#prompt: mundane tasks | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ceilidho · 3 days ago

Text

fear of god

prompt: There's someone outside the spacecraft. You don't remember them being part of the crew. Part 5 masterlist

The day starts poorly and ends worse.

You sit with Gaz’s words all night and decide by morning’s first light that it is worth worrying about them after all. But for a different reason. The worry you settle on is that your deteriorating mind is now giving you warning signals of troubles to come, manifested in the form of an astronaut outside of the ship. A messenger; a harbinger.

Breakfast is cold coffee over bit fingernails. You pull at a hangnail until it tears and pain zips up your finger, blood welling up under the split skin. Since you take your coffee in the medical unit these days, bandages and disinfectant are always within reach, meaning your fingers are always wrapped in them. Pigs in blankets.

You make your way across the ship when morning briefing comes, fingers throbbing by your sides.

Farah watches you from the other side of the cockpit during the briefing, her gaze inscrutable as ever. It takes a conscious effort not to shake under her stare. You’re not sure what she’s looking for, but whatever it is, it can’t be good.

In the background, Graves drones on about something that doesn’t penetrate through the thick miasma of your thoughts. It goes on for entirely too long. When he dismisses you all for the day, you stand up on crooked legs and hope they don’t buckle under you on the walk back to the medical unit. Farah’s eyes follow you until the door shuts behind you.

You make another coffee instead of getting started on your tasks for the day. Your research can wait. That’s what you tell yourself at least, nails tapping against the metal table while the coffee machine spurts out your drink in a short, violent burst. A thin, reedy hiss. No instant crystals this time. It tastes almost burnt when you bring it to your lips.

The mundanity of work pales in comparison to the events rapidly unfolding before your eyes. Are you sick or well? Is the man outside the ship real or not? Surely not, you tell yourself, pulse picking up again. You know better than that. Occam’s razor: the simplest explanation is most likely the correct one.

It’s just that you don’t like where your mind is going with this one.

The alarm goes off when your head is bent over the microscope, the sound so sudden and jarring that you nearly tumble right off your stool. It blares a piercing shriek through the medical unit and the hall outside, so loud that you cup your hands over your ears to hear yourself think. The stool clatters to the ground when you hurriedly slide off, heading towards the door.

You stumble into the hallway to find it flooded in red light, pulsating in steady intervals for any deaf crew members. It guides you like a beacon down the hall towards the cockpit. Standard protocol is to head to either extremity of the ship, lifepods stored at both the front and back of the ship in case of an emergency.

The others are already in the cockpit by the time you arrive. Claustrophobia sets in when the doors slide shut behind you, the room smaller with everyone packed inside at the same time.

You feel someone’s eyes flick towards you before flitting away in the same second. Accounted for and disregarded. Hardly meriting any attention when the alarm blaring overhead is a far more pressing concern.

Graves punches a button. “Ship, what’s the situation?”

Micrometeoroid impact

Damage sustained to starboard quarter

“Some of the photovoltaic cells are cracked,” Alex says, checking the status of the ship on another computer screen. “We have replacements though—could be worse.”

“Could be a lot fuckin’ better too,” Graves grumbles, forehead already pinched.

Despite not being an engineer or astrophysicist, you’ve gone on enough interplanetary voyages to understand the implications of damaging the photovoltaic solar panels. Much of the electronics on board rely on the electricity derived from sunlight; this particular ship, designed only to venture as far as Jupiter, isn’t equipped with an alternative power source.

“Should I engage the Canadarm to fix the damaged panel?” Alex asks from his perch.

Graves shakes his head. “We need to preserve as much power as possible while the cruise control is still out. It’ll have to be fixed manually.” With that said, he flips a switch to shut off the droning alarm, though the lights overhead stay red.

You flinch when the chief engineer slaps his hands down on his thighs, the sound jolting you out of your spiralling thoughts.

“Don’t worry, don’t worry,” he sighs, mock aggrieved. “I fix like usual. No problem.”

“Nothing different than what we trained for.”

“Easy peasy,” he confirms, an easy smile on his face.

“Okay, Nikolai, suit up—I’ll guide you from the cockpit,” Graves instructs, shifting into a mode you’ve never seen before. “Hadir, there’s a replacement panel in section seven in the cargo hold—get it and bring it back now. Nikolai’s going to have to fix it from the outside.”

The terror that lances through you when Graves says that is immediate and sharp. You know nothing’s out there, but the fear response is as real as if something were.

It’s an unwarranted response, fueled by paranoia and delusion. This is a scenario the crew has prepared for back on Earth a multitude of times. They wouldn’t have been given clearance to leave the planet without having run through every potential complication and calamity. There are strict regulations to follow, protocols and standards to ensure that nothing comes as a surprise.

But still—

Your chest is tight. Heart pounding against your ribcage so hard that you wince. There’s no one outside the ship but still you can’t help but think that opening the doors might let it in.

When Nikolai leaves to suit up for the spacewalk, you trail after him, following Farah’s lead. You didn’t notice that Hadir had already departed, but his absence is glaring on the walk towards the airlock.

“Smile a little, Farah,” Nikolai says, poking fun at the eternally stern woman keeping pace with him. “It’s good to have some excitement around here.”

“I’m not a fan of excitement,” she responds, voice terse. He laughs at her words, the booming sound echoing through the corridor.

You watch helplessly as Nikolai gears up, Farah helping him lock the helmet into his suit, doing a quick, final inspection of the glass to ensure that there aren’t any cracks or scratches.

The glass of Nikolai’s visor glints opalescent under the station lights, the glass infused with low-grade aerogel to protect from interplanetary radiation and solar winds. Packets of higher grade aerogel are stuffed into the lining of his suit, protecting the rest of his body as well.

Hadir returns not long after with all of the requisite parts needed for the repair neatly stored in a rectangular container that attaches securely to the front of Nikolai’s suit, leaving his hands free. The three move in synchrony, a finely-tuned dance practiced repeatedly in the months leading up to the launch.

You keep to the wall in order to avoid getting in the way.

The first door leading into the airlock is opened when Nikolai finally gives Farah the word, their checklist run through twice before being met with approval.

Nikolai deliberately turns away from the door when the airlock door shuts behind him and the chamber begins to depressurize. You wince sympathetically when you notice his shoulders tense. The oxygen in his tanks is specially designed to purge the nitrogen from his blood, but under better conditions, he would’ve spent closer to an hour prebreathing in order to transition from high to low pressure.

He only gets a few minutes to adjust. When his allotted time expires, the second pair of doors slide open—the last partition between the inner and outer world—and Nikolai takes his first step towards the darkness of space.

You can’t watch after that. Instead, you hurry back to the cockpit, jaw so tight that it aches.

Graves looks up when you enter, but otherwise doesn’t say a word to you. Alex flashes you a brief, tense grin. The first couple of minutes of any space walk are always nerve wracking, despite the reassurance of preparation and all times before. There’s an inherent anxiety in seeing the human body go out into the cold vastness of space.

“Nikolai—you copy?” Graves asks through the transmitter.

The receiver crackles. “Loud and clear, boss,” he rumbles, accent thick even over radio waves.

A shadow of a smile flits over Graves’ face, the tension in the room briefly relieved. Even your shoulders lower at the sound of his voice.

“You sound better like this,” Graves teases. “Less nasally.”

“I’ll ask your mum the next time she calls,” Nikolai rebuts, a similar teasing sneer in his voice.

“Asshole,” Graves laughs, keeping his finger on the button the whole time.

The camaraderie would usually make your heart ache. Not today though. There’s no space for anything other than worry.

“Proceeding towards starboard,” Nikolai says, narrating his movements for the benefit of those on board.

There aren’t any cameras on the outside of the ship, meaning the crew can only communicate with the man via audio. On a newer spacecraft that might not be the case, but this ship is old, a relic of times past, her maiden voyage predating the addition of exterior cameras.

You wait in the cockpit with Alex and Graves while Nikolai repairs the panel outside, nerves shot. A half hour passes by without thought. You dig your nails into the palm of your hands and wait it out, each minute feeling eternal, elongated somehow. Every so often, the receiver crackles and Nikolai gives an update on his work. Each time, the crackle makes you flinch.

Despite the unease churning in your stomach, the amount of time isn’t suspect; you know he has to disconnect and remove the damaged panel section before installing a replacement panel.

Yet, you can’t quite shake the nausea building in your stomach. The way it cramps and flutters.

At some point during the wait, Farah slips into the room, and you only notice her when you twist your head from side to side to stretch out the muscles in your neck and find her leaning against the wall next to the door, arms crossed tight over her chest.

For someone who has most certainly monitored and participated on spacewalks before, you’re surprised to find her just as anxious as you, albeit better at concealing it. You’d have thought of all people, she’d be the most comfortable. Instead, her eyes stare sightlessly at the flight deck window, finger tapping against her elbow; a nervous twitch.

The receiver crackles again. “Panel secure. Heading back n—”

Both Graves and Alex sit up straighter, staring down at the receiver as if anticipating the rest of the sentence. It never comes. You feel a sweat break on the back of your neck.

Graves presses a button. “Nikolai, we didn’t catch that. Say again.”

He’s met with a deeper, more prolonged silence.

“Nikolai?” Graves repeats into the mic, his voice broadcast over the intercom system throughout the ship. “Nikolai, do you copy?”

Silence. Nikolai’s transmitter crackles in response, as if his finger were on the button, but his voice never follows.

“Kolya?” Graves asks, and you can hear the sliver of desperation, the worry couched in professional concern. You’ve never heard him use that name before.

Another minute goes by without a response. The tension is thick in the air.

The sound of the door to the cockpit opening cuts through the air and you turn to watch as Farah leaves without a word. Again, puppyish, you follow after her. You’re not sure why. Her back is ramrod straight as she marches down the hall, tension rippling down her shoulders. She doesn’t acknowledge your presence as you make your way down the corridor together.

The two of you stare out the first porthole for some time before proceeding to the airlock further down the hall. No sign of Nikolai. Graves’ voice crackles over the intercom, keeping the crew dispersed throughout the ship abreast of any sign of Nikolai.

“I’m going out,” Farah abruptly announces, punching in the code for the second spacesuit locker.

“Huh?” you ask dumbly, watching as she rips the zipper down the length of the suit to open it and starts to tug it out of the locker.

“I’m going to check on him,” she repeats, enunciating each individual word as if you didn’t hear her the first time.

“Is that—is that a good idea? Shouldn’t you consult the commander before—”

It isn’t your place to question her, but an instinct deep inside of you says don’t go out there, don’t go out. What’s out there should stay out there.

“This is my job, doctor,” she cuts you off, finally wrenching the second suit out of the locker and jamming her leg into the lower torso component. “I don’t tell you how to do your job and you certainly don’t tell me how to do mine—”

Then, somehow, you both see it at the same time. A hand pressed flat to the airlock window, the fingers spread wide. The body attached to it must still be hanging off the side of the ship because you don’t see the rest of him, just a palm open wide on the far edge of the window. And though Farah breathes thank fuck, Kolya under her breath—the most relieved you’ve ever heard her—your stomach cramps and your palms grow clammy.

The spacesuit she’d been about to step into falls to the floor in a heap. From the corner of your eye, you see Farah reach for the airlock lever to open the door, and your hand instinctively goes up as well, your fingers closing around her wrist to hold her in place.

“Wait.” It’s your voice but not your voice. It’s your fingers around her wrist though, staying her hand. It’s your stomach cramped up in a Gordian knot, bile at the back of your throat because this is wrong, this is wrong, this is wrong.

She wrenches her wrist out of your grasp with more strength than you anticipated, pulling down the lever in the next breath. The look she sends you as the exterior door slides open is scathing.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she snaps, her repressed fury coming to life. You can feel it now coming off her in waves—the days of doubt and mistrust, so unsettled by your actions to the point that now she snarls at you without a second thought.

Your lips part but nothing comes out. No way to explain yourself, just the gut feeling of something terribly wrong.

All you can do is watch as the first set of doors open to the blackness of space, your body frozen where you stand, heart in your throat. The hand briefly disappears from the window just to reappear a second later, gripping the side of the door to haul himself inside. His movements are slow and deliberate, hampered by the lack of gravity.

You notice the glaring issue almost immediately, but your throat is far too dry for you to speak. You wonder if Farah has noticed it as well. The man in the spacesuit taking his first step into the airlock is leaner than the man who left. Shorter too. Not the bear of a man that stepped out just an hour ago, but someone new. Someone that now flips the switch on the interior wall to shut the door behind him, which it does noiselessly.

“Farah,” you whisper uncertainly. She doesn’t respond. You wish you could turn your head to look at her, but you can’t rip your eyes off the man in the airlock.

You wait with baited breath for the airlock to repressurize the first chamber. It takes as long as it did to depressurize in the first place, an agonizing handful of minutes that you can only spend staring at the man standing in the middle of the chamber, his visor still tilted too low for you to make out his face.

But you know, don’t you?

With a door separating the two of you, the sound never actually reaches your ears, but you swear you can almost hear the hiss of his helmet unlocking. You’re sweating hard now, heart racing in your chest and still you blink twice, hoping that the man behind the glass will suddenly disappear or suddenly grow in size.

The man reaches two gloves hands up to twist the helmet out of its locked position and then slowly pulls it off, revealing a face that you’ve become familiar with these past few days. Dark skin and a high fade. A scar high on his cheekbone, the wound long healed.

“Farah,” you say again, and your voice cracks this time. Beside you, you hear her let out a shuddering breath.

Through the glass, he smiles at you, full lips pulling apart to expose a row of gleaming white teeth. He waves a thick-fingered, gloved hand and mouths your name.

#ceil writing #cod x reader #gaz x reader #gaz x you #kyle garrick x reader #kyle garrick x you #kyle gaz garrick x reader #kyle gaz garrick x you #gaz/reader

420 notes · View notes

delusionisaplace · 1 year ago

Note

heey! could you please write some fluffy prompts for a couple in a long term relationship?

ty for the ask!! this is just gonna be a little drabble of ideas but feel free to use them :)

𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙢 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙥𝙡𝙚 𝙢𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙨

have fun with these :) | tag me if you use any bc i love seeing what you guys write!!

Knowing everything about each other down to the smallest detail, like a favorite color or food.

Holding hands / touching each other as a reflex.

Being able to sit in silence without it being uncomfortable because they’re already so used to each other.

Not needing to talk because every glance, touch and smile is already a conversation in and of itself.

Knowing exactly how to comfort each other when they’re upset.

Having a ton of inside jokes that make absolutely no sense to anyone around them, but still sends them into fits of laughter.

Making mundane tasks like grocery shopping and cleaning fun just by being around each other.

Recalling some of the most important parts of their relationship, like the day they first met.

Having their own language made up of gestures and looks.

Sharing almost everything with each other, like hobbies or something they found funny.

Perfectly fitting into each other’s routine, and becoming an integral part of each other’s life.

#imagine your otp #otp prompts #writing prompts #fluff #fluff prompts #𝙨𝙠𝙚𝙩𝙘𝙝 𝙖𝙣𝙨𝙬𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙖𝙨𝙠𝙨

3K notes · View notes

dragon-ascent · 11 months ago

Text

Xianyun had learned that Rex Lapis was having the time of his life living as a mortal in Liyue Harbor, but couldn't figure out why.

She loved humanity, but upon moving to the harbor to emulate them herself, she quickly realised how wide the gulf was between immortal leisure and mortal struggles. Taxes...mortgages...customs that had been watered down through the centuries, morphing into ideals and practices that Xianyun could barely recognise. And as impressive as the Jade Chamber was (though the crane was too proud too admit it), there seemed to be a dearth of intriguing mechanisms and contraptions that could hope to hold a candle to Xianyun's own wondrous inventions.

And she had to find a job to be able to earn Mora to exchange for goods and services?! Surely even one as patient and accepting as Rex Lapis would find many of these day-to-day human tasks quite tedious, no? So then why...

She's pulled out of her thoughts by the unmistakable sound of Rex Lapis' laughter, ringing like ceremonial bells that could render even the most chaotic of crowds silent in reverence. Intrigued, she follows the sound and finds him sitting on some steps - but he's not alone.

You're sitting beside him, sidled up to him and chatting away animatedly, your words prompting even more pleasant laughter from the old god. He's feeding you little bites of almond jelly from a cup, keenly watching while you relish the taste. He lights up even more (Xianyun didn't think that was possible) when you give him a thumbs-up and lick your lips with a smile.

The emotion swirling in Rex Lapis' amber eyes...there is no doubt about it, it is love. Xianyun then notices the matching rings you and him wear, and suddenly it all falls into place.

It is you who makes even the mundane seem exciting to the god. When you have a beloved companion to brave the challenges of mortal life with, anything seems possible. Evidently Rex Lapis himself understands this, and that's why everyday, he comes home to you as the mortal named Zhongli, happily taking on the role of your husband.

Xianyun turns away from the scene, a newfound understanding dawning upon her. No wonder Rex Lapis always looks positively radiant these days.

#sini writes #zhongli #genshin impact #zhongli x reader #fluff #drabble #xianyun #rex lapis

2K notes · View notes

whoretan · 2 months ago

Text

ARK 45 | 03

Summary: One misstep spirals into chaos. An "audition," a quiet dinner—and suddenly, you’re in the lion's den, with secrets unraveling faster than you can catch your breath.

WC: 11.4k

Play me while you read.

Pairing: Club Owner/Mafia!Jungkook, Hitman!Reader (ft. Jimin)

tags: um, this is long af, shit is getting INTEEEENSE, everyone is up to no good, does this bitch have a degradation kink?

Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 (ur here)

Your heels click against the marble floor, each step echoing like a gunshot in your skull. The security guard barely glances up as you flash your ID, probably because you look like death warmed over.

You'd spent an hour in the shower trying to scrub away the feeling of Jimin's hands, his mouth against your skin. The memory burns through your mind like acid, making your stomach clench.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft ding that feels too cheerful for your current state of mind. You step inside, jabbing the button for the executive floor harder than what was necessary. Your reflection stares back at you from the mirrored walls, and you note with grim satisfaction that at least the bruises on your cheeks have faded to a dull pink. The ones on your shoulders, hidden beneath your crisp white blouse, are a different story.

The massive oak doors leading to Jimin's office loom at the end of the hallway like sentries. You force yourself to look away, focusing instead on the mundane task of settling into your desk and powering up your computer.

Your phone vibrates in your purse, making you jump. Unknown number. Odd. You consider letting it go to voicemail, but something makes you answer.

"Hello?"

"Joanna Webb?" A smooth female voice asks. Your stomach drops at the fake name. No fucking way. "This is Jessica from ARK 45. Mr. Jeon would like you to come in for a second interview tonight at 11."

Your throat goes dry. Jimin's office doors seem to mock you from down the hall, holding secrets you'd rather forget.

"Miss Webb?" The woman prompts. "Are you there?"

"Yes," you hear yourself say. "I'll be there."

You end the call, fingers trembling slightly as you lower the phone. The familiar ding of your email draws your attention to the screen.

Dear Park Incorporate, This is the Goutman Courier Services, regarding Shipment 401928 to the Terrero region has been successfully delivered.

The blood in your veins turns to ice. Jungkook's shipments. The very thing that started this whole mess.

You stand from your desk, legs unsteady. The walk to Jimin's office feels like a death march. Each step brings you closer to facing him, to pretending last night never happened while discussing business that could— probably will— get you both killed.

Your knuckles rap against the solid wood before you can lose your nerve.

"Come in."

Jimin's voice carries through the door, professional and detached. As if he hadn't left bruises on your skin just hours ago. As if you weren't still feeling the ghost of his touch with every breath.

You turn the handle, stepping into the lion's den.

The first thing you notice is the sound– rain beating against the floor-to-ceiling windows that line the back wall of his office. The second is the scent of his cologne, stronger now, mixing with the rich leather of his chair and something else. Coffee, maybe. Black, no sugar, like always.

Jimin doesn't look up from the stack of papers on his desk. His shoulders are rigid beneath his tailored suit jacket, an unusual tension in his normally fluid posture. A strand of black hair falls across his forehead as he signs something with careful precision.

"You received an email," you say, voice steady despite the way your pulse quickens when his pen stills. "Goutman Courier Services. The shipment to Terrero was delivered."

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. Still, he doesn't look up. "Close the door."

You turn, giving him your back as you push the heavy door shut. The soft click of the latch feels too loud in the quiet office. When you face him again, his eyes are fixed on the papers before him, but his pen hasn't moved.

"Anything else?" he asks, tone professionally distant. As if he hadn't left marks all over your body mere hours ago. As if you couldn't still feel the ghost of his fingers wrapped around your throat.

Thunder rolls outside, making the windows tremble. You take a measured step forward, heels sinking into the plush carpet. "ARK 45 called. They want me to come in tonight."

Now he looks up. His dark eyes find yours, and for a moment, that careful mask of indifference slips. Something hungry flashes across his features before he can catch it, gone so quickly you might have imagined it.

"Interesting." He leans back in his chair, finally abandoning the pretense of working. His fingers drum once against the leather armrest – the only tell that he's affected at all. "What time?"

"Eleven."

His gaze drifts to your neck, lingering just behind your ear. A slight furrow appears between his brows. "You missed one."

Heat crawls up your spine as his meaning registers. The hickey. You resist the urge to touch the spot, to cover it like a guilty teenager. Instead, you maintain eye contact, watching as his pupils dilate slightly.

"I'll take care of it," you say, voice low. Professional. Even as your skin burns under his scrutiny.

He nods once, sharp and dismissive. "That's all."

You turn to leave, focusing on keeping your steps measured, unhurried. The weight of his stare follows you across the room like a physical touch. Just as your fingers brush the door handle, his voice stops you.

"And ___?"

You pause, not turning around. "Yes?"

A beat of silence, filled only by the steady drumming of rain. Then, so quiet you almost miss it: "Be careful."

The words settle between your shoulder blades like a blade.

The handle feels like ice beneath your palm as you pull the door shut behind you. Your heels click against the marble with each step back to your desk, mind racing behind your carefully blank expression.

Be careful.

The words replay in your mind as you sink into your chair. Coming from Jimin, they may as well be a death sentence. He doesn't tell you to be careful– not when you're tracking targets, not when you're disposing of bodies, not even when you're playing with fire in the form of Richard Ricci's empire.

Why would Jungkook want you back?

The question pulses through your mind as you stare unseeing at your computer screen. He'd made it crystal clear what he thought of you. Called you a whore before walking away like you were nothing more than a mild inconvenience in his night.

But he'd known who you were.

He'd known, and he'd still let you grind against him, his hands guiding your hips like he owned them. Like he wasn't fully aware that those same hips had been positioned over his father's body weeks before.

Rain continues to pour outside your window, the sky growing darker as evening approaches. You spend the rest of the day moving through the motions of being a secretary, all while your mind dissects every possible angle. Every potential trap. Every way this could end with you in a body bag.

Your reflection catches in one of ARK 45's tinted windows as you approach. The black dress hugs every curve, falling just below your knees, the off-shoulder neckline exposing enough skin to be enticing without looking desperate.

You'd curled your hair, letting it fall in waves behind your shoulders, and painted your lips the exact shade of red that coats the bottoms of your Louboutins.

The neon sign bleeds red through the rain, and the bouncer simply nods, same from before, pulls the door open without a word. No clipboard. No questions.

They're expecting you.

The main floor of ARK 45 pulses with a different energy tonight. Gone are the typical strobe lights and pounding bass, replaced by something deeper, darker. The air is thick with expensive cologne, cigar smoke, and worn leather- the scent of old money and even older sins.

Red velvet drapes frame the main stage, and crystal chandeliers cast shadows that dance across the walls like wandering spirits. The usual poles have vanished, leaving an expanded platform dotted with vintage microphones and elaborate props.

Men in tailored suits crowd the tables, drinking amber liquid from crystal glasses while their eyes follow the girls who weave between tables in elaborate costumes - corsets dripping with jewels, feathers that trail behind them like oil spills.

"This way," the hostess says, leading you toward one of the elevated booths that line the upper level.

A voice like honey and smoke fills the space, drawing your attention to the stage. A woman in a black corset trails her fingers down the microphone stand, her red lips forming words that make the men below her lean forward in their seats. The backing track builds slowly, promising something sinful.

"You must be the new girl."

You turn to find a woman leaning against the railing beside you. Her costume- if you can call it that - consists mainly of strategically placed crystals and black lace. A snake tattoo winds up her thigh, disappearing beneath the lace.

"I'm Angelina," she says, eyes scanning you with the kind of attention usually reserved for identifying weaknesses. Her gaze lingers on your shoes, your dress, calculating something behind her practiced smile. "Haven't seen you around before."

You take her offered hand. "Joanna."

"Hmm." She tilts her head, studying you like a cat who's found something interesting to play with. "Private booth on your first night? That's... unusual."

The word carries weight, a warning wrapped in curiosity. On stage, the singer's voice builds to a crescendo, and Angelina's smile sharpens.

"Enjoy the show, honey. And remember,” she leans in close enough that her breath tickles your ear, "not everyone survives their first night here."

You watch Angelina sashay away, cataloging every detail with the same precision you use before a kill. The slight favor of her left leg when she walks- old injury, probably a torn ACL. The way her eyes dart periodically to the VIP section as if she's waiting for someone's attention. The calculated swing of her hips doesn't match the nervousness in her fingers as they tap against her thigh.

She's scared of something. Or someone.

The realization brings a familiar thrill to your spine, the same one you'd felt watching John squirm in his chair. People are always so easy to read when they're afraid. Like now, watching the way Angelina keeps glancing over her shoulder, the slight tremor in her practiced smile.

You could break her in half without smudging your lipstick.

The thought brings a smile to your face as the hostess gestures to the booth. You slide into the plush leather seat, letting the elevation give you a better vantage point of the club. The strategic positioning isn't lost on you- perfect view of the stage, but your back exposed to the door.

The opening notes of "Fever" fill the air as the curtains part. Three dancers emerge, their movements liquid and practiced. You force yourself to appear engaged even as your mind dissects every possible exit route. Two through the main floor, one through the kitchen if you cut through the service corridor, and, if things get really ugly, the large windows could work with enough momentum.

The leather seat dips beside you.

"I was starting to think you wouldn't show."

Your blood turns to ice in your veins. You don't need to turn to know who's joined you, his presence alone sets every instinct on high alert. But you do turn because that's what an innocent wannabe dancer would do.

Jungkook lounges against the leather like he was born to it, one arm draped across the back of the seat. Close enough to touch. Close enough to kill. His dark eyes find yours, and his lips curve into that same arrogant smile that had haunted you all day.

"I always keep my appointments, Mr. Jeon."

The lights from the stage catch on his Patek Philippe watch, the kind that costs more than most people make in a year. His black suit is perfectly tailored, each line custom cut to his frame, making him look like sin personified. The fabric shifts like liquid shadow as he moves, revealing the crisp white shirt beneath. His hair is slicked back tonight, showcasing the sharp angle of his jaw, the dangerous curve of his lips.

A heavy silver ring adorns his right hand as he signals for service, the same hand that had gripped your hips days ago. You notice there's an engraving on it, but can't make out the details in the dim lighting.

"Champagne," he tells the server without taking his eyes off you. "The Armand de Brignac."

His voice carries that same arrogant lilt from before, but there's something else there now. Something predatory lurking beneath the polished surface. You've heard that tone before, in your own voice, right before you go for the kill.

"Expensive taste," you comment, watching his reaction. Testing.

His lips quirk upward, and he shifts slightly closer. The movement is subtle, calculated. Like a snake coiling before it strikes. "I only invest in things that interest me."

On stage, the dancers move through their routine, all glitter and grace. But you're hyperaware of every micro-expression that crosses Jungkook's face. The slight tightening around his eyes when he smiles. The controlled way he breathes. The steady rhythm of his thumb taps against his knee.

He's studying you just as intently.

"Tell me about your dance experience," he says, accepting two crystal flutes from the returning server. The champagne glows golden in the low light as he hands you a glass. "You seem... experienced in movement."

Your fingers brush his as you take the glass, and you swear you feel him tense for a fraction of a second. "I'm versatile," you reply, matching his tone. "I adapt to whatever the situation requires."

Something dark flashes behind his eyes. He takes a slow sip of champagne, and you watch his throat work as he swallows. When he lowers the glass, his tongue darts out to catch a stray drop on his bottom lip.

"Adaptability is crucial in this line of work." His gaze drops to your neck, lingering on the spot where you'd covered the hickey. "Things can get... intense here. Not everyone can handle the pressure."

The implications hover in the air between you, sharp as razor wire. Below, the music swells to a crescendo, but all you can hear is the blood rushing in your ears as he leans closer.

"Are you sure you can handle it, Joanna?"

The way he says your fake name makes your skin crawl. Like he's savoring some private joke.

You meet his gaze over the rim of your glass, letting the champagne sit untouched. "I've handled more intense situations than you could imagine, Mr. Jeon."

The corner of his mouth twitches. He shifts again, angling his body toward yours, and the expensive fabric of his suit brushes against your bare shoulder. The contact sends electricity racing down your spine.

"Have you?" His eyes are impossibly dark in the low light. "Tell me about them."

On stage, one of the dancers lets out a sultry laugh that echoes through the club. Jungkook doesn't even blink. His attention is laser-focused on you, waiting for your next move like this is all some elaborate game of chess.

"My last position was..." you pause, watching his ring catch the light as his fingers tighten infinitesimally around his glass, "particularly demanding. The kind of job that keeps you up at night."

His smile grows wider, showing teeth. "I can imagine. But that's what I appreciate in my employees— dedication. The willingness to do whatever it takes."

The music shifts to something slower, heavier with bass. Jungkook's knee brushes yours under the table, and this time it doesn't feel accidental.

"Even if it means getting your hands dirty?" you ask, the words escaping before you can stop them.

Something flashes in his eyes, triumph, maybe. Or hunger. He leans in close enough that you can smell his cologne, feel the heat radiating from his body.

"Especially then," he murmurs, voice dropping an octave. "Though I have to admit, you don't strike me as someone afraid of a little mess."

Your heart pounds against your ribs as he reaches across you, arm brushing your collarbone as he sets his empty glass on the table. The movement brings his lips close to your ear.

"Tell me, Joanna," your false name drips from his tongue like honey-coated poison, "what exactly are you willing to do for this position?"

The question hangs between you like a blade. You turn your head slightly, meeting his gaze at close range. This close, you can see flecks of gold in his dark eyes, the faint scar above his eyebrow. Can count his individual lashes.

"Whatever's necessary," you breathe, watching his pupils dilate. "I'm very... thorough in my work."

His exhale ghosts across your lips. "Are you?" One hand slides from the back of the booth to rest on your bare shoulder, fingers tracing patterns that feel like threats. "Even when it gets messy?"

The touch burns through your skin, but you hold still. Like facing down a predator. "The messier the better, Mr. Jeon."

His grip tightens fractionally on your shoulder. "Call me Jungkook."

On stage, the music builds to something primal, all bass and breathy moans. The dancer's silhouette writhes against the backdrop of red velvet. But in your booth, time seems to stop, crystallizing around the dangerous game you're playing.

"You know," his thumb brushes your collarbone, "I had someone look into your background."

Your pulse skips, but you don't flinch. Can't flinch. "Find anything interesting?"

His laugh is low, dark. The kind of sound that promises violence. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing before six months ago." His fingers trail up to the spot behind your ear where Jimin's mark had been. "It's like you appeared out of thin air."

"Maybe I did."

"Or maybe," he leans impossibly closer, lips brushing your ear, "you're very good at covering your tracks."

Heat pools in your stomach, warring with the ice in your veins. Every instinct screams to put distance between you, to run. But you're trapped between his body and the leather seat, his cologne filling your lungs with each breath.

"Tell me, Jungkook," you turn your head, letting your lips brush his jaw as you speak, "do you always investigate your dancers so thoroughly?"

His other hand finds your knee beneath the table, fingers splaying across bare skin. "Only the interesting ones." His grip tightens, thumb stroking slow circles that make your breath catch. "Only the ones with secrets."

You feel his smile against your temple. "And you, Joanna? You seem like you're full of them."

His thumb continues its torturous path along your knee, each circle drawing slightly higher. The touch burns through your skin like a brand, setting every nerve ending alight. You can't remember the last time someone made you feel this unraveled, this desperate to maintain control while your body betrays every attempt at composure.

"So many secrets," he murmurs against your skin, and you can feel his smile widening. His cologne fills your lungs with each shortened breath, making your head spin. Or maybe that's from the heat of his palm sliding higher up your thigh, fingers splaying possessively across bare skin.

The rational part of your brain screams that this is dangerous, that you're losing control of the situation. But your treacherous body leans into his heat like a moth to flame. Your eyes flutter shut as his other hand traces patterns on your shoulder that feel like ownership, like promises of violence wrapped in silk.

His breath fans across your neck, lips barely grazing your pulse point. "I wonder what other surprises you're hiding."

A small sound escapes your throat- half gasp, half surrender. Your fingers grip the leather seat beneath you, nails digging in deep enough to leave crescents in the expensive material. The music from the stage feels distant, muffled under the sound of blood rushing in your ears.

Then. A shift.

The pressure of his fingers lessens incrementally. His breath moves away from your neck, the loss of heat making you suppress a shiver. When you force your eyes open, he's leaning back slightly, watching you with dark satisfaction.

"Tell me something," he says, voice dropping lower as his hand stills on your thigh. "Do you always get this... affected during job interviews?"

The question cuts through the haze like ice water. You watch as he withdraws completely, each movement deliberate and controlled. He straightens his perfect suit jacket, adjusts the heavy silver ring on his finger. All trace of intimacy bleeds from his expression, replaced by cool professionalism, except his eyes. His eyes still burn with dark amusement at your flushed state, at the way your chest still rises and falls too quickly.

"Well," he says, tone shifting to something lighter, almost casual. But there's a edge underneath, sharp as a razor. "I think you'll make an excellent addition to ARK 45."

You force your breathing to steady, trying to ignore how your skin still tingles where he touched you. How your body aches at the sudden loss of contact. His calculated withdrawal feels like another form of torture, knowing he can affect you this way and simply choose to stop, like flipping a switch.

"The position is yours, if you want it." Each word is crisp, businesslike. But the slight quirk of his lips betrays his satisfaction at your struggle to compose yourself. "You'll start tomorrow night. Eight sharp."

The smirk playing at the corners of his mouth grows wider as he watches you process this shift. This is what he wanted: to prove he could unmake you with a touch, then sit there looking perfectly composed while you try to piece yourself back together.

His eyes gleam in the low light, and the message is clear: he owns this game.

"I should check on the other girls." He glances at his Patek Philippe, the gesture unnecessarily theatrical. "Busy night."

You watch him stand, every movement fluid and precise. Like a predator who's finished playing with his food for now. The leather of his shoes catches the stage lights as he steps back from the booth, giving him just enough space to button his suit jacket with practiced ease.

"Oh, and Joanna?" The fake name rolls off his tongue like a threat wrapped in velvet. "Wear red tomorrow. It suits you."

His eyes drift pointedly to your lips, then lower, and the weight of his gaze feels like a physical touch. You know he's remembering the other night - you in that red dress, grinding against him to The Weeknd while he played along with your charade.

He turns without waiting for a response, without a second glance. Like you're already forgotten. The dismissal stings more than it should.

The leather seat still holds his warmth, a ghost of his presence that makes your skin prickle. Through the crowd below, you catch glimpses of him, the broad line of his shoulders, the predatory grace in his movements. Bodies part for him instinctively, and you notice how the other dancers' eyes follow his movement, some with hunger, others with barely concealed fear. Even Angelina straightens her spine when he passes.

He stops at the bar, and even from here, you can see how the bartender's hands shake slightly as she pours his drink. Everyone in his orbit seems to vibrate at a different frequency. Like planets circling a black hole, both drawn to and terrified of getting too close.

You press your own trembling fingers against the cool glass table, watching condensation gather beneath your skin. Your thigh still burns where he touched you, each point of contact a silent reminder of how easily he'd played you.

You're supposed to be better than this. You've tortured men twice his size without breaking a sweat. Have ended lives with the same hands that are now unsteady against the table's surface. The Viper doesn't get rattled by pretty boys in expensive suits.

Except Jungkook isn't just a pretty boy, is he?

The way he'd touched you, like he knew exactly how it would affect you. How he'd pulled back at the precise moment you started to lose control. Each word, each gesture calculated for maximum impact.

Wear red tomorrow.

Your lip catches between your teeth as you watch him disappear into his office. The entire interaction plays on loop in your mind: his fingers on your skin, that dangerous smile, the sudden shift to cool professionalism. Like a choreographed dance where you'd somehow missed half the steps.

On stage, the dancers transition into something slower, more sensual. The spotlight catches on their jewels, sending fractured light across the walls like broken glass. Like the shattered pieces of your usually impeccable composure.

What kind of game is he really playing?

The champagne bubbles mock you from their crystal prison, and you resist the urge to knock the glass over. To create some small chaos in his perfectly controlled world. Instead, you dig your nails deeper into your palms, using the sharp pain to center yourself.

Two can play at whatever this is. Tomorrow night, you'll be ready for him.

At least, you hope.

The untouched champagne mocks you as you finally push yourself up from the booth. Your legs feel steadier now, the trembling in your hands replaced by something more familiar: determination. Tomorrow, you'll be ready for whatever game Jungkook's playing. Tonight, you just need to get the fuck out of here.

The music thrums through your bones as you navigate the upper level, each step carefully measured in your Louboutins. The red soles flash with every movement, reminding you of his parting words.

Wear red tomorrow.

Your heel catches on the last step down from the VIP section when a solid wall of expensive fabric collides with you. The sound of glass shattering cuts through the music, followed by a string of creative expletives.

"What the fuck?"

You steady yourself against the railing, taking in the man before you. Honey-blonde hair, sharp features twisted in fury, and a white button-down now soaked through with what smells like top-shelf whiskey. The liquid darkens the fabric, making it cling to what's clearly an expertly muscled frame.

"Watch where you're fucking walking," he snarls, accent thick with anger. His eyes flash dangerously as he assesses the damage to his clothes.

Something hot and familiar rises in your chest. The same feeling you get right before you make someone bleed. Your body shifts automatically, weight transferring to the balls of your feet. You catalog his weaknesses with practiced ease - the slight favor of his left side, the exposed tendons in his neck, the way his anger makes him drop his guard.

Three moves. That's all it would take to put him on his knees. Heel to instep, elbow to throat, knee to solar plexus. You can almost taste the violence, feel the satisfying crunch of cartilage beneath your hands.

"Maybe you should watch where you're going," you snap back, straightening to your full height. "Or is spatial awareness not a requirement for whatever it is you do here?"

His eyes narrow, jaw clenching. "Do you have any idea who I am?"

Your fingers curl into a fist, nails biting crescents into your palm. The urge to hurt him pulses through your veins like poison. You imagine grabbing the broken glass at his feet, showing him exactly who you are by opening his throat right here on the club floor.

He notices your stance, the predatory stillness that's overtaken your body, and his lips curve into something cruel. "Go ahead, sweetheart. Try it."

You're moving before you can think better of it, body coiling like a spring. The distance between you closes to inches, and you can smell the whiskey on his breath, see the moment his eyes widen as he realizes his mistake in challenging you.

But then you catch it— movement in your peripheral vision. In the VIP section above, Jungkook lounges against the railing, watching the scene unfold with undisguised amusement. His dark eyes meet yours, and that familiar smirk plays at his lips.

The reminder of where you are, who you're supposed to be, hits like cold water.

You force your body to relax, untangling yourself from the knife's edge of violence. The smile you plaster on feels like broken glass in your mouth. "I'm so sorry about your shirt. Send me the cleaning bill?"

The blonde's eyebrows shoot up at your sudden shift in demeanor. He opens his mouth to respond, but Jungkook's voice cuts through the tension.

"Taehyung." Just the one word, but it carries weight. A warning, maybe. Or a command.

Taehyung's posture changes instantly, though the anger still simmers in his eyes. "We're not done," he mutters, low enough that only you can hear.

You watch him stalk toward the VIP section, those expensive shoes crushing broken glass beneath them. When you glance back up, Jungkook is still watching you. His grin widens like you've just confirmed something he suspected.

Like you've just played right into his hands.

The broken glass crunches beneath your heels as you turn away, forcing yourself to maintain an easy stride despite the adrenaline still coursing through your veins. You can feel Jungkook's eyes following your movement, heavy as a physical touch. But you don't look back. Won't give him the satisfaction.

The main floor feels suffocating now, with too many bodies, and too much perfume mixed with smoke and expensive liquor. Your skin prickles with awareness, hyperconscious of how many of these faces might report back to him. How many are watching your exit, cataloging every micro-expression?

The cool night air hits your face like salvation when you finally push through the entrance doors. Rain still falls in sheets, casting halos around the street lights and turning the sidewalk into a mirror of neon reflections. Your hair will be ruined, but you welcome the excuse to duck your head as you navigate to your car.

It's only when you're safely behind the wheel, rain drumming against the roof, that you let out the breath you've been holding. Your hands shake slightly as you pull out your phone, droplets of water falling from your hair onto the screen.

You stare at Jimin's contact for a long moment before typing:

Need to meet. Now.

The response comes before you can even set the phone down. One word, like a command:

Côte.

Of fucking course. Trust Jimin to pick the most pretentious restaurant in the city after the night you've had. The kind of place where the waiters look down their noses if you can't pronounce 'bouillabaisse' with the proper French inflection. Where they serve portions that wouldn't satisfy a toddler and charge more than your monthly ammunition budget for the privilege.

He's probably already there, sipping some overpriced wine and charming the staff with his perfect pronunciation while you sit here in rain-soaked designer wear, still trembling with the urge to break Taehyung's pretty face.

You start the engine, watching rain cascade down the windshield. In the rearview mirror, ARK 45's red glow bleeds into the night like an open wound.

Time to find out just how deep this one goes.

Côte buzzes with the quiet murmur of New York's elite, the soft clink of crystal, the whisper of expensive fabric, the gentle scrape of silver against bone china. Every table draped in pristine white cloth, every surface reflecting the warm glow of crystal chandeliers.

Jimin sits at a table dead center in the dining room, positioned like a king holding court. His suit is different from this morning, a black Tom Ford that probably costs more than a car. The rosary still hangs at his throat, catching light with each breath.

He doesn't look up from his wine when you approach, just gestures to the chair across from him with two fingers. The movement is elegant, casual. Terrifying.

"You're late," he says, voice pitched just loud enough to carry across the table. A waiter materializes beside you, pulling out your chair with practiced efficiency.

"Traffic." You slip into the seat, hyperaware of the other diners. A couple to your left celebrating an anniversary. Business meeting three tables over. Everyone within earshot of whatever game Jimin wants to play.

His eyes finally meet yours as he sets down his wine glass. "How was your evening?"

The question sounds innocent enough, but his gaze is sharp as a blade. Testing.

"Productive." You accept the wine list from the hovering waiter, not bothering to open it. "My interview went well."

"Wonderful." He smiles, the kind that makes people think of angels instead of demons. "The Château Latour, François. The 1982, I think."

The waiter's eyes widen slightly at the casual mention of a wine that costs more than he makes in a month. "Excellent choice, monsieur."

Jimin waits until François retreats before speaking again. "And the entertainment? Up to standard?"

You think of Jungkook's hands on your skin, of Taehyung's fury, of the violence you'd barely contained. "Exceptional. Though I had a small wardrobe malfunction."

His finger traces the rim of his glass, the motion hypnotic. Deliberate. "Nothing that can't be fixed, I hope?"

"No permanent damage." You hold his stare, refusing to look away first. "Though I might need to adjust my approach."

"Hmm." The sound is noncommittal, but his eyes darken fractionally. "The clientele can be... demanding. Particularly the regulars."

François returns with the wine, going through the elaborate ritual of presentation and pouring. Jimin maintains perfect posture, the picture of refined wealth, while you fight the urge to drain your glass in one go.

"I noticed," you say once the waiter disappears again. "One seemed particularly interested in my qualifications."

Jimin's lips curve slightly. "Natural talent tends to draw attention."

"The foie gras to start," Jimin tells François without consulting the menu. "For both of us." His eyes never leave your face, studying every micro-expression like he's reading a book written in your skin. "And perhaps you could tell me more about these... qualifications they found so fascinating."

You watch him take another sip of wine, the motion deliberately slow. The crystal catches the light, sending prisms across the white tablecloth between you. "Standard interview questions. Experience, availability, flexibility."

"Flexibility," he repeats, setting down his glass with precise care. "Essential in any new position."

A couple at the next table laughs at something, the sound jarring against the tension coiling between you and Jimin. He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on either side of his place setting. The position looks casual, but you recognize the predatory intent behind it.

"And the dress code?" His voice drops lower, intimate. "Did they have any specific requirements?"

Heat crawls up your neck as you remember Jungkook's parting words. Wear red tomorrow. "They seem to have strong opinions about color."

"Red, perhaps?" The corner of his mouth twitches. "It does suit you. Particularly when it's fresh."

Your wine glass freezes halfway to your lips. The double meaning hits like a slap, red like the dress he'd given you, red like the blood you spill for him. You force yourself to take a measured sip instead of throwing the contents in his perfect face.

"They also seemed interested in my... previous work experience."

"Did they?" Something dangerous flashes behind his eyes. "And how deep did that conversation go?"

François appears with the foie gras, arranging the plates with flourish. Jimin sits back, that angelic smile returning as he thanks the waiter in perfect French. But the moment François retreats, his expression shifts back to something hungrier.

"Every detail," he says softly, cutting into the foie gras with surgical precision. "I want to know every detail of how interested they were."

You mirror his movements, cutting into your own foie gras with deliberate care. "The owner took a particular interest."

"Did he?" Jimin's voice remains light, conversational, but his knuckles whiten slightly around his fork. "How hands-on of him."

The foie gras turns to ash in your mouth as you remember Jungkook's fingers on your thigh, that calculated intimacy. Jimin watches you swallow, his dark eyes catching every tell you're trying to hide.

"Very." You take another sip of wine to wash away the memory. "He has an interesting approach to personnel management."

The businessman three tables over laughs too loudly at something his companion says. Jimin doesn't even blink, his focus razor-sharp on your face. "I imagine he does. Did he share his management philosophy?"

Your thigh burns with phantom heat where Jungkook had touched you. Where Jimin had marked you the night before. "He believes in testing boundaries."

"Testing?" His tongue catches the word like it's something sweet. "Or crossing them?"

A waiter passes too close to your table, and you wait until the footsteps fade before responding. "Both, I think."

Jimin sets down his fork with careful precision, the small clink against fine china somehow ominous. "And did you let him?"

The question hangs between you like a blade. You know he's not really asking about Jungkook's tests, not entirely. The marks he left on your skin throb beneath your dress, a reminder of boundaries already crossed.

"I played my part," you say carefully, watching his eyes darken. "Though there was a small... incident with one of his associates."

His eyebrow raises a fraction. "Oh?"

"Nothing I couldn't handle."

"I'm sure." He reaches for the wine bottle, refilling your glass with practiced ease. The motion brings him closer, and his cologne mingles with the rich scent of the food. "Though handling things isn't always the wisest course of action, is it?"

"Depends on the situation," you say, watching him settle back into his chair. "Some things require a... delicate touch."

"Ah yes." His smile is razor-sharp. "And you're known for your delicacy. Like a bull in a china shop." His eyes flick to something over your shoulder. "Speaking of which, François? We'll take the lamb. Rare."

The waiter appears to clear your plates, and Jimin's expression shifts seamlessly into practiced charm. The transition is terrifying, the way he can slip between masks like trying on clothes.

"Though I have to admit," he continues once François disappears, "I'm curious about this associate. The one you handled so delicately."

You think of Taehyung's fury, the whiskey soaking his shirt. The way Jungkook had watched it all unfold like it was a show put on for his entertainment. "Just a minor misunderstanding."

"Misunderstanding." He tastes the word like the wine, letting it roll over his tongue. "The way a hurricane is a minor weather event?"

Heat crawls up your neck. "He started it."

"What are you, twelve?" But there's something almost fond in his mockery. It vanishes as quickly as it appears, replaced by that calculating stare. "Tell me, did our friend upstairs seem amused by your little display?"

The memory of Jungkook's knowing smirk makes your stomach clench. "Extremely."

"Mm." Jimin's fingers drum once against the stem of his wine glass. "How fascinating. The mighty Viper, reduced to bar room brawls and schoolyard excuses."

Your nails dig into your palm beneath the table. "Would you prefer I'd killed him instead? Made a scene? Blown my cover on the first—"

The word dies in your throat as Jimin's eyebrow arches a fraction. The subtle movement is more effective than a slap, reminding you of the couples dining nearby, the waiters hovering within earshot. Your voice had risen just enough to draw a curious glance from the businessman two tables over.

"What I prefer," Jimin says, voice dropping to barely above a whisper, "is precision. Control." His smile remains perfectly pleasant, but his eyes promise consequences. "Perhaps we should discuss your methods of subtlety instead? Besides attempting to assault his inner circle?"

The weight of his stare makes you reach for your wine glass, needing something to do with your hands. Something besides imagining how satisfying it would be to wipe that controlled expression off his face.

"Well?" He leans back slightly as François approaches with the lamb, switching seamlessly into the role of gracious diner. "Merci, François. C'est parfait."

The meat on your plate is exactly as he ordered, blood red in the center. You wonder if he's trying to make a point.

"The owner," you say once François retreats, keeping your voice carefully modulated. "He had questions about my background."

"I'm sure he did." Jimin cuts into his lamb with surgical precision. "And did our thorough friend find what he was looking for?"

The memory of Jungkook's words echoes in your mind: It's like you appeared out of thin air. "He seemed... satisfied with the interview."

"Satisfied enough to hire you, apparently." Something dangerous flashes behind his eyes. "Though I have to wonder what kind of performance earned such a quick decision."

The double meaning in his words makes your chest tight. You watch him take a deliberately slow bite of lamb, the crystal chandelier above casting shadows across his features that make him look almost demonic.

"I maintained my cover," you say carefully. "Like you asked."

His laugh is soft, barely a breath. "Did you? Because from what I hear, you gave quite the... private audition."

Your wine glass freezes halfway to your lips. How does he—

"I do love," he continues, dabbing his mouth with his napkin, "how dedicated you are to your roles. Tell me, did he request the same song as last time? Or did you choose something new for the occasion?"

Your fingers tighten around the crystal stem until you're half afraid it might shatter. Around you, the restaurant continues its elegant dance of clinking silverware and murmured conversations, oblivious to the way your world tilts on its axis.

"Don't look so shocked," Jimin says, cutting another piece of lamb with meticulous care. "Did you really think I wouldn't have eyes in his club? That I wouldn't hear about my secretary grinding against New York's most eligible bachelor to The Weeknd?"

Heat crawls up your neck, but you force yourself to maintain eye contact. "You sent me in there to get information."

"Information." He lets the word hang between you, sharp as a blade. "Is that what you were getting when he had his hands on your hips? When you were putting on a show for him in that pretty red dress I bought you?"

A waiter passes too close to your table, and you both pause, masks of polite dinner conversation sliding seamlessly into place. But the moment he's gone, Jimin's eyes turn predatory again.

"Tell me," he says, voice dropping lower, "did you enjoy it? Playing dress up for him? Letting him touch what's mine?"

The possession in his tone makes your stomach flip. You think of last night, of his hands on your skin, his teeth in your shoulder. Of how quickly he'd switched to cold professionalism this morning.

"What I am," you say carefully, "is whatever you need me to be for the job. Isn't that what you pay me for?"

His smile is all teeth. "Oh, sweetheart. I pay you to kill people. Everything else?" He takes a slow sip of wine, eyes never leaving yours. "That's just you getting carried away with your performance."

"Getting carried away?" The words taste like battery acid on your tongue. "Like last night, you mean? Was that part of the job too?"

His expression doesn't change, but something dark flashes behind his eyes. "Careful."

"Why?" You lean forward slightly, voice barely above a whisper. "Afraid someone might overhear how you bent your secretary over your windows? Or is it only a problem when Jungkook's the one touching me?"

François materializes at your elbow with dessert menus, and Jimin's face shifts into that perfect smile. "The crème brûlée, I think. Two." He waits until the waiter disappears before continuing, "You're playing a very dangerous game right now."

"I learned from the best." You watch his jaw tick at your tone. "Tell me something— did you plan it? Send me to his club in that dress, knowing what would happen?"

"And what exactly happened?" His fingers trace the base of his wine glass, the motion hypnotic and threatening all at once. "Besides you spreading your legs for the man who's trying to kill us both?"

"You're one to talk about spreading—"

"I own you." The words are soft, precise, but they hit like a physical blow. "Every breath, every move, every drop of blood you spill— it's all mine. Or did you forget that while you were auditioning for your new position?"

The businessman at the next table signals for his check. A woman laughs somewhere behind you. The normal sounds of the restaurant feel surreal against the electricity crackling between you and Jimin.

"How could I forget?" You smile, sweet as arsenic. "You make sure to remind me every time you send me to kill someone. Every time you dress me up like a doll and point me at your enemies. Tell me, is that what last night was? Another reminder of ownership?"

His pupils dilate slightly. "Would you like another one?"

The crème brûlée arrives in pristine white ramekins, the caramelized sugar gleaming like amber in the low light. You watch Jimin crack through the surface with his spoon, the sound sharp as breaking bones.

"You haven't answered my question." His voice is velvet-soft, lethal. "Would you like another reminder of who you belong to?"

"Here?" You gesture subtly to your surroundings with your own spoon. "In front of all these nice people? How scandalous, Mr. Park."

His eyes flash at your mocking tone. "You didn't seem concerned about scandal when you were putting on a show in Jungkook's office. Tell me, did he make you beg for the job? Or did you offer that up freely?"

"Jealousy doesn't suit you."

"Jealousy?" He laughs, the sound cutting through you like glass. "Why would I be jealous of him playing with what's already mine?"

Your spoon clinks against the ramekin harder than necessary. "Is that what I am? Your toy?"

"No, sweetheart." He leans forward, close enough that his breath fans across your face. "You're my weapon. And weapons don't get to choose where they're aimed."

"But they can misfire." The words slip out before you can stop them, sharp and dangerous in the space between you.

His smile grows slowly, predatory. "Is that a threat?"

"A reminder." You meet his gaze steadily. "Since you're so fond of those."

Something shifts in his expression, a crack in that perfect control. His hand moves under the table, and suddenly his fingers are wrapping around your knee, right where Jungkook had touched you hours before.

"Careful," he says again, but this time it sounds like a promise. His grip tightens just shy of painful. "You're forgetting yourself."

"Am I?" You don't pull away from his touch, even as his fingers slide higher. "Or am I just reminding you that weapons can cut both ways?"

"You know what I think?" Jimin reaches for the wine bottle between you, his movements liquid and precise. "A good vintage is all about control."

He stands slightly, leaning across the table to refill your glass. The motion brings him close enough that his cologne mingles with the wine's bouquet, close enough that you can see the dangerous glint in his eyes.

"Too much pressure," he continues, angling the bottle with practiced ease, "and everything spills over."

The elderly couple at the next table glances over with polite interest, and Jimin's smile widens. He turns to them, bottle still poised above your glass.

"The '82 Latour," he says conversationally, like he isn't in the middle of threatening you. "Have you tried it? The tannins can be quite... overwhelming if not handled properly."

The woman practically preens under his attention. "Oh, how lovely. Richard, didn't we have that at the Bennett's last summer?"

"Indeed." Jimin's hand is perfectly steady as he finishes pouring your wine. "Though personally, I find it's best to let it breathe. Some things require patience to reach their full potential." His eyes lock with yours as he settles back into his seat. "Wouldn't you agree?"

You take a deliberate sip of wine to avoid responding, watching him over the rim of your glass. The elderly couple continues to eye him appreciatively, completely unaware of the game he's playing.

"The key," he says, loud enough for them to hear, "is knowing exactly how much pressure to apply." His fingers drum once against the stem of his own glass. "Too little, and you waste its potential. Too much..." He trails off, smile sharpening. "Well, we wouldn't want that, would we?"

The elderly woman - who introduces herself as Margaret, practically glows under his attention. Her husband Richard nods along, completely taken in by Jimin's performance. You watch him work, recognizing this for what it is - another form of torture, drawn out in public where you can't do anything but sit and take it.

"Take my colleague here," he says, gesturing to you with his wine glass. "She has quite the... refined palate. Always willing to try new things."

Your fingers tighten around your own glass as Margaret turns her interest your way. "Oh, how wonderful! Are you in the wine business as well?"

"She's my secretary," Jimin answers before you can speak. "Though she's recently taken on some additional responsibilities. Haven't you, darling?"

The endearment drips like poison from his lips. You force a smile, playing your part in his little show. "I like to stay busy."

"She's being modest." Jimin swirls the wine in his glass, watching the light play through the dark liquid. "She's quite talented at... handling delicate situations. In fact, she has a new position starting tomorrow night."

Richard perks up at this. "Congratulations! Where will you be working?"

Your mouth goes dry as Jimin's eyes meet yours over the rim of his glass. He's really going to do this, discuss your cover job at a strip club with this sweet elderly couple in the middle of Côte.

"A very exclusive establishment," Jimin answers smoothly. "Members only. The owner is quite particular about his employees." His smile sharpens. "Especially the ones who perform."

Margaret claps her hands together. "Oh, how exciting! Is it that lovely new theater in Manhattan? Richard, what's it called? The one with the red lights?"

You nearly choke on your wine.

"Not quite," Jimin says, clearly enjoying your discomfort. "Though there are certainly theatrical elements involved. The costumes alone are quite memorable."

Your heel connects with his shin under the table— hard. His only reaction is a slight tightening around his eyes, but you feel a savage satisfaction at the contact.

"Speaking of memorable," he continues, not missing a beat, "you simply must try this vintage. François?" He signals the waiter with two fingers. "Please bring our friends here a taste of the Latour. On me."

Margaret tries to protest, but Jimin waves her off with practiced charm. "I insist. After all, some pleasures are best shared, wouldn't you agree?" This last part he directs at you, voice laden with meaning.

François arrives with fresh glasses, and you're forced to watch as Jimin guides the couple through the proper tasting technique. His voice is hypnotic as he describes the notes of black fruit, the hint of tobacco, the way it opens up on the palate.

"The true art," he tells them, "is in the finish. The way it lingers." His eyes find yours again. "Some things are designed to leave a lasting impression."

You think of the bruises hidden beneath your dress, of the marks he'd left on your skin. Of how he's marking you again now, in a completely different way.

"Of course," he adds, "not everyone appreciates such refinement. Some prefer their pleasures more immediate. Raw." He takes another slow sip. "But those tend to leave a bitter aftertaste."

The threat in his words is clear. Jungkook is beneath you. Beneath us.

"More wine?" He's already reaching for the bottle again, standing slightly to lean across the table. The motion brings his face close to yours, and his next words are pitched low enough that only you can hear them. "Since you seem so thirsty tonight."

Your pulse jumps at his proximity, at the dangerous edge in his voice that their audience can't detect. Margaret and Richard are too busy savoring their wine to notice the way Jimin's hand trembles slightly as he pours, the only sign that his perfect control might be slipping.

"Tell me," he says, loud enough for the table to hear again, "what do you think of the finish? Does it satisfy your particular tastes?"

The conversation is cut short with a ring erupting from Jimin’s suit pocket.

Namjoon's call lasts exactly thirty-seven seconds. You count them, watching Jimin's face remain perfectly composed as he listens. Only the slight whitening of his knuckles around the phone betrays anything amiss.

"When?" A pause. "I see."

He ends the call with the same precision he uses to end lives, clean, efficient, and final. The elderly couple barely notices when he signals François, too engrossed in their wine to catch the predatory shift in his movements.

As the valet brings his Bentley around, rain starting to fall in earnest now, he tells you Jiwon is missing. One of his most trusted men— gone. At the snap of a finger. This will be an issue for tomorrow.

You're already stepping toward your car when his voice cuts through the humid air.

"Get in."

Two words, soft as a bullet before it's fired.

The leather seat is cold against your back as you slide in beside him. He doesn't speak, doesn't even look at you as he pulls away from the curb. The engine purrs beneath you as he takes the first corner too fast, tires squealing against wet asphalt.

You watch him from the corner of your eye, cataloging each micro-expression like you would a mark before a kill. His jaw clenches and unclenches in a rhythm that matches the windshield wipers. The tendons in his neck stand out like rope under skin. His breathing comes slightly too quick, slightly too shallow.

A red light bathes the interior in crimson. He runs it.

Then another.

The city blurs past in streams of neon and shadow. You count his breaths, twenty-three too fast, fifteen too shallow. His fingers adjust on the steering wheel every forty-five seconds, like he's trying to maintain that last thread of control.

The elevator to his penthouse opens with a soft ding that feels too cheerful for the electricity crackling beneath his skin. An elderly woman with a small dog gets in on the thirty-fourth floor. You watch Jimin's mask slide seamlessly into place, perfect smile, perfect posture, perfect lie.

"Evening, Mrs. Chen."

His voice doesn't waver. Doesn't betray how his left hand trembles slightly at his side, how the muscle in his jaw jumps arrhythmically. The woman chatters about building maintenance as you climb higher, oblivious to the bomb ticking beside her.

Nintey-six floors have never felt so long.

The moment his door closes behind you, something shifts in the air. You can feel it - that last thread of control starting to fray. He stands perfectly still in the center of his living room, staring at nothing. At everything.

The first crack appears when he loosens his tie. The motion isn't smooth like usual - it's jerky, aggressive. He tears the silk from his throat like it's choking him.

Then his suit jacket. The fabric whispers against his shirt as he shrugs it off, letting it fall to the marble floor. You've never seen him treat clothing so carelessly.

His chest rises and falls too quickly now, each breath slightly more ragged than the last. You watch him rake fingers through his perfectly styled hair, destroying hours of careful grooming in seconds.

The lamp goes first.

The Tiffany piece you'd admired that night against his windows becomes a constellation of crystal across marble. The sound of its destruction seems to awaken something in him - something primitive and raw that's been lurking beneath his perfect surface.

You don't move when he disappears into his office. Don't flinch when he emerges with a baseball bat that looks wrong in his manicured hands. Just analyze the way his shirt pulls across his shoulders as he takes the first swing.

The glass coffee table explodes.

Then his flat screen, expensive and pristine like everything else in his life. The screen spiders with cracks before sparks fly from its dying circuits.

The grand piano becomes kindling under his methodical swings. Each string snaps with a discordant scream, like the instrument is dying. The sound mingles with his ragged breathing, creating a symphony of destruction.

His aim never wavers. Even in this, he maintains a terrible precision. The bat connects with his drink cart, sending bottles of thousand-dollar liquor cascading across marble. The scent of alcohol fills the air, bourbon and scotch and wine mixing with the ozone smell of destroyed electronics.

You catalog every detail with professional detachment. The way his white shirt darkens with sweat. How his perfectly pressed slacks tear slightly at the knee as he kicks through the wreckage. The precise angle of each swing, like he's conducting an orchestra of chaos.

When he finally stops, chest heaving and surrounded by destruction, you understand. This isn't about Jiwon disappearing. This isn't about business or territory or power.

This is about control slipping through his fingers like water.

Like you, dancing in Jungkook's office.

"He knew," Jimin says finally, voice raw. The bat clatters to the floor beside what used to be a Versace vase. "He fucking knew about Jiwon. About the ports. About—"

He cuts off, running shaking fingers through his ruined hair. You step carefully through the wreckage, glass crunching beneath your heels. He doesn't move as you approach, just stares at the devastation he's created like he's seeing it for the first time.

"This isn't about Jiwon," you say quietly.

His laugh is ugly, sharp enough to cut. "No." His eyes finally meet yours, and they're black holes in his too-pale face. "No it fucking isn't."

Liquor seeps into the hem of your dress as you stand in the wreckage, watching him piece himself back together. His chest still heaves with each breath, shirt clinging to his frame with sweat and effort. The perfectly styled hair you'd watched him ruin now falls across his forehead in damp strands.

He looks wild. Dangerous. More like the man who marks your skin than the one who signs your checks.

"You should go." The words come out rough, like they've been dragged across broken glass.

You don't move. Can't move. Something tells you this moment matters, that walking away now would shift something irreparable between you.

His eyes snap to yours, dark and feral. "I said—"

"No."

The word hangs in the air between you, sharp as the crystal shards beneath your feet. You watch his jaw clench, watch the muscle jump beneath skin that's too pale.

"You don't give the orders here." But his voice wavers slightly, betraying the cracks in his armor.

"Then give me one." You take another step closer, glass crunching beneath your heels. "Tell me what you need."

His laugh is all edges. "What I need?" He runs a hand through his ruined hair again, the gesture almost violent. "I need Jungkook's head on a fucking platter. I need to know how deep his reach goes. I need—"

He cuts off, throat working as he swallows whatever confession was about to spill out.

You're close enough now to smell his cologne mixed with sweat and spilled alcohol. Close enough to see the barely contained tremors in his hands, the wild pulse at his throat.

"Tell me." Your voice comes out softer than intended. "Tell me what you need."

His eyes lock onto yours, and for a moment you think he might grab you. Might press you against the wall and fuck you right here among the wreckage of his perfect life. Instead, he does something worse.

"Kill her."

The words slip out like a caress, barely above a whisper. You watch his face transform. the wild thing in his eyes crystallizing into something colder, more familiar.

"Miranda?" Your voice remains steady even as your pulse quickens. "She's not involved in this."

"Developing a conscience?" His smile is perfectly crafted to cut. "How disappointing. You've gotten too comfortable behind that desk, haven't you? Started believing your own cover story?"

The air feels thick, heavy with spilled alcohol and the ozone scent of destroyed electronics. A bead of sweat trails down your spine, making your dress cling uncomfortably.

"You're upset," you say carefully, watching his eyes darken at the observation.

"No, darling." He steps closer, glass crunching beneath his feet. "I'm just remembering what you really are. What I made you to be." His perfectly pressed shirt clings to his chest, dark with sweat. "A weapon. Nothing more."

"This isn't about me."

"Isn't it?" His breath comes quicker now, shallow. "You walk around my building like you belong there. Playing secretary, playing normal." He runs a hand through his ruined hair. "Have you forgotten what those hands are for? What you are?"

Heat prickles at the back of your neck. "I know exactly what I am."

"Do you?" He's close enough now that you can smell his cologne mixed with sweat and rage. "Because from where I'm standing, you look like someone who's forgotten their purpose. Who's started thinking they're more than just a tool."

"And you look scared."

The words hit like a physical blow. His chest stills mid-breath, eyes going dark as pitch.

"What did you say?"

A drop of sweat rolls down your temple. The air crackles between you, heavy with violence and something else. Something rawer.

"You're terrified," you press on, even as your pulse races. "Jungkook's in your head and you can't stand it. So you're here, breaking your own things, trying to break me too."

"Get out." His voice drops to something dangerous, something barely controlled.

"No."

"Get. Out." Each word comes with a step forward, backing you against the wall. "Before I remind you exactly what you are. What you're for."

You hold his stare, even as your heart threatens to break through your ribs. "You mean before you remind yourself that you're losing control?"

His hand slams into the wall beside your head, making you flinch. His breathing comes in harsh pants now, chest heaving with barely contained violence.

"Leave," he grits out, voice raw. "Now. Before I do something we'll both regret."

You can feel the heat radiating off him, see the muscle jumping in his jaw. The perfect mask has cracked completely, leaving something wild and desperate in its wake.

Around you, his perfect life lies in ruins.

So you go, leaving him alone in his destroyed kingdom, both of you pretending not to notice how his hands shake as you walk away.

The elevator descends in artificial silence, only the subtle whir of machinery accompanying your reflection in the mirrored walls. Your hair slightly mussed, lipstick somehow still perfect. Like the confrontation upstairs was just a nightmare your body hasn't woken from yet.

Forty-seven floors to ground level. You count each one, using the numbers to steady your pulse. To push down the urge to go back up there and show him exactly what his weapon can do.

The lobby stretches before you in shadow and marble, empty except for the night security guard who barely glances up from his crossword. Your heels mark time against the floor, each step echoing your thundering heartbeat - too fast, too hard, everything threatening to spill over.

Night air hits your face when you exit the building, carrying the metallic tang of recent rain. The city spreads before you in sharp contrasts - neon bleeding across wet pavement, shadows pooling between towers of steel and glass. You inhale slowly, tasting ozone and exhaust and that particular Manhattan mixture of ambition and decay.

Bass thuds from an upscale bar ahead, all crystal chandeliers visible through floor-to-ceiling windows. You catalog the exits reflexively, the cameras, the blind spots. Old habits.

"Well, look what we have here."

The voice slides through the darkness like oil. Taehyung leans against a sleek black Mercedes, all dangerous grace in expensive clothes. His white button-down is rolled to his elbows, exposing ink that maps stories across his skin.

You catalog his stance with professional detachment, the same way you'd studied John strapped to that chair. Weight slightly forward, shoulders loose, that same arrogant tilt to his head that says he has no idea what's coming.

"Not tonight." You move to pass him, but he shifts, blocking your path.

"What's wrong, sugar?" Smoke curls from his mouth as he speaks. "ARK not hiring tonight? Or did they finally realize what kind of trash they were letting through the door?"

Fuuuuuuck it.

The first hit is pure precision, heel of your palm to his solar plexus, angled up and in. Just like you'd done to that businessman in Dubai last year. The cigarette falls from his lips as he doubles over, giving you the perfect angle to bring your knee up into his face.

The crunch of cartilage under your kneecap sends electricity down your spine. It's different from torture, faster, rawer. No time to savor each break and tear. But there's something beautiful in this too, in letting the violence flow through you like water.

He swings wild, trained but sloppy. You duck under his arm, noting how his stance betrays formal training. Boxing maybe, some Muay Thai. Everything too clean, too structured. Not like you, you were taught to end things.

Your elbow finds his kidney with surgical precision. The same spot you'd pushed the knife into that politician in Seoul. His grunt of pain is poetry, the way he tries to protect his side leaving his throat exposed for another strike.

The Mercedes alarm wails as you slam him against it, but you're already moving, letting momentum carry you both into the shadows of the alley beside the bar. This is what you're good at, making violence look like a dance, like something beautiful instead of brutal.

He tries to grab you, to use his size advantage, but you're already inside his guard. Your knee finds his liver, your elbow his temple. Each point of impact chosen with the same care you use when selecting knives for a job.

Your dress rides up as you move, but you don't care. This is what you are, not the secretary in designer clothes, not the dancer in red. This is your true face, painted in someone else's blood.

When he finally drops, you follow him down. One hand fists in his honey-blonde hair while the other draws back. His face is a masterpiece of destruction, nose crushed, lip split, eye already swelling shut. The kind of methodical damage that comes from years of practice.

You lean in close, letting him smell the Chanel on your breath mixed with his own blood. "Next time you decide to threaten me," your voice drops to barely above a whisper, "make sure you're ready for what comes after."

You leave him there, crumpled among garbage bags and broken glass. Your knuckles throb as you smooth your dress, check your reflection in a darkened window. A single drop of blood mars your cheek, you wipe it away with your thumb, watching it disappear into your skin like all evidence of violence eventually does.

The city swallows you back into its rhythm, the pulse of music from nearby clubs, the whisper of tires on wet asphalt, the steady beat of your heels against concrete. You rejoin the flow of normal people living their normal lives, carrying your savage satisfaction like a secret beneath your skin.

This is what you are. What you're for.

And for once, that doesn't feel like a curse.

#jungkook fanfic #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #ark 45 #jungkook bts #jungkook au #jeon jungkook #jungkook x reader smut #jungkook x oc #jeon jungkook x reader #jimin x reader #jimin #bts jimin #bts fanfic #bts x reader

311 notes · View notes

ericscroptop · 1 month ago

Text

Work Hard, Play Harder

✧ pairing: bf! sunwoo x gf! reader

✦ genre: smut w/ hints of fluff

✧ warnings: 18+ (minors DNI), smut, p!rn without plot, inexperienced and a bit shy reader, nervous/insecure about sex, fingering, dirty talk, c!m tasting from both, praising, pet names, cursing, kissing, marking, fluff

✦ word count: 5.4k words

✧ synopsis: you laying on his bed is so enticing. he can’t help that he wants to play with you and show your fried brain a little fun.

◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡ ◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡ ◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡ ◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡ ◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡ ◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡ ◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡

How foolish of you to think even for a second that you’d be able to get homework done with Kim Sunwoo in the same room?

Normally, you’d get your assignments and whatnot done in isolation because you work best with minimal-to-zero distractions. But today, you’ve somehow let Sunwoo convince you to do homework in his bedroom.

The past couple days, you hadn’t seen your boyfriend much. Schedules were opposite and conflicting, so it was only today that each of you had a slot of free time.

Still, you recalled that you had a task to complete before a deadline that was approaching. The sooner you finished it, the better.

Today seemed like a perfect day to lock in, but Sunwoo kept texting you that he missed you so much, insisting you two should hang out.

While you also missed him, it would be the smarter choice to get your homework done before you hangout with him. Which, is what you tried to tell him. But while you were mid-text, he was already knocking on your door.

You lectured him for bothering you, knowing you’d fold for his big pleading eyes, plump pouty lips, and his sweet voice.

Next thing you know, he’s telling you to grab your laptop and book bag, and driving you over to his place to work on schoolwork together. There’s a few assignments he should probably get around to doing anyways, too. So, a study date it is then!

That’s how you found yourself lying on your stomach over his bed, head facing the end of it, laptop and other essentials spread out in front. Meanwhile, he sat with his back against his pillows and headboard, laptop sitting over his lap.

After about an hour of having small snacks, chatting, and catching up from the days you’ve been apart, (which is exactly why you needed to be locked up alone to avoid distractions like him), you sighed when you realized the time you let pass and recalled what you were supposed to be doing in the first place.

Perhaps it was good to recharge with Sunwoo before getting to work; that way, you both at least got some of that pent-up excitement out from not seeing each other.

Well… that’s what you had hoped.

Now, you each settled into your own spots on his bed, a blended playlist of you guys’ current favorite songs playing faintly in the back via his laptop. Some sound was needed to fill the silence while you two worked.

You bounced from tab to tab on your screen while you began researching and citing quotes for the paper you’re working on. It’s tedious and frustrating to craft it, but you’re determined to write a mean paper that’ll hopefully get you an A.

Every now and then, you’d just stare at your screen blankly, complaining mentally in discouragement, or trying to conjure up ideas for the way you phrase your next sentences. But in other moments, you get inspired and furiously type away, getting into the groove of having ideas flow out smoothly.

Sunwoo smiles to himself when he hears your fingers clicking the keys at an unremitting rhythm. It seems like you know what you’re doing, when in contrast, his discussion post prompt is sending daggers at him, patiently waiting for him to actually start it.

It’s not difficult to become distracted, especially given the fact that he’s doing something mundane like homework. It’s such a chore, one that was crucial to his academic success.

Bullshitting his assignment or procrastinating even more sounds inviting. Even you had your moments where you don’t try as hard and leave things till last minute because it’s exhausting to even think about. But Sunwoo said you guys would do homework, so he should get on it.

Your form working diligently on his bed only distracted him further. How could he focus when watching your engrossed state looked more appealing?

He’s unable to see your face of concentration, only listening to the occasional exasperated groans that would leave your throat, and watching the way your feet would sway in the air in different directions, at various tempos and patterns. He’s noticed how fidgety you’d get sometimes, particularly with your legs. Your feet also would rub together and draw shapes into his comforter while you worked.

It’s endearing to watch your habits, not aware that he has disregarded his discussion post to admire you instead.

As he’s observing the way your legs roamed freely, he shamelessly starts to wander his eyes over the rest of your body.

Since all you planned for today was to be swamped in your paper, you dressed comfortably. A baggy t-shirt and sweat shorts was your attire of the day.

Your legs are left exposed. He soaks in the detailing of your skin, and runs his eyes to your bottom.

Sunwoo likes to think he’s a respectful man, and you’d definitely agree. He’s always patient with you, respecting your boundaries and has always been a gentleman. He treats you like any other human— with kindness, but is extra affectionate and clingy because he’s obsessed with you.

He thinks highly of you. While he loves you for your personality and quirks, he also sees you as visually stunning. His heart pumps fondly and blood rushes when he eyes your physical features.

While decorous, he has to admit that he does stare at various parts of you for a little too long. How could he not in situations like now, where your rear is facing him? Somehow, your oversized shirt bunched upwards, leaving the swell of your ass for his viewing pleasure.

Even though you were clearly clothed, he still had an imagination. He started picturing how your ass would look unveiled. Thinking about exploring every curve of your body with his lips and hands. Wondering about what delicious sounds you’d make when doing naughty things with him.

Unconsciously, you were tantalizing him.

His mind is going towards the gutter. You’re just trying to write your paper like the good student you were, while he was yearning for some attention from you. You were on the bed together, but you made it clear you meant business.

Though, Sunwoo doesn’t think he can wait much longer to hold you for as long as he pleases.

“Baby, can you read this real quick for me?” he suddenly asks. His eyes are entreating as they look at the back of your head. He still has yet to write a single word for his assignment, meaning he just came up with an excuse for you to pay any mind to him. His laptop isn’t even over him anymore; it’s been pushed to the side.

“Gimme a sec.” you uttered, fingers typing quickly and face still directed towards your screen.

He grins mischievously in the short amount of time you finish writing out one last sentence before switching your focus towards him. The grin falters into a faint smile once you fully turn around, scooting up until you’re right next to him.

“You actually got some work done? I’m impressed.” you scoffed, prepared to read his assignment.

You see he doesn’t bring his laptop to his lap or hand it over to you, making you raise your brows in question. Instead, he makes the move of pulling you in between his legs.

“Hey! What are you doing! Stop—” you choked out but interrupted yourself with broken giggles due to how ticklish you were.

Your heart was pounding, startled and delirious as your form was now in between his legs. His arms wrapped around your waist, holding you firmly with your back pressed against his chest.

His chin settles into your shoulder, turning his head to graze his lips over the shell of your ear.

“You’ve been working too hard. Let’s take a break, hm?”

You’re stiff as hell. You guys have kissed one another, made out, cuddled, took naps together, etc., but your body and mind still malfunctioned when you were this near to him.

All the focus centered on the tension from close proximity. You could hear his breathing and sense his air from such fanning over your neck and ear.

“You didn’t actually get anything done, did you?” you muttered, fingers clutching the skin of your thighs as he invaded your personal space. It’s not that you didn’t like it— quite the opposite, actually. You just didn’t know how to react.

“How can I when we haven’t properly spent time together?” he hums, pushing some of your hair back to start leaving soft kisses over your sensitive spots. Instinctively, you shut your eyes and angle your neck, succumbing to his tender gesture.

“Sunwoo… my paper.” you reminded him as his kisses were seemingly growing fervid. Somehow your shirt exposed your shoulder, riveting him to redirect his mouth to the spot. A hand of his rubs your clothed tummy, dragging wet kisses across the bare skin.

Your body shivers, goosebumps appearing instantly. Uninhibitedly, you squeezed your thighs and let out a shaky breath. Your body temperature was rising and you felt so small.

“It can wait. I can’t. I missed you so much.” he voices. His hands loosen from your stomach and he brings one of them to your hair, smoothing over your locks.

By this point, you gathered strength to turn your head somewhat to look at him. With his free veiny hand, he cups your cheek, searching every inch of your face with his orbs as if he’s trying to memorize it.

“Did you miss me, too? Tell me you missed me.” his big dark, yet soft eyes hold vulnerability and longing. His look leaves your throat parched, still growing hot all over. You even feel something akin to a heartbeat down south between your legs.

Sunwoo was so needful. That’s one of the things you liked about him. He was cool and collective to the public and friends, but when around you, he never abstained his openness about how much your presence soothed him.

“You know I always miss you.” you answered, still maintaining eye contact with him as he continued to hold your cheek. Deep down, he knew your answer but still wanted to be affirmed aloud. It contented him, but he needed you to touch him back now.

He takes initiative to close more distance between you two, leaning his face further until his nose is brushing against yours.

You can feel each other’s breath face to face. He brushes his features over yours, his nose and lips grazing past your own in a gentle back-and-forth motion.

“Kiss me, baby.” he ghosts over your lips. You’re breathless by just his teasing actions, your own nails digging into your thighs to keep yourself grounded.

It’s impossible to refuse his precious plead. He’s caught you like a fish on a hook. You fall for the bait of his charms, and connect your lips with his own.

The kisses shared start out moderate, lips meeting and touching, pressure light. Your back still rests against his chest, slightly at an angle to continuously kiss him. He keeps you near to his liking by not letting that one hand of his part from your face.

It doesn’t take long before a few tastes make you both greedy.

The sounds of your lips puckering and the sensation of one another’s appendage meeting together creates heightened sensations. You each start fighting for more. It evolves into something wetter, his tongue darting out to flick against yours, tongue tips touching.

Desperation clouded your mind with the way this has grown into making out. Sunwoo has your body unable to remain calm, wiggling and unthinkingly pushing your core down into his mattress

Your breathing alongside his, has grown heavier. Although whipped in chasing your lips, he clearly catches the low moan that lets out your throat.

The naughty sound has him smirking against your mouth. There’s excitement within him, mentally and physically. His manhood is getting pumped full of blood, warming up and swelling the more you two make out fiercely.

His lustful instincts get him to maneuver his free hand towards your thigh. Since your shorts were generously short, he had easy access to your bare skin. His palm and fingers stroked it, making your spine and pussy shiver at how close he was to your private area.

As you two continue with the fiery embrace, he’s only wishing for more contact and intimacy. His fingers start trailing towards your inner thigh, dangerously closer to your covered sex.

Having his hand near such a concealed and sensitive spot makes you shut your thighs together on impulse, thus squeezing his hand in the process.

You butt your back against him the more touchy he gets, causing you to take note of something firm prodding into your lower back.

If you’re not mistaken, you think that is his—

“You got me so hard, baby.” Sunwoo rumbles, parting lips for a moment to catch your breaths. He’s burning for more of you. And while he also is igniting something within you, you’re unfamiliar in what happens next.

“Feel that? It’s ‘cause of you doll.” he slightly pushes himself against you, as if you two aren’t already close together. His erection is hard to not notice now, bringing you interest yet anxiousness.

While you guys have been dating for a decent amount of time, there hasn’t been any initiation of doing anything past kissing and cuddling. You didn’t think much of it— as you were still a virgin. And as horny as you still got from time-to-time, you were a tiny bit apprehensive for the day you did do something sexual with someone.

You imagine that right now is when things go further for you two.

“Sunwoo… I haven’t… I’ve never…” your cheeks got hot and reddened, feeling a bit embarrassed to have this conversation. You didn’t want to let your boyfriend down or kill the mood.

He stilled behind you, eyes softening once your words clicked in his head. Your eyes avoided his own, fidgeting with your limbs.

Although you felt mortified, Sunwoo believes he should be the one to feel ashamed. You two never had the conversation of sex before, so how would he have known? But nevertheless, the last thing he’d want you to feel is distressed or cross a boundary he shouldn’t have.

“Shit… did I make you uncomfortable? Hey, look at me.” he thumbs your cheek with one hand while the other goes to enfold one of your own, holding it lovingly.

You do look at him, worried that you’d disappoint him with your lack of experience, palms all sweaty.

“I… I’ve never done anything past making out.” you admitted more clearly.

“That’s okay. We don’t have to do anything if you’re not ready or comfortable with it. I’m sorry if I got too carried away.” he offers you an apologetic look, still caressing your cheek delicately.

“We should get back to doing our homework. I shouldn’t have bothered you.” his voice is genuine, tinged with regret of letting his hormones loose.

The look on his face, the way he shows that he respects you, and his apology (that you believe was not needed but still kind), has you melting. He’s definitely sheepish, but you don’t want him feeling that way.

If anything, Sunwoo was working you up. Sexual frustration was becoming a bitch to you. Your core’s experiencing a wind of warmth, unable to dismiss it. You think you need some sort of alleviation.

“Babe,” you reached a hand up to his hair, shaking your head while massaging his fluffy strands.

“I really want to do stuff with you. So bad, Sunwoo.” there’s so much honestly within your words and tone, longing and sentiment coating your orbs.

“I just don’t know… I don’t know how i’ll react or if you’ll like me.” you almost whisper, suddenly insecure of yourself now that you’re admitting this aloud to your boyfriend.

Every now and then, you wondered what it would be like to get intimate with another person. It would be vulnerable for you to show your bare body to someone. You can’t help but overthink that Sunwoo might not feel satisfied with you, or that you wouldn’t enjoy it— possibly finding it uncomfortable, instead.

Without a doubt you trusted him, but fearing unfamiliar territory was natural. You simply didn’t know what to expect.

How would you know unless you actually tried it?

A scoff comes out of Sunwoo, followed by an empathetic smile.

“Of course I like you, silly girl.” he chuckles, reaching for the hand that was in his hair and connecting it with his own. He gives it a reassuring squeeze, prompting the corners of your lips to raise in seeing and hearing him make that gentle sound.

“I love you, Y/n.” I will cherish every part of you. You’re so damn beautiful.” he brings your hand to his lips, dotting soft kisses over your knuckles. His other hand stays on your hip protectively.

“You’re safe with me. I wanna treat my girl right. I’m yours.” he means all of it, clear sincerity as bright as day twined in his tone and words.

Hearing his words is dulcet to your ears. There’s this wave that washed over you. It’s like a sea that gets you lost. Lost but secure from his touches and statements.

“I want you to feel comfortable with me. You’re the priority here. If you don’t wanna do anything that’s completely fine.”

“But if you wanna, we can start slow. If you give me the okay, i’ll take care of where it aches.”

It feels like your tummy does a somersault at that. You’re positive your cheeks are flushing, all rosy with how he always knows the right things to say. He really does care about you.

As if on cue, your pussy throbs more when he acknowledges that it must be craving for some stimulation.

You’re feeling so shy about letting him see or touch your bare sex, but one look at those bambi eyes of his and you think you’re ready. Ready for Sunwoo to help pleasure you.

Amenability glazes your eyes when you look at him. Although still slightly lacking confidence, you’re sure you want to take your relationship somewhat further.

“Okay…” it comes out faintly from your voice. You pause for a few before gaining strength to speak up a bit. “Touch me, Sunwoo. Please.”

Sunwoo’s gaze is tender as you spoke with vulnerability, granting him permission to un shield a part of yourself that you reserved for someone you trust and care for deeply.

That someone being him.

A part of him is nervous to touch you. He’s not planning on going past fingering with you for now, but he still wants to make this an enjoyable experience for you.

Aside from that ounce of concern, his body is overly excited to reach third base with you. It’s been awhile since he’s sensually touched someone else. Your existence brought him so much warmth, and he often craved to have you in sexual ways.

He’s been a patient boy. And now, you were going to allow for him to rub you as he pleased.

He’s determined and delighted to give you some delectable pleasure. To show you how much he cares about you through this new form of intimacy.

You feel like you’re hallucinating and definitely are perspiring and clammy from anticipation. Even so, you weren’t going to let your nerves fuck you over. You wanted to try this.

Once more, he double checks to ensure your consent, and you simply nod with a positive ‘yes.’

“I’ll take it slow. Just relax for me and I’ll do all the work. Lemme know if you wanna stop or if anything hurts, alright, baby?

“I love you, Sunwoo.” you smiled, all misty eyed from how caring he was being in this moment.

“I love you, too, Y/n.” he returns your smile, then gravitates his lips towards yours. You kiss passionately, but the embrace of lips is still smooth. It further stresses the respect and cosmic attachment he has for you— and vice versa.

After lip locking, his hands begin to explore your skin. With you sitting in between his legs, he directs you to lean back comfortably. His hands creep their way under your shirt, tracing your bare sides up and down like he had all the time in the world.

He also patted at your stomach, smoothing over it protectively. Instead of diving his fingers straight into your sex, he wanted to ease up your body first to get used to these sensual touches of his.

Slithering downwards from your abdomen, he continues to love up on your body, massaging the flesh of your thighs.

It’s his mission and wish to soften your core and muscles, getting you to enjoy this moment. Additionally to his tactile movements, he pairs them with words laced with so much sugar that he’s starting to give you a rush.

“Body so soft.”

“Never wanna let you go.”

“You belong here in my arms, hm.”

“Such a sweet, sweet girl.”

In between compliments, he rotates from kissing your temple, cheek, and the corner of your mouth. Your head rests back against his shoulder, eyes resting shut as you feel yourself getting more and more comfortable and aroused by the minute.

When his dominant hand finally finds itself in between your legs and over your clothed crotch, your breathing grows shaky from him cupping at it, shivering at the hold.

“You okay?” he doesn’t remove his hand but stills it, making sure you’ve not grown uncomfortable.

To answer, your thighs squeeze his hand, willingly grinding down into it.

“Keep going, show me more.” you whimpered, getting Sunwoo to smug at your reaction to his efforts. Oh, just you wait.

“Gonna take off your shorts, hm?”

You let him do it, and when they’re off, your bottom is left in your cotton panties. They’re not the most sexy undergarment, and you honestly wish you would’ve worn a different pair. But that was not on Sunwoo’s mind at all.

All he cared about was that he’s one more layer closer to his treasure. He’s beyond excited to meet your pussy. The view of your soft panties being the only thing that comes in between his hand and your folds is heart-stopping.

His fingers experimentally touch your pussy lips through the fabric, slightly applying pressure teasingly. You quake at the touch, a breath stuck in your throat as he strokes the area.

His plump lips part and shift into an amused expression, pleased in how he’s getting you going.

“Hurry… please, Sunwoo.” you whined, cheeks definitely blushing at how overly needful you sound— and are.

A chuckle escapes from Sunwoo’s throat, “Patience, doll. You’ll get my fingers, ‘kay?”

Given how keyed up you are, he strips the last bit of fabric off with your cooperation. Now tossed away, your sex is exposed to the air, and Sunwoo finally gets to touch it raw.

His fingertips carefully sweep over your vulva, tonguing at his teeth when he feels moisture. You shyly mewl at the bare contact.

“Fuck, so wet for me. You excited, baby?” his throat rumbles.

You whined again, red-faced at the vulnerability of all this. In response, he kisses your cheek for comfort, still exploring your outside parts.

“Don’t be embarrassed. How can you be so cute and sexy, hm?”

Before you know it, he finds your clit and nudges at it with diligence, earning a squeak turned moan from you. Bingo.

It inclines you to push your hips upwards, squirming at your boyfriend touching you like this. It’s so different to have someone else play with your cunt. Different, but you can see yourself becoming addicted to it.

He only allows himself to tease your bundle of nerves for a few before diverting his fingers lower, starting to trace around your hole.

“Relax for me.” he murmurs. You let out a breath, allowing him to use his left hand to rub your knee in support, and encourages you to spread your legs out a little more. “Doing so good. Yeah, that’s it.”

After coaxing you, he unexpectedly removes his hand away from your sex. You huff out and draw your mouth open in confusion and protest, but nothing else comes out when you watch Sunwoo stick a finger in between his lips, too stunned at the close-up scene of something so erotic.

For extra insurance, he pops a finger in his mouth to lube it with saliva, lathering it well. He’s aiming for this to go as smoothly as possible.

He smirks while you watch, humming before taking it out and moving back to your cunt.

Once again, he circulates over your entrance, teasing you more before he at last, slips that one finger prudently past your slit.

A whimper bounces out of your mouth from the initial stretch, accommodating to the sensation of your boyfriend’s finger making its debut.

“Ahhh, mhm…”

“Shhhh… It’s okay, I gotchu. Gonna make this feel so good for you.” He gives you heartening kisses, still lingering not that far in yet, giving you time to soak it in slowly.

He’s pretty patient. The last thing he wants to do is hurt you. Even if you’re impatient for it, he keeps his movements gentle and careful.

A little at a time, he has a decent portion of his finger inserted. He doesn’t move immediately so you can fully adjust.

You then give him the green light, and so he starts playing with your inside.

His finger testingly swirls, intrigued to discover this new territory that gets to be his home— for hopefully forever.

Soft moans come out your mouth before you realize, and you’re suddenly too aware of this intimate situation, feeling like you’re getting a fever.

It’s taking everything in you to not squirm. You opt for burying your face into your boyfriend’s neck in attempt to cover more smutty sounds and burning face.

Sunwoo is displeased with that, though. He halts his finger, pausing any action.

Your brows furrow and the sudden lack of motion has you lifting your head up.

“Why’d you stop?” your eyes were filled with worry. Maybe he’s bored or something’s wrong?

“Don’t hide from me.” his voice is serious. “Lemme hear those pretty moans”

Oh.

His finger moves again. Only this time, he starts to curl it and begins a slow flow of driving it in and out of you.

“Hmmphhh!” you whimpered, breath shaky and heart beat ascending at how sensational it is to have someone fucking you with just their finger.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he smirks, not planning on stopping until he pushes you to your breaking point.

Your sex hormones are going wild, feening for incessant sexual pleasure until you can’t take it anymore.

You’re bucking down to meet the movement of his finger, it having grown not enough rather quicker than you anticipated. Sunwoo has to titter at that, wowed to see how fast you’ve adjusted, and yearn for more.

Since you’re so desperate, he doesn’t warn you when he pushes a second finger past your hole. You gasp, followed by a curse word at the additional stretch.

“Shit, this tight pussy must love me.” his voice is breathy and deep as he feels your walls grip at his fingers.

He’s fucking your cunt now with two fingers, gradually with more pressure and firmer. His fingers pump against the ridges of your walls, moving and bending them, thus bringing you highly concentrated pleasure to your core.

Your arousal soaks his long fingers, above turned on that your hot boyfriend’s hand is creating a new high for you that you thought was unimaginable.

He inflames you even more when he starts to nip at your neck. His mouth’s latched onto your skin while down below, his thrusts just become deeper and deeper. He’s too keen on giving you a divine time that you’d think about for the rest of your life.

“Right there, Sunwoo! Oh my God, s-so good!” you gasped out when he hits a spot that scratches your senses so good.

“Right there, huh?”

Luckily, your boy knows what he’s doing, so he continues to hit that spot continually and not let up. He believes now is when he enhances your brain and body further by making use of his thumb to position over your clit.

He thumbs at your swollen bud, massaging it in an unhurried, but consistent rhythm.

And that sparks something inside you lower region. If you thought your pussy was aching before, it definitely is now.

Your breaths sound quicker and he takes note of you bringing a thumb to your mouth, biting down on it while mewls still slip past your lips. His pumps persist while your walls suck his fingers in like a vacuum as he moves in and out.

Every sound and the sight of you writhing, unable to remain calm, encourages him to not dwindle down on his ministrations.

The pressure applied towards your clit is even but remains slow, making you savor every second of stimulation you get, gradually increasing and turning almost-tender to be touched.

Hot pangs hit in your belly, and you feel like you’re starting to sweat, blood pressure spiking. You’re whimpering pathetically, muscles burning and tensing to break free and let yourself collapse.

It’s clear to Sunwoo that you can’t handle this any longer, evident he’s going to bring you to cum.

Squishy sounds and breathy moans are harmonic to the ears while he’s focused on getting you to snap.

“Gonna cum on my fingers? Is baby girl gonna let my fingers get even more soaked with her cum?”

Mhmphhh! Su— Sunwoo.” you cry out.

“Go ‘head. Lemme feel it.” he coaxes, and like the good girl you are, you do let loose.

As your knot unties, you deeply moan, hand that was near your mouth now gripping at his comforter. Your orgasm takes over you, shivering slightly, ass and thighs becoming spastic.

Your eyes are heavy and you see stars that are sparkling and fading, any sounds coming from the two of you sounding distant as you come down.

“I’m so proud of you, doll.” he mumbles as you catch your breath, face falling into his neck. While his fingers still remain in you, he uses his free hand to caress your head, commending you for staying strong and cumming for him.

As you progressively revert closer back to normal, your mind softens, and you’re craving to melt against your boyfriend. You need to logout from reality, Sunwoo having tired you out from getting busy with your pussy.

He coos at you when he makes you whimper and lift your head at the removal of his fingers. To your surprise, he then gravitates those fingers towards his mouth, closing around them and seemingly drinking up whatever stuck to his digits.

Your eyebrows furrow, joined with the part of your lips at him willingly tasting your fluids. He just looks at you, making exaggerated sounds from sucking and sends you a flirty wink.

You shiver and divert your gaze in shyness, flushing as you look back curiously, watching him pull out his licked-clean fingers.

“I knew you’d taste good.” he growls from the act and your essence getting savored by his taste buds.

“Wanna try?” he asks like nothing, seeing that you’re not calling him out for it, just eyeing him inquisitively.

You don’t say anything, but you still have that look gracing your orbs. He dips his fingers down to your core again, lathering them up in more of your spilled cum. You feel tingly during those seconds that he does so, and he raises them up again, nodding at you if you wanted a taste, too.

Your face leaning in slowly is enough of an answer for him, so he goes to hold your chin with the other hand, delicately slipping his fingers into your hot mouth.

You kindly close around them, timidly licking a finger tip for just a second, then getting comfortable to lap up the rest of your own spills. Your teeth even rake over his digits and your eyes fluttered shut with a hum before opening them.

When you do, there still lays a cutey-appearance behind those eyes he adores, even with you licking your own cum.

From that moment, he recognizes that his obsession for you will be death of him.

“Fuck…” he breathes out, stroking the tip of your chin.

“That’s all you, baby girl.”

“So perfect.”

◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡ ◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡ ◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡ ◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡ ◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡ ◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡ ◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡

#ericscroptop #the boyz #kim sunwoo #sunwoo #sunwoo smut #tbz sunwoo #sunwoo the boyz #sunwoo x reader #sunwoo imagines #sunwoo fluff #sunwoo scenarios #the boyz imagines #tbz x reader #the boyz x reader #tbz #tbz smut #kpop smut #kpop imagines #kpop

213 notes · View notes

dollopopaint · 7 months ago

Text

An iconic Ice Wolf gift [UTAAG]

They captured his essence to a T!

Yet another piece for @ut-against-genocide! The fundraiser only has 4 DAYS LEFT!!!! So if you want to suggest some neat art- DONATE WHILE THERES STILL TIME !!! (Go to the UTAAG account for more info!) "I'd love to see a doodle or two of Papyrus helping residents of snowdin with mundane tasks and getting gifts as thanks! Thank you all for your work and this fund-raiser. 💜" - @derelictdumbass Unfortunately with the 50 minute time slot given, I was only able to do one resident! (Even though I 100% spent more than 50 minutes on this accidentally) It was a fun prompt! And I'm always for drawing a happy papyri. I dont know how to draw ice....

#art #undertale #deltarune #papyrus #papyrus undertale #cute

802 notes · View notes

solxamber · 1 day ago

Note

Pomefiore, 7, Comedy/Fluff

everytime i see a pomefiore request, an angel gains its wings

Always Watching || Rook Hunt

For the Holiday Event! || Prompt: "For you, anything" ; Genre: Comedy/Fluff

You slumped against the bed, your head drooping as you let out a pitiful groan. Rook sat beside you with a concerned expression, holding your hands gently in his own.

"Mon amour," he said, voice dripping with theatrical worry, "you look as though the very life has been drained from your enchanting form."

"That’s because it has," you muttered. "Crowley’s got me running around like his personal errand mule. I’m doing everything except polishing his tailcoat at this point. I’m so tired, Rook. I think my soul is trying to escape my body."

Rook's eyes narrowed, and a dangerous glint flickered behind the veneer of his charming smile. He tilted his head, his golden hair catching the dim light. "Ah, such a grave injustice cannot stand."

You sighed, too exhausted to argue. "Unless you’ve got some magic solution to deal with Crowley, I’m just gonna have to suffer until I keel over or he decides he’s bored of me."

Rook’s smile sharpened. "Leave everything to me, ma chérie. For you, anything."

You didn’t think much of it. Rook often said dramatic things, and you figured he was just trying to cheer you up. You kissed his cheek, thanked him, and promptly fell asleep as soon as your head hit the pillow.

The next day, Crowley summoned you to his office. Expecting another list of unreasonable tasks, you dragged yourself there, only to be greeted by something completely unexpected: a visibly nervous Crowley.

“Ah, prefect,” he said, wringing his hands. “Good news! I’ve decided there’s no need for you to handle all those tasks. I realized that as a benevolent and magnanimous headmaster, I may have been… overly reliant on you.”

You stared. “...Really?”

“Yes, yes,” he said quickly, waving his hand. “Go, enjoy your youth or whatever it is students do. No need to thank me. Now, off you go!” He ushered you out of his office, looking pale and slightly sweaty.

You blinked in confusion but decided not to question it. After all, a reprieve was a reprieve. And who were you to argue with divine intervention?

Later, you met up with Rook in the woods. You relayed the strange encounter with Crowley, still baffled. "It’s so weird. He looked… spooked, almost. But hey, I’m not complaining. It’s about time he stopped using me as his personal assistant."

Rook chuckled, his emerald eyes sparkling with mischief. "Ah, ma douce étoile, perhaps the universe has finally decided to grant you mercy."

You raised an eyebrow. "You wouldn’t happen to know anything about it, would you?"

He leaned in close, his cryptic smile widening. "Moi? I am but a humble admirer of beauty. How could I possibly influence the decisions of our esteemed headmaster?"

You squinted at him. "Rook—"

Before you could press further, he grabbed your hand and twirled you dramatically. "Come, my love! Let us revel in the splendor of the forest! The beauty of nature is calling, and I refuse to let you waste another moment thinking about mundane matters."

And just like that, you were whisked away into another one of Rook’s adventures. His enthusiasm was infectious, and soon you forgot all about Crowley’s odd behavior.

Unbeknownst to you, Crowley had indeed woken up the previous night to find an arrow lodged inches from his head, attached to a note written in elegant, looping script:

Mon cher directeur,

While I greatly admire your leadership, I must request that you cease overburdening the prefect. I have many talents, as you know, and it would be a shame for them to be used against you.

Always watching.

Crowley had nearly fainted. By morning, he’d resolved to do whatever it took to stay on Rook’s good side—even if it meant giving you the break you deserved.

And Rook? He kept his secret, because in his eyes, what mattered most was your happiness.

Masterlist

#twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twst #twisted wonderland #rook hunt x reader #rook x reader #rook hunt #rook #𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 holiday event

190 notes · View notes

iwasntstable · 3 months ago

Text

✧₊⁺ 𝗡.𝗦. | 𝗪𝗛𝗘𝗡 𝗜 𝗠𝗜𝗦𝗦 𝗬𝗢𝗨

| WORD COUNT: 1.4k | RATING: SFW | CONTENT TAGS: fluff | The things you do when you're missing Noah while he's away.

➔𝐢𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐧𝐭𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞➔➔　𝘪𝘯𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘈𝘳𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘷𝘦!+　　[𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝐀𝐎𝟯]

NOTE: Enjoy this little fluff piece to make up for the angst I posted 2 days ago 🖤

Noah has been gone for 2 weeks now. You text and call throughout the day, every day—when he has time. Preparations for their upcoming projects, music video filming, and meeting after meeting to discuss the business side of things take up all of his time. He always works hard, but this was another level that you weren’t used to.

You’ve never been one to yearn particularly hard after a partner, missing them a normal, regular amount, then feeling fulfilled when you reunite after a couple of days. But with Noah, it was different. When you parted, it felt like half of you was missing. Your place was too quiet when he wasn't around. You didn't live in a particularly big place, but it seems vast and empty now that you're alone. Even though the gaping hole his absence left in your life is indisputable, you try to carry on as best as you can.

But even while doing the most mundane tasks, your thoughts are preoccupied with Noah. Wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face into your neck, embracing you tightly from behind as you make a sandwich. Your personal space is as much his as it is yours.

“What are you doing?” You giggle, trying your best to assemble the food with his towering frame clinging to you.

“Just wanna cuddle you,” he mumbles into your neck. Your cheeks grow warm, turning as best you can in his hold to look at him over your shoulder.

But when you look, he’s not there. The hum of the fridge and the chill in the evening air are your only companions. The kitchen is too big without him clinging to your back and the smile brought to your face by the memory drops. With a dejected sigh, you place the last piece of bread on top, finishing your little meal and retreating to the living room.

Picking at the bread, you scour your streaming options for something to watch, seeing shows and movies you’re interested in, but just don’t feel in the mood to watch right now. You add them to your ‘Watch Later...’ list and keep searching.

In the “Continue Watching...” section, the show with way too many seasons you were working your way through is first in line. The preview reminds you where you left off, and you get the urge to hit play, but you were watching this with Noah. He sits forward, yelling at the screen for the characters to, “no! Don’t do that! Oh my God… It’s like they want to die!” Looking bewildered in your direction.

You can’t stifle the laugh, prompting him to hit you playfully with one of the couch cushions.

“What?!” he exclaims, his eyes bright and smiling wide, his hands speaking for him. “Why would you walk in the direction of the bomb? Is she stupid?!”

"No, you’re right,” you clutch your abdomen, the beginnings of an ache in your side from laughing so hard. “I know she’s the main character, but why is she so unlikable? Oh my God…” You let out a long breath, wiping the tears away from your eyes.

Blinking rapidly to rid them of the burn, you play Howl’s Moving Castle instead. Abandoning both the movie and the sandwich half finished when the weight in your chest becomes too heavy.

You don’t even bother to clean up, going straight to your room and crawling under the covers. Attempting to seek comfort in the sheets. But the other side of the bed is too empty and smells too much like him. You reach out, laying your hand on the pillow where he should be. Running your hand through his hair, his drowsy eyes close, a content smile on his lips as he enjoys your affections.

“I love you,” he says quietly, turning his cheek into your palm.

A tear escapes your eye. “I miss you,” you whisper to the space beside you.

You can’t sleep. You haven’t been able to sleep properly for a while now. Only 2 weeks he’s been away, and he’ll be back in just a few days time. You never thought you’d find yourself yearning like this, but the ache in your heart won’t subside, and your usual distractions are failing you. So you decide to indulge in your sadness.

Taking your laptop from where you left it on the floor, you pull up Spotify. Gravitating immediately to the Bad Omens artist page and hitting play on the The Death of Peace of Mind album. Closing your eyes as soon as his voice comes through the speakers, the soft tone of his singing at the beginning of Concrete Jungle. You push all of the loud thoughts from your mind, focussing only on him. It helps. The tracks trick your brain into thinking he’s here with you. Taking his pillow and holding it to your chest, you allow yourself to be enveloped by the sound and scent of him. You don’t even notice when you start to drift off to sleep. If he couldn’t physically be here to bring you peace of mind, at least his voice could.

When Noah unlocks your door, he’s surprised to see the TV off, a half-eaten sandwich on the coffee table, and you absent from your usual spot on the couch. It was late, but you’re a night owl; it's out of character for you to sleep so early. He re-locks the door behind him and moves quietly through the room, toeing off his shoes and leaving them next to yours. Deciding too, to place his bags down by the door. He didn’t want to knock anything over and wake you if you really were asleep.

He hears the music before he opens the door, the pang of recognition becoming clearer when he cracks it open, and sees your sleeping form in the bed. Your laptop sitting open on his side of the bed, Just Pretend filling the silence of the room. Noah can’t help but smile, his socked feet soundlessly closing the distance between him and the bed where he sits carefully beside you.

Watching you sleep for a moment, his heart feels full at this image of you. Smiling at the sight, he slips his phone from the pocket of his sweatpants, opening the camera app and double-checking that the flash isn’t on. He snaps a couple of pictures, grinning as he does so. The laptop is visible over your shoulder, clearly showing his album open and playing on Spotify. He places his phone down next to yours on the bedside table and lays a hand gently on your shoulder. He’s reluctant to pull you from your sleep, but he needs you. And it’s clear that you need him too.

“Babe,” he whispers, his palm smoothing over your shoulder. He leans in closer, calling your name just a little louder and shaking you gently.

You begin to stir. Dreaming of Noah being where he belongs by your side in bed. Your head rests against his chest as he caresses your arm gently.

“Wake up,” he says softly, and your eyes crack open. Squinting against the sunlight. “Wake up, baby.”

He’s singing too. “Weigh down on me, stay ‘til morning, weigh down…”

“Hey,” he says softly, “what’re you doing?”

“Noah?” You mumble, realising the light in your eyes was your laptop, and it was as though you could hear two of him.

“Hi, I’m here. We wrapped up early, I tried to call you,” he brushes your hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear.

You roll onto your back, and there he is. Hair fluffy, holding a slight wave, and an infectious grin across his face as he looks at you. He looks so soft and warm in his hoodie, and you just want to dive into his arms. So you do, sitting up to collapse into him. He pulls you onto his lap, rocking you side to side, holding you so fiercely it was as though he were trying to make up for every second you'd been separated. You hold on just as tightly, feeling the warmth of his body seep into yours.

“Let me turn this off,” he moves carefully, loosening his grip temporarily to hit the spacebar and silence his own voice, then holding you tight again. “You don’t need that now that I’m back.”

“I missed you,” your voice comes muffled against his chest, wavering as you desperately try not to break down.

“I missed you too, so much,” he sighs, sinking into you deeper. “But I’m back now, and I have no plans to go anywhere any time soon.”

╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌

✉ C:/SYSTEM/APP/TAG

ᯤ 𝗨𝗦𝗘𝗥𝗦 (22) :　 ⌞⬤ 10 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾⌝ › @iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning › @runadaggerthroughmychest › @collisionofyourkissmakesitsohard › @seven-glass-kids › @english-fucker

› @lma1986 › @shayzillaaaa › @madamaaubergine › @thewrstinme › @amourtoken

⌞⬤ 5 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒⌝ › @livingdeceasedgirl › @alwaysfightforwhoyouare › @thecoyotescry › @romanreigns-supreme › @slutforcoffein

⌞⦵ 5 𝖽𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖻⌝ › @deathofpeaceofmindem › @bluestdai › @fadingangelwisp › @broken0mens › @ferduttini

⌞◯ 2 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾⌝ › @lovesick-evangelist › @fadingintothegrey

　+[MSG : join the taglist!]

╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌

#like i just need a cuddle from him #it would fix me #noah sebastian #noah sebastian x reader #noah sebastian fanfiction #noah sebastian fanfic #fluff #bad omens #bad omens cult #C:/PROJECTS/MYWORK/BLURB #C:/PROJECTS/SEARCH/TAG/FLUFF

224 notes · View notes

thisblogisaboutabook · 1 year ago

Text

The cycle of life

Azriel x Reader

Fae cycles suck, thank the mother for your attentive mate who is there to provide you with all of the smut and fluff you desire.

warnings: smut, language, self-esteem and body image struggles, anxiety, slight breeding kink

She didn’t know when the self-loathing crept in - although it was always the first sign. The week had been busy, she’d poured herself into her work. Being a bookkeeper for such a wealthy court was… tiring to say the least. It was fulfilling work, especially when it came to the Court of Dreams. Balancing ledgers and creating budgets for various charitable endeavors was a duty she was proud to take part in. The High Lord and Lady’s efforts in keeping their court thriving was admirable. Most would find the work mundane, and she supposed it could be, but accounting always felt like a puzzle to her - using her brain to solve problems and contribute to the advancement of the Night Court was rewarding.

She wasn’t perfect though, despite that desperate desire within herself to be. She’d push, and push, and push herself completely overlooking all the good she did and absolutely berating herself internally when the occasional mistake occurred.

Azriel was her number one supporter. She’d always imagined him to be better suited for the likes of a fellow warrior such as Mor or a Valkyrie like Gwyn. Perhaps even someone soft and lovely like Elain, a glowing beacon to come home to. Y/N had told Azriel as much when he began pursuing her.

“Why me?” She’d wonder to herself as she assessed her figure in the mirror - overlooking the enticing feminine curves that all but screamed “squeeze me, grip me, take me”, the way her plush lips bowed into a perfectly kissable pout, how her radiant skin that nearly glowed rendered her ethereal. She only saw imperfections. Not to mention that she wasn’t graceful or stealthy, she couldn’t cook or keep plants alive to save her damned life, and she had a tendency to get stuck inside her mind.

Truthfully this week was more than busy, it was hard. She’d pushed herself to meet deadlines that she’d gotten behind on due to an influx in workload. She’d made a few mistakes that nobody had issue with - except herself. Nuala and Cerridwen were taking well-deserved time off, leaving the essential household tasks on the back burner. Between working endless hours, Azriel being gone on a mission, and a flare up of the anxiety that she’d put so much effort into working through over the years - she was exhausted.

Physically her muscles ached, stomach cramped, and her head pounded as the all-too-familiar symptoms of her impending semi-annual cycle took root. Her mind and spirit were utterly fatigued from the busy week, the flare up of anxiety, and the overall stress of life. She was desperate for Azriel to return from his mission soon.

It was around 9PM when she coerced herself into wrapping up work on Friday night, she spent three hours afterward tending to the house and catching up on neglected tasks from the week, too tired to even bathe as she crawled into bed - sleep claiming her immediately.

She awoke the next day to a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Hello beautiful.” Azriel whispered against her skin, pulling back to allow those intense hazel eyes a chance to examine her. Her eyelids fluttered and brows furrowed as she let out an exhausted groan, “baby…” a small smile lifted the corners of her mouth as she reached toward him in a needy manner that made his heart ache. He hated leaving her for missions though she always understood and supported him. He leaned down, wrapping his arms around her body, letting his warmth seep into her bones as she melted into his embrace.

Azriel noticed the flinch she made as the sun shone through the window into their room, quickly flaring his wings to block it from view until her eyes adjusted. “What’s wrong, love?” He whispered, though he already had an idea. The heat of his breath against her ear sent chills through her, prompting her to give a quick nip to his neck before kissing it.

Gods, she’d missed him.

“Nothing baby.” before he could call her on her lie she continued, “what time is it?”

“Well, you missed breakfast.” He smirked.

“Ugh… how did I sleep in so late?” She sat up, rubbing her tired eyes.

Azriel shrugged “Your body must have needed it.”

“Says you.” She scoffed. “You were off all week doing physically demanding work and busting your ass for this court… while I sat on mine balancing ledgers.”

“Y/N…” he spoke, his low voice barely more than a warning growl. “We’re not going to do that. You are allowed to feel tired, allowed to let your body rest. Your work is important.”

She sighed, knowing better than to press on. She knew to pick her battles and that this one was not one she would win.

“Fine.” Y/N shrugged, eyeing a paper bag on the bedside table. “What did you bring me? Please tell me it’s something with chocolate.”

Azriel’s lips curled up into a grin that she’d never tire of seeing, handing over the bag. “See for yourself, darling.”

———

Azriel knew from the moment he stepped into the quiet house that she’d need extra love and attention today. His loving, caring, selfless mate who typically rose early - he swore the sun rose on her accord and not the other way around - was still sound asleep in bed.

He immediately exited the house before she could sense his presence and stopped by her favorite bakery along the Sidra. Chocolate croissants were a necessity in times like these. She’d need a pain relieving tonic, epsom salts and soothing oils, and a bouquet of flowers couldn’t hurt either.

He went ahead and picked up ingredients for a few quick meals and a new book she’d mentioned recently as well.

He had to laugh at the irony. His mate often questioned her worthiness of him. HIM. She couldn’t see what he saw. A passionate, intelligent female who cared for her mate, her court, and family more than anything. Always putting her own needs last but the first to volunteer when help was needed. The cauldron truly found his equal - someone who gave and gave but it was never enough. Someone who couldn’t see her own worth, her pure heart, her devastating beauty - while the rest of the world marveled at it.

She’d been the catalyst in his own self-acceptance. He’d spent centuries believing he wasn’t enough, that he was unworthy of a mate, of his position, of the power he was born with - just to meet this intelligent, radiant being who could bring an entire room to a halt and assume they were only seeing flaws. Not the beauty that could make even kings fall to their knees if she’d only ask. When the bond snapped, he decided then and there that he would show her just how worthy she was. In the decade they’d been mated, she finally started to see her worth, how precious she was to him, to those she graced with her presence. But life is complicated and triggers are inevitable, especially when it came to the flare of hormones that accompanied an impending cycle.

—————

The chocolate croissants were a win if the drawn-out contented sigh Y/N let out upon finishing her third one was any indication. He’d shared details of his mission as she indulged in the pastries and she gave him a few details of her week - frowning as she went into detail about the “mistakes” she’d made.

They were common mistakes that anyone would make, truthfully, some weren’t even her fault, but he listened as she let it out. He’d learned over the years that sometimes she just needed to get it off her chest and not advice. Simply hearing each other out had become a key element in the foundation of their relationship - when thoughts became too much - they were always listening ears for each other.

Once she’d gotten it off her chest she changed the subject by asking, “What do you want to do today?”

Azriel had a lot to do - but his mate took priority this weekend. He gave her a wicked grin, “I want nothing more than to waste away in this bed with you all day.”

“But?” She replied.

“But nothing.” He flicked her nose. “I want to spend the day in bed with my mate - is there something wrong with that?”

Azriel could see the war in her mind. Debating whether she deserved to take a day off, or should tend to other tasks. Before she could object he leaned in, lips capturing hers in a deep, loving kiss. She immediately opened for him, his tongue lazily tangling with hers. “Fine” she murmured.

“That’s my girl.” He cooed before returning to claiming her mouth, the shell of her ears, her neck.

“Mmm” she purred into his kiss while he palmed at her breast through her silken cobalt night gown. Her swollen breasts immediately peaking beneath his touch.

“So responsive” his low voice growled into her neck, sending fire straight through her, igniting her core. “Is that beautiful pussy as ready for me as these are?” He asked, tweaking a nipple through her gown.

The responding moan told him more than enough as he hitched the hem of her nightgown up to her waist, exposing the dripping cunt practically begging for him underneath. His eyes rolled back at the intoxicating scent of arousal drifting up into his nose. “Holy shit, Y/N.” he groaned, clearly pleased with the sight.

He ran a finger through her slick core, adding a teasingly light amount of pressure to her clit but before he could insert a finger she moaned “No Az, I can’t wait. Please.”

“You don’t want my fingers?” He teased, slipping one inside of her. Mother, she was absolutely soaked.

“Az…Fuck. No. Please.” She pleaded. Reaching down to palm the hardened length beneath his sweatpants. “I need that inside of me. Now”

Typically he would reprimand her for being so demanding, robbing him of his playtime with her sweet, dripping sex. But the desperation in her voice left him desperate to oblige her.

“Since you asked nicely.” He replied, to which she frantically helped him out of his pants.

Before she could reconsider taking more fingers, he thrusted his length into her. Hard. Every thick, aching inch of him, stretching and filling her completely.

“Like that?” He asked as her moans filled the room.

“Yes. Yes, Az.”

“Fuck.” She cried out. “Just. Like. That.” Each word coming out individually timed to the thrusts of his cock.

There was no way he was going to last long at this pace, especially after being away for a week. “Not gonna last long like this. Fuck!” He ground out.

She grit her teeth as his thrusts became harder, more erratic. “Then fill me, Az. Need your cum.”

Slipping a hand between them, he pressed his thumb to her clit, moving it in that perfected motion he’d finessed over the years as he diligently studied her body, a scholar whose sole discipline laid in pleasuring his mate. Locking his eyes with her, he gently commanded “Cum with me baby.”

With that they both let go. Their releases filling the room like a song. A melody Azriel would never tire of, one he replayed in his mind somehow far too often, yet never enough during his time away.

Azriel stayed inside of her until their breaths settled, evening out into sync with eachother. He reveled in the warmth of her. His perfect mate - physically, emotionally, spiritually. He’d never take this for granted.

Finally he pulled out of her in one long sweep, she looked down to admire the still considerable length of him even when partially softened. Her stomach dropped to see blood mixed in with their combined releases.

“Az, oh, I’m so s-” She started but he cut her off.

“Baby. It’s just a little blood.”

She almost looked ashamed. “I know but- I’m embarrassed.”

“Embarrassed?” He puzzled. “It’s completely natural. Do you really think blood bothers me? Come on now beautiful, we’ve had sex during your cycle before. Why shy away now?”

“I just didn’t expect the bleeding to have started already. It explains why I’ve felt so lethargic, I suppose.”

Azriel went to get a warm cloth from the adjoined washroom, returning to wipe her. Her cheeks flushed at the intimate action.

“Stop overthinking it. Besides, we’re mates.” He smiled, a soft look overtaking his eyes. “If you still want to have children with me someday, your cycle is kind of an essential step of the process.”

Y/N flushed at the comment. The thought of carrying his babies was something she’d dreamed about for years now. Thank the gods for her distant Illyrian ancestry and the genes that blessed her with curvy hips capable of birthing winged babes.

“You know, with my cycle returning… we could always start trying? If we stopped taking our tonics now - it should be out of our system in time for ovulation. Rhys has offered recently to let me bring on an assistant book keeper, which would be excellent timing.”

Azriel’s heart fluttered at the thought of it. His mate round and glowing as she carried their baby, a babe that would know so much more love than he ever had as a child. Something so pure and beautiful that could come from the love between he and his mate. They’d talked about it for years now, a dream of theirs. He had to quickly blink away the silver lining his eyes at the gift she was offering him, his selfless mate in all her infinite love. There was no way he could verbally reply in the moment without choking up so he sent waves of adoration, joy, and gratitude down the bond.

She sent every bit of love right back to him, propping up on her elbows to capture his lips in a promising kiss.

———-

After they came to a decision, Azriel carried Y/N to the bathing room where a hot bath full of the oils and epsom salts he’d picked up that morning were waiting. She nearly cried at the relief of the welcoming heat that greeted her.

Before she could object, Azriel quickly stepped out to change the sheets, promptly returning to slide into the bath tub behind her. He washed her hair, massaging her scalp to which she nearly purred like a cat. He carefully washed her entire body massaging her back, thighs, calves, shoulders, and breasts in the process. By the time he was done tending to her, she’d nearly fallen asleep.

Ever the caretaker, she tried to wash him in return but he insisted that this was about her - passing her a rolled up towel to place behind her neck while she relaxed, letting the oils from the bath soak into her skin as he lathered himself. He got out first, toweling himself off before lifting her out of the tub and drying her off with a heated towel.

Though she insisted she could do it herself, Azriel wasn’t having it. This was his day to care for his mate so he helped her into cloth lined linens and selfishly left her topless, slipping her underneath the fresh blankets.

He assured her he’d be right back slipping out to the kitchen to heat up her favorite gnocchi soup and fetch a tray he’d prepared with her pain relieving tonic, bouquet of flowers, and more chocolate.

It didn’t take much to bring his mate joy - the genuine gratitude she’d send down the bond at even the smallest gestures was never lost on him. Perhaps it was self-serving but he couldn’t resist surprising her, coveting each warm smile she’d give him as if he’d never feel warmth again.

He prayed their future babes had her smile, her eyes, any of her features, truly. But most of all, her heart - maybe then, beating within the most precious gift the mother could offer them, she’d finally see just how beautiful she really was.

————

He had to beg and plead like a mad male but finally she agreed to spend the entire weekend in bed with him. Who knew that he, the one who was typically the workaholic, would be the one to grovel at his mates feet begging her to take a break.

Fortunately, she was not immune to his charms and obliged him. At one point, she snuck out of bed in an attempt to accomplish a few tasks around the house before her cramps humbled her. Azriel was promptly startled awake from the nap he’d drifted off to as she loudly exclaimed from down the hall, “Fuck it. Back to bed.”

They spent the rest of the weekend making love, whispering of their dreams for the future, indulging in sweets, and reveling in each others touch with no shortage of laughter and kissing in between.

——————————

A/n: So I’ve totally been under the weather this weekend with no motivation to write but as I laid in bed with my own partner tending to me with whatever I needed, I couldn’t resist writing this. I intended it to be a Drabble but the words just kept flowing. I stan fluffy Az. Anyway, thanks for reading!

For those of you waiting on new parts to my current fics - I promise they’re coming along and will be out soon! xo ♥️

#sarah j maas #acotar #a court of thorns and roses #a court of silver flames #a court of frost and starlight #azriel #a court of mist and fury #a court of wings and ruin #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x reader #acotar smut #acotar fluff #sickfic #shadowsinger #shadowsinger smut #shadowsinger x reader #acotar oneshot #fluff and smut #acotar fluff and smut

780 notes · View notes

kquil · 1 year ago

Text

POLY MARAUDERS | HEROES IN TATTOOS ⏤LOVE EYES

SUM. : you don't see it but the boys have love eyes for you

G. : fluff ; modern au ; muggle au ; tattoo artist james ; tattoo artist sirius ; piercer remus ; oblivious, innocent reader ; love eyes marauders ; sirius is a womanizer ; he doesn't care to notice though ; snack runs with sirius on his motorbike ; shoulder massages for remus ; james loves picking you up ; james is so silly ; domestic baking with james ; wolfstar moment ; lots of hugging

LENGTH : 2.7k

Sirius watches lovingly as you balance your laptop on your thighs and work through an essay you had to complete by the following week. When you had time away from final year lectures, seminars and practicals, you would usually occupy the private office and lounge room of the studio’s top floor in order to work through your uni assignments. The university libraries were quite suffocating in that they pressured you into unhealthy productivity mindsets, which often lead to unhealthy eating habits and a shortcut to burn out. However, you had found solace in the calm of the tattoo studio’s office that usually remained empty throughout the day when the boys were attending to clients. The calm silence was welcome and helped with your personal productivity and pacing of assigned workload.

Usually, Remus would accompany you, doing mundane admin tasks that helped manage the parlour and its clients but he had to leave as he had several appointments today. You’ve made some decent headway with the essay in Remus’s absence and you were using some of the momentum to get even more ahead when you felt a familiar presence take a seat beside you before throwing their arm over your shoulders.

“Hello, dollface,” Sirius whispers and presses a gentle kiss against your temple.

“Hey Siri,” you acknowledge him with a sweet smile and tilt your head against him briefly before continuing with your essay. Focused with your brows furrowed and gently gnawing at your lip, Sirius silently admires your concentration; it looks good on you, a meritorious contrast to your usually soft features and expressions.

However, as much as he loves this side of you, he loves your attention more, “...are you really gonna just ignore me?” he whines in his usual playful manner, prompting you to roll your eyes.

“Sirius, I have to finish this essay—”

“Not until the following week, so you have time right?” you don’t answer him. He was right but you still needed to work on the essay. Grumbling under his breath, Sirius leans his weight against you and sighs and huffs and whines in between minutes of silence. Even though this type of selfish distraction would typically irritate you, you know that you could afford stepping away from the essay so it was more than entertaining to hear his fussing. You also thoroughly enjoyed Sirius’s floundering and adorable attempts to guilt you into paying him some attention; it was almost adorable, like a puppy wanting attention.

It wasn’t until Sirius gave a significantly frustrated whine that you exaggerated a sigh and saved your progress to close your laptop screen, “...I’m all yours, Sirius,” you finally conceded, reaching a hand up to lift his hair out of his face.

With a wide grin, Sirius leans his forehead against yours, his eyes sparkling with content and satisfaction at having finally won you over, “Snack run?” at his suggestion, you almost jump out of your chair in excitement.

“Yes please!”

With perked ears, Remus and James smile to themselves at the sound of you and Sirius giggling down the hallway and outside to the leather-wearing tattoo artist’s motorbike. They knew you both made a ritual of going on snack runs for them and, although they appreciated the snacks, they adored your happy laughter echoing in the halls much more.

As Sirius helped gear the two of you up with a helmet for the ride, he whispered his usual promise of taking a longer route than needed to get to the store all while you spotted a group of girls eyeing him up from behind. They looked to be in high school and weren’t subtle about their puppy love for Sirius at all, ogling him with lovestruck doe eyes, whispering amongst themselves and playfully hitting each other’s shoulders over their musings. You couldn’t blame them for their admiration, simply because Sirius was very physically attractive, with his inked skin, sharp features, steel grey eyes, sultry hair, seductive smile, toned physique and nefarious leather fashion—the man embodied an elegant but evil beauty. And, when you got to know him, he became all the more attractive; he was just the perfect amount of chaos and sensual audacity to pair with the softest heart —a dream come true for girls, especially those in their high school years.

Nevertheless, their giggling and kittenish gossiping were like nails on a chalkboard to you, although, that may just be the excuse you came up with for what you were about to do next.

“Woah!” Sirius chuckles, his arms going up as you suddenly wrap your arms around his waist and hold him close, smiling smuggling into his white vest when the group of girls immediately silence their gossiping and giggling at the sight, “what’s wrong, dollface?” Sirius asks dotingly as he lifts your gaze up with a finger under your chin and presses a soft kiss to your forehead, “feeling needy are we?” you pout at his teasing, which he laughs at and finally wraps his arms around your shoulders. One hand holds the back of your head and gently presses your face further into his chest, “anything you need, dollface… anything at all, I’ve got you,” he whispers and pulls away to stare fondly into your pretty eyes. You realise that, not once has he noticed the group of high school girls behind him, in spite of all their gossip and ogling.

“Siri-”

“Such a pretty face,” he coos, lifting a hand to tenderly cup your jaw, “pretty eyes, pretty nose, pretty lips, pretty heart, pretty everything,” just so pretty… sirius completes in his head, resisting the urge to give into his desires and take from you something he knows isn’t meant for him but desperately wishes was his…

His stare lingers on your lips long enough for you to notice but not enough for you to verbalise as the leather-clad tattooist quickly places the spare helmet over your head.

Remus groans gratefully as he tilts his head back with closed eyes, smiling at the giggle you emit, “That’s just what I need, dove,”

The tall brunette feels your gentle lips against his forehead for a brief moment and sighs pleasantly once more, “you need to better your posture when sitting Remmy,” you softly scold, continuing to massage his tense shoulders and the back of his neck as he slowly opens his eyes to admire you.

Ignoring your reproach, Remus loses himself in the feeling of relief easing into his tense shoulders and stiff neck through your pressing fingers and palms, “heavenly…” he utters in bliss.

“Don’t ignore me, Remus,” your tone is a little more stern but rather than make him nervous, Remus continues to smile at you.

“I assure you…” Remus turns his head and presses a kiss against the skin of your wrist, “that I never and will never ignore you, sweetheart,” his words and the look he gives you makes a heat crawl up your neck and spread across your cheeks.

“Then tell me you’ll aim for better posture when sitting for too long,” at your request, Remus spins in his chain and pulls you close by the hips. His head is at level with your xiphoid process as he looks up at you with a relaxed smile.

“You have my word,” he brings your hands from his shoulders, holds them together and kisses the knuckles that touch. Almost instinctively, you move your soft hand to hold his face and smile down at him from where you stood.

It’s a promise he keeps as you often find him squaring his shoulders and straightening his back when sitting in the office too long. It makes your heart flutter to know that he was proactive with your advice but his shoulder massages didn’t stop, which he appreciated greatly. He never said thank you but he always kissed your hands, wrists and knuckles during or after you ease some of the tension off his shoulders and neck.

“You truly are an angel,” Remus said one day as he buries his face into your stomach, arms wrapped around your hips as you softly squeeze at his shoulders, “James was right,” he chuckles under his breath which you join him with in a brief but twinkling giggle, “are you truly not hiding a pair of wings, dove?”

“Nope~” you chirp with another giggle as he leisurely stands, pushing his chair away with the backs of his knees. Remus keeps you close, holds you closer even, and sighs into the crown of your head.

“Lies…” you feel his big hands move up your back slowly, pressing his fingers into your taut muscles and arched spine as if to return the favour you’ve done for his rigid shoulders. Unable to help yourself, a soft sigh escapes you and you fall further into his embrace, “that…or you’re really good at hiding your wings —i feel nothing there,” with one final knead of his strong fingertips, he winks at you with a mischievous glint in his eyes, similar to the kind you often find in Sirius’s grey pools and James’s hazel jewels. Though different, they were all the same in other ways.

“I guess you’ll never know,” was your impish reply not registering how Remus’s expression subtly softens into adoring fondness when continuing to stare down at you.

It’s like she belongs there… Remus thinks to himself, playing with the ends of your hair while you turn your head to rest your cheek on his chest for comfort, perfectly suited to be in my arms.

“There you are!” James cheers with a laugh as you squeal in surprise. Not only did he sneak up on you but he had effortlessly lifted you into the air by your waist, a merit to his muscular physique.

“James!” you laugh, hands on his broad shoulders as he spins you around, “Put me down!” grinning widely still, he carefully lowers you, grinning wider when your face gets closer and he can press a kiss to your cheek upon finally setting you down.

“I have everything already, angel, ready to go?”

“As I’ll ever be,” he links your arms together and leads the way to his and the boys' flat as you try to hold in your eagerness and nerves.

The flat the boys share is more spacious than you expected, cleaner too, which you suspect is primarily because of Remus. You were shocked to find, however, that Sirius tended to be the clean freak out of the three.

“I just grew up with clean habits, I guess,” Sirius quickly shrugs off your questioning eyes before ushering you into the kitchen where James was helpfully laying out all the ingredients the two of you needed in order to bake some fruit tarts together.

“We’ll be in the living room if you need us,” Remus offers with a cordial smile. In his hand is a rather small book, though you’d guess it’s because his hands were so big that the book just looked petite. The pages appeared relatively worn, as if he had flitted through their pages multiple times already despite his pointer finger marking the page he was at being quite early on in the book.

“With James in the kitchen you may be needing our help sooner rather than later—“ Sirius begins to chuckle but is forced out of the kitchen when James throws a rolled up kitchen towel at him. This makes you giggle as Sirius gives a shout of mock pain and makes his way into the living room with a journal full of sketches in one hand and a pen in the other.

“Right! Let’s get baking Jamie!” You chirp, missing the adoring eyes James looks onto you with, loving the nickname you call him by. Before the two of you get started, James helps tie up the back of your apron as well as your hair. Upon doing so, you do the same thing for him and he makes a show of asking you to tie up his hair for him despite its relatively short length. Even so, James got to work with a scrunchie holding up a small, short tuffet of hair —it made you giggle multiple times but James would just flutter his lashes at you comically and make you laugh even more.

Regardless of the occasional shenanigans James pulled, the activity was very domestic and made your heart flutter in your chest, not realising that James was experiencing the same sensations ten-fold.

Everything begins well enough with James obediently following your instructions, helpfully preparing the dough before moving onto the pastry cream. It was when you had to prepare the summer fruits while blind baking the pie crust and chilling the pastry cream that things became a little more chaotic. James had innocently offered you a slice of a strawberry and enjoyed your elated reaction so much that he started feeding you an entire array of fruits. Fearful that there won’t be anymore fruit for the tart, you begin to pull away from James’s kind offerings.

“Come on, princess,” James pleads with you, offering up a small slice of mango, “one more, you look so cute when you chew your food,” he coos adoringly as you bring your hands up to cover your cheeks and pout at him.

“James you better not—“

“You’re like a baby chipmunk!” He offers the mango once more but you quickly run away, which initiates a playful chase around the kitchen island. A mischievous look is sparked in James’s eyes as he laughs at your feeble attempt at running away from him. He plays easy with you, however; he doesn’t want the game to end too soon.

“James is at it again…” Remus chuckles and sets his book aside to sink back into the sofa, smiling at your squeals of fun from the kitchen.

“Trying to read was a lost cause, Moony,” Sirius laughs to himself, a warmth blossoming in his chest at the sound of your joyful activities. Nevertheless, he continues to sketch in his journal of potential tattoo compositions for a client, “we both knew this would happen,”

“Which is why,” Remus stresses, “I chose a book I’ve read multiple times already,”

Sirius looks up with a smirk, “always such a smartass,”

“You love this smartass,” Remus shoots and leans over to kiss the tattoo artist sweetly with light fingers lifting his chin up.

“I’m not denying that…” Sirius answers with a smirk before realising that the noise had significantly died down in the kitchen. They didn’t have to wait long until it began once again, however.

“James stop!” You squeal in delight and laugh airily.

James swings you around and places you on the kitchen island, not too far away from where the pie crust was cooling off on a drying rack. Standing between your thighs, he holds you in an embrace and laughs into your shoulder, “I caught you, love,”

“You have an unfair advantage,” you huff with a pout that doesn’t linger for very long when you lean back to adjust James’s glasses with a soft smile. Loving the gesture, James squeezes his arms around you and a dopey grin stretches across his face. He’s the image of bliss and summer fun.

“Not true…deep down, it’s you who has an unfair advantage over me,” and on Sirius and Remus too James was tempted to add but neglects to when he is overcome with the urge to kiss your cheek at the sight of your loveliness, head slightly tilted, lips adorning the sweetest smile and eyes alight with boundless mirth.

As the three admire you from their seats on the sofas, they share a similar look. All smiling with a hidden secret as their eyes twinkle with agreement. Many times they’ve discussed their relationship with you, knowing full well that they wanted the same thing and that there wasn’t a chance on earth they’d let you go without a fight.

It’s too cruel to have met a sweetheart like you only to have you drift away so easily. You bring about a softness in them that is typically hidden away, masked by their inked skin and piercings. You are a missing piece and an essential cog in their system that they can no longer live without.

“Tea’s ready!” you call and turn to them with a tray loaded with mugs of the steaming beverage accompanied by biscuits and cookies. Their gaze isn’t on the tea, however, it’s on you. And their eyes are flooded by a feeling that can only be love.

A/N : i have several requests for this au but i need to do a little build up on the storyline first, hopefully my lovely requesters don't mind the wait and that this can satisfy you for now (┳Д┳)

NAVI. | HEROES IN TATTOOS SERIES

TAGLIST : @melinajenkins @astonishment @until-i-found-you @corp0real @celestcies @lovelydoveval @inlovewithremusjohnlupin @calums-betch @futurecorps3 @hihihi1112 @simpingforthe80s @yrluvjane @neeezza101 @chaosofmanyfandoms @susyelectra @fangirlninja67 @pagesfalling @thepunisherfrankcastle @axeofwars @imarimon @justkiyomi @in-love-with-4-marauders @chicken-taco-burrito @valencia-rou @feast0nmeee @lestat-whore @hvmxjjk @twilightlover2007 @diaryofabiwoman @woohoney @celestialfantasiess @willbedecided @lovelyygirl8 @iiirhiane-g @ghostgardn @mess-is-my-aesthetic

1K notes · View notes

nina-ya · 4 months ago

Note

Idk if you write for him, but would you be interested in writing a headcanon about Killer falling in love with an AFAB!reader or even the prompt for Three times he tried to confess and the one time he did? If you don’t want to then I understand ! I really love the way you write the interactions between a reader and a character, it makes my heart soar 💞💞 so I wanted to at least ask

Three Times Killer Tried to Confess and The One Time That He Did

A/N: Hi!!! I am so sorry this took a while to get to but here it is!! I wrote a lot more than I thought I would and I actually had a lot of fun doing this!!! I do hope you enjoy it my love Pairing: Killer x Reader CW: Wano spoilers in the second half WC: 2.5k

Matching aprons adorned you and Killer as you stood side by side in the ship’s kitchen. There was a playful and light energy in the air. Killer by your side certainly helped brighten the usually mundane task of preparing dinner for the crew.

“You know, I didn’t take you for a cook,” you teased, nudging him with your elbow as you tossed a handful of various spices into the pot in front of you. “You seem more of the ‘slice and dice’ type.”

Killer chuckled, the sound low and genuine. “I have hidden talents,” he replied, glancing over at you. “I can handle more than just weapons, you know.”

You grinned, the banter flowing easily as you stirred the contents of the pot in front of you. As you moved to grab a spoon to taste your creation, your hand brushed up against his, and you both paused. The small kitchen suddenly seemed to shrink further as you exchanged glances that lingered a moment too long to be entirely innocent.

It was moments like this, quiet and shared, that made it seem easy to just rip the bandage off and tell you the truth– to let you know that his feelings for you went far beyond camaraderie.

With that in mind, he summoned the courage to confess and the words started to tumble out of him. “Hey, I–”

The kitchen door swung open with a bang, and Kid strode in, his boisterous presence loud and commanding as ever. “Is the food ready yet?” He asked, voice loud and slicing right through the moment.

You jumped back, startled, and the spoon that was in your hand fell onto the floor, clattering against the tiles. “Oh hey,” you greeted, trying to sound casual as if you were not just gawking at the first mate.

Killer sighed, frustration simmering beneath the surface as he watched his captain barrel right in with his usual lack of grace. Kid surveyed the scene and waltzed over to the stove, looking over at the various pots and pans that simmered and crackled with the awaiting meals.

“Want to taste?” you quipped, picking up the mood as you scrambled to ease your embarrassment.

Killer remained silent, the moment he was hoping for, now a memory. He didn’t have to force a smile, one of the perks of the mask that he wore.

The conversation turned dull as Killer once again found himself retreating into the comfortable role of a friend and a crewmate. Despite the interruption, he knew there would be more moments, other times when the words might finally find their way to you. But for now, he continued his cooking alongside you, content with the knowledge that he was even able to gather the courage to confess.

- - - There are these moments in life that seem completely and utterly perfect and today was one of them. Floating out on the seas, the sun shone high amongst a clear sky, it was not too cool, not too hot, the waters were not choppy, no enemies for miles upon miles. Today was perfect. And of course, you spent that perfect day outside, lounging around, playing games on the deck, doing whatever really to ensure the day wasn’t wasted.

Killer joined the festivities, his mask reflecting the sunlight in a way that made it seem like he was quite literally glowing. Each subtle turn of his head cast the sun's rays in your eyes, prompting playful chastising from your end.

You two found a moment alone, leaning against the ship’s railing, watching as the sunlight reflected amongst the waves. “The ocean looks different every day, doesn’t it?” you mused, breaking the comfortable silence. “I could never get tired of it.”

He nodded, preferring to watch you rather than the horizon. “It’s certainly mesmerizing,” he agreed, though those words were more meant for you rather than the sea.

The moment seemed perfect, sun shining down on the two of you, the world quiet and still, and you, right beside him, close enough to touch. Killer took a deep breath to steady himself, and he started, his words carefully chosen, “Hey, can I tell you something?”

You turned to face him, a curious smile lighting up your features. “What is it, Killer?” you asked, eyes bright with interest as you leaned slightly closer to him.

He hesitated, the confession perched right on the tip of his tongue. But before he could continue, you interrupted his thoughts with a teasing remark. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that you were about to confess your undying love for me.”

Fuck.

His mind blanked, the carefully crafted confession instantaneously vanishing into thin air. Your words hit like a bucket of cold water, leaving him momentarily stunned. The laughter that followed your statement was teasing and light, but it did nothing to subdue the rising conflict in emotions within him. Killer opened his mouth to respond, but the words got tangled in his throat.

You chuckled, clearly amused by his reaction. “Relax, relax, just teasing,” you reassured, giving him a gentle nudge. “What were you going to ask?”

The moment had slipped through his fingers and the confession died beneath the wave of playful banter, not that he could ever get mad at you for that, anyway. He managed a smile, the words of his heart retreating to their depths once more as he replied, “Not quite.” He shook his head, pushing out a soft laugh of his own as he hid the frustration with humor. “Guess you’ll have to keep guessing.”

You grinned, clearly enjoying the exchange. “Alright, I’ll get it out of you eventually,” you promised.

While the moment had slipped away, you remained. And for now, that was enough. - - - Something had undeniably shifted after that encounter with Kaidou, after Killer ate that damn smile fruit. The fruit had stolen his ability to express any emotion besides happiness, twisting his laughter into a constant, cruel reminder of what he had lost. No matter how much he tried to control it, the laughter would mock him at the most inopportune moments.

Tonight was no different. The two of you sat on the deck of the Victoria Punk with the moon overhead, the soft source of light casting just enough of a glow for you two to make out each other's features. You were talking, your voice bubbling with melodious laughter as you recounted a funny story from earlier in the day.

He watched you, the smile beneath his mask nothing short of obsessive adoration as you rambled on, each syllable that you graced him with was a spark, igniting a fire within him that he longed to nurture with the truth he had hidden away. It was a struggle before to get his words of confession out, always right on the precipice before something shattered it. Yet, in his current state, he couldn’t even bear to think of you for too long before it started to hurt. It pains him, knowing that his advances have been set back even further because of the failure of a Devil Fruit planting seeds of insecurities that festered and consumed him unlike anything else in this world.

As he listened to you, that warmth spread through his chest, combining with the constant dull ache of words unspoken. He was a prisoner of himself. He felt a desperate urge to break free, to let his true feelings rise and breach the waves.

As your laughter persisted, joy enveloped him and for a moment, he was swept away by the fantasy of what could be. The moonlight had painted your features in soft hues, illuminating the smile that never failed to make his heart race. And the longer he stared at you, the more those fantasies started to feel like a reality he could just reach out and grab.

Before he knew it, he was speaking, the inkling of a confession rolling off his tongue as he started, “I… there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.” But just as the words hovered on the brink of escape, the laughter erupted, uncontrollable and wild. It spilled from his lips, tormenting him by grabbing the fragile confession and drowning it. His own voice betraying him was nothing but a cruel jest.

Your own laughter faded as you looked at him, your own features flooding with confusion and concern. “Are you okay,” you asked, bringing your voice down as you tried to navigate the situation.

He wanted to scream, to tell you that he was trapped in this unrelenting cycle of torture that he couldn’t break. But all he could do was nod, the laughter still bubbling up, a mocking refrain that refused to be silenced.

Frustration wound tight within him and he turned away, unable to meet your gaze as shame burned through him. “It’s nothing, don’t worry about it,” he managed to choke out. You wanted so desperately to know what was going through the blond’s mind, to get a glimpse of what he was really feeling at the moment, but you were not granted more than a second of wondering before he excused himself and walked off, leaving you in a state of confusion. - - - Killer let out a deep breath, unfolding the letter in his hands and reading it for the thousandth time. He had convinced himself that this was the only way to confess to you- the paper in front of him contained words that he could only dream of saying out loud to you.

As he read over the letter once more, you burst into the room unannounced, interrupting his thoughts. His eyes shot up to you through his mask, nervousness freezing him in his place.

You noticed the way that he froze up and your original purpose for coming into the room screeched to a stop as you asked, “Are you okay?”

Killer sighed, accompanied by the laughter you had gotten used to, the laughter you often looked forward to. “Yeah, I’m okay. Did you need anything?” voice wavered as his eyes glanced down at the letter in his hands with yours following.

Your curiosity piqued, your attention zeroed in on the piece of paper in his hands. “What’s that you got there?” you asked, stepping forward your interest only increasing as you watched him fumble to fold the letter as if he was trying to hide its contents from you.

Before he had a chance to hide anything, you reached out, your hand gently covering his to stop his movements. “Whatever it is, you know that you can tell me.”

The letter let out an audible crinkle as he gripped the paper tighter, his body hesitating at the thought of giving the letter to you. He had fantasized about this moment for nights on end, dreaming about the day he could lay his heart out bare for you. Each scenario played out perfectly in his head, yet none of the dozens of scenarios unfolded like this. Yet, he couldn’t stop himself from handing the letter to you, locking in this version of events. Despite the strained laughter that spilled from his lips, every cell in his body screamed nervousness, from the slight tremor in the hand that passed the paper to you, to the vein in his jaw that was evidence of how hard he was clenching his jaw. The contents of the paper were a mystery and you found yourself almost too eager to unveil them.

You unfolded the paper, your eyes scanning the words etched onto it. Killer silently thanked the mask that covered his face, concealing the scarlet that flushed his features. Each and every word of his bare feelings sent your heart racing. Declarations of love, confessions he never dared utter aloud, and the fear that his uncontrollable laughter would ruin any chance at a sincere confession- all of it was there quite literally in the palm of your now shaky hands.

His eyes darted around before landing on the space between your feet, the silence certainly not helping his nerves. He stood there, seemingly frozen, as he waited for your reaction, breath caught in his throat.

You looked up from the letter, your gaze filled with a mixture of about a dozen emotions- surprise, affection, relief, and something deeper. Killer’s own eyes locked with yours and you could hear the struggle to stifle the laughter that bubbled up in his throat. You took a step closer, folding the letter in one hand as the other reached out to him.

“Killer,” you whispered, your voice filled with that same mix of emotions. You didn’t know quite what to say at the moment, opting for a different approach.

You reached up, delicate fingers hesitantly gripping the bottom of the metallic mask. You gently lift the mask, your eyes locked on each inch of skin revealed with the passing moments. You stopped when the mask revealed the tip of his nose. Your hand moved to cup his face and your thumb ran over the skin, dedicating the feeling to memory. You leaned in and placed a kiss on his cheek, watching as he tensed up beneath you, breath catching in his throat. If you could see his eyes, they would be as big as saucers at the action.

The kiss lingered for a moment, the touch conveying what your own words couldn’t. You pulled back, taking a moment to pull the mask off completely and admire his features. His face was always softer than you imagined, the contours of his face complimenting him perfectly. The eyes, once hidden, now bore into your soul, pulling you in with each passing second. And those lips, the parted flesh painted a purple that you can’t help but want to smear at the moment. His breath was still uneven and he swallowed the laughter that usually would have presented itself by now, a thick silence filling the air.

“Killer,” you whispered once again, your voice steady as you attempted to find the right words. “Thank you… I didn’t know you felt the same way… I mean, I had this gut feeling, but seeing it here…” you held up the letter, the paper trembling slightly. “It means everything to me.”

You saw his muscles ease as relief washed over him. You couldn’t help but break out into a smile at the newfound warmth spreading through you two. You squeezed his hand gently, letting out a soft chuckle as the tension melted between the two of you.

Without a word, you leaned in once again and met his lips in a kiss- a kiss of longing, making up for last time, complete and utter affection. It was a gentle kiss, expressing all the words you didn’t say. For a moment, everything couldn’t have been more perfect and the only thing in the world was the warmth of his lips against yours.

Just as suddenly as the kiss began, you pulled back, your breath mixing with his, the noise being the only thing to fill the air. It seems like only a split second that all of your troubles seemed to fade into insignificance as you both took in this moment- the moment that would change things for as long as you two live.

#nina responds to~✦#arkive #nina writes~✦#killer x reader #massacre soldier killer x reader #killer one piece #x reader

241 notes · View notes