#gray wall art canvas | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

keehomania · 3 months ago

Text

underground (지하) — jeon jungkook (전정국)

✧.* 18+

money was an art form, a masterpiece woven from the fibers of power, greed, and survival. it was a delicate ballet, an intricate dance where every note mattered, each step carefully orchestrated. In this world, money was not merely a means of transaction; it was the lifeblood that fueled dreams, ambitions, and the very essence of existence. without it, the colors of life dulled, the vibrant hues of possibility faded into shades of gray. yet, the privilege of earning it through moral channels was a luxury not afforded to all. for some, the paths to financial stability were darkened by the shadows of necessity and desperation, forcing them into a world where the lines between right and wrong blurred into obscurity.

you stood on the edge of that world, teetering between the stark contrasts of legality and the underground. as the night cloaked the city in its velvet embrace, the secrets of this hidden realm whispered through the streets, carried by the cool breeze. the city was a living entity, pulsing with an energy born of a thousand untold stories, where money talked and everything else listened.

the underground world was a realm of its own, hidden beneath the city's polished surface, where neon lights cast eerie glows on crumbling walls and the air was thick with the scent of sweat and adrenaline. it thrived in the forgotten spaces, the abandoned warehouses and derelict buildings, where society's outcasts gathered to find solace and spectacle in the brutal dance of fists and fury.

the boxing ring stood at the center of this world, a rough-hewn platform of blood-stained canvas surrounded by a chain-link fence. dim, flickering lights cast harsh shadows, illuminating the ring in a spectral glow. the ground was littered with the remnants of past battles—torn tape, discarded gloves, and dark stains that bore silent witness to the violence that had taken place. crowds formed a living, breathing entity around the ring, a mass of bodies pressed together in fervent anticipation. faces painted with a mix of excitement and dread peered through the gaps in the fence, eyes wide with the primal thrill of the fight. the spectators came from all walks of life—street hustlers, high-rolling gamblers, and those simply seeking an escape from the mundanity of their daily existence. the air buzzed with their collective energy, a low hum of voices rising to a fever pitch as the fighters entered the ring.

jungkook moved through that world with a confidence born of survival, his every step a testament to the power he wielded within these confines. the crowd parted for him, their eyes following his every move, a mix of reverence and fear in their gazes. he was both king and gladiator, revered for his skill and feared for his ruthlessness. in the underground arena, he was more than a fighter—he was a legend.

six years ago, the underground boxing scene was a world defined by its brutal intensity, where raw ambition clashed with the harsh realities of the ring. the air was thick with the acrid smell of sweat and adrenaline, the dim lighting casting elongated shadows over the makeshift ring. the clamor of distant fights, punctuated by the occasional grunt or shout, created a cacophony that seemed to pulse with its own rhythm.

you had ventured into the gritty realm with nothing but a fierce determination and a burning desire to carve out a place for yourself. unlike the other candidates who had come to vie for the position of jungkook’s manager, you were unpolished and inexperienced, a stark contrast to their sleek resumes and confident demeanor. the other hopefuls were draped in tailored suits, their composure reflecting years of honed skill and practiced charm. in contrast, you stood out with your unkempt hair and the nervous energy that radiated from you.

as you waited for your turn, the raucous environment seemed almost suffocating. you could hear the thud of fists against flesh and the murmur of a crowd that was both eagerly anticipating and derisively scrutinizing. namjoon, his mentor, stood at the edge of the ring, his imposing figure and critical gaze adding to the already palpable tension. his reputation was that of a seasoned fighter with a no-nonsense attitude, a man who had seen it all and demanded nothing less than excellence.

when it was finally your turn, you stepped forward, heart racing, to face namjoon. his eyes were cold, assessing, as he took in your disheveled appearance. “you’re here for the manager position?” his voice was a low rumble, laced with disbelief. “yes,” you replied, trying to steady your voice despite the tightening of your throat.

his lips curled into a scornful smile as he glanced at the other candidates, who were watching with barely concealed amusement. “you don’t look like much. do you even understand what it takes to manage someone like jungkook?” your face flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and indignation, but you met his gaze squarely. “i may not have the experience, but i’m willing to learn and work harder than anyone else here.”

his laughter was harsh and unforgiving, echoing off the walls of the dimly lit room. “hard work? this isn’t some corporate office where dedication alone gets you by. this is the underground. you need guts, strength, and the ability to handle whatever comes your way.” he turned to jungkook, who had been observing with a contemplative expression. “why are we even entertaining this?” his gaze was unwavering as he replied, “because i want to.”

namjoon’s surprise was evident, his skepticism momentarily giving way to astonishment. “you can’t be serious.” jungkook’s expression was resolute. “let’s see if she can handle the ring.”

with that, the room fell into an expectant silence. namjoon’s eyes softened slightly, a trace of reluctant respect mingling with his skepticism. “you don’t have to do this,” he said, his tone almost gentler. but you shook your head, your resolve firm despite the tears threatening to spill over. “yes, i do.”

the fight that followed was a harrowing testament to both your physical and emotional fortitude. as you climbed into the ring, the atmosphere seemed to grow thicker with tension. namjoon wasted no time, his movements swift and precise as he tested your limits. every punch he threw was a reminder of how far you still had to go, and each time you hit the mat, the sting of failure was accompanied by the disheartening laughter of the other candidates. yet, with every fall, you stood up stronger. the pain was excruciating, each bruise and scrape a reminder of the battle you were waging not just against him, but against your own self-doubt. your breaths came in ragged gasps, sweat mingling with tears as you pressed on.

in a moment of clarity, the world seemed to slow down. the pain, the exhaustion, and the criticism faded into a singular focus. you dodged a particularly powerful punch of his and retaliated with a flurry of strikes that caught him off guard. the crowd’s murmurs shifted to gasps of surprise as you landed a series of blows that drove him back. his formidable figure staggered, and with a final, decisive move, you brought him to the mat.

the arena fell silent as namjoon lay on the ground, winded and defeated. he looked up at you with a mixture of shock and grudging respect, his usual veneer of confidence cracked. you stood over him, breathless and battered, but triumphant. the realization of what you had accomplished began to sink in, and the tears you had fought to hold back now flowed freely.

jungkook stepped into the ring, his eyes alight with an emotion you hadn’t seen before. he helped his mentor to his feet, his gaze never wavering from you. “congratulations,” he said quietly, his voice filled with a quiet intensity. “you’re hired.”

the other candidates were left stunned, their expressions a mix of disbelief and envy. you had achieved what they could not: you had proven yourself not with words, but with action and resolve. jungkook’s faith in you had been well-placed, and you had earned not just the position of manager but a bond of trust and respect that would shape the future of both your lives. from that day forward, you were more than just his manager. you became his ally, his confidante, and an integral part of his journey through the unforgiving world of underground boxing. the fight in that ring had forged a partnership that would define your path together, built on the foundation of mutual respect and unwavering determination.

the night was electric with anticipation, the arena packed to capacity. the air buzzed with a feverish energy as spectators pressed close, their eager faces illuminated by the harsh, flickering lights that barely pierced the dense haze of smoke and heat. the roars of the crowd reverberated through the space, creating a rhythmic thunder that seemed to pulse with the heartbeat of the night.

you stood ringside, eyes fixed intently on jungkook as he faced his opponent. the crowd’s fervor only heightened the tension of the match, and you could feel every beat of adrenaline as if it were your own. the opponent was a formidable figure, broad-shouldered and intimidating, his presence alone a challenge to his dominance.

the first round began with a blinding flurry of motion. jungkook moved with the fluid grace of a seasoned fighter, his every movement precise and calculated. his opponent, a hulking man with a vicious reputation, countered with brute force and aggression. the clash of fists and the thud of each impact resonated through the arena, making the ground seem to vibrate with each powerful blow.

as the round progressed, the sheer intensity of the fight left no room for hesitation or error. jungkook’s focus was evident, his eyes narrowed and unblinking as he assessed his opponent’s every move. yet, despite his skill, he wasn't impervious. the opponent managed to land a few solid hits, and his face bore the marks of the encounter: a split lip, a bruise forming along his jawline. the bell rang, signaling the end of the round, and the roar of the crowd surged with a mix of excitement and apprehension. you were quick to spring into action, your heart pounding as you rushed to jungkook’s corner. the moment he was within reach, you grabbed the damp towel and began to clean him up, your hands moving with practiced efficiency.

“jungkook,” you said, your voice firm but steady as you dabbed away the sweat and blood from his face. “listen to me. you’re doing great, but you need to focus. he’s strong, but he’s not faster than you. use your agility, stay light on your feet.” he looked at you, his breath coming in heavy gasps, his eyes reflecting a mix of fatigue and determination. “he’s hitting hard. i’m feeling every punch.”

“that’s exactly why you need to stay sharp,” you responded, applying a cool compress to his bruised face. “you can’t let him dictate the pace of the fight. you’re the one in control. remember why you’re here. remember what you’ve worked for.” he nodded, his gaze locking onto yours with a renewed intensity. “i won’t let you down.”

“good,” you said, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze before stepping back. “get in there and show him what you’re made of.”

the bell rang again, and he sprang back into the ring with a renewed sense of purpose. the second round began with a changed dynamic. his movements were more deliberate, his eyes sharper and his attacks more focused. He danced around his opponent with a fluidity that was almost mesmerizing, his every punch landing with precision. the earlier mistakes were gone, replaced by a controlled aggression that put him back in command of the fight. with each round, jungkook seemed to grow more confident, his strikes more powerful, his footwork more graceful. the crowd was enthralled, their cheers growing louder with each successful hit. you watched from the sidelines, your heart racing as you witnessed the transformation. the energy of the arena, the cheers, and the tension all seemed to meld into one intense wave of emotion.

by the time the final round approached, the opponent was visibly faltering, his stamina waning under the relentless assault. jungkook pressed his advantage, his focus unerring, his movements a blur of calculated strikes and evasive maneuvers. the final bell rang, and the crowd erupted into a thunderous roar as the referee raised jungkook’s hand in victory.

you rushed to his side, your heart swelling with pride as you wrapped him in a congratulatory embrace. “you did it,” you murmured, your voice filled with a mix of relief and exhilaration. “i knew you could.” jungkook, though exhausted, wore a triumphant smile. “thank you. for believing in me. for pushing me.”

you nodded, your own smile reflecting the satisfaction of the moment. “it was all you. you made it happen.” as the arena began to clear and the crowd’s excitement faded into a hum of post-fight chatter, you and jungkook stood together, the bond between you stronger than ever. the fight had been more than just a test of physical prowess; it had been a testament to the trust and dedication you both shared.

as the final echoes of the crowd’s cheers faded into the night, the once-vibrant arena began to empty. the air, now cooler and more relaxed, replaced the earlier frenzy with a calm that seemed to blanket the space. the spotlight that had illuminated the ring now dimmed, casting long shadows across the bleacher seats and leaving behind the scent of sweat and victory.

you and jungkook, along with namjoon, made your way to a corner of the arena that had been cleared for post-fight celebrations. the makeshift bar area, a row of tables cluttered with half-empty bottles and discarded cups, was a welcome sight after the intense atmosphere of the ring. namjoon had procured a selection of beers, and as he cracked open the first bottle, the familiar hiss of carbonation was a sound of relief. you took a beer from him, feeling the cool glass in your hand, a tangible reward for the night’s efforts. jungkook, still riding the high of victory, accepted his drink with a grin that spoke of his satisfaction and relief.

the three of you settled into a more relaxed atmosphere, the weight of the fight now replaced with the casual ease of celebration. you took a swig of the beer, savoring the crisp, refreshing taste as you glanced around the nearly deserted arena.

“not a bad way to spend the night,” jungkook remarked, leaning back against the table, his posture relaxed but his eyes still sharp with the thrill of the fight. “definitely not,” you agreed, your own mood buoyed by the shared sense of accomplishment. “you were incredible out there.”

namjoon, always the realist even in moments of triumph, watched the two of you with a thoughtful expression. he took a long pull from his own beer, his gaze wandering over the remnants of the crowd and the emptying seats. the celebration was marked by a certain levity, but there was an undercurrent of concern that seemed to cling to him. “there’s something i need to talk to you both about,” he said, breaking the easy camaraderie. his tone was serious, a stark contrast to the celebratory mood. “the cops have been sniffing around lately.”

jungkook’s smile faltered slightly, but he quickly masked his concern with a shrug. “we’ve been keeping things tight. nothing’s gonna come of it.” you nodded in agreement, the confidence in your voice masking the unease you felt. “we’ve been careful. we’re not giving them any reason to dig deeper.”

namjoon’s expression remained troubled as he took another sip from his bottle. “i hope you’re right. but i've got a bad feeling about this. they’re getting closer, and it’s not just a feeling. i've heard things.” jungkook leaned forward, his gaze steady. “we’ve handled things before. we’ll handle this too. we’ve always been a step ahead.”

you put a reassuring hand on jungkook’s shoulder. “we’ve got a solid plan. we just need to stay vigilant and keep our heads cool.” namjoon shook his head slowly, his unease palpable. “it’s not just about being vigilant. it’s about being prepared for anything. i’ve seen things go sideways before, and i don’t want us to be caught off guard.”

the atmosphere grew tense, the celebratory mood momentarily eclipsed by the reality of the situation. the weight of namjoon’s concern was a reminder of the risks that came with their world—a world that thrived in the shadows but was always at risk of being exposed. jungkook’s gaze softened as he looked at him. “we appreciate the heads-up. we’ll make sure we stay ahead of any trouble.”

he gave a reluctant nod, though his expression didn’t fully ease. “just keep your wits about you. we’re in a dangerous game, and the stakes are high.”

you raised your beer, trying to restore some of the lightness to the evening. “to a victory well-earned and to staying one step ahead of trouble.” jungkook clinked his bottle against yours, his smile returning. “cheers to that.” namjoon hesitated but eventually joined in, the clink of his bottle against yours and jungkook’s a small gesture of camaraderie amidst the underlying tension. “cheers,” he said, though his voice carried a trace of lingering concern.

the arena, now nearly empty, became a place of reflection and camaraderie, a brief respite before the inevitable challenges ahead. the victory was sweet, but the reminder of the ever-present dangers served as a sobering counterpoint. as the last of the crowd dispersed and the arena grew quieter, you, jungkook, and namjoon remained—a small island of celebration amidst a sea of uncertainty, fortified by trust, shared triumph, and the unspoken acknowledgment of the risks yet to come.

“do you have anything on them yet?” the voice on the other end of the line was crisp and authoritative, carrying an edge of impatience that contrasted sharply with the subdued tones of the post-fight celebration.

you glanced around the now nearly empty arena, the echoes of the earlier excitement still hanging in the air. jungkook and namjoon were engaged in animated conversation, their laughter a faint background noise as you stepped away from them to take the call. the light of the arena’s exit sign cast long shadows on the walls, a stark reminder of the night’s end and the reality that awaited outside.

“no solid leads yet,” you replied quietly, making sure your voice remained steady. “i’ve been keeping a close watch, but nothing concrete.”

the chief’s response was immediate, his tone sharp with urgency. “you need to understand how high the stakes are here. this isn’t just another bust. we’re talking about a network deeply embedded in the underground scene. your role is crucial, and we’re relying on you to gather the evidence we need.” you swallowed hard, the weight of the chief’s words settling over you like a heavy cloak. “i'm aware of the stakes. i've been working to gain their trust and get close, but it takes time. i need to be careful not to blow my cover.”

“time is a luxury we don’t have,” the chief said. “the longer this drags on, the harder it will be to make a solid case. keep your focus, and remember why you’re there. every detail counts.”

“i understand,” you said, trying to convey both confidence and frustration. “i'll continue to gather information. i'm doing everything i can to get closer to the core of their operations.” the chief’s voice softened slightly, though the seriousness remained. “we’re counting on you. just remember, the risks are high. you’re dealing with people who won’t hesitate to protect their interests, even if it means turning on you.”

“i know,” you replied, your mind already racing through the myriad of details and strategies you’d been employing. “i’ll stay alert and ensure i don’t slip up.”

as the call ended, you tucked your phone away and took a deep breath. the reality of your double life weighed heavily on you. on the surface, you were a devoted manager, a trusted confidant to jungkook, and an integral part of his team. but beneath that facade, you were an undercover agent, meticulously gathering information to dismantle the very network you were helping to protect. you returned to the table where jungkook and namjoon were now discussing their plans for the upcoming fights. their laughter was genuine, their camaraderie a testament to the bond they shared. it was moments like these that made your dual role particularly challenging. the lines between your real and assumed identities blurred, making each interaction a delicate dance of deception and truth.

jungkook noticed your thoughtful expression and raised an eyebrow. “everything okay? you seem a bit distracted.” you forced a smile, shaking off the tension. “just dealing with some work stuff. nothing to worry about.” the conversation shifted back to the more relaxed aspects of the evening, but your mind remained preoccupied. the stakes were indeed high, and the pressure to deliver results was immense. the chief’s words echoed in your thoughts, a constant reminder of the precarious balance you were maintaining.

the morning sun filtered through the window of jungkook’s garage, casting a warm glow over the array of tools and motorcycle parts scattered about. the garage was filled with the comforting scent of oil and metal, an aroma that spoke of hard work and dedication. he was hunched over his prized motorcycle, his brow furrowed in frustration as he examined the engine. the sleek, custom-built machine was a promise to his passion, a piece he’d invested considerable time and savings into.

you walked into the garage, your footsteps echoing softly on the concrete floor. the sight of jungkook wrestling with the motorcycle brought a smile to your face. his concentration was intense, but there was a touch of exasperation in his movements. “morning, kook,” you greeted, your tone light and friendly. “nice bike you’ve got there.”

he looked up from the engine, a hint of surprise in his eyes. “oh, hey. yeah, i bought it with some of the money i saved from the fights. it’s been a project of mine for a while. but something’s wrong with it. can’t figure out what’s the fucking problem.” you stepped closer, taking a casual but appreciative look at the motorcycle. the chrome gleamed under the garage lights, and the sleek lines of the bike spoke of both speed and elegance. “can i take a look?” you asked, a curious glint in your eyes.

he raised an eyebrow, his expression a mix of skepticism and curiosity. “you sure? it’s not exactly a simple fix.”

“trust me,” you said with a smile. he hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. “alright. be my guest. just don’t blame me if you can’t figure it out.”

you chuckled softly and knelt beside the motorcycle, your fingers gently probing the various components. as you worked, jungkook watched intently, his gaze more focused and thoughtful than it had ever been. the morning light highlighted the subtle changes in his expression, the admiration and curiosity mingling with his usual composure.

after a few moments of examining the engine, you spotted the issue—a loose connection in the fuel system. you reached for the toolbox, which he had set aside on a nearby workbench. “i see what’s wrong,” you said, pulling out the necessary tools. “it’s a loose connector in the fuel line. should be an easy fix.” his eyes followed your movements closely as you worked with practiced precision. there was a palpable sense of concentration and respect in his gaze as he observed you maneuvering around the engine.

“you’d never taken me for a mechanic, huh?” you said, trying to keep the mood light as you tightened the connector. he shook his head, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “no, i wouldn’t have. you’ve got a lot of skills i didn’t expect.”

you looked up from your work, meeting his gaze. “guys don’t usually like it when you know more about stuff like this than they do. tend to get a bit defensive.” jungkook’s smile widened slightly. “that’s not always true. sometimes it’s impressive.”

there was a moment of silence between you, charged with a new kind of tension. the air seemed to thrum with a quiet understanding, a recognition of each other’s capabilities and the unspoken connection that had been building. you cleared your throat, snapping back to reality. “alright, that should do it. let’s see if it works now.”

he started the engine, and the motorcycle roared to life with a satisfying growl. his face lit up with a triumphant grin. “you’ve definitely earned some points with this fix.” you stood up, brushing your hands off and offering him a smile. “glad i could help.”

as jungkook shut down the engine, you leaned against the workbench, your gaze drifting over the bike. “i always wanted one of these growing up,” you said wistfully. “but i never had the money for something like this.” his expression softened, a genuine smile spreading across his face. “well, you’ve got good taste. maybe one day you’ll have your own.” the moment lingered, filled with the quiet satisfaction of shared experiences and unspoken dreams. the garage, with its tools and mechanical parts, seemed to be a place where barriers fell away, allowing for honest exchanges and deeper connections.

the rhythmic rumble of another motorcycle echoed through the garage, growing louder until it arrived with a sharp, practiced turn. the door of the garage creaked open, and namjoon’s sleek black bike came into view. he dismounted with an air of casual confidence, his leather jacket catching the light as he approached. “what’s going on here?” he asked, his gaze sweeping over the scene. “i heard the bike running and thought something was up.”

jungkook straightened, wiping his hands on a rag with a satisfied grin. “just getting this piece of shit back in shape. our very own mechanic over here fixed it up for me.”

namjoon’s eyebrows arched skeptically as he turned his attention to you. “i find that hard to believe. you reckon you could help me figure out the difference between a carburetor and a fuel injector?” you met Namjoon’s challenge with a calm, confident demeanor. “a carburetor mixes air and fuel before sending it into the engine, while a fuel injector directly sprays fuel into the combustion chamber. the injector's more precise and used in modern engines for better efficiency.”

his eyes widened slightly, clearly taken aback. “well, i’ll be damned. you actually know your stuff.” you shrugged nonchalantly. “i guess i’ve picked up a thing or two over the years.”

he chuckled, shaking his head in mild disbelief. “i’m impressed. didn’t take you for someone who could handle mechanical work.” jungkook’s grin widened at the compliment directed your way. “i told you. she’s full of surprises.”

his expression shifted to a more serious one as he turned to jungkook. “alright, enough about engines. are you ready for tonight’s fight?” his posture straightened, his earlier amusement replaced by a steely focus. “absolutely. i'm set and ready.”

namjoon nodded approvingly. “good. you’ve been training hard, and it shows. How about we celebrate the win in advance? there’s a bar nearby. what do you say?” you raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile playing on your lips. “it’s a bit early for a drink, don’t you think?”

he waved a dismissive hand. “come on, it’s never too early to unwind. besides, it’s a good way to keep the pre-fight nerves at bay.” jungkook chuckled, clearly enjoying the banter. “i’m in. let’s go.”

namjoon mounted his bike again, starting it with a throaty roar. he gave a quick nod before revving off, heading toward the bar. jungkook turned to you, his gaze steady and commanding. “you coming with me?” for a moment, you locked eyes with him, the shared look filled with an unspoken connection. the intensity of the gaze lasted just long enough for you to feel a flutter of something you couldn’t quite name. he broke the gaze first, reaching into the compartment of his bike and pulling out a spare helmet. he held it out to you with a small, purposeful smile. “here. you’ll need this.”

you took the helmet, your fingers brushing against his. the contact was brief but charged with an electric undercurrent. without hesitation, you climbed onto the back of his motorcycle. as you settled into place, you pulled it on, the fit snug and secure. jungkook mounted the bike and you wrapped your arms around his waist, your body pressed closely against his. as the engine roared to life beneath you, you felt a sudden jolt of warmth spread through your chest, a tightness that wasn’t entirely uncomfortable. his body tensed slightly, the proximity and the touch creating a momentary disquiet that he quickly tried to brush aside.

he shifted gears smoothly, guiding the bike out of the garage and onto the road. the city streets opened up before you, the wind rushing past as you rode together. the sensation of riding close to him, the hum of the engine, and the rhythm of the ride created a blend of exhilaration and intimacy that was both thrilling and new. despite his efforts to maintain his usual demeanor, jungkook found his thoughts drifting, his focus divided between the road and the feeling of your presence against him. the moment felt charged, filled with an undercurrent of emotions he hadn’t anticipated.

as you approached the bar, the familiar sight of neon lights and the sound of music drifting out into the street signaled the end of the ride. jungkook brought the motorcycle to a smooth stop, and you dismounted, removing your helmet and handing it back to him. “thanks for the ride,” you said, your voice carrying a hint of playfulness. he gave a small, appreciative smile. “anytime.”

as you both headed into the bar, the lively atmosphere greeted you with its own brand of energy. the transition from the quiet intimacy of the ride to the bustling noise of the bar was stark but welcome. the bar was a popular spot, filled with laughter, clinking glasses, and the soft strains of background music. jungkook and you joined namjoon at a corner table, the conversation flowing easily as you settled into the evening’s relaxation. the ride had been a brief but significant interlude, a reminder of the connections and emotions that lurked just beneath the surface of your everyday interactions.

as you and jungkook settled in with namjoon, the initial tension from the ride melted away, replaced by the easy camaraderie of the evening. the clink of glasses and the low murmur of conversations filled the space, creating a lively backdrop for your conversation.

as you were halfway through your drink, namjoon’s gaze shifted, his expression growing serious. he scanned the room with a practiced eye, his focus settling on a small group of people seated at the bar. your heart skipped a beat as you noticed the presence of a few uniformed officers mingling among the patrons. you tensed, your mind racing with thoughts of the potential repercussions.

you quickly assessed the situation. the officers did not display any clear signs that they were part of your agency—no badges, no identifying marks. still, the sight of law enforcement so close was unnerving. you took a deep breath, trying to calm your racing heart. the last thing you wanted was to draw unwanted attention or raise suspicion. jungkook, sensing your shift in demeanor, noticed the cops as well. “fucking hate those pigs,” he muttered, his tone a mixture of disdain and frustration. “always sticking their asses in other people's shit.”

you looked at him curiously, trying to understand the root of his animosity. “don't like them much, do you?” namjoon’s body language shifted noticeably. his shoulders tensed, and he took a deep sip of his drink, clearly uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. there was a brief pause as jungkook hesitated, his gaze dropping to his glass.

“some shit that happened a while ago,” he began slowly. “dad was running an underground ring, just like i am now. he was unarmed, didn’t even have a chance to defend himself. one of the officers on the scene shot him. just like that. it was—” his voice trailed off, and he clenched his jaw, struggling to maintain his composure. the room seemed to momentarily close in on you as the weight of his words settled heavily on your shoulders. you could see the pain etched in his features, the raw emotion barely concealed.

without thinking, you reached out and placed your hand gently on top of his, offering a gesture of solidarity. “i’m so sorry to hear that, kook. i can’t imagine how hard that must have been for you.” he looked up, meeting your eyes. there was a flicker of gratitude and vulnerability in his gaze, a silent acknowledgment of your support. for a moment, the noise of the bar and the presence of the officers seemed to fade into the background. It was just the two of you, sharing a moment of understanding and empathy.

“thanks,” he said softly, his voice thick with emotion. “it means a lot.” the intensity of the moment tugged at your conscience, a reminder of the complex web you were entangled in. the lines between your role as a manager and your undercover assignment blurred further, making the situation all the more complicated. Offering comfort and condolences felt genuine, but the deeper reality of your undercover mission gnawed at the edges of your thoughts.

namjoon’s gaze flickered between the two of you, his earlier tension giving way to a more subdued expression. he cleared his throat, trying to shift the atmosphere back to a lighter note. “well, let’s not let the past ruin our day. we’ve got a fight to look forward to, and jungkook, you’ve earned a drink.” the conversation gradually shifted back to more casual topics, though the earlier moment of connection lingered. as you continued to engage with them, your mind remained partially preoccupied with the weight of the conversation and the role you played in their lives.

as the evening wore on, namjoon excused himself, heading off to prepare the arena for the upcoming fight. you and jungkook decided to take a break from the bar’s buzzing atmosphere and stepped outside for a walk. the crisp night air was a welcome change, a quiet reprieve from the earlier chaos. you strolled alongside him, the city lights casting a gentle glow on the streets. the sound of distant traffic and the occasional hum of a passing car filled the space between your conversation. jungkook seemed more relaxed outside of the bar, and you noticed him opening up in a way he hadn’t earlier.

“my dad,” he began, his voice low and contemplative. “he wasn’t just about the fights. he was passionate about what he did, but he also cared about people. he was always helping those in need, even if it was in ways that weren’t exactly legal. i guess that’s why i followed in his footsteps, even if it’s not the safest path.”

you nodded, listening intently. “it sounds like he was a wonderful person. i'm sorry for what happened to him.” he glanced at you, a hint of surprise in his eyes. “you know, i’ve never really talked about this with anyone. not even namjoon. it feels different with you.”

you offered him a small, understanding smile. “i get it. i didn’t grow up under the same circumstances, but i understand what it’s like to lose a parent. my mom passed away when i was younger. it was just me and my dad after that. things were tough, but we made it through. i guess we both have our own battles, huh?” his expression softened, and he gave you a gentle nod. “yeah, we do. but talking about it with you, it makes me feel like someone actually understands. it’s comforting.”

you met his gaze, feeling a deep connection between the two of you. “it’s my job to understand you and protect you. that’s what i’m here for. to be your support.”

as you continued walking, the breeze picked up slightly, causing your ponytail to come loose. jungkook noticed, his eyes catching on the stray strands of hair that fluttered around your face. he reached out, his hand brushing lightly against your hair as he carefully pulled the band from his pocket and re-secured it.

the touch of his fingers against your hair sent a flutter of warmth through you. the closeness and the gentle care he displayed were unexpected, and your heart skipped a beat. you looked up at him, a mixture of surprise and appreciation in your gaze. he smiled, his expression tender and genuine. “you look pretty, you know that?”

the simplicity of the compliment, combined with the tenderness of his touch, made your heart race. it was a moment of vulnerability and connection, one that spoke volumes without needing many words. you couldn’t help but smile, feeling a blush creep up on your cheeks. as the two of you continued your walk, the city lights twinkling around you, the conversation and the moment left a lasting impression. the evening was filled with the promise of new beginnings and deeper connections, and for a brief moment, the complexities of your undercover mission seemed to fade into the background.

the night of the fight arrived, and the arena was packed to its capacity, a sea of excited faces and raucous cheers. the atmosphere was electric, charged with the anticipation of the evening’s main event. the lights dimmed, and the spotlight focused on the ring as the crowd’s energy swelled.

you were in the backstage area, working diligently to get jungkook ready. his focus was intense, but you could see the flicker of nerves in his eyes. you handed him a bottle of water, his hand reaching out automatically. as you saw his hands tremble slightly, a thought struck you. you took the bottle from him and, with a reassuring smile, placed it between his lips, tilting it just enough to let the water flow. his eyes widened in surprise as you fed him the water directly. the unexpected intimacy of the gesture, combined with the softness of your touch, made his heart race. he stared at you, his mind momentarily drifting away from the fight. all he could think about was how pretty you looked, the way the arena lights highlighted your features, and the concern in your eyes.

when the bell rang, signaling the start of the first round, his thoughts were overwhelmed by the image of you. the distraction was so profound that he found himself unprepared for the fight. his opponent took advantage of his disorientation, and jungkook lost the first round. frustration and self-reproach etched into his face as he returned to his corner.

you were immediately at his side, damp cloth in hand, working to clean the sweat and blood from his face. namjoon stood close, his expression a mix of concern and determination. “fuck, jungkook,” he urged. “you need to pull it together.”

“you’ve got this,” you added, your voice steady and encouraging. “just remember why you’re here. you’ve trained for this.”

he nodded, trying to shake off the fog of distraction. the bell rang again for the second round. as he stepped back into the ring, he could barely keep his mind off you. your presence, your words, and the way you had cared for him earlier seemed to have taken hold of his focus. the result was another loss, the second round slipping through his fingers.

back in the corner, you were there once more, helping him with his injuries. you looked into his eyes, concern etched in your features. “you need to pull yourself together, jungkook. focus on the fight, not on anything else.” he took a deep breath, nodding. “i promise i'll do better.”

yet, even as he promised to refocus, the thought of you lingered in his mind, a powerful and distracting force. the realization dawned on him: you were watching him, supporting him, and it made him understand the weight of his need to win. it wasn’t just about the fight anymore; it was about proving himself to you, showing that he could rise above the distraction and succeed.

as the bell rang for the final round, jungkook entered the ring with a newfound resolve. the image of you, your concern, and your encouragement became his driving force. the focus was clear, the distraction gone. with a powerful surge of energy, he fought with a precision and determination that had eluded him earlier. the fight turned in his favor, and the crowd erupted in cheers as he landed the decisive blows that secured his victory.

back in the corner, you rushed to him as the final bell rang. you wiped his sweat-streaked face, offering him the water bottle once more. as you gently placed the bottle between his lips, your touch was soft, and the moment was filled with a tenderness that made his heart skip a beat. the victory, combined with the warmth of your support, felt complete. he looked at you, his eyes reflecting a mix of gratitude and something deeper—an emotion that went beyond the fight. the gesture of you taking care of him, the victory he had achieved, and the closeness of the moment all blended together, creating a sense of fulfillment and connection.

the night ended with jungkook’s triumph and the shared celebration of his win. the arena slowly emptied, the crowd’s energy fading into quiet satisfaction. as you and him stood together, the intensity of the night left you both with a profound sense of accomplishment and a new understanding of each other. in the afterglow of the victory, his gaze lingered on you, and he knew that the fight had been about more than just the arena. it had been about proving something to himself and to you.

the night was far from over, and after the intense fight and the victory celebration, the three of you decided to head to a friend's party. jimin, a mutual friend who had been unable to attend the fight due to hosting this very gathering, had invited you all to unwind and enjoy the night further. the house was a lively, dimly lit loft with music thumping and people chatting, making it clear that this was no ordinary party. the air was thick with an intoxicating mix of excitement and something less than legal.

as you arrived, he greeted you with an enthusiastic hug. “you all made it, heard about the fight. congrats, jungkook.” namjoon clapped him on the back and passed you both drinks. “thanks, jimin. it was a rough one, but he pulled through. now, we’re here to celebrate.”

you and jungkook stood together, enjoying the lively atmosphere when a group of girls approached. their attention was unmistakably on jungkook. “hey,” one of them said with a flirtatious smile. “you were amazing tonight. can i buy you a drink?” another chimed in, “yeah, you've definitely earned a drink or two.”

he glanced at you, his expression clearly irritated but polite. “thanks, but i’m actually here with someone. i’d prefer to stay with my friends.” the girls looked disappointed but maintained their smiles, making a half-hearted attempt to linger. “well, if you change your mind.—” jungkook shook his head, turning back to you. “sorry about that. some people just can't take a hint.”

you chuckled, squeezing his shoulder. “no need to apologize. we're here with you, and that’s what matters.”

the evening wore on, and you and jungkook accepted a joint from jimin, who was eagerly discussing the fight. “man, i really wish i could've seen it,” he said, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “how'd it go?”

jungkook and namjoon recounted the details of the fight, their voices animated and full of excitement. “you should have been there, fuck. it was intense,” jungkook said. “but we made it through.”

as the night continued, jungkook started to feel lightheaded from the combination of the party atmosphere, the drinks, and the joint. his movements became sluggish, and he glanced at you with a slight frown. “hey, i think i need a break,” he said, his voice tinged with concern. you nodded, guiding him gently toward the stairs. let’s get you somewhere quiet. you need to rest.” you were just as fucked as he was, but it seemed to had taken a greater toll on him.

you led him up to a bedroom, away from the noise of the party. the room was dimly lit, offering a peaceful respite. he laid down on the bed, his body sinking into the comfort of the mattress. you sat beside him, making sure he was okay. he looked up at you, his eyes searching for something. “you know, during the fight, i was so distracted. i couldn’t stop thinking about you.” you furrowed your brow, concern etching into your features. “about me?”

he sighed, reaching out to touch your hand. “kept focusing on you. the way you took care of me, the way you looked tonight—it all made it hard to concentrate.” you nodded, understanding the depth of his emotions. “so, how did you manage to pull through despite that?”

“it was because of you,” he admitted softly. “you’re the reason i pushed through, the reason i wanted to win. i couldn’t let you down.” the vulnerability in his voice and the sincerity of his words touched you deeply. without thinking, you leaned in and kissed him gently. the kiss was tender, filled with the emotion and connection that had been building between you. jungkook responded with equal softness, his lips moving against yours with a sense of longing and relief.

his hands moved down to your waist, slipping under your shirt to feel the warmth of your skin. the alcohol and weed had lowered your inhibitions, and you found yourself craving the intimacy that had been hinted at for so long. you pulled away from the kiss and looked into his eyes, searching for any sign of hesitation or regret. but all you saw was desire, raw and unfiltered. your heart raced as you reached up and unbuttoned his shirt, revealing the intricate tattoos that snaked down his arm.

his sleeve tattoo was your favorite, a dark, twisting design that mirrored the chaotic passion you felt in that moment. as you traced the ink with your fingertips, jungkook shivered and pulled you closer, his hands roaming over your body with increasing urgency. the room was spinning slightly, but you didn’t care. all that mattered was the heat building between you, the way your bodies fit together like puzzle pieces.

his hands found their way to the button of your pants, and with trembling fingers, he undid them. you stepped out of them, allowing him to explore further. the anticipation was almost unbearable, but you knew that you both needed this. as he kissed you again, you could feel the weight of his erection pressing against you. you broke the kiss to whisper, “are you sure about this?” jungkook’s eyes searched yours, and with a nod, he whispered, “i've never been more sure.” and with that, any remaining doubts were erased, and you gave in to the moment.

you pushed him back onto the bed, and he watched as you removed your shirt, revealing your lacy bra. his eyes were dark with lust as he reached out and unclipped it, letting your tits spill into his waiting hands. you moaned at his touch, feeling his thumbs brush against your sensitive nipples. his mouth followed, kissing and sucking until you were arching into him, desperate for more. your hands fumbled with his pants, finally freeing his cock. it was hot and hard, and you couldn’t resist taking it in your hand, stroking him slowly as he groaned.

his hands were everywhere, exploring your body with a hunger that left you breathless. your clothes were scattered on the floor, and you were both naked, lost in the haze of desire and intoxication. jungkook’s mouth traveled down your neck, leaving a trail of kisses and bites that sent shivers down your spine. your hands tangled in his hair as he moved further south, his tongue teasing your navel before finally reaching between your legs. he licked you gently, and you moaned, your body reacting instinctively to his touch. the sensation was overwhelming, and you spread your legs wider, giving him better access.

his tongue danced around your clit, and you could feel yourself getting wetter with every stroke. your moans grew louder as he pushed a finger inside you, pumping it in and out in a steady rhythm. jungkook’s eyes were focused on yours, watching as you writhed under his touch. “you're dripping, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire. your eyes rolled back as he added another finger, curling them inside you, hitting that perfect spot that made your toes curl. “fuck, jungkook,” you breathed, your grip tightening in his hair. “right there, don’t stop.” he smirked up at you, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction, and continued his relentless assault on your senses. your orgasm was building, and you could feel it about to crash over you like a wave.

before it could, he pulled away, leaving you gasping for air. he stood up, his cock bobbing with need, and reached into his nightstand. he pulled out a bottle of lube and a condom, but paused, looking at you with a question in his eyes. “we should—” you began, but he cut you off with a shake of his head. “no, i wanna feel all of you. wanna risk it all tonight.” something in his tone made your heart pound even harder. you nodded, unable to form words, and watched as he squeezed a generous amount of lube onto his fingers. he positioned himself between your legs, and you felt his slick digits pushing into you again, preparing you for what was to come.

once he was satisfied, he leaned over you, his cock pressing against your cunt. you could feel the head of his dick, thick and demanding, and you spread your legs even wider, silently begging for him to fill you. he didn’t make you wait long. with one smooth thrust, he was inside you, and you cried out, the sensation of fullness almost too much. he took his time, pushing inch by inch, making sure you felt every part of him. your walls clenched around him, trying to adjust to his size, and he groaned in response. “fuck, you’re squeezing me,” he whispered, his eyes never leaving yours.

once he was fully seated, he began to move, his hips rocking against yours in a rhythm that felt like it had been written into your very soul. his tattooed arm flexed as he held himself up, the muscles rippling in the dim light of the room. the sound of skin slapping skin filled the air, punctuated by your gasps and his grunts. you reached up to trace the tattoo on his bicep as he fucked you, the sensation of his ink against your skin adding another layer of intensity to the moment. “you like that?” he asked, his voice strained. “you like watching me come undone? just like that?”

you nodded, unable to speak, your entire world narrowed down to the feeling of him inside you. jungkook’s movements grew more urgent, his breath coming in pants. “i’m gonna cum, baby,” he warned you, and you felt your own orgasm building in response. together, you tumbled over the edge, your bodies shaking with the force of your release. for a moment, you were lost in the pleasure, the world outside the bedroom forgotten.

the moment after was filled with a profound sense of connection, but it was quickly overshadowed by a wave of guilt that washed over you. the intensity of the kiss and the shared vulnerability made you question the boundaries and the nature of your feelings. you were lost in thought, contemplating the implications of what had just happened, when the moment was abruptly interrupted.

namjoon burst into the room, his face a mix of anger and urgency. “dammit!” he exclaimed, his eyes widening as he quickly averted his gaze. “what the hell are you two doing?” you and jungkook scrambled to get dressed, the sudden shift from intimacy to panic jarring. “what’s going on?” you asked, trying to remain calm despite the adrenaline surging through you.

“the cops are on their way here,” namjoon said, his voice tight with worry. “we need to leave. now.” panic set in as you hurriedly pulled on your clothes. his warning about the approaching police made you realize the gravity of the situation. “what about the arena?” you asked, your mind racing.

“it’s at risk,” he said. “we have to get out of here. cops'll be all over this place.”

with no time to spare, the three of you fled the room and rushed out of the house. the sound of sirens grew louder, the flashing lights visible even from a distance. namjoon led the way as you all sprinted across the yard, making your way towards a field of tall grass just beyond the property. breathing heavily, you threw yourselves into the cover of the grass, lying still and trying to remain as quiet as possible. the police lights flashed intermittently through the blades of grass, casting eerie shadows as the sirens wailed in the distance. the field was a safe haven for the moment, offering concealment from the approaching officers.

jungkook’s eyes met yours, and despite the tension, a burst of adrenaline made you both laugh softly. the sheer absurdity of the situation—a fight, a party, and now a narrow escape from the law—was almost surreal. his laughter was infectious, and it lightened the mood despite the circumstances. in a moment of unexpected tenderness, he pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. the touch was soothing amidst the chaos, a small gesture that spoke volumes about his feelings. “we’ll get through this,” he whispered, his voice a comforting presence in the midst of the turmoil. you nodded, returning his smile with one of your own. “yeah, we will. just gotta stay calm.”

the sirens continued to blare, the flashing lights casting sporadic bursts of color across the field. you laid there, the grass rustling around you, feeling the weight of the night’s events and the relief of being together in that moment. the danger wasn’t over yet, but having jungkook by your side and sharing a laugh amidst the chaos made the situation feel more manageable. as the police lights began to fade into the distance and the sound of the sirens grew quieter, you knew the immediate danger had passed. the three of you would need to find a safer place and regroup, but for now, you took solace in the small victories and the connection you shared.

the next morning, the office was unusually quiet. you were at your desk, sifting through the paperwork that had piled up while you were away. the rhythm of typing and the occasional murmur of your colleagues provided a familiar, mundane backdrop that starkly contrasted the chaos of the previous night.

as you focused on your tasks, the chief, a grizzled man with an air of authority and a no-nonsense attitude, sauntered into the office. he glanced around and then fixed his gaze on you with a knowing look. “so,” he said, his tone casual but laced with an edge. “you have fun last night?”

you looked up from your desk, forcing a light laugh in an attempt to downplay the situation. “oh, so you know about that?” the chief’s expression didn’t change. “our men were at the scene. ‘course i fucking know.”

a pang of anxiety shot through you. the implications of his words were clear—your covert activities hadn’t gone unnoticed. you straightened in your chair, trying to maintain a composed demeanor. “it’s all part of the plan,” you said, hoping to sound more confident than you felt. “i need their trust more than anything.” he raised an eyebrow, skepticism evident in his gaze. “they’re all scum. don’t let that gladiator get to you. you’re not dick-whipped, are you? letting him get under your skin?”

the directness of his question made you stiffen. you bristled at the insinuation, but a flutter of warmth at the back of your mind told a different story. you met his eyes, trying to mask the conflicting emotions stirring inside you. “no, i’m not,” you said, your voice firm despite the slight quiver. “i’m focused on the job. i'll deal with it.”

the chief’s gaze softened, a flicker of something resembling approval—or at least reluctant acceptance—in his eyes. “good. because if you let your personal feelings mess with the mission, it’s going to end badly. i need you sharp and clear-headed.” you nodded, your mind racing to balance the professional demands with your personal feelings. “i understand. i’ll make sure it doesn’t affect my work.”

he gave a curt nod, acknowledging your assurance. “alright then. let’s keep things on track. and remember, this is bigger than any one person. focus on the endgame.” as he walked away, you were left with a heavy weight of responsibility and a swirl of conflicting emotions. the night had brought clarity to your feelings for jungkook, but it also complicated your position. the fluttering in your heart, the way your thoughts drifted to him, and the guilt from the sex made it challenging to separate your personal feelings from your professional obligations.

you took a deep breath, grounding yourself in the tasks ahead. the office was a world apart from the adrenaline-fueled night you had experienced, but the pressures of your double life pressed down heavily. as you dove back into your work, you resolved to keep your emotions in check and ensure that your mission remained the priority. whatever feelings you had, you had to manage them carefully, balancing the complexities of your role with the intensity of the situation you were entrenched in.

the afternoon sun bathed the arena in a warm, golden light as you arrived, your mind still buzzing from the morning's tense conversation with your chief. you were focused, determined to stay on top of your game and support jungkook through his next fight. as you approached the entrance, you spotted him leaning against his motorcycle, which was not the one you were familiar with. it was sleek, black with pink undertones, and gleamed in the sunlight—a stark contrast to his usual bike. your heart skipped a beat as you walked closer.

“hey,” you called out, trying to keep your tone casual despite the knot of curiosity forming in your stomach. jungkook’s face broke into a warm smile. “hey. i've got something for you.”

he gestured towards the new motorcycle, and your eyes widened. “don't tell me it's the bike.” he nodded, a proud grin on his face. “yeah. i wanted to get you something special. you’ve done so much for me, and i thought it was time you had something of your own.”

tears of joy welled up in your eyes as you took in the generous gesture. “jungkook, i can’t accept this. it’s too much.” he shook his head, stepping closer and gently taking your hand. “no, you deserve it. you’ve been there for me through everything. i want you to have it.”

before you could protest further, he pulled you into a heartfelt hug. the warmth of his embrace and the kindness of his gesture overwhelmed you. as he kissed your cheek, a rush of guilt mingled with your happiness. you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were betraying your mission, even though his gesture was deeply meaningful.

inside the arena, you moved swiftly to get him ready for his fight. you checked his gear, offered him water, and gave him encouraging words. “stay sharp out there,” you advised. “remember everything we’ve worked on. you’ve got this.” as the first bell rang, signaling the start of the fight, you watched intently from the sidelines, your eyes locked on him. the crowd’s cheers and roars filled the space with an electrifying energy.

a man approached you, and you turned to face him, trying to maintain a polite demeanor. “hey there,” he said with a flirtatious grin. “i’ve seen you around. how about we get to know each other better?” you tried to brush off the unwanted attention. “i’m actually in a relationship. i'm here to support jungkook.”

the man’s persistent advances began to grate on your nerves. “come on, don’t be like that. a little fun never hurt anyone.” jungkook’s attention started to waver as he caught sight of the interaction. his focus shifted from his opponent to the scene unfolding near you. he tried to refocus, shaking his head to clear the distraction, but the sight of the man sliding his arms around your waist pushed him over the edge.

a surge of red-hot anger flared within him. with a final, powerful hit, he sent his opponent crashing to the floor, unconscious. the crowd’s cheers turned to gasps and cries of shock as he leaped over the ropes, his eyes locked on the man still encroaching on you. before you could react, his fists were flying, and the man was being pummeled. you rushed forward, trying to intervene, but he was beyond listening. his rage was palpable, his movements swift and unrestrained. you could see the fury in his eyes, the protective instinct that had driven him to this violent response.

“jungkook, cut that shit out,” you begged, but he didn’t seem to hear you over the roar of the crowd. his punches landed with fierce precision until namjoon burst through the chaos and managed to pull him off the man. jungkook resisted for a moment, but his firm grip and authoritative presence finally got through to him.

the crowd’s mood had shifted from excitement to panic, and the atmosphere became charged with tension. namjoon, his face set in grim determination, turned to you. “we need to get the fuck out of here. the cops'll be on their way soon.”

realizing the gravity of the situation, you nodded, your heart pounding with urgency. jungkook, still seething, was led away by namjoon, his anger slowly giving way to a mix of confusion and regret. you followed, your mind racing with the consequences of the night’s events and the escalating danger that now loomed over all of you. as you all made a hurried exit, the once vibrant arena was left behind in chaos, the night’s promise of celebration now overshadowed by the threat of impending law enforcement. the adrenaline of the fight and the emotions it stirred were far from over, and the path ahead was uncertain.

the roar of engines filled the air as the three of you sped through the city streets. the thrill of the ride was a stark contrast to the tension that had marked the earlier chaos at the arena. namjoon led the way, navigating through the bustling cityscape with practiced ease, and you followed closely behind him, your heart pounding from both the adrenaline of the ride and the uncertainty of what lay ahead. the city’s vibrant energy gradually gave way to quieter, more secluded areas. namjoon slowed, eventually coming to a stop in a part of town where a crowd had gathered around a cluster of motorcycles, cars, and people. the noise was a mix of idle chatter, the hum of engines, and the occasional burst of laughter.

as you dismounted your bike, you noticed namjoon making his way toward a tall man with a confident stance and an air of effortless cool. he was greeted with a casual, friendly dap, and you followed namjoon’s lead, approaching the man.

“this is seokjin,” he introduced, gesturing to the man. “he runs a similar setup to jungkook’s, but with street racing. one of korea’s best drivers.” the man turned his attention to you, offering a charming smile. “nice to meet you. heard a lot about you. pretty and skilled—quite a combination. see you've got a bike of your own.”

jungkook’s eyes narrowed slightly, his earlier frustration still simmering beneath the surface. you could sense his tension as he observed seokjin’s interaction with you. despite his evident discomfort, you managed a polite smile. “thank you. jungkook actually gifted it to me.” you patted the sleek machine, its gleaming surface catching the low light. “mt-09, master of torque.”

seokjin’s eyes lit up with genuine interest. “impressive knowledge. are you familiar with cars too?” you nodded in response, “i am.”

his expression shifted to one of intrigue. “how would you like to get behind the wheel of a real beast? i can offer you some cash for a race. interested?” jungkook tensed beside you, his concern evident. “fuck no, it’s too dangerous. i don’t think you should do it.”

you met his gaze, trying to convey your resolve. “i wanna do this, i'm sure it'll be fine.” you leaned in and placed a soft kiss on his cheek, an unspoken promise that you’d be careful. his eyes softened, a mixture of pride and worry flickering in his gaze.

seokjin led you to a sleek, well-maintained toyota supra, its polished surface reflecting the streetlights, before pointing to the car next to it, where a man stood. there was a dangerous glint in his eyes, though his expreasion was lifeless. “this is yoongi, your competitor tonight.” the man in his late twenties, leaning casually against his car, gave you a cursory glance. “i almost feel bad for having to shit on a pretty thing like you,” he said, his tone a mix of challenge and mock sympathy.

you met his gaze with a determined smile. “yeah, you can take it up the ass.” with the crowd forming around the makeshift racetrack, you glanced at jungkook one last time, drawing strength from his supportive, yet concerned, look. the roar of engines and the buzz of excitement from the crowd created a charged atmosphere as the race was about to begin.

the signal was given, and yoongi took the lead within seconds, his car darting ahead with impressive speed. you shifted into high gear, focusing on the road and the techniques your father had taught you. the streets blurred around you as you maneuvered through the turns with precision. your father’s advice echoed in your mind, guiding you as you expertly handled the car, swerving through tight corners and accelerating past obstacles.

as you approached the finish line, you could see yoongi’s car trailing closely behind. with one final burst of speed and a deft maneuver around a sharp turn, you pulled ahead, crossing the finish line just moments before him. the crowd erupted in cheers and applause as you stepped out of the car.

he approached, extending a hand to shake yours. “congratulations. guess you reslly aren't just pretty,” he murmured, handing you a bundle of cash. “thanks,” you replied, shaking his hand firmly. “not too bad yourself.”

as you walked back to where jungkook and seokjin were waiting, jungkook enveloped you in a tight embrace, his relief and pride palpable. he pressed a passionate kiss to your lips, his warmth and affection a stark contrast to the adrenaline of the race. seokjin, watching the interaction with a satisfied grin, clapped you on the back. “did better than i expected.”

you smiled, feeling a mix of exhilaration and contentment from the night’s events. the thrill of the race, the camaraderie with people you had met not too long ago, and the respect all combined to make for a memorable evening. despite the underlying complexities what tugged at your morality, the night had been a reminder of your capabilities above all else, and you needed to remind yourself that you were capable.

the night continued to buzz with excitement as seokjin, fueled by the spontaneous energy, turned to namjoon with a gleam in his eye. “how about a race, joon? one of my drivers versus you. what do you say?” namjoon, ever confident despite his lack of experience, nodded enthusiastically. “i’m up for it. i’ve missed racing.”

jungkook, still nursing his own frustration from the evening’s events, frowned. “you sure about this? you’re not the most qualified driver out here.” he waved off the concern with a chuckle. “i’ve got it. don’t worry.”

you glanced at jungkook, who gave you a reassuring smile but the worry in his eyes was unmistakable. “good luck,” you said softly, hoping for the best as namjoon mounted his own motorcycle, ready to race. seokjin guided him to the starting line, introducing him to his opponent—a sleek, modern bike that gleamed under the streetlights. with a rev of engines and a burst of speed, the race was underway.

at first, he held a steady lead. his experience showed as he expertly navigated the turns, his confidence palpable. you watched from the sidelines, a mixture of pride and anxiety stirring in your chest. jungkook stood beside you, his gaze fixed on the race, a subtle tension in his posture. but as the race neared its climax, disaster struck. namjoon’s bike, under the strain of high-speed maneuvering, began to falter. the powerful engine sputtered unpredictably, and before he could correct his path, the bike lurched violently. he swerved uncontrollably and slammed into a guardrail with a sickening crash, metal screeching and the bike crumpling under the impact.

the sound of the collision cut through the cheers and gasps of the crowd. you and jungkook bolted toward the wreckage, pushing through the dispersing crowd. the sight before you was harrowing: namjoon lay motionless on the asphalt, the bike a twisted wreck beside him. jungkook dropped to his knees beside him, his face a mask of panic. “joon, fuck. come on, wake up,” he shook his shoulders desperately.

you fumbled for your phone, your hands trembling uncontrollably. the reality of the situation was hitting you with crushing force. the distant wail of the crowd grew louder, but the urgency of your own panic threatened to drown it out. “i’ll call for help,” you said, your voice trembling as you tried to keep it steady. you dialed 911, your fingers shaking so violently you could barely press the numbers. the line rang endlessly, each second stretching into an eternity. as you waited for someone to pick up, you glanced anxiously at jungkook, who was still desperately trying to rouse namjoon. the sight of his mentor lying unconscious, blood smeared across the pavement, fueled your rising dread.

finally, the call connected. “hello, this is officer (l/n), there’s been an accident—” you began, but the words caught in your throat. the name you had used felt foreign and heavy on your tongue. the stark realization of your own duplicity hit you like a ton of bricks. you froze, your heart racing as the gravity of your dual life crushed down on you.

the voice on the other end of the line was calm and professional, but your own mind was a storm of chaos. “hello? officer (l/n), are you there? we need details.”

you barely registered the questions, your gaze locked on jungkook. his face was etched with panic, his eyes darting between namjoon and you. when he heard you use the title, a look of sheer disbelief crossed his face, followed by a chilling silence. “officer (l/n)?” he repeated, his voice a strained whisper.

your heart pounded in your chest, and your mind raced to find the right words. You wanted to explain, to justify why you had hidden this part of yourself, but the words failed you. the enormity of your deception and the fear of jungkook’s reaction left you paralyzed. you opened your mouth, but only a strangled gasp emerged.

“hello? officer?” the dispatcher’s voice cut through your turmoil.

jungkook’s stunned silence was almost louder than the sirens approaching. his shock was palpable, a mixture of betrayal and confusion etched deeply into his features. “i—” you tried to speak, but the guilt weighed heavily on your shoulders. your double life had never felt so suffocating. his focus shifted back to namjoon, whose condition was worsening by the second. his worry about namjoon’s well-being was overriding the shock of your revelation. “get the help here now,” he barked into the phone, his voice a raw edge of panic.

“take namjoon,” you said urgently, forcing yourself to stay calm despite the turmoil inside you. you fumbled with two pairs of keys, your fingers trembling with adrenaline as you did so. “take my bike and go to my house, they won't find you there. i'l take the fall. just go.”

jungkook’s eyes met yours, a flicker of gratitude visible despite the chaos. he didn’t say a word, his expression a complex blend of emotions that you couldn’t fully decipher. without another moment’s hesitation, he took the keys you offered him, gripping them tightly as if they were the last piece of hope in a dire situation.

he carefully lifted namjoon onto your bike, his movements quick but deliberate. as he started the engine, the roar of the motorcycle cut through the night, mingling with the distant wail of sirens that grew louder with each passing second. jungkook cast one last, lingering look at you, his face a mask of silent resolve, before speeding off into the darkness. you watched him disappear into the night, the weight of your decision settling heavily on your chest. the sirens grew closer, their piercing sound a grim reminder of the consequences awaiting you. alone now, you stood amid the chaos, the reality of your predicament crashing down around you. the distance between you and jungkook felt like a chasm, one that you knew might never be fully bridged.

the sirens reached a fever pitch as the police cars skidded to a halt at the scene, their flashing lights casting frantic shadows across the pavement. the officers poured out, their faces a mix of concern and suspicion as they scanned the area. you stood alone, feeling the crushing weight of your own choices.

the chief, his presence suffocating, approached you with a measured stride. his eyes flicked over the chaos—the crumpled body of namjoon's bike, the skid marks from the crash, the trail of blood. there was no trace of surprise on his face, only a steely, practiced calm. “have you apprehended the suspects?” he asked, his voice clipped.

you swallowed hard, your throat dry and constricted. “i let them go,” you replied, trying to keep your voice steady, though it wavered with the enormity of the admission. the chief’s lips curled into a humorless smile, a cold chuckle escaping his lips. it lacked warmth and carried an edge of dark amusement. “turn in your gun and badge,” he instructed, his tone brooking no argument.

you nodded numbly and reached into your jacket, removing the badge and firearm with trembling hands. the weight of the gun felt oddly comforting as you placed it into his outstretched hand, but you knew its significance in this moment was far different. the chief inspected the items with a scrutinizing eye before tucking them into his belt. he fixed you with a piercing gaze, one that seemed to bore into your very soul. “maybe it’s a good thing the gladiator escaped,” he said slowly, his voice taking on a menacing edge. the words hung in the air between you, heavy with unspoken implications.

you remained silent, the depth of his statement sinking in. your heart pounded in your chest, the dread rising like a tide. the chief’s words lingered, twisting around you like a noose. “if he didn’t,” the chief continued, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper, “i would’ve gunned him down just like his daddy.”

the implication was clear and devastating. your eyes widened in shock, the full weight of the threat crashing over you. you had always known that your role came with risks, but it was a cold, brutal revelation of just how far the system could reach. the chief’s gaze was implacable, his face a mask of hard determination and unyielding authority. the officers, having taken in the scene and your interaction with the chief, began to disperse. the sound of their footsteps receding was a grim backdrop to the finality of the chief’s words. he turned away, his silhouette disappearing into the night, leaving you alone in the fading light of the sirens.

the reality of what you had just heard hit you with a cold, numbing force. you stood there, stunned, the full impact of the chief’s threat crashing over you. your mind raced, struggling to process the layers of betrayal and fear that now enveloped you. as the last of the police cars pulled away, their red and blue lights dimming in the distance, you were left in the quiet aftermath. the night was eerily still, the only sound the distant hum of the city and the fading echoes of sirens. the darkness felt oppressive, and the weight of your decisions and the consequences they brought lay heavy on your shoulders.

you took jungkook's bike, the engine rumbling beneath you as you navigated the darkened streets back to your house. the night was a blur of flashing lights and shadows, your thoughts a jumbled mess of guilt and regret. the bike's power felt almost alien, the vibration beneath you a stark reminder of the chaotic night you had just endured. the road seemed endless, each turn a torturous loop as you wrestled with the weight of your decisions.

arriving at your house, you parked the bike and approached the front door with a heavy heart. the house, usually a haven, now felt like a prison of your own making. Inside, the quiet was punctuated by the faint hum of the heater and the distant thump of a heartbeat that was both your own and jungkook's, racing in unison.

you found him in your room, his presence a blend of familiarity and strangeness. he moved through the space with a deliberate slowness, his eyes taking in every detail as if trying to imprint it into his memory. the scent of your room, a mix of homey comfort and something more intimate, seemed to weigh heavily on him. he paused by the bedside, his gaze drawn to a framed photograph on the nightstand. in the photograph, you and your father were caught in a moment of unguarded happiness. your father’s arm was draped around you, his face alight with a smile that spoke of love and pride. jungkook’s fingers traced the edge of the frame, a soft, melancholic smile playing on his lips. the sight was a poignant reminder of the sacrifices you had made, and he couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy mixed with his lingering anger.

the sound of the door creaking open pulled him from his reverie. you entered, your eyes red and puffy, your resolve steeled but your heart heavy. he looked up, his expression shifting from reflective to guarded as he met your gaze. “hey, officer (l/n). apprehend the suspects?” his voice was laden with a biting edge, the words a reminder of the betrayal he felt.

you swallowed hard, the lump in your throat making it difficult to speak. “i—” you began, your voice faltering, “i turned in my gun and badge.” the words felt like a confession, each syllable a stark reminder of the path you had chosen.

his eyes softened momentarily, a flicker of remorse crossing his face as he processed your sacrifice. he felt a pang of guilt for being the cause of your loss of income. But that guilt was overshadowed by the questions still gnawing at him. “so, was everything a lie?” he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief. “when you cheered me on? when we kissed, fucked? all just part of some game?”

you shook your head, tears threatening to spill over. “no, jungkook,” you said softly. “it wasn’t a lie. everything i said, everything I felt—it was real. i enjoyed being your manager more than i ever enjoyed being an agent.” the room fell silent, the weight of your words hanging heavily between you. his gaze dropped to the floor, his mind racing through the events of the past days—the confusion, the betrayal, and the affection that had intertwined with it all. the silence was suffocating, a space filled with unspoken emotions and fractured trust.

you took a deep breath, your resolve firm despite the tears spilling down your cheeks. “it’s been a pleasure working with you, gladiator,” you said, the words almost a whisper as you turned to leave. he watched you walk away, his heart a tumult of conflicting emotions. as you exited the house, the cold night air hit you with a sharp bite, and you let your tears fall freely, each one a testament to the pain and regret of a choice made under duress. the night was dark, the streetlights casting a faint glow as you walked away from everything you had fought for, leaving behind a part of yourself in the house where jungkook now stood alone.

the days following your departure stretched out in agonizing silence. your absence left a void that seemed to echo through every corner of your life. in the solitude of your apartment, you numbed the pain with alcohol and smoke, each swig and puff a fleeting escape from the crushing weight of guilt and regret. your apartment, once a sanctuary, now felt like a prison of your own making, the walls closing in on you with every passing hour.

the hum of the city outside was a distant, indifferent noise as you stared blankly at the flickering screen of your television, the images a blur of color and sound that you barely registered. the drinks piled up, their empty bottles a testament to your attempts at self-forgetfulness. smoke curled in lazy spirals, filling the air with a pungent scent that clung to you like a second skin.

meanwhile, at the arena, jungkook was a shadow of his former self. the once vibrant atmosphere was now starkly empty, the space devoid of your encouraging presence. his training sessions were lackluster, his movements sluggish and uninspired. namjoon watched with growing frustration as his performance faltered, his concern for his friend shifting into irritation.

“pull yourself together, jungkook,” namjoon’s voice was a harsh whip crack against the stillness of the gym. “you’re slipping. the arena needs you sharp, not distracted.” jungkook’s jaw clenched, his hands trembling slightly as he wiped sweat from his brow. “i can’t focus,” he admitted, his voice low but laden with frustration. “it’s hard when you’re missing someone who was always there.”

namjoon’s expression hardened. “you’re letting your personal issues interfere with your performance. she’s a rat, jungkook—a fucking snitch. she betrayed us, and you can’t afford to let that mess with your head.” jungkook’s eyes flared with anger. “don’t talk about her like that,” he snapped. “she sacrificed everything for us. she lost her job for us. and this is how you repay her? by calling her a traitor?”

namjoon’s face softened just a fraction, a flicker of sympathy in his eyes. “i know it’s tough, but we have to move on. you need to stay focused, for the sake of the arena.” in his heart, he knew it was true, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. he was mourning you, and what he had with you. in the end, he had introduced you to the underground. now, he had to face it without you.

the night of the next match arrived, and the atmosphere in the arena was electric with anticipation. the stands were packed with spectators, their excited chatter a sharp contrast to the emptiness jungkook felt inside. as namjoon prepped him, the usual camaraderie was absent, replaced by a heavy silence that clung to them both. “get in there and show them what you’re made of,” he said, his voice clipped but tinged with a hint of reassurance. “remember, it’s all for the fight. for the arena.”

jungkook nodded, but his heart wasn’t in it. he wasn't doing it for the arena, he was doing it for you, and you were nowhere to be seen. he stepped into the ring, the roar of the crowd a distant thrum against the pounding of his own heartbeat. as the first round began, he tried to focus, but the absence of your presence was a constant ache in his chest. the cheers from the crowd were a painful reminder of what he had lost.

the bell rang, signaling the end of the first round. jungkook wiped sweat from his brow, his movements robotic. namjoon’s voice cut through the fog of his thoughts, a sharp reminder to stay sharp. “get your shit together, jungkook! focus!”

the second round began, and jungkook’s gaze darted around the arena, searching for a glimpse of you among the sea of faces. but you were nowhere to be seen. his distraction was palpable, his movements sluggish as he struggled to stay in the fight. his opponent took advantage of his lapses in concentration, landing hits that pushed him further off balance. by the end of the second round, he had lost once more, his frustration boiling over.

namjoon’s anger was barely contained as he stormed over to him, his voice a low growl. “what the fuck? you’re letting everything fall apart. this is not how you win fights.” jungkook’s head hung low, his breath coming in ragged gasps. the weight of his failure was almost unbearable. “i just—i need her,” he admitted quietly, his voice breaking. “i need her here with me.”

the third round loomed, and jungkook’s focus was shattered. the weight of the previous rounds and the constant search for a reassuring presence took its toll. as the bell rang, he stepped into the ring with a heavy heart, his movements hesitant and uncertain. the fight was brutal. he struggled to keep up, his opponent seizing every opportunity to land a blow. the crowd’s cheers turned into a blur of noise as jungkook’s energy waned. his defenses faltered, and he took a powerful hit that sent him crashing to the ground. the world spun around him, the pain a dull roar as he lost consciousness.

the referee’s voice cut through the haze, declaring the match over as medics rushed into the ring. jungkook laid motionless, his body sprawled out on the canvas. the crowd fell into stunned silence, their excitement replaced by concern. namjoon’s face was a mask of worry as he knelt beside him, his hands gripping the sides of his head, trying to rouse him.

“jungkook!” namjoon shouted, desperation edging his voice. “come on, wake the fuck up.” but he remained unmoving, his body slack and unresponsive. the arena was filled with the sound of frantic footsteps and murmurs of concern as the medics began to work on him, their faces a blend of professional calm and underlying urgency.

the phone call came through like a jolt of electricity, shattering the numbness that had settled over you. it was namjoon, his voice raw with panic and urgency. “hey, it’s me,” he said, his voice trembling. “jungkook’s down. he’s unconscious. you need to come to the arena—now.”

the world seemed to collapse around you. the reality of the situation crashed over you, a tidal wave of fear and guilt. without a second thought, you grabbed your keys, your hands shaking uncontrollably. you fumbled as you stuffed them into your pockets, the sound of your heartbeat pounding in your ears like a relentless drum. struggling to maintain composure, you dashed out the door and mounted your motorcycle, the engine roaring to life beneath you. the wind whipped against your face as you sped through the empty streets, your mind a chaotic whirlwind of thoughts and worries. every red light felt like a cruel delay, every passing second stretching into an eternity as you raced towards the arena.

when you arrived, the scene was a bleak reflection of your worst fears. the arena was deserted, save for a small crowd of bystanders gathered around jungkook, who lay unconscious on the cold, concrete floor. their murmurs of concern filled the air, but their presence felt like an intrusion. you cut through the crowd, pushing aside anyone in your way with an urgency that bordered on desperation. kneeling beside him, you forced yourself to focus despite the overwhelming emotions that threatened to consume you. his face was a mix of bruises and blood, his breaths shallow and ragged.

“jungkook, please,” you whispered, your voice cracking as you fought to keep your composure. you started by gently wiping away the blood, using your shirt as an impromptu cloth. you carefully inspected his injuries, doing your best to treat them with the limited supplies you had on hand. your hands trembled as you worked, every movement filled with the urgency of the situation. you could feel the weight of his limp body, the coldness of his skin as you checked for a pulse. your heart sank as you realized there was none.

“no, no, no,” you murmured, your voice breaking into a sob. you placed your hands on his chest, starting chest compressions with frantic determination. “come on, jungkook. you have to wake up. please.” namjoon stood nearby, his face a mix of shock and helplessness as he watched your desperate efforts. the sight of you, so determined and emotional, revealed the depth of your feelings for him. he saw you sobbing, your hands pumping his chest with a frantic rhythm, and it was clear how much you cared.

with each push and pump, tears streamed down your face, mingling with the sweat and blood. your breaths came in ragged gasps, your sobs muffled as you continued the lifesaving routine. “don’t you dare leave me,” you pleaded, your voice a raw whisper in the silent space. the seconds felt like hours, each moment stretching out as you fought to keep hope alive. then, as if in response to your pleas, jungkook’s body twitched. you felt a faint pulse beneath your hands, weak but there. your heart leapt with cautious hope, and you continued the treatment with renewed fervor.

finally, his eyes fluttered open, and he looked at you with a dazed expression. the relief that washed over you was overwhelming. you clutched his face, your tears falling onto his bruised skin as you kissed his forehead and brushed his hair away from his eyes. “oh fuck, jungkook,” you cried, your voice choked with emotion. “you’re awake. you’re okay.”

he struggled to focus, his hand reaching out to pull you into an embrace. “you,” he whispered, his voice hoarse but filled with relief. “you came back.” you buried your face in his shoulder, your tears mingling with his sweat. “i'm sorry,” you sobbed. “i’m so sorry for everything. i didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

his arms tightened around you, his tears falling silently as he kissed the top of your head. “you came back,” he repeated softly. “you came back for me.”

you pulled back slightly, looking into his eyes as your own continued to well up with tears. “of course i came back,” you said, your voice breaking. “i'll always come back for you.” namjoon watched the exchange with a mixture of disbelief and respect. the intensity of the moment was palpable, the raw emotion between you and jungkook a testament to the depth of your bond. he stood back, allowing the two of you to find solace in each other’s embrace.

the sirens wailed in the distance, but in that moment, all that mattered was the fragile connection between you and jungkook. the pain of the fight, the guilt of your betrayal, and the chaos of the arena seemed distant and inconsequential compared to the relief and love that surged through you both. you remained in his arms, whispering apologies and reassurances, while he held you tightly, the tears on both your faces a testament to the strength of your feelings. the night was far from over, but for now, in the quiet aftermath of the chaos, you found comfort in each other, ready to face whatever came next together.

✧.*

a/n: i hope yall fw this one omg i was gonna do an angsty ending again but im no longer in my k.will era

141 notes · View notes

passivenovember · 6 months ago

Text

Steve's never tried a weed brownie before.

Hasn't really wanted to, if he's honest, because the rag-weed shit he gets from Tommy all throughout high school is fine. Even though it's mostly shake and stems and seeds, and the bag Tommy puts it in always looks like it's been mauled by Scotty, his 15 year old schnauzer.

It has to be the same bag, Steve thinks, but maybe that's the 20 minute high talking.

So he's never tried a brownie.

But. Billy Hargrove comes into his life like a storm cloud. Black and gray with impending doom, snagging the air around him with little fish weights until everything is heavy. At first.

But. Then Steve makes him laugh once during a game of shirts and skins, and. It's like the belly of the thing has ripped open, y'know, and the streets of the thing flood with rainwater, and all that existed before is washed down some swallowing, insatiable gutter along with mulch and twigs and the shaky belief that Steve's straight.

They're friends and Steve watches Billy laugh and smile, feels all ten fingers against his chest when Billy shoves him, some sort of atomical reaction to Steve making him laugh, and.

Steve can't believe he ever thought Heaven was in Nancy Wheeler's pants.

So.

Billy Hargrove is the Earth after the flood, and the ark carrying everyone to safety. He's the animals inside and the God that sits, watching the world swallow itself.

He feeds things, to Steve.

Lines. You got a really pretty mouth, Harrington. You're smart, you know that? Not. Book smart, but street smart. Dirt road intelligent, I guess, in this shitty fuckin' Hickville hellscape--

Feeds Steve art. That's Samuel Baruch. He's my favorite. Look how he paints cloth, how he tracks the divets and the folds and the shadows. It's like a photo. It's like a window--

Steve makes Billy laugh when he says, "That lady kind of looks like you." Feels all ten fingers on his arm, pushing, when he says, "You'd look cute in a bonnet." Steve nearly falls over. Almost goes easy, but he doesn't.

Billy grabs him. Holds him as he smirks, "Where the fuck would I find a bonnet?"

Steve looks around the art hall, eyes wide and owlish, "Indiana?" He says, out there. In here. And.

Billy stares at him. He's the canvas and the lady in her bonnet, the divets and the folds and the shadows, the artist himself when he wets his thumb and sticks it in Steve's ear. "Dumbass," He says.

Steve finally gets everyone's thing about art.

He snaps a mental image of the afternoon and tries not to smother it in his hands.

So.

Steve. His eyes open, bit by bit. And what he finds is blinding. Like he fell asleep in the back of his mother's station wagon and awoke to the screaming light of high noon.

Billy's like the sun, longer Steve knows him. Storm clouds be damned.

Like. He talks about art. And he feeds lines and compliments for shits and giggles, never really noticing that Steve falls for it, a dumb catfish stuck on Billy's sharp, unforgiving hook.

He does all that but he smokes. Weed and cigarettes. He drinks.

He takes Steve to parties and says, "Ever try this before, Bambi?" But it's just Jack Daniels. But. Billy leaning with his elbow on the wall next to Steve's neck, close enough that he can smell Billy's sweat and cologne. He's smiling and his lips are cherry red, rio red, and.

He wants to roll in it.

So. He says, "No," Because, "I haven't."

It's the truth.

So Billy feeds it to him right out of the bottle. Makes him get on his knees. Slaps Steve's wrists away when he tries to hold the vessel himself, because.

Something's happening. Here. There.

Steve stares up at Billy through his eyelashes, trying not to go blind.

He blacks out and wakes up in the face of some bitch in a red bikini.

He's still drunk, so it takes him longer than it should to realize she's a poster tacked to somebody's, and he's not at home, and someone's snoring on the rug next to him.

Steve wiggles his toes. Fingers. Tries to remember what happened after Billy's hair caught the dining room lamplight but it's all a blur of sea stone eyes and bright white teeth and all ten fingers, rubbing at him while he threw up under the four way stop on Douglas Street.

Steve groans.

He rolls onto his side and tucks into himself and falls asleep, hoping Billy got home okay.

It's silver when a warm, flat palm shakes him alive. "You gotta go," Someone says, their voice rough like flannel bed sheets.

Steve blinks up, into the silver light, and sees Billy. Considers padding from the mattress to sleep inside of Billy's throat, where he'll be warm. It's a familiar urge. It's entirely new.

Steve aches. "What time--"

"--Just before five. My dad gets up early for work," Billy says, like that's supposed to mean castles are crumbing in their kingdom, but he's staring at something on Steve' face.

Really puts things into perspective, because maybe it's supposed to be an emergency. The first wisps of smoke from a forest fire, but Billy has bed head. And pillow lines on his face. And he's looking at Steve like there's something stuck in his throat.

Steve rubs at himself, trying to clear exhaustion and embarrassment. Really, just rubbing it into himself like lotion. "It's Saturday." He says.

"We're poor," Billy tells him, "My dad--"

"Where am I?"

Billy stares at him for a moment and then chuckles, shaking his head, "With me," He mutters.

Steve wants to curl into it like a cat.

He's rushed out of the room. He has to climb through the window while Billy keeps watch like a guard dog, and Steve lands on his ankle funny so it isn't until later when he's showered and hung over and falling onto his own mattress that he realizes Billy was in a panic.

That was Billy panicking, like Steve gets when his dad tells him to clean his room before he gets home from work, but Steve was full of concrete and wouldn't do it. Just like that, but worse.

Steve tosses and turns and tries to decipher what there was to be panicked about. Billy's room was clean.

Not just clean but spotless, like someone took a billow pad soaked in bleach and scrubbed every wall and baseboard until nothing remained except that bitch in her red bikini.

The only witness to Steve crawling out through an open window.

The more he thinks about it the more it feels like an episode of The Twilight Zone.

He combs through the memory of waking up in Billy's room. He tries to piece together hazy, half-baked image of beige carpet and the bookshelf and the little makeshift vanity that housed all of Billy's hair products.

Steve searches for a spot of the boy he knows. He calls Samuel Baruch's name and hears it shatter against empty, maroon-colored walls and the bikini girl's airbrushed rack.

He tries to envision a wayward sock, left out in the cold. A cup of water on the bedside table. Used tissues on the bedsheets.

Anything.

Steve blinks around his own room and wonders if clutter is a luxury only afforded to boys in houses paid by Monday through Friday workweeks.

He tries to imagine Billy in that room inside the house on Cherry Lane, happy, sleeping until noon in his own boyhood nest while his father gets ready for work.

It sits heavy in Steve's chest. A fairytale.

So.

Billy asks him during homeroom on Monday if he's ever had a weed brownie. Really, he scribbles it on a note and has Mary Sandoval stick it under Steve's elbow on her way to the bathroom.

Steve presses the note open on his desk until it's delicately wrinkled, mulling the question over in his mind. He spent the weekend driving himself crazy trying to come up with a reason to invite Billy over, a nook to slip into so he can ask the hard questions.

This could be it.

Steve peeks over his shoulder, flushing pink when Billy wags his tongue.

He has a black eye.

Steve snaps like a piece of rotted driftwood. He turns back to the note and scribbles no, but I'll try one if you have it. Has Mary take it back with her.

Figures. Billy should see his room. Steve should open his eyes.

"Why does it smell like that?"

"Like what, pretty boy?"

"Like. Gasoline."

Billy tilts his head back, laughter shooting like fireworks against Steve's ceiling, "It's just the dope. It's how it smells when you bake it into the--"

"--I don't like it."

"Why not?"

"I just think brownies are supposed to smell like chocolate," Steve says, handing the bag over with a wrinkled nose, "It's not a very appetizing smell."

"It's just weed."

"Weed smells gross, too."

"You don't like weed?"

"No, I just--"

"--We don't have to do the edibles if you don't want--"

"--I want to," Steve tells him. "Please." Instead of I'd do anything you asked me to. You're the influence my grandma warned me about. You're the lighter and the cigarette and the smoke in my lungs. Getting me high.

Billy nods, "Since you asked so nicely," and severs the baggy, tearing the first brownie in half.

"Woah," Steve says, embarrassed, "I know I've never had one before but I think I can do more than half."

"They're strong."

"I'm strong too," Steve says. When Billy blinks at him, confused, Steve flexes.

The noise Billy makes is like a duck getting run over by a clown car. It reverberates off the walls and Steve aches to stand and chase it. "You can always start out small and take more if you need to, hot rod."

Steve crosses his arms over his chest. "How strong are they?"

Billy shrugs, fiddling with the chewed plastic lip of the bag. "I kissed a boy on half," He says.

It's the first time since Billy came to town that he won't stretch to meet Steve's gaze.

Steve takes the bag from him and shoves the brownie into his mouth, coughing over the dry exterior.

"Easy, man, easy," Billy smacks him between the shoulder blades, grinning and rubbing his back once Steve swallows.

#harringrove #billy hargrove #steve harrington #i had more to say and then i got bored #anyway #love ya

231 notes · View notes

hometoursandotherstuff · 8 months ago

Text

Here we have a home that demonstrates how stark white walls don't mean that a house can't be colorful. Why, however, they painted all the exterior brick blue, I don't understand. Anyway, the 1991 contemporary home, located in Pauma Valley, California, has 3bd, 3.5ba and is listed for $1.15M.

Enter an open "foyer." The front door is painted purple inside. Love that.

Immediately to the right is a big bright living room with a contemporary fireplace. I think that the colorful chimney is wallpaper, there's a blue square painted on the wall with an orange door to the left that matches the Mona Lisa art.

Also in the living room is a recessed wet bar.

The open concept living/dining room features a custom made conversation pit. I'm disappointed that the furnishings don't seem to be included. But, I guess there's enough color for the buyers to put their own stamp on it.

Look at the tile column that appears to be made of Legos. The stairs and seats in the pit are made of concrete, so all that's needed are some cushions.

Brightly striped wall in the dining room has a neon sign that says, "Steak Me Home Tonight." I wonder if it conveys.

The spacious powder room has pink toilet paper roll wallpaper.

The kitchen has white cabinetry and features a blue island, but accessories provide pops of color.

In the family room, a floor-to-ceiling fireplace looks funky with raised geometric shapes painted gray. I suppose that you can repaint it, if you want. Light blue shelving and cabinets provide the color in the room.

Purple carpeting in the primary bedroom. I see what they were trying to do with the bed, but it's just not bright enough.

I prefer this bedroom with the mural and geometric shapes.

Check out the bright yellow wall of cabinets in the home office. That desk would be easy to duplicate.

Colorful wallpaper and doors.

The basement is a blank canvas.

This home is located in a country club.

Nice entrance to the driveway, but I think it would look classier if they hadn't painted the bricks.

Path to the front door looks nice.

The kidney-shaped pool kinda looks heart-shaped, too. A privacy wall surrounds the property.

They didn't show it, but there's a sun room or conservatory in the back.

Unusual elevated yard area has a ladder to get to it.

https://www.realtor.com/realestateandhomes-detail/15759-Pauma-Valley-Dr_Pauma-Valley_CA_92061_M28257-29025

#contemporary homes #colorful homes #houses #house tours #home tour

257 notes · View notes

juniper-sunny · 1 month ago

Text

The Art in the Heart* - Chapter 1

As a professional artist, you've made a career out of bringing works of art to life. The colors of Zaun are no exception, and your current commission is literally larger-than-life: a mural in the Undercity. But then you meet a young revolutionary named Silco who shows you a side of the underground that you've never seen before...

Happy Ending AU | Silco x Reader | Young!Silco | F!Reader | No [Y/N] | Slow Burn | Romance | Eventual Smut | Fluff | Angst || SFW | WC: 3k

beta readers: @silcoitus @deny-the-issue

ao3 || Masterlist

───────────────── ●◉◎◈◎◉● ──────��──────────

There’s color everywhere in the Undercity. It’s not that hard to find, but most people don’t care to go looking for it. But you’ve always been able to appreciate it in all its forms: dandelions straining through cracks in the concrete, eclectic graffiti in hard-to-reach places, pale weak lighting streaming through broken glass and ironwork…

Anywhere you look, there’s always a feast for the eyes.

There are plenty of artists from the Undercity, and you proudly count yourself among their number. But not many of them manage to cultivate a steady clientele; fewer still manage to attract the attention of wealthy Topsiders. They’ve sustained you for years now, since the beginning of your professional career. Making the transition from tagging crumbling stone walls with graffiti to painting on smooth, delicate canvas was a huge learning curve, but you make great money from commissions. And there’s a seemingly never-ending supply of wealthy Piltover families who want family portraits, individual portraits, pet portraits, portraits of long dead ancestors, portraits of them participating in historical events that they weren’t present at…

Whatever opinions you have of your clients, you keep them to yourself. They probably have their own issues with you since you were born and raised in the Undercity. But you wouldn’t give up your upbringing for anything. Certainly not the hallowed halls of Piltover’s art schools, learning to paint only in the styles of long-dead “masters” who romanticize poverty as an abstract concept, something to be studied and observed at a distance.

Today, your work brings you to the periphery of the Undercity, where Piltover’s largest bridge ends at the aboveground levels of Zaun. You’re working on your biggest commission yet, literally: a mural high on the side of a whitewashed gray brick building in the Promenade, the emergent layer of the Undercity’s glass and iron jungle. Still close enough to the surface to be touched by the sun, illuminated in the early hours on days with good weather. Your artwork is going to encompass at least two-thirds of the wall, over a hundred times larger than most other wall art in this area of Zaun.

The location has you nostalgic for those bygone days of your childhood, but the fresh air and warm sun are miles above where you used to run around in the lowly gutters, competing with your friends for the best real estate and vandalizing each other’s work, showing off who can paint the fastest and most elaborate pieces before Enforcers come stomping around. That’s when you’d all scatter like rats, only to do it all over again the next day.

The mural you’re working on is large enough to warrant the use of a scissor lift, which you’re standing on right now. Its highest extension brings you standing higher than the wall, level with the roof’s ledge. When you lean back and stretch as far as you can, a cool breeze trails through your fingers. You can’t help but savor the beautiful day for a little while longer before getting started.

Just as you lean over a yellow paint can to open it, the sound of running footsteps makes you pause. You lean over the scissor lift’s railing to look down at the alleyway below. It’s narrow due to the close proximity of other buildings, pipes and glass tubes rising above rooftops and wrapping around windows like fungi. You squint hard, trying to make out the source of the noise.

It moves so fast you almost miss it. A blur runs over the irregular stonework on the ground, coalescing into a shadowy figure that dodges and jumps around the landscape with ease, darting and almost flying on a deliberate path. Maybe it’s an avian Vastayan?

This area doesn’t see a lot of foot traffic around this time of day; you deliberately chose your working hours so you wouldn’t be disturbed. Still, it’s not unusual to see or hear people nearby. But what really gets your attention is when the thing ducks around your scissor lift and peeks out, using your machine as cover to look back where it came from.

You don’t know why you’re watching, but something compels you to. Compels you to defy the first law of survival in the Undercity: mind your own damn business. Or else.

For a moment, it doesn’t move.

Then, it looks up. Catching you staring at it.

No, not “it”—a man. Human, dark-haired with brilliant blue eyes, staring back at you in defiance and uncertainty.

He turns and goes down to his knees, crawling to a nearby manhole cover and lifting it, then jumping in. His movements are swift and graceful, no doubt thoroughly practiced at using this specific escape route.

Footsteps fill the air again. You turn away to look down the other end of the alleyway where the man came from. These footfalls are slower and louder; whoever they belong to, they’re wearing heavy boots and don’t seem to care about being subtle.

A pair of Enforcers turn the corner, navigating the debris and unsteady ground much more clumsily than the stranger.

“He can’t have gone far! Damn gutter rat…” one of them swears angrily.

They’re about to pass right next to your scissor lift.

You hold your breath as you grab two of your paint cans at random and pry their lids off as quickly as you can…

Perch them carefully on the railing…

Take aim…

And then—

SPLAT!!!

Your aim is perfect: the cans drop like bombs, crashing into the Enforcers’ shoulders and clanking onto the ground, spinning wild arcs of paint all over their boots. They’re both drenched in paint from head to toe, prim and proper gold and blue outfits stained in long drips of light pink and pure white, bright enough to be seen even from the great height you’re standing at. Just as you hoped, they stop their pursuit to shake themselves like mangy dogs, trying to swipe the paint off of their sleeves. One of them takes off their hat and whips it frantically up and down, splattering the nearby walls and your scissor lift.

You school your face from a triumphant grin into a serious, mournful expression as you lower the lift to the ground. The loud hum of the machinery drowns out their furious cursing.

“I’m soooooo sorry officers, I didn’t see you there!” you apologize profusely as you climb down to approach them.

“Dammit, woman!” one of them shouts, brandishing a paint-splattered baton at you. “What the hell—”

“If you want to be reimbursed for your uniforms, just let Councilor Salo know and he’ll cover the costs,” you smoothly interrupt the Enforcer, unbothered by his outburst.

The namedrop makes them pause. You pull your business card and a golden engraved crest out of your pocket. One of the officers takes them both, not bothering to look at your card. Instead, he carefully examines the crest, a pure gold and tacky letter “S” in calligraphic script, set in a delicate filigree of a leafy bush laden with berries. The crest is given by the Councilor to his contractors to give them free entry to restricted areas in Piltover. You’ve only ever used it so far to gain access to his gated mansion, but right now it’s coming in handy too: having Salo as a patron basically tells people that they shouldn’t mess with you unless they want to piss off a councilor.

“It’s genuine,” the Enforcer mutters to his partner and hands the crest back to you. He clears his throat and addresses you in a calmer, more formal manner. “And it’s not a problem, ma’am. We won’t bother the Councilor with something so trivial. Have you seen a—”

You gasp melodramatically, exaggeratedly widening your eyes. “Your uniforms! You need to wash them right away! Or else they’ll stain permanently!”

They glance at each other impatiently. “It’s fine. We’re looking for a—”

“And your skin! Did you get any on you?? It’ll stain you too!!”

That gets their attention. One of them tucks his hat under his arm, rubbing a gloved hand furiously at his pink-and-white cheek. You shove the other Enforcer with all your might, pushing him away.

“Scrub your bodies with tomato juice and then soak in onion peels! That’ll get it all out! But hurry!!”

They finally break out into a run, out of Zaun and towards Piltover where they belong. You snicker to yourself and toss the crest in the air. It flips over and over, casting bright reflections that spin dizzily on the walls as it catches the light. Those Enforcers won’t actually have to do all that to get the paint out of their clothing, but it feels like a small victory against the cruel arm of law enforcement who cause even worse trouble whenever they visit the Undercity.

You catch a glimpse of something twinkling on the ground. It’s the eyes of the man, still watching you from underground.

As you suppress the instinct to wave hello at him, he pulls the manhole cover back into place, disappearing into the sewers.

The next day starts off like any other, and you’re looking forward to getting more work done. But as you climb your scissor lift, a jolt of fear zaps up your spine. Prickles on the back of your neck crawl upwards to settle at the top of your head. It’s an Undercity instinct, a warning that someone you can’t see is watching you.

And they’re looking down at you like a bird of prey.

You dart into the shadows, crouching low against the wall. You take deep breaths to settle your nerves. The high ground gives them an advantage against you. If they have a gun, it’s just a matter of them pointing and shooting—

But then, just barely, you’re able to catch a whiff of smoke. It smells of cheap nicotine, and you look up to see a ring of cigarette smoke uncurling lazily against the backdrop of a cloudless sky.

The cigarette smoke is as good as a signal fire. If they wanted to hurt you, they wouldn’t make themselves known like that. Still, whoever it is, they know where you work and were waiting for you. That makes you wary enough to grab your sharpest palette knife and hide it in your pocket. It’s not a conventional weapon, but there’s no way you’re going to confront a stranger unarmed when you ask them to leave you alone. Your grip around the knife’s handle is tight as you punch the button to extend the lift to its fullest height. It brings you level with the roof and the person waiting for you.

It’s the same man from yesterday, now close enough for you to notice that his narrowed, suspicious eyes aren’t blue but turquoise, clear as the ocean and just as deep. He’s pointy and whip-thin, leaning against the roof’s ledge with crossed arms, a cigarette squeezed between the clenched fingers of a tight fist.

“What kind of person works for a councilor but won’t turn in a wanted man?” he asks, curious. His voice is low and smoky, a smooth baritone intonation rolling over gravel. It’s a beautiful voice, tempting you into lowering your guard. If you closed your eyes, you could be fooled into believing that his voice belonged to a Topside radio host or a curator giving tours in a museum.

“Just wanted to help a fellow ‘gutter rat’,” you reply, shrugging.

“And why would you do that?” His fashion is typical for an average Zaunite: his dark shirt is made of rough and well-worn fabric, long sleeves rolled up to his elbows to reveal wiry but muscled forearms. On his left shoulder is a leather pad, studded with brass buttons and stitched with metal wires, all highly polished and shining brightly in the sun, reflections dancing off them like flares. His left wrist is wrapped in bandages while a leather bracelet threaded with silver coins adorns his right wrist.

“Why not?” you ask. “Isn’t life hard enough already? We should help each other out whenever we can.”

He doesn’t acknowledge your statement with a reply, but instead raises an incredulous eyebrow. You let the silence continue as the two of you mutually size each other up. His high cheekbones and long, narrow and shapely nose are framed by straight hair, black as coal. It looks so soft, parting in the exact middle of his forehead to end in drapes around his chin. His skin is pale with an ashy undertone, a symptom of living long-term in the deepest guts of the Undercity where its denizens rarely get to enjoy any sunshine at all. His lips are thin, the irregular cupid’s bow longer on his right side than the left.

This man’s face would be an interesting challenge to paint.

“Now that’s not an attitude you encounter every day in the Undercity,” he muses. His eyes are especially striking. They gaze at you with such intensity, it makes you self-conscious of your paint-stained attire, a loose workman’s jumpsuit that prioritizes utility and comfort over style. He doesn’t seem to pay any mind to your painting materials, which you’re suddenly realizing are lying out in the open… He could get a good price for them if he stole them from you. Yesterday’s prank was a spur-of-the-moment decision; losing some easily replaceable supplies was worth inconveniencing the officers, but you suddenly regret painting a target on your back.

That’s why you have to keep to yourself in the Undercity. If you help a stranger, they could stab you in the back instead of thanking you.

But the man seems more interested in staring through you, scrutinizing you with such focus that it could put yesterday’s Enforcers to shame.

“Well, it’s fun to mess with Enforcers, too,” you chuckle at the memory. Staring back with casual indifference, you quietly readjust your grip on your knife. Another rule of survival in the Undercity is to never break eye contact with someone trying to intimidate you unless you want to be seen as weak. If he wants to start a fight, you’ll be ready to finish it.

“That, I understand all too well.” The stiff line of his lips quirks upward in appreciation before settling again into wary neutrality. He finally breaks eye contact, turning away to take a pull on his cigarette. You let out a low breath you didn’t even know you were holding. Your eyes are drawn to the elegant, lazy movement of his hand as he puts out his cigarette, grinding it against the ledge. The wind carries away small brown flecks of ash in a sudden breeze.

His demeanor is stony, but not hostile. It’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking just from looking at his face. But he went out of his way to come here and find you, and that says a lot about his determination overriding his sense of caution. You didn’t get a good enough look at him yesterday to track him down, either to turn him in or demand a reward. He could have just as easily carried on with his own life on a path that never crossed yours again.

He must be really curious about you.

You don’t know why, but the feeling is mutual.

“You’re welcome for yesterday, by the way,” you smile at him, relaxing your hold on your knife. “Those Enforcers would’ve caught you if it weren’t for me. Although you’re so skinny you could literally slip through their fingers.”

His impressive façade cracks as he bares his chipped teeth, bristling and ready to attack. “I did not need your help. I was perfectly capable of escaping on my own.”

You thoughtfully stroke your chin. “Guess we’ll never know.”

He stands tall to his fullest height, towering over you, a dangerous challenge in his voice sharpening its edges into a threat. “What makes you think it would be a good idea to antagonize someone wanted by Enforcers?”

“Ooooh, the Enforcers want to lock up little ol’ you. You’re such a big baddie,” you tease. “If they had it their way, they’d have every single one of us locked up. You’re not special.”

He leans forward again, curling his hands over the ledge of the roof. “Perhaps I’ve done something especially terrible to warrant particular attention from Topside.”

“Let me guess,” you purse your lips as you examine him. “You pickpocketed some rich guy?”

He smiles slyly. “Worse than that.”

“Running an illegal Poro-fighting ring?”

“No.”

“Impersonating a councilor?”

“Not quite.”

You shake your head in bemusement. “What was it?”

“Seducing a Piltie noblewoman,” a mischievous twinkle shines in his eyes. “I all but rescued her from a cold and loveless marriage. Unfortunately, her husband didn’t seem to feel the same way.”

“Really?” you laugh again, more out of surprise than humor this time.

“No,” he winks. “I guess you’ll never know.”

“If I bump into those Enforcers again I’ll just ask them— not that I’d tell them where you are,” you add hastily. It was meant as a joke, but from the way he glares at you with humorless alarm it was clearly the wrong thing to say. “Besides, if you did seduce a Piltie lady, you’d be doing her a favor.”

He raises an inquisitive eyebrow. “And what do you mean by that?”

You blush. It was something you thought when you first laid eyes on him properly, but it just slipped out while you were babbling— he’s handsome. “You’re probably better looking than her husband.”

“Thank you. That’s very kind of you,” his smile this time is accompanied by a soft exhale of amusement. He leans forward again, this time a slight slouch in his shoulders as he allows himself to relax. “I also owe you my gratitude for coming to my rescue. Thank you, madam.”

You wince at the word. He doesn’t look that much older than you, so there’s no need for him to address you so formally. “Please don’t call me that.”

“May I have your name then?” he asks politely.

You give it to him. He repeats it slowly, as if appreciating the shape of it. Something about the way he says it makes you want to step forward. The opportunity presents itself when he reaches his hand out for you to shake.

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. My name is Silco.”

───────────────── ●◉◎◈◎◉● ─────────────────

If you liked this fic, please reblog and/or leave a comment! <3

Chapter 2

#Arcane #Arcane fanfic #Silco #Silco x Reader #Arcane Silco #Silco Arcane #my writing #The Art in the Heart #TAITH

71 notes · View notes

freelancearsonist · 8 months ago

Text

in shades of gray and candlelight

➔ Marcus Pike x fem!Reader - 7.2k

➔ Nothing good starts in a getaway car, but you sure do have fun delaying the inevitable.

➔ Rated MA for artist!reader my beloved (reader is able-bodied, basic female anatomy and feminine pronouns used, reader is described as having hair that is long enough to be put up but otherwise she’s a blank slate), unprotected p in v sex, cum swallowing, creampie, semi-public sex acts, oral (r + m receiving), handjobs, fingering, very light switchy dom/sub dynamics, a couple spanks, pet names (sweetheart, pretty girl, baby, honey), heavy praise kink, light size kink, consent king!marcus, just like the song it does not end happily [please let me know if i missed any at all :)]

➔ this is my (first 😈) submission to @beskarandblasters Taylor Swift Drabble Challenge! i really did mean for this to be a drabble especially since i didn't know anything about marcus before receiving this prompt but he has my whole fucking heart and mind now 😩 thank you so much for the challenge lovely kel, and special thank u to my baby @fhatbhabie for betaing and screaming with me ily <3 (dividers by the amazing and talented @saradika-graphics)

You meet Marcus Pike on a Friday night and it’s obvious from the start that he’s going to change your life forever.

He looks a little disheveled when he enters the gallery–brown hair ruffled and standing up in places, tie loose, top shirt button undone. There’s an alluring five o’clock shadow burgeoning across his jaw and cheeks. He looks like he’s had a long day, and it’s only going to get longer. It’s all part of the plan, of course. He’s supposed to look like a standard blue collar worker, and he pulls it off with ease.

It’s the exhibition’s opening night, so it’s a little more packed than the gallery normally would be. It works in his favor–he’s able to collect a plastic cup of champagne from the refreshment table and blend seamlessly into the crowd.

His eyes are diligent as they scan the faces that come and go. He tries to commit them all to memory–the tall woman with the slight limp, the short guy wearing the Hawaiian patterned shirt. There’s dozens of people that pass by, and so many of them are forgettable. It’s exhibitions like these that make him dread undercover work.

The art on the walls isn’t exceptional, but it’s not bad. Nothing that seems worth stealing, that’s for sure. But his source is good, and his source said that this place was getting hit tonight. So he keeps his watchful eyes vigilant and pretends to sip the champagne in his hand.

Until he finds your exhibit.

There’s a depth to your art that he’s come to be familiar with–something he sees often in work of high value. Anyone can make abstract art, it’s as simple as flicking paint at a canvas. But few can charge it as emotionally as you have. To convey feeling and passion and heart through abstraction is a separate art form all its own, and it’s one you’ve mastered.

He’s seen original Rothko’s, Van Gogh’s, Kandinsky’s; he’s held their frames in his own two hands. But nothing’s ever made his breath hitch in his throat quite the way yours does.

He stands in front of a canvas simply labeled “Waves In Motion” with your name printed neatly underneath, brow creased with a concentration that seems a little unnecessary given the subject matter of the painting. It’s all shades of blue and violet, swirling together in a way that seems partly sensuous, partly violent. It makes the hair on the back of his neck prickle, and he takes a step closer. That’s when he notices it: a single dot of red paint right in the middle, a focal point of all the swirling cobalts. So small that he wouldn’t notice it if he wasn’t close; so small it could almost be interpreted as a mistake.

But he knows without having to ask that it’s not an answer. He wonders who that dot represents: you, the artist? Most likely.

Without meaning to, he smiles. It’s been a long time, years really, since a piece of art provoked such thought.

“Hi.”

The voice Marcus hears next to him is soft, dulcet. He doesn’t turn to the noise quickly–from the tone in that word alone he senses a hesitance, as if you’re a fawn that’s lost its mother and you’re bound to run if he makes any sudden movements.

And, truth be told, part of him thinks he might not be able to look away even if he tried right now. There’s something so beautiful about this painting–and underneath, something so ominous. There’s an air about the work that says he might unlock the secrets of the universe if he just keeps looking.

“Hi there.” He keeps his eyes trained on “Waves In Motion” as he responds–playing the game. He’s here to brush shoulders, after all; to be the right amount of forgettable yet memorable.

“This is my best, I think,” you murmur while taking a step closer. “It took the least time of all of them, surprisingly. But… I think when you know exactly what you’re trying to convey, it just comes to you easily.”

“These are yours?” There’s admiration in his eyes and an air of something akin to disbelief in his voice as he takes in the group of canvases proudly displayed on the plain white gallery walls.

And then he turns and lets himself take you in. More specifically the curling strand of hair that falls out of your updo to frame your face, the deeply plunging neckline of your dress, the way your calf muscles work even standing still in your high-heeled shoes. You’re a work of art in your own right; the most beautiful piece he’s seen in a long time.

“Yeah.” You duck your head–shyly, modestly–and he’s hooked. There’s one thing in this building that deserves awe and reverence more than your painting, and it’s you. “You know, you’re only the second person who’s come over tonight.”

“No way. They’re all just working their way back here,” he whispers before he can calculate a more articulate response.

But it works in his favor–your giggle is gorgeous, if a sound can be described that way. Sweet and syrupy, it seeps over him as if he’s standing under a cracked honeycomb. He hasn’t actually taken a drink of his champagne, and yet he can feel his nervous system tingling. You’re just that intoxicating.

“The gallery closes in half an hour,” you tell him–a little wistfully at that. “In my defense, I don’t have any family or friends in the area. I wasn’t really expecting anyone to show, not with so many other talented artists here.”

It seems so indignantly unfair to Marcus. That you’re shoved into the far back corner of the gallery, that people haven’t come in droves from all over the country to see your work.

“Where are you from?” He asks as his mind finally starts to clear from the haze it’s been in the past few minutes. With only half an hour left on the job, he allows himself a small sip of the drink that he’s been cradling all night.

“New York. This is actually only my second exhibition,” you explain, and you almost sound shy about it; as if you need to be embarrassed about being young and fresh-faced in the art industry, as if you aren’t the most talented artist Marcus has ever met in person.

He hums in response, eyes unconsciously dragging over you once more. “You came a long way for this.”

You smile so prettily up at him, and in that moment he sees something in your eyes. He can’t describe it–maybe it’s something akin to longing. Something incomplete, unexplored. It’s familiar; it’s the red dot from your painting. Solitary amidst the swirling, lost yet not hopeless.

And just like your painting, he finds himself wanting to get lost in your eyes.

“Well, it’s not every day a gallery wants to host you,” you say after another sip of your drink. “Plus, I’ve never been to Texas before, and I needed a change of scenery.”

There’s something so charming, so boyishly intoxicating about the smile he graces you with. “How are you liking it so far?”

“It’s hotter than I’m used to,” you say with a chuckle that he echoes. “And I haven’t been able to do any exploring yet, my flight only got in a couple hours before I had to be here.”

“That’s a shame,” he hums in a tone that reveals deeper meaning. “How long are you here for? Do you have any plans?”

“A week,” you murmur. Subconsciously he leans in closer, on the edge of his proverbial seat. To seal the deal, you lean in too. “And not a damned one.”

There’s no air between you and Marcus. You exist in a vacuum for this moment–unable to breathe, choking on anticipation. He’s so close, yet way too far away. You want to be consumed by him–for him to be swirling blue; and you, a single speck of red in his midst.

The moment shatters with an audible sound–a deep, penetrating voice. “He’s still not here, huh? I don’t think your boyfriend’s coming. If he even exists.” There’s something strange in the raspy voice that drawls these words–something strange enough to immediately put Marcus on the alert.

You flinch at the sudden intrusion into your vacuum, but you recover quickly. You have to, because this intrusive stranger is standing way too close and has way too much alcohol on his breath.

And then something strange happens–you worm your arm around Marcus’s waist and press yourself firmly into his side.

“Actually, he’s right here,” you say. There’s a quality to your voice that wasn’t there before when you were just talking to Marcus–it’s firm, clipped, bordering on hostile. “He just got held up at work. Isn’t that right, babe?”

Thankfully, Marcus has always been one to think quickly on his feet. He wraps his arm around your shoulders and pulls you closer, unconsciously moving an inch or two in front of you. Protecting without really meaning to. “I’m sorry, honey. I got here as soon as I could.”

The man–burly and balding, probably a good twenty years older than you–scoffs. “Unbelievable.”

“Is there a problem here?” Marcus draws up to his full height–towering a good few inches over this strange intruder.

Whoever this guy is, he’s not completely stupid. He senses this isn’t going to be a fight he’ll win, so he backs off. “Not at all, man. Just didn’t want little miss standing here all alone the whole night.”

“Thanks,” you say with bitter reprehension. You wind even closer to Marcus–closer than this sudden farce demands. “But we’re fine now.”

He nods once–curt and unhappy, but seemingly satisfied that he’s not going to get what he wants. “Have a good night, ma’am. Sir.”

Marcus takes a mental inventory of the man as he storms off, committing his physical description and his outfit to memory. He doesn’t look like a casual art viewer, and he doesn’t look like a collector. He’s exactly the type that Marcus came here to look out for.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper as you step out of Marcus’s personal space. “He’s been hovering all night, asking me who I’m going home with and shit.”

“That’s the other guy who came over to talk to you?” It brings a deep frown to his face, a crease forming between his brows. It certainly raises a red flag–if the guy has any eye for value, of course he would be drawn to your exhibit. And if he has an eye for value, he could be the guy Marcus came for.

“Yeah.” You rub the back of your neck awkwardly and avert your gaze, as if you should be embarrassed for drawing that guy’s attention. “It’s not been the greatest night.”

Marcus hates that. He hates that you came all this way to be let down, that this is only your second exhibition and you’ve had such a bad experience with it. More than anything, he hates that he can still see the spark in your eyes when you look up at him, and he can tell that it’s dimmed.

“Gimme just a minute.”

He doesn’t mean to be so abrupt, but he wants to make it quick. He hustles to the single-stall men’s room and tugs the radio out of his inside jacket pocket to call in the man’s description. Then he turns it off, tucks it back into its concealed pocket, and goes over to the sink.

He thought he looked perfect for the part he had to play when he left his house to come here. Now, he’s too disheveled. He wets his fingertips and tries to tame the mess on top of his head; he re-buttons his shirt and tightens his tie. He looks flustered, and he’s not even surprised by it. You’ve got his heart pounding with anticipation in a way he doesn’t think it ever has before.

Butterflies fluttering on in his stomach, he emerges from the restroom to resume his position by your side.

Except you’re not by your exhibit anymore, and the crowd has thinned considerably. He checks his watch and realizes there’s only five minutes before the gallery closes for the night. Maybe you’ve decided to cut your losses and leave early.

He hates the way his gut twists with disappointment, but then he reminds himself that he didn’t come here for you. He’s working, and he needs to stay vigilant. No distractions, no complications.

“You’re still here.”

There’s a wave of relief that washes over him as he hears your voice, and this time he’s not too timid to turn towards you. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Thought I might’ve scared you off.” There’s a fresh cup of champagne in your hand and a hint of vulnerability in your voice, and it makes his heart pick up pace just the slightest bit. You duck your head–that shy, modest gesture again. “I… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have just done that without permission.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he tells you, more earnestly than he’s ever said anything in his life. “I didn’t mind at all, I swear. Just had to hit the head.”

You look so deeply into his eyes he almost wonders if you aren’t looking through him. But whatever you find, you must like it.

He clears his throat and tries to not show how thoroughly unraveled he is by your gaze. “I’m Marcus, by the way.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Marcus.” You pause for a moment, and he can tell that there’s something else lingering on the tip of your tongue–so he remains silent in hopes of drawing it out.

“Do you have someone to go home to?”

There it is–the invitation he was both dreading and hoping for. He should really lie. He’s here on a job, after all–he’s supposed to avoid complications, and some instinct tells him you’re going to be much more than a simple distraction. But he’s told you the truth so far, and he doesn’t want to stop now.

“No. No, I don’t.”

This is everything that Marcus has never even considered doing. It’s late, it’s dark, it’s a little chilly for spring in Austin. The alley is grimey and drafty–your hair blows in the breeze even as you kneel down before him.

All he can do is stand there, dumbstruck with his back up against the rough brick wall, and stare down at you.

He’s still breathless from the way you’ve been kissing him–all heat and passion, fire and brimstone. Your hands ran through his hair and undid the effort he put in while in the bathroom, and his hands clutched your waist in a futile attempt to ground himself. Your lips are so soft; he thinks he could kiss you forever and never get tired of it. He was certainly planning on finding out, until you dropped to your knees in front of him.

“You… you don’t have to–”

But the way you look up at him through your lashes makes his throat close up around whatever protest he was going to try.

“I want to,” you assure him–more of a purr than a spoken statement.

And this really isn’t the place. He shouldn’t let you do this here. But he’d be lying if he said the thought didn’t make him harden in his boring gray work slacks.

Marcus has never been about excitement. He’s always strayed to the comfortable and familiar–he falls into the sweet, caring companion role with grace and ease.

And tonight doesn’t have to be that different. If you’re going to suck his dick in a dark, dingey alley, he’ll let you. But he’s going to lay his jacket down on the ground so you don’t scrape up your knees first.

You keen at the thoughtful gesture and grace him with a grateful smile as your adept fingers work his belt open. He’s straining against the seam of his pants now, begging for the attention that your gaze promises him.

If he didn’t know better, he’d think you’re every bit as eager to get his trousers and boxers down as he is.

And Lord help him, he delights in the gasp you emit when his cock springs free from its confines.

“Fuck, Marcus.” Your lips actually part as you freeze for a moment, just taking him in. He’s thick, maybe an inch longer than average, swollen head peeking through uncut skin as if begging for your waiting mouth. He curves to the left just a little bit, and you can almost see his pulse thrumming through the prominent vein that runs along the length of him.

“S’not that impressive,” he mumbles, and you know that he knows that he’s full of shit.

Your fingers almost don’t wrap all the way around him, and suddenly you’re second-guessing this back alley stint, too. You want him in bed. You want him deep inside you, kissing your face as he fucks you, hands all over your body, thrusts hard yet slow. You want it languid, you want it desperate, you want it any way he’ll give it to you. You don’t want to blow him and say goodbye.

He calculates your hesitation as something other than pure unadulterated lust, and he lifts your chin gently with his index and middle fingers.

“Hey, we don’t have to–”

Again, you cut him off–this time, by dragging your tongue from the seam of his balls all the way along his length to swirl messily around his tip. You taste every heady inch of him and then moan at the salty foreshadowing on your tongue when you catch a droplet of precum leaking from his slit.

Your hand springs into action with a long, slow stroke along his cock, and then you sink your mouth around him and he moans. Without caution or pretense, like you’re not in an alley that anyone could walk down at any moment. It’s a little more high-pitched than he’d like for it to be and his head thumps back against the brick wall hard enough to hurt, and even still he’s never felt so overwhelmed with pleasure before in his life.

Your nose meets the neat patch of hair at his base and your free hand comes up to his hip, effectively pinning him against the wall when he tries to buck greedily even further into your mouth.

No one’s ever taken him so relentlessly before. You’re insistent, pressing onward even as you gag on his length, and it makes his balls tighten in a way he’s never felt before. It’s like you’re hungry for him; like you’re doing this more for your own pleasure than for his.

Marcus Pike has been a giver his whole life. Tonight, with you, he finally decides to take.

He’d be embarrassed about how fast he comes if you weren’t so eager for it. You moan around him and push yourself as deep as you can, throat working around him desperately not to choke on the size of him. Before he can warn you he’s spilling into your mouth, maybe more than he’s ever come before, thick and salty but undeniably sweet too. You allow yourself a moment to savor him as he pulses in your mouth, tongue swirling around the sensitive head of him in a way that makes him shiver and whine.

He’s panting, nearly light-headed, when you finally pull off of him and press one last gentle kiss over his slit.

“Holy shit,” he murmurs, because there’s nothing else to say.

You giggle, and he realizes with a strange wistfulness that he would do anything to keep this girl–a girl he’s just met, a girl who’s leaving to go back to her home on the other side of the country in just a week–smiling and laughing the way she is now.

“My hotel is only a couple blocks away,” you tell him as he helps you to your feet. “Would you like a nightcap?”

You pick up his jacket and dust the grime off it–it makes him chuckle. Everything about this encounter has flown in the face of what he’s used to.

He’s never felt so alive.

“I would love a nightcap.”

Your senses wake up slower than normal.

First it’s your eyes–they tune in on the bright mid-sunrise light streaming through the open balcony blinds on the far wall. It falls in slivers and shards over the rumpled white hotel-standard bedding–the second thing your senses tune into. Everything is so soft and light, but it’s a little cold too. Especially the other side of the bed; there’s no heat remaining there at all.

You push yourself up with a grunt and let the sheets fall away from your bare torso, tired eyes scanning around the room. You notice clothes scattered all over the floor while your ears wake up enough to hear water running in the bathroom, and you can’t help the involuntary smile that spreads over your face. He’s still here.

Marcus lets the too-hot water wash over him in scalding waves, muscles still a little sore after a long night tangled together with you.

He checked his phone first thing this morning, and the gallery was quiet all night. They think the suspect he radioed in was the guy they were looking for, but they weren’t able to apprehend him. The running theory is that he might’ve recognized Marcus and decided low-value art wasn’t worth the hassle, but one guess is as good as the next until they can bait and catch the guy.

It’s the weekend now, and Marcus is thanking his lucky stars. Not only does he have a successful mission to celebrate, but he has the most beautiful woman in the world to celebrate it with.

He emerges after a few minutes, wet hair messily scattered over his forehead and wide hips straining against a low-slung hotel towel. He’s a languid Saturday morning wet dream on two legs.

“G’morning,” he hums with a smile–he doesn’t even try to hide the way his eyes dip down to hungrily take in your naked torso.

“Good morning, Marcus.”

He stalks towards you slowly, eyes darkening with each advancing step. It doesn’t take more than a second to realize he didn’t get his fill of your body last night, but you’re certainly not complaining.

He’s already starting to harden as he drops his towel and crawls over the foot of the bed, surging forward to capture your lips in a sweet kiss. If last night was desperation and passion, this morning is syrupy and sweet. He explores your mouth slowly, tongue sweeping between your lips and tracing every curve and ridge he can–almost like he’s trying to commit you to memory.

There are universes in the depths of his dark eyes. He may not say exactly what he’s thinking, but you can see it playing out in those baby browns of his. There’s something simmering underneath the surface–something more than just lust or desire.

Something dangerous.

You tug him closer and cup his face in your hands, enjoying the gentle scratch of morning stubble underneath your palms. He surges forward and presses you into the pillows as he settles himself comfortably between your spread legs.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs through kisses scattered along the length of your jaw.

You know you probably look like you got run over by a bus–you toss and turn in your sleep, and it always leaves your hair a matted mess. And that’s not even mentioning the slight tremble in your thighs, left over from Marcus’s enthusiastic attention last night. But there’s so much sincerity in his voice; you don’t think he would waste his breath saying it if he didn’t mean it, and that fact alone makes your heart pound with desire.

There’s a syrupy slowness to the way he moves down your body, lips leaving behind heavy wet kisses as he works down your chest and over your stomach.

And it’s almost like he senses the protest working its way up your throat when you feel his hot breath on your thighs, because he looks up at you and there’s sternness in his gaze. You got your fill last night, and now it’s his turn.

“May I?” He looks up at you from the apex of your thighs with big, round puppy eyes that are impossible to refuse–so you nod eagerly and don’t even try.

If you were eager to have him in your mouth last night, he’s desperate.

There’s no hesitation, no build-up. It’s almost aggressive, the way he buries his face in your heat. He laps like a dog at a bowl, hips canting into the mattress involuntarily as your taste floods his mouth.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he growls into your sopping cunt. “You taste incredible.”

You keen at the praise and card your fingers through his hair, tugging slightly at the damp, spiky strands when his tongue laves heavily over your sensitive clit.

Marcus’s greedy hands grip underneath your thighs and push them as far as you can comfortably spread them. You’re still so sensitive after at least three orgasms last night–you lost count after a point–and it serves to wind your nerves tighter than they’ve ever been wound before.

One hand slides to the junction of your thigh and his thumb comes to take over the pressure on your clit as his tongue plunges between your soaked folds. It’s even more overwhelming like this, and there’s not a thing in the world that you want to do more than let him have his fun. Especially when that hand and his tongue switch spots–his lips seal and suck around your clit while he presses two achingly thick fingers into your waiting entrance.

It actually makes your muscles tighten and your back rise off the bed as he curls his fingers just right to find that spot that makes you fall apart for him.

He can tell you’re getting close–he’s already so intune with the way your muscles twitch, the change of pitch in your moans. You whine and cry for him the tighter he winds the rubberband, and he’s eager to make it snap.

“That’s it, pretty girl,” he says over the overwhelming flutter of his fingers scissoring and curling inside you. “Let me have it.”

You squeeze your eyes shut so tightly as pleasure wracks through your body that you can see constellations. Large hands come to pin your thighs open as his tongue keeps working, lapping and gliding against your cunt with ease as a wave of arousal gushes from your entrance.

You’ve never been so wet in your life, and he’s just getting started.

He trails open-mouthed kisses up your body as you catch your breath–his slick-soaked lips coat your skin with your own arousal as he works his way up to allow you a taste of yourself.

The first wet lick of his tongue into your mouth makes you moan. It’s not the first time you’ve tasted your own slick–you’ve had a moment or two of curiosity–but it’s never been quite as enjoyable as it is on his tongue. It pairs so perfectly with the minty tang of toothpaste left on his breath and makes you hungry for more.

He moves fluidly under your direction as you push him onto his back and roll to straddle his lap all in one graceful movement. It’s perfect like this–he doesn’t have to support his weight so he can run his big meaty hands all over every inch of you, and you can kiss him as deep as you want while you grind down on his aching length.

“Shit, baby,” he pants against your lips. Those aforementioned beefy palms grasp hard at your asscheeks to guide your hips, pulling you into a slow, long grind that bumps the head of his cock against your clit deliciously.

Your pulse thrums with desperation until you’re seeing white–no more teasing, no more preamble. You take his girth in your hand and give him a firm stroke; if you had a little more presence of mind, you might be embarrassed at how wet his dick is simply from grinding against you for a few seconds.

“Go ahead, baby, take it when you’re ready.”

He gasps at the first press of his cockhead against your entrance, head flopping back against the pillows as his hands squeeze your asscheeks with bruising force.

“Shit, you’re tight,” he murmurs, throat working around a thick gulp. “You can take it baby, I know you can. Did so good for me last night.”

You think you would honestly do anything he asks of you so long as he just keeps talking like this.

It takes a moment for you to work your way down his length–he’s so mouth-wateringly thick and the curve of his cock hits the most delicious spot inside you that you didn’t even know existed.

“Atta girl,” he praises breathlessly as your hips settle flush against his. “Just sit there for a minute. So pretty on my dick.”

God, he makes your entire body flush with heat. He turns your blood to molten lava with his words, lighting every inch of skin on fire. You’ve never felt a sensation like this–so overwhelming yet so intoxicating.

You start with slow movements as his hands trace up and down your sides sweetly–it’s more like you’re grinding on him than anything else. His thumbs rub abstract little patterns into your skin as his hands work up to your tits; when he finally takes them in the palms of his hands and squeezes all pretense of soft, sweet morning-after sex flies out the window.

You drop down hard on his cock and it nearly punches the wind out of him.

“Yes!” He growls darkly. His eyes flash with something dangerous–it’s the only warning you get before his hand slaps the meat of your ass and grabs a greedy handful. “Just like that baby, use my fuckin’ dick.”

And maybe, if he was someone else, you wouldn’t be nearly as eager to follow instructions. But with Marcus, you’re nothing if not obedient.

Last night was exploration and discovery–hours into the early morning spent learning each other’s bodies, finding what makes the other squirm and whine and beg. This morning is in perfect juxtaposition to that sweet, soft, probing sex–you know what drives each other crazy now, and you each use it to your advantage. Aggressively.

He surges up to suck a pert nipple into his mouth as you set a hard pace on him, long fingers pressing into your skin hard enough to leave marks. He lands another sharp smack to your ass when your thighs start to shake–a reward for using his cock exactly how he asked.

”M-Marcus—”

”I know, sweetheart,” he purrs through a guttural moan. He cants his hips up to meet your thrusts at just the right moment—he hits something so devastatingly pleasurable that your vision prickles white around the edges. “I know, it’s so much, isn’t it? It’s okay, you can let go. Come for me.”

There’s a condescending note to his voice that only makes you squeeze harder around his cock, and within seconds you’re hurtling uncontrollably into ecstasy.

He fucks you through the telltale fluttering of your cunt even when your hips stop moving; strong hands hold you in place and work you through the ebbing waves of pleasure that wrack through your entire body.

”M’so close, honey,” he grunts with a particularly sharp thrust upward. One hand comes up to cradle your jaw in his hand, forcing your eyes to meet his. “Where do you want me?”

”I-inside,” you gasp. “Come inside me, Marcus.”

He fills you as soon as he has your instruction—hard thrusts punctuated by breathy moans as he pumps you full of his release.

There’s a long, silent moment where Marcus pulls your bare chest tightly against his own and you pant into the crook of his neck while trying desperately to even-out your breathing. His fingertips dance across your skin-feather-light, soothing.

The sun is higher in the sky now and meets your eyes with blinding rays through the balcony shutters when they finally open again.

”That was amazing, honey,” he murmurs into the crown of your head. He’s caught his own breath now, but he doesn’t make any attempt to let you go. “How’re you so perfect?”

”M’not perfect,” you mumble into his shoulder; but even to your own ears, it sounds half-hearted. The truth is, he’s so earnestly honest that you believe him.

He hums his dissent with a kiss pressed to your hairline. ”You are to me.”

And you so desperately want to believe him that you don’t even try to argue.

You bask in this warm, lovely afterglow for a few moments longer before Marcus gently taps your hip. ”Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get cleaned up and I’ll buy you breakfast.”

You pull off of his softened cock with a whine and try not to get worked up all over again at the feeling of his cum leaking down your thighs. ”Th-there’s a free continental breakfast downstairs.”

”Oh, then I’ll definitely pick up the tab,” he jokes with a smirk—all you want to do is kiss his goofy, stupidly handsome face.

He pulls you into the bathroom and starts the water running to fill the tub—he’s never really been a bath guy, but your legs are a little too shaky to endure a shower. He’s so attentive—from running a damp cloth between your legs to helping lower you into the water. He doesn’t complain in the slightest when you catch his hand and ask him to join you; he just shuffles you forward and slides in behind you like it’s a casual act that he performs with every hookup.

It’s intimate. That’s really the only way to describe it. You sit between his spread legs, back to his chest, head rested back against his shoulder while his fingers ghost idle paths over your skin. You don’t talk; you don’t really need to. Somehow, you fit together like souls who have known each other for years. Like all you’ve been missing is each other.

You drift off in his arms as he traces soap over all the curves and ridge of your body, the steady beat of his heart thumping in your ear.

It breaks his heart a little bit to wake you—the fact that you’re so comfortable with him, that you trust him with such vulnerability, makes his head spin a little bit. But the water’s turning cold, and the last thing he wants is for you to come down sick or something.

He rouses you with gentle, feathery kisses scattered over your rosy-scented shoulders and neck.

”Mmm… what time is it?” You grumble, pressing your sleep-addled face further into the crook of his neck.

”Just after noon,” he whispers into your hair after glancing up at the clock on the wall.

He can feel the way your mouth shifts into a pout. “Shit. We missed breakfast.”

The adorable downward tilt of your frown as you lift your dad to look at him makes his heart flutter. “Let’s go out, then. The first farmer’s market of the season is going on downtown. I’m sure we can find something good for brunch.”

”Kinda sounds like you’re asking me on a date,” you hum with a slight smirk dancing at your lips.

”Maybe I am.” His tone is light, his meaning clear—he knows this goes beyond a one-night stand, and there’s no harm done if you’re not wanting to cross this boundary. He’d understand not wanting to get too serious about someone who lives thousands of miles away from your home, of course. He’d never blame you.

You give him your best appraising look, staring deep into those constellation-filled brown eyes. ”You’re not sick of me yet?”

”I have a feeling I couldn’t get sick of you if I tried.” There’s nothing but sincerity in his tone, in his eyes. He genuinely wants to spend time with you, even if there’s nowhere for this to really go.

You hum thoughtfully. “I do love farmer’s markets.”

You’re with Marcus more often than not over the course of the next week.

He takes you sightseeing to some of his favorite spots around Austin, brings you to his favorite restaurants, shows you his favorite movies. But he multitasks—while teaching you about himself, he learns as much as he can about you and picks activities he knows you’ll love, too.

He’s a pragmatist; he knows your time together is short, and he wants to make himself unforgettable. If he never sees you again, he wants you to think about him every once in a while and look back on this time fondly.

You spend your days while Marcus is at work painting or drawing or lingering around the gallery, and you fall asleep in his arms every night. With shades of gray moonlight and candlelight cast over your hotel room, it almost feels like this could go on forever.

He tells you to wear something nice before he picks you up on the last night–he wants to celebrate in style, which starts with reservations at an up-scale restaurant.

He’s so achingly handsome. He’s in a matching gray suit over a white button-up, top two buttons undone and no tie to be seen. His face bears the slightest five o’clock shadow and your eyes gravitate to the curve of his lips–the instant smile that takes over his face when those gorgeous brown eyes of his land on you.

If you never see him again, this is exactly how you want to remember him.

“Wow,” he whispers reverently. “You look amazing.”

It’s not the most impressive dress you own, but he looks at you like you’re wearing something worth millions–like you’re worth millions.

You lean up and kiss him, and everything feels right. His hands rest on your waist and it’s so easy to pretend that you won’t be on the other side of the country twenty-four hours from now.

The restaurant is beautiful. Dimly lit and romantic, tables spaced enough to give you some privacy. He takes your hand on top of the table and holds it the entire meal. The conversation is light and airy–you’re both stubbornly dancing around what really needs to be said.

Dessert is cleared and the wine bottle is empty by the time Marcus finally works up the courage to acknowledge the elephant in the room.

“I don’t want you to go.”

You knew this would be coming, but it doesn’t make it any easier. You avert your gaze, instead focusing on his large hand wrapped around yours and the windshield wiper motion of his thumb tracing back and forth over your palm. No one’s touch has ever sent such electric tingles through your nervous system the way his does.

You don’t know what to say, so you say nothing at all.

“Look, I…” He takes a deep breath and straightens his spine a little bit, hand leaving yours to gently cup your chin. He forces you to look him in the eyes as he breaks your heart. “I think this could really be something, if we gave it a shot.”

You haven’t lied to him yet, and you don’t plan to start now. “I… I think it could, too. If I didn’t have to go back.”

“Don’t go back then.” There’s a firmness to his voice, but it couldn’t be any more obvious that he’s begging if he actually got down on his knees. “Stay here with me. We’ll figure this out. Just… don’t go.”

And here–with his earnest eyes on yours and his gentle, loving touch on your skin–it’s easy to pretend that it’s that simple.

He takes you back to your hotel room and sheds you easily out of your dress. As cliche as it sounds, it’s not just sex this time. Things that it’s too early to say are buried deep within every kiss, every thrust. He hooks your legs over his shoulders and looks deeply into your eyes while he fills you and you’ve never felt so overwhelmingly connected.

The thud of his heartbeat is insistent in your ear as you come down from your high–so calming, so heartbreaking. You lay on his chest while his breathing evens out and soak up these last few moments of bliss. And then, once you’re sure he’s sound asleep, you carefully worm out of his grip. There’s one more thing you have to do before you go back to New York.

Loud, insistent ringing pulls Marcus from the depths of sleep. He tries to ignore it and go back to sleep, but now that his senses are alert, the sound in combination with bright Saturday morning sunlight won’t allow him the luxury. He presses his face deeper into the pillow that he’s somehow wound himself around in his sleep, but that damned ringing won’t stop.

He sits up slowly and tries to rub the sleep from his eyes–and that’s when he notices the empty sheets next to him. Your side of the bed is long cold, and he knows. Before he even sees the note on the dresser and your room key next to it, he knows you’re gone.

He finds his trousers discarded halfway between the bed and the door and pulls his blaring phone out of the pocket.

“The gallery got hit sometime early this morning. They took everything. Every goddamn piece. You need to get here now.”

His body moves on autopilot as he pulls yesterday’s clothes back on, fingers numb to all sensation as they work to button his shirt. This can’t be happening. It can’t be you.

He notices the note on the dresser as he’s threading his belt through the loops of his trousers, and his gut twists with a sickening sense of foreboding.

I really did fall for you, Marcus. But nothing good starts in a getaway car.

He’s not sure if you knew who he was the whole time and this whole thing was calculated, or if you just got lucky. He doesn’t want to believe you’re that cunning and cruel. He wants to believe that this is just a misunderstanding, that you’re out for ice or something and you’ll walk back through the door at any moment.

But you don’t.

The note is enough of a confession for him. He’ll have the power of the FBI on his side to find you–and he will find you. What he’ll do when he does, he’s not sure. He guesses he’ll know when he sees you.

➔ Want to see more from me in the future? Follow @freelancearsonist-updates and turn on post notifications to be notified when I post new fics!

➔ Want to support me? Please reblog this fic! It helps boost it in the algorithm and gives it more circulation no matter what your follower count is :) any feedback or comment is always greatly appreciated!!

#marcus pike #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike smut #marcus pike fanfiction #marcus pike one shot #marcus pike x you #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #the mentalist #the mentalist fanfiction #the mentalist one shot #cece writes

162 notes · View notes

dailyhatsune · 8 months ago

Note

hi! not exactly a request but i do wanna ask, whats your process when you're rendering more paint like art? (if that makes sense, English isnt my first language so apologies hdskhsjdbd) i really love how you use the colors and im curious how you do it :0

i’ve been meaning to answer this one for a while so here’s how i painted miku in today’s post (put under the read more because yeah prepare for a long post

i’d also like to preface this by saying that i never follow a set way of doing things, so in terms of what my personal process is like, these are only broad strokes of what i do! sometimes i’ll combine or skip parts entirely, depending on how i feel. also, this is not a tutorial, just how i do things, so please don’t treat it like one :’D this will read like the ‘how to draw an owl’ picture if you do

first, like every artist, i sketch. more specifically, i’m getting an idea of what i want to paint later on. this could be how a scene is set up or in this case, how a character is posed. here i’m not concerned about details or getting everything perfectly, i’m only planning how the thing will be composed. maybe a lot of canvas size changing, or adjusting what miku’s doing (note how busted miku’s right hand looks from all the transforming!) however, i still have to be concerned with how clear the sketch will be to future me, because the sketch won’t be any good if i can’t read what miku’s doing

after that, i lay down a flat gray under the sketch, mainly focusing on giving miku a clear silhouette. this is also a good time to make adjustments to the composition on the fly if i suddenly feel like something can be improved upon, like shortening miku’s left arm from the sketch!

after painting a flat silhouette, i start shading in grayscale, focusing only on lighting. i usually do it in two passes, one for the lightest and darkest tones i’ll use (not black and white) and then a second for midtones to blend them better with the base gray but i forgot to screenshot the result of the first pass 🗿 nevertheless, here is where i can start adding some amount of details. i’m not including any extra accessories yet, just focusing on the base design of the outfit and the character herself (for anyone wanting to draw characters from That Gacha Game, this is how i personally make the process more bearable for myself.) i still use the dark gray to separate where certain details (like the facial features and fingers) begin and end, mainly to make colouring more bearable later.

now here’s where i get the Good Colours. it’s a cheat lol. i put a gradient map layer over the grayscale painting so that there’s a little bit of color to start. some gradient maps can be applied as is, some need the layer settings adjusted to make it look good. this one, for example, is a (free) gradient map set from the csp assets store that needs you to set the layer opacity to 20% and to set the blending mode to color to achieve this result. in general, i tend to pick which gradient map i want to use based on vibes, or basically whether i want the work to be warmer or cooler, colour-wise. but this does do quite a bit of lifting for the colors in my stuff.

and then, finally, i add the colours. i add flat base colours in an overlay layer. at this stage, i’ve made the character silhouette clear enough that i don’t need to refer to the sketch anymore for what miku looks like. also, the gradient map layer does its magic by making the shading a bit more vibrant than it would’ve been without it. after that i paint over with a new layer to add details like the lace.

and then i put some extra shading on top. basically this is where the ‘better lighting’ happens. again, this isn’t a tutorial, so i’m not here to say what each part of the lighting is, but i’ve labeled which layers do which job. in other works where the lighting within a scene is more defined (from a window, from a small crack in the walls, etc) the glow dodge layer may be more opaque and sharper, but since this isn’t a work with that, the lighting was applied using an airbrush. the linear burn layer is also there to make the whole thing darker so the glow dodge doesn’t end up oversaturating miku. i also usually match the lights to the vibe i want, and use a complementary color for the shadows. so here you can see i have warm colors on the glow dodge layer, but light purple on both the linear burn and multiply layer.

and that’s it for the character—here’s a gif showing how each layer adds to miku! (sorry it’s so toasty)

as for the background, depending on the complexity, it may go through a similar process, or if i can settle with flat image backgrounds, i just go for that. it’s ok to use external image materials. i didn’t have a background in mind for this miku in specific, so i got some default csp materials and threw together something

and that’s about a rough overview of what my process for more finished works looks like! again, art is a fluid process so i never specifically stick to certain steps all the time, and you shouldn’t either. i can probably answer why i’d pick this colour over another in one particular work, but it’s something that kinda has to be learned on a grander scale. i think everyone can already feel what colors work with what atmosphere or what setting, even if they can’t immediately explain why. colors and composition do take some level of experimentation to find what works best!

#hatsune miku #vocaloid #piapro studio #doodle #ask #partypoizzon

127 notes · View notes

gravityglitch-blog · 4 months ago

Text

Wishes for Absolution

(The night before the trip to Cabin Fever Labs, N and Uzi lean on each other for comfort.)

Part I: N

He woke up with the fever and the screams running through him again.

N shook himself to loosen the grip of memory. He grabbed a severed drone arm from the stash in the corner of the landing pod, his current home. The oil was old, clotted, but it did the job of bringing down his temperature. He had always felt guilty that his life came at the cost of others. There was no taking back what he had done. He had sworn now to only take oil from already-slain drones.

Robo-God knew, there were more than enough of those. Though it didn’t sate his hunger as well as fresh oil, it would do.

The Worker Drones were corrupted. A problem to be solved. That was the lie he’d been sold, the task he’d been given, and oh, had he done it well. He’d taken no joy in it, that much was true. He’d been driven by survival instinct more than the mission. But all that oil was still on his hands, and nothing would ever wash it away.

Perched atop the landing pod now, the icy wind ruffling his hair and only the moons of Copper Nine for company, N reflected on his victims. They’d all tried to run, at first. Most had pleaded for their lives. Some sad few had fallen limp the moment he got hold of them, accepting their fate. For what felt like the thousandth time, he tried and failed to remember if any of them had a familiar shade of purple hair. If any of them resembled the one and only Worker who had ever fought back, and won. Uzi Doorman.

Even thinking of her now brought a strange mixture of comfort and guilt to his chest.

Comfort, because she was the only one in his strange life who had ever treated him like a real person, who he could name as his best friend without hesitation. Guilt, because if his fear proved true, and he had stained himself with Doorman family oil, he would lose her forever.

He looked to the corpse spire on the horizon, where V preferred to make her home these days. Away from him. He didn’t blame her. They didn’t exactly see eye to eye anymore, if they ever had. During the short time Uzi had stayed with them, the tiny pod had felt crowded, but for the first time, it had felt something like home.

Aside from her schemes to take the fight to Earth, and to the humans who had brought all this upon them, Uzi had also shared with him bits and pieces of her life. He’d listened to her recite the long and sometimes complicated storylines of the anime she had pirated. He hadn’t understood a thing, but it didn’t matter.

He’d been silently overjoyed that someone was talking to him. In return, he’d told her about the dreams he’d been having, which he suspected were memories. He’d told her about how he wished he could have a pet someday, and that he wanted to learn about art. Copper Nine was a bleak canvas of whites and grays, and he found himself longing for colors. Not only had she listened to him, she had even started teaching him how to draw. The walls of the pod were decorated with some of his earliest attempts, done with crayons he’d once discovered on a scouting mission and hidden from J. If she’d found them, she would have destroyed them. There were a few of Uzi’s drawings, too. Normally they made him feel better, but tonight, they only helped highlight his loneliness in neon red.

He looked toward the spire, a monument to his crimes. Broken bodies. Broken lives.

“I know it will never be enough,” he said quietly, as one speaks at a gravesite. “But I am so, so sorry.”

The corpses did not answer.

Loneliness, the ever-present bug in his systems, was eating voraciously at him tonight. It tortured him with all he couldn’t remember and all he couldn’t forget. He couldn’t stay still any longer. His wings snapped open and he took to the dark sky. He told himself it was just a quick flight to clear his mind. But he already knew where he was going.

Part II: Uzi

Uzi trudged back into her room, the skirt of her prom dress swirling around her. It was the fanciest clothing she had, and tonight, she’d had need of it. Her father had been honored with an awards ceremony.

After the colony had struck a truce with the Disassembly Drones, he’d come up with a new invention: windows. “They’re like doors, but for your eyes!”

Everyone had been amazed by this concept. Because it gave her father such a glow of pride, and because he’d been trying so hard to do better by her, Uzi had held back her usual sarcasm. She’d been the first to receive a window in her room. Almost all the living quarters had them now. It was nice to be able to see the sky. She had taken to using one of her spare black hoodies to cover it up during the brightest part of the day. The sunlight made her feel strange and achy. Most likely because she’d never seen so much of it before. The ceremony had been nice, full of happy chatter and congratulations. People were almost willing to talk to her now.

But the noise had eventually made her tired.

So had that oil smell that seemed to hover over the whole gym, where prom had been held not so long ago. They probably hadn’t been able to clean it all up yet. No one else had seemed bothered by it, though.

She’d excused herself, leaving her dad to enjoy his moment.

She changed into the oversized shirt, baggy pants printed with cartoon bats, and fluffy black cat slippers she wore to bed. She was about to put the dress away when something made her stop and stare at it. The memory of the very first time she’d worn it, with N.

A blush rose unbidden to her face. She wished it could have been a normal date. Without all the murder.

A date? Where had that thought come from??

If she was being honest with herself, she missed N. Despite all the differences between them, no one had ever made her feel so understood. She would see him again tomorrow, during the field trip. She’d also see V again, too. This she didn’t look forward to so much. But even she had to admit that V was trying. The friendship that their killer prom queen had struck with Lizzy had slowly been turning into something more genuine. Maybe there was hope for them all yet. Tired as she was, Uzi was still feeling restless. She had just set her beaten-but-tough old laptop to watch something when she heard a series of quick taps at her window.

“What the heck?”

She pulled open her makeshift blackout drapes to see N’s smiling face. He was hanging upside down and waving at her.

“N!”

She slid the window open.

“Hi, Uzi!”

“Hey,” she smiled. “I thought you’d be resting until tomorrow. What’s up?”

“I wanted to return your book!” He held up the manga volume that had been missing so long she’d almost given up on it. “Also…” he scratched at the back of his head. “I’m having trouble sleeping. Nightmares.”

Uzi nodded, no stranger to nightmares herself.

She stepped aside to allow him space to climb in, but still he lingered out in the cold.

Then she remembered. “You can come in, N.”

He smiled again and clambered through, having some trouble with his tall build. It hit her like a punch in the face that this was the first time he’d visited her home. All her belongings looked small next to him.

“Will your dad be okay with me being here?”

“Probably not. But he’s not home. The colony is still celebrating the invention of the window.”

She returned the book to its proper place on the shelf before noticing that N had gone strangely quiet. He was staring at her. More accurately, at her stupid, dorky pajamas!

Part III: N

He’d always thought Uzi was cute. Any Drone who thought otherwise needed their optics checked. When he’d seen her in her prom dress not long ago, “cute” had upgraded to “beautiful”, and he’d just barely stopped himself from saying so. But he’d never seen her like this. Wearing a well-loved shirt and pants that draped over her tiny frame. Fuzzy slippers.

But what most caught his attention was her hair. For once, she was without her signature beanie. Her hair was longer and fluffier than he’d thought, gently tousled as if she’d just run her fingers through it. He was wondering what it would feel like to do just that when he pulled himself back to reality.

“Uzi,” he said quietly, “You look so cu—“

She crossed her arms over her chest. “I swear to Robo-God, if you say “cute”—“

“Cozy!” He substituted quickly. “You look really cozy, like you just woke up.”

Uzi squinted at him, weighing his answer. Finally a small laugh escaped her. “I’ll allow it.”

“Oh, no, did I wake you up?” He asked, feeling guilty now. “It’s okay, I can leave—“

“No, you don’t have to go! I just got back from my dad’s award thing. I…I’m kind of feeling nervous about the trip tomorrow. I was going to watch some anime to help me calm down.”

He nodded, then sank down to sit cross-legged on her floor. He fussed with the hem of his coat. What he wanted to say refused to solidify into words. Uzi perched on the edge of her bed, patient, listening.

It came out almost without him realizing. “I’m a monster, Uzi.”

She didn’t have an immediate reply to that. She hugged her knees to her chest.

“What brought this on?”

“Ever since we met, I’ve been thinking about everything. All I’ve done. The reason I was made. Everyone I’ve ever…killed.” He looked up at her. His eyes flickered with the threat of tears.

“I almost killed you, the best person I’ve ever met. How can you even look at me?”

Uzi rested her chin atop her knees. “I decapitated you the day we met. I’m hardly in a place to pass judgment.”

She must have sensed how disturbed he was, because she took her time before continuing.

For awhile, the only sound was the distressed pounding of his heart.

“The reason you were made,” she said at last. “You didn’t get to choose that. You didn’t choose killing just to be able to survive. Everything that you did before…I’m not going to say it doesn’t matter. But the way I see it, you were the weapon. You were used. Besides, the company, or whoever’s behind all this, made you reliant on oil. Maybe…if we learn more, dig deep enough…maybe we can find a cure?” The little note of hope in her voice nearly ended him. This girl had his heart in total free fall, and she didn’t even know it. She was still talking.

“There could be something to help, so you won’t need to drink oil anymore. So the sun won’t hurt you.”

His gaze drifted to her window. “That would be something. To see the world by daylight.”

“I’ll show you,” she promised with a gentle smile. “Not that there’s much to see on this rock.”

“Doesn’t matter, so long as I get to see it with you.”

A brief silence and blush lines followed this.

Uzi tugged on her hair, something he’d noticed she often did when nervous.

“Do you want to stay and watch some anime with me? It sometimes helps when the nightmares are bad and I can’t sleep.”

N’s eyes hollowed. “Not the one with the scary book again!”

Uzi was already digging through a box at the corner of her room. “No, not that one. Look, no one even knows I have this anime. I’ve got my reputation to protect. So you can’t tell anyone, okay?”

In answer, N mimed zipping his mouth shut and throwing away the key. He helped her arrange her pillows and blankets into a fort / nest on the floor. Once they were settled in, Uzi hit “play” on her laptop, and the opening theme began.

“Fighting evil by moonlight! Winning love by daylight! Never running from a real fight! She is the one named Sailor Moon!”

N was entranced by the story of these magical girls and their fight to defend love and justice.

Uzi seemed happy to openly geek out, something she hadn’t dared show anyone else. He felt a deep sense of gratitude that she would share this with him.

“Sailor Mars has always been my favorite,” she said, as the character sent a firestorm hurtling toward her enemy onscreen.

“I think I’d pick Usagi for my favorite,” N chimed in.

“I thought you might.”

“Why?’

“She’s just like you. Strong, brave…maybe a little silly, but with her heart wide open.”

Uzi’s eyes grew wide when she realized what she’d just said. N resisted the urge to pull his hat down over his face to hide his furious blush. As the episodes rolled on, N felt the exhaustion finally creeping up on him. He slumped against Uzi’s shoulder like a pillow. He felt her start, but she didn’t push him away. Her skin was pleasantly cool against his cheek, soothing the constant fever. He could hear her heart beat a comforting rhythm.

He had almost silenced that rhythm forever.

He shuddered and instinctively burrowed more closely into her side.

Never again. He would never let anything hurt her ever again. The vow brought him some peace. He was halfway asleep when she spoke up.

“N?”

“Hmm?”

“When I went out there that first night—“ she hesitated. He looked up at her, eyes curious and drowsy.

“I was so stupid,” she finished sadly. “I thought I was going to be some kind of hero, like in these stories. I was going to be the one to save Copper Nine and we’d all live happily ever after. But what if I’m not meant to be the hero? What if I’m just a screwup like everyone’s always said?”

“How silly,” N said, more asleep than awake now. “Of course, you’re my hero. You’re going to save us all and find a cure, remember? And I’ll be your faithful sidekick!”

Uzi laughed, a wonderful sound to him. “You’re no sidekick. You’re way more than that. You’re my—“

Here she stopped again, unable to find the word she wanted.

He glanced up at her as the silence stretched. What would she say? Friend? Partner? No, that was too intimate…

With a shrug, she gave up and said simply, “You’re my N.”

Sleepiness had lowered his inhibitions. He reached up and gently twirled a lock of her hair around his finger before letting it spring free again. “My Uzi.”

A comforting quiet settled over them, until he felt himself entering sleep mode. Instead of a nightmare, he was met by Uzi’s voice, singing a soft lullaby.

“Deep in my soul

Love so strong

It takes control

Now we both know

The secrets bared

The feelings show

Driven far apart

I’ll make a wish on a shooting star

There will come a day, somewhere far away

In your arms I’ll stay, my only love

Even though you’re gone, love will still live on

The feeling is so strong

My only love”

His last thought before the soft dark claimed him was, What a beautiful dream.

This is the song I imagined Uzi singing, from the 90’s Sailor Moon dub. This song touches my heart to this day.

youtube

#murder drones #murder drones fanfic #nuzi #serial designation n #uzi doorman #gravityglitch writes #Youtube

63 notes · View notes

melodramaticatheart · 5 months ago

Text

Falling to Pieces - Paedyn Gray x Kai Azer

Kai and Pae have made there way back to Ilyia, Kai now being a visitor for the night at Paedyn's fort.

Pairing: Kai Azer and Paedyn Gray Word Count: 1.2k Book: Powerless Author's Note: first time writing my babies ahhh ! this was a request by @nuncscioquidsitamor-14, which has been in my inbox for a couple weeks but now that i'm rereading powerless i felt inspired to finish it! also this was originally fluff but i'm not sure how it ended up being so angsty Taglist: @reminiscentreader, @flowers-for-em, @nqds, @art-of-fools, @lxvebelle

My breath was coming up short, pain shooting up my legs from holding my weight in the chimney now I had six sticky buns hidden in my pockets, honey oozing through the fabric. I plant my feet on the ground with a soft thud. Running down dark alleys until I find the familiar white house, well what was left of it. “Y’know I could arrest you for that.” “You could try, but we both know I'd escape” I cock my head to the side looking at Kai leaning against a street light, “So you going to hand me one or am I gonna have to steal it from you? Gray Style.” He asks, pushing himself off the pole, a shadow you’d miss if you weren’t looking. The night's darkness seemed to engulf him, only making parts of his smirk visible to me. “Here you go” I say plopping the sticky mess into his hand “But I must warn you they might not live up to Gale’s” “I don’t doubt it.” I smack his arm lightly making my way down the empty street, the stars glisten on the big canvas we call the sky helping light the slums “So…” Kai stumbled alongside me dumping a chunk of bun into his mouth “Where are we staying tonight?” “We?” I look at him skeptically, “Let me remind you down this road there’s a gold pristine palace waiting for you, with a nice big bed, and a table full of food.” I move my hand around and soften my voice to add awe to my words. He can probably hear the bitterness behind my words but doesn’t acknowledge them. “It’s funny you think I'd leave you alone, after losing you for a month.” He crossed his arm, walking backwards looking at me with a crooked grin, a dimple appearing on his right. I roll my eyes, giving in. “Come on, I'll take you to the fort.” “”The fort” sounds exciting.” He cocks his head, giving me a tight smile and turning his front back to the street.

With tight lips I make my way down the familiar alley, my stomach lurching. I hadn’t had time to return after… my thoughts caught off not allowing myself to think of the blood, the crooked fingers, the moans of pain. I stumble towards a wall staring at the small corner of the alley filled with rugged blankets and old discarded fabrics, I begin to mindlessly spin my father’s finger on my thumb. “This is home” I whisper, my lips trembling at the sight. Now that I’m closer I can make out the last bits of fabric I’d stolen for Adena before leaving for the trial. Anger bubbled up inside me, everything about this stupid kingdom has made innocent people suffer, and I was going to get them back. My hands instinctively turned to fists, the anger pooling in my gut. Kai grunted, bringing my attention to the boy who was now rubbing his neck, absentmindedly nodding his head as he slumped against the wall on the other side of the alley staring at the barricades of the place I'd grown to call home.

I went and sat next to him, not having enough courage to sit in the fort. Slowly I pulled out the sticky buns I’d stolen an hour ago, “these were her favorite'' I whisper, a look of understanding crossing his face, he quietly took the bun and threw a piece into his mouth chewing it for a few seconds as i started to nibble mine still not used to food in my stomach after so much time in the scorches. “These may not be Gale’s but they definitely come in a close second” I chuckle silently but It’s just to fill the silence. I throw my head back resting it against the wall, sighing the anger melts taking over me like a honey does a sticky bun. “I can’t do this” I breathe out, getting on my feet unsteadily. I start walking down the narrow lane ignoring the sound of Kai getting on his feet behind me “Hey, where are you going?” I hear him ask as he reaches me softly, turning me around so I can face him. “You okay, Gray?” His eyes turn 10 shades of sincere as he studies my face for an answer. I try to get out of his grip calling him enforcer just to anger him but he just stays silent not reacting to the title. “Just leave me alone Azer” I say finally getting out of his grip, almost making it out of the aisle before he calls out from behind me “Did I do something?” He asks, confused on why I'm acting this way. He doesn’t get it. He’s seen where I’ve spent the last five years sleeping and not even a little bit of sympathy from him. Even his brother could manage some when he saw the slums. No, what am I saying? I don't want his sympathy. What I want is to get him back.

I scoff, loud enough he can hear me, turning around stalking towards him. I point my finger at his chest, not being able to contain my anger any longer. “Are you seriously going to ask me here of all places if you did something?! Look Where we are your royal highness, we’re in the place I called home, a collection of blankets and fabric i’ve had to sleep in for five god damn years.” My tongue tastes bitter as I use his royal title. I resent him at this moment. “Do you know how hard it was? Huh?! Do you know, Kai? Having to sleep on the floor, only getting to eat on lucky days, getting whipped by your stupid guards just cause they felt they needed to teach a lesson towards a starving child!” I throw my hands to my hair letting my fingers dig into my scalp. I take a breath letting it fill my lungs “The only person I had, the girl I called my sister, the person I could trust with anything, I didn’t need to lie my way for her to call me a friend.” A sob broke through me, grief filling my insides. “She was all I had and your stupid kingdom, your stupid family took her away” I look at him dead in the eye as I finish “and you, you started all of it, you killed my father the only place of comfort I ever knew and you killed him right in front of me” I slowly crumble to my knees years of pent up grief releasing. The sobs come out heavy and sloppy as my heart starts to seize, I must look pathetic. The thought crosses my head causing a small laugh to leave the body of my lips. I suddenly feel fingers treading through my hair, his left arm wrapping around my waist. “I hate you!” I scream out, pounding my fists in his chest, he only pulls me closer “Hate me Pae. Hate me all you want.” He whispers into my hair, his hold loosening on me as my hits get softer, “It should’ve been me” I sob into his chest, my energy giving out, pain the size of my heart searing across my chest, my sobs growing quieter as the night gets colder.

#soph writes 𝜗𝜚 #powerless #kai azer #paedyn gray #lauren roberts #kai x paedyn #pae x kai #paedyn x kai

56 notes · View notes

aphroditelovesu · 1 year ago

Text

Kinktober Day Ten — Voyeurism

❝ — 💜 lady l: day ten of kinktober! I hope you like it, dear!!

❝💜pairing: yandere!taehyung x female!reader.

❝warnings: smut, NSFW, female and male masturbation, voyeurism, bad writing.

❝💜word count: 900.

Within an intimate space, a bedroom reveals a woman's unique personality. Dark tones dominate the room, creating a sophisticated and welcoming atmosphere. The walls are covered in an elegant charcoal gray, which serves as a canvas for a contemporary art collection. A large window, framed by black velvet curtains, lets in a soft filter of city light.

The centerpiece of this retreat is a king-size bed, with a luxurious midnight blue velvet duvet and silver satin pillows. To your right, a minimalist dark wood bedside table holds a lamp with a soft light for evenings reading. On the other side, a wall shelf displays a collection of contemporary literature books and pieces of art.

The floor is covered in a plush, graphite-colored carpet, inviting bare feet. A large full-length mirror, framed by wrought iron, reflects the splendor of the space and adds a feeling of spaciousness. Next to the window, a designer armchair with emerald green velvet upholstery offers a place to contemplate and gaze at the cityscape.

An integrated closet with mirrored doors reveals an arsenal of modern clothes and accessories, meticulously organized. Dimmable recessed lighting creates the perfect atmosphere for any occasion, from relaxing to getting ready for the evening.

In these rooms, dark tones combine with the elegance and personal style of the woman who inhabits it, creating a luxurious and welcoming retreat in the heart of the city of Seoul. This room was her refuge, the only place she felt comfortable and truly relaxed.

And it was her favorite place to relax and do something therapeutic and healthy for herself.

You were sprawled out on her bed, your head resting on your soft pillow, your eyes closed and your hands played with your breasts under the bra you were wearing.

You bit your lip and moved a little on the bed and placed your hands behind your back and unclasped your bra, exposing your breasts.

His fingers squeezed and massaged her sore breasts from spending so much time in a bra. You bit your lower lip and took your fingers to the waistband of your pants and played with the buttons until finally deciding to unbutton them. You lowered your pants and removed them, leaving you in just a pair of red, lacy panties.

When you were down to your underwear, a deep breath came from your closet. Someone, without your knowledge, was watching you and taking great advantage of it.

Taehyung knew what he was doing was wrong.

He knew it was wrong to spy on people, to break into their homes and hide in their closet when they weren't looking.

He knew all this but he didn't care.

Not when he had the privileged view of her practically naked body. You only wore a pair of red panties that he was sure you picked out for him. Such a naughty girl.

You really liked teasing him, didn't you? Always so naughty and desperate to be touched and fucked by him.

He licked his lips. Just a little longer, you just needed to wait a little longer.

His breathing became strained as you slid your index finger over your underwear, towards your slit. You let out a low, sly moan at the contact.

Taehyung couldn't move because otherwise he was sure he would be seen and he didn't want you to know about the love he felt for you like that. Without him noticing, his right hand went to his pants and squeezed the bulge that had formed due to his excitement.

He took a deep breath, biting back a groan when you reached inside your panties and started rubbing your clit. He followed your movements and slipped his hand inside the pants he was wearing, going through his underwear and feeling his cock.

You slid your panties off and got rid of them, finally exposing your beautiful pussy to him. The way he was, Taehyung could see your entire pussy and he salivated, his movements on his cock intensifying when you slipped a finger inside your cunt, moaning softly to yourself. He could clearly see your pussy greedily swallowing your finger and Taehyung regretted that it wasn't his cock being swallowed.

''Oh...'' You moaned as you inserted a second finger into your pussy and your thumb slowly rubbed against your clit. You groped your right breast with your free hand, moaning at the pleasure you felt.

''Fuck!'' Taehyung moaned softly as he touched himself harder, knowing he wouldn't take long to cum. He just hoped you wouldn't be long. The movements of his hand intensified as you fucked yourself with your fingers. You moaned loudly as your pleasure increased and your thumb rubbed your clit hard as your fingers were penetrated into your pussy.

You closed your eyes and fucked yourself harder, feeling incredibly turned on. Your mouth opened and you moaned loudly as you squirted, staining the sheets with your liquid, you continued rubbing yourself for a few more minutes until it became too much.

The moment you came, Taehyung released himself into his own hand, not taking his eyes off your body for even a minute, he moaned your name like a prayer as he came and breathed heavily.

He clenched his fists.

He couldn't wait any longer.

#kinktober #kinktober 2023 #kinktober day 10 #bts #bangtan boys #yandere bts #yandere bangtan boys #taehyung x reader #yandere!taehyung #yandere taehyung #yandere taehyung x reader #yandere!bts #smut #v x reader

165 notes · View notes

cowboydisaster · 2 years ago

Text

Aesthete

Aesthete (adj.) someone with deep sensitivity to the beauty of art or nature

repost, originally posted on 12 march 2023

pairing: Arthur Morgan x fem!reader

word count: 4.7k

summary: when Arthur finds himself with a lack of inspiration, you offer yourself as a blank canvas

a/n: this was inspired by a post I saw about canon Arthur v fandom Arthur. Essentially that he isn't just some dumb himbo, he's intelligent and creative/artistic and has a clearer world view than most. I cant find the original post/er, but if you know it please drop me a message!

taglist: @margofiore @mrsarthurmorgan7 @woman-with-no-name @luvliewriting @tillith @pine4pple-b0i @photo1030 @dudsparrow

warning: nsfw, 18+, minors dni (teeth rottingly fluffy, emotional smut)

"a work of art that did not begin in emotion is not art"- paul cèzanne

The rain is a steady, soothing thud on the roof, as you rest, sitting on Arthur’s bed at Shady Belle. It's a stormy day, with rain and lightning falling from the sky, painting everything in a gloomy gray hue. There are a few little puddles on the creaky, wooden floor from the broken window and the old roof, where water has leaked inside. You cherish days like this, days where you can huddle inside, wrapped in a thin blanket while reading a book. Now you are reading a relatively newer piece, Huckleberry Finn, while cozied up in Arthur’s bed. He sits opposite of you, against the footboard, while you are against the headboard. It’s a very comfortable silence, with only the rain and the thunder to break up the quiet afternoon.

Arthur is very focused in his journal, sketching and scribbling away at something on the ivory pages. His eyebrows are drawn together, and every few minutes he holds the journal at an arm’s length away, ensuring he has the correct perspective. The more he draws, the less interested you find yourself in your novel. Your eyes flicker from him, to your page, and you find that you’ve been so interested in what Arthur is doing that you’ve been stuck re-reading the same paragraph for nearly five minutes.

But can you blame yourself for being so easily distracted? Arthur is so detail oriented, so intelligent and creative. Very rarely does he allow people to see this vulnerable side of him, and you’ve been lucky enough to peek through the curtains into Arthur Morgan’s fragile, beautiful heart. He has a reputation among the gang of being thick headed and more of a brute than a thinker, and you chuckle at just how ignorant those opinions are. Arthur is one of the smartest men you know. He is an enjoyer of literature, although he prefers writing a novel rather than reading one, he is well versed in history and enjoys mythology. Arthur may not have gone to a school, or have fancy degrees on his wall, but he is a reteller of stories. Arthur soaks in the information he hears, and thinks over it heavily, oftentimes writing about it in his journal, like he is now.

His big hands have an expert grip on the charcoal as he sketches something, his face is contorted into a beautiful little confused pout as he tries to ascertain whether or not the perspective on this particular sketch is perfect. Your eyes trail from his hands up to his lips, the forbidden, soft lips that you dream about kissing at night. Oh, how you wish he was yours. You sigh, refocusing yourself and watching his hands. The curiosity becomes too great, and needing a distraction, you finally speak up.

“What are you drawin’?” You ask, leaning forward to try and catch a glimpse. He perks up at your voice, startled out of his deep focus. Before he responds, he runs his hand through his stubble in thought.

“Finishin’ up a sketch from a few days ago. Just this old church I found, ain’t nothin special.” Arthur responds, flipping the little book around to show you.

You recognize the church, he’s drawn a very good likeness. It’s the old, crumbling church just off the road from Shady Belle. The Lemoyne Raiders have been camping out there, and you recall Arthur stopping to inspect it when you’d rode past earlier. He’s perfectly captured the broken walls, and the way vines squeeze the old building like a cobra. You could step into the drawing, and never realize it wasn’t reality.

“Oh, Arthur, it's beautiful.” You whisper, noticing the attention to detail. Arthur has managed to capture the swaying of the grass, alongside birds taking flight off the roof of the building.

After some more inspecting of the intricate piece, you hand it back to him, smiling at the blush that colors his cheeks. He never was good at taking compliments. He continues the sketch, and you realize it's the first time you've seen him drawing in a while. Your eyebrows pull together as you try to think back to the last time you'd seen the outlaw with the book in his hands.

"I noticed you haven't been drawin' as much…?" You inquire, picking Huckleberry back up and glancing over the printed words before looking back up to him.

"Ain't easy findin' pretty things' in the swamp. Back when we was in Valentine, there was so much to draw, so many things caught my eye." Arthur whispers, never bringing his eyes away from the paper as he shades the windows with his charcoal. You toy with your lip, feeling that it's your time to finally bite the bullet and be brave. You take a deep breath, setting your book down again.

"So you draw beautiful things?" You ask, barely over a whisper. Your voice travels across the expanse of the bed like a breath on the wind.

Arthur finally looks up to you, green eyes locking onto yours as he thinks over the meaning behind your question. He leans back against the footboard, and brings his knee up to lean on.

"I- well yeah, mostly. I like to draw things how I find em, natural, beautiful and the like." Arthur responds, brushing through his beard with his hand while thinking of sketches of deer, flowers and birds, crumbled buildings and landscapes.

Arthur's heart stops when you stand up, slowly tip-toeing to the center of the room and turning to him. Your eyes are locked onto each other, nothing can be heard but quiet breaths and the patter of rain on the ceiling. Warm light caresses your face as you bring your hands up to your shirt, heart pounding.

"And… Do you think I'm beautiful…?" You ask, pulling your shirt out of your jeans so it's no longer tucked.

Arthur is frozen, shocked as his eyes glance between your own, laced with bravery and lust, and your hands which are slowly pulling your shirt out of your jeans. He swallows thickly, at a loss for words.

"Well a course- I think you're, you're very beautiful…"

Arthur's eyes are wide, his jaw open with shock, and cheeks pink as you unbutton your shirt. His face lasts only a moment before he schools himself, evening out his features to appear nonchalant.

"What are you uh…" Arthur clears his throat quietly, "What are you doin'?" Arthur asks, slipping his eyes closed and growling as your shirt hits the floor.

"Let me inspire you… in my natural state." You quote Arthur back to himself, unclasping your belt buckle and pulling the leather through the loops until the belt clunks to the floor. Your motions are slow, graceful, in the candlelight as you slowly hook your thumbs under your jeans and undergarments sliding them to the floor. Your jeans hit the floor with a thud, and as you step out of them, Arthur pulls out his journal.

Your body is beautiful. Perfect in his eyes. Round and curved, full and feminine. Your legs, your hips, your collarbones and breasts, all he can do is sink in this canvas that is your body for a few moments. His lack of inspiration is completely gone, and Arthur thinks that with an infinite amount of blank paper he could reference your body as art forever. He's never seen anything so beautiful, so enchanting. You seem to beam with a golden light, shadowing the v in between your thighs and the valley between your breasts. All he can do is stare, and all he can think about doing is taking the time to study every inch of your beauty.

"I…" Arthur stops, speechless as you pull an old ottoman from the corner of the room.

"How do you want me?" You whisper, glossy lips shining in the candlelight, and all Arthur can think about is kissing the perfect rosy petals.

"How do I- I want you?" Arthur asks, not understanding your question because he wants you in so many ways right now. You're nothing short of a goddess standing before him, an angel.

"Yeah," You chuckle, "pose me. However you think, you're the artist after all. Go on, it's okay." You encourage when Arthur is hesitant to touch you. He doesn't want to overstep a boundary, and he's terrified to touch you, to taint you with his hands that have been the cause for so many terrible things. He truly thinks that you deserve so much better than him, but he is a fool for it. Because he is all that you want.

With a nod, he comes over and helps you position yourself. He’s incredibly polite, of course he is, not wanting to touch you anywhere indecent even though you’ve just stripped in front of him. Your left leg is bent under you, and you sit under it, while your right is propped up at an angle, brought up almost to your chest. He positions your arm over the bottoms of your breasts, and your hand is placed on your shoulder. Once he steps back, checking that the position is to his liking, his fire hot touch leaves your skin.

“Good?” You ask, stretching your neck back so that your hair falls down your back, exposing your throat.

“Absolutely perfect…” Arthur whispers, sitting on the edge of the plush bed, just a few feet in front of you. He picks up his leather journal and the charcoal, turning to an empty page in the back of the book.

The sound of thunder, rain and charcoal against paper fill your head as your eyelids flutter, watching Arthur. Seeing him like this, so focused and in his element, is both heartwarming and incredibly attractive. He bites at his bottom lip, hyper focused, as he follows the slopes and planes of your body, perfectly transferring them onto the paper. He gets to your breasts, watching the goosebumps that trickle down your stomach and arms. His eyes are hot on you, studying you. You blush when he steps forward, gently brushing a stray hair away that had fallen in front of your shoulder, tucking it behind your ear so as to not obstruct the view of his model.

When he sits back down on the creaking bed, he crosses his ankle over his knee, leaning back to get another perspective before resting his journal on his calf. He resumes his sketching, and his eyes linger on you before every stroke of the charcoal. Arthur watches the charcoal trace the lines of your hips, your thighs and your breasts onto the paper, and more than anything, he wishes that it was his lips tracing your skin, instead of the charcoal. The sound of the rain is soothing, and the thunder is one and the same as the pounding of your heart when Arthur’s eyes linger on your lips, your body. Heat lightning flashes the sky through the broken window with warm tones of orange as a shiver runs down your spine, though you are far from cold.

Arthur really focuses now, leaning into his journal, glancing up and down frequently to capture the tiny details of you, some of his favorites. Like the little flyaways of hair, slightly frizzy from the heat that falls around your face, the freckles on your skin, the scars and stretch marks, the imperfections that color you. Once he’s finished, he leans back, eyeing both you and the journal before writing your name at the bottom, all capital as if a title.

“Alright, should be done.” Arthur whispers, leaning forward to hand you off his journal.

You take the heavily used book, and look at the mirror-like reflection on the pages. Arthur has captured you perfectly. You look up to his green eyes, with tears. He’s drawn you in his journal as if you are the most gorgeous of any of the sights his eyes have seen, because you are. Every detail is perfect.

“Arthur, this is incredible.” You praise, completely truthful. He is a wonderful artist, and doesn’t give himself enough credit. You stand up, and fold his journal carefully closed before sitting down on the bed beside him. Your hand meets his knee, and boldly you look up at him just hoping. You’ve been head over heels for the man for some time now, and if there was ever a time to bring it up, it's now.

“Arthur I'm gonna ask you somethin’ and I want you to be honest with me, yeah?”

Arthur is sincere, maybe worried as his eyebrows draw together and he places his hand overtop of yours.

“Of course, anythin.” Arthur says, quietly.

You look down at your bare lap, gathering courage that causes your heart to pound in your ears before glancing back up.

“I… Do you want me?” You ask, words hanging heavy in the air as you wait for a response. But much to your embarrassment, Arthur doesn’t give you one. He looks into your eyes, glancing around with his jaw open slightly. He opens and closes it a few times, as if he can’t find the words he's searching for. After a few moments, you hang your head, blushing and feeling like a goddamn fool, because you’ve overstepped and he doesn’t want you.

“Oh, I see. I’m so sorry, Arthur, I’ve misstepped terribly.” You mumble, shame and embarrassment starting to drag you down. You can’t bear to look at him as you stand up to grab your clothes and leave.

As you do, his hand grabs onto your own.

“Darlin’ wait-” Arthur pleads, and his eyes are overflowing with emotion as he sits back down onto the bed, holding your hands in his. For a moment, you feel hopeful, maybe you were wrong, and your best friend who you are desperately in love with, wants you back.

“I aint so good with my words sometimes. Always been better at writin’ my feelins rather than sayin’ em out loud.” Arthur says, eyes locked onto your conjoined hands before trailing up your torso to those beautiful eyes.

“I want you. God- more than anything, I want you, sweetheart,” he pauses, brushing another stray hair behind your ear, “But I want you to understand that this isn’t about just layin’ together.” He continues, and tears well up in your eyes at his words because your feelings are being reciprocated and he's all you’ve ever wanted.

“You see I want what's tucked away in here,” Arthur whispers, pointing to the left side of your chest, right over your heart, “and I love what’s in here.” Arthur smiles, tapping your temple.

“Do I want you? Yeah, I do, sweetheart. But I want all a’ you. Your heart, your mind, your body… God- I've been sweet on you longer than I care to admit.” Arthur squeezes your hand before running his thumb under your jaw, and pulling your chin up so he can look into your teary eyes, “and well, when you asked me to draw you just now, sayin’ yes was easier than breathin’ because darlin’ you are the art. I just had to transfer that beauty onto paper.”

You lean in, pressing your forehead against his own. His big, warm hand cups your jaw, and you feel as if you could melt into his touch. You want nothing more than to be enveloped by him, to have him in every way possible, because you want him too. His beautiful, creative mind, his soft heart with so many walls around it, and you've crumbled them all to nothing more than shattered ramparts. You’ve broken him, and rebuilt him back into the man he is now, changed him forever with your heart.

He pulls you closer until your lips meet his own. It's shy at first, two strangers meeting in a coy peck. But the familiarity comes soon, because this is Arthur, and you find yourself clinging to him, like if you let go he may disappear, or bottle back up and you can’t lose him now. You open your mouth for him, letting him in to intertwine his tongue with your own as the kiss grows more passionate. He tastes like whiskey and tobacco and Arthur, and it's too much as tears silently fall down your cheeks. Arthur pulls away for a moment, smiling softly as his thumb brushes away your tears.

“It’s rainin, we have all day…” You smile as his eyes run over your face.

“That we do,” Arthur whispers, kissing your temple before pulling away again, “Y’know… I've had gold and silver, horses, and books worth more than this estate, but darlin’ I ain’t never had anything in my hands that was as beautiful, or as priceless, as you.” He says before leaning into your neck, kissing your pulsepoint and your collarbone. His hands toy with your breasts, running over the soft skin until your nipples harden and you lean into him.

“Oh, Arthur,” You whimper, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him into you further.

“You’re perfect.” Arthur nibbles at the flesh of your earlobe before whispering against your skin, “My blank canvas.”

Your hands come to either side of his face, pulling his gaze up to your eyes.

“Then make me art, Arthur… mark me, have me, please I need you.” you whimper, pulling him down to your lips again, and savoring the feeling that you’ve been aching for for so long. As soon as the kiss breaks, he caresses your cheek. Again, the only sound is the rain and the thunder. His lips are swollen from where yours have left kisses, and you decide it's your favorite sight.

“Sweetheart, I already told you. You are art, but markin’ you? Havin’ you? Now that I can do just fine.” Arthur whispers against your flush skin, illuminated as lightning flashes in the distance.

Everything makes sense, everything falls into place, when his lips crash against yours again. They are no longer shy, but needy and loving, lustful and wanting. Your hands reach to the buttons of his shirt as he lays you down on the bed, making sure the pillow under your head is comfortable before moving his lips to your neck. Once you’ve undone the buttons, he leans away to pull it off of his arms, throwing it to the side. It lands on the bedside table, knocking over a container of ink that spills onto the floor. You gasp, leaning up to inspect the damage, as Arthur anchors you, pushing you back down to the bed with his kisses.

“It’s okay, it's alright, we’ll clean it up later sweetheart.” Arthur shushes, and you melt back into your state of euphoria with him between your legs. His lips caress your own as his hand swirls your nipple, toying with the hardened peak before it trails down to your hip.

“I'm gonna touch you, okay?” Arthur whispers against your lips as another quiet rumble of thunder sounds out. You nod, spreading your legs for Arthur as he adjusts himself on top of you, leaning his weight on his forearm.

“Please Arthur-” You beg as he trails his fingers down your knee to your inner thigh before running his fingers along your folds. He stops, and groans lightly, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Shit- you’re so wet. I'm sorry, darlin’ it's been awhile since I-” Arthur starts, but you lean up, pressing a kiss against his lips before whispering to him.

“It’s okay… been awhile for me too.”

He nods against your forehead, kissing it before continuing. You spread your legs even more for him, and he sinks two fingers into your pulsing heat. Immediately, your grip on him tightens, and you whimper, eyes squinted shut as he slowly works you open.

“Shh…shh… that’s my girl.” Arthur coos, stretching you with his fingers as you cling to him, gasping for breath at the way he touches you like you’re his canvas, his masterpiece, and the more he caresses, kisses and touches, the more beautiful you become underneath him. He didn’t think it was possible for your appearance to become any more entrancing, but as you moan, arching your back so that your breasts find release against his chest, he finds that he was wrong.

He curls his fingers inside you rhythmically, pressing down right in the perfect spot before gently stroking your clit with his thumb. It's a delirious combination, and the only thing anchoring you from ascending to the heavens, is him.

“That’s it, darlin’. Let it go, let me watch you unfold.” Arthur whispers, keeping a steady pace with his hands while kissing your stomach, up to your breasts. He begins to lick at your breast, swirling his tongue over your stiff nipple and kissing your skin every chance he gets. It proves to be your undoing, and just as the rain pounds on the roof even harder, and thunder sounds out, you find your release. Your nails dig into Arthur’s back as you reach your climax, the building coming in waves that have you gasping for breath and moaning.

“Arthur-” leaves your lips in a mantra as you clamp down on his fingers, the waves of your orgasm washing over you and drowning you in the most indescribable, emotional show of affection. You see stars, flashes of bright white as you gasp and shake, hanging onto the man who you love.

“Good girl,” Arthur whispers, kissing your forehead a few times as you come down from your high.

“Real good, darlin.” Arthur coos, sinking his fingers into you until he has completely drawn out your release. Once your back stops arching, and hits the bed again, you pull his face down to yours once more. His hand cups your neck, and you feel your juices on his fingers as he runs his hand from your neck to your jaw, holding it while he kisses you again. His forehead meets yours as you whine.

“I need- Arthur, I need to feel you, please.” You cry, hands running down the muscles of his chest, down the trail of sandy blonde hair that runs down below his jeans. You pop the button open, biting your lip as you press the palm of your hand against the pressure there. Arthur releases a deep groan, thrusting involuntarily against your hand.

He leans down, kissing your nose with a smile before standing up and shedding his jeans to the ground. He steps out of them, and you prop yourself up on your elbow to admire him.

Arthur is big. A bit longer than average, but he is girthy and thick. You scan over his rosy head, and the vein that bulges from the underside of his shaft. And as you follow up the trail of hair, to Arthur’s chest and face, he sees the worry. It’s been a long time, and truthfully you’re not very experienced with this. You don’t know if you can take him, but god, you want to.

“Arthur I… you’re beautiful.” You whisper, watching the flex of his muscles in the candlelight, the soft, light hair that falls into his face as he chuckles, looking down to hide his smile.

“Beautiful? Really?” Arthur asks, sarcastically.

“Yes, Arthur, beautiful.”

He shakes his head, not agreeing with you really, as he comes back down to the bed. He rests himself between your legs again, kissing your thigh, then your hip… and so on until he reaches those plump, bruised lips.

“You ready? You still want this sweetheart?” Arthur asks, massaging the tender skin of your thigh as you breath out shakily. You nod, but he senses the trepidation and doesn’t want to make you uncomfortable.

“What is it?” He asks, pulling away from your lips to look into your eyes. He sees you smile, blushing before wrapping your legs around his waist.

“Be gentle, please. You’re- well you’re big Arthur and I really want this…” You whisper, chuckling at yourself for a second.

“I’ll be gentle, okay? N if it hurts, you tell me. Right away.” Arthur says, almost darkly. He does not want you putting up with any pain for his sake. You nod, before leaning into his chest and wrapping your hands around his neck. Your legs, around his waist, spread a bit more and you feel his head against your entrance. Slowly, Arthur thrusts into you, and everything you were worried about shatters to the ground. God- he feels so good. And before he's fully in, you feel so full, and so stretched. You’ll never get enough of this, you realize. It’s perfect, like two puzzle pieces fitting together as he enters to the hilt and you moan as he bumps your sensitive spot.

“You okay?” Arthur asks, stopping his hips completely, and you dig your heel into his ass, begging him to do anything but stop.

“Move, Arthur, please. Oh, you feel so good.” You whimper, your hips rising to meet Arthur’s as he thrusts into you. Your moans mix with Arthur’s groans and the thunder, and it’s all washed away by the rain. Not a peep can be heard from outside, but inside the room there is so much raw emotion, lust and love, that even the air feels like it's intruding on you two.

“Shit, sweetheart.” Arthur growls, thrusting into you with more rhythm now that he knows you’re okay. The stretch is the perfect mixture of pleasure and pain that has you inching towards a climax. He kisses your lips, and you lean up to meet him halfway. The kiss is hot and passionate, with gasps for air in between and moans as you two commit the rawest act of love known to man. He rocks against you, swaying you with his hips. The pleasure combined with the emotion of him finally against you is overwhelming. You’ll never be closer, more whole than you are like this. He’s with you. The tightness in your stomach pulls, stretching and coiling all the like until it snaps. Once again, Arthur is your anchor, rocking you, and steadying you as you completely come undone beneath him. You constrict around him, muscles tightening and contracting as an intense wave of pleasure washes over you. Your moans are loud, breathy as you release the tension he’s created within you. It’s too much for Arthur, and as you squeeze around him, he thrusts into you a few times, hard and deep before he cums inside you, filling you completely with his seed.

“You did so well, darlin. You’re so beautiful…” Arthur whispers, kissing your forehead before placing a long, slow kiss on your lips. He stays there for a moment, letting you catch your breath before sliding out of you. He lands on the bed beside you, and you curl up against his chest.

“Arthur?” You ask, placing your hand on his chest and cuddling further into him. He takes a sheet from the bottom of the bed, pulling it over you until you’re decent.

“What is it sweetheart?” Arthur asks, brows furrowed as he runs his hand along your arm and watches the rise and fall of your body against his.

“Did you mean it? Everything you said before…” You ask, propping your chin up to look into his eyes. He runs his hand up and down your back, soothing you while smiling.

“Course I did.” Arthur whispers, leaning down to press another kiss to your forehead.

“I… I love you, y’know.” You whisper back, leaning your head against his chest, too nervous to look into his eyes. Arthur only chuckles, pulling your head closer to his chest with his hand.

“I know, and I love ya too.”

The rest of the rainy day is spent in various forms of affection. You and Arthur lay together all day, whether sleeping or not, reading and drawing or just holding each other. Everything seems right now. Like for the first time in your life you’ve found your purpose, your person. He is your other half, your strength, your ecstasy, and he loves you too, your little aesthete.

#arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan fanfiction #arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan x y/n #arthur morgan x you

410 notes · View notes