#I will still my hand and finish this current wip first I will

[alchemocha]

(Looking at all my current wips) but what if I started a new project and learnt how to do basic animations

[kalmeria]

btw i originally read obbligato right after ariadne so if you are someone who has just read ariadne bc of the english release but havent read obbligato yet.. why not do it right now? come cry about tatsukana with me

[ladybyakuya]

| HIGH IN LOW PLACES + natsuki seba & yoichi nagumo.

+cw. — fem!reader, headcanon + scenarios format, canon typical themes and elements, mention of alcohol and drinking,ex.plicit smut{ mention ofunprotected, oral acts }, slight angst and fluff.

+wc. — 2k.

+syn.— how do they generally spend their off day ? Is it any different when you're with them?

+notes. — my sk days debut post. yay! yay! i just caught up with it and im still making memes in my head ( yeah, its that bad </3)tap the banner for better quality </3 cuz tumblr made it so whack after upload. the title is from a song by beach weather ( one of my recent favs ). i have some more wips on sk days but lets see if the starts align or they go against me. wanted add two more characters but i got carried away while writing. so next two for next weekend ig. if you catch my favoritism, then good. go ahead & exploit it ;) | redirect to blog navigation.

✦ natsuki seba : 

The sun has not even kissed the horizon yet. It is still afternoon. Natsuki was busy building one of his work-in-progress weapons as usual even though it was an off day. The JCC is not exactly asleep but is surely a little doused today. JCC never sleeps. You are in his dorm room, waiting for him to finish his work at least to a certain stage and then have lunch with you but you doubt he is barely aware of what time it is. You are not exactly hungry, at least not for those wet soggy noodles but you do miss him even though he is right in front of you. There are times when you have to feed him lunch so that he can keep working. The dorm room is small for two but given the habits of you two, it always works out, somehow. You sleep when he is working while he sleeps when you are busy or out to get something. But currently, sleep is nowhere to be found at the banks of your eyes.

“Natsu, come eat with me,”

Seba turns his head at first and gives you a look; a look that clearly states: “Are you mad?” Do you know how ridiculous you sound? His eyebrows grow closer while his lips pucker forming a pout and then he goes back to working again. He is mocking you. He is working while you sit idle and flip through a porn magazine from his collection. It’s funny because the porn magazine is not his. It is from Shin. He was just looking out for him. Shin thought it was highly uncanny how a guy could make weapons all day and night, and be obsessed with something so odd that one forgets to masturbate. Doesn’t even have the urge? Or better does his curious side not think about such self-pleasurable prospects? Well, what would Shin know?

“Natsu, come eat me out,” 

At first, he looks up from the device he was working on and then spares a glance at you.

You make yourself busy flipping through the pages of that lewd magazine. He is staring. You can feel it.

He goes back to work again but a second later he puts the miniature parts from his hand beside the device and turns his chair towards you rubbing his chin as his elbow stands on the hand-rest of the chair. He is considering it. Holy Shit. You did not mean that.

“Really? Can I?” There is a thin layer of sneer laced underneath his voice.

You closed the magazine and stood up, keeping it on his table. He looks at the cover and a chuckle escapes from his chest probably remembering how he got it or why you ordered him to eat you out; not that he would mind . . . his eyes are back on you again. “Now that I’ve your attention. Finish your lunch and then work on your project.”

“I’m going out to meet someone,” You try to leave but he grabs your wrist pulling you back in front of the bed. 

“You're lying.” he snorts out a chuckle.

“You know,” Natsuki gets up and takes slow steps towards you as you back away cornering you as he still holds your hand. “eating you out . . . that might just be the thing I need to finish my project.”

Wait. what?

Before you can ask anything he just puts you on his shoulders, walks to the bed throwing you on the mattress. For someone who is a weapon engineer, who does not spend time on fieldwork he sure has a lot of strength.

“I didn’t mean it. I just wanted to get your attention that’s all.” you try to protest but it does not faze him, not even a little.

“Well you did a good job.” Grabbing your ankles he pulls you towards the edge of the bed before getting on his knees. He points to the cup noodles. “And, i’m not eating that.”

He pulls down your panties and shorts simultaneously. You do not stop him because you crave him as much as he needs this to de-stress or that’s how he would put it. Spreading your legs he places a trail of tender kisses along your thighs threatening your sanity, threatening the urge to push him away but you simply do not want to do that. You want this: him worshipping you like he used to. The moment his lips graze your entrance you arch back, hands resting on the mattress and crumpling the sheets as Seba gets more devoted to the cause. You put one of your legs over his shoulders as he buries his face deeper inclining his face a little to lap his tongue against your pussy lips. You bite your lower lip roughly before a whisper of words comes out of your mouth, “Ya know, you should return those magazines to Shin,”

“What?” he asks; nose glistening with your arousal, wet lips, cherry cheeks, and excited eyes. A curvature appears along your lips as you run your fingers through his hair and tug at it revealing his forehead forcing his eyes to close just for a second. He is still waiting for your response. 

“Nothing. Get to work,” you say and he listens to it like a good boy.

✦ yoichi nagumo.

“Is it that tasty?” Nagumo asks drinking an o-choko full of sake from your share. His face distorts feeling the strong fizziness. “How can you drink this?” his voice spikes up as he gulps it down. He hates it, hates this, that how you on every weekend would to go Sakamoto stores and buy liquor to drink out your misery. What a waste! He does not understand why you would spend your weekends drinking, especially when he is here. Sakamoto would often tell you to stop drinking but what’s the point? You nod like a good girl, buy some cup noodles and chips and after the store closes Shin arrives with the booze. Shin is knocked out on the floor already. But he is still keeping up with you not that he enjoys it but he is looking for an opportunity to make you stop and in that process, he ended up taking a few shots. He hates it, he hates this. He hates how you make drinks. It stings on his tongue. This is not because he wants to spend his off day with you. He rarely gets a day off and he can not go that to waste, can he now?

“Wanna fuck?”

You look at him with heavy eyes and a flustered face for a few seconds. “No.”

He is stone-cold sober. He is not even that drunk, to begin with. You are. You are still so dizzy and slumber threatening your eyes but you force them open divulging, “Too much work.” Ah! The slur. The slur in your voice. His head tilts as a smile breaks on his face like a plague.

“I’ll do the work.” Nagumo insists. “All of it.” His voice is low, slow. He wants to get through to you. “I’ll make you feel so good.” He does not want you to dismiss his words as just a drunken haze or something like that. He is already neck-deep in guilt for being unable to give as much time he wants, as much as the time you demand and crave from him. He can not sabotage your security but he would not deny that he likes meeting with you in secret; gives him some sort of thrill he thinks. “I promise,” he mumbly adds.

But he does not want to overdo it or wear you out. He can’t. He won’t. He is a good when he is with you. “Woah, careful.”

After moving the bottles and cups aside, now you are all on your fours crawling towards him like a cat. He can see your boobs, the nipples— everything. Wait, is that his tank top? He must have left it when he came to you here last time. He can’t remember when but he remembers he lost that one black tank top.

As you reach, your face inches away from him you lean for a kiss but he sways away. It instantly ruins your mood. He is smirking now as you are pouting. It turns into a snort. “Shin’s still here,” He points at the boy sleeping on the couch. You glance at the boy and then look at Nagumo. He is confused. You are impatient. Fuck it.

You hold on to his shoulders trying to get into his lap, legs sprawled apart and as you make yourself comfortable your legs get clamped around his waist. He does not lose his balance but rather helps you with it.

“Babe, Shin’s still here,” Nagumo repeats making you remember.

“Don’t care,” you shout and Nagumo covers your mouth with his palm while his index finger stills over his lips shushing you. You nod. It seems he got through to you.

You do not allow him to dodge him anymore.

You lean into his hand that is still over your mouth, nuzzling against his palm. He shoves his fingers into your hair, his index finger grazing behind your ears igniting your skin with goosebumps. His thumb roughly stretches across your bottom lip before you kiss the tip of it but he swats his hand away before you could suck on it; grabbing his other arm and you slide it under the blacktop. Nagumo does not squeeze your boobs. Not yet. He does not want to do it, not like this. Last time, both of you were sober and now both of you are drunk: you on alcohol and him on you. You buck your hips trying to get closer to him. 

“God Nagumo, why are you being like this? You said you'd do all the work. . .”

because it's amusing. The fact that you are scolding him with a whispering tone is making him tremble in mirth. He is barely holding it; you are frustrated, drunk, and horny. God! What is he going to do with you? Can he really hold himself back? Maybe he should not have proposed the idea in the first place. His hands are stretched, settled on the floor as he watches you: intently, nervously.

“Kiss me.”

And your lips instantly dance against his in a frenzy yet his hands are still on the floor. Even in this state, you manage to unbuckle his belt with one hand as the other works on the buttons of his shirt. It turns him on how swift you are too. You would be very skilled in his line of work. Maybe you are, too skilled that he did not even notice. Nah! you can't be a spy.

“Put it in” you command this time breaking the kiss. Nagumo was just starting to get to the good part of the kiss only to get deprived of it. He does not waste a second to abide by your said words. If he did, he might have to walk out thinking out the possibilities of how odd it was for a first meeting with you.

Strong hands against the plush of your hip as he adjusts his cock to your entrance. He pushes aside your panty before rubbing it against your entrance. Your hands squeeze the muscles of his shoulders.

“Without . . . condom?”

So, is that why he was delaying it? You thought he didn't want this but mentioned it for the sake of pity and now he is trying to get on your nerves to wake Shin up.

Your brain freezes after such a flow of info. You give him a nod.

Nagumo swallows before his cock goes inside without rubber. It's electric: the feeling of your flesh around his.

“Take me to that room,” you gasp out the words.

“What?”

“I said what I said.”

You become so handful when drunk not that he minds. He takes you to the room kicking back the door behind you to close before crashing onto the bed.

The next morning Shin has to buy a pair of black trousers for Nagumo and he does it without even questioning. He really does not wanna know what happened after he took you inside the room.

@underratedcharactercorner

@interstellar-inn

[borathae]

↳ Index [Snippet #57 - Tentacles]

“When you and Jungkook test out your new tentacle dildo.”

Genre: married life!AU, Slice of Life, Smut, Fluff in the beginning

Warnings: domestic sweetness, they’re couple goals, Bamie being their cute son, Kook being a dork, the next warnings are for the smut, switch!Kook, switch!Reader, but the D/s dynamic is very minimal, this is about a couple in love taking turns to make the other feel good, but he calls her Mistress when he gets really into it, pussy fingering & clit play to get her ready, making out, being totally lost in the moment, use of a tentacle dildo, sharing of said dildo, they take turns with it, use of lube, first she penetrates her pussy with it, then he fucks his ass with it, hand job, nipple play, neck kisses, some drool, mutual masturbation, praise, dirty talk, wet & messy orgasms, squirting for both, cuddly aftercare, they’re in love <3

Wordcount: 6.5k

a/n: anonie, your enthusiasm about this wip made me finish it, hehehe, so this one's for you <3 honestly it’s so horny, enjoy besties 🧡 i fucking love this koo so much omfg my comfort koo for life <3

You are using your laptop by the kitchen table for a change. A bowl of salted peanuts and a glass of white wine is keeping you company. You can hear Bam playing with one of his squeaky toys in the living room. The constant squeaking should annoy you, but it doesn’t. It has become part of your life, serving as a nice background reminder that Bam was happy. 

You take a sip of the white wine, scrolling down the webpage you currently find yourself on. 

“Doing some online shopping?” Jungkook asks, coming into the kitchen to get his workout drink. He spent the afternoon drawing in his hobby room and plans on doing his boxing workout now. 

“Yeah, just browsing for some stuff”, you answer him, not looking up.

He comes up behind you, bending down to kiss your neck and hug you. Such affection is a daily occurrence from him, which means that you don’t let it distract you from your shopping. It is still really nice and exciting, don’t misunderstand.

“That’s nice. What stuff?” he asks.

“Just some more lube and toy cleaner. We’ve run out. Hey, do you think that we should get a tentacle dildo?” 

Jungkook falters. He finally looks at the screen, eyes widening at the rows of silicon dicks looking back at him.

“Oh my god, you’re doing dick shopping in our kitchen?” he gasps.

“I guess”, you say and chuckle at his use of words.

“What the hell, baby?”

“In my defence, I only wanted to get lube and cleaner first, but fell down a rabbit hole. Remember the alien dick conversation we had?” 

“I guess? I don’t know. Not really, no.”

“Either way, I got a tentacle dildo on the front page and now I’m here. On the fantasy dildo page, thinking how hot it would be to own one. Should we get one?” 

“Wait a minute. I need to sit down and see the options.”

And like that, his boxing workout has to wait as you and he spend a good hour deciding on which tentacle dildo to get.

Jungkook is home when the package arrives. You are still at the restaurant, working hard.

Jungkook is working on a tattoo in his room when the doorbell rings. He tells Bam to stay and hurries to the door to check who was interrupting him. He thanks the postman and wishes him a good day, then he hurries to the living room.

He takes out his phone and dials your restaurant’s number. Then he stands by the living room window, looking outside with one hand on his hips. 

“Hello, you’ve reached ___’s Bistro, Joe speaking. How may I help you?” one of your employees picks up.

“Hey, Joe. Here is Jungkook speaking. Can I talk to ___, please?” 

“Yo hey, Jungkook man. Yeah, right away”, he says and calls out to you, “hey, ___! Jungkook’s asking for you!” He speaks to Jungkook again, “she’s on her way.”

“Thanks, man.”

A few moments of silence. The restaurant sounds busy in the background. 

“Thanks Joe. Hey, sweetie”, you suddenly say.

“Is Joe gone?���

“Yes, he’s back to working. Why?”

“Baby, I need you to come home immediately.”

“Why? What happened? Are you okay? Is Bam okay?”

“The dildo arrived.”

“Wow okay. Thanks for making me have a heart attack. You can’t just say that to me after calling the restaurant. I thought that an emergency had happened.”

“This is an emergency. I really wanna open it and look at it.” 

You laugh, “you’ll survive.”

“No, I won’t. Please sweetie, come home.”

“I would love to, but the restaurant is really busy. It’s probably gonna get late today.”

“Nooo babyyyy, why would you say that?”

“I’m sowwyyyy, I swear I don’t want it either. But it’s Friday and payday for most. People want food.”

“And I want my wife.”

“Just play your Sims until I’m home.”

“No, I’ll sit by the door and whine. Like a dog.”

You laugh, “okay do that, puppy.”

He grins, “please don’t work too hard.”

“I’ll try. You can open the package already if you want to.”

“No, I wanna do it with you.”

“Okay, okay.” More noise in the background. “I really gotta go now. We got more customers.”

“Yeah, okay. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

The call ends. Jungkook huffs out air in frustration. Never in his life has he missed you as much as he misses you right now. For just a second, he even considers driving to the restaurant just so he can watch you work. 

Bam stubs his leg. Jungkook looks at him and pets his head.

“I know, Bamie. I miss her too. Stupid payday, it’s always busy then.”

Bam whines, showing Jungkook the tennis ball in his mouth.

“Should we play some fetch? Okay, let’s go to the beach.”

Jungkook stays down by the beach until Bam is basically tired enough that he barely manages to get up the stairs. Jungkook cleans him in the garden and prepares cold water for him to drink as he makes dinner. 

He texts you if you want to eat dinner at home to which you say that you already ate at the restaurant. So Jungkook makes himself a quick meal, eating by the table while Bam eats his dinner as well. You text him again as he eats.

-          Wifey ♡: It’s still busy here :( I’m sorry…

-          Jungkook: Don’t apologise ♡  I’m sorry that it’s busy :( sending you lots of energy ♡

-          Wifey ♡: Yay thank you ♡

Because it will still take you some time, Jungkook decides to go for one last digestion walk with Bam. Afterwards the poor Doberman is so tired that he falls asleep on Jungkook’s lap during his night time routine. Of course you and Jungkook have a night routine for Bam, which consists of wiping down his fur, moisturising his paws and brushing his teeth. Jungkook leaves out Bam’s “jammies” tonight, sending him straight to his crate. Bam merely manages to snuggle up against his emotional support dinosaur plushie and then he is already fast asleep. 

“Sleep, my baby. Daddy loves you so much”, Jungkook whispers and sends him a hand kiss, afterwards he leaves Bam’s room. Just in time with you arriving home. Jungkook hurries to the door and sits down. He has a plan. To make you laugh.

Not long after he sat down, the door to the garage unlocks. You step inside and stop, eyes falling to Jungkook sitting on the floor and whining. 

“Seriously?” you say, having to laugh loudly. You stumble, knees giving up and so you end up on the floor as well.

Jungkook laughs with you, closing the distance to touch your arms.

“Did you actually sit here and whine all day?”

“Of course I did”, he jokes, only making you laugh harder. 

You hug him, muffling your happiness in his shoulder. Jungkook hugs you back, feeling on cloud nine. Making you laugh will never ever lose its magic.

“Oh god, you. This just wiped away all of the stress I felt.”

“I’m glad. I guess I don’t have to ask how your day was.”

“It was stressful, but not bad. Still glad to be home now and to have three free days ahead of me.”

“I know, me too.”

“How was your day?” 

“Lonely without you, but still good. I was at the beach with Bam almost all day. He’s basically dead in exhaustion. He even snored when I left the room.”

“Aww Bamie, so cute. Our son. I bet he had such a good day running around.”

“He did, yeah.”

You and he stand up together, exchanging a loving kiss. He helps you out of your jacket and carries your bag for you. 

“So did you really wait with the package?”

“Of course I did. I wanted to look at it with you.”

“You really didn’t have to.”

“No, I wanted to. It’s important to me that we unpack it together.”

“You’re cute. Let me just wash my hands real quick. I feel disgusting.”

“Okay.”

You join him in the living room in comfortable clothes. You sit down next to him. 

“Ready?” 

“So ready.” 

He takes the package and scissors. You scoot closer, watching him open the box. 

Some packing peanuts, the receipt, the toy.

“Wooaah”, you and he gasp at the same time, eyes widening.

“This looks so realistic.”

“It’s bigger than I thought it would be.”

“Take it out of the package, I wanna touch it.”

You and he hold the toy together.

“Wooaaah.” 

It is purple in colour and with a good length. Around twenty centimetres with a growing girth. The tip is just a little thicker than Jungkook’s thumb, while the base is around the size of his wrist. The silicon feels soft and very high quality and it has no scent to it, which is always a good sign. 

“Run your thumb over the suckers, they feel so realistic”, he says.

“They do. Wow. Do you think that we can feel them?”

“I hope so. That’s lowkey the point.”

“Me too. It’s actually so long. My cooch is not gonna handle that well.” 

“Yeah, it’s big. I feel like I’m gonna struggle too.”

“Right. We can take it slow.”

“Definitely.” He glances at your face. “Should we do it tonight?”

You meet his eyes. 

“Okay no, you don’t want to. That look told me everything I needed to know.”

“Sorry, I’m really tired.”

“Don’t apologise. We looked at it, that’s already enough for me. Whenever you’re in the mood.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes, sounds good. Should we shower and then watch a movie and cuddle?”

“Yes, this sounds amazing. I’m sorry that I’m not feeling it tonight.”

“Apologise again and I’m biting you.”

You chuckle, “okay fine.”

It is around four in the afternoon the next day when Jungkook seeks you out. He was in the garden before that, while you lounged on the beach. He sits down next to you, calling your name. You open your eyes.

“Hey, baby.”

“Hey, you.” He rubs your arm. “Baby?”

“Yes?”

“I was wondering if maybe you are in the mood?”

You sit up, “you’re horny? Now?”

“Not horny, just really curious.” He pouts. “I just wondered, you know, it’s been almost a day and yeah. Yesterday, you said you wanna do it tomorrow. And today is tomorrow and yeah.” 

“Did you already clean out and everything?”

“No, I would do it now if you said yes.”

“You know what? I am down, actually. Once we’re ready, it’s gonna be later anyway, so why not start already? Should I clean out downstairs?”

“Whatever you want. I’m flexible.”

“Then let’s do it like that.”

“Yes, I’m so happy right now.”

You and he pack up and then go home to get ready.

You meet in the bedroom again, cleaned out and so ready. Bam is officially in his crate and the door is locked because you don’t want to be disturbed. Slow RnB music is playing and you have the thin curtains drawn closed to shield away some of the sunlight.

You are naked, laying out your waterproof sheets, when Jungkook comes outside.

“Oh. Hey. Yay, matching outfits”, he greets you.

“You’re looking good in it, my handsome.”

“Says the right one, my beautiful”, he flirts back and closes the distance in confident steps. 

It is so sexy to be naked together when the near future offers pleasure. He connects his hands with your waist, running them down to your hips. His big, brown eyes race over your face and tits, sparkling in adoration.

“Hey”, he rasps.

“Hey”, you coo.

“You’re so sexy”, he says in a breathy whisper.

“Thanks. You’re so sexy too”, you say and run your hands from his abs up to his pecs.

“It feels good how you touch me.” 

“Your body is perfect.”

He looks at your lips, “I’m really excited. How are we gonna do this?”

“I guess I go first and you go second? Because, you know, ass to pussy is never a good idea.”

“Right. We can’t have you catching something. Let’s have you go first. What do you need me to do to get you there?”

“Just kiss me and let me feel you on top.”

“Come here”, he says and fulfills your wish enthusiastically. He kisses you, picking you up just to lay you down on the sheets and climb on top.

He gives you a moment to catch your breath. The way he looks at you makes you feel like the most beautiful person to ever exist.

“Is this comfy?” he asks, touching your thighs gently. You have them around his hips to keep him close.

“Yeah, it’s perfect.”

“Let me know if you don’t want me to touch you somewhere. I’ll let my hands wander, yes?”

“Yes, don’t leave anything out please. Can I touch you everywhere too?”

“My body’s free real estate for you”, he jokes, making you laugh.

He smiles, chuckling, and kisses you. 

“Idiot”, you murmur between kisses, fingers running through his hair.

“You love it”, he answers you, right hand running along your side. 

“Mhhm, love it.”

“Baby…”

Perhaps it’s all the years together, but it is so much fun to turn each other on. It’s so easy and exciting and damn, do you love doing it. Today it’s especially nice because it’s such a perfect day for spontaneous sex. 

The sun is warm and enters the bedroom in a yellowish glow because of your curtains. You are trapped in a cozy, sensual atmosphere, floating on the growing clouds of attraction. You left the balcony door open to let in the salty ocean breeze. The rushing of waves joins the music as much as the occasional call of a seagull does. This is paradise and it’s your daily life. 

The realisation makes you pull him so much closer. His back ripples and tenses, his throat produces the loveliest of sighs. His skin feels like heaven. Soft and warm and so his’. Perhaps it is impossible to understand but you know the sensation of his skin these days. You could recognise him just by touch. 

Jungkook runs his right hand from your shoulder down to your hip. He holds you there, pinning you down with just enough strength that you notice it. He is gentle in it however, giving you a tender roll of his hips which naturally grinds his dick over your tummy. He is already so swollen and hard.

“Fuck, Kook”, you break the kiss, gazing up at him with heavy eyes, “I need you to play with my pussy. I can’t do long make out sessions today.”

“Anything you need”, he says and puts two of his fingers into his mouth to get them wet. 

Once happy with the results, he slips them between your legs, rubbing them up and down your sweet warmth. He is propped up on his hand for now, arm tense and keeping his weight up with little struggle.

You exhale in relief, eyelids fluttering. He lowers himself to his elbow and cups your cheek, making it so much better. 

“Is this nice?”

You nod your head, “I love this moment.”

“Me too. You’re so beautiful in this light.” He traces your eyebrows and caresses your left temple. “My goddess.” 

“Kiss me, I mean it.”

Jungkook moans softly, letting you pull him into a kiss. You control the tempo and intensity and he is so happy to follow. It feels so good. It’s been years since you shared your first kiss on top of the ferris wheel and it still feels as exciting as it did back then. Perhaps even more exciting because each kiss, each eager touch and tender lick is filled with memories of your life together.

Jungkook feels light-headed. He takes your left hand and pins it above your head in sync with his hips rolling against your inner thigh. He is leaking all over your skin because he is already rock hard. He gets hard so easily with you. He swears it’s because he loves you so much.

You run your right hand down his back until you can grab a good amount of his buttock. It makes him growl into the kiss and chase your thigh in a needy thrust. You love it so much. Being under him, having him hold your hand and fuck your thigh and goddamn, having him rub your pussy. You love this so much, leaking onto his fingers.

“More.”

Jungkook hums in understanding and buries his wet fingers in you. He is slow in it, so as not to hurt you.

A gasp breaks the kiss. You look at him with the neediest and sexiest face he has ever seen.

“Is this good for you?” he speaks in a low purr, eyes totally smitten for you.

“So good, ah.”

“Mhhhhm, I love your pussy”, he purrs and kisses you deeply. It is his turn to control the tempo, the intensity and fuck, is he passionate with it. 

If you weren’t already entirely engrossed by him, you would have started to be right this moment. He tongue kisses you like he is doing it professionally, all while he curls and scissors his tattooed fingers deep inside you. And because this fucking bastard is amazing, he rubs his thumb up and down your clit, including a circle whenever he is right on top.

You swear that you will melt into a puddle because of him. These are the moments where you love his perfectionism. He is so stern with himself all the time, but it results in him having perfected pleasure. He touches you like it is his destiny and god, you might lose yourself.

You break the kiss, choking out your words.

“Stop right now. Stop.”

Jungkook freezes up.

“Pull your hand away. Now.”

“Oh my god, what’s wrong?” he gasps, doing what he is told. He even sits up, panicking enough that his cock goes a little soft. 

“Fuck this was close, what the heck.”

“What’s wrong? Are you okay? Please don’t tell me that I hurt you.”

“No, I almost nutted.”

“Wow okay, then say that and not be so cryptic. I was so scared”, he pouts.

“Sorry, are you okay?”

“No, I need you to kiss me.”

You snicker, getting on your knees and closing the distance. You kiss him like this. Kneeling with him as your arms snake around his body and your tits melt with his pecs. His cock is between your tummies, getting rubbed so good that he grows hard again. 

And Jungkook forgives you instantly, cradling you in his strong arms. He towers over you a little, resulting in you having to crane your neck and lean into him. He loves it so much, feeding you his needy sighs alongside his tongue. 

Fuck, he is so into you. He growls and grabs your ass with both hands, doing it with such passion that you whimper and tremble. You twist his hair at the back, getting him dizzy and short of breath. 

In return you feel light-headed and ready to crumble into a pile of horny mess. The way he is kneading your buttocks feels so good. Possessive and rough, which means you can feel it in your pussy as well. You press yourself so much closer to him, turning him on unbearably.

If this continues, he might ask you to forget about the dildo and fuck him instead. And because you and he are basically connected, you break the kiss just to mention said dildo.

“I need to sit on the tentacle now or I will never escape you.”

He chuckles breathily, “fuck, why are you so good at reading me?”

“Because I’m obsessed with you”, you flirt, sending his pulse into a frenzy. 

He gives you his best and most loyal puppy eyes ever. You peck his lips and wiggle out of his arms. 

“Are you excited to watch me?” you ask, getting the dildo ready. You put it into one of your strap-on harnesses and strapped it to a pillow to make it easier to ride. 

“I’m so excited”, he confesses, watching you smear lube all over the purple tentacle. “Getting it wet sounds so sexy.”

“Right? I’m so curious how it’ll feel. Now silence, I need to concentrate.”

He gasps dramatically and holds his breath with his eyes big and his cheeks puffed out. He makes you laugh, setting him off too.

“You can breathe.”

“Just making sure.”

Giggling and laughing, you position yourself over the toy. Jungkook watches you, laughing and giggling just as much. How fucking good it feels to laugh with you during sex.

You get serious once you start playing with the tip however, taking your lower lip between your teeth and looking down at the toy. 

Jungkook shares in your silence, breathing heavily because the view is so arousing to him. 

You lower yourself, taking the toy easily. Just the tip. Down. Down. Down until the stretch comes. Stop.

“Fuck, this is… Woah fuck…” 

“Is it good?”

More. Deeper.

“It’s intense. Woah” you writhe and reach down to touch your own tummy, “woah, this is deep. Oh my god.”

Jungkook presses his thighs together, mewling needily. Knowing that you are stuffed turns him on so much.

“Please try to move”, he begs and you do.

“Fucking hell, urgh”, you get out, throwing your head back and twisting the pillow. “What the fuck is that?”  

“Is it good? Does it hurt?”

“It’s like I’m getting impaled by an alien or something”, you moan, rolling your hips on the purple tentacle needily. You try to lift your hips as well, resulting in your puffy cunt to slurp up the tentacle greedily. It sounds so wet and sinful. Looks like actual pornography.

“Baby, oh my god”, he whimpers, having to touch his own nipples because it excites him so much. He rubs his hands over them, all while his thighs are squeezing his balls for stimulation. He can’t stop looking at your pussy and how she gets impaled by the tentacle. She is stretching so much, weeping and slurping happily and Jungkook swears he will pass out at the view.

“Ah, Jungkook”, you moan, arching your back sensually, “Jungkook…baby…Jungkook…”

He can’t do this. He can’t just watch when you moan his name like this. He closes the distance and calls your attention by rubbing your arm. 

You peel your eyes open and lift your head, gazing deep into his eyes. 

“Does it make you think of me?”

“It feels so nice. Koo, I keep thinking of you as my alien lover.”

He moans. You whimper his name and drop down on the tentacle. It squelches sinfully, stretching your pussy addictively well. It doesn’t hurt, it just feels intense. This is the kind of stuffing that satisfies you to the very core. The kind of stuffing you want to keep chasing and chasing and chasing.

“Jungkook…”

He runs his eyes over your body, chest rising and sinking in a shaky breath. He lifts his hands, running them along your curves without actually touching you. The ghost of it tingles, making you crave his fingers on you.

“I really wanna touch you”, he whispers, eyes glued to your stuffed pussy.

“Please, do.”

He rests his left hand on your waist and slides his right hand between your legs. His fingers part your folds, finding your clit easily and picking up a sensual rhythm.

“Kook”, you moan shakily, resting your hands on his strong pecs. The toy feels a million times more intense now that he is touching you. The suckers keep grinding against your entrance, sucking and stimulating it sinfully well.

“You’re so soft”, he whispers, eyes racing between yours. His fingers draw circles on your clit, knowing exactly how much pressure and what speed you love. Of course they know. He touched you a million times before. Your body is a landscape he knows how to explore blindly. And he won’t ever grow bored of it, tingling in pleasure each time he rubs your clit.

With shaky fingers, you touch the nape of his neck. You pull his face down, moaning when your foreheads touch. The eye contact remains, the tension is electric.

“Sweetie”, he sighs, sliding his left hand to the small of your back. He loves how you tense as your hips dance on the toy. 

“Koo, it feels so good”, you whimper, grasping his neck.

“I know it does. I know. I’m so happy. You’re so beautiful, my sweetheart.”

“Oh god, it feels so good.”

“Enjoy it. Focus on it. You deserve it.”

“Kiss me.”

Jungkook claims your lips as his’, moaning with you as you sink into the kiss. You convulse around the toy, grasping his face. His fingers speed up on your clit, sending trembles through your legs. 

The kiss breaks just barely, but you needed to moan and gasp for air.

“Am I doing good?”

“Really, ah, re-really good.”

“God baby, I wanna live in this moment forever.”

“You’re gonna make me cum.”

“Good, so good. Focus on it, baby. Focus on the toy. How it’s inside you.”

“I can feel the suckers everywhere”, you mewl, twitching, “ah, Koo.”

“Good girl. Taking my tentacle so well. Mhm? Are you taking my tentacle well?” he taunts, wanting to play into your fantasy because it will get you off. 

“Koo…” you whimper breathily, eyes going just a little cross. 

“Good girl, such a good girl.”

Your hips have no true rhythm going on. All they are doing is rut and squirm and chase the orgasm. Your entrance is already so sensitive because of the tentacle. Your pleasure spots inside are throbbing and burning in ecstasy. And your clit pulsates each time he runs his skilled fingers over it. 

His eye contact. The close proximity. His hand on your back. His dirty talk. The moans he shares with you. It is all too much. You are completely and utterly submerged in this moment. You exist for nothing but him and the pleasure you create together.

“I’m cumming.”

“Cum for me.”

“Koo.”

He moans into your mouth because you pull him back into a kiss. The moan turns into a throaty purr as you begin sucking on his tongue because this is all that you can manage during your orgasmic shakes. 

This high is intense. It really, genuinely, weakens you. To the point where you fold in on yourself and your legs press together. You fall against Jungkook, forcing the kiss to break.

“Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god.”

“I’m here, hold onto me. I’m here.”

“Jungkoooooook”, you mewl, reaching between your legs to press his fingers closer. Your knees are twitching, legs squeezing together and walls throbbing around the tentacle. This isn’t over. This orgasm has layers to it, hitting you over and over again.

“Good girl. You’re doing so well. Cum on my tentacle, such a good girl.”

You sob, “ah-a-ah.” And then it happens. You squirt, messying the toy and your thighs. Truly, if Jungkook wasn’t holding you, you would have already collapsed.

“Oh my god, Yes baby. Yes. Squirt for me. This is so hot. Fuck, yes give me everything.”

His words help you ride it out. And it is glorious. To know that you have someone like Jungkook helping you through it, makes it so much better.

He rubs your clit until you pull his hand away. Brought to your limit, you instantly have to slip off the toy. The tentacle squelches loudly as it leaves you, flopping to the front. It glistens sinfully. Big globs of your orgasm are sticking to the suckers. 

“I can’t, ah”, you get out and plop down in the mess.

“Breathe, baby. Breathe”, he talks you through the aftershocks, cradling your face with both hands. 

“This was really intense.” You gulp, eyes glassy. “I’m shaky.” You exhale weakly. “Can I get a hug, please?”

“My baby, you cutie. Of course, come here”, he hugs you against him, rocking you softly. “Let me hold you, babygirl. I’m here.”

“Oh god, Koo.”

“Just lean on me. I’m here.”

His loving embrace helps so much. Because of it, you manage to come back safely. Oh, it is so comforting to be loved by him.

You lift your head, gazing at him. 

“Hey, do you feel better?” he whispers, caressing your cheeks. It doesn’t matter to him that some time has passed. As a matter of fact, sharing this tender moment with you felt like paradise to him.

“Yeah, I feel happy. I can’t believe this just happened.”

“Me neither. I haven’t seen you this twitchy in some time.”

“I don’t know what happened. It felt so good.”

“It did?”

You nod your head. He exhales shakily.

“Not gonna lie, this makes me really needy.”

Your eyes glimmer.

“Do you wanna ride it?”

“I do. I really fucking do.”

“I’ll clean it.”

“Don’t.”

Your heart flutters.

“Fucking don’t clean it. I wanna know that I get to have you inside me. At least something of you.”

“Koo”, you get to your knees, cradling his face, “Koo, please ride it. I can’t wait to watch you.”

He nods his head and slips out of your touch. You scoot back a little to give him space.

“I hope I’ll like it too.”

“I’m sure that you will. This toy is definitely your style.”

“Fuck, I’m so excited.”

“Do you need me to prepare you somehow?”

“No, watching you get off was everything I needed. Besides, I’m wearing a plug.”

“That’s so hot.”

Jungkook reaches behind himself and pulls out the plug. He groans softly, leaking onto the sheets. 

“Thank god we put the sheet down”, he says. 

“Definitely. First me, now you. We’re so messy.”

He chuckles, putting aside the plug. He takes the tentacle and positions it under himself.

“I’m so ready to sit on it.”

“You will love it so much.” 

He picks up more lube, spreading it on the toy.

“It’s so warm from you. And messy. I can’t wait, fuck.” 

“Me neither, baby.”

He circles his loosened rim, staring down at himself. His lower lip is between his teeth, his brows are furrowed. You don’t want to breathe, gawking hungrily. 

He lowers himself. The tip slips in.

“Ah.”

“Relax. Take it easy.”

More. He manages around seven centimetres and stops. A groan leaves him, followed by a “fuck”, and his head rolling back. 

“Is this a it’s good fuck or a it hurts fuck?”

“An it’s more intense than I thought it would be fuck.” 

“It is, isn’t it?” 

“I get you now. Oh my god what the fuck”, he chokes out, touching his tummy to check how much he takes.

A little more and he stops again, grasping the pillow for support. It squeezes his pecs together and makes his arms tense.

“___”, he moans, cock twitching and lungs working overtime to breathe. 

You close the distance and hold his waist. He rolls his head to the front, meeting your eyes. His gaze is droopy and entirely smitten for you.

“I’m right here, baby. Just look at me when it gets too much.”

He moans your name, eyes fogging up and hips dropping further down on the slickened tentacle. Five more centimetres, and his mouth falls open. Not for long because he has to bite his lower lip in sync with him trying to rock on it. His brows tremble because they can’t decide whether to lift or furrow.

“Intense?” you ask, rubbing his waist.

He nods his head, rolling his lip between his teeth.

“Keep looking at me, baby. I’m here.” 

He whimpers softly, cupping your cheek. 

“I don’t know if I can slip off”, he confesses.

“Hurts?”

“It’ll feel so good. I can’t do this.”

“Just try, baby. For me.”

Jungkook furrows his brows and obeys. He slips off the toy. 

“Ah!” He yelps and flinches. “O-oh my god. The texture.”

“It’s intense, isn’t it?”

“Yes” He squeaks, closing his eyes. He drops back down on the toy, lifting his hips instantly to pick up a needy rhythm. 

“Just listen to you getting fucked. Your hole sounds so stuffed right now.”

“It feels so good. I feel every sucker. Ah. The girth. My hole is so….ah….filled.”

“That’s right. It’s so stuffed with me.”

He whimpers, legs shaking.

“Isn’t that right? You got my orgasm deep inside you, baby.”

“Please.”

“It’s coating your insides. I’m making you mine.”

“Please, shut up”, he keens, trying his hardest to cover your mouth with his hand. His palm is so warm and just a little sweaty.

You giggle, kissing his shaky fingers.

“What’s wrong? Don’t like me talking dirty to you?”

“Don’t want this to end. No orgasm. Not yet. Please.”

“Okay, okay sorry. Then let me watch you for a while.” You dance your hands over his body. “You don’t mind me touching you as you get fucked, do you?”

“Please”, he breathes out, dropping his head in defeat, “don’t stop touching me. It feels so good.”

He slings his left arm over your shoulder, using your other shoulder as his headrest. You rub his back, sliding your right hand to his cock. 

“___”, his voice is squeaky and entirely drenched in pleasure. His hips tremble before getting so much sloppier on the tentacle.

Jungkook knew that you weren’t lying when you lost it on the tentacle, but he didn’t think that it was actually this intense. He has a very sensitive hole, even normal stimulation with your strap feels intense. To have something so intensely textured pound him over and over again is actually deeply overwhelming for him. He can feel each sucker his hole swallows, he can feel them trying to stay inside when he slips off and he can feel them digging their way back inside when he drops down. Because of its shape, most of the stretch stays by his hole. And there is always this one sucker which seems obsessed with his prostate.

“I get it. ___ my love, I get it.”

“You do? Do you like it?”

“Love it. Goddess, I’m yours. Please don’t ever leave me.”

The toy has him clingy. He must love it a lot. He only gets this way when the pleasure has infiltrated his brain as well and the only thoughts occupying his mind are thoughts of you. 

“I’m not leaving you, Koo. Feel it, this is me making you mine. You’re on my mind”, you promise him, twisting your hand around his tip. 

“___.” 

He drops on the toy and stays down, hips suddenly rutting back and forth vigorously. You know this motion, you know the urgency of it. He turned cock dumb, trying oh so desperately to make himself climax. The only thing you can do is keep your hand still and talk sweet to him.

“Good boy. Make yourself cum. What a good boy you are. You’re made for the tentacle.”

“My nipples, please.”

You connect your left hand with his chest, playing with his nipple. His right one is a little more sensitive so you are paying attention to it. You rub and squeeze it, tugging on his piercing very gently whenever you feel like it. 

“I’m cumming”, Jungkook whimpers and breaks with a sob. He shoots his load all over your hand and tummies, collapsing into you and scratching your upper back. 

“That’s it. Cum for me. Good boy, give me everything. Cum for me”, you talk him through it, jerking his throbbing cock. 

He sobs loudly, curling into himself because the orgasm reached his prostate. He doesn’t want to but he still spills translucent liquid all over your tummy. He can’t help it. You touch him just right.

“___!”

“Yes baby, squirt for me. Let the tentacle milk you. Good boy.”

“___, I can’t stop.”

“I know, let it happen. Don’t try to hold it in”, you encourage him, squeezing every single droplet out of him and Jungkook can do nothing more than give you everything his body can produce.

“Hurts”, he means it honestly once the high stops. He slips off the toy with shaking legs and drops into your arms.

“Hey. Are you okay?”

“I’m shaky”, he whimpers, seeking your comfort by nuzzling his nose into your neck.

“I know exactly how you feel. Lean on me, it’ll pass soon.”

“Oh god, oh god…”

“I’m here, babyboy. I’m right here.”

The perfect thing about you and Jungkook is knowing that you can be each other’s comfort and not have it feel weird. He can be dominant and strong while you are shaky and weak. And in return you can be just as dominant and strong while he is shaky and weak. This is what makes you and him so fucking perfect for each other. 

With your love, Jungkook recovers quickly. Soon, he feels strong enough to lift his head and meet your eyes.

“How are you doing?”

“Good, but vulnerable. I wanna hold you.”

“Let’s lie down.”

Your limbs tangle together so you can face each other. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are glimmering prettily.

“I don’t know what happened.”

“Me neither. There must be crack on this toy.”

He laughs weakly, “seriously. At some point it felt alive inside me.”

“Right? And the sounds-”

“So wet. I tried not to listen because it would have broken me instantly.”

You agree with a nod and snicker. Jungkook smiles softly. 

“I feel so droopy”, he confesses, dropping his hand on your cheek.

You melt into his touch, “you look droopy.”

He hums and closes his eyes. You scoot closer and kiss his nose. 

��Just think of the day I peg you with it.”

He mewls, “don’t make me think of that, I’ll pass out.”

“Sorry”, you snicker and kiss his nose a second time, “I’m so happy that we bought this toy. I definitely wanna use it again.”

“Yeah me too.” He kisses your lips, mumbling a very heartfelt “I love you” against them.

“I love you too.” 

“Wanna cuddle.”

You close the distance and snuggle into him. Jungkook purrs happily, hugging you against him.

“This was amazing”, he whispers, “it got me there so fast. I’m kinda sad it’s over.”

“I get you. I got there so fast too. Means we have to do it again soon.

“Yeah definitely.”

You snuggle him tighter, tracing mindless shapes on his back. He does the same along your spine.

“The sun’s starting to set”, you whisper.

“Nice. I love the sunset. Should we make pasta for dinner?”

“Pasta sounds amazing. And for dessert we can have ice cream.”

“Yeah, mint choco.”

“No, hazelnut choco.” 

Jungkook smiles. Even years later, your favourite ice cream flavour hasn’t changed. 

“I love you so much”, he whispers, wrapping his limbs around you to melt you into him.

“I love you too, but I’m gonna suffocate”, you whine, heart racing like crazy. 

“Take it, I need to squeeze you.”

You laugh, letting it happen gladly. He is such a sweetheart.

[lumi-nescentt]

Heaven Is A Place On Earth With You

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Warnings: slight sexual joke at some point

Words: 1.8k

Summary: The Max everyone knows is a lot different from the Max he is behind closed doors. That's even truer when he hasn't seen you in a while and all he wants is to spend time doing nothing with his girl.

A/N: I'm procrastinating for my finals so I'm going to try to finish all the WIP I currently have :) hope you like max being hopelessly in love bc that's what you're getting here

Max was known for being blunt, sometimes rough which on track made him almost unstoppable. However, the Max you knew was way different. He treated you with such care and delicacy, it was sickeningly sweet. From the moment you two had started dating, he had done his best to show you that he wasn't what the rest of the world portrayed him to be. That he was worthy of the affection you felt for him.

Slow mornings with Max were your favourite moments. He always woke up before you but he never dared to leave the bed before you wanted to. He didn’t particularly liked laying around but there was something about being close to you that made him want to stay there forever. You looked so peaceful cuddled up against him, he wouldn’t have dared to wake you up anyway. He much preferred admiring you until you woke up and he could finally talk to you.

When your eyes started fluttering awake, the first thing you were aware of was the arm around your waist. Max's hand was on your naked back, keeping you as close to him as possible. The weight of it was comforting and it was always the first thing you noticed when he came back late at night while you were already asleep, from races you couldn’t have gone to. You liked knowing that even when he was exhausted from all the travelling, he still took the time to nestle your body against his before falling asleep with you between his arms. 

As soon as he realised you were awake, Max started peppering the side of your face with kisses which made you giggle and look up at him. There was something really special about the look you gave your boyfriend when you were slowly coming back to reality that he loved. It always looked as if you were falling back in love with him all over again in a matter of seconds. You had the softest look on your face and as far as heart eyes went, yours were probably the most intense someone ever had until Max looked at you with the same intensity and his entire face lit up, his eyes twinkling with pure adoration before he broke the silence and finally spoke.

-" Good morning schatje" he greeted you with a kiss on your forehead

-" Hi Maxie" you mumbled, still sleepy

-" Did you sleep well ?"

-" I alway sleep well when you're here so yes. How about you ?"

-" Great, I had the best human heater next to me."

-" Do you have anything planned today ?"

-" Nope, I'm all yours. Did you want to do anything special ?"

-" Just wanted to stay with you."

-" Do you want me to make breakfast and then we can go walk on the beach ?"

-" That sounds good."

-" Lets go then." Max said, trying to stand up from the bed but you had moved your body half on top of him

-" Schatje, if you want breakfast you're gonna have to get off me."

-" I thought you liked me on top ?" you winked, making the Dutch man blush

-" I do but I also like you alive and well fed so hop off please."

With a groan, you turned on your side, liberating Max who stood up. He tried to convince you to follow him in the kitchen but you needed a few more minutes so after kissing your forehead, Max went to cook breakfast alone. He didn’t mind doing it on his own. Taking care of you when he was here was one of his favourite things to do just to see you smile at him and have you kiss his cheek as a thank you. It was all worth it for your reaction alone. 

Five minutes later, Max felt a pair of arms snake around his waist and your face pressing against his back. He still hadn’t put a shirt back on after sleeping in boxers all night. He never wore much to bed since you were always warm enough for him to sleep almost naked and not freeze. So when you pressed small kisses against his shoulder blades, he almost let go of the coffee cup he was holding, your breath tickling his skin. 

-“ Behave please, schatje.” Max smiled, patting your hands that were resting on his stomach

-“ ‘m not doing anything.” you answered, tightening your grip around him

-“ Not yet but I know you might try something so if you want to eat decent food please wait until I set everything on the table.” 

-“ Can’t promise anything.” Max laughed at your answer before going back to what he was doing. 

Since you had moved in with him, Max found out that he actually didn’t hate slowing down for a bit and enjoying the little things. He just never had someone he loved to do it with until you came along. Now, he loved just hanging around in the apartment, bodies dancing around each other in the kitchen when you were both doing your own thing but still enjoying each other’s presence. He found solace in doing the most mundane things with you. He wouldn’t dare to say it out loud but as long as you were together, everything felt like an adventure. 

Enjoying breakfast together while looking out the balcony was a great way to start the day according to him, maybe even his favourite. You were apparently in a good mood too judging by how playful you were being, stealing bits from his plate with a grin and teasingly nudging his shoulder with yours. If it had been anyone else, Max would have protested a little but there was not much he would get angry at you for so he let it slide, stealing something back for good measure. 

He could have completely forgotten about the walk on the beach he had promised if you hadn’t rushed to get ready as soon as you had finished eating. He followed you with a laugh, trying not to blush at the sight of you in a pretty sundress with your hair falling down your shoulders. You looked radiant with joy and it suited you all too well. Max was glad his actions made you feel this way. In fact, he wasn’t just glad, no. Max was proud to be able to make you happy in a way no one else did because if at first he hadn’t thought himself capable of fully giving you the love he thought you deserved, he now knew that you wanted whatever he was willing and capable of giving you. 

You were more than content with the amount of love you received from your boyfriend and you made sure to make it known and to return the attention because despite his tough exterior, you had been around the Dutchman for long enough to know that there was nothing that touched him more than being loved openly and freely, without conditions. 

The car ride to the beach was spent in comfortable silence, Max’s hand on your thigh as you looked out the window, feeling the wind caress your face. Max tried to steal a few glances your way while he drove but his eyes never stayed long. He was way too careful when he was the one responsible for your well-being. You had tried teasing him about it to make him relax but he was adamant that as your boyfriend, he had to make sure you were as safe as possible. 

You couldn’t really argue with that so you let him be, knowing that as soon as he’d be done driving, you’d be able to play around again. So the moment the car was finally parked, you were bolting out the door, screaming that the last one in the water would be a terrible loser. It didn’t take long for Max’s brain to compute but by the time he started running, you already had a good lead.

However, you hadn’t considered the fact your boyfriend was a literal athlete and that his cardio was considerably better than yours. Before you could even reach the water, Max had catched up to you and effortlessly picked you up, still going towards the sea with a grin on his face. 

-“ Please Max, put me down. Don’t throw me in.” you screeched as he kept jogging lightly

-“ You should have thought about that when you cheated, you little minx.” Max responded, poking your side with his finger as you laughed 

-“ But I had to, otherwise I had no chance of winning. You’re too quick for me, Mr. World Champion” 

-“ Flattery won’t get you anywhere now, schatje. It’s too late”. Max smirked before dropping you in the water, jumping right behind you as you swam further away, your boyfriend close behind

-“ I hate you so much.” you lied, wrapping your arms around his neck, trying your best to swim at the same time before Max wrapped your legs around his waist, bringing you even closer

-“ For the record, I might have let you win if you hadn’t cheated or made me watch you undress and run at the same time.” the Dutchman smiled, pecking your lips 

-“ Who said I lost ?” 

-“ You were the first one in the water, baby. That makes you the loser of your own game.” 

-“ Maybe it was my plan all along…”

-“ y/n, you’re the sorest loser I know. There’s no way you’d plan to lose.”

-“ Well, I don’t care. I’m in your arms right now and we’re at this beautiful empty beach. I intend to make the most of this situation I definitely planned for and kiss you until you get sick of it.”

-“ Sure, whatever helps you sleep at night.” Max chuckled, his whole face lighting up “ We’re going to be here for a while then because I don’t think I could ever get tired of kissing you.”  

-“ Alright then, the first one to stop is a terrible loser.” you smiled with a toothy grin

-“ Schat… Are you sure you can handle another loss today ?” 

-“ Bring it on, lover boy. Less talking, more kissing.”

-“ You don’t have to ask me twice.” he mumbled before pressing his lips against yours, brushing your wet hair away from your face

Maybe you lost the first game but when a family arrived at the beach and their little boy somehow recognised your boyfriend from afar and practically screamed that Max Verstappen was here, Max had to let you go. He wasn’t a fan of PDA, even less when it was around fans but in that moment, he wished he was just to erase the smug grin on your face when he lost the stupid challenge you had set. 

Before heading over to see the boy, Max made sure to peck your lips. He bit your lower lip slightly, not missing the way your face flushed when he did before asking for a rematch when you were back home. You already loved how the day had started but now you were sure that the rest of it would be just as good, if not better. This was just another thing to add to the list of why being home together was your favourite place to be.

[mentally-in-northern-italy]

how did it end? — e.r.

Pairing: Evan Rosier x fem!reader

Summary: Estranged after graduating from Hogwarts, you haven't seen Evan in years when he finally elects to find you again — but his timing isn’t quite right. It never really is.

Word Count: 2.2K

A/N: Do I have 56789 assignments due over the next week? Yes. Did I still choose to finish this year-old drabble up? Also yes. Is it still a drabble? Not really. Not sure if people read for Evan, but here is the drabble that was promised a while ago. Reader and Evan's relationship at Hogwarts is open to interpretation. I really hope I can get my Cedric fic out bc it's rotting in my WIPs.

—

It was tolerable, you suppose, but only just. 

The stench of booze mingled with sweat far too often, and the air carried a perpetual weight to it that was hard to ignore. The warmth was nice, yes, but the heat frequently bordered on oppressive on autumn nights such as this one, when the pub was full of bearded wizards and graying witches, boisterous and loud. 

Working the bar at the Leaky Cauldron, you had long deigned, was a wholly mindless pursuit, though, and for this, you were glad. At this time of night, no one cared enough to engage in small talk, much too drunk for anything civil. Plus, most were regulars, with orders plainly memorized and simple, satiated often with a glass of Firewhiskey or a Butterbeer and at times, an easy—

“One cup of tea, please.”

The sentence carries a lilt much too familiar, playful and teasing, an amused smile concealed somewhere in between and the request just as odd. You don’t have to look up to know who it is, and he can tell. He revels in it, his undeterred smugness radiating off of him and spilling over the counter he’s currently leaning against. 

“This is a pub, Rosier, if you haven’t already noticed.” You don’t look up, unwilling to give him the satisfaction. Though, you can’t do much to hide the slight quiver of your hand as you pour out some Firewhiskey and his small, exhaling laugh tells you he has taken note of it immediately, as subtle as it may have been.  

“I have noticed actually,” you can feel his eyes linger on your hands before darting to your face. “Unfortunately.” He adds, with a furrow in his eyebrows and a slight grimace as he looks around the pub with poorly concealed distaste. 

It’s much too late now – your peripherals have betrayed you – and your self-control has long since run dry. You catch his gaze as it settles back on you.  

The first thing you take note of is how different he looks since you saw him last — the blonde hair has lost a fraction of its luster, though still gorgeous, and his eyes have circles beneath them, telling of his exhaustion he does well to hide otherwise. His shirt is unironed, though tucked into his trousers neatly, and his jacket is thrown haphazardly over his shoulder. It’s oxymoronic in the most infuriating way possible and so Evan.

His grin, you notice with weary eyes though, remains the same, unwavering: blinding, almost to a fault, its shine reflected in his eyes as he takes you in. It’s a feeling long-forgotten, to be looked at this way by him. 

“You’re still as pretentious as ever, I see,” you say with a raise of your eyebrows. “Did you miss high tea this evening with your elitist friends? Or have they finally come to their senses and declared your company entirely dreadful?”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, as if lost in thought, his eyes drinking you in slowly. “Oh, how I missed that sharp tongue of yours.” 

Your face grows hot at the implication. “You’re still just as insufferable.” 

He only grins as he leans forward, eyes sincere but mouth plainly amused. “And you're still just as beautiful.” 

You ignore the praise with a pointed determination he doesn’t quite like. He opens his mouth to say something again when a loud cheer erupts in the background and the simultaneous turn of heads is almost automatic, identical grimaces on both of your faces. An old wizard has fallen onto his arse in the most untoward manner in his drunken stupor. You blink as if it’s the tamest thing to have happened tonight and Evan shakes his head in what can only be described as disbelief. 

“Charming place you’ve got here,” he notes, tone thick with sarcasm and a hint of condescension that you’ve come to expect from him. You can see his arms resting on the counter now, as he sits, his jacket thrown somewhere behind him. The white fabric is rich but revealing as the warm glow of the overhead light shines on the skin underneath. You divert your gaze.

“Isn’t it?”

“Though it’d be infinitely more so if you could, indeed, fix me a cup of tea, love.”

You don’t spare him another glance as you uselessly dry off a cup. “I’m sure your house elves will do well to put aside their contempt for you for a few minutes and fix you a cup or two, if you were to ask nicely enough, love.”

“I prefer asking pretty barkeeps for my cups of tea, thank you very much.” 

“And I prefer denying such requests.” 

He goes quiet finally, his ring-clad fingers drumming on the counter as he sits. He wears an infuriatingly perfect smile still – you don’t think he has stopped smiling since he’d stepped foot into the pub – and his eyes are holding yours, as if in silent challenge. After a moment, he speaks again.

“Edmund!” He calls to the other barkeep, covering the far end of the counter. He knows his name. You try to act unsurprised, though you’re anything but. “A cup of tea, please?” 

“Coming up, Rosier!” 

He turns back to you, smirk smug and victorious. You grip your washcloth tighter. 

“You’ve been here before,” you remark plainly. 

“Very perceptive.” He rests his face on his hand, propped up on the counter and smiles wryly.

“And yet, you’re back,” you mock, a mirthless hint of a smile on your face. “You must’ve found the establishment thoroughly enriching.” 

He pretends to be deep in thought. “Well, I could never quite find what I’d been looking for all the times previous.” 

“Cups of tea? Yes, I’m sure they’re hard to find in London.” 

“Pretty barkeeps, actually. You don’t work many shifts here.” 

You scoff, though your cheeks burn at the astute observation. “Edmund isn’t pretty enough for you?” 

“Oh, he is,” His gaze only shifts when a cup of tea floats to him and he winks at Edmund in thanks. What an obnoxious gesture, you think. “But he’s not nearly as difficult.” 

“And you prefer them to be difficult?” 

“I prefer them to be you.” His sincerity catches you off guard, unsure eyes snapping to him at once. He hides his amusement in the cup as he sips slowly. “So yes, excruciatingly difficult.” 

You hum, as if in agreement. The poorly lit interior of the pub doesn’t possess the capability to dull the shine of his eyes, or conceal his handsome – albeit tired – face, as much you would’ve liked it to. There’s a new scar, you notice, that he’s acquired just above his lip and you have to bite your tongue to stop yourself from asking useless questions you would regret verbalizing later. 

“You look well,” his eyes follow you as you work, warm and curious. You don’t hate the feeling as much as you should and you try not to bask in the feeling – as short-lived as it may be.

You huff, now blatantly aware of the stains on your work blouse, your unkempt hair that is a stark contrast to his perfect locks. “I wish I could say the same for you.” Even posed as a jest, the statement sounds ridiculous uttered to someone like Evan. 

He decides to indulge you. “No? Less handsome than before?” 

“There wasn’t much to start with, so I must evaluate accordingly.”

A chuckle that feels too much like a reward. “Cruel, as ever.”

“Honest, more like.”

“I’m something of a masochist, I suppose,” he stretches, leisurely and cat-like. “I quite missed your jabs in Paris.” It’s a plain-enough admission. He missed your jabs, not you. You remind yourself of that over and over. He’s clamant in that way, lazes in attention from wherever he can get it. You’re not special. You never were.

Paris, though. You savor the bit of detail he has provided you on his endeavors, something he has otherwise elected to keep quite secret ever since graduation. There isn’t much you know about him anymore – who he spends his time with, what he’s up to. Though, there are rumors. It’s a time of war, after all, and he’s a Rosier.

“I’m sure you didn’t miss them for long. I hear the French are revered for their candor. Did they also call you a bumbling idiot every chance they got?” 

He traces the rim of his teacup slowly, as if he’s coyly willing you to take note of the movement. You oblige involuntarily. He’s satisfied with the quick flicker of your eyes enough to give you a smirk. “Not quite. ‘Devilishly handsome’ were the exact words used, I believe.”

An amused exhale from your lips. “Your mother may be French, Rosier, but she doesn’t count.” 

He laughs and its sound hangs in the air around you in a way that makes it hard to breathe. “You know, I’m not sure you’re very good at the ‘customer service’ bit. Are you this rude to all your customers?”

“Just the unwelcome ones.”

He hums. “You’d quite like Paris, I think.” He changes the subject with all the nonchalance of flipping a page of a book you haven’t quite finished reading but have become bored of nonetheless. You note the redirection with interest. 

“What were you up to in Paris?” You oblige as your curiosity trumps your ego. You’re aware of the staunchness of the question, of the sudden heaviness that now hangs around the two of you in the pub.

“Familial obligations, and the like.” Automatic, much too rehearsed for your liking, but you can tell it’s true, at least in part. He has a tendency to look away when he lies and so far, his eyes have been set stiflingly steady – on you. He rubs his forearm absent-mindedly. “I didn’t want to come back.”

You bite back a bitter laugh. “Why did you?”

He looks down into his cup. “The tea isn’t the same.” 

“I’m sure.”

“And I searched far and wide, believe me.”

“A valiant effort.” You scrub the grimy countertops absent-mindedly. 

“Oh, I’m anything but.” He sips his tea again. Offhandedly, he adds, “If I had been more brave, perhaps I would’ve stopped your engagement sooner.”

Your eyes snap to him at once but he remains indifferent, glancing into his cup and reading the leaves as if he’s in Divination. You try to hide your surprise but you can’t do much to mask the break of your voice. “What– How did you–”

He finally meets your eyes with a smile that borders on bitter. “Congratulations, by the way,” he says slowly as if he’s letting the words mull in his mouth and turn sour. Another cheer erupts in the background, a stark contrast to the absence of a celebratory cadence in his own voice.

You breathe shakily. “Is that why you’re here then? To bend me to your many whims and tell me not to marry him?” The drumming of your heart is steady and disturbing.

“Would you like me to?”

Yes. “No.” 

“Why aren’t you wearing your ring?” He asks, as if the question had been lodged inside his throat the whole night and has finally broken free. You avert your gaze. He’d always had a knack for asking questions you couldn’t quite voice the answers to.

“I think you should go,” you breathe.

“Is this to spite me?”

“To spite you? Who do you —” Anger envelops you. Only he would assume that your marital arrangements were solely to spite him.

“Do you love him?” He presses, abandoning the feigned nonchalance and speaking with an urgency that unsettles you.

“Leave.”

“Do you?”

A pause you’re not sure how to fill. “What does it matter?” 

His eyes search yours and seem to find the very thing you’ve worked so hard to conceal. His gaze softens. “Don’t marry him.”

The soft admonition knocks the air out of your lungs. You only gape at him, hurt and angry at his audacity. “How dare you?”

He stays still, unspeaking and unmoving, as if he, himself, knows he has stepped over a line. He purses his lips to stop himself from saying anything else. Pushing the empty tea cup aside, he stands and dons his coat. “I’m going to go,” he says quietly. 

You grit your teeth further. You should’ve expected this by now. Of course, he was going to leave after completely derailing your life. “What–”

“I’ve said what I needed to say,” he speaks again, shoving his hands into his pockets like a petulant child. “Don’t marry him.” He repeats, expression serious and solemn for the first time tonight.

You open your mouth to reprimand him but he interrupts you.

“Please,” he exhales and his plea is almost too quiet to hear amidst the bar chatter. But you hear it all the same and something twists in your chest at the uncharacteristic ask. He turns to go before you can say anything else. You can only watch him leave, gripping the counter until your knuckles turn white.

Only after he leaves the pub do you see a napkin perched on the counter, where he sat just moments ago. 

9568 Highfield Road, London, W69 1QB

In the case that you change your mind.

Love, E.

The napkin crumples in your hand with unprecedented force.

You deliberate.

With a huff, you shove it in your pocket.

[apples4wce]

right chord. ☆ myg

first of all i dedicate this oneshot to @kithtaehyung who reminded me of this wip in this ask and inspired me to finish it up so tysm ryen 💜

cross-posted to ao3 here

tags: yoongi x gender-neutral reader, fluff, set in the genius lab, i was trying to channel all the cozy energy for this fic and i hope it shows

word count: 1.1k

“Alright, now put your ring finger on this string.” Yoongi gently directs your fingers to the right places.

You strum the note a bit harsh and the sound comes out strange. Yoongi flinches, but doesn’t raise his voice. “Maybe try strumming it a bit softer.”

When you texted him saying you were on your way to his studio with some food, you didn’t expect him to ask you to stay.

But here you are, two hours later, curled up in a chair sitting next to him, with his favorite guitar in your hands, learning chords from songs he’s still working on, months after having come up with their melodies.

He takes his time when he writes music. You can tell he respects and appreciates his craft. It’s partly why you wanted to learn the guitar.

Also, you wanted an excuse to see him more.

“Yeah, sorry about that. Okay. Softer.”

It’s quite dim in the studio, the only real bright light coming from his computer, that’s currently playing the screensaver animation. The whirr of the computers serves as ambient sound as you try strumming again, with less force this time.

“You got it. Do you want to try a few more chords?”

You nod rapidly. “Yes, please. Only if you want me to stay longer, though. I’m not the fastest learner.”

“I wouldn’t have asked you if I wanted you to leave. Besides, no matter what speed you progress at, you’re still progressing. Take as much time to learn as you want.”

You can hear the rain start to patter outside while Yoongi teaches you some more chords. Your eyes dart from the neck of the guitar, making sure your fingers are on the right frets, to the body of the guitar, where your other hand waits to strum all the strings.

“You’re getting a lot quicker with your chord transitions, maybe I’ll have you do the lead guitar on my next album.”

You stare at him with wide eyes. He can almost see the big cartoon tears welling at the corners of your eyes. “I’m not ready yet!”

“I was just kidding, love. I wouldn’t put that much stress on you all of a sudden. That’s why I have my guitarist.” He chuckles, his hand rubbing slow circles on your kneecap.

You try a chord progression you heard him strum last night, so focused on getting your fingers on the right strings that you don’t notice Yoongi smiling at your effort.

It’s the little moments like these that he cherishes the most, quiet times spent together.

“Did I do it right? I think I got it right.”

He hums, gazing fondly at you. “You remember chords well.”

Your cheeks warm at the compliment. “Thanks. I try my best.”

You feel content sitting with him tonight. It’s a nice contrast to the busy lives you both lead.

Then Yoongi’s phone buzzes. He picks it up and swipes the notification away.

“Is everything alright?”

He nods. “Yeah, it’s just work. I have some songs to finish for my album and one of the guys on the production team just sent me a little melody.”

“Cool,” you grin, “are you allowed to share details about the album, or… do I have to wait for the release date like everyone else?”

“Uhh…” he scratches his head, clicking through files on his computer at an insanely rapid pace. “Well, I could show you this song. It’s almost done, there’s just a few little things I need to perfect on it.”

You sit up, intrigued, and watch as he clicks open a file. “What’s the song called?”

“It’s called AMYGDALA.”

The audio starts up, the guitar and melody smoothly melding into Yoongi’s verse. You listen attentively, eyes glued to the screen. Your head bops slightly to the beat while you process the lyrics, and when the final notes fade out and the last Save me out of here, please get me out of here echo into silence, you gasp. “Wow, that was- that was really good.”

“Yeah? You like the song?”

“It’s fantastic. It’s really… open. Deep. Vulnerable, in a sense. It’s- I really like it.”

Yoongi’s smile grows when you share your feelings on the melody and the lyrics. He appreciates all the nice things you have to say about his music, he always has.

You take his hand in yours and give it a gentle squeeze. “I’m happy that you’re happy, you know. It’s nice to see you like this. Sometimes, when you’d come home from the studio, you looked sad and angry, but you don’t look like that anymore. You look… satisfied, I guess. Like you’re free.”

“I am, in a way,” he squeezes your hand back, “I’ve said everything I needed to say. I used this persona to get all my rage out, but I don’t have that rage in me anymore. Now I can move on to another side of me.”

You both sit in silence for a moment, just enjoying each other’s presence, the feel of his warm hand holding yours tightly, the sound of the computer fan whirring quietly and its dim light as it goes back into its screensaver animation, the smell of the lit vanilla candle on the desk.

“Did you want me to show you a sample from another song on the album?”

Your eyes widen. “You would?”

“Yeah. I think you’ll like this one. I wrote it and I thought of you.”

Yoongi opens another file. “This one comes before the pre-release single on the album. It’s called SDL.”

You listen attentively to the drum beat and the smooth synth, and when he presses pause, you give him a thumbs-up with your free hand, the one he isn’t currently holding. He hasn’t let go of your hand the entire time, and you doubt he will.

“I like it, it sounds a bit more romantic than your usual style. I just know when you add the lyrics it’s going to sound even better.”

“Thanks,” he smiles, sounding a little flustered.

You love showering him with praise, because his reactions are always silly. You recall the day you announced your feelings for him and he simply started yelling.

Also, he deserves every single compliment in the world.

He clicks at the screen for a bit, distracted, still holding your hand.

“Have I told you that you look really handsome with longer hair?”You watch with amusement as he avoids the statement entirely, his eyes darting to the wall.

“‘Cause you look really handsome with longer hair,” you continue with a playful grin.

He still doesn’t reply and instead squeezes your hand again.

“Alright, alright, I’ll stop,” you chuckle, “but you know I love you, right?”

“Yeah. Me too.”

by the way i was originally planning on posting this for yoongi's bday so this is my belated bday gift for my yoongi 🎉

[100vern]

the very last thing i decide | pjm

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then there’s you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is it, he thinks.

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

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

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

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

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

But you do.

And, inexplicably, Yoongi listens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m no one’s dog.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s just how it goes.

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

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

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

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

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

Someone else’s, of course.

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

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

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

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

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

But, god, he needs to know.

Needs answers.

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

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

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

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

Can’t you feel that?

He needs to know.

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

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

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

“What you said to Taehyung,” he answers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And there’s nothing gentle about the first time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Taunting him.

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

Until now.

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

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

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

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

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

Jimin is blond when Namjoon sends you to South America.

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

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

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

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

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

“Done. Anything else?”

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

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

“Tell him he’s a bitch, then.”

“He’ll kill me if I say that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It comes out more like a plea.

—

You’re good at your job.

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

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

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

Until now.

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

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

Would Namjoon let you go if you asked?

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

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

Doesn’t matter.

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

No one spares you a second glance.

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

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

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

It’s empty.

Of course it is.

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

You know who it is, you fucking dickhead.

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

Sorry.

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

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

What kind of life is this?

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

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

It’s time for Namjoon to let you go.

—

Something is wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The second time is nothing like the first.

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

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

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

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

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

Jimin mouths at you until you forget.

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

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

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

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

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

Jimin’s hair is pink when—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re being followed.”

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

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

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

“Where’s Jimin?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You know it’s a liability.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

You are wholly unprepared for the sight that greets you.

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

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

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

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

Eyes that now contain nothing.

“Jimin, what the fuck happened?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Namjoon should’ve let you go.

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

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

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

“Destruction.”

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

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

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

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

You watch him go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’ve gotten sloppy.”

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

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

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

“Who?” Jimin manages to choke out.

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

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

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

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

No one talks to Namjoon that way except you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Or what, Kim Taehyung?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is a waste of your fucking time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m—that’s not—knock it off.”

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

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

Jimin’s hair isn’t dyed at all.

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

i would love to hear your thoughts if you have any. &lt;3

[softlypaintedseafoam]

if gods exist, they made you perfect

synopsis. not everyone is going to reach for ace's hand, but you always will.

pairing. portgas d. ace x f!reader

word count. 1.9k | masterlist

content warning. written with black reader in mind (but reader is ethnically ambiguous. anyone can read) written pre-relationship, childhood friends, ace novel spoilers (1st novel), mutual pining, hurt/comfort, light mentions of garp's stellar parenting skills, brief loss in ace’s ability to control his powers (reader receives a minor burn), written with this reader in mind

reblogs & interactions appreciated.

it's finally my spring break; i am FREE to work on my current wips! midterms are over and i turned in this essay i had due yesterday. i'm locking in TmT to finish fish song. but since i feel bad about the gap in between fics, i'm giving you guys an old fic of mine i'm fond of as filler although i did edit it! but, expect fish song to drop this week i'm excited to share it

“The Five Elders are gonna have the biggest bitch fit to ever fit,” with how Ace blinks up at you in surprise, he must have been really lost in his thoughts.

Where he sits on the Spadille is a far cry from the center of the ship, tucked away privately from all eyes. A stark contrast to where one would typically find him surrounded by all that compose the ranks of the crew. The sight makes your heart ache dully. You broaden your smile like a skilled actress in spite of that ache, cheerily plopping down right next to him. “I don’t think anyone’s ever turned down a Warlord position before. Can’t wait to see how your bounty goes up this time.”

Ace snorts lightly at your words, lips stretching into half of a grin, “yeah, they are not going to like that.”

“It definitely doesn’t help you kicked that vice admiral’s ass, either,” you recall the events of your final moments in Sabaody. A definitive mixed bag of high emotions and tension mixed in with the fun the archipelago provided.

It was a beautiful country, that much is easy to say.

Still it came with more than you were prepared to witness. It’s only luck there hadn’t happened to be any visiting Celestial Dragons coinciding with your temporary residency. Somehow you have the feeling that things would have surely been messier if their had been.

The stint with Vice Admiral Draw will be messy enough on its own.

“Garp’s gonna be so mad when he finds out,” Ace shudders at even your mention of his grandfather and you snicker. “What if he comes to find us on Fishman Island for one of his grand lectures?”

“Don’t even joke like that,” the back of his orange hat thumps against the side of the Spadille with his groan of horror. “I can feel his Fists of Love right now.”

You feel the phantom pain yourself.

If you’re both lucky, the semi-retired marine is busy visiting Luffy on Dawn Island and he won't hear of the incident until long after you've fled the scene. Maybe it’s not that lucky though. It isn’t the first time the thought the man is even harsher on Luffy now that Ace has gone ahead and sworn his life to piracy surfaces. It’s a thought you push away as quickly as you have it. Luffy is a strong kid, he’s fine.

He has a spirit that is unbreakable.

“That Draw guy deserved to get his ass beat anyway.” There is no disagreement to be had with your statement, Ace murmuring something similar. He’s a million miles away from where you are, however, miraculously sat on a ship sailing beneath the waves. You think of fiery hair and passionate amber eyes.

You remember how those same eyes were wide with horror from the revelation Draw gave her.

The tears in her eyes as she was left behind, refusing to board the Spadille in spite of the hand stretched out to catch her.

“Isuka’ll be fine,” you say suddenly, cursing your inability to ease into the topic gently. Ace doesn't give much of a reaction at your clumsy transition. “She’s strong and she was on our ass almost immediately after we got to the Grand Line. She’ll be back to chasing us soon enough.”

Hopefully.

It isn’t something you can say with resolute faith.

The ensign’s sense of reality itself had been shattered in its entirety. Being betrayed by the one you believed to be your savior is nothing easy to overcome. Still you choose to believe a woman as impassioned as the naval officer will. You won’t pretend to know where she’ll head next, however.

Perhaps she’ll embark on a path that leads her back to the marines. Or maybe she’ll become a bounty hunter. Maybe she’ll find a new place to call home and settle down there. But we’ll see her again, some day. I really hope we do.

Wherever her journey takes her, you can only hope it is a path with no regrets.

“It would have been weird having a bounty hunter on the ship, anyway,” you continue in your attempt to soothe your friend. Your best friend. There is irony in how Ace became your better in terms of comforting those around you when he had been the most argumentative and unfriendly between you. It's a night and day change in personality. “That sounds like something Luffy would do.”

At the mention of his little brother's name, Ace’s lips quirk into something more real. “Yeah, that kid would invite just about anyone on his crew, bounty hunters included.”

You chuckle trying to visualize what the young boy’s recruitment process will be. Somehow, you doubt his prospective crewmates will have much say in the matter. “Knowing Luffy, they’ll probably want to join anyway though. He’s convincing like that.”

“Yeah,” Ace only falls deeper into his thoughts. The silence that follows is even more glum than the depths. Damn it, you curse yourself.

You’ve never been like Makino, you recall the kind-hearted woman from your youth. She has always been gentle; dove-like in her approach when it came to matters of the heart. Knew exactly the words someone needed to hear and knew exactly how to say it in a way that didn’t feel intrusive to the recipient.

That has certainly never been you. If anything, you’re more akin to Dadan and her rough expressions of affection.

You hold back a sigh, closing your eyes.

“Alright, I guess this is how we’re doing this,” you open your eyes, resolute in what you plan to do next. Shuffling, you face your friend who makes a sound of surprise at your movement. You aren’t a delicate person nor are you someone with the ability to handle matters of the heart with the delicacy it deserves. It’s best to handle it clumsily, the only way you know how. “Ace, the stuff with Isukaー that wasn’t your fault. And it isn’t on you that she didn’t want to come with us.”

Isuka liked Ace.

It’s impossible not to like him.

Even when he was a brat with more anger at the world than he knew what to do with, you liked him. Had thought he was the coolest person you’d ever met in your short 10 years of living and wanted him to like you back. You like him even now.

Everyone in the crew joined because they liked Ace the moment they met him. He’s darling in how effortless he makes it.

Even a marine as firm in her beliefs as Isuka couldn’t let prejudice cloud her judgement when it came to Portgas D. Ace. Begrudging as it may have been on the Nailer's end, there has always been a mutual admiration for each other in spite of the opposing occupations.

You’re like the sun, Ace! Equal parts the harsh rays of summer and the gentle beams of early spring. He’s whichever the moment calls for. A warmth everyone wants to experience if they’re lucky enough to come across it. The gravitational pull of the universe that keeps the planets in the sun’s orbit. You’re amazing!

“I don’t know what the hell that girl needs,” rough as the sentence is, your voice is soft. “But whatever it is, she wasn’t going to find it with us. That’s why she didn’t come.”

Ace opens his mouth but you don’t give him the chance to argue or sweep your concerns away.

“I’m not gonna sit here and lie to your face and say that this won’t happen again,” it’s an ugly truth. One Ace became aware of long before you met him. Regardless, as much as you hate it, you know it would be unfair to lie to him. “Because it probably will. There’s always going to be people who, no matter how hard you reach for them, they aren’t going to reach back. And you can’t do jack about it. Hell, sometimes you can’t even do jill. But,”

Ace’s brow furrows in time with your words and your heart wrenches. “But,” you start once more, the back of your fingers brushing against his wrist. “for every person that won’t, there’s going to be someone that does.” You cup one of Ace’s hands in both of yours with all the care one would give glass.

When did these hands get so much bigger than your own?

Still, you lips curl upwards in your nostalgia, the warmth that radiates from him remains the same. You squeeze gently, almost afraid that if your touch is too hard, he’ll break.

“And I know for a fact there are a lot of people who are always going to want to hold your hands. Even if the shit does turn into fire,” you chuckle at your quick addendum and despite himself, Ace does too. You’ve always loved hearing him laugh, it’s even better when you’re the cause. “The crew. Dadan. Magra. Dogra. Luffy,” you squeeze again, your thumb caressing the back of his hand. “Me. We love these hands, they’re yours.”

There’s a spark of something in Ace’s eyes you can’t quite place, his cheeks are a rosy hue even in the dark of the ocean and it’s unexpectedly hard to look him in the eye for some reason. You laugh breathlessly, sheepish. Without meaning to, your grip tightens around his hand. It’s warm.

Really warm.

Shit, it’s actually getting kinda hot ain’t it?

You see the flicker of orange and your and Ace’s expressions are well-matched in panic as you realize the source. Sure enough, your hands were engulfed flames.

“Shit-” Ace swears but despite instinct dictating you back away from the flames, you find yourself holding on to staunchly. He swears again as you fight against Ace’s attempt to pull away from you as the flames die down. He calls your name frantically, “let go!”

“No way, what did I just say?!” Oh god this hurts like hell! “I don’t care if it’s fire, I’m not letting go!”

You hiss through your teeth, reeling yourself in with a breath but the flames are extinguished as quickly as they erupted. “Wasn’t exactly expecting to prove my point so fast but,” there’s another attempt on Ace’s part to pull away from you again but you only hold his hand tighter. You can ignore the sting of your hands but you can’t ignore the way Ace’s eyebrows knit together. You can’t ignore how he looks like he wants to cry either. “See,” you laugh breathlessly. “I love these hands, there’s no way I’m never gonna hold them.

Dark eyes, wide, look between you and your face and you squeeze his hand again. The sting of your palms is prevalent but this pain is fine. Pain is merely proof that you are alive in this moment; and in this moment there is nowhere else you want to be.

There’s nothing more that needs to be said between you, you believe. Facing him, you lean against the wood as you hold Ace’s hand firmly between your own. With the hand he has available, Ace slides his hat down to hide whatever expression he’s making.

You close your eyes with a sigh and pretend you don’t hear the sound of hiccupping. You don’t feel the way his hand trembles either.

You squeeze Ace’s hand and he squeezes back.

Your hands sting something sweet.

[dollsorwhatever]

More Cleo

Some more Cleo updates since my last post about her on here! I mostly post on twitter nowadays but I like to keep this account somewhat up to date, especially since I can be more long-winded here lol "Casual" Cleo (rerooted Ghoul Spirit Cleo) is finally finished! She's been mostly finished for a month or so but I dragged my feet doing the hair rings lol.

They're inspired by a set of wig rings found in the tomb of Sithathoriunet (Middle Kingdom, 12th Dynasty), shown here at The Met and here in an earlier Met exhibit, displayed on reconstruction wigs.

I couldn't find any metal beads in the right sizes or color (and I wanted them to be the same shade of gold as her accessories) so I made these myself with a handful of coffee stirrers that I painted and cut into little rings lol Other than the hair rings, she's been given a pair of shoes since my last post (Goreganizer Cleo's shoes with the Skullettes dremeled off and painted), a new choker that I made by cutting MB Cleo's ponytail holder into separate pieces, sanding off a few parts and reassembling it (the cartouche on it actually spells her name btw!), a Gloom and Bloom Cleo purse that I painted to match her shoes and a new clasp on her kilt made with a G1 Cleo vanity bracelet. Also, it was pointed out to me yesterday that the hieroglyphs on this top (from G1 I Heart Fashion Cleo) spell out to say "oh my Ra" phonetically lol. A nice touch that I never noticed! And I also finished up this Cleo a while back but never posted her here lol

Her headdress is a heavily altered and repainted Monster Ball Cleo headdress; I just wanted the "core" of the headdress so I removed everything but the cow horns and sun disk with my dremel, then drilled a hole through the back and pinned it to her head lol. The bracelets are all g1 Nefera bracelets that I repainted (as well as Nefera's necklace) and her shoes are from Skulltimate Secrets Cleo but repainted to match the rest of her accessories, and the hair rings are repainted G1 sig/Howliday Cleo bracelets. The first two 'tiers' of hair are her original rooted hair, but the longest tier is an extension that I made and pinned to her head. My general idea is that this is something she'd wear for temple ceremonies or religious events, or as a model for portraiture and statuary that represents her as an embodiment of Hathor? Not sure! My SS2 Cleo custom got some small updates shortly after my last tumblr post about her, mostly just her new headdress and new fishnets that actually fit her lol

And finally a group shot of my current Cleo lineup:

Skulltimate Secrets Cleo (far left) and Goreganizer Cleo (second to the right) are still WIP but they look good enough to be part of the shot! I also have a partially rerooted Monster Ball Cleo waiting for a new fit too, but there's no room on this display for her and she's barely dressed anyway lol

[monbons]

WIP Wednesday

Thanks for the tags @artsyunderstudy, @bookishbroadwayandblind, and @bachusekart. It was lovely to get your updates today.

Honestly, I probably shouldn't be posting because I have so little to show for my efforts recently, but I thought perhaps putting out "please cheer me on" vibes into the universe would help motivate me.

STITCHES After what I think is almost three weeks now, I have finally (mostly) finished tooth-fairy Baz, and he is lovely. I just need to add some earrings when they arrive in the mail and then stitch his head on.

I've also cut out all the pieces I need for this Baz's Simon, but I haven't started sewing because my hands have been giving me trouble. So, he's just on hold until it doesn't feel like I'm being stabbed in the wrist whenever I pick up a needle and thread.

SENTENCES In fic news, I have two WIPS currently. The first is a very messy friends to lovers AU with cheerleader Simon and soccer player Baz. My Simons tend to be lovely and sweet and my Bazs are always angsty vampires. Neither is true in this fic, and it's been harder to make progress than I expected as a result. But, here are some sentences anyway, Baz POV talking to Dev.

“Seriously, what did you see?” I strain to peer around him, but nothing seems out of the ordinary. Agatha and Penny are standing next to a couple of milk crates filled with purple and white cheer poms. Trixie is wrestling with the portable speaker—a chunky black cube the squad rolls with them everywhere. Keris has a clipboard and she seems to be taking attendance amidst all the girls I don’t recognize. Then, my eyes finally spot the one anomaly. The one person wildly out of place. Amidst the sea of skirts is a singular boy. A boy with bronze curls and blue eyes and billions of freckles. More freckles than he had the last time I saw him. An impossible number of freckles.

My second WIP, a Dark Rise AU-ish thing, is in the colorful post-its planning stage still. I have a very rough outline of the main plot, but there is an incredible amount of backstory to reveal and I am currently trying to figure out where and how to do so. I think I may need dual timelines and several POVs I've never written before, including the CO adults. Find some Malcolm below.

MALCOLM I wish you could see him, Natasha. Your son. He is bold and brilliant. Top of his class. A fine magician.  The best of you. The best of me.  I tried to protect him. To hide him in plain sight.  I taught him to be cautious. Stoic. Discreet.  I insisted he never reveal the inner workings of his heart. I provided a template for him—a guide he could follow—with my own.  One cannot be vulnerable when one remains indecipherable, Basil. Be unreadable.  Unknowable. Or be undone. He is a magnificent student, Natasha. The very best. He didn’t just learn; he excelled. He kept everyone at arm’s length. (Including me.)  I tried, Nat. I tried.  To keep him healthy. To keep him safe. I failed all the same.

(If you have read C.S. Pacat's Dark Rise series and the unicorn horn scene has been branded into your brain the way it was in mine, then please know that this fic is me attempting an AU just for that scene. The brain rot is SO real.)

Anyway, head pats are appreciated. Hellos and high-fives.

@alexalexinii, @argumentativeantitheticalg, @aristocratic-otter, @arthurkko, @artsyunderstudy

@best--dress, @blackberrysummerblog, @brilla-brilla-estrellita, @bookish-bogwitch,

@confused-bi-queer, @cutestkilla, @drowninginships, @emeryhall, @facewithoutheart

@harrie-leithillustration, @hushed-chorus, @iamamythologicalcreature, @ic3que3n, @ileadacharmedlife

@katatsumuli, @larkral, @letraspal, @martsonmars, @messofthejess

@mooncello, @noblecorgi, @orange-peony, @prettygoododds, @raenestee

@rbkzz, @rimeswithpurple, @roomwithanopenfire, @run-for-chamo-miles, @shrekgogurt

@skeedelvee, @stitchyqueer, @supercutedinosaurs, @talentpiper11, @technetiumai

@the-beard-of-edward-teach, @twinkle-twinkle-up-above, @theimpossibledemon, @thewholelemon, @valeffelees

@whatevertheweather, @you-remind-me-of-the-babe, @youarenevertooold

[lunaatthezoo]

A really long WIP whatever

Elain and Azriel play a cheeky little card/truth-telling game together in the current chapter I'm writing (post-strawberry shortcake, pre-Sidra walk)-

“It’s your turn,” Nuala said, shaking Elain from her thoughts. She cleared her throat. 

“Right,” she said with feigned brightness. She drew a card and sighed. Two questions.

Cerridwen let a serpentine smile spread on her face. “First question,” she stated aggressively. “What were you thinking about just now?” 

Elain blew out an exasperated breath. “Really?” She asked incredulously. 

Cerridwen only raised her eyebrows and crossed her arms, waiting. 

They always knew when she was lying. Elain did not want to lose this game. She lowered her brows and rose to the challenge. 

“I was thinking about my friendship with Azriel.” 

Nuala and Cerridwen exchanged an annoyingly meaningful look. Elain rolled her eyes but could feel her face burning in embarrassment. 

Nuala opened her mouth to say something that would undoubtedly make Elain cringe, when she was stopped by a familiar clearing of the throat. 

Elain’s heart nearly fell out of her ass. She squealed- squealed- and jumped to her feet, a hand flying to her chest as she swung her head to the sound.

Fucking Azriel was sitting, looking comfortable as ever, on a chaise in the corner of the sitting room, leafing through a stack of letters. 

He looked perfectly at ease, his wings in a relaxed position, his ankles crossed, shadows resting along his neck. 

Elain was still gasping for breath. “How long have you been sitting there?!” She whisper-screamed at him. 

The corners of Azriel’s mouth twitched but he didn’t look up from his stack of letters. “Long enough to know exactly how your first kiss went,” he answered coolly. 

Elain’s face went up in flames anew. That had been at least forty-five minutes ago. 

Nuala and Cerridwen seemed completely unsurprised and unconcerned that he had been sitting there for so long listening to them.

“What-” Elain began sputtering. “How did- why-” Her blush deepened to the color of rubies as a stupid, smug smile slid across Azriel’s face.

He finally looked up at her and her heart stuttered at his beautiful eyes meeting hers. Like a sunlit dappled forest in autumn. 

“You three were having so much fun. I didn’t want to interrupt.” 

Elain sighed in exasperation again and whipped her head to the twins. “Did you know he was sitting there?!”

Cerridwen raised an eyebrow. “Of course,” she answered nonchalantly. “He walked right in and sat down.” 

Nuala only shrugged in agreement. Elain gaped and turned back to Azriel. She could have died of embarrassment. 

“Why-” she said, crossing the room towards him. “Are you-” she snatched the pile of letters from Azriel’s hands- “so quiet,” she seethed, and smacked him on the arm with the stack of letters. 

Azriel chuckled and just tucked his hands behind his head in an infuriatingly arrogant male gesture. 

“I believe you had another question to answer,” was his only response, nodding towards Elain’s forgotten cards on the coffee table. 

Elain frowned at him and crossed her arms. “I’m not just going to keep playing in front of you!” She exclaimed. “This was a private game. Others were not meant to hear our answers.”

Nuala and Cerridwen were being completely unhelpful, just sitting and casually watching the conversation unfold. 

Azriel raised an eyebrow. “You’re playing in the middle of the sitting room.”

Elain narrowed her eyes at him. Dammit. He had a point.

Nuala and Cerridwen were whispering behind her now. Elain whipped her head to them. Nuala was shaking her head about something but Cerridwen punched her arm lightly and then stood.

“We need to go to town to get supplies for the kitchen,” she announced, as if they hadn’t just been whispering the plan to each other two seconds ago. 

Nuala sighed and stood as well, giving Elain an apologetic shrug. “Perhaps the Spymaster can finish off the game with you,” she muttered, and then the sisters linked arms and scurried from the room. The wretches.

Azriel chuckled once more and slid off the chaise as Elain huffed in exasperation. He plucked his stack of letters from Elain’s hand and playfully swatted her on the nose with them before dropping them onto the low table beside the chaise.

He said nothing as he strode to the liquor cabinet and poured a dram of whiskey into two short tumblers. Elain just watched him, still flustered and reeling about the fact that he had been sitting there listening to them play for so long without her noticing. 

Azriel carried both tumblers to where the three females had been sitting and gracefully lowered himself to the floor beside the coffee table. He raised his eyebrows at Elain and held out a glass for her expectantly. 

[jules-writes-stories]

The Night Court Lounge | Tribeca, NYC

I forgot to post my WIP...Thursday? | Azriel x Eris AU |

“Perhaps I might have resisted a great temptation, but the little ones would have pulled me down” ―The House of Mirth

There was nothing like spotting one’s mother at a BDSM club. 

The ink was still wet on his parents’ divorce papers, but there she was for all to see, sprawled across Helion’s lap. After all, the Vanserras could always be counted on to feed the tabloids and gossip columns. 

Eris planned to finish his whiskey and make a discrete exit. But then, his heart leapt into his throat and his dick hardened at first sight. 

He’d been expecting Thesan in his usual get up. Eris occasionally came to The Night Court to support his ex. The man could still turn him on like no one else. They’d never been good at long-term relationships, but they could be each other’s confidantes, a soft place to fuck and forget for a spell. 

Eris had hoped to get that from his ex tonight, and was taken aback when something, someone, completely different entered the main stage. 

The man looked younger and Thesan’s lithe body and smooth brown skin was replaced by a lighter, golden tone, covered in scrolling Arabic across a sleek muscled chest. In place of white feathers were black leather bat wings. 

Eris found the whole thing to be absurd and had teased Thesan about it incessantly. But this man, his broad tattooed shoulders, the planes of his abs below the leather harness, those wings did something to him. He needed to go to fucking sleep or get laid.

Black lined eyes like topaz gazed out at the crowd. Eris wanted to smell those black curls, to test their silk between his fingers. He was being absurd. 

The beautiful man got to his knees in the most submissive prone position in the cage, and Eris watched him lean, like an overgrown house cat, into the auctioneer’s hand as she stroked those curls through iron bars. And fuck if it wasn’t the hottest thing he’d ever seen. This man was dangerous, even caged, and Eris wanted that creature purring between his legs. 

Then Helion made a spectacle of himself, announcing his intentions, and that sealed the deal. Eris would win. He hadn’t made the Wall Street Journal’s “30 Money Makers under 30” lists three years in a row for nothing. He was an apex predator in every boardroom, could dominate every corner of the market. But what made him dangerous was his discretion.

The Wall Street wolves of Beron’s generation were past their prime. They were showy hunters who howled at every win, too certain of their supremacy and too concerned with pack politics. Thanks to a twenty four hour news cycle and social media, the current global market was volatile, and one must be ready to strike silently and with sudden force. For Eris Vanserra was no wolf. He was a snake. 

He watched the kneeling figure, whose eyes traveled the room. Eris needed them on him. Look at me. See me. And almost as if the beautiful, dark creature read his thoughts, his head turned and hazel locked with his own. Fuck. Eris watched those gorgeous eyes travel along his face, lingering on his mouth. He smirked. Then, lower, down to his shoulders, to his chest, and lingered, once more, on his fingers. Eris moved them, ever so slowly, along the wet rim of his cocktail glass. 

As those glittering eyes followed them, Eris swore he saw the man’s pupils blow out further. This beautiful stranger wanted him. And Eris had to possess this caged creature, needed to steal him away from Helion, from the pretentious Lord Winters, from Donna Suriel, the most sadistic bitch on this side of the Hudson. But mostly, Eris just wanted to watch that gorgeous face unfold with pleasure. Wanted that perfect body prone beneath him, before him, begging for release. 

He was coiled in position and ready. And then Eris clocked it: a shadow of discomfort passed across the man’s face. He shifted and this time, it was not with arousal. His legs were cramping and he was tired. He gave three taps to his leg. He saw it for what it was. The sub had used his safe signal. Feyre, the auctioneer, almost imperceptibly, picked up the pace. She’d seen it too. 

Those hazel eyes locked with his once more, as if to say, Don’t you want me? Eris kept his face impassive. He would reveal nothing. It was how he got this far, how he'd survived twenty-seven years as Beron’s son, and had made his name as the Viper of Wall Street. 

“Forty thousand,” Helion called out in his bombastic voice. 

Feyre called out quickly, “Forty thousand. Going once, twice and—” 

He struck. “Fifty thousand.” Eris was sure to keep his voice level, his timbre smooth. It did no good to sound desperate or overwrought. 

Hazel eyes locked with his, and it took all his will power not to stand up and take what was his. Because the caged, leashed, beautiful man, there on his knees, literally leaned forward, subtly arching his back so perfectly, as if his body couldn’t help but move closer to the sound of Eris’s voice. The auctioneer must have seen the same thing, because she didn’t give anyone a chance to counter. 

“Sold to Eris Vanserra for fifty thousand dollars.”  

[diazsdimples]

Several Sentence Sunday

Tagged by my love @hippolotamus who shared a devastating Mirrorball snippet. Go check it out!! On this weeks agenda we (once again) have some Eddietommy Mechanic Fic, which I really need to rename because there's currently 150 words of actual mechanic, and another 6.3k of pure smut (and only one of them has finished 😭 I fear we're in for the long haul here boys). Anyways, pls enjoy.

“Fuck, I’m getting close,” Tommy warns breathily, a barely perceptible break in his voice. He combs his hand through Eddie’s hair, tilting his face up so their eyes meet. His balls slip out of Eddie’s mouth and Eddie whines, mourning the loss. “Where do you want me to come?” The question makes Eddie’s brain come back online, pulling him back to reality rather than the pleasant, buzzy space he’d been in, and he considers, lazily stroking Tommy’s cock as he does so. It’s not something he’s ever had to consider before, with any of his other partners. There’s always been something so satisfying about them coming on his tongue or around his fingers, feeling their rhythmic clenches as they squirm and thrash above him. With a man though, he feels like it’s more. The idea of having Tommy’s come on him - marking him and claiming him – sends a bolt of hot and shivery desire up Eddie’s spine. As much as he’d love to take Tommy into his mouth and milk each and every drop from him, he thinks he might need a little bit more practice before he can pull that off without gagging. On his face, then? As hot as that seems, the practical side of Eddie says that getting come in his eye the first time he sleeps with a man would set a bad precedent, and he doesn’t want the cleanup that would come along with it. Although, the thought of long, thick ropes of come landing on his cheek, dripping down his chin, maybe even in his hair, definitely has an appeal to it. Eddie shivers at the thought, his neglected cock throbbing between his legs. Next time. “Eddie, baby, I’m going to need an answer soon.” Tommy sounds wrecked, like he’s holding himself back, and it’s then that Eddie remembers he’s still playing with Tommy’s cock.

@theotherbuckley @hippolotamus @watchyourbuck @buckera @bidisasterevankinard

@monsterrae1 @wikiangela @bucksbignaturals @bigfootsmom @slightlyobsessedwitheverything

@tommybuckleykinard @bi-buckrights @actuallyitsellie @perfectlysunny02 @buffaluff

@steadfastsaturnsrings @agenttommykinard @eddiespornstache @eddiestommy @tommykinrd

@superlock-in-the-tardis @evansboyfriend @tommykinkard @cliophilyra @rdng1230

@sleepywinchesters @emilybahu @screaming-universe @teabroomsandbooks @spotsandsocks (lmk if you want adding or removing from this wip's taglist)

[bamsara]

A03 Questions Tag Game

I got tagged by: @kagedbird I tag: @onethirdofimpossible, @coffincrows, (first two that come to mind) and anyone else who wants to do the game

1 – How many works do you have on AO3?

At the time of writing this post, currently 30 fics. (Not including any fics or written works that are not posted to AO3)

2 – What's your total AO3 word count?

1,066,633

3 – What fandoms do you write for?

Formerly: Don't Starve, FNAF, Dragons Dogma, Invader Zim

Currently: Cult of the Lamb

4 – What are your top five fics by kudos?

Solar Lunacy, Celestial Omens, Bytes of Lunacy, The Rehabilitation of Death, Saturday Insomnia

5 – Do you respond to comments?

I try to but I also get very nervous responding because I often don't know what to say back and I feel like it's almost rude or disrespectful to respond to a comment, esp the very nice ones that are long and in-deph with just a keysmash or a bunch of emojis, but I do read every single one since I have email notifications on for them

I'd like to sit down and respond to many but I really don't want to make it awkward so pls dear god readers forgive me

6 – What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

I don't like unhappy endings. I enjoy angsty stories but I like when it's at least ending happy to me

7 – What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Not posted? Solar Lunacy

Ongoing? TROD

8 – Do you get hate on fics?

Not really? Most adults (in my experience) know the 'don't like don't read' rule and know basic online etiquette. I've gotten some for discontinuing a fic or switching fandoms though

9 – Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

I don't write or draw NSFW! I like to make some suggestive themes sometimes, but I'm a very ace person, it's not something I do often. (I do have a current running goal that if my friend reaches their donation goal for their medical bills that I would give NSFW a shot, but again its not really my cup of tea)

10 – Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

Nah I haven't written any cross overs, but I do draw them sometimes. Recently I've been spinning a Alice in Wonderland x COTL crossover in my head.

11 – Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Yep. I've had people copy and paste my work, go in with a thesaurus to change a few words (like changing 'angry' to mad, 'upset' to 'sad', and so forth) to try and avoid detection and re-posted my written work under a different title name. AO3 staff took them down for violating their policy against plagiarism though

12 – Have you ever had a fic translated?

No. I wouldn't mind it so as long as I'm asked before hand, though not on anon so I can actually work with the person to prevent any mistranslations or mishandling, and that I don't want my work posted to other websites

13 – Have you ever co-written a fic?

I think I did when I was a teen but I cannot remember now

14 – What's your all-time favorite ship?

Eh I don't have any favorites, just ones I really focus on for a long while

15 – What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

Pass.

16 – What are your writing strengths?

I can sit down for hours or several days and work on a writing wip completely in the zone. I cant do it on command but its at least something I can do

17 – What are your writing weaknesses?

Spelling and grammar, and sometimes long running sentences. I just kinda write, theres not really a goal for it to be perfect though so as long as the story gist and vibe is right, im fine with it

18 – Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

I've done it before but only minor, had a friend help me with it (one or two lines of dialogue) Aside from that, I'm not comfortably fluent enough in anything to do it again without assistance

19 – First fandom you wrote for?

Soul Eater, when I was wayyy too young to be posting anything on the internet. My fanfics I wrote are still on fanfic.net to this day

20 – Favorite fic you've written?

It's inbetween TROD and EE&E right now

[wonwoonlight]

Through the night, through the day - Seungcheol (unfinished)

A/n: a little something from my discontinued wip that i really wanted to finish but no longer has it in me to. Happy three years to this blog, here's to writing for yourself and not validation of others 🍻 thank you for all of you who have been reading my stuff up until now.

Loosely inspired by: AKMU - Last Goodbye, Adele - All I Ask

Seungcheol isn’t sure who’s to blame for the current situation he finds himself in.

Is it his because he fell out of love first?

Is it yours because you refused to break up with him even after he honestly told you what love he had left for you is barely romantic at this point?

Or is it his because he had let you refuse the break up simply because he felt too bad about forcing it on you?

But he believes as much as it’s a mutual decision to start a relationship, it’s also a mutual decision to end it. He certainly still loves and cares for you enough not to simply leave despite your refusal to end the relationship; but what he has for you is not something he thinks he should be feeling for a girlfriend.

He misses that spark. That thrilling sensation and the way his heartbeat would pick up at the sight of someone’s–your–smile.

And, unfortunately, it’s practically nonexistent now and, at some point, he hates himself for losing it because you still look at him like he holds the universe while he simply feels a pinch in his heart because he feels bad.

His phone lights up with notification, a picture of you and him grinning at the camera flashing before the screen turns black again. He sighs as he takes another sip of his drink, the alcohol burns his throat the same way your smile burns his heart.

Jeonghan’s right. He needs to be stern and stop dragging this more than necessary. The both of you deserve better; him, to finally stop feeling guilty because he can’t leave you behind, and you, e to find someone that will love you like you deserve to be loved.

At some point, Seungcheol knew the role was his to fill, but that’s no longer the case and prolonging this would only hurt the both of you in the future.

Like the two of you aren’t hurting on your own already now.

He bites his lip as he imagines the hurt in your eyes and the forced smile you’d give him.

Fuck.

He downs the shot and orders another.

*

Seungcheol imagined you’d be pressing your lips together as you suppress your tears, shoulders tense and jaws tight when he tells you once again he thinks it’d be better for you two to break up.

After all, that was your reaction the first time around.

What Seungcheol did not imagine, however, are your empty eyes and the way your hands limply stack against each other; your shoulders hunch in defeat and a corner of your lip twitch a faint smile for a millisecond before it turns straight once again.

Like you know it’s coming.

Like you’ve been bracing yourself for it.

There’s a painful squeeze in his heart at the way you’re not meeting his eyes, and he fights fights fights the urge to take your hands and apologize because he’s the one that’s ridding himself of that right.

How is he supposed to handle you like this?

Then again, isn’t this an attempt to let go of that responsibility? Because he doesn’t know anymore how to handle you without the romantic filter over his gaze towards you?

He’s starting to think it would be much better if you had been crying instead.

“Okay.” You say softly, voice barely even a whisper. But it doesn’t matter because he’s heard it and his eyes widen because he doesn’t think you’d agree so easily after the fight you put out last month. “But… Can I ask you one last favor?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you take me to that camping ground we went to two years ago?”

He blinks, not expecting it at all.

“The one we went to for our first anniversary?”

For the first time in so long, the smile you give him doesn’t make his heart lurch with guilt.

He suddenly tries to think back when was the last time you actually, genuinely smiled at him with happiness in your eyes.

You always have that fond look in your eyes–something so soft and full of love–even after he asked for the break up last month. You still look at him that way after that and even right this second.

But happy?

When was the last time you laughed happily in his presence?

“Yeah. I’ve always wanted to go back but don’t really have any reason to…” You frown to yourself, your lips purse in a way that makes him want to squish your cheeks like he used to. “A farewell trip… if you will. Is it okay?”

“Sure.” He says without thinking. That’s the least he can do for you; he hasn’t exactly been the best boyfriend nor even person in general the past month, and the fact that he’s staying with you out of obligation because he doesn’t know how to break it off after your argument has been eating him inside out. If this is what you need to finally let him go, he doesn’t see why it would be a bad idea.

He still cares for you. Just not in the way people in a romantic relationship should.

For you, he’d still do anything if it’s within his reach.

For you, he'd still do anything to make sure you're happy again.

You’re still his friend before anything and Seungcheol always always tries to do his best for his friends.

“When do you want to go?”

“This weekend is fine if you’re free.”

“It’s Mingyu’s birthday, I already promised we’d go out for a drink. Is next weekend okay?”

“Sure. Do you want me to make the booking?”

He shakes his head. Perhaps it’s him wanting to compensate, but if this is going to be a farewell trip, might as well do everything for you so he can convince himself it’s okay to let go of the guilt he’s been holding over himself if only a little.

“I’ll do everything. You just wait and be pretty, okay?” He smiles cheekily, which you can only smile back in return despite the way your heart cracks little by little at how easy the words tumble out of his lips.

And he wonders why you find it hard for you to let go.

*

“Why are you brooding like your screen has personally offended you?” Jeonghan asks, plopping on the sofa next to Seungcheol.

It’s game night, something he and his friends promised to hold at least once a month. It’s Jeonghan’s turn to host the night, and Seungcheol has come almost two hours early only to focus on his macbook and barely even says anything to him, the owner of the place.

Not that it’s a rare occurrence, Seungcheol does have the tendency to do this from time to time. Just barge into his place, grunts a greeting, and leaves after an hour or two.

“I’ve been trying to book this spot in the camping ground but it’s not available.” He sighs.

Jeonghan tilts his head, interested. Seungcheol hates planning with passion, yet he's apparently doing a very thorough research for some reason.

He looks at the amount of tabs open on his laptop, and when he asks about them, Seungcheol simply says he’s making an itinerary and is currently checking all the possible places he might visit around the camping ground. He points out some places, says their pros and cons and where he currently stands about visiting them.

“Who’re you going with again?” When he mutters your name, Jeonghan can’t help but get more interested. “Didn’t you say you’re breaking up with her?”

“Yeah. She said she wants to go there one last time… I don’t know. For old time’s sake, maybe? Anyway, I don’t see anything bad about it so I guess why not.”

“You’re breaking up with her.”

Seungcheol sighs and puts away his laptop. His best friend can get like this sometimes and, at the wrong times, it really gets on his nerves.

“I am. It’s a goodbye trip of some sort, okay? She said we’ll break it off after that. Just one last trip, that’s what she asked; how can I not give her that?”

“Why would you go on a trip with someone you’re breaking up with? Isn’t that kind of the point? To stop seeing each other?”

“Look, I’ve been with her for three years, almost four, even. And it’s not like we’re breaking up because we’re fighting or what–I fell out of love. It’s on me. And I still care about her and treasure the time I’ve shared with her. If there’s anything I can do to make this breakup bearable for her, I would.”

Seungcheol clenches his jaw at the way Jeonghan is looking at him; his eyes calling him stupid and pathetic at the same time without his lips saying anything.

“You’re just compensating because you feel guilty, then.”

“And it’s wrong for me to do that?” He fumes, not getting where his best friend is going with the talk. If he thinks this is one of those days when it’s fun to push all his buttons just for the sake of it, Jeonghan definitely chose the wrong topic to do so. “Why are you complaining, anyway? It’s not like I’m making you come with me. Do you not like the idea of me giving her closure? Do you secretly dislike her all this time?”

Jeonghan looks at him sharply, daring him to say more about how he feels about you. He knows Seungcheol threw the last sentence just to spite him, because of all his friends, you’re closest with Jeonghan and the feeling is pretty much mutual. Of all the partners Seungcheol has had, you’re the one that clicks with him the most; you seem to care about Seungcheol’s friends the same way you would your own friends. If there’s anything Jeonghan appreciates, it’s loyalty.

Always loyalty.

He’s sure he would also be devastated due to your break up with Seungcheol if it means he might lose someone he treasures as much as you.

“It’d only be harder for her, you asshole.” He grits his teeth. “Why would you give her hope by doing this much preparation for a fucking goodbye trip?”

“Because she asked for the trip!”

“What you’re arranging is a romantic getaway not a goodbye trip!”

Seungcheol falters a little at this, and before he can say more, the intercom beeps, signaling the other guys’ arrival. They share one last look with each other before Jeonghan gets up and opens the door, Mingyu’s rowdy voice followed by Wonwoo and Seokmin immediately dissipates the tense in the living room.

A few hours later, it’s still a little awkward between Seungcheol and Jeonghan, Wonwoo and Seokmin approaches them separately, and when the only thing they get is a set of reassurance that they simply had a disagreement, they let it go and decide it’d be best not to bring it up for now.

“By the way,” Seokmin opens the talk as Mingyu puts down cans of beer on the table. Seungcheol immediately reaches for one and the others wait for Seokmin to continue talking. “Is your girlfriend okay? I saw her in the hospital today.”

The way Seungcheol immediately chokes on his drink would’ve been funny otherwise. He wants to make sure that it’s his girlfriend Seokmin is referring to, but he’s currently one of the only two people with a partner in this room and one of them is Seokmin himself.

“I–what?”

“Oh… you didn’t know?” The younger guy winces, though he thinks it’d be best to tell Seungcheol anyway. No matter how small it might’ve been, he would want to know if his girlfriend somehow had to visit the hospital. “I was visiting a friend and I saw her walk out of the building but she didn’t see me and she was already too far away for me to call for her.”

“She didn’t say… I didn’t even know she went to the hospital.”

Jeonghan holds back a snicker, of course he wouldn’t know. Seungcheol hasn’t exactly been attentive to you since the moment he realized he’s falling out of you, head too deep in guilt and his own thoughts that he forgets to actually take a look at what’s in front of him.

The conversation goes elsewhere, and once Seungcheol is sure the attention is no longer on him, he whips out his phone and texts you to ask if anything happened.

[20:31] did you go to the hospital today? seokmin said he saw you

[20:44] 💜: oh, yeah. severe cold case, no worries tho! Is seokmin ok?

[20:45] you literally said severe, how am i supposed not to worry?

[20:35] why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve gone with you to the hospital

[20:47] 💜: it’s still just a cold haha. i simply got checked just in case. but they made sure it’s nothing but cold.

[20:47] Calling 💜

“Please stop trying to make it look like you’re not sick.” Seungcheol cuts immediately into the case, standing in the kitchen where it’s less noisy. “Why didn’t you tell me? I was with you a few days ago.”

Huh. Wait.

Was that why you looked a little out of it?

He closes his eyes in contempt and curses himself for not noticing. No wonder you looked so lethargic. So much for a boyfriend.

“It’s really just a cold, Cheol.” You try to reassure him, though your strained voice nor the cough that follows right after aren’t really doing a good job doing so. “You know the weather has been crazy these days.”

“Still. Why would you go to the hospital alone?”

It’s not easy for you to blink back your tears as you press your lips together, hoping Seungcheol would mistake your heavy breathing is due to your cold. You wonder if Seungcheol does all of this purposely. What a cruel man he is, asking you to break up with him and then scolding you for not telling him you’re sick, that he’s worried and asked if you want him to come over tonight.

Does he or does not want to cut ties with you?

“Cheol… Look–I… I simply thought you’re busy and it’s no big deal. I should be fine after a few good night sleep, they didn’t even prescribe me that much medicine and that should say something, right?”

Something stirs in him at how exhausted you sound, and he imagines you’re laying down in your room by the sound of rustling he hears across the phone.

“Have you had dinner?” He asks instead, looking at the digital clock on Jeonghan’s fridge.

“Not yet. Maybe later.”

“Alright, I’ll just wrap it up here and come over.”

“What?” You immediately sit up, not exactly pleased with the way this conversation is going. “No, Cheol. Just hang out with the guys, I’ll be fine.”

“You’re sick, why would I be here?” He argues.

You sigh, not sure anymore the cause of your headache.

Is it your cold?

Is it him?

Probably both.

Why is Seungcheol so adamant in taking care of you when he has asked to break up last month and then asked once again not even a week ago?

Why couldn’t he be a jerk and just leave you alone?

Why does he feel the need to make sure your feelings are still intact when he has, according to himself, no longer felt the same intensity he thought one should have when they’re in a relationship?

It’s really your fucking fault for asking for him to reconsider. But, then again, you didn’t expect him to accept it at once–what was even the point of asking for a break up if you’re going to crumble after one refusal?

You didn’t know what to say the first time he asked for it. Because you know… you know it’s coming. You’ve felt the way he’s been pulling away, the way he’s been less and less interested in what you have to say, and how he’s been enjoying his time not talking to you than the other way around.

It hurts.

It hurts so much because this is the person who used to listen to you like you personally hang every single star in the universe by yourself, one that used to stare at you and pay attention to everything you say because he said he doesn’t want to miss anything only to miss half the things you’re saying because he’s too busy staring at you.

And when he asked the second time… you pretend to cough to hide your sniffle, wiping the tears that have managed to escape your eyes before you try to hurriedly hang up the phone.

“Cheol, I need to–”

“I’ll be there in forty minutes.”

He arrives in thirty, fusses over dinner and your air conditioner system and forces you to rest even after you relay what the doctor told you; that you should be okay in a few days.

It’s 1 in the morning when he leaves your place, and he only does so after you pretend to be asleep in hope he’d go home instead of staying over.

You feel him caresses your cheek softly and pats your head before he leaves, and you’re pretty sure you can feel him staring at you for a good three minutes before you hear your front door click.

You fall asleep an hour later because you’re too exhausted from crying and your head is pounding because of the same reason.

Fuck Choi Seungcheol.