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#not john being the tall one for a change
keeganbrainmush · 10 months
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141 + könig with reader who is terrifying with his mask on + is super tall and intimidating but once he takes the mask off he has like the most gentle and cute face ever as if all the shit happening on field suddenly was never real‼️
headcanons/bulletpoints , gender neutral reader , no nsfw mentioned , Minors DNI Mentions of reader being military.
Cpt. John Price
First time he saw you with your mask off he stared. Hard.
Not in a rude way.
" (Callsign), that you, soldier? "
You shot him a glare you usually did when you wore your mask, confirming his suspicion.
He asked why you wore the mask, listening intently on your personal story.
He has little smiles on his face whenever he sees you without your mask.
Simon ' Ghost ' Riley
Gawked at you.
Didn't even care if you noticed.
" You look like that under your mask? " in the thickest british accent.
He expected an adornment of scars and a mean stare.
Wonders how the things you've seen on the field don't effect the way you look.
But in all seriousness, falls harder than he already had for you.
John ' Soap ' MacTavish
Had a shit eating smile on his face.
" Who woulda known yer the one under the mask, ey? "
Has a sassy lil tone in his which pissed you off.
Toned it down once you gave him your signature glare while looking down at him.
Smiles up at you with a love sick grin everyday when he looked at you after you ' revealed ' your true identity.
Kyle ' Gaz ' Garrick
:o face.
Sparkling eyes when he stared at you.
" What're you looking at? " " Nothing, you just look nice. "
Other than that, he wasn't really affected by your face. He loves you and fell in love with you without knowing what you looked like, the cute face was def a plus for him though.
" You sure you don't got multiple personalities? " He'd tease after you finished yelling orders at rookies, giving him a wink in response.
König
He's fucking shocked.
" (Name)? Is that you? " He'd ask, walking up to you warily.
Its when you turned around to face him he gulped.
You really were fucking beautiful.
It doesn't really change the way he looks at you when your mask is on, he's still scared shitless of you.
But he likes to know that your not actually a hardass 24/7.
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uncouth-the-fifth · 1 year
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click - Sam Winchester/Reader
read it on ao3.
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Pairing: Sam Winchester/Reader (circa season 1) Tags/Warnings: cabin-in-the-woods moment, fluffy bestie banter, virgin reader, first time sex, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, and of course, Sam is a pussy god, as per usual. Word Count: ~20k (shhhh don't talk about it i have a problem) Notes: that's right, i make moodboards now bitches. these photos were collaged by my wonderful commissionee @daffodil-mania, who asked for: ""a reverse (you are a) natural, baby? where sam is the reader’s first time + a smutty cabin in the woods-type situation." Ask to be added to my taglists for future posts!
“Okay, okay,” you thought out loud, thinking hard, “my turn—if you could have anyone as a dinner guest, alive or dead, who’d you pick?”
A few paces ahead of you, Sam hummed in thought. His puffy winter coat made the outline of him against the swirling snow thicker, and if it was possible, taller, a menacing wall of deep blue between you and the woods. Something hiding out here and spying could even mistake Sam for something scary. Luckily, you weren’t that stupid.
Sam, for the millionth time in the last minute, checked that you were where you were supposed to be. (Two immediate steps behind him. Or he’d die). Looking back at you made the wind mess up his hair every time, and every time Sam tucked the same two strands behind his ears again. Like the shy girls in rom-coms did. Truly, monsters trembled at the sight of him.
He geeked at your question, but managed to play it cool: “Gandhi. Feel like he could teach me something. We’d probably like the same food, too, so it’d make for a good dinner.”
“Oh yeah, he was a vegetarian, right? You two could have a nerdy little salad together.”
Under the soft swell of the wind, you thought you heard Sam laugh, but it picked up in loud gusts at times that swirled skirts of untethered snow around your ankles. Well, your knees. The snow was tall enough here to seep into your boots. You’d given up totally on finding your own footing and started walking in Sam’s tracks, which were wider than yours almost all the way around. You told yourself that this was to confuse anyone tracking your prints in the snow, but really it was just fun to compare your shoe size to Sam’s. This set the walk back to the cabin at a snail’s pace. But with the way this conversation was going, you didn’t exactly mind freezing your ass off.
John had left his boys yet another unfinished hunt to distract them. Sam and Dean, tired of being distracted, changed tactics and split up. Dean was following a lead in Montana that could actually take him to John, and you and Sam were tying up John’s loose ends in upper Washington. The two of you had spent the last three days researching bloody disappearances in the area. An area in the thick of its snowiest, blurriest season, mind you, miles from anything but one of the Winchesters’ off-the-grid apocalypse shelters. This wasn’t how you and your mother had operated when you’d hunted together, but. Things changed. Parents disappeared.
Sam seemed to be shoving himself through John’s absence as best he could. You got smiles out of him here and there, but especially today, playing question games to pass the time mapping the woods and putting down traps.
“Gandhi was a fruitarian,” Sam clarified. He shielded his face from the snow by hiding in his collar, so you may have misheard when he added, “So, yeah. Him or my mom.”
Months ago, a mention of Sam’s mom would’ve shocked you into a full-on coma. He kept her memory even closer to his chest than Dean did, in some ways, and either brother even sneezing in the direction of their storied past had been a once-in-a-lifetime event. Before this hunt, that is. Now you couldn’t get Sam to shut up. Either the isolation had made him lonely or something else had pushed him to trust you, because the last two days had been spent this way—trudging through snow and spilling your guts about everything under the sun together. Sam loved to read and watch documentaries, he was fascinated by astronomy and meteorology and organized crime history and Native American folklore, and, hey, big surprise, reading. You’d never heard him talk about anything with so much passion. You hadn’t heard that passion in your own voice since before you’d lost your mom.
Still. As comfortable as you suddenly felt with Sam, you were sure to tread lightly. You risked a glimpse at his broad, snow-dusted back. “Mary would be nice too. Maybe you’d get to try some family recipe she’d make or something.”
“I think I remember my dad tellin’ me once that she hated cooking, actually, but m’ not sure,” Sam said, a bit of humor in his voice.
You thought of the soup Sam had turned to lava over the wood stove that morning, and grinned, “Yeah, I think you got that from her.”
Keeping casual eyes on your feet, you tried to see how fast you could get your boot through each foothold in the snow. Sam would make deep gouges in the powder with his longer strides. Crunch-crunch, crunch-crunch. You’d clear them three in a row, sometimes four, then stop short a step behind Sam and wait for him to make more tracks. Like hopscotch, almost. Every once in a while a huge gust of wind would force Sam to stop, and without a word he’d form a wall between you and the blast. You’d learned pretty much everything there was to know about Sam these last few days, but out of all his best dorky qualities his chivalry was your favorite.
“S’ not that I hate cookin’, I just suck attit.”
And the accent. The accent was gold, when the pretty drawl of it crept through with Sam’s boredom.
A little further and the spindly, snow-heavy trees parted for the lake you and Sam had been using to navigate. On your first day scouting you’d noticed how the icy surface had frozen like a misshapen heart, and since then Sam followed the point of it back to your cabin every night. Southeast of it was the abandoned mining facility that’d swallowed three people whole, and to its far right was where three more had disappeared. Your guess was a couple of territorial tree nymphs or werewolves, and Sam was betting on a Winter Hunger. The loser would take the first shift driving down to Montana.
Seeing the lake, Sam starts to arc your march around the edge, his sharp eyes on the treeline across the ice. The wind was stronger with room to run over the lake, but you reminded yourself that being a little cold was the gentlest way to die out here and forged ahead. Besides, most of your body had gone stark numb miles back. When you remembered how bad your cheeks were stinging, you’d bring your scarf tighter around your face and watch Sam, his long legs cutting easily through the snow.
The wind cooled down to a whisper. You reminded him, “Your turn.”
You’d reached a point where coming up with good questions had become harder than answering them, so Sam took a bit to stew on something good. There’d been a silent agreement on who was responsible for which kinds of asks. You would probe Sam with the deepest, most personal shit you could come up with, and after he explained what his life’s accomplishment was and what friendship means to him, Sam would go, uhhhh, what’s your favorite color? He was definitely the smartest shovel in the Winchester shed.
“How about this,” Sam cleared his throat. “Would you ever wanna be famous?”
You must’ve made a noise that gave away your surprise at the quality of his question, because he made a snooty sound back that had you seriously considering shoving him in the snow. You put your hands on his shoulders and everything, but where there should’ve been normal guy shoulders there were buff guy shoulders, which wouldn’t budge an inch. Sigh. What a lousy, muscly jackass.
Sam planted his feet, whining your name. “C’mon. Answer.”
“I’m thinking!” You laughed, and pushed with your legs until Sam tilted forward into his next step. It took a moment for you to keep your hands to yourself. “Okay. In this hypothetical world, what am I famous for?”
“Supermodel,” Sam answered right away.
You splashed a little snow at his jeans, deciding to save your funny feelings about his answer for later self-reflection. “Dude. Be realistic.”
At this, Sam snickered, and even with him facing forward you could imagine the dry sloping smile pressing into his dimples. “Okay—across the whole entire world, you’re famous for cooking the perfect soup in a can. Like, in ways no one can even imagine, that’s how good. You make millions of dollars off it and become a household name. Would you want that?”
“God, no,” you wuffed out, immediately sending Sam into a fit of giggles. “Are you kidding me? All those strangers knowing me, not giving me any privacy? And don’t even get me started on all those soup-hounds throwing themselves at me for my soup-money.”
“I guess that’s true. You could never marry for love, 'cause everybody would just want your soup,” Sam mourned. Another great Sam quality: he was excellent at going along with a bit. “You’d just have to live with brief soup-flings for the rest of your life.”
You thought about what a soup-fling could entail for all of one second, then burst out laughing, warm clouds of it spiraling into the air through your breath. The shoulders of Sam’s coat shook with glee. It was funny for a few more beats until it warmed into something that was light and airy, something you hadn’t heard from Sam since you’d met him. He had the sweetest laugh. It made your damn teeth rot.
“Y’know, speaking of flings,” you hollered over the hissing wind, “I have no idea how your brother does that shit.”
Dean was safe and familiar territory; he was the centerpiece of everything you had in common with Sam, so your conversation circled back to him plenty. Every conversation you’d had with Dean orbited around Sam some way, too, so you’d come to expect it. You’d never seen two brothers care about each other as much as they did. Which was hilarious, since the moment one of them got you alone all they did was bitch. Dean’s been driving me up the damn wall. Sam keeps stickin’ his nose in my business. Neither of them had ever had a trusted third set of eyes before, or at least one who understood that their complaints were overshadowed with love. John had been someone to look up to, to emulate and impress, but you were a fresh outlet available for family baggage. The boys were your outlet for bitching too, since it was understood that your bitching also came from the heart.
“A girl in every port sounds fun in theory, but I feel like I’d get sick of it fast,” you confessed.
The snow underfoot began to crunch harder with each step, packed down into a firm sheet. Soon Sam’s prints were so shallow that you could see the tips of your boots again. Taking the chance while you had it, you fought against the snow to walk side-by-side with him, then fought again to match him stride-for-stride. Sam’s poor face had been pounded with so much snow that his bangs were soaking wet, but he still managed a half-frozen smile seeing you next to him.
“And, I dunno. I think I care about hurting people’s feelings too much to just…” you gestured stiffly, “head to the next town after sharing a night with someone.”
“Same here,” Sam sighed, then gave a very subtle cough as a sign to shift gears: “But, uh, I think it’s kinda a stress relief thing for him.”
You probably should’ve guessed that Sam wasn’t the fling type, since you’d been there every time he’d shied away from Dean’s plans to pick up girls, but the idea… sat there. Staring at you. It’d be stupid-easy for Sam to live that lifestyle. Dean had his own notions about what girls were most into (bad boys, leather jackets, you know), but you happened to be certified in what girls were into, and you had it on good authority that Sam was a total dreamboat.
You nudged Sam with your shoulder, coaxing him open with a well-placed smile. This was unearthed territory. “Not your thing, huh?”
The snow had pinkened Sam’s face enough as it was, so what he was capable of on his own was downright impressive. Even his ears went red. “Uhh,” he chuckled, too skittish to look you in the eye. “No, not really. I’m. I, uh, I’d rather get to know her first, y’know. Before we’re intimate. And hopping towns doesn’t exactly give you the time to do that.”
Yup. Total dreamboat.
“Oh, so that’s your plan, asking me all these personal questions.”
Sam controlled his sputtering by pressing his lips into a firm, flat line, which refused to indulge your silly flirting. “You’re a jackass,” he said, and the growing smile in his voice betrayed just how little he thought that was true.
When you were done laughing at your own joke, Sam guessed, “So that’s not your thing, either? One night stands?”
You were having fun—pulling Sam’s leg, for one, but also talking to him in general, so the truth glides right out of your mouth.
“Wouldn’t know. I’ve never had sex.”
Sam had left his filter two states behind on the drive up, so he doesn’t even think to cap his disbelief. He scoffs. “Yeah, right.”
His mortification with himself makes contact two beats later, and while you’re smirking and floating unbothered across the snow, Sam nearly goes belly-up falling over himself to apologize.
You soak up his groveling until Sam’s embarrassment hits a breaking point, then, in your humblest and kindest princess voice, you say, “It’s cool, Sam. No worries. I’m not at all offended you think it’s weird I’m a virgin.”
“I don—I-I don’t think it’s weird,” Sam stressed, going a little wild in the eyes. “It’s great! …I mean, not like, great, I just mean. It’s not a bad thing or anything.”
You meet his awkward silence with a smug, pleased one of your own. Sam’s smart enough to realize he’s stumbled into your trap, but not quick enough to find an escape, so he sputters for a long time and falls back on his third option.
“I’m just wondering,” he winces, knowing his question is stupid, “why are you still a virgin?” You’re about to laugh in his face, but the earnestness in Sam’s voice makes you hesitate. His question is a genuine one. “...That sounds awful, m’ sorry. But, c’mon. You’re smart enough to know how pretty you are. Charmin’ enough to use it, too. I mean, I’d…”
He caught himself. “—Anyone, would, uh…”
Sam didn’t finish his thought. He changed his grip on the shotgun swinging from his hand, self-conscious, and cleared his throat.
Well. That wasn’t obvious at all. No way in hell you were leaving that alone.
“You’d what?”
Sam didn’t say anything. He just tucked his hair behind his ears again, too shy to say what he was thinking but bold enough to let it be spoken in his silence instead. And it was a very, very telling silence.
Your brain scrambled to cram as much as possible into the blank Sam had left. There was so much potential in that one little word. I’d…
I’d understand if someone wanted to have sex with you.
I’d have found someone by now, if I were you.
I’d have sex with you.
I’d take that opportunity, ______, if I could.
Hm. Okay. Okay, huh. There weren’t a lot of people in the world capable of making you question your life decisions so quickly, but of course, this was Sam. His silence persevered. Your train of thought became an internal trainwreck.
A few opportunities had cropped up over the course of your life—third dates with guys that hadn’t totally sucked, a few handsome barflies—but nothing had… clicked. Because there was supposed to be a click, right? Before sex? Some compass in your body, moving you in a certain direction? You hoped to drift toward something that fit better than a stranger, but like Sam had said, that level of commitment wouldn’t be waiting for you out on the road. You could hook up with civilians or hunters as you pleased, but just the thought made your chest ache. Real connection wouldn’t be waiting for you in the back of a truck or a sleazy motel. Hunters lived short lives, sure, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t be a hopeless romantic.
You’d held onto that notion for a long time. Someday, something would click, and it’d be worth the damn wait.
Now, Sam was here, blinking coyly at you through his bangs, keeping you close to him, listening when you spoke. Click, goes your brain. Like a gear notching into place. He has those mossy, sensitive eyes that pry right open just for you and the prettiest rasp to his voice. Click click.
“C’mon,” Sam coughs. “Cabin’s just ahead.”
I’d… Sam had said, and left you to fill in the blanks.
_
The next day, both of you were proven wrong. You found out the hard way that the disappearances weren’t caused by cannibalistic spirits or werewolves. After getting mauled by living hills of snow and almost swallowed by an avalanche, you and Sam got the very subtle and not-at-all-lethal impression that you were dealing with an insane case of cursed ground. (Cur-sed, Sam had said, because he was fancy.) It took some on-the-spot ritual work and a day’s worth of walking to bury hex bags in the right spots, but by dusk you were alive and comfortable back in the cabin.
“I say we stick around for one more night—make sure this place is clean,” Sam suggested, shaking himself out on the welcome mat. When he shucked his coat off, the silky interior and the back of his shirt were dark with melted snow.
You glanced between Sam, who was blue at the edges, and the shifting tides of flakes on the wind outside. If you stared long enough the whole mountainside seemed to come alive in the dark.
“Uh,” you told him, “are you sure? If we got even one of those spells wrong, what’s stopping this thing from burying the whole cabin?”
But Sam had already thought of that, like he’d already thought of everything else. He rose from where he’d been kicking off his boots to give your icy hands a quick, warming squeeze. “I got it covered. Go—get a fire started, and fast.”
Since you were still riding the wave of adrenaline that’d kept you alive against moving, living forces of nature, you were already following Sam’s orders before he’d finished saying them. He didn’t act hardly as hurried. Being soaked and half-frozen was apparently second nature to him, since he navigated uninhibited through the duffle of ingredients you’d unloaded on the cabin’s floor. Your fingers were so numb that it took three tries to scrape some fire out of your matches, and by then Sam was already tying off his millionth hexbag of the day.
You didn’t regain your senses until a few minutes later, which passed as slow as hours did. Somehow in that sliver of time you’d hauled more firewood inside, hurried it into the fireplace, lit it, helped Sam bury the protection spells around the yard, raced back inside, and laid all your wet clothes out in front of the hearth. The second the doors were locked, your high started to tank. Sam was talking.
“—will last us through til’ tomorrow. Then, in the morning, we can use the spell to see if the land is purified. It might even be a good idea to check with the dowsing rods, too. If this ground is as cursed as we think, the hexbags will be just fine, though, so you don’t have to worry. You listenin’?”
Sam was a big, fuzzy-edged shape sitting criss-cross on the ratty rug a few paces from the fire. His silhouette was outlined by it in handsome shades of gold and honey-white, ‘cause of course he was the kind of movie beautiful that suited romantic fire lighting. Like, really romantic. Your brain had been baking in the panicked sludge of fleeing and hunting all day, but even it was capable of looking at that image of Sam and going, Uh, yeah. There’s something going on here.
For the last few days, the two of you had purified the ground of the cabin, too. It was the most telling relic of Sam and Dean’s life with John Winchester: rationed, unglamorous, and harsh. John was usually an out-of-bounds subject for the boys, but Sam had spent the last few days describing him at length. He was paranoid and obsessive—hence the cabin’s military rations, hidden weapons, traps, metric fucktons of salt, and next to nothing else. John hated any music and technology post-1980—hence the cabin’s record player. It was the only source of entertainment on hand, and the same three records only lasted so long. Even as hunter’s hovels went, this one was impressively oppressive.
Sam, plagued by abysmal hunter-kid memories of being stuck out here, had warned you about it ahead of time. You’ll get bored and miserable. He’d said that and you’d thought to yourself how hard it would be to get bored and miserable around Sam, who mystified you just sitting there. Still, you splurged on some big fluffy blankets, the shittiest and cheapest chess set you could find, pillows, and s’mores. Not exactly the John Winchester essentials, but. Just in case.
Stuffing the footwell of Sam’s stolen truck with cozy bullshit had been worth it in the end, purely because you wouldn’t wish the sleeping situation in the cabin on your worst enemy. There was a single, boxspring-less bed crammed in the bedroom’s corner, with a blanket too pitiful to put into words. It only had one pillow. This pillow also happened to be of unknown origin and age, and you were only brave enough to touch it because you’d worn your big girl pants that day. Sam had banked on the two sleeping bags he and Dean had left there as kids, but they were unfortunately still kid-sized. The two of you would’ve been forced to share body heat under one petal-thin blanket. Now, loaded up with massive, fuzzy comforters and heavy quilts, the two of you were happily sharing body heat under enough blankets to drown in.
Sam had insisted on making a bed for himself on the floor the first night. You’d let him, purely because he was pouring on the chivalry by the truckload and you were too grateful to know what to say. Any plans to argue were pinned down by that stern, unguarded stare. S’okay, I’ve been sleepin’ like this since I was little. Just a few minutes sinking into your snug nest made you rot with guilt. Being on the road with the boys put you in a bed with Sam plenty of times, and though the quarters were a bit tighter in the cabin, the cold was sharper too. You confessed your guilt to Sam the next day, and after the usual research marathon that night you felt his weight fill the untouched side of the bed.
Okay, Sam had caved. But—you’re sleeping on the inside, by the wall. I’m a lighter sleeper. That way if somethin’ comes in, I can protect you.
Hearing that, you’d grabbed his wrist and pulled it over your side. You’d kept one hand fisted around the knife under your pillow and the other folded over Sam’s hand, as if to say, I can protect you, too. Sam must’ve understood, because he’d pressed his cheek against your shoulder blade and succumbed to sleep. The rest of the week was spent like that, Sam herding you against one side of the slim bed with his legs and his arms and his sleepy-soft breaths. Though the bed was toasty and the contact was a one-stop sleeping pill, you stayed up with your knife for company. Sam deserved to feel safe while he slept.
You didn’t get that often as a hunter. Especially the touching part. Touching of any kind only really happened when you trusted someone, and trust was earned on the road with all the ease and painlessness of pulling teeth. In Sam’s case, he was an untapped well for little doses of affection. The moment that line was crossed, the second you’d taken a hit in his place for the first time, the second you’d torn your own clothes to wrap his wounds, Sam was open to you. He would never reach for your hand first (not if he was still Sam, who thought he didn’t deserve it), but you could reach for his and he would take it without question. You could pull his arm around you and Sam would wrap it tight, pressing his nose into your back. There was an exchange that occurred. He trusted you to give him something he was too proud to ask for and you trusted him to let you in, the two of you careful not to break the magic.
While he poked at the fire and lit candles, you flitted to the other room to scoop up a blanket to wrap yourself up in. The constant back-and-forth insanity of the day had made you too nauseous to eat, but you knew your stomach needed something. Preferably something sweet to trick you into feeling rewarded. Military rations really weren’t your thing, so you opted for the pomegranate Sam had avoided to keep his research papers clean.
He’d been going through your plan for tomorrow, right. “I’m listening, Sammy.”
When you circled back to join him on the rug, you opened up an arm of your blanket-cape for him. Sam, without comment, ducked under it, and you shuffled around for a minute to give his broader shoulders some fabric to work with. “All we can do for now is wait,” he told you, “so… whaddya wanna do?”
You put a bowl down in front of you and started splitting the pomegranate with your knife. “Chess again?”
Sam’s lip slanted in a frown. All his energy for smart stuff had been spent on the hunt today, so you weren’t all that surprised at his reluctance.
“Cards, then?” You guessed. Beads of rich red fruit started to fill your bowl, which Sam didn’t hesitate to sneak a hand into.
“There’s only so many rounds of Go Fish a guy can handle losing, _____,” Sam teased.
It was true. You’d obliterated him every round so far, the poor bastard.
Sam leaned into your side, filling your peripherals with his know-it-all smirk. “Unless you—”
“We’re done playing poker,” you said, having suffered your fair share playing against him. The emptiness of your wallet must’ve reflected in your voice, since Sam started snickering into his lap—and yeah, maybe the whole cute-shy-guy routine had worked on you, but knowing Sam he’d find a way to sneak the money he’d won out of you back into your bag. He was sweet that way. Evil, but sweet.
“Okay,” Sam wet his lips and wracked his brain. “...I could read my book to you. It’s the one I was telling you about—”
“—with the corrupt cops in L.A,” you filled in. Separating the pomegranate seeds from their core was bloody work with your knife, so when the natural halves of it were happily in the bowl you picked the rest apart with purple-stained fingers.
“Uh-huh. And we’re at a part I think you’d find pretty interesting, all the crazy trial stuff.” Sam shrunk into his shoulders a little bit, then added in a quiet voice, “If you, y’know. If you want.”
Hmm. You swiped the book from Sam’s other hand, the planes of his fingers making brief, electric contact with yours. A sharp flash of heat whipped through your belly, sizzling through your nerves. It took a bit for you to refocus, but the pause made you look like you were some deep scholarly person really inspecting the back cover, which Sam seemed to appreciate. You took care not to get any fruit stains on the pages. When you turned to pass it back to him, Sam was rubbing his bruised knuckles into his sleepier eyes. How he could keep reading after staring at nothing but old newspapers all week, you had no clue.
You reeled the book back toward you. “...How about I read it to you?”
Sam froze, considering this. He considered it so long that you could watch his cheeks color in real-time, the same red they’d been in the snow, until he broke out of his trance and managed a warm, surprised sort of smile.
“Okay,” Sam melted.
“C’mere, lawboy,” you decided on a whim, and pat the top of your thigh. True to form, Sam took his permission and ran with it, twisting shyly to lay on his side and prop his cheek on your leg. “Lemme impress you with all the big words I know how to say.”
Sam chuckled, and it was the kind of laugh that told you just how many weird law words were about to trip you up. It was also the kind of laugh you could feel, rumbly and real through your leg, which was. It was. It was something. He got comfortable, curling a lazy arm around your knee and using you as a proper pillow.
You really should’ve put more thought into having Sam this close. Like, really should’ve, since he’s so big and warm that it has you running on nothing but instinct, and your first impulse having Sam in your lap is to go straight for that gorgeous hair.
You take the lock Sam’s been messing with all day and tuck it behind his ear, just because his head is there and you need a damn place for your hand to rest. Right. A deep and draining sigh airs out of Sam’s nose being touched like that, and you start to wonder if this was something he’d masterminded. He seeps into your lap like he’d been chasing this all day, all week, and something about it makes you feel special in ways no one else could manage.
You open to the page Sam left off on and start to read. Sam doesn’t move an inch, laying statue-still in your lap. He only moves to sneak pinches of pomegranate seeds. Stiff as he is, he’s there, the furnace you’ve relied on for the last few days to keep warm. You get through a few chapters this way, Sam pausing you every ten seconds to explain something or hum or snootily translate some lawyer-speak for you. The whole time you do an excellent job of keeping your hands to yourself. Ever since Sam’s comment from yesterday, the little pieces you’ve gotten of him have made you greedy. Click.
The fire and the candlelight create a perfect bubble of heat on the otherwise icy floor, so it doesn’t take long for Sam to go from resting in your lap to downright oozing across it. From your point of view he’s nothing but a mop of shining hair and a big hand curled around your knee. His presence seeps into you as much as his warmth does, and after so long it’s almost overwhelming to taste someone else’s vulnerability this way. Click click. You’re reminded of how much you care about Sam, and how long it’s been since you’ve been allowed that. There was something about him that would always be worth protecting. Maybe it was how fucking good he smelled.
“Doctor Janen’s contributions to the investigation, especially her knowledge of luminol, were,” you trailed off, “were…”
Sam’s breathing had evened out in your lap. Or, you thought it had, until his posture shifted under the sweater he was wearing. He rolled out of your lap and onto his hands with a reluctant groan. Tired as he was, Sam was always capable of being a smartass. “D’you know what luminol is?”
“Yes, detective,” you scoffed, maybe a teensy bit disappointed that he’d left your lap. The outline of his touch on your thigh burned like a heat beacon. “Should I go back and read the last few paragraphs, or was that you just pretending to sleep?”
Sam rubbed at his face, like it was possible to physically scrub the sleep from it. He sat up next to you, blinking slowly to get his bearings, and for no logical reason your heartbeat built to an ear-ringing throb in your chest. You were completely alone with him. For once, you had Sam all to yourself. Soft shadows kissed his arms and hands and neck. He was made up of nothing but full endless sloping lines, a charcoal sketch come to life.
“I was restin’ my eyes,” he sassed. “We should stay sharp through tonight, though. Stay up. I can take the first shift, since you’ve taken the last three.”
You didn’t miss the little nod to your sleeping habits. Which meant Sam had also laid awake long enough to know you hadn’t fallen asleep until late, which meant he’d laid awake next to you. In bed. Thinking with that big brain of his. It made your own big brain run around in crazy circles, chasing whatever conclusions he might come to.
You stole a glance at the nearest window. The salt lines were laid neatly on its sil, on the off chance boarding up the glass turned out to be useless. “That’s okay. I’m not exactly tired yet.”
Sam popped a few pomegranate seeds into his mouth, humming in thought. “Then it’d probably be smartest to keep each other up.”
“Samuel!” You gasped. He froze mid-chew, confused, and remained confused until you started poking him and laughing. “I’d expect a line like that from your brother, but never from you.”
You were a tease-first-ask-questions-later kind of person, so you understood Sam’s particular brand of banter and how he liked to respond to yours. Typically, you’d annoy him with a playful little taunt and Sam would let you know you were funny by calling you a jackass. You waited for Sam to hear your line and brush you off as an idiot. Instead, he did something much more interesting: he got defensive.
“I meant stay up like, like talking,” he sputtered. “I would never—y’know. I wouldn’t. Do, uh. Do that. Why don’t we keep up our question game from before? It’s, it’s your turn, right?”
“Okay. What was your first time like?”
Well. Shit.
This was the fastest question that either one of you had managed to whip out all week, and that fact hung so obviously in the air that you could feel it between you and Sam on the floor. It dropped so hard in the middle of the conversation that it shut you both up, silencing Sam’s sputtering and veering your train of thought to a shrieking, sparking halt. Sam was smart. His big brain would put together—had probably already put together—that you’d thought about asking him this. He might even be smart enough to intuit why you’d been itching to bring this subject back up, and for the first time in your life you prayed that Sam was the dumbest, most thick-headed man to ever hunt with you.
He did a great impression of someone less clever than himself. “Like. The first time I…?”
You chewed a few pomegranate seeds. “Uh-huh.”
“...Right.” Sam registered. He conveniently decided to fixate on the fire instead of you, which should’ve helped your sanity, if that was even possible anymore. The bulb of his nose and the swell of his lip curved just perfectly in profile, made even prettier by the firelight. God.
You panicked. “If that makes you uncomfortable—”
Sam swallowed. “No, no. You’re okay. Just thinking.”
You bit down on your tongue. Oh, awesome. Thinking! Exactly what I want you to be doing right now!
Sam swiped two sweaty, corded hands down each of his thighs. Tucked his hair behind his ears. Made your belly flutter and twist like a huge gust of wind going through a spring-fresh tree.
“I was seventeen,” Sam cleared his throat. “We were in Utah—well, I was in Utah, Dad and Dean were… Whatever. But I was sort of, um, on this rebellious streak at the time.”
You lazed back on your hands. “So, in hunter-kid terms, counting the days til’ you’re eighteen and packing your rucksack?”
An abrupt laugh barked out of Sam. His gaze loitered on your face with renewed comfort, remembering, again, that you’d both hidden your acceptance letters where no parent could see them. This was another Sam-move you knew the steps to.
“Yeah,” his eyes glittered. “Exactly.”
(The day you met Sam, the one reference you’d made to your associate’s degree had him crossing his legs under the table. He’d asked in a husky, tight voice what you’d gone to school for. Just hearing the words folklore and mythology had the guy close to pitching a tent.)
Sam managed to take his eyes off you. “But, uhm. There was this girl at school my Dad had ordered me not to hang around, so… I hung around. After a school dance. In her car.”
You were a very mature adult who was not at all jealous of a teenage Utahn, and thus sculpted your face into something playful. “Dirty,” you snickered. Sam’s light smile was encouraging, so you said as an afterthought, “Sounds like a squeeze, though. Don’t know if I’d want my first time to be in a car.”
“Especially in a tiny, cramped Nissan,” he agreed, chuckling. The smidgen of regret in his voice shouldn’t have made you feel like you’d earned a point against Random Utah Girl, but it did. You scolded yourself for it (your imaginary point gripped in one fist).
It was now Sam’s turn to ask a question, and he asked it fast. Impressively fast. “Okay, so. No car. Where would you want your first time to happen, then?”
Though you were an absolute animal when it came to Go Fish, your empty wallet was proof enough that you were a lousy poker player—due to an even lousier poker face. Hearing Sam’s question, it did you no favors. Even before you’d formed any thoughts about… everything, your body knew its answer, pointing every delicate nerve in your body toward the open doorway to the cabin’s bedroom.
You flicked a glance at the warm, intimate darkness waiting for you there.
It was only a second. But that one look was enough. Your hand was exposed, and Sam, by comparison, was an excellent poker player.
In a rush, you scrambled to put some distance between yourself and your obviousness. You winced. No way out. “Uhh, anywhere cozy. For the first time, I dunno if I’d wanna be cramped in a closet or something, no matter how sexy it may be. Is it lame to say… a bed?”
Sam hummed. As you’d talked, he’d become more and more relaxed in front of the fire, lounging on a propped-up arm and picking out of the fruit bowl. There was a long silence from him that could’ve been the weighted silence before a judge’s verdict.
…You’d never seen a judge draw his hand up to his mouth, suck pomegranate juice from the pads of his fingers, then pull off them with a noisy pop, but. But maybe they took a different approach at Stanford.
“It’s the standard for a reason, right?” Sam shrugged, amused.
He pushed the bowl across the floor with his wrist instead of his spit-slick fingers. It made a hollow scraping sound that brought your head back to the conversation, thank god, since the last seconds of your life post-fingers-to-mouth action had been spent elsewhere. The specific “elsewhere” that entailed Sam’s thick-knuckled fingers and Sam’s pretty pink mouth. You’d had the occasional intrusive thought about men creep up on you before, but the tricky part was that those thoughts pushed their way in. They jolted into your life then jolted back out.
Single-handed, Sam had hooked you, reeled you in, and pulled you “elsewhere.” Keyword: pulled. Not pushed.
…Then… maybe… pulled you again. And pushed you back. And again. Pulled out, then pushed in. Pulllled out slow, only to ssssink back in, deeper than before. Pulling and pushing with rhythm. Pulling, pushing, faster, deeper. Making you gasp and yelp his name, his fingers—Sam’s fingers—digging into your waist, your belly—
Click. Click click click click click click.
“_____?”
You’re so self-conscious you think you could feel the individual atoms of your body clanging against each other. “...Uh-huh?”
It’s your turn to ask a question next. But Sam breaks the rules and speaks first, since he knows exactly what he wants to ask you. He glides up onto one hand, his whole body a twenty-page study of lanky coyness, and tilts in close to you.
“If you could lay it all out—the timing, the place, the person…” Sam’s face glittered with a poker player’s curiosity. “What would your perfect first time be like?”
Or: Give me the manual, and I’ll follow it.
Your mouth was watering. It was one of a million things making it impossible for you to speak right now, including the sudden, nigh-unbearable heat of the room under your collar, and, oh right, the metric fuckton of slick soaking your underwear. The speed at which your arousal hits you is enough to make you dizzy, and in the haze you swear you start to hear something. Click. Click. Click click click click click click click—
Fuck. Sam is waiting for an answer. Fuck.
“I guess I’ve never thought about it before.”
Which was a blatant lie, since you’d spent the last ten minutes thinking of nothing else. Sam either sensed you weren’t telling the truth or was looking for something more, because he let you linger in your own answer, prying the rest out of you with his hanging silence.
Really, you should’ve been tougher, but the first long breath without anything from him shredded your strength. You caved and filled the quiet.
“I mean,” you toyed with your hands in your lap. “No matter what, I’d want it to be special. Bein’ out on the road, marching around, that’s not really a luxury we’re allowed to have. It’s like you said yesterday. I wanna be with someone I’m connected to, and I don’t think that’s gonna be in the back of a bar or—”
“—in a stranger’s bed,” Sam softened with understanding. “Yeah.”
“Yeah.” You echoed. The fire crackled and popped, loud enough that you could use the sound as an excuse to look elsewhere. “And if I happened to find that person, they’d have to be in the life. We can only trust other hunters, nowadays.”
Sam snorted. “If we’re lucky, maybe.”
It disappointed you how much you had to agree with him. There used to be a sense of mutual understanding among the hunters you’d met, but something had shifted since you were little. The world was a much scarier place, and the hunters that’d survived to see it had darkened to meet it. You’d dodged all shades of skeevy, selfish people before you’d landed in the Impala’s backseat. Even Dean and Sam had colored the list of hunters you’d been warned to avoid. Of course, every inch of it had turned out to be triple-hand gossip. Maybe you were quick to judge or the boys were just good seeds in a shitty crop, either way, ending up with them was the kind of good luck that beat the devil.
You’d never had the chance to tell Sam that before.
“I dunno. Not to go all mushy on you, but I do feel pretty lucky.”
Sam indulged you with an inviting tilt of his head, impressed that either one of you had a sliver of luck between you. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. This last year, before I joined up with you n’ Dean, there wasn’t a single living soul out there I thought was worth putting my faith in,” you said, easing your mushy confession onto him under the guise of fact. Sam couldn’t digest it any other way. “I’m really grateful you changed that for me. It feels—it feels good to trust people. To feel like somebody knows you.”
Sigh. The side of your personal bubble filled with nothing but Sam started to seep with quiet, disbelieving fondness, and you could tell because Sam was giving you the eyes. The eyes. The ones that people brought out their wallets for and sent girls like you into romantic psychosis.
You dared to face them head-on, which was a reckless idea (probably brought on by romantic psychosis). Sure enough, his gaze was big and soulful and heart-rending. Sam was sitting so close now that you could almost soak up his body heat. The biting wind wormed its way through the thin walls and the fire was fading with it, but Sam oozed magnetic warmth by comparison. Stuff-your-face-in-his-neck kind of warmth.
“Do you feel like…” Sam rasped. He brushed the flats of his knuckles down your arm, breaking that final touch barrier. “...like I really know you?”
Your entire nervous system implodes with fluttery feelings. It’s just two fingers, brushing soft down your arm through your sweater, but. It’s confirmation. It’s Sam’s yes, I want this, and it puts into perspective how the two of you have spent the last week: alone together. Curled as one shape in bed. Talking just loud enough for only the other to hear, and never an octave higher. Never more than a few feet apart. If you reached for Sam first you knew he’d accept your hand, your boots in his bootprints, but when he coasts his palm down the swell of your shoulder it’s him reaching out for you.
You reach right back. You curl a hand up to cover his hand with yours, those big doe eyes asking that same question on repeat. Do you think I know you? Do you trust me? Do you want this?
“All I’ve got is me, you, and Dean. And it wasn’t him that I told all my deepest hopes and shittiest moments to,” you laughed. “So…”
Every other time you’ve hit this point, you’d been distracted by the logistics and the math of sex—protection, chemistry, the when and how, and the consequences of both. It’s not gonna hit you until two days after this moment, after Sam has you as many times as you want in the plush cabin bed, that there was no math with him. Just want. Just things sliding into place. Click click click.
“So…” Sam’s face tips even closer. Your head fogs with the heat and smell and presence of him, mesmerized.
He puts it all together for the two of you: “Your perfect first time would be with a hunter, somebody in the life that you trust. Somebody who could make you feel special. Somebody who really knows you.”
You smirk before you can stop yourself. “Do I need to drop any more hints, Sam?”
Damn, could that boy put a fireworks show to shame. He lit up. Sam’s shoulders did this really cute boyish swell and his lips parted, telegraphing with every piece of himself, Oh, you really want this, you really want me!
You’d never seen him wear that kind of happiness before, and it made sense why. Thank god the two of you were off the grid out here, because you didn’t doubt that Sam’s smile could pop every lightbulb in the entire country.
Sam aimed a bubbly laugh at his lap, embarrassed. “I don’t think I’m getting the full picture,” he tried to flirt, “a few more, maybe?”
So, getting less and less subtle as you went on, you explained to Sam the hypothetical author of the night of your life. He’d be sweet. Polite. Smart, too, but not the type to rub it in your face. (This made Sam laugh). He’d be gentle and considerate and frankly fucking awesome, but not so shy that he couldn’t give you a wild time.
When he was blushing so hard you stopped needing the fire for warmth, you sprinkled one last handful of flattery on him. “And, jesus,” you whistled, “this guy I’m picturing? Total dreamboat. So pretty it makes me wanna write dumb songs about him.”
Predictably, Sam got so flustered that he went back to futzing with that same strand of hair by his ear. With the touch barrier between you broken, your mind buzzed with a million different ways to reach out and feel him, to draw him in, and all those ideas coalesced seeing Sam’s hand come up to his cheek. Before you lost your resolve, you stroked the messiest portion of his bangs behind his ear for him. Sam melted. He liked to do that around you.
“Now I’d just sound arrogant if I assumed that it’s me,” Sam snorted.
You pressed the flats of your knuckles down Sam’s warm, smooth cheek. “It’s you. It’s been you for a while, actually.”
The easy, loving contact dazed him. Sam’s eyes fluttered closed, and a short, shaky breath puffed out of him in one bracing go. It was clear that he hadn’t been touched this way in a while. He sat there absorbing your touch for a long time, a cat resting his head in the full scope of your palm. You turned your body to face his and Sam’s gaze, which was layer after layer of hazels no artist could mimic, opened for you.
You thought about saying something cheesy like, wow, ain’t I lucky, having the whole world in the palm of my hand, but Sam was much faster (and much, much cheesier).
A leather-tough hand scooped around the back of your neck. The touch was fucking-christ-big and god, so was he, the line of his thumb to his wristbone as long as the length of your neck. You knew this because that’s exactly where Sam placed it, stroking your chin with his thumb. Prickling chills tickled up your legs. He scrutinized you—and you say scrutinize loosely, since the Sam-equivalent was gazing into your face like a fatal decision was held there. Your mental yes, yes, I want you was so loud that Sam could’ve psychically heard it. If he did, it was enough to make his pupils become huge pools of want.
“C’mere,” Sam grinned.
You laughed. “M’ practically nose to nose with you, Sam, I don’t have any further to—”
The rest of your teasing was lost to a louder yelp. Sam scooped his arms around your middle and. And hauled you. Into his lap.
His—lap.
There was no way to survive this landing. You were plopped right on top of his barrel-wide thighs, your every sense instantly stuffed full to bursting with every wonderful thing that made Sam himself. A steam of woody body wash and aftershave put you under his spell. Two massive hands soothing down your back glued you happily in place. Sam’s warm chuckles seeped through his chest and into your hands, because, oh yeah, you were allowed to touch him. And there was so much of him to touch now, too. The entire front of your body was cozily smushed up against his firm, longer frame, filling your hazy vision with the soft shadows on his throat and collarbones and those fucking dimples. What the fuck.
“Is this okay?” Sam asked you.
The only time you’d been permitted in another person’s space like this was to hug them. Overwhelmed with choice—you could kiss him, touch him, run your fingers through his hair this close—you defaulted to what you knew. Sam hesitated, but with a breath, the coil of his body unwound and the two of you slid together with a satisfying smush. (Or maybe a click).
Oh my god that’s good, your senses wailed, but all you could manage with your face muffled in his neck was, “Warm. Sooo warm, Sammy.”
“Is that a yes?” He hoped.
You pulled your face out of his shirt to sigh. “The biggest yes of your life.”
Sam gleamed. Being so close to the source of all happiness on earth (the toothy grin he was biting back for your benefit) should’ve instantly pulverized you and every other hot-blooded being on this side of the planet. It should’ve. But your soul was still ringing around in your feeble body, and sure enough, your calves were still snug around Sam’s thighs like they’d been before. You’d survived being inches away from Sam’s face while he smiled all shy for you, and succeeded in feeling only a teeny bit like a pile of smoking ash because of it. For a second you tricked yourself into thinking you could survive him.
That is not the case.
With impeccable timing, Sam kisses you. Just a brief, firm peck on the mouth. Testing the waters. The waters that are now a fucking ocean in your underwear, thank you very much. It’s only a two-second kiss, but the instant Sam’s lips pop off of yours an embarrassing happy squeal follows him out. Definitely not the suave reaction you were expecting from yourself. Sam just laughs, which translates as a sexy hum under your free hand.
“That was cute,” he whispers, eyes crinkling.
“Shut up, Sam.”
He hums, still brimming with that big spoiled grin. He takes you by your prickling arms and starts to pull his hands down them, again and again, squeezing the anxiety out of you in huge handsy swaths. You feel a bit better about being such a nervous wreck. His hands are trembling too.
The first kiss was good. Really good. Wetter, warmer than you were expecting, but so fucking—good. His mouth was soft and stained by the pomegranate, but, oh no, you’re already forgetting what it was like to taste him. It’s so tempting… to just… lean in…
He’s just as tempted. Sam meets you in the middle for a second kiss that he finds so satisfying, so right that this deep rumbling moan purrs right out of him. The pink swell of his lips are, of course, pressed hot to yours, filling you head to fucking toe with that single bassy note. You gasp through your nose—because nothing is worth breaking his kiss. Not a desperate breath of air, not an uttered word.
Sam kisses you with his hands as much as he dazzles you with his mouth, laying heavy touches down your back, then your waist, then your legs, inspecting and absorbing. You’re hardly as methodical. He is a wonderful beach and it’s your first time seeing the ocean. You take the biggest fistfuls of him that you can, feeling the silky sand of him slip between your greedy fingers.
Sam is apparently into being your metaphorical beach, since after he’s done melting your brain and your underwear in the most intense make-out session of your life, he pulls away to speak.
Sam rasps. “Can I take care of you?”
It takes you a moment to respond, because. Well. A, that’s the sexiest way someone has asked to have sex with you, no contest, and B, you’ve been waiting this whole time for the moment where you don’t want this anymore. With other men, your body had just never found the spark that should’ve been there. Was this time different? Had things click click clicked into place?
You take a step back to put this in perspective for your future self. As vividly as you’re able, you think about having sex with Sam. You visualize Sam’s sharp eyes, his naked back, the cut of his hips, all of it, as he fucks you straight through the shitty mattress in the cabin’s bedroom. All the sweat-twisted blankets shoved to the floor. Sam’s hips canting your thighs apart. The worn-smooth slope of his—of his fucking paws, essentially, squeezing your tits and your tummy and your waist in achy handfuls. You think about it some more. How Sam would moan, how his lashes would screw shut in ecstasy as he filled you. You keep thinking about it. When your mind starts to deviate toward the filthy, thick sound of him… o-of Sam plunging into you over and over again, smushing you under his weight… uhm. Uh.
Yeah. Yeah, this is everything you fuckin’ want.
It takes conscious effort for you to close your gaping mouth, then pry it open again to blurt: “Please, yes.”
A tiny piece of his posture relaxed in relief. Sam smushed a cute, giddy peck into your cheek, reminding your entire tingling nervous system that there was a really sweet guy underneath the deadly-efficient hunter you knew.
“Okay,” he beamed, and shyly tipped his head toward the bedroom. “Shall we?”
You feel like you should be doing more than being demure and nodding a lot, but Sam doesn’t seem to mind. After you climb out of his lap and find your footing on your jellified legs, he unfolds off the floor like bucks do, knowing on instinct how to conduct the body he has so much of. The fire’s sleepy and weak in the hearth, and with it dead, Sam is the new center of heat in the room. He takes your hand and just touching the middle of his palm spurs shivery warmth down your legs. Now, you’re all too aware of Sam’s proportions—how encompassing his hand feels, how easily his shoulders fill the doorway to the little bedroom. Feeling mature, you fill the next room with bright giggles. You see in real-time how Sam melts at the noise.
Like you have the last few nights, you each scoop up a candle and find a place for it amidst the hunter clutter. It takes a beat to find your way through the dark. The space is just big enough for the slim bed pushed snug into the corner, and already you know from experience how you and Sam fit into the nest of blankets and pillows. (Hint: extremely well).
Sam uses his candle to light a few others on the bedside table, keeping a free hand stretched toward you to reserve his spot as your only hand-holder. You drop your candle on the dresser and consider the only thing next to it while you wait for him. The Winchesters had three vinyls total for their ancient record player, and seeing it unused and wasted in front of you, you have a stroke of romantic genius.
The second you drop the needle on the first jazz record and turn back toward the cozy, honey-lit room, Sam’s there, sliding into your open arms to plant a kiss on you. And another. And another. And another, coaxing little happy sighs from you. They’re such deep kisses that you dip back with each one, until the curve of Sam’s towering body is diagonal over you and you have to clutch his shoulders to stay standing. Both of his rough-sawn hands cup the scoop of your back to support you. All your daydreaming about him had convinced you that he’d be a head-to-toe brick wall, but Sam’s teddy-bear soft instead, the gleaming skin you have access to yielding and plush. His lips most of all, puffy pink and shining.
Sam persists, pressing closer, kissing you deeper, panting under his breath. Whatever it is about the happy sounds you make wake up something dark in him. There’s a tight, delicate rhythm he likes to follow, and the more of Sam you get the less of it you see. That straight-arrow persona is there, and then—poof! Sam’s tongue is laving wet and hot and perfect across your parted lips, ruining your underwear in one fell swoop.
He tilts in to start sucking on your tongue—
“Fuck, Sam,” you choke out.
The situation in your panties graduates to unbearable levels. If you have to makeout with Sam fully clothed for even a second longer, you think your core will enter a full reactor meltdown. You try to get the words across, grabbing helplessly at his sweater and whining, but Sam interprets it as something else.
“Everything okay?” He worries.
Dazed, you nod more than you need to. With your eyes open and his face in full view, you’re hit with a spark of self-consciousness. Sam fills the bedroom with easy conviction, owning his desire in a way you’ve never really been capable of. You don’t exactly have the experience to blow his mind or anything. Why would he want this if there was so little in it for him? Sam wasn’t a selfish guy, but… To you, your eagerness starts to feel more like greediness.
You shift from foot to anxious foot, shrinking in place. “...Could you, um? Walk me through it? How we’re gonna…?” You swallowed the frog in your throat. “Sorry, that must seem stupid.”
Leave it to him to make something stupid into something ridiculously, fatally sexy.
“S’okay, don’t be embarrassed. It’d…” Sam wets his lips, looking for the words. A quiet, dirty-minded smile plays across his face. He decides, “It’d be my pleasure.”
His touch moves away from your back, and you’re about to mourn the loss of it until Sam’s hands start to play with yours, twisting them around in his own like a schoolboy. He closes the space you’ve timidly left open between you by pressing your chests together. It’s a small gesture. But this is Sam, so your face is in smolders on that alone. (…And you’d just been french kissed, to be fair).
“Okay. Uhh,” Sam fumbles. He stops to consider his approach. As in, the approach he’ll take to seducing you, as if you aren’t seduced on a level incomprehensible to humankind.
You can’t help but laugh at how much Sam-math must be happening in his head, and Sam laughs too. Sam keeps laughing, until it warms into a handsome, knowing hum, and suddenly he’s laying your hands on his belt and tickling your ear with the hot fan of his breath. You squeak, sensitive, which tempts him into breaking character.
Sam reigns it back in, then whispers.
“When you’re ready… m’ gonna get you out of these clothes.”
The deliciously big set of hands on your waist sidle up under the open strip of skin below your shirt. Just one of his fingers is brave enough to sneak up to draw circles against your tummy. It’s the slightest taste of what it’ll be like to have those hands all over you, sweat-slick skin-to-naked skin, which is just enough to make your appetite for him boil in your gut.
“And I know you’re gonna be freezin’, we both are, but I promise you’ll get real hot real soon. Cause’...”
The bulb of his nose (and the ghost of his smile) brushed your cheek, then down, and the explosive fluttery feeling already lighting up your belly pitches into a whole fireworks show.
“...The minute I see you lying all pretty on your back for me…”
Sam tips in to lay a kiss on your throat. A slow, open-mouthed kiss, suckling soft on your skin.
“...In our bed…”
Our bed, he says. That choice of words alone implies so much. If the two of you sharing it before didn’t count, then Sam was about to make it your bed.
“I’m not stopping til’ you get every single thing you want,” Sam purrs. His kisses become blatant licks, the whole of his capable tongue drawing wet lines on your throat. “Til’ you’re damn spoiled.”
What. The fuck. The universe could dissolve into mist and you would be too turned on to care, tethered to the last atoms of the earth by your hands on Sam’s belt. You gape up at him. Sam, the evil genius, smirks right back. When you’d said you wished your first time could feel special, you hadn’t exactly been planning for Sam to follow that direction to the damn letter. He makes it sound like he’s going to bend to your every whim, and knowing Sam...
You swipe at your face to check that you’re not drooling. “I’m—I-I—you’re—” while you’re sputtering, he swipes a dab of spit off the other corner of your lip. “—Suh-Sam.”
Screw it. You drop both hands on Sam’s chest and twist your fingers in his shirt, forcing the words out in choppy pieces. “I’m not as experienced as you. But I really, really… want this. To be—to be good for us. Wanna give you everything you want, too.”
Sam makes a flattered, yet sympathetic face. “Oh, baby, don’t think about me—”
“—I can’t stop thinking about you.”
Now, it’s Sam’s turn to forget how to speak. Finally.
You wind your fingers into the tuft at the back of his neck, enunciating, “How… do I make this good for you?”
“You’re already here. That’s all I need,” Sam gushes, falling back on his tender chivalrous boyfriend routine. It’s really sexy. Almost sexy enough to work. He tucks back his signature lock of unruly hair, blushing from his ears to his neck.
Well, stream-of-consciousness hasn’t failed you yet.
“Uh-uh. We’ve been alone together in this teeny cabin for a whole week. There’s no way I’m the virgin, but you’re the one without the dirty fantasies.” You take a long squinting look at him to divulge any loose secrets. Thumbing Sam’s hip through his shirt, you press, “Tell me. C’mon. You want me to blow you? Pull your hair? Or do you, I dunno—wanna bite me? Pin me down?”
You can track the second Sam starts breathing harder, but somewhere between then and now his eyes have glazed over with dangerous desire.
Sam clutched fast at his shrinking sliver of self-control. “Okay,” he squeezed his eyes shut. “We’re out in the middle of nowhere. So… if it feels right, and it’s not embarrassing, it would be… I’d, I’d love it if you…”
“Got super noisy?”
After an intensely bashful pause filled with quiet music, Sam nods, hiding behind his bangs. Knew it. He always got so squirrely when you did your oh-I’m-so-cozy moan snuggling into bed at night.
Teasing him any more would definitely be poking the bull. But is it fun to poke that bull? Absolutely. Especially when Sam starts to unbuckle his belt, his whole body crawling with the urge to throw himself at you.
“Alright, I can do that. But how noisy are we talking? Like, normal enjoying myself kind of noisy, or best-sex-of-my-life noisy?”
He gets this nasty, disbelieving smile on his face, and it’s your last warning before—
Snap. Sam’s restraint splits in two. In an instant you’re captured by the underarms and Sam, who’s honest-to-god grinning/snarling about how you need ta’ be taught a lesson on leavin’ well enough alone, flings you onto the end of the bed. You land with a shriek. Then a second, louder squeal, as Sam takes your pantlegs in his fists and whips them clean off.
The next precious moments are filled with all sorts of lessons. For one thing, it takes a lot of force to tear pants off a person. By happenstance, you’re dragged a whole foot further down the bed and right against Sam’s lap. You also learn that pants are connected to underwear, so following that math, it makes sense why your panties are now royally rearranged on your hips. These two factors are too convenient to not be planned on Sam’s part. You’re reminded, again, that Sam is a genius.
You also remember that you’ve never been pantsed before. With and without the sexy context. Keeping that in mind, you, like any other person in your delicate situation, snap your legs closed on instinct. Not because you don’t want Sam there—holy shit, do you want him there—but because he happened to tickle you in the transfer from floor to bed, and you’re not about to let him pounce on you and tickle you to death.
This really works out for you in the long run, since having your legs closed means that it’s inevitable Sam will have to open them.
You’re laughing so hard that your sides have locked up with stitches. Sam pretends he’s not just as amused by kneeling up on the bed as grouchily as possible, ripping his shirt off, and… and, uhm… scooping his huge palms under your knees, and… yeah. He doesn’t have to do any pushing past that. Your legs just fall right open for him, and Sam wiggles in between them where he belongs.
Nothing in this entire world could prepare you to have Sam this close, so the idea that you could even cope with being absolutely towered over by the indecent amount of ab he possesses is fuckin’ laughable. Who the fuck let him have abs? For the health of all people attracted to men on this planet, who taught Sam to work out?
Your giggling trails off into mesmerized, panting silence.
“How noisy?” Sam scoffs, chuckling mean and deep in his chest. “How noisy? I’ll give you a hint how noisy you’re gonna be—”
He falls forward onto his hands, effectively blanketing you in a swath of flushed-smooth, freckly skin. There’s not a thought in your mind about how cold this room is in comparison to the last. Your hands smooth over the planes of his cheeks on instinct, and Sam follows the touch into a soul-shattering, full-body, toe-curling kiss that melts both your bodies into the homey center of the quilts and comforters. His nose squishes into your cheek and a long, satisfied groan bubbles out of him. He barely pulls his lips from yours when he hisses—
“...I’m gonna fuck you til’ you’re hoarse.”
What in the ever-loving fuck.
I cannot put into words how much I want you to do that, you want to say, and it’s true, since you end up making the world’s neediest gasp of glee instead. You’re not pleading up into his face for a full second before Sam gets your message. One can only guess what he’ll do next. (Hint: Sam cannot take in a full breath without kissing you first).
All week you’ve been toiling away to earn tiny pieces of the Sam puzzle. The picture you’ve built so far is, frankly, a touch-starved animal, who will wait at the heels of the first trusted person willing to provide. You kiss Sam once and he’s so damn grateful that he’ll multiply it by five. You get adventurous with your hands, squeezing and appreciating Sam’s flushed-smooth back. Because he’s Sam, returning the favor takes precedence over his beloved activity, and your kiss is forced to break so he can sit up and touch you proper.
Well. If any of this can be considered proper, that is. And if there’s one word to describe what Sam does to you with his hands, it’s improper.
“Still ready, _____?” He asks.
You bite back your inner worries and taunt him, “Been ready.”
He splays his fingers on your belly and is so transfixed by its softness that he stoops to smudge a kiss above your belly button. You do your best to pretend it doesn’t tickle, which is the opposite of what Sam wants. He gives your sides two quick pinches that have you squirming and squeaking under him, too shy to keep your eyes open. You’re embarrassed about the girly sounds he gets out of you until you risk a look at his face—plum red, dizzy, and glazed with fond desire.
Sam wasn’t kidding. He does want you at your noisiest.
This brings your horniness to a whole new level, turning the airy fluttery feeling expanding in your belly into the opposite: an emptiness, a vacuum, and one that desperately needs to be filled. Sam seems to do nothing but fill things. The doorways he stands in, the beds he kneels on, the snuggly center of your embrace. Naturally, this makes you insane. His hands fill up the most—big swaths of your belly, your shirt—your bra.
They push the band of the hunting sportsbra you’re wearing clear over your tits and out of his way. Sam rumbles in approval.
You stop your hands from twitching up around your naked chest, now hyper-aware of how much your breasts rise with your breath. Sam breathes you in. His gaze is soft beyond imagination, which makes the whittled-down shards of fear inside you seem even sillier than before. Either he reads your mind or he’d predicted you’d be mousy (and christ do you hope it’s the latter, since that means he thought about this already), because Sam plucks up your closest hand and presses it flat to his happy trail.
“Don’t be nervous,” he soothes. “Touch me too.”
The thought alone explodes you into steam. But you’re no quitter, so you roll with the invitation, stroking the soft pads of your fingers along the line from Sam’s naval to his ill-fitting jeans. He’s not flexing for you, so you get to feel him as Sam really is: butter-smooth and blanket-soft. Without his belt there’s a precious gap hanging between his hips and his waistband. It’s just big enough for your hand to fit inside.
You’re not brave enough to take that final plunge until Sam twists down to kiss your chest. His mouth burns scorching hot on your breastbone, and as he curls over your body, his hands on your belly slide up to take two needy handfuls of your tits. In the same motion you fit your hand into Sam’s jeans and squeeze and—ohhh fuck, you wind in as one, sharing a perfect bow-taut moment of hissing pleasure.
Sam pressed his face where he was kissing, deflating on top of you with a long, seeping, “Shittt.”
Okay. On top of feeling good, sex could be a fun little puzzle to put together. Sam urging his hips into your hand was one piece, and if you put it in the right place (i.e: touched him like that again), he’d be all yours. You do. You cup him through his boxers and follow what you feel, and what you feel is. Fucking. It’s. I-is it supposed to be that big? And, and holy shit, is he hard.
Sam. Sam’s big, thick dick in your hand. You���re gonna be wet for damn weeks.
Stupified, you blurt out, “Do you always get this hard?”
Sam cracks a wry grin, his eyes lidded. “Mm. It’s definitely you. Bein’ stuck out here with you.”
He drops a kiss on the seam of your ribcage. Then lower. And lower, leaving shiny wet circles along your tummy. “Makin’ me crazy… sticking by me every second, pressing yourself into me in your sleep. Lookin’ at me like—like that.” Just thinking about it made Sam shiver. “You turn me on like nothing else. Just last night, even, right here in this bed—I must’a stopped myself from rolling you over and tasting you a hundred times.”
The urge was so vivid for him that Sam’s mouth must’ve been watering, since he sucks the spit back through his teeth before he starts to kiss your belly in earnest. Just that sound burns with lust. Sam wants it, wants you so bad he’s shaking, his hands trembling under your thighs as he slithers down to lay between them. His kisses grow fiercer, open-mouthed and sucking the closer he gets to your panties. Kitten-soft moans start to sneak into the cycle of your panting.
“Don’t think I’m gonna be able to stop myself this time,” Sam husks.
You let him know just how comfortable you are with that by curling your legs around his back. Then his shoulders. Then Sam’s ears, and at that point he’s singeing spit-damp kisses inside your thighs like the world’s most faithful servant.
Nobody but him had ever touched you there. You choke out his name on short, needy breaths. It’s like you’re filling a meter. With enough please, Sams, you hit his limit, and he stops rubbing his face into your soft under-thighs long enough to hook his fingers around your waistband.
You’re treated to the Sam Winchester specialty. He bats long lashes at you over dark, sensitive eyes, and rasps, “Am I okay to…?”
You’re so horny that you start spurring Sam closer with your heels. “Fucking yes.”
This is the A+ answer. Sam doesn’t even wait to get your underwear all the way down your legs, yanking them out from under you and ducking straight below the bridge they make. Just seeing your pussy makes him swear. You’re so swollen and slick and his mouth is so close, so close, but Sam decides to taunt you, blowing across the spit cooling on your belly instead. Heat oozes in hazy lines from his body. From his hands. By comparison, the night has leeched the warmth from the room and you’re cold enough to get goosebumps.
“Please please please, Sam,” you hiccup, “need it. Need you. Need you t’ warm me up.”
“My poor girl,” Sam coos, brows drawn with playful sympathy. He starts to rub some heat back into your freezing legs, tilting closer, closer. “I know just how to help.”
You let your head flop back as you take his cheesiness in, laughing. That’s not exactly a line you’d expect from him. Before, though, you would’ve never pinned Sam as the kind of guy to clamp your knees against your chest, drop his head between your legs and fit his mouth on you, slurping noisily on your slick like he’s eating the juiciest fruit of his life—
“—f-uuuuckkk Sammy yes yes yes—”
Indescribable pleasure pops and sizzles along your weeping core. It’s so fucking—fucking yes all at once that you clap down both hands to white-knuckle the top quilt and howl. Sam sets to work. He covers your entire pussy with his mouth, swallowing you fucking whole, apparently, since you’re the most delectable thing he’s ever tasted. You have to be, with Sam groaning and cursing all fierce and hot between licks.
“Fuck. That’s it, pretty girl,” Sam coaches. He slurps loud and obscenely on your clit, swallowing down the results with a shiver of ecstasy. “Shit, just like that. You’re so good at this already. So good at taking it, ______. Never should’a made you wait.”
But all that must not count as getting a full taste of you, since Sam deviates, splaying his tongue flat and wide to rake it against you top to bottom. His tongue almost drools with liquid heat. At first you’d been disappointed you couldn’t see him over your legs, and now, you’re grateful for the mercy. Seeing Sam like that…
Sam licks you open until there’s no breath left in him. He goes until his jaw is sore and your slick is rolling off his chin in sticky rivulets, wetting the bedspread. He goes and he keeps going, worshipping your slippery-wet cunt between huffy moans.
You make a pathetic attempt at giving as good as you’re getting, but what should be a sexy zinger actually comes out as, “Sam, I-I—oh, god—Sam—!”
After that, your ability to form words joins your other higher brain functions in the endless sparkling expanse of white in your mind. Sam stirs a single long finger through your sopping folds. The stimulation alone has your hips twisting helplessly up to his face, on top of the rapid flicks of his talented tongue, but it’s the easy pressure of Sam’s thick finger filling you to the knuckle that actually earns a scream.
Not your average horror movie scream—an honest, enthusiastic, belly-deep cry that jerks in your chest like a sob.
You can pinpoint the precise moment that Sam realizes you’re a screamer; he hum-laughs to himself where he thinks you can’t hear.
“Next time,” (oh my fucking god there’s a next time), “‘won’t make you wait a minute, baby. Gonna give you everythin’ you want. I’m real sorry, darlin’, do you forgive me? Forgive me for not fucking you the second we were alone?”
You’re too busy having actual, real tears of desire cake your cheeks to string together a better answer than a moan. Holy shit.
Sam gives your pussy two deep, loving licks, each hot enough to send you into a coma. “Say it,” he utters, teasing, “say you forgive me.”
“I forg’ve you,” you croak.
“Forgive who?” He presses.
“I forgive you, Sammy.”
“That’s my girl,” Sam husks the promise between kisses to your clit, “So good to me. So sweet.”
Somehow, this is just as life-altering for him as it is for you. Long, flowing crests of pleasure seep hot through your system, winding tighter, tighter, tighter, twitching in the muscles of your stomach and almost cramping in your curled toes. The taste of you is so rich that Sam’s back quakes with euphoric shudders, trembling deep under the skin where he’s too far gone to rein back in. Sweaty locks of his bangs flutter as he breathes. It’s the only sign he’s breathing at all, really, what with him eating you out like he’s fuckin’ starved.
Sam gives a few good twists of his finger deep in your pussy (which doesn’t even graze how deep he might be with his cock). When you’re a puddle on the mattress and used to him, Sam withdraws to studiously coach you, “Deep breaths, ______.”
It takes a moment for the words to register. Once they have, you wind down long enough to measure your crazed breathing into even strokes. The ceiling overhead swims with dancing candlelight shadows and floating cartoon stars. Sam lifts his head to see for himself that you’re following his instructions, and after he’s done falling in love with the sight of you, Sam fills you up with two digits instead of one.
“A-ah!”
Just like before, they’re thrust in to the hilt at once. The throbbing, aching, leeching core of your arousal positively explodes, the urge to be filled finally touched. Sam’s responding bassy groan vibrates all the way up your body. The length and thickness of his fingers is put to immediate use, stretching you out with long knuckling gestures. You’re so unimaginably wet that your pussy just pulls him right in.
There’s a pause where you wiggle down onto his hand and brace yourself for the next brain-melting touch, and true to form, Sam sails straight over your grandest expectations. He’s quick to find the silky heart of arousal in your core again. You only know it by reputation, not experience, so when Sam presses into it with two soft fingerpads the pitch of your wailing jumps up ten octaves. Suddenly the pleasure is hot hot hot inside-going-out.
Sam tilts his head to one side and finds the gall to ask you: “How does that feel?”
(He just wants to hear you say it.)
“So good,” you weep. “Please please please gimme more, Sam, please—”
“It’s gonna be okay, _____. I’ll make it all better…”
Only then does Sam’s tongue get back to work, and—and holy fucking shit, he swoops in to steal the gold, demolishing every other name in the pussy-eating game. Sam wins. Sam fucking wins.
If this is just how his fingers feel…
Sam’s grin takes on a confident gleam. By coincidence, it’s around then that you remember that he’s psychic.
Somewhere between licking you into the next dimension and, oh yeah, Sam licking you into the next dimension, he’s pinned your thighs to your chest with a firm hand under your knees. You squeeze that hand for all you’ve got, every feeble atom in your body scrubbed raw with perfect pulsing desire.
To think, you’d spent this whole time getting off with your hand. A fucking hand. A few fingers! Sam crooks his in a way you’d never even hoped for on your own, finding that fluttery, twitchy spot inside you and working it for all it has. You’d asked for more and he gives you more, thrusting two fingers in at a brutal, even pace—again and again and again, til’ you’re thrashing up and off the mattress, wailing, your whole body a fist cramping shut around him. You snap in so tight toward him that you shove your face into your knees and cross your ankles tight behind Sam’s neck, keening, the fire knotted in your body devouring whatever fuel he’ll give.
Sam’s skill with his hands made you feel like an amateur in your own department. But his slick velvet tongue on your slick velvet pussy, taking slow sucks on your clit that turn into big broad licks, licking you up, licking you into his mouth whole, made just the thought of masturbation fucking laughable. I mean, c’mon! What the fuck are you supposed to do after this? Pop into the bathroom to use the showerhead, when Sam and his insatiable appetite for pussy are sitting right in the next room? Why even bother fantasizing about him and dicking around with a vibrator when nothing would ever compare to the real thing, shoving his parched panting mouth between your legs in an addict’s haze?
Still lapping up your dripping core, Sam pries his free hand from your grip. You’re pretty sure you have the right to whine in protest. Without his leverage for support your weak thighs collapse straight open, and for all you know the gates of heaven had parted to reveal god’s most beautiful angel. Sam is the picture of filth. His pretty pink lips are sealed around your cunt, his nose is all cute and smushed into your pubic bone, and you watch in time with every dirty lap as his jaw rolls handsomely under his skin.
The look on his face is unfor-fucking-gettable. In fifty years, sixty years, seventy, you know this memory will still live inside you, since no man has ever looked at you that way before. You weren’t sure it was even possible. Hazy euphoria radiates in unending rays from Sam’s face. He wants you. He trusts you. He is written all over with warm, intent desire, satisfying himself on you.
“Stay still,” Sam asks, politely.
Politely, you slap back against the bed and moan out, “Mhhmm.”
A new kind of mischief flashes across his face. You would’ve never pinned Sam as the type of guy to thrive with an audience, but now that he knows you’re watching, he falls seamlessly into a performance. His act is a three-parter.
While keeping his pace with his fingers, Sam starts by sliding slow off your pussy and spitting on it even slower. Whatever hazel leftover in his eyes has been swallowed totally by glittering, black delight. The muscles is his arm bulge and cramp fucking into you so hard. Pleased with himself, Sam dips down, dark eyes disappearing under his bangs, and makes a show of pointing his tongue to flicker across the raw nerves of your clit.
There’s more after that in the finale of Sam’s act, but the constant, brutal winding toward your release has taken its final toll. You have no fucking clue how you’ve survived this long. The overpowering squeezes of arousal inside you become full-body, wracking pangs. The sweaty trembling scraps of your soul leftover from Sam’s work throb and throb until they’re a blinding star. At the center of it, your core, tight and hot and so loved by Sam’s mouth. The searing pleasure becomes explosive. Apparently, the noisy, pitchy moans waking up the mountainside are coming from you, as you claw to get Sam even a molecule closer—closer, closer, closer—s-so close—!
So…
Close…
And you’re there. In the shimmering, divine realm Sam has made just for you; the realm your meager hands could never bring you to, and the realm you’ll be chasing still for the rest of your life. It becomes blatantly obvious in the next blissful minute that you’ve never cum before. Not for real, at least. This was a real orgasm, flashing through your spirit and flowing hot and beautiful through the numb ends of your body. You wail through it like it’s real, that’s for sure.
Your pussy clamps down around Sam’s fingers in waves of slippery pressure, and he revels in every second of it. You’re fucked through it. Kissed through it. He keeps up his pace and smushes his face in close, and that’s when you realize, oh fuck, Sam is going to drink your glass empty. The soft scooping of his tongue ramps up and up and over, til’ the edges of your vision start to spot and your muscles are too tight to unknot and it’s all too much.
“Sa—Sam—”
Just that word has him off you. You think Sam draws back and away, but that’s just a guess, since the wires between you and the outside world have been fucked stupid. Even the language has been licked and lapped out of you.
“Sam…”
You feel… like soup. Wet all over and hot hot hot. Filling the shape of the bed. You make an honest attempt at communicating this to Sam as your soupy mind’s way of telling him how satisfied you are, but. Your pussy gives a delighted, distracting throb that melts you into the top quilt all over again. Wow.
Just. Wow. You marinate in the aftershocks for what feels like ages, speechless.
Down by your legs (so that’s where he went!), Sam peels his heaving chest off the bedspread. Right. If you couldn’t breathe, he definitely couldn’t either. He gets up on all fours and crawls towards you like a guy in an RnB music video, all sexy moving arms and hips. It really shouldn’t be as appealing as it absolutely is. Starry-eyed, you open lazy arms to him and haul him down the second he’s close enough. He falls on top of you with a happy oomf. He’s long and smooth and wonderful, making you sigh when he snuggles in.
A few sparkling millennia go by laying in bed with him, toying with his hair and giggling dazedly to yourself. Sam hides his blazing face in your neck and murmurs something.
You’re buzzed by the skin-to-skin contact and cum drunk, which puts everything he says into fuzzy empty speech bubbles. The low, shy rasp of his voice tickles your neck. You try again.
“...Uh-huh…?”
“Was, uh, that too intense? Or…?”
The question floats around in your head for a while, bumping into things and spinning in zero gravity. Finally, the lights in your ship start to come on, and you pull what Sam said out from space.
“Look at me a minute.”
Sam does, curious.
“How’d,” you struggled to find your breath, “how the hell’d you learn t’ do that.”
And suddenly, Sam’s high school shyness is on a man’s face, and that man licks your slick off his lip and suppresses an evil grin. “I have, y’know. A thing about it.”
“A thing?” You echo, laughing with him. Maybe if you said it again it wouldn’t blow your mind as much. “A thing. Try an addiction, Sam, holy shit.”
In a few days, you’re gonna have to act normal around him in a room with his brother, while Sam uses the lips he defiled you with to talk, drink, and smile. Fuck. For the rest of your life, you’re gonna have to sit beside him at the dinner table and remember how he told you had a thing for eating pussy. A thing.
Glowing with innocent humility, Sam pawed up onto his hands, rolled onto his side, and positioned himself like a pin-up girl inviting you to bed. When he was done broadcasting with his entire body how much he wanted you, Sam shrugged. “I dunno… I just love to do it.”
(Being stunned silent by Sam tally: one million and three.)
He’s not real. There’s no way he’s real. You grab around for some part of him to pinch, and though Sam’s indignant yelp sounds authentic, you’re unconvinced. They had to have cooked him up in a lab somewhere.
This earns you a deep, fond Sam laugh. He gives your closest hip a playful pinch too, and after a brief tickle-fight that you miserably lose, Sam tilts his lips toward yours and husks, “Roll over that way and c’mere.”
With nothing else to do but submit happily to Sam’s will, you follow his hand and tilt in toward the wall. “You are something else.”
You’re joking, but you can also kind of feel it. Sam slings his arm over your ribs to pull your back flush to his chest, and already you melt into each other, settling back into the hollows you made in the blankets the night before. This close you can feel the magic in him. Sam oozes with cozy bonfire heat, his body laying sure and protective against your body, the last dregs of hunt anxiety in him gone. You feel the worn-soft denim of his open jeans as Sam’s lap wiggles down to scoop under you. A map of what’s ahead.
He teases a hand down your ribcage, thumbing sweetly at your belly. Sam tilts his head forward for a kiss, and unable to resist him, you meet him in the middle for one that turns into two, then three, then a swath of obsessed pecks. He must have a thing about kissing, too.
Sam pulls back to study you. With less confidence than you’d expect, he asks, “You wanna keep going?”
Just the teeniest motion of your head has Sam swooping for the chance to kiss you again, but you stop him short and twist to get a better look at him. In a high, maidenly voice, you play at being confused. Your poker face is still awful, so you have to hide your massive grin behind the invisible handkerchief you’re clutching.
“Keep going? My, a gentleman like you… an unmarried woman like me… what else is there to do, Samuel?”
His week being teased by you at all angles has forced him to evolve. Sam forgets altogether about indulging your bit and upgrades straight to more wonderful, ticklish manhandling, wiggling an arm between your vulnerable side and the bed to practically throw you back where you belong. You squeak and sputter between laughs, pretending your skin doesn’t explode with goosebumps at his touch.
When his massive palm is spread over your breastbone, Sam hoists you back against him, rolls in to threaten squishing you with more plush muscle and manly weight, and snarls in a way that ruins your metaphorical panties all over again.
“Uh-uh. Don’t play. You know exactly what m’ gonna do to you. Do y—?”
Sam stirs up his hips as he talks. All the snooty teasing left in your tank evaporates in one fell swoop, feeling the delicious outline of his dick swelling against you. Okay. You’re woman enough to admit that does it for you, and you really, really don’t want to wait anymore. Sam is an unbearable tease who will drag this out forever. You take matters into your own hands. Or, really, you put them into his.
…You prop open your closest leg for him, bent at the knee.
“Aw,” Sam rumbles, “didn’t even have’ta ask.”
You don’t hide your mean little grin. Sam, of course, kisses you into oblivion just seeing it, sliding a coarse hand under the silky, sensitive flesh behind your knee to keep you open for him. The ashes of your last climax are still simmering with heat, but it’s Sam’s kiss and his touch that reignites you totally.
It’s a bit of a twist to lean back and kiss him, but Sam’s height is made for this: his bulge swells right under your pussy, and he has the room to lean in close to your ear and purr—
“Take it out.”
Sam is asking you to take out his dick. You know that, yet you imagine yourself a month from now, unsure of which weapon the boys are comfortable letting you borrow from the Impala’s trunk. Dean’ll tell you, oh, the machete’s fine. Then Sam, with glittering eyes and full knowledge of how he’s torturing you, will nudge his chin toward the trunk and utter that phrase. Go on. Take it out. Knowing exactly what you’re thinking, and when, and how. And how deep and how hard.
It takes some shuffling and some curling, but you manage to work Sam’s jeans and boxers down his thighs. Just the sound of his zipper makes your mouth water. He hisses soft by your ear at the chill of the room, but in your hand Sam’s dick is body-hot by comparison. And. And so… s-so…
You scoop your palm around the shaft, squeezing him, feeling him. Through your back you feel Sam curl in and shiver, rumbling in approval. Your cheeks feel like they’re cooking by the candlelight just going for it, but your curiosity wins out—or, more accurately, your fucking awe. Because. What the fuck. You’ve never exactly seen a dick in person before, but you’re not naive. Sam is big enough to split you in half, and—and it just kind of pisses you off, because not only is he big, his dick is pretty, too. He has a pretty dick. Just cause’ being smart and empathetic and all that other bullshit didn’t make him sexy enough. God.
You nuzzle your cheek into Sam’s and he drops his lazy temple against yours. The two of you lounge there, heaving like peeping toms, as you both take in how sexy his cock looks leaking against your belly. Laying between your legs. It’s goddamn photo-worthy. Then, the angle your hand is taking slow, experimental pumps of him… accidentally… grinds Sam’s shaft between your abuse-swollen folds. He’s already twisting to moan into your mouth when you start to rock along him in earnest. You take a fistful of Sam’s hair and ride him for all he’s worth, dragging your sopping wet cunt across his dick until he glistens.
For three blissful seconds Sam locks you against his chest and grinds with you, making it instantly clear why people always use the word friction with sex. The push and pull of it has you whimpering loud and high against Sam’s mouth. And, thank god for him, because when your head starts to fog with visions of being filled raw, Sam pulls away from your kiss and recollects his control.
“Condom,” he gasps for breath, “we should. Probably. Yeah.”
“...Right,” you cursed. Your high school sex-ed teachers would not be proud of your lack of forethought, but it’s impossible to have any kind of thought in this situation, period.
For example: Sam tilts away to fish around in his duffle bag beside the bed, and, unfiltered, your mind taps its fingertips together and cheerily hopes, maybe Sam will be so rough the condom breaks.
Woah there, girlfriend, your reason butts in. But it doesn’t have anything else to say, since you start picturing how Sam’s cum would look oozing out of you, and. Um.
“You almost sound disappointed,” Sam jokes, digging for his wallet.
You snuggle down into the blankets and pretend you’re not hiding your face. “A little bit,” you confess, chanting the word responsible over and over in your head for good measure. “How much am I gonna feel you?”
Sam finds the condom and rolls back into your bubble. He turns in to kiss your shoulder, and you can feel his smile when he tells you, “You’re gonna feel every bit of me. Every inch… every stroke… I promise.”
He is so determined to assuage your worries that he holds the condom where you can see it, turning it over (between those long, long fingers) to make sure it’s punctureless and new. The little foil packet has XL printed on one side, which both adds to your sexy thoughts and pulls you out of them. Sam really is that big. He knows it, too, which is probably how he reads your nervousness.
“We’ll take it slow,” Sam promises, voice honey-sweet and quick to reassure you. “S’ big, yeah, but I’m gonna do everything to make you comfortable, kay? And if you wanna stop—”
He cares so much, you realize.
“Sam?”
He looks into your eyes like he loves you, and utters, “Yeah?”
“Thank you for making this good for me,” you say.
Sam melts. He doesn’t seem to know what to say to that, and you let him know it’s okay with a softer, warmer kiss than the others you’ve shared. You take in the shape of his face, the subtle freckles on his cheeks and nose, how the candlelight shadows sweeten Sam’s gaze. It slams on top of you how there’s nobody in the whole world you’d rather be doing this with, and in one puff your anxiety is in the wind.
You wrap your fingers around Sam’s wrist and flirt, “...Can I put it on you?”
Sam nods, eyes lidded. You’ve never exactly had to open a condom before, so you’re careful to pry the foil open with your fingers. For whatever reason you hadn’t figured it’d be lubed, but it makes fitting the ring of it around Sam’s tip and sliding it down his shaft a bit easier. A soft happy groan escapes him. They keep escaping him as you pump his cock in languid twists of your hand.
Sam nuzzles his face between your shoulder blades, whisper-rasping, “Would you like to…? It’ll be less scary that way.”
You really, really would. Before you make your move, Sam adds, “But, uh, before you put it in—want you to look at me.” He wets his lips with his tongue. “Wanna see the look on your face when I fill you up.”
Well, fuck. You tilt your face against Sam’s, nose to nose with him and warmed by his breath, and feel the slow ripples of heat in your belly roll into long, growing waves. Sam slides a hand back to the silky underside of your thigh and props you open for him. When you line Sam up, you start with the tip, not pressing, just stroking, feeling him against you. A satisfied purr drizzles out of your mouth to Sam’s. So far, your chosen pace has been “just go for it,” and since it hasn’t failed you yet—
—you go for it.
Sam’s bulbous cockhead dips between your folds to find your hole. A desperate, keening yes squeals out of you. You’re spit-wet and absolutely caked in slick, so there’s no hitch when you pull Sam in, just a hot, sudden fullness that seems to go endlessly deeper and deeper. The fit is so fucking snug. Snug like he’s made for you. Snug and perfect and stinging, made easier by Sam’s soft huffing coos. Look at you go. Makin’ this look easy. You looked so pretty when I ate you out, baby, but I knew you’d look even prettier taking my dick. So eager, Sam says, and he’s right. Your wetness is just begging to swallow him whole. Just being stuffed with half of Sam’s cock has you sucking down air, so the final surge to bring him to the hilt pries a genuine, hoarse cry from your belly. Sam shoves his face in your hair and groans, the sound catching on the snarl between his teeth.
Together, you orbit around the throbbing core of pleasure between you, suspended in the moment.
Sam is a wind-up toy, springs tightening with every vicious squeeze of your pussy. His mouth has made you soft, slippery, and swollen, so the firmness of his cock is different but stellar. This close, in such an intimate position, you can feel his heartbeat in more ways than one, and it surrounds you and fills you so effortlessly that you can only assume it’s your own. He touches your body like it’s one he just stepped into, feeling you from a new perspective for the first time. Sam fixates on your tummy, too, and you find out why when he presses down under your belly button—feeling the thick swell of him under your skin, deeper than anyone else could ever go. He gives you a turn too, pressing your hand down in the same place. It sends electric blackouts of lust through your system that demand to be fucked brainless.
You start to wiggle in his grasp for more, stirring your hips down onto him and choking out his name. Sam is already responding: your open leg is scooped into the crook of his arm and drawn tight to his chest, spreading you open as wide as you’ll go. His hold cants up your hips in a way that lets his cock hit just that much deeper, and that’s all you need to dash your head against the pillows and mewl for your life. Two rough fingerpads slip back into the sopping wet home of your clit and stir against it at a pace brutal enough to cramp. Between Sam’s fingers and the thick drag of his cock against your soft walls, you’re desperate for something to hold onto. You latch onto Sam’s wrist for dear life. Then starts Sam’s pulling and pushing in brief, filling strokes, rocking, driving you fucking crazy, making you need him to fuck you like you need air. He was deep to a point that you swear you could feel him in the back of your throat.
“You want more?” Sam asks, and if it weren’t for the breathy rattle in his voice he could’ve sounded innocent.
You nod until your head is close to rolling off. “Yes, yes Sammy please.”
Sam grins. You feel it for an instant, then his cheek pulls away from your back and all you have left to read him by is the needy, carnal noises he’s making. All at once he’s drawing out further than he had before. You’re almost empty for a whole sob-worthy breath, which Sam makes up for with every ounce of his being.
For what has to be three glorious hours, Sam leans back to fuck you in powerful, even strokes, filling you to the brim every time, and filling the room with the thick, wet sound of his cock pounding into you. You repay him the only way you can, and—get—noisy.
You moan. You wail. You mewl, pretty much every time Sam’s hips snap up into your ass. You pant hard through it all, begging him in soft whines to f-fuck me, fuck me, p-please, Sam and to go deeper, baby—uhnn, more more more…! From there you’re on autopilot, letting loose even the most primal noises that Sam gets out of you. He is very, very good at his task, so you color the room with every erotic syllable under the sun. A porn studio would hire the two of you without even entering the room. Sam especially, but you might be biased since every time you sigh his name he drives in a little harder.
Indescribable pleasure follows even his tiniest movements. You absorb every pump with nothing but desperate enthusiasm, spreading your legs further, curling your back, and digging your fingers into the cushions for any sort of leverage at all. Just a few minutes pass until your limit is a trembling boulder of knots in your gut, but still Sam’s nowhere near finished yet. Slick coats your thighs and Sam's cock, you cry at every thrust, your body twitches and shudders all over, but he's still not there.
He slows. The brush of his lips against your ear and the wisp of his breath set your nerves on fire. “You’re gonna finish first, but tha’—that’s okay, baby,” Sam reassures, and works your poor swollen clit even harder, choking a string of thready moans from you. “Wanna feel your pretty pussy cum all over my dick.”
“Oh fuck,” you whine.
(Tomorrow, you’re going to wake up and wonder where the hell he got that dirty mouth from. Somebody needs to clean it out with soap.)
It’s as Sam’s laying sloppy kisses on your throat that his prediction comes true. The tissue in your body pulls taut, winding tight, tighter, curling around the epicenter of pleasure, toward him. You expect Sam’s thrusts to take a fierce turn. Instead, you’re treated to the same thorough, determined pace that got you here in the first place—the same pace that is currently jellifying your insides and reducing you to tears on this teeny bed. If the percussive slapping of skin on skin wasn’t enough to wake up the entire planet, then the vicious slam of the bedframe putting a new dent in the wall would certainly do the job. Somehow you hear it all past your pulse thundering in your ears. The arm hooked behind you to rake a hand through Sam’s hair bobs with each thrust, and your leg trapped in Sam’s hold bounces on beat. All you can do is scrape out broken gasps, until the tossing waves of heat and lust and power twisted in your belly have built too high—and all things that go up must inevitably come crashing down.
“That’s my girl,” Sam slurs, squeezing your tits in both hands. He rolls his hips into you and coos, “Just like that… take what you need, baby, it’s okay…”
Like last time, Sam fucks you through it. You’re scooped up in his arms and squeezed tight, tight enough to be drawn into Sam’s body and absorbed. The hot, gorgeous drags of friction against the sensitive walls of your cunt slow, but Sam never draws out, burying himself deep and soaking up every wild clamp of your pussy. There’s something fucking spectacular about having something to clench down on. Sam is that perfect something, vieny and thick and still fucking hard.
You cum on him in long rippling rushes of wet heat that feel downright unrealistic, otherworldly—exaggerated, maybe, by the fact that you fucking—black—out!
It must only be a few beats later that you come out of it, but the fact remains that Sam Winchester made you cum so hard you passed out, and you’re going to have to live with that for the rest of your life. You’re already starting to realize that Sam is the best lay you’re ever going to have, period, and the dull happy throb of your orgasm hasn’t even left your body yet. Sam hasn’t even left your body yet.
Wait, fuck. He’s still hard.
…This could be. This could be very good.
Fueled by hormones, sweat, and adrenaline, you pull off him and roll the rest of the way onto your belly. During all the crazed fucking, you and Sam had migrated halfway down the bed. You crawl to the top as sexily as you’re able, stuff your cheek against the closest pillow, and wiggle your cum-soaked ass in the air just for him, open for his taking. Your face could start the whole bed on fire, but you feel more alluring than embarrassed.
“C’mon, Sammy,” you taunt, and throw him a mean grin, “gimme the big finish.”
Sam sucked in a deep breath from his nose, probably preying for strength. A dirty smile touched his face. “You’re… you’re amazing, _____.”
Feeling like it, you turned your face over onto the other side of the pillow and tempted him with another mesmerizing ass wiggle. Sam was up on his knees in an instant. You should’ve known that Sam, the addict, would instantly take the chance to shove his face between your legs. The only warning you get is his massive hands clamping down on your calves to hold you still, then a hot, silky tongue swipes once through your folds for a taste. You haven’t finished squealing when Sam’s weight saddles up behind you, and the heavy shape of his cock starts to rut between your legs.
“Sorry,” Sam hums, not sorry at all, “Needed a taste of you.”
Stars above, he doesn’t hesitate to get handsy with you, too, taking two broad handfuls of your ass-cheeks. Your ass sits so nicely against his hips that you start to wonder if soulmates are real. Because Sam must be yours, fitting into you like a key and teasing you open like a master lockpicker. Once you’re where Sam wants you, he bobs your ass back until his tip has room to part your folds, and after that you’re both brought home into sparkling, slippery, blinding pleasure. He digs his fingers into your ass and pulls you right on him, filling your pussy to the hilt, like always. Key. Lock. Click click click.
“Yes,” you and Sam hiss together.
“Fuck,” Sam adds. “You should see yourself like this. You look so stuffed, baby, squeezing down on me.”
“Feel so stuffed,” you flirt back, wiggling into him.
This angle is different than the last, exaggerating, as Sam immediately starts in on his pace from before, how thick his cock is. He curls his fingers around your waist and beats in hard, pulling on your still-sparking overstimulated wires from last time. Every joint in your body locks ramrod straight, overwhelmed with brief flashes of too much too much. Your pussy clenches helplessly around him, but Sam brings you over it with a few well-placed stirs of his hips. In no time you’re mewling for him like you were before, emboldened by your first round.
You get your nails into Sam’s sculpted ass and drag him deeper, faster, urging him on the end of a moan, “Fuckin’ take it, Sammy—mhhnn, take what—what you need, Sam, yes, so good—”
This is exactly what Sam needs to hear. You’re scooped up around the middle, just like before, and Sam crushes his face into your back, spooning you close as he brings himself closer and closer to where he needs to be. Your hands can’t get enough of him, smoothing down his vieny arms and squeezing his hand against your belly. The picture the two of you must make is obscene on unimaginable levels. Sam, latched onto you like a parasite and reaming you for his release. You, smushed under him and loving it, digging your ass up into him for more. All the sweat-twisted blankets shoved to the floor. Sam’s hips canting your thighs apart. The worn-smooth slope of his palms, squeezing your tits and your tummy and your waist in achy handfuls.
Finally, Sam’s hoarse choked panting cuts off with a sharp breath. His hips putter into you for the last time, then still. Sam spills into the condom, shuddering against you from head to toe, and slowly… the two of you collapse into each other… panting and panting until your breathing syncs up. Sam’s chest goes up. You suck in a breath. His chest goes out, and you deflate right with him.
He doesn’t get up and you don’t ask him to. As the haze of sex starts to clear from the room (as much as it can, anyway), the chill of the mountainside creeps in behind it, and the hottest thing around for miles is easily the giant, naked Sam Winchester in your bed. Wrapped up in him and as warm as can be, you wonder if he’s as close to passing out (again) as you are.
But no. Suddenly, Sam’s up on his hands, and there’s only two possible reasons why.
“Didn’t get to kiss you as I finished,” he complained.
Smushed into your pillow, you tell him, “I think you have two addictions.”
Regardless, you roll onto your back so Sam can lay one on you. Since your soul is officially back in your body, you’re more aware than ever of the aches and bruises you’ve earned, not to mention a few sets of pomegranate-purple fingerprints. After a few stunning kisses from Sam, you’re still not sure that all of that actually happened. You touch his face and pinch his cheeks plenty of times, but all he does is look at you extra dreamily. Still doesn’t seem real.
Of course, being a gentleman, he decides to prove it to you.
“Speaking of my other addiction…” Sam lays a playful hand on your belly, “I know I wound you up a bit back there. Can I take care of you one more time? Please?”
“Hmm…” You pretend to think, grinning to yourself. “Man. I just can’t say no to you, Sammy…”
_
Two weeks later, you’re crammed in a teeny car instead of a teeny cabin, riding down a back road in rural Texas the Dean way—blowing by road signs at sixty miles an hour, windows down and music up. Sam’s shotgun. You’re content to sit behind him, catching his eye in the side-mirror as he pretends to hunt around newspapers for a new case. His hair flutters in the wind, outlining his face in the most enchanting way.
“I don’t know how the hell the two of you stayed up there the whole week!” Dean hollers over his Lynyrd Skynyrd tape, which he could turn down whenever he wants to. He throws you an unenvious look from the driver’s seat, “You must’a been bored out of your fuckin’ gourds!”
You’re honestly surprised that Dean didn’t automatically assume sexy shenanigans occurred at the cabin. Sam doesn’t move to answer, deeply engrossed in his reading. Where Dean can’t see, you curl your fingers into the hair at the back of Sam’s neck and caress his scalp, which earns you a look that promises that sexy shenanigans can happen anywhere. They can happen in motel rooms. Click. Even Impalas, when Dean’s gone. Click click click.
You shrug at Sam’s brother, shouting over the music with an unsubtle grin. “We entertained ourselves!”
_
Tags: @samssluttybangs @cookiemumster1 @lacilou @cevans-winchester @leigh70 @seraphimluxe @emily-roberts @emme-looou @aloneatpeace @williamstop @ornella0910 @chaoticshepardplaid @dakota-dream @lcvecstiel @goghkiss @spnexploration
READ PART TWO.
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turcott3 · 2 months
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safety net
jack hughes x fem! reader
warnings?: cursing, semi slow burn, a kiss, angst and some fluff ofc
positions masterlist!
~trippin’ fallin’ with no safety net~
-
you made your way into the bar, as it was your first weekend living in jersey. you walk in and head straight to the counter, asking for a drink that was sweet and didn’t taste too strongly of alcohol.
“hey stranger.” a voice says to your right and you turn your head.
“dawson?” you say, your eyes widening.
“hey y/n.” he says opening his arms for you to hug him, which you gladly accept.
“how have you been? oh my gosh it’s been what like 3 years.” you say smiling at your old school friend.
“i’ve been good, playing hockey here is fucking awesome.” he says.
“yes! that’s right you play for the devils, how could i forget you getting drafted!” the two of you laugh.
“well how’s your boyfriend? haven’t seen him in a few years either.” he asks curiously.
“funny you should ask, i broke up with him and that’s why i moved here.”
“wait really? why? you don’t have to explain if you’re not comfortable.” the brunette boy asks leaning on the counter.
“well things were so great when we started dating our senior year but within the last year he became a real fucking asshole, so i broke it off and moved away so he couldn’t try to find me and sucker me into being with him again.” you explain, leaving out any details you weren’t ready to share.
“well shit, i’m sorry y/n. i bet that hurt a lot.”
“it did but i’m over it, ready to find someone else.” you say and you practically see the light bulb turn on over his head.
“i think i have someone i want you to meet.” he smirks. you grab your drink and follow close behind him, holding onto his arm.
“hey jack!” dawson says to a brunette boy with bright blue eyes.
“what’s up daws, who’s this?” he says looking at you. you release dawson’s arm and give him a smile.
“jack this is y/n, y/n this is jack.” he says looking between you two.
“nice to meet you, jack.” you say.
“yeah, you too.” he smiles, causing a blush to burn in your cheeks.
“i have to go to the bathroom, you two have fun. don’t get too drunk.” he says giggling and walking off to the bathroom.
“so y/n, what brings you to jersey?” he asks.
“just needed a change of scenery from my hometown. dawson and i went to highschool together.” you tell him.
“oh wow, small world. are you still new to living here or?”
“yeah this is only my first weekend but i’m glad im already meeting people, it was getting pretty lonely.” you laugh.
“well now that you’ve reconnected with dawson, you have a whole new group of people to hang out with.”
“oh are you guys like on the same team?” you ask.
“yeah we are, my brothers around here somewhere. probably tongue deep in some random girl.” he laughs.
“is he older or younger?”
“younger.” he says taking a sip of his drink.
“oh nice.” you smile doing the same.
“can i get your number?” he asks.
“yeah of course.” you say as he hands you his phone.
“what have i missed?” a tall, curly haired boy asks.
“ah yes, y/n, this is my brother luke.”
“nice to meet you.” you say.
“nice to meet you too.” he replies.
“so where were you?” jack asks as i hand him his phone back.
“i was talking to john but i didn’t wanna ruin his game so i came back.” he laughs.
“johnny getting some ladies?”
“he sure was.” luke laughs, taking a sip of his beer.
“i see you’ve met the other one.” dawson says returning from the bathroom.
“yes i have.” i laugh at him. you spent the next 2 hours with the boys, enjoying their presence and the fact that you’d made some friends in your new town.
“well i think im gonna call it a night.” you say taking the final sip of your drink.
“let me walk you?” jack asks.
“yeah sure.” you accept and the two of you make your way out of the bar.
“did you walk here or drive?” he asks stopping once you made it outside.
“oh i walked, i live like two blocks away.”
“okay cool, show me the way.” he says.
“jack you don’t have to.”
“i’m not letting you walk back to your apartment by yourself at midnight in a big city y/n.” he says firmly.
“oh, thank you.” you blush and begin your walk to your apartment. the walk was filled with small talk and laughter, the chemistry between you two growing more and more with seemingly every step.
“well this is my place.” you say arriving at your door.
“alright, have a good night y/n. i’ll text you.” he says as you pull him in for a side hug.
“goodnight jack.” you say shutting the door behind you. it’s been 5 days and you already have a crush on someone you just met. it felt almost wrong. you had broken up with your boyfriend just two weeks ago. you couldn’t allow yourself to move on too quickly. your phone buzzed in your back pocket and you see that dawson had texted you.
dawson: glad you made it back safe!
y/n: thank you! except really you can thank jack
dawson: hahaha well i guess so🙄 have a good night y/n
y/n: you too, see you again soon?
dawson: yes for sure, season starts in like a month and a half i’m sure you’ll get sick of seeing me
y/n: doubt it
dawson: only bc ill bring jack
y/n: bitch
dawson: i’m messing with you lmaooooo goodnight y/n
y/n: goodnight daws😭
-
you woke up the next morning to a text from jack saying good morning, to which you replied with a simple, good morning. texting a new guy felt so wrong. you didn’t know what to do about it but you couldn’t ghost him so you figure you should just keep chatting and see what happens.
“lunch?” you say reading his next text. the boy asked you to lunch, to which you hesitantly agreed to join him. you made yourself a small breakfast to tide you until lunch. you sat on the couch watching tv, growing more nervous by the second. he didn’t ask you on a date, just lunch. maybe he just wants to be friends? after you ate, you put on a casual outfit and added a natural touch to your makeup. he texted the address and you left your apartment, hoping to arrive after him. once you arrive at the, what appears to be, small coffee shop, you’re greeted by jack smiling at the counter.
“sorry i’m a little late.” you laugh nervously.
“no don’t worry, i was just about to order. what do you want?”
“oh jack you don’t have to pay i can’t wait in line.” you say.
“now what kind of man would i be to let a pretty girl like you wait in line and pay for her own food?” he says boldly, a blush creeping up on your cheeks.
“an iced vanilla latte and a buttered croissant is good then.” you simply reply, finding a seat at a table by a large window. he meets you soon after, with a table number in his hand.
“you ever been here before?” he asks, noticing you staring out the window.
“i haven’t, i didn’t even know it was here until you told me about it.” you say redirecting your attention to the boy who already had his eyes on you.
“i come here sometimes, it’s like my special little spot for special occasions.” he smiles leaning back in his chair.
“what’s so special about this occasion?” you question, wanting real answers.
“it’s our first date.” he smirks causing your face to burn bright red.
“well i guess it is isn’t it.” you laugh.
-
once you arrive back at your apartment, you throw your purse to the side and kick off your shoes.
“what have i done? what do i do? oh fuck me, i can’t do this.” you say, that piece of your heart never healing from your past relationship. you couldn’t let go of the mistrust you felt. you never wanted to make the same mistake again, so you called dawson.
“hello?” you speak when he picks up.
“hey y/n, what’s up?”
“can you come over, i need advice.”
“yeah of course, send me your address and i’ll be there.”
“thank you so much, bye daws.” you say hanging up and sending him your address. you sat on your couch almost in a panic. you told yourself over and over to not do this again, especially this soon. a short 10 minutes later, you hear a knock on your door and you open it to see dawson standing there in his sweats.
“did i wake you from a nap?” you laugh.
“yes actually you did, but it’s okay, what’s up?” he says stepping in and shutting the door behind him.
“jack is what’s up.”
“oh?” he says plopping down on my couch.
“so we went out to lunch, he called it our first date.” you say.
“okay what’s the problem with that?” he says.
“you’re not understanding, my ex and i broke up what 3 weeks ago? i can’t move on, how do i know i can trust him?”
“y/n, jacks a nice guy, i wouldn’t have introduced you two if i thought otherwise.”
“i just think it’s too soon dawson.”
“relax, calm down, chill out.” he says standing up and placing his hands on your biceps.
“how am i supposed to be calm?”
“y/n, no one is rushing you into a relationship. you are not committed to the guy, you went on ONE date. you aren’t married to him, just relax. i know it’s hard, i don’t know all the details of your break up but obviously you let your mistrust cloud your vision of good people. i wouldn’t let you go down a dark rabbit hole, and you know that.” he says calming your nerves. dawson always had a way of getting to you and calming you down when necessary, even though it had been years since you last saw the boy.
“okay you’re right.” you say sighing.
“and you don’t have to worry, he’s leaving to go to michigan for a couple days tomorrow, so you can spend time away from him and just texting, so you can get to know him better without it being to serious for you.” he adds.
“perfect.” you laugh.
“now why don’t we chill out and watch a movie, you’re clearly stressed and i want you to clear your mind.” he states, grabbing the remote and switching on the tv. after a couple hours, dawson heads home, leaving you alone with nothing but your phone.
jack: hey i’m headed to michigan tmrw morning, hang when im back?
y/n: yes for sure!
jack: ok awesome, see you then
y/n: *loved a message*
you sat with your thoughts. you were terrified of the possibilities with jack, you couldn’t help it. it’s like your brain had been hardwired to push him away, but you fought the urge harder than anyone could ever know.
-
it had been about two weeks and jack returned from his trip a few days ago. the two of you have been texting nonstop. you learned the silly facts about each other and his personality shined through even on text. he was beginning to give you that glimpse of hope that you thought you’d lost for good.
“i just don’t know.” you spoke to dawson through the phone.
“he’s never texted a girl this long, he obviously likes you.”
“well you never know.”
“he has had women throw themselves at him and he’s rejected all of them. don’t you see it.”
“i do but i just don’t know if it’s the best idea.”
“y/n, just give it another go. go on another date with him. you won’t regret it, you and i both know that as much as you don’t want to admit that your crush is more than just a silly little crush.”
“god, daws you always know how to pick my brain what is wrong with you?” you laugh.
“um nothing, im just correct.” he scoffs.
“okay whatever, ill call him tonight okay?” you reply hoping it’ll shut him up.
“i’m holding you to it, so you better.”
“whatever mercer.”
-
“hello?” you hear a muffled jack on the other end of the line.
“hey jack, i was wondering if maybe you’d wanna go out again some time? i had a great time with you.”
“yeah absolutely!”
“does tomorrow work?” you ask, holding your breath.
“yeah i don’t have any plans. ill come pick you up at 1?”
“perfect.” you smile to yourself.
“i’ll see you tomorrow y/n.”
“bye jack.” you say hanging up the phone, wanting to scream with excitement. you had no clue how this could feel the way it does so soon after your breakup.
-
2 months later
“hey,” jack says shaking you awake.
“huh.” you groan opening your eyes.
“i have a skate to go to, ill be back okay?” he says, you fully processing your surroundings.
“oh, yeah okay. have fun.” you smile as he leans down to kiss you on the cheek. you’d stayed the night at his house just like you have for a few nights every week since your second date though you never established a label for your relationship, just placing the boyfriend name tag on him when you’re out by yourself, too afraid to use it around him. the idea of him leaving you to skate sucked, and you shoved down these feelings so they wouldn’t get in the way of anything. you never wanted him to leave your sight. you hated that you’d grown so attached. you pulled out your phone to call dawson, always filling him in with updates.
“hey miss hughes, what you up to?” he asks picking up.
“dawson stop,” you laugh, “i just woke up, jack just left for optional skate.”
“oh that’s funny i’m on my way there now.”
“i’m sure he’ll ive you all the details.”
“yeah he always does but you’re gonna tell me what’s going on in that little brain of yours first.”
“i hate when he leaves dude. i hate it. i feel like i have no right to be this attached. being around him makes me so fucking happy, it’s like all my problems disappear when he’s around. but i need to face it, he probably doesn’t even want me.”
“you’re lying but go on.”
“lying about what?”
“you really think he ever keeps girls around this long if he doesn’t wanna be with them? be for real with yourself y/n.” he says plainly.
“okay well, point is, i’ve grown attached and i don’t understand my feelings daws.”
“i think you love him.” he laughs.
“you’re crazy.” you scoff.
“did you listen to anything you just said?”
“what part?”
“god damnit, think before you speak y/n. the way you feel when you’re around him is love. practically in its exact definition.”
“it’s only been 3 months that i’ve known the guy.”
“bitch do you really think love has a timeline?”
“well n-“
“THEN GO GET HIM.”
“i’m not gonna go, he’s skating.”
“i meant it figuratively, just wait for him to come back and see how different you feel compared to talking to me on the phone. don’t leave. don’t panic and push him away y/n. give him a shot.”
“okay okay, ill talk to you later dawson.”
“alright, bye y/n.” he says hanging up abruptly. you knew deep down that he was probably right and you couldn’t admit it to yourself. you sat on his couch for a few hours, waiting to hear the lock turn again, when suddenly it did.
“oh hey, you’re still here? i thought you’d be gone by now.” he laughs, hanging his keys on the hook.
“no i wanted to stay, your couch is cozy.”
“well i’m glad you’re still here.” he says, kissing you on top of the head as he passed behind the couch. dawson was right, you felt giddy when jack entered the room, and the feeling didn’t settle. he returns back to the living room.
“you look like you’re thinking.” he says sitting down next to you. you sit up and turn to him.
“i am thinking.” you say, anxiety running through your body at full speed, knee bouncing.
“what’s on that pretty mind of yours?” he giggles placing a hand on your leg gently.
“i think i love you.” you say quietly, the words slipping off your tongue with struggle. you finally let yourself trip and fall. it felt almost freeing. his demeanor shifts as a smile grows on his face. he sits up to get closer to you.
“what was that?” he asks, smile growing wider.
“i think i love you. no no, i do. i do love you. i love you jack. i know we never attached a label to whatever we are but i can’t keep pushing my feelings away anymore. i just love you.” you say finally being able to lock eyes with him. he connects your lips in response, framing your cheek with his callused hand. when you pull away his gorgeous smile returns.
“fuck, i love you too y/n.” he laughs, a wave of relief washing over you. you couldn’t believe how jack changed your perspective on love and men so quickly but it never felt more true to you. you couldn’t deny your feelings anymore no matter how hard you tried. you finally let yourself fall, and thank god it was into the right hands this time.
-
579 notes · View notes
maryangelex · 7 months
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Good for Me
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Captain Price x f!Reader
Summary: You work in intel for Task Force 141 and work very closely with Captain Price. You’ve had a crush on the man for ages and he knows it. He’s turned you down many times knowing he’s way too old for you, except this time he give into temptation.
Warnings: nsfw, age gap, praise kink, p in v sex, fluff to smut, mutual pining, soft dom! price, creampie, smut with plot, unprotected sex, super long and not proofread, huge warning for extreme corniness.
A/N: me, personally, I’m a Simon ride or die bitch I literally only read Simon fanfics… but the abundance of price fanfics made me cave and now I finally get it, so I made this. Enjoy!!!!
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You had been working as an intel officer for Task Force 141. This position granted you the pleasure of working with Captain Price very closely. The two of you made a good team and would even say you had a sort of friendship going on besides just being coworkers.
This proximity made things more intimate between the two of you, though. And you would be lying if you said you hadn’t sparked a crush pretty early on into your career with him.
Can anyone blame you, though? John was the full package; tall, handsome, occasionally made you laugh with what would be considered ‘dad jokes’, and he had a perfectly masculine and burly appearance that complimented his kind nature. All of which made you enamored, naughtily pining for him like a schoolgirl crushing on her teacher.
He knew this, of course. Not because he could tell but because you personally told him and continued to make passes at him, hoping he would change his mind and give you a chance. The first time you told him, he was taken off guard by it. A mix of surprise and disbelief, he thought you were kidding at first but you insisted you had no reason to lie. From then on, you two stayed on amicable terms and your crush became something he teased you about and that the two of you bantered together about. But you still clung to that crush, your feelings were never fleeting.
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“‘Afternoon, Cap” you announced cheerily as you entered Price’s office with two mugs in hand “Brought ya tea!”
Price sat at his desk, head deep in paperwork, and returned the greeting with a sigh, barely looking up at you.
“Come on, lighten up and let’s take a break. Rome wasn’t built in a day and you sure as hell aren’t gonna finish that stack anytime soon.”
He plopped the file down to the side of his table, away from his sight as he let out a sigh and reclined in his chair, finally looking at you he said “Cheers, doll” as he took the mug in his hand. He took a sip of the contents in the cup and let out a satisfied hum along with a chuckle.
“Just how you like it,” you said taking a sip of your own.
“You just know me so well,” he smiled.
You chatted lightheartedly with him, the usual for how your conversations went with him unless there was a professional matter to discuss. Somehow the conversation came to be about how Price had never been married at his age and you playfully teased him about not settling down.
“I was almost married once,” he sighed, “but my work got in the way, she couldn’t handle the time apart and I don’t blame her for it”. He shrugged it off, a subject that was way in the past for him so no use dwelling on it.
“Well, I work with you so not much distance to worry about” you teased leaning forward to put your elbows on his desk sitting across from him on the other side of it.
“Plus I make you the perfect tea! I’m basically the perfect candidate to be your wife”
“You’ve got a point” he said with a light chuckle, followed by a sigh “I’m just too old for ya, kid”
The room fell silent as you looked down at your fingers rimming the now empty cup. You felt his gaze on him, as if he knew what you were thinking and was waiting for your response.
“Just give me a chance, John” you said looking back at him, meeting his gaze with your slightly pleading one. You knew you looked desperate and naive, but it had just been too long a game of cat and mouse and it wasn’t lighting up for you. You had tried getting over this crush for months, sleeping with other soldiers on the base, going out in various one-time dates. But all you could think about was Price, how it should’ve been him all along, how he’s the right one and all the others felt just so wrong.
Truth be told, Price secretly reciprocated the feelings. He had come to terms with it months ago after he realized you really were perfect and that a connection between the two of you very much existed. You had been occupying his thoughts a bit too often on a daily basis, and there had been times when he had given in on his late night temptations but felt guilty right after.
“It’s 10 years apart, love” he gave you a pained look.
“Who cares, John? I certainly don’t. Hell, my parents are years apart as well and no one gives a shit,” definitely not 10 years apart but you withheld that information from him.
“I’m your superior, doll, and I’m much older than you. It’s just not right.”
You stared at him with wide, beseeching eyes, as if you were gonna start tearing up. But you let out a sigh and shook your head at yourself. You smiled at him, feigning happiness and moved on from the conversation. He returned the smile knowing you were showing him a sign that you wanted to pretend that never happened, same as always, same as all the times he had turned you down before for the same concern about being too old for you.
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The next morning was like every other morning. You had let the subject hide at the back of your mind, ignored it as best as you could. As always, it lingered and haunted you, but you continuously evaded it in your mind. Waiting for it to pass like a light cold.
You entered your office ready to start your day, to deal with papers upon papers, report to Price, and have the same chats and laughs with him as every other day that had gone by. Except as soon as you entered your office, an arrangement of flowers stood out like a sore thumb in the center of your work desk.
Asters, baby’s breaths, begonias, and dark pink carnations. You rolled your eyes as you approached it, thinking it was probably one of the soldiers you had most recently gone out with trying to get your attention after a mediocre date. You took the note that stuck out from the bouquet and read:
See you tonight at 8? Meet me in the parking lot.
Dress pretty for me, doll.
Check ‘Yes’ or ‘No’.
Return to sender.
-John.
You read it over and over again, feeling like your eyes were deceiving you. Well, you only knew of one John that called you ‘doll’, and you only knew one John who would do something this corny. But that same John was the one that had frequently expressed platonic feelings for you. Still, you clung onto hope that it really was from him. You ticked the box labeled ‘yes’ on the silly piece of paper, and couldn’t help the beat your heart skipped or the red staining your cheeks as you did so.
Later that day, you walked down the hallway of the base, heading to Price’s office to drop off the files you needed to report to him, and the note rested snug in your pocket. You debated whether you should bring it up, maybe it wasn’t him after all and you didn’t want to embarrass yourself to him more than you did on a daily occurrence. You entered his office and greeted him like always, placing the files on his desk. He greeted you and acknowledged you with a smirk plastered on his face.
“Thanks, love.” Price cleared his throat, “You got anything else for me?” He looked at you with raised brows expectantly.
So it was him, you thought. Your eyes lit up and your face turned scarlet. An involuntary smile crept up on your face, and you dug into your pocket for the note. You placed it on the table face down and without saying anything to him, you turned on your heels and walked speedily out of his office.
Price chuckled to himself and shook his head as he read the contents of the note.
You followed his written commands that night: dressed up at 8. You wore a satin slip dressed that hadn’t been worn to any of your previous rendezvous, as if it had been tucked away in waiting to be worn just for him. You waited in the parking lot like he instructed you and you were checking every second that ticked on your wrist watch, your breath hitching with each one. Until you saw him approach you, dressed in his civies; tight-fitting black shirt and jeans. The shirt contoured every bulging muscle in his body, solid and toned; his jeans fitting like a glove, a little too well in certain places.
He raked his eyes along your body in the light colored satin dress that clung to your body in all the right ways, eyeing you like you were a finely carved sculpture at a museum.
“You look stunning, love” he cooed, then extended his arm for you. “Shall we?”
You laced your arm around his bicep letting him escort you, your smile never leaving your face.
He took you to a bar you both had visited before with the rest of the team. This time it was just the two of you sitting in an isolated, dimly lit booth; a more romantic atmosphere than you had experienced previously the times you had been there with a group of drunken men.
The liquor you two ingested throughout the night was abundant, and it’s effects definitely reflected on you more than him. Your cheeks were burning red with alcohol and your movements were loose and fluid with him. You were carefree and loud and he loved every second of it, definitely getting a good amount of laughs from him. Although you two already had a fair amount of chemistry, courage was a real thing with you; you didn’t feel the slightest bit of shame or shyness with him tonight.
And he was enjoying himself just as much. The thought of how much he had been missing out on for rejecting you sporadically crossed his mind. He thought about how good you were as company, cherished you two’s daily routine, about how much he had been depriving himself of by not letting himself admit to you how he really felt.
Towards the end of the night your table was adorned with evidence of how much you two had drank and a sign that it was time you got back.
“Alright, that’s enough for ya,” he said sliding out of the booth, reaching his hand out for you to follow him. “Don’t want you getting too pissed, yeah?”
You laughed, taking the hand he held out to you and stepping out of the booth. You were tipsy but had control over yourself.
Once you exited the bar, you and Price idled outside before going back to the base, as he put a cigar to his lip and lit it. You watched him intently, observing how the cigar clung to his lips, how his lips wrapped around it.
“What made you change your mind?” You asked as you leaned against the wall next to you. He looked at you, taking a drag and exhaling it.
“Dunno,” he began “wanted to give you a chance, like you said.”
“What’s your verdict?”
He took a moment as he gathered his thoughts, taking another drag and looking into your eyes. He reached his arm to you, his knuckle brushed against your cheek. You leaned into his touch.
“Been missing out on how good you can make me feel. Denied myself the joy of having you around like this…closer than when we’re in the office” He spoke earnestly, taking the cigar from his lips and maintaining it in his hand as he gazed into your eyes.
You took a step closer to him, your eyes never diverting away from his. He stepped closer to you as well.
In his mind, a voice told him this was a mistake. He was your superior, he was much older than you, this would never work out, and you were going to end up hurt. But a louder, more indulgent voice told him to get closer and closer to you, to place his hand on your waist and pull you closer.
Your eyes were dilated in the dimly lit back of the bar and his were dark blue pools that drowned you. You were pulled closer to him, snaking your hand up the arm that pulled you.
“So what happens next?” You asked in a soft and anticipatory voice.
“Do you want this?” He asked, almost a whisper.
You nodded, still not breaking eye contact. Your bodies were flush against each other by this point and your palms laid on his burly chest.
With that confirmation, Price leaned forward and his lips graced against yours. They were plump and soft, his beard and mustache caressing your soft skin as he pressed his lips with yours.
The kiss was longing yet tender and shy simultaneously. He pulled back slightly and leaned back in, this time his lips were slightly parted, hugging yours when they joined again. Your hands slid up his chest to around the back of his neck, entwining into the hair on his nape. His hands tightened around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer, his body melding with yours, one of his hand snaked up your back as the other shifted slightly lower towards your hips, towards the small of your back.
He pulled back, face still centimeters from yours and his eyes meeting yours. The tip of his nose nuzzled yours. One of his hands came up to cup your face, thumb rubbing against your cheekbone, before his lips clashed against your own once more. This time, it was more filled with passion, more desire and less reservation. You held your breath as he kissed you, gripping his hair between your fingers and kissing him back just as fervently.
He took another step towards you, guiding your body against the wall behind you. His lips massaged against yours, opening your lips slightly as his tongue pried into your mouth. You welcomed it with the tip of your own, a pleased hum escaping your throat at the feeling.
His body was pressed against yours and your body was against the wall as he held you close and gripped your body, as if you would disappear if he didn’t hold you any tighter. The two of you broke away momentarily to catch your breaths before you leaned back in with force and desperation, this time he was the one letting out a pleasured groan. Both of his hands ran down the side of your body as if you were a piece of clay being sculpted on a pottery wheel, then reached for your ass, tightly gripping it, and making you moaned within the kiss.
The sound increased his desire for you, and you could tell not just by the force of his movements and his kisses, but because of the stiffness in his jeans. A hand now slid up your thigh and under the hem of your dress, slightly lifting it against him with a firm grip.
“John…” you moaned between his lips, your hand ran down his front and in between the two of you down to his crotch. You palmed his stiff manhood through his jeans and he let out a groan in response.
“Fuck, baby…” he exhaled, breaking the kiss momentarily “Not here.”
You looked at him puzzled, blown pupils and out of breath.
“You deserve to be fucked properly, sweetheart, not here in this alley. I need to fuck you right…in my bed” he whispered sultrily against your lips before planting a gentle kiss.
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He took you into his room, barely able to take his hands off you on the way there. He kissed you deeply and sloppily, too desperate and hard by this point. You couldn’t complain, though, your panties felt soaked and uncomfortable, your pussy desperate for him to touch it.
You stood with him at the foot of his bed. His kisses were messy and wet, his hands groping every bit of your body. He kneaded your ass and slid up your front up to your breasts, cupping each mound of soft flesh in his large calloused hands. His fingers ran under the thin straps of your dress and he slid them down your shoulders and arms, letting the dress fall to the floor with ease, and leaving you in nothing but your white lacy panties. He pulled back to admire your bare body. God, the amount of times he had imagined what it looked like under your clothes, how many times he had fucked into his fist in the late nights that he couldn’t get the thought of you out of his head no matter how hard he tried. He devoured you with his eyes, then his hands returned to cup your breasts, gripping them with care and adoration, your nipples being taken between his index and middle finger.
“You’re so fucking gorgeous, doll. Your perfect tits…you’re so fucking perfect” he cooed, his words eliciting a moan from you and a palpitation in between your legs.
“Lay down for me, yeah?”
You complied, letting yourself onto the bed behind you. He palmed himself through his jeans as he looked down at you. He had you right where he wanted you, splayed out in his sheets ready, inviting him to fuck you. He crawled on top of you, your hands reaching to touch his torso. Your hands gripped at the hem of his shirt and hiked it up, silently signally for him to take it off, and he complied, kneeling over you as he tugged the shirt off his back.
Fuck, he was something else. He was godly and sculpted, he belonged in an art exhibit. As he sat back on his haunches and in between your legs, you ran your hands down his toned body, from his chest down to his abdomen and lower to his v-line, arriving at the waistband of his jeans.
“I need you, John,” you practically moaned. “Please”
“You need me, huh?” He smirked. “Go on then, love, ‘s all yours.”
You bit your lip and fumbled to unbutton his jeans, your hands shaky with a mix of shyness and excitement. He took your hands in his and helped you slide the zipper down, then helped you tug his jeans down and maneuvered himself out of them, now staying in his boxers. His length was explicitly contoured by the fabric of his underwear. It was obscene how big and girthy he was, your mouth and pussy watered at the sight. You stroked him through his boxers and he rutted against your hand.
“Come on, sweetheart, take it” he encouraged you, placing his hand on yours and rubbing it on himself, a low groan escaping his lips.
You pulled his boxers down, his cock springing free, and your heart skipped a beat. You had no idea how you’d be able to take that length. He smiled as if he could read your thoughts.
“Stroke it, love, go on.”
And you complied, wrapping your dainty fingers around his cock, making him sigh and cuss under his breath at the feeling of your gentle hands.
You tugged at it, stroking your hands up and down from tip to base. Your thumb rubbed the fat, leaking head of his cock, smearing the precum emerging from his slit. His eyes were on you the whole time, his breath ragged and his hips moving rhythmically with your slow strokes.
He reached down to you and took each of your thighs into his hands, spreading your legs open for him to accommodate himself between them. He leaned his body down, his face close to yours as he collided his lips with yours once more. He trailled his tongue from your lips, down to your chin, neck and sternum. His hands moved from your thighs to your breasts, kneading one in one hand, and took the other in his mouth.
He alternated between lapping at the sensitive buds and sucking the mounds, making you mewl and throw your head back at the sensation. The hand that was stroking him joined the other one at tugging the hair on his head to ground yourself.
His hands were all over you before they returned to grip your thighs; his mouth followed the same route, running down your abdomen before he settled cozily between your legs. He looked up at you as he left kisses and nips on the sensitive skin in your inner thighs. His eyes were dark and gleaming with pleasure. You looked like a mess wiggling under his touch, you couldn’t wait for him to finally take your panties off and taste you.
“You wore these for me, hm, baby?“ he rubbed your pussy through the lacy fabric as he looked up at you. “Were you thinking of me fucking you the whole night?”
You nodded shamelessly and it elicited a chuckle from him. “You’re a little slut, aren’t you? Wearing these for me, anticipating for me to fuck you.”
He tugged the panties down your legs, gripping them in his fist as he smelled and tasted the saturated crotch. He let out a satisfied hum before settling them on the other side of the bed. His hand now reaching for your bare pussy, running his thick fingers between your slick wet folds.
“So fuckin’ wet f’me and I’ve barely gotten started”
You moaned desperately at his slow and teasing touch, wiggling your hips to get more friction, but he stopped you by gripping your hips with his other hand.
“Uh-uh, sweetheart, you’re gonna be a good girl and stay still for me” he scolded you as he moved his fingers painfully slow, coating himself in your slick. You obeyed him, like the good girl he wanted you to be for him.
Because you were so obedient and docile, he rewarded you by rubbing his index and middle finger over your throbbing clit, making you suck in a breath and let out a moan. He rubbed the bundle of nerves with his wet fingers, slowly yet with the perfect amount of pressure, it made your eyes shut and your pussy flutter, getting impossibly wetter.
Price was watching every movement you made, his eyes alternating between looking up at you and back down at the sight of your glistening pussy and how his fingers looked on it.
He slid both digits inside your hole at a burning slow pace. The sensation of your hole stretching at the entrance and your walls clenching around them once he was in there made his dick twitch.
“Fuckin’ hell, baby, your pussy’s taking my fingers so well. So fuckin’ warm and tight.” He pumped his fingers in and out of your pussy, at first slowly and then increasing his pace little by little. It made you moan in blissful pleasure, your back arching off the mattress, making Price’s grip on your hip increase.
“Remember, doll; be a good girl for me and I’ll reward ya, ‘kay?” He warned, stilling his fingers inside you “Don’t make me have to punish you”
You nodded complacently. “ ‘M sorry, John” you pleaded.
He let out a small chuckle as he kissed your inner thigh again, whispering “that’s my girl” against your skin. He returned to pumping his fingers inside you, his pace increasing. His fingers curled inside you, pressing the spot within you that made you see stars. He played with your pussy so expertly, as if he knew his way around your body like a map he had memorized. He whispered praises as he fucked his fingers into you. You moaned like a madwoman overwhelmed with pleasure, your walls clenching and pulsating against his fingers.
He watched you unravel for a bit, before moving his face close to your pussy, sticking out his tongue to lap at your clit with his fingers slowing down their pace in and out of you. His tongue was flat, lapping at your stimulated clit at the rhythm of his fingers. It made you borderline scream and clamp down on his fingers.
“J-John, please!” You pleaded, not knowing at what, maybe pleading for him to have some mercy on you and grant you release. It drove him crazy to hear you say his name, sending a shock straight to his cock, motivating to lick and suck on your clit and his fingers fucked you harder and faster.
You were right there, right there, right at the verge of cumming. His other hand that once had a firm grip on your hip now loosened and let go, migrating to play with one of your breasts.
Now free, you rutted your hips against his mouth, his beard and mustache were coated in your juices that you smeared the more you moved on him. He moaned against your pussy and at the sensation of one of your hands tugging at his hair. Your other hand found itself gripping the sheets next to you. You were a mess of moans and begs for John to let you cum.
“Cum for me, darling, come on. Be a good fucking girl and cum for me, princess” he said against your pussy before returning to devour it.
You felt the pressure in your stomach well up, overwhelming you until you snapped and broke euphorically. You choked out a final moan as your back arched up against the mattress, your thighs closing around Price’s head; pussy clasping around his fingers and juices spilling out onto his face. You let out a sob as you came undone.
Price looked up at you, leaving kisses on your pussy as he removed his fingers from you.
“Atta girl,” he said softly. “You’re so perfect when you cum for me, love”
You were breathless and your mind was in a haze. You felt Price scale up your body and place his wet mustache against your cheek, planting a gentle kiss on it. You faintly heard him praise you, how good you did for him, how perfect you were.
“Look at me, darling,” he said as his hand grasped your jaw and turned your face to look at him, your eyes fluttered open and gazed at his with blown, dazed pupils.
“Will you give me another one, baby? You gonna let me fuck you once more?”
You nodded drunkenly and exhausted, “Y-yes… fuck me, John”
He smiled at you kindly, stroking your face with his hand and whispering “you’re so good for me, sweet girl”
He reached down to pump his painfully hard cock with the hand that was coated in your slick, letting out a soft moan, and aligned the tip at your entrance. His body weighed on yours, the two of you perfectly snug against each other. Your hands rested on the sides of your head on the bed and your legs were spread open for him, his body nestled between them. Slowly, he pushed his thick length into you, splitting you open. Your mouth fell open with a slow moan emerging from you. He moaned in unison with you at the feeling of your cunt encapsulating his yearning cock.
His forehead rested against yours, and the hand on your jaw moved to your neck, comfortably resting on it as he bottomed out into you, slowly and steadily. Once he was completely inside you, his pelvis flush against your clit, he stayed still for a moment, feeling how your walls fluttered around his cock.
Then, he began to thrust and gyrate his hips into you, at first slowly and then picking up the pace. You were still high off the first orgasm and your cunt was overstimulated by the new intrusion of Price’s cock. You were in overwhelming pleasure, clenching your cunt with every thrust from Price. Your eyes were locked with his, listening to his soft panting breaths that matched your own. You laid there taking his cock, feeling like you had died and gone to Heaven.
As you regained more of your conscience and strength, your arms rose and rested on his shoulders, wrapping around his neck and holding him close. His free hand grabbed your thigh and wrapped it around him, granting him a deeper angle within you, making you moan as his cock hit that spot inside you once more.
You already felt the second wave washing over you. The feeling of him thrusting his cock inside of you was euphoric. The way his body moved against yours, how his hands held your body so tightly and bruising, the sound of his pants and choked out moans mixed with the sound of skin slapping against skin. This is all you’ve been wanting all this time. You had been waiting for him to fuck you silly since the moment you met him, since you realized how desperate and infatuated you were with him. And now you had him, chasing his release, fucking you perfectly and hungrily. It made your heart race and your ears ring, your skin covered in goosebumps, your stomach tying into a knot as another orgasm built up inside of you.
“I’m close, baby,” he moaned against your lips, hands firmly gripping your hips as he pound against you.
“Cum inside me, John” you begged breathlessly “make me yours, please”
It drove him crazy to hear you beg like this, making him ram his cock into you relentlessly.
“You’re mine, Y/N” he growled “You’re only fuckin’ mine, my perfect girl”
His words and the speed and depth of his fucking made you see white again. Your second orgasm hit you like a truck as you clenched around his cock firmly, moaning against his mouth, legs shaking in his grasp.
The tightness of your pussy made him snap, shooting hot shots of cum into you. He moaned in unison with you, trembling and hips faltering as he flooded your insides.
The two of you came in tandem, holding each other tightly as you came down from your mutual highs. He kept slowly and messily pounding into you, stuffing his cum into you.
“Good girl, Y/N,” he sighed “so full with my cum. My girl takes my cock so well, so good for me.” He said as he peppered kisses over your sweaty face, stroking your hair with the hand that once held your neck.
You hummed at his words “all yours, John, ‘m all yours”. You were breathless and cockdrunk, your limbs going limp on the mattress. He chuckled softly at your words, his cock falling out of you and his fingers reaching down to stuff his escaping cum back into you, making you wince at the sensation.
He got off the bed, heading to the en suite bathroom to clean himself and coming back to wipe in between your legs with a damp wash cloth. You let him take care of you giving him an appreciative hum. He smiled at you as he did so, whispering praises. When he finished you rolled into a comfortable position in the bed, feeling the bed sink as his body came to join yours. He big spooned you, embracing you tightly against him. His hand pet your hair, fingers tucking the loose strands behind your ear. You fell asleep under his touch and he watched you, feeling smitten with you in his arms.
A/N: this word count is fucking CRAZY!!! I’m sorry for the length yall I got carried away. But if you’re here, hope you enjoyed!!!! Love ya <3
P.S. for funsies, look up the meaning of the flowers in the arrangement for extra corniness.
2K notes · View notes
halcyone-of-the-sea · 9 months
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Songs That Sound Like Sea-Foam (I)
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AU MASTERLIST || PART II
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PAIRING: Fisherman!John Price x F!Mermaid!Reader
WORD COUNT: 6.2k
WARNINGS: Fluff, mentions of death, being hunted, vulgar language, price in a tunic (yes this is a warning by itself), awkwardness, nakedness, suggestive (?), implied age gap, etc.
A/N: I'm feral over this AU, ong. A million kisses to the Anon that brought this to my attention-btw this is definitely becoming a mini-series.
*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*
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Your family told you to never go beyond the deep waterways of the cove, never to brave the open sea. Times were changing. The Harpies, when they weren't as shrewd about their feathers getting wet, would fly down from their tall mountain spires and tell stories—ones about the hunting ships. 
They’d seen them, they said as your family listened on in horror from the rocks, dragging all manner of Merfolk up from the waters in large nets made of iron and hard steel. Spears that tore scales to take for profit. In other instances, the unlucky individuals were even sold to royalty to become showpieces in displays of high wealth and standing. 
But it wasn’t just Merfolk. It was all manner of mystical beast and being. Hunted. Sold. Humans, your parents had told you, were not friends. They were greedy and selfish; more than often cruel. 
And so they started to do the same unto them. Your family would lure them with their voices to the ends of the great ships that were brought close to your cove—watch as they hurled themselves from the sides into the grasp of the ruthless waves. They did it for you, they explained. To try and keep you safe. 
For years they did this until they were gone too. 
Suddenly the cove seemed more like a prison than a safe spot, and the Harpies no longer came to converse or tell news. Killed or taken you had no idea, but it was becoming fairly obvious that even interactions with your own people were impossible. Were you the only mermaid left? It was a good question to ask and one that you could never answer. All that you knew was that you had been alone for a very long time. 
That was, before you first laid eyes on the fisherman. 
You watch him now, yet again, from behind the sharp jutting body of the rocks; the water delicately bobs you up and down as your vibrant tail hangs limp in its otherworldly throes. Eyes softly wide and mouth parted in wonder. 
He’s walking along the deck of a small ship—not the large and intimidating ones of the other men that sail the seas—with a strong form. A hat on top of his head of brown hair and a well-trimmed beard of the same color made him look gruff in appearance. 
Your hands shift over the sharp black stone, and the nakedness of your top is covered by the long strands of your wet, uncut, hair. This man wore a plain white tunic and brown pants stuffed into large boots. Even as far as you were, you heard the soft whistled tune dancing in the shell of your ears. Delicate eyes watch, head slowly peeking out more and more. 
He was tending to the nets he had on the bow and as you studied him you were mystified. 
“Fascinating,” you whisper, unknown emotions swirling in you. 
His muscles strain, large and expansive shoulders lead down to a tapered waist; legs that you blink at before glancing at your tail under the rippling water. There’s a large grunt before the fisherman’s net is thrown in a beautiful arc, hitting the water with a slap and a spray of liquid as it begins to sink. Startled, you flinch back, gasping loudly.
With a racing heart, you quietly scold yourself for the childish reaction, flicking your tail in annoyance. Slowly but surely, your head peaks back out with water dripping down the flesh of your shoulders. 
But when you shift back into the open, you find a deep set of stormy blue eyes digging into your field of view. You freeze, seeing his lids go back in surprise and shock as your jaw slackens. A cold fear enters your veins at the new attention brought to you but you find yourself unable to look away. 
The Fisherman is the picture of utter stillness, just as you are, like twin mountains of ancient stone. Your nervousness only seems to grow as he doesn’t do anything—teachings and lessons about those who walk on two legs and sail in ships poking holes into your mind. 
Gawking and spying were one thing…but being seen meant death. You swallow stiffly and go tense, shifting to half-hide behind your rock. 
“Oh, no,” your mouth murmurs, self-hatred and fear lining the tone. “Oh, no, no, no.”
And yet the Fisherman had not moved, nor made any attempt to pull his sinking net back into his boat. Fish panic in the rope grave they’ve been ensnared in. His eyes….why are they so curiously locked on you?
You spare one last glance before shoving away from the rock and disappearing under the water with a violent splash; making off for the deep underwater caves that offer salvation. 
When you’re down there—in the darkness with only silent ripples of light to guide your eyes—you find it hard to stop thinking about the Fisherman and his strong jaw. His genuine awe at the sight of you. 
Had he not heard the stories of the Merfolk of this region? Or…or were you truly the last of your kind? 
The thought troubles you, and, riddled with anxiety, you go over to your store of shiny trinkets that you’d collected over the years; grabbing them in your hands and fiddling with them to try to put your mind at ease. The walls of the caves bare down on you and you hope you’d not just signed over your own death warrant. 
Maybe he’ll go away, you offer yourself, face tight and tail curled close, maybe he’ll be afraid and won’t come back. 
It was a pointless belief. They always come back—driven by greed or a righteous authority. Humans were cruel. 
But your brain goes back to stormy blue eyes like pebbles and softly parted lips. Orbs glinting with wonder and shock. No attempt to shout or grab for the large knife you’d seen strapped to his belt. 
A fisherman, you told yourself, who hesitated to go after the biggest fish of them all. 
You didn’t quite know if that made you more afraid or more intrigued. 
It was only after you’d spent three weeks in the underwater caves of the cove that you’d finally decided the coast was clear. You’d cautiously gone back through the winding seaweed and schools of marine life to hide in your little rock fort; afraid but brave. From under the waves in the calm of the water you’d scanned the surface for the shadows of a boat, anything to indicate that the man had returned. 
Nothing. 
Tension leaves your shoulders and you travel upwards, vibrant scales shimmering like jewels. You were quite close to the mainland, you would say, back to the shore to look out over the open entrance to your home. At the first sign of danger, the rocks would be your first point of shelter if you wished to remain hidden but continue to watch.
Ears popping as your head surfaces, you only look out with the water swaying below your eyes; nose and chin hidden. Sand from behind you shifts.
“Knew I’d seen something, then, eh?” Your heart lurches—brain flashing to hooks and nets; you shove yourself back under the water with a garbled gasp.
Fish around your form dash away as you frantically look back at the surface, your scales shining as the light hits them. Fingers tense in the water, you shift your body so that your form has its back to the floor of the cove and breathe quickly in your own mermadian way with shaking fins. 
On the very edge of the shore, you see the shadow of a sitting body in the sand. He hadn’t moved, this Fisherman. Was waiting as inanimate as an empty shell.
What had he said? You ask yourself, hair disturbed by the flow of the waves above your head. A gentle back and forth. After a moment of contemplation, the large muscle in your breast slows itself and a nervous curiosity grows.
Yet still, the shadow stays completely motionless beside the occasional itch and brush as facial hair. Waiting. 
Waiting to attack, your hand twitches in the water and you flutter your tail to take you closer to the open air, or waiting to see me?
Taking what you can describe as a deep breath, the top of your head once more breaks the top of the water; lashes dripping salty tear-drops as you blink away the sting. Every part of you is ready to disappear once more if things go south. 
And then you lock eyes once more. 
The Fisherman sits in the sand with his boots pushing up the granules—his right hand rests over his bent knee while the other keeps him up in a relaxed position from behind his back. You stare, the sun reflected in your eyes with a small glinting and hair in your vision. A foreign heat builds in your face when the man’s head tilts; tiny eyes narrowing as if he’d just proven a point to himself. 
Why doesn’t he seem surprised?
There’s a moment of a smirk that slashes his hidden lips but it’s gone in a fraction of a second. His mustache moves as he speaks and your face slightly bobs lower instinctually. The Fisherman doesn't seem hostile—he has a kind of stern comfort to him. 
Stubborn gruffness. And his accent only amplifies that fact.
 “Well, wasn’t expecting to find you here,” his chest rumbles with his words. You find you quite like the sound of it. Shells grinding against each other and pearls that clatter in palms. Your eyes widen with innocence. The Fisherman clears his throat, still watching carefully as the water sloshes over his boots. “Else I would have stayed clear when I still could.” 
Your hands tread water around you, tail flickering in small movements. 
The man's gaze darts down to stare as well as he could through the ripples. 
“Bloody Christ,” he murmurs to himself, returning your eyes once more, “thought you were all mostly extinct. Fuckin’ hell.”
“Extinct?” Your lips flinch, chin caressing the waves as brows pull up. The Fisherman blinks as if surprised to hear you speak. To be honest, you were half afraid you couldn’t either—how long had it been since you’d had a conversation above water? You spent most of your time passing comments to rare traveling Hippocampus and Sea Serpents.
Not that they could respond, of course.
By now your face had entirely left the water, that word startling you. Your chest tightens.
“What do you mean,” you ask the older man, this strange Fisherman who was shifting his weight in the sand, “extinct?” 
Dark brows furrow and his back slightly straightens itself. 
“You aren't exactly what I’d be calling common, Love. No one’s seen one of your kind in years.” Your face stills. 
“Years?” Head angling itself down, you stare at your reflection in growing fear. 
The Fisherman makes a move to stand, and you dart back swiftly. A pale hand is held in the air as if to sedate you.
“Easy, now.” It’s said softly, a grunt stuck at the beginning. A small moment passes before the man fully stands up, dressed similarly to when you’d seen him before. 
Top, pants, hat. There’s also a flash of metal around his neck, some piece of jewelry hidden on the chain under the layer of his thin, flowy, tunic. Hands go to cross over his chest in a display of muscle gained from a long time of hard work.
You nervously plead for an explanation, “B-but that…that doesn’t make any sense! I’m not the only one left!”
“No,” the Fisherman slowly states, taking off the hat from his head and delicately placing it on the ground. “No, you’re not the last.” 
His eyes dart along your visible body, trying to catch a glimpse of that tail that was in all stories about your kind. 
“Your name, Ma’am,” he asks, blue returning to your own sights, “what is it.”
“Well, what’s yours?” You counter, getting snappy in your anxiousness. “You come into my home and expect me to answer to you? And where’s your fishing boat anyways—unless a male Selkie has suddenly managed to brave the deep sea?” 
Perhaps it had been a trick of the light, but you had sworn the Fisherman had smiled at you; it was a swift slash of something that pulled his mustache back and wrinkled his face. An amused thing it was. A sort of tiny tease, in its own right.
Your heart beats steadily at the sight, eyes watching. 
“Well, I suppose you’re right, then.” He scratches at his beard with one hand, still studying you with a tilt of his head. As if weighing what he should tell you. There was an air of intrigue but that did nothing to hide the hesitance. “I docked my boat in the sea cave, thought it would do more harm than good to leave it in the open. If you’d seen it, you wouldn’t have shown, eh?” The Fisherman points and you look to the deep indent in the mountainside, the tiny ship visible as it stays stationary. You blink at it slowly. 
“And you can call me whatever it is you like, I don’t bloody care, but I’m not inclined to tell one of the Merfolk my name—I may have come ‘ere, but I’m not fuckin’ daft, now.”
It was true, what he spoke of. Names to your people have a stark and violent purpose. To know one's name is to own a piece of that person’s soul. Songs gain more power, words grow into orders followed without thought. Not that it was your intention.
You glower, brows pulling in. 
“A simple fisherman does well to know that it’s rude to speak ill like such in another’s home.” The man smirks, cheeks rising. 
“Simple, am I?” The already expansive build of his shoulders widens as he leans back on his heels, water sloshing at his boots. His eyes glimmer like lighting with humor. The look makes your cheeks burn with warmth, throat swallowing saliva.
“Why are you here?” You avoid the question, treading water and letting your tail drift. Willing the water to cool your senses. It was obvious that this man wasn’t a hunter—foolish, perhaps, but no hunter.
Or maybe just confidently brave. 
The Fisherman hums under his breath, grunting in the way you’d already come to associate with him. Rugged fellow, really. Weathered like a pile of old rope but still handsome, the sinews under the stain of dirt pure of color. You found yourself, however apprehensive, enjoying the squareness of his face; how the brunette’s hair would sweep in the warm breeze. 
He was attractive.
“Fishing, Ma’am.” A broad sweep of one of his hands, “You have a proper cove. Plenty of places to cast.” 
Your tight arms somewhat loosen. 
“Just fishing?” Your voice darkens. “Then why is it you’re here on shore and not doing just that.” Tail flickering, it lightly brings you back from him, eyes always darting away to stare into the background of his form—at the dark shadows of trees behind the dark rocks. At the open mouth of the cove in case of extra ships. 
If what he told you earlier was true, you were in danger just by living. 
Extinct? Not seen in years? No, that can’t be right. A deep knot forms in your stomach.
“I may be human, Ma’am, but I believe myself to be above intrusion.” The Fisherman splays his hands by his waist and shifts his thighs. He seems serious again, like a wave going forward and back he seemed to always revert to a crafted visage of firm resolve. “This is your home, and I’m asking to ferry my boat here when able. Nothing else.” 
You blink in surprise, brows pulling back. 
He was…asking you? 
“I…own the cove no more than the Manticore owns the desert,” your voice stutters, oddly touched by his sincerity. You pause and push yourself farther above a wave. This large man didn’t seem cruel to you. “I have no claim on the waters—they have been here longer than I. Do as you wish.” 
While that should have been the end of it, you found his blue eyes continuing to watch you, head tilted like a shaggy dog. Thinking deeply with a slight parting of his lips and rising to his lids. 
At the intensity of his silent wonder, your head goes light. Had you said something strange? No, it was just the truth. Then…why was this man’s face going to a modest pink shade? Why were his eyes darting away from yours and his feet shifting? 
You narrow at him before he speaks, clearing his throat and crossing his arms.
“Alright,” the Fisherman mutters, chest rumbling. 
A silence falls where your ears twitch to the lapping of the sea-foam and the feeling of blood in your veins which mirrors such movements. As you saw him do to you, your vision falls to the man’s body; looking across the tapering of his waist and the rolled sleeves of his tunic—showing off years of muscle 
“I don’t suppose…” Your tail flinches from the sudden noise from the brunette, expecting him to swim over to his boat and get to his business. You stare and listen, and for the first time, you believe a mermaid has been entranced by another's voice. “That I’ll have the pleasure of seeing you again?”
The Fisherman speaks slowly, hands shifting on his biceps; thighs tense and settle. You allow the waves to connect and slide around your body and a feeling reminiscent of warm rocks in the sun grows in your heart. 
Strange, this man. This serious-faced Fisherman who asks one of the Merfolk for permission over the waters we don’t control. You tilt your head to teasingly mirror the brunettes. He humphs in his throat at your action. I enjoy him. 
At the first sign of danger you’d leave—but for now…talking felt good.
“Perhaps,” you say, lips twitching into a smile. “Would this nameless Fisherman enjoy the company of a mermaid? Not many would say yes.”
“I think you’ll find I’m not like those many, then, yeah?” He smiles, a small twitch of his lips. You begin backing up, getting to deeper water while maintaining eye contact. “I don’t care what you are, just that we have an agreement.”
“Very well,” your neck dips under the waves, tail momentarily peaking above the surface. Blue flickers to it, shoulders lowering in hidden awe. The Fisherman’s lungs still. 
He hears your giggle before you dive under, disappearing swiftly down to your caves with a splash. 
It’s a long while before the brunette picks up his hat and begins walking the length of the shore—strong steps taking him back to his ship with a tiny smile brightening his ruggedly handsome face. 
He runs a hand over his chin and chuckles.
“Fuckin’ hell.”
You perch on the side of the Fisherman’s boat, golden comb in your grip as you run it over and over through your locks. Tangles and knots are rendered useless to the fine and beautiful make of the object, the handle covered in small barnacles and seaweed. A nice breeze wafts in the air, and behind you, the padding of feet goes across the deck. With the sliding of nets and a small whistling from the Fisherman, you feel your tail gently sway from side to side; the bottom under the water whose waves rise and lower the vessel. 
It had been a week since your first meeting and you had become more relaxed about this man’s presence. He had been truthful—every day he would come and fish. 
At first, you’d watch from the black rocks, sitting atop them and studying. More than once you’d see the brunette raise a hand in greeting when his boat had entered the cove; an acknowledgment that you were there and nothing more. No expectation for you to come over or speak to him. 
Day after day you’d see the net being thrown from the side only to be reeled back by large arms, legs apart and firm to the deck. 
On day four, you swam over and grappled onto the side of the ship, curious. Before you could even realize he instantly knew you were there—despite his back being to you—the Fisherman spoke in a cheeky tone.
“Come up, then, if you’re that interested. No use watching from the water.” So you had, with a bit more fire to your cheeks than you thought mermaids could handle.
Now it was routine. The human man would pull into the cove and you would sit on the side of his fishing boat, doing whatever you wished as he worked. 
You pull your comb through the ends of your hair, placing it down after and closing your eyes before your hands grab the shiny strands, twisting them. Under your breath, you hum in tune with the Fisherman’s whistled song; the notes like a growing symphony in your head. 
Song to Merfolk is sacred and revered—everything sings, in its own right, and deserves careful crafting to fully understand. 
“You seem to enjoy that,” you startle to a stop, eyes popping open. Sharply looking over your shoulder, you pause your hands. Staring, the man has completely stopped his work; nets at his feet with slapping fish of all colors stuck in the rope’s limp weavings. 
He squints at your confused face.
“Rhythm.” 
“Oh,” you offer a smile and watch him look away only to kneel down and begin separating his quarry. “If you’re worried I’ll sing around you, think nothing of it—I know what that could cause.” 
The Fisherman hums, amused at you, “I’m not. I was complimenting you,” the knife at his belt glints in the light. “You have a pretty voice, Love.” 
You shyly watch him, hair partly covering your visage, and catch a glimpse once more at the necklace he seems to always wear. Silver and shiny but still hidden. 
“If you knew about my species, you wouldn’t be saying that.” Explaining lowly, the man grunts, sending a look your way as he tosses a Cod farther up the deck—you watch it flop around for a moment. 
“Well,” the Fisherman explains, hands pausing and body leaning closer as one of his knees connects to the wood. It’s a teasing whisper that slides into your drum, and you find yourself nearly shivering from it. Blue eyes twinkle with mischief. “I did. No worries, I’ll never tell.”
A deep chuckle joins a lighter one, and your tail shimmers in the open light; scales vibrant and rich-looking. From what the brunette can see on the deck—the smaller plates that extend all the way up your navel to stop at your belly button—you know he stares at them. 
Not a greedy, evil, stare…just one of hidden admiration. It was of no surprise to you that he found it beautifully uncanny.
You have no idea how to read this Fisherman; have no idea what he wants. You think he doesn’t want anything. On your face, a strange calm settles. 
“Tell me, Fisherman,” his gaze snaps from your scales to your face, momentarily stopping at the dip of your neck as you turn as fully to him as you’re able from your perch. Your hand rests at your side; spine twisted halfway. “Who are you? No, I don’t mean your name. I want your person. You don’t act afraid of me—of what I am.” He stays kneeling and lets the net rest for now, his heart beating steadily in his breast. “There is more to you than a human at sea, surely.” 
Your words are not accusatory, they lacked any sort of confrontation. Curiosity, though, like enclosed treasure, was stuck behind your tongue. He surprises you by standing and beginning to walk over, boots thumping. 
As he nears, he sits down with a huff on the edge, right next to you. 
There’s a moment when you both stare into each other's eyes as you feel the world shift. Blinking up at him, at the closer range you take into account the ancientness of his eyes and how it seemed, for such an alone man, it was making him look far older than he was. Still older than you, yes, but the sentiment still stands.
With his hat having been retired not five minutes earlier onto one of the many ship’s barren tops, you saw the streaks of sun-bleached strands in his brown hair. You unconsciously reach for your comb but stay your fingers as they flinch over the gold.
Storm-blue carefully glances away before coming back to you. 
“Not much to know, Love,” the Fisherman’s brow raises, “you understand?” 
“No,” you say, honestly, head tilting at him. He looks surprised, breath hitching. 
“It’s just…there’s not much to tell, Sweetheart.”
Humans are strange creatures.
Not knowing this word game, you take your hand away from the comb and bring it to his chest, slipping under the neck of his tunic to grasp at the necklace he always wears. A hand snaps to your wrist almost immediately—a startling speed that makes you flinch. 
Above your heads, seagulls squawk at you, but all you can gaze into are those pure blue orbs. They trap you, drag you down far faster than a whirlpool into the briny depths of hypnotic appeasement. 
Perhaps you were naive to the magical whims of males that walk on two feet.
The Fisherman’s jaw clenches, eyes tightly narrowed at you in hesitance and veiled threat. You blink at him softly, not doing anything besides twitching your fingers and widening your sight. Before long, his hold loosens but doesn’t leave, allowing you on whatever it was you were doing yet still touching your damp flesh.
Lips parting, you don’t make a fuss. Instead, you hum under your breath and allow his calluses to scrape you. The toughness becomes a stark contrast to your own make-up. 
Feels nice.  
Your digits peel out the article of jewelry and you shift closer to look; bare chest brushing against his. You can feel his pulse through the brunette’s tunic, the way his throat shifts in a tense swallow of nothing. 
The necklace held two pieces of small, round, silver and said the following. 
“Jonathan Price, Captain, 141st company under the King.”
As you read, your tail gradually begins brushing his leg in its swaying. Through it all, the large Fisherman only slants his chin down and watches, breathing half through his mouth and half through his nose. You hear his throat clear; feel his grip squeeze your wrist. 
It is a small and taken-aback kind of noise. He doesn’t move his hand.
You are happy he doesn’t. 
“You’re a…Captain?” Asking, you look up shocked and aren’t taken aback by how close your face was to his. Even if your cheeks begin to burn at the beard bristles itching your nose. 
“...Yes,” breathe puffs over the lower half of your face. Your fingers detangle from the Fisherman’s necklace and let it thump to his chest. “I was. Left.” 
Blinking, you whisper, steadily, “What’s a…Captain…?” 
A small sound is made in the back of his throat and he releases your wrist and pulls back before a loud bark of a laugh jerks his chest. You stare in innocent confusion, hair falling over your shoulders.
“What?” Gripping his mouth, Jonathan Price grounds himself by gripping his thigh as he chuckles.
“No, no,” he takes a deep breath and releases his face, smoothing down his beard quickly with amusement stuck in his smile. “Bloody hell, it’s nothing. Nothing at all, Love.”
He sends you a warm side glance and you huff, moving back and picking up your comb, getting back to brushing your locks again. You are acutely aware that you now know the Fisherman’s name, but refrain from saying anything until he does. Now you know why he reacted in such a way.
Your tail twitches in the water as fish brush past it and the brunette begins with a soft look. 
“I was in charge of a small group of men—we had a ship. Far larger than this old girl,” he pats the deck, and you slow your motion to show that you are listening, intrigued. “We did what was needed of us, but there was a thin line that needed to be drawn to keep every bastard sane.” 
Blue meets your eyes and the man’s expression darkens. Your fingers twitch as the breeze ravages his hair, chest tightening. 
“And yours?” You ask softly, entranced and open, “What was your line, Captain Price?” 
He hums after a small silence, sighing deeply. Along the hull of the boat, the waves rock the vessel gently side to side, and your mythical attention seems to entrap him far better than your voice could. His face loses that dark edge, well-trimmed beard relaxes as his jaw does. 
The past it seems, looms over him like a tsunami.
Reaching up a slow hand, his fingers brush the tendrils of hair that had slipped out of your hold and were dangling in front of your face; the Fisherman blinks and pushes them back behind your ear. By now your brush had long stopped and your breath was held in your chest. For the first time in your life, you think you feel yourself shiver at the delicate scrape of his skin on yours.
“John,” he mutters, and you suck down a shallow breath as he watches you like you were an idol of the Gods, “Just John.” 
Your smile leaves his fingers pressing deeper into your scalp and, perhaps a bit naively, you welcome him to you like a bird to the sky. You liked his gruffness—his beard and his face. The lines on his forehead that you could imagine tracing as if they belonged on a map instead of the squareness of this Fisherman’s profile. Tiny sockets that hold sapphire stones.
“Maybe I left because I couldn’t stand seeing such beautiful creatures being put to the hook, eh?” Your eyes widen, tiny gasp leaving your lips. 
Merfolk swooned with flattery, truth be told. They enjoy being doted on and praised; given gifts of both words and objects. You were no different. 
Oh…did he call me beautiful?
John smirks at your reaction, taking his hand off of you and standing with a low chuckle. Your tail flutters at the sudden absence, head following after him as he walks back to his net with a sway in his step. You blink in astonishment. 
“You’re a strange human, John,” calling to him, you grimace at the blatant disappointment in your bones at the lack of his skin on yours. At his humored hum, you sense your growing attraction to the grind of his vocal cords. His voice. “I don’t know what to think of you.”
“Then think nothing of me,” he explains easily, casually, re-gathering his nets in his toned arms. You try not to let your jaw slacken at the bulge under his tunic when he carries them. “I’m not offended by it, Love.” A sly look, “Do as you wish.” 
Your tail twitches so violently you’re afraid you might break the side of the ship. 
And so this strange dance between the two of you continued well into the longer months—John would come in his ship nearly every day and you would join him on the side of the deck. Sometimes you would hum for him and he would whistle a tune back, others there were long bouts of conversation about the ways of humans and beasts. John told you that the King had ordered the total extinction of all manner of ‘strange and unordinary’ creatures to secure his line safely to the throne. 
When he had explained it, the mad had gone red with anger.
“Fuckin’ muppet,” he’d spit, fiddling with his knife as you watched a small distance away, playing with his silver necklace in your hands. You twiddled it around and liked how it shimmered like your scales did in the light. “Bloody thought I would just go along with the deaths of innocent beings. He had no facts—no proof to back up his claim. I’ve done things. Horrible things,” John explained to you, sending you a stiff look, “but I’ve not forsaken my damn mind to reality. Takin’ the piss.” 
Muttering the last sentence to himself, you had felt your lips curve into a smile. “You have a proper conscience, John, done bad or not.” 
“Yeah, well, Sweetheart, I’ll be done in soon enough.” You only stared with care-drowned eyes and caressed his necklace. When he had seen this, his body had deflated with an exasperated grunt. 
You shared a chuckle and he got back to work; feeling his melting gaze drawn back to you every so often. 
Later, yet again, you found your form on his boat, this time with his hands across the small of your back as you studied the blade of his knife.
“Careful, now. Don’t run your finger along the edge.” His free grip points to the sharp side—breath fanning your ear. You feel your throat tighten and nod, caressing a thumb on the leather handle. 
John’s hand is hard on your bare skin and you sense his heat drilling past your veins into the very marrow of your bones. You unconsciously sigh when his fingers slide slightly higher, traveling the length of your spine; his scars catching on every knob of bone. Your exploration stills and your pupils widen. 
His breath is on your neck, nose tilting as his jaw does just above the meat of your shoulder. 
“Why’d you stop?” You stare off into the metal, lashes fluttering when his fingers finally curve at the swell of your neck. Lips drag on your flesh before a deep grumble of affection stems from John’s chest as he kisses your rapid pulse. “Distracted? Hm.” 
“It’s,” you breathe out, scales reflecting light as your lower body shifts on the wood. His opposite hand circles your waist, drawing your back to his chest. Skin burns and thoughts go to liquid as you feel his roving muscle. “It’s g-good. Pretty—” 
Words fail you as his lips continue to slowly travel.
“Could say the same,” John grunts; beard scraping down your flesh. 
Your eyes flutter, head tilting to give more room at the same time you whisper out, violently shivering at the compliment, “John…” 
“What is it?” The grip moves to run over your scales, right where your upper hips would be; the sensation of him caressing you with gentle, deep, rubs of his thumb was all it took for you to give in completely to him. “Go on, Love, speak.” 
You take a breath and feel his heart beating steady along your back—the texture of his tunic. “What…are you doing?” 
John moves your hair and places open-mouthed kisses on the back of your neck. He breathes in your scent and you turn your light head to stare unabashedly at his flushed face. Your tail sways, limp, over the side of the boat. 
Blown pupils hide that sea-storm blue like a lock and key to dangerous thoughts and attraction. 
In answer, his eyes flicker down to your lips hungrily and your gaze widens; a small sound in the base of your throat. 
“You’re somethin’ beautiful, y’know that?” He says and you let him lean in closer to your face, eyes threatening to close when you take in the musk of human flesh and sweat. Rope and wood oil. John’s words make you shiver again, hairs standing on end—responding to that deep growl with a roaring in your ears. 
You shouldn’t be enjoying this. Shouldn’t be enjoying his lips or his tight grip; his…his rough, large, hands that encapsulate your body and drown you. It terrifies you, this heart-stopping magnetism. You can’t get enough of him.
John presses his firm lips to yours, groaning into the connection as you sigh and part your mouth. Fingers shaking, you twist and place your hands on his chest, gasping mutely as his teeth nip into your lower lip and pull back before pushing back forward. Sparks of subdued pain mix with pleasurable agony at the scrape of his beard hair.
 “Every inch of you…” John’s grip captures you closer, hands ensnaring you against his chest like deeply intertwined strands of fabric, squeezing as he licks his upper lip. He catches his breath shallowly. Blue eyes burn through you. “...is fucking perfection.”  
You grab at his necklace and drag him back in, feeling him not waste a single moment to grip the back of your head and keep you trapped to him, tongues slipping out of mouths to tangle together like seaweed. Perhaps it was foolish, but a part of you knew that this Captain, this strange Fisherman—this Johnathan Price—was the only man or being on this planet, land or sea, who could make you feel like you could walk and fly all at once. 
When he lifts you in his arms and drops you in his lap as if your body weighed as much as a pebble, you knew you’d brave the open ocean for this man in an instant. His arm drips with water as it slips under the joint of your tail; where your knees would be if you had them, and you whine into his mouth at the slip of his fingers. 
Intoxicated, drunk off of his scent and his pressure. 
A dangerous mix of two different lives. 
It couldn’t last.
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kittyball23 · 4 months
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Hi kittyball, did you read the trolls band together junior novelization? Does it include deleted scenes from the movie? I heard there was a scene cut with velvet and veneer buying yachts 😆 and another scene with velvet spraying veneer with troll without warning him.
Hi, I sure did! I do remember that there were scenes and/or little details that differentiated from what was seen in the actual movie, and I’d be happy to share them:
John Dory in the beginning was being a little more critical of Clay’s dance moves
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“C’mon, Clay,” John Dory said. “They’re Funderdrawers! Underwear, but seventy-six percent more fun! Now let’s see those dance moves!”
“Fine,” Clay said with a sigh. He did a quick series of dance steps, naming them while executing them perfectly. “Rusty robot into a wiggle worm, and end on caliente puppet.”
“Not bad,” John Dory said, stroking his chin. “But your robot could be rustier. And your worm wigglier.”
Clay looked annoyed. “Don’t you want my puppet caliente-er?”
“I wasn’t going to say it,” John Dory said, “but yeah. Definitely.”
‘Bro-Time’ happened in both the beginning and the end, each brother doing a hands-in-the-middle thing
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Beginning:
“If we can’t hit the Perfect Family Harmony, we aren’t perfect,” John Dory insisted. “And if we aren’t perfect, we’re NOTHING! Being nothing is definitely not an option. So just follow my lead.” He stuck his hand out, palm down. “Let’s do this!”
Each of his brothers piled their hands on top of his. Together, John Dory, Spruce, Clay, Floyd, and Baby Branch shouted, “IT’S BRO TIME!”
End:
Smiling wistfully, Floyd said, “I can’t believe we almost missed out on all this.” It had been a long time.
“We shouldn’t have let our differences break up our family,” Clay put in, joining them.
John Dory walked up. “That’s right. Because we don’t have to be perfect to be in harmony. We just have to be together.”
Branch started to point out that he had told them exactly that, but he changed his mind. “You’re right,” he said. “Good point, bro.”
Standing in a circle, the brothers each put a hand in. “On three,” Branch said. “One… two… three!”
“IT’S BRO TIME!” they all said in unison, lifting their hands.
Baby Branch was supposed to make his entrance suspended on a wire
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“And making his first live appearance, the Baby!” Glitter burst over the stage, revealing Branch suspended on a wire.
“Awwww!” the whole audience said, charmed by the adorable sight.
BroZone rolled right into their first song. Cool, calm, and collected, John Dory danced up a storm. Spruce blew another kiss, and the fans went wild. Clay added a little goofy touches to the dance steps, getting lots of laughs. Floyd shed a single tear as he sang. And Branch flipped down off his wire, sticking the landing perfectly, nailing every move and every note as the five brothers came together.
As the Family Harmony started to happen, glass broke and a lightbulb shattered
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The five brothers hit a chord and held it. Offstage, a water glass broke. KSHHH! Overhead, a light bulb shattered. SHHINK! The brothers looked at each other. It was happening! They were achieving the PERFECT FAMILY HARMONY!
Smead, Gristle’s Aunt, was supposed to be the officiate instead of Miss Maxine for Bridget and Gristle’s wedding
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Gristle’s Aunt Smead, a tall Bergen with goggles and hair that stood straight up, was in charge of leading the happy couple through their wedding vows. She leaned over and joked, “Hey, Bridget, you still have time to run for it!”
Poppy and JD went through with the whole hug, fist-bump, and wave thing she suggested when meeting him
Poppy rushed over and introduced herself to John Dory. “Oh my gosh, I was being so rude! I’ve never met anyone from Branch’s family before. I’m Poppy. Branch’s girlfriend. Should we hug? Fist-bump? Smile and wave for now and see where the night takes us?”
“All of the above!” John Dory said, hugging her, bumping her fist with his and waving and smiling.
Crimp was supposed to be shown cleaning up the chair before Velvet and Veneer made their entrance on the Mount Rageous show ‘The Bop on Top’
In a TV studio, the pop duo’s put-upon assistant Crimp swept off a chair, making sure it was immaculate before one of her bosses sat on it. Crimp resembled the head of a straw broom, with green eyes, white glasses, and a purple hair bow scrunching a bun of papery hair on top of her head. She was much shorter than Velvet and Veneer, but was still at least three times the size of the average Troll.
Ignoring their assistant, Velvet launched herself onto the chair, squashing Crimp. FWUNK! “So,” Velvet said to Kid Ritz, “what do you wanna know? I’m an open book.”
You are correct, Velvet did spray Floyd’s essence at Veneer without him expecting it lol
Grabbing the perfume bottle, she squeezed the bulb, giving herself a big spray of Troll talent. SHHFFT! Floyd groaned as the energy was sucked out of him. Velvet tested the results, opening her mouth to sing. She let loose an impressive cascade of notes. Satisfied, she smiled and aimed the bottle’s nozzle at her brother’s mouth. SSSHHFFT! “Your turn, Veneer.”
Veneer coughed. “Ack! You’re supposed to say it before you spray it, remember?”
There’s a quick moment where Floyd sympathizes with Crimp
Rolling her eyes, Velvet said, “Ugh. I’m exhausted by this drama. Do you wanna go buy a yacht?”
“Oh, good idea!” Veneer said, clapping his hands together. “Let’s buy matching yachts!” They left the dressing room without another word.
"Can I come out of the corner yet?” Crimp asked.
Floyd looked at her with pity in his big violet eyes. “Girl, you need a new job. I should be the saddest one in this room.”
A small moment where Bruce and JD hug
Seeing an opportunity, Poppy decided to give Bruce a little encouragement. “Prove it. Prove it,” she started chanting. Bruce’s kids all joined in, balling their fists and pumping their arms in time with the chant. “PROVE IT! PROVE IT!”
Bruce took up the challenge. “Oh, I’ll prove it,” he said confidently. “I’ll prove it right now.” He took a deep breath and let it out. Then he hopped up onto the stage and stood next to John Dory.
“Yes!” John Dory cheered. “Bring it in, brother!” They hugged.
More of Velvet being a jerk
A stage manager popped her head through the dressing room door. “Knock, knock, knock – it’s ‘we’re ready for you’ o’clock!”
Velvet faked a super-sweet manner. “Look at you, making your job fun. Good for you! Just give us five minutes. We’re still working on our routine. Okay, doll?” She closed the door and muttered, “Loser.” Then she picked up Floyd’s bottle, planning to take in another spray of his Troll talent before the day’s singing began.
Veneer making a reference to a meme
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Floyd cried, holding his hands up against the inside of the diamond bottle. “Come on, it’s just dress rehearsal. You don’t need me for a dress rehearsal!”
Ignoring his protests, Velvet grabbed the golden spray bulb between her fingers and pointed the nozzle at her mouth, ready to spritz her vocal cords. Her brother spoke up. “Wait. Maybe he’s got a point. Do we even need a dress rehearsal?”
“Obviously,” Velvet said, making a face. “That’s why we’re getting dressed.”
“I’m just saying he doesn’t look so great,” Veneer pointed out. “He has, like, sad Troll face.”
Velvet shrugged it off. “He’s fine.”
Velvet’s suggestions for how to make Floyd better
But Velvet wasn’t overly concerned about Floyd’s see-through hand and overall paleness. “Oh, he just needs some blush,” she suggested. “Or is there a mini tanning bed we can jam into the bottle with him?”
More back and forth with Velvet and Veneer
Veneer paced the dressing room floor, clutching his head. “What are we going to do? We obviously can’t even rely on the Troll to get us through this dress rehearsal, let alone the Rage Dome show!”
Looking annoyed, Velvet said, “How come I always have to come up with something?”
“Because you’re the mean one!” Veneer told her.
“I’m not mean – I’m ambitious!”
Floyd having been conscious while Velvet was shaking the bottle
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Picking up Floyd’s diamond prison, she said, “Maybe we should just try shaking the bottle.” She shook it. Floyd ricocheted around inside, banging against the hard surface.
“Ow! Ouch! Ooh, my knee! My other knee!” he cried.
Lonely People having been sung later on in the movie, after Floyd makes a ‘philosophical’ statement
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Floyd looked at his body, becoming more see-through by the minute. “Well,” he said philosophically. “I lived, I loved, I lost.”
To the accompaniment of gentle ukulele music, he sang quietly to himself. He looked and saw that it was Crimp who was playing the ukulele.
Bruce’s response to learning about Velvet and Veneer’s song
On an empty road that night, Bruce steered Rhonda, listening to Velvet and Veneer sing one of their pop hits on the radio. “My kids love these guys!” he said. “We’re a total Veneer household.”
“They’re the ones who are holding Floyd prisoner,” John Dory called from the back of the van.
Bruce looked shocked. “Wow, everyone’s getting canceled these days.”
A little more Clay and Viva friendship displayed
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Viva put an arm around Clay’s shoulder. “Yeah, I’m the face of the operation, and Mr. Clay takes care of the boring stuff!”
“Guilty!” Clay admitted. He and Viva tapped elbows and laughed. 
Branch and Poppy having a short exchange after leaving Putt Putt Village
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Heartbroken, Poppy watched as the gate closed. She leaned her scrapbook against it for Viva. Branch ran up behind her. “You were right, Branch,” Poppy said. “Family is… complicated.”
Velvet and Veneer having labeled bottles for the rest of the brothers
In Velvet and Veneer’s Rage Dome dressing room, Floyd’s diamond bottle sat on a shelf next to four empty bottles labeled Heartthrob, Fun Boy, Old One, and Baby. Floyd’s bottle was now labeled Almost Dead One.
Branch’s line about the diaper slightly differing
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They tried singing one of their old songs, but John Dory soon cut them off. “Stop! Stop! Time-out. Let’s take it from the top. Spruce, I want some smolder in those eyes. Clay, you’re being too stiff. We need some sillier robot moves. Branch, maybe a smaller diaper.”
“Or some clothes not from the toddler section,” Branch grumbled.
Clay’s line about his CPA position replaced with this:
Bruce got right in his brother’s face. “This isn’t going to work if you keep being the same old John Dory.”
“Yeah,” Clay agreed. “We’ve all changed. Bruce settled down. Branch is slightly taller with zero glasses. And I’m not the guy who shoots milk out his nose and smiles through the burn!”
“Yup,” Poppy said to herself, remembering past milk blasts through her nose. “Been there.”
Crimp also confronting Velvet and Veneer when Poppy and Branch do on the red carpet
“You’re stealing BroZone’s talent because you have none of your own, you big PHONIES!” Poppy said, pointing her own accusing finger at them.
Crimp popped up out of the van. “They’re MEAN!” she shouted. “And I was their assistant, so I KNOW!”
The fans, listening to this exchange, started whispering to each other. Could what the little Trolls and the papery mop with glasses were saying possibly be true?
An extra line JD said when the talent was being sucked out of the four brothers
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Velvet lowered herself back down through the sunroof and punched a button on the car’s dashboard. The roof folded back, clearing the way for a metal arm to rise out of the car, holding an entire round stage. Velvet and Veneer both hit the buttons on their shoulder pads and inhaled big whiffs of Troll talent. The four brothers winced in pain.
“Floyd, why didn’t you warn us about how uncomfortable that is?” John Dory asked.
Slightly different lines when Poppy, Branch, and Viva arrived at the yacht
When she saw Branch, Poppy, and Viva on the deck of the boat, Velvet wasn’t dismayed. On the contrary, she was delighted! “More Trolls!” she exclaimed happily. “This will last us a lifetime!”
Velvet trying to sing after she and Veneer came out of the river that they had fallen into, and Crimp calling the two out again
The yacht came to a stop, wedged diagonally across a narrow passage in the river. Velvet climbed out of the water, turned the camera on herself, and tried to sing.
She sounded awful.
The crowd gasped. “Hey, what happened to your voice?” a fan shouted.
Veneer decided it was time to come clean. “Okay, fine,” he said. “Listen up, Mount Rageous. We are FRAUDS! And we’ve been literally torturing little Trolls!”
The fans were horrified. One yelled, “My illusion of celebrity has been shattered!”
Crimp stepped in front of the pop duo. “It’s true,” she confirmed. And they’re mean. Not ambitious, but just plain MEAN!”
Veneer having put the handcuffs on Velvet instead of Crimp
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“Oh, give it up, sis,” Veneer told her. He faced the cameras. “We just wanted to be famous. Honestly, my sister wanted to be famous, and truly, I was too afraid to stand up to her.”
Disgusted by her brother’s admission, Velvet said, “It’s like I don’t even know who you are.”
“Yeah, you do,” Veneer said firmly. “And you asked me to change anyway. Which isn’t okay, family or not.” He snapped a pair of handcuffs onto her slender wrists. She held them up, asking, “Veneer, what have you done?” Then she admired the shiny cuffs, saying, “Oooh, are these real silver?”
And the ending scene, in which Kismet is not mentioned, and Branch and Poppy have one last exchange
Over the loudspeaker, Crimp announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, you know ‘em, you love ‘em – give it up for the Trolls Kingdom’s very own… BROZONE!” She opened the curtains revealing the five brothers in sparkling new costumes. The crowd went wild!
In the front row, Poppy cheered along with them. Branch offered her his hand. “Poppy,” he said. “I have a small proposal. Will you – “
“Join the band?” she interrupted, bursting with excitement. “Of COURSE, I will! I thought you’d never ask!”
“You know me too well,” Branch said, grinning. “Now get up here and sing with us!”
“AAAAHH!” she squealed, leaping onto the stage. She extended a hand to her sister in the front row. “Viva! Viva, get up here! We’re in the band!”
“This is my dream life!” Viva cried, joining her and whipping out a pair of castanets.
The seven Trolls joyfully sang and danced together, and the audience absolutely loved it. The concert turned into an epic dance party. Fireworks exploded, lighting up the night sky.
Poppy turned to Branch. “I love you, Branch!”
“And I love you, Poppy!” Branch told her.
“Would it be weird if I fainted?” Poppy said. “Oh, I’m gonna faint right now.”
And she did. But Branch caught her. He would always be there to catch her when she fell, and she would do the same for him, no matter what.
Those were a majority of the main differences I could find in the junior novel. I think most of it stayed true to the movie, but some little details I would’ve liked to have made the final cut (the Cliva friendship stuff, the extra Broppy exchange and, while I understand the purpose of NSYNC’s cameo, I think the movie would’ve worked just fine without it)
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cocobirde · 3 months
Text
𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐃 | JOHN DORY
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request. @Striped_Scheme on wattpad Requesting a JD x Reader where they've been dating since BroZone days but he kinda just left her with no goodbye and tries to reconcile and convince them to come help and save Floyd lol ("Technically we never really broke up"☝🤓) word count. 2.2k warnings. the word fuck lol. timeline. pre-trolls trilogy, pre-trolls band together. song. baby it's cold outside with some slight alterations (tell me he wouldnt. i DAREEE you.) a/n. honestly. idea was good, but my writing was not it so apologies but love u... thanks for reading lolz... probably rushed... (i do that alot in my writing how to not rush help me) no doubt ooc characters, characters will always be ooc.
▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃
"He's gone? What do you mean gone?"
Floyd could sense your distress. Panicked voice squeaking and your eyes darting all over the small backstage area for your boyfriend, on how exactly he could've left without you catching him.
You were in front of the stage, courtesy of being the partner of a band member, which was amazing but also granted limited viewing if they went too far back. From what you did see, the expressions were a solemn mixture of embarrassment, anger, disappointment.
You barely paid attention to the fans, who were also attempting to go in the same direction as you. Getting caught up in them took a whole lot of convincing the security.
But still, you were just at the door, and you heard him through it. Where had he gone? Was he okay? He fell from a very tall place in front of a crowd of fans, which was probably more damaging to him compared to actually getting injured—but not for you.
You watched him stumble backstage, stumble.
Baby Branch hid behind Floyd, wrapping the little leaf-sewn vest around his body, looking from his older brother to you, worried.
Where's the rest of the band?
"He just left. Everyone did. The band's..." Floyd paused, sighing, "BroZone's over."
You stood confused, your brows furrowing at his words. Over? How could they be over? This was just the start of their world tour. The band couldn't just break up over one failure.
"Over?"
They weren't that fragile, were they?
You loved all the brothers; they were like your own family, but your worries were set on only one of them for the time being.
"Did J at least say where he was going?"
Floyd nodded his head but remained unsure of what your thoughts would be on his answer. He glanced down at baby Branch, who was huddled around his leg.
"He was upset, really upset," he explained. "Said he was going to go hiking to the Neverglades... alone."
The change in your face told him everything, and he was quick to extend his hands in front of him. "But John Dory always says crazy things like that, and he never goes through with them. I'm sure he probably just went up to The Point."
That did seem like a logical explanation, and it was. Floyd may not have been the oldest, but he always had reason and logic behind his smart words.
"You're right." You were still stressed, no doubt, but that calmed your fears down. "Are you guys gonna be okay?"
Floyd spared another guilty glance at Branch and nodded, offering a soft smile and urging you to go look for your lover.
▃▃▃▃▃
The troll tree was huge, and even with its large size, it was hard to find any area that wasn't already occupied. Trolls made sure to take advantage of all their space; it was their home, and they made the most of it.
But even with every taken, there was one place that was free from everyone else.
A special spot reserved for you and your lover.
The Point.
Little knew about the spot, and those who did ensured it remained private.
Hidden in the leaves was a branch sticking out high enough to conceal the ugly Bergen town that surrounded them and gave them access to the beautiful night sky.
You and John Dory liked to go there a lot. Whether it be dates or to blow off steam (not like that for the weirdos), if he'd go anywhere after an accident like today, he'd go there.
He was very athletic and made a show of it whenever you'd go together, carrying you up. Bridal style or pulling you up with his strong locks—the point was, you had trouble going up on your own.
It took a while—a hard struggle—but it'd be worth it to see your boy up there and cheer him up.
They couldn't just break up; they just needed their leader to see that.
"John Dory?"
You called upon reaching the top, pushing the heavy leaves out of your way, careful not to slip off the branch.
"Baby, are you here?" Your voice was soft; you didn't want to alarm him. He could be really sensitive sometimes.
That thought brought a faint smile to your face. A smile fell upon the realization that he wasn't up here. If not up here, where could he have gone?
Home?
Knowing JD, you doubted it. If this was as serious as Floyd had put it, as serious as he looked, he wouldn't have just gone home.
And so your search ensued.
▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃
You spent days looking for him. Not a spot in the tree was untouched or unsearched by you. Somehow, the troll had just disappeared. No signs. No letters. No goodbyes.
He left you alone to suffer. Wondering where he'd gone, if he was okay, and if you guys were okay.
It was a coincidence, truly.
How on the day you reminisce when he left you without even a word explaining his sudden disappearance all those years ago was the same day you'd find John Dory on your doorstep.
"Come on, baby, could you let me in?"
"Baby?" you scoffed, remaining with your back slammed against the door in exasperation. "You lost the right to call me that a very long time ago."
One moment you were having a nice day, reading a nice book by your fireplace, enjoying the pitter-patter of rain outside, and the thunder struck, shaking you in the best way possible.
And the next...
"It's cooold..."
He whined, banging on the door desperately.
You couldn't bear to look at him; the second you already spent doing so when you opened the door was enough. He had a face that you'd never forget.
How'd he even find you?
"Go. Away." you growled.
"But it's cold outside."
You clenched your jaw, glaring at the door handle as he shook it. JD used little effort to push at the door; by the weight of it, he could tell you were against it. Not that it mattered.
He was strong; he could easily open it if he wanted to.
"You simply must go."
"Baby, it's cold outside."
If John Dory thinks a little singing is enough to serenade you, he is more of an idiot than you are already aware he is. You weren't a teenager helplessly in love with a silly musician from next door, you were grown.
Mature.
His tricks weren't going to work on you.
"The answer is no."
"But baby, it's cold outside."
He put more pressure, pushing, and you cursed for the lack of a lock on your door.
Trolls don't do locks! They don't have anything to worry about!
Except ex-boyfriend's trying to come in and ruin your life all over again.
"The welcome has been-."
"You should feel so lucky I dropped in."
You rolled your eyes, sarcasm dripping with your words, "So nice and warm."
He pushed the door, slipping a leg in to stop it from shutting completely, peeking a crack. You groaned and peered through it at him.
Sharp glares were directed at him, and gosh, if only looks could kill, he would've dropped dead right now.
He looked stupid.
Stupid puppy eyes with his stupid goggles and a stupid pout on his stupid face. He was soaked from head to toe, the rain falling on him more and more every second he stood outside.
My, did he look pathetic?
BANG!
He shrieked, desperation on his face and voice, jumping at the loud crash of thunder, lighting up the dark sky.
He turned back to you, singing rapidly.
"Look out the window at that storm!"
"Ugh, okay! Come in!"
His face lit up, the door swinging open, and he rushed in, soaking your carpet with rain as you shut the door behind him, slamming it hard enough that the whole house shook with force.
He glanced at you in surprise, getting a glare in return.
JD opened his mouth to speak, obviously nothing nice with the smug look on his face, and you were quick to shut him down.
"Don't."
He clamped his mouth shut, smirking and holding his hands up in defense. "I wasn't gonna say anything."
"Stay."
You urged with a pointed finger, walking off to your bathroom in search of a towel.
"Yes, your majesty."
You hated him with every fiber of your being, but you weren't cruel. He might've been, but you weren't. Any troll would do the same as you; offer him some refuge from the storm outside.
Returning with a towel, you didn't bother passing it to him, tossing it and smacking him right in the face.
Maybe you were a little cruel.
He reacted with a huff, taking it and wrapping it around himself, not bothering to dry himself like ordered, but more like a shelter from the cold.
"Is that how you treat your boyfriend after all these years?"
John Dory tutted, shaking his head in disappointment as he took a single step in your direction.
"Boyfriend?" you scoffed.
"I mean, technically, we never broke up."
Oh, you wanted to punch his little ugly face so bad.
"You disappearing without saying anything was us "technically" breaking up." You did air quotations with another roll of your eyes, speaking before he did, exasperated.
"Why are you even here, John Dory?"
He stayed silent for a few moments, pondering what exactly to say. What could he say? He knew it was stupid of him to even come in the first place. He knew you'd be angry, upset, but not like this.
You didn't look the slightest bit happy to see him.
His smugness dropped along with his shoulders, and he took a breath.
"I need your help."
He looked dead serious. So serious.
You shook your head, your lips curling up in disbelief. "You need my help. Right." your arms crossed, "You leave, disappear off to who knows where, say nothing, suddenly come back after 20 years, and you decide you want my help?"
A short and dry laugh left you.
John Dory really was unbelievable.
"I knew you wouldn't want to see me..."
"I don't want to see you." You cut him off with a grimace, ready to say more-
He had that same desperate look.
Honestly, it brought you back. It brought you back to all those years ago, when both of you were young.
John Dory was always a terrible boyfriend, cocky and arrogant, bossy, too busy with BroZone to give you the time you needed. It hurt you. You loved him so much, and he didn't seem to always reciprocate those feelings. And each time you guys would argue and break up, he would be the first to return with a bouquet of your favorite flowers.
"Leave me alone, John. You can't just come back and expect me to accept you. That's not how life works! If you wanna be in a relationship, you have to commit-..."
"Can you please just listen?"
He stared at you with a small pout, furrowed brows, eyes pleading into yours for you to give him a second chance. His stupid, loving eyes knew exactly how you worked. How exactly to work you.
The only difference right now was that he came empty-handed.
Nevertheless, it effectively shut you up.
"I fucked up all those years ago, I know. I fucked up leaving you. That's the biggest mistake I've ever made. I should've said goodbye, apologized, invited you to come with me- I should've done something!" He ranted, "But I didn't. And I just left..."
John Dory expected you to say something. One of your snarky remarks and cut him off, tell him he's wrong or right, and degrade him on what a terrible person he is because he is well aware of it.
But he's trying.
"Baby, you of all trolls know how terrible I am at apologies," he sighed.
And you didn't bother to correct him on your name; looking at him up and down, eyes still narrowed. You were still angry, you'd probably be angry for a very long time, but for the moment... you'd put it aside.
"What do you need help with?"
His face lit up, beaming at you at your acceptance, not denying him completely, not shunning the troll out, and kicking him back into the rain. You were hearing him out.
You noticed the look and huffed, "Just because I'm asking does not mean I'm going to say yes."
"Floyd's been kidnapped."
Your expression softened, and your mouth fell open in a quiet gasp.
"Kidnapped?"
"I got a letter from him saying he got kidnapped by popstars Velvet and Veneer." He went on and explained the story about how he went to see him and help him escape, only to fail: "-The only way to free him is by singing the perfect family harmony."
You loved Floyd to this day. It'd been years since you'd last talked to him, heard of him at all, but the same amount of affection you felt for the troll remained.
"I need to get the band back together. And... I really can't do it on my own. I'm not sure if they want to see me any more than you did-."
You cut him off a lot.
"I'll help," he grinned. "But not for you. For Floyd. Don't think I've forgiven you yet."
"Yet?"
"Shut up."
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brights-place · 2 months
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Jkj(kjhvhgivivgz I LOVE YOUR WRITING can I request Brozone with a tall muscular fem reader who is a complete sub! bottom? I mean when the bros try to take their relationship further the reader freezes and tries to say something but is too nervous like a shy high school girl.
Have a nice/day and stay healthy!
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Brozone with an SUB! S/O
Pairing: Brozone X S/O (Seperate)
Warnings: MDNI, NSFW, Smut headcannons, light cursing
A/N: Lovely I've been so tired and i'm staying healthy thank you for worrying about me! Anyways this is for you until I can finish the other requests I have which are too many! I love you all(づ ᴗ _ᴗ)づ♡
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John Dory/JD
- when he held your waist dominating you in bed while his hands slowly touched and caress your skin
- Your small noises and your doe eyes looking up at him made him know you were begging him to fuck you
- When he praises you while your riding him and blushing an deep red on your face as he whispered the praises in your ear as you move faster and kiss him lovingly
- John Dory would love when he praises you how you go faster and plan to pleasure him more to get more praises and affection from him - he always is biting hard and leaving hickeys as he grips onto your waist and thighs a bunch of times, whispering praises and degrading words against your ear - LOVESSS hickeys on his neck and he'll happily wear them and preen when you press a soft kiss to them when you're jealous.
- When it's jealousy sex, angry sex, or sex in general, the bed will be creaking, Rhonda will be shaking, and anyone who happen to walk by the armadillo-bus will know exactly what's going on
- when your done he’s make sure to clean you up very well and continue to praise how good you were which made you even more red and giggle
- You two obviously cuddle as he holds you tight while you nuzzle into his shoulder tiredly
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Spruce/Bruce
- Time for the flavored part that you horny lovers want Neheheheheh
- When he praised you in bed he couldn't help but smirk when you let out an moan and looked up at him with teary eyes
- I mean he’s enjoy it so much
- a breeding kink and praise kink? OHOHO This man loves it
- Loves how he makes you whine after you kept trying to fight back for dominance but failing and you end up hiccuping in pleasure
- Overstimulates you so much - He knows how to use his mouth, hands, and tail to make his partner scream literally holds you down with his tail - He's a attentive lover, nd will cherish everything about your lovemaking, and make sure you're okay. - would chuckle at how you’d thank him for making you feel so good and being lovely while his cock touching the back back of your throat grabbing your hair while praising how your doing so well sucking him off
- Literally loves having him inside your gummy walls that milk his cock dry and or in your mouth sucking him off either one he enjoys
- When done he makes sure to give you as much affection needed like always and would kiss your face praising you.
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Clay
- He could be rough some days and soft on others it depends how you act but he loves how soft and quite you are when your in the mood he loves how you kept touching him groaning and whining about wanting him
- When you two were doing the deed he grabbed you by your hair lifting you up as your head was stuffed into an pillow hands gripping onto the sheets your back arched
- He teases you when you are doing the deed together.
- he make sure to cover your mouth
- Clay got his hands on your hips just looking up at you taking in the way you move. how your stomach jiggles and your thighs are slightly shaking, how you're out of breath and how loud you're moaning.
- loves taking you from behind in front of mirrors. He loves watching how your facial expressions change as he pleasures you.
- He praises you for your noises and being able to go through the punishments and rewards he was giving you for being good for the day
- When he praises you he enjoyed how you shivered at his touch as his hands stroked your sides before making you switch positions so he could hear the noises past your lips much clearer
- He enjoyed your panting and your eyes rolling back while you clinged to him
- biting hard and leaving hickeys as he grips onto your waist and thighs a bunch of times, whispering praises and degrading words against your ear
- Teases you he would just slowly thrust in and out of you or tease the tip of your member as you beg for him for more and cling to him sobbing
- would chuckle at how you’d thank him for making you feel so good and being lovely
- Uses overstimulation as punishment will force orgasm after orgasm until you are crying, begging for him to stop obviously you still wanna continue it though.
- Loved how he made you switch up so fast from being an bratty sassy troll to an drooling submissive person with how easily he man handles you
- Amazing at aftercare and make sure you feel special
- when done you with your Uhm… Stuff he would go clean you up and change you to your PJs and would go clean himself after
- You two would lay in your shared bed while watching tv together.
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Floyd
- He’s such an nice sweet and caring lover but sometimes he is FREAKKYYY
- Literally whimpers at how he’d continue to make you feel every inch of him inside you stuffing you with his cum and how he notices when you'd beg.
- Even if he is doming you, you're still in some sort of control albeit riding him or being a power bottom.
- When doming he loves to be sensual; praise you, kiss you and touch you all over.
- Floyds also likes to be praised when he subs, wants to know how much you love every part of him.
- Prefers to give oral rather than receive it so he likes eating you out or sucking you off whenever he can
- When he dominates more he enjoyed how you grip onto him crying and thanking him. He enjoyed your panting and your eyes rolling back while you clinged to him
- would chuckle at how you’d thank him for making you feel so good and being lovely
- when done you with your Uhm… Stuff he would go clean you up and change you to your PJs and would go clean himself after
- You two soon talk about random things sometimes plan and see when you two are free to go on an date
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Branch
- This man you cannot tell me is a switch but leans more into the dominant side of things!
- When doing the deed he'd make sure your comfy while letting himself slam in and out of you repeatdly
- When he grunts and whispers praises in your ear he enjoys how you become louder and you drool on the sheets of the bed while whining
- Loves when you start using that strap on/cock ring or your thighs, being pulled closer when they go down on you, you taking control, just you in general - He loves it and loves how you get aall whiny - He loves teasing you in public, making suggestive comments in his ear while his brothers' and friends are around and you can't do nothing but try to make the blush go away
- You being an sub makes him snicker loving to see the way your face lights up or turns red when he’s dicking you down grabbing the back of your hair tugging it
- When finishing doing the deed he's amazing in after care. Would say how amazing you did while cleaning you up
- he stayed by your side giving you all of the peace and comfort he could give you after doing the deed
reblogs + comments are appreciated ⸜(。˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡
©brights-place 2023 — do not repost on another platform, copy, translate or edit my works! if you fit my DNI list please don't interact
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thanksbutno98 · 1 day
Text
You Found Me
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John Price x fem!reader OC
Summary: John Price finds himself losing control while his wife who is an archeologist is away on a dig.
Warning: Violence, angst, blood, physical violence, swearing, guns, not edited
——————
Dust, sweltering heat, dry cracked skin, bitterly cold nights. From having the sun beat you down to frigid air so cold your teeth chattered.
It always surprised you how cold the desert became at night and how hot it was during the day. The early mornings seemed to be the only time you felt comfortable. It took time for you to adjust back into being on a dig sight after so long. Life had consisted of being the new curator at a museum, an active mother, caring daughter, and loving wife. It was strange to step out of those rolls and back into being a hands on archeologist and back on a dig sight thousands of miles away from your family.
Having a slow start like you were this morning was beautiful. Most mornings you were woken up by the sounds of your colleagues chatter since the thin tarp of your tent didn’t give much sound proofing. But today you had naturally woken up before everyone else, made yourself a cup of coffee, and were now sitting and eating breakfast at the small table in your tent as you went over papers.
Your tent was bigger than your colleagues because you were technically the one heading the dig at the moment. The beige burlap tent was rectangular with taller ceilings so most could stand upright without their heads touching the ceiling. You had an ornate red rug rolled out to make it a little more cozy. Your cot was in the back right corner with your old faded trunk at the foot of it. On the inside lid of the trunk were numerous pictures from past digs you had taped there for sentimental purpose.
There was one picture in particular you loved the most. It was of you and John Price back when he was a Luitenant and you an up and coming archeologist. You two weren’t standing anywhere near each other but you asked to get a picture with all the military that were there to show off to your friends after. Little did you know it would be the first picture you would take with your future husband.
There was a dark brown circular table to the left of the tents opening. It had four old wooden chairs around it. There were a smattering of papers, pencils, maps, sketches, and an old lantern on the table. A few feet away was a wooden partition to give you some privacy while you changed in case someone came in.
You had been away for almost a full two weeks. You were coming to assist on this dig because Dr. Michales would not be able to get there in time due to family constraints. It was only intended for you to be here for the first two weeks of the four month dig so you happily obliged. It was a nice change of pace from your job and you were happy that in only a few more days you’d be on your way home. These finds would be an amazing addition to the museum you had been pouring yourself into. It would feel validating to have your name added to these fascinating finds in a museum you were in charge of.
But as enthralled as you were by your studies, your mind continued to drift to your family back home in the UK. John was home with your three children and you couldn’t help but wonder what they were all up to at the moment. You glanced up to see the small wooden picture frame you had lovingly placed on the table, it was a gift from your son.
It was a goofy picture of the five of you that always left you with a smile. John was standing tall with Evelyn tucked under one arm and Jj in the other. Both their feet were off the ground as John carried them like duffle bags out the backdoor of your home, the laughter evident on their faces. You were standing a few feet away with Lily in your arms the five of you all dressed in football gear to go practice in the yard for the afternoon. The picture was taken by your brother in law who had stopped by to drop off some hand me down clothes.
The photo left a bitter sweet taste in your mouth that you tried to attribute to the shitty coffee. You wished you could peer into your home and know what your family were up to. If you could, you’d see John had built a blanket fort in the living room that they were all cuddled under and eating icecream from the tub; something they knew you’d never allow.
With a deep sigh you went back to sipping on your morning coffee in your tent and going over some documents. It was tedious but you were taking the time to make sure everything you were doing was meticulously documented so when Dr. Michales took over there was little confusion. In the still of the morning you brought your chipped coffee cup to your chapped lips and sighed in pleasure at the silence.
Thats when the sound of repetitive gunshots rang out. Time slowed as every hair on your body stood on end. It was the most startling sound and your soul had practically left your body. You jumped so violently you whacked your knee on the underside of the table and then dropped your coffee onto the ruby red carpet, half of the burning liquid spilling down your left arm.
Instantly you knew it was an assault rifle from how quickly each round fired off and you instinctively dropped to your knees and got under the table. The squish of the soaked rug and smell of burnt coffee seared itself into you memory never allowing you to to forget this moment as long as you smelt burnt coffee. With hands tightly clasped over your ears you felt cold all of a sudden as if an Arctic breeze blew through the sweltering desert.
Before a fully formed thought had even been processed through your head you were up and running toward the corner of your tent taking a cloth and wrapping it around the burn on your arm. Throwing a blanket over your cot to cover the space beneath it, you shoved yourself under it. Fumbling around you squeezed into the small space, laced your fingers behind your head and pressed your forehead into the rug. It burned against your skin as you broke out into a cold sweat. Heavy panicked breathing took over and your hands began to shake violently. Fat tears dropped from your eyes and your nose was running like you had just gotten in from shoveling snow.
The sounds of blood curdling screams and more gunfire rang out and all you could think about was never seeing your family again. The memory of them all giving you hugs and well wishes as they saw you off at the airport flashing in your mind. The way Evelyn demanded to be the last one you hugged and how Jj handed you that picture frame sitting on the table a few feet away. You had promised John you’d be safe and sealed it with a kiss goodbye as Lily giggled at your PDA.
Would that be the last memory they had of you? Was Lily old enough that she would remember you? Jj would never recover and Evelyn would be devastated. Your children’s faces flashed in your mind but John’s booming voice was loud in your head. You let out a shaky breath that had drops of spittle splattering against the carpet.
In these moments it felt like John was right there with you telling you exactly what to do.
Steady, calm your breathing.
Darling, if they take you don’t fight back. Please don’t fight back.
You’ll be okay. Stay smart, stay quiet, and whatever you do, don’t panic.
Safety was your only concern as you hid under the cot in your tent. You imagined John was on his way with an army behind him as a way to trick yourself into staying calm. He’d be here to save you, you told yourself. Your mind was racing and about to derail as you screamed and begged in the safety of your mind.
John. John. John.
help
The air had stilled and faint cries of familiar voices echoed as your friends begged for mercy. You could hear Carol screaming that they had killed someone while Tanner was yelling for them to stay away from whoever he was trying to protect. It made you sick to know the horrors of what was happening on the other side of your tent and that you were next. You tried to listen as you heard orders in a language you couldn’t understand. You recognized it as Arabic but couldn’t make out a single word; wishing John was here because he knew a little of the language. The way the words were barked had you trembling. You may not understand the language but deep down you knew that people were about to start searching tents. The sight was about to be raided and in that moment you knew it was only a matter of time until you were found.
The concept of time had vanished as your heart beat echoed in your ears. You had no idea how long you had been hiding it could have been five minute or hours, your mind was playing tricks on you. Your body was soaked in sweat and you felt like you may just die right on the spot as your tent flap was loudly ripped open.
Closing your eyes tight you heard as whoever was in here began to toss the place upside down. You began to chant your children’s name in your mind as a way to distract yourself.
Jonathan, Evelyn, Lily. Jonathan, Evelyn, Lily. Jonathan, Evelyn, Lily.
They consumed your mind. Each one of their pretty smiles and sparkling blue eyes flashing in your minds eye. You swore you could hear them laughing off in the distance. Squeals of laughter and shouts for you to come play.
Finally your cot was tossed, revealing you underneath. Head bowed to the floor, lying flat on your stomach with your fingers laced behind your head. You stayed still hoping, praying, begging god to make you invisible in that moment.
The blood curdling scream you let out was involuntary as this man, whose face was completely covered grabbed you by your hair. The painful tug was barely noticeable as you thrashed and kicked for dear life. You could barely focus on your surroundings as you were dragged toward the tents opening by your hair. The thought of what John would tell you to do to stay safe flying out the window as instinct kicked in. Through the struggle you could hear glass shattering the scent of your vanilla perfume taking over the small space.
As you thrashed you felt your boots connect with your trunk, air, then the man’s leg and you kicked again with all your strength. He let out what you assumed to be a cruse word and then seconds later his open hand collided with your face. He had slapped you with so much force it snapped your head back and your skin burned, you could feel the welt forming instantly but you still tried to fight him off. All you could see was a flurry of your familiar tent as the hand in your hair tightened and you flailed around like a fish out of water.
Then he struck you again and again until your knees buckled and you stopped fighting back. He continued to strike even after the fight left you then one last time for good measure until becoming limp was your bodies only choice. Panting and spitting out a warm liquid that tasted of iron you stopped kicking and strained for breath. Your face, chest and back felt like they were on fire from the blows sustained. You glanced down to look at your white t-shirt, seeing specks and splotches of red littering the cotton.
The large hand that had you by the roots of your hair pulled you down against the ground as you tried to brace yourself from colliding with the floor. The pain at your scalp was white hot as you felt your body collide with the trunk that sat by the end of your cot and then into the table. He was tossing you into the furniture to further the damage he was inflicting on you. The adrenaline was pumping so violently in your veins you couldn’t realize just how hurt you were.
You couldn’t even hear yourself chocking on blood and spit as you plead for him to let you go, that you had children. The air in your lungs burned and your senses were dulled from the beating you had just sustained. You were dragged out of your tent and tossed into the dirt. The coarse sand stuck to your sweat soaked skin as pebbles pressed into the skin of your palms as you braced yourself. Scrambling away on your hands and knees you turned to face your attacker slipping off the heels of your boots and falling on to your ass.
This was the first good look you were getting of this behemoth of a man as he towered over you. He had his face covered only his hazel eyes visible. There was an assault rifle slung around his monstrous frame and what you expected to see was your life flash before your eyes as he reached for it. For some unknown reason you whispered to the man.
“Ghost?”
It had to be delirium or the blows to the head and face making you think this man was Simon Riley; or the fact he was of the same physique and stature. But you were thankful of that because for a brief moment you felt relief. Relief that someone would save you as you watched the assault rifle come up and be pointed in your face. You closed your eyes tight and cried out for John although he was thousands of miles away.
“JOHN!” His name tore from your throat. Your vocal cords straining to a point you felt like you might pop a blood vessel.
The butt of the assault rifle smacked you hard in the face. An obscene crack echoing in the dry air before you could even register you were struck instead of shot. The impact made the world go black for a moment the only thing snapping you back into consciousness was the back of your head hitting the dirt. Your hand weakly reached to your left eyebrow and temple where you’d been struck as the world spun around you. Trying to focus your eyes as dirty brown boots approached you.
You were dazed and dizzy from the blow and you could barely register what had just happened. Through the double vision you pulled your hand away from your temple and saw blood coating your finger tips. The smell of burnt coffee hanging in the air and the heaviness of your eyes winning as you passed out.
——————
“When’s mummy going to video call?” Evelyn was tugging on John’s belt loop as he stood in the kitchen trying to figure out dinner.
Lily, newly three was fast asleep in his arms having been struggling with a nasty cold. The three year old was struggling not having you at home especially while she was sick. John had also been struggling to get her to sleep through the night and it resulted in Lily sleeping with him the past two nights. She would cry into your pillow and cling to an old dirty sweatshirt of yours she refused to let John wash.
You and John had a scheduled video call a day ago but he hadn’t heard a word from you. It was concerning to say the least and John was becoming more concerned as each hour ticked by. He told himself he wouldn’t freak out and you were just busy but there was this clawing feeling in the back of his mind; something didn’t feel right.
John kept telling himself he couldn’t call someone in he still hadn’t lived down the last time this happened and he sent Soap and Ghost out there to check on you. You called him laughing hysterically that he needed to tone down the protectiveness and that you simply forgot to call. Simon also brought it up from time to time saying he would do the same in John’s position but Soap liked to make snarky comments about the Captain being uptight.
“She’ll call soon, love.” John said confidently not wanting Evelyn to worry. With a kiss to her forehead she smiled sweetly and retreated into the living room.
John couldn’t handle the uncertainty anymore. Pulling out his phone he dialed the first person he knew would pull a few strings for him, no questions asked. The line rang four times before the familiar voice sounded on the other end.
“John, surprised to hear from you.”
“Kate, I need a favor.” John spoke quietly. Peaking his head out of the kitchen he checked that both Evelyn and Jj were out of ear shot before he continued.
“Sounds urgent.” The smile in Kate’s voice vanished.
“Y/N is in Urzikstan on a dig. Haven’t heard from her in a couple days. Think you could ask Farah to have a few of her men check things out. Make sure she’s safe.” John meant to ask but it came out as more of a statement. He could hear Kate’s fingers dart across her keyboard as she typed loudly.
“Yeah, going to need a few more details.”
“Of course.”
——————
“I want the last egg roll!” Jj hissed.
Jj and Evelyn had been at each other’s throats all day and it was driving John up a wall. It was hard for him to handle his children when he had you and your safety on his mind. He kept checking his phone to see if Kate had reached out to no avail.
The past two hours had felt like torture and John had been virtually silent. Although his children didn’t seem to notice, too busy arguing with each other about anything and everything. You would think they’d pick up on how John wasn’t diffusing the arguments or scolding them for fighting.
“Too bad I want it!” Evelyn hollered back at her brother. Taking the white crinkly bag with the egg roll in it only for Jj so snatch it back.
John was looking between his son and daughter and sighing heavily. He took the bag from his son silently and placed it on his empty plate. He was about to cut the egg roll in half when the argument took a turn. Lily was quietly eating her fried rice and glancing back and forth between her siblings deeply enthralled by their display.
“Brats don’t deserve eggs rolls!” Jj spat the insult in his sisters face.
“Neither do cry baby, no good at maths, nose picker, butt sniffer, idiots!” Evelyn shot right back pulling out every insult she could think of.
“I’m not a nose picker or a butt sniffer!” Jj screeched, hands smacking against the table.
“Still makes you a cry baby idiot who sucks at maths.” Evelyn spat back now kneeling on her chair. They looked ridiculous arguing in matching orange t-shirts from last summer fair. John could practically see the lightening bolts shooting across the table as they violently stared at one another.
John snapped, not able to handle his children being this nasty to each other over an egg roll of all things. With a mean look John snatched the egg roll from the white paper bag it sat in and shoved the entire thing in his mouth. It was an enormous amount of food but he chewed aggressively and relished in the greasy goodness. John felt somewhat vindicated to take the last egg roll for himself. He didn’t yell at his children and found a way of solving the issue since there was no egg roll to argue over now.
“AHHH YOU ATE IT!” Evelyn shrieked, hands shooting up to her cheeks as she stared at her round cheeked father, his mutton chops only making his cheeks look puffier. John stared forward eyes locked on the pantry doors with a blank expression and continued to chew as he felt his children’s anger now pointed at him.
“Dad!” Jj hollered his face fixed in shock and anger just like his sister. Jj’s nose flared and eyebrows knit together trying his best to hold back his sass.
“You’re being a piggy!” Evelyn sneered, blue eyes narrowed.
“Don’t call me a pig.” John snapped back and covered his mouth as he scolded Evelyn. The spark of fury igniting in his icy eyes causing the young girl to plop back in her seat, cross her arms over her chest and grunt angrily.
“Fine, how about a thief.” Jj said under his breath. Taking his fork and scooting a piece of broccoli around his plate. John swallowed thickly at his son’s words his blood pressure spiking.
“Thief? I bought the bloody food. And you want to call me a thief!?” John’s voice was thick from the greasy food and beginning to raise. His train of thought was interrupted by the sound of his phones generic ringtone.
Evelyn and Jj were stunned as he got up from his chair so quickly it almost fell backwards. They saw the anger vanish from their father’s face and be replaced with an emotionless expression.
“Behave.” John warned as he abruptly got up from the dinner table and quickly made his way out the back door onto the patio. He could see all three of his children now peering out the window to get a better look at him.
“Kate, hear anything?” John skipped all the pleasentries and got straight to the point.
“The sight was ransacked. The people left claimed five individuals had been taken by a group of men with face coverings. One of them was identified as your wife.” The matter of fact tone Kate used was in hopes John wouldn’t go off the deep end at the news.
“Get Farah on this immediately tell her it’s a favor for me. I’ll owe her my life. But keep it under wraps this is my wife, don’t need word spreading and anyone getting ideas. I’ll be packed and on base to assist within the hour.” John barked down the line as if it was appropriate to give Kate orders.
“Farah is already working on tracking them down. Said you’d probably want to see the dig sight and talk to some of the witnesses yourself.” Kate and Farah had a much more in depth conversation on possibility of hostage survival but Kate felt that would be better for John to hear in person.
“She knows me well. I’ll be there soon.” John’s thumb and forefinger were pinching the bridge of his nose as he desperately tried to keep a hold of himself.
“We’ll get her back, John.” The certainty in Kate’s voice was only to comfort John and he knew that. There was no certainty and no one knew that better than them.
“We will.” John said simply before hanging up, feeling as if he were lying to himself.
There was a calm that washed over John. An eerie almost manic clarity came over him, a feeling that John knew all too well. It was what made him good at his job. What made taking peoples lives and living on with the weight of it manageable. He’d felt this many times but never with you, never like this. This was a feeling he had in war zones, shoot outs, the most gut wrenching and gruesome situations.
But tonight as he stood on the patio of your family home, all he knew was that he was on his way to Urzikstan with hell hot on his heels. The muscles in his face began to twitch and he chuckled out a dry laugh that most would describe as demented or deranged. John felt his sanity slipping as if he were about to go on a murderous rampage if he didn’t keep himself in check; and he just might. The thought of you scared, alone, and in danger had his skin tingling. If a single hair was out of place John wasn’t sure he’d be able to control himself, he’d truly become a monster he’d promised himself he’d never be. But could you blame him? Would anyone blame him?
John was calling the next person before he had even fleshed out a game plan. All the pieces were falling together in his mind and he saw every move he needed to make with clarity. The five rings of the phone was enough time for John to map out which route would be the quickest to base and how exactly he would get someone to fly him out there with little pushback. He’d need to pull every string and bully his way into getting what he wanted. He would be there in the quickest amount of time possible.
At any cost.
“Billy, Y/N in trouble on her dig and I need to get out there. Can y-“
“I’m putting on my shoes now. I’ll be there in a flash. Stay on the line.” Billy, your father, didn’t need another word. Much like John this was instinctual on how to react when the question of your safety was raised.
John could hear him rushing around and faintly overheard Billy’s girlfriend asking where he was going and if everything was okay. Then her screaming, asking why he was leaving and he ‘couldn’t keep doing this to her.’ Billy answered by slamming the door and effectively ending that relationship as he sprinted down the stairs for his car. If only John could tell you about this he knew you’d snort out a laugh and have some smart ass comment about your father’s horrible communication skills. But that wasn’t the case and John’s stomach twisted and rage spiked his veins at the thought he might never be able to tell you.
John stayed on the line only for the reason of making sure Billy was okay because that’s what you would want him to do. John knew you would demand that he looks out for your father in any and all circumstances. Even when you weren’t here to tell him yourself John was staying true to everything you would want and he’d continue to do that until the day he died.
“I’m on my way. Be there in twenty.” Billy huffed out of breath.
“See you soon.” Before John could hang up he heard the deadly serious words of your father as his car door slammed.
“You better bring her home in one piece. I mean it John, or I’ll have your fuckin’ head.” Billy yelled the words down the line and John could picture how angry he looked and how his finger was pointed to emphasize his point.
“I will.” John knew Billy was the only other person on this earth that would walk through the fires of hell for you. There was a mutual respect that both John and Billy would lay their lives down for you and kill for you. That’s why Billy trusted John to be your protecter all those years ago.
By the time Billy arrived he could feel the tension in the air. He tried to walk through the front door calmly but half burst through the door. It only took a few steps into the house to have full view of the living room which was where his grandchildren were.
Jj was sitting on the couch with Lily in his lap and reading her a book. Evelyn was sprawled out on the floor, red in the face, having just finished crying. It broke Billy’s heart watching his oldest grandson console Evelyn from his spot on the couch. Jj was truly John’s son trying to hold everything together no matter how unequipped he was.
“Evie, dad’s gonna be back with mum so fast it’ll make our heads spin. Isn’t it kinda cool he gets to go pick her up all the way in another country?” Jj was clearly trying to hide his own panic. His voice deepening like his fathers would when times were serious.
“Grandpa, dad says mummy’s fine but I don’t believe him.” Evelyn burst into tears again at the sight of Billy. Jj looked up to him like a deer in headlight his bottom lip wobbling as he saw the angry look on his grandpas face. Lily turned in Jj’s arms and hugged him around the neck.
“No crying Jj.” Lily whispered lovingly and nudged the book at him. Her curls tickling her brother’s skin and helping distract him from the tightness in his chest.
Jj willed himself to be strong for his sisters because for the first time in his life John had earnestly asked him to take care of them; and that’s what scared the young boy. There was a rule set by you and his father that Jj was not to take on adult responsibilities or roles under any circumstance. The fact his father asked this of him meant something was very, very wrong. And Jj was ready to do whatever it took to take care of his sisters.
Evelyn was moving pathetically so she was now kneeling on the carpet and starting to breather heavily, clearly panicking. Her small hand came up and clutched her orange t-shirt in the middle of her chest as if she were struggling to breathe. Evelyn was old enough at this point to understand something was horribly wrong but she couldn’t express why. The fact was, she felt deep down in her bones something bad was happening and unlike her brother she couldn’t hold herself together.
“Hey, she’s okay, just got caught up in some red tape at work. Your dad’s gonna bring her home safe and sound.” Billy didn’t bother taking off his shoes as he scooped the eight year old up in his arms. Evelyn wrapped herself around him and cried into his shoulder. Billy nodded to Jj as a way to silently comfort him but he could see how rattled the young boy was. With a deep sigh and quickly wiping away the stray tears, Jj went back to reading the book to Lily who was half asleep.
“Red tape!? That’s the worst kind.” The young girl hiccuped out sobs as Billy swayed with her and rubbed her back like he did when she was Lily’s age.
“Mummy’s my favorite person, she needs to come home. right. now.” Evelyn was sobbing harder and harder as Billy tried his best to console her.
It reminded him of when you were a little girl and cried for hours that you wanted your mother to come home. Only for you, your mother had passed and there was no chance of her ever walking through that door again. And Billy prayed that his granddaughter wouldn’t have to face the same suffering you did as a girl.
John was jogging down the stairs in his military fatigues with his duffle bag slung over his shoulder. His mind was racing but you’d never be able to tell from the emotionless look on his face, the paternal side of himself going dark at the sight of Billy. Knowing your children were now in good hands John was in a mindset that lived outside this home for good reason. His children had never seen this side of him. The cold, calculated, and self assured Captain he was renowned for being.
With sharp eyes John saw Billy had two different shoes on, he missed a belt loop, and had buttoned up his shirt wrong making one end lopsided. Billy was completely disheveled and it was obvious to John in that moment that no time was to be waisted, Billy needed his little girl home now.
“You three be good to your grandpa.” John’s words were more of an order as he went around and placed a kiss to each one of his children’s heads; his duffle bag thrown over his shoulder.
Billy and John shared a knowing nod and John left your father with a few parting words.
“You’ll see her soon. And thank you.” The deepness in John’s voice was a testament to his seriousness.
Billy couldn’t speak on the subject it would make the reality too real and he knew he’d lose himself completely if he lost you. So he nodded sharply and turned away from John, not allowing any emotion to take over although fear had its clutches on his heart.
——————
“Hello, Captain. Long way from home.” Farah’s voice sounded as she approached Captain Price as he stepped out of the truck he rode in. It was a shit show to get here but John managed to do it in record time. Pulling no punches and going as far as threatening those who wouldn’t give him his way.
“You locate the hostages?” Price’s voice had deepened like it usually did when deployed or on missions. A quick handshake was exchanged as a greeting, then Farah waved for Price to follow as she showed him around the campsite. John nervously fixed his hat on his head, blood pulsing painfully though his veins seeing the destruction of a once well manicured campsite. From the photos you sent him it was picture perfect and a textbook outline of a campsite. One central hub, area for showering, the group of tents closely huddled together; all adjacent to the dig sight.
“I have some of my men checking out possible locations but not much has turned up. There was one seriously wounded man but he’s stable now. No casualties. The people left behind said they headed west with five hostages.” With an out stretched gloved hand Farah pointed west to emphasize her point then signaled to the tire marks left behind.
“These treads are wide, wider than normal. Wouldn’t be surprised if they’re armored. What do you say?” Glancing over Farah intently inspected Price’s face trying to determine why this group of individuals called for him pulling out every favor he had. Why did some archeologists he had no business knowing call for him to be out here so quickly.
“You seen treads like these before? They look military.” With a nod John tilted his head down staring at Farah through his eyebrows, his hands coming up and gripping his tactical vest.
“A military convoy was high jacked last week. Think these might be the same people. Tire marks lead west like they said.” Farah confirmed the two of them continuing on, checking out the ransacked campsite.
“Then we’ll go west.” John said simply as he took in his surroundings. The two walked on stopping at the dig sight to see the carved out areas of ancient ruins. It looked to be the start of a decently sized complex covered in a layer of sand and dust. To the left was artifact that had been discovered and were being catalogued. None of it was disturbed only the campsite was torn apart.
“It’s a shame. If only they could keep themselves from digging in dirt that’s not their own. Don’t think this would have happened if it were our people here making this discovery.” Farah stated matter of factly. John hated that he agreed with the sentiment. Hell, he had said something similar to you when you first met and that’s why military presence was important on dig sights.
It was strange seeing something horrible that John had seen before but equating it to you. It was a feeling he hoped he’d never have but here he was. Examining tents that had been cut open, overturned vehicles, burned food supplies and water basins turned over and emptied. The small campsite was completely gone through and all forms of life preserves destroyed. The dig sight somehow remained untouched to John’s surprise but then again it seemed this was more of a job to stop those who don’t belong from taking things that aren’t theirs.
Continuing on John’s sharp eyes looked for any trace of you. That’s when he saw the tent that was bigger than the others, meaning it was the lead archeologists. Your tent. Silently John made his way over eyes carefully scanning the area around it. There were droplets of blood splattered a few yards from the tents entrance that lead to a larger blood stain. Squatting down John gave it a close look and determined it wasn’t nearly enough blood to be fatal and he wasn’t about to assume it was yours. There were clear drag marks leading off to where Farah had said convoy trucks were parked.
Farah silently followed, watching closely how Price’s face barely changed. Dipping into what he assumed to be your tent John was met with glass crunching under his boots and the sight of all furniture flipped over and your belongings rifled through.
The first thing John noticed was the smell of your vanilla perfume. Then he saw your old trunk kicked over with your belongings spilling out. There was that navy sweater you liked to wear on cold nights torn and lying on the red rug along with books and toiletries. Taking another step in John picked up on the smell of the hazelnut coffee you liked and he couldn’t help how that smell reminded him of home and you curled up in the early morning with coffee and a book. Then his boots crunched against something that snapped under his weight. Looking down and seeing what he’d stepped on finally had reality taking hold and a painful throb shooting through his head. This was your tent. His wife’s tent. And the blood splattered across the table and chairs was yours.
With a shallow breath and his lip twitching John bent down and picked up the family photo you had taken with you. It had speckles of dark red dried blood that tainted such a pure memory. John adored that day and thought back to it as one of the few perfect days you all spent as a family. Playing football in the back yard then grilling for dinner and eating around a bonfire. The night ended with you in John’s bulky arms and breathing each other in as you showed the deepest form of love to one another.
John felt himself ready to be sick. There was a rage so intense it made his head ache and muscles tense. With gritted teeth he could hear his teeth creaking from the immense pressure. Never in his life had John felt the urge to kill like this. It was no longer for defense or the safety and sanctity of his comrades and country. This felt blood thirsty like nothing could stop him from cutting down anyone who stood in his way on the path to find you. But for you and only you he would keep his composure because if he snapped there was no way anyone would allow for him to continue on this mission. There was a time and place to strike and he’d have them all in their graves by the time it was too late for anyone to stop him.
“Let’s find them.” John dropped the picture frame to the floor, the dark wood clattering against the broken bits of chair and glass.
The loose shards of glass from the frame scattering and adding to the mess that lay inside the tent. He left the picture frame there on the ground unable to bring his family along with him. He left it where he found it and turned away telling himself it would be here waiting for you when he brought you back to collect your things.
Farah was quick to step out of his way as Price marched out of the tent. There was an eir about him almost as if the darkest of pain radiated from his soul and infected the air. It was something Farah had never seen from Price, it almost felt inhuman, like a gruesome scene yet to unfold. Before he left he had one final thing to say.
“Don’t say a word.” It was a threat. Farah could hear it in his voice as if the devil had spoken yet sounded like the man she trusted with her life.
Curiosity got the better of Farah and she took a brief moment to look at the photo and the realization clicked in her head. Seeing Price’s face with a bright smile staring back at her and three children with matching ones was enough for Farah. The Captain had a wife and children. She had no clue. The woman they were searching for had to be the Captains wife and at least now Farah knew what you looked like. So hopefully it’d be easier to find and identify you if you had become a casualty. And she prayed for Price’s sake that wasn’t the case.
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greatstormcat · 1 month
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Into the Fire
TF141 x f!reader
Part 5
Series Masterlist
TW: MDNI 18+, talk of violence, oral f!receiving, forced exhibitionism
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Things become tense after Laswell’s announcement, and you do your level best to avoid getting in anyone’s way. Whoever Baron Shepherd is, he is clearly not good news and everyone is on edge as a result. The castle’s stockpiles of supplies are checked and rechecked, food, weapons and of course, healing supplies. It’s a sudden change of intensity that catches you off guard but you find Laswell is a great support despite the demands already on her.
You quickly learn to delegate, to find a few younger members of the household staff who are able to run tasks, fetching and organising, while you prepare for the unknown. Small accidents happen, a crushed finger here when moving barrels, a sliced hand there from the guards training, and you have things to keep you from dwelling too much on matters.
At night, however, your nightmares become a constant battle. The feeling of being watched, of something just out of the corner of your eye waiting for you, constant restlessness plagues you. It becomes normal to quickly cross over and down the hall, to knock softly on Kyle’s door and sleep wrapped in his protective embrace.
He never complains, never turns you away despite how exhausted he is from the increased training and drills the knights are expected to undertake. His hands are rough and calloused, splits on his knuckles and bruises from sparring, but his kisses are no less hungry than before. He makes you feel safe, and you repay him eagerly, as he settles into the space between your thighs.
His chambers echo in the dark of night to the sounds of your crescendo moans, his greedy words and praises, chasing away the things that lurk inside your dreams with a fire born of passion. Falling asleep, with the steady beating of his heart against your ear, comes naturally and without fear afterwards.
The day finally arrives when the Baron’s army nears, and Price sends a messenger to invite him to talks. You peer out of your workspace window overlooking the courtyard, gazing down at Price and the assembled knights on the steps the the main door of the keep. Armour shines in the afternoon light, weapons sheathed but ready. Laswell stands beside Price, her face etched with tired lines. It’s rumoured she hasn’t slept at all since her spies sent word of the invasion, constantly gathering information and moving her field agents to get any advantage possible.
Your eyes move over Price and the others. Kyle and MacTavish have long swords sheathed at their hips, but Simon, skull helm in place, has a monstrous montante, a double handed sword near as tall as he is, strapped to his back and a mace at his hip. Everything about him is designed to send the message that he can, and will, kill.
The gate opens slowly, clanking on the heavy chains used to pull the enormous things open, the sound jolting your attention towards them. The clatter of many hooves on the approach to the gate can be heard over the tense silence in the courtyard, and Shepherd rides through with a small number of his own knights. The bald Baron halts at the bottom of the steps, making no move to dismount. He wears full armour, clearly meant as a display of readiness, as do his other knights. One figure stands out, robed in black and their head covered by a cowl. The horse they ride skitters and shies beneath them, and something about the sight makes your stomach lurch.
“You have some balls, Shepherd,” Price says gruffly. “Take your troops and get out of my lands.”
“That won’t be happening, and you know it,” Shepherd retorts, openly looking over the assembled display of strength in the courtyard and deigning to look unimpressed. “I haven’t come all this way just to turn tail now.”
“Then I’ll have to cut it off,” Price sneers, just as unfazed.
“You forget, John,” Shepherd drawls, a mirthless smile crinkling the skin around his eyes, “I have The Shadow himself in my pocket now. If I bring him into play you won’t stand a chance. Your entire little domain would be wiped out. Is that what you want?” He lifts a hand and beckons forth cloaked rider, the horse’s bit flecked with foam and its eyes wide with distress.
“You brought that fucking lich into my lands, my castle?” Price roars, stabbing his fingers at the black cowled figure before taking a breath and regaining his composure. “You’re talking about murdering thousands of innocent people,” Price grits out between clenched teeth, his fists clenching as though resisting the urge to lash you here and now.
“Casualties of war, nothing more,” the bald man replies, leaning back in his saddle and smiling smugly. “It's your choice, submit to me or condemn your people,” his eyes are cold as he speaks, as though he wants Price to oppose him just to give him the excuse he wants to rain down horror and bloodshed. “You’ve got a week to get your affairs in order, and then I’m coming for you.”
Price steps forward, voice low and deadly.
“You wont get away with this,” he snarls. Shepherd looks around the courtyard at the assembled knights, his eyes catch yours through the window momentarily and your blood runs cold.
“I doubt it,” he says finally, and pulls his horse’s reins, leaving through the gate with his riders. The cowled figure turns his fretful horse slowly, the animal clearly distressed by the creature on its back, the figure’s head turning this way and that as if searching for something. A cold, creeping sensation slithers over your skin but it is quickly countered by a burning anger that isn’t yours.
He looks up at you, eyes looking into yours instantly, and the smile that spreads across his pale face reveals unnaturally sharp teeth before moving through the gate. When the echo of hooves dies down Price sighs deeply.
“Kate, we need all the help we can get,” Price says, pointing his finger at her. “Get me Alejandro, now.”
“Yes, My Lord,” she replies and turns on her heel, heading back inside the keep without waiting another moment. You turn from the window, heart racing at the bizarre encounter and hearing Farah's words: what has risen with you?
Two days later the Harbour Master, Nikolai, stands on the quay watching as a ship carefully negotiates the breakwaters at the mouth of the harbour, its sails snapping in the fresh breeze. You try to ignore the way MacTavish’s kilt does the same as he stands at the edge of the wall, one leg braced up on a iron bollard. Nik bellows instructions to the dockhands, his voice booming as it carries, having them ready to berth the vessel. You stand with Kyle, MacTavish and Alex, waiting for the ship. Laswell had told you they needed a healer after a crewman was injured on their way here, so you rode down with them.
“So these are friends of yours?” Alex asks Kyle casually. You've grown fond of Alex and his easy going manner.
“Yeah, Price helped Alejandro and Rudy out a few years ago. Since then Price allows them a certain amount of leeway with their activities in exchange for answering his call when needed.”
“Huh,” Alex grins under his moustache, “so he’s got pirates on the books? Smart move.”
“Price is always two steps ahead,” Kyle replies with pride, “that's why we’re here.”
The ship slowly pulls up alongside the quay, ropes thrown to the hands on the harbour wall, and a man stands on the railing holding onto the rigging and grinning.
“Hermano!” MacTavish calls out to the man on the ship, a huge grin splitting his face, and receives an equally enthusiastic welcome back. As soon as the ship is moored the gangplank is deployed and the smiling man jumps ashore, making his way to MacTavish with long, easy strides. He wears dark, loose fitting trousers tucked into sturdy boots, and a dark hide vest that leaves his muscular arms exposed. A belt with a short sword circles his hips.
“Es tan bueno verte de nuevo, hermano,” he says, gripping MacTavish’s wrist and pulling him against his chest briefly. He embraces Kyle just as fondly, before being introduced to Alex.
“I wish it was under better circumstances,” Kyle says, and the man nods somberly.
“Agreed, but you know we wouldn’t turn you away. We owe you a debt,” he says, and you snort softly at the mention of debts, drawing his attention inadvertently. He glances from you to the others, a smirk on his face.
“And who is this?” He takes your hand and bows, placing a quick kiss on your knuckles before anyone can say a word and your eyes dart to Kyle. His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t say or do anything. Behind him, however, MacTavish covers his chortle with a cough.
“The bonnie lass is our new healer,” he explains, and pats Kyle on the shoulder roughly, “and Sir Kyle’s… eh… companion.”
Alejandro grins at you as he hears this, a mischievous glint in his eye.
“Oh? Well in that case I am honoured to meet you,” he doubles down and kisses your knuckles again, clearly intent on getting a reaction from Kyle.
“Alejandro, stop drooling on her,” a woman’s voice calls out from the ship. Alejandro’s charming expression twists and sours as he hears her and he turns. A man and a woman descend the gangplank, both dressed in similar garb to Alejandro. The woman is shorter, her dark hair cut short and tattoos covering the exposed skin of her arms. Her hips swap as the saunters down the plank, a confident smile on her face.
“There ya are Rudy!” MacTavish calls the man with her, and he smiles and greets him warmly. He isn't as tell as Alejandro, but just as solid in build.
“This is Valeria, she joined a few months ago,” Alejandro explains, his voice carrying a level of distrust as he indicates the woman joining them.
“She’s the healer we asked Laswell for,” he explains, stepping back as she locks her eyes onto you. Valeria moves to your side and puts her arm around your shoulders, her hip pressed against yours as though greeting an old friend, and she begins to take you towards the gangplank.
“Cariña,” Valeria says sweetly, shooting a look over her shoulder at Alejandro, “come with me and let them catch up. I will take you to our crewman.”  You cannot help but notice how his brow creases as he watches you leave with the woman, but her pull is insistent and you are soon making your way below deck with her. The air is dank and foetid below deck, and the only light comes from hanging lanterns suspended from the low beams. 
You’re glad that Sir Alex follows you, as something about this woman makes you feel like a mouse staring at a smiling viper waiting for it to strike. You’re taken to a man lying in a hammock, his arm splinted and his face ashen and drawn.
“He took a bad fall from the rigging,” Valeria explains, standing close enough to you that her breath tickles the side of your neck. You try to focus on the injured sailor, but she doesn’t move back her eyes on you constantly.
“So, uh, how many crew are on this ship?” Alex interrupts, clearly seeing your discomfort and trying to draw Valeria’s attention away from you. She turns sharp eyes on him, a slight toss of her head as she does so, before answering him. Thankfully he keeps her talking, getting her to tell him about the crew and the cargo they’re carrying. His mind is clearly quick and sharp, knowing how to keep her occupied. With her focus diverted, you concentrate on the injured man, quickly, so you can leave.
You soon leave the ship and rejoin Kyle who is still talking with Alejandro, moving beside him to distance yourself from Valeria, and Alex takes position on the other side of you.
“Come to the keep this evening, Price wants to have you at his table,” Kyle says with a final shake of hands.
“We will be there,” Alejandro accepts, and you follow the other to the horses to ride back up the hill to the castle.
“Are you okay?” Kyle asks as you ride beside him, finally having been given a horse of your own.
“I’m fine, just got an odd feeling from that woman,” you reply, trying to give him a smile and failing.
“Look, we’re heading to the training grounds to meeting with Simon. Do you want to come with us?” Kyle asks softly. He doesn’t demand you go with him as he might have done before, but you can tell it’s what he’d rather you did. To be honest, it’s exactly what you want right now.
“Please,” you nod. “If that’s okay?”
“It is,” he says and you hear his relief. You ride with the knights around the side of the curtain wall to a large grassy area where archery butts and other equipment is set up. You quickly spot Simon, larger than anyone else by a head, giving instructions to younger knights as they practice. Steel flashes and glints in the bright sunlight as they cut and parry, and you panic. They’re only wearing padded clothing and steel helmets.
“Aren’t they going to kill each other? They’re barely wearing any armour,” you observe, watching as one young man catches his opponent on the arm. You tense, waiting for it to slice through the padded gambeson.
“Those are just feders, training swords,” Kyle explains with a grin. “They’re completely blunt, but still leave a bitch of a mark behind.” He winces as though from recent memory. The young knight twists with the impact of the blow but just shakes his arm and carries on.
“That’s still going to bruise him,” you mutter, earning a chuckle from MacTavish.
“Builds character, cannae take soft bairns into battle,” he grins, before shrugging out of his shirt and your eyebrows raise when he stands there in just his kilt and boots. They all do the same, and heat creeps up your neck and face as you realise this is how they practice, without any padding or protection.
You sit and watch once Simon joins them, as the four men begin their own training, simple drills to begin with cycling through a series of cuts with their own blunted swords. Swords raised then swept down as they cut through the air and then again in another direction for several minutes. Then they pair up and begin to spar, muscles bunching and shifting as they dodge, deflect and counter with dizzying speed. Sweat beads and runs down their skin, the sun blazing down onto them and adding to their exertion. 
They stop after a few hours, and walk with you safely in their midst back to the safety of the castle.
“Can you use a sword?” Simon asks you thoughtfully.
“No, but I can shoot a bow well enough to hunt with,” you offer hopefully. He nods, lips tight as if this is barely enough in his eyes.
“Better than nothing I guess,” Kyle sighs, he looks concerned at the idea of you fighting at all.
“Your best defence is always to run, no matter what weapons you have to hand though,” Simon continues, his dark eyes serious in his scarred face. “If anyone, or anything, comes after you, just run.” The way he says ‘anything’ makes you uncomfortable.
“I will keep that in mind,” you say, trying to hide the tremble in your voice. It’s cooler inside the granite walls of the keep and you let Kyle guide you down the stairs behind the others, soon recognising you are heading towards the bathhouse. The men discuss their training, but Kyle is quiet, his jaw tight as you glance at him and you turn to ask what’s bothering him just as you reach the door where Laswell had guided you on your first day here, which stands open.
Kyle pulls you through the open door slamming it closed behind you in the startled faces of the others. Before you can breathe another breath he presses you against the solid wood with a kiss. 
“Pulled a favour with Laswell,” he murmurs against your lips. Dropping his shirt and unfastening the laces of your bodice as his tongue delves into your mouth. In a few moments he has you naked and pinned to the door, the warm air of the bath house ghosting across your skin. 
His mouth is hot and wet against your skin, leaving kisses and small bites in its wake as he moves down, kneeling before you and lifting one of your plush thighs over his shoulder. You know his destination, and a shudder runs through you in anticipation, the excitement pooling in your cunt.
“I saw you looking at the others,” he growls between kisses. “Just need you to remember who you owe your life to.”
The first flick of his tongue against your throbbing clit nearly has you falling on top of him, if it weren’t for the grip he has on your hips and his strength supporting your thigh on his shoulder. Voices echo from the other room, and you suddenly flush realising that they will hear you if you make too much noise.
His tongue moves languidly against your clit, your thighs trembling as he draws out the delicious friction against it. Soft moans and gasps fall from your lips, and you fight to keep quiet. He pulls away, and you stifle a needy whine as you look down at him. His mouth glistens and his dark eyes burn up at you.
“You’re gonna let them hear you when you come,” he says, steel in his tone. “So they know you’re mine.”
A thick finger slides too easily inside you, your body already begging to be filled by him in any way it can be, and you feel the groan he makes against your clit. You clench around his finger, already dangerously high on arousal, and whimper unapologetically when he sucks on your engorged clit. His finger moves in and out of you, timed perfectly with his licks and sucks. 
But it is the addition of this second finger that makes your knees weak and breaks your silence. He pumps them into you, refusing to rush you to your end, your harsh breathing echoing around the daft stones of the bathhouse. All you can hear is the rushing of blood in your ears and your own groans as he fucks you with his hand, tongue circling and teasing your clit.
You can’t help but moan his name, riding the pleasure higher and higher until you cannot contain it any longer. With a sharp cry you come on his fingers, desperate whimpers following as you ride out the spasm while he works you through your orgasm.
“That’s my girl,” he purrs, lowering your leg and helping you into the soothing water of the tub. He quickly joins you and holds you to his chest as you float in the heady afterglow of your orgasm. The two of your take time to enjoy the warmth of the water together, sharing kisses and gentle touches before the chill of the cooling bath forces you to wash and get out.
Later, the household gather in the main hall for the evening meal. Price welcomes Alejandro and Rudy, but Valeria is noticeably absent. For that, you feel distinctly grateful, not wanting to be near her any longer than necessary.
“This is wonderful,” Rudy says in awe as he looks over the food heaped on the long table. “We’ve had too many days of dried meat out at sea. You eat like kings here on land.” Alejandro rolls his eyes at him with a smile.
“Price keeps us well fed,” Simon agrees, tearing into a piece of beef on the table before him.
“Aye, Kyle had plenty to eat earlier,” MacTavish winks at you, “but the lass needs to regain her strength.”
Laughter erupts around the table, Kyle punching the Highlander’s arm without malice. But the moment is cut short as a blast of a horn sounds through the castle, smiles freezing instantly.
“What’s going on?” Simon bellows, standing up so urgently his chair clatters to the flagstones. A guard rushes to respond, his face a mask of horror.
“The gates have been opened! We don’t know how, but Shepherd’s men are in the courtyard!”
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iovesia · 7 months
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✧ ˚ ༘ ⋆ 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐁𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐎𝐒𝐒.
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bodyguard!john wick⠀x⠀bratty!spoiled!fem!reader.
𝒔𝒚𝒏𝒐𝒑𝒔𝒊𝒔. being notorious for your spoiled, bratty behavior— you have successfully scared off your all previous bodyguards. but you’re stumped when this one just won’t quit.
—⠀੭୧⠀warnings⠀· ˚ ༘⠀large age gap. hyperfem!reader. reader is a bitch. mean!john. oral (m!receiving). dubious consent. brat taming. size kink. face slapping. 2.4k words.
𝒙𝒐𝒙𝒐, 𝒋𝒐𝒔𝒊𝒆 ִֶָ 𓂃 ⊹ for all my hyperfem!reader enthusiasts— this one's for you! i lowkey hate this but i haven't posted a fic in ages ohmygod and i also started school so i might be less active..
#. keanu reeves masterlist. | main masterlist. | request rules.
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NO.
It was the one word that was not in your vocabulary. 
“No. My decision is final.”
Unfortunately, it was your father’s favorite.
“Daddy, this is so unfair!” You squeal like a petulant child, hot on your father’s trail as he walks through the lavish penthouse which you reside in. Your heels hitting the marble floors reverberate along with your high pitched whining. “I don’t need a babysitter!”
“Bodyguard.” Your father corrects. 
“Same difference!” Your father lets out an exhausted sigh at your complaints, rubbing his eyes with his ring-adorned finger. The wrinkles on his face are prominent, displaying his ageing stress. “I can handle myself! I’m not a child anymore!”
“You behave like one!” Your father snaps. “It’s how you’ve managed to scare off the last two bodyguards. So help me God, if this one quits too, there’s going to be mayhem. You hear me, young lady?”
Your soft features contort into a nasty grimace when your father points his finger in your face. Resisting the urge to stomp your Dior, pink heel —ergo proving your father’s point— you let out a defeated scoff. “Fine.”
“Thank you,” Your father gives you a tight lipped smile. “Jesus, you’re just like your mother. God forbid things don’t go your way.” You try to ignore the sting in your heart at your father’s callous words, the venom in his tone as he refers cruelly to his ex-wife, and your mother. 
You clear your throat, quickly wishing to change the topic. “Who even is this guy?!”
“His name’s John Wick. He’s highly specialised in martial arts, firearms, and other weaponry. He also has military experience—”
“So basically, you hired The Terminator?” You interject, snapping your gum loudly in between your lip gloss covered lips. “I still don’t understand why the hell he’s here. None of my friends have old bodyguards following them!”
“Your friends are also not daughters of a mob boss,” your father replied bluntly, his patience wearing as thin as his greying hair. Before you could conjure another witty retort— the doorbell rings through the apartment. You follow close behind your father, eyes shooting daggers into the back of his skull when he walks into the entrance area. 
The penthouse was adorned with gold trim and marble floors, along with glimmering chandeliers hanging from the tall ceilings, accentuating your father’s immense wealth— your silver platter prison as you liked to call. 
“Christ, give me strength,” Your father mumbles under his breath.
“It’s John, isn’t it?”
“I pray it is.”
“If he’s short, bald and old like the last one— I’m going to freak out,” you hold your hands up defensively, briefly admiring your manicured french tip nails. You pride yourself on your appearance— if you’re not complaining and bitching, you’re spending daddy’s credit card on all things girly and pink.
The door slowly opens. From the bottom of your new bodyguard’s Oxford shoes, you eye him up past his lean body under his tight black suit— accentuating his buff arms and chest, up to his slicked back black hair and piercing dark eyes. You stare in slight disbelief at the man ahead, who towered over you. 
“Meet John. Your new bodyguard.”
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AS ATTRACTIVE AND BROODING as your new bodyguard was, he was also quiet.
Too quiet.
Unlike your previous bodyguards, John was as still as stone, completely unresponsive to any of your nasty quips, bitchy comments or snarky commands. You were lucky to receive even a word of acknowledgement, let alone a sentence.
He was your silent shadow, always standing eerily close by wherever you went.  At the mall. At clubs. At the library. Even when you go to public restrooms, he stands waiting outside the door, embarrassingly dragging attention to the both of you.
“Seriously?” You grumble to yourself, adjusting your pink tennis skirt as you walk out of the ladies restroom. The older man merely looks down on you, his unreadable expression only pissing you off more.
“It’s my job.”
That was his famous catchphrase. Like a broken record, or a poor man’s Princess Bride— it was his automated response for any of your complaints. It’s his job. 
You huff, tongue in cheek as you lean against the doorframe of the kitchen, watching the brooding bodyguard read a book. John’s leaning against the back of the chair, his arm resting on the countertop of the kitchen island, his veiny hand holding the book upwards as he takes a sip of coffee with his other. The palpable silence was too much for you to bear. You’ve had enough. You needed a reaction out of him— anything— literally anything other than this monotonous apathy. 
Your hips sway side to side as you stroll over to John, his attention unwavering from his book. You clench your jaw, tapping your nails on the marble countertop. You take a seat next to him, and lift your leg up, resting your foot on his thigh. 
Shockingly, he raises a brow— but still doesn’t look at you.
“Lace up my heels,” you demand, a smug smile on your lips, gently digging the heel of your shoe into his thigh. But he doesn’t twitch. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t even produce a sound of pain.
“You’re not a child, you can do it yourself,” his voice is low, and raspy as he clears his throat. John flips to the next page of his book and your brows stitch together, a small frown etching on your lips.
“Lace up my heels, Jack,” you repeat firmly, the taunt in your voice disappearing as you purposefully get his name wrong.
“John.”
“Whatever.”
John’s attention to his stupid book never faltered, and your annoyance boiled like bile in your chest. Clearly you’d have to try a little bit harder. You remove your foot off his lap, and let out a purposefully loud sigh.
“I’m your boss, John,” you say mockingly, “you better do what I say.”
“Your father is my boss,” his tone is painfully monotonous, if he was anyhow irritated with your bratty behaviour— he didn’t show it. “I work for him.”
There’s another tense silence casted upon the door, and you huff, jumping off your seat before storming out of the kitchen. Blinded by your temper tantrum, you missed the older man’s leering eyes on your ass as you walked away.
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YOU WERE FUMING.
A whole month.
A whole thirty days he’s been your bodyguard, and you still have not managed to find out what made John Wick tick. His silent, stoic demeanour seemed impenetrable to your girlish, spoiled wit. John has bested your previous guards by the duration of his stay— most, if not all of them would have packed their bags by this point.
The sun beamed on your soft skin, exposed by the skimpy pink bikini that barely covered your breasts and left little to the imagination. Lying across the sunbed next to the glistening infinity pool, the sun suddenly disappears from your face, and you open your eyes to see John hovering over you. 
“Move, you’re blocking the sun,” You roll your eyes, pulling your Cartier sunglasses above your head.
“Get dressed.”
You furrow your brows in confusion at his command.
“Your father says there’s a gala in a few hours, your attendance is mandatory.” John affirms his previous command, before he stalks away from you, his long legs carrying him far as he re-enters the penthouse. Immediately, you sit up from your sunbed, not bothering to cover your skimpy figure with a towel as you chase him.
“I don’t take orders from the help.”
“But, you do take orders from your father,” John quips, quirking a brow as he turns to face you, his staggeringly tall body looming over you. “Get dressed.”
“I don’t take orders from you, I’m not going!” You sneer, and when you attempt to walk past John, his large arm wraps around your forearm, gently but firmly pulling you backwards in front of him. “Excuse me?”
“You’re excused. Get. Dressed.”
“Get fucked, how about that?” You retort, scoffing at his audacity to tell you what to do. “I don’t take orders from the butler.” Roughly tugging your arm back, you take a challenging step closer and you can feel the warmth radiating from his suit covered body. 
“Bodyguard.”
“Oh, please— you’re a glorified babysitter,” you chuckle incredulously. “All that military experience is probably a load of crap— I have half a mind to get my daddy to fire you!”
“I have half a mind to shut that mouth of yours,” John’s low voice has goosebumps swimming across your skin. He finally cracked, and now you were just waiting for the pieces to come apart. John takes a step forward, closing the distance as his chest nearly touches yours.
“What did you just say to me?” You speak quietly, your confidence slowly decreasing. A small, devious scowl creeping on his face. “I said: what did you just—”
Your words die in your throat when a sudden hand clutches your jaw, fingers digging into your cherub cheeks. A weak gasp comes out, as John pulls you closer, your exposed stomach and barely-covered breasts pressing against his lean body. His stubbled face leans down, your noses almost touch as he whispers: “I think it’s time you got a taste of your own medicine.”
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“GET ON YOUR KNEES.”
Jaw dropped.
“What?” 
“You heard me,” John rests against the back of the leather couch, sitting as his legs manspreading with his elbows resting on the leather couch pillows. You stood like a deer in headlights in front of him, hands on your hips, looking down at him. “Get on your knees.”
“I’m not gonna do that, are you out of your mind?!” You squeal, offendedly. John merely licks his bottom lip, his eyes focused on your hips, and thighs. “You are so fired, John! I’m telling my dad!”
“Go ahead, let your precious daddy know you made another one of his staff quit..” John shrugs nonchalantly, scratching his beard. “Your father will be pissed, and will probably cut you off.. And then who will pay for those little bikinis?” 
You kiss your teeth, lips pursed as your leg bounces anxiously. He was right. 
“Asshole,” you hiss under your breath as you lower yourself down to the ground, your knees scratching against the rough carpet. His penetrating stare made you sweat, a chill tingling down your spine. God, you wished you had taken that towel with you. John’s voyeuristic gaze trailed from your breasts that barely fit in your bikini top, down the curves of your hips to the swell of your ass. 
“Come here,” he says slowly.
Reluctantly, you abide his words, and your hands and knees graze the carpet as you crawl over to John— like an obedient little puppy. Sitting on the heels of your foot, you rest your palm on your thighs, an exasperated huff flaring through your nose.
“You are a spoiled little girl, you know that?”
You roll your eyes.
Suddenly, pain blooms in your left cheek as a firm hand smacks across your face— not enough to hurt, but enough to shoot down your attitude, making you mewl. “Ow!”
“Aw.. did that hurt?” John leans forward, his warm breath hitting your face as you look up at him, batting your long lashes. His fingers digging into your cheeks again, holding you in place. “You want me to kiss it better?”
Your face flushes at his question, as you roll your shoulders back. The diva inside you was screaming when you nodded— but you didn’t care. You eyed the older man hungrily, the sting on your cheek had you rubbing your thighs together. Unfortunately, John noticed.
“That’s too bad.” Pushing your face away, he leans back against the couch. John subtly spreads his knees further apart, signalling you to his shiny belt buckle. Eyeing the older man hungrily, the pads of your fingers touch the cool metal as you undo his belt. 
His lowered slacks reveal his flushed, hardened cock, with pre-cum already leaking from the red tip. Your hand shakily wrapped around his shaft, your whole hand unable to fit around his full girth. You stroke him gently as his lips part, a soft groan escaping. You swallow nervously, his cock throbbing in your hand when you halt your hand. Spit gathering into a small glob on your lips before stretching down onto his mushroom tip. The saliva made your movements smoother, and more confident. 
“I know that mouth does more than complain,” John taunts, his large hand softly caressing the back of your head when he edges your face closer to his thick shaft. Your mouth waters as you wrap your glossy lips around his cock, your tongue flat against his tip, the salty pre-cum satisfying your tastebuds.
Relaxing your jaw to adjust to his size, you lower your head, his cock nudging against the back of your throat. Whatever you couldn’t fit in your mouth, your hands covered, massaging the base of his cock. John grits his teeth, swallowing a groan as you begin bobbing up and down his cock. John’s hand is heavier on the back of your hand, forcing you lower on his cock till your nose is buried in his short, curly pubes— making you gag loudly.
“Does the spoiled brat need some air?” John chuckles raspily, his hand clutching your hair, pulling you back off his cock. A thick line of saliva dribbles down your chin, lips puffy as tears brim your waterline. Your jaw ached, but your tongue was desperate for more. His thumb swipes against your bottom lip, wiping away the pre-cum and spit, before shoving his thumb into your mouth. The pad of his thumb presses down on your tongue, and you gag once again. 
“Spent the last month dealing with your little attitude problem,” John eyes squinted into slits, repeatedly patting your face with his other hand. “I think a little appreciation is in check.”
Like a cockdrunk doll, you nod ditzily as he switches his thumb out for the tip of his shaft. 
Your father was surprised to see you wearing jeans the next day, as they covered those little bruises on your knees.
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spookyserenades · 1 year
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Trouvaille - Chapter One
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Pairing(s); BTS OT7 x Reader
Genre/Themes; Hybrid!AU, themes of the supernatural and the occult, religious themes, violence, hurt/comfort, horror, romance
Rated; 18+ for swearing, violence/gore, future sexual themes. Reader discretion is advised.
Word Count; 20.4k
Trouvaille Masterlist
Trouvaille playlist
Updates on the 7th of each month
Hello everyone, this is Dana! This is the first complete chapter of Trouvaille, an introduction to the story and several characters. I have been working on this story for a long time, so I am overjoyed to share it with others. If you'd like to be added to the taglist for the next few chapters, don't hesitate to ask, I'll gladly add you. Any comments, questions, and feedback is lovingly received, and thank you for reading, and please enjoy!
Next Chapter
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Although it was Friday, the hands of Y/N’s watch moved as if stuck in honey, hours ticking by painfully, and her patience was wearing thin. Today was her last day at her job. That morning, while sipping a cup of tea wrapped up in her quilt in bed, she had stared out the window absently as she frequently caught herself doing, fog rolling through the tall grasses of the back yard and filling the sky with stormy colors. The morning of her last day of work was like any other, planned to the minute, methodical, and solitary. Routine, she found, drove her crazy, but she wondered what exactly she would do after it’s upheaval – was it back to school, helping her mother out at the library, applying for a job at the smoothie bar, starting a ghost hunting crew? Endless possibilities boggled her even more than repetitive routine, she didn’t have a plan, and it was somewhat freeing. 
The veterinarian hospital she worked at was located in the heart of Boston, and saw near-constant foot traffic. When she arrived in the morning there were nothing but appointments to attend to, animals to check in, bags of kibble to sell, and of course, the odd surgery or two. Her position, specifically, was the on-staff exotics veterinarian, and often trained her colleagues to treat animals that weren’t cats and dogs. 
She was in the midst of her last examination, one that would likely end in surgery for a broken wing. It was getting late, there were only a handful of her colleagues left in the building, and she still had to talk to her supervisor about her leave. Y/N had chosen to word it as “taking a leave” rather than formally turning in resignation papers, as much as she was leaning towards a complete change of career. There was a chance after a few months of indulging herself in new directions that she’d come running back to the hospital.
Squinting, Y/N skimmed the clipboard containing information about the parrot she was currently treating, taking care not to touch his injured wing when she wrapped the bird in a towel for better handling.
“Lex, I need the radiograph up on the screen, please. Watch out for his beak!” Nimbly, Y/N turned the agitated bird away from the young lab tech before he nipped at her elbow. “He’s a biter, not that I can blame him, after what’s happened to his wing,” adjusting the towel around the Macaw, Y/N glanced at the large screen above the observation table. Eyes scanning the radiograph with practiced precision, she realized that the fracture was not something that could be mended with tape and time. A door closing and the sound of metal rolling in a tin alerted her of the presence of the tech she was most proud of training, a young man named John.
“John? Oh, John, thank God you’re back, did room 103 have the IM pins? I want this parrot to be stabilized as quickly as possible. I don’t think he is used to being handled,” Y/N explained, struggling to keep the bird's large beak away from her ears. Vaguely, Y/N heard Lex slip from the room, likely running to the next room for another emergency radiograph. John, his blue eyes drooping in concern, slid the tray of IM pins across the observation table while clicking his tongue. 
“Poor guy. What happened?” John asked, chest heaving with the effort of running down the veterinarian hospital halls. His creamsicle colored scrubs, an undoubtedly sunny wardrobe choice, was littered with sunset orange sweat stains and spots of animal drool as he reached across the table for the patient file. He let out a low whistle at the accident report as Y/N decided one IM pin would be plenty to get the fractured bone to realign once more.
“Wing caught in cage door? That can’t be right, especially with the size of the fracture,” John exclaimed, smooth features pulling into an incredulous expression. Eyes flicking up to the parrot, Y/N’s eyebrows knit together in frustration, John hurriedly washed his hands in the sink and pulled two pairs of latex gloves from the box next to the sink. It was the unsaid in the report that raised suspicion; how, exactly, did the bird get its wing stuck in the cage door himself? It was more common, in fact, for Y/N to treat animals that were abused; things were rarely accidents, when it came to exotics. 
“Are you ready for surgery? For the size of the bird and the fracture, I estimate we’ll be working for about three hours before he can be brought to recovery,” Y/N slipped a clean mask over her face, adjusting the frameless plastic goggles so they don’t fog, before carefully ensuring John had a hold on the parrot. John grunted in assent, likely just as bone-tired as she was. 
Rider, she faintly remembered, was the parrot’s name, as she watched white suds circle and filter down the drain. Once her hands were dry and the gloves snapped over her wrists, she felt the numbing sensation of dropping into total concentration. In a way, that was the best part of her job; the quieting of her brain for the length of a surgery, distracted by the methodical procedures, the pressure to work against the clock, and above all – the importance of helping the animal. 
Perhaps it was selfish, in a way, to crave the escape from her inner monologue considering her line of work, but some people had meditation and some people were joggers. Certainly, every sane person needed an outlet for serenity to make sense of the rest of the chaos infecting their lives. Sometimes, Y/N even believed she had combined her serenity with vocation, her work and her respite intimately entwined. Other times, at the bottom of a nondescript bottle with her friends, she grew nauseous at the rigidity of it all. 
“Prepare the K-wires, let’s get started,” Y/N declared, pulling the operating light over the table. John grunted in response, Y/N smoothing a hand over the parrot’s crown in a practiced soothing manner. 
“We’ll get you all fixed up, Rider,” Y/N whispered to the Macaw, the eyes of the parrot boring into her in a way that made her feel exposed. 
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“So, does this mean we can finally call it a day?” John asked raggedly, wiping a bead of sweat from his temple. The air outside of the operating room felt significantly fresher, the bright lights by the employee lockers snapping Y/N out of her surgical reverie. Peeling the sticky gloves from her hands and tiredly tossing them into a nearby trash can, she nodded. 
“All done, John! You can go ahead and get out of here. It’s Friday night, after all – I just have to talk to Dr. Davies before I can go myself,” Y/N smiled warmly at John. While he was one of the newest vet techs, over the past seven months at the office he had managed to surpass all of the other techs in surgical skill. 
Frowning slightly, John paused before reaching for his book bag. “Are you going to discuss your leave?” He inquired softly. 
Y/N sighed heavily. While she had enjoyed training John, and found significant fulfillment in her profession, the past few months had felt more and more draining. Being an exotics veterinarian was one of the hundreds of things she had dreamed of as a child. She had excelled in school, graduating close to the top of her class, and had even landed an amazing position at her current animal hospital fresh out of university. For the first year, Y/N saw herself at Harbor Animal Hospital long-term, aspiring to be like the incredible Dr. Tia Davies, her boss and mentor. 
As time went on, Y/N felt a sadness well up inside of her as she treated animal after animal. The world had become a cruel place full of neglect for animals, especially for the exotics she cared for. When she was a little girl, her grandparents took her to a traveling circus every summer when it came through Boston. It was there, where she watched beautiful parrots soar, elegant leopards slink through elaborate obstacles, and giraffes stand tall in all of their glory that Y/N first dreamed of working with such beautiful animals. To help them, specifically, as she grew up and realized the types of trials and tribulations the circus animals went through in order to perform, was one of her biggest desires. 
Fresh from college equipped with rosy lenses, she believed she could make a difference – but all she found was the revolving door of the hospital, each animal’s case more soul crushing than the next. Abuse, neglect, abandonment; these were the things that kept Y/N staring at her ceiling at night, waiting for sleep that would never come. She couldn’t help but notice the uptick in her anxiety and the dark circles rimming her lower lash line as time wore on, desperate to love her job again. At twenty-four years old, she ultimately came to the conclusion that in order for her to help animals in a way that mattered, she needed some time to sort out her personal feelings. 
“Yeah,” Y/N replied, raking her hand through her hair, “I just don’t know if I can keep this up, John. I’m running on empty and I just can’t shake this feeling – oh, I don’t know – of heartbreak? I just feel like I need time to regroup. I can’t afford to have my personal feelings negatively impact the animals,” she explained, corners of her mouth turning downwards. 
John nodded thoughtfully, slinging his book bag over his shoulder. He was yet to feel this way, and was generally more optimistic than Y/N, but he saw how depleted she had become over the months. She prayed that he would not end up like her; the hospital desperately needed him. 
“Well, Y/N, I’m really going to miss you around here. Hopefully the new exotics vet is just as patient as you are,” he said gently, placing his hand on her shoulder. Y/N appreciated the fact that he didn’t plead her to stay, or press the subject too hard. “Call me when you decide to come back. I’ll be waiting for you with your favorite Starbucks order!” 
With that, Y/N gave John a hearty wave as he pushed his way through the doors to the employee parking lot. She would miss him, certainly, but she had wrestled with taking a leave for months before she decided John was ready to take her place until Dr. Davies could find a full-time replacement. 
She opened up her locker, pulling down the picture of her posing at a cocktail party with her friends Ben, Laura, and Alice, the magazine clipping of Keanu Reeves as John Wick, and her bag of toiletries for when she worked late, shoving all of the items into her canvas tote bag. Simply clearing out the locker made her feel lighter in a way, albeit a tad guilty. She thought about some of the patients she saw regularly, such as the sweet elephant seal she treated at the Boston Aquarium, and felt the guilt rise up in her stomach even more. But she had already decided; she was no help to any creature in her current state. 
Setting off down the hall towards the office where the doctors kept patient files and keys to the pharmacy and lab, Y/N took one last look at the polished linoleum floors, the pastel walls, and unflattering fluorescent lights guiding her way. She knocked twice on the closed door, all of the other staff and techs gone for the day as the rapping sound echoed about the empty clinic. 
“Y/N, I’m assuming that is you? Come on in,” Dr. Davies’ sweet voice called, muffled by the sound of a medical mask. Pushing the door open, Y/N hiked her tote bag up further on her shoulder in determination.
Dr. Davies, or Tia, as she insisted everyone call her, was a kind woman in her mid-forties. She wore purple rectangular glasses and had frizzy graying hair, and looked something akin to an art school aunt. Tia always wore chunky, funky jewelry and colorful scrubs, which she had mentioned “brightened up the place”. 
“So, have you made your final decision?” Tia looked up over her glasses, setting the folder she was holding down on the desk. She stood, smiling fondly at Y/N. Swallowing down even more guilt, Y/N nodded. 
“I’m sorry, Tia. I just feel like I’ve…” Y/N trailed off while looking at the floor, at a loss for words that accurately described her feelings. 
“Hit a wall? Been emotionally drained?” Tia suggested helpfully. Eyes shooting up to meet Tia’s, Y/N’s confidence returned after she registered the understanding look on the doctor’s face. 
“In a way. I still want to help animals, and that will never change. Lately, I feel like I haven’t been able to help enough. In a way that matters. The world is… the world is so awful. To these animals, to humans–”
“–to hybrids?” Tia added encouragingly. 
Hybrids!
“Oh my God. Hybrids! I knew I was forgetting something about my schedule today!” Y/N exclaimed, blood draining from her face. 
“Oh Y/N, I remember you telling me about your plans to go with Ben and Roy to a hybrid shelter this week. Is that today?” Tia rounded the corner of the desk, grasping one of Y/N’ wrists tenderly.
“Uh, yes– it is– Ben is going to kill me. I’m supposed to meet him at Government Center in half an hour. I’m so sorry, this couldn’t have come at a worse time,” Y/N gasped out, furious at herself for forgetting such an important meeting. Her timing never seemed to be perfect. 
“Listen, Y/N, relax. It’s alright, I just wanted to let you know that my old colleague from Chicago has agreed to take your position until you return,” Tia reassuringly squeezed her wrist. “Or, if you return,” she added, a twinkle of some kind of knowing in her eye. 
“Oh, that’s such good news,” Y/N exhaled, thrilled Tia could find a replacement so quickly, a weight lifted off of her shoulders.
“I have no doubt that you will continue to help animals, you’re like me in that way. You’re young, and like me, you may have to take time to truly figure out where you fit in to make the best difference,” Tia continued, a warm feeling of kinship spreading through Y/N. 
“Tia,” Y/N mumbled in a watery manner, eyes filling up a little.
“I want you to call me, at least once a month, or whenever you need me. I’m here for you. Besides, knowing you, you’ll come up with some new venture that I absolutely need to be a part of. I’ll lend any knowledge I can,” Tia released Y/N’s wrist, opening her arms for an embrace. Now, Y/N truly had tears running down her face, burying it in Tia’s shoulder. 
“Now, get going! If you want to make it to Government Center in thirty minutes, I suggest you run the yellow lights,” Tia released her, winking. Y/N wiped a stray tear from her cheek, squaring her shoulders. 
“Thank you, Tia, for everything. I’ll call you,” Y/N affirmed, taking one more look at the kind doctor. She hurried from the office, the newfound source of anxiety of being late quickening her step to her car. 
As she launched out of the clinic, she took a deep breath in, the air free from the scent of rubbing alcohol and pet fur. While Boston city air was certainly tainted with cigarette smoke and exhaust, the light perfume of black-eyed susans studded along sidewalks filtered through pleasantly. Invigorating her, she squashed down the dread of her evening plans. 
While Y/N was well-versed in the subject of the animal kingdom, hybrids were always a source of puzzlement to her. Hybrids, a part of modern life long before her birth, were created specifically for human enjoyment in large labs, factories, and even dilapidated basement operations. When her parents were in their twenties, the price to own your own hybrid was an astronomical fee, and only the elite were photographed with hybrid companions at fundraisers and derbies. 
As the “wheel of progress” turned, hybrids spliced with large animal DNA became workhorses in many parts of the industrial USA. Hybrids working on logging plants, mining, and even construction, was faster and cheaper labor than hiring humans – an abysmal fact. In more recent times, almost anybody could adopt a hybrid, for better or for worse. Of course, the nasty sort of animal abuser found even more enjoyment tormenting a hybrid, one who could potentially fight back and feel human fear. God-wealthy “hunters for sport” lined up at fancy hybrid shelters to pick out bear and prey hybrids for their sick hobby, according to recent news headlines. 
For the most part, Y/N avoided the topic of hybrids. Although her family had money, there was never a hybrid within their home. This, she did consider odd, simply due to the fact that a large part of her family’s wealth came from her father’s revolutionary studies and practices on hybrid heart surgeries as a cardiologist. He had treated thousands of hybrids and truly cared for them, in a similar way that Y/N cared for her exotics. Her mother, on the other hand, loved hybrids, and even ran a bookclub out of the library she worked at specifically for adopted hybrids. 
Y/N chewed on her lower lip as she contemplated her relationship with the beings, tapping her fingers against the steering wheel as she waited out a red light. The radio murmured about the weather comfortingly, however, she could still feel the nervousness eating away at her stomach. It’s not like she had never talked to a hybrid, plenty of her parent’s friends had one or two. However, she couldn’t ever shake the feeling that like actual animals, hybrids could sense things about her that humans could not. In an all-knowing, exposing way. 
She blasted through the last yellow light, spotting the bright gold kettle that served as a giant Starbucks sign next to Government Center, and miraculously found a street parking spot nearby. Y/N was only ten minutes late, but in Ben’s mind, she might as well have been an hour late. Taking a quick peak in her rearview mirror, she pinched her cheeks to bring some life back into her complexion, ruffled her hair, and hastily shoved her wallet and keys into the pocket of her lavender scrubs. 
The sun was starting to set as she scuttled towards the entrance of Government Center, dreading the humidity and musty smell of the MBTA station. Ben and Roy told her to meet them inside of the station, where the couple met after Roy’s office hours. Stumbling over a cobblestone in her clunky clogs she wore to work, she cursed loudly as a pack of college students giggled at her outside of the Starbucks. Giving them a passionate Boston-style middle finger, she straightened up when she heard her name. 
“Y/N! Jesus Christ, over here!” Ben’s sharp voice cut through the Friday night rush hour traffic. Whirling around, she noticed Ben’s perfectly coiffed head of red hair, one of his Gucci loafers tapping the sidewalk impatiently. Behind him, sitting sheepishly on a fountain ledge, was his fiance, Roy. Y/N all but ran over to the two of them. 
“Shit– I’m so sorry I’m late– I got caught up in surgery and had to talk to my boss about the leave, plus the traffic, I swear, these Emerson students walk into the street on purpose,” Y/N heaved, right hand clutching her pounding heart. Roy chuckled lightly as he stood from his perch, hand smoothing over the back of Ben’s tweed suit. 
“I texted you this morning to remind you about tonight! Scatterbrain,” Ben scolded, his annoyance tempered by Roy’s gentle hand. Y/N always thought Roy was the best thing to ever happen to Ben. 
Ben Alpin was Y/N’s childhood neighbor, and although he was four years older, they were attached at the hip all throughout their youth. Ben was an amazing friend to have growing up; he was outgoing and sharp of tongue, always protective like an older brother. Considering Y/N had no siblings, Ben was the closest to one she ever had. They had gone to separate high schools, where Ben had flourished in leadership programs and dominated student council. He had always jokingly said that “money was his dream”, but Y/N knew that what he really wanted was to be a leader of some kind. He had eventually gone to Harvard Law, and was now a successful business lawyer. So successful, he was able to afford a brownstone on Beacon Hill – in the end, Y/N supposed he did indeed achieve his dream of money. 
Ben had met Roy Heath at Harvard post-grad, Roy being a new professor of architecture attending a leadership seminar Ben was hosting at the university. As far as personality, the two balanced each other out so well it was almost cosmic. Incredibly patient, calm, and easy-mannered, Roy could de-escalate a classic Ben meltdown in seconds. Y/N adored Roy, he had become a dear friend to her almost as quickly as he entered her life. He often helped her work on her house on the weekends, which offered her not only someone to reach high areas of the ceilings with a paintbrush, but a grounding presence to bask in. The two planned on getting married in less than a year, after Roy published his current thesis. 
“I know, I know… I even replied to your message! Just goes to show how absolutely fried I am these days,” Y/N complained, smacking her face against Ben’s chest and squeezing his midsection until he wheezed. Patting her back, she felt his chest rumble in amusement, surprisingly not as angry as she thought he’d be for her tardiness. 
“It’s okay, Y/N, you were barely even ten minutes late. I doubt ten minutes will determine whether or not there’s a hybrid for us,” Roy reassured her, stooping low to give her a brief hug after she let go of Ben. The latter scoffed, intertwining his fingers with Roy’s, before rolling his blue eyes. “I found three shelters online the past few months, so we’ll see which one is lucky.”
“Don’t forget that seedy one over in Downtown Crossing. That’s our last resort,” Ben added. Ben, ever the realist, had been forwarding articles about hybrid scarcity to Y/N for the last six months. For some reason, the supply of hybrids could not keep up with the growing demand of those who wish to adopt. Y/N suspected the worst – sport hunting was growing in popularity. She did not vocalize her opinion to the couple. 
“Let’s get going. The first one is right up the street by that sucky Irish pub,” Ben declared, pushing a graying-brown curl behind Roy’s ear affectionately. They were nauseatingly adorable, Y/N thought. 
Setting off, Y/N told the two all about how she asked for her leave, what she planned on doing while she had time off, and of course, her house. Stopping at a crosswalk, Ben looked at her inquisitively. 
“So, any luck finding roommates for that big old creepy house of yours?” He asked, an eyebrow arching up into his hairline at the absurdity. Y/N pouted, yet another situation she found kept her awake at night. 
Her maternal grandparents, the very same ones that took her yearly to the circus as a kid, lived in a gorgeous Stick Style Victorian manor outside of Boston when she was growing up. It had been in her family for generations, built in the 1860’s for some wealthy judge and his wife. Y/N loved the house more than anything, its hundreds of nooks, crannies, passageways, and secrets made her giddy like a child every time she went home. She had moved into the home after college, when her grandparents became too old to live on their own. They lived with her mother and father down the street, but Y/N couldn’t bear to leave the beautiful Victorian empty. The house itself would have been part of her inheritance, so she figured why not move in immediately after college?
What she didn’t realize was that her grandmother was a bit of an antiques hoarder, and her grandfather didn’t like to “fix what ain’t broke”. Meaning, the last time the place had any kind of repairs or facelifting was in the sixties. Y/N had her work cut out for her between scraping linoleum off of the kitchen floor and managing the several acres of trails and gardens on the property. Additionally, the place was gigantic – with 10 bedrooms, she could have a convent of nuns move in with her. It was this reason, (certainly not the fact that she could really use someone who could operate a ride-on lawnmower) that she had been asking around her pool of friends if they were looking for a place to live. She hadn’t found any luck. 
“Don’t remind me of that. Seriously, my head’s going to explode. I’ve been asking around for months, I’ve even told people they could pay me three walnuts to live there,” Y/N groaned, following the couple across the street. Roy was practically pissing his pants, face red with glee. 
“You know, Y/N, Roy spends enough time there hauling out your grandma’s chair collection, he should move in.”
“Hey! Working on that house is hands-on experience for me. It’s not very often architects get to work freely on a Victorian,” Roy nudged Ben with his shoulder, having to lean down six inches. The sight made Y/N snort. 
“I’m just going to throw in the towel. Maybe I’ll get five cats and they can have the run of the place,” Y/N said thoughtfully. At least with cats, she wouldn’t have to worry about a roommate filling her old home with modern Ikea decor. 
“Oh, yeah, really solidify your granny status with that. Sexy,” Ben teased, head craning backwards to give her a cheeky grin. She stuck her tongue out at him, pointing beyond his nose to the sign in front of him reading Hattie’s Hybrids. 
“Okay! This is the first one, let’s all say a quick prayer to whoever’s listening… Oh, I’m so excited, Ben,” Roy was practically bouncing, the perfect picture of an excited father. Or, potentially soon-to-be father. 
Roy’s excitement was short-lived. Pulling on the door handle, Ben realized the shop was locked up. Cupping his hands and pressing his face into the window, he frowned. 
“The lights are on, but the place looks deserted! I swear, I checked the hours online and they’re supposed to be open,” Ben exclaimed, puzzled. 
“Right here, honey,” Roy sighed, tapping a taped-up sign on the window.
We do not have any hybrids at this time. Please check back in the upcoming weeks.
“What?” Ben’s voice pitched upwards, scanning the paper. “Great. The next shelter is three blocks away. I’m going to need a drink.”
“After we check out the next two shelters,” Y/N warned, knowing how rowdy Ben could get on a Friday night bar crawl. Ben shook his hand twice, yeah, yeah, before following Roy down the sidewalk to the next location. Feeling a touch of exasperation that Hattie’s Hybrids couldn’t save her from a whole night of traipsing around the city, she closely tailed her friends in search of the next place. 
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“Fuck! I needed that,” Ben slammed his shot glass down on the crumbling wooden bar, holding up his finger to the bartender to leave the bottle of tequila behind. 
The next two shelters Roy had found were similarly locked up and deserted, which caused Ben to fly into pissed-lawyer mode. 
“How do these people even make money? I can’t understand why there doesn’t seem to be a single shelter in the city of Boston with hybrids. Where are they all?” He continued, pouring himself another shot. Roy looked discouraged, nursing a Budweiser and rubbing slow circles along Ben’s lower back. 
Y/N was similarly distressed. It was getting late, she had been in surgery most of the day, and all she wanted was to crawl into her bed. Instead, she found herself slumping around the humid city, already buzzed off of a stiff gin martini, like she was in grad school again. Mostly, she felt bad for her friends – all they wanted was to have a family together. Swirling an olive around in her glass, she hummed. 
“So I take it, we're off to the ‘seedy’ place,” Y/N encouraged, taking the last sip of her martini. They had ended up in a bar in Downtown Crossing anyways, so at least she wouldn’t have to walk up the hill towards the State House again. Ben grunted.
“Please. If those three places were shut down, I doubt the last resort is harboring a miracle. We’ll go for shits and giggles, the hot dog cart is by there anyways. I’ll have to do more research before we find our little one, Roy…” Ben trailed off sadly, downing his third shot with a shake of the head. 
“It’s alright, honey, we’ll do it together,” Roy affirmed, a sweet smile spreading across his face. Y/N felt her martini rise in her throat at the purity of it all. 
Slapping down a fistfull of cash, Ben rose from his stool, rolling his shoulders back. 
“Come on, granny, last stop before you can race back to the Haunted Mansion,” Ben helped Y/N up from her seat, leading her to the exit. 
The last shelter was less than a block away from the bar. Ben swore when the hot dog cart seemed to have shut down for the day. Roy was busy gaping at the flickering lightbulb outside of the last shelter, which had a chipping sign that simply read HYBRIDS. The door was propped open with a wooden block, the lights were on, and there was a man hunched over a cellphone at the front of a store. 
“Holy–” Roy clamped a hand over Ben’s mouth, probably trying to save him from a bad first impression. Y/N was just as floored as her friend, staring dumbly at the shabby storefront, barely registering Roy pushing Ben into the shelter. Scrambling after them, Y/N entered the building. 
The place was entirely gray. The walls, the tin desk with an ancient register, the old guidebooks lining dusty shelves, all radiated a depressing emotion. Even the man behind the desk, still watching a noisy pre-season Patriots game, had dull gray hair and a sagging complexion. Stifling a smirk at how out of place ritzy Ben looked, Y/N pressed a hand over her mouth as she sifted through a rack of hybrid-specific clothes that were about as old as she was. Roy cleared his throat, standing before the desk, Ben uncharacteristically silent as the man grumbled with annoyance, peering up at the three of them. 
Setting his phone down, the man stood arthritically before painting on a customer-service smile. 
“And how can I help youse today?” Y/N nearly snickered at the man’s Quincey accent, alcohol making her a little giddy, until she realized this man just might be the saving grace of her Friday night. “We’re havin’ a sale on them jeans over there,” the man pointed to the rack Y/N had steadied herself on.
“Uh, okay, good to know. Actually, we’re here to potentially adopt, if you have any hybrids available, that is,” Roy took the lead, Ben’s eyes glazed over as he stared at a cobweb on the ceiling. The man made a noise of understanding in the back of his throat, grabbing a key ring from the desk drawer. 
“Got just one, follow me,” the man motioned to them with a finger, unlocking the door at the back of the shop behind a shelf of books. Roy looked a bit disheartened, the chances of the lone hybrid at the shelter being a child slim to none. The trio stepped through the threshold anyways, the back room filled with what could only be compared to empty jail cells sans doors, the scent of cleaning products heavy in the air. Y/N was shocked by Ben’s continued silence, analyzing his stony expression as they reached the back of the room. There was a slim hallway to Y/N’s right, dimly lit, but they did not go down that way.
“Got this one in about two hours ago. She’s the smallest of her siblings, apparently… too hyper for them fancy shelter’s customers, or so’s I’ve been told by the person who dropped her ‘ere. Name’s Daisy, up-to-date on her doctor’s visits, guaranteed,” the shopkeeper rattled off, scratching the back of his head. He stepped to the side, allowing Ben and Roy to peer into the chamber Daisy was in. 
Sat on the little bed in the corner, engrossed in a colorful picture book, was a little girl about four years old. She had beautiful white blonde hair, long white lop ears sprouting from her crown, and was wearing a sundress with strawberries on it. She looked very well taken care of, a teddy bear clamped under her arm and hair neatly brushed. One of her ears twitched at the sound of the man’s voice, large chocolate eyes darting upwards. A tiny, toothy grin stretched across her precious face as she jumped up from the bed, book clattering to the floor. 
“Oh my gosh!” Ben gasped delightedly, the little bunny hybrid gathering a fistfull of his pant leg. Y/N was flabbergasted at the sight of such an angelic little girl in such a drab, depressing place. How in the hell did nobody adopt her?
“Hi! Hi, you’re here! They’re loud…” Daisy practically vibrated with energy, shaking the material of Ben’s pant leg excitedly. Her eyes darted down the narrow hallway Y/N had spotted moments before, one of Daisy’s ears lifting in that direction. 
“She’s beautiful! I can’t believe it – we were looking for a child just like her! Ben, what do you think?” Roy was so happy, his face was entirely pink as he bent down to say hello. The hybrid seemed to not have an ounce of shyness in her body, thrusting her teddy bear into Roy’s hand and telling him the bear’s name. 
“I think that this place was harboring a miracle after all,” Ben said in a disbelieving tone, simply glowing at Roy and Daisy’s interactions. She was chattering on about her morning, what she wanted to eat for dinner, and her new book. 
“I don’ think she’ll be here for very long,” the shopkeeper called from next to Y/N. He looked like he was aching to get back to his Patriots game. “If you wanna adopt, I suggest you do it tonight.”
“What breed is she? How old, and how much, and where do we sign?” Ben asked rapidly, blushing furiously as Roy picked Daisy up when she stretched her arms out to be held. Y/N could hardly believe the events unfolding in front of her; she knew that the couple was prepared to adopt that very night, but she was sure they wouldn’t be able to find what they were looking for right away. Suddenly, she felt like she was intruding on a private moment, no matter how close she was to Ben and Roy. 
“Uh…” the man pulled his eyebrows together, checking a clipboard velcroed to the wall. “She just turned four. Lionhead rabbit, the fancy Latin name ‘ere too if you want it. Adoption fee for her…” looking thoughtfully at Ben’s Gucci loafers, the man smirked. Y/N turned away, feeling ill from her martini, stalking off slightly down the mysterious hallway. “... $2,500. I’ll print up them papers in the office.”
Slinking down the short hallway, Y/N took a deep breath. Daisy was like a gift from some cosmic entity, and it almost seemed too good to be true. She felt warmth spread through her chest as she thought about the spare room in Ben’s townhouse, already decked to the nines with children’s toys and furniture. Daisy would want for nothing, and it was as if Ben and Roy had already fallen in love with her. Dragging her fingertips along the cinder block walls, she made a surprised sound at the heavy metal door a few feet away from her. Further down the hall, there was a normal wooden door left ajar, an office, from the looks of it. Humming, she turned her attention to the safe-like door, a big red sign nailed to the left of it. The sign read: Exotics and Aggressives - Do Not Enter. 
Now that sign certainly caught her attention – all she had to read was Exotics before a happy sensation flooded through her. Giddy, she began to rise on her tiptoes to peek through the small square window of the door, when she heard a throat clear behind her. Startled, she whipped around, guilt painting her features as the shopkeeper eyed her suspiciously. 
“I wouldn’ get too close to them, if I were you, young lady,” the man said, hands on his hips. “They’ll take off your arm in a second.”
Arching an eyebrow, Y/N’s curiosity was piqued even more with this statement. The man sighed, pointing at the window. 
“Go ahead, take a look. They’re all vicious, the jaguar bastard bit me yesterday,” he muttered, tenderly rubbing a bandage on his left forearm. Staring at the man, as if to decipher if he was egging her on or not, Y/N turned back to the window, finally peering in. 
The room was large, but all divided by iron bars, like giant cages they would keep big animals in at the clinic. At first, she had to squint to see anything other than iron, but then she let out a startled gasp as her eyes focused. 
She counted four hybrids, fully shifted into their animal forms. First, her sight landed on a gorgeous, albeit underweight, leopard, laying on its side, asleep. In the cell next to it was what appeared to be a coyote, turned away from the door and shaking like a leaf in the corner. 
“My God,” Y/N whispered, taking in the third animal, a black jaguar, most likely the one that had bitten the shopkeeper. It was asleep, breathing labored, as blood oozed from a jagged cut on his side. 
Anger welled up inside of her, beginning to turn to the shopkeeper in wrath, before her breath was cut off by the sight of the final animal she could see: the biggest Northwestern wolf she had ever seen, and it was staring right back at her. Undoubtedly a male, the wolf’s amber eyes bored into hers, ears swiveling forward in alert and teeth baring immediately. The creature’s expression sent shivers down her spine, even as he was laying down in his cell separated by the heavy door Y/N was pressed against. Unable to tear her gaze away from the wolf, she forgot all about her bed calling her name, about Ben and Roy, and about Daisy. 
“Who are they?” Y/N asked, eventually breaking eye contact with the wolf. Looking at the shopkeeper, who had pulled out his phone to check on the Patriots, didn’t even spare the door a glance. 
“Bunch o’ bastards. We get the unadopted hybrids that are found wandering the streets, the ones that are rejected by other shelters, sometimes from circuses or zoos if they stop doin’ what they’re supposed to,” he replied, sounding bored. He began to walk away, heading towards the office, when Y/N pulled herself away from the door to urgently grab his wrist. 
“Wait! I– oh,” she let go of his wrist, blushing in embarrassment. “What’s going to happen to them?” Y/N asked, fearing the worst. The man scoffed, beginning to get annoyed with her questions. 
“Listen, lady, I’ve got a guy from Manhattan coming in tomorrow morning to pick up them animals. He’s offering seven G’s for all seven of em’... for hunting or something, I don’ really care what for. It’s payday tomorrow. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to send that rabbit on her way with your buddies so I can finish the game in peace,” with that, the man stalked to the office, muttering something about “women”, the sound of a stuttering printer filling the hallway. 
Affronted, Y/N felt her heart begin to race, thinking about the beautiful leopard being hunted down, and the chances of the injured jaguar living past tomorrow evening. Feeling more ill than ever, the disgust for the world she lived in infiltrated every cell of her body. She peeked back into the room once more, immediately searching for the other three animals, but could not strain her eyesight into the far hidden corners of the room. A pained wheeze came from the jaguar, tail limply beating the floor. She looked at the wolf again, but to her surprise, he had turned around from her view and curled himself into a ball. Her heart sank, palms sliding down the door. If she didn’t feel powerless to help animals before, she certainly did at that moment. 
“Y/N? Where did you go?” Roy inquired, voice raised. She blinked rapidly, ears picking up Daisy’s childish giggle, and huffed sadly for the seven hybrids behind the locked door. While her heart was breaking for them, she wouldn’t allow herself to dampen her friend’s spirits on such a wonderful night for the two of them. 
She stiffened as the shopkeeper brushed past her, a packet in hand, grumbling in her direction. Curling her lip up in a snarl of disgust, she begrudgingly followed him, glancing at the metal door once more. 
“The papers. Let’s sign em’ up front, come on, now,” the shopkeeper grunted, stepping into the light of the main hybrid holding room. Roy still had Daisy on his hip, his face confused as it landed on Y/N. She brightened up in the best way that she could, smiling sweetly at Daisy, who had begun to sleepily nod her head against Roy’s shoulder. Ben held her teddy bear and picture book, pacing around the space she was in as if to check for any other of her belongings. 
“Sorry, guys! I had to run to the bathroom in the back,” Y/N lied, watching the shopkeeper carefully to see if he would rat her out. He rolled his eyes disinterestedly, already making his way to the storefront. Roy easily bought the lie, trusting and easygoing, face dissolving into understanding. She felt rotten about the deception, but she would feel even worse if she robbed her friends of the happy glow around them with the news of the exotic hybrids only feet away. 
Ben straightened up from where he was crouched over by the bed Daisy had been sitting on, face a touch melancholy. 
“Honey, is this all that you brought with you?” Ben asked Daisy, brushing a strand of hair away from her cherubic face. She cracked an eye open, peering at Ben’s outstretched hands holding her teddy bear and book. Nodding twice, she buried her face into Roy’s neck, sleep threatening to pull her under. Ben tutted, a look of adoration on his face. 
“I think she likes you, Roy,” Ben whispered with glee. “Let’s go sign the papers and get her home,” Ben took Roy’s free hand, flashing a brilliant smile towards Y/N, face clear of all stress from earlier. She trailed after the new family, no longer filled with exhaustion from her eventful day, but instead was consumed with cyclical thoughts. 
She felt dazed as she watched Ben smoothly sign his name on the papers, eagerly pushing them towards Roy once he finished, nearly tossing the packet off of the tin desk. The shopkeeper went back to his game on his phone, yawning, as Ben excitedly joined Y/N at the front of the store. 
“Can you believe it? Y/N, what are the chances?” Ben gushed, fingers fumbling along the bookshelf stocked with the hybrid guidebooks. Digits dancing along the spines, he carefully selected one while scratching his close-cut beard thoughtfully. The book was specific to hybrid children. 
“I can’t believe it. I also can’t believe it’s this easy to adopt – I mean, there’s no interview? Or background check?” With this statement, Ben turned to look at her curiously.
“Well, I know that the other shelters have at least one quick interview, but I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth,” Ben said slowly, sensing something off about Y/N’s countenance. “Besides, look at this place. Sadly, I don’t think Belichick over there is very concerned with who walks out of here with a hybrid. What’s up? Why do you look so upset?” 
Y/N shook her head, spotting a rabbit hybrid booklet and pulling it off the shelf for Ben. Her fingers paused, noticing a thicker book for wolf hybrids a couple of spines over. She snapped out of it, sensing Ben’s probing gaze, and handed him the booklet with a grin. 
“I’m not upset, that martini just made me feel a little sick. I think today has just been a little crazy,” Y/N explained. Ben softened at her response and her offering of the booklet, pulling her into his side tightly. 
“I haven’t thanked you yet for coming along with us today. It means more than you know, having you be here for this,” Ben confessed, squeezing her once. 
“Always,” Y/N replied, tears threatening to fall for the second time that day. He let her go, lifting the books in the air, heading to the register to pay the final fee before they could leave with Daisy. 
“That’ll be $3,000 even – with the tax an’ the books,” The shopkeeper punched numbers into the noisy cash register, cursing as the sport’s broadcaster announced a foul from his phone. Ben handed him his thick black credit card easily, and with the flimsy bag for the books in hand and credit card securely back in his wallet, the four left the dreary shelter without any complications. 
Unlike when Y/N left the clinic earlier in the evening, exiting the shelter and breathing in the nighttime air offered no relief to her current anxiety. Roy was busy ordering a cab for their ride back to their townhouse, carefully shifting the sleeping bunny hybrid on his hip. Ben was busy blathering on about what he should whip up for Daisy’s dinner, or if he should call in some takeout. Y/N tried to steady her breathing, checking her slim wristwatch for the time. It was only 9 PM, but it felt like midnight. She considered leaving her car in the spot seven blocks away in favor of jumping on the Red Line, but wasn’t thrilled about a ticket likely being tucked under her windshield wiper come morning. 
“Guys, I’m gonna get going. My car’s a little ways away, so I should start walking now,” Y/N piped up through Ben’s cooing at sleeping Daisy, both men turning to face her. 
“Do you want me to walk you to your car? I can order another cab for myself after,” Ben offered, ever protective and concerned for her walking alone at night. She shook her head lightly, reaching out to stroke the back of Daisy’s head. She was irresistible and her hair was impossibly soft, and Daisy leaned into the touch even in her sleep. 
“No, no, don’t worry about me. I have a taser and a knife. And my clogs are heavier than they look, for kicking some nuts. You guys should get home as soon as you can, settle her in,” Y/N said slowly, trying her best not to wake the child. Ben looked like he wanted to protest, but was cut off by the pulling up of the cab Roy ordered. Y/N pushed him towards the passenger side door, eager to spend some time thinking on the walk to her car. 
“I’ll call you in the morning to check in, and I’ll even come and stop by tomorrow if you want, and ask my dad to schedule a check-up for Daisy,” Y/N offered, opening the doors for both of them. Roy gave her a swift kiss on the cheek, mouthing a thank you sincerely, carefully maneuvering his way into the backseat. 
“Thank you, Y/N. Text me when you get home,” Ben hugged her once more, folding himself into the passenger seat and closing the door softly. Y/N waved as the cab drove away, waiting until it turned the corner before sparing another glance at the shelter behind her. Brushing a sticky piece of hair from her forehead, humidity pressing down on her, she set off down the street to her car. 
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It was close to four in the morning, and Y/N was putting away gin seltzers like it was her new job. Sweat rolled down the back of her neck, the air conditioning units she ordered not to be installed until Monday morning, as she bent on all fours scraping a hideous high-gloss varnish off of the landing on the grand staircase. Sleep evaded her after she arrived home from the shelter, even after a cooling shower and a bite to eat. Instead of tossing and turning in her bed, she decided to get thoroughly drunk, get a chunk of housework done, and pass out watching Ghost Adventures reruns on the couch in the parlor room. 
Wiping sweat from her brow, Y/N leaned back on her knees and let the grip and pull scraper clatter to the floor. She had a metal playlist on, numbing her thoughts, pulsing through her little wireless speaker as she worked. The Tiffany lighting fixtures in the foyer were dim and flickering– they’d have to be replaced soon— making her eyes strain in effort as she fumbled for her drink. Greedily, she gulped down the last few swigs of the botanical liquor from the condensation-coated glass, bobbing her head at the sound of Corey Taylor’s passionate vocals. Metal was one of her favorite genres, the heaviness and noise of it clearing out all intrusive thoughts; and it just sounded so damn good. Feeling too tipsy to continue scraping varnish, she assessed her work. She had gotten half of the staircase stripped, muttering curses about her grandfather’s foolish decision to defile beautiful oak planks with period-inappropriate glossy varnish the whole time she worked. 
Y/N, with the help of her mother and Roy, had made significant progress restoring the mansion for the past two years, but there was still much work to be done. The kitchen and the bedrooms were her first priority, especially when she thought she’d have roommates moving in. Roy had painstakingly gutted and designed a new kitchen for the home, one that would flow well with the old-world charm of the place but with modern comforts. Y/N had fond memories of tossing Budweisers back and forth to him last spring as they peeled lemon yellow wallpaper down from the crumbling 50’s style kitchen. 
The bedrooms weren’t too difficult to restore; some had water damaged ceilings, others had horrifying The Conjuring-esque wallpaper, and a couple were stuffed to the windows with old junk her grandmother collected at antique shops around New England. Grandmother’s antique collection was good for one thing— free furnishings for the home. Her mother even helped her crack open the basement door, leading to a pretty grim, unfinished and wasted space, totally transforming it into another whole bedroom and rec room for art projects or exercising. 
Y/N’s paycheck pretty much went entirely into the home, an amount set aside for food and essentials, but every penny she put into making the home beautiful again was worth it. The bedrooms were stately and comfortable, the kitchen spacious with marble floors and sleek appliances, and most of the unused items her grandmother had held onto that were broken or just plain ugly had been donated. She still had her work cut out for her with the rest of the home and the grounds, but all of the work she had accomplished had turned out beautifully. 
Wobbly, she stood, grasping the railing of the staircase gingerly (considering if she applied pressure, the whole thing might clatter to the floor), empty glass in her free hand and speaker tucked under an armpit. A Deftones song began to play, making her giggle in delight, descending the steps slowly to avoid scuffing her hours of work. It was a challenge, considering the low lighting. 
Traipsing through the hallway past the parlor and dining room, she reached the kitchen, lit up beautifully with brand-new stained glass fixtures. Roy’s work took her breath away every time she enjoyed a cup of coffee in the refurbished breakfast nook, and even tipsy she had to pause and admire the space. Setting the speaker down on the island, Y/N yanked the fridge open for more seltzer and gin, swaying her body to the gnashing guitar. She swore that this would be her last drink, collapsing heavily on a barstool at the island, mixing her drink sloppily and taking a hearty gulp. Cutting through the music, the grandfather clock in the hallway clanged noisily, scaring the wits out of her. Suddenly, she was aware how alone she was on a Friday night, drinking at four in the morning and tip-toeing around the house like there was a ghost about to pop out of the dining room.
Glancing around, she began to feel unease, noticing all of the space around her and how empty it truly was. It was a shame, really, that a large family wasn’t taking up the ample space, but she had always planned on either having one herself or substituting family for roommates. At times, when she was by herself in the home, she felt lonelier and more on edge than ever. It’s not that she was exactly afraid of ghosts, but it was an old home and she had watched many horror movies that involved a single woman in a creepy house.
Staring deeply into her glass, her mind went to the place she prayed it wouldn’t – to the seven hybrids left at the shelter. A sharp pang of sadness shot through her like a bolt of lightning, the glass loosening in her grip as she straightened up in her seat, music suddenly making her head pound uncomfortably. Slapping the off button on the speaker aggressively, she groaned loudly, the sound echoing throughout the hollow halls of the house. Fisting her hands through her hair, Y/N squeezed her eyes shut. 
Come morning, when she would peel herself out of bed and cradle an AlkaSeltzer to her chest in the bathtub, those seven hybrids would likely be loaded into some kind of horse trailer to their imminent doom. Chased, hunted, humiliated and killed, all for sick enjoyment. She felt booze crawl up her throat, foolishly washing it down with another sip of the same poison. Perhaps a few of them would get away, but perhaps not. And the ones who didn’t, maybe the injured jaguar or the malnourished leopard, what would become of them after their deaths? Would they be left in the woods, would they be stripped of their coats? Blood rushed to her face, heating up her entire body with the beginnings of a panic attack. 
“Fuck! What the hell is wrong with me?” Y/N exclaimed, standing suddenly. She began to pace around the kitchen, calming herself in the best way she could for her panic. The thought of the hybrids dying became unbearable, even if she hadn’t even seen the other three that were tucked in the corners of that dark back room. Practically tearing her hair out, she stared out the glass door to the backyard patio, full moon illuminating the foliage. Without thinking, she tossed on her light denim jacket she’d left hanging on an old hatstand, and hurried out into the backyard. 
Crickets chirped as she sucked a deep breath in of cool nighttime air, collapsing on one of the lounge chairs near the door. Counting her breaths as she focused on the hazy stars in the sky, gentle wind rustled the willows beyond the pavingstones of the patio. Familiarly, her fingers dove into the pocket of her jacket, finding the lighter and carton of menthols her cousin had smuggled to her from Rhode Island. It wasn’t a healthy habit, but Y/N had carried on the drunk distress cigarette tradition she had picked up with her friends in college whenever she felt the urge. It was a small rebellion. 
Flicking the lighter, cigarette balanced between her lips, she took a cathartic drag, closing her eyes as she exhaled. She felt a calming, minty sensation blanket her immediately, the sounds of nature refocusing her thoughts. Smoke curled and danced in the air, and she tried to make out shapes in the forms. Humming, she craned her neck backwards, taking in the imposing height of her house, and froze with the cigarette dangerously hanging from her mouth.
The mansion had 10 bedrooms. It had a small guesthouse that needed some work, a library room, numerous nooks and plenty of bathrooms. Vast grounds with trails, gardens, and water. A kitchen for a family on TLC reality show, multiple lounge rooms, two towers, even. Y/N had plenty of space, plenty of loneliness, and money.
An idea so crazy enough for her to flinch to a stand, knocking the cushion off of the lounge chair, struck her like a freight train. She could adopt all seven of the hybrids. Laughing, a sound that was akin to Gollum from the absurdity of the thought, she stuck the cigarette into the ancient outdoor ashtray. If she was a touch more sober and sane, she’d take a couple Benadryl and sleep her fantastical thoughts away. 
Marching out to the yard, she took a better look at the house in the moonlight. Only her bedroom, the kitchen, and the foyer she was working in less than a half hour ago was illuminated. Y/N imagined the whole house lit merrily, string lights on the patio twinkling with use and the picnic tables set for a beautiful summer cookout. The image in her mind almost tore a sob through her chest, because that was what the house was always for; for family and celebration of life. 
Ben had always teased Y/N for lacking the logical mind of someone who was a medical professional. Y/N had always chalked it up to her hippie mother and her fantastical side of the family, straight out of Practical Magic. If Ben was there at that moment, he probably would have forced her into the shower with her clothes on to sober up. 
Sober or not, Y/N figured that she would have dreamed up this solution in a cold-sweat that night in bed. As soon as she had the thought of having people to come home to, the house warm with life, her mind was made up. Besides, she couldn’t let them suffer so terribly at the hands of some hedge fund manager’s trigger happy son, it went against her very oath she swore to help creatures of any kind. Hurriedly, she made her way back into the house, switching on her coffee maker, and made a beeline for her bathroom to freshen up.
Y/N was still chuckling to herself, bumbling down the hallway to the master bedroom in a gleeful manner. She’d already come up with a plan to undermine the Manhattan man’s plans to take the hybrids away, and it was so delicious, she could hardly believe she came up with it four gin seltzers in. 
Her bathroom was still outfitted with fixtures from her grandparent’s heyday, the bathtub, toilet, and sink all an off-putting swamp green, but even that couldn’t dampen her spirits. Scrubbing her teeth violently, she used her other hand to shimmy out of her “restoration sweatpants”, nearly toppling over in the effort. After splashing cold water on her face and spritzing some body spray from her head to toe, Y/N raced into her bedroom, rummaging through her dresser for a pair of linen pants and a clean tee shirt, throwing everything on and checking the time on her illuminated alarm clock. It was now almost five, and she would need to leave as quickly as possible to get to the shelter as soon as it opened. 
She guessed that dealing in cash would be more tempting to the greedy shopkeeper, and she was prepared to hand over a significant sum. Her grandfather kept a three-foot tall safe in the master closet for his coin collection, and it was there that Y/N kept cash for everything from buying period appropriate curtains at some Jamaica Plain estate sale to unlikely hostage situations. Turning the lock combo with urgency, she cracked the safe open, grabbing a stack of bills from the top shelf, and slammed it shut. She tucked the band of bills into her tote bag, dangling from the post of her bed, and left the bedroom swiftly. 
Returning to the kitchen, Y/N filled the largest to-go coffee cup she had with the piping hot coffee she had brewed, burning her throat by finishing what was left in the carafe. Thankfully, the drinks she had consumed were spaced out enough so she wasn’t drunk, just tipsy, something she could get rid of quickly with the coffee and adrenaline she had running through her veins. Besides, she had about two hours to completely sober up and find her way to the shelter. She pulled up the app to order a cab to the shelter, not irresponsible enough to drive in her condition, and turned off all the lights in the kitchen on her way out. 
Stepping out the front door, Y/N locked the heavy deadbolt and ran down the steps of the porch, latching the gate at the front of the property when she reached it. The sky was still dark, but a little greyer with the slowly rising sun, and the mansion looked dreary and deserted. Smiling wistfully, she supposed this would be the last time she would see it look so sad. 
Y/N waited on the curb for her cab, sucking down scalding coffee with her tote bag on her lap. She felt like she was carrying a Fabergé egg, the stack of $100’s laying heavily in her lap through the canvas bag. A little voice in her head told her she was absolutely nuts for what she was about to go through with, but she ignored it entirely. 
What she had wanted all along was to have some kinship; especially with her friend’s lives going off in different directions. She knew that Ben and Roy would always be with her, but with the adoption of Daisy, they would have their hands full settling her in and raising her as a family. Laura was busy with her own young family, and Alice had her cat and full-time job at the newspaper. Everyone seemed to have something they could go home to, and Y/N wanted that, too. Additionally, without her job, she had ample time to care for the hybrids, to fill the hours with friendship rather than longing. She was not oblivious to the challenges that would come with the adoptions, considering the shopkeeper had mentioned the hybrids weren’t exactly friendly, but Y/N was prepared to handle all of the hiccups in order to give them a safe home. 
The cab she ordered rolled down her sleepy street, headlights cutting through the oppressive humidity. Jumping up from her perch on the curb, she jogged to the passenger’s side and crawled into the car. Buckling in as the young man pulled away from the end of her driveway, she took another swig of her coffee and felt the remaining alcohol haze slip from her body like a spirit. Y/N’s heart was racing, the whirlwind of events and lack of sleep making her feel like a floating head. Even so, she knew that her mind was made up, despite the fact that she hadn’t even met the hybrids yet. Thankfully, the young man driving her to the shelter only exchanged a “good morning” with her before following his navigation into the city, leaving her to eagerly go over her “plan”.
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The cab dropped Y/N off right in front of the shelter, which was to open any moment. She bounced on her heels, scanning the sidewalks for anyone dressed in a suit or hunting gear waiting nearby. The shopkeeper hadn’t mentioned what time exactly the Manhattan man was to pick up the hybrids, however, Y/N wanted to beat him to the punch as soon as the shop opened. Sneaking a peek into the window, she noticed the same man from the night before counting the register serenely. Before she could stop herself, she began to knock on the glass, making the man jump a foot into the air in surprise. Registering Y/N’s face with great surprise (and annoyance), he ambled to the door and turned the lock. 
“Now, why’re you here? Tell your buddies I don’t do refunds,” he threatened, looking Y/N up and down. She imagined her appearance, purplish dark circles from her all-nighter, holey Black Sabbath tee, and hair wild with frizz. Likely, she looked like an undergrad student the night before a final exam. Y/N pulled the door open determinedly. 
“I want to adopt those hybrids in that back room,” Y/N blurted out, the shopkeeper’s mouth hanging open in shock. 
“What? Lady, are you insane?” The man sputtered, hobbling after Y/N as she marched to the door leading to the back. 
“All seven of them. I’m prepared to adopt them all, now,” Y/N confirmed, arms crossed as she waited for him to unlock the back door. The man looked angered, hands on hips. 
“So, you are nuts. Didn’ I tell you I got that guy from Manhattan picking them up today? He’ll be here in an hour or so,” The man made no motion to open the door, leaning against the register and wiping limp gray hair from his eyes. 
Frustrated that she was not being taken seriously, Y/N reached into her bag, slamming the band of bills on the counter. The shopkeeper swore colorfully, flinching away from the large stack before grasping for it. 
“That’s $70,000, count it. I’d like to adopt those hybrids. All of them,” Y/N enunciated. Her plan had unfolded; making a counter offer to the Manhattan man, way too tempting to refuse. 
“Holy shit. I don’t care if you’re crazy, lady, you’ve got ‘em,” the man wheezed, already leafing through the stack of money greedily. “Never liked pricks from New York anyways,” he mumbled, a greasy smile spreading across his face. 
Tucking the bills in his back pocket, Y/N stepped aside impatiently as he unlocked the back door and led her to the slim hallway. The room was unchanged from just a few hours ago, the scent of Clorox even stronger. She was relieved that the shopkeeper had taken the money – there was no backing out now, and there was no chance of the hybrids being shipped away to their doom. 
“So, how do you wanna do this?” The shopkeeper asked, the two of them standing before the metal door to the hybrids. Freezing, Y/N stood still like a statue; she hadn’t thought that far. How would she get the hybrids home without a bus of some kind? What if they didn’t want to come with her, or didn’t like her? She didn’t even know their names, ages, or gender. Feeling a little silly, she hoped that her generous payment for the hybrids would butter up the shopkeeper enough to help her out with logistics.
Normally, people prepare for an adoption of a hybrid; including reading up on their habits and behaviors, buying a suitable wardrobe, and making sure the pantry is filled with foods for them to enjoy. Y/N had gone off half-cocked, and all she could offer the hybrids was shelter and their pick of a bedroom, for now. Their personalities might clash, they might reject her completely, and it would be hard for the hybrids to trust her right off the cuff. Not to mention, the hybrids were completely shifted to their animal form, and it was unlikely they even had a single set of clothes with them. Unlike Daisy, Y/N didn’t think they’d have books or pretty sandals that they’d be ready to walk out the door with. The thought formed a pit in her stomach, but she couldn’t be too upset with herself. The opportunity came as quickly as a summer storm, and she would not have been able to prepare for seven whole individuals in seven days — let alone in 12 hours.
“I suppose I should meet them first,” Y/N offered, wringing her hands. The light was off in the room, so she wasn’t able to see through the window on the door. “As for transportation, I’m not quite sure…” she trailed off, trying her best to look in need of assistance.
“You’ll probably have to make a couple of trips. Some of ‘em don’t get along, so start with the ones that don’t gnash their teeth at you. I got a buddy with a van I can give a call,” perfectly pleasant now, the man even gave her a toothy smile, using his comically large key ring to unlatch the deadbolt of the door. “My name’s Gerry, by the way.”
Putting a hand up to stop Gerry for a moment, she looked at him sternly. 
“Why is the jaguar injured?” She demanded, giving his bandaged wound a pointed look. Gerry followed her gaze, scoffing. 
“That wasn’t me, swear. Damaged goods aren’t good for business. He was dumped ‘ere that way,” Gerry replied, pushing on the door. Y/N was appalled, about to ask for more information, but Gerry had already begun to push the door open.
 The door gave a deafening groan, which was followed by a series of feline hisses and deep grunts of an animal Y/N couldn’t place. Squaring her shoulders, Y/N followed Gerry into the room, his fingers fumbling for the lightswitch and flooding the room with fluorescence. Her eyes adjusted for a split second, blinking rapidly as they darted around the room.
The hybrids were still shifted. She caught sight of the jaguar, first, side still injured and lying in the same position he was when Y/N spotted him the night before. The coyote was curled up on its cot, blearily eyeing her and the shopkeeper, and the underweight leopard in the cell next to it was sitting closely to the bars separating them all, staring right at Y/N. 
Standing a bit taller, she turned to get a look at the left hand corner cell she couldn’t see, trying not to look intimidated by the sight of a very large elk. The elk grunted loudly with the eye contact they made, the sound she could not place moments ago identified. Nodding thoughtfully, Y/N swallowed, stepping closer to the right side of the room, where she curiously sought out the remaining three hybrids – the two unidentified, and the wolf.
Her eyes registered the vibrant orange coat of a red fox, head inquisitively cocked at the sudden intrusion of the room. It jumped down from its cot, sticking its twitching nose through the metal bars. She had always loved foxes, and practically squealed upon seeing the perceived friendly action. Gerry backed up slightly, once blocking the furthermost cell on the right, pale in the face. 
“That one… you might need a bus, if he doesn’t shift,” he said weakly, inching towards the hallway. Y/N tore her eyes away from the fox to see what he was referring to, and gasped softly. 
“Oh!” She exclaimed, coming face-to-face with the largest bear she had ever seen in person. He must have been at least 10 feet tall if he was standing on his hind legs, and would make even the most experienced animal caretaker wary. Recovering quickly, she wondered what kind of bear he was, far too big to be a grizzly, and was embarrassed that she didn’t know right away. 
“So, they’re all yours. I’ll get them papers ready and call Murphy about the van. We’ll work out who’s going with you and when I come back with the goods. Clipboard with information is on the wall next to the bear,” the Gerry called, already inching out to the hallway. He looked anxious to get the hell out of dodge, to the recesses of the office. Stunned, she watched him leave, various sounds of confused animals making her feel overwhelmed all at once. Y/N closed her eyes briefly, composing herself as best she could, before turning to the center of the room. Feeling eyes boring into her skull, she looked for the source, but somehow knew who it was already. 
The wolf, standing in a defensive position, eyed Y/N with an intensity that made her feel like her skin would melt off. It made her want to shiver, but she knew that she had to maintain a cool head in order to establish a trusting relationship with the hybrids. Not exactly sure what to do, especially because all of the hybrids were shifted, she cleared her throat, wincing at the sound cutting through the room. 
“Uh, hello. I’m Y/N,” she began, her voice a tad scratchy from her hot coffee earlier. “This is probably pretty strange to you all, considering we haven’t met before. I was here last night? My friends adopted a child here, and I happened to take a peek through the window.”
Scanning the room, most of the animals were watching her carefully. The jaguar was still on his side, but his ear was flickering, so she knew that he was listening. She continued, slowly reaching for the clipboard as if not to startle the bear that was crammed into his tiny cell. 
Not noticing before, Y/N realized there was a little bathroom by the elk’s cell; she thought that the hybrids could shift and change before they left together. It would be much easier to get back to the house if they were in their human forms, as well as more comfortable, considering the size of each hybrid. They weren’t house cat hybrids– most of them were apex predators. 
“Well, Gerry told me last night that there was a man coming in from Manhattan to adopt you all,” pausing when she heard a loud rumble coming from the bear. She figured the hybrids were clued in with their fate, acute hearing most likely picking up most happenings at the shelter. “And I guess I just… Well, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. All night. One thing led to another and I found myself coming back here, so I want to apologize for lack of preparation on my part,” Y/N scratched the back of her head sheepishly, realizing she was rambling. Deciding to cut to the chase, she bit the bullet.
“I… I’m adopting you, all of you. Instead of the Manhattan man,” she announced, clutching the clipboard to her chest. A symphony of growls and noises of surprise filled the room, however, Y/N was not to be discouraged. The deed was done. 
“I just left my job last night. I was an exotics veterinarian, I worked on the other side of Boston. My home has plenty of space, so I have been looking for others to live with anyway. And, I know you don’t have any reason to trust me yet, but I promise I just want to give you all a home to be comfortable in,” Y/N summed up her best elevator pitch of herself and her plans.
The coyote had jumped down from its cot, getting closer to Y/N as it could behind the bars, its yellow eyes assessing her very closely. She heard low growls coming from the wolf. Perhaps it would take a few days of convincing to get him in particular to the manor. Her first priority was hopefully bringing the jaguar with her at the very least, so she could treat his injuries and prevent further harm and infection.
It came as no surprise that the hybrids were wary of her, considering the place they had landed in. There was no way for her to tell what kinds of tribulations they had all gone through. Every day, there were articles about some of the disgusting things that happened to stray hybrids; they were forced into unpaid labor, adopted by sexually abusive owners, bought to be hunted. Just as she had no knowledge of them, they had little to go off of her own character by the state of the world.
There was a folding chair against the wall near the door, so Y/N dragged it to the center of the room slowly, the sensation of being inspected from all angles making heat rise to her cheeks. Lowering herself onto the chair, she smoothed down the first page of the clipboard. 
“Okay…” she mumbled to herself, scanning the page. The sheet had pertinent data relating to species, heights, measurements and weights of both animal and human forms, as well as age, gender, and name. The first sheet was the leopard’s. 
“I want to get you all out of this place as quickly as I can, but I’ll keep coming back until you’re comfortable enough to leave with me… so, you’re Yoongi? 28, male,” Y/N tilted her head towards him, what sounded like a rumble of acknowledgement came from the hybrid. She flipped through the other 6 pages slowly. So they’re all male, Y/N thought, understanding why some of them didn’t get along. Finding the page she was looking for, the jaguar named Seokjin, she studied his stats. Y/N wasn’t leaving the shelter that morning without him. 
“Seokjin,” Y/N murmured, memorizing his measurements so she could buy at least one set of the decrepit clothes up front for him to change into when he shifted. Eyes flickering upwards, she noticed Seokjin had turned his head at the sound of his name, still laying on his side but finally looking at her. He was beautiful, but had an expression of sadness about him. 
“So, I was thinking, since you’re injured, it’s probably best if you come with me today. I can treat your injury, I have all of the supplies at home to mend that wound in a flash,” Y/N speculated, maintaining eye contact with Seokjin. The hybrid wheezed, which was better than growling at her, so she took it as either resignation or feeble consent. Maybe it was resignation, or the hybrid was in so much pain he couldn’t bear it any longer. 
“Hmm… so, I get the feeling that a few of you will need some time before you come with me, but I’d love to take a couple more of you with me today, yeah? Don’t worry – I’m signing the adoption papers for everyone today, so nobody else will come and take you God knows where. Anyone willing to take the leap and get out of here?” 
Y/N was met with silence, which made her want to crawl into a hole. Not ready to give up yet, she stood, making a slow circle around the room. She avoided the wolf, who was still regarding her with hostility, as well as the bear and elk that backed away from her as soon as she approached. She would not try to engage with the hybrids that wanted nothing to do with her yet, it would be counterproductive in earning their trust. Yoongi had slunk back to his cot as she passed by his space, disinterested. Y/N bit back a chuckle, sensing he would be a bit of a character when she got to know him. Not today, then. 
Circling back to the fox, who was still poking his face through the bars, Y/N grinned. 
“You don’t seem to hate me, huh?” Y/N wondered aloud, consulting the clipboard for his name. “Hoseok! How ‘bout it?” 
The fox blinked, pawing the ground. She registered the reaction as a green light to consider him one of the ones leaving with her today, making her feel utterly elated. 
“Alright! Any other takers for today?” Y/N inquired, starting to feel mirthful. A pitiful whine came from across the room from the coyote. She remembered his name from the sheet already, he was Jimin. 
“Jimin, right?” Y/N crossed the room at a glacial pace, smiling at the quivering hybrid so as not to frighten him further. He looked like he’d rather travel to Mordor than spend one more second in that shelter, so she made a mental note to bring him along that day as well. “Well, three out of seven for today is more than I was expecting, so that makes me happy,” Y/N breathed, a smile stretching across her face. Jimin’s ear fluttered, sitting shakily on his haunches in expectation. 
“Alrighty, I’ve got all of the certificates, ‘ere. Just need your signatures. Murphy’s on his way,” Gerry bustled into the room, holding a stack of paper and a fountain pen. Again, he made sure he stayed far from the cells, not sparing a single glance to the hybrids. Y/N felt acute dislike for the man, but needed to remain cordial so he would allow her to return for a couple days for the others. 
Walking away from Jimin, Y/N reached for the papers, adding them to the clipboard. Gerry watched her with mild interest as she sorted through the certificates, uncapping the pen. Aware of the hybrid’s stares more than ever, she signed her name carefully seven times, officially sealing the deal. The hybrids were safe, and she could breathe a little easier.
“I’d like to get some clothes from up front for them, for the ride back,” Y/N handed the pen back to Gerry, tucking the clipboard close to her side. Gerry nodded, scuttling out of the room, beckoning to follow. 
“I’ll be right back!” Y/N assured the seven pairs of eyes on her. 
Back at the front of the shop, she studied the measurements of the men, deciding to just pick up a set for all of them. She would take them all shopping for things of their own style when they settled in later that week, the thought of enjoying a day at the outdoor mall with seven new companions filling her with anticipation. 
The clothes were just as plain and dated as they were the previous night, and there was not much to pick from, but thankfully all of the sizes she needed were available. She selected various tee shirts in colors of cream, gray, and olive, as well as seven pairs of thin black sweatpants. Adding a pack of socks and underwear to her armful of apparel, she hummed, lamenting the quality. In little cubbies, there were even shoes that she could buy, so she had Gerry haul seven pairs to the front of the store. 
“Murphy’ll be here in ten minutes. He’s over in Chinatown. How many you takin’ today?” Gerry asked her, hanging up the phone he had been shouting on while Y/N was choosing clothes. 
“Three. I’ll be back tomorrow for the others. I might have to impose on Monday, as well,” Y/N explained, heading back to the hybrids. Gerry waved in acknowledgement, whistling and loading the boxes of shoes on a dolly to cart behind her.
Reentering the room with the stack of clothes, Y/N grunted as she piled everything on the folding chair. Seokjin had managed to roll over, head weakly lifted as he watched Y/N rip the pack of socks and underwear open. She squealed as the socks burst out of the plastic bag, catching her off guard, quickly apologizing as a startled growl came from the wolf on her right. He was definitely going to be a tough nut to crack. 
Divvying up the clothes according to who they were for, she neatly folded them into piles as quickly as she could, depositing each pile in front of the hybrid they were intended for, easily accessible through the wide iron bars. Gerry had wheeled the shoes to the mouth of the room, his key to the cell doors on the top box as per her request, but went no further inside the room himself. Y/N could still hear him whistling at the front of the store, to the tune of Money, Money, Money by ABBA. Muttering about his inconsideracy, Y/N placed the shoeboxes in front of their new owners as well. 
“So! I’m sorry you weren’t able to pick these yourselves, but we can go out next week or whenever you’d like to pick out clothes that are your taste. We could even order some clothes online if you’d prefer,” Y/N apologized, arms coming out to hug her midsection. She was starting to feel the fatigue of staying up for longer than 24 hours, and was running purely off of fumes at this point. 
“Seokjin, Hoseok, and Jimin, the ride home should be here any minute. I’ll wait for you up front, and let you change,” Y/N urged gently, sensing the eagerness to leave in both Jimin and Hoseok. She felt the need to say more to the other hybrids, a bit crushed that she’d have to leave them for some time.
“The rest of you guys, I’ll be back first thing in the morning like today. I’d love it if you’d all come with me tomorrow, but we’ll talk about it then,” she turned to the elk, Jeongguk, the clipboard informed her, and admired his beautiful antlers with a wistful smile. Keys in hand, she slowly approached Jimin’s cell, unlocking the door but keeping it closed, before doing the same to Hoseok’s and Seokjin’s. A large part of her wanted to unlock all of the doors, but she didn’t want to risk an altercation between the remaining hybrids when she left for home.
With that, she gave a little wave, and retreated back to the storefront. Her heart began to race, wondering what the hybrids looked like when they shifted, how their voices sounded, and what their personalities were like. She couldn’t wait to actually hold a two-sided conversation with them, feeling like she was talking to herself for the past half hour, and paced back and forth in front of the window as she waited for Murphy’s van to pull up. 
Tempted to add some guidebooks to her list of purchases, Y/N thought the better of it as she noticed the outdated materials. Her mother would be able to find what she was looking for at the library, that is, when Y/N told her about the hybrids. Blood draining from her face, she realized that nobody in her life even knew what she had just done. Grinding her teeth, a part of her basked in the feeling of having a secret just to herself, for now, even if it wouldn’t be for long. She wouldn’t even be able to put Ben off come evening. 
Deciding to cross that bridge when she got to it, she jumped a foot in the air as a car noisily honked outside. Checking the window, a rusted mint green VW Microbus was double parked in front of the shelter. A sandy haired older gentleman was waving at her, mouthing her name and pointing to the backseat. Frantically, she ran out the door, approaching the vehicle. 
“You’re Y/N?” The man confirmed, scanning her face expectantly.
“Yes, sir. Thank you for coming out like this,” Y/N leaned into the passenger window. “I’ve written my address down for the GPS, I’ll come back out with the others,” handing him a scrap of paper that came from the sock package, she tripped her way back into the building, bewildered. She almost fell over as she collided with another body, hands reaching out to steady her by her biceps. 
“Whoa, there,” an unfamiliar voice exclaimed, immediately releasing her upon her recovery of footing. Looking up, Y/N felt her cheeks flame as she registered the man’s face. 
The first thing she noticed were a pair of clever mocha colored eyes, widened in surprise. Second, of course, where the red fox ears were crowning glossy strands of mahogany hair, ears turned back flat against his head. His golden skin contrasted unfairly well with the olive tee shirt he had donned, and all at once Y/N felt overwhelmed and embarrassed. 
“Hoseok?” She breathed, face on fire. Of course he had to be good looking. Backing up a foot, resisting the urge to fan herself, she watched as a cheeky grin appeared on Hoseok’s face. Starting to say something, he was swiftly cut off by the sound of a dragging foot behind him, stepping to the side in alarm. Trying to shake off her astoundment, she pulled her eyebrows together, peering around Hoseok’s frame for the source of the sound. 
The two other hybrids inched towards the front door, the taller’s arm slung around the other’s shoulders for support. Gasping, Y/N moved forward to help, noticing blood seeping through the cream colored shirt Seokjin had put on. 
“Oh, Jesus, can I please help you out?” Y/N hesitated reaching out, not wanting to touch someone without permission. Seokjin’s head of wavy raven hair was bobbing, skin an ashen color, and she forgot all about her previous state of fluster. It must have taken a lot of effort for him to shift and change, his energy waned to nothing.
“I don’t think he can hear you, entirely, Miss,” a rugged voice piped up: Jimin. Balking at the title, Y/N glanced at him with concern. Overgrown blonde hair covered his eyes, a concentrated grimace across his lips. “Don’t worry, I’ve got him,” Jimin assured her, his hand firmly gripping Seokjin’s wrist over his shoulder. 
“O-Okay–” 
“I’ll help you get him in the back, let’s go,” Hoseok cut her off urgently. Leaping out of the way, Y/N suddenly felt out of place as she watched Jimin drag Seokjin out of the shelter, Hoseok jogging out first and pulling the van door open. She didn’t miss the way Jimin tipped his head back, filling his lungs with fresh morning air, and Hoseok’s stiffened posture loosening up the moment his feet touched the sidewalk outside of the shelter.
“Gerry, I’ll be back in the morning. First thing!” Y/N yelled into the recesses of the shop, not caring if he replied or not. 
Out on the sidewalk, she bit at her nails nervously as she watched Jimin shift to get a good hold on Seokjin’s shoulders, Hoseok grasping his ankles and hoisting him up. Seokjin groaned loudly, head rolling back, his sweaty face screwed up in pain. Y/N felt her heart break, the same way it did whenever she saw agony written all over someone’s face, and vowed to find whoever did this to him and slap them with Ben’s most aggressive lawsuit, or maybe claw their eyes out. 
Hoseok bared his teeth as he hauled Seokjin’s lower body into the van gingerly. Waiting for Jimin to lift the rest of him into the van, Hoseok sat in the back seat with Seokjin’s legs dangling over his lap. Jimin had to maneuver Seokjin’s chest and head so it was propped up on his thighs, all three of them cramped in the back, breathing laboriously. 
“Aw, hell, is that blood?” Murphy exclaimed, twisting his body to eye Seokjin’s bloodied shirt. 
“I’ll pay for any damages, can you just take the fastest route?” Y/N shot back as she slammed the passenger door, buckling up. Murphy sputtered, looking at her like she had two heads, but obeyed by throwing the van in drive and shoving AirPods in his ears. Adjusting herself so she could face the backseat, she scanned Seokjin’s face, his eyes closed and breathing shallow. His face was positively angelic, however, marred by the shadow of pain, and he was definitely feverish judging by the sweat dripping from his hairline.   
“So… where do you live?” Hoseok asked, his cadence a bit awkward as he tried to sit as close to the edge of the seat as possible. Y/N cleared her throat, tearing her attention from Seokjin’s face, returning Hoseok’s gaze. 
“Outside of the city, in a wooded area by a lake. I live in my grandparent’s old house,” Y/N answered, squeezing her fists as she prayed Murphy’s driving was as fast as her’s. Hoseok half-smiled thoughtfully, looking out the window curiously as buildings rolled by. Sunlight caught gold flecks in his irises and the rich red of his hair. 
As conversation halted there, Y/N started to plan out the mid-morning: she would have to roll out her grandfather’s old wheelchair for Seokjin, find the best place to treat him, show the other two around the house, and hopefully sneak in a nap somewhere along the way. Later that night, she wanted to order a few more sets of basic clothing for the hybrids until they could make it to the stores – after all, she didn’t know when the wolf hybrid would want to even be in the same room as her. She’d probably have to order some groceries, as well, there weren’t enough items in her fridge and pantry to feed everybody. Pulling out her phone, she kept track of all of the loose ends to tie up that night, ignoring missed texts from Ben crowding her lockscreen. She’d have to call him later, as well, and she wasn’t looking forward to it, luckily he was probably preoccupied with Daisy. 
“Miss? You said you’re a veterinarian?” Jimin piped up after a stretch of time, brushing his hair off of his face. His eyes were a shocking shade of yellow, round and clear as a spring morning. Swallowing hard, Y/N nodded.
“I am. I worked with exotic animals, like parrots, lizards… I even treated a giraffe at one point. Though, hybrids, I have not treated before…” Y/N trailed off, unnerved by Jimin’s intense eye contact. He seemed significantly less jittery now that he was shifted into his human form, which was relieving. “But, I know that I’ll be able to help Seokjin, for sure– and my father can come by, as well. He specializes in hybrid cardiology.”
Jimin’s sandy colored ears pricked up in interest, with this, his shoulders relaxing an inch. Interestingly, the three hybrids had no animosity between them, seemingly, as Seokjin was passed out, and Y/N wondered which ones didn’t like each other. She wondered if Laura, the master of conflict resolution in her friend group, could swing by in the future and give her some tips. 
“Hybrid cardiology?” Hoseok repeated, an eyebrow raised. Nodding enthusiastically, Y/N cringed as Murphy took a sharp turn off of the highway towards her town. 
“He went to school for cardiology, because my grandfather on his side passed away from congestive heart failure quite young. He eventually became part of a group study that practiced surgical procedures for hybrids when my mother was pregnant with me, for some additional experience. My mother told me that he enjoyed working with hybrids so much, and that the field had so much improvement to make, my father focused his studies on hybrid cardiology from then on. Up until a year ago he had a practice in Boston, now he’s semi-retired— he can still access his office and do examinations,” Y/N explained. Her father had helped trailblaze heart surgical procedures for hybrids, and would love the news of Y/N’s spur-of-the-moment adoptions. Another phone call to add to the list.  
Hoseok and Jimin listened to her carefully, and while she was grateful they seemed to express at least a little interest in her life, she was absolutely dying to know more about them. Sadly, she knew that it would take a lot of time to get close enough to ask personal questions, and knew better than to pry right off the bat. While they didn’t say more than a few words compared to her ramblings, it felt nice to have someone listen.  
“I’ll have to go back to the shelter tomorrow to pick up the others, as I’m sure you heard, but you’re welcome to come with me into the city again then! Maybe we can stop at a drugstore on the way back so we can pick up toiletries and snacks,” Y/N offered hopefully. Jimin opened his mouth and closed it, eyes flicking downward as if he was conflicted. She began to backtrack when she remembered how anxious he seemed at the shelter, internally scolding herself.
“Sure, I’ll come with you,” Hoseok replied quickly, flashing a lovely smile. Overjoyed, Y/N returned the grin, admiring just how pretty his smile was – after all, it was the first time she saw it in its entirety. 
“Jimin,” Y/N continued, not wanting to put him in a tight spot, “If you’d like, you can write me a list and I can pick up whatever you need. It’s a good idea to have someone stay with Seokjin while he comes down from his fever, and you can settle in.”
Biting down on his thick lower lip, Jimin looked both alleviated and a touch guilty, a peach blush dusting his cheeks. 
“If that’s alright, Miss, I’ll watch over Seokjin for you,” Jimin answered, hand reaching up to tug at something on his head that wasn’t there, as if he had an imaginary hat on. The action was odd, Jimin slightly frowning as he realized his fingers grasped air. Pretending not to notice, Y/N turned the right way in her seat as the familiar library building passed by, her mother’s car parked out front; they were almost home. 
“Oh! We’ll be there soon!” Y/N exclaimed, bouncing in her seat. She stole a glance at Seokjin, who was fast asleep, oblivious to the chatter between the rest of them. Hoseok was locked in on the scenery of the town, small shops she grew up around zooming by, beautiful August flowers studding the storefronts. The fall festivals would be coming up in less than a month, and bringing the hybrids to the events would be a blast. Thinking of the hayrides, harvest stands, and apple picking filled her mind, now that she finally had time to attend the festivals. 
Murphy pulled out an earbud, snapping gum between his teeth. 
“Next street over?” He yelled, earning a gravelly moan from Seokjin. Y/N had the feeling Murphy was a bit hard of hearing. 
“Yes, yes,” Y/N waved, directing him where to park. She’d have to unlatch the gate and blast into the house for the wheelchair.
Murphy crawled to the end of the street, Y/N tapped her foot, watching her neighbor’s old Victorians pass by. The hybrids in the back seat were quiet, the only sound in the van coming from the GPS. Finally pulling up in front of Y/N’s house, the last one on the dead end street, she breathed a sigh of relief, unfastening her seatbelt. 
“This is it!” Y/N announced nervously. She hoped that they would like the house, that it wouldn’t be too old and scary looking to them. If the hybrids held any opinions on the exterior, they kept them to themselves, ears alert as they both leaned towards the window to take a look. Admittedly, the view of the house was pretty obstructed by the large willows planted in the front yard, but the shapes of the roof peaked over enough to get a glimpse. Debriefing Hoseok and Jimin on her plan to retrieve the wheelchair, she had them wait in the van while she ran into the house.
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Jimin and Hoseok maneuvered Seokjin as gently as they could into the leather wheelchair. Murphy honked his way down the street as he left, and thankfully none of Seokjin’s blood seeped into the seats of the van. Y/N insisted on pushing the wheelchair despite Jimin’s protests, Seokjin still fever dreaming and mumbling incoherently. She had to take the hybrids in the side door where the wooden ramp fashioned for her grandfather’s wheelchair led into the kitchen. 
“This place is huge,” Hoseok observed, getting a better look at the building once in the backyard. Looking back at the two hybrids trailing behind her, Y/N noticed Hoseok’s mouth hanging ajar, eyes roaming over the windows and steep eaves of the roof. The house was pretty imposing, painted dark shades of maroon and gray, but it was light and airy inside, something she knew the hybrids would love. 
“Yeah, it is. I used to get lost in some of the nooks and back staircases when I was really little, my dad got me Barbie walkie talkies for Christmas one year when it became a frequent problem,” Y/N chuckled at the memory. “Back when it was new, a wealthy local judge had it built for his wife. They had six children, so it has more bedrooms and living spaces than the average Victorian.” 
She eased the wheelchair over a bump in the pavingstones, finally back to the patio where she had only been hours ago. It was almost impossible to believe where she was now compared to just a short time ago.
“Looks like you’ve got some real nice grounds in the back here, Miss,” Jimin added, bright eyes sparkling as he took in the fauna in the backyard. Y/N froze as she attempted to unlock the kitchen door, casting Jimin an embarrassed look. 
“Thank you, Jimin, we can walk around the trails tonight if you’d like – and I can show you my poor landscaping skills! And please, you can just call me Y/N,” she insisted, smoothly yanking the sliding door open. She heard him sputtering, along with a snort from Hoseok. 
“We made it! Okay, so I’ll give you guys a proper tour after I treat Seokjin, but this is the kitchen,” Y/N gestured about the room, the mid-morning light warming the room pleasantly. Thankfully, she had cleared away her gin glass from last night before she left that morning, so the kitchen was absolutely spotless and ready for dinner. Hoseok whistled lowly, skimming a palm along the granite island. With the restaurant-sized refrigerator, multiple ovens, beautiful cooktop and walk-in pantry, Y/N was more excited than ever to reignite her passion for cooking and baking now that she had others to share food with. 
Pressing on, Y/N wheeled Seokjin towards the hallway, opting to put him in the nearest bedroom to her’s until he was well enough to pick one for himself.
“Either of you like to cook?” Y/N wondered aloud, slow footsteps behind her flooding out into the hallway. Cringing as soon as the words left her mouth, she realized that the possibility of them having access to a kitchen could be slim. Stupid! 
“The only thing I can make is a hamburger,” Hoseok said mournfully. So far, he had taken her completely by surprise, and her anxieties were quelled. Y/N laughed heartily at this response, looking forward to teaching him and the others how to make a few other staples in the future instead of lamenting over their pasts she didn’t even know about yet. Jimin even allowed a small chuckle to escape, with this, the mood light despite the circumstances. 
Passing through the foyer, by the dining room and parlor, they arrived at the bedroom, which was once where Y/N stayed before her grandparents moved out. It still had her large bookcase filled with all of her favorite books and encyclopedias, a small geode collection lining the desk, and her old wardrobe filled with clothes from her teenage years. When Seokjin got better, she’d have to clear out space on the bookshelf and the wardrobe. Acting with urgency once more, she pushed the wheelchair into the sunny sage green room.
“Let’s get him onto the bed,” Y/N switched into vet-mode, pulling the comforter on the bed back and easing Seokjin’s sneakers off. Hoseok and Jimin pulled Seokjin up by his armpits, heaving him onto the queen-sized mattress, moans of protest coming from the jaguar hybrid. The two stepped back as Y/N rounded the bed frame, getting a good look at Seokjin’s face. 
His fever had spiked, hairline completely soaked, skin pale and blotchy pink. Breathing shallowly, Seokjin’s eyebrows were scrunched together in pain. Bending over to grasp for the medical kit Y/N placed there earlier, she placed it on the bed, sorting through the items she’d need right away. She pushed damp hair off of his forehead, using the back of her hand to check his temperature, cursing at the ovenlike body heat coming off of him. 
“Jimin, do you mind wetting a cloth or two with cool water for me in the bathroom just there please? There should be some face cloths in a basket on the sink,” Y/N asked, pointing to the ajar door to the un suite. 
“O-of course,” Jimin stuttered, hastily crossing the room and disappearing into the bathroom. Y/N took Seokjin’s pulse at the base of his throat, which was thankfully thrumming strong against her fingers. Taking a deep breath, she carefully lifted the hem of his soiled shirt to reveal the wound on his right side. 
A series of healed scars littered the hybrid’s body, standing out against his damp skin. He was bruised in several places along his torso, shades of purple and green mottling around the site of the open wound. It looked like he had taken a few years of beatings or had fallen off of a ladder judging from the damage. Gritting her teeth, she examined the cut, which was miraculously uninfected, but still dribbling blood. The wound was not a puncture, but wide enough to not be able to mesh together without treatment, likely the reason it was still bleeding. Her fingers gently grazed the bruise by the site, Seokjin flinching even in his stupor. The wound was not deep enough to require stitches, but it was gnarly enough for butterfly bandages and gauze. She would have to periodically change his dressings, making sure an infection wouldn’t set in, but there was a lot less she had to do than she originally thought. 
“Here you go, Y/N,” Jimin returned, making the effort to drop the earlier “Miss” title, three cloths wrung out and rolled up in his outstretched hand. In the other, he had even filled the glass for the toothbrushes with more water. Looking up to him with a grateful smile, she set the glass on the nightstand and placed a cloth over Seokjin’s forehead gingerly. Feeling him still looming over her, if she should need anything else from him, she set the cup of water on the nightstand carefully. 
“Thank you, sweetheart, why don’t you and Hoseok sit tight on the couch until I finish up and I’ll show you around. I’m sure you’d love to settle in and relax,” Y/N said, using another cloth to begin swabbing away dried blood from Seokjin’s chest. Jimin had gone pink, mouth opening and closing again, before hurrying over to Hoseok already sitting on the green couch when the latter cleared his throat in amusement. Y/N fell into silence, searching her kit for some bruise cream. 
“Where’re you from, Jimin? That accent of yours certainly isn’t Bostonian,” Hoseok questioned, crossing an ankle over his knee. Loading up a piece of gauze with disinfectant, Y/N pretended she wasn’t listening to their conversation as she worked, hand pressed lightly on Seokjin’s chest so he wouldn’t flinch off of the bed due to the stinging sensation.
“I’m from southern Montana, my family is still there. I worked on the Yellowstone Park ranch,” Jimin answered easily, Hoseok making a hum of acknowledgement. “You?”
“Ah… I’ve been to so many places over the years, I can’t say that I remember where I was originally. Could have been London, might have been Paris. Around the time I was 17 I was brought to the States,” Hoseok said vaguely. Y/N had the feeling he was leaving out certain pieces of information purposefully, the tone of his voice genuinely surprised someone had asked him a personal question. Arching a brow, she applied the bruise cream on all of the spots she could see on Seokjin, hoping the cooling properties of the formula would ease some discomfort brought on by the fever. Hybrids healed faster than humans, so Seokjin would probably be able to get out and about by tomorrow afternoon, but she wanted to make sure he felt better as soon as possible.
The site of the wound cleaned, Y/N began to carefully place butterfly bandages on it. Her eyes felt like they were beginning to cross with fatigue as she fastened the last one by a rib, balling up the paper wrappings and stuffing them in her pocket. All she had left to do was cover the bandages in gauze and tape, and monitor his fever periodically – the thermometer she had pointed at Seokjin’s forehead told her his fever wasn’t something that required medications.
“So, a ranch? What, were you a cowboy?” Hoseok continued, preventing Jimin from asking a question first. Jimin sucked his teeth in annoyance, crossing his arms and leaning away from the fox hybrid. The sandy fur of Jimin’s tail stood on end, a defensive though uncontrollable action.
“You could call it that if you want, but we were ranchers. Mainly, we managed the cattle, trained horses, and maintained the park’s wildlife. I wasn’t Clint Eastwood,” Jimin grit his teeth, the words coming between them. Jimin must have gotten a remark like that hundreds of times to warrant that reaction, which made Y/N hide an involuntary snort as she taped down the gauze rectangle on Seokjin. 
Hoseok was laughing freely, his eyes squinting in humor while Jimin fumed on the furthest spot of the couch away from him, ears flat against his hair. Frowning, Y/N felt too bad to leave Seokjin in a shirt soiled with sweat and blood, so she straightened up and walked across the room to the wardrobe stuffed with her teenage garb. She was very into baggy band shirts in high school, so she knew that there would be at least one in the drawer that could accommodate Seokjin’s wide shoulders. 
“Good lord, I’m sorry, Jimin. I wasn’t expecting you to react like that,” Hoseok wiped a tear from his eye, sighing happily. Contrary to his unwillingness to reveal much about himself, Hoseok seemed completely at ease between the two other hybrids and Y/N herself, his body language relaxed as he slouched on the couch. Jimin mumbled back, Y/N not quite catching what he uttered. She grasped her largest shirt, an ancient Good Charlotte graphic tee from Warped Tour, cringing hard from the memories that came flooding back. 
Back at Seokjin’s side, she used the tiny pair of scissors in her kit to cut away the soiled shirt, pulling it off of him like a paper doll. 
“Hoseok, can you please help me sit him up for a second?” Y/N removed the cloth on Seokjin’s forehead, sliding a hand under his shoulder blade to lift one side. Hoseok jumped from the couch lightly, watching as Y/N held the back of Seokjin’s head so it wouldn’t roll backwards. Moving awkwardly, Y/N eased the well-worn shirt over his head, his rounded black ears popping up cutely as they passed through the neck opening, thanking Hoseok as he pulled Seokjin’s left arm through the hole. Straightening out the shirt, embarrassed of the print, Y/N and Hoseok gently laid him back down. She pulled the covers up over Seokjin when he began to tremble, the fever chills setting in. Lastly, Y/N replaced the cloth on his forehead with a new one, and supplied a bottle of water from her tote bag to leave on the nightstand.
“That wasn’t too bad, luckily. Another day or so in that shelter, he would have gotten an infection,” Y/N used a finger to swipe a lock of hair from Seokjin’s eye, smiling in satisfaction with her work. He looked far more comfortable, cozy, even, now that his fever was being managed, even humming in his sleep with the comforter pulled up to his chin. 
“Ready for the tour?” Y/N tore herself away from Seokjin, rubbing her eyes as she approached the other two hybrids. 
“Are you tired, Mi– Y/N?” Jimin asked, quickly covering up his habit for titles. Grimacing, Y/N drew the curtains partially closed in the room to keep it from heating up in the afternoon sun. She definitely looked tired, her eyes swollen, watering, catching a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror by the wardrobe.
“Just a little bit! I’ll probably take a short nap after I show you around. Staying up all night isn’t as easy as it was when I was nineteen,” Y/N admitted, almost fainting at the thought of sinking into her bed for an hour or two. “Let’s let Seokjin get some rest, I’ll check on him before I nap myself.”
Leaving the door halfway open, she motioned the two hybrids out into the hallway. 
“Straight ahead here, that’s my bedroom. These two doors here on the right are coat closets,” Y/N pointed out their immediate surroundings, moving forward into the foyer. “This is the front entrance! It still needs quite a bit of work, as does most of the house, as you can see with the half-stripped staircase…”
Hoseok made a circle around the foyer room, looking closely at the cloudy stained glass windows, pausing by the staircase. 
“What’s that door, there?” He questioned, pointing to the door down to the basement. 
“That’s the basement! My mother and I just finished renovating it, want to check it out? I suppose you took a peek into the dining room and the living room we passed by earlier, so all that’s left on this floor is the old office, the yellow and blue bedrooms, and the sunroom. You can take a look as you please, later,” Y/N opened up the basement door for Hoseok, switching on the lovely new lights her mother hung up. 
In an effort to make the basement less horrifyingly haunted looking, Y/N’s mother painstakingly helped her paint it in bright creams and soft green, making sure there were plenty of light fixtures and lamps. Y/N took the lead as Hoseok and Jimin followed her down the carpeted staircase, the scent of paint still vaguely lingering in the air. 
“Over there, my mother put in a little gym area.”
The right side of the basement had a mirrored wall, an exercise bike, and a rack of dumbbells. The full bathroom was over there, as well, complete with a little sauna room, something her mother had splurged on for Y/N’s last birthday. It hadn’t gotten much use, with Y/N’s extended hours in the past months, but she had a feeling that was about to change with her newfound free time. Hoseok whistled, an apparent quirk of his, smiling widely at the stereo system mounted on the wall. 
“On that side is a nice new bedroom, what was once a storage room for my grandmother’s junk collection. There’s even a little window in there by the ceiling that was hidden behind some old, crumbly drywall,” Y/N slid the pocket door open, which offered privacy from the gym, letting Jimin and Hoseok get a good look. 
The bedroom had a nice set of rosewood furniture, keeping it on theme with the rest of the home. A large dresser, a desk, queen sized bed, even a space heater tucked away for wintertime. It was one of her favorite bedrooms, artistic painted wallpaper stenciled in by her mother’s hand. 
“This is beautiful,” Hoseok breathed, fingers skimming the cream quilt. She watched him admire the painted ivy on the wall, tail swishing as he walked the width of the room.
“I’ll relay the message to my mother,” Y/N crossed her arms in amusement, leaning against the doorframe. Jimin had gone to examine the sauna, excitedly, his shoes making hollow thuds as he walked around in it behind her. “You want this room?” 
Hoseok’s head snapped up, catching Y/N’s bemused expression, before tilting his head in contemplation. 
“Can I think about it?”
“You absolutely may, there’s a lot more to see,” Y/N affirmed, bringing him back out to the stairwell. Jimin was already waiting for them, flicking his overgrown hair out of his eyes again. She’d have to make appointments for everyone to get a haircut next week, her list of to-do’s becoming longer by the second. 
“Onwards!” Y/N marched up the stairs and wincing, legs screaming in distress. Jimin made a choked sound as he hurried after her, Hoseok lingering for a moment longer before he followed. 
The three ended up on the second floor after taking a blast through the remainder of the first floor. Jimin took a liking to the blue bedroom by the sunroom, overlooking the backyard. Y/N could tell he wanted to claim it when he sunk into the royal blue velvet chair by the window, but refrained from pushing it on him until he saw the rest of the place.
The hybrids followed her through the library, the dusty billiard’s room and family room, and the two tower rooms. They didn’t seem to jump on the opportunity to be on the higher floor, even the pink, lavender, and sunset orange rooms with smaller windows than the tower rooms didn’t get them as excited as they were previously. Y/N was wilting with exhaustion, patiently answering questions about art on the walls or books on shelves, but with the tour of the house done, she knew that she’d be crawling into bed any moment. 
“Any decisions?” Y/N pondered, trudging down the stairs. Met with nervous silence, Y/N sighed lightly, giving the two an encouraging look when they arrived back in the foyer. 
“I’m partial to that blue room, over in the back…” Jimin stared at the black and white tiled floor, voice soft. Y/N wanted to grab the both of them and insist that this was their home now too, and deserved to pick the room they wanted the most, but getting them to believe that would take time and even more patience. 
“It’s yours,” Y/N confirmed, hoping Hoseok hadn’t wanted the same room suddenly. Jimin perked up, shuffling his feet, and giving her a nod in thanks. They both gave Hoseok an expectant look, while he stared at the basement door. 
“Hoseok?” Y/N giggled, his ears swiveling back in embarrassment when he caught their looks. “Did you think about it?” 
“I think the basement is calling his name or something,” Jimin teased, surprising everyone else in the room. Perhaps it was payback from Hoseok’s earlier jabs. 
“Am I that obvious?” Hoseok exclaimed, nudging Jimin with his shoulder. Jimin blushed, eyes squinting in mirth. He had a gorgeous smile, and it was so nice to see the two of them get along amicably with their teasing. 
“So, Jimin will take the blue room and Hoseok the basement room? Is that right?”
The two nodded, still smiling from their little moment. A chorus of angels sang hallelujah in her head, finally able to get some rest now that the room choices were squared away. 
“Do you need anything from me before I get some sleep? I’ll be up to make some late lunch, but please feel free to help yourself to anything in the kitchen if you want a snack,” Y/N insisted. 
“I’m alright, thank you… but you should really get some sleep. We’ll be fine,” Jimin reassured her, Hoseok agreeing with a hum. Grinning gratefully, Y/N began to head towards the hallway. 
“Well then, I’ll leave you two to settle in for now. I’m just going to check on Seokjin, first,” she gave them a little wave, watching as Jimin set off towards his room with a skip in his step and Hoseok waved back animatedly. 
Shaking her head with a chuckle, she slid into Seokjin’s room quietly, eyes adjusting in the low light. She could hear his steady breathing, and upon closer examination Y/N saw that he was still fast asleep. Gently, she rinsed another cloth in the cool cup of water, swapping it from the warm one on his forehead. Seokjin mumbled in his sleep as it draped over him, his ears fluttering against the pillow. 
Leaving him, Y/N set an alarm on her phone to wake her in time to make the food mid-afternoon, stumbling down the hallway. The list on her phone grew lengthy, bullet points reading: open up seven hybrid-specific credit cards, call friends and family to break the news, order cell phones, schedule haircuts… all of which she would tackle later that night. 
She strained her ears for any sounds of the other two hybrids, but all she heard was the wind blowing willow branches against the windows of her bedroom. Deciding to take a nice, cool shower after her nap, she closed her door, stripped to her underwear, and collapsed into her bed. Her lights were out almost as soon as her head hit the pillow, but she already felt like she was floating through a dream.
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Taglist; @blancflms @grazysf @sbromp @jaxavance @sunderlight @ot7nem @mageprincess7 @wittyreader @drenix004 @mayla548 @skyys-universe
Please do not repost or translate my work. Thank you!
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fadedncity · 1 year
Text
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wc: 2.5k
pairing: hades!johnny x persephone!reader
cw: smut, greek gods!au, husband!johnny, fem!reader, pet names, teasing, use of titles (king, queen, your majesty), oral sex (receiving), fingering, body worship, finger sucking, riding, mating press, lil bit of praising, creampie, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex, lowkey dumbification
song rec: won’t by tanerélle | aphrodite by rini | in a week by hozier | 7th heaven by quin
"Where is she?"
"Where she always is."
Johnny's long legs carried him in long strides through the palace, bursting through the doors at the end of the corridor.
The moment he stepped outside, he could already feel your warmth radiating through the entire garden, looking much more lively than in the past six months.
Johnny found himself out here more often than not with the wilting flowers and dying trees, longing for your return just as he had. Now, life was coursing through the entire garden, the tall standing trees rustling in the breeze, flowers blossoming all around his feet. He could feel your presence growing stronger the further he walked. 
When he finally spotted you, you had your back to him. And Johnny could already feel his heart hammering against his chest.
Just laying eyes on you, it seemed his lungs were finally able to intake the oxygen around him a little easier.
Without even looking away from the plants you were bringing back to life, you spoke,
"What did I tell you about those boots in my garden, John?" 
Johnny looked down at his feet and then at the trail of scorched earth behind him. 
"Sorry," he mumbled. He kicked off his shoes and continued toward you. 
You finally turned around, and Johnny felt like it was the first time again. You stood from the dirt, your long dress flowing around you and slightly waving in the wind.
Johnny's arms were immediately around you, pulling you to him.
Your heart had ached for this man for half the year, and it almost felt like your chest would explode, finally being in his arms again.
You ran your hands up his arms to his shoulders, one of them cupping his face. 
"Hi." Johnny's heart melts at the way your eyes sparkle at him. 
Johnny sighs, nuzzling his face into your touch, "Hi." 
"Six months have felt like an eternity away from you, my love." 
"I know. It's been hell here without you."
You laughed, "That joke doesn't get any better, babe." 
"It made you laugh, though," Johnny grinned. 
"Because it was terrible. Leave them to Mark," you patted his chest. 
"Fine." 
. . . 
Anything he needed to do today was quickly pushed back to tomorrow at least, Johnny not wanting anything other than to be with you right now. 
Your feet mindlessly swayed in the air as you lay on your stomach face to face with your lover. You rest your chin on Johnny's chest, studying the details of his face as if they would have changed much in the past few thousand years you've been married. 
"Have you been sleeping? You look tired," you frown, noticing the dark circles around his eyes. 
"I'm fine," he told you. The look in your eyes was enough for him to know you don't believe him. "I've just been working a lot, that's it. And it's kinda hard to sleep when you're not here."
You sat up on your knees before swinging one of your legs over his waist to straddle him. 
"I'm sorry about that, baby," you pout, caressing his face. 
"You should be," Johnny teased, pecking your lips, "But now you can make it up to me," he whispered. 
"Anything for you, my King," you teasingly whispered back. 
Johnny's hands on your waist moved down to cup your ass. You slide one of your hands over the silky material of his shirt, grab the back of his neck, and deepen the kiss. 
Johnny's hands fell to your thighs, slowly pushing the skirt of your dress up. A shiver ran down your spine, your stomach coiling from excitement. Johnny slipped his tongue into your mouth when you dragged your hips against his, trying to relieve built-up pressure between your thighs.
Your back met the mattress, your head lying against the pillows as Johnny's body occupied the space between your legs. 
His hands wandered all over your body, cupping your breast, squeezing your thigh; it was all too much but not enough.
Johnny's lips traveled down to your neck, softly kissing you there. He bunched up the fabric of your dress in his hands, pushing it up to your hips. He bit and sucked your skin, making his way down your body. 
"So, so beautiful," he mutters between kisses down your stomach.
Johnny touches you like he doesn't have every inch of your body memorized already; as if it were his first time with you.
He pushes your knees apart, settling between your legs. He slowly kisses his way up your inner thighs, digging his nails into your skin when he hears the faintest whimper or whines fall from your lips.
With a subtle wave of his fingers, your panties are discarded to ashes. Any other time you would've chastised his use of his powers, but you couldn't care in the slightest.
Johnny's predatory gaze falls to your pussy, only a few inches away from his face. 
"You gonna let me taste you, sweetness?" 
You eagerly nodded, "Please, Johnny," you said so faintly it was almost a whisper. 
Johnny smirked, lowering his head and flattening his tongue against your lips. You moaned, rolling your hips into his mouth. He teasingly circled your slit with the tip of his tongue before bringing his attention to your clit. You lifted your hips off the bed, raising them against his face before Johnny held your hips, keeping them pinned to the bed.
"Patience, baby. 186 days, I've waited for this. To have you again," he placed both your legs over his shoulders, giving your thighs more kisses, "So, I will take my time if I please."
He ran his tongue through your folds, your juices reminding him of sweet nectar on his tastebuds. Your eyes rolled back, bliss written all over your face as you lost yourself in the pleasure he was giving you. Johnny wrapped his lips around your clit, sucking on the bundle of nerves, resulting in your back arching away from the bed. 
You brought one of your hands to his head, fingernails lightly scratching his scalp.  
"Gods, John, please don't stop."
Johnny moans into your pussy in response. Your legs threaten to close around his head, but he doesn't give them a chance to, hooking his arms under your thighs and keeping them apart to allow him to continue to eat you out like a starved man.
The one thing Johnny wishes he could do for the rest of his immortal life, it's to give you pleasure. The sounds you make, the look on your face, the way your body trembles, all of it; Johnny wishes to be the source of it all for the rest of time. 
"Johnny—fuck. Always make me feel so good," you whine. 
"You wanna cum for me, baby?" 
"Yes, m'so close," you mumble, nodding. 
You could feel yourself nearing the edge before finally falling over. A loud cry of Johnny's name bounced off the walls, surely heard by the palace staff everywhere. 
Even after already cumming, you couldn't help the thoughts running rampant in your head, feeling your skin burn under his touch as he lapped at your folds. It aroused you, even more, having him use his strength against you, knowing he can't hurt you even if he tried.
He left you with one last kiss on your knee before he sat up. You lazily watched your husband begin to undress. He noticed your eyes on him and teasingly undid the buttons of his black silk shirt slowly. You sat up, the fatigue from your first orgasm no longer existent. A smirk was planted on your face as your eyes drank in the man before you. 
Johnny could see from his spot at the foot of the bed the lust swirling around your irises and practically smell your arousal seeping onto the bed sheets. 
Getting impatient, you slide off the bed and stand in front of Johnny, hooking a finger in the belt loop of his pants, tugging him closer. Your lips meet in a messy, desperate kiss, your teeth and tongue clashing. 
You slide his shirt off his shoulders before running your hands down his chest, letting yourself get refamiliarized with his body, having missed feeling his skin against yours these past two seasons. Without breaking the kiss, your fingers blindly undo his pants until they end up on the floor along with his shirt. 
Johnny's hand snaked around your back, pulling you flush against him, untying the laces until the front of your dress fell. He kisses your shoulders as he slips the material off your body, leaving you naked before him.
Johnny wastes no time touching and kissing your body, worshipping you as the goddess you are. 
You push him back onto the bed, Johnny's eyes practically turning black as you get on top of him. You sink your teeth into your bottom lips, feeling his cock between your folds. You couldn't resist the urge to drag your hips against his once again.
"I need you so bad," you whimper, your slick dripping onto his cock.
"Yeah, baby?"
"Please, Johnny."
"Whatever my Queen wants, she gets," he tells you before lifting you out of his lap and lining his cock up with your entrance. 
Lowering yourself onto Johnny's cock, you're refamiliarized with the feeling of him splitting you apart in the best ways.
"You feel so fucking good," you utter. 
"Gods, you're so wet, sweetheart," Johnny groans, fingernails digging into your skin. 
You grin, lifting your hips before sinking back down onto his cock. 
"It's all for you, baby," you slowly start to ride him, unable to resist how good it feels to be so full. 
Johnny can't tear his eyes away from your face. Loving the way you lose yourself in ecstasy. 
He lifts his hips to meet yours, and your eyes roll back into your skull. Too focused on how good it feels, you wrap your arm around his shoulder to balance yourself as you bounce in his lap.
Johnny's hands were all over you while his mouth traveled over your chest, biting, kissing, and licking your skin.  
You tangle your fingers in his hair, bringing his lips back to yours. When you broke the kiss, Johnny's thumb softly edged your bottom lip, silently asking for entry. 
You enthusiastically suck on his thumb, coating the digit in your saliva before he slips his hand between your bodies and starts rubbing your clit. 
"Johnny," you gasp, "Fuck, I can't. John, I'm gonna-" Johnny slamming up into you, cut off your words.
The room seemed to grow warmer, the fires lit around the room burning brighter. 
"Come on, baby. I know you wanna cum," Johnny rubbed coordinated circles on your clit with his thumb, "Be a good girl and cum for me," the vibrations of his voice shot straight to your core.
Your cries and moans were music to his ears, mixing with the sound of skin hitting skin. The knot inside you snapped, and Johnny felt your pussy choking his cock, sucking him deeper into your warm wet heat. 
"Fucking hell," Johnny clenches his jaw. 
You bury your face into Johnny's neck, allowing yourself to catch your breath. 
You lift your head from his neck and rest your forehead against his. 
"I love you," you whisper against his skin, kissing his face. 
"I love you," he groans as you start rolling your hips again.
"Please, fuck me, John," you begged, "Remind me who I belong to."
Johnny threw you onto your back and pushed his cock back into you. You wrapped your legs around his waist, unable to get enough of him. 
"It would be my pleasure, your majesty," he leaned down and met your lips in a kiss, slowly drawing his hips back before easing back in. 
You feel every inch of him, stretching you open, fucking you nice and deep.
"More, more, more, Johnny, please!" you lift your hips to meet his. 
Your husband grabbed your legs, placing them over his shoulders, folding you in half as he plowed into you. 
The tip of his cock reached so deep inside, you could feel him in your stomach, rightfully rearranging your guts.
You found yourself gripping onto the sheets, pillows—anything you could get a hold of, all the pent-up longing you've held onto all this time being released after finally being reunited with your love. 
You felt yourself losing more and more control as you drowned in pleasure. Vines wrapped themselves around the headboard, flowers miraculously blossoming across the room. 
Johnny's chest blooms with pride, knowing he's the only one with the ability to make you feel good enough you lose control of your powers like this. Your whimpers and whines were as sweet as a prayer on his ears. It makes him slam into you harder, faster. 
If you were mortal, your muscles would've screamed in relief when he lowered your legs from his shoulders but kept your knees close to your chest. His thrusts never falter, continuing to pound into you. 
Your pussy clenches around his cock, feeling even tighter than before. The way he messily snaps his hips into yours, pistoning his cock in and out of your sopping hole, you knew that knot inside of him would break sooner rather than later. 
Johnny watches your pussy and swallows his cock, taking him so well.
"Gods, I've missed you," he muffles your moans with his lips on yours, "And this pussy. You were fucking meant for me," he growls, his cock twitching against your gummy walls. 
"Johnny," you whine. 
"What is it, my love?" he slows down but continues his deep strokes. 
"Please, baby, I wanna feel you," you plead.
"Cum with me," he tells you before bringing his thumb back to your clit, sloppily circling the bundle of nerves. 
Your toes curled, and your fingernails dragged across Johnny's skin, hard enough to leave red streaks on his arms. 
You could barely keep your eyes open, slowly blinking up at the man above you as your body approached another climax.
"That's my girl," he hums, "Cum for your King," his eyes glimmer red.
His last words toppled you over the edge, euphoria flooding your entire body. Your orgasm sent Johnny into his own, warm ropes of his cum spilling into your messy cunt. 
You whimper against Johnny's lips, feeling empty as he pulls out of you. He lays beside you, grabbing one of your legs and placing it over himself to keep you close. Neither of you caring about the mess of bodily fluids and flower petals all over the bed. 
"Fuck, I've missed you," you crash your lips into his. 
You pull yourself up into Johnny's lap, his hands holding your waist. You grab onto his hair, making him crane his neck up at you as you slip your tongue into his mouth, your lover sucking on the wet muscles. 
You both pull away, catching your breath but staying close enough you're sharing the same oxygen. 
"You really aren't trying to waste any time, huh," he asked, nudging your nose with his. 
You shake your head, wrapping your arms around him.
"186 days. I've wasted enough." 
a/n: I know it's been a minute but seriously life has been fucking crazy and exhausting so, sorry about that. but thank you for reading and feedback is appreciated <33
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rbbrbikerthorp · 7 months
Text
A New Neighbour Moves In
[Please note: all characters are 18 plus and any reference to boy or girl is purely descriptive or used in dialogue between the characters.]
Mitchell was living the life much like any typical 23 year old male would. He’d graduated university, he had started his career in recruitment for legal and financial services and was starting to earn good monthly commissions on top of his basic salary. He’d used all the money inherited from his grandparents to buy a 1-bedroom flat in a new development, just on the edge of the city centre. Mitchell didn’t have a steady girlfriend – he wasn’t in a long-term relationship place. As he told his mates at the gym, he was a ‘date them and ditch them’ once he’d managed to ‘get them in the sack’ kind of bloke.
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It was a Monday morning and Mitchell needed to get to work. First, he had to navigate his way carefully out of the flat where he’d been invited to spend the night. The girl he’d met in the club the previous evening had taken a shine to his blue eyes, rugby toned body and wavy blonde hair. “Another notch on the bedpost,” Mitchell thought as he tiptoed his way out of the girl’s bedroom. Mitchell made it a policy to only meet women in person and he would never exchange contact details. It meant that none of his ‘conquests’ had any idea of how to find him and, as he was enjoying his ‘tom cat’ life so much, he sure didn’t want to be found. He went on his Uber app and requested a taxi. In less than two minutes one had pulled up in front of him. He took one last look up at the window to check the curtains were still closed and the car pulled away from the curb.
He arrived back at his flat in plenty of time to get ready for the day ahead. He shaved his weekend beard growth and then turned on the shower. Whilst the water warmed up, he took a moment to admire himself in the mirror. He loved how beefy his legs looked from the years of playing rugby first in secondary school and then in the university’s first team. His regular attendance at the gym meant he had a well-defined chest and arms. Women loved his bum as it stood out, firm and muscular. Yes, at that moment as he entered the shower cubicle Mitchell was very content with his life, but on this day, things were about to change.
As Mitchell locked his front door, he noticed piles of boxes outside the flat next door. As he turned towards the lifts, he ran into a large man. He barely stopped as he fell into him. Stepping backwards he said, “I’m really sorry, I didn’t see you there.” As the guy regained his balance, Mitchell noticed the man’s shaved head, jeans with bleach marks with tall black boots with white laces tucked into them. Even though he thought of himself as a tough, well-built guy, he stuttered feeling inadequate and intimidated by this stranger. “I…I…I’m Mitchell,” holding out his hand, “n... n… nice to meet you. So, you’re moving in next door? I… I… always wondered who my new neighbour would be? It’s been vacant for ages.
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The man smiled, “I’m John and yes, it was quite a steal really. Apparently last owner had been shacked up with his fiancé for the last few months and they were about to get married. I made an offer a bit less than what they were asking for, but, because he needed to put money down as a deposit on a new house, he had no choice but to accept.”
“Well,” Mitchell replied being polite, “I… I… I’ve got to get my bus.”
“Yes, I can see you’re dressed for an office. As you can probably see I’m not a suit person myself.”
Mitchell laughed nervously. Why was he feeling so unsettled by this guy?
“Look, why don’t you drop by when you get home from work. I always like to get to know my new neighbours.”
On the spur of the moment, Mitchell couldn’t think of an excuse not to accept the invitation, so he said, “why not? Must go!” As he walked away, he could sense the man was staring at him. He shouted, “good luck unpacking” and then lowered his voice a little, “weirdo.”
John couldn’t help admiring his good-looking young neighbour’s physique, and he shook his head hearing Mitchell mumbling that last word. He began to create a mental picture of what Mitchell might look like wearing less formal clothing. Tattoos were common on young men of a similar age these days, so John wondered if he had acquired any ink yet. He was sure to find out later when Mitchell would drop in for a chat and John would explain was his lifestyle was all about. John set about unpacking so that he could prepare for his young neighbour’s visit.
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It was around 7:30 in the evening when John heard a knock on the door. He opened it to find Mitchell had changed out of his work suit into a t-shirt and sports shorts. “Come in.” It felt more like an order to Mitchell than a pleasantry.
“You got everything unpacked I see.” Mitchell said trying not to stare at the many pairs of tall lace-up boots all lined up by the door; taking in the various bomber jackets hanging on the coat rack and the skinhead themed pictures and posters on the walls.
John noticed Mitchell’s “That’s nothing lad, I’ve got way more kit in the bedroom.”
Mitchell really didn’t want to know any more about what might be in John’s bedroom, “takes all kinds I guess,” he thought as John handed him a beer. The two men chatted, but as Mitchell sipped away at the beer, “wow”, he thought, “this stuff has a real kick.” He found himself becoming more relaxed and more willing give direct answers to John’s questions; about his job, his personal life, his family and friends. Mitchell was hoping that by dressing as though he was going to the gym and John would bring their chat to an end and let him go on his way. Mitchell was starting to fidget as you do when you’re about to stand up. However, John had different ideas, “stay right there lad, and I’ll get us another beer.” Mitchell suddenly found himself wanting to stay and slumped back into the sofa.
“So wh… wh… what do you for a living?” Mitchell asked with a slight stutter and slur as John handed him another glass of beer.
John smiled, “I’m glad you asked. To put it simply I change people.”
“Change people?” Mitchell asked thoroughly bemused.
“Yes, I change people. I take ordinary people, with very traditional upbringings and boring lives and I change them into whatever takes my fancy.” You, young Mitchell are just the sort of person I look for to mould into something more, hmm, you know ‘out-there’.”
Mitchell had downed half the glass of beer at this point.
John continued, “maybe I’ll slowly take them from the lives they are currently leading and over a few hours, a few days, maybe a few weeks transform them. They might end up as a…”
John could sense Mitchell’s fear about what might happen to him but continued, “The next person I change may end up as filthy mohawked punk, a dirty greaser biker, a Leatherman, a goth, a rubber slave. Who knows? It’s whatever takes my fancy at that moment. After a time, I get bored and need a new challenge, so I sell them on to people into the lifestyle and I move on to my next…”
Mitchell couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He opened his mouth to challenge what John was saying but he discovered it wouldn’t move. His heart was pounding, his anxiety levels were on the rise – no matter how hard he tried he was unable to form any words.
“Mitchell, I want you to calm down! Mitchell is such as pompous name, so from now on you’re gonna be called Mike. Now, I will carry on. John pulled out an amber charm which he swung from side to side, glowing eerily in front of Mike’ glazed eyes. When I combine this fine-looking stone with a special ingredient I have – oh you know I added a few drops into your beer, my victims become more… open to the changes I want to make to them. More compliant.” Mike’ eyes were affixed on the stone. “That’s right, just follow the stone, from side-to-side, follow the stone, transfixed by its glowing beauty/” John was comfortable in the knowledge that Mike would soon be his personal boy toy. “Isn’t that the most striking, bright and coloured stone you’ve ever seen Mike?”
He tried to open his mouth in one solitary second of defiance, but all he could managed was a barely audible squeak. His independence, his free will, his ability to fight and think freely had departed. There was no resistance left in Mike. His mind was now mush, the lad could only obey and conform.
John pulled Mike to his feet and dragged him to the bathroom. Once there, he placed him in a chair. “Right Mike, I’ve been thinking all-day about the life I want to give you. How do you fancy being my skinhead son? I’ve always wanted someone I could call a son, but being gay it was never going to happen, and I think you will make the perfect skinhead.” John didn’t wait for Mike to reply - he couldn’t; he did however see the confusion and distress in Mike’ eyes. He chuckled to himself.
John walked over to the bathroom cabinet and took out several items: some electric clippers, scissors, a pack of Mach 3 razors and a can of shaving cream. Turning his head to look at the boy, he smiled, “Only real men have hair. So, yours needs to go Mike. I’ll start on your legs and then your chest, all of that lovely blonde hair on your head and not forgetting the parts in-between. I’m going to enjoy getting rid of that wavy blonde hair. When I’m done, you’ll have a perfectly smooth bonehead.” John cut through the lad’s t-shirt revealing a well-defined torso. Staring at the blank canvas and thinking what he would do to it, he couldn’t help but squeeze one of Mike’ nipples. John detected the tiniest of yelps, so he squeezed the other nipple. There was no reaction this time, Mike’ mind was lost. He continued to stare into the  amber jewel that was hanging in front of his face.
John turned on the clippers, starting with the boy’s left leg. Hair started falling in clumps on the floor. Once the left leg was done, he moved on to the right one. Soon John was wiping them down with a cloth, applying a astringent lotion so that the smooth skin shone in the bathroom lights and after a few more applications, regrowth would never be a problem. Then it was onto the chest. Although Mike was only in his early twenties, he’d already got quite a covering of fur, which John’s clippers made quick work of. Mike’s arms were also denuded of hair. John turned off the clippers and, with the same cloth, applied more of the special lotion to the recently clipped areas.
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John stood up and smiled. He paused for a second, “this is the last time there will be any hair growing on your head.” He pressed the on switch, and after hearing the familiar ‘clack’ he began ploughing all the way through the boy’s golden locks. In no time at all Mike was motionless sitting in the chair with a zero-grade cut. John picked up the can of shaving cream, squirted it into his hands and rubbed it copiously all over Mike’ head. He took the necessary time to ensure all the fuzz was removed and Mike’ head felt like a cue-ball. In no time at all there was a shiny hairless skinhead son sitting in front of him.
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Looking down, John smiled as Mike’ identity lay on the floor in clumps. He looked up at Mike who was sitting perfectly still, with the same glazed eyes and dazed expression on his face, oblivious to the changes being made without his consent. He took the cloth, poured some more lotion into it and rubbed it into his son’s head.
“Stand,” John ordered. Mike complied, happily obeying his skinhead master. The sports shorts were pulled down over the now smooth legs and John stood back as he grabbed the clippers. “Now boy, I need you to get nice ‘n’ hard so I can make sure I get all your hair… down there...” He watched as slowly but surely there was movement in Mike’ groin. John grinned as in no time at all full mast was achieved. “Very nice boy,” John said out loud, “I bet you were popular with the women. Is that six, possibly seven inches? Good and think as well. Unfortunately for you, you’re not going to have much use of it as my son, but it will look amazing with a thick gauge PA, and a Jacob’s ladder.”
‘Clack’, John turned on the clippers and began the removal of the last remaining hairs on Mike’ body. He had to hold himself back as he rubbed the special lotion into the skin around the groin and on the mounds that had once been covered in thick hair. When he was satisfied the boy was as smooth as the day he was born, John left the bathroom to get something from his bedroom. When he returned Mike hadn’t moved, he was still lost in the stone “Now here I have the perfect thing to complete you. Now stay perfectly still.”
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Later, John walked into the main room of the flat dressed in full skinhead gear. As he gazed at his newly denuded skinhead son, he felt his manhood straining inside a pair of skin-tight bleachers, which were turned-up and touching the top of a pair of 30-hole red ranger style boots. He was looking lustfully at the 23-year-old standing to attention, still wearing the expression, he had when the amber jewel turned him into the compliant vessel he now was. “It’s time for the next stage in your transformation lad.” With that John walked over to a cupboard an opened the doors.
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The cupboard contained piles of skinhead gear from boots to bleachers to braces to bomber jackets. First, he instructed Mike to put on a yellow jockstrap. “You’ll be wearing this non-stop for a few days – it needs to get in nice ‘n’ ripe.” Then he passed the boy a t-shirt, which Mike willingly slipped over his head. “These are your bleachers; they’ve got two zips – front and rear – you’ll soon find out why,” he grinned, “slip them on.” Mike pulled up the tight-fitting jeans that had been liberally splashed with bleach. Mike didn’t take any notice of the fact that they’d been cut off just below the knee and turned up so that they would show the full extent of the boots he would almost always be wearing when he wasn’t in his work gear. John walked across to Mike carrying a pair of red braces which he attached to the bleachers, pulling them right up his bum crack – so much so that Mike let out a little groan. To finish this stage of the transformation, John handed Mike the left boot. It was black with 20 eyelets and partly laced. John talked Mike through how to ladder lace the boot tightly and perfectly. John fitted a padlock at the very top of the boot before handing over the right one. When John was happy with the way that one was laced, he fitted another padlock. “Stand!” Mike stood up. “Turn to look in the mirror, see the Skinhead son I’ve created. This is what you are now a proud skinhead and my skinhead son.
“Now, we can begin your training. Kneel!” Mike complied. “I know your tongue will still be a bit tender, so I’ll be gentle. Open!” John commanded, and with that he slid his cock into Mike’ open mouth. “Move your tongue slowly, showing how much your love the bottom of your skinhead dad’s cock. Make sure you keep your lips tightly closed as I don’t want you to spill anything.”
He sat back as his cock was held between Mike’ virgin lips and soon found himself about to cum as the hard stud, he had introduced to the lad’s tongue work its magic. The combination of it all and the sensitivity soon had John unloading his massive load. “Swallow!” Mike swallowed quickly trying not to “spill’ as he had been instructed. John soon slid from the lips of his new son and quickly zipped up his own bleachers. “Yes,” John thought, studying the boy who, in addition to the tongue piercing also had a stud in each lobe and four more studs all the way up each of his ears. Mike would serve him well as his skinhead son, but first he needed to complete the lad’s transformation. “Right son, let’s go – I need you to see a friend of mine.”
With that John grabbed a green bomber jacket with orange lining and threw it to Mike, “put it on,” he instructed. Mike slipped on what he would get to know as an MA1 and followed John out of the flat. Right away he found it strange walking in heavy soled, tightly laced boots, but he didn’t complain – he couldn’t.
The skinhead and son waited a few minutes at the bus stop before one came along heading in the direction of the city centre. They alighted just before the main shopping area. It was an area that would be unfamiliar to Mitchell, but Mike was oblivious to everything now. He obeyed his skinhead dad, just as any good son would do. The two skinheads walked side by side into a small industrial estate. One of the units had a sign saying, ‘Anaconda Tattoo Studio and Piercing’. John walked ahead of Mike, as they got to the door, John walked in but for a second Mike hesitated. John knew this sometimes happened, especially with all the distractions of the outdoors. He pulled the amber stone out of his pocket and held it in front of Mike. “This way boy,” he ordered. Mike complied; his eyes once again completely transfixed on the glow of the jewel.
Once inside the tattoo studio, John turned to Mike, “stand here son. I need to talk to the owner.” Mike waited as instructed. Despite tattoos being made popular by the countless athletes and celebrities who adorned their bodies with intricate permanent markings, the old Mitchell would have never crossed the threshold foot into a tattoo studio. But here was Mike waiting to submit to whatever his skinhead dad was discussing with the owner.
John came out of the back office followed by a hulk of a man who was wearing tight leather trousers, a black vest, which exposed his muscular arms covered in tattoos, shaved head with long unkempt beard and on his feet were heavy biker boots. “Son this is Griff, he’s going to give you some more piercings and your tattoos. But first, you are to strip down to your jockstrap. When you’ve done that, go over there and sit in the chair. From now on you will do exactly what Griff tells you to do. He’s going to give you your first marks to show the world that you’re a proud skinhead. After you’ve got your first ink, he’s going to give you some more metal. I’m going to leave you for a bit, but I’ll be back to see the finished work.” Turning to Griff, John said, “he’s all yours.”
Griff walked over to Mike wearing only his jockstrap  sitting obediently in the chair. Since John had already removed all the boy’s hair, Griff simply wiped clean the areas to be tattooed and then laid the first outline template on the skin. His machine was then started up, some ink was added, and the needle started to buzz.
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He then began applying the needle over the site of the first tattoo, Mike felt a dull pain but didn’t flinch. Once the first tattoo on the boy’s left arm was completed, Griff went on to add the other tattoos as instructed by John. He started work on a full sleeve on Mike’s right arm, which would take four or five visits to complete. Then he added a bulldog to the rear of the lad’s right calf. Finally, two swallows were added to the back of the each of the lad’s hands. Griff whispered into Mike’s ear, “that’s all I’m doing now lad. John has booked half a dozen more sessions, so you’ll be coming back to get your neck, back and chest inked, and I can finish off the full sleeve. Now stay still. There’s a couple more things to do. Griff pushed away his tattoo cart and returned with another.
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Griff looked at the docile boy in the chair. I think we will start with the nipples. Griff played, stroked and flicked them for a few moments until they were firm. He then slipped a needle through the left nipple, at which point Mike squealed. He then installed a barbell through the hole left by the needle and screwed a ball onto either end. He repeated the process for the right nipple. “No touching lad.” Griff then turned his attention to the lad’s groin and applied a topical cream to the so-called policeman’s helmet (bell-end to others). “Right, we’ll give that a little while to take effect and, in the meantime, we can sort out your nose piercing. This will hurt, but only for a second.” Griff then picked up a clean needle from his trolley and quickly passed it through the front part of the septum. Mike’s eyes began watering, so he knew the boy was feeling the pain from the intrusion of the needle. Carefully he inserted a ring into the boy’s septum, and then said out loud, “That will take six weeks or so to heal, then John wants it swapped for a bigger ring.” Now, the cream should have dulled your senses on your knob so let’s add the final bit of metal you’re getting today. He wiped the area to be pierced with an antiseptic skin cleanser, put a mark where the piercing was to be made, and begin the piercing process. The most painful moment for Mike in the piercing process was when the piercing needle punctured his urethra. One the needle was through, Griff inserted a circular barbell and spoke again, “don’t worry if you feel a bit of discomfort – a dull, throbbing pain that’s to be expected.
At that moment the door opened, and John walked in carrying a large shopping bag. “He’s all done, just as you instructed John. Don’t forget to leave the starter jewellery in for six weeks – no less, and make sure you use the aftercare solution. After that we can do a bit of stretching to your liking.”
As the days turned into weeks. John had started his son on the path to being a smoker. First, he gave him a gum to chew to introduce nicotine into the body, then he encouraged him to vape. When he felt there was an addiction starting, he told the boy to smoke cigarettes, starting him on five a day, and quickly moving onto ten, then fifteen. Within a couple of weeks, he was getting through a pack a day.
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Mike also kept up his weekly visits to Griff, as more of his skin was covered with ink. Over the period, the full sleeve was completed, the Union flag was tattooed on the back of Mike’s next, the word skinhead was tattooed in script of his back and the letters that made up the word skinhead were inked on his knuckles and finally a Celtic cross was inked on the left pectoral. On the most recent visit Griff replaced the rings in his septum and PA with heavier gauges. As per John’s instructions, he also replaced the studs in his ears with rings and the ones in the lobes with spreaders. Mike joined his skinhead dad in a new gym, one that was run by an ex-boxer friend of John’s. John made sure to get Mike in the boxing ring so that his pretty boy face could get roughed up a bit. John wanted his son to look a bit freakier.
Mike didn’t look like the sort of person who would work in an office anymore, so he was signed up to work in the city council’s recycling centre – they were always in need of people to sort through other people’s waste. Five days a week he stood by a conveyor belt dressed in dirty Hi-Viz gear, and safety boots separating glass, metal, plastic, paper and cardboard into different bins.
After work, the boy would return to his skinhead dad’s flat, which was much bigger now that the wall had been knocked through joining what was Mitchell’s flat and John’s flat together. This night was special because as soon as he got home, Mike got out of his stinking workie gear he’d be in since just after dawn and into the skinhead gear his dad left out for him. Tonight, skinhead dad would be introducing his skinhead son to the lads in the pub. Mike dressed in his bleachers, a black Fred Perry, yellow socks and red 20-hole boots. Mike was ready in time for his dad to return home. John walked through the door and saw the perfect skinhead son standing there. “C’mon son. You’re gonna meet your skin bruders.”
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heavencanbeaprisontoo · 2 months
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“Not quite my type”
Shelby Brothers x reader
Summary: Everybody says they have “a type,” but we don’t always fall for that type now do we?
Note: Physical descriptions are used. This is a sequel to this post that goes over my hcs for the Shelby brothers’ (excluding Finn) types!
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Arthur
(Short and curvy—> Tall and lean)
Arthur always liked a softer lady, someone on the shorter side too. However, Arthur’s type is truly any woman that shows him kindness and patience. Out of all the Shelby brothers, Arthur would be the first to change his preferences for his partner. He doesn’t treat you as competition or as being masculine, no. Arthur treats you like a princess… think of Gimli speaking to Galadriel. If you were not only tall, but muscular, Arthur would only find you that much sexier. A noble, strong, otherworldly woman chose him as a partner, he’s a lucky man. Once he’s in love, he romanticizes every part of you. From your long legs to your elegant back.
Tommy
(Tall and lean —-> Short and curvy)
Tommy tended to go for lean, sophisticated ladies. When he was young they called his type “Gibson Girls.” That is not to say that he would turn down a woman based only on her height or waistline. It would take some getting used to, sure… but he does get used to it. Tommy likes the subtle curves of a woman. Her spine, her neck, her thighs. There is something gentle and romantic about a softer bodied woman. He likes to buy you fine dresses to accentuate your figure and jewelry to compliment your eyes. Tommy likes to show you off, until men start to get too close. His favorite place to put you is right on his lap, his hand gripping your thigh.
John
(Plump backside—> Not so much)
So, you’ve got a small or flat backside. Not everyone gets to just have one. No shame in it! Now, if you’re worried John would love you less for it… It wouldn’t matter. He will spank it anyway. And John is an easygoing guy when it comes to sex appeal. Some pricks only want girls with big bosoms or dainty hands. John likes all sizes. Tits are tits, an ass is an ass. He isn’t exactly a poet about it though, so you might not always feel as sexy as he sees you. Until he gets his hands on you, anyway. John doesn’t even care about lingerie! If you’re his girl, all you need to do is give him a wink and he’s yours.
Tags-
@graveyard-stray @roeun
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soap-ify · 4 months
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nsfw mdni
okay but imagine being the teacher of single dad!soap's son! you teach in a nice, well-kept kindergarten — well liked by all the students, teachers and parents. how could they not? you were such a sweetheart. good with kids too, even if you initially thought you would be stiff around them.
relationships with students' parents was something you never gave yourself the luxury to even think of. it just seemed so unprofessional.
that all changed until you met one of your scottish student's parent on the parent-teacher meeting day. tall and nicely muscular, a nicely cut short mohawk on his head, royal blue eyes that just seemed so damn sweet and a big bright smile on his lips — john mactavish. he was like the sun, bright and powerful and the way he would call his son his 'wee bairn' — it was dangerously adorable.
he was so attentive to you, eyes sizing you up, carefully listening to each of your words. his child was doing great in this kindergarten, but his mind had soon drifted away from that. distracted by you. how could he not? he had just been so lonely ever since his kid's mother had left them, leaving him all alone to raise a kid at his own young age of twenty three.
now twenty-seven with a five year old son, he had even resigned from his military duties to focus on his son. but he was a bit tired, always alone and eager for some company despite already having lots of friends!
you were just so sweet to his child, a perfect teacher and a potentially perfect parent. that's why he made it his personal mission to get to know you better! for his kid, of course, definitely not for himself.
he had started accidentally bumping into you outside of the kindergarten, your meetings with him going outside the parent-teacher conferences. luckily you were single, and that just encouraged him more and more to go after you. not that he would let any man look at you anyways. he even offered you to tutor his son, despite the child already being nicely skilled. it was just an excuse so johnny could get to know you better.
tutoring sessions would turn into late night stays while johnny would tuck his son in bed before somehow convincing you to stay one more hour with him. he took full advantage of those nights, gently holding your hand and brushing his shoulder with yours. chaste little touches.
one particular afternoon, johnny invited you over to his house. apparently, he had dropped his son off to an uncle's house. finally, a full day alone with you.
it was all innocent at first, just casual talks about the everyday stuff. he even watched a movie with you! a sappy rom-com that made you cringe and laugh due to how hilarious it was. though he hadn't really been watching it, royal blue eyes solely focused on your reactions.
you didn't even notice how the time had passed by and the end credits had started rolling on the telly. but before you could get up from the couch, he had already grabbed your waist with his hands and pulled you closer.
"bonnie wee thing... i ain't lettin' ye get up. please say, pretty please?" he pouted, those pleading puppy eyes convincing you to stay with him on the couch. he had pulled you closer, strong arms keeping you tightly pressed with him. "cuddles?" he grinned.
an hour had passed into the cuddling session, your back flushed against his chest. all this time, you had felt his clothed cock rubbing against your plush ass through the fabric of your pants. you had tried to reason yourself, wanting to protest that you were his kid's teacher for god's sake. but you didn't. it felt nice. you knew how he looked at you, and you knew how fucking sweet he was to you. no one had been so caring towards you like him — cooking for you and even bringing you flowers whenever he came to pick his child up from school.
once you had gained some courage to nuzzle the back of your head against his neck, a switch on his brain just turned on and he was quick to turn you around, smashing his lips against yours. smothering your face and neck up with kisses, all while cooing sweet words into your ears.
"sweet thing. ye are perfect for my wee lad. wanna wife ye up so bad, keep ye in my house..."
all you could do was let out soft whimpers and moans, his hands effortlessly undressing you.
and before you knew it, he had fucked you full the whole afternoon and evening, thick cock filling up your hole, stuffing you full of his cum. might come handy later. leaving you as a tired, flushed mess. and the aftercare was godly. he cleaned you up with a wet towel, all while pressing kisses on your trembling thighs, your body so weak after all the orgasms he had pulled out of you. eight, or was it nine...? you couldn't remember.
he had used his tongue to clean up your fluttering, sore hole, though it was an excuse to somehow make you cum again. and oh, you did.
the night was spent in his arms, your exhausted body all snuggled up into him, a victorious grin on his lips. hopefully you didn't find him creepy, or a bit perverted. probably not, right?
the whole night he stared at you, thinking of more ways to make you fall in love with him, to somehow convince you to marry him. his son already liked you well enough, and so did he. it was perfect.
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