#switching to whiskey was a Choice

[orchidyoonkook]

The Devil Wears Valentino | MYG

Title: The Devil Wears Valentino  

Pairing: Devil!Min Yoongi x (F)!Reader

Rating//Genre: (M) | One Shot, Spooky AU, Supernatural Creatures AU, Not Quite Friends to Lovers, Age Gap, Technically Slice of Life, Angst, Smut and Fluff

Summary: Having known him for years—from a small mistake on your behalf, and a favour on his—you’re one of the only people he seems to be able to put up with for company. Certainly the only one he’s half-way decent with. But what’s more surprising to you is that despite his name, reputation, and the fact he’s always joked he’d have killed anyone else by this point, is that he’s never once tried to cause you harm. 

Actually, he’s almost…protective of you. In his own weird way.

And obnoxiously flirty.

Warnings: language, violence, tae is a menance, drinking and alcohol, Min Yoongi as the Devil -> Lucifer Morningstar? we dont know him, mentions of murder, mentions of torture, mentions of rape -> Sal's an ass and he deserved what he got, somewhat graphic gore/horror (yoon tries her best but she's not very good at spooky), slight POV switches, one (1) mention of reader having hair, fluffy in parts,

Explicit warnings under the cut.

Word Count: 10,488

Release Date: October 31, 2023, 12:00PM

A/N 1: Ahhhh! Welcome to my very first halloween special!!! I wanted to do something for my favourite holiday this year, and I've had this title written down without a plot for maybe just over a year? So I'm really excited to finally use it!!

A/N 1.5: Thank you to my absolute darling @katykatmeow for beta'ing this for me so late in the night. I adore you so much

A/N 2: The whiskey glass and whiskey are hand drawn vectors because I'm a glutton for punishment. Why do I keep doing this to myself.

Explicit Warnings: ahaha uhhh, unprotected sex (dont be stupid) kissing, breast play, fingering, oral (f rec), groping, pet names (sickening amount), dirty talk, praise, slight degredation, hair pulling (m rec), spitting, handjob, body worship, cowgirl, from the back, missionary, a lil bit of crying, spanking, size kink, voice kink, hand kink (look, he's a lot okay, don't blame reader), sl*t/wh*re mentions, multiple orgasms, creampie, I think thats it? Yoon went a little bananas with this one.....

Slow jazz floats through the air of the club, wading around the modestly-sized venue. You’d say it was almost cozy, but with the expensive feel of the place, cozy just didn’t seem like the right word. 

Intimate. That would be a better choice. 

From behind the bar where you stand, to the velvet couches in the back covered by decently dressed lesser demons, piano plays alongside gentle drums. Dark navy cushions soak in their conversation of effective torture methods, discussed like stock market trends, they dissect the best way to decapitate someone so you can instill the most pain and suffering. 

The answer is always with a dull knife and from the back, blindly. Never knowing when the next cut will be is half the agony. 

You try not to pay attention to that though, because the only thing you need to know is that they drink Vodka Tonics and lesser demon number four’s glass is looking to be on the emptier side.

He’ll be back for another soon.

While you wait for his arrival, the rhythmic notes continue on, gliding along shiny, black floor tiles. They pass the burgundy leather booths that face the stage, full of vampires trying to relive long lost youth in the old melodies played. They turn to stone just a little bit more with every passing minute they’re forced to live, keeping no company besides the pleasant burn down their throats and ever present melancholy. 

Banshees listen in from the mezzanine, only ever soft spoken when they’re here. Covered by velvet draped ceilings that dampen sounds to the outside world, the women of three distinct ages sit at tall tables. The young in heels and short dresses, proudly showing off their youth, while the elders choose more elegant wares, content as they can be in their skin, considering their blood soaked pasts. 

Banshees tend to discuss privately amongst themselves, ordering walk up service so as to never mingle with the men on the floor. You can’t blame them, especially knowing how they all got here in the first place, but they’re polite when they enter, greeting you kindly despite what you are to them. The trays you bring up for them never waver from their drink of choice, The Irish Sour.

And then there are the Djinn, who come in mostly just to pass the time. Sitting by themselves at the bar, or in no more than groups of two at a far table, they never interact with anyone other than the bartender or themselves. Djinn are increasingly solitary creatures of the night, with the fear of their kind lessening in mortals, you’re starting to see less and less of them as the days pass, and you’re almost sad to see them go. 

Djinn are your favourites. They come in, order, keep to themselves, and then leave. It’s a nice change from the usual light conversation you’re forced to keep with patrons. Plus their orders are always easiest, as they only drink virgin. It’s a bit of a blow to the bar aspect of the establishment, but they come for the atmosphere, grateful to have a place they can exist with like minded folk—even if they don’t interact. There’s a comfort in familiarity, you guess.

Occasionally some other creatures of the night mix into the masses; fae, chimera, leprechauns, goblins, et cetera. All dressed in their nicest clothes to accommodate your work's dress code, all here for peace from their day jobs, to drown their sorrows, or somewhere in between. 

Some come for an hour, others come for the night, but it’s mostly just your regulars who tend to remain, as do their drink orders. It’s a relatively easy job, and you don’t mind the company. 

Most of the time.

You’ve just finished serving the lesser demon from earlier when your coworker bugs you for the hundredth time tonight. 

“I don’t get why you're so hellbent on this, Y/N. If you’re closing, he’s coming. Because he always comes when you're closing. It’s simple math.”

“No he doesn't,” you dismiss Taehyung, a cocky but rather beautiful incubi, annoyedly. Taehyung is the type that knows he’s pretty and uses it to his every advantage, including being able to say whatever he wants and get away with it. And it would piss you off except it works on you too.

Fucking incubi demons…

You were one of only two mortal bartenders, the other being Lia, a cute blond who only works here for the tips. The boss likes to keep a couple humans on staff in case any wanderers stupid enough to come inside a den of nocturnal, evil creatures didn’t catch the vibe and immediately fuck off. 

You’d be surprised at how shitty some people's self preservation instincts are.

You asked your boss once—a very large, very well built, very well connected vampire—why he bothered having a layer of protection for them. His only response was: “Business is business.”

Plus he knows he can’t have a trail of bodies that lead directly to his club's front steps, so he keeps a couple of mortals around just in case. This way, with you two here, there was always someone who knew all the drinks the humans could have, and someone to keep all the greedy eyes around the venue in check, as you have banning and kicking out privileges. 

Because where you saw Kin, your regulars saw food, a hunt, or a job. They saw something to be taken advantage of or killed. They saw poor, weak, pathetic little mortals that should’ve been eradicated centuries ago had their ancestors been smarter. 

They are the superior beings in their eyes, your race is just a bug to be squashed under their proverbial boot. 

It makes you worry what they think of you. Is the only thing that stops them from devouring you whole the fact that you make their drinks just the way they like it, that you have a use in serving them? Or do they respect you enough now that you understand how to act around them and know what they’re like? What they are. 

You worry, but you’ll never know the truth because you aren’t stupid enough to ask and show weakness. They can smell that shit from a mile away, and all it does is paint a 30 foot wide target on your back. 

“Yes he does. I bet you tonight's tips he’ll be here in the next two hours,” Taehyung presses. 

And ooohh, a night’s worth of tips, bragging rights, and winning a bet against Tae all sound way too good damn to pass up. 

“You’re delusional,” you say, holding out a hand. Tae grabs and shakes, as you agree to his terms. “And you’re on, don’t come crying when you lose.” 

There’s no way he’ll show up. It’s Friday night, the night of sin, he’s going to be up to his eyeballs with work…stuff.

“Easiest money I’ve ever made,” Taehyung grins, and with the confidence in which he does, you begin to second guess your own.

It’s not that you did or didn’t want him to show up, it’s just that your relationship with him is…complicated at best. You never really knew how to navigate a conversation with him outside of surface level banter and jokes, but it’s always been like that with you two.

Having known him for years—from a small mistake on your behalf, and a favour on his—you’re one of the only people he seems to be able to put up with for company. Certainly the only one he’s half-way decent with. But what’s more surprising to you is that despite his name, reputation, and the fact he’s always joked he’d have killed anyone else by this point, is that he’s never once tried to cause you harm. 

Actually, he’s almost…protective of you. In his own weird way.

And obnoxiously flirty. 

But you could never. Not with who and what you are, and who and what he is. 

Regardless of how you fight the heat down in your cheeks every time you see him, and how your heart flutters against your will in multiple places in your body at even the thought of being near him.

Regardless of the fact that you shut him down every time he suggests anything more than an over the bar conversation, and the way your panties seem to always dampen in his presenc–fuck. 

It’s happening again. Stop thinking about it, stop, stop st–wait. You turn, seeing the violet ichor in Tae’s eyes and you know the bitch is using his power on you. You flip the asshole off and he chuckles.

He’s been trying to get you to change your mind ever since the first time he saw you deny yourself. 

“You know I can tell when you’re hot and bothered right? Incubus, remember? It’s literally part of who I am.” 

To which you think again, fucking incubi…

Your most infamous regular is, to quote your favourite tv show, ‘the bane of your existence and the object of all your desires,’ and you will never, ever entertain his annoying, disgustingly hot ass more than you already do. Not after everything you went through the first—and last—time with a creature of the night. 

You learned your lesson.

So instead, you try to think of him more like an old friend. The kind that’s actually really old already, but looks amazing for his age. The kind that makes shivers run up your spine when he talks to you in the deepest, most gravel turning voice you’ve ever heard, that you also ignore out of pure self preservation. He’s the kind that you shove out of your thoughts at night when your alone and in desperate need of relie—Fucking Taehyung! 

You whip your head around to search for the violet eyed incubus, only to see him across the bar helping some stocky vampire. And you’re about a hair's breadth away from ripping him a new one in front of said vampire when the idle hum of chatter in the bar ceases and the band’s calming music falters into missed notes and a cymbal crash that's too hard; awkward, painful silence remaining.

From behind you, you can hear the front door close, followed by light footsteps that grow louder and louder. Only once the seat directly behind you creaks with the sound of being occupied, does the chatter and music resume.

Which can only mean one fucking thing. 

You just lost all your tips for the night. 

Tae’s shit eating grin as he looks over your shoulder confirms it. 

Fuck. 

“Excuse me,” the bottom of the ocean floor speaks and you make a conscious effort not to react.

“Ardbeg Single Malt, neat?” You throw over your shoulder, not bothering to look just yet. 

You know precisely where he sits. And he knows you know. 

“Sounds perfect,” he responds, and you focus on ‘looking for the bottle.’ 

You know exactly where it is.

No one else will touch it. 

Taehyung busies himself with bringing an order of Bloody Mary’s down to a booth on the floor, knowing he’ll be burned alive if he so much as looks at a whiskey glass. 

No one serves him but you. 

But more importantly, nobody disrespects you in front of him. A lesson your ex–see: dead–coworker, Sal, learned the hard way. His burn mark is still seared onto the floor behind you. 

You’d almost felt bad that day, but he was a lust demon who touched you without your permission, hit on you every five minutes, and when you said no, treated you like shit.

You’d been close to dousing him with vodka and lighting him up yourself, but the man tapping his fingers on the bar behind you beat you to it 15 seconds after sitting down one night last year. 

After shoving Sal off you for the fourth time that night, he was pissed. Whispering obscenities to himself loud enough so you would hear,

“Fucking stupid mortal bitch, maybe next time I’ll just drag you into an alley do whatever the fuck I want. Nobody here’s going to stop me. And maybe then you’ll learn to shut up with this dick in your cunt and my fingers down your throat, huh? Leave you to rot with the garbage where you belong after you’re all used up.”

He didn’t take another breath. 

A single burst of blistering flame had Sal reduced to ashes in seconds. You’d felt the heat from it, but your skin remained burn free, safe from its dangerous blaze. The lust demon from then on only existed as a smudge on the ground to be walked over.  

“Thanks,” You’d said.

“It’s where he belongs,”  he responded. 

Grateful for his kindness, you entertained him more than usual that night. Engaged in an actual conversation, about your birthday of all things. You had no idea why he wanted to know, but you considered the information his reward for helping you, and he seemed pleased with it.

But he was more than pleased. 

After years, you’d revealed something to him. Something personal.

He took it as a sign that he might be able to get you to change your mind one day, if he did everything just right. Having played the long game before, this was no different. The only thing different this time, was you. 

Maybe it was the way you walked with such confidence, or the way you never cowered in fear around him. Not the day you met nor any day after. Or maybe you were sent by his father just to mess with his head. He didn’t care. All he knew was what he wanted, and that he was more than willing to wait as long as was needed to get it. 

A nursery rhyme from your childhood plays in your head every time you see him. It never wavers, just like the eyes you can feel on the back of your neck, watching your experienced hands make his drink. 

Quietly, you recite it to yourself while you grab the bottle;

‘One for sorrow,

Two for joy,

Three for a girl,

Four for a boy,

Five for silver,

Six for gold,

Seven for a secret never to be told.’

You pour, steady hand making it last as long as you possibly can to gain a few more seconds to compose yourself. 

‘Eight for a wish,

Nine for a kiss,

Ten a surprise you should be careful not to miss,

Eleven for health,

Twelve for wealth,’

You put the bottle down and cork it before returning it to its place on the shelf. Taking a deep breath, you turn to finally face him, and change the wording of the last line to fit your situation better.

“One Ardbeg Single Malt neat, for the Devil himself.” 

He snickers, “I always liked that nursery rhyme. It’s cute. Like you, Angel.” 

You roll your eyes. To anyone else that would sound like a compliment. But coming from the Devil it’s more of an insult. One you know is meant in a playful way after all these years, crass in his humour, just like you. And you know he can take a little heat back.

“Wow, that’s a classic,” you grab a glass to polish, keeping your hands busy so they don’t do something stupid while you’re distracted. “Got one of those for you too, ‘Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?’” 

He chokes on a laugh before straightening on the barstool and putting on a face. “I don’t think that joke’s appropriate.” 

“Oh come on Yoongi, you come at me with ‘It’s cute, like you, Angel’ and I can’t poke back?” You ask, knowing full well his uncomfortable look is all an act. “I thought you didn’t have any feelings besides rage, lust and currently; insufferable flirting.”

You know the entire club listens in to your conversation. 

No one calls the Devil by his first name. 

Nobody speaks to the Devil unless spoken to. 

And no one makes jokes at the Devil’s expense and lives. 

No one except you. 

What a funny little exception you are.

Yoongi drops the act, a sly smirk that sends bubbles to your brain, replacing it. “So you admit my flirting isn’t always bad. Must be doing something right then.”

You force yourself not to slam a palm into your forehead. Of course that’s what he got out of your sentence.

You aren’t going to make his ego any bigger than it already is. 

“It isn’t working,”—fuck, yes it is—“if that’s what you’re asking. Can’t say I’m surprised though, I hear you’ve been out of the game for a couple millenia,” he quirks a brow at that. 

Ooo, that means you’re nearing thin ice, haven't been there in a while…Let’s see if you can slide around a bit more without falling in. 

“I mean, I’m sure you’ll get there eventually. If you stay consistent at your current rate of progress you could hit me up in,” you suck air in through your teeth and look at the ceiling, before checking a watch you don’t wear, pretending to think, “a thousand years?” You tease, a lilt in your tone. Because if Yoongi was going to make your shift this fucking difficult just by breathing near you, then you sure as Hell can do the same for his night. 

He chuckles like the coals of a fire and you cross your legs behind the bar. Motherfucker… 

“Someones got a mouth on them tonight,” he says, looking directly into your eyes as he takes his first sip, savouring the taste before swallowing. His tongue dips to his bottom lip for any remnants and you gulp, vision dropping for a millisecond—oh for the love of—and you finally notice what he’s wearing.

Much to your dismay and dwindling willpower, he looks fucking good. With only a white scarf to accent, the all black Valentino suit fits in perfectly with the bar’s dress code, as well as the long slicked back hair he’s only recently started to grow out. Just seeing it like this makes you want to run your hands through and mess it up. 

You’ve always had a thing for men with long hair, ever since you were young.

Jack Sparrow, Madmartigan, even The Winter Soldier. And come to think of it, none of them were exactly the good guys in their respective universes either…

Nope! No. You can’t. You can’t.

You can’t for so many reasons, so many good and bad and everything in between reasons. You’re nothing more than a flimsy human while he’s the Great Immortal Evil. The person people whisper the name of for fear of incurring his wrath. 

The King of Hell. 

He’s the person that walks into a room and everyone balks under his gaze, terrified of what he may do. He’s killed millions with no mercy. Doesn’t so much as think twice to horrifically burn someone where they stand to ash in hellfire for breathing the wrong way near him. He lavishes in the screams of sinners, punished in their own blood and bones, beaten into a shell of who they were in the nine circles of Hell. Left gaping, broken and sobbing in agony for their suffering to end. 

Yoongi is walking nightmares and visceral terror. He is merciless violence and brutality abandon. 

Yoongi is living, breathing, unyielding death wrapped up in deceivingly beautiful packaging. 

He is the epitome of someone you should not like, should not go near, and definitely should not want in the way the thrumming in your bones is telling you, you want him.

You have to stay away from him. 

But that doesn’t mean you can’t flirt back a little.

As salaciously as you can muster, you whisper low, “But it’s nothing you can’t handle,” and you swear you see a hint of surprise in Yoongi’s eyes, followed by something so much deeper that you have to look away under the guise of checking for any newcomers. 

It’s a dangerous game you’re playing. One you need to move the pieces of very, very carefully. 

There’s a handful of people waiting to be served, but none disturb Yoongi’s service. So you’re forced and relieved to cut the interaction short. For both the waiting patrons, and your sanity. 

“Enjoy the whiskey, Yoongi.”

Yoongi doesn’t bother you for the rest of the night, instead he watches you help the other patrons and make drinks. No one dares sit within three seats of him on either side, so the booths and tables fill more than the bar does, forcing you to do more tray work than you like. And you think you can feel those eyes on the back of your neck travel elsewhere.

Soon after he takes his last sip, Yoongi leaves far too much cash on the table to cover a single drink, and you know Tae won’t include it in tonight's bet. He rather enjoys being alive. 

The first time he did this you tried to give it back, insisting it was too much. But one threat to Tae’s life had you accepting the outrageous amount he left you every time. Despite how much he gets on your nerves, you rather enjoy Taehyung's company on your shifts. And you didn’t want to risk having a new coworker like Sal again. 

Thank you, Yoongi. You silently think to yourself every time he does. His tips are one of the only reasons you’re able to take care of yourself so well. 

You live in an apartment you should not be able to afford on a bartender's wage. Eat well, buy all the brand name products for the skin care routine you could only dream of having as a teenager, and you’re able to get yourself a little treat every once in a while. 

All thanks to the one man the world claimed was the purest entity of evil there was. 

And maybe he is. 

But not to you. 

The rest of your night, and closing go smoothly. The journey home passes by in a flash and soon you’re flopping into your bed, asleep before you hit the pillow. 

You dream of Yoongi and Hellfire and things only your subconscious will let you. The thoughts that you force away every time you see him. 

The burn of his hands on your skin and his lips on your neck. The warmth that spreads over your entire body at the mere mention of your name from his lips. His tongue in places you wouldn’t dare allow him to even think about in the waking world. 

And you wake from an orgasm he wasn't in the waking world to give you. 

It’s the last Saturday in October, which means it’s also your birthday.

You found it rather funny that the one person the Devil could stand to conversate with was born on his night. Maybe that’s coincidence or maybe that’s fate, either way you didn’t care, because you had it booked off work and you were going to a bar and dancing with your friends, dressed up in the sluttiest costumes you could find. 

Your recent visit with your birthday's namesake inspired your costume this year. Wearing the shortest, blood red leather dress you could find, the slits up the sides ran almost to your hips, and a corseted waist that made you feel sexy and fierce. You’d paired it with some velvet horns, a tail, pitchfork, crimson lace stockings and your most recent edition; red bottomed strappy stilettos. 

They’d been your birthday present to yourself, courtesy of Yoongi’s most recent tip. And needless to say, you felt hot as shit. No one could tear you down tonight.

All your friends met at your house before ridesharing down to a club. It’s loud, hazy, and filled with other Devil’s Night party goers as you arrive, smoke lingering in the air and you can feel the wave of dancing coming from further inside. 

Someone buys you your first round within a minute of being let in, lemon drop filling your taste buds as you knock back the shot. Another is ordered immediately after the first, it runs smoother and tastes like chocolate as you make your way to the dance floor. 

Aside from you, your friends are dressed up as a wild mix of characters. Rey is dressed as Daphne from Scooby Doo, Yaejin is Nezuko from Demon Slayer, Bryce is a gender bent Legolas from Lord of the Rings, Declan is Donatello from the Ninja Turtles, Cam is a ghost, and Trin is a character from a book you’ve never read. Something about dragons and magic and vermin—or was it venin? Whatever. But they were in all black and had used silver hair spray on the tips of their hair.

You let the alcohol make its way through your veins as you dance, loosening up. The DJ mixes songs together in a way that never has the crowd thinning out and you laugh as you move with your friends, swaying and rocking and grinding. 

You needed this.

A night out just to let go, have fun, forget everything and hopefully get lucky by the end of it. It’s been a while since you’ve taken anyone to bed, and birthday sex sounds amazing the more the lemon drop, and what you finally learned was a tootsie roll shot, settle into your system. 

You aren’t drunk by any means, but you are buzzed and having a blast. An orgasm sounds like the only thing that could possibly make this night any better. So you make your way around the dance floor, keeping one eye open for any potentials, but mostly just dancing with Rey and Cam. The others either grabbing another drink back at the bar or resting their legs in a booth. 

“Babe,” Rey says, hands around your neck with Cam behind you, hands on your hips. You all sway to the beat of the admittedly sensual song playing. 

“Yeah?” You ask, opening your eyes to meet hers and she leans in closer. 

You can hear the smile on her lips, “Major tall, dark and handsome at 9 o'clock has been eyeing you for at least a half hour. I say you ditch me and Cam and go enthrall the man with your company for a little while. We’ll be fine on our own.” 

Heating at her words you’re excited to see who’s gone and done half your job for you tonight when your eyes stop dead on target. 

In a private booth in the VIP section, blending in far too well with the mortals around him, he wears a button down black satin top and dress pants. Thick silver links adorn his neck, complimenting the hoops in his lobes as well as the mouth watering rings on his fingers and you’re quite sure the bottoms of his black leather shoes match the red of your own. 

Yoongi. 

God he looks good. Unfairly so. And he carries that knowledge with him in his movement. His confidence never wavering like a mortal’s would.

Aside from two twisting black horns you’ve never seen before protruding from his deliciously tousled hair—hair you still want to pull on until he’s making sounds no ones ever heard come out of his mouth before, now moreso than ever—Yoongi is a darker version of yourself. 

Except for him, it isn’t a costume, it’s real, real, real. 

And he looks like sin incarnate. 

Fitting. 

Fuck, you’re so screwed. What were all those reasons it could never work again? The ones that explain why you shouldn’t take the Devil home and let him fuck you into next Sunday?

Suddenly, you can’t remember any of them. Not when Yoongi’s eyes never leave your red-clad form as he sips on what you know to be subpar whiskey. Your core melts into lava at the way he looks up and down, taking all of you in like you’re the one thing on this planet he needs to survive, and he’ll stop at nothing and spare absolutely no one until he gets you. 

Rey gives Cam a look and their hands drop, allowing you to almost float over to where Yoongi lounges, maneuvering between bodies undulating to music that’s being deafened by the heartbeat in your ears.

When you reach him, you leave a somewhat respectable distance between you two, a step down from the dias the booth sits on. 

Seeing him so much clearer now, you almost whine. How does he look even better up close? You want to sit on his lap, his face, have him bend you over the table then flip you over and feast like a man starved. 

Fuck! No, you can’t. And you also can’t blame Tae for those thoughts either, he isn’t here.

They were all you. 

Maybe his plan was working after all…

“What are you doing here?” You manage, grateful that you hadn’t had more to drink, but even more grateful for the ones you did. You needed a little liquid courage right now, even if it turned your thoughts into gutter sewage.

What he doesn’t know can’t hurt you…right? You just have to keep a lid on it. The one that’s loosening the more you look at him.

“It’s your birthday,” he says, producing a small black box wrapped with a bow. “I have a gift.”

He…he got you a present? He’s never done that before. But then again, before last year, he never knew when it was.

“You remem—I—you didn’t have to get me anything,” you stutter ungracefully, mouth trying to keep up with your racing thoughts. “I already got these shoes with the tip you left me last time,” you say, extending your leg to show off your newest purchase. The action reveals more leg than you meant it too and he catches the garter you have pulled around your thigh.

A fire ignites in his eyes at the sight, and you can feel their sparks everywhere he looks. Starting at your toes and moving all the way up back to your pretty irises. 

“I’m flattered by the way,” he says. “In your costume choice.”

Huh? You look down and heat rises to your cheeks in a way it never has before. Oh fuck, oh fuck. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!

Here you stand, before the actual Devil—horns out in all their glory—dressed as him on his namesake night. 

Of course this would happen to you, of course it would. This is what you get for fucking around. You found out. And you don’t know whether to be mortified, beg for forgiveness, or laugh yourself hoarse. 

Going with none of the above, you choose to play it off instead, the way you always do when he manages to fluster you. “Consider me inspired by how recently I last saw you,” you say, taking the single step up the dias and twirling for him. 

You show every angle of your costume you can, letting the booze in your system do its job of making you more confident than you currently are.

“What do you think?”  

Yoongi stands, taking the two strides needed to be face to face with you, his voice is quiet and even, so only you can hear.

“May I touch?”

You don’t hesitate. 

“Yes.” 

Yoongi reaches behind you and pulls the fake tail from the back of your dress, then the pitchfork from your grasp and throws them into the booth, not caring where they land.

“Mmm,” he hums, placing his hands on your hips and spinning you once more. Lightning strikes every single nerve ending where his fingertips meet your body. 

This time when he speaks, his voice is touched with the bit of demon that’s inside of him, dragging its claws along the floor of the 9th circle of Hell as he growls, “You’re perfect.” 

Your heart does backflips and cartwheels and nose dives all at once. You’ve never heard him sound like that before, and if your panties weren’t wet before, they definitely are now. 

Tugging gently, he guides you to the booth, sitting first before dragging you over his lap, knees meeting his hips. One of his hands rests on your thigh while the other reaches for something you can’t be bothered to figure out because oh my god, oh my god, you’re straddling him. Your straddling the Devil, dressed as the devil and probably already looking semi-fucked out while you do. This is probably a bad idea—no. This is definitely a bad idea. But you also have absolutely zero plans to stop literally anything that’s happening. 

The gift box makes a reappearance, and he hands it over to you. 

“Thank you,” you say automatically, trying and failing to ignore the fact that both of his hands now rest on your thighs. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck…..

Undoing the little black bow, you open it, revealing a delicately simple necklace. Its light weight chain holding a small pink stone pendant. 

Beautiful. 

“Pink Tourmaline,” Yoongi says. 

“My birthstone,” you reply.

“Your birthstone.”

You stare at the little crystal, cut and polished to perfection. Not a single flaw.

“Yoongi I—I don’t know what to say. It’s incredible…Thank you,” you take it out of the box, profoundly grateful you decided not to wear a necklace tonight. “Could you help me put it on?”

“Of course, Angel,” he agrees. But this time when he says your nickname, it’s different. Like an unholy vow made only to you. 

Makes you wonder what he promised.

Regretfully removing yourself from his lap, you turn around, only to be dragged back down by strong fingers. 

Your ass is now flush against his dick, and it’s taking everything in you not to tease. Whether you’d be teasing him or yourself, you don't know, nor do you care. All you know is that friction can be a good thing if you want it to be. And you're starting to want it to be.

Lifting your hair for him, Yoongi fastens the necklace around your column, and to your complete and utter doom, places a gentle kiss at your nape. The simple contact makes you quietly moan, and you feel a twitch under you. 

Ohhh, this is bad, this is so bad. But you can’t bring yourself to stop him. Not when his hands roam up and down your back, your sides, your hips. Exploring, feeling, learning. You dissolve into the touch, welcoming every whisper of pleasure they bring. 

What is he doing to you?

“Angel,” Yoongi purrs in your ear. 

“Mmm?”

“Would you like to dance?”

Fuck would you ever, but wait— 

“Are you asking me if I’d like to Dance with the Devil?” you muse. 

Yoongi chuckles lowly, understanding the meaning behind your ask.

“Is that something you’d be interested in?” 

“Yes.”

You feel more than hear the dark rumble coming from his chest before he gently taps on your thigh. And you get up quickly. 

“That’s a good girl,” he says, and fuck could you ever get used to him saying that to you.

Fingers laced in his, he lets you guide him to the dance floor.

Both of you ignore what the DJ plays, instead moving to the rhythm you feel like. Slow, sensual, a hand on his neck while you grind into him. Fast and heated, bodies touching any and every place you can get contact. You’re putting on quite the show for anyone brave enough to watch. And you know at least a handful of the eyes you feel on you are your friends’. 

They don’t know about Yoongi.

They don’t know about the nature of the clientele at your job either, like every other human. They don’t know you're dancing with the most dangerous and volatile man in the room. And it’s better that way, because if they did, your ass would’ve been hauled out of the club and in a rideshare the second anyone saw him. 

You’ve never been more thankful for the figurative wall between worlds. And the fact that you stand on both sides. 

You brush up against his hardening dick and fuck, that’s it. 

You’ve decided. 

To hell with your reasons. To hell with the constant flirting and overuse of will power. 

To hell with letting your anxieties and your moral compass and your conscience get in the way of the one thing you’ve been denying yourself for years. 

You spin in Yoongi’s hold, looking straight into the darkened eyes of the most forbidden man you could ever want for yourself, only to see pure desire staring right back. It’s all you need before you’re crashing your lips to his, taking anything and everything you can get before one of you comes to your senses and pulls back. 

But his grip on you tightens like a vice, pulling you closer, bodies flush amidst the dancing crowd. He’s magnetic in his want, lifting a hand to the back of your neck and tracing the seam of your lips with his tongue.

You let him in without hesitation and he nearly swallows you whole with how he invades your mouth, claiming it for himself. It makes you moan and he lets up, if only to let you breathe for a moment, and you take this reprieve to whisper in his ear, finally giving in to what you crave more than anything.

“Let’s go to yours.”

“We should go to yours, Angel, mine’s a bit harder to get to.”

Because his is on another plane of existence. Not exactly a taxi ride away. At least not one you can get at the curb of the club. 

“Riiight.” A small dose of water washes over the fire in your core, and it’s like he can sense it because immediately, he’s pulling you back in. Nothing but teeth and lips and tongue, animalistic in the passion you’re displaying for everyone to see, the flames increasing tenfold.

Fuck, you don’t want to wait. 

And apparently neither does Yoongi. 

“Do you trust me?” He asks.

“Yes, but what does tha–”

“Close your eyes for me, Love.”

Any and all arguments fade on your tongue at the new pet name. So much warmer than Angel, so much more affectionate. 

So you close your eyes for him, no questions asked. Because you trust him. You trust the Devil. 

You trust Yoongi. 

“That's a good girl.” 

One hand goes to the back of your neck, the other your lower back as he kisses you gently. So gently you think it means something more, but the sounds of the club are fading away, and he’s leaning you down like he’s going to dip you before your back meets something soft. 

Are you closer to a booth than you thought? Is he really going to take you here in front of all those people? 

But when you open your eyes and your bedroom at your apartment fills your vision, you stiffen immediately.

What?

“I—but we were just—and now we’re he—and you—,” you stutter, amazed and unable to get the thoughts out fast enough before another takes its place. You manage a, “How?” and he catches on. 

Not halting his actions, “Consider it a job perk,” he explains, nipping at your neck. You let out a groan as he continues his way down your column towards your chest and you relax into his touch.

“Teleportation, in simple terms, but it’s a bit more complicated than that.”

Despite his mouth on your skin, you somehow find the clearness of mind to ask, “Did anyone see?” Thinking about your friends and the potential hundreds of onlookers.

Yoongi’s hands rest at top of the zipper that goes the entire length of your dress, allowing for both easy putting on and quick removal. Fingers tug gently on the slider, eyes meeting yours for consent. You nod, and he answers your question as he drags it down your body torturously slow, savouring every moment he’s worked so hard to get. 

He’s going to earn this privilege you’ve given him, if it's the last thing he does.

“No. And your friends won’t worry either.”

You don’t care how he knows that, not when he’s pulling off hot leather and devouring your curves with coal burning pupils. The cool air of your room causes goosebumps to rise everywhere, and your arms fly to your head, covering your eyes as you’re reminded you’d forgone a bra tonight. 

There was no room for one without it squishing your tits too much and ruining the look. So with your dress gone, Yoongi has a front row seat to your nearly nude form, a blood red lace thong the only thing keeping you semi-decent. 

Years of pining and denial have led up to this moment and Yoongi almost doesn’t know where to start now that he finally has you exactly where he wants you. That feeling doesn’t last long though.

Wasting no more time, he takes a breast into his palm, squeezing and massaging while he lowers himself to the other, lapping the nipple of the one neglected. His tongue swirls over the pert bud, sucking it into his mouth fully and you arch into his touch, reveling in the warmth he spreads across your chest. Hands reaching for the sheets above your head for something to ground you.

“Shit,” you can already feel your pulse in your ears, thundering behind your sternum, and booming lower. He’s barely touched you and you’re already so gone.

He switches his hand and mouth, soothing the other breast with the sinful muscle he’s teased you with after all these years drinking whiskey. And by god if you don’t immediately think what it could do in other places. He’s had thousands of years to practice and the gush you feel in your panties lets you know exactly how you feel about the idea. 

Using his free hand, Yoongi traces down your back, rounding your ass and squeezing hard enough to make you hiss in pleasure before settling on the back of your thigh. 

You can barely stand having his hands so close to your molten heat without having any contact, and it leaves you begging, “Please…Please…”

You feel the curve of his lip quirk as teeth gently scrape the sensitive bud, gasping when he pulls off. 

“Please what, Love?”

“More,” you pant. “Please. Anything. Everything. Please just touch me.”

“Mmm,” he’s back at your neck, inhaling your scent, one hand still on your thigh while the other holds him up by your ear. “Pretty Girl has manners after all, huh?” 

“Oh fuck you.” you bristle, but it seems to be the reaction he’s looking for. A deeper, sluttier part of you awakening at the words you want to prove both wrong and right.

“There she is.”

Diving back into your neck, Yoongi trails wet, open mouthed kisses down, down, down. And even though you’ve never been so wet, so in the moment, and so unbelievably turned on before, the human part of you wins for a second, as you try to close your legs. 

They’re pulled back open in an instant, his eyes never wavering from yours as he says, “Don’t you dare get shy on me now,” a kiss to your inner thigh. And then the other as he kneels before you. 

Yoongi places each foot on either of his shoulders and you’re surprised he’s kept on your garter, stockings and red bottoms, their heels digging into his flesh. You wonder if that hurts at all, but by the way his eyes flutter and almost roll into the back of his head at the pressure they place on his frame, you think he actually likes their sting.

“You’re the most exquisite creature I have ever seen. Absolutely no part of you could ever be undesirable to me.” 

His earnest tone makes you believe him, convinces you, and you’re once again pliant in his hold, opening up for him.

“Look at me,” he says, and you do. You stare directly at the Devil between your thighs. The King knelt before your lowly mortal form. “You are the most powerful person in this room, understand?”

You nod, but that’s not good enough for him. 

“I need to hear it.”

“I understand.”

“Understand what?” He pushes.

“I’m the most powerful person in this room,” and it feels bold to say in front of him. But watching the way Yoongi’s expression fills with pride makes it also feel good. He wants you to feel like you’re the one in charge. 

“Remember that,” he says, before ripping your underwear off and throwing them on the floor, feasting his now wholly black eyes on the sight of your dripping pussy.

The more he loses himself in you, the more of his true form reveals itself.

“Fuuuckk,” he whispers more to himself than anything. “So wet…”

Your core is tormented and throbbing at the back and forth between the cold night air and Yoongi’s hot breath and you whine, “I just bought those!”

He spares you one completely unsympathetic look. 

“Don’t care. I’ll buy you more,” a deliciously ringed finger slides along your drenched folds and you’re gasping. “I’ll buy you the entire fucking store if it means I get to see you like this.”

Your voice is airy as you give in, any and all outrage gone. “Oka—ohhh!”

His mouth is on your cunt before you can breathe in the oxygen you so desperately need. He’s not holding back and your movements are not your own as you squirm. An arm rounds your pelvis holds you down, keeping you there as he devours you whole and shows you no mercy.

“Fuck, fuck, oh my god Yoongi,” you cry out, having never felt anything like this before. His tongue circles your clit as he sucks, then glides down, penetrating your opening with thrusts that make you lightheaded. 

Your hands fly to his locks, pulling and pushing him down further until you're pretty sure you’re drowning him in you. Your fingertips graze his horns and it’s just a reminder that this man is definitely not human. Definitely not someone you should be letting suck your soul out through your pussy. And that makes this whole situation that much hotter. 

If he minds where you touch, he doesn’t say anything about it, only groaning as he repeats his motions to get you near your peak, again and again and again until you're quaking against your will and your body is vibrating with every throb from your core.

Every single nerve ending you have is awake and being put to good use, he’s making sure of it. The dam that holds your release is starting to crumble and you don’t know how much longer you can last like this before you’re screaming bloody murder under his grip. 

“Yoon…Yoongi—fuck,” you stutter, staggered breaths from your trembling chest loose as you try to verbalize, “C-close. S-so close.”

He hums, and teases a finger around your entrance, circling a few times before pressing in and up to your g-spot. The simple action undoes you and you're coming with a force you can’t even begin to describe. The waves crash down, over and over and you're moaning and cursing his name at the same time, knowing it’s going to be the only one you’ll think of in this situation from now until forever.

He guides you through the last shockwaves as you come down, and when you’re too sensitive for him to continue, you drag him up to your lips, tasting his efforts on your tongue. 

“Need you now,” you rush out between kisses.

“Not yet, Love,” he says, pulling back just enough to reach a hand between the two of you.

He slips two fingers inside and swallows the resulting moan from your lips as he goes so deep enough you can feel his rings proding your opening.

“Gotta stretch you out for me first.” 

Your hands are back in his hair, nails scratching the nape of his neck as he begins to scissor you open expertly. He growls into your neck at the sensation and that confirms your suspicions of him liking a little pain with his pleasure. So you scratch further down his neck, onto his shoulders and back and you dig a heel into his thigh.

“Fuck, Angel,” fingers stuttering for a second. “Don’t do that unless you want me to come right now.”

“And if I do?” 

“Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because the first time I come, it’ll be with you around my cock, soaking the sheets with your own.”

Head rolling back, his words going straight to your clit. “Fuck, okay.”

“Now give me another one, Pretty Girl,” he says, picking up speed with his digits. “I know you can, pretty little slut takes my fingers so well.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck…

You can feel it coming this time, building and building. He uses his thumb to rub over your sensitive nub and it has you unraveling under him, screaming out and almost sobbing at the convulsions your body makes. He takes your mouth with his again, consuming your pleasure in every form he can get. 

And once you come down, you’ve had it. If you don’t have him inside you within the next 2 minutes you’re going to lose it. 

Ripping at his shirt, you're fumbling with the buttons. “Fuck, take this off, and those,” you say, abandoning his shirt for his belt. 

Yoongi chuckles, low and sinful, “Bossy,” but gets up, and begins removing the outfit that got you into this situation in the first place. You take off the remnants of your costume as he spares you no peace of mind, the way you did him, taking off his pants and boxers in one go, freeing his mouth watering bulge from its earthy confines. 

“Oh fuck me,” you say at his size. He’s big, girthy and you’ve never wanted someone inside you so badly before. 

Yoongi smirks as he crawls over you, but you stop him with a hand. “Wait,” you throw a leg over his hip, and flip the two of you so you’re on top. “Let me do this.”

“Whatever you want, Angel.”

Picking up his cock, it sits heavy in your hand as you give him a couple strokes. He hisses at the contact and it only spurs you on, gathering as much saliva as you can, you open your mouth to spit, rubbing it all over his shaft and head, mixing it with the precum dribbling out of the tip. 

“Fuck—”

Your 2 minutes are up. Lifting your ass, you guide yourself onto him. 

“Oh my fuck, oh fuck,” you say as you slide down slowly, the stretch still very much there as he bottoms out. “Big—ohh, shit—so big.”

Yoongi’s not faring much better, eyebrows pressed together, but eyes devouring the spot where your bodies meet. His breathing is so laboured you’d think he just ran a marathon.

“So tight, Love...Fuck, look at you.”

The delicious sting subsides and you start to move, slow but purposeful thrusts that have him kissing your cervix every time. Fuck he’s so deep, deeper than anyone else has ever been. And once you get a rhythm going there’s no stopping you. You become a force of nature as you bounce on his cock without abandon, taking this for yourself. You don’t know why, but you feel like you have a point to prove and by god you’re going to make it. 

Because if the Devil chose you, you’re going to make damn sure he doesn’t regret it. 

“Fuck, fuck you’re doing so good,” he rasps, throwing his head back into the pillows, eyes shut in pure bliss, murmuring. “Feels so good.” 

His praise pushes you farther, riding harder, grinding your clit against his pelvis, owning both your pleasures. 

You’re the most powerful person here. 

You are the one in control despite being on top of arguably the most powerful man on the planet. It makes you feel safe and strong and invincible. 

And you want to continue, you really do, but your legs are starting to give, so you let him know. 

“Ass up for me then,” he says, and you listen, climbing off of him and wincing at the feeling of him slipping out. He gets behind you, lining himself up again and this time it’s much easier as he sinks in, both of you groaning at the contact. 

Yoongi hands go to your hips, gripping and squeezing and molding the globes of your ass as you anchor your cheek to the bedsheets. 

“That’s it, Pretty Girl, all the way down for me.”

His first thrust has you seeing stars. You're nothing and everything as he continues, but you need more. You need to not be able to speak. To walk. You need to have every thought fucked out of your head. You need him so deep you’ll feel it for a week afterwards.

“Faster,” you beg. “Harder, please.”

“There are those manners I was looking for,” he says and picks up his pace. 

You’re incoherent, saying things you’ve never dared to utter out loud before, making admissions you swore to take to your grave and Yoongi is eating up every single last one of them. 

Because this is about you. This is about proving years of your denial’s fruitless. This is about him and how you make him lose every ounce of self control he has when he’s around you and how badly he’s wanted you since the day you met. This is about ruining every other man for you, making sure you know what true pleasure feels like, know how you deserve to be treated, and hearing his name on your lips when you come. When your cunt clenches so hard he has to fight tooth and nail to milk every ounce of bliss from it.

This is about him wanting to hear him make you feel good. Needing to hear him make you feel good.

This is about you. 

And he can feel you starting to clamp up again, can feel you getting close. So he wraps an arm around your waist, fingers going straight for your pussy.

You shriek, body consumed by the even strokes he delivers as well as the smooth circles around your most sensitive spot, and he revels in it. This is what he’s been dreaming of, what he’s desired over everything else. 

You, underneath him in so much pleasure you’re almost non-verbal. 

Perfect in every single way. 

“Taking me so well, dirty girl. Love the feeling of my cock splitting you open?” he hears a muffled cry and you nod your head. “Knew you would, knew you could take me.”

He delivers a smack to your ass and he feels you clench, so he soothes the battered area before handing out another, soothing that one out too. 

“You’re so good for me, pretty little whore so greedy, sucking me in. Why’d you make me think you didn’t want me all these years, hmm? Was I not good enough for you?”

You bury your face in your sheets. Well that certainly won’t do. So he slows his fingers as he reiterates. “Was I not good enough for you then, Angel? Am I good enough for you now?”

“Yes,” you mutter, barely loud enough to hear.

“What was that?” he slows again to a near burningly slow pace, soaking in the feel of you around his fingers and dick. It feels like a place he once called home.

“Yes!” you bellow. “So good…so good to me…more than enough.”

The praise fuels him, and he picks up the speed of everything, cock pounding you into the mattress, fingers rubbing an achingly mind-blowing pattern on your clit. It pushes you over the edge for the third time tonight, your fluttering cunt around his dick almost has him losing it. Almost has him coming undone with you, but he manages to hold it back. 

Not yet. 

You're silent in your screams this time, overwhelmed with the feelings, fingers nearly ripping your sheets in half at how hard it hit you. How hard you contract around him.

Oh he’s never going to get sick of this feeling. 

Ever.  

And instead of guiding you down this time, he removes himself quickly, flips you over on your back and inserts himself once more. 

He needs that feeling again. Needs you again. You claimed him for yourself whether you knew it or not all those years ago, he was simply following orders. He was yours the second your eyes met for the first time and he’s never looked back since. No one was ever good enough from that moment on, not a single creature on any plane of existence. 

There was only you. 

Yoongi’s never felt anything so pure and so sinful and so right as you pulsing around him does. He exists only for this feeling. Only for you. It took a couple thousand years, but at least now he knows. 

And so he doesn’t slow down, pushing you through your oversensitivity.

It’s time for him to finally claim you back.

“I can’t,” you beg, “it hurts.”

“Not for long, Pretty Girl” he says in his lowest registar. “You can take it, I know you can. Give me one more, I know you have it in you.”

Yoongi’s noticed his words have almost the same effect on you as his motions, so he uses them to their full potential. And as he can sense your fourth orgasm about to land, you surprise him by whispering directly into his ear and raking your nails down his back as hard as you can.

“Only for you, Yoongi.”

His thrusts stutter.

“Fuck!”

He’s coming. 

He’s coming hard. With you, with your name on his lips. It's violent and visceral and vicious and vibrant. It’s beautiful. You’re combined divine deliverance. 

It’s the first time he’s said your name.

And it’s something he’s going to keep locked away in his memory for millenia to come as he covers your inner walls in the most sickeningly sweet shade of white. 

You’re relentless, milking him over and over and over for all he’s worth, not letting up until your body is ready too, ruthless in your quest for ultimate euphoria and he takes it.

Whatever you want. Whatever you need. 

It’s yours. 

He’ll make it so.

At whatever cost to him, you'll get it. There isn't a doubt in his mind as you finally come down, body lighter, eyes glazed over, devastating smile on your lips.

He’s the first to move, going to the bathroom and grabbing a warm, wet cloth to clean you up. You’re blissfully spent, unable to get up even if you wanted to, limbs like jelly, still in a brain fogged haze. 

You got exactly what you wanted.

He cleans his release from your form, naked save for the pink stone he gave you around your neck. Then tosses the cloth in your hamper and lies back down, covering you both with sheets. You cuddle up to him, tossing a leg around his torso, and lying your head on his chest. Contented. 

And he’s silent until he can’t stand it any longer. He has to know.

“What changed?” 

“Hmm?”

“What about tonight made you change your mind?”

You take a deep breath through your nose. “I…stopped fighting it. The feeling like we would never work, the feeling that I would never be good enough, that we were too different,” he listens intently as your fingers trace patterns on his chest, explaining. “And I was sick of denying myself. It’s my birthday. Shouldn't I get whatever I want on my birthday?” 

That seductive smirk makes an appearance.

“Yes.”

“Plus you looked to damn fine in that outfit. A girl only has so much willpower, you know? It’s easier at work when there’s a bar and my job between us, but there was none of that tonight. Just the shots in my system and my unwavering desire to ride your face.”

Yoongi laughs, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen something as beautiful as his smile before. 

“Next time,” he says. A promise.

You fall back into a comfortable silence that has you thinking. 

“What about you?” you ask.

“What about me?”

“Why am I the only one you like? The only one you put up with.”

He ponders for a moment, thinking about how to phrase what he wants to say. 

“I think about the time we met often. There was something about you that was different that day, and I’ve never been able to pinpoint exactly what, but when I saw you I knew I would never think of you the same way I do everyone else. There was something special about your gaze in mine, your company, your soul.” 

“My soul?”

“Mhm.”

“You’ve never asked for mine before.”

“Never needed it.”

At that, you joke, “Is there something you’d sell your soul for?”

“You.” 

Before you can say all the nothing in your head at his answer, he takes a deep breath that has you rising and falling with it. Something about what he’s going to say next is going to have heavy importance to him. 

You just know it. 

“You… made me—make me…want to be better. Do better.”

You’re speechless. Not the kind you were moments before. No, you’re truly and genuinely speechless. 

You never expected anything like that. 

You knew your presence in his life carried a different weight than others, a different air. It’s why you could speak so casually, insult him, and exist near him without fearing for your life. It was something no one had seen from him in thousands of years. 

Kindness. Patience.

The man who’s job it is to run the universes torture capital, punishing those who deserve it without an ounce of mercy for eternity and killing those who looked at him the wrong way. The physical entity of the word evil, wanted to be better. 

Because of you.  

“I don't know what to say.”

“You don't need to say anything,” he kisses the top of your head, tender. “Having you with me is more than enough.”

You can do that. 

“Okay,” you say, craning your neck to kiss him. It’s long, languid, and full of emotions you don't want to acknowledge right now, there’s too many of them to sort through in your post four orgasms brain to be able to process properly. 

Tomorrow you can start. Right now you just want to bask in the afterglow of the most amazing birthday you've ever had.

“So this wasn’t a one time thing?” Yoongi clarifies.

“It definitely wasn't a one time thing,” not a chance in Hell. 

He was yours now. 

The Devil was yours.

King of the Underworld, god among men, catastrophe breathing evil was yours. And it brings the biggest smile to your face.  

“Oh thank fuck.”

“Not thank God?” you tease.

Yoongi groans. “Do not bring my father into this.”

A/N 3: As always, thanks for reading, loves. Xoxo, - Yoon <3

#yoongi #min yoongi #suga #min suga #agust d #bts yoongi #bts min yoongi #bts min suga #yoongi x oc #yoongi x y/n #yoongi x you #yoongi x reader #min yoongi x oc #min yoongi x reader #min yoongi x y/n #min yoongi x you #min yoongi fluff #min yoongi smut #min yoongi angst #min yoongi fic #yoongi smut #yoongi fluff #yoongi au #bts fanfic #bts fic #yoongi scenarios #bts imagine #yoongi imagine #bts smut #bts x fem!reader

[dollsuguru]

Request: Getou feels bad for secretly liking Gojo’s gf and making excuses to touch her.

the enormity of my desire disgusts me.

contents: f!reader, one-sided love, obsession, cursing, touching (not unwanted but the intention is unbeknownst to reader as geto makes it a point to always want physical contact w them), mentions of self-destructive behaviors, guilt, & delusions. w.c: ~ 2.3k

a/n: hi! tysm for requesting :’) this is my first ever request/first time writing so please bear w me & i hope you enjoy! constructive criticism is totally welcome! <3

guilt creeps up suguru’s throat like a slithering serpent.

it crawls around the base of his tongue, writhing farther down, embedding its fangs into the flesh of his throat. a raw, mangled, bloody mess left in its wake.

remorse, witnessing the disarray that guilt’s plight leaves, frantically tries to discern where a home can be made. perhaps it can dance along his ribcage. pirouetting across his bones until it reaches a bloody cavern where it can dwell within a hole burrowed deep inside suguru’s heart.

maybe all of this despair can be washed away… a desire to cleanse his palate & purge his feelings away persists, yet he doesn’t allow himself the reprieve.

instead, he decides to swallow his shame down like a bitter whiskey, relishing in the thorn-like pin prickles. the harsh amber reflecting in his fatigued, glassy eyes.

the ache serves as a reminder.

suguru figures that the sharp gnawing pain that spikes his heart & torments his throat is the very least he deserves.

his therapist did say he had a tendency to wallow in his self-destructive thoughts. delude himself & cyclically make bad choices which turned into bad habits. but what’s another bad decision to him? a pyromaniac to his very core; suguru would be lying to himself if he said he didn’t enjoy playing with fire.

allowing himself a moment of respite, he fishes out a cigarette he stole out of shoko’s purse from the left pocket of his leather jacket. a silver heart-shaped vivienne westwood lighter in the right. he takes it out, rolling it softly in his warm palm, lackadaisically playing with the switch. imagining the cold metal were your cold hands instead, his own seeking to offer up warmth for your comfort. he gazes softly at the flame; flickering on and off. on and off. on and off. a burning fire reflected in his eyes. a burning desire razing his heart.

the whole world in the palm of his hands — the heart you presented to him.

(a gift from you to him — you begged him to quit smoking, it was bad for his health and you wanted him to be there in the future as best man at yours & satoru’s wedding. with a tight-lipped smile & crinkled eyes, he said he would.

always the deceiver.

you lit up, gaze softening while telling him to specifically use this lighter to light up the teakwood candle you bought him for his birthday. his smile turned fond, eyes crinkled softly with genuine mirth & adoration, he said he would. and he did.

always the sentimentalist.)

bringing the cigarette to his lips, he exhales a puff of smoke, allowing his low-lidded gaze to flit across the room. the warm lights illuminating the grungy bar, a favorite of nanami’s & shoko’s.

he reminisces on the days where both of you would talk for hours. from deep conversations about space, morality, your futures & pasts, to asking each other about what food you’d eat for eternity (cold zaru soba noodles for him, any form of potato for you), savory or sweet (both of you chose savory — suguru relishes in the fact that he has a connection with you on this), & if you two would still be best friends if the other one was a worm (both of you answered yes — you’d build a terrarium where wormguru could play & suguru would keep you in his pocket not caring if he’d be dubbed the weirdly hot worm-man.) from the serious to the silly, suguru felt his chest bloom with tender warmth. from the bottom of his heart, he knows that in this world and any others, he could truly be himself with you.

a soft sigh escapes him, a small smile gracing his face thinking about his memories with you. calling the bartender over for another drink after he downs his whiskey, he drawls out, “give me somethin’ sweet.”

he turns back around to the crowd of strangers, unintentionally smiling. he finds a few pretty boys & girls gawking at him, hyping themselves and each other up to go talk to him. he sees a few more pretty boys & girls looking away from his intense gaze, too shy to go up to him, praying instead that he’ll go to them.

the grin that previously took residence on his face falters. he finds himself upset that they’d think his smile was reserved for any one of them. none of them pique his interest per usual, & he hopes that the bags underneath his eyes, his myriad of piercings & tattoos, chipped black nail polish, and overall resting bitch face will stop anyone from coming near him.

(he knows it won’t. people often went after suguru and not satoru. he was always more caring, more in tune with his emotions with an air of magnetic mystique, unlike his brash, loud, & arrogant counterpart.)

suguru intakes a sharp breath, surprising himself with the haughty & bitter thought against his best friend, quickly washing it down with a sweet daiquiri hoping to honey the words in both his throat & mind, while simultaneously praying that it would soothe his heart.

slightly more alert, his gaze wanders around the room again. tired eyes widening slightly, lighting up greatly when he sees you.

there you were in all of your glory.

sitting leisurely, a leg swung upon the other, arm resting over the back of the tattered red vinyl couch, the very same one you both had countless conversations on. how were you so effortlessly cool? you could do anything and suguru would revel in it — drawn to you like a moth to a flame.

and like a moth, he found himself gliding across the bar towards you, his feet moving faster than his brain. his body demanding that it be near you, that it be graced with your presence. with a flick of his ring-clad fingers, his cigarette is crushed underneath his black boots. a piece of strawberry gum is popped inside his mouth along with another reapplication of vanilla lip balm to his lips to make sure that you knew they were soft to the touch.

with his heart beating ridiculously fast, he takes a deep breath before he stands in front of you, your perfume enveloping his senses making him slightly delirious from how delectable you smell. he prays that the blush dusting his cheeks fools you into thinking that he just drank too much; that it’s not because of you peering up at him through your lashes with your pretty eyes that are now affectionately directed towards his own.

“yo! suguru! long time no see!” you wave as you get up to greet him, a massive grin overtaking your face, eyes almost crinkled shut because you’re so excited to see one of your best friends.

without warning, suguru envelops you into a tight hug. his left hand placed against your lower back while his right hand cradles your head against his chest, your cheek pressing against his beating heart. suguru places his chin on the top of your head, craning his face slightly to get a whiff of your shampoo, ghosting a faint kiss on your hair that he knows you don’t feel, relishing in this moment with you. for a few seconds he can pretend… he deserves that much at least, he figures.

he could stay holding you in his arms forever, your body pressed up against his, protecting you from everything & everyone bad in this world, shielding you from predatory eyes around the bar. fucking wolves, the lot of them — suguru contemptuously thinks. it’s a good thing you’re here in his arms, suguru muses, confident in his ability to keep you safe.

as quickly as that thought dashes through his brain, you pull away. not wanting to alarm you with his panic that you’d leave him, a tight grip stays around your waist, forcing you to sit back down. he positions himself right next to you, his thighs touching your own, his right arm draped across your shoulder.

something that you can consider friendly.

something that he can consider more than that.

affectionate, no matter which way you take it.

“it’s been a while.” a fond smile beams across his face, bright amber eyes desperately glazing over your face. you’re so close to him and he’s so attentive to you, he imagines that the boy across the bar must think you both look like a couple. the pleasure suguru derives from that thought is second to none. you do look like you’d be his. he’s certain that he looks like he’d be yours, if his devoted nature is anything to go by.

he takes a a few strands of your hair, twirling them slightly around his fingers. “what are you doing here anyways? i wish i saw you before, we could’ve hung out!” suguru teasingly pouts, lips slightly jutted out, his eyes twinkling with playful mirth.

“tell me about it,” you playfully whine. “thankfully i just got here so we have plenty of time to hang out! don’t worry, i’ll make up for it so you can forgive me.”

“you never have to apologize for anything.” seriousness takes over his tone. suguru doesn’t want you to ever feel bad, even as a joke. not wanting to make you uncomfortable with his tense energy, he eases up his features and winks, “don’t worry your pretty little head about it, i’ll let you off the hook this time.”

you bark out a laugh which makes him elated, glad that he was able to make you smile. “sugu, you’re way too sweet! and ooh — you asked what i was doing here! toru wanted to chill out here for a bit, said if he didn’t get to drink a virgin piña colada right this second he’d faint.” you gaze around the bar, muttering under your breath, “he should be on his way here soon…”

right… satoru.

suguru feels his mouth get dry by the second, a venomous pang of guilt daggers his heart. his eye twitches along with his fingers, wondering if he should take his arm off of you.

if satoru saw this would he just consider it friendly touching? would he think that suguru was trying to make the moves on you? would he scream in his face about how can his best friend stab him in the back this way? the bitter taste of betrayal coats suguru’s tongue like a curse, and before he can do anything about it, a big SMACK! on his shoulder wakes him out of his trance.

“SUGUUUUUUUU! I MISSED YOUUUUUUU!” satoru bursts out onto the scene loudly, holding both your & suguru’s shoulders from behind the couch, bringing you two towards each other in a massive hug. with satoru’s face in the middle, smooshing both of your & suguru’s cheeks against his, suguru can’t help but feel a gnawing sense of shame.

satoru, affectionate as ever, kisses you both on the cheek. snowy hair ruffling with his actions, aquamarine eyes twinkling as bright as starlight, white eyelashes fluttering against the pink blush hued upon his soft cheeks. from here, suguru can see the light dusting of freckles on satoru’s nose, & the lightest sheen of gloss on his pink lips. no doubt from kissing you before he got here.

a twisted part of suguru is thankful for the kiss on the cheek, your glossy residue imprinted on his skin. an indirect kiss, he muses.

“sorry it took so long, i had to park so far away. hope you didn’t miss me too much, angel.” satoru pecks you on the cheek again, cheekily stealing an upside down kiss on the lips from you while he’s at it.

“no worries baby, i had sugu to keep me company.” you smile wide, eyes softening as satoru smoothes down your hair.

suguru forgot.

satoru trusts him with his entire life. with you.

the loud, brash, arrogant, self-centered boy suguru knew as a teen had grown up. cleaning up his act the moment he met you. enamored with your beauty, kindness, & personable nature — satoru fell deeply in love. he was still loud, but only to proclaim his love on the rooftops for you. he was brash at times but never with you. his arrogance was also truly never unfounded, he was just that confident in his own self and in the relationship he could have with you. suguru still thinks satoru can be self-centered at times, but never about you.

satoru puts you forward in every single aspect of his life — devoted. loyal. faithful. unbelievably constant with his love & adoration for you. your perfect other half.

your true soulmate.

you’re his one and only. and he’s yours.

“satoru! it’s been a while.” suguru prays the loud music can cover up the slight crack in his voice. he can feel his throat constricting like a python, he coughs to clear it, wanting to rid himself of the strangling feeling. he does what he does best in that moment: putting on a facade. a tight-lipped smile along with crinkled eyes graces his features, and he hopes that both you & satoru mistake it for pure happiness.

“you good, man?” satoru tilts his head like a puppy, looking at him questioningly. you do the same, concern clouding your beautiful eyes. he’s terrified that you both could see right through him.

“yeah.” suguru whispers quietly.

the ache that torments his throat & spikes his heart serves as a reminder.

he puts his warm hand over your cold ones in a comforting gesture. for who would it bring solace? he doesn’t know. at this point in time, he can’t bring himself to care. “just the summer heat.”

he brushes his thigh against yours once again, fiddling with your fingers softly. he figures he can allow himself this.

glancing into your eyes, his reflection stares back him.

he accepts that living with this ache of shame & this disgusting sense of desire is the very least someone like him deserves.

he figures he should allow it to devour him.

#geto suguru x reader #getou suguru x reader #geto x reader #<- not really that’s just in geto’s mind #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #wanted to make this a deep dive in his psyche but also wormguru came to me in a dream and i had to mention it or i’d die #toji’s worm took one look at suguru & called him mommy… it was onto something… suguru gives mean hot girlfriend energy 95% of the time #my writings #personal

[chokchokk]

𝔰𝔢𝔯𝔳𝔢 𝔱𝔦𝔪𝔢 | park seonghwa x fem!reader x choi san

part one of gangster!mafia!series "𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐞-𝐛𝐲 𝐦𝐞"

“Brother, can’t you see I’m doing this for you? Enjoy yourself.”

𝚜𝚢𝚗𝚘𝚙𝚜𝚒𝚜 : Picking your own poison, if poison was given to you in form of bankrolls by venomous men with high demands.

In which Park Seonghwa had a plan and Choi San has ideas.

“Sounds like you’re enjoying her more than anything."

𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚛𝚎 : noir, smut, angst | korean mafia/geondal!au | ceo/jaebeol!au

𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝 : 18.2k

𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 : entitled rich people, workplace harassment, alcoholism, softdom ceo!seonghwa (headman park), half-drunk satoori-using dom mafiaboss!san (mr. choi), both are called by their names at some point, sub-leaning bratty switch servant!femreader, use of (pet-)names (missy, baby, princess), groping, thigh-riding, light choking, light hair-pulling, non-penetrative sex, voyeur!seonghwa, sex in the elevator, counts as mirror sex right, biting kink, manhandling!san, edging, breeding, cum-eating (m), cunnilingus; reader hates the rich except for when they are sexy, implied but not severe age gap, writer does not have daddy kink but mafiaboss!san does, gunshots and death, use of korean proverbs

𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚛'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎 : this with the next part will be the origin story for reader, specifically the series synopsis’ first half :) originally, this has been a request, so please read this, if you desire to have a bit more insight to what the series actually is + translations of certain terms (mostly character dynamics) in this chapter !!

tl;dr: since it's all based around korean mafia/gangster/etc, there will be korean culture scattered between the lines. it is all translated, hopefully in an understandable way!!! (please hmu if there are difficulties) i let out honorifics/romanisation, except for "chaebol" since it's an actual word :) that being said, reader's ethnicity is not specified and won't be relevant to the series in any way !! 

smut comes after the second border, and uh,,, i had to shorten that shit (pls dont ask me where) but uh. you’re getting 8k words of smut so buckle up LMAO !!! i hope you enjoy as much as i did writing it !!! thank you for likes, reblogs and feedback xoxo (also this is NOT beta-read so pls dont hesitate to tell me about... like.... errors, tags and shit)

[ now playing : money ▸ pink floyd | listen to the playlist ]

It's getting repetitive. They are drinking their ninth bottle of expensive whiskey, smoking their third or fourth disgustingly pricey cigar— what the fuck, is this seriously what the upper men of your nation are doing at some stupid chairman’s dinner party?

“Missy!”

“Me, sir?”

No wonder the economy's fucking shit.

“Yeah, you, missy, give that gent over there one of our divine Denmarks!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Give him a kiss too, while you’re at it! What do you think? He’s still got it, no?”

Said ‘gent’, some old, scummy clown— winks at you, his gray eyelashes fluttering towards your direction.

“Yes, sir."

God, how bad you wish you had snuck your phone in to take a picture of these red, drunken, senseless faces, but you're a dutiful servant, abiding by the rules at all times, however difficult it may be. You’re holding in your puke professionally, not even doing something as to grit your teeth, just softly letting your jaw play along to your friendly smile.

“Does your willy even still work that way, old friend?", a cranky, yet humorous voice pitches in.

Agreeing to your supervisor’s offer to earn “big money” may have been a bad idea, but a good choice. Jongho said he’d seen you at your work, took special note of you— even though you weren’t sure where exactly he had observed you, since it’s only been a month of actually working as a servant in the lower tiers of the building— and wanted to give you a chance to swim with the big sharks. “I think you’re best suited for the job,” is what he said to make you giggle and think about your initial rejection of his proposition, “you have a talent for serving.”

Something you didn’t know you had, something you didn’t know someone would see in you ever in your life, “talent.” Sure, maybe you let yourself be persuaded a bit too fast, but it felt very touching that somebody saw you and saw potential, for whatever occasion it may be for. You don’t necessarily want to screw the rules of the hierarchical pyramid or what it was that kept you from being in the proximity of the chairman, but you really need the extra cash right now.

"What does a girl from the mountains look for in being a servant in the city?", had been the question you were asked by Lady Kim who gave you the leftovers of her restaurant at the end of the day, when you had just started with the training– poor, barely standing on your own feet. 

You remember how you explained to her that the buddhist monks who raised and send you here surrounded themselves with wells to remind everyone that water always returned, and you assumed it would work the same with wealth. You also remember how hard she tried to stay kind to you, showing you her sincerest sympathy by telling you that "the chaebol are no joke!" (at least not a joke, an innocent girl like you could laugh about, she later explained) and giving you an extra portion of her home-made dumplings to suit you up.

Her sharp, yet compassionate voice rings in your ears, as you reapply your red lipstick on the way to your target guest. Oh, Lady Kim, what a graceful woman– she put her all into her work for her restaurant to succeed, but had always made a place to share what she had for those who needed it. Such a lovable woman, she must have been well-liked by all around her.

You get it now, the way you had been so naive back then. Floating on the philosophical happy-go-lucky psyche of the city’s promise of prosperity, trying to live the Korean dream strangely enough as someone who was so sarcastically out of touch with it. If you had been in her position, you wouldn’t have been able to be as nice, no, would have warned yourself with a finger pointed upwards as if you were teaching a little kid about strangers, or how your monks said, ‘tigers in the woods’.

“After that cigar, his dick will turn to dust!”

Maybe things would have looked different, if you hadn’t taken that fund from the school’s superintendent, who slid you that card on your table with a smirk on his face. Oh dear, do you remember how excited you had been? You ran through the streets in your worn-out shoes with that plastic sheet in your hand, on your way to tell that the money on it was such a ridiculously high number that you could split— but Lady Kim had got to know it first, the ridiculousness of the rich, with the demolition of her restaurant-building.

“He’s got no cum in his nutsacks ‘no more anyway!”

No warning, no compensation, just everything crushed to pieces to make place for the big corporations; the fancy neon-signs she'd invested in, the ambition of her enthusiastic dreams, your only source of tender charity, shattered to a wreck. You have never seen her since, and can only laugh about how the fancy food of the chaebol—and you definitely know who they are now, those tasteless men gawking at you in the moment—doesn’t even look half as good as her low-cost black bean noodles you could more than afford now. 

The present day-you is less dreamy, but just as lost, forced to work off a debt you hadn’t been informed about when you lived off the favorable “fund”-money. No, Lady Kim, this is all a joke, you would tell her today. A really fucking bad one.

So, making room for another ha-ha in your life, you pulled your eyes up innocently, returning Jongho’s specious smiles. “Is it illegal to collect pocket-money from the rich?” It’s not like you had any doubts at that point, but 'they'll buy you out of prison if you’re good enough' was all you needed anyway to put your uniform on tightly at home.

"Can't even shoot his cum in missy to save his blood!"

Your more experienced co-workers are watching you work with a condescending frown, feeling both jealous you're getting all the men's attention, but also maliciously delighted you're being challenged as the new-coming servant who's obviously of erotic interest to these richlings. They want you to get a "taste of life" for you may be the most goody-goody fawning bitch they have ever seen; just a young birdbrain who has nothing to bring to the table except her body. Young thing won’t hold up, doesn't know who she's working with— though they are quite right about that part, you must admit, you frankly didn’t look up whose money you’re taking right now— she doesn’t know who the fuck she is.

"What? Did his son leave the company, too?"

It’s flattering to know that the other pretty servants look at you and only see some candy-coated muppet, but fairly, your ever-frozen smile on your face doesn’t give them much to work with. You’re simply an annoyance to their routine, and if you could, you would like to comfort them by saying none of the money you’re getting will stay in your hands– they’d be so happy to hear that you’re really worth nothing– but you must stay focused.

“Idiot, he’s only got a daughter!”

So yes, that being said, you’re glad nobody ever asks you about you. Everyone just assumes, judges from what they see, and if what they see is an opportunistic bimbo-girl chasing money, then so be it, right?

"You know, the one he married off to the governor?”

Right. Because you too have not a single second to think nor talk about your past. The present is scarce and the future is fragile, you know it the best. And you owe it to your old men to make the best out of their efforts, don't you? The air in this room may not be the one you inhaled in the mountains, but you still have to use it, breathe, be alive, despite how moldy and spoiled it simmers in your throat.

"Real mad! Anything to avoid that fee, huh, missy? Got no semen and no glory! You really want to give him that cigar?”

So, that taste of life? Fucking bitter, just like how that name 'missy' seeps and sweats on your tongue. You can’t loathe your co-workers for this reason, they're basically in the same wooden, shaky boat as you, but these asswipes here are floating on a fucking yacht. Of course they don't follow some type of code of human decency for you, they don't give two shits about the lowlifes, the poor. They watch them like a spectacle, and because they don't regard you as a human-being but rather a toy, they play with you on strings that are, on the other hand, binding together a big, fat bankroll.

Ka-Ching.

Eyes on the price, Y/N, eyes on the price. You may not own a lot, that's been more than established, but if there is something you have, it's dutifulness, commitment, and proficiency. It will remain difficult to keep inner peace and honor with a job of which "duty" it is to be a deferential, subservient doll, but at least you're alive and well, soon to leave this floor with more money to your name that these fuckers don't know anyway, right? Never let that smile drop, smart girl. You have a talent, just like your supervisor said. Just keep on serving.

“No children-makin' is better for the cheatin'— ha!”, the barren, that fruitless man who’s been made fun of whoops in to stand up for himself, and awaits his tobacco that's being driven to him by your cart.

You open up the wooden chest in which the cheroots, so unnecessarily gold-plated, sit and ridicule you with their rare existence. There are just thousands of dollars sitting in your hand right now, and as you fetch the thick roll with wary fingers, you think, fucking hell, this could feed so many people, and they're just smoking it away like it's nothing, assholes.

The other servants frown at you spitefully during the time you bow down. You're sensually placing the brown cylindrical object into his mouth, a match lighting held to his face to light it up. In addition to the experience, you hold one long stare with his washy eyes, because you assume it will ignite him.

And, oh, how excited he gets.

"Thank you, sir," you chuckle and flutter with your eyelashes, pursing up your lips like you’re an innocent little girl getting a piece of candy behind her parents’ back.

“Just mad! Missy's young enough to be your grandchild, fella!”

You’re aware of exactly what your dear co-workers are thinking, but being ordered to light their cigs and then ogled at is not "baby-treatment” or whatever they’re muttering under their breath, it's your subtle strategy to have that bankroll be slid between your thighs.

"Hey now, I still can get it on! Don't you think so too, missy?"

Dumb Y/N, only has money on her mind. Allows herself to be called "missy", like a dumb fucking slut. 

Hm, kind of has a ring to it, don't you think?

"Yes, sir."

Let them all think you're a dummy. Let them believe, believe each other's words in whatever they fucking want. You're almost too certain it's the secret reason Jongho offered you a place here anyway; "suited for the job", because he deems you dense enough to not understand any of the nonsense these twelve men are babbling, "big money", because he knows you will do anything for it. 

You’ll still take the talent, but if he really thinks the rest, then oh, sucks to be him.

Yes, you haven’t looked up the names of who the men here are for the same reasons they're not using yours, but the second you’re out of this whiny, weak testosterone-drowned room, you're going to write the most thorough blackmail, because you can not listen to their cheating, money-laundering, corrupted bullshit anymore. Getting involved with the handshakers is the last thing you should do if you want to live a silent, carefree life, and you know this too well, but they're not going to believe it was you anyway. They wouldn’t dream of their missy to do such a competent, smart thing. You even know what you're going to write under the letter so they have something to think about in their cells: 'birds listen to the words of day, mice to the words at night'— walls have ears, too.

Ah, the soft, sometimes very cryptic voice of your favorite old monk. Always there to teach you new things, remind you of how to live your life cheerfully. You still believe he would have rather kept you in the mountains and not drop you on a wild voyage into the unknown urban life, but your old man had his reincarnation coming. You should visit his grave again, it's been a while, hasn't it? Wouldn't he be so proud to see you? To see how much his little Y/N has grown and learnt, using his proverbs to restore justice? Well, for what you still can collect of your late mentor, he would probably make big eyes and use his whole body to keep your monetary gift away from him. "Teacher," you would ask, "don't you at least want to save?", and his answer would remain the same;

"Peace comes free."

You feel warm at the distant memory of the bald-headed man warming himself in his orange gown, teaching you about love, harmony and kindness, but that sweet veil of untainted innocence has long dropped from your eyes.

In front of you, you see tycoons continuing having a blast being their shitty selves, and as golden teeth blend your sight, they are entertaining each other by staring at your legs that are covered by your sheer black stockings, whispering their insight of how you'd look like under it, but the mini-skirt only leaves so much for imagination.

"Sweet missy!"

How could you not want to spit into their face? They have bought the war. They have bought the chaos. And why? Just because they can. It doesn't cost you anything to restore some peace, maybe that’s the thing your old man got right.

"Yes, sir?”

“Do you have any Cubans left, sweet missy?”

“A Cuban, coming right up, sir.”

“Hopefully someone’s gonna come after the party tonight!”

Are you humiliated? As someone who lived among the wisest, clearest heads, and was considered just as smart by them to be wished a ‘more fortunate life’ — No.

You couldn’t care less about their perversions. Especially now, when they seemingly don’t care enough to know your name you've introduced yourself with. You are here for one reason, and it's not to prove your worth to the world, it's to secure your place in it, get that parasitic debt off your shoulders.

And if anything, as long you are staying truthful to yourself, there’s nothing that could take away your spirit. That’s what you want to believe, at least. When you’re out of debt and continue with this job, you could spend every day downtown like the other servants, but for you, it's all going to the savings for the family you're going to feed with not one worry in life on the clear land in the mountains, not under a sky that's polluted by light even when the sun has set.

The clock has announced night long time ago. Outside the windows, there shines and roams a loud, restless city under a starless, foggy black blanket, inhabited by people like you who live day by day to make their living, like small flies forgathered in a hive of exhausting labor, buzzing their life away.

It’s what you think every time you peek down the glass room: Seoul has never looked so small. Across and around the ever-flowing Han-River, the metropole is the home of millions who are looking up with their heads far back their necks to the point right here, where you stand, at the center or peak of all the wealth gathered together, inside the highest building standing tall amidst of the tumult, on the 114th floor, towering over the world in a luxurious dining room decorated by exotic animals, marbled statues and most importantly the filthy glimmer of something they call ‘class’.

“Missy,” the chairman calls out for you, raising his hand, right after he’s made another infidelity joke and showed his luxurious wedding ring to the audience.

“Yes, sir?”, you call out, wearing your pristine servant-smile with your hands folded nicely in front of your stomach, voice not tainted by your disgust as to even one note, despite the other servants looking at you with hateful expressions. They wish you the worst; the worst treatment, the worst performance, anything to get you out of this place. 

Maybe they're driven by the same instincts and avarice that makes you hate the rich,  with them just thinking you're taking away their money, but it's free territory here with these predators; you just make for great prey.

It’s a challenge to all of the people involved and the contestants can only win. Will it be another pick-up line? You're going to pick on that with ease. Another joke about your age? That one is never going to get old. There, bring it on, you think, and feel proud of your confident spirit, ready to run with whatever they throw and stash it into your wallet.

“You see those youngsters back there? Get 'em some more ice."

“Yes, sir.”

“Chaps don't know how to drink the good stuff yet, what a waste! Next time, buy 'em the cheap soju from the mart! The ones for 5,000 Won, missy, you know those?”

“Yes, sir.” Your whole face flashes a smile, bowing to accept the task of refilling some ice, dragging your cart across the room, as male laughter rings in your ears. It's as if they don't realize they also drink cheap liquor, but you suppose that's forgettable when they are flushing the fanciest of meats down with it.

"Be careful, missy!"

Are you being too mild by saying you want to ram the green glass-bottles into their heads?

"They bite!”

Maybe choke them with their own money bills?

Yes, “Yes, sir.”

It's a fun exercise to fantasize about how to hurt them, so you thought you would be busy enough to ignore the chairman's warning, but as you are on your long way to the end of the even longer glass table to push your cart towards the men he is referring to, there's a growing feeling inside your guts that oh, the chairman may be ... 

Huh, right for the first time. The quizzical lump expands warmly as much as it is cold, with goosebumps running down your spine, your hands feeling hotter than ever over the metal cart. Your whole body is trying to signal you that something is off on the other side of the table, but you don’t know whether to ignore it or run.

The annoying, empty-minded, impertinent elders, who have been belly-laughing at the chairman's joke a second ago stop with their chatting and only exhale huffs, and prolong them nervously, that’s off. The servants gulping, loosening their crossed arms– that’s off, too. 

“So, uhh… Where was the, uh– food from?”

“Oh, lad, good topic, yes– the delicious food…”

It seems that everyone in the room is trying to fill in the silence with the fakest of laughter, so the chairman can move on from the topic, but you're well over your way there, uninformed to what you're going to be hit with once you halt.

Tycoons like them usually don't need back-checking. You know how to deal with ill-willed imbeciles that only use their estate as a weapon. Their bodies and brains have passed prime an eternity ago. Left behind are only their numbed minds that seek shelter in lust, ecstasy and aphrodisia because nothing else excites them anymore. They’re what you probably would have been if you hadn’t spent your teens brewing tea and listening to the leaves rustle, not experiencing all euphoria and more at a too early age– they’re washed out, just swimming in money they haven't worked a day for, are lazy, weary sloths.

However, opposed to the cloudiness in their class that's only getting more foggier through the many years of monopoly, these two men that are waiting in front of you, and you understand why your lungs are pinging now, they are potent.

Money is power, but twist it around and there is them, with that; a certain force that the rich ooze out by just acting and looking a certain way, and oh, Y/N, how they are, how they are looking at you right now, best believe you have to hold onto your strength like it's a small purse.

'Youngsters', he said— 'they bite', he said.

They have been rarely reacting to the chairman’s words, notwithstanding being the ones to be the most respectful in this meeting for their young age, just looking at each other with unamused eyes. Even the director who is older than the chairman lets out his best holler every time, but these two have not laughed once at his jokes, not the slightest chuckle has left their mouths to flatter or satisfy the chairman.

Interesting.

Both black-haired, the one you get to first has his mane gelled back, a cigarette hanging out his scarred mouth, as you approach his seat with your cart walking carefully practiced steps. His white shirt is opened up to where chains, most importantly a silver cross, hang from his collarbones to his chest that’s covered with scars and scratches you can’t quite identify how they got there. This man looks gigantic, muscular, dangerous. Shoulders terrifyingly broad popping out his black vest, he sits on his seat with widened legs, thighs flattened in his also black pants, fastened by a leather belt, and with his white sleeves pulled back to his elbows, his slightly tanned forearms only appear more huge after the rather average-looking wristwatch catches your eye, just when you stop with your cart in front of him.

“That old geezer just can’t keep his mouth shut, can he?”, he chuckles, the Gyeongsang-provincial dialect rolling so naturally off his tongue. Everyone else in the room has been faking their speech to cosplay a charm they didn’t possess, but even the slight lisp and lull from the drunkenness are not hiding how deeply masculine and sincere this man’s voice sounds. It’s a mixture of the sarcasm you've gotten used to by now, but also a brashness that the older men lack, and you’re a bit embarrassed to say it’s working you up a bit. "Empty carts rattle loudest, I say."

A wintry breeze goes through your breast and you feel your eyebrows flinch. You haven't heard that grandmotherly expression in so long, that it does feel somehow refreshing to reconcile with it, but maybe the whisk you sense shouldn’t feel as comforting given the way the man is looking up to you brazenly with a bit of atrocity in his appearance. He is far away from the serene sketch you drew to save the vision as you left the village, he is what you felt when you took your first train, asphyxiated by the big masses of people who you would never see again— an unhomely, yet intimate feeling of... adventure.

He glances through you smoking his cigarette with no hands attached, and it moves at the corner of his lip as he talks. Wait, cigarette? Missy, did you forget to bring him a cigar?

"Let's see when he runs out of words."

“It’s alright, sir,” you answer, suppressing a slight chuckle because yes, you too have been wishing the chairman would finally shut the fuck up, but haven't expected anyone to say it out loud that boldly. You watch the male in front of you take out the slim roll from his mouth with his thick fingers that are covered with silver rings that all look different and not matching each other, blowing out the smoke whilst maintaining eye contact with you. “If you require, I can bring you a cigar, sir," you say, but he waves his hand to brush off your offer.

“Ah, they give me bad breath.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Please," the man progresses instantaneously, scratching over the vertical scar at his lip-corner with his thumb, his ciggy continues to burn, "Do be so kind and give brother his ice," then smiles, "he needs to preserve his cold head.”

“You are one to talk about keeping mouths shut,” the ‘brother’ answers, voice velvety and adequate despite dissing the man that’s sunken unmannerly into his seat, while he, on the other hand, is sitting up straight, his black suit buttoned up, tie set cleanly under his ironed pearl-white collars, elegantly decorated by a golden pin. A Greek "π" is chiseled into it, and you recognize it so well for you’ve seen it written all over the tall buildings you drove by on your way here. His hair is combed evenly to the sides and the more you look at him, he’s just— wow, flawless, prestigious, expensive. Everything about him is crystal clear; his rich voice, his unblemished skin, his eyes, oh god, you just noticed those eyes, how does such a shameful man have such pure eyes?

Orbs— and they're not innocent as much as you can't say they're not guilty— are looking at you with a defiance that is suffocating, as if you ought to do everything perfectly, not miss a single twitch of his eyebrows to understand whether he's enjoying or disapproving of the situation.

Well, is he enjoying you or disapproving of the way you're listening to his partner's order to refill his ice?

Huh. No fucking idea. He probably doesn't, but you must do it still— must still serve.

It feels irrationally sheep-headed, but hey, being a sheep is your job, is it not? Being in this herd is keeping you alive, and even in this situation, where you are following the orders of the blackest of sheep, no, wolves that can't be covered by any fluffy wool— you must mow your best.

"Ohh, brother, it's been a while since I heard you talk! Feels lonely droppin' all the good sayings by myself."

You’re serving Choi San and CEO of PARA-conglomerate, headman Park Seonghwa.

Sat right across the chairman, the percentage this couple holds of his company-share is more than most of the attending seniors combined, which makes them stand at the top of the guest-list. You couldn’t have missed their names, even if you’ve made the attempt to, and the other information you’re getting is just your co-workers whispering hurried words to each other, and it seems to you that you may be more in need of them than ever.

You already eavesdropped on them a little, and to be honest, you didn’t need any real confirmation that everyone in this room was unlawful and corrupt, but it is good to know you really don’t have to feel guilty stashing those bankrolls into your purse.

The man that is licking the tail of his scar at his lip, rolling his neck, clicking with his mouth and tapping his fingers onto the table, he is rumored to be the boss of the Choi-Clan, the infamous ‘Mad Dog of Namhae’, whose face had been unknown. The chairman has made a drunken joke about allegedly trying to sell him off to the government— “everybody act like you don’t know, okay?”— and nobody had taken him seriously, but once the supposed mafiaboss had entered the room, an hour later than everyone else, and sat down comfortably like nothing was strange about his heavy breath and slightly purple knuckles, nobody dared to say something else.

If you’d heard beforehand that you would be meeting a CEO and a mafiaboss today, you don’t know if you would have acted any differently. Thinking, here comes the chairman, his jesters, the mafia-guy, the chaebol; ah, all the motherfuckers aligned, let’s get to work, shall we? 

But this does challenge you a bit, indeed. If they just weren’t so young and intimidatingly good-looking, fuck, you could have treated them in the same cookie-cutter way you’d been at perfectly.

Maybe a bit of change-up won’t hurt, you were starting to get a bit too irritated anyway.

"Control yourself."

“You wanna see him dead too, brother,” the smoking male sneers— you’ll call him ‘Mr. Choi’ for now— pointing at his companion to accuse him of being a yawner, his cigarette stuck between his fingers.

Headman Park smirks with a short twitch of his lips that makes you think you just imagined it, but none of his extremities has moved since you came here: Every single action he takes seems so... calculated, thought through, measured, planned out. He is the only one to have brought a briefcase to the dinner, and looks a little bit out of place with his sober expressions which seem to you as if he was observing the whole room in its possible entirety, not leaving out a corner in his sight uncovered.

"Want," he parrots, face dropped to a neutral visage, highlighting the only word that seems to be bothering the CEO regarding his vis-à-vis' statement, eyes darting down  to Mr. Choi having his fingertips pointed towards him.

"Don't you become pushy with the words now, brother," the mafiaboss teases him, and tugs his sleeves up to his elbows again, eyeing you up and down while you're passing him with your cart. You discern his interest in the pockets of your skirt, or what is there underneath, instantly, but before you can think that the man may be just the same as the others, he cracks his knuckles. “Old geezer might die on his own at this point, look at how he's smoking his raisin-lungs away."

"Poetic."

So much for hearing government and company secrets, here are these two joking about the chairman’s death. You need the chairman a little bit longer if you want to earn money, but the idea of him dying soon isn’t too bothersome.

"You gotta get used to my Korean way of speaking, brother! Then we can communicate correctly!”

With your ears sharpened, but your face presenting unconcerned, you devote yourself to headman Park to refill his bucket, ice cubes jangling down the iron jar, whilst Mr. Choi stretches his arms behind his head, raising an eyebrow towards his elder who isn't hearing him out.

“Thank you,” headman Park says, very briefly and precisely. The tong you put in the bucket for him to use almost tips, and you don’t know whether he does it on purpose for he’s been frozen still all during the dinner, but with his reflexes, he prevents it from falling before you can, but if that wasn't surprising enough, he grazes your skin while returning.

Soft, uncalloused; not a single ounce of labor roughed up these hands, it seems. They tickled you featherly, and right now, you are looking for some type of confirmation in those black spheres of his to know that you're allowed to exhale and react to his touch, because you gasped slightly and have held your breath ever since.

Nothing. You are the first one to look— no, shy away from his stare, getting your hands in front of your abdomen again, your fingers searching for each other, fiddling around by themselves without your knowledge. 

Mr. Choi lets his wrist-watched hand fall between his lap, neck tilted slightly to the back, licking over his canine tooth with a grin, and it appears to you that he's either noticed his associate's small gesture or how headman Park is still staring at you. “You wanna do something, don’t you, brother?”

“I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

Mr. Choi shakes his head to irritate headman Park and make him explain himself.

“This is not business.”

Headman Park glances down his whiskey, droplets of water have formed around the brim of the cold glass. It is untouched. 

"I see you aren’t enjoying the whiskey, would you like something else to drink, sir?", you ask, trying to finish your job and get away from here before you get ideas that don’t include money between your thighs.

"The Fillico, please," the male answers, not having glanced away from your eyes once to inspect your cart, where the black, long bottle, donning a crown and wings adorned with Swarovski-crystals, awaits you to be grabbed.

"A glass of cold Fillico Black King!", you exclaim, your surprise of the particularity that anyone would drink water at the chairman's dinner can’t be hidden, and then hum, "Coming right up, sir."

“You’re really something, brother,” Mr. Choi wheezes, taking the last pull of his cigarette, watching you fill up a new glass for his unrelated brother with the finest mineral that can be bought to-date, pricing around 6 Billion Won, or 4500 US Dollars per bottle. “Wouldn’t you say it’s difficult to not be smokin’ or drinkin’ in this business, Y/N?”

Sure, whatever ‘business’ a man like him is talking about. “Yes, sir." Wait, hold on, did Mr. Choi just say your name? 

“You don’t look too impressed,” the male grins, seeing how you’ve narrowed your eyes in confusion.

"Pardon me, I was just– how do you know my name, sir?”

Mr. Choi shrugs as if to say ‘I dunno’ and presses his cigarette out on the table. It sizzles out, like your head is also slowly deteriorating. He throws the bud into the CEO's ice-bucket— headman Park is not even minorly irritated by it— and then, with his ringed fingers, goes through his hair, setting it loose behind his head. He’s picking on you, and you surely feel picked out, that's all you can think. It's so unusual to be hearing your name, not because it hasn't been said during the dinner, but because—

"Y/N Y/L/N, a pretty name for a pretty servant like you, huh?"

Your heart somehow flutters. A stalwart man like him taking your name into his mouth is nothing you hear on the daily. Deep, manly. It's not flattering, no, it sounds wrong, feels so dangerous for a guy like him to be taking something so personal and turning it into his possession, like you're slowly going to lose yourself in the words he speaks in a lax manner. Your name is precious to you, and it just drops off his tongue like it's candy. Where on earth does a man like him get your full name from?

"Sir," you insist, dipping your fingertip under your fingernail, fidgeting.

“Oh, don’t tell me ya prefer that stupid name ‘missy’,” Mr. Choi chuckles and fetches headman Park’s full glass of whiskey, his dialect draping out his mouth.

“Or do you secretly enjoy it," he grins, and with his eyebrows raised, Mr. Choi drinks up his acquaintance's booze in one big gulp, letting the glass fall down on the table with a thump, breathing out, "missy?”

People drink whiskey neatly, you know that. The guests have been doing it all evening, but that's for two ounces. Headman Park had a glass full of the oak-colored sherry liquid with an uncommonly high alcohol percentage placed in front of him. A taunt from the chairman maybe, to subtly scorn them about their apparent boyhoodish inexperience, but Mr. Choi makes it look so adept: The strong alcohol flows down his throat smooth and speedy, even though he did misplace the rim by an inch.

There's whiskey dripping down his chin as he glances over to his side, smirking at his neighbor who's blinking frozen, as well as the other guests, who are seemingly just as irritated that the mafiaboss got you as flustered as you look like.

You’re left with your mouth slightly open, shotting down a glass of whiskey shouldn't have looked as barbarous as Mr. Choi made it appear. Like a striking attack, baring his claws, he growls out the herby aftertaste. "'Scuse me, 'got really thirsty there."

The mafiaboss goes over his lips with his tongue, watching your hand play with the seam of your skirt, where he knows a handkerchief is buried in your pocket.

“Aw, shit, I got wet,” he wails over-dramatically, looking down on himself and then again locking his eyes into yours.

“Wanna clean me up, baby?”

“Pardon?”

Much to your continued bafflement, Mr. Choi smiles, and as he sees you taking a second to confirm what he said, he continues talking to you like you’re a hooker.

“Don't like that one, Y/N?” Again, with the name! Where does he get the name?!

“Sir, how—“

“You have introduced yourself to us,” headman Park finally reveals in the high Seoul tongue, perchance by pity, and you inhale, a bit embarrassed that you didn’t come to think of it earlier. What is happening to you? Is it because you’re finally away from those sleazes, that you’re being so light-headed? Lack of training? Sexual attraction? God, that’s a rookie’s mistake, Y/N, think about them as targets, not objectives. The objective is to not end up in a bed with them, remember? That’s like, rule number one. Even though nobody told you about the Mafia while you were at training, that’s a valid argument.

Don't let your guard down, you’re in a room with the men of men, no maybe the men. The most influential men you could be meeting in Seoul right now, aside from how little is known about them.

Whether he's a real chaebol or not, PARA-CEO Park Seonghwa is definitely the nephew of good ol’ chairman over there, just leeching off his money even if today is the first time the man is visiting his distant uncle who is definitely a bit sour about the fact he took so long to connect with him. Money has its sources and sometimes, most of the time, it’s nepotism. There you go, the explanation of his wealth and why the male is so well-mannered sitting on his seat. He’s woven into the conglomerate-family, been made CEO to keep him that way and all in all, you could care less about him, if he just wasn’t the only person that was kind of nice to you. Just thinking about his eyes makes you a bit dizzy, but you can get that fixed by turning your eyes to the mafiaboss.

Mafia and chaebol don't usually associate, for reasons that are rather obvious. Mafia’s rule the underworld with the overworld’s laws, and the chaebol rule over what laws the overworld decides on, digging their hands into the government like it’s soot, planting and pulling crops wherever they can profit from it. Money.

It’s sickening every time you think about it. How many people in this room could pay for your whole life? No, how many can’t pay for your whole life and beyond? You can count them with one hand and they’re all wearing the same clothes as you. 

Money knows where it belongs; that’s a phrase you made up the day you were told about the crippling debt by the letter and the bank declining your card. It sounds similar to your monks' sayings of water's ever-flowing life, but if water returns, money drifts. It wanders across the citizens, but follows a direction it's always bound to end up. Just like today, with you getting bankrolls to graze the inner space of your legs, only to know it’s going to end up in the same fingers that gave it to you.

So, where do headman Park and Mr. Choi get a say in this? Do they get a say in this?

“I did introduce myself, how could I forget? I’m sorry, sir,” you admit and let out a laugh that is half intended to sound as nervous as it did, and half regrettably filled with authentic uneasiness.

Old chairman, what does he know? Have those teeth really ever sunk into flesh? You can’t play with your fate here, but by hook or crook they intrigue you so much. You haven’t expected guests that aren't ass-kissers of the chairman, and apparently your talent only goes so far. You have no idea what to do with them to satisfy them except letting out your real thoughts and you can’t do that, definitely not in front of the man.

But you feel so connected to them. The caution everyone has, it confuses you just as much you're amazed by it, and you want that, you want that kind of safety. Every guest here has money, but not every guest has their authority.

“It’s alright, everybody makes mistakes, baby,” Mr. Choi smirks and musters you again, rubbing the liquid away from the corner of his lip with his thumb and kissing the remaining alcohol away, savoring every droplet of whiskey, but also savoring you by keeping his thumb leaned into his opened mouth, eyes looking sultrily at you, you might as well just—

“Mistakes, San. Beware of them,” headman Park falls in and his companion finally sways his eyes away from you, hand backing down. “Talkative drunkard.“

“Brother,” Mr. Choi sighs and grabs the glass from his neighbor that's filled with ice cubes to murmur, “I’m not that drunk," swinging it around with concise flicks of his wrist to enunciate his words.

With the couple bantering, you think you can calm down. Maybe you were overreacting. Bootlicking some birdbrains is a way easier life than to follow these two.

"Hey, baby?”, but there's another call of the bird of prey.

“Yes, sir?”, you answer, fingers letting go of your skirt that has thrashed your skin by how you abused it. You don’t even know when you started to react to the name 'baby', but truth be told it’s better than ‘missy’ by miles. Being over here is better than being over there by miles, that is unchangeable.

“Could you get me clean? This is kinda sticky."

With two fingers, he grabs the collar of his shirt and flails it softly, ice clinking in his glass, as he shows you his indeed quite syrupy breast.

"Yes, sir."

You nod towards the crevice that is the space where his muscles meet, and before your eyes can get lost in the plump thews, you collect yourself so you can do what you were asked for; getting your hands on his body.

“Please.”

“Ahh, I liked you more when you were quiet, brother! I don’t wanna call you a party-pooper, but c'mon! It’s your plan, and I’m just— doin’ my part.”

Mr. Choi twists his upper body a bit so he’s still able to hold the empty glass behind your back, though it feels more caging in than it should, when you lean forwards to softly tap his skin with your handkerchief. His arm hovers next to your hip and his upper body is extended wide around you.

“What do you say, baby?”, the male asks, and you harrumph to take your mind elsewhere from how rock-hard the mafiaboss feels under your hand, how his cologne smells so rich and inviting, and how— “Wanna be bitten?”

“Pardon?”, you ask, not understanding the context of Mr. Choi’s question, but without fail grasping the intentions of it.

The male grins, and you’re unsure as to how he got his hand on the bottle of whiskey from your tray as quickly as he did, but it’s there, in the hand that’s across your hip, and from then on, everything you do seems risky. His bicep is curled around your thigh so he can fill himself another glass, and if you take a step back, your ass will be pushed against his arm, but if you step forward, you’ll land on top of him; a straining dilemma that only inflames your guts the more you think about it.

“San,” headman Park grumbles quietly, seeing you struggle to stand on your feet.

“Agh, come on, brother, 's all going well! Live a little for me, will ya? Watch me and follow,” Mr. Choi nags with a juvenile pout and takes a disgruntled sip from his drink, making your imaginations reality by pushing you with his forearm with no forewarning. You trip closer to him and his arms raise, as you have to find safety on his shoulders to not fall into his crotch.

“Oops, ‘scuse me, baby,” he grins, feline eyes glancing up to you, your bust in his view. The other men are grumbling, fussy, yammering— if they knew, they would have done that with you a long time ago!— and in your head, you don't know whether you should be doing this at the chairman's dinner and not somewhere in a stripclub or just, god, anywhere else.

“It’s okay, sir,” is what you answer, and the short silence would be the perfect opportunity to scuffle back to your original stance, but you saw his ever-growing, throbbing bulge in his black suit-pants and it is staring you down.

Everything about him is so big…

“Really, baby?”, Mr. Choi asks, eyebrows pushed together, lips formed into a pout, feigning an expression of worry.

“Yes, sir,” you say, the big question of 'what is the goal here?' unnerving you, but with the quick, harsh movement of his leg against the back of your knee, you're—

“Sir!”

Sat on his thigh, your butt is bouncing on the hard flesh, fingers dug into his shoulders deeper due to the shock, ribcage moving up and down as you’re breathing fast and anxiously. At this point, you’ve gathered the attention of many who are seemingly more excited about the situation than you are, silencing all around, while the chairman continues to crack drunk jokes on the other side.

Mr. Choi chuckles at your nervousness and puts his glass down. “Aww, look at you, baby,” he coos, his rough, calloused fingers trailing between the inner space of your thighs that’s pushed into his leg. “Need a little break?”

As you sit there— securing yourself on the table, feeling his hand sit between your legs, you become lighter with each passing second, tingles being sent down your abdomen. Could Mr. Choi please stop smirking like that? It’s going to make you lose your mind, lose every thought of what you were trying to achieve at this table tonight.

“The chairman doesn’t allow breaks, sir,” you murmur, trying to cling onto the last sense of service you have, “I have to stay here.”

Your voice is barely above a whisper for the CEO in front of you to become curious, but loud enough for the mafiaboss to scoff and massage his hand deeper into your flesh.

“Sir, I really—“, you try to protest, but Mr. Choi uses his other finger to signal you to come closer to his face. You do as you’re told, his warm breath hitting your ear after you lean backwards.

“Baby,” he cackles, and his lips touch your earlobe, the smell of the smoke fading out his mouth.

“I practically own that wimp,” and Mr. Choi lets out a chuckle before his voice lowers an octave, “Let me own you, too.”

His tongue grazes over your sensitive skin as if he was a snake trying to convince you of eating the strange fruit, and you shudder forwards in surprise, his growl still vibrating in your ears.

You should get yourself together— yeah, that sounds like a good idea, if it just wasn't for the fact that this is exactly how you've been presenting yourself the whole evening. You're cornered, and not only by him, but your actions and it's, oh, old man, it's something. It's something that broadens the playground that was set out in front of you, something that gives you more to play, no, more to be played with.

The other guests are gawking already, forgetting about their prejudices when it comes to the 'youngsters', just happy to be seeing their missy in action.

The mafiaboss sighs, breaking his whispering and speaking louder than before. “But if you cherish so much about that old geezer, he’ll be taken care of, no? Maybe even better than before, or am I wrong here, brother?”

He clicks with his mouth— is it a habit?— and looks at headman Park, who rolls his eyes, as if they’re sharing some secret you’re not a part of. But before you can fall into further confusion, your legs tighten around Mr. Choi’s wristwatch, as his thumb strokes the surface under your skirt one time, right across your cunt which has been heating up since the first time you saw the reflection of yourself in his silver cross. A pant leaves your mouth and you have to grind your ass over so you can somehow clench your legs together.

“You like that?”, Mr. Choi sneers, chuckling into your ear, as he continues to move his thick finger against your clit. "Of course you do. Let me hear more of those cute sounds, baby.”

You grab his bicep, heat crawling up your abdomen against his forearm, your crotch feeling more and more buzzed as the male works his fingertip into you. Nobody says anything, just murmuring insignificant sentences to keep up the chatty mood.

Headman Park in the meanwhile, crosses his arms, catching the attention of the mafiaboss.

“Brother, can’t you see I’m doing this for you? Enjoy yourself.”

Mr. Choi flashes an eye-smile and keeps groping your cunt, you melting more and more into his lap and under the heated gazes of the crowd. Your servant-colleagues don’t know what to do, or no, maybe they knew exactly that this would happen and think you deserve all of this shame, just in general not helping you escape the touch of the mafiaboss.

“Sounds like you’re enjoying her more than anything,” headman Park says, looking indifferent, but his words don’t cross out the possibility that inside his pants, his cock isn’t growing too, how his arms are crossed, clenched around each other.

“Come on, baby,” Mr. Choi growls into your ear, “give that fucking bore a show, won’t you?”

You’re split open. He’s strong, oh gosh, so strong, taking not more than one push to grab you by your thigh and spread your legs, make you slip on his crotch, as he closes his knees together to support you from down under.

“San,” headman Park warns, but his mouth stays slightly open, tongue pressed against the surface of his upper teeth, suppressing a grin.

You flatten your back against Mr. Choi’s torso as an attempt to hide your face behind his neck, and breathe heavily against his freckled skin, the cold exterior of his pearly accessory grazes your chin.

“What?”, the male asks, taking his glass, his arm slithering under your armpit and his chin resting on your shoulder as he sips from it, not to forget the hand that is still pushed into the now moist fabric between your legs, moving in circular motion.

Headman Park doesn’t answer and folds his hands together, placing his elbows on the table, fingers touching his lower lip.

“Geez, brother, you should feel this cunt right now,” the mafiaboss wheezes, almost hiccuping from his excitement, “so fucking hot, you won’t believe.”

“Make her louder.”

Even Mr. Choi was surprised to hear that come out of the reserved CEO's mouth, and as he chuckles and takes the last sip from his whiskey, he puts down his glass once in for all to accept headman Park’s order.

With a slight lean forward, his free hand wraps around your neck and you gasp for air. Mr. Choi’s legs are spread so when you have to tuck in your pelvis, you can feel his bulge under your cunt. At this point, you don’t care for the piercing gazes anymore, and the chairman might as well give you a nice tip for the sight of you grinding your wet pussy into his biggest investor’s clothed cock. You’re such a master profiteer, Y/N, Jongho was right.

“Fuck, missy,” Mr. Choi grunts and he’s so frustrated he can’t take off more of your clothes, but it doesn’t prevent him from following the order when headman Park mutters, “grab her breasts.”

It is one shameless show.

You becoming needy and whiny on Choi San’s lap, the mafiaboss grinning, as CEO Park Seonghwa’s eyes are unmoving from your sullen, aroused expressions— it has persuaded the audience to want their own slice of fun, but even with hands wrapped around their no-use cocks, everybody in the room has their eyes sealed on the young servant whose only job was to refill some ice.

Mr. Choi can feel it; what a slut you are on top of him, how eagerly you’re grinding your cunt over his bulge, and how jealous the others are watching— and this includes all the blokes that are watching with cigars in their mouths, but also the servants that would have gladly taken your seat and not rub their hands over old, moist, wrinkly skin.

“Sir,” you whimper, as Mr. Choi knobs your breasts, his tough hands cupping each tit, just like headman Park commanded him.

Fuck, how he wishes to be able to see your face as well as well as headman Park does, but the sobby whines might as well do.

“So noisy on my cock,” Mr. Choi snarls, “you’re practically begging for attention, missy.”

“Don’t fucking call me that,” you hiss and the mafiaboss inhales sharply, gasping, his cock jumping, very turned on by your sudden spunky tone. Bingo.

“Did you hear that, brother?”, he whales, tempting the headman to interact with him more as the main viewer of his performance, but the man to his friend is only raising an eyebrow. “Baby's got some zest in her. You like that, don’t you?”

Mr. Choi continues to coo headman Park into defeat, “You like ‘em feisty, brother. I know you, chief execution officer, sir. You wanna ram your cock into this little missy's pretty mouth, just admit it.”

Little missy's pretty mouth. "Say that again, shitbag," you hiss, but Mr. Choi grins and pries into your bust, working folds into your freshly-ironed shirt. "Listen, brother," he breathes, "It gets your cock fucking going, doesn't it?"

The mafiaboss chuckles and adds, so only you can hear it, "Definitely gets my cock going, baby."

Headman Park scans the room, and you can see how he shakes his head, and looks at Mr. Choi with a slight distaste. “You may leave soon.” 

“Really?”, Mr. Choi grins, beaming, grabbing your hips forcefully in the joy of it, and while the CEO’s words leave you misled, you sigh into the pressure of being pressed down deep into his muscled thigh, your cunt pulsating through his flesh.

“Change of plans.”

“Alright," he murmurs, just as offended as you are by his lack of reactions, but quickly catching up on his lust to hear, see, feel you more. "But not before I make this baby come."

“Punster,” headman Park jeers and it does occur to you that you’re hearing more of his soft voice than before, but when he looks at his wristwatch, you suppose you’re not doing well enough for him. Look at me, you rich-ass prude, you think and whine, being moved across Mr. Choi’s thigh by his own hands. Your clit feels hot, like it is seriously going to burn and fall off, but you, fuck, feel so good; the sounds just keep leaving your mouth, your high approaching very soon.

“How long were you thinking, brother?”, Mr. Choi asks and is nibbling at your neck, as he rams you over his thigh, fighting with the pace you're breathing wispy and digging your nails more and more into the glass-table until your fingertips turn white.

"Five.”

“Five? Make it ten.”

“You only last ten?”

“You can be such a bully, brother,” Mr. Choi fleers, and you have no fucking idea what they’re talking about, since you are feeling your orgasm coming in less than a minute, stars appearing in front of your eyes. “Make it ten.”

The male takes note of how you're bucking in your pelvis and uses his canine teeth to make your neck flame on, his hand placed roughly around your throat, as you become more sensitive to every move. "Sir," you whisper, a knot forming in your stomach.

Your clit is begging you for mercy at this point, demanding you to get the clothes off your legs so your slick has some way to escape, but you're drenching Mr. Choi's suit-pants in your wetness with stuttered heaving, ready to moan loudly in any second now if you could just find that one fucking spot—

"Are you gonna cum, baby? Right in front of everyone?", he murmurs against your neck and you nod repeatedly, raving your clothed clit on his thick, pillowy muscle, desperately chasing your high. "Come on," he snickers, "Show them what kind of slut missy is, huh? Such a good fucking slut for us, aren't you?"

"Yesyesyes," you whine, not caring for anything than your release, and Mr. Choi is being so kind as to continue breathing heavily into your ear to make you melt into bliss, but nothing gets you on more than the gentle smile that headman Park is sending your way, head slightly tilted to the back— is he nodding? Is he finally approving? Oh, fuck, you think, and you're doing the best job darting your hips non-stop to continue feeling your cunt be stroked by Mr. Choi's flesh, pursuing the CEO's praising acknowledgment. "Good fucking slut on my lap," the mafiaboss cackles, "come for daddy."

"You fucking weirdo," you falter, not wanting to call him "I'm never gonna call you—

Mmmuh!" Mr. Choi grabs you by your hair and tugs it harshly, making your back arch and your head rotate to his side. In the open mouth, his tongue plunges into your throat, the taste of woody herbs and bitter alcohol are flooding your tastebuds. Smearing all of your lipstick, his mouth is pressed against yours like he's sealing yours shut. You convulse your lower body in surprise of the sudden act and holy shit, get that one spot over your clit that's also stroking your gaping entrance, your body releasing all of its heat into one blaring, roaring zap, with your eyes rolling back your head, your stirred voice screaming, "FUCK!"

There is a gasp heard through the dining hall and you're not sure whether it was the chairman, a servant, or headman Park in front of you, but as you are spasming on Mr. Choi's thigh and your back arches to his chest, you feel like the world is expanding on you, peeping, intrusive onlookers cramming out their money to thank you for the show they got, white trickling through the linen of their underwear. 

Coming down from your high, weakened and all the while more aroused by the mafiaboss whispering the words "good girl" into your ear, you try to open your eyelids to catch headman Park putting on some black leather-gloves he got from his briefcase, muttering something under his breath to the mafiaboss.

“Go."

What the fuck?

Mr. Choi hooks his arm under your legs while he re-applies his lips to yours, and lifts you up like the pretty princess you are to most of the gawkers that don't stop watching, when he stands up.

Everybody has their eyes on the kiss the mafiaboss and servant missy are sharing, but headman Park doesn’t even look at you, when his partner starts carrying you to the elevator that's waiting for you at the wall about in the middle of the dining table, and just retrieves his open briefcase from the floor. Has he had enough of you already?

“Where are we—“, you breathe, but Mr. Choi kisses you silent, tongue forcing its entry, preventing you from figuring out what's happening, after the mafiaboss puts you down in front of the door and pushes you against the frame roughly. Cheering and hooting encourages him to continue rubbing his thumb over your skin as the other ringed fingers are holding your thigh, and you're pressed against his leg, virtually fenced in by Mr. Choi while he pushes the button for the lift to come.

His eyes are squinting to the side while he works his lips against you, in a way confirming that all of the guests (except the CEO) are begrudgingly anticipating the next actions of the mafiaboss, not caring how the headman is slowly pushing his seat away from the table to get more leg-space, which you seem to be the only person noticing it.

The golden door opens with a bell dinging the elevator’s arrival, and Mr. Choi grabs you by your ass, leading the way inside it. You can't see it correctly with your eyes closed, can only feel his big arms push into your frame, but he even makes for a show-like exit, burlesquely saluting the audience with two fingers, clicking with his mouth. It must really be a habit, you think, and giggle into the kiss.

The men attempt to throw bankrolls into your space and some succeed, some don't, but while you're glad your plan worked out, you aren't too sure what you've just done with, or for the mafiaboss.

Your heated kiss continues and because you want to feel him, you unbutton his shirt that doesn’t need that much working, three buttons being pushed open by your jellylike hands. Before you can unclothe him though, Mr. Choi pushes his arm against the mirror next to your head, stopping you to take a look at his wristwatch. He strokes his hair to the back with the other hand, revealing some of his meaty abs, and once he’s reached the backside of his head, he slides his fingers down his neck and around his Adam's apple to scratch it, announcing, “Ten minutes on the clock. Shit, brother's dick must be fucking exploding in his pants right now."

“Sir?”, you ask, overwhelmed by the words that are not making sense in your head, but also distracted by his hand that’s around your tie.

“Given he really could've finished in five but,” he yanks you towards his face. “I wanted to have you a bit more for myself, missy.”

He smiles, very arrogantly like the patronizing fuck he is, like he knows how strong he is, what a dominating aura he possesses, but at this point, in between the mirrors and on this black, marbled floor, you are not at the chairman’s dinner anymore, aren’t a servant anymore– you aren’t bound to any authority, are you?

“If you fucking call me ‘missy’ again, I’ll bite your fucking dick off.”

Except for the moment that you’re talking to him, a mafiaboss, whose breast is marked by— and you can see it very clearly now for it fits perfectly into yours— hands that have shared the same, if not a similar experience with you.

“How’d you know I was into biting, baby?”

And holy fuck, his back looks even crazier.

“God, sir,” you breathe out in awe and a little bit of fear. You can count the lines of red scratches on his back and as you finally let his shirt fall from his shoulders, the reflection of his muscles, how they relax under your touch. You become starstruck. Everything about him is so scarring, but fuck, how it attracts you, the wildness, the savagery— there’s something so free about him.

"What, baby? You like what you're seeing? How naughty..."

Ten minutes aren’t a lot, but Mr. Choi makes his best attempt to hurry over the trivial parts of fucking you. He steps closer, your ass hitting the handrail, legs crossing together, and your buttons pop in one rip, as his two hands rupture your blouse open. He lets his shirt drop to the floor, all the while his lips clash against the nook of your neck, making you sigh under the luminous lights of the elevator and grab his neck. You’re getting hazy, horny; damn, it’s been so long you’ve had a good fuck. Satisfactory sex is another luxury you were postponing for later.

With his lips sewn on your shoulder, kissing and forcing his tongue against a spot he deems especially tasty, the half-naked male unzips your skirt to finally reveal the black pantyhose that looks soaked in your slick. After he chuckles at the sight of it, Mr. Choi licks over his lips and cups your jaw with his hand, drawing a trail of insatiable kisses across your skin.

“Still wanna bite my dick off?”, he asks with a sly smirk, breathy, having caught your aroused look locked on his silver chains, his jacked upper body inviting you to get your mouth in there until it’s molded around your teeth.

“Come on, baby,” the male provokes you, “You think I’m gonna fuck you just like this? Think I’m gonna ram myself inside your cute fucking cunt ‘cause I’m such a big scary fucking man?”

You inhale sharply. “N- no, I…”, you breathe out, letting your tongue run over your teeth.

“Aw, baby, am I making you shy?”, Mr. Choi hoots, “I didn’t think you were a shy one. You were pretty noisy on my thigh for your cunt, weren’t you? Getting all the sounds out for brother to hear them… You really served a show there, baby.”

Your mouth only lets out stammered gibberish– you have never learnt how to talk dirty, but Mr. Choi uses your opened lips to ram his tongue into it again anyway, and you're almost proud to say you've gotten used to it.

He breathes rashly through his nose, and he tastes less of bourbon but more of dulcet desire, mixed in with the red of your lipstick sitting on his lip. Your knee strokes his erection while he gets his hands behind your back to get your bra off, lips clashing and raving against each other. “Letting your body talk for you?”, Mr. Choi husks, panting at having his overstrained cock touched. He relieves you from the pressure around the bust and continues to ramble. "I knew I could have a lot of fun with you the second I laid my eyes on you.” You pant and reunite your lips with his. "Little missy, such a whore for the rich."

He’s overconfident he’s seeing right through you, it infuriates you. Mr. Choi massages his hands into your breasts, the cold rings grazing sharply into your warm flesh, and as your knee is still between his crotch, you huff. You can be a whore for the rich when you’re earning money, but right now, you’re doing things for your own pleasure.

“Are you going to have a lot of fun with me?”, you sing-song in a high-pitched female voice to the mafiaboss that’s immediately taken aback, and you know the word 'missy' is on top of his tongue again, when you interrupt him with a quick jab of your knee into his groin. "Shit-eating fat-cat."

Mr. Choi grunts, head tilting down. His feline eyes meet your foxy ones, and while you weren't preparing for a staredown, the mafiaboss smirks and bites his lip. 

He has a lot to say, you can see it. There’s something glimmering under the lust-drunken layer behind his eyes, and it’s deep, goes deeper, but for some reason, the mafiaboss, who just so despicably couldn’t hold his mouth, doesn’t let out the words that’s crossing his mind.

“Sir–” 

Wrong deduction.

Mr. Choi scowls in laughter, and you guess he meant to joke with you, but he means to play with you much more, when he, once again, lifts you up, by your waist this time, and balances you on the handrail.

Resting his forearm on your thighs to stabilize you, Mr. Choi digs in his pocket to fetch his cigarette box, looking at himself through the mirror and shaking some strands out of his face. "Shit-eating fat-cat," he repeats with a lisp, pulling out one of the slim rolls with the corner of his mouth, and he continues to chuckle, as he glances at you through his eyelashes, "you should've said that to the old geezer when you had the chance to, baby."

"The chairman?"

No answer. Mr. Choi lights his cigarette with a zippo, and keeps it lit in his mouth, as he, with no forewarning, tears open your pantyhose from your crotch with both of his hands, spreading your legs wide. You have to get your hands around his head to be able to keep yourself on the handrail.

“Why do you look so scared? Think I’m gonna fuck you?”, he lisps. “I’m just taking a good look, baby. What a pretty cunt you got there, baby.”

You gulp. Mr. Choi slides his index finger across your heated folds through the fabric and your cunt clenches together, wanting to be filled up. “Sir,” you sigh, and the mafiaboss pulls in smoke from his cig, raising an eyebrow.

“What, baby? ‘You need something?”, he asks, “You’re not a fucking servant anymore, or do you need to be ordered around, missy?”

You try to look angry, but Mr. Choi only pouts and presses his finger through your panties, soaking them in your slick that’s gathered at your entrance. “Desperate to please the money-man? So wet for him…”

“Fuck you,” you mewl, but Mr. Choi knows what he’s doing when he thumbs your clit and exhales smoke into your face, hiding his face for a short second which gives you confidence. “I need you… to fuck me.”

“What did you say, baby? I couldn’t hear.”

“Please, sir, just… fuck me, please…”

“Louder.”

“God! Just fuck me! Didn’t you say we have ten minutes? Make them fucking count!”

“There we go, baby. My slutty little missy. Oh, baby, you’re growing on me, brother’s gonna hate that.” 

You huff and Mr. Choi slides your panties off your legs, taking a short glimpse at his wristwatch. “Damn, ten’s really a short time.”

How many minutes have passed? Ten already? You know you said it, but you mentioned it only because it made sense, if you’re honest, you have no clue what the time is worth for. Aren't these the men who have time for gold?

The biting smell of tobacco enters your nose, making you cough out loud. Is smoking even allowed in the elevator? Wait, wait, wait, no, maybe you should worry about other things, for example what you're going to do when those ten minutes are over, when all of this is over. They clearly have some type of plan and thing they are carrying out right now, but you don’t know how much you’re invited in there. 

Mr. Choi finishes his quick break, inhaling one last puff and keeping his cig between his lips again, and his hands unbuckle his belt in silence, while you contemplate.

Clanking, ruttling, and steps begin to thump behind the door— have any of you two even pressed a button? The mafiaboss looks concentrated, fixed on your cunt, taking out his throbbing, panging cock out his underwear, stroking it a few times to god, fuck, finally get to touch it after having been dry-humped hot.

Squelching, huffing, and voices echo through the floor— is that the chairman you hear? You can only yelp, when Mr. Choi drags off your panties and slathering his thick fingers across your folds in one, then penetrating with another forceful movement.

"Fuck!", you hiss out, grabbing the handrail next to your hips, trying to balance yourself on it still. The mafiaboss snickers into your ear, and tours through your cunt, all the while it appears that all hell is breaking loose outside.

BANG!

"Sir, what—!"

"Shhh, baby," Mr. Choi hushes you, and takes out his cig with the fingers that are now glistening with your wetness, placing it on top of his lips vertically to the scar that is accompanying his smug smirk.

BANG!

"You got nothin' to worry 'bout, baby," he lulls, "we're just eatin' the pheasant and the egg here," and exhales smoke into your face out his mouth-hole, which distracts you from the third, fourth—

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Another proverb, pheasant and the egg— 'two birds with one stone'. Mr. Choi unfolds his hand as if he was counting the minutes, or the shots— wait, yes, shots! Fuck, those are gun-shots, right? You've never heard something so loud ever in your life, where does someone get guns from in South Korea? What even would they need guns for? Why would they use them? What the fuck is happening outside?!

"Oh, fuck!", you moan out, before fear and realization can crawl up your scalp and take away your lusting for the male, Mr. Choi has jerked his hip up, his cock gliding into you smoothly as if your cunt was made for him, the length and girth perfectly curling inside. Your back arches, at least as far as you can arch it, and he grins bemusedly at your jolted reaction.

BANG!

With every blast that follows, Mr. Choi is thrusting into you, first slowly, but then adding more speed and vigor as he goes, or as the blasting goes, making you shakily watch yourself be wrecked by the broad man through the reflection on the other side, your legs dangling with his rough movement.

You don't know how he's fucking you through your tightness, because with each ducking of his hips it feels like your inner walls are expanding more and ungodly more, as if he was piercing you in half.

Small puffs of smoke leave Mr. Choi's mouth each time he pants out raspy "oh baby"s and loud claps of him slapping your ass overtone the screaming, scrambling noises outside, as you two work your lower bodies against and into each other, growing more passionate, throbbing feverishly.

"Fuck, baby," Mr. Choi hisses, cigarette tilting in his mouth, as his face frowns together. "So fucking good for daddy, aren't you? So fucking tight and wet, such a good fucking girl—"

The screams outside are dying down, but the mafiaboss and you are getting louder, breathier, lustier; with your head falling backwards, hitting the mirror, the twisting feeling of fear and the ecstasy to be bouncing on Mr. Choi's big cock mix up like one hellish drink, boiling and churning inside of you.

Smashing both his hands on each of you ass-cheeks to dig his fingers into them and get more stability to ram into you so fast, and oh boy, it's so fucking fast, you're going to spiral— Mr. Choi sputters, "Are you gonna come? Are you going to come for daddy, baby? Greedy baby gonna take daddy's huge fucking load?"

The male is unraveling, his once low, stable voice turning into a whiny, hoarse, cracked mess just like you, practically urging, begging you to finally take the name ‘daddy’ into your mouth.

"Come on baby, say it for me, huh? Feels good to be my slut?", he disentangles, "Be a good slut for daddy, baby."

"I'm not gonna call you— that, fuckhead!", you moan, though your insides are curdling together to finally be released, the knot tightening with each drop of sweat that is forming on your boiling face.

"Really? Think you can afford to misbehave, baby?", Mr. Choi snickers and spits his cig on the floor, your ass being handled at an insane speed, his cock slipping in and out of you with rough ease. He takes it upon himself to dig his teeth into the nook of your neck, biting you heftily, your pulse knocking against your throat, as you feel his cock run in and out of your cunt. Your head goes light and dazed, but before you can gasp out your high from being fucked, bitten, sent to bliss, the male sinks you deep into his cock fully, it does not give you the last thrust you would need to—

"Fuckfuckfuck, I'm gonna cum," you whimper, needing to tremble, but unable to move because his hands are restricting you from any movement, and you continue to bring out a string of weak "pleasepleaseplease" that bounces back from the mafiaboss, who is raising an eyebrow, waiting for the magic word to be spoken out of your wet lips. Tears have formed at the corner of your eye and he thumbs it away, grinning coyly.

"Fuck you, I'mnotgonna fucking, ugh—!", you sob, "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!"

"Aww, you wanna hate daddy so bad, don’t you?”

“Fuuuck you!” Whines leave your mouth, wanting to cum, wanting to move, wanting for Mr. Choi to continue fucking into you and not wipe away your tears.

“Just say you love me, baby,” he heaves and returns his hand to your hip.

Thrusting into you once with a clap against your groin, to make your cunt clench around him, and then twice with the last blood-curdling BANG! from outside, his cock is deep inside you. He feels you tighten, pulsate, craving to be released, but Mr. Choi will not move again to your liking until you finally let go of yourself, which riles you up with no hope.

"F— Fuuuck, okay!", you scream out, annoyed, angry, wanting to fucking cum; "Daddy!", you sob and Mr. Choi smirks, instantly getting to work to toast the adieu of your pride. Thumb on your clit, he circles around your sensitive bud to double the tension you feel through all of your body, while you gutter, "fuck me, daddy, please, make me cum, please, daddy, please—"

He laughs, no, howls— elated, animated, drunk, and then, with his strong, buff fucking arms, pounds you into his cock like a punching bag, your ass hitting his pelvis so many times until you have to use his gelled hair as a last resort to hold yourself up and not push yourself from the handrail with your head against the mirror, but he holds you, holds you steadily in his grip.

"Good god, good fucking missy, such a good fucking slut for me, cum all over my cock–   all over my fucking cock, baby," Mr. Choi grunts, and the string that was keeping you balanced snaps, your orgasm hitting you like that makes your insides tighten around the mafiaboss and his throbbing girth, your whole body being flushed by an overwhelming wave of pleasure which you drink up whole. His cockhead rubs against your sweetspot, you riding out the high while seeing nothing but bliss.

"Holy fuck," you breathe, and your fingers grip into the thick skin of his back, and with Mr. Choi's hips not stopping to hit your pelvis, there are additional, injuring, deep red marks on there with every thrust. You’re scratching him like a beast wanting to tear up its prey, but the beast is fucking into you like there’s no tomorrow. His cock does not stop grazing against your deepest spot, tears rolling down your heated cheek, and your mouth is unable to get out the words you want it to when you get the feeling that he's going to cum soon.

"O- out," you warn him, but the mafiaboss makes a disappointed face, “I– I really can’t afford a child, p-please pull out–!”

He draws his eyebrows in, scoffs and looks you deep in the eyes, his muscular body tucked in, murmuring, rambling out his whiskey-painted throat, “Is that really your only problem, baby? That you don’t have enough money?” His forehead leans against yours and your eyelids flutter open– you are being a mitt around his dick– and he pouts in pity, his iron cross hanging from his chest, as he talks to you.

Mr. Choi gets his hand flat on your lower belly and presses down on it, feeling himself bulge inside you. He moves his hips slowly, his cockhead dragging across your sweetspot, while he gutters, “you’d look so sexy as a mother, don’t you think, baby? With the tummy and all.”

“S- sir, please I–”

"Come on, do you think I don’t have enough money to pay for a fucking kid? God, how fucking annoying– I’m not that kind of man, baby,” Mr Choi growls, his voice vibrating against your cheek, as he charges his forehead deeper against yours, “I still got some honor.”

You shake your head, unsure whether there are pills for after in the pharmacies, or whether the mafiaboss will really be there to be with you as he promises, but Mr. Choi continues to beg in his low breathy, guttery voice. “Baby,” he rumbles, pressing even harder on your abdomen, your ass being pushed into the handrail that you’re sure it’s going to leave one red straight mark, and his cock is almost exploding from the edge, “Let me, no, let daddy cum into your tight cunt, baby, please.”

God, he wants you. He wants you so bad, doesn’t he?

"Y- you should see yourself," you chuckle, stroking over Mr. Choi's gelled hair, and his head tilts up a little bit as your fingers get tangled in his black locks, the white of his eyes making him look like a wild dog waiting for its treat. "F-fucking do it, you fucking slut."

"Fuck, baby," he laughs, out of breath, "You’re really a price."

Mr. Choi hammers his hips into you, until the stars in front of you all look like wishes falling from the sky. Both of you feel it, how his cock just feels so right, fits in like your cunt is a fucking glove which is full and getting even fuller.

"God, fuck," Mr. Choi grunts from the bottom of his throat, his hot cum lading into you, and it's like your lower body is melting with it, becoming heavier with every drop he's unloading inside.

"Take all of my fucking cum," he husks and your faces clash together for one finishing wild kiss. Mr. Choi sucks on your lower lip, as he fucks his ejaculation deeper and deeper into your hole with slow thrusts, until he bucks up his pelvis the last time and moans out a raspy, “perfect fucking missy with a perfect fucking cunt..."

Ding!

For a man that uses his mouth so sparingly, his tongue surely works wonders.

"Sir, are you—"

Headman Park has entered the elevator without a word, pulling off his leather gloves, and with Mr. Choi stepping away, he has all the place he requires to get on his knees and throw your leg over his shoulder, his wet and warm muscle delving into your throbbing cunt. You've been bereaved of the time to inspect what was behind or around him when the door closed, but maybe that's irrelevant anyways. What is relevant, is how impatient, but also how careful the CEO remains, and how he still tries his best to slowly sift his tongue into your folds, feeling every inch of your wetness. He’s been dying to do this.

"Fuck, sir!"

"Please," the CEO chuckles, hastily pulling the black leathery from his hands to put it back in his briefcase that he's been carrying, but he doesn't miss your cunt once, purling over your clit and glancing at you. "Call me Seonghwa, princess."

You could cum right here and there, just at the sight of this pretty man looking up to you, who has laid out his first name and put it into yours, scream it out loud until everyone hears what a princess you've been made of.

Princess. You knew his eyes were different, but you didn’t know they saw the world differently too. Oh, how you wish you could see more of his world.

"Aww, what? That's why you're still a foreigner in our country, brother! 'Can't be dropping our titles," Mr. Choi huffs and lights himself a second cigarette, filling the elevator with smoke and tobacco. How his breath really doesn't smell is questionable to you.

Just like you, the CEO, or how you're allowed to call him now— Seonghwa, ignores his partner's words, laps over your clit with his tongue, gently easing into your cunt with his clean fingers, and your soft sighs are like a reward for him, for whatever he's done outside.

"Respect, brother, 's all about respect..."

You tighten your thighs around Seonghwa's neck. The charcoal-haired has closed his eyes, sighing into the taste of you, and you are flawlessly overlooking the loud mafiaboss, just completely concentrating on the commitment the CEO is eating you out with. His head fits magically between your legs, he works his fingers so flawlessly into you, this must be fate— and if it's not, you're going to make it your future in any which way possible. You're falling. No, flying; never coming down.

"Seonghwa," you whine, and your hand glides over the hooked male's forehead, his hair feeling smooth under your touch as he presses his tongue slowly— in circular motion— against your clit to keep you on the high, but not in a way that would make you trip over.

"Mmf," the mafiaboss in front of you huffs, clearly attracted, enticed by the way you've exhaled the other male’s first name, scratching his temple with the fingers that are holding his cigarette.

"Whether you wanna call me San or 'daddy', baby," the scarred male, no, San, the fucker grins, "I'm gonna be hearing both either way."

"Fuck—", you moan out, having to take a breath because of how Seonghwa has curled his fingers into you with his tongue ready to shovel anything into his mouth that comes out, "you, fuckhead!"

The CEO is giggling a bit, finding your tone very amusing— and he tries to tell you this by looking up and slanting his eyes a friendly way, no, a way that you've never even conjured up the fantasy to perceive him, the cold-faced Park Seonghwa who hasn't drunk a drop of alcohol tonight. What pureness in a man...

"I liked 'fat-cat' better,” San snickers and goes through his hair that definitely needs combing, turning around and looking at himself through the mirror, though his eyes squint towards Seonghwa's reflection on the other side, now again lost in your cunt, taking off his jacket and folding it in half behind his back.

"Brother, you're eating my cum, by the way," the mafiaboss jabs, puffing out smoke while he's decidedly getting hard again in his trousers. San really can't hide his emotions on his face, can he? His lips are pursed, eyebrows slightly pulled in— how obvious. The man is jealous and doesn't want to admit it, you're sure of it.

"Shut up," you hiss, having become a bit comfortable with teasing the frustrated, outwitted mafiaboss. Ten minutes were definitely too little for him, but you've already rid his thigh, let him cum inside, and Seonghwa is simply too good with his tongue right now.

"Fuuuck," you whisper, and feel every drowsy twirl of his finger inside you, but it's slow, so slow, Seonghwa is swerving around every sponginess inside you, savoring the contraction of your inner space, and how your muscles tighten, when he licks over your clit, he enjoys this; enjoys you.

And so it continues, Park Seonghwa exploring every detail of your cunt as if he's a sommelier tasting the rarest of fluids, appreciating every drop that lands on his tongue, his fingers making sure that they don't go to waste.

"Shit," San comments, "I should've eaten her out, too."

The CEO is not cocky about it, about the way you are grabbing into his hair and squirming, how he has to slightly lift you up so you don't fall from your position. And then, when Seonghwa thinks your taste has perfectly coated his palate, speeds up.

"Fuck, sir," and the title slips out of you, like a habit you can't change for good when you feel so small. The CEO between your legs doesn't mind it though, at least doesn't say anything on it and just lets his fingers hit your sweet spot until there is a distinctive "Seonghwa" leaving sighed out your lips.

"I'm going to—", you announce, but the male has been long aware of it, preparing himself more access by bending his upper body to angle himself across your cunt, giving his partner a better view on how you glisten in arousal.

San in front of you is standing frozen, with his cigarette slowly burning out in his mouth, and you recompense the lack of his cock in your cunt by moaning louder, so your voice can vibrate around his erection. He grins and gets a tongue to his canine tooth, naked upper body still glowing in sweat, muscles shining, cock twitching every time he hears you breathe, and breathe more intensely, "make me cum, Seonghwa, please!"

"I knew you would taste delicious," Seonghwa murmurs, silently, rather for himself, and this must be how he sounds when he's drunk, because he is so high on your taste, "but this is ambrosial, princess."

You curl up your pelvis, and Seonghwa holds you by your hips, as his tongue picks up in speed, drawing out every word he hasn't spoken tonight on your labia, stamping them into your clit, all the while his fingers row in more and every last drop.

"C- coming~", you purr, and your eyes close down, your hands deep in Seonghwa's scalp, exhaling the weight of your worries, that flushes down into the man who seems to have none in his life, and he breathes into your hot cunt through his nose, not letting go of it until he's made sure that your hips tremble around his head. "P- please, f- fuck, fuck, feels so good—"

Pumping the remaining come into you, Seonghwa licks up your cunt and kisses your clit until you go completely flaccid, your arms giving in, but Seonghwa catches you by your hand, kissing your thigh with his swollen pink lips.

With your body relaxed, your ass feels a bite sore, having been prodded into the iron rail for so long. You grab into Seonghwa's hand and try to push yourself up, but ultimately fail at getting yourself into a more comfortable position.

"San, hold her."

"Huh?", he asks, "'Need something more snuggly, baby? Or what did you call her again, brother?"

"Princess," the CEO answers immediately and you have to suppress a girly giggle, as Seonghwa turns his head around, lips still pressed against your thigh. He presumably sends San an admonitory look to hurry up, and gets up from his knees.

The mafiaboss shrugs, not offended by being ordered around. He puts out the cigarette against the mirror and cracks his neck by rolling his head around, his thick neck dousing into your sight as he does so. He's so intimidating, you think, but he's on his way to coast those monster-arms behind your back, hands down to each of your hamstrings to, "up you go," pick you up like real royalty. The giggle escapes your mouth but you don't feel the slightest embarrassed nor do you have a reason to be. You are sunken deep into San’s cushiony arms— his muscles make for a great seat, and hovering, air hitting your hot cunt, as your legs spread for the CEO in front of you when you fall into the elbows. You yelp, but the giggles just keep coming, making San in the mirror in front of you wink at you, cackling, "you like that, princess?"

Seonghwa smiles, satisfied by your enjoyment of this position and approaches you once more. "I have yet to kiss you, Y/N," he says with his sweet voice, and his gentle hands find your chin and waist, your eyes blossoming open for him to stare into.

Even San shuts up now, and you suppose he is too taking part in the beauty that is the embrace of you and Seonghwa; two sets of lips, crazing each other, meeting for one flowery affair, breathing out small vapors of life. You can taste yourself, which means that Seonghwa is fully consumed by your aroma.

God, you think again, your cunt tingling at how Seonghwa tugs at his tie, pulling it side to side as he kisses you— the golden 'π'-pin clanks shrill to the floor— everything about Seonghwa is so...

Clean?

You are inhaling the mellow smell of his satiny skin, and the CEO unbuttons his shirt with proficient, skilfull flicks of his fingers. He is so handsome, handsomely pretty, and even when it’s drenched in your fluids, his skin shines on its own, like Seonghwa has a light shining within. Once you can see his bare chest and get lost on the smooth surface, your eyes dive down, admiring his slim, yet very muscular physique.

Seonghwa gets his tie and drags off his shirt by tugging at one sleeve with his hand, the white fabric revealing the rest of body with one clean pull that matches one of the curtains.

"W-", and you have to jump back with your head to get the full spectacle that's presented in front of you, exhaling in awe— "Wow.."

"Not so blank, our brother, is he?", San chuckles from behind of you and lowers his head to press his chin against your temple, surveying the same sight.

Two colossal, monstrous dragons, red and black, are colliding, looped, entangled all around Seonghwa's right arm, fighting for dominance on his skin. The raven hydra has its jaw wide open where Seonghwa looks to his shoulder with a rather shy smile once he sees your reaction, baring its teeth towards his heart, while the crimson dragon ends at the CEO's wrist, sitting on top of his pulse.

"Would you believe me it was brother's idea, baby?"

"As if," Seonghwa murmurs, folding his shirt into a square.

San chuckles again, re-shuffling himself and pressing your back close to his stomach, granting the back of your head to rest at his collarbone. "I asked her if she would believe, brother."

You watch the delicate lines, the elegant strokes of tint meeting on his skin, but while your first impression made you believe they carried a certain viciousness with their svelte bodies, the second sight presents you a different image of two forces maneuvering into each other as a reminder that they both co-exist as supreme. It's not one another they're reviling against, it's the bearer of the both who is threatened by their fangs. Their existence is a warning reminder, but also a sign of pride.

"I believe it's... beautiful."

“Aw, you’re so sweet, baby.”

You haven't seen many tattoos in your life, none in the mountains, and even in the city the only observable tattoos were those of the sleazy guys in alleys that wait when you're done with your job to gape at your uniform. They got tigers and other animals roaring on their bodies to hide the fact they don't have the fighting skills to keep up, but for Seonghwa, a CEO, to have this amount of ink under his skin is a commitment and to imagine he’s hiding that under his ironed shirt and black jacket, no, that you are seeing it right now, it’s… You’re overwrought, steamed up, aflame.

"Wanna touch it, baby?", San asks, and you nod eagerly. Seonghwa chuckles, “Go for it.”

You let your fingertip ghost over the dragons' scales, tailing their curvature. Goosebumps form on Seonghwa's arm and his hand finds its way to your head, stroking your cheek, as you meet the red beast's eyes.

The mafiaboss whispers, almost sentimentally, "No blood or tears."

Another expression, which proves to you that the tattoo was undoubtedly his idea, but you see it, the romance that is spoken from the male's skin, regardless of the little insight you have on both of them. Loyalty, reverence, creed, a belief and a duty, and before you know it, you want Seonghwa to enwrap you with his arms and never let you go, which he does.

His slender hand cloaks the left side of your head, and he pulls himself into a kiss, while he unbuckles his belt with his other hand.

You don't know how much you understand of this situation, no, you don't know how much you want to understand of this situation.

You've been on your own. That's all you ever had after you left home: Your body and soul, the windstorms of the mountains pushing you from the back to keep going, and you've lived your best life living for yourself that way, in bliss, in ignorance— in peace, but what is peace in a place where you can't move by yourself? In a world that’s maimed by the rich, and sure, it may be that you’ve chosen your path, but you were never walking a road that was yours, always trailing behind something.

Nameless, that’s what you thought you would need to be.

Your monks wanted to be called their title like everyone else, it would have been disrespectful to ask Lady Kim for hers which you now regret, and not even as a secret did your old man tell you his name, but you— you, Y/N, you have a name and you want to scream it, live it as loud as you can, hear it echo back with a volume that feels stronger when it rings back.

You could have settled on being acknowledged by your supervisor to earn some good money, but this is what you’re here for, aren’t you? Why you trusted your gut to stick to the scary men? Why you walked to them with confident steps, even when a nervous knot was forming together inside you? Did you go as what, an act of defiance? One of independence? To prove yourself that you were still standing on your own feet?

"Speaking of, brother..."

Yes, with no shame.

"You really enjoyed yourself back there, didn’t you?”, San asks. “Didn’t expect that from you.”

Seonghwa is kissing you down your breast, observing closely how you breathlessly react to his tongue twirling around your nipple.

"You left me no other chance," the older male hums, coating your circular buds with his saliva, bringing out your heavenly sighs every chance he gets, stroking himself to the sounds of your pleasure.

"Well, I would have made sure you still fucked her, brother."

“Sure,” Seonghwa lisps and positions his cockhead at your entrance. 

You try to grab San's shoulder behind you, as the male pushes himself inside, and your torso rotates to the side with your eyebrows pulling together, your cunt being spread apart.  “F-fuck,” you exhale, and Seonghwa kisses the corner of your lip to soothe you. Your cunt squelches around his cock and your hips roll by themselves, wanting to take more of his length.

"Shit, look at her go," the mafiaboss woos, "Fuck yourself out, brother."

"Think you’ll miss this?", Seonghwa snickers and it must be the first question he has asked today. “Y- yeah, you will!”, you snap, feeling eager to be acknowledged for how good your cunt wraps around his throbbing heat. 

“Oh, princess,” the CEO laughs, and your stomach drops because of how pretty his laughter sounds, and he caresses your cheek, only making your confusion and desire to finally uncover what the two men have obviously been keeping from you grow bigger. You don’t want to say it abruptly, but you three are naked, in a confined space, skins pressed against each other, so you believe you’re worth some type of explanation– or are you not?

“C- can you tell me what’s going to happen?”, you whine, and Seonghwa moves his hips, grabbing you by your waist to get his whole length. “Are you, fuck, going to leave me?”

“I dunno, brother, you call it,” San mutters. “It was your plan.”

“D- don’t!”

“It’s barely my plan anymore,” Seonghwa breathes, bucking his pelvis in, his cockhead being sucked in by your sensitive cunt.

“Don’t leave me!”

“You needed a distraction, brother, I got you one.”

“No,” Seonghwa chuckles, but in his heat, he kisses you and glances up at San while his tongue brushes against your lip. “But I’ll admit she saved us some jail-time, San.”

They continue talking over your pleas, and though you would have loved to ask a second time how the night was going to end, your brain has started to give into the pleasure once San folds your legs together, holding you by your hamstrings, giving Seonghwa an easier angle to fuck you senseless. 

“F- fu-huuck,” you breathe out, and your eyes are disappearing behind your molten, droopy eyelids, with Seonghwa cumming for the second time on your abdomen and cleaning it up with his handkerchief, and you don’t even know when it was, that San crammed out his cock   again, but you can definitely feel the difference of his girth, when he re-enters your used cunt, your legs shakily landing on the floor. They feel wobbly, your thighs having gone loose, and the mafiaboss has to hold you by your arms behind your back to support you.

“Can’t take it anymore, baby?”, San whispers into your ear, and his voice is low, very low, you don’t know how much time has passed since you could make out any of his words, but it feels like you’re back here, in the elevator, and Seonghwa is putting on his belt again.

“I c- can!”, you manage to whine out, not wanting the night to end, not wanting to return to your small apartment, not wanting these two to be gone from your life. “I can!”, you repeat yourself, when San lets out a mockful cackle. “You’re not going to fucking leave me here, San!”

“Who said anything about leaving you here, baby?”, he asks you, and he does mean his confusion, but the sarcastic undertone makes you desperate grow desperate. San frowns. “What did I tell you, baby?”

“You aren’t telling me shit, San!”, you sob, and his cock running through you prevents you from finding a braver voice, his two hands find your wrists to bind them together in his grip. “Aren’t you such a smartie,” he growls into your ear, hot air hitting your dissolving ear.

“Brother,” San calls out, and the addressed man is busy opening up his briefcase, getting on his knee. “I’m still waiting on you, y’know.”

“If you had stuck to the plan, th–” Seonghwa murmurs, but the mafiaboss falls into his word. “Then we would have fuckin’ send the bitch to prison and someone else would have him killed him, but there! You know I didn’t come with the fucking patience for that, brother! Geezer was getting on my fucking nerves.”

Killed?

“And don’t you talk back now,” San warns, “It was you who killed all of ‘em, so you figure out how you’re going to carry that one out.”

Killed?

“You already know how I’m going to carry this out.” Seonghwa smirks. “But you’re stopping me, San.”

“Augh, brother, you’re too sober for your own sake!” San’s cock is too deep in your cunt and your body is too much in his control for you to stop moaning like a bitch, but in your head, you’re puzzling together tonight’s happenings.

Expensive whiskey. Ice cubes. Ten minutes, gunshots, black leather gloves– “killed.”

Oh, Y/N.

“What did you do with the chairman, Seonghwa?”, you moan out, feeling how the mafiaboss is ramming himself into you at a sloppy, greedy pace, prolonging how much he can be inside you before he comes again, and you don’t know whether his heavy breathing can cover up the silence that it takes for the CEO to react to your question.

Seonghwa is still kneeled on the floor, when he rotates his head, smiling, his eyebrows pushed up. “What do you think I did?” His second question of the day.

“I- I,” you stutter, but San shakes his head, and interrupts you with his voice still loose from the alcohol, “you really don’t know how to keep up a good mood, brother!”, grabbing you by your chin and yanking your head up. “Lemme make my baby cum first!”

You can’t see Seonghwa anymore. You can barely see anything anymore, you’re counting your fifth or sixth orgasm of the night, cunt growing hotter with each time San thrusts into it, and with your breath being cut off, you slowly feel your arms lose their responsibility, tingling up from where your wrists are crossed behind your back. His cockhead is flaying against your g-spot and your thighs tremble at how used you’re being, eyes falling in, throat feeling tied up.

“S- San,” you manage to cough out, back arching for your final cry of pleasure, and San grins, letting go of your wrists, which makes you immediately fall to the front, finding safety against the mirror with both of your hands. He smacks his hands against your ass and lunges into you until your whole breast is pushed against the cold wall. 

“Come on, baby, come for me,” San roars, and you wail, tired, exhausted, feeling the orgasm drown you like another wave in the ocean of bliss you’ve been swimming in, whining out, “coming, coming for you, San!”

The mafiaboss presses himself against your back, his silver cross being imprinted into your neck, as he unloads himself, his last drops of hot cum overflowing out of you. “Fucking slut… So fucking good…”

He kisses your jaw repeatedly and looks at how tiredly closed your eyes are in the mirror, cooing “aww, baby.” San strokes away a strand of hair and gets himself off your body, pulling out. “You look like you need some sleep, baby.”

You are trying to catch your breath, grabbing the handrail to hold yourself up, as it sounds like San is putting on his shirt again. They’re gonna fucking leave you here, aren’t they? Leave you here in the elevator with the– with the fucking bankrolls on the floor of the fucking men you fucking– Oh god… Keep breathing, Y/N. Keep on breathing.

“I mean all I’m saying… you know… lobsters and crabs are friends, pal.”

What the fuck is he on again…

“You’re making this hard on yourself.”

“I’m not doing anything, just sayin’ that she just grew on me, that’s all.”

Your legs tremble, as you try straightening them to stand up and see what the two are scheming again, but as you turn your body around, ass against the handrail again, you hear a very unfamiliar clicking in front of your forehead area which is not coming out of San’s mouth.

“You’ve grown soft. That’s what you did.”

“Ahhh, fuck you, brother.”

“Pathetic.”

You see a hole, and it also doesn’t take you long to see Seonghwa ready to pull the trigger, the mafiaboss leaning into the corner of the elevator, arms crossed, looking at you with an unlit cigarette in his mouth, pressing the button that leads to the lobby.

The night is over.

“A- are you going to– oh my g-god, are you going to kill me…?”

“Yes, princess.”

Your heart is going to burst, you could puke out so many words right now, but you don’t know what to do. You don’t want to die, not when you felt so fucking alive– you– fuck, you should feel sorry that your coworkers that they didn’t deserve to go the same way as the asswipes did, because you’ve long realised that the bangs were their skulls being crushed by the bullets, but at the same time you couldn’t care any fucking less about them right now. You just have to survive, that was the only thing that mattered since the very beginning. This is about your life. Your precious fucking life.

“Ah…”

Your body is too weak to hyperventilate, but your brain is working overtime. Do you run? Attack them? No…

Seonghwa hasn’t moved an inch away from your face, and you take it upon yourself to raise your hand and slowly push the cold, black gun to the side, so you can look him in his eyes, but he forces it back there.

“Please don’t kill me… I can do so much for you! I– I,” you stutter, trying to gather all the knowledge your monks have taught you. “I– I’ll do anything! You– you saw me, didn’t you? I have– I’ve been told I have a talent for serving! I– I can do anything, please, I beg you, just…”

You fall to your knees, and they burn on the glassy floor, your hands folded in front of your abdomen. 

“Just please, let me live…”

You’re not greedy. You’ve only taken what you were given, and tonight, you’ve been given so much. Too much? No, it couldn’t be…

“Brother.”

There are tears flowing down your eyes, and you feel so sorry for yourself. You miss your old monk, and hope that you may be reincarnated to a butterfly that he can admire, just so that he can look at you with his adoring eyes again. So someone can want the best for you once in your life–

“Brother?”

So anyone can finally love you for once in your life.

next part coming soon... series masterlist | main masterlist

#cromernet #choi san x reader #choi san smut #choi san scenarios #choi san x you #choi san x y/n #park seonghwa x y/n #park seonghwa scenarios #park seonghwa x reader #park seonghwa smut #ateez scenario #ateez smut #ateez x reader #chokkiwa #chokko #drivebyme

[suguruplsr]

4:00 AM

✰ your boyfriend picking you at damn near 4 am leads to you two fucking. not your fault he’s fine..

,, toji x fem reader , fluff + nsfw , some plot , loosely related to this , masturbation (m) , clit rubbing , he cums on your pussy , grinding , you ride his chest , use of “daddy” , body worship ? , light nipple & cum play , dirty talk , pet names (baby , mama , my lady , princess but jokingly , ) , mentioned that toji stole ur panties before (consensual)

“same city, same hoes, can’t move sour”

“at this hour, it’s 4:00 am with you now what?”

“it’s ‘bout to go down”

“yeah, you left your crew, now what?”

“it’s ’bout to go down”

“shorty, what you wanna do?” - Pistashios, Brent Faiyaz

you stood outside of your local bar, light clothes with a puffy bubble coat, worst choice of clothes to wear considering you stayed with your whiskey all night. on the rocks of course.

maybe you’ve overdone it, it was so damn early in the morning, and you got there at 11 pm? maybe even 10. all you remember is your friends deciding to gang up together, who’ve probably left you by now, to make your night better than that trashy 9 to 5 job you work at everyday. well, worked. stupid old crusty men with their favoritism. you let it slide for a few months after he was appointed as your manger at the little boutique down the street. but even with the disgusting and not-so-smooth tone of his voice, you were pretty— no, hella fucking underpaid. and of course men like him switch up the second you question their behaviors.

at least toji wasn’t like that.

toji. oh fuck. you remember telling you’d let him know when you’d get home. which you clearly have no way getting to. especially after he gave you an eye roll, on the phone, when you gave a last second call to just tell him where you were. he swears you called so late because you wouldn’t be able to handle his judgment for you going to go get yourself shit-faced. but really, you did forget the “caring” man had goal of always being able to keep you safe, or at least keep up with your location, in case of emergencies. something that’s a high risk within this dump of a city.

your shaky and cold fingers tap through your phone, cursing yourself when it hits something else than your messages, eager to just get away from the building.

Friday [3:32 am] y/n — cranky: can u come pick me up..

Friday [3:32 am] cranky — pretty loser: you better explain yourself.

damn. same minute, and a period? as much as you love that man, you cannot handle a sassy ass toji, and most definitely not when there’s still fizzes of alcohol in you. you don’t want to end up in the wrong, right, bed because of some stupid shit you may say to fight back his side eyes.

you walk away from the double doors of the bar, heading towards the parking lot. you lean against the brick wall, watching the coldness of your breath drift off into the air. rnb music played softly in your earbuds, few people roaming the streets in the dark night. you could lightly hear a few drunken men exiting the bar doors with slurred words and laughs, all patting each others back.

how can they be so lively at this time of night? must’ve been a celebration.

well you don’t have room to talk. a bit impatient, you checked the time, 3:38. five minutes. now that you think about it, you weren’t sure how far toji’s house was from here.

distracting yourself, you ponder over the, “calculations”, in your head of about how much time it’d take for him to get here. well, until you hear the familiar engine of his ford mustang, you wonder how he was even able to afford the latest model.

but considering his occupation, you lose the thought all together.

it took 12 minutes in total. the second the suspicious black card is parked in front of you, you’re walking towards it with a fast pace. almost opening the door until he’s opening his door and quickly locking the doors. “what the fuck..?” you mutter, glaring at toji as he walks around the car with a huff of annoyance.

oh.

okay maybe he has some gentleman qualities, you think, letting him unlock and open the door for you, suffering the pain of touching the cold ass handle. yet he still hasn’t talked, not when he got in, not when he got back on the road with a hand on the wheel and the other in your hold, and not when he’s sat at a red light, currently giving you judgmental glances that are more painful than the silence.

“i wasn’t checking the time.” “yea no shit.” okay, you can do this.. you hope. “sooo maybe you shouldn’t look at me like that..?” you sing, holding toji’s hand a bit tighter, it’s big and warm, a comforting warmth that you bring up to your lips with a soft peck. “well maybe you shouldn’t have shit friends.” he grumbles, pressing the gas as soon as the light changes, unconsciously nudging his hand closer to feel your soft lips.

“oh c’mon, we were hanging out for hours. they probably had too much to drink and forgot about me or something..” you hum, turning to him and leaning over the arm rest, running a hand along his arm as he brings his fingers up to your chin. “did they ever text you?” he scoffs, squishing your cheeks, yet his eyes don’t leave the road. even if he did want to give you a knowing look from the sound of your silence as your check your phone.

3:51 • [no new messages]

and your mood falls downcast. biting your lip in nervousness as he waits for your response, maybe they’ll tell you their excuse later in the morning.

“you can’t blame them, it’s almost 4 am” you murmur. and he tuts, keeping your head upright as soon as you put down your phone. you know this street, the last light that leads to his creepy stale neighborhood full of rich old folks. wait, his neighborhood?

you don’t even have the energy to question his route. you just hope you don’t see that one old hag who always nags you two about your relationship.

the red beam reflects in your eyes, all doey and flickering him with a tiny pout tugging your lips. “well i don’t like their lack of care for their dear friend. next time you should just go with me.. and weren’t you the reason why you all even went? tsk.” toji’s face scrunch up, disdain clear in his expression while you ponder over his words.

“nothing’s gonna change your mind?” “nada.” and you sit back defeated. he hand moves to your thigh, squeezing it firmly as a light of green flashes. you stay silent, fiddling with his fingers. which are crazily bigger than yours, and could definitely use a trim. maybe you could cut his cuticles too? is that even safe? he could use a spa day in general, plus a massage, you’ve seen the way he’s twisted his body in insane ways just to crack his back.

you’re shaken from your thoughts when the music in the background stops, car parked and off as he steps out his door. after earlier, you were well reminded to not even touch the door handles, how could you ever forget that? he’s always been adamant on that.

he’s opening the door, greeting you with a small grin, “does the princess need to be carried?” toji chuckles lightly, giving you a hand and guiding you out of the car. “very funny.” you roll your eyes, a smile on your face as he locks the car doors and fishes through his keys for the one meant for the front door.

you walk out the shower, exhausted. and before you can even think of getting comfortable on his bed, you’re distracted by the figure on it.

it’s not like you haven’t seen toji’s body before, far from that, but it’s just something about it. his shirt off with a pair of sweats on. he was laying back against the headboard arms spread wide on it for you to slip easily in them. all with his eyes closed and comfortable.

his muscles are defined, probably made by greek gods from how perfectly they’re structured. and he’s so broad, taking up over half of the space with his large shoulders. just the sight of his neck makes you ache, you’re not sure why that is. but the way he tilts his head back, adam’s apple sticking out, makes you want to sit on his lap and kiss all over it, hands traveling along his physique.

“your mind must be in the gutter. y’r eatin’ me up like no tomorrow..”

toji calls you out with a smirk playing in his face, head tilting towards you. and you saunter over to him without hesitation, oblivious to the way his eyes darken in realization to what you’re wearing.

you don’t keep much clothes at his house, so you usually find yourself wearing his shirts with panties. panties, that he steals off you every now and then. but today you opted for wearing a little white spaghetti strap with a pair of cute pair of matching lace panties. the less, the better.

his eyes are stuck on the way your breasts jiggle when you take your spot on his lap, arms wrapping around his neck and pulling yourself closer. “i can’t help it. i just love your body..” you coo with a playful pout, letting your hands swarm along his body. it’s slow, adoring every inch of his skin and sometimes griping his muscles.

“i can say the same baby.” toji mutters, breath hitching when your hands begin to run up and down on his stomach. he’s probably poking your thighs by now from how sensitive he feels when your fingers drag along the outline of his v-line.

“oh yeah?”

“fuck yeah.”

and you giggle, holding his face with one hand as you two enter a kiss. your lips fight against each other hungrily while your other hand reaches down between your thighs, feeling his hard length strain in his pants. toji grunts when you begin to rub your thighs on it, squeezing them together, and the friction makes him pull away from your lips, head thrown back.

“shit. gunna make me cum.” he huffs out, and it makes your pussy throb. it’s so attractive, the long of his neck, the way his muscles visibly tighten and he’s grabbing the headboard to stabilize himself. you move your hands back behind you, holding onto his legs, and keeping your hips up to grind on his hard cock with your legs spread around his body. it's fucking amazing, the way he could see and feel your clothed pussy, the outline of his cock dragging along your folds.

“wanna feel it on my panties daddy..” you give a whine, tucking out your lips and looking up at him so cutely. and how can he say no?

toji wastes no time rolling his pants down a bit, fishing out his cock and holding the base, directing it towards your white panties. you hold back a moan at the feeling of his tip nudging your bud through your panties. he gives a few tight and short jerks of his cock as you push your pussy impossibly closer. “fuckin’ dirty, bet ya want ‘em soaked all over. gonna cum on that pussy n’ rub your panties on it.” his words make you whimper, feeling his fingers push the cloth aside.

toji smirks at the sight of your soaping pussy, wet and sensitive to the cold air. his tip slips through your folds, gathering the slick on his cock. “tojiii, o-ohh..” you can feel your body aching to lay back, tightening your grip on his legs as he teases your entrance. you can’t even pull your eyes away from his cock. it’s so girthy, tip lightly red with veins bulging a bit. you can’t help but want to reach down help him, his pre cum was coming out in slow little blobs.

“do it really slow n’ hard, base up. i-imagine my tongue dragging under your cock, your cock flat on it.” you murmur out, turning into a whine when he follows your command, a deep groan escaping him, “f-fuck you know about this baby? feels fucking gooood.” toji heaves, slowly picking up the pace when your hole sucks his tip in.

“how do you think i suck you off so good?” you give a small grin when he’s letting out a low ‘fuuck’, quickly pulling back to let his dick sit on your folds, spurts and globs of cum spilling onto your pussy. his doesn’t stop his hand, trying to make your pussy as messy as possible, and gripping your thigh tightly with the other. then he snaps your panties back in place, making you squirm from the hot feeling of his cum spreading around your pussy.

“oooh, ya feel that? s’all mushy n’ warm, yea?” toji chuckles, his eyes watching as a patch of wetness slowly forms on the cloth. “mhm! love it so much, but i wanna drag it all over y’r chest toji! been thinkin’ about it..” your whimpers has his dick twitching again, mindlessly pushing your panties against your hole, feeling around it. “fucking spoiled.” he scoffs.

and now here you are, both of you bare and naked with hickies and marks all over each other, sitting on his wide large chest, pussy flush against his muscles. “you can do it yourself right? c’mon mama, you got it.” toji gives a small smile, arms behind his head as you hold onto his shoulders. “y-yea, i got itt.. mm” when your pussy drags along the line of his chest, you fall down to little mewls, feeling every muscle of his chest.

“you see it baby? look at you makin’ a mess on me.” his body vibrates with his chuckle, going straight to your pussy. you drag your cunny on his defined muscles, going all the way down to his six pack. you bite your lip at the sight of his chest covered in the slick of your mixed cum.

it'd make a good wallpaper, you think.

"makes you look pretty." you mutter, not even thinking as you drag your fingers along the stream, before gripping on his sides and pulling yourself up. but before you can admire his nipples, he's flexing his chest, making you hold onto his biceps at the feeling.

"cute n' all but i wanna see her squirt on me." toji grins, moving his arms and holding you body upright with one hand.

his fingers pull a whine out you when he rubs your clit, tilting your body back a bit so he can smack your cunt with the palm of his hand. "toji!" "nah, wanna hear what you said earlier." and your stomach twists, he likes being called daddy? that's a first.

"can you make me cum daddy? wanna make y'r chest drip with my cum." your voice it slurred, giving him a pouty whine and biting that pretty lip of yours in frustration. and he's grinning, holding your body firmly.

"whatever my lady wants~" he teases, pressing your thighs down as much as he can to make sure your pelvis is pressed tightly against his body with no care for the way your knees hurt, because the sounds of your incoherent moans are better. you’re clawing his chest, being dragged so slowly on it and its so antagonizing. he even reaches down with a thumb to play with your bud, making your thigh shake around him.

“cum on me baby..” he whispers, his eyes trained on your gooey folds as the coil in your tummy breaks. “daddy—!” you cry, all teary as he keeps guiding you along his chest, not letting you escape your high and you both watch how the cum and juices leaving your cunny trickles onto his chest. “so cute..drippin’ all on me..” he groans when you smear your juices on one of his nipples, a coy smile playing on your face and asking him what you’ve been desperate for in a sweet tone.

“can i have y’r cock now daddy?”

#jjk x reader #jujustu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x fem!reader #jjk #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jujustu kaisen #jjk smut #jjk x you #toji x y/n #toji x you #toji smut #jujutsu toji #jjk toji #jujutsu kaisen toji #toji zenin #toji fushiguro #toji x reader #jjk x y/n #jjk x poc!reader #jujustu toji #jujustsu kaisen smut #smut #jjk fushiguro #fushiguro x reader #fushiguro toji x reader #fushiguro toji smut #jujutsu kaisen fushiguro #jujutsu kaisen smut

[wholoveseggs]

Can I maybe have an angst/fluff where the reader had turned her humanity off and Elijah is trying his best to flip it back on? Thank you!! Love your work 💕

Forgiveness

18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List}

After a tragic event you flip your humanity switch and begin to terrorize the Quarter. You have to be put down for the good of the city, but your husband will stop at nothing to save you.

♡♡ Thanks for the request anon(s) sorry it took so long! ♡♡

5.5k words - Warnings: so so so angsty, violent, reader does some evil shit, a bit of sex but its not sexy, this is definitely the darkest thing I've ever written.. you want angst??? you get angst.

Marcel sat on a stool in a dimly lit bar, staring into his glass of whiskey. He wondered how much more loss he could take, and when it would finally break him.

He was experiencing a kind of helplessness he hadn't experienced since he was a boy, sneaking half rotten apples in his shirt, running home as fast as he could so he wouldn't be caught.

He couldn't outrun his feelings now. They followed him wherever he went, nipping at his heels, mocking him for the things he couldn't fix, the things he couldn't undo.

It wasn't his fault, not really, yet he felt guilty, because a part of him still cared for you. Even after all you had done. All you had become.

He was pulled out from his melancholy by one of his nightwalkers, a vampire called Arthur, a man who had served in the first World War, and came to New Orleans, looking for the easy life.

He sat down next to Marcel and placed a gold chain necklace on the table, it had distinct little jewels, each one a different color. Marcel recognized it instantly and his heart sank at the flecks of blood still clinging to it.

"Jean," he said softly, picking the necklace up and examining it.

Arthur nodded his head. "I found her in an alleyway, anyone could of come across it," he told Marcel.

"How bad?" Marcel asked, already knowing the answer.

"Not pretty. I got rid of the body."

"Thanks," Marcel said, and he meant it. He didn't want a bunch of human detectives finding the body and raising questions. "I told Jean not to go after her," he said, shaking his head, the weight of his regret was almost crushing.

Arthur poured himself a drink, and looked at Marcel with a raised brow.

"What else was she supposed to do? Sit at the bar and mope while her friends are slaughtered," he said, taking a swig.

"You know it's not that simple," Marcel told him.

Arthur sighed, "I know," he said, "but we gotta stop her, she's killing us off, one by one,"

Marcel finished his drink, his knuckles turning white around the glass.

"Yeah," he agreed, his voice breaking, "I know."

He looked down at his glass, watching the amber liquid swirl around, wondering if he could ever drink enough to forget who you used to be, if he would ever get you back. The ironic part was that he needed some solid advice and the person he usually would go to was you.

He threw his glass on the ground and it shattered on the floor, causing the other vampires in the bar to jump.

"Fuck," he yelled, standing up, looking around at his people. "Listen up, she got Jean," he paused as the crowd murmured in shock, "and I'm not gonna stand here and let her kill anyone else," he announced.

"What about Elijah?" A young vampire asked.

"Fuck him," Marcel shouted, "he will let us all die before he hurts his precious wife."

"If you see her, bring her to me, and I will give you the daylight ring of your choice," he promised, and the crowd cheered.

"Now go, and do not approach her alone," he ordered, and the group dispersed.

"We got this Marcel," Arthur told him.

Marcel gave him a nod and watched him leave. His heart broke for what he knew he had to do. He would stop you, no matter what it took.

A soft low moan came tumbling past your lips as you rocked your hips forward, and dug your nails deeper into the neck of the man beneath you. His eyes were closed in a mix of ecstasy and pain, and his hips thrust upwards, chasing the pleasure you were giving him.

"Don't cum," you compelled him, and his body tensed beneath you.

"Please," he begged, his hands reaching for you, grabbing your thighs and squeezing.

You moaned and lifted yourself up, and then slammed down onto him, hard. He cried out in pleasure, his eyes rolling into the back of his head.

"Please," he choked out, and you could see the tears pooling in his eyes.

You were getting tired of him. His stamina was abysmal, and you assumed that since he was covered in tattoos he enjoyed a bit of pain. You had been disappointed when you had learned that wasn't the case.

"Don't be a bitch," you spat, "and shut up."

He nodded, and you could tell he was struggling. You sighed, and grabbed him roughly by the hair, pulling his head to the side and exposing his neck.

He groaned, and you bit into his neck, making sure your teeth sliced deep. Blood poured from his neck, you could taste a hint of the endorphins rushing through him and smiled. You sucked on his wound, and began moving again.

His breathing hitched, and his whole body was shaking, you knew it wouldn't take long for him to reach his orgasm.

"You can cum now," you told him, and he moaned, and his fingers dug into your hips.

You continued rocking into him, and a few seconds later he let out a strangled cry, and you could feel his cock throbbing inside of you.

You smiled through bloodied teeth then sunk your fangs back into his neck, tasting the flood of endorphins. You continued to drink, feeling him struggle underneath you.

"Too much," he wheezed, trying to push you away, but he was far too weak.

You kept going until his breathing slowed, and his body stopped moving. You pulled back and let his body slump onto the bed, looking down disappointedly.

"I don't even get an orgasm out of it," you complained, rolling your eyes.

You lifted yourself off him, stretching and cracking your neck.

You glanced over at the woman laying in the chair in the corner of the room, and frowned. You had forgotten about her. She was alive, her chest rising and falling, her heartbeat thumping loudly.

You had compelled her to be silent and still, she was doing an excellent job. You stood up and walked towards her. She stared at you with wide, terrified eyes. You were naked, and covered in blood, it dripped down your face, and neck, and coated your breasts and legs.

"Oh, honey," you cooed, brushing her hair out of her face. "I'm so sorry, was that your boyfriend?"

The woman whimpered, tears spilling out of her eyes, and you shushed her, gently running your thumb over her bottom lip.

"You shouldn't stay with a cheater," you told her, and she looked at you in confusion, "and you should choose better men," you advised, then snapped her neck.

You went to the bathroom, and turned the shower on, and stepped under the hot stream, letting the water wash away the blood and cum.

Your mind was calm, the only thought swirling around in your head was your desire to drink and fuck, and the two together was an amazing combination.

You washed yourself quickly, then found a dress and slid it over your wet body. It clung to your skin, but you didn't mind.

You put on some jewelry you found and checked yourself out in the mirror. You were beautiful, and the darkness behind your eyes made you look deadly.

You smiled, satisfied with your appearance, and left the hotel, deciding to find your next victim.

New Orleans was a big city, but it was full of sin, and you loved walking the streets, feeling its pulse, and knowing that somewhere there was a soul aching for you to feed on.

You could have compelled yourself a meal, but where was the fun in that? There was something so satisfying about hunting and the chase was exhilarating.

You walked down a back street, thinking about having a redhead for dinner when the hairs on the back of your neck stood up, and your stomach clenched.

You were being followed.

You sped up and the person followed suit, and you smiled. Finally, something to cure your boredom. You took a sharp left, and the footsteps following you became hurried.

"Fuck," a male voice shouted, and you laughed, and took another left, and then a right, and a left again. Leading them exactly where you wanted.

You were back near the hotel, and you slipped into the alleyway and waited. You were going to enjoy this.

You didn't have to wait long, a few seconds later a vampire rounded the corner and stopped when he saw you.

"Arthurrr, it's been a while," you said, licking your lips. "I thought you and your merry band of idiots would have learned their lesson by now," you told him.

"Well, you know me, I'm a slow learner," he replied, standing at the head of the alley, his arms crossed.

"Jean was such a nice girl, you guys were together, right?" You asked, knowing full well they were.

"We were," Arthur said, his jaw clenching, and you could see the hurt in his eyes.

"She was so sweet, always so eager to please," you continued, taking a step towards him, "and so willing to do anything for those she loved," you said, pausing, "it's a shame that you're all so willing to die for one another," you finished, taking another step forward.

"Has Elijah seen you like this?" Arthur asked, taking a step back, his hand sliding into his pocket.

"What, covered in blood and looking sexy as hell," you replied, grinning at him.

"No, like a monster."

Arthur watched you freeze, a flicker of emotion crossing your face. It was gone as fast as it came and your expression went cold again and you smirked at him.

It hurt him to see you like this, you had been his friend for decades. But this wasn't about him and you, it was even about his beloved Jean. He didn't care if Elijah would tear him apart for it. He would not let you hurt another person he loved. He had to put you down, like a rabid dog.

"Isn't that what we are Artie? Monsters."

"Not all of us," he said, his voice cracking.

"Come on, don't be shy," you said, stepping closer, "I'll let you get a hit in."

Arthur reached into his pocket and felt the needle he prepared. You were much older and stronger than he was, but all he had to do was get close enough to you and shove the needle into your skin and maybe he could end this nightmare

Marcel knelt down over Arthur's body, or at least what was left of it. He didn't have anymore tears left in him to shed.

"I'm sorry, my friend, go be with Jean," he whispered, closing Arthur's eyes.

"And Mark, Jessa, Sean, Patrick..." Said a voice from behind him.

Marcel closed his eyes and sighed, turning around and looking up at Elijah.

"How can you be so fucking callous?" Marcel snarled.

Elijah didn't know how to respond. He was numb, and the pain had become too much. He was barely holding himself together, the only thing keeping him going was his promise.

He was going to save you, no matter the cost.

"Are you just going to stand there and act like you don't care?" Marcel spat, standing up, anger and resentment coursing through him.

"Don't make this any worse than it already is," Elijah said.

"You are killing us!" Marcel shouted, taking a step towards him.

Elijah shook his head and clenched his fists, and Marcel saw the pain in his eyes. He stopped himself and took a breath.

"Elijah, she is out of control, you need to do something," he said, his voice softer.

"I know," Elijah agreed. "But... she's... I can't, not yet," he stuttered, his voice breaking, "just a few more days," he pleaded, looking at Marcel desperately.

"A few more days," Marcel scoffed, "Elijah, if you don't stop her, I will have to kill her."

Elijah flashed forward and shoved Marcel into the wall.

"You won't lay a finger on her," Elijah growled, his face inches from Marcel's.

"I don't want to," Marcel told him, and Elijah could see the truth in his eyes. "But I can't let her keep doing this, you can't expect us to sit around and let her murder everyone we love."

"Marcel..." Elijah warned, his grip tightening.

"Elijah, this has to stop," Marcel said, shoving Elijah back, "I have to stop her, before she kills the whole fucking Quarter," he exclaimed, his eyes glistening.

"I know you Mikaelsons only care about yourselves, so let me put this in a way you will understand." Marcel took a breath, and tried to remain calm. "We can't hide what she's doing anymore. The humans are scared, and are starting to ask questions. If this continues, they will figure out that we exist, and the whole world will come down on New Orleans, and none of us will make it out alive."

Elijah's shoulders slumped and he sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"What would you have me do, Marcel?" Elijah asked, his voice soft and defeated.

"Turn her humanity back on."

You felt like shit, cold yet hot, your throat was on fire and every limb ached. You sat up slowly and rubbed the sleep from your eyes, and blinked several times. Your vision was blurry, and it took a moment for the room to come into focus.

You thought it was just vervain in that needle, nothing a couple of drinks couldn't fix, but when you started to see things that weren't there, you realized that Arthur must have dosed you up with wolfsbane.

You managed to crawl into some hole of an apartment to hide from the hallucinations, hoping when you woke up you would be feeling better.

But it didn't, you were dying. You could feel it.

"No," you moaned, falling back against the wall, the reality of your situation sinking in.

"You didn't think I would just let you die," a soft, familiar voice spoke.

"You're not real," you told him, refusing to look at him.

"That doesn't mean I'm not here."

You looked up and Elijah was standing in front of you. You sighed and closed your eyes, but he was still there, in your mind.

"What kind of monster are you?" He asked and you laughed.

"Child killer," you answered, looking at him, his expression was blank. "Murderer, adulterer, thief, blasphemer..." You listed, but he remained expressionless.

"Whore," he added and you laughed again.

"I'm a terrible wife," you said, smiling.

"You are a monster," he repeated.

"So are you," you snapped.

"I never claimed to be otherwise," he said.

"If you are real you should kill me," you suggested.

"I'm not real," he reminded you.

"I know, the real you would never call me a whore," you replied, and he chuckled.

"I'm dying Elijah," you stated, your eyes welling up with tears, "this is it, I can feel it."

"What are you going to do about it?"

You took a deep breath and stood up, leaning against the wall for support.

"I'm going to go get the cure," you decided, stumbling out into the night.

The compound wasn't far from the apartment, and the cold air helped you wake up, and your head was clearer, and you could focus on your destination.

"Why not let yourself die?" Elijah asked, walking alongside you.

"Living is much more fun, so many possibilities," you said, "food, sex, money..."

"Family, friends..." He added.

"Waste of time," you dismissed, waving him away, watching him dissolve.

You pushed through the iron gates, trying your best to compose yourself. You entered the courtyard and saw a few nightwalkers scattered around, they didn't notice you and continued drinking and chatting.

"Where is Klaus?" You asked loudly.

Everyone turned and looked at you, and the room fell silent. All you could see was their fear and it amused you.

"I will not ask again," you said, smiling sweetly.

"In his studio," someone answered, and you gave them a nod, and walked past then, heading upstairs.

You barged right in and found him standing in front of an easel, painting. He only painted when he was troubled, and his canvas was filled with darkness and death.

"Lovely," you commented, walking towards him.

Klaus didn't turn to look at you, he simply continued to paint. "Elijah isn't home, but I expect you know that already," he said.

"How perceptive," you remarked.

"To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?" He asked.

"I need your blood," you told him.

"Rather bold of you to ask, considering the circumstances," he said, finally turning to look at you.

You didn't know what to say. You had no words, and for once you were lost for a witty remark. You just stared at him, and he studied you.

"I've been hearing about your extracurriculars," he said, a smirk tugging at his lips.

"Is that so," you replied, and the corners of your mouth curled up.

"Killing a child, now that's unexpected," he remarked.

You ignored him, unable to respond, because it wasn't something you wanted to think about. You could see your hallucination of Elijah staring at you from the corner of the room. A small child appeared next to him, blood pouring out of her neck.

"Why didn't you save me?" She asked, her eyes filled with pain and betrayal.

"Shut up," you whispered, shaking your head.

"She died in pain, and you did nothing," the vision of Elijah said, and you closed your eyes, trying to will it all away. It was becoming irritating.

"I'm sure the mother will be most upset," Klaus said.

"Spare me the guilt trip, you've done far worse," you spat, opening your eyes, relieved the visions had disappeared.

Klaus observed your disheveled state and noticed how much you were sweating, and the dark circles under your eyes. You were clearly unwell, and it explained why you risked coming back to the compound. You really did need his blood.

"I have, love. But that's just who I am, it's not who you are," he replied, turning back to his canvas.

"Well, I've always wanted to try the whole serial killer thing," you said, trying to sound light-hearted, but the joke fell flat, and neither of you laughed.

"So you killed the child because you wanted to? Because you enjoy doing such things? I'm not even that diabolical." He chuckled, adding a bit of white to the canvas.

"Yes, Klaus, I wanted to kill her, I wanted her to suffer, and I wanted to see the look on her mother's face as I did it."

Klaus set his brush down, and turned back to you. "That's a lie, it was an accident, Marcel told me," he said, watching your eyes widen, and your face fall.

"It was an accident," the little girl's ghost said, appearing in front of you.

You stumbled back, bumping into the sofa, and the girl was right in front of you.

"Why didn't you save me?" She repeated, tears filling her eyes.

"FUCK!" You yelled, your hands gripping the sides of your head.

"Wolfsbane is one hell of a trip," Klaus said casually, watching you stumble back from something he couldn't see.

"If you won't give me your blood, just kill me, I rather not die in agony," you told him.

"Do you think you deserve it?" He asked.

"Deserve what? Death, mercy, life? Who knows, who cares," you answered.

"I think Elijah does," Klaus said, and you froze.

"I'm not talking about this with you," you said, turning to leave.

"Despite what you may think, I do consider you family, even in the state you are in," he said, and he saw the look of surprise on your face.

"Ahh, there it is," he said softly, "a flicker of feeling just under the surface, fight your way back y/n," he encouraged.

Frustration was the only thing you were feeling and you lashed out, pushing over his easel, knocking his paints off the table.

He raised his eyebrows at your outburst and laughed, it was a rough, genuine laugh, and he grinned at you.

"Very well, Elijah wouldn't be pleased if I let you die and I kind of like you like this," he admitted, "though, you are rather irritable."

You stopped yourself from talking back, just needing to get your hands on his blood. You didn't want to waste any more time with him.

"Now, what am I going to ask in return," Klaus said, stroking his chin, "something I've been wanting for a very long time."

"If you want to fuck you don't have to bribe me," you told him.

"As tempting as that is, no," he said, grinning. "I want a favor, in the future," he offered.

"You're going to have to be more specific."

"That's the beauty of a favor, it can be anything," he said.

"Fine," you snapped, "blood now please,"

Klaus smirked and opened a drawer in the table, taking out a vial and handing it to you. You snatched it from his hand and uncapped the lid, gulping the blood down.

"What hallucinations were you having?" He asked, and you froze, and he laughed.

"Private ones," you replied, placing the empty vial on the table.

"You're no fun," he pouted. "You have my blood now, get out," he said, returning to his canvas.

You didn't argue, leaving him to his painting, and returned to the main courtyard. You stood there, trying to figure out your next move. You knew what was waiting for you if you turned your humanity back on. Guilt and self-loathing, and the pain of knowing what you've done, and not being able to take it back.

You needed to leave the city before they forced you to turn it back on. There was nothing here for you anyway, not anymore.

"That's her," you heard someone say, and looked around.

"Are you sure?" Another asked.

"I'm sure," the first one confirmed.

They were staring right at you, but the fear in their eyes from earlier was gone, replaced with anger and resentment. You smiled and flashed forward, snapping the neck of the vampire who had identified you.

The rest charged, and you were surrounded by vampires, but it wasn't a challenge. You were far older and stronger than them. The courtyard turned into a slaughterhouse and the floor was covered in blood.

You were standing over a body, tearing the heart out when Marcel called your name. You dropped the heart and slowly turned, your lips curling up into a smirk.

Marcel grabbed your arm, trying to break your hold, but it was no use, you were stronger than him. You smiled, digging your fingers deeper, and he gasped.

"Marcellus," you greeted, smirking. Before he could react you slammed him against the wall. "I was hoping I would run into you," you said, pressing your hand into his chest. "We have some unfinished business,"

"I taught you better than that sweet Marcel," you taunted, twisting your wrist.

Marcel looked into your eyes, full of emotion, and you couldn't tell if it was sadness or pity.

"Stop this," he said, his grip tightening, and he tried to push you back. "I don't want to kill you," he said, his voice softer.

"And why not?" You asked, digging your fingers deeper, his face twisted in pain.

"Because..." he choked out, his heart slowing down, and his vision blurred, "I know you are still in there, my friend, and I'm not going to lose you,"

"I was so boring, so full of weakness," you told him, "this is who I was meant to be."

"No, you're not," he gasped, struggling to breathe, his legs buckling under the pressure. "You were the woman who helped raise me, would bake me apple pies whenever I had a bad day, would let me sleep in the same bed as her and Elijah when I had a nightmare, the woman who taught me love and compassion," he told you, and his grip tightened on your arm.

"And now she is hurting because she made a mistake, and that is something that I can forgive, because I know her heart is good."

You laughed coldly, his attempts to manipulate you not working, and you tightened your grip. You didn't want to hear anymore from him, his words were getting under your skin in a way that caused fear to trickle in.

"Goodbye, Marcel," you said, squeezing his heart, and it was too late for him to stop you, his strength was leaving him.

"Darling, put Marcellus down," said the last voice you wanted to hear. The one that could make all your pain return.

You felt him behind you, his hand on your waist. Your breath caught in your throat and the hairs on the back of your neck stood up.

"Let him go," Elijah said softly, his hand moving to your arm, keeping you from tearing Marcels heart out.

"Fuck off Elijah," you growled, struggling to get free, but his grip was like a vice.

"We can do this the hard way if you insist, I have no issue breaking your neck," he warned.

"You would never do that to your precious wife," you taunted, tugging in Elijah's grasp causing Marcel to cough up more blood.

Elijah let out a long sigh, then he moved faster than you could comprehend and everything went black.

You woke in a small windowless room, only a few candles illuminating the space. You were in a chair, your wrists bound by chains.

"You're awake," a voice came from the shadows, and Elijah stepped into the light.

"This is kinky, even for you Elijah," you teased.

He did not look amused, sadness and regret filled his eyes, and he had never looked so broken. He knelt in front of you, and rested his hand on yours.

"Turn it back on," he demanded, looking into your eyes.

"I can't," you lied.

"Yes, you can," he said, his grip tightening.

"No, I can't," you argued, "turning it off was the best decision I have ever made."

"What happened was an accident, it wasn't your fault," Elijah said, and you could see the pain in his eyes, "and turning off your emotions does not fix things, it only makes it worse."

You let him talk, he was so good at it, his deep sexy voice creating a perfect melody of bullshit. But you let him think he was getting through to you as you subtly slipped out of your restraints. Your loving husband was so trusting.

"We can work through this, I can help you," he continued, "I love you," he said, his thumb gently caressing the back of your hand.

"I know," you replied, a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth, and without a word you freed yourself from the chains and sped to the door.

Elijah was quicker, blocking your path. You let out a huff and tried to push past him, but he shoved you back and grabbed your shoulders.

You felt anger again, the only thing you could feel and you unleashed it on him. Clawing, scratching, striking him wherever you could. He took everything you threw at him, and eventually, he trapped you against the wall.

You let you a high pitched scream, it was feral and animalistic, and you thrashed in his grip, but his body pressed against yours, his hands on either side of your head, keeping you still.

"Stop," he said softly, it was barley a whisper.

Your body was pressed firmly against his, and you could feel his heart racing.

"Please," he begged, his eyes filling with tears.

He didn't look angry or annoyed, he looked sad, and it wasn't until then that you noticed his blood, covering your hands and clothes, and you realized how much you had hurt him.

"Just stop, please," he said, his voice cracking, and you knew the pain was too much.

You looked up at him and felt your anger give way into sadness. It was just a trickle, a soft misting of emotion, but it was there. You knew what was coming next.

You felt the weight of everything that had happened, all the hurt, and the pain, and the death, and it consumed you. The dam broke and you wanted, no, needed; to turn it off again.

Elijah could see the torment in your eyes, the light flickering behind them, fighting to return.

"Do you know why I fell in love with you? Why I married you?" He said softly, wiping the tears from your cheeks.

"You pity me, that's all," you said.

"Because," he began, taking your hand in his, "you have a heart," he said, placing your palm on his chest, "that's bigger than anything else, your kindness is endless. Even as a vampire you have always helped more than you've harmed, and that is a gift that not many have."

"Elijah," you whimpered, feeling the weight of his words and the force of your emotions bearing down on you.

"And I can't watch you destroy yourself any longer, because if you die, a part of me will die with you," he finished, leaning forward and pressing his forehead to yours. "You have to feel all the pain, it's worth it, because you also can experience the love," he said, gently cupping your face, "the love I have for you."

You couldn't help yourself, the flood gates had opened, and there was no closing them. You let out a small gasp, and the tears streamed down your cheeks, and he kissed them away.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," you sobbed, clinging to him.

"It's alright," he hushed, pulling away and brushing the tears from your cheeks.

You didn't respond, you couldn't. You felt a wave of nausea wash over you, and your knees buckled. Elijah caught you, and pulled you close, holding you tight.

"I got you, it's okay," he assured, lifting you off your feet.

He sat down in the chair and held you on his lap. You couldn't stop crying, your face buried in the crook of his neck, and he cradled you.

"I'm a monster," you said quietly, and he held you closer.

"Not to me, never to me," he said, his fingers combing through your hair, and he felt you tremble.

"I killed her," you whimpered, your body tensing and your eyes clenched shut. "An innocent,"

"Shhh," he hushed, and you clung to him.

"How could I," you said, pulling away from him.

"It wasn't your fault. It was an accident, you tried to save her," he reminded, stroking your cheek.

"What's the point of having the power to heal when I can't even save a child," you cried, the guilt and shame tearing you apart.

"She fell, no one could have stopped it, not even Niklaus," he said, his hand moving to the back of your neck, pulling your head forward.

His lips brushed over your forehead, and he planted a small kiss. "Let's go home," he whispered, and your eyes widened.

"I can't, everyone will hate me, I deserve to die," you protested, pushing him away.

"You've been my wife for five hundred years, but only now have you become a true Mikaelson," he chuckled, picking you up and carrying you to the door.

It would take time, penance, and a lot of groveling to repair the damage you had done, and there was a chance some of them may never forgive you, but you had a chance now, to make amends, and that was all you could hope for.

It had been a week since you turned your humanity back on, and it was still painful, and overwhelming.

Klaus came to you one day, while Elijah was out. He had his hands in his pockets and he leaned against the doorframe. He could see how much you were struggling, and a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"I'm here to call in that favor," he announced, and your eyes narrowed.

"What do you want?" You asked, not bothering to look at him. "I'm really not in the mood, so say it fast and get out."

"You need to promise me that you will fulfill it, no matter how difficult," he warned, and you groaned, rolling your eyes.

"Just spit it out Klaus," you said, glaring at him.

"Forgive yourself."

♡♡ Tag-List ♡♡

♡ @gorgeouslydangerous ♡ @starkleila ♡ @lydia1369sworld ♡ @notleylaaa ♡ @vampiresluv ♡ @vamprium ♡ @myanmy ♡ @xflowerbombxo ♡ @maryvibess ♡ @always-and-forever-daydreaming ♡ @criminallminds ♡ @theesexystallion ♡ @rosemarypotion ♡ @spnaquakindgdom ♡ @amournoir ♡ @loving-and-dreaming ♡ @meeom ♡ @damienmorton ♡ @wickedmuse ♡ @sunkissedebony97 ♡ @idk00sblog ♡ @savannaounana ♡ @cs-please

#elijah mikaelson #the originals #the vampire diaries #vampire diaries #tvdu #marcel gerard #klaus mikaelson #elijah mikaelson imagine #elijah mikealson imagine #elijah mikealson #elijah mikaelson x reader #elijah mikealson x reader #tvd #the vampire diaries x you #the vampire diaries x reader #the vampire diares imagine #the vampire diaries imagine #the originals imagine #elijah mikaelson smut

[bunnystalker]

albert wesker hcs pt.2 (re1-re5) (18+)

a/n; overall headcanons for whiskers himself! both nsfw and sfw, mostly nsfw. these are just my opinions and if they're ooc, i'm sorry. i'd like to say that im so down bad it's horrible and laughable. probably my longest post yet my computer is killing itself.

cw; nsfw content (i.e. kink talk, genitalia discussions and descriptions, mentions of dubcon and CNC, collaring mentions, cockwarming, impact play, light bondage, bdsm themes, dom/sub relationship)

˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖ hex codes ˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖

applies to all variants

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ - overall skintone is #F6E5DE

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ - his eyes are #adcfe6

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ - his cock starts with #f6e5de, fades to #F1D8CD. tip is #ffc8b5.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ - his hair (pubes included) is #F0E2B6

₊˚⊹♡size and habits ₊˚⊹♡

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ - he's 8" in length, definitely can't close your fingers around it. thick vein on the underside.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ - 6'2 in height, more lean than muscular. towers over most.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ - definitely well groomed. not very hairy in general, thus he doesn't have very much hair to groom. cuts his hair (in the bathroom by himself mind you) every month.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ - re1 eats as needed, the healthy 3 times a day, and plenty of water to stay on top of his game. re5 doesn't have the need to eat or drink. he's no longer 100% human and his appetite diminished within months of taking doses of Uroboros.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ - reads a lot when he's not working. non-fiction, science-based literature to expand his knowledge. his wits came naturally, sure, but that doesn't mean he can't maintain them. at home, when he's truly by himself, he doesn't wear his sunglasses. he has an actual prescription pair that's a similar style to his sunglasses, just without the tint.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ - his guilty pleasures are romance novels. the vampire kind, specifically. he finds them entertaining though he often makes fun of the cheesier ones. when he stumbles across the occasional good one, he rereads it over and over again until he's worn out the spine.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ - he drinks wine. not one for beer, truthfully, but will drink some here and there. whiskey is his second choice.

⋆˙⟡♡⟡⋆˙kinks⋆˙⟡♡⟡⋆˙

୨୧ - (re1) at the beginning of your relationship, he'll only do something if you ask him to. he's never thought much about sexual exploration given his long, *long* history of solitude. he refuses to do anything that might injure you- knifeplay, gunplay, impact play (light or hard), etc. sure, he'll tie you up if you ask, he doesn't mind. he plays into your desires.

୨୧ - (re1) the more he researches, the more he finds he likes. he buys some ribbon to bind you with- the flimsy kind you can get out of quickly should you need to. he loves pink on you. he only binds your wrists together, nothing too intense. maybe he blindfolds you, uses a toy on you, or overstimulates you. consent checks regularly, as well. you use safewords should you need them.

୨୧ - (re5) fully established kinks. he's less human and less rational, but he knows to respect your boundaries. he leaves bite marks all over you and demands that you don't cover them up with makeup or clothing. he likes owning you. you're given a collar, of which you can put on or take off as you please, but during which you are fully submissive to him and whatever he wants you to do.

୨୧ - (re5) consensual nonconsensual (cnc) is his favorite. of course, you have to be wearing your collar for him to take advantage of you. safewords are a must for the both of you. he's never submissive, definitely a hard dom. he doesn't feel the need for knives or guns, but he does love impact play. loves shutting up your bratty mouth by slapping you and manhandling you. he's switched to handcuffs instead of ribbon if he deems them necessary.

୨୧ - (re5) since Uroboros has diminished his humanity by a good chunk, he's more animalistic towards you. aside from marking you up, he's obsessed with breeding. adores cumming inside you until you're leaking it. he knows you love it just as much as he does. at some point, it becomes routine. "such a slut. can't go a day without being fucked full of cum." he degrades you lightly, nothing that would genuinely hurt. simple things i.e slut, whore, toy, doll, dumb, stupid, etc.

༘⋆✿ favorite positions ༘⋆✿

๋࣭ ⭑ - (re1) he likes seeing your face. he loves watching your face twist and contort with the pleasure he gives you. adores being able to see all of you, all of what he does to you. eye contact drives him crazy. if you're blindfolded, he won't finish until you're done. he'll ask if he can take your blindfold off between kisses to your face.

๋࣭ ⭑ - missionary is a must. your first time with each other is missionary- the romantic first time you'd see in movies where he takes his time to make you feel valued. the lotus position is another one he likes if you're going to be on top. he's okay with you riding him too, if you really want, but he'd prefer to be the one in control.

๋࣭ ⭑ - if you both aren't feeling sex, he loves getting you off by having you sit on his face or using his fingers on you. he doesn't need anything in exchange either. he's found that he doesn't like receiving head, as he finds it to be degrading towards you, and that's the last thing he wants. but if you insist, he allows it. he mutters praises as you take him down to the base, swallowing around him in an attempt to not gag.

๋࣭ ⭑ - mutual masturbation is something he's weak for. he loves watching your hand try to fit around him as you stroke his cock so eagerly, his fingers buried in your weeping entrance.

๋࣭ ⭑ - (re5) he prefers less intimacy, not like how he used to. he thinks it's too human, something he's made quite clear that he's not anymore. he'll fuck you just about anywhere. he prefers doggy with his arm around your neck, keeping you in a chokehold. bonus points if you beg him to breed you in this position.

๋࣭ ⭑ - what he gets, he'll give. you give him head, something he's come to enjoy, he'll give you head with the same enthusiasm.

๋࣭ ⭑ - cockwarming is a must. prefers it while he's either reading or working at his desk. sometimes, he'll make you read to him and thrust up into you occasionally so you stumble over your words. when he gets impatient, he pins you down and fucks into you until he comes at least twice inside of you.

๋࣭ ⭑ - wearing your collar? he'll fuck you while you're cuddling. spooning is preferred, but whether you're sitting on his lap, lying on top of him, or him on top of you, he's putting his cock inside you. very rarely does he do slow and soft, but if you're both tired, he'll be careful with you. he loves sitting you in his lap, his forceful grip on your hips, and moving you like a ragdoll. superhuman strength pays off in situations like this. his fingertips leave bruises that make his cock twitch whenever he sees them.

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗ pet names ˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

𓆩♡𓆪 - (re1) calls you darling, dearest, dear, little dove, dove. adores praising you and could for days on end. (i.e. "that's it, dear, you're doing so well for me. are you alright? should i stop?)

𓆩♡𓆪 - (re5) calls you pet, dear, bunny, darling, slut, whore, dolly. praises and degrades you. (i.e. "what a good fucking whore, taking my cock so well. you were made for taking my cock, my personal whore. i'm going to ruin you for anyone else." )

#bunny's headcanons ໒꒰ྀིっ˕ ｡꒱ྀི১ #bunnystalker ૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ♡ #resident evil headcanons #albert wesker headcanons #albert wesker smut #albert wesker x reader #resident evil #albert wesker #resident evil fanfiction #albert wesker i love youuuu #writing #resident evil smut #sorry this is so long #im down horrendous

[slavghoul]

Interview from Sweden Rock Magazine 6/2023

In which Tobias talks about Phantomime, his inner little evil dictator, and why he'll never be like Bruce Springsteen, among other things.

You've just released another cover EP. I always thought that Ghost would be like Metallica and become known for picking up lesser-known songs, making them their own, and playing one or two covers at every show. You were on your way to that with first The Beatles' "Here Comes the Sun" and then with Roky Erickson's "If You Have Ghosts." After that, you released a bunch of covers, but in recent years, you've almost only played "Enter Sandman" live.

In the beginning, and especially up until 2015, the choice to play covers was not in exchange for original songs, but it was because we simply needed songs to play live. We played 'Here Comes the Sun' to fill out our set. We only had one album, and it was only 30 minutes long or something.

But "Here Comes the Sun" must have given you a taste for it since it worked so fantastically well live.

Yes, absolutely. We actually plan to play it again at some point because I think we can do a really great version of it now that our lineup better matches the sound of the song. The last time we played it was so long ago that we still used a lot of backing tracks and stuff. I think we can play it better now. But did you imagine that we would do covers of Saint Vitus, Trouble, and Coven?

No. Unlike Metallica, you didn't start with hard rock covers...

No, no.

...but with "Here Comes the Sun" and then "If You Have Ghosts," which became a big song in its own way, but "Enter Sandman" is a completely different type of cover.

Exactly, it has a completely different purpose. I think it's a good song, and it became a fun thing. There was clarity in why we played it and what was important about it. We don't do it anymore, not because we don't believe in the purpose, but it had its time. Now, "Jesus He Knows Me" is the most fun to incorporate because now we've embraced it as our own song. I feel like I have so much else, and I don't want to be... I mean, some people think it's a lot of fun, and Bruce Springsteen does a lot of covers at the end of a concert. A lot of cool rock 'n' roll classics. People enjoy it, and it's great. Disturbed also does that and plays "Highway to Hell" and "Run to the Hills" or whatever they do. It's a fun way to end a concert, but I don't know, I have a fondness for dramaturgy. That's why I could never do a Bruce Springsteen. I can't go on stage and just say, "Hey, what do you want to hear?" and then improvise. It's a show, and everything fits together tightly. I've been sitting here with our lighting technician for five days. We sit all day and just program lights based on the smallest damn beat so that it fits and so that we know that the guitarist will come out and switch to that guitar for the next song. It's this song, and he will come out there, and then we have to change these lights in the dark so that it's red on him there. Then it's not possible to have a "cover hour" at the end where we just turn on the lights and play Judas Priest. But if we do a Judas Priest cover at some point that feels really relevant and we can do it really well, then I have no problem arranging the lights and incorporating it into the context. Metallica is much more rock 'n' roll, they are much more "loose" than what we are... than I am. They have the ability to just go out and more or less turn on the lights in the room and play "Am I evil?", "Whiskey in a jar," "Blitzkrieg," and "Breadfan," and the happiest of all is me. I love when that happens, but I don't want to do it with Ghost. But sure, if in 30 years we have recorded a bunch of fun covers, maybe it could be a fun thing to do a tour with just a bunch of that.

How funny that you say "if we have recorded a bunch of fun covers." Ghost has already recorded a bunch of covers, so aren't they fun?

Haha! Yeah, yeah, but we're still building, of course. We're talking a lot about this, me and my agents and management. When is the time to do things? When should we take advantage? What is a "downplay" for us today? A "downplay" is very clear if you're Metallica. Everyone knows that when they come and perform, it's at least at the Globe Arena, sold out for at least two nights without any problem, and at their biggest, it's now two nights at Ullevi. For them, a clear "downplay" would be if they come and play at Göta Lejon again. There's a clarity there, and it's something they can indulge in.

Explain it so that people understand. What is a "downplay"?

A "downplay" is when a big band plays at a small venue. Like the Rolling Stones when they played at Circus. It's a clear "downplay," and there's a clarity there where you know that "now when I go and see the Rolling Stones at Circus, they won't have their big stage, they won't do this, and they'll just come up and play a bunch of really obscure stuff." Then there's a clarity. It's not something for everyone who just wants to hear the big hits.

And are there plans to do this?

If everything goes as planned and if there's still an interest in it in the future, I would think it would be really fun to intentionally and clearly reshape the show. To do something different on the side that isn't meant for these bigger things that we're currently trying to find our "pacing" in.

The first time I interviewed you was in 2011 at a sushi place in Stockholm.

Was it that long ago?

Yes, we met at the central station in Stockholm, and you had just had your first meeting with Nicholas Johansson at Universal, so this was before he signed you.

Okay, so it was the same day then? Oh, damn.

It became a full page in Expressen, and you said that you want to take Ghost to where Rammstein is. Now you've said the same thing again, but Rammstein no longer plays at the Globe Arena and instead does three nights at Ullevi. It feels like you're constantly shaping Ghost based on Rammstein. What will you do when you've reached three nights at Ullevi?

I hope one never becomes completely satisfied. The perfectionist in me is frustrated every day on tour when things don't turn out as good as I had envisioned. But I also have a cutoff point... There's a point every day when I try to see the glass as half full when it comes to perfection before the concert, and I know something is wrong. If I know that a spotlight operator doesn't seem to understand the show, it's an irritation that might continue during the concert because someone keeps missing their cues, that is, what they're supposed to do. You can tell they don't know the show. It's super annoying. It's the kind of thing that both I and everyone on stage feel, and we're all aware of it. Everyone has been made aware of what we're trying to achieve. We've arranged the whole show based on the idea that "when you come up those stairs, you will be visible, and then you will see what you're doing because a light will shine on you." If that doesn't happen, there's a risk that the person simply won't see what they're doing and will fall off. It happens. There's a lot of that kind of thing that's highly orchestrated with very narrow margins, and it has to be right. But I usually reach a point where it's like, "Now the concert is over. Everyone did their best, even that idiot up there who missed all their cues. Everyone did their best, and the audience doesn't seem to have left and demanded their money back, so you have to see it as a damn good result." That's how I try to approach it every day because, in the end, "no matter what, this is so much cooler than working a regular job," haha! I'm where I want to be, doing what I want to do. Then I have this little circus director Nazi inside me as well, screaming and wanting things to be a certain way. But I also laugh easily, so it's about constantly trying to balance everything and see it as always moving forward. But it also means that I know that even the day when or if we stand there at Ullevi and do a concert ourselves, it won't be exactly as I imagined. Something new will happen, and if we have the show I want, it will rain like hell or something. That's always how it is. Metallica's Lars also told me that when we were on tour together: "It's incredible. Even at our level, there are still things that happen that make us go, 'Damn, we're not quite there yet!'" But that's the thing. I don't think pirates become pirates just to come home and sit with the treasure. It was the piracy itself that was quite fun.

Now I'm going to say something provocative. This is Ghost's worst cover so far. I don't even like the original.

Which one?

"Phantom of the Opera."

Okay, haha!

Yeah, I got the laugh I wanted to be able to print, haha!

Well, haha! Don't you like the album or the song?

I'm not a big Iron Maiden fan, and I don't consider the Paul Di'Anno era sacred.

I love Iron Maiden and think the first two albums are really cool, but they got their act together when Bruce Dickinson joined. It was with "The Number of the Beast" that they became an arena band and started sounding really damn good. I know it's like swearing in church. It made me feel a bit inspired and made me think that if I were to do something with Iron Maiden, it damn well had to be something from those first albums. They have two albums with really proggy stuff and quirky arrangements, and you can really tell they had a bit of time and that they were low-budget recordings. That gets me going. Paul Di'Anno sings, and I love Paul Di'Anno. He's really cool, has a great voice, and sings with a lot of sloppiness. He soars and flies melodically - just the fact that "I know I'll do that in a different way." I've always liked "Phantom of the Opera," but for a long time in my life, before I really figured out how to count, I didn't quite understand how to play the intro. Not tonally, but I didn't get how to count in the intro. That was such a thing that one day when I suddenly figured it out, I thought, "Damn, I want to play this song someday." You miss it because on the album, you don't hear how great the intro is.

Is it you playing?

Yes, although Fredrik "Kulle" Åkesson (Opeth) is also playing. But I recorded all the demos, I play bass on the record, and I recorded all the guitars first.

Did Kulle do all the guitar solos on the EP?

Well, mostly, with one exception.

It's a very shreddy EP with a lot of flashy guitar solos.

Yes, exactly, there are quite a lot of guitar solos. Generally, this is how it works when we work: I compose the solos. When I write solos, it's not just a bunch of bends, but it's a melody. I'm very influenced by Kirk Hammett, especially how he played on "Ride the Lightning," "Master of Puppets," "...And Justice for All," and even on the black album. Every time he plays solos, they are melodies. He comes into the song and more or less plays another song within the song, and it's very hummable. It's not incredibly difficult stuff, and that's roughly my school of soloism. I like to compose the solos so that they turn out the way I want, but I myself am not a great shredder. There are a lot of tricks in the studio where I sit and play something over and over again, and then you can cut it in. And then you can slow down the speed, and then I can record it and make it perfect. But the result is that when I say, "It should go like this," Kulle listens to it and says, "Yeah, I can do that part a bit differently. Then I can do it this way to make it even faster." He plays solos from start to finish with his highly trained fingers. He has that whole thing in his DNA, while I'm more of a songwriter and composer.

But you play a solo on the EP, right?

I don't know if we kept it. I don't fucking know because we changed a lot of things.

Because you said that Kulle plays all the solos except one.

It could be a thing, but I don't remember if we changed it or not. But if we take "Phantom of the Opera," there are quite a few different guitar parts in it, purely guitar-wise. It's that fairly standardized Iron Maiden thing where there are two lead guitars playing melodies together. That's one thing, and then there was a slightly bluesy solo at a place where I added some storming Rachmaninoff piano that's absolutely not in the original. I thought it should be a bit of a stormy sea, and then there's a part with two guitars playing the same thing simultaneously, and then a solo duel starts. On the original album, it's Dave Murray and Dennis Stratton playing, and their solo duel is just okay. I don't think it's that great. Sorry, Iron Maiden fans, but in terms of solos, Iron Maiden really got good the day Adrian Smith joined. Adrian Smith is the one playing all the cool solos. I'm really sorry, Dave Murray, but that's just how it is! I know what Kulle has to go through because as a soloist, it's quite tough to constantly be told what to play, and then he has to do tricks and improve things. So, I said, "In this solo duel, you can pretty much play whatever you want from here to there, but I don't want you to challenge me because it will be a bad match. It'll be Carl Hamilton against Woody Allen, and that's not fun. We'll bring in Lasse Johansson from Candlemass." I love Candlemass, I love Lasse's guitar playing, and I know that Kulle loves Lasse. I just sat there, and they got to do their things, and you can hear that it's a bit more improvised. It's more Kulle when he gets to play his stuff, and it's nice.

I want to highlight a cover that turned out great on the EP: Tina Turner's "We Don't Need Another Hero." It feels quite suitable to cover because At The Movies also did a fantastic version of it with Ronnie Atkins on vocals.

Actually, I haven't heard it at all. I must have missed it.

Ghosts' version turned out really well, but isn't it too obvious to cover a big song, so to speak?

I would be a bit opportunistic and say this: it probably depends on how it lands. We stuck our necks out the day we were going to play "Enter Sandman" at our concert. It was one thing on TV because that's what it was (at the TV4-broadcasted "Polar Music Prize" in 2018), but you know that this is like playing "Smoke on the Water," "I Wanna Rock," or "Ace of Spades." It's one of those songs that is too well-known in a way. It can feel pancake-like, but it went well, and I feel that "We Don't Need Another Hero" could also become such a song, provided that the audience likes it. But it's not a song that you want to take up five minutes of the concert if it's not super fun.

And how do you know if the audience likes it?

The easiest way is to test it live. But you'll notice when the album comes out. If everyone mentions all the other songs and not that one, then maybe not many people are interested. Also, we usually do this sometimes during rehearsals: "We rehearse it and see how it sounds. How does it feel? How does it feel to play? Does it stick? Do we play it nicely? Does it work live?" I believe that if we fast forward to a huge presumed Ullevi [stadium] in the future, it's a fantastically cool song to play.

#the band ghost #tobias forge #interview

[lokischocolatefountain]

omg say no to me and salvation have me gagging… pretty please write more, i need hubby javi 🥵 ur amazing

I love that you liked hubby Javi! I like him a lot too. So, a little warning: I wrote this out sleep deprived and in a hurry so it’s going to be full of mistakes. 🙈 but I hope you like it. Wrote a little birthday themed thing for Javier Peña and his wife from this married Javi universe because it’s Pedrito’s birthday. Happy birthday to him and tbh fuck him (respectfully) for making me thirst over a fucking cop (on top of a merge mansion ad character I hate him).

Switch It Up

Fandom: Narcos

Pairing: Javier Peña x Reader

Rating: 18+

Word count: 3.8k words

Summary: Javier Peña and his wife switch roles for his birthday

Javier Peña was a grown man. He was a federal agent working for the DEA in Columbia, he saw several horrors a day and had a goddamn gun tucked in the back of his jeans. He was a grown man with a whole wife to show for his age and maturity.

He should not be so bummed about a lonely birthday.

It was her fault really. Before her, he didn’t really do birthdays. His friends usually got him presents— the best whiskey they could afford and a trip to the strip club and paid for prostitutes. It was more for their sake than his own (though he couldn’t deny that he had fun). When it got serious with his now wife, he opted to forego the stripclub and the prostitutes because he had decided that it was no longer fun to sabotage the one good thing in his life. He’d exchanged the bachelor life fun for a perfect day off with her.

Every year brought something different; she was innovative that way. The first year, she woke him up at midnight with her lips around his dick and brought him the cake she baked from scratch. She blew him and he blew the candles. He hadn’t cut a cake in years. The last time was when his Ma was still alive. They ate the cake together, saved some for Steve and Connie and he ate her to thank her for being the perfect girlfriend.

Last year, she took him for an all expense paid trip to Medellín for a whole week. It was the most time he’d gotten away from work and the only time he spent in Medellín without chasing after pieces of shit. She had arranged for some mountain climbing shit because of his love for physical exertion. He chose instead to love her all week long for physical exertion. She complained about having brought her climbing gear for no reason, but that didn’t last long. It was a little hard to complain when you had a dick in your mouth.

He’d been thoroughly spoiled as a husband.

This year, he was all alone with a whiskey bottle from Steve and Connie, sloppy cheek kisses from little Olivia and a whole cake from his wife. He’d kept a sizable slice for himself and placed the rest in the break room for everyone to enjoy. Cake wasn’t as delicious with nobody to share it with.

Javi didn’t mean to be ungrateful. He knew she would’ve stayed behind if she could have. But her parents really needed her to help with the sale of her childhood home and he wasn’t going to act like a kid and ask her to stay because it was his birthday. It would’ve been silly.

“Jav! They found the guys. Carillo needs you in this address right fucking now,” said Steve, barelling into their office with a piece of paper in hand.

“Fucking finally,” he muttered, taking the paper with a scribbled address. He’d sat idly at work all day tackling their paperwork backlog while Steve was out there doing some real work.

The location was…strange. It was oddly quiet and there was no Carillo, no CNP guys. He had a choice to make— he could wait right there and keep an eye on the building and go in when the rest of the guys arrived. Or he could go in by himself. The second was extremely unwise. He would get told off by everyone from Noonan to his wife. If he didn’t get killed first.

Minutes passed by and he chose the latter option. He could handle Noonan. She didn’t approve of his actions, but she always understood. Gun tucked in the back of his jeans, he crept around the building. Once he’d found an open window, he slipped in, praying to the Gods he no longer believed in to keep him safe for another day.

Darkness suffocated his sight as he walked further into the building. The noise from outside the building grew dimmer and dimmer, eventually fading into the background. He crept like a cat, his shoes making nothing but the slightest whispers against the floor of the building. It had looked like a commercial building from the outside and if he remembered right, this place had once been a stripclub. Not one of the good ones for sure. It had to have shut down for a reason.

The place was littered with cardboard boxes, the contents of which he would explore had he not a mission in mind. Three of the most elusive hit men on Escobar’s payroll were hiding out somewhere in the building. The location was a bit too unusual for the men who had a record of gravitating towards luxury, but it wasn’t too out of place for them to have chosen a former strip club.

He spun in place when he heard a clatter behind him, his gun pointed in the direction of the sound and his heart beginning to beat faster. He took a few steps towards the source of the sound, wandering further into the building.

Click, click, click

High heels against wood? No, can’t be…

Nevertheless, he followed the sound.

Ahem

What the fuck…

Lights went up suddenly, illuminating the dark hall. The room had been swept clean with nothing but a chair in front of the stage. Under the bright lights above the stage glimmering a beautiful silver was a pole.

A voice cleared its throat again. When it finally spoke, it had a sultry tone to it.

“Agente Peña…”

No… It can’t be.

Click, click, click, click, click….

He saw the impractically high high heels first. Click, click, click against floors that were probably designed to amplify these sounds. The red of the shoes stopped to give way to white socks stretched tight around legs he would kill to throw over his shoulders. The socks mercifully, or mercilessly, stopped under bruised knees to expose full thighs he wanted to sink his nails into.

“Fuck me,” he muttered under his breath, earning the laughter of the woman on the stage.

“Your friends told me it was your birthday, Agente…”

“It is,” he said, tucking his gun away. Hands on his waist, he took slow steps towards her. He needed to see her up close, confirm that his mind wasn’t conjuring up the most salacious thoughts after having had to go without a good fuck for an entire week.

“Your friends seem annoyed, Agente… They say they miss the fun single Javi who they could take to strip clubs. Now, I’ve never met this fun Javi before, but god if you look like this when you’re not fun,” she said, using her index finger to point at him, “you must look hot as fuck when you’re fun.”

“This your way of telling me I’m usually boring, sweetheart?” He asked, taking a seat on the chair she’d set out for him in front of the stage. He made sure to spread his legs and lean back comfortably in his seat before he folded his arms behind his head.

She smiled her sweet shy smile that he was sure was responsible for landing him in this exact moment in his life. She bit down on her brightly painted lips and wrapped his hand around the pole before swinging around. Her hair was out of the tight pony she put it up in for work. As she twirled around the pole, her hair swung free, caressing the wind before resting on her shoulder and cascading down the crimson shirt she’d stolen from his cupboard.

“You’re going to do as I say if you want a good night, Agente…”

“Ah… That’s how it is?” He taunted, letting condescension slip into his voice. “Alright. As you command, sweet thing.”

“Good boy,” she purred, the sound going straight to his cock. Calm the fuck down, Peña. She hasn’t even begun yet.

“Hands behind your back,” she ordered, looking down at him imposingly from where she stood.

“Sorry, what?” He asked, blinking rapidly and tilting his head to take a good look at her. Habituated to her shy smiles and pleas to be taken and fucked throughout their time together, it wasn’t an understatement to say that he was shaken by her sudden assumption of the commanding role.

Her fingers glided up and down the pole and for the first time he noticed that her nails were done up all pretty with the brightest red nail polish there was. Fuck, she’d gone all out. “You fuckin’ heard me, Peña,” she snapped and took a few steps forward before dropping to her ass, gently like a caress against the surface. He didn’t even know she could move like that. She hopped off the stage and his heart caught in his throat as she got closer to him and he caught a whiff of her perfume in the air. She stopped when she was over him, her legs spread out on either side of him. Oh how he’d missed the scent enveloping him as he buried himself in her and threw her into a world of ecstasy. The soft moan that escaped his lips surprised even him.

“Fuckin’ hell, baby,” he breathed out, tracing a hand up her thigh only to be swatted away rudely. She grabbed his face, squeezing his cheeks and digging her nails into his skin just enough to give him a taste of how she’d be piercing the skin on his back as he fucked her later that night. He’d make her keep those shoes on for sure.

“Jesus!” She swore, the scorching heat of her gaze beginning to burn him. “No manners. Is this how you treat dancers, Agent? Fuckin American, touching everything, acting entitled to every goddamn thing, not following a single rule… It’s about time someone taught you a lesson.”

“Well darling, if there’s one thing I’m entitled to, it’s you,” he teased, hoping to rile her up and make her look all adorable and hot with rage. The next thing he knew was a stinging pain on his cheek.

“Once more.”

She raised an eyebrow at him as she caressed the cheek she slapped. He swallowed, looked up at her and tried again, “Please, Ma’am. Once more.”

“Good boy,” she purred, her lips curling up in a smirk of satisfaction. Was this what she saw in him when she laid under him and took all that he had to give her for the night? Seeing her so confident in herself, feeling the sting of her authority on his cheek and sitting underneath her, he felt like he finally understood why liked this so much.

He had a feeling that as the night matured, he would only get a better understanding.

“Hands behind your back.”

Eyes still set on her, he moved his hands behind his back. Just like she’d ordered. She took a step back and he immediately missed her closeness, missed how she crowded over him and put him down in his place with just a stare. She slipped a hand into his jeans pocket and pulled out the leather pouch with the handcuffs. Once she retrieved what she’d wanted, she tossed the pouch over her shoulder. She circled him, their eyes still joined in the heated gaze of expectations. He leaned back on his chair, praying to the lord that he didn’t look absurd doing that. The last thing he wanted to do was make her laugh.

The cold metal of his cuffs nipped at his wrists and he attempted to pull his wrists in opposite directions, enjoying his own failure at achieving the freedoms he only half-heartedly sought. She placed her hands on his shoulders from her place behind him and descended lazily down to his eye-level.

“Feliz cumpleaños, mi amor. Disfruta del espectáculo,” she whispered before giving him a peck on the cheek. He attempted futilely to grab her so that he could kiss her properly, so that he could devour her lips and thank her for showing up for him.

There was music. It didn’t appear magically. She pressed a button on the cassette player he recognized from home before she walked up the stairs to the stage. Everything seemed torturously slow. Even the way she walked away from him looked to be designed as slow poison for him.

She descended gracefully to the floor and sat herself on her side, her back curved as she leaned back, her high-heel clad legs together with her left leg covering her right. She pushed her ass and tits out. She swept her leg out in a circle around herself, lifting it in the air as her right leg followed suit to make a semi circle. He caught a sparkle of something under his shirt that she wore as she exposed herself to him for a few seconds before she bent her knees and brought her legs back to where they started.

Javi drew in a sharp breath as she quickly got to her knees and twirled around again. This time, she let her right knee support her as she let the left kiss the smooth floors with the platforms of her shoes, back and forth, back and forth as his cock twitched in his pants. He would never forgive himself if he ended up jizzing in his pants seconds into her dance that she’d clearly put a lot of effort into.

Next thing he knew, she was upside down— fuckin’ hell— and spreading her legs, giving him a view of the little skirt and thongs she wore underneath as his shirt gave way to gravity and revealed her for him. She snapped her legs shut, as though punishing him for staring before she slid her legs over the floor and laid herself out flat, her delicious behind bouncing from her momentum. Spreading her knees apart, she rose from her position and let her hair flip around before she got up— how the fuck did she get up from that position??

Fuck!

He realized he’d said that out loud when she looked behind her shoulder and laughed before holding the pole, her fingers wrapping around it one by one. She stroked the goddamn thing up and down like she would his cock and fuck he’d be proud if he wasn’t so mad about being locked up with nothing to do but watch, to be a passive participant in her erotic torture of him.

She twirled and twirled a little more around the pole in many different ways. She moved effortlessly, dancing around the thing like it was no big deal. But he knew the strength it took to swing around a pole like that and look sexy as hell while at it. He knew how strong she was from the way she bent one leg around the pole and spun as she let the other draw a circle around her.

His thoughts, as scarce as they were with the sight in front of him, went off to a dreamland where he took advantage of all the flexibility she was displaying to bend her in every which way he wanted, to take her in all the ways he imagined. Sexier was the thought of her practicing this routine. Just for his sake. Just to do something special for him.

When she stepped away from the pole for a few seconds, Javi thought that was it. He was a fool. She stopped at the edge of the stage and looked down at him before she snapped the button of the shirt off, exposing just a bit of her cleavage. Eyes trained on his to derive sick joy from his torment, she snapped the buttons open one by one.

She was a sight.

Back to the pole, she held it like it was a part of her, letting the metal assist her as she closed her eyes and put herself on artistic display for him. He was one lucky man. He’d always known, but it bore repeating. He was lucky as fuck. She shed the shirt and he moaned as the action gave him more of her to see. He would never tire of seeing her body no matter how many times she took her clothes off for him be it to seduce him or simply take a shower.

Behind him, he struggled against his handcuffs, the metal digging into his skin and leaving marks for him to cover up the next morning.

He gasped as she climbed the thing like it was no big deal and wrapped herself around it. His heart jumped right out as her back arched backwards and he thought for a moment that she would fall. But she didn’t. Her legs were holding her in place around the pole. She brought herself back down, landing her shoes on the ground and pinning him with her gaze. She then took the strings wrapped around her waist and tugged, letting the barely-there skirt unfurl from around her.

His mouth was wide open in awe when she threw the sparkly black fabric at him. It covered his eyes for a fraction of a second as it hit him in the face before dropping down to his lap. He growled her name and cursed as his hips rose up from the chair in a desperate search for contact. Any contact. God, he’d even fuck his fist if she’d let him. But she ignored his plight, letting her starving husband continue starving as she moved torturously both on the pole and the floor in front of it.

When her bra came off—tossed in his direction again— he whimpered like a pathetic creature that was kicked by something much bigger and more powerful than he was. He was helpless and horny as fuck and enjoying it.

Perhaps because she’d decided to have mercy on him or just because her dance had ended, she hopped off the stage and stalked towards him like she was a hungry beast and he her latest game that she could wait to tear into.

“Please, Ma’am,” the honorific slipped out without him meaning to. “I need…please,” he begged, his voice shaky as he struggled to articulate what it was that he needed. He let out little mewls of desperation as he struggled to form words that weren’t ‘please or Ma’am’.

She bit down on her lip and tilted her head as she considered him. “Aww baby, it’s alright.”

“P-please,” he muttered, his worldly coming out airy.

She palmed him through his jeans and stroked him, her eyes twinkling as she regarded him in his struggle. His breaths grew fast with just the first touch. He pleaded repeatedly, calling her every sweet name in the dictionary- in two dictionaries of two languages, but she didn’t seem to want to free him. She was enjoying his helplessness too much.

She laughed and bent at the waist to look him eye-to-eye, “I got you so hard just dancing for you huh, Javier?”

He was no longer in control of any part of his body. It was all hers from the hairs on his head to the tips of his toes. They all danced to her beat, worshiped at her altar, awaited her command with bated breath and followed her to his own destruction. His lips, now hers, begged “Y-yes Ma’am. I w-want— please! Want to touch you. Tan bonita... Quiero que tú… Por favor, patróna—”

“You want to touch me?” She asked, raising a cruel eyebrow at him. “Really? What makes you think you deserve that, baby? What have you done to deserve me?”

“I’ll do anything. Anyth— any— fuck!” He whimpered as the world disappeared around him, leaving only a hazy vision of her leaning in front of him, her hand around him. He felt his underwear get wet from his embarrassingly quick release as he muttered a curse in regret.

She tipped his head back and pressed her lips to his, their tongues dancing around each other and their lips taking in as much as they could of the other. The few days of separation had really gotten to him and he was pleased to know that he wasn’t alone with the way she pushed for more from their kiss.

“‘M so sorry, baby. That was…I lasted longer as a teenager, believe me,” he explained himself, wanting to hide himself away yet willing to show her all of him. All his embarrassment and sexual failures and his genuine feeling of regret over the way he ended the night.

She laughed softly, not in mockery but with her love. He could always feel her love.

“It’s okay, mi amor. Nothing to apologize for. You’ve made me cum with less, I swear,” she said, draping herself across his lap and cradling his face in her hand. She kissed him on the cheek and then the other and then his forehead. “Happy birthday, Javi.”

He smiled, no grinned, at her as he felt his heart fill up with gratitude for her. “I can’t believe you came back from stateside just for this.”

“About that…” she trailed, her index finger reaching out and playing with his mustache. “I never left.”

“What!?”

“Yeah,” she said, smiling sheepishly.

“You’ve been gone for three days!”

“I was at my friend’s.”

“Your parents called and said you reached home safely!” He exclaimed. How deep was this plot!? Who were all in on it? And what kind of a fool was he to not notice a thing. He should’ve asked her parents to give her the phone! He should’ve checked and caught them in the lie.

“I asked them—”

“You asked them to lie for you to give me a sex present for my birthday?”

“Nooo! Well, not like that! I didn’t call them and ask them to lie to you because I wanted to give you a fucking pole dance- strip show thing for your birthday. I just made something up. My god, Javi!” She huffed, shoving at his chest lightly.

“Wait! And Steve. FUCKIN STEVE! What did you tell HIM?”

“Don’t worry, your dignity is safe with me. Didn’t tell him I was gonna restrain you and make you call me Ma’am and oh, what else was it? Patróna?” She teased, smiling as she played with his hair.

“Si, Patróna,” he retorted right back, making her smile transform into a gasp and her eyes turn wide.

“Shut up,” she mumbled as she got off his lap and reached behind him. She uncuffed him and he was immediately upon her. She yelped as he pulled her into his lap, giggling as he pressed kisses all over her face.

“Javi, stooop!” She whined but leaned in closer and wrapped her arms around his neck.

“Gonna take you back home, baby. Need to do this right,” he mumbled into her hair.

“Oh? Do it right? You gonna hold me down and fuck me hard, Agente Peña?” She asked as he took his leather jacket off of himself. Finding her clothes would take too much time and he was not willing to spend his previous time with her after being deceived into separation.

“Pfft, no! You, my darling wife, are going to hold me down and take what you want,” he declared, excited to lean back and let her do the work for that night. And perhaps other nights when he needed her to take over and take guide him though it. It wasn’t something he thought he would like, but with her, every day was a surprise and he discovered new things about himself even after so many years alive.

Wrapped up in his jacket, she let him carry her to his jeep and he drove her home, a happy and grateful man.

.

.

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Series Masterlist

Read more of my Javier Peña fics here

#javier peña #javier pena fic #javier peña fluff #javier pena fanfiction #javier pena imagine #javier peña x reader #javier peña x ofc #javier peña smut #javier pena smut #javier peña fic #javier peña fanfiction #javier pena fluff #narcos fic #narcos fanfiction #married javier peña #husband!javier peña x reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character fanfic #warning: bad spanish

[readychilledwine]

Broken

Part two- Nyx and Aelia have spent the past 4 months in the Winter Court, and ever the clever son, Nyx has noticed the decline in his mother's health despite the shields and masks she wears, leading him to call in for help.

Warnings - alcohol use, indications to poor mental health and an illusion to a panic attack, the mention of child death (we all knew that'd come up between Rhys and a winter court OC), mentioned SA

Part One Part Three

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Nyx hated The Winter Court. 

He hated the constant politics. 

He hated the constant cold calculated looks his uncle gave him when he'd walk into a room. As if he was studying him, evaluating him, deciding what to do with him.

He hated how loud his aunt was, especially when Mor was around.

Nyx missed home. He allowed the shadow Azriel had following him to weave between his fingers before it  moved to caress his cheek. It had been four months. He knew he had come willingly, made this choice willingly, but he missed his family, he missed the smell of the Sindra, he missed training with Cassian and Azriel.

To his biggest surprise, though, he missed his dad. He missed going into his dad's office, curling up on the couch as Rhysand worked, only to wake up to his head in his lap as his father drank whiskey with his uncles and they spoke quietly. He missed the feeling of his dad's constant presence in his mind, tugging when he'd start doing something he shouldn't be. He missed his voice as they would go over lessons for the 100th time to ensure Nyx was ready to take over his court.

He knew his mom missed his dad, too. He had been watching her bury herself into the Winter Court, helping his Uncle with his high lord duties. She hardly ate, slept, relaxed. She smiled constantly for the fae of the court at the countless dinners and parties being thrown, but it never reached her eyes. 

She is stuck in a state of mourning. You will understand some day when you love someone and they hurt you that deeply, Kal had told Nyx gently. Nyx knew his mother loved his father, that she still did. That she would have given anything to any God willing to make a deal with her to switch places with him. He could hear her crying late at night sometimes or whispering his name when he'd sneak into her room to hold her.

They couldn't stay here, not with this gaping wound in desperate need of repair. He moved inside, sitting at the desk, and took a pen into his hand. He wrote on the parchment before using magic to send it. Then he just prayed. He prayed to the Mother that his mom would forgive him for the one sentence message.

Dad, send Uncle Az.

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Rhysand was miserable. 

He lifted the heavy glass to his lips, drinking the whiskey he had picked for the night in large gulps instead of soft smooth sips.

He missed his wife and son. His wife ran through his mind day and night. The scent of her soft snow hair. The feeling of her skin under his fingertips. The intoxication of her soft plush lips on his. He missed the song that was Nyx's laughter as he'd watch Cassian or Azriel spar him. He missed catching his son in the kitchens late at night, flirting with the shadow wraith twins. He missed his soft snores as he'd fall asleep in the office.

He realized quickly Feyre would never fill the void Aelia and Nyx had left him with and that they were not compatible. Feyre would have been better matched for Cassian or Lucien. A male whose ambitions weren't based on pressure, politics, and responsibility, but instead on freedom, adventure, and embetterment. A male whose job would have allowed her to travel, help fae in need, and see the world.

He was watching that silently start. The longing stares between her and Cassian. The playful banter and constant flirtation. The way Cassian was healing her through the one thing she had been begging for. Rhys sighed heavily. His brother was clearly falling for his mate, and his mate in turn was falling for Cassian. And the part that had his jaw clenching was how little he cared. He had told Cassian it was fine, to pursue her, to court her. He truly did not care. 

Especially when he saw how happy they were. In the month since she'd be rescued, they were constantly together. Her curled into Cass' side, her in his room, him in hers. The two were inseparable.

The soft thud of paper landing near him, pulling him from his thoughts and making him groan and roll his eyes. He used a tendril of darkness to pull the letter to him. The handwriting sobered him immediately. He was calling for Azriel as he read it over and over. 

"If I have to carry you to your room again, Rhys, I swear-"

"Nyx wants you to come to Winter." Azriel rose a singular brow, having just finished writing notes back and forth to Aelia. He read the note from the young heir before sending shadows to check on his high lady. "Azriel, please."

"She just told me she was fine, Rhys. I have the shadows checking in case she was lying. Kallias has her distracting herself with work. Viv is constantly taking her shopping. Her and Nyx are exploring-"

"No." Rhysand interrupted softly. "I can feel something is wrong, Azriel. I have been able to feel it for months now, and you and Cassian have ignored me at every turn. Go. Get. My. Son."

Azriel's jaw twitched and his eyes met Rhysands. "Is that an order, brother?" The blow landed exactly as the spymaster had intended. "What would you like me to say to my High Lady as I kidnap her child?"

Rhys squeezed his eyes shut. "He's asking for you to go the-"

"But not to be brought home," Azriel interrupted. "I will go there on his request and speak with him and Aelia. I will not force them to come home, Rhys."

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Aelia held Nyx's hand as they walked through the Mountain House. She was ignoring the steady ache in her heart by showing her son the magic of this side of his heritage. Kallias was walking ahead of them, happy to lead his nephew down the halls of their past family members and the Court leaders.

Nyx, to his credit, was taking notes, nodding to his uncle on ways Winter did truly have their taxation, barter and trade, and armies set on very successful , profitable, and mutually beneficial systems. He was asking Kal questions that had the high lord beaming with pride, and his mother smiling fondly as she listened.

It was almost enough for her to ignore the growing hole her husband had left. Rhysand haunted her. He was her dreams, her nightmares, her day fantasies. She could hear his voice in her ear, praising her as she did a task as simple as brushing her hair instead of wallowing.

She had even awoken one night from a nightmare, only to be in a dream where he was right there, shushing her gently as she whispered what she had conjured in her own mind to him. She confided in Viv one day she could hear his heartbeat in the dead of night. Viv had chalked it up to her missing him, to her mind playing tricks on her to comfort her. Aelia could have swore she woke up to the soft scent of citrus and sea fading in her room almost every morning, though.

Aelia was brought back to reality as she ran into her brother's back. Kal had gone silent and stopped walking. The high lord's shoulders grew stiff as he sniffed the air. "Did you call for Azriel?" Aelia shook her head before turning to Nyx. 

Guilt was etched into his perfect face. Blue siphoned hands turned the heir, wrapping him in a tight hug as Aelia backed away to be closer to her brother. "Are you okay?" Azriel's voice was muffled by his nephew's hair. Nyx nodded quickly, hands fisting Az's armor like he was feeling safety for the first time in years.

Aelia and Azriel held eye contact, blue eyes meeting hazel. He knew she was upset by the flick of emotion that ran through the icy coloring. She wasn't allowing the sense of betrayal to set in yet. She wasn't allowing herself to hurt at her brother in law's sudden and unasked for appearance.

Kallias broke the silence of the halls. "There are laws, Shadowsinger, regarding outside court visitations. Laws your high lord pushed for. Did you forget them or does the Night Court find itself above those laws we all signed and put in place?" His tone was cold, hiding how bothered he was to have the male that stood in a place of honor next to the High Lord of Night in his home. 

"I called for him," Nyx felt small with the frozen expression Kal had finally stopped wearing around him met his skin again. "I missed him." A truth and a lie, mixed together perfectly like Azriel had taught him. 

Aelia looked between Kal and Azriel. A look of anger graced her brother's face, and a look of conflict was on Azriel's. "I will deal with it," she offered before attempting to move to the Illyrian. A hand shot out, grabbing her bicep and pulling her back into her older brother's chest. 

"Nyx, come here," the tone of his voice was desperate. "Please. I cannot protect you if you go without him. I will explain everything lat-"

"You will fill his head with lies, you mean?" Azriel interrupted, putting Nyx behind him. "It was not him." Azriel held a scarred hand to Aelia. "Sister, come. I just need a few moments of your time."

The grip on her bicep tightened. "Aelia," her brother began softly, "Do you remember me telling you about the children slaughtered under Amarantha's orders?" Azriel growled loudly, shadows beginning to pose around his shoulders like snakes waiting to strike. "Your husband was her executioner."

The hallway became still. Nyx felt himself stop breathing, Aelia stood there in shock. Azriel closed his eyes slowly. The only noises between the four of them was the soft sound of the Lady of Night's breath becoming faster. The sound of it reaching an uneven state as she shook her head at the accusation. Her chest grew painfully tight as thousands of thoughts boomeranged.

Rhys would never, her mind screamed. He'd never. "No," she said. "No. No. No. No. No." She felt Kal lowering her to the ground before the soft pleads became full on screams. Azriel and Nyx were still, watching as she began crying. Begging Kal to tell her that he was lying. 

Azriel watched silently, his grip on Nyx never faltering. "Take me home," the heir's voice was devoid of emotion. "Take me home so I can get the truth from him."  Shadows surrounded the two of them as guards came and rushed to the siblings sitting on the wooden floor of the home.

The last thing Azriel saw was his high lady, a female he loved more than anything, weakly reaching her hand to him and her son with a look of fear etched into her face.

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Nyx was out of Azriel's arms in seconds, prowling towards Rhysand's office where the spymaster knew he and Cassian were waiting. 

The heir didn't knock, he didn't open the doors gently. He slammed them open, splintering the wood as an intense stare down started between him and his father.

"Did you do it?" The look of confusion on Rhysand's face made the heir angrier. "Did you fucking do it?!"

Cassian stood, moving to his nephew and trying to calm him in whispered sentences. "Nyx, he can't give you answers if he doesn't know what he's answering."

Nyx shrugged out of Cassian's grasp. "Did you kill the children in the Winter Court?" Rhysand sighed heavily, sitting back down in his chair and motioning for his son to sit. "I will stand if it's all the same to you, High Lord." 

A visible flinch graced Rhysand's normally stone face. "No, I did not harm them. I had no part in that. Please sit down so I can explain my side of things."

Nyx shook his head. "So she had another one of your kind down there?" He said it like it was a slur, like his father had a disease. "Or you just sat there licking her cunt while she used your powers-"

The High lord stood, hand slamming down on the desk as the room grew cold and dark. It was a reminder to Nyx of his father's power, of the command and control Rhysand could quickly take over a room. "I had NO PART in what that bitch did, Nyx. I was trapped in her bed like I was no more than a toy to her, and the only reason I ever entered her bed was to protect you and your mother." His voice broke, anger and frustration turning into heartbreak and grief. "I only ever wanted to protect my family." 

Nyx had never witnessed his father crying. His mother? Yes. The soft daughter of Winter cried frequently with her son present. She'd cry in sadness, anger, stress. She'd cry when she was overwhelmed by joy and love. Seeing his father now, tears welling his eyes, hands shaking as he tried to hold in and control his emotions, had Nyx standing in place with his eyes wide. "Everything I did, I did because I love you, Nyx. Because I love your mother. Because I love Cassian, Azriel, Amren, and Mor. I did it because I love this Court, our home."

Rhys looked up, taking a few deep breaths before he continued. "I never would have harmed a child, Nyx. Because if I had, I would have only pictured you. I would have sooner fed myself to whatever beasts Amarantha would have allowed me to than harm a child when you were all I thought about every day down there. The guilt of not being able to stop what happened eats me alive every day. I think about those families every day, and how that could have been you."

Nyx took a tentative step towards his dad. "Dad-"

"If you do not believe me it's fine. But do not sit there and act like I was not as trapped as everyone else was. Do not sit there and ac-"

"Daddy, I believe you."  That simple sentence. Those 4 words. That was all it took for Rhys and Nyx to meet the distance between each other, embracing tightly and the father and son cried together. "I believe you." He whispered again. "I want to be home. With you. With momma."

Rhys pulled away nodding before kissing his son's forehead. "I want that too, Nyx. I want you two home more than I can put into words." Rhys wiped tears from his son's face, studying it as if he was looking into a mirror. "We will get there, little star."

"Don't give up on momma, please." The break in Nyx's voice caused a phantom tug to come from a string Rhysand only wished was attached to his heart.

He pulled Nyx back to him, hand finding the back of his son's raven curls. "Never. I will never give up on her, on you, or on us." Nyx felt his eyes flutter shut, breathing in his father's scent deeply. "You two are all I've ever wanted, all I ever dreamed about. I will wait a thousand years if that's what it takes for her to come home to me."

❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️

Aelia woke up in a dark room, the windows open and curtains drawn to allow her to watch the fresh snow falling gently and reflecting the lights below like glitter. 

She was completely alone, at least she thought, as she stood and walked to the vanity on unstable legs.  She brushed her hair quickly, undoing the braids the healers had not, and removed the soft makeup she had worn to countless meetings that day. 

The sparkling blue gown had grown heavy on her frame, and she stood again, walking to grab something more comfortable to sleep in.

She was numb. She felt like she had bathed in the frozen rivers of this Court. Her husband stood accused of slaughtering innocent faelings. Her son had left with the male who'd promised her their safety. She reached behind herself, struggling to get to the laces of her corset before sighing and giving up. 

Aelia allowed herself to fall onto the couch in the sitting area, crying softly. It wasn't until familiar hands ran up her arms and fingers danced between her shoulder blades that she bothered looking up from the pillow she was crying into.

"I already shielded the room. No one will come if you scream. We need to talk." He had her trapped, his own body blocking her ability to get up.

She was no match magically or physically for Rhys. She didn't respond as he began to unlace her dress. "I was wondering where that sweater went, darling. I should have known my wife would have stolen it." He chuckled lightly watching as she sighed in relief as he unlaced that last row of strings. "I do not like it when they dress you so tightly you cannot breathe. You would be perfection in a potato sack. I have never understood the obsession with corseting you this tightly."

He moved, allowing her to sit up and put some distance between them."I did not do it, Aelia." He finally said as she stood to remove the dress. Her back was to him, but his eyes still trailed the lean muscles of her body and every inch of her pale skin. "I swear on my life, and Velaris itself, I had no part in that." 

Aelia felt her brows go up. "You would put it in a vow to me?" She turned to Rhysand, not hiding a single inch of herself from him. "You would swear to me in the old magic you did not kill those children?"

Rhysand's eyes never left her face, refusing to take the bait she was using. "I would." His tone left no room for argument. It was a sentence that sealed the conversation with finality. "I would allow that bargain to mark you in plain sight if I had to." Another statement that made her eyebrows raise. He had not allowed a single promise or bargain to touch her skin in visible areas before. 

"You are so beautiful," he finally said into the silence. "I forgot how stunning you are in the light of this court, my precious snowflake." Her cheeks heated at his words. He moved to her, hands finding her face as he tilted her gaze to him. "I have never found a single female or male I find more ethereal than you, Aelia."

She remembered now why she had fallen for Rhys so quickly. It wasn't the golden words, the strength of his muscles, the beauty of his perfectly carved face. 

It was his eyes. That deep blue that leaned to a soft violet in the right lighting. She could lose herself in them, drown in them like the Oceans of Summer. She knew at all times, even if that mask of indifference and cruelty was on, she alone could look into his eyes and find comfort in them, she could find the truth in them.

And right now, he wasn't lying. 

Her own hands moved to his chest as silence fell between the two. Her fingers brushed over the expensive fabric of his jacket before grabbing the lapels and crossing a line she had promised herself she wouldn't when they reunited.

Aelia pulled Rhysand down to her, locking his lips with hers and leaning further into his touch. He joined without hesitation, and quickly took control of the kiss. He tilted her head more to give him better access. He groaned at the taste of her as her lips parted enough for his tongue to swipe across hers. The hands on her face moved, one finding her waist, the other tangling into that snow white hair. 

It was everything they had both dreamed of for 50 years now. Passionate. Safe. Gentle. Years of longing poured into that kiss. She gripped his jacket harder, not wanting to take it any further than he'd allow, but refusing to let go. 

He pulled away, resting his forehead on hers as his hand refound her face. "When you are ready, I want you to come home. I will take you in the dead of night. Your brother already wants my head ." Aelia nodded, quickly kissing him again. "The bond is rejected. I am getting help. You need to know I never wanted anyone besides you, Aelia Darling." She nodded again, having already known that truth deep down inside. "You are my salvation, Aelia."

Rhys kissed her this time, backing her up to the bed and gently laying her down. They were looking at each other, their bodies softly illuminated by the dying faelight. "Rhys, we don't-" 

"I want to." He kissed her again. "Let me show you how much I love you."

Tag list:

@we-were-beautiful

@daedriclys

#acotar #acotar x reader #rhys x reader #rhysand x reader #rhys acotar #multi part fic #rhysand acotar #rhys fic #rhysand x oc

[thedroneranger]

Talk You Out of It

Jake "Hangman" Seresin

Précis: A last-minute change of plans has you all dressed up with no where to go.

Note: One of two entires for @roosterforme’s #love is in the air tgm love song playlist challenge! This fic is inspired by Florida Georgie Line's Talk You Out Of It. Happy Valentine's Day, ya filthy animals! 🖤

Warnings: 18+ only, explicit.

Word count: 3.0k

A deep sigh left your lips as you sunk into the car seat. The silence was interrupted by a ping. Fumbling around, you pulled out your phone. The screen illuminated with a message from Jake.

I got a bottle at your favorite place, waiting for us in a bucket on ice. Be ready for 7 p.m. Wear something nice.

You grumbled, learning that Jake had planned something that required you to get dressed and go back out. Normally, you loved getting dolled up and going out. Especially with Jake. The two of you made a great-looking pair. It was hard not to notice the double takes and whispers. It reminded you that either of you could have anyone but chose each other.

However, the first week at your new job was a grind. Going home to cuddle on the couch with Jake while you drank wine, ate takeout and watched a rom-com sounded ideal. Since that was not in the plans, you spent the drive hyping yourself to shower and get dressed to be ready when Jake got back so you could make your reservation.

The shower was a welcome reset. Putting on your upbeat shower playlist was energizing. Once you were refreshed, swathed in a towel, you padded to the study to steal a large pour of Jake’s favorite whiskey. 

Your back was to most of the room as you found a glass and selected the right bottle. You nearly jumped through the roof when you heard Jake’s voice. Collecting yourself and leveling your breath, you turned to face your husband.

Jake was sitting in his chair, legs splayed with his own glass resting on the chair arm. “What’re you doing, darlin’?” He was a sight for sore eyes. Almost ready for the evening, his shirt had a few buttons undone and his tie was slung around his neck ready for you to fasten—one of your date night rituals.

“I’m torn between a few outfits, so I figured a little liquid courage would help.” You held the glass up. His signature smile appeared, and you could feel the serotonin fire in your brain. 

“Take your time, darlin’. I’ll be right here.” He put his glass to his lips and watched as you returned to the bedroom. Before you headed to the closet, you queued a sexier playlist. 

Hearing the change in music, Jake smiled and hummed along while he enjoyed his whiskey. 

Standing in the mirror, you held dresses in front of you, switching back and forth for an hour. With each garment, you visualized your hair and makeup. Finally, a strappy silk midi with a thigh-high slit spoke to you. “That’s it,” you said aloud, affirming your choice. Once you had the dress, you were ready in no time. 

One last look in the full-length mirror, you went back to the study. “Ok.” Your eyes met Jake’s and his mouth was agape. “Is…everything ok?” You stood, shifting your weight from one foot to the other, waiting for him to respond.

He walked toward you, shamelessly looking you up and down. “You look like a grown man’s dream,” he stated. Heat rushed to your cheeks. Jake's compliments always made you blush. 

“Thank you.” You reached for his shirt as he approached, fastening the last couple buttons, and then knotting and adjusting his tie. Your palms slid to rest on his chest. His hands floated to your waist and pulled you so your bodies touched. 

The low back on your dress allowed his fingers to skim along your bare spine. The sensation gave you goosebumps and had you biting your lower lip. 

One of Jake’s eyebrows quirked as he held your gaze. “What if we stay in?” Now your mouth was agape. Was he serious? You didn’t believe what you heard.  

Jake broke away from you to head to the bar to pour fresh glasses of whiskey. “It’s chilly out—why leave when we’re so toasty?” He came back and placed a glass on your upturned palm. 

You watched as he sauntered back to his oversized leather chair. Your gazes stayed locked as he settled in. “Plus, it’ll probably be loud. I won’t be able to hear you tell me about your first week.” With his free hand, he patted his thigh. 

Suddenly, it all clicked. You laughed—a sound Jake loved. “Definitely wouldn’t have heard that.” He smirked and settled more into his chair, splaying his legs wider, further extending his invitation.

The look in your eyes told Jake his plea was successful. That smile you fell in love with graced his face as you slid onto his lap. 

One hand around his shoulders, his arm around your hips, you both sipped your drinks. After a few minutes, you looked at each other as you reached across him to set your drink on the table. Then you draped your other arm around his neck, nails skimming the buzzed hairs on the back of it. He practically purred. 

“Tell me about your week,” he requested as he pressed kisses to the exposed parts of your chest. Your answer came in the form of shallow breaths and soft moans. 

Jake’s fingers skimmed your thin dress straps off your shoulders. You pulled your arms through, letting them drop to your sides. Following the swells of your breasts, his fingers slid the fabric down, leaving just your nipples covered. 

He kept eye contact with you as his broad tongue trailed up the valley between your breasts. In turn, your hand anchored itself in his locks and pulled him up until his lips were teasing your neck. “It’s amazing how few words it’s taking you to talk me out of this dress,” you said between sharp breaths. 

“You shouldn’t have picked it if you wanted to go out,” he retorted as you separated to shift positions. Hitching up your dress, you tucked your knees on either side of Jake’s hips while you unfastened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. 

“Maybe I didn’t want to go out…” you trailed off. Jake’s eyebrows rose in surprise as you continued to undress him. You shrugged. “Looks a little different than I envisioned, but it’s going to end with us cuddling, so it’s a win in my book.” It was Jake’s turn to laugh—a sound you loved.

Jake was patient. He watched as you undid each button on his shirt and pulled the tails from his waistband. You even popped off his cufflinks and unbuttoned his sleeves. He leaned forward, allowing you to push the shirt off his shoulders. You guided the fabric as he pulled his arms out of the sleeves. 

Once the shirt lay neatly over the chair arm, he grabbed the bunches of dress fabric around your thighs and flipped it over your head. He soaked you in. “No undergarments?” His grin rivaled the Cheshire cat.

Your shoulders floated toward your ears as you looped your arms around his neck, holding your own wrist. “I didn’t want lines. That fabric shows everything.” His mind flashed back to your nipples barely hidden behind it just moments ago.

His blunt fingertips hungrily dug into the meat of your thighs. His thumbs pressed into the creases where your hips hinged. “What was it you had in mind since we’re staying in?” He looked up at you and he slowly pressed kisses to your arm headed toward your chest.

“Well, this is much different than I had imagined,” you began. He hummed, showing his attentiveness. “I envisioned us snuggled up on the couch, sipping wine and watching a movie…”

Jake’s head jerked up. “Oh, darlin’, we can absolutely watch a movie. Something inspirational…” he trailed off, leaving you to wonder what he had in mind. While he commanded your home assistant, you shimmied into his too-big-for-you shirt, leaving it open.

Unceremoniously, Jake stood, forcing you off his lap. You huffed but lost the attitude as he led you to the couch. He dropped his pants, leaving him in just his black boxer briefs, before settling into the couch. Jake left his legs wide enough for you to sit between, so you obliged him, pressing your back to his chest. He nosed the shell of your ear as he pressed a couple kisses to the top of your jaw. 

The screen slid from the ceiling pocket and the projector came to life. You waited as Jake’s camera roll appeared. Your eyes widened as his hidden album popped up and your face appeared in several of the thumbnails.

He tapped one you knew was his favorite. “Let’s watch this. Maybe we can reenact it. Hmmm?” A little gasp escaped your lips as Jake’s hand slid between your legs, his middle and ring fingers curling into you. “Fuck, you’re so wet,” he added, pumping slowly.

You watched the screen, your brain taking you back to the day the video was recorded. You moved soundlessly across the screen. Jake loved giving voice over and didn’t want to miss a single sound in real-time. 

On screen, Jake’s thumb was pulling on the straps of your thong, letting them snap against you. Then he was palming your ass, swatting it once in a while. The entire time your head bobbed in and out of frame. Occasionally stopping to look at Jake through the camera lens.

“This one I like to watch when I’m on the carrier. In bed, imagining your lips wrapped around my cock instead of my hand.” 

Your lip rolled between your teeth as you pressed harder against Jake. His thumb drew figure eights and frenzied circles on your swollen clit. The calloused pads of his fingers kept hitting that spongy spot, making your breath hitch each time. 

“Do you enjoy watching yourself?” Jake asked as he kissed your shoulder. Afraid to verbally answer because it might push you over the edge, you nodded slowly. “Use your words, darlin’.”

“Yes.” Your answer was breathy. A tell-tale sign you were close. 

“How about a little audio to add to the experience.” Jake bumped up the volume to a soft decibel. 

The recorded version of you throating Jake made you feel warm all over. You rolled your hips into Jake’s hand at a similar cadence to the sounds on screen. All while Jake sang praises into your ear. 

Thanks to Jake’s coaxing, you reached climax at the same time as Video Jake. “Fuck, yes,” Jake hissed, still stimulating your G spot as you contracted around his fingers. You grabbed his wrist to push him away because the sensation had you seeing stars, but he refused to pull back. “Color?” His voice was gruff. 

“Green,” you whined. He kissed your shoulder again and kept his fingers deep inside you as you began to wind down. As Jake removed his fingers from you, you caught his palm and guided the digits to your lips. 

First, you kissed them and then pressed your tongue against the palm side, licking from the base to tips. You pushed his slickened fingers past your lips, swirling your tongue around them as they entered your mouth. 

Jake watched you, his pupils nearly eclipsing his irises. His cock twitched against your back, which had you pressing further into him. He groaned and pushed toward you. His free hand came up to cup your neck just under your jaw. 

You hummed as he applied light pressure to the sides. Your body rocked to the same rhythm as his fingers going in and out of your mouth. Eventually, you released them with a popping sound.

Softly, you removed Jake’s hand from your neck and slipped off the couch, twisting so you were facing him on your knees between his. Looking up at him through your lashes, you hooked your fingers behind his knees to bring him closer to the edge of the sofa. 

Standing to your fullest height on your knees, you palmed Jake through his underwear. He was hard as a rock. At the same time, you pushed your lips to his. He kept you close with a hand at the base of your skull. Hungrily, his tongue played with yours. 

While he dominated your kiss, your hand dipped past his waistband. Your thumb swiped the precum from his angry tip and rubbed it along his length. He growled into your kiss, enjoying the sensation. Involuntarily, he kept shifting his body toward you for more contact. 

Finally, you broke the kiss to focus on his throbbing cock. “I think we should make a sequel.” He twitched in your hand, which made you smile. “You could use some new content.” You winked as you settled lower to the floor and pulled his underwear off as he lifted his hips.

Thankfully, Jake’s phone was just a couch cushion away. He snagged it, opening the camera and framing you how he wanted. He gave a slight nod as he hit record. 

Jake held his breath, anticipating the first touch of your lips. Instead, your tongue poked out and swiped his head. He nearly jumped off the couch—it was such a subtle start. You smiled at the lens, twisting your hand along his shaft. 

Resting your thumb on his frenulum, you took the tip in your mouth. Then your hand slid further down, allowing more of him into your mouth. Soon, he was hitting the back of your throat. You could feel tears forming in your waterlines and spit gathering at the corners of your mouth.

Popping Jake out of your mouth, you took a deep breath, continuing to glide your hand along his length, using your thumb for extra pressure on the underside. You moved him so you had better access to his balls, pressing a kiss to each before taking one in your mouth. You felt Jake’s breath stutter as you whirled your tongue around it, before trading it for the other. You repeated the action a few times until you felt him contract.  

Not ready for him to finish, you sat back up and returned to bobbing up and down on his shaft. Each time your nose touched his pelvis, you let your tongue lay flat against his ballsack.

Pulling Jake out and running his tip along the outline of your lips, you looked at him through the camera lens. “Are you cumming on my face?” You punctuated your question with a kiss to his tip. You gently squeezed his head with your teeth when he was slow to answer.

“G’yes,” he hissed, struggling to keep it together. 

Expertly, you eased him back into your mouth, taking him all the way to hilt. Then, you slowly pulled him back out, hollowing your cheeks and zigzagging your tongue along his underside. Jake’s low, guttural “fuck” was music to your ears as you felt him begin to convulse. 

Keeping pressure on his underside, you massaged him and closed your eyes, waiting. Finally, warm streams patterned your face. You feel them on your brow, eyelids, cheeks and nose. As you felt cum drip into the crease of your lips, you parted them so it seeped between. You swiped your tongue along the inside edge, catching the salty nectar. 

“Not so fast, darlin’.” Jake’s drawl was more prominent than usual. His fingertips gingerly pressed into your jaw. He tilted your head and ran his tongue along the viscous ropes marking your face. Gently, he licked your eyelids, allowing you to open your eyes. You were met with his brooding eyes and glossy lips. There was the smallest drop of cum at the corner of his mouth.

Your knees still butterflied on the floor, Jake loomed over you, perched on the couch edge. You opened your mouth, sticking out your tongue, as Jake softly guided your head back. Together, you watched as he let his mixed fluids drip into your mouth. They pooled on the flat of your broad tongue before rolling down your throat. 

Jake’s hand slid from your jaw to the front of your throat as his mouth closed over yours, enjoying the taste of your mixed saliva and his cum. He moaned into your mouth, and pushed you over until he was straddling you on the floor.

Arms thrown over your head, hair strewn everywhere, puffy lips and his shirt haphazardly covering parts of you, you were the hottest thing Jake had ever seen. Quickly, he jumped up to grab his phone. “Smile for me, darlin’.”

A genuine smile washed over your features as you tried to roll over and cover yourself. “Don’t get shy on me now!” Jake dropped back to his knees, again straddling you as you laid on your back underneath him.

He watched you through the phone screen until you stilled and looked at him with the sweetest smile. He ditched his phone and settled so his body covered yours, a knee between your legs, as he held himself up on his forearms, hovering so you were face to face. “Glad we stayed in?” you asked, looking between and trailing your finger along his diastasis. 

“Very glad,” he responded. You glanced back up to find him staring at you. “Let’s get cleaned up,” he added, giving you a peck on the lips before he pushed himself to his feet. On the way up, he snagged your hand to pull you up. While you stood in front of him, he pulled his shirt closed around your body and then pulled you against his chest. He kissed the top of your head as his hands wrapped around you and came to rest on your backside.

You popped your head up to look at him. He looked down at you, waiting. “After we shower, let’s lay in bed and watch our sequel.” His signature grin appeared, waiting for you to continue. “We might have to do reshoots.”

“Fuck, I love you,” he laughed, engulfing you in a tight hug. You looped your arms around his neck and hopped so he could catch your legs as they locked around his waist. You gave him another searing kiss as he carried you to your ensuite bathroom. 

“Maybe we should film while we’re in the shower?” he suggested. 

“The talent needs some rest between feature length films,” you replied.

“I’ll show you feature length.” He buried his face in your neck, and you squealed as he kicked the bedroom door shut.

Thanks for reading! Wanna read more? Visit my masterlist! | Sign up for my taglist!

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[darklydeliciousdesires]

Salvation - A Luca Changretta/Reader One Shot Story.

So my darling @zablife put this in my brain, and it was going to be smutty, but it took a much more tender turn in the end. I hope you all enjoy it nonetheless.

Words - 1,034

Warnings - Brief mentions of violence.

In Luca’s world, his status dictates he acts as judge and jury, but not often executioner. Usually, it’s another to squeeze a trigger, send a ballistic of hot lead into somebody, their final lesson learned in never crossing the men who loom like reapers within the shadows of the New York underworld.  

Until the code of omerta is forsaken so badly, he has no choice but to execute vengeance, when it’s on a level so personal, there’s no one else but him to bring down the final blow. For omerta, any bond is pushed aside. Friendship, blood, oaths, everything.  

And it never gets easier.  

The weight of it pushes down on his shoulders, the deed trailing along after him, like a restless phantom vying for attention, swirling dark as it flits through his mind. It casts its shadows, seeds itself, an implanted haunting no exorcism will ever remove. The stains of blood can be washed away, cleansed by soap and water. Stains of the soul take a much deeper scouring.  

For the wages of sin is death, so says the holy book. He knows it’ll come to him eventually, unless he’s particularly fortunate. It shan’t be the sacrilege of breaking omerta that ends him, though. He knows whatever reaper comes for him in the end will be nothing less than his own wages of sin have earned him. 

He examines his hands again in the car, although it was a gloved hand that pulled the trigger and sent his own blood down to check in at the gates of hell. They only contain the usual brandings, no blood to mark the deed, nothing outward giving it away. If his appearance matched the carnage in his brain, he would look as if he’d been launched headfirst into a blood-filled vat, dripping sanguine, no skin left without the slick wet of a crimson stain.  

He feels like he is walking through clay as he enters your home, feet heavy, limbs turned to stone and concrete. Luca Changretta is nothing if not a pillar of strength, but as with anything, if the pillar is subjected to blunt force trauma too many times, it begins to show cracks.  

It’s always you who patches them up again.  If anybody has a chance of banishing the phantom, it is you.

He moves through the house wordlessly after removing his coat and hat, his feet upon the stairs echoing through the hallway. Slow, heavy footfalls, his shoulders drawn up as you stand at the bottom to view him, biting your lip nervously.  

“Want me to bring you a drink up?”  

He never means to bite your head off, show his fangs like an agitated viper, but it does happen. When the tall Italian turns at the top to look down on you, though, it’s with a softened face. “Please, doll.”  

A little pang of worry nestles itself in your chest, his voice even quieter than usual. You knew he wouldn’t walk away from that particular hit unscathed, the damage being on the inside. It’ll be like a feral cat scratching against the inside of his skull in the days to come, sore, repetitive, vying for release.  

After all, it isn’t every day a man has to put a bullet in his cousin, after discovering he was a rat. 

Knowing he needs a little time, you wait downstairs until after the sound of running water has ceased, giving him a slither of peace before padding up, a large whiskey in your hand. He hasn’t bothered switching the lights on, some of your candles over in the corner lit instead, the room bathed in a dark gold glow.  

He seems to have been taken by the storm of his thoughts, not immediately registering your entrance into his calming space, a wounded, green gaze finding you eventually as you pass him his drink, seating yourself on the side of the tub. Your hand reaches for his face, cupping his cheek, the dark stubble grainy in texture against the soft of your fingertips.  

A sigh sweeps over your palm as he leans into your embrace, your thumb skimming his lips, a kiss pressed as finally, he smiles. “Thank god for you.” Leaning forward, he shuffles to the centre of the tub, the water whooshing around the narrow, muscular form as it cuts through it, Luca jerking his head back. “Come hop in here with me.”  

It’s usually you who lies between his long legs, legs you once coined sexy giraffe legs and made him laugh until his stomach hurt, a rarity for a man usually so taciturn, so quietly still. Your place now is to be the bearer of support, the bolster rod knocked in behind the great pillar to prevent it from toppling, ready to take the weight and repair the damage.  

His head rests between your breasts, eyes falling shut, long legs jutting out of the water where he’s bent them at the knees to make room for you. The steam rises from his skin, and you watch it curling up through the air while your fingers weave into his wet hair, nails combing through the raven strands and swirling over his scalp.  

It’s a practice he’s always found soothing, and you know he needs it, needs something to counteract all that is sharp and screaming in his mind. Your presence alone is tonic enough, but for him, it’s your touch which truly pours healing elixir over the emotional wounds lacerating him deeply. Your fingertips begin to squeeze and rake, easing the tension pulling tight over his head, a soft, relaxed grunt rumbling his throat.  

Your caress moves to his neck, the muscles hard and unrelenting, tension cording every muscle. It leads to his shoulders, your hands working with diligence, stroking, kneading and pinching until you feel them begin to become malleable. He feels it leaving him, the exorcism that is the pure brilliance of your love banishing all that hangs heavy upon him, the phantom chased away, shrouding itself from your light.  

“Feeling any better?” 

He lifts his chin, turning his head, the smile finally reaching the green twinkle of his eyes, picked peridot in the candlelight. “Always am whenever you’re near.” 

#luca changretta fanfiction #luca changretta x reader #luca changretta x you #peaky blinders fanfiction #peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinders fic #luca changretta fic #luca changretta fanfic

[thetriumphantpanda]

Ghost Of You | J. Miller (Chapter Five)

Series Summary / Grief is a strange thing. In the beginning it had been all-consuming. There wasn’t a moment of the day where you didn’t cry, didn’t ask yourself why it couldn’t have been you instead. And no-one ever explains the guilt you feel when it isn’t anymore. When it’s just a dull ache and you can finally breathe again, when you can start letting people get close to you again. People like Joel Miller.

Pairing / Joel Miller x Widow F!Reader

Word Count / 3.7k

Warnings / FLUFF. ACTUAL FLUFF AND SOME HAPPINESS. Talking about suicide, mourning and descriptions of grief and depression. And a little surprise right at the end that I will not spoil for y'all.

Authors Note / Okay. I LOVE THIS CHAPTER SO MUCH. I have to admit when I wrote it I actually made myself cry and that's no word of a lie. I am having so much fun fleshing this story out and I hope that the slow burn isn't too slow for y'all but I promise these two are moving in the direction we want them to move in - I PROMISE YOU. If you enjoy this then I would LOVE to hear from you - Comments, reblogs and asks genuinely make my day.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

A week later, your garden is abuzz with life. Tommy has dragged the kettle grill from his garden into your own and is currently trying to get the coals to light, Joel is standing over his shoulder trying to get him to listen to what he thinks will work. You giggle to yourself when Tommy follows Joel’s instructions, and the flames catch. Younger brother yet again bested by his older brother’s knowledge. 

Maria is stepping out of the kitchen with plates and cutlery, placing them on the table, where Ellie is sat curled on the chair with her nose in a book. She’d come to the library on Monday and switched Artemis Fowl for the Chronicles of Narnia, another good choice in your opinion, and she’d spent most of the last thirty minutes with her nose stuck in the book. 

“Here you go, honey,” Maria pushes a glass of blackberry wine into your hand, “Shane sent us a bloody crate of this stuff, he’s made so much this year.” 

You clink your glass with her own and take a sip, letting the sweet liquid fall down your throat. You have to admit it was getting better with every year. The first year Shane had proudly debuted his wine it was way too sour, everyone apart from Tommy had been too polite to tell him so. The next year, it had been drowned in enough sugar to give anyone diabetes, but now he was getting the hang of it, and with the sun starting to lower in the sky and all your favourite people, apart from one, around you, you had to admit you thought you were happy. 

You’d spent all day cooking side dishes that you’d saved up your ration cards for. Potato salad, a slapdash attempt at Greek salad, just without feta and balsamic vinegar, you’d even made a fresh loaf of bread. Maria and Tommy had brought meat to grill – there were steaks from the last lot of cows to have been slaughtered, chicken that Maria had skewered with peppers, and even burgers and sausages. Your luck to have found this place never failed to amaze you. You could convince yourself all this was back on the street you’d lived at in California before outbreak day. Ellie had even attempted to make a pie as dessert. She’d lifted the cloth covering the pastry when she’d knocked on the door, Joel in tow. 

“It’s apple, because I remember you saying that was your favourite,” You’d smiled and pulled her into a quick hug, “Joel insisted on a whole pastry lid though, something about it being better than the lattice.” 

You’d looked him in the eye, “Well, Joel is outnumbered here, but we’ll let him off for tonight.” 

He’d dipped to kiss your cheek as he’d walked in through the threshold, passing a bottle of whiskey to you, “If you set that in the freezer it’ll be nice and chilled for something to drink after dinner.” 

Once the flames have died down and the coals are embers, you watch Tommy set the chicken skewers on the grill. You head inside and pull your sides out of the fridge, cutting slices of bread. There’s a tiny amount of butter left which you also pull out, setting everything on the table outside, watching as Ellie’s eyes bulge at foods she’d never experienced before. You smirk at her, whispering that she’s welcome to try anything she wants but to make sure Joel doesn’t catch her, sure that he’ll chide her for her manners. 

You go back inside and pull another plate out for Tommy to set the cooked meat on and fill two tumblers of whiskey for the two of them, setting them on the empty plate to take them down to the men. 

“It never fails to amaze me how much cooking on fire takes you men back to the dark ages.” You joke, holding the plate out for Joel to take a glass, which he does gladly, neither him nor Tommy enjoying Shane’s homebrewed beer much by the looks of it.

You hand Tommy the plate once he’s taken his own glass, “Didn’t Sarah always used to say the same thing?” Tommy asked, Joel nods in agreement, “Somethin’ about being cavemen.” 

You laugh and leave them to it, heading back to the table where Maria and Ellie are talking together. As you sit down you can tell that Ellie is attempting (and failing) to get Maria to let her try her wine. 

“You don’t want this, trust me,” You smirk, sitting down on the chair next to her, “I’ve been drinking my entire life and it’s already going to my head.” 

You make polite conversation around the table for a little while until Tommy is walking towards you with a plate full of grilled meat. He sets it down before he sits down next to his wife, Joel taking the other unoccupied chair opposite you. Within moments, plates are full and you’re all eating in silence. 

Joel watches you intently as you cut a slice of steak. He watches as your eyes close and your head tilts back a little until a little groan falls from your mouth. He can’t stop his brain from thinking how much he’d like to be the one making your eyes close and your head tilt back like that. God, he really was getting old if a singular glass of whiskey had him thinking like this. He drags his gaze from you back to his own plate of food, so you don’t catch the darkening of his eyes. 

“Tommy, Jesus Christ, I haven’t had steak like this in so long.” You’re praising his brother, breaking off a slice of bread to dip into the dripping that’s come from the resting steak. 

Everyone is silent as you make your way through the rest of the meal. Once you’ve all eaten your fill there’s less left that you thought there would be, everyone obviously making the most of the rare luxury of meat. 

Ellie insists that although you’re all fit to burst, you have to try a slice of apple pie and you’re thankful you did. She’d done an absolutely fantastic job of it on her own and you couldn’t help the swell of your heart as she’d grinned when you told her it was just as good as the one you’d made together, backed up by everyone else around the table. 

Maria and Ellie do the dishes together, packaging up leftovers for everyone to take home with them for the next day as Joel and Tommy start a small fire on the grass of your garden in a small drum that you don’t dare ask where he got it from. You tell Ellie about your days camping with your dad, toasting marshmallows and getting sticky when you tried to pull it off the toasting stick. 

You drink whiskey for the first time in ages as you swap stories across the fire and you can’t help but smile. You love this little bunch of people, the five of them, sat around, keeping you company, making everything seem just that little bit easier. 

You glance to your left a little while later, Ellie is asleep, resting her head on her hand. The conversation has lulled a little, Maria and Tommy are holding each other’s hands, glancing at Ellie too. 

“I think I’m ready to call it a night,” Maria speaks, “We’ll take Ellie back to yours Joel, you stay here and finish your drink.” 

He’s just poured himself another glass of whiskey from the bottle and is cradling it in his impossibly large hands. He nods, gently waking Ellie to tell her that Maria and Tommy will walk her home and he’ll be back soon once he finishes his drink. She doesn’t argue, standing up with a yawn. 

“Thanks for today,” She says to you, bending down to your chair to give you a quick hug, “I’m glad you liked the pie.” 

You smile at her and say that you hope you’ll see her soon, bidding her a goodnight. She gives Joel a hug too, telling him not to stay out too late because he’s an old man. He snorts but agrees he won’t stay long. 

Maria and Tommy also give you a hug, insisting that you stay put instead of standing. And then they’re all gone and it’s just you and Joel sat around the fire. It’s quiet, the silent never uncomfortable between the two of you. 

“Can I ask a question?” You ask quietly, once the silence becomes too much, looking down at the glass of whiskey in your hands. 

The fire is warm, even if its flames have died down. It’s casting a gentle orange glow across Joel’s features which makes him look soft, even more welcoming than normal. 

“Of course you can.” He replies, sipping his own drink. 

“How long did it take for you to feel okay again?” You can’t look him in the eye, can’t look at him altogether, it’s a personal question, one you never thought you’d feel okay asking, but the wine and whiskey have made you brave, “You know, after Sarah?” 

He’s silent for a long time. Long enough that you wonder if you’ve upset him. You’re about to open your mouth to apologise for overstepping a line when he speaks, “It wasn’t time that did it,” He answers, thinking back to the last time he’d said those words, it’s still true, “It’s more about what I found that made it easier.” 

You’re running a finger around the rim of your glass trying to distract yourself but you can feel his eyes on you, “It never goes away, not really,” He sighs, “Not to make you feel even worse about things, but it shrinks a little, until you can remember all the good things about that person, instead of how much it hurts that you don’t have them anymore.” 

“What was it like for you?” You look at him now and fuck he’s pretty. No amount of grief would deny the way your stomach flipped when you see him in this moment. The flickering orange light of the flame illuminating the shadows of his face, his eyes are darker than normal, and you think you might just drown yourself in them if you look any longer, “What was your grief like?” You look away, trying to ignore the lump in your throat. 

You watch as he leans his elbow on the arm of the chair, resting his fingers on his mouth as if he’s contemplating what to say to you, “I couldn’t see the point of life without her anymore,” He speaks softly, “Sarah was gone, the world was gone, so what was I still doin’ here, you know?” You nod, because you do know. You know all too well. “In those first few days after I tried to kill myself,” You let in a sharp inhale of breath, which he doesn’t acknowledge, “I was ready, I wasn’t scared, but I flinched, and for twenty years I always wondered why. Why did I flinch when I pulled that trigger?” He’s silent again for a while and you want to reach out and offer your hand to him, but again, you don’t, you keep it in your own lap, “I guess what I’m tryin’ to say is that it won’t always break your heart, but I think you already know that,” You nod in agreement as you close your eyes, “You’ve just gotta find the next thing worth livin’ for.” 

You want to tell him you’re sorry, but when had that ever helped you? No amount of sorry from anyone was going to bring your respective people back. You’d always thought that saying sorry was a cop out anyway. Something someone said when they didn’t know what else to say, so you didn’t. 

“You know, it never even crossed my mind.” You muse, mostly to yourself than anything else. 

“What didn’t?”

“Killing myself,” You reply almost immediately, “I think now that it would have been the easiest thing, I could have been with him, I wouldn’t have been here to listen to everyone gossip about me, I wouldn’t have spent a year of my life practically locked in my house, but it never once crossed my mind.” 

“You wanna know what I think?” He asks, watching you as you nod, “I think that’s because deep down you knew you’d be okay, whether you realized it or not,” He’s reaching for the nearly empty bottle of whiskey to top his glass up, “I know it hurts, sweet pea, trust me, but you’ll know what love is again someday.” 

It’s such a striking thing for him to say that it catches you completely off guard. Outside of the handful of times this evening that you’ve caught yourself thinking of how utterly beautiful a man Joel Miller is, you’ve never thought about finding someone else. Mark was meant to be your one and only, you’ve vowed to each other that was the case, signed your names on a piece of paper to the same effect. ‘Til death us do part. It’s silly but when you’d uttered those words to Mark, you’d always imagined dying together. Old age, hands held, drifting off together. In reality it hadn’t been old age, but you’d held hands, right until the bitter end, but then you were left here, all alone, and he was gone. 

“You know those romantic movies we used to watch before?” 

“You used to watch.” He interrupts, a small smile on his face. 

“Alright, those romantic movies I used to watch,” You let out a little giggle, “Whenever someone died before their time, they would inevitably get just the right amount of time to tell the person they loved that they wanted to move on?” Joel nods that he knows what you’re talking about, “I guess I’ve always thought I needed his permission, not really just to find someone else, but to move on and live my life again.” 

“Did you need his permission for much when he was around?” He asks. 

You shake your head, “He was always so laid back, even when we were on our own out of the quarantine zones, we were a team, but we understood each other, understood what we both needed, so no, not really.” 

Joel speaks without a pause, “Then you just need to ask yourself for permission then.” 

Silence falls between you both again. You’re staring at the flames in front of you and draining your glass of whiskey. It was never your favourite, you didn’t like the way it burnt on your tongue or the feeling of it settling in your stomach, but like anything in this world, it was the case of any port in a storm. Joel follows suit and drains the last of his drink. 

“I should really be gettin’ back,” He speaks softly, “But thank you, for today, it’s been one of the nicest days I can remember.” 

You both stand up, Joel taking the empty glasses and you taking hold of the whiskey bottle with the last bit of amber liquid in the bottom. He walks in front, stopping to drop the glasses in the sink which you insist you’ll wash up yourself. You set the whiskey bottle on the side and follow him to the front door. 

He pauses before he can turn the handle and open the door and you wonder what’s going on. Joel is the kind of man who is always sure of his actions, never falters, but his hand is outstretched and he’s not moving. You’re leant against the wall on one shoulder at the bottom of the stairs that lead to the top floor of your house when he turns back around to you. 

“I think he’d want you to be happy, sweet pea,” He breathes, “You have too much love in here to not give it to anyone else.” His fingertips are brushing the space between your breasts where your heart is, and you wonder when he got so fucking close to you.

You look up and he’s looming over you, those beautiful brown eyes looking directly through yours and into your soul. His hands are cupping your cheeks. Those rough and calloused palms are warm against your skin which had cooled in the evening air. You can’t quite believe it but you’re tilting your face up towards him and he’s leaning his down towards yours and before you know it, his lips are pressed to yours so softly you might cry. You can sense his hesitation but as your eyes flutter closed, you’re pushing yourself onto your toes to press your lips more firmly to his. 

And then it all comes crashing over you. The moment you close your eyes, it’s not Joel’s face in your mind, it’s Mark’s. It’s his hands cupping your face, they were softer than Joel’s. It was hit scent you could remember through your nostrils, not the smoke and musk you could smell of Joel. Your hands are fisting the lapels of his jacket as you pull away, pulling in a sigh as he rests his forehead against yours before pulling himself away. He’s still close enough that your hands are still on his jacket, but he’s dropped his hands from his face. 

“I’m sorry, Joel,” You whisper, shaking your head, “I can’t.” Is what you murmur. 

He drops his head and steps back from you, making your hands drop from his jacket, he’s turning on his heel and heading to the door with a mumbled apology. 

“Joel!” You call out before he has chance to shut the door behind him, he turns and faces you, “I’m not saying never,” You confess, “Just not right now.” 

You watch as a flash of hope appears on his face and he’s giving you that signature lop-sided smile, “I’ll wait, sweet pea.” And then he’s gone. 

*

It’s late and Joel can’t sleep. He’s been tossing and turning since he got into bed an hour ago, replaying the events of the evening in his mind. He’s trying to blame his irrational choice to kiss you on the whiskey, but he knows it isn’t true. Every day he’s seen you since you sat down and ate strawberry pie together, he’s wanted to kiss you. Wanted to kiss the sadness and the grief out of your body and put you back together again. It had nothing to do with the whiskey and everything to do with you. 

The way you’d asked him about his own grief, so quiet and unsure as to whether you were overstepping a line. The way you’d listened to him talk about wanting to end everything but didn’t offer an apology or the look in your eyes that told him you felt sorry for him. The way that every time he spoke to you, you opened up a little bit more, let him in a little more. Hell, even the way you’d winced at every mouthful of whiskey. It was all you. And it had been a dumb fucking decision. 

He could hear the break in your voice as you’d told him you couldn’t, like you were afraid of letting him down. He couldn’t stop thinking about how you’d said, ‘Just not right now’ and his stupid smile at your words. He didn’t want to push your boundaries this much, didn’t want you to think you owed him anything. He just wanted to make you less miserable. 

He runs a hand over his face and grumbles to himself. He knows sleep won’t find him now. His head won’t shut up and all he really wants to do is run to your front step and tell you he’s sorry, that you don’t have to make him feel better by telling him to wait if you don’t mean it. He’ll never forget the spark of electricity down his spine when your lips touched him, or how he craved to push his whole body against yours when your hands had pulled at the lapel of his jacket, but he doesn’t need you to feel like you must want him back. 

If only he knew that you were led in your own bed, a few streets over, in a similar state of insomnia. Led in your bed, staring up at the ceiling, wishing that Mark’s face hadn’t been at the forefront of your mind when you’d closed your eyes. That’s what does it, what fills your body with panic. That you wished for the first time that you didn’t think about him. You’d wanted it to be all Joel, consumed by him, you didn’t want Mark’s face in the back of your mind. 

Tears roll down your cheeks and onto your pillow. Your brain is telling you that soon enough he won’t be there. You keep wishing he wasn’t, and he won’t be, you’ll forget about him, forget the shape of his body against yours, the sound of his voice in your ear, and surely that’s not right. Surely you should always want to remember him. Your first love, your first everything, really. 

Joel was a good man. One of the best you’d ever had the pleasure of knowing, and he didn’t deserve someone who wasn’t able to give their all, someone who would always close their eyes and see their dead husband. You couldn’t make him wait for you, but could you let him go? Could you let Joel go? The man who had fixed your rotted porch step just because he didn’t want you to hurt yourself. The man who didn’t push you for insight into your grief, just stood there and let you be, letting you share when you were ready. The man who had been through the same kind of loss as you and had been walking around for the last twenty years knowing he failed at ending it all. 

You run a hand over your face and decide that no, you couldn’t let him walk away, but you weren’t quite ready to let someone in like that. You needed to speak to him, to lay all your cards on the table for once, and that scared the shit out of you. It was time to put your big girl pants on and face the music. 

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[moonbeamwritings]

next time

wc: 1.9k

warnings: dabi being a menace (as always), injury and violence mention

PART 2 →

You’ve been in a lot of hairy and otherwise life-threatening situations as a pro-hero. There’s the time you got pinned under a car, and that other time you were held at gunpoint. Oh! And there was even one afternoon where you’d ended up strung up by your ankle from a skyscraper window. Dangling 400 feet above cold, hard cement really encourages a person to reconsider their life choices (but apparently not enough to make you quit your job).

So curling up against the cool, stinky metal of a dumpster in some back alley in Hosu City with notorious League of Villains member Dabi crouching in front of you like the cat that got the cream, all things considered, really isn’t that surprising.

Your leg is busted, so you can’t run. And with the heavens above as your witness, you’d tried. The only good it served was to send bile up your throat and white hot pain shooting through the meat of your thigh. Not smart. Your side burns and blood bullies through the gaps between your fingers, sticky and wet from the blast of a scummy criminal some ten minutes earlier. You hunch further against the dumpster, the adrenaline racing from your bloodstream leaves your body feeling tired, limbs leaden. You can’t fight anymore.

Feeling defeated, you huff a sigh and close your eyes. “Here to cut off all my limbs, leave me for dead? Isn’t that what you villains get up to on Monday nights?” 

“Dismemberment isn’t really my thing, doll.”

“Arson then? That seems to be more your speed.”

Dabi offers you a lazy smile. “Arson’s fine.”

“Mmm, nice,” your side throbs and you wince. “Well? Hero barbecue tonight? ‘M sure the League would love that.”

Your comment goes ignored. “It’s nice to see you again, little hero. Rough night?”

“Weren’t you taught not to play with your food?”

He shrugs, rocking on his heels like he’s having fun with you. “I could’ve killed you the last…” he stops, pretending to think. He makes a show of counting on his fingers before he invades your space, grin morphing into a smirk. “Three times we’ve met like this. Don’tcha think I would’ve done it by now?”

You groan, head lolling back until it makes contact with brick. “Touché.”

“Who did this to you anyway?” Dabi punctuates the question with a curious prod at your thigh. You slap his hand away with a hiss, and when you do, he’s quick to switch focus. Not one to be deterred, his hand moves to grip your chin, tilting your head to one side and then the other, eyeing you carefully as if he’s looking for something. You let him.

“Some criminal we’ve been after for the last few weeks. Serial murderer, all around bad person. The usual. Pretty nasty quirk, too.” You bite back a smile. “You know him?”

“Sounds like me.”

“Ha ha. Very funny.”

He leans closer, hand stilling along your jaw. “I could find out for you, but it’ll cost ya.”

The offer hangs heavy in the air. He looks so honest, so earnest despite the smirk that sits on his lips and the teasing glint in the turquoise of his eyes, that you feel a tug in your ribcage. You want to take the bait. You shake your head to remind yourself that this is probably exactly what he wants — some hero like you to owe him a favor so he can exploit you later. A win-win for him and, ultimately, a crash and burn, win-lose for you. You humor it, though, if only to see what that cost is.

“Oh yeah? What do you want?”

A hum, and then silence. Your heart leaps into your throat, goosebumps rising across your flesh as Dabi shrinks the gap, closer now than he’s ever been. So close you can feel the movement of air with every exhale, can smell the cigarette smoke and cheap whiskey that cling to his clothes, his breath. If he’s trying to do what you think, you’re not sure you’ll have the strength to stop him. Realization sits heavy on your chest as your hand curls around the collar of his leather coat — you don’t want to stop him.

His lips are a hair’s breadth from yours, one tiny push would be all it takes to finally connect them, when he pauses. You feel his lips quirk up. A ghost of a smile. Dabi chuckles somewhere deep in his chest, voice barely above a whisper as he tells you, “I don’t know if you can afford it, little hero.”

You don’t know if you can either, but the heat settling in your cheeks and the half-lidded gaze staring back at you is enough to make you want to try. Anything to close that gap. And still, you can’t bring yourself to move, to even speak. You must look like a deer in headlights as Dabi’s eyes flicker between your eyes and your lips.

With the words caught in your throat, Dabi takes the opportunity to break the silence. “How ‘bout this, sweet thing,” he croons, hunching closer so his lips brush against the shell of your ear. “You go home, lick your wounds in your pretty little penthouse apartment, and I’ll take care of the dirty work, hmm?” He presses a featherlight kiss to the space beneath your ear. “He’ll never touch you again.”

His palm cups the curve of your jaw, fingers brushing against the baby hairs at the nape of your neck. “And next time, when you’re feelin’ better, then we’ll talk about…” He pauses to bring his lips close to yours again, scarred skin hovering over your mouth, but never quite touching. He’s teasing. “... this. How does that sound?”

Next time. The phrase rings in your ears, and you’re sure it’s more than your injuries that are making you dizzy. It sounds good, really good, but the voice in the back of your head screams as you think it over. This is dangerous. It’s bad enough you’ve met him more than once and have only half-heartedly tried to restrain him one time, but now you find yourself dancing in a moral gray area, hand-in-hand with one of Japan’s most wanted criminals.

You chuckle, little more than a weak exhale that sends a splinter of pain shooting between your ribs. Your hand doesn’t move from the collar of his jacket. The dance continues. “I don’t know if I can really condone the whole murder part of that plan.”

Dabi laughs and pulls away, thumbing at your jaw before finally dropping his hand. “You heroes and your damn moral compasses.” A smirk follows a beat of silence. “But the other part you’re okay with?”

“Mmm,” you hum, eyes shut and teeth clenched. “Ask me next time.”

Next time. You’ve sealed your fate with one simple phrase. A promise written in the air between you.

Dabi scoffs, but his smirk doesn’t falter. “You’re certainly something, little hero.”

He eyes you again, though you don’t see it. A look mirroring care, concern, crosses his features as he takes in the hole in your hero costume, exposing a mess of crimson that mingles with black and blue. Blood pools beneath your thigh. He could kill you. You’ve laid yourself bare for him, injured and alone. Too trusting. All it would take is a flicker of his quirk and there’d be one less hero running around, one less loose end to worry about. But as he crouches in front of you, he can’t bring himself to do it.

He’ll let himself stew about all of these bullshit emotions later, but for now, he moves to stand, holding an open palm to you. You blink up at him dumbly when you drag your eyes open, and he sighs, pretending to be exasperated. “What? You wanna sit here in the trash all night?”

“Hey,” you moan teasingly, dropping your hand in his. “These trash bags are actually quite comfy, given the circumstances.”

“Just,” he rolls his eyes and pulls you to your feet as gingerly as he can. When he gets you standing, he takes your weight, wrapping his arm around your waist. He’s careful to watch the wound in your side. “Shut up already.”

As he guides you to the mouth of the alley, he continues, “Your friends make a habit of leaving you behind?”

“Solo job tonight,” you suck air through your teeth as another wave of pain rolls through your muscles. “No one to leave me behind.”

“Just our luck then, huh?”

Your arm curls a little tighter around his shoulders. “Just our luck.”

Dabi shoots a look up and down the street, and once the coast is clear, guides you over to a bench on the sidewalk. His arm lingers around your waist for a moment, warm palm pressed into the curve of your hip. Hesitant. 

After a beat, two beats, he lowers you onto the bench, and without so much as another glance, turns heel down the sidewalk and disappears into the shadows again.

“See you around, little hero.”

Everything hurts and the smell of blood hangs in the air as you sit on that steel bench, letting the chill of the metal seep into your tired muscles. You pray that it steals the warmth that Dabi has left in his wake. Your fingers shake as you pull out your phone to call for an ambulance, a feeling stirring somewhere deep in the pit of your stomach. 

Tipping your chin up to the sky, you watch as your exhale creates a fleeting, misty cloud in the cool night air. “God, I really hate Mondays.”

Given your injuries, it’s easy to talk your agency into giving you the time you need to recover, and you relish in it. Days off are rare, rarer still as a pro, so you spend them lazing around your apartment and nursing yourself back to health — just as Dabi suggested. On this particular day, your movements are slow, lazy as you make your way to the kitchen. In your haze, you almost don’t notice the single red rose sitting on your counter, a note tucked gently under its petals.

“You’re welcome.”

Though you’ve never seen it before, you know that handwriting as if it’s your own, and without a second thought you scramble towards your living room, practically falling over yourself to turn on the news. Has the story even broken yet? Who knows about this? Just you… and Dabi?

They cycle through a few other stories and you bite at the skin of your lip until a familiar face flashes on screen. Your mouth hangs agape, heart thundering against your ribcage and pounding in your ears as the news anchor describes the warehouse fire that killed the fucker your agency had been chasing, the one that had left you in that alley last week. No one knows how the fire began, she explains.

But you know. The note, your gut, tells you as much.

The rest of the report falls on deaf ears as you sit frozen on your sofa — rose hanging from your fingers, tea kettle whistling on the stove.

Despite the myriad of unanswered questions that itch at your skin, you know four things with certainty. First, Dabi, despite having ample opportunity, has not tried to kill you. Second, he definitely killed that guy on your behalf. Third, he knows where you live.

And above all else, you’re undeniably, irreversibly fucked.

#dabi x reader #dabi imagine #touya todoroki x reader #touya todoroki imagine #touya x reader #touya imagine #bnha x reader #bnha imagine #mha x reader #mha imagine

[angel-of-the-moons]

A Rose Under The Moon

Moon Knight System (Marc/Steven/Jake) x Fem!Reader

TW/CW: None really

A/N: Gods you guys I am so sorry it's taken so long, life just keeps getting on track and derailing into some crazy bs for me lately (and of course the wonderful problems of depression and problematic mental health are an issue) but I'm hoping I churn out a bit more writing because I miss it and Lord it drives me bonkers when I wanna write, but can't think of where to start. So this is one of the shorter chapters, filler mostly. But have some Hippo Mama-focused stuff for a bit!

Taglist: @bad4amficideas @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @shirukitsune @lokisremainingsanity @mundivagantsoul @furblrwurblr @zoleea-exultant @latenightcravingz @daygirl26 @thelastemzy @leahnicole1219 @crazyunsexycool

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Chapter 7:

Cats and Cradles

You were certainly a peculiar creature. Odd dietary habits, an awkward sleeping schedule...

But all this could be tied to your soulmate, surely. Or well... Soulmates, as it were. It had to have been.

"It must be so difficult for you, poor little thing." Taweret sighed as she watched you eat your breakfast for the day. Some simple grain-based cereal with granola and dehydrated fruit mixed in, with some sweetened oat-milk poured in, a nice piping cup of tea steaming next to you.

You idly ate spoonful after spoonful while you read an old journal of some sorts. Mass produced of course, but the pages were yellowed and torn at the edges, the spine well-creased.

Taweret leaned over to see what was in the book. Inside were detailed sketches of relics from various Egyptian tombs.

The goddess chuckled as she looked down at you, and looked at your wrist. The bottom right Moon was full today. Given your choice of breakfast and reading material for the morning...

Taweret had to guess Steven was in control of the body. Already, you and the boys were so in tune with one another you didn't even notice when your habits would change depending on who was in control.

Like the day you put whiskey in Jake's coffee. You were intending to do the same for yourself. In fact, you did.

You were sipping at your tea when a slight scratching could be heard at the door that led to the stairs that descended into the alley behind your shop.

Taweret's little ears flicked about as she watched you curiously as you stand, and go over to the door. Once it opens, there, patiently sitting with big, beautiful green eyes, was a silky-soft black cat.

The cat raised its paw at you a few times, meowing.

You chuckle and step aside, "C'mon, Puck. Yes, I got your treats for you." You say to the little creature as she--yes, Taweret was positive the cat was female--sauntered into your flat as though she owned the place.

The cat, apparently named by you as "Puck" sat at two empty little dishes on the floor, pink with little fish pictures printed on.

"How quaint!" Taweret giggled. Of course, she knew you couldn't see or hear her, but she was curious about you. And if that blasted old pigeon was nosing about you, Taweret wanted to know more about you as well. And gosh, did she find you positively endearing! Especially with how you were baby-talking to your little furry friend!

"C'mon, Puck." You giggle, pulling out a small container of goat milk. Taweret watches, absolutely besotted with the scene in front of her as you pour some of the milk into one of the pink bowls, and a handful of kibble in the other.

You scritch the cat's ear as she happily laps up her milk, before she switches and munches on her food.

"I wish I knew what you got up to when you're not around. I haven't seen you for two weeks!" You sigh, sitting on your haunches with your cheeks in your palms as you watched the creature eat.

Taweret carefully maneuvers herself out of the way as you get up to grab your cereal, finishing it off as you talk in between bites to your furry companion, ranting about some controversial fact or another you've read about, or perhaps it was a particularly rude woman in the local super market, you never ran out of things to rant about to the cat.

The hippo woman giggles again as she clasps her hands in front of her and the one-sided conversation you were having. When she looked back down, she noticed Puck was staring right up at her.

Oh, right. Animals can see her.

Ah well... It's not like Puck could talk, so she couldn't exactly tell you there was a 9 foot hippo woman standing in the middle of your flat.

"You're such a good girl, Puck." You coo, scooping up the fluffy critter. The cat allows you to hold her in a way reminiscent of a mother holding her baby, and she purred as you rubbed her belly, licking her chops clean of the food and milk she still had on her.

"Such a messy girl, too." You grin, leaning down to boop your nose to Puck's.

'This cat is the calmest I've ever seen.' Taweret thought amusingly. 'So well-behaved and sweet. A perfect little friend for this darling girl.'

Already Taweret was feeling things for you, she was already starting to dote on you (even though you didn't know it) in a similar way she did with Layla.

The past few weeks, when she wasn't conversing with Layla or the boys, she was with you, milling about in your shop, watching you bake. (Watching someone bake muffins without eggs and other animal products was fascinating! Steven usually made meals, not sweets!)

Sometimes she would sit on the floor, curiously watching whatever it was you had on the TV in the background. (Heavens, there was some dreadful stuff there. She learned to tune out your serial killer documentaries...) However, Taweret was certainly partial to the sci-fi movies you watched.

Particularly the old ones, like that one... Oh, what was it? That strong young woman with the orange cat? Ah! Alien. She very much liked that franchise, it was nice seeing such a strong young woman. "Ripley" reminded her so much of Layla. She even had curly hair! And her darling cat, Jonesy; she had a soft spot for ginger tabbies; they tended to be so silly!

As you went about your morning routine, Taweret noticed that Puck would watch her everywhere she went. It wasn't uncommon, again, for animals to react to her presence. Dogs and birds would make a fuss, but cats were always content to just watch. Sometimes she would lean down and give the little animals a good stroke to their fur.

Taweret continued to watch, the invisible spectator to your routine as you did your dishes and began baking your morning muffins and cakes for your shop.

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The day was rather droll, the grimy chilly weather outside meant you would have few customers. So, you'd taken it up on yourself to start organizing and dusting shelves of the books that hardly got touched, Puck staying your loyal little shadow.

She was a big hit with those that did come in, especially older folks. They would lean down, stroke or scratch her and go "oh, such a sweet cat" and "such a good girl!" And of course, Puck seemed to eat it all up, purring loudly and sitting snugly in a folded up sweater you set on the checkout counter.

However, you noticed that Puck, somewhere around mid-afternoon, began walking about the shelves, sitting at the end, and staring.

It was unlike her, when she would spend time with you. She almost always snuggled in your old wool sweater and waited for pets from customers.

But right now, Puck was sitting in the section that held your stock of fantasy and sci-fi novels. Her eyes large, and unblinking as she looked at what appeared to simply be dead air. You noticed she did this in your flat this morning... but paid no mind to it. After all, who could possibly claim to know the inner workings of a feline mind? Perhaps a speck of dust wafting about caught her eye and she was fixated upon it? Who knows?

You left Puck to do her silly kitty routine and continued cleaning and organizing.

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Taweret got a little anxious when the cat persistently followed her about. For some reason, this cat was wholly invested in Taweret's appearance after she awoke from her nap on the counter.

Perhaps it was because Taweret was an alien presence that the cat had never seen before? Perhaps she could sense Taweret's divinity? Cats were often capable of sensing supernatural things, or even venturing into a kind of spirit world, and capable of bringing good luck and good fortune to those that housed and loved them.

And you seemed to care and love Puck whenever she would come back to see you from her "adventures" as you put them.

But right now, Pick was still just... staring.

"Oh, dear... Shoo, little one! I'd hate for your friend to catch on!" Taweret said, her fingers wiggling anxiously, ears flicking about.

The cat merely stared, giving Taweret a long, slow blink in response.

"Ohhh..."

"Whatcha gawking at, Puck?" You say, clicking your tongue as you kneel next to the cat, rubbing her head with your fingers.

Puck's tail merely flicked about behind her a few times, and she gave another slow blink, but not at you.

Your eyes track where Puck was staring, and for a moment, Taweret was worried you could see her...

But instead you chuckle and scritch the cat again.

"Is my bookshop haunted, Puck? If so, tell your ghost buddies not to knock stuff off my shelves, okay? I do not have poltergeist insurance."

Taweret sighed, her body sagging in relief as you walked off, paying no further mind to Puck and her odd behavior.

"Goodness me, you certainly are an odd one!" Taweret told the cat, reaching down to stroke her sweetly.

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A young woman with bright green hair and possibly the most piercings you'd ever seen in a person had walked into your store, striking up a conversation with you.

She was from Turkey, originally, and was looking into books about any local history, and oddly enough, nursery rhymes.

The young woman told you her name was Anya, and that her parents met when her mother was on some job that required her to travel. She only recently moved to England (her mother's birthplace) after her father passed away.

That's when Anya told you she wanted to go into childcare, hence the books on nursery rhymes.

"Yeah, there's a local daycare that says they need more books cause the kids love em to pieces." She snorted, shoving her hands in her pockets. "Literally."

"Oh, no I can imagine." You chuckle, placing the colorful books in one of your reusable bags.

Anya reached out and patted Puck's haunches, and Puck stretched, making a "mrrp?" noise as she did. Stretching over Anya's torso (that was visible beneath her over-sized shirt that hung off one of her shoulders) was a mark that looked almost like flames. You were absolutely transfixed by it.

"'S not ink, if that's what you're wondering." She winked at you.

Your face flushed, and you rubbed the back of your neck, embarrassed that you were caught staring. "Oh, I just... It's just so..."

"Eye-catchin'? Yeah, I know." She grinned. "I've had it since I was like, six."

"Oh! It's your mark?" You gasped.

"Yep! I like it, honestly. Rather cool and adds to my whole aesthetic." Anya laughed. "You can imagine my mum's reaction when she woke me up for school one day and I have a freakin' big arse mark that looks like some sorta phoenix. You should've seen the look on my teacher! Oh, man. She about died!"

Anya petted Puck again. "You've got a really sweet cat, here. She's really calm."

"Oh, Puck? She's actually not my pet, if you can believe that!" You chuckle, watching as Puck soaked up the attention like a little fluffy sponge.

"She's not?" Anya blinked on reply. "Then whose is she?"

"I'm not sure," You answer truthfully. "She just comes around, disappears for a while, and comes back. I love her company, though. She's a real sweetie."

"Man, I've always wanted a cat. I wonder if I can talk my mum into getting a cat?" She mused.

"Oh, I recommend it. My dad always had cats growing up." You chuckle. "He'd feed the strays on our property, would get them vaccinated, build little hutches for the winter... We also had one or two in the house as our pets. Always had a black one, like Puck here."

You sigh wistfully, playfully poking Puck's belly as she rolled over and showed the pudge to Anya, who cooed at her cute behavior.

"So I guess I have a soft spot for little voids, they remind me of my dad."

"Oh, man, void cats are the best. I love watching videos of them online! They just look like giant polka dots with eyes!" The young woman giggled with glee, happily rubbing Puck's belly.

You'd finished ringing her up and she gladly paid, saying as she left, "I'll have to come back and get more of these for the kids. Thanks!"

"Anytime, sweets!" You say to her as she happily walked out into the dreary weather.

You looked at Puck, your chin in your palm as you snorted at her. She turned her head and stretched, moseying over to you and headbutting your chin, before pulling back and giving you a slow blink.

"Maybe I should get you some of those talking buttons, eh, Puck? I'd sure love to hear what you're thinking!" You sigh at her. Puck merely purred in response.

You were still blissfully unaware of the goddess still inhabiting the space of your shop, watching you with a fond smile.

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Chapter 8: Link

#moon knight #marc spector x reader #steven grant x reader #jake lockley x reader #steven grant #jake lockley #marc spector #layla el faouly #taweret #soulmate au #soulmates

[sailoryooons]

Mine | One Shot | myg (m)

☾ Pairing: Yoongi x Succubus F. Reader

☾ Summary: Yoongi lives a quiet life. His days are organized neatly, and every week he can expect the same results. Then he meets you. Hypnotizing. Otherworldly. Strange. And his life never goes back to the way it was before.

☾ Word Count: 14,864

☾ Genre: Smut, Horror, Thriller

☾ Rating: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately. 

☾ Warnings: Buckle up bitches this list of warnings is going to exhaust even me. Overall creepiness, descriptions of liminal spaces, tons of mentions of subspace-like trances, Yoongi's mind is not always his own, unexplained happenings, Yoongi being manipulated subtly, written jump scares (like three of them?), nightmares, hallucinations, the cutest and also creepiest fucking little succubus you'll ever see, Succy (succubus reader) really likes Tokyo Ghoul that should be a hint, hints at eating raw meat (bleh), Yoongi turning against his friends, Yoongi feeling sick/depressed in a couple of scenes, Yoongi is literally addicted to eating reader out soiejijrghij, explicit sexual content including, spit play, nipple play, oral (f. and m. receiving), grinding, unprotected sex in multiple positions, cum eating, switch dynamics between the two of them often, subspace mentions, fingering, ass play (m. receiving), just.... so many bodily fluids all the time, mentions of animal death (it is a cat and it's dead body is briefly described), a lot of confusion and pace changes as a style choice, Succy is literally obsessed with Yoongi so a lot of the pet name Kitty, very cringe behavior for some rando Yoongi met at a bar, ambiguous ending. I think that covers it idk this is almost 15k of pure nightmare fuel I will send you my therapists number alright

☾ Published: October 30, 2022

☾ A/N: If I have to write this authors note one more time because 'a wild tumbeast ate my fucking post I will scream. Do better Tumblr please stop eating my content over and over lmao. ANYWAY. SURPRISE THIS IS HERE A DAY EARLY. I have zero self-control and @gimmethatagustd told me to post it now so I really said fuck it we ball. I didn't use a beta for this one because I'm insane but I did edit it myself.... so if you see errors..... no you didn't. This one was so much fun to write and I hope you all love Succy as much as I do. She deserves the world she is very... scary and cute. 

HAPPY HALIWEEN!!!

☾ Disclaimer: All members of BTS are faces and name claims for this story. This is entirely a work of fiction and by no means is meant to be a projection, judgment or representation of real-life people. Any scenarios or representations of the people and places mentioned in works are not representative of real-life scenarios.

Masterlist | Ask

Friday nights are spent blowing off steam from work with friends. Yoongi has always lived a simple life, and he likes his Fridays like this: second person to the bar after Taehyung, a quick shot of whisky to take the edge off the day, followed by a whiskey neat and some fries from the kitchen that will still be a little unthawed in the middle. 

Yoongi loves his Fridays at Serendipity. 

The name is a bit of a joke, Jimin says. He inherited the old, rundown bar under another name from his abusive father after he passed away. Mysterious circumstances, the long-term patrons mutter into darkened ale and frosted mugs. Still, they come despite Jimin flipping the name. It was the only thing Jimin could afford to flip, the floors still the same sticky concrete that collect vomit, spilled beer, whiskey, and perhaps a little piss.

It's an ugly thing, with the vinyl stool covers splitting open to reveal guts of yellow foam, and countertops that need another layer of lacquer to fight the chipping from heavy mugs being slammed down every time Seokjin gets into an argument with one of the regulars. Yoongi tries to avoid the bathroom as much as he can. Jimin spent two weeks cleaning it and stocking it with a nice care basket with sprays, cotton rounds, and other products, only to have someone puke in it on the first night.

Yoongi doesn’t care that Jimin named the bar as a bit of an inside joke. Yoongi knows in his heart of hearts when he sees you that this moment is serendipitous.

Because when Yoongi sees you for the first time, the world ends.

Not really. But it feels that way the moment he turns at the bar. Perhaps he’s meant to see you – or perhaps it was by your design. He tilts backward when the door opens, searching for any sign of Seokjin who said he would be there in a few minutes.

And there you are.

Lights dim. The world takes on a muted feeling, like the two of you exist between murky, brackish water with something lurking just beyond the clouded space that he can’t quite make out. The roaring voices of the bar fade softly into the background until it’s just a buzz of pressure between Yoongi’s ears - or maybe that’s not right. Maybe it’s the buzzing pressure of awareness pressing on his spine and eardrums. 

It isn’t pleasant but it’s not… uncomfortable. 

It’s impossible to look away from you. He tries - tries to remember where he is. A bar, perhaps? Not this weird, opaque space where the only thing he can make out is the rogue on your lips, a spark in your eye, and the way you walk forward. No. Walk isn’t the right word. Glide might be more appropriate, he thinks. 

As you near him, Yoongi breathes in sharply. Something like cedar mixed with jasmine and amber makes his head spin. The world tilts and Yoongi begins to slide on its new axis until suddenly, the mist surrounding him shatters as his foot comes into contact with the ground, knee buckling under his weight as his hand flies to the bar to hold himself up.

He fell off of his stool.

Yoongi almost doesn’t believe it, except Taehyung is laughing so hard next to him that Yoongi flushes furiously. He slides back onto the stool, brows furrowed and head ducked down to hide his rapidly glowing red ears and face from you.

But then you speak, and Yoongi cannot fight the urge to look at you once more. It’s an instinct pulling him from blushing furiously in his lap to stare at you.

“Hi,” you murmur. Yoongi is a fish out of water, mouth parted slightly, heart racing. Jasmine. Cedar. Amber. It’s all he can smell. His head swims, mind foggy as he tries to string together words. “Is this seat next to you taken? It’s the only one empty.”

Is it? Yoongi can’t tear his eyes from you, but he could swear Old Ass Han had been sitting there before you walked in.

Old Ass Han is the least annoying of Jimin’s customers and sometimes Yoongi doesn’t mind when Old Ass Han rambles about his late wife. Yoongi has no idea how old Old Ass Han is, he just knows that he was ancient even when Yoongi studied as a high school student tucked in the far corner of the bar.

“Um, yes?” Yoongi says and it comes out like a question.

You grin at him and the world ends a second time.

Pleasure-laced fear shoots down his spine. Your teeth are white and straight, but he swears for a split second they were razor sharp. He shakes his head, dispelling a little of the floating feeling as he says, “Of course. Yes. Please sit.”

Yoongi holds his breath and averts his eyes as you slide onto the stool next to him.

It’s suddenly too loud in the bar, a cacophony of voices and chairs scraping against concrete. Yoongi can still smell you, making the world rotate awkwardly as he spins on his stool to find Taehyung staring at him, brows raise and barely concealing his laughter.

“I don’t think I have ever seen you fumble like that,” Taehyung murmurs. He loses control of his laughter and tries to hide it in his cup of cider. Yoongi flushes and angrily stares into his whiskey, hyperaware of you leaning on the bar to call the bartender’s attention. “I mean – she is – holy shit I never believed in faeries or witches before but there's no way she’s human.”

Yoongi opens and closes his mouth. He tries to find a response to Taehyung, but his tongue feels heavy in his mouth and something tingles along every hair on his arm and neck, a sense of awareness as you lean on the bar, speaking to the bartender.

Again, your voice haunts Yoongi in a matter of seconds. He feels the need to turn and look at you again, but he doesn’t want to be weird. He’s already fallen off the stool once, and he doesn’t plan on further exacerbating his humiliation.

So, Yoongi remains facing Taehyung. Clutches his whiskey glass with shaking hands. Tries to take a breath – it comes out shaky – to calm himself. He has no idea what kind of delirium is threatening him every moment you’re next to him, but he wants to fight it - tries to fight it.

“Are you okay?” Taehyung’s brows twitch, mouth pouting. He ducks his head slightly, trying to find Yoongi’s gaze, but the older keeps his eyes fixed on the wood grain bar. Yoongi wants to look at you again. So bad. Wants to ask you your name. Wants to memorize the curves of your mouth. Wants to memorize every stroke of color in your eyes.

Want want want want.

A sudden throb pulses in Yoongi. He doesn’t know where it comes from, but he feels it bloom inside of him, unfurling with warm petals of want want want want.

The urge to turn and look at you gets stronger.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck –

Yoongi grits his teeth. Feels pressure at the back of his head, like there are featherlight fingers pressing into the base of his skull to urge him to turn around and look at you again. His muscles constrict and he feels himself start to turn, hips beginning to swivel in your direction, arms rigidly placed on the bar as if to fight his lower half.

When he doesn’t turn to look at you, Yoongi swears he imagines the light press of fingers turning into a steel grip. His eyes start to water and he clenches his teeth, feeling an immovable force on him pulling, dragging, tearing - and he lets out a small gasp, the grip on him so strong that he -

“Yoongi,” Taehyung says again, voice firmer. Yoongi looks up this time, eyes soft and round, face flushed. There’s a little sweat collected on his brow, and Yoongi feels a dull throb at the back of his head like a fading migraine. “What’s wrong?”

“Um-“ he cuts himself off and clears his throat. The pressure on his head is gone, but the menthol-cool, awareness of you is not. “Maybe too much to drink? It’s been a stressful week, I think I knocked these back too quickly.

“You do look sort of flushed.” Taehyung raises his brows. “Maybe water?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Water, please.”

Taehyung asks for water when the bartender returns with your drink. Yoongi doesn’t look at you, though he can see from the corner of his eye you’re looking at him. He grits his teeth and stares at the mismatched, colored bottles behind the bar. None of its top-shelf – Jimin certainly cannot afford it – but it doesn’t need to be.

A glass of water appears in front of Yoongi in time for Seokjin’s arrival. The pressure in Yoongi’s skull doesn’t return, and the tingling along his nerves like an electric current dies down a little. He still feels shaken as he sips the water, freeing up the dry feeling on his tongue.

Seokjin nestles between Yoongi and Taehyung, ordering himself a drink. Jimin appears around the bar this time, finally done with his bookkeeping in the back, and slides a beer over to Seokjin. Yoongi watches the way Jimin smiles at them before his attention falters and slides to you sitting next to Yoongi, making Jimin blink rapidly a few times.

Irrational irritation flares in Yoongi for a split second. Though his attention is on his friend and watching Jimin reacts to you sitting in Old Ass Han’s place, it occurs to Yoongi that he doesn’t want anyone else to compete with him.

Not that he stands a chance. But for once in his life, Yoongi wouldn’t mind being the one to take someone home. Why can’t it be him? He saw you first. You’re sitting next to him.

Just as Jimin’s eyes glitter, turning to half-moons as he smiles at you, Yoongi spins in the chair, giving you his full attention. Your eyes turn to meet his and Yoongi is falling into them, no end in sight.

“Hi again,” you greet, voice velvet. “You have pretty eyes.”

“All right, hyung,” Jimin murmurs. Yoongi isn’t looking at Jimin, but he can hear the smirk in his voice as Jimin retreats to their friends.

“Thanks,” Yoongi murmurs. He allows himself to drink you in. His head begins to buzz like he’s had too much whiskey, his tongue heavy and cotton-fuzzed in his mouth. “You have a pretty… everything.”

You have to know how beautiful you are. A deity beneath silk-smooth skin. But you duck your head, a shy giggle leaving your lips. You have the decency to look shy, averting your eyes, lip tucked between teeth.

Perhaps later Yoongi will be embarrassed by the honesty. But right now, it’s all he can do to keep his heart rate normal. You are incredible to look at. Taehyung was right – perhaps not human.

An unnatural glow hums under your skin. Your eyes are vivid, drinking him in with a spark that Yoongi swears echoes a deep flame in the pit of his stomach. He wrestles with himself, his hands fighting a magnetic pull to reach over and brush his fingers across the canvas of your skin.

Yoongi won’t be able to stop if he touches you. His thoughts repulse him – you’re a stranger. Someone he doesn’t know. Someone his mind is begging to violate. He fists his pants, flexing the muscles of his hands and willing the strange pull toward you to go away.

He doesn’t even know your name and Yoongi feels like Pandora, watching you with coveted desire and shaking, greedy hands. Fuck he wants to pry you open and see what treasure lurks beneath the surface.

“What’s your name?” You ask him. You stir a beverage straw in your drink – an Old Fashioned. His lips twitch in a smile at your taste in drinks as he offers you his name. “Yoongi,” you repeat back. The way his name melts in your mouth like sugar entices him. “Cute. You’re cute.”

Yoongi flashes you a shy smile, echoing yours. You share a laugh, his rough and scratchy as he chews the inside of his cheek nervously, yours light and floating. It echoes in his ears and Yoongi loses his sense of self, thoughts drug-laced with only you.

And then your lips are on him and once again, Yoongi swears the world around him has fallen to destruction.

It’s hard to remember the order of events. Yoongi doesn’t care. Your mouth is sugar-sweet and hungry, licking into Yoongi’s open-mouthed kisses as he presses you against something firm. He wants to melt into you, your skin like fire under his seeking hands, your breath delicate and soft against the empty air of what he thinks is his apartment as his lips attached to your neck.

Even your skin tastes sugared. A delicacy for him. For his mouth only.

Mine. The word echoes across his mind, but not in is own voice. 

You writhe underneath Yoongi’s hands. He squeezes the flesh of your lips, tongue snaking out to lick a broad stripe of skin up your neck. Your fingers card through his hair, tugging slightly, just enough to make him groan against your skin.

Yoongi is painfully hard. His cock throbs in his pants, the material restrictive and making the ache so much worse. He grinds his hips against yours, mouth sucking viciously at your collarbone, the top of your cleavage, anywhere he can taste you.

“Fuck,” you whisper, your head thudding against the wall behind you. Panting, you hike up one of your legs, wrapping it against his waist to pull him in tighter to you. Yoongi whines as you connect your mouths again, tongue and teeth, and spit as you grind against him. “I want you so fucking bad.”

“Have me,” he mumbles sucking your tongue into his mouth. You moan, deep in your chest. He swears for a second it’s like a growl. Thinks nothing of it. Just pushes against you hard, cock pulsing. “Whatever you want.”

“Please.”

Yoongi never wants to hear you beg again. Or maybe he doesn’t want you to stop begging. He can’t make up his mind as he pulls you toward a room – his room. Yes, you’re both in his apartment. That’s his slate grey couch that you’re stumbling past and that’s his sheets that you fall backward against.

Licking his lips, Yoongi takes a moment to look down at you. You’re splayed out for him, unfurling in his sheets. He knows tomorrow morning they’ll still smell like you – jasmine, cedar, amber. You look divine, a flower unfolding delicate petals, open for him.

Only for him. Mine. 

You wrap your legs around Yoongi, pulling him flush to the edge of the bed. You release him and press your feet to the bed, knees resting against his hips. You blink at him through fluttering lashes and starry eyes. He’s never seen anything like you. He never will again. He knows it.  

“God damn you’re beautiful,” Yoongi murmurs, the words slipping through his lips, unrelenting.

The stars in your eyes vanish. Yoongi recoils, seeing the fathomless black threatening to eat him alive. He begins to pull away, terror shooting through his chest, sharp and angry. You squeeze your knees against his hips, nearly shattering him. Your mouth is a gash of red with rows and rows of black teeth, churning and churning.

“Don’t speak his name here,” you hiss, words slithering in layers of many different voices. “Never again.”

Yoongi blinks and you’re blushing as you look up at him, knees splayed like butterfly wings, open for him. Just for him. He smiles at the way you giggle and hide behind a hand. “You’re so sweet.”

“You are beautiful. I swear it.”

“Touch me.” Your voice drips honey-sweet on his senses. “I want to feel you, Yoongi. Please.”

There is a prickling sensation like fear at the base of his spine but Yoongi can’t remember why as he smiles at you lazily, dipping down between your legs. He props himself above you, hands planted on the mattress on either side of your head to cage you in.

“Ask me again.”

“Please. Please please please-“

Yoongi swallows your begging tongue first, delving into your luscious mouth.

It’s been a long time since he’s been in his room like this with a partner, much less with someone who looks the way you do, but Yoongi’s hands are confident as they sweep up your sides, pulling the fabric of your shirt up with his hands as they go. You lean upward, letting him pull it off you before it flies from his hand somewhere in the room.

The lights are off in his room, but a silver shaft of moonlight spills through the window to paint you silver. Your eyes reflect the light as you drink him in, his hands brushing up your arms, warming your skin as he traces them to your tits, palming them generously over your bra.

A sigh escapes through your parted lips, red lipstick smeared artfully from the clash of mouths and tongues. He dips back down, tongue hungry for your sugar-warm taste and the liquid heat of your mouth.

Yoongi is dizzy. He’s a little off balance as he breathes you in. Your fingers pull through the strands of his hair, hips canting upward as he reaches around to unclasp your bra, peeling the unwanted layer from you.

Heated, shameless eyes meet his. You tilt your chest toward him, eager for his mouth. He doesn’t miss a beat, placing wet kisses over the tops of your breasts, more tongue and spit than lips, leaving a slick trail to your right nipple. Yoongi’s mouth is possessive, sucking your pert but between his lips and flicking it lightly with his tongue, looking up where your lips part in the moonlight to let out a soft moan.

It spurs him further, plucking your nipple with his teeth, pulling any sound he can from you. He gets a loud whine then and you wiggle your hips under the weight of where his waist is pressed into yours. Grinning, Yoongi repeats the motion, giving a generous suck before pulling away with his teeth, gentling scrapping your peak.

“Fuck,” you whisper. “Feels so good.”

Yoongi trails chaste kisses from one nipple to the other, giving it the same attention. He snakes a hand down your body, fingers dancing across heated skin to pull at the zipper on your jeans. His hands tremble, making it difficult to free the first button.

Reluctantly, Yoongi pulls his mouth away from your breast, a glossy strand of spit connecting his mouth to your swollen skin as he looks down, using both hands to pop the button on your pants and tug violently at them.

“These jeans are the fucking devil.”

“Yes,” you murmur, so quietly that he can barely hear you. He gets them to your ankle, yanking one more time and tossing them. He loses your hushed words in the rustle of clothes hitting the floor when you whisper, “I am.”

“Hmm?” he asks.

You silence his question by pulling his shirt over his head, leaning to capture his exposed chest with your tongue and teeth. Yoongi stands between your legs, head falling tilting toward the heavens at the worship of your mouth.

Deep groans leave his mouth. You bite more than you kiss, but Yoongi likes the way your mouth leaves a trail of little teeth marks, your mouth pinching his flesh before your tongue soothes it. You have him trembling, nearly making him double over as your hand presses over his clothed cock firmly, applying the pressure he needs.

It’s not enough.

Every part of Yoongi feels exposed. Even half dressed, the world is brushing against him raw, every touch of your hands like pleasure and torture, every fan of your breath like the coldest breeze on a hot summer day.

None of the sensations make sense but he feels high – higher than that time he and Jimin took shrooms at that one festival in college where the lights had whispered secrets of the forest to Yoongi and where he had tasted something beyond what he could describe.

But under your carnal touch, Yoongi knows that is nothing compared to this. Nothing compares to the way you work his jeans down to his midthigh, too impatient for him to kick out of them before you’re dipping a hand in his briefs and taking his cock into your hand.

“Holy fuck,” Yoongi gasps, nearly toppling backward. Your grip is firm, strokes deft and confident and oh my god he might come like this.

You lean up to teeth at the pulse point of his neck as your tongue darts out to take a firm lick. “There is nothing holy about me, Min Yoongi,” you murmur against his neck. He shivers, eyes rolling behind closed lids as you speak. He can feel the trace of your incisors, sharper than he remembers against his skin.

Stars dance behind his eyes. You pull your hand away from his cock, making him protest. You hush him with a bite against his shoulder, sharp enough that he thinks you break skin. He doesn’t open his eyes, letting his world sweep from under his feet as you turn him and knock him onto the bed.

When the feeling of spinning stops a little, he blinks his eyes open to help you peel his clothes the rest of the way off. You’re fully naked and Yoongi doesn’t know where to keep his eyes. The swells of your breasts, marked with bite marks and spit from his mouth, the curves of your stomach and waist as you climb atop him, predatory and eager, or the glistening slick of your thighs where you’re dripping for him.

“Come here,” he demands. He’s dying to have you on his tongue, knows you’ll taste saccharine. He grabs your thighs harder than necessary, zeroing in on your pussy as he pulls you toward his mouth. “Wanna fucking taste. Bet you’re fucking delicious.”

You hum in delight, a lethal smile on your face as you crawl up to where he wants you, knees firmly on either side of his head. Yoongi lets out an appreciative noise. Your cunt is sticky and glossy for him, the perfect meal.

With gentle fingers, he parts your folds gently to reveal your slick, clenching hole and needy clit. Yoongi is eager, a finger trailing up and down your warm slit as he lets out a moan.

“Fucking wet,” he whispers before leaning up for a long, slow lick.

Stars explode behind his eyes. He hums in delight, shivering at the taste of you, heady on his tongue. He repeats the motion a few times, flattening his tongue for a slow-drag, appreciative lick up your cunt. He feels the way you drip into his mouth, spill on his chin and he can’t help but curse, at how addictive this feels.

You moan when he dips his tongue into your entrance, gathering your essence on the tip of his tongue before he drags it soft-slow up to your clit, circling your bundle of nerves lazily. Yoongi pulls your clit into his mouth with gentle lips, feeling the way it pulses as he sucks gently.

The sounds you make above him spur him further. He alternates between sucking your clit delicately and butterfly-soft tongue flutters, watching your mouth go slack as you watch him. The more you drip into his eager mouth, the greedier Yoongi gets, fastening his entire mouth on you and sucking harshly.

It becomes sloppy and imprecise. Yoongi can’t decide where he wants his mouth most. He can’t remember ever feeling this lightheaded from oral, much less giving. But he’s starstruck under you, sucking and sucking and sucking – fuck he doesn’t know if he’s even taking breaths.

“Feels so fucking good,” you whisper, a hand going to knot in his hair. His scalp tingles pleasantly where you hold onto him, his eyes fluttering shut. Your hips move slowly over his face. “Fuck keep going.”

Pride swells in his chest. Your voice is airy, breaths short and stilted and overwhelmed as he eats you vigorously. His fingers dimple your skin, pressing into the meat of your ass as he rocks you on his tongue, jaw slack, tongue flat for you to let you fuck yourself on his face the way you want.

Yoongi feels you drip down his face, hears the wet-smack of his mouth against your cunt. He moans. Buries his face further, letting you grind yourself on his nose, chin, mouth lips, anything. He doesn’t care, sticky-coated to the jaw, so fucked out from pleasing you that he almost blacks out when you cum.

Something happens.

He doesn’t know how to describe it – it’s like for a moment, everything goes dark. Perhaps he does blackout. Perhaps he wasn’t breathing. He can’t remember. All he knows is that between one heartbeat and the next, there’s a moment of pure darkness accompanied by a laugh that chills his spine.

And then your mouth is on him, spit and cum making the glide of your mouths sticky-sweet.

Yoongi sucks your tongue into his mouth, pressing his fingers gently to the back of your head, pulling you closer closer closer. He just wants you closer, his stomach burning with a sudden hunger for you. He feels on fire, skin too-warm where your chest slides against his, sweaty and flushed.

Sheets stick to every part of him. He’s aware of the sweat that slides down his neck, a cool finger of relief as you press him further and further into the mattress. He feels like he’s sinking, entering a new domain where he’s no longer in his room – he's just with you. Somewhere. Anywhere.

Your fingers claw at his hair, pulling the strands to pin him to the mattress as you lift yourself, looking down at Yoongi. He blinks, stars in his eyes as he starts up at you, looming. Glowing. Beautiful. His hands are on your hips, a sparking current humming just beneath the surface of your skin.

You feel alive and vibrant.

A moan escapes Yoongi’s mouth, pleasure rolling through him as you grind your cunt on his throbbing cock, warm and wet. His eyes flutter, Yoongi squirming under you, legs kicking and twitching as you tease him. Just the glide of you on his shaft makes him shiver, the pit of his stomach clenching.

“Please,” Yoongi rasps. His fingers dig into your hips, begging. Pleading. Desperate. “Please please please please.”

“You look so pretty when you beg.” Your grinding increases and the room spins. His hands fall from your hips to the sheets, fingers fisted tightly in the fabric. “You’re so beautiful, Yoongi. My Yoongi. Mine. Mine mine mine.”

Your words are lost on him. There’s only the firm touch of your hand against his cock, gripped tight at the base as you lift yourself. He feels his cockhead catch on your swollen entrance and he lets out a strangled noise. He doesn’t know if he can stop himself from cumming. He is bursting at the seams with heat, an inferno so intense he swears that the world catches fire as you slide down his cock, warm and tight.

“Shiiit,” Yoongi hisses. He takes a deep breath and holds it, hips twitching where you straddle his waist, letting him suffer beneath you.

“Feels good.” You lean forward, hands pressed to his chest to support your weight. Yoongi’s eyes flutter open. He blinks at you through wet lashes. The room is so dark he can only make out the barest features on your face, but he sees your eyes clearly. Looking at him. Watching. Hungry. “So good,” you repeat. “So fucking deep.”

Nails bite into the skin of his chest. He feels his skin smart. The hot bead of blood that forms. He doesn’t care, watching as slowly, you lift your hips, your walls hugging every inch of Yoongi. He lets out a shaky breath, hands settling on your waist. He plants his feet in the bed, angling himself better as you reach the tip of his cock before sinking back down.

Heaven and hell. Yoongi wavers between both, gritting his teeth to keep from coming, to keep the feeling of you gripping him tight going. He doesn’t want it to end, it feels so good but it’s wonderful agony, fighting the curl in his stomach, the twitching of his abs, the threat of exploding.

Yoongi's eyes are drawn to where you fuck yourself on him, sticky arousal turning silver in the single shaft of moonlight that spills across the bed where you’re joined. He can’t look away, entranced by the wet smack of your ass on his thighs, the way you just fucking take him.

It lights a fire in him more intensely than the solar flare that threatens to send him spinning into his orgasm. Yoongi growls, digging his nails into your skin, half-moons on smooth flesh as he grits his teeth and fucks up into you. You gasp, nails raking down his chest as he jostles you. His breath comes out as stilted hisses behind clenched teeth.

“Touch yourself for me,” he grits out. “Wanna feel you come all over me – please.”

“Gonna,” you pant, head falling to his chest, claws leaving pink lines on pale flesh. You slide one hand down his body, making him groan as he fucks you with abandon. You gasp, hand working your clit between your writhing bodies. “Gonna come.”

“Please - for me.” He thrusts hard, thighs trembling with the effort, holding his breath as his muscles squeeze. He can feel you tense, pussy clenching so tight he curses and stops, letting you pulse around him as you moan and an unintelligible string of curses that sounds... like another language. “Fuck, just like that.”

Yoongi feels himself come apart. His universe shatters and he floats among the stars. Weightless. Happy. Tired. He feels nothing and everything, a soft frequency of... something dancing along his skin. A soft buzz. Pleasant and warm.

He doesn’t know how long he exists in that space. He can still smell notes of cedar, jasmine and amber. It's stronger now, with a touch of something else... something burning. He leans into the smell and it wraps around him, soft hands around his middle and petal-soft lips against his cheek.

Yoongi becomes vaguely aware that it’s you curled into his side, nose hidden in his neck, chest rising and falling against his arm. It grounds him a little. Brings him back into a dark room that is too obscure to be sure it’s his bedroom at all.

As he drifts off into sleep, he remembers the feeling of your tongue against his neck and nothing more. 

-

Cedar. Jasmine. Amber.

It wakes Yoongi up. His stomach feels empty. His hands seek your warmth, palming your ass, pulling your hips flush to his. He doesn’t open his eyes, content to feel your heat. Again, something like electricity thrums under your skin, tickling his wandering hands.

Your mouth catches his. Pulls him further from sleep. He feels his skin ache from your teeth and nails the night before. Feels the weight of something inside of him that wasn’t there before, although he cannot put into words what it is.

Even in the morning, your mouth is sweet. Gluttonous. You suck his bottom lip between your teeth, nibbling softly followed by a light giggle. He smiles into the next kiss, sloppy and filled with too much tongue but he lets you taste him.

Yoongi swears there is an echo of your taste from the night before. It’s enough to kickstart desire in him, detaching his mouth to plant kisses down your neck. Chest. Stomach. His tongue licks a trail down your velvet skin.

In a shuffle of sheets and skin, you lay back for him, pliant. He’s awake now, pressing your thighs open, teeth nipping the tender flesh. You giggle and the sound makes him pause, lips pressed to your leg, eyes looking up at you in the dim light of the morning. Or night. It’s hard to tell what time it is, here with you in this bed.

Glowing eyes look at him. Round. Soft. Curious. You watch Yoongi with rapt attention, lip pulled between your teeth. Spread. Eager. Ethereal.

Yoongi drops his gaze, groaning when he sees how fucking wet you are. He pulls you closer, sliding a hand under your ass to provide support. Curious, he brushes his thumb up and down your folds, collecting your essence as he does.

“So swollen and wet,” he mumbles, morning voice deep and scratchy. “You’re always so ready to be eaten, hmm?”

You nod. “Please, Kitty.”

The new nickname makes him pause, thumb resting on your clit. He can almost feel your cunt throb under the pad of his finger as he applies a little pressure, watching you whine and kick your legs a bit. He grins.

“Kitty?” he asks as he resumes playing with you. His thumb dips into your hole, ring of muscles clenching around him. His grin spreads as he pulls it away, watching you fight with the loss.

“You have- ughhh – cat eyes. Pretty. Soft. Smart. Kitty.”

He hums, dipping his head forward to give you a single kitten lick. He shuts his eyes and sighs heavily, your taste heavy on his tongue. You taste just as good as the night before. “Cute,” he murmurs, more to himself. “I like it, baby.”

Yoongi doesn’t wait for a response. He presses in, tongue lapping at you hungrily, refusing to let you drip without his mouth for another moment.

-

Greedy.

You’re greedy. You always are. Yoongi isn’t sure what day it is. It might be the same night as when he brought you home or it could be the weekend or it could be next week. He somewhat remembers the taste of a meal. Some cool water. But he doesn’t recall when he made it or when he showered.

He only knows he showered because he smelled the mint soap on your skin a few moments ago when you had your mouth attached to his throat.

Now, your mouth swallows his cock whole, throat pulsing around him. He curses, fingers twisting in your hair as he listens to you choke. Feels your drool dripping down his thighs. You relent, pulling back with a slick sound. He looks down at you between half-moon eyes, lashes fluttering.

You’re a vision: bruised lips smeared in spit and cum, chin covered in slick, watery, round eyes that blink up at him, innocent despite the fact that you rub the flushed tip of his cock against your abused mouth.

“Fuck,” he swears, watching your devilish tongue snake out to lap at his dark tip. “Fucking cock hungry, huh?”

You nod your head, trailing your tongue along the bottom of his shaft, taking time to suck slopping kisses to his skin. He can’t look away, even as you pump him lazily with your small hand, ravenous little mouth sucking coyly at his balls.

His fist tights in your hair. You look up, tears spilling over rounded cheeks. You look angelic at that moment, weeping before him. He nearly busts right there.

“Does Kitty like when I do that?” You ask softly, voice almost a whisper. Your voice changes, he’s noticed. Sometimes coming out dark velvet, other times tangerine-sweet. “Am I a good girl, Kitty?”

You always call him that. He wasn’t sure about it at first, but with a mouth full of his precum and neck covered in his teeth marks, Yoongi thinks you can call him whatever the fuck you want. He’s never seen a creature so drunk off fucking him before and he’s no better. All he wants to do is fucking live in you.

“Such a good girl,” Yoongi promises. He holds your head with one hand and your chin with the other, pulling your bottom lip down with one thumb. His touch is soft and reverent. You preen for him, smiling around his thumb as he slips it in your mouth and presses on your tongue. Feels the spit and god knows what else there. “Come on, baby. Suck.”

And you do. Yoongi’s eyes roll back in his head. He falls backward on his bed and it feels like he has passed through a portal to somewhere else. He floats. All he knows is your mouth, unforgiving. Your tongue, sinful.

And when Yoongi comes down your throat, and when you pull off of him and smile at him with the slow drip of it, Yoongi feels like he’s in fucking heaven.

-

Monday he calls out of work.

Crunching numbers at an accounting firm seems like hell in comparison to where he is now. You’re bent over the kitchen counter, drooling on the granite as he slowly drags his cock through your drenched heat. He ignores the spilled glass of water next to you. Instead, he watches himself disappear deep into your cunt, collecting cream on the base of his cock every time he pulls out.

Yoongi senses you looking at him. You are, eyes intense and heavy. Your gaze shifts so often he can barely keep up – thinks maybe he imagines the way you go from soft, round-eyed sweetheart to a siren-eyed vixen.

It’s the vixen look at him now. And as though you can read his mind, you slick your tongue out of your mouth, bubble gum pink and eager, eyes dragging down to where he works himself in and out.

Yoongi pulls out slowly, running a finger along your arousal smeared along his shaft, and leans forward, thrusting in hard. You pant, tongue still out and eyes focused on his as Yoongi delicately places his cum-slick finger in your mouth. Presses your cream on your tongue.

Your lips close around his finger, tongue swirling around the digit as you shut your eyes and hollow your cheek, gently sucking your arousal until there’s nothing left.

“You’re so fucking hot,” he whispers, in awe of you.

And you are. There’s nothing you won’t do for him. Nothing Yoongi won’t do for you. So he slams into you, deep deep deep, and grunts until you’re coming around him for what feels like the hundredth time since he’s met you.

-

Yoongi startles awake. He blinks away a dream that he immediately cannot remember. His skin is clammy and his sheets stick to him all over. He kicks them off, heart hammering as he jumps to his feet, trying to get away from the bed.

He doesn’t know why, but he feels danger near him with every slam of his heart.

For a few moments, he’s in total darkness. He can’t make out the shape of his dresser. Or the pile of clothes in the hamper. He can’t see any light filtering through the window. He knows there’s a streetlight out there – why isn’t the light streaming through his curtains?

Panic threatens to seize him. He takes a deep breath and presses the heels of his palms to his eyes, rubbing fiercely. He opens them, bursts of starlight blinding him until they fade finally and he can see.

There’s a shadow in front of him, all razor teeth and red eyes.

Yoongi screams, flinching backward. He topples over and feels weightless like he’s falling through time and space. The moment of fear stretches out long – too long – and for a second he thinks he will die. His heart is beating too hard in his chest, his mind is screaming too loud, and the adrenaline threatens to crack him open and spill out on the floor.

He hits the curtain behind him and fists the fabric, ripping the entire rod and holders down backward as he goes. Streetlight pours into the room. He thrashes, blind and screaming among the now ruined curtains, the curtain rod, and drywall dust.

Yoongi frees himself, grabbing the rod to defend himself against the creature in a last-ditch effort to live.

Grey light saturates the room. There’s no shadow creature with teeth and red eyes. There’s just you in the middle of his bed, the reflection of the street light turning your doe-eyes to glowing coins. You’re in a t-shirt of his, soft and crinkled, hair messy. Lip trembling.

“Kitty?” Your voice is small. Almost childlike. “Kitty are you okay?”

The panic beat of his heart slows. He swallows down nausea and realizes his shaking, the remaining waves of adrenaline taking their toll. Yoongi lets go of the curtain rod and nods, pressing his head into the wall.

“I’m sorry,” he rasps. Throat dry. You move on the bed – more of a prowl – and you flick the lamp light on. Warmth rushes into the room and with it, relief. “Thank you.”

“What happened, Kitty?”

“A nightmare. I got up and … I don’t know. I thought I saw something.”

You sit on your knees. Hands in your lap, one palm splayed on your thigh, the other lifted toward him. Beckoning. Open. Warm. Safe. He peels himself from the wreckage by the window and walks toward you, feeling as though there is a string between you and him, tethering you to him. Reeling him in.

When Yoongi’s hand touches yours, exhaustion bleeds into him. Safe. He is safe. You smile and there are no razor teeth. Just kiss-stained lips as you shuffle backward, pulling Yoongi back into the bed.

“Come sleep, Kitty.”

“Okay.”

Carefully, he turns off the lamp. The streetlight floods his room now, but it’s comforting, the grey wash of the world enough that he can see anything creeping in the shadows.

Eventually, he falls back asleep with the slow drag of your hand back and forth across his forehead, and your mouth pressing gentle sucks to the side of his throat.

-

“Where are you going?”

Yoongi almost smiles at the pout on your face. You stand in his kitchen, brows pinched, mouth furious. You’re in another one of his shirts – there is nothing else for you to wear. His grin spreads as he comes around the counter, placing his messenger bag down.

Somehow you seem so much smaller in the daylight. Yoongi swears when you’re riding him in the early hours of the morning or when he has you on all fours fucking you deep into his mattress, you’re a force to be reckoned with. A fierce creature feeds on carnal pleasure only.  

But now in the light of day, with your bottom lip jutting out and scowling brows, Yoongi thinks there is nothing more adorable. His perfect baby. You reach out, opening and closing your hands and he laughs.

“Work,” he answers gently, pulling you toward him. You don’t fight him. You never fight him. Yoongi is always your top priority – you’ve made that obvious. He smells the cedar. Jasmine. Amber. His head swims and for a moment, he forgot what you asked.

Moments like this with your skin touching, that high-frequency current that is unfamiliar but feels so good – Yoongi forgets himself. Every time he touches you, he’s somewhere else.

His phone rings and he remembers he’s supposed to leave. “I have work.”

Your scowl gets worse. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Whatever you want.”

“I want to be with you.”

He laughs, pressing a kiss to your forehead. When he pulls away, you’re almost snarling, gripping him like iron. He sighs and squeezes your hips for reassurance. “I’ll leave a little early, yeah? For you.”

“Do you promise?”

“Of course, I promise.” Your lip wobbles and he leans forward again, nipping you. “Get some sleep. You woke me up very early this morning, hmm?”

You don’t answer, but you loosen your grip.

When he gets in the car, he sees the curtain in his living room shift and he grins. Cute.

-

Work drags. Yoongi’s in a bad mood. His coffee is extra bitter. The water tastes off. The fluorescents in his office are too bright, prompting him to turn them off. When he begins auditing his client’s monthly spending, the numbers swim on screen.

Yoongi takes his glasses off. Puts them back on. He swears that he sees symbols and that the screen glitches, flashing between letters and numbers and… something he’s unsure of. When he rubs his eyes, the screen is just numbers in an Excel sheet.

Sighing in defeat, he glances at the clock. It’s only been an hour.

“Fuck.”

He pulls his phone out, thumb hovering over the screen. Your contact information is in his phone, right? The silence in his office is deafening. It presses in on him as he stares at his phone, unseeing. Why didn’t he have your phone number? Shouldn’t a boyfriend have their-

A knock at the door startles him. He drops his phone, mumbling an apology as he bends down to get it before righting himself and looking at his director.

“How are you feeling?”

Yoongi shrugs. “A little off.”

And… it’s true. Yoongi’s head hurts suddenly, a migraine slamming on the confines of his skull. His too-bitter coffee burns in his stomach. The back of his neck feels too hot and his hands shake as he puts his phone on his desk.

“You don’t look too well. Maybe take the day?”

Yoongi nods. Sways a little when he stands up to retrieve his things and turns his computer off. On the drive home, the headache recedes a little. He grips the wheel tight, taking deep breaths as he tries to steady the feeling in the pit of his stomach.

In the drive, Yoongi takes a deep breath. The pressure in his head is gone and his stomach doesn’t feel as rotten as it did twenty minutes ago. He makes a mental note to look up his symptoms when he gets inside – perhaps he has the flu. It won’t do to feel this way before his client’s quarterly financial reports are due.

Thankfully, when Yoongi steps into his house, he feels much better.

Feels fine as he drops to his knees in the entryway, tongue buried hungrily in your cunt as he presses you hard against the door, drinking in every drop. Above him, you tremble and cry, begging him never to leave again.

When you cum on his tongue, creamsicle sweet, he thinks he never will.

-

Pain shoots up Yoongi’s foot as he stubs his toe making his way to the bathroom. He can barely see in his room now that he has fixed the curtains – and put blackout ones at your request – and the floor is covered with his shoes and chargers and boxes of snacks you keep in his bedroom like a nest.

He has never in his life seen someone with an appetite for junk food like you – especially sweets.

Yoongi opens the bathroom, the gentle, white glow of the night light casting a dull halo against the whitewash walls. He glances in the mirror and his heart launches into his throat. His hand slams against the door for balance and a moment of terror bleeds him dry when he sees the shadow behind him, white teeth flashing and red eyes.

Whirling around, Yoongi’s hand shoots for the light, painfully jamming fingers against stucco. He manages to flip the switch while his heart pulses in his throat, terror working its way through him like an injection straight into his cardiovascular system.

Light spills into the room, so bright that he flinches, closing his eyes for a second. When he opens them, there’s nothing. It’s just his messy room, covered in clothes, empty and half-full bottles of lube, a generous amount of junk food, and you.

Asleep. Soft against his pillows, lips parted slightly.

Breathing a huge sigh of relief, Yoongi chastises himself and shuts the bathroom door. A few splashes of cold water from the tap do the trick, calming him down and cooling the red splotches of anxiety blooming on his neck.

When he returns to bed, your hands seek his warmth, making grabbing motions even in sleep. He indulges you, sliding closer. Tucking you into his chest. You hum in your sleep, that vibrating feeling that lives just under your skin ever-present.

Gently you lean forward, mouth seeking as you press your lips against the soft spot under his ear. He shivers as the innocent kiss turns into a soft suckle, pulling skin between teeth your tongue pressed against his flesh. But you don’t wake up. You seem content to lay in his arms with the gentle pull of your mouth against his skin, smelling like cedar. Jasmine. Amber.

And he falls asleep, moment of terror forgotten.

-

Yoongi has a problem.

Time management was always one of his strong suits. As someone who lived an organized little life in an organized little home, he thrived on order, repetition of days, and knowing what to expect each day.

Except now Yoongi never remembers what day it is. He hardly remembers how he spends his day. But what he does remember are moments with you. Bodies against bodies. The press of his fingers in your sticky cunt. Your curious fingers, pressing into the tight rim of his ass, pulling out orgasms so deep that it takes him hours to move.

Now, you’re pressed against him on the couch, eyes fixed on the TV. He watches you and you watch the screen, completely focused on the world of Spirited Away. His lips twitch in a smile and he yawns. You snuggle closer to him, nearly attached. It’s second nature to you, to fasten yourself to him. He doesn’t mind, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

When Yoongi’s phone rings, it interrupts everything. You immediately hiss, looking toward the ringing device on the counter. He can’t remember the last time his phone rang but he begins to lift himself off of the couch.

Your fingers dig in. “Finish the movie.”

It’s a demand. He laughs as your brow pinches. “I’ll be right back, let me just see who it is.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean why?”

“Why don’t you want to watch the movie with me?”

Your voice has grown small again. Not the sultry purr he is used to in the middle of the night when you mouth at his cock, hard before he’s even awake. Not the demanding crack of a whip when you order him to come.

This voice is tiny, a soft thing that immediately draws him to look at you. He cradles your face, your big eyes looking at him with tears rimming them. His stomach drops and he hushes you, thumbs brushing back and forth.

“Fuck – baby why are you crying?”

“Why don’t you want to watch the movie, Kitty?”

“Hey, Kitty wants to watch the movie.” He croons and you pull yourself into his lap, arms going around his neck and winding in his hair. He keeps a soft grip on your face, eyes searching. That thrum is just beneath the surface, like a beating heart. “I just have to answer the phone, baby. I still want to watch the movie.”

You shake your head. “You don’t.”

“Of course I do.”

It isn’t often that Yoongi upsets you. He vaguely recalls one time when he left for work, you had been a bit sad. But ever since he’d started working from home – wait, he works from home? He shakes the question from his thoughts, saving it for later.

It isn’t often that Yoongi upsets you. He vaguely recalls one time when he left for work, you had been a bit sad. And now you sit on his lap and he hates himself for the way a tear slips down your face, turned into a diamond from the reflection of the TV.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, heart aching in his chest. He leans back. He pulls you flush against his chest. You tuck your face in his neck, your favorite spot to nuzzle and he feels the gentle tuck of your mouth, the tiny suckle of your teeth against his neck. Your comfort.

It isn’t often that Yoongi upsets you. He vaguely -

He doesn’t remember. What was he thinking about? He doesn’t know.

Yoongi loops his arms around you and squeezes you tight. And his eyes flutter shut, suddenly tired and lulled to sleep by the gentle pull of your mouth on his skin.

-

“Come look at this cat,” Yoongi laughs, crouching down on the back porch. The tabby rubs itself between his legs, purring as it twists figure eights. “It’s so friendly, baby. Come say hi.”

Night sky stretches over the city. It’s colder outside – almost Halloween, maybe. Yoongi lost the calendar in his house and he only turns the computer on if he has to sign on for work, which he rarely does these days.

You peek from the door, looking at the cat rubbing its face on Yoongi’s hand. He looks up at you and smiles. You’re swimming in a sweater of his, though your legs are bare. His mouth waters at the thought of tasting you again – he can’t ever get enough, licking the sweetness from between your thighs only to finish by fucking himself into you until he blacks out.

The blackouts happen more after sex now.

“He’s sweet,” Yoongi promises, holding out another hand to you. “Like you.”

Tentatively, you step outside of the door. The floorboard creaks under your step, drawing the cat’s attention. It happens so fast that Yoongi falls from his crouched position, sitting abruptly on the floor. The cat lets out a terrible sound, somewhere between a horrible yowl and a hair-raising hiss.

A blur of claws and teeth, Yoongi yells as the sharp talons catch him, letting the cat go. It becomes a streak of fur and screeching, vanishing from the yard.

You rush to him, dropping down to hold his scratched hands, blood surfacing.

“No!” You look up at him, holding his hand gently to your chest. He feels the strange hum, the heartbeat that… isn’t a beating heart as much as a constant buzz. “Are you okay, Kitty? You’re hurt.”

“It’s okay.” He smiles. The fear in your eyes is heartwarming. You love him – he knows this. He feels it. “Sorry it startled you.”

-

Autumn sun beats down on Yoongi as he goes to peel logs from the stack of firewood in the backyard. As he jogs down the steps, he slows, frowning. There’s a dead tabby at the foot of the stairs, broken body and dark blood smeared underneath.

“Weird,” he mutters, rushing to get some firewood. “I’ve never seen cats here before. Poor thing.”

When he goes back inside the house, he sees you sitting on the counter. Spread. Finger tracing up and down glistening folds, swollen cunt begging for his mouth. Yoongi drops the wood. He zeros in, licking his lips as you spread your legs a little wider.

“What a perfect fucking pussy,” Yoongi grins. “That for me?”

You nod. “Please, Kitty.”

Yoongi forgets about the dead cat.

-

“I want candy.” Yoongi looks up at you, brows raised. You’re standing in the middle of the aisle at the grocery store, chewing your bottom lip as you look at him with hopeful eyes. Yoongi immediately softens. Feels his heart flutter. “Is that okay?”

“Sure.” He looks up at the aisle names. “It’s three aisles over. Can you get what you want while I go back and get milk? I forgot.”

You hesitate for a moment, a moment of fear on your face. Before he can brush away your fears with a simple kiss, you take a deep breath and give him your bravest smile. He preens, proud as you give a confident nod and dart off in the direction of candy.

Yoongi is impressed by you. Leaving the house is hard for you – always has been. The two of you mostly stay inside, locked in your little world. Yoongi likes it that way. Loves knowing after dinner you’ll be nested on the couch, watching him with inquisitive eyes and asking him to put on a new show or to continue the anime you’ve been binging.

Every new experience for you brings stars to your eyes. He loves that about you – loves the way you go awestruck while watching old anime that Yoongi adores, or the way you hum and spin in circles to music he shows you.

Yoongi remembers hearing once that people live many lives. He thinks that if that’s true, you must be in your first life, curious about everything. Surprised by the world. And he gets to watch it over and over, the way you grin when something startles you or when you furiously pout because you don’t like something.

Grocery store trips are new for you. The first time, you’d been stitched to his side, refusing to separate from him. Cagey and flashing mean eyes at everyone. Now, though, Yoongi doesn’t worry as he pulls open one of the glass doors in the cold section, looking for milk.

“Yoongi?” He turns mid-reach for a carton of milk, the cold air hitting him in the face and turning his cheeks pink, glass frosting with the humidity rushing into the fridge. Taehyung is standing behind him, hands shoved into pockets. “Holy shit it is you.”

Yoongi gives Taehyung a funny smile, pulling the milk from the fridge and adding it to his cart. “Why wouldn’t it be? How are you?”

“Dude, how are you? You don’t answer anyone’s calls, I heard you started working at home from some sort of illness, and you refuse to answer your door when we come by.” Taehyung’s face is picture-perfect concern, brown eyes fixed on Yoongi, bottom lip pulled between his teeth. “Why can’t you tell us what’s going on? It’s been weeks.”

“What are you talking about? I talked to you two weeks ago.”

Taehyung cocks his head. His brows furrow and an unsettling feeling flips Yoongi’s stomach. He remembers the call exactly. Recites their conversation back to Taehyung, but before Yoongi can finish, his friend is shaking his head.

“We never had that conversation, Yoongi.”

Taehyung takes a step closer. Yoongi’s heart starts pounding. He remembers talking to Taehyung. He had been standing in the kitchen when his phone rang, and you had handed him his phone. Yoongi remembers because he had been half-paying attention to the conversation, transfixed by the way your eyes caught the light and the way you watched him catch up with Taehyung.

But… another thought swirls in Yoongi’s mind. A vision of you slamming the phone down on the counter, shattering it. Yoongi begging you to stop – stop something ­– and then your soft lips on him.

He shakes his head, setting the thoughts free.

“What’s going on?” Taehyung asks, moving past his cart to get closer. Yoongi backs up. He doesn’t know why, but it’s automatic. He feels panic surge as Taehyung pauses. “Are you sick or-“

Maybe he is. Yoongi knows he talked to Taehyung and yet… doubt wiggles into his mind. Eats at it like a worm. There feels like there is a box somewhere tucked in the recesses of his memory, shielded and without a key. If he applies pressure on it, he gets a headache.

Licking his lips, Yoongi places his trembling hands on the cart. Looks at Taehyung. Sees the pleading in his friend’s eyes. Yoongi opens his mouth to ask when Taehyung thinks they last spoke and -

“Kitty?”

Your soft voice cuts the anxiety in half. Yoongi’s thoughts ease as you appear a few feet away from them, bags of candy in hand. Your doll face morphs into unease when you look at Taehyung. Yoongi wonders why that is – you’ve talked to Taehyung plenty of times. You encourage Yoongi to call him.

“You?” Taehyung asks. The vehemence in his voice startles Yoongi. “You’re still around? Jesus Yoongi, have you been shacked up with some girl you met at a bar this entire time?”

Words have consequences. Taehyung’s immediately has an effect, your expression going from soft and sweet to something that makes Yoongi’s hands grip the push-bar on the cart tightly.

“He has nothing to do with it.” Your voice is a layered hiss. A tingle slides down Yoongi’s neck – familiar and dangerous. He has the sudden urge to bolt, but his feet are rooted to the ground as you advance, putting yourself between the two men. “Yoongi hasn’t been feeling well. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

“I’m one of his best friends!”

Taehyung is one of his best friends. And Jimin. And Seokjin. Yoongi remembers sitting on a stool at Serendipity, listening to Old Ass Han tell him some superstition about female demons who snatched one of his sons in the middle of the night. Jimin had laughed so hard and made Old Ass Han so mad that Jimin covered his tab for the night.

It was such a funny memory that the next Halloween, Jimin had dressed up as a sultry, female demon. Yoongi vaguely recalls laughing with them into the night, especially when Jimin picked up a guy to go home with that night.

Yoongi is full of those memories – at least he was. He thinks he is.

The little place in his mind that feels inaccessible cracks a little and Yoongi winces, a headache splitting him open. He clutches his temple as a bolt of pain lances through his skull. Then your hands are on him, gentle and cradling his face. You’re saying something but he can’t hear you over the high-pitched ringing in his ears.

Colors dance across his vision as Yoongi squeezes his eyes shut, trying to pant through the pain. The pain doesn’t come from that tiny little box in his mind – it comes from somewhere else. Pulling him away from whatever is hidden there, in that dark little forgotten corner.

Suddenly, it becomes too much and darkness swallows him whole.

The last thing Yoongi remembers is the gentle kiss of your mouth on his neck.

-

Yoongi has a problem.

He’s getting headaches all the time. Sometimes he wakes up in the middle of the night with them, sharp pain digging behind his eyes. It always worsens when he tries to recall the dreams he has before he wakes up – he knows he has dreams. They’re on the tip of his tongue. But the more he thinks about them, the more he tries to draw up what he imagined, the more the pain grows.

The bed sinks as you crawl in next to him. It’s too hot in bed. Sheets cling to Yoongi’s skin. He feels like there’s a furnace under the mattress, burning through and making everything sweaty and sticky. He shifts a little away from you – your body is always warm, skin heated with the thrum of energy beneath the surface.

Cedar. Jasmine. Amber. Your scent swells as you tuck yourself close to him. Not touching, but Yoongi can sense you there, an awareness tingling along his skin. It’s happened a few times, where a second awareness blinks an eye open and Yoongi feels on edge. Like there is suddenly an instinct inside of him that has awakened, one he is unfamiliar with.

That awareness yawns. Blooms at the back of his mind, where that same throbbing ache has settled. Yoongi tries to steady his breathing, but he can feel his pulse against his pillow, thumping faster and faster as your cloying scent muddles his thoughts.

You don’t say anything. You don’t reach out and touch him. You just lay there, silent and omnipresent. Yoongi squeezes his eyes shut, and for the first time in a very long time, he wishes that you would go to the other room and watch TV. You love watching TV. Sometimes he finds you sitting in front of it on the floor, knees tucked to your chest, chin on top of your knees while you watch a variety of shows.

Though it seems you have settled on Tokyo Ghoul as your favorite.

“Kitty?” you whisper. He holds his breath. Perhaps if he pretends he is asleep, you’ll go to sleep too. Long beats of silence stretch between you, filled only with the sound of Yoongi’s measured breathing. “I’m sorry.”

He pauses. “Hmm?”

“I’m sorry.”

Yoongi swallows past a knot in his throat. Every muscle in his body is clenching. His fingers are fisted in his blankets, and he’s curled into a ball. He doesn’t remember feeling so braced. He tries to relax, letting himself melt in the bed a little.

“For what?”

“You… need space.”

He doesn’t need to turn around to hear the tremble in your voice. You sniffle a little. The lamp on his bed flickers, catching his attention. He watches the flicker of the bulb as you cry softly behind him. He wants to turn around – wants to gather you in his arms and tuck you into his chest and yet… he doesn’t.

“A little,” Yoongi admits softly.

“Okay.”

Licking his lips, Yoongi steels himself. He rolls over in bed to look at you. You’re buried in one of his hoodies and the blanket he likes to sleep with on the couch. He can barely make out your cherubic face. Your round eyes blink at him, pools of light in the darkness of the hoodie and blanket.

“I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

“Okay.”

He softens. It’s not so warm in the bed anymore, so he reaches across the space, finding your hand clutched in the blanket. You let him pry your fingers open and he traces your palm. “Just a little space, okay? I can sleep on the couch tonight.”

You shake your head. “No.”

“Baby-“

“I’m not tired.”

Your voice is firm. He knows that voice – it’s the one that precedes a tantrum if he’s not careful. He nods, pulling a hand away and sighing, closing his eyes. He is tired. He realizes just how tired he is.

“Good night, Kitty.”

-

Most days it’s easier to placate you.

Yoongi feels like he is worn at the edges. Hot water runs down his neck, his back. Relieves a deep ache that has begun to grow on his bones, pained turned lichen. He feels like a watercolor painting with too much liquid medium, running at the edges and blurring across a once-beautiful canvas.

Sleep comes every night, but Yoongi still wakes up tired. He misses meetings even though he has been working from home for… however long. He doesn’t know where his cell phone is. He lost it somewhere in the house – doesn’t need it much.

Water drips onto the floor as he steps out of the shower. He watches it run down milky legs, soaking into the towel. Steam permeates the air and slicks across the mirror, Yoongi’s reflection as opaque and bleary as he feels.

Yoongi heaves a heavy yawn, wiping a hand across the steam in preparation to shave. When his eyes look up at the three-paneled mirror, a shadowed creature with rows of gnashing teeth and red eyes is behind him.

A scream rips its way out of his throat, the terror is so awful that Yoongi’s knees buckles. He hits the tile hard, head smacking the cabinet. His world explodes into color as he blinks the stars from his eyes, scrambling with damp legs, slipping uselessly on the steamed tile as he backs himself into the corner of the wall and sink.

There’s nothing there. Just an open doorway.

For a few seconds, it’s just Yoongi’s heart pounding so hard that his stomach roils. He fumbles for the toilet, flipping the lid and rolling to his knees to heave the contents of dinner into the bowl. He gasps for air, stinging his vomit-burned throat as he throws up again. Stomach-churning. Lungs screaming.

When he flushes and settles against the bathtub, he hears the TV in the living room. Cool air drifts in from his bedroom. He closes his eyes and takes in deep breaths, counting in for seven and out for seven. There’s the soft patter of your feet on the carpet, and he can sense you in the doorway.

His spine always tingles when you’re around.

“Kitty? Are you okay?”

“Don’t feel good.”

“Oh kitty,” you whisper. He keeps his eyes closed. You slide closer to him and your hands are warm. When they touch his face, he feels a little energy pour back into him and he opens his eyes. You’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, still. “I’m sorry.”

“Why sorry?”

You chew on your lip. “I’m sorry.”

It feels like you say that a lot these days. Yoongi nods his head and closes his eyes again as you lean forward and press yourself to his side, giving him a gentle kiss.

-

The headache is bad. But he has to know. Lays in his bed writhing in the sheets.

Ithurtsithurtsithurtsithurts.

Memories crack across his mind, each one hurting more than the last.

A creature of shadow. Blacking out after sex. A dead cat that hadn’t always been dead. Your innocent eyes. Your angry eyes. You smashing his phone to pieces. A doctor forging him a medical note. Blood on your hands and face as you came out of the doctor’s office.

-

For the first time in a long time, Yoongi has energy. He feels more himself. Clearer. He gets up early in the morning and makes himself coffee. He sees you lurking near the fridge, throwing him wary glances. You’re a little more worn than usual: sallow cheeks, bags under your eyes. Your eyes are as starry.

When he asks you what’s wrong, you don’t answer. You duck into the bedroom and shut the door firmly behind you. He stares, a little confused and hurt before sighing. You’re touchy sometimes, and on the days like this where you’re more like a feral cat than a preening girlfriend, he knows to keep his distance.

Yoongi shrugs and tosses the sugar packet in the trash, frowning. There are empty bottoms of foam that are stained red - meat packages, he realizes. He doesn’t recall having steak at all this week, but perhaps you’re thawing it in the fridge for dinner.

He shrugs and goes to his office, leaving you to your devices.

A morning meeting kickstarts his day, and Yoongi forgets about it.

-

Yoongi has a problem.

You’re worse. You don’t want to come out of his room and you won’t go near the light. There are harsh lines around your eyes and he swears your teeth are sharper. More lethal. You won’t sleep in the same bed as he is.

Worst of all? Yoongi feels great. Feels like perhaps it was just a depressive episode he was in. He no longer feels like he is melted together at the edges, barely hanging on. But it does mean that he’s getting frustrated with you.

“Feral,” he mutters as he walks into his office after you snarled at him and then proceeded to cry because you wanted him to take the day off. “Sometimes I swear she is feral.”

-

Soft lips wake Yoongi up in the middle of the night. He stirs, feeling a tingle run down his spine. He can smell cedar, jasmine and amber and smiles. You’re pressed against him, mouth seeking his delicately, though there is some urgency behind your kisses.

Yoongi opens his mouth to you, an invitation. You suck his tongue into your mouth greedily and arousal shoots to his cock, your mouth doing wonders on his tongue. Fuck he knows you like to suck him off like that too, all greedy and sloppy and spit-slicked.

Your hands pull at his shirt and you kiss him with more fervor, lips becoming teeth, moans becoming hisses. When Yoongi rolls onto his back, pulling your hips on top of him, the dynamic changes.

A gasp escapes his kiss-bruised lips, eyes flying open as you mark his throat. Harsh stings of teeth followed quickly by lavish licks of your tongue. It’s messy and you leave a trail of spit dripping down his neck, making him squirm underneath you, cock tight against his pajama shorts.

“Fuck,” he moans when you suck that spot under his ear he loves. “Greedy devil.”

“Yes,” you shoot back, voice firm. Your hands seek his, pulling them from where they massage your ass to pin them above his head, your grip iron. “Please.”

There’s no way she’s human.

Taehyung’s words flash through Yoongi’s mind when he looks up at you. Your pupils are dilated, two black disks that absorb the barest hint of light in the room. He shivers, afraid of falling into your dark eyes and never finding his way back home.

Have your eyes always been that soulless? No, he thinks.

“Please,” you say again. “Please let me have you.”

He frowns. “You can always have me.”

You shake your head. “Not always. Too much. I take… I take too much. But now not enough. I just…” Your lip trembles and where you hold his wrist begins to ache. He whimpers and you hush him, your fingers loosening a little. “I just need some. Not a lot.”

It’s hard to understand what you’re asking for. Yoongi is lost in the sensation of fluttering in his stomach and the way blood rushes through his body. He feels high when you dip one of your hands below the waistband of his pajamas, taking a hold of his cock in your hand, thumb brushing precum from the tip.

You always take care of Yoongi. His eyes flutter shut as he feels a steady static build in his brain. Your touch is careful but deliberate, each stroke of your hand and squeeze of his shaft sending him spinning. His hips twitch under you.

When you shift down his body, he lifts his lower half off the bed, kicking at the sheets and letting you tug his bottoms down. He’s shaking and eager, unable to look down at you when you take him fully in your hand, tongue tasting the stickiness at his tip.

“Fuck,” he whispers. His hands are still above him, twisted in the pillowcase. He leaves them there, helpless as you tongue the head of his dick before sucking it into your mouth. Your tongue is gentle and your mouth is warm, the barest of sucks making him whine. “Don’t tease me.”

You hum and the vibrations make him speechless. His head rolls to the side, mouth parted, panting as he sees stars. You suck him eagerly, messily. He hears the wet pull of your mouth, the choked cough of your throat when you take him in deep and swallow.

Gentle nails scratch down his legs. He feels like he’s disconnected from the rest of the world, a single strand tethering him as he floats. He babbles as you take him in deep, a hand reaching down below his balls, a single, shy finger pressing against his tight rim.

Everything inside of Yoongi goes taught. He comes immediately and without warning. Spills in your mouth and the world fades away. There is nothing where he goes. No memories, no thoughts, no anxiety. It’s just Yoongi and he feels good – the kind of warm from a bubble bath laden with creams and salts.

Eventually, he comes back down. Opening his eyes, Yoongi sees you blink down at him. You smile, brushing light finger strokes over flushed cheeks. He grins up at you, elated. Hypnotized. You’re so… he doesn’t know the word.

There’s no way she’s human.

That phrase makes Yoongi’s smile falter. You are exquisite. Shrouded in darkness. Yoongi feels the press of unfamiliar air. When he looks beyond you, there’s just darkness. There is nothing. No light streams in from the window again. There is no soft hum of the nightlight in the bathroom where he usually leaves the door open now.

It’s just you.

Yoongi’s heart begins to speed up, panic rising.

You kiss him softly. It’s sweet and his anxiety melts away. Feels the weight of you on your hips, wet pussy dripping on his thigh. You’re being patient, which surprises him. Usually by now you’re needy, grinding your cunt on his thigh to seek friction.

“I want more,” you whisper against his mouth, fingers pressed into his cheeks. “Will you give me more?”

He nods. You lick his mouth, sighing contentedly as you roll your hips on his thigh. He moans, feeling the glide of your bare folds against his leg. You are always so ready for him, eager to take him. Easy to please. Excited to take what you want.

Shaking above him, you bury your face in his neck. Yoongi slides his hands from their position above his head, resting one hand on your thigh and sliding the other between your legs. Sticky arousal greets him, his fingers brushing up and down your cunt as you stop grinding, letting him take control.

“Kitty,” you beg, words muffle in his neck. He grins, eyes half-lidded as he plays with you. “Please, Kitty.”

Yoongi sinks two fingers in your greedy hole, feeling the way your walls flutter around him. It doesn’t matter how many times he buries his fingers, cock or tongue in you – every time is divine. Feels like something holy, taking him somewhere else.

“Fuck yourself on my fingers,” he murmurs, pressing a thumb to your clit. “Come on, baby. Wanna see you make a mess on my hands first.”

“Want your cock.”

“Fingers first, baby. Come on, you can do it.”

A growl rips through your frame. Yoongi stills under you for a moment, heart skipping. But then you move your hips and he hears your soft breath. Feels the drip down his hand. He grins, feeling you swallow his fingers as you work yourself on him, his thumb circling your clit lazily.

Nails dig into his thighs as you lean backward, spreading yourself for him. He can barely make out your figure in the darkness, but he can see the swell of your chest, the line of your neck as you toss your head back, his name falling from flushed lips and floating up to the ceiling.

When you come, it’s wet and loud. He hums, pulling drenched fingers from your legs. He surges forward, surprising you and moving you backward, letting your head bounce near the foot of the bed as he cages you in, stealing a kiss.

You wrap your arms and legs around him, clinging and whining and rubbing against his thigh again, begging sweetly. No one has ever wanted Yoongi the way you do. Ever. He cannot recall a single time someone has been as vigorous in their pursuit.

It makes him hard again, the rush in his veins igniting once more as he slides into you. He pushes in to the hilt, settling there for a moment. You clench around him, clawing at the back of his neck and thrashing under him. Begging for more. Always wanting more. Swearing you just need a little more.

Yoongi sets a slow pace, stroking deep with a purpose. You gasp every time he fucks all the way into you. He grins against your sweaty neck, tongue licking a stripe up your salty skin. You turn your face and catch his mouth with yours, swapping more spit than kissing, moaning into one another’s mouths.

An orgasm winds tightly in Yoongi’s stomach. He feels it at the base of his spine this time, a second sense tingling as he picks up speed, slamming into you until you’re crying under him, babbling again in something that sounds like a language but isn’t quite.

“Fuck, fuck fuck fuck –“ He grits his teeth and the moment he comes, you squeeze him like a vice, shouting and pulling him into an orgasm so hard that he feels himself fall on top of you, the energy leaving him as quickly as his orgasm had gathered.

At some point, he falls asleep.

-

Hell on earth is waking up battered and torn at the seams. You’re out in the living room, enjoying an early morning episode of Tokyo Ghoul again. He hears you giggle at the TV and he lifts his head in the shower. The rush of the hot water is loud, but the sound of you laughing is in his head.

It always feels like you’re in his head.

Yoongi stumbles when he gets out of the shower. His feet are heavy and there is pain behind his eyes. The throbbing kind that makes him turn the lights out and shoot a text to work telling them he needs a sick day. How many sick days has he had this year? He has no idea.

Yoongi stumbles to the mattress and collapses into the sheets. Everything feels heavy like he is made of glass bones with the weight of the world threatening to break him.

Sleep comes and goes. It doesn’t make him less tired. Yoongi places a hand on his forehead.  He is not over-warm, but he wants to cry, the ache in every muscle so real that it takes him several tries to say your name.

You appear immediately, hovering at the edge of the bed in his hoodie, wrapped in a blanket.

“Are you feeling sick, Kitty?” He nods and you sniff. “I’m so sorry, Kitty… do you want some water?”

Yoongi nods again and you vanish. He rolls onto his back, groaning. He reaches for his phone. The screen is cracked from some incident or another, but it’s mildly legible as he searches his symptoms online.

When you come back with water, he thanks you with a sweet kiss and smiles when you lick his nose affectionately before darting out of the room again. He hears the show start again.

Carefully, Yoongi tries to sit up a bit. The water is cooled with two cubes – just the way he likes it – and it helps staunch the thirst. He drains the entire glass, but still, he aches with exhaustion that has no name.

Every combination he can think of brings Yoongi undesirable results. He has the fatigue of many different illnesses, but not any of the others. Mono seems the most likely, but still, it doesn’t feel right.

Yoongi considers and then types a new search: constant exhaustion after sex.

The results make him roll his eyes. He knows he’s going to get several ads for erectile dysfunction medication, but he scrolls anyways. Maybe he’s just fucking you that hard. But he does remember blacking out after sex and… well he never feels great the next day.

Slowly tapping through pages, Yoongi sighs. There’s nothing that provides much thought beyond Yoongi knowing he’s had too much sex. You’re a starving little thing, constantly wanting –

A word catches his attention: succubus.

Yoongi snorts when he opens the article. It’s a weird string of evangelical stories and musings, and overly sexualized depictions of female demons with generous breasts, shapely figures, and cute little bat wings.

The succubus needs sexual desire and energy to survive. He scoffs and wonders what heterosexual male wrote that dream.

Repeated sexual activity with a succubus will result in a bond being formed between the succubus and the host.

“Romantic,” Yoongi deadpans, scrolling up to close out the article. But a drawing catches Yoongi’s eye - a shadowy figure with rows and rows of teeth and red eyes. “Huh.”

Clicking on it, the page loads to a Reddit thread. Yoongi curses when he has to download the app, but his fingers move of their own volition, tapping across the screen as he creates a login and reopens the thread.

There are streams and streams of comments and links on the thread, a little overwhelming. As expected, it sounds like most heterosexual men overly-sexualizing women or asking about roleplaying – and yet, there’s a thread with a lot of upvotes that he clicks on.

Loss of time. Constantly exhausted. Nightmares of shadow creatures following me. Yoongi licks his lips, feeling his mouth go dry as he continues. Blackouts after sex. Not able to remember life before meeting entity. Dead animals –

“Kitty?” Yoongi flinches, dropping the phone on his stomach, hand covering his chest as his heart pounds in his ribcage. You blink in surprise, cocking your head where you stand in the doorway. A sense of dread draws a slow finger down Yoongi’s spine as he stares at you. “Do you want to come watch with me? We can put on Spirited Away.”

Loss of time. Constantly exhausted. Nightmares of shadow creatures-

“Kitty?” Yoongi has waited too long to reply. He nods his head and clears his throat. He wants to laugh at how ridiculous he’s being, shoving the phone away from him as he slowly peels himself out of bed. You grin and hold out a hand. “Thanks.”

-

Like a cat, you’re curled on the couch. Yoongi gives you a wide berth as he walks to his office. Night has passed into morning, and the flash of the screen lights the way as he opens the door, slipping through a tiny crack before he closes it softly and firmly behind him.

While watching movies, Yoongi could not help but think about the thread he had seen. He doesn’t turn the light on, too afraid of it showing under the door and tipping you off where he is.

Fear settles in the pit of his stomach. His hands are shaky as he wakes up the mouse, the computer light nearly blinding in the dark room. He jams the settings on the keyboard, turning it down a bit as he settles into the chair, taking a few breaths.

It feels ridiculous. You’re his girlfriend, not a sex-craving demon. But Yoongi finds the thread again anyways, clicking through and going back to that original subthread of people claiming to have survived an encounter with a succubus.

Time doesn’t seem to pass as Yoongi reads. He leans on his hand, eyes burning as he clicks through story after story.

Met at a bar – she was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. I never remember going home with her, but my life was suddenly consumed by her. I lost my job and my friends. Felt good at first, but started getting headaches any time I would try to remember something. And she was always around, always lurking around every corner.

Yoongi clicks on to the next one, stomach flipping nervously.

- I ran into a friend and she swore we hadn’t spoken in months. I remember talking to her but it felt like… they were false memories. Like I didn’t really do those things. It was strange, but I forgot again after a while.

Taehyung’s face flashes in Yoongi’s mind. His palms get sweaty as he navigates the mouse, leaning closer toward the screen. A nervous beat starts to drum up in his heart as he pours over the words and the accounts of others.

The evidence is damning, but it can’t be possible, right?

Yoongi thinks of Old Ass Han telling the story of his son being swept up by a she-demon. Yoongi doesn’t think the story is very funny anymore, and the thought of Jimin dressing up as one makes him nauseous.

Carefully, he navigates to another thread.

I was lucky. She didn’t want to kill me, but she was constantly hungry for more energy that I didn’t have. She would get cagey and feral, hissing at me and hiding in the dark, like she was weaker in the sun when she wasn’t fed. I would find packs and packs of meat rotting in the garbage like she was trying to get her fix elsewhere.

I hope that you take this thread seriously. They are real. And while they look and talk like people, they aren’t. They might grow attached to you, but they don’t love you. You are a meal – and if your succubus is only feeding off of sex, it’s only a matter of time before they need more.

Think Jennifer’s Body, people.

Yoongi has never seen that movie before. He clicks away from the thread and pulls up the trailer. It seems a little ridiculous, but he gets the idea. Sex, eat the guy, move on to the next. But you certainly have never tried to eat him.

So Yoongi clicks back to the thread and searches for something new. How to get rid of a succubus.

He leans back while the page loads, switching to a white screen. This bright, the monitor reflects what’s in front of it, Yoongi’s round and tired face, pale from lack of sleep, and a looming shadow behind him. His stomach plummets and he goes rigid in the chair, frozen with fear.

Yoongi smells cedar. Jasmine. Amber.

"Kitty is looking at bad things,” you sniffle. Your shadow grows in the computer monitor and Yoongi swears he sees the white flash of teeth before his world turns red. "I loved you, Kitty."

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[cevansbrat0007]

The Lonely Hearts Club: Part Three - Teaser

Summary: Andrew Barber appears to be taking this whole break-up thing in stride, which leaves you feeling more than a little suspicious. Check out Part One and Part Two.

Warnings: Mature Themes, Angst, Discussions of Break-ups, Fun with Exes, Jealousy, Andy Being a Menace, Confident Reader, Eventual Smut, Cursing, Expect Additional Future Warnings, Minors DNI

A/N: The following is only a teaser. The full story is coming soon. Part of my ongoing Growing Pains Series. All mistakes are my own. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated.

___

You take a sip of your drink, inwardly wishing that it possessed a little more of a burn as it slides down your throat. 

Perhaps you ought to try switching to whiskey.

Casting a quick glance over your shoulder, you take a moment to scan the room. Hoping to confirm a certain person’s whereabouts. It doesn’t take long to spot him standing in the corner of the room, laughing and schmoozing with several of his colleagues.

Andrew Stephen Barber. The one man who currently had you mad enough to spit nails. Fucking handsome piece of shit. 

He even has the nerve to smile at you when you accidentally manage to lock eyes. And then he holds up his drink in a silent toast. But to what, exactly?

To him being a domineering ogre? Or better yet, how about him being an unbelievably manipulative asshole? 

Yeah. You’d be down to toast to either one of those.

You turn away with a slight “hmph”, muttering a few choice words under your breath as you resume looking around for another friendly face. No, you would not be switching over to whiskey. That perfectly coiffed bastard would be all too happy to see you sipping on his preferred choice of spirits. 

These events had never been your kind of thing. However, when you’d started dating Andy, you’d come to realize that these types of invitations had a tendency to land on his desk on a fairly regular basis. 

Eventually, he’d confessed that he wasn’t a big fan of them either. But since he always felt obligated to attend, you had found yourself agreeing to be his constant plus-one. Together, you’d found a way to make gatherings like these at least somewhat bearable. 

Even fun, on occasion. 

Sometimes you two would sneak off for a quickie in the bathroom. Or, you’d dip out early to snag some takeout, followed by a romantic stroll around the harborwalk. Regardless of which option you chose, it gave you something to look forward to…

Unlike tonight. Because tonight was going to be spent dodging Boston’s District Attorney and his wandering hands. It was going to be spent avoiding unnecessary eye contact and maintaining a socially acceptable amount of personal space. And if that wasn’t enough, then you were going to –

“Well, look who it is.” A voice declares.

Your thoughts are interrupted by someone waving a hand in front of your face. Feeling slightly thrown, you give a quick shake of your head, eliciting a small chuckle from the person now standing in front of you. 

“Anybody in there?” The question is followed by a low whistle. Wait. You knew that voice. And what’s more, you wished you didn’t. Biting the inside of your cheek to keep from grimacing, you offer up a tight smile.

It belonged to none other than your local State Representative, Robert Porter. You’d met him a while back at another charity function. Things between you and your man had been much better back then, but at the time you couldn’t help but notice the way Andy had kept a proprietary grip on your waist virtually the entire time he was in your presence. 

You hadn’t really questioned it all that much, especially since you knew that Andy could be fairly territorial – whether the situation called for it or not. But then again, Robert had also given off a certain vibe that night. The kind of vibe that had caught your attention.

For all the wrong reasons.

You’d heard about the guy long before you’d ever come face to face with him. It had been hard to miss him on the campaign trail, what with all of his commercials taking up ad space on station airwaves for what felt like every five minutes. He was good looking – probably somewhere in his late thirties – with a winning smile and a strong note of ambition. 

There were also rumors swirling that he had his sights set on running for the governorship once he’d fulfilled his duties on this circuit. But for all of his perceived charm and affability, you couldn’t shake that gut feeling that there was something off about the man. And while you couldn’t quite put your finger on exactly what it was that had your hackles raised… 

You also weren’t really in the mood to figure it out any time soon. There was already one complicated man in your life, which was more than enough.

They all seemed to require a lot of care and feeding. And you simply didn’t have the energy for it these days.           

“Um, hello.” You stammer out, angling your body to gauge the size of the line over at a nearby open bar. “Sorry. Didn’t…quite see you there.” You finish lamely, complete with a shrug. 

The politician in front of you rocks back on his heels for a second, looking as if you’ve just wounded him. Which is when you belatedly recall that the man was also known for his ego. Everybody saw Robert Porter – especially women. Something he often took advantage of. Behind closed doors, of course. 

“That’s okay.” Comes his patient reply. He works to keep his tone light and indulgent as his striking gray eyes peruse your body wrapped up in your curve-hugging dress with just the right amount of interest. “I’m not offended. Used to happen to me more than I’d like to admit, especially out on the campaign trail.” Robert gifts with a patient upturn of his lips, showing off a dimple in his right cheek.      

Well, it was the right amount of interest if you happened to be single. Which you very much were. At least kind of. But he didn’t know that. Did he? 

“Yeah, well, um…” 

Shit. You really needed to pull it together, because the last thing you needed was for this putz to think that you were getting all tongue-tied over him. Not a good look.

You clear your throat and press on. “Guess I’ve just got a lot on my mind. I just…want everyone to have a good time. St. Augustine is depending on tonight being successful and I’d hate to disappoint them.” Your response has his eyes crinkling at the corners. 

“Mm.” He murmurs as he tips back his drink. “I can see why everyone around here speaks so highly about you. Not only did you help pull all of this together, but it’s obvious your heart is in the right place.”

“I think that could be said about most of the folks in this room.” You take a sip of your own cocktail which, at this point, now consists mostly of ice. 

“You’re different, madam. But I think you already know that.” Robert gives you a playful salute. “Everyone here has been singing your praises since they uncorked the first glass of wine.”

“Oh really?” You try to sound unimpressed, even as you feel your cheeks heat. “I…” You trail off, reminding yourself you couldn’t allow yourself to be charmed by this man. And you certainly couldn’t let it appear like the two of you flirting. 

Afterall, what would people think? They would probably blame it on the alcohol, and rightfully so.

“It was a group effort. And if anything, most of the credit should probably go to Lydia. She was the brains behind all of this. Meanwhile, this gal” – you gesture towards yourself – “was the brawn. Just a busy little worker bee.”

“You are so much more than that.” He levels you with the full force of his rather intoxicating gaze. “I thought Barber had gone off the deep end when I heard he was going around town raving about some woman he’d gone on a date with at Cibo Matto. I thought he was nuts. But then I met you and…” His teeth sink into his bottom lip as he forces himself to pause.

“And what? You met me and decided he was better off being remanded to the looney bin?” 

Jesus Christ you needed another drink. Stat! 

“I realized that Barber was right. But that wasn’t all of it. I also realized something else as well. Would you like to know what that was?” Robert gently plucks the empty glass from your hand before setting it on a server’s empty tray along with his own. “I wasn’t going to bring it up, but…” He casts a sidelong glance across the room, his nostrils flaring just slightly.

“But what?” 

What on earth did he keep looking at? And what the fuck was he talking about?

“I saw you first that night.” His cryptic response earns him a quizzical look from you as your brain tries to make sense of the words. “I’m talking about the night Andrew introduced himself to you. If memory serves, we even had a bit of a bet going. Nothing too immature.” He rushes out when he sees your lip curl in disgust. “And maybe not so much a bet as it was a dare. To see who was going to approach you first.” 

Your eyes widen as you think back to the night you’d met Andrew for the first time. Had you noticed anybody with him? Probably not but…oh fuck. Now that you thought about it, you did remember him.   

Oh, good Lord on high. Make that two drinks. Plus a shot. 

He presses a hand to the small of your back as he begins to guide you to the bar. “Of course, my good buddy Barber won. I guess that much is obvious since you came as his date tonight.” A resigned sigh escapes him as you reach your intended destination. “But for some reason I felt compelled to tell you that the only reason he won was by default.”

“O–okay.”

“I got called away to deal with something involving the mayor and…” Robert shakes his head before shifting his attention to the bartender to order you both a fresh round of drinks. “He was supposed to get your number for me. Maybe even talk me up a little. But clearly he didn’t do that. And when I confronted him about it, the bastard lied to me.”

“I’m not sure that I…” Fuck if this wasn’t growing more awkward and uncomfortable by the second. 

“I didn’t get a fair shot with you. If I had, maybe things would’ve gone a little differently. Maybe –” 

Just then, Robert’s impassioned reveal is suddenly interrupted by another man’s voice. This time coming from directly behind you.

“Been lookin’ all over for you, Baby Girl.” Andy purrs as he inserts himself between you and his one-time friend. “You know how much I hate it when you wander off on me like that…” He bares his teeth in some semblance of a smile. 

Shit! At this rate, you were going to have to duck behind the bar and crack open your own bottle of vino or something. Otherwise, how the fuck else could you expect to get any peace tonight? Because as of right now...

You really weren't drunk enough for this shit. 

END   

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