warnings: age gap (no glorification here, trust me), fem reader. everyone is an adult.
summary: it hadn't meant to happen this way; he was just a crush and now you wish you never met him.
masterlist || navigation || ao3
You hadn’t felt right since the interaction you had with Carlisle last week; you’ve been stuck in bed avoiding the world like it’ll fix you. You feel terribly wrong, an impending sense of doom weighs your chest down and sends tingles throughout your body every time you think about the way he touched you — his hands felt good against your skin, the attention was addicting, but it felt gross.
And yet, you want more, want to feel him grab you again and call you pretty — God, what is wrong with me? You ask yourself, turning to face the window. It’s raining outside, in a few weeks it’ll turn to snow.
“It’s just seasonal depression,” you say, faking confidence to convince yourself. I mean, you do struggle with it every year, makes sense it would hit again, right? Right. “Fuck,” you groan, picking up your phone to see thirteen missed calls from Bella. You bite your lip, debating on giving her a call back before deciding it can be done later. You can already feel the guilt seeping through your bones for brushing her off, but you can’t bring yourself to speak right now.
A soft knock at your door pulls you from your mind, your mother talks quietly on the other side. “Can I come in, honey?” You reply loud enough for her to hear, then a soft click of your door as she opens it. “Carlisle is here for you, downstairs.” She says, worry evident on her face. You freeze and she is silent for a moment before taking a breath. “Why..why is he here?” You can tell she’s trying to be calm about it, and you shrug.
“I don’t know,” you tell her, getting up and heading towards your dresser to make yourself presentable. Her eyes follow you, watching as you apply a little makeup to freshen up.
“You know he’s too old for you?” and it makes you angry, but you ignore her and apply lip gloss. She stands, trying to catch your eyes as she speaks. “I don’t want you near him any longer,” she adds, voice stern.
You scoff, irritation bubbling through. “It’s not like that,” you say, voice raised as you run a brush through your hair. “He’s just.. Worried. I don’t know, can you just stop?” you tell her, pushing past her, paying no mind to what she yells after you.
You’re walking down the stairs, slower than if it were Bella waiting for you. He’s in your living room, looking out of place in his white, ironed button down and black trousers. His face lights up when he sees you, reaching an arm out to bring you into a hug. You're stiff in his arms, unsure what to do with your own as you breathe in his scent.
“You haven’t been answering anyone for a bit, we’ve been worried,” he tells you, pulling away, but resting his hands on your shoulders. His eyes glance up to your mother who stands at the top of the stairs, and he removes his hands entirely. You frown, missing the warmth. He drops his voice to a whisper, just enough for your ears to hear, “You look pretty, darling.”
You blush, sinking in on yourself. You don’t verbally acknowledge the compliment, choosing to skip past it. “Yeah, I was gonna call Bella actually, I feel bad,” you say, looking away as you try to laugh it off. “It’s just been a rough week is all.”
He makes a noise of acknowledgement, but you can tell he isn’t satisfied with your response. “I can take you to my house, she’s actually there with Edward right now. I don’t mind,” he tells you, grabbing your bag off the side table to carry out for you before you even have time to agree.
“Oh, okay,” you mumble, yelling bye to your mom as you follow him out of the house.
He opens the passenger door for you, helping you inside and leaning over to buckle you in — his hand grazes against your breast and you stiffen, but he pays no mind. “There we go,” he smiles, patting your thigh before shutting the door and getting in on the driver's side.
The first few minutes of the drive are silent, but eventually he sighs and glances over to you. “Be honest with me, sweetheart. What’s bothering you?” he asks, putting his hand behind your neck and gently massaging the sides. His fingers pause at the junction of your neck where your pulse is; he holds a light pressure as he waits for you to speak.
Your hands move upward out of instinct, but you quickly put them back down into your lap and play with your fingers instead. You can feel your pulse against his index finger; it’s quick, nearly missing a beat here and there. You aren’t sure why he’s touching you there, but you can’t find the courage to ask.
“Uhm, just the usual,” you trail off, inwardly cursing at how shaky your voice is. When he doesn’t reply, you realize he wants you to continue. “College stuff, it’s a bit stressful,” you tell him. “This weather doesn’t help either,” you add, laughing dryly to mask your anxiety.
Finally, he nods and pulls his hand back, but it’s followed by a dissatisfied huff that makes you scrunch your brows. “You don’t have to lie to me, sweetheart.”
If you thought it couldn’t get any worse, it just did — you swear your heart dropped to your ass the second those words left his mouth. ‘Is he mad? Please don’t be mad,’ you think, watching him out of the corner of your eye. ‘Has his car always been this small? Why is it so hot in here?’ you might throw up. If you were both dogs, he would smell the stress radiating off of you.
You make a noise like you mean to speak, but the words die in your throat. He is right, you aren’t sure how he knows; same way you aren’t sure how to defend yourself. ‘Deny, deny, deny,’ you decide, but before you get the chance to do so, he shakes his head. It’s like he can see what you’re thinking.
“I do not appreciate dishonesty,” he tells you, pulling down the driveway to his home. “But I am willing to forgive it under one condition,” and you nod, which he notices immediately. “See, I knew it,” but his tone remains eerily light for how heavy the energy feels.
‘Fuck, why did I nod?’ That had to be the most obvious trap you could have walked into, but you stay silent and let him finish — you made your bed, might as well lay in it.
He shifts the car into park, turning to give you his full attention. “Before you leave, come see me in my office and give me the truth.” Your hand is hovering the door handle, and you nod; the easier you agree, the quicker you can leave, right? He smiles at your response, turning the engine off as he undoes his own seatbelt. “Good girl, go find Bella now,” and you nearly fall out of the car with how fast you open the door and jump out, but his hand grabbing ahold of your arm halts you. “Oh, and don’t mention this.”
I received an anonymous ask about you and I think it’s weird. I never interacted with you but I hate anonymous attacks it makes me disbelieve them automatically. Be careful you’re under attack.
thank you for telling me! i haven’t received anything myself, so that’s very unfortunate someone is dissing me on anon to others lol. Not even sure what it could be about other than maybe the content I write on occasion? I don’t interact past reading and writing on here. But thank you <33
Can u put me in the tag list for the one with Carlisle Cullen? :) or tag me in the comments of it please I’ve been trying to find the other part but I can’t seem to find it ! :)
i feel terrible for you guys; you don't even know half the horrors that are coming.
warnings: age gap (no glorification here, trust me), fem reader. everyone is an adult.
summary: it hadn't meant to happen this way; he was just a crush and now you wish you never met him.
masterlist || navigation || ao3
No one had warned you of the horrors of getting older. Well, you suppose Bella had the day she turned eighteen and freaked out for two weeks straight, but neither of you had mentioned it again after that. But you can see it, now that you’re nineteen. Men don’t hold as many doors, offer as many smiles — you don’t get catcalled the way you did when you were seventeen walking to school with Bella.
You stare at yourself in the mirror before leaving, squinting and pulling back with a gasp when you spot a fine line on your forehead. Bella honks her car's horn outside, growing impatient while you grow disgust. “Shit,” you murmur, grabbing the cheap bottle of moisturizer off your vanity and slathering it on in hopes it’ll make your age disappear. You straighten your clothes, fix your hair, and grab your bag before taking off down the stairs, hollering a quick ‘love you, bye!’ to your mother, not waiting for her response before you shut the old door behind you.
The temperature outside is cool, bare trees rustling around in the wind as you get in her car and toss your belongings in the back. “Bells,” you whine, turning your head to face the girl beside you. “We’re getting old.” and she laughs, nodding her head in agreement. To add on to your point, you flail your arms with a groan, “I have wrinkles!”
Bella glances at you, a look of ‘really?’ on her face before turning her attention back to the road. “I think you might be dramatic,” but you double down. “Okay, okay” she giggles, “I’ll check when we get to Edwards… I’ll even have him check for you. His eyesight is better than mine.”
The idea settles you and the rest of the ride is smooth, or as smooth as it can be with her driving.
Eventually, the car pulls into the Cullen’s residence and the two of you exit, grabbing your belongings before heading for the door. “I can’t believe it’s already October,” Bella starts, ascending the steps. “I swear, just last week we were soaking up the sun on the beach.”
Before you can respond, Edward is opening the door. “Thought that was you guys, I heard the car pull in,” he says, grabbing Bella for a hug.
She smiles, but when she pulls away, she cocks her head in confusion, “I fixed my muffler last week, remember? You couldn’t have heard me.”
He pauses but is quick to recover. “Ah, must’ve heard another car. Perfect timing, I guess.”
No one pushes the subject; there is no reason to. Instead, Bella turns her attention to you, pulling you into the house and in front of her and flicks the light on. She puts her fingers gently onto your temples and brings your face in close to hers, eyes scanning your forehead for any signs of wrinkles. “Mm, I don’t see anything, girl.” She moves back and pushes Edward towards you, “Can you look if she has any wrinkles, you have better eyesight than us.”
A small smile rests on his face as he looks down at you, only looking for a second before a voice pipes up from the side. “What are you three doing?” Carlisle asks, looking amused. It takes him three strides to join the group, eyes focused in on you, occasionally glancing Edward's way. He pays Bella no mind.
“She’s worried she has a wrinkle,” Bella says, throwing you under the bus. “I didn’t see any, but Edward’s looking too.”
You nod and Edward shrugs, “I don’t see anything, maybe one small line, but I wouldn’t call it a wrinkle.”
You huff; the idea of even a fine line sends a jolt of anxiety through you. Carlisle clears his throat, stepping in front of Edward to peer down at you. “Let me look,” he says softly, one hand firmly grasping your chin. You stare blankly at his neck, too nervous to even breathe. Carlisle snorts, brushing his thumb purposefully against your bottom lip as he tilts your head up, forcing you to make eye-contact with him. “You’re fine, sweetheart. No wrinkles, no fine lines.”
“Thank you,” you attempt, but the words come out quiet, and your throat is extremely dry. He stands there for another moment, holding your face before letting go. You miss the contact.
“I’m going to start dinner,” Carlisle announces, stepping away from you, but his eyes remain stuck. “Would you ladies like anything specific?”
“No thank you, anything is fine,” Bella says, easing the tension and taking his focus off you. “We’re all going to go upstairs for a bit, if that’s okay?”
He nods, shooing the three of you away. Bella and Edward head to his room, but you stay planted. “Do you need any help?” you ask, motioning towards the kitchen. You aren’t sure if you want him to say yes or no, or why you even asked. ‘Stupid, stupid, stupid,’ you think to yourself, but it’s too late to back out now.
“That would be great, if you want.” he replies, not giving you time to respond as he guides you into the kitchen with a hand on your lower back. You can feel yourself trembling and you can only hope he doesn’t feel it too.
Your eyes scan the area, desperate for a reason to break the silence. “Your kitchen is beautiful,” you blurt, mentally cursing yourself for choosing that to say out of everything. You break free from his hold, moving towards the sink and picking up an empty glass inside to wash it — you’re here to cook, not clean, you remind yourself, rinsing the soap from the dish and placing it down to dry. ‘What the fuck’ you think, confused by your own actions. You let out a rushed “Sorry.” and turn your attention back to him.
He doesn’t seem phased by what you did, leaning against the counter with a smile. “Thank you, it could use a woman’s touch though. It’s a bit bland,” he tells you, grabbing ingredients from the fridge.
“Your daughters don’t decorate?” you ask, taking the tomato he hands you.
Carlisle shakes his head, “Cut that for a salad.” and you listen. “They are good, but I’m sure you’re better. I’ve heard Bella speak of the way you decorate. Sounds cute.”
You blush, finding it hard to focus on the tomato. “Thank you, but I’m really not that good.”
There’s a moment of silence, then you feel it — feel him. Carlisle's chest is solid against your back, pressing. “Now, what do we have here?” he chuckles, placing one hand on your hip. The feeling is so faint you could almost miss it. Then, he grabs your hand with the knife, stopping your movement and taking the item from you. He steps back and it’s like it never happened.
You look down at the plate below you; the tomatoes are cut in small squares instead of circles. You were so focused on him that you hadn’t even noticed your mindless chopping. “I’m so sorry,” you tell him, turning to face him. The embarrassment colors your face. ‘God, how did I do that?’ you wonder.
“Don’t worry, silly girl.” He says, waving you off. “They’re still fine to use, thank you for doing it.”
You gulp, still nervous and full of guilt.
“Go upstairs, Bella and Edward are waiting for you.” His voice is soft, gentle as he leads. “I’ll finish this, don’t worry about anything.”
alright, posting the fic in increments won. this first chapter is essentially the prologue, so it's on the short side but the rest won't be!
warnings: age gap (no glorification here, trust me), fem reader.
summary: it hadn't meant to happen this way; he was just a crush and now you wish you never met him.
masterlist || navigation || ao3
You had met him when you were 18 — old enough to know better, too young to care. Besides, he was just a crush, it wouldn’t go anywhere; if you could go back in time, you would have heeded your mother's advice and left that old man alone.
“I think you should stop going to the Cullen’s for a while,” your mother had said, a prominent scowl etched into her features. Her eyes stayed glued to Carlisle, who waved politely and watched as you both drove away in her old Carolla, until she physically had to look away. “I don’t like the way he looks at you.”
You huffed, hiding the excitement brewing in your chest at the implication. “I’m not sure what you mean, he’s never been weird to me,” you told her, rolling your eyes at her worry and brushing it off. “I’m eighteen, not a little kid anymore, mom.”
She nodded her head in agreement, but her frown never left as she spoke. “You’re still my little girl and I can see things that you can’t quite yet… just be careful, okay?” and you agreed, but paid it no mind.
God forgive her.
–
“Bella,” you call out to the girl ahead of you, clutching your bag in one hand and a present in the other as you jog to catch up. “Slow down, I’m going to trip.” you tell her, smiling when she laughs and calls you a slow poke. She has two bags and a present of her own, yet she moves like her hands are empty.
The cullen house sits in front of you, minimal birthday decorations covering the entrance; the work of Rosalie, no doubt. It’s Edwards 20th birthday and Bella planned a sleepover with the three of you. “I hope he likes what I got him,” she says, knocking on the front door. Her eyes glance down at the box in her hands, thumbs smoothing over the yellow wrapping paper as she chews her lip in thought.
You bump your shoulder against hers, smiling at her worry, “He’ll love it.” It doesn’t do much to ease her stress, but she knows you’re right.
The door in front of you opens, revealing Carlisle in a red button down and slacks. You pause momentarily to take in the sight, but Bella is quick to push you forward, causing you to stumble as she’s grumbling about no time to waste, but the look in her eyes says you were being too obvious.
Carlisle steadies you with a large hand on your waist, not that you needed the help. “Careful girls,” he jokes, letting his hand trail up the side of your waist, down your arm and to your hands. He grabs the gift and your bag, wordlessly taking them elsewhere and you brush the interaction off — Bella hadn’t even seen it, too busy walking up the stairs to her boyfriend’s room.
You’re able to catch up quickly, glancing back at where you stood moments ago, feeling butterflies form in your gut. ‘Bella is not going to believe what just happened,’ you think, smiling softly to yourself.
“Happy birthday!” you yell in sync with Bella, the two of you take turns giving the older boy a hug. “How’s it feel to be such an old man?” you ask, jokingly punching his shoulder.
“Feels good, should start planning my retirement and funeral now, huh?” he replies, taking the gift from Bella and opening it. Your mind drifts to your interaction with Carlisle earlier as the two of them chat back and forth - ‘Had he meant anything by it?’ you wonder, attempting to see it as nothing. “You know,” Edward starts, catching your attention. “They say the feeling of butterflies is actually anxiety, that it could be a warning.”
Bella laughs, but you go stiff; how the hell did he know? It has to be a coincidence, a very off putting one. “That’s not good,” Bella says, setting her bag down on the floor and taking a seat on his bed. “I’ve had butterflies every time I look at you.”
He leans down to kiss her, hand brushing her brown hair out of the way, “That’s different, you have the good kind.” The clock ticking on the wall above his bed fills the silence as the pair go in for another kiss.
You, suddenly uncomfortable with the moment, decide to offer them privacy and silently head downstairs for a bottle of water and to hopefully find your bag and gift — why had he taken those and why did you let him? “I’ll be back guys, I’m thirsty,” you tell them, not waiting for a response before you leave the room and descend the stairs. No one else appears to be home, but you figure they’re just out or working later than usual.
The kitchen is void of people and your items, but there’s a stack of water you grab from in the fridge. “Where is my stuff,” you mumble to yourself quietly, breaking the seal of your drink and taking a sip. The quiet hum of the refrigerator fills the kitchen, and you continue to mull over the situation as you drink.
Then, a familiar voice sounds from behind you, causing you to briefly choke on your water from surprise. “Carlisle,” you gasp, coughing a few more times as you rest your hand on your heart. “You scared me!”
He’s quick to place his hand on your back, gently rubbing as he mutters a soft apology. “That wasn’t my intention, I’m sorry,” he tells you, removing his hand once you recover. The space between you is small, practically nonexistent as you crane your neck to look up at him. “I heard you ask where your stuff was,” he starts, adjusting the sleeves of his shirt as he speaks. “I said I can show you, it’s right down this hall in my study.” He takes off down the hall before you can agree, leaving you to follow the trail of his cologne, faint traces of sandalwood and cashmere.
He is already at the door when you turn the corner, holding the heavy oak open far enough that a sliver of warm light spills through. “I wanted to talk to you for a moment as well,” he says, letting you walk past him into the room. Your shoulder brushes against his broad chest; he doesn’t attempt to move or apologize and neither do you. “I heard that you’re in the nursing program, correct?” he asks, shutting the door with a soft click behind him. The room feels much smaller now as the hair on your arms rises. You ignore it, nodding mindlessly.
“Yeah, just finished my first semester actually.” you tell him, subconsciously taking in the space around you. Your bag and gift are sitting in a seat across the mahogany desk, and you take a few steps towards them, still gabbing. “My finals were last week, so now I have a whole month off to look forward to.” The thought makes you smile, knowing you and Bella get to take that road trip to the mountains for a snowy hike soon and have mini spa days together — maybe even a martini or four if either of your parents agree. “I’m pretty excited.”
Carlisle moves to his chair, silently motioning for you to take a seat where your items occupy. His expression holds a gentle smile and an almost adoring look in his eyes if you knew any better. “I can tell,” he says softly, watching you fidget with your items. A moment of silence passes between the two of you before he speaks. “I was wondering if you would like to complete your clinicals at my hospital?”
You’re a bit stunned by the offer and confusion builds on your face as you tilt your head. “I appreciate the offer, but my program doesn’t let me pick my own placements.” Part of you feels bummed, you would have loved to work with him, but a part of you also feels oddly... relieved. But his expression does not falter, instead he chuckles and shakes his head, moving his hand an inch closer to your space.
“Don’t worry about that,” he responds confidently, waving the matter off as if he’s above it — and maybe he is, you wouldn’t know, but your expression does not let up and he takes this as a chance, leaning forward to explain more. “I have connections,” he adds, moving back into his chair allowing you to release a breath you hadn’t known you’d been holding. “I just need you to say yes.”
You go to reply, but pause, lips partially parted as you take in his words. His eyes are chasing your own and you begin to feel a rapid influx of heat enter your body. “Yes,” you rush, not really thinking. He nods in approval, and you grab your items and leave, dashing up the stairs to Bella and Edward. You don’t mention it, at least not right away — ‘what even was that?’ you think to yourself, over and over again.
...and the grabber.
includes: michael myers, thomas hewitt, vincent sinclair, bo sinclair, hannibal lecter (tv show), jason voorhees, the grabber.
masterlist || navigation
Michael Myers
He doesn’t feel jealousy like the average person, he feels possession. All he sees is someone trying to take away what he views as his and once that head tilts? Game over before it has even started. You never mention it, don’t have to. There’s always blood under his nails when you turn the news on the next morning and see the person you spoke with the other day listed as missing. These murders are more gruesome, more animalistic. Michael can’t sit knowing there is someone out there that wants you.
Thomas Hewitt
Thomas has never had something to himself, so when you come along, he’ll do anything to keep you. His jealousy is reactive, immediate, and all consuming — it clouds his vision and dictates his actions. If any future victims get too close, too friendly, he can’t help but go off script and kill them right then and there, which always gets him in trouble later. Sometimes, Hoyt’s eyes will linger on you too long and Thomas pulls you away gently, hiding you from the man. You’re his, all his, and he needs to hear you say it to calm him.
Vincent Sinclair
Vincent tends to channel his jealousy into his sculptures. Anyone that makes him jealous has an upcoming death date regardless of his feelings, but he is much more brutal with the ones that dared to speak to you past a polite greeting. Sometimes, the damage is so severe he can’t even display the wax figure he’s made out of them.
Bo Sinclair
Everyone becomes a victim to Bo’s jealousy, just some tend to have it worse than others. His grip will tighten on you, calling you ‘sweetheart’ like the words are poison on his tongue, then when finally alone, he’ll accuse you of wanting to leave him — of having wandering eyes. He will demand Vincent give them unappealing features when he sculpts them, even going as far to take his pocketknife and scrape the finished product to defile them even further. The victim gets the worst of it, though. Damage is so bad even Vincent has to scrap some because he can’t sculpt what little is left of them.
Hannibal Lecter
Hannibal’s jealousy is deeply sinister. He won’t show it outright, but he studies the offender — their habits, their scent, the tone of their voice and even takes on some of their traits himself, since you seemed to like them so much. He’ll serve dinner that week, the meat unusually tender and when you dare to ask what it is, he’ll only smile. Later, when you thank him for dinner, his hand will linger at the base of your neck, thumb brushing your carotid pulse. “You must forgive me,” he murmurs, “I do dislike sharing.” His jealousy isn’t about love; it’s about control portrayed as love. An uncontrollable desire to consume every part of you until there’s nothing left that isn’t his.
Jason Voorhees
His jealousy stems from the sheer desperation he feels towards you. He reacts like a wounded animal when someone tries to take you from him, blade tearing through skin and bone till there is nothing left of them. You’ll have to comfort him after, promising you’d never leave him because here’s the thing about a wounded animal; they’ll turn on you too.
The Grabber
The Grabbers jealousy is a blanket that constricts you — he’s calm, composed, and so damn condescending one minute and sweet the next that it gives you whiplash. He is constantly torn between taking it out on you and blaming the other person, who he kills. He’ll corner you, showing you the blood stained weapon, saying you made him do this and that he doesn’t want to have to hurt you too.
a break before the next kinktober drop.
includes: michael myers, jason voorhees, the grabber, thomas hewitt, brahms heelshire, hannibal lecter, vincent sinclair, bo sinclair.
masterlist || navigation
Michael Myers
Michael’s yearning is strange. He doesn’t yearn like most — the way he needs you is like rot under painted wood; invisible, but dangerous. He doesn’t focus on why he lingers outside your window, how he knows the sound of your footsteps, or why he wants to keep you rather than kill you. Michael just knows you’re different to him. It isn’t love, not even close. It’s something worse — older, darker, a pull he can’t unlearn. Its devotion twisted into obsession.
Jason Voorhees
Jason’s yearning is heavy. He’ll follow you through the forest with silent excitement like a hunter after their first doe of the season. He tries to make himself smaller, softer in an attempt to not scare you, though his size and silence do anyway. Jason leaves offerings like bait; flowers, candy, whatever he sees and thinks you might like. He loves you the only way he can — by protecting you. It’s worship.
The Grabber
The Grabber’s yearning is an illness dressed in silk. You feel it in the way his voice softens when he says your name, the way his bare hand rests around your throat — not to hurt, but to remind you that he could. He watches you with that damned mask hiding his truth, pretending control, but you can feel it each time he speaks; the desperation lacing his voice. He doesn’t understand love, not in the gentle sense that someone as soft as you deserve. His is a dark possession that aches, a distressed urge to keep you where the world can’t touch you. Every time you flinch, he whispers, “I don’t want to hurt you.” and part of you believes him. You are the only softness he’s ever craved, and he needs you to stay.
Thomas Hewitt
Thomas’s yearning is slow, patient, and devoted. He can’t say what he feels, so he builds it instead. Little gestures stitched into every day; a gift a thought you’d like and waiting for you to join the table before eating. You’re the one thing that makes him believe there’s something gentle left in him — how could he let that go? He watches you with soft eyes, adoring every feature like it’s the first time. His yearning isn’t loud, but it speaks volumes.
Brahms Heelshire
Brahms’s yearning is frantic. Like he’s drowning and you’re the air he’s desperate for. His affection comes as whispers through the walls, gifts he leaves where you’ll find them, and the way he trembles when you say his name — God, he loves the way his name sounds on your tongue. He wants you to see him, to never, ever leave. His love is unbalanced, fevered, but achingly sincere. You can tell how badly he wants to be good for you, even if he doesn’t fully know how.
Hannibal Lecter
Hannibal’s yearning is an art form. He is precise and utterly consuming. You are his muse, his fascination, the line between devotion and destruction blurred into something so beautiful. He doesn’t starve for your body so much as your soul, the way your mind moves. His love is a sonnet written in blood and expensive wine. When he looks at you, it feels like being studied, painted, and devoured all at once. You’ll never know if he wants to kiss you or consume you, maybe both. He has paintings of you on his wall. To be yearned by him is to be owned.
Vincent Sinclair
Vincent’s yearning is quiet. You see it in the way he sculpts, how every curve of wax mirrors you with precision. He doesn’t speak his love, but trust that he shows it. His hands that glide across your face and skin, memorizing every inch, the polaroids of you that adorn his workspace — the man spends every moment thinking of you, replicating you with wax. He loves like an artist loves their masterpiece.
Bo Sinclair
Bo’s yearning is dangerous. He’ll tease, flirt, and pretend he doesn’t care, but his hands always find you. He’s the kind of man who says “you’re mine” like it’s a threat and a promise all at once. He’d sit and watch it all burn for you because he doesn’t know how to be gentle, but when he’s with you, the edge softens just enough — like wax. You consume him in the worst way.
hereditary; passing, or capable of passing, naturally from parent to offspring through the genes. in this instance, taehyung's urge to claim and protect is hereditary, a genetic trait passed down through his Kangal bloodline. what happens when he's pulled from his farm, and these instincts get pointed towards you?
happy kinktober!! this weeks pairing is kangal hybrid!taehyung x fem!reader
content: mdni. smut, porn with plot, knotting, man-handling, size kink, breeding, praise, biting, dom/sub dynamics if you squint, unprotected piv, clear consent is given, cervix bruising, slightly controlling taehyung but he's a sweetheart, fingering.
word count: 10.5k
masterlist || navigation || ao3 || kinktoberlist
You don’t realize how much space Taehyung takes up until you try to move past him. He isn’t just tall, wide, or heavy. He’s there — a presence that hums against your skin like a low electric current. Six-foot-five of pure muscle, thick arms, and black floppy ears that flick at every sound. You can’t escape him.
You’d been warned about Kangals. Every forum claims that they are too dominant, too controlling, too much for any human — let alone a female, to manage. They’re bred to guard, to kill, and to claim. Most people only ever see them on labor farms behind heavy barbed wire fences, never in a small two-bedroom apartment like yours. Owning one is considered reckless, dangerous even and yet here you are.
It was three months ago when Minseok had called you, his voice soft and urgent over the speaker. “You’re the only one he’s ever liked,” he said, subtly implying some unknown truth you hadn’t caught onto yet. “Please, I can’t take him to the States (y/n).” You were hesitant of course, but Minseok would never put you in a position that could cause harm — he trusted Taehyung with you and that was enough for you to sign the adoption papers later that night.
You assumed it would be awkward at first, getting used to having a large farm hybrid in your home, but It wasn’t, at least not to the degree you thought. Taehyung had made his desires clear early on. “I don’t sleep away from my flock,” is what he had said when you showed him the guest room on the first night.
At first, you had looked at him confused, not understanding what he meant; but then it hit you — you’re his flock now, his sheep. Your eyes widened in realization, a small ‘oh’ when it clicked coming from you. “Okay,” you said, hesitantly showing him your room instead. “We can just share the bed,” you said mindlessly, then followed it up quickly with “if you don’t mind!” as minor embarrassment set in. Taehyung didn’t seem to mind though, a grunt of satisfaction sounding from his chest.
Eventually, you build a routine together. Taehyung knows you like the back of his hand, always watching your expressions and body language. “You’re staring again,” you tell the hybrid, eyes glued to the article on your phone. You don’t even have to look up to know, his gaze is something you could feel a mile away while blind folded. After a few minutes of silence, you feel forced to look at him — his staring problem seems worse than usual today. “Is something wrong, Tae?” you ask, changing gears as you become concerned.
His pupils are blown wide, hiding most of his usual amber color with black. “Your scent,” is all he mumbles as he stands up and begins to stalk towards you. He clears the distance from his spot to yours in four steps and kneels down in front of you, one of his large hands goes to rest on your bare thigh and the other wraps around your ankle, gently pushing your legs apart. His eyes watch your face intently, checking for any signs of resistance and rumbling when there are none. “Good girl,” he mumbles, voice low like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
Your phone chimes besides you, tearing your attention away for a moment to check — it’s your cycle tracker reminding you that you are nearing your ovulation. ‘Oh shit,’ you think, tensing as you finally understand the sudden change in his behavior. “I’m sorry Tae,” you tell him, hand reaching into his hair to pet his ears. “I should go on birth control, I know how hard this is on you.” But his reaction is not what you expect in the slightest.
“No,” he growls, dragging his sharp canines across the exposed skin of your thigh. It’s not enough to break skin, but it sends shivers throughout your body. His grip tightens, spreading your legs another quarter inch. “I won’t allow it.” he adds, attaching his lips to the skin to trail wet kisses to the hem of your shorts. When he reaches the jean fabric he pauses, eyes once again scanning your features as he slides his fingertips underneath the material. You’re breathing shallow, eyes glazed and unreadable until you shift your hips towards him. The movement is so small that you don’t even realize you’ve done it, but he does. He pulls away with a smirk, stretching innocently when he stands as if he hadn’t just crossed several unspoken boundaries. “I’m hungry, we should order takeout,” he says without a second thought, walking towards your phone on the counter.
Your brows furrow in confusion as you watch him walk away. “Takeout?” you whisper, mainly to yourself but he hums a yes in response regardless. Not even thirty seconds ago he was looking at you like you were something he wanted to devour and now he wants takeout? You shake the thought from your head — must’ve been a fluke. “Okay,” you sigh. “Can we get indian? Butter chicken and naan sounds so good right now.”
Taehyung agrees and places the order, getting himself lamb biryani. “Aren’t you supposed to protect lambs, not eat them?” you joke, walking to the kitchen for a glass of water.
He huffs a laugh, placing an arm on either side of you to cage you against the counter. His chest is firm on your back, pushing until your hips hit the cool marble. His right hand moves to hold your waist, his teeth finding your neck to plant a playful nip. “I want to devour most things I protect,” he says, voice rough as he follows up with a gentle kiss on the blooming red mark.
“Why is that?” you tease, voice airy as you tilt your head back to meet his eyes. The tension is palpable, you both know the answer but neither of you are willing to say it out loud yet. His left hand moves from the counter to around your neck; his hold is gentle, but firm. His fingers splay to control your jaw, tipping your head even further. “Tae..” you whine, the sound unintentional but provoking. He stiffens behind you, face coming so close to your own that you swear you’re exchanging oxygen with him.
A knock on the door tears him away from you with an agitated growl — It’s the food. The poor delivery boy looks stressed when Taehyung opens the door rougher than he should have, not wasting a second between grabbing the food from his hands and shutting the door. “Time to eat,” he grumbles, setting the bag down on the dining room table and moving to grab two plates from the kitchen. He makes your plate per usual, adding a little more than you typically eat with a look in his eye that says not to argue — you don’t.
The food smells delicious, wafting through and filling your small apartment with spices and flavor, but your body is still buzzing from the brush of his teeth on your neck, the weight of his hand against your waist and way he had growled when the moment was interrupted; ‘god, how far would he have went?’ you wonder. You try to shake the thought away and pretend you’re normal, forcing a smile, but you can’t help but to think back on his behavior the entire day so far.
Taehyung sets the plates down carefully, adjusting yours until it is perfect in front of you. His movements are deceptively casual and it has you doubting yourself again. “You like it?” he asks, low and rough, like his voice is still dragging itself back from the growl at the door. You’ve each only had one bite so far, but the silence was too heavy to not be broken.
You nod, chewing too quickly before answering. “It’s perfect. Better than cooking.”
He hums, but the sound isn’t really agreement—it’s indulgent, like he’s allowing you to sit here and eat in peace while he’s quietly dismantling every wall you’ve got left. His dark ears flick once, catching some sound outside, then settle again. His attention doesn’t waver from you. Every time you glance up, he’s watching you.
You take a sip of water, but it doesn’t help the dryness in your throat. His lamb biryani smells incredible, and you glance toward it before you can stop yourself. One little glance — that’s all it takes for Taehyung to notice. “You want some?” he asks, voice genuine as he reaches into his dish, long fingers scooping up a bite of lamb and rice with practiced ease. He doesn’t use his fork, doesn’t even hesitate. He just lifts his hand across the table, offering it to you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
You freeze, your lips parting but no words coming out. The weight of his gaze pins you in place, amber eyes steady, unreadable. Any other time, you would have done it without second thought, but now you’re shy.
His head tilts slightly, those floppy ears brushing forward with the movement. He can see the hesitancy, can tell that you want it but don’t know how to take it. “Eat,” he says, and it’s not a command, but close enough that it vibrates against your nerves. You stare at his hand, at the bite of food you want resting in between his fingers, and your stomach twists with something you don’t want to name. Slowly, you lean forward, parting your lips for him to feed you. “Good girl,” he praises.
Your tongue brushes his fingertips, the barest flick of contact — an accident, maybe. Maybe not. Either way, his pupils blow wide, swallowing that thin ring of amber, but his expression doesn’t change. He continues to watch you chew, eyes glued to the way your throat works as you swallow. Taehyung would never admit it, but he’s imagining you swallowing something completely different.
“Good girl,” he murmurs again, quieter this time, almost to himself.
You shift in your chair, heart racing as you try to focus on your own plate. But every bite you take feels mechanical, tasteless compared to the warmth still lingering on your tongue. His words shouldn’t affect you like this, but they do and it is driving you crazy.
When you finally risk another glance up, he’s still staring at you. His plate is half-finished, but he doesn’t touch it. Instead, he scoops up another piece with his fingers and holds it out again.
You could refuse, should refuse; but you don’t.
This time, you wrap your lips around his fingers more deliberately, brushing just a fraction longer with your tongue as you take the food. You suck lightly as you pull away, holding eye contact and in your peripheral vision, you see his jaw flex, and you can hear the sharp inhale he takes. He doesn’t pull away immediately though, letting the contact linger, as if daring you to do more.
You swallow hard, heat rising up your neck when he continues to stand his ground. “You could use a fork, you know,” you manage, your voice more a breath than a sound.
“I could,” he agrees, licking his own fingers after; slow and unhurried. His tongue drags across the same skin you had moments before, and you have to bite down on your bottom lip to keep from making a sound. He goes back to eating like he hadn’t just damn near committed a sin.
It’s unbearable — the way he can make something so small feel like a storm.
You push your food around your plate, pretending you’re still hungry, but your appetite is gone. Not from the food of course, but from the way he looks at you like you’re the meal — like the butter chicken, naan, and biryani are distractions keeping him from what he really wants.
And yet, he doesn’t push further.
Instead, Taehyung leans back in his chair, stretching his legs under the table until his knee brushes against yours. The contact is casual, almost dismissive, but the weight of his gaze makes it anything but, especially when paired with his actions earlier. You throw a playful glare his way, attempting to ease the tension.
“You eat too little,” he says finally, a small frown etched into his feature as his tone edges with disapproval and amusement. “My hands nearly cover your entire waist,” he adds, lifting his hands in the air as though he’s holding you — the space is roughly your size and there is only a small gap between his fingers. “You’d stand no chance.”
“I’m full,” you argue, whining weakly. Despite the playful face you’ve put on, his words light a fire deep in your belly.
“You’re not.” His eyes flick down, scanning your plate, then back up to you. “You need more. You’ll take more.” and there is no room for argument in his tone.
Your chest tightens, a war between indignation and submission pulling you in opposite directions. But before you can form a response, he reaches for another bite of biryani, the motion fluid and inevitable as he leans across the table, hand steady as he waits for you to take it. His dark eyes track your own, silently urging you to make the right choice.
You hesitate — but only for a breath before you lean forward again. This time, when your tongue brushes against his fingers, you make it clear it’s on purpose and it drives him crazy; you can tell because you feel the subtle tremor that runs through him, the way his breath hitches for just a second.
When you pull back, chewing slowly, you meet his eyes and use your hand to catch his wrist when he tries pulling his hand away. You gently bring it back, swallowing before you dip down again, using your tongue to lead his fingers back into your mouth to suck off the remaining juice and rice crumbs. Taehyung is breathing heavy, eyes half-lidded as he watches you work. He goes to say something, but is cut off by the sight of you pulling away, a thin line of spit connecting your bottom lip to his fingers. The sound that leaves him is somewhere between a choked whine and a growl.
Neither of you speak for a moment, heavy silence acting as a blanket as you stare at one another. Then, slowly, Taehyung lifts his fingers to his own mouth, breaking the line of spit you created as he licks them off.
You stare with wide eyes, then sit back with a huff. He outplayed you once again. “Are you done?” you ask softly, reaching out to collect his plate when he nods. You clear what little is left on either plate in the trash and put the bag with the rest in the fridge. The cool air does little to ease the heat coursing through your veins, so you grab an ice cold water bottle and chug it in hopes that it will help — it doesn’t, but at least when you leave the kitchen Taehyung is sitting on the couch scrolling through the movie options.
His ears twitch and he glances your way, softly patting the spot beside him. “Do you want to watch Grown Ups?” he asks, reading the movie description as he waits for your answer.
“Yeah,” you answer, smiling when his tail thumps against the couch twice. You make yourself comfortable next to him, laying your head down in his lap and sighing in content when his fingers thread through your hair.
By the time the movie ends, you’re half asleep and things are back to normal with Taehyung. You both made a few jokes and giggled together at the scenes.
“Lets get you to bed sweetheart,” Taehyung whispers, carefully picking you up. He takes you to the bathroom first, gently setting you onto the counter and placing himself in between your legs. He takes one of your face wipes, gently rubbing your skin to remove any oils and makeup from the day. He makes your toothbrush for you to use while he brushes through your hair, putting it up the way you like so it isn’t too much of a mess in the morning — your words, not his. “My girl is so pretty,” he praises, calloused hands rubbing your skin care in before taking you to your bedroom.
“I just want one of your shirts,” you mumble sleepily, lifting your arms for him to remove your shirt. He doesn’t allow his eyes to linger, quickly pulling one of his large shirts over your head before unclipping your bra. “My shorts too, please,” you say, rolling onto your stomach so you can lift your hips. This action causes him to pause, but he shakes the thought as quick as it comes and removes your shorts too.
He slides into bed beside you, wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you tight against his chest. His nose settles in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent as his thumb rubs absent-minded circles into the bare skin of your thigh. ‘Just one nip,’ he thinks, pinching the fragile skin on your neck between his teeth. You whine, but you don’t stop him, so he gives another. “You like that, don’t you?” he says, nipping another open spot of skin below your jaw.
You don’t answer verbally, too embarrassed to admit it so openly, but you give a hesitant nod — unfortunately, that is not enough for Taehyung.
His fingers grip your jaw, turning you to face him despite the room being pitch black. “Use your voice sweetheart,” he demands, teeth grazing your earlobe. “I want to hear you say it.” and his tone sends shivers down your spine.
“I like it,” you admit shyly, voice barely audible; but he hears it clear as day.
He hums, not quite satisfied with your answer. “You like what?” he asks, biting down on your shoulder — it’s not enough to break the skin, but your breath still hitches.
“I like when you bite me,” you say fully, embarrassed that you both listened so easily and said it.
Taehyung rumbles, leaving a final kiss on your jaw before burying his nose in your neck. “That’s my girl, you listen so well.”
You wake before him. The room is quiet, washed in the golden kind of morning light that makes everything feel warm and pretty. Birds chirp outside your window, a chilly draft making its way through the old seal and for a split second you forget last night's memories. Then his arm shifts; it sits heavy around your waist, pinning you back against his broad chest, and the memory settles. You don’t linger on it though, not this time.
Taehyung is still asleep, his warm breath steady on your neck with his nose pressed into your hair. His thumb moves in absent-minded circles over your hip bone, lazy and slow, as if his body refuses to stop touching even in sleep. Despite not facing him, you bring your arm back gently so you can slip your fingers into his hair. The rumbling is immediate.
You think about rolling away, slipping out of bed before he notices to get a start on breakfast, but the second you twitch he makes a low sound in his throat — half groan, half warning — and tightens his hold. “Mm,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep. “Stay. Just five more minutes.” He relaxes his hold after a moment, letting his hand slide down to rest over your stomach.
You almost laugh, because he says it like you were trying to escape. “I wasn’t going anywhere.” you tell him, craning your neck to look at his sleepy face. He only opens his eyes for a second, giving you an unamused look, before closing them again. “My poor sleepy boy,” you tease, grinning as you ruffle his hair.
He huffs in fake annoyance, choosing to ignore your last sentence. “Good.” He grumbles, yawning. “You’re warm.”
You roll your eyes, but his words make your chest flutter, and he must feel it because he noses deeper into your hair, taking a deep breath before moving to rest his lips on your shoulder — lips grazing ever so slightly. His morning voice is lower, scratchier, and it does something to you.
“What time is it?” you whisper, glancing at your window as if the position of the sun could tell you — it probably can, but you wouldn’t know. “I’m hungry,” and the grumble of your stomach confirms it.
“Too early for you to move.” He answers, sliding his hand from your stomach down to the dip of your thigh, then back up again like he’s mapping the curve of you. “I like you right here,” he adds, patting his hand on you lightly in a satisfied manner. Then, as if remembering your hunger, he sighs. “I’ll make breakfast later.”
“You can’t cook.” you tell him, giggling at his misplaced confidence.
“I can,” he protests weakly, still not opening his eyes. “I’ll prove it. Pancakes. You’ll see.”
You smile, even as his thumb presses against your skin like a warning not to test him. There’s nothing particularly charged in his words, yet the weight of his body against yours, the restraint of his arm locked over your middle, turns the moment heavy. His warning isn’t anything serious either — Taehyung would never hurt you with ill intent, god no. He’d cut off any hand that reached out to hurt you, including his own.
“You talk big for someone who burned toast last week,” you tease, lifting your eyebrows at the hybrid. You shift around fully, rolling so your neck doesn’t have to stretch uncomfortably to speak to him. His hand settles on your lower back and your forehead meets his chin.
“Careful, sweetheart,” he mutters, finally cracking an eye open to look down at you, “I’ll keep you here all day and you won’t get breakfast at all.”
It sounds like a joke, but the way his fingers dig into your hip when you shift, the way his gaze lingers on your lips before dragging back up to meet your eyes says otherwise. He blinks slowly, ears twitching at every breath you take.
You swallow, suddenly aware that you’re holding his stare. It feels like you’re challenging some silent authority inside him, so you look away; retreating from how sharp the moment has become.
“Five more minutes,” he repeats, voice muffled but firm. Neither of you count the time as it passes and you allow yourself to melt into him. ‘Has he always been this bossy?’ you wonder, not that you’re complaining.
“Namjoon and Lisa are coming over later,” you tell him, voice soft as to not break the peace. “It’ll just be drinks and games, nothing crazy,” and you find yourself looking up at him, looking for permission and you let out a breath when he nods.
“That’s fine, we’ll go to the store later to get your juice with a hint of alcohol,” he says, already smiling because he knows how to push your buttons. You smack your palm against his chest, the action gentle but the way your eyes squint at him is pure evil. “What?” He acts clueless. “Nothing to be ashamed of.”
You fight the urge to flick his ear, but you’re better than him. “Damn right,” you huff, attempting to turn away from him, but he doesn’t let you. “You’re mean.”
He rumbles in response, tightening his hold on you as he goes to rub his nose against yours. “But you love me,” he sings, earning a scoff from you. “Alright, alright, let’s get up and get you fed before you sew all the tail holes in my pants shut again.” He nearly shivers at the thought.
You roll your eyes, letting him pull you up out of bed. You sit at the edge, watching Taehyung as he grabs a pair of lounge pants and fluffy socks from your dresser. He kneels down and places the socks on for you, but leaves to the kitchen so you can do the rest of your morning routine in private.
The pancakes are as tragic as you expected and to make matters worse, your nose had deceived you. While you had been busy brushing your hair and teeth in your bathroom, the smell coming from the kitchen had been enticing; you were excited, only to be terribly disappointed minutes later.
Despite Taehyung insisting he can cook, the food that lands in front of you is thick, uneven, and barely golden on one side and burnt on the other. The butter melts into strange pockets on the surface, syrup dripping off the edges like it’s trying to escape, but failing. He watches expectantly, ears twitching and tail tapping against the back of his chair across from you.
You take one bite, chewing slowly. ‘Don’t break his heart, (y/n).’ You tell yourself, forcing the food down with a harsh swallow. “It’s good,” you tell him, offering a smile as you go to take another dreadful bite.
His brows furrow. “It’s good?” and the way he says it is like he’s testing you, like he knows something you don’t.
“Yeah,” you grin, poking at the pancake on your plate. “Like, definitely food. Totally food-shaped.” You don’t mean to make him feel bad, you find his attempt endearing, but you’d never pass up on the opportunity to tease him either.
He growls low, not out of anger but frustration, and snatches your fork. You try to complain, but he cuts you off. “Eat properly.” He huffs, taking a larger piece and holding it out to you, hand steady. You look at the fork then to him, defeat evident in your expression, then back to the fork with a sigh. You lean forward obediently, lips wrapping around the fork and you will yourself not to grimace as you chew and swallow.
“It’s good,” you lie again, but Taehyung's ears pin back and he frowns.
“You’re a bad liar,” he replies, glancing down at his plate to try a bite. “I think you forget how well I know you,” he adds, a hint of a smirk when he says it. When he finally tries a bite for himself, it is clear he doesn’t like it either — his jaw hesitates to chew and his ears droop down. “Oh, wow. Next time, I’ll do better.” you bark out a laugh at that, feeling justified in your own reaction.
And you don’t doubt that the next round of pancakes will be better; he doesn’t fail at anything he puts his mind to — including you.
By the time you both get up to get dressed and head to the store, it’s noon and comfortable silence has filled the gaps of your day. He picks out one of his red hoodies for you to wear, tugging it over your head and smoothing down the fabric like he’s marking his territory. You let him pick your perfume for the day, paying no mind when he rubs his scent glands on every surface he intends to spray beforehand — he once said his scent on you to hybrids is what perfume is to humans.
When you get to the grocery store, it’s quiet. Taehyung keeps a hand on your lower back the whole time, steering you through aisles till you reach the back where the alcohol is without saying much. He doesn’t need to; his body moves around yours like its instinct.
“Juice with a hint of alcohol,” he teases, dropping a four-pack of wine coolers into the basket. His eyes are scanning the shelves for what to grab next, smiling because you look so cute when annoyed.
You narrow your eyes, staring at the back of his head. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”
“Never,” he says without hesitation, reaching out to grab a bottle of whiskey and placing it in the cart beside yours. “Namjoon likes this, we’ll share it,” he mumbles to himself. “And for Lisa… something fruity because you two like to share.” He pauses, hand resting on a 6-pack of black cherry smirnoff, and turns his attention to you. “Do you want snacks?”
You shake your head, suddenly aware of how much attention he pays to everyone’s preferences — especially yours. He knows what Lisa drinks and that you like to share, what Namjoon likes, what makes you scrunch your nose. He knows it all without needing to ask. And to top it off, you know he’ll grab two packs of sour candy anyway because you have a sweet tooth when drunk.
By the time you’re home again, alcohol unloaded and placed in the fridge while you work to tidy the house, your stomach twists with something you don’t want to name, so you land on anxiety instead. Taehyung moves around your apartment like he owns it, and maybe he does. Maybe you want him to own the apartment and everything inside it.
Evening comes too quick. Lisa walks through the door first, all bright laughter and easy hugs, eyes shifting between you and Taehyung like she knows something you don’t. Namjoon follows close behind, a bag of chips in hand and a sheepish smile that immediately puts you on edge, because he isn’t alone.
“Hope you don’t mind,” Namjoon says, stepping aside. “Jimin was free, and well, you know how he is.” Jimin comes bounding in behind him, all smiles and excitement. His fox ears twitch in Taehyung's direction, acknowledging his presence.
“Surprise!” Jimin grins, holding up a case of beer. His blond hair glows under the light and his dimples cut deep when he notices Taehyung’s ears perk up sharply.
I’ve missed you both,” he wines, coming up to give you both a tight hug. He pauses on you a moment, nose twitching and eyes glancing over to your hybrid; they communicate silently, and Jimin backs off, still maintaining his excited energy.
You plaster on a smile, ignoring his odd behavior. “Of course I don’t mind,” you say, having missed the boy yourself, though your chest tightens when you remember you only have four chairs.
Everyone settles in quickly — Lisa is chatting about her week, complaining about her boss per usual; god, she hates that guy. Jimin is cracking jokes at Namjoon’s expense, telling everyone how he hit a curb on the way here and now his car is making a grinding noise. Taehyung is hovering close to you with a steady presence that borders on suffocation — has he always been this big? When it comes time to sit, the problem becomes obvious; four chairs with five people.
You hesitate, glancing around the table. Lisa and Namjoon are already seated across from each other and Jimin is lingering like he doesn’t care where he ends up. And Taehyung — god, Taehyung just lowers himself into a chair, his eyes steady on yours. He pats his thigh once. Slow and deliberate. The other three are deep in conversation, laughing away at something Namjoon says.
Your face heats, caught somewhere between embarrassment and desire; it shocks you how bad you want to listen to him. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t push, just waits calm as ever, but those dark ears of his twitch at every breath you take. You mull over your options silently. You could drag over a stool from the counter, you could tell everyone to move to the living room or… You can make this easy.
Taehyung shifts in his seat, spreading his legs apart and tilting his head at you; he’s not asking you if you want to, he’s asking why you haven’t.
Your legs move before your brain decides and you cross the room and seat yourself onto his lap, heat crawling up your neck as his arm curls naturally around your waist, pulling you snug against his chest. You worry someone will point it out, will ask you why you chose to sit on his lap instead of somewhere else, but conversation doesn’t falter.
Lisa keeps chatting, Jimin laughs at her story as he sits across from you two, and Namjoon doesn’t look twice. Only you feel the shift — the press of Taehyung’s thigh under you, the steady thrum of his chest against your back, the warmth of his hand resting too high on your hip to be casual. No one points it out and you begin to wonder if he has always been like this with you.
You try to focus on Lisa’s story, laughing a beat too late and struggling to comprehend her words. All you can think about is how his hands feel on your hips. ‘how did we get here?’ you wonder, chewing on your lip.
Taehyung leans down just enough for only you to hear, his breath ghosting against your ear as he speaks, “Good girl.” and then leans back to join the conversation like nothing happened. His fingers toy with the hem of your hoodie before going under the thick fabric.
Your spine is tingling like an electric field. The world goes on around you — Jimin laughing, glasses clinking — but your body is hooked on Taehyung's next move; waiting, hoping.
“Sweetheart,” Taehyung rumbles, sliding his hand up to your ribcage. You look up at him dumbly, waiting for him to finish speaking, but he nods his head towards Lisa. “She’s been trying to ask you a question.”
You blush, coughing to clear your throat as you turn towards the girl, doing your best to ignore his finger gliding across the wire of your bra. “Sorry, I was zoned out,” you say, trying to play it off. The girl just giggles and repeats her question, wanting to try one of your drinks and if she gives you one of hers. You nod and go to reach for one, but Taehyung beats you to it, opening it before handing it to Lisa.
And when you finally do relax, your drink doing its job to ease your nerves, Taehyung starts rubbing circles on your side, making you lose track of what you were saying to Namjoon. You recover quickly, finishing your sentence before leaning into Tae, sliding your own hand under the hoodie to gently pry him away — it doesn’t work, he just laughs softly and pushes it away and damn, that shouldn’t be nearly as hot as it is.
You huff, tipsy eyes searching the table for a snack. “Taehyung,” you whine, watching his ears twitch. He looks down at you, mumbling a quiet ‘cute’ at your expression. Your eyes are wide, mind working slowly as you think. “I want a snack,” you tell him, matter of fact. You watch as one of his long arms dip down besides you into a bag, pulling out one of the sour candies he had grabbed for you earlier. He opens the package, places it in front of you, and grabs a piece to feed you. “Thank you,” you say, chewing happily.
You take the time to study him while Jimin rumages through your drawer for a card game, grumbling about how you can never keep things organized. He looks so handsome, you think, eyes dragging from his jaw to his nose, then to the underside of his lashes. “Who keeps uno in their junk drawer?” Jimin whines, breaking your focus. His ears are pinned back as he sets the deck down softly on the table and you stick your tongue out at him — as far as you’re concerned everyone does.
On the other end of the table, Namjoon tips the bottle of whiskey toward you with a smirk. “One shot won’t kill you.” he says, offering his shot glass to go with it.
Lisa giggles, sipping her cooler. “She’s not going to drink that.” and you nod in agreement, getting ready to tell him no when Taehyung makes the decision for you.
He reaches across, taking the bottle and uses his own glass to pour a shot. He holds it to your lips expectantly, the smell burning your nose. “She will,” he says, calm and steady. He doesn’t ask, doesn’t need to. You stare up at him annoyed — he knows how much you hate whiskey, but you listen anyway.
The shot burns, sliding down your throat and making you wince. You screw your eyes shut, nearly coughing and a drop rolls from your lip down to your chin, but you’re too busy fighting for your life to care. Taehyung takes it upon himself to wipe it away, thumb dragging slowly across your skin, catching the spill. He brings the digit to his mouth, licking what he caught off. Jimin raises his brow, but a look of understanding washes over him and he goes back to the conversation. You hate that you can’t ask him what's happening. ‘He’s just being caring’ you tell yourself, but you still feel your pulse trip over itself.
The game stretches on — Lisa ranting about Jimin giving her a plus four, Namjoon interrupting with jokes only to be dealt the same fate, and Jimin cackling as everyone glares at him. You try to follow, you really do, but every time you shift in Taehyung’s lap you feel how solid he is beneath you. “UNO,” you yell happily, placing down a plus two that has Lisa ready to strangle someone as she shuffles through her 15 cards.
You laugh at her struggle, taking a small break to fix your position. The chair is narrow and you need to adjust. You wiggle in Taehyung's lap, not thinking twice when his grip on you tightens — It could be nothing, but then he pulls your hips further back and shifts his to meet it. Your eyes widen, thoughts running into each other as you try to make sense of what he did. Maybe you’re just drunk, yeah, that’s it.
Your breath hitches when Taehyung pulls your hips flush against him, once again shifting his own up into you, slower this time, more deliberate and you can feel him hardening underneath you. He stays like this for a moment, gauging your reaction and relaxing when you don’t say anything. Unbeknownst to you, the green light has officially been given.
You steady yourself by leaning forward against the table, using your hands and elbows to support your head as you wait for your turn in the game. You lightly drag your pelvis against him, and his hands drop down to your hips to tug you back. A low growl leaves him, one only you and Jimin can hear. The fox hybrid’s ears turn in your direction, head shooting up at the sound as he cocks his head at the Kangal. Taehyung shakes his head and Jimin shrugs.
Jimin smirks a few minutes later, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he narrows in on you. “Hybrids get so territorial, huh? Bet Tae doesn’t even share.” He says, smiling as he places the last card in his hand down, winning the game. He sits back in his chair, arms resting behind his head.
Taehyung doesn’t blink, doesn’t breathe. He takes a strip of sour candy from the bag and lifts it to your lips, using his other hand to hold your jaw in place. He doesn’t even glance at Jimin, just waits patiently for you to catch on. Heat travels up your neck like poison ivy as you part your lips, taking the candy directly from his hand. His knuckles brush your mouth as you chew, eyes hooded and unreadable. “I do share,” he says finally, letting go of your face and taking a piece for himself as if to prove a point — but he knows that’s not what Jimin meant. “But only I chose,” he continues, eyes glancing down at you. “And some things are meant to be shared.”
Now it’s Jimin's turn to be stunned, ears flicking as he tries to think of something to say. Everyone has gone quiet, eyes glued to you and Taehyung. It seems you are the only one that has missed the memo once again, typical you — how unfortunate. You laugh nervously, fiddling with one of his fingers as your eyes look at everyone in the room. “Is there something on my face?” you ask nervously, smile falling.
Jimin pauses, thinking over his sentence before he says it anyway; the alcohol dismantles whatever manners he has left. “No,” he snickers. “But there will be soon,” and everyone bursts out laughing and you look to Taehyung to explain, but he just shrugs and tightens his grip, muttering a quiet ‘don’t worry about it,’ that does little to ease your nerves.
“Well,” Lisa says, gathering her items casually. “I think it’s time we go.” and the other two nod, grabbing their things as well.
“Yep, wouldn’t want Jimin throwing up — he’s already halfway there,” Namjoon adds, glancing at the fox hybrid. He sways carefully, like he’s doing his best to play sober but it’s failing.
You stand from his lap, giving everyone a hug and wishing them a safe drive. “Text me when you all get home, okay?” you say, pointing a finger at everyone. You lean against your door frame, watching as they walk down the hall to the elevator. Once they are out of view, Taehyung comes up behind you, pressing himself against your back and wrapping an arm around your waist. He leads you inside, closing the door behind him.
The silence that follows is thick, humming with everything left unsaid. You’re still in his arms, body flush against his, letting him lead you to the living room. Your mind is a haze of questions — why did Jimin say those things? Why did everyone react the way they did? You’re deep in thought when Taehyung stops at the couch, pushing you to sit down gently.
When you finally glance up at him, he’s already watching you, pupils dilated, ears twitching, and tail sweeping dangerously behind him. You look over to the kitchen, drunken munchies urging you to grab a snack, to do something to break the tension.
His voice is quiet, threaded with gravel when it comes — it’s like he can read your mind, but nothing about his tone is genuine.
“Still hungry?”
Your eyes snap up, his words repeat in your mind; ‘still hungry?’ and you nod slowly, afraid your voice will betray you. He is still standing in front of you, forcing you to tilt your head back to look at him.
He grins, something animalistic coming to the surface. He gets down to his knees, spreading your legs apart with more force than even he anticipated. His hands slide from your knees to the crease of your thigh slowly, eyes watching your face carefully. Then, he says, “I’m starved.” and you don’t even have the time to register what he said before his mouth crashes onto yours.
It isn’t just a kiss — it’s desperation that has you gasping and him taking it as permission to slide his tongue in. His lips are hard and consuming, stealing your breath as if it belongs to him. The first drag of his canines across your bottom lip makes you whine, and he seizes the sound, devouring it like it feeds him. “Make that noise again,” he demands, tugging your hair and forcing your head back so he can bite down on the thin skin of your neck.
“Taehyung,” you whine again, fisting a piece of his shirt in your hand. He groans at the sound of his name, breathing heavy before biting again. Every whimper, every whine causes him to shiver — he could drown in those noises, in you.
The way he attacks your neck is messy; wet open mouth kisses trailing from your jaw to your collarbone, his large hand forcing the opening of your hoodie down so he can suck on the exposed skin.
You can’t breathe, can’t think. All you know is the press of him against you, the taste of him flooding your mouth, and the feeling of his hot tongue dragging along your skin. You want more, you think — no, you need more.
When he finally tears away, it’s only long enough to rasp against your lips, voice hoarse with need. The way you whine at the loss of contact drives him crazy, ears twitching and tail thumping furiously against the ground.
“Fuck, baby,” he says, the words strangled. “do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted this?”
You whimper, heart thumping against your chest. “Show me.”
He growls, low and dangerous, slamming his mouth back against yours. His kiss is deeper, rougher, and dragging you under like a riptide that you don’t want to escape. His sharp teeth catch your lower lip, tugging to force another gasp out of you that he chases with his tongue.
You melt, pliant in his grip, and it only spurs him on. Both of his hands grip your waist, hauling you close, dragging you off the couch and over the solid muscle of his clothed thigh. The friction makes you moan into his mouth, a helpless, broken sound that you can’t hide and god, that moan destroys him. The noise he makes is a mix between a rumble and a growl, hips jerking up beneath you as if he can’t control it. You’re grinding on your own now, not subtle and definitely not accidental. His grip locks you there, forcing you to move with him. “God, baby. Just like that,” he says between kisses. Sweat beads form on his forehead.
“Taehyung,” you moan, one hand curling into his hair while the other rests on the side of his face. ‘Is this what heaven feels like?’ you wonder.
“Say it again.” He demands, lips crashing against your jaw, your throat, teeth scraping anywhere he can find skin. His voice is ragged, pleading. “Beg for me.”
“I want you—” your voice cracks as his tongue drags hot across the pulse below your ear.
He nips the spot, moving on to the next area of unmarked skin. “C’mon sweetheart, good girls finish their sentences.”
Your nails dig into his shoulders, frantic. You don’t want him to stop — ‘please, please don’t stop’ you think. “I need you. Please. Please don’t stop.” Your voice is high pitched and begging.
His answering growl vibrates against your throat, clearly satisfied. “Begging so sweet already,” he mutters, almost to himself. His mouth crashes back onto yours before you can say more, swallowing the desperate whines you make for him.
You’ve never been kissed like this; with such need.
Your head falls back as his mouth trails down your jaw, sucking bruises into your skin, biting, and marking you in ways you’ll feel tomorrow morning. His hands roam everywhere — gripping your waist, sliding up your back, pinning you to him so you can’t move, can’t escape even if you wanted to. Every now and then when your grinding slows or grows sloppy, he bruises your hips, guiding you along his thigh to give your muscles a break.
“You drive me insane,” he snarls, teeth grazing the shell of your ear. “Sitting in my lap, acting like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing—”
“I wasn’t—” you try and fail.
“You were.” His voice is firm. “And now you can’t take it back.”
His mouth is on yours again before you can respond, devouring you with a ferocity that makes your chest ache. Every kiss is deeper, rougher, needier, like he’s trying to crawl inside your lungs and breathe for you. “And that scent,” he groans, ripping himself from your lips like it pains him to bury his nose in your neck, inhaling deeply. “You’re so damn fertile I can’t help but want to claim you, fill you with my pups — it’s hereditary, the way I crave to mark my existence inside of you.”
You can’t stop the sound that spills out from you at his confession; it’s a high-pitched whimper followed by a “please,” that almost shocks you. He pulls you down harder, grinding you down against him until your whole-body burns. “You like that, don’t you?” he says, tone dripping with confidence. “Bet you’d give me a whole litter if I asked.” and you nod mindlessly, willing to do whatever he asks.
Your hands clutch him close, eyes shut as you attempt to hide in his shoulder. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop.” you babble on, words spilling out faster than you can think.
“You think I can?” he growls, pulling you from his shoulder with one hand, forcing you to make eye contact. His voice breaks with the same desperation consuming you both. “I’m past stopping.”
His control is gone. Completely gone.
He kisses you like he’s been starving for years and you’re his first taste. Every second drags you deeper, every brush of his tongue, every sharp bite of his teeth pushes you closer to unraveling. You’re begging without even meaning to, words tumbling between kisses. You’ve reached the point of no return, and you couldn’t be greedier — you need more, need him; you need everything he has to give you.
“Good girl,” he rasps, kissing you harder. “Keep begging. Feed me like the starving animal I am.”
And you do, you give him everything — your mouth, your breath, your voice — offering it up like it’s the only thing you know how to do, like it’s the only thing you want to do.
Your heart races as Taehyung's fingers finally slip under the hem of your hoodie to take it off, the warmth of his skin against yours sending a shiver down your spine. The room feels smaller now, like the space consists entirely of you and him, nothing else. You'd both been dancing around this tension all night — his body pressed too close during the game, his hips grinding up into yours under the table, deliberate and unapologetic. You hadn't pulled away then, and you surely won’t now.
Taehyung's lips graze the shell of your ear, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through you. "I need you, all of you," he murmurs, his hand sliding down to your pants, fingers dipping just under the waistband of your jeans. Your breath catches, a soft gasp escaping before you can stop it. His thumb presses against the button of your jeans, popping it open with ease, and you freeze, pulse thundering in your ears.
You reach down to help him, to speed the process up and get your pants off now, but he stops you, pushing your hand away with a warning growl that makes you clench your thighs around him.
"That's it," he rumbles softly, approval lacing his tone as he tugs the zipper down inch by inch. His fingers inch inside, brushing over the lace of your panties, and you whimper quietly, hands gripping the edge of the couch behind you. He's hard against your thigh, the thick length of him pressing insistently through his pants, and the realization of just how big he feels makes your mouth go dry. You know better than to ask if it’ll fit, you know he’d make it and the thought alone makes you involuntarily whine.
Taehyung halts his movements, ears twitching as he thinks, then he lifts you up with ease, carrying you to your bedroom without a word. You gasp at the sudden movement, ready to say something until he tosses you onto the bed, door slamming shut behind you. Then he's on you again, stripping your jeans off with impatient yanks and grumbles. The cool air hits your skin, eliciting a shiver, but his body covers yours immediately, hot and heavy as he pins you to the bed. His mouth trails fire down your neck, adding to his collection of dark purple marks. "Mine," he mutters against your collarbone, biting down just enough to sting, then soothing it with his tongue.
You push him back, fingers tugging uselessly at his pants. “Take it off,” you whine. But when he does, your eyes widen at the sight of him; He's huge, bigger than you could’ve imagined, the head flushed a pretty pink and leaking pre-cum. A whimper escapes you, half fear, half desperate want, and he smirks — he’s got the look of a man who’s not only confident with what he has but knows how to use it.
"This will hurt," he warns, eyes searching for any resistance as he climbs over you, knee nudging your thighs apart when he sees none. His fingers hook into your panties, ripping them clean off with a growl. "You're so small compared to me,” he says, eyes staring down at your frame. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he adds, softer.
You nod nervously, unhooking your own bra quickly after seeing his methods.
He sinks one finger, then two, pumping them in and out slowly and curling to hit the spot that makes your back arch. "You look so pretty like this," he coos, adding a third finger, silently enjoying the way your brows furrow in a mix of pleasure and pain. Your walls flutter around the intrusion as he works you closer to the edge, thumb rubbing your clit in firm circles. You push into his hand, moans spilling freely now. “More,” you whine. “Please, more — I can take it,” you tell him, fisting the sheets.
"I know you can, baby," he soothes, withdrawing his fingers with a wet pop that makes you whine in protest. He positions himself at your entrance, the blunt head of his cock teasing your entrance. He slides the tip along your folds a few times, using your wetness as lube. "Gonna fill you up, make you mine. You want that? Want me to breed you?”
His usage of breed sends a jolt through you, body responding before your mind can catch up. You nod frantically, wrapping your legs around his waist. "Yes, please. Breed me.” you beg, ignoring the fact you’re ovulating — your mind isn’t thinking clear, dulled by desire and the alcohol from earlier.
He pushes in painfully slow, but you still cry out, the stretch immense and bordering on too much as you struggle to accommodate his girth. "Oh god," you cry, tears pricking your eyes from the burning. "Feels like you're tearing me apart." but he continues anyway, pushing till you’re stuffed full of him because not once have you said to stop.
Taehyung stills once he is fully inside; forehead pressed to yours and his breath ragged. "Good girl. You're doing so well taking my cock. It’s like you were made for it." He praises, using his hands to spread your legs even further.
When he starts to move, it’s slow and gentle drags, building a rhythm that has you seeing stars and relaxing into him. The obscene squelch of your arousal coating his dick makes him chuckle. "Look at you," he grunts, hooking your left leg over his shoulder to angle deeper. "Swallowing me whole." His eyes are locked in on the way your pussy swallows him, taking every inch he gives you.
You squirm, the new position letting him hit even harder, pounding against your cervix with every snap of his hips. His hand wraps around your throat — not squeezing, just holding as he leans down to capture your mouth again. The kiss is sloppy, all tongue and teeth, mirroring the wet sounds of him fucking into you. “Sweetheart,” he groans, jaw tight. “You’re gripping me like you don’t want to let go.”
“Please don’t,” you tell him, grinding down to meet every thrust of his.
His hips jerk, rhythm becoming uneven. “Baby, I'm not gonna last long if you keep saying stuff like that,” he warns, teeth finding your collarbone to bite down on. His breathing is heavy, warm bursts of air fanning your skin.
"Don’t care," you mumble, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him down until his chest is flush against yours. He obliges, movements turning frantic, hips pistoning faster. You feel it building — the swell at his base, his knot starting to form, pressing insistently against your entrance with each thrust. You’ve read about this on the internet, but you realize a little too late you should’ve asked him about it.
"Gonna knot you," he whines, voice strained, eyes glossed over with an animalistic desire. "Lock us together while I pump you full of my cum. Breed you until it's dripping out, gonna mark you from the inside." His words are filthy promises, pushing you toward the edge. Taehyung slips a hand between you, rough fingers finding your clit, rubbing in time with his thrusts.
Your own hand finds one of his ears, scratching at the base as you mindlessly beg for more in between moans.
With a guttural roar, he slams forward, ears pinning back as his knot pops fully inside, inflating and sealing him deep against your cervix. The sensation tips you over, your own orgasm crashing through as your wall's spasm around his locked cock, milking him for all he’s worth. He follows seconds later, hips jerking erratically as hot spurts of cum flood your insides, painting your walls white. "Take it all," he praises through gritted teeth, grinding against you to push it deeper — you cry out from the pain of it, his blunt tip bruising your cervix even more.
You start to panic when you can’t get away from the pain, tugging weakly below him for relief. “Shh, sweetheart. Don’t fight it.” He calms, voice is rough but soothing, lips brushing your temple. “It’s just my knot. Keeping everything inside. Keeping you mine.” but it doesn’t help the pain.
“Hurts,” you whine softly, trying to relax in his hold.
“I know,” he tells you, kissing your forehead. “I’m sorry pretty girl, it’ll go down soon. Just be good for me until then, okay?” and you nod, you can be good.
The world feels hazy when his knot finally begins to deflate. Your body trembles, boneless under his weight, the ache in your thighs a dull throb compared to the stretch still pulsing deep inside you.
Taehyung doesn’t move, doesn’t want to. His chest sticks against yours, his face buried in the crook of your neck as if he can’t let you go quite yet. His breath is hot and uneven, fanning across your damp skin. The low rumble in his chest starting up slowly, like an engine turning over. The vibrations are soothing.
You whimper, shifting slightly. “Tae…”
“Shh,” he murmurs, voice deep and rough from overuse. He presses a kiss to your temple, then another to your jaw. “Don’t move yet, sweetheart. You’ll hurt yourself.”
“I already do,” you admit, voice so small it makes his dark ears flick back. It’s not all a bad hurt, but the dull ache of him pressed against your cervix is almost too much.
He lifts his head immediately, amber eyes sharp with concern, the feral edge softened now into something achingly tender. His big hands cup your face, thumb brushing against your cheekbone gently. “I know,” he whispers, guilt pulling at his expression. “I’ll take care of it, okay?” he promises.
And he does.
His hand trails down, stroking soothing circles over your thigh, smoothing out the leftover tremors in your muscles. He lowers his head again, nipping softly at your collarbone before licking over the sting — not to arouse, but to soothe. He repeats this process multiple times. His tongue traces over every mark he left, and he hums in quiet satisfaction, pleased that your skin is holding his scent.
The knot finally begins to slip, shrinking enough for him to slide out slowly and he growls low in his throat when you whimper at the empty stretch, but instead of teasing, he presses his forehead to yours. “So good for me,” he praises, kissing both corners of your mouth. “My perfect girl.”
You blink up at him, eyes blurred and face flushed. It makes him smile, a soft curve of his lips that’s just for you. He leaves the bed, disappearing for a moment, and you hear the bathroom sink run. When he returns, he’s got a warm cloth in his hand and a small bottle of ointment.
“Stay still,” he says quietly, tone leaving no room for argument. But it’s not harsh, it’s protective.
He cleans you carefully, gentle hands wiping away the mess between your thighs. Every time you twitch or hiss, he pauses to murmur reassurance and paise, brushing his fingers over your bruised hip until you relax again.
Once he’s satisfied, he tosses the cloth aside and pulls the blanket up, tucking it snug around you. He spins the cap off the triple antibiotic, spreading thin layers over the areas he sunk his teeth in before climbing in beside you. His arm wraps around your middle, pulling you against him, nose immediately burying itself in your hair. He breathes deep, long inhales that relax his own muscles, grounding himself in your mixed scent.
You mumble something against his chest, too quiet to catch.
“What was that, sweetheart?” he asks, brushing his fingers through your hair, slow and steady, detangling with a patience you didn’t know he had left in him. Unbeknownst to you, he’d move mountains if you asked him too — anything you want, he’d do.
You repeat yourself clearer, words shy. “You weren’t too rough, I liked it.” and he breathes a sigh of relief. He was worried he had been too much for your small body to handle, but your words ease those fears. Next time, he will spend more time prepping you, though.
Silence fills the room, the soft noise of the living room tv that never got turned off making his ears twitch occasionally. He’s on the border of sleep when the words leave his mouth, soft and quiet; part of him hopes you don’t hear it, the fear of you thinking it’s too soon lingering, but for him he’s felt this way since the first day. “I love you.”
But the way you stiffen against him is evidence you heard it anyway and he freezes too, holding his breath as his ears pin back. It takes everything out of him not to whimper in regret, but then you relax and turn to kiss him — it’s brief, but he needed it. “I love you too, Tae.”
ღ. all fics will be linked here and on my main masterlist. TBN = to be named. release dates for the longer ones are unspecified, but within a 7 day period. so fic one will be posted between oct 1 and oct 7. fillers are posted whenever completed.
ღ. i will be taking requests, but all fics will be written with a female reader in mind.
ღ. fandoms: harry potter, slashers, bts, twilight, twd, hxh, aot. plus some other surprise ones depending on how i feel.
Kinktober is almost here! (as well as flufftober!)
i am accepting requests for any characters i currently write for, as well as characters i used to write for (except atla, sorry) which can be found by clicking here! yes, i will write for twilight too. also considering writing for bts (been an army since 2016) & the walking dead.
i am taking requests for flufftober content too as i love fluff!! feel free to send a request for either in, just don’t expect it to be posted before october 1st <3
most of my work will be around 1-5k words and i have no set schedule of what prompts i will write when; just hoping to post once a day.
Just a little something from the full fic I am working on.. sometimes I forget how much I love twilight. Everyone's consenting adults in this. Reader is in her second year of college.
Warnings: Alcohol, unspecified age gap (reader is 19), fem reader
Summary: In which you're Bella's best friend and in a very complicated romance with a vampire much older than you.
masterlist || navigation || ao3
Series tag: prologue, tbc.
You don’t even know how you ended up on the front steps of someone’s house party, knees drawn up, mascara smudged, waiting for something you aren’t sure will come. You’re sure it had something to do with Jacob, who you haven’t seen in an hour now — he dragged you here and disappeared, likely upstairs with that girl from his stats class.
Your phone is dead, shoes off and lost somewhere – at least they were cheap, you think. Bella’s text back was the last notification you received before your phone died twenty minutes ago, ‘I called someone, don’t be mad’ she wrote, making your stomach flip with anxiety.
It would take an hour to get home on foot, likely two with how drunk you are and your lack of shoes, but the longer you sat the more you debated it until headlights cut through the trees, an all too familiar silver Volvo coming up the drive. “Oh,” you say aloud, making a mental note to curse Bella out for sending him of all people.
Carlisle Cullen stepped out like he’d materialized from a dream you’d been avoiding. Black coat, dark sweater, jaw tighter than you'd ever seen it. It is the first time in three weeks that you have seen each other and he’s angry — ‘maybe if I just go back inside he’ll forget what he came here for,’ you think, drunk mind fighting logic. The wooden step creaks under you as you stand, the movement feeling awfully quick for how slow it must’ve looked.
Unfortunately for you, Carlisle is much faster, already standing at the bottom of the steps, stopped in front of you. “Don’t,” he says, tone strict as if he knows your plan. “Get in the car.” you both stand in a tense silence, him waiting and you debating — you can’t outrun him, but you could deny him. As you go to speak, Carlisle shakes his head, features irritated. “No, get in the car, (y/n).”
You should’ve known it was a losing game to argue with him, he’s always been two steps ahead where you're concerned. “Okay,” you agree, taking an unsteady step towards him; his hands are ready to catch you, but thankfully you make it to the car unscathed with wet feet from the grass. He opens the door for you, helping you inside and buckling you in.
When he slides into the driver’s seat, the car is silent. His hands are white knuckle gripping the wheel and his jaw is tense. You peek at him from the corner of your eye every few minutes, waiting — hoping he’ll say something.
He won’t even look at you, but when he finally speaks its soft and gentle tone betrays his facial expression. “Three weeks,” he starts, voice quiet. “That’s how long I’ve gone without seeing you.” and you nod, biting back a sarcastic response. ‘No shit, captain obvious,’ you think, but you’d never verbalize that, especially now. “And this is what I come back to?” he adds, voice low and taking on a sharp edge. “You, drunk. Dressed like this. Sitting outside someone’s house like you don’t even know what could happen to you?”
You shrink back into the leather seat, not used to this side of him. “Bella called you. Not me. I asked her for a ride.” you say as if that makes the situation any better. “She wouldn’t have been mad if you said no.”
“She was drunk too,” he snapped, though his voice never rose. “I don’t care what Bella thinks either — your safety is my responsibility, how could I leave you, knowing you’re like this?” he asks, but it’s more of a statement than a real question.
You swallowed, throat dry. “I didn’t know she would—”
“Of course you didn’t.” His tone was clipped as he cut you off and you flinch slightly. “You weren’t thinking.” His head tilts to the side as if he said the most obvious thing in the world. His jaw is still tense, but his fingers have relaxed their grip.
“You haven’t answered my texts,” you murmur, wanting to change the topic to take the spotlight off your drunken antics. “Left me on open even,” you add, a slight smile ghosting your lips. “That’s crazy, you know?” It’s moments like these when your young age slips through, vocabulary less sophisticated than his own.
His head turned to you slowly. Eyes cold, golden, and unreadable. Your attempt to lighten the mood was lost on him.
“No,” he says. “I haven’t.”
His face scrunches in deep thought as he weighs the pros and cons of his next move before ultimately caving — the car slows to a stop, pulling over on the side of the road. He looks at you again, pausing before he speaks. “Do you think it’s easy?” he asks, voice just above a whisper. “Staying away from you?”
You shiver at the sudden proximity, eyes darting to his lips for a split second before reaching his eyes. “Carlisle…” you mutter, suddenly shy as you look down to your lap.
“Three weeks,” he repeats, cold hand grabbing your chin firmly, guiding your face back to him and forcing eye contact. “And this is how it goes? You in a dress that barely covers you and liquor on your breath?”
You don’t answer. You can’t.
His hand releases your chin, finding its way to your bare thigh in a gentle touch. You freeze, not daring to look away or move, focusing on his scent instead; cedar wood, pine trees, and a hint of sterile hospital.
“I’m angry,” he says softly, fingers sliding up just slightly. “But not because I had to pick you up.” he clarifies, not wanting you to think of yourself as a burden. “I’m angry because you’ve put yourself in a risky situation and then tried to deny me.”
Your heart pounds in your chest, mind swirling with confusion at the situation. “I didn’t know you still cared,” you whisper, looking away in embarrassment.
He scoffs, just barely as he sits back into his seat. “You think me not seeing you for three weeks means I stopped?” He asks, hand squeezing your thigh just enough to make you tense. You nod slowly and he runs his free hand through his hair. ”Silly girl, I couldn’t stop if I wanted to,” he says. “And that's the problem.”
His eyes meet yours once again and he takes his hand off your thigh to brush a stray piece of hair out of your face. “You don’t even understand what you’re doing,” he muttered. “Sitting there, all soft and drunk. Looking at me like you want me to fix it.”
‘Yes, please fix it — fix me,’ you think, eyes flicking down to his lips. “You know you want to,” you tell him, voice a soft whisper, nearly a plea. Your mind is a mess, thinking of all the ways he could have you if he wanted to, but Carlisle is a man of restraint; even when it’s cracking.
He leans in, face inches from your own. “Of course I do,” he says. “But I shouldn’t have to clean up your mess just to hold you again,” he adds, referring to your drunk decisions you forgot about — the whole reason you’re even in this situation to begin with.
You look down, ashamed. “I’m sorry,” you say honestly, his hand finding its way back to your thigh, his thumb moving in a circular pattern — it’s soothing, forgiveness.
A few moments pass, the silence comforting. “But I will,” he finally says, offering you a small smile as your eyes dart up to him. Your heart flutters and he begins to drive again, keeping his hand on your thigh the whole time. “I’ll take you home,” he says, much quieter now. “Put you to bed. Make sure you’re safe because no one else is going to.” and he’s right, no one will ever care for you like Carlisle.
discoholicmusic
pixelskylines
areudirty
2087
stormborns
theartofmadeline
izzy806