#i wanna cling to him like bacteria | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

gwoongi · 6 years ago

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𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖺 ♥︎ jeongguk (ft jimin)

𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖺 jeon jeongguk / reader (ft jimin) genre: pornstar au, smut rating: explicit words: 7391

This position is particularly ambiguous; your face is almost gone, only slightly in frame, with the lens zoomed further in to your ass and Jeongguk’s thighs, his ass there but moving as he leans for the lube across the bed. If he wanted, Jimin could pretend the figure beneath Jeongguk was a boy- could be him, if he wanted. He does not want.

a/n: literally nobody asked for this. yes, the namjoon sequel is coming soon, so don’t worry about that :-) it’s time for baby boy jimin to have some fun <3 also this exposes my desire to eat koos ass. its pretty i just wanna nom nom :3

warnings: graphic sexual content, porn themes, fingering, anal fingering, anal sex, rim jobs, sex toys, dirty talk, bisexual jimin, ass eating, really slight blasphemy, overstimulation, anal virginity, daddy kink, mommy kink, koo and y/n are freaky okay, probably an unrealistic interpretation of pornhub livestreams, whore-shaming (?), cock slut shaming (?)

Jimin was bored. With most of the fraternity out for a party that Jimin was sadly not invited to (not that he exactly cares for parties held by Jackson, because let’s be honest, he doesn’t really like the guy), Jimin sat at home on his bed with the telly flicking with a show he cared little about, the pictures talking silently.

“Please tell me you’re going to be home,” Jimin had begged, clinging uselessly to the oversized sleeve of Kim Namjoon, who reluctantly pulled away from his fisted hands and grabbed his coat from behind the door. Sorry, little man, I’ve gotta get out of the house more. “But I’m going to be all alone. I’m the only one who wasn’t invited to that shitty party.” I’ll come home early for you, if you’d like. “I would not like. Just go, get out of my face.”

Namjoon didn’t know what else to say other than sorry, patronisingly running his fingers through Jimin’s hair. Unlike Namjoon, who had already spent two god-awful years at University, Jimin was a newbie, a first year, dipping his toes into waters to figure out which one he liked best. Namjoon shrugged his coat on halfway, tossing Jimin the phone charger he asked for moments prior. Try to entertain yourself, he had said. Watch porn. Hey, I just recently found a new porn duo to watch!

That’s how Jimin found out about koopid, the porn couple that his Big, Namjoon, had been locked in his room jerking off to. With rooms joined by one thin wall, Jimin was unsurprisingly familiar with the channel, never invested enough in doing his own research, mildly sexually frustrated by Namjoon’s rutting mixed with the unnecessarily loud volume of his laptop. If he can help it, Jimin doesn’t usually watch straight porn. He never denies it, but he’s an experimenting bisexual- pretty sure he likes both, and his history of girlfriends and boyfriends throughout high school prove it, but he’s not quite sure where he stands yet, or where he’s comfortable standing. He sits in his bedroom, alone in the fraternity miles away from Jackson’s venue, his laptop blinking on Google waiting for a command to be punched in.

On telly, a re-run episode of Friends comes to an end and Jimin watches with mild boredom as it switches to an advert, advertising a new bleach that is guaranteed to remove 98% of bacteria from inside your toilet. He turns off the telly, sighing and looking over at his laptop, the Google tormenting him with a grin: I know you want to. I know you’re tempted.

Jimin sighs to himself, dragging the laptop over to his thighs and almost guiltily typing the phrase koopid into the search engine. He’s half expecting nothing to really show up, because Namjoon has creative porn taste and they’re probably not that popular. However he is embarrassingly wrong; the search floods with links to lewd videos, the official koopid channel being the top search. On Google Images, he quickly presses and sees the slightly grainy faces of the couple, a picture from Instagram that he sees as quite romantic. The boy holds the girl with his chin pressed into her neck, a smile on his face and the camera not exactly centred. Jimin’s instinct is to coo, and saw “aww”. He’s not expecting much from koopid when he clicks on their channel. It’s just another straight couple having sex, it’s nothing he hasn’t already seen.

His eyes widen slightly as he takes in the fifteen videos, spotting the red button indicating that the channel is currently live. He’s tempted to click in, sit back, see what they have to offer. The livestream title reads “10k thumbs up and i’ll let y/n eat my ass”.

It’s so very tempting, but Jimin pauses with his cursor hovering over a video titled, “first time doing anal with y/n”. The thumbnail is an inviting image of quite possibly one of the nicest dicks Jimin has ever seen in straight porn, the tip red and exaggerated and in preview, the thumbnail moves for a few seconds, showing a small asshole stretch to accommodate the dick, the whole length disappearing. He’s conflicted, half off the bed with intentions to run and get his box. The box, with dildos of every shape and size. When the thumbnail clip loops, Jimin misses it, already on his feet and crouching to get the box from underneath his dresser.

When he gets back to his bed, Jimin notices that his hands are trembling. In the drawer next to his bed is his lube, a strawberry flavour that he’s never indulged with before. Today he will, and he grabs that alongside a dildo that looks uncanny in resemblance to koopid, save the colour being a solid bright purple. He shakily moves it beneath him as he slips out of his jeans, pressing and tightening with discomfort as he looks back at the screen. He wants to feel guilty about this, but there’s nothing to feel guilty about. And, nobody’s home to hear him or see him, and for good measure, his bedroom door is locked.

Once he clicks on the video, there is no turning back. His body trembles as the video begins to play and he’s greeted with the view of a girl on all fours, her head tossed over her shoulder to stare at the camera. She’s pretty, really pretty, already naked for the audience. Jimin stares wordlessly, because what is he supposed to say? On each asscheek, Jimin notices that the boyfriend is particularly ruthless, faded palms still lingering upon the skin that strangely resembles silk, or marble, or soap. He quietly hears the boyfriend mutter a polite introduction, introducing the pair of you to new watchers like Jimin. He hears a Jeongguk and a Y/N, and it’s evident who is who.

Jeongguk shuffles into frame, pressing his hands to each cheek and palming softly. You respond by letting your head fall slightly, rolling the kinks out as Jeongguk sinks deeper on to the bed, until his face is in view. Jeongguk’s smart, and he knows what people like. They like seeing him, all of him and his face and yours, in various positions and conditions. Unlike the porn videos Jimin sees of overly acted situations, where the girl gets caught out after curfew and is punished over a desk, hands bound with the leather of the guy’s belt, Jimin is slightly taken aback at how fast Jeongguk jumps into things- his own cock is out, bulging and huge as expected, and he doesn’t let the audience know what he’s doing. Everybody knows; they can read the title, they can hover the mouse over the timeline and see the frames.

The hand rested upon your right asscheek begins to move in circles, stroking it affectionately as the other hand belonging to Jeongguk slides down the length of your leg. You shudder when his fingers feather across your thigh, twisting inwards to cloyingly play in the warmth. Jeongguk pulls your legs further apart, your cheeks slightly widening with the view of your hole being all Jimin can currently focus on. To the side, Jeongguk grins and chuckles quietly, hot air breathing out of his nose. He likes what he sees, because he’s never been up close and personal with it before. Anal was the promised land that he had not been granted entry to, until today, or rather this morning, when he had rolled over in bed and slipped an arm around your waist, kissing your hair and said, “hey, good morning, wanna do anal later on camera?”

Jimin watches in an expressive silence, timidly stroking his dick as Jeongguk claps his hand against your ass, the sound loud and sharp. A loud moan leaves your lips and Jeongguk pulls apart your cunt from behind, the lips barely visible from the angle but still there, definitely. He idly curls a finger around the wetness, lubricating his fingers. From where he is kneeling, he side-glances at the camera and smirks, holding the inside of your thigh with his left hand and curling his right up, all the way until his one soaked finger tauntingly circles your hole, as if daring to enter, and then slips inside.

The feeling is new, foreign, and you hadn’t anticipated the tight feeling of his finger curling inwards, exploring. Jeongguk lets out a noise of interest at how you shudder, writhing gently and without really noticing, pushing back onto his finger until it entered all the way to the knuckle. Jimin thumbs the head of his dick, silent; Jeongguk marvels at the way you fuck yourself onto one finger, his mouth in an open smile that left his mouth dry. He swallows thickly, impressed.

“Wow, baby girl,” he comments, finally, and Jimin can now hear his voice, “look at how you’re fucking yourself onto my finger. You’re a needy girl tonight, aren’t you?”

You whimper in reply, maybe even say something that Jimin can’t hear.

“Let’s add another one,” Jeongguk suggests sweetly. “You take one like a champion, let’s see if you’re wide enough for two.”

He adds a second, his middle, twisting both fingers in right up to the knuckle. From where the camera stands on a tripod, it gives way to a gorgeous view of your hole, clenching tightly around the digits. Jeongguk laughs warmly, satisfied with the results. It’s close enough for Jimin to hear sounds, the slick and almost sticky sounds of wetness from Jeongguk’s fingers, coated in the thick layer of arousal and lube he had tossed somewhere, an extra coat for ease for the camera. Every so often, Jimin would spot Jeongguk looking at the camera, at the viewfinder to see if you were still in shot. You carried yourself on your arms, your ass and hips raised upwards with your back in what looked like an uncomfortable slope, a position Jimin sympathised being in once or twice.

“Mm, perfect,” Jeongguk says slowly, dragging it out like he did his fingers. They are almost free, until he pushes them back in, practically glowing with pride when you groan out, pushing back onto his knuckles. His fingers sink deeper inside of you, tickling inner walls and finally scissoring, stretching you open in anticipation for a third finger Jeongguk had waiting. You’re tight, tighter than Jeongguk had ever seen you since the first time you had sex together two years ago, that virgin hole Jeongguk had the honour of ripping apart. “You look so perfect, baby. Can you manage a third?”

You nod with effort, “Yes, Daddy.”

“You don’t have to call me Daddy tonight,” Jeongguk offers. He wants this one to be personal, in respect of firsts being mutually taken. You whimper in reply, not in the mood to reply with words. Jeongguk continues a pace with his fingers before adding in a third, letting out a hiss of air at the tightness closing in around his fingers.

“Shit, you’re so tight.” Jeongguk groans to himself between his teeth, ramming his fingers in and out to get a feel for every single space inside of you, “Nobody’s ever fucked your ass like this, have they, baby?”

“No,” you breathe out, trying to look back at him over your shoulder. “Just you, Guk.”

He makes a noise of content, pressing a kiss to your ass and then slapping it with his free hand. You jolt, sinking up and down off his fingers. “That’s right. Only I get to fuck you like this. Fuck- you’re so tight, imagine what it’s gonna feel like with my cock in there.”

“Puh-please, Guk,” you rasp, slumping slightly against this sheets. This time, they’re pale pink, like the colour of unripe strawberries, the stinging colour of your asshole once Jeongguk pulls his fingers out. “Please fuck me already. Please.”

Jeongguk, like always, pretends to think about it. He addresses the audience, finally, by looking back at the camera with furrowed brows, as if genuinely conflicted on if to give in and fuck you. Jimin’s hand is still moving around his dick slowly, his own ass rising off the comforter.

“Alright,” he replies, almost indifferently. He even throws in the shrug of his shoulders, his body oozing with charisma that makes Jimin bite down on his lips to contain a whimper. The intimidation always scares people into desire. “Toss the lube, and move so everyone can see your ass.”

Jimin wriggles uncomfortably, not being able to relieve anything by simply touching himself. Instead, he gapes at the screen, thankful the webcam is covered so his assigned FBI agent can’t laugh at him for being so obviously sexually frustrated, rutting into his own hand as you shuffle across the bed on all fours, still slightly tight around the air as you drop with a slight huff, assigned to the side. This position is particularly ambiguous; your face is almost gone, only slightly in frame, with the lens zoomed further in to your ass and Jeongguk’s thighs, his ass there but moving as he leans for the lube across the bed. If he wanted, Jimin could pretend the figure beneath Jeongguk was a boy- could be him, if he wanted.

He does not want. But, he still imagines, even with you there and patiently waiting for Jeongguk to hurry rubbing the lube across his dick, up and down. Jimin can’t help but gape at the size in Jeongguk’s hand, which is already large and veiny, but he concludes that the bigger hand makes Jeongguk’s cock look bigger, scarier, more erect. It’s so big that when Jeongguk lets go, it stands to a salute up to his stomach, the tip nearing his belly button. Jimin groans, reaching behind him for his own lube and the dildo that he almost forgot about.

It’s as if Jeongguk is giving Jimin time to prepare; instead of being ruthless and shoving his dick inside the tightness, Jeongguk pulls apart your cheeks with fingers and licks around your hole, collecting up the juice he left there from his fingers, a mixture between the cherry and the sweet taste of your pussy, the juices clinging to be tasted. He groans into you, taking kitten licks around the rim and taking extreme pleasure in the way you moan against him, your ass square in Jeongguk’s face.

Jimin hurriedly coats the dildo in lube, almost excessively, licking up the remains off his smaller fingers. He stares at Jeongguk’s hands in longing and his teeth gnaw on his lips as you moan relentlessly, tight and girly breaths of pleasure that Jimin never thought he’d like hearing. Jeongguk’s own cock twitches against his stomach, the length staring at Jimin and being the only thing Jimin can keep his eyes on.

He fiddles with the dildo, feeling his face warm with a crimson heat. On the other side, Jeongguk pulls away from your ass and kisses your right cheek again, muttering something in a low voice that the camera barely picks up. I love you, he says, between quiet pursed lips. Jimin wants to cry.

Jeongguk moves your hips, deciding on where he’s going to have you. Eventually he decides to have you at an angle where the camera captures your hole perfectly, clenching around nothing, surely with enough frame space to capture his cock moving in and out. It can’t be that different from doggy, from one of your first videos on the channel where he took you from behind with a fistful of hair. You were blonde back then. Jeongguk and Jimin both prefer the dark colour you have presently, and the way it makes your face look brighter, adding an element of sensuality that Jimin wasn’t sure was possible for a head of hair.

“You took my fingers so well, baby,” Jeongguk tells you, prodding your ass with his hands as if preparing himself for the penetration, “but let’s see how well you take my cock.”

As always, Jeongguk wastes no time. It was like he suddenly feared that the lube around his cock would dry, for he prods your entrance with the tip, hissing softly as he pushes it in. He begins slow, as if stomping his foot on ice to see if it would hold, and then, once the tip is in, Jeongguk grunts and rolls his shoulders, the bottom of his back clenching with muscles on display until he finally sank his whole length inside you. He groans, his hands gripping your waist line with vigour and he slowly began to move his hips, moving in slow waves in and out. His movements were experimental yet professional, still candid enough for Jimin to almost believe this tape was amateur. Grabbing the dildo situated under his hips with one hand, Jimin, without looking away from the screen, aligns it with his ass and slowly sinks down on it, his head immediately rocking back at the feeling.

Jeongguk becomes more familiar with the feeling and the movements, understanding that an asshole really was no different to a pussy, except the feeling inside and the placement. To him, and to porn, it was just another hole to shove his cock into. He moves quicker, finding the strength inside of him to clench your hip-bones and pull them down onto his cock, the rhythm so consistent that after a few short seconds, the clapping arises.

Jimin watches from his bed, his reflection slightly visible in the screen, the pathetic view of him bouncing up and down on the horrendous purple dildo. He stares long and hard at Jeongguk’s fat cock, his mouth practically watering at the way it fits perfectly in your hole, each thrust coming out with a wet and slick look, the vein bulging. Jimin wants to finger his mouth, like a whore, but he resists, instead shyly reaching down and grabbing his cock as Jeongguk maintains a pace.

“You’re taking my cock so well, princess,” Jeongguk grunts. Usually, he can keep his composure, keeping up the act of the boyfriend who likes to fill the boots as the boss. Tonight, however, he’s sloppy, slacking on duty. He’s a boss neglecting his reputation and duties, his head filled with sawdust as he focuses on your ass, and the tightness of it around his dick. For a while, it feels almost hard to move, the need to stand still and let it become familiar overwhelming but at the same time dangerous. He wouldn’t want to upset the ratings. Literally, he can’t afford it.

The stretch burns, your eyes rolling back with powerful pleasure and your body feeling as though it was a clump of jelly, wobbling and sliding around on a plate, each tip sending you closer to the edge. You moan with almost every thrust, the way everybody likes it, and from underneath your armpit, you spot Jeongguk’s thighs, the occasional glimpse of his balls slapping against the backside of your pussy.

“Yeah? Tell m-me,” you gasp out, crooning to him. “Tell me how good I feel around your big dick.”

Jimin hadn’t been expecting a sudden role reversal, and by the sounds of it, neither had Jeongguk. Without having any prior experience fucking with koopid, Jimin reckons this may be the first time on record that Jeongguk has been dominantly submissive. What he lacks in vocals he clearly makes up for with physical ability, your words sending him into a rutting fit of fast pace, his dick hitting sensitive spots inside of you. Jimin whimpers to nobody, to Jeongguk, to you, as the dildo brushes his prostate, rubbing against his insides. It’s big, and Jimin closes his eyes to pretend it’s Jeongguk.

He’s so caught up in the fantasy that he can physically imagine the feeling of Jeongguk’s large thighs on either side of his body, his hands that are big and veined holding his tiny body like he was a prized China doll. He wants it so bad, he pictures it perfectly. The thought sends a ripple of tingles throughout his body, a rush of erotica to his cock and it throbs, it hurts and it twitches, erect, touching his stomach. Jimin fingers around his slit, other fingers lost in the short wisps of hair, meanwhile the other hand holds the dildo in place so it doesn’t slip out.

“Mm, baby, you feel so good around me, you’re so good,” Jeongguk praises, his voice unusually breathy and lost, as if he’s struggling. Perhaps he is; it makes Jimin cry out with pleasure as the dildo hits the spot, Jeongguk’s dick inside of him hitting his good spots, making little Jimin horny. “Shit. Your tight little hole is making Daddy feel so good.”

So he’s bringing Daddy back, Jimin thinks. He feels guilty suddenly at the lack of attention he’s giving you, and you’re delivering a spectacular performance, the moans high enough to sound like his own, when he likes them to be. He focuses on that, pretends everything about you is him. For a moment, Jimin eyes the shape of your tits hanging underneath you. He makes a promise to himself that next time, he’ll watch one where you’re the star. You’re too gorgeous for him to ignore you, to shrug you off as if you don’t matter. Without your ass, he wouldn’t be feeling this good.

“Yeah?” you pry. “Do you like fucking my ass?”

“Mm, I love it,” Jeongguk agrees. He lets one hand go off your hips and snakes it underneath, where no doubt, he’s playing with your cunt, threading his fingers through the wetness as if it’s the same casualness as flicking through the newspaper. You barely bat an eyelid, grinding further onto him. “I love the way you make me feel. Always so good for Daddy. Hm? Huh, look at you.” He thrusts sharply up, and you cry out with surprise. “Look at how your ass takes my cock. You’re such a little cockslut, so desperate for my dick.”

“Yuh-yes. You’re right.”

“I know I’m right,” Jeongguk replies cockily, regaining his own slipping dignity. Jimin doesn’t care if he plays the role of dominant Daddy, or submissive slut. He just cares about the fake cock up his ass and the computer screen.

Underneath Jeongguk, you whimper out a moan, that leaves pitifully like a whisper, practically unheard. You want to scream, tell everybody and the neighbours about how good it feels, how full you feel with Jeongguk’s dick inside your ass, going so far inside that the air is knocked out of you. Rendering you speechless, almost. In fact, you’re so cock drunk that you have nothing of use to say, nothing erotic to mutter to your boyfriend as he relentlessly pounds into you, feeling his own energy bite back. He slaps your cunt once when he notices you’re being quiet, silent, and that’s not good for ratings. Or for him- Jeongguk likes to hear you, he likes to hear whatever nonsense is coming out of your mouth as he fucks your brains out, to the point where you can’t even make sounds, let alone sentences.

Jeongguk knows your body as well as he knows his own, spotting the signs of an approaching orgasm. He had every intention to deny it, finding a tremor of satisfaction at the thought of seeing you crying, begging violently to cum, please, Jeongguk let me cum. He can hear it if he focuses. But it’s the first time he’s ever been a big boy and put his dick somewhere else besides your cunt and your mouth. It’s special. He wants it to be.

He moves, his dick moving with him inside of you, brushing against sensitive spots that are still unexplored, like levels waiting to be unlocked in a video game. As Jeongguk shivers and readjusts, Jimin lets out his first physical sob, not noticing he’s milking his second orgasm of the night. When was the first? He thinks it was when you took control, those dirty words coming out of your mouth. Like an angel taking sins from the Devil, like a nun hiking her dress above her hips to flash her cunt to the Father. Erotic. Sinful.

“Are you close, princess?” Jeongguk asks sweetly, his voice not loud but also not too quiet, a soft volume that the camera picks up well enough.

“C-can’t hold it much longer, baby,” you admit to him, trying to see him over your shoulder. The sex is heavy, holding you down in restraint. “Can I cum again?”

“Again?” Jeongguk laughs, genuinely. Jimin practically spits out a moan. The audience like it when Jeongguk and yourself break out of character. It reminds them of who you are, reminds them that you’re in love. You’re listed in the Verified Couples category, so the audience have got to be looking for the love somewhere. “Ah, greedy girl.”

“I am, I’m so greedy, so selfish,” you splutter. “Daddy makes me feel so good. I wanna cum again, just for you. Juh-just for Daddy.”

Jeongguk makes an elevated noise, as if he’s just been told something he didn’t know, like he’s been secretly given knowledge nobody has, Chinese whispers.

“You’ve been so, so good for me,” Jeongguk says, “so patient. Your ass is fucking perfect, baby. Just wanna fuck it all damn day.”

Gladly, you moan to that. Jimin feels his cock throbbing in his hand, the tip so sensitive that if he were to brush it with his hand, he might cry. It’s red, and abused, but ready for more, he can feel it. His balls are swelling- he wants to be fucked so badly. He wants to feel a dick inside of him, be filled up with cock, have a warmth around his like Jeongguk has. Nothing about koopid makes him feel different sexually other than the fact that Jimin has never been so entertained with straight porn in his entire life. He wants to thank Namjoon, but thinking about Namjoon is too dangerous right now. Jimin might spend too long thinking about him, and that would do him no good. Somewhere along the way, the dildo changed from Jeongguk’s cock to Namjoon’s, but only for a split second, until Jimin forced the thought away.

“Cum inside me?” you ask sweetly, finally finding the strength to pick your head up and glance at Jeongguk over your shoulder. He nods, a smile on his face and you match it, only briefly and the camera doesn’t capture it anyway. You lean back down, gathering every last breath of energy by pushing your ass up higher for Jeongguk. He hums appreciatively, spanking you as thanks.

“Every time I spank you from now on, I want you to thank me,” Jeongguk explains, preparing for the build up to the end, “I want you to say, thank you Daddy. Can you do that for me, angel?”

“Yes,” you reply with a newfound determination, that drips from your voice confidently. Jimin wriggles his hole around the dildo. His ass is so sore, overfucked, but he can’t get off.

Jeongguk stops moving around you, steadying you around his cock and then, without warning you, bringing his hand sharply to your ass. It’s the left cheek, the one with the fading prints and bite marks. It’s going to be the cheek that hurts the most, but Jeongguk likes that it hurts. He counts in his head: one.

“T-thank you Daddy,” you squeal after the first clap. It only comes as a surprise because it was one.

Jimin snakes a hand up his body, fingering around his nipple. “Thank you Daddy,” he whispers.

Two.

“Feels so guh-good, Daddy. Thank you.”

Jimin bounces heavier. “Mm. Daddy- feels-”

Three. You cry out. It hurts now, the sting worse because of the way he’s done this recently, spanked your ass until it was red and sore, until you couldn’t sit down.

“Mhmpf! T-thank...thank you, Daddy.”

Jeongguk makes the hum, his signature hum that collects comments. It sends a wave of excitement through Jimin, the sound clear in his ears. He wishes he had his earphones in, so he could hear it closer, pretend Jeongguk was whispering it in his ear. His shy hand toying with his nipple moves to his throat, and it clenches for a few seconds, the choked out string of Daddy crossed with timid Jeongguk’s leaving his lips like leaves blowing in the wind. Then his hand moves up, and he shoves his fingers into his mouth. He can take a couple, his reflex isn’t bad.

Jimin thinks he passes out for a few seconds, because when he opens his eyes, his vision is blurry and he chokes around his fingers, staring at the screen with wide eyes in time for the grand finale. Jeongguk is muttering something that Jimin can’t make out, but he isn’t sure if it’s because of the weird feeling in his body. It’s like he’s underwater. He’s so overfucked that he feels faint, but he’s not giving up on koopid, not now.

Jeongguk groans loudly (again), and thrusts himself inwards for the final blow, and the way his body stutters violently and his thighs tremble, Jimin suspects he’s finished. It’s confirmed when Jeongguk, after a moment of catching his breath, pulls his dick out of your ass.

The sound is splendid, the squelch matching Jimin’s as he lifts himself up off the dildo, saving his asshole in preparation for tomorrow morning’s soreness. Your asshole clenches around the absence, still not fully aware of Jeongguk pulling out, but he falls down to his knees, using both hands to part your cheeks like he would hair if you were being sick, revealing the way his cum rolls out of you again, out and around your thighs. A trail even creeps down, all the way to where Jeongguk suspects your pussy is, pulsing with pleasure. He knows you’ve come multiple times, he can tell by the way you’re slouched, your hips still rutting as if trying to fuck the air, fuck the ghost he’s convinced stalks the apartment.

Jimin quickly presses the back button.

He doesn’t know what has come over him, but he needs to see you both, doing real things, to confirm that what just happened was real. Jimin heads straight for the live feed, wondering if you’ve already hit that 10k. When the tab loads and the screen fills with the sight of your tits in front of the screen, Jimin ignores and looks at the likes. 9,992. It’s so close.

Jeongguk sits underneath you, his chest against your back and his hands somewhere in front of you, curling to cup your sex as you rub against his palm. It’s like feeding a pony, as you jut your cunt on his hand like it’s your life mission to do so. You’re talking, and it’s the first time Jimin acknowledges the fact that koopid is a channel of real people, a real couple, who do and say human things.

“Ah, only five more likes,” you say, tossing your hair to the side and lifting, revealing Jeongguk’s coy expression over your shoulder. He’s biting against your neck, and Jimin can see his tongue running flat against the skin. He hums, as expected, in acknowledgement, his hand moving against your pussy. He dares slide a finger in, to tease, and you hiss with a grin. The likes are on 9,999. Jimin realises he wants absolutely nothing more than to see Jeongguk getting his ass ate on live camera by his girlfriend.

So he clicks like.

A little heart floats up on the screen, like on an Instagram live. When you notice it rising up like a stray balloon, you grin wildly, laughing as Jeongguk thrusts fingers into your pussy, not looking at the screen, sucking solar systems into your neck. Jimin’s username flashes on a banner at the bottom of the screen: 10,000th like from angelchim.

“Woah. angelchim, thank you so much!” you giggle, grinding your ass onto Jeongguk and finally your boyfriend looks up. He squints briefly at the screen, playing like he can’t read the banner, but he can. He sees the likes increasing as more people come in. Someone must have shared the link, or they’re only gaining likes for the title. He smiles.

“Well, a promise is a promise,” Jeongguk says evenly. He looks up at you, his hands creeping up from your waist to your breasts, so perked and slightly small. He cups them and you rise with a pleasurable sensation that sends him giggling under his breath, so oddly childlike that Jimin does a double take, and then Jeongguk releases you, tapping your skin and shuffling into position.

From somewhere in the fraternity, Jimin hears a door open. He pauses and looks towards the door, momentarily missing Jeongguk get on all fours and spread his legs, revealing a well groomed ass that he would have liked to see. It’s clean and gaping; the audience suspect Jeongguk’s no stranger to things being put up there. He looks like the type, one comment laughs. Jeongguk’s a cockslut too.

Jimin wonders silently who else is home. It might be nobody, and he’s hearing things. There’s an even chance that it’s Taehyung, a second year who keeps to himself mostly and studies art, locking himself away on evenings when there aren’t any major parties, painting. He doesn’t remember if Taehyung’s gone to Jackson’s party with everybody else. For a moment, he’s embarrassed that Taehyung, or whoever is home, has heard him fucking himself, but the thought disappears when he turns back to the screen and sees Jeongguk’s ass in the air, a grin on his face as you take the role of Boss.

“I don’t want to hear you calling me Y/N, or baby, or angel, or anything,” you tell him, the voice of authority thick and it makes Jeongguk laugh. It’s just a game to him, for now. It’s only a game until you’ve shoved a finger in there, or licked at it.

Jimin’s weirdly attracted to both sides of you, and both sides of Jeongguk. He’s too tired to fuck himself again, or even entertain the thought of touching himself. So instead, he sits back and hikes the comforter higher up over his body, his cock still out between his legs, semi-hard and sore, and he watches the stream like it’s a tv show on in the background. He’s nonetheless invested, not being able to pull his eyes away.

“Okay,” Jeongguk nods. He gets it. “What should I call you, then?”

You mock his hum. “You can call me Mommy tonight. Okay?”

Jeongguk nods awkwardly against the bed, strangely excited. You’re smothering your fingers with lube, undecided on which one should go inside. It’s all so exciting, taking control. Jimin writhes, too tired to pretend physically but he lets his thoughts wander- Jeongguk lives the most perfect life, an equal balance of fucking his girlfriend and being fucked by his girlfriend. He’s flexible, and excited when you gently prod a finger at his asshole. Jeongguk fidgets, eager and restless. Any other day, he might be cautious of your nails, slightly sharpened at the end, because he likes the way it feels against his skin when you cling to him, digging deep enough to draw blood when he’s done. He likes the marks the next morning. He likes hurting when he knows he’s hurting you.

Jimin gets to hear Jeongguk moan submissively as you slide a finger in, and then another, because Jeongguk and his asshole are bigger, and he’s a big boy. He can take two right away, even when he squirms.

“Mmf, Mommy,” Jeongguk starts. He breaks off, unable to say anything for a few seconds as you wiggle your fingers around inside of him, clawing him and making him shudder. The comments are going crazy. For some reason, they didn’t think you’d follow through and finger him, but as Jeongguk rightly said, a promise is a promise. “Feels so good.”

“God, look at you,” you laugh humorlessly. “Look at how you’re fucking Mommy’s fingers. She’s only just started.”

He pushes his hips backwards. “Luh-like it when you touch me, Mommy. I like it when you finger me like this.”

“Mm.”

As Jeongguk whimpers, you decide to curl your fingers upwards, touching and feeling around inside. It’s about time he gets a spoonful of his own medicine, a taste for his own torture. He likes it, he groans with a smile, his eyes searching to find you over his shoulders and when he spots your eyes on his, he winks.

“You can add a third, Mommy,” Jeongguk offers, faking a sweet tone that has a few commenters giggling. Jimin smiles, too. He wishes he could cum, he wishes he could fuck his hand, but he’s too tired, too fucked out. “Doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“Hm,” you reply, “only since you asked nicely. I’ll add a third, and I’ll get right to business. Is that okay, baby boy? Hm?”

“Yuh-yes, Mommy.”

“Good boy. My good little boy.”

His ass shifts, wiggling almost in a taunt and you shove your three fingers in without a word of warning. Jeongguk groans with discomfort. He’s had dildos, toys, everything and anything up his ass, both before and after he started dating you. For some reason, the sensation of your three fingers up his ass feels different, not wrong but also not good just yet. He gives you a moment to adjust, finding a rhythm and eventually, after his hips move and he finds himself, he begins to feel the coil in his lower stomach tightening.

“Feel good?” you ask, almost shyly. The last thing you would like is to let him down.

He makes a noise of agreement. “Yes, Mommy. Yes, really good.”

“You sure?”

Jeongguk blinks, quietly saying, as if off the record, “Y/N, this feels amazing. It’s okay.”

Jimin feels like he wasn’t supposed to hear. It’s like when you’re in the loo and somebody comes in, spilling secrets to a friend by the sinks, applying lip gloss in the mirror. You’re not in the conversation, not wanted in the secret exchange.

It puts you at ease, enough for Jeongguk to spread his legs further, shuffling back until his foot accidentally hits your thigh. He grunts, as if blindly finding his way around, and you shuffle right between his legs, following his movements from the video Jimin just watched. You pull your fingers out after a few minutes of fucking, and Jeongguk moans with a high tone when you pull away, moving your hands to his ass cheeks. The camera captures Jeongguk’s face in frame; he looks small, tiny, with cheeks that are round and full now that his face is flush on the bed, his waist looking tinier now it’s arched and in the air. The only thing intimidating about Jeongguk now is his thighs, still large and muscular and scary in their own unique way. Jeongguk whimpers furiously, tears choking at the back of his eyes with a burning sting that is ripped away by a sob when you smile at the camera, and lean in within the same second, pressing a little kiss against his hole.

Jeongguk shudders. You move back in, spreading his cheeks further with your hands and guiding his ass back to your face. You start with licking the rim, like licking sugar and lime from around a shot glass. Jeongguk moans, and fingers the quilt covers. With your tongue flat, you lick at his hole, mocking those same kitten licks as he once did, for a few moments anyway until you both grew comfortable, and you continued licking at his hole, prodding and drooling. He tastes natural, as expected, crossed with the coconut body wash that he used in the shower before the livestream, the same body wash you used at the same time, sharing a shower together with your skins flushed and hot and wet, bubbles as bikinis.

You have to admit to yourself, in a private intermission, that you’ve never eaten an ass before. You had a temporary girlfriend when you were fifteen, because you were hormonal and confused and she was the prettiest girl in school. You’d eaten her out, but it was her pussy, and you’re certain that at some point during high-school, there had been another girl. You can’t remember, your eyes closed as your tongue milks the taste of Jeongguk’s ass. He preens, pushing it against your face slightly with his face buried in the covers.

“Muh-mommy,” he cries. “Oh-fuck.”

“Feel good?” you ask him, your mouth muffled against him. He nods with a moan, although it sounds just like a messy noise, a noise you’d find on a porn soundboard. You smile proudly, being selfish yourself. It feels good knowing you’re the first girl to eat Jeon Jeongguk’s ass, and on camera too, for 28,000 people to see. Jimin sits back with his head on the headboard, staring through heavy half lids. He quite likes this view, this role reversal. He quite likes Jeongguk with his ass in the air. He watches for the finish eagerly, soaking every scene up like the last drops of ice-cream dripping down the cone.

“Ngnh, can’t hold it any longer, Mommy,” Jeongguk wails. He fists the sheets, looking at you underneath his arm. He can’t see your face, only your cunt. He doesn’t care, it doesn’t matter. “Please let me cum.”

“You want to cum?” you repeat. “How badly?”

“S-so badly,” he moans, and his eyes clench closed. “Please. I’ve been good. You’ve made me feel so...so good, Mommy. It-it hurts, p-please-”

You hum tiredly, almost as if what he’s mumbling is boring you. You lick one more time, pushing in as he clenches around the tip of your tongue. It makes you want to laugh, and slap his ass, but he’s already done so much. You grant him the permission he begs to cum, and he does- reaching your hand around to cup his tender balls, Jeongguk clumsily spills on the sheets, the thick white substance leaking not only through the baby pink but also splashing up onto his stomach, getting stuck in the thick curves of his abs. Jimin sighs happily at the sight, high on life and the way Jeongguk squirms like a newborn baby bird who has discovered flight, still clumsy and frantic. His body is shaking, trembling like a glitched video game character, his hips stuttering with his orgasm. He groans with it, and then laughs, perhaps at his own realisation of what just happened, and where and to whom.

Jimin types at the keyboard his first comment: you look absolutely beautiful baby boy, and Jeongguk sees, sending a warmth burning in Jimin’s chest. Jeongguk spots the comments amongst other familiar icons and users and he smiles, his eyes disappearing into pleasant crescent moons.

“Ah, thank you, angelchim. It was an honour getting my ass ate in front of you, I hope you enjoyed.”

“Oh, I did,” Jimin replies breathily, and he’s about to type the comment when a knock thuds at his door. Jimin pauses, hyper-aware of the fact somebody is home. They don’t make another sound, just a knock and then a loud sigh that Jimin recognises to be in the voice belonging to Taehyung, as he suspected.

“Jimin, I’m sorry, I know you’re clearly quite busy-” he emphasises quite, and Jimin wants to vanish into the bedsheets, pretend he’s not home, - “but I text Namjoon about where the hell my phone charger is, and apparently you have it, so if you could please bring it out to me, I would very much appreciate it. You can finish...whatever it is you’re doing in there. I’ll, uh. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

And from the stream, Jeongguk laughs. It feels weird, because given the timing, it’s as if Jeongguk’s laughing at Jimin, at how humiliation creeps up his neck and to his cheeks. Everybody watches porn, he thinks. And he’s in a frat, now. He should wear it with honour, just like Namjoon had told him. He looks over at Taehyung’s charger wrapped in a snake cord by his box and he smiles. Tonight has been unsuspecting, but clearly, way better than anything Jackson could have ever given him.

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lailaliquorice · 5 years ago

Text

but instead I am here

it’s angst time. why is it that nearly every jane-centric i write fic is just angst time??

anyways, this is some pretty heavy angst with a happy ending in response to the ‘jane and anne angst’ request i received with the prompt ‘I never got to say goodbye’. my instinct was to have anne be the upset one but then i had an idea inspired by listening to come from away so we’ve flipped the script here. the ask also suggested an optional cleves so we have a little cleves at the end c:

my personal prompt with this was the cfa line ‘I should be here for my son but instead I am here.’ it hurts my feelings but enjoy loves

tw for discussion of child death

It was no secret that Jane struggled more openly with the loss of her son than the other mothers among the Queens did. Being so vocal about Edward during the show meant he was something she thought about a lot, and the all-consuming grief she’d struggled with during the first few weeks after reincarnation had led her to a support group for mothers who had lost babies as she’d done. While she’d frequently extended the invitation to Aragon, Anne, and Cathy to join her, they’d all gratefully declined and let Jane go to the sessions alone.

Even though her loss was different to the other members and nothing she could explain, it had been easy enough to lie to them all. According to them Edward had died at eleven days old – the age he’d been upon his mother’s death. When she’d first been asked why she’d kept it vague and said an infection, and when someone asked if it was meningitis she’d just said yes for simplicity’s sake. If someone shared a photo of their baby with her she said she found his too hard to look at, but would eagerly describe her beautiful baby boy with blue eyes and mousy hair. Nothing about that was a lie, and neither was the longing that never left her eyes as she spoke of him.

For the most part the sessions were helpful; she could talk of Edward without feeling like a burden on the other Queens who had also lost children, and learn of ways she could remember him without it hurting so much. But, a few months into her time with the group, there was one session which did the exact opposite.

It was one of the sessions where a psychologist would come in and speak to everyone in a group. The topic of the day was guilt, and from listening to everyone else Jane learned of the guilt they shared over their children’s deaths. How they’d all wondered if there was something they could have done more to save them, if there was something they had done to change what happened and save their lives, the survivors guilt of living through something which their baby did not. And by the end of the session, everyone’s smiles seemed a little freer as if a weight had been lifted from their shoulders.

Jane had only listened quietly, burdened by the secret that she hadn’t been the one to survive. She barely registered the walk home as her mind whirled with unburied feelings, her subconscious twisting everything that had been said into something to attack herself with.

She felt guilty beyond words but for the opposite reason. She’d been the one who wasn’t strong enough. It was her fault that she’d missed out on everything she’d so looked forward to. She’d been the one to leave Edward alone.

But she put on a false smile when Kat and Anna greeted her at the door, hiding her shaking hands in the pockets of her dress as she waited for the kettle to boil. Anne and Anna’s friendly jabs at each other were distracting enough that no-one noticed the chinking sound of her favourite teacup rattling against the saucer as she took a sip. She smiled at Kat whenever she looked her way. She told herself she was fine, because she couldn’t let anyone see that she wasn’t.

It was Kat climbing onto the kitchen worktop to grab something on top of the cupboard that started the chain reaction which ended with her mask shattering.

“Get down from there Kat, you could fall and hurt yourself,” Jane scolded lightly, hoping no-one noticed the lack of conviction in her voice.

“But Anne’s allowed to be on the counter!”

Jane glanced across the kitchen ad Kat’s complaint, tutting at Anne who was sat cross-legged on the opposite worktop looking very smug. “Technically she’s not, but Anne has no concept of personal safety and therefore does what she likes,” Jane said, managing to smile when Anne poked her tongue out at her.

Kat gave an exaggerated groan, accepting Anna’s hand as she clambered back down to the floor. “Whatever you say, mum,” she said with a grin.

Jane didn’t smile. There was the word she’d always wanted to hear, the word which had taunted her endlessly all morning. Mum. But it was the wrong voice, the wrong time, the wrong face, the wrong everything. Her grip slackened and she barely flinched as she dropped her teacup, shattering into shards of porcelain and splashing boiling liquid all down her bare leg.

Before she could register what she was doing, she was sobbing into her hands in the middle of the kitchen.

“Jane!” came Kat’s frightened cry, accompanied by firm hands on Jane’s shoulders. “Jane, what’s wrong?”

It was impossible to answer through her sobs, hunching forwards to hide her face as Kat shook her shoulders to try and get a response. “Did I do something wrong? Please, it’s scary seeing you like this because you’re like my mum and-“

“DON’T CALL ME THAT!”

Kat stopped immediately at Jane’s hysterical interruption, taking a stumbling step backwards as her face fell with shock. Jane exhaled roughly at the sight of Kat’s distraught expression, unable to look at Anne or Anna who she knew were both watching the scene unfold as the guilt that had been building all morning multiplied tenfold.

With another half-sob she turned tail and fled, sprinting up the stairs before collapsing to her knees on her bedroom floor. Regardless of how hard she pressed her hands over her eyes she couldn’t stop seeing Kat’s face when Jane pushed her away, did everything that Jane had promised she would never do in the space of four short words. Not only had she failed Edward but now she’d failed Kat too. The reality of that made her tremble helplessly as she cried even harder.

She couldn’t bring herself to move when she heard her door being opened. A quiet sigh sounded from the doorway, before there was someone sat next to her with their knee bumping hers. “Hey,” said Anne, “d’you wanna tell me what happened?”

Jane didn’t answer her question, instead asking in a broken voice “Is Kat ok?”

Anne gave an unsure shrug. “I dunno, she seemed pretty shaken. Anna took her out on a walk.”

“Oh, God,” Jane sobbed, curling forwards and covering her face with her hands again.

“Hey, it’s ok,” Anne said, scooting closer so she could gently rub Jane’s arm. “People make mistakes, Kat’s not expecting you to be perfect. She’s still gonna love you.”

Jane shook her head, whimpering slightly into her hands. “I messed up. I took it out on Kat just because I miss Eddie and I feel so so bad,” she choked out between breaths.

Somehow Anne must have heard her words despite them being muffled by her hands, because she sighed again as she said “Oh hun, is this about Edward?”

Nodding, Jane managed to look up Anne despite her bloodshot eyes and the mascara she knew had to be running down her cheeks. “I feel so bad,” she repeated in a voice not much more than a whisper. “I left him. The reason why he grew up with no mother was my fault, I died and I left him Anne, I left him alone.”

“No, it wasn’t your fault at all,” Anne insisted, hugging Jane’s arm when she continued to shake her head. “Seriously. There was nothing you could have done to change anything.”

“I just feel so guilty,” Jane muttered, rubbing a hand under her eyes. “He’d have had a mother if I’d been stronger. And Kat, she’d never have suffered either because Henry wouldn’t have remarried. I failed both of them.” Her voice wavered as she trailed off, tears streaming down her face as she struggled not to break down again.

Anne frowned, tugging Jane’s arm to make her look at her. “Listen to me, Jane Seymour,” she said in a tone so severe that Jane was forced to pay attention. “None of it’s your fault. Would you have chosen that if you’d had the choice? No you wouldn’t’ve done. Shit happened to all of us and it’s not your fault. What do you think they’d say if they knew you were blaming yourself like this, hmm?” The question was accompanied by a pointed hum and a raised eyebrow, though she was still clinging onto Jane’s arm in an effort to keep her from spiralling again.

At first Jane thought of Kat, of the earnest look in her eyes when she’d told Jane that she didn’t blame her for anything. But then she thought of Edward, and the soul crushing fact that he wouldn’t even know who she was to say anything to her if he somehow had the opportunity. “He wouldn’t say anything because he wouldn’t even know who I am because I wasn’t there,” she said bitterly, shaking her head. She was quiet for a moment before adding in an agonised whisper “I never got to know him. I never got to say goodbye.”

“I know how that feels,” Anne said quietly, but when Jane looked at her expecting sadness or anger in her eyes she saw only a faint smile of understanding. “Hows about this then: would you blame me for dying and not being there for Bess?”

Jane shook her head, confused as to what her point was. “No, of course not. You were killed, you didn’t just die. It wasn’t anything you did.” The two situations were worlds apart as far as she was concerned; Anne would never have died if she hadn’t been taken to the scaffold whereas Jane’s death was all her own doing.

The self-content look on Anne’s face as she hugged Jane’s arm close didn’t help her confusion. “Exactly. Neither of our deaths were our fault so we can’t go blaming ourselves. I got killed by a sword, you got killed by bacteria. Don’t get me to elaborate on that though, that’s what our resident bookworms are for,” she joked with a wink.

She managed to smile faintly at that, knowing that Cathy or even Kat with their love of reading would probably know more modern science than either she or Anne did. But it dropped a little as she looked into Anne’s eyes, still able to find the shadows in her gaze despite her chipper smile. “You do blame yourself though, don’t you?” she asked tentatively, saying it out of concern rather than an attempt to undermine Anne’s reasoning.

Anne shrugged one shoulder, dropping her eyes from Jane’s face. “Sometimes,” she said, one hand hovering over the choker which she was scarcely seen without. “I try not to though. I know she didn’t blame me, Cathy’s told me that. So I try not to feel guilty.”

Jane nodded at Anne’s words. There was logic in what she said, something which surprised Jane in some aspects but didn’t in others. She knew as well as they all did that Anne was cleverer than she made herself out to be, both from their interactions in their past lives and her occasional genius comments that made it through the façade. She opened her mouth to say something else and shifted on her knees a little as she did so, but her words were forgotten when pain flared all down one shin and she let out a pained cry instead.

There was an instant look of worry on Anne’s face, taking Jane’s arms and helping her carefully stretch out her leg. Patches of red scalds marred her pale skin from where she’d dropped her tea earlier but completely forgotten about it with how distraught she’d been.

“Come here, let’s get you sorted,” said Anne, standing up as Jane just stared at the injuries on her leg. She blinked a couple of times before registering Anne’s hands in front of her, then let her help her stand and limp across the hall into the bathroom.

Jane sat quietly on the side of the bath with her leg under the tap while Anne ran around finding cold compresses and bandages, a shallow smile on her face as she muttered confusedly to herself while rummaging through the first aid kit. Normally Jane would have been up in arms at her organisation being messed up but she felt so drained she didn’t care, just humming a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ whenever Anne asked her a direct question. Her attentiveness was endearing, a reminder that Anne had been a mother too despite how she acted nowadays, and it was nice to see every now and then.

“There we are,” Anne grinned up at Jane as she finished, taping down the last bandage. Her smile faded a little as she saw Jane’s faraway expression, resting her forearms on Jane’s lap as she asked “Penny for your thoughts?”

She shrugged first, then sighed as she figured there was no point in clamming up now after everything she’d already said. “I should be here for my son,” she said in a monotone voice, “But instead I am here.” Fresh tears pooled in her eyes as she spoke and she didn’t bother blinking them away before they fell.

Anne gave a sympathetic smile. “He had people there for him though. He wasn’t alone, neither of them were.” Jane knew she was referring to Elizabeth then, and nodded concedingly. “Besides,” Anne added, “here’s pretty great, right?”

The hopeful smile on Anne’s face was hard to ignore. “Yes it is,” Jane said, managing to smile herself as Anne’s grin brightened. With a fond look at the younger girl, Jane placed a gentle hand on Anne’s hair and drew her hair away from her face as she said “Thank you, love. You’ve been wonderful.”

“Ah, it’s what we’re all here for,” Anne attempted to say casually with a nonchalant shrug, but her flushed cheeks and happy smile gave away how she was touched by the praise.

At the sound of the front door opening they both glanced towards it, Jane suddenly filled with apprehension at facing Kat again after how she’d pushed her away so harshly. Anne spoke first, standing up and offering Jane her hand again as she asked “You ready?”

Jane hesitated a moment before she nodded.

Kat and Anna were stood in the hallway when Anne led Jane down the stairs, and Jane immediately ran forwards to pull Kat into her arms. “I’m so sorry darling,” she said as Kat wrapped her arms around Jane’s neck and squeezed tightly. “I’m so, so sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong. I was upset but I should never have taken that out on you.”

“It’s ok,” Kat whispered in Jane’s ear before they broke apart. “You’re allowed to be upset, you know? You just need to talk to us rather than keep it all inside,” she said, catching Jane’s hand and squeezing her fingers gently.

The smile on Kat’s face was enough for Jane to know she’d forgiven, and her guilt seemed to fall away along with the fresh tears that trickled down her cheeks. “My special girl,” she murmured, reaching out to catch the tears that fell down Kat’s own face.

Kat leaned into her touch for a moment, before suddenly turning to take a box from Anna. “We got you this while we were out,” she said almost shyly, holding it out to Jane and nodding for her to open it.

Beneath several layers of tissue paper was a new teacup to replace the one she’d just smashed, decorated with swirls and flowers in the six colours of the Queens’ costumes. “It’s beautiful,” Jane said, unable to tear her eyes away from it for several seconds before she could look up at Kat. “Thank you, sweetheart. And thank you too,” she added to Anna.

Anna smiled as she walked over, slinging an arm around Jane’s shoulders and pulling her close for a moment. “We saw it and knew we had to get it for you. But I’m still gonna tease you for still drinking from a teacup in the bloody twenty first century.”

Jane laughed then for the first time that morning, smiling warmly at them all as she wrapped an arm around Anna’s waist and Anne hugged her cousin from behind. “I think I can allow that,” she said with a chuckle, grinning brighter at Anna’s infectious burst of laughter.

It wasn’t the family she’d once dreamed of, back in the old times when they were awaiting her son’s arrival with such longing and excitement. But, when her tears were dried and she was sat at the table that evening with her four sisters and one daughter, she knew without doubt that it was the only family she ever needed.

#six the musical #six the musical fanfiction #six the musical fanfic #jane seymour #anne boleyn #katherine howard #anna of cleves #laila's writing

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zombified-queer · 7 years ago

Text

P.E.T. Unit

He liked you. He was fond of you. You could be sure of it. You were the only one he pets (though, with gloves on, a safety measure for both of you) and he smiles at you (or you think he did, the mask made it hard to tell) and you were the only one he kept (technically the only one to survive, but that made you better than all the others).

"I brought you tea."

"Thank you." He tilts his head toward you, acknowledging as you set the mug within his grasp but not close enough for him to knock it over by accident or contaminate his tea with the sample. “How are your new limbs treating you?”

You gave them an experimental flex, just to show them off to him. He'd given them to you as a gift, citing that time he's let disease-ridden voles chew your original arms off. "I like them. They're so pretty."

"Pretty," he muses. He raises a brow ridge.

"Mhm. And they're lighter than the old ones." He'd taken the old ones to see how you'd adapt to a week without any arms, the heavy metal prosthetics melted down in the incinerator while you watched. You didn't cry, not that time.

"You're a curious one, 42."

You flash him a wide grin. "You wouldn't keep me if I wasn't a case study."

"I suppose you're right."

He goes back to his dissecting, ignoring you again. You're not upset about it, not really. Crell's a good man doing good work and sometimes he needs you to be very quiet while he concentrates.

You wish, sometimes, you could help him but your prosthetics aren't able to handle the delicate cuts he can make. Instead, you watch sometimes, like you're doing now, or you'll bring food down to the lab, or drag off old samples to the incinerator and clean up after him.

"Something on your mind 42?"

You watch the precision of his scalpel, the tumour extracted for a slide study. "No."

"You're spacing out."

"I wanna help," you mumble, looking away as though you've said something embarrassing.

"There's some samples I need disposed of," he points out. It's the answer he always gives you.

"Yes sir." You try not to sound sullen. He doesn't like sullen.

He's sleeping soundly and you can't help yourself. You reach out to touch him, but stop, hand resting in mid-air. You're always afraid to touch him. The prosthetics are always strong, too strong, and you're scared if you pet him, even gently, that he'll shatter into a million small pieces.

"42, what are you doing?"

"Nothing." You let your hand fall into your lap, where it belongs. "Go back to sleep, please, sir."

He gives you a look before humming, turning over. You wait until he's deeply asleep and raise your hand again, staring at your white-plastic digits. Your hand shakes. It's not supposed to do that. Your fingers curl into a fist.

Gently, carefully, tenderly, you card your fingers through his hair. You assume it's soft. You can't really feel anything.

When you pull your hand away, there's no bruises on him.

You breathe a sigh of relief and tuck him in.

When he first took you in, you cried constantly. You cried because it hurt. You cried because you threw up. You cried because you were lonely. You cried because you were scared. You cried because you wanted to die.

He'd made careful incisions across your calves, all the way up, with his scalpel. He ground dirt and glass and bugs into each gash, simply studying.

Crying was forbidden because he didn't like body fluids. Ironic.

Eventually your calves got too infected so he took your legs off at the knee. He moved onto your thighs. This time, instead of earth and worms, it was diseases and bacteria. Epidemiology.

He liked you because you had such a "robust" immune system. He liked you because you didn't react typically. Instead of breaking down under the pain, under the strain of bile corroding your throat, you simply complied, let him do what was necessary. He liked that.

When he took your legs—without anaesthetics, since it would be a waste because you were supposed to die at some point or another—you reached out, clinging to him. When he left you alone, you used your arms, not to crawl away from him, like a worm in the sun, vermin fro light, but you crawled toward him.

You crawled toward him, used your manners and your words.

Please.

And he scratched at your scalp, like someone would a pet.

So polite for a subject.

Please.

You weren't supposed to live. You were supposed to drown in your own blood and vomit like an animal. But you were persistent for a pest. He smiled in his cynical way, tossed a rag at you.

Get cleaned up. I've got a surprise for you.

You accepted the rag (and still have it today) and dragged your limp, heavy body across the cool tiles, clutching at him, worship on your lips.

Come, now. That's no way to behave.

Your new legs were supposed to be a joke between the two of you. He'd had them made out of titanium and shaped like cattle legs. To him, you were livestock and replaceable and, with the right amount of adjusting, anyone could wear those legs.

But you were the only one who did.

He's got a stuck shed again from stress due to his work. Frustrated, he calibrated your arms only to be delicate and gentle. You miss lugging around decomposing samples without effort, but this requires more attention.

You massage the oil over his scales, taking care with Crell—Sir, you scold yourself—and ease the discomfort.

He's nude, but clothes catch on his skin and scales and it becomes painful for him. It doesn't arouse you in he slightest except, perhaps, to want to lay your head in his lap and be his pet again like those early days.

"You're awfully quiet, 42."

"Thinking," you answer.

"What about?"

"How much your work needs you."

He hums. Your hands move over his broad shoulders, easing he old skin from new. He falls asleep under your hands, his breaths slow and even.

"Sleep well sir," you say, almost unconsciously as your hands move down his back.

Every time you drag another sample down to the incinerator, you get so dirty. Your hands are always stained with red, with brown and black, with green. You don't understand why he made your hands out of plastic. You have to wash them thirty times before you're satisfied that you're clean.

And you always end up burning your aprons with the samples. Those get too stained to be saved.

Sometimes, you think he appreciates the way you're so thorough in sterilizing yourself.

Sometimes, you're still a sample to him.

Sometimes you open the incinerator door and watch the flames. They're nice, warm.

You have to clean it out at least once a week. Now, with him working so diligently on another cure (and something to be branded as a cosmetic, which he's trying out on you), you have to clean it out every two days. Lots of samples get disposed of. Lots of aprons turn to ash.

You load the samples in, swallowing back your revulsion at being dirty again, and shut the door, adjust the controls until the whole room feels warm and it smells like burning meat.

You wonder if he'd like a roast for dinner since you've been waiting for a special occasion.

"No, I'm sorry," you say to the two men at the door. "He's out right now."

A lie. He's in the basement. But these men put you on edge. Something about the ridges on their noses instills fear in you.

"When can we expect him back?" one asks.

"It's important," clarifies the other.

"I don't know. Sometimes his errands take weeks," you answer. That's not an entire lie.

"Weeks," ponders the one.

"Weeks," repeats the other.

"Can you tell him we'd like an appointment with Doctor Moset?" they ask in unison.

"I'll let him know you stopped by." The words are mechanical out of your mouth and taste like metal. You close the door manually, locking it.

In the reflection of the metal door, you watch blood pour over your lip. You bit the inside of your cheek.

"Who was that?" he asks you.

"No one at all," you assure him, smiling.

"42," he sighs and your heart freezes in your chest, "you've injured yourself."

"Have I?" You keep smiling until you think your face is going to shatter. "I didn't notice."

You stole a scalpel like you weren't supposed to.

You began baiting voles with some stolen samples. Cages were easy to make. You kept them outside, in the backyard where he never went, with water and just enough food to keep them alive in their tiny prisons. You noted the symptoms, wrote it in a physical journal, and nodded sagely at their festering little bodies. They couldn't bite your hands or your legs and you could hold them down so easily.

The first one, you held too tight and cut it open only to find the ribs had broken into splinters, piercing the heart and lungs of your tiny subject. It didn't even have time to squeal in fright.

The second one was better. You broke its ribs but didn't kill it. When you cut it open (clumsily because you didn't have the training he had), you simply plucked those broken ribs out, tossed them aside, and pulled it's organs out with curiosity.

Your hands were stained up to the elbows and you vomited into the shrubs.

But you got better, cleaner with your careful cuts, gentler in the way you held them down. You learned to identify all it's internal parts, the different portions of the voles' tiny brains. So unsophisticated. So primal. So basic.

You never burned the bodies the way Crell did with his samples. Sometimes you fed them to each other, just to see what would happen. Sometimes you buried them. Sometimes you simply held the mangled bodies in your hands and threw them as far as you could, watching them sail with their innards streaming red and purple in the sun.

You were glad he had no neighbours to tattle on you.

"I've been thinking," he said, not looking up from the slides he was studying.

"Yes, Sir?"

"I want you to carry on my work."

"Sir?"

"42, just listen," he said gently.

You shut up and nodded, not sure if he'd see the gesture.

"I'm not going to live forever," he admitted. "And I'd prefer if someone could do something with my research, take it to Prime or continue the lab here."

Your chest constricts almost painfully at the thought of him dying. You can't imagine a life without him. The tears spill over before you can stop them.

"You're a good enough candidate to continue my work here, 42."

You hug him from behind, face pressing into his back as if you can merge into one person, give him your life instead.

"I've got contacts who can provide you with everything you need," he continues, almost idly now. "You'll need training to use some of the equipment, but—"

"I stole a scalpel from you."

"Really?" He sounds amused. "What did you use it on?"

"Voles."

"Then that's one less thing I need to train you with."

"Sir?"

"Yes, 42?"

"I don't want you to leave. Ever."

"It won't be right away, 42," he says, almost comforting. "But you're a third my age and I won't live for—"

"You can't," you insist and you have to stop hugging him or you'll break him. "Please, I don't want to be alone."

"You could always make one like yourself," he points out. "No one but another of you could handle all this, I think."

"Sir?"

"It'll be alright, 42. You'll have so much fun learning you won't have time to be sad."

Eventually, you do forget. You spent months learning the more precise ways to make cuts for the slides. You learned how to operate the old-fashioned microscope.

Each new accomplishment gains you approval. He'll smile over your shoulder when he no longer has to guide your hand or remind you to bring the lenses into focus.

He starts acquiring parts—prosthetic parts—and sets them up in he lab. But you're uncertain about making something like you. You're worried the one you make won't like you, will hate you, will look at you and start screaming.

Screaming makes your head hurt.

So you turn to sabotage, burning those limbs in the furnace like he used to do with yours. Crell seems amused by this little game and starts hiding the limbs.

You don't want another like you around. You don't want to lose him. You don't want any of this.

You see those men with the ridges on their noses again. They watch the house like predators, never straying from their posts, waiting for a weakness.

"42?"

"Sir."

"Handle them, will you?"

"Of course."

You step out of the house.

Bones breaking under your hands sends vibrations up the sturdy plastic that feels good. You continue until they're pulp and you keep going.

You return to the house without a word and go sanitize yourself.

The one he selects for you isn't unattractive. But you don't want it.

"What do I do with it?" you ask, nudging the specimen with your foot.

"Oh, anything," he tells you. "Hurt it. Mangle it. Dissect it."

"I'm really ready for one of my own?"

He rests a hand on your shoulder, where plastic meets skin. "But of course. Now make of i what I've made of you."

You consider the creature in front of you. It's got nose ridges. Those make you want to vomit and before you can blink you've hacked off the ridged-skin leaving a bloody swath of smoothness.

He raises a brow ridge but says nothing.

This project is entirely your own.

You make them hurt. You break their bones until they vomit from the pain, crying for you to stop hurting them. But they never beg for death. If they begged for death, you rationalize, then you wouldn't be disobeying him by killing this worm.

"Why are you doing this?"

You blink. You don't say a word.

"You're like me."

"I'm not," you say.

"You're the same as me, why are you doing this?"

"We're not the same." Just to prove a point, you twist their left arm off.

They can't even manage to scream. You drop the arm with a wet thump in front of them. There's so much blood and you want them to just stop crying and bleeding just stop it.

You, reluctantly, stitch the skin together. You press at the stitches to make them squirm.

"Just say you want to die," you hiss.

"No," they say softly. "I'd rather suffer and live."

"I'll make you hurt so bad you'll wish you were dead."

They laugh, loud and bitter. You kick them in their broken ribs before letting them curl up to rest.

You burn their arm with a sort of delight. Slowly, piece by piece, you'll break them apart. You'll break them inside and out, until they're a hollow, empty shell begging for death.

You leave the meat burning and go hose yourself off.

The voles are all dead.

You hadn't had time to tend to them with your new project. They ate the ones who died first, tearing into their bellies with their teeth. They drank each other's blood until there was nothing left but husks. And then there were a few, fighting for space, fighting to be the last left alive in the hopes you would feed them, water them.

You cradle one, the last one, in your hands. It rustles as you touch it, withered like a dead plant, mummified in the sun.

You can't feel it's scant fur against your hands.

You show your project some affection. Variability will make them mistrust everything. This you know.

You pet their head, like an animal, and they lean into your touch. Their hair looks soft, but you can't feel it. You stop petting them to check their stitches. It's healing nicely considering the cruelty you've shown them.

"I'll be giving you a new arm soon."

"How kind." They're mocking you.

You consider tearing out their vocal chords right now. You could do it and keep them alive. But it's not time. Not yet.

"I didn't want you. He did."

"He brought me here for you," they say. "That's love, I think."

You shove them, roughly, and hear a soft snapping. Not bothering with your project, you set a spool of thread and needle down for them to use.

"42?"

"Yes?"

His head is in your lap. He trusts you to be gentle as you card your fingers through his hair, brushing it out of his face.

"Be kind to them. You need a friend."

"I have you."

He shakes his head. "Stubborn."

"I learned it from you."

The prosthetics are clunky. You love attaching them to your project, ruining their beauty. They function, though. You've done the arms first but left your project legless, enjoying watching them crawl.

You want them to beg.

They never do.

So you leave them crawling like an insect and relish in their misery hidden behind cheerful greetings and wide smiles.

Kneeling in the burnt remains of the house, you clutch Crell close. He won't live. He's burnt so terribly that every action seems to bring him pain. His skin breaks under your touch, oozing along the cracks. It rustles and you're reminded, for a sharp moment, of the voles in the garden.

"42." Even saying your name brings him pain.

"I'm here."

He gropes blindly for you, cupping your face. "You've made me proud."

"You'll be okay, I just have to—"

"No, 42." Even breathing brings him pain, but he gasps for air. "Carry on my . . . my research."

His hand drops from your face, the burnt skin cracking as the back of his hand hits the floor hard.

You curl into yourself, into him, as if trying to curls into yourself hard enough to implode and take just the two of you. You cry, shaking in a way that should shake you apart.

But you hold together.

Unfortunately, you hold together and need to continue.

You pick him up and take him to the garden. He, at least, deserves a burial and a proper marker for his shallow grave.

P.E.T., you've decided on for your project. Pathetic. Empty. Trash.

You've decided it's better they don't speak, carefully severing their vocal chords. You don't need a friend. You only need someone to continue his work.

P.E.T. gives a few unsteady steps on their new prosthetic legs, their steps heavy on the concrete basement floor. They turn and offer you a wide smile, as if everything you've done has never hurt them.

You shove them over and let them figure out their legs on their own.

Crell left you cosmetics to produce and samples to look over. You'll need to finish the work if you're going to restore the house to its former glory.

While cleaning, P.E.T. finds something in the ashes, grinning widely as they bring it over to you. Whatever it is catches the light, nearly blinding you. You've half a mind to trip them and shatter whatever it is P.E.T. has found.

You decide against it.

P.E.T. smiles, eyes closed, head tilted, as they offer you the object in their hands.

It's reflective and part of you is scared to take it. But you reach out, gingerly accepting the shard of glass.

Looking into it, you tense up. Bile rises in your throat, your mouth falling open to expel it unconsciously.

Across your nose are the ridges that make you so sick...

You shatter the glass in your fist, scoring the plastic of your palm. You grind it to dust, letting the shimmering particles slip through your fingers.

P.E.T. simply continues smiling at you before hurrying off to get back to tidying up.

#This is kinda fic kinda not so y'all get it here #CW for body horror; guro; Crell Moset; and Stockholm Syndrome #Y'all can blame this one me spending two days playing hello charlotte if you want

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