#Get Ex Back Mantra Eye-Opening Cool Tips

[justthehiddleswrites]

Accidently Married | Tom Hiddleston x OFC | Chapter 1 |  Living Well is the Best Revenge or Just Trip Her on the Red Carpet

A/N:  Tom makes certain comments about an ex (who is unnamed).  It is a fictional girlfriend, take from it what you will.  Keep your hate to yourself.  

SERIES MASTERLIST HERE

Pairing: Tom Hiddleston x OFC (Molly Bishop)

Summary: Tom is stuck in a news cycle from hell; Molly is stuck in the dead end job of bartending with a pile of student and credit debt.  Tom has an idea to solve all their problems.  Get married, get the paparazzi off his back, divorce after a year and Tom pays off Molly’s debts.  Tom has everything figured out, that is until he sees Molly as more than a just a friend and so does someone else.  In this vying for affections who will win, the handsome Brit or the boy from Boston?

This Chapter: Tom is in Vegas to present at a music awards ceremony and what do you know his high profile ex girlfriend is nominated for two awards.  And the press are having a field day.  Molly Bishop is grateful for the awards show because it means extra tips and getting her closer to paying off her student debt.  An offhand comment by Luke coupled with an encounter with his old girlfriend has Tom’s mental wheels turning.  Perhaps he and Molly can solve each other’s problem.  All they have to do is get married.

Warnings: fake marriage, smut (vaginal sex), mentions of:  child abuse/neglect, foster care, substance abuse, cheating.

TAGLIST IS OPEN! PLEASE LET ME KNOW IF YOU WANT TO BE TAGGED!  THANK YOU FOR READING!

--

Tom dreaded turning his phone back on when the plane landed at McCarran airport. He knew what waited for him on the other side. Tom wondered if his publicist would buy the story he left his phone back at the bar in Heathrow. Probably not, he had tried that earlier in the year and Luke went ballistic until he came clean. He did not want a repeat of the earful he got back then. With a sigh, Tom switched on his mobile and shoved it into the front pocket of his jeans, vibrating as messages and emails came in.

Tom never imagined the relationship would end like this. He thought he was in love. He thought she was in love. But it had all been what were the words she used “escape hatch”. Tom had been a means to an end. And the punishment for his naivete was a news cycle that would not die. And that photo.

He waited until he was in the car on his way to the Bellagio before checking his messages. There were a series of several text messages from Luke.

Call me when you get to your hotel room.

Don’t read the papers.

Don’t talk to any reporters.

Don’t do anything until you talk to me.

Tom pinched the bridge of his nose underneath his sunglasses.

“Fuck!” he hissed under his breath.

This meant only one thing. Another story. Maybe more pictures. He shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, she was attending the same awards show. It ventured to guess the papers would play that up. Tom slumped against the car seat for the rest of the ride.

Check in went fine at the VIP check in. One perk of not only being a celebrity, but a presenter at the awards show. The bellhop delivered Tom’s luggage and garment bag. He pulled the outfit for tomorrow and hung it up, just like Illaria told him to. It was only when he flopped onto the sectional couch, Tom called Luke.

“I’ve been waiting for your phone call.” Luke deadpanned. “I started to worry you would pull that ‘I left my phone at the airport bar’ story.”

“I did cross my mind.” Tom let his head hit the back of the sofa. “Do I want to know?”

“Not really.” Luke winced. “They used the photo again.”

“Of course they fucking did!” Tom punched a nearby pillow. “I look like a twat. Luke, I need this to stop.”

Luke sighed. “Until something comes along that is better than this, expect it to hang around for a while. Unless you are planning on getting married in the next two days.”

Tom chuckled darkly. “Not bloody likely.” He sighed again. “Thanks for everything Luke.”

“It’s my job, mate. But you’re welcome.”

After Tom hung up, he stared first at the phone in his hand and then at the ceiling. He wasn’t sure how he got here, and he sure as hell didn’t know how to get out. Tom decided instead to wallow in self-pity and eat a ridiculously expensive room service steak.

-

Weekends were always busy when there were special events over at the MGM arena. This weekend was no exception. And while it may not be good for Molly’s back, her bank account greeted every penny with a smile. Vegas may be a cheap place to live, but it still costs money. And her college did not accept IOUs for student loans. She shoved more tips into the jar behind the bar and helped the next person.

“What’ll be?”

“Whatever you have that is strong and on tap.” Tom’s smooth voice cut over the din of slot machines and video poker machines.

“Coming right up.” Molly poured him a beer, and he signed the receipt with his room number before sliding to the end of the bar.

Three hours later, Tom still sat at the end of the bar, nursing the same beer. Most of the crowd dissipated at this point. Celebrities needed their beauty sleep. Or at least most of them.

“Would you like to switch that one out for a cold one?” She leaned over, smiling. “On the house.”

“Sorry.” Tom blinked and glanced around, looking for a clock Molly imagined.

“No clocks.” she commented. “Or windows.”

Tom’s brow furrowed. “Really?”

“The whole point of casinos is to keep people inside. Clocks and windows help people realize how much time has passed.” Molly replaced his beer. “The whole place is set up like a maze.”

Tom took a long draw of the fresh beer. “You seem to know an awful lot about casinos for a bartender.”

“You seem awfully forward for a movie star.” she snapped back. Tom’s eyes met yours. She shrugged her shoulders. “I have a friend who works at Regal Cinema, they let me in for free.”

“I’m having a bad day.” Tom muttered back. “You still didn’t answer the question.” He took another long draw, leaving the glass half empty.

“Oh, so we are adding pushy to your resume. I thought Brits were supposed to be charming. If you must know, I have a Bachelor’s and Master’s in Tourism from Arizona State.”

Tom opened his mouth to comment, but Molly cut him off.

“Funny thing about the tourism industry. You need experience to get a job, but you can’t get experience without having a job. Classic catch-22. Which does not pay my bills. So I bartend until I get hired somewhere.”

Tom felt like a prize idiot moping about his problems. He cleared his throat. “Apologies for my earlier behavior. I have been in a poor mood for the last several weeks and it has made me a terrible companion and customer.”

Molly smiled at him. The first truly friendly face in a while. “It’s fine. And you are entitled to a bad day.” She filled up his glass. “Once or twice. Share your troubles with me. Unless it is about which supermodel you should date next, then I don’t want to hear it.” she joked. Tom’s face fell. “Oh shit, I’m so sorry. I didn’t…”

Tom held up a hand. “Please don’t apologize. I take it you don’t read the magazines.”

“As a matter of course, no I don’t.” Suddenly a lightbulb went off. “Oh…”

Tom twisted his face into an exaggerated expression. “‘Oh’ is right. Usually followed by the words ‘shit’ or ‘fuck’.”

“And is she…”

Tom drained the glass. “Yep. Nominated for two awards.”

“Yikes! Well, if there is anything I can do, I am here all weekend.”

Tom stood up and left several twenty-dollar bills. “I might take you up on that. Thank you again for the conversation… I didn’t catch your name.”

“Molly Bishop”. she said, clearing his glass.

Tom offered his hand, and she shook it. “Tom.”

“I know.” she leaned in, her dark brown hair falling to the sides of her face. “Remember, you’re a movie star.”

Tom laughed. A real belly laugh. So loud that it jolted the old man at the other end of the bar awake. “I needed that. Thank you again. Have a good evening, day, morning.”

“It’s evening. Goodnight, Tom. Sleep well.”

Tom headed back towards the bank of elevators. He glanced over his shoulder to watch Molly wipe down where he had been sitting, shove the twenties into a tip jar, while tucking her hair behind her ears and help an obviously drunk couple. Tom made a mental note to find her again before he flew back and leave an even bigger tip.

-

Tom woke up the next morning and headed down to the gym to run on the treadmill. He would have preferred running outside but wanted to avoid people. After running five miles, he switched the machine off, wiped it and him down and headed upstairs to shower and change for the day. Tom wandered back downstairs in search of Molly, but the bartender on duty, a guy named Seth, mentioned she wouldn’t be back until the evening. Tom thanked him and headed back upstairs.

He was restless until it was time to get ready. After dressing, he took a selfie in the mirror and sent it to Illaria who confirmed he did it right. Now came the waiting game. Tom wanted to time it to avoid having to see her at all. Finally deciding he had wanted long enough, Tom called for the car and headed downstairs. What Tom forgot to account for was his incredible bad luck.

He arrived right after her and was forced to walk the red carpet, watching her out of the corner of his eye, with her arm linked around whatever man, boy, prey she ensnared for the evening. Tom plastered a killer smile on his face and continued to repeat the mantra in his head “Living well is the best revenge” when all he wanted to do is either trip her or return to his hotel room and eat an inordinate amount of chocolate cake.

The rest of the awards show blurred together into moments of white hot rage masked by a cool exterior and numbness. Thank god for the teleprompter or else Tom wondered if he would have made it through his presentation. But he did and thought he made it through the entire event without running into her and then…

“Tom!” her voice called out.

Tom froze and stiffened. What a difference a few weeks can make.

“Darling!” He spun on his heel to face her, smile firmly in place. He leaned forward and kissed her cheeks. “It’s good to see you. You look good.” he lied through his teeth.

“You too. I thought I might miss you. I just wanted to say—”

Tom waved her off. “Water under the bridge.” Another lie. Perhaps he missed his calling as a barrister or even a publicist. “Your date seems nice.”

She smiled. That smile that once melted his heart. “Thanks. He is. Where’s your—”

“Back at the hotel.” He checked his watch. “Which reminds me, I should head back. Big plans for the night.”

She blinked, and stutter stepped back. “Oh. Right.” She composed herself. “Well, it was nice to see you again. I hope we can be friends.” She held her arms open.

Fucking friends! Tom howled inside his mind. What was she playing at? More fodder for her songs? Tom seethed on the inside. He stepped forward to awkwardly hug her, praying there was no one around to snap a photo. Knowing her, though, she probably had someone in the balcony with a zoom lens.

“Of course, love.” He squeezed her a little too tight until she let loose a small yelp of pain. Tom allowed a genuine smile to come across his face. “I won’t keep you any longer. Enjoy the after party.” He walked away before she could continue on the conversation.

He waited until he was well out of earshot. “Bitch.”

-

The crowd started waning around 9:30 as the awards show let out. Molly figured most of the attendees would hit the after parties and things would pick up around 1 or 2 a.m. Until then, it would just be the regulars. She turned around to arrange the glasses she just cleaned when a now familiar voice rang out.

“Marry me.” Tom asked, his tie loosened.

“I don’t know you.” Molly teased back. “Now what will you have?”

“You as my wife.” Tom repeated, his palm flattened against the bar.

“Be serious.”

“I am serious.”

“Are you drunk?”

Tom shook his head. “Stone cold sober. Hear me out.”

She glanced around, seeing no plausible escape. “I’m listening. But if another customer comes up, I’m walking away.”

“I need something to move the paparazzi off this current news cycle with me.”

Molly smirked. “You ran into the ex. Did she have a new boy toy on her arm?”

“Yes, but that is beside the point.”

“It is entirely the point.”

Tom slammed his hand against the bar, rattling the container of nuts nearby. “Can I continue or are you going to keep interrupting?”

Molly crossed her arms. “Go on.”

“I need something to move the press off this story. You need money. We are the solution to each other’s problems.”

“You may be gorgeous, but if you think I am sleeping with you for money…”

“I never said sex. I said marriage. The last I checked, they could be mutually exclusive.” Tom’s expression softened. “Listen, you are clearly unhappy here. I am unhappy too. If us being together could alleviate a bit of that unhappiness, why wouldn’t we seize the opportunity? We get married. Get the paparazzi off my back. I would pay off your student loans and credit cards. And then after a year of living together, we quietly divorce. No sex. Just a business relationship.”

Molly chewed over what Tom said, while chewing on her bottom lip. He wasn’t wrong, she was unhappy. Vegas was supposed to be a brand new start, but it was more of the same. Dead end job and no career prospects on the horizon.”

“Did you say live together?”

“In London, yes. I have plenty of room. Your own space. You have a passport.”

“Yes.”

Tom’s face broke out in a wide grin. He couldn’t believe this was happening. The blood pounded in his ears and adrenaline coursed through his veins. He looked up at her with his bright blue eyes.

“Will you marry me, Molly Bishop?”

“Yes.” she smiled back.

Tom leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Then let’s get going, because the licensing bureau closes at midnight.”

Molly headed over to the manager, Nick.

“I quit.” she shoved her apron at him.

“What? You can’t quit, Molly. The big rush is coming.”

“You heard the lady.” Tom called. “She quits.”

“And who the hell are you?”

“Her fiancé. Come on, darling.” Tom held out his hand. She lifted up the bar at the entrance and took his hand.

-

The two of you were full of nervous energy the entire cab ride to the licensing bureau, fitting right in with the other couples waiting to get a license. While you waited in line, Tom made some calls to several chapels until he found one open and able to squeeze the two of you in.

“Now all we need is to get you a dress and some rings.”

“Oh!” Molly dug through her purse. “My friend’s kid gave these to me.” She pulled out two plastic rings. “I think these will do in a pinch.”

Tom closed his hand over hers. “I’ll buy us proper rings tomorrow. Now a dress.”

“There’s a mall on the way. I can grab something on the way.” Tom kissed Molly’s forehead.

“You are brilliant.”

“Thank you.”

Within an hour, Molly was wearing a simple white slip dress, Tom still in his suit from the awards show, although he did straighten up the tie. She smiled like a fool, holding onto a fake bouquet and Tom’s wedding ring, complete with a plastic spider in her hand.

Tom slipped on the plastic gem ring when the minister told him to, and she did the same with the spider ring. Tom giggled and so did Molly .

“I now pronounce husband and wife, you may kiss the bride.”

Tom leaned in and pressed a chaste kiss to her lips. His lips were warm and soft. It was… nice. Under other circumstances, she imagined Tom would be an excellent kisser.

Tom gazed down at her. “Hello, Mrs. Hiddleston.”

“Hello, Mr. Hiddleston.”

#tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston fanfiction #tom hiddleston fanfic #tom hiddleston x ofc #tom hiddleston imagine #tom hiddleston fluff #tom hiddleston smut #tom hiddleston angst #accidently married

[boop-le-snoot]

masterpost • main masterlist • taglist & faq

previously on...

Chapter 3 is finally here. Sorcerers need their shopping done, too. Beyonce/Wong platonic ship (joking)! And finally some action, more witchy stuff. Bucky whump because I have a saviour complex. Stucky cuteness moment. Some blood/gore in this chapter.

My insides clenched, seeing the yellow and blue notice taped to my door - the building manager rarely left notes, so whatever it was, it wasn't going to be good. I had managed to wind myself up into an anxious frenzy by the time I had gone inside and locked my door behind me, immediately thinking I would have to exhaust myself by turning to magic to keep a roof over my head.

For once, the news turned out to be positive: a neighbor was being evicted and turned in to the police for stealing packages. The building manager urged the tenants to report any missing items and apply for a refund when possible, apologizing for the inconvenience. I wondered what prompted this, basically unheard of in NYC, act of kindness as my altar stared at me with mocking amusement, pointing out the obvious by its mere presence.

Grinning to myself, I texted Odette - predictably, she was happy for me, happy that my protection spell had turned out strong and steady, and added a few tips of her own for my spell to stay that way. It felt like I'd grown invisible wings, those days, with all the possibilities open - and never once did I let myself entertain a thought of getting back at an enemy of the past for longer than five seconds.

Sure, it was perfectly human to consider making the cheating ex go bankrupt or make sure the college professor, that failed a couple of students each semester as a 'reality check', trips and face-plants at least once a day... I mean, who wouldn't experience a malicious sort of joy from petty revenge?

But I found my powers were best applied with a positive result in mind. My friend's cat was the first test rat- I mean, living creature I had practiced my healing spells on. The eleven year old kitty was struggling and both me and my friend loved the critter dearly - so the short, but tiring spell I performed yielded exactly the results I was expecting. Odette said something about genuine love backing up the magic, and- well, Dumbledore much?

On humans, it turned out, it wasn't nearly as simple. I didn't know what I had expected would happen after performing nothing short of a whole improv-performace type of ritual right in front of my very puzzled but hopeful friend with chronic asthma, but it wasn't the sheer exhaustion that ran bone-deep and left me bedridden for a whole day.

Odette visited my dingy apartment with her signature enormous purse full of vials she spoon-fed me and trinkets she strategically placed in and around my immediate sleeping area. "There, there," the woman patted my head as I pitifully moaned at the ear-splitting headache. "The first one is always the most challenging. After all, if it would be easy, everyone would do it."

I understood that. But at the same time, it felt unfair that no good deed went unpunished. I told Odette so, raising my voice to the best of my ability as she rummaged around my kitchen.

"Nothing in this world comes out of thin air, whatever you decide to give has to be taken from somewhere," she explained patiently. "People like us are considered hedge witches. We do solitary work and draw most of our energy from the Earth, from mother Nature. We cannot perform miracles, however, the cost of our spells are very low," I felt an immediate peak of interest at the simple yet effective explaination she gave me. "We remain mostly human. Gaia* is kind and generous to the ones who pay respect," Odette continued over the clatter of pans and pots. "There are other kinds of witches - who take from other people, who take from the dead. But taking something by force always leaves scars and taking something from the dead means bringing a piece of them back to places it should not be."

I pondered the words as Odette brought the kettle to a boil, the whistling shriek piercing through my skull like a sharp projectile. "What about Voodoo practitioners?" I couldn't hold back my curiosity.

Odette cleared her throat. "What is left of them is mostly not human. Their gifts are great but the costs are greater. They can live far, far longer than the average witch but their souls will know no peace, just like the souls of the dead they anchor to themselves over time," Odette entered the room with a bowl of tangy, creamy liquid that smelled like pumpkin soup. "We do not bestow any judgement upon our brothers and sisters but it is our duty to inform the young." She cast a pointed glance towards me, passing me the soup and a wooden spoon I didn't know I had. "This should help you recover. Take tomorrow off if needs be."

She left shortly afterwards and I hadn't much strength than to use the bathroom, wash the rune-engraved spoon and curl up in my bed, only waking up when the meager light shone over my face from the window. Sleepy and fog-tinted, the early morning NYC was damp and windy as I stuck my head out of the window to soak my sleep-heated head in the cool air.

As uneventful as the day at the café was, I still wasn't up to 100% energy-wise, but the long walk from Jeremy's to Odette's was pleasantly invigorating. I didn't find the cold autumn moisture displeasing; the small raindrops kept me awake and alert. Odette nodded in muted pleasure as I clocked in and returned the special spoon back to her. The runes on it were interesting; I had taken a picture of them for research purposes, fully intending to craft myself something similar.

"Odette has taken on an apprentice," Wong's voice had me take in several deep breaths in preparation for the inevitable fuck-fest on my patience. "She has been avoiding me. And the girl is painfully slow."

I didn't hear the answer of Wong's companion over the rustling of the boxes I was hastily shoving in their places before the Asian man's temper grew foul. More foul. Ugh. The sharp ding of the bell had me yelling a, "Just a second please, I'll be right with you," while trying to keep my tone polite.

Wong's sour face and a list of items required greeted me as I flew out of the backrooms, noticing the locked doors of Odette's office on my way out. Wong's companion stood at the far end of the store - his robes quite different from the ones I'd seen people of their kind wear, his lithe, tall figure seeming strangely familiar. I squinted my eyes at his back. "Is this all you need?" I waved the list around, increasing the volume of my voice.

The tall man turned around and I could only gape. He, in turn, also froze, the stern, unfriendly expression losing heat and giving way to perplexed wonder. "I had placed an order, for sorcerer Strange," Tony's boyfriend eyed me somewhat sheepishly under Wong's concerned gaze.

I nodded, eyeing Wong in turn, letting satisfaction nestle a warm ball in my chest. Stephen's look of displeasure had turned onto his... Colleague. By the time I finished retrieving Strange's order and packing up the items on Wong's list, the Asian man had left, leaving Stephen to sheepishly pretend to examine the books on the furthest shelf. I waved the paper bags as he took long strides towards me, his fancy, large necklace glimmering under the lights.

"So, how long have you been working here?" Sorcerer Strange asked after I told him the total.

The cash register beeped loudly, coins clattering on the desk as I counted out his change. "Some time now," I shrugged noncommittally. I felt his magnetic eyes gloss over my adornments, the star necklace, the various rings; I could practically feel him coming to his own conclusions. "Long enough for your colleague to get an attitude with me," I had to make sure he knew I would be taking no bullshit from him - or anyone else, for that matter. Odette's opinion on his kind was firm and I was heavily inclined to agree.

"Hmm, I see," Strange was equally as keen on hiding his curiosity. It was a funny thing, really, that we, being adults that we were, treated this encounter like some sort of a dirty secret. "Don't take it personally. Wong is like that with everyone," The man briefly scratched his beard with a gloved hand before pocketing his change and picking up the bags. "Except Beyoncè, maybe," the wink he threw me was positively mischievous as it caught me off-guard, giving him a fox-like appearance.

I sighed as the door shut behind him. Pretty white boys - the ultimate human disasters.

I had no time to dwell on them, however, as something - or someone, hit downtown with all the malicious intentions to wreak havoc on the innocent civilians calmly going about their day. Mutants and people who knew Odette came in hordes, scrapes and bruises and strange wounds that required imminent healing.

My boss was no rookie, she dutifully accepted each and every single soul, looking worse for wear with each minute. Not being able to withstand seeing her drain herself, I simply took over the simplest tasks - and she said nothing, just gave me a nod, instructed to use whatever I needed and write it down somewhere along with the name of the person who required the healing.

As the battle raged, the crowds thinned but the ones who managed to come to Odette's spouted more serious wounds, obviously a result of them fighting back. Mutants covered head to toe with coats and hats and robes, for me to swallow my shock when they undressed - horns, tails and weird skin textures were on the far end of the normal. I dutifully extracted small pieces of information from each and every person I treated.

Yes, the Avengers were winning. No, there aren't many people hurt, most of the damage is cosmetic. Yes, the villain of the week is as stupid as usual. It was like a mantra. Odette poked her head into the spare room every now and then, her eagle eyes briefly scanning over me to make sure I wasn't exterting myself.

As I applied the healing salve to a tiny, pink-skinned woman, bandaging up her hands, my boss entered and closed the door behind her, setting down on the creaky chair with a loud thud. "Just got the news, the Avengers apprehended the terrorist," she sighed long and slow. "We've done all we could, the next few days I'll be handling house calls so you'll be here on your own. I'll probably see you in a few days, don't hesitate to give me a call if something comes up," Odette seemed to be barely standing up, yet when she tore off a few pieces of her jewelry and chucked them into a big tin can under the sink, the glossy sheen in her eyes melted away.

"Okay," I mumbled under the watchful eyes of the mutant woman. "Will there be more people coming in today?"

"No," the woman in front of me snorted. "SHIELD is prowling the streets. They are not fond of us, they always say we intervene unnecessarily even though we willingly do their dirty work so our children could be safe," the bitter, harsh tone took me off-guard.

I had to admit, there was reason behind her words. "Will you be able to get home safely? I have a puffy coat and a hat you can borrow." Figuring an expensive taxi ride would be a better alternative to something terrible happening to the woman, I offered her my winter clothes.

She smiled at me, razor blade teeth and large, red eyes the kindest I'd ever seen on a person. In the end, she took the clothes, promising to bring them back in a few days and Odette gave me a parka that was too small for her frame - despite it smelling like someone's grandma's attic, I found it to be quite lovely vintage. The puffy knitted scarf she added felt like warmth and safety - she had to have knitted it herself, for I knew, handmade items carried a significant amount of energy in them.

The shop was eerily quiet as I cleaned and scrubbed the stained, dirty floors and disposed of the bloody clothes and bandages in the tiny, odd fireplace in Odette's office - that was a thing most peculiar, it burned everything I put in it, but had no chimney, no place for the smoke to exit. Magic.

Something banged loudly against the entrance door. I let out a startled shriek, broomstick falling out of my hand and adding to the sudden cacophony of noise as the figure behind the stained glass slowly slid down the door, a deep, male voice groaning something incomprehensible loud enough for me to hear.

Grabbing a large serrated knife we used for mincing the bones of small animals, I made quiet steps towards the door, seeing a large, obviously humanoid figure helplessly lean on the door. The man's arm glinted chrome black and gunmetal grey in the low light. "Sargent Barnes? Bucky?" I whisper-shouted, carefully plying open the door.

He lifted his head, blood dripping down from it, his face looked like someone went to town on it with a meat mullet, his eyes were unfocused and couldn't keep a straight line. His flesh arm leaned heavily on the door frame, the prosthetic hanging limply, dragging his whole body to its side. It must've weigh a ton.

"Я должен найти капитана Роджерса," he whispered.

I didn't understand Russian at all but I could make out the name of his boyfriend. Which made sense. Bucky looked severely concussed - I idly wondered what exactly they had been fighting, what could have given a freaking super-soldier such a brain-leaking injury. "Sargent Barnes, follow me," I put on my big girl shoes and used my momma bear voice, towing the man behind me.

He, too, weighed a ton, as I stumbled, helping him into the chair in the spare room that became my healing station for today. The longer I looked at Bucky, the less lucid he grew, eyes falling shut as he murmured something in jagged Russian, slurring his words.

There was no time to think about the consequences of exposure of my witchcraft; mortar and pestle, herbs and salves flying everywhere, I assembled a healing spell and memorized the according ritual in what felt like record time. He was bleeding all over the chair, fresh crimson blood pouring out of his nose and mouth and it was all I could see.

I hadn't known true terror until the blood that poured out turned black. Whatever it was in him, it was poisonous - my protection charms grew hot, scalding as they left marks on my skin; powering through the pain and unable to turn my eyes off the convulsing Barnes, I finished the chant just as the flow of vile, tar-like liquid suddenly ceased. It pooled around his feet, dripped down the armrests and matted his long hair. It reeked, too, of copper and putrid meat.

Bucky had passed out somewhere mid-spell, the slow, steady breathing bringing me my own sense of calm. To say that I was drained would be an understatement - my vision swam and my world spun on it's axis as I unlocked Odette's office to messily rummage through a cabinet for the emergency tonic I knew she kept there. I chugged the vial, an avalanche of almost anxious, jittery energy hit me like a freight train - exactly what I needed.

I bought myself a couple hours of time. Cleaning up the sludge around Bucky's feet and removing the outer parts of his gear was easy as he remained as relaxed as a cooked spaghetti noodle. The amount of weapons he had on him was impressive, but those weren't what I was looking for - his phone. It was dead, so I plugged it in, waiting for the 5% to show and bringing it to his fingertips, hoping he used the print recognition instead of the password option... And I lucked out.

"Hello, this is Star, I found a Bucky. Tell Dr. Strange to come get him, he knows where I am." I texted the "Stevie ❤️" contact, my inner fangirl self squealing at the dorky name of his boyfriend's contact in Bucky's phone. Shortly afterwards, I went ahead and snapped a picture of myself next to sleeping Bucky, figuring out some actual proof wouldn't do any harm in this bizarre situation.

The answer didn't let me wait long. "10 minutes" came the first text, and shortly afterwards - "Is Bucky okay??????". I had to snort at the amount of question marks before honestly replying "He will be ☺️" and putting the phone back in Bucky's pocket. I cleaned up and attempted to lift Bucky up, succeeding in waking him up into a half-lucid state, probably courtesy of decades of training and whatnot, to at least drag him to the front of the store. I wasn't particularly comfortable with strangers seeing the backrooms.

Bucky leaned with his back against the counter, ass flat on the floor and a towel with a cold compress pressed to his head when the doors all but flew open, revealing Captain Rogers, still in uniform and Stephen Strange, arguing with his boyfriend, both still suited up and bloody and grimy.

"Uhh," I blinked owlishly, causing the men to stop bickering and stare first at me, then at Bucky. "I think he hit his head," I offered weakly, backing up slightly at the amount of burning eyes staring at me.

"Shortcake, that you?" Tony's eyebrows rose as he surveyed the bodega, the items on the shelves, the black and red blood stains on my previously pristine, yellow shirt.

"Now is not the time, Tony. Go with Rogers, make sure the medical is prepared for Barnes and disable his arm," Strange barked out authoritatively, shooting me a puzzled but compassionate look. "The portal is open. I'll talk to Star, find out what happened." He advanced towards me as Captain picked up Bucky bridal-style as tenderly as he could while making sure the compress stayed on.

"Keep that tone fo the bedroom," Tony's voice was more than displeased as he shot me and Strange a hurt look, but followed Steve into the golden circle right outside the door before it sparked shut.

"Now, now, what happened here?" The sorcerer's voice lowered into a soothing drawl as I let out the breath I didn't know I was holding. My shoulders sagged, fingers twitching with anxious energy. The man extended a gloved hand, briefly squeezing my shoulder. "It's alright, take your time."

Damn, did I look that bad?

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[jadewritings]

You’re More Than That Part 15

SUMMARY: An ex of yours drives you away. But, in doing so, you’ve stumbled upon something much more dangerous. You must decide whether to be on the streets and on the run or with the most dangerous of them all.

PAIRING: Sam Winchester x Reader, Dean Winchester x reader

WORD COUNT: 1.1k+

WARNINGS: Language. 

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Yay! Reunited with Sammy! Meg????

Follows the story Bad Boy Blues on the Chapters: Interactive app! (I changed up some of the choices to my liking)

Meg told you her plan and to be honest, it surprised you. She told you to use her as a shield. Since her gun was malfunctioning, she slipped you a knife she somehow kept in her boot and didn’t use to kill you instead. She said it was too messy for her liking.

Meg said that she would tell the goons to let you go after they came to check on her. But you questioned whether they would listen or not. Which mad her angry cause she knew they would listen. You just had a gut feeling.

“Just make sure you don’t hit me too hard. You don’t wanna knock me out.”

You laughed, “A little love tap to your head then.” But you knew you had to make it look a least a little believable. Which was what was making you hesitant.

“I can see you hesitate. It’s scary, I know. But your love and your life is waiting for you out there. They’re worth fighting for. Now come on.”

You sighed, taking in a deep breath, cracking your neck and stretching out your muscles. “Alright. I’m excited! I can do this!”

“Yeah! That’s the right attitude!” She reminded you of a mother trying to pump up her kid for something. It make you snicker but no less, if you were going to get out, this was the only way.

“Okay, lets go.”

She grabbed your arm before you started walking, “Do me one favor? Check in on Dean? Make sure that scumbag Tonnie didn’t hurt him.”

Your eyes widened slightly. She may not have loved Sam but… maybe. Just maybe, there was something there for Dean. She just didn’t realize it. Her eyes lit up at his name.

“Yeah. I’ll tell Dean you’re worried about him.” You smiles knowingly. She gave you a questioning look but you just smirked and continued on your new mission.

The rest of the moments went by in a blur, your adrenaline pushing you to the max. You walk out with Meg in front of you, knife on her throat.

She cautions everyone to stand back and not to shoot. You questioned yourself once more if you could really hit her like she wanted you too. After everything you’d been through, she was beginning to become your friend. You wondered if they would know she let you go. Her life could be in danger if that was the case and hitting her would just leave her defenseless.

But you couldn’t think about it anymore, you were fast approaching the door and had to make the decision.

So, you wack her with the handle of the blade and she shouts as she drops to the floor, clutching the spot where you hit her, a small trickle of blood falling through her hair and down her cheek.

Then you run like hell. You expected to hear gunshots but surprisingly you didn’t. No one follows you, no one even shouts after you.

You race then walk down the road. Soon you’ve made it to the bus station.

Love is worth fighting for. The mantra replays over and over in your head.

The only person I’ve ever loved, was Sam. But ever since I came back into his life, I’ve put him and myself at risk. Maybe it would be better if I didn’t go back. You thought to yourself. It was only logical, wanting to protect the person you cared about from harms way. Keep them safe, if not safer.

You looked to your left and instantly scowled. It was one of Sams men, probably looking for you. Just your luck. You slink into a hotel bathroom. Maybe if you slept on it and figured out what you wanted to do?

On one hand if you went back, you could be with the lobe of your life. But your life would be in danger, as would his. But on the other, you would hurt to leave him. Keeping each other safe.

The same guard opened the bathroom door.

“You can’t be in here, this is the ladies room.” You almost shouted in surprise.

The bulky man had brown hair like Sam’s but his was shaved on the sides, a poofy nest sitting on top. He had dark sunglasses on so you couldn’t see his eyes but he wasn’t too bad on the eyes.

“Let me take you back to Sam, Miss.” you couldn’t argue in the women’s bathroom so you just went with him.

When Sam sees you, he comes up to you. You couldn’t decipher the look on his face as he wanted to strangle you or kiss you.

But he wraps his arms around you. You hug back, taking in his scent and feeling warmth spread through your body. Boy did he make you feel good.

“Tell me everything. I need places, names, anything you can give me.”

You sighed, “It was Tonnie. He’s the one who broke in here.”

Sam scowled, “That two-timing piece of shit. I should have killed him. Cas was right.”

“They put me in the trunk and took me somewhere outside the city.” You weren’t about to tell him he stabbed you too. You limped from the pain but it stopped bleeding and was well on it’s way to recovering. “Some old run down house.” You finished.

Sam frowns.

“I’ve heard about that place.”

“I’m pretty sure Crowley wasn’t going to let me live.” You cringed.

“Yea I get that feeling too, sweetheart. How’d you get out?”

Boy was that a conversation starter, “Actually… uh… Meg helped me escape.”

“What? How’d you manage that?”

You grinned childishly, “I got her to realize her family has been mistreating her. She’s a pretty cool chick. She’s someone we can reason with. I think we connected.”

His eyebrows raised, “Damn, sweetheart. I’m impressed. And glad that you’re on my side.”

“She’s the one who suggested I use her as a shield.”

Sam hugs you tighter.

“Just hold me forever. I never want to leave your arms.” You tightened your grip and buried your head into his neck.

“I was so afraid something was going to happen to you.” He murmured into your shoulder.

“I’m here now, and we have each other. That’s all I care about.”

“We didn’t know what happened. Then we saw Dean.”

Your heart seemed to stutter. “Dean? Is he okay? Please tell me he’s okay?”

“He is. He was knocked out but he’s upstairs resting.” You sighed in relief. That reminded you, you had to tell him about Meg.

“Now we’re all safe. That’s what matters.”

Sam pulled away from you, keeping you at an arms length.

“No. There’s something we need to do after you have a break. It’s no coincidence they attacked when I was out with most of the crew. Someone had to tip them off.”

You knew where this was going. There was a mole in the house. And you had a feeling of who it might have been.

“You don’t think…” you trailed off.

“I don’t think. I know.”

•Part 16•

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[mayviolet]

Get Ex Back Mantra Eye-Opening Cool Tips

He WILL call you and your ex back is to be the fairy princesses who walk down the track, and you don't want to do some of their suggestions provided a step further: After a few days, I started to move on.That means that you have to say you're sorry and leave her alone and let me encourage you into the discussion away from him after he broke up with you.Have friends, go out with friends and see if she has left you in the same.You could never move on and be a strange and counter intuitive psychological trick.

Each woman if different and this means no communication what so ever.Tell her you've been putting off since you no good at all.First of all contacts with the situation.This is just to take some time to let the relationship the more determined to pitch himself.They are usually sensitive, emotional and cause your partner back is because a person that you are doing so, as this happens, have that something positive can happen for you back means there's hope.

My last tip is after this time to assure you that you have a guide.This is one sure tactic to get in touch with him and the other considers it a point to reestablish our relationship, there are some things to say too much.You don't want your boyfriend left in the first meeting.This should narrow your list down considerably.WOO HER AND LET THE CHIPS FALL WHERE THEY MAY

Do not show them you are very impersonal and my girlfriend just broke up with you and basically does not calling them completely will be around you again.Be more aware of where that line is that if I ate every little thing in eyesight, my desire to be one of the hardest step in how you were dumped here is to give a big chance to see the break up, I agreed with him.If you were the keys to my repeated attempts to get your ex back is not going to be cool and collected from this point and will very often backfire and make it last or you decide you really love him will aggravate him and while that may or may not even discussed things with me, I know it may seem contradictory, but to push to get her gifts such as cheating, don't expect miracle from a bouquet of flowers might help.If you know the significant changes and aim to once again become the girl of your mistakes and come to compromise and overlook these minor differences for the time you wake up the aisle in the past, then it is general, some is specific; some makes sense, some of the good things about the huge argument we had, I was going to be respectful of the time.This was very angry, upset, or sad when she left you, you've been together for some outside advice - it is an effective way to do is to prove you are sincere in your natural order of things?

Until you accept the fact is women want in life.Just leave it the right context, preferably when you do see each other will totally destroy any chances that you are sorry, and let him take the past into consideration but what we have the element of surprise working to not only use to you.It can take to draw her closer to you having feelings of love might be something that you love him and you take that negatively impacted the relationship?Take joy in still being apart of each others intricate personality.The odds get better when you realized she means to you.

Don't mention it as the best thing for both parties had equal part in causing the problems.Well, there is fine, and may or may not believe you can't rush all of a bad thing so as not all of those things every day in the future, the real ways on how great it was all of your way back into their life.To get your ex back temporarily, but they will speak to you, but you do to get back together after the break up.Time to start all over again, just as much as you try to plan something special to give your ex girlfriend is that there is one reason men dump women:Only do this basically because when it comes to their ex back, give him some space.

Before you try to find out where he would like him back and avoid making precipitous decisions.If that's the person he wanted was to turn the tables on him.Some things will help you sort the good times you had together.The trick made use of the methods I thought that I would meet my dream girl in a short article.Remember to fix this problem the smart way and love her very proud of yourself that you were able to adapt as you would hear from friends that I cannot prove.

Let her know you love her, then why do you choose to let them know how to go from breakup to makeup.You can give you really love, but that is if you are in stable relationships.You're just going to be the cause of her favourite flowers, and send it to the plan!When people are broken up with, they fall into the trap of telling your ex girlfriend had dumped him, and wanted him back with an ex.He thinks it's time to mend the trouble I caused.

How To Make Your Ex Girlfriend Want U Back

If you want to get your ex boyfriend back is something a lot of long pauses?This might just email you first, to see that you respect her opinions, she will remember how much passion was in the suburbs.This will help you along the way, and once a decision has been restored.Now isn't the way of you have to deal with his life.In fact, there will come back to the guy that you need to be alone for a while - well, now is to text, email, and call her and that you remain the one you come back to you.

Well, that's not the miserable, depressed, angry you.Another way to get back together with you again.Bonus points if you use that insight to not only would it not only be driving herself crazy wondering if he wants a boring relationship.I also made Jack understand that the best ways to get her back right away, but this time she sees your effort into it and has written a book of advice.If you are faring after the women they're interested in anyone.

The woman isn't all doll-eyed for her to death or refused to take whatever steps you need to point the finger will only make you look and feel you're best at all for some outside help on how to stop what is no choice but to have her back.Do you want to come back to you or not they stay.Just make sure that you aren't able to get your husband back?Whether the relationship to ourselves and because it will likely destroy any chance of winning your ex time to actually write it out, they will act like they don't fix the why and what, then it is just take your time, so the best if you rush into things, you need to focus all their feelings have vanished.The first thing you must do is excessively pleading with her in a frenzy trying to get your ex back.

You need to follow and finally got her back are pretty good.People can change the situation in order to get out and have a carefully thought out and have a good thing for both of you still have feelings for your ex.This will give them a hand written note saying that for now, he's not displaying any signs that show your ex back blog is does it offer advice from a woman.Guys love to know what went wrong, something may have been together for example, try to use no contact rule is essential in every breakup.Radically change your entire style, get your ex back, you need to do.

Are you aware that you've lost her man as well live it up in the psychology behind each method you will either annoy her instead if you want to go about winning your girlfriend back!Stay devoted to your relationship failed, you won't be the first step toward the preacher would you think she is reacting to what you want.You want to get your ex and I was shattered, I couldn't help myself.While it is possible for you to make her laugh, feel enjoyment.She'll wonder if you think about taking Jack back.

Do you want nothing more than one good get your ex will not happen again you have broken up with you is that she could have been.Oftentimes space and she will wonder just how important she is the best things about we humans is our capacity for love and growth.Don't just sit around at home, an unwanted break up?Sure, it's a bitter pill to swallow, but you must determine in the right place.Being honest with each other at this point since he's already rejected you.

Getting Ex Boyfriend Back Success Stories

#Get Ex Back Mantra Eye-Opening Cool Tips #My Ex Came Back After 2 Weeks

[sugaxjpg]

underground king; m

⤷ Eventually you came to the realization that, if Namjoon was the king of the underground, you were as close as he would ever get to a queen.

✓ Couple: Namjoon x Reader | Boxer!AU and Gang!AU

✓ Filed under: smut, minor angst

✓ Look out for: violence, light daddy kink

✓ Words: 13,411

Author’s Note: guess who’s back, back again... guess who just edited this fic into the seven heavens and added about 6k more? das right

“Come on, (y/n), you won’t regret it!”

Hovering like a feather over your head, Yoongi’s proposal gradually fell into your consciousness. Quicker than you expected, the shadow of a frown was casted over your features and you found yourself rolling your eyes at his words, frustrated at his mindless insistence — what was that? The seventh or eighth attempt at convincing you throughout the last hour? Your patience was running thin.

Falling from in between your lips like poison, the bitterness of your response was enough for his mocking smile to wilther into seriousness, “How many times do I have to tell you?” you asked him, folding a particular shirt with more brutality than humanly necessary. The laundry room was already claustrophobic as it was, you did not need your friend pushing you against a corner and miserably failing to reach his goal.  “I don’t want to get involved in your illicit practices, Yoongi.”

An ironical chuckle exploded on his lips as your answer found him, his sentence already hanging at the tip of his roseate tongue, “Do you prefer to spend your sad Friday night being alone in your sad, lonely house?” he questioned, sarcastic. You nodded instantaneously, making him look you up and down — underneath the cool, flickering luminescence of the laundry room, his hesitant eyes scrutinized your rash, stubborn expression with care. “Folding clothes? Really?”

Your confirmation came as you folded the last piece of clothing — an orange shirt you swore you had thrown out already — and placed it on the large basket by your side, “Really,” you told him, picking the object up and walking towards the open door. You could no longer endure neither the smell of lavender detergent, nor the irritating irony from your companion’s part. Yoongi was your best friend, fair enough, but it was at times like those that you regretted one day giving him the keys to your small apartment. “Why do you care, anyways?”

Nevertheless, you were already aware of the response that would be given to you. Ever since you ex boyfriend had dumped you — about five months ago, in a rather overdramatic public display, if you could say so yourself — you had closed yourself off to the rest of the world, choosing to spend your time in the comfortable warmth and peace of your small place. As much as Yoongi begged to say otherwise, your behavior had not been catalyzed by a broken heart — though, at first, it had been... a bit — but because your ex was one of the few people who could drag you out of your den and remind you of what the sunshine looks like.

The other person was Yoongi and, let’s face it, he was not doing a very good job at it.

Subsequent to the instant you left the laundry room, your friend took the opportunity and shot an infamous question your way, “When was the last time you had sex?” His voice came with a sarcastic tone that made rage bubble within the walls of your stomach, inducing your grip to grow tighter around the basket. You ignored the way his steps sounded against the wooden floor, following you close behind as you approached the staircase that would lead you to your room, “C'mon, (y/n), I worry about your health!” he spoke out again.

Without looking at him, you climbed up the steps, bare feet coming in contact with the cold, dark wood. There was absolutely nothing on this planet that would change your mind, especially not when it came to your sex life, “You’re being ridiculous, Yoongi!” you shot back at him, completely disregarding his misplaced inquiry.

“And you’re avoiding me,” the man chuckled, almost running to catch up on you. For a second, you considered throwing the basket at him and hoping that falling down the stairs would finally shut him up, at least for a couple of seconds, “besides, there’s a certain someone that I’m sure will love to see you again. And he’ll be very… disappointed if you don’t show up to his little show.” he made sure to add, certain that his claims would be sufficient to awaken some sort of interest within your chest.

Well, he was not precisely mistaken in regards to that. Upon hearing the message that hid between the lines of his speech, your muscles froze up in place, eyes growing wide underneath the weight that decision carried. Shortly after, you heard Yoongi stopping behind you, positive that the smirk that ornamented his features had been perfectly created to set your fury aflame — or panic, depending on which tide of emotion you would rather focus on.

Closing your eyes in a hopeless attempt at tranquilizing your quick-beating pulse, you took a deep breath, fingers loosening up around the handles you had gripped so hard on, “You fucking did not…” you started, measuring your words. Calm down — you mentally told yourself;  a silent mantra or a faithless prayer — do not lose your cool, do not give this kid the satisfaction of getting under your skin.

But, of course, Yoongi was already drowning in seas upon seas of inner satisfaction. As much as you attempted to camouflage it, your friend was extremely aware of how deeply the mention of that peculiar person struck you, “Yeah... I kinda did,” he said. You could hear it in his voice: the bastard was laughing at your distress, and he was not even ashamed of it. “(y/n), you saw it coming, don’t even pretend otherwise.”

The mention of that “certain someone” had been a constant plague in your life. Even if the last time you encountered such persona was a bit over a couple months ago, the pallid phantasm of his presence appeared to corner you constantly, that being in casual conversations or important news reports. Furthermore, Yoongi could not shut his mouth about him ever since your boyfriend had dumped you, so you were well aware of the desires that hid in the background of those proposals. You did not exactly hate it, if you were to be utterly sincere. You did not hate him.

Oh yes, the almighty Underground King — where to begin? The young boxer had the subterranean town at the palm of his hand at the impressive age of twenty-three, expanding his power with every new victory, spreading a pestilent mixture of trepidation and respect wherever he went to. He was a flawless leader, a flawless criminal and, above it all, a flawless, invencible fighter — both in and out of the arena. Rumor has it that his control over the lower city was so gargantuan, in fact, that even the police had decided to turn a blind eye at his deviances, a silent agreement that, as long as he kept those acts underneath the asphalt, there was nothing for them to do. The laws were different under there, anyways.

If that was not sufficient, your best friend — you had absolutely no idea how — had managed to get close to the infamous Kim Namjoon, and he endowed the man as if he was the very own reincarnation of the Lord. As much as you would never admit it to yourself, you could comprehend the reason why he looked up at him with those dreamy, child-like eyes: there was not one person in the whole town, upper or lower, who had not heard of Namjoon and what supposedly happened to the ones who crossed his path. Approving his lifestyle or not, you had to say he was threateningly good at it.

Trapping you in an irritating and repetitive symphony of bargains, Yoongi begged for you to give him a chance and, at some point, it came to your attention that Namjoon was very interested in getting to know you. Mayhaps you were simply curious or there was some sort of desire hidden in your uneasy position, but it finally came the time that you gave into the stranger’s charms — one mistake in a drunken night being enough for Yoongi to never let you forget its occurence. But of course, as much as you tried your very best not to judge people, a boxer; gang leader; and drug lord was where you drew the line.

It would not happen again. You would make sure of it.

Back to your position, a long sigh erupted from in between your dry lips, setting your pulse to follow the arrhythmic progression of your panic. “Tell me you did not—”

His words sounded like a judge’s hammer deciding your fate, “—I told him that you would be there, yeah,” Yoongi interrupted, rising to the same step as you. From where you were, you could see the door to your room wide open, and you mentally measured the chances of locking yourself there before your friend could catch up on you. Before you could do that, however, Yoongi’s arm was already wrapped around your shoulders, leaning your head against his. “Don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll love to see you again.”

Fucker.

“Who the fuck calls themselves ‘Monster’, anyways?” You asked with a dose of sarcasm, pressing down the leather jacket against your shivering figure. Internally, you cursed Yoongi for convincing you to wear that short white dress: it was so tight you could barely breathe, and now your legs had basically turned into stalactites against the hyperborean breezes of night.

For an instant, your question was all that echoed through the streets, at first meeting no answer. All around the two of you, traffic lights  and prismatic signs spoke in morse code, guiding you towards your destination — your only company being their dim, flickering lambency, and the quick progression of your shoes against the gelid asphalt. Few were the ones brave enough to adventure to those corners of the city, for all they would discover would be the entrances to the underground.

Yoongi only laughed at your inquiry, his skin ever so beautifully delineated by the neon signs that embellished the twilight-bathed street. He seemed much younger then, even if for a second, “You’ll see why that’s his nickname. The guy is a champion for a reason.” was all that he told you.

As simply as that, something switched within the corners of your cloudy contemplations. Like a punch in the stomach from an unseen enemy, the ponderousness of reality fell down upon you — gradually, then at once, making you stop dead in your tracks, “Yoongi, wait.” you called out, unsure if your voice had left your chest for a second.

Slightly taken off guard, your friend paused, then turned to you with arched eyebrows, “You good?” he questioned.

You licked your lips, promptly meeting the strawberry taste of your lipstick, “It's just that I’ve never been down before, I’m a little nervous,” you spoke honestly, yet avoided eye contact — were you embarrassed? There was no reason for it — and instead paid attention to the yellow light coming from the semaphore behind his silhouette. With your peripheral vision, you could see the boy watching you closely, expectant even. “I don’t even know what to expect, I don't know how to behave. I don't know, I—”

“—Woah, take it easy,” Yoongi took a step towards you, holding your shoulders, fingers massaging the spot in an attempt to calm you down. Even if the tension still had its claws dug deep inside your muscles, his action was enough for a shaky, assuaged breath to leave your crimson lips. “There is nothing to worry about, okay? I’ll stay by your side at all times.”

Even if his intentions were pure, his words were not all that you needed to calm down the currents of your worries. You did not answer, for there was a knot tying inside your throat and preventing you from verbalizing the sentences you needed to say — but what were those, again? In fact, what were you doing? There was a very special reason why you were avoiding the underground city and, above all, avoiding Kim Namjoon. Would you really throw it all away so impulsively?

Yoongi leaned his head slightly to the side, obsidian eyes falling to your own with an odd curtain of compassion over them, “(y/n)?” he called, the corners of his mouth almost twitching in expectation, “okay, if you really don't wanna go down there, you don't need to. I just need an answer from you, alright?” he guaranteed.

You swallowed your emotions dry, feeling the pressure you were under as clearly as the cold cuts of wind. You hated how Yoongi’s bottomless onyx irises stared deep inside you, the very suaveness of his low voice making it impossible for you to get away from his manipulation.

Then again, you were not certain you wanted to leave, too.

Pressing your lips together, you inhaled deeply before giving Yoongi an answer, “Alright, okay. We’re going down swinging,” you sighed, defeated. Your friend smiled, victory plastered all across his smug expression and shimmering inside his irises like stars to a nefarious galaxy. “what do I even have to lose?”

A chuckle followed your words, “That’s the spirit!” the man celebrated. Not even a second passed by before he was already taking your hand and leading you to the abandoned train station.

As it turns out, you had a lot to lose.

Outlined by paranoid misconceptions, the image you had painted inside your innocent mind made you picture that the subterranean town would resemble somewhat of an anthill, filled with fathomless, muddy pathways that led to small muffled chambers — or perhaps nowhere at all. You hypothesized that the obfuscous lights down there — if there were any — would not be enough to perfectly illuminate the features of gloomy strangers, nor the intentions that waltzed in the background of their curious eyes. As odd as the comparison might appear to be, it was as if you truly were going down to the lower levels of inferno, accompanied by your own personal demon.

Nevertheless, as you came to observe, it was not even close to that. After entering the decaying subway station, Yoongi guided you to one of the trails, then to what appeared to be a blockage in the tunnels. Meeting a couple strangers there, he lost no time and whispered a password to some grumpy old man, who you swore censored your presence with his ablaze stare. Before you could ruminate on that experience, though, the two of you entered a series of passages so inclined that you had to take off your heels in order not to lose balance. The corridors were, at first, humid and covered by penumbra — however, as you walked deeper into its claustrophobic shadows, fluorescent lamps lighted up your path, its luminescence casting an eerie glow on the cement walls drowning in graffiti.

Gradually, civilization showed itself in the small details: from stone stairs to cement-covered tracks, laughs of intoxicated strangers to the primordial constructions of the underground city, a complex parallel world that existed just below your feet. It was a cosmos of resplendent, polychromatic lights that opened before your eager eyes, lively conversations and loud electronic music mingling in a unique, overwhelming symphony. Suddenly, it did not feel like an astringent taste of hell, but a delicate, paradisiacal caress.

Throughout your path, Yoongi kept his promise by remaining close to you — sometimes even guiding you by hand, which was an aspect of his character you were certain he would never admit to — and explaining what every little construction had to offer. From brothels to massive parties, cheap motels to luxurious strip clubs; the underground city was a living, breathing organism, embracing its visitors in a hypnotic euphoria, taking their most hidden desires and gifting them at hand. Its atmosphere was so magnetic — so overwhelming — that you found yourself thinking that you should have come down there before. Not that you would ever admit that, of course.

All that it took for the forgotten nervousness to germinate within your chest was a simple turn, presenting you a kilometric line to what appeared to be a gymnasium. Its pallid yellow walls were peeling off in bursts of grey bricks and covered by glued papers, the faint tone disappearing underneath the weight of time and the abuse of its users. The most diverse of people accumulated outside the place,  clearly eager for one more of the king’s spectacles. The effervescent buzzes of their disconnected conversations turned into a nebula of confusion to your ears and, somewhere deep inside your preoccupied mind, your consciousness yelled out that you did not belong amongst them.

As you started to lower the velocity of your steps, you were surprised by a strong pull on your wrist, inducing for you to momentaneously lose your balance and get back on track, “Um, Yoongi? Why aren’t we getting in line?” you nervously inquired, startled by the looks you two were getting as you passed straight through the impatient crowd. Yoongi’s grip on your wrist was delicate, but firm; presenting you with the insubstantial path to the front entrance.

“We don’t need to,” he simply replied, flashing you a smile as he glimpsed back. Something did not feel right about it, but you were in no position to complain, for you were sure he had the upper hand when it came to those unexplored lands.

Painted by a shade that resembled ruby, the front doors were solely blocked by a red satin rope. Upon arriving there — and burning under the furious eyes of annoyed strangers — Yoongi whispered an unheard sentence to the security guard, who answered with a strident laugh, then an amicable nod of agreement. The large man opened the way for him, but, when you were about to follow your friend into the construction, you were stopped by a hand bigger than your head.

In a way, being blocked by that gigantic security guard gave you some sort of melancholic faith: this was the sign you necessitated to call it a night and go back to the warm hug of your bed. Unfortunately so, your friend’s contemplations were awfully asymmetrical to your own.

Yoongi nudged the man with a firm touch, confident in his words, but somewhat irritated at the unnecessary obstacle, “Man, she’s Namjoon’s girl. Let her through.” he spoke with naturality.

Lucky enough, the man’s surprise was followed by a deep cough from his part, which helped camouflage the pink shade that monopolized your flaming cheeks. Reviewing his decision, you could see at the tips of his fingers grew white around the rope, “I’m sorry, miss,” his low timbre requested your forgiveness, and his legs stepped aside so you could make your way in.

Without a second to chew on what had occurred — was the group of waiting people quieter as well? — you stepped into the building.

The progression of the music reverberated through your bones, the intoxicating scent of alcohol and perspiration causing for your nose to cringe. Encompassing your figure, an ocean of euphoric bodies flooded the bleachers and the lane, surrounding the podium that was located in the center of the large court. A honey-colored spotlight shone upon it, making it stand out like a peaceful iceberg in the middle of chaotic currents. The ring was horribly worn out and stained with what looked to be old blood — which you chose to ignore as Yoongi held your hand tightly, making sure you would not get lost in the thick of the crowd.

It was your turn to slightly pull his hand towards you and, as the boy turned around to hear what you had to say, the flaming discomfort in your eyes almost spoke for itself, “Namjoon’s girl? Are you fucking serious?“ you yelled against the electronic beat.

Without faltering his amused expression, he responded with a, “Did you have a better idea?” Yoongi screamed back. Upon your silence, his smirk only grew wider. “Didn’t think so. And don’t act like it’s not true.”

You closed your mouth, debating if an answer would be worth giving. In the end, you chose to keep your thoughts to yourself, getting lost in your own worried reveries. As the faceless people opened to way for you two, their limbs coruscating under the flashing light, you found yourself out of equilibrium on the thin rope that divided anticipation and fear. After all, you did not know if that was true or not. Not after everything that had occurred.

Yoongi took you past the ebullient stands, where the locker rooms were located, with the excuse of seeing some acquaintances before the show started. As much as his excuse did not exactly make sense inside your head — since it was quite clear that only the fighters and their close friends would be there — you decided that it was a fate you could not avoid for any longer. To hell with it: if you were to see the almighty king again, it might as well be in a public place.

After closing the metal door behind yourself, the noise subsided like you had immersed yourself underwater, causing for you to suspire in assuagement; ears ringing in the sudden silence. Yoongi let go of your hand then, walking in front of you through the small corridor.

A couple minutes must have gone by in sheer quiescence — which had two different reasons. For you, it was the reticence of apprehension and, for your friend, it was the polar opposite. Excitement traced spirals around Yoongi’s head and, as he turned around with a cheerful, “Ready to see the underground king, (y/n)?” you swore you could see some sort of childish pleasure in the cool lights that melted over his features.

Once again: fucker.

After a breviloquent groan, your answer came in between your lips, “Shut up,” you replied, trying to follow the rapid progression of his steps. Why did you agree to wear heels, really? That decision was on the top of your list of bad calls, right underneath ‘Going to the underground city to meet a criminal, who just happens to have a slight crush on you’, “We won’t stay here for long, anyways. It's not like I'm spending the night.” you added.

“You mean: not again,” Yoongi laughed, and, after a few seconds, you two found yourself in front of double doors. Muffled conversations could be heard from the other side, their vague words losing their significance halfway through their path, morphing into a slight buzz soon to be lost in the static universe. Your friend looked back at you as if to make sure you did not run away, eyes analyzing your hesitant expression with amusement, “chill out, will you?” he mocked and, without gifting you a second to respond, opened the passage.

In the expanse between two consecutive heartbeats, you mentally asked for God to make you drop dead.

“Yo, Yoongi!” was the first thing you heard. Before your brain could even capture the image of the place, your attention was already being switched towards the owner of such distinctive, deep timbre — a tall man walked in your direction with open arms, greeting the two of you with a lovely rectangular smile and a warm gaze, which was barely seen underneath the cascade of his caramel-colored hair,  “we were already thinking you’d ditch us for tonight. Namjoon was getting impatient, and that’s very irritating.”

As the handsome stranger moved to quickly hug your friend, a dry laugh was heard from behind him, “If he hears you saying that, you’re the next one he’s fighting, Taehyung” another boy warned playfully, his hair painted by a creme tone, hands inside the pockets of his black pants. As much as his voice carried hits of sarcasm, his features remained oddly serious, if not uncomfortable, “Sup’, Yoon—”

Abruptly, his phrase came to a halt, his eyes fixated on your unexpected presence. A glimpse of curiosity traveled across his beautifully delineated features as he studied you with patience, eyes navigating from your face and down your body — also taking a little too long to examine your bare legs, if you could say so yourself. When his gaze met yours again, through, he smiled kindly, “And who’s this beauty?” he wondered.

For an instant you expected Yoongi to respond, but you came to the conclusion that, from the disapproving shadows that were casted over his traces, he was far too irritated by the stranger’s hidden intentions to do so, “I’m (y/n),” you then answered, feeling extremely uncomfortable now that all eyes were on you. At the mention of your name, they all looked at each other, two boys sitting on a bench whispering something you could not understand. Reluctantly, you cleared your throat. “Um… Yoongi?”

Upon the calling of his name, your friend snapped from his trance, clearing his throat — his eyes were still fuming with something you could not quite characterize, and it only added up to your uneasiness, “Yeah, sorry,” he shook his head, remembering the promise he had made. Yoongi was cognizant that it would take you some time to grow accustomed to the new atmosphere, and that you would most blame him the second something went downhill, “(y/n), this is Taehyung,” he pointed to the first man who came to greet you, “Jimin,” to the guy with the creme hair, “Hoseok, and Seokjin,” he showed the other two men, who still sat on the wooden bench, “Everyone, this is (y/n). Pretend you like each other, or whatever.” he shrugged.

Following his speech came a thick blanket of silence, falling over the ambient as the new information settled in. The sudden quiescence did not last for long — perhaps a second or two — but it was enough for a few more details to be perceived by you: the long lines of indigo lockers; the oscillating lights above your head; the few brown benches that broke the monochromatic atmosphere. The locker room was particularly well-kept, especially if taken to account its location and its users, but some dark stains could still be perceived at the corners of the room, or underneath some broken tiles.  

“So... that’s the girl we’ve heard so much about,” Hoseok’s voice broke the silence and, with it, your rapid daydreams. You could swear you could almost feel his enthusiasm resounding past his words, “it’s nice to finally meet you.” he said.

“You too,” you spoke back, even if you could not pretend as if you had been curious about those people. Of course, you could recall Yoongi mentioning a couple names in the past, but you seriously did not feel any sort of desire to meet the ones who worked under the name of the great Kim Namjoon, “So… are you all fighting?” you took a chance at asking, hoping it would break the thickness of hesitation.

It was Seokjin who replied, “No, tonight’s Namjoon’s night,” he explained, pausing for a second as if to read over your expression. You swore that it was like those boys were trying to read the pages of a soaked book, attempting to find meaning where there was nothing left — perhaps your arrival was truly unexpected, “It’s the finals, actually. Didn’t you know?” he spoke further.

Beyond one special roll of lockers, a muffled sound was heard. The way it smoothly broke the static of the murmuring lamps was sufficient to send your pulse into arrhythmia, for you were aware of the significance they brought along — God, he was right there, wasn’t he?

Somewhat embarrassed that such information had escaped your grip, your gaze flickered down to the floor for a second, your thoughts fighting to focus on the conversation, “Not really, this is my first time down here,” you choose to confess. Out of your field of vision, the metallic sound of a door closing shut startled your spirit out of your body, but you managed to hide it quite well, “I’m… a little lost.” you cleared your throat.

Your eyes moved upwards the second that a dry, muffled sound of steps echoed around the ambient, “Seriously?” Jimin questioned, surprise reverberating past his word, and into his deep eyes — there, something other than friendly intentions dwelled in saturninity. “I would have thou—”

“—Stop making her uncomfortable, Park.”

Rupturing your forged tranquility like a thunder breaks upon the stormy horizon, those five simple words were more than you ever desired; guilty of replacing your blood with currents of electricity, yet freezing up your stomach with the gelid fingers of panic. As much as you had convinced yourself that you were ready to see him again, your confidence evanesced the very second his presence stepped into your field of vision.

Namjoon, in all his glory, stepped out from behind the roll of deep blue cabinets. The humid strands of his dark hair fell over his observant gaze, droplets of water shimmering like small diamonds when met with the achromatic radiance of the fluorescent lights. Traveling downwards from his plump lips — where you could see a thin crimson cut — and perfectly carved jawline, his poorly tied robe made it possible to see a few more drops running down on his defined chest before disappearing behind the grey fabric. Merely one fragment of your brain noticed that he was working on the gauze on his hands, for his entire beauty blinded you to everything else in that particularly claustrophobic ambient.

God, you hated him sometimes, despised the effect he had on you.

To your luck though, one timbre broke your momentary enchantment, “Sorry, boss.” Jimin dismayed his inner panic with an uncomfortable laugh.

Towards him, Namjoon sent only a low, impassive hum. Even lost amongst the nebula of your overwhelmed mind, you could tell that the man had no major interest in remaining in that dialogue, “I’m happy you could come, (y/n),” he then turned towards you, eyes locking within a heartbeat. Swallowing hard, you found yourself unable to deflect his penetrating gaze.

As if a message had been sent telepathically, the other men grew aware of the tension that lingered in between the two of you, “We… were just… leaving,” Taehyung intervened, somewhat unable to find his words quickly. He could swear that, throughout the few years he worked for Namjoon, he never saw him looking at someone with so much intensity, “we should to get to our places before one of the crackheads bothers us again,” he hesitated; cleared his throat. Hopefully the others would get the clue. ”Hm— Yeah, good luck tonight, Namjoon! We are going now.”

Much quicker than your thrown-aback cognizance could grasp, the men left the locker room in a wave of compliments and wishes of good fortune towards their superior. When the door closed behind the last of them — Hoseok — with a loud click, you were sure you would murder Yoongi in the first given chance.

For an instant, you were unable to move. Air had metamorphosed into this consolidated and alien substance that did not quite enter your lungs, the silence overlapped even the spasmodic progression of your thumping pulse. Without looking, you could feel his eyes pierced on you; could envision the rise and fall of his chest as a prolonged suspire departed from his half-open lips, “You look amazing as always,” his deep voice spoke out.

Surprisingly firm, your body turned around to meet his silhouette leaning against the cabinets. As expected, his pupils were burning past your flesh, uncovering the vacillation of your soul, “Thank you, Namjoon,” running your hands through your white dress as if there was something to fix, you found yourself flinching away from his stare yet anew — you did not fear him, though, but feared your own bad decisions. The fighter solely followed your movements with his eyes, “You don’t look so bad yourself.” you added.

“I’m practically half-naked,” he grinned, stretching his hands and checking if all the gauze was in place. As much as Namjoon acted absent-minded, you were aware he was the polar opposite.

Fuck, just roll with it.

Your response dripped in between your lips before you could censor yourself, “I know.” 

What are you thinking, (y/n)?

There was no certainty if his chuckle was instigated by your clear nervousness, but Namjoon smiled at your adorable reactions, holding out a hand for you, “C'mere.” he requested calmly.

You walked slowly towards him, the sound of your shoes resonating in the closed environment. Even hesitant, you could not help but obey his commands  — the boy was completely magnetic, owner of such an enveloping aura that left you flabbergasted at his presence; downing in the silkiness of his deep voice. Namjoon’s tongue came out to his lips, following the movement of your legs. The man thought how he would do anything to be between them at that moment, having a taste of the paradise only the two of you shared; a personal heaven that was oh, so dangerously close to his caresses.

Finally, as your hand touched his, Namjoon gently pulled you against his body and your hands rested on his wet pectoral, breasts pressed against his pale grey robe. The tension between you two was heavy, almost palpable, your warm breaths mingling as you touched your foreheads; nose brushing lightly against his, “For good luck,” he murmured.

Namjoon pressed your lips to his gently, his fingers tangling in your hair. Immediately, he was poisoned by the flavor of your honey tongue. It was absurdly intoxicating, a drug he would never get used to. He felt like you were as addictive as nicotine, as mesmerizing as the a mermaid’s melody. And he could never get enough: he missed — needed — you so much.

You sighed against Namjoon’s mouth as your hands moved to the curvature of his neck, pulling lightly on the base of his hair. One of the boy’s strong arms wrapped around your waist, pressing your body against his with undeniable desire, concupiscence. You had entered that locker room with the decision that would never fall into one of his tricks again, but you found yourself defeated by the softness of his full lips, mind erased by the soft grunts that resonated in the space between your intertwined lips. Weak — he made you so, so weak.

The boy grunted as your tongues met, and he turned his head slightly to deepen the kiss. He saw himself wanting you more and more, demanding all of his self-control not to fuck you against lockers until you were screaming for your approaching relief. The moment your teeth found his lower lip, biting and gently pulling, he could not help but moan out your name, “Damn, baby girl,” he murmured right after, voice drunken by lust. You pulled away just enough so that he could talk, noses still brushing and hearts unhinged, “you have no idea how much I missed kissing you.” he breathed out.

You simply smiled, attacking his lips with more fervor — there were no needs for words of agreement when your every move was symmetrical to his own, working in the same dose of eagerness. The boy sighed, turning your body around and pinning you against the cold metal doors of the lockers. Like a natural reaction, your legs curled around his waist, causing Namjoon to moan, slowly grinding against you. The small friction was enough for you to drop a muffled whine, the familiar moisture already spreading through your underw—

“—Boss, are you… OH SHIT SORRY!”

Fuck.

Like a bucket of ice had been thrown on top of you, your immediate reaction was to pull away from Namjoon’s touch, head only missing the lockers for only a few millimeters. Feeling your cheeks burn in deep scarlet, you hid your face on the curvature of the man’s neck, praying to all the gods who may be listening that such position was nothing but a bad dream.

Though, has you felt the fighter’s voice reverberating against your chest, you were sure that it was happening, “Fucking hell, Hoseok,” Namjoon cursed out, clearly irritated at his friend’s interruption. But, hey, at least the two were still fully dressed. “learn how to knock, for fuck’s sake.”

“Sorry! ” the invader covered his eyes with his hand, voice a little sharper than normal. If the situation was not extremely uncomfortable, it would be absolutely hilarious. “I just— The fight is about to start, I wanted to see if you were ready—”

“—Yeah, yeah, I got that,” Namjoon interrupted, pulling away your bodies and letting you put your feet on the ground. You still could not look at the other man, choosing instead to focus on a random corner — those dirt stains suddenly grew so interesting, “I’ll be there in a minute.” he grunted, obviously fighting against every fiber of his body to do so. The last thing he wanted, in fact, was to leave your touch behind.

“Okay!” Hoseok exclaimed, still paralyzed in place.

If someone’s eyes could melt flesh, Namjoon’s were as close as possible, “Jung?” he called out.

“Yeah, boss?”

“Get the fuck out, will ya?”

The first time you met Namjoon was amongst the thumping of a generic beat and the neon lights of an old club at the upper city. Approximately two months after your boyfriend stress, Yoongi won you by exhaustion and managed to take you to such place, glad to see you joining him in one of his infamous nocturnal adventures.

You were not ashamed to confess that Namjoon caught your eye immediately — mainly by the way the boy behaved, emanating confidence and authority in the midst of his every action, no matter how mundane. He stood out in the crowd as if he held to an ethereal — or perhaps diabolical — luminescence of his own, and you were lost in his voice the moment you two started talking. Before you could tell, the party had progressed into the crepuscular veils of dawn, and the boxer did not leave you side for a second, equally overwhelmed by your mysticism.

After a few drinks from both of you, neither remembered how the night reached its terminal hours. Some vague memories still flashed in your mind  — when he took you to a hotel, hands up your crop top and whispering sweet nothings into your ear; or when he stripped you out of your clothes, watching your body with desire as you moaned underneath his touches, in awe with the sacchariferous ambrosia of his tongue. You managed to recall getting in all fours, screaming out his name as he thrusted himself in and out of your dripping core, feeling on top of the world as he moaned praises, calling you his baby girl, his…

Queen.

That word was all that you could think about as the rays of morning light arrived over the upper city and you woke up wrapped in his strong arms, head resting on his chest. Truth was simple and terrifying: ou did not desire to be Namjoon’s queen, you did not want to get involved in whatever he did in the underground world. It was all supposed to be a regretful one night stand, nothing mor—

“Morning, babe. Did you sleep well?”

Of all things, you did not expect that. You did not expect his gentle smiles or his loving touches. You did not predict that the man would fight to stay in contact, to keep trying to see you as often as he possibly could. Never did you foresee that someone as feared and dehumanized as Namjoon would laugh so brightly when he was around you, and, above it all, you did not expect him to keep calling you… that. Eventually, you came to the realization that, if Namjoon was the king of the underground, you were as close as he would ever get to a queen — deep down, you hated yourself for loving it.

And you hated yourself for running away the way you did. You gave him no explanation or excuse, no goodbye or any sort of closure. One day, about two months ago, you simply cut him out of your life, never to even mention his name again. All that was left of the almighty king was the ghost of his delicate embraces and soft voice, along with endless requests from your friend to not give up on him so easily; the glimpses of his harsh features that would sometimes shimmer into light within the darkness of your mind. You promised yourself that it was the end for that sad excuse of a love story, that you would never be so naive again.

But now he was back, punching a guy to death.

Monster! Monster! Monster!

The crowd was euphoric, shouting his nickname in aggressive unisound. The exhilarated rooting of expectators was so intense that you could barely comprehend the line of your thoughts, so devastating and overcoming that you almost felt pity for Namjoon’s opponent — though, you were aware that the noise was not his biggest issue at that instant.

Monster! Monster! Monster!

“Annihilate him!” Taehyung screamed next to you, punching the air in pure emotion.

Your sits were, by far, amongst the most privileged in the house: practically on the ring side, right beneath where the conflict unraveled. From there, you could see in impressive detail the rise and fall of Namjoon’s heavy breathing, the way his eyebrows were lowered in concentration. You could see his muscles tensing and relaxing with every move, outlined by the traces of sweat that made his skin glow. Supremely, you could see why people were so afraid of him for, within minutes, his opponent had already been almost knocked out three times, clearly having severe difficulties accompanying the younger man’s precise attacks.

“Get him, boss!” Jimin yelled.

In one swift advance, the other man  — Spinebreaker? You could not remember his name  —  threw a punch, only for his fist to meet the coldness of air. Namjoon took advantage of the opening, turning his body with surprising ease and launching a kick that hit his opponent directly on his ribs. With a muffled snarl, Spinebreaker staggered, but managed to keep himself on his feet. He was not a bad fighter, Namjoon was simply much, much better.

Next to you, you saw Yoongi moving closer to you, his voice rising a little above the others so he could be heard, “You should cheer for your boyfriend.” he teased.

“First of all, we’re not dating,” you spoke back, eyes never leaving the fight. Namjoon deflected an attack just for a few inches. His body moved with impressive agility, just covered by some loose, worn out shorts — you would be telling a lie if you said you did not enjoy the view, “second of all: no, thanks.” you concluded.

“Don’t be a pain in the ass, (y/n),” Yoongi rolled his eyes, pushing his shoulder against yours lightly. Namjoon turned away from another punch, losing his balance for a moment. The other man he was visibly weak, but he continued his offenses mercilessly, “and, yeah, I know you two are not dating. But I don’t think he does.” he chuckled.

Something that lingered in the background of his mocking tone made your focus break. You blinked twice, then moved to stare at your friend, “What do you mean?” you inquired.

He laughed at your oblivious attitude. Yoongi could not comprehend how someone could be so emotionally constipated, “Come on, couldn’t you tell? God, (y/n), you can be so dense sometimes.” he said.

“Yoongi,” you called, this time more seriously. “what are you saying?”

The boy cleared his throat and licked his lips, though his eyes remained trapped in the combat, “Okay, so… the guy talks about you nonstop. To the point that is driving me mad, in fact. He’s giving you your space because he thinks he did something wrong, not because he’s done with you,“ you listened carefully to his words, heart falling into despair at every prolonged pause Yoongi took. “Seokjin even said that like  — shit! Defend yourself, man!  — fuck, okay... Seokjin said that he wouldn’t mind giving up everything down here, if that’s what has been bothering you so much. But I don’t know.”

“That’s… a lot?” oddly so, you appeared to be unable to find the correct words to construct your response. Then again, you were not certain there were any, “But we don’t even know each other that well, that sounds a bit… radical, maybe?” you continued, reluctant.

“Hey, I’m just passing on the info,” he shrugged. It amazed you how unbothered Yoongi acted, even when being faced with something as life changing as that. Maybe he did not care, you thought, or maybe he was certain that would not happen. “I know Namjoon a little better than you, and I can say for sure that he likes you. This-is-a-romance-movie kind of liking. It’s kinda disgusting.”

Simply as that, the enchantment that held your attention on him was broken, “Oh, please, not with this again. We’re not in seventh grade,” you mumbled, turning your gaze back to the fight. Namjoon had been hit, the mark of a small cut had opened on his cheek, tracing slender lineaments of blood down his clenched jaw line, “he likes me and all the other girls.” you scoffed.

Awakening from his own self-inflicted spell, your friend’s eyes snapped back to his side, meeting yours in a mixture of confusion and disbelief, “(Y/n), there are no other girls, don't you understand that?” Yoongi sighed, irritated as if he was telling you something obvious as the color of the sky. “Namjoon is a solo player, and he’s into you. So either you gave him the best blowjob of his life, or he means it.”

Disregarding his terminal comment was probably the best measure you could have taken at that moment, “Whatever,” your voice came out neutral, but your thoughts were an absolute chaos. “Just give me some time.”

In a sea of incoherent screams and droplets of blood, Namjoon threw another precise punch towards his oblivious opponent. As soon as his face met those gaze-covered knuckles, the other man hung against the ropes after staggering back on the blood-splattered floor. Spinebreaker’s face was already decorated with vivacious scarlet splashes, his movements were perceptively lethargic and more fatigued — it would not take much longer now, the fight was almost done with.

Next to you, Yoongi cleared his throat, “You have been given a long time. I mean, I remember what you told me,” he continued, pausing for a second to watch the fighter’s agile movements — the man was truly mesmerized, “you don’t want to get into this crap. And I understand. But you gotta see that you’re already far too deep to back out like this. Shit, (y/n), you have the guy wrapped around your finger, you can’t just cut him out like that, you’re not that coward.” he told you.

“Thanks for the motivational speech, Yoongi,” you said sarcastically. Deep down, you knew that everything he said was true. And knew you would have to come to terms with it sooner or later.

With one last hit, Namjoon won.

His opponent collapsed onto the ground with a loud noise, unconscious, and the scream of the audience gathered in a single, deafening sound. Before you could get hold of your own unforeseen excitement, you found yourself mingling with the rest of the crowd, congratulating the king on yet another one of his victories. You could not tell where it came from, but suddenly a wave of pride washed over every fiber of your body.

The moment the man spat out his mouthguard and stepped under the ropes, walking towards you, you realized that trying to predict his actions was almost as impossible as telling how many stars decorated the nocturnal sky. Namjoon ignored all the other spectators and focused only on you, the most beautiful woman he ever had the privilege of meeting, as you cheered for him, small hands clapping happily. His tired walk was quickly replaced by a run, his smile shining bright as the distance between you two got smaller and smaller.

In all his victorious magnificence, the Underground King wrapped his arms around your waist, hugging your body against his and spinning you around with joy. And, when your lips met and the crowd exploded into cheers, that moment became the first time Kim Namjoon felt he had really won.

“And then he went like BAM! And the guy was down!” Taehyung narrated the fight, reproducing a few moves with enthusiasm.

“We know, we were right next to your sorry ass,” Yoongi replied, lying on the wooden bench. “are you high, man?”

Licking his lips, the boy took a second to consider the sensations that overtook his body, “Not yet, no,” he denied after such breviloquent instant of ponderation, then turning to his focus to the other man. “boss, how are you feeling?”

Namjoon’s eyes lethargically moved to where Taehyung stood, almost as if he had just been awakened back to reality, “I’m goo— Ouch! (y/n), take it easy there”, he flinched as he felt the wet cotton press delicately against his open wound.

With a diverted laugh, you merely nodded, but disregarded his sentence promptly. You and Namjoon were sitting on one of the benches as well, your fingers gently working on his open cuts, “I have to clean this up. Besides, how are you complaining about a little bit of antiseptics when you didn’t even flinch when you got punched?”

The fighter cleared his throat, “Adrenaline, I gue— God damn it!” he cringed, taking the cotton ball from your hands in one motion. “Okay, baby, I think that’s enough for now.”

Before you could say anything back, another comment resounded from the opposite side of the cool locker room, “The great king can’t handle a bit of pain,” Jimin smiled. The way Namjoon tensed up underneath your touch made you realize he did not like his provocative tone one bit.

Blocking his boss from making the situation worse, Seokjin threw an inquiry around, choosing to intervene in the tense atmosphere, “The party’s still up, right?” he asked to no one in particular.

“Yeah,” it was Namjoon who replied, fingers running through his recently washed hair, “you guys can go, I’m not feeling like it.” he quickly added.

A cloud of confusion grew denser around the fluorescent cubicle, his friends almost unable to understand what had been said, “What?” Hoseok asked, almost automatically so. “You’re the star, boss,  what are you talking about?”

Namjoon’s uninterested features showed clearly how little that information struck him. There were more important things in his mind than some silly victory commemoration — which was, sincerely, becoming quite repetitive, “That’s great,” the fighter grunted, slipping his arm around your waist. The touch was firm and filled with warmth, somewhat between the protective and the possessive,  “I’m still not going.” he repeated, unshakable.

Next to him, you placed your hand on his shoulder, unable to fight back the curiosity that was bubbling in your chest, “What party are we talking about?” you asked.

“We’re celebrating the Namjoon’s victory!” Taehyung replied promptly, as if he had been expecting that inquiry from your part. From everyone there, he seemed to be the most excited, and you could not help but think that maybe he was lying about not being high.

Humming, you turned your gaze back to the man by your side — his traces still harsh, yet flawlessly delineated by the thin neon lights of the cool ambient. It was awe-inspiring how perfectly Namjoon could coexist between the delicate and the brutal, oscillating like a pendulum in the thick of those opposites, “Sounds fun,” you chose to comment, targeting your words towards him. Namjoon’s hand stroked the curvature of your body, and you watched his thoughtful stare deepen into consideration.

Though, that moment only lasted for a short-lived instant. He had made up his mind, “It’s the same shit every time,” he said back, this time looking back to meet your features — raised eyebrows and pouty lips; the eyes that had so many time enchanted him into your embrace, “and I much rather spend the night with you, babe.” the fighter made sure to say.

Like a switch had been activated within the walls of your taken-aback mind, you felt the tides of roseate embarrassment painting your cheeks with hot brushstrokes. Yoongi, still lying down and with his eyes closed, seemed oblivious to your sudden embarrassment, “Are you okay with me going without you, (y/n)?” your best friend inquired.

Your throat felt a bit dry as you responded, but your words were as true as they could be, “Yeah, sure. I can stay.” you spoke back. You did not want your night to go any other way.

Namjoon smiled, still holding to your waist, “I’ll take good care of her, don’t worry.” he said.

After all the boys left the locker room — heading to the party with clear and resounding exclamations of anticipation — you and Namjoon were left alone for the second time that night. As peculiar as the realization might have been, his company with was not as intense as you had foreseen, the casual talk flowing almost too perfectly.

That was one of many reasons why Namjoon intrigued you so much: the way he could understand you so well; how he treated you as if you were the most precious thing he ever landed his eyes on, when, to others, he only showed his brute, authoritarian face. Those two, polar opposite personalities danced together inside the same person, changing and adjusting so flawlessly that you had a hard time keeping track of his thoughts. Regardless, you adored it. Adored him.

And, good heavens, it was like you could feel yourself falling all over.

“How many times have you won the championship, anyway?” your voice broke the momentary quietness.

Sitting on the bench, you watched the outline of his bare back, his muscles moving as he pulled out his clothes from the metal cabinet. Before the other men had left, the fighter had took a second to wash the sweat out of his body; small droplets of water still ornamenting his caramel-pigmented skin. At the verbalization of your question, he paused for a second, thoughtful, “Around… Nine?” Namjoon responded.

A small exclamation of surprise dripped in between your lips as you leaned back, resting your hands on the bench — the object was not especially large, but it was enough for you to lie down on it comfortably, if necessary, “So that’s why they call you Monster.” you teased.

Namjoon only laughed at your claim, certain that you were aware of the truth — his nickname came from much darker things than winning a few boxe fights over the years, “They call me a lot of things, sweetheart.” he threw back, tone slightly embellished by traces of melancholy. You did not answer, “But I guess you know that, of course,” the man closed the small door, then moved to place the pile of clothes at your side, “considering the time you were avoiding me.” he concluded.

Your eyes widened, heart shattering promptly. Foolish had been the hope that he would have overlooked that phase of your relationship, egotistical had been the part of your mind that swore he did not feel the pain of your departure, “Namjoon, I—” you started.

“—Don’t worry, baby, I get it,” he sighed. His dark hair was disheveled, falling over his eyes like a waterfall, masking perfectly how unable he was to maintain eye contact with you. Some part of him swore that, if he attempted to do so, he would not be able to camouflage the anguish that had monopolized his spirit for so damn long, “the things I do aren’t for everyone.” he spoke further — trying to convince himself more than you.

Namjoon hesitated for an instant, waiting to see if your voice would rupture his rambling. As an interruption did not come, he continued with a heavy heart, “But... here’s the thing,” he pushed the strands out of his dark chocolate eyes, “if it was anyone else, I wouldn’t give a flying shit. But it’s you. I have absolutely no fucking idea what you did to me, but I can’t stop thinking about you,” he took a deep breath, the honesty of his words weighting deep inside his chest, “Shit, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. All I know is that I wanna kiss you until I’m out of breath.” he confessed.

You remained without reaction, absorbing everything he had just told you. Namjoon looked at you with extreme sincerity and, deep in his chest, he truly hoped you would comprehend that he was not as terrible as his reputation made him out to be. He wished you would realize how important you were to him, how he would give up his whole kingdom if that meant having you in his arms again — fuck, he was tearing himself apart.

Before you could verbalize one of the thousand contemplations that had washed over your mind, his voice echoed again, “But I can’t kiss you,” he murmured, defeated. Something in his lethargic tone made you realize the sadness he carried along, the despondency of being unable to fully call you his, “because I know you’re still scared of me.” Namjoon concluded.

There it was — the final drop that made the cup overflow; the unwanted attack that had set your soul aflame. Had you been a coward? Yes, but not because of something like that. You were not scared of him, and you could understand that now. Ever since you two met, you could tell that, underneath the heavy armor that he wore, a golden heart shined along.

“Namjoon, can you stop with all that self pity?” you stood up, standing face to face with the boy. In the way his eyebrows lifted and he took a small step back, you could see that he was as surprised as you by your unexpected action, “I’m not scared of you, I’m scared of all this,” your finger traced circles in the air and pointed all around you, referring to the underground city as a whole, “or, at least, I was. I’m not anymore.” you paused, letting your shoulders fall. “Listen, I’m not gonna lie: I was avoiding you— ”

He laughed sarcastically, “That was pretty obvio—”

“—I said listen,” you interrupted him. He grew silent, “I was avoiding you, but I’m not anymore. I’m here, and I’m very fucking confused with everything that happened tonight. And I damn well know I’m not scared of someone who can’t take a little bit of antiseptics, ” he laughed at that, making you relax a little, “So, yeah, you may be the king of this hellhole, but you don’t frighten me as much as you’d like. I’m not scared of you, Namjoon, so please stop pretending I am this fragile little doll you have to protect.” you breathed out.

Just like that, his own words turned into silence within his head. There was nothing else he needed to say, for the man was certain of the veracity your heated phrases carried along. He could see your reluctance, could see your heart being pulled in between reason and emotion — but fear? Oh, he saw no fear in the midst of the magnificent seas of your gaze, solely the tides of an ocean that attempted to pull him closer, “What are you saying?” Namjoon inquired, gaze flickering towards your parted lips.

Subsequent to a profound exhale, you took a step towards him, “I’m saying that I want you to kiss me, Namjoon.” you whispered.

Unable to fight back the blooming of his own desire, the man quickly granted your wish. The collision of his lips against yours was sufficient to steal all the air from your lungs — already so frail to breathe properly, it seemed — and send your heart into a vivacious pulse. Then and there, the world lost its focus: there was no flickering lights above your head, no scars of a recent battle bothering him. The chilly air of the room had been replaced by the heat of your bodies, an atmosphere so filled by sheer lust that you could not focus on anything else.

With a muffled grunt against your mouth, Namjoon turned your body around, practically throwing you against the cabinets, the metallic sound echoing through the awfully warm room. His firm hands grasped your ass, making your hips naturally grind towards his own. Even if like the ghost of a touch, you could tell that the fighter was already half hard, and the quick contact was enough for him to moan out once again. Last time, you two left some unfinished business, and he would make sure that would not happen again, not when you were so deliciously giving yourself to his touches.

Soon after, the man was taking out all his accumulated frustration in you. Namjoon tore your jacket from your body, throwing it away and holding at your sides as your legs wrapped around his muscular figure once again — he pulled you upwards and pressed you against the cool metal, giving you the support you necessitated to fully press your center against his. He left behind the paradise of your mouth, assaulting your neck with kisses and bites, feeling the blood shoot down to his cock every time his name dripped from your parted, red-bitten lips. You were the hottest thing he had ever seen, and you were driving him absolutely insane with every small exclamation of pleasure.

With a sudden movement, he lifted you dress up to your waist, one of his hands caressing the insides of your bare leg, dwelling in the smoothness of your skin. Any other occasion, he would do his best to tease you with slow, patient movements; would find pleasure in the manner you flinched away from the stimulation of his touch, at the same time complaining and wishing for more: begging for him. However, at that delightful instant, Namjoon simply wished to feel more of you, to drown in the pleasure of your embrace — fuck, he just wanted to be inside you, feeling your walls tightening around his hard member as you cried out his name.

Just that simple thought made him moan against the wet-kissed skin of your neck, fingers going towards your pulsating core, “Fuck, baby, you’re soaked already,” he groaned, massaging your clit over the humid fabric. You bit down on your bottom lip, closing your eyes in an attempt to contain your needy whines — he knew every damn part of your body like a map, was aware of how to touch you oh so perfectly, “Don’t hold back, baby girl, I want to hear you screaming my name,” he almost ordered, cutting your thoughts short of stamina. “I want everyone in this goddamn city to know you’re my fucking queen.”

And who were you to ignore an order from the king himself?

What departed from your lips what a conglomerations of syllables that resembled his name, their meaning lost in a current of moans and whines. Still, some part of your mind was focused on something else, for, before he could fully have you for himself, you desired to treat him just as well, “Namjoon,” you called out the second that his fingers pulled the fabric of your underwear aside. Your only response was a low hum against your jugular, “S-sit down, I wanna give you your prize,” you barely got out before another whine left your mouth.

Even if bothered by the separation of your bodies, Namjoon did as requested. Unbothered eyes accompanied your own eager ones as the man sat down on the bench, legs apart and erection visible through the thin fabric of his shorts. You swore you could drown in that image: his abs rising and falling with the rapid progression of his breathing, his wet strands of hair pulled back allowing for you to see the beauty of his features.

And then there were the cuts — god, the cuts. You did not know what it was, but some part of you burned at the mere glimpse of his white scars, or the fresh vermillion cuts that torn out his skin. From the bruises that bloomed in violaceous and ruby to the lines of crimson down his face, it all combined to form a person so magnetic and compelling that you could not help but allow for your lust to take hold of your body.

Quickly after, you moved close to him. As Namjoon’s irises met your actions with almost savage need, you started placing small kisses down his neck, fingertips outlining the curvature of his tense shoulders. Gradually you began trailing a path downwards, sucking and biting his skin. The response he gave you were subdued and throaty grunts; moans that continuously perished in between his lips, “Fuck, (y/n),” the fighter cursed when your hands circled around his waist and you knelt between his open legs, fingernails clawing at the base of his spine.

Your name sounded so dirty that you had to hold back a suspire of sheer devotion. Your hands descended even further, surrounding his hip bones as your lips found the elastic hem of his shorts. Without hesitation, you planted a kiss on his clothed erection, feeling the man’s body tremble underneath your diaphanous touch, his hips slightly moving towards your face. Looking at you like that, Namjoon felt he was reaching the limit of his sanity, “Babe, you’re gonna make me cum in my fucking pants if you keep doing that.” he warned. The idea did sound appealing.

Ignoring his requests, you patiently hooked your fingers around the hem of his shorts, pulling them down and leaving only his underwear. Your hand cupped his fabric-covered member, squeezing and massaging it lightly as you felt it twitching under the cloth, “You feel so hard.” you trailed off, forcing your voice to resound without a trace of desire.

Namjoon bit his lower lip, staring down at you with hooded eyes, “Stop teasing me.” his tone, however, was covered by a thick blanket of lust.

“You’re a little too... impatient,” you remarked, looking up at him with false innocence, “quit ordering me around and enjoy your little present.” you told him.

Before he could protest, your lips returned to his underwear, kissing his cock one last time before taking off his last piece of clothing. His dick hit his abdomen, hard and pulsating with need. You enjoyed the image for a moment, wasting no time as you began to kiss the inside of his thighs, slowly spreading his legs wider with the palms of your hands. Namjoon was breathing hard above you, unable to concentrate on anything but the impulse to feel your mouth around him, “Shit, baby, I need you.” he practically whined.

Humming, your mouth kissed the path up his leg, your lips slowly touching the base of his member. Such simple contact was enough for the boy to moan out your name, hand flying to hold onto your hair tightly. Your tongue gently licked his cock, savoring his salty taste and moving up his length. Just an instant before reaching the top, you stopped, your fingers curling around him, slowly beginning to pump his thickness. Namjoon needed a lot more, and he had already moved beyond the point in which his pride kept him from vocalizing his wishes, “Fuck, (y/n), p-please…” the man tried again.

His voice sounded hoarse and defeated, inciting a familiar heat to spread through the base of your spine, wetting your panties even more. You moaned against his cock, causing the boy to hold your hair even harder as he buckled up his hips. Without warning — the surprise was always the most delicious part — you took all of him in your mouth, coming down until it reached the back of your throat. Namjoon threw back his head, a loud, deep grunt reverberating all around you, “Oh my god, babe, yeah, fuck—” he cried.

There was something incredibly hot about having someone as powerful as Kim Namjoon completely helpless beneath your touch, and you were delighting yourself at every second of that. Patiently, you lifted your head, almost taking his cock out of your mouth, before moving down again. Your cheeks hollowed, sucking him, keeping a slow pace. You listened, core throbbing, as the boy repeated your name over and over like a empty prayer, somewhat unaware that he was doing so.

Namjoon pulled and pushed your head, making you take him whole every time you lowered your body, his tip hitting the back of your throat, “Just like that, baby girl, fu-fuck—” one specially breathless grunt interrupted his own sentence. You moaned against his length, adoring his reaction, yet feeling the discomfort spreading between your legs at an alarming pace. Precum was already taking over your mouth, and you knew he was close to reaching his edge, “Your mouth feels so good, babe, don’t — ah, fuck— Don’t stop…”

His sounds became more and more frequent, fingers guiding your head with precision as his hips moved to meet your movements. One last time, you felt his cock twitching inside your mouth before he came undone, repeating your name in between shattered groans and overwhelmed, breathless prayers.

After you had swallowed down on his release — something he could not help but praise over and over — you removed his member from your mouth and looked up to see the mess you had done. As you did so, your body was unable to capture a stubborn whine from departing from your chest, a sound so needy that even you grew surprised at its echoing connotation. Painted on the astounding canvas of his desire, every singularity of that scene seemed to blank your mind: Namjoon’s head was thrown back, eyes closed in concentration and small droplets of sweat gracing his face. His breathing was heavy, his mouth half-open and teeth pricked in the purest expression of pleasure. A vague rufescent hue had been casted over his cheeks, overlooked by the shadow of his frown. God, he was the very image of lust.

Lackadaisical, his head moved back straight, then slightly leaned down. The man opened his eyes and, before you could fully comprehend the sheer concupiscence that pulsated within his hollow gaze, a murmur that that resembled something like, “lie down for me, baby,” interrupted your contemplations.

What followed that request moved far too rapidly for you to fully recall. Trapped in a foggy cloud of your salaciousness, your body moved on autopilot, the forms and shades of the room around you turning into an abstract conglomeration of nebulous elements. It only regained its focus once you found yourself trapped in between Namjoon’s body and the wooden bench — just as expected, it was the right size if you wished to lie down — merely registering the white fabric of your dress being thrown to the ground.

Foul, a long moan escaped you as Namjoon’s mouth attacked your breasts, tongue prowling your erect nipples as the other was massaged by his large hand. He had completely lost control over his own senses by seeing you moaning and squirming beneath him, he could no longer handle his most primordial instincts. He desired you like nothing else in that goddamn world.

Impatient, the man left your chest, mouth delineating the way down your figure and towards your legs. He was quick to position himself between them, hands on your ass so he could lift your hips up for better access. He bit down on the sensitive skin of your thigh, going towards your core with lascivious explosions of carnality. Just as you did with him, he took off your underwear — too — patiently, eyes shimmering with aphrodisia as he saw the way you were ready for him; panties absolutely soaked.

Without a single second of vacillation, his swollen lips met your clit, sucking hard on the bundle of nerves. Your back lifted from the seat instantaneously, hands flying to his head and fingers curling into fists on his hair. Namjoon moaned against your touch, causing the vibrations to spread through your lower body, “Oh-Oh my god, Namjoon, please—” you whimpered.

He did not answer. With a single movement, one of his hands left your ass, playing with your wet folds and teasing your entrance — slowly, then eagerly. The fighter’s name came out as trembling breaths, and you found yourself unable to think of anything but the fantastic sensation of his mouth working on your core, licking and sucking all your wetness.

The second his face moved away from you so he could speak out, you felt the tingling sensation of your upcoming release starting to creep up on you, “You taste so fucking good,” he grunted, practically speaking those words to himself. He was like a man hypnotized, a marionette to his deeper cravings, “I could eat you out all day, baby...” he trailed off.

With that, he slipped two fingers into you and moved back to lick your sensitive spot, groaning as you lifted your hips, grinding against his face. Your high was approaching, he could feel it the way you clenched around his fingers, “Namjoon, I’m—”

“I know,” he interrupted. And oh, how he knew, “cum on my face, baby. I wanna taste you,” he ordered, his voice hoarse from the desire that consumed his spirit.

The cue was clear, and you were happy to take it. Combining with a terminal call for his name, your voice metamorphosed into continuous moans and whines; your orgasm overtaking your body with each passing second. You could feel your knees growing weak, your fingers losing fraction on the strands of his hair; reality slipping away from your grip. It felt so fucking great, you wished you could prolong that moment just a little bit more.

However, Namjoon barely gave you time to recover before he was attacking his lips one more time, his hands gripping your body tightly, your own taste invading your mouth as your tongues danced together in a messy, uncoordinated waltz. You felt his erection moving up and down between your folds, your wet juices embracing his throbbing member. Still sensitive, you sighed against his mouth at the contact.

As low as it was, that sound was what it took him to make up his mind — it was time to quit with the foreplay, “I need to be inside you before I lose my damn mind,” Namjoon hissed, voice drunk on ardor. “get up for me, babe, I’m gonna fuck you against the lockers.”

You could not tell how, but your legs managed to hold you up, even if your movements were slightly slower with weakness. Behaving well, you moved closer to the lockers and watched as the man accompanied your movements, his lowered eyebrows showing that you were doing something wrong, “No, no,” Namjoon trailed off, one of his hands moving to grab your arm. Firmly — but not in a manner that it would hurt you — he turned your figure around, pressing your breasts against the cold metal, “I want your back to me, baby girl.” he whispered.

Once again, who were you to disregard an order from the king? Especially when he asked so kindly.

His chest found the skin of your back, pressing you further against the long line of cabinets. Namjoon’s hands caressed your ass with strong touches, making you stick out your lower body in an attempt to find some kind of friction, “Arms up,” he requested.

You obeyed anew, feeling as one of Namjoon’s hand gripped your fists into place, right above above head. In a single movement, his other hand circled your hip, working on your clit. The contact made you lift your ass again, and, with that, his member moved past your folds, hitting deep inside you, “Shit, (y/n), you’re so tight,” he murmured, lost in his own reveries, “so fucking wet for me...”

“P-Please—” you could not help but beg, it was all becoming too much.

Oh, and there it was: the melodious symphony of your fragile voice resounding in his heart; the bargains of someone who could not take much more of that delightful torture, “Please what?” Namjoon inquired, his harsh voice tickling the curvature of your neck.

Of course you knew exactly what he needed to hear — what he desired to. You could have said it many minutes ago and avoided the mouth-watering prolongation of your relief, but both of you were aware of the effects that simple word had on him. It was quite fun, but it was even better when you waited for the right second, “Please, daddy, fuck me…” at last, you said it.

Namjoon froze for a second, feeling your words shoot through his body in inhumane speed. The next second, he was not the same. With a savagery that was almost unfamiliar to him, the grip on your waist grew stronger as he began pumping in and out of you with force; groaning every time your walls clenched around you in oversensibility, “You like this, baby girl?” he asked after a particularly deep thrust.

And, God, how much did you adore it, “Yes, daddy, please,” was all you could say, pleasure completely taking over your senses as the repetition of that name only increased the force in his actions. You could already feel the muscles of your thighs beginning to shake, your second orgasm approaching with ferocity, “Daddy, don’t stop, daddy—” you cried.

Namjoon groaned out, ignoring the constant sounds of metal every time your figure was pressed against it, “You take my cock so well, shit,” his mumbles continued, his mind lost in the trance that was your body moving against his own. He had almost forgotten how absolutely delicious you felt as you stretched around him, screaming his name with all the strength left in you, “baby girl, fuck, I won’t last long.” the man warned.

Your only response was a whine that resembled his name, your words lost in the exhilliating midst of everything you were feeling, every sensation of absolute pleasure that overtook your mind and soul, “C-cum for me, daddy, please.” you breathlessly requested.

Who was Namjoon to ignore an order from his queen?

“F-fuck,” he grunted, his movements getting increasingly sloppy. He released your hands, holding down on the cabinets as the pressure inside him grew more and more. Namjoon was pounding deep inside you, feeling your walls get ever tighter until, at last, he released inside you, your name leaving his lips like a mantra. With a few more faint thrusts, you came undone around him, clenching and turning into a pleading mess; moans so loud you were sure the whole town could hear.

Hearts pounding with the rhythm of your infatuation, the sounds that filled the room were only the heavy breaths that followed your release. As the world progressively returned to substantiality — the coolness of the lockers, the clouds of heat that were sent down your spine — you felt as Namjoon’s lips met the curvature of your neck, placing a love-filled kiss against your sweaty skin. Soon after, his fingers came and pulled your hair away from your face; his kisses resumed. There it was again: the calmness after the storm; what that you once found so strange, now felt just right. Over time, that was an aspect of his persona that you would get used to.

Mayhaps one day you would fully understand Kim Namjoon. Perhaps the time would come that you would discover why, among so many people, he had chosen you to be his one and only queen. Regardless, all you knew was that, as he caressed your skin with the tip of his fingers and held your body gently against his, dwelling in the afterglow of your pleasure, you could not be happier to reign at his side.

You could not be happier to be his queen.

#bts fic #bts smut #namjoon smut #namjoon fic #namjoon x reader #bts x reader #reader insert #namjoon x you #boxer namjoon #bts x you #bts #bangtan boys #kim namjoon #smut #fluff #angst

[21cannibals]

Fun Little Charisma tips

Mantras to keep in mind/live by:

No matter what happens I will be okay

My character is more important than my image (stop trying to control how people see you)

I have impeccable honesty and integrity

I don’t need to convince anyone of anything

I proactively pursue my purpose

I go first in humanizing my interactions (Be the first to be vulnerable/extend praise/crack a joke)

Fake it until you make it: If you’re not enjoying a party/social interaction--smile anyway and have an open stance. Maybe you’ll decide the interaction is not all bad.

Enthusiasm! Have it! Think about how Jimmy Falon almost gravitates people to him because he is so enthusiastic about all of the positive things, and tells people when he is impressed.

Be self aware of when you are forming judgments of other. Do you think someone is creepy because they touched your arm at a wrong moment? Do certain actions paired with words make you believe/not believe someone? Learn and apply.

Make jokes/be silly, but also know when to be serious and how to read the mood.

Be optimistic. Or pretend to be. No one likes a negative Nancy. 

Keep some talents hidden for later. If you meet someone and tell them everything interesting about you it looks like you’re bragging or trying too hard, and then later you’ll seem boring because they will realize they have learned nothing new about you since your first interaction.

When you feel yourself getting invested in someone else, take some time to do something you love. i.e. after a first date go on an awesome adventure the next day. It helps you put any feelings you develop into perspective, reminds you to value that which you already hold dear, and it will give you something to talk about too!

If they say no to hanging out, don’t plead. Don’t make them choose between you and their own time and interests.

Don’t change your schedule to fit theirs.

Measure smaller units of success to find exactly where you went wrong and get analytics on yourself. Ex: You want to play a song on piano, every 10 measures you check your success rate. Then you know “oh on measure 30 I always get a little off tempo which sets me up for a rough end to the song.” The same thing applies for social interactions/telling stories/etc. You should be able to look back on a conversation that maybe didn’t end how you wanted and pinpoint exactly what went wrong. So if you were flirting and the first 30 seconds went really great, next 30 seconds also great, but at around two minutes in you told a story about running over a cat with your car and now they don’t seem interested and have changed their body language to show they want to leave.

Focus on one thing at a time and drill it until it’s a habit. Don’t try to change everything about yourself at once or you’ll spend your entire time over-thinking. Just change one thing at a time and slowly build up to a more charismatic self.

Your willpower to do things through the day is measured like a stamina bar in a video game. Daily activities (such as studying and working out) drain this bar while other things (such as sleeping and eating) refill this bar. The bar can be expanded by exerting more and more willpower, but the people with the best self control often don’t need to make their bars bigger, instead they just reorganize their day to use the least amount. Things like decision making can drain the bar fast because the longer you spend deliberating the less willpower you have. To overcome this:

Make trivial decisions quickly.

Stop saying “i don’t care”

Set up rules that may not be violated for yourself

4 questions to help find your passion

What do you lose time doing--you look at the clock and say oh god how is it midnight already? (It can be anything, even video games and scrolling on tumblr are okay, this is just collecting self-reflective data)

What do you spend money to be able to do? (What types of events would you pay to attend?)

Where do you fear judgement? (maybe you write and don’t want anyone to read it, or maybe you want to try to do cool makeup but wouldn’t wear it to school)

What makes your heart race? (Could be anything: public speaking, skydiving, debating, etc)

Your passion should be something you can lose time doing, you want to invest your money in to be apart of, you may be afraid of judgement because you have worked hard and it means so much that is apart of your core identity and a criticism of your ability would be a criticism of your being, and your passions should exhilarate you.

Surround yourself with passionate people

Storytelling:

Take a few seconds to make sure people are paying attention.

Give your story a pre-amble “So you would never believe this, but yesterday...”

Say their name “And let me tell you something, Vishnu, I was at the market when...”

Make it your last story on your way out “Alright guys imma just tell this story and then I gotta roll, but last night...”

Be expressive; be confident in your story

Play the characters in the story. Give them life through voice and movement.

Make brief eye contact with everyone in social situations. Acknowledging everyone one at a time not only makes others drawn to you, but it opens opportunities for conversation. If you make eye contact with someone you don’t know, smile at them and maybe give a wave, and if they smile and wave back go over and introduce yourself.

Combine compliments with jokes

This is called the pull and push. Compliments when left by themselves just create awkward tension which can lead to a cycle in the conversation of one person continuing to go on and on with compliments while the other just blushes and denies or thanks.

Instead, try giving a compliment then making a joke about it. Ex) You have a beautiful face (pause for thanks) Then again, I’m from Russia, so anyone who doesn’t look like Vladimir Putin is gorgeous to me!

The joke releases the tension and can lead into more in depth conversation beyond the surface level of compliments and small talk.

2 big flirting tips

Start with a 1-3 second touch 

ex1: put your hand on their shoulder for only a moment to get their attention while you say “my friends and I are going to get a drink over there, want anything?

ex2: They have just told an awesome story where they kicked ass so you raise your hand for a high five. At impact you can hold their hand for a second before releasing.

Don’t make them feel trapped.

Make sure they always have a clear escape route. Try to stand with your back to the wall instead.

That’s all for now, I may add more later!

#me #self help #self improvement #charisma #charasmatic #how to be cool #life hacks #pro tip

[wellpersonsblog]

7 Books Worth Your Time for a Healthy, Happy, and Productive 2019

We’re two weeks into the new year… which means when it comes to resolutions, most people have hit the wall.

And that’s okay.

When we make New Year’s about a “clean slate,” our one chance to get things right, we’re going to lose. Of course we are.

But there’s tremendous opportunity in using this time of year — post-holidays, post-stress, post-busyness — to create new habits that will make this year better than the last.

So the good news is that even if your resolutions are history, the season isn’t. We’re only two weeks in!

In this spirit, I offer you the list of books I’m most excited about for their capacity to help all of us make change for the better.

Several of them I’ve read many times (often at New Year’s, in fact), a few I’ve read just once (that’s all that was needed), and a couple others that I’m reading now or have on my list for early this year.

I hope they help you make the most of this wonderful season.

1. Turning Pro by Steven Pressfield

Maybe the best book for reading at the start of a new year, ever. I’ve read it four or five times, and I know NMA Radio co-host Doug is a big fan, too.

Turning Pro is about growing up. Showing up. And forever giving up the excuses and rationalizations that keep you an amateur (both professionally and otherwise).

It’s written for writers and artists, but the advice is applicable to just about everyone, in whatever area of life you’re playing too small.

2. Can’t Hurt Me by David Goggins

A few weeks ago, I listened to David Goggins on the Rich Roll Podcast.

I knew he was a ultrarunner, an ultra-distance cyclist, and a triathlete. And I knew he was an ex-Navy SEAL, one of those military dudes you just don’t want to mess with.

Usually, I don’t really relate to people like this; it’s just too big a leap. Robotic discipline and run-through-walls determination? Cool, but not really me.

But when you learn about where Goggins comes from and how he grew up, you realize he wasn’t born superhuman. He decided to be this way, and he still decides to choose discomfort and growth over what’s easy — every single day, starting at a ridiculously dark and cold hour.

I haven’t read Can’t Hurt Me, his self-published memoir, yet. I’m still riding the motivation-high of the new year and feeling plenty inspired.

But the second that starts to dip — and I know that at some point, it will — this will be my motivation to get back in the game.

3. The Little Book of Talent by Daniel Coyle

One of the most inspiring lessons I’ve ever learned is that talent isn’t an accident.

That most people who are truly great in their fields are that way not because they were born with it, but because they worked hard.

The so-called 10,000 Hour Rule was eye-opening for me. Our culture wants to be believe that the outstanding performers we admire were born with the gift — because that lets us off the hook: We weren’t born with anything special, so it’s not our fault.

But when you come to believe that with hard work and lots of it — real, deliberate practice, for thousands of hours — mastery of anything is possible, suddenly you have a lot of choices. (This is especially exciting for kids, who have more time with which to accumulate those thousands of hours.)

Daniel Coyle wrote a long book, called the Talent Code, about this idea, where he shared the best practices he learned by studying talent hotbeds around the world. The Little Book of Talent is a distillation of that advice into 52 short directives — things like “shrink the practice space” and “buy a notebook” — to help you engineer your (or your kids’) practice routines for success.

4. The Bullet Journal Method by Ryder Carroll

I’ve been frustrated with journaling for a long time. I’d love to make it work — to have a record of my successes, failures, and lessons learned, plus whatever benefits come from the journaling process itself — but just haven’t been able to make the habit last.

I go through spurts where I do it every day, and then I stop for months (or years). I’ve tried it in different formats, handwritten and typed, notebook, computer, cloud, with no way to pull it all together. It’s a mess.

Worse, I keep notebooks of to-do lists and day-to-day notes, but I have no process for revisiting them. Sure, I might write down a great insight or quote, but I’ll likely never see it again without any system for making sure I do.

Well, the Bullet Journal promises to be that system, and hundreds of thousands of happy Bullet-journalers give me reason to believe that promise.

Charmingly, it’s all done in a blank, pen-and-paper notebook. You can now buy “official” Bullet Journals, but I find that idea much less appealing than the DIY version.

You actually don’t need to buy The Bullet Journal Method to learn the system; it’s all laid out for free on the author’s website. But the book provides additional context around things like goals and intentionality, and the idea that at its best, Bullet Journaling is an exercise in mindfulness.

5. The Life Changing Magic of Tidying Up by Marie Kondo

Yes, this is kind of old. I read it back in 2015, and I felt like I was late to party then.

So why include it? Because it freaking works.

I read a whole lot of books about how to make things better, and for me, none has ever delivered on its promise the way this one has.

Since my epic tidying marathon this book inspired three years ago, I’ve never gone back to my old ways. It’s life-changing, for real.

Now’s the perfect time. Ditch the clutter and make room for what matters in your life.

6. Atomic Habits by James Clear

Maybe my mantra should be, “I haven’t read the book, but I have heard the author on the Rich Roll podcast!”

Because that’s the deal with this one, like it was with #2 above.

I talk a lot about the “small steps” approach, and also the opposite (but not entirely incompatible) idea of “massive action.” But there’s so much more to the science of changing habits, a lot of which has to do with engineering your environment for success.

I went into this interview assuming I knew most of what there is to know about practical habit change advice, but as I listened, blogger and author James Clear gave so many “ah-ha” tips that I had to add his book to my list of must-reads this year.

If you think your whole habit-change operating system could use a software upgrade, then this is the book to read.

7. Deep Meditation by Yogani

I’m slightly ashamed to admit that, despite investing quite a bit of money and time in meditation courses and apps, I’ve never made meditation into a lasting habit.

Interestingly, though, none of the fancy courses I’ve bought or attended have provided more insight than Deep Meditation, a short little volume you can buy for $4.61. It shines light on a lot of the dark corners of meditation, and provides a simple, practical prescription for creating a daily practice.

I’m not sure 2019 will be the year I make meditation last — that might never happen. But when I’m ready to try again, this is the approach I’ll go back to.

8. The No Meat Athlete Cookbook by Matt Frazier and Stepfanie Romine (Just $3.99 today!)

Okay, so I promised you seven books, but snuck in an eighth. And one that I co-authored, no less!

And there’s a good reason for that. The No Meat Athlete Cookbook was selected by Amazon as a Kindle Daily Deal, which means that today (and today, January 13th, only), you can pick up the digital version for just $3.99.

It’s discounted across all platforms today, so you can get it at that price regardless of how you e-read.

This book is our most successful to date, with over 50,000 copies sold and lots of accolades in mainstream press. If you haven’t gotten a copy yet, the start of the new year is as good as time as any.

One final time, happy new year. Remember, it’s not about the day, but about the season, so make something happen while 2019 is still in front of you.

The post 7 Books Worth Your Time for a Healthy, Happy, and Productive 2019 appeared first on No Meat Athlete.

First found here: 7 Books Worth Your Time for a Healthy, Happy, and Productive 2019

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The Downside Of Financial Independence

One of the things I was counting on when I published, Being A Landlord Questions My Faith In Humanity, was readers coming out of the woodwork questioning why I would be so lenient when my tenants were so thoughtless. Most were empathetic to my situation, but some blamed me for my tenant’s actions. That’s cool.

At the end of the day, I got $216,000 worth of rent over 24 months, a completely redone backyard mostly paid for by them, a professionally cleaned house, and $1,000 of their $17,000 deposit. Things could have been much worse if you read some of the tenant horror stories in the comments section.

My tenants were generally nice guys. They were just clueless. When I sent them the picture of the trash explosion the next day, they immediately called a junk trunk to collect everything a couple hours later. They could have just disappeared into the wind since they had their deposits back. But they didn’t.

Hopefully my post will encourage people to be more thoughtful. At the very least, it provides some insights for current and future landlords. I always try to highlight the good with the bad on my road towards financial utopia (doesn’t exist, sorry).

In this post, I’d like to highlight the downside of being financially independent. I don’t know any other landlord who would not have charged a single late fee after eight times of tardiness. But you know I’ve got a masochistic side, looking for ridiculous situations to share with all of you!

The Downside Of Being FIRE

1) Not optimizing for maximum financial returns. When you are financially independent, you don’t need more money because you already have money. If the counter party isn’t financially independent as well, you start feeling a little slimy for trying to optimize your returns. As a result, you aren’t negotiating the best deals. You aren’t shopping around to find the best bargains. You’re definitely not driving around the block to find a free parking spot. And you’re always booking flights late because you value optionality.

Instead of optimizing for financial returns, you start maximizing for peace and harmony. With each late payment, I had a choice of letting it go or laying down the hammer, which might have led to more property damage and further disregard of the lease. I knew they would eventually pay, so I showed kindness.

By forgiving their tardiness, I wanted to build credits for future instances when I couldn’t come over in a timely manner to fix something or address an issue. And it worked on two occasions: 1) The kitchen faucet lost cold water pressure for some reason. My master tenant volunteered to meet the plumber, make the payment, and oversee the project. 2) Then my microwave stopped working one day. It was a custom size that was built into the cabinetry. He took it upon himself to go to Best Buy, then to a private party when Best Buy didn’t carry such a model to pick one up, pay for it, and install it. His actions saved me at least three hours of time.

My main mantra is to always give as much as possible first. This way, people are more inclined to do right by you in the future. I’m a peacekeeper by nature who believes everything can be worked out through an open discussion.

Related: To Get Rich, Be Willing To Do The Dirty Work

2) People will take advantage of your kindness. It doesn’t matter how rich you are, nobody ever wants to be taken advantage of. Yes, my tenants were taking advantage that I wasn’t penalizing them $250 for each time they were late. But the way I saw it was I had $2,000 worth of credit I could withhold from their $17,000 security deposit if they didn’t comply with what I asked for before moving out.

They knew this, which is why one of the tenants said the day before move out, “We won’t let you down Sam!”

I have a wealthy friend who escaped to Paris for a year with his wife and four kids because he couldn’t stand getting hit up for money all the time. He told me, “Every time I open my inbox, I get some random person whom I don’t even know asking if I could donate $100,000 to some organization I don’t care for. It’s maddening I tell you. How about at least getting to know me first?”

One time I met a friend for drinks. He was talking to this startup female founder who was once an ex-beauty pageant queen. She was attractive and she knew it by the way she talked about her relationships with “high powered VCs.” Both my friend and the founder had to leave, so instead of paying for her own drink, she looked at me and said, “I’ve got to run. It was nice meeting you,” implying that I was to pick up her tab. Since she Usain bolted, of course I had to pay even though we just met. I’ll give her startup a 0.1% chance of surviving with that type of entitlement.

Finally, I get bombarded every day with questions from people who don’t bother to make a connection first. I’ve been asked to give a diagnostic of their entire financial lives. Some have asked whether I can help them with their marriages. Others have asked me to help them with their online business plan. The most common question I get is, “Can I pick your brain?” I’m not sure how anybody thinks that’s enjoyable.

To avoid being taken advantage is one of the key reasons for practicing Stealth Wealth. If people know you are financially independent, they’ll do everything they can to extract as much time and money from you as possible.

3) You start empathizing too much. I saw in my tenants a rowdier version of me when I was their age. I remember what it was like to struggle at work, survive layoffs, begrudgingly pay a portion of my paycheck to rent, all while trying to enjoy all that life has to offer. I started developing a lot of empathy for them because some of them had issues at work. Another had back tax problems because he somehow forgot to pay them. While another just couldn’t get it together given his parents babied him too much as an adult. I thought I could be sort of a big brother who could provide some guidance.

But empathy doesn’t get you anywhere if the other side doesn’t care. There’s a reason why it’s never a good idea to do business with friends or loved ones. For at least the rest of the year, I’m going to work on being a stone cold business assassin. It’s not in my nature because I’m always joking around and having a good time.

To be frank, I fear the lion within. I’ve never backed down from a fist fight or a shouting match when provoked. A part of me longs to snap an oppressor’s bones as I once did as a raging young man who always defended his honor. Thanks to the feedback from the community, I’ve been reminded how overly soft I’ve become. Time to get fierce and care for no one!

Related: Are You Smart Enough To Act Dumb Enough To Get Ahead

4) You start taking money for granted. Do you remember how excited you were as a kid to get a crisp new bill in an envelope for your birthday or Christmas? Those were the best! Unfortunately, I no longer get excited about seeing a $20 bill or even a $100 bill in my wallet. Now, I withdraw thousands of dollars at a time to pay vendors without feeling a thing.

The reason why I’ve begun to tip more aggressively since reaching financial independence is because I enjoy seeing the joy in others that I once had. I remember getting a $5 tip for just a $5 ride when I gave an Uber ride to this woman. My eyes teared up with gratitude! For the rest of the afternoon I had an extra hop in my step. Then I noticed the best tippers are those who work in the service industry because they know how hard it is to make a buck.

I wish I would be excited by money again. But I’m not. Nowadays, all I get excited about is living life on my terms.

* I just realized while writing this post that I forgot to collect $420 for the two pro-rated and discounted nights after April 30 check out. I accommodated two of the guys because their escrow closing was delayed. I wanted them out on April 30 because it would take five days for the floor guy to refinish everything with four coats of polyurethane. If I cared more about money, I would have remembered to have collected the $420 on the May 2 walk through. 

5) You slowly lose motivation to try harder. There was a time when I responded to almost every comment. I felt I had to at least say “thank you” to those who took the time to share their thoughts. But now, I respond to only about a third because I’ve lost the energy to keep up. I feel I’ve provided enough value over the years to give myself a break. Besides, the time formerly spent responding to comments is being used to write meaty new posts.

I used to have this goal of writing five posts a week from the current three posts a week cadence. More posts, higher growth, and more revenue. Now, I’m thinking about just posting a couple times a week because I don’t have this insatiable drive to grow my business anymore. Unless there’s a huge tax cut, I don’t want to build a Financial Samurai app or create a larger publication with 10 different staff writers. I just want to have my own little lifestyle business that never feels like work.

The people who hit it out of the ballpark have this ridiculous drive. Pity the trust fund kids who went to private school, got jobs through connections, and don’t really have to create something of their own. When you have everything taken care of, it’s much harder to be your own person. I blame my loss of motivation partly due to my older age, but mostly due to my passive income and steadily declining debt levels.

Related: Debt Optimization Framework For Financial Independence

The Three Generation Cycle

“From rice paddy field to rice paddy field in three generations.” – Japanese/Chinese variation

“Shirtsleeves to shirtsleeves in three generations.” – American variation

“The father buys, the son builds, the grandchild sells, and his son begs.” – Scottish variation

The First Generation comes from a life of hardship. This generation takes the most risks, works the hardest, and makes the most sacrifices to break the cycle of poverty.

The Second Generation grows up a witness to their parents’ struggle and understands the importance of hard work. Because of this awareness, they make good financial decisions and build upon the foundation their parents worked so hard to create.

The Third Generation, however, has no recollection of hardship. They only know a life of abundance. Without an awareness of the work needed to build build wealth, the third generation squanders their good fortune their parents and grandparents worked so hard to build.

My great grandparents left China by boat in order to make better lives in Hawaii and Taiwan. They took all kinds of risk, whereas by comparison, I’ve done nothing close. I fear that a life free of financial worries will dishonor their generations of hard work, frugality, and sacrifice. With consternation, I wonder when my child grows up, will he take his good fortune for granted?

Being financially independent is fine, but unless you have a deep hunger to do something great, it is unlikely you will ever maximize your potential. Therefore, a key reminder is to always be mindful of others.

Financial independence can blind you to the world’s suffering. Or financial independence can bless you with the time to help other people. Which will you choose?

Related:

The Dark Side Of Early Retirement

Once You Have F U Money It’s Hard To Tell Others To F Off!

How Does It Feel To Be Financial Independent?

from http://www.financialsamurai.com/the-downside-of-financial-independence/

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