#I am never drying my hair at this rate

[gojonanami]

THE DOCTOR IS IN - SATORU GOJO

✴︎ summary: aka medical intern / doctor in training gojo. when you go to your annual check-up, you didn't think you'd be crushing on your doctor - or that he's conduct such an in-depth examination - in more than one way. ✴︎ contents: 18+, a lot of smut, implied cheating (but there's no cheating), improper use of a medical questioning and an exam room, improper use of a tongue depressor, panty sniffing, semi-exhibitionism (but not really), fingering (f!receiving), oral (f! receiving), semi-public sex, sex in an exam room ✴︎ wc: 2,573

It was just a checkup. 

You sit, using your phone as you wait for the doctor, squirming on the uncomfortable exam paper drawn over the patient bed — so why were you so nervous? 

And then there’s a knock at the door, and he walks in — but it’s not your usual doctor. 

“Hi, it’s nice to meet you,” the white haired man grins widely, and you’re taken aback by how good he looks dressed in his white coat — if he had been your doctor before, you never would have missed a single one of your appointments, “My name is Satoru Gojo, and I’m a medical student that’ll be helping out today,” he offers his hand, and you take it, shaking his hand. 

“It’s nice to meet you too,” you smile, introducing yourself by name, and he sits on the chair in front of you. Without his white coat and stethoscope around his neck, he could have looked more like a model than a medical student. You wouldn’t be surprised if he had been offered gigs modeling for his medical school’s brochures — hell, you were regretting not going to medical school right now. 

He’s right down to business, crossing his leg over the other, “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions about you, what brings you here, and your personal and medical history?” he asks, clipboard and pen in hand, lips curling. 

“Not at all, Doctor,” 

“Call me Satoru,” he smiles, and you can’t help but smile back. And then he’s running through the usual list of questions — name, occupation, date of birth, smoking status, drugs, prescription list, and all the other questions medical providers need to ask patients, “and sexual history?” 

You tilt your head, flushing, “Can you be more specific?” 

And he’s leaning back, pen pausing in its scribbling, as he glances up to clarify, “Are you sexually active?” 

You lick your dry lips, squirming under his gaze that suddenly feels heavier than before, “Yes, I am,” and he nods.

“Do you have a partner?” 

You nod, “I have a boyfriend,”

His eyes rake over you discreetly, “Must be pretty handsome to date a woman like you,” he remarks, — did he always flirt with his patients? Because he certainly will have good patient retention at that rate.  

“He’s also a little full of himself,” and you see a slight purse of his lips, as he raises an eyebrow, “but he’s very, very cute,” 

“Oh is he? Good to know,” he sighs, pressing the top of the pen to his lips, drawing your eyes to his lips, “and how often do you engage in sexual activity?” 

You have to pause before you answer — god, when were you going to move off this topic? “Pretty often, almost every day, usually,” you clear your throat, unable to meet his gaze, as he nods. 

“And are you satisfied?” 

And you raise an eyebrow, “is that relevant?” 

“Oh, this is a physical, we like to be very thorough,” and you swallow thickly — well this was uncomfortable — but he only looked…almost amused, “Well?” 

“Most of the time,” you shrug.

“Most of the time?” he repeats, placing his clipboard lower, clearly far too interested. 

“My boyfriend has been pretty busy with work lately, it’s been pretty lonely,” your eyes finally finding his own, deep blues darkening a shade. 

And his lips quirk, “Oh I see, I’m sorry to hear that, but I won’t be leaving you alone anytime soon,” he winks, and he’s rising to his feet, as he draws slower, “I think we can move onto the actual physical exam now,” and he’s pulling his stethoscope out as he draws near, kneeling instead of standing — because what else can you do beside a couch instead of a hospital bed — “I’m going to listen to your heartbeat,” 

God, he smells good. 

You try not to bite your lip at him — he was so pretty, up close even more so, his long snow white eyelashes fluttering and his perfect pink lips so kissable — but no, no, this was inappropriate. This was a doctor’s office. 

And he’s putting the stethoscope in his ears, pressing the metal diaphragm to your chest, “Oh, your heart’s racing,” he murmurs, leaning in even closer, warm breath warming your skin, “wonder why that is — this may call for further examination,” 

“Is this concerning?” and he’s tilting your chin up, far too close to your face. 

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, you’re in good hands,” he’s moving the stethoscope to your back, pressing the metal end to listen to your lungs, “please take deep breaths for me,” and you do, biting your lip, as he leans against you as he moves the diaphragm to four different points, his chest brushing against your shoulder, “I see,” he murmurs, “have you been experiencing any aches or pains anywhere?” 

You swallow, “My throat has been hurting a little,” and he nods, grabbing a tongue depressor. 

“Let me take a look, now stick out your tongue and say ‘ah,’” and you do as he says as he presses the tongue depressor down, “good girl,” he murmurs, making your cheeks warm at his words — fuck. 

His eyes scan your mouth, pressing against your tongue harder, “I don’t see anything unusual,” as he pulls the depressor back, skimming your tongue teasingly, but still, his face is so close to yours, and he notices your breath catching, “but I may need to do a closer examination if you…consent,” 

“If I consent?” You ask slowly, his lips a breath away, and his thumb drags down your lips, “Satoru—“ 

“Do you consent?” And he’s leaning even closer, noses brushing, and you only can manage a nod, “use your words, Princess,” 

“Yes, please,” and he only smirks, as his lips brush yours — so soft and teasing, his fingers cup along your jaw. He tastes of sugar and warmth, his tongue teasing your lips, until they part, dragging over your tongue, the very same he had just examined. He draws easy moans from you, one after another, before he pulls away, a string of spit connecting your lips. 

“I didn’t see any issues, but I am concerned about your throat,” and he’s kissing a burning trail down your jaw to the hollow of your throat, “feels a little swollen here—“ and his teeth grazes the soft skin there, “it may need a closer look,” and he’s licking and sucking, dragging his tongue over your sweet skin. 

And you’re nearly panting at this point, as he smiles at you, pressing another kiss to your lips, and you raise an eyebrow, “was that you checking again?” And he laughs, lips curling, as his fingers slide to the small of your back. 

“You can be too sure,” and he’s kissing you again, and he doesn’t miss the way your thighs press together, “think the problem may lie elsewhere,” and his hands drag down your sides before finding your thighs, and you gasp, as he parts them, your fingers pressing into your soft flesh, “feels very warm here, and almost irritated — it may be an infection,” he hums, as his thumbs toy with the waistband of your shorts, “I may need to get a closer look,” 

“Satoru—” you whine, and pulling at your shorts now, and he’s looking up at you with lidded, lustful eyes. 

“Would the patient like some help removing her clothes for the examination?” and you only can manage a nod, and he accepts it this time, pulling your shorts down, “don’t worry, I’m a medical professional, I know just what treatments are acceptable in cases such as these,” and your shorts pool around your ankles, before you’re kicking them off. 

And his eyes linger on the damp, dark patch on your underwear, “oh? I see the problem,” you gasp as he presses his thumb against your puffy clit through the thin fabric, “it’s so swollen, so warm — I’m going to have to do a very thorough exam of this area,” and he’s snapping the fabric against your skin, making your squirm, “so sensitive,” he hums as he tugs down your underwear, sniffing your panties, before pocketing them, “a sample, I’ll keep it for further testing,” he winks, before he unbuttons his cuffs, rolling up the sleeves of his light blue button up. 

His eyes darken as his eyes rake over your exposed cunt, “are you ready to begin?” And he waits for your nod, before his fingers part your messy folds, as his arms pin your thighs in place, “so wet, do you hear that, sweetheart?” And his finger sinks into your needy pussy, squelching, “practically swallowing me in,” he grunts, licking his lips, “gonna need to probe a little deeper,” and a second finger is joining the first, fucking you open in earnest, as he pulls another moan from your lips, “s’good for me, but still I can’t figure out what’s wrong, maybe I just need to inspect this area further,” his hands sliding your thighs over his shoulders, pressing a languid kiss to your inner thigh. 

And then his lips brush against your clit, making you squirm, his tongue darting out to drag lazy circles around it. God, you were so close, “don’t be so loud, there are other patients who might hear you — they might wonder what kind of exam I’m doing,” and you’re holding back your cries, biting your bottom lip. as his fingers and tongue bully your insides, “so tight, think I need to loosen you up before the final test,” 

“I’m, ngh, close—“ and his lips close over your clit, sucking hard, and that’s enough for you to fall over the edge. You’re moaning, walls twitching around his fingers, your thighs, as he continues to fuck you through your orgasm, lapping up every bit of your release. Your cunt twitches as you come down from your pleasure high, as you look down at him with half lidded eyes, gaze deep and dark, laced with lust as you watch him lick your release from his lips and chin. 

“Such a good baby, you did so good,” he’s pressing sweet kisses to your neck and face, until he’s letting you taste yourself on his lips, swallowing your moans eagerly, “haven’t even figured out what’s wrong and look at the state you’re in now,” he tsks, as he rubs the length of your cheek with his thumb, before kissing your jaw, “we still have more work to do,” as he eases your quivering legs off his shoulders. 

And he’s undoing his belt, the clink of the buckle drawing your eyes to his thighs, as he tugs down his slacks and boxers, as it slaps against your stomach. Your lips part at the sight of him, thick and long — a white head of precum, dripping from the engorged tip. 

Fuck, he’s huge, and he chuckles at your expression, “Like what you see, sweetheart?” As he drags his weeping erection along your sensitive pussy, “so messy, gonna have to see what’s going on inside, I have a feeling it’s very deep,” his fingers lift one of your legs over his shoulder, “are you ready?” 

And you’re nodding, “please, I need—“ and he’s parting your folds, past that delicious ring of muscle, kissing the deepest part of you with his tip, as your lips part in a groan, “Toru—“ 

“That’s it, s’good for me,” he’s grunting, as he pulls out only to slam back in, “best little patient, aren’t you? With your perfect princess cunt, made just for me,” 

“Figure out the — ngh — the problem yet?” You tease. 

He only grins, as he gives a nasty thrust of his hips, wiping all sense from your head, “Filthy case of pretty Princess cunt — PPC — and it’s a particularly bad one,” he’s slowing down to stretch out the wet squelch of your cunt, “hear that? It’s the sound of your pussy latching onto me, practically strangling my cock,” and he’s picking up speed, as he lifts your other leg over his shoulder and — fuck how is he going deeper? 

“Gonna come in for all your appointments and let me fuck you, right? Gonna fill you right, you have just what you need, the perfect medicine is this dick in this cunt, and the prescription is for every day, sweetheart,” he’s pistoning in and out of you, “pretty baby keeps pulling me back in, it may be incurable,” but he’s only fucking you harder, “but I’m going to try.” 

The hospital bed is certainly ruined by now, from the creaks and groans it’s giving, it’s nearly as close to breaking as you are. Just a little deeper, a little more. 

“Taking me so well, such a good girl,” his cock is twitching inside you, “fuck, s’good f’me, just for me,” 

“Toru, ‘m close,” and his hips are stuttering, as he groans your name. 

“Cum f’me, sweetheart,” and you do — your orgasm has you gripping him tight, as he continues to fuck you through it, rough thrusts that has you moaning far too loud, “close, gonna cum—where—“ 

“Inside, please,” and your eyes find his, lust blown out, as your hips grind against his, “I need my medicine,” 

And he only groans in reply, sinking his cock as deep as he can before cumming, his warm seed filling you up, as his hips jerk against yours once, twice, before he’s easing your legs down, to lay on top of you. 

Both of your heavy pants fill the room, as his face rests nestled in your chest, his lips pressing sweet kisses to the skin, “I am definitely not helping you sanitize this room, Toru,” 

He pouts, “Oh c’mon it’s half of your mess, most of your mess — you were soaking me—“ 

“I did you a favor by coming to help you practice conducting an intake and diagnosing a patient, I’m not cleaning up this mess too,” you sigh, as he relents, leaning up to kiss your lips.

“Well you did cum a lot I’ll give you that,” and you push his face away, but he only drags his tongue up your fingers. You flush, “you’re the worst doctor,” you grumble. 

“But I’m your favorite one, after all,” he grins, easing himself out, as you gasp, watching your mixed releases leak from your cunt, “I’m the only one who can give you your medicine.” 

A few hours before….

“C’mon, baby, I need to practice,” your boyfriend curled his arms around you, burying his face in your neck, trying to pull your attention from the book your nose was buried in currently, “i need to practice,” 

“I don’t think practicing is what’s on your mind right now, Toru,” you roll your eyes as he presses wet kisses up your neck, “you’re being distracting,” 

“You distract me just by existing,” he pouts, and you roll your eyes, “at least if I practice with you, I can do something,” and you can’t say no to him, could you? 

“Fine but why can’t we practice here?” And he’s shrugging, only grinning in reply. 

“I can get more into the mindset of a doctor at the clinic,” he’s holding up the key he had sweet talked out of the security guard, “it’s a chance for me to get some practical experience. No one else will be around. Just you and me. Please?” 

“…fine,” you sigh, as he kisses you again, “but you’ll behave?” 

“Promise,” he grins — but you knew Satoru Gojo never behaved - especially when it came to you. 

✴︎ a/n: my sister's practice asking me medical questions for an intake finally came in handy.

✴︎ taglist: @mwtsxri, @buttercupmuffins, @sinnerstardoll, @ziieanna12, @capitana18girl, @musababy, @miacakess, @secretmoneybearvoid, @sincerelyyrosemary, @dazailover1900, @maybe-a-bi-witch, @mnare, @kiyoomis-side, @complexivelovely, @imjustmememe, @pandaluvr, @affendy86, @scarlet-kazuha, @peachedtv, @spooky-nanners, @runmeoverkth, @nicobicobee, @kvroshit, @superluver, @paperairplanescanfly, @professorweezy, @i-literally-cant-with-this, @sachirobabe, @aothotties, @naughteehee, @ohphi, @roanryan16, @happyface002, @starrylibras, @sxatorugojoswife, @unamilanesa, @lycheeclare, @oreo-bozado, @yeehawslap, @hidanleftoe, @reaperxdeath

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[apocalypseornaw]

What If

Dean Winchester x Reader

You make assumptions after a night in Dean's bed that prove to be false

Warnings: Mention of steamy times, cursing, hurt feelings

Heat was the first sensation that hit you. The heat of a warm body curled up to your back. A strong arm laid across your stomach and warm breath hitting the back of your neck as he slept. How the hell had you ended up in this position when the two of you had simply set out to watch a movie last night after Sam had gone to bed?

You'd been in your room, laid across the bed reading a book Alex had sent you for your birthday. It was pretty good so far but you knew you wouldn't get far in it when you heard Dean singing lightly as his footsteps got closer to your open door.

You slid a bookmark in place and laid the book on your nightstand before your green eyed best friend ever Madeira to your door. You glanced up about the time he knocked “What's up Dean?” He smiled slightly “Well Sammy's gone to bed but Claire sent me a list of the top five rated horror movies. The top two we have on streaming”

A grin split your face “Go get them up, I'll grab drinks and meet you in the TV room” he winked at you “that's my girl” then turned to walk off down the hall.

You let out a sigh if only he knew what it did to you when he did shit like that. That wink, calling you his girl. The way he always invited you to watch movies, go for late night drives or how gentle he was patching you up after hunts. You shook your head to clear those thoughts out, he was your best friend. Yeah he was drop dead gorgeous but you couldn't help that you had eyes. You wouldn't ever cross a line he'd never acted as if he wanted to cross and risk that relationship.

____________________________

You were sitting next to Dean on the couch, your feet were curled up under you and Dean's favorite blanket was draped across you both. About halfway through the second movie a jumpscare actually got to you and without thinking you curled into his side, hiding your face in his chest.

He chuckled lightly as he tucked his arm around your body “Oh come on sweetheart. I've seen you take on shit a lot scarier than that and not blink!” You looked up at him and stuck your tongue out, trying to ignore just how close your faces were “Bite me Winchester. Real life doesn't bother me because if it can touch me and hurt me I can touch it and hurt it”

He shook his head “You're something else” you raised an eyebrow “What you mean by that” he raised his hand that wasn't curled around you to push your hair back that had fallen into your face “Beautiful, smart, badass. Pretty damn close to perfect” you could feel your cheeks warm slightly. It wasn't unusual for Dean to compliment you but it always made your stomach flip. “Oh shut up” you pushed against his chest hoping to turn this semi flirtatious moment into a teasing one but damn him if he didn't cup your chin gently and lift your head to meet his eyes before a smirk slipped onto his face “Make me”

You don't know what came over you at that moment. Maybe temporary insanity? Regardless you found yourself moving forward until your lips met his. It was just a simple kiss but something you'd dreamt of for far too long. It didn't take him even half a second to react. His hands went down to your hips, pulling you over into his lap and when the action caused a light gasp to leave your lips he slipped his tongue into your mouth rolling it against yours in a way that had you melting into him.

When you ground your hips down against his and a deep groan left him that was when reality set in. You were currently straddling your best friend, making out with him and damn near dry humping on the couch. You broke the kiss and damn near jumped off his lap. “I am so sorry Dean. I don't…I don't know what was going through my head”

He stood up, adjusting his jeans as he did so and your eyes flicked down to see a bulge that made your legs weak. The look in his eyes, damn how many waitresses and barmaids had you cussed over the years for having that look focused on them and now you couldn't think straight. “I wasn't exactly shoving you off” he replied taking a step closer and when you didn't back up he quickly covered the space between you pulling you into his arms “You're my best friend Y/N. Besides Sam no one on earth means as much to me as you do but that kiss was….fuck…if you want then this never happened. We'll turn on a different movie and nothing more”

“Or?” You asked, feeling your heart leap into your throat. A smirk slipped back onto his lips “Or we could go to my room and talk” “talk?” You repeated and he nodded “nothing has to happen”

________________________

A moan of Dean's name left your lips as he kissed a trail down your neck, his fingers slipping inside of you easily. “Fuck I love hear you say my name like that” he teased. It didn't take him long to find that one spot inside of you that had you clenching around his fingers and your legs shaking around his wrist.

He continued to pump his fingers lazily in and out of you as he worked you through the orgasm. When you weakly pushed at his wrist he caught your eyes before licking his fingers into his mouth, those sinful lips working as he sucked your juices off his fingers. “Taste as good as you look” you shook your head with a laugh “Take your pants off and get up here Dean” he grinned “Yes ma'am”

He stood long enough to slip his pants off then crawled up the bed, kissing his way up your body until he got to your lips. He caught them in a searing kiss that let you taste yourself on him. He pulled back enough to meet your eyes “Are you sure about this?” You nodded and felt his hardness pressed against your inner thigh “I want this”

He pressed another kiss to your lips before lining himself up with your entrance. When he slipped inside of you a moan left both of you at the feeling. He dropped his head down against your chest once he was fully inside of you to give you time to adjust. His lips left a trail across your collarbone “you feel so damn amazing sweetheart” After a moment the discomfort of the fullness of his gave way to pleasure so you turned his face to kiss him “Move Dean”

He began to roll his hips tentatively against yours and when your reaction was your eyes rolling back slightly at the feeling that was all the clearance he needed. “Eyes on me, beautiful. I want to see you come undone” it took you a minute to focus your eyes back on him and when you did he smiled almost shyly “look at you Y/N. Damn you're perfect” he pulled almost completely out of you then slammed back in. Your hands went to his shoulders, fingernails cutting into the skin as he sat a grueling pace that filled the room with the sound of skin hitting skin and both of you moaning the other's name.

When you felt yourself reaching that peak he bit down gently on your neck “Let yourself go baby. I'm not far behind. I want to feel you come around my cock, please” Dean Winchester of all men begging you to come? Christ, that pushed you over the edge with a scream of pleasure ripping from your lips.

His thrusts faltered slightly and through gritted teeth he asked “Don't you have an iud?” You nodded and he buried himself inside of you with one final thrust. The feeling of him coming worked another small orgasm out of you that had your legs shaking around him.

When he pulled out you whimpered slightly and he apologized with a light kiss “Just gonna grab my shirt to clean you up some baby ok?” You nodded weakly and felt the bed dip before Dean was knelt between your knees “Open up for me beautiful” you slowly spread your legs and he smiled “you look so fucking gorgeous like this. All fucked out” he used his shirt to clean you up as best as he could before tossing it back to the floor.

When he laid back down next to you he ran a finger down your side which caused you to squirm. “I'll go to my room once my legs work” He slipped his arm around you to pull you back against him “Take your time. No rush”

Every insecurity and what if started to flip through your head. Dean wasn't a settling down type. He didn't like attachments because he knew that put a target on them. He cared about you enough as a friend to put himself in danger. This wouldn't work. Either he'd not want this and feel some sort of obligation from your years of friendship or worse he would feel for you what you truly felt for him and it would end with him getting himself killed to keep you safe.

______________

It took some work to slip out the bed without waking him but you managed it and slipped your clothes on quickly. You needed a shower and to get the hell out of the bunker for a few minutes. You just needed to clear your head. It was supply run day. Groceries were needed and mail needed to be checked. You'd tell Sam to let you handle it. That would give you breathing room.

When you parked your car back at the bunker Sam came out to meet you and help with bags. When you glanced behind him he shrugged one shoulder “Can I ask something that may not only be none of my business but may be uncomfortable too?”

You nodded “We've known each other for a good chunk of our lives so I'd say yeah” he grimaced as he ran a hand across the back of his neck “I heard you and Dean last night so I thought…I don't know what I thought but did something happen? Because he seemed upset that you left while he was asleep”

“Sam, I didn't want to make things weird for Dean. You know my feelings” he nodded “but did you ask him his or just assume?” You didn't have to say anything Sam saw the look in your eyes. “He's in the library cleaning guns. I've got the bags”

________________

You could hear the clinking of metal when you got closer to the library. You stopped right inside the doorway and watched Dean for a moment. The way he handled the guns was a thing of beauty. He could probably break them down, clean them and put them back together in his sleep at this point.

He didn't look up from the colt before saying “You made it back in one piece” you nodded lamely “Dean can we talk?” He laid the colt down and raised his eyes to meet yours “Let me guess where this is going. You had a good night but don't want nothing to change”

You swallowed hard under the intensity of his stare “Can I talk without you putting words in my mouth?” He waved a hand to say go ahead “Dean you're my best friend and I love you, I fell in love with you. Last night was fucking amazing but I don't want to make you regrets things, you don't do love, you don't do relationships”

“because why? Dean's a man whore that just bed hops? Because Dean is incapable of love? Because despite us being best friends for over a decade there's no possibility that I fell in love with you too? There's no possibility i fucking wanted to wake up with the woman I love in my arms?” You flinched at his tone despite your heart flipping at his words “You love me?” He stood up and walked around the table “How could I not?”

You took a step back putting your back to the wall. He stood right in front of you, leaning a hand on the wall just over your head but giving you room to move “I love you Y/N. I'm in love with you. Last night was everything. Now what other demons are lurking in your head cause you know I don't mind taking on each and every one of those sons of bitches”

“What if you get hurt protecting me?” You asked and he smiled “baby I'd do that now but I know for the most part you can handle yourself and don't act like you're not self sacrificing either” you laughed despite yourself “What if you get bored of one woman?” He grinned “unlikely but we can always role play sweetheart. Believe me I mean it when I say you're fucking perfect for me”

“What if…” he cut you off by saying “What if you stop giving me excuses and let me kiss you? We could both die tomorrow and if that happens it happens but I'd rather have a day knowing you were completely my girl then live the rest of our lives just having part of you. I'm yours, you mine?” You nodded “Always. Now kiss me” He grinned “Yes ma'am”

#dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x female!reader #supernatural fanfiction #spn fanfiction #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester angst #dean winchester smut #dean winchester fluff

[hana-no-seiiki]

𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐌𝐄

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄! 𝐒𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐒 + 𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄! 𝐇𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐒 𝐱 𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑! 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 (𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐈)

tw/cw: this act alludes more to reader being amab (because breeder reader era wont be ending anytime soon) so beware. off-screen seggs. worldbuilding and lore stuff. yandere themes, mentions of forced prostitution. misandry.

status: unedited

[ ACT I ] • [ ACT III ]

MOTHERS HELD A HIGH SOCIAL RANK IN YOUR SOCIETY. They were the bearers of children; held with a status akin to gods. As such, those who were able to give birth were favorable.

Not a womb-less being like you.

You spent a couple decades or so in denial. Hoping that one day you’ll be accepted. That maybe society itself would change and you’d have a place in the world.

Only for reality to ruthlessly slap you in the face.

“[Y/N].”

Your mother’s voice, no matter the content of her speech, always made your heart rate soar. Cold sweat appeared on your palms and forehead, but before it could even be discerned on your form your hands make a swift movement to dry yourself. Your could feel your shakiness intensify as she drew closer.

“Yes, mother?” You greeted back. You cursed inwardly as your words came out hoarse; without its usual confidence. You could already hear her admonish you.

How could you be anything less than perfect? After all you were already born a failure. Might as well make up for it by being the best.

Throughout the decades of your parent’s unfavorable treatment, you had gain a semblance of self-esteem. At least enough to give them cheek at times. Although your subconscious always reminded you of what they were capable of if you weren’t engaged.

Your teenage self could never imagine talking back to them. With that, in spite of the unwarranted attention you were somewhat happy with the circumstances you were given.

“You went to the countryside, again.” Her arms crossed over her chest, and tar colored blouse. She always wore black clothes and a solemn look wherever she went, intimidating many that dared to gaze at her direction. Her graying hair was tied into a tight bun. Pointed, cat like eyes behind thick glasses. But she was beautiful. Annoyingly so. The very reason why so many fell at your feet.

“I am here now.”

“Her Highness was looking all over for you.”

“That’s the point. I was hiding from that witch.” You crossed your arms. You did not like that woman at all. You remembered repeatedly enforcing your boundaries and personal space to which she repeatedly broke down and disrespected.

“[Y/N]! Stop being such a brat. Act your age for once. This is a golden opportunity. For you and our whole family!”

“Selling my body wasn’t enough? Your greed really knows no bounds.”

You shut your mouth immediately. You’ve gotten too far, if her heels clacking on the ground wasn’t already an obvious indication her thin, banshee like screech should be.

You expected a slap, maybe even her pulling your hair out once again, perhaps her nails would tear into your skin once more leaving a scar that would make at least some of your clients change their mind. However before she could even get close enough to touch you, her husband pulled her away.

“Estella . . . if you hurt them, her highness might . . .” He held her back.

You used to think you loved him way back then. When he’d halt your mother’s actions and take care of you after you’d been used. But then you realized that he only saw you as an object he could benefit from as well. Once the princess asked for your hand in marriage he was ecstatic. Waxing on and on about how happy it’d make him if you went with her, even allowing her to defile you in your own bedroom at times. The only reason he didn’t actively hurt you was because your mother’s ego was so fragile that she’d take him getting physical as a sign of defiance and ill will.

Swarms of hatred encircled your heart. To think you were so blind and hungry for an ounce of their affection only a year ago.

Hours passed before your tears showed signs of stopping its flow. You hoped the streetslights that barely gave vision at least hid you from prying eyes.

“Witch, huh?”

A voice tore you away from your moment of sadness. In fear of anyone else seeing you in this state you hurry to fix yourself as you heard heeled clicks grow louder.

“I should have known.” You turned your head to face the sounds’ source. Only to see the reason why so many tears of yours were wasted this day. “So, does this mean our engagement is off? Or shall I be executed for sullying your name?”

Third Princess Kalliope Mikiavella Levantine. If her name was a nightmare then her presence in your life was evermore.

She was your highest paying client. Ever insatiable. Ever spoiled by her mother the Empress. The only saving grace of this whole situation was that she was not the Crown Princess, yet. Otherwise you might have already been made an imperial concubine or consort.

“Unfortunately not.” She smiled, a little solemn in a way to empathize with your situation, but nonetheless ruthless knowing her power. The princess was beautiful, her blazing red hair that curled immaculately lightly bounced in her steps towards you. Bright amber eyes that almost appeared like the dim streetlights.

“I am unclean. Impure. Why would you want someone like me?” You keep your eyes to your legs lest you fall for her beauty. You always looked somewhere else whenever you two slept together. Always in fear that you’ll grow to love your assaulter — captor.

“I . . . do not know. But everytime I hear you sing my heart feels at ease. I want you in my life, [Y/N]. For as long as I live.”

“Think of it this way, as my spouse you will be ruling over the entirety of this country. Every thing, every one, will be yours. Even those parents who sold you to me. And you’ll give that kid a bright future—“

“[Y/N] . . ?”

You do not think before your lips crashed upon hers.

“Athanaxious? Athanaxious! “

Vasileious searched high and low, in every corner of the ocean Athanaxious usually dwelled in. He even swam the shores, close to those wicked human hunters called fishermen to find him. But with no luck.

“Let him be, Vasilei. He’ll come back in due time.” Aurelius, the pair’s eldest brother, comforted him. Aurelius had a beautiful tail of pure gold, unlike the flecked one Vasileious and Athanaxious owned. His hair was a beautiful, long and curly brown with a lock of blond that made it all the more stunning. His tan skin glimmered akin to the surface waters at day, and almost glowed at night.

“Say that when you get scolded by Mother. I dare you.” Vasileious spat, nerves fried from stress. He would have never interacted or approached a human if it weren’t for his stupid younger brother. But now he’d seen several. Do you know how horrid that experience would be for him? It was downright terrible.

Aurelius, ever the only serene one in the family, massaged the small of his brother’s pale back, “You seem on edge. More so than usual.”

“Athanaxious was meeting with a human, Aurelius. A human!”

“Huh, so you finally found out.”

“You knew of it?!”

“All of us did.” Aurelius shrugged, slightly curling his tail as a gesture of ease. “Oh come on, we all know how much of a snitch you are. Besides, Athanei can’t be dissuaded. Telling him not to do something will only make him want to do it more.”

“He used his siren song on them.”

“No way! How did he sound?”

“. . . It sounded — “ Vasileious ashamedly could only remember your own voice that day, unable to give a proper remark he gave a simple, vague response. “alright.”

“How utterly anticlimactic. Although you saying something aside from terrible means it must be good.”

“Make of it what you will.”

“Irenaeus!”

Another merman appeared. Younger than Aurelius but his beauty unlike any of the other brothers. His tail a beautiful ivory color that slowly transitioned to grey and blacks at the tip. Long dark hair and golden eyes. Irenaeus was known to have the biggest body count of all siblings — bringing thousands of humans to their doom. If it weren’t for his carefree attitude and the god he was named after, one would think he loathed humans more than Vasileious himself. “The human Athan was meeting . . .”

“What about them?”

“Apparently they are to be married off to a human princess. Sailors across the ocean have been speaking of it so. And. . . well . . . “

“Spit it out.”

Irenaeus looked left and right, his tail flicking in an anxious manner, “I believe Athanaxious might be meeting with the Sea Witch shortly.”

“What? You didn’t stop him?!” Vasileious screeched. The ocean floor that surrounded them tremors in his cries, large waves rippling, barreling towards land. His two brothers flinched in pain.

“Less time scolding more time on looking for our brother.” Aurelius broke him out of his moment of panic. “Irenei, inform the rest of our family. Vasilei, let us depart.”

Deep within the Abyss of the ocean, Athanaxious found himself swarmed with feverish determination and anger. The pressure of the waters always felt suffocating but now? It was nothing to the looming dread that drowned his heart.

He reaches his destination before his mind could properly think. He thought long ago that the last time he’d come would be that, the last. But here he was again, far more desperate than he was afraid.

“Be welcome, Than.” The low, gravelly voice of the sea devil danced across the murky waters.

“You must know of the happenings on land.”

He comes out of his hiding, long winding tentacles slither across the walls covered with barnacles and seaweed, as He moved towards Athanaxious, “Mm, I’m afraid not. Please enlighten me.”

“Tch. My human. They’re going to marry some rich lady up north. This cannot happen.”

“You want me to help you ruin a wedding?”

“You know the drill. A price for a boon. This will be quite expensi—“

“I offer you my voice.”

The Sea Witch found themself speechless for moments on end. For a siren to sell their voice would be akin to dooming themself to a lonely, wretched existence. Unable to lure their prey or be of any ‘worth’ in their society. They were aware of Athanaxious’ infatuation over you. Just not self-sacrificing extent of it. “…And in exchange for your precious voice I offer you a new identity as a human.”

“Beware, as every step you take will feel like daggers going through your feet. You will however, be the most graceful dancer upon the land. A perfect fit for our little singer.” An apparition appears between the Devil’s fingertips as it flicked across the waters. It was you, on a platform of sorts surrounded by other humans. You were bringing joy to their faces, as you did with him. “Shall I add a wager to spice up the fun?”

It took a lot of willpower for Athanaxious to rip his eyes away from your ‘magical form’ and all he could muster was a nod.

“Should you succeed your voice shall return, and you wouldn’t have to keep giving me your scales to brew love potions. Their heart will be yours forever more, guaranteed by both their feelings in your triumph and my very own magic.” The apparition shifted; Athanaxious appears within the image — human. The two of you looked joyful as you embraced underneath what seemed to be the moon.

But then it all lasts for a second before it shifted once more. The vision of your happy ending swiftly turned bitter as this apparition’s Athanaxious slowly dissolved and disappeared, before you turn to someone else and embrace them instead.

“If you fail to win their affection before the wedding, I will keep your voice and you shall turn into sea foam.”

Athanaxious felt his stomach grow weak at the illusion’s show. Moreso the possibility of your romance with someone else than his death. He only had one choice.

“I understand. I accept both the deal and the wager.”

“Oh, how magnificent! I hope you don’t go on to regret this.” The Sea Devil lips tugged upwards.

“Now, sing for me.”

“Where will you be going?” Kalliope tugged at your sleeves.

“Out. I’ll be back before sundown.” You gently pulled your arm away from your admirer, as you buttoned your clothes and put on a pair of trousers.

“But—“

“My seed must take root for our marriage to be guaranteed, no? Keep your hips raised.”

“Can we go for another bout before you leave?”

You loop your finger around a lock of her hair, lending her a final kiss to the forehead. “No.”

Your town was not one to write about in history books. It was like any other the Empress was able to conquer under her rule. A quaint village just west of the capital city known for their great alcohol and folks to bed.

In such a small population, everyone knew you and you knew everyone. People even knew of your clients, every single one in fact. They weren’t surprised to see you in much more extravagant or expensive clothing as you passed by the street in an equally gaudy carriage.

It was moreso the armored guards that surrounded you that alerted them of something different.

“[Y/N]!”

Clearly that wasn’t enough to deter your childhood friend from running towards you.

“First you impregnate my sister and leave her all alone to take care of your mistake, now you go and get married without a word to us! Do you even care at all?!” The young man wore overalls. Soot covered his skin from what you assume was the mines he started recently working in.

Yiorgos used to be a lot kinder. Softer. Almost puppy like with his admiration towards you. But after a series of misunderstandings he grew resentful of your existence. You never bothered to correct him.

Or perhaps you were just too busy and hurt by his assumptions.

“Out of their highness’s way.” A guard put their arm between you and your former friend.

“Their . . . highness ?” Yiorgos looked at you, baffled. His hung wide open. He then leaned forward to no doubt shout at you once more before you finally put a word in.

“No, I know him.” You shook your head at the guard. Your focus left the man as soon as a familiar mop of [hair color] entered your vision.

A small girl dressed in clothing akin to your own, left Yiorgos’s side and ran up to you with no regard to the armored knight that loomed over. Excitement clear in her eyes. “Don’t listen to your uncle, you aren’t a mistake alright? Go on in, I’ll be with you.” You gently pushed her towards the siblings’ house. The girl shook her head, unwilling to let go of you. But her grip slowly loosened and she eventually shied away, leaving you and the rest.

“Your sister paid me to sleep with her and insisted not to use protection, we both know I pay for that night every single day since it happened both reputation wise and monetarily. And lastly, as you can see I had no choice.” You tilt you head to the small army of knights made to watch over you and your carriage.

Yiorgos shook his head. Brown hair swaying side to side. “You always have a choice.”

“And my choices are life and death. Don’t bother arguing about my situation!”

“Here’s my last payment and goodbye. I’ll be taking the kid with me to the castle soon.” You throw him a bag filled with gold coins and then proceeded to make your leave.

If there was anything you were proud of in your town however, it would be the opera house you worked at. Thousands of people all throughout the world often came here to watch your shows amongst the other singers and performers.

Due to its popularity it was even funded by the Empress directly. That is how you met the princess.

“[Y/N]! I’ve heard the news. Congratulations.” Your employer, Lady Anastasia — a noble woman —, runs her hand in your hair. She used to be a regular person your mother sold you off to until she eventually hired you as a singer at her Opera House. Of course, that didn’t mean she wouldn’t pay you a little extra for your services after hours.

“What’s with the fuss?” You gestured to the boy servants fussing over a young man. Who seemed a little too familiar, nostalgic maybe. You couldn’t quite put a finger on it.

“Oh, we found a young man out on the beach you frequented. We thought it was you at first but upon closer inspection . . .”

“He’s a mute that one. Ain’t no further thing from our theater’s star.” Her Father, a rather old and gruff man, huffed. He was always so prideful of you. Despite his rough demeanor, you knew that he cared deeply. After Anastasia would bed you, he always came by to give you a cup of tea. You didn’t know how to repay the man except use your body, so he’s had a taste of you as well.

In fact, you wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve bedded half of your town and then some.

“Will you keep your scathing remarks to yourself?” Anastasia lightly slapped him, “He is incredibly talented on the art of dance, light on his feet.”

“And weak on constitution. He barely finished a piece before falling to his knees and panting!”

“I’ll take care of him.” You put a hand to your chin. The man gave you a weird feeling in your stomach. Something tells you that the fates have your threads intertwined.

“Are you sure? With all these wedding preparations. . .” The old man grabbed your shoulders, making you flinch.

You unknowingly glared at him.

“Ah, sorry to be so presumptuous.” He rubbed the back of his neck.

You coughed, unsure how to or if you should even apologize. You decide on focusing at the task at hand. A final show before you’re eternally doomed to the Imperial Palace.

“Well then, why is nobody ready?”

©️ hana.no.seiiki - yun | 2023

#yandere #yandere concept #tw yandere #yandere original character #yandere oc #yandere story #yandere scenario #yandere siren #yandere royal #fem yandere #gn reader #yandere x you #yandere x reader #fem yandere x reader #yandere harem #yandere various

[lo1k-diamonds]

SX Seoul series | Namjoon entry 💜 Closer

GIF by namchyoon

PAIRING: Namjoon x Reader (You can also read it on AO3)

SUMMARY: Namjoon and you were friends for years — he was your confidant, protector, and haven. You didn’t want to risk it, no matter what, but some things can’t be kept in the dark.

WORD COUNT: 8.2k

GENRE: friends to lovers, smut (it's lovemaking tbh)

RATING: R (explicit)

WARNINGS: reader is shy and introverted, mentions of anxiety, being in the dark in an agitated crowd (reader is safe w/ NJ), fear of losing a friendship, porn w/ plot (lovemaking, or my version of it), unprotected sex (wrap it up), dry humping, riding, they're both shy and idiots in love but they make it 💜

A.N. Is this a slow burn? Am I searingly slowly taking you all on the journey that is kissing and feeling Kim Namjoon? Some could say there was no need to describe it in such detail. They would be wrong 💜

Someone called your name and you looked up.

“Come on! Don’t fall behind!”

You gasped mutely and rushed in between the ever-growing crowd to join your friends and coworkers atop the stairs. The line wasn’t too big tonight but you still preferred to stay close to them — no way you wanted to be left alone in a bar street in Itaewon in the middle of the night. You pressed your hands nervously, looking around while your friends laughed about something you didn’t hear. No, you didn’t want that. There could be weird people and drunk people, and you were the designated driver anyway—

“Hey!” 

You blinked at Juhyun through your glasses with big wide brown eyes like a deer caught in headlights.

“Come along!” She sighed, extending her hand so you’d grab it, and you did with relief.

You gave your coat at the reception with a polite head bow, following closely after everyone. The noise hit your ribcage with the force of an alarm, making you grin with gritted teeth but you took a deep breath and hurried along. It wasn’t like you never went out, or had never been there before. SX Seoul had become the preferred club of people working in the industry, and so you found yourself with a vibrating ribcage and sweaty hands every once in a while. However, you did get anxious in crowded loud places like bars and clubs. An elbow sank into your side as you followed after Juhyun and despite the person’s apology and head bow, which you returned, you smiled with a hint of tiredness. The night had just begun.

You got set on the couches, saying hi to everyone you knew who was already there, and smoothly offered to help everyone get drinks. That was an easy way for you to get an alcohol-free drink early on and successfully avoid being offered drinks for a long while.

“Look who’s DJing tonight!”

You had sat near Juhyun after handing her a drink and smiled happily, engaging in light conversation.

“Didn’t you write his breakout music video?”

“Yeah, I did!” 

You smiled politely, a warm fuzzy feeling settling in your stomach — you might have not liked the constant background house beat that had you all screaming to be heard, but you did feel proud of your work. Of every concept you had written, every storyboard you had designed, and every screening you helped with that led you to where you were now — in a creative atmosphere surrounded by like-minded people who just wanted to bring joy and creativity to the world.

As the night continued, you were more and more comfortable, surrounded by people you knew. You didn’t think it could get better, but as soon as Namjoon arrived, you grinned from ear to ear and chuckled at your silliness.

“Hi everyone!” You instantly scooted over and made space for him to sit beside you and join in the conversation, yet as you tried to keep up, he leaned in, “Driving?”

You turned to him and smiled sheepishly, something he returned with a sweetness of his own. You had been friends forever; he knew the answer to his own question.

“Your hair,” he added. 

You blinked then felt for it over your shoulders and chest, trying to see in between psychedelic blinding lights if something had happened to it or something. 

“No! Just— It’s loose!”

You blinked again, pressing your glasses up the bridge of your nose, “Well, yeah.”

He smirked briefly, looking down before facing you again with a gentle puff, “It looks good!”

Your lashes batted once before someone asked for his attention, and just in time. You could feel the heat spreading from your chest to your cheeks and turned to sip at your drink seemingly absentmindedly.

He noticed? You didn’t know why it surprised you so much; Namjoon was an attentive friend. Caring too, he always noticed when something was going wrong or a project was difficult. He always offered to help you out, and you did the same. You had that kind of relationship — friendly and supportive. Of course, that didn’t mean he had to notice your hairstyle for tonight. You had just let go of your usual braids to something more casual — just loose over your shoulders. And now there you were, playing with the long hair locks over your chest like your heart wasn’t fluttering at the simplest interaction.

“Hey! Let’s dance!”

You nodded at Juhyun and got up with a smile that crumbled just a little when Namjoon got up too. He scratched the back of his neck, sheepishly smiling at you and Juhyun.

“You don’t mind if I join you, right?”

“Of course not!”

She had answered for you because yet again you were pressing your lips. Namjoon wasn’t half as bad a dancer as he thought he was and you had all danced together before. Had you blushed then as you did now? You wondered as you beelined to the center of the dancefloor; you couldn’t remember. In the end, it didn’t matter. You smiled as you turned to Namjoon in that circle of people just randomly facing each other in turns. It didn’t have to be anything much, you were just having fun. All of you. It was absolutely fine.

He grabbed your hand and wiggled it for you to pivot and move around and you just laughed and did as told because it was fun. And not a big deal if he didn’t do it to the others, they were busy shouting in each other’s ears anyway.

You felt light and didn’t think it could get better than this when all of a sudden everything became pitch black. The music shut down and suddenly all you could hear was your ears ringing annoyingly and people either shouting or wondering a bit louder than usual about what was going on. It took you a couple of seconds to realize that it couldn’t be normal for a club to just abruptly shut down like that, and it was enough for your anxiety to instantly spike and sting your chest. Yet a pair of arms circled you lightening fast, pressing you safely to a firm chest.

Your cheeks were squished against his pectorals and you could hear a heart racing equally to yours under your ear. A question never formed itself, you knew exactly who was hugging you. It was safe now. You hugged him back and closed your eyes, using his body like an anchor to keep your anxiety from releasing you into the rowdy sea.

Namjoon could hear people getting agitated all around you two, making him squeeze you harder against him. People got nervous in situations like those. They could start running for the exit, pushing and stepping over people without a care if the panic was big enough. And as the absence of music and light continued, mere seconds felt like minutes cracking under the pressure as people became agitated.

He knew crowded places made you anxious. That was how you justified the way he was pressing his lips to the top of your head. It made your already racing heart jump with a foreign feeling, which mixed with his musky cologne had you sweating and not out of nervousness.

A louder shout not so far from you startled you into pressing your fingertips into his lower back and he immediately hugged you tighter. His lips brushed the top of your head again but the agitation around you was too loud, making it impossible to discern what he had said. Yet, regardless, you were safe. You could feel people shifting around you, voices becoming louder, and the occasional glimpse from people's phones. A wave of appreciation and gratitude flooded you, flowing over your anxiety and you unglued your cheek from his shirt to tell him.

His lips pressed lightly atop your cheekbone and your breath caught. His nose had tapped against your glasses and you instinctively squinted though you couldn’t see. None of it bothered you though, on the contrary. Your lips parted in surprise, his thumb dragging across your jawline as if to make sure of where you were in the dark.

You forgot about the world around you. You were suspended in the air, in a trance, waiting for what would happen next, and it happened unexpectedly. His forehead touched yours and you closed your eyes, letting him cradle you sweetly. Little did he know that you could feel no anxiousness now, you were a blank page waiting to be written on.

Or maybe he knew. He didn’t force your chin but he did mutter something while his lips brushed your jawline, and you turned your head. Curiosity, it was all it was. Because you hadn’t heard him, but as your skins brushed, your lips caught the subtle hint of something plush and wet for the tiniest of moments.

You became dizzy and gripped his shirt at the end of his back. Was that what you thought it was? Was that—?

All it took was a millimeter for him to give you the hint that you took without hesitation. His lips pressed to the corner of your mouth and you sighed, eyes scrunching with the tension inside your chest. You were no mind and all instinct when you parted your lips further to get more, just a bit more. All you were ready to do was react, so when it felt like he was about to break away, you closed in.

You were incredibly aware of everything that involved Namjoon. The way his long fingers supported your jawline with a feather-like touch, his short hair falling just above his eyes tickling you where it got to your skin around your glasses, the softest touch of his plush lips as even his breath eased, the gentlest breeze caressing your face whenever you tentatively parted and rejoined like waves kissing the shore.

You were aware of everything, and yet when the lights and music came back on, you were helpless. Namjoon straightened up to look around, trying to figure out what was going on, while you were just looking up at him, gripping him still, trying to figure things out on your own. What was that? What—

“Are you okay?” Juhyun asked right behind you and you jumped in place, startled. You let go of Namjoon, and it was he who answered.

“Yeah, we stayed cool. Are you?”

“Yeah, they pushed around a bit though, geez,” she complained, running a hand through her hair. “What do you think happened?”

“Good question, I don’t know.”

You didn’t hear anything anymore, you were just staring up at him as he talked. Good question. You had no idea either. What happened? Did you really just kiss—

“Listen, if you’re bummed out, that’s okay,” Juhyun shouted above the music, pressing your arm gently. She looked concerned and you tried a smile.

You could guess you looked as befuddled as you felt, “Yeah, I kind of— But I’m your driver!” You shouted instead, remembering your responsibility with a firm shake of your head.

“It’s okay, we’ll catch a taxi!” She shouted with a nod. She knew you were usually anxious; something unnerving like that was surely too much for you. “I’m just worried about you going alone!”

“I’ll go with her,” Namjoon nodded, unwavering, and before you got to say something, Juhyun agreed.

“Take care, text me when you’re home,” she asked you, squeezing your hand once.

You were frowning, about to suggest staying a bit more so you could take her home too when a firmer hand replaced hers. Namjoon returned your gaze, said a quick goodbye with a wave to everyone else, and then pulled you behind him as he made your way out.

Your mind slowly got back on track with every step you took. His hand was firmly wrapped around yours, and despite his wide shoulders in front of you, sheltering you from the chaos, your anxiety guided your thoughts back to the surface with a forced gasp.

What were you doing? Maybe this would turn awkward. You and Namjoon had been good friends for years, you had always counted on him. Maybe that was a mistake, maybe he would be uncomfortable around you now. You didn’t want things to change, you didn’t want to lose his joyful grins, relaxing bicycle rides, and long quiet reading sessions back at his place.

You bowed as you took your coat at the reception and put it on before stepping out into the cold. He was no longer holding your hand, which was holding the coat’s collar to your neck instead. You swallowed and looked down, freezing atop the stairs while you ran by the options and he stepped down ahead of you. You don’t have to leave earlier because of me. I can get home safely by myself. I’m sorry if that was awkward, I—

“Where’s your car?”

You sucked in a breath and told him before turning to walk intently as quickly as possible. The cold was rough on your cheeks, despite the big round lenses of your glasses. You gritted your teeth not to quiver as you stepped carefully over the slippery sidewalk.

When you got to your car, you got in quickly and turned it on to give it time to warm up a bit. Namjoon had followed you inside in silence and was so quiet that his presence could have been buried under your anxiety.

You brushed your flushed cheeks and tried pulling your long hair free, realizing it was trapped between your blouse and the coat. You were so used to having braids that you forgot you needed to tend to your hair properly whenever you put your coat on and now you were stiff and stuck and—

“Easy,” he rasped, reaching to help you and you froze. You glanced up at him and stayed still as he alleviated the tension of the fabric over your shoulders to gently pull your hair out before leaning to repeat the same action on the other side. By then your eyes had lowered to his hands. The way he was handling your dark threads of hair as if it was the most precious silk, worthy of care and attention. “There.”

Your eyes jumped up in time to see him leaning back, a perfectly blank expression making your chest pang in nervousness. You were overthinking again.

“Thanks!” You squeaked, clearing your voice immediately as you leaned forward to reach the GPS screen, “Now, to Joonie’s…”

The drive was easier than you thought it would be. He commented on the cold, and then on what happened at the bar. He had never seen something like that at a bar, only at festivals or concerts. He wondered if the whole street had a power outage or if it was just that room. You mused that if it had been more than just the room, you’d surely hear about it in the news. 

And just like that the car became quiet. Seoul always had traffic, even at 2:52 AM, it was nothing new. So while you comfortably focused on taking him home safely, your thoughts wandered elsewhere.

His lips were the softest thing you had ever touched in your life. Just the delicateness with which you had kissed, you didn’t think you had it in you. Weren’t kisses supposed to be messy? Powerful and passionate? Then how had you touched the pillowy clouds above?

Just remembering it had your guts burning in excitement, and you pressed your lips. Were you making any sense? But you had really done that; hiddenly in the dark, yes, but really. You had acted on your instinct for the first time and gotten a glimpse of the sky. 

You wondered why now. Your friendship was old and comfortable, and he had always been a gentleman, protective but never overbearing. You thought he saw you as a colleague initially and then a friend with similar tastes. You pressed your lips right as you stopped the car in front of his apartment building. One glance at him and you knew that was the same old Namjoon you were used to. Maybe you had dreamed it. Maybe it was supposed to stay a dream.

“Would you like to come up?”

Your eyes jumped and widened, the shock as evident in your expression as a blinking billboard sign.

“I finished the new Murakami,” he continued swiftly, “so you can take it if you want. Or any other book.”

Your lips instantly twitched into a smile, “You finally finished it, then.”

He smirked as you turned off the engine and reached to get your bag, “Finally. You know how I am with his books.”

You nodded and got out of the car, the negative temperature clashing with your blushing cheeks. Yet you only smiled, locked the car, and teased him while you both went inside. Even the ride up the elevator was lighter; you two were back to your eased friendship where you got to poke fun at his annoyance with the repetitiveness of Murakami’s plotlines while enjoying every other detailed introspection he had to offer.

So when you passed the threshold of his apartment, you were as always. You both got your shoes off, though you kept your coat because you weren’t going to stay long. He offered you a drink despite you insisting that it was a quick visit, and as he disappeared into the kitchen to see what he could offer, you beelined to his reading corner.

That space always brought a smile to your face and comfort to your heart. That corner of the living room had a bookshelf from floor to ceiling separated by squared compartments that combined books and small plant pots in a myriad of colors. His most cherished one, however, was the bonsai on the small table next to the gray reading chair and ottoman. He'd let you take up the chair whenever you would read or work at his place, with him preferring the couch so he could stretch his legs more comfortably. You preferred the reading chair because the setting was a mood changer for you and you could use the different shelves to place your open books, especially when designing or writing ideas. Each square was organized in a particular way: some by authors, others by category, or type of work.

“I don’t have much,” you could hear him returning to you. “But I can make tea.”

You shook your head while you crouched, taking a look at your favorite section, “It’s okay, I won’t stay long. Where’s the Murakami?”

“Right here,” his voice sounded from above your head, and you glanced up to see him towering over you, reaching for the book lying by the ledge on the appropriate shelf. He eyed you and you smirked, pushing your glasses up your nose bridge before looking back down. The corners of his lips twitched as he gripped the book inside his hands; he knew you were just happily skimming through your favorite shelf, and that wasn’t the issue. You weren’t the issue, you were— He took a deep shaky breath, “Oh, right, I have another one.”

He placed the Murakami book on the small table and left your side in the direction of his bedroom, you noticed. You pressed your lips and got up, grabbing the book he was holding just now. Blood was rushing to your cheeks and you took a short breath to ease yourself. You were there just to grab that book. You were alone at Namjoon’s, and that had happened hundreds of times before. Not that you had ever kissed before, but you could be cool. It was in the dark anyway. Conceptually, if you were thinking of the outline of a music video, that meant it was a secret. You could keep a secret. You could pretend it never happened.

Overhearing his steps pulled you from the depths of your thoughts to check what he had in his hands.

“Here,” he grinned, showing it to you. 

It was a book and you gasped before you grabbed it. The cover had the digital drawing of a little girl on her bed, not lying down, but facing the wall behind her that had become an ocean with sparkling rays floating above. The title read, ‘Windows to Worlds: The Art of Devin Elle Kurtz’. You thought the name rang a bell as you opened and skimmed through it. 

“I thought of you,” he smiled, dimples sinking sweetly into his cheeks at your interested demeanor.

“Woah, her use of color and lighting looks absolutely astounding,” you breathed, alternating between gasping and stopping your breath altogether with each new page.

“I’m glad you like it.”

“But why did you get it?” You finally caught up, looking up at him. “Because I was struggling with lighting?”

Your tone was appreciative and almost savvy as if you knew you had guessed his intent correctly. Yet he shook his head once, “Because of the braids.”

You lowered your eyes to the cover again and indeed, the little girl had two braids, much like you usually sported. You smiled, “Do you think she has glasses too?”

“Maybe,” he acceded, nodding with ease.

You looked back down at the cover — the girl had her palms against the glass as if she was staring into a new magical world. It brought warmth to your chest. Not just because it was beautiful or because it was going to help you, but because Namjoon saw some of it in you.

You pressed the books to your chest, facing him to thank him when your smile fell. His expression had lost some of its casualness and you were immediately flooded with apprehension.

“Are we going to talk about it?”

His tone was so gentle it brought tears to your eyes. It was Namjoon. All of it, all of your doubts and anxiety were about one of the most important people in your life. Who cared how you might have felt; you absolutely could not jeopardize your friendship.

“I’m sorry,” you breathed so sincerely your voice shook.

“Oh.”

“I… It was…”

Your gaze was on the floor around his feet on the white carpet as you tried to find words. You half expected him to move or make things less awkward with his spirited humor, but he waited.

So you said what came to mind, “An accident. Right? It was an accident,” you repeated, ignoring the heat making your glasses fog ever so slightly. “It was dark and…”

You sucked in a breath and pushed your glasses up your nose bridge to soothe yourself, and froze when he nodded slowly.

“I… can’t call it an accident.”

Your eyes widened impossibly, “But— But then— I mean,” you blinked, “that would mean…”

You were just stammering and he smiled, “Yes. I don’t just— I wouldn’t just—” He smirked, scratching the back of his head, “I’d be lying if I said—”

His voice got caught inside his throat. You were looking up at him with eyes so big he feared they’d pop or something. He thought he was ready to talk about it and get it out in the open but— Were you even breathing?

“You know what? Never mind,” he shrugged, with a smile that pressed his plush lips too thin.

Your eyes widened even more, “No—” You almost choked from your impulse and instinctively stepped back, and everything went dark.

You held your breath as if you had been caught in a trap. You could have been back at the club, but there was no crowd, no fear, and no pressure. There was light still shining from his bedroom, reassuringly outlining his silhouette. You were safe, just like then. And it formed the words out of your mouth.

“I can't call it an accident either,” you confessed, and instantly your shoulders relaxed. He didn’t move and you couldn’t see him, but you knew him. You knew of his presence and the way he would never judge or hurt you. “I kissed you back.”

The silence continued between you but you found comfort in it. It was as though you had time to process, to put yourself back in your shoes moments earlier when exactly like that, in the dark, you let something from deep within surface.

“I was… curious,” you voiced quietly.

“Curious?”

“What would you… feel like? How would you…” you were getting lost and closed your eyes. You could almost feel him again, his warmth, his scent, the firmness of his arms around you, helping you levitate safely into the clouds. Your eyes opened at the sound of a footstep and you instantly flushed, “I mean, I— I’m sorry, I—”

“No, don't say sorry.” His outline drew closer until he stopped right in front of you. “You were curious about that?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

Why was your heart racing so fast? You were so hot that you knew for a fact your glasses were fogging, despite not being able to see it. You swallowed and fanned your face a little, self-conscious about your hands becoming sweaty and dirtying the books.

Yet as you tried to calm down, you realized silence was stretching. He was waiting, of course, gentlemanly as he was. And you were embarrassed but in the dark, you also wanted to be brave.

“I liked it.”

You leave it there, your sincere answer to his question. Your heart was thrumming wildly but you were not half as nervous as you thought you’d be.

“I liked it too.”

Your breath caught as you looked up despite barely seeing a silhouette. What?

“Would you do it again?”

“Now?” Your voice pitched.

“Yes.”

“Yes?” Your tone was inquisitive, but it was more out of shock that he said yes. You were heating up so much you didn’t think you were processing thoughts logically, and you weren’t. Your head was blank, “Yes.”

It felt like an eternity, but you knew that wasn’t true. You were just too eager to see what happened next, to feel him again and check if your head would be caught spinning as you floated away to the clouds again.

The books in your hands disappeared quickly, only the sound of them hitting the table told you their fate, and not that you cared. His breath was fanning your face and your head instantly fell back, tapping the wall as your lips parted and you waited for what you wanted most.

When it didn’t instantly come, you had no issues soothing his hesitation by guiding his hands to your jaw. You wanted him to know where you were; exactly there, between the wall and his safe embrace, waiting. 

Finally, his breath was so close it fully stopped when your lips locked together in a feather-like touch, and you moved. You pressed yourself closer, brushing his lips so you’d match completely. Your mouth dove into a sweeter taste, fingers tracing up his neck tentatively to grasp that feeling. And he let you, falling in with you, leaning into you as far as you’d let him.

Your lips parted in an invitation that he took promptly, leaving a wet trace on your bottom lip before he committed. You sighed into his mouth, gripping his shirt to pull him closer. He could reach into you and all around you; you were falling. There was an expanse behind and all around you and it reminded you of free falling; it was probably what skydiving felt like. Only you weren’t nearing the ground but going further from it. That sky was about to catch you; a sweet, soft, endearing sky about to clasp you affectionately and carry you into a dream.

You only stopped because he pulled back, kissing the tip of your nose before pressing his lips to your cheek. It was when you noticed that you two fit together like puzzle pieces, with your fingers buried in the nape of his neck, his into your lower back, your breaths mixing as your legs intertwined.

His breath was heavy against your warm cheek, “This can stay here. In the dark. If you want.”

You were too far to recognize the concern in his voice, “Is that what you want?”

“No,” his reply was instant, a subtle shake of his head as his lips dragged over your heated skin. “No, I'm curious about way more than this.”

You opened your eyes, eager to see in him what he meant, but the darkness hid his expression. It protected you, yes, but now, it made you uneasy. There was a moment when it had soothed your fears, maybe even made you brave, but now it was enough.

“Would turning the light on bother you?”

You felt his smile before he pulled away, “Not at all.”

His hands were still supporting your waist as you felt the wall behind you until you flipped the switch. You shut your eyes instantly with a grimace and knew he had done the same.

“Sorry,” you whispered.

You couldn’t see it, but he smirked, “I told you you could.”

His eyes opened first, eager to bypass the sudden sensibility so he could look at you as soon as possible. Your eyes and nose were still scrunched, your glasses had fallen lower on your nose than you liked normally, and the top of your cheeks was beautifully blushed. He didn’t resist cupping your cheek to brush his thumb over the red hue and your eyes opened, looking up at him over your glasses. You were so close to each other but you couldn’t look or move away.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathed, eyes set on yours as if he was seeing stars.

“How can you see anything, we’re so close,” you whined with a huff.

He chuckled, “Yeah?”

You pouted; your glasses were falling down your nose bridge again, and he grinned. He was so unbelievably happy right now, and as you pressed the glasses further up, he wished it would never end.

“Is it…” you were quiet, “better like this?”

“Much better,” he assured confidently, looking into your eyes intently. 

Every time you blinked, wherever you glanced, he kept his cool and tried holding his fear in check — what if you suddenly pushed him away, became uneasy, or regretted this? 

Yet your eyes fixed on his as your hand returned gently to the side of his neck, “You said… you’re curious about more?”

He couldn’t breathe, “Yes.”

“What… does that mean?”

Your voice was a thread and he swore he became dizzy, “You. I—” His lips twitched as he found words, “I want to be with you.”

He settled on that simple fact and shushed his racing heart. It was too soon to confess how long he had been thinking about this, how far he had fallen, and how deeply sure he was that there was no one else he wanted. Nowhere else he wanted to go, no other person who could be home, no other soul he wanted to share his time with. Shit, this was not the time for a love confession.

“Not in the dark,” you mused, thinking back. “But here,” you searched his eyes with a light line between your eyebrows. “Do you want that? To be… a moment of—”

“No,” he interrupted firmly, making sure that every point you touched each other conveyed that. “I want more than a moment, than one night, than a place, than— No,” he breathed. “I want so much more.”

You weren’t sure there was any reaction you could have given because you were floating again. His arms were around you, his mouth speaking words you had long wished to hear, and you waited. It felt like the right thing to do; you just waited for him to become so much more.

“And you?” He asked after waiting to hear your thoughts. “Where would you take this?”

You almost choked with your instant answer, “All the way.”

His eyebrows jumped before his expression scrunched into a rapturous smile, and you filled your chest with air. You needed it, you needed a big deep breath before the dive. When his forehead touched yours, you stayed close, eyes half-hooding, waiting, and ready. You had been ready for a while, all there was left to do now was fly.

You were waiting for his kiss when he grabbed your head, both of you eager and gentle in your grip on the other. His lips were as soft as before but now he was pressing harder, searching for something in the depths of your kiss, and you met him halfway. There was the passion you had thought of before, making your skin pucker as your breathing dragged. It was curious how you were so focused on every little detail of his — his jawline moving under your fingertips, the soft skin at the column of his neck, his wide shoulders where your arms found support to press him closer to you — but had no actual thoughts. Every brush of his lips had you sinking further, every lick of his tongue had you immersed until his hands were pulling you to him and barely letting you touch the ground.

When your feet did touch the ground you lost your balance a little and inadvertently fell into him, which had him feeling behind him to make sure he could sit down. Your lips parted and he looked up at you, hands supportive but not pressuring you. He waited for you to decide if you’d follow him or not, and you didn’t hesitate. You raised a knee to his outer thigh and he instantly supported it, helping you to straddle him effortlessly before he leaned back into the reading chair.

You towered over him a little bit and as he hugged you close, you couldn’t help remembering how many times you had sat in that same chair just to read. Now he was there with you, under you, kissing your neck gently, and you kissed his head with the excitement bubbling under your skin. This was really happening, you could barely contain yourself.

He pressed you to sit closer to him and you guided him to look up just so you could dive into his kiss again. His skin was so soft, his touch so gentle as he let you steer your mouths until your head started spinning. You went deeper with every kiss, and with every sparkle, you became daring. Your fingers laced around his hair, your breaths one and the same as your hips moved on their own accord to fuse you two into one in any way possible. Your instinct was taking over, regardless of how you ground against him or leaned into him as if it would merge you two together.

You were hot and breathless when you felt a hint of his fingertips brushing the skin at your lower back, and instinctively you pulled back. He looked up at you, instantly wary of mistakenly crossing a line, but in a rustle of clothes, your blouse went up and away, thrown on the floor.

You faced him then, the goosebumps forming on your skin wherever his fingertips brushed your back as you seemed to exude heat. Not even for a moment did you wonder if you were going too far, despite being in a bra only in front of him. Rather you eyed his shirt and pouted, and he got it; in a second it was gone too.

Your lips twitched as you stroked down his neck, over his clavicles, and to his wide shoulders. You knew he’d be perfect, you knew you’d go well beyond liking every inch of him, but reality was far sweeter than your imagination. Before you could lean in and kiss every inch, he beat you to it. His pillowy lips grazed over the expanse of your neck before lowering down your chest and you sank your nails on his shoulders. It was the lightness of his touch, the warmth of his breath contrasting with his tongue as he explored everything until he dared lower. He moved slowly, maybe hesitated, and your hand darting to the back of his head to support him eased him.

He kissed and nuzzled every inch of your chest then settled over your sternum, breathing you in between your breasts just above the center gore. You knew why he stopped, but you were riding the shivers and throbs his every breath drew out of you, and you didn’t want it to stop. You reached behind you and unclasped the bra, letting the straps slide off your arms while you held his gaze. Yes, you wanted to do this. Yes, you wanted him to touch you, to know how he—

His hands over your waist raised to cup your breasts and rub your nipples and you shivered, goosebumps covering you from head to toe. The more he brushed over the hardened tips, the less control you had over a deep whine wanting to escape your lips.

You were biting your lip in this sweet struggle when he glanced up at you before leaning in to take one inside his mouth, and you whined. Your hips bucked over him, drawing closer while your cries grew and expanded with every lick of his tongue. You were grinding hard on him now, unaware of how unruly you were being. Your cries just needed to be heard, your hunger satiated as you searched for friction and wondered why it wasn’t as intense as it should be.

Your chest was wet by the time he parted his mouth from the delicate skin, but you didn’t have time to think about it. His hands gripped your hips to press you closer, and you jumped out of his arms in a mix of outrage and eagerness. 

So that was why you couldn’t feel him properly, you concluded, as you unbuttoned your jeans. Of course, how stupid. At least it was easily fixed.

You only stopped when your clothes hit the floor. His eyes locked with yours and you hesitated. You were totally naked in your eagerness, maybe you were going too fast. But his hands guiding yours to his shoulders before he leaned in to kiss over your tummy made you realize you were being silly. His eyes were glistening, looking up at you before closing to enjoy the taste of your skin, his cheeks were red, and despite his pants, the tent was very visible. 

You wanted to be close so you raised your knee again, and once more he guided you to straddle him. He kissed quickly up your chest before eying your mouth, and you obliged. Kissing him like this was more vulnerable, open, and raw, but you wanted to. His fingertips stroked your sides softly downwards and you sighed into his mouth, gripping him closer. You wanted so much more.

His hands settled atop your hips and it made you whine and wiggle so they would move. It didn’t occur to you to separate your mouths and tell him to touch you; in fact, no thoughts were occurring to you. He seemed to hesitate on where to go while palming your hips, and in the end, it was your hand that guided him to where you wanted him. You froze amidst your kiss, mouth agape as your eyes opened when his fingers skimmed your sex. A shiver ran down your spine, your breath halting as you waited for him. His eyes were set on you, carefully taking in your expression as he dared to brush lower, exploring down your mound, around your hooded clit, and gently over your folds before retracing his steps.

A strangled quiet moan had you closing your eyes to get lost. His fingers were drawing circles over your clit, ever so gently, prodding how to please you without hurting you, and you sank your nails into the back of his neck. You could worship that man now — it was all you knew as you looked at him between half-hooded eyes. Every circle brought a spark, a throb, a buck of your hips until the tension inside you made you jump away from his touch. You kissed him hard then, grabbing his head desperately — you wanted him, not just his hand.

You reached between your bodies to cup his bulge and he choked in your kiss. You pressed harder, too curious to let him breathe or get away, and searched for a way to open his pants, but it was difficult without looking. Fortunately, it understood perfectly what you wanted and got to it.

He raised you off his lap for the single moment it took him to squirm and slide his clothes down his legs before settling you over him again. His skin was burning hot against your inner thighs and as you kissed him, you imagined it was because he wanted you the same way.

You reached again for him and this time there were no barriers. You felt his hard length gently, caressing its soft skin carefully before stroking him against your palm.

He grunted into your cheek; your lips had parted so you could both focus on those new sensations. Something wet was making it easier to stroke him and press the head gently, with every movement earning you something, whether a groan, a sigh, a twitch of his fingers over your hips, or more precum.

You loved seeing and hearing every reaction, but you didn’t want to wait. You were tense and overheating, and that hard cock in your hand belonged somewhere else.

You moved on your knees to straddle him closer, positioning yourself with nothing but the intention to feel him, but you paused. Before the sight of the pink swollen tip at your entrance could steal your logic, you looked at him with an implied question. He nodded with glistening eyes, hands gripping a bit more of your ass to convey just how much he wanted this. And so you leaned to touch your foreheads before you guided him inside you.

You were unbelievably wet but still, it took a moment for him to become coated enough to slide in without any attrition. It felt like a trial and error; every time you tried sitting lower, there was resistance, and so you raised yourself and tried again. And again and again, with his fingers sinking into your skin as he hid his scrunched-up expression. Your eyebrows were knitted too, especially when he hit a particular spot, and soon he bottomed out.

You wiggled a little to make room, your tension gripping him inside you so hard that both of you groaned. You bucked your hips over him and sighed before reaching back, taking support on his hips. The hunger in his glistening eyes as he observed you taking your pleasure from him was like straight out of a dream, except he was really there, stretching you to the edge, bubbling a tension up your spine so good you knew you wouldn’t last a minute.

So you leaned forward again, palming the expanse of his chest as you let the fluttering subside for a bit. A smile bloomed on your lips as he reached to kiss your skin, supporting you closely while he grazed up your neck. Yet as it had blossomed, your smile faded when your eyebrows knitted further and your pleasure sunk in your gut. He had taken a firmer grip of you and used his leverage to thrust his hips up and into you, successfully crumbling whatever excuse of a restraint you had.

You moaned unreservedly and as he pulled away to face you without relenting, you met him with glistening eyes. It wasn’t a betrayal but because of him, you couldn’t hold back. He understood; he told you with a nod as he tried keeping the rhythm steady for you. So you hugged him to you and let the pleasure spike once, twice, until a moan burst out of you with the knot in your lower gut releasing the tension.

However long it lasted, it was long. It left you powerless and radiating heat like a furnace, only he was even hotter than you. He was sweaty under your arms and legs as you embraced him, and it mixed with your wetness and cum, but you didn’t care.

He waited for you to pull away and kiss his humid forehead before he asked, “Can I take you to bed?”

“Yes,” you sighed, still up high in your haze.

He could tell how languid you were so he picked you up carefully, hugging your legs around his waist and supporting your lower back. His heart was racing as he carried you, not because he was afraid of dropping you — no way in hell that would ever happen — but because this was really happening. He was really carrying your naked body across his apartment, your sweaty bodies pressed together after you reached your pleasure in his arms only for him to take you to bed and continue to show you how much he cared for you. He sighted the bed when your limbs squeezed him more firmly and he smiled from ear to ear. It was like carrying a koala bear who didn’t want to let go of him, and he loved that.

He sat on the bed with you on his lap before carefully supporting your back so he could lay you down gently while hovering over you and you finally blinked. 

Your senses were coming back; Namjoon was over you, caging you between his biceps while your legs laced around him. He was inside you, and even if you had forgotten, he reminded you when he moved tentatively. Your eyes were set on his, and that was how you saw the concern crossing them, and you blinked again. You and him were connected like you had only ever dreamed, and it was good. You reached to cup his cheeks and guide his mouth to yours; you wanted him to know that. That you knew what you were doing, with whom, and how, and your heart was completely in it.

If he wasn’t kissing your lips, then he was pecking the tip of your nose, grazing your cheeks, or brushing down the column of your neck as his hips gained speed. You raised yours to feel him as deep as possible, and as you held onto him, you let the emotions flood you. The safety of his arms, the completeness as he filled up all the gaps, the nurture of every tender kiss, the shared warmth, tension, and torture of your bodies rocking together. You were meshed inextricably in an ascent that you had never dared to imagine, and you grabbed him even harder, in case the intensity had you floating away.

Your voice had a life of its own; every time he sank further into you, your soul expanded. Every time he buried himself inside you, your moan released into his ear, and over and over again as he hid in your neck, revering you in all the ways he could.

“You feel so good,” he rasped against your throat, and against all odds you heard it in between moans. Maybe because he was slowing down. He pulled away to face you so closely you saw him blurred despite your glasses, “I don't want it to end.”

Your eyes widened and watered but no words came out in time; he pressed your lips sweetly and you buried your fingers in his hair, feeling your heart swelling with every beat. He restarted his hips, guided by your legs pressing him into you, and you thought that nothing else mattered than him knowing. You also didn’t want it to end, you wanted to stay with him forever, linked, safe, accepted, hidden from anything that wasn’t blissful peace, and happiness.

His hips snapping into yours brought groans, moans, and whines out of the both of you, with wet sloppy sounds echoing in the bedroom along with the slaps of skins colliding. It became fast, forcing you to wrap your limbs around him firmly to never miss any sensation he could give you until you tensed unbelievably.

You surrendered to your climax immediately, letting it wash over you as you throbbed and reveled in scream-inducing spasms. He grunted and swore into your neck, but to your surprise, he didn’t come with you. On the contrary, suddenly you could feel his intent to pull out so you crossed your legs behind him and searched for his ear so you could tell him, “Inside me. Stay inside me.”

He groaned and you rocked with him, keen on extending both your pleasure as much as possible when he twitched inside you. You closed your eyes and his lips immediately caught yours. He kissed you with every peak, groaning into your mouth at every turn, making you shudder.

He stilled and you kept petting his damp hair at the back of his head, slowly waiting for both your hearts to calm down. You couldn’t believe what just happened yet at the same time it felt as natural as breathing.

Finally, he moved from the crook of your neck and faced you. A single drop of sweat dripped along his nose to the tip and you caught it with your fingertip. He nuzzled you then, recovering his breath with a tender smile, and you smiled back.

#bts fanfic #bts #ao3 fanfic #bts imagines #bangtan sonyeondan #bts smut #SX Seoul series #namjoon bts #namjoon imagines #namjoon smut #kim namjoon #namjoon #namjoon x reader #kim namjoon fanfic #kim namjoon x reader #namjoon x you #rm smut #rm fanfic #lo1k-diamonds writes 💎 #bangtanwhq

[ugh-yoongi]

the very last thing i decide | pjm

(or, the one in which a love exists that's easy and instinctual as much as it is painful and self-destructive.)

✘ PAIRING jimin x f. reader ✘ SUMMARY you learn what it means to love with blood on your hands. ✘ GENRE hitman/assassin au; angst, smut ✘ RATING explicit. minors dni. ✘ WARNINGS they are both hitmen (hitpeople?) so there's all the content that goes along with that: violence, death, mentions of blood (a lot) and weapons, murder, but no explicit gore. everyone is morally grey at best and downright psychotic at worst (especially yoongi). reader gets stabbed. no one knows how to be a functional human being. swearing, smoking, light smut (penetrative & oral sex), miscommunication and unrequited love but not really, i drop a classic tumblr meme in a line of dialogue. ambiguous/hopeful ending!! some of the themes here are kinda heavy and i am not entirely sure how to tag them so if you have any questions pls don’t hesitate to ask! ✘ WORDCOUNT 12k ✘ LISTEN TO manchester orchestra - telepath ✘ THANK YOU i cannot remember everyone i’ve showed this to over the years. @the-boy-meets-evil for looking this over and brainstorming with me today. @hot-soop for always being a help. @effortandmore because you told me an embarrassingly long time ago this was worth finishing. and i’m pretty sure i also sent this to @jihopesjoint at some point too. i did a quick edit of this on my own, but after nearly three years i just wanted it posted and out of my wips so i'm sure i missed things. pls ignore them. ✘ AUTHOR'S NOTE fic drops two days in a row?? who am i?? i started this in may 2021 and it was supposed to be a simple pegging fic. i abandoned it bc i was convinced no one would want to read it. between today and yesterday i have written thousands of words and made it across the finish line. i hope you like it. the violence is a metaphor for love or whatever.

[37.5665° N, 126.9780° E | Seoul, SOUTH KOREA]

Jimin’s hair had been red the first time he met you.

How fitting, he thinks, considering he’s currently bleeding out on a table.

Well, there’s still a bit of fight left in him. He hasn’t lost consciousness yet, which he assumes is a good sign; he can still hear Hoseok barking out orders quite clearly. The edges of his vision are fuzzy and the pain in his abdomen is sharp and unrelenting, but he still has enough brain power left to wish he’d died instead.

Because you’d saved his life. And now he’s further indebted to you.

(Jimin never leaves a debt unpaid, but he’s not sure how to make even on something like this.)

Jungkook and Taehyung are fetching supplies faster than Hoseok can ask for them. Two pairs of frazzled, spaced-out eyes. Four sets of trembling limbs. Namjoon’s wearing burn marks into the floor, his cuticles bloody and nearly worried to the bone since he can’t keep them out of his mouth.

And then there’s you.

Sitting cross-legged in a chair as you scroll through your phone. Jimin’s blood is still drying on your hands, leaving smears as you drag your thumb back and forth across the screen, and this doesn’t seem to faze you one bit.

Behind you, Yoongi takes a seat at the piano and starts playing Toccata and Fugue in D minor, and Jimin simply cannot die like this. He can’t die on a wooden table in a room with a piano on which Min Yoongi is playing Baroque organ pieces.

“What is this, a fucking funeral?” Hoseok snaps, though there’s a desperation creeping into his tone that Jimin does not like, does not want to hear. “Cut it out, Yoongi.”

Said man staunchly ignores the doctor, transitioning flawlessly into the fugue. Jimin barely hears the tinkle of your laughter but he hears it all the same, and he wants to pretend it doesn’t calm him, bring him back down to earth when he starts drifting too far away. But you do, and it does, and all he can think about is: will you miss him if he dies? Will it take you long to wash his blood from your hands?

Hoseok’s absolutely incensed, pushed to the limits of his stress at the thought of not being able to save Jimin’s life, and Jimin appreciates this, really, but not when Hoseok pushes two gloved fingers deep into the wound in his stomach so hard all he can do is cry. “Yoongi—”

You snort. You don’t even look up from your phone.

Namjoon, for all his leadership and stoicism and poise under pressure, is just as frantic and panicked as the rest. It’s not everyday one of his people is inches from death ten feet away from him. Most people usually die in the shadows. Kim Namjoon has faced down death more times than most, yet watching the life slowly fade from Jimin’s eyes is too much even for him. “Yoongi, please—”

But the fugue keeps going, tempo change after tempo change, the two pillars of this organization spiraling completely by the time the coda starts, unfocused and sweating and praying. To gods they don’t believe in, to hope, to chance—whatever and whoever might be listening. Jimin usually loves hearing Yoongi play. It’s the only thing that humanizes him, and Jimin had spent so many restless nights shoulder to shoulder with him on that exact bench in the blue hours of the early morning, hypnotized by the way the older man’s knobby fingers moved across the keys.

This is it, he thinks.

Jimin’s going to die with Toccata and Fugue in D minor playing in the background.

He’s imagined his death so many times. Stupid not to in this line of work. Violent, quick and painless, in his sleep, drawn out and gory, a message. And in all of those scenarios, it’s either jarringly silent or there’s someone screaming. Usually him, sounding much like he is now, two fingers stuck in his gut. In all of those scenarios, Min Yoongi is never playing Bach as everything fades to black.

You sigh. “Shut the fuck up, Yoongi,” you say, your tone as blasé and inconvenienced as ever.

Shocked at your audacity, one of Yoongi’s fingers slips and hits the wrong key, something dissonant and metallic as it rings out. But the music stops all the same, the silence nearly giving Jimin whiplash. Now he can hear the clinkof Hoseok’s tools, the squelching of his wound, Jungkook’s desperate pleading for him to just be alright, please God, just hang on. He wants the music back. He doesn’t want Jungkook’s crying to be the last thing he hears. Doesn’t want the sound of his own organs imprinted into his memory.

“What’d you say?” Yoongi asks, because no one talks to him that way. They wouldn’t dare. Most people try not to talk to him at all.

But you do.

And, inexplicably, Yoongi listens.

You roll your eyes. “You go deaf in your old age? I said shut the fuck up. Hoseok’s two knuckles deep in Jimin’s fucking stomach and you’re over there having your little Amadeus moment.”

He bristles. “Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?” Yoongi repeats, and Jimin can’t see him, but he knows his eyes are narrowed, lips pulled back in a snarl, fists clenched at his side.

“Oh, princess,” you coo, and Yoongi’s fury is palpable, permeates every inch of this place, overrides all the fear and anguish. “I’m talking to you, baby. I know Jiminie’s busy trying not to die and that’s stressful for all of us, but please do try to keep up.”

Jimin hears the flick of Yoongi’s switchblade. Then he hears him say, “Please let me fucking kill her,” in that lazy Daegu drawl of his, like forming full words are beneath him. Not worth the effort when they’re directed at you.

Still seated, you uncross your legs and, through blurred vision, Jimin watches you grab Yoongi by his belt loops to tug him closer, grab the wrist that holds his knife and press it to your own throat. “Don’t threaten me with a good time, Yoongi. Be a good boy and make it hurt.”

Jungkook’s near hysterics at Jimin’s side. “What the fuck is wrong with you two? He’s dying!”

Jimin tries to say I’m not, Kookie, I’m okay but the pressure on his abdomen is too intense. He can barely breathe, and Hoseok’s still digging around, still looking for that stupid fucking bullet, had to do something and do it quick so there’d been very little anesthetic and finesse, and he’s silently screaming for someone to just comfort Jungkook, tell him everything’s going to be okay, but instead—

“Serves him right for being a fucking idiot,” you say, words muffled by the knife still pressed to your throat. “What a painful, permanentlesson in not forgetting your fucking vest.”

“Stop it!” Jungkook sobs, fingers ghosting along Jimin’s matted fringe.

Yoongi’s still scowling. “Just say the word, Joon-ah. I’ll make it quick.”

You actually laugh at that. The kind of full-belly laugh Jimin would kill to be able to produce. “You wanna fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid.”

Someone snarls. Probably Yoongi. “You’d look so good gutted on the floor like a fish,” he replies, and if Jimin knows him at all, he knows he’s got that dreamy, faraway look in his eyes. The one he always gets when he’s about to kill—the one that makes him so unhinged and dangerous. “Left there to bleed out and die all alone like the trash you are.”

No one’s survived that look before, but you just grin, as if being on the receiving end of it is nothing more than another simple inconvenience. “Do it, then,” you prompt. “You’re so big and bad, yet here you are, waiting for Namjoon’s permission like some kind of pathetic fucking dog.”

“I’m no one’s dog.”

Your eyes slowly flick over to Namjoon. “No?” you ask, smile widening as Jimin watches you drag your heeled foot up the inside of Yoongi’s calf, his thigh, stiletto coming to rest in the center of his sternum. “That’s a shame, princess. That pretty neck of yours was just made for a collar.”

There’s no doubt in Jimin’s mind now that he actually died back in that penthouse and is now residing in whatever level of hell is watching you give his associate a semi despite him being a millisecond away from murdering you.

Yoongi would do it, too. No hesitation. You’ve been on his shit list for as long as Jimin can remember, and you’ve been daring him to put his money where his mouth is and just kill you already for just as long.

Taehyung groans. “Can you two just fuck already so the rest of us can be spared of this?”

You click your tongue, tone melting like butter. You’re fond of Taehyung, soft on him. “No can do, angel. Yoongi here knows I only have eyes for our Jiminie, and god does that hurt his little feelings.”

Your wicked smile gives away nothing—whether you’re telling a bold truth or just unnecessarily needling Yoongi further—but Jimin’s caught off guard and chokes on your words nonetheless.

Hoseok’s forceps still digging around in his stomach, there’s a quiet hurrah of triumph as he finally locates the bullet. Jimin feels nothing as he retrieves it and plucks it out, a reverberated clank! as he drops it into a kidney dish, your words the anesthetic he’s needed as they play on a loop in his head.

When he finally blacks out, either from the pain or the adrenaline or both, it’s your face that greets him. He never gets the chance to tell you why he forgot his vest.

[64.1466° N, 21.9426° W | Reykjavík, ICELAND]

Jimin’s hair is blue when it happens the first time.

It’s November. Namjoon has sent the two of you to Reykjavik and it’s dark all the time, the midnight hue of his hair blending into the impenetrable nighttime that surrounds you. Jimin works best like this—out of sight, part of the shadows. He’s light on his feet, lithe in ways no one else is, not even you, and he’s impossible to anticipate under the cover of darkness.

That’s why Jimin always takes care of the appetizers.

It’s your job to clean up the main course.

The two of you are two halves of the same lethal coin, working together flawlessly after years of carefully honed practice. Jimin slams an unsuspecting man’s head into a wall and you’re right behind him to put a bullet in it.

It’s just how it goes.

And he trusts you. He has to, otherwise he would’ve gotten taken out years ago. You’re not always in his line of sight, but he always feels you, senses your movements before you’re even on your feet. The times it’s gone wrong—and it’s gone wrong so many fucking times, despite how cautious and skilled the two of you are—you’re always right there to catch him before he even hits the ground. Just like a ghost, as if your only purpose in life is keeping Jimin safe and alive.

(It isn’t, but it sure feels that way.)

Tonight it’s another hit carried out in an overpriced penthouse overlooking the northern shore. You’re in and out, don’t waste a second more than you need to. Jimin doesn’t spare a glance at the carnage left behind. Nothing he hasn’t seen a hundred times before. All blood bleeds the same, but he still wonders, foolishly, if his looks different to you. If it feels wrong when it stains your hands and seeps into your clothes.

Jimin has never been covered in your blood before, but he likes to think it would.

The two of you don’t speak until you’re in the quiet safety of yet another hotel room, chain lock thrown across the door, deadbolt secured. A small arsenal of weapons is retrieved from ankles and waistbands and cleaned and packed away meticulously. Jimin’s the one who makes the call to Namjoon, tells him in code that the job’s done. You’ve barely broken a sweat, but under the fluorescent light of the bathroom, Jimin can see a small smattering of blood just along your temple when he closes the distance between you.

Someone else’s, of course.

Anyone who made you bleed your own blood wouldn’t be a quick, clean kill. Jimin would make sure of that.

There’s less to be done about the half-inch scar in the hollow of your throat—a pearlescent reminder of the twin scar he has just below his navel; a callback to the day your devilish mouth said the words Jimin can’t stop thinking about.

“No can do, angel. Yoongi here knows I only have eyes for our Jiminie.”

Maybe it’s stupidity. Maybe it’s the feral, years-long build up that’s been simmering between the two of you—low enough to keep warm, contained enough to never evolve into a rapid boil. Maybe Jimin’s just finally desperate enough to go seeking out answers to questions he’s far too scared to put a voice to.

(Really, Jimin knows it’s adrenaline. Nothing more than chemicals. The two of you high on it, heads floating above the clouds. Powerless; or, at the very least, indifferent to stop the very clear path that’s unfolding on the ground below.)

But, god, he needs to know.

Needs answers.

Needs to know if there’s even a chance you feel it, too: the magnetic ebb and flow the two of you have been dancing around for years. If you see how fondly he looks at you. If you have any idea how easy it is for him to get lost in you. If you know he’d let someone put a bullet between his eyes before he placed his life in the hands of anyone else.

Jimin knows he loves you. He’s known it for a long time, just like he knows all those other things that are second nature to him. Loving you is easy and instinctual as much as it is painful and self-destructive.

At least that’s what he’d thought. Until your devilish mouth said those devilish words and sent him into a tailspin he’s yet to recover from.

You have to feel it. God, can’t you? The way the air crackles between you. The way his skin ignites with a simple look from you. The trembling of his fingers at his sides, desperate to just reach out and touch you—fingers that have been bathed in blood, that have taken life. Fingers that now just want to graze softly across your cheekbones, catch on your bottom lip. Fingers that want to hand you the world on a silver platter. Jimin would do anything for you, give you whatever you wanted. You wouldn’t even have to ask.

Can’t you feel that?

He needs to know.

Jimin is composed, elegant. He kills with grace and still maintains as much of his softness as he can. Isn’t ruled by emotion the way Yoongi and Jungkook are. But now, as he teeters on the edge of the unknown, all he wants to do is jump. Wants to buck all his training, all his resolve and forethought, and jump.

“Did you mean it?” he asks, voice thick. Fingers curl into the expensive silk of his shirt just so they have something to do—something to keep them from reaching out and touching you. “Back in Seoul.”

You’re the smartest person Jimin knows. When you ask, ���Did I mean what, Chim?” he knows you’re fucking with him. Dragging this out. You know exactly what he’s asking and he knows you’ll never give anything away so easily.

“What you said to Taehyung,” he answers.

You tsk, eyebrows raising in intrigue. As much as Jimin trusts you, as well as you know him, know all those dirty, dirty secrets he’d never tell anyone else, he’s never been so bold with you. “That those long fingers of his would look good wrapped around my throat? Yeah, I meant that.”

Jimin’s jaw clenches at your taunt. “Don’t play games with me.”

A smirk graces your lips. “Trust me, sweetheart,” you say, voice sickly-sweet as the affection starts popping at the last seams holding him together, “if I wanted to play with you, there’s nothing you could do to stop it.”

With Jimin pressed into the wall behind you, you turn to meet his eye in the mirror. Another smile, teeth bared as you run your tongue across your lips, and this one is his undoing. Makes his cock twitch in his dress pants. Makes him bold. “Do you want to, then?” He takes a step forward—close enough to smell the gunpowder stuck to your clothes, your hair. Close enough for the sulfur and metal to sting his nostrils each time he breathes you in. “Do you want to play with me?”

You love Jimin. Maybe it’s a trauma bond or the implicit, unwavering trust the two of you have in one another, but you know you love him limitlessly. But you also know you can’t love him the way he loves you, the way he deserves to be loved by someone, which is why your mask slips as you say, “I can’t give you what you want, Jimin.”

You try to make him understand that. Really, you do—because Jimin is the smartest person you know, and you know he’s thought about every possible consequence down to the most minute detail and has decided this is worth it anyway. You want to believe in something the way Jimin believes in you, even though he’s wrong. You want something worth throwing all of this away for.

Maybe it’s Jimin, maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s just been so fucking long since someone has looked at you with any gentleness in their eyes at all that when Jimin meets your gaze and says, “I don’t want anything more than you’re willing to give,” you take his hand and jump, too.

And there’s nothing gentle about the first time.

It’s all raw, urgent need, Jimin trying desperately to convince himself it’s more than it is while you convince yourself it’s less.

It’s the two of you finally giving up and giving in, letting yourselves be pulled taut by that invisible string tying you together.

It’s Jimin’s sharp intake of breath when you fully step out of your clothes, the sight rendering him immobile. Whatever plans he’d had before seeing the curves of your body, all the scars from years of working by his side, the mottled yellow-greens and purples from the bruises lining your skin—he has no plans now. Can barely think. Wouldn’t be able to tear his eyes away from you with a gun to his head.

It’s the final bricks of the wall he’d built around himself—around his heart, around all those words and feelings he’d never put a voice to—crumbling into ash at his feet. Now he knows he can’t go back. Can’t return to a reality where this isn’t his truth. Where there’s no you and him, him and you. Where it’s just a physical exchange, a give-and-take, tit for tat.

And god, he knows he shouldn’t think like this; knows he’s keeping the truth buried somewhere deep behind lock and key.

…But now that he knows how it feels to move inside you, what else is he supposed to do?

You’re everywhere. Clenched around him. Your taste on his tongue. The feel of you on the pads of his fingers. The smell of you making a mockery of all logical thought. No—no, he can’t do a goddamn thing to stop the avalanche now it’s started.

“Fuck,” he whines, fingers digging into your hips. The soft skin he finds purchase in such a contrast from your hardened exterior, but Jimin knows. He knows you, knows the person behind the mask, sees straight through you each time it slips.

What stared back at him had always been just out of reach.

Taunting him.

Screaming come and get me, come make me yours, come and fucking take what you want.

Until now.

Now it’s tangible. Now it’s breathy, fractured moans that echo off tile walls. Now it’s the sound of his name thatleaves your lips like a prayer. Now it’s the sheen of sweat that covers both of you. Now it’s nails scraping down his back, tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck.

(And Jimin won’t tell you this, but those red welts are proof that this is real, this happened, and later on when he’s alone, when his mind is working overtime, he’ll look at them and he’ll smile. Because they’re real. Because this happened.)

Now, it’s the way blue becomes his favorite color. Because he can see his reflection in the mirror as he unravels and comes to his own demise as he spills inside of you; can see the fluorescent lights reflecting off the hue of his hair.

Jimin’s hair is blue when he realizes he’s in love with you.

[34.6037° S, 58.3816° W | Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA]

Jimin is blond when Namjoon sends you to South America.

The details had been scarce: a diplomatic advisor with a rap sheet of human rights violations that have been continuously swept under the rug and his equally-corrupt lawyer. A candid photograph paperclipped to another manila folder, Namjoon a fan of all those old cliches. Likes being a little cheeky that way when he can get away with it, because god knows he can’t get away with much, doesn’t have much of a sense of humor.

It’s a simple job. You and Jimin will have it dealt with in a matter of hours. Less if you’re lucky and the universe is agreeable. But the humidity sticks to your skin, has sweat seeping into your clothes and rolling down your temples, and if there’s one thing you can’t stand it’s the heat. Makes it hard to think. And Namjoon—Namjoon, who makes sure all of his agents want for nothing—is a cheap bastard. Rarely approves nice lodging, says it’s too risky despite your arguments to the contrary, that people don’t care what you do when you have money, so you’re stuck in some shithole motel room with an aircon unit that keeps blowing out stale, warm air.

And maybe you shouldn’t, maybe you should be more cognizant of Jimin and all his feelings, but it’s fucking hot, so you peel your shirt over your head and undo the button of your pants. Sit on the edge of the bed and try to think about anything other than the temperature, how it’s starting to prick uncomfortably at your skin.

Jimin clears his throat, keeps his eyes glued to the disgusting carpet. “Got a text from Seokjin-ssi,” he says, words strained. “Looks like they’ll be solo jobs.”

You groan. Leave it to Seokjin to change the plan at the last minute. “Tell Kim Seokjin he’s a useless piece of shit.”

“Done. Anything else?”

“Tell Kim Namjoon if he ever sends us to South America in the summer again I’ll kill him myself.”

Jimin has a laugh like an anodyne. A laugh that takes all those broken, bleeding parts of you and soothes over them like a balm. “Seokjin-ssi says he’s not passing along that particular message.”

“Tell him he’s a bitch, then.”

“He’ll kill me if I say that.”

“He hasn’t done field work in years and he’s probably too vitamin D deficient to leave the basement. He couldn’t even kill a fucking rat.”

There’s another laugh. More forced, less tinkling. You recognize it right away, the sound of anxiety. Solo jobs aren’t common for the two of you. For Yoongi and Taehyung, sure, but not you and Jimin. You’re a team for a reason, and though you’re more than capable of getting this done and out of the way, it doesn’t feel right. Settles in your gut like something rotten, knowing you’ll be without Jimin.

And you know he’s thinking it, too. How he turns the burner over and over in his hands, as if there’s some combination of words he can send back to Seoul to get Seokjin and Namjoon to reconsider. Plans don’t change often; not like this, anyway. These have been declared solos for a reason, and that’s a thought you can’t linger on too long.

“Are they leaving it up to us?” Jimin nods, still not meeting your eye. “Do you have a preference?”

He shrugs, tossing the phone on the small table in the corner. Nothing else to be done. “Not really. What do you think?”

“Nah, don’t care, either. Just toss me one.”

Santiago Aguirre… 47 years old… Resides in a high-rise luxury apartment in Retiro…

Your eyes skim the file, study the black and white photograph of the lawyer. Read over the list of all his high-profile, degenerate clients and all their high-profile crimes. You read about the previous attempts on his life, the seemingly never-ending list of people who want him dead. Your eyes go back to his photograph, frowning at the smug look on his face. What stares back at you is a man who thinks he’s invincible, who thinks a penthouse apartment on the top floor and a security team in the lobby means he’s impervious to harm. A man who has made money off people just like him: dirty, corrupt, hands stained red.

“Okay?” Jimin asks, looking up from his own file.

He’s so striking. So safe. And you know what he’s done, giving you the hit he thinks is easier, willing to risk himself on a solo mission to ensure you make it out. There’s no guarantees in this line of work, in life in general, but Jimin’s brand of selfless love is certainly one.

So you just nod, knowing someone slimy like this can quickly go sideways, and decide you can do the same.

“I’m gonna get ready,” you say. “The plan is the same as all the other solo jobs. Get in, get it done, get out as quickly as possible. Lay low. Don’t come straight back here.”

Jimin rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Anything else?”

You exhale. Try to quiet the nerves roiling in your stomach. Barely resist the urge to press a lingering kiss to Jimin’s forehead before you swallow hard and say, “Yeah. Stay alive.”

It comes out more like a plea.

—

You’re good at your job.

Rarely feel much guilt over it, either, which—well, you’re not sure what that means. That something is permanently broken in your psyche, probably. Being able to take life so easily and without remorse. It’s not natural.

Kim Namjoon is a man who plays God, is the one who decides who gets to live and who has to die. His word is the only law you adhere to. And that’s… that’s something. Makes it less burdensome, takes some weight off, because Kim Namjoon wouldn’t accept a morally-ambiguous job. He wouldn’t ask you to put your life on the line for some petty bullshit.

This is how you’ve lived for the last four years. Four years of blindly following Namjoon’s word, of being a good little soldier and doing whatever is asked of you. Four years of being responsible for not only your own life, but Jimin’s as well, just as he is for yours. Four years that have served you well, all things considered.

Until now.

Something about this job hits you hard. Doesn’t settle quite as quickly as the ones that have come before. For the first time, you’d looked down at the lifeless body at your feet and couldn’t stop the trembling, could barely quell the nausea. Thought what the fuck am I doing, what kind of life is this for the first time. Thought back to that day four years ago when Kim Namjoon saved your life and offered you a job and wondered, for the first time, what would’ve happened if you’d said no.

Now, as you suck on a cigarette, legs dangling off the roof of a building looking not far from collapse, a new thought:

Would Namjoon let you go if you asked?

He’s taken care of you. For four years you’ve wanted for nothing. Have socked away more money than you’ll ever be able to spend, even if you live to a thousand. You could go anywhere, become anyone, and no one would suspect a thing. There’d just be you and a million lifetimes’ worth of transgressions, alone under the weight of all that burden; alone, except for all the ghosts that come to greet you every time you close your eyes.

Doesn’t matter. Namjoon might be willing to let you go, give you the chance to salvage something from this life in the name of normalcy, but Yoongi would gladly put a bullet in your head before he let you disappear with all his secrets.

Doesn’t matter.

You stub out the cigarette and put the butt in your pocket. Make your way down to the street. Stay under the shadows—just visible enough to redirect any suspicion shot your way. You pretend to take a call, flawless Argentinian Spanish falling from your lips as you tell the imaginary person on the other end all about your fucked up day at work. How your manager never gets off your ass, doesn’t trust you, thinks you’re too fucking stupid to run a simple executable.

No one spares you a second glance.

Not here, on this nondescript street in a nondescript Argentinian neighborhood, and not when you stumble into the tiny lobby of your shithole motel. The poor kid behind the desk doesn’t even glance up, just mutters a good evening, miss under his breath that you return in a voice far too high-pitched to be your own.

Better to be seen and be unremarkable than draw attention to yourself trying to stay invisible, you figure.

The cameras in the stairwell are broken so you take the steps two at a time. Pull the room key from its place inside your boot, happy to no longer have it digging into your skin. Pause just long enough to make sure you don’t hear anything on the other side of the door before you’re unlocking it with your free hand wrapped around the trigger of your gun.

It’s empty.

Of course it is.

Jimin stashed the burner in a place no one but you would think to look. You text one simple word to Seokjin—Hey!—and you get two in return: Who’s this?

You know who it is, you fucking dickhead.

It takes a few seconds, but the reply is a simple—

Sorry.

Then you toss aside the phone and float in the darkness of the room. There’s nothing to do but wait, because you don’t dare to do anything alone. There’s sweat and blood and fuck knows what else stuck to your skin, your hair, but you can’t risk taking a shower. Can’t risk the water dampening your senses. Can’t risk being cornered in a moldy bathroom, only one way out. Can’t risk doing anything alone. Can’t take a fucking shower.

It’s this thought, more than anything else, that has your body flushing with rage.

What kind of life is this?

Namjoon had never mentioned repaying your debt. He’d never insinuated you owed him anything at all for saving your life, but you know something like that never comes for free. Namjoon doesn’t do anything just because. Has no goodness in his heart to do anything in the name of it. Watching Jimin nearly die in front of him had been the exception to his usual nature; a rare slip-up by an otherwise detached, uncaring man.

Still, whatever you owe him has surely been repaid by now. Tenfold, if the bloodstains along your collar are anything to go by.

It’s time for Namjoon to let you go.

—

Something is wrong.

Two hours have ticked by and there’s no word from Jimin. No word from Namjoon or Seokjin, either, which is the only reason you’re still in this nauseating motel room and not out on the streets searching for him. Solo jobs don’t go like this. The two of you are always in and out, tragically efficient. Back to where you started and then back on a plane, nothing left behind except a singular bullet hole and another fragmented piece of your conscience.

You’ve had a lot of jobs go wrong, but never two hours.

You’re about three minutes from coming out of your skin. Sick to your stomach with worry, anxiety weighing you down like an anchor. You wouldn’t be able to go out searching for Jimin like this even if you could, and there’s no point in dwelling on that, examining it further. All you can do is wait.

It’s another hour before you hear the click of the lock. You’re nearly on your knees in relief, but you stay rooted to the flimsy mattress. Try not to think about how you’ll have to sleep on it, even though you’ll be up half the night with residual worry. All those lingering ghosts.

Jimin doesn’t say anything, so neither do you.

[55.6761° N, 12.5683° E | Copenhagen, DENMARK]

Jimin’s hair is orange when you go to Copenhagen.

Not for a job, just to breathe. You wanted to see the city at Christmastime; Jimin’s never been.

You crack a joke. Point out buildings of similar color, have him stand in front of one as you take a picture. Everyone smiles when they pass the two of you on the street, Jimin’s eyes fond even though he rolls them as you pose him how you want. Still stands against an apricot-colored wall and flashes a smile and a peace sign, cheeks pink from the cold. Does a good job of pretending the two of you aren’t here just for fun, that this is something more.

It’s not.

The two of you fucked in a hotel room in Reykjavik and haven’t spoken a word of it since.

You nearly lost your mind over him in Buenos Aires and haven’t spoken a word of that, either.

Instead, his hand finds yours as the two of you walk around Tivoli Gardens. You marvel at the lights and Jimin marvels at you. You share mulled wine and spiced doughnuts. Jimin tries to drag you on the swings but you plant your feet and refuse, laughing through your refusals. As dangerous as your lives are, motion sickness might be the most. He gets his revenge and poses you in front of a giant nutcracker, then again in front of one of the endless Christmas trees.

Jimin pays for the two of you to decorate honey cakes. You’re surrounded by families with shrieking children and palpable adoration, and it’s all you can do not to wonder if anyone you’ve taken out had ever had something like this. Something that makes your soul warm; something that still lingers in your bones years later.

The two of you take a selfie when it starts to snow. It stings when you have no one to send it to, so it just lives in your phone. Maybe it’s enough.

On another day, Jimin holds your hand through Torvehallerne. This time you marvel at him while he marvels at all the food, eyes wide each time he turns to ask if he should buy something. You always say yes and he always shares, and it’s all you can do not to think about why you don’t have to budget yourselves. Why you’re able to walk through the market and buy whatever you want; how you could buy every item for sale and it wouldn’t make a dent.

(You pick up small trinkets for Taehyung and Jungkook. Not because you want to, but because it feels nicer than remembering that you have no one to buy gifts for. Not really. Not anymore.)

Jimin wants to ice skate, so you do. He holds your hand then, too. More out of necessity than anything else, and he has none of his usual grace. Someone hands you a free cup of hot chocolate, just because. Jimin pouts and then it’s his hot chocolate. It’s all you can do not to kiss away the whipped cream on the corner of his mouth.

Back in your lavish hotel, after countless days have blurred together and Jimin’s fresh from a shower, skin flushed, you finally ask yourself if it’s worth putting up such a fight. If it’s really all that bad to care for Jimin and be cared for in return. If it’s all that bad to be someone else, just for a little while: someone with a normal life who makes a normal living and has a normal capability to love. Someone who isn’t damaged beyond repair.

That will never be you. Not fully, and certainly not in this lifetime, but maybe it could be, a little.

“Jimin,” you say, because you need to try. Jimin loves you in ways you’ll never understand, and you want to be better for him. “We should talk.”

Your voice is small and hesitant, and Jimin hates it. Sees trouble where there’s only vulnerability, so he misreads. Shakes his head. Takes a risk and stands between your legs at the edge of the bed—yours, because there’s two—as he tilts your head back, thumbs pressing into the contours of your cheeks. The scar still sits in the hollow of your throat, and that version of you feels so far away. That life feels so far away.

There’s no violence here. There’s no blood, no fugues. There’s just you and Jimin, whose voice is small like yours when he shakes his head and says, “You should kiss me instead.”

The second time is nothing like the first.

Jimin moves delicately. Feels like silk lace, tastes like spun sugar. Moves both his mouth and his body fluidly, no hesitation, yet he still takes his time. Still pauses to look at you with endless devotion; with awed reverence. Makes a map of your body and marks all his favorite places with his lips.

“Tell me what you want,” he says. Speaks the words against the skin just beneath your ear. “Anything. I’ll give you whatever you want, just have to ask.”

What you want isn’t tangible, isn’t possible, so you stay quiet. Thread your fingers through Jimin’s hair, gasp when he mouths along the column of your throat. Jimin reserves all his softness for you. Bathes you in it. Would kill anyone to keep it that way.

So you say, “Want your mouth,” and let slip a quiet moan when he gives you what you’ve asked for. When he situates himself between your thighs and sucks and licks until you’re writhing, making a mess, grasping fruitlessly at the sheets, his hair, his shoulders, only calming when his hands find yours and your fingers interlock.

Jimin mouths at you until you’re trembling. Until you’re needy and desperate, hips moving on their own, fucking yourself against his face. Until nothing exists except the heat in your belly, the stars behind your eyelids, the heady, fucked-out sound of Jimin’s voice as he talks you through it, murmurs praise against your cunt.

Jimin mouths at you until you forget.

This isn’t your life. This is not something you can have.

But, in the grand scheme of things, what does it matter? You’ve made peace with death, and there’s only one of two ways it’s going to come for you in the end: by Namjoon’s hand or someone else’s. So what does it matter?

This time, Jimin fucks you slow. Kisses you with your taste still in his mouth. Thumbs over a hardened nipple just to see what earns him a reaction, and what you truly want is more time—something else that’s impossible.

Jimin’s hair is orange when you think you might be in love with him.

[ 48.8566° N, 2.3522° E | Paris, FRANCE ]

Jimin’s hair is pink when—

“Sit,” he says, gesturing to the toilet.

Soaks a washcloth in warm water. Wrings it out. Stands in front of you, and there’s water dripping onto the floor and Jimin doesn’t care, doesn’t seem to see anything in this moment except for you, your hands covered in someone else’s blood, and he reaches out, gently grabs your wrist. Palm up. Someone else’s blood. Everything smells like copper and iron. Looks too surreal beneath the fluorescent lights of this hotel bathroom for your mind to make sense of it.

There is care in the way Jimin cleans your hands. There is tenderness in the way he both refuses to see what you really are and the way he’s the only one to ever see you so entirely, when you look down at the blood he’s washing away and all you can see is stigmata. When all you see is sin.

“I know you don’t love me,” he says, and there is a conviction in his words that stuns you into silence. “Not the way I love you, anyway.”

That tenderness is still there as he says this. As he presses the wet fabric into the meat of your palm, wipes the stains away, and the warmth is as calming as it is undeserved. It feels like something forbidden. It feels like salvation and condemnation all at once, like whatever sick depravity permeates you is contagious, will take over Jimin, too, just from touching you.

Jimin is close enough to reach out and touch. Close enough to see the violence that he exists in alongside you: the rips in his clothes, the scars that decorate his skin. Close enough to know he smells sickly-sweet, just like death. Your hand shakes as it reaches for him and never follows through. Doesn’t want to contaminate him.

“I do,” you finally say. Whatever is in your voice is not conviction. “I can’t.” You suck in a breath, try to steady your breathing. This is where it all comes crashing down, you think, because in all the years you’ve done Namjoon’s bidding, you’ve never cried. You can take life so freely and without thought, but you cannot love Jimin. “Someone like me isn’t capable of it.”

Jimin pauses, the washcloth stuck in the space between your ring and middle fingers. “And who is someone like you?”

Water is still dripping to the floor. Serosanguineous: blood tainting something untouched. Not something one thing or another but both, watery-pink. Looks like Jimin’s hair. “I’ve killed a lot of people,” you answer. “More than I can count. More than I can name. More than the ones that come to haunt me at night.” Your free hand moves to your chest, covers your heart. “There’s nothing here, Jimin. I’m not sure there ever was.”

The washcloth drops to the floor, and all that blood belonging to a man whose name you never bothered to learn before you put a bullet between his eyes finds a new place to rest. “I think,” he begins, clasping your unclean hand in his own, voice dropping to a whisper, “you forget, sometimes.” You gasp as he places your palm to his cheek, drags it across his face, smears a stranger’s blood across his skin. “That we’re the same.”

Jimin is always overwhelming, but the love he has for you is even more so. It consumes you entirely, embeds itself beneath your skin, makes a home, would tear you apart, body and soul, to return to him.

[ 47.4979° N, 19.0402° E | Budapest, HUNGARY ]

Jimin’s hair is lavender when it all goes to shit.

“You’re being followed.”

Seokjin’s voice is garbled through the earpiece, tinny and metallic, and you roll your eyes. Some things don’t need to be said, because you’ve known someone was following you for the last three blocks. Average height, black peacoat, close-cropped haircut. Not the kind of person that’d stand out here, and that’s exactly why you’d sent Jimin in the other direction.

“No shit,” you respond in Hungarian, because you already know the man following you doesn’t speak or understand it. “Give me somewhere to go.”

It takes Seokjin a few moments to run the translation. “There’s a side street up on your right,” he answers. “It’s tight, but there’s an alleyway at the end. You can buy some time if you’re quick.”

“Where’s Jimin?”

You pass a vendor selling lángos and duck into the street behind the stall. Just as Seokjin had said, there’s a small alleyway up on the left, and your footfall is near-silent as you break into a sprint to reach it. “Safe,” is all Seokjin says.

You take a second to steady your breathing, knowing you’re good on time—the man following you was close enough to know where you’d turned, but, if you’re lucky, not much after that. That plays on a loop: if you’re lucky, if you’re lucky, if you’re lucky. What is luck, what does it look like, in a life left entirely to chance? In a life with no guarantees?

You tuck yourself away, focus on Seokjin’s metallic breaths. Think about his basement in Seoul, why he’s in it. Ask, “What happened in Addis Ababa?” because it feels important to know.

There’s not much you know about Seokjin’s life. Whatever happened in Ethiopia had been before your time, reduced to hushed whispers and gossip fodder after your arrival. No one spoke of it, Seokjin especially, but every now and then something would slip in the same way weeds grow in sidewalk cracks.

A job gone wrong. A bombing at the consulate with Seokjin inside.

His reply is simple, words spoken carefully: “I loved someone once, too.”

He can’t see it, but you nod nonetheless; an answer that doesn’t require a response, because you know. It’s enough to fill in the rest. What Seokjin’s trauma looks like. Why he doesn’t do field work anymore. Why he prefers the solitude of the basement, rarely a sound beyond the electric thrum of the server racks.

Who had gone in to retrieve him, and why Yoongi has the scar over his eye.

“You loved someone,” you conclude, “and he would’ve been willing to die for you.”

“Yes,” Seokjin says, and it’s like the word’s been punched out of him. Sounds like something repressed, something left to rot in the darkest corner of the world.

Love, to Seokjin, looks and sounds the same as death.

“I think most people spend their entire lives searching for a love like that,” he continues, and if you could see him you think he might look dazed, off-kilter. You think he might be an avatar. Seokjin is prying his ribcage apart, unwrapping the barbed wire from his heart, saying I once was in love and this is all I know of it. “But, to me, in this life, it’s a prison. Once someone is willing to die for you, how do you keep them alive? How do you—I kissed that skin. I worshiped it. I pressed my lips to it with whatever softness was left in me. How do you look at that same skin and know you’re the reason it’s mangled?” He exhales, all tremor. “You can’t. You can’t.”

You know this all too well. You know what it feels like to look at Jimin and know, intrinsically and subconsciously, that you wouldn’t even hesitate. You’d take and give life to keep him alive and safe. You know that when you exit this world at someone else’s hand his face is the last thing you want to see.

You know it’s a liability.

You know it’s a target painted on your back. Between your eyes.

You know there’s nothing left to say, that this particular conversation has run its course. The two of you sit in an amicable silence, and you hope Seokjin can hear the life that surrounds you, however mundane. Hope he can hear the lángos vendor trying to hawk his goods; hope he can hear a city 8,000 kilometers away; hope he can hear these regular, everyday people going about their lives and remember there’s hope beyond his four walls.

I think you’d like it here, you think, but you don’t dare to say it aloud.

Time passes in a meaningless blur. Could be minutes, could be hours. No one’s come to kill you, so you reckon you’ve long since been in the clear. And maybe it speaks to Seokjin’s idea that love is a prison, because you know something’s happened to Jimin long before Seokjin speaks it into existence.

You’re up and out of the alleyway before you’re told to move. Have no idea where you’re going, but you’re racing through the streets of Budapest with a panic you haven’t ever felt in your life. Feels like quicksand; feels like molasses; feels like you have to wade through all the blood you’ve spilled, now congealed, to get to him.

“Where am I going?” you demand. Your lungs are on fire. In the split-second of silence it becomes a desperate scream. “Seokjin, tell me where the fuck I’m going!”

“The—fuck, the wa-warehouse up on your right.” You can’t think about why he’s crying. “I don’t—I don’t know wha-what’s there, you need to be careful. Please, you have to—”

Twenty seconds and you’ll be there, you’ll be with Jimin, you just need to keep running. You need to keep your head on straight. Remember your training. Remember you’ve built a life in a viper pit.

A man in a uniform is unloading a shipment around the back of the building. Faces away from you, bent at the waist. Takes very little effort to smash his head into the stone exterior and knock him unconscious, pocket his badge. You can’t get stupid now. Tell Seokjin to make sure all the cameras are cut, ask what floor when you shut yourself inside the freight elevator, unwilling to take the stairs and run into anyone who might be waiting. All the way to the top, he says, so all the way to the top you go.

—

Over the course of your life, you’ve made peace with death. Have stared it in the eye more times than you can count. Have dealt it out, evaded it, shook its hand.

You are wholly unprepared for the sight that greets you.

Red. Everything is red—the walls, the floor, what used to be a beautiful parquet pattern in the wood. In the center of the room: two bodies, maybe three. Not much that’d be able to identify them beyond a pile of teeth, no saying whose is whose. Slaughterhouse scraps.

And this is not—Jimin doesn’t work this way. Isn’t his MO. Jimin’s kills are elegant and neat, topped with a bow. What you see before you is ultraviolence. It is unhinged, it is fury, it is a complete loss of control. It’s what love looks like to Jimin, because he sits at the very edge of a rotted chair, legs crossed. Face streaked with blood, clothes covered in it.

“Jimin,” you say, because what else is there?

He tilts his head to the side, smirks a little, looks at you beneath his lashes. Eyes that used to find you across a room and calm you. Eyes that have locked onto you in the throes of pleasure. Eyes you’ve seen yourself reflected in, bathed in love and adoration.

Eyes that now contain nothing.

“Jimin, what the fuck happened?”

He removes his gloves with his teeth and doesn’t flinch away from the taste of iron. “They said they hurt you,” he states simply, “so I did what needed to be done.”

“What—” Nausea claws at your throat; for the first time, it’s all too much. This isn’t Jimin. This isn’t your Jimin, who smiled as you posed him against apricot walls in Copenhagen, who took a bullet to the stomach to protect you and never, ever told you. This is not the Jimin who wasted the last of his goodwill on loving you. “What did you do?” you whisper.

He rises to full height and it makes you flinch. You are scared of Jimin for the first time in your life: scared of who he is in this moment, what he’s capable of. And he sees it, lets that brand of anguish overtake him. Reaches for you before he decides against it and lets his hand drop to his side. Says, “I would never hurt you,” as if the words could brand themselves into your skin so you’d never forget.

“No, you’d just—” You squeeze your eyes shut. Don’t think about how one of the men nearly embedded into the floor was the one trailing you earlier.

Instead, you think about Seokjin: Once someone is willing to die for you, how do you keep them alive? You think about: How do you look at that same skin and know you’re the reason it’s mangled? You think about: In this life, it’s a prison.

You drop to your knees. Let the blood seep through your clothes and into your skin, undeserving of shying away from it.

Namjoon should’ve let you go.

You think about the men in front of you. Who they were, who they loved. The grief all of this is going to leave behind, and it becomes impossible to breathe. You grasp at your throat, think about all the times you���ve been strangled and who’d been there to cut the rope. There is no limit to Jimin’s devotion, and you understand now, how it drove Yoongi to madness. How he loved someone so much he would’ve retrieved their corpse from a building and how that same person can no longer bear to look at the damage they’d caused.

“This isn’t love, Jimin,” you choke out.

He stands in front of you. Stigmata. You’re worshiping at the altar of some kind of devil. At least his hands are clean when he places his fingers beneath your chin, forces you to look up at him. “What is it, then?”

“Destruction.”

A quiet huff of cruel laughter. “See, this is the difference between me and you, darling.” He takes back his hand, runs it through his blood-streaked hair, and your chin sags to your chest without his support. “Because I already knew that. Because I have destroyed myself every single day loving you.” He squats down, eye-level, and he says, “I need you to listen to me when I say this, sweetheart: you do not love me the way I love you, because I would do worse. When it comes to you, there is nothing on this earth I would not destroy to keep you safe.”

He clears his throat. Collects whatever’s in his mouth and spits onto one of the bodies. “If this is enough to have you tucking your fucking tail between your legs, then go, because this doesn’t even scratch the fucking surface.”

You can’t bring yourself to say anything, and sometimes that says it all.

Jimin presses a kiss to the top of your head. Makes a call. Cleaners will be here soon, he says, better get going.

You watch him go.

[ 37.5665° N, 126.9780° E | Seoul, SOUTH KOREA ]

Jimin’s hair is black when Namjoon calls the meeting.

He takes the seat across from Namjoon’s desk because they don’t meet like this often. Assignments are usually manila folders slipped under doors, hushed whispers in hallways confirmed with a nod or a text on a burner phone. Assignments are not last-minute assemblies in conference rooms and offices.

But the way Namjoon is looking at him, with his clenched jaw and a gaze that’s meant to look barbed to anyone who doesn’t actually know him—Jimin doesn’t need to ask what this is about.

Had he bothered to look, he would’ve known by the way you stood in the far corner of the room, face obscured by the mid-afternoon shadows. Yoongi’s close to you, for some reason: dressed head to toe in black, perched on a lateral file cabinet, using a metal corner to sharpen his switchblade. Just like a harbinger of death. Some sort of fucked up omen, a warning that’s come too late.

Didn’t I tell you this would end badly, he hears Yoongi taunt in his head. This is what happens when you lay with trash.

Easy for Yoongi to say when he doesn’t know what it means to be cared for by you. Doesn’t know how it feels to give in to the freefall and plummet at your feet, stripped back and laid bare. Doesn’t know how it feels to kiss secrets into your skin like constellations, to map his tongue along every unspoken confession.

Easy for Yoongi to say, because he doesn’t have to survive the aftermath. Doesn’t have to feel the heartbreak, the agony of having you and watching as you slip through his fingers. Yoongi doesn’t have to struggle just to breathe, doesn’t have to endure the nights staring at the ceiling, watching as the daylight creeps into the corners of his vision. Doesn’t have to watch you looking so unaffected.

“Jimin.” Namjoon’s tone is flat, needlelike.

Behind him, Yoongi chuckles lowly. “What?” Jimin asks, his gaze trained on the painting behind Namjoon’s head. Looks like one he’d seen in Berlin, the time the two of you had gone just because and spent an afternoon ducking in and out of museums to escape the rain.

When he closes his eyes, he still sees the raindrops stuck to your eyelashes. The beads of water rolling off the sleeves of your leather jacket. How blinding your smile had been. The laughter in your voice as you ordered beer after beer after beer for the two of you in flawless Berlinisch. A brief, fleeting glimpse at normalcy. At the kind of life the two of you could have if you were just… different. Lived different lives. Were different people.

“You’ve gotten sloppy.”

Namjoon’s words are a cold bucket of water. Snap him back to reality, yank him back to the present where he’s forced to leave those river-lined streets behind. You’re silent and Yoongi’s still snorting laughter. “Okay,” is all Jimin can bring himself to say.

Jin had gotten sloppy once, too, and Namjoon stuck him down in the basement to work logistics. Might not be so bad, Jimin reckons. He’d be away from you, spared of this fucking misery. “So you know that’s unacceptable.”

Jimin just shrugs, resigned to his fate, whatever it may be. “I’m reassigning the both of you,” Namjoon continues. “You’ll both have new partners for your next assignments, since you clearly can no longer be trusted together.”

“Who?” Jimin manages to choke out.

Namjoon raises an eyebrow, clearly having expected an argument. “You’re being sent to Shanghai with Jungkook. You,” he says, turning his attention to you, “are going to Moscow with Taehyung.”

She’s fond of Taehyung, Jimin wants to say. But you’d been fond of him too, once upon a time, and that’d only ended in heartbreak, so who fucking cares.

They’re cruel, the tricks Jimin’s mind plays on him. How he convinces himself you look pained. How his fingers wring together at the thought of entrusting his life in the hands of someone else, someone new. At your life being just as at stake; at Taehyung being tasked with keeping you alive. Would you die for him, too, the way you’d always told Jimin you would for him? Would Taehyung take a bullet to the stomach to keep you safe the way Jimin had?

Even more cruel is the way you scoff, pushing yourself off of the wall as you fold your arms across your chest and say, “That’s bullshit, Kim Namjoon.”

No one talks to Namjoon that way except you.

Yoongi’s knife stops twirling. Just like a bird sensing a storm, senses on high-alert as he flicks his gaze over to you. “I’m sorry?” Namjoon says. “What part of Jimin losing his mind and nearly outing all of us seems like bullshit to you?”

“Hm, let me think,” you retort, a manicured finger tapping against the hollow of your cheek. “The part where you’re reassigning me for someone else’s mistake?”

Which part was the mistake? Jimin wants to ask. Needs to know how much you regret. Was sleeping with you the mistake? Falling in love with you? Getting too caught up in all these daydreams and letting reality get away from him?

“This organization is more important than Park Jimin getting his goddamn dick wet,” Namjoon snaps. “Keeping all of you safe—keeping you alive—is more—”

You scoff. Take an entire container of gasoline and pour it right on top of Namjoon’s flammable ire. “Then perhaps you’d be so kind as to explain to me why Min fucking Yoongi can fuck damn near everyone in this establishment, yet I have to sit here and listen to your goddamn mouth—”

Jimin doesn’t think Yoongi even knows his arm is moving.

There’d just been the trading of barbed words. His own name being spoken into the ether. Yoongi’s arm moving away from his body, switchblade clasped tightly between his fingers as he plunges it into your flesh.

Jimin watches it puncture your arm in slow motion. Feels the bile in his throat, the heat in his belly. Looks first at Namjoon whose jaw has gone slack, skin pale, as he stammers over words that won’t come. Then he looks at Yoongi—expects to find shock or guilt but finds only a muted disinterest and flared nostrils.

Finally, he looks at you. Watches the white cotton sleeve of your shirt slowly turn red and sticky-wet. Watches as your lips move around syllables and vowels and consonants Jimin can’t decipher.

“—fucking piece of shit, this is my favorite shirt! I’ll never get all this goddamn blood out of it—”

Jimin thinks he hears Yoongi say you deserve it. But Jimin isn’t really thinking much as he clambers out of his chair and moves in Yoongi’s direction. Doesn’t think at all as he lets instinct take over, lets adrenaline steer him headfirst into yet another bad idea.

He’s always known there’d come a day he’d be face-to-face with the sight of your blood. Had always known it’d come from someone else’s hand. Had always promised himself that hurting you would be the last thing anyone ever did.

Jimin has his fingers wrapped around Yoongi’s throat and he finally understands it—the joy Yoongi finds in taking life.

“What’s the matter, Jimin-ah?” Yoongi taunts. Jimin tightens his grip. Suddenly hates that fucking scar across Yoongi’s eye. “You’re never on clean-up duty. Always make your girlfriend do the dirty work. Finally grew some fucking balls, huh?”

“Fuck you,” Jimin says stupidly. Can’t think of anything more to say. Not that he needs to. Wrapping your hands around someone’s throat sends enough of a message, he thinks.

Namjoon’s still tongue-tied as you yank Yoongi’s blade from your arm, immediately pressing your other hand over the wound to stem the bleeding. The sight of your blood is making Jimin dizzy; the smell of the iron hanging in the air. All he wants to do is choke the life out of the man in front of him, but more than that, he just wants to hold your hand. Wants to comfort you, even though he knows you don’t need it. Not from him, not from anyone, but he still wants to. Wants to press his lips to the sweat at your brow.

And Yoongi can see it, too, because he starts laughing. It’s an odd, fractured noise. Jimin isn’t sure if he’s ever heard him laugh before, decides he also hates the way it sounds. Feels all wrong watching it leave his crooked smirk. Makes Jimin’s stomach plummet to the ground.

“Oh, you’re fucked, aren’t you?” Yoongi teases around Jimin’s slackened grip. “You weren’t just fucking her, you’re in love with her.”

Weird how Jimin is the one with his hands around someone’s neck and feels like he’s the one suffocating.

[ 31.2304° N, 121.4737° E | Shanghai, CHINA ]

Jimin watches the life drain from an innocent woman’s face and feels nothing.

Jimin watches Jungkook cut a man down and feels even less.

When it’s over, he cleans up wordlessly and doesn’t eat for three days.

[ 37.5665° N, 126.9780° E | Seoul, SOUTH KOREA ]

Jimin’s hair has faded to brown by the time he returns from Shanghai.

The more complicated job had gone to you and Taehyung. Jimin had tried not to take it personally. The Russian hits are always unnecessarily violent and Jungkook still isn’t fully trained. There’s still a phantom pain in Jimin’s stomach that warns him of the consequences of taking on more than he can chew. So, sure, Shanghai had gone fine, but his mind had been nearly 7,000 kilometers away the entire time.

Good thing he’d returned to Seoul unscathed, too, because he’s sure Namjoon would’ve eliminated him without a moment’s hesitation if he’d fucked up again.

But Shanghai had only served to prove the leader right. Jimin can’t work with you anymore. Can’t focus, can’t stomach the violence, can’t keep his goddamn head on straight.

He sighs as he glances at Jungkook to his right. Jimin had watched him murder two men in cold blood not even thirty-six hours ago and now he’s doe-eyed and sucking down his third banana milk of the morning. It really makes his head spin, being paired with this grown-up infant of a man now instead of you, but for all of Jungkook’s apparent shortcomings, he’d kept Jimin alive. He isn’t dead.

And then you walk in with Taehyung and he wishes he was.

Because you’re laughing and Taehyung’s got his arm slung around your shoulder and you look happy. It’s the kind of happiness that should be contagious, bloom warmth in his chest, but it doesn’t. It just takes the last frayed strand of hope he has and sets flame to it.

You don’t look like you miss Jimin at all. Don’t look like you’ve lost sleep or skipped meals.

“Didn’t take you long, did it?” Jimin says, because he’s wounded and lashing out. Not because he means it.

You must know he doesn’t, too, because you don’t react. “Watch your mouth, Park Jimin,” Taehyung warns, because he doesn’t know, and this only sets Jimin off more. You don’t need defending. Or had you, and Jimin had simply thought it wasn’t his place to provide it? That you wouldn’t want it?

“Or what, Kim Taehyung?”

Taehyung is cherubic. It’s part of his charm, one of many reasons why he’s so effective. If you’re looking to die, you look for the guy who looks like Yoongi, not the one who smiles wide and warm like Taehyung. So when he sets his jaw and pokes his tongue into his cheek and says, “Or I’ll cut your fucking head off, you stupid fuck,” your attention is finally piqued.

“I’m so sick of this,” Jungkook wails, banana milk tossed carelessly in the trash. “All of you need to get your fucking shit together!”

Taehyung rolls his eyes at the same time you pretend to inspect your nails. “Is that why you’re so temperamental, Chim?” Taehyung prods, looking every bit the pretentious, murderous angel he is. “Because you got sent to China on a babysitting mission while the grownups did real work?”

“Fuck you,” Jungkook snaps, rising to full height. “I’m not a fucking child.”

“Oh? Could’ve fooled me.” Taehyung’s words are razor-sharp and smell like kerosene. “Tell me, then: were you on babysitting duty? Had to look after our precious little Jiminie while he nursed his broken heart?”

You sigh, full of faux-exasperation, and place a gentle hand on Taehyung’s forearm. Dig your nails in just enough to be a warning, and if Jimin hadn’t been looking he’d miss it: the way Taehyung deflates instantly, anger dissipating like smoke, back in control. Just because you’d touched him. Just because you were there. Jimin knows that touch, how it feels to be under your control, and it makes his chest ache. Makes everything feel like it’s sitting wrong in his stomach, and he’s either going to be sick all over Namjoon’s overpriced fucking rug or wrap his hands around Taehyung’s throat the way he’d done to Yoongi.

He’s out of his goddamned mind; he feels untethered. Helpless. Like it was always going to end like this, and maybe Jimin knew that and had just ignored it. Maybe now he’s paying the price—maybe he’s finally found something he can’t afford.

Jungkook’s still going off, nasty gaze set on Taehyung because he’s the only one playing along. They’re exchanging words Jimin can’t make heads nor tails of. Words he doesn’t care about. Words that ring empty and hollow because they sound nothing like the way you say his name. Shapeless, unlike the way your lips move around those syllables.

“Jimin,” you say, the sound finally registering and bringing him back down to earth. All he can do is stare. “Can we talk?” Taehyung and Jungkook are still trading barbs.

Wonders how he got here. Looks around the room and wonders if each and every one of them is destined for this same fate, this madness. Wants to tell you why he forgot his vest, why he was three hours late in Argentina. Wants to grovel and beg and leave this place and never look back.

More than anything, he wants to know what it feels like to actually be human.

So he shakes his head. Tries not to be haunted by the way your face falls at the rejection.

There is a scar on his abdomen and a scar on your arm that both tell the same story. There is a man in the basement who is in love with a man above ground and is too weighed down by guilt to do anything about it. There is a man here who plays god, has soldiers to do his bidding, and there is very little here that Jimin has only for himself.

The two of you will have that conversation, but he needs to be human, first.

[ 34.6901° N, 135.1956° E | Kobe, JAPAN ]

This is a waste of your fucking time.

Whatever Namjoon had thought would be here doesn’t seem to exist. Yoongi can barely tolerate you on a good day, threatens to stick a dagger in your neck at least twice an hour, but the more time the two of you waste chasing ghosts, the closer he comes to unraveling entirely.

“Stop fucking staring at me,” he snaps, blowing the smoke of his cigarette right in your face.

You tut. “But you’re so beautiful, Yoongi, I just can’t help it.”

He digs his switchblade from his boot. Makes a show of flipping it open. “I can cut your fuckin’ eyes out of your skull,” he intones. “Maybe that’ll help.”

In your ear, Jimin’s laughter rings like crystal.

Ricochets off of all the corners of Seokjin’s basement, makes the echo sound warped through the earpiece. “Please tell Yoongi-ssi to keep an eye on the man with the shaved head. In front of him, roughly sixty degrees to his right.”

You relay the message. Watch as Yoongi transforms—sharpened gaze, rigid posture, disappears into the shadows. More apex predator than man. “And me?” you ask.

“Backup,” comes Seokjin’s voice. “We haven’t found your mark yet.”

You hum. Pick up the cigarette Yoongi left behind and stick it between your lips. Smoke it nearly to the filter. “You got it, boss,” you tease, just because it flusters him.

“I’m—that’s not—knock it off.”

Exhale. Stub out the cigarette. Butt in your pocket. “Anything else?”

“Yeah,” Jimin says, and his voice is soft, sounds like spun sugar. “Stay alive, all right?”

Jimin’s hair isn’t dyed at all.

if you've read this far: thank you so, so much! i am more appreciative than i can put into words. this is very different from what i typically write, but i hope you enjoyed it nonetheless.

i would love to hear your thoughts if you have any. <3

#jimin x reader #jimin smut #bts x reader #bts smut #jimin imagine #jimin scenarios #jimin fanfic #jimin x you #jimin x y/n #bts imagines #bts scenarios #bts fanfic #bts x you #bts x y/n

[vminizzle]

Stop teasing

pairing : boyfriend!jungkook x f.reader

genre : smut, fluff

warnings : needy!jk, marking, dry humping, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex, penetration

words count : 1.1k

A/N : hello loves, i hope y’all spent a nice week :) I’m sorry if I can’t post often, I’m kinda busy with college but I’m doing my best to write contents whenever I can. So here’s a little something I wrote yesterday. I apologize because it’s kinda short sorry. Have a nice weekend everyone love y’all 💕 reminder: english is not my first language

FEEDBACKS ARE VERY WELCOMED

M RATED

“Stop teasing.” you whined as Jungkook kept on caressing your thigh up and down, goosebumps raising after the soft touches.

“I’m not doing anything.” he smirked pretending he was focused on his phone.

Well, you were sitting on your couch, reading peacefully until Jungkook crashed next to you, this one playing with his phone.

All was nice, his presence bringing comfort until he decided to distract you. At first, it was a gesture of affection, like usual, your boyfriend would put his hand on your thigh drawing little patterns on the soft skin.

But this time was different, his fingertips were getting a little bit too higher, purposely grazing the hem of your panties, pulling at it a bit then retracting his hand to continue going up and down your thigh again.

Why was he like that ugh.

“What are you reading?” he bent near you, resting his chin on your shoulder his breath fanning on your exposed neck.

“seems really interesting” teasing dripping from his tongue. His hand wandered over your stomach until it reached your hip bone.

“Ok.” you sighed.

"I know you’re doing this on purpose.”

 “what? what am I doing?” he asked innocently.

You put your book away on the coffee table before sighing.

“What do you want?” you finally looked at him.

“I want attention” he pouted teasingly.

He’s so cute.

"your attention."

“Jungkook” You chuckled.

He smiled as you practically jumped on him to hug him tightly. His hands travelling to your hair to play with it.

“baby?” he talked making you hum waiting for him to continue.

"you look so beautiful today.”

“oh so I’m not beautiful the other days?” you raised an eyebrow.

“no I’ve never said that y/n” he whined.

“y’know, I- can we?” you looked at him waiting for him to continue.

“can we what?”

He looked down at his lap.

“look at what you did to me.” his eyes pointing to his boner. You looked at the confined little bump growing bigger.

“I didn’t even do anything” your cheeks heating up as he bite his lips.

“you were so sexy while reading this book darling.. and wearing my shirt without nothing but panties under it ” he groaned admiring your body. “you’re just so .. I can’t find the words.”

“oh lord ,stop why are you like that?” you laughed hiding your face behind your hands.

He chuckled before laying you on your back, spreading your legs to made room for him to lay in between them.

"do you feel it?” he pressed his crotch against yours making you whimper. Jungkook lowered himself a bit, grinding his boner against your light-covered clit making you bite your lips, hands clenching at his shirt. Getting the hint, he he kneeled to get rid of his shirt.

He bent down again, his lips hovering yours. When you cranned up a bit to connect your lips together he backed away a little, your lips chasing his for a kiss but he kept on teasing you. You whined giving up and let you head fell on your pillow “such a tease.”

He grinned before finally kissing you “making it fun baby.”

Jungkook sucked on your neck softly, painting a beautiful purple mark on the sensitive skin. He kissed his way down over your -his- shirt, he stopped when his lips reached your covered clit leaving a light kiss on it making you hiss “so sensitive.”

He kissed the inside of your thighs, leaving love bites behind his trail “oh lord stop teasing."

Jungkook laughed looking up at you “let me take my time y/n”.

“I was reading a book peacefully, you came to me disturbing my reading because you needed attention and now when I’m giving you what you want you’re teasing me.” you huffed.

“aw baby don’t be like that” he put his thumb over your pout caressing your lower lip.

He tugged on your panties waistband, looking into your eyes waiting for you consent. When you nodded he immediately got rid of it “fuck baby you’re dripping” he lowered himself between your legs, staring at your glistening lips making you look away embarrassed.

Jungkook disappeared between your thighs as his lips connected with your folds. His tongue entered you unexpectedly, your hands flying to his black locks as he massaged his thumb over your sensitive clit “yes Jungkook keep going.”

"keep your eyes on me baby” he ordered making you watch him eat you out fighting the urge to close your eyes at the pleasure he procured you. He started rubbing faster on your clit earning moans from you “I’m near I’m near fu-”

“c’mon cum for me my love” he didn’t have to ask twice as you cum right away all over his chin. He kept on drawing little circles on your clit to help you finish. 

He backed away with a victorious smile as he observed your state “so ruined.. cute” he stroked your thighs gently.

You rolled your eyes at his words “still down for me to..y’know.. or you too tired?” Jungkook asked a bit shy.

How is that possible?

“Come here baby” you pulled him on top of you wrapping your legs around his thin waist. “hurry! what you waiting for now?” you said before pecking his lips

Jungkook looked at you surprised before smiling. He got rid of his pants as fast as possible, positioning himself at your entrance. He rubbed the tip of his cock on your clit making you whined “you’re not going to tease again.”

“sorry” he chuckled before enteringyou slowly. He looked down at you checking on any sign of discomfort before moving in and out of you.

He held one of your hand, his other one resting on your waist as he picked up the pace after he notice pleasure written all over your face “Jungkook please” you bit your bottom lip trying to keep your eyes open to watch the beautiful man on top of you, sending you to another world.

He went faster feeling his orgasm coming “baby are you near?” you whispered a weak yes not fully ready to face your second orgasm.

“Can I- Can I cum?” you let a sob out.

"cum baby cum.” And here was your second orgasm, your warm release sending Jungkook over the edge as he abruptly pulled out raising your shirt up to cum on your stomach.

He watched in awe the sticky fluid painting your stomach.

“wow” he breathed out.

"well, I hope I gave you enough attention” you laughed.

"oh ya’ you did” he laughed hiding his face in the crook of your neck peppering soft kisses over the smooth skin.

—

A/N :  sorry if it’s not that good, i was a bit tired this week but yea. Anyways, hope you liked it tho :) ,,

#bts #jungkook #jeon jungkook #bts jungkook #bts smut #bts fanfic #bts fanfiction #bts fluff #bts angst #bts suggestive #bts x reader #bts imagines #bts scenarios #jungkook imagines #jungkook fanfiction #jungkook fanfic #jungkook scenarios #jungkook smut #jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #jungkook suggestive #jungkook x reader #jungkook hard hours #jungkook hard thoughts #bts hard hours #bts hard thoughts

[ruiniel]

What You Choose

Fandom: Demon Slayer: Kimetsu no Yaiba

Pairing: Rengoku Kyojuro x f!reader

Count: 2K

Rating: T (M later)

On AO3

Summary: I recently watched/read KNY and have emotions. Likely done before, but wanted to get this out of my system so wrote it down. Rengoku survives the fight with Akaza, but some battles are not so straightforward.

Tags & Warnings: Rengoku lives AU, multichapter, blood, injury, pining, angst, second person POV, demon slayer!reader, tsuguko!reader, alternating POV, Oblivious Rengoku Kyojuro, for a while at least, Death, Mild Gore, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut

All characters depicted are 18+

I.

Everything fades. His body is going numb, his vision blurs as he stares down at his reflection in the dark pool of his own blood, unable to lift his head. The cries of grief surrounding him become dim and scatter like dying leaves from his consciousness.  

I've done my duty, I've given my all.

The last he remembers is a small, clawed hand and a sudden, blooming flame bursting through his shattered torso, scalding him from within in ways his own fire never could. 

I see... So this is what it feels like… to burn. 

The balmy weather outside has no effect on you, seated at the side of the infirmary bed, your head in your hands. 

“Perhaps you should go and rest. There’s been no change, and we’ll be sure to inform you of any developments.” 

Aoi’s words are void of their usual sternness. You’ve heard them before, and yet—

“I’m fine, I really am.” You gaze back at the prone figure lying motionless beneath crisp white sheets. His gold and crimson hair is messy, and you’ve never seen him so pale, his features so sunken. The bandage covering his left eye is stained red in places, the usually smiling lips dry and bloodless.

Aoi sighs but says nothing else, and soon her departing steps echo against the walls.

I can’t. I can’t leave his side. You wish your thought could reach him, down to whatever place he’s struggling in now. You ball your hands into fists over your knees, a poor attempt at holding your composure. Please, come back. Please.

Weeks have passed since the mission on the train, since your group has returned with wounded bodies and spirits, though none in such a critical state as your mentor. Rengoku Kyojuro has not awakened since, and in contrast, since the nightmares the demon has placed upon you in that baleful encounter, you’ve not been able to sleep more than two to three hours every night. Every time, waking up in a sweat, the memory of what happened always the last image you remember. 

“How is he today?”

You’re drawn from your thought by the gentle voice of the person you feel like you owe a life of debt to, and turn to gaze into the tired, worried eyes of Tanjiro Kamado. He stands by the bed now, glancing down at the Hashira. The slow rise and fall of his chest is the only sign that he is still alive. 

You shake your head as Tanjiro takes a seat. “How is rehabilitation training going?” 

Tanjiro smiles, still staring at the bed and its unresponsive occupant. “Almost done, I feel my strength returning to what it used to be and more. I admire how well you’ve upheld yourself, though,” he murmurs. 

It’s true, for some reason, you’ve been the least scathed of them all, needing much less medical care than the rest. No, you know the reason why. “It’s because of him,” your words escape you. “If… if he hadn’t trained me as he did, if he hadn’t driven me so far beyond my limits, I don’t know if I would have survived for as long as I have in my role.”

“Oh, yes, I’ve heard. They say Lord Rengoku’s methods are… harsh to say the least.”

A smile tugs at your lips as a known pain pricks your heart. “But… but I’ve been remiss in thanking you, young Kamado—or rather, your sister. If she hadn’t…”  Your throat tightens; you don’t want to break down, not here, not before Tanjiro and not before him, no matter he can’t hear it. 

“Please, please don’t worry, it was a stroke of luck and quick thinking on her part, I only brought the box closer—”

“... she healed him! I saw the flames engulfing him, I saw the wound close. I don’t know how she did it but… Nezuko is someone... very special.”

Tanjiro lowers his head in humble acknowledgement. “I will tell her.” Then, as though remembering something, he reaches into his pocket and hands you a small bag. “Here, I’ve not seen you join meals very often and… well, please take them.”

You don’t have the strength to refuse, and take the bag from his hand, meeting his kind smile. “Candies…”  You thank him before placing them on the bedstand, and after a few more moments of sitting in comfortable silence, Tanjiro takes his leave. You watch him depart, endeared by his manner and honesty. He has a good soul, a strong will—perhaps the strongest you’ve known, apart from…

You stare back at your mentor, memories of the past flooding behind your eyes.

Five months prior

“Good! Again!”

You’re panting, your total concentration breathing nearly failing as you evade another deadly arc of the Third Form: Blazing Universe. 

The sun has westered and a bluish twilight sets over the lands, but your mentor still has you parrying his unwavering techniques, before making you attack using combinations of them in turn. 

“Lord—lord Rengoku—”

His blazing speed cuts your words short as your blades clash, and you stare into bright, golden-rimmed irises. He’s smiling, as usual, with a devilish spark in his eyes. There is a sudden flutter in your stomach, overriding the fatigue in your burning muscles. “Come now, don’t tell me you’re beat! You’ve come so far after only three years!” he says as you fall back, lunging for another attack the following second.

The sudden weakness you feel when you’re close to him has you confused, because it was not there before. It all began in the past year: whenever he stares at you in a certain way, whenever he touches you during training or meets your eyes, something gnaws achingly at your chest. It’s as though you need something from him, but have no idea what it is. 

“I knew it from the moment I took you on as a successor,” he says, merciless in his offensive. “If you—” Parry. Lunge. “—carry on like this—” Attack. Jump. “—you’ll reach a Hashira level of skill in no time at all!” 

You don’t have the chance to reply, though his words feel like honey coating your senses. At first, he’d been sparse and strict, keeping to instructions and nothing else. But you struggled, worked harder than you had for anything in all your life, and it seems he acknowledges this fully now. 

“Now—Ninth Form: Rengoku!” 

That means you must attack, and he must deflect. But—Ninth Form?! “I—I can’t, I’m… I’m too exhausted for the Ninth!”

He bursts forward with Unknowing Fire, forcing you to duck and curl your body, rolling away into the dust, rising on one knee. 

The Flame Hashira turns, pointing his weapon at you. “Is that what you plan on telling the demons?”

“Well, no, but—”

“At no point during a battle will you have the luxury of biding your time. If this were an actual encounter, you’d be dead.” He no longer smiles, his face turned cold, eyes glinting like molten steel.

You feel the rush of shame like fangs biting into you, fueling a horrible need to prove him wrong, to rise up to the challenge in his voice. With a hiss and a groan you grip the handle of your katana tightly, breathing and striving to light that spark in your heart. 

With a cry you speed forward, clashing with him in a desperate lunge. 

“Ha!” The smile returns as you grit your teeth. “Better!”

His face is so close to yours again, so close you feel the rush of his breath on your cheek. 

Your knees feel weak again, and you close your eyes, pushing forward in an attempt to skew his balance. 

What the hell is happening to you? 

“Faster, the fire is still weak! It must rage!” the Hashira says, grinning like a madman now, and where once you enjoyed the path of learning and reaching your full potential, now his attitude brings forth an ache that confuses you and leaves you anxious.

Even so. Your blades sing against each other as you lunge back in a high jump, landing in a lowered stance with one palm braced against the earth. Your uniform is wet on your back, and you’re closer to your breaking point than you've ever been.

But the thought of disappointing him, now that feels unbearable. So you do what you always do: you push yourself more, more, harnessing all your strength into one melting core, bathing your heart in it and firing up your veins. 

You attack.

He laughs outright. “Not bad, but—” Your swords clash, fiercer than before. “I know you can do better, and you can be faster.”

“I’m doing all I can!” you yell, at the end of your tether now. It’s not the first time, nor will it be the last. But he takes no offense, he never does, and that's one of the things you appreciate about him. “But you—you make it impossible! You always want more, even if you know I’m not ready for it!”

It must be the fire rushing through you that has you speaking this way, daring to say such words despite knowing full well what you were in for, when you accepted to become his successor. 

“Wait until you’re ready, and you will never improve!” the Flame Hashira throws back.

A growl leaves your throat as you fall back then speed towards him again, trying the Second then the Third form in succession sloppily but you’re past caring. 

Your arms feel as though they will tear and your bones might splinter as you crash against his unwavering stance, and you meet his scarlet-gold gaze as he speaks softly, his voice imbued with warmth: “You can surpass the impossible. I believe in you.” 

Your eyes widen, that damned ache ringing through your body like a weakening poison and—

For one split second, your stance weakens, and you’re thrown back, losing your balance and falling heavily onto the ground. 

Rengoku stares down at you, tilting his head to the side with a strange look on his face as he sheathes his katana. 

Your vision sways, your lungs might burst. You barely clutch at the helping hand extended to you, aiding you to your feet. He grasps your shoulders. “What happened there just now? Your focus melted like wax.”

“I…” You can’t look him in the eye. His hands on you diffuse heat, permeating through your clothing. It feels good. It scares you. “I don’t… know.”

“Tomorrow, again,” he says, releasing you. “Please do better. Remember we’re doing this for you, but foremost for the people.”

“Understood,” you murmur, biting back tears as you watch him walk away.

Midnight has arrived when you end your reverie, thinking about that emotion that took root in your body and spirit, growing stronger as time passed. And you never dared tell him, never dared facing it nor can you explain why. You take a deep breath, leaned with your arms folded on the edge of the bed, your forehead resting on them. You never told him, and now… 

And now with each day I’m losing hope.

Your shoulders are shaking, and your eyes sting. There is no one else here but you and him, the long chamber of empty beds the only witness to your breakdown. 

You’re so absorbed by despair, you don’t perceive the faint movement, or the hand gently placed on your head.

“... Why are you crying?”

You choke on a silent sob, blinking in shock at the low, throaty voice, broken with disuse. Slowly, you raise your head.

He's staring at you, a bleak smile on his lips, and you're utterly, incomprehensibly frozen.

“You… you’re awake?” It feels like the dumbest of questions: your body knows the truth before your mind catches up. 

“That… depends. Are you really here?” he asks in turn. 

You nod, biting on your lower lip and wiping your eyes with your sleeve. “Yes, yes I am.”

The smile wavers for a moment as he grimaces in pain. “Oh, I see. Then… it seems… you’re not rid of me yet.”

All the gods in all the world couldn’t keep the emotions flooding you at bay, and you shake your head as warm tears flow down your face. 

PART II

#demon slayer #kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer x reader #rengoku kyojuro #kny #rengoku x reader #kny fanfic #x reader #ruiniel:fanfiction

[feyhunter78]

Pink Pastels Pt 16

Description: Miguel and Gabi have a much needed talk.

Part 17

Miguel and Gabi walk you back next door. He watches as you give her a tight hug, whispering platitudes in her ear before you let go. You then brush your lips across her forehead and giving him a small smile, then the door to your apartment is closed and Gabi starts to cry once more.

Miguel scoops her up, cradling her to his chest, her arms wrapped around his neck, her tears wetting his shirt as she sobs. He misses holding her like this, when she was a baby she clung to him constantly, crying if he put her down for even a second. Then she grew older and became so curious about everything, she wanted to be on the ground, have the freedom to run and play and explore the world around her.

He’s proud of her for being so courageous, so adventurous it reminds him of a younger him, before he became Spiderman, before he lost his original universe and searched the multiverse desperately for a new one. But he’s forgotten that courage takes a lot of strength, and obviously Gabi has been running on empty for a while.

“Gabi, Mija, I’m sorry.” He says, settling on their couch and squeezing her tightly.

“Why are you sorry?” She asks, looking up at him with those big round eyes.

He can’t explain how much he loves his daughter; he’s tried a million times to verbalize the depth of his emotions and finds he always comes up short. So he’s come to the conclusion that it’s simple. He loves her beyond words.

“I didn’t notice you heard my call with your mother, and then I continued to fail to see how it hurt you, and I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have had to feel all that sadness on your own.” He shifts her, so she’s facing him, and brushes back the hair from her face, it’s like his mother’s hair. He’ll have to call her, ask her how she’s doing, if she wants to see him and Gabi sometime soon.

She snuggles into him, her tears slowly drying. “It’s okay, Papá, I’m strong.”

He swallows hard, tears pricking at the back of his eyes.

“Mijo you shouldn’t have done that, you know your father; he gets angry.”

“But Mamá it’s not fair he shouldn’t treat you like that.”

“It’s better me than you or Gabriel, I’m strong Miguel, I can take it.”

He fears he’s going to wretch, and he takes a deep breath counting ten things he can see, he can feel, hear, smell, until his heart rate has slowed, and the nausea is gone.

“You are strong, but you are also little—”

She goes to protest, and he stops her with a playfully stern look that makes her giggle.

“You are my baby girl, my daughter, you are not alone, you will never be alone, you don’t have to be strong all by yourself, especially not when you’re sad.”

Gabi mulls over his words, fidgeting with the little watch he made for her. “But I want to be strong like you.”

“Mija, I am strong because of you. Because I love you so very much, and I want to make sure the world is safe for you.” He tells her, praying that she understands how earnestly he’s speaking.

She nods and wraps her arms around as much of his torso as she can. “I love you, Papá, and I promise I’ll tell you next time I’m sad.”

He returns her hug, resting his chin on the crown of her head. “I love you more than you can imagine, Mija.”

He makes a mental note to make sure Lyla saves this video file, adding it to the hundreds upon hundreds of clips he has saved of Gabi. He’ll never have enough, never get enough time with her, but here in this moment he feels like everything he’s done, everything he’s been through and suffered was worth it.

“I think Ms. Y/N saw my superpowers.” Gabi says hesitantly, her voice muffled by his chest.

He pulls back, scanning her face. “What?”

“I got mad, and I threw my doll, and now the wall is broken.” She says as she leads him into her room.

Miguel’s mind is turning, churning, roiling. You know he’s Spiderman, as of last night, but he hasn’t been able to go through it with you to explain what happened, or to tell you how Gabi might have developed a lesser version of his abilities and was just now coming into her powers.

He inspects the wall. It’s a small dent, but clearly in the shape of a doll. He can fix it, he’s picked up a number of skills during his time in the multiverse, but he isn’t sure how you’re going to react to the truth.

“What did Ms. Y/N say when this happened?” He asks carefully, running calculations in his head of how much damage control he was going to have to do. You’re a reader, he knows this. Maybe he’ll hack into your laptop and see what kind of books you like. Buy you a first edition of your favorite book, or see if there’s any erotica, you’re fond of that he can read and put to good use to distract you.

Gabi’s brushing her doll Carmen’s hair in rapid jerky strokes, something she did when she was nervous. “Nothing, she just kept playing with me. Well…she seemed a little…tomada por sorpresa.” Trsl: take/taken by surprise.

He smiled at her lapse into Spanish. Gabi spoke both languages fluently, but he noticed a year or so ago that she’d picked up a quirk from him. They both tended to fall back on his first language whenever they were nervous or overwhelmed with emotions.

“Ah, well, Ms. Y/N just found out I was Spiderman last night.” He’s taking a gamble, telling her this. He knows Gabi can keep a secret, she’s been keeping theirs since she was little, but now that you’re involved, he isn’t sure how she’s going to react.

Gabi nods. “Well, that’s okay because you’re going to get married, and married people have to keep each other’s secrets, that’s what Auntie Monica said.”

His half-sister would say something like that…

“She is right, married people do keep each other’s secrets, but Gabi, Ms. Y/N have only known each other for a little while now, not even half a year. Most people like to know each other for at least a year before they get married.”

Gabi sets down her doll and her lips tick to one side in thought. “Yeah, I guess you should wait until the year is done, because if you marry her, then they might move me out of her class. Kids don’t get to be in their mom’s classes, apparently, it’s called a conflict of interest, but I just think it’s because then they’ll be the favorite. But I’m already Ms. Y/N’s favorite, so I don’t think it’ll be any different.”

Miguel laughs, he doesn’t mean to, but that’s his daughter, thinking three steps ahead while still attempting to get what she wants.

“It’s true!” Gabi pouts. “She’s still wearing the necklace we gave her!”

Yes, you are, and he is so thankful for that fact.

“You’re right, Mija, she is.”

She gives him a smug, satisfied ‘I told you so’ smile and begins to clean up her toys. “I bet if you asked her on a date, she’d say yes.”

“I think Ms. Y/N would say yes, but her job is very important to her, so she wouldn’t agree to go out with me until the year was finished.”

“So, you’ll just have to go on secret dates like in the telenovelas, me and Tia Margo watch.” Gabi says, nodding her head knowingly, as if this had been his plan all along, and she was just now catching on.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, a half exasperated, half amused smile on his face. “No more telenovelas for you, they’re giving you too many crazy ideas.”

Gabi throws herself into his lap dramatically. “No Papá, but I need them to live, they’re the only thing keeping my secret half-sister maybe actually my cousin alive.”

He laughs again and shakes his head, scooping her up and holding her above his head, making her giggle. “But I do not, for I am the evil tio and I want your half-sister maybe cousin gone, so I can steal her inheritance.”

“¡Monstruo!” Gabi gasps, her face an exaggerated look of horror and surprise. Trsl: You monster!

“Yes, I am an evil monster who says now it is time to go to bed, so you can wake up and have a good day at school tomorrow.”

Gabi wrinkles her nose, but nods, and he sets her back down. She throws her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder. “I love you, Papá.”

He hugs her back. “I love you too, Mija.”

If you haven't seen my answer to an ask, I will be going on vacay for 10 daysss, but I'll be back and will be picking this fic up once I return, so don't worry! I'm not abandoning it!!!!

Tag list: @miggyoharaswife, @badbishsblog, @imisshim2much, @wanderlustingcastaway, @lynn-9703, @sleepyamaya, @erensbbg, @sweetea85, @ilovemiguelohara, @natthernandez, @stxrrielle, @ihateuguys, @jenniferdixon05207, @blep-23, @luvisaaxoxo, @minimari415, @emerald-09, @violet-19999, @kenchosaikuo, @groovycass, @youcantseem3, @lovefks, @nightshxdex, @dusstory, @aesniri, @munsonssecretblog, @kirke-is-my-name, @starbearieee, @chatoicboy, @act1839, @needsleep3000, @totally-not-georgia, @witchy-lizard, @cxmeiloorun7, @justrandomlolidk, @chimpkinnuggies, @alicefallsintotherabbithole, @loser-alert, @wwwellacom, @ryantryan6969, @lollipopin, @blakeaha, @youcantseem3, @a-cult-leader, @verexi, @purpleskiesandroses, @they2luv1naia, @sophiaj650, @idolautism, @rheannajrs, @merakiq, @rexs-wife, @sukaretto-n, @twilight-loveer, @f1shb0nez, @callsign-blue, @marcelineormars

#miguel o'hara imagine #miguel o'hara fanfiction #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara x y/n #miguel ohara x reader #miguel ohara x you #miguel ohara x y/n #meg's writing #miguel's pastels #spiderman 2099 x reader #more good dad Miguel

[cinnbar-bun]

Mornings With You… (Crocodile x Reader)

Scenario: How they enjoy a morning with you~

Rating: SFW, pure utter fluff

Word Count: ~1.8k

Note: GN reader, fluff. MENA! Reader and MENA! Croc but basically ignorable honestly if you want. Reader and Croc smoke lmao.

A/n: You can rip Middle Eastern Crocodile from my cold dead hands I swear to GOD I do not care what anyone thinks THAT MAN IS MIDDLE EASTERN!! I AINT LISTENING TO ANYTHING ELSE!!! As a Middle Eastern woman, I just want to have this win. Just let me have it. Let me live in delusion. Let me pretend I am his housewife 😩

Breakfast was always an important part of the day for Crocodile. No matter the time, no matter the day, no matter the weather- he would always partake in breakfast with you. It didn’t matter if he would be late or miss a meeting, he would never skip out on his daily morning routine.

Today, unlike many other days before, he slept in. He had always dedicated this day of the week to you, and only you. If anyone had dared tried to interrupt this day with you, death would seem like a more sparing result than whatever hell he would unleash upon them.

Thankfully, no one was stupid enough to call him on his transponder, yet.

He scrunched his face as he recognized the sensation of the bright Alabastan sun beaming down on his face. He covered his eyes and noticed the window was open, the red curtains you had lovingly picked out fluttering with the gentle breeze. The palm trees outside were rustling as his thoughts drifted to the taste of the dates they often produced. He yawned and swung his legs over the bed, forcing himself up. He stood up and stretched, sighing dreamily as he smelled the scent of freshly baked bread.

He slid his feet into his soft house slippers while he threw on his satin robe, the one that had matched yours, as you insisted. Crocodile ran a hand through his hair, fixing many of the loose strands that had become unkempt after sleeping. He walked down the winding stairs of the large house. His eyes nostalgically glanced around the hallway and décor. Once upon a time, the hallway was barren, with nary even a rug on the floor.

But now, after marrying you, the house gradually became something entirely new- warmer, lovelier, lived in, and cared for. No longer was it simply a place he would crash at for the night, but a home. A home he had shared with you. Despite the many years it had been since the faithful day he had said “I do” at your ceremony, the fact his home had changed so much still would catch Crocodile off guard. On the wall, was a framed picture of you two in your wedding garb.

His lips twitched into a smile at the memory, as if that day were just yesterday. He didn’t look different, perhaps fewer wrinkles and gray hairs on his head, but his eyes were trained on you. You looked so beautiful that day, and the smile on your face made his heart race. You looked thrilled to be marrying him.

Crocodile chuckled to himself as he walked past the picture, stepping into the dining room that connected to the kitchen. You were there, plating olives in the wood trays you had gotten on one of your shopping trips. You glanced at him, smiling that beautiful smile that had him falling in love with you all over again.

“Habibi, good morning,” you greeted in your mother tongue, wiping your hands with a rag as you strode over to him and wrapped your arms around his neck. His functional hand gripped your waist, swaying with you gently as he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“It’s good because I see you, my love,” he replied, his voice still raspy from just waking up. You chuckled and kissed his nose, patting his shoulder a few times.

“Take a seat, breakfast is almost done,” you stated, and Crocodile complied by pulling out the wood chair to sit in. He watched as you went back to drying and plating the various olives you had bought yesterday from the market.

Once the tray was filled, you placed it in front of him and popped a pickled turnip in his mouth. He nodded agreeably as he chewed on the vegetable.

“Oh, these are sour,” he mused. The crunch of the turnips also showed how impressive this batch was.

“Mhm. Saleh’s crops have been wonderful right now,” you mention happily. “He also said he’s happy to set aside more for us for dinner next week. Oh, and before I forget, I need to visit his daughter soon. She just had her first child a while ago. Saleh was telling me it was a girl!”

Crocodile snorted. “Busy chatting it up as always?”

He was fascinated with how you managed to dazzle a room and become a friend to everyone. It did have many advantages in business, as many suppliers and partners had become friendly with you, enough to the point they would give him discounts or do special favors for him. But even beyond just business or how much easier your presence allowed him to get his goals achieved, he was amazed by how sociable you were. It was the complete opposite of how he behaved, often slinking to the background and watching below. But you? No, no, no, you were in the center of the room, chatting it up with a diplomat and a farmer as if they were long time friends.

He could watch you talk for hours, hear the stories of people he would never remember while you discussed their children with them. The laughs, the smiles, the curious looks, and even the short gasps at whatever one of his associates’ partners said to you- all of it was enthralling.

“Of course,” you laugh, placing a small oil cruet beside the vegetables. “You need to talk more, habibi, you can’t keep hiding away.”

He waved his hand. “No, you got that covered for me just fine. I doubt I could ever remember Saleh’s family tree. Tell his daughter congrats for me, will you?”

“I will, dear,” you say, stirring the contents in the pot. He sniffs the air.

“Foul?” He asks and you nod.

“Mhm.”

“What have I done to deserve you?” He dramatically asks. He grabs the furled-up newspaper by the table and is about to open it when you lightly hit his wrist with your spoon.

“No, no reading at the table. We’re going to eat!” You lectured.

“Fine, fine. No need for the violence,” he jokes, the both of you knowing damn well that little smack hardly did anything to him.

“Don’t be rude at breakfast and I will not need to do so,” you tease.

“You’re right. I’m sorry,” he apologizes with a smile. You respond by placing a plate of freshly baked pita bread and hummus with sumac and parsley on top. “My love, are you trying to fatten me up? Your bread is addicting.”

He takes one and tears it, dipping a piece into the hummus. He lets out a pleasured groan as he eats it.

“I swear to God, your food gets better every time.”

You press a kiss to his cheek. “Enjoy it, my love.”

He wraps his arms around you and pulls you into his lap. He’s careful not to hurt the remains of his left arm, since he refuses to wear his hook in mornings with you. You gaze into his eyes, full of love, and he strokes your hair. You get more beautiful every day, in a way that he cannot help but fall helplessly on his knees for you.

You kiss him on his lips before standing up. “I’ll put you some foul,” you say, picking up his bowl and putting a dollop of hummus on the bottom of it. You scoop up the foul before crushing the legumes further for him. You put a bowl for yourself and walk to him, placing his bowl in front of him while sitting beside him.

He begins to put the vegetables he likes on top of it, as well as some oil and lemon juice, before he digs in. It’s always pleasant to eat with you. It makes his day brighter when he knows he can just focus on you today. He’s lost in your voice, hearing you talk on and on about anything and everything- something he finds so amusing and relaxing. It’s so different from hearing discussions of business for hours on end.

He pours himself more bowls of your delicious food, not even realizing how much he’s eaten until he realizes nearly all the hummus and bread have been eaten.

“That was wonderful, darling,” he says, clearing his throat. “Do you have enough time for a smoke break?”

“I do, in fact, have time for one.”

“I’ll go make the hookahs for us,” Crocodile says, forcing himself up and grabbing the hookahs.

“I’ll go pour us the tea,” you grin, heading to the whistling kettle. He stuffs the top with the flavored tobacco- guava and citrus for him, (flavor) for you. He wraps the top with tinfoil and pokes many little holes into it with a toothpick. As you settle into your living room couch, he fills the bottom with water and heats the charcoal up. He gently places yours in front of you as you begin to turn on the snail to project your show.

An Alabastan soap opera is playing, and you watch with full attention towards it while Crocodile grabs his newspaper and sits on the couch across from you. He picks up the tea you just brewed for him, noticing its dark complexion.

“Good, it’s dark,” he comments. You roll your eyes playfully and click your tongue.

“Don’t drink it so dark like an old man, habibi. Not even my own grandfather drinks it as dark as you.”

“I find that hard to believe. Everybody knows a good chai is dark,” Crocodile retorts.

“Any darker and you might as well just eat the leaves itself.”

“Would you like any tea with your sugar?” He teases back.

“Fine. You go behave like a grandfather,” you chuckle, putting the hose of the hookah between your lips.

“You married me,” he reminds you. You exhale a puff of tobacco, your eyes glued to the projection. A male character comes on screen, talking to the female lead. You sigh and click your tongue again, this time from disappointment.

“This man, again? I can’t believe she even gives him the time of day. Eat shit!” You yell at the screen.

Crocodile raises a brow at you and laughs.

“What’s wrong with him? Why do you hate him so much?”

“Womanizing garbage,” you explain. “He went for her sister while he was trying to court her. And God forbid he take accountability when called out!”

Crocodile glances at the projection, watching as the man looks longingly at the female lead’s sister. “Could he be any more obvious?”

You two laugh as he goes back to reading his paper and smoking. You take a sip of your tea, not noticing how Crocodile’s eyes shift towards you. He lets out a quiet sigh in relaxation while you are engrossed in your show.

He thinks to himself once more how he adores those slow and loving mornings with you.

#one piece x reader #one piece #one piece oneshots #sir crocodile x reader #sir crocodile #crocodile x reader #x reader

[bisexual-horror-fan]

Hear me out!

Sam’s killer side is more dormant and her bloodlust is out of control and she’s feeling the overwhelming need to kill someone. By this point, she’d stopped trying to fight it. Reader is a friend/girlfriend who knows enough about Sam and her urges to offer her a substitute; letting her fuck you stupid. As kinky as you can think of with sprinkles of blood play, knife play, heavy degradation and praise. Sam 100% has a strap, she just does and loooooves to make her choke on it. You didn’t really believe Sam would hurt anyone and you’d never seen her kill anybody first hand before but by the time she was finished with you, you knew that she was far more than capable and the thought of that was nothing short of a turn on.

Oh, Anon. You were the first person to submit for the Ghostface Sam fic prompts, and you nailed it in one. So here we are! My first Sam Carpenter fic! And the first fic of the new year! Let's get into it, I hope this is dirty enough for you!

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Rating. Explicit. Length. 3.8K. Ghostface! Sam Carpenter X FEM! AFAB! Reader. She/Her Pronouns. Warnings: Blood. Mentions Of Murder. Begging. Oral Sex. Cunnilingus. Face Sitting. Cum Eating. Strap On Sex. Spanking. Knife Play. Blood Play. Knife Used As A Makeshift Sex Toy. Multiple Orgasms. Squirting. Praise. Degradation. Dirty Talk. Rough Sex. Sam Is Mean. You Love It. Edging. Mild Orgasm Denial. Asking For Permission.

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"Make It Hurt."

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The itch is becoming completely unbearable. How is she meant to cope with this? Nothing is able to keep her mind off the intense want to maim and destroy. 

She should be happy. Her last spree went so well, she got away scott-fucking-free, everyone views her as the helpless survivor of an attack when in reality she did it and framed the real victims. It’s been months, far too long, and she is feeling the urges bubbling up inside of her once again. She can’t go around killing without some sort of plan, it’s just asking to get caught and if she ends up in jail then she’ll never get to again. A complete nightmare, and one she wants to do everything possible to prevent. 

It is to the point she is having trouble sleeping. Other hobbies are dull and lifeless, she has low motivation, food is bland, her mind is just consumed with thoughts of running through warm bodies with cold steel, of slicing, cutting, draining every single last drop of blood from a person. She needs to plan appropriately so she can hopefully satisfy her bloodlust, but she’s waited too long, the planning stage isn’t working as it normally is, it’s not fun, it’s frustrating her even further. She doesn’t want to plot, she just wants satisfaction now, she wants to feel the hot spray of blood hitting her face, soaking into her clothes, she isn’t able to pull the creative resources she needs from herself to do what the job would require, the well is dry. 

You wake up to find her side of the bed empty and long gone cold, rolling over your check your phone, it’s past 3 AM. You groan and sit up, why isn’t she in bed? Furthermore, you’d insisted she get some sleep with you tonight, she’d been up late a lot this week, and you could see how restless and antsy she was getting, irritable and unable to keep her mood even. You get out of bed, pausing to get your robe off the hook on the back of the door, you pull it on and tie up the belt at your waist as you leave to go find her. 

Sam is unable to sleep, she’s in the living room in the dark, a favoured gore fest of a horror movie on the TV and her favourite knife in her hand. She has her feet up, one hand is playing with a lock of her hair curling it around her finger, winding and unwinding it over and over, the opposite hand occupied with flipping the knife, a casual but impressive trick, the flick of her wrist practised, natural, complete muscle memory. She is still dressed in what she wore to bed, braless in the well fitting and tight white t-shirt, cotton dove grey shorts that creep high up her thighs. You lean against the wall and watch her for a moment. 

You know what this is, you can see it in her body language, the tension is radiating off of her. She is unfulfilled, she is craving to hurt, she wants to kill, enact things she is watching on the screen, the desire to spill blood is overtaking her. She is smart, calculating, she knows that now is not the right time, but that doesn’t change the frustration she feels. You wish she could do what she really wanted to, but you know just as well as her it’s a bad fucking idea. 

You knock quietly on the wall, and it makes her react immediately, sitting up, even more tense, she stops flipping the knife, gripping the handle, her head turns and upon seeing you she relaxes slightly. She slumps back into her original position, still holding the knife, she says quietly, “Hey.”

You walk over, returning her greeting, “Hey yourself.” Taking the seat next to her, you look over to her, a hand rests on her thigh, and you ask, “You okay?” 

“Can’t sleep.” She sighs, and you laugh lightly, your hand squeezes her thigh, “Yeah, I can see that.” 

“Sorry, I know you hate waking up alone I just, I couldn’t keep lying in bed awake-” Her dark brown eyes meet your gaze, and you lean closer, shushing her, “Stop that, you’ve got a lot on your mind right now clearly, stop worrying so much about me.” 

You are much more concerned about her than yourself, you adjust, one knee on the couch, you lean over further, one hand still firmly on her thigh and the other on the backrest of the couch. “I know what’s up with you-” 

A dip of your head, your lips brush hers, a small peck before you pull back, continuing your thought, “-all pent-up, like you are locked in a cage, unable to do what you really want.” 

She leans up, steals a kiss, and you indulge her momentarily before breaking it again, “We both know you can’t, not till you relieve some of this stress, so…”

Your hand leaves her thigh, fingers curl around her wrist and pulling up her hand, you have her slip her fingers through the opening of your robe over your chest, let her get a handful of you, arching closer into her touch you offer yourself up, “Take it all out on me.” 

Her breath hitches, she doesn’t pull away, in fact her touch gets bolder, greedier, feeling you up, your lips barely an inch apart as she responds, “Baby, I can’t do that, I’ll hurt you-”

“I want you to hurt me. You need to draw blood to feel better? Why not mine?” Your hand is off her wrist, instead it latches onto her hand, the one holding the knife. Your head moves, gives some more breathing room, you hold the blade to your own thigh, exposed between the folds of your robe, the one you are kneeling on. You press, drag the unyielding silver over flesh, and you gasp from the jolt of pain, both of you watch as the skin splits and crimson begins to drip. Her resolve is splintering, you whimper out, “Please Sam?”

Those two words, that plea, begging, unlocks something in her. Makes some part of her snap, the last vestiges of self-control are abandoned in short order. 

She practically drags you back to the bedroom. 

You think at first she is going to have you on the bed, toss you onto the comforter and plush sheets, no that is apparently too good for you when she is in the mood, and you know that because she tells you as much. She pushes you down onto the dark hardwood floor, your eyes are questioning, which leads her to tell you, “C’mon sweetheart, you told me you wanted it to hurt, and I’m going to give you just what you asked for.” 

She’s standing over you, passing the knife from hand to hand, sadistic smile playing on her lips and as she stares down at you, her look tattles on her thoughts, she's considering what to do with you, playing around mentally with just what she wants to do to you first. You watch as she starts to take her shorts off, knife still in one hand, she drops the fabric onto the floor and then next she is removing that all lace black panties she had on underneath, and you are already salivating at the view of her. 

Your eyes are locked between her legs, you love every single part of her, but you’d be a filthy fucking liar if you couldn’t be honest about how much you adored her bare like this. You roam, from the well maintained patch of black hair to her prominent clitoral hood and the plump lips you could suck and toy with for hours. 

You get your wish, she knows you well and what you are craving. She moves, standing over you and then lowers herself down, her knees on either side of your head as she straddles your face. Hands move on instinct, you reach up and grip her hips, moaning against her as soon as the flavour of her hits your tongue. Swiping up through her folds, getting a better taste before passing over her clit, you hum indulgently and repeat the motion. Over and over, taking care to spend more time focusing on that most sensitive part of her. She is moving her hips, grinding herself down on your lips and tongue, with a deep moan, “Fuck, you are the best little cunt eater around.” 

You preen under her praise, it makes you work harder to please her, sucking deeply, eyes falling closed with another hum that makes her body buck on top of you. She is loving this, riding your pretty face, and you love it too, the taste of her, getting her wetter and wetter, listening to her moans and feeling her thighs clenching around your head. It is bliss, it is your purpose, to be used for her pleasure and enjoyment, nothing is better. 

She reaches back and her fingers press on the cut on your thigh, the blood had slowed significantly and the rush of pain makes you moan louder against her. “What a pain slut you are. I bet if it touched you that you’d be fucking soaked.” 

You know that to be true, your thighs rub together, and you feel the wetness staining them, you want some attention for yourself, but you want to keep pleasing her much, much more. You forget your own leaking cunt and choose to continue focusing on her instead. 

She rolls her body again, her wetness is all over your face, it had started to run down your chin, you feel it on your neck. Your fingers squeeze her hips, and you continue to eat her out, you knew you were affecting her, her dirty talk is becoming more fractured, moaning much more. “God yeah-ugh-there you go, jus-just like that, ohhh, suck that fucking clit like you mean it.” 

Her body starts to react in that way that you know all too well, tensing, breath coming in shorter gasps. She hadn’t even been riding your face for that long, but you were exceptionally skilled at this, had more than enough practice and knew how to get her off quickly, adept at giving her powerful orgasms with nothing more than your mouth. Knowing much better than to stop now, you keep going, unrelenting, feverish, you continue your current action, having pulled her clit into your mouth, tongue flicking over it while it is encased in the wet heat of you and in less than a minute more you are rewarded with her cumming on your face. You never grew tired of this, of her shuddering on top of you through her release, the minute movements as she wrung out every bit of sensation she could, the near guttural moan of your name that would pass through her lips. 

It made you leak more, clench around nothing, long to feel the same.

Her body becomes still, but her breathing is still erratic, she raises up on her knees a little to give you some breathing room. You are staring up at her, you watch with rapt interest as she removes her shirt and tosses it, leaving her totally naked still on top of you. She is looking back down at you, a half smile playing on her features, one that is dangerous. She sets the knife down on the floor, and you know better than to even think about going for it. After a moment more to recover, she is getting up, ordering you firmly to, “Stay.”

You do as you are told. Laying there on the floor as you watch her move, she steps over you and out of your line of sight, you don’t even dare to turn your head to follow where she goes. You hear the opening of some drawers, you know what she is after. You hear her speak from somewhere behind you, “Strip.” 

Hands scramble, rushing to comply, you take your robe off and toss it into the far corner of the room, leaving you totally bare. Sam insists you sleep naked, much prefers having you open and exposed, something you do not mind at all and do for her willingly. The floor feels hard and cool against your back, you have no real time to rest, you hear her footsteps coming close again and then there are fingers in your hair, they twine and twist, she pulls, tugging hard, “On your knees' whore, now”

You suck in a harsh inhale through your teeth, the sharp stab of pain radiating down the base of your skull, and you do as asked, getting up onto your knees, her firm hand guiding you. She’s back in your field of vision now, and she’s gotten her favourite toy to use with you, her strapless strap on. 

It is dark purple and looks striking, totally stunning against her skin, it’s long and thick as it sits heavy between her legs, jutting outwards, it’s ribbed and whenever she has you it fills you up beautifully, hits all the best spots. In short, it makes you into a totally blissed out well fucked mess whenever she fucks you with it. With no straps, the way it is secured is with a curved and rather bulbous end that she inserts into herself, gives her something to clench on and when she gets into a good rhythm with fucking you it presses over and over into her g-spot. Further still, the toy contours and curves with her body, a textured pad right behind the shaft that pushes against her clit, giving her a completely perfect way to stimulate herself with ease while she is fucking you, every thrust in and pull out, hitting her both externally and internally. 

You knew this next part very well. You needed to prep her strap for you to take it, you were soaked, totally dripping, but with how rough she was every bit helped. She pulls you near, and you move willingly, mouth opens, and with her other hand on the base of the toy she guides it between your lips. Cool silicone passes over your tongue as you close around it, you bob your head down, taking about half of the toy before pulling back, keeping just the tip between your lips. You loved when she made you blow her, she keeps pulling on your hair, guiding you, making you slide up and down her shaft, coating it in spit as you suck it. “You are so perfect, you know that? Just as cock hungry, right?”

You nod, eyes looking up at her as you work, focusing on blowing her and putting on a good show, but more than that too, when she makes you take it deeper? A hand on the back of your head, forcing you to take it as deep as you could, you choke and gag, when it hits the back of your throat she moans, you know this part feels the best. Whenever the tip of that dildo hits on something more solid, it provides a delectable jolt of pleasure for her. Both her hands are in your hair too, tugging and pulling, leading you to suck, drool is running down, drops landing on your own chest as she picks up the pace, moving her hips, fucking your face. 

You gag so hard you start to tear up, “Pretty, pretty girl, you look best with tears all over that face.”  You loved how she spoke to you, the mix she strikes of praise and degradation, of warmth and filth, it makes your blood sing. 

When you gag again, a bit too hard, that kind of gag that makes your pace falter and the tears finally start to fall she clucks her tongue disapprovingly, “Are you even trying?”

You nod and Sam urges, “Show me then. Prove me wrong.” There is a light slap to your cheek that makes you inhale sharply though your nose and work harder. You want to please her, you do the tricks you know, you try to get a handle on your breathing, you squeeze your thumbs in your fists to help tame your gag reflex, and you push yourself. When she is moaning in that particular pitch, you know you are doing well. 

You are doing so well in fact that she pulls the spit soaked shaft from your mouth, and she pushes you down, “Face down ass up.”

Your face is put down right there, into the mess that has collected, drips of spit and her arousal staining the wood, and your cheek is put into it, and you don’t fight it. She gets behind you, a rough slap to your ass that makes you groan, she loves how it sounds so she lays down a few more as she gets on her own knees. 

“You are leaking everywhere oh my God-” She laughs, but there is no malice in it, she spanks you again, the pain is slight but strong, burning, you take it just as she wants you to and then all of a sudden hurt gives way to ecstasy. She slid inside of you with no issue, complete ease, because just as she said you are drenched. How could you not be, after all the build up and what she said to you? How she treated you. Her hips are flush with your ass, she is completely inside of you, and she moans, grinding herself against you, and you moan too, after inhaling you finally push out that sound showing how good it felt. 

She pulls out halfway before slamming back into you to the hilt, the sensation rockets up your spine, the force of her thrust makes your body move, your cheek drags through the mess it is resting in and you moan. “Awe, you like that?”

You nod weakly, inhaling shakily, and the end breaks off into another choked off sob, “Course you do. You are so nasty, getting fucked face down in a puddle of drool.” She starts an even and steady pace, her hips slamming into yours, the sound of skin on skin filling the space of your shared bedroom. 

“Depraved, disgusting-” She changes the angle, brushes that place inside you that makes your nails bite into the wood below you and cry out, “Right there!”

Another hit to your ass so hard that you yelp, she degrades you further, “I know where it is. You are stupidly easy to please, then again, all bitches like you are.” 

“Sam, oh my God-” You gasp, and she laughs, “Sam, oh my Godddd-” she taunts, parroting back what you said, letting you really hear how needy and pathetic you are. 

“Aren’t you even a little embarrassed?” She asks, and you moan out, “Noo-ooohhhh-” 

“Course you aren’t, you’ve got entirely no shame.” She muses, her breathing is picking up as she is slamming into you, knowing she has found a particularly good rhythm that is working for her just as well. You are so consumed with everything she is doing to you that you don’t hear the sound of metal scraping, you don’t register her picking up the knife. 

You feel it. 

She cuts, desperate to harm and see more blood. The cuts are quick, light, surface level and each one is punctuated with another brutal thrust into you. One over your hip, outer thigh, the curve of your breast, you sob from each cut, hiccuping and wet and moan, deep and long from each hit of the head of her false cock on that swollen spot inside of you. The blood pours, it joins the mess on the floor, she presses her fingers to the wounds, causes more pain, you clench around her, she holds pace, but it gets messier, sloppier, she’s going to cum and you are so fucking close. 

You are a pain slut, but the bright bursts of hurt are keeping you on the opposite side of the edge, she can tell, you are struggling, crying, desperate, “Awe, you havin’ trouble cumming baby?”

“Ye-yes!” You whine, she tsk’s, “Need some help?”

“Puh-lease?!” You don’t give a shit how pathetic you sound any longer, all you know is the intense and all consuming need to cum already. You are dripping down your thighs, totally frustrated and keyed up, you feel like if you don’t cum soon you might die, it’s hard to breathe, as if you are drowning, choking on sensation itself. 

“Okay, I’ll help you, sweet thing.” You feel her move, her tits press into your back, her arms loop around you, one around your middle, over your waist and the other hand, the one still holding the knife is between your legs. The smooth and rounded end of the knife is dragged over the fresh cut on your thigh, it hurts, you yelp again, she catches the mess of blood, and then it is pressed to you. She used the blood for lube, the end of the knife was being pressed to your straining clit, she moves it in tight circles in time with her thrusts and having both spots abused inside and out has you falling apart in less than ten more thrusts. 

You don’t forget yourself, still, before you do tip over, you are good, you ask, “Sa-Sam, close, please? Fuck, fuck, please?!” It spills out in a rushed babble, breathless, she is panting too, and you can tell by the tone of voice in her reply she is near her end too, “Fuck yeah, good girl do it, you’ve earned it-”

That’s more than you need for it to happen. You cum so hard, you make a mess, moaning incoherently and loud enough you are positive you will get a noise complaint, thighs feeling like they will give out, shaking, sweaty, bloody, cunt spasming around her shaft still driving in and out of you as you squirt onto the floor. 

She loves when she makes you squirt, she is fucking you through your complete high, the mess is on her too, running down her toy and over her own slit, down her thighs, and it is enough to make her reach her end too. Your name stains her tongue as she peaks and holds deep, she grinds through the aftershocks of your orgasm, your body feels heavy and weak, the only thing holding her up is you. She doesn’t relent, over stimulation starts to set in, and you beg, “Stop, fuck-”

She drops the knife onto the floor, and you breathe a sigh of relief. Her hips have completely stopped, she is just sitting inside of you. Both of you are catching your breath, you ask, “Feeling better?”

“It’s a start.” She hums, and you laugh lightly, eyes falling closed, she slowly pulls out, and you wince slightly, feeling fucked out and sore in the best way, “Don’t get too comfortable, you have to clean me up still.” 

You knew she meant not only the end that was just inside you, but the one that was still resting snugly inside of her. 

#Ghostface x reader #Sam Carpenter x reader #Slasher x reader #BHF asks #BHF writing #HERE WE ARE #ENJOY THE FILTH #Scream 6 x reader

[avocado-writing]

Hello, hope you're doing okay! 😊

About that good omens requests 👀 how about reader finding out Crowley has been living in his car so they offer for him to move in? At first it's all awkward but they quickly fall in a weirdly domestic routine?

Would also love to see Aziraphale's reaction when he finds out the two has been living together. 😀

notes: avo don’t mention bakeoff in a fic challenge level impossible

pairing: crowley x reader

rating: T

Day 1:

“Your car?! Crowley, you can’t be serious.”

He’s certain he’s told you about his living situation. Well. He was certain. You’re looking at him now with such horror it’s like he kicked a puppy in front of you, and he wonders if perhaps he let it slip his mind. 

“I don’t have the flat any more, do I? Where else am I meant to go?”

You open your mouth to retort and then realise… where can he go? Aziraphale’s? God, you love the angel, he’s one of the best friends you have — but he is a bit obtuse when it comes to social things. And you’re not sure Crowley actually has any money, so he can’t rent anywhere else to live. 

Well, no matter. You shan’t let it stand for a moment more. 

“You’re moving in.”

“What?!” he looks appalled. You put your hands on your hips. 

“I’ll have no complaining, Crowley. That car is not a home. You’re coming to live with me.”

You’ve been with Crowley for a couple of months now. This is perhaps expediting the process of a relationship - the moving in stage usually takes a bit longer - but you’re pretty sure this constitutes an emergency. He is, for all intents and purposes, homeless. 

Besides, having a live-in boyfriend might be nice. He could make you tea. 

So that evening finds the two of you unloading his few possessions from the car and finding space for them in the flat. He takes a long while to work out where the best place is for his house plants, but eventually the two of you are left sitting on the couch surrounded by your joint belongings. 

“Would you like a room to yourself? The spare is my office at the moment, but I can always move my desk into my bedroom.”

“Do you want me to have a room to myself?” he asks, arching an eyebrow over his sunglasses. 

“Well, no, I want you to share the double with me—”

“Then there’s no conflict of interest, is there?”

You smile and he kisses you. 

Day 2:

It doesn’t feel strange, waking up with him next to you. He’s slept over a couple of times at this point. What does feel odd is the way he doesn’t head off as you start to make breakfast, instead he asks to borrow a towel and use the shower. 

He doesn’t even have any bloody towels, you think, but acquiesce to his request. 

He spends a lot of time in the shower. You’re not sure how hot he has it running, but by the end of the affair steam is leaking out from the gap between the bathroom door and your stone tiling. When he emerges with the towel wrapped up on his head, it is with a billow of clouds. 

“Have you turned the extractor fan on?” 

“Hmm?” he asks, looking up from drying his hair. He hasn’t manifested anything on his body, so he’s smooth as a Barbie doll - it’s a bit disconcerting just having him stand there like that. You try not to look at the featureless mound. 

“Extractor fan!”

He sighs and moseys back into the bathroom, walking into the wall a little where his glasses have fogged up. 

As you watch your flat fall foul to condensation, you consider that this might take some adjustment. 

Day 3:

“Bake-off tonight.”

“Must we?”

“We must.”

Crowley groans and flops onto the sofa. It occurs to you that you’ve never actually seen him sit. He’s always flopping, like everything is constantly far too much effort for him. 

“Please, it’s a show made with the sole purpose of torturing me. It’s so… twee.”

“Well buckle in, matey. We have ten weeks of it.”

“Ugh.”

“You can go and read in the bedroom if you prefer.”

“Fine. I will.”

But he doesn’t move an inch and complains throughout the whole program. However he does swing his legs up onto yours for comfort. 

Day 7:

You’re falling into a routine. 

You wake up, perform your ablutions in the bathroom, then start on breakfast. The sound of the kettle lures him out of bed and into the shower. He spends so long in there you don’t bother making him a drink, instead you wait until he deems it fit to emerge and he reboils the leftover water. He takes his coffee black and the two of you chat about your plans for the day. 

Unfortunately you have to work. You have a pretty well-paying job so the slightly increased energy bill and thoroughly increased water bill aren’t too much of an issue, but it does mean you can’t spend as much time with him as you’d like. 

At least the flat is always spotless, though. To be fair to him he is an efficient housekeeper. There’s always a new configuration for the plants, too, as if botanical feng shui is all he does while you’re away. 

It’s nice. It’s… domestic. And it’s utterly Crowley. 

Day 30:

His belongings are mingling with yours now. Combined bookshelves with his new purchases. His record player set up on your side table with a mix of records. He has a special blend of tea which sits right next to your earl grey, and a single black mug which stands out against the rainbow of your collection. 

At night he wraps around you and tangles his legs with yours. His hand slides onto the plain of your stomach and you thread your fingers through his while he feels you breathe. 

He no longer wears his sunglasses around the flat. 

It is wonderful. 

He still claims not to like Bake-off. 

Day 45:

“Crowley? Why can I smell burning?”

You know he’s opening his mouth to lie, deciding against it, and instead making the choice not to say anything at all. Bracing yourself, you walk into the kitchen. 

“Oh! Crowley…”

“Not a word,” he says, trying to finish the decoration on the chocolate cake. It stands three tiers tall and, though the kitchen is a mess and he is somehow covered with buttercream, you can tell he’s actually pretty proud of himself. One last squeeze of the icing bag and he’s done, triumphant and grinning at his creation. 

“Why all this?” you ask. He shrugs. 

“You said the cakes looked good on Bake-off last night. Figured they couldn’t be that hard to do.”

“And do you still stand by that assessment?” you wipe some icing off of the tip of his nose. 

“Just eat the bloody cake.”

You laugh, and you do. It’s delicious. But not as delicious as the kiss he gives you. 

Day 64:

“You’re living together?!”

You peer up at Aziraphale from over the top of your novel, then exchange a glance with Crowley.

“Well, yes.”

“For a couple of months now actually, angel.”

“You never told me!”

You’re certain you did, but don’t object. He’ll get all persnickety if you do. 

“Did you not think it was strange we always took the Bentley ‘home’ together?” is what you say instead. “And that we always arrive at the same time, too?”

Aziraphale fumbles for words and comes up empty. He settles on:

“Hmm. Well, I expect to be invited over for dinner.”

“Of course. Crowley will make dessert.”

The angel’s eyes light up, and Crowley looks at you as if you’ve cursed him. 

Taglist: @angiestopit@dazed-soul@foolishprincipalitee@smile-eywa@staygoldsquatchling02@underratedboogeyman@specter-soltare@cool-ontherun-world@emilynissangtr@willbedecided@cool-iguana@this--is--music@ilyatan@lxsm2@clarina04@wtfhasmy-lifecometo@mrgatotortuga@wereallbrokenangels@night-affiliate@kimqueenofhell@chewbrry @bajablast23 @h3k3t@am-i-obsessed---maybe@bakerstreethound@darktealrat@chaospossum@belilwen@rex-ray@hunterispunk

#crowley x reader #david tennant x reader #my writing #request

[devilmademewriteit]

completely inspired by a gif set u reblogged. Javi helping you into a bullet proof/tactical vest. you’re scared and he just says a gentle “arms up” as he secures the velcro. he’s scared as well, doesn’t wanna lose you, doesn’t want you to get hurt. but it’s like the fear, the adrenaline, has your emotions haywire and you look into his eyes as he takes hold of your hand so gently and tells you that you’re gonna be okay, and you just want to kiss him, and he wants to kiss you too, but then it’s time to go, and he tells you “later”

IDK WHAT THIS IS LMFAO Javi brings the slut outta me

you’ve inspired me anon here is a TINY FIC/DRABBLE YEEEEEEEE

pairing: javier peña x fem!afab!reader

warnings: fem!afab!reader; use of pet name ‘sweetheart’; canon-typical allusions to violence; language; ANGSTY POO

omg I can’t believe there’s no smut. GUYS I WROTE SOMETHING WITHOUT SMUT. I loooove writing my javi tho so while im busting my ass working on Salvatore part 3 feel so free to leave me lil thingies like this.

-em<3

—

“Hope is a dangerous thing for a woman like me to have, but—”

It was never supposed to be like this.

It was just a summer job — something safe, boring, admin and agendas and addendums. Should’ve known better, taking a government job in the world’s most dangerous city.

She should’ve known better, taking a government job in the world’s most dangerous city. Shit. My chest feels like it’s on fire, burnin’ through kerosene.

Is she gonna clock how unsteady I am?

Javi’s footsteps echo down the nearby hallway; you recognize them immediately, and their slanted, hard-right-drag-left rhythm. He comes lumbering through the door, cradling tactical gear between his big, bulging biceps. God, you’d had… thoughts about those biceps.

Even now, with the embassy under cartel-siege, it’s oh-so-hard to push away the x-rated daydreams swirling inside your stress-addled mind.

And he doesn’t look scared.

Fuck, she looks so scared.

“Here,” he says, extending the protective vest towards you. Gingerly peeling your hips off of the desk at your back, you extend your fingers to greet and grab at the rough, thick canvas. The sheer weight of it makes your heart lurch into your throat. Neither one of you lowers your hands.

The dark-green-death-sweater you’d seen him wear so many times, cursing yourself for registering, for caring about what it meant.

That it meant Peña — schmoozing, cocky, effortlessly crude Javier Peña — was going into the field.

So neither of you let go.

The stupid vest had always served as a kind of divining rod, leading you both to the real source of your constant bickering, your irritation and the look of mutual, unabashed worry you had shared as a soldier came bursting into the office, panting in tune with the sirens, carrying news of the currently unfolding attack.

Caring without meaning to.

Giving a shit without wanting to.

“I-“ you swallow, trailing off, cursing the swelling bubble forming at neck-breaking speed inside your throat, “I don’t know what to do with this.”

Of course she doesn’t. That one’s on me. ‘Thing like her should never have to wear one of these.

Shouldn’t even have to see one of these.

“S’okay,” he mutters, taking the burden of the gear into his hands, brow furrowing into a look of delicate responsibility. “Turn around.”

Under different circumstances, those words might’ve (embarrassingly enough) enticed a very different feeling from you.

Now, they were simply effective.

Acceding, you rotate, painfully slowly as every hair along your spine lifts, one after the other. Peña shuffles, adjusting both himself and the gear to stand close — too close — behind you.

“Arms up, sweetheart.”

You listen, dragging your arms up into the static air, trying to ignore the soft edge in his voice. It reminds you of something.

Something like resistance.

Stifled want.

Desire with a sock shoved down its bone-dry throat.

And it’s so level, so calm. How is he so calm?

Can she tell I’m totally freaking out?

Your shoulders sag under the weight of the vest. Jesus. It’s so much heavier than you’d imagined. Not quite as heavy as the feeling of doom settling over you, grief from the naive sense of safety you’d walked into work with.

Just this morning.

Javi busies himself with the Velcro, uncharacteristically silent. His knuckles brush the insides of your wrists, and you try to resist it — God, you really do — but all efforts to keep those prickling tears at bay are undertaken in vain.

You quiver slightly, face burning in shame.

Is she shaking?

Gentle, unusually gentle when his fingers wrap around your upper arm, spinning you around to face him once more.

“Look at me.”

You do. His shadowed eyes swim, dance, rage with experience, and you’re left envious, wishing that you’d hardened yourself to the world in the same way. How many times had this man woken up, driven to work, drunk his morning coffee and smoked his morning smoke, accepting that it could be his last?

Knowing Peña, he probably found ways not to think about it.

For sure, he didn’t think about it.

But you did.

Every time that vest came out.

“Everything’s gonna be fine, alright?”

It’s an almost whisper, a mere brush of air against your brow. His own creases in earnestness as he utters the pledge.

“How can you do this for a living?”

You don’t mean for it to come out so rough and jagged, hissing for help like a neglected kettle on the stove. Javi offers you a smile of understanding as though remembering his own first time.

Then, before either of you can stop it, he places the flat of his palm to your cheek.

And you can’t keep from noticing how easily the calloused pad of his thumb molds to your complying skin.

“You get used to it,” he returns, and every word is coated, soaked in the sad, tragic truth. “Though this part’s always hard.”

Nothing exists beyond the smell of tobacco on his breath and the total absorption in his eyes. You’re sure the latter is mirrored in your own, too.

Timid, uneasy, begging him to ease the discomfort for you. “What part is this?”

The part where I lie to you. The part where I bubble-wrap the only thing in this country worth protecting into a shitty, almost useless accessory of war.

The part where I remember—

Is it the part where we remember how easily we could lose each other?

And we don’t even have each other, for God’s sake. Lookin’ up at me as if she can trust me, and the only thing I’ve been able to trust for years is that the moment will come, that moment where it all just gets to be too much and fuck—is this it? Maybe—

This is the part where we—

Kiss her, God, I just wanna fuckin’ kiss her—

Kiss?

“Peña! Time to move!”

Murphy’s voice slices — easily — through the tentative moment of uncertainty. It erodes the softness of Javi’s features into that familiar, hardened stone.

His hand drops from your face, but the tracings linger.

If you couldn’t trust the world outside, maybe you could trust Javi inside. Maybe he’d learned to live without something to lean on, but you weren’t yet prepared to go on—

She doesn’t know how much I fuckin’ need her. Or how many times I’ve tried to say it—and in so many ways—but every time I open my goddamn mouth it just comes out… wrong. Like it’s not enough. Like it’s not true that I can finally fuckin’ breathe when she’s… just… existing around me. Like losing her wouldn’t mean goin’ on—

Faithlessly. Radically accepting the confusing, overwhelming uncertainty of the world.

He clears his throat.

“I’ll see you after.”

Your gaze tumbles down, averting the twinge of dishonesty in his own at his promise.

“Yeah—yeah, see you after.”

He backs away without turning. For a moment, you think he’s gearing up to say something. Something like he always says, like, don’t be a fuckin’ idiot, or use your head or maybe even a smile, sweetheart.

But he doesn’t. He just shakes his head, his dark hair tumbling around and exaggerating his hesitation. Although it hurts, you force yourself to watch as he walks away. How he bows his crown, brings a hand up to anxiously rub at the side of his jaw, the roundness of his shoulder responding and near-bulging under the blue cotton.

Admittedly, a kiss from Javier Peña would’ve been nice.

But to be cradled between those arms, wrapped up in him instead of the goddamn tactical gear squeezing, robbing the air from your lungs…

That would’ve been it.

When this is all over, you think to yourself.

And as Javi greets Steve, apologizing for the delay, the hand squeezing his gun feels strangely empty, haunted by the novelty of touching your burning skin.

When this is all over, he thinks to himself.

Anyways, isn’t that what faith is? Making plans for later, as if anyone’s ‘later’ is promised, a guarantee? As if either of you could count on tomorrow?

Yeah, that’s gotta be it.

Joining the gaggle of scared, hopeless government employees, desperate for reassurance, for the realization blooming inside the depths of your knowing; you pause, letting it hit you, translating it into words…

“—I have it.”

—

#javier peña x reader #javier peña x you #javier peña x female reader #javier peña #javier pena x reader #javier pena x you #javier peña x y/n #javier peña angst #javier pena narcos #javier peña fic #javier pena x y/n #javier pena #narcos #narcos fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x you

[demetris-cocksleeve]

hi, you may have seen my username recently in your notifications, i have gotten reobsessed with the arcana and i love your work.

may i request; the main six with a gn!partner who forgets/puts off taking care of themselves (eating, hygiene, etc.) unless theyre practically dragged off to do it? thank you!!

(A/n: I have and I appreciate all the support!❤)

Word Count: 1,944

Summary: If you won't take care of yourself, your partner will

Warnings: Various forms of self-neglect, Mention of injury/blood in Portia's, Reader's hair is long enough to put into a bun in Julian's

Age Rating: None

The Main 6 x Self Negligent! Reader

--------------------

Lucio:

"Who's a good boy?~"

Melchior flops over for belly rubs as you continue to coo at him, his female counter part having gone to lay down in the shade a bit ago.

"You are, you're such a good, handsome boy, aren't cha? Yes, you are! Yes, you are~"

You're in the garden playing with Mercedes and Melchior as you had been most of the day. Opting to enjoy your rare day of relaxation.

After a few more scratches to his kick spot, Melchior abruptly sits up before bolting behind you. Turning, you're met with the one and only, Count Lucio. You knew he'd show up eventually. He always does. Whether it's to bother you, escape the courtiers, or to genuinely spend time with you, the count always has a bit of time with you each day.

"Y/n." Never learned to properly greet, huh?

He strides over to the tree sheltering Mercedes from the blistering sun, plopping down uncountly to lean against it as well.

"Hey, Luci," You're lucky you're his partner or you'd never get away with calling him as such. "What's it today? Come to pester me about distracting the dogs? Or has Valerius been getting on your case again?"

He places a hand dramatically against his chest as he feigns innocence.

"What? I can't just visit you out of the kindness of my heart? I'm wounded, truly, I am."

"Har har. It was Volta, then?-"

"OH! I just can't stand it! How does she put so much away?? And the chewing noises-" He cuts himself off with a shiver. "Ughack."

There it is.

You can't help but laugh. "She really can out eat the best of them, huh?"

"Speaking of- Have you eaten today, darling?"

Uh oh.

"Yeah, totally!" You lie.

"That's good. The chef really knows his way around a duck," Lucio's hand fall to scratch between Merchior's ear as he rests his head in his lap.

You nod in agreement. "He really does," you hum.

"You know what's funny?"

"What?"

He spares a glance your way before returning his attention to the dogs.

"Lunch was veal, not duck..."

There's a silence before you rush to explain yourself.

"To be fair, I-"

"Uh uh, no excuses." Lucio stands, brushing the dirt off his trousers before offering you a hand up. "Let's go get some food in you, sweet."

There's no arguing with him, so you let out a sigh and let him hoist you up.

"Let's go, then..."

-

Portia:

"Hey, Y/n? Have you seen- Oh my god!"

Portia drops the basket she's carrying as she catches sight of your arm.

She rushes to you as you stand frozen in shock. Her outburst and sprint towards you happening a bit fast to process.

You're snapped out of it when she grabs your arm, gently guiding you to a wicker chair.

"What happened?" Her fingers lightly graze over the cut on your arm.

"I, uh, had a slip up with one of the garden tools."

She looks up at you as she asks, "When did it happen? Some of the blood's dry..."

"I don't know..." You look at you lap, "Maybe 1 or 2 hours ago?"

Her grip tightens. "Why haven't you bandaged it up?? I swear, you remind me too much of Ilya sometimes."

"I had a lot to do, so I figured it could wait." The branches above cast Portia's face in a scary light as she glares at you.

"You put off fixing your sliced open arm because you had work to do!?" Well, when she puts it like that...

"I'm sorry," you whisper, gaze still on your lap.

Her look softens. "Sweetie... I'm sorry for yelling at you. I just-"

She lets out a breath, "I know you forget to take care of yourself and I worry that one day, you'll get seriously ill or hurt and I won't be there to-" She cuts herself off and you don't say anything.

"C'mon," Portia pulls you up with her. "Let's get you patch up, hmm?"

As if she can sense your oncoming argument, she says, "You can finish your work after."

-

Julian:

You wince as your hair is tugged once more.

"Sorry! Sorry, love. I can't seem to get this hair tie out; it's got some hair tangled around it..." Julian says as he tries to pry the band out.

"It's fine. You don't have to do this you know. I should have stayed on top of it and not just thrown it into a bun."

"I know I don't HAVE to but I WANT to. I like taking care of you, which helps since someone-" he reaches around to bop your nose, "-forgets to do it themself."

"Got it!" With one final tug, the hair tie comes free of your tangled strands. "Do you still have the brush?"

You pass it back to him and make yourself comfortable against his legs. You already know it's going to take a while to get all the knots out.

Julain takes the brush in one hand and the best version of a section that he could separate and gets to work. A calm silence settles over the both of you as he works. He starts from the bottom, lightly dragging the brush through the tangles, his movements rhythmic as he moves the brush up bit by bit.

Once the section is done, he runs the brush from root to tip to ensure it's done.

Section through section, Julian combs through your hair, successfully detangling the week's worth of knots. By the time he's finished, you're practically asleep against him.

Brushing through your whole head once more, he finally speaks.

"We're finished, dear," He gently sits you up, laughing when you groan in protest.

-

Nadia:

"What do you mean they haven't eaten in two days!?"

Oh no. Here it comes.

You know she's not going to accept your reasoning, but you really wanted to get this done. So what if you were a bit hungry, you were on a roll and would lose your creativity if you stopped now. You're almost done anyway.

The door to your room opens and Nadia comes storming in.

"Mind explaining to me why the kitchen staff just told me you haven't even touched the food they've been bringing you the last two days?" She stands with her hands on her hips as she waits for your response.

"Um..." You know she knows. she just wants you to say it out loud.

Yielding, you finally say it. "I was working on something... It's for your birthday so I wanted to get it done."

She pinches the bridge of her nose. "As much as that is incredibly endearing, you shouldn't put yourself in dangerous situations for a gift."

You balk. "It's not a dangerous situation though. If I keep working, I'll have it done by tonight!"

"That would make it three days with no food, and I'm guessing no water if we stay on theme." You don't like how she read you so well...

Before you can't respond, Nadia continues. "What if it didn't get done today, or tomorrow, or the next day? How far would you push yourself to get this done? I know how passionate you get about things and that's why I'm so stern about it. You're willing to go 36 hours without food or water for a present; what if it was something bigger? You could, in all honestly, die because of your passion."

She's right. You hate that she's right, but she is nonetheless.

"That's not happening on my watch, petal. Let's get some food in you and then you can go back to work."

Yes! You thought she was going to ban you for the rest of the day.

"Only until dinner, then you're done for the day."

Damn it.

-

Asra:

"I'm going to start a bath, would you like to join me, Y/n?" Asra calls from the other side of the door.

You had been working on perfecting a spell for the last few days. You locked yourself in your old room-turned-study just in case something went wrong; only opening the door to grab the tray of food the magician would set out for you or to use the bathroom.

Unintentionally, you'd put off cleaning yourself, which is probably why Asra was asking.

A bath honestly sounded like pure heaven, but you were so close to getting the spell right.

Another knock sounds out and you sigh. You really should take them up on their offer, but what if you forget how you did it last time?

'That's why you've been logging every attempt,' you remind yourself.

'But what if-' 'No, you need to bathe.' You quickly scan your notes to make sure everything's in order.

Once you've concluded that every thing is as it should be, you call out a 'Coming' to your partner. You know he's still outside the door so you quickly put your things back in place and head to the door.

.

"Fucking hell..." You sigh as you sink into the hot water, leaning back to rest against Asra. The heat doing wonders for your sore back.

"Spending days hunched over a desk doesn't do much good for you, huh?" They tease you.

You simply hum in response as he grabs your favorite soap, lathering it up before massaging it into your tense shoulders.

"Relax, I've got you..." They rub over a particular spot that causes you to go lax. "Would you like me to help with your spell? I think I have some ingredients that might make it easier for it to do what you need."

"At this point, that's all I want," you chuckle.

"Thank you." you turn your head to press a kiss to his jaw.

"Anything for you, love."

-

Muriel:

"Y/n?" Muriel asks as he enters your shared room.

"Yeah?" You respond.

Have you ate or drank anything today? I don't think I've you leave the room today..."

"I haven't, but I'm plan to in a bit, I just want to finish this book first."

"Oh, okay." He turns to leave but pauses, turning back to you. "How much is left?"

"Uh..." you flip to the last chapter to do the math.

"Like, 16? Maybe 18. Why?"

Muriel stares at you for a moment before striding towards you. Once by your side, he gently grabs your book, marking your page and setting it to the side.

"Hey- What are you doing?"

He takes your hands as he answers, hauling you to your feet. "It's getting late, you need to get something into your system."

You're slightly taken aback, you have to admit. Muriel is rarely assertive; always mumbling or trailing off his sentences and just generally lacking confidence in himself. So for him to take the initiative to pull you from your reading with out so much as a stutter is a bit shocking.

"I know, but I already said that I'll do it once I finish my book." You lightly protest as you follow him through the hut.

"...You're not- You're not going to be able to finish it today, though..." Just like that any assertiveness is gone.

It makes you break, allowing him to sit you down and place a bowl of soup and a roll in front of you.

"Eat with me?" you request, taking a bite of the roll.

God, this man can cook. You don't know where he learned it, but he makes some of the best bread you've ever had -it practically melts in your mouth.

He nods, moving to grab his own food, sitting down across from you as you both talk about anything that comes to mind.

#julian devorak x reader #asra x reader #nadia satrinava x reader #count lucio x reader #muriel kokhuri x reader #portia devorak x reader #the arcana asra #the arcana count lucio #the arcana muriel #the arcana julian #the arcana nadia #the arcana portia

[daizymax]

descent to depravity | psh, cs (m)

summary: just when you think you have convinced yourself that the sinful creature who visited you all those nights ago was merely the product of a vividly erotic dream, he returns to you — and this time, he is not alone...

pairing: seonghwa x fem reader x san

genre: fantasy, smut

word count: 8.1k

rating: mature (18+)

warnings & features: part two of these wicked delights; incubus!seonghwa; incubus!san; profanity; supernatural elements; slight religious elements; graphic sexual content; dubcon; d/s roles without proper safety or aftercare; threesome; dirty talk; oral sex (f receiving); unprotected piv sex; multiple creampies

author's note: rewritten for ateez and reuploaded from my old blog. meant to upload this on halloween but oh well. heed the warnings and enjoy y'all.

( click here to read on AO3 instead )

---

It all ended in a dream.

Because it was never real. Of course it wasn’t. It was merely a strikingly vivid dream.

It had to have been.

That’s what you have been repeating to yourself in regards to the bizarre — and erotic — encounter you’d had with the mysterious, otherworldly creature months ago. It was both easy and difficult to write the experience off as some sort of demented fantasy brought to life during the worst dry spell you’ve experienced. After all, the dream has never once revisited your sleeping mind, despite plaguing many of your waking thoughts.

So when a wave of foreboding pinpricks trickles down your spine, paranoia makes you twist away from the bathroom sink to look behind you. Nothing seems out of the ordinary in your bedroom, however. There is no visitor sitting on the bed, nothing has been disturbed.

You close your eyes and shake your head, then resume brushing your teeth. But the tingles that linger at the start of your spine are just so familiar…

After you finish rinsing your mouth, you turn off the bathroom lights and shuffle tiredly to bed. Just as you pull back the covers to slip under them, you catch sight of two circular, red lights in the window from your peripheral vision.

It’s him, those are his eyes!

When you lift your head to get a proper look, the red glow has vanished. You step around your bed and up to the window to peek through the blinds, but the only lights to be found are the one reflecting off the rotund moon and the ones from the street lamps. There is nothing and no one to be seen — least of all a creature with eerie crimson eyes in the guise of a humanoid body.

You decide it was probably just some passing tail lights from a car and remove your fingers from between the blinds.

Switching off the bedside lamp, you do your best to push away the thoughts of the demonic being from your mind as you snuggle into your pillow. Your breathing and heart rate slow as you relax, lulled by the chirping of crickets and the occasional hum of car tires rolling by outside.

Just as you are finally sinking into slumber, something suddenly brings the hairs on the nape of your neck to attention. The pinpricks from earlier ripple over the entire expanse of your skin with greater force. Before you can roll over, your muscles are stiffened to total ineffectiveness, though the sound of his haunting voice would surely have frozen you just as effectively.

“Hello again, pet…”

The dehumanizing way in which he greets you is chilling, but you cannot shiver.

This is just a dream… you repeat your sacred mantra silently because your lips are sealed tight. This isn’t real…

“Ah. You wound me, child,” the creature laments in response to your thoughts. “I did not think it too terribly narcissistic of me to expect a warmer welcome, hm?”

“She is afraid,” drawls a second male voice, every bit as melodic as the first, “but not of you. Not directly. She is afraid to admit how much she truly enjoyed your last visit... and she is wondering who I am.” He reads and voices the question in your mind before it can even fully form.

“I have brought another of my kind to accompany me tonight, my pet,” the first one explains to you. “Think of his name as ‘San.’ Do you remember my name, child?”

You flinch again at the way he thinks of an adult woman as a child compared to his innumerous years, but not before your mind recalls the answer to his question.

Seonghwa…

He hums, seemingly pleased.

“You were right about this one being a desperate little thing,” the one named San muses. “The vibrations of her lust are remarkably strong for a human. I am curious to know if she is truly as sweet and supple as you claimed, Seonghwa.” The tone he accentuates on the name sounds like a tease, if you are not mistaken.

“You will still address me respectfully, novice,” Seonghwa bites back. “Especially if you wish to discover her sweetness for yourself.”

San does not seem to have any comeback for that and remains silent.

“I can sense that others of her kind have done the same in the time since I left her,” Seonghwa goes on. “There is a lingering stench on her skin that is not hers. Faint, but there, particularly between those supple legs.”

You feel your face heat up at the memories of your recent, meaningless hookups. You had been relieved to have finally quenched that previous dry spell with tangible encounters with real people, but the powerful creature’s tone fills you with a surprising sense of shame.

You try to gather your thoughts to form some sort of defensive explanation, but Seonghwa cuts you off.

“I am not upset with you for attempting to fill your baser needs, child,” he tells you almost soothingly. His voice is so sweet, so beautiful. “In truth, I am partly to blame for that. I told you our time spent together would take its toll, did I not? Our encounter has fueled the carnal desires I meant to sate, and now it is nearly impossible to sate them, isn’t it? You crave more and more. That is why I have returned and brought along another. Though San is younger and less experienced than myself, he is quite… voracious. And a quick learner. Between the two of us, you will never need to seek a lesser form of pleasure ever again.”

“Shall we begin, little one?” San asks without missing a beat.

A weight presses against your shoulder through your blankets, and you assume it is a hand. San’s hand, from the proximity of his voice. All of your movements and sounds are still constricted by the foreign yet familiar force held over you, however, and you are still rendered blind.

“She will not deny us, hyung,” the newcomer tells Seonghwa knowingly. “I know you can hear the blood thrumming in her genitalia. Her body is screaming for us to ravish it; there is no need to keep it bound. Release her. I want to hear her proclaim her wanton desires with her own tongue.”

Surprisingly, Seonghwa obliges the request, and a baited breath rushes past your lips the instant they loosen. You blink your eyelids slowly to allow your pupils to adjust to the scant light in your bedroom.

When you shift and look up, you recognize Seonghwa’s towering form standing in the shadows several feet from the foot of your bed. His black hair is swept back from his forehead, giving you a clear view of the eerie ruby eyes set in his ivory face, calmly observing you.

Next, you turn your head to the side to seek out your other ‘visitor.’ Your gaze first falls on the claw of a hand still resting on your covered shoulder. The fingers are slender and knobby at the knuckles; the nails are black and pointed. You feel heat swirl in your lower belly when you suddenly recall the way your inner juices had shone on Seonghwa’s fingers during your last tryst.

A hum of amusement draws your gaze upward to properly see the demonic figure looming over you, and you gasp softly at the sight of him. The fringe of his blond hair dangles into his crimson eyes; the orbs are a lighter, brighter shade than his elder’s. High cheekbones jut sharply out of alabaster skin. A tendon in his creamy neck flexes under your scrutiny. The thought that this could be Satan himself briefly flits through your hazy mind.

It is impossible to discern which of the two creatures is more beautiful.

San chuckles to himself whilst reading your mind, and the abyssal timbre of the sound — almost like music — makes you shudder.

“My companion is quite proficient at hearing unspoken thoughts, but he wishes to hear you speak your desires, pet,” Seonghwa says to you. “So, go on and tell us how desperate you are for us to use your body for our pleasure as we give you yours.”

“We cannot guarantee we will be gentle,” San inputs as a warning, “but all parties shall be sufficiently satisfied in the end.”

You look back and forth between the two hellish beings — taking a quick second to be thankful for having control of your body, unlike before — as you contemplate the situation. If these were normal men, there is no chance you would agree to this, no matter how good-looking they were…

Would you?

The mere presence of these beings makes you question your reality and your morals.

“Why does your mind dispute your body’s wants, little one?” San wonders aloud. He sounds genuinely curious. “Would you truly rather return to a slumber filled with fleeting, unfulfilling fantasies than have us drive you to the brink of madness one orgasm at a time?”

How easily your morals crumble from one salacious promise.

“Please...” you finally croak weakly.

San’s fingers tighten in the sheets. You wouldn’t be surprised if he has punctured tiny holes in the linen. “Please what?” he presses.

You lick your lips and utter, “Fuck me,” in a voice you can barely recognize as your own.

San finds something funny with your words and laughs darkly. “So crass,” he tsks, but sweeps the sheets from your body nevertheless.

In two swift, easy motions, he slashes your sleepwear to shreds, rendering you nude. The action startles you, and you automatically curl in on yourself out of sudden shyness.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Seonghwa tuts in disapproval. “Do not make me restrain you again, child. Be a good pet and let your master look upon what is his.”

He steps closer and coaxes your legs apart, not with unseen force, but with a manual graze of his large hands along the flesh of your thighs. His touch is light and frigid, and you shiver as you let your legs fall open. Once your center is visible to him, he traces the pad of his thumb along the outer circumference of your folds. There is a sort of reverence in his gentle touch.

From beside you, you notice San craning his neck to glimpse the view his elder is enjoying.

“San,” Seonghwa calls softly.

San obeys the unspoken command, moving to sidle beside Seonghwa in a motion so seamless he almost seems to glide across the floor. Your nerves tingle when both of their red gazes are fixed so intently on your naked pussy.

“You may proceed in discovering how sweet and supple our little pet is,” Seonghwa grants him, as though your body were his personal property to give away as he pleases. And of course he hears your silent (and justified) protest, because the next thing he says is: “Your body is my property, child. When I am here, I am the master, and you are the pet. My cohort and I will give you more pleasure than could ever be found behind Heaven’s gate, but on our terms. You must comply to our every whim because you are not in charge here, not even of your own body. Am I in any way unclear?”

His voice booms deeper on the last sentence. You meekly shake your head no.

Seonghwa hums and pats your thigh approvingly. “There’s a good pet. You may proceed, San.”

A wide, wolfish grin appears in the darkness below San’s glowing eyes. “Gladly.”

With that, he becomes a blur of motion from how fast he kneels to dive between your legs. His wide shoulders knock against your knees, and his fingers roam up your thighs to replace Seonghwa’s with a strong grasp. He drags you downward until your ass is even with the edge of the bed. When his nose nudges the folds of your cunt, he takes a moment to breathe the scent of you deeply, and your face burns hotter than you thought possible.

“Intoxicating, no?” Seonghwa asks as he moves out of the younger’s way.

“Indeed,” San agrees. His lips are cold but his breath is steaming hot as he ghosts over your sensitive skin.

Not another second is wasted before he pokes his tongue out to take that first anticipated taste of you. The muscle feels scaly and clammy, precisely the way you recall Seonghwa’s tongue. It is not entirely unpleasant, however — especially when it drags upward from the bottom of your slit to fit itself snugly between your petaled lips and inside your hole. The walls of your pussy instantly clench tighter at the sensation of being filled by the inhumanly long muscle.

“How is she?” Seonghwa — who has wandered up the side of the bed to stand at your side — asks. He busies an idle hand with one of your breasts, rolling and pinching the nipple almost absentmindedly. You automatically arch into his touch, and he smirks down at you crookedly.

San has to withdraw his tongue from your insides to murmur his response, “Even sweeter than you led me to believe, hyung. This one is quite a treat indeed. A sweet little flower.”

You can’t help but feel flattered by the compliment coming from the ethereally beautiful creature tonguing you in the most intimate of places.

Seonghwa grunts in satisfaction — and perhaps also a sense of validation — at his companion’s apparent enjoyment. The accompanied pinch he gives your peaked nipple sends a twinge of pain and pleasure straight to your core, and you are sure San is aware of the increased wetness pooling into his mouth. He starts licking wide stripes along your opening; back and forth, up and down. His actions are not done with much finesse, and the slurping sounds he is creating are more than a little lewd, but he does seem to be enjoying you, and having someone eat you with such gusto is a turn on of its own.

“Is he making you feel good, my pet?” Seonghwa asks, switching his ministrations to your other breast.

You nod and moan a breathy, “Uh huh.”

San seems to gain encouragement by your answer and begins mouthing at your pussy faster. His lips sweep against yours while his tongue digs deep. His actions are undeniably pleasurable, but you soon realize it isn’t enough when your clit is being neglected.

Seonghwa senses your mild frustration and speaks up on your behalf. “San, you selfish glutton, be sure to administer to her clitoris as well.”

“Her what?”

“Do you not remember? It is the small nub at the top of the human female genitalia that gives them great pleasure.”

San pulls back to study your pussy again. He quickly finds what he is looking for and brushes his thumb against it experimentally. You gasp and writhe your hips appreciatively.

“My apologies, little flower. Is that better?” he asks you in a tone both impish and honeyed.

You nod again and squeak out a tiny: “Yes.”

He directs his next words to Seonghwa. “Are you always this attentive to your pets’ desires during your time with them, hyung?”

“Of course. This one climaxed thrice when I last visited upon her,” Seonghwa says matter-of-factly.

“Hm. Well, we can easily reach that number with the both of us here,” San says. The circular motion of his thumb does not falter while he holds the conversation. “In fact, I am certain we will. My favorite part is watching them come undone and cry out for me as though I am their savior, after all.”

“It seems you still have quite some work to do on our little pet, then,” Seonghwa spits.

San grunts at the criticism, but rather than biting back, he returns his full attention to the task of undoing you. He bends to plant a rather kittenish kiss on the hood of your newly-found clit, then latches on to suckle at it. The graze of a sharp tooth elicits a gasp from you, and a succinct shiver courses throughout your body from the danger of having his fangs in such close quarters with a sensitive place.

“Mm, do not fear, little one. I wish to unravel you, not harm you,” San purrs. “Now let me hear those lyrical sounds spill freely from your lips.”

A whine issues in your throat at his words, but it is quiet and pinched. Hardly ‘lyrical’ at all.

“If you want her to sing for you, you have to make her,” Seonghwa says, unimpressed. He removes his hand from your chest to shove the younger demon’s face tighter against your center. His fingers twist in the blond hair. You can tell the action is far from tender.

As though a whip has been cracked, San groans and redoubles his efforts to gain the noises he so craves by adding a slender finger knuckle-deep into your dripping cunt. He curls it in slow but unmistakable ‘come hither’ gestures. The scratching of his jagged fingernail along your most delicate skin should by all means be painful, but it isn’t. Not in the least.

And you are by no means complaining.

“How did you ever fit inside of her, hyung?” San asks. “She is so tight around just my finger.”

“You will learn more of her tightness yet,” promises Seonghwa.

It does not take long for a trail of fire to ignite your nerves, sending your limbs twitching with pent-up energy and rising pleasure. The embers in your blood bring forth a thin layer of sweat onto your skin. Your breath comes and goes in shallow puffs as if your lungs have suddenly lost all holding capacity. Every hot, wet lashing the unholy creature’s tongue gifts you is a step you take closer to the brink, and the brink will soon be within tumbling distance.

Seonghwa, however, seems displeased by the rate at which San is building your climax.

“Do you consider this to be ‘unraveling’ her?” he hisses, fisting his fingers even tighter against his companion’s scalp.

San whines at the physical assertion bestowed upon him, and the vibrations of his sound travel through your center, all the way to the polar ends of your toes and fingertips.

“She is so easy, yet you are having to work so hard,” Seonghwa taunts. “Do better if you wish to achieve your own release tonight.”

The blond growls in determination. His response to his elder’s words is to bring the total number of fingers in your cunt straight to three. He does not push the additional two fingers in one at a time, but rather in a single forceful thrust of his hand. A shriek escapes you at the sudden stretch to your walls, soon followed by a long, low moan at a particularly powerful swipe over your pleasure point. Both demons hum, deep and satisfied.

“She sounds as heavenly as she tastes, does she not?” Seonghwa says, seeming much more proud now.

“A perfect choice of word, hyung,” San agrees with his tongue still around your clit.

“Keep going, just as you are,” Seonghwa urges, though it seems San has no intention of doing anything to the contrary. You can’t take your eyes off the crown of his head between your legs as he licks and sucks and flicks and strokes you into a frenzy. Your fists repeatedly clench and unclench in the sheets around you as every thought in your mind concentrates on that looming ledge.

“It’s ecstasy, isn’t it?” Seonghwa whispers to you now, and you whine something incoherent in response. He cards the fingers of his other hand through your hair as well, then fists them right at the scalp with a firm tug, just as with San’s. Except instead of pushing, he pulls your head further backward on your pillow to tilt your gaze up to his. His eyes are daggers under a coat of blood. “Isn’t it?” he repeats. His voice is not particularly loud, but the power of the question reverberates against the walls all the same.

“Y-yes, it f-f-feels so good,” you whisper, not daring to break eye contact.

“Mm, yes, I know it does. San is working diligently to prepare you for me, isn’t he?”

As though to verify Seonghwa’s claim, San thrashes his face back and forth in the juncture of your thighs with animal-like fervor. Seonghwa’s arm shakes along with the motion from where he still has a grip on the demon’s scalp.

“Such a good pet. A pretty little lamb, so willingly being devoured by the ravenous wolf,” Seonghwa coos at you, syrupy-sweet. “Let yourself come undone for him, pet. Give San what he so desperately craves. Come in his mouth.”

The casual yet inherently filthy way he uses the terms ‘come’ and ‘in’ is all it takes to fling you off the ledge and into your climax with eyes shut tight and a loud cry. Every muscle in your body pulls taut as a bowstring, and San opens his mouth wider just in time to catch the gush of wetness that bursts forth. The steady rumble of his groan — along with some softer strokes to your g-spot — helps your high taper off into a shaky yet satisfying finish.

“Oh my god,” you whisper under your breath when San finally removes his fingers and lifts his face away from your quivering, sensitive core. He looks downright devilish as he tongues his inner cheek with a smug smirk and hooded eyes. He seems proud of the mess covering his chiseled chin and cheeks, and he is looking at you as though he could devour the rest of you whole.

“God? He would never give you this much pleasure, little one,” San purrs.

Seonghwa chuckles and scratches the top of San’s head, equally proud of him. You vaguely register the tickling of his fingernails on your own scalp before he pulls his hand away from you to grab San’s — the one dirtied with your juices. The raven-haired demon takes the blond’s slick fingers, brings them up to his lips, and slips them inside with slow purpose. San does not resist the intimate act. On the contrary, you can just barely see the way his wrist moves with the way he presses his fingers back and forth against Seonghwa’s reptilian tongue.

Your mouth falls open at the display of pure eroticism, but you cannot find enough humility within you to close it again — especially when San pulls his fingers back with a wet slurp and pops his thumb into Seonghwa’s mouth next, unprompted. The two hellions lock eyes until Seonghwa has apparently sucked all the remaining residue from San’s last digit.

Only when Seonghwa finally looks back to you do you snap your jaw shut. He sneers at you and drawls, “Just as I remember: sweet as nectar.”

“She has had her pleasure. I want to take mine now, hyung,” San declares. You watch him reach down to palm at his genitals, and your eyes widen at the sight of his erection standing proudly out in the open. “I need to feel her wrapped around me.”

“You will...” Seonghwa sighs. He curls a hand around the back of San’s neck in a seemingly tender gesture, then uses his other hand to shove San away with impressive force. “...but not until after I have taken my fill of her, you selfish, impatient glutton.”

San rolls his neck and peels his back off the wall, staring coldly at Seonghwa. He does not argue, however. He just wipes the rest of your wetness from his face with the back of a hand and stalks over to wait at your side.

Meanwhile, Seonghwa takes up San’s previous position at the foot of the bed, and you shift upward on the mattress to prepare for his next move. He kneels onto the bed to follow your movement, then presses a hand onto your stomach to stop you when he judges you’ve gone far enough. His touch feels solid, but the mattress does not creak under his added weight the way you know it is prone to do.

“Not another inch, pet,” he murmurs. “Stay right there, just like that.”

He pries your legs apart again, and the tip of his sizeable cock prods against your inner thigh as he situates himself. The burn of his rigid flesh feels like a brand on your skin. You hiss when he lines himself up with your pussy.

“This may be easier than last time, but still painful, despite how drenched you are,” Seonghwa warns.

You nod in understanding. When he lifts one of your legs to wrap it around his slim waist, you take in a breath and hold it.

“Exhale, child,” Seonghwa guides you as he begins to ease himself inside.

You try to let go of your breath, but the reflex to hold it to cope with the stretch of his burning shaft is too much, and you end up gasping instead.

“Relax, little lamb,” San murmurs from your side, adopting Seonghwa’s new pet name for you. He returns his hand to your shoulder and squeezes. “Hold on to Seonghwa-hyung and breathe.”

You lift your hands up at once to find purchase along Seonghwa’s wide shoulders. His skin is buttery smooth, but the muscles beneath are rock hard. You were unable to touch him like this — or at all, actually — the last time, and you find your fingers roaming greedily. It is a good distraction from the pain coming from below.

If Seonghwa is bothered by your wandering hands, he does not show or comment on it. He simply continues feeding his cock into you, inch by inch, until eventually he can go no further.

“How does she feel?” San demands to know before anyone can do or say anything else.

“Like silken bliss,” Seonghwa answers, to which you tuck your head down shyly. One of his fingers hooks under your chin to lift your face back toward him so you can see his wicked grin. “Such a shy little thing. And yet here you lie beneath me, penetrated by me, desperately wishing me to pound you into this flimsy piece of furniture.”

“Yes, yes, I can hear her wishing that very much, hyung,” San says excitedly. “Are you going to oblige her?”

Rather than verbalizing a response, Seonghwa sways his hips backwards to withdraw a portion of his girth from you, then surges forward again. You barely have time to register the sensation of the jostling motion before he repeats it with a distinctly sharper snap. The wet slapping sound of the movement is every bit as erotic as the friction being created. His length easily reaches places inside you that other lovers can only aspire to. Every ridge of his bare shaft pulses tightly against your walls, making you mewl and squirm in no time.

“Don’t tear up our pretty pet before I have had the pleasure of her,” San adds. It sounds like a warning, a tease, and a whine all at once.

“I have not even started on her yet,” grunts Seonghwa. He peels your fingers off of him, and as he moves to pin your wrists above your head in a tight grip, the weight of his solid torso settles squarely upon yours. His skin is cool to the touch at first, but soon warms as it absorbs your heat. The movement of his hips has altered from jarring snaps to a deep, continuous roll. It feels as though his cock is quite literally stirring a second orgasm within you.

All the while, the unnatural creature keeps his deep ruby eyes on yours. It seems he wants to witness the exact moment your orgasm boils over, and you are certain it will not take long. The close proximity of his beautiful, marble sculpture of a face alone is enough to set fire to both your cheeks and your loins, as well as tug the knot in your lower belly tighter.

“She enjoys this angle, hyung,” San comments. His palm manages to slide its way flat against one of your cheeks, and his cooled touch is most welcome on your sweaty, burning skin. “But I can barely touch her when you are draped over her like this.”

Seonghwa smirks and says, “We can remedy that, if you are truly so impatient to join in.”

“Please. At least allow me to touch her as much as possible while you are tearing her apart.”

“Very well, but I will not cease taking my own pleasure for a moment.”

That is the only warning you receive before Seonghwa hoists you up with him. He stands at the foot of the bed again with his cock still sheathed securely inside of you. Your arms and legs reflexively wrap around his muscular body to keep yourself from falling, but his strong hands — and whatever otherworldly force he wields, perhaps — are more than enough to keep you upright. He uses those hands and that force to set you to moving along his turgid cock.

The shift in position does nothing to lessen the depth at which his cock reaches; if anything, it feels as though he is hitting even further inside of your soaked, narrow tunnel.

After only a few bounces, you feel San’s hands press firmly against your back and push you even closer into Seonghwa. His shove also forces Seonghwa to step backwards until it is his back that meets the wall this time, along with your crossed feet on the small of it. Immediately after Seonghwa connects with the wall, San connects with you, effectively sandwiching you in the middle of this most unholy union.

Seonghwa does not stop moving you up and down his cock. He keeps the pace he has set against your g-spot evenly. A wanton moan breaks through your throat at the sensation of all the sinewy skin and rippling muscles covering you front and back. San’s erection twitches against your lower back, giving away his own excitement at the situation.

“Mm, she likes this position even more, hyung,” he purrs against the nape of your neck. His hands circle around to trap your breasts in a tight grope. He pushes them close together, pulls them apart, tweaks your pert nipples; every fondle takes away just a bit more of what little breath you have.

Eventually, San’s fondling fingers slide their way down from your breasts, across your stomach, along your hips, and finally around to your backside where they help hold what flesh of your ass Seonghwa’s hands are not already covering.

“I know, I can hear her, too,” says Seonghwa. “Her other lovers are not able to ‘fuck’ her in this fashion, so it arouses her even more. I can feel her getting even tighter around me with every stroke.”

“Even tighter, hm?” San gently nips his razor teeth into your shoulder, and you can feel his lips curl against your skin. “That is because you like being stuffed full, don’t you, little lamb? Seonghwa-hyung’s cock is filling you up so well, isn’t it?”

It is all you can do to bob your head in agreement, since it seems your voice can only be used for moaning while you are pistoning up and down Seonghwa’s cock through no effort of your own.

“Your sweet genitalia is not the only orifice that can be stuffed full,” San goes on. “I have always wondered just how tight the hole on the other side is…”

For a brief second, you fear he will attempt to shove his well-endowed member up your ass with no further warning, but his hips do not move. Instead, he takes you by the chin and turns your head until you are facing him as much as your neck will permit with the angle, then taps against your lips with one of his fingers. You grant him entrance, and he lies his finger flat against your tongue.

“Lubricate it well,” he instructs into your ear, then licks the shell of it as though to demonstrate exactly what he wants you to do.

You dutifully flick your tongue around his finger, sucking on it until all you can taste on it is your own saliva. Only then does San retract his hand to drop it down below and probe between your jiggling backside where you cannot see.

In the midst of his thrusts, Seonghwa adjusts himself to stand straighter against the wall, then uses the full grip he has on your ass to spread the cheeks further apart and allow his companion better access. You hiss in a sharp breath when San hits pay dirt directly on the ring of your smaller hole.

“Breathe, little lamb. Just as before,” he whispers next, lush lips still caressing your ear.

You slowly let go of your breath, and San begins to push his finger past your rim. The continued up and down movement of his target does not deter or hinder him from plugging your anus. He wags his spit-slick finger back and forth inside your clenched ring of muscle as he goes. The stretch of it stings, but it is not as uncomfortable as the initial pressure of Seonghwa’s cock had been a moment ago.

In fact, you have never felt more lust-frenzied, mind-hazing pleasure all at once than you do right now, with a pair of strong hands cupping your ass, your thighs wrapped around a sturdy waist, a thick cock plunging through the walls of your cunt, a silky pair of lips trailing down your neck, another cock poking into your back, and the feeling of damnation in your puckered hole. Every nerve ending you possess has been ignited to an unquenchable pyre.

“The flower between your legs is tight, pretty pet,” San breathes, “but this sphincter of yours is at least doubly so. And hotter, too. It is a shame it is not also self-lubricating.”

An ambiguous-sounding groan rumbles through you, but every fiber of your being is in agreement with his words and actions, and San knows it.

Seonghwa knows it, too. Your eyes fixate on his beautiful lips as he drawls, “Yes, you like being penetrated front and back, don’t you, pet? Speared by my cock and skewered by San’s finger simultaneously?”

At Seonghwa’s words, San drags his finger down to tease shallow circles around your opening, then wiggles all the way back in to his knuckle. “She is loving it, hyung. Just listen to her trying to form a coherent thought right now; she cannot.”

Seonghwa hums in agreement. “Yes, she is so close to unraveling again. Just a few more thrusts against this sweet spot inside of her… and a little stimulation on the nub between her soft legs…”

San brings his other hand around to take care of the latter, tickling the swollen point between your legs the way he learned earlier as best he can while you continue to jostle up and down against Seonghwa’s hip bones.

“Are you going to release soon as well, hyung?” San asks. “Are you going to fill her?”

“Mm, yes. I suspect I can time it perfectly with our pet’s release,” bets Seonghwa. “It will not be long. She has just gotten even tighter again at the thought of being filled with my seed.”

He has barely finished calling you out before your orgasm hits, and it hits you like a freight train. Your toes curl and every muscle in your body clenches as a shockwave of pleasure detonates in your core. Your holes clamp down on the cock and the finger inside of them as you let out a shriek, sinking your fingernails into Seonghwa’s broad shoulders as he brings your body to a halt at his hilt. He lets out a booming moan of his own as his cock swells even more and erupts. A copious amount of hot liquid squirts against your cervix and lines your walls. Some of it leaks down around the plug of Seonghwa’s still turgid dick from the pull of gravity.

You let out a pinched moan as your climax spikes to its peak, then fall limp as a rag doll against Seonghwa’s frame with your forehead against one of his shoulders. San does not remove his fingers from your clit until your legs begin shuddering violently from the overstimulation.

“That’s it, my pet,” Seonghwa praises at the same moment San coos, “Such a good little lamb.” Both demons caress you as you pant heavily. Seonghwa’s hands massage your butt where he is still holding you up. You had almost forgotten San’s finger was embedded in your anus until he withdraws it and rubs your shivering spine.

You lift your head off Seonghwa’s shoulder, suddenly curious to see if he is any worse for wear than you are. He has some markings of being fucked-out: some strands of his hair have fallen out of place, and his hairline is slightly sweaty, as is his neckline and the cleavage between his pectorals. But he does not appear the slightest bit breathless, even after all his exertions in giving you the ecstasy you just experienced.

While you are still coping with the sheer amount of beauty before you, you are suddenly torn off and away from Seonghwa and tossed back onto your mattress by San. He retakes his earlier position kneeling at the foot of the bed. Without physically touching you, he drags your body down the mattress until your used pussy is inches from his face, then spreads your legs wide with firm hands. You clumsily prop yourself up on your elbows, scrambling to see his next move.

“You made quite a mess of our pretty little flower, hyung,” mutters San, cocking his head as he studies your sullied and swollen cunt. He sounds far from upset over this observation, however. In fact, you might even say he looks awed by your condition.

Seonghwa steps to the side of the bed and watches on as his companion appreciates his handiwork. Wordlessly, he dips a hand in front of San’s face and drags two slender fingers along your slit, and you shiver from sensitivity.

“So I have,” Seonghwa muses, unapologetic. He lifts his fingers to examine the tips of them shimmering with a pearly mixture of your cum and his in the moonlight. When he rubs his thumb against them as though to test the consistency, you are certain you have never felt more aroused in your life.

Thankfully, you do not have to voice your most vulgar, hedonistic desire in the moment, because Seonghwa hears you loud and clear. With a lopsided grin over your shameless thoughts, he brings his sticky fingers to your already parted lips and settles them directly on your tongue.

“So foul,” San breathes, sounding more reverent than appalled as he watches you suck Seonghwa’s fingers clean of your own free will. “Our sweet lamb will be wholly corrupted yet.”

Seonghwa draws his fingers from your tongue and slowly, so slowly runs them over your lips. You try to chase and recapture them, but he grabs your chin roughly. You flick your eyes to meet his, and his bloody stare sears you, body and soul.

“Take her,” he commands in booming bass.

The younger hellion is over you at once, pinning you to the mattress and feeding his steely length into your sloppy cunt in one smooth thrust. He grunts as he makes his entrance and bottoms out within the same second.

The cum inside you has barely had a chance to cool before it begins frothing from the incessant withdrawing and plunging of the new cock assaulting you. The excess leaks down your ass crack, but any discomfort you may feel from the unpleasant stickiness is overridden by the sparks rekindling in your blood.

From the pulses coming off the veiny shaft inside you, you get the impression that San’s blood may also be boiling. The notion that his riled-up state could be caused by you and not just a primal, carnal instinct makes your core throb tighter, however far-fetched it may be.

“He enjoys you,” Seonghwa confirms for you, tracing his thumb along your jawline. “He enjoys your scent, your taste. Right now he is swearing that your cunt is the tightest he has ever felt in his long life.”

San groans in agreement. His pace momentarily stutters as he redistributes his weight over you, and you marvel for a quick second at a bulging vein in his neck when he leans closer. “How is she still this tight after taking you, hyung? The pressure is divine. It makes me all the more eager to penetrate and get a proper feel of the vise that is her other hole, but I realize now that it would be excruciating for you, little one. Your wet little cunt will have to do for now.”

You give a silent prayer of thanks for the surprising consideration for the sanctity of your asshole. San chuckles lowly when he hears it but provides no further comment.

One by one, he takes both of your hands in one of his to lift your arms up from your sides and pin them over your head exactly as Seonghwa had done earlier. Without being prompted to, Seonghwa takes that hold on your wrists out of San’s grasp and into his own, leaving San’s hands free again to prop himself up and hover above you. The fringe of his blond hair bounces to and fro with every thrust of his hips. His eyes are cast down at your heaving breasts. His perfectly pink lips glisten with a clear coating of spit applied by a swipe of his lolling tongue. A muscle near his jawline briefly pops as he concentrates on achieving the release he has patiently awaited.

You long to stare at the heavenly yet sinful feast before your eyes forever, but your eyes are gradually rolling back into your head from the onslaught of his flared cockhead against your cervix.

Suddenly, San stops his hips altogether and pulls away to straighten his back. You roll your eyes back around in time to watch your feet hike themselves up into the air and onto his shoulders by his mystical power before he leans in closely again, essentially bending you in half as his torso presses into the backs of your legs. Your muscles burn with the unaccustomed stretch, but the languid roll of his pelvis against yours is all that is important. He grinds against your clit and your g-spot simultaneously, much to your mutual pleasure.

You arch your back at an especially deep press, but Seonghwa’s grip on your wrists keeps you from going too far. You turn your head to look at him and find him looking right back at you. He cocks his head and smirks when he listens to you wonder if he is enjoying simply watching the ‘show’ without participating.

“I do enjoy watching you, pet, but fret not; I will participate again in some capacity before the night is over,” he promises.

San pays no mind to your short conversation; he continues rutting into you, but his speed is not as frenzied as his pace from just a moment ago. The angle allows him to hit your inner pleasure point with ease, however, and he is keen on hitting it with each and every plunge.

You would say it is hard to tell which of you is closer to the edge… until all of a sudden, San lets out a bellow of a moan a mere second before his cock throbs even harder and discharges a long stream of cum, then another, and another, until the heat of it can be felt down to your bones.

He continues to grunt in deep baritone as the last of his impressive release dribbles out of him and into your clenching pussy. He gives a few last shallow thrusts, and as soon as his cock withdraws, his cum — along with whatever is left of Seonghwa’s cum combined with yours — trails out of you and onto the sheets.

The blond sighs in satisfaction and slides his fingers through his hair as he pulls away. Your feet fall from his shoulders and your legs slump to the sides. San closes his eyes and bites his lip as he recollects himself; he does not seem nearly as coolly composed as Seonghwa was after his climax moments ago.

By now, you are feeling much too exhausted to care that the two creatures did not bring you to the predicted three orgasms. Your body is a little numb, your vision is slightly blurred, and it feels like there is barbed wire in your head.

“Mm, you are a revelation, little lamb,” San murmurs huskily, breaking into your thoughts. He reopens his eyes to peer down at you, and when he finds you staring back at him, he grins and licks his lips again. One of his hands comes down to cup your chin and cheeks. He tilts your head back and forth, side to side, as though determining whether or not you are the one who is truly real after all this. Then he runs his fingers down the slope of your neck, between the valley of your breasts, over your belly button, until he reaches the mess between your spread legs and stops. The sharp tips of his fingers edge around your sticky, swollen folds.

“You have sullied our flower as well, haven’t you,” Seonghwa speaks up. It is more of a statement than a question.

Without waiting for a response, he releases your wrists and glides beside San to see for himself. His eyes drop down, and for the second time tonight, both demons are staring at your bare sex — except this time, it is in a much different state; the ‘after’ depiction in a set of ‘before and after’ pictures, you imagine.

San snickers at your crazed thoughts and latches his thumb onto your clit. “You make for a pretty picture, even in this state.”

“Especially in this state,” Seonghwa emphasizes.

“Wrecked...”

“...ruined...”

“...corrupted…”

“...debauched…”

“...depraved…”

Your mind flutters between a state of conscious and unconsciousness with each blasphemous word they spit your way. Your eyes fall closed as San accelerates on your slippery bud, rebuilding the pleasure he failed to bring to fruition while inside of you. But just as he reaches a tempo that will have you cresting in no time, his thumb is replaced by a pair of lips. You cannot bring yourself to see whether they belong to San or Seonghwa; your eyelids are leaden, and so is the rest of your body.

A couple fingers enter your weakly clenching core as a wicked tongue flits intricate patterns onto your clit. Hands roam along your thighs and hips; one of them reaches up to contour around your throat.

“Let go for us, pretty pet,” purrs San. His voice sounds faint and distorted, like your ears have been submerged in water, but you recognize that it comes from above you, not between you. “Let it all go...”

He sweeps that sweet spot at your center, and Seonghwa gives you one last suck to pull you over into the abyss. If you had any control of your limbs, you would clench your fingers in the sheets and curl your toes again, but you don’t. You can’t. You remain stiff as a board as a final row of pleasure washes over you. A moan swells in your throat beneath the fingers around it when it cannot pass your clamped lips.

Your mind is much nearer to the side of oblivion than wakefulness when you vaguely hear San ask, “Is there any hope left for her soul, hyung?”

The mouth leaves your quivering pussy with a parting kiss.

“For this one?” Seonghwa whispers with a light smack of his lips. “No, I am afraid she is beyond redemption.”

---

if you enjoyed, please consider re-blogging and/or leaving me some feedback. take care! ♡

copyright © 2023 by daizymax. all rights reserved. part one | back to masterlist

#seonghwa smut #san smut #park seonghwa smut #choi san smut #ateez smut #atz smut #seonghwa x reader #park seonghwa x reader #san x reader #choi san x reader #sanhwa x reader #ateez x reader #atz x reader #descent to depravity #daizymax

[katyawriteswhump]

(vampire) nesting season—steddie microfic, steddie holiday drabble.

WC: 388. CW: none. Rating: M. Tags: vampire eddie, vampire au, established steddie, angst, fluff, non-explicit bloodsucking, dark undertones.

For @steddieholidaydrabbles spring pop-up event, and @steddiemicrofic March prompt, ‘pin.’ Also for @sidekick-hero and littleskit on Ao3, who kindly requested more vampire eddie/human steve fic… Sorry, I haven't had time to get a longer fic going this month. In the meantime, hope you enjoy this companion piece to A deep and dreamless love (also on Ao3)😉 This fic can also be read standalone without reading the companion fic.

....

The gigantine crash from the backyard awoke Eddie. It was dark, he’d overslept. Was Steve in danger?

Eddie rushed to the yard—his cold dead vampire heart thudding—and stopped by their storm-shelter’s opened trapdoor. Beneath, bricks and debris buried the ladder: “Steve?” 

“Who else, genius?” Steve sounded muffled.

“Thought you were spring-cleaning?”

“I am! Use your vampire super-strength to shift this fallen crap NOW.” Steve coughed, doubtless on the dust. As Eddie cleared the fallen-in roof from the ladder, a sumptuous scent hit. Blood! He prayed Steve wasn’t pinned down, hurting, bleeding badly…

After shifting the final rubble, Eddie sighed with relief. Steve looked okay, mildly dirty, his hair decorously wrecked. Black fabric swathed the walls, at which Steve now pointed:

“Stabbed myself pinning up silk.” He sucked his finger. “No major bleeding—don’t freak out.”

“You could've been killed.” Eddie tentatively looped his arms around Steve, grateful for the usual precautionary scarf covering Steve’s delicious throat. “Sure you’re okay?”

Steve glared: “Do I look hurt, idiot.”

“You look…” Edible. “Adorable.”

“Dumbass crumbly basement. Ruined my surprise present.”

“Uuuuuh, whose present? And why the slinky-yet-hazardous subterranean boudoir?”

“Christ, you’re slow tonight.” Steve threw himself onto a sea of black cushions, tugging Eddie with him. “Longer spring days equal less nighttime with you. I built you an underground vampire nest, so we can…”

He pulled Eddie into a messy kiss, knees hitching round Eddie’s hips, forcing Eddie closer yet. Eddie kissed back—groaning, rutting, basking in Steve’s pulsing heat. His soul yearned only for Steve. His body hankered to drain Steve’s veins dry.

Shiiiiit, I need breakfast.

Eddie tore himself free. Steve laughed, dabbing wet lips, luxuriating on the cushions. A squirming mouse ready to be pinned by a cat? Steve’s fingers lovingly threaded Eddie’s hair, thumb caressing Eddie’s cheek. “You like?”

“Love it, Babe, but…” 

Eddie grimaced. Temptation burned. Steve simply ripped away his scarf, revealing Eddie’s many previous bite-marks on his neck. These never healed, because: “You’re peckish, huh?”

“Holy shit, Stevie. If I can’t stop drinking, you’re totally trapped here.” The truth tolled like a death knell: This is no nest. You’ve built a goddamn tomb! “Unlike you, I’m noooo hero.”

Steve rolled his way-too-trusting eyes, and pressed Eddie’s face into the scrumptiously thrumming curve of his throat. “Jesus, bite me already.”

Eddie’s fangs erupted and pierced Steve deep.

#steddieholidaydrabbles #steddiemicroficmarch #steddiemicrofic #steddie fanfic #steve harrington whump #steve x eddie #steddie fic #steddie #steddie ficlet #eddie munson #steve harrington #vampire eddie munson #vampire eddie au #vampire eddie x steve #steddie microfic

[sailing-through-hawkins]

ready for your bite

✧ written for 'suck' ✧ word count: 480 ✧ rated: T ✧ cw: none ✧ tags: vampire!eddie, confident steve, suggestive ✧ @steddiemicrofic (〜￣▽￣)〜✧

"Hello? Is anyone here? I'm sorry to intrude, but there's a terrible storm -"

"And so you enter my home?"

Steve gasped, spinning around to find a man, watching him from the shadows. "Please," he says. "Allow me to stay for just the night, until the storm passes."

The man stares at the droplets running down his skin. "Of course. Come, I'll show you where you can dry off."

Steve inhales when he hears the window click open, the hinges somehow quiet despite it being so large and heavy.

He stays silent as a weight starts to creep on him, tangles of curls brushing against his bare skin, only letting out a sigh when a feather-light touch grazes down his throat.

"What a pretty bride you'd make."

The words are soft, almost wistful, and his heart races, which means the game is over.

"And why," he drawls, opening his eyes to stare up at the shocked Edmund above him. "Would I not be a groom?"

"I - you're awake?" Edmund says and Steve almost coos.

"Is this the part where you ravish me in bed?" He raises his brow, moving his body languidly across the sheets, watching as Edmund watches. "Where you tie me down, bite my skin and suck the life out of me?"

"I don't - you knew?"

"Oh come on," Steve rolls his eyes. "A big spooky castle in the middle of dangerous woods with a single occupant who has no reflection?"

"How could -" Edmund sputters, still caging Steve to the bed. "There are no silver-backed mirrors here!"

"Brought my own," Steve grins, shifting along the sheets again just to see Edmund's eyes flicker down.

"You're a hunter," he accuses, but he doesn't move.

"Something like that," Steve agrees, and he strokes a hand up Edmund's arm and shoulder, curling it around the nape of his neck. The vampire's eyes never leave his but damn, the way they widen. "I'm really just a man, looking for some shelter from the terrible storm outside."

"The storm passed an hour ago," Edmund says, even as he follows Steve's hand pushing him closer.

"Mm, but it's so cold out there," Steve pouts, both of his arms wrapped around Edmund's neck, his bare chest pressed against the silk of Edmund's shirt. He watches him swallow with a smile. "Will you leave your poor fiancé to shiver just after you promised me forever?"

"I - you - this isn't how it's supposed to go?!"

Steve pulls him in closer, pushes Edmund's face into his neck, relishes in the sound of his gasp. "Why not? Everything's going according to your plan, I am simply asking if you intend to get my blood all over these fine sheets."

"What are you?" Edmund says softly, nervously, into Steve's skin.

"Why don't you start drinking," Steve grips his hair with a smile. "And find out?"

#EDIT: IT WAS THE WRONG WORD COUNT FIXED IT NOW #sailor✧writes #steddiemicrofic #au content: vampires #steddie #microfic #i cranked this out in half an hour and it didn't go the direction i originally intended but this was way too fun not to keep #the vibes of human (kinda) steve being so confident over flustered vampire eddie is just immaculate really #did steve mean sucking his blood or sucking his di - #you'll never know