#it's so stuffy and it shows my ugly arms and there's a big space between my neck and my chest where i used to want my collar bone to stand

[1kook]

youtube & use lube

part 7 of my netflix and chill collection!

summary: You can’t believe this is Jungkook’s preferred sick day treatment; YouTube, cuddles, and an ugly amount of lube.  warnings: smut in the forms of nipple play, handjobs, spit kink, face riding, unprotected, flavored warming lube, riding, praise kink, soft femdom, missionary bc his eyes are pretty, tit sucking, more jk has an impreg kink, oh and this is all subby kook rating: mature (18+) miscellaneous: domesticity baby!! fluff, soft scenes /.\, jk is sick:((, doyeon is A Doctor, yn sees an opportunity and she grabs it, surprise ending <3  word count: 8.7k  

notes: finally…. 7 parts later and we get ~✨💓sub kook💓✨~ this was honestly my fave to write I think because I was obSESSEDDD with his softness and yn leading hehe /.\ also yeah we time jumped 6 months bc uhmmm 😎 story progression also here’s [ THE KOOK U SHOULD IMAGINE FOR THIS 😡 ] also if see a typo ummm no u didn't .

let me know what u think! a simple ask goes a long way <3

Despite what past experiences may dictate, Jungkook’s body is actually quite resilient. It’s due in part to his obnoxiously healthy lifestyle; avocado breakfasts, gym rat tendencies, and a normal person’s circadian rhythm (you could never relate). He lives the life health professionals can only dream of writing down in their notes, so careful of his well-being that it’s almost annoying. Of all the habits you help him break, the rituals he sometimes forgets, his health is never one and it’s actually one he ropes you into quite often. The ladder accident last summer had truly been an odd occurrence, and for a while after, you doubt anything else will ever happen to him. 

And then winter comes. 

Now, Jungkook, with all his superior bodily systems and strict lifestyle, is still not immune to the common cold. So when he comes down with a stuffy nose, a saggy frame, you’re not too surprised. It’s right after New Year’s, which you had spent it at one of Taehyung’s classic overcrowded parties this year, shivering on a rooftop as he kissed you silly under the fireworks, so one of you was bound to get sick. And you were sick for Halloween, so it’s only the universe’s way of leveling the playing field when he gets sick after New Years. 

What does surprise you is when he doesn’t bounce back right away. Usually, Jungkook’s high caliber immune system has him in tip top shape about two days later. But this time around, it takes a while. In fact, it takes longer than usual, and you don’t realize until you’re coming over on a Friday night, met with an unusual silence at the Jeon household. 

As you slowly grew accustomed to your life out of school, you and Jungkook accepted that you didn’t really have time to be glued to each other’s hips at all hours of the day. It was only natural that sometimes you had too much work, were too tired, or were just not in the mood to visit each other. That was fine, and you’ve come to quite appreciate this new routine, because it only made your heart flutter faster than before when you did see him next. You don’t have to see each other everyday, and that was fine; it was part of growing up together (and growing old together, your sappy heart says).

But today, this separation ends up being your downfall. Jungkook first showed signs of a cold on Monday, and now it was Friday and you hadn’t heard from him in two days. You’re beginning to suspect he’s come down with something severe— maybe that strain of the flu that he forgot to get vaccinated for this year —or even worse, dead.

Luckily, Jungkook isn’t dead, just sadly slumped across the end of his bed, nose a bright red and hair a tangled mess. “Oh no,” you frown, but there’s not an ounce of distress in your voice, because boy, was he cute. 

He groans at the sight of you. “Don’t look at me,” he whimpers, hands fisting the sheets. “I’m ugly.”

You bite down on a smile, hang your bag on the hook behind his bedroom door. He’s barely making an effort to stay on the bed, clinging to the side with such powerless hands. “Absolutely hideous,” you play along, arms wrapping around his middle. Registering your touch, your support, he immediately releases what little grip he had and almost sends the two of you tumbling to the ground. “My poor baby,” you croon, manhandling him back into the comfort of his sheets. 

Perhaps the reason you believed Jungkook was so immune was because, well, he never let you see him sick. 

He was picky about his presentation to the world, always wanting to show his best side. And well, you were in that world. Hell, you were probably the main person he wanted to show off for (not to toot your own horn), so he avidly avoided showing you his unpleasant sides. Even in college, when you had been practically stuck to his side, he had always made a big deal of pushing you away when he was sick, calling off dates and hiding away at his house. 

You sort of knew why. Namjoon had told you once that Jungkook when drunk was the equivalent of a needy, whiny baby. You could attest to that because wine drunk Jungkook and vodka drunk Jungkook were quite the experiences to haul home. And apparently Jungkook when sick was more or less the same. He was all doe eyes and pouty lips, magnified by his weakened appearance. He was adorable. 

He’s wearing a lot of layers, but it’s still winter so you don’t think too much of it. Dark long sleeve sweatshirt, the front tucked into some cute brown and black checkered pants. You see it as just some casual at home attire until you reach for his covers, hand brushing his hair from his face, only to find it ice cold. 

“Oh, you’re freezing, honey,” you frown, for real this time. Jungkook whimpers, snuggles into the sheets you pull up to his chin. He dozes off soon after, pouty lips chapped to hell and back. You reach for your chapstick, deciding to get one good use of it on your own lips before contaminating it with Jungkook’s sick germs. Even in his sleep he’s a good boy, rolling his lips together after you’ve applied it on him. 

With Jungkook knocked out, you pad back downstairs and into his kitchen. You can more or less infer that he’s come down with something a little more intense than a cold. His skin was cold, and his nose was runny, but, oddly enough, he wasn’t sweating. You decide to consult a professional. 

“The little gremlin is sick?” Doyeon repeats, a comforting buzz in your ear as you get to work making Jungkook your famous Get Better Soon Soup, idly waiting for the water to boil over. You confirm. Doyeon, legend that she was, accidentally sat an entire physiology class one semester (and passed), so this is the closest you’ll get to a doctor friend. “Hm,” she says, “what’re his symptoms?”

You press your phone between your ear and shoulder, clattering around Jungkook’s kitchen for ingredients. “Runny nose and colder than your ass that one time you passed out in the snow,” you supply. “Oh, but not sweating.”

Doyeon hums over the line, tells you to give her a second, and disappears. “WebMD is saying fever, but you said he’s not sweating?” You confirm again. “Throw him in front of the heater and make him sweat then. He has to burn it out somehow.”

“I can’t do that,” you sigh, pausing when you hear some vague sound from around the house. It’s not Jungkook, so you return to your call. Anyway, Jungkook’s house is, like, perfect. Always warm when need be and always cold as well. You don’t even think he knows what a space heater is. “He’s sick sick. Like, can barely hold himself up sick.” 

She scoffs. “And I care why?” You huff, go to scold her for their weird rivalry, but then she’s moving on. “Babe, just give him some pain relief and call it a day.”

“Fine,” you mumble. “Wait, can you look something else up for me?”

Anyway, Jungkook probably has a fever, except it’s weird because he’s not sweating it out. He wakes up about an hour later, but this time he’s more self aware. He eats his soup and takes the medicine you offer him. Afterwards, he can’t go back to sleep so he huffily asks for his iPad and begins watching some weirdly specific YouTube videos you don’t think you’ve ever seen him watch before. 

You have absolutely no idea what he’s watching, some niche videos of guys in Singapore turning random forest areas into underwater pools? You don’t know. Jungkook seems interested, though, for all of ten minutes until he falls asleep again. 

He’s still cold, poor baby, nose like an ice cube that just won’t melt. You find a heating pad you left over in his closet and place it on his chest. Your thought process is that if his heart, the source of all energy, was warm, then certainly the rest of him will warm up soon enough. Yeah, you missed the last three seasons of Grey’s Anatomy; you were a little rusty. 

So with Jungkook fast asleep and nothing else to do, you assume the age-old, patriarchal task of cleaning around the house. 

His house was usually neat and tidy, mostly as a result of Jungkook’s virgo manifestations, but even those varied. His living room tended to be spotless, but his personal office was a different story. But with him having been out of it this past week, the entire house is littered in tiny garbage that would make Normal Jungkook burst a blood vessel.

There’s a pile of Reese’s wrappers in the downstairs bathroom, on the sink next to his toothbrush. The sight makes you sad, because your poor boy must have been struggling if he was eating candy in the bathroom, where he… uses the bathroom. And then that thought makes you even sadder, thinking back to all the times he was sick and alone, fending for himself out of his weird embarrassment of showing normal body functions. 

You had thought he was cute when you first arrived— he still was —but he was also so weak and frail, bulky muscles rendered useless by whatever bacteria was attacking his body, making him sleepy and in pain for god knows how long. With a resolute nod, you sweep all the wrappers into the trash and decide to do your very best at helping Jungkook get through this sickness and bounce back better than ever. 

Before leaving his bathroom, you ransack his cabinets, deciding he probably keeps most of his antibiotics here. It’s a spot you never really snoop around, because Jungkook always keeps a fully stocked basket in his closet filled with your typical necessities— from conditioner to pads to nail polish remover, he kept it all. And furthermore, you always tended to use his upstairs bathroom anyway, so that’s where your toothbrush and the like were kept. There was really no need for you to ever look through the downstairs bathroom’s cabinet. So the downstairs bathroom cabinet is practically the other side of the world to you, a culture shock so strong it has you plopping down in front of it to thoroughly sift through. 

He’s got a disgusting amount of hair products, none of which you actually think you’ve ever seen him use, and a maniacal amount of tooth stuff. Now, you were quite possibly the biggest proponent for dental care, but this was ridiculous. Four packs of floss on reserve, and about three cases of those dental picks. A whole family pack of toothbrushes and one of those cute little cases for his retainer you’ve seen a few times. 

So overwhelmed with his ungodly stash of dental hygiene utilities, you almost miss the pretty pink tube hidden in the very back corner. 

You’re thinking it’s some makeup primer you left before that he mistook for moisturizer, probably dumped it with all his other things, only to find out you are very, very wrong. 

Sensation Warming Lubricant: NOW! in strawberry flavor 

You blink. 

Lubricant? Jungkook was using lubricant? Strawberry, sensation warming lubricant?!

Somewhere in your mind you had convinced yourself that Jungkook was a simple man, a lotion at his bedside drawer type of man. He had you for the last one and half year, and you two fucked like rabbits, so you hardly doubt he was jacking it alone these days. And even if he was, why on earth was he so specific about the type of lube he uses?

You turn the bottle around, eyes scanning for an expiration date or something of the like, only to find that the copyright symbol was under this current year. The year that had just started, like, two weeks ago. 

Oh, so this was new. 

You turn it over, eyes scanning over the warnings like it’ll tell you something about your boyfriend you don’t know yet, some other hidden secret that he’s maybe held from you. Granted, owning lube isn’t really a big deal, but the fact he’s got it so hidden away (not really, it was casually sitting beside his sunscreen) was definitely something to zero in on. 

Strawberry flavored, you read again, warming, stimulating, edible? Forget his weirdly extensive floss collection, you had stumbled upon something amazing in here, the goddamn Hope Diamond among snooping girlfriend finds. You’ll confront him about this later, you decide, when he’s back to normal and not whiningly calling your name from upstairs. You pocket it for now, tucking it into your cardigan pockets for said later interrogation, and bound up the stairs to him again. 

He’s sitting up in bed like a very angry and confused toddler, brows furrowed sharply like he’s mad. Actually, he just can’t see, the light from the hallway blinding him, so you shut the door and flick on his bedside lamp for him instead. “Hi, honey,” you coo, sitting down on the edge beside him. He’s still waking up, leaning a little too heavily into your palm when you cup his face. “How’re you feeling?”

“Terrible,” he rasps out, but he’s definitely looking better than before. You don’t know if you imagine it, but there’s this slowly accumulating sweat that forms along the base of his neck. “Please don’t leave again,” he says softly, droopy eyes glassy. 

Something shoots straight to your heart— an arrow from Cupid himself! —that makes you stroke his cheek tenderly until his eyelids are fluttering shut again. “I won’t,” you promise, feeling around for his iPad. He doesn’t seem like he’ll fall back asleep, sitting up with more strength than he had that morning. 

You end up climbing behind him, let him be the little spoon you know he secretly craves to be, as he watches his weird YouTube videos again. His body is so warm against yours, but his skin is still so cold. If what Doyeon had said was true, it’s no wonder he’s kept the same sickness all week. The rhythmic sound of machetes hacking at the earth and water trickling through bamboo pipes grows on you, makes you fall into a sense of comfort behind him, arms tracing circles over his chest. 

It’s a mindless habit, one you actually do a lot. Most of the time, it’s when he’s at his desk and stressed out, your masseuse hands making an appearance to soothe the muscles in his neck and chest from being hunched over for so long. Even now, your fingers unconsciously press into the fabric over his pecks, tickle up his sternum until he’s melting against you. 

It takes one quiet whimper from him to let you know exactly how he’s feeling. “Everything alright?” you inquire, halting your movements over his chest. Jungkook nods shakily, head lolling forward. The nape of his neck calls to you, whispers for a kiss that you tenderly bestow upon it. It makes Jungkook jolt, another pretty sound leaving his lips at the press of your warm lips against his sensitive neck. 

“No more,” he mumbles, rolls his head around until it’s resting against your shoulder, giving you a clear view down his chest. You slide your hands back up from where they’d gone stiff just around his ribs, let them palm over his pecs. Jungkook’s hips buck, a minuscule movement you almost miss. 

His heart thunders like the inside of a horse race track beneath your palm, breath picking up just from the simple motion of your hands on his chest. It’s on the fourth circle around his pecs that you feel your pinky briefly catch on something. “Poor thing,” you sigh, running the pad of your pointer finger over the hardened nipple that peaks beneath his sweatshirt. “Is this what was bothering you?” 

A shaky exhale in response, hands tightly clutching at his iPad and beloved YouTube video genre. “N-No,” he denies, but you chance a peak at his face, where his lips are bitten a rosy pink color, its slightly muted sister rushing down his cheeks, over his neck. 

You press the lightest of kisses to the side of his neck, and he shivers. “Need me to take care of you?” you purr, trail your hands down his chest towards where the hem of his sweater sits. You run your finger over it twice, before moving to slip your hand beneath. Your fingers brush along his abs, contracted tightly at your touch, and slowly make their way back up his chest. 

Fingers find his pebbled nipples, a gasp escaping his lips. “Does this feel good?” you ask softly, pinching the swollen nubs between your fingers. Jungkook groans, body arching just the slightest as you rub his nipples, tug and twist them until he’s a whining mess. “Need you to tell me, honey,” you encourage, lips ghosting over his neck. 

The second kiss has him flinching as well, head rapidly turning the other way as you slowly kiss over his neck. “___, please,” he pants, knuckles pale on the sides of the iPad. You're afraid it’ll snap, if not from his grip then from the way he pushes at it, like he’s breaking a wooden board over his knee. It’s still on YouTube, playing another video from the same collection, volume competing with Jungkook’s tiny sounds. 

Pressing your lips to his neck, you kiss along it slowly, reveling in the lovely noises that Jungkook produces the more you rub his nipples, lower body squirming animatedly before you. Your kisses grow wet for a short period, suck purple blossoms across his skin until Jungkook is quivering like a leaf. “E-Enough,” he begs, voice a wobbly mess that is so light and airy. 

You grin, giving his rockhard nipples one last flick before sliding your hands down his chest, over his stomach to toy with the elastic of his pants. He inhales sharply, iPad nearly snapped in half mid video. Ready to play with him some more (and slightly afraid for the future of his tablet), you reach out a hand to move it away, set it off to the side. 

But Jungkook doesn’t release it. In fact, he clings to the damn piece of tech tighter than before. “Hmm?” you murmur, bottom lip brushing against his neck once more. “Not letting go, sweetheart?” 

He shakes his head, soft crown of curls bouncing from the movement. “Can’t, can’t,” he shivers. His knees shift back and forth, move between being casually spread and flush together. Like he’s hiding something, using the iPad and the videos on screen as cover. You tug at his wrist and Jungkook shakes his head again. 

You change tactics, hand sliding around his wrist instead. The other travels up, up, up, comes curling around the base of his neck. Jungkook whimpers, tilts his head back for you cutely at the first brush of your fingers against his Adam’s apple. “Thought you were my good boy?” you ask, eyes zeroed in on the tremble of his lower lip. 

Jungkook exhales shakily, a rather torn expression crossing his features. “I am,” he insists, fingers still tight “I am your good boy.”

You smile, stroking the front of his neck softly as you lean down to press a kiss against his cheek. “You are, aren’t you?” He whimpers. “Then let go, honey,” you murmur, hand on his wrist giving another experimental tug. Still, his grip remains solid. “Jungkook,” you snap, “let go.”

“Y-You’ll laugh,” he cries, yet his grip slowly weakens. It’s with a swift tug that the iPad tumbles to his side, presses against his hip, and shows you the raging hard-on that stirs beneath the front of his cotton pants. Pressed nearly beside your ear, Jungkook shivers. 

Ever so slowly, your hands return to their place around his waist. “Why would I laugh, sweetheart?” you mumble, marveling at the way his cock twitches and jumps beneath his pants before you can even touch it. His shirt is hiked up just above his abs, your hands tenderly stroking over the skin beneath his navel, but it’s got Jungkook writhing. “Hips up for me,�� you instruct. 

He shakes even when he pushes himself up, knees wobbling as you slip your hands beneath his waistband and tug them down his thighs. Afterwards, his legs flop forward flatly, spread out with his beautiful swollen cock on display against his hip. 

You trap it at the base and Jungkook mewls, hands fisting the sheets now that his beloved iPad has been snatched away. It’s still playing his videos, interrupting his saccharine moans with corny ads every few minutes. A hand snaps up to join, opposite of yours, until your fingers are entwined around his dick. How romantic, you think, discreetly rolling your hips back against the mattress. “Gonna help me make you cum?” you ask instead, give him a light squeeze that makes him jolt. 

“Uh huh,” he responds, feathery. 

You reward him with a kiss to his cheek, reaching up to brush away the hair that’s begun sticking to his forehead. In the very back of your head you recognize this as being good for his fever, but the rest of you is more concerned with the pretty pout on his lips. “Hold tight for me,” you smile, releasing his cock to press your finger against the very tip of his cock where a pearly drop of precum has begun forming. “So pretty, Jungkookie,” you praise, teasing the length of your finger over the slit on his head. It has that juicy droplet coating your finger, gliding seamlessly over and over again. 

The simple touch makes him buck, has him blindly wrapping an arm around your bent knee that was pressed to his side this whole time. He squeezes around you rather weakly, the majority of his strength going to holding his cock tightly like you’d instructed. He’s such a good boy for you, trying his absolute best, even when you’re very obviously overwhelming him. 

You roll the flat side of your finger over him, his mushroom tip slowly growing more and more slick as he produces more precum. It’s shiny, fits perfectly between your clasped fingers when you squeeze around his head. Jungkook’s breath turns labored. 

He’s always so well kept down there, skin so smooth and free of hairs, and you know he does it because he wants to impress you. “So pretty, baby,” you hum, acknowledging his efforts. Your praise makes Jungkook moan, suddenly fucking up into his hand. It’s accidental, because he hisses at the drag of his dry palm around his relatively dry dick immediately. 

“Hurts, hurts,” he whimpers prettily, lower lip caught between his teeth. 

You frown, slide your wet fingers down the base of his cock until they’re wrapping around his and Jungkook’s little gasps even out. “I’m sorry, baby, you gotta be patie—“

Something presses against your hip, something distinctly hard that you had hastily picked up from his bathroom cabinet earlier, and a whole new door opens before your eyes. “Hold still for me,” you tell him quickly as you release your grip around his cock. Jungkook wails at the separation, but you’re more concerned with wrestling the tube out of your pocket with one hand. It’s heavy in your palm, turning over until that big fat label on front comes into view again. 

Jungkook explodes at the sight. “Wh— Where did you find that?” he stammers, cheeks ablaze. “I-I don’t know where that came fro—“

You ignore him, hold the bottle of lubricant over his stomach as you uncap it, a gooey pink substance spilling over into your hands the moment the lid pops off. Jungkook is still rambling away about the origins of the bottle, as if you care. You set the bottle on his tummy, the cold plastic makes him shiver. But you know what’s not cold? The warming lube in your hands that only takes three rubs of your palms to activate. 

You latch down like a crazed animal around his cock. With both your hands fighting to grip at his cock, you’re pressed closer against Jungkook, lips against the shell of his ear. 

The initial touch makes him sob, back arching and legs kicking at the sheets piled at the foot of the bed as your slick hands track the lube over his dick. “No!” he cries, hands wildly reaching out to grab whatever he can as you slowly get to work pulling him off. “I-I can’t, __, I can’t.”

“You can,” you coo, watching the translucent pink substance coat his cock, join his sticky precum. 

Maybe you get overexcited in your efforts, forget Jungkook is the way he is right now because he was still a little weak from his fever, but you go crazy on stroking his cock. One hand lingers around the base, squeezing and rolling over his balls, palm pressing against the hardened sac and squeezing there too. The other focuses at the tip, does most of the actual stroking over his cock. His head is leaking precum now, every stroke and squeeze making him shudder and push out another drop, until it’s mixing with the lube to form a sticky sweet substance that you wanna lick at so bad. 

So you do. 

You release one hand to curiously bring it up to your face, turning it over and around as you examine the stickiness on your fingers, the fat drop that unintentionally drips onto the front of Jungkook’s sweatshirt. He sobs at the sight of your lips around your fingers, squirms and bucks into the hand still on his cock until he’s embarrassingly coming. “I’m sorry,” he wails, hands fisting the sheets, fucking into your hand like a virgin. “I didn’t— I didn’t mean to.” 

You draw your hand away, watching in slow motion the cum that just spurted from his cock come dribbling down the slowly softening length now. “Oh, sweetheart,” you croon, hands on his tummy. The bottle of lube slips to the side, meets the still playing iPad at his hip. It’s sticky and gross to touch him like this, especially when you know Jungkook hates being unnecessarily dirty, but you can’t stop yourself from softly caressing him, soothe him after such a hard-hitting orgasm. 

Honestly you had thought he would hold up a little more, let you get in a few more strokes, but he must’ve been more sensitive than you thought. “I’m sorry,” he cries again, head lolling to the side to meet your gaze with watery eyes. 

You tilt his head to the side, angle him just right for you to bestow your first kiss of the night against his little pout. Jungkook hiccups, melts against you as you slowly guide him through the kiss. He’s sloppy and shy, moves nothing like your normal Jungkook, and that fact alone has you slipping your tongue past his lips. He doesn’t fight back, just lets you play with him and sighs all delicately against your mouth. 

There’s something about this, his soft and submissive attitude, that has you pulling away to look at him. Big brown eyes, glassed over with unshed tears, and plush lips that call your name. And yet. 

“Open,” you murmur, hypnotized by the way that tiny mouth moves. 

“Huh?” Jungkook flushes, but he’s so good, he’s your good boy, and does so anyway. Lower lip quivers as he parts his lips, stuttering exhales creeping through as you purse your lips, let the saliva collect on your mouth, before rudely spitting into his. He flinches, whimpers softly, and swallows. He looks at you with these expectant eyes, like he wants to hear how much of a good boy he is, so you do exactly that. 

You brush his bangs away lovingly. “Aren’t you just so good for me,” you purr, revel in the way his eyes flutter shut at your touch, like you could never hurt him, and you won’t. 

As sweet as the moment is, there’s a raging fire in your core begging to be stroked, and your hyperfixation on Jungkook’s mouth lets you know there’s only one way to chase the feeling. “Up,” you tell Jungkook, who whimpers sadly when you finally escape from behind him. 

But you don’t get too far, settling beside him on the bed until you’re looking at the damage you’ve caused from the front. His skin is sticky in some places, pink sheen of the lube decorating him from your incessant touching. Pants around his thighs, shirt against his chest. His face is flushed, all the way down to his chest and up to his ears, so rosy and pink all for you. He shies away under your gaze, drops his head to his chin bashfully. 

You grin, shuffle forward to turn those pretty eyes back towards you. “Messy little thing,” you tease, slotting your mouths together again. Jungkook moans this time, lazily kissing you back. His lips move in slow motion, trembling hands reaching for your face to cup, your name falling from his lips when you pull away slightly. “Need you to help me out now,” you murmur, hand on his jaw. “Can you do that, honey?” Jungkook nods hurriedly, eyes foggy and on your mouth. “Lay back.”

He does so, rushes to lay against the pillows until he’s flat on his back. You get to work on your clothes, shed your cardigan and languidly tug your top over your head in the way you know makes your breasts bounce. Beneath you, Jungkook whines at the sight. “You too,” you remind him, wiggling out of your jeans. At your instruction, he begins fumbling with his clothes, pants and underwear haphazardly thrown over the edge of the bed. 

By the time you’re naked, you’re met with a rather amusing sight. 

In his haste to take his clothing off, Jungkook seems to have gotten himself tangled in his long sleeves, shirt awkwardly bunched up around his wrists and twisted over some. You chuckle. “Help please,” he asks so politely, shaking his arms back and forth above his head. But you’re genuinely confused as to what he did, because one of the sleeves wraps around the other, pins the bulk of the fabric to his skin, and then the other wraps around that. A mess you don’t bother dissecting, simply climbing over him. He complains, of course, soft huffs you wave off. 

“Don’t need them anyway,” you shrug, can’t help the lovesick look you send him when you brush his hair away for the umpteenth time. Jungkook leans into the touch sweetly, rosy cheek pressed against your palm. “Lemme see your pretty little tongue,” you order, pussy clenching when he does as told and rolls his tongue out for you, tip pressed against his bottom lip. “Good boy.”

A soft whimper, and then you’re shuffling over him, pretty doe eyes watching with amazement when you finally hover over his face. “For me?” he asks so softly, so sweetly. 

It’s a question you’ve heard him utter countless times before in similar settings, always with a cocky grin and mean eyes, ready to send you to hell and back with his tongue or his cock. But it’s different now, big shiny eyes looking at you like you’re the greatest thing to ever happen in his life, so pliant and demure beneath your touch like he lived to serve you. 

“All for you,” you assure him, get comfortable, and slowly lower your pussy over his face. His eyes flutter shut immediately, pink tongue ready for you by the time your dripping cunt nears his face. 

You can’t help the moan that tears itself from your throat, a soft cry as he begins lapping against your folds. He’s so tender, so careful. It drives you crazy. Hands above his head squirming as you slowly grind your pussy over his face, more mindful than usual because he was so delicate tonight, like a baby bird that shivers with the simplest touch. 

His tongue is smooth, circles around your clit. He nudges your bundle of nerves back and forth a few times, sends an initial wave of tingles down your spine, before taking it between puckered lips. His slurps it into his mouth, where it’s so hot and wet, it makes your grind stutter. “Oh,” you pant, reaching down to tangle your fingers in his hair. “P-Perfect,” you mumble. 

The praise makes his features twist up cutely, mouth desperate to get more out of you. “You like that?” you gasp, holding his head still as he runs his tongue along your folds. Jungkook nods, eyes glazed over as he messily begins eating you out. “Like when I tell you you’re a good boy, Jungkookie?” 

He lets out a broken whine, the vibrations shooting up your spine and making you shiver. Tongue pressed in at your entrance, prods gently like it’s his first time (it’s not) and he’s gauging your reactions. “Oh baby,” you shudder, fingers tightening in his curls. 

He looks like an angel beneath you like this, halo of curls artfully splayed across the sheets, arms knotted above his head. Big pretty eyes that make you want to lay down and be his bitch instead, their power just so strong even when he’s whining and whimpering against your pussy like this. His tongue dips into your cunt, makes you buck against him by accident. “I’m sorry, angel,” you breathe, so caught up in your thoughts that the name just slips. It makes Jungkook’s cheeks flush a pretty pink, arms tug at their makeshift restraints. But his brain is scattered, torn between releasing himself, eating you out, and being shy. 

He settles soon enough, ends up just sticking his tongue out flat for you to grind against, using the grip in his curls to drag your pussy over his face. His scalp feels warm, sweat clinging to his hairline. He sighs endearingly against you, and it’s that final puff of warm air against your folds that has you coming, cum dripping over his lips and chin sinfully. 

When you finish, you quickly get off of him, lay down beside him. Jungkook is panting softly, tongue peeking out to taste the cum that splattered against the corner of his lips. “You were so good for me,” you praise, idly dragging your finger across his skin, collecting your cum on the tip. 

Jungkook looks at you with a heavy gaze, knotted wrists slowly returning to rest over his abdomen. “Can you… Can you call me that again?” he asks hesitantly, so shy and polite. 

“Hm?” you ask. “Angel?” His lips part, an awfully aroused look crossing his features. You smile, press your cum loaded finger against his lips and he opens, sucks around your finger and moans. “My pretty little angel,” you purr, slowly thrusting your finger in and out of his mouth. Before you can stop yourself, you’re leaning over to kiss him again, swallowing his cries in your desperate need to taste yourself on his tongue. Jungkook is more active this time around, daringly challenging your tongue with his before ultimately giving up, languidly following the pace you set for the kiss. You pull off with a pop, leave him dazed and trailing after your mouth cutely. 

You pat his cheek once, offer him a tender smile, before moving to get up and clean up. Jungkook whines at your departure, and it’s only once you’ve sat up that you realize why. 

Half hard cock at his hip, fattening slowly but surely. Instantly, it’s like the post-orgasm fatigue is yanked away, pussy throbbing at the sight of your angel and his cock, swelling from eating you out and kissing. He was too good to be true. 

“Oh, you poor thing,” you sigh dramatically, shifting onto your knees at his hip to look at him. Something pokes your leg; it’s the stupid iPad playing his dorky YouTube videos that you click off and chuck to the other side of the bed. You had had enough of that by now. 

He’s not at full mast yet, and he’s not getting there quick enough for your liking. So you take matters into your own hands. (Besides, what was stopping you tonight? Certainly not this soft, pliant Jungkook.)

Kneeling between his legs, you reach for the forgotten bottle of lube, squirt a fat glob into your hands, then decide that isn’t enough and squirt it directly onto your chest. Jungkook watches with wide eyes, lower lip caught between his teeth. “What— What’re you doing?” he stammers, can’t even sit up with his hands held together. “__, y-you don’t have—“

Squeezing your breasts together, you slip his cock between the crevice, watch as his angry head comes out on the other side so easily, so slippery. Oh, this was gonna be post-work, shower-time, spank bank material for months. 

Jungkook sobs, loud and unfiltered at the sight, expression torn as he watches you slowly work your tightened breasts down his quickly hardening member. “T-Too much, too much,” he cries, squirming and bucking beneath you. “I-I’ll come—” 

“Don’t,” you snap, stilling your moments to flick your eyes back to him. His head is rolled back, jaw strained, but when he manages to lift it up and look down at you, there’s tears that streak his cute face, trails that glisten when the lowlight of the lamp hits him just right. “Don’t fucking come yet, Jungkook.”

He sniffles weakly, more tears spilling from his eyes. “But I— it feels,” he blubbers, knotted hands reaching down for the base of his cock. You slap it away. “___, please,” he wails, face flushed from all his conflicting emotions. 

Ignoring his cries, you get back to work, moving your upper body to and fro to simulate the thrusting motion he is too weak to do himself. He whimpers pitifully, more tears leaving his eyes when you lean down and spit on the head of his cock when it emerges next, make it join the rest of the ungodly fluids painting your chest. Honestly, you’re certain it’s that damned strawberry flavored, sensation warming, edible lube that makes this experience so enjoyable, so mind-blowing. 

Jungkook seems to agree, stuttering out a messy whine. “Feels weird,” he snivels, only to be cut off when you release him from in between your tits. Immediately, he begins lamenting the loss. 

Slowly, you ease him back in. You’re beginning to understand the intensity of that damned warming lube, because with each glide of his cock between your breasts, it’s like a tingle of nerves sparks within you, insides folding in on themselves as they channel all their energy to that one area of hastily spread lube. It feels so good and wet and messy, Jungkook’s whiny sniffles only fueling the experience. His cock twitches dangerously, and you flash him a glare. “Jungkook,” you warn. 

“I’m sorry,” he weeps, thrashing back and forth as if that makes it any easier. “I just— I want,” he chokes, hips bucking into the suction you’ve created between your boobs. Tentatively, you stick your tongue out, let his tip brush against it on the next thrust. Jungkook curses, a feral groan escaping his lips. “Wanna fuck,” he seethes, “now.”

It’s but a slight peek into his regular personality, his normal mannerisms. But something about it now annoys you. In fact, it pisses you off, seeing him be so complacent and sweet just to try and overthrow you at the last second. And it’s with this same train of thought that you release him, climb over him like a crazed sex demon, and press your hand to his throat. 

“You're supposed to be good,” you spit, scowl turned on him and it immediately has Jungkook drawing back with his tail tucked, falling into line as he should. “You’re supposed to be my angel tonight, remember?”

Jungkook nods, big round eyes looking at you like you’re insane, but the cock that presses against your ass tells you that he likes it. “I-I’m sorry,” he stutters, shrinking back into the mattress. Sticky hands around his throat, probably make him warm and tingly, but all you can think about is those pretty eyes. Sensing your wavering emotions, he takes advantage by tilting his chin forward for you cutely, pink lips trembling as he silently asks for a kiss. 

You release him.

“Stupid angel,” you huff, mouth against his. “Gonna make me mad if you don’t act right,” you remind him, pushing his sweaty curls away from his face. He whimpers against your mouth, let’s you play with his hair as you calm down. He’s a blushing mess beneath you, every inch of him flushed and warm and sweaty. 

You shift back and are met with his still rock hard member against your ass. You touch him appreciatively, reaching back to stroke him with a half-assed grip. It makes him moan nonetheless, pulling away from your lips to mewl against your shoulder. “Wanna fuck?” you hum, curling your hand over the tip like he likes, watching his head roll back against his pillow at the sensation. Jungkook groans, doesn’t seem to hear you now. You try again. “Wanna fuck my pussy, baby?”

“Yes,” he gasps this time, jolts when you press the tip of your finger against the slit on his head, plug his cock from releasing any more precum. “Please, please,” he begs, the hands on his chest straining against the shirt he still hasn’t managed to shake off. 

One last kiss is delivered to him, a chaste one against his pout that makes him whine. “Whatever you want,” you purr, line him up. 

Your hands are still sticky with the lube and so is his cock. Everything is sticky; his cock, you folds, your tits, his neck. It’s a big sticky, slippery mess, but you can’t even be annoyed because everything feels so good. Your tits tingle from whatever they put in that damn lube, nipples rock hard and extra swollen today, like if you don’t touch them you’ll die. You sink back into Jungkook’s throbbing cock, and the second his cock spreads the lube along your walls, you’re jolting because it just feels so damn good. 

You can’t believe this is Jungkook’s preferred sick day treatment; YouTube, cuddles, and an ugly amount of lube. 

His cock pushes past your folds, fits snugly inside of you just like it belongs. It still feels like the first time, feels like your first day where he was so perfect and sweet. Part of you wonders what would have become of you two if he had reacted like this that day, soft and whiny, when you first prepositioned him. Maybe the sexual aspect of your relationship would be entirely different today, maybe you’d be one the always leading. 

But… you’re not sure if you’d want that. Leading is fun— hell, you’re certain this moment will be what you get engraved on your tombstone —but you were a pillow princess at heart with occasional dominant tendencies. You drool over this moment now, but if he asks for this again tomorrow you might actually bend over and die. It was a lot of work, keeping the energy going, and you find yourself having this newfound sense of respect for Jungkook as his cock slips past your folds. 

Anyway, when you sit on his cock, fingers teasingly tightening around his throat, Jungkook’s eyes are weirdly focused on your tits. He’s been doing that a lot lately, losing his mind by just staring at your tits. On some occasions he puts them in his mouth, gets possessed by some titty loving monster and sucks on them until you’re trembling. It’s fine because it’s quite frankly a huge ego boost, but something him now makes you want to pick at him for it. 

“They’re yours to taste, angel,” you hum, slowly rolling your hips over his fat cock. Jungkook whimpers, softly ruts up into your heat the next time you press down. “Tell me what you want,” you exhale, a breathy moan. 

He doesn’t say anything, just drops his mouth open for you with a trembling lower lip. Tongue peeks out, eyes glazed over in his lust, looking every bit like those hentai ads he hates so much. But you fulfill his wishes, help him sit up until he’s flush against your chest. His awkwardly bound hands get squished in the middle, and he says, “m-my hands...” 

“I’ve got you,” you soothe, undo his self-made restraints and toss them to the side. Immediately, he’s wrapping his arms around you, pulling you flush against him to latch his lips around your breasts. “S-Slow down,” you whine, hands on his biceps as he sucks your tit into his mouth, twirls his tongue around your nipple. He’s good with his tongue even when he’s sick. 

He pulls off with a pop, ragged breathing only making you more sensitive as it fans over the thin layer of saliva he leaves on your tits. “Tastes like strawberries,” he groans wondrously, head against your chest. You use the lull to get back to fucking yourself on him, but Jungkook’s got other plans. He rolls the two of you over, pins you beneath him with his hot and sweaty body. “I’m sorry,” he moans as he begins jackhammering his thrusts into you. 

Your back arches, legs thrown around his waist as the sudden change of events. “Fffuck,” you heave, “harder, angel— gotta fuck like you mean it.”

Jungkook shudders, hands looped around the small of your back. His cock rams into you over and over, each glide of it against the walls of your pussy making you unravel in his arms. His lips latch around your other boob, suck and suck like he’s expecting something to come out.

That’s when it hits you. 

“N-Nothing there,” you tell him, arms wrapped around his shoulders. His lashes are wet, eyes pinching tighter at your reminder. He pulls away almost to protest, but then you’re guiding him up to your face, hot breath mingling with yours. “Nothing there because you haven’t given me a baby yet,” you murmur darkly, watch the emotions flood his features as you tap into that taboo kink of his. 

He chokes, grinds his cock into you and holds it there. “I-I didn’t,” he sniffs, “we never— you never said,” he whines, “...you wanted one.”

You cup his face in his hands, feel slightly mean for the pride you get from his tear stricken appearance. “I do,” you purr, lazily kissing him. “Want one if it’s from you. Don’t you?” He nods like an antsy puppy, quivering against you as he slowly and shallowly ruts into you. “Don’t you wanna see me like that, angel?” you egg on, hands looping behind his neck, idly playing with stray waves and curls. “Tummy so big and swollen because you did something bad, because you couldn’t pull out.” 

Jungkook sobs, pulls you impossibly closer until the head of his cock is missing your cervix repeatedly. One of your legs is pressed nearly to your chest, hip tight from the force in which he holds you. “I-I want,” he agrees, more tears spilling down his cheeks. 

You smirk evilly, kissing the corner of his mouth gently as he slowly picks up the pace of his thrusts. “Then fuck me hard, Jungkookie,” you demand, “fuck me full of your cum.”

Jungkook nods with a sniffle against your shoulder, fingers tightening against your skin as he slowly but surely begins nailing you into the mattress. He’s a good boy, always, because he does exactly what you tell him to. Uses those bulky muscles to hold you down, makes it impossible for you to move as he pistons his hips, cock sheathing itself inside your cunt. 

Every drag makes you unconsciously clench, the raw feeling consuming your thoughts. His cock is so big and wet today, certainly due to that stupid lube from beneath his cabinet. Your entire pussy feels like it’s on ecstasy, stupidly geeked up by that lube, and you’re sure Jungkook’s cock feels the same. It makes the glide so much better, so much easier, each ram of his cock feeling so easy. “Oh, fuck,” you whimper, nails digging down his spine. Jungkook is a sobbing, sniffling mess against the crook of your neck, absolute gibberish falling from his lips. 

But you’re no better, tongue seemingly set on a chaotic rampage to validate every single one of his fantasies. “Gonna fuck me while I’m pregnant?” you pant against his ear, fingers tugging at his hair. He doesn’t offer more than a strained cry, thrusts momentarily falling out of rhythm. “You would like that, huh? Fucking me when you’re not supposed to. You’re so bad, Kook-ah,”  you gasp, eyes rolling to the back of your head. “Only pretend to be an angel but really you’re just a dirty, little pervert.” 

He wails loudly, slams his hips so hard into you that it makes you sob as well. “N-No,” he blubbers, tears against your skin. “I’m good— I’m a good boy,” he stresses, fingers bruising their prints into your skin. 

He presses so close, cock practically making your stomach bulge, but neither of you see. “Dirty angel,” you spit, yank his hair back roughly until he’s forced to look at you with that watery gaze. “So horny you’re willing to get me pregnant.”

Jungkook cries out, snaps his cock into you like he’s trying to break you in half. “No,” he heaves, tears dripping down his cheeks and onto yours. “I-I-I’d do it right,” he defends weakly, hips losing their demonic pace as his orgasm sneaks up on him. “Ma— Marry first… then, b— ba— bab—“

You swallow his words with your lips, kiss him like you’re on the verge of death in a desperate attempt to hide your tears from him. They paint your cheeks in stark strokes, trail down your skin and make everything blurry, but so does your orgasm. 

You come first, heart and body trembling at his unexpectedly sweet words, as you become a whimpering, teary mess beneath him. Jungkook follows, cries out your name one last time as he busts inside of you. 

Sticky and gross, he falls onto the pillow beside you. Poor baby is so tired, curls covering half of his face, but lips cutely puckered against the pillow. He’s sweaty as hell though, which you now vaguely remember was your original goal with all of this so you count this as a success. 

You think he’s fallen asleep, sitting up slowly and reaching for that t-shirt that bound him together earlier to clean up. He shudders when you run it against his skin, obviously still overwhelmed. You shift around the bed in search of today’s MVP. “Where’s the lube?” you mutter to yourself. 

Jungkook groans. “YouTube?” he asks, voice dry as all hell. 

“No, honey, the lube we used,” you respond, running your hands over the sheets for any signs of the pink bottle. 

“Want YouTube,” he mumbles, lets you swaddle him up in the blanket again. You roll your eyes and reach for the forgotten iPad that had long since tumbled to the floor. When it turns on, that same video from before is on pause so you don’t bother changing it as you hand it back to Jungkook. “Nice,” he murmurs, “underground water slide.”

You snort. “Weirdo.” He glares cutely, eyes barely open at this point. “Watch your YouTube.”

“Use your lube,” he sasses back softly, nonsensically, and then rather anticlimactically passes out. 

There’s something soft in your chest, something so big and overwhelming, that has you bending over his sleeping figure, mouth brushing against his. “Hurry and get better, angel,” you whisper, wish on it with all your heart. 

 To no one’s surprise, you get sick two days later. Doyeon laughs and laughs for hours about it, tells you that’s what you get for using sex as medicine. But Jungkook’s back to normal, which means he stays over and coddles you to death. 

“Hurry and get better,” he says, spoon feeding you your famous Get Better Soon Soup that you passed on to him. “I have a question to ask you.”

There’s a little black box in his downstairs bathroom cabinet that you swear you’ve never seen, but Jungkook knows you’re lying. 

It fits perfectly. 

epilogue

She scoffs. “And I care why?” You huff, go to scold her for their weird rivalry, but then she’s moving on. “Babe, just give him some pain relief and call it a day.”

“Fine,” you mumble. “Wait, can you look something else up for me?”

Copyright © 2020, 1kook on tumblr. absolutely NO reposts allowed.

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[1000scrubs]

Round 1: Tonzy

Writer Tonzy’s entry for the initial prompts from 2 years ago

It was sort of brilliant actually... I don’t know if anyone even saw it coming. It was gradual at first. A couple big news articles about how the bees were disappearing, but nothing we hadn’t seen before. But over time it started getting worse. At first everyone was thrilled.  Chemical pesticides were a thing of the past and malaria was at an all time low. But then the grocery shelves started looking just a little sparse. By the end of the year they were practically empty. And it wasn’t just the bees, oh no. Butterflies, silkworms, hell even the stinking flies had started to disappear.

Well by then it was all out panic. All around the globe people were stampeding. Stockpiling food to keep them through the next year, but that only drove the prices up. It only got worse from there. Food became a rare commodity, most of us had to scrape by on processed food bricks and such.  Desperation turned to violence, soon we were on the brink of world war 3.

But that’s exactly where they wanted us. They had the whole world in their hands. While everyone was distracted by the food shortages, they swooped in and took control of the largest food distribution centres that were left. Massive ships descending from the sky.  We were at their mercy.  

It’s been around five years now and almost everyone left has gone underground.  But damn if this apocalypse isn’t good for business. Bodies littering the streets, mortality rates skyrocketing. Someone’s gotta get rid of them all, so the aliens have been  tripling the rations for anyone brave enough to do it. Lucky me, I’ve been an undertaker all my life. It’s dangerous though, above ground is a wasteland filled with the worst dregs of humanity. It’s where we banish the criminals. It’s a lucky thing that I’m the best.

I started running an underground smuggling route from my cemetery. Hidden in the crypts, where no one would think to look. People pay good food to get smuggled back into civilization. Every so often someone would come through spinning wild rumours about a device that could fix our unique alien problem. Bring the bugs back and restore our humanity. Like everyone, at first I assumed it was just wishful hoping. Brought on by our imminent destruction. But the rumours only got louder and stronger. More specific. Something about a mad scientist who found a way to jump through time and space to recover a lost artifact. It sounded like a load of bull except for the very precise science that accompanied it. Not that I particularly knew what any of it meant, but it definitely sounded too good for someone to have just made it up.

That’s when it all changed. Her name was Carrie. She was older, in her 60’s, with a stern face and narrowed eyes. I met her on one of my morning digs through the deserted towns. She must’ve known me by reputation, because she approached with no hesitation. “The Undertaker. You can get me back to Karyon?” Her voice was low and gravelly as the dust swirled around us. “For what price?” I asked hesitantly. Her confidence was unnerving in this hellscape. “I’ll give whatever you want, just name it.” She snapped. “Garlic bread.” It had came out of my mouth immediately. I had been waiting 5 years for that buttery, cheesy bread between my lips. Just the thought of it made my mouth water. “5 loaves.” 1 for every year. I knew I was pushing my luck. I must’ve smuggled thousands of people, but not a single slice of garlic bread had I ever seen. “Done.” My eyes must’ve showed my suspicion. She gave a deep throaty chuckle. “I’m good for it don’t worry. I had a good job with the aliens.”

We waited till nightfall before I led her down the crypts to the small dark tunnel.  I had my back turned to her, no reason to suspect anything. She was half my size, practically no meat on her bones. Then everything went dark. The next thing I remember I was waking up on a cold dark floor with a bright blue light strobing on and off. An acidic taste in the back of my mouth and a pounding headache.

Carrie stood looming over me. My eyes were throbbing beneath my skull and there was a weird pressure there that made my ears stuffy.  I saw her mouth moving but all I could hear was a ringing whine in my head. “WHAT?” I could barely hear anything. She pursed her lips tightly, her eyes flashing in anger. She picked me up and shoved me roughly towards a small bench in the corner of the room. I felt a sharp sting on the side of my neck and suddenly everything went clear. “Shut up. We don’t want any unnecessary attention.” She hissed, “this is our last chance. I will not have some narcissistic undertaker ruin it.” Narcissistic! The nerve! I opened my mouth to retaliate but she quickly cut me off. “Say another word and I’ll kill you myself. Just listen.” She pulled a small pouch out of her jacket. A small silver disk slipped out of and lit up with a quiet whirring noise. Bright light illuminated the room and I had to squint to see what was hovering above it. “This is our last hope. This is the Declaration of Independence.” She must have seen the incredulous look on my face, “ obviously not the real one, it’s just a projection. It’s the key to ending this goddamn horror.” “What are you talking about?  Everyone with a Third grade education knows that’s just an ancient piece of paper.” “No.” She hissed, annoyance flashing through her face, “This is the key to our salvation.”

— 2 months later —

Hot air blasted against my cheek, singing the fine hair. I ducked for cover. Not for the first time, I thought of the warm buttery, cheesy prize awaiting me at the end of this god forsaken mission. “At this rate I deserve a mountain of garlic bread for all this.” “Shut up.” Carrie glared from where she was situated behind the wing of our rocket. “If you could think about anything other than yourself for once...” More gunfire peppered the area. I grabbed my weapon and let loose, several alien figures dropping to the ground with garbled screams. They were segmented like an insect, with bulbous orange heads and black pincers at their mouths. Several more blasts shot out and the last few aliens fell.  “We must be quick” Carrie dusted off her arm and strode off briskly. I exhaled softly, finally able to take a good look around. This place was familiar, yet exceedingly foreign. As if you asked someone to recreate all life on earth from memory. The bubbling sound of running water, the rustling of purple tinged leaves, the crunch of green stones beneath our feet. “This is planet K-4670.” Carrie spoke softly, as if the sound of her voice was an intrusion on this serene world. “The first inhabitable planet discovered outside of our solar system.” “Inhabitable? Don’t you mean inhabited?” I tried to keep the sarcasm out of my voice but based on her severe glower, I hadn’t succeeded. “Of course we didn’t know that.” Her face softened slightly. “This place is rich in valuable resources. We hadn’t seen signs of intelligent life forms.” Her hands fidgeted with the cuff of her sleeves. “We thought we could do something good. Renew our dying planet.” “So you exploited this one instead?” I looked up. The sky looked the same as Earth. Puffy white clouds floated against  vibrant blue. “We didn’t know.” Carrie quickened her pace, her posture stiff. “Bullshit.” I huffed. Ahead of me, Carrie tilted her head slightly, an ugly look on her face. We walked in silence from there, occasionally passing the scars of our discoveries. Looking into one of the deep craters, I saw remnants of a sprawling civilization. Eventually we reached our destination. A giant tower crawling with aliens. We stopped a fair distance away. The place resembled a massive termite mound. Carrie shoved something into my hand. “This will get you back where you need to go.” The object was the size of my palm and smooth to the touch. “What do you mean, what is this?” “Just press the button when I tell you.” Her arms were crossed in front of her. “I haven’t told you this yet, but thank you. You’re a good person.” She pat my arm awkwardly and turned away. “I’ve been called many things in my life ma’am, but good was never one of them.” I stared at her back, once again noticing how small and frail she looked. Without her usual overbearing personality, she was just a little old woman. “We should get this over with.” She turned back to me, an unbearable sadness washed across her face briefly, before she steeled back into her usual sneer. “Let’s go.” We snuck around to the back of the building, carefully avoiding the rounds of guards that walked by. The inside of the tower was dark and cool. The green rock walls were worn smooth. A dim glow permeated the long empty corridors. For all the activity outside, the interior seemed abandoned. We worked our way slowly through the winding paths, until we came to a large high roofed room. It was empty, apart from a tall podium set in the centre. “There it is.” Carrie breathed. She took a step and reached up at the podium. “Stay your hand witch.” A garbled voice emerged from the shadows, accompanied by a metallic whine. Carrie snatched her hand back, a single drop of blood falling to the floor. A hulking beast of an alien emerged from the shadowy corner. It stalked closer, stopping several feet away. Several hair thin needles twirled between its fingers. “You’ve made a mistake coming here.” It’s words sounded strange, unlike any accent I’d heard before. The large black pincers made sharp snapping noises as they opened and closed around its mouth. “You’ve given us no choice.” Carrie clenched her fists at her sides, when she opened them again four white indents were pressed into the pink palm. “I will do what I have to for my people.” The alien made a noise that could loosely be described as a laugh. “We’ve given no choice? We were living peacefully here, we had no quarrel with you. It was your people that destroyed our homes and killed us in droves.” “We didn’t mean to cause such pain, we didn’t know you were here.” I spoke up from beside Carrie. Glancing at the stiff look on her face. Another laugh echoed against the four walls. “Is that she told you runt?” I bristled at the insult, my stature had never been questioned before. “We made contact with your probes. We accepted your surveyors into our homes. We taught you everything you know about our planet. Yet your greed cannot be satiated. You wanted this planet for yourself, so you tried to exterminate us.” The clicking of its mandibles was deafening in the silence. Carrie said nothing. I turned to face her, but she avoided my gaze. “We know we have no future, what you see here is the last of our population. So the last thing we can do, is to take you down with us.” “You would kill millions of innocents for revenge?” I was seething. Angry at this alien for what they had done, angry at Carrie for what she had started, and angry at myself for trusting her. The alien turned to me, it’s small pale eyes seemed to look straight through me. “Innocents? Do you mourn the millions of us who were buried in these craters?” Its voice was rising in anger. “Enough! There are no innocents. Your people never questioned where your wealth was coming from. Your people didn’t want to know that there comfortable lives were paid in blood!” All three of us moved in the same moment. Carrie reached up and grabbed the wrinkled paper on top of the podium. The alien extended its long arm and shot out a handful of paper thin needles. I pulled out my weapon and shot straight at its chest. Time seemed to slow down. The alien crumpled to the floor as I caught Carrie’s falling body. “Take it, press the button.” Carrie desperately shoved the paper into my hand, her body convulsing as she took gasping breaths. “I’m not just going to leave you here.” I stared at the vibrant blood red stains steeping into the aged yellow paper. Her wrinkled face seemed to sink into itself, her eyes bulging. “This is what I deserve. You must get this back. Give it to my daughter. We must save Earth. My life is insignificant.”  She spoke in a strained staccato. She fished into my pocket and pulled the palm sized item out. She clicked something into place and pushed it into my hand. “Get out of here, you don’t have much time.” I lowered her body to the ground and stepped back. A hint of a smile was on her face.  She closed her eyes and a sigh escaped her dying body “I’m sorry.” The sound of feet echoed down the hall. Shadows were rushing forward to the room. I pressed the button and everything disappeared.

White light pierced my eyes. Loud ringing enveloped my brain. Yellow paper stained with blood was clenched in my fist. A stern face. Brown hair.  Sharp eyes. “Give it to me.” A voice. My head throbbed. Fingers grabbed at my clenched hand and forced them open. The woman took the paper and cut it open straight through the centre. A thin blue glowing string was pulled out. “She sewed this into the Declaration of Independence, she knew we would need it.” The woman placed the string on a round tablet, scanning it. A diagram appeared on the screen. It looked like a weapon. “Here, you must be hungry.” She handed my a warm plate. A long forgotten aroma wafted against my face. I couldn’t believe it. A plate stacked high with freshly baked garlic bread. I didn’t hesitate. Handfuls of warm cheesy bread were shoved into my mouth. I could barely register the taste with how fast I was swallowing. Eventually the last slice sat on the plate. This time I ate it slowly, savouring every bite. My face covered in crumbs, I finally asked.  “What are you going to do with it?” “I will finish what my mother started.” She turned to me with that severe overbearing look. I saw a flash of silver before blood spurt from my throat. It ran down my throat as I choked, struggling to take a breath. I fell to my knees, one hand grasping at my gauged neck. I looked up at her in a panic, only to be met with an apathetic stare. “Thank you for your service”. My body collapsed. Red blood pooling on the floor, the last bite of garlic bread stained red as my body began to die. At least I got paid.

Who: narcissistic undertaker obsessed with garlic bread What: steals the Declaration of Independence When: The ‘When’ prompt was lost Where: the first inhabitable planet discovered outside the solar system Why: because all the insects disappeared

#5w story #short story #death #round 1 #placeholder tag 4 #tonzy #sci fi

[thewhumperinwhite]

FBI: Confrontation

Simon makes some questionable decisions.

Previous: Rescue / Interrogation / Awkward / Painkillers / Father / Flashback / Visitation / Intravenous

This is simultaneous with Intravenous so Simon is not yet aware of the events of that chapter.

@whumpitywhumpwhump

TW for: past child abuse, referenced death/murder of a child, abuse of power, systemic injustice, slut-shaming and feminized slurs relating to it, suicidal ideation referenced in the least respectful way possible, gore.

----

Simon parks illegally outside of the biggest house he has ever seen in real life, and before he gets out of the car he pulls his arm out of the sling and tests the range of motion he has in his shoulder.

It hurts to raise his arm, and it hurts to make a fist, but not too much to manage. He leaves the sling in the car.

The house— actually it’s probably big enough to be safely classed as a “mansion,” big and square and ugly with ornate columns and banks of windows that may as well be one big billboard reading “old money”—is surrounded by a fence slightly taller than Simon is himself, with clearly electrified wire at the top; the gate is carved stone and metal but clearly more functional than decorative. There’s a buzzer beside it with a keypad and a camera above it.

Simon holds down the buzzer and fishes his badge out to point it up at the camera. There’s no way anybody’ll be able to read it but it’s been Simon’s experience that people don’t actually read the badge, just having something to hold up confidently is enough, and the almost unbearable level of rage hammering in Simon’s temples is currently translating into complete, serene confidence that has the person manning the buzzer scurrying to open the gate faster than Simon can say “Agent”.

“Please come in, Agent Blake.” This voice is new, not the first one that answered the buzzer, and it sounds fussy and exasperated, like Simon is here to make a customer service complaint. Simon bounces once on the balls of his feet. That doesn’t sound like the voice of Heinrich Lange Senior, which makes it the voice of an obstacle he’s either going to go around or through. “Stephens will show you in. I can give you a few minutes.”

Simon doesn’t answer. He doesn’t greet “Stephens,” either, when the nervous-looking security guard comes around from the gatehouse to escort him up the needlessly-long drive to the front door of the mansion. Stephens tries twice to engage Simon in conversation, and Simon doesn’t even consciously decide to ignore him, it’s just a consequence of the size of the feeling in his chest, so big he can barely even recognize it as anger anymore. It doesn’t leave room for anything else.

Simon knows the owner of the stuffy little voice the second he sees him. Stephens the security guard leads him into a parlor off the house’s palatial entrance hall, and a man in a crisp gray suit is already seated at a meeting table waiting for him. He has narrow wire-rimmed glasses, an earpiece, and a tablet he’s holding like a clipboard and busily tapping away on, though he sets it down with a heavy sigh when Simon enters.

“Thank you, Stephens,” the man says, and gestures at the seat across the table from him. “Please sit down, Agent Blake.”

Simon doesn’t sit.

“I want to talk to Heinrich Lange,” he says, hearing his own voice in his ears like it’s a stranger’s, the voice of some very calm reasonable man he has never met.

The fussy man sighs heavily, steepling his fingers in front of him on the table. “So I understand. Agent Blake.” He looks at Simon, with tired eyes and pinched lips that are clearly supposed to send the message I am far too busy and important to be meeting with you. “My name is Carl Schoffstall. I manage the Senator’s affairs. I understand you were a member of the team responsible for finding his son Arthur.”

“Art,” Simon says immediately, without even deciding to. Carl Schoffstall twitches slightly as though in discomfort.

“I take it you’ve spoken to the boy, then,” he says bleakly. 

Simon raises his eyebrows and nods, because wow, this should be good.

Schoffstall sighs and takes his glasses off, folding them neatly on the table in front of him, so he can look up at Simon with the utmost seriousness. It’s like he’s trying very hard to look like Simon’s disappointed dad. Simon is so angry he almost can’t even feel it anymore, like he’s just barely hearing the blood roar in his ears from a different room.

“Then perhaps you’ll know what I mean when I say that Arthur Lange is a very troubled young man,” Schoffstall says. Simon almost wants to laugh. “Candidly, Agent Blake, he was traumatized by his younger brother’s accidental death several years ago, and I don’t believe he ever fully recovered. Is that why you’re here, Agent Blake? Has Arthur been feeding you stories about the manner of his brother’s death? Whatever he’s been saying, Arthur wasn’t even present at the time of the accident.”

“That’s not why I’m here,” Simon says.

Schoffstall blinks rapidly, clearly caught off guard. Then he huffs, glaring at Simon. “Well, Senator Lange has nothing to do with your case, Agent Blake, and I think you’d be much better off to leave the Senator to grieve in peace, thank you.”

Simon does laugh at that, a single harsh bark. “Oh, haven’t y’all heard? His grieving’s a little early, he hasn’t succeeded in getting Art killed yet.”

Schoffstall pales, his hands skittering across the table to find his tablet while still staring at Simon with alarm. “Agent Blake,” he says in a mock-scandalized voice. “I have no idea what you—”

Simon leans forward, drops his palms on the table, leans just slightly into Schoffstall's space. He honestly has no idea what expression is on his face right now, but it makes the smaller man lean back and clutch his tablet to his chest like it’s a shield. “You ‘manage his affairs,’ huh? All his affairs? You didn’t make the actual call, but you must’ve known about it, right? Or maybe he didn’t feel like he needed help killing his son. Maybe that’s all old hat to you people by now.”

Schoffstall actually gasps, this time, and now he’s frantically tapping away on the tablet. “Agent Blake,” he says, looking back up at Simon and pressing the tablet back to his chest like Simon is going to try to read it over his shoulder. “I can assure you, I would know about any phone call— the—” Schoffstall trails off, raising a hand to his earpiece, and then he sags in his chair, letting his forehead smack into his hand, and mutters to himself, “Wonderful.”

When Schoffstall looks back up at Simon, most of the scandalized how-dare-you-even-suggest act is gone, and he looks like a normal overworked publicist. “Senator Lange has agreed to speak with you,” Schoffstall says flatly.

“Has he,” Simon says. His heart picks up, and the feeling in his chest is too large for him to tell if it’s anger or excitement. 

“God,” Schoffstall says, and gets to his feet. “I’ll walk you up. But for the love of God, Blake, don’t antagonize him. I’ve done enough cleanup for one week.”

Simon thinks he might be smiling at Schoffstall now. Certainly he seems to be baring his teeth.

——

Simon hasn’t done much research on Heinrich Lange, Sr., but he remembers the old man’s military background the second Schoffstall opens the office door and he sees the man standing at the floor-to-ceiling window, his back to them, at full parade-rest. 

Schoffstall opens his mouth, and then Heinrich Lange turns at the sound of the door and shoots Schoffstall a withering look and the little man sighs, gives Simon a mocking all-yours gesture into the room, and leaves, shaking his head.

Simon closes the door behind him.

Senator Heinrich Lange is a broad and taut sixty-five, wearing a suit like he’d rather be wearing a uniform. He looks at Simon, still half-turned toward the window, his big heavy wooden desk unoccupied between them, and waits for Simon to talk first.

Fair enough, Simon thinks, his good hand clenching in anticipation.

“You’ll be happy to hear that your son is going to live,” Simon says, still in that same distant reasonable voice. Heinrich Lange’s face doesn’t change. “It was touch and go there for a while. Some of the hospital staff were taking bribes to deny him medical care. But we’re working on tracing that attempt on his life back to its source.” When Lange still doesn’t respond or move or blink, Simon adds. “We’re working on that right now, actually.”

Lange narrows his eyes at Simon, and what he says is, “Leaving the boy to his own histrionics isn’t exactly a murder attempt.” He turns more fully to face Simon. His face is totally impassive. “It won’t hold up that way in court.”

Bold of you to assume you’ll make it to court, Simon doesn’t say. “Your son is in the ICU, Lange. Denying someone life-saving care is murder, Senator.”

Heinrich Lange rolls his eyes. “I know my son,” he says, “and whatever shape he’s in, he got himself into. If you asked him, he’d tell you to hold the pillow over his face yourself, Agent.”

Simon has to catch his breath. He doesn’t say, your son held on to life by his fingernails when I would have given up a dozen times over, your son is nineteen and you and the devil combined couldn’t kill him and he’s twice the man you are; because he does not actually care what Heinrich Lange thinks, he’s here to talk about what Heinrich Lange has done.

“That’s not what he talked to me about, actually,” he says instead, and Lange sighs with exactly the same impatience Schoffstall had.

“You’ve been listening to him talk,” Lange says in a tired voice. He sits down heavily at his desk, no longer looking at Simon. “Look. How much do you want?”

“What,” Simon says.

“Whatever I’ve done, Agent, I can’t undo it now,” Lange says down at his desk, scrubbing a hand across his forehead like a tired old man. “Whatever the boy’s been telling you, he’s got no case against me. He just wants to dredge all my mistakes up again so he knows he’s not the only one still thinking about them.” He shuffles papers around on his desk, like he thinks he’s making some great admission. “Well, I— there’s not a day I don’t think about what happened to Michael. And once Arthur’s succeeded in getting himself killed, I’ll be alone with it, which will be punishment enough. You can tell him that if you want.” He runs a hand through his close-cropped gray hair, and then looks up at Simon. There’s a pen in his hand, and now Simon realizes there’s a checkbook out on the desk, too. “But first tell me how much it will take to get you the fuck out of my sight, Agent.”

“Jesus,” Simon says. He’s literally nauseous at this point. “I don’t want your fucking money. Christ.”

“Then what the fuck are you here for?” Heinrich Lange snarls, pushing himself up to his feet. “I suppose you’re here to sweep to his rescue, like the other one. Been telling you lots of sob stories, I imagine, about his terrible unfeeling father. He wasn’t here when Michael died, do you know that? He makes all the right noises now about how much he loved Michael, how all he cares about is justice for Michael, but that night what he cared about was drinking and whoring himself around half the East Side.” Lange’s face twists. “I suppose you already know about that,” he spits. “Is he well enough to fuck you yet, or did he promise to suck you off la—”

Simon punches him in the face.

Lange stumbles back into the window, eyes and mouth wide and shocked, raising a hand to catch the sudden gush of blood down his chin from his busted nose.

The desk is heavy, but not so heavy Simon can’t shove it out of the way with one arm and his hip if he really tries.

Lange launches himself at Simon the second the desk is out of the way, which is admittedly a surprise for the two seconds it takes them to crash to the floor in a tangle of limbs, and then Simon’s head is blessedly empty except for fighting protocols so well-trained his conscious mind doesn’t have to get involved at all.

Their training seems to be roughly equivalent, but Lange is sixty-five and out of practice, and Simon has recently been shot.

Lange lands on top of him and his first punch lands hard against Simon’s eye socket; it will bruise and gives Simon a few seconds of seeing stars but it’s a rookie move to punch solid bone with unwrapped hands and Lange’ll regret it tomorrow; Simon drives his fist up into Lange’s age-softened belly and it’s easy to shove Lange off of him; Lange is immediately winded and looks almost offended. Simon thinks that’s what happens when you’re used to punching unarmed children and grabs for the collar of Lange’s shirt, yanks him down to sink his fist into the old man’s kidneys again. 

Lange shoves Simon away by the shoulder, and by sheer bad luck his thumb lands squarely on the bandaged gunshot wound in Simon’s shoulder and Simon feels an immediate hot gush as it bursts straight back open. He stumbles back with a strangled yell.

Lange’s eyes flash like a predator seeing wounded prey, but Simon isn’t prey yet; he kicks Lange hard in the sternum when the old man darts forward to go for his shoulder again.

The fight is short and very messy.

Simon’s fist crashes into Lange’s teeth and he feels two of them give. Lange bodytackles him into a bookshelf, sending his spine back against the edge and then giving three hard jabbing hits to his wounded shoulder. Simon brings his knee up into the old man’s stomach and when the old man stumbles back he brings Simon with him, pulls him down by his jacket, jams his fist into Simon’s ribs.

By the time Schoffstall throws the office door open and four armed security guards pour into the room, the office floor is covered in loose pages from the bookshelf and shattered knickknacks from the desk, and Simon and Heinrich Lange are panting roughly in unison, Simon with a fist full of Lange’s shirtfront and Lange about to jam his thumb back into Simon’s shoulder. There is blood all down the front of Lange’s shirt and soaking the sleeve of Simon’s jacket.

“Senator!” Schoffstall practically squeals, and Lange shoves Simon away—Simon staggers dizzily against the wall, just barely keeping his feet—and yanks his shirt back into place, wiping his bloody mouth on his sleeve.

“Get him out of here,” he snaps, jerking his chin at Simon, and two of the guards descend on him. They’re about to seize him by the arms but they pull up short at the absolute ruin that is his shoulder and sort of awkwardly push him upright instead.

Schoffstall is hammering desperately at his tablet. “I’m calling the police,” he squeaks, but Lange makes a harsh sweeping gesture at him.

“Don’t,” Lange says in a nasally voice. He’s looking at Simon like he’s impressed, like he thinks they’re respectful rivals now, or something.

“You don’t decide what’s punishment enough,” Simon says, and he spits at Heinrich Lange before they drag him out.

——

Simon has seven missed calls from Rona. Rona never, ever calls him more than once, but as he’s staring down at his phone in the car it rings again.

“Where the fuck are you,” Rona snarls, and doesn’t give him time to answer. “Actually, I don’t care. Get your ass back to the hospital now. You fucking moron.”

Simon’s—fairly confident he can get back there without passing out. Maybe he should call a taxi just to be safe. “Lange paid off the nurses to leave Art alone,” he tells her, by way of an explanation. “He already killed his other son, and he wants Art dead.”

“Does he really,” Rona says with absolutely no surprise, and Simon can hear her teeth in her voice, and knows that at least thirty percent of her anger is directed right at him. “Apparently,” she says, and Simon goes cold to his bones at the sound of her voice, “he’ll have to get in line.”

#fbi au #whump #original whump #fist fight #reopening wounds #past abuse #child abuse tw #protective #protective caretaker

[queen-bunnyears]

Fur coat

Soooooo, it’s been far too long since I uploaded one of my own stories here. Trust me, I have about 5 almost finished pieces in my docs, but I am never satisfied with how they are. Enjoy this short piece of my shitty writing, loosely based on a scene from sister act. And just a small note, I’d really appreciate some feedback, I am very curious to hear what you think of this! 

Pairing: Roger Taylor x F!Reader (you can read this as Ben!Roger, I personally just have Roger vibes with this fic) Wordcount: 1700 ish words Warnings: cheating, Roger being an asshole, language, hinted smut and some kissing. 18+ babes, please.

"This was delivered here for you by a Mister Taylor." The man in the door gives you a large box. You grab the box and put it on the table, walking back to the door.

"Thanks sir," You say, sending him a smile and closing the door. Finally you could take off your heels.

"What has he given you this time?" Dory walks towards the table.

"It better be good, he didn't show up at the show!" Sara immediately runs up to your side and to check the box. Roger had promised you a few days ago he would come and watch your show at the pub. It wasn’t much just you, Sara and Dory singing a couple of songs for fun, but you had done this weekly for four months now, and he still hadn’t seen one gig. So when he promised to watch this week you were very happy. The disappointment stung in your chest as you thought of yourself looking around the pub at the start of each song, desperately trying to find his mop of blonde hair, but failing every time.

"Can we open it?" Sara asks. You put the box down on the table. "Yeah, go ahead. I don't care."

You walk towards the mirror in the dressing room and fluff up your hair. Your dress clings just right around your legs, and the dark makeup makes your face look mysterious. Tonight was not the first time Roger let you down. He has been cancelling plans, and you feel like he is taking you for granted. You are quite feld up with his behaviour, and you have been for a while now. The sound of carton ripping has you looking over your shoulder.

"Jesus! Look at that!" Sara stands in the middle of the room with a thick fur coat. "It's beautiful. God this is real nerts fur. It’s so soft." She lovingly strokes the coat, and you shrug your shoulders.

"This is just Roger trying to make up for not visiting the pub tonight."

"Well this could work as a fine apology. It’s beautiful!”

A week earlier

“Roger I have to go, I have a meeting with the pub they want us to play in.”

“Just stay for a few more minutes? I promise you won’t regret it.” he pleads, grabbing your leg when you try to get out of the bed. He looks at you with his big blue eyes, trying to persuade you to stay a bit longer.

“Don’t give me that look, I really should go if I want to change into something more appropriate.”

“Then keep in the clothes you had on this morning. They looked just fine.”

“Dammit Roger. I just-” A sudden wave of pleasure hits you and you moan softly. “What are you doing?”

“Just having a small taste. Y’know, giving you a reason to stay.” He looks up at you, his big blue eyes melting your heart.

“You better make it worth the delay mister Taylor.” You say, a soft sigh leaving your lips when he presses a sweet kiss on your inner thigh.

“I am working on it.”

“So he can give and buy me this, but he can’t return my calls, of come to see our show? He promised.”

“We know. But this is beautiful. You don’t have to forgive him, but you can enjoy this coat. Y/n come and fit it." Sara says.

The coat looks very tempting, all furry and soft, and as Sara wraps it around her you feel the slightest bit of curiosity. Why would he give you such and expensive coat? And more important, how would it look on you? You walk back to her and Sara hands the coat over to you. You put it on, softly stroking the fur with your fingertips. It feels even more expensive.

"Okay maybe this will work as some kind of apology," you say as you nuzzle your face into the soft fabric. Sara and Dory laugh at you. You try to imagine Roger picking out this coat for you. What shop would he have visited? You take the coat off to take a look at the brand. Then your blood freezes.

Clementine Taylor.

Her name was written so neatly on the label next to a very expensive looking logo. Like it wouldn't shatter your heart at the very look of it. "He gave me his wife's coat. Fucking hell." your voice breaks, and you have to try really hard to not start crying.

"Keep it, you deserve it!" Sara says, als she longingly touches the fur again.

"Nobody deserves another wifes coat." You scoff, pain filling your chest. "I am bringing this back to him."

"You can't. What will happen if Clementine is there?" Dory asks shocked.

"That's his fucking problem. He shouldn't have given me her coat." You fold the piece of clothing neatly and put it back into the box, your heart breaking a bit more with each fold.

"Are you sure? You really don't want to keep it? It's been given to you." Dory tries to convince you, but Sara puts a hand on her arm. “Let her choose what to do with it.”

"Very sure I don’t want to keep it. See you girls tomorrow!"

The walk home is worse than other nights. How are you going to return this? The irresistibly beautiful coat feels like a heavy weight in your arms. Are you ready to end it between you and Roger? Admittedly, you are getting enough of his attitude, but you can’t resist him. Too many times you had thought you were gonna break up, only to cancel that plan the second you see him. You put the box next to your door. Tomorrow you were going to have to be strong.

Six months earlier

“Roger you have a wife.” your eyes are big and you look at him, silently begging him to let it go. You shouldn’t even be having this conversation with Roger. Clementine helped you get your job, she even helped you find a decent apartment in London for a very reasonable price. You shouldn’t be thanking her by shagging her husband.

“I know, it’s just… When I am with you everything just falls into place. I can really be myself. I just can’t resist the feeling of freedom you give me.”

“Roger. I-”

“Please” He interrupts you, putting his hands on your shoulders. “I really care about you.” He softly pecks you on your lips again. “You are simply irresistible.” You look into his eyes again and feel yourself cave in to the feeling. Kissing him feels like sunshine after heavy rain, like the fresh air after the heat of some stuffy room. Like jumping into the sea on a hot summer's day. You know you are going to regret this, but why does it feel so good?

The sound of the doorbell was the end of your doubts. Now you had to give it back, no way out of this. The door opens, and a beautiful woman looks at you.

"Hi Clementine." You aren't sure what else to say. As always, you are slightly baffled by the sight of Rogers wife. She is almost ten years your senior, but you think she looks almost younger than you, and much more beautiful.

"Hi Y/n, what brings you here?"

"Ehm. Is Roger at home?" Perhaps you can give this to Roger, let him choose what he does. Doubt comes in much earlier than you thought. Clementine sounds so sweet, why would you have to hurt her. She doesn’t need to know. Come on you need to be strong.

"Yes he is. What's in the box? Did they ask you to drop something off here?" Her face shows concern. She knows your boss often gives you small tasks you don't have to do. God why is she so sweet. How in hell did you end up fucking her husband? Regret fills your veins. It is an ugly feeling, and you feel slightly sickened by your own affair.

“No, it’s not from my boss.”

"Okay I’ll call for Roger first.” She says, before turning towards the stairs and shouting:  “Roger! Come downstairs!" The ruffle of his feet when he runs down the stair is very audible outside.

"What do you-" He sees you and stops in his tracks, "Y/n? What are you doing here?"

"Just dropping something off." You say, trying to sound casual. “And I need to ask you something for next friday.” You lifted the box a bit to indicate you came to drop it off. Clementine peeks into the box, and you open it to show the contents to her.

"That's my coat! How odd. I haven't worn that one in a while." Rogers face goes completely white. You smile at Clementine when she picks the coat out of the box. Clementine drapes it around herself, and smiles thankfully at you. “How come you had it?” Roger sucks in his breath, scared for what you are going to say.

"I found it and it had your name in it. So I thought, let's give it back to the rightful owner." You try keeping your voice steady, and recite the words you thought over a thousand times last night. You smile sweetly, completely ignoring Roger behind her.

"How wonderful. But why do you need Roger?"

"Oh I just have  a small question."

"Okay. Thanks for bringing this back! I’ll give you two some space to talk." She walks back into the house, leaving you at the doorstep, and a baffled Roger in the hallway.

"What the fuck was that?" He is really angry, but his anger is nothing compared to the rage within you.

"Exactly what you deserved, Roger. Be glad I didn't tell her everything we did." You are happy to find that your voice sounds so stern.

"You are unbelievable!"

"Not as unbelievable as you. Quite the sweet gesture, giving me your wifes coat." You keep your voice low, so Clementine won't hear you. "I am so done with your shit Roger. You think you can make it up to me by giving me your wifes coat? To make up for the fact that you broke a promise? Again, may I add?"

"Y/n. Love, I can explain." He almost pleads, the look on his face almost makes you forget about being strong and the whole not forgiving him thing.

"You can explain? Go ahead." He tries to think of something to say, but he doesn’t know what to say, so he stays silent. You laugh bitterly.

"Exactly what I thought. Goodbye Roger Taylor." You turn on your heel and walk away, a feeling of freedom washing over you.

#roger taylor #roger taylor x reader #roger taylor fanfic #roger taylor fic #queen fanfic #ben!roger taylor #ben!roger x reader #queen bunnyears fic #queen-bunnyears #my writing

[geminimoonbeamx]

Moving into your first apartment with Isaac/ plus size reader

-Kind of a really big thing for you, since you've always been such a private and independent person but Isaac thinks it's the only thing that makes sense. "Y/N, I spend most of my time at your place anyway. Now I'll always have clean boxers" he points out with a snigger. -it's true, you're always at your little studio(his roommate Boyd is cool but you and Isaac like to fuck. Loudly, and without inhibitions) -So you decide, screw it. You'll get a bigger place and rent will be easier because it will be split between the two of you. -Plus you guys have been together for almost two years and it's just a natural progression, right? -The little townhouse you guys rent in the heart of Beacon Hills is cute as fuck. -In one of the older buildings, think exposed brick sheek. -Moving sucks ass. Even if he is all cute and manly and Scott and Boyd help get all of your boxes and your new furniture into the two story tow home. Lydia and Styles show up later with take out and in return for them being "the shittiest friends" and not helping. -Lydia had gone apartment hunting with the two of you, obviously and she had fallen in love with this place. "If our lease was up, I swear I would have fought you for this place" -Isaac is more then down with you taking the reigns in decorating(as long as he gets to have his speakers and game system on display in the living room) -The floors are hard wood and you naturally run cold so your feet freeze 24/7 until you fill the space with rugs. Furry and plush. Faux fur obvi. -lots of neutral colors that accent the leather arms/frame of your couches. Modern but homey. -Isaac likes it. A lot. It makes the lay out warm with out making it stuffy. Even though you guys don't bring up his claustrophobia, you both know it affects the shit out of him. -big ol' wall length entertainment center because your both nerds. No seriously though-between both of your combined dvd and video game collections it's almost ridiculous. -but that's one of you guys favorite past times. Watching movies/shows together -Netflix sessions that last days. No joke. Like when you binge watched all twelve seasons of Greys Anatomy. -He likes to lay on top of your soft body and let you hold him. He love that your bigger in these moments because you're so fucking comfortable, your large breasts are his favorite pillows and he buries his head in them. -he's the biggest man child you've ever met. Honestly make him food and play with his hair and he is your loyal servant forever. -seriously tho did I mention you guys are giant nerds? Definitely that couple where if one of you watches you guys show without the other it is blatant betrayal. "Come on baby, I literally just watched one episode, don't be mad at me" you coo as you wrap your arms around his slim middle, but he shrugs out of your grasp. "Did Rick kill Negan? Did Maggie go into labor? I can't believe you watched it without me. I spent the day suffering at work looking forward to coming home and finishing it with you and you didn't even wait for me" -Isaac loves home cooked meals. Like no joke the way to this mans heart is through his stomach and your chubby ass knows how to cook . -He thanks you everytime you bring him a hot plate, child like. "Gimme' a kiss" -HOLIDAYS -Halloween you guys carve jack o lanterns and dress up and greet trick'or'treaters at the door and watch movies like Halloweentown and Hocus Pokus. Isaacs not a huge fan of horror because he says it's cheesy but he loves old Disney movies. -You guys end up going to your parents for Thanksgiving as usual but you make a kick ass pumpkin cheese cake from scratch in your guys kitchen beforehand. -Christmas is special. It's not your first together but it's your first in your shared place. You go to the lot and pick out a real tree and deck it completely out in silvers and golds. You kind of go all out with decorating in general and your apartment looks something like the Christmas section of Target threw up in it. Isaac loves it. You guys even have a fireplace for you to hang up stockings on. -Did you guys know Isaac can not only bake, but bake very fucking well? -Christmas cookies all December long. All kinds. You both gain a lot of Holiday weight. -when he spills a little bit of the dough, coating his big hands, you lick it off of his long fingers sucking on each digit just a moment to long. Your bright y/e/c looking up at him mischievously. -he burns that batch, not bothering to take the cookies out of the oven as he fucks you on the kitchen table. "you're such a fucking naughty girl" he hisses into your shoulder. "Mmm, I know you like me better naughty than nice" -You guys totally throw an ugly Christmas sweater party and everyone comes. And Lydia helps you decorate all day and Derek makes his secret family recipe spiked eggnog that fucks everyone up severely. Okay that's all for now but best believe I will continue lol

#isaac lahey #plus size reader #imagine #teen wolf imagine