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noteguk · 3 years

Text

devilish | kth | m

— summary; in which Taehyung has a bit too much fun toying with your limits.

— contents and warnings; pwp, smut, Taehyung x reader, established relationship, edging, guided masturbation, dirty talk, corruption kink, sliiiight dumbification, dom!tae, mentions of past virginity loss, mentions of blowjobs, mirror, begging, orgasm control, praise kink, use of the word “slut”, cockwarming, unprotected sex

— words; 2,4k

— author’s note; this request has been sitting in my askbox since forever because I was stuck with the last version of it. Eventually I deleted that document and completely changed the plot (or lack thereof), and now here we are. I really like corruption kink so :) this was a nice ride

Requested by anon!

Taehyung was almost convinced that you were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

Granted, he was biased. He had been dating you for some time now, but, in his defense, he was positive that the wind had been knocked out of him (how cliche) the first time he had laid eyes on you. And it all went downhill from there. Taehyung became a bit more crazy about you every time he saw you, paid a bit more attention to the small details that he might have missed before — the way you played with your hair, the shy tug of your lips every time he made a flirtatious remark, the fluttering of your eyelashes when you leaned away after a kiss. It was all beautiful, perfect, created by angels just for him. And he loved every second of it.

It was just a matter of time before his little obsession leaked into the bedroom and Taehyung didn’t hesitate to make good use of it. Even if you were a bit embarrassed by it, always so shy, Taehyung liked to watch you play with yourself as he told you what to do: where to touch, how to move, when to stop. And you were always so good for him — following his orders eagerly, giving him more every time he asked you to.

You were so, so perfect that he thought he was dreaming. He couldn’t have wished for a better girlfriend.

“That’s it, baby, take it slow,” his husky voice sounded next to your ear, one of his hands caressing your hair gently. You had your back pressed against his chest, sitting between his legs, with your own thighs open and pushed up to the level of your breasts. He could see everything like that. “So pretty. You’re always so pretty for me.”

Taehyung had his eyes zeroed in the reflection before you two, the large rectangular mirror presenting him with the glorious view of your flushed heat. He followed, mesmerized, as you circled your clit with two of your fingers, whining beautifully at your growing pleasure, back arching and eyes closing.

Taehyung was used to your body, how it reacted; he knew the telltale signs that your orgasm was getting closer. And that was the dangerous part. “Shhh, you’re almost there, baby,” he mumbled, the venom in his tone telling you that he would do it again — ask you to stop just as you were about to cum, making you cry and whine until he allowed you to start over. But then your pleasure was almost gone, and you had to build it back up from zero. “Look at you, you’re so desperate. You like playing with your little pussy?”

You nodded, a frail moan leaving your mouth. You could feel yourself clenching around nothing, begging to be filled up.

“You do? That’s so dirty,” he teased. Taehyung’s hands were resting on either side of his body now, supporting his weight. No matter how much you wanted him to touch you, you knew that he wouldn’t. He found much more satisfaction watching you do it. “Is that pussy wet for me, baby? Does it want to cum?”

“Yes, yes, please,” you implored, overwhelmed. Taehyung had made you edge yourself five times already, it had been going on for too long, and you didn’t think you could stop it again. You would try, though, of course you would, but you were afraid that your body wouldn’t respond in time. “I want to cum, Tae, please.”

He hummed, placing a wet kiss against the nape of your neck. Taehyung was breathing heavy, fighting against every cell of his body so he wouldn’t bend you over and fuck you full of his cock. He also had his needs, but his objective was to teach you some discipline. He needed you to need him.

“One more time for me, baby,” he said. His cock was unbearably hard inside his pants, leaking into his underwear as he heard the beautiful sounds of your soaked pussy. He was going insane thinking about how well it would wrap around him, how gorgeous you looked when you were full of his cock. “Stop it one more time.”

You almost cried out at his words. “N-No, I can’t,” you whined. You could feel your orgasm just about to overflow, your thighs shaking as you continued to rub your clit. “I can’t do one more.”

“Shhh, you can,” he calmed you down. Another kiss against your neck and you swore you were about to die. “Stop now.”

And you actually stopped, because you were such a sweet, obedient girl for him. Taehyung watched as your chest heaved, your eyes closing as you pulled your hand away from your pussy, a shaky moan of frustration leaving your lips as you let your orgasm slip away for the sixth time that afternoon. He felt his cock throb in his pants when he saw how soaked and puffy your cunt was for him, caught himself groaning out in hunger.

“That’s such an obedient slut,” he complimented, his voice a hoarse vibration against your shoulder. Taehyung knew you were on your limit, and he loved that, still, you followed what he told you to do. “You used to be such a good girl, baby, now look at you: edging that little pussy of yours, begging me to let you cum. That makes me so fucking hard.”

You could only whine, because your limbs had turned to jello and you didn’t think you could find your voice quick enough. Your own reflection stared back at you in the mirror — your skirt pulled up and panties brushed to the side, your heat dripping against the bed, making a mess that you were sure Taehyung would tease you about later. You didn’t know what had happened to you, it seemed as if your life had completely turned around ever since he had walked right into it.

And, as if he was reading your mind, Taehyung continued talking as your pleasure melted away.

“When I met you, you couldn’t even kiss me without getting shy,” he started, one of his hands leaving the bed and resting on your waist. Your body shivered at the warm contact, sensitive. “You were this timid little virgin, you hadn’t even touched yourself yet, baby. You didn’t even know how to.” Another kiss against your neck had you shuddering, hoping for more. “And now you are soaking all over my sheets like a good slut. You learned how to take my cock so well, didn’t you? I taught you well.”

You nodded, brain flooded with images from your past. Taehyung had always been drawn to your innocence, found his delight watching you discover your pleasure for the first time — rather, he loved teaching you, breaking that inexperience apart until he had you whimpering for more, embarrassed and needy, grinding your pussy against him just to feel something. He had turned you into a desperate little thing, an obedient girl that could cum just by playing with your tits, or that would start crying when it became too much — and still would ask him to keep going.

You were a giver: you liked to provide Taehyung with whatever it was that he asked you to, loved to be showered with his praises every time you made him cum. You liked to play up your innocence just to see how he reacted, weaponized your apparent cluelessness because you knew that he loved to show you how to do things. It was a perfect game that you two played, and it always ended up just like both of you wanted to.

Taehyung’s hand slithered up your stomach and groped your covered breast, pulling you out of your reveries. You pressed yourself closer to his chest, a shot of pleasure going straight to your core as his fingers brushed against your hardened nipple.

“Taehyung, please,” you begged once again, your voice a pathetic little thing, “let me cum.”

“My baby wants to play with her pussy again?” He asked, his voice an octave lower. You nodded. “Hm? Want to make that tight little cunt cum?”

“Yes, yes, please,” you were losing your mind, droplets of sweat running between your breasts. The bedroom was so hot, you felt like you couldn’t even breathe. “I need it so bad.”

He chuckled devilishly against your skin, his thumb grazing your nipple. “Alright, baby, you’ve been good,” Taehyung finally gave in, making you breathe out in relief. “But sit on my cock first.”

Your heart hammered against your rib cage, your pussy clenching in anticipation. “What?”

“You heard what I said, baby.” He removed his hand from your tit and used it to unzip his pants. The sound was harsh and loud, shooting straight to your dripping core. “Come on, I’m not very patient.”

Taehyung was patient, though, that was how he managed to edge you so many times without losing his cool. But you bought his act and moved forward so he could fumble with his pants, your eyes following his movements on the mirror as he pulled his cock free.

You sighed at the sight, your mouth watering with the thought of licking his cock clean. He was so hard and heavy, leaking all over himself, and if you weren’t so desperate to have him inside you, you would’ve turned around and sucked him like he had teached you, until you were crying and he was cumming down your throat.

“Don’t ride it. Just keep it in.” Taehyung shattered your dreams just as fast as he had built them, a frown covering your features as he placed his hands on your hips, pulling you towards him. “Keep my cock warm as you touch yourself, baby. Make a mess on it and I’ll think about fucking you, alright?”

Taehyung always had wonderful arguments, because that had you agreeing within a second. You struggled to place yourself over him, lining his tip with your entrance and, just as you were about to sink down, he stopped you.

“No, baby.” Taehyung placed his hand on your chin, tilting your head towards the mirror. “Want you to watch too.”

“I’ll watch,” you guaranteed, earning a soft smile in return.

You sat down on his member with ease, thankful for how absolutely soaked you were. Ever since Taehyung had taken your virginity, you realized that you would never get enough of that feeling — of his length stretching you wide open, hitting every spot and throbbing inside you. Back when you had your first time, you had been so flustered that you couldn’t even watch when Taehyung entered you and, now, you couldn’t tear your eyes away from your reflection, your hand clenching the hem of your skirt so it didn’t cover the view.

Behind you, Taehyung moaned out at the sensation, his eyes closing. “That’s it, baby, fuck.” He breathed out. “This pussy was made for me.”

And you felt the same, felt like the two of you were made to be together like that, a perfect match for one another.

Before you could react, his hands were back on your body, playing with your tits as you squirmed under his touches. The movement of your hips against him was automatic, filling the room with the sounds of your wetness and a beautiful whimper coming from your throat. “T-Tae, I’m…”

“Sit still,” he commanded, ignoring your shy requests for forgiveness. You managed to stop your body from moving, instead focusing on how perfectly he was buried inside you, his pelvis glued against your ass. “Didn’t you want to cum? So, go ahead. Play with your clit, baby.”

Another moan left you as he pushed your breasts together. “But I want to—“

“No, no. You already asked for what you wanted,” he interrupted. Taehyung’s eyes were hooded and dark, looking at you from the reflection like they were daring you to disobey him. “Play with your pussy for me, baby. Cum all over my cock. That’s all you’re gonna get for now.”

You agreed with a frail movement of your head, your fingers moving back to your sensitive nub. You coated them in your juices before pressing down on your clit, crying out in sensitivity as you started to rub yourself again. This time, with the feeling of Taehyung’s cock inside you, it was much easier to find where you had left off, your walls clenching dangerously tight around him as you searched for your high.

Taehyung continued to watch you, his gaze burning your body. He was biased, yes, but you were the hottest thing he had ever laid eyes upon. And he wasn’t ignoring the way you were moaning out his name, your perfect cunt clenching around his cock, the sweet smell of your perfume infiltrating his nose. All of you was perfect, handmade for him, and he was going insane knowing that you were all his.

“Gonna cum,” you warned, looking at him through parted lids. Taehyung, of course, knew that already. He knew your body better than yourself. “Can I cum?”

Taehyung smiled — you were so cute. He had already allowed you to and, yet, there you were, making sure his desires hadn’t changed. Even though you were about to break, you still needed his permission. “Of course, baby,” he said. “You’ve been so patient. So perfect for me. You can cum whenever you want.”

He could not even blink when you finally tipped over the edge, your pussy gushing down on his cock and pulsating around it as you finally — finally! — found your high. Taehyung knew all those small mannerisms already — the opening of your lips, the rolling of your eyes, the high pitch of your voice — but he couldn’t help but feel like he was experiencing them for the very first time.

And as you came down from your moment of euphoria, your thighs jittery from overstimulation, Taehyung had erased every single doubt from his mind: you were, undoubtedly, the most precious, beautiful thing he had ever seen.

#bts smut #taehyung smut #bts x you #bts x reader #reader insert #kim taehyung #taehyung x you #taehyung x reader #smut #pwp #drabble #smut drabble

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dewykth · 4 years

Text

—CYBΞRSΞX (m)

pairing. jeon jungkook | female reader | park jimin genre & au's. smut, humor / camgirl!reader, camboy!pjm, rich boy!jjk word count. 10.213 warnings. please read ! multiple explicit sexual scenes, masturbation (f + m), porn, sexting, nudes, jk in a thong (bc yes), ice play, sex toys, face sitting, sub!jk, (soft) dom!reader, sub!jm, [18+] note. AHH it's finally here!! thank you to everyone who liked the teasers, i hope you'll enjoy this baby! this went thru a lot of editing, rewriting, and deleting, but i’m finally happy w it !! feedback is vv much appreciated <3!! note two. and yes, i did take the opportunity to write subby bts, bc i can, and we need more of it. thats it. sub jk rights!

—shoutout to vira ( @periminkle ) for beta reading and making me laugh w her reactions <3 ily

[teaser #1] ♡ [teaser #2] ♡ [playlist]

synopsis. there are three rules you set for yourself when you signed up for cybersex.com. one, separate work from your personal life. two, do not get involved with any cyberboy, no matter how stupidly & unfairly gorgeous he is. and three, do not, under any circumstance, fall for a client. they're very simple, and very easy to follow. so why are you about to get in bed with park jimin, cyberboy extraordinaire, in order to spite a loyal client of yours?

[ :: LOADING... my strange addiction :: ]

The hot pink log-in screen of cybersex.com is a sight Jungkook is embarrassingly familiar with. Frankly, he’s afraid to admit how many times he’s logged on this past week. It takes him no longer than a minute for him to input his account information, quickly searching for the sole reason he’s still on this site at all.

Jungkook glances at the time. He might still be able to catch a bit of your show tonight. Even if it were only for a few moments, it’d be enough for him until he actually got to talk to you tomorrow. Hopefully.

Jungkook knows better than to think he could ever get enough though.

● LIVE!: sittin here undressed...

By Sweetheart666

83,938 viewing now

The screen goes black for a second before you appear, sitting on your bed with a pink pillow between your thighs. Jungkook sucks in a breath, feeling his dick twitch in his sweatpants. Your hands are on your chest, playing with your nipples and whining softly. Your sounds spur Jungkook further, his eyes glued to the completely fucked out expression on your face and (too soon) his dick is fully erect. He doesn't know how you're able to get him like this so quickly every time.

There's sensual music in the background, but Jungkook only focuses on the pretty sounds falling from your lips. Jungkook begins to palm himself through his sweats just as you tease your fingers over the band of the mesh shorts barely leaving anything to the imagination. Jungkook's skin is hot to the touch, and he can feel the sweat building on his forehead.

“Oh? Do you guys want this off?”

Comments fill the screen quickly, all fervently voting in favor for removing the sheer white fabric. But this isn’t Jungkook’s first time, and he knows better than anyone you like for them to beg.

“Show me how bad you want me to take it off.”

v_steponmepls_ tipped 2,000 hearts!

secretly1ntoXhibitionism tipped 5,000 hearts!

bbybun14 tipped 1,600 hearts!

“Aww, is that all? Guess you don’t want it that much...”

Your fingers leave the band of your shorts, choosing to fiddle with the heart chain around your neck as you wait. Jungkook chuckles, knowing that the comments were all probably whining at your teasing. But as previously mentioned, Jungkook was a bit more experienced in your realm. His fingers dance on the keyboard of his computer.

nj_94 tipped 10,000 hearts!

Tiny red hearts fill Jungkook’s screen as he smirks, lying back against his headboard. He sees the way your eyes flash, before you’re smirking at the camera, as if you could see how desperate Jungkook was.

“So needy, aren’t you, nj_94? Alright, I guess I can give you a little something then...”

Jungkook suddenly feels warmth on his face, and he realizes he’s fucking blushing at your attention. There was something about you acknowledging him in front of almost ninety-thousand people that made his chest swell with pride. He’s so fucking whipped, a thought that crosses his mind momentarily before his focus is back on you. When you finally remove your flimsy shorts, Jungkook moans loudly at the sight of your dripping core. Oh, how he wishes he could stuff his face in between your thighs.

He pulls his sweatpants to his thighs, letting his dick spring free. Jungkook gathers his saliva, spitting into his hands before leisurely stroking his shaft. You play with your clit, moaning softly. He can see your juices dripping onto your mattress, leaving a mess. Jungkook briefly wonders how you would taste on his tongue.

nj_94 tipped 15,000 hearts!

“Wow, straight to the point huh?”

When you slip two fingers into yourself and whine, Jungkook’s strokes begin to speed up. He moans, uncaring of the fact that it was past midnight. Jungkook is mesmerized by the sight of your small fingers pumping in and out of your entrance. Your moans begin to grow louder, and he can tell by the way your hips are grinding along your hands that you're getting closer to your release. Jungkook can feel his coming as well, his strokes becoming sloppier.

“Fuck, I wish those were m-my hands instead of yours,” he mutters, lost in the way you’re making him feel. You moan louder, almost as if you could hear the words coming from Jungkook's mouth. It's impossible, but Jungkook lets his imagination wander.

“You’d probably make me beg for it, w-wouldn’t you?” he chuckles breathlessly as you grind down on your hand. “I-i don’t m-mind, though,” Jungkook is sure he’s mumbling nonsense, yet he can’t find it in himself to care when he’s so close to his release. “I l-love begging for you.” His voice sounds echoey, but in his lust-ridden mind, he can’t make sense of anything else other than you, you, you. Jungkook watches through lidded eyes as your hips stutter. You thumb your clit a couple more times before a loud whine rips through you, and you're reaching your climax.

Jungkook keeps his gaze on you, stroking himself a few more times until he too is spilling his seed all over his abs with a low groan. He’s left breathing harshly, lying on his back as he stares at the ceiling in a post-orgasmic haze. It takes a couple of minutes for Jungkook to fully recover before he looks at his computer screen again, realizing your live has abruptly ended. He sighs wistfully before closing his laptop shut.

Until tomorrow.

[ :: LOGGING IN... computer (almost, but not really) luv ::]

[ENDED]: feelin a bit bratty tonight?

By Sweetheart666

106,729 viewers / 202,728 hearts

jacker82: sailor moon cosplay plssssss?

i_swallow_: feet?

James Miller Jr.: would love to take you to dinner some time!

_tittystan_: OH MY GODDD PLSS PUNCH ME IN THE FACE T-T

catdaddyXoX: ur so hawt yumm XD

Scrolling through the comments section and reading them out loud always made you giggle to yourself. They were either always some absurd comment or a simple compliment thrown your way. And you’d be lying if you said doing these videos didn’t make your confidence go up tenfold. During the past few months you’ve been a Cybergirl, you’ve been steadily growing a following. Your past three videos have done exceedingly well, but it was always your lives that got the most attention.

It started as an easy way to get money to pay your bills. A lonely night in your apartment spent drinking cheap wine and crying about how pathetic you felt, because you couldn’t keep a job to save your life, led you to the hot pink sign up screen of Cybersex.com. You told yourself it would be just for you to get yourself back on your feet, but as you began to post more and see the numbers in your bank account go to the triple digits, you grew a penchant for the website.

All it took was a bit more effort into your videos for it to become your main source of income. You’ve grown much more comfortable around the camera than when you first started, and with that you've also been able to claim your place on the Hot200. It was undemanding work, for the most part. As expected, there was heavy competition between the cybergirls, which only worked to fuel your desire to chart. You had to come up with new and creative ideas for every video, and if you were being honest, you’d say you were pretty fucking good at what you do. And of course, there was no way for you to get fired.

To put it in simpler words, you loved being a cybergirl.

But, the best part, if you had to choose, were the personal clients. The ones who would pay an additional price in order to be able to talk to you directly, maybe even get a private show or pictures if they gave a bit more. You had yet to give a private show to anyone, which was pretty expensive depending on the popularity of the cybergirl. Not that you were complaining, there were enough message requests to keep you pleased and your pockets full.

An alert appears on the corner of your screen, signaling the low battery of your computer. After plugging it in you opt to clean your cam set-up, putting away your toys and equipment. You check the time on your phone, noting that you had time to shower before your upcoming session. One that you had been waiting impatiently for all week.

When you emerge from your bathroom, you pick up your phone again, scrolling through the messages until your eyes fall on one in particular. You look at the time. Punctual as always.

[𝟷:𝟹𝟶 ᴀ.ᴍ.] ɴᴊ_𝟿𝟺: ʜᴇʏ ;)

Him.

Nj_94 was your most loyal client, but he only messaged you twice a week. It’d been almost four months since you first started talking to him and you’d be lying if you said his messages didn’t leave you feeling giddy inside. Granted, you’ve never met him, nor do you even know what he looks like, but it didn’t exactly matter to you. Getting to know him over the soft pink message threads of the Cybersex app, you've definitely grown a soft spot for him. There was something about his cute, albeit awkward, self that sometimes had your mind brewing up visions of him beneath you, quivering and begging and-

You digress.

Your back hits the soft silk sheets of your bed, deciding to make him wait a bit. If there was anything you loved more than your little sessions with nj_94, it was teasing him.

[𝟷:𝟹𝟺 ᴀ.ᴍ.] sᴡᴇᴇᴛʜᴇᴀʀᴛ𝟼𝟼𝟼: ʜɪ…

There’s not a moment for you to put down your phone before there’s a chain of pings! echoing through the quietness of your bedroom.

[𝟷:𝟹𝟺 ᴀ.ᴍ.] ɴᴊ_𝟿𝟺: ʜɪ

[𝟷:𝟹𝟺 ᴀ.ᴍ.] ɴᴊ_𝟿𝟺: ᴍɪssᴇᴅ ᴜ

[𝟷:𝟹𝟼 ᴀ.ᴍ.] sᴡᴇᴇᴛʜᴇᴀʀᴛ𝟼𝟼𝟼: ɪs ᴛʜᴀᴛ sᴏ?

[𝟷:𝟹𝟼 ᴀ.ᴍ.] ɴᴊ_𝟿𝟺: ʏᴇs. ᴠᴇʀʏ.

ɴᴊ_𝟿𝟺 ɪs ᴛʏᴘɪɴɢ…

The text appears and reappears several times before his message finally graces your screen.

[𝟷:𝟹𝟾 ᴀ.ᴍ.] ɴᴊ_𝟿𝟺: ᴅɪᴅ ᴜ... ᴍɪss ᴍᴇ?

Of course you did, but you’d never tell him that. You sit up on your headboard, playing with the frill of your shorts for a few moments before typing out your message.

[𝟷:𝟺𝟷 ᴀ.ᴍ.] sᴡᴇᴇᴛʜᴇᴀʀᴛ𝟼𝟼𝟼: ʜᴍᴍ... ᴅᴇᴘᴇɴᴅs

[𝟷:𝟺𝟷 ᴀ.ᴍ.] sᴡᴇᴇᴛʜᴇᴀʀᴛ𝟼𝟼𝟼: ᴅɪᴅ ᴜ ᴅᴏ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪ ᴛᴏʟᴅ ᴜ?

On the other side of the screen lays Jungkook on his bed, eyes wide as he stares at your message. He knew you were going to ask him about it, but he didn’t think you’d do it right away. Of course he listened. And he enjoyed it an embarrassing amount, something he’d never be able to admit to anyone except you. Shaky fingers tap on the screen of his phone, typing out his response before he clicks the send button.

[𝟷:𝟺𝟸 ᴀ.ᴍ.] ɴᴊ_𝟿𝟺: ʏᴇs ɪ ᴅɪᴅ

[𝟷:𝟺𝟹 ᴀ.ᴍ.] sᴡᴇᴇᴛʜᴇᴀʀᴛ𝟼𝟼𝟼: ʜᴏᴡ ᴅɪᴅ ɪᴛ ғᴇᴇʟ ʙᴀʙʏ?

His heart quickens when he reads the sentence. It wasn’t uncommon for you to call him pet names, but it usually meant he was in for the night. And probably on your good side.

[𝟷:𝟺𝟹 ᴀ.ᴍ.] ɴᴊ_𝟿𝟺: ɢᴏᴏᴅ. ʀʟʏ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴀᴄᴛᴜᴀʟʟʏ.

[𝟷:𝟺𝟻 ᴀ.ᴍ.] sᴡᴇᴇᴛʜᴇᴀʀᴛ𝟼𝟼𝟼: ᴏʜ ᴄᴍᴏɴ ʙᴀʙʏ... ɪs ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴀʟʟ?

[𝟷:𝟺𝟼 ᴀ.ᴍ.] ɴᴊ_𝟿𝟺: ɴᴏ ɪ

[𝟷:𝟺𝟼 ᴀ.ᴍ.] ɴᴊ_𝟿𝟺: ɪ ʜᴀᴅ ᴛᴏ... ʀᴇʟɪᴇᴠᴇ ᴍʏsᴇʟғ ᴛᴡɪᴄᴇ

A blush appears on Jungkook’s cheeks almost immediately after he types out the message. No matter how many times he’s texted you the most indecent and lewd words, he’ll probably never be able to fight the shyness that accompanies it.

[𝟷:𝟺𝟾 ᴀ.ᴍ.] sᴡᴇᴇᴛʜᴇᴀʀᴛ𝟼𝟼𝟼: ᴏʜ?

[𝟷:𝟺𝟾 ᴀ.ᴍ.] sᴡᴇᴇᴛʜᴇᴀʀᴛ𝟼𝟼𝟼: ᴛᴇʟʟ ᴍᴇ ʙᴀʙʏ… ᴀʀᴇ ᴜ sᴛɪʟʟ ᴡᴇᴀʀɪɴɢ ɪᴛ?

Jungkook glances down at his bare thighs, where the thin fabric wraps around his hips. He gulps.

[𝟷:𝟺𝟿 ᴀ.ᴍ.] ɴᴊ_𝟿𝟺: ʏᴇs.

[𝟷:𝟻𝟶 ᴀ.ᴍ.] ɴᴊ_𝟿𝟺: [ɪᴍᴀɢᴇ𝟶𝟾𝟹𝟺.ᴊᴘɢ]

There’s a moment where your mouth hangs open, watering at the sight of his salacious thighs. But, the thin black lace barely covering his prominent bulge is what makes you squeeze your thighs together. If his texts weren’t enough to show how desperate he was for you, this unexpected picture definitely got the point across. God, he was such a—

[𝟷:𝟻𝟷 ᴀ.ᴍ.] sᴡᴇᴇᴛʜᴇᴀʀᴛ𝟼𝟼𝟼: ɢᴏᴏᴅ ʙᴏʏ.

[𝟷:𝟻𝟷 ᴀ.ᴍ.] sᴡᴇᴇᴛʜᴇᴀʀᴛ𝟼𝟼𝟼: ᴛᴇʟʟ ᴍᴇ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ʙᴀʙʏ

[𝟷:𝟻𝟷 ᴀ.ᴍ.]sᴡᴇᴇᴛʜᴇᴀʀᴛ𝟼𝟼𝟼: ᴜ ᴇᴀʀɴᴇᴅ ɪᴛ

Jungkook's heart throbs, or is that his dick? Either way, it's almost humiliating how easy it is for you to rile him up from a few words. You just had that effect on him. And, god, did he fucking love it.

[𝟷:𝟻𝟸 ᴀ.ᴍ.] ɴᴊ_𝟿𝟺: ɪ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴜᴍ

[𝟷:𝟻𝟸 ᴀ.ᴍ.] ɴᴊ_𝟿𝟺: ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴜ

[𝟷:𝟻𝟸 ᴀ.ᴍ.] ɴᴊ_𝟿𝟺: ᴘʟssss :(

This was... new. Usually, you only allow him to be the one receiving all the attention and pleasure. Despite the waning professionalism in your relationship, this was still your job. It was only after your sessions that you'd grant yourself to come to the fresh memory of his whining and pleading. But who were you to deny him?

[𝟷:𝟻𝟹 ᴀ.ᴍ.] sᴡᴇᴇᴛʜᴇᴀʀᴛ𝟼𝟼𝟼: ...ᴏᴋ ʙᴀʙʏ

[𝟷:𝟻𝟺 ᴀ.ᴍ.] sᴡᴇᴇᴛʜᴇᴀʀᴛ𝟼𝟼𝟼: ʀ ᴜ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ʜᴀʀᴅ ʏᴇᴛ ʙᴀʙʏ?

[𝟷:𝟻𝟻 ᴀ.ᴍ.] ɴᴊ_𝟿𝟺: ʏᴇs. ʙᴇᴇɴ ʜᴀʀᴅ ᴀʟʟ ᴅᴀʏ 𝟺 ᴜ…

His fingers itch, his cock aching for any form of relief, but he knows better than to do anything without your permission. Besides, you make it all worth it in the end.

[𝟷:𝟻𝟼 ᴀ.ᴍ.] sᴡᴇᴇᴛʜᴇᴀʀᴛ𝟼𝟼𝟼: ᴀʟʀᴇᴀᴅʏ ᴄᴀᴍᴇ 𝟸 ᴛɪᴍᴇs 𝟸ᴅᴀʏ ᴀɴᴅ ᴜ sᴛɪʟʟ ᴡɴᴛ ᴍᴏʀᴇ?

[𝟷:𝟻𝟼 ᴀ.ᴍ.] sᴡᴇᴇᴛʜᴇᴀʀᴛ𝟼𝟼𝟼: sᴏ ғᴜᴄᴋɪɴɢ ɴᴇᴇᴅʏ, ʜᴜʜ?

[𝟷:𝟻𝟼 ᴀ.ᴍ.] sᴡᴇᴇᴛʜᴇᴀʀᴛ𝟼𝟼𝟼: ʏᴋ ᴡʜᴀᴛ 𝟸 ᴅᴏ ʙᴀʙʏ ʙᴏʏ

nj_94 has sent 3,000 hearts!

[𝟷:𝟻𝟽 ᴀ.ᴍ.] ɴᴊ_𝟿𝟺: ᴘʟᴇᴀsᴇᴇᴇ

You laugh breathlessly despite the wetness building between your thighs at his begging. Your hand slips behind your back, unclipping your bralette before slipping it off and throwing it somewhere in your room. You angle the camera so that only the top half of your body shows before snapping the picture.

[𝟷:𝟻𝟿 ᴀ.ᴍ.] sᴡᴇᴇᴛʜᴇᴀʀᴛ𝟼𝟼𝟼: [ɪᴍᴀɢᴇ𝟶𝟾𝟹𝟻.ᴊᴘɢ]

Fuck. Jungkook can’t take his eyes off of the image of your bare chest. Your hand sits right above the band of your thin panties, before the image cuts off. There’s a teasing glint in your eyes as you bite your lip, staring straight into the camera. Jungkook can’t help it, he whines. His hand is pulling the black panties down to his mid thigh before he can think. He sighs at the feeling, grabbing the strawberry lube -your favorite- from his nightstand drawer and squirting a generous amount into his palm. He begins to leisurely stroke his member before a ping! from his phone interrupts him.

[𝟸:𝟶𝟹 ᴀ.ᴍ.] sᴡᴇᴇᴛʜᴇᴀʀᴛ𝟼𝟼𝟼: ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴍʏ ᴘɪᴄᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴍᴜᴄʜ?

[𝟸:𝟶𝟹 ᴀ.ᴍ.] ɴᴊ_𝟿𝟺: ғғᴄᴋ ᴏғ ᴄᴏᴜʀs. ᴜʀ sᴏ ғᴜᴄᴋɴɢ ʜᴏᴛᴛ

[𝟸:𝟶𝟺 ᴀ.ᴍ.] ɴᴊ_𝟿𝟺: ᴡɪsʜ ɪ ᴡs ᴛʜᴇʀ ᴡ ᴜ

You wish so too. To have him begging to touch you, to feel you, right in front of you? Fuck, it definitely did things to you. He did things to you. And you wanted to show him.

[𝟸:𝟶𝟿 ᴀ.ᴍ.] sᴡᴇᴇᴛʜᴇᴀʀᴛ𝟼𝟼𝟼: [ᴠɪᴅᴇᴏ𝟶𝟾𝟹𝟼.ᴍᴘ𝟺]

Jungkook’s hand falters when he sees you’ve sent a video. Not that it was uncommon, but usually he’d have to send hearts first. But, he decides not to question it, instead choosing to click on the video. It takes a few moments to load, but once the first few seconds start playing, Jungkook’s mouth drops.

Your fingers are in your mouth, sucking and lathering them in spit before they trail down your body and under the fabric of your thin panties. Jungkook doesn’t need to see it, no, he can hear how wet you are. The sounds of your soft moaning and your fingers entering you drive Jungkook utterly wild, and he finds himself whimpering. He can’t stop watching the way you bite your lips and giggle, as if you knew exactly what you were doing to him. Of course you knew.

Jungkook replays the video, deliberate strokes of his hand sounding through the quietness of his room. “F-fuck, ____... what are you doing to me...” There’s another ping! that seems to reverberate in his head, and Jungkook slows his movements before he can get too lost in the endless ocean of his thoughts.

[𝟸:𝟷𝟾 ᴀ.ᴍ.] sᴡᴇᴇᴛʜᴇᴀʀᴛ𝟼𝟼𝟼: sᴘᴇᴇᴄʜʟᴇss, ʙᴀʙʏ?

[𝟸:𝟷𝟾 ᴀ.ᴍ.] sᴡᴇᴇᴛʜᴇᴀʀᴛ𝟼𝟼𝟼: ᴏʀ ʀ ᴜ ᴛᴏᴜᴄʜɪɴɢ ᴜʀsᴇʟғ ʙᴄ ᴏғ ᴍᴇ?

[𝟸:𝟷𝟿 ᴀ.ᴍ.] ɴᴊ_𝟿𝟺: ғғᴄᴋ ɪ ᴄɴᴛ ʜᴇʟᴘ ᴍʏsᴇʟғ

[𝟸:𝟷𝟿 ᴀ.ᴍ.] ɴᴊ_𝟿𝟺: ᴜʀ sᴏ ғᴜᴄᴋɴ ʙᴇᴀᴜᴛғʟʟ

[𝟸:𝟸𝟶 ᴀ.ᴍ.] ɴᴊ_𝟿𝟺: ᴄᴀɴ ɪ sɴᴇᴅ sᴍᴛʜɴ ɴ ʙᴀᴄᴋ?

[𝟸:𝟸𝟶 ᴀ.ᴍ.] sᴡᴇᴇᴛʜᴇᴀʀᴛ𝟼𝟼𝟼: ᴏғᴄ ʙᴀʙʏ

A few minutes pass before your phone finally vibrates, your screen lighting up with a new message.

[𝟸:𝟸𝟻 ᴀ.ᴍ.] ɴᴊ_𝟿𝟺: [ᴠɪᴅᴇᴏ𝟶𝟼𝟽.ᴍᴘ𝟺]

You hesitate for a bit, biting your lip before you press play. The sound of his hand fervently sliding up and down his shaft fills your ears, soft whines of pleasure slipping through the speaker of your phone. If you weren't turned on before, you definitely were now. Your hand travels down your body, slipping underneath your panties. Gasping at the pool of your wetness, your hand moves along your clit expertly as his hand slides along the mess of precum and red lube. Strawberry.

Right as the video is reaching the last ten seconds, your hands speed up against your heat. Your thoughts are clouded, lidded eyes staring at nj_94’s huge cock. Right before the video ends, you hear his voice, muttering nonsense, but that isn’t what makes you cease your motions. “F-fuck, ____, see what you do to me.”

It’s clear he doesn't realize he’s said your name, your actual name. But that's not even the weirdest part. No, because the voice sounds too familiar to you. Similar to the voice of— ping!

nj_94 has sent 5,000 hearts!

[𝟸:𝟹𝟺 ᴀ.ᴍ.] ɴᴊ_𝟿𝟺: ғᴄᴋ ɪᴍ ᴄʟᴏᴇs

[𝟸:𝟹𝟻 ᴀ.ᴍ.] ɴᴊ_𝟿𝟺: ʟᴛᴇ ᴍᴇ ᴄᴜᴍᴍ

[𝟸:𝟹𝟻 ᴀ.ᴍ.] ɴᴊ_𝟿𝟺: ᴘʟssss?

[𝟸:𝟹𝟽 ᴀ.ᴍ.] sᴡᴇᴇᴛʜᴇᴀʀᴛ𝟼𝟼𝟼: [ɪᴍᴀɢᴇ𝟶𝟾𝟹𝟽.ᴊᴘᴇɢ]

The still image of your drenching core is enough for Jungkook to spill his seed all over his hand. His hand slows as he pumps the last spurts of his cum, chest heaving harshly. He grabs a couple of tissues from his nightstand, using it to clean the cum off of his fingers.

[𝟸:𝟺𝟷 ᴀ.ᴍ.] ɴᴊ_𝟿𝟺: ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ

[𝟸:𝟺𝟸 ᴀ.ᴍ.] sᴡᴇᴇᴛʜᴇᴀʀᴛ𝟼𝟼𝟼: ʜᴀᴘᴘʏ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴏғ sᴇʀᴠɪᴄᴇ ʙᴀʙʏ ʙᴏʏ

[𝟸:𝟺𝟻 ᴀ.ᴍ.] sᴡᴇᴇᴛʜᴇᴀʀᴛ𝟼𝟼𝟼:,, ɪᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴛʜɪɴᴋɪɴɢ

sᴡᴇᴇᴛʜᴇᴀʀᴛ𝟼𝟼𝟼 ɪs ᴛʏᴘɪɴɢ...

Jungkook’s head is spinning, but he doesn’t think it’s from the breathtaking orgasm you had just given him. He’s on edge as he watches the little typing bubble appear and disappear multiple times. What could you possibly be ‘thinking’ about? Were you thinking of ending this whole thing? Oh god, were you thinking of—!

[𝟸:𝟺𝟾 ᴀ.ᴍ.] sᴡᴇᴇᴛʜᴇᴀʀᴛ𝟼𝟼𝟼: ᴀᴍ ɪ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴋɴᴏ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴜ ʟᴏᴏᴋ ʟɪᴋᴇ?

No, this was definitely much worse. Jungkook never would have guessed how far this would have gone when he first impulsively texted you all those months ago. After the first two months, when the sexting had turned into a regular thing, he knew you’d eventually grow curious. He knew you’d eventually ask. And, god, does he wish he had the fucking balls to tell you.

Jungkook would be lying if he said this hadn’t turned into something more than just sexting. At least for him. He wasn’t really sure how you felt about him, though sometimes the things you’d say when you were coaxing him into an orgasm would go to his head, and he’d think, if only for a moment, that maybe, just maybe, you felt something more as well.

But after he’d come down from his high, and come down back to reality, Jungkook knew it was just wishful thinking. How could you have feelings for someone you’ve never met, never seen? Even if you did, it wasn’t Jungkook you felt something for, it was nj_94. Which, yes technically was him, but not to you. You probably thought it was, well, literally anyone except your nerd of a neighbor who was too much of a coward to tell you who he was. What the hell would he even tell you? How the hell would he tell you?

“Oh, hey, _____! You know that guy you’ve been sexting consistently through Cybersex for four months? Well, surprise! It’s been me the entire goddamn time!”

SLAP!

Yet, even in the safety of his imagination, you're fuming, ears blowing steam as you slam the door in his face. A demand to never speak to you again, and Jungkook sinks into the floor from shame and embarrassment. Sometimes, you’d laugh in his face, disbelieving, or worse, unwanting of him.

Jungkook’s mind was a weird and ghastly place.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been staring at your message, but he sees you’ve gone offline, probably tired of waiting for him to reply. His thumbs hover over the keypad of his phone, but he can’t bring himself to say anything, not even to jokingly brush you off. There have been many moments before where you’ve brought up what nj_94 looks like, but somehow this time it feels different. Jungkook can’t pin down the feeling coiling in his stomach, so he does what he does best.

He ignores it.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

The blaring sound of your alarm fills the once quiet room, ripping you away from your peaceful slumber, and you groan loudly into your pillow. Your hand fumbles around your nightstand as you try to blindly reach for your phone. Once you're able to turn off your alarm, you hear the pounding at the door. You lift your head, able to make out muffled calls of your name through your clouded mind. Who the fuck is trying to knock the door down so early in the morning?

You choose to bury your face in your pillows again, shifting the duvet over your head in order to block out the noise. Reaching for your phone once again, your eyes take a moment to adjust to the bright screen, and- oh, shit, you’re running late... again.

You throw the covers off your body, almost falling over the heap of clothes strewn over your bedroom floor. The knocking continues, and you rush out of your room, throwing the door open without sparing another glance at who’s standing at your doorstep.

“Give me five minutes!”

The figure chuckles, entering the threshold as you run back to your bedroom to throw on something presentable. “Rough night?” he says, voice sounding muffled through the closed door.

You laugh breathlessly, “More like rough weekend.” but you’re sure your voice is too quiet to be heard. Hastily brushing your teeth, you attempt to slip on your sweatpants at once. Following your successful multitasking and finishing your morning routine in record time, you emerge from your bedroom. Grabbing your keys and book bag from the living room, you pad over to the shoe rack near the front door.

“Wow, you should start waking up late every day if you’re gonna get ready this fast.”

You roll your eyes turning to shoot Jungkook a glare, “Don’t worry, I’ll start taking my time now just for you.”

Not waiting for a response, you open the door, gesturing for him to exit. He curtsies before he begins walking down the hallway to the elevator, you following closely behind.

-----

There’s something different about you today.

You’re quiet, gazing into the distance as you both walk to the coffee shop a few blocks away from your university campus. He tries to think nothing of it, chalking it up to the sleepiness still wearing off from the early morning. But usually you’d be pointing out random things on the street, or teasing Jungkook endlessly. And maybe he might miss the (albeit playful and meaningless) flirting, but he’d never say that out loud.

You reach the shop without a word, the sound of the city waking up and Jungkook’s boots hitting the pavement the only source of noise between you. When you reach the cashier, you’re still dazed, and if Jungkook didn’t know your order by heart (something he also would never admit), you’d probably forgo ordering anything.

Despite noticing all the things off today, Jungkook decides to not ask. He really doesn't want to push you to talk. And you’d come to him if there was something really bothering you.

At least that’s what Jungkook tried to do, but when you continue to be off in your own world, unknowingly ignoring his attempts at making conversation, he decides fuck that. And even though Jungkook would deny, again, if anyone would ever ask him, he does care deeply for you. Anything bothering you, bothers him.

“Alright, what’s up?” he asks, trying to seem casual despite rethinking the words a thousand times in his head.

“Huh?” you blink, coming back down to earth. “What do you mean?”

Jungkook sends you a disbelieving look, “You know what I mean. I asked you three times if you wanted a piece of my cheese danish, and you haven’t said a word since we left your apartment. So, what’s up?”

You duck your head, suddenly feeling bashful for ignoring Jungkook, but you haven’t been able to stop thinking about... him since the weird conversation you had on Friday. And to make matters worse, the fucker has been ignoring you. The only times he has bothered to text, was only to cancel your Saturday night appointment, despite the money already being transferred to your account. And when you tried to send it back, he declined the request without a word. Everything that he does leaves you more confused than before, and now you’re left to deal with these gross feelings building inside you.

Because even if you’re trying to ignore it, and him, as much as possible, your stupid brain can’t help thinking about all the sessions you’ve had with him, and all the mundane conversations that crossed the strictly business and purely sexual line. It was all too much, and you wished you could make sense of at least some of it, but now he won’t even talk to you. You can’t help thinking that maybe you had imagined it all. That maybe you had somehow convinced yourself that he felt the same way you did.

Or maybe he felt that it was becoming too much, too intimate, too serious, and wanted nothing to do with it. But even then, why couldn’t he have just told you that? Why did he have to fucking ghost you, for crying out loud? Why did-!

“Hello? Earth to _____!”

You blink, eyes focusing on the hand waving in front of your face. “Fuck, did I do it again?”

Jungkook chuckles, and you try to ignore the way your heart skips a beat. What the hell is up with you today? “Seriously, is everything okay?”

“Yeah, it’s just…” you hesitate, because what would you even call this? The whole situation is weird if you were to explain it to, well, literally anyone else. Not to mention the fact that Jungkook thinks you work as a coder from home. “Boy problems.”

Jungkook clears his throat, averting his eyes and choosing to focus on the grey concrete beneath him. “O-oh,” and as much as he doesn’t want to know about the other guy who’s got you so in your head, he still asks, “do you want to talk about it?”

You’re quiet for a moment, and Jungkook thinks that you might not say anything, that you might brush him off. He almost sighs in relief but then-

“Well, there’s this guy, and well- uhm,” you stare at the iced coffee in your hands, contemplating how to word your thoughts without actually spilling your secret. “We’ve never actually met, or anything, but we’ve been talking through this,” you pause again, glancing at Jungkook, whose jaw is clenched, “dating site. And well, we’ve been talking for about four months...”

Jungkook almost trips over his own feet whipping his head to look at you. You’re still talking, but now his brain is hazy and he can't think straight. No... you couldn’t... you’re not... you can’t be... you can’t be talking about... him, right? There’s... there’s no way. It has to be someone else. It has to be a coincidence that almost everything you’re saying sounds exactly like your relationship with... nj_94. Right? Right, of course, you’re definitely talking about someone else and it’s all in his-!

“...and when i asked, if uh, i’d ever get to see him, he kinda ghosted me, so, yeah.” you laugh nervously, noting the way Jungkook hasn't said a thing.

But, Jungkook is more sure than ever that you’re talking about him, well, not him, but nj_94, which technically- ok, you know what? It doesn’t matter because he feels nauseous and he’s sure he’s about to empty the contents of his stomach right here on campus in front of everyone. And now you’re looking at him with worry in those beautiful gleaming eyes of yours and oh, god, he needs to do something, anything to make this go away. Jungkook opens the lid of his coffee, taking a huge gulp without thinking anything of it because- OH FUCK!

IT’S FUCKING SCALDING. OH, GOD HIS TONGUE IS FUCKING BURNING AND HE’S SPUTTERING AND SPITTING THE COFFEE BACK OUT AND FUCK, IS HE SWEATING? IT’S SIXTY FUCKING DEGREES OUTSIDE AND HE’S SWEATING? NOW YOU’RE LOOKING AT HIM WITH CONCERN IN THOSE BEAUTIFUL GLEAMING EYES- wait, isn’t that the exact reason he’s stuck in this situation? God, what were you doing to him?

Jungkook barely registers the fact that you’ve both stopped walking, and are standing underneath one of the big trees on your campus. There’s a hand on his shoulder, and he realizes through his mess of a mind that it's yours.

“Jesus, Kook, are you okay?”

“Mhm,” he says, like a liar because no, he’s not okay, far from it actually. Because you’re fucking talking about him, and you don’t even fucking know it. God, the last thing he wanted was to make you feel like this. Truthfully, Jungkook doesn't exactly know why he’s been ignoring you. It was in a panic that he had cancelled your next session, afraid to talk to you after the sucker move he had pulled Friday night.

And he knows, he fucking knows that avoiding it is just making it worse. And that it won't go away, no matter how much he tries to ignore it. Jungkook is at a loss for what to do, and it's not like he could go to his friends to ask for help. This whole situation was too fucking absurd to even bother explaining. But if there was one good thing coming from this, it was learning that you did actually care about him, or...erm...nj_94, at the very least. Sure, there were almost a million other things Jungkook had to figure out, but hey, he’ll cross that bridge when he gets there.

Jungkook unconsciously pouts, willing the tingling on his tongue to go away. He’s too busy glaring at the offending coffee in his hands to notice the way your worried stare turns into one of suspicion, if only for a moment.

“Awww, do you want me to make it better?”

His head whips up at that, eyes widening at your words. Innocent and insignificant, yet Jungkook can’t help but think of the videos where you use the same tone. He’s sure that he’s completely forgotten the scalding burn on his tongue now. And it’s then that he sees it. The amused glint in your eyes, and the way your lips are pursed, seemingly holding back a laugh.

You’re making fun of him.

Jungkook scoffs, pushing your hand off his shoulder. You offer him the ice in your now empty cup, but he only rolls his eyes. You both toss your drinks in the can next to you, continuing the walk to your morning class.

And he tries to act upset, he really does, but when he sees you start to laugh, he can’t help but do the same.

[ :: ENTER... the (cyber)boy of your dreams ::]

There’s a familiar ping! that sounds through your bedroom, making you run out of your bathroom, toothbrush hanging from your mouth as you reach for your charging phone.

[𝟷𝟷:𝟹𝟸 ᴘ.ᴍ.] ᴍɪɴᴄᴀᴍs: ᴄᴀɴ ɪ ᴊᴜsᴛ sᴀʏ ʜᴏᴡ ғᴜᴄᴋɪɴɢ ʙᴇᴀᴜᴛɪғᴜʟ ʏᴏᴜ ʟᴏᴏᴋᴇᴅ ɪɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴠɪᴅ ʟᴀsᴛ ɴɪɢʜᴛ?

Trying to ignore the slight pang of disappointment in your chest, you roll your eyes at his compliment. Typing out a response, you hit send before chucking your phone across your bed, huffing as you plop onto your mattress.

[𝟷𝟷:𝟹𝟹 ᴘ.ᴍ] sᴡᴇᴇᴛʜᴇᴀʀᴛ𝟼𝟼𝟼: ᴅᴏ ᴜ sᴇɴᴅ ᴛʜɪs ᴛᴏ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ɢɪʀʟ ɪɴ ᴜʀ ɪɴʙᴏx?

[𝟷𝟷:𝟹𝟹 ᴘ.ᴍ.] ᴍɪɴᴄᴀᴍs: ᴊᴜsᴛ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ʙᴀʙʏ ;)

Jimin was a bit of an icon in the cybersex world, adored by fans and other cyberboys alike. His videos centered on a more… demanding persona, which is what got him his mass audience. It obviously worked in his favor, if a peek at his account was anything to go by.

ParkJimin

@mincams

1,500,000 monthly viewers / 10,183,209 hearts

Most Popular: be a good girl, would you? / 7,937,937 views

And while a lot of cyberboys faked their personalities on screen, everything Jimin did had a sense of genuinity, and there was no doubt he was just as dominating in real life as he was on camera. You’d know better than anyone.

Jimin had begun texting you a few months ago, right when your videos had begun charting. It definitely took you by surprise, having only been messaged by two other cybergirls asking where you had bought your lingerie. And seeing his immense following only made you question it even more. What did he want to do with you when there were so many others who were more... on his level?

Yet, despite you sometimes disregarding his messages due to the suspicion you had in the early weeks, there would still be a text from him every Wednesday without a doubt. This obviously led to you, eventually, texting him back, if only to satiate your curiosity. And well, he was definitely... intriguing, considering the fact that you’ve been speaking ever since. Though, your ‘acquaintance’ with him has definitely crossed that line of playful flirtiness and frisky texting.

Cyber fuck buddies was probably the best way to describe your relationship with Jimin now. One lonely, frustrating late night had led to you and Jimin exchanging some very lewd thoughts with each other. And yes, although you had broken your second rule of being a cybergirl, the intense orgasm Jimin had given you was enough for you to... tweak them a bit.

See, at the beginning of your Cybersex journey, you had set rules for yourself, if only to make your job easier. And rule number two was to never get involved with a cyberboy. And, really, you were doing a great job at ignoring them completely, then Jimin had managed to slip his way into your life. But could you really blame yourself? Jimin was fucking hot, and you had your own desires that needed to be satisfied every once in a while. When he had just offered himself up, what were you supposed to do? Say no? It’s not like you were fucking him in real life anyway.

So, you changed that rule to never fuck a cyberboy. Harder to actually break and straight to the point. And yet... here you were, thinking of bringing none other than Park fucking Cyberboy Jimin onto your next show.

And you know, it sounds fucking stupid because what the hell? Did you not go over your own rules just now? But Jimin was the only one that could (possibly) help you in this very... unique situation. And, no, you were not gonna fuck him. Despite how much you’ve bent your rules, you were still going to try to respect them. Besides, you had other plans for him.

Like you mentioned before, Jimin was as demanding in his videos as in real life. Yet, there he’d be, in your direct messages, damn near begging for an opportunity to film a video with you.

Who would have thought that Park Jimin, the one who has everyone begging for him, actually wanted to be on his knees for you.

And at first it was easy to brush it off as a meaningless joke. Hell, you’d even respond back with a quip of your own. But when he actually explained himself, you had to say, all his points were very convincing. Something about gaining a bigger platform and a more ‘enlightening’ sexual experience. But, you had never brought anyone on your channel, and honestly, you had brushed the idea of a ‘partnership’ with him to the back of your mind. That is, until now.

Now, you needed him more than ever, for your own reasons.

[𝟸:𝟸𝟸 ᴀ.ᴍ.] sᴡᴇᴇᴛʜᴇᴀʀᴛ𝟼𝟼𝟼: ɪs ᴜʀ ᴏғғᴇʀ sᴛɪʟʟ ᴜᴘ ғᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ... ᴄᴏʟʟᴀʙᴏʀᴀᴛɪᴠᴇ ᴘʀᴏᴊᴇᴄᴛ?

[𝟸:𝟸𝟹 ᴀ.ᴍ.] ᴍɪɴᴄᴀᴍs: ɪ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ’ᴅ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴀsᴋ

[𝟸:𝟸𝟹 ᴀ.ᴍ.] ᴍɪɴᴄᴀᴍs: ᴏғ ᴄᴏᴜʀsᴇ ɪᴛ ɪs

[𝟸:𝟸𝟺 ᴀ.ᴍ.] sᴡᴇᴇᴛʜᴇᴀʀᴛ𝟼𝟼𝟼: ᴛʜᴇɴ ɪ’ʟʟ ᴅᴏ ɪᴛ.

[𝟸:𝟸𝟺 ᴀ.ᴍ.] sᴡᴇᴇᴛʜᴇᴀʀᴛ𝟼𝟼𝟼: ᴜɴᴅᴇʀ ᴛᴡᴏ ᴄᴏɴᴅɪᴛɪᴏɴs.

[𝟷𝟸:𝟸4 ᴀ.ᴍ.] ᴍɪɴᴄᴀᴍs: ᴀʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ sʀs?

[𝟷𝟸:𝟸𝟻 ᴀ.ᴍ.] ᴍɪɴᴄᴀᴍs: sᴜʀᴇ...ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ғᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ

[𝟷𝟸:𝟸𝟼 ᴀ.ᴍ.] sᴡᴇᴇᴛʜᴇᴀʀᴛ𝟼𝟼𝟼: ɪᴍ ɪɴ ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴏʟ

[𝟷𝟸:𝟸𝟼 ᴀ.ᴍ.] sᴡᴇᴇᴛʜᴇᴀʀᴛ𝟼𝟼𝟼: ɴ ᴡᴇ ғɪʟᴍ ᴀᴛ ᴍʏ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ ᴛʜɪs sᴀᴛ.

[𝟷𝟸:𝟸𝟼 ᴀ.ᴍ.] sᴡᴇᴇᴛʜᴇᴀʀᴛ𝟼𝟼𝟼: ᴅᴇᴀʟ?

[𝟷𝟸:𝟸𝟽 ᴀ.ᴍ.] ᴍɪɴᴄᴀᴍs: ʏᴏᴜ ᴅʀɪᴠᴇ ᴀ ʜᴀʀᴅ ʙᴀʀɢᴀɪɴ, sᴡᴇᴇᴛʜᴇᴀʀᴛ.

ᴍɪɴᴄᴀᴍs ɪs ᴛʏᴘɪɴɢ...

[𝟷𝟸:𝟸𝟽 ᴀ.ᴍ.] ᴍɪɴᴄᴀᴍs: ᴅᴇᴀʟ.

[𝟷𝟸:𝟸𝟾 ᴀ.ᴍ.] ᴍɪɴᴄᴀᴍs: sᴇᴇ ʏᴏᴜ sᴀᴛᴜʀᴅᴀʏ ;)

The buzz of quiet conversation fills the room, accompanied by the sounds of the documentary playing on the projector that no one could be seen paying attention to. Even the professor seemed to be falling asleep grading papers near the corner of the room. There were excited whispers of a party later tonight, but you, you were ecstatic for reasons completely different.

“Pssst! Jungkook!”

Jungkook lifts his head, looking around before he feels a tap on his shoulder. He turns around and almost jumps back in shock from how close your face is to his.

“Uh, yeah?” he whispers back.

There’s something in your smile that throws him off, demure and something else he can’t seem to figure out. Maybe Jungkook pays too much attention to anything you do. Fuck, you're driving him crazy just sitting there.

“Are you doing anything tomorrow?”

“Uh, no... why?” he stutters, and maybe it’s just the dark lighting in the room, but he swears he sees your eyes gleam.

“No reason,” you respond, leaning your head against your hand. Your other hand comes to toy with the necklace sitting around your neck. “But I’d advise you to stay home this weekend.”

His eyes widen. What the fuck? Did Jungkook hear you correctly? Or is he starting to hear things too? What the hell are you doing to him? “W-what?”

“I don’t know if you’ve heard about the... show,” you make sure to look right into his eyes, “playing tomorrow night. I heard it was going to be really special.”

Jungkook blinks multiple times, sure the confusion and shock is written on his face as he stares at you. Fuck, he doesn’t know if he heard you correctly, and he’s too afraid to ask. He’s only able to dumbly murmur a “what?”

You only smile, no indication that those words had actually left your mouth. Except the fact that Jungkook had seen it. “There’s supposed to be a storm tomorrow. It’s not safe to go out.”

The lights flicker back on, and students begin to get up to leave the lecture hall. Jungkook is glued to his chair, staring at the desk you had just been sitting in. He’s too stunned to even bother thinking of a response, but luckily (or unluckily) you don’t seem to mind it. Instead you rise from your seat, swinging your bag over your shoulder.

“I’ll see you later, Jungkook.”

He glances up, swallowing hard at the coy grin on your face. Jungkook can’t help but follow your movement, watching as you pause at the door. You turn your head, making sure that you meet his eyes once again before winking at him. You take your leave, disappearing down the hallway but lingering in Jungkook’s mind.

There was... no way you knew, right? He’d been so careful not to let anything slip. Maybe you were talking about a TV show? As much as Jungkook tried to tell himself that it was all in his head, that no, you didn’t know about his not-so-little secret, somewhere, in the back of his mind, a voice kept telling him that it was futile.

He’s embarrassed to admit that once he gets into the safety of his apartment, he runs to his computer, biting his nails as he waits for it to turn on. Jungkook clicks on the pink heart icon in the corner of his home screen, inputting his memorized account information.

USERNAME: nj_94

PASSWORD: boyzwithfun97

Jungkook hasn’t logged onto Cybersex since last Saturday, but searching for your name is like clockwork. Right as he clicks on your profile, he sees you’ve made a new post. Usually, Fridays were the days you went live, but apparently things were different tonight.

[9 MINUTES AGO] SWEETHEART666 said:

no live tonight, babes. vv special video coming tomorrow <3.

Yeah, he was completely and utterly fucked.

[ :: JOINING... the valley ::]

Jungkook doesn’t know how to feel.

He doesn’t even know what to expect. It’s finally Saturday, well Saturday morning and Jungkook finds himself lying in his bed, staring blankly at his ceiling. He’s already dreading the day, knowing that all that would be on his mind today would be you, and your stupid, vague words with your stupid smirk and, fuck, let’s just be real for a second; Jungkook has never been more mortified in his twenty-three years of living. Though if anyone were to ask, he’d say he’s doing fucking peachy, like the liar he is.

He hasn’t seen you since yesterday when you almost gave him a stroke from those borderline seductive words of yours. Fuck, a “show”? What else could you possibly mean? Did you know that he watched your videos? For Jungkook’s sake, he prays to whoever is up there that that’s all you know. The walls of the apartments are thin, thin enough for Jungkook to hear you moaning every time you film, and definitely flimsy enough for you to catch the sound of your name tumbling from his lips almost every goddamn time he comes. But, god, does he really wish he knew how you felt about everything. Instead of leaving him in the dark, he wished you would have at least told him you weren't angry at him for watching your videos in secret.

Oh, how things have taken a turn.

Something Jungkook is great at is pushing away his feelings. Which, in hindsight, has definitely never ever gone even remotely in his favor. Does that stop him from burying it all down? No. But it definitely has taught him ways to distract himself from anything and everything. And one of his favorite distractions is working out. In the gym located in the lower level of his apartment complex, he’s able to filter out the world, his thoughts, and throw all the shit he’s pushed down onto the treadmill. He focuses on the loud drumming of his playlist, pressing down on the arrow button until he’s completely drenched in sweat, panting from the thirty-minute sprint. Then it's weight lifting, which isn't as distracting as he’d like it to be, but if he turns his music up louder, he can't hear the way his brain is screaming at him to just! make! sense! of! his! feelings!

But it only lasts a short hour and a half during the workout. Now, all Jungkook can focus on is the way he hasn't ridden this elevator with you in what seems like forever, and how much he misses talking to you, even if it's just as nj_94. He wonders if maybe he’ll catch sight of you walking back from doing your laundry like he always does when he comes back from his Saturday workouts. Much to his dismay, there’s no sight of you when the elevator reaches your shared floor. His shoulders deflate, and he walks with his head down, feeling completely pathetic.

It’s only when he’s a few feet away from your apartment entrance that he spots the unfamiliar man leaning against your door. He’s poised, aura oozing with confidence and nonchalance. Jungkook slows his walking. Who the hell was he?

The man in question turns his head slightly, and consequently makes direct eye contact with Jungkook. Jungkook feels his eyes widen at how attractive this man was. But, honestly, he would be more surprised if he saw you with someone who looked any less than a fucking god amongst mortals. The man looks Jungkook up and down, plump lips shifting into a smirk before he tilts his head. Jungkook tenses, throwing him a quick nod of the head. His smile widens before the door to your apartment opens, and he walks in, disappearing as quickly as the door shuts.

Great, the last chance he had to see you before tonight was gone. No questions answered, but it was fine. Everything was fine. All he had to do was wait a bit more. Jungkook glances at his watch, sighing loudly before inputting the code, rather harshly, to his apartment.

Only five more hours.

Five minutes.

Jungkook has lost count of how many times he’s refreshed your profile page. He probably looks as crazy as he feels waiting for the clock to hit eleven. He doesn't know what he’s feeling. Excited? Unnerved? Terrified? Jungkook's willing to bet it might be all three.

The minutes seem to go agonizingly slow as if taunting him. The ticking of the clock above his bed threatens to send him into overdrive. He has half a mind to rip it from the nail on the wall and throw it across the room. Even the soft rain hitting his bedroom window makes him want to scream. But he knows every jumbled thought crossing his mind is just an attempt to distract him from the absolute fear he’s feeling right now.

Then finally, finally, after the umpteenth time Jungkook has refreshed the page, right when he feels he's about to implode and have his insides turn into mush, it appears. Right as the shorthand hits eleven.

● [LIVE!] ur fav boy on his knees... w/ a special surprise <3

by Sweetheart666

2,039 viewing now

Jungkook swears he feels his heart stop beating, and he almost doesn't click on the live, he almost shuts his laptop and walks to the corner of his bedroom to rethink his actions in shame.

Almost.

The sight is familiar, one of your dimly-lit bedroom and a king-sized bed freshly made with black satin sheets. It’s a view Jungkook has grown all too accustomed to, after spending countless late nights watching you come undone under the same light. But tonight, everything has him on edge. Even the sensual music playing quietly in the background makes his heart rate increase.

It takes another minute before you appear in frame, wearing that damned smirk on your face again. But now there’s a flash of something he can’t seem to name, that flickers in your eyes. Jungkook must either be losing his mind, or the camera was playing tricks. You greet everyone in that same sweet voice of yours, as you always do in every video. You wait a few more moments for more viewers to join, toying with the heart that hangs on the chain wrapped around your neck. Everything seemed normal so far, and for a split second, Jungkook is able to breathe again. But before his thoughts could get any further, he comes into the frame.

“Everyone, this is Minnie. You might know him as Jimin, or mincams. He’s the first person I’ve ever brought on my channel, so please be nice to him...”

The same guy that had been standing outside of your apartment door. Jungkook should’ve connected the dots. It was all right in front of his fucking eyes, yet he was too in his feelings to even realize it. This was your ‘special surprise’.

Jimin’s face is eerily familiar, and Jungkook realizes that it’s not from the fleeting hallway interaction. No, he’s definitely seen him on the trending page of Cybersex multiple times. He doesn’t know how he didn’t recognize him at first, having clicked on his videos out of curiosity before. He briefly wonders how Jimin, the ever dominating and controlling Cyberboy, was so willing to get on his knees for you. Then again, Jungkook knew better than to doubt your authority over anyone.

“...unless, of course, he misbehaves.”

Jungkook almost chokes on his spit, mind failing to grasp the last few words that had tumbled from your mouth. Had he heard you right? Judging by the way Jimin’s eyes light up, he’s gonna take a wild guess and say that yes, this was going exactly where Jungkook thought it was. He looks down at his pants. Jungkook was definitely more excited than terrified now.

You stand from your spot on the floor, but Jimin stays kneeled right where he is, eyes following your movement behind the camera. Jungkook glances at the growing number of viewers, half probably from Jimin’s own audience. Just one look at the comments, he notes that this is definitely something his fans had been waiting for.

“Sit on the bed. Strip down to your underwear.”

Even though he knows your words aren’t directed at him, Jungkook’s dick has a mind of its own. Sure, he’s watched the way you dominate during your solo shows, but seeing you order about another man, fuck, does it do things to Jungkook.

He watches as Jimin obeys immediately, sitting on the edge of the bed and almost ripping his shirt in his haste to please you. You walk into frame again, holding a piece of fabric in one hand. You trace your fingers over the slope of his nose, past his lips, and down the length of his neck. “Such a pretty face. Shame I have to cover it...” you pout, though your eyes are shining with mischief. Your hands bring the silk scarf around his eyes, tying it behind his head.

Jungkook puts his hand over his growing bulge as you guide Jimin further back onto your bed. You turn him to the side, both of your bodies perfectly lining up with the camera. Fuck, is it driving Jungkook absolutely wild knowing that this was all happening just on the other side of the wall behind him. God, the things he’d do to be in Jimin’s place. Or just be there in person.

You’re on his lap now, nipping at his neck as Jimin’s soft moans filter through the speakers of his computer. Your hands, however, are kept at your side, only making Jimin’s pleas for your touch more desperate. Yet, you give into none of it. Pulling away from him, but not without another whine from the blinded man, you grin. “So whiny.”

Jungkook pauses his clothed palming, waiting with bated breath as you go behind the camera once again. The sight of Jimin’s flushed cheeks and harsh breathing makes his dick harden impossibly more. You appear in frame, this time with an unfamiliar object in your hand. Your hand goes to Jimin’s chest, and he jumps from surprise, then immediately after whines at your soft caresses. Once his nipple stiffens, your other hand clamps the pink clip onto it, prompting a gasp from both Jimin and Jungkook.

Jungkook watches as you adjust the tightness while struggling to pull down his pants laying down. Jimin looks even more flustered than before, hands digging into the flesh of his thighs. “Does it feel okay?�� he hears you whisper, and Jimin nods eagerly. You chuckle, “Use your words, baby.”

“Yes,” Jimin’s voice is strangled, and Jungkook can see the painful swell of his cock outline through the camera lens. “It’s perfect.”

“Good.” you pat his cheek before pushing him to lie down on his back. Another piece of fabric comes to wrap around Jimin’s wrists, placing them above his head. You climb over his body, opting to lay over his thighs, just below his prominent erection. “Tell me, baby,” Jungkook’s eyes catch the matching pink remote in your hand and the smirk on your face. Your thumb presses down on the button, and the sudden sounds of buzzing mixed with Jimin whining sets Jungkook’s skin ablaze. “Is it ok if I use you for tonight?”

“F-fuck, y-yes, p-please use me, sweetheart.”

Jungkook has his hand on his shaft, leisurely stroking as he watches you press the button once again. The humming stops, but Jimin is left gasping, back arching off the sheets. The sight spurs Jungkook further, and he brings his own hand to his erect nipples, pinching hard. You move to straddle Jimin’s thigh before lifting the other clamp to his mouth. “Open up, baby.”

Jimin quickly complies, opening his mouth wide enough for your index finger and thumb to enter. His lips wrap snugly around them, sucking until you tap his cheek. Your fingers and the clamp emerge drenched in his spit, but Jungkook only gets a glance before you’re shoving them beneath your thin mesh slip-on. The clamps come to life once again, you and Jimin releasing simultaneous moans of ecstasy.

There’s a thin sheen of sweat building on Jungkook’s skin as he pumps himself harder, whining at the sight. God, he’s never wanted to be beneath you as much as he wants to now. He watches as you press the remote once again, giggling quietly at Jimin’s complaining. Jungkook stops his stroking, despite how much he wants to continue, realizing he’d probably make himself come unintentionally. And he could tell you were just getting started.

Your hand trails down the expanse of his chest, trailing down his toned stomach before stopping right above the place Jimin wants you the most. Your touches are playful, teasing as you use your other hand to reattach the wet clip on Jimin’s bare nipple. Jimin gasps when you press your hand down on his erection. “Nngh, sweetheart. It hurts.” he pouts, and Jungkook is almost sure if he wasn’t blindfolded, he’d be giving you puppy eyes.

But you’re inexorable.

“Awww, do you want me to make it better, baby?” you’re still talking to Jimin, but you look straight at the camera, and at Jungkook, as you say it, lashes fluttering.

Now that makes Jungkook cease his motions. Even in his hunger-ridden mind, the words feel strangely familiar, like he’s heard them before, but in a different situation. Jungkook can’t seem to remember, but the thought disappears as quickly as it came. You’ve left Jimin alone on the bed again, standing beside as you slowly strip yourself of your underwear. Hearts blow up the screen as you smirk at the camera. “Everyone’s so needy today, huh?”

You crawl up next to Jimin, tracing your fingers lightly over his toned chest. “You could probably come from these alone.” Jimin voices his pleading objections, desperate to feel your hands elsewhere, but you leave his side once again, walking closer to the camera. “Hmm, let’s ask your fans what they think.”

There’s no need to even glance at the video chat, because your laugh says it all. “Looks like they want you like this, Minnie.” He arches his back of the bed, attempting to plead with you for more stimulation. “Nnngh, please, sweetheart.” Yet you only giggle quietly. Your hand reaches for the remote off to the side before you turn the clamps on once again. Jimin’s breathy moans are loud, loud enough to filter through your shared wall, and Jungkook gulps.

Leaving Jimin alone on the bed once again, you emerge with a silver bowl in your hand. You crawl onto his thighs again, clicking the button and halting Jimin’s pleasure. Your fingers pick up an ice cube before tracing it down his chest. Jimin shivers at the coolness, but otherwise stays quiet, waiting for your next move. When you reach the band of his boxers, you leave the ice cube to melt on his abs before pulling them down and letting his cock hit his stomach. Jimin gasps at the cold wetness, tied hands digging into the mattress above his head. “Is that better, Minnie?” he only nods in response, and this time it’s enough for you.

Jungkook glances at the mess on his lap, a mix of his precum and spit lathered all over his shaft and hand. He looks back at his screen, and he sees you’ve crawled over his chest, nearing his face. Your hand goes to cradle his jaw, using your thumb to trace his bottom lip. “Tell me, Minnie, is this mouth only good for whining and complaining?” Jimin shakes his head fervently, tongue coming out to lick at your thumb. “Hmm, mind if I test it for myself then?”

Jimin swallows, trying to find his voice. “Please.”

You push his head back onto the bed, placing your knees on either side of his head. Another ice cube finds its way to your hand, and you bring it to Jimin’s lips. “Open, Minnie.” he complies, sucking the ice into his mouth. His mouth is left agape, and you smile, pleased. “Good boy.”

You slowly sink down, just enough for Jimin to start licking and sucking your heat. You gasp, holding your breath before letting out a small whimper. The hand that’s not steadying you holds the remote, pressing down on the button once again. Jimin groans into your clit. Jungkook watches the way your back arches with pleasure as his hand speeds up on his dick. He imagines being the one underneath you, eating you out like he’s wanted to for so long. Jungkook tries to be quiet, he truly does, but, fuck, just the vision of you spread out above him, makes him moan out loud.

“C’mon, Minnie, louder. Don’t you want everyone to know how good I’m making you feel?” Jungkook doesn’t realize how loud Jimin is until he hears his moans clearer through the wall than his computer speaker. Jungkook swallows down his whines as best he can, but when he sees the way your toes curl from Jimin’s unrelenting mouth, he can’t help it anymore. He’s sure the noises falling from his mouth can be heard as clearly as Jimin’s, yet he can’t find it in himself to care. Not when he’s so close to his own release.

Your whimpers only spur Jungkook further, and he’s too lost in the way you smirk straight at the camera to worry about his volume anymore. He groans, on the edge of ecstasy when your voice sounds through his clouded mind. “C’mon, baby boy, I know you can do it.” White flashes behind his eyelids, and he comes in spurts of white all over his stomach. Jungkook doesn’t notice the way all light in his room has suddenly shut off, leaving him with only the glow of his dying computer to luminate him.

When Jungkook finally opens his eyes, there’s nothing but darkness, the harsh sound of rain splattering against his window and the howling noise of the wind mixing with his harsh breathing. Even Jimin’s whines and the humming of his laptop has stopped. The post orgasm haze clouding in his mind the only indication that whatever just happened was actually real.

CLICK!

[ENDED] ur fav boy on his knees w/ special surprise <3

by Sweetheart666

687,982 viewers / 2,298,836 hearts

#16 on trending

“Fuck.” he mutters, finally grasping the fact that the power had gone out. But, it’s when Jungkook’s eyes adjust to the darkness, that it comes back to him. Something you said that sounded too familiar, and this time he knows it’s not his imagination.

“Awww, do you want me to make it better, baby?”

It becomes clearer as his breath evens out.

“Awww, do you want me to make it better?”

You know.

#bangtanhq #btsbookclub #btsguild #btsgoldnet #goldenclosetnet #cypherwritersnet #btsghostie #jungkook x reader #park jimin x reader #jeon jungkook x reader #jimin x reader #park jimin x you #jeon jungkook x you #jimin smut #jungkook smut #bts x reader #bts smut #w; cybersex

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thechangeling · 3 years

Text

She burns like rum on a fire

Why did I do this to myself ughhhhh?

So @adoravel-fenomeno and I were talking about Kit potentially getting into an abusive relationship given that he's statistically likely too given his roots. So now I give you this fic! Sorry. Kit is using he/him in this fic because he hasn't really gone on his gender quest yet.

The title is from Cherry Wine by Hozier. I reccomend you listen to Cherry Wine and Trauma by NF while reading this.

Cw: Mentions of physical and verbal abuse, abusive, controlling behavior, negative self talk and extreme denial. Also brief mention of blood.

2013

Don't cry.

Don't cry Kit told himself over and over inside his head as he tried to get a hold of his breathing. As he lay on his bed at 2 in the morning, desperately refreshing his conversation with Autumn.

Autumn or as his best friend Janessa liked to call her "the virus" was Kit's girlfriend. His very first. A mundane with the sight. They had been dating for a few months now. When they had first gotten together everything was amazing, it so it seemed.

They had some much in common and they had fun together. Autumn was hot, funny and charasmatic. She had this way of making him feel like the only person in the room. She showered him with gifts and complements that made Kit finally feel worthy for the first time in his life.

But as time went on things shifted. Autumn insisted on spending almost ever waking second with him. Kit didn't mind at first, he loved hanging out with her. But he missed his parents and his sister, and he knew they missed him too. Whenever they had family movie night, or they wanted Kit to watch Mina, Autumn threw a fit. She insisted that he was ignoring her.

She didn't want him seeing Janessa either, or Nessie as Kit called her for short. Autumn always insisted that she was plotting to steal Kit away from her, which was ridiculous but nothing could change Autumn's mind when she was in a mood. So Kit had found himself blowing Nessie off to hang out with Autumn and making excuses for it.

Kit always felt super guilty for making Autumn so upset. He tried to get out of his agreements if it to stop her from crying but sometimes Tessa and Jem wouldn't let him. It was frustrating when they didn't understand. She would rage for awhile, calling Kit stupid and worthless. Sometimes she would make comments about him being adopted, telling him that Tessa and Jem didn't really love him and they only saw him as a free babysitter for their real child.

She would make jokes about all kinds of things. How Kit wasn't a real shadowhunter, his weight, his past, his bisexuality, his ADHD. Kit knew that Autimn didn't really mean anything by it. It was nothing personal and she didn't really mean it. She loved him. And he loved her.

Tonight had been different though. His grades had taken a turn for the worst because he had been blowing of the tutoring sessions the school had payed for as a part of his accommodations. Because he had been spending that time with Autumn. Kit knew it was a bad idea to miss those, but his girlfriend needed him. She didn't have anybody else. She couldn't count on her parents like he could, and she didn't really have any friends.

But Kit was in big trouble. Tessa and Jem were mad. The school was mad. People were saying that Kit was ungrateful.

Ah yes because every disabled person should just bend down and kiss the feet of every person that deigns to give them what they're legally entitled to.

But Kit knew that he had really screwed up this time. He tried to explain to Autumn that he couldn't see her as often as he used to anymore because he needed to fix his grades. And she absolutely lost it. Which he had been expecting.

However what Kit hadn't been expecting this time was for her to hit him.

And she hit him hard. Punched him straight in the nose. And sure it wasn't that big of a deal. Kit was a shadowhunter and he was pretty much used to being hit. But he hadn't been expecting it.

And there was just so much blood.

Autumn of course instantly apologized profusely. She kissed him over and over and told him that she loved him and she didn't mean to. And Kit knew she was telling the truth but-

But he still felt a sinking feeling in his chest that he couldn't explain.

But Kit had applied an iratze, wiped off the blood, and now everything was as good as new. When he had arrived back home, his parents had noticed anything or asked him any questions.

Now he was lying awake at 2 in the morning, filled with guilt and worry as he waited for Autumn to text him back. He gnawed on his bottom lip anxiously as he tried not to over think things.

Maybe she was still mad at him? Was there something else Kit was supposed to say or do? Or maybe he should just leave her alone for awhile?

It was maddening.

Kit turned off his phone and threw it down in frustration, pulling his giant red and black flannel over his shoulders and curling in on himself. He felt strangely exhausted, but unable to sleep. His nose and left eye socket still throbbed a little despite the fact that they should be healed.

Kit thought about using another iratze but his steele was across the room and he couldn't bring himself to stand up to go get it.

God he really was pathetic. Maybe he deserved this. Tears welled up in Kit's eyes.

Don't cry. Don't cry.

This time Kit couldn't hold it back. So he let himself cry. Tears came streaming down his cheeks as he tried to muffle his sobs with his hand. Deep down he knew it was his fault. It was always his fault.

But with Autumn he had really tried. Sure he wasn't perfect but Kit really cared about her. And it wasn't good enough. He wasn't good enough.

Kit couldn't help but think of the last time he felt like this. The last time he was rejected. He had been careful about trying to keep all thoughts of Ty Blackthorn out of his head for awhile. Autumn was a good distraction, even when she was screaming obscenities at him. It was still a distraction.

Kit closed his eyes and conjured the memory of holding Ty up on the roof. If he squeezed his eyes tightly enough, Kit could still feel the softness of his hoodie and the slight tickle of Ty's dark hair against his skin. He could conjure the smell of Ty's skin and the way he had trembled slightly against Kit's body.

I should have kissed him. Kit mused, hugging himself tightly. Just once. Even if Ty had pushed him away in disgust, it would have been worth it. Just to know what it felt like.

Suddenly from the bottom of the bed, Kit's phone lit up with a call. He scrambled to grab it, thinking it was Autumn, but it was actually Janessa. Kit cleared his throat, trying to make his voice sound normal as he answered the phone.

"Why are you calling me at 2 am Nessie?"

"The better question is why are you still awake at 2 am," she pointed out, sounding smug. "I'm a vampire. Creature of the night remember? It's kinda prime time for me Kit Kat."

Kit smiled as he felt the previous angst wash away. "Yeah fair enough. But still, why are you calling me?"

Kit heard her sigh into the phone. "Well honestly because this is probably the only time you're free now a days," she said spitefully. "You know thanks to she-who-must-not-be-named." Kit rolled his eyes.

"That's my girlfriend you're talking about, Janessa!" He snapped.

"Well your girlfriend's a total bitch!"

Normally Kit would argue with her and tell her that she was way off base. That Autumn wasn't so bad and that she was trying. That she loved him. But today he just couldn't.

He sighed, running his fingers through his hair. "We got into another fight tonight," he admitted. "Just a few hours ago actually."

"I'm sorry love," Janessa murmed. Nessie wasn't British. She was actually Canadian. But she had moved around the world with her previous band before settling in Devon and leaving them to go solo. She had picked up on some British expressions though.

"I wish you weren't going through this. But Kit, you gotta break up with her! She's bad news!"

Kit rested his face against the palm of his left hand. "I can't," he groaned.

Janessa let out a frustrated yell on the other end of the phone. "What the hell are you planning on doing Kit!? I mean are you just gonna wait into she hits you or what?" She spat.

"She already did," Kit responded instantly without missing a beat.

He gasped and slapped a hand to cover his mouth. Kit had no idea why he actually told her. Impulsivity maybe? Or maybe he just needed to get it out. But he instantly regretted it.

There was a long uncomfortable silence on the other end of the phone. Kit was just about to ask Janessa where she went when suddenly she spoke.

"I'm coming over."

Kit tried to protest but she hung up on him.

Before he had time to panic or scream or throw something, there was an aggressive tapping on his window. Of course. Janessa had vampire speed. He looked up to see Nessie perched on his windowsill looking solem.

Her long black curly hair was pulled into a high ponytail and she wore what by her standards was probably a casual outfit. A black long sleeved low cut crop top and white ripped skinny jeans tucked into thigh high heeled leather boots. And of course, she wore a full face of makeup. Even after the facial feminization surgery she was still a little insecure about going out without makeup on.

Nessie banged on his window again, more impatiently and Kit jumped up to let her in. She landed on his bedroom floor with the grace of a cat, making no sound. She stared at him silently with an expression that Kit found hard to decipher.

"Show me where," she whispered in that deep raspy voice of hers. She reached for his face and Kit let Janessa cradle his face with her hands and tried not to wince as her cold skin came into contact with his.

He shook his head. "No you won't see it, I put an iratze on it already. It's done." Janessa scoffed and stepped back.

"You know the damage isn't just skin deep Kit," she said pointedly. "No matter how much you want to pretend it is."

He glared at her. "Wow that's so insightful Nessie!," he said sarcastically. "What else you got?"

"Oh come on Kit you know I'm right," She hissed. "You have to end it!"

Kit shook his head. Why does she keep saying that?

"No. Why should I?" Kit retorted. "She loves me." He tried to sound as confident as he could, but truthfully he wasn't so sure anymore.

Autumn had gone above and beyond to make Kit feel loved and appreciated yo the point where she was almost obsessive. But she could also be cruel and spiteful. Kit had convinced himself that he should be happy with what he had because it was as good as he was gonna get.

And the sad part was that was still true.

"No she doesn't," Janessa breathed desperately. To Kit's horror, it looked like she was about to cry. Kit couldn't remember if he had ever seen her cry. Not once.

"Somebody who really loved you could never hurt you like that!" She protested shakily, her voice warbled as tears spilled down her face.

Kit could feel his tears returning at the sight of Nessie crying. He rushed towards her and pulled her into his arms, burying his face in her neck. In the comfort of his best friend's embeace he allowed himself to finally sob. He cried for that broken niave part of himself that kept getting hurt.

She rested her chin on the top of his head, (she was taller then him,) and held him close. "Please promise me you will break up with her," Janessa begged.

"I just don't get it," Kit whispered against her skin. "I did everything right. I did everything I could." He blinked back tears. "Why doesn't she love me Nessie?"

He felt her shake against him. "I don't know Kit," she sobbed. "But I love you ok? I love you and your parents love you, and Mina loves you so much!"

Kit sighed, pulling back to wipe his tears. "I know, but what if I, you know-. What if I never find someone? Like romantically?"

Janessa studied him, raising her eyebrow. "Well do you need to find someone? Who is this arbitrary someone who can give you something a friendship can't?"

That's actually a good point.

"I mean," Nessie continued, crossing her arms and shifting her weight. "If you do end up in a relationship then cool, it's whatever. But the way I see it is you shouldn't focus all of your energy on looking because you're gonna end up missing out on some pretty cool stuff in the mean time." She smiled.

Kit thought about it. He knew logically Janessa had a point. But he just couldn't feel it. He was too depressed and defeated. And as ashamed as it made him, Kit still missed Autumn. He tried to smile along with Nessie but it must have looked weak because she looked concerned.

"Hey," she cooed, reaching for him.

"Can you sing to me Nessie?" He asked. Kit felt a little pathetic but hopefully she wouldn't judge him.

She smiled lovingly at him. "Sure." Janessa took his hand and led him to his bed.

"Any requests?" She asked as she pulled off her boots and lay down on Kit's bed. He followed her, snuggling up against Nessie with his back to her.

"No not really," he murmered, closing his eyes. Kit was finally starting to feel how exhausted he really was.

Janessa wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close, resting her head slightly against his shoulder. "Ok," she whispered very softly.

Kit heard her clear her throat softly before the sound of her breathy angelic alto filled his ears.

"I'm turning out the lights, to remember how to see. Till the renaissance takes place, Until a renaissance takes place, and resuscitates the color of paint and divinity."

Kit smiled sleepily at the sound of his enneagram song, something Janessa had introduced him to.

He yawned and let the sound of Nessie's voice lull him to sleep, putting all thoughts of Autumn behind him.

In my head Kit is like 5'4 and Janessa is 5'9. Originally I had her at 5'11 but I wanted her to be closer in height to Kit. Also did I name Kit's abusive girlfriend Autumn after my toxic controlling ex best friend? You bet I did!

Tag list: (you know the deal) @playwithravenclaw @lavender-scented-rat @jazzkaurtheglorious @waterlillies @nott-the-best @stxr-thxif @magnus-the-fabulous-entp-bane @foxglove-airmid @littlx-songbxrd @clarys-heosphoros @queenlilith43 @arangiajoan @hardlymatters @the-wckd-powers @thomas-gaypanic-lightwood @adoravel-fenomeno

#tsc #tda #twp #the dark artifices #kit herondale #fae's oc #the wicked powers #janessa williams #platonic soulmates for the win

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atsukashii · 3 years

Text

❝cold showers❞ // atsumu miya

➛ SYNOPSIS: all hell breaks loose when your boyfriend takes it upon himself to use all the hot water in the middle of winter.

» CHARACTER PAIRING: atsumu miya x reader

» WORD COUNT: 1.8k

» GENRE: post time- skip, aged up characters, MSBY time period

» WARNINGS: kinda suggestive (17+), and just some self indulgent domestic chaos that no one asked for

« masterlist || ao3 »

“Atsumu!” Your shriek echoes loudly off your bathroom walls as the water you have been previously standing under rapidly changes from a relaxing warmth to rival that of arctic temperatures.

It takes your boyfriend only seconds to leave his place on the couch where he had been watching reruns of his latest match to practically kick down the bathroom door.

“Sweetheart? What happened?!” The concern in his voice on another day would have melted you into a useless puddle, but right now you are freezing your ass off because of him - so you only defrosted ever so slightly. Once his brown eyes meet your own through the steam that’s quickly slipping out through the open doorway, you want to growl as his eyes distractedly lower from your face as his brain catches up with what he just walked in on.

With a scoff of frustration, you grab your towel off the rack placed next to the shower and quickly cover yourself in an attempt to keep your boyfriends attention. “Atsumu.”

“Yes?” his eyes are still glued to your towel and you rest a hand on your hip as the other clutched tightly to the top of your towel. It’s not like you’re embarrassed to be seen as naked as the day you were born by your boyfriend, as you’ve been dating for years and it wasn’t the first time this had happened. You just wanted all of his attention so you could see the fear of God in his eyes as you kill him.

“You used all the hot water,” You growl out, and maybe it’s the anger in your tone that forces his warm gaze back to your face. “Again.” you finish for good measure. Because this was the third time this had happened this week, and it was Thursday. Running a hand through his blonde locks, you refuse to let your eyes stray to the way his biceps bulge at the movement. It was a tactical move on his behalf, one you both recognize as a way to lessen the blow of your frustration, but it wasn’t going to work this time.

“Sweetheart, I thought something bad had happened.” Atsumu sighs, resting his weight against the now open doorway realizing that his attempt to sway you from anger is in vain.

“Oh trust me something bad did happen. I was halfway through washing my hair when all the hot water suddenly disappeared. Care to share why that would be Atsumu?” You interrogate and the asshole has the audacity to flash his panty-dropper smirk at you, which proceeds in just pissing you off more.

“I had a gruelling practice today so I treated myself to a spa treatment.”

“I swear to god if you used one of my fancy face masks…” You groan, trodding your sopping wet feet towards the sink, where you open the cabinets. Reaching in you rip out the box of the fancy face masks that your friend had bought you for your birthday and begin to count them. To be honest, you wouldn’t really care if he used one. In fact, on any bad days that you have, your boyfriend takes it upon himself to give you both DIY self-care of facemasks and wine on the couch. This time though, you know you’re being petty, but you can’t help it. Your hair is still full of conditioner, there’s no hot water left, it’s winter and you’re freezing cold. Letting out a sigh you close the cabinet closed and turn on the faucet for the sink, deciding to try and rinse out the rest of the conditioner in the sink rather than getting back in the hellish shower.

“You know there’s a way to get around this hot water situation right?” Atsumu finally speaks up as he watches you begin to rid the conditioner from your hair. Your eyes close as you shove your head under the faucet and use both hands to try and quickly get the conditioner out as fast as possible.

“And what’s what Atsumu.” You reply, exhausted with the conversation and the whole day. You just want this out of your hair so you can make yourself into a blanket burrito on the couch and watch your favorite show in peace.

“It’s simple, we just shower together. Can you please stop calling me Atsumu? It’s wiggin’ me out sweetheart” You pause your actions and raise your head to look through the mirror at his pouting face. He’s dead serious, you know it, but there’s a teasing glint in his eyes that light up something in your chest. Come on sweetheart, bite back, his eyes seem to say. Normally you would, but instead, you just glare at his stupidly attractive face before bending back down to finishing rinsing your hair. You both stay in silence as you finish up before purposely grabbing his towel off the drying rack on the wall and using it to quickly somewhat dry your hair, all along making a conscious decision to have your back facing your boyfriend. It’s only when you put the towel back and turn to face him do you notice his child-like pout.

“I’m sorry sweetheart…” no he’s not. He lowers his eyebrows and looks at you through his long lashes, practically batting his eyes at you and you sweat to god there are stars shooting from his eyes.

“No, you’re not. Seriously Tsumu, if you want to take a shower that’s longer than twenty minutes then shower at the gym.” As you watch the smile rapidly begin to pull across your boyfriend’s lips, you doubt he actually heard it. Fine then, drastic times call for even more dramatic measures. Quickly, you turn back to the shower and grab the shower hose from the wall before spinning back on Atsumu.

“No more long showers.” His eyes drag back down your frame, his head nodding absentmindedly whilst fire blazes to life in his eyes. You know exactly what he’s thinking and there’s no way in hell that’s going to happen right now. So this time, not bothering to speak to try and gain his attention once more, you don’t hesitate to reach out and turn the nozzle on, unleashing a blast of frigid water right into Atsumu’s face. The ear ringing shriek that leaves his mouth has you bursting into laughter and making you wish you’d been recording the event. Turning off the nozzle between your bubbles of laughter, you eye Atsumu as he wipes the water from his face with a deadly calm. But once his eyes open and he sees your laughing form, all the tension in his shoulders fades until he’s smirking too.

“You think that’s funny gorgeous?” He asks, taking a step towards you.

“Hilarious. How’s the temperature TsumTsum?” You laugh teasingly as he takes another predatory step towards you.

“Fucking cold and you know it.” He sees your hand slowly reaching towards the nozzle and freezes in his place. “You wouldn’t.” Atsumu’s eyes narrow as you bite your lip to hold in another laugh as you see the torn expression of wanting to get you back but also wanting to get the hell out of there.

“Oh I so would,” You reply with a laugh as you turn on the water once more, completely soaking your boyfriend as he darts forward to drag the showerhead out of your hands. “Tsumu no!” You cry out as he joins you in the shower trying to pry the metal from your hands whilst also being blasted in the face. “Let go you demon!” he tries to say seriously but bursts into laughter at the end when your constant tug of war on the showerhead earns you a blast of water to the face. It’s not until Atsumu reaches behind you to turn off the water do you feel your legs slipping from underneath you. The second you feel yourself falling, there are steady arms behind your back and honey brown eyes right above your own.

“Oh god,” You exhale, the breath rushing out of your lungs as adrenaline pumps through your body at the feeling of slipping. You don’t even feel the cold water blasting across your legs from where you both dropped the showerhead, instead you find yourself smiling up at Atsumu.

“Actually my name’s Atsumu, but sure I can answer to God too. Anything for you gorgeous” The moment breaks as your boyfriend smirks at you with complete seriousness.

“That was so lame. Now let me go you big oaf.” You say trying to keep the laugh threatening to bubble out of your lips, trapped inside your throat.

“Lame? Lame? Wanna repeat that sweetheart?” Atsumu laughs as he releases you, only to catch you again a few inches from the floor.

“Tsumu!” You howl, clutching your boyfriend’s sopping shirt in your fists so even if he chooses to, he can’t drop you. He tries it again, but you cling to him like a spider monkey. His amusement floods the room and you glare up at your boyfriend.

“It’s not funny.” Your attempt to argue is pathetic considering you’re trying not to laugh, and he can tell. It’s only at that moment, standing in the shower soaking wet in your towel and hanging of your equally as soaked boyfriend, do you finally feel the biting chill in the air. “We’re going to catch colds standing here.” Atsumu’s teasing expression morphs into something so beautifully soft that your heart flutters against your ribs.

“You mean to say that if we stand here for longer, it’ll result in you being my nurse for a while. Can’t say I don’t like the thought sweetheart.” Although his words are taunting, his eyes are serious as they train on your own. Slowly as if to make it even more tortuous, his breath fans across your lips and suddenly you can’t remember what you had even been mad about earlier. As his mouth finally brushes against yours, the air leaves your lungs at the nagging tingle that jumps to life on your spine. It’s only a gentle kiss, one that lingers for but a moment before falling away, but that doesn’t mean it makes your heart race any less. “Wanna watch a movie? I made dinner,” He asks as he pulls away, but not quite letting you go.

Raising your eyebrows, you call out your boyfriends shit right there. “You made dinner?” It’s no secret Atsumu can’t cook, considering he almost lived off craft mac and cheese for three days when you had to take a trip out of town. With an over-exaggerated groan, Atsumu slips from the shower stall, stripping out of his wet shirt before reaching into a cupboard and grabbing two dry towels.

“Okay I didn’t personally make it, but someone with my face did.” meaning Osamu.

“Oh good real food.” You grin, snatching the free towel out of Atsumu’s hands before quickly exchanging your wet one for the new one. “Can you heat it up whilst I change?” You feel Atsumu’s gaze follow you as you walk out of the bathroom and towards your shared bedroom.

“Need help with that?”

“Not since you made me have a freezing shower I don’t. Use all the hot water again and your new residence will be the couch, at Osamu’s apartment.” You call back over your shoulder as you raid your dresser for some warm clothes. As you change, you’re trying not to laugh as Atsumu’s muffled voice sounds up the hallway.

“Shorter showers? I can sooo do that.”

#atsumi miya #miya atsumu #miya atsumu x reader #atsumu miya x reader #atsumu x reader #haikyuu fic

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youngbloodlisk · 4 years

Text

Lost Time // Lee Hyunjae

"But even more, I've missed..."

request: "he is needy but he forgot that you're on your period + after period s*x?"

- criminally short

- why the fuck was this so hard for me to write ?/!.$/???

- i apologize to my TOTAL SWEETHEART of a requester cause you deserve way better than this piece of shit

- but I promise I tried my very hardest

- which is maybe even more pathetic

- what warnings does this need

- fingering?

- implied fem rec oral

- protected sex bc wrap it up !!!

- this one ended up rlly tame

- some angst

- and smut of course

- plz stay safe and healthy as well, you sweetheart!!

"Please?" He looks at me with puppy eyes, which is an insane contradiction to what he's asking.

"Hyunjae, even if I wanted to, I can't. You know that. Do you really wanna deal with the mess?"

"Yes."

I scoff at him.

"Don't let your dick talk for you."

He sighs with a hint of defeat in his voice.

"... Ok, no. No, I don't."

"Exactly." I turn back to my phone, assuming the conversation is over.

... I'm wrong.

"How much longer will it be?"

"I only started yesterday." I roll my eyes lightheartedly.

"So... tomorrow?"

"Hyunjae!" I laugh, which only annoys him.

"What?!"

"I will tell you when." I lean over to place a soft kiss on his forehead. He pouts, but I can see in his eyes that he feels bad for begging like he did.

It's not his fault he has needs, but it's also not my fault that I'm on my period.

I cuddle into his side, both to reassure him that it's okay and to gain come comfort as my body begins to feel like it's being ripped apart (because it kind of is, to be fair).

A few days later, I can feel that Hyunjae is growing impatient, but he'd never tell me that.

I have to make him.

"Hyunjae?" I slowly step into our shared bedroom while he pulls on his tshirt, finishing up getting changed.

"Yeah, baby?"

"It's only gonna be a couple more days."

He realizes what the conversation topic is and sighs roughly.

"Yeah, whatever. A couple more days of nothing, I get it."

His tone is almost sarcastic, that's how much of a jerk he sounds like.

"What's with the sudden attitude?"

"No sex, I can understand. No eating you out, I can understand. But my girlfriend won't even give me a blowjob, so excuse me if I'm a little pissed."

Usually, I wouldn't respond in a hostile way... but with the way my stomach feels and the hormonal imbalances...

"Listen, don't think I don't wanna be satisfying my boyfriend, but when I'm fucking bleeding I don't really feel up to that. You can't even wait a few days without getting all whiney."

"Whiney?" He widens his eyes, very defensively.

"Have you even seen yourself?! At least I'm not moping around the house making someone else feel guilty for not satisfying me. I'm a little preoccupied getting punished for not making you a father. Would you rather we do that? Get me pregnant and you won't have this problem. Just a whole different one."

"You're being ridiculous! How hard is it to suck me off? Or give me a handjob? Anything like that?"

"Why is this suddenly an issue?! You've never been this needy when I'm on my period before, what's your issue now?"

"Sorry if I find my girlfriend attractive."

"You have a hand, asshole. Use it."

He rolls his eyes and I slam the bedroom door behind me, on my way to make dinner for the two of us.

Even if I can't stand him at the moment, I'm not gonna let him starve.

At least... not in two ways.

Finally, the day comes.

I toss out the last necessary cotton item of the month before taking a hot shower, making sure to shave in any places I want.

When I get out, I quickly dry off about 90% with a towel and proceed to wrap the towel around my body.

On the way from the bathroom to the bedroom, I pass Hyunjae in the short hall.

I only say one word as I walk straight into the bedroom, not even glancing at him.

"Green light."

He stops dead in his tracks.

"Hey, wait-" He follows me into the room, where I'm tossing my clothes into the dirty hamper. "Seriously?"

"Do you think I'd be kidding?"

"Well... no. I just didn't know you were still gonna tell me after that fight."

"I said I would tell you, right? I'm a woman of my word."

"Right..." He stands there by the doorway, just staring at me. I stand by the bed, just staring at him.

"You gonna stand there and look like an idiot or are you gonna take this towel off me?"

His posture straightens at my boldness and his eyes fulfill with an excitement that, honestly, almost looks childlike.

A smile spreads across Hyunjae's face.

The fight is all but forgotten.

Within a couple minutes, I'm laying underneath my boyfriend. Our lips move in sync together, and his clothed body presses and grinds into my naked one. His hands wander quickly.

You can definitely tell he's been waiting for this moment for a week and he is not in the mood to go slow.

His fingers lightly press against my clit and a small groan leaves me.

"I've missed that..." I whisper into his lips.

"Me too... but even more, I've missed..." Hyunjae trails off as his fingers go lower and feel the growing wetness. Two of them push into me.

I grip the back of his shirt and whine at the feeling.

"Fuck, baby, don't do that... you'll have me cumming in my shorts..."

He pumps his fingers, but it's easy to tell that he desperately wants to be inside me.

Being the thoughtful guy he is, however, he continues to make sure I'm totally ready first.

I appreciate the sentiment, but I think he's also forgetting that I haven't felt him inside me in over a week now.

"Hyunjae, please just fuck me." His fingers halt and he gives me a look that says...

Wow, that was so fucking hot. I just got 10x harder within two seconds, if that's even possible.

I feel cold air and absence when he pulls his fingers out and moves to take off his clothes.

I lay back and wait for him to strip completely, finally matching me.

He rolls on a condom, catching me looking his naked body up and down in the process.

"Glad to know you still like what you see." He comments as he gets into a position to line himself up with me.

He starts to rub his tip through my folds. He looks at me with a sweet, excited, and lustful smile.

"How could I not like it?" I can feel his ego rise and his hands hold my waist as he slides in slowly.

Hyunjae lays on me, holding up most of his weight with his arms sitting on either side of me, and pushes in as far as he can.

He starts to carefully rock his hips.

His deep moans are like soft music in my ear, only intensifying the pleasure.

His impatience starts to show again when he suddenly picks up his pace.

The knot in my stomach tightens more and more.

"Hyunjae..." I moan out his name, and he holds me close as he hits me as deep as he can go.

"Baby, I'm getting close." His shaky, breathy voice warns.

"Me too." My hand lightly claw at his back, feeling his back muscles flexing and feeling his body behind to shake ever-so-slightly.

My own body starts to tremble. My head presses back against the bed as the knot in my stomach unravels and I clench round him with a strong cry of pleasure.

"Just a bit more and I promise..." Hyunjae subtly apologizes, knowing that he'll start to overstimulate me a bit before he can release.

"It's okay, you're good." I give him some reassurance.

He holds his pace as best as he can, but gets jerky and inconsistent right before his collapses onto me and cums into the condom.

We lay and breathe for a moment, before he pulls out and rolls off of me to take off the condom, tie it, and toss it.

Once it lands in the nearby trash can, he turns to look at me.

"I love you." He sighs out, eyes now devoid of anything but adoration and love. I can't help but smile at the beautiful sight.

"I love you, too."

"I'm sorry for being an impatient bastard. I won't do it again."

"Oh please, with how horny you get? Yes, you will." I laugh lightly.

"Ok, maybe I shouldn't make promises... but I'll try."

"Good enough for me." I grab his hand and bring it up to my lips, placing a kiss on it.

"Isn't the guy supposed to kiss the girl's hand? Isn't that my job?"

"Sure, if you live in the past. If it's your job, then do it."

"Your hand isn't exactly my favorite place to kiss..." He props up on his elbow and leans down to press his lips against mine.

What was meant to be a sweet kiss does not last that way very long, however.

His lips end up leaving my lips and slowly traveling down my body. He kisses the whole way down until his eyes are looking up at me from between my legs.

It might be a long night...

Hyunjae says one last thing before his mouth meets my clit.

"We have to make up for lost time, right?"

#ciiikbwork #hyunjae smut #lee hyunjae smut #the boyz smut #tbz smut #I'm sorry it took me this damn long #to get out something this damn short #and this shitty #im rlly so so sorry #I feel fucking awful this is so bad :((#hopefully it's at least sort of satisfactory

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xeo-kunsatan · 3 years

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Dissatisfied One shot +14 (Part 1)

Warning

This story contains sexual themes, Domestic abuse themes, Toxic relationships, Suicide, cigarettes use, bad words and prostitution references. If you are sensitive or underage please don't read this story.

Dissatisfied.... i don't think it's difficult to found out why do i feel like that..

I wasn't always being the inappropriate whore my grandmother or even my uncle used to call me.. I was supposed to be a innocent child.. tsk yeah.. an innocent child with the shitty luck of having such a shattered family and a stupid child with the shitty luck of having a pedophile as teacher who tried to rape him when the bastard child was just 10.

It's alright.. I guess.. I just woke up in the bed from one of my classmates, let's say he wanted a fun night so I accepted to gave him pleasure.. at least he paid me money so I can leave this room, .. but that didn't satisfied me.. nor even filled me.

I taked my stuff making sure he didn't woke up too but he still..

Rocky: Hey Bunny~, are you leaving to soon?~.

Bradley: Are you Horny again? we did it for almost 2 hours the last night, if you want to continue you most pay again.

Rocky: I have not enough money

Bradley: *change on his clothes* Then I have nothing to do here

Rocky: Tsk, you lost...

Bradley: Lost what? *Sarcastic Chuckle* Your "Buddy" is just bigger than mine, is not the big thing..

Rocky: *chuckles* As if you were that hot~.

Bradley: *takes his backpack* You didn't said that that night.

I left that room, that guy seemed mad by my comment, I can't help it, they still see me as the bastard son of the fire ghost which mess with their city but they actually desires me to gives them the pleasure that a girl or anyone else can't gave them..

I was walking through the hallways, then suddenly someone touched my hand to catch my attention, it was that big blue guy who uses to play American football, another client more.

Bradley: Unwin? Are you sure about this? You didn't had a girlfriend?

Unwin: Well yes.. i have a girlfriend, she asked me to do it one day but I'm not ready to do it nor even i have no idea about how to do it.

Bradley: so.. your first Time?

Unwin: Yep..

Bradley: alright.. we will do it this night, don't forget you have to pay for the fun night, i will teach you how to do it.

Unwin: Ok.. thanks man, Heheh now I see why people calls you Bunny, and not just for being little~ *leaves quickly while he was laughing at Bradley* Slut~.

Bradley: But Rabbits are cute...

After that I went to the school restrooms to take a quick bath to at least go to classes without any boy smell.

Since when i thought that this shit was a good idea?.. why did i thought that this would make me feel complete or even satisfied? I questioned myself while the shower drops were falling on my face.

I have a lot of missed calls from my uncle who is surely mad instead of worried by not arriving at the round house.

I dried myself quickly to then change my clothing and go to classes in time, at my seat I saw him.. Skeebo, after that day it's not the same being next to him. He used to bully me by the same old shit as the others but he stopped since that day I saved his life and i snapped to that lemon head which calls himself hero for a nonsense reason.

If you are asking why the heck I was selling my body like this if I have a traumatic event related with this?

I will answer your question, hate me or not depends of you, I will explain.

First my uncle is a hypocritical stingy, he will not give me any fucking money not even for a candy, he just gives money to my cousin, understandable, and the stupid lemon for his mediocre work.

The second reason... Everything happened in a normal school day (yes, after I got Skeebo's respect), also a normal day of ghost attack, there was a new ghost around the netherworld, this one has a weird power which makes everyone Who touches him or is slimed by him, that person ends into a lust state, it was easy to recognize when he attacked someone...at least for me, he has peculiar smell to Cherries, Strawberries and... saliva.

I didn't had to hide, the ghosts didn't attacked me as always, that lemon ball was around eating them and burping their eyes. That clumsy Pac crashed against me and suddenly Skeebo which was running away locking us in a locker by accident.

Bradley: shit...

Skeebo: Arghh!.. that lemon head!!...

Bradley: *sighs*....

Skeebo: are we in a girl's locker?.. this place smells good~

Bradley:*sniffs*... Oh.. shit.. we are not in a girl's locker...It's my locker....

Skeebo:*sniffs on Bradley's hair* is it you? You smell so good~

Bradley: Well my perfume used to be from my older sister, and i use Pactene Shampoo because my uncle has lots of them for my cousin and me, so it has sense.

Skeebo: It's still so good~

Bradley: fuck fuck fuck fuck... Skeebo.. you were infected by a lust ghost.. and you will not snap from that state until you....

Skeebo: me what?~

Bradley:... *Sighs* i-i.. I'm still scared for t-this... But.. just do it with me... D-d-dont worry.. you will not remember any of this moments...

Skeebo: you're so cute~ you're so sweet~..

Bradley: Ok i think he lost the control short time ago..damn it..

Then Skeebo slowly was ripping off my virginity.. I thought it would hurt as when that awful man tried to do to me.. but... This time.. I felt different.. I felt.. strange... i was embarrassed.. it hurted but I liked it..I don't know how nor why...He where keep going for 1 hour until he ended inside me.. for me it was difficult to still up but that feeling was too difficult to describe... Did I feel satisfaction?.. is this what am I looking for to feel full, did I feel good for at least one time of my life, he finally snapped out that state he didn't understand what happened and suddenly the locker door opened, I was a little naked so I acted quickly and transformed myself into a rabbit to escape from a already embarrassing moment leaving him with the shame. Because of me everyone saw Skeebo half-naked and stained in with his own fluids.

Ms Globular: Mr Spheros.. Mr Skeebo! Wake up!

Bradley: Huh!?...

Skeebo: What!?

Almost Everyone laugh about that.. specially to Skeebo

Ms Globular: Please focus yourself in the exam.

Bradley:..*sighs* yes Ms Globular..

Rocky: what's wrong Skeebo aren't you playing with your "buddy" again?

Izod: Yeah, please don't splash us~

Skeebo: *blushed and mad* you 2 shut up!

Yep... also that day was even worst for Skeebo than the day became into Heebo-Skeebo, he was even a bigger mock for almost all the students, it was my fault by running away as a coward..

Izod: Or what?

Bradley: Do you have any idea about how pathetic you look making fun with a guy because of an embarrassing moment he clearly wants to forget?

Rocky: You have no rights to speak slut!

Skeebo: Don't call him slut!

Izod: Aww the Sper-Man is defending the Play-Bun?.

Bradley: So sad that the sizes of your "Buddies" are not that good enough to compensate your lack of brain..

Ms Globular: That's enough you 4!! If you don't quit speaking that dirty stuff in the class i will send you to detention!

Izod/Rocky: Fine Ms Globular..

Bradley: Alright Ms...

Skeebo: *sighs*

The School Bell rings

It was now lunch time, i wasn't hungry so i left to the school yard to smoke a cigarette, a cherry one, I'm allergic to the normals.

Bradley: *sighs*

"Can i sit with you?" - a voice sounded..

It was Lexy Soto, one of my classmates and the most popular in the school for being so kind with all and bringing desserts from his Dad's restaurant also one of the most famous restaurants in Pacopolis), for it Lexy is really respected and beloved here, especially for that Lemon Ball.

Lexy always left a single meal for me and comes to me to give me company, it's still incredible that he is my friend without caring about my Dad's actions, did Latins are like this?

Bradley: Sure Lexy.

Lexy: Good, *sits to him* i noticed that you weren't in the Cafeteria so i left this cupcake for you.

Bradley: Thanks Lexy, you don't had to do it.

Lexy: I have to, Weon

Bradley:*smiles a little and takes the cupcake* Thanks Lexy, *bites it* Hmm~ is so sweet and soft.

Lexy: Chocolate with raspberry cream.

Bradley: Also.. let me guess, did you put ice cream for the cream?

Lexy: You got me.

Bradley: I knew it!

Lexy: *giggles*... *Starts sniffing Bradley* where selling your body again!?.

Bradley: Oh shit.. you got me

Lexy: Bradley, please you don't have to do it..

Bradley: Lexy, i don't have money to buy any stuff i need, and my uncle doesn't give me a shit.

Lexy: And i thought that presidents in Latin America are awful.. but please... You don't have to do it if you don't like it..

Bradley: That's the problem Lexy.. I think like it..but I hate to do it with that bastards.

Lexy: How you can like that awfull thing?...

Bradley: Because I'm sick Lexy..I know i am sick...but i can't cry for help.. because my uncle will not understand..

Lexy: I could ask my Dad to help you but.. i don't want to bother him...

Bradley: *pets him*... Lexy.. you don't have to do it... Maybe i could be sick.. but i will be okay.

Lexy: *starts sobbing* You're lying!... You are not okay! You said that you would be okay but that's not true.. i know you are suffering.. and it... It worries me a lot!! *Cries*

Bradley:...it's because that awful neighbor did to you, right?

Lexy: !!..

Bradley:*hugs Lexy* I'm sorry... I didn't mean to worry you like this.. maybe it would hurt but.. If something happens to me.. i already have a place in the netherworld with my Dad..

Lexy: If Pacopolis were your home too...

Bradley: Even if i live in netherworld, we would still be friends.

Lexy: At least.. please found a solution...

Bradley: I promise I will try.. *dries Lexy's tears* cheer up BerryPie.

Lexy: you most be the one who most smile first Cabro Culiao!..

Bradley: Heh..*smiles* sorry, like this?

Lexy: *cheers* much better~

6:00 pm

The school And clubs activities ended, Lexy have left to his home early to help out his father with his job as always, it was getting late and time to start my job with that moron, so i left the reading club (Club Wich has a single one member, me) to meet up with that guy i just forgot his name and i don't give a care in remember it.

Unwin: Finally..

Bradley: we will do this quickly, i have to go back to the round house.. i have piano practice at 8:00 pm.

Unwin: All you have to do is please me..

Bradley: just if you pay the price, if you don't i will make sure one of my boys to torment you, got it?

Unwin:*sighs* fine!..*pays him 10 Pac Dollars*

Bradley: Good Boy~.

And well i did it with him as i did with the rest of the boys from Maze High (Except by Pac and Spiral, dude i have my limits, i can't leave that stinky lemon to touch me, and Spiral, i know he likes Pacster since long, it's kinda obvious and i prefer them to have that experience by theirselfs) but ..i didn't felt nothing similar to that curious feeling i felt with him.. it wasn't the same.. but it wasn't possible.. even after he ended as a mock because of me.. i would not be able to stand the guilt...

7:00 pm

By finishing, i just put in my clothing to take my stuff and left the dorms, it was almond late for my classes and even worst i was having a lot of walking problems, fortunately or well.. unfortunately my uncle's limousine arrived next to me And taked me to the round house, the bodyguards didn't looked at me in any moment.. it was uncomfortable.. when we arrived to the round house, there was my uncle waiting for me, he seemed completely mad.

Bradley: *sighs*..

Stratos: Bradley..Where the heck you have been!? Why you didn't come back to home yesterday!? Or not even answered my calls!!??... And ugh!.. what's that awful smell!!??

Bradley: Do you care?.

Stratos: wait.. don't tell me you where sleeping with a guy!!?

Bradley: So what!?, If i was sleeping with someone or i was making out with someone, that's not of your business!!

Stratos: of course it's my business to take care of you!

Bradley: As it was your business to take care of my dad when he needed you more than anything... You cared so much of me that you left me with grandmother!

Stratos: It wasn't that bad!

Bradley: That Bad...It wasn't..That Bad!? I was her fucking Boxing bag and used me to turn off her cigarettes

Stratos: You are exaggerating, she was educating you to be a disciplined and decent man!.

Bradley: So sad, it didn't work..

Stratos: It was for you could not end like your father.

Bradley: Should I'll remember you the boiling water cup she threw me in that Barbecue in the round house by "Accident?

Stratos: Agh just go inside and take a bath right now!.. don't let Cedrick see you!.

Bradley: Whatever...

Yep the same old shit of always... I taked another bath and went to my room, i was so tired, Quartzy was sleeping on my lap to comfort me.. but i still had to play that piano.. so i get up to go to the piano room.. my Uncle wasn't there... that was a good thing, that means he would not bother me.

So i sat in that sit and taked a cherry cigarette from a box i use to hide from my uncle and cousin.

I smoke one of them while I was playing a soft melody in the piano..I was losing myself in my thoughts and the music.. then suddenly someone entered in.

Cedrick: Hey Brad!

Bradley:*throws the cigarette through the window* Oh, hi Cedrick

Cedrick: what where you eating?...

Bradley: oh, it was nothing.

Cedrick: Oke, can I stay with you? I love how you play the piano :D.

Bradley: Alright little bud.

So I played a melodies for my little cousin, I didn't wanted him to see me like this..

I'm at least a little alright if my cousins, my people, my sister, Buttler and my Dad are alright too.. maybe.

Lately when I was close to Skeebo I was feeling something unusual.. like a hungry.. hungry for his virility, hungry for his touch.. I sounded like a monster... I'm sorry..

Suddenly i felt that someone was calling me.

#pacman and the ghostly adventures #pmatga #pacman #my ocs #+14 #Dissatisfied #Pmatga one shot

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hephaestiions · 4 years

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Addictive Tendencies

@hprarepairnet & @slytherdornet - quidditch player ships challenge Pairing: Marcus Flint x Oliver Wood (Flintwood) Summary: “I hate him,” he whispers fiercely against the fist he stuffs into his mouth to keep himself from screaming long and loud at the heavens, at the Founders, at the bloody sun. “I hate him so damn much.”

“Makes me wonder why I bothered to show up, then,” comes the all too familiar heavy drawl, and if Oliver’s heart had dropped before, now it drowns. One thing leads to another.

Warnings: Light angst, break-ups, everyone swears a great deal, mentions of nsfw/18+ activities. Rating: Teen.

Word Count: 4k (yes, I know, it is very long for a Tumblr fic)

For all that he feels almost dead going through the motions of life, Oliver comes alive on the pitch. There’s something about the clean, crisp scent of fresh air– the kind reminding him of the open fields close to home– and the adrenaline rush of mounting a broom that leeches into every cell of his being. It fires his synapses, jolts his entire body out of the sleepwalking trance he slips into during classes and meals and all the other mundanities that compose everyday life. Oliver can’t wait to go pro.

To leave fucking Transfiguration and Potions and Professor Sprout’s herb gardens behind. To make the familiarity of the broom clenched under his thighs and the roaring blood in his ears his livelihood, his reason to wake up every morning and go back to bed each night without drinking himself into a stupor thinking of everything that could have– Fuck no. He’s not going down that road right now.

Right now, his focus needs to be narrowed down to that slim space between the hoops and the perfect, concentrated manoeuvre that will allow him to slip through. His focus needs to be on his game, his practice, not on… other things.

Vision tunnelling, Oliver tenses his calves around the reliable solidity of his broom, and corkscrews his entire body almost violently through the gap, veering dangerously close to the metal bars of the left hoop, emerging unscathed and out of breath on the other side. He wants to be happy.

Wants to be proud, because this is the first time he has executed this move flawlessly without either crashing his elbow or his knee or his side into some part of the hoops. He desperately wants to feel the joy he would be whooping with by now if this had been even six months ago. But all he feels is the desperate desire to hear Marcus shout, “That’s what I fucking call a Hummingbird, Wood, you fucking genius!” either from the stands or from his place on another broom by Oliver’s side. He’s met with silence. The wind moans, twisting its way through the branches of the trees lining the entrance to the Forbidden Forest. Oliver wants to drive himself into a metal bar just to work off some of the pent up frustration and rage gathering in his shoulders, his back muscles, his stomach. The almost physical ache gripping and tearing at his heart. He kicks out, and the broom bucks underneath him, buoyed in the wrong direction by an errant current of air. There’s a brief moment of sheer terror as his body misbalances midair, but he isn’t the fucking captain of Gryffindor for nothing. He lets himself fall for a second, letting his weight gather momentum, before pulling out at the very last second. Sometimes he wants to smash his entire body into a wall, but he knows better than to work out his aggressive tendencies on the unforgiving pitch.

His legacy deserves better than to be remembered as a gruesome splatter on the grounds of Hogwarts. Marcus though. Marcus can bloody well plummet to death for all Oliver cares. Except.

Except the very thought sends shudders down Oliver’s spine, and his hands inadvertently reach out into thin air even contemplating the prospect of letting Marcus hurt himself. Except that Oliver would take the fall before letting Marcus take it. He’s fucked, truly. “You’re a bloody fool, Oliver,” he mutters to himself with only the wind listening in. “And for once you’ve got something other than terrible grades to prove how truly fucked you are.” Marcus’ words echo in his head, a never ending loop of heartbreak and agony and gut-wrenching misery that no rationally thinking future pro Quidditch player has the time for. You– you know how the world is beyond Hogwarts, man. You know it’s not good to– to people like us, especially when we want to play and go pro, you know. It’s bollocks mate, is what it is, but it’s life and I guess I want a career more than a fuck. Because that’s all they’d been of course. A fuck. Fuck Marcus. Well and truly fuck him into next Sunday, next month, next bloody year. That line of thinking conjures up a whole new set of images that are doubly uncomfortable when one’s private parts are squashed onto a pole of unforgiving wood. His whole body itches and aches and buzzes with energy he doesn’t know how to work off, so he perfects his form on the broom and swoops in and out of the spaces between the hoops, tracing fast paced figure of eights that even the best of the best would have a tough time keeping up with. It’s mindless and the cold wind sniping at his cheekbones jars him into the present, into the steadiness of swerving past the bars of the hoops and spinning around like his life depends on it. Fuck Marcus Flint and his stupid, scared arse and his willingness to give up on everything Oliver thought was sacred to them. Fuck him. After half an hour, he wants to keep going, but his whole body resists, aching and burning along the lines of tension in his muscles. He feels heavy and tired, like a stone about to drop, and he turns on his broom to swoop down when– When he sees him. In the stands. The crossed arms, the wind billowing through strands of hair that are surprisingly soft to the touch (Oliver knows that because he’s touched those stands reverentially in the showers, in hidden alcoves, during warm, hot moments of kisses and mouths trailing over flushed skin–). The green robes are flying out behind the solitary figure in the stands like a cape from one of Katie’s superhero comics, and there’s no mistaking the identity of the man. Not for Oliver at least. Marcus is watching him. Has been for Merlin knows how long. All Oliver wants to do is touch down and drag himself over to the stands and crash into Marcus’ arms, but he resists the urge. Instead, he laps a lazy loop in the air, before his tired body forces him to retire, and instead of picking the pitch like a sane person, Oliver perches on the edge of the middle hoop, crawling off the broomstick onto the thick metal. It’s surprisingly comfortable. It’s also a ploy to wait Marcus out, but well. It doesn’t seem to be working quite yet. Some part of him wants to swing his legs around his broom, swoop down beside Marcus and kiss him senseless. Some part of him wants to pull Marcus in and just relearn the feeling of their bodies touching again. He reins this part in with every ounce of control and every shred of self respect he has. He holds it back, letting it kick and rage and fester at the back of his heart, where he keeps his pain and his misery and his urges to do things he will regret within five seconds. That part of his heart– It’s ugly. He turns away from the imposing figure Marcus cuts in the stands with his biceps bulging and his hair, longer than it was since Oliver last ran his hands through it curling around his strong neck. Oliver can feel the pressure of it, of Marcus’ head pillowed against his lap when they could sneak an afternoon away to the Astronomy Tower. Marcus’ dark hair curled into Oliver’s fist as they talked, as they kissed, as they pushed each other’s clothes off with all the pent up energy of two prowling hyenas going in for the kill. He feels the tears rise, but he doesn’t want to cry. Not here anyway, with Marcus watching for whatever Merlin-forsaken reason. Doesn’t want to raise his hand in the tell tale sign of wiping away his tears. Doesn’t want to be weak.

Instead he stares at the setting sun even though the riot of colours across the sky only make him angrier. Why should the world get to move on and revel in its beauty when his life feels like radio static? Why should sunlight have the right to twirl pretty patterns into Marcus’ eyes when Oliver isn’t there to see it? Why does even nature get to laugh at his sad, pathetic arse and why doesn’t he ever get to move the fuck on? “I hate him,” he whispers fiercely against the fist he stuffs into his mouth to keep himself from screaming long and loud at the heavens, at the Founders, at the bloody sun. “I hate him so damn much.” “Makes me wonder why I bothered to show up, then,” comes the all too familiar heavy drawl, and if Oliver’s heart had dropped before, now it drowns. “What,” he says without turning around for fear of what he’ll see, “are you doing here?” “Saw you practicing from the Tower. Thought I might join you.” Oliver lets loose a laugh. “Get lost,” he says, and grimaces when it comes out slightly choked. “Or I’m telling Hooch you’re spying on the Captain for his plays.” “I have plenty of plays of my own,” Marcus says, and Oliver cringes at the suggestive undercurrent of the words. “Or did you forget?” When the weight of his anger and his hurt and his exhaustion crash into him, Oliver almost falls off his precarious perch. He staggers slightly and has to reach out with one hand to grip the edge of the hoop. His other hand slackens around his broom, and it teeters dangerously in his loose grip. Somehow, he doesn’t have the energy to hold it tighter. The tiredness creeps into his muscles, his bones, the raging fires of his heart, shrouding his entire being in a blanket of heaviness that he can’t shrug off. Here he is, trying to hold himself together, and Marcus has the balls to be making innuendos. “Last I checked, Flint, your plays were off limits. And you didn’t want any of mine, either. Which begs the question that I already asked you, why the fuck are you here?” Marcus is silent, because of course he is. Damn bastard, he can’t even give Oliver a good reason, a good excuse for his real purposes. “Come to gloat?” He asks, and his voice comes out a broken whisper. “Come to check in on poor Ollie and how he’s doing now that you’ve binned him?” “Oliver–“ “Shut up,” he says, he begs, and turns to face Marcus, and promptly has the breath knocked out of him. Because Marcus, oh, he’s bathed in the light of the golden sun, bathed in every shade of desire, coloured in Oliver’s dreams. There’s that uncertain turn to his lips, as though he expects Oliver to shove him away, tell him to leave, as though he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t look like he’s gloating (and Oliver knows how Marcus looks when he gloats, because goddamn, he’s lost Quidditch matches against this man). If anything, he looks a little wrecked, but in the most beautiful way imaginable, and Oliver– Oliver has never wanted to kiss someone more. Marcus sighs. His lashes flutter against his cheek and his shoulders droop slightly, and he looks a little lost when he gazes at some spot in the distance and says in a slow lilt, as though he’s searching for the words as he goes, “I– I missed you, Oliver.” And those words, the words he’s been craving to hear for a whole fucking month now wash over him, curl into the spaces that are yawning open and empty in the absence of the warmth Marcus had been when they’d spent those five glorious months in each other’s sunshine.

“We were just fucking,” he says anyway, because he’s too damn proud to be soothed of a month’s hurt by some half hearted confession of being missed. “Right, Flint? Just a fuck.” “You know that’s not true.” “Do I?” Oliver asks. He wants to be angry, wants his eyes to flash, wants to clench his fists and look ready to batter Marcus into a bloody pulp for daring to hurt him the way he did, but the words come out thick and heavy, laced with the burdens Oliver has been carrying alone. He never cared, he never looked at me as anything except a fuck, he just wanted some fun. Human beings, fragile creatures. Togetherness is more of an addiction than drugs and whisky could ever be. “Oliver, I– I was scared, and–“ “And you thought I wasn’t? You thought it was a breeze for me, that I hadn’t ever considered what the damn repercussions could look like–“ “That’s what you made it sound like!” Marcus throws both his hands up, and there’s a wild light in his dark eyes. “You made it look so easy with all your casual, hey Flint, care for a Butterbeer this weekend and Marcus, look at me and your damn smiles– and I– I was scared out of my mind Oliver, and you just looked like it was something you were born with.” “Born with what?” “Confidence! Fearlessness! Like you couldn’t give a fuck what people in locker rooms would think if you went pro, if I went pro, like you didn’t care that coaches would pay less attention to you, or make you the punching bag of the team, like teams would only sign you on if they had to pay you less if they found out about this.” Oliver sighs. It’s so obvious now that all through those months when Oliver had been caught up in a haze of a perfect love story of two Quidditch captains from historically rival houses, Marcus had been overthinking his choices, his career, everything. “This isn’t a hand job in a dark bed in the dorms, Oliver, and you know it.” He feels weary. Wrung out. “I wasn’t born with it,” he says, and looks away again at the darkening horizon. The sun is now a ball of red against a blue sky turning black. “What?” “Confidence, or fearlessness, or whatever you thought came easy to me. But you were scared about fucking up your career and I was scared of fucking us up. You were thinking about whatever pro team deals you dream of and I was thinking that something I would say or do would push you away because I’m too much of a stupid fuck for anyone to be with. Wood, have you got leaves for brains? Wood, if I knocked on that head would it ring hollow?” “Oliver,” Marcus says, and he sounds so shocked, so hurt that it’s like a string tied to the back of Oliver’s head has been pulled. He turns to face Marcus again, and he looks devastated.

He looks like he’s seeing Oliver for the first time.

“You really thought that I thought you were–“ “Bollocks for brains, yeah.” And because he can’t bear to see Marcus look so upset, he adds, “But that’s alright now. I’ll get over it, and you, and you can sign all the pro deals, and have a couple babies and no one will think you and I–“ Marcus slaps a hand over his mouth. “Shut up,” Marcus says, and oh, he’s so beautiful when he’s angry. “You’re a bit thick sometimes, I’ll give you that,” Marcus says in a voice so low that it sounds like he’s admitting state secrets instead of the most obvious thing that anyone who speaks to Oliver for five minutes can pick up on. “But don’t ever think that you’re stupid, or that you’ve got leaves for brains– Oliver what the fuck? The way you– the way you remember all the damn plays starting from the fucking 1790s and how you can recite precedents for every move anyone makes on the field and how you know exactly which player to pair with which one, which one needs to be benched– Oliver, you’re made for this. You don’t need some Transfiguration O to prove that.” He doesn’t know whether to believe this is happening. And worse– he doesn’t know what it means. If he’s imagining it, he’s further gone for Marcus than he can ever admit to anyone who is not a Mind Healer. If he’s not imagining it, Marcus is here, after a bloody month of ignoring him, breaking his heart, stomping on it with the butt end of a broom, to tell him– Rage curls in his stomach. He jerks away from the hand Marcus has now slid onto his jawline, regretting the motion immediately when the thumb tracing circles into the space behind his ear is dislodged. “And you’re telling me this now? After telling me you care more about your career than a fuck? Why bother? If that’s how you feel– it’s not going to change!” Marcus looks down. Oliver wants to curl a hand under that drooping chin, pull it up, kiss it better, but he holds himself back. “I was scared,” he whispers. Oliver wishes he weren’t so fucking easy, because the ice walls he’d thrown up to keep Marcus and his mind games out is already thawing. “I was so scared.” “You had a reason,” Oliver mumbles. He looks down. The drop to the pitch is sheer, sharp. If he falls, there’s no way he can be saved unless Marcus decides to be a hero. The thought brings a small smile to his lips. “I was being a coward,” Marcus says sharply. “Thorne– Thorne’s y’know, bisexual and all that, and he’s playing great game with the Magpies–“ “We can’t all be Thorne. And Thorne was stoned in Diagon.” “By one man who was arrested by Kingsley Shacklebolt. We might not be Thorne, but we can try.” The sound that rips itself from Oliver’s throat is rife with the pain and frustration of a month of second guessing and heartbreak. “Why does it matter?” Oliver asks, his voice carrying in the emptiness of the pitch. “Why the bloody fuck does any of it matter Marcus, you don’t want this, it was just a fuck–“ It happens so fast that Oliver doesn’t process it till its done. Marcus surges forward on the broomstick, invading the meagre personal space Oliver had tried to maintain between them so he wouldn’t reach out, be overly-familiar, push Marcus away the first time he’d dared to venture close in so long. Their eyes meet, and the pitch, the hoops, the past month and their discussion fades to nothing but white noise in the back of Oliver’s brain. Marcus, bless his balance on a broom, reaches out with one hand to cup the back of Oliver’s neck and the other comes to frame his face, resting on his ear. He waits for a second, for permission, to be pushed away, hell, Oliver doesn’t know, and then they’re kissing, Marcus’ hot, perfect, slightly chapped lips fitting against his. Something clicks into place finally. Something disjointed and broken snaps back inside his chest and the heavy weight he’d gotten all too used to carrying lifts like the healed wing of an injured bird. His heart soars with all the delight of a creature learning to fly once more, and something in this urgent, heartfelt kiss feels like a reassurance. I missed you, it says. I’ve been waiting for you. I’m sorry for hurting you. A million apologies in a single press, a single touch, in the soft breath that gusts over Oliver’s nose. It could be seconds, could be decades when Marcus finally pulls away. Oliver has to shut his eyes, clench them tightly to keep the traitorous tears from falling, from ruining this perfect moment that he’s certain will be shattered anyway when Marcus realises what he’s done. But Marcus doesn’t release a horrified gasp, doesn’t push him away, doesn’t retreat with the air currents back to the stands. Marcus stays there, floating gently on his broom, holding Oliver’s face between his hands, waiting for something. Oliver’s too scared to open his eyes and figure out what. He’s never felt so small, never felt himself be flayed open by circumstances rendering him raw and broken and ready to be picked apart. It’s exhilarating and terrifying, and Marcus is here to watch. He doesn’t know if this feeling of trust is warranted, especially after everything Marcus said and did, but he knows he can’t make himself be suspicious or cruel in this moment. He will hate himself forever if he pushes Marcus away right now, and of all the punishments Oliver has suffered, self inflicted misery isn’t one he particularly enjoys. But he can ask, so he does. “What now?” Marcus shrugs. Oliver feels it, the slight tremble, the tell tale stiffness and when he opens his eyes, he’s surprised to see tears in Marcus’. “Are you–“ “Shut up, Wood.” Oliver watches Marcus close his eyes, bite his lip, whisper something inaudible and pull himself together. Watches him try to be steady. To know that they are here, suspended midair in a moment in time, being unsteady together rouses the buried beast of hope in Oliver’s heart. The sun has set. The horizon is a bruised blue now, and Marcus still looks like a shining beacon of future possibilities set against a dark sky of prejudice and inevitable darkness. “So. Thorne.” Marcus smiles despite himself. Nods. “Thorne.” “You’re kidding yourself if you think you play as well as Thorne does.” This time, Marcus laughs. It’s slightly choked, and only barely there, but it’s a laugh. “That’s not the fucking point and you know it.” “Oh I don’t know,” Oliver teases. “I’m a bit thick, aren’t I?” Marcus sobers up almost immediately. Oliver’s heart goes into overdrive, panicking. What if he said something wrong? Reminded Marcus of why he left? But Marcus merely looks serious when he says, “It’s still true.” “What?” “About the teams and coaches and the players. The world– The damn Quidditch world isn’t kind to people like us.”

Oliver looks at Marcus, at the depth of his eyes that people ignore when they critique him for being a bastard (he is a bastard, Oliver knows, just a bastard with depth and capability for kindness that Oliver feels privileged to know exists), at the worried cleft between his eyebrows, at the self conscious way in which he pulls his lips over his teeth. “The pitch makes up for it,” he says. “If I get to keep you and the pitch and my broom, I don’t give a fuck about what coaches and players and galleons have to say.” Marcus lets out a sound like a strangled sob and rests his forehead against Oliver’s. If Oliver hadn’t been holding onto his broom with one hand and the Quidditch hoop with the other, he’d have held Marcus a little closer, but he settles for kissing Marcus’ nose.

“I like galleons,” Marcus whispers after a while. For the first time in a month, Oliver feels a genuine laugh erupt from his chest, into his throat, out of his mouth. He feels light. “You’ll make plenty, don’t you worry,” he says instead. “Promising Chaser, conniving little Slytherin, bit of a looker too– why wouldn’t you?” “Are you calling me handsome, Oliver?” Oliver snorts. “Stop fishing. If the whole Quidditch thing goes balls-up, you can always model for Gladrags.” “Which section of Gladrags?” “Let’s see. Much as I’d love to see you in women’s lingerie, I don’t know if the civil public is willing to, so I’d say the part where handsome young wizards pose in their underwear with their hands suggestively placed behind their heads.” “The civil public doesn’t read Gladrags, Oliver.” “Are you calling me uncivil?” They burst into laughter, something dark and heavy lifting from their beings, and the tensed, tightened bolts of coiled emotion and anger loosening with every quip, every little kiss, every stolen moment of this. Above them, the sky darkens as the universe’s speckled cloak unravels with the fading light of day. Somewhere in the Forbidden Forest, a Centaur looks up. Somewhere, a first year student catches a glimpse of two figures on one of the hoops of the pitch and looks away with wide eyes and a racing heart.

On the pitch, two boys share a secret smile in the darkness, and somewhere above them, the stars align perfectly.

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whothehellisyn · 3 years

Text

Cat and Mouse | Ch. 4

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Dark!Mysterio x F!Reader

Rating: 18+ (full fic)

Chapter Warnings: none

AN: oh my god I can’t believe I haven’t uploaded in so long. I’m still writing this but more for my own personal consumption. Tenses get mixed a lot in my brain and this is definitely not beta read. I have no clue where I’m going with the story but I’m about four chapters past this one with stuff!

The rest of dinner passes in quick silence. Louis, paid not nearly enough to deal with the two of you, looks slightly relieved when he delivered the bill to you. When you hand him back the booklet you slip in a £100 note. He seems confused, and you urge him to take it with an insistence that it’s an American custom. Quentin is watching you with an unreadable expression the entire time. You pretend not to notice.

A black SUV is waiting outside for you and Quentin. He motions for you to enter first, and you seat yourself as close to the opposite window as you could to avoid being near him. He sits in a relaxed position, making small talk with his driver. As you watch the buildings blur by in the window you tune out the rest of the world, nestling into your thoughts about everything happening to you. Everything happening because of Quentin Beck.

You love him, though that’s not quite true, is it? You love Mysterio, the widower from another Earth. Who fiddles unconsciously with his wedding band when he’s reminded of his late wife, who has a deep and thoughtful stare when he recounts his grief. Who met your eyes when you recounted your own and said I understand your pain. This, is not that man. This is an actor, a stranger with his face. Is it possible to have loved an illusion worn by a villain yet loathe their very existence?

His laugh breaks your contemplation. It’s boisterous and genuine.

It pains you to hear it.

“Wendell, this is (Y/N).” He says, introducing you to the driver. Wendell is a man in his late fifties with greying hair. You can see the crown of his head where his hair is wearing thin.

“Ah, so this is the SHIELD agent you snagged, hm?” Wendell muses. He meets your eyes through the rearview mirror. “It’s very nice to meet you, despite your circumstances.”

So he’s aware you’re trapped, you think, and doesn’t seem to care. Or maybe he can’t. You’d like to think Wendell is a nice man who is just afraid of Quentin. That seems like a good optimistic line of thinking.

Wendell pulls to a stop some time later in front of a warehouse on the harbor. It’s an unassuming place a ways away from town, the exterior is a bland mix of brown bricks and mortar. Nothing about it screams ‘villain dwelling’ to you, but you don’t discount the fact that Quentin is a master of illusions and probably gets off on boring real estate hiding his tech.

Wendell gets out of the driver’s seat to open your door and let you out. You don’t move, not wanting to go anywhere else with Quentin. Maybe if you’re still enough, you hope, you’ll cease to exist entirely.

Wendell leans into the car to keep Quentin from hearing him, “My heart breaks knowing you don’t belong here, Miss.” You look away to keep from crying, but he knows you’ve heard him. “I wish I could take you far away from here and still be safe from him but...” He’s trapped too.

Wendell swallows nervously and looks over the roof of the car for Quentin. “Mr. Beck is waiting for us. If you don’t go now, he’ll come and get you himself.”

Reluctantly, you take off your seatbelt and slide out of the vehicle. Wendell gets the door behind you and hangs back as you approach Quentin. You can’t blame him, really.

Once you get to the door, Quentin places his hand at the small of your back and pushes you closer to him. You feel hyperaware of his touch as he “guides” you into the building and down a corridor. You imagine his hand burning through your shirt and leaving a pink handprint on your skin, or maybe his finger tips being barbed with poisoning spines. It’s just a hand. But it’s his hand.

You pass by a large room, filled with people you don’t know. Many sit at computers, and you can see a dismantled drone on a table. A few people meet your eyes and then quickly avert them, almost like they know who you are despite them being strangers. You wonder if Quentin has talked about you to them.

After walking through two more corridors, Quentin stops at a room with a heavy looking metal door. He places his hand on an interface next to the threshold and the heavy metal door swings open into the room.

“Look familiar?” Quentin asks, pushing you inside. As the door slams shut behind you, you realize what he means. You’ve been here before. All this time, that “hotel suite” he took you to was right here all along. Another illusion.

He take his hand off your back and leaves you in the middle of the room to pull clothes out of a large duffle bag on the bed. They’re your clothes, at least mostly. A lot of it are your comfort clothes, sweats and tank tops and t-shirts. He also starts pulling out your underwear and bras, casually laying them out in organized stacks. He looks back at you and, noticing your expression, gives you an incredulous stare.

“What, did you think I was going to make you wear the same dirty clothes every day?” You don’t respond and just stare back. Quentin looks annoyed but continues, “I do have some sense of decency, believe it or not. And regardless of that, I would prefer to fuck you without being reminded of the last time I did.”

You grimace at the remark. You think about how you have little tender spots along your thighs from the clones gripping your legs so hard, and the soreness in your shoulder from Quentin twisting your arm behind your back. The sheer stupidity of his statement when you’re the one who bears the reminders makes you snort, and he picks up on it immediately. He abandons the clothes on the bed to walk over to you, only a few centimeters from touching with his body.

“Was something funny?” He asks, voice vaguely threatening. You instinctively avert your eyes to the floor as he waits for your response. “I’ll ask you again,” He grabs your chin and forces you to look at him, his grip firm. “What’s so funny about what I said?”

Your eyes are wide with fear as you struggle to muster the courage to speak. “Come on, sweetheart,” He says, tilting your face up further with his hand, “I know that pretty little mouth of yours works just fine.”

You blink rapidly, tears welling up as he continues to stare into your eyes. He really is nothing like the man you love. When you try to form an answer your voice stutters and all that comes out is a sharp little whimper, which makes you want to cry even more out of shame. Quentin smiles wickedly at you, enjoying your difficulty to speak.

“It’s not so funny now is it?” He asks. You shake your head no and a tear falls onto your cheek from the movement. Quentin swipes it away with his thumb on his free hand and leans in close to your face. “That’s what I thought.” He releases your chin and goes back to taking your clothes out of the bag. You still don’t move, but you do wipe your eyes once his back is to you.

After he empties the bag, he checks his wrist display and points towards the metal door.

“That door is reinforced steel. It weighs over three hundred pounds and is powered by hydraulics. If you try to mess with the interface, I’ll know. If you try to damage the door, or break the door, I’ll know. And not only will I know when you’ve tried to escape, I’ll be forced to punish you for it.”

You know that his use of the word “forced” is bullshit, and anything he inflicts on you is completely chosen for his own pleasure. You watch as he presses his hand to the interface on this side of the wall, and the door groans open yet again.

“I have to go work now, honey.” Quentin says, almost like he doesn’t want to leave. “Behave yourself like a good girl while I’m gone.” With that, he exits and the heavy door slams shut behind him. For this first time in over 28 hours, you are alone. After you’re sure he’s gone, and not listening on the other end, you let yourself cry for the first time since everything has started.

Tears begin to stream from your eyes as you walk past the bed and into the bathroom. The large mirror behind the sinks reveals your disheveled appearance, and the shock finally wears off as you realize just how awful everything is. You look pathetic. Your clothes are filthy and torn in various places, and your hair is a rat’s nest. You begin to sob, just a little, and as you cry you go over to the glass-door shower and start the faucets. The water is just a little too hot but you don’t care, and you begin to strip with your back to the mirror. You don’t want to see yourself anymore right now.

The dirty clothes go directly into the trash can in the corner, and you step into the shower and huddle under the too-hot water. It hurts, but it feels cleansing to hurt this way. There’s soaps in there but they smell like Quentin, and so you just let the water rinse you off. When you get as much of the grime off you as you can, you sink to the floor and hug your knees tightly. If you close your eyes, you can pretend this is your shower back in your apartment. You can pretend that you just had a bad day at work and you’re showering to forget about it. You rest your head against your knees, close your eyes, and you pretend. You’ve always been good at that.

An hour later the hot water runs out and you’re forced to get up and turn off the faucet. You’re not clean but you’re definitely not dirty anymore. After a search through the cabinets, you find the towels and grab one to dry off your body with, using a second one on your head. Once you’re dry enough you grab some of your clothes off the bed and get dressed in the toilet area that’s walled off from the rest of the bathroom.

Dressed and somewhat clean, you’re exhausted. You can’t bring yourself to sleep in the bed, or even touch the blankets. Quentin sleeps there, you know that much already. You used to sleep there too, before. There’s no way in hell you’re sleeping in that thing now when it’s the only place Quentin could sleep as well. There’s a large tub in the bathroom, and you decide that’s as good a place as any. Armed with a pillow you took from a sofa in the common area of the suite and a blanket from the linen closet in the bathroom, you climb into the bathtub and create a makeshift bed. It’s not very comfortable, but it feels safe. You remember hearing from a classmate years ago that people hide in bathtubs during tornadoes and earthquakes, and wether that’s true or not you find that to be good enough for you.

Sleep comes quickly despite your sleeping arrangement. You have an incredibly vivid dream, about walking through a meadow. You can almost feel the wind on your skin, and your eyes squint in the sunlight. Bees drone sweetly as they fly by you as if in greeting. There’s a little boy a few hundred meters in front of you, toting a bundle of flowers in his arms. You feel yourself call out to him, as if you know him well, but you can’t place him in your memories.

A soft touch stirs you, and you can feel your body being carried and then settled again. You’re warm and comfortable, a weight being pulled over you.

“It’s alright, sweetheart.” A voice says. “Go back to sleep for me.” Okay, you think.

You return to the meadow, the little boy close but far, and the softness of the long grass tickling your fingers.

#cat and mouse

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sarah-writes-marvel · 4 years

Text

Imposter (2/2): Avengers x gn!Reader

S.S: sorry about the wait on this second part, havent had a lot of motivation to do much for a while. Im not sure how much I like this ending but I hope yall like it!

p.s::: Also, I write these as my own character first so if there are mentions of an OC let me know so I can fix it so everyone can enjoy!

Warnings: Angst, language, nothing else I dont think...

Word count: 1449

MASTERLIST Pt1

=================================================

My door slammed behind me as rage fumed from my being.

“What a bitch.” I muttered moving to my bathroom and stripping from my sweaty clothes and turning on the shower.

The lukewarm shower felt nice against my hot skin, creating a calming effect. It was nice. Relaxing almost. Until a sudden pounding at my door broke the peace.

“What!” I yelled, not bothering to get out of the shower not really caring who was there, just the fact that they interrupted my relaxation.

“Y/N, open the door we need to talk! Now!” Tony’s distinct voice called through the door. Mumbling a few curses as I reluctantly stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around my torso and opening my bedroom door to an angry looking Tony and Steve face of disappointment.

“Im kinda busy, what do you want?” I asked.

“What the hell did you say to Brooke? She's in tears.” Tony barked, eliciting an eyeroll.

“What a drama queen.” I mumbled under my breath.

“The hell did you say?” Tony said, gripping my wrist. I glared at him ripping my wrist from his hand.

“I said she’s a drama queen. Get over it.” I said clearly. “I told her that I didn’t trust her. I have the right not to trust someone who has been a part of Shield for the last 4 years, just come out about her powers.” I restated the conversation from earlier.

“Why would you say that to her? She's just trying to fit in.” Steve said in a sad sympathetic tone.

“Well, she seems to have fit in quite well, now hasn’t she.” I sent the two a fake smile “I’m going back to my shower.” I closed the door, ignoring the pounding knocks on the door as I walked back to my shower.

The pounding against my door finally ceased and I got out a few minutes afterwards, changing to sweats and a loose shirt.

I ran my finger through my tangled hair as I made my way to the kitchen to grab something to eat. As soon as I turned into the living room, the team was there coddling to the sniffling Brooke on the couch.

“Seriously, you’re still crying? It’s been an hour and a half.” I scoff at the sight, eyes all turning to me, looks of rage across each face.

“What the hell is wrong with you? Are you trying to be an asshole or something?” Sam questioned, standing from his seat and making his way towards me.

“I’m just trying to show you that not everything is as it seems.” I sneered peering at Brooke over his shoulder.

“You’re a monster.” She whimpered quietly.

“Then maybe you should watch yourself. Monsters are dangerous.” I mocked moving past Sam to the kitchen.

Suddenly the quiet room went into chaos as Brooke stood up, placing her hand onto my clothed shoulder turning me to face her. Her hand still on my shoulder I took her wrist into my hand, tightening the grip.

A collective gasp came from the group, many standing from their spots on the couch. Brooke's eyes widened, frozen in shock before she realized that she was supposed to collapse right about now. As soon as I felt her knees buckle, falsely, I gripped her shoulders.

“Don’t play games with me. Don't ever, ever think you’re capable of that.” I chided, staring into her brown eyes.

Her mouth opened like a fish out of water, still in shock that her facade had been broken.

“I saw who you are. You really are a monster. The people you killed, families, innocent children.” She said, loud enough for the Avengers to hear, thinking she was really doing something. And she was, her words got under my skin.

“Oh ya? What else did you see? How I killed them? How I watched each of their souls leave their body before I determined it was a completed mission?” I sneered, seeing the tears in her eyes.

“You killed so many.” she whimpered pathetically.

“Do you know why?” I asked, truly testing her. Noone really knew the reason behind my mercenary days, they believed that I had been manipulated like Bucky and forced into it. Which was accurate if you looked at it sideways and squinted.

“You were manipulated. You were under Hydra’s control.” she stated confidently, tears still evident in her eyes. Another false.

“Bravo, you've read my file.” I smirked, “I was never manipulated into anything. And It wasn't Hydra, it was called The Mist.”

Brooke’s eyes widened, being caught in her lie, tears dripping down her cheeks. She took a timid step back, which I responded with taking a step towards her.

“Believe me, I've brushed against your skin plenty of times before this. If your powers were true you would be curled up on the floor in unconsolable tears right now.” I remarked.

I looked over her shoulder to the Avengers standing guard, Tony looking through archives coming across a secret file under my name. “You really should have done your research before coming after me.” I directed to Brooke looking at her again.

“Well, I’m sure now that your true past has been exposed they don't want anything to do with you anyways, considering how awful you really were.” Brooke sneered.

“You’re right. I wouldn’t want to have someone untrustworthy on the team.” I started. “But I’ve proven myself trustworthy enough times to show that I’m not some bitch trying to wiggle her way into the Avengers.”

“I’ve been loyal to them, showed them they could trust me.” she argued her defenses high.

“I’m sure you have, every time you told them something from their past, something that could be found within a file.” I countered. “Every time you touched someone, even though you supposedly avoided contact, just so one of the guys could catch you and coddle you.” I moved towards her, causing her to step backwards. “Every mission that someone had to come to your aid because you couldn't handle fighting like an Avenger.”

Her legs hit the couch and her knees buckled causing her to fall into the cushions. I planted myself in front of her, towering over her terrified figure.

“Your nothing but a liar. You’re not Avenger material, and after this scheme you're not even worth being a SHIELD agent.” I sneered. Her brown eyes widened as tears threatened to spill.

“I don’t know what you're talking about.” she muttered quietly.

“God! You really don't know when you’ve lost do you? Get over yourself. You lost. You don't deserve a spot on this team or in this organization. Get out before I do something I might regret.” I emphasized.

At that she leapt up from the couch and retreated to her room, packed her bags and ran through the compound exiting the doors.

“Friday, call Fury. Tell him we have a stray agent.” I call out, turning back to the kitchen.

My way was blocked by a broadening figure. I looked up to see Steve, his face twisted with regret.

“I don't need an apology from any of you. I get it. Misguidance can be one hell of a factor in doing something you regret.” I stated before brushing past the Captain, hiding the rageful tears in my eyes.

I heard the sound of footsteps following me through the doorway, the sound of boots against the wooden floor of the kitchen.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Tony questioned. His tone was soft and filled with worry.

“Well, considering the welcoming party thrown for Bucky, that was talked about all over the world, I figured that if you truly knew my history my party wouldn't be as kind.” I turned to face them with a knowing look.

Ranges of guilt and empathy passed over the faces of the heros in front of me.

“Besides, ‘The Mist’ was disassembled eons ago after I left. I didn't think it was appropriate to bring up a ghost story of another evil organization. We have enough shit to deal with.” I gave a half-hearted smile to them, which was slimmly returned.

“We’re sorry. For everything.” Nat apologized, her green eyes boring into mine. I gave her a soft smile.

“Like I said, Misguidance is a hell of a thing. So no more apologizing let's just get back to the way things were and hope to God that Wanda comes home soon.” A quiet chuckle rumbles from the few in front of me as they move in for a quick hug.

Though there was still some healing to be done, everything went back to normal and we were the compatible team that people believed we always were.

====================================================

S.S: Again tell me what you think! Let me know of any errors or anything so I can fix them!! Thanks again for reading!

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calocera · 4 years

Text

SPOILERS FOR CATS 2019, here’s my hot takes and opinions

be warned, THIS IS LOOOONG

First off my overall opinion, i LITERALLY cannot say whether it was good or bad, like lots of critics say it just...is beyond that. It’s VERY fun and that’s all I can bring myself to say, I have LOTS of problems with it but I can’t even say that they make the movie bad. It is definitely worth watching

OPINIONS ON CHARACTERS:

Victoria: she’s good! I appreciate that they kinda left her personality blank other than her innocence since that’s pretty much how she always was, still not super thrilled with her as a main character but franchesca did the best she could

Munkustrap: I loved him! he was more of a main character than I would have expected, but they STILL cut all the charm from his lines... why do I love him then? Robbie fairchild did AMAZING background acting, whenever he was in frame he was always doing something SUPER munkustrap-y and making cute dad faces. he was dealt bad lines but he worked around it best he could. Also his legs were normal so...epic fail

Mistoffelees: 😒😒😒😒😒🤢🤢🤮 disappointed but not at all surprised...he was just a Woobie, a softboy uwu nice guy. I felt like I was seeing fanon 2013 loki in cat form. THEY MADE HIS SONG A SADBOY PITY PARTY SONG...WHY WOULD YOU MAKE THE 11 O’CLOCK NUMBER SLOW AND SAD???? Where is the smug little shit who’s vague and aloof yet confident and joyous? He was murdered by his evil homophobic shadow clone. I’m not even gunna indulge the fact that him and Victoria were a thing, I’ll go over that later. He also just constantly looked like the crying cat meme his eyes were so red and watery it was horrifying, yet somehow he wasn’t the worst character , that leads us too.....

tugger: what.the.fuck.did.you.do.to.this.boy. HE GOT THE TREATMENT I EXPECTED FOR MUNKUSTRAP! HE WAS DEMOTED TO BACKGROUND CHARACTER! not only did he not sing mr. mistoffelees, he literally did nothing other than his song, he never interacted with ANY characters besides jenny in 1 scene. I know cats has no set main characters but he’s undoubtedly one of the most important characters and he’s like...the least important named character in the movie. ALSO Jason Derulo was not sexy at all. There was NO hip thrusting NO sexy meowing NO glamrock, he was just an asshole and if I hadn’t already seen the original I would have either completely forgotten about his character or though he was the worst character. I’m so fucking angy I cannot express.

Girzzabella: ngl I expected better. Her acting was great but with the horrible effects I couldnt get invested but I’ll touch on the effects later. Her singing was good, but I expected it to carry the movie and it wasn’t at all the best song in the movie, I’d say she’s about as good as I expected she’d be but the movie itself was more enjoyable than I expected so she was less significant

Old d: she was fine, she LOOKED the part definitely, she didn’t have as large a presence as ken page but I wouldnt expect that of her. Her singing wasn’t the greatest though, her voice is fine by it’s just NOT suited to old d’s songs. I would have preferred she play a female gus bc her voice is very sweet and frail, not at all built for belting like her songs required.

Macavity: he’s just...eh. He’s basically a comic relief villain which sucks. He does practically nothing besides kidnap people, say a cheesy line, and act like a caricature of a 90s cartoon villain (and not one of the fun ones) like theres a scene where he poofs away and when he does it he goes, MACAvityyyyyyy and fades away its so unintentionally funny but it just makes him so lame as a villain. not to mention he doesnt even die at the end or get any satisfying conclusion he just gets stuck on top of a statue and his powers suddenly stop working (for some reason??)

Bombalurina: fuck that, I am simultaneously glad she only was in the macavity number bc fuck off Taylor Swift but also disappointed bc she deserved so much better.

Bustopher: 😟 never in my darkest nightmares did I think I’d see bustopher Jones deepthroat multiple crayfish but here we are. Somehow THIS was the most sexual song, I cannot begin to name the fetishes checked off by this performance bc itd hit word limit. Let me just say that I said multiple times out loud, “damn bustopher kinda a freak with it 😏😏” like I CANNOT stress how weirdly sexual it gets. And ofc its all otherwise just haha funney fat guy eat food and burp and fall down. He also breaks the fourth wall a few times which like, fuck you

Jenny: exactly what was shown in the trailer. Unfunny fat jokes and slapstick humor. Also they focused WAY too many shots on her cat pussy and I wish I was making that up. Also of note is that the cgi on the rats and cockroaches are drastically worse than the rest of the movie, like not just bad designs the effects are BAD. also they translated they whole gumbie cat fur-shedding as her wearing fake skin over her outfit which would be fine but UHH the fake fur is skin tight??? so it literally looks like shes ripping off her skin and she does it multiple times its fucking terrifying

Mungojerrie and rumpelteazer: meh, they are fine as characters, not quite as energetic as I would have liked but they didn’t massively fuck anything up? The song was horrible, they went against the beat for...some reason? Like it’s a song with a very distinct rhythm and they split up the lyrics so weirdly. I liked that they followed through with the lore of them working for macavity

Skimbleshanks: YES YESSSSSSSSSS HOLY FUCKING SHIT 💗💕💖💞💜😳😳😳😳😳😳😳💜💛🧡💚💖❤️💗 i absolutely CANNOT express how good skimbleshanks made me feel. He looks like a leather daddy with his chains and suspenders and hat and stache, I hate that I’m saying this but uh...mr skimbleshanks sir😳 we were actually screaming it was so fucking good. Watching this movie was worth it just for skimble. Unironically. I’m listening to the song as we speak. It was kinda weird that they moved the tap dancing to this song but that’s more of a detractor from Jennie’s and a plus side to skimbles since it’s good tap

Gus: good! Ian did a good job of course, no one doubted that he would.

Growltiger and griddlebone: not racist but still absolutely horrifying. One of the worst parts of the movie, I actually got squeamish looking at griddlebone a few times that’s how bad she looks

Everyone else: not that good. I couldn’t tell who was who, all their personalities were annoying, I’m on imdb as we speak trying to figure out who even was supposed to be who. Demeter is completely butchered and jemima just isn’t there, doesn’t sing her part, it all sucked man.

Tech talk:

CGI: okay so here’s the thing, the effects are good. GREAT even, the issue is how fucking horrible the designs are. The lack of cat nose, mouth, and hairy cheeks makes them all look disgusting. Also the feet. Holy fuck why do they have feet. THERES A FUCKING SCENE WHERE TUGGER GRABS VICTORIAS FOOT AND SNIFFS IT. IT LASTS LIKE 5 SECONDS. Old Deuteronomy, Gus, and Cassandra (bc she was already bald) are the only characters I’d say look anywhere close to decent, grizabella looks okay in profile but head on it’s all horrible again. its really such a shame bc the sets are gorgeous! i really hope this movie gets some form of recognition for its sets.

the editing and directing was DOGSHITTTTTTT there are SO many scenes where characters just teleport or parts where people are singing and no ones mouths are moving its really distracting

Other things:

it’s OBVIOUS that the critics calling this movie horny have never seen the original. I’d definitely say the movie is LESS HORNY than the play. It IS however waaaaaaay more uncomfortable with its hornieness, so I’d say in that regard YES, the horny stuff is much more gratuitous and off putting despite there being an overall smaller amount than the play. ie everything bustopher jones does

They changed a BUNCH of lyrics for some reason?? Like they cut verses which I understand but there are like a handful of lyrics in almost every song they just...change. like...okay? All changing lyrics is gunna do is make people who knew the songs frustrated when they can’t sing along

the dancing was incredible! shame the cg just fucking invalidates all of it bc your mind doesnt register it as real people doing real moves

OKAY THE FUCKING CATNIP SCENE so when taylor swift showers everyone in catnip they all just fucking start moaning and go FULL HORNY its TOO MUCH like misto full on does an o face like eyes rolled back mouth open and munkustrap is like ass up panting i still havent processed it im fucking terrified to encounter it again. they cut the orgy? yet added THIS??? k

WHY did they take 2 of the most iconic characters who FREQUENTLY interact and just

a. Never even have them make eye contact

b. Make 1 a background character

c. Completely change the personality of the other one

On the topic of Victoria/misto: I am just still at a loss as to why they thought it’d be a good idea? They completely removed Plato and for what? This? Pathetic. It’s worth noting the weirdly munkustrap has WAYYY more chemistry with both Victoria AND mistoffelees then they did with each other (there’s a part where it looks like misto and munk are about to kiss for some reason?? munk ALSO gets all touchy feely with skimbleshanks???) anyways munkustrap king moments

tldr; its worth watching, the best parts were the sets, the dancing, skimbleshanks, and munkustrp fucking CARRIES the weight of the world with his face acting. the worst things were a big fat tie between bustopher, tugger,misto,jenny,growltiger and griddlebone, and the godawful design choices

#cats the musical #cats movie #cats spoilers #my post

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hyunqlns · 4 years

Text

adventure to his heart ❦ hyunjin pt.2

⇴ genre: apocalypse!au ; angst ; future fluff

⇴ part : 2 | 1 ; 3 ; 4 ; 5 ; 6 ; 7 ; 8 ; |

⇴ description: just when you thought your crush, the well known school heartthrob hwang hyunjin, was your biggest problem, a crazy alien invasion managed to prove you wrong.

⇴ author’s note: inspired and based on the book and movie “the fifth wave”

⇴ warnings: apocalypse, swears

⇴ word count: 1884

you had known you'd regret it the moment you left the gymnasium with melanie and your dad.

hyunjin probably doesn't remember but in 5th grade, a soccer ball had hit you in the face thanks to his friends, and he was the one who god knows why took the blame, accompanying you to the nurse. you had an awkward conversation about his friends, but you really enjoyed it. you also had this other small conversation where you found out you had a few little things in common, but that was all until we hit high school and he became the star wide receiver for the soccer team and the most popular and reserved boy. no, he wasn't ever cocky or a jerk, but it was pretty hard to approach him with all those fangirls sticking to him like glue. and that's how you found yourself becoming just another loser watching him from the stands.

hyunjin indeed deserved his title "prince". he was the hottest boy in the school, yet the unreachable one. many wondered how and why is he still single. he had rejected (kindly) every girl trying to date him. he was also the nicest boy in the school. hyunjin wasn't an easy guy or a typical fuckboy. he was unique—wonderful. have you ever mentioned his smile and his eyes that form a little crescents when he does?

he was the boyfriend every girl'd wish for. it took you by surprise when melanie exclaimed she didn't like him. however, when she added that she liked his closest friend - felix, you were no longer surprised. hyunjin was in a big group with 8 more boys, including felix. they were inseparable and also liked to call their friend group "stray kids”. all 9 of them had looks that could kill, not to mention how talented they were in every area. woojin was the eldest - a boy that was going to graduate next year, along with his closest friend chan. minho, a big cat lover and an amazing dancer, was the closest to jisung, a squirrel who was a classmate of hyunjin and melanie. then there was changbin, a boy who with no wonder would’ve become one of the most popular rappers worldwide along with jisung, if it hadn’t been for the apocalypse.

seungmin was the class president in class B, another classmate of mel and hyunjin. he was undoubtedly handsome and an angel. on the other hand, jeongin was the shyest and youngest.

and then we had felix, or mel’s crush. he was a classmate of yours, the class clown, in fact. felix was really nice and popular amongst the girls. what made it even better was he was an aussie boy with a deep ass voice that had girls falling for him in a second. you've never really interacted with the freckled boy, but you could see why your sister was so whipped for him.

when you saw your dad appear in the doorway , you were extremely disappointed. your gut was telling you that was the last time you’ll be ever seeing hyunjin. or felix. or stray kids. or any student from this school. hyunjin is probably dead by now. like the rest of the people that sat on those bleachers.

when you went outside with dad and melanie, you asked about the car. "it doesn’t work” he replied, before we took the path home. it was a mile away from school, but that was the longest mile you have ever walked.

sometimes, when you’re laying in your sleeping bag and looking at the sky, you’re wondering.

are you really the last human on earth? no, it can't be. if you, a normal girl, managed to survive until now, there are probably tons of other people who did too, right? in your perspective, you were not special in any way, so there was no chance you were the last. that's what you liked to think, atleast. that you’re not completely alone. that out there, there are still many other people, just like you, trying to survive in this mess. every night, you’re drowning in your own fear so intense, you can't even close your eyes, scared that you will be never opening them again. you’re keeping your inhaler close to you, close to having an asthma or an anxiety attack every time you let yourself think about the world now.

all you could think of, aside the arrival of the others is the old you. that y/n, before the arrival. the girl who's biggest problem was her popular crush or her face when she hadn’t done her makeup perfectly. the y/n that was coming to terms that she was simply below the average in everything. in school. in looks. in arts. in sports. being a foreigner in korea was never really easy.

sometimes you want to return back in time. scream at that y/n who thought these things are the life crisis and are worth crying over. scream at her for being a coward, a pussy and not telling hyunjin how she feels for years. scream at her for not knowing what awaits for her. but that wasn't any fair. the fact that she and the rest of the world had no idea what's coming wasn't fair.

the last person you saw was the soldier in that gas station convenience store. the image of you ending his life is still lingering and replaying in your mind. you refuse to accept the fact that you've killed. but at the end of the day, that's what the others do to you. they make you lose faith in other people. it's not going to be a surprise if the fifth wave is you. the last human bound to die getting killed by the last human alive. interesting scenario if someone had asked you.

the leaves are falling heavy now, the nights have turned cold. you no longer could stay here without the cover of the leaves. you can't either risk having a campfire drawing attention to your existence. you have to pack up and leave immediately.

you grab your luger, m16, ammo, bowie knife. sleeping bag, first aid kit, bottles of water, canned beans, underwear, socks, two more shirts and a pair of leggings. a paste and a toothbrush plus a shampoo. you need to be clean in order not to catch some flu or a disease. last but not least - your inhaler. you’d be damned without it.

you heave the backpack over your shoulder. you’re good to go now. at times like those, the only things crossing your mind are survival plans. you sling your ruffle on the other shoulder and continue your way.

on the next day, you have a debate with yourself if you should rather travel by day or night. both had pros and cons. darkness is the best if you're nervous about the others. but day time is way better to spot a drone before it....oh well, spots you.

and you question what is a drone? well, the drones showed up in the end of the third wave. they were shaped like cigar and gray. the drones streak across the sky, not stopping. they are what kills the rest of the people who managed to survive in the first three waves.

you decide to travel by day. you would have opted by night but you'll have to deal with more than just a drone. who knows if the wild animals won't be searching for their meal, which would be you.

as for the drones you’re baffled. you’ll travel by day, okay. but do you shoot on sight? or do you wait for the drone to make the first move and risk it being deadly? that's something you'll probably stumble upon, so you guessed it's going to be better if you’re somewhat prepared.

after walking towards cincinatti, you begin to smell it a mile before spotting the exit sign. you can see the column of smoke rising in the sky which immediately tells you that cincinatti is burning. your eyes water and you cry, stumbling back. your gut tells you to run. cincinatti is a threat. so you quicken my pace. but near exit 17 and 18, you spot the corpses.

in fact, three of them. the first one was an older guy, around your dad's age, you suppose. the second one was the corpse of a woman, not much older than you. she was wearing a pair of men's pajama pants, and a victoria secret tee. a skull ring was on her index finger. a bullet in the back of her head. a few inches away from her was a kid, around twelve, dressed in a black sweatshirt.

you returned to the woman again and touched her neck - still warm. crap.

you go back to the first guy, kneel and touch the hole between his ears. the blood is still warm and shiny.

fuck, i'm screwed. i'm so damn screwed. you think to yourself. you turn around. in front and behind you. - road. on your left and on your right - trees. you look up to be greeted by a fleck of dull gray. hello y/n. you can say goodbye to your life!

DARN IT!

you stand up— and when you stand up– you immediately feel a hot punch on your leg that catches you off guard and knocks you off your balance, making you stumble and fall. you’re shocked. no sound. no nothing. of course they use silencers. of course they fucking do. you lunge forward you riffle and try to take it— you had already dropped your m16 by the time the car’s window next to you exploded, showering you with shredded glass and dirt. you swiftly grab the luger from your waistband and jog— more like hopping run towards and under the closest car. you can't really feel the pain of the bullet in your leg now but you can feel the blood soaking through your jeans and you can surely take a guess that you're going to become very intimate with it later.

goddamn it, i'm cornered. you think to myself. that's a very tight fit under the car, even if you’re really petite, especially for your age. that's it y/n, you can say goodbye to your pathetic life. you cry. you should've stayed in the woods, curled up in your tent while looking at your mementos. atleast there'd be more room for you to run if they find you.

but no.

you think. and pray. you pray that it goes away. that it goes away faster and it all ends.

you continue to think. it's what you're made for, right? to think. you’re freezing cold and you have got no idea what to do. what if he drops down and greets you right next to your face, reaching for your leg, dragging you from under the car?? no, he's smart and probably thinks you’re loaded. a minute's already up. where the fuck is he? isn't he gonna finish you?—no, he probably knows you’re going to stay under the car and die from blood loss–or, you’re going to make a run for it and die because of blood loss again, or maybe another drone spotting you. either way you die. it knows what you know. it knows what you think.

but are you really going to let yourself bleed out until you die, under this old car? no way.

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thewinedarksea · 4 years

Text

the asked-for coffee shop au.

tw: for the ink mage, who is himself a warning; mild abuse??; overly complicated starbucks orders; the girl, who is little knife, who is also a warning in her own right. my point is they’re all kind of awful, even in the pastel-y iteration of a coffee shop.

“Cinnamon shortbread latte. Three shots of espresso, raspberry whipped cream. Add some chocolate syrup, too, I don’t care how much. Venti.”

The voice is cool and flatly annoyed, rattling off the order with the air of someone who has done it a hundred times before and will do it a hundred times again, but they’d better not have to within the next three seconds or someone’s getting fired.

Not that they’ll have to. The girl writes down the order, accepts the handful of crumpled dollar bills passed wordlessly over the counter, and slides the cup down to the barista. She doesn’t look up, and the customer leaves without speaking again. In her peripheral she watches the long edge of their coat whip across the tiled floor, black and spotted with dust, until it vanishes from her sight, and then goes back to counting down in her head until the end of her shift.

————————

“Caramel macchiato. Almond milk, three shots of espresso, a pump of vanilla syrup. Venti.”

Two days later; same voice, same level annoyance. Same unnecessarily complicated order. It’s interesting enough that the girl deigns to glance up, and comes face to face with one of the prettiest men she’s ever seen: sharp cheekbones and large, dark eyes, framed by sweeping lashes. His hair is gathered into a messy bun, and red ink marks the left side of his face, stretching from the corner of his eye to just above his jaw. There’s a University-issue lanyard dangling around his neck.

He fishes a wad of dollar bills from one of the pockets of his coat; his fingers are long and slender, ink-smudged as the rest of him and cold where they brush against her skin. She takes them. Rings him up. Slides the cup down the counter with a flick of her wrist.

She spends the next few customers stealing glances in his direction as she writes down orders, watching the irritated way his fingers drum across the counter, the faint sneer of disdain as he plucks his drink from her coworker’s hand and stalks off to get a straw.

He sits in one of their corner booths and upends his bag onto the table. Papers fly in a snowstorm across the laminated surface.

Interesting. That’s what he is. The girl likes interesting—it helps stave off the boredom.

————————

His title, as far as she can find after a few hours spent googling ‘ink-covered asshole with no manners,’ is the Ink Mage, and he works in the University’s Theoretical Spellwork department. Some kind of prodigy in his field, concentrating in spell creation and sustainment, with the occasional foray into void studies and runes.

He has a .5 on ratemyprofessor—“for excessive hotness,” reads the sole non-zero rating. “at least you’ll be able to admire his cheekbones as he drives you down the path of suicide.”

Their shop does a steady enough business in University students coming in for caffeinated courage and to have a quiet place to cry for finals; the girl hasn’t seen any in a while, and she supposes now she knows why. That’s one mystery she didn’t care about solved, then.

Idly, she clicks through a few of his published articles, gets distracted by the flame wars he ignites in the comments, and then, bored, wanders off to stare at a wall and not do her chemistry homework.

————————

“Iced caffè americano. One espresso shot. Venti.”

“Vanilla latte. Soy milk, iced, two pumps of chocolate syrup. Venti.”

————————

They fall into a routine. The Ink Mage comes in Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, rattles off a complicated order, and retreats to the corner booth and his piles upon piles of paper where he stays for several hours, scribbling and downing coffee and occasionally swearing violently.

After the fifth visit, she starts bringing his coffee to the booth after he orders it. After the tenth, she starts bringing refills every three hours, and a collection of napkins for him to write on because her manager complains when he starts writing on the walls and her manager’s voice is very, very irking. After the twentieth she settles into the booth across him during her break—she has to shift a stack of essays, all marked with red ink and scorched around the edges—and waits to see what he’ll do.

He ignores her for the entire thirty minutes, and then tells her to bring him a cake pop when she gets up to leave.

————————

Half the time the store can only afford to have one staff member working the counter, which means the girl ends up making a lot of the Ink Mage’s drinks. It’s a lesson in multitasking, and also the ingredients they have stashed in the various drawers and cubby holes.

The first time she fucks up his order he dumps the entire cup over her head. She has to make him a new one, free of charge, and then clean up the spill on the floor, iced mocha dripping down her neck all the while. When her manager yells at her later it’s all she can do to keep from rolling her eyes, or punching her, or setting the store on fire. She settles for staring blankly until she’s dismissed.

Patience. She’s learning it.

————————

“Java chip frappuccino. Five shots of espresso. Do you have a size larger than a venti? Forget it. Just double the order, both ventis. Extra whipped cream. I don’t care how much caramel syrup you add just add some.”

The Ink Mage looks harried: there’s five pens stuck in his bun, two with the caps off, and ink splatters his cheeks and trails down the curve of his neck in a ribbon of black. He’s thinner, too, the planes of his face even more pronounced than usual, and against the pallor of his skin the bruises around his eyes stand out like blood on snow.

Silently, the girl reaches for the cups.

————————

“My students are a bunch of soft, blubbering idiots who couldn’t tell the difference between a summoning rune and a summoner rune if I carved it into their foreheads.”

The girl makes a noise in the back of her throat, less sympathy than acknowledgement, and edges the blueberry scone she’d brought him a bit closer. The Ink Mage ignores it. Honestly, he may not even see it; he’s calmed somewhat with his double order and the refills she’s brought since then, but his eyes are still dark-rimmed, and another pen has made its way into the nest of his hair. Finals, it seems, take their toll even on him.

“No,” the Ink Mage continues, “No, I refuse to handhold a bunch of children through the finer parts of basic runal spellwork and grade their subpar garbage as if it means something, as if they will amount to anything more in their worthless, pathetic lives than to be the absolute dregs of human innovation. Honestly. If these little brats want me to read their drivel the least they could do is type in an interesting font.”

With deliberate care he gathers the entire stack of essays before him and, getting up, tips them into the trash can.

“There,” he says. “Problem solved.” Then he sits back down and picks up the scone. Her scone.

Warmth bubbles in the girl’s stomach and fizzes through her bloodstream. Not happiness, exactly, but maybe satisfaction. Contentment. Knowledge of a job well done.

————————

The days tick past. The register dings, dings again. The girl’s never bored on shift, now; if she’s not seeing the Ink Mage, she’s counting down to his visits, measuring the time in the bland orders and blander customers that fill the time in between.

On her breaks she comes to share the booth with him, bringing pastries and refills of whatever confection he’s ordered that day. Equations and theories and critiques of others’ works radiate out from him as he sits, a gangly black spider in the center of his web. He has no laptop (“useless technological drivel. It can be hacked”) and no pencils (“only idiots and Professor Miller need to erase their work”), and so his work is written on paper or dashed onto napkins in his tiny, cramped scrawl, ink weeping across it all.

The first time she undresses to find ink staining her own arms, she stares at the shower for thirty minutes before she can bear to step beneath the cold spray of water and wash it away.

————————

“Chai tea latte. No foam, skim milk, three pumps of caramel sauce. Venti.”

“Iced coffee. Ten pumps vanilla, five pumps hazelnut, eight pumps caramel, a splash of soy, light ice, double-blended. Venti."

————————

“Latte. Nonfat, two percent foam, three espresso shots, five pumps mocha,” the Ink Mage says on his fiftieth visit, and then, “What do you know about theoretical spellwork?”

She blinks at him. The back of her mind is still scrambling to figure out what the fuck ‘two percent foam’ means and how to make it a reality. “It’s theoretical,” she says after a stretching pause.

“Mm.”

He goes to sit at his usual booth. It feels like she’s failed, and her hands shake so badly she has to remake his drink three times over.

————————

“I read Zhang’s Animus Theory,” she tells him the following visit. The words rush out of her, too loud and too desperate in the hushed, coffee-fragrant air. She bites the inside of her cheek until she tastes blood to keep herself silent.

At her words the Ink Mage pauses, examining her with the level of intensity he typically reserves for judging the artistry of the caramel drizzle on his drinks. The girl has never noticed how blue his eyes are before—not black but indigo, like wet ink, or the deep, velvety centers of the flowers blooming on her windowsill.

“Animus is trash,” he says dismissively, and her heart does something strange and painful in her chest. “Chocolate chip frappuccino. Two pumps of every syrup you have, extra coffee whipped cream. Venti.”

————————

“Li. Whistler. Astre’s an idiot, but their theory is solid. Diaz is annoying, but accurate; Okada’s Synthesis is a good groundwork if you’re trying to break into incantational magics.” The Ink Mage frowns at her over the lip of his refill. “Are you writing this down, girl?”

“I’ll remember.”

She will. It’s his words, she thinks; his coffee order, his insults, the occasional tidbit of information he deigns to share with her, all of them creeping into the soft gray tissue of her brain and nesting there. Like maggots in the carcass of some strange animal, breeding new life.

————————

“Hazelnut macchiato. Four shots of espresso, extra whip, light ice. Venti.”

“Pumpkin spice latte. One shot of espresso, seven pumps pumpkin, light foam, light whip, light caramel drizzle. Venti.”

————————

On his seventy-second visit to the shop the Ink Mage pauses after he orders, frowning across the counter at her.

“Where do you go to school?”

She tells him, and his mouth curls with disgust.

“Transfer. Now.” When she doesn’t respond, merely cocking her head, birdlike, he rolls his eyes. “I need a new lab assistant—mine are useless.”

“I’m failing all of my classes.” There’s no way she can get in—it’s the University, after all. People would kill for a place. People do kill for a place.

The Ink Mage rolls his eyes again, harder. “Lab assistant. Mine.”

A good point, but:

“You don’t even know my name,” she feels compelled to point out.

“And?”

And—

Well. And nothing. And being the Ink Mage’s assistant sounds mildly more interesting than being a barista, and she likes the sound of the word ‘mine’ in his voice: cool, level, lips shaping the ‘m’ and tongue flicking sharp around the ‘e.’

She shrugs, and slides his cup down the counter with the ease of familiarity. “Okay.”

During her break she brings him an orange scone, a day old and slightly stale, and a fresh cup of matcha green tea (iced, heavy on the whipped cream). The booth is awash in papers; she has to shove a few stacks aside so that she can sit, curled up and small, in the seat across from him. Then she breaks out her beaten-up laptop and begins filling out the transfer application.

She skips over all the parts about personal information, statements. The only thing that matters is the name of the Ink Mage, bold and black, across the top of the form.

#this is The Nicest thing i've written for them which tells you something #little knife is: not drowned not broken not vocal chordless. see? Nicest #you asked for it anon!#my writing #misc #misc writing #*

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perspective-series · 4 years

Text

Vampire Perspective (8/17)

By: @arc852 and @hiddendreamer67

Warnings: Blood, murderous intentions, injury, depressing topics (I have no idea how to label this but everything is oof)

First Chapter || Previous Chapter || Next Chapter

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Virgil sat in his coffin, for once not getting up with the moon as he drummed his fingers rapidly on the inside wood, trying to calm himself down. He knew it was evening. He could sense it, like a dog senses a tsunami. But the feeling only filled him with dread, knowing how strong the aching in his stomach had grown.

That’s a good thing. Virgil reminded himself, but his anxiety only rose. He could do this. Could he do this? Maybe he could just stay in his coffin all night instead… no, Virgil had to do this, to prove to himself that the others had been wrong.

Virgil lifted the lid, not making a creak as he slunk out of his coffin like the shadows incarnate. Logan was passed out, likely from exhaustion. That’s your fault. Virgil reminded himself. It doesn’t matter now. His brain retorted.

Right, it didn’t. It didn’t matter at all. Because Virgil could smell that tantalizing scent that had begun to permeate his walls the past few days. It was just so hard to resist… why was he even resisting? This was perfect. Virgil was starving, and Logan wasn’t even awake so Virgil wouldn’t have to look him in the eye and feel that insufferable guilt.

Just do it, you little cry bat! Virgil clutched at his hair, clenching his fangs so hard they punctured a small hole in his lip. Do it, because otherwise you’re just gonna keep torturing him for your own sick pleasure and continue on a coward like the past few centuries meant you’ve learned nothing-

I can’t do it.

Virgil felt like screaming his head off and crying his eyes out all at once, storming out of the room as the smell began to make him feel sick. What was wrong with him? At least before he could blame it on being too young and squeamish, but he was a grown vamp for crying out loud! This was the circle of life! Borrowers don’t even live a hundred years, what’s a few less? Just it put it out of its misery-

Him. Put him out of his misery. His subconscious unhelpfully supplied. Why had Virgil bothered to learn Logan’s name? He was so stupid, and after he was such a jerk to Patton about the other one, too. But that was different. Patton could be stronger than Virgil. He had to, if he wanted to stand any chance of defending himself.

“Virgil?”

Virgil jolted, unnerved to see Patton sat at the dinner table. Speak of the devil.

“Are you okay?” Patton asked, and that question damn near broke Virgil down because when was he ever okay? Certainly not now.

“I-I…” Virgil cursed himself for stammering. “It’s nothing.”

“Virgil, don’t lie to me.” Patton said sternly. Well wasn’t that just the nail in the coffin, proving he really was nothing like his brothers. “Please, just tell me what’s wrong.”

“I can’t.” Virgil insisted, shaking his head. “If I told you what I’ve done you’d hate me more than you do.” Virgil wasn’t sure which aspect Patton would hate most, but there was certainly plenty to go around.

“Virgil, I do not hate you!” Patton immediately replied, and now look who was the liar. Patton had a million and one excellent reasons to hate Virgil, and frankly tonight was not the night to stay and listen to Patton’s sweet lies.

Instead Virgil took off into the night, ignoring Patton’s cries for him to come back. He didn’t know where he was going, only choosing a direction at random and running as fast as his legs could carry him. Yes, running, because he didn’t even have enough energy for his bat form. Pathetic.

Eventually Virgil began to run out of steam, the growling in his stomach returning with a vengeance. If he didn’t get some blood in him right this second he was going to end up tearing this entire little city apart. Thankfully, a willing- or rather unwilling- victim just rounded the corner, alone. Virgil glanced around only once to check the coast was clear before he pounced, dragging the man with him into a back alley.

“H-hey! What’s the big id-”

“Shut up.” Virgil growled, burying his fangs into the man’s neck. He groaned, sucking so sloppily he might’ve been a pup again. It spilled down his front, drenching his clothes as Virgil continued to lap up his fill. The man’s skin paled, his eyes drooping as the signs of blood loss were starting to kick in.

You’re going to kill him. Good.

But Virgil refrained from giving in completely to his dark instincts, as tempting as it was. He dropped the man’s body, watching it collapse with a thump onto the alley floor. Virgil growled, frustrated that he had to leave his snack unfinished. The other half of his mind was frustrated with him as well, scolding Virgil for acting like a child and making such a mess. Even if the man survived, what possible explanation could there be for all this blood?

You could just finish him off.

Virgil couldn’t. Again with the not being able to do simple vampyric tasks! This was the #1 instinct of all vampires. The wound was still fresh, a small puddle of blood having formed before Virgil’s saliva took root and began to close it up. Great, now Virgil couldn’t even hunt properly. He stormed back home, slamming the front door in his rage.

“VIRGIL!” A shocked Patton exclaimed, but Virgil didn’t even spare him a look. “What-what happened-?”

“Don’t want to talk about it.” Virgil growled, stomping up the stairs with a huff. Frankly, he just wanted to fall back into his coffin and sleep for a hundred years, but fate would not be so kind, considering there was still the issue of his little prisoner when Virgil returned to his bedroom.

Logan had woken up to an empty room. He blinked the sleep out of his eyes and looked over towards the coffin. Open and empty, just like the rest of the room. Where had Virgil gone? Wasn’t Virgil supposed to be...wasn’t Logan supposed to be eaten today? It didn’t make any sense.

He stood up and went over towards the door, trying it despite knowing it wouldn’t work. Great...half of him had been hoping Virgil would just get it over with already. After all, prolonging it was just causing him to worry about it more. Though, Virgil had been acting strangely the night before...could that have been it?

Logan sighed, as he slumped against the opposite wall and waited for Virgil to come back. Thankfully, Logan didn’t have to wait too long as the door burst open about several minutes later. However, the sight before him made Logan’s blood run cold.

Virgil was there, covered almost head to toe in blood. He was panting but not from exhaustion, no, from the very clear anger on his face. Logan got to his feet, trying to back himself into the wall, putting as much distance as he could from the vampire. His eyes were wide as he couldn’t look away, even as the stench reached him. What...What had happened.

“...you’re awake.” Virgil commented bitterly, sulking over to his dresser.

Logan swallowed at the tone of Virgil’s voice, looking at the vampire warily. “W-Why…” He cleared his throat. “Where...What happened?” Logan decided on.

“I’ll tell you the same thing I told Patton.” Virgil answered, pulling out some clean clothes. “Don’t want to talk about it.”

Logan knew he should have just dropped his but his curiosity kept him going. “Did...did you go out to hunt? Why? I-I thought…” Today was the day Virgil was supposed to eat him, right? So why did the vampire go and get himself full?

“I forgot.” Virgil slammed his drawer with more intensity than was strictly necessary. “I’m going to take a shower.” He announced loudly, leaving the room again before Logan could ask any pestering questions.

Logan frowned. Virgil forgot? That didn’t make any sense though. His cage was in the line of sight of the coffin, if anything. But Virgil had been talking about eating Logan non stop these past few days. There was simply no way Virgil could have forgotten.

So...why then? If Virgil was lying, then why had he gone out to eat instead of eaten Logan as planned?

Virgil took longer in the shower than he normally would, wishing the hot water would just wash away all of his emotions and leave him numb like a proper vampire. Eventually though he turned off the miracle that was indoor plumbing, throwing on his clean clothes. The dirty ones he tossed in a hamper, not caring how they began to crinkle with the dry crusted blood. Virgil returned to the bedroom, clean but not fully calmed like he had dared to hope.

Logan flinched back as Virgil returned, though he was happy to see all the blood was gone. He took in a deep breath, stepping closer. “You didn’t forget, did you?” Logan said and in the back of his mind he knew he was probably going to regret it.

“I said I forgot, didn’t I?” Virgil insisted, not looking him in the eye as Virgil busied himself with rearranging the shelf on the other side of the room. “And I also said to drop it.”

“It’s highly unlikely that you would simply ‘forget’ to eat me. Even if you had somehow forgotten I was here, you should have seen me the second you left your coffin.” Logan kept pushing. “And judging by all the...in the state you came home in, I assume you were hungry enough to have finished me already. So I don’t understand why you ... didn’t.”

“Do you want me to eat you?” Virgil asked incredulously, whirling around on his heel. “Because that certainly seems to be where you’re heading, and if you think I’m some weak-willed vamp I’ll have you know I’m still starving and certainly have room for a mouthy little twit.”

Logan shut his mouth, backing away and looking down. “...I am just trying to understand why you did what you did.” Logan said after a moment. “That does not mean I wish to be eaten.” Though, again, half of him was wishing Virgil would just get it over with already. Now he was being tortured to wait even longer for his demise.

Virgil gave a long sigh. Yeah, it was fair, of course Logan and Patton would have questions, and Virgil was just being the jerk who refused to talk about any of that. Instead he took the route of hurting others to protect himself. Sounds like a vamp, alright.

Before Virgil could even think what to say, a knock came at the door.

“Virgil?” Patton called, his tone tense. “We need to talk.”

“No we don’t.” Virgil replied immediately.

Logan immediately tensed at the sound of another voice. He could only assume that was Patton, the vampire Virgil had turned...and the one who had eaten Roman. He backed away a few steps, finding himself more wary of the other vampire, knowing he had already done the job.

“Stop bottling this up, it’s not healthy!” Virgil could feel Patton’s dad glare from here. “You’re talking this out right this instant. Why are you so worked up? Why’d you get so messy?”

“I told you, I don’t want to talk about it!” Virgil hissed.

“Virgil, stop it, you can’t avoid me forever.” Patton insisted, and the bedroom doorknob began to twist.

Logan’s eyes widened and he want to the very back of the cage. While Logan was interested to know how to vampires fought one another, he very much did not want to witness it. And he especially did not want the other vampire to turn to him and finish the job instead of Virgil.

Virgil’s eyes widened. “Don’t come in here!” Virgil rushed forwards, planting himself in front of the door. Patton didn’t know about Logan, and frankly Virgil never wanted him to find out.

Patton shoved against the door, but of course Virgil was stronger. “Virgil, let me in!”

“No, I’m…. naked.” Virgil winced at that excuse. After all, several centuries of being roommates meant Patton had certainly seen him naked before.

“Virgil, you are acting like a child.” Patton growled. Growled, oh geez that wasn’t good.

“You’re not any better.” Virgil retorted, noticing his friend’s mood. “When did you last eat?”

“You interrupted me this evening!” Patton protested, sounding far past annoyed and bordering on enraged.

Logan was not enjoying this one bit, putting his hands to his ears to try and block out the loud yelling.

“Then go. Eat.” Virgil instructed, his tone low and gravelly.

“Stop trying to dodge the issue.” Patton argued.

“I’m not opening this door until you feed yourself.” Virgil felt Patton pounding against the door, his attempt futile.

“Well I’m not leaving until you stop lying to yourself.” Patton retorted.

“You’re going to be there for eternity then.” Virgil joked darkly.

“You are impossible!” Patton stomped his foot.

“GO!” Virgil yelled. “Get out of here!”

Patton gave an angry, inhuman screech, accompanied by the sound of him barreling down the stairs and out the front door that Virgil would be surprised to find still on its hinges.

Logan was glad his ears were already covered, as the last scream surely would have ruptured his ear drums. As he heard the other leave, he slowly lowered his hands. “...I am unsure why anyone would say he wasn’t a real vampire.” Logan commented. He was certainly scary, like one.

Virgil paused, the fire in his chest coming down to a dull roar as he processed what Logan said. He turned to the borrower. “What, Patton? He’s just hungry. And an idiot.”

“...Still. He was on par with your level of terrifying...maybe even more so.” Logan admitted to the vamp, looking down.

Virgil leaned back against the door, crossing his arms. “Patton comes here to lecture me about bottling things up, and you think that’s more terrifying than me kidnapping you and constantly threatening to eat you?”

“...He ate my best friend.” Logan said quietly, not meeting Virgil’s eyes. “That...That might have something to do with it.”

“What?” Virgil’s brow furrowed, only for his eyes to go slowly wide in realization. The other borrower… Logan doesn’t know. Should Virgil tell him? Was it better or worse to know, especially if with Patton’s outbursts recently that borrower was sure to be a goner anyways?

“Despite the fact you terrify me and are planning to eat me, the fact that Patton has already done it...and to Roman, no less...I find myself even more afraid of him. No matter how illogical.” And it was. His stupid emotions were getting in the way but he didn’t care. Roman surely deserved his tears of mourning.

“What does this Roman look like, anyhow?” Virgil shifted, wanting to confirm this was even the right borrower they were talking about.

“Does it even matter anymore?” Logan said but sighed, thinking back to his friend. “He’s...a little taller than I am. Brown hair and he always wore a prince outfit. At the very least, he was wearing it when he was taken. He found it off a doll a few years back and modified it to fit him.” Logan remembered the memory well. Logan had lectured him on borrowing something so needless and dumb but the outfit had made Roman happy.

Virgil snorted. “It was a doll outfit?”

Logan sighed. “Yes. It was a doll outfit. The previous tenants had a child and she had a ton of dolls. Normally we don’t borrow those, since they are much too uncomfortable and usually bigger. But Roman had been insistent and had made it his little project of sorts. He had cut it down, added padding and whatnot and honestly he...he did quite a good job on it.” He still never saw the point but he didn’t complain much after the initial borrowing of the outfit since Roman had been enjoying himself and it gave him something to do.

“Did you ever do anything like that?” Virgil asked.

“No, I only ever borrowed what I needed.” Logan said but then paused, looking down. “However...I was known to...borrow knowledge, in a sense. I tried to get my hands on books when I could and I...may have tried to access a human’s phone once or twice, which did put me at risk…” Honestly, he wasn’t much better than Roman.

“Oh.” Suddenly all the logical questions in the face of mortal danger made sense. “So you’re a massive nerd.”

Logan groaned. “Roman used to call me that all the time.” He huffed but deep down he would...miss Roman calling him that. It was his favorite nickname to call Logan, after all. “But...yes, I suppose I am.”

Virgil gave a groan, knowing it was time to confess. After all, it would at least stop this delusional idea of Logan’s that Virgil was a better person than Patton.

Logan looked up at Virgil with a raised brow. “What?”

“Roman.” Virgil just had to spit it out. “He’s not dead.”

Logan paused. There was no way he head Virgil correctly. “I’m...sorry?”

“He’s not dead yet.” Virgil ran a hand down his face. “So just… stop moping about, and know that if I had my way he would be.”

Logan felt his mouth go dry at the new information. “He’s...alive? I-I don’t understand…” Logan met Virgil’s eyes despite himself. “How do I know you are even telling the truth?”

“You don’t, but I’d bet you’d feel a lot better if I was.” Virgil shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know, considering he’s just as doomed as you anyways.”

Logan winced, that was true but he still felt better knowing Roman was not yet dead. “May I…” He swallowed the lump in his throat. “May I see him?”

“No.” Virgil answered immediately, knowing that would be next.

Logan winced and despite knowing he shouldn’t push it, he continued. “Please, I just...I just want to say goodbye, one more time. Now that I know he isn’t dead, there’s still time.”

“No.” Virgil repeated, his chest tightening. “That’s only going to make everything worse.”

“It’s already the worst it can be.” Logan argued. “The two of us are sitting ducks, simply waiting for you two to eat us. We are dying no matter what and there is nothing we can do. The least you could do is allow me one last chance to tell my best friend goodbye.” A few tears escaped Logan’s eyes but he quickly wiped them away, resolute in holding Virgil’s gaze.

“I owe you nothing.” Virgil murmured, tearing his gaze away.

Logan grit his teeth, keeping his tears at bay. “...Does he even know I am here?”

“Doubt it.” Virgil shrugged. “Patton doesn’t even know you’re here.”

Logan blinked. “He...doesn’t? Why not?”

“Well I didn’t exactly intend on keeping you.” Virgil thought back to that first discovery. “You just took forever to come out and I got hungry first, so I’d already eaten.”

“I...see.” Logan had figured that much out. “So...there really is no way to convince you to let me see Roman again?” Logan said sadly, looking down.

“Nope, I’m a true monster like that.” Virgil knew that title was true in multiple ways. But he wasn’t going to go about upsetting Patton with this mess. “Knowledge isn’t always fun, is it?”

Logan didn’t answer, turning away from Virgil. He had already known that knowledge was not always a good thing, this being at the top of the list. Half of him wished Virgil had never told him Roman was alive. It was easier, thinking of him as gone already. Now...now he would never be sure when Roman’s final moments are.

#vampire perspective #vampire!patton #vampire!virgil #perspective series #borrower!logan #part 8

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fell-in-love-didnt-you · 5 years

Text

Five Times I Wanted to Kiss You, and One Time You Did, Too

Oh, my god. I spent actual hours on this, It's a 26 page word doc. Word count of 10k +. Holy shit.

My friend will anonymously say “fic waz good” and I will tell theme tickety boo bebop. If you’re reading this, you know.

Okay, enjoy about six hours of my life poured into a fic I love more than anything I’ve ever written ever even outside the wonderful carry on fandom.

Oh, also, basically Chapter 61 happened but no kissing. Basically, all kissing that is canon has been taken out unless it happened between Agatha and simon. okay enjoy (putting a read more cuz it’s fucking long)

Read on Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20051074

Baz figures it out fifth year, but he knows it has festered in the back of his brain long before this point. Maybe it has even been there since the first time they met. Being raised to hate the Chosen One doesn’t exactly mean you’re going to comply.

And he certainly does hate Snow. Stupid fucking hair, stupid fucking walk, and stupid fucking everything and anything else Baz can think of. He can’t even hold a wand right unless Bunce shows him first. Pathetic choice for a Chosen One.

And the whole “I’m going to follow you around until I finally catch you draining rats and defiling virgins” act also doesn’t let Baz sit on these confusing emotions for more than three seconds alone. Seriously, is it all some cosmic joke? Is some long-forgotten enemy of the Pitches sitting Upstairs somewhere, laughing until they cry, and also making sure Baz doesn’t have a fucking second alone?

If so, fuck you, Baz thinks. Fuck you and your whole lineage, if someone ever felt bad enough to sleep with you.

That is another thing: the wanting to sleep with Simon Snow, Mage’s heir, resident Good Boy, and savior of the magical world. Also, the boyfriend to the stunningly gorgeous Agatha Wellbelove, who also may have a thing for Baz, too. And Baz is flattered, honestly. He and Wellbelove would make some beautiful children that would dominate the magical world. Hell, maybe he’d name them all Simon Snow Pitch just to piss off the Golden Boy.

He wants so bad to feel anything else for anyone else. He’d fuck a chimera if he thought for one second it would clear this blinding, aching need to touch and be touched by the one person most disgusted by his presence. Anyone else. He’d marry Bunce, or a second cousin, or a tree.

But that feeling, that “It’s you; it’s going to be you” has sat in the pit of Baz’s stomach for five years before deciding to take root at the base of his brain stem and prick and demand attention from both. A torturous cycle akin to being stuffed in the ground alive with a straw poking though the earth. Never satisfied, but still hopeful like a fucking moron.

Baz climbs the stairs to the turret. If his mum was still headmistress, maybe lifts would have been incorporated sometime, or even just escalators. Everyone calls the Mage the ‘Great Reformer’, but Baz puts that on the far end of his list of names for that fuckweed. Far behind prick, narcissistic bitch, and crazy fucking lunatic, which all rank well within the top ten. But Snow would argue that the Mage is really the ‘Great Reformer’ everyone calls him.

Baz’s calf muscles and back disagree heartily.

Even though the basic unsaid rules of their room declared that Snow takes showers in the evening, Baz can’t stand the way his clothes stick to him like they’re a second skin. He thought last year he was finally done growing, but the Grimms are a tall folk, and it seems he’s inherited that (and maybe, like, four other things) from his father. Any walking makes him sweat when it’s this early into the year, and the added bonus of not fitting into custom clothing makes it all the more awful.

So Baz breaks tradition and grabs a towel from his wardrobe. They’re supposed to share one, but Simon decidedly moved his things away from anything resembling Baz about three seconds into this year’s term, and Baz actually doesn’t give a shit. If anything, he’s happy. Now, no lingering scent of Simon can be on his clothes anymore than it usually is.

Sharing a room with the person you want more than actual life makes him hyper-aware of what Snow smells like: brimstone, green fire, and burned foodstuffs. Makes sense.

Despite the building being old, the water pressure is wonderful. Baz maybe thinks someone has spelled it this way because there’s no way a place as old as Watford had this wonderful a plumbing system when it was made. Just as Baz is wondering who may have upgraded this integral part of the school, a loud, obnoxious knock on the bathroom door jolts him from his thoughts.

“We need to talk,” says a muffled voice on the other side of the dark wood door. Simon Snow has never been great at yelling, even in the best of times. Baz accidentally pushed him down the stairs once, and the only noise he made the entire time was a surprised little, “oh” just before he went down.

“I need to get clean,” Baz replies, hoping that will shove off any response for a few minutes.

The knock sounds again, though this time it’s louder. “Now!” Simon yells. He thumps even harder against the door, and Baz sighs as he rests his head against the cool tile of the shower. Never a dull moment when you know the Chosen One, he thinks to himself.

Baz really should be thinking about the structural integrity of a door that was made centuries before him. It’s got a cheap little doorknob from when the other fell out two years into their time at Watford. (Baz blames Simon, but he knows it was himself that did it; slamming a door closed will do that.) The thing hardly locks half the time, and Baz was so tired after a day of classes and scouring the Catacombs that he just didn’t think about locking the door.

So when Simon’s incessant thumping gets harder, the door gives. The knob, thanks to its cheapness, breaks, and the door swings in to reveal Baz, naked, actually in the shower and not plotting, because that’s what Snow always thinks he’s doing.

Baz’s first instinct is to cover himself up. Fling a towel around his lower half and cower in a distant corner until Snow decides that looking at a pale, naked vampire isn’t worth his time anymore. His second instinct is to shout. Because his towel is one the counter outside of the shower, his second instinct will have to do.

“What the fuck is your problem?” he demands, and if there’d been any magic in his voice, Snow would be spilling secrets from his childhood like a broken dam. But Baz doesn’t need magic to make Snow become flustered or spill his secrets. All he needs is a hiss in the back of his throat and a lethal glare.

Snow looks like a deer caught in the headlights of a semi-truck. The most logical thing he can do at this point is close the door, walk out of the room, and not show up for a few hours so Baz can have a bit to think about this. But all Snow does do is stare, and stare, and stare, and stare some more. It’s like he’s trying to bore holes into Baz’s brain with just his eyes.

And then Baz watches those unextraordinary blue eyes creep from his face to where he’s trying desperately to cover up. And damnit, Baz thinks, that shouldn’t be doing the things it’s doing to me. It shouldn’t be setting him on fire all over like he’s not flammable to the largest extent, and it damn sure shouldn’t be making all the blood from the rats rush south like a freight train.

Snow comes to his senses finally (if he’s really got any) and slams the door shut. Baz can feel his face becoming redder. He likes the water hot, but this isn’t a temperature-related heat. This isn’t even the heat of arousal. It’s the heat of shame. Because while Snow was staring down where Baz’s hands are still covering, he was only thinking about one thing: snogging the daylights out of the Mage’s heir.

Shit.

…

The end of fifth year isn’t nearly as exciting as the previous ones: Simon slayed a dragon first year, and the Humdrum’s sent something equally as lethal (if not, more so) every year. However, for the first time in five terms, the last weeks are uneventful. Baz takes his exams in relative silence, though Snow’s tapping feet never stop.

However, if that’s the only upset they’ll have during exams, he can take.

It’s been about six months since Snow walking in on him in the shower, and they haven’t spoken about it. To be fair, they also didn’t speak about whatever it was that had been so pressing in Snow’s mind that day. It just didn’t seem as important as seeing your arch-nemesis stark naked.

Maybe he’d seen the long scar that ran down Baz’s legs. It wasn’t from whatever Snow was thinking it were from. It was years old from when the wraiths had thought it fun to mess with a Pitch. Live and learn, Baz thought. The wraiths hadn’t touched him since then.

Or maybe Snow was really just freaked out about the sight of another man’s prick. If he thought that only he had stones or some stupid shit, anatomy next year was going to fuck him over really well.

Whatever it had been, it’s gone and passed. Baz has shelved it away for the day he’ll finally get a good wank in, which will be only a few days from now. The last days of term always feel the longest, though, and even just remembering that is making his skin itch.

He’s forgotten it long enough, though, to begin packing his wardrobe. It’s not like Baz has a sizeable amount of clothing or anything, but compared to Snow’s, it’s massive. The winter coats alone outnumber all of Snow’s non-school clothing.

Just as Baz begins to take down the few frayed tees he’s ever owned, the door to the room opens. He doesn’t need to look up to know it’s Snow; the clambering of feet up the stairs always tells him enough. Apparently, Snow shares the same sentiment about stairs. Baz looks up to see Snow’s face flushed and his mouth open. (Though that shouldn’t surprise Baz anymore. Snow’s mouth is always open, like an obnoxious trout.)

“Haven’t suggested a lift to your Jedi master, then?” Baz asks, returning his attention to the remaining clothes in the wardrobe. “Or haven’t you mastered Up, up, and away?”

Simon’s glare reverberates through the room, and Baz drops the tie in his hand. The unmistakable scent of Snow’s magic is pouring into the air. Could what Baz just said really set him off that easily? It isn’t even comparable to their normal insults. Nothing this year has been comparable to the previous ones. Baz is too wrapped up in himself lately to really think of any good zingers.

Baz turns sharply from the wardrobe and says, “Calm down, Snow. You don’t want the Anathema killing you for maiming me.” Maybe in some distant world, that could be true.

Snow takes one large step forward and is up in Baz’s space. He’s not close enough to get a good punch in, but Baz knows that Simon doesn’t judge distance very well when it comes to physical altercations. As long as he even scrapes Baz, Snow counts it as a win.

“Stay the fuck away from my girlfriend,” Snow spits at him, hands live like a wire in the air. He always does this when they fight: the spitting of words, the gritting of teeth, and the pointing of hands. However, the actual flames that lick the insides of his eyes give way to let Baz know he’s probably as serious right now as he’s ever been. “I mean it, you fucking creep!”

Baz is just confused. Of course, he won’t let that show. A sly smirk paints its way across his face and he asks, “Trouble in paradise, Snow?”

More magic is exuded. More of the air feels alive with electricity. Snow’s magic has always felt like this: alive, alive, alive. There’s nothing about Simon Snow that isn’t alive. Baz wishes he could be jealous.

“Calm down, Snow,” Baz murmurs, bending over to pick up his tie. It helps to ease the shaking in his hands. Snow could quite literally explode all of Mummer’s right now, and Baz could go up with it. That’s not how he’s supposed to die.

Well, sort of. Simon Snow will do the right thing and kill him once and for all one day, far away from this day, when they stand on opposite sides of the battlefield.

But dying as a fifth year in the top of Mummer’s because Snow’s girl has obviously upset him is not the way Simon is going to kill him.

Snow’s jaw clenches, and he steps back from Baz. Thank Merlin for Anathema, Baz thinks, whoever you were.

Finally, the static in the air calms to the low buzz that always accompanies Snow, and Baz feels like he can breathe again. He can smell a hell of a lot more than most people, and maybe that’s why being around Simon has always made him feel like he’s suffocating. Or maybe it’s because he just wants to pin the Chosen One down on a bed and kiss him ‘til they both die.

That’s what Baz is thinking as Snow loosens his jaw and opens his mouth like the damned trout again. He’s thinking about stepping closer and filling a gaping hole in his chest that aches more and more every passing second. He’s thinking about just coming out with it, no matter the repercussions from his family or the Coven or even Snow himself. He’s thinking about twisting his hands into that perfect golden hair and touching the moles he’s longed to touch since they first met at the Crucible.

But all Baz does is think.

So, instead of pulling Snow in for a maddening and passionate kiss, he turns to his wardrobe and says, “Try not to blow Wellbelove up next time you see her. I still haven’t gotten my fill.”

…

Christmas at Watford is always bittersweet. Baz loves the turkey that’s served the night before the official end of the term, and he’s obsessed with the holly hung up just about everywhere it can be. Miss Possibelf always teaches them little Christmas spells like Merry and bright (obviously for lighting fairy lights) and talks about where the myth of Father Christmas really came from.

But it also makes Baz long for his mother. Sixth year isn’t easy. It’s the year before the technical last year one is required to take. Baz can stop coming after seventh year if he chooses, though he knows he will come back. He’s not going to be the first Pitch to ever drop out of Watford. Plus, Aunt Fiona’s threatened him with a silver cross branding over the heart if he decides to leave.

His mum loved Christmas much more than any other Pitch. She’d set up a big tree in the sitting room and physically place the ornaments on instead of spelling them up like every other magical family. When Baz once asked why, she gave him a look like he’d just asked her why she was breathing. After all, everyone does need to breathe.

So, yeah, the holidays simultaneously suck and rock. Aunt Fiona always brings down the shitty handmade bobbles from when Baz was, like, two and places them on the tree where everyone can see them. His dad mixes up basically all the top shelf alcohol into a cocktail and lets Baz have several glasses. Even Daphne gets in the spirit and throws a mini party with some more liberal members of the Old Families. It’s a good time to be a Grimm-Pitch.

Baz doesn’t entirely pack away his things. He just takes his coats, trousers, socks, and boots. He has more than enough clothing at his house. If he even so much as mentioned a sweater he thought was cool enough to look at for more than two seconds, it would be on his bed by the time he got home. He didn’t want or need anything from his school wardrobe. Just enough to get him to the train and back.

Snow kept the window open, and the breeze blows Baz out of his memories and right back into the chilly air of the room. Simon would keep that damned thing open all the time if Baz didn’t put his foot down. It was like that the first few months of the first year, but after he complained to Fiona about it enough times, she encouraged him to yell at Snow until he submitted to whatever whim was plaguing him.

Now, though… After last year’s revelations and midnight wanks, he can’t so much as snarl at Snow without feeling like he’s an utter arse. Hating Snow used to be as easy as breathing, even though vampires breathe far less often than humans. They do still need to breathe. Snow asked that once in fifth year. What a dunce.

You’ve fallen for a dunce, Baz thinks. A complete fucking dunce.

The cold gets to be too much. Snow isn’t even in the room. He’s probably off with Bunce trying to coerce cook Pritchard into giving him more scones or butter or something. As Baz is about to slam the window down and watch the snow fall from the sill, his eye catches on white blond hair that’s a stark contrast to the dark yew tree behind it.

Wellbelove is an objectively attractive person, and Baz can definitely admit that to anyone asking. She’s standing down against the yew tree, earmuffs protecting what Baz knows are tiny, pale ears that turn the lightest shade of pink when you compliment her. She’s got a light blue coat wrapped around her, and even though the weather definitely doesn’t call for it, she’s wearing a skirt and some tights that tuck away neatly into boots.

That’s another thing about being a vampire: the vision is impeccable.

As impeccable as it is, Baz wants to turn around at the next sight. Snow walks up to Agatha and wraps his arms tightly around her waist before kissing her. It’s so hetero that Baz thinks he might throw up. He would if it was anyone else. Just thinking about people like Dev and Niall actually getting their hands on a woman long enough to kiss her makes Baz’s stomach do summersaults and backflips.

But it’s Snow. His golden hair sticks out in every which way and demands attention in the flapping of the wind. He’s laughing loud enough that it trails up the room where Baz has his hands clenched on the window, nearly splintering it into thousands of pieces. Maybe the Anathema would hurt him for hurting the window. Then he wouldn’t feel so much.

It’s been easy to ignore them. It looked like they’d gone through a rocky patch there, and Baz let himself hope for just one second that it might be over. Of course, even if they were over, there was no way in heaven, hell, or the Veil that Simon Snow would fall in love with the evil gay vampire.

No way.

Baz wants to scream and rage and throw things around the room until his hands go numb and his fangs drop and he can taste blood in his mouth, which hasn’t happened in a long time. He wants to kill Snow and kiss him and throw him to a merwolf and take him so far away from the Humdrum and Watford and everything that’s been hurting him his entire life.

But Baz just slams the window down loud enough for Snow to look up and see Baz glowering down at the pair of them.

Whatever. Baz will just make Agatha love him instead. Shouldn’t be too hard.

…

Watching Snow get yanked out of thin air with Bunce on his arm feels like some weird fever dream Baz has made to cope with every stupid argument they’ve had this year. Even today, Snow came into the room just to get into a petty argument about the window again.

Snow’s just popped around the corner into the Wavering Wood. Baz mentally curses himself. Why does everyone try to follow him when he just wants food? (Blood? Same difference.) First Wellbelove, and then Simon motherfucking Snow and Bunce. Can a man have no privacy?

Of course, the second he realizes Snow’s in the vicinity of him and Wellbelove, Baz takes her hands into his, and it looks like they’re going to kiss. Of course, Baz isn’t going to waste his first kiss on a girl, but if it makes Snow mad, he’ll make that stupid sacrifice.

However, the sucking feeling of the Humdrum creeps into the air just as Snow comes to the clearing. Baz can only describe it as being dry. The air gets tight around him, and he can feel his lungs contracting like a heart that’s finally puttering out. However, his heart is beating what would be considered for normal for a human and erratic for a vampire. Snow asked once if he had any blood in his body. Why the fuck do you think I need it? Baz wanted to ask him back. He scowled instead.

Just as suddenly as Snow and that feeling appears, they both go away. Baz lets go of Wellbelove’s hands and stands in shock and awe. There’s no spell that can make oneself invisible, though one ancestral Grimms did try to use Out, out, damned spot for that. He accidentally discorporated himself to another dimension. Baz says a silent prayer for William Malcolm Grimm before turning to Agatha and basically screaming, “Where the fuck did Snow go?”

If Baz was thinking or was at all competent, he would track Snow using Come out, come out wherever you are, but Baz isn’t thinking. He knows Fiona will have his head on the pyre after she finds out, but Baz agrees with Wellbelove and goes to the Mage with her. They both saw it, and they both need the affirmation that they’re not crazy.

The Mage seems almost uninterested. It’s the last day of term for the eighth years, and he somehow thinks that’s more important than saving his literal heir. While Baz wants to punch the Mage on the best of days for what he’s done to the Old Families, he’d probably dig his fangs into the Great Prick’s neck if Wellbelove wasn’t there.

She’s an absolute wreck. Her best friend and boyfriend just got sucked out of thin air to Crowley knows where, and no one is trying to go find them. At least, no one skilled. The Mage sends his personal army after them, but Baz knows it’s just for show. The Mage’s army couldn’t find an apple on top of a bowl of bananas even if there was a bright neon arrow pointing to it.

So he and Wellbelove wait. Wellbelove is utterly inconsolable, but she does rest her head on Baz’s shoulder after a little bit. If Baz wasn’t so busy actively trying to take down her boyfriend and make him miserable, maybe they’d be friends. She’s a bright girl even with as little magic as she’s got, and she’s quippier than most people in their year. Her only real contender is Bunce, but she’s too busy worrying over Snow to be in any competitions.

Baz eventually gets the news that his family’s arrived for the ceremony. All the Old Families come for the Leaving Ceremony even if they have no one graduating. Baz will be up on that stage in the White Chapel next year, and while he can’t get the image of Snow and Bunce being sucked out of existence before his very eyes, the least he can do is distract himself by watching his predecessors leave.

Fiona is looking around, and it takes only three guesses for Baz to realize she’s trying to find the Chosen One. She’s hexed him at enough of these ceremonies to know he’d be here, and when she asks Baz where he is, all he can do is shrug. It’s not exactly lying; he really doesn’t know where Simon went. Baz looks over and sees the Bunces looking around just like Fiona, although they’re more worried.

It’s their daughter missing, after all. The brightest child they’ll ever put out hasn’t shown up to a ceremony she’s gone to since before she enrolled in Watford. Baz almost feels like he should go over and explain. He knows something, even if it’s not the whole story.

Just as he’s rising to his feet, the doors bang open. The light from outside nearly blinds Baz as he turns to stare at the two figures in the doorway. He already knows Simon is one of them. The brimstone and burning smell are in the air, and his magic is pouring out of him and tearing at the seams. After adjusting to the light, Baz can see Bunce’s bright hair and the glint of her ring.

There’s a moment of silence before chaos erupts. The blood hits Baz’s nose last. Somehow, even he thinks that’s wrong. The blood should have alerted him long before the doors flew open, but here he is, gaping open-mouthed at the two figures in the doorway. Simon is covered in blood from head to toe, and Penny is only cleaner by a fraction. It looks like it’s being sucked out of their pores. It looks like they’re going to die right there on the floor of the White Chapel.

Baz is stuck in place, and he silently thanks whatever Pitch ancestor is keeping him there. It would be even more of a scandal if he ran to his enemies and cried over their corpses. That’s to be done in private.

However, two hours later, a group of magical nurses and doctors have been called, and they all gather in Baz’s room, waiting for Simon to exit the shower.

Baz feels awkward. Should he be pouring tea? Would that be too domestic? He doesn’t have to wait much longer.

Snow steps out of the washroom like a zombie in a low-budget film. Even though it’s obvious by the smell that he’s scrubbed every surface of his body, dried blood flecks are still speckled here and there like the moles already present. If given enough time, Baz could find nearly every one of them. He knows every mole that litters Snow’s body and how large it is and where it’s located.

He’s a man who can’t swim that’s been cast out to sea.

Baz watches as the doctors perform vitals on Snow and check his skin to make sure the bleeding won’t start again by the simple pressure of fingers or clothing. They poke and prod until the Mage enters and watches himself. Then, they’re sent back to whatever corners of the world they crawled out of. Baz is pretty sure one came from New Zealand.

Simon looks like a stress ball squeezed one too many times. His hair has gone flat for once, the telltale buzz in the air that marks his presence is gone, and he doesn’t say anything he doesn’t have to. It’s the first time Baz has seen him not stutter out every other word.

It would be impressive if it wasn’t so fucking scary.

Then the Mage leaves, and it feels awkward between the two of them for the first time in six years. Even the Crucible wasn’t this bad. Simon seems to stare straight past anyone who looks at him. Wellbelove had been in here before Simon showered, just to see if he was alive, but he’d looked through her like she was a window. Baz had never seen Snow look at her like that. Even when he’d first noticed the two, Simon looked at her like she hung the moon, stars, and other planets.

So why does he suddenly straighten when Baz shifts?

In this state, Baz can do anything. He can sacrifice a virgin right in front of Simon, and Baz doesn’t know if Simon would scream or laugh or do nothing at all. He doesn’t know which of the three would be worse.

“What happened?” It’s the only thing Baz can think to ask. Maybe he should be demanding it, or maybe he should be taunting Snow for being sucked away in the first place, but even though he’s toed at some of the most untouchable of subjects, this feels like a new territory.

Simon takes a minute before he slowly turns his head to look at Baz. He looks gaunt. He looks like he does whenever term starts up: his face has gone sallow all over, his cheekbones stick out like he’s been starved, and his eyes sit just far back enough in his skull to be unnerving. Baz hates the beginning of term for that reason.

The smile Simon dawns then cracks his lips, and a small dot of blood bubbles up. Baz doesn’t even have the fiendish sense to want to pop his fangs and kill the Chosen One right there. It’s not like the Anathema would let him, but thoughts have to count for something, right?

“The Humdrum,” Simon murmurs, like that’s supposed to explain what’s happened in the last six hours. Simon says it like he’s praying to it, and that makes a chill run through Baz’s back.

“Can he even do that?” It comes out as a whisper, and Baz wishes he had the bravado to ask again, but the Humdrum makes him have a headache and the urge to throw up all at once. It’s fear in its primal stages, but Baz won’t admit that.

“He can now,” Simon replies, breaking eye contact and looking down at his hands. One thumb and forefinger rub at his wrist, which have both gone boney. “He took something from me today.”

“Fifteen pounds.” It’s supposed to be a joke, but neither Baz nor Simon laugh.

“There’s a new hole in the atmosphere,” Simon adds, like an afterthought. The holes in the atmosphere scare Baz, too. They always seem to open when Simon and the Humdrum meet. It can’t be a coincidence. Nothing with the Chosen One is coincidence.

Baz then crouches down in front of Simon like he’s about to give him a scolding. However, Baz just loosely takes Snow’s hand in his own. The finger bones feel too big in the skin that contains them, but they’re still warm. They still have a pulse in the wrist, and they are still tanned and freckled and have moles scattered across them.

“He won’t win,” Baz says to the floor. It’s cowardly not to meet Simon’s eyes, but it would take much more of Baz than he’s capable of giving right not. “You won’t let him.”

Simon nods, but it’s empty. Whenever something like this happens, Simon seems like he’s just going through the heroic motions. He’s read the fairytales and knows his role well enough to play it with few hiccups.

“I’ll die trying,” Simon whispers. Baz wishes he wouldn’t say that, but they both know how this story ends. The Humdrum will die or disappear or do whatever entities like that do when they’re defeated, but that won’t be the end of Simon’s trials and tribulations. He’ll be hunted by the vampires and the goblins and any other magic-hating creature.

And one day, something will kill him. Baz hopes to Merlin that the Old Families don’t want it to be him. He’d die, too if he had to kill the Chosen One. His last deed would be to kill the man that did Simon Snow in, and his family would never forgive him for it.

The urge to kiss Simon’s forehead takes over Baz’s mind, just to let Snow know that he’s so alive. That people love him and that people will protect him and that there are people who would kill and be killed for him.

And Baz is one of those stupid people.

Baz can’t kiss the Chosen One. Maybe he will, before Simon puts the stake through his heart. Maybe he’ll stop fighting for ten seconds to tell Snow how he’s in love with him, how he’ll always be in love with him, and how nothing Simon could do would change that. And then Simon would stab him or hex him or go off and not protect him, and it would be over.

That night is not tonight.

…

The earthy smell of wet dirt and rotting wood makes Baz gag again. The wood began to rot a week ago. There’s no plush velvet interior like a coffin for a real dead person. This is one of those cartoony coffins Baz would see in reruns of Scooby-Doo when he was young.

Perhaps the Numpties think they’re doing him a favor. Maybe they get all their information on vampires from cartoons. It would explain why he hasn’t been given food or water or been exposed to the sun in the last five weeks. However, he was kidnapped in broad daylight, so…

At first, Baz thought someone would come for him. Maybe the Numpties sent ransom. But after he scratched a sixteenth dash into the wood, he knew he’d die here.

It’s a pretty shitty way to die. No ventilation, surrounded by earthworms to pick the bones left behind, and with Numpties blabbering right on the other side of the wooden coffin. To think, the last thing he’d eaten was a fucking pasty from the country club.

The blood they were giving him tastes like none he’d had before. What if he died with another human’s blood in his system? Whose blood? Someone he knew? A father? A mother? Sister? Son?

After the third day of refusing blood, Baz gives in.

Today, they give him another 32 oz. Styrofoam cup filled with blood, and no food or water. Maybe he should demand it. Would they actually listen to him? Maybe they’d think it was a trap. There’s no way Baz can trap them. He’s too weak to move. The first few days, he had promise, but they hit him over the head with a rock when they gave him the blood, and he woke up hours later in the dark again.

There’s no difference between light or dark here. The only indication Baz has as to the passage of days is the giving of blood. It’s possible they give him blood every other day and it’s really been ten weeks. It feels longer than five weeks, but that could be the fatigue. Vampires can go longer than humans without food or water, and the blood counts for the barely-there amount of water he is getting.

However, they need that holy trifecta to live: food, water, and blood.

Baz has two-thirds.

He’ll die here.

The first time Baz thought that, he let himself cry in the most cramped and crumpled position possible. (Coffins are decidedly not spacious.) The second time he thought about his death, he laughed and laughed and laughed until a Numpty came in with a rock and gave him a good thump behind the ear.

The third time was now. Day thirty-seven (by best estimates). No one is coming for him.

Baz doesn’t cry or laugh. He just sighs through his nose and takes a sip of blood. If he doesn’t drink it fast, it gets congealed at the bottom, and even though he’s going to die in a Numpty den in a coffin in the ground, he won’t die on an empty circulatory system.

His stomach will just have to deal.

The darkness used to play with eyes. Now it just dances like the elephants in Dumbo until Baz gets bored. Then it settles back to darkness. Sometimes the Numpties go away to talk, and the silence talks to Baz until they get back.

Surprisingly, the silence sounds like an angry David Tennant. Maybe that’s just how every angry Scottish person sounds, but silence might be inherently Scottish.

But when the Numpties eventually come back, Baz breathes more deeply and closes his eyes. And he sees it.

The bronze curls always come to him first. Then the unextraordinary blue eyes take formation, and the moles follow. Baz allows himself to focus on that mole just beneath the left side of the jaw. The smile comes last. It’s a smile Baz has saved in his memories by countless times witnessing it from countless angles. The mole to the right of that mouth makes Baz’s eyes water.

Those eyes shine down at him. For some reason, he’s taller in Baz’s memories than in real life. Maybe he’s grown since seventh year. Probably not, though. Neither of them have grown much since sixth year. They both just filled out in the shoulders and got squared away in the face. No more pockmarks.

Baz can hear the laugh that emits from that mouth. It’s a sound he knows the angels crafted for ears of the damned to hear. Maybe they thought the damned would think twice about falling if they heard that laugh. It was made to be the first glorious sound deaf people here and for blind people to try to put a face to. It was made for people like Baz, whose souls were up in the air and just needed to be caught and nurtured.

Those lips were made to be chapped in the cold wind but warm to the touch. The moles and freckles were made to be dreamed of and painted. Those eyes…those unextraordinary but beautiful eyes were made to make women swoon. They certainly made Baz swoon.

His last thoughts would be of Simon Snow’s lips and moles and eyes. Baz knew this is how it would end. With one of them in tears, professing love, and the other driving a blade into a damned heart.

However, the one that’s supposed to end him is probably having tea right about now at Watford. Hundreds of miles away. Not knowing that the one he has to kill is being killed by someone else.

Simon Snow is alive, Baz thinks.

And I’m hopelessly in love with him.

…

“What do we do now?” Penny asks. Simon looks up from the ground. The dead birds are starting to get to Baz. There’s blood everywhere: spilling from the Mage’s ears, drying around Ebb’s corpse, and from the birds that were near enough to Simon’s explosion.

Baz can’t help it. He hasn’t fed since two days ago in the woods right before a hole opened above his house. He goes to a corner and feeds on a few birds. Penny and Simon should be reprimanding him for doing that, but they’re all so drained that they don’t stop him.

Eventually, Simon tears his suit jacket off and lays it over the Mage’s body. Even though Snow technically killed him, Baz knows this will tear him up inside. He’s probably the only one that ever loved the Mage properly. Some loved the man for his power, and others for his influence, but Simon loved him because that’s all he could do.

Baz lays down on the ground away from the bodies and tries to go to sleep. It’s not hard. The last few hours have been more draining than a marathon. In a way, it was a marathon to save Simon Snow.

A scream interrupts Baz’s nice dream about a hill far away where the sun shines down on the grass and birds are singing in the trees. Simon’s there, too, laying beside him and resting in the shade. It’s the best dream Baz has ever had.

It’s Bunce’s mum that screams. Baz thinks that maybe having two dead bodies surrounding three (nearly) alive kids could probably give someone the wrong impression, and he rises to see Bunce hugging her mum and Simon hugging himself. Those stupid wings are still spread out, and his cartoonish tail even whips around on the ground.

Eventually, they leave the White Chapel and go to Mummer’s. The Mage’s army has been summoned, and the Coven and Old Families also arrive. Baz almost flinches when Snow’s hand grabs ahold of his and Bunce takes the other. If anything, he’s at least gained two friends from this miserable experience.

They wait in the bedroom in the turret for what seems like hours. About five different people of five different ranks from five different groups ask them what happened, and they tell the same story separately five times. However, Simon always comes back to Baz’s bed and grabs ahold of his hand again. It’s a good balance because Baz is shivering, and Snow is a personal furnace.

Finally, they all leave, and Bunce leaves with her mum. No one comes to get Snow, and Baz refuses to leave until tomorrow unless Snow wants to come with. He doesn’t, so Baz doesn’t go. It feels wrong to leave him in this place when there’s nowhere else to go. Bunce’s mum wasn’t in the right place of mind when she left, so Baz is sure that’s why she forgot to ask Simon with them. Baz isn’t sure Simon would’ve gone anyway. Why does it feel so appropriate to be in this room of all places on Earth?

“What do we do now?” Baz echoes Penny from hours before. It had been a good question at the time. Two dead bodies, a missing Wellbelove, and no cellphones to call anyone on. This was similar to that. No one left to tell them what to say or do. No one peering in from the outside to get the scoop. No one trying to get evidence to blame either side for the deaths.

They’d track Wellbelove down soon enough and get her side. Then everything would be clear.

Simon rests his head against Baz’s shoulder. Baz rests his head against the tuft of curls that tickle his neck. They’re still holding hands. It’s not awkward. It should be.

A lot of things should be awkward right now. Snow spent Christmas with Baz. They had (still kinda do have) an alliance. They know the Mage succeeded in having Natasha Grimm-Pitch killed all those years ago. Inadvertently, he also caused Baz to be Turned into a vampire.

So many new pieces of trivia. So much to sort through. So much to strike and add to the Record. So much that they should want to forget.

But Baz just keeps holding onto Simon’s hand and brushing his face against those bronze curls. It’s a good dream come true that he’s allowed to do this, but Baz doesn’t have the mental capacity at the moment to think about how his fifth year-self is hooping and hollering inside of his heart. He’s too tired to want more than is being given.

Baz would be content if this is all Simon Snow ever gave him.

A few months later, Baz stands at a punch bowl while the people he’s known for eight years dance and cry behind him. The punch isn’t even spiked. They’re all still too wrung-out from trying to understand what happened in the White Chapel that night. Dev and Niall wanted to know why Baz hadn’t killed or at least seriously maimed Simon that night.

How does one explain homosexuality for the arch nemesis to two duds like Dev and Niall?

Simon doesn’t know, though, so neither should Dev and Niall. Or maybe he does, and he just won’t say so. It would make sense. Baz has been trying to kill Simon since they were eleven, so the revelation of love would either shock him or make him laugh so hard he would piss himself.

Simon didn’t come back, and neither did Bunce, but after Bunce’s mum became Headmistress, she let all of them have cellphones on campus, and Baz had stayed in near-constant contact with the two of them. He tried to reach out to Wellbelove, but she explained she just wanted to run from it all.

If that was an option for Baz, he would still be running.

But there’s a Leavers Ball and ceremony to attend to, and if the Chosen One and his insanely smart friend aren’t going to show, he kinda has to. It’s an unwritten contract that at least one of them has to show up to these kinds of things, even if it’s just to let people know all three of them are alive.

Simon hasn’t gotten in touch tonight, and Baz thinks about texting him just to make sure he’s still kicking it. However, Simon might be sleeping. These Leavers Balls take place at night, and even though it’s only nine, Baz would like to be in bed, too, preferably with the Chosen One tucked against his side.

Baz scans the room for anyone worth talking to. It’s strange how his best friends have alternated from Dev and Niall (Niall being his literal cousin) to Penny and Snow. (Baz has decided Penny’s name is worth saying every once in a while.) It just goes to show…something. Baz’s brain is spent from exams and that speech he gave a few hours ago.

His eyes lock on a figure entering the small procession that is the Leavers Ball. No one at Watford is late, so who would be walking in nearly an hour after the Ball’s started?

The boy who’s loved making entrances since he was born, apparently. The Golden Boy, the former Mage’s heir, the Chosen One, Simon Snow makes his way over to where Baz is standing. It’s like a reverse of what happened halfway through the first term this year.

Baz stands so still a stray tumbleweed could blow him over, even though Miss Possibelf spelled the tumbleweeds away hours ago.

Simon runs a hand through his hair, a little nervous trait Baz has picked up on these last few months. Simon has a few of them, the newest being tugging on his little devil’s tail, though that changed after he got it surgically removed a few weeks ago. The wings were gone sooner because Simon kept knocking people and things over, and Penny and Baz both breathed a sigh of relief when Simon could walk through a hallway without knocking over a vase or painting.

Someone’s given him a proper suit, and he looks like a cardboard cutout model with a few extra moles here and there.

Baz feels a genuine smile (not a smirk) tugging at his lips. To see Simon Snow in a proper suit with his hair somewhat tamed feels like seeing a unicorn, though he’s been told that a couple hundred live in a sanctuary in Switzerland.

“Didn’t think I’d be here so soon after…” Simon leaves it open-ended. Baz doesn’t need the end of that sentence. He didn’t personally know if he’d come back after that Christmas break, but Fiona’s threats about the cross still ran around his brain all these years later, and he didn’t want to disappoint his mum. She valued education more than the person who created it.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Baz replied, setting his little glass of punch back down and adding, “Party was dull without you, Snow.” Simon grins over at him and bites at his bottom lip. It’s something cheeky Baz has only ever seen him do around Wellbelove, but she’s been well and truly gone for a long time now.

“I guess the last few months were pretty dull, then?” Simon asks. Baz smiles and nods. It was nice not being threatened with dragons and flying monkeys every couple of weeks, but not having Snow even as a presence was unsettling, and after Bunce left, there was no real competition anymore.

“Ah, Snow, you were gone but not forgotten,” Baz replies, walking away from the table and closer to Snow. It’s the closest they’ve been since right after whatever happened in the White Chapel. Even then, it’s not very close. Baz is about a foot and a half away from Snow.

Simon’s only a little bit shorter than him (give or take three inches), but he seems so much older than he was a few months ago. He’s by no means a man. In Baz’s eyes, maybe Snow will always be a boy (the boy), but there’s no denying that something has fundamentally changed about the way Snow carries himself.

Maybe it’s the shared trauma.

“Have you danced?” Snow asks. It’s an odd question, but Baz really doesn’t think anything can be that odd between them anymore. They nearly died together on multiple occasions last December, and it’s foolish to believe they could ever be what they were before. They’re not enemies, and they share a side now, though it’s not either side they were on before. It’s all their own, now.

“No one to dance with, Simon,” Baz says, and the exasperation is overshadowed by the stirrings of those fifth-year feelings. All the songs they play at the Leavers Ball tonight are slow and meant for couples and sentimental friends. It’s meant to be a celebration, but there’s nothing to celebrate this year except maybe that Headmistress Bunce has brought back end of year books filled with photos. (Even though Simon, Penny, and Agatha left, they were still featured throughout the book.)

“Any girl here would have danced with you if you asked,” Simon mutters, and he shoves his hands in his pockets. Baz quietly thinks to himself that suit pockets are not meant for hands or anything, really, but Simon makes pouting look good when he’s dressed up.

“Come on, Snow, you know I’m not looking for a girl to dance with,” Baz replies, toeing at the ground with his expensive dress shoes. Fiona presented them to him a few days before, and even though Baz tried to insist he had enough dress shoes for a thousand different balls, she won.

Simon huffs, and a loose piece of hair falls into his eyes. He hasn’t cut it in a while. “I’m sure more than a few blokes would dance with you, too.”

Baz rolls his eyes and feels a blush creeping onto his cheeks. He’s had enough blood tonight for more than a few types of blushes. “I’m not looking for more than a few blokes.”

“What are you looking for?”

The way Simon poses that question makes Baz want to reach out and snog him in front of everyone watching. Everyone already is watching. Baz is surprised, but he shouldn’t be. Even though he and Bunce know about this weird friendship that’s blossomed, it doesn’t mean everyone else was clued in. Baz didn’t want anyone else clued in.

Baz looks up from where he is tracing the line of grout between the tiles, and he feels like he’s fifteen again, just trying to simultaneously please and displease Simon. He feels like they’re back in that blazing forest again where Simon talked him down from a suicidal rampage and walked him back to the car. He feels like the flames that existed in Simon’s eyes until his magic left have now planted themselves right at the base of his spine and are tickling his back.

Simon’s got his mouth quirked to the side, and a little dimple appears there. He’s still got his hands shoved in his pockets, but he seems more tense than before, like he’s holding something back. In these last few months of three-way Skype sessions and phone calls and group chats, it’s never felt like Simon’s tried to hold back. The three of them have something not a lot people can say they do: shared trauma.

And Simon and Baz have more. They have the forest fire and the Humdrum setting Baz off like a killing machine. They have years of sitting in that room at the top of the turret and bickering over a window and bathroom schedules and posh soaps. They have a rivalry that’s morphed into this friendship that still feels like it’s morphing even as the silence stretches between them.

“I want you to dance with me tonight.” It’s simple. It isn’t a confession of anything, but Simon smiles anyway. He outstretches a freckled hand, and Baz takes it. Now all those who were staring are gaping openly, but the song that plays is nice, and Baz has heard it before.

It’s a slow rhythm meant for only two people to hear together. It’s meant for them, even if it really isn’t.

Simon’s not the nervous wreck he once was. Baz once watched him at a special ball the school held for a blood moon, and the stiff way he danced with Wellbelove made Baz spit out his punch and laugh. Now, though, he’s the one that’s stiff. His dark blue suit feels too heavy and hot now that Snow is within inches of him. It’s the closest they’ve ever been, including after the mess in the White Chapel.

It’s closer than two platonic blokes get. It’s closer than a lot of romantic blokes get.

Snow must have been taught to dance before tonight and after than disastrous ball so many years ago. Baz thinks about him practicing with Wellbelove, and a small flame of jealousy glows in his mind. Then he remembers Wellbelove is in America, and the glow subsides to a flicker.

Maybe Simon just doesn’t realize how close they’ve gotten. Maybe he’s about to trample on Baz’s toes and knock his forehead into Baz’s chin. Maybe he thinks two blokes can dance like this and just be friends.

If this is all Baz ever gets from Simon, he can die happy and sated. He feels fuller than after he’s drained a deer. He feels like his feet aren’t nearly as heavy as they have been the past few hours. Simon’s got his arm behind Baz’s back, and Baz can feel the muscle of Simon’s shoulder through the suit jacket. Baz’s hand, eternally cold, feels comfortably toasty in Simon’s.

It’s a strange feeling to be dancing with Simon Snow at a Leavers Ball. Baz never thought he’d make it this far. He knew he’d go to the Leavers Ball, but he thought he’d spend the entire night at the punch bowl, shooting glares at Wellbelove and Simon and nearly crushing glasses in his fist. Maybe people would assume he was mad about Agathe making up her mind once and for all about the good guy, and maybe some astute pixie would feel the jealousy and properly place it.

Baz never thought he’d share a dance with Simon Snow at their Leavers Ball.

He never thought they’d both make it this far. He never thought there’d be a time when they could look each other in the eye, let alone be dancing at a Leavers Ball together instead of at each other’s throats the entire night.

It would be easier if they were at each other’s throats. They’ve been there so many times that they could do the motions in their sleep. Baz is quite sure Simon already has. He’s slept close enough to the Golden Boy for the last seven and a half years to know they’re both plagued by nightmares that are too scary to mention in the morning.

This feels like one of those dreams that Baz wouldn’t let himself think of. If he dwelled on the good dreams he had of Simon, he’d never stop. There are so many he can’t remember because he’s forced them out of his brain, but they come back now.

There’s the one about sleeping under the sun for hours with Simon next to him, and the sun doesn’t burn them and ants don’t bother them. It’s free of bugs and sunburns and evil. That’s one of Baz’s favorites. There’s another where he’s just woken up and can feel Simon breath against the back of his neck, and he doesn’t need to look to know it’s him. And the one where they’re just kissing for hours on Baz’s bed, not moving or noticing the world crumbling away around them.

But this is so much realer than all of those dreams combined. The hand grasping Baz’s is real and warm and calloused from calling and holding a heavy sword for years. The occasional brush of dress shoes on the floor sends vibrations through Baz’s legs, and they threaten to buckle right underneath him. He knows now that Simon would catch him. No matter what, Simon has always caught him.

“Why are you here?” Baz asks. It’s been bothering him. Without needing to say it, Simon basically swore off ever returning to Watford after December, and Baz understood. He swore off that nursery before he knew what swearing things off really meant. Baz wasn’t even irritated when neither Penny nor Simon showed up to hear his speech. People would record it, and he’d get a copy and show them if they really wanted to see it.

Baz would swear Watford off, too if it had broken as many promises as it had with Simon. Watford promised to keep him safe. Watford promised to always be a home for him. Watford promised so many things that couldn’t have ever been promised.

Life hasn’t kept its promises to Simon Snow.

Baz will. He’s broken the necessary ones, like the ones about killing him and smiting everything Simon loves. Coincidentally, a lot of the things he loves are now things Baz does, too. He likes Penny a lot, and sour cherry scones aren’t bad. Baz will never wrap his head around Simon’s fascination with butter, but it’s probably rooted in not being fed properly for eleven years and then suddenly getting as much food as one could want.

Baz has promised himself to Simon Snow, in whatever way the Chosen One will have him. Baz supposed now he’ll have to stop calling him that, but now is not that time for large shifts in character. There’s been too much of that as of late.

Simon shrugs and looks down at the floor. “I guess…I didn’t want to think about you alone here.”

“I’m not alone,” Baz rationalizes, looking around. “There’re loads of people here. The teachers, for one, and people we’ve grown up with, and…” He wants to go on, but that obviously isn’t what Simon was getting at. Simon’s been seeing a magical therapist (one of three in the world), and while they’re working on Simon voicing his opinion, it’s not always easy.

“Why are you here, Simon?” Baz asks again, this time with a tenderness in his voice Baz hasn’t used since Mordelia was a baby, back before she was a terror. “It’s fine to not want to be here, you know, I wouldn’t have ever made you come back.”

Simon huffs out a laugh and looks up just as the song’s changing. The fairy lights catch the curls in his hair in brilliant flashes of light. If Baz was more of a dreamer and less of a realist, he’d call Simon Snow an angel or the closest thing to it.

Simon smiles and says, “I know you wouldn’t.” The hold on Baz’s hand gets stronger, and the arm across his back bring him closer to Simon. “I love it when you call me Simon,” he adds, finally looking around the room and seeing everyone staring.

“They’re all looking at you,” he mutters, his face suddenly aflame in a blush Baz will remember until his dying breath.

“They’re looking at two blokes dancing,” Baz replies, deciding to tighten his hold on Simon as well. “Two blokes dancing who they used to have to split up before a fight broke out.”

Simon does let out a genuine laugh at that, even if it is small. It’s a start. Baz loves to see him smile like this. The tension eases out of Simon’s back, and his arm doesn’t feel like a steel rod against Baz’s back. It just feels like the reassuring touch you’d give to someone who desperately needs it. Does Baz desperately need it? He desperately needs something from Simon Snow.

“All that fighting,” Simon practically whispers, “and we ended up on the same side after it all.” Baz guesses that Simon can’t believe it either. Who would?

“I was always on your side,” Baz says. It’s true. Even though they fought enough for five different arch enemies, Baz was never completely on the side of the Old Families. He was also never completely on the side of the Coven. He was on a side made for him and Simon and whoever else he deemed worthy. (Penelope Bunce was more than worthy. She actually probably made the side herself, and Baz just climbed on board before he knew it truly existed.)

Simon looks at Baz, truly, truly looks at him then. It’s the kind of look someone gives another person when they want to see if there’s a hidden intention or just true sincerity. Baz feels like he’s laid himself out time and again these past months. He’d go through it all again a million times if it got him here. He’d fight two-hundred chimeras and one-thousand dragons to be here.

Simon’s the one that gets to decide what happens next. Baz has always been deciding what’s gone on between them. He’s chosen where they go and who they talk to and what they bicker about. It’s Simon’s turn. The ball is in his court. In a way, it’s always been, and Baz has just been playing with that stupid, red ball Simon carried all first year.

Baz, honest-to-Merlin, doesn’t expect Simon to drop his hand and cup it around the side of Baz’s neck, just above two pin-prick sized holes that drained him of life all those years ago. He doesn’t expect Simon Snow to lean in and smile like he’s going to tell a secret, and then kiss him.

It’s just a kiss. It’s small. It’s Baz’s first. It’s not Simon’s. Simon’s lips are chapped (like always), and his hand is calloused and tickles Baz but not enough to make him giggle. Baz doesn’t expect the kiss, so his feet move for a millisecond longer than Simon’s, and he nearly falls over. Simon leans back and lets out a single huff of laughter. His smile is genuine, and he just picks up Baz’s hand like it’s nothing.

Baz will fall asleep that night with Simon pressed against his back in a pair of Baz’s silk pajamas. It’s a déjà vu that’s so much better than the dream. Baz will dream of that sunny hill where bugs don’t exist and birds chirp happy songs. Baz will wake up tomorrow and leave the grounds of Watford the last time for a very long time.

But right now, they sway back and forth to a tune unfamiliar to both of them, and the world looks on at the Chosen One and his former enemy.

Keris hands Trixie five pounds.

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