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gothcsz · 3 days ago

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𝑻𝒉𝒐𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒇𝒂𝒓𝒆 / Chapter XX.

GIF by bestintheparsec

PAIRING: Javier Peña x Original Female Character

SUMMARY: The night of the ritual.

WORD COUNT: ~9.1k

RATING: 18+ Explicit topics such as sex, drugs, murder, the occult, religion, cannibalism and other triggering matters will be explored in this body of work. Minors DNI.

CHAPTER SPECIFIC TAGS: dead dove: do not eat!, kidnapping, mc is held hostage, allusions to SA (nothing explicit. will be explained later on), hallucinations, humiliation, wound care, hurt/no comfort, crime thriller vibes are vibing, demon worship, cult ritual, supernatural elements, non-consensual drug use, angst, whump, any typos/grammar mistakes are of my own doing and i apologize in advance, if i'm missing any other tags please let me know.

DISCLAIMER/WARNINGS: The Javier Peña referenced in this body of work is solely based off of the character that appears in Netflix’s Narcos and not the actual person. Very canon divergent and I will tweak things as I see fit to compliment the narrative of this story. While efforts have been made to be accurate in terms of canon timeline, a lot of details will be fictionalized.

A/N: i’m going to hold y’all’s hand when i say this... i am putting paloma through it 😓 i was initially going to just bang everything out and post it in one big chapter, but as i was writing... i just felt like it would be better if we let the suspense of it all do its thing and end with a cliffhanger. i am a sucker for ‘em, even if they’re so frustrating (in the best way possible) 😭 i hope that all the lore revolving the cult has been concise and strong enough to hold up during the ending bit of this. i wish i could say things are going to get better from here but they’re not… they’re actually going to get worse 🤠 as always, feel free to drop any type of feedback/support on this blog or on ao3. i'd really appreciate it 🖤

♰ read on ao3. ♰

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When ten minutes pass, Javier brushes it off. She’s probably just caught up in something. It’s nothing to worry about.

But when twenty minutes roll by, that’s when the unease creeps in. He starts pacing the living room, fighting the urge for a cigarette, glancing at the clock.

Where is she?

By the time half an hour has come and gone, he’s dialing the library, wondering why Paloma hasn’t come home yet. The phone rings and rings, but no one picks up. His stomach tightens, and he wills himself to remain calm. She’s probably fine.

At the hour mark, Javier’s behind the wheel, speeding into town. Maybe she’s still upset from the argument they had earlier, and instead of coming home, she went to Tammy’s.

But when Tammy tells him she hasn’t heard from Paloma for a few days now, a knot twists in his chest.

Panic threatens to take hold, but he pushes it down. He can’t let it consume him—not yet. Not until he has a real reason to worry.

But she has that damn habit of disappearing to sulk in random places when she’s upset. And that habit is gnawing at him now.

He drives to every spot he can think of, the abandoned tracks, the clearing behind the cemetery, the creek—but there’s no sign of her.

That terrible feeling grows, heavy and unshakable. He marches into the sheriff’s department, jaw set, not caring who sees the frantic look in his eyes.

He storms the file room, ripping through boxes. His hands tremble as he plucks out the file he’s searching for.

“Fuck!” He curses under his breath, jaw tightening as the photo of Paloma’s mother stares back at him.

Now, he has a reason to panic.

He should have known when he first laid eyes on it. The familiarity of her features—her eyes, her hair, her smile; it was all too close to Paloma. Too close to ignore. But he had, all because his mind was completely elsewhere at the time. Now look where that got him.

It’s like a scene from a horror film, where everything snaps into place too late.

The recent victims; brunettes in their mid-twenties with similar features, similar backgrounds—they resembled her.

The staged chamber, the gore, the man who killed himself.

All of it was leading to this, tying up the gruesome mystery with a neat little bow, like a gift Javier wishes he could burn. They had been played—manipulated, distracted from seeing the bigger picture.

Whoever orchestrated this whole thing has been after his girl from the very beginning.

He fights the urge to smash his fist into the nearest wall, to tear down every shelf in the room in a fit of blind rage.

But what would that solve? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Rage won’t lead him to her. Fear won’t undo what’s already been set in motion. All he can do is cling to hope, even if it’s slipping through his fingers.

The ultimate goal of this fucked-up cult—their twisted mission—is to birth the flesh reincarnate of their so-called, bullshit deity.

His blood runs cold at the thought of Paloma being used in some horrific ritual, being touched, violated, forced into madness.

He’s shaking, on the verge of a panic attack, his heart slamming against his ribcage like it’s trying to escape. But he forces himself to breathe—slow, deep, steady breaths, locking the perturbation away.

Javier puts out an APB, his voice tight as he details her car, her appearance. Every word feels surreal, like it’s not really him saying it, like he’s watching someone else’s nightmare play out.

Romeo’s going to hear this, and he’s going to have to explain how they missed all the signs, how Paloma has been in danger this whole time.

The weight of it presses down on him like a thousand pounds of guilt.

Gathering what he needs and delegating some of the overnight officers at the station, he frantically drives to the Leighton house.

He’s already chain-smoked half a pack. That nasty habit he’s been trying to shake is clinging to him. The file in his hands feels too light for the bomb he’s about to drop.

How the fuck is he supposed to do this? How do you tell someone their wife’s past is tangled in a nightmare, and that their daughter—a woman they both love—is at the heart of it? How do you stay composed when you’re barely holding yourself together?

“Where the fuck is my daughter?”

Javier’s barely set foot out of his truck when Romeo’s fists twist in his shirt, shoving him hard against the vehicle.

The impact rattles through him, but all he can see is the wild, desperate look in the sheriff’s eyes—a terror that matches his own but runs even deeper, cutting into every line on his face.

“Romeo, listen to me!” Javier’s voice is authoritative, that familiar guarded wall of stoicism building as his trademark defense mechanism to the absolute anxiety that’s gnawing away at his body. “This is gonna be hard to hear—I’m barely making sense of it myself—but I need you to listen if we’re going to figure this shit out.”

Romeo’s grip tightens, then slowly loosens, and Javier seizes the moment, shoving the older man back, no longer giving a fuck about keeping the peace.

He yanks the folded photo from his jacket pocket and holds it up, letting him get a clear look. “Tell me. Is this Paloma’s mother?”

Romeo’s gaze flits to the photograph, and the recognition that floods his face is immediate.

His fingers snatch the photo from Javier, and his expression cracks, aging him in just a matter of seconds. “Where did you get this?” His voice is barely a whisper, “What the fuck is going on?”

Javier’s own dread deepens. “From the old files,” he says, voice hollow. “The ones from the original group. She’s connected to all of this. They both are.”

He takes a breath, then begins to explain everything he knows. He lays it out, bit by bit—the tangled web of what Paloma had uncovered, the twisted threads that pointed to this cult, the fake leads that had kept them chasing shadows. Every word feels like glass in his throat.

Confusion, fear, anger—every emotion etched on Romeo’s face makes Javier feel like he’s the one who has failed.

“Did you know about any of this?” he asks, though he already knows the answer from the lost look in Romeo’s eyes.

His mouth opens, then closes. He seems to gather himself, shoulders dropping under a weight he’s only just begun to grasp. “None. When I met Abby… she was just a woman startin’ over. She’d moved into a small house near the church. Said her parents had passed and she needed a fresh start. Picked a random town—that’s how she ended up here.” The sheriff’s gaze drifts to a place Javier can’t reach, caught in the bittersweet memory of his late wife.

“Paloma said she found this out by going through her mom’s things,” he says carefully, each word a stone dropping into his gut. “But I don’t think she was telling me everything.”

Silence stretches between them, heavy and loaded as they lock eyes in an unspoken understanding.

They need answers, and every second they waste is another second Paloma could be slipping further away.

“Before we make accusations,” Javier says, forcing himself to stay grounded, “we need to dig through their belongings. There has to be something there—a lead, a hint—something that’ll tell us who’s behind this.”

“But you already know who it is, don’t you?”

Javier’s eyes darken, and his jaw locks as one name barrels into his mind, clear and hateful: August.

The red flags he had dismissed, convinced they were just a byproduct of his hate for the guy, now stand out like beacons.

He meets Romeo’s gaze, a grim certainty settling into his features. “I believe it’s Augustus Dixon and his group.”

Romeo’s face twists with anger, and he grits out, “Motherfucker—” His fists clench, his whole body radiating fury.

“Be pissed off later. We’ve got a job to do.”

They stalk up the stairs, both men moving with purpose—Romeo heads for his wife’s things while Javier makes his way into Paloma’s room.

It feels surreal, even wrong, to be rummaging through her life like this. The last time he’d been in this position, it was in Jessica’s room, and even then he could see the resemblance her space shared with Paloma’s—but he’d never thought he’d be here, seeing his girl as a victim.

His fingers skim over a leather-bound book tucked away on the top shelf in her closet, hidden behind a jewelry box. It’s as if she’d placed it there purposefully, stowed away out of reach.

When he pulls it down, he realizes it’s a scrapbook brimming with photographs and clippings.

Inside, he finds images of Calmana, surrounded by groups of men and women, all dressed in matching, traditional attire. A towering cathedral looms in the background, religious iconography scattered throughout—symbols he now recognizes from his research.

Maps, faded with time, span several pages, and in the center lies an intricate, sprawling family tree with Paloma’s name written at the bottom.

He spots envelopes tucked between the pages, each one addressed to her in cursive hand.

He calls out for Romeo, and the sheriff is by his side almost instantly, his expression a twisted mix of hope and dread.

“What’d you find?”

Javier silently hands him the scrapbook, keeping the envelopes for himself.

One by one, he opens them, unfolding each paper. His breaths come out ragged, and he feels his stomach drop as he reads.

They’re love poems—explicit, filthy in their adoration. Line after line, they detail all the things August wants to do to her, each word penned with obsession.

The praises he lavishes on her, how he calls her a spectacle, the power he insists she wields—it’s like poison seeping into Javier’s mind.

His hands start trembling, and the implications tighten around him like a noose.

Romeo, sensing his agitation, reaches out, his voice rough. “What’s that—what did you find?”

Javier jerks the papers away, swallowing hard. “Trust me. You don’t want to see these—not now.”

“Let me see them, Javier! Goddammit, my daughter is in danger!”

Before their back-and-forth can spiral any further, Javier’s walkie talkie crackles sharply, an officer’s voice coming through:

“A dark green, 1970 Buick Electra matching the APB put out an hour ago has been found in Lake Fraiser alongside an unidentified female body.”

The air thickens and shatters as Javier and Romeo lock eyes, both of them wearing the same look of wide-eyed horror.

“Romeo—” Javier tries, reaching out, but the man is already out the door, the scrapbook falling from his hands and hitting the hardwood floor with a hollow thud that reverberates in Javier’s chest.

He mutters a quick fuck and scoops it up, rushing after him, yet the sheriff is a blur, tearing down the driveway with the kind of desperation only a father can muster when everything he loves is on the line.

Now that he’s left alone, Javier grips the railing, and the weight of it all—of losing her—comes crashing down. His heart’s splintering, his chest tight, mind skidding out of control.

This is what he’s been running from all along—failure… loss… grief. Now it is all coming back, circling like vultures, ready to take the one thing that’s ever brought him true happiness.

But he forces himself to breathe, to anchor his mind to the one cold comfort he has left. “He wouldn’t kill her. He needs her.” The words taste bitter, chilling him, but they hold him steady.

Paloma is at the center of this plan—there’d be no sense in taking her, just to end it so abruptly.

Despite everything, he finds a sliver of reassurance in that cruel logic. He clings to it with everything he has, because right now, it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

Javier pulls up to Lake Fraiser, where the scene is a flurry of first responders, flashing lights reflecting off the water’s dark surface in sharp reds and blues.

He parks haphazardly, barely cutting the engine before he’s out of the truck, heading straight toward the area cordoned off by yellow crime scene tape.

His heart slams against his ribs as he spots Romeo, kneeling by the edge of the lake beside a body draped in a white cloth, his face blank, almost empty.

Javier’s eyes dart to the surrounding officers, scanning each one, trying to get a read on the situation before he speaks.

“Is it her?” His voice breaks the stillness.

Romeo doesn’t look up, his gaze locked on the covered body. “…No.”

Relief floods through him, dizzying him for a moment before his gaze lands on a tow truck pulling Paloma’s car away from the scene.

He clenches his jaw, forcing himself to swallow back the bitter uncertainty rising in his throat.

Romeo stands slowly, brushing the dirt off his hands, his expression hardening as he relays, “Just got a call from the hospital. Our girl from the woods finally woke up. Tonight of all nights.” He chuckles dryly. “Asked to speak with me specifically. So I’ll head that way tomorrow after she’s been stabilized properly… which means you’ll be in charge of all this.” He gestures around them vaguely.

The pulsing emergency lights cast fractured shadows over their faces.

“It’s best for you to step back momentarily. Clear your head. You’re too close to this,” Javier adds quietly, “She’s your daughter.” And while Javier is her lover and every inch of him is fraying at the edges for her, he understands that his pain won’t amount to the agony that Romeo is drowning in.

The sheriff’s silence stretches, words hesitating on his tongue, until finally, with a quiet confession, he murmurs, “I was too harsh on her. On you. I was an asshole, and if it’s any reconciliation—thank you for tryin’ to get her out of this shitty town.”

Javier’s caught off-guard but doesn’t show it, the self awareness on his behalf is appreciated. “I’d do anything for her.”

Romeo studies him for a moment, as if measuring the resolve behind his words, then he nods, his expression taut, “Gonna start combing through everythin’ back at the station. Probably call Olsen, see if he’s got any cameras ‘round the library so we can get a timeline goin’.”

These two men are similar in that regard, backing themselves into their jobs to mask the turmoil inside. They talk through some of the procedures before Romeo is pulled away by other officers, leaving Javier to handle things here.

He forces himself to switch gears, to summon every bit of authority he has left to do his job. He’s got a dead body to assess, a team to command, and then—then he’ll focus everything he’s got on finding Paloma.

Paloma stirs awake, the pitch darkness of the early morning pressing in from all sides.

She’s disoriented—a dull ache in her head and the sting of thick, abrasive rope biting into her wrists.

Her hands are suspended and bound above her, tethered tightly to an old, rusted pipe overhead, which creaks slightly as she shifts her weight.

She can feel the grit of dried blood matting her hair against her temple, the aftershock of Sloane’s vicious hit with the bat ringing sharp behind her eyes. Her boots are missing, leaving her barefoot against the cool concrete ground.

As reality sharpens around her, she realizes this isn’t a dream and it nauseates her, instilling panic in her heart.

She barely remembers the car ride or the way they dragged her down here, everything muddled from the hit she’d taken until she’d finally succumbed to unconsciousness.

Now, the throbbing intensifies as she tugs instinctively at the ropes, her wrists burning, but no amount of pulling loosens her bonds.

Frustration and terror mix, unwieldy coiling in her chest and tears sting at her eyes despite her attempts to fight them back. She doesn’t want to imagine what they plan to do to her.

She knows Javier and her father have to be looking for her. They must be tearing themselves apart with worry. She can almost hear her father’s harsh reprimands and Javier’s quiet, determined rage—they’re relentless when it comes to protecting her.

They’ll find her. They have to.

The cellar door creaks open and she freezes, her pulse skittering as August, Sloane, and Gabriel descend the stairs.

The dim light barely touches their faces, but she doesn’t need to see them clearly to know what they’re capable of.

She tries to hold her head high, pushing back the tears, refusing to let them see the fear that’s boiling inside. She won’t give them that satisfaction, not if she can help it.

Their footsteps echo against the walls of the basement. August stops just close enough that she can feel his presence invading her senses, suffocating, his familiar smirk tugging at his lips.

“Good morning, P,” he drawls, voice dripping with the charm that managed to slither its way into her heart.

What she once found magnetic in him is now hollow, a mask that hides something so unfathomable.

“Pretty nasty cut ya got there.” Sloane’s voice drips with fake sympathy. Her eyes glint with that special brand of cruelty she’d always kept hidden behind a guise of friendship.

The satisfaction in her tone is unmistakable, like she’s savoring every moment of seeing Paloma in such a vulnerable state.

The urge to spit in their faces, to lash out, is almost unbearable, but she remembers her daddy’s lessons, advising her to stay calm, to never let them know how afraid she really is.

Every word of advice he’d ever given her about self-preservation hangs heavy in her mind.

She keeps her face blank, her mouth a hard line.

“Silent treatment, huh?” August steps closer, his hand reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair from her face. His fingers are inches from her forehead when she sees the sick satisfaction in his eyes, and she can’t suppress the involuntary grimace as his fingers hover over the gash near her forehead.

The moment of weakness feels like a win for him, his smile widening as he grazes her wound, pressing just enough to send a wave of pain radiating through her skull and a fresh stream of blood to trickle out.

Sloane watches her reaction, faux innocence weaving through her sneer. “You make for a pretty damn good damsel in distress. Thought you’d put up more of a fight, if I’m bein’ honest. You really disappointed me, doll face.”

Paloma’s grip tightens around the rope until her knuckles ache. She wants to tell her off, to fight and scream—but instead she just turns away, refusing to even look at them.

August’s hand cups her chin as he forces her to meet his eyes, eyes that once held promises of affection and loyalty now filled with something so dark and consuming.

His fingers dig into her soft skin. “I need you to look perfect, little dove. All stitched up and pretty.” His thumb trails along her chapped bottom lip. “Gabriel,” he calls, not even glancing back at the other man, “Tend to that. Tonight’s a big night, after all. Lots to prepare for.”

There goes that trepidation again. Her mouth twitches, half-ready to break her silence and demand to know just what the hell he’s talking about. But she’s already committed to keeping quiet.

Gabriel lingers behind them, shifting uncomfortably, the first aid kit clutched tight in his hand.

He doesn’t say anything, just stands there as usual, eyes flicking from Paloma to his partners, some part of him clearly unsettled yet too cowardly to intervene.

He’s her best shot of getting out of here, she just knows it.

“‘S’okay, you ain’t gotta talk,” August’s coos. “I actually prefer you like this—makes things a hell of a lot easier. The others…” He snorts, shaking his head.

How many other unfortunate women had been dragged down here, suffering at his hands?

“Too squirmy, too squeamish—like fuckin’ pigs.” His laughter is mirthless and Sloane joins in with loud, exaggerated snorts that mimic a pig’s squeal. The sound claws at Paloma’s ears.

There’s this twisted admiration in his stare as he studies her. “That’s why I knew I needed to have you. No one else on this planet holds a candle to the magic you have, Paloma. You should stop bein’ so scared and embrace it.” He murmurs, dropping his voice to a whisper.

His hand snakes down from her jaw, tracing her neck, lingering in an unsettling crawl between her breasts before settling at her hip.

His fingers dig in, and she flinches, her body stiffening in revulsion. He smirks at her reaction, savoring her discomfort like a fine wine.

“I’ll be back to check on you later, alright?” His tone is falsely tender. "Gotta make sure everythin’ is perfect. Can’t afford any fuck ups now—I’ve been way too patient for this."

He steps back at last, allowing Gabriel to shuffle forward with the kit in hand.

With a jerk of his chin, August motions for Sloane to follow him. She blows Paloma a mocking kiss and winks with a saccharine sweetness that really piles on the hatred that burns a little hotter for her specifically.

The heavy cellar door slams shut, casting them back into dim silence as the first pale light of dawn begins to creep through the basement windows.

Paloma’s heart pounds as their shadows disappear, leaving her helpless in the creeping morning light.

“What are you goin’ to do to me?” Her voice is hoarse, each word scraping her dry throat like sandpaper, but she can’t keep quiet now that they’re alone.

Gabriel wordlessly drags over a stool, placing the first-aid kit on top. He opens it, sorting through supplies as though she isn’t even there.

Paloma yanks at her restraints, the old pipe groaning in protest. “Fuckin’ say somethin’,” she snaps, anger edging her desperation. “It’s the least you could do—just… tell me.” She hates the pleading tone that slips through, the last thread of her control unraveling as she imagines what fate awaits her.

His gloved hands move to clean her wound, and she clenches her jaw against the sting, glaring at him as if she could force him to talk through sheer will. He’s careful and practiced, clearly having done this before.

“The Crimson Rite,” he mutters, brows furrowing as he concentrates, his voice a barely audible murmur. “It’s where the conception will happen… on the altar of incarnation.”

Paloma’s heart stumbles, her mind racing to piece together the fragments. “What the fuck are you even sayin’?” Her voice wavers, but there’s no denying the chill in her spine.

She knows what those words mean on their own, but together, they paint a picture she’d rather not face—the harrowing reality of how August truly plans on using her.

“August’ll explain,” he replies, brushing her off with the indifference of a man following orders. “He’s better at that shit than I am. I just do what he asks and stay outta the way.”

“Like a fuckin’ coward,” she spits.

The needle pauses, its sharp tip hovering an inch from her skin, and he raises his eyes. “You get all lippy with me, but keep your mouth shut around them? What, I ain’t intimidatin’ enough for you?”

She holds his gaze, defiance simmering behind the exhaustion in her stare. “Nothing about you’s intimidatin’ enough to keep me from tellin’ you exactly what I think.”

His lips twist downward, a muscle in his jaw ticking as he resumes stitching, each tug at her skin rougher than the last.

“At church that day, you were warnin’ me, weren’t you?” Her voice is barely a whisper, the memory of that awkward conversation rattling in her mind. “S’not too late, Gabe. You can still help me outta this… We both can be outta here ‘fore the sun comes up.”

There’s a lapse, just for a second, in his eyes—something she wants to believe is regret, a part of him she hopes she can reach.

The sliver of optimism she’s mustered might awaken that dormant part of him buried under layers of August’s bullshit and the bitterness life has forced him to swallow.

But he shakes his head slowly, avoiding her gaze as he finishes stitching her wound, his hands deft. “You don’t get it. Don’t matter if I do the right thing. He’d find us—he always does.” He sprays her wound with a numbing mist then covers it with a small gauze.

“He wouldn’t find us,” she insists, her voice fraying. “Daddy would protect us. He’d make sure we’re safe.”

He lets out a low, humorless chuckle. “Yeah? He promise you that or somethin’? ‘Cause from where I’m standin’, you don’t look all that safe.”

A bitter, frustrated cry escapes her as he begins to pack up his kit, her pleas bouncing off him like stones against steel.

“Please, Gabe, don’t leave me down here alone,” she chokes out, and the words twist something deep inside her, pulling her further into a desperation she’s been trying to keep at bay.

“Breakfast’ll be down in a few hours,” he mutters, almost as if talking to himself, keeping his voice low and detached. “Probably get you a shower at sundown so you ain’t all sweaty and grimy. Needs you all fuckin’ pristine.” The last words slip out like a hiss, a disgusted edge in his tone. “S’gonna be a long day for you down here. Scream all you want; ain’t nobody around worth a damn to hear it. You got a better shot at rubbin’ the skin off your wrists than gettin’ out of that rope.”

Paloma snaps, her control breaking in a flood of panic and fury as she yanks at her restraint, her wrists burning as she curses him, calling him every name her mind can summon.

The words pour out in a desperate torrent, trying to cut him, to provoke something human out of him, anything.

But he stays silent, barely flinching, his face a mask as he gathers his things, turning his back on her without a word.

When the cellar door finally slams shut, it echoes through the basement, and her last shreds of resolve crumble as she sinks into sobs.

The thoughts come in fragments, jagged and bitter, cutting her deeper than any wound.

The way things were left with her father—how they’d argued and he looked at her with that final, dismissive silence, like she’d become a stranger for daring to chase her own life beyond their town.

The love that took root so unexpectedly, so completely with Javier. He came into her life at the perfect time, pouring a rare, tender kind of intimacy into her soul; the kind that made her feel seen for the first time in her life.

He was a good man who’d endured his own share of hardships —and she let their last conversation end in anger and frustration. She’s just like her father.

Perhaps if she had told him the full truth about how she came across her mother’s past, she wouldn’t be in this mess at all.

This mess—it’s her inheritance. Not a blessing like August wants her to believe, but a curse Calmana left behind, the forced sins of her mother she didn’t choose but can’t escape.

Her suicide is starting to make more sense.

It all makes her feel like a lamb at slaughter, her life never really hers, and now her blood and body are an offering to feed whatever he believes she’s meant to bring to life.

The promise of an explanation later on hangs over her like a guillotine. Does she even want to know? Will it make a difference?

She got herself kidnapped by trusting them all, falling for August’s romantic words and impressive knowledge. All of his lies. She’d thought she was smart enough to see through him, to keep a grip on her own heart, and instead, she’d unknowingly let him manipulate her.

Sloane was right—she is the helpless damsel she always denied being, someone who hadn’t fought hard enough to save herself.

Paloma has to believe she’s got people searching for her, that they’re smart enough, relentless enough to find her before night falls. She has to cling to that hope, however fragile, because right now it’s all she has.

Her cries fill the empty space around her until exhaustion claims her in silence.

The basement is her prison as the sun traces its lazy arc above.

The day drags on in a haze of stale air and the natural sounds of bugs chittering about. On occasion, she’ll hear people walk by or see their shadows through the small windows.

She's trapped here, the only visits marking the hours coming when Gabriel brings a bucket for her to relieve herself—like she’s some kind of animal—or sets down a tray of food she refuses to touch.

“You need to eat,” he says, setting the tray with her dinner on the floor. His hands working on cutting the thick rope binding her wrists, each tug and scrape freeing her a fraction at a time.

“What’s the point? M’gonna die anyway,” she mutters, exhausted but still pissed. “Won’t matter if I’ve got a full stomach or not.”

He shakes his head. “You’re not goin’ to die, Paloma. You’re too important to all this. How haven’t you realized that yet?”

“Oh, forgive me if I haven’t picked up on all your twisted bullshit,” she snaps. “You all speak in fuckin’ tongues and riddles. No one’s told me a damn thing that makes any sense.”

At last, the final fiber of rope snaps, and the weight drops from her wrists. She lets out a low, relieved sigh as her arms fall to her sides, stiff from the hours of suspension.

The ache in her shoulders is intense, and her wrists are lined with red from the coarse bondage.

“Don’t try anythin’ stupid,” he warns, his voice low. “They might not kill ya but they’ll hurt you in ways that’ll make you wish you were dead.”

She doesn’t doubt it, so she reins in her impulses and instead glances at the food, the bitterness slowly giving way to resignation.

If the chance to escape comes, she’ll need her strength. She takes the cup, drinking greedily, barely noticing the water spilling down her chin—it’s just a relief to feel the dryness ease, something grounding in a nightmare that feels endless.

The meal tastes dull, but she swallows it down anyway, each bite a fight to hold onto her sense of self, to stay sharp.

Gabriel watches her with that quiet, unreadable expression.

“I tried leavin’ years ago, when August first started buildin’ the group.” He looks down, his mouth pressing into a grim line. “But he caught me at the train station. Gave me the ass-beatin’ of my life. Locked me up in a shed in the middle of the woods for days, left me there until I learned my lesson. I swear, I lost every bit of myself in that dark place.” His voice lowers to a whisper. “After that, I never thought ‘bout leavin’ again... not until he got his sights set on you.”

Paloma’s chewing slows, her eyes flitting over to him, reading the conflict etched in his expression.

For August to treat Gabriel, his so-called “brother,” with such brutality to keep him in line... it makes all too much sense now, why he is August’s silent shadow, obeying every command.

“His obsession with you is different. Everythin’ suddenly became different. He has this way of makin’ you submit to him that gets me wonderin’ if all this Eurynomos shit is actually real.”

The twisted loyalty, the deep-seated fear that’s tangled around them like shackles, intertwined with stories of divinity.

She’s barely scratched the surface of what August is capable of.

“That’s terrible,” she whispers, sympathetic to what he’s been through. “I’m sorry... ‘n I get why you’re scared, but there’s two of us now. We could make a run for it, slip away while we have the chance.”

Her food is forgotten as Paloma edges closer, her gaze steady and imploring. For a moment, he genuinely considers their escape.

But the heavy, thunderous creak of the cellar doors breaks through the moment, both of them jerking apart.

She scrambles backward until her back presses against the cold, damp wall, her heartbeat racing as Gabriel stands abruptly from his stool, his face hardening again.

It��s only August this time, his usual shadow—Sloane with her biting sneers—thankfully absent.

He strides down with a bag in one hand and shower supplies in the other, eyeing her like she’s some prized possession he’s been itching to inspect.

“Unrestrained, ate her dinner, and didn’t even try to run? My, my. Little dove, you’re such a good girl.” He passes the items to Gabriel as he steps closer, and she hates the way she’s wedged in a corner, wishing she could melt into the wall or skitter away like a mouse.

He crouches, gently moving the gauze out of the way, his sharp gaze examining the stitches worked into her head wound. “S’lookin’ better already. Now, let’s get you a shower. I can smell you from here, and, sweetheart, it’s not exactly appealin’.”

“Fuck you.”

He smirks, the cruel curve of his lips almost congratulatory. “There she is. Glad to see that fire hasn’t died just yet, my love.”

With a vice-like grip, his hand latches onto her arm, dragging her up to her feet and across the basement to a sad excuse for a shower—no curtain, nothing remotely resembling privacy, just exposed plumbing and mildewed tile. He shoves her into the cramped space, gesturing at her with a command that chills her: “Strip.”

Her stomach tightens, and she squares her jaw. “Turn around.”

A laugh bursts from him, sharp and mocking. “You think you’re in any position to make demands? You may be special, darlin’, but that don’t mean you’re runnin’ shit. Now strip, or I’ll tie you up and rip that little outfit off myself.”

She grits her teeth, fists clenched. “No.”

His smile vanishes, replaced by a darker, crueler expression.

In a flash, his hand is around her throat, shoving her harshly against the slimy tile, the back of her head meeting the hard surface making her cry out in pain.

Her breath snags as his grip tightens around her neck, the cool press of a switchblade grazing the scar on her hip, making her pulse hammer in her ears. “Don’t push me,” he growls, the blade’s edge nicking her skin just enough to sting. He knows exactly where she’s sensitive, and he revels in her flinch. “I’ve told you—I don’t like hurtin’ you, but I will if I have to. Strip. Now.”

He releases her, the air rushing back into her lungs, making her cough.

Her hands tremble as she peels away her clothes, starting with the long, flowing skirt that puddles around her ankles, leaving her in just her underwear and camisole.

August’s eyes rake over her, and his silent demand pulls at her last nerve.

She swallows back her tears, fingers shaking as she slides the straps off her shoulders, letting the fabric fall to the floor and then stepping out of her underwear, kicking the pile aside.

Now entirely naked, her arms wrap protectively around herself to shield what she can. She looks away, the sting of indignity making her skin crawl, willing herself not to cry.

August steps forward, adjusting the shower’s dial, and the pipes clank and groan as water finally bursts out of the rusted shower head, icy at first. She shivers, her teeth clattering, and only once the water turns warm does the chill ease up.

A snap of his fingers brings Gabriel closer, setting the shower supplies within reach. August then places them at her feet, his mocking gaze never leaving her as he drags a worn wooden chair up, seating himself like a perverse audience settling in for a show.

Paloma doesn’t move, clinging harder to her body, her nails digging into her own skin, praying he’ll lose interest and turn away. But he just smirks. “Don’t be shy, P. Not like I haven’t seen you naked before.” His tongue drags over his lips, blue eyes glittering darkly, drinking in her discomfort.

She would rather die where she stands than have him touch her, lingering his hands over her body like a wolf savoring his meal. Slowly, reluctantly, her arms fall to her sides, shoulders curling inward, as she begins to wash herself.

The hot tears mix with the water streaming down her cheeks, each drop hiding the sobs she’s swallowing.

August’s stare trails over her figure, his smirk deepening every time she flinches under the weight of it.

He doesn’t hide his hunger, watching her every movement—the rise and fall of her breasts, the curve of her hips, the sway of her shoulders as she soaps herself in silence.

Gabriel’s eyes stay firmly on his boots, shame evident in his posture.

Finally, she shuts off the water, chest heaving as she swallows down the humiliation, covering herself again and feeling his satisfaction lingering in the room like a toxic cloud.

A towel lands at her feet, and she grabs it, pulling it around her trembling frame, feeling like her skin might crawl right off her bones.

“Got this dress made just for you,” August says casually, standing then pulling out a white dress and red flats from a worn bag. He tosses them onto the chair he’d just been sitting in, not making any effort to move or look away, and she swallows back the lump in her throat.

She’s barely holding herself together, her fingers fumbling with the towel as she dries off, eyes darting between the two men.

One won’t meet her gaze, too timorous, and the other stares at her with lecherous eyes.

She slips on the dress, it’s something she would’ve picked for herself under different circumstances; calf-length, delicate ladder lace along the trim, cap sleeves, and three charmeuse red ribbons that match the shoes.

But the beauty of it feels like a cruel mockery against the ugliness of this moment.

“You look so beautiful,” August purrs, “Get a good look at yourself.”

She’s forced in front of an antique mirror, the glass warped and cracked, but she can still make out her reflection.

The dark circles beneath her eyes, bruised skin, the way her hair clings to her damp skin, the faded pallor of her face against her outfit—she looks like a ghost.

His hand slides to her shoulder, pushing her hair aside as he leans in, trailing his nose against her skin and inhaling deeply. “You smell like summertime.” He presses his lips to her neck, and bile rises in her throat.

Then, he pulls back, her mother’s cross pendant in hand, fastening it around her neck with a satisfied smile.

Her heart clenches once she sees it. She’d left that at Javier’s, tucked away safely with all the other things she moved out of her childhood home in preparation for their big trip.

The thought of August being in his space, doing God knows what, gets her alarmed. “What did you do to him?”

August looks momentarily confused by her query, but then his smirk grows as he eyes the pendent and sees that look in her eyes. “Don’t worry, I didn’t touch your precious narc. He ain’t been home all day. He’s out there, sniffin’ around for you like a lost dog. Thought about killin’ him, but… I think he’d suffer more thinkin’ he failed you. Just another life he couldn’t save, huh?”

The words press against those bruising, sore spots on her heart. She scowls, throwing back as much defiance as she can muster. “You wouldn’t get close enough to try.” Her voice trembles, but she knows Javier and what he’s capable of.

He just shrugs, the malicious glint in his eyes unwavering. “Maybe not. But Sloane?” He grins, knowing how even mentioning her gets under Paloma’s skin. “Now, I think she could.”

He doesn’t give her time to respond, moving to bind her hands again, this time in smooth silk restraints that feel uncharacteristically gentle against her wrists.

Time moves in slow motion, she becomes unresponsive, like a melancholic statue, as he brushes her hair, fussing over her appearance as if she were some doll, changing the gauze over her stitches.

Her hope of getting out of this has diminished. Gabriel won’t help her and August has run the two men competent enough to figure this out in circles, so tangled up in deceit to find her.

The evening melts into night, shadows deepening when he finally leaves, just to return moments later with a steaming cup of tea that smells rancid and earthy, like decay.

“Drink up.”

She shakes her head, refusing it, but he pries her mouth open, forcing her to swallow the scalding liquid. It’s bitter and burns her throat, her tongue singed as she swallows unwillingly.

“See? Wasn’t so bad,” he taunts her, wiping away some of the remnants that spilled from the corner of her mouth.

The effect is immediate; her mind hazes, thoughts swirling, until her body feels sluggish, as if it is no longer tethered to her.

Just as her vision starts to fade, a red, body-length veil is draped over her, the fabric casting her world into blood-hued darkness.

“I need to see it again.”

Javier pinches the bridge of his nose at Romeo’s request, fingers then pressing hard against his closed eyes as the footage gets rewound.

It’s the only evidence they have—a single security camera capturing what transpired. The grainy video shows her crossing the street, pausing, and then August and his accomplices stepping into view. She runs, disappearing off-camera for what feels like a lifetime, before being dragged back and shoved into the bed of the truck.

Each time Javier watches, another shard of him breaks away.

Romeo shifts beside him, watching the screen with unrelenting focus. He’s insistent, searching for anything, some small clue to pinpoint where they went.

Javier, though, is at his limit, fighting the urge to hurl the screen across the room.

“Romeo,” he begins, a little strained, “we’re not going to find anything new here.”

“We missed shit before. Can’t afford to miss anythin’ now.”

They’d spent the whole damn day combing through the trio’s hometown, hoping for any piece of intel, some breadcrumb that would lead them to the group’s hideout.

The search had been maddeningly fruitless. Fayette’s local authorities helped spread the word, but there was nothing, no tracks, no whispers, no real leads to follow.

Every registered address tied to the three was a dead end. Their only childhood homes, a trailer park, had burned down over a decade ago, leaving no trace, no history to sift through.

Everyone close to them—parents, guardians—were either dead, in prison, or admitted. The few family members with any sense had cut ties long ago.

“They were hellraisers,” the retired sheriff had muttered. That’s all the town could say, the simple acknowledgment that the trio had always left destruction in their wake.

The only useful piece of information they dug up was that August had left his job at a local grocery store to work for some woman, an outsider no one really knew.

She’d shown up, taken August with her, and he’d returned a few years later with a more hardened resolve, recruiting Sloane and Gabriel.

After torching some local acreage and serving time for arson, they’d vanished from Fayette until the recent spree of murders started.

“He’s been planning this for a long time, Romeo. They knew how to hide; they’ve done this before.” Javier mutters, frustration simmering in his tone.

They’d tried running a partial plate of the truck, only to come up short once again.

Javier moves near the blinds, unable to keep watching her kidnapping, glimpsing the sea of people that make up their search parties gathered in their too small department.

The faces blur together, civilians and first responders alike, all waiting for direction.

“It’s probably best if you go to the hospital and get Harper’s statement. She’s cleared to talk, right?”

Romeo takes a beat longer to respond, clearly grappling with his own anguish. “Yeah. Got the official call ‘bout ten minutes ago.”

“If anyone’s got something to give us that can break this open, it’s her.”

The room is quiet except for the low murmur of voices spilling in. The tape finally ends and Romeo’s gaze falls to the corner of his desk, where a lone photo of Paloma sits; she’s grinning with his cowboy hat perched high on her head, radiating joy.

He stares at it like he’s trying to draw strength from that moment, then he slowly picks it up, pressing his lips together in thought, handing it over to Javier.

“Here. This is the one I used for the flyers.”

Javier swallows hard, taking it, his thumb grazing over the image, his own heart sinking. This is the Paloma he can’t let slip through his fingers, the one who belongs right here, laughing and safe. Not wherever she was now.

Romeo’s tone holds firm determination. “Do what you gotta do. For her. You understand me?”

Javier just nods, no words left to offer in the face of everything unsaid.

The sheriff lets out a long, heavy sigh, the kind that speaks of too many hours awake, too many close calls, too many second chances lost to bad luck or timing or whatever fate is left to them.

He grabs his jacket, slinging it over his shoulders, steeling his expression as he leaves the office, moving through the throng that instantly swells around him.

They close in with questions, worry, and hope—all of it colliding in one tense space.

Seeing them converge on Romeo, Javier takes a steadying breath and steps out right behind him, his presence commanding even in his silence.

He straightens, letting the authority in his stance speak for him, his gaze hard as he begins relaying their plan with swift, unyielding precision.

The world tilts and sways as Paloma returns to half-consciousness, vision still muddled from the drugged tea that has her head feeling like it’s filled with lead and limbs sluggish.

She’s seated upright in an ornate, over-decorated chair with her hands still bound in front of her. She tries to blink away the fog clouding her mind, but the red veil over her face continues to shroud her vision.

Her stitched wound throbs faintly, then suddenly, she’s being lifted and carried by four indistinct figures.

The swaying motion makes her sick, but she’s too weak to cry out, her voice nothing more than a ghost lodged in her throat.

She starts to feel the dampness of the humid Texas night pressing into her skin, the scent of flowers floating in the air, sickly sweet as it mixes with the distant smell of incense.

She’s paraded down a candlelit path where kneeling figures line the walkway, bowing in silent reverence. The sound of murmuring voices hums around her like a distant, dreadful lullaby.

Finally, the procession stops, and her chair is lowered to the ground.

Her surroundings feel unreal, like a fever dream she’s trapped inside. A dark shadow moves in front of her, reaching to pull her to her feet. She tries to make out their face, but it’s just a dark, hollow blur.

Her legs tremble as she takes a few shaky steps, guided by an iron grip that steers her from the soft earth to a hard surface. Somewhere to her right, she hears a voice—August's—so sharp that it almost makes her ears bleed.

“We have to capture this moment.”

Paloma’s body is positioned, hands adjusting her like she’s an ornament rather than a person. She can barely keep her knees from buckling, her body swaying as they try to hold her up.

Her mind is a mess, every thought tangled, every movement slow, as if she’s moving underwater.

She falls, just as she hears the flash of a camera, her legs finally giving way, but hands grip her before she hits the ground, lifting her, steadying her as her head lolls to the side.

Then, in one swift motion, the veil lifted from her face.

August stands there, close enough that she can see every cold line in his face, conforming into possessive delight.

He’s dressed to match her, red bows on his collared shirt, the same lace design on his pants.

Her skin crawls as his fingers trace the side of her face, his voice a leering purr. “My special little dove.”

He pulls her close, spinning her so that she faces their creation in her honor. The white marble gleams in the halo of the candlelight, surrounded by a sea of blood-red spider lilies, their spindly petals stretching out like claws.

Candles of every size and shape cast their shadows over the altar, illuminating the intricate carving of their emblem, miniatures and other offerings strewn about.

“All for you,” his lips brush against her ear.

The hands surrounding her are unyielding as she’s lifted and maneuvered onto the cold slab, the hard surface unforgiving beneath her back.

Her wrists are freed only to be tied again, the silk binding each one to a small stone pillar at each side.

Her ankles follow, strapped to the pillars near the end of the altar, legs bent slightly and spread, leaving her trapped and exposed.

Her breath quickens, each ragged inhale catching in her throat as the reality of her fate crashes down with brutal clarity. The red veil is drawn back over her face.

Tears blur her sight, mixing with the snot and sweat as she starts to sob, desperate cries spilling from her lips, pleas tumbling out in a desperate stream that echo out into the vastness of the field.

“Please… please, let me go. You don’t have to do this, please.” Her words come out strangled and slurred but she’s ignored. She jerks against her restraints, each movement growing weaker as the drug saps her strength.

August stands before his followers, his voice low yet electrifying, every declaration steeped in reverence and simmering triumph.

“For centuries, we have waited in the shadows, prayed in whispers, bound by oaths that our forebears swore. Those before us dreamed of this moment, yet they were weak, too fearful to claim what was rightfully theirs. We will not repeat their mistakes. The bloodline of the first, the birthing bloodline, flows through her veins, and she is ours. Eurynomos will have a body made of flesh and bone, a place in this realm, because of us.”

Paloma shakes her head side to side, desperate to block out August’s devious words. Just as a surge of strength flares within her, sharp fingers dig into her shoulders from behind, pressing her back down, anchoring her in place.

Through the haze of drowsiness, her blurred vision lands on Sloane, looming over her with a short, black veil shrouding her face. Beneath it, Paloma can make out an expression as evil as it is watchful.

“No more dreams. No more consuming or offering flesh that rots before dawn. Our devotion, our patience, has led us here. We are the last of our kind—the ones who bring forth the new age. Now is the time for fulfillment. Now is the time to step into the eternal night and bring our deity home.”

His gaze sweeps over the bowed heads, the flicker of candlelight dancing in his eyes as his words coil around them like a vow.

Sloane relinquishes her hold, seemingly fading away.

He approaches her slowly, each step deliberate, his hand drifting up the length of her body. His fingers come to rest on her cheek, stroking gently, almost reverently.

August leans in, his nose brushing against hers, and without a word, he presses his lips to hers, a slow, possessive kiss over the sheer material of the veil.

She wants to pull away, to resist, but she’s trapped within herself, her will slipping as though he’s holding the reins to her very soul.

When he pulls away, his voice lowers to a rhythmic timbre, the words twisting together in an incantation she can’t understand.

Each syllable makes her sink further into delusion, the compromising position heightening her vulnerability.

The weight of her own helplessness crushes her as she lies there.

Suddenly, the speaking stops. An unnatural silence blankets the moment, thieving sound until it’s just her shaky, pitiful cries. Even the cicadas quit their insistent chirping.

Paloma blinks, barely able to see through the veil, but she watches August step back until his figure is swallowed by the darkness beyond the altar.

She shivers as a chill wind flows over her body, extinguishing the flames around her and plunging her into the night, save for the heavy, luminous moon hanging full and merciless above.

Two glowing eyes flicker into view at the far end of the clearing. They hover, eerie and inhuman, watching her with a predatory patience.

A twig snaps in the shadows. Her breath catches. Another snap, closer this time.

Blood rushes in her ears, but above the pounding, she hears something else—labored breaths, thick and wet, the sound too guttural to be human.

Her body locks up and quivers as a shadow casts up to the very heavens, emerging from the backdrop of trees, its form towering and monstrous. It seems to stretch endlessly, merging with the dark sky above, as if it could reach out and seize the lunar sphere.

Paloma tries to scream, but her body is frozen, paralyzed in a state of unholy dread.

Her eyes widen, tears leaking silently, her throat closing tight as the figure moves forward.

The dark, hulking mass leans over her, and she feels something press down on her belly, then sharp claws caress her bare legs, creeping upwards, scratching at the sensitive skin of her inner thighs.

Her chest tightens as if she’s having a heart attack, fright coursing through her like poison. She can’t breathe, feeling herself teeter on the edge of consciousness.

Black spots swallow her field of view as her eyes roll to the back of her head, and in that instant, she’s slipping away, her mind yanking her away from this horror, casting her into the darkness of her own making as she loses herself, the terror too great to bear.

#pedro pascal #javier pena fanfic #javier pena fic #javier pena fanfiction #javier peña fanfiction #javier peña fic #javier peña x ofc #javier pena x ofc #narcos fanfiction #ppcu fandom #ppcu fanfiction #feels wrong tagging this as smut so i won't!

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artificialbreezy · 17 hours ago

Note

A MILLION TIMES YES TO A SNIPPET!!! 🖤🖤🖤

since you asked so nicely, anon.

a snip from Royal Oath is below the cut ◡̈

“Noah,” my breath was heavy. The weight of him was enough to make me explode. “need a condom.”

His movements stopped. “You’re out of your mind if you think the first time i’m fucking my wife is with a piece between us. Wanted to know what you felt like since you walked through the doors. You’re mine, little Rose. Permanently.”

His hands were everywhere all at once, slowly exploding my body that no one ever seemed to look twice at. “I promise you, no matter what happens. You are mine, I am yours and these rings on our fingers will never move.” His lips were pressed against my jaw, slowly moving down my neck. “I vow to do everything in my power to make your life worth living. To make the smile on your face never fade, to be the husband who fights for you. We will rule this world together, hand in hand. You are my queen, now and forevermore.”

“Noah, please. Need to feel you. Wanna feel you. Wanna know what it’s like to be loved.” My voice was barely above a whisper.

He rested his forehead against mine, “my darling, you will ever need to beg me to please you. It’s all I want to do in this life.”

#ask breezy #prince!noah #the royal oath #noah sebastian au

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saevus-brutalis · 9 months ago

Text

target neutralized.

do not pin, reupload, copy, use or claim as your own, thanks.

#i still think about him often #the OG is back in town folks 😤😤#welcome back you old dog #god i’m brewing up updated backstory/lore for him so hhhh stay tuned coz i might release it #can u see those wrinkles can u see how old he is #i think i reached the point where he finally does look his age #i finished this in january but was too lazy to shade guns and leg holster 💀💀#still counting this as my january piece so first piece this year woooo #i’m so glad i spent 15 mins rendering burn scars in his neck and arm only to cover it up with tattoos and blood #but i know it’s there so that’s all that matters 🖤#tried some more funky lighting and damn what’s that no transparent background with a rectangle in the middle? that’s some wild experiment #saevus brutalis art #oc: vincent elijah vahn #saevus-brutalis art #cyberpunk 2077 #cyberpunk 2077 oc #cyberpunk oc #male v #cyberpunk 2077 male v #cyberpunk v #cyberpunk 2077 art #brut art #cyberpunk 2077 v #cyberpunk #cyberpunk 2077 edit #art: vincent e. vahn

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acourtofquestions · 26 days ago

Text

Golden flame danced between her fingers.

Elide recoiled, and the fire vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

"My name is Essar," the female said softly. "I am a friend--of your friends, I believe."

Elide said nothing.

"Cairn is a monster," Essar said, taking a step closer. "Stay far from him."

"I need to find him."

"You played the part of his mistreated lover well enough. You have to know something about him. What he does."

"If you know where he is, please tell me." She wasn't above begging.

Essar ran an eye over Elide. Then she said, "He was in this city until yesterday. Then he went out to the eastern camp." She pointed with a thumb over a shoulder. "He's there now."

"How do you know?"

"Because he's not terrorizing the patrons of every fine establishment in this town, glutting himself on the coin Maeve gave him when he took the blood oath."

Elide blinked. She had hoped some of the Fae might be opposed to Maeve, especially after the battle in Eyllwe, but to find such outright distaste...

Essar then added, "And because my sister--the soldier you spoke with--told me. She saw him in the camp this morning, smirking like a cat."

"Why should I believe you?"

"Because you are wearing Lorcan's shirt, and Rowan Whitethorn's cloak. If you do not believe me, inform them who told you and they will." Elide cocked her head to the side.

Essar said softly, "Lorcan and I were involved for a time."

They were in the midst of war, and had traveled for thousands of miles to find their queen, and yet the tightness that coiled in Elide's gut at those words somehow found space. Lorcan's lover. This delicate beauty with a bedroom voice had been Lorcan's lover.

"I'll be missed if I'm gone for too long, but tell them who I am. Tell them that I told you. If it's Cairn they seek, that is where he shall be. His precise location, I don't know." Essar backed away a step. "Don't go asking after Cairn at other taverns. He isn't well regarded, even amongst the soldiers. And those who do follow him... You do not wish to attract their interest."

Essar made to turn away, but Elide blurted,

"Where did Maeve go?"

Essar looked over her shoulder. Studied her.

The female's eyes widened. "She has Aelin of the Wildfire," Essar breathed.

Elide said nothing, but Essar murmured, "That was... that was the power we felt the other night." Essar swept back toward Elide. Gripped her hands. "Where Maeve went a few days ago, I don't know. She did not announce it, did not take anyone with her. I often serve her, am asked to... It doesn't matter. What matters is Maeve is not here. But I do not know when she will return."

Relief again threatened to send Elide crumpling to the ground. The gods, it seemed, had not abandoned them just yet.

But if Maeve had taken Aelin to the outpost where they'd lied that the Valg prince had been contained...

Elide gripped Essar's hands, finding them warm and dry. "Does your sister know where Cairn resides in the camp?"

For long minutes, then an hour, they had talked.

Essar left and returned with Dresenda, her sister. And in that alley, they had plotted.

Elide finished telling Rowan, Lorcan, and Gavriel what she'd learned. They sat in stunned silence for a long minute.

"Just before dawn," Elide repeated. "Dresenda said the watch on the eastern camp is weakest at dawn. That she'd find a way for the guards to be occupied. It's our only window."

Rowan was staring into the trees, as if he could see the layout of the camp, as if he were plotting his way in, way out.

"She didn't confirm if Aelin was in Cairn's tent, though," Gavriel cautioned. "Maeve is gone--Aelin might be with her, too."

"It's a risk we take," Rowan said. A risk, perhaps, they should have considered.

Elide glanced to Lorcan, who had been silent throughout. Even though it had been his lover who had helped them, perhaps guided by Anneith herself. Or at least had been tipped off by the scent on Elide's clothes.

"You think we can trust her?" Elide asked Lorcan, though she knew the answer.

Lorcan's dark eyes shifted to her. "Yes, though I don't see why she'd bother."

"She's a good female, that's why," Rowan said.

At Elide's lifted brow, he explained, "Essar visited Mistward this spring. She met Aelin." He cut a glare toward Lorcan. "And asked me to tell you that she sends her best."

Elide hadn't seen anything that came close to pining in Essar's face, but gods, she was beautiful. And smart. And kind. And Lorcan had let her go, somehow.

#Chapter 23 #Kingdom of Ash #Sarah J. Maas #Elide Lochan #Essar #HoF #Heir of Fire bonus Chapter #TOG series #Throne of Glass series #another great Maasverse enterance — aka one of my favs in these books & this one got me — totally adding the chapter myself when I get HoF #no spoilers please first read to read along with me Pt3 of 4 perspectives w quotes/notes/reacts in tags below spoilers in both post & tags #Elide talking about keeping them safe even if at the prospect of Maeve’s hands which is worse than death yet Aelin did for months😭🖤#Rowans I did 2 weeks-shit-hurry & you didn’t break even when she feels she did-but she literally had Maeve in her head for months & didnt #To shield them from any eyes--those on the ground and above. — the raptors — Elides got a knife ok girl😅😂 but when they halted once more…?#Golden flame danced between her fingers. — AGHHHHHHHHHHHHH #My name is Essar the female said softly. I am a friend--of your friends I believe. — YES YES YES HOLY FUCKING SHIT FIRE WEILDER HOF AH #Cairn is a monster Essar said taking a step closer. Stay far from him. —she doesnt know who she’s just being kind I knew I liked her #how does Maeve not know about her? or does she? is that an issue with the fire? hmm… also does the color change per wielder? we need more!!#If you know where he is please tell me. She wasn't above begging. — for Aelin😭#Because you are wearing Lorcan's shirt and Rowan Whitethorn's cloak. If you do not believe me inform them who told you and they will.#They were in the midst of war and had traveled for thousands of miles to find their queen and yet the tightness that coiled in Elide's gut #I'll be missed if I'm gone for too long but tell them who I am. Tell them that I told you.-cairn u seek he shall be-ok riddler😅#Don't go asking after Cairn at other taverns. He isn't well regarded even amongst the soldiers. — well at least they all agree on that #The female's eyes widened. She has Aelin of the Wildfire Essar breathed. — how did she know? Rowan being there (cuz clearly love)?#Aelin of the Wildfire — the regard That was... that was the power we felt the other night. — what doesn’t matter?#Relief again threatened to send Elide crumpling to the ground. The gods it seemed had not abandoned them just yet.#Just before dawn Elide repeated. Dresenda said the watch on the eastern camp is weakest at dawn.-Dawn?Mala?the sister?! I love Essar!#Lorcan’s ex lovers oh sweet Elide😅😭🖤 then the she’s a good woman&met Aelin that’s why cuz they all luv her&the risk we take&Elides 1 line😂#yet he didn’t let you go Elide TAKE NOTE OF THAT BABES #We all go in. We all go out. — and so they planned…

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foxgloveinspace · 1 year ago

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Hulloooo! I just restarted my island last week! It's my personal nightmare currently but it'll get there. How have you been?

I’ve been pretty good! This weeks been a bit of a time cause I had cold that just completely zapped all my energy, but other then that, I’ve been doin pretty ok. Nothing to stressful or crazy and nothing too like.. exciting to talk about I guess, lol.

Hmmm, I think the most exciting thing that has happened is that I drove home from ‘the big city’ and I even drove in it, so like…. That was a bit crazy! Slowly getting there on the driving thing lmao.

I’m both really excited about starting over my ac island and like. Nervous lmao. I never really got very far in decorating it tho, so I’m looking forward to a completely fresh slate with it!

How about you? Anything cool, or just acnh (nothing wrong with that if it’s the answer tho 🥰).

#other then that.. my life has been taken over by sleep token (so please just blacklist them if you don’t like them cause I swear it’s all I #even post about anymore😭😭😭😭 I’m still confused about how I got here tbh.) and I’ve been knitting more again. and crocheting way more.#so that’s been my life oof #hihi!!!#kirishiimis #milo🖤#idk if this is.. like I just wanna be reassuring here but like I want you to know that.. like I still think of you very dearly as a friend #and I know you’ve been very busy with The Baby💛 but like I want you to know no matter the breaks you take I’m still here!#I hope that’s coming across the right way tho #I’m trying very hard to unmask my adhd and anxiety and just tell people things so I’m sorry if what I’m saying isn’t even making since oof #oh!!! idk if I told you this or not (oh well) my mom got a job so now I’m just.#constantly home alone which is cool lol. it’s been pretty good for my mental health tbh #hmmmmm. idk I feel like when people ask me for updates it’s just my hobbies cause nothing happens in my life anymore😂😂😂😂😂😂#edit: I did absolutely tell you about my mom getting a job… I think…… hmmmmmmm #eh doesn’t matter lol. I told you again🤷🏼🤷🏼🤷🏼

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atsu-i · 1 year ago

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#this post..is meant for the ppl who sent me ask #anon or not #ppl who reply to my text post sometimes #just to those who notice me somehow and just give me their time a bit #i just wanna say ty #to all those ppl #you guys have shown me nth but kindness and tbh I still cant believe i recieve but ty really #way before and up until now..i just...wanna acknowledge it now..coz I feel overwhelmed honestly lol #idk what you guys see in this blog and somehow the one who runs it #but ty for being kind always #i hope you stay being kind no matter how hard it is lol #just know that I appreciate the thoughts and yeah..just everything...#idk if am being dramatic rn lol but I just wanted to say this #anyway thats it. if you happen to read this...ty #have a nice day/night lovely ppl #it's gonna be the weekends again so hope you have fun ^^#tc and stay safe yeah? 🖤

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kavehater · 8 months ago

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Genuinely gonna cry cause I saw the most disgusting thing ( literally what’s new I get new traumas at least once a day LMAO )

#I’d rather watch gore #than see this #SOB SOB SOBBBB #ik I was saying stuff like girl kaveh we are married bla bla bla etc redacted + etc for good measure but today I realise I don’t mean that #because I feel like crying #I think I proved to myself none of this is very comfy no matter the gender LMAO anyways me and girl kaveh are still married I’ll just cry #as much if kaveh was a boy too as well as if he’s a girl 🤷‍♀️#astaghfirAllah I’m so annoying this makes no sense to you guys but I am in shambles 😭#dora daily #the “you guys” are the guests in my head the voices 😔🖤🥀⛓️💔#I was like in the past I might’ve been a tad fruity but turns out I was just traumatised and also I hate everyone equally #THIS REMINDS ME today my grandpa (😾) answered my dads call and I rolled my eyes so far back I saw my optic nerve #so cue covering my face as my dad was shoving the phone on my face while I was being verbally harassed into saying hi (I don’t wanna say hi)#so then my dad explains that I’m not an affectionate person and I dislike love because I don’t kiss him (firstly even if he was a normal man #I wouldn’t do it) and he went on to say I don’t even let my mum kiss me etc etc because I hate it #not only that it’s just I’m so sick of them all man 😭 I’m okay with hugs it’s just nothing I feel particularly inclined to #like I’ll do it if it’s expected but I’m like I dunno I wouldn’t feel an undying urge to ???#and then my grandpa was like the shocked pikachu face #yeah like I am never kissing anyone on the cheek all I want is to be left alone 😭#my dads shock when he realises I do in fact hate love when I’m 50 and unmarried #I can’t believe he as a man knowing what men are like expects me to want a guy #barf #and don’t get me started on how men talk about women like they’re in a cult and women are trading cards #like do they not get jealous 😭 whyre they like good on you bro you scored etc etc #I’m not explaining this right but I hope y’all get what I’m trying to say #damn fellas this one was a touch long #my apologies

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dadbots · 9 months ago

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Had a pretty fun weekend. :)

#dadbots.txt #For some reason the days are going by so slow compared to previously when it was rapidly passing us by.#In the same season nonetheless. This year will be different and I truly mean that when I say it. But I didn’t expect it to feel so… slow.#I don’t know if I like that or it’s somewhat temporary and will go back to being a quick blur and suddenly we’re in July -#- but it’ll take time getting used to… again. Guess it’s a matter of waiting and going from there.#Though I did have fun this weekend and enjoyed it as we start off February. Something coming up will throw it off balance for me -#- unfortunately. February isn’t a good month for me and hasn’t been due to personal matters. But I’m willing to just let all of those #memories and embedded pain to just… move on. No longer touch me. Somewhere in the breeze and I’m moving past it. I do have additional help #- now. so that’s extremely helpful than doing it all on my own for who knows how long. Fingers crossed for a better outcome.#Went to an open mic poetry event and it was so good as a new visitor to the location. Many of ‘em were centered around their own identity -#- and personal expression and I found myself relating to a few. Definitely when it came to one of the poem’s #around one’s transsexual experience. It was so so lovely and truly made my night moving forward :).#My memory is god awful so names and all that goes in one ear - out the other. But I’m hoping some of the poet’s will be back again -#- by the time I visit for another show. It was a nice way of finding some inspiration overall and managed to record it too.#But it just resonated w/me considering that i’m in the process of obtaining T. No guarantees when or how long. But currently is in the -#- works of getting that situated and—praying—to be qualified for it. Whew. Might take a while though.#Other than that just been in a creative mood and binging yakuza lately. And did a mini personal reading as well.#- so it’s been pretty well. Needed a weekend like this and I can say that I’m looking forward to more good vibes all around. 🖤

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loveanddeepthroat · 3 months ago

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Come Home

Pairing - Sylus x f!MC

Summary - Sylus has headed out to deal with some business, leaving you concerned for him as he doesn’t return when he told you he would. Fluff and a bit of angst. Sylus and MC aren’t yet in a relationship.

Word count - 2k

A/N - Hi! This is my first little one shot for LADS, and I hope you enjoy it. I do accept requests and look forward to writing more for this fandom 🖤

It had been hours since you last heard from him.

You tried to tell yourself that you didn’t need to worry. That he was more than capable and has always returned in one piece. That your worry is wasted on him anyway, considering the fact that you weren’t even supposed to like him.

But you felt sick.

It was almost impossible not to be concerned. No matter where he was or what he was doing, he has always been reachable. You’ve tried his phone so many times that the battery eventually gave up on your futile attempts and went to sleep—which is what you should be doing at this hour.

Mephisto had accompanied him on his outing, Luke and Kieran staying at the base with you under Sylus’s orders. They didn’t seem at all bothered by the fact that it was currently three hours past the time Sylus had told them he’d be back. They know him better than you do, but their constant reassurance did little to soothe the panic starting to show.

“Please,” you practically beg. “I have this awful feeling that something has happened to him. Please go and look for him.”

Kieran groaned at her, tired of having to repeat himself once more. “We already told you.”

“Boss’s orders are non-negotiable,” Luke chimes in from where he’s lounging in an armchair.

“He’d have our heads as soon as we walked out the door.”

You were becoming more irritated each second by their nonchalant attitude. They didn’t even seem to give a shit, and you weren’t currently in the right mindset to delve into why you gave so much of a shit.

He was a criminal. A man who had such questionable intentions and motives that you didn’t even want to know the bare minimum of what he got up to whenever he headed out alone.

If something had happened to him, however, you wanted names.

As poorly as your acquaintance with him had begun, you found him to be more intriguing with every moment spent in his presence. His likes and dislikes, his attentive nature whenever you’re around, the way he chooses a vinyl record based on the type of mood he’s in—even the way he dresses has you analysing his every six feet and two inches of pure, solid muscle.

He wasn’t bad on the eye, especially when he was looking at you. You couldn’t fully figure it out, but there was a very subtle tenderness to his presence when he was around you. Subtle in a way that didn’t overshadow his ability to be the biggest asshole you’d ever met.

“If you keep pacing like that then I’m going to throw up,” Luke complains.

You shoot him a harsh glare. “If you don’t like it then get out and find your boss,” you grit back.

With an exaggerated huff, he pulls himself out of his seat, stretching his arms over his head. You feel a glimmer of hope, only for it to be shot down almost immediately. “I’ll let you know if I pass by him in my dreams,” he teases, walking out of the lounge and towards his own room.

You wanted to drag him back and push him out of the front door, but the man could probably put you to sleep with a snap of his skilled fingers. Instead, you growl angrily as his chuckles sound from the hallway.

Kieran stood up, too, mimicking his twin with his stretching. He paused for a moment, and you waited for his addition to his brother's teasing.

“He’ll be back,” he assured, surprising you. “If he’s not back by morning, we’ll figure something out. Just go to sleep.”

He doesn’t wait for a response from you as he follows after Luke, both of them turning in for the night. Sleep sounded like pure bliss, but you weren’t going to be able to do so.

You couldn’t even sit down, your legs automatically taking you around every single piece of furniture so many times that you were starting to get dizzy.

“Please come back,” you chanted quietly to yourself quietly, if only to keep your pacing on track and your mind alert.

“Please come back. Please come back.”

You weren’t sure how long it had been, but as soon as you heard the front door, you bolted for it on unsteady legs.

He came in quietly, which was completely overshadowed by your crashing into things on your way to get a visual on him. You practically fell through the door that led to the entry hall, where he looked only mildly bewildered and wholly amused.

There were no visual signs of any injury, but light blood splatters dotted across his white shirt, indicating an altercation. Mephisto sat happily on his shoulder, cawing as soon as he laid his mysterious little red eyes on you. The damn bird was never too happy whenever you were around.

Sylus raised an eyebrow at you. “Expecting someone?”

That asshole.

He dropped off the face of the earth for hours, and had the audacity to greet you with sarcasm.

Before your brain could warn you about the threat of putting your hands on him, you sprang forward, striking his chest with the palm of your hand. Then again. And again.

It was pathetically weak from your exhaustion, and he didn’t so much as blink as you assaulted his blood-spattered shirt. Mephisto, however, took to fighting back immediately, pecking at your hands and screeching.

Sylus shooed him away quickly, and the mechanical crow reluctantly took his leave. He proceeded to just stand there as his winged companion flew away, entirely unbothered by your outburst.

Your movements were quickly faltering, the already feeble slaps to his torso becoming far and few between. Still, he did not move. Did not speak. He was the most feared man in the N109 Zone, and he was letting you lash out on him.

Your hand finally stopped on the lapel of his coat, gripping it for a second to catch your breath. He waited for you to finally take a step back, your arms crossing over your chest immediately so you could fully close in on yourself. You were certain that your little outburst was going to bring some repercussions.

Unable to fight it, your bottom lip started to tremble. You had been walking around that lounge for so long that you had convinced yourself he was not coming back. That the wrong person had finally found him and gotten the better of him.

And you just know what he would’ve said if you indulged him in that speculation. What a silly little thought, sweetie.

He closed the space between you, your head automatically dropping to avoid his crimson gaze. You couldn’t bear it, the anticipation of what he was going to do. Your ass was likely headed back to Linkon on foot.

Warm fingers curled beneath your chin, lifting your gaze back up to his. He was towering over you, but you strangely didn’t feel intimidated. All you could feel was his warmth, and your wave of emotions crashing into their withering barrier.

His face gave nothing away as he studied you, still holding your trembling chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Are you finished?”

He didn’t ask it sarcastically. He was giving you an opening. If you weren’t, he’d allow you to resume until you got it all out of your system.

But you were done, your arms feeling like jelly to the point that crossing them was taking a big effort from you. You nod, feeling wetness pooling in your eyes. This all felt ridiculous. He didn’t owe you phone calls or explanations, you both barely considered each other friends.

The surprisingly soft pad of his thumb brushed gently across your shaking lip, his eyes following the movement. “I’m sorry.”

In any other circumstance, those two words would have shocked you enough to make you fall over. But you were a little too far on the delusional side of exhaustion, your body running on the fumes of your panic.

Your eyes flicker away, the wetness tipping over the edge and dripping off of your lashes. He turned your drifting head back to him to lock eyes with you again. He never did like it when you broke his gaze.

“Things got a bit out of hand,” he explained quietly, not needing an explanation for why you were so upset. “You shouldn’t worry.”

“I wasn’t,” you lie, earning an amused chuckle from him.

He brushed his knuckle across your cheek to rid you of your tears. “No? Why else would a kitten get her claws out, then? Did Luke and Kieran forget to feed you?”

You scoffed at his teasing, following his lead back into the ease of your strange companionship. “They’re terrible babysitters,” you say, sniffling away the last of your upset.

He smirked, moving his hand to cup the back of your neck. He pulled you towards him, embracing you gently with a deep inhale. You almost swore he was smelling your hair, but you shut that thought down. It was far too complicated for such a tired mind to dwell over.

It wasn’t the first time you’ve both embraced, but this instance did feel quite different. It felt comforting, rather than nerve wracking. Nobody embraces a man like Sylus without at least a modicum of fear beneath the surface.

“You could have called,” you whispered. “Or…or at least answered my calls.”

He sighed, the blow of breath tickling your hairline. “There isn’t a good signal where I went tonight,” he explains. “I should have mentioned that. I didn’t want to call once I did have service in case you were sleeping. I apologise.”

An overwhelming warmth filled your chest, different to the one emanating off of his body. You look up at him, lifting a hand to his forehead. He humours you by allowing it, his eyes trained on yours as you felt the cool skin beneath the hair falling over his face.

“Are you coming down with something? You’ve apologised to me twice now,” you say, half serious.

He didn’t laugh or tease, his face slipping back into that easy nonchalant expression. “I assure you, I’m not coming down with anything. I could ask you the same thing, though. Since when did you become a worrier, kitten?”

You didn’t know how to answer that. It was something you yourself had to figure out. Caring for him wasn’t on your bingo cards when you first met. If anything, the very first day you met, you’d have been relieved if he hadn’t returned.

“Don’t get used to it,” you murmur, his smirk returning at your half-assed response.

“I’ll try, but I do get attached,” he whispers, tucking your hair behind your ear. He looks as though he’s contemplating something, and it takes a moment before he speaks again. “I’ll get us some better communication devices. Something you can carry around that I can alert you on.”

A slight sense of guilt washed over you. “No, it’s okay. You don’t need to be concerned about my insecurities, I shouldn’t be keeping tabs on you.”

Sylus shook his head, his mind already made up. He taps a finger against your temple. “My concern about what goes on in there is for me to deal with. If some better technology eases your troubles, then it eases mine too.”

There it was. That side of him that kept you so very intrigued and made you feel a sense of…home? He often used words that didn’t m quite mean the same as his intentions, but you could see it in him.

He cares.

He rubs a firm hand up and down your back before turning you around, lightly pushing you away from the front door.

“It’s about time we got some sleep,” he says, barely above a whisper.

You let him guide you through the halls, his lips dropping to your ear as he whispered again.

“Feel free to monitor me.”

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taegularities · 4 months ago

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entertainer | jjk (m)

Summary: Growing singer Jeon Jungkook is as charismatic as he is self-absored – that is, until he meets you. Caught in a web of secrets, he finds a riddle in you he urges to solve; even ready to turn the spotlight towards you until nothing remains… but regret.

➳ pairing: Jungkook x reader ➳ rating: 18+ ➳ genre: strangers to lovers (or something); angst, bits of fluff, smut!! ➳ warnings: do not fall for this jk i repeat do not f– 🚨 he's kinda hot though; (not so) silent yearning, flirting, a shit ton of sexual tension, sexual fantasies, some jealousy from his side, he is very VERY attracted to her, mystery, oc is a big question mark, full jk pov!, difficult past(s), (mention of) sexual harassment, mentioned past death of a side character, crying, fear, manipulation, confrontation and fighting, aggression, cursing, cocky and selfish kook, overthinking, secrets and revelations, explicit sexual content: kissing, fingering, teasing, drunk shenanigans, sooo much lust, big dick jk, dom jk, oc is odd, oral (f. receiving), spit stuff, handjob, manhandling, orgasm delay, lip ring…, light choking, bit of hair pulling, a spank or two, coming on oc, some cum tasting mmmh, ass stuff, protected sex, rough sex, various positions, masturbation; as always THE ENDING!! lmk if i forgot something!! ➳ wc: 32.4k ➳ a/n: MHMMM, it's finally time!! i experimented with the trope a little; def not a professional when it comes to this genre, but i tried my best. both oc and jk are odd in this one, and you might be on either's side and hate either of them, i can't say :'D very curious tho, so come and drop a message to lmk what you think. let it aaaall out :P <3

➳ listen to the Entertainer playlist! 🖤

TAGLIST | MASTERLIST | WIPs

Jungkook has always wanted an audience to perceive him.

Not just to perceive him, in fact. To worship him.

Jungkook doesn’t consider himself a bad person. Spoiled, a little selfish, but not necessarily bad. He enjoys attention, no matter how temporary or who the giver of it. Feasts on it like an incubus.

What’s wrong with that? Nothing.

Or.

Maybe there is. Maybe he’s coming on too strong.

Because you’re not part of his audience, sitting over there, middle row, middle spot, with your eyes lowered to the notebook. And when you do look up, there’s nothing but indifference in your eyes.

It irks him. Maybe he is a little narcissistic, and maybe he can’t quite deny it after all — but as part of his future team, you should at least fake a smile, right? Display a certain amount of enthusiasm, the joy of working with aspiring artists.

But no.

You’re occupied, scribbling into your notebook. Jungkook, cognisant of the fact that he hasn’t issued much of significance today, understands that you cannot be taking notes of his words. And he also understands that… if that is true…

You’re not granting him as much fascination as he’s used to.

General admiration thrown into the same bucket as his unwavering talent — that he’s well aware of — might just be the reason he climbed up so high in no time. Sometimes, gentle livestreams and vlogs do the trick — locals have found reasons to adore him already.

At times, a good song and strong vocals aren’t necessary to woo people.

Jungkook, however, is insatiable — that’s what keeps him pondering at times. That it’s just the locals, and on an international scale, there’s still much to achieve.

But he’s not a quitter, he’s a conqueror.

And he’ll reach that mind-boggling status of a well-known, global icon, name flowing as naturally through the seam of people’s lips as a still-lying, tranquil lake.

Jungkook knows it’s cocky of him to praise himself to the skies and to rely on his resolute hopes so much. He knows life backfires sometimes, and that endeavours don’t always pay off. He only started as an insignificant city boy, too.

Survived the cruelty of elementary and middle school; shared a room with his brother, relying on him until he grew and learned to finally rule over high school; every single soul at his beck and call. Then, trudged through college before any of where he’s standing even existed.

But he’s here now. And people acknowledge it.

Except you.

And it throws him off his balance. Which is probably why he shortens the end of his speech, close to slurring distracted syllables before he realises he’s forgotten a prepared sentence or two.

No matter; the relevant and main message should have been delivered by now.

So he leans back in a chair in the back, flashing a captivating smile and waits for the applause. Somewhat proud when the praise needs a moment to cease for his manager to reclaim the mic, freeing the metaphorical stage, much in the form of a simple pult, for the CEO of the company.

Taehyung is savvy of how to regain control over a stage; Jungkook doesn’t know whether he fucked up his final remarks, but Taehyung summarises his ideas well. But the clapping does say a lot.

And between those raising their hands to appreciate Jungkook’s speech, you were, too. He knows because he looked directly at you; still is. And when your eyes drift to his, the two of you hold each other’s gazes for at least a couple seconds longer than the others.

And your smile, while present, is somewhat tight-lipped, a bit awkward but confident, too. Odd, as well; hard to explain, but as though you know what you want. As though you have your priorities set straight and cannot be swayed by anything the world might throw at you.

He doesn’t have a word for it. Poised? Self-reliant? Fearless? Can a single look even say this much or is he being delusional?

But this can’t be true, honestly. Nobody is this unperturbed or passive. He’ll find out.

Your stare aligns with his a couple more times over the next minutes, staying there before continuing the journey over the crowd. Jungkook’s eyebrows twitch just a little whenever your eyes pierce into his, so tantalising and deep, big sweet ires, but so conniving at the same time.

He doesn’t know your name, but he’s sure that it defines intrigue. And maybe, just perhaps, it might serve as the synonym for drop fucking dead gorgeous, too.

When Taehyung leads you to Jungkook’s stuffy studio, the latter hears your voice through the open door several seconds before you come in. Or actually, it’s not quite his studio.

More like a collective office that a couple of the newcomers use. Jungkook has been part of this crew a little longer, but he needs the additional success, more prosperity; he’s been told to yield more results to earn his very own four walls. Carrying his signature flavour.

But it’s okay. For now, this suffices…

The stench of coffee and the sound of the AC. The pot and plants that always rest in some corner of the room, courtesy of Taehyung who insists on some colour in the grey-white, small room. Jungkook has gotten used to it all.

Which is why it’s strange, seeing your splendour enter the small space, delighted by whatever Taehyung might be explaining. Your grin is the widest Jungkook has seen since yesterday.

He didn’t get to meet you properly yet, so he can’t say where your humour lies. Nobody introduced you, despite your new position as his very own, personal work partner. A second manager, here to guide and aid him when Taehyung can’t; and apparently, you’ve found some charm in Taehyung that you didn’t see in Jungkook during the stupid meeting.

Not that Jungkook would ever dare to doubt his friend’s appeal, but you’ve stormed into his life like a present, and so silently, too; and he wanted to be the one to open it. To reveal it.

Not Taehyung. Even if it’s his job.

Okay. Calm down. Jungkook sighs. That again.

A motherly blanket of praises and fatherly pats of pride. That’s what’s gotten his head so riled up. He was coddled too much as a child. Made felt special. That’s over now, Jeon, you’re in an industry filled to the brim with competition.

Chill chill chill.

But now?

With that alluring smile staring up at Taehyung, only hints of it left when your eyes move to Jungkook. Fuck.

But Jungkook’s stance remains steadfast and self-assured when he greets, “Hi there. Welcome at last, huh?”

Jungkook notices when your mind snaps out of the conversation with Taehyung and into the one he started; a gentle hand frees your face off your hair to enable a proper view to it. The other is still dug deep in the pocket of your leather jacket, covering parts of the white top underneath.

Semi-long, silver earrings rest right below your ear, against your neck when you tilt your head a little; your expression so respectful and inviting when you smile. Jungkook inhales you in that one split moment, details stinging into the eye without much effort.

And perhaps he’d observe more, appreciate your stunning, obvious beauty and elegance further; but time passes as it does before you finally utter your very first sentence to him, “Hi. Didn’t think I’d ever be saying this, but… thank you for having me.”

That’s sweet.

Your words are reminiscent of the adoration his fans grant him, but your expression is as cool as a refreshing autumn wind. The perfect balance, possibly.

Jungkook gestures to a small couch in the back, right next to the door, but you raise a rejecting hand, claiming, “Been sitting all day observing Taehyung. Need to walk a bit.”

And you do. Deliver a last farewell nod to Taehyung who waves a little, gripping the handle and locking you in the room with the younger man nearly drooling over you.

The hand hidden in the jacket before has emerged, arms loosely folded as you take in the interior of the studio, allowing no more insight into your thoughts than, “Nice.”

Jungkook hums in distracted agreement, standing at the wall, watching you roam around the humble space in small steps. It’s odd, being in here with you; the atmosphere fizzles, a little less like electricity, just a bit more than carbonic acid.

But the moment was to arrive anyway; you’ll be a close link to Jungkook from now on. Of course you need to familiarise yourself with his space, too. So far, you seem to have an opinion on it already.

“Easy to trigger claustrophobia, but,” you walk through the open door to the darker recording room, tapping the mic for a moment, “cosy, too. Very cool equipment.”

“Yeah. I agree.” Pause, eyes dropping to your fingers grazing the stand of the mic. Then, “I would’ve come to you today… or yesterday for that matter, but things were so chaotic and—”

“Oh, don’t worry,” you assure, waving his concerns off, “I could see people rushing around and preparing the moment I got here. I’m probably not the main concern right now among everybody.”

“Nah, that’s not it. We have a great team here.” You step out again, hands folding behind your back until you’re leaning against the wall opposite of him, mirroring his stance. “I’m sorry you arrived at such a stressful time, though.”

“Not your fault. I decided so myself fully knowing you were in the middle of something.”

Ah. So you’ve seen his interviews, read the news. You came here with sufficient knowledge about him, alright.

“Really though,” you continue, blinking slowly, “I’m just glad to be here at all.”

Ah. Yes — about that.

“What brought you to our company anyway?” Jungkook asks, coating his voice in sugar to decrease the risk of unintentional and prying rudeness. “I mean — it’s been a while since somebody joined the main team, is all.”

“Oh. What brought me here…” You slide down the wall just a few inches, staring at your feet before you meet his eyes again. Something flashes in them for a miniscule second, albeit too brief to be caught and analysed. Then, you say, “Sentiments?”

Jungkook gathers words of confusion the moment you utter yours, a question already on his tongue. Has he been here long enough to evoke sentiments in his followers? Or do you veil a whole different connection to this company than he might understand?

Who knows. It doesn’t feel too deep, at least, when you speak again, elaborating when his eyes reveal his bedazzlement before he can, “I mean, I like your work.”

Okay. So much he interpreted; and he must admit — the feeling of pride is a thoroughly unique one.

“I think you’ve been deserving of your growth, and I just,” you speak, shrugging your shoulders, digging one heel into the solid ground, “I could never stop thinking of what I’d say or do if I was here or how I’d try to help, even though I’m not a true musical genius like you.”

This is so excitingly new.

How poised you remain as you talk about your fascination for him; how carefully you choose your words. He’s met fans before, but he doesn’t think any of them has ever practised such control over themselves.

And harbouring such emotions for a tiny little celebrity like him while simultaneously treating him like a human being is an art you’ve well mastered. Despite Jungkook’s urge to feel loved and worshipped to a dependent degree, you’re an incredibly attractive change in pace.

Ugh.

Dependent degree.

Although, he does wonder what you’d be like if you fawned over him.

Jungkook contains the fantasy; suppresses his sigh.

“So,” he starts, “you’re here because you’re a fan.”

“Mmmh. Kind of. My friends started it and then pulled me into this. Honestly, at first I couldn’t imagine ever getting into your stuff.”

Your gaze moved down to your trainers a mere moment ago; whether to hide your expression or give into a habit, Jungkook can’t say. But the honesty surprises him; even stings a little as he voices, “Oh?”

Your head shoots up, lips forming a circle before you imitate, “Oh. Wait. That was… pretty rude.” You seek confirmation or denial in Jungkook’s eyes, and when his slightly wrinkled forehead, tight-lipped smile reveals the answer, you immediately opt for an apology, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“How did you mean it then?”

“Just that.” You fiddle in your position, bringing your digits to waist level. Then, you laugh; a rhythmic sound. “Okay, don’t hate me, but. I was one to judge a book by its cover, and you had this young adult too-confident-too-sly something about you. But your music’s surprisingly sentimental.”

Jungkook halts for a moment, moving his head to side-eye you; producing a hoarse Uhhh before he admits, “I’m not sure whether you’re complimenting me or fully destroying me.”

Another lovely laugh. “I am complimenting you. To be fully transparent, I was probably, uh, biased? Because my friend. They have a knack for usually pulling very questionable men, so I probably just didn’t entirely trust their intuition.”

“Fair enough. I guess?” Jungkook matches the softness of your giggle, nodding towards you, “And now you do?”

“Mmmh, well, we’ll see.”

Jungkook must be stupid. Of course you won’t be able to deduce much from the first meeting yet; perhaps the flirting needs to slow down for just now. You seem the patient kind; much like now, letting the quick silence prevail without much struggle.

No sign of awkwardness surrounds your aura; only a hint of… suspicion? Flashing into your eyes when you let them move through the room again, freezing right next to Jungkook’s head. You’re not looking at him, but at something past him; but you don’t question nor voice anything.

Merely return to his stare with a smile, and he uses the moment to pour some courteous manners into the mix, asking, “Do you want something to drink? Coffee, water? A Red Bull?”

But you immediately raise a hand, shaking your head, “Oh, it’s okay. I’ve already got caffeine flowing there instead of blood,” you slide a finger along your arm, indicating a vein under your layers, “I just mainly came to say hi and to introduce myself. And to ask if I can help anyhow.”

“Ah… well, uh,” Jungkook halts mid-sentence, throwing a look around as though he’s searching for something to appear before he concludes, “don’t think so. I was in the middle of some production work, but don’t think I need much.”

“I see. Okay! Then I’ll leave yo—”

“But,” Jungkook intervenes immediately, adamant on keeping you around. Maybe he can wrap up work earlier today? Bring you home? Probably not — not on Taehyung’s watch. “Maybe you can tell me what you think once I’m done?

“Of course. It’d be my pleasure.”

“Would have an excuse for your company, too, then.”

The laugh that follows is so subtle that Jungkook barely hears it. It doesn’t leave your throat, stuck in there, just a tiny sound reminiscent of amused bafflement.

Jungkook knows his way around words — understands what his utterances and implications usually apply. But somehow, not too many people have been the calmer ones in the room; aside from his superiors at work, not having the upper hand is new to him.

So you set a fuse loose in him; destroy a nerve in his brain, changing up his communication habits. Because he certainly did not mean to say this out loud. And not in such a sense either.

He adds quickly, “I mean, it gets lonely here.”

“Right…” you concur, albeit weakly and with somewhat… entertained mystery in your eyes? He can’t say. It’s as though you’re wearing your face as a mask, undecipherable. “I get it. Even though your studio is cosy enough to enjoy your own company at times, right?”

“Not mine. But we’ll work on that.”

He cards his fingers through his hair, aware that he is probably more than an open book right now; his usual perfect poker face does not work with you.

Why?

Weird.

“Got a couple things here that are mine, though. Yoongi and the others allowed me,” he adds.

“Ah… Like…”

Surprisingly enough, you take another look through the tiny room, possibly trying to detect something you didn’t see before. Regarding details. Then, you settle next to his head once again… and once Jungkook moves his eyes off you for the first time since you came in, he sees what you see.

Which is to say, nothing much out of the ordinary. In fact, the most trivial thing in the room.

“Like that?” you voice, pushing yourself off the wall to near his relaxed body. The scent of your perfume wafts through the room before you’re close enough; tenderly grazing his senses. “What’s that?”

Focus.

Your finger points to the object next to him, hanging at a nail at the wall; dark blue with white letters on it. Pretty mundane, pretty basic design.

“Just… a cap I bought back in college.”

You read out the name, pronouncing it perfectly, yet slowing down as if you’re learning a new foreign term. The sudden inquiry is strange, too: you don’t seem as truly curious about it as your question did; perhaps you’re playing for some time with him, too?

He wouldn’t hate it if you did.

“Do you know that one?” he questions.

You nod; a main hint as to why you wanted to know, yet indicating that the knowledge wasn’t of much significance. You say, “Isn’t it a popular one? I had a few friends who went there.”

“Hm… yeah, I mean. I guess it’s a known one. I got a degree there in broadcasting and entertainment like… four years ago.”

You exhale a barely audible puff of air before you whisper-murmur the most infinitesimal, petite, “Damn,” underscored with one indecipherable tilt of your head. He can’t see your eyes too well, so the reaction remains as transparent as you have been thus far.

Until he raises a thick eyebrow, confusion hidden in a somewhat relaxed yet awkward smile as he wonders, “What?”

“Hm? Oh, nothing, just. It’s impressive how much you’ve achieved in just four years, right?”

“…Well. If you say it like that, it does sound pretty neat.”

The bubble of pride expands alongside his ego; right beneath his chest. Somehow, the feeling changes his posture, makes him feel bigger.

Perhaps you notice what your praise elicits; perhaps you’ve already fathomed his persona that he usually doesn’t dare to reveal this fast. But whatever he conceals with his fans, lies in front of you with an open access.

You make it easy to feel comfortable; he doesn’t need to know you too long to acknowledge this much.

“I graduated not too long ago, too. Three years?”

“Oh… then look at you,” Jungkook compliments, using the moment as an excuse to examine you further; head to toe and back. Your legs are crossed, upper body and face confident, but the position somehow delicate. Hm. “You’re quite awesome, too, don’t you think?”

“I mean— took a while to get here.”

“Right. So what have you been doing during this time since graduation?”

Whatever distraction you have found in the cap seems to break as you silently forage your brain for a response; possibly attempting not to divulge too much. And your answer is accordingly hesitant, though never dubious.

“Saving up? Preparing for life, I guess. And waiting for a good opportunity.”

For what? Do you usually keep your statements in fragments?

He prods, “To do what?”

“Well, to do,” you gesture to the wall in front of you, albeit clearly hinting to the situation, “this. Hoping to change everyone’s lives around here.”

You smile wide, the joke obvious as can be, but Jungkook can’t help but think that you might not be too far off. Unique minds alter brain chemistries; there’s something unforgettable and magnetising about them, and Jungkook steadfastly believes his intuition that you might just be one of them.

For the first time ever, he murmurs your name, delighted by how easily it melts on his tongue. It falls out breathier than he intended to, but when you tilt your head, the intrigue in your pupils inexplicably matches his tone.

He adds to your name, eyelids drooping just a bit, “So… you’ll turn out a long awaited surprise, huh?”

And you, against all expectations, lean in for just a minimal, not too inconsequential moment, hands back in your jacket. It’s a playful, harmless motion as you move back on your heels, then steady yourself again, bodies and faces still far away. You could’ve just as well given him a pat on his shoulder.

But there’s something in the way you look at him, tempted and ominous at the same time. He can’t say what you’re thinking because every feature in your face implies something different.

Even more so confusing what methods for success you came into this company with when you finally say, no pretext or further clarifications, “I really do hope so.”

“Do you come here a lot?”

Everywhere he goes, the lights are bright.

The white walls in the rooms of the company building reflect the sun in the summer and maintain a sense of optimism in the winter. They’re what Jungkook imagines waiting halls before Heaven to look like.

Then the fluorescent vibrancy in his apartment. And the sunlit sky, albeit cold in this winter, giving way to the planetary system’s star through the floating, parting clouds.

Even this modern art museum with its complex design, winding staircases, glass walls and high ceiling. It lets through an abundance of light, unaware of the balance Jungkook usually craves.

Dark and light — a healthy mix.

It’s why he cherishes the comfort of the recording studio so much. Its dim walls and the silence, so unlike the hallways outside of it. Or why he prefers his apartment unlit, often merely allowing the few lava lamps to illuminate his rooms.

But again… it’s only a balance he usually craves.

Today, he doesn’t mind the brilliance.

Because you’re part of it.

Clad in a beige long-sleeved cotton top, slight turtleneck included. It doesn’t fully cover your neck, still revealing a mole similar to his. It’s tucked into your light brown skirt; your legs are covered in sheer tights, crossed. A gentle hand holds the strap of your bag. Light academia at its finest; somewhat soothing, and somewhat radiant.

You look at him with an initially neutral expression, surprised that someone spoke to you, but more relaxed when you realise it’s him.

“Oh,” you voice; the faintest autumn-tinted smile tugs at your lips. “Hey! I, uh…” Your gaze flits to the painting in front of you, then back to him. “Not at all actually. Which… surprising.”

You gesture towards him before you grant him more of your silky voice, asking, “Do you? Come here much?”

Your eyes are indecipherable to him, cheeks dusted in natural make up. All the damn time, you sport this relaxed, unbreakable mask, and he can’t quite guess what you might be thinking about.

It’s so easy with anyone else. You’re like a scene from BBC’s Sherlock, embodying Irene Adler’s mystery.

But maybe your guard can be broken, too.

“Not really,” he admits, “only when pretty people are around.”

A weak attempt, but it makes your eyebrow cock in amusement. He knows you are, because the hint of mischief that scurries over your face resembles his own.

“Ah, and you happen to know when pretty people are around. Or did you follow me here?” you, however, ask.

It’s an obvious inquiry, but weirdly enough, he didn’t expect it. You exhibit the first sign of a proper, humane emotion. Delivering three quick blinks, voice quiet, suspicion swims in your eyes, slightly irritated.

Or even… scared?

You can’t truly be.

So he backtracks, slightly angling his head. He sighs — hiding how much his lungs crave a breath of air. He doesn’t want to scare you off just yet.

“No,” he defends, “of course not. I was just joking.”

“So… I’m not pretty?”

Oh. Oh?

Perhaps he misinterpreted your expression. Perhaps you’re merely a good actress; messing with him as he is with you. The smirk suggests this much, at least.

Perplexed, he holds his breath before letting out a choked laugh; the head tilt and click of his tongue carry a sliver of scolding before he admits, “That’s pretty frustrating, I won’t lie.”

“I’m just kidding, too. It’s a big exhibition. I expected a familiar face here.”

Why is there something so devilish about you?

He can’t say; maybe he doesn’t need to. Maybe it’s enough to join the game, to be just as cocky and see how you react.

Perhaps he’s being selfish and too certain of himself, and in the worst case, he might just be imagining the tension buzzing between you like sparks off an electric fence. But does he have anything to lose, really?

Barely ever.

“Then,” he begins, “is it a good face?”

“All the art around us and you want me to admire you, huh?”

“…The art won’t be mad if you do.”

Jungkook is bold, he’ll admit. He hasn’t always been — he remembers a time spent in the back of classes, preferring to eat lunch alone. Did college tug him out of his shell? Was it senior year?

Then again — did that one kill the timidness in his heart or rather the last shred of humanity?

Maybe his cold matches yours, too. Is that why he feels so drawn to you?

Because you’re as bold as him; you don’t sugarcoat words and thoughts. And Jungkook appreciates the honesty, the ingredient to actual success — even if it’s achingly direct.

Like now.

You uncross your legs; your hips move in an elegant curve, and Jungkook attempts his best to keep his eyes off the arcs of your body. Focuses as you say, “You shouldn’t be flirting with a coworker, Mister Jeon.”

“Wait. I thought we were warming up to each other. Don’t demote me from Jungkook to Mister Jeon now.” You chuckle; that’s something, right? “Besides, I was just conversing. We need to spend all our time together now, so better get along, right?”

Right. Right; of course he’s right.

But… what is that?

It lingers for the faintest of moments, just a glimpse of an unspoken feeling, gone with the next blink. In this crowd of unsuspecting visitors you’re the closest to him physically, but your thoughts are miles and centuries away.

“Maybe you’re right,” you still say, as if whooshing away all unwelcome sentiments, “then I should not… dodge your conversation, right?”

“Sure.”

“Behave, though.”

He’s so confused — but not deep in this enough to question it. So he merely shrugs his shoulder before he responds, “I have been. I can converse, alright.”

“Right.”

“Like… first of all,” he steps closer, raising a hand, gesturing for you to walk on as new admirers of the modern piece approach, “tell me, have we met before? Feels like I’ve seen you somewhere.”

You halt in your steps, but immediately resume to the stroll when a stranger nearly bumps into you. “You’re doing it again.”

He’s honestly not. The aura surrounding you like an ominous fog is omnipresent and eerie, yet… you carry a sense of familiarity. But you’re a presence too distinct to ever forget.

Which doesn’t help his case.

“Yeah,” he still agrees before potentially embarrassing himself, kissing his teeth, “sorry. I’ll stop.”

“Why are you the textbook definition of a fuckboy, honestly.”

“Fuckbo—”

“Nevermind.”

If he wasn’t well acquainted with this little game, he would’ve missed your subtle, nearly veiled intent to tease. But he’s done this a million times before — hence, catches the faint twitch of your gorgeous lips immediately.

You’re enjoying this. So he should join… right?

Yet.

You’re not being entirely insincere. In fact, he hates how he picks up on the note of truth in your velvety voice.

Trimmed nails scratch the back of his head, and he barely notices when the two of you halt in front of another piece. Distracted, he doesn’t bear the art any mind, instead asking, “You really think of me that way?”

You shrug a shoulder. Nonchalance a constant feature, but so natural, even somewhat gentle, that he can’t help but feel drawn to you. “A little.”

“Well, shit.”

“Don’t overthink it. Enjoy the art.”

“Sure.”

Reluctantly, he glances to the canvas. It’s a mess of hues; a random arrangement of spontaneous emotions. Resembles the masterpieces he used to create in Microsoft Paint, back when his legs would still dangle off the chair.

“Then,” he starts, nodding towards the painting, “what do you see in this?”

You hesitate. Or maybe it’s not hesitation — more like… a thinking pause. Sometimes, when Jungkook notices a whirring mind, he sees a steaming brain through a skull. Working at full blast.

But somehow, he only sees a calm ocean as he observes you gather your thoughts. Everything about you is gentle, but wrapped in dark mystery. How much mental training does it require to become this inscrutable?

When you finally speak, you’re saying similarly strange things.

“I see… colours.” Right. Stating the obvious. Jungkook chuckles, delivering a head tilt. “And am wondering how the painter got to create this at all. I mean, this looks so meaningless at first, doesn’t it?”

“And it’s not, yeah?”

“We’re fast to think that. Most of the time, there must have been a trigger, or a thought about something, no matter how small. Something might have been bothering him. This is—” A soft hand gestures towards the painting. “Such a chaotic mind.”

Interesting…

“Is this what you usually think about all day?” Jungkook wonders.

You scoff. “I’m just a person, too. I think about a lot of random things.”

“Ohhh. Like what?”

“Like… seeing all the green in this exhibit made me realise how this colour makes me cry.”

Jungkook takes a haphazard look around. Now that you say it — there’s no hint of a nature theme, but the abundance of green is striking now. It’s as calm as you. No wonder you’d immerse yourself in a showcase such as this.

You continue, as if tracing and reading his mind like an open novel, “It’s soothing, right? And unique. These earthly things sometimes make me feel like not all of us are deserving of seeing such beauty. Like it should be reserved for those who earn it.”

Earn it? How?

Jungkook can’t see your thoughts as clearly as you’re apparently capable of doing, but he has an inkling of what you might mean. Truly dazzling souls merit the stunning bloom of the world, right?

And then…

If that’s what it is.

He wonders — do you think he deserves to see the colour green? Or is it already over if he has to ask? Perhaps, should he be perceiving it as grey right now? He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know how you think of him — doesn’t know anything about you at all. You’re a tough nut to crack.

“Hmm… that’s a way to think about it,” he says.

“Only because it’s the same for people. And I’ve had this thought about humans a lot… I…” You hesitate, blink, and then grant him your stare. “I knew someone who was the colour green. Not everyone deserved them, either.”

Poetic minds carry a certain pain in their eyes.

He’s been seeing it in yours. He just doesn’t know how to handle it. So he doesn’t.

Instead, he asks, “What else are you thinking about?”

“Uhmmm,” you voice, straightening your back a little, as if waking up from a dream — nightmare? “I’ve been thinking about trying that, too. Painting, I mean. It doesn’t have to mean anything or be good. Just a great way to capture something that resonates with what I feel.”

Every word you’ve uttered today was otherworldly. You didn’t talk like that when you were in his office, or at the meeting. Your soul is somewhat free-floating here, and he doesn’t understand why.

And it’s a behaviour he usually strays away from. The vulnerable ones can be dangerous.

But somehow… you’re too strong of a magnet.

One who shrugs all the mystery away — and he sighs in despair. Maybe it’s not time to find out what you feel just yet. What resonates with you — even though he’s dying to hear it.

He inquires, “Are you always this open?”

“No. Not at all.” Of course not. Rhetoric question — he knows this much. “But I like thinking out loud sometimes.”

“I’m glad to be a sounding board then.”

“Yeah. I was also thinking how I appreciate that I met you here.” Pause. Oh? What a surprise. Out of the blue, too. Strokes his ego, though. And then, unexpectedly again, “You wanna go to the museum restaurant?”

Jungkook has barely seen half of the exhibition yet. But just for today, he couldn’t care less.

Perhaps it’s enough for now, sitting in this overpriced restaurant, watching you from afar as you inspect your nails calmly. You’re not busy on your phone like the rest of the crowd — entertained by the same media that he’s part of.

Maybe he can be a bigger part of their lives one day — be the one flitting over their screens, the one they adore. The one they worship.

But you don’t seem to indulge in those mind-numbing devices for now. You might be an addition to his team, but privately, you float in your own world. Distracted by the thoughts you won’t disclose.

Your hands retreat, arms crossing on the table and lips curling into a smile once he strolls back to you. Satisfied, he informs you, “One cake with the coffee. As the lady suggested.”

“Oh,” you make, “don’t you want one?”

“I do.”

“So…” You stall, and he waits until it clicks, your head tilting in understanding. “Are we sharing?”

Jungkook lifts a thumb, pointing over his shoulder, back to the register, “Those chocolate cakes are sweet as heck. I’ve got a sweet tooth, but believe that it’ll be enough for the two of us.”

You laugh — a sweet, disarming chuckle before you breathe an, “Alright.”

Jungkook doesn’t know you well enough to feel any skip in his heart; yet, you stir something else in his mind. It’s always people like you who intrigue him the most — those who veil themselves in a coat of secrets.

He sighs.

“That was fast,” you note, eyes at a point behind him.

And he understands when the waitress arrives a couple moments later, two perfectly prepared lattes and a mouth-watering chocolate fudge slice. You thank her with a gentle smile, tuck a hair behind your ear, fingertips grazing the dangling earring.

And he watches.

Watches as you nod towards him, urging him, “Start then.”

Observes your smile as he signals you to start instead. And he gazes at you as your delicate digits reach for the fork, tearing off a piece, wrapping your lips around the utensil.

And then… God.

He feels his guts twist; hears all background noise fade; blood rushing away from his head, through his body as you slowly relish the sweetness and then drag your tongue over the fork. Licking away the leftover chocolate.

Jungkook swears it happens in slow motion. And witnessing your elegance at snail's pace… makes him sick.

When your eyelashes flutter, gape lifting to meet his, the sounds around him come alive again — as does he. He averts his stare from your mouth, covered in the same colour as the coffee, but you notice.

You see him looking. And it makes you… smile? Shit.

But you don’t boast your effect; only digress as you say, “Well… tastes as fancy as it looks. Try it.”

You’re as relaxed with him as you can be. But you always are; with everyone. He craves that bit that’s only reserved for him — then again, maybe he’s too zealous too fast. He hasn’t known you for long.

But making you smile must be an achievement. If only… you didn’t think of him like…

He nods, and then leans over the table ever-so-slightly. His knees brush against yours, a soft but deliberate move. He places an elbow on the table, grasping the fork, close to you. If he lifted his hand, he could touch your cheek.

He wishes he could.

His eyes meet yours through his bangs, the cake’s taste irrelevant to your presence. And when his ego doesn’t let him relax, he finally asks, almost as if insulted, “Do you actually perceive me as a fuckboy?”

The question catches you off guard. You hesitate, furrowing your eyebrows, and then giggle before questioning back, “Jungkook… it’s bothering you this much? Mmmh. How would you like to be perceived?”

“Just. As a decent guy who wants to get to know you. And I know you know.” You blink, but he doesn’t buy it. So he elaborates, “I’ve been trying to make clear that I find you lovely. And somewhat attractive.”

People usually display a flicker of glimmer in their eyes upon hearing such praise. But you don’t quite budge; in fact, your eyes remain the same, if not a little darker. Why?

Yet, you cock an eyebrow, sporting a teasing, playful tone, “Somewhat, hm?”

He shakes his head, clicks his tongue. “You’re pretty and I think you know,” he blurts, “and I don’t want to screw up right away.”

Is it the habit of never failing? The urge to solve an enigma? The chance to dive into you until you’re bared to him? Why are you so interesting to him?

You’re just a person.

Maybe it’s just the unsettling need to discover what you’re hiding — it won’t let him rest in peace. There’s something about you that screams to him to unravel. Makes him want you more.

He doesn’t know what it is. Doesn’t know if you’re even from the same world as him — even though you seem to have crossed his realm before. No matter what it is; Jungkook merely understands for now that he wants to take off your layers.

Wants to be the colour green for you.

“Ah—” you voice.

“In fact, I’m not supposed to hang out here with you.”

“…How come?”

“I should be with Tae,” he admits. Maybe he’s revealing more to you than he should — maybe he should adjust to your level of secrecy and wait. But this is frustrating him. “He dragged me here, so I could get inspiration from all sides.”

You listen; perhaps not quite loving the idea of seeing him in such a way?

Fuck. Maybe it really was a mistake. No turning back now, though.

“He said artists find motivation in art, too, and I do like to paint, so…” He looks at his cup, still left to be tried from, and then stares up from the cream leaf that the barista formed in his coffee. “I didn’t wanna come here, though. I already have an idea of what I want to do.”

“And…” you start, still not addressing the issue on hand; choosing to talk about something else for now, “he doesn’t like what you’ve come up with?”

“I don’t know. He doesn’t know about it yet.”

You take a sip of your coffee, softly smacking your lips once to relish the taste. You’re living proof that subtle gestures can make a mind race. Then you say, “Maybe you should introduce it to him then.”

“I will. Just… mmh, need a better grasp on it.” He throws a nod towards you. “I can’t wait to show you either.”

Another sip of the seething liquid.

If the gentle hint of him being bent on your presence flatters you anyhow — stirs anything in you at all — you don’t let it show. Are you, by chance, used to being swarmed from all sides?

Are his advances kindergarten to you?

You don’t budge as he waits for you to respond, setting the cup back on your saucer before you inquire, “Where is Taehyung, anyway then?”

“Uh, I’m sure he’s going around admiring the art?” Jungkook guesses, head reflexively moving to the side, as if his friend and co-worker could materialise out of thin air. “He enjoys it even more than I do.”

“And you separated from him because…”

Because Jungkook ascended a spiral staircase. Because he turned right and halted in front of the second instead of the first room. Because he recognised the familiar curves and edges, as intriguing as ever, from this far distance.

And told Taehyung to continue without him; that Jungkook was going to explore a different corner of the museum.

He tilts his head; his left eyebrow raises just a twitch, fingertips tapping the hot surface of the coffee cup. And then, charisma gathered in the middle of his pupils, he tells you—

“Because I found you.”

There it is.

The slightest of reactions.

Your eyes widen barely an inch, but he sees it. How your lips part a bit, even though you should’ve expected his answer after the conversations hitherto shared. Hm…

“So you did follow me,” you say.

He can’t say if you’re joking or not. But all of a sudden, he wonders if he’s creeped you out. He opted for flirting so clearly, but… maybe you interpreted it vastly differently.

But he keeps himself relaxed; not faltering now when you aren’t either. Answers, “If you want to call it that. I call it finding you and then sticking with you. You’re interesting, Miss Manager.”

You smile.

Genuinely, thoroughly, wholeheartedly.

The beam reveals more than any word could’ve today — that humanity slumbers somewhere in the crevices of your heart. Your eyes suggest it as much as your stance on art did.

Whatever might have scarred you in life, behind all that ache, you hide a delicate soul.

Green, green, green.

And your cryptic worry, uttered a moment later, doesn’t bring him down from his sense of victory. No. Not now.

“Yeah?” You cross your legs, letting out a breathy sigh. “Then I sincerely hope that doesn’t change.”

[6:43PM] Jeon Jungkook: i’ve been thinking about something. and of you

For a bedroom as sparsely decorated and light-coloured as Jungkook’s, he should be surrounded by a brilliant glow. And usually, he is.

The windows occupy half of the wall, the bedsheets a perfect white; had he texted you a couple hours prior, he would’ve found himself in the gleam of a pale blue late winter sky. But if he’d tapped your name on his device earlier, he would’ve indulged in a whole different mood, too.

Wouldn’t have given into fatigued, delirious fantasies. Daydreaming about the curves of your lips and about the single strands of hair kissing your cheeks. Or the way you love exposing your neck, as if to taunt him.

It’s right there, but you can’t touch it, Jeon.

And…

And the mounds of your chest, slivers of it visible whenever you put on those heaven sent dresses. Their cuts are almost as deep as the ones damaging Jungkook’s brain. And not much for the sake of his sanity, the thirst isn’t quenched just yet.

Crossed legs badly hidden under your see-through tights. The movement of your hips when you walk into his studio, placing yet another gruesome schedule onto his desk. Your scent when you lean into him, pointing to another meeting he barely recalls.

You… you…

If Jungkook hadn’t already cleaned up the sloppy mess previously covering his knuckles, trickling down his thighs, he’d possibly give into the urge to sneak his fingers back to where he craves them to linger.

No, you made that mess.

Of his sheets, of him. And you never needed to be here in the first place.

Jungkook is no fool — unlike many of his friends, he doesn’t deny the way his body winds. He knows what he wants; and right now, he hungers for you. Wants you to eliminate the drought on his tongue; wants you to replace it with some taste instead.

“Fuuuuck.”

The word drags into the emptiness of the room, filling the silence that someone else should be lifting. But you’re not here, and you’re not answering. Not yet, at least. Has it been seconds or minutes?

Too long, is all he knows.

His digits are cleaned thoroughly, but he can’t shake the persisting feeling of sheer, dirty lust as they reach his phone again. Lighting up the screen, then curling inwards in frustration.

He repeats the desperate attempt of manifestation a couple times until he throws the device aside, nearly missing the mid-air vibrations, indicating the long-awaited message. Jungkook’s heart falls out of his ribcage and squeezes his guts; your name elicits far more than it should.

And he feels just a little guilty.

Because he doesn’t deny himself any pleasure — so he knows this isn’t love. This isn’t starving for emotionality. Not for sentiments. What you pull out might be his ugliest, beastliest side; his mind is filled with images of you that he shouldn’t be having.

You’re so respected. So tender and kind. Intriguing, a riddle, but inhabiting secrets probably far darker than his thoughts. So he feels odd about the wanton desire; feels guilty.

But just for a bit. Just a little.

The message you sent back is too humble, too innocent. Sometimes he reckons you’re aware of your power, and sometimes he assumes you think of yourself as… ordinary.

But you’re not. And he wants to show you.

Just one touch, please.

“Fuck, shut up, you creep,” Jungkook whispers to himself, scolding his treacherous mind before he reads again.

[6:52PM] You: Oh? Why would you be thinking about me? Of all people?

Should he wait? You did, too.

Or should he make as crystal clear as he can muster that he’s been waiting for you?

Screw it.

[6:53PM] Jeon Jungkook: what else should I be thinking of?

Your next response is immediate — you’re online. Waiting for him to answer.

Good.

[6:53PM] You: Your music?

[6:53PM] Jeon Jungkook: my music doesn’t talk to me as much as you do these days

He smirks. Keeps the beam plastered to his face until the waiting becomes a little too long. Message on read, you leave the chat room empty of you and full of a nervy Jungkook. He opts out of it the same second, keen on patience before it fades again, bit by bit.

Because then, the thoughts flood in.

Are you rolling your eyes? Throwing the phone into a corner of your couch? Has he fucked up before anything could start?

But it’s been going so well. You talk to him every single day. Ever since the museum, the two of you have been orbiting each other; partly due to work, partly because he’s caught you smiling, too.

Your words are too sickeningly often accompanied by a soft touch of yours against his shoulders; against his arms. Sometimes, you brush his back, his eyes wide awake, the smile timid yet crushingly losing against your confident gaze.

All this must mean something.

“Nah. Fuck it,” he mutters again, sighing over his own constant use of curses. “Come back.”

[6:55PM] Jeon Jungkook: actually… I did come up with one tune. It’s just a skeleton of a song tbh, but I need a sounding board.

It takes another one minute for you to come back, and Jungkook angles his legs, relying on the movements of his body to ease the impatience. But then—

[6:56PM] You: Oh, and? [6:56PM] You: Sorry, I had to step away for a sec

Sigh of relief. Even though embarrassment annoyingly adds itself to the mix, an uninvited guest.

[6:57PM] Jeon Jungkook: …do you wanna come to the studio?

[6:57PM] You: Right now? It’s like… [6:57PM] You: 7pm

Unconsciously, Jungkook shrugs his shoulders, unbothered to the bone, just craving, craving, craving…

[6:57PM] Jeon Jungkook: a true artist never rests. [6:57PM] Jeon Jungkook: and I’d rather die than stop hustling for my passion

As the next message appears at the bottom of the screen, Jungkook can’t help but bite into his lower lip with a certain pride. He nods as if he caught his prey, trapping it between his fangs.

[6:58PM] You: 😂LOL. now that, I admire, mister Jeon :) [6:58PM] You: I’ll finish my wine and be on my way

Oh.

Are you tipsy? Maybe he’s reading too much into it, but the emoji seems so unlike you; yet, you somehow manage to capture the core of what and who you are in the rest of the message. Six coherent words. That’s all it takes.

Goddamn.

You’re so thoroughly you.

[6:59PM] Jeon Jungkook: wait. really?

And that’s it. You disappear.

Perhaps you’re joking; perhaps you’re messing with him. The sun has already set; and he doesn’t think he’s ever stayed with you much longer than dusk before.

If he met you in the evening, or on other nights, would you make more sense than you usually do? Are you the type to unravel when the world quiets down? Or the one to blend with the darkness more, drawing back further?

If there’s pure truth in what you just said, devoid of all mockery you could revert to… he might find out. And it seems you’re in the right mood today, earnest with your intentions when he feels his phone vibrate against his thick thigh again, making him flinch.

[7:11PM] You: Yes? I’m already dressed. Get your ass up

Oh shit.

Despite your order, his limbs still shut down. His muscles and bones melt into the bed, a fleeting image of your sly smirk crossing his mind and an assured voice surrounding his eardrums.

And if he didn’t overthink each of your movements; didn’t fantasise about the possible rise and fall of your voice, he would’ve discarded his phone and gotten dressed a lot earlier.

How embarrassing.

The fact that his mind doesn’t want to categorise this as a crush, no matter how much he asks. That his body responds to you like that, superficial and intrigued.

Embarrassing. He should focus on more important things.

Yet, he can’t be bothered with the intruding sentiment, shame shoved aside and trampled under his feet as his car turns into a parking lot, perfectly in front of the building’s entrance. Your form is crystal clear in the dark; not even the shadows and lack of light can hide your silhouette.

The radar sensor beeps when he creeps too close to the hood of the car behind him, and he mumbles a curse, averting his eyes from your unmoving self to focus on proper parking. Letting the roaring engine die.

Your shoulders are slightly raised when he approaches you at the door. One hand is stuffed in the pocket of your thin, baby pink coat, the other curled into a fist, possibly resisting the urge to enter the building and combat the cold.

You could’ve waited inside, too. Unless…

Maybe you’re excited to see him, too.

You smile, lips reaching far up; he tries his hardest to believe he’s right. Takes the gesture as a good omen, and the hair pulled up in a loose bun as a sign of hurry. You look domestic, comfortable in your skin, no matter who’s around.

But somewhere between the comfort and the softness, there’s that everlingering intrigue, too. And… some timidness. Showing in the crossed legs his eyes drift over, up to the short skirt barely visible underneath the coat.

And your face… so natural. More than usual. Mascara only? He doesn’t know.

All he knows is that he needs to say something.

“Hey.”

“Hi,” you throw back, tilting your head in tease, “where were you? Took you long enough to get here.”

He steps closer; fiddling with his jacket’s pocket, fishing for the keys. And his proximity changes something about you so subtly, a miniscule movement. Hand digging deeper into your coat.

You’re on guard for some reason. And he can’t help but admit he’s on guard with you, too, albeit in a less physical and more mental way. The unfathomable, dichotomous sensation of wanting you near, wanting you far is killing him.

What are you hiding?

If he could, he’d speak it out loud.

“I had to freshen up,” he finally responds, “I honestly didn’t expect you to say yes.”

Your body might be in protection mode, but your voice is as composed, even somewhat amused, as always, “Well.” You shrug your shoulders. “I don’t see why. But I’m here now, and honestly… a little cold?” Nodding towards the door, “Should we go inside?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

He sniffles, fishing for the chip to unlock the door. For an ephemeral second right before walking inside, your breath lingers incredibly close to his own, grazing his lip ring. “Don’t forget to dress warm this season.”

Near enough for his fingers to succumb to the impulse and sidle to you, skimming your thigh so featherlightly. He thinks he hears the sharp inhale you suck in. His skin tickles, the shiver icy on his body. He watches you smirk, lowering your head; his fingertips insist on the vicinity just for the tiniest seconds before he says,

“Okay. Let's go inside before you catch a cold, silly.”

But the bitter frost permeates the hallways of the company in the same ruthless manner. Perhaps somebody’s still lingering around in the daunting dark. Revising steps in the mirrored practice rooms or hovering above lyrics and tunes, neck bent and back tired.

But the building isn’t heated; and it shows in your rather quick steps, an arm wrapped around your chest to rub the layers above your arm. The guarded demeanour doesn’t match your usual confidence; aside from the hollow hallways, it seems that you’re scared of more than just the cold.

He doesn’t point it out. And he doesn’t stare for too long.

If he did, you might realise.

Instead, he saunters to the elevator with you in tow, delighted about the light that never changes in the small rectangular space. You let your hand drop to your purse, lazily toying with its zip, and turn your head to observe the closing doors.

And Jungkook observes you.

The glow of your cheeks in the bright beam, half of your face devoid of the hair tucked behind your ear. As you breathe in, your lips split a fraction, and their gentle, soft curves mesmerise him for a moment too long.

It’s difficult and cruel, being around you. Haunting, agonising, aggravating.

And when your eyes align with his again, sparkling a little in line with your tender smile, Jungkook realises that he’s been holding his breath. Because it escapes between the seam of his mouth in a sudden push, his knees nearly buckling.

He resists the urge to bite into his fist, instead disguising his thoughts when he covers his mouth, teeth digging into his plump, lower lips.

“So,” he quickly adds, leaving no space for you to question his eccentricity, but you initiate another convo in the same tiny second, “It’s…”

You pause, withholding your statement in order to listen to his. But he shakes his head, lifting a hand to sign for you to continue. So you say, “It’s a little scary here at night.”

Okay. Not that tough of a topic.

“Right?” he confirms. “I always imagine getting here and hearing a hum that’s not really there.”

“Uh…” You blink in disbelief, lifting your eyebrows, but when he shrugs your confusion away, your hesitation marker turns into a chuckle. “Why the hell would you say that?”

“It’s just something I imagine. It’s terrifying, but my mind goes places, and I never ask it to.”

“Well, it’s a mean thing of your mind to do.” The ding of the elevator distracts you, and when you step out, your thoughts remain at an afar spot. Kept inside your pretty little head until you whisper, “And? Have you ever heard it, then?”

“Hm? The hum?” You nod, and he suppresses the snicker your curious, cocked eyebrow nearly elicits. “No. Only myself. Humming helps me control my breathing, so I do it to practise.”

“Weird. It’s so different from how I’d imagine you.”

Huh. Seems he’s not the only one sketching your entire being to keep himself awake at night.

“How would you?” he asks.

“As a rockstar?”

“Oh?” That’s new. “As a future RnB slash pop sensation I find this officially peculiar. Why a rockstar?”

You cock an eyebrow; either digesting the confident prophecy or pondering his question. The crooked smile matches his own signature smirk a little, and you puff out a breath before your sombre yet sparkling eyes wander an inch further down, right to his mouth.

Your eyelashes are endless, on their way to brush those delicate apples of your cheeks — in reality, it’s an impossible fantasy written in novels and poems, but it’s exactly how it looks. Exactly how much your curious gaze drops.

Only, the tingling sensation in his chest soon subsides, freeing a path to the realisation that he’s yet again misunderstanding. Because you’re not drawn by his lips, but rather considering a response.

He sighs in subtle disappointment when you point to the shiny metal encircling his lower lip, telling him, “Gotta be the piercing.”

“Ah. Ahhh. Well. First off, this is a very stereotypical assumption.” You shrug your shoulders in amusement, watching him cram for his chip until he halts in front of his studio, keeping you in his vision. “And secondly.”

The lock of the door clicks as he swipes the chip across the reader, defined knuckles paling a bit when he pushes the handle down. He raises his chin by a fraction, pulling out the most-assured smile, and asks, “Do you like it?”

And you, composed as ever, respond, “It suits you. I always wonder how comfortable these are, though.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, like. Do they have a metal taste? Do you ever get hyper aware of them and then get annoyed and want them off? Are they… cold?”

He laughs. There’s something endearing about how your voice quietens further the more your curiosity grows. You’re not quite looking at him, pupils focused on a random spot, hands expressive as you vocalise your thoughts.

“Let’s see,” he mutters, jacket thrown over a chair, “sometimes and, again, sometimes. It feels a bit cold right now because it’s cold outside. I mean…”

He rubs the chill off his tattooed arm, fingers diving under the short sleeves of his white, oversized t-shirt. Attempts never faltering, he leans into you in intrigue, parting his lips before running his tongue over the jewellery.

“Do you just. Wanna touch it and find out for yourself?”

You blink, frozen in place.

The room isn’t too spacious; Jungkook will get his very own studio, name tag and all once he reaches a clear peak. For once, he’s glad about the crowded room, girded by a guitar on the wall, chairs standing side by side, a little couch leaning against the back of the wall.

As ever, he can’t decipher your mood; as ever, you’re still quick to answer, “I… no. It’s okay.”

Why don’t you want him?

Goddamn it.

“Okay,” he simply utters, shrugging his vexation away. “Let’s get started then.”

The excitement in his tone dips, seemingly aloof, but as he walks into the dark square of silence, reaching for the headphones he placed right here mere hours ago, wordless curses dangle off the tip of his tongue.

He makes sure you don’t see the clench of his jaw or the fast and steady fall of his ego, but you’re shoving back the chair and adjusting anyway. Crossing tight-clad legs as you place your coat on your lap, throwing your mane to one side to free that damned neck.

It must be on purpose.

He waits for you to settle, the headphones on the table in front of you enveloping your head. They look way too big on you, and Jungkook can’t decide whether to tut at his anguish or swoon at your stellar being.

Jungkook uses his headphones to communicate through the glass, raising a thumb to ask, “Ready?” You nod, matching his gestures with your own. “Be honest, how professional do I look?”

Carding the fine hair back, he pushes a hand into the pocket of his pants, taking a stand in front of the boom microphone. He mimes a typical grimace of an immersed artist, letting out an immediate, sweet chuckle that you chime in joyfully.

You lean in, long earrings brushing your jaw, pressing down the button for the talkback mic to assure through the intercom, “You look like a born star.”

He rolls his eyes, playfully clicking his tongue, “Ahhh, that’s a nice yet basic thing to say, but. I’ll take it.”

“Why did you go in there anyway? Weren’t you just going to show me a song?”

“Adlibs, baby. I’m still missing those.” He adjusts the headphones again, clearing his throat, almost in position. “But I didn’t warm up my voice, so I’ll need to re-record them anyway.”

“And still you’re straining your voice because…?”

“We’re here to impress you, so let me.”

Your finger lifts off the button, but the movement of your lips suggests to him undoubtedly what your teasing self might be mumbling.

Oh damn. Sorry then, boss.

You raise your hands in defeat until you detect his beguiled smile, raising your eyebrows in a clear question that he answers with two words; a simple title of a song, not as glorious as the tune itself but hopefully as memorable.

Eyes scurrying across the now opened laptop screen, you search for the instrumental until you stumble upon it. 3:54 minutes of what Jungkook prays to be blasted everywhere in a couple week’s time before the big concert, chiming in his ears.

The initial guitar riff drowns the room in a mixture of intriguing anticipation and uncurbed sentiments immediately. Jungkook’s eyes dart to your face, attempting to decode a reaction. And when you notice, hands on the headphones, you nod approvingly.

Most of his vocals are already recorded to perfection; a silky voice laments about a lost time with purity. Jungkook largely listens in, searching for wonky bits or moments to be re-tackled. Of course, he will need to discuss the details with Taehyung tomorrow, but whenever the passion burns the hottest, he can’t help but add an adlib here and there.

As he sings, his eyes reflexively close, and for a couple dozen seconds, the melodic current pulls him towards a bigger ocean; the sense of freedom and possibility is astonishing. There’s a certain ardour he feels towards music that nothing will ever be able to elicit.

Do you feel the same?

As somebody spending day in, day out surrounded by musicians, does that phenomenon make your heart surge, too?

Maybe.

When he looks at you again, it’s at least something fervent he detects in your gaze. A bit like the longing he feels. Intense fondness, or perhaps, even zoning out — until you’re barely blinking anymore.

Your features relax a little more as the song proceeds, bit by bit, the calmest when the ending notes arrive. Jungkook observes you; freezes at his spot. The change from the built-up chorus to the suddenly calm ending, instruments dying, are as forgotten as the last touches… because you, behind the glass, are much more interesting.

Just staring. Looking at the screen, its brightness reflecting in your pupils. When you blink again, most of the preceding smile is gone, something indecipherable in your eyes.

He doesn’t know whether you actually enjoyed the entire thing or became consumed by memories he doesn’t know of. Some the song might have drawn out but shouldn’t have. There’s… a past in your stare.

He knows because much like the vast existing humanity, he’s been tending to faraway memories for years, too.

And he wants to know about yours.

Gently, Jungkook grasps the headphones covering his ears, the mane victim to the impact before his fingers fix it again. He frees his eyes off his strands, never directing them away from you, and when he opens the door to the small room you drifted off in, you look up.

Your emerging smile is unsuspecting and polite as always, and you deliver a tilt of your head. Jungkook could sign the previous oddness off as just this, or a sinking into arts just as he does sometimes.

But what’s enough is enough; brushing questions off his mind has become tedious.

So he rolls back the second chair next to you to take a seat, placing his arm on the one of the furniture before folding his fingers; leaning in, asking, “You okay?”

You react with a soft nod, a tender hum, “Yeah! I was listening.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course.”

“You zoned out.”

“Which is a good thing, I promise.”

Jungkook looks for a moment. Waits for you to break or admit that the truth you display might not be as pure as you think; waits for his instinct to wind up correct.

But when you do nothing of that sort, eyes a resolute and solid statement, he sighs. Tongues at the lip ring for a moment before he clears his throat and questions, “Good thing, yeah? What else do you think?”

“It… goes deep,” you confess, an impressed declaration in your expressions, “what are you talking about in that one? I mean, I know, but… it sounds so personal.”

“More or less? I’ve spent most of the last few years dedicating myself to this job. The training, the late night sessions, the failure and lost time. I wanted to depict those hardships.” He nods, emphasising his points. “I want this song to help me look back one day…”

He shrugs his shoulders, thumbs slowly circling around each other, “And comfort my older self that despite the hectic life, things are okay.”

“I see.”

Your tone is neutral, but your chest rises and falls a little too slowly. Your sorrow is quiet. He closes the distance further, nudging your arm, “Hey. Did you not like it?”

“I did,” you defend, honesty and reassurance in your voice, “I do. You have an amazing voice, come on, what’s not to like. And the sound is incredible. Should you manage to release it, it will be celebrated a lot.”

“I will manage to release it,” he says with furrowed eyebrows, resisting the urge to touch your elbow again, but settling on simply calling your name instead, “you’re part of my team. Let’s be optimistic.”

“I am. Teamwork makes the dream work. Etcetera.”

“Right,” Jungkook breathes, word close to a yawn. He throws his body back in the cushioned chair, manspreading as much as the space allows; stretches his arms until his muscles crack. “Ahhh… I really want this to be good.”

His gaze falls to the darkening laptop, soon giving way to pitch darkness, potentially to some screensaver. The title of the song remains still in the opened audio file, and he smacks his lips, blinking only when you voice an approving, “Mhmmm.”

His head darts to you the moment you deliver a subtle nod towards the computer, deducting, “You really strive to be big.”

Well, yeah. That’s been the plan. Always, always.

“Shouldn’t I?” he argues. “It’s a dream.”

“It’s good to have dreams.”

“That’s right. Mine is to… Stand on a bigger stage. I think I’ve reached a solid group, but I think if I keep working hard and with the right team, I can make it?”

“This determined, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he responds with a hint of obvious self-evidence, slight confusion shadowing his mind — have you never wanted something so badly? “The audience’s eyes glued to me. Don’t you have a dream?”

Another deep inhale of air, chest working hard, as if you’re breathing out fatigue. He prepares for another vague answer that might leave him guessing; and albeit clearly seeing the usual curtain veiling your true thoughts, what you say next makes his ears perk up.

“Honestly. I’ll allow dreams again once I’ve moved on. That’s all I want.”

What?

Did you actually want to say that? Was it on purpose? A slip of the tongue?

Because it seems so unlike you. Reveals too much. He doesn’t think you’ve exposed your innermost thoughts like this before, even if still not quite transparent.

“…From what?” The previously relinquished distance dies when he inches closer again, digits sneaking close to your knee. A fingertip floats over your tights. “Hey. Is something bothering you?”

“Ugh,” you say; the sliver of sadness seamlessly transitions into an expression of nonchalance when you wave your concerns off so quickly. “Young adult stuff.”

Nevertheless, you speak on. The biggest development in this friendship between the two of you yet. “I once had a friend that moved away. We were pretty close, and now she’s far away. Which sucks.”

“I’m sorry.”

That’s it.

Jungkook offers to listen, but he doesn’t necessarily deem himself the most expressive guy when it comes to emotions like these; even if he so deeply wishes to read your thoughts. Music is different; speaking to an audience is, too. Articulating gratitude isn’t as difficult as extinguishing someone else’s grief.

And while not quite confronted with anguish, he houses demons that still haunt his nights; he can barely obliterate them.

Maybe he doesn’t need to.

Maybe he can comfort you in the only way he’s ever known. The stupid, selfish way; offering relief and distraction in the most sinful manner.

“Listen…” Jungkook starts, but in all honesty — there isn’t much to say.

Only to crave. To look.

At the curve of your lips. The distance between them. The bare wrist needing to be held, tired eyes wanting to replace the sorrow with something else.

Is he an asshole for wanting to annihilate your heavy breaths of dejection and replace them with sighs of his name instead?

He doesn’t know. He barely hears his thoughts. Only the blood rushing to his ears, and then away from his head, down his body.

Fuck.

The levitating finger drops an inch; you gasp almost inaudibly when the tip touches your knee, skin separated by the tights only. Jungkook loves fashion choices like these, but hates the hurdle right now.

His warm palm opens, placing right above your knee, approaching the meat of your thigh. He knows you’re not breathing because he can’t hear the exhales; and when his eyes, hooded and possibly insane, flit up to you, he recognises the change in your pupils.

You gulp; and then finally push out some air again. Your hand moves to his inked wrist, touching lightly, unsure what to do. But when you don’t resist, his other arm lifts, touch moving to your face, holding it.

The world spins, moving like an earthquake as his mouth draws nearer. You let out a miniscule sound that punches him in the guts; sweet and pure.

He wants to shatter and wreck you so bad; wants you to feel the same poison you’ve fed him. Irresistible, deadly.

But just as the metal of his jewellery grazes your lips, the softness and warmth radiating towards him, your breath shakes. Your face budges enough for his upper lip to feel a brush against yours, but that’s all he gets.

Because you retreat without giving in. And he doesn’t know why.

He clenches his jaw. God fucking hell. What’s your problem?

The sense of failure overwhelms him. Failure. Failure.

That’s not the term his mind should conjure. He knows the moral compass hides somewhere in his dark heart; he knows. Yet, he can never give into it. Is he a bad person? He doesn’t know.

Control was never his domain, after all.

But he keeps those intrusive thoughts inside, intending to not scare you off more than he already might have. So he accepts the dodging of the kiss, moving back, immediately leaving you safe from his touch.

And then, he says, “Uhm— I’m sorry.”

You don’t answer, still catching your breath, back to the heavy sighs that he was going to help shove back. Once again, he tries, “Honestly, I apologise, I just…”

“No, no. Please, don’t be sorry,” you reassure, slightly touching his shoulder. A wave of relief washes over him. “I’m just. Not in the right mindset for it yet. But I’m flattered, really.”

“Okay.” He nods. His eyes drop to his fingers; he still feels your heat on his skin, basks in it for a moment. But when the awkward silence lingers, he suggests, “Then. Let’s call it a night and I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Yeah, sounds good. I’m definitely getting tired.”

“Me too.”

Jungkook rises from his seat, still unable to wrap his head around what happens — or almost happened. Maybe another time. Grabbing your coat from behind you, he helps you into it, avoiding your eyes, trying not to showcase his frustration.

Uncertain what to say, he reverts back to small talk, stating, “Thanks for still coming so late. You really do like the song, yeah?”

“Jungkook… it’s honestly very good.”

You smile; there’s something about your honesty. About the way you say his name. And how hopeful you truly seem for him. How much you seem to mean it when you say—

“If there’s anyone who can manage to wrap the world around their finger, it’ll be you, Jungkook.”

“Alright. I think I have an answer to your question now.”

You down the sip of red wine with a delicate smack of your lips, blinking at the change in topic. The evening has followed a pleasant pace so far, conversations well balanced; even though you still carry a sense of caution that Jungkook sees no reason behind.

Perhaps it’s the fact that after weeks of subtle, flirty undertones and advancing attempts you’ve taken the seat on his couch as he’s imagined for so long now. Maybe he still exudes something that screams for caution; maybe that’s just who you are.

Jungkook, for one, is just glad to receive any kind of recognition from you. But he’d be a fool to not insert all his effort into tonight, from the food to the type of drinks and conversations. He knows where he needs to be and he wants you to want it, too.

“What question?” you ask.

It’s just.

Despite the lightness with which you carry your talks, some of your movements feel off, detached from your body. Not quite matching the grace your face portrays; just that one hint. The one hiding in your fingers, tapping the dark screen of the phone resting on your thigh.

As if you’re waiting for a call or something to happen that Jungkook isn’t aware of. Who knows. Nothing has happened in the last hour, so this might be an unconscious gesture reasoned in nothing but an absent or distracted mind.

Yeah.

You’re probably not even aware of it and he’s just overthinking it.

He takes a breath, inhaling the aroma of the almost finished wine, “What I’d do if I could spend a day in a virtual reality.”

“Wait, does the Wembley Stadium doesn’t count anymore?”

Jungkook smirks, dismissing his own prior answer with a click of his tongue. “C’mon. Does it really? You can ask literally any artist ever and that’s what they’ll say.”

You ponder his response, pursing your lips in thought, and then shrug one shoulder. Nodding along, you acknowledge, “Right. So what is it then?”

“I’d just.” He sucks air through his teeth sharply, leaning back with a signature smack of his lips. “Get into a reality in which this damn song is already finished and mixed and ready to be released.”

This song referring to the concoction of sounds he showed you earlier, yet to be concretised and burnished to what he truly envisions. It’s the only song left that shackles him to the studio; at the upcoming concert, he’ll just sing the demo version as a sneak peak if needed. What a source of stress.

But you don’t see it as much of a struggle; you’ve told him a dozen times that hard work justifies a slip-up. That the progress on his album balances out the artist’s block.

Possibly why you laugh his worry off without mocking it, merely throwing back, “I’m disappointed.”

Oh?

“Why?”

“Just because — the Wembley answer was better.”

Unexpected and sudden — much like the snicker you elicit, throwing his head back just a little. Concurring, he sighs, “Okay, okay. What about you then?” He cocks an eyebrow. “You didn’t tell me what you’d do.”

“You didn’t ask,” you remind him, already slurring your speech a bit, though still remaining a stable and solid stance, “dunno. You want the sappy or the basic answer?”

“Is the sappy one a tear-jerker? Sounds like it.”

“For sure.”

“Then the basic one. Don’t dig being sad.”

“Thought so,” you answer, and Jungkook holds back from prodding again this time, despite wondering what image he gets across, “alright. I’d do things I’m unsure of in real life. Like bungee jumping.”

“Oh? Kinda did not expect this.”

“No?”

“Just having a hard time imagining somebody as calm as you jumping off a building. Or yelling.”

You roll your eyes. “Anyway. I’d love to go, but I’m too scared of the risks. Like, rope stuff. Don’t want to be jumping for the last time.”

“Okay, yeah, but,” Jungkook starts, hesitating, “I mean, you could say that about anything. You leave your apartment and get hit by a car and then you’d be going out for the last time.”

You begin shaking your head mid-sentence, already drawing a breath, ready to disagree. Then, “That’s a bad comparison. These things are a once in a lifetime experience.”

“I’m just saying! Why hold back from things that excite you.”

“…Maybe you’re right.”

Jungkook’s proud nod and hum are reciprocated with a soft smile, fleeting when you roll your eyes back to your phone briefly. Absent-mindedly, you drag a fingertip across the device’s side as Jungkook follows your movements.

Yet, unsure what you might be harbouring in this pretty head of yours, he doesn’t ponder but asks, “What was the sappy thing?”

It’s as if you live multiple lives, hiding them in your innermost parts; because once he finishes his question, your sparkle returns, and you smirk a little, suddenly leaning forward.

Wordlessly, you fish a tissue out of the square, wooden box, puzzling him for a second until he understands right before you clarify, “For the upcoming tears.”

His titter is immediate, a reflex. You might be relaxed as a calm river, but your humour does shine through among your other million traits. He shakes his head in rejection, smile still plastered to his lips, and watches you lean back again, clearing your throat.

“Mhh, I’d say,” you muse, “I’d try to get into a simulation of Heaven. Try to meet those I miss.”

“Oh… damn.”

“Yeah.”

“…I don’t know what to say.”

But despite the dumbstruck silence, his mind does conjure prompt associations. Like when the two of you sat in his studio just two weeks ago, you engrossed in his music yet somehow dissociated from reality.

You spoke about lost and faraway people back then, too. And he didn’t ask then, either.

In the depths of his mind, he wants to believe that you’re trying to lead him somewhere, fishing for his hand but never quite reaching it. Drawing back right before pleading for help; or perhaps wanting to make him understand a thought he can’t fathom in the way you form it.

The pattern is repetitive, loud — but he knows you’ll retract the moment he does lean into you, offering his ear to your worries and thoughts.

He can’t win.

“That’s okay,” you say, making up for his lack of proper empathy, and that’s where you leave it. Not hesitating, not indicating another hint to lead to your mind.

Yet, he clears his throat quietly, licking drying lips, and asks in attempt to grip the truth, your whatever-truth, “And, who’d be there? Do you want to talk about that?”

“Mmmmh,” you hum, pondering, before you treat him with the same disappointment he’s suffered throughout the last weeks, “no. I think I’m good.”

Unbelievable, and truthfully, frustrating.

Are you playing this side of yours? Is it an act? Are two sides of you fighting within you?

“Okay,” he simply responds, clearly agitated but unsure whether you notice. You’re looking at your phone again. He sighs. “And… Do you believe in that stuff? Heaven, Hell, stuff like that.”

You shrug a bare shoulder. “Dunno. I like to think there’s something, but then again I don’t.”

“How so?”

“The way I see it, it’s kinda simple,” you explain matter-of-factly, “some people are good enough to deserve a place in Heaven once they’re gone. And some people are terrible enough to burn for eternity.”

Coming from your sweet mouth, uttered in an equally soft tone, the sentence feels jarring. Jungkook has had these thoughts before; he’d be a hypocrite to judge you for yours, recalling moments when he wondered where he’s destined to land once he’s left this realm.

And somehow, it was never the prettier option.

Still, he utters, disguising his own past pondering, “Wow. That’s dark.”

“It’s true. There’s some serious crime in the world.”

Agreed. Perhaps, compared to the extreme sins, he can be forgiven. Right? Maybe…

“Yeah,” Jungkook accords, “then, why did you say that sometimes you don’t like believing in it?”

“I mean, if there’s actually something like Hell, and I happen to fuck up throughout life… I don’t wanna end up there.”

It’s like you’re mirroring his thoughts.

Even if he never quite thought about it to such an extent. Even though his idea of the afterlife built on what he’s already done, and not what he’s still going to do.

But your words give a subtle hope that redemption is possible. Who knows. Who really knows.

Perhaps it’s easiest to stray away from these thoughts and focus on you at this very moment. Even if it’s you triggering innermost fears; he doesn’t quite have a clue how you do it.

No matter. He’ll focus on you. Altruism might be the first step to vindication. Karma points. Karma points.

“Valid,” he says kindly, “can’t imagine you fucking up, though.”

“How would you know?”

“The company grapevine whispered a lil something about you.”

“Ahhh—”

“Good things! Other than that, I just think. Don’t know.” A small gap, well-hidden so far, grows in the back of his mind, tiptoeing to the very front of his mind. Before he’s thought it through, he blurts, “I’ll be honest with you.”

Your ears perk up, eyes suddenly wide.

What was that?

Okay. Whatever. Can’t stop his speech now, “Uhm, I’ll be honest and say that I’m not the best person I know. Like, I’m aware of that. It’s why sometimes, I don’t really understand how people can be as genuine as you.”

…Has he said too much? Or not enough? Because he could swear your face deflates, expression dimming, as if you expected something else.

And all you say is, “I understand.”

A flicker of slight panic creeps into his overthinking head, not usually a trademark of his personality. But you look dispirited, even if just for a second. He tries further.

“And from what I’ve seen, you go through life gently. The way you do anything is how you do everything, right?”

“Hmmm,” you voice again, pupils hidden until you look up. And when you do, he breathes a sigh of relief; deep and obvious, and he doesn’t care if you notice. Smiling sweetly, you tell him, “You said that really well.”

The way you say it is riddled with woe, but within a second, your eyebrows relax, mouth forming an authentic grin. Displaying real emotions suits you better than the mask of the frigid ice queen you keep plastered to your face; you look different right now.

Vulnerable.

And it makes him want you more.

Does it have something to do with the warm light he chose for this room? No. It doesn’t shine brightly enough to really illuminate your face that much. With the intensity lowered beforehand, some of your features hide in the dark when you lower your head a little.

And it’s not the decent amount of alcohol the two of you slurped.

It’s the usual, mysterious shimmer in your eyes, begging to take off more of your mental layers. The fragility behind the pretence of invincible strength. No doubt, you’re still a textbook definition of a femme fatale.

Still, there’s some sweet urge to surrender, visible in your stance. A fragrance luring him in. Warm skin close to his; calling for his fingers.

And he’s at your beck and call, ready and motivated; giving into your wanting eyes — or is that his own desire he’s confusing? — and leaning in. A little more with each tiny moment, advancing until the tips of your noses meet.

Your warmth consumes him; your breathing quickens, resulting in fitful exhales that he takes in with vigour, much drowning in his own head until you gasp and he realises—

“Sorry,” he mumbles, not yet retracting. His hand touches your knee, carefully but with intention. Waiting, he asks, “Is that okay for you?”

“…I’m not sure.”

Your answer takes a seat on his ego and weighs it down. Harsh, sudden, perhaps not unexpected but definitely breaking a string of patience within him. But consent is consent; he understands. He’s grown now.

Yet…

“Fuck,” he whispers under a faint sigh, dejected and confused.

And you hear it. Bambi-eyed, you ask, “What?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

He’d lie if he suppressed the disappointment. Working towards you for weeks was supposed to end in realising his fantasies into a palpable, actual feeling, with a side achievement of a deeper connection.

You don’t seem to want to provide it; he understands, but the agitation courses through him like a fire burning up a forest. The trees are his nerves; alight with different emotions. You’re fumbling with the soft cotton of your winter dress, and he averts his eyes.

Shutting them for a moment, he ponders his options; does he continue the awkward conversation? Or perhaps, ask you for your opinion straightforwardly? Maybe, after all this while, it wouldn’t be so stupid to swap a penny for your thoughts.

And his mouth opens, but it seems you’re faster. Crushing his questions and uncertainties when he hears you gulp, witness to another change of mind as your knee shifts forward. His eyes open rapidly, and when he looks at you again, you’ve moved closer.

Your leg touches his thigh; your eyelids half fallen, lips an inch apart and fingers hesitating, yet advancing towards him. Hope sparks and sparkles in him anew, and he suppresses the cheeky, triumphant smile.

He feels like an asshole. Oh, he feels so selfish — but he can’t be the only one. He cannot possibly be the first or last to give into deepest desires out of self-interest.

Carefully, he matches your pace, moving into your direction much like you are drawing into his. His hand lifts to your arm, and you suck in a breath as he touches your skin, your chest rising and falling deeply.

And his eyes observe. The motion drives him crazy. He wants to pilot his touch to this spot, wrap his palm around your mounds, desperate to feel your nipples perk up under his skin, your mouth fall wider.

Should he? Maybe, maybe—

Not yet.

Instead, he draws an invisible line with his fingertips, up your arm and to your shoulders until he reaches your neck. The sound you let out is so tiny he barely hears it, and you tilt your head to the other side, giving him free reign over your skin.

A spark lights up under his finger, as if he’s touched a defective bulb. He wonders if you feel the same flame when he charges for your jawline, tracing it for a moment before he moves to your seething hot cheek.

You’re burning up.

So he asks in a quiet, gravelly voice, somehow much lower than usual, “Are you okay?”

Your eyebrows are furrowed, and he starts to worry again; but maybe that’s just the same tension unleashing that he’s felt, too. The temptation runs deep; he could scream it out of his lungs and it wouldn’t be enough.

Relieved as you nod, he mimics the movement, whispering an, “Okay,” before he then dips forward, exhaling close to your neck hotly and… leaves a small kiss right there. He doesn’t know about you, but if you did that to him, he’d possibly faint.

One more kiss, and suddenly, your hand is on his knee. His head spins. Must be the alcohol. Must be you.

And you’re probably in no better state, judging the hot cheeks and the slight sway of your body. Must be the wine. Must be him.

And when his lips graze your jaw, your fingers curl in, clawing onto his knee, and his inner voice celebrates, “Jackpot.”

But not really. He’s going with the flow, exploring your preferences, but this needs to be the night of your life. His mind and ego want you to perceive it that way. So what should he do? What do you like?

Are you one to push him into the bed, holding his shoulders down? Straddling him keenly, pouncing on him, eyes rolled back?

Or do you give away all the power you usually emanate; hands bound with a tie, legs struggling between a rope, screams muffled under a gag? Do you wind and go crazy when somebody has their way with you, edging and then overstimulating, refusing a touch and then slapping your ass wound…

Should he let your siren eyes tempt him into submission or will you be the one drilled into his mattress with a hand around your neck and a trail of black mixed with tears under your eyes?

He doesn’t know. Because you’ve disguised all of you; hidden your mind behind a mask of absolute neutrality, hard to decipher. He can usually read women so easily. They lick their lower lips when they want him under them, and quiver when vice versa.

He’d oblige to either for you. So what does it matter in the end, anyway?

No, it doesn’t.

His tongue that lashes out, however, does matter. Tasting your skin as it drags over your chin and then to your mouth. Insane when he reaches your lower lip and you sigh, then back to your neck, blowing, teasing, still not kissing you… touching your thigh, moving inwards…

“What do you want me to do?” he asks.

And this time, while still a little quiet, you finally say, “More. You can do more.”

“Yeah?”

You nod as if starved, relieved when his hands leave your leg and venture further in. It’s hidden under your dress, but somehow, not seeing your full glory just yet, but observing your reactions to his movements, stirs his thoughts. If any were left, that is.

The touch to your panties is light, tender as he reaches the hem, driving a finger underneath it in exploration. You don’t say much, but he sees the zeal in your eyes, murmuring a little, “Mhm…”

And when he finally presses against the fabric slowly dampening, lightly as he rolls his digits right where your skin so incredibly softens… you moan. You moan.

It doesn’t sound the way he imagined. But it kind of does. He doesn’t remember what he imagined — doesn’t know much at all. Just that he wanted this sound to echo within his walls. For him to be the one to drag it out. Not for anybody else, but him.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Okay. What if he does… this…

Thought so.

Sometimes, human beings have a fantasy unmatched, don’t they? Able to form and reform expressions on people they know that they have never seen. For example, he can imagine what you look like when you cry. Or when you’re mad. Or…

He knew you’d press your lips together, along with your eyebrows, muffling your sound once he sought out your clit and pressed against it. And not because he’s seen other women contort their faces like this; no… it’s an entirely new sensation with you.

You don’t compare to anyone. Nobody compares to you. Nobody, ever.

Sick of watching the invisible movement under your dress, he lets his eyes wander to yours, and you notice, do as he does. Eyes hooded, staring at him as if drunk — possibly, probably drunk.

Just once, he gapes down again, trying to adjust without crushing your knees with his. Comes closer. Then looks back at you. Absolutely astonished by the coloured lips drying up. Seeing your tongue peak behind your upper teeth, pushing against them.

Then you’re blinking, several times, not rapidly, but enough to indicate that you’re losing yourself, too. And then there’s some melancholy behind your gaze; he can’t say where it derives from… you seem to be coming out of a room that you kept dark for long enough.

He can’t say whether he’s further dimming the light in that room or lightening it up — and as he advances, gauging your reactions, he inwardly hopes it’s the latter.

So inwardly. So desperately.

Patience only persists for a moment; Jungkook barely believes in it. People always break. And he does when you lean forward as he drags his finger between your pussy lips, still over the clothing. You balance your weight with your arms, holding yourself up.

And then…

You so tantalisingly, softly, quietly, whisper his name.

Okay.

The snap was expected. The sigh he lets out was expected. And the way his lips finally crash against yours, making you almost fall back onto the sofa was expected, too.

But your taste… Why did he know you’d be as sweet as a cliché, like a perfume made edible? Matches your mystery and your elegance.

And the mellow, yet wanting sounds fit every move he makes. Like the moan-sigh combination when his bold hand wraps around the bun you’ve arranged your hair into. How you breathe into the kiss when he tilts your head a little, and then proceeds to loosen up said bun.

Releases it. Lets your hair fall. Pulls you in, pausing the make-out in the process, and then diving back in with a greed he’s never been met with before.

And as he kisses you, his index finger still dips into the uncharted territory below, ruining your panties some more as he soaks them; fucking loving how you whimper as a result.

No… this is ruining him just as much.

So he draws back from your body, attempting and probably failing not to look at you like an animal glaring down at his prey, ready to devour. He’s never seen this expression himself, but one or two girls have uttered quiet, “Oh-oh,” in such moments before — do you see the danger, too?

Or is he being cocky? But it’s not his fault. You make him cocky because he can never fucking say what you think! Of course he’d need the mental praise to himself — your opinion on him is too difficult to decipher.

He’ll keep the energy up. Make you shrink in his hold.

Hands under your ass, he lifts your lower body a little, amused by your wide eyes and how you wonder, “What are you d—”

Silencing the moment he uses his palms’ position to grab the hem of your panties and pull them down your legs. Over them and then on the other side of the table. The two of you won’t need those tonight.

“What does it look like that I’m doing?” he teases, smirk effective and permanent.

He likes that about himself. Maybe you’ll do, too. If not, then you at least do like how his fingers, impatient, find their way back home again, not before lifting your dress to your hips until you’re bared to him the way he’s craved.

And he pauses.

Oh, this treasure…

“You…” he starts, moving two ring-clad fingers between your folds. Testing the waters. “I’m not letting you go anywhere tonight. You’re staying right here…” He leans forwards, body on body, whispering against your lips. “Trapped under me.”

You want to answer, he thinks. Your eyebrows relax for a second, an inebriated smile playing around your mouth. If he knows you well enough, he’d guess you’re urging to dive back into your witty remarks.

But none of it is possible just yet. Because when he caresses your pussy again, increasing the pace without being too unreasonably fast, you bite your lip. He urges you to release it with his tongue. And when you do, his finger plunges in; as deeply as it can. So easily, too.

He kisses your clavicles the moment your nails get ahold of his arms, wiggling underneath him, but still caged in. And he sees the built-up frustration; how you kept yourself at bay, but can barely do it now. How you yearn for just one or two more right touches here and there before…

But before he can, he stops. Immediately, unexpectedly for you. Once again, mean, but…

“You’ll thank me later,” he utters — and with those four measly words, something awakens in you that was hidden for just the last ten minutes.

“Oh? You… you’re confident like this.”

“Of course I am.”

“Jungkook…” you say in such frustration that he thinks you’ll beg some more. But you don’t. Instead, you shake your head and say. “Men rarely manage to…”

“This isn’t rare. I’m not giving you rare, ‘kay?”

“I…”

“How…” he readjusts your body, pulling you down the couch, shifting until his knee keeps your legs apart. “How fucking insulting.”

Do you hear any of this anymore? Because your eyes are closed again. Hands still holding on; and… and body winding in order for your cunt to shift closer to him, suddenly rubbing against his knee.

It’s all you can get at the moment since his hands are so far out of reach. And the satisfaction of knowing that you’ll strive for anything at all is cosmic.

“You’re ruining my jeans,” he mocks, clicking his tongue as if to reprimand.

“Then…” You hook a finger into one of his jeans’ loops, pulling and then releasing again. “Take them off, coward.”

You don’t have to tell him twice. They say that if you have waited for so long, what’s ten more minutes? But no more. Not another second.

So he obliges immediately as he mutters, “‘Kay,” offering a helping hand when you work on his shirt. Off and to the ground. Pants off and to the back of the couch. He already knows he’ll be finding them all scattered the next morning.

But that’s the problem of just that next-morning-self.

Boxers still on, he returns to give you another initial taste of what’s to explode. The dress moves up from your hip as he slides it over your skin, stopping right under the mounds he’s still so curious about.

He needs to keep this balanced. Rush as much as might be appropriate, but not too much to make things embarrassing. This… the way he leans down again, opening your legs, erection grinding against your pussy and offering the bare minimum… this is good enough for now…

Or maybe not. Because merely a couple seconds later, you halt mid-moan, letting out breathy words that he struggles to understand until you repeat, “Is that… all you’ll be doing tonight?”

“Hmmm, you want more?”

“I— I don’t know.” Pause, a gulp when he presses his clothed length between your cunt. “Are you going to tell me your secrets if I say yes?”

His secrets?

You must be kidding. He has been an open book to you, chasing you around; if anything, he needs to unravel your mind.

But for that, he needs to play along. So he feigns the same mystery you emanate, teasing, “What do you wanna know?”

And you don’t hesitate. “Everything.”

…Hmm…

You’ve never seemed as interested as you are now. Never dove into his thoughts and the dim heart like now. If he agreed now, would you blurt out something specific? Questions that you formed when he wasn’t paying attention?

No idea. Maybe that’s something to worry about later. Pillowtalk. The morning after talk. Just anything… just not now.

He removes the obstacles currently standing between the two of you. The cushion standing against the back of the couch, constantly falling into your face. He throws it on the ground, so you don’t have to keep swatting it away.

Then, the dress covering your body. He gives a sign of wanting to proceed, and you play along, lifting yourself, chasing his lips as your outfit follows the cushion. And then, the phone right underneath the small of your back, having snuck there, undetected until you yelp, “Oh!”

“What?”

“Cold. Don’t know how it got there.”

He fishes out the device, watching it light up, a notification at the top that he can’t decode and that he doesn’t pay any mind to. Puts it on the coffee table. Then… last but not least… the uncertain atmosphere.

He says, “You want to know everything? Then make a list. I’ll tell you if I feel like it… deal?”

“You’re so…”

“You gotta make me. No other way out, baby.”

An answer lies on your tongue, ready to disrupt the moment. He knows because you look distracted all of a sudden, possibly still thinking about the same thing you did before, dissociating as he sat next to you, wine in hand.

It’s probably about work. Or about Taehyung — God, nobody at work but Jungkook would know, but you mention that guy all the time.

But tonight is not the night to think of others. So he shakes your upcoming inquiries away, giving you no time to think about it further as he, thirsty and impatient, picks you up and off the couch.

Right into his lap. Right onto his cock.

Still a layer between the two of you, watching you grind immediately. For a moment, you put him under your spell, urging him to stay right there and not move away until he’s shot buckets of cum into his boxers.

But…

But he’d rather do it in you, with you, because of truly you.

So he wastes no second as he executes his former plan, large hands sprawling over your ass before he stands with willpower and strength. He throws you a couple inches into the air, making you adjust, and then moves.

Away from the couch, stepping onto the clothes on the floor, careful not to stumble and hurt the two of you. The way to the bedroom seems endless, and you so naked… so… so his for the night. Like what, he still needs to wait those couple square metres?

Fuck, how…

No. It must be a primal instinct that hankers him to give up already, having made it halfway through the room and almost to his bedroom when he suddenly stops. Pinning you against a random free spot at the wall, right under a silent clock.

“What are you…?”

Your voice is trembling, for some reason so incredibly small. For the first time since you lay beneath him on the couch, he sees your eyes properly, and they flit back to the couch as if you’re looking where you just departed from — and then back to him.

“What are you looking for?” he whispers. Tantalisingly, he brings his fingers to your chin, pinching it lightly as he raises your head. “Hm? I’m here. Do you want to go back? Missing the couch? Wall might not be as comfortable, huh…”

“No… that’s not a problem. I’m just… surprised by the change.”

You do look surprised. A little cheekier again as your tone rises, your head falling to the side, lips smiling as if to distract him from something bigger. As if there’s anything bigger in existence right now than you.

“It was just sudden,” you conclude.

“Is that bad?”

“Not at all. I’m just curious.”

He doesn’t need to ask what about. He sees it in this expecting gaze of yours that you want to read and decrypt his next steps. And you can have them.

Because he lets you go, making you fall silently on your feet, kissing you once before he falls to his knees. You groan when he grabs your leg, placing it on his shoulder, restless when his lips charge for your open folds.

He offers you, “Curious, huh? No need,” before kissing your clit, adding another, “Just indulge in it… no need to use your pretty brain today,” and then attaching his mouth and tongue to your dripping pussy.

Digging his large nose into you, tickling your nub, he swirls his tongue around, slurping you up like his favourite drink. Holy fuck, you taste good. He could eat you up, down you in one like a shot. Stay right here all night.

You get ahold of a patch of his hair, but don’t pull — somehow, he wishes you would. Instead, you seem to focus on your body, trying not to fall, keeping it upright. You’re winding, your leg moving, and he soon wraps an arm around your thigh to keep you from stirring too much.

And with the other, he targets your cunt, mouth moving up to make space for the digits to easily, effortlessly slide into you. You gasp, just a bit louder when the metal touches your hot sex, calling his name — and for possibly the first time, he hears you curse, “Fuck. Fuck, I’m— I’m going to pass out.”

Oh my God.

If he could lick you to unconsciousness, he’d feel shocked and proud at once. He wants to see you become weightless, wants to catch you in his arms, and then bring you to his bedroom, still delirious, and fuck your brain out of you.

He wants you so bad. He wants to fuck you so fucking badly. His cock aches, godfuckingdamn.

As he rolls his tongue, lips kissing yours, moving his head left and right as he makes out with your pussy, he almost pulls all the way through. Nearly gives into your body language, nose moving over your clit, fingers pumping in and out, breathing into your pussy hotly.

But he has other plans. He wants to see your damn tears; wants you to unleash all your desperation. So, just when your sounds change, less pauses between them, high-pitched, heavy breathing, he stops.

Draws back, watching you press your ass into the wall, head suddenly hanging low. You whisper, “No…” as he looks up in satisfaction, waiting for you to say more.

You’re out of breath, exhaling through half gritted teeth, a palm on his chest as he rises again. You declare, “I’m going to blueball you, too.”

But the adrenaline has poured buckets of confidence over Jungkook already, and he’s drenched in it as much as in your scent, cocking an eyebrow as he challenges, “You can try.”

“I’m gonna suck your dick so fucking slow.”

“Do it,” he keeps the mask up, wondering how much of the effect you saw upon gracing him with such a provocative image, “let’s see if you make it this far. Might just fuck you into space before that, you know?”

He lets out an unsteady breath, a strand of your hair swaying upon impact. His hand taps at your thigh, testing whether you’ve closed your legs again; and as he realises that you haven’t, much to his pleasure, he palms your pussy, heel of his hand pressing against your clit.

“You’re trying to set me off, because you know you can, right?” he questions, for a split moment distracted by the teeth gnawing at your lower lip. “Smart of you. You are truly smart, babe… but you’re also mine tonight. So don’t play games.”

A slap lands on your vulnerable pussy, and he understands your frustration as you open your mouth, the lower lip previously captive rolling back into place. Soft and gorgeous.

No matter the fading distance, there’s still something inexplicable in the air, as if he can’t really separate a dream from reality. As if he needs evidence that this isn’t yet another figment of his imagination; the ones he’s awoken from several times, underwear threatening to burst.

The hand just torturing your cunt wanders up your body and settles around your neck, like a chain or a necklace or a motherfucking leash. He feels home here, just like this. With your fingers on his wrist, gulping under his touch.

Pinned firmly against the wall, he looks down to where you’re dripping and he’s standing tall, gripping the ever-twitching length that is begging for more. Begging for relief. He’s doing this to himself — because his body is burning up, as if scorched by sun flares.

He’s doing this to the both of you.

The kiss underneath your ear as he leans in. And the still harmless yet sinful touch between his tip and your folds. How he holds the shaft firmly, leading the head between your pussy lips, teasing until just an inch intrudes your awaiting hole.

He moans the moment you do, moving, fucking just the first of the tip into you; scrambling his own thoughts as he says, “God, I could just slide in… you’re so, so wet.”

“What… why say this if you won’t do it?”

Guess you’ve figured him out well enough. Guess that’s the cockiness you implied when you called him a fuckboy in that stupid museum. Or how you kept a safe distance — because thinking about it, maybe Jungkook could be someone to break somebody’s heart.

No. He knows he is. But…

He shakes the thought off his brain, returning to this very moment where you’re waiting for his answer, a heart made of steel. You won’t let him hurt you; you know better than that. You could dodge him easily.

Mentally, at least. Physically, you’re under his mercy.

So he uses this weakness, muttering under his breath, “I will, I will… but not here. We can do better than here.”

Wasn’t this just a pit stop after all? What he’s seeking is still waiting in his bedroom, soft sheets spread over the cold mattress, waiting for a body to warm it up. Or two.

Already hot and bothered, Jungkook lets you go entirely; and the next minute happens in a blur, as though he’s struggling with recognising his own apartment. Suddenly self-conscious about everything and nothing at once.

With you in his grip, he walks along the dark, small corridor; then past the paintings, through the door, into a well-managed, tidy bedroom until he’s sat your ass down. It happens within the tiniest moment — he could narrate how you got here but he can barely recall it.

Dick at the same height as your mouth, he wraps his hand around it. You don’t initiate anything of what you promised, looking into his eyes with a question; he knows you want to avenge yourself and provide the same vanity, but you’d rather skip to the best part.

He wants to, too.

So he doesn’t ram his cock into your mouth, hitting the farthest spot until you gag. Instead, he relishes the image mentally and quietly, fantasising about the warmth of your spit, about the tongue swirling around.

And then… then he goes a step further and imagines the even extended pleasure if he dug into your pussy now, maximising whatever your mouth could make him feel.

Are his thoughts too straight-forward? If he spelled them out like this, one by one, would you find him weird? Too eager? Obsessed?

Maybe he should slow down. Just a bit.

Which is why he holds his shaft closer to you, still surprised when you don’t open up, hints of the past confusion alternating with your confident, mysterious, teasing self. It’s weird to witness. But your eyes are still hazy at least. You don’t seem to want to stop.

God. He can’t figure it out. Not figuring out is agitating even in this moment.

But… good energies. Good energies. All the pent-up frustration needs to be morphed into sheer craze. He can do that.

“Spit on it,” he orders.

You only hum. Something in your gaze changes again, eyelids fluttering, as if awoken from trance. But you’re willing. Immediately mimicking him as you bring a thumb to a mole on the protruding veins. Tracing them, all the way back to his balls until you touch them just lightly, but enough for him to nearly lose his shit.

“Fuck, I said,” he reprimands, though delighted by the sudden rapture, “spit on it.”

You nod as if carrying out a task given by your manager; perhaps used to the last days and weeks when he’d command you around. Ask for another meeting, or for your opinion on a song, or just to keep him company to keep him productive.

Or, to keep you close to him. Lost in thoughts. Many thoughts. And even though none of them became a reality in that room, none of the equipment shoved aside to sit you on the desk, this… this right here is more than enough.

You suck in your cheeks, collecting spit, and when you lean forward… you make such a mess. Spitting onto the tip, a string still connecting your lips and his dick, leftover saliva dripping down your chin and then on your tits.

The view is… worth diamonds.

Do you even know?

“Okay,” he utters, no real direction in his mind, no real sentence to utter. “Okay.”

But you’re equipped with ideas, immediately getting onto the trail you left, spreading the spit over his cock, down to the base. The tip and the slit glisten, traces of precum mixing with your drool, but it’s not enough to cover his length all over.

So he mutters a mental, “More,” to himself, tapping your lips until you open, sticking two of his fingers in and pressing against your tongue. Lubricating his digits, he rolls them over your tongue, far enough to nearly make you gag until he draws back.

Watching you work on him rolls a wave of satisfaction over him. He’s proud, enduring like this. Because judging from the creature you are, as if jumped out of dark mythology, he truly expected to give up way earlier.

But he remains steadfast; eager to not explode until he’s filled you up first. Drawn out your own highs.

“Sweetheart, aren’t you a good one?” Jungkook praises, helping you out with whatever his fingers gathered in your mouth. Then, grabs your wrist, pushing you away, hovering above you with a, “Turn around.”

You gulp again. Then shift back on his bed, sighing as you feel the soft silk underneath your skin, kissing and hugging your body. The sight is gorgeous, with you fleeing to the back of the mattress, obliging so easily. Prey.

And…

“Holy fuck.”

Holy fuck, how you look when you finally get into position. Ass up, upper body down. And the arms over your head? What in the world.

Okay… okay…

Wait. You’re saying something.

His knees dig into the mattress, hand unconsciously pumping his cock — he doesn’t even know when he started — as he moves closer, over your body. Kisses your shoulder, bringing his ear close to hear before, “Huh? What’d you say?”

“I’m already so spent.”

“Ah… do you want to stop?”

“No… you made me feel spent. But you’re not done, are you?”

Pause. Bright smirk. Then, “Of course not. Does it feel like it?” Another kiss to your shoulder, wet this time. “Condom or not?”

“Oh.” Seems you hadn’t even thought about this yet. Kind of nice. “I’m… I use an IUD. Have you… slept with many people lately?”

No answer yet. He thinks. Thinks back to the several weeks since he met you. Should he say it? Would you back away if he did? Years ago, there’d be no debate about it — he wouldn’t have told you. Kept it to himself.

Perhaps there’s still a part of him that’d dodge your question, but he somehow feels like you’d see through him. Hear the insincerity.

Fuck, is that selfish? Maybe. Doesn’t he already know that he is? But he’s not bad; and people are selfish.

So a second later, he truthfully admits, “Once. Two or so weeks ago. Nothing special though, just dumb, drunk shit. Some girl from a club. And I tested after.”

As soon as the sentence finishes, he wonders if you deem yourself just another one of those. But… in all honesty. She was a one night stand whose sounds, name, dirty talk did nothing to him.

All he could imagine was you. Perhaps not out of loyalty, but surely out of curiosity.

He can’t fathom his thoughts into feelings yet; he still wouldn’t describe his attitude towards you as falling in love or anything. That’d be too far stretched. But he thought about it — that maybe he liked you too much.

Yet, his heart remained empty; but his body never did. He feels bad; and still, he won’t deny whatever his skin and mind whisper to him.

Other than that, he could probably declare with quite a firm certainty that you don’t feel any different about him. You can’t be.

So maybe this is good enough for now.

“But know what?” he says, voice lower, repeating his thoughts. “Could only imagine what it’d be like if it was you. This pussy,” strokes his cock along your cunt, “and this body,” touches the small of your back, “these thoughts got me going. And you’re so much better in reality.”

“Mmmh,” is all you utter, nearly hiding your face in the pillow before you say, “maybe… maybe we can still use a condom then.”

Shit. Expected it.

But okay. Okay.

Where are the condoms again… bedside table? No. He used the last one ages ago, before he knew you. He gets up; walks to the closet; somewhere near his socks, there must be a new pack. A moment to think.

For a second, he looks back at you. You’re still the same, only with the ass having dropped again, losing balance and energy. And maybe, you’re still drunk, too — probably, because even he still feels the world spin, careful not to close his eyes for too long.

Okay. One… no, two foils out. As he turns back to you, nearing you, his head is just a little calmer than a minute again, and he wonders… were all the thoughts his own? The past half an hour or however much passed, didn’t he spiral more and more?

Did you notice? He shakes his head. Who cares?

Not him, not right now. He keeps telling himself that with a goddess waiting in front of him on all fours, he probably doesn’t need to worry about anything unless there’s a reason to. You’ve been cooperative and the night has been successful, minus the strange gazes you keep throwing at him periodically.

“Alright, baby. Up you come,” he mumbles, bringing your ass back to his crotch. His hands are already trained and incredibly skilled; doing work on the condom doesn’t take him more than a couple seconds. “I should tell you now.”

You pause. Suck in some breath, as if expecting something in particular. You agree with an unmatched thirst for knowledge, “…Tell me.”

“I don’t tend to go easy. If you need me to be, you’ll have to tell me. ‘Kay?”

“I… I can take a lot more than you think.”

Fuck. He’ll wreck your shit. “Perfect. You’re honestly a good one, huh? Such a good girl for real, no— no, you’re the best.”

Is he just saying whatever now? Perhaps he should stop boring you and get to it. Right? Please, the goddamn, blood-filled tower down there is desperately imploring him to.

He collects spit like you did before, targeting your glinting pussy, one blob right onto it. Then, he brings his fingers back to where they love to be, distributing the filth between your folds. And then, two fingers into the tightening hole.

Right before moving north, between your ass cheeks, thumb rolling over your other clenching hole.

And you tense immediately, without saying a word, taking it quietly. Then… then he finally starts.

Brings the annoying rubber to your soaked pussy, poking for a second before he gets serious and eventually dips in. The free hand raises your ass some more, and he shifts forwards, your butt backwards, helping him get in further.

He hears the reaction. Hears the almost-screech in a second, nails biting into the pillow over your head. You hold onto it for dear life as he slowly bottoms out, your sporadic breathing and high-pitched moans mingling with his own bursts of lust.

Deep creases appear between his eyebrows, lips bitten sore, and once his waist has finally connected with your ass, he takes a deep, long inhale. Watches your face disappear deeper into the pillow, sounds muffled.

Enjoys it for a moment before he starts moving slowly. Out, in. Concentrating before he might spill too early. Beads of sweat shimmer on his forehead, dampening the hanging strands of hair. You feel good. Too fucking good—

He wants to go off right away. But… focus.

“How’s that?” he asks.

“Stop… stop talking.”

Oh. Bold. But a good sign, isn’t it? If you wanted him to stop, you’d say it. So he keeps going… dares just a little more, courageous, encouraged by your cooperation. Explores your ass and what lies between the cheeks more, groaning before he says, “You stop that.”

His hand reaches for your wrists, keeping you from tearing his pillow and leading your fingers to where his touched your ass before. You keep your touch there, unmoving until he says, “Keep them apart.”

And you seem to understand. His thumb returns to your unoccupied hole as his cock impales your pussy whole, still going at a tormenting pace. Thick and soaked, he’s splitting you in two; maybe that’s why the slow plunges are such a plague. Because both of you know there could be more.

Pulling your ass cheeks apart, you remain with your face in the sheets, arms trembling as he circles your hole again. He doesn’t know if you’re into this; doesn’t know if you’ll protest. So far, he’s been pretty obvious with his intentions, and he’s sure you must understand this one, too.

And you’re not fearful; if something bothered you, you wouldn’t hesitate to voice your displeasure. So he spits one more time, right onto his thumb, using the lubrication to carefully, curiously dip the tip of his thumb into your ass.

You yelp immediately; as your hole tightens around the little bit of his thumb, your pussy narrows around his cock, too, and he nearly loses it. Nearly drools onto your back as his mouth drops open, blinking rapidly for a second.

God, your body reacts with such intensity. Still, he makes sure, “Too much?”

And you, candidly, reply, “I don’t know. I… think so.”

“Okay. Then I’ll sto—”

“No. No, wait… I want to— I want to know what it’s like.”

Thought so. He knew that underneath all the chic charade, you crave just as much as he does. And if it’s him that you long for, then what even stands between him and the rocket shooting his ego to the sky?

This feels good. Really good… not just physically. You lift his spirits.

Ready with an exhale, he dares his thumb deeper, letting more of it disappear in you. Out of all the women he’s ever been with, not more than a handful has been willing to venture into this part of sexual desire. Most of them can’t stand the discomfort, and some of them don’t feel any particular way about it.

But you lay open to him in every way possible. An open book for once; easy to read, as if calculating how you wind, planning how to sound, guiding him fearlessly.

Soon, he’s adjusting his thrusts to your moans, and you’re adjusting your moans to his thrusts. Synchronised, the two of you groan and cry out together, and he makes sure to keep you filled to the brim, reducing the pauses between the shoves bit by bit.

Until…

“Hey,” he whispers, waiting for you to react, but as he pumps into you, slowly yet balls-deep, you don’t do anything much but scream into the pillow. So he just continues, “How much do you think you can take, baby?”

“I… I’m—”

You’re attempting your best, but you’re tongue-tied. With each push, he catapults your body forwards, but your mind is long lost in the stratosphere. With gritted teeth and a rising, heavily breathing, golden chest, he leans in close to you, hand snaking under you and around your neck as he retries, “So?”

“I don’t know,” you blurt, and as you raise your head and look back at him, he sees a sight to behold — mascara underneath your eyes, lipstick smeared, a quivering chin. He’s fucking you so good; he must be, because you soon add, “Just do an—and I’ll let you know.”

“Good idea. Very good idea.”

He’s fucking you good. But it’s not all he’s got; not all he’s wanted for days and weeks.

No. If he unleashed all he’s been fabricating in his mind, he’d drench your cheeks in tears. And now that you permitted him to, he might just go ahead, right?

Right.

Which is why the next steps come easy to him, naturally, as if you pressed a button he’s been waiting to smash. A big, red one, like the ones in games urging you to not touch or you’d lose. But by God, right now, he’s not losing.

If he looked into his reflection in the dark window, he’d see a winner through and through.

A fiery rage courses through his burning veins. A face contorting when he lets you go, only to move his fingers back, wrapping them around the back of your neck. Shoving you into the mattress, ramming his cock into you, once more keeping the familiar pace and then—

And then he closes his eyes. Matches an expression to your yelps. Drives into your deepest core and picks up speed until, all of a sudden, it turns jarring.

Jungkook doesn’t get enough. He doesn’t know if he ever will; damn the approaching end of this. There shouldn’t be one; he should be capable of ruining you forever. Maybe he will be.

For now, he directs his thoughts fully on how you feel and how you sound, uncaring about the jagged breathing that burns up his chest. Leaning forward, he attempts twice until he catches your ears, nibbling at your earlobe.

At first, he doesn’t know if you register the touch, given that he’s occupying you with far crazier sensations. But then you reach out a hand, panting into the pillow, grabbing a patch of his hair.

And he, fired up and insane, leans back, gripping your wrist, removing it from his mane and pinning it to your back instead. Your face moves to the side, not muffled by the pillow anymore, and you gasp for air before you beg, “Please, I’m about to—”

That’s all you get, because he soon interrupts with a cheeky, “You can hold on for a bit longer,” pausing on purpose. He wants to see you when you come. Wants to wipe more of your make up across your face. Wants to kiss the colour of your lipstick onto his own lips.

Letting your orgasm fade, he waits, just a couple seconds, allowing you to catch your breath until your eyebrows furrow. You blink repeatedly, then looking up into his eyes, and it’s all he needs to feel his patience dissipate again.

Jungkook gets into a new position, leaving one knee deep in the mattress while angling the other leg, planting its foot on the sheets. He keeps his cock from falling out, leading the tip and the shaft back in before he resumes to fuck you wound.

Your arm is still hostage to his grip, the nails of your other hand gripping the sheet for dear life. It’s gorgeous, the view from where Jungkook looks down at his meal. Crazy how you purr and whine when he leans in, touching your swollen clit, electrifying you. And he keeps looking at you.

At the upper body waving a white flag, too weak to keep yourself upright anymore. And then, the ass in the air staying firmly at its place, his dick aiding you, the flesh of your cheeks wobbling with each thrust, like an ocean wave. Whenever it collides with his hips, the slaps resound temptingly, and Jungkook soon mimics it by letting his hand fall hard on your ass.

You mewl, calling out his name twice, the second cry half uttered, half of the Jungkook omitted. And when you catch the tiniest of your breaths, still working with drying lungs, you say, “L-let me come, please—”

“Wait,” he says again, still sadistic, still masochistic, absolutely out of his mind before an idea lights up his mind. “This isn’t it yet.”

The finger working on your nub was an evil tactic, he’s got to admit. Perhaps he led you to believe something he’s not ready to give you yet, and once you seem to realise, you let out a sob.

And he’s positively delighted once he stops. Lowers his head to look at you. Sees the dark, smeared mascara on his pillow when he digs his fingers in your hair, pulling your head back as he says, “I know. You thought we were done, right? We’re not done, though.”

“Wha—”

He lets his body fall onto the mattress, right next to you, and pulls you in, back against his chest. Hand under your tits, pressing against them, moving them up and down before pinching your nipple once.

“I said,” he repeats, probably unnecessarily, because he doesn’t think you actually demand an answer, “I’m not done. Understand?”

And as expected, you don’t nod or answer. You only push your body further into his, and he reckons that’s a mighty sufficient implication already.

As you lay sideways with a breath as heavy as his, his exhales hot against your ear, you let out sounds reminiscent of marathon runners. You’re exhausted, sweaty, and so is he — but neither of you are finished, and he’d be damned if he permitted the night to end like this.

Diligently, he throws your quivering leg over his; your impish remarks have lessened since he took over, and in turn, his own insolent emotions are reigning supremely. He leads his submerged, rock-hard, twitching cock to your battered cunt, pushing in so easily he thinks he’s dreaming.

It’s like putting a key into its lock.

“Ahh, fuck.” It’s hard to fully bottom out in this position, but he can touch you so much better now. He lets his hands explore your bare body, fondling with your tits, kissing your ear and jaw. “Hold tight. You’re doing so good for me, sweetheart.”

It’s cruel, he knows; the gentle praises as he wreaks havoc down there. He crosses your wrists against your tummy, holding them tight, and you close to him. Fucks you dumb and stupid as you wail in his arms. Moves to your clit and gives it pleasant, gentle rubs, so opposite from the rest of his ministrations.

And the pressure builds. His balls, hard as steel, prepare to shoot their load into you, his cock impossibly stiff, but… but…

You haven’t come yet. And this position won’t do. Can’t do, won’t do, he needs to see you.

So he echoes, “Won’t do,” as he gets up again, keeping the previous position short lived. Doesn’t stay away for too long before he’s on his knees, pulling your legs apart, after the briefest interruptions deep inside again before he leans into you.

And then, everything happens crazy fast.

How he keeps you from wrapping your arms around him; instead, capturing your wrists once again, raising them next to your head. How he moves to kiss you for the first time after quite a while, intertwining your tongues, moaning hard as he feels his high approach.

The fast pace changes a little as he loses his mind and focus, one of the strokes stopping as he almost pulls out, and then plunges in again. Your fingers curl in, nails sharp enough to dig into the digits that hold you, and he cries out in delight, letting a breathy chuckle fall.

He says, “Alright, yeah. Next time… we’re tying you up. Love how you whine.” He lets one hand go, gripping your face again and you move your touch to his shoulder immediately, gasping. “You always p-play the mysterious girl, huh? But you’re so pathetic right now.”

The inhibitions are out the window. The overthinking, too. Whatever he thought might make you run away from him has long exited his mind, because he’s got you right here, under his control, nearing the end.

There’s no going back. No return to his yearning, because you’ve satisfied it so thoroughly.

Time to give it all back to you. One last time before he submerges himself in all his glorious egotism.

“There we go,” he says as he watches your expressions change. You open your mouth but don’t say anything. He doesn’t know what your orgasm feels like, but he knows you’re going through it. “Let it all out. Cream my cock, I fucking dare you.”

He’s saying whatever now, he knows. But he doesn’t have the capacity to think much as creases appear on your forehead and between your eyebrows, tongue mingling with his for a short moment when he goes in for another kiss, barely succeeding.

You’re trembling, lifting your hips as much as the weight above you allows, wanting more friction, more of a touch inside your pussy, on your clit, everywhere. And then, when you do come… when he brings the stars from the sky into your eyes…

Yours roll back into your head. Throwing it back, giving him access to your neck. Lips still apart, and he uses it to push a finger into your mouth, on top of your tongue. And fuck… how your pussy constricts. How it tightens so fucking much.

He’d be lying if he said it didn’t affect him.

So much so that his head spins; and as he feels himself getting dizzy, he buries his face in the pillow next to your head before moving it to kiss your shoulder. Barely looks at you anymore; doesn’t care, it’s his high now, he wants to fucking come, and that’s it.

Finally, finally he’s gotten to this point.

Will he hate himself for these thoughts later? Is this too over the top? He doesn’t know and he doesn’t care, doesn’t care.

His thoughts are occupied, alright, don’t need another string of questions to intervene. His attention remains resolutely on his movements, vigorous, rhythmic, your sounds perfectly matching each of his strokes.

And your hands, the poor little palms, unsure where to settle. This isn’t new; across this broad back of his, every girl’s touch wanders like this. Your nails scratch the small of his back, then up his spine, across the muscles of his shoulder blades.

The fact that you’re a goner as much as him, giving yourself to him is probably the last of reassurances he needs — as if any more were required. Because still panting into your skin, eyes shut tight, he works towards the peak of his sanity, exhausted but eager as he relishes the wet tightness of your pussy; surrounding him just right, still clenching, unclenching from your orgasm.

And then—

“Ohhh, fuck,” he whispers.

His voice is shaking uncontrollably; he barely recognises it. Which… must mean this is new, right? Experience be damned, apparently you spark off phenomena nobody has ever acquainted him with before.

And oh, how you make it worse once he finally emerges again, as if catching his breath after holding it underwater for too long. Your eyes are hooded as he gets on his knees over your body, caging your hips in between his legs. Gripping one of your tits, you nibble your lower lip for a second before letting out laboured breathing, nose flaring.

It’s all he needs. All that’s left when he rips off the condom and envelops his filthy cock with his veiny hand, stroking immediately and hard. Close to the end as he rushes to ask, “Where do you want it?”

You understand what he’s asking, and nod, back to yourself when you utter mysteriously, “Anywhere but inside…” Okay. No time to ask why not — but he wouldn’t have anyway. He obliges, giving his all, one more second left before you tell him just in time, “Here.”

Your palm rubs across your skin, moving over your tits and your stomach. So he’s quick to opt away from your face and redirect his aim to where you pointed, moaning out a couple last, broken vocals before he finally spills.

Milky white, multiple blotches scattered over your skin, like a modern art painting. He’d rather draw these all day than be stuck with you in a museum restaurant, staring from afar, wishing he could reach out under the goddamn public table.

Going until he’s empty, he senses a relief unknown to him thus far, mind suddenly vacant. Once again, the ocean; he feels like the ocean. Like the water as it stills and calms after a thunderous storm. You lifted the waves of his sea high above and have now turned him into a lazy, peaceful lake.

God, he should fuck you more often; you make him a poet.

Okay. Okay, where was he?

When did he unfocus? Dizzy all of a sudden. He puffs out a breath. Then takes another look at you. Watches as you spread the sticky substance over your mounds, touching your nipple, so indecently messy.

The smirk is unintentional but inevitable, reaching far as he shakes his head at you. You smile back wordlessly, and he lets his fingertip run over his cum, too, bringing it to your lips as he asks, “Taste?”

You don’t answer. Thinking for the barest second before you scoff, stretching out your tongue before he puts the finger on it; closing your eyes, sucking it clean. He groans at the feeling; luckily, he’ll be immobile for the foreseeable future, or he’d bend you over again.

“Okay. That should be enough for now,” he breathes, letting himself fall next to you. “I promise I’m a lot more energised on other days. But…” He turns towards you, pinching your chin, bringing your face close. “God, did you take me out there. I’m beat.”

He doesn’t kiss you; only drops back, still filling his lungs with new oxygen. Pity — he still wants you, but his muscles are aching. Eyes shutting.

Then opening again when he hears you laugh, right before you say, “You don’t need to prove your endurance to me. I’ve got a pretty good idea of it now. Besides— let’s be honest. I didn’t do much.”

“Oh, you did more than enough, sweetheart,” Jungkook retorts with a snicker, giving his eyes some relief. He sighs, and then adds, “Your existence did it for me already. Wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.”

He shoves his arm under his head, the other untidily covering the two of you with the blanket; whatever. He’ll wash it tomorrow. For now, the two of you should probably get some rest. Although—

Did you say you wanted to stay? He didn’t catch it if you did. Perhaps he’s also just inattentive; suddenly remembers that he still has a long way to go socially, remembering that permission is courtesy. Selfish, selfish, selfish.

“Uhm,” he starts; this is awkward. He doesn’t do this often — not many stay overnight anyway. Strangely, he didn’t question it with you; maybe because he wants you to. “Do you want me to bring you home?”

“In all honesty, I… I don’t think you can drive tonight. We’re both not sober yet, so I’ll just leave in the morning. Need to be in the office by noon.”

“Ah? Why?”

“Meeting with Tae. I forgot that he wanted to go through a few organisational things for the upcoming concert.”

Concert preparations. Organisational things. The company.

Jungkook forgot about it all. Responsibilities still exist. Of course, he needs to be in the office tomorrow afternoon, too. This is his dream, his goal, everybody’s eyes on him, the biggest source of entertainment in the country.

Feels so stupid, forgetting you’ll leave at some point. That he can’t flip you over again all day tomorrow, that you’ll be occupied somewhere else, with someone else. Jungkook grits his teeth.

“You wanna come over again tomorrow night?” he asks.

And all of a sudden, despite the last hour, you seem lost in thoughts again. Probably tired, but he can’t help but overthink. You don’t answer immediately, keeping him on the edge, and as he thinks you’ve fallen asleep, he looks over, seeing your eyes open when you say, “Don’t know. Might have a couple things to tend to.”

Ah… okay. Sure.

Where’s your mind right now, he wonders?

Maybe circling around work. Maybe your urge to go is as little as his? All these things, they don’t sound too delightful right now, do they?

Concert preparations. Organisational things. The company. Tae.

When did you start using his nickname like this? Weird. Didn’t know the two of you were so close. Then again, does it matter? No. He shakes his head.

Shakes it slowly, making sure you don’t notice, sighing again before he breaks into a smile. It’s okay. You’re next to him. Not next to Taehyung. His friend. You’re covered in him. So he doesn’t let another’s name fog his brain, instead seeking peace and succeeding until—

“Don’t worry, another time,” you say, following up with a goosebump-inducing, “I’ll stick around until my feet tingle.”

Somewhere… at some point in his life… under probably not the best circumstances—

Wait.

THE FIC ISN'T OVER YET!! PLS READ 👇🏼

as always, tumblr hates content creators and has a 1k block limit. which is why you can read the rest of the story in this reblog hehe we're almost at the end <3

#jungkook fluff #jungkook smut #jungkook angst #bts smut #bts fluff #bts angst #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook fic #jungkook imagine #jungkook

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etherealove-a · 1 month ago

Text

A glimpse of your future partner/spouse.

Remember, tarot readings can help us see possibilities that lie ahead, but it doesn’t mean it is set in stone. Future’s not ours to see and you are responsible for your actions, and you can always choose your own path.

Also remember these probably won’t happen exactly how I say, I’m reading energies and write what vibes I’m getting from it. So it’ll have a same vibes to it, but it won’t be exactly the same. Just keep it in a mind, please.

🖤🕯️

Pile 1

Your person’s energy makes me smile. So so sweet. This person is in touch with their inner child. They know how to have fun no matter the situation and they have the power to light up a room full of mourning people. Social butterfly, probably everyone loves them, they’re on good terms with everyone. THEY LOVE MUSIC. And I’m writing it in all caps, because they really really love music. The type to dance to any song as long as they vibe with it; to sing along even if they don’t know the words. You’d hear them hum to themselves often, even doing a little dance moves during, for example, making a dinner. They could have a lot of admirers and suitors, but they’re very serious when it comes to love and they don’t really care about the fact so many people want them. Being in a relationship is not something that would be their number one priority. They don’t mind being single and they know how to have fun in their lives even while being on their own; they’re okay with their own company. They don’t show interest in others in a romantic way unless they’re really interested and unless they really mean it. So your person isn’t really one to flirt with just anyone and when someone flirts with them - they just don’t care. But they’re still nice about it and reject people gently. This is definitely not a rude or judgmental person, quite the opposite - your person is very sweet, caring, empathetic and respectful. Charismatic, well spoken, well mannered. They’re very serious when it comes to their family and people they love. Now, when it comes to you. Excuse me, but this is just so sweet. (Enchanted by Taylor Swift just started playing, and I swear, this song describes the vibe I’m getting from this pile perfectly). Haha and now I’m literally hearing Mr. Darcy’s line “You have bewitched me, body and soul..” ARE YOU KIDDING ME. Where did you find this person pile 1, I want one for me please. The moment your person sees you - the world stops for them. And I’m not being dramatic, it’s true. It’s probably not a face to face encounter, I get the feeling like you won’t notice them at first. They’re like talking with their friends and you’re there with yours, not really paying attention to your surroundings.. But they see you, and they can’t look away. Their heart is beating so fast, but they feel suddenly scared, too. This feeling is too strong, too overwhelming at the moment. They’ve been hurt in past, someone broke their heart and since then there’s this anxious feeling and fear of falling for someone; falling in love again. And they just did. This is a love at first sight, pile 1. They’ll be the one to pursue you and I see you two smiling the whole time. You’ll feel comfortable with them, they make the conversation flow smoothly and it’s so easy to talk to them. They make you laugh and it’s like you’re talking with your longtime friend. They can’t look away from your face the whole time, constantly admiring how beautiful you look - it’s unreal to them. I’m hearing they really love especially your hair and eyes. You’re charmed by them. You think they’re very attractive too. The conversation won’t be short - I see you talking and being together for hours that day. You both enjoy each other’s company. Also I have a feeling like they had to hide their inner child from their previous partner/s because it was viewed as childish and immature. But that’s not true. Your person is very smart, mature and even hardworking. They weren’t happy in their previous relationship/s. They always had to act like somebody else for others to fully accept them; that’s probably the reason they’re now so happy and comfortable being in their own company - they have learnt to embrace this part of themselves and decided not to change for others anymore. I’m proud of them.

🕯️🖤

Pile 2

First thing first, let me just tell you I want to hug your person. Such a gentle soul, but so so sad. I see someone laying on their bed, listening to music and feeling defeated. They don’t go out much, not like they used to at least. They could cry often, or feel like it - they just feel too much. They could have social anxiety and feeling insecure. The most caring person you’d ever meet. As I said, very very gentle soul, sensitive and loving. Protective of their loved ones, would do anything for them. Definitely enjoys cuddles and doesn’t mind being a little spoon. This makes them feel safe. Gentle touch and words of affirmation, stroking their hair and just being wrapped in each other’s arms. This all makes them feel so so safe. Even though they’re not very social, people usually like them and they have a circle of good friends. They could enjoy food and they would love going out to eat with you. You would really help them to get out of their comfort zone and go out more often. The truth is they love a little adventure and you make them feel so safe and comfortable that they actually feel braver to face and overcome their fears. This person is not the type to argue; they’re emotionally very mature and isn’t afraid to talk about and show their feelings. They probably have a sweet voice too, like, think Tom Holland - I think his voice is really cute. They would love spending time with you, only the two of you. Whenever you would be around, their whole world would light up. (Cover me in sunshine by p!nk started playing). This pile also gives me vibes of meeting online perhaps. Or communicating a lot through social networks, I’m seeing especially discord and also you or your person (or both) could play video games a lot. This pile’s person is so chill, it’s rare for them to yell and they’re veryyy comfortable to lay on? Their hugs are so comforting and their every touch is soo gentle. They’re just like a big soft teddy bear. During this reading I can’t stop seeing night sky and town at night even though it’s a daytime right now so I think being together during nighttime would be your thing. Like night walks, going out late when lights are already on, long night conversations, movie nights.. - staying awake for hours, just enjoying each other’s company. You would also often text each other just to check on the other. Or when something exciting happens, or something reminds you of them, you sent it/text it to them almost immediately. They do the same. You just want to include each other in everything, even when you’re not together at the time. There could be a third party in your relationship, somebody who doesn’t want you together. There’s jealousy and envy. When I said I have online vibes from this pile, it’s possible you or your person are part of some online community/group. They can be well known online, perhaps it’s an influencer or even youtuber, streamer or just someone who have a lot of followers and admirers on social media. Be careful and don’t let those people get in between you two. Otherwise, your person is very private and guarded and it can take some time to see their truest self. They can even be a little shy at the beginning of your relationship, but once they feel comfortable with you, they let you see what they’re really like under these walls they’ve built around their heart - and you’ll like it. Just be patient, it can take some time to get there, but it will be so worth it.

🖤🕯️

Pile 3

This person.. i get such a luxurious vibe from them. It’s someone who behaves well, has a respect for others (as long as these ‘others’ are respectful too). They don’t like egoistic people and shake their head at ‘i’m better than others’ attitude. This person is very smart, wise and grounded. I see them being very successful in work, but not that much in love. Definitely gives me vibes of someone who isn’t scared easily, can get through any challenge life throws at them. It’s rare to see them smile, truly from heart i mean. They can have hard time to look a little deeper within themselves, they have a tendency to push their emotions aside, and never really deal with them. These emotions are building up inside of them, waiting to burst one day, and it won’t be pretty. It can then cause burn out, depression and isolation. This being said, i don’t see them as someone who gets aggressive even if they’re really angry. That’s why they would rather isolate themselves, to not hurt others. Even when they’re angry, they deal with it in a rational, calm way. Well, being rational is their default mode. They’re always like that. So they don’t really show sympathy in a way you would sometimes like them to; that doesn’t mean they don’t love you. Figuring things out and trying to see logic in everything is how they are, and if they try to help you that way, trust me they love you very much. Act of service is main love language here. But that doesn’t mean they wouldn’t hug you and cuddle with you for comfort. They would, if you needed that - it’s not like they would try to avoid it or be against it. Nono. They love to touch you, and they love you touching them. Not even in a sexual way. I would even say physical touch is one of their strongest love languages too. It’s like a puppy in wolf disguise, you know what i mean? They have that soft spot for you. They always look clean, smell good and take a good care of themselves. They can look tired all the time, even if they’re not and their voice can sound husky/tired too. Very charismatic people, others look up to them, it’s like they have no enemies, everyone smiles when they interact with your person. Because of pushing their emotions to the side, it can be really hard for them to deal with their feelings for you. At least in the beginning, before they get used to it. The love could overwhelm them, because they are used to being alone, just focusing on work and themselves. They value honesty, loyalty and respect. Don’t worry, they can be goofy too. Very funny too, i hear laughing. They are really good with kids. If they have ex, you don’t have to worry about them, ever. They know what they want, and if they ended it with someone, they don’t look back anymore. Their eyes would be on you only. VERY LOYAL. I mean it. They can have a tendency to get away from you sometimes. (Now i mean like they would need alone time, think about it all, organize their thoughts and emotions). This relationship would need patience from your side especially, it would take some time before your person would open up and let their guard down. But it’s worth it. They need to heal and forgive themselves first, in order to love you how you deserve. But once this healing is done, their life becomes more peaceful and balanced. They need that love in their life, otherwise it’s just work, work, work for them. They need that balance and someone have to remind them to take a break and just alow themselves to relax. After time, you become even bigger priority than work for them. They will protect you, provide for you, just make sure you have a wonderful life. But not in an obsessive way, they just care about you and want you to be happy. Communication is easy with them, you can tell them anything. They won’t get angry or upset, like i said, they look at things in a rational way and they want the communication between you to feel comfortable for both sides. Also, your person can enjoy their everyday late hours alone time. It’s just important to them, so they can get up next day and keep going. Everyone needs that.

🕯️🖤

Pile 4

This pile is full of love. I mean, all of the piles are, but this one is overflowing. Someone is waiting for love, patiently even tho it hurts sometimes, but they never lost hope. Optimistic person. Romantic. Full of love. Heart of gold. For some i heard your person could be a biker. Someone who has a lot of close friends, true friends. This person has a really sweet smile and they smile very often. I see hair color on the darker side, like dark brown, black maybe or even dirty blonde that is more on a brown side. Outgoing personality. Golden retriever energy. But even with all this, they can still be pretty introverted and especially private. This is someone who believes in true love and who is waiting for the one. For some, this person could have an ex that they rather pretend doesn’t exist. Maybe that ex really broke their heart, and your person could take it REALLY hard, considering their believe and hope in true love. Someone could see their view on love naive. Not their friends tho. Their friends are really, really supportive and caring. There’s a family-like bond between your person and their friends. These people are lot of fun. Your person really knows how to have fun. They’re still really kind and pretty sensitive. Probably loves animals and has a cat or dog. Could like to wear hoodies, especially black ones. And more oversized ones. Cuddles, gentle touches and playing with your hair. Teenage love. This person would adore you. Worship you even. However, their obsession with love can cause them to not focus enough on other matters like work, education, their own goals etc. They sometimes need a reminder to focus on themselves too. But they are very ambitious and really smart, even tho they can seem almost childish and reckless at times, they are such an intelligent people and can be serious when needed. They kinda give me leader vibes too. They’re probably the most popular person in their friend group. People like them, listen to them, many have a crush on them too. They can be very bold and cunning when they have to be and they always stand up for their loved ones no matter who’s in right. And they can really make a fuss about it. It’s like these guys arguing with Karens when they’re being accused of something they didn’t do (or perhaps they did). This person has a good and charming way with words, can easily convince people. They’re not really the one for fancy dates, and classy things. They love the adventure; fun and just being silly together. Lot of laughs. Being outside all the time. Getting along with each other’s friends. Carnival dates. Late night dates. If it’s a rider, going on rides together would be your thing.

I hope you enjoyed this reading, beautiful souls. <3

This time all of the piles are pretty positive, so I guess majority of lucky people found this post. :p For real tho, I hope you’re all doing well in life and I’m sending a lot of love and hugs your way, I promise it always gets better in the end.

-A

#tarot reading #pick a pile #pick a card #love reading #future spouse #future partner #intuitive reading #tarotblr

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ellecdc · 6 months ago

Note

mother!!!! that recent poly!marauders + lily fic had me WEAK. if you please, could you write a part two where shy!reader finds out remus is a werewolf? I could see rem really not wanting her to find out bc he doesn’t want to scare her, but maybe severus(or somebody) spills the beans thinking she already knew, or she overheard a conversation between the boys. she’d be accepting of course, but remus freaks out when she finds out. just a lot of comfort and reassurance.

hope that gives you some inspiration, also, totally don’t have to write it if you don’t want to, of course!!! ilysm 🖤💚

I took this in a bit of a different direction but the ending's just the same! thanks so much sweets <3 <3

pt 1 // pt 2 // pt 3 // pt 4 // pt 5

4.6k words

poly!marauders + lily x shy!reader who learns about Remus' furry little problem

CW: miscommunication trope, insecurities, angst [with a happy ending], reader is feeling incredibly insecure in this fic, James cries, Sirius cries a little bit too but they all pretend not to notice for his sake

You felt terribly foolish; no, you felt worse. You felt absolutely humiliated and you had no one to blame but yourself.

And now that you were here - ‘here’ being rushing to the dungeons to lock yourself in the Hufflepuff dormitories for the next foreseeable future - you aren’t sure how you had convinced yourself that this was going to end any other way.

It was a pipedream at best, thinking you had any place amongst the infamous Marauders and the princess of Gryffindor, and it was delusional at worst.

Of course they’d grow weary of you, of course they’d find your nerves and anxiety tiresome, of course they’d wind up bored of accommodating you when they were all so much more than you.

What had you been thinking? How did you manage to allow yourself to believe that this was anything but a phase for them - they saw you as a challenge, they beat the challenge, and now they were through with you.

You thought that the sweet looks, the kisses, the affection, the effort all meant more than it obviously did.

At least to them.

To you, it meant the world.

To them, it was a chore.

You were a chore.

Foolish girl.

You had been on your way to the library to meet up with the boys and Lily to study for the upcoming Herbology test. It was the first real group ‘date’ after the sketchiness that usually followed Remus about once a month that no one else seemed inclined to comment on, so neither did you.

Except…except, this time, some lingering tension seemed to follow the bout of sketchiness.

And still, no one seemed particularly inclined to comment on it.

And you couldn’t help but feel like you were out of the loop somehow, but you chalked that up to being a newer addition to the dynamic, and not living with them in Gryffindor tower.

That is until you happened to be walking out of their view behind the stacks of books that their table was situated by when you overheard their conversation.

“You’re going to have to say something to her, Rem. This is getting out of hand.” You heard Lily say solemnly, earning her a pained groan from Remus’ lips, causing you to pause behind the stacks so as to not interrupt their conversation.

“Can’t we just ignore this? Just for a little longer?” Remus bargained. “I mean, it can’t be that bad?”

“It’s worse, Moons.” Sirius corrected.

“Y/N’s so sensitive though.” James added. “I mean, how would that conversation even go? How do you tell her something like that?”

“It has to come from Remus.” Lily stated matter-of-factly.

Remus let out a long-suffering sigh. “And how do you suggest I go about this?”

“Listen.” Sirius asserted. “I don’t bloody care how we tell her, but we have to say something. I cannot keep living like this; it’s exhausting.”

Lily made a tsking sound and placed a consoling hand on Sirius’ shoulder as Remus let out another sigh.

“I know, I know; I’m sorry you guys. I thought we could ignore it but…I don’t think we can anymore.”

Lily, Sirius, and James all made a hum of acknowledgement.

“I think we ought to just rip the bandaid off and hope she understands.” Lily said.

You felt your stomach migrate to your throat as you turned on your heels and fled the library.

Is that what all the tension was about? Is that what this library study date was? Just a ruse to sit you down so they could break up with you?

Of course it was, idiot. You scolded yourself. They were foolish to entertain the likes of you for any amount of time.

So now you were here - ‘here’ being rushing to the dungeons to lock yourself in the Hufflepuff dormitories for the next foreseeable future - and you aren’t sure how you had convinced yourself that this was going to end any other way.

“Do you think I should do it tonight?” Remus asked Lily as she finally sat down.

“I think it would be best if we did, sweetheart. I just can’t help feeling like we’re keeping her at arms length by keeping it a secret, you know?”

“I agree.” Sirius said quickly. “It feels like she’s more of a guest than actually part of the relationship whilst we’re keeping something so big from her.”

“I just don’t want her to hate me.” Remus admitted in a whisper.

“Remmy.” James cooed from the other side of Sirius. “Our sweet little Puffle seems completely incapable of hatred. But you know we’ve got your back 110% if she’s not accepting of you, right?”

The other two nodded in agreement but Remus only grimaced. “It just feels like I’d be ruining the relationship for all of you if the only person she has a problem with is me.”

“Impossible.” Sirius replied emphatically. “Anyone who has a problem with you has a problem with us, Moons.”

“Even if we weren’t dating, Rem, if someone didn’t respect my friend - or anyone, for that matter - because of their lycanthropy, I wouldn’t want them around anyways.” Lily agreed.

“I don’t think we’ll have a problem, though.” Sirius continued. “Like Prongs said, she’s our sweet girl; I’m sure she’ll handle this fine.”

“Where is she, anyway?” James said, flipping his wrist to check his watch. “She was supposed to meet us like twenty minutes ago.”

The other three shared a look of bemusement.

“Do you have the map?” Sirius asked.

James quickly pulled the map from his book bag to scan the parchment for your name. “It says she’s in the Hufflepuff common room?”

“Maybe she forgot?” Lily mused.

“I spoke to her at dinner; she said she was going to change out of her uniform and then meet us here.” Remus replied, feeling his heart rise to his throat with nerves.

What if she knew? What if she already found out? What if she hated him?

“Rem, it’s alright.” Lily placated, clearly seeing his concern etched onto his face. “Maybe she wasn’t feeling well, or got caught up with something else.”

“She’s never bailed on us before…” James admitted, looking just as worried as Remus was. “Maybe we should check on her?”

“Why don’t we give her tonight; I think after all the shite we put her through this week, she’s allotted one missed date.” Sirius decided, opting to keep his tone light as he teased Remus for his ‘pre-moon angstiness’ as his partners call it.

“We’ll catch up with her tomorrow.” Lily decided; and Remus and James shared a look of concern as they relented to study for the upcoming Herbology test without you.

You weren’t really mad at the Gryffindor’s for their decision to end things with you; at least not at first.

People were allowed to change their minds, and you supposed that was the purpose of dating, right? To see if the person you’re interested in is someone you want to keep around indefinitely?

So, people were allowed to change their mind, and that was okay.

You also couldn’t particularly blame them; you were shy, quiet, timid, awkward in most social settings and certainly not as adventurous as them, it was only a matter of time before they grew bored of you.

So you hadn’t been mad at them, not at first.

But you were growing increasingly annoyed at their attempts to force themselves within your space.

You had opted to sit at the Hufflepuff table for breakfast the next morning; there was no sense sitting at the Gryffindor table with them anymore.

But then you couldn’t handle the feeling of your heart splintering every time you heard Sirius’ bark of laughter or Lily’s giggle at something Remus said or that James did. So you quickly scarfed down your toast and grabbed a muffin to shove in your bag before fleeing from the Great Hall.

What you didn’t notice was James noticing you only as you were leaving, looking incredibly worried.

You nearly shrieked when you exited your Astronomy class that you had with the Ravenclaws and slammed into Sirius’ frame.

“There you are, dolly! We missed you this morning!” He proclaimed as he pressed a kiss to your cheek.

You quickly collected yourself; heart racing from the scare and then quickly migrating to your throat out of embarrassment and hurt at this familiarity you had with him only to be about to lose it.

“Sorry, I had been running late.” You said quickly as you headed for the stairs; the long-haired boy quickly keeping up with your steps.

“Were you feeling alright?” He asked you.

“How do you mean?”

Sirius tilted his head slightly as he considered you. “Well, you didn’t show up to the library last night, and then you were running late this morning; that’s not like you.”

A hot frustrated emotion burned in your chest that you weren’t completely accustomed to feeling.

Wasn’t he the one to say he couldn’t live like this anymore?

It wasn’t fair of you to be frustrated though, which frustrated you even more; he didn’t know that you had shown up to the library last night, nor that you had gotten to the Great Hall on time.

They hadn’t even noticed you this morning.

And that’s why they were ending things; you were forgettable, ignorable, unnoticeable.

“I’m fine, Sirius. Thank you.” You said simply, and quickly headed for the girl’s loo in order to shake him off.

Remus had approached you in Care of Magical Creatures as well, which somehow hurt more.

Perhaps it was because you knew he was going to be the one to tell you that things were over; though you had thought he’d be better than to break up with you in the middle of class.

“Hey, dove.” He said as he gently nudged your arm with his elbow; watching as you groomed the puffskein on your table.

“Hey, Remus.” You said quietly, not removing your eyes from the Beast you were working with.

“I missed you last night.” He admitted quietly.

Did you? You thought petulantly.

“Sorry.” You murmured instead.

“You don’t have to be sorry.” He said as he leaned his elbows on your workbench; if it had been any other student, you’re certain Professor O’Brien would have scolded him for not handling the beasts with adequate caution, but Remus seemed to be allowed certain privileges and the puffskein “Kujo” didn’t seem to mind him much. “I just missed you is all.”

And he was smiling that sweet, soft smile at you and he seemed like he actually meant it which only further contributed to your ire.

What happened to ripping the bandaid off? Why keep up this affectionate act if it was only going to end?

Remus looked like he was going to say something when the Professor announced the end of class.

“I’ll catch up with you later.” You offered quickly before you all but threw Kujo back into his pen and took off towards the castle.

The final straw had to be Herbology, though.

You shared Herbology with the Gryffindors, and because you were a new addition - your the four Gryffindor’s all shared a potting bench whilst you worked alongside another Hufflepuff.

Today, however, it appeared that James had other plans.

Before Sadie-Jane could take her seat beside you, James had plopped himself - rather carefully for the notoriously boisterous quidditch chaser, mind you - on the stool beside you.

“Hey, angel.”

Again, with the pet names.

It felt torturous at this point; part of you wanted to rip the bandaid off yourself.

But you looked over at the sweet, warm, inviting face of James Potter and any resolve to tell him to shove it completely dissipated. He was all messy curls, round frames, and warm eyes.

And you might have been [must have been] mistaken, but you felt you could see anxiety and worry painted in his features.

You supposed breaking up with someone could do that to a person, though.

“Hi Jamie.” You whispered back as you opted to ready your supplies for today’s lesson.

“I was wondering if you were going to come to the game tonight?” He blurted then, looking slightly embarrassed at his outburst.

Right…the game. The game against Slytherin. The game that would have you sitting between Remus and Lily as they cheered for James and Sirius. That game.

“I...uhm, well…”

Rip the bandaid off.

But it was James.

And you were in class.

And you could see Lily and Remus trying - and failing - to not look like they were watching you and James whilst Sirius had no such qualms and was actively staring at the two of you.

“Yeah, I’ll…I’ll see.” You offered James, mustering up what you hoped was a convincing enough smile.

You could tell by the divot that appeared in James’ brows that you were not convincing in the slightest.

Thankfully Professor Sprout appeared then, instructing everyone to take their seats for class to begin, and Sadie-Jane came to claim her seat from the Gryffindor.

You didn’t go to the game that night.

Gryffindor lost.

And though you didn’t know at the time, James cried, but it wasn’t about losing to Slytherin.

“So, why are you hiding in the dorms?” Caroline asked as she rolled away from her open magazine on her bed, clearly preferring potential drama you could offer her than whatever was in this week's Witch Weekly.

“I’m not hiding.” You muttered back, not looking up from your cross-stitch you were working on instead of, you know, dealing with your problems.

“Right.” Caroline agreed, not sounding like she agreed with you at all. “That’s why you’ve started and quit several hobbies over the weekend and have been going to the kitchen’s to grab food instead of eating in the Great Hall like a normal person.”

You looked over at your half finished gem ‘paint-by-numbers’, the scarf you’d crocheted that looked more like the skin of a messed up snake that had a terrible time shedding, and the guitar you had borrowed from Fenwick and nearly broke in a fit of rage when you couldn’t get it to sound the way you wanted it too.

“I just…can’t face them right now.” You admitted dejectedly.

“I don’t blame you. Helga, have you seen the lot of them? If I’d known they were accepting more I would have made my shot.” She mused as she laid back on her bed.

Grief and jealousy intertwined within you as you thought about them dating anyone else but you.

But you supposed that was their prerogative; they were allowed to change their minds.

“Yeah well, you may still have a chance.” You muttered, capturing Caroline’s attention.

“What?” She asked quickly, but you didn’t have a chance to answer before there was a knock on the door.

“Were you expecting anyone?” She asked with a salacious wink, causing you to glare at her.

“If it’s them, I’m not here; please.” You practically begged your roommate as she rolled her eyes and moved to the door to your dorm room.

“Oh, hello Evans.” Caroline greeted, causing you to scrunch your eyes closed from your place currently hidden from view of the door.

“Hi! Erm, is Y/N around?” Lily asked, sounding uncharacteristically awkward.

“Uh…no, she’s not in right now. I can let her know you stopped by, though?” Caroline offered.

You heard Lily thank her before Caroline closed the door again.

“You sure you don’t want them? ‘Cause those Gryffindor’s are fine.” She sighed as she returned to her bed.

She let out a squawk when your pillow made contact with her head.

Lily stepped out through the barrel to find Sirius and Remus exactly where she had left them (albeit far more tense) as James came running from down the hall where he had been pacing nervously.

“Well?” James asked.

Lily pursed her lips. “Her roommate said she wasn’t there.”

Remus looked down at the map to the place where your name was etched beside your roommate’s in the seventh year Hufflepuff girls’ dormitory.

Either the map was faulty [fat chance], or you were avoiding them.

It was official.

For whatever reason, they were losing you.

You had somehow managed to avoid the Gryffindor’s all Monday; taking a moment to thank every deity that you only had Divination with the Gryffindor house, and none of your Gryffindor’s had opted to take it.

You wondered if you could call them your Gryffindor’s anymore…

You had run over to the kitchens - all but a hop skip and a jump from your common room - to grab dinner and were stepping back out through the portrait of the pears when you came face to face with Sirius.

“So nice to see you, Y/N; I’d almost forgotten what your face looked like.” He said; his tone taking on a harsh tone you weren’t accustomed to hearing directed at you causing you to wince.

“Pads…” Remus warned from behind him, though he was looking at you just as warily as Sirius was.

As was James and Lily.

Shit.

“I’m glad to see you’re still eating…” Remus commented dejectedly as he nodded towards your smorgasbord of a plate that Winky had helped prepare for you that now looked horribly unappetising.

“I…yes. Erm, what are you guys doing here?” You tried.

It had, apparently, been the wrong thing to say.

Sirius let out a derisive scoff. “Cut the bullshit, Y/N. What the hell has gotten into you?”

“Sirius.” Lily warned.

“Would you guys stop?” He barked back at them before returning his burning gaze back to you. “I’m tired of this; of running around the school looking for you, of being disappointed every time you bail on us, of having to hold James whilst he cries because you’ve let him down, of being lied to. So I’m going to ask again - what the hell has gotten into you?”

“Nothing has gotten into me…” You tried to argue, though it sounded feeble even to your own ears.

James had cried? You made James cry…

The disappointment in Remus’ eyes, the concern in Lily’s, the anger in Sirius’, the sadness in James’... it was too much, too much, too much.

“You’re going to stand there and lie to my sodding face?” Sirius asked incredulously.

“Sirius, stop it.” James ordered; his voice far more severe than you have ever heard from him. “Angel, please. Just…just tell us what’s wrong. Tell me what I can do to fix this.”

Any sadness that had settled in your chest bubbled into anger at his word choice.

“Fix this?” You repeated back to him. “Why? Why bother fixing anything if you’re all just going to leave me!?”

The four Gryffindor’s stood staring at you with different levels of bemusement; Lily and Sirius at your words, Remus and James at you having raised your voice for the first time…well…ever.

“What do you mean ‘leave you’?” Lily asked cautiously, causing you to scoff.

“I heard you guys - in the library.”

“In the library? But…you never showed?” James asked.

“Yes, I did - and I heard you guys talking about me, so I decided to stay out of your way thinking that maybe I’d make it easier on you all. But then you’ve spent the past week absolutely torturing me; showing up at my classes, trying to sit beside me, showing up to my dorm room like you weren’t just biding your time.”

“Y/N, what exactly did you hear us say in the library?” Remus queried.

“That you couldn’t do this anymore! That someone ‘had to tell me’ because it was ‘getting out of hand’. That you couldn’t possibly live like this anymore and hopefully I’d just understand. And I do! I do understand; but what I don’t understand is what the point of chasing me around the bloody castle is if you-”

“Whoa, whoa. Okay, alright just breathe, darling, I’m sorry.” Lily attempted to placate, holding her hands up as she approached like you were some kind of feral cat.

You sort of acted like one when you swatted her hands away from you.

“No! No, it’s not fair! I’m sorry if I’m too much, or if I’m not enough; I get it, okay? I do; sometimes it doesn’t work out and that’s fair but if that’s how you feel then just leave me alone!” You shouted back, feeling the tears trailing down your neck at this point.

“Y/N, please, listen okay? Just relax and we can talk this out.” Lily tried again as James let out a pained breath that sounded awfully close to a sob.

“Remus, please.” He begged, turning his pooling hazel eyes to his scarred boyfriend who was looking at you in abject horror. “Please.”

“Y/N, you’ve misunderstood, dove. I-I’m sorry, It’s my fault, but what you heard…that wasn’t us talking about breaking up with you. I… It was about me.”

You wiped angrily at your face and set your now cold plate on the ground - you weren’t hungry anymore anyways. “It’s not you, it’s me?” You sneered half-heartedly.

“No, no…Merlin, Y/N I- I’m a werewolf. Okay? I have lycanthropy, I was bitten when I was four; that’s where I go once a month and why I get…weird. We were talking about the fact that I needed to tell you because it was hurting us to keep it from you. Dovey, I’m so sorry you’ve been so upset. Please, please take a breath for me.”

You held your hands over your eyes as you tried to control your breathing.

Sketchiness…tension…disappearances…

“You’re going to have to say something to her, Rem; this is getting out of hand”

“Can’t we just ignore this? Just for a little longer? I mean, it can’t be that bad?”

“Y/N’s so sensitive though… How do you tell her something like that?”

“It has to come from Remus.”

“I don’t bloody care how we tell her, but we have to say something; I cannot keep living like this, it’s exhausting.”

“I’m sorry you guys. I thought we could ignore it but…I don’t think we can anymore.”

“I think we ought to just rip the bandaid off and hope she understands.”

“I’m a werewolf. I have lycanthropy…that’s where I go once a month.”

“Please…baby, please say something. I-I’m so sorry.” You heard Sirius plead quietly; his shaky voice in stark contrast from the way he’d been barking at you just moments before.

You pulled your wet hands away from your eyes to see all four of them looking at you with nothing but worry and heartache on their faces; though none looked quite as vulnerable as Remus did.

“I’m sorry, Y/N.” He whispered.

You sucked in a shuddering breath as more tears fell. “So…you don’t hate me?”

Remus let out a disbelieving laugh when you heard what sounded suspiciously like a sob from James.

“No! No, no dove, that- I’m rather quite in love with you, you know?” He pressed, daring to step closer to you. “Do you hate me?” He asked then, tone turning vulnerable once more.

“No.” You whined emphatically.

“Oh my poor girl.” Sirius whined sympathetically.

“Can I hug you? Please?” James all but begged, stepping in front of you with his arms open already; poised for you to say…

“Yes.”

You’re not sure he even waited for the affirmation to leave your lips before he had you encased in his arms.

You shoved your face into his chest and fisted his shirt in your hands; pulling him as close as you possibly could to your person.

You weren’t sure how long you’d been standing there - directly in front of the kitchens and awfully close to your own common room - sniffling into James’ shirt as he sniffled into your hair, but you heard a sniffle come from beside you.

You turned to see Sirius’ grey eyes shiny and red as he looked at you imploringly.

“I’m so sorry I yelled at you, sweetness. I’m such an arse I just…I-”

“It’s okay.” You whispered.

“No it’s not.” Sirius argued immediately. “I…I get like that sometimes; just horribly defensive and then I go on the offensive first. I didn’t even give you a chance to talk to us before I was attacking you; I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, Siri.” You offered again, holding a hand out to him which he took readily.

“I can’t believe you’ve spent this whole week believing we wanted nothing to do with you.” Lily whined from your other side. “I’m so sorry we left you feeling like that, darling girl.”

Though you were quite content in your muscled hideaway, you pulled away from James’ chest to wipe at your face again, feeling awfully self-conscious of how blotchy your face must look from your tears.

“I shouldn’t have assumed.” You admitted shamefully; voice scratchy from both the shouting and the crying.

“The way you described it, I can understand how our conversation sounded to you, babygirl.” Sirius contended.

“So…you’re really not leaving me?” You asked again.

“I feel like I should be asking you that, dove.” Remus replied.

“Why would I be leaving you?”

Lily shared a knowing look with Sirius and James who in turn moved their gazes to Remus with expressions reading “see?”.

“Not everyone would be accepting of a werewolf.”

You felt your eyebrows furrow as you looked at the others as if saying “are you hearing this right now?”

“But…I love you? I…I don’t even know what else to say…I just… love you so, that’s fine.”

“I just love you so that’s fine.” Sirius repeated as he looked at Remus arrogantly. “I knew I should have placed a bet on how she’d respond; I’d have made five galleons!”

“We were not going to bet on how our girlfriend would respond to Remus’ furry little problem, Sirius.” Lily chided as she playfully swatted at his shoulder.

“Besides,” James added, pulling you closer into his side again. “You would have lost because I don’t think any of us would have bet that she’d misinterpret our disastrous conversation as us trying to leave her and then spend the week believing we were waiting for the perfect time to break up with her only for us all to shout and cry when we realised what happened.”

“No, that's true.” Sirius agreed readily, looking back at you with sympathy. “I really am sorry, baby.”

“Me too.” Lily continued.

“Me most of all.” Remus added.

“I knew we should have gone looking for her that night.” James mused aloud mostly to himself. “Could have saved us all a lot of heartache.”

“Yeah, yeah Prongs. You’re right again; I’m sure we’ll never live it down.” Sirius said with a playful eye roll.

“How can we make it up to you?” Lily asked as she placed her hand at the juncture of your neck and shoulder and traced shapes along the column of your neck with her thumb.

You shook your head shyly and looked at your feet. “It’s not necessary guys.”

“Nonsense.” Sirius scoffed.

“Let’s start with some dinner, yeah? And maybe a cwtch in the boys’ dorm upstairs?” Remus offered to the group, though he seemed to be waiting for you to answer.

You nodded at him and he opened his arms in invitation which you accepted readily.

“I’m sorry, dovey.” He whispered into your hair.

“I’m sorry too, Rem.”

“Let’s never fight again.” James decided enthusiastically as Lily and Sirius stepped through the pear portrait into the kitchens.

“Sounds good to me, bubs.” Remus agreed as he bent down to press a kiss to James’ lips whilst keeping you secured to his side.

You were sure that after this week, these four wouldn’t be letting you out of their reach.

After this week, you weren’t sure you minded that at all.

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seungfl0wer · 22 days ago

Text

*𝙈𝙞𝙨𝙨𝙚𝙙 𝙏𝙝𝙞𝙨*

Pairing: Bangchan x Reader (Fem)

Genre: Smut

Warning: Dom!Chan, Breeding Kink, Talks about pregnancy, Creampie, Unprotected sex, Choking, Face fucking, Oral (Both), Degrading, Pussy/Tit Slaps, Multiple rounds, Multiple orgasms (Both), Overstimation(Both), Hickeys, Back Scratching. I think that’s all? Mostly proofread. Oh oh daddy used

A/N: This was requested some good “hardcore sex” with Chan lol. I enjoyed this way to much and fuck- do I love it. Side note I didn’t know what to title this so-

-🖤

Chan had just came back from tour a few days ago. Although He hasn’t had a day off yet until today happily. He spent all night cuddled up to you knowing he wouldn’t have to let go to leave early. He had his big warm hands around your waist keeping you close to him, head nuzzled into your back. He missed you so fucking much, just to hold you like this made his heart so happy.

You started to move a bit pushing your body back into his, grinding your ass into his clothed cock. “Pretty girl, don’t tease me now” he said softly against your ear, His voice sweet like honey. You tried your best not to giggle but it slipped past your lips before you could stop it. You kept moving your hips back into him his hands squeezing against your soft curves. “You better stop before you start something that you can’t finish” he said nipping at your neck.

You grinned you knew he’d punish you if you kept teasing however you weren’t expecting it to rile him up as much as it did. He let his hands wonder up your body, soft fingers slinked their way around your neck. He turned your head to him slightly applying pressure to your pressure points. “You really think it’s a good idea to do this when I haven’t seen you for 2 months?” He said as he kissed your parted lips biting your bottom lip. “Or do you need to be retrained to be my good little whore again?”

Your eyes half opened looking at him. Fuck. He already had you such a mess and he hasn’t even done anything. “I asked you a question.” He said with a hard smack to your ass. “N-no- I’m sorry daddy” you stuttered out. He raised an eyebrow “you sure? It seems like you do” he said his hand coming down to pull your panties down. He chuckled at how wet you were already his fingers slightly brushed up your slick folds. You let out a whisper of a moan barely being audible before he pulled away from you.

“On your Back” He said as he pulled down his boxers letting his hard cock spring out of them. No matter how long you’ve been together you’re always still in awe at how good looking he is. His toned stomach, sharp thighs and long thick cock. You quickly turned to your back laying down before he grabbed you pulling your body to the edge, Your head dangling back. You looked up at him with those pretty eyes making him smile “I’ve missed this sweet little fuck toy” he said with a groan. “Open wide” he said tapping the tip of his slightly hard cock to your lips.

He quickly pushed into you his head falling back at the warmth, he didn’t move for a second wanting to take it all in. He groaned a bit louder before pushing deep into your mouth making you gag. He didn’t stop though he leaned down slapping your tits as he fucked into your mouth. His cock hit the whole way back tears pricking at your eyes. Drool pulling at the side of your mouth as you took every inch of him in. He moved his hands from your tits before grazing his fingers against your clit. You let out a muffled moan bucking your hips up to try and meet his hand again. And oh boy did you meet it, he let a slightly hard smack to your cunt. The feeling making your body shutter.

“You’ll get my fingers when I want you to got it? You greedy little whore” he spat. You nodded looking up at him. As he fucked your face he felt his high coming his thrusts became faster as he chased it. His balls smacking against your face as he only slightly almost ghostly touched your cunt. He pushed in one more time before cumming far back in your throat, you tried to move however Chan took his fingers pinching your nose closed “swallow. You don’t get to waste any of it!” He said in almost a growl.

You nodded tears falling down your cheeks as you swallowed around him. Sucking back all his cum the warm thick liquid sliding down your throat. He chuckled pulling his cock out strings of saliva like webbing pulled with it. “Always so messy.” He said before moving his body towards the other side of the bed.

Before your brain could wrap around anything he was kneeling between your legs. No warning before he started sucking harshly at your clit, pushing his fingers deep into you. The sensation making your body arch, you let out a sound that was almost a scream. He chuckled nipping at your clit “gonna have everyone hearing you, everyone’s gonna know how much of a slut you are” he said with a grin. He was bringing you quickly to your orgasm your legs started to shake as they closed around him.

He let a smack to your thigh before pulling them apart “keep them open.” He said in a low voice he nipped harder at your clit pushing another finger into you curling them deep inside you. Your cunt clenched around them taking them so greedily “gon- gonna cum” you managed to get out. He stopped himself completely looking up at you “I don’t think you asked.” He said before letting another nice smack to your pussy. However before you could even reply the smack pushing you over the edge, you came hard around his fingers moaning loudly.

Chan shook his head “what a filthy little slut cumming from a smack? And with out asking? Tsk tsk” he teased. The smirk on his face was pure devilish “let’s see if you can remember to ask for the next one” he said before brutally fingering you. This pace mixed with his tongue had you cumming over and over. His favorite punishment, overstimulation till you’re crying. After the 4th time cumming and screaming his name he finally had enough needing to be inside you.

He sunk into your sopping wet cunt his movement harsh as he bottomed out. His balls smacking against your ass, hands slinking their way up to your tits squeezing them. “My pretty little slut, god I missed being inside you” he said with another squeeze. He left little pinches to your nips as his hips smacked into you. You looked up at him with hazy eyes, you were so cock drunk so fucked out of your mind drool sliding down your cheek. Your cheeks and body flushed pretty shades of pink and red.

He leaned down nipping at your skin before sucking at your collarbone. He left a trail of purple marks up to your neck biting ever so often. Once he got situated in the spot he knew that drove you crazy he bit down. His teeth sinking into you making your body arch nails digging into his skin. “Fuck!” Is all you could muster up. You felt him smirk against your skin, moving toward your ear he nipped at it as well “who’s the only one that can make you feel this good hmm?” He said his breath hot against your ear.

“Y-you. Daddy is” you stuttered out not knowing how you could even speak. “Mm that’s right baby. Daddy’s the only one that knows what this little slutty pussy needs” he said with a low growl. His hand came up gripping around your neck applying pressure almost immediately. “Gonna fucking cum deep in this pussy yeah? Gonna fill you as much as I can so when I go on tour again I’ll come back to you nice and pregnant. Fuck-“ he said his pace speeding up.

“Fuck- baby you’re squeezing me so tight you must like the idea” he said smiling. His free hand coming down to play with your overly sensitive clit. “Gonna be the prettiest mommy out there. Fuck-“ he said hips stuttering as his high washed over him. He came deep into you, you could feel his cock twitching as he spilled out. He moaned loudly as he kept fucking into you. His cock sensitive but fuck did he just wanna keep going. He fucked into you as if he didn’t just cum harder than he has ever before just a few seconds ago.

“Chan! T’much!” You stuttered out. He nodded “yeah? Just one more. Need to fill you up one more time ok? Promise baby just one more you can take one more right?” He babbled his words slurring a bit. “Just- one more” you said breathily. “That’s my good girl, my beautiful girl” he said leaning into a sloppy kiss his hand that was once around your neck going down wrapping around your leg. He pushed as deep as he possibly could, pelvis against pelvis. You let out a muffled scream moving your body away a bit.

“Where do you think you’re going? I’m not fucking done with you yet” he spat yanking your body back to where it once was. He wrapped his strong arms around you. Body’s meshed together as he rutted himself into you. He kept himself buried deep inside you as he chased his high. “Ch-channie- please-“ you didn’t know exactly what you were begging for but he knew. He could feel you clenching around him, your cunt ready for a final release. “Cum for me baby, you’ve made such a pretty mess on my cock- fuck my good little slut” he breathed out. His words were almost non coherent at this point as he babbled.

He sped up his movements on your clit pinching it slightly, your legs shook cumming hard around him. “My good girl fuck such a good girl.” He said his movements now faster trying to reach his high. His fingers never stopping on your clit as he did. “Chan! Chan!” You screamed out feeling like you were gonna explode before he came deep inside you. You could feel all of him twitching in you, feel his balls tightening as they released. Your body shook, and it shook hard. A warmth washing over you both realizing you squirted all over you both. Fluids dripping down mixing with his cum, sweat and drool.

He held onto you tightly as you both were overstimulated and drained. When he was coming back to earth a bit he peppered you with kisses as he sung you praises. “I love you, you did so well.”

A bit later after getting cleaned up, you both were cuddled up in fresh new bedding. “I didn’t go to far did I my love? You sure you’re ok?” He said as he stroked your hair a hint of worry in his voice. You shook your head half open eyes staring up at him “I’m fine channie, I love you so much” you said softly feeling like you could fall asleep at any minute.

“And I love you my beautiful angel. You get some rest yeah? I’ll order some food here in a bit for us when you wake” he said kissing your nose softly. Before you knew it you were passed out, sleepin like a rock.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

💙 If you’d like to read more of my stuff you can find it Here: Master List . Thank you for reading and if requests are open or you just wanna talk feel free to send me something🩵

Taglist: @satosugu4l @do-you-remember-summer-127 @xines16 @minh0scat @troublemaker02 @tr-mha-fan @lunearta @velvetmoonlght @minghaosimp

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lalunanymph · 3 months ago

Text

୨⎯ 🖤⎯୧ 𝐌𝐎𝐍 𝐃É𝐌𝐎𝐍

driven by a desperate need to uncover the truth behind your visions after the chaos at the auction, you strike a deal with sylus to unlock more of your memories… only to discover far more than what you bargained for

𓇢𓆸 MONSTERFUCKING, explicit smut with sylus in his demon form, cumflation, predicament bondage (he ties you up with his evol), mentions of pregnancy, mentions of miscarriage, nightmare landscapes, references to GOETHE'S "FAUST" AND HADES imagery for my rendition of sylus' origin, religious imagery, sacrilege, mentions of food, mentions of blood, mentions of death, reader goes insane, mentions of gore, mentions of violence, reader and sylus had a child together, sexy but it's also pretty angsty wbk, this is barely edited ... sorry ...

They say that no one understands human curiosity quite like a demon does.

Once angels with the entire heavens at their feet, their eyes now scorch the earth searching for souls to entrap and torture, striking deals in turn for pounds of flesh they devour once a mortal leaves the realm.

Demons were cunning and ruthless creatures who struck fear into every heart they encountered; whose natural oozing charm and demeanor could convince even the most stalwart of men to sell their soul in exchange for a paltry consolation prize.

In a way, Sylus reminds you of a demon.

If it weren't for the deal you struck with him to bring you to the auction at the hotel, you wouldn't be stuck in this liminal situation where you know too much, but not enough.

After the incident at the Salon Hotel where your memories were coming back in pieces and fragments, frustration stole the last of your rationality and you all but begged the towering, intimidating lord of the N109 underworld to help you gain more of your recollections back.

At first, he had refused to do so with no reason given.

But, just as you overestimate how stubborn he can be, he underestimates just how persistent you are in turn.

Sitting across from him in nothing but a scarlet robe he had gifted you, the runny morning sunlight spilling across the mahogany table does nothing to warm you up from the inside out. You're still jittery from the explosion and the fight with that strange looking Wanderer, all while your lover (partner?) appears both nonchalant and nonplussed despite almost losing his life a few nights ago.

"I can hear the wheels in your head turning, sweetie."

Sylus finally puts down the book he's been reading for the past half an hour, peering at you over his glasses.

You clear your throat and reach for the glass of pomegranate juice the personal chef had prepared, whetting your throat and your lips for what you have to say next.

"Sylus, it's been days since the last time we were at the hotel," you pause, biting your lower lip. "Don't you think I deserve an explanation of what happened? What I saw in those... flashbacks?"

If you could even call them that.

The dagger in your hand. The blood stains on your fingers. A towering, dark figure whose touch was more familiar than you could ever believe. It all felt too real and tangible.

Much, much too tangible.

As much as you try to ignore it, bury your curiosity six feet under where you could never see it again, your innate Hunter instincts tell you there's something big he's not telling you.

Something he can't tell you.

Sylus' exaggerated exhale grates your ears and he gives you a scrutinizing look all over.

"I told you—"

"You have no idea what set off those flashbacks, yeah, I heard," you bite back, seething.

A shadow of a grin teases the corners of his lips. "Seems like the little kitten has her claws ready. Whatever is bothering you, sweetie?"

Bristling at his patronizing tone, your glare sharpens, your grip around the glass tightening.

"I want to know the truth, Sy." You lean back in the chair and cross your arms. "The whole truth. And nothing but. Why did I have those visions? Why were you in them? Why can't my memories come back no matter how hard I try to remember?"

You expect him to scoff or play elusive with you like he usually does. But, for the first time since you've met him, Sylus is wearing a pensive look, one which draws the angles of his face to look older than his 28 years of age.

"Are you sure you want to know?"

His voice is hoarser than you expect, and you perk up in disbelief.

"You-you're willing to tell me?"

His crimson eyes flicker to the pomegranate juice in your hands.

"I would like to. But, it depends on if you can handle the truth, little bird."

You squint at him through narrowed eyes, trying to uncover the ploy he has up his sleeve. Trusting Sylus didn't come naturally to you, though you did try for the sake of the Aether Core bond connecting you both.

"I can handle it," you mutter decisively. "You've seen what happened after the hotel explosion—I can handle it."

The sunlight cascading behind you drenches half of his face in the shadows, a look of deep contemplation etched in his countenance.

"Alright." He stands up, and without another moment to spare, rummages in his fridge, fishing out a whole pomegranate and peeling it with nimble, sure fingers. Your curiosity simmers to a boiling point when he taps out a handful of seeds, placing it in a bowl and pushing it right towards you.

"Eat up."

Cautiously, you assess the blood red seeds, wondering if this was a test or some sort for him to evaluate you.

“What is this?”

Those crimson eyes glint with an unnamed emotion, and his expression remains unfathomable. Straightening to his full height, Sylus sauntered over to you, hands in his robe pockets; a teasing grin on his lips. He stops just shy of brushing his shins against your knees, and leans forward, broad shoulders blocking out the morning sunlight as he drenches you in the full shadows of his intentions and secrecy.

“You asked me to tell you the truth and I will. Consider these seeds a downpayment for what I’m about to reveal to you tonight.”

Adrenaline spikes your veins, and your breathing hitches with excitement.

Is he really…?

Your thoughts trail off, and you hum, reluctantly picking up one perfectly round, juicy red globe.

Faintly, your voice reaches him, soft and frayed with hesitancy.

“And if I do this, will you tell me everything I want to know?”

Striking a deal with Sylus is like striking a deal with the devil himself. You knew this—if it was too good to be true, there was something you had to give back in return. But… the idea of fully comprehending the horrible visions you saw is much too tempting.

In answer, he cocks his head to one side, regarding you curiously like how a raven might, his mannerisms bringing to mind a scheming Mephisto.

“Of course. When have I ever gone back on my deal?”

The allure of knowing is too hard to resist. As you bite down on the pomegranate seeds, its sweet juices coating your tongue, you never thought succumbing to temptation could taste this good.

𓍯𓂃𓏧♡

It’s night somewhere in the recesses of your consciousness.

You should be in your own bed in Sylus’ mansion, high thread count sheets pulled up to your chin, but instead, you’re barefoot in this abandoned colosseum, staring up at the towering effigies of old gods long departed from this world. The state of these statues are in ruin; fragments of faces and bodies missing as if they were alone were the lone survivors of a universe-changing explosion.

Only the sound of your breath and the rustle of your footsteps whispering across the stone floor touched your ears. Your guard is up, and you think you’re fully here alone when a presence makes itself known behind you.

You feel his arms wrap around your torso, pulling you right to his chest. There is no need to turn around; you already know who it was.

Silver hair the color of snow shines in this drab, gray pantheon where old gods and a new world witness him getting to his knees, pressing his face right into your belly that, you realize with a jolt, is protruding slightly.

“I have missed you,” his familiar baritone sends sparks of longing down your spine, and you tangle your fingers in his hair, sighing deeply in contentment.

“My brother tried to keep me locked in the basement,” your words, though foreign to your own ears, felt right at this moment.

Sylus, dressed in a soldier’s uniform, kisses your stomach again, his yearning felt through his sigh when he caresses your hips with broad strokes of his large palms. “I only wish to be with you for the rest of my life.”

“That is my dearest wish, too,” you reply back in a shaky voice.

His smirk, though flashed centuries apart from the Sylus you know now, is still familiar and cheeky.

“Run away with me,” he decided, straightening up to tangle his fingers with yours, squeezing your hands tightly. “Run away with me and let us forget this horrendous fate, my love.”

Tears pool in your eyes, and you touch your belly, as if holding onto it for strength. “My love, my brother will be back and he will wonder where I am. It is not safe for you here. He knows what you have done to me—” your grip tightens further on your belly, “—and he wants his revenge for the grave error you have caused my family and I. You need to run—”

The touching scene is interrupted by a man clearing his throat. The both of you look up to find the wounded eyes of your brother searing through the two of you.

“Sylus,” Valentine snarled, and your lover is quick to hide you behind his broad build, unsheathing his sword.

“Do not harm her,” Sylus’ tone is low and menacing. “Your sister had no part in this debauchery. It is me you want.”

Your brother's eyes, so similar to your own, flash with a hunger for Sylus’ end and he swings the sword first. A bloody fight ensues, one man battling for your honor and the other for your love. Your cries go unheard, as if they are alike to the stone statues observing these conflicts with a detached eye.

“Sylus—noooo!”

His blade sinks into Valentine’s chest, cherry red blood spewing out onto the stone floors. You drop to your knees, cradling your belly in anguish as you cry out your brother’s name over and over again. Your brother’s blood seeps through your hands, staining your snowy white nightgown as you fail to staunch his life from leaving his shuddering body.

He’s dead… oh gods… he’s dead… My last family member is dead!

Devastated, you run off barefoot into the night, rocks and dirt cutting through the delicate soles of your feet as you scream and cry like a madwoman.

Sylus has killed my brother… he’s killed my mother…

This cursed child in your womb!

You want nothing more than to pull it from the flesh of your being, leaving it straggling and dying for breath. You want nothing of Sylus in you—there is an absence of everything warm and good in your shivering chest. All you desire for is his demise from this world.

Hurling yourself into an empty church, you stagger to the sanctuary, climbing the steps and crumble into a desperate, sobbing heap.

Tears drip down to the stone floor, and your sobs echo around the vacant space. Saint Verona gazes down upon you, heavenly in her glow of flowing blonde hair and esoteric glare, stoic and silent, as if she too has abandoned you from God’s good graces. A bubbling laughter filled with nothing but terror and hysteria bounces across the church’s walls and you cackle, tearing at your hair, your clothes, fists raining down onto your belly as you try to rid yourself of the monster’s child.

The scene changes.

Scorching earth fills your nose, and in your hand, a dagger prevails.

There’s a thundering of hooves, like a battalion of horses fighting in the distance, ringing through your hollow ears. The ground shakes and trembles from the force of the hundred horses, but when you look up, you see a familiar pair of red eyes burning through the dark mists surrounding him.

His name comes to you in a flash.

Sylus.

Those crimson orbs seem to float through the smoky composition of his face, though if you look closer, you can see the translucent demonic skin stretching over his towering form appearing in fleeting instances—proof that he was once human.

You glare at him, getting to your feet and wield the dagger, aiming it straight for his heart.

The second the pointed tip sinks into his chest, the world explodes in a shock of white light, and you’re back in the same, decrepit pantheon.

There is no longer a child inside of you, just hatred tearing through your heart as you bare your teeth at his demonic form, not afraid so much as devastated by his betrayal.

“You hurt me.”

Your voice rings through the empty halls with the conviction of an entire jury waiting to declare him guilty.

Sylus doesn’t respond, merely taking one step towards you. His demonic form towers above you by a few feet, but you tilt your head upright in defiance, unwilling to back down and grovel for a man who had left you in the lurch; abandoning you when you needed him the most.

A clawed hand drifts from his side, and you flinch when he touches your cheek, tracing his finger down to your jaw. The mists swirling around him recoil, as if waiting in anticipation.

“I’ve missed you.” His voice is a low croak, vibrating through your chest with the strength of his despair.

You shrink back from his touch, the baleful glare on your lips never fading.

“Why? After what you’ve done… after what you did to me…”

“I never intended for you to get caught in the crossfire,” he rumbled, taking one step closer to you. The tendrils of black mist move with him, and you feel them reaching out to you, caressing your arms, your hair.

One of them touches your cheek, and you’re surprised to find it warm and pulsing, as if human blood ran through its dark haze.

The tendril reaches to touch your lips, and those crimson eyes burn through the dark night, remaining steady on you.

“I only wanted to make sure you were safe. That is why I made the deal with Mephisto.”

You shake at the name of that cursed demon who had stolen your lover’s humanity.

“And why should I believe you now?”

Though in his demonic form, there are still bits of his humanity flickering through the amorphous slate of his once face. You can almost see his lips twisting into a frown, the desperation besmirching his brow with a furrow.

“Do you think I would’ve done this—any of this—if it weren’t for you?” Sylus takes one thundering step towards you, close enough for you to reach out and brush his translucent skin. “I love you! I love you so much, my beloved and here you are, boldly claiming I want to destroy you. It is absurd.”

“It is not absurd!” you cry out, raising your fists and slamming them onto his chest. “You took everything away from me! You stole my livelihood, my sanity, my… my family!”

Sylus caught you in time as your strength gives out and you crumple in front of him, tears seeping down your cheeks and staining your frock.

“Our child… you didn’t even search for me when you found out the truth…”

Your hands clench above your hollow belly.

For a palm with such immense size and width, it cups your face gently, bringing his face closer to yours, the love he feels for you desperately trying to bridge the distance.

“I made sure to speak to the underworld lords. Our baby is currently in paradise now, my love. Nothing can hurt her. Her soul is free,” his voice breaks at the reminder of the price he had to pay to protect you and the child you both made out of love. The price of his soul, bartered and bargained for with the devil himself so his human lover would never feel an ounce of pain in her life again.

You shake your head, tears staining the stone floor with dark droplets. “The price is too high, Sylus. It is too much. I should be taking on some of the burden—”

“You will remain in the above world, my love,” he reprimands you without an afterthought. “I will not ask you for much except to continue living as you would if I didn’t exist.”

What’s left of his human conscience aches at the reminder of what he has to say next. “You are free to love, free to get married, have more children if you like… Your freedom has been bought and paid for. You don’t have to suffer anymore, Y/N. It is done.”

He stands after a second of hesitation, but you desperately reach out for him, grasping onto his broad shoulders.

“I can’t live without you.” More tears gloss over your eyes, and you hiccup the truth through quivering lips. “Please. Sylus. There has to be a way we can be together.”

He remains silent, impassive in the face of your desperate plea.

The tendrils hovering around you are softer this time when they reach out to stroke your hair, grazing your cheeks and neck, leaving shivers of heat running up your spine. Effortlessly, like you weigh next to nothing, the wrap around your body, lifting you off the ground.

Your back meets stone, and your hands are tethered above your head by the dark mist, the aching silence too much for you to handle.

“Sylus…”

The sound of his name from your lips will never not be the sweetest thing he’s ever heard.

Despite being dark and imposing in his demonic form, it doesn’t scare you a single bit when he moves closer, face hovering inches from yours. The tendrils now stroke your bare thighs, feeling the tensing of your muscles under his touch, wrapping around your shapely calves to spread them wider.

“Do you trust me?” He whispers, low and inquisitive, filling your parted mouth with his hot breath.

You nod, unable to speak, but the devotion in your eyes never wavers.

“Yes. With all my heart and soul.”

Your soul. Sylus feels the last remaining stronghold of his patience snapping; he has to claim your body as his own.

There is nothing lewd in his touch when he caresses your hips, moving his sweeping palms to your chest as he squeezes your heaving mounds. Sylus’ mouth finds refuge in your neck, kissing a fiery trail up to your jaw as he tastes you with his tongue.

Your whimper fuels his sick need to claim you over and over again until you bear his marks upon your skin. Sylus lets the tendrils do their part in undressing you; those wispy curls slithering underneath the straps of your dress, drawing them down to let him feast his eyes upon your naked chest.

And you take these transgressions he inflicts upon with barely a grimace, encouraging him with soft moans and groans as the snakelike mist curls around your breasts, teasing your nipples to stiff peaks.

Sylus commands the mist to lift you higher, right at his mouth level and he takes his time to savor the taste of your skin—licking your tender nubs, biting down on them and leaving them stinging from the cold and his saliva.

Your abdomen constricts, and he sweeps a hand down the taut line of your body, humming in appreciation. It’s like he can finally see and touch you without any distance between your bodies; despite his sheer size and non-human composition.

For the first time since his perceived betrayal, you’re openly receiving him with your reactions and enthusiasm.

Sylus, you groan his name like it's a mantra.

The tendrils trickle to the split between your thighs, lifting the hem of your dress aside so he can appreciate the bareness of you beyond your inner shift. He doesn’t hesitate to tear off your clothes, hungering to feel your body quivering under his palms. When your bare body is revealed in the gossamer light, he takes a step back, eyes burning from how pure and sacred you look.

Inches of warm flesh, so different from the hardness of his own translucent skin, greets his claws and he takes his time to touch you; memorizing your shape and smoothness in case he may never encounter them in his existence again.

You throw your head back, baring your graceful neck, and his mouth sinks right into the tender skin, working a mark right on your pulse point.

“My love,” he groaned in between kisses. “My love. All mine.”

Your hips begin to twitch, and he takes it as a sign that you’re begging for more attention right where you need him the most.

He may be a demon, but as Sylus sinks to his knees, he feels like a sinner falling at your altar; taking you into his mouth like you’re the only covenant in the world he wants to keep.

Trembles tear through you like an earthquake, and Sylus has to sink his claws in the plush flesh of your thighs to keep you steady.

He runs his tongue over your clit, through your folds, the weeping wetness of your need running down his mouth, his jaw.

The taste of you pumps his veins full of ecstasy.

Your sounds, moans, cries all filling his stone dead heart with a staggering love one will never find in this universe.

Feels so good… you feel amazing…

Your desperate panting and moaning go straight to his fuzzy brain, and your hips are circling and undulating, desperately trying to get yourself off with his mouth.

Sylus doesn’t care. He wants you to use him; wants to be used by you thoroughly.

Those blood red eyes flicker up the length of your body, taking in the tendrils still cruelly teasing your nipples, your quivering thighs and endless streams of moans signaling you’re right at the brink of your pleasure.

Giving your sensitive nub a tender kiss, he rises to his full height, and prepares for the final claiming.

The way your eyes widen when he reveals his cock nearly makes him laugh, and you gasp, flinching back at the sheer size and girth of him.

Close to a foot long, you’ve never seen such… length on an appendage quite like the one Sylus was carrying.

He noticed your gaping stare, the petrified silence, and laughed.

“Don’t worry, my love. I will make sure to prep you very—” he takes one step closer, sinking his claws into your thigh. “—very,” you feel his lips brush underneath your ear, drawing a shiver of heat wracking through your body. “—very well.”

He remained true to his word.

Sylus spent what felt like hours between your thighs, giving your orgasm after orgasm, using his tongue, teeth, claws, and the mist to get you spilling for him until your every pulse wracking through your body was starting to hurt.

Your cries were eventually muffled by the tendrils stuffing your mouth, the cross-eyed expression you wore making it harder for him to deny the need to absolutely claim you with no mercy.

“No more,” your garbled plea reaches his ears, and Sylus leans back on his haunches, staring up at you with a raised brow.

Your exhaustion manifests in the tired droop of your eyes, tugging right on his heartstrings.

“Oh, my. Looks like I’ve tired you out, my love.”

Sylus gathered you in his arms, holding you tightly to his chest. Your head lolls against his broad shoulder, the exertion wearing you out and making you susceptible to his next ploy.

Lifting your hips, he tests the waters by sinking the tip of his tapered cock right into your heat.

Your eyes flutter wide open, a gasp ripping past your lips.

“Sy,” you stammered, and he shushes you.

Pain. A neverending stretch.

Your gasp is fused with panic, and you shake in your bonds, your body seizing.

“N-no… it can’t fit… it can’t…”

“Ssh.” He kisses your tears away, soothing your worries with his palms on your cheeks, thumbs stroking your jaw. “I’ll go slow, my love. I won’t hurt you.”

You hiccup and give a little, teary nod.

Sylus smiled at your adorable surrender, staying true to his promise and taking his time to slowly ease inside of you.

Without much effort, he’s halfway in and you gape, unable to believe you can take all of him in one go.

A mist tendril helps to keep your body keyed up for him, playing with your clit and rubbing the sensitive nub until you begin to shiver and shake.

You clench your hands into fists, unable to break the bonds that hold you fast to the sensations; that tie you down to Sylus.

He nips and licks at your throat, growling under his breath as his cock endeavors to plunge inside of you.

The need to fully bottom out, to have all of him buried inside of you is much too lustful of a temptation to surrender.

Sylus needs to see you struggling to make him fit. He needs to hear you say the words that will give yourself fully to him.

Oh… Sylus… oh gods… gods…

“No gods, my love,” he bites down on your earlobe, drawing a full-body shiver from you. “Just me.”

His crimson eyes glance down to where you’re connected, and he huffs a sound of satisfaction.

“Look at that perfect cunt, my love,” he guides you to look down, enjoying how your eyes widen and your breath falls out in a desperate puff. “She’s taking me so well… you’re taking me so well…”

One more inch, and the ritual will be complete.

Sylus can see the tip of his cock pushing against your stomach, and the idea of him being so deep, so intimately connected with you, makes his heart lurch and the blood rush to his ears.

“Gods!”

Your scream echoed around the pantheon, both a revelry and blasphemy at once.

His grip around your hips tightened, long fingers overlapping around your smaller figure as he waits for you to stop squirming, his jaw set tightly so he doesn't lose control of his urges and unintentionally hurt you.

“Darling,” his warning comes out as a low rumble. “Please, cease your movements. I am barely holding on by a thread.”

Your lachrymose eyes trail upwards to him, and something in his chest tightens at the look of pure trust and devotion you give him.

Tentatively, he shifts his hips forward, giving a gentle thrust to test the waters.

You respond instantly, back arching and hands turning into white-knuckled fists above your head that he thinks you might accidentally snap off your fingers. Your clenched jaw and quivering thighs fuel him to pick up the pace, and soon, the decrepit hall is filled with the sounds of your bodies messily meeting.

Each thrust he gives you makes your belly bulge, the sheer size of him driving you to the brink of madness as your eyes roll back into your skull, your mouth falling open and tongue slightly dangling past your lower lip.

He lives for the blissful look on your face, increasing his movements until he feels that familiar knot tightening deep in his body.

“You feel like a dream, my love,” his whisper lights up the lust-tinged room with a flicker of innocent love—a great divide bridging closer and closer from the power of his devotion to you.

The mists move by his command, pleasuring your erogenous zones—tugging and flicking your nipples, grazing firm circles on your clit.

Sylus needs you to be at the edge with him; needs to have you trust him enough to go off the deep end with someone as corrupted and wicked as himself.

Your choked gasps and stuttering hips bring about a whole new wave of love and fierce protection he feels for you.

Tangling his claws in your hair, he pushes your face up to meet his, devouring your entire being with his soul-sucking kiss.

The earth shakes, the walls tremble, and debris clatters to the ground.

Your orgasm comes as a jagged cry, and you shatter around him for the final time tonight, digging your heels into his broader waist; nearly losing yourself from the sensation of being completely tiny in comparison to him.

Warmth gushes inside of you. At first, you find it familiar—comforting, even.

But, it doesn’t stop.

Sylus keeps spilling inside of you until you hallucinate his taste in the back of your throat—salty, and musky desire.

His hips tremble with the force of his unholy release, snarls and gasps bouncing across the dilapidated walls demonically sinister.

You should be afraid—you knew that.

But, all you can feel in this moment is raging passion for the man who was once your entire world.

The mists release you and you tumble right into his arms, feeling much too small and weak in his massive arms.

Sylus’ demon cock remains hard and unyielding inside of you, and you think you feel him sloshing about in your inner guts.

Your belly is completely swollen, protruding from the copious amount of cum you hold inside of you.

It makes you shiver and keen at the strange yet welcomed sensation. Sylus, mortified, tries to pull himself out of you, but you shake your head, needing to hold him close.

He drags you to the ground, holding you steady in his hulking build, pushing what’s left of his human nose into your hair to take in your musky, sweet scent.

When you straighten to lift yourself from his cock, you wince and gasp at the amount of white that floods from your gaping hole, making you twitch and whine loudly.

Sylus too, groans at the sight, his head thumping back onto the stone floor.

“You will be the death of me, darling.”

His claws gently drag through your hair, and you sigh, leaning into his touch no matter how diabolical it may be.

Silence resounds around two lovers who are simply enjoying each other’s company. You press your head to his chest and he plays with the ends of your hair, content to nuzzle and cuddle you like he used to do when he was still human.

The thought puts a damper on your high, and you exhale, twining your arms around him.

As if he can read your mind, Sylus’ grip on your frailer body tightens—unwilling to let you go.

“Extend your palm,” his hoarse mumble draws you up short, and your look of bewilderment is second only to the confusion when he materializes a ripe pomegranate right into your outstretched hand.

Sylus’ claws wrap around your smaller hand as he curls your fingers around the rotund fruit, reluctant to let you go.

“This is part of our deal,” he rumbled. “Until I can manifest in a pure flesh form, I will come to you in your dreams. Eat this and think of me, my beloved, and I will be with you the very second I hear your call for me.”

You gaze at the fruit in confusion, about to open your mouth and speak when you realize he’s disappearing right in front of your eyes.

“Sylus!”

Your desperate cries mingle with your pained exclamation when you tumble to the hard ground, the warmth and strength of his body no longer under yours. The pomegranate in your hand rolls into a dusty corner, but you turn a blind eye to it—unable to believe he is well and truly gone.

“Sylus,” you begin to sob, clawing at the ground, as if you could dig up the stone flooring and bring him back into your arms.

“Sylus, you promised me! You promised you would never leave… you… you promised…”

You promised…

“...promised…”

Your eyes flutter open in the half-darkness. Tears are drying on your cheeks, soaking the pillow underneath you.

Numbly, you touch your stomach, thinking you can still feel the imprint of him deep inside of you. The sheets are tangled around your legs, and the emptiness yawns like a pertinacious monster inside of you, clawing through your soul till you think you might go mad with need.

“Sylus…”

You feel the shadows stirring, and without warning, his embrace returns to hold you tightly to his chest.

The familiar scent of him, coming back to you after lifetimes apart, destroys what’s left of your self-control.

You sob in his arms like a child, soaking his robe with your tears and sorrow.

Let it out, darling, he whispers in the darkness, those crimson eyes filling with grief and pain, his tears dripping into your hair.

Let it out… let it all out… I’m here… I’m here…

“Sylus,” you gasp, digging your fingers into the soft material of his sleeping robe, as if your touch alone could ensure he never leaves you again. “Sylus… I’m so sorry… I’m so…”

“Ssh,” he cradles you in his arms, rocking you from side to side like how a father might soothe a terrified child. “Oh, darling. There is no need to apologize. There is no need.”

Your shuddering, muffled wails pierce through the quiet night, and his eyes squeeze close, unable to bear the thought of you suffering from the same memories that never ceased to keep him up till dawn.

All Sylus has ever wanted was to protect you, but sometimes, protection comes with knowledge and knowledge is, in his experience, nothing but pain.

“Do you want to talk about this now or shall we wait till morning arrives?”

He wants to give you the choice he never had—a chance to confront your past and shape your future together, releasing himself from centuries of limbo spent navigating uncertainty alone.

But, you shake your head tiredly, a telltale sign of where your headspace was tonight.

“No. Let’s do it in the morning.”

Your arms tighten around him and he implicitly reads your unease and trepidation, letting you curl your body deeper into his embrace.

Sylus pauses for a moment, finding his center in your embrace, knowing that despite the centuries of turmoil you've endured together, come morning, you'll still be by his side.

“Of course,” he whispers, his voice threading through the comforting silence that envelops you both. He gently kisses the top of your head.

“Till morning, then.”

𓍯𓂃𓏧♡

dawn says: ngl i teared up writing this </3 goethe's 'faust' will always make me emo because all mans really wanted was to be loved by someone (and amass immense power but ... oh well ...)

i had to review a lot of notes on faust as well as this reddit post for reference in this piece so your reblogs and feedback will be extremely appreciated in return mwah

©️ lalunanymph. do not copy elements of my story, sentence structures and plot lines and claim it as yours. do not recommend and repost my stories on other platforms.

#🦢 writes #sylus x reader #sylus smut #sylus angst #love and deepspace sylus #lnds sylus #sylus x you #sylus qin #sylus love and deepspace #sylus l&ds #lads sylus #qin che #sylus #love and deepspace

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