his sharp, cold face. The blood was dried, brown, and unpleasing. The man’s hand relaxes on the gun holstered on his hip.

“I order you to come into my bedroom.”

His eyebrows crease. He understands his role as your bodyguard— nonetheless, he doesn’t get a kick out of being ordered around in this tone.

He takes a deep breath. “Your wish is my command.”

The room is massive, a silk-covered canopy bed sits in the center of it. He pays no mind to looking around, concentrating on the job at hand.

“Sit down on my bed,” you demand, steering towards the bathroom and pushing open the double doors.

He obeys your orders without question, crossing his legs, and keeping his hand resting beside his gun.

The bodyguard keeps a close, attentive eye on the doors, supervising the way that you soak a washrag with warm water, squeezing out the excess.

You sit beside him, grabbing his chin and leaning into his face. He tenses.

“Relax, I don’t bite,” you smirk, reiterating his first words from the moment he met you back to him, massaging the dried blood off of his face, “No guard of mine will have a messy appearance.”

You can tell that he feels uneasy, but he can’t reject you. If you wish for him to relax, he will make an effort to relax.

You can’t help but notice his complexion when he isn’t scowling. The apathy melts away as you wipe the dried blood, giving you a new perspective on his appearance.

“You’re handsome,” you state bluntly, “Especially without blood covering your face.”

You toss the rag into the laundry basket carelessly, waiting for a maid to take care of it.

“Thank you.”

“What is your name? You never told me.”

His eyebrows arch slightly at the question.“It’s Minho.”

“I am Y/N,” You reply, holding out your hand to shake his own. His grip is firm and warm.

He keeps a stoic face as he glances at your face and back at your hand, as if he is searching for an ulterior motive behind this handshake.

The food.

The bell rings and the sound of it shatters the stillness of the room. Minho’s head jolts towards the door, hand back on his gun.

He rises instantly, opening it to reveal the maid with a tray of sweet snacks.

He takes it from her. “I will bring it in.”

“What a good boy, Minho,” you praise, clapping your hands together as he sets the tray on your lap.

“I don’t take you for a man who enjoys sweet food much. Do you like sweets?”

“Sometimes.”

You unwrap a piece of high-dollar chocolate, “I command you to open your mouth.”

Minho can’t deny you, it would be disobeying your orders.

He opens his mouth as the chocolate is positioned between his lips.

You relish in the chocolates with Minho and once finished, you set the tray on the floor for a maid to pick up at sunrise.

“I don’t think I mind you being around all that much, Daddy makes good decisions.” You lay down on the mattress.

“Your father does make good decisions.”

His gaze wavered on your face until you drifted off to sleep. Only then did they slowly trail down to your body.

The way your body was built captivated him. Minho was glued to your sleeping form.

He stayed in the room, taking a seat on a chair in the corner to watch you.

He didn’t know how long it had been since you had dozed off, but by the way that the room was now pitch black and noiseless aside from your figure rising and falling, he would imagine that it had been a couple of hours.

“How long are you going to sit there?” Your sleep-filled voice questions him, causing him to snap out of his daze, hand reaching for his gun out of instinct.

“Do you sleep? Are you allowed to sleep?”

“I will only remain in the room as long as you order me to. I do sleep,” He replies, “Now is there anything else you need my assistance with? Or can I return to my duties?”

“So you’re only staying in the room because I ordered you two hours ago?” There’s a tinge of dismay in your voice, but it was masked by sleep, “You can leave if you want, I don’t mind.”

Minho felt a sudden pit in his stomach. You sounded disappointed by his statement.

Your words are perplexing him, and he can’t conclude what you want from him. To stay or to go?

“Should I stay for a bit longer?”

You were already asleep again once he had responded.

You and Minho both wake to a maid opening the blinds and ringing a bell. You groan, stretching your body.

“Miss, let’s get you dressed for today.”

She pulls your nightgown up above your head as Minho’s eyes wander toward your laced underwear.

“What’s on my schedule for today?”

He quickly forces his gaze to look away and stares back at the maid.

“We want you to heal from your injuries, miss,” she answers, “we will start with a nutritious breakfast to encourage recovery, and attend to your injuries, and then you will speak with Daddy about your incident.”

The maid buttons your fitted dress, glancing in Minho’s direction, “Your bodyguard will need to be there for your conversation with Daddy.”

“He will?”

“He needs to tell Daddy what he witnessed from the facility.”

You nod, following her lead down the stairs and towards the breakfast table.

Minho follows suit, remaining at your side the entire time and he watches you eat, staying observant and cautious.

“Are you hungry?”

This question catches Minho off guard.

“No.” He adds in a dull tone— but in actuality, he is starving. He was entrusted to watch over you. He shouldn’t eat on the clock.

“Maid, go order,” You look Minho up and down, “A side of crepes. Blueberry crepes. And two cups of coffee.”

The maid hurries to the kitchen to place the order, and it is brought out a couple of minutes later.

He stares at the crepes being placed on the table, and his belly grumbles. “Thank you.”

The maid carries the mugs of coffee to the table. But it doesn’t take Minho long to catch sight of her cunning smile and the perplexing liquid that the maid slipped into the mugs of coffee.

He stares quietly, calculating his next action.

“Don’t drink it.”

“Why not?”

Minho’s sight narrows as you bring the cup of coffee to your lips.

This time, his tone is warning and direct. “It’s better that you don’t.”

You halt your sip at his harsh command.

The maid pulls out a handgun swiftly after realizing that she has been caught, aiming it at you.

A switch swiftly flips inside of him.

He lunges forward, grabbing the woman’s wrist and twisting the gun to the right, snapping a couple of fingers in the process.

It’s a rapid movement, and he had little time to think before shooting her in the head, watching the life leave her body. His face is apathetic and almost casual.

The maid’s blood spilled onto the floor as the others ran to clean it up.

“He passed the test, we can keep him. A promising guard so far,” Daddy compliments from behind you, “Urgently acting to protect. He knew that she was mindless and weak. He comprehends crises well.”

The older man slips a wad of cash into the breast pocket of Minho’s suit. “Good on protecting her. That was a setup with a stupid maid who was just aching to betray us. You will have the same fate if you are wavered by another team.”

“I think he’s a good boy. He won’t betray me.”

“Y/N, meet me at my office. Guard, follow her.” He swiftly turns away to lead the two of you as you eye Minho.

“You can relax now. No more tests.”

He nods in understanding, heeding silently towards the office.

“Tell me about what you saw at the facility.”

You nod. “Four men had taken me from our garden entrance and used Chloroform to knock me unconscious. I woke up in their van, where my hands and legs were tied. I heard them talking about what they planned to get out of me. They had intentions of murdering me if they got to a week of no answers.”

Minho listens to your explanation with hawk-like eyes, paying close attention to all the details and descriptions.

You clear your throat, running your fingers across your bruised wrist, “I was tied to a chair in their questioning room, and they used forms of torture for me to open up.”

“I was deprived of sleep and beaten if they caught me closing my eyes— trying to get my lack of sleep to cause me to open up about your activities.”

Daddy nodded solemnly, leaning into his chair.

“Waterboarding was their favorite method, but they enjoyed beating me. I assume that was mainly for fun.”

You continued, “Minho appeared and killed a couple of them and saved me, but most are still alive.”

“Still alive? You didn’t find and kill them, bodyguard, why?” Daddy’s intense eyes moved toward Minho, who appeared unbothered.

The fact that he missed a few guys is enough to drive him crazy.

“I had to get her to safety as soon as possible.”

Daddy merely nods. “I will send my men after them. Y/N, did you get any names?”

“They wouldn’t tell me anything about themselves, but I saw a couple of signs of their rival gang.”

“Guard,” he veered towards Minho, “Describe the faces that you saw. I need as much information as possible.”

“They look to be between the ages of 20 to 30, their faces covered in scars. One man had dark skin, and his facial scars were faded. His most notable feature was a slit across his brow. He wore a dark suit. I left him alive but with a bullet in his arm. The other man had a lighter skin tone and his scars were similar to knife wounds. He had gotten away.”

The boss nods.

“Good. I can work with that. Never let my little girl get into trouble like that again, alright?”

The second the words ‘my little girl’ leave his mouth, Minho can’t help but gaze at you. He observes your reactions and motions.

His heart beats by hearing his boss call you that, and his attention is now focused on every single twitch that you make.

“The nurses will be waiting in her bedroom shortly. Be good and do as they say.” He adds, snapping Minho back to him.

“Guard, do not let her go against any of the nurses' rules. She can be convincing. Do not give into it.”

“Yes Sir.”

You roll your eyes, turning away to leave the room.

“Stay safe.” That is the last utterance of the boss before you drag Minho out of the room and towards the bedroom.

“Sit on the bed,” a nurse commands you, and you quickly obey.

She dabs at your abdomen stitches with antiseptic soap and your eyebrows furrow.

“You can’t move around much, got it? No exercising for three weeks until we get these stitches out.”

You agree as she moves on to your wrists, rubbing cream into them, “You’re going to visit us twice a day for six days until the healing is almost complete.”

She yanks a bandage off of your face, causing you to groan in pain. She rubs another ointment on it before substituting it with fresh dressing.

Minho supervises each step that the nurse takes, noticing how she takes care of your body as if it’s her most precious gift.

She turns to Minho, “I need you to make sure that she’s well rested, drinking enough water, and not doing many straining activities. Take her back here once again in the evening, and then we will see her again this time tomorrow morning, got it?”

“Yes, I will take care of her.”

“What about him, nurse?” You eye the small cuts across his face and hands.

She smiles and leans over to you. “He is well trained. Trust me, he’ll survive a few scratches.”

Your eyes narrow. “I order you to treat his wounds to the best of your abilities.”

She sighs. “Yes ma’am.”

She moves towards Minho and checks his wounds, patching the ones that were newly caused. She brushes his face softly with an ointment.

“I don’t like it when my guards don’t keep up a good appearance,” you try to explain away your worry for him, “and being injured will only slow you down when protecting me.”

The man stares straight ahead, listening carefully. “I’m fine. I’ll recover just fine. I don’t need much care as you do.”

“Let her rest now,” the nurse tells Minho, “order the maids to bring her a glass of water and have her sip on it until lunchtime.”

Once she leaves, Minho turns towards you, “I’ll make sure the maids bring you water. You need to stay hydrated”

Once water is on your table, your gaze returns to Minho

“Now, I order you to sit down on my bed with me.”

He examines you with a neutral expression and waits for you to say what you mean, not wishing to assume or take anything wrongly.

“Sit down with me,” you demand again, patting the spot beside you, waiting for him to follow suit.

As soon as you ask him to, Minho does not waver. He sits down beside you, body brushing your own.

You turn to meet his cold expression with intensity. “Do you like your job so far?

Minho is taken off guard by your switch of topic. He stays where he is sitting, but turns his body as well and faces you.

“I enjoy my duties.”

“Good. Because I’m fond of you. You’re handsome, and you are good at your job.”

He stares at you with slight surprise. “Thank you.”

Your hands grab for his, playing with the ring on his finger.

Then, you reach your hands higher, tugging his sleeve up to reveal a cluster of scars littered across his forearm.

“How long have you been in the business?”

“Since I was fourteen. I was trained from a very young age.”

“Have you always been in Daddy’s family?”

“I was loyal to your Daddy from the moment I knew what this life was like. I haven’t had a moment of doubt.”

“Good. That means you won’t leave us, right?”

“I will serve your family until my last breath. You have nothing to fear about that.”

“What a good boy,” you reach to ruffle his hair, landing a swift kiss on his sliced cheek. “That’s exactly what I like to hear.”

Minho stiffens.

“I order you to take off your jacket. I want to see your body. To see if you’re strong enough to be a good guard.”

Your words are sharp as a knife and they cut deep through his defense system. His jaw clamps and his breathing accelerates.

Minho swallows his breath, nodding his head. His movements are rigid, starting to cautiously peel off his jacket. It takes him a moment to unbutton it, but once his jacket is off, he stays there, waiting.

You slide his jacket to the floor, touching the muscles of his bicep through his button-down. “You’re fit. That’s good.”

Minho yearns for you to keep feeling him. To keep praising him. He swallows. Your words sound like a honey trap to him, and it’s working as intended.

“I order you to take off your tie.”

“Yes.”

That is all that he says, slowly slipping his tie from underneath his collar and tossing it aside.

Unexpectedly, you’re climbing on top of his body. “Take off your button-down.”

He unbuttons his shirt as your eyes sear into his chest. He is now only wearing a black undershirt.

“So many clothes,” you sigh out, groping his bare arms. You run your hands across his biceps, listening to him shudder underneath the touch.

“Take off your undershirt now. I want to see your chest.”

You can feel the heat radiating off him as he shivers. His body is now sensitive, and your hands are making it worse for him.

Your orders are evident, and he hastily lifts off his undershirt, waiting for what is next.

You can see his whole chest with all of its blemishes, with every muscle covered in sweat, exposed for you.

Your hands travel down his chest and abdomen, feeling each ragged scar with your bruised fingers. The delicate contact causes his breath to catch and a soft groan leaves him, fighting to not show that he relishes in your touch.

“Let me kiss you.”

He stares at you for a moment before his eyebrows slightly shift— his way of showing you that he approves of that request.

Minho leans in slightly and closes his eyes, gently placing a timid kiss on your lips.

You smirk against him, pushing him to lie against the bed frame and deepening the kiss. Your hands reach for his dark hair, clasping a handful in your grip.

He kisses you deeply and wraps his arms around you to pull you in closer, offering full control to you. His breath speeds up.

You pull away after a moment, lips brushing against his as you catch your breath, but only for an instant before moving towards his jaw, sucking marks onto his skin.

Minho quivers at your touch, his breathing speeding up once more as you leave red and purple blemishes on his skin. He bites his lip to stop himself from groaning.

Your mouth moves from his jaw to his neck, leaving kisses and hickeys all across him, making sure that he is covered in them.

Your hips grind against him, breathing heavily with anticipation as you make your way to his chest.

Your hands and mouth are touching all of him, and each sensation triggers a reaction that he tries to conceal.

Your lips hover back to his lips, staring at him longingly. “Do I have to command you for you to do anything to me? You don’t have to ask. You have my permission. Do whatever you want.”

You can see his gaze shifting from your eyes to your mouth, to your neck, and then towards your chest.

You swiftly lift yourself off of him to let him remove your dress, leaving your body as bare as his own.

You grasp onto his neck, bringing him in for another deep kiss. Minho remains silent as he kisses you, allowing you to leave him as many marks as you desire.

“What are you thinking, Minho? Speak to me.”

He takes a moment, letting out an unstable breath. “I’m thinking of what you are doing to me. I,” he stammers, “I want to make you feel good.”

“Then do it. Please.”

“I don’t want to harm you,” he breathes out, “you’re injured.”

“The nurses said to not do,” Minho presses his eyes shut as you bring your hips up to meet his, “fuck, anything straining.”

“Remember what Daddy said? I can be convincing.” You sneer as your bodyguard fails to keep his cool composure, but the aching cock pressing into you is giving his true desires away.

You eye his internal struggle between following your orders and his cravings, or the nurse and his boss.

“I don’t want to hurt you. I can go relieve myself in the bathroom.”

“I like being hurt.”

You notice his lip twitch at the comment, and you decide to provoke him further, grinding into him, and set a steady rhythm with your hips.

He groans as his head drops back, tugging onto your hair and trying desperately to control his breath, “Please, Y/N, I just want to take care of you.”

“You can take care of me in another way.”

“I need to follow orders.”

“Then I order you to fuck me.”

His eyes pinch shut as he tries to clear his head and reason with himself.

Perhaps if he were gentle, it would be alright.

But how long could he remain gentle when you were splayed out in front of him, willing to take anything that he gave to you?

He made his decision, gripping your shoulders gently and flipping you, pinning you to the bed, and surveying your face for any discomfort.

When he finds none, he impatiently unclasps his belt, throwing it to the floor along with his dress pants, leaving him in just his boxers.

You hold yourself up by your elbows, thighs pressed together and mouth watering at the man in front of you.

His hands were delicate, although they could easily snap you in half, as he unclasped your bra, leaving your top half bare.

Minho stopped to take in the view for a moment before grabbing at one of your breasts, his mouth attaching to the other.

Your whines were like music to him— something that he wanted to hear more of.

Your back arched in pleasure as he moved one hand down to your thigh, caressing it for a moment before slowly slipping his hand into your panties.

“Try to stay quiet, darling, I don’t want any staff checking on us,” He hushed you with his lips attaching to your own once again, feeling your wetness all over his calloused hands.

His thumb brushed against your clit and you whimpered into his mouth, clenching around nothing.

Minho then plunged two fingers deep inside of you and curled them. He was becoming lost in pleasing you, overlooking his own ache between his legs.

Your thighs shook beneath him, feeling him brush against your g-spot brutally. “Minho please, please just fuck me. I want you inside of me so bad.”

At your request, he slipped his fingers out, feeling your cries against his lips from the loss of friction.

“Yes ma’am.” He pulled away from your lips, replacing them with his now dripping fingers, lapping it up with his tongue.

Next, your ruined panties were yanked off of you, with his boxers soon to come after.

One hand gently relaxes on your hips, cautious to avoid aggravating your injuries as he uses the other to guide himself inside of you, a deep groan followed by your whines.

He gives you a moment to handle the stretch, but you hardly need it, already begging for him to move.

Minho cautiously thrusts, taking in a deep breath and furrowing his eyebrows in concentration.  This is the ultimate test of patience for him. He needs to be as gentle as possible with you.

Ultimately, he sets a slow pace, hands locating themselves on either side of you, letting out uneven breaths as he tries to control himself from how good you feel around him.

“You really do care, don’t you?” Your hand reaches to cup his face, gazing into his eyes that are hazy with pleasure.

He keeps his response short, too concentrated on the waves of bliss through each thrust, “I do care.”

“Is it because you’re my bodyguard or something more?”

You study him, watching his adam’s apple move as he swallows deeply, inhaling sharply. He halts his thrusts for a brief instant.

“Both, maybe. I can’t tell.”

That was enough for you to continue, grabbing another handful of his hair and bringing him in for another hungry, deep kiss.

With each deep thrust, Minho’s mind got hazier and hazier, losing himself to pleasure bit by bit. You could feel it by the way his rhythm became rough and desperate, and his pace picked up.

One of his hands left your side, creeping towards your throbbing clit, causing you to let out sobs, all of which he ate up with his mouth against your own.

“Are you gonna cum for me?” He coos, knowing that you’re too lost in bliss to respond.

He takes your whines as a ‘yes’, his thumb rubbing circles faster, coaxing your orgasm out of you.

Your walls fluttered around him, squeezing your eyes closed and letting out a lengthy, drawn-out moan as his pace picked up even further.

“Just like that. You’re so good for me, so, so good, fuck,” he talked you through your orgasm between his thrusts, chasing his own high.

His brows crease, hips stuttering at how good it felt to have you gripping so tightly onto his cock. Finally, he let go, his load spilling inside of you and seeping out.

Both of you took an instant to catch your breath, coming down from your highs.

His hands slowly traced your curves in contentment, paying attention to the way your chest rose and fell.

Finally, he has a justification to gape at your body up close.

From your jawline to your hickey-covered chest, down to your bruised sides and stitches near your abdomen, and— Oh fuck.

Your wounds.

Minho slowly pulls away, feeling a sense of post-nut clarity and fright.

His hand slides away from your body, staring at you with concern.

“What’s wrong?” You ask, your own anxiety suddenly displayed on your face, “Do you regret it?”

“No! No,” He panics, “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?“

Back in reality now, your wounds ache and your head pounds with exhaustion and overexertion.

His mind calculates the solutions to the situation— ways to explain to the nurses, to fix you, to help you feel better.

It was his shortcoming, after all. He let his urges get to him.

“Let’s run you a bath.” He pulls himself up, tugging on his boxers and heading towards the bathroom.

You hear the tap turn on, lying in bed trying to catch your breath. Your breath is harsh from both adrenaline and pain, but you can’t help but feel as though the latter is more of the cause.

You had slept with a small handful of men, primarily Daddy’s men, but none of them were quite like Minho.

He was tough but breakable. He was still kindhearted at his core— something that wasn’t all that common in the business.

You could tell from the way that he ran the bath, bare muscles glistening from sweat, running his hand through the water to make sure that it was the ideal temperature. How concerned he was about your protection, even through his pleasure.

Not many other men that you’ve met throughout your life have been the same way.

You’re quite fond of the man that you have just met.

You hear the water shut off and footsteps coming towards the room. He holds a faint smile as his steps come towards the bed. Your gaze slowly wanders to his physique.

“It’s ready for you.” He says in a slight whisper.

“I order you to pick me up and bring me to the bath.”

He nods at your order, hooking his arms underneath your thighs and back, his strong grip securing you.

You inhale the powerful stench of gunpowder stuck to his skin, finding comfort in your bodyguard’s presence.

“Will you wash my hair?”

Studying his expression, it’s hard to read, but you let him carry you and place you into the water.

‘I do care,’ you recall his words.

‘Is it because you’re my bodyguard or something more?’ ‘Both, maybe. I can’t tell.’

Perhaps you had feelings for the man, especially while he massaged shampoo into your scalp with tough hands, making sure to rub your temples.

“Have you ever been a bodyguard before?”

When Minho hears your question, he hums while he proceeds to wash you, working on scrubbing the areas where he touched you earlier. “No, you’re the first one I’ve been a bodyguard for.”

“I did things for your father before this. Not as a bodyguard, a more, I guess, dangerous role,” he dismisses the question.

“Is that so?” You fall to silence as he continues to wash you, taking his time and guaranteeing that he gets every part. He hesitates when he washes around your injuries— every stroke and movement of his hands is smooth and temperate.

“Let me relax for a minute alone,” you murmur, “You should put your clothes back on, the maids should be here any moment to take my order for lunch. They won’t find it suspicious that I’m bathing, but they will question why you’re with me.”

Minho nods and pulls away from your body.

He stands up and his feet splash on the wet floor. He takes a double take at your closed eyes.

The way your body floats in the bath is something that catches his attention. You look very pleasing in such a vulnerable position.

He leaves the room, cracking the door to make sure that you are safe.

Minho buttons up his wrinkled shirt, pulling the jacket over it and smoothing it out to ensure that nobody suspects anything.

Minho’s eyes turn to the maid who enters the room with the ring of a bell.

His demeanor is unfazed, a hand on the gun in his pocket once more. He holds eye contact, his stare intense.

He would make sure that there wasn’t another incident.

“Where is Miss Y/N?”

“She is bathing at the moment.”

She nods, walking towards the bathroom and knocking on the door.

You hum, allowing her to enter.

“What would you like for lunch, ma’am?”

“I don’t know, surprise me.”

A few seconds go by as you immerse yourself entirely in the water before rising back to the surface.

“Minho,” you call out, “What would you like?”

You hear the faint sigh that Minho gives as a response back to your question.

“I’ll just have a sandwich or something, whatever you have is fine.” He replies to both you and the maid as she exits the bathroom, fulfilling her duty of reporting your lunch choice.

The bedroom door shuts behind her.

“Minho!” You call out once again, “I order you to take me out of the bath.”

A few seconds pass before you hear Minho’s footsteps come near the bathroom once again. He grabs a towel as you stand, body bare and dripping with water.

His eyes have an intense focus as he reaches out his hand.

Minho pulls you up from the bath wraps the towel around you, making sure to cover all of you, and begins to dry off your hair.

“Minho,” you begin, “Daddy can’t know about what happened. He’d shoot you dead on the spot.”

Minho pauses for a moment, his eyes darting across the floor.

He is silent for a moment. “I won’t reveal anything to him.”

“Good boy,” you cling to the towel covering your body, “Go fetch a maid to dress me. While she does so, I want you to change out of that suit and shower before lunch.”

“Then I’ll go shower now. I’ll be back.”

You hum in agreement, stepping towards your bedroom as a maid rings the bell.

You drop your towel, letting her sift through your drawers to find decent clothing.

She eyes a hickey on your breast, along with the other injuries across your body from the kidnapping.

“Your injuries look agitated, Miss Y/N, are you sure that a bath was the best idea for you?”

“Don’t question me,” you grumble, “I took a bath because I wanted to.”

“Yes, miss.” She pulls the dress above your head smoothes it out, and clasps a necklace behind your neck.

“You’re all set for lunch.”

The moment that you come out of your room, you can feel his presence. He is leaning against the front door of the room with an unreadable expression.

He has another suit on, a fresh one. Minho’s previously muskier, dark scent has been replaced by a new, sweeter fragrance.

“First shower at the estate?” You question, “Our soaps are quite lovely and mild on the skin. You smell wonderful.”

Minho’s lips curl at the compliment, looking you up and down, “Seems that we both are putting our best foot forward.”

You look around to see if anyone is watching before leaning to ruffle his damp hair and leave a kiss on his cheek, taking the man by complete surprise. He makes an effort to regain his composure, but you can see that his cheeks are blushed from the touch.

As soon as you lean in to lock arms, you feel him lean over to you to whisper something.

“I would love to do that with you again.”

You froze in your spot, heat rushing to your thighs.

You must regain your composure, caught off guard by his blunt words, something unlike the ordinary nature of Minho.

He takes a seat across from you, watching every move that the maid makes to be sure that she doesn’t try anything— he has learned his lesson.

“Pressed Italian Picnic Sandwiches and tea,” The maid states, setting the plates on the table.

You scrunch my nose up. “What’s in it?”

“Artisanal prosciutto, aged provolone, and sun-dried tomatoes inside of a crusty ciabatta,” She doesn’t hesitate to list the ingredients, “and a fragrant blend of rare loose-leaf teas with fresh cream and sugar cubes.”

She sets the teapot and cups out, along with a carton of cream and a bowl of sugar cubes.

Minho’s hand rests on his gun, waiting for her to leave before taking a sip of tea.

You follow his action, dumping a couple of cubes into your tea and bringing it to your lips.

I finish my lunch with Minho.

“Let’s go back to my room now. I'm exhausted.”

Minho nods his head and you both finish up the meals quickly.

You both leave the dining area and stroll back to your bedroom.

As soon as you get back into the room, you feel Minho close the door behind you.

You don’t hesitate to climb into bed and lie down.

The guard looks over at you, observing the way that your chest rises and falls as you breathe. He notices every movement that your body is making.

“I command you to lay down with me.” You lean back against the bed, your body still and eyes focused on his unmoving body.

He slips off his shoes silently, slipping into the canopy bed.

You grin, curling at his side, pressing against his body.

His breathing is deep and steady as he struggles to get into a more comfortable position.

Your mind began racing with questions about the mysterious man that you were slowly falling for, burying yourself further into the sheets.

“Minho,” you start slowly, “How did you become tangled with our family?”

Minho stays silent for a few moments and you feel his body shift a little against yours.

“I didn’t have a lot of money or family growing up,” he kept his answer short and simply, “the moment that this job came my way, I took it. The people connected to this business have always stayed on the down low, so this is an easy job to keep."

“Daddy seems to like you,” you grit your teeth.

Minho turns to you on the bed and sits up a little. He looks at you from top to bottom, reading the worry on your face with ease.

“You don’t have to worry about me.”

“He will kill you on the spot if he finds out. He’s done that to almost every man who has flirted or slept with me.”

You pause for a moment. “God forbid the one he hired as my bodyguard.”

“I am not so easily killed.” The words leave his mouth with a tinge of arrogance.

“I trust you.”

“Good.”

There is stillness between you both for a time, but he breaks it by grabbing your chin and leaning in to kiss you. You soothe into his touch, smiling against his lips briefly before he pulls away.

“I order you to stay here. Like this.”

It’s not difficult for you to drift off to sleep beside him, and as always, Minho pursues your request, keeping a close eye on you. You relax, your breathing slow, and he notes all of the occasional twitches and movements that you make in your sleep.

A couple of hours later, the door is knocked on by a maid.

“Dinner order?”

Minho jolts awake from the knock on the door, a hand swiftly placed on your shoulder to protect you from any threats before turning his head towards the noise.

His voice is full of sleep. “Repeat that?”

As she opens the door, there is a look of inquiry on her face, one that she won’t ask to ensure her job and health.

“Is she asleep?” She questions instead, glancing over at your peaceful figure.

He turns his head towards you to double-check, observing your napping body.

“Yes.”

“Alright. I’ll advise the chef to prepare her dinner later tonight.”

She gives a sharp nod to the guard and scurries out of the room, quietly shutting the door to not disturb the girl.

Minho’s eyes rest on the door for a moment, fully alert now with a hand resting on his gun.

Eventually, he turns over to you. He has his eyes on you for a few seconds before leaning down to kiss you on the forehead, letting out a small sigh.

You stir at the warm touch, scrunching your face up and stretching your body.

“What time is it?” You ask groggily before burying your head into his neck.

“Dinner is in about half an hour. You hungry?”

“Not really,” you pull yourself up and rub your sleep-filled eyes.

He notices your body shiver as you pull yourself up. Minho lets out a short exhale.

“Did you sleep?”

“A bit.” He doesn’t look away or turn his head as he admires the way you stand and stretch your body, smoothing your dress of its wrinkles.

You walk towards your vanity mirror, plopping down in the chair to readjust your necklace to the center. A few marks on your collarbone catch your eye.

“The nurses will be in shortly.” You grit your teeth. “I hope they don’t notice.”

“They won’t notice.”

His figure can be seen from behind you in the reflection of the mirror. His lips are turned upwards as he watches you fix your appearance.

You pull out a couple of foundations and concealers, working on concealing the marks left from earlier.

“The maids wouldn’t, but the nurses will tell the difference between a hickey and a bruise. Especially since these are fresh.”

Even though you are busy with your makeup and covering up the bruises, Minho’s eyes are never off of you. It is a feeling that you will have to get used to— always having a watchful eye on you.

Once you were satisfied with the coverage, you rose from your seat quickly.

“Get up, we’re going to dinner.”

“So bossy.” He retorts. “What will you have?”

“I want to go out, let’s go somewhere fancy. Daddy will pay.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You want to go out when you have had a beating just two days ago?”

He asks it like he thinks it’s an absurd idea, almost condescendingly, yet his tone of voice is soft and full of concern for you, causing your stomach to flip inside out.

“I’m tired of staying inside already. This estate is suffocating,” you pull on your slip-on shoes.

“That’s how I got myself into this mess in the first place. I left the house and got kidnapped. That won’t happen with you here.”

“I guess you’re right. We’ll go somewhere nice.”

“Good. I’ll go tell Daddy.” You leave the door open for Minho to come after but don’t wait for him, yet you can tell that he follows behind silently, attending to the way your body moves in the dress as you make your way down the halls.

The door is slightly ajar, so when you knock, it pushes open with a creak, revealing your father inside.

Minho stands behind you like a shadow, his lips pressed into a straight line, gaze locked on your father, keeping his distance from the both of you.

“Come inside,” the older man invites both of them with a welcoming grin, “sit.”

You can sense that your father has something on his mind, which is never a good sign.

“I was going to call you to my office shortly, anyway.” Instantly you assume the worst.

You sit down, taking a seat in front of him. Minho is still standing in the back, his priority on you and your father.

The man looks over at Minho. Their eyes lock for a moment. “Guard, go lock the door. There is a conversation that needs to be had.”

Minho nods and he turns his head, locking the door behind him.

He turns his attention back to you, who is frozen in your seat, breath hitching.

The elite man fiddles with a pen at his desk, clicking it to drown out the tense silence.

The silence in the room seems so heavy that you wonder how neither you nor Minho is feeling sick. Judging by the thick atmosphere between the three of you, it is easy to tell that he isn’t pleased right now.

He fidgets with the pen and you wait for him to finally speak.

“Do you find my daughter to be precious, Guard?” He addresses Minho with a stern voice, finally setting the pen down at his wooden desk with a smack.

“Yes sir,” Minho replies flatly.

“Are you willing to protect her at all costs, even at your life?”

After moments of silence, he answers back confidently. “Yes sir. I am.”

A hand comes to rest at his side, toying loudly with a handgun, which he eventually pulls out of his pocket.

Tears begin to well up in your eyes, yet Minho stays concentrated. There isn’t a single sign of fear on his face. He is unshaken, calm, and collected as if he had been foreseeing this exact scenario.

“Do you know why you were assigned to guard my daughter, Minho?”

“I know the reasons.”

“There was a leak to the rivals from a previous staff member that I had a precious daughter in my life,” He turns towards you, “the one that I had climbed to the top of my career to protect and assure her safety and security.”

He cleared his throat before darting back to Minho, “It took less than a day for her to be taken from my hands and placed in the hands of one of my greatest enemies.”

Minho pays attention to every word that he speaks and clears his throat, waiting for your father to continue.

“I care for my daughter more than anything in the world. Which is why I had appointed the most valuable, honest, and competent man in the family to ensure her protection.”

Minho nods.

“Please don’t kill him, Daddy.”

The boss meets you with cold eyes, disregarding your words to proceed with his lecture. “You are my most prized possession. I would hurt anyone or anything to make sure that not a single person touches you. The men who kidnapped you are all taken care of, wiped out by my command.”

He continues. “I know everything that goes on in your life. Every meal, every kiss, every injury, the staff must report every minor thing that occurs in your day. I have eyes on you at all times, and you’re more than aware of that.”

Your shoulders stiffen. He knew.

“Minho,” his stare is burning into the other man, “I’ll get to the point. Did you sleep with my daughter?”

He doesn’t blink. His body tenses up and his voice remains neutral.

“Yes.”

The boss turns the safety off of his firearm and you dig your head into your hands, unable to observe the scene that is about to unfold.

The gunshot is fired, but the man deliberately aims to the left of Minho, grazing his cheek with the bullet before standing up instantly from his seat. The guard doesn’t react with more than a blink as the blood pools at the cut.

“I trust you, Minho. You are a good man. If there is a single person who I would choose to give my daughter to, it would be you.”

Finally, Minho takes this as a sign to let his guard down for a moment as his shoulders drop, lip quivering slightly. It was evident that there was more emotion that the guard was holding back, especially when he took a moment to look away.

“You have my approval.”

Your eyes widen.

“Take care of my daughter. If you break her heart, I’ll feed your own heart to her for supper.”

“Understood.”

“Take her to dinner,” a wad of cash is pulled out from one of the drawers, “buy her flowers and anything else that she asks for.”

“Yes sir.” He responds, “I’ll make sure that she gets the treatment that she deserves.”

You run to embrace your father, to which he places an arm around you, rubbing your back before pulling away.

“Get yourself dressed more sufficiently, I will have a car ready for you soon.”

Minho follows you out of his office, letting out a breath that he had been holding in once the door was closed.

“Did you hear that?” Do you know what this means?” You beam at the man before grabbing at his cheeks and pulling him in for a kiss.

He lets out a surprised noise, hesitantly wrapping his arms around your waist and kissing back.

When you break the kiss, he stares back at you with the first big smile that you’ve seen from him displayed on his face.

“Let’s get you ready.”

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sprout-fics · 11 months

Text

Tag, You're It: Part One

(Poly 141 x F! Reader) 18+

Masterlist

Rating: Explicit, 18+ WordCount: 6.3k Tags: F! Reader, Minors DNI, SoapGhost, Restraints, Chase/Takedown, Hunter/Prey, PiV sex, Oral sex (M receiving), Vaginal fingering, Dirty talk, Consent checks, Spitroasting, MMF, Unprotected sex (Use protection) Warnings: Mild Consensual Non Consent A/N: This chapter is the revised version of the originally posted chapter. To see the original please go here

It’s Johnny who finds you first, naturally.

The team spends most of the day making you wait. You had found a hiding spot before sunrise, brought along a small pack of supplies and some things to keep you occupied while you waited for someone to find you, for the chase to truly begin. Yet by mid-morning you were bored, and by noon you were practically groaning in frustration, considering using your phone to drop hints so they would just get on with it.

So you decide to take things into your own hands.

You begin darting between safe zones, checking your corners, making sure to watch your six, eyes keen and trained for threats. This little game of yours had specific zones on base mapped out to avoid at different times during the day, forcing you to adapt to your environment constantly to avoid curious stares from other soldiers and recruits.

It’s fun, the thrill and anticipation has you feeling a bit like a little kid all over again, giggling into your hands as someone bypasses your hiding spot. Yet the thrill is only doubled by the knowledge of the consequences of you being found.

You realize too late that this new method of yours is exactly what the team has been waiting for.

You get sloppy. You’re looking over your shoulder when you round a corner at the edge of the armory in the light of mid-afternoon, halting mid step when you spot a familiar figure peeking around the opposite side of the building.

Shit.

You double back quickly, but it’s too late, because the Scot barks a delighted little laugh, calls after you as he gives chase. His footsteps are slow, purposeful, and for a moment you’re reminded of the villains in horror movies that seem to walk so damn slow and seem to inevitably catch up with their victims. It should terrify you, but instead it makes something in your stomach twist with exhilaration.

You manage to draw him to one of the empty supply warehouses at the edge of the base, skidding inside and diving into a smaller hiding spot hidden into the shadows. Yet Soap has clearly seen you at least enter the building, because in the distance you can hear his footsteps echo against the concrete floor, glass breaking under his boots.

“Ohh songbird…”

You feel your heart hammer against the cage of your ribs, hands planted across your face to prevent even a single sound from escaping at the tenor of Johnny’s voice floating through the unused warehouse, sing-song, teasing, hungry.

There’s a light flickering in the aisles of upended crates and empty boxes, and the intermittent brightness manages to catch against the whites of your eyes. The flickering dimness of this space seems to only add to the rapid thump of your heartbeat, muscles coiled in preparation to run, to flee should you be discovered.

“I know you’re in here.” Soap taunts, and you can hear the clear excitement in his voice despite the fact that he’s trying to play into the persona of an enemy- tracking you down, taking you what he wants, only to set you free once more.

He’s close, you realize as his boots thud down the end of the hallway. Too close. You can hear his footsteps from where you press yourself inside the shadows of a doorway, his heavy boots a purposeful, slow echo throughout the empty space. It’s almost like he wants you to know exactly where he is, advertises his presence with every noise. What his strategy is, you aren’t sure, but you’re certain that if he gets any close he’ll find you for sure, claim his prize through the price of your flesh, your pleasure.

“Come out come out, wherever ye are…” He chuckles, and you rise slowly from where you crouch, tip-toe to the door and see the profile of him vanish just beyond the edge of the hallway. It gives you the chance you need, and you quickly but quietly move down the other direction, keeping eyes on where he’s disappeared to.

Yet then your foot crunches against something fragile and you freeze, hear his pleased little noise of realization a split second before you bolt, shoes hitting the floor harshly as you sprint away from the sound of his pursuit.

“There you are!” Johnny calls gleefully from behind you, and Christ- how did he close the distance so fast?! You can see the blur of him in the periphery of your gaze, the blue of his favorite shirt a mere blob of color as you race away from him, heart in your throat.

You did promise to not make it easy, after all.

You skid around the next corner, nearly stumble, and launch yourself forward past a darkened doorway yawning into a pitch black room-

Before you realize your mistake a moment too late.

Skeletal hands reach out, snatch you mid-step and drag you backwards into the broad plane of a chest. You yell from behind the gloved palm covering your mouth, adrenaline spiking in your blood and trying to thrash away from Ghost as he hauls you further into the darkness.

“Caught you.” He murmurs in your ear as your hands are dragged behind you, back flush with the rigid surface of his front. It sends a jolt of something through you, dark and thrilling as he overwhelms you with his adamantium strength, smears charcoal across the inside of your skull with his mere presence. You thrash in his grip, trying to actually put effort in even though you’ve not once dislodged him in all the time you’ve spent in his hold. Exhilaration squirms breathlessly in your chest, bright and electric with every gasping breath.

It only grows when the zip-ties fasten around your wrists, and you again try to wiggle free with no success.

“You’re a fast little bugger.” Johnny pants as he catches up, leans on the doorway, his gloved fist planted on the frame. Yet his eyes dance with delight as he witnesses you caught in Ghost’s grasp, dragging his lip between his teeth at the conflict of outrage and desire in your gaze.

“Hells bells.” The Scotsman breathes, and he steps forward, his hand falling to the noticeable bulge in his pants, which he idly strokes through his pants. You hadn’t even noticed, and realize belatedly that the thrill of the chase must affect him just as much.

Yet then his eyes catch that of Ghost’s behind you and he grins, untamed and starved.

“Teamwork makes the dream work, eh LT?”

Of course. He chased you here on purpose, pursued you right into a trap. Right into Ghost. Working in tandem as they always do, sharing twice the reward with you, and with each other.

You fuckers.

“Get in here Johnny.” Ghost offers instead to Soap’s quip, and you clamp your thighs together as his hand abruptly descends into your pants, your wetness soaking through his gloved fingertips. You make a little sound of protest, trying to buck his hand away, only for a thick thigh to wedge between your legs and force them open.

“Looks like our pet likes to be chased.” Ghost observes idly, and if you didn’t know him better you’d swear he sounds detached, playing the villain all too well. It only ratchets the excitement inside you higher, and you answer it with a muffled yell that only summons a chuckle from the sergeant before you, now pressing against your front and sandwiching you between the two men.

“Tough luck, us finding you first.” He tuts, and his hand raises your shirt and presses flat against the softness of your stomach appreciatively, suggestively. “Won’t be much left for Price and Gaz once we’re done with ye, hen.”

You stare defiantly up at him, and it only seems to please Soap, who’s eyes dance bright in the dimness and his fingers rise to tug a nipple under your shirt. It makes you falter for a moment, the sudden sharp sensation making your expression shift into something wanting, a stifled little mewl escaping you at the pleasure that rises inside you between his fingers and Ghost’s digits stroking against your folds.

“Fuck, we’re going to ruin you.” He promises, and Ghost hums a dark, pleased assent in response. “Fill you up and send you scampering so the others can hunt ye down and have their fun too, aye?”

It’s the reminder that they’ll have their way with you before setting you loose again that has you shift on your toes, accidentally grazing your folds across the pads of Simon’s fingers. A bright trace of pleasure jolts through you as a result, and your eyes flutter for a moment as you try to resist the urge to repeat the motion. It’s hard to not break character while you’re this excited, trying your best to maintain the persona you’ve agreed upon, a little mouse caught in the jaws of a fox, held tight and let go, only to be chased down once more.

It’s exhilarating, and despite the feigned fear in your eyes you can see your own excitement mirrored in the eyes of the sergeant with his face tilted down to regard you. Even so, you see his eyebrows raise an inch expectantly, waiting for a signal for the two of them to continue this act of theirs, the dangerous hunters who have captured you and will treat you as they see fit. You nod enthusiastically against Ghost’s palm, and the smirk that pulls at Johnny’s lips sets your stomach aflutter.

“Don’t worry hen, we’ll take care of you.” He promises, and gently pulls Ghost’s gloved hand away, tilts your head so his lips descend to meet your own. Teasing, he seizes your bottom lip between his teeth, sucking it before releasing it with a wet little pop. You make a little sound of protest against his lips, but Soap’s only response is to cradle the back of your head and press you further into him.

Kissing Johnny is always a touch overwhelming. It feels like you're drowning in him with the utter decadence he pours into you, lips moving against your own, tilting you into him, warm breaths fogging across your face as swallows down your gasps. It’s dizzying in the best ways, always leaves you a little drunk on the haze of him. The temptation of him makes your knees tremble underneath you, but even if you wanted to buckle you can’t, not with him pressing you up against Ghost’s front and moaning against your lips when you offer a little whimper of overwhelmed sensation. You try to suck it back in, not wanting to give them the satisfaction of your noises they obtain through the victory of your capture.

You close your mouth against Johnny as a result, sealing your lips against him a little indignantly at the sounds he’s able to elicit from you just by kissing you. Yet Ghost seems to catch on almost instantaneously, and the chuckle that rumbles up his chest vibrates against your back and sends you shivering between them. You clamp down on the shuddering gasp that threatens your throat, only for Ghost’s to press firmly down on your clit so abruptly it makes you choke.

“Nu uh, none of that.” He admonishes, and his other hand slides up to your face, squeezing your cheeks together and twisting you so you gaze up into his shadowed stare that reeks of devastation. “No need to be quiet, pet. Nobody but us can hear you here, so be as loud as you want.”

“Aye.” Soap agrees, and a broad hand reaches down to your back, dragging himself flat against your front so you’re squished between the muscular forms of the two men. “Can’t wait to hear all those pretty noises, sweetheart.”

You squirm a little between them, feeling too warm, too much suddenly with Soap trapping Ghost’s hand in your panties, pressing you up against the soldier so you can feel a poking hardness against your back. Arousal pools between your legs, and you whimper suddenly, baring your neck to them both when Soap rolls his hips forward experimentally.

“Soap.” Ghost says then, and you feel him nod, watching as Soap follows his gaze to a crate that’s about waist high in the corner of the room. Soap grins.

It takes him a minute for him to wrangle the crate at an appropriate angle away from the wall, making a point to cheekily pat it beckoningly at you. You don’t have time to roll your eyes though, because Ghost forces you forward, making you trip over your feet before your hips collide against it.

“Down.” He tells you easily, and there’s a hand pressing at the small of your spine, gently ushering you to bend until your cheek is pressed against the surface. Yet that isn’t enough, because his hands hoist your hips just a little higher so you have to balance on your toes.

They circle you, like sharks in the water, eyeing the prize of your flesh. Touching hands against your waist, your shoulders, tracing the swell of your ass. Wetness pools at your core, warmth spreading across every inch of exposed skin as they gaze down at you like the thing you are- their prey.

You try to raise yourself up off the crate, toes skidding as you seek purchase. It’s for show, the idea that you could escape from them. You know even if you stand, escape past the door it’s only a moment of freedom before one of them catches you once more, forcing you to the ground in defeat.

Before you can entertain the idea further, Ghost’s broad palm settles low between your shoulder blades, gently pushing you flat against the surface of the crate once more.

“You’re not going anywhere, love.” He warns, voice low with the whisper of a threat that makes you shudder with vivification under his touch. It’s the same tone he uses when you bite at him in bed to get a move on, to stop wasting time. Dark, amused, saying with his tone alone that he’s going to take his time in dismantling you piece by piece until you’re nothing more than a gasping, whining puddle of desire.

Now it echoes down at you and promises that same ruin, reminds you of your utter helplessness under their spell. “We’re just getting started.”

Behind you, Soap suddenly yanks your pants and underwear down to your knees, and the sudden air against your bare skin is enough for you to gasp, squirm away from the hands that smoothe over your hips. Yet Johnny’s touch is tender, almost reverent, a reminder of his affection for you, that even as you are their prisoner you’re their partner first and foremost, that they’ll keep you safe, wring the pleasure dry from you and then kiss the tears of overstimulation from your eyes after with a murmur of adoration.

It’s encouraging, and even as your heart pounds up your throat in anticipation your voice trembles as you play the part, snapping at them something to the effect of how they’ll never get away with this, to let you go.

You gasp as Soap’s hand cracks down on your ass smartly, making you flinch in surprise. He soothes his hand over the sting, the calloused palm of his hand grazing against the soft flesh there.

“Watch your words, darling.” He croons, sickly sweet. “Otherwise I’m sure LT will find a way to keep your mouth occupied.”

As if that somehow deters you. Instead you lift your gaze up to Ghost once more, summoning wordless defiance in your gaze. Ghost only chuckles, and you watch his other hand rub himself through his pants. The sight alone of his length pushing against his pants is enough for your expression to change, shift into something hungry.

There’s a pause between them, and as you look up you see a look exchanged between them before Soap’s voice speaks, softer and attentive.

“Color?” He asks gently, thumbs pressing into the dip of your flesh just above your ass.

You breathe in for a moment, consider the stammer of your heartbeat, the race of searing excitement that pulses through your veins in delightful anticipation.

“Green.” You declare. “About as green as a cadet fresh out of boot camp, Johnny.”

Soap huffs a little pleased laugh, talking over your sprawled form to Ghost. “She has a smart mouth, doesn’t she, LT?”

Ghost makes a little noise of assent, and his hand is unexpectedly sweet, reassuring for a moment as it strokes the edge of your face. You nuzzle into it briefly, flicking your eyes to him as a gentle reassurance. There’s a softness in his gaze as he tilts his head down at you for a moment before the mask of a hunter once more settles across his dark eyes, looking to the Scot behind you.

“We should do something about that, shouldn’t we, Johnny?” He asks darkly, palming himself before that same hand reaches to unfasten his belt. You can feel saliva collect in your mouth as he adjusts, frees himself from his pants. The flushed, thick girth of him has you flick your eyes up to him, pleading silently. Yet the look Ghost offers you is only amused.

“Over.” He states, and you feel Soap seize your hips and lift, twist so you suddenly are on your back, arms pressed under you.

“Oh, much better.” Soap observes as he catches sight of your half-lidded eyes. “Shite, we’re going to have so much fun with ye, pretty girl.”

You squirm a little at that, at being so openly on display for them. With your pants down to your knees, your shirt rucked up past your belly button, you shiver at the little thrill of exposure they give you.

You watch as Ghost unfastens himself, and allows his cock to spring free with a little exhale of relief. The girth of him trills low in your stomach with the reminder of just how many times you’ve been split on his cock, his hand pressing you into his shoulder, the pillows, the sheets, your teammates…

“Open.” He declares, voice low but firm, a hand cupping under your head and lifting you so the tip of him grazes against your lips before pulling back. Tease.

You jolt when Soap leans over you, watching intently as Ghost strokes himself just above your face, and pushes a single finger inside you. He groans at the warm heat of you, the little flutter of invitation that greets him. It’s enough to startle a wanting little moan from you, legs shifting around his hips wedges between your thighs.

“Steamin’ Jesus.” He hisses, dragging his finger out, only to push it back in. It’s embarrassing how wet you are for them, worked up from the chase, from their words, from their touch alone.

“The sight of you, hen” Soap breathes, his hand digging into your thigh to keep you from bucking. “Never seen anything prettier in mah life, I swear.”

You shift shyly, a little modest at the utter reverence in the Scot’s voice, skin warming as he gazes down at you. His lip is caught between his teeth, eyes glinting with utter fixation, watching the way you squirm under the intensity of his gaze. That look never fails to set your skin aflame, feeling his eyes trace your exposed flesh almost like he wants to eat you alive.

Before you can wiggle too far off the crate, however, Ghost presses a hand down on your shoulder to keep you in place with a murmur of “Stay. Put.”

“Can’t get away from us.” Johnny taunts playfully, and he steps back to pull your pants down past your ankles, tossing them to a corner of the room and fully baring your entrance to his burning gaze. “Fuck, look at this, LT.” and you whine a little as he swipes his fingers through your folds, holding them aloft so Ghost can inspect the webbed slick between them, glistening in the dim light.

Ghost hums in appreciation, and your eyes draw back to him as he presses a thumb against the slit of his cock, where a small dribble of precum coats the flushed tip. You can feel your mouth water at the sight, lips parting a half inch in beating anticipation of the weight of him against your tongue. Ghost manages to catch the half-lidded stare you offer him, because you swear you see the fabric of his mask twitch in a smile.

“Eager.” He observes. a hand cupping under your head and lifting you so the tip of him grazes against your lips. You don’t wait for him to tell you to open, jaw dropping so he can push just the head of him against you before retreating. You make a little noise of frustration at that, try to crane your head up to catch him, but Ghost keeps you in place, a hand wrapped around his cock and stroking himself just out of reach.

“Use your words, pet.” He encourages. “All you have to do is ask.”

You feel a flash of indignation at that, brow wrinkling in frustration at the idea that he wants to make you beg. Yet the desire of tasting him thrums low below your belly, and with a little twist of Johnny’s finger inside you the inhibition falls away with a shuddering little moan.

“Please.”

You hear Soap whoosh out a breath from the other side of you, air stolen from his lungs at the need in your voice. There’s a second finger stroking inside you now, and when Soap crooks his fingers you arch up with a little cry of ‘F-fuck, Johhny!’

“That’s it.” Ghost encourages. “Not such a smart mouth now, is there?”

It’s a little mocking, a little teasing, and yet laced with affection. It melts you at the seams, makes you swallow wetly, looking up at Ghost upside down.

“Please.” You beg openly now. “Please Sir, I-I want it. Just- ohh, hmnng-” You teeth your lip as Johnny once more curls his fingers, trying to close your legs for the barest indication of friction, only for the sergeant to plant a firm hand against the soft flesh of your thigh to keep them open.

“Oh, go on LT.” He encourages even as you writhe and whimper on his fingers, trying to force yourself down whilst also trying to rise up towards Ghost’s cock shamelessly. “I think she deserves it.”

Ghost nods with a little pleased huff, purring down at you as he once more presses the tip against your lips. “Good girl.”

Finally, finally he allows the head of him to push inside your mouth in earnest this time, gently cupping your head as he guides you down his shaft. You want to thank him, but your breath stutters to nothing as Soap scissors his fingers inside you, stretching your entrance until your back bows off the crate, drawing taut with need.

Your eyes flutter shut as Ghost gently rocks himself forward until at last the tip of him bumps against the back of your throat before pulling back and setting a gently, rocking rhythm past your lips. The precum of him floods across your tongue and you moan, eyes fluttering shut and opening your mouth wider so he can slide deeper.

“If that isnnae the hottest shite I’ve ever seen.” Johnny curses, and he shifts so he grinds the bulge of himself against you through his boxers. “Shame Price and Gaz aren’t here to see.”

“Day’s young.” Ghost remarks, and fuck- the reminder that they plan to just set you loose after this until your caught again has an electric pulse flutter below your stomach, making you clench down on Johnny’s fingers.

“Oh, ye like that?” Johnny breathes, amused. “Ye like being our capture or kill little thing, darlin?”

Yes. Yes- You think feverishly past the size of Ghost’s cock rocking into your mouth in slow, languid thrusts. You want to touch him, want him to reach down to Johnny, to circle your clit. Yet your hands remain fastened behind your back, and the thought of that alone has your legs fall open a little wider. You’re entirely at their mercy, submitting to their touch and whims as they use you as they see fit. You moan around Ghost, the sound vibrating through him and he grunts, holding back a little huff of pleasure before rocking into you a little deeper.

“Get on with it, sergeant.” He hisses at Johnny, and you can hear the strain in his voice now, as deeply aroused as you are. You take a little pleasure in that, that you are the one to summon this in him,

“Mah pleasure, LT.” Soap returns a little breathlessly, and he pulls himself from his boxers so the weight of him smacks against your thigh. You can hear the schlick of him as he gives himself a few strokes, making a point to let his length drag against your stomach teasingly. The sound of encouragement you make is muffled by the weight of Ghost’s cock on your tongue. The salty, briny taste of him floods across your tongue, precum coating your tongue as he presses further, further, until your nose presses up against his pelvis and the thickness of his cock makes your throat spasm around him. He waits there until Johnny rolls his hips inch by inch, at last pressing his hips flush with yours.

The whine you try to make only squeezes the muscles of your throat down on Simon’s cock and you hear him force air through his nose with a long, low moan dragging you deeper into the hazy temptation of pleasure. It fogs against your senses, the world narrowing down further and further until the only sensations left are your breathless moans as he retreats and the pressing, unrelenting fullness Johnny presses into you.

You hear the sergeant groan, his thumbs pressed into your stomach as he braces himself, relishing the grip of you down onto his cock. There’s a low, purring pressure as he gives an experimental thrust into you, giving you a moment to adjust before setting a pace in earnest. Ghost pulls out from you long enough to hear the cracked moan that makes you throw your head back against his palm cushioning it from the crate.

“Good girl.” He croons, holding himself and stroking to the same tempo Johnny sets inside you. “Taking him so well, pet.”

You shudder at the praise, nerves glowing brightly, warm with building arousal just as Johnny snaps his hips to yours in a precise, unerring thrust. The girth of him presses a delicious, wanting fullness into you.

“G-God, Johnny-” You pant, chest rising, face warm, sweat beading at your back. “Fuck, Johnny please, please, I want-”

“I know, darlin, I know.” He coos, fingers digging into your hips for purchase as his hips begin to smack against yours. The drag of him has gasps shivering from your chest, a series of punched out little moans as his reward as he begins to fuck you in earnest. “Look so pretty split on mah cock, shite-”

He groans, and when your eyes flutter to him you see him throw his head back, brow scrunched shut and beading with sweat.

“Fuck-” He curses, lost in the sensation of your walls gripping down on him, the stretch of you around his cock as you try to drag him deeper, deeper. “Gonna fill you up so good, give Gaz and the captain something to look forward to, aye?”

You choke on a little broken noise at that, at the idea of Gaz and Price getting their hands on you only to find Johnny’s load still dripping between your thighs. It whimpers up your throat, arousal sparking taut through your form and drawing your muscles a little rigid and wanting in response.

Yet then Ghost has the audacity to hush you, lifting your head and sliding himself back into your mouth once more to muffle any other noises you can offer. He too offers a long, drawn out groan as he resumes his thrusts a little faster than before, relishing your gasping moans around the width of him sliding into you wetly. His other hand braces against your chin, keeping you in place as he pushes just shy of your throat. You curl your tongue against the tip of him and relish the surprised little grunt he offers you in response, hips stuttering for a moment before he collects himself and pushes a touch deeper in response.

“Good girl.” He practically snarls, and his other hand raises to trace the slight rise of his girth in your throat. “Fuck.”

A hand descends to your chest, twisting a nipple through your thin shirt and you jump a little under his touch, clenching down on Johnny’s length buried inside you.

“Shite-” The sergeant moans, a little high in his throat. “Fuckin stranglin’ mah cock, hen, Christ-”

You huff as Ghost gently pulls back from your throat, and make it a point to flex your muscles and clench down on the stretch of Johnny inside you, if only to hear the keen that escapes from him in response.

It gives him the indication he wants, because soon you feel him thrust a little deeper, the curve of his cock grazing over something pulsing warm and full inside you. The sound you offer just as Simon pulls himself almost entirely out of you is nothing less than obscene, bucking up into him in an effort to repeat the sensation of your limbs going completely weak against the unyielding wash of searing, white-hot desire that coils sharply in your core.

A thumb smears the tears of pleasure beading in the corner of your eyes as Ghost pauses to take in the sight of you with dark, hungry eyes. You’re splayed on your back, bottom half entirely exposed as Johnny buries himself deeply inside you. The thin tank top you’re wearing bunches around your collarbone, revealing the rise and fall of your chest as you pant, gasping in desperate pleasure.

“Bleedin’ Christ.” Ghost growls, a hand twisting an exposed nipple again if only to see you jump with a little gasp of “A-ah-!”

“Aye, don’t forget about me.” Johnny teases, as he too speeds his thrusts into you, hands dragging you by your hips to greet the slap of his thighs against yours. It makes a muffled little whimper escape you, partly silenced by Ghost’s cock as it slides wetly over your tongue. You can only force your mouth wider, eyes rolling back as Johnny thrusts into you, each press of his cock filling you with delicious, addictive pleasure. It weakens across your hips, forces you pliant and open between them as they fill you at both ends, rendering you limp to their pleasure, and to yours.

You can hear every dragging breath from them both as they begin to use you in full, and you float endlessly in pleasure, unable to tether yourself down as something molten coils tighter in your core with every thrust. Whatever words they say next are lost to you, deafened by the series of choked moans that spill around Ghost’s cock, suffocating your chest in a searing, hot push of air that clouds your senses in warm velvet.

It’s so much, and you try to catch yourself but you can’t, helpless between them as pleasure winds tighter below your belly. The wet gush of you squelches lewdly around Johnny’s length as he thrusts with firm, precise thrusts inside you, and when he lifts a leg to give himself more access he manages to graze over that perfect, glowing nerve that briefly has you seize against them both, endorphins drowning out all other sensation as electricity races up your spine.

“Fuck, fuck-” Johnny swears in response to the broken, whimpering groan you give him, and you feel yourself suddenly twisted so you lay on your side, one ankle slung over his shoulder as his hips stutter against yours in an uneven rythm. Ghost adjusts to the new angle, and with every thrust you can feel him bump against the back of your throat, his voice dropping in a series of low, choked groans as he chases his climax.

You wish he’d pull back long enough for you to babble senselessly for them, your words an unending mantra of Yes, more, please, good, so good-

You’re lost in them, in the pull of Johnny’s hot, pulsing cock in the wet clutch of your cunt, the ridged veins on the underside of Simon’s cock tracing over your tongue. The marrow of you feels weak against pleasure, surrendering to them twisting you to their whims, reverent and yet merciless, knowing the map of your desire and plucking the threads of you until the stuffing of you spills free into their touch. Fuzzy, muffled by the thrum of blood in your ears and the drum of your heart in your throat.

You’re going to come, you realize. You can feel the inevitability of it winding through your veins, nerves alight with sparkling, glowing desire that burns brighter, hotter between the three of you. It draws closer, closer, and as it does you feel as if you gaze up at a towering wave that threatens to crash over your head. It shadows your senses and you try to climb upwards as it crest so you don’t drown-

Yet then Soap presses a thumb down on your clit and you sob at the sudden intensity of the pleasure right as your orgasm breaks over you, drawing you down into an endless tumult of sensation. Distantly, you can feel your walls spasm around Soap’s cock, your entire body going rigid as you suck in a breath against the urgent swell of pressure that releases from your core and floods through every fiber of your taut muscles.

You hear Soap whimper.

The sound must do something to Ghost, because suddenly he’s grabbing his sergeant’s shirt and dragging him closer, rucking the mask up to his nose so he can press a sloppy kiss against Soap’s parted, panting lips.

You feel Soap’s hips stutter as the aftershocks of your orgasm begin to pulse through you, and he presses himself flush with your hips before a silky wet warmth spills deep inside you. The groan that pours from his lips is only swallowed by the lieutenant in front of him as Ghost shifts to pull himself past your lips.

Simon releases Johnny, and as you heave and gasp for air, shuddering as your orgasm begins to recede, he fists his cock over your face, the shine of your spit glistening against the flushed width of him. He plants a fist next to your head with a cracked moan, bracing as his hips buck forward into his grasp, eyes scrunched shut in pleasure before his cock twitches, cum squirting across your face and fluttered gaze.

Johnny leans over you, thrusting a few shallow, slow jerks into you as the fluttering pulse of you milks him dry. His chest heaves, arms shuddering with the force of his orgasm as he slowly gathers breath. He braces on his forearms, bent over you, and you can feel the warmth of him press against your stomach as he gasps, hips jerking reflexively.

“Fuck.” He grits, letting his head drop to the plane of your abdomen for a moment as the three of you gather yourselves. “Fuckin’ beautiful, darlin. Did so well for us.”

“Y’good, sweetheart?” He gasps after a few moments, and it takes a few extra to offer him a nod, head drooping with the sudden dearth of energy your orgasm has left you. You can feel your heart still hammering in your ears, body slumped against the crate under you.

When Soap pulls himself from you, there’s a little whimper of overstimulation at the drag of him against your walls. Yet he only shushes you gently, kneading little circles into your hip to ground you once more.

“Shh, you did so good, baby.” He tells you earnestly, voice still a little breathless as he gathers himself. Likewise, Ghost forces breaths through his nose above you, trying to even his breathing and bracing a hand on your shoulder to keep you from flopping onto your back at an uncomfortable angle. When he shifts, it’s to reach for something on his belt. There’s a click as he flicks open his knife, cutting the zip ties from your wrists and freeing you once more.

“Solid, sergeant?” He inquires gently, and you nod to him.

“Right as rain, sir.” You offer, and he huffs a little noise of contentment at your response. His hands land on you gently, hauling you upright as Johnny fumbles for your pants tossed forgotten in the corner of the room. You tilt your head back into Ghost’s front appreciatively as Johnny gets them over your ankles the same way they came up.

“Can you stand?” Ghost asks, and even though you hesitate for a moment you nod. As you rise off the crate both he and Johnny tuck themselves back into order, exchanging a few words over you to check in with each other as well.

You wobble a little on your legs for a moment, and you can feel the smugness radiate from both of them without even looking. You shoot them a dirty look, but the look Soap gives you in return is full of mischief.

“Better get a move on.” Ghost intones, and his voice too is tinted with a chuckle. “Gaz and Price are waiting.”

“Aye, LT is right.” Soap drawls. “Day’s still young. Plenty left to play before it’s over.”

You nod, take a single step forward. Yet then you yelp as Johnny’s hand smacks against your ass, making you jump about a foot in the air in surprise. You stumble a few feet before you dart off, heart thrilling at the remainder of the game left just as the sun dips below the horizon.

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kookslastbutton · 3 months

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Those Eyes Chico ༓ myg (m) | Series Masterlist

✑ Summary: As the new marketing director for Min Yoongi’s upcoming D-Day album & tour, you’re expected to bring your expertise to the table. This shouldn’t be a problem—you’re the best in the business and you’re used to drawing a strict line between your professional and personal life. But what happens when the lines you’ve fought to keep as separate blur for the first time?

pairing: idol!yoongi x plus size!poc!reader

genre/AU: angst, fluff, smut, slowburn, coworkers2friends2lovers, winter setting, forbidden love?

word count: tbd

warnings: oc is 28, Yoon is 30, oc is not originally from South Korea, oc has light brown eyes, swearing, mentions of alcohol consumption, mentions of anxiety, panic attacks, body insecurites, fear of being blacklisted, emotionally restrained yoon, mentions of smoking, unstable parental relationships, conservative parents, mentions of therapy, mentions of dating scandal, eventual sexual content, and more specific warnings per chapter.

now playing: Sweet Dreams by The Last Shadow Puppets

a/n: This series is dedicated to my wonderfully crazy friend and beta, Gloom @theuselessdaydreamingidiot, and to all our fellow Yoon lovers bc we miss our sweet man SO MUCH 🥺 Enjoy! 💞 Also huge thank you to @itaeewon for designing this beautiful series header! Love it!!

Chapters | Read Teaser

༓ chapter one [6.5k]

༓ chapter two

༓ chapter three

༓ chapter four

༓ chapter five

༓ chapter six

༓ chapter seven

༓ chapter eight

༓ chapter nine

༓ chapter ten

༓ chapter eleven

༓ chapter twelve

༓ chapter thirteen

༓ chapter fourteen

༓ chapter fifteen

༓ chapter sixteen

༓ chapter seventeen

༓ chapter eighteen

༓ chapter ninteen

༓ chapter twenty

༓ ch.chapter twenty-one

༓ ch. chapter twenty-two

༓ ch. chapter twenty-three

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no reposting, copying, or translating my work– © kookslastbutton

#yoongi angst #yoongi fluff #yoongi smut #yoongi x reader #yoongi fanfic #bts fanfics #bts fanfic #bts angst #bts fluff #bts smut #bts scenarios #fic:thoseeyeschico #kookslastbutton

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actually-safer-to-kiss · 8 months

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See How It Shines

Summary: Spencer gets home from work to find Reader in tears over the new Hozier album.

Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader

Category: Fluff and comfort

Content warnings: The masterpiece of Hozier’s Unreal Unearth, me stopping halfway to listen to the entire album, me crying to every song I reference

Word count: 1.2k

A/N: shoutout to anyone who picks up on every song reference I make. I am instantly in love with you.

Spencer had been etched with the weight of unsolved cases and the relentless march of time, and he was forced to call it a night around six. The team had already pulled an all-nighter earlier in the week, so Hotch decided they all deserved rest. Spencer, however, wasn’t tired (he was; it was the late cups of coffee). Nevertheless, he makes it to his apartment door, skipping every other step. As Spencer turned the key in the lock, a soft melody flowed from the other side, haunting him yet drawing him in.

When the door opens with a slight creak, the music only grows. The living room was a sanctuary, bathed in the golden hues of twilight and table lamps, together casting long, ethereal shadows across the aged wooden floor. Plants adorned the walls and shelves. Since you moved in, he has never shared a space with so many simple living things. His record player, a testament to decades of shared music between him and his mother, spun its vinyl tale. This time it was for you, as it breathed life into the album as you sat on the couch in a nest of blankets.

Ah yes, it was Hozier day. The anticipated album release of Unreal Unearth. His girlfriend highly anticipated it. She had been vibrating as the week drew to a close with five days left, then three, then one. And it was well worth the wait, considering the tears continuing to streak her face as the Irish man begged for someone to not fall away from him.

Spencer set his bag down by the door and proceeded toward the couch with caution as if he were ready to pounce like a predator on prey. Except the end resulted in a tender hand on your shoulder. You looked up at him with a puffy face and snotty nose. It was Spencer’s next instinct to grab a tissue from the end table and offer it to you. Of course, you took it. And even though the answer was obvious, he still felt the need to ask, “Are you okay?”

It was a struggle for you to inhale, so you blew your nose again. "I didn’t expect this to be a breakup album.” The album sleeve was wrapped in your arms, proving to already be a prized possession. The tracklist was organized by the layers of Dante’s hell they fell under.

Spencer gave you a small smirk before placing a kiss on your head. “Well, I’ll go ahead and get started on dinner.” It was his turn to take the culinary reins for tonight. “Do you need anything?”

“I need to know who this woman is, Spencer.” You throw your head back as Hozier hits a high note that neither of you has heard from him before. You stay there as you ask, “Who made this man feel so much pain?”

“You want to fight Hozier’s ex-girlfriend?”

“Ew, no.” Your nose scrunched. “I just want to know how. The power to make a man feel this way.”

Spencer chuckled. He had answers. And he’s happy to not reply with any of them. “I’m making chicken parmesan. That okay?”

You nodded, soon returning to singing about holding a heart like a steering wheel. But you then grabbed his hand. Your eyes are red, and Spencer is sure you’ll need drops before the end of the night. “Did a part of you die the first time I called you ‘baby,’ Spencer?”

Spencer couldn’t help but smirk as he quirked a brow. “Do what?”

“They’re song lyrics.” You let go of him.

Spencer has never fully understood the uproar that comes with Hozier. Then again, no one really flocks to Beethoven and Chopin like they used to. Plus, Vivaldi wasn’t known for belting out in the middle of his pieces and Spencer can at least admit Hozier’s belts ( well, the ones he’s heard so far) tug at him by the chest. He came back to his senses quickly when his mismatched socks landed on the cold tile. He washed his hands and opened the fridge door with his good knee.

Songs of water and knives reminded him he had chicken to wash and cut. And the familiar feeling in his own kitchen gets the tasks in Spencer’s head in order. He could feel the weight of his week slowly lift, replaced by Spencer attempting to chop to the song. It was inefficient. Some songs play shockingly fast for a breakup album. He settled for a more percussion style of noise, making each slice more deliberate as a testament to his meticulousness.

The flour and breadcrumbs sizzled in the oil that mingled with the sight of you matching the pitch of the song and humming where Hozier shouted, caressing the album sleeve like it was alive and needed your warmth. The weight of the lyrics settling in your bones caused your head to fall in shock as a long, high note carried through the whole apartment.

The album played on, weaving tales of love and loss, each one successfully targeting your core and striking effectively. And when Spencer got into the groove of his own routine in the kitchen, he listened to the lyrics as they almost guided him to autopilot, reminding him of the joys that come with his leg around you in bed, ensuring you don’t move anywhere except closer to him. And how the idea of losing that is something he does not care to dwell on for long.

He could keep it together, he thought.

Until his voice soars about the glistening of an animal’s eyes. About the force of love for someone recklessly in the middle of the street. Spencer couldn’t help but feel a lump forming in his throat. It was a visceral reaction—Spencer's sniffle. But it wasn’t unheard.

You turned your gaze toward Spencer, your eyes soft with understanding. You could hear the emotion in his breath and the slight catch in his throat. “Spencer?” You asked.

“I’m fine.”

Your lower lip quivers with a puffy smile. “You’re crying.”

“No, I’m chopping. Chopping while completely fine.” His sniffles continued to give him away (sanitary stations over pride every time).

You couldn’t help but find the situation adorable. You lazily got up from the couch, letting one of the blankets slide off with you, dragging along behind you across the wood floor and then the tile. You carefully put your hands around his waist because safety comes first. You squeeze him, and he laughs a little. For a moment, he puts his left hand on your arm, keeping it there. You noticed how his fingertips were colder than expected as you looked at the cutting board from under his arm. “So basil makes you cry? Is that it?”

Spencer laughs again, diverting his gaze from the record player and clearing his eyes from unshed tears. “Today, it apparently does. There must be some emotional properties I didn’t consider.”

“Nothing to do with an Irish man singing his heart out?”

Spencer rubs his nose on his sleeve. Fuck sanitation right now; he’s about to go through it. The snot is evident. See how it shines, indeed. “Is he really singing about roadkill?”

“Yep.” You sniffle in return as you lay your head on his back.

“Fuck.”

“I know.”

“How does he do it?”

“That I don’t know.” You held Spencer as he let the music hit him. Taking moments to turn from the food to wipe his tears.

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid/reader #spencer reid/you #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid comfort #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid one shot #spencer reid fandom #spencer reid blurb #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fic

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flurry-of-stars · 11 days

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𝒯𝒽𝑒𝓈𝑒 𝐻𝑜𝓁𝓁𝑜𝓌 𝐻𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓈- 𝕴𝕴

⋆｡°✩𝓟𝓻𝓮𝓿𝓲𝓸𝓾𝓼𝓵𝔂⋆｡°✩ 𝕺𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖛𝖎𝖊𝖜 - 𝕻𝖆𝖗𝖙 𝕴

⋆｡°✩𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕴𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖝 ⋆｡°✩ Slow burn romance, female reader, small age gap (Fyodor is thirty, the reader is in her early twenties.) No Abilities AU, fluff. 𝒲𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉: 7.8k (A/N: I genuinely was not expecting such a huge response to the first part of this fic. Literally, all the comments and tags have made my week ♡♡♡ ) ⋆｡°✩𝕿𝖗𝖆𝖓𝖘𝖑𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓𝖘 𝖜𝖎𝖑𝖑 𝖇𝖊 𝖆𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖊𝖓𝖉⋆｡°✩ 𝕽𝖊𝖇𝖑𝖔𝖌𝖘 𝖆𝖗𝖊 𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖞 𝖆𝖕𝖕𝖗𝖊𝖈𝖎𝖆𝖙𝖊𝖉 ♡

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵ An elegant melody fills your ears, your body trembling in response as the tune tickles your brain in a way nothing else can. Your shoulders seem to relax as each precisely, passionately played note soothes you down to the depths of your soul. The purrs of the old tabby on the other side of the table seem to grow louder, making the table tremble softly as he sleeps. You close your eyes for a moment, laying your head back, gold and black ballpoint pen gently laid on the dining table as you take the time to appreciate the song echoing through the small cottage fully, the scent of peppermint tea and the variety of flowers in the nearby vase teases your sense of smell. But something was missing from the melody. Of course, you were no musical expert. In your personal opinion, the cello was played immaculately. Elegantly. If allowed, you would sit here all day, warm cup of tea in hand listening to it being played. You can picture yourself lying in the grass, listening to the rustling branches overhead as the wind carries the melody. But something was missing. And for the life of you, you couldn’t put your finger on what that something was. Your eyes flutter open as you hear the piece coming to a graceful end. Scooting out of your chair, you head through the cozy candlelit cottage, and down towards the living room. There was no television. No radio or game consoles. A fireplace crackles nearby, warming the room up to a pleasant degree.

There are dustless spots on the mantle where it looks like a few picture frames or other treasured items once sat, along with an old Russian Orthodox cross hanging above said fireplace. An antique piano is against the wall, closest to the archway leading into the room. There’s a window seat to your right, but the curtains are drawn today. The author sits in the middle of the room on a padded, upholstered cello chair, facing the entry way. The fire crackles to his right, illuminating his figure in a warm yellow hue, the deep mahogany sheen of his cello reflecting the soft glow as he draws out the last note, pleasantly tickling your brain once more. You carefully step into the room, waiting for him to finish. His eyes are closed, his long lashes gently resting against his pale cheeks, shadowing his already dark-rimmed eyes. You offer a very gentle applause, his eyes slowly opening to gaze up at you through his long lashes. You notice a strong emotion in his eyes for a moment, but it’s gone too soon for you to recognize what emotion it could have been, hidden beneath his strands of raven hair. “That was beautiful,” you compliment, standing a few feet from Fyodor. He turns his body, gently propping his cello up on the stand to his left as you speak, “How long have you been playing the cello?” You notice Fyodor clenching his jaw momentarily as he looks away, a flicker of uncertainty filling your heart. Then, in a surprisingly soft voice, “Since I was six. I wanted to play the cello as soon as I could.” Your eyes widen a little, “You did?” Fyodor still doesn’t meet your gaze, his eyes never leaving that of the cello at his side. He holds his bow as he nods softly, his voice much softer than you’re used to hearing from him, “I had a lot of time to dedicate to it as a child...” His fingers touch his bow softly and when he finally turns to look back at you, you see the warm nostalgia in his eyes. For a moment, it almost seems he wants to say something more.

But like a candle being puffed out, it’s gone in a millisecond. He gives you a stern look, his voice returning to that serious tone you’re used to, “Did you finish translating the chapters I gave you yet?” “Ah, I’m halfway done with chapter five…” Just like the second chapter, his writing had begun going on a long tangent again. It was already spanning on twenty translated pages, with many more left to go. On the positive, at least it was the male lead’s mother rambling on this time. That was some form of improvement, right? “I just needed to rest my wrist for a little while, carpal tunnel and all.” You held your wrist as if to demonstrate your point. Fyodor eyes you suspiciously but eventually, he huffs softly, “Very well then. But do not slack off too much. We have a deadline to meet.” You’re momentarily surprised. You’re almost tempted to ask why he allowed you to rest but out of fear of losing your break, you bite your lower lip, silencing yourself. Your gaze turns away from his as he focuses on tuning his cello. That’s when your eyes fall on the dusty white door against the far wall, almost hidden in the corner by the shadows cast by the looming fireplace and Fyodor along with his cello, only revealed now by him turning his body to the side. You could see the dust etched into the crevasses, in the complex door engraving that resembled a floral design. It is stunning that someone carved something so intricate and beautiful into a door. You chew the inside of your cheek as you squirm from foot to foot; that door looked important. Tucked away in the darkness like that, like a hidden treasure. You can feel the door practically calling to you, singing like a siren, begging you to just take a peek inside. Or maybe you were just overworked.

But it tickled that child-like curiosity in the back of your mind. You could feel a part of you practically giddy at the thought of what could be hiding inside that door.

What hidden secrets could it hold within? Was it filled from floor to roof with all of Fyodor’s other novels Vivian had told you about? Was it full of all his royalties from his previous books? What if it was the door to another world, full of wizards and dragons and–!

You shake your head, an amused huff leaving you; you were letting your imagination run too wild today. Maybe you shouldn’t have reread all those fantasy novels over the weekend. You sigh, walking towards the grand piano. Sliding out the dusty bench from beneath and patting away a fine layer of dust, you sit down, hoping to strike up some form of conversation with Fyodor. Your mind reels back to what Vivian had said.

He's been through a lot recently.

You stare at Fyodor as he tweaks the strings of his cello carefully, tuning it without sparing you a glance. And as you do so, you begin to take him in fully. The way his large cloak practically devours his lithe form. He looks so fragile. His pale complexion. He's as pale as you imagined a vampire would be.

His eyes look more tired than usual, the dark circles seeming to have darkened further this past week. You wondered if he was taking care of himself. Was he eating right? Sleeping well?

You had seen the Russian brew many pots of tea with nothing but the utmost of care and witnessed him enjoying each cup he drank. But you couldn't recall ever seeing him eat anything. ….He must be eating something, right?

“What do you like to eat?” You blurt out suddenly. Fyodor blinks, looking back at you with narrowed, confused eyes. You sit up straight, thinking of an excuse surprisingly fast, “Sorry, I feel a bit peckish but I'm unsure what I feel like so…”

You gaze at the cream-coloured floral patterned wallpaper, grimacing, a wave of embarrassment flooding through you. You can still feel Fyodor's eyes on you as if he was trying to peer into your being and pull out the true intentions behind your words.

Maybe you should just go back to–

“There is some fresh fruit in the refrigerator,” Fyodor's voice makes you look up. He's turned away again, back to fiddling with the strings of his cello, “If that does not suffice, there should be half a loaf of bread and some cheese you can have.”

Maybe it was just because you were so used to Fyodor scowling and scolding you, but even this simple gesture felt really pleasant. You nod, standing up and straightening out the folds of your embroidered skirt.

“Ah…thank you,” you take a few seconds to compose yourself. The carpet muffles your footsteps as you move out of the living room, and back towards the kitchen.

The old tabby is sitting up, licking his paws as you step into the small, open-plan kitchen. He looks up at you, fading blue eyes cautious but fascinated as you move towards the one item in this entire cottage that couldn't be any less Fyodor if it tried.

The pastel pink fridge. It looks fairly new too, possibly only a year old. It was an anomaly amongst the smell of old books and the soft burning of candles. Even Fyodor’s work phone looked like it needed a senior’s discount card. But maybe there was more to Fyodor than you first thought.

Maybe he was the type of guy who loved cats and pastel pink. Perhaps he had an all-pink outfit that he was just dying to show off to you. You giggle softly at the thought, images of your stern boss dressed all in pink, scolding you for not completing your translating making you almost burst out laughing. As you open the fridge, your amusement quickly dies.

It's almost barren. Considering your fridge is only home to a two-day-old Chinese takeaway box, a half-eaten block of cheese you found on special and some bottles of water, that’s saying something. The bright red apples catch your eye first. There's also a tub of margarine, an almost empty bottle of milk, a punnet of blackberries and not a half, but a quarter loaf of bread and a few slices of cheese. Now you seriously had your doubts that Fyodor was eating much. This looked like it wouldn’t feed a mouse, let alone a grown man. But this would make do for the moment. Taking out the last of the bread, margarine and cheese, you make two simple cheese sandwiches. Placing them on a plate, you move on to washing a pair of apples and some blackberries. Once you’ve sliced the apples and added them and a few washed blackberries to the plate, you serve them in the middle of the table, moving Fyodor’s draft and your translations into the leather bag he usually kept them in. You refill both teacups with the still-warm peppermint tea before calling out, “Mr. Dostoyevsky, can you come here for a moment please?” As you sit at your place at the table, you listen to the sound of Fyodor’s footsteps as he approaches, his steps surprisingly light on the wood floor of the hallway and kitchen. His tired eyes lift in surprise as he takes in the sight before him. His gaze turns cautious, “What is this?” “It’s lunch,” you offer him a small smile, picking up your warm cup of tea. The tabby cat purrs, brushing against Fyodor’s arm the moment he steps close to the table. “I figured since I’m eating, I’d make you something too.” Fyodor scoffs, his eyes narrowing. His jaw clenches tightly, as though he is holding back the words he wants to say. You hear him inhale through his nose, his eyes closing for a moment. Then, he opens them, shaking his head. His Russian accent comes through much thicker as he mumbles, “You didn't need to do this.”

“I wanted to.” You say quickly once more without stopping to think. Your teacup clinks against the saucer as you place it down, backtracking quickly as Fyodor looks at you with a raised brow, one hand patting the top of the tabby’s head absentmindedly. “What I mean is I figured you would be hungry soon as well. So I figured why not kill two birds with one stone?” Once again, Fyodor stares at you as if trying to pull the truth from your eyes. You begin to shift, feeling a little uncomfortable under his gaze before he sighs. He moves towards the table, the legs of his chair squeaking against the floor as he pulls it out, sitting down, “Thank you.” You smile softly, an ember of warmth flickering in your heart as you watch the author nibble away at an apple slice. It may not be an extremely nutritious meal, but at least he was eating something. You could feel your shoulders relaxing, “You’re welcome.” ︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵ “What about something like this?” Trixie spins around, showing off the beautiful emerald green dress she's selected for you. It’s short with a thin ribbon around the waist. Her smile is wide and bright as she twirls around a little, showing off the way the fabric sways, causing her teal jacket tied around her waist to sway with her movements, “I think it would look cute on you!” “Mmm,” you hum, clutching your coat tighter around your body. An earworm of a pop song is playing quietly over the speakers of the shopping centre. A few other customers around you, all going about their day as you eye the dress presented to you. Although the dress was cute, its price made you hesitate: "I'm just browsing today. Maybe next time when I get paid." "But think about it!" Trixie insists as she follows you towards the sweaters that you've been eyeing, which are half-price - what a steal. She sways the dress once again and says, "This dress, along with that little black coat I have at home, would look great on you. A little bow here and there, and you'd look absolutely darling!" You chuckle softly, smiling at Trixie's excitement. She was a fashion connoisseur, always encouraging you to splurge a little if you could. “I do think it would be an adorable outfit,” you begin to reply, that dangling price tag and those frightened numbers printed on it preventing you from agreeing. You shake your head, resisting temptation. You pull yourself away before your resistance crumbles any further, “But I need to spend my money on something else this fortnight.” Trixie pouts, frowning a little before she puts the dress back. Her smile quickly returns as you gather a few of the reduced sweaters you had been eyeing since walking in. As you approach the cash register to pay, Trixie questions, "Is it wise to spend all your money on Mr. Grumpy after only knowing him for a week?" You let out a chuckle at the nickname. "Mr Grumpy". It certainly suited him well, given how often he scowled and scolded you. As you pay for your items, you respond, "Maybe it's true that he comes across as a grump sometimes, but if I cook for him, I can also cook for myself. It's a win-win situation." You thank the cashier, grabbing your bag as you and Trixie leave the boutique. As you and Trixie walk through the crowded mall, she reminds you that you don't know what he likes. It's a typical busy weekend, so you both have to navigate around other customers and head towards the food court for lunch. You can't help but worry about the possibility of the groceries going to waste if he doesn't like what you serve him. You frown, your eyes trailing down to the cold white tiles beneath your ankle-high boots. That was something you were very nervous about. Especially since you lived on a diet of microwave meals and fast food. You attempted to bring up the discussion about his preferred foods again when you finished translating the fifth chapter. He had given you a side glance, telling you not to bother him while he was writing.

The next day, you both were back outside, despite how cold it was beginning to get. Throughout the period, Fyodor was engrossed in working on the drafts for the upcoming chapters. You could still hear the sound of his pen scratching on the paper in your mind.

Meanwhile, you struggled to translate with trembling hands and chattering teeth, yearning for the comfort of his cottage. You felt like he’d done that just to stop you from asking again. As you slowly look up, preparing to scan the food court to decide what to get, your eyes catch the bold letters of a familiar bookstore. You gasp, your eyes twinkling a little, and a smile breaks onto your face as you nudge Trixie. "Hey, you didn't tell me they opened a larger store." Trixie gives you a playful side-eye, “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to spend your entire first paycheck on books. I thought I’d convince you to get a cute outfit first, some make-up or shoes for your new job–” She follows you as you begin making your way towards the store, an excited hop in your step. You hear her give an amused sigh as trails behind you, mumbling, “--But I guess we can say au revoir to your pay now.” "I just want to take a quick look," you insist, feeling irresistibly drawn to the store despite knowing how much money you've spent there before. You start walking faster, leaving Trixie trailing behind, until you finally step inside. The various smells and sights overwhelm you, sending waves of nostalgia through your body. It’s a lot busier compared to the smaller store you typically go to closer to your apartment. A few children are running around and playing between the isles as their mother tries to draw their attention in with a book, flipping between colourful pages as she tries to catch their eyes. You notice a small group of young women in one section, holding books and debating which ones they should get quite loudly as they flip through each book, fanning the pages with their fingers. Meanwhile, there's an older gentleman near the back who's struggling to read the blurb on the back of the book he's tugged off the shelf. He's patting his pockets for his glasses. You can hear more people between the other isles and for a moment, murmuring and giggling. Some even excitedly discuss the books they’ve found. You’re almost tempted to come back later. But the moment the smell of new books hits your nose, along with a hint of a coffee-inspired fragrance from the oil diffuser, you’re drawn back in. Maybe Trixie was right to not bring you here. You could already hear your debit card screaming for mercy in your purse. Speaking of, she sighs as she catches up to you, looking around with a click of her tongue. “Look at that. Books. Almost as many as you still have stored at my place.” She teases, making you nudge her with a grin. "I'm just here to browse," you insist, but your best friend gives you a sceptical glance. You scoff and reach into your bag, pulling out your purse and handing it to her with a smug smile to prove your point. She pockets it, but she still doesn’t seem to believe you, “I give it five minutes.” You scoff again, shaking your head as you begin to move about the store. You slip between other customers, making sure to not disturb anyone as your eyes scan every shelf, every book, new and old alike. This is like your own little piece of heaven on earth. Your own perfect paradise. Though your eyes do linger on the latest releases just a little longer. You move closer to the nearby bookshelf, your heart aching the moment your hands glide over one book in particular.

It looks like a short story for children, judging from the pastel sky and the cartoon unicorn on the cover. The stars in the unicorn’s mane glimmer faintly. On the front of the book there is a sticker that informs potential buyers that every dollar from each sale will be donated to a foundation for abused children. You are about to open the book when--

“You said you weren’t purchasing anything,” Trixie playfully comments, causing you to jerk your hand back as though the book had burnt you. She gives you a playful grin as you shrug. “There’s nothing wrong with admiring the covers!” You insist, grinning back at her as you slide into the next aisle, placing your hand over your aching heart.

As you round the corner, you were expecting to find the Young Adult section right ahead of you. However, to your surprise, you walked straight into the non-fiction aisle instead.

There were all sorts of books on display, from true crime to language books to history books. Although you have dabbled with non-fiction just as much as you have with fiction, you still have a preference for the latter. As you walk the aisle, you scan the shelves, keeping an eye out for any interesting covers when one does catch your eye. You’re passing by the cookbooks when you see a book with the title ‘Classic Russian Meals.’ At once, your promise is tossed out the window as you grab the cookbook, flipping through it swiftly. This…yes, this could be just what you need! Triumphantly, Trixie tells you "I knew you'd cave, bookworm." You plead with her, your eyebrows furrowed. “I have to make an exception for this.” You reply, closing the book and holding it tight to your chest. Trixie’s look becomes more curious as she listens to you. “This cookbook is just what I need." Trixie gives you an unsure look, but you know she’s never been able to resist your pleading. She sighs, reaching into her bag and passing you back your purse.

You grin widely as you hurry away to get in line to pay for it. She joins you a few moments later while you scan through the pages until it’s your turn. You hand the book to the owner, who smiles warmly and asks if you'd like a bag. "That will be $90," she says. You are taken aback as you hear the price. Ninety dollars? It's more than what you had budgeted for. You feel disappointed and disheartened as you realize that you won't be able to buy the book. It could have been a great boon to have, but unfortunately, you have to pass on it. You apologize and inform the seller, "I'm sorry but I can't afford--" Suddenly, a hand with freshly manicured and painted teal nails brushes past you as Trixie places her debit card on the reader. A small green tick appears on the tiny screen as she beams brightly, grabbing the heavy cookbook and passing it over to you. “No bag today, thank you.” You hold onto your new cookbook tightly as she leads you out of the store. You look up at her with gratitude, and say, "Trix, thank you so much for doing this for me. You really didn't have to." You give the book a tight hug, a warm smile on your face, although you feel a little guilty. Trix waves her hand dismissively, smiling kindly at you. She warmly replies, "You know you're like a sister to me." Then, she grins mischievously and adds, "And who knows, if you master that cookbook, maybe the words on the back of the book will come true~" You frown as you flip the book over to read the blurb. You scan each paragraph until you find it. It’s right at the bottom in bold, white letters, “The perfect gift for any wife!” You can’t help but grin in amusement as you teasingly bump your hip against Trixie’s. “Oh, ha ha. Very funny, Trix.”

She giggles and nudges you back. Her voice is playfully mischievous as she replies, “What? I happen to think Mrs. Grumpy suits you~" ︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵

There was one problem with your entire plan. You hadn’t taken into account transporting all of these groceries to Fyodor’s cottage. It was close to sundown when you caught the bus that would take you from the mall to the bus stop closest to the woods where Fyodor’s cottage was located. During the initial bus trip, you noticed that some people were giving you odd stares. Some young children who were below the age of four approached you to see if you had any sweets to share. Additionally, an older woman started to badger you about why you didn't take your husband along with you and ended up lecturing you about your lack of spouse. The bus driver sends you a worried glance as you leave the bus carrying an entire fortnight’s worth of groceries for two and a very thick, heavy cookbook, the heavy scent of diesel causing you to cough and shake as you begin your trek to the cottage. You hoist them along the familiar forest path you’ve taken many times now as the birds seem to stop singing the moment you enter. Perhaps even the little sparrows and drongos were shocked to witness you heaving several bags of shopping along by yourself. The trees rustle, causing a cascade of orange leaves to shower upon you. You felt like the tree was supporting you in your struggle. Or maybe it was mocking you. Either way, a few leaves weren’t going to get these bags to Fyodor’s. As you continue on your way, you catch a glimpse of the orange tabby cat as it disappears over the old, rickety fence and up a small flight of cobblestone steps, brushing against the legs of an old, heavy-set woman. “Oh, dear!” Her voice is thick with a heavy Russian accent. It’s thicker than Fyodor’s. She turns her head back inside of her home, calling out to someone else in Russian. A few moments later, a balding older man appears by her side. You’re a little surprised as they approach the rickety fence separating their small cottage from the cobblestone path, warm smiles on their aged faces, though the woman looks a bit more concerned for you. “What are you doing? You shouldn’t be dragging all this uphill by yourself dearie.” She looks towards her husband as she fixes her glasses, nodding, “Dima, help her, will you? Where are you going with all these bags?”

You shift a little awkwardly, smiling politely as the elderly gentleman with a greying beard approaches you, preparing to take a few bags off your hands. You appreciate the help but you didn’t want to strain this poor old man with your heavy bags. So you give him the lighter bags, “Oh thank you so much, you didn’t have to,” you reply gratefully, handing over a few bags before adding, “To the heart of the forest. You know, that little cottage near the lake.” The elderly woman gasps in delight. “You’re taking them to Fedyka? Oh isn’t that lovely, Dima?” Her hazel eyes gleam with the joy of a mother hearing that her child has made a friend. Her husband, Dmitry, gives a huff of approval. He doesn’t seem like a very talkative man. She clasps her hands together, smiling widely at you. “I hope he isn’t making you do all the cooking dearie. You make sure he helps out a little okay?” Your smile relaxes a little as you giggle, fixing your grip on the last shopping bags you’re holding while clutching the cookbook closer to your chest, “Yes ma’am–” “Oh sweetheart, there’s no need for that,” she gives a hearty laugh as she straightens out her apron over the top of her dress, giving you a polite nod, “You can just call me Olya dearie. Now you tell Fedyka to come and pay us a visit! You can both come along! We would be more than happy to have you, wouldn’t we Mitya?” “Yes Olya.” Dmitry finally responds. He turns his light blue eyes towards you, nodding softly with a smile, “It would be lovely to have both of you around.” You squirm in place, smiling politely. While you were a translator and you knew how to translate written Russian, you still couldn’t understand it very well when it was spoken. More so, you still struggled to understand people whose accents were a bit thicker, like Dmitry’s. You give a small smile and nod, “Thank you.”

Suddenly, Olga looks at the sunset sky, then back to you two, “We’ll work something out. Now you two best be on your way; it’s almost nightfall. Take good care of her and Fedyka, won’t you darling?” You give a very polite bow as you continue on your path, Dmitry at your side. You smile happily as you hear the birds around you starting to sing again as they fly for their nests for the evening. Fyodor didn't mention his sweet neighbors. Dmitry was friendly but hard to understand when wound up, his accent coming through much heavier the more passionate he got. As you proceed along the cobblestone path, dusted with what was likely one of the last batches of Autumn leaves, he talks to you. A grin on his face is vibrant, despite his age. His voice is slightly raspy as he speaks poetically to you about the nature surrounding you both. You offer smiles and polite nods, not daring to mention that you have no idea what he’s saying outside of a few words here and there. He turned out to be more talkative than you initially expected. Passing through the white archway, you notice a pair of doves on the outdoor table, cooing loudly yet beautifully to one another. A bonded pair, it seemed.

Your heart warms at the sight as yours and Dmitry’s approach sends them fleeing the scene, white feathers standing out boldly against the vivid kaleidoscope of warm colors draped beautifully overhead. You approach the cottage door, placing the groceries you’re carrying down to rasp your knuckles against the wood delicately. You wait a few seconds, expecting Fyodor to open the door.

But he doesn’t. Huh. That’s odd. You look around, listening out for any movement when you hear an upset cat for a heartbeat. You gasp quietly. It must be the tabby. So, you knock a second time. Maybe Fyodor had just been wrapped up in his writing and didn’t hear you the first time. Maybe he even fell asleep on his draft. He did look quite exhausted when you were last here. You shift from foot to foot as you chew the inside of your cheek. You were starting to worry now. This wasn’t like Fyodor at all. You considered the possibility that he had gone somewhere. Fyodor seems like a homebody but surely there are people he visits from time to time? Or maybe he goes on walks to get ideas for his novels? You consider asking Dmitry if he knows where Fyodor could have gotten to, but you’re worried about stressing the elderly man. Nor do you want to let on that you have no idea where he could be.

You consider calling his phone but knowing him, it’s likely still sitting in his drawer on silent after Vivian called on Friday. “It’s a needless distraction.” You’re getting close to trying to find a back entrance. Or maybe trying to break in through a window. But as they say, the third times the charm right? You lift your hand, your knuckles rasping against the wood once, twice and then, the door finally opens with a loud creak. Your eyes widen in surprise; Fyodor looks like death. His bloodshot eyes turn up, meeting your gaze as you stand before him, hands clutching tight back around the bags of groceries. His arm seemed to hang by his side like it was weighted down by bricks, his hand barely keeping its grip on the door knob. It’s been a day. How does he keep looking worse and worse? He almost seemed to be leaning against the door frame as his messy hair clings to his face, his typically distant eyes look at you apathetically as they slowly scan you and Dmitry by your side.

His eyes seem to widen faintly at the sight of the elderly man with you. His lips turn upwards in a small smile that seems to lack energy, “My, my. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

His dark eyes penetrate your gaze as you look up, offering a half-hearted smile as you lift the shopping bags off the ground, making them rustle faintly. “Your fridge was empty when I was here Friday, so I figured I’d fix that for you Mr Grumpy–” The name leaves your lips before you can stop it. “Mr. Grumpy…?” Fyodor repeats your words slowly as if taking the time to digest them. You freeze in place, clutching the shopping bags tighter as your heart drops. You swallow roughly as you try to think of a good response. You can’t tell how Fyodor feels about you calling him that as his brow quirks curiously but his eyes remain blank. You wanted to find a hole and bury yourself in it. You seemed to love testing fate and risking your employment, it seemed. Suddenly, a raspy chuckle comes from your right. Blinking in surprise, you turn towards Dmitry, noticing the amused grin on his face. His light blue eyes fill with amusement as he speaks to Fyodor in a warm tone, “Mr Grumpy! That name suits you when you go around scowling all the time, Fedyka! But my, it’s been too long since I’ve seen you. Not since–” “It has been a while yes,” Fyodor gently interrupts the older man as the tabby cat curls between Fyodor’s legs, stepping out of the cottage with an old meow. Dmitry chuckles, placing the shopping bags he’s holding down as he crouches, scratching the cat’s chin. "Итак, Господин Толстой наконец-то добрался до дома, не так ли ?" He scratches behind the tabby cat’s ear and under his chin as he speaks to him, scratching the elderly cat’s greying chin fur, "Уже давно пора. Я уверен, Федька скучал по тебе" You pause, frowning a little as your mind reels, trying to understand at least some of the words Dmitry had said. You purse your lips and slowly look towards Fyodor, a curious look in your eyes. “The cat’s name is Tolstoy?” You ask. Fyodor gives a muffled chuckle, a near-praising look in his bloodshot eyes. "That's correct," he confirms with a nod, his lips curling up into a small smirk. "You seem to be getting better at understanding spoken Russian. Maybe if you keep it up, we'll soon be able to have full conversations in Russian instead of English."

Your brow raises; did Fyodor just tease you? His smirk grows as he steps out of the cottage, walking closer to you, “Allow me.”

He reaches out, taking a few of the bags you’re holding. You slide the handles for a few of the bags into his fingertips when he suddenly murmurs, “--Experience the flavours of Russian cuisine–” You gasp, quickly pulling back. A small chuckle escapes Fyodor’s lips, his smirk growing. Though it doesn’t stretch as wide as you’re use to, “A Russian cookbook, hm? Now why would you have that Огонёк?”

You step back, holding the book to your chest like it was the most valuable treasure you owned. You could feel heat rising to your cheeks. Your secret surprise had been foiled. Dmitry chuckles again, replying for you, “You know what they say. The best way to a man’s heart is through his stomach! That’s how my Olya hooked me!” Fyodor chuckles, turning his gaze towards Dmitry. There’s a look of familiarity and a twinkle of warmth every time his gaze crosses the old man’s, “I believe she is just trying to make sure I don’t expire before I can finish my novel.”

Dmitry laughs a little harder at Fyodor’s words, a chilly breeze brushing past the three of you. Tolstoy gives a small, upset sounding mewl as he scurries back inside. Fyodor watches him as he steps aside, allowing access to his cottage to you and Dmitry, “Come. The wind is beginning to pick up. And I do believe it is time for dinner.”

You allow Dmitry to enter first before following behind him. You hear Fyodor almost whisper behind you in a tired tone, "You couldn’t have chosen better timing if you tried, Огонёк." ✩

“Are you certain you know what you’re doing?” “Yes.” Your response comes quite quickly. Fyodor gives a huff of amusement as he finishes tucking the last of the groceries away in the fridge. He knows you’re lying. Not just by the way your nose is scrunched up or by your annoyed tone. But because you’re holding the knife backwards. You're attempting to cut into a carrot with the dull side of the knife. He finds it amusing but fascinating. He closes the fridge door as he approaches you, watching as the knife slides off the sides of the carrot as you huff in annoyance. “Are you certain?” He asks again, his voice calm and curious, despite the amusement in his eyes. He reaches out, gingerly grasping the knife’s black handle. You look up at him, a look of stubborn annoyance on your face that reads ‘I can do it.’ He turns the blade around, the sharp end now facing the carrot as he places it back into your hand. His hand slowly curls around yours as he nods, his voice serious, “Curl in the fingers on your other hand or you risk not just cutting the carrot.” He watches as you do so before gently guiding your hand, his cold fingers wrapping around your warm hand, the blade slicing cleanly through the carrot with his guidance, removing the top. He guides you twice more before pulling back, satisfied that you can handle it from here. He moves back towards the pink carnation teapot, filling it with boiling water from the kettle, and dropping the tea infusion cage inside.

He turns his head faintly. He can hear Dmitry talking to Tolstoy in the living room along with the papers of his draft being shuffled and likely read, he assumed. He turns his gaze back to you. You were more observant than Fyodor had first predicted. That was good. For the sake of his novel at least. But he worried how far your observant eye had led you. Did you really just notice the lack of food in his fridge, or did you also take in the way he held himself like his body was forcefully being dragged down by invisible hands?

Did you notice how sloppy his handwriting was? How weakly he was holding his pen? Did you see the ink blots on the pages where he had held the pen too long?

He narrows his eyes, watching as you scoop up the carrot chunks, dropping them into the broth boiling on the stove top before you speak up, “That’s the carrots done. Now the chicken.” Fyodor continues to observe you as you go about slicing the chicken next, tossing the chunks into a small bowl. Although the pieces are much too thick, he doesn’t mention it. He would help correct the mistake soon. Instead, he asks in a serious voice, “Were you not taught the basics of cooking as a child?” He sees you bite the inside of your cheek. You’d taken offence to his question. Perhaps he should have worded it differently.

You’re quiet until you finish slicing the first chicken breast, “I was taught how to make instant noodles and coffee.” You reply, grabbing the next chicken breast. He watches the knife glide through it as you speak, “My father was normally far too busy to cook. So we lived on takeaway and instant noodles most of the time.” Fyodor blinks. You had no experience cooking? And yet you had gone out of your way, purchasing a cookbook and the ingredients just to feed him? He goes silent, processing this information. You were strange. A puzzle he couldn't decipher. He feels a sensation rising in his chest, that familiar warmth flickering in his heart, like a lighter trying to ignite but unable to get the full spark. “Let’s focus on making your first home-cooked meal edible then,” Fyodor replies as he steps closer to you. He slides open the cutlery drawer, grabbing a second knife to slice the chicken chunks into smaller, bite-sized pieces. He nods at you, “Make the rest of the pieces smaller too.” He sees you nod as you go about correcting your mistake, making the pieces more bite-sized and manageable. Once he’s sure you have that under control, he begins working on the onion. Cutting off the root and peeling the skin back, he begins cutting the onion when he hears your question, “What about you? You seem to know what you’re doing so I assume—” “Yes, I was taught how to cook growing up,” he replies softly but quickly, interrupting you, the sound of his knife tapping against the cutting board filling the silent spaces in between, “Mother and I always cooked together, from the moment I was old enough to help her.”

He feels a wave of nostalgia rushing through his tired body before it coils around his heart like a string of barbed wire, cutting so deeply into his heart he almost winces physically. He breathes in, deeply but silently as he keeps cutting the onion, sliding the pieces into a container nearby. He notices you finishing up with the chicken pieces before you pause, hands pressed against the countertop as you mumble, your tone sounding melancholic. “That sounds nice.” Silence seemed to fall over the room as you double-checked the cookbook, adding the necessary herbs and spices into the broth as he stepped back, giving you space to work. He knows you have to make mistakes to learn from them, but he feels a tug in his chest to guide you. He gives a silent huff before turning his attention to the teapot. Right. He’d almost forgotten to serve Dmitry some tea. After checking over your progress one last time, he gathers the hot pot of steaming black tea, along with two teacups on an antique silver tray before he heads for the living room. Dmitry is sitting on the window seat, near where Fyodor had set up a fold-out table to work on his novel for the afternoon. The last rays of the setting sun illuminate the older man’s form as he gives Fyodor a warm, fatherly smile. He puts Fyodor’s draft to the side so he can place the tray down on the table, “I apologise for the delay, my assistant needed me. Will you be joining us for dinner, Mitya?” “I would love to,” he replies while Fyodor begins filling the cups. “But I have a meal waiting for me at home. My Olya too.” He chuckles as he lifts the teacup, taking a slow sip. Fyodor turns, grabbing the upholstered chair from nearby.

He sits across from the elderly gentleman as a raspy chuckle rolls off his tongue. “I was starting to think we wouldn’t get the chance to sit like this again.” He looks up at Fyodor, teacup clinking against it’s saucer as he places it back down, his light blue eyes carefully looking Fyodor over for a few moments, his brow furrowing with worry, “But my, you’re looking a little worse for wear. Has your manuscript been keeping you that busy?” “You could say that,” Fyodor replies, sipping gently on his tea. The warm liquid soothes his aching body as he sighs softly, holding the teacup carefully. Dmitry keeps a close eye on the younger man, a look of sympathy on his face.

Fyodor knew he was starting to put the pieces together. The true reason for his exhaustion. Dmitry was a smart man after all. But rather than pressing, Dmitry nods towards the archway, his smile growing a little, “I have to say, Olya and I were surprised when we saw that young lady. I thought you would never need an assistant?” Fyodor scoffs slightly when he's reminded of his previous statement, causing Dmitry to chuckle. “This is a different situation.” He takes another sip of his tea before speaking once more. “She is merely here to help translate the book for an international audience. Nothing more.”

“But you’re writing a romance novel, yes? Haven’t you thought about asking for a woman’s opinion on love and romance? It may prove beneficial to your novel.” “No.” His reply is short and blunt as his teacup finds it’s place back on it’s saucer. “Because she is here just to help with translations. I do not need any help when it comes to writing my novel.”

He sits back, getting comfortable as Tolstoy begins circling his feet. “I have written enough novels to know what I am doing.” “Ah but our Fedyka has never been in love, has he?” His smile grows softer, his eyes glowing with warmth. “Writing about love is no easy task. Not when it is such a complex emotion. Writing the words is one thing, but experiencing it is something entirely different.” “Then I should come to you and Olya for help, shouldn’t I?” There’s a pause. Then, Dmitry starts to chuckle. He rises slowly from his chair, using the wall nearby for support as he stands, grinning in amusement at Fyodor. “I thought you knew what you were doing, Fedyka?”

A huff of amusement leaves Fyodor as he smiles faintly. Giving one last hearty laugh, Dmitry reaches over, patting Fyodor on the shoulder. “Don’t give the girl too much trouble, you hear?” He gives his shoulder a squeeze before he takes his leave. Fyodor stays in his seat, watching as Dmitry leaves, a hum on his lips. Tolstoy leaps onto his lap, purring, his hand instantly moving to scratch the cat’s chin. He hums quietly, eyes narrowing slightly as he dwells on Dmitry’s words, his eyes transfixed on the honey-coloured liquid in his cup. A complex emotion, huh... “Hey.” Your voice shakes him from his thoughts. He looks up at you, standing in the archway of the living room with a smile that causes that flicker of warmth to glow in his heart once more, “I need a hand with the soup. Um...do you mind?” He pauses. Then he offers a faint smile in return as he stands. Tolstoy gives an annoyed mewl as Fyodor walks towards you, following you towards the kitchen.

He was a little worried about how your first homecooked meal was turning out but a part of him had some faith in you. You just needed a helping hand.

⋆｡°✩𝕿𝖗𝖆𝖓𝖘𝖑𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓𝖘⋆｡°✩ * Огонёк: Little Light * "So, Mister Tolstoy has finally made it home, hasn't he? It's long overdue. I'm sure Fedyka missed you." Dividers: @/saradika

#bungou stray dogs #fyodor x reader #fyodor dostoyevsky x reader #bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader

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mtkay13 · 5 months

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A toast to freedom. more info below!

I'm back......... -sigh- I'm so behind on everything I want to post and ofc i just gotta.... post my latest pieces instead of catching up. Oh well. So the illustrations mostly speak for themselves but I know I can find stuff to say about them, so-- First of all, the right side was drawn first, and it was not supposed to be about the nails nor was it supposed to have a companion piece in the first place. I'll be real: I just wanted to draw ZZS's big chest and make it classical portrait style. But I also ended up sort of horny-bonking myself into adding some substance and storytelling to it and put a nail right there (how convenient), haha. It did give me the idea of making a mirrored image, a year and a half later, of ZZS and six nails in, right before he's about to leave--particularly because it illustrates something I've always been QUITE peculiar about when it comes to designing ZZS, and it's the state of his body. At the start, it struck me how in the book, he's described as being skeletal--and how much priest insists on that. I pretty much immediately started trying to draw TYK ZZS as very skinny, because I felt it would make the nails much more dreadful (on top of being faithful to canon which I'm also a bit prickly about). Somehow, while ZZS being well built otherwise is both mentioned in canon a couple of times and influenced by how he looks in SHL, I later found that pushing it a bit further would increase the contrast with how he looks like in TYK and make the nails' impact on his body and health even more striking. I guess that from there, over the past year, I made him bigger and bigger....... I assume because I found it was interesting? (I mean, I still do, but--) Mainly because I love that such a big dude can nonetheless make himself completely unnoticeable, and this image of a tiny grandma turning around a corner and unfolding herself into a big buff guy.... ALSO HLY's looming shadow being this big threatening guy....... IDK ITS MY JAM (not to mention, again, that it's such a strong contrast with TYK ZZS!) A little note--I think I've mentioned so before, but working in animation, I've gotten the habit of trying to "push things" or exaggerate them to make them a bit bolder and striking/powerful. I definitely feel like it has been an impulse on both ends; in the way I draw the skinnier, skeletal ZZS as well as in the way I draw the healthy, top of his game ZZS. Exaggerating things slightly and pushing them out of the molds is an interesting exercise overall, especially with character design (even if at some point we end up toning those exaggeration down, we can at least keep the more interesting elements developed through exaggeration.) So yeah. I thought the two would work well together, and I tried telling things through their expressions, posture, etc.

#tian ya ke #tyk #zhou zishu #zzs #qi ye #meta #design

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anonymous-dentist · 2 days

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Part Six of the Catboy in the Village AU

Parts: 1|2|3|4|5

There's something in the castle, and it's weird.

It's silent save for its footsteps. It follows Cellbit and his forcibly-assigned guard wherever he goes, but it doesn't follow Roier and his guard. It isn't the queen, because she has been there several times when the Something has been hiding in Cellbit's shadow.

It isn't doing anything. Maybe it's just spying on Cellbit, but that's a given. He's been watched for a long time, probably, based off of how much the queen seems to know about him, but the Something just... doesn't feel like a spy? Its presence feels too small to be a threat, and yet it's been following Cellbit for at least an hour every day since his forced stay in the healer's quarters. Why? And, more importantly, what?

Since his stay in the healer's quarters, and since Roier was finally given permission to make himself and Cellbit their own (non-poisoned) meals, Cellbit has slowly, but steadily, begun his investigation of Castelo do Gato. He's been accompanied by his guard the whole time, but his guard also doesn't give a shit about what he's doing so long as he isn't escaping or trying to kill the queen, so Cellbit really doesn't think that he needs to be concerned about any information leaking to the queen.

His information as of day four of his investigation, and as of his eighth day of being kidnapped, is as follows:

The queen has only been queen for a couple of months now, and her first directive was a global search for her long-lost twin brother. Her name is Bagi, and she is very annoying, and Cellbit kind of hates her a lot.

There aren't as many staff in the castle as there should be. This makes sense; the previous king and queen were famously secretive, especially after their son's disappearance and the outbreak of the war. More staff is being hired, but there's a thorough screening process involved that the queen herself oversees.

The castle's healer's name is Niki. She's very nice, and she's better at potion making than Cellbit is. She's one of the queen's closer friends, and she's been with the castle since the previous king and queen were in charge.

The castle's mage's name is Mouse. She claims to be a demon, but not the demon, and she thinks that the demon haunting the castle needs to go to therapy because earthquakes and flames are not healthy forms of self expression. She draws her sigils with blood, and Cellbit really likes her.

The demon shows up once a week and shakes the castle and tears through the halls screaming. This only started when the queen took the throne (go figure.)

The missing brother went missing at 11 years old, and his name... was Cellbit, but he's a different Cellbit. There are no portraits of him in most of the castle upon the orders of the previous king, who was with the prince the day he vanished.

Everybody keeps talking about empanadas for some fucking reason, especially Niki and Mouse. The queen goes silent every time.

The investigation would probably be easier if Cellbit could force the queen to, like, act normally and tell him the truth, but she's a lost cause. She nearly threw her bowl of soup at Cellbit at dinner when he casually mentioned to Roier wanting to get a new pair of goggles to pin his ears back with, she's crazy.

But Cellbit isn't an idiot. He may have been a serial killer in his previous life, but he also spent a few years doing odd jobs and investigations around his and Roier's hometown. It's how they met, and it's how Cellbit is going to get them back home and to their kids.

So Cellbit investigates. He gets himself a notebook from the queen, who seemed relieved that he was doing something other than trying to murder her for once. He snoops around the castle, claiming that he's trying to get to know the building and the staff now that he's been "brought back home." (Saying that is enough to make him gag, but it's what works.) He goes to the library. He takes a nap in the courtyard on Roier's chest.

He steals Niki's spare pair of potion-making goggles, and he puts them on. He ignores the pain; he's used to it, after all.

And he's followed by the Something in the shadows.

Roier thinks that it's the queen stalking him, but Cellbit really doesn't. He's been in the same room with the queen and the Something, and stalking isn't the queen's style. She's bold with her moves, something that Cellbit almost admires about her. Almost.

(It's just nice to see a queen talk to both her staff and her citizens. That's all.)

But Cellbit goes to the library even with his little stalker, and that's where he is now. Researching. Looking into the royal genealogy records for any depiction of the prince- a painting, a sketch, anything.

There's a Something under the table by his knee. He can feel it breathing on him even through his trousers; its breaths are short and warm and almost panicked, hm. Maybe it shouldn't be creeping around if it can't handle the psychology of being a creep.

Cellbit's guard is almost asleep on a nearby sofa. Cellbit lets him sleep, he doesn't give a shit.

He flips through Volume Seven of Família De Gato. He's at the old king and queen's grandparents, so he's getting close. He can practically taste the prince: bitter, and dead.

So dead.

Absently, Cellbit adjusts his legs under the table. He crosses them, accidentally kicking the Something in the head as he does so.

And then he hears it: a near-silent little, "Ouch!"

"Desculpe," Cellbit tells it, because he isn't that much of a monster.

There's a gasp, tiny, and then the chair across from Cellbit shoves itself back from the table in a clear panic. The pages of Cellbit's book fly as a running breeze hits them as the Something takes off.

Cellbit glances at his guard. Asleep, wow, great!

With a grin, he licks his lips. And then he's out of his chair and running after the invisible Something with his pen clutched in his hand like a knife and his notebook held in his other hand.

The Something screeches as Cellbit swipes at it with his notebook hand. He whiffs, but his fingers brush against what is clearly hair. Human hair, he knows what human hair feels like, he's brushed his teeth with it plenty of times!

The Something blows through the library's door, Cellbit close behind. He can hear his guard shouting somewhere behind him, but fuck him. He fell asleep, this is clearly his fault!

Sometimes in the war, the Enemy would cast a spell that sent a dark fog over the battlefield. Cellbit had to rely on his hearing to survive.

He doesn't need to see the Something to know where it is. He can even guess how tall it is based off of how loud its footsteps are. It's... small. Light. Very fast, but still slower than a grown man.

Cellbit blinks as the air in front of him flickers. Something appears before him briefly before fading out again: something, indeed, small. Pink. Yellow.

Cellbit knows a fading invisibility potion when he sees it, he's tested them on himself enough times.

It's enough to give him the confidence to lunge and scoop the Something up and into his arms. He holds it against his chest and can't help but let out a brief, triumphant laugh.

"Finally!" he cheers.

And then a foot is driven backwards and right into his junk.

Cellbit groans and drops the Something, and then he drops himself right onto the floor and watches as the Something becomes a Someone in front of him. Their potion wears off fully, revealing a red-faced and exhausted little girl standing above him with her hands on her hips.

"Don't touch me!" she shouts.

Cellbit nods. Fair enough. "Yeah, okay. Hello."

The girl takes a step backwards. Her dress, pink, is made of fine silk. Her skin, dark, has little golden stars painted onto her cheeks like freckles. Her hair, wavy, falls into her face. Her hat looks like pancakes, clearly custom-made. It sits right on top of her head between two twitching, nervous, fuzzy little cat ears.

Ah?

Only members of the royal family, and Cellbit, have cat features. So does this make this girl...?

Slowly, Cellbit sits himself up. He looks down at his notebook, flips to a clean page. Puts his pen to paper. Looks back up at the girl.

She looks... upset. Mildly so. More uncomfortable than anything, she keeps patting her dress down and wiping at her abdomen with the palms of her hands.

"I'm sorry I grabbed you," Cellbit tells her.

She glances up at him with a small frown. "It's okay. I probably scared you."

Cellbit shrugs. "Eh, only a little. I've been followed by worse things than children."

Her eyes widen. "Really?"

"Mhmm. One time, I was followed around town by a half-man, half-spider for months."

She gasps. Cellbit nods. (He's sure Roier wouldn't mind being called a Spider-Man. He'd probably take it as a compliment, knowing him.)

"I'm just curious, really," Cellbit continues. "You live in a castle, what are you doing following a weird guy like me around?"

Immediately, the girl shakes her head and sticks her chin out. "I can't tell you. It's a secret."

Cellbit nods again. "That makes sense. You were invisible and everything. I didn't know you were there until a few minutes ago."

"Really?"

"Yes! You just need to work on your timing. Even if I didn't chase you out of the library, I would've found you because your potion would have run out right next to me."

The girl's face falls. "Oh."

"Don't worry, I'll write down some information on invisibility potions for you for later," Cellbit assures her. "Here..."

He scribbles out a simple potion schedule for a potion of average strength. Potions last for fifteen minutes, no potions for six hours after you take three potions in a row unless you want your skin to vanish but your insides to remain visible.

And then he tears the page out of his notebook and holds it out for the girl to take.

The girl stares at it.

"You... aren't angry that I'm following you around?" she quietly asks.

"Nope. You seem like a nice girl, even if your mom is kind of a weirdo. Just don't follow me into my cell with Roier, and you can keep following me around."

Her nose wrinkles. "Don't you mean your bedroom?"

Cellbit opens his mouth to argue, but he's stopped by his guard turning the corner and running towards them shouting vague assertive noises.

Cellbit rolls his eyes and puts his pen and notebook away. So much for today's research...

The guard's eyes widen as he takes in the scene before him.

"Your highness!" he gasps.

He drops to his knee and bows his head, his fist to his chest in a salute.

Cellbit huffs, but the girl just smiles and skips forward to pat the guard's helmet and tell him to stand.

"Yes, Princess Empanada," he says. "Whatever you say!"

...Princess Empanada.

Well. This explains a lot of confusion.

But... if the queen is sure that Cellbit is her brother, why hasn't she introduced him to her daughter? Unless... she isn't sure.

Unless she isn't sure.

Bingo. Maybe she can see reason, after all.

#a.d.'s fics i suppose #a.d.'s fics i suppose.#catboy in the village au #and here's our little detective!#she's doing such a good job everybody clap for her

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sunlightmurdock · 10 months

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The Odyssey | 0.4 | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

Previous | Next | Masterlist

Bradley wakes up beside you, tensions boil over.

Warnings: enemies to lovers, power imbalance (professor / student relationship), age gap (22 / 33), will be smut, virgin reader, swearing, infidelity, bickering and teasing through the chapter, mlre warnings to be added on a chapter by chapter basis. 18+ minors dni, wc 4.6k

…

Turning onto his side reminds him that he’s not at home. His cheek meets the edge of the mattress, his arm already hanging freely off of it. He groans softly, then clears his throat, but otherwise makes no effort to move.

Your fingers curl and then uncurl, fiddling with the edge of the bedsheet. You’ve been up for twenty minutes now, staring at the man in the bed opposite you. He has kicked the covers off at some point in the night, discarded his belt too. His khaki shorts are still on, just unbuttoned for comfort.

He’s laying on his front, one arm bent and tucked under his pillow to support his head. Ashamedly, your eyes keep wandering back to the same thing. That long, even line down the stretch of his back. Starting at the waistband of the shorts, extending up along a plain of tanned, freckled skin, onto broad, thick shoulders. Before this, you’ve never thought about what Professor Bradshaw had looked like under those one-size too big button up shirts he wears.

Even his breathing is just so heavy.

Routinely, he’ll shift, pressing his face into the pillow and rocking his hips a little to try to find comfort again. Behind you, the sun has risen, casting a golden shadow over half of the lake, and, incidentally, Bradley too. Before now, you’ve never noticed quite how many freckles he has.

Finally, reminding himself that he’s got a hungover nineteen year old to go and reprimand, he forces himself to blink a few times. After opening his eyes for the first time, he’s somewhat aware of your presence. It isn’t until maybe the third blink that he finally draws his brows together, lifts his head and squints at you.

You stare back at him as he mumbles your name, his voice deep and gruff from a night of sleeping with his lips slightly parted.

“Are you watching me sleep?” He pushes himself up a little more, turning so that he’s sitting up in bed. Curls a mess, still trying to blink the sleep out of his eyes, rolling those thick shoulders to stretch them.

“We need to talk.”

“Jesus Christ,” He scoffs, pressing the base of his palm into his eye socket in an attempt to wipe the blur from his vision. “Can you let me wake up first?”

It’s already dawning on him that he made a dumb decision in falling into this bed last night. He probably shouldn’t have left Luke alone with Robin. Even if he had, he shouldn’t have let himself into your room. Natasha would’ve gotten him a different room in a heartbeat. He had just been so exhausted, and your door was right there.

“You were in the military?” It wasn’t what the topic of conversation was supposed to be about, you’ve just never noticed that silver-balled chain dangling around his neck before. Bradley glances down at the tags resting against his bare chest and rubs at his eye again.

“Navy, for a bit.” He tells you, the sleep starting to clear from his voice. Six years, actually. He shipped out at eighteen and came back a man.

“Did you go to Vietnam?” That’s always the question that follows, and when you’re a man who turned eighteen in 1971, there’s usually one answer.

He turns his head and looks across at you, “Only for a couple months.” Finally, he takes note of his half awake state and lifts a hand to try to tame his curls. Twisting them apart and brushing them back off of his face. “Why are we talking about the Navy?”

“Because I didn’t know that you served,” You reply, lifting your hands away from the covers and instead toying with your nightgown. Bradley watches your hands fiddle in the lemon coloured material, thinking back to the conversation he had had with Luke. He’d been expecting something uglier. It’s old-fashioned, but he doesn’t hate it. “You just don’t seem like the type—“

“I’m not.” Bradley interrupts you. He pushes himself up from the twin bed and stands straight, stretching his arms above his head and craning his neck from side to side.

He looks bigger without his clothes on. All three buttons on his shorts popped open revealing the waistband of white boxers inside. A steady trail of brown hair extending from his bellybutton to that waistband, stretching from the middle of his chest across his pecs. His biceps flexing as he tucks his arms behind his head.

“Do I have something on my face?” It’s more of a groan as he stretches out again, he peeks his eyes open to remind you that you’re staring at him.

“You have a lot of nerve,” You push yourself up swiftly. Here we go. He raises his eyebrows, intrigued but far from intimidated. You walk closer, barefoot and dressed in that cute little nightie. “First you let yourself in here and pass out next to me—“

“I was halfway across the room and in a different bed, it wasn’t—“

“Then,” You interrupt, talking louder to him, “You keep me up with your snoring—“

“I don’t snore.” He tries, still calm as you stomp around the twin bed to get to him, poking your index finger into his toned chest.

“And don’t act like I don’t know what you did last night, Bradshaw. One phone call and I can have you fired.”

Bradley’s lips quirk at the fact you think you have that power, but his brows knit together. “What do you think I did?”

“You! And Natasha!”

“Are friends, yes.” He’s talking down to you, slow and soft like you’re stupid. You smack his chest with the base of your palm, then point at him again. He looks down at the digit pressing into his skin, then back at you seriously.

“Were all over each other on the balcony last night!” You correct him. He glances down at your finger on his skin once again. You consider stepping back a little so that you don’t have to look up at him quite as much, but stay where you are.

He lifts his hand and wraps it over the top of yours, taking it away from his skin, holding it just a little too tight. “I don’t know what you think you saw, or what you think you know, but I can assure you that whatever it is, won’t get me fired.”

“She’s married! Do you have no respect for her marriage, if not her as a person?”

He stares at you. You can see it in his face that he’s trying not to smile. He looks down at your hand in his and examines your engagement ring. It’s a pretty sizeable rock on that band, but that’s no surprise.

“I respect Natasha,” Bradley decides, lifting those big brown eyes to look at your face again. “Enough to know that she's a grown up and can make her own decisions.”

He lets go of your hand and reaches for the buttons on his shorts. Your gaze falls to track the movement of his hands. He buttons them slowly, watching you watch him.

“If the Dean knew that you were—“

“Are you going to tell him?” Bradley prompts, stepping invasively closer to you. His brows seem to be permanently drawn together when he’s talking to you. Your neck leans back further so that you can keep your eyes on his face. “If I go home, so do you. Meaning you don’t graduate, genius. How’s your Dad going to take that one?”

Your eyes widen and then narrow.

“It’s no wonder that all Natasha wants you for is sex — I don’t think that any woman could put up with you for longer than that.” You decide. He stares back at you, lips quirking to let you know that he’s going to be harsh before he even speaks.

“And what would you know about sex?”

He knows. He watches you react to his words try to piece together who told him or why he thinks it’s acceptable to mock you for it. Truthfully, Zoey had drunkenly giggled it last night. He was standing behind her with her hair scooped messily into a ponytail, averting his gaze as she puked into the toilet, when she had sat back and wiped her mouth.

“Hey, Bradley, did you hear that your — star pupil hasn’t even fucked her own fiancée? — She’s — a virgin.” Zoey had hiccuped, grinning amusedly.

You’re quiet for long enough that he stands there and readies himself for you to try to hit him, he knows better than to leave himself open to you.

Then, you exhale slowly and stand up a little straighter, like that makes any difference in the way he stands over you.

“You’re going to start tutoring me, starting tomorrow.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because if there’s any chance that I’m not going to pass this class then I’ll just send the both of us home today, I swear to god.” Your fists ball at your sides. He stares back at you, understanding your rationale for maybe the first time since he met you. “Either you make sure I pass, so this whole circus is worth it — or we’re both fucked.”

His lips quirk. That’s the first time he’s heard you swear. Sounds awfully grown up spilling from your lips like that. He gives you a quick once over, trailing his gaze from your bare feet to the way your lips are pursed at him.

“I’m not going to do the work for you.” He decides. If there was enough room between you, he might’ve crossed his arms over his chest. If it wasn’t so hot from the window being open and the baking morning sun creeping in through the window, he might have stayed longer. His hand cups your waist as he pushes you out of his way and steps around you. “Get Pasquale to give you his book, read chapters two and three before tomorrow.”

And with that, he leaves your room. His belt, shirt and shoes remain on your floor. He passes Robin in the hallway, wearing one of Luke’s striped t-shirts, ignores her completely and swings the door to his own room open.

Robin winces at the sound of Bradley yelling as she renters her own room. She stops, her gaze falling down to the unmade bed and Bradley’s belt, shirt and shoes on the floor. She lifts her gaze to look at you. You scowl instantly.

“Got sick of waiting, huh?” Robin’s tone is dripping with mockery as she steps past you, barefoot and not wearing a single item of her own clothing.

You’re tempted, then for the first time, to shove her, but don’t. You let her walk past, but holding your tongue is too much to ask.

“Not all of us are as easy as you.” You remind her

“Prude.” She spits, shooting you a venomous look over her love-bitten shoulder. She doesn’t even have time to turn before you lurch forwards and grab a handful of her hair, tearing her backwards.

Lake Como begins to rise, peaceful and quiet outside of the open window. It’s going to be a beautiful day. Golden rays of sunlight across the still water of the lake, a gentle breeze and a freshness in the air.

Downstairs, from the breakfast patio, Natasha sips on her espresso as Bradley pulls the two of you off of each other. His voice carries through the valley, disrupting her breakfast guests as he reprimands the two of you for your childish behavior.

Your punishment is to be exactly where he can see and hear you, for the rest of the day. At ten, sharp, you sit on his left while Robin sits on his right. All three of you looking equally miserable.

You’re being spoken to as a group by an older man, he’s grey all over and sun-spotted, but you can tell he would have been handsome in his day. He’s telling you all about Lake Como’s history.

“In 49 BC Como town came into its own under the rule of Julius Caesar,” His accent is thick but his English is good, he has grown around the tourists and knows exactly how to talk to them. “Who populated the town with its first 5,000 inhabitants and named the lake Larius. Como itself was known as Novum Comum and played host to famous authors such as Pliny the Elder and Pliny the Younger during this time.”

Bradley breaks his gaze to scan across his students quickly. Abigail is taking notes, an Italian dictionary poking out of the top of her backpack with various sticky notes poking out of it. Luke’s enthralled, watching intently with his lips parted. You’re looking down. He leans forwards and cranes his neck to get a better look at you. You’re sitting up straight, frowning down at Pasquale’s book.

More notably, the artwork on the left page. It’s a Florentine painting from the sixteenth century of two women. Nobles, both of them. One of them’s sprawled out across a bed, her undergarments bunched, breasts exposed. Her modesty would be too, if it wasn’t for the second woman with her face buried between the gasping woman’s legs. He studies your expression, unimpressed by how you’re scowling at the work instead of just reading.

Reaching over two students, he taps harshly on the back of your head and points towards the front, “Pay attention.”

You look up quickly and snap the book closed. Bradley stares at you. You stare forwards, trying to focus on the lecture after what you had just been reading. You’re certain that if your father had bothered to look over the syllabus, he wouldn’t have cared so much about you taking this class.

“The stunning scenery also attracted artists such as Byron, Wordsworth and Shelley, acting as a muse to many poems including ‘The Daisy’ by Tennyson and ‘Cadenabbia’ by Longfellow.”

The furthest thing from your mind, truthfully, is Alfred Tennyson. If you were really being honest, the one thing on your mind is the image of Bradley standing at the front of the hall, reading aloud what you had just read. Hearing the words pour off of his tongue. Maybe during a morning lecture, where his voice would have been gruff and deep like you had heard this morning.

The lecture continues on and, as much as Bradley wishes he could pay attention, he glances across at you periodically. You’re still making that face. Like a kid with their hand caught in the cookie jar. He doesn’t get it, nor does he get you — you’re acting like the required reading for his class is porn. Turning his gaze to the water behind Guiliano’s lecture, he considers that for you it probably is.

He almost scoffs at the idea. Some sixteenth century painting being radical is such a foreign idea to him. He thinks of being eighteen, and impressed by the nude pictures on lighters and playing cards in the Navy. Impressed by the women he met at ports who liked the look of his uniform. Impressed by Natasha and everything she had taught him.

By the time it came to seeing that painting, calling it explicit was far from his mind.

“Great composers like Liszt and Verdi were also inspired by the lake. Many poems have been written about Lake Como both historically and more recently, but it’s not hard to see why the unrivalled beauty of the lake would inspire even the most amateur to put pen to paper.” Breeze carries forwards and sends Guiliano’s hair brushing back off of his forehead as he speaks. Bradley catches you turn out of the corner of his eye and looks. Meeting his gaze, you swallow and look quickly back to the water.

The morning passes slowly, it feels like Bradley’s eyes are burning into your back but maybe that’s just the warming sun. Lunch is quick, Bradley sits with Natasha and her husband. Her hand sits on top of her husband’s, diamond sparkling in the light.

Bradley stares at it as he eats his salad. The sapphire he had given her half a decade ago was prettier with her skin tone, but that’s at the bottom of the Mediterranean now.

After that, more lectures — then free time around the lake. This time, the students have organized to take a trip up to one of the towns further along the lake driven by Pasquale.

It’s less humiliating that you haven’t been invited now, because at least you’ve got the excuse of being stuck in the library of the hotel with Bradley all afternoon.

Gaze focused down, you watch the way Bradley scrawls across the page, his handwriting legible but not exactly neat. His hand’s just gripping the pen, but you can’t help but think of the way it had curled into her hair. Being six years old and having your ponytail pulled on the playground feels far from this.

You’ve been at this for a while, and it’s clear that you’re both equally irritated by each other. Slamming the pen down, he takes one look at your face and knows you’re about to ask him if he’s sure this translation that he has given you even makes sense.

“Don’t.”

You close your mouth, scowling across at him. He leans across the table and points towards the bottom of the dictionary, where a brief explanation of the Latin term you’re looking for exists.

“Stop getting yourself so mad,” He tells you calmly, shaking his head. “You’re bad at it because you don’t practice. Take a breath, think about it. It’s going to get easier.”

That’s the first nice thing he has said to you since you got here. You press your lips together, sigh, and then wet them with your tongue, trying to focus. He studies you from across the desk, each of you soaked in warm afternoon sunlight, the floor length windows open, the breeze soft. There’s an artificial smell of citrus in here.

You look back down to the work and exhale softly. Your chest rises and falls, the pale blue of your shirt catching his eye, just briefly.

“So, you didn’t like chapter two of the book, huh?” Maybe he thinks that this is an icebreaker of sorts. Your gaze is heavy, lifting slowly from your work to stare at him. He feels the need to elaborate instantly. “The painting.”

Suddenly the translation of the word fortuitous is a lot more interesting than it had been. Bradley taps his fingers against the desk as you avoid the discomfort of meeting his gaze.

“I just mean—“

“I don’t see why it should be in an academic text.” You say simply. He can tell that his question has annoyed you, but most things he says annoy you, so he moves swiftly on.

There’s a long pause between the two of you.

“Okay, you should know that I’m asking this seriously — so don’t bite my head off,” Bradley rests his palms flat on the aged, rust coloured wood, then leans forwards. His face is serious, his eyes big and round. “But, do you even know what my class is called?”

Sunlight peeking in from behind his shoulder, bathing the room and everything in it in a honeyed gold. The heat from the day starting to ebb away, a breeze from across the lake blowing at the curtains just slightly. No birds, no bustle outside — everyone’s either at dinner or getting ready for dinner. Everything in this valley is calm except you.

“Yes,” You bite, scowling across at him from over the top of the far too detailed painting in front of you. “Classics. You keep saying it.”

“Yeah, classics is the subject. But do you know what my class — the class that you picked, and enrolled in, is called?” Bradley asks slowly, like he’s just trying to be patronizing.

“It’s about Roman literature.” You answer, knowing that you’ve failed to produce a title, but are along the right track anyway.

“My class is called ‘Sexuality in Roman Culture and Literature’,” Bradley shares finally. You sit across from him, blank-faced. He taps the table softly, staring back at you, enjoying this probably a little bit too much. “That’s why the book is so ‘graphic’.”

Catherine — your maid-of-fucking-honour — enrolled you in a class on sex. You’re going to murder her. This cruel joke might have been funny if it hadn’t cost you your summer.

“But, then again, you would know that if you had bothered—“

“Oh my god, will you shut up about my attendance?” You grumble, slamming your pencil down onto the table. He stares at you, unimpressed and clearly biting his tongue. “We both know I’m here for credits and not because I care about the way people had sex a couple hundred years ago. Just do what they pay you to do and teach.”

Bradley’s brows draw together as he leans closer, his frame dwarfing the table. There’s a lingering silence as he stares across at you.

“Excuse me?”

“Look, I just—“

“No,” Bradley holds a hand up and pushes himself up from his seat. Standing, the table seems even smaller. You feel even smaller, tipping your head back to look up at him. His eyes darken as he squints. “You either learn to watch your mouth around me or you head home and admit that you fucking failed. You hear me?”

You stare up at him, swallowing thickly as shame burns through you. The smell of dust hurts your nose, the warm, dust-covered lights make your eyes tired. You want to go home.

“Tell me that you understand. In Latin.”

Another beat of silence. The look on your face tells you that he’s far from joking. Sighing quietly, he watches as you bow your head and open the dictionary.

He gives you a moment, just hulking over you as you search for the right term. Finally, you lift your gaze and spit it out, quietly. He glances down at the page.

“Work on your grammar.” Bradley tells you, slowly relaxing back down into his seat and tucking it in. “I’m going to give you a play. I want you to read it, I think it’ll help you with some context clues.”

Just like that. He relaxes — well, relaxes as much as you’ve ever seen him be capable of — again.

You exhale. Without realizing, you had been holding on to that one breath the entire time. Your gaze drops, falling down to his rolled up sleeves, the veins snaking out from under the white linen and down across the backs of his hands.

You wonder if Natasha gets him wound up like this.

The second that the thought crosses your mind, you squash it. Staring wide-eyed at the page in front of you, you’re at war with your mind. And he’s just sitting there, head leaned back, palms flat, staring at the ceiling. He has no fucking idea.

Staring at the ceiling is truly the only way forward. He can’t stand another minute of having to watch your lips purse when you’re staring at him.

It’s so difficult, trying not to hold something that you don’t even remember against you. He knows how blacked out you were that night, you barely remembered your own damn name.

He remembers that stupid, blue fucking dress. It came in around the waist and had these thin straps, more of a powder blue than any kind of stronger color. He remembers the snow on his car windshield, still falling. He remembers his heaters up as high as they would go and his coat around your shoulders.

Finding you sitting on the side of the road, in the fucking snow, and bundling you into his car, trying to keep you awake.

And then, the two of you sitting outside of your childhood home and your freezing cold hands wrapping around his palm, pleading with him not to make you go inside. He had only seen you a handful of times at this point, but he was sure you weren’t a bad kid. You just had shitty friends.

He lifts his gaze now and studies you as you card through the information before you. Lips pursed.

“You can’t sit in my car all night, kid.” Bradley said quietly, watching you like you were something foreign to him. You blinked back, saying nothing, but looking so sad.

“I just — please don’t make me go in there.” Your voice trembled. Maybe from exhaustion, mostly from fear. Bradley knew what fear sounded like. His face creased with concern, but he hadn’t budged. You frowned at him, eyes wide and pleading, “Please.”

You must have been able to tell on his face that he was about to disagree with you. You sat forwards, reaching out to rest your manicured palm against his thigh. His gaze hadn’t faltered from your face. He had been here before, with love sick girls who seemed to think he was going to be their saving grace.

He was nicer about it back then. He was trying to be nice to you. With your smudged mascara and your missing boyfriend and your quivering bottom lip. He should’ve kicked you out of that damn car and marched you inside right then. You were still too drunk to sit still, swaying just slightly — he wanted to give you a minute to collect yourself before your parents saw you at least.

He sat there for a moment, just trying to think about what to do with you. And then, seeming to think that this would get you your way, you had sat up and you’d kissed him. Turned your head twenty degrees to the left, lips just slightly parted, pressing softly into his. Pillowy and purposeful.

He swallows, glancing down at the page in front of him. God, he wishes you hadn’t done that. But, he can’t help but wonder where that odd little impulse had come from. What had driven that shivering girl to drive forwards and kiss him, clinging onto his shirt like it was some kind of life preserver — and where was she now?

Certainly not sitting in front of him and too timid to look at a painting.

You continue on with your studies, pretending like you aren’t thinking about him back in that lecture hall, his voice dripping like honey as he tells you every intricacy that that painting detailed.

Bradley crosses his arms over his chest and looks up at the details chiseled into the ceiling. He can’t help but wonder where those impulses go when you’re with your fiancé. You’d been damn near climbing into his lap after an hour alone with him — and yet, Malcolm has made it through four years of high school and three years of college without fucking you.

He curses himself. He shouldn’t think about it that way. He shouldn’t think about it at all. He glances down quickly as your foot knocks into his and withdraws as quickly as it has inched forwards.

Looking back up, you’re looking at him again. Just fleetingly, and you’re back to your work, and he’s back to thinking about you fucking kissing him. He just doesn’t get it. He doesn’t understand the knee length nightgown, or the weird reaction to the painting — or, you at all, really.

So, the two of you let the silence linger between you. Even as he shifts, pushing his leg forward and slotting his foot between both of yours under the table, letting it linger there.

…

Tags: @thedroneranger @batdanceq @wkndwlff @cassiemitchell @himbos-on-ice e @bradshawsbaby @damrlova @fudge13 @xoxabs88xox @mak-32 @sihtricswife @callsignvenus @callsign-joyride @harper1666 @krismdavis @sheisanangell @thecitysgraveyard @cherrycola27 @sugarcoated-lame

#bradley bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw #miles teller #bradley bradshaw smut #jake seresin #trouble in paradise #rooster x you #rooster bradshaw imagine #top gun smut #the odyssey #professor bradley #bradley bradshaw imagine #Bradley bradshaw x reader #top gun: maverick

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lineffability · 7 months

Text

Wordless, that's how it happens. How could you have put words to any of this? Six thousand years, they have talked. They've never said anything.

So why start now?

Crowley can't bear it, so he keeps his mouth shut.

Aziraphale is reading - looking down intently at his book, anyways. The tip of Crowley's shoe is pushing against his, and he has noticed. The proximity of his lanky form, almost towering, but gentler, more pliable, ready to bend to breezy whims. A soft shadow, but it doesn't reach or touch him. Not yet. Aziraphale grips his drink a little more tightly, imperceptively, holding on to the tangible reality of the warmed glass.

Sometimes, Crowley wonders what is going on in the angel's head. Ignoring him like that. Ignoring the unignorable. He stares down at him, the crown of his head. Halo, rather, no crown. He's no royalty. Halos are only holes, in the end, more nothing than structure. You can look through them, they are no shield. White curls beneath.

Maybe not so holy, after all.

No manners.

Crowley moves slowly, sinking like a broken ship towards the inevitable ocean floor, until his knee feels softness. It's not the ocean floor, not the end of the world. Another destination, a simpler one. The couch, fabric, his pants, his leg, knee against knee.

He leans over him, but sideways. No need to make it too obvious, what he is up to. For all intents and purposes, he is only resting his glass on the side table; the sort-of-accidental-semi-straddling is only something that happens as a byproduct. A by-thought. He can't see Aziraphale's face, but he knows, he knows the angel is caught up in a strategical weighing of procedure, a tug of conscience: the book and the demon. Attention to divert.

You can't ignore me, angel. You can't ignore this.

But I'm just resting my glass, resting my legs, too, beside yours.

I'll make you pay attention. Are you paying attention?

The story will have to wait.

He reaches for the book, first, takes it gently out of an immobile hand. No resistance at all. Only then does he look at his face, at last, but he's only looking at the glasses. Little round reading glasses, as senseless as the halo. Decoration. Crowley pulls them off, awkwardly with one hand only, and a handle snatches on Aziraphale's ear before he tugs it off. His legs settle more firmly on the couch, on the outside of Aziraphale's. He realizes the angel must have moved his legs to accomodate him better. But now he's still.

Aziraphale doesn't say anything, doesn't move: save his eyes. They seek his. But Crowley avoids the eyes.

Aziraphale is looking at him. He is not looking at Aziraphale.

He is ignoring Aziraphale.

But he cannot ignore the sudden intrusion of sound into the hold-your-breath-silence between them. Crowley blinks, pulls taught like a fraying rope: a clink, loud, a thud, muffled, a little trickle, almost a splash. Out of the corner of his eye, he feels the glass drop out of Aziraphale's hand. He only sees movement, not the mistake itself. Not the glass, lying empty on the carpet, nor the liquid spilling from it like feelings. Not the outcome. That comes later. He's only in the moment.

He can't concentrate on the spilled drink, he can only concentrate on the tremble of nerves and muscles he is feeling. It isn't his own body that does it. No, his body is calm. It's Aziraphale who's trembling, though it's the only movement he makes. So still, so soft. What do you want me to do? Aziraphale lets him proceed, and Crowley accepts the invitation, extended silently beneath Aziraphale's chest. The flutter of his heart. The shiver on his breath.

He wants to inspect him, study him, cease the tremble. He seizes him, ever so studiously. Tilts his head up.

What a face. So well-known, from afar and ever-up-closer, too, centuries of drawing nearer, but he finds something new to discover every time, a new kind of familar, understated beauty. No matter how many times you look up at the same night sky, does it ever cease to take your breath away? Old feelings, new feelings, but all of them warm and fuzzy and awestruck and good. So good, his angel. He doesn't need a halo to be good.

Crowley settles a hand on his lips. Soft lips, not chipped at all. Soft hair. Soft angel. Still so pliable.

At last, at last, Aziraphale moves. Crowley can't even see it - not because it's slow, but because it's out of his range of his vision, which is as fixed and immobile as Aziraphale's body has been, this whole time. He can't sway, he can't stray from his path. But he feels it: fingertips on his thigh, then fingers, a gentle pressure. A hesitant press of half a palm.

He can't look at his eyes. He can't do it.

If he does, he might stop. Might snap out of it, reconnect his body to his thoughts. Worse: he might see a hundred conflicting messages in the angel's eyes. So he doesn't. He keeps his eyes trained on his lips, and leans forward.

It tastes of oak and wood, tart first and then sharp at the back of his mouth, as he inhales. Their lips press firmly together. The pressure on his thigh is gone, but Crowley holds on to the face: he is afraid if he lets go, he might topple off the face of the earth. Or worse, the couch. And wouldn't that be undignified.

But then Aziraphale moves his lips, and Crowley moves his lips too, and the pressure of it shifts and the kiss shifts too. Crowley's thoughts, already teetering, tumble out of his head. The taste of alcohol dies away as they find something deeper, underlying, undefinable: the taste of each other.

Aziraphale's hands slowly settle back on Crowley, clutching gingerly at his back and at his hipbone. He doesn't shy away; he doesn't move their bodes closer together, either. Crowley wants to think he can hear another clink, envisions the halo dropping off his holy head, spinning on the floor before coming, finally, finally, to a rest. Only metal, now. A glow dying away. No more illusion or grandeur. Just them.

He still can't see Aziraphale's thoughts, but that's okay. That's tickety-boo. He can feel his lips, his hands.

The hands and the lips and the patches of leg are the only contact between them. But these points of contact are not to be ignored. In fact, they are ignoring everything else: the entire world.

Even sound, or the lack of it. It is still, silent, wordless. Their breaths come strained but softly, their lips make the barest of sounds. They couldn't speak even if they tried, molded together as they are. So close, and yet they could be so much closer. In body - let's not look at the spirit. We'd only be ignored.

No words pass between them. And yet.

And yet, Crowley's mouth is not shut any longer.

The angel cannot ignore that, and opens his own.

[i saw this insane art by @shoomlah and lost my mind, but hopefully not my words. you decide on that. they seized me.]

#good omens #ineffable husbands #my writing #inefficable #writing for art #if you see this i hope you like it #you rewired my brain functions #and now my hands are warmed up and ready for more words

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soaringthroughthegalaxy · 6 months

Text

Catch the Sunrise

As Crosshair struggles to integrate into life on Pabu after being rescued from Mount Tantiss, you try to reconnect with him and draw him out of his shell.

Pairing: Crosshair x f!reader (can be seen as platonic or romantic).

Word count: 1.9k

Warnings: angst and whump, care and comfort, Cross is not okay, things do get better, ends hopeful.

A/N: this one is a little different than my other stuff, but its been rattling around in my head ever since I saw the teaser trailer at Celebration for S3. Cross looked so depressed, and goodness I just wanted to scoop up the sad toothpick and give him a cuddle. So, this is what this is – we’re giving him a great big cuddle.

In the stillness of the early morning, as the island slumbered in hushed tones, you stirred in your bed, your eyelids fluttering open to the fading darkness that enveloped your room. The dimming moonlight cast a glow, offering mere glimpses of the familiar shapes around you.

A sudden creak echoed through the silence, and your drowsy mind snapped to attention. Heart skipping a beat as you strained to discern the source of the sound, your breath hitched when a second noise reached your ears: the soft, unmistakable click of the door opposite yours closing.

Sitting up, the covers slipped off you. With cautious movements, you swung your legs over the side of the bed, your bare feet meeting the cool wooden floor. Every step towards the door seemed to amplify the rhythm of your pounding heart, and you reached for the robe hanging on the back of it, tying it hastily around your body.

You didn’t hesitate to open your door, though you took it slow to avoid the squeak you still hadn’t greased.

The hallway was dimly lit by the faint glow of the night light used to help Omega navigate to the bathroom in the dark, and it threw elongated shadows along the walls. You tiptoed forward, steps deliberate and silent, and peered around the corner.

There, about to head down the stairs, was Crosshair.

It had been six weeks since you’d stormed Mount Tantiss to get him and Omega back, finding Tech in a bacta tank, too.

They’d integrated back into life on Pabu with ease – Omega had started attending the island’s school, while Tech had made it his mission to fix anything he could get his hands on.

But Crosshair… he’d withdrawn. Barely leaving his room, he seemed like a ghost of his former self, lost in his thoughts. The scars from his time with the Empire weren’t just physical but mental, too, and they weighed heavily on him. You’d tried to help him as much as you could, but that stubborn streak of his was hard to break. It was clear that the road to recovery was going to be a long and difficult one, but you weren’t going to give up on him.

You watched him from the shadows, torn between wanting to respect his space and the need to reach out to him. He seemed so distant, so different from the man you’d known during the war – the man who’d at first been frustrated by the presence of a mere civilian in the squad but had then grown protective of you, who’d inked an Aurebesh ‘99’ onto your wrist so you’d finally match him and his brothers, and who’d taught you how to use his rifle when no one else was allowed to touch it.

As Crosshair descended the stairs, you knew this might be your chance to talk to him, to draw him out of his shell. You stepped out from the shadows and called his name softly. He froze, his hand halfway down the handrail, and slowly turned to face you.

It was hard to miss the tiredness that painted his face; those hawkish eyes you’d gazed into thousands of times were now red-rimmed and glassy. Neither of you uttered a word, the silence lingering for a second before he sighed, turning and heading down the rest of the stairs.

You took off after him, tiptoeing to not wake his siblings. Bare feet met the tiled floor of the living room, and you found him at the window, gazing out into the distance. He’d never been a conversationalist, that much was a fact, but he’d barely uttered a word in six weeks, instead opting to respond with small sounds and grunts to convey varying levels of annoyance.

For a moment, you take him in. He was still too slender for your liking – he’d lost the few pounds he’d once had while he’d been in captivity on Tantiss – and he was in desperate need of a shave, grey stubble covering his jawline. His hair was starting to grow back, silver flecks covering his scalp, though you knew it would never hide his scar from Bracca.

Moving forward, you stopped at his side, eyes shifting to look out the window, too. The palm trees swayed a little in the light breeze, the fading moonlight casting an eerie glow. “It’s pretty here, don’t you think?” You ask lowly, not expecting an answer but wanting to at least engage in some sort of conversation with him, to not ignore him.

You knew his siblings were struggling, unsure how best to help him. Tech had naturally gravitated to his twin – the two of them sharing a bond you’d never understand – but he couldn’t get more than one word out of him. Omega still talked Crosshair’s ear off as he sat and silently listened, but he never replied. Wrecker shoved Lula into his face and knocked his shoulder playfully, but there was no grunt of frustration, or angry toothpick flicked in his direction anymore. Echo had left Pabu to help Rex with the fledging rebellion so that left Hunter…

The relationship between the oldest and youngest of the Batch was strained at best. Hunter was trying to build bridges, extending olive branches wherever he could, trying to make up for everything that had happened in the last year, but Crosshair was so lost in his thoughts and troubles that he missed most of them. You’d spent an equal number of nights sitting silently by Crosshair’s side to offer comfort and reassuring Hunter that every attempt he made was good and that his brother would eventually reach out in return when he was ready.

The silence stretches, but from your peripheral, you catch his eyes shifting to you for a moment before he looks back out of the window. “I was thinking of going to the pier to catch the sunrise.” You state. “It should start in an hour. If you’d be up for it, you can join me.” You extend the offer. If you could get him outside, that would be a positive step, but you wouldn’t pressure him. Right now, he reminded you of a feral lothcat needing reassurance, stability, and comfort.

There’s a moment of pause before he gives a slight nod, and it takes everything in you not to smile and jump for joy. His eyes rake back over to you, looking you up and down, taking in the robe you’d hastily pulled on to follow him. “I should change first.” You chuckle quietly. “Give me two minutes.”

It’s instinctual for you to reach out and give his forearm a gentle squeeze, something you’d done often during the war.

As you take the stairs two at a time back to your room to change, you miss how his eyes follow you and then drop to his arm, glued to the spot you’d touched.

When you return downstairs, he’s pulled on a light jacket and some shoes. You do the same, dragging on your shoes from the cluttered rack near the front door.

Together, you step out of the house that had been a gift from the residents of Pabu – a thank you for saving them from the tsunami and helping them rebuild the island. Instinct kicks in again as you reach for his wrist, fingers wrapping around to help draw him out past the front gate and toward the pier. You’d always reached for him and his brothers, grabbing wrists and hands, touching shoulders or waists as you passed. It had been subconscious, a way to remind yourself that they were safe and you were doing your job as their handler right.

Crosshair doesn’t pull away from your touch. Instead, he focuses on how you hold on to him, how you lead him so effortlessly through the winding streets. It felt odd, a little uncomfortable even, to experience such a soft touch after countless weeks in Hemlock’s clutches and the months before that alone in the Empire’s ranks.

The two of you walk slowly, the gentle noise of your footsteps breaking the quiet of the predawn hours. The island was serene, bathed in the faint glow of the stars and the imminent promise of the rising sun.

Arriving at the wooden pier extending into the calm waters, you both found a spot to settle. Positioning yourself on the edge, legs dangling over the side, Crosshair stood slightly back, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. The first hints of daylight began to break the horizon, painting the sky in shades of pink and orange, the waters below mirroring the beautiful canvas above.

You stole glances at Crosshair, observing his subtle reactions to the scenery. His usually steely demeanour seemed to soften as he stared at the horizon. The faintest hint of a wistful expression flickered across his face, something you hadn’t seen in a while.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve enjoyed a sunrise.” He spoke, the words breaking the silence between you. His voice was raw, hoarse from not being used for an extended period.

“Sunrises have a way of grounding us.” You respond softly, your gaze fixed on the emerging dawn. “It’s a reminder that every day brings a new beginning.”

He remained silent, but a small nod indicated his acknowledgement of your words. The minutes slipped by as the sky transformed into hues of pastel.

Eventually, you turned to him, searching for something to bridge the gap between you. “Cross, they all missed you - Omega, Tech, Wrecker, and Hunter. I missed you, too.”

A fleeting shadow crosses his features, but he doesn’t meet your gaze. “I’m not the same.” He murmurs, barely audible, over the gentle lapping of the waves against the pier.

“No one expects you to be.” You assure him, reaching out tentatively, your hand resting on his forearm again. His muscles tense slightly, but he doesn’t pull away. “You’ve been through a lot. It’s okay not to be okay.”

His eyes met yours, the turmoil inside of him evident. “I’m not used to this...feeling.” He admits in a whisper.

“And that’s okay.” You repeat, your voice gentle but firm. “You’re not alone, and you can face this feeling. We’re all here for you in whatever way you need us.”

The sunrise marked a new chapter—a silent understanding between you. You stay by his side, allowing the morning light to wash away the remnants of the night’s darkness, your hand still resting on his arm, anchoring him in the moment. You talk about inconsequential things, about the sea, the island, anything that didn’t carry the weight of the past. Occasionally, he would respond.

As the sun finally emerges in all its glory, painting the world in golden light, a glimmer of something different appears in Crosshair’s eyes. For a moment, it’s like a sliver of the old Crosshair has peeked through the layers of trauma and pain.

You don’t expect everything to change in this one moment. Healing was a process, a gradual journey through the shadows towards the light. But this, this felt like a step forward. A spark of hope.

The day was beginning, and as the island woke, you hoped that this small, shared moment would be the start of something more. A reminder that there was still beauty to be found, bonds to be rebuilt, and healing to be embraced. And that better days lay on the horizon.

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