#so your hair actually gets oily faster

[atsadi-shenanigans]

What Shall We Become 39 - Natalie Portman

Y'all need to get the fuck outta here.

On AO3.

Everything goes to shit. You don’t got more than a second to process Astarion with his knives before the short shit slaver swings at him. With a goddamn battle ax. How the fuck does somebody fight that?

You got no weapons. Lost your stick to a Hook Bitch and your knife to a fucking drow. So you do what you been doing, and try to stay outta the fucking way.

That lasts about three seconds.

Something slams you low. Folds your knees and you crater down. Then another little bastard is on you. His own knife glints in the low glow. Like every other short shit fucker you’ve been pinned by in the last month, the fucker is strong.

“Darling?”

Astarion’s voice is tight. Slaver takes another swing, which he dodges.

“Sun-scum bitch!” the fucking ankle biter on you spits. Literally. Speckles your face in the process and some of it lands in your mouth.

“Uergh!” You make some garbled kind of outrage noise.

You don’t know how to actually use a knife that ain’t slashing wildly at a butthole, don’t know how to shoot a bow or even a .22. But you wrestled with other kids at the farmstead (before you was considered a girl and forced to do chores while the boys got to play). Part of you remembers how to shimmy and grab.

Ankle Biter leans in close with that knife. Oily hair falls in your mouth.

You also know how to bite.

You twist up and crunch into his ear. He screams. Tries to pull away, but you hold fast, teeth straining in your gums, and you get your hand around his knife wrist.

“Fuck!” he says. Finally tears free.

Flesh also tears. Hot metal washes over your tongue and you spit as he rips his own ear off getting away from you.

“You fucking bitch!” he says.

You got enough room now to get a leg up between y’all. Wedge a foot against his chest. The edge of the wall is right there, and you don’t even gotta think.

You kick. Ankle Biter flails back. Trips over the edge. Scrambles for a hand hold, but you kick at his hands. Miss them and crack him in the face.

He falls.

Astarion grunts. You look up. He can’t get close enough to Slaver with that mcfucking ax. Fucker’s too fast with it. He needs an opening. A distraction—

You look to your chest. To the severed ear oozing over your drow armor.

No time. You pluck it up, scramble to your knees to aim better, and throw.

It ain’t enough to do damage. You get nothing but an instinctive flinch from Slaver. But Astarion is a two-hundred-year-old vampire elf, and he don’t need any more than that. In a blur, he’s in Slaver’s range. Short fucker tries to back away, get his ax lifted up between them.

Too late.

Astarion grabs his arm with one hand, his face with the other, and darts in to rip out a chunk of throat. Follows Slaver down as he gulps down what he can.

He pops off with a gasp. Swipes his messy chin with a forearm, and gives you a bloody grin.

“I couldn’t let you be the only one having fun,” he says.

You want to grimace. Or scream. And some fucked up little goblin in your skull still kinda wants to kiss him. On, like, the cheek maybe (it’s on the mouth).

What actually comes out is a weird, wheezing snort.

Shouts down below. You catch some of the trilled Drowic. Bastards have caught up.

“Ladder,” Astarion says and points behind you.

“Hold on.”

“Darling—” he starts. Realizes you’re snatching up the saddle bags because you are motherfucking sick and motherfucking tired of losing all your shit.

“Ah, of course,” he says. “Retrieve your phallus. It’s not as if we’re begging to be shot up here.”

You sling the bag over your shoulder. “I was thinking potions. You’re the one who won’t shut up about the goddamn dildo.”

Then an arrow whistles past your ear, and you’re following him down that ladder as fast as you can.

Where fucking zombies shamble over to meet you.

“What the fuck!” you say.

Astarion just shoves you back and goes hog wild. Man’s moving faster than you ever seen him. You aren’t actually seeing him; he’s just a blur of silver hair and pale skin and the dark drow armor.

He cuts through them fuckers like a goddamn weed whacker.

Movement above. A drow drops from the walkway. Sort of spiderman skitters down on a net and drops the last ten feet. She don’t so much as glance at you.

She’s focused on that big, rickety gate.

“Shit. Astarion!”

You done spotted the dock. There’s a big boat, kinda like a catamaran. You can’t help the fight without emotional support grenades or a fucking stick. But you can’t just leave him, either. So you stand there and hover like a dumbass.

Until he takes the head off the last one. Turns to you as the gate groans like a set of old man lungs on the last stretch of pneumonia. He gives you a weird look you can’t parse, before his whole face furrows into a scowl.

“What are you waiting for?” he says and makes a sweeping gesture with his hands. “Go!”

The ground turns soft. Not sand, but finer than gravel. The two of you sprint across the beach, towards the dock. One hundred feet. Seventy. Fifty.

And something pops outta the ground. Long and skinny and dark. You veer to go around, but Astarion clamps a hand on your wrist and jerks you back so hard your feet damn near fly out.

More sticks sprout right where you was about to step. And then you notice the fletching. They ain’t weird mushrooms or sea grass. They’re arrows.

You look back. One drow on the wall. Three trotting out to flank y’all—two on the left and one on the right. And the gate wide open, so Bitch Queen and Shithouse can stride on through like rich people at some fancy-fuck costume party.

Shithouse spots Astarion first. Half his face is a fucked up smear of burned tissue. The other twists in an uglier sneer. “Traitor.”

…huh?

Astarion must sense the confusion across y’all’s brainworms. He murmurs over his shoulder, “It’s what they call surface elves. It’s quite derogatory.”

He sounds near giggle at that last part. Solidifies that impression by making a kissing noise at Shithouse.

“Hold,” Bitch Queen says without even turning her head. “You. Surrender, and we’ll kill you swiftly.”

Goddamnit. Goddamnit. You’re only a dozen feet from that dock. So fucking close.

You reach for the brainworm group chat. Tap into it like you hit a road closure on a long trip and you’re fumbling with your phone trying to find the right detour. You ain’t being subtle about the shitfuckshit in your brain, neither. Alarm zaps through the others and crashes back into you.

They’re closer than they’ve been. But still too far to help.

You look to Astarion again. Your scalp burns under phantom claws.

“Don’t let them take me again,” you say, low enough you hope the others don’t catch it. “Please.”

He’s still got hold of your wrist. Glances your way outta the corner of his eye, and gives you a tiny squeeze.

“Easy, darling,” he says. Out loud. And then drags you up as he takes a step back. His other arm snakes around your chest. A cold line presses into your throat.

“Ast…what?” you say.

“How about a renegotiation of those terms?” he says to the fucking drow. His voice coils through you.

“Astarion?”

“Do it, traitor,” Shithouse says. Takes two steps forward. “Our matron mother will simply peel the knowledge from the slave’s skull. After we’ve peeled off every inch of your skin.”

“Ooh, promises. Unfortunately, I’ve tasted that dish before, darling. You’ll have to be more creative. And if you were capable of doing all that, you’d have killed her at the beginning and saved yourselves all this trouble.”

Shithouse starts towards y’all again.

“I said hold.” Bitch Queen don’t raise her voice. Don’t change her tone. Sounds like she’s ordering coffee at a diner.

And Shithouse stops like he hit an invisible wall.

“What are your terms?” she says.

Astarion came back for you. He kissed you. He wouldn’t…would he?

“Safe passage for myself,” he says.

“And your companion?”

You can’t see his face. He’s an iron presence at your back. Your wrist twisted behind you, his grip tight. The other holding his fucking knife to your neck. But his cool breath puffs against your ear as he nuzzles in.

“Trust me,” he breathes.

Then a hot sting on your neck. He cut you. He cut you.

“An ally, once,” he says. And then licks your fucking temple. “But she’s served her purpose less than adequately. I’d rather continue on my own way, if it’s all the same to you.”

He came back. He lured a fucking birdshark after him to get you back. You ain’t sure what, exactly, he’s trying to accomplish here. But he asked you to trust him.

“No!” you say. “You motherfucker! I helped you!”

You thrash. Just a little. Enough the knife slices you again. It’s shallow, but you feel his chest hitch behind you.

You seen him use those knives enough to know man’s got control of them like they’re his own fingers. If he wanted to cut you, he would. And if he were any less dexterous, you’d have slit your own throat just then with that stunt.

But he modified it. Just enough. He’s putting on a show.

“And that was your mistake, my sweet,” he says. Louder,” Shall we? I leave her to you, you leave me to my business, and we all get what we want?”

“Fucking bitch,” you say and scrape a heal down his shin. He is wearing boots. That don’t rise that far.

“Ah! You little—” He lets go of your wrist to shake you. The world blurs, but your brain ain’t sloshing around in your skull. He’s way stronger than this.

Then he blasts into your mind with his brainworm and his outrage tastes like eggs with way too much pepper. That hurt.

But you needed to make it convincing.

Oh, he’d glare at you if he could. Drag you over to that lake and dump you in and let all your things sink to the bottom.

But the drow flanking y’all edge in.

“Ah, ah, ah!” he says. “None of that. This is a straightforward arrangement; let’s not ruin it for the both of us, hmm?”

Y’all haven’t moved any closer to the dock, even with your antics. So what’s he trying to accomplish?

His sheer, buttery smugness fills your mind and your ears pop. Except they don’t. He just tugs you into him, skating around the edges of his thoughts, so that his ears become yours. The cavern fills with the panting inhale of all the drow, their pounding pulses—one in particular fills his thoughts, and you try to edge closer to see what—

No, darling, not that. That.

A roiling shiver. A distant thrumming. Something big, something moving.

Something underground.

Oh. Oh-ho-ho.

His giddiness mingles with yours into a schadenfreude milkshake across y’all’s brainworms.

(Somewhere in the distance, Gale frowns at a wall and says, “A what?”)

“Make the deal,” Shithouse says. He leans close to Bitch Queen, and at first, you think he’s actually stupid enough to say that so loud. Until…nope, he ain’t being loud. His lips barely move. You should not be able to hear that man. You’re still riding shotgun in Astarion’s hearing and holy shit, that man hears everything.

A flash of his memory: staring up at the red canvas of his tent as guts gurgle and people snore and Karlach thrashes and…is Wyll humming in his sleep?

“Jesus,” you whisper.

“Once we have the thief, we hunt down the traitor and tan his skin to make our new house banner.”

Bitch Queen nods to Shithouse. Then to y’all, “Very well. We will accept your terms. Let our target go, and you may depart unmolested. On my word as first daughter of House Darnruel.”

She said depart unmolested.

Astarion’s amusement fizzes against you. He caught that, too. Poor thing thinks she’s being clever. She does look quite young, for a drow (she looks like she’s in her forties, what is he even talking about).

Astarion takes a step back, dragging you along. Bitch Queen somehow straightens even more.

Right against you, so close his breath tickles your ear (fine, so you shiver, it’s a normal response to being tickled), Astarion says, “And right about…now.”

Shithouse looks down. Squints through the ruined flesh of half his face. Bitch Queen goes all hard and harsh in what you think is alarm.

“Bulette!” one of the drow shouts.

“Get up the ladders!” Bitch Queen says.

Too late. Apparently, that birdshark was real pissed. Pissed enough to track y’all the whole way here.

The big bitch rockets straight outta the ground, right between the legs of the drow on the right. She tries to leap up and away, and almost makes it.

The hook of birdshark’s beak snips, almost tenderly, right through her crotch.

“I knew it!” Astarion says.

Chaos erupts. Bitch Queen says a word and her hands light on purple fire. She flings it at the birdshark, who whips around with a screech. The archer still above gets off about three shots. Which the birdshark seems to take personally, because it darts to the side, gator-like, and smashes into the half-rotted timbers bracing up that section of the wall.

The archer falls. Lands in a roll and don’t snap her femur like a carrot stick. So birdshark decides to be a dear and skitters forwards to crunch off her foot.

“Fucking called it,” you say.

“Time to go, darling,” Astarion responds.

Together, y’all bolt for the ship. Hit the dock, boots pounding on the wobbly planks. The boat is tethered by one, big rope the same thickness as your wrist. Astarion stoops with his knife still drawn.

“Do you know how to work one of these?” he says.

You been on a pontoon boat out on Tenkiller Lake, like, once.

“Uh,” you say.

“Get aboard. Try that part up there? That looks like a handle or something.”

Stairs lead to a kind of balcony on the back. You scramble on board. A railing rises towards the back, but the bitch is completely open on the front.

You start for the stairs. Stumble over what you think is a pack or cargo or something. Until it says, “Fuck off! Watch it!”

A duergar lifts himself up. Even a couple feet away now, little fucker reeks of alcohol.

“Who the hell’re you?” he says. Stumbles to his feet and reaches for what you assume at this point—because that is just what everybody fucking does here—is a knife in his belt.

Fuck it.

You lunge. Shove him, as hard as you can.

He lets out a startled squawk, his ass first, and then keeps on rolling backwards right off the edge and into the water.

“Ha!” Astarion crows. And saws at the apparently un-cuttable rope. “Why is this thing so thick?”

It’s gotta be the adrenaline. Or maybe your brains just flipped the bird and skipped off. Cause you open your mouth, “That’s what she said.”

You ain’t usually that kind of joker. You been told you got dry wit. College boy humor? Not so much.

Astarion stops to gawp at you. Blinks once. A woman on shore screams as the birdshark chomps out the front of her gut.

“You’re utterly deranged,” says the man with blood drying all down his chin.

Which you tell him.

“It wasn’t a complaint.” His grin is as sharp as his knife as he finally slices through the last of the fucking rope. He holds that grin as he vaults on board himself, and as he swoops in, wraps one arm around you, and drags you close enough to plant his lips on your cheek.

Half of you goes wibbly.

The other half swats at him and says, “Ew! Blood breath!”

He only cackles and all but flows up the stairs.

There ain’t no engine or, like, old-timey steering wheel. There is a rudder.

A drow—half of one, anyway—goes flying through the air to splash in the shallows nearby.

Y’all look at each other. At the empty deck below. The sails on either side folded like a bird’s wings. Or maybe bat wings.

Astarion grabs the rudder.

The entire boat shimmers. He gasps. Flinches. But grabs the rudder more tightly and his face goes all sharp.

Wood groans and canvas hisses. The wings on either side slide up, unfurling like a church lady’s fan. And the whole thing shudders. Shifts. Creaks forwards away from shore.

“Whoa,” you say.

“It’s enchanted,” Astarion breathes. Looks to his hand. Up to the extended sails.

The boat moves slow at first. But you have to lean in, just a little, as it starts to pick up speed. The dock floats behind y’all.

Holy shit. Holy shit, y’all fucking made it.

You glance back to shore, just to see (hoping to spot Bitch Queen lying in a pool of her own blood). Spot the birdshark on its back, unmoving.

And the bitch herself stands at the end of the dock, wreathed in purple. She utters the last syllable of her spell and thunder claps across the water.

You start to make a sound. Then it hits you. Phantom claws. No gentle brush, this time. No fucked up caress. They slide through your hair, pierce your skull, and shred.

You think you scream. Then your knees give out and you hit the deck.

[thebeautygeek]

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[reallyouthere--deactivated302836]

"Those eggs are not fertilized, right? I'm not having kids right now, am I?"

"Hell, no" his slime boyfriend replied. "We're both males, remember? And you're human. We're not even the same species. We're not compatible for reproduction."

"Got... it." The human groaned. "So I'm just giving birth to some eggs. Actually giving birth. Through my cock. To eggs."

He was down on the bathroom floor, leaning hard against the bathtub, legs spread wide open, allowing space to a heavy bulging belly. His penis was engorged and throbbing, stretched at the base by something that was beginning to slide out. He grasped his hands at the border of the bathtub.

"That's how my species has sex." The slime guy crossed his arms. He was standing close, a worried look on his face. "You said you could take them."

"They weren't that size and you know it!" The human gasped. "They were just like cock beads when you put them in. I didn't know they were gonna grow, and that I'd have to push them out through my cock!" He cried.

"Yeah, I didn't think they'd develop inside a human." Slime boy admitted. "Next time I'll-"

"Fuck your next time." The human panted. "Fuck you and your stupid... s-stupid eggs" he grabbed the base of his dick and tried to push the egg forward.

The motion made him scream, but stimulated his nerves and the pleasure atenuated the pain. Too desperate to think twice, he grabbed his enlarged cock and buckled his hips into his hands.

"Are you seriously jerking it right now?" The boyfriend asks. "What, does that help?"

Turns out, it did help. The motion immediately became bearable, and the painful stretching of his penis felt aphrodisiac. He pushed the egg a little bit further.

"Hey, you're looking good out of a sudden-"

"Shut up, I'm gonna..." he interrupted. "Gckn... god, I'm gonna... I'm g- n-... ah, ,, AH..,,,

-AAARRGH!"

The egg slid out, dropped to the floor, and he proceeded to violently ejaculate a clear, oily liquid. Slime amniotic fluid. His boyfriend rushed to him as he convulsed.

"Hey, at least we got one out." He said.

"F-fuck you." the human breathed. He grabbed his sad limp dick and caressed it. The second egg was already in place. He was hyperventilating, but begun to jack off to get it up again. "Hahh-HAHH gn-"

As the next egg started sliding off, slime boyfriend decided to help. The amniotic fluid made for a good lube when he started sliding his hands on the human's dick.

The human, noticing his proximity, grabbed his squishy hair and pulled his head down, shoving his cock directly into this mouth. The slime boy gagged, surprised.

"You wanna h-help, t-then help." He said, shivering. "You got us in th... this s-situation."

He bobbed his hips into the slime's throat, who now recovered from the shock started sucking him off. The second egg slid out faster, after the first one had already stretched it's way out. The human cried again, drowsy with a pleasure he didn't know his body could feel.

He spasmed hard and ejaculated more slime fluid. His boyfriend looked up at him.

"I think this fluid has endorphins." He said. "Same ones that I used on sex."

The human stared at him, awkwardly.

"What?"

"Dude, the egg is right in the middle of your throat."

"Ah, that." He coughed, and reached a hand into it. Pulled the egg right out, effortlessly.

"That was so freaky" the human said.

"I thoughy you were into freaky." The slime boy winked. "Wait, does that mean you're not breaking up with me?"

"We'll still see about that." He groaned. "Go grab me a fleshlight, I can feel the next one already."

The slime boy sat by his side and embraced his shoulders while he started on the fleshlight. His dick was all sore now, and he felt dizzy with how much he'd hyperventilated. But he was still throbbing and big, that feeling between his legs starting to feel intoxicating, as he shoved his penis in and out, the pleasure only growing, overbearing.

"Oh god... oh no" he begged. "I can't anym...- I just can't."

"You're doing so well." The slime said when another egg popped out from his red tip.

"Hurts..." The human sobbed. He was grabbing his sensitive cock like it was alive - and the way it throbbed and shivered, it might as well. Blood was starting to come out. He wondered, for a second, if it was safe for him to be stretching so much. But it quickly left his mind when another egg rubbed his nerves from inside, and an involuntary yell came out when he tried to breathe. "ng... AAAHH..."

He gave birth again. Then again. The floor was a mess of blood and splatter under him.

"You're so cute when you sob." The slime smiled. He had changed colors, horny from watching the human push and cry.

"You think that's gonna win you any favors?" The human cried.

"No, I was thinking more..." he smirked "something like this.

The boy sat in between his legs, embracing his belly - now way smaller, but still heavy. He got the human's cock inside of him and started humping.

"Damm-mit we're..." the human was panting, choking out the words. "We're trying to get them out, not in"

"It's aaall right, babe." He said. "I'll get them all out for you."

With the repeated movements, the human realized the slime's body was sucking him out. Of course, if he could do it with his mouth, he could with everything else - he was all slime. He gasped, tears staining his face as he felt yet another egg slide out. He let himself fall on the floor, gripping tightly to the other's squishy body, digging his nails in while - "oh god I'm gonna come again" - both their hips clashed and more eggs were birthed out. He didn't know someone could cum so hard and so often in such a small ammount of time. It was painful, he was spasming, the eggs would slide out with a sting, and then stretch him out further - but then the birth and exilirating ejaculations that followed would drive them both crazy. The human didn't even remember he was supposed to be mad.

"How many are there, anyway?" He asked, breathless.

"At this rate? Looks like we'll spend the afternoon here." The boyfriend replied.

"Well" the human laughed, breathily "good thing it's my day off."

[fierceawakening]

So some of this is surely just my tendency to latch onto villains and make meow meows out of them. Pretty much any time someone or some culture or nation is made The Big Bad my brain starts pondering intensely how exactly they see what’s going on, and while I don’t usually come to the conclusion the good guys should lose, I usually do wind up Concerned about something the good guys do or say that just seems… dishonorable in a way I don’t want good guys to be.

Which is to say. DMU flavor text:

“Phyrexians pollute everything they touch. Clearly the solution is to not let them touch anything.”

“There can be no mercy. No half measures. When it comes to Phyrexians, it’s kill quickly or die.”

Various references to them as “scrap metal”

Even with the Aron arc, the card flavor text has Danitha say “He may look like my father, but the man I knew and loved is gone.”

When in the story Aron is clearly fighting his compleation, and doing better at this than… pretty much anyone we’ve seen who’s not immune.

He doesn’t just say “no, no, no” but then proceed to kill one of his friends, like Ajani does. He physically resists when commanded to attack, such that his movements are visibly jerky and slow. And when Ertai tells him “Aron, do your duty” (kill Danitha) he manages to repeat this as “Danitha, do your duty” (kill me before I turn completely.) Which she then does. So the man she knew and loved wasn’t gone, actually.

On the one hand, I get that war isn’t nice. And Dominarians of all people have reason to just have hair-trigger OH GODS KILL IT KILL IT NOW responses to anything remotely oily.

But on the other, thinking about it in a more Doylist sense, any random Phyrexian we see or hear about is clearly there to die, and there to be dehumanized in ways these heroes usually don’t dehumanize their foes.

And I’m pondering in my brain whether them being cyborgs helps with this… it’s interesting to me that they get called “scrap” for example, when they’re half made of flesh.

And not only that but it’s possible, maybe even likely, that the only one of them on Dominaría that isn’t a compleated native is Sheoldred. All the oil on Dominaria could conceivably come just from her.

Why do I think that? Because the praetors are some of the biggest and strongest of the Phyrexians and yet using the planar bridge nearly kills them. It burns away their organic bits, which is… half of them, basically. They either have to rest until their fleshy bits regrow, or have someone on the other side of the portal stitch in new fleshy bits so they heal faster.

Does the same thing happen to randos who try to leave New Phyrexia too, or do randos, being weaker than praetors, just go AHHH MY ORGANS I WAS STILL USING SOME OF THOSE and die?

If the latter, that would imply they didn’t bring that army. They grew it.

Those scrap metal pieces of Phyrexian scum?

They were Dominarians. They were people the people fighting them knew.

I dunno. Just has my brain Thinking Thoughts about dehumanization and how it works and the dark places it can make brains go.

Villains are people.

That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t kill them or shouldn’t depict heroes doing so, including in numbers. But… let them be people! It’s more tragic that way!

And in this particular situation it’s the only thing that makes actual sense.

[sarahjkl82-blog]

Ok, so the little line about Marcus being sad that Nush didn’t wear his hoodie gave me thoughts...and thots.

This would definitely be further down the line, maybe they’ve already confessed their feelings to one another but they’re taking their relationship slow, so dates mostly consist of movie nights, dinners at casual places, etc. But one movie night, they fall asleep on Marcus’ couch and he wakes the next morning to Nush coming back from getting them pastries & coffee...in his hoodie. And boy does it do something to him. He’s never felt this way about someone wearing his clothes before; it makes him possessive and all he wants to do is see her in his hoodie and nothing else.

My brain goes two ways on this: heavy make out session where Marcus let’s her know just what seeing her in his clothes does (lots of dirty talk) OR full on dom!Marcus picking her up and putting her on his kitchen counter so he can get his mouth between her legs and telling her what seeing her in his clothes does to him. I can’t decide which I thot I like more!!

These two give me so many thoughts and thots...it might be a slight problem

Please note that this work is not suitable for those under 18. Themes of consensual sex and swearing.

Beta thanks to @yespolkadotkitty ❤️❤️❤️

You think you are possessing me but I’ve got my teeth in you.

Angela Carter 

What could be more coincidental than pouring rain greeting the pair of you as you leave the Prince Charles Cinema’s matinee of Singing in the Rain? The deluge that pours onto the street below invites a bloom of colourful umbrellas twisting and turning through the Soho streets- umbrellas that neither of you had thought to bring despite it being April in London. Enjoying the last few moments of relative warmth and dryness, your eyes flicker between a deep-in-thought Marcus, and the puddles outside those black rimmed glass doors that lie in wait for the pair of you. 

“You are thinking very loudly, Mr Pike,” you remark shaking your head as a wave of consternation washes across his face, “Don’t you dare think about where the nearest shop is to buy an umbrella. It’s barely a ten minute walk to Charing Cross from here.”

Marcus releases a small chuckle as he shuffles his feet embarrassedly, his eyes shifting sideways, “How did you know I was thinking that?”

“At work, when you are questioning people- you’re entirely closed off which you need to be in for our profession but as soon as you go into hometime Marcus, your thoughts and emotions are painted across your face as clear as words on a page.”

A shy boyish grin creeps across his face, “Ok, I am a bit of an open book but you have the ability to read me better than anyone else,” he reluctantly owns, “I kinda wish I was a better liar and could come up with something else on the spot.”

Grabbing his hand tightly, you give it a small squeeze and a tug to let him know that he never needs to lie to you- a gesture that Marcus returns with a gentle kiss upon your forehead. “Come on you, let’s go run between the raindrops and head back South of the river before anyone notices that we came without our passports.” Your eyes sparkle wickedly at him as you raise your finger to your lips pretending to drag him into the silly North/South London divide. 

“Still tickled by your version of the redneck, iced tea, Southern manners versus skyscrapers, yellow cabs and  cold winters”,” he shakes his head slightly.

“My love, there is a lot you don’t get in regards to Britishisms- you still giggle like a teenage boy whenever I mention the word knickers,” you kindly reprimand him, “You’ve not even been here two months yet, give yourself time to realise that our version of pancakes are better than yours!”

You hear a sharp gasp emanating from Marcus in mock hurt as you blaspheme over his favourite food group. Cocking your eyebrow at him, you pause for a moment as you step towards the double doors that lead into roads where the coloured lights bleed across their oily surfaces. Marcus reaches around you to open the door, “I got you. Not letting you walk into doors today.”

It seems as if the moment that the two of you step outside, the heavens truly decide to open upon you, drenching through every layer of clothing right to your bones. Running through the winding streets with your hands tightly wound together, you and Marcus dodge in and out of the sprawling crowds of tourists with their leisurely pace and humongous golf umbrellas. When you are faced with a particularly large group, you split apart with Marcus diving towards a shop but you go too close to the curb when a taxi drives through a massive puddle, sending an icy tsunami over your head. 

You stand there and gasp as the water constricts every blood vessel in your body, the shock coursing through your veins. Blinking the water from your eyelashes, you become aware of two hands bringing warmth back to your cheeks and two brown orbs gazing at you, “Hey, you ok?” Marcus scans your face, worriedly checking you over as he slides his worn leather jacket over your shoulders to try to bring some warmth back into your body.

Brimming with tears of mirth, your eyes crease into tiny crescents until the smile tugging at your lips forms the biggest grin as your whole body roars with laughter, “I don’t think there’s much point in trying to run between the raindrops anymore,” you gasp out between the giggles. 

When you notice that Marcus isn’t laughing, you pause to draw a deeper breath, searching his face for clues. Your heart beats faster and faster as you notice that his eyes are black holes, pulling you towards him until gravity and time cease to exist. Heat rises through the chill of your skin- from your stomach to your throat- as his lips call to yours. When the sensitive skin meets, there isn’t a moment of hesitation to drink each other in as the taste of Marcus silences all of your thoughts.

All of your kisses to this point had been the tentative kisses of a new relationship. The kisses of two broken hearts starting to mend and learning how to allow yourselves to love again. 

But this. This. This was different. 

Marcus withdraws his mouth slightly from you, resting his forehead against yours as his breath dances across your lips, “Wow.”

And then he’s back. Fingers tangled in your hair, lungs forgetting to breathe as without a moment’s hesitation he deepens the kiss, parting your lips and searching for the soft sweetness brought by your tongue. As the moment swiftly intensifies, your hands seek him out as the only solid thing in the swaying world around you. Your fingers seek out the warmth of his skin beneath his drenched Henley. You feel him. All of him presses against you so that you can inhale the woody scent of his aftershave, the citrus notes of his shampoo and that smell that is just so utterly Marcus. 

“So beautiful,” he whispers against your now swollen lips. His words ground you, placing a solid surface beneath your feet before he sweeps you away again. 

The kisses eventually slow, becoming infinitely more tender than the raw need that pulses between you both. You are breathless, dazed and needing so much more. Your body aches for more than the Soho streets can offer you, confident in the knowledge that Marcus feels the same as you feel his powerful body tremble like yours. All that exists in this moment is feeling, wanting and needing each other. 

A half growl, half moan comes from the back of Marcus’ throat as he finally breaks the kiss, “I have to get you home before I take you right here.”

Heart still racing, you just about manage to form words but your lust-filled brain mangles them making you feel drunk and slurred, “Whose home?”

“Mine. S’closer,” he murmurs into your mouth, “Don’t wanna be arrested for acts of indecency. Right now, everything I wanna do to you, falls into that category.”

It takes all you can muster, hearing that admission spill from his lips. All the willpower in the world, not to just find a darkened doorway and just take him there. 

His fingers find yours again, peeling your hands away from the soft skin under his t-shirt-  intertwining in undoable knots- but your bodies still press together as if you cannot bear to separate yet. You both take a moment to catch your breath, the rain still falling upon you in some heavenly benediction- mouths twitching into grins as your breathing relaxes and slows to a pace that allows for thoughts to re-enter your mind. 

Marcus is the one to break the bodily contact, turning to one side, dropping one of your hands to start walking towards the station. You catch a slightly confused look on his face, “Not sure where the station is, are you? Come on, I’ll let you take the lead when you know where you are a bit better,” you snigger with a saucy wink in his direction. 

As you go to walk away from him, he pulls you in closer and rumbles deeply in your ear, “You know I don’t have a problem with you taking the lead.”

The tone of his voice echoes through your skin, setting fireworks off through every synapse in your body and oh how it gladdens you to realise that he needs you as much as you want him. 

✪✪✪✪✪

The journey home has been one of not daring to look at or touch each other too much. Sitting next to him on the train, your thighs leaning into each other, you both desperately try to focus on messing around with your phones. Him showing you various forthcoming art exhibitions in town and you showing him silly TikToks sent by your nieces and nephews of dogs being dubbed with computerised voices, giving their thoughts on cats and other dog breeds. Anything to take your minds off what you’d actually like to do with each other.

As the train pulls into the station, you pull him up from his seat and head towards the exit. Tapping out at the ticket barrier, you turn towards Marcus, going up on tiptoes to place a small chaste kiss upon his lips, “I’m popping to Sainsburys to grab some wine as I think we finished that bottle on Wednesday, didn’t we? Do you need anything else while I’m there?”

“Sweetheart, I can’t let you do that,” Marcus tries pleading with you.

“I cannot get any wetter than I am at this moment in time,” you implore before pausing as Marcus raises his eyebrows at you, licking his lower lip, stepping closer to close the minutismal space between yourselves.

“Quit  making me stand in the rain, thinking impure thoughts,” he groans.

You push the heel of your hand into his chest, “Then go upstairs, run me a bath and find something dry for me to put on, then you can have your wicked way with me.”

Putting his hands on your hips and dipping his head to playfully nip at your neck, Marcus gives in as his lips mutter into your skin, “Ok, be quick. I’ll order some pizza and ice cream ready for you getting out of the bath.”

Your eyes roll back in your head and you release a satisfied groan at the thought of a warm bath and pizza. Especially that beauty of a bath in Marcus’ apartment where you can actually stretch out and entirely submerge yourself beneath the hot soapy water. You remove Marcus’s hands from your sides and turn towards the small store with its bright fluorescent lights blaring out at you through the plate glass storefront. As you go to step inside, you turn your head and see that Marcus has turned at the same time with that look in his eyes again. With a small wave and a grin, you step inside to find snacks and wine, not entirely sure that they would be necessary this evening.

✪✪✪✪✪

Bottles clink and packets of Haribo rustle from within your bags as you walk up to Marcus’ front door. You give the bottom section of wood a small thud from your boot, to which it opens with a significantly dryer Marcus, who takes the bags from you before ushering you in. As the warmth of his flat encircles you, you release a breath you hadn’t realised you’d been holding.

“Strip,” his firm, familiar baritone commands, holding an arm out for your soaking clothes, “Your bath is run and I’ve left you some clothes on my bed. You’d left a pair of panties from the last time you stayed over- I’ve washed those so they’re in the pile too.”

Peeling back the layers of clothing that had been so utterly useless against the torrential rain and draping them over Marcus’ arms- tiny droplets dripping onto his hardwood flooring, you soon stand there completely naked. Tossing your clothes in the general direction of his washing machine, he gently guides you with his warm hand placed in the small of your back towards the bath, which true to his word, is full, bubbly and welcoming. 

As you step in, you look over towards Marcus inviting him in with your eyes. 

With a small shake of his head, Marcus turns to leave you to soak. The quietude envelops you, so much that you are barely able to hear Marcus padding softly around outside this sanctuary. You lie back allowing the water to cover your ears- a complete sensory deprivation when your eyes draw shut too. Images that swirl with the heavenly taste and scent of Marcus, his velvet touch and the sound of his voice dance behind your closed lids as you allow the water to wash away London pollution and puddle water. 

✪✪✪✪✪

Having reheated your body enough, the bath water turning tepid, you clamber out onto the deliciously soft bath mat that you know Andy picked out prior to Marcus’ arrival. Wrapping one of the towels Marcus has left out for you around your body and the other around your hair, you walk into his impeccably neat bedroom. Bed made, clothes ironed, folded and put away- the polar opposite of yours. Even the pile of clothes with your knickers on top, is neat. 

The morning after the night when Marcus had first stayed over at yours and needed an iron for his shirt, you’d barely been able to locate in your memory where you’d last seen it- pointing him in the direction of the cupboard of doom- the place where half-baked ideas and good intentions go to die.. Everything is generally haphazard and a little topsy-turvy about you but Marcus, his sense of order calms your busy brain and you are noticing it rub off on you. 

You hang your coat up on the hooks that you’d drilled in when you’d first bought your flat but never used until a month ago. You only now have one hanging chair, rather than utilising every surface available. You also attempt to only buy one bagged salad each week instead of pretending that you will eat more greens but then them definitely losing that green tone, fading into a brown slush before you remember their existence in that pathetic salad drawer. 

Pulling up your knickers and sitting, no- sinking into the glorious mattress of Marcus’ bed, you haul the t-shirt over your head and shrug your arms into the sleeves of the hoodie before zipping it up at the front. You smile at a flicker of a memory where Jasper had moaned at you for stretching out his hoodies with your woman boobs. You also find it very sweet that Marcus honestly thinks that his shorts will fit over your thighs and hips so you leave them on the bed, choosing to leave the room in just the hoodie, t-shirt and underwear- albeit just on your bottom half as your bra was utterly soaked too and was probably going through his washing machine. That poor underwire! Nevermind, perhaps it’s time for something a little less utilitarian and a little more sexy.

Softly padding out from his bedroom, you spy Marcus’ broad back twisting in the kitchen as he seeks out plates and glasses in the cupboards. Pizza boxes lie on the side, their contents sweating condensation on the table below.

“I’m finally decent,” you declare with a flourish as you bounce into the kitchen, almost bounding directly into his chest. 

Marcus spins at the sound of your voice, making sure to catch and steady you after your clumsy entrance, “No. You are very wrong there,” his breath hitching as he rumbles deeply into the shell of your ear, “No way. You could never be classified as decent, not looking like this.”

Another step and a slight twist of your body, and Marcus has your hips pinned against the cupboard. He places his hands either side of you, trapping you between the carpentry and the solid wall of him, his dark eyes flashing with lust as you feel him memorising every detail of you. 

“Talk to me, Marcus,” you ask of him, running your fingers through his dark curls, “Tell me what’s going on.”

“You sure you wanna know?” he questions, stroking his fingers down the side of you, the sensation causing you to twitch under its tenderness. 

“I want you to tell me everything,” you demand unblinkingly. Desperate for Marcus to finally tell you what he wants rather than constantly looking to please and pleasure you.

“Ok,” You see Marcus nod, his bottom lip slightly trembling, “It takes a superhuman feat of strength not to call you into my office everyday and fucking rail you right there into my desk, in front of everyone.”

Holy fuck, Marcus. Let it go.

“Monday, when we were working late and you grabbed my jacket to throw over your shoulders? Seeing how the shoulders swamped yours, there was... There was just this moment when I wanted to run my hands up that skirt, rip your panties off, slide into you and bite your neck, leaving marks for everyone to know you’re mine. I just wanted to possess every part of you and all because of you wearing something that’s mine. 

“When we’re walking around galleries or sitting in cinemas together, it is all I can do to not find a cupboard to push you into or take advantage of the lowlights.I just want you to be mine all the time. I want to be surrounded by your scent- your hair, your perfume and your cunt -  they’re this drug that I can’t get enough of. When you wear my clothes, they smell of you - makes me want to possess every part of you. I need all of you to belong to me.” 

Your heart thuds in your chest as you allow Marcus’ primal growl to fill you with a searing heat that burns through the very depths of you.

“And now. Right now? Seeing you now in my hoodie and just your panties is so fucking tempting- so don’t you dare give me that comment that you are decent now.” 

His hands finally move from their position on the counter to your hips as he lifts you, your legs wrapping around his waist unconsciously. The pizza unceremoniously gets dumped onto the floor as he settles you onto the cool work surface, pulling your hips slightly towards him. Unlocking your calves from around his waist, he pushes your thighs a little further apart, thumbs brushing upon the sensitive skin as he lowers his face so that you can feel his hot breath through the material of your knickers.

He withdraws slightly, pressing his lips in sweet kisses along the inside of your thighs whilst his teeth graze and nip at you, setting off a string of fireworks in your skin. 

“Right now, I want to inhale you. I need to have your scent filling my lungs.”

His nose nuzzles into your lightly clothed slit searching out your sweet heady scent, brushing the damp material back and forth over your sensitive clit making it throb in anticipation. The sensations brought from his nose causes your core to pool around him, the small nudges sending your pulse racing through the roof. 

Very few thoughts are able to exist in your mind other than the way you desperately want to wrap your legs back around him- this time around his head to lock him in place and keep his face glued to your pussy, stopping him from continuing this tantalising teasing. 

“Now? Now, I want to taste you. I want drink that sweet fucking nectar from right here.”

Dipping his head lower, he licks teasingly at the aperture of your cunt, stiffening his tongue slightly to press the material between your folds. Your breath catches in your throat wanting to scream at his slow pace. You hook your thumbs into the elastic of your knickers at your hips, trying to awkwardly shuffle them off. 

Abruptly, he stops. Pulling away from you, moving your hands away from trying to remove your underwear, “No,” he growls, “Leave them on.”

“Do you wanna know why I didn’t sneak those panties back to you at work or any of the other nights I’ve seen you this week?” He raises an eyebrow at you from his crouched position between your legs as you nod helplessly, your heart pounding in your throat, “I’ve been smelling them, thinking of your hot cunt as I rub my cock in the few moments we’re apart.”

Leaning forward, fingers sinking into the soft flesh of your bottom and kissing you hard through your knickers, he exclaims joyously, “Ah, honey, I fucking love your smell and taste! Sometimes, I can still smell your juices on my fingers at work and it makes my cock fucking throb, knowing that you are only two steps away from me. Professionalism with you so close is impossible.”

Your pussy throbs and yearns for a consistent touch as he returns his face to between your legs. Resting his forehead against your pubic bone, he returns to burying his nose into the dampest point of the thin fabric. This time, as he drags it upwards, he pulls his tongue stiffly upwards until he reaches that sensitive nub of nerves, catching it between his teeth gently tugging it. 

You swear that every nerve in your body is on fire and nothing exists except you and Marcus. No one has made your body sing like this in its neediness. The rush of wild sensations sweeping across your body are equally thrilling and maddening you.

 Teasing the material to one side of your pussy lips, you watch a smile unfold across Marcus’ face as he gazes upon you. 

Never have you felt so wanted before. 

Then with the same joyous abandon he has shown in kissing your pussy, he throws your thighs over his shoulders before sinking his mouth onto the sweet, bare flesh. The way that his tongue flickers so gracefully across your clit leaves you gasping. That familiar knot of pleasure building deep inside your tummy as he edges ever lower, preparing to tongue fuck you. Licking deeper and deeper into your cunt, you can hear the pleasure spilling from within you onto his tongue and oh how he drinks like a man dying of thirst. 

You cry out in surprise as Marcus encircles his lips around your clit, sucking rhythmically and gently. The scruff of his beard tickling pleasingly the sensitive flesh as he works you towards your release. A guttural groan against your delicate skin is the point that sends you truly spinning over the precipice into pleasure, howling his name into the night air as your thighs tightly clasp him around his ears, his tongue still working you through that blissful high until your body drops every ounce of tension, relaxing into the afterglow. 

When he moves back into softly kissing your thighs, you tug his glistening face towards you with barely a moment of hesitation passing between the two of you. Your lips meet again with the tenderness of an artist’s brushstrokes, Marcus painting the taste of you into your mouth with exquisitely delicious kisses. 

He brings his forehead back to rest against yours again, with a total calmness drifting across his features. You shut your eyes and rest with him, safe. From his lust drenched words to the experienced motions of his tongue, you utterly resign yourself to the truth. 

You have always belonged with Marcus.

 You always will.

@yespolkadotkitty @astroboots @danniburgh @disgruntledspacedad @green-socks @zukoyonce @sirowsky @bison-writes @tardisfangurl @agirllovespancakes @leonieb @mrsparknuts @absurdthirst @pedropascalito @lunaserenade @mouthymandalorian @the-ginger-hedge-witch @theravenreads @lv7867 @songsformonkeys

[sunsoothed]

hair(care)

remember this post? yes i wrote the fic. with some angst and backstory as a treat! family bonding time and people learning to love. the ao3 summary is "Yohan first learns affection through money, then oil." which i think is really really funny.

word count: 1696

read on ao3

apologies for any errors, and enjoy!

-

The first time Yohan tries, it is before everything. He’s allowed to err here and there, require an entire braid to be unwound and redone. He’s allowed to experiment with the clips and the ribbons and decide when the act is complete and present his art to his niece and his family. Elijah is rightfully fawned over, cheeks bright and smiles brighter, holding onto her uncle and hiding her face in his shoulder with glee.

That was, of course, before everything.

-

If Yohan has touched a hair on Elijah’s head since, it is only to make a promise or only in her sleep.

The doctors will take care of you, don’t worry. Samcheon is here. I won’t let them hurt you any more than you already have been.

Midnight, in that agonising few months of hospital rooms and the claustrophobic rehabilitation centre. When Elijah is able to perceive nothing but her breath, Yohan, hands reverent; soothing his own fears through comforting his niece. Things will be okay. We’ll be fine. A few grounding breaths are never enough, not after he learns what those monsters took from his niece.

And when Elijah cries. When she first asks after her mother and father, why they aren’t by her side, why is it just samcheon everyday? When Yohan’s tears ring before hers, for the first and last time. I’m sorry, so is declared. I’ll fix this, so is promised. He holds her as close as he can permit himself to, and vows to burn down this world if she asks him to.

-

Elijah, once, four years since, on her tenth birthday, asks him, “Can you help me?”

Yohan will pretend like he hasn’t been starved of hearing those words. He follows her to her room, honoured of her trip halfway across the house.

“The girls at school,” Elijah fumbles about, wringing her hands together, “that… they wear their…”

He stands in her doorway, somewhat uninvited, waits for her to finish.

“They wear their hair, kind of… like this,” Elijah mimics some variation of a hairstyle best she can, two locks of her hair held in her hands, the parting off. “I was just…”

Yohan, unfortunately, understands little. “Do you need a haircut?”

Elijah’s hands fall, as does the thin hope upon her features. “It’s nothing,” she dismisses. “I only called you because ahjumma wasn’t in today. It’s fine.”

Yohan blinks. “I can help if —”

“It’s fine,” Elijah hisses. “I was mistaken.”

-

If there is any chance of that ever happening again, time will have to be reversed. Elijah turns twelve, and things change, and Yohan notes his laptop has been hacked.

He buys her a cake for her thirteenth birthday that finds itself smashed against a wall and a demand for no such recurrence.

Yohan will never disobey her. Not with things that she can control.

So he buys no cakes, but buys her a building and channels the affection he allows himself to feel once a month in an allowance that shocks Ms Ji despite the lifetime she’s spent in this family.

Once, there is a package of hair care products with their usual shipment of essentials, which Ms Ji makes a show of putting in Yohan’s way. When he relents, it only takes a tilt of head to the east of the house for her to get the hint. He never knows if Elijah uses them, but the list goes on to include some products out of the large batch he’d purchased, and Yohan considers buying another building.

-

On her sixteenth birthday, Yohan asks, “Do you want to have a birthday party?”

Elijah asks, “Who will we call?”

Yohan nods, for that is an apt answer.

-

When Kim Gaon comes, Elijah hates him more than usual. That, Yohan had expected. What he hadn’t was that this hatred would melt away faster than ice when met with fire.

The frist time Elijah sports a more delicate hairstyle than the usual ponytail, Yohan thinks it’s a trick of the light. But she turns her head when retrieving cereal, and her hair is still parted that way and a short braid runs from behind her ear into the clipped-back hair at the back of her head, and Yohan pauses to stare.

Instead of their noncommittal acknowledgement of each other each morning, he asks, “When did you…” and gestures to the back of his head.

Elijah shrugs, looking over at him impassively for a moment before pursuing her breakfast once again. Kim Gaon slides into view, grin perpetually etched into his face, asks, “Elijah, did it stay?”

To which Elijah smiles back, and now Yohan’s eyebrows remain shot up.

Kim Gaon continues to talk, “It’s experimental. We’ll try a different style tomorrow. Your hair’s long enough to make an intricate bun.”

Yohan ensures Elijah watches him conspicuously eye the both of them.

“Kim pansa,” he says, breaking the moment. “We need to go to work.”

-

The next day, and the day after that, Elijah wears her hair in different styles. Once it is a high bun with some small braids, once it is a different parting and a new set of clips. Yohan observes critically over breakfast as Elijah holds her head a certain way to ensure it doesn’t fall into her food, and thinks, how impractical.

She catches him looking, so she hoists a sour look, to which Yohan responds with an exaggerated tilt of his head, aiming to mimic her.

“Don’t make fun of her,” Kim Gaon’s imposing voice interrupts. “Elijah looks fantastic today.”

Elijah beams. Yohan is disarmed of a biting reply for he hasn’t seem her teeth take on anything but a stubborn baring of power in front of him. He spends the rest of the day replaying it.

-

When things so south and north again, when Elijah acknowledges, begrudgingly, that her uncle did not have it out for her father, Kim Gaon mediates harmoniously.

He spends an evening making them both chase the cat around the house.

It’s an inane idea, even Elijah hates it, but he tells them the reason Kkomi starts throwing things off their desks at four in the morning is because she’s understimulated, and that even a cat needs to exercise.

So it’s Elijah’s job to get her rilled up enough to run — in a cat’s terribly comic way — away from them, and Yohan’s to ensure she keeps running around.

He’s insane, is what Kim Gaon is. Elijah’s more than sure this borders on some ethical offense. Yohan sure seems to find some pleasure in making the cat scared for her life.

Gaon congratulates them both with a mid-evening coffee and snack break. Elijah actually, voluntarily, asks for Yohan to pass the plate of biscuits across, and thanks him — thanks him! — when he does.

Before they all retire to bed, after another shared meal, Elijah calls for him from down the hall.

“Yohan!”

He turns, maintaining what he thinks is a smile.

“Can you try and get some coconut oil?”

“What for?”

Elijah scrutinises him, gauging how he doesn’t understand something so obvious. “For my hair.”

Yohan nods, still not on the same page, but very much wanting to be. “I’ll get it,” he assures.

He doesn’t blink twice at the astronomical shipping price.

-

It’s a tall bottle, imported and primly packaged, that greets Elijah when she returns home from her weekly ice-cream run with Gaon.

She eyes it, suspicious, before their resident busybody stands in her doorway and says, “Oh, bujang-nim actually bought it for you.”

Elijah blinks at Gaon innocently. Yohan does listen to her sometimes.

“Material wealth,” Gaon seems to understand. “We’ll put it in your hair tomorrow, okay? Keep it in for a few hours.”

“A few hours?” Yohan voices, having just turned the corner, dressed as he usually is at home.

“What are you doing here,” Elijah mutters, shooting a scowl at Yohan as he stands in her doorway as well.

He scowls back, never one to back down from a challenge, as Gaon goes on about the benefits of oiling hair behind them.

-

“Don’t pull,” Elijah hisses.

“I’m not,” Yohan insists, but puts less force into his actions nonetheless.

Gaon and Ms Ji are monitoring them, mirroring each other with their arms crossed and leaning against opposite sides of the doorway.

Yohan sections Elijah’s hair into three parts after brushing through it, the fine-toothed comb surprisingly sparse of broken hair.

“Gaon has been helping me take care of it,” Elijah had explained, when he errantly asked. “What, did you think I’m some sort of wild animal?”

Yohan carefully collects some oil in his palms, completely foreign to this, eyes flickering up to Gaon for guidance. Gaon is absolutely no help.

So he trusts his instincts and starts at Elijah’s scalp, rubbing oil in, and ends with oil down his forearms and Elijah’s hair in a thick braid. She’s fast asleep.

“That means you did a good job,” Gaon whispers to him.

Yohan would smile, but such affection hardly suits his face. He pats Gaon’s face with an oily hand, leaves him spluttering, and grins to himself as he tries to wash the oil off.

-

It barely becomes a routine, because despite Gaon’s somewhat vast knowledge on hair care and what Elijah read online, washing oil out of your hair can be a nightmare. But Ms Ji and Gaon have observed their two sulking overlords interacting with an increasing frequency, even if it is sometimes just to disagree about an arrangement of clips or parting of hair.

Gaon had supposed, somewhat, that his bujang-nim had at least an understanding of style. In his discussions with his niece, though, when somehow colour schemes and draping becomes relevant, Gaon admits he’d underestimated Kang Yohan.

Later Elijah will decide she wants to dress for dinner as well, and Yohan will be the only one diligently obeying the formality. So much so that he will leave a guest in the company of the villainous home to attend to his niece’s requests. No one will ask about the pink bow in her hair, but it’s more than enough for Yohan to know that he tied it up.

[healtheveryday2]

Although you would believe it, the toilet seat is not the object in your house with the most germs. In reality, the towels you use to wipe your face are the ones that are the most contaminated, therefore you may be harming your skin by doing so. And although it may seem sensible to dry your face with a towel, doing so might really be more harmful than helpful.

After doing this study, healthhealth is seriously contemplating doing away with the towels. Don't forget to look at the extra we have provided for you at the conclusion of the post if you're unsure of what to use in its place.

1.It could cause acne.

Using the same towel to dry your face and body may be more detrimental to your skin than you realize. Because we often keep towels in bathrooms with wet air, which is a wonderful setting for bacteria growth, towels make excellent bacteria traps. All of these germs are transferred to your skin when you brush the towel against your face, which might ultimately result in breakouts and blocked pores. Even if you use a different towel to dry your face from the one you use to dry your body, you probably aren't cleaning it every day, which means that unwelcome germs may still get on your skin.

2.Your skin could age faster.

When used on your face, terry cloth bath towels are overly rough and may cause little skin rips that leave you more prone to infections and wrinkles. The fabric of the towels becomes brittle the more you wash them, and the friction they produce serves as an exfoliation that may be too harsh for your skin.

3.It makes skincare products less effective.

Although it may feel natural to dry your face after washing it, doing so can prevent your skin from benefiting fully from the items you're using on it. Prior to the skin's surface water completely evaporating, your moisturizer will better absorb into the skin. By avoiding towel drying, your skincare products will be able to seal in the moisture your skin needs to appear radiant and young.

4.Your skin may get irritated.

Using towels to dry your face isn't the ideal choice if you have sensitive skin. Wiping your face with most towel materials may cause skin irritation and redness because they might be excessively rough on the skin.

5.It could result in greasy skin.

Although it may seem counterintuitive, drying your skin can actually make it greasier. Sebaceous glands under the skin's surface will have to create extra oil to balance out the dryness since rough towels may take away natural oils your skin needs to keep healthy, which can result in excessively oily skin.

Bonus: Face-drying techniques without a towel

Allow the air to do its work rather than using a towel to pat your face dry. Although it takes more time than just wiping your face with a towel, air-drying is more sanitary and kind to your skin. Your skin will appreciate it.

As normal, wash your face.

Allow the skin to dry naturally.

Use your preferred moisturizer.

Do you wipe your face with your bath towel? Can you come up with any other options than using a towel to dry your skin?

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[unsteadyimagines]

What She Doesn’t Know Won’t Kill Her (Spencer Reid x Reader)

SUMMARY: Y/N finds out Spencer has been in an accident and wonders why no one called her as she was understood to be his emergency contact. Turns out... his wife is, which only further exposes shocking revelations after revelations.

WORD COUNT: 5.3k

WARNINGS: N/A

NOTE:

*** Thank you everyone for being so patient!! :) 

——-

“Someone please just TELL me something! I’m looking for Spencer Reid, please!” Y/N shouts, trying to attract the attention of a doctor or nurse. Y/N’s head whips all directions, people flying by her assisting others, taking calls and checking clipboards. Her head feels dizzy, her heart beating erratically against her warm chest. Stumbling into a seat in the waiting room, she doesn’t know what to do. What to think, say, or feel. Time feels incredibly slow yet so fast.

“Excuse me, please! I’m looking for Spencer Reid! Someone help me… FUCK!” Y/N yells, gripping her hair in utter frustration. To the others around her, she must have looked completely psychotic, but she didn’t care. All Y/N wanted was to find out what happened to Spencer.

A nurse rushes to Y/N, concern spread on her face. As soon as Y/N sees that she’s coming for her, the only words she is able to shakily proclaims is Spencer’s name.

“Why wasn’t I notified earlier? I had to find out from his mother’s carer! I don’t understand, I- ”

“I’m sorry Miss Y/L/N, but the first person we informed was his emergency contact and due to the nature of his profession, we must notify them immediately so- ”

 “Wait… wait. His emergency contact? I-I thought I was his…” Y/N was so confused.

“No, I’m afraid not. I’m sorry but we’re unable to disclose Dr Reid’s personal information.”

After trying multiple times to reason with the nurse only to fail every time, Y/N eventually slumps herself in one of the waiting room chairs, emotionally drained. After a long day of work that consisted of a 12-hour shift, she wanted nothing more than to go home, have a hot, relaxing shower and go to bed. But now with Spencer, all she wants is to know if he’s okay or not.

Y/N feels gross, her hair is a mess, her makeup is oily and separated and her work outfit is crinkled and dishevelled.

Only a few minutes later Y/N hears a pair of shoes hitting the ground, the noise getting louder and louder as the person running comes closer. In walks a beautiful auburn-haired woman, dressed in a pencil skirt, white button up shirt and blazer – the heel of her shoes the reason for the sound.

She too looks just as frantic and chaotic as Y/N did when she entered the waiting room, also receiving the same look from everyone else.

“I’m looking for my husband, please! He came in a few minutes ago. Where is he?!” The woman yells, catching the attention of the same nurse that denied Y/N. The nurse walks to the woman, grabbing her clipboard out once again.

“What’s your name?” The nurse asks.

“Isabella Reid?” The woman confirms, causing Y/N’s to whip around. Her eyes are even wider than they were before, her heart starting to beat a little faster. Did she hear this right? No, surely not.

The frantic woman is taken down the hallway by another nurse, whose comforting her during the walk. As soon as the nurse is free, Y/N rushes over to her again.

“I-I’m sorry but who-who did that woman say she was?” Y/N asks, gasping.

The nurse raises her eyebrows, slight concern written on her face.

“I’m sorry but why would that concern you? Do you know her?”

“You don’t understand, please tell me! Who was that woman asking for Dr Reid? W-was that his emergency contact?” Y/N’s words are so rushed she’s not even sure she could comprehend what she just said. The nurse sighs, putting the clipboard down as if she has had enough with Y/N’s behaviour.

“Miss I am not allowed to just disclose information like that, even if it’s just her name. I’m sorry but I can’t help you.” The nurse dismisses, walking back to the reception desk.

Y/N gives up, afraid that if she were to keep trying, they would just eventually call security and get her kicked out. She walks back to sit in her seat once again, even more confused and hurt than when she first walked into the hospital.

She takes a deep breath, praying that Spencer will be ok. Not being able to have any update on his situation was killing Y/N inside. She only just saw him yesterday, so what had happened between then and now?

Y/N only hopes that whatever happened to Spencer was while he was working, that would give her a somewhat small chance of reassurance that he has been taken care of by the best people there is.

Does she leave? Stay? Y/N puts her head in her hands trying to make sense of everything, the pieces not fitting together or making any kind of sense.

Does Spencer have a wife? An actual wife? We’ve been dating for seven months… how? How is this possible?

Pulled out of her trance, she hears numerous shoes firmly hitting the ground and loud voices talking to each other, getting closer every second. A group of men and women rush into the waiting room. They all look stressed yet calm at the same time, almost as if this isn’t the first time they’ve experienced a situation like this. As Y/N’s eyes are planted to the ground beneath her, she feels like she’s being watched. Trying to appear casual, she very slowly looks up and to confirm her suspicions, she makes eye contact with a man who appeared to already be looking at her, his eyes slightly squinting as if trying to figure out where he has seen her before. Y/N quickly diverts her eyes away in hopes that she would be left alone. Her prayers go unanswered as she hears footsteps making their way towards her.

“Excuse me, miss?” A deep voice softly asked, not wanting to alarm her.

Y/N can’t do anything other than to look up again at the familiar man, suddenly remembering why she recognises him.

It was roughly three or four months ago when Y/N had spent the night at Spencer’s apartment, waking up the next morning to find that Spencer had run out to grab them both a coffee. As she had just finished getting ready to leave for work, she flinched suddenly at the intrusion of a man bursting through the apartment door. Before Y/N could even begin to try and defend herself, the man put his hands up in defence.

“Woah, I’m so sorry! I was looking for Spencer, I-I had no idea he wasn’t… alone.” The man explained, trying to normalise the situation.

“I’m Derek Morgan, Spencer’s work colleague, do you know when he’ll be back? He’s not answering his phone and we have to be on a flight in one hour.” Derek explained, still standing by the door.

Y/N, on the other hand, still frazzled, tried to put words together.

“He, uh – went to get us some coffee a-and left his phone here.”

It was no secret that both Derek and Y/N could feel the unbearable tension consuming the room. Derek’s eyes averted to Y/N’s packed bags and then back to her, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“Did… did you stay the night here?” He asks Y/N, trying to seem casual.

“Yeah, I did?” Y/N answers back as more of a question, confused on why he felt the need to ask.

Once again, Derek’s face shows complete confusion, trying to come up with what to say next.

“Morgan! What are you doing here?” Derek and Y/N hear from the front door, Spencer’s face looking alarmed.

“Reid we’ve gotta go, we have a flight to Houston to catch in an hour, let’s go!”

“I’ll meet you outside.” Spencer tells Derek, giving him an awkward smile.

Derek looks from Spencer to Y/N, lighting scoffing to himself.

“It was nice to meet you…”

“Y/N.”

“It was nice to meet you, Y/N.” Derek makes an emphasis on her name, looking back at Reid before he begins to make his way out of Spencer’s apartment.

“Unbelievable.” He quietly mutters to himself.

Y/N now realises why Derek was acting slightly cold around her, and rightfully so.

“I know you now… know.” Derek emphasised, giving Y/N a sympathetic smile. She feels extremely awkward and cornered right now. Between worrying about Spencer and possibly finding out that he’s fucking MARRIED, she still pretends to act as if she doesn’t know what he’s talking about, hoping that somehow this has been a big misunderstanding.

“I-I don’t know what you’re t-talking about…” Y/N tries to play it off as if she’s confused by his statement, but by the look on his face, she remembers that she’s trying to lie to an FBI agent… and failing. Giving up, she sniffles and decides to come clean.

“I-I had no idea he was… m-married, I swear I wouldn’t have d-done anything.” Y/N stumbles, still in obvious shock.

“I know… I know.” Derek sighs.

“Look… I know you’re probably really angry and heartbroken right now and I don’t blame you, but do you have any idea where he could have been going or if he was meeting anyone?”

“N-no I don’t know anything. I haven’t seen him since… since yesterday morning.”

There’s a long, awkward pause. Neither of them knows what to say.

“Is it true?” Y/N asks to break the silence. In her heart she knows the answer she’s about to receive but that doesn’t make her feel any better.

“Is what true?” Derek asks, looking to her with confusion.

Letting out a scoff, Y/N just wants this conversation to be over.

“That Spencer’s married.” She whispers. She can’t look Derek in the eye, in fear that once he gives her any type of facial expression indicating that she’s right, she’d break down all over again. Actually, come to think of it, that will probably happen regardless.

Derek sighs, slowly nodding his head in confirmation.

“Yeah… he is married.”

Frowning her face in order to prevent the tears from spilling, Y/N nods and once again faces the ground and begins letting the tears fall. She’s in such disbelief that she doesn’t even have the energy to feel embarrassed in front of Derek right now.

“I didn’t tell anyone about that time I saw you at his apartment, especially not Isabella… I figured that conversation should come from Spencer and only him.” Derek says, noticing Y/N flinch slightly at hearing Isabella’s name.

“Look… Y/N, right? The rest of my team as well as other law enforcement are going to be asking Spencer who he last saw before his accident happened. We both know it’s you.”

Y/N knows Derek is right. But now, not only is she worried about Spencer but also terrified of the thought of his wife knowing about her. Granted, Y/N didn’t know Spencer was married and would never have dated him if she did know, but his wife won’t care about that. All she will care about is that her husband has been cheating on her for the past seven months with some homewrecker. Oh my god, is she a homewrecker? Has she now broken up a marriage? What if this Isabella woman solely blames Y/N for her hindered marriage and stays with Spencer?!

“Hey, everything’s going to be okay.” Derek tries to comfort Y/N, reaching for her hands to hold in his. She feels a sudden warmth shoot through the entirety of her body, making her feel the slightest bit better.

“I can’t break up a marriage.” She whispers. Gently pulling her in with his arms, Derek holds Y/N as she sniffles, resting his head on top of hers which is leaning on his shoulder. He can feel small tears beginning to dampen the sleeve of his t-shirt, but he doesn’t mind.

“Derek! Come on, he’s awake.” A slim, blonde woman rushes over to Derek, waiting for him to follow. She looks from Derek to Y/N, slight confusion overtaking her face. Y/N’s head moves to the direction of the unknown woman, along with Derek’s.

“Thanks JJ, I’ll be there in a second.”

Y/N so desperately wants to follow them to his room or ask if she can go with them, but she knew that probably wouldn’t be the best of ideas. She’d have to suck it up and either wait here or just go home. But the thought of not knowing what happened to Spencer is killing her, she just wants to see with her own eyes that he’s okay.

“I don’t think they’ll allow you to come in… but if you wait here for a few minutes, I’ll come back and tell you how he’s holding up.” Derek suggests, a sad smile on his face.

Y/N understands, but it doesn’t make her feel any better. She is, however, grateful for Derek and the fact that he even wanted to help her out at all.

Sniffling, Y/N gives Derek a small, toothless smile.

“Sure, thank you.”

As Derek walks away with the woman she now knows as ‘JJ’, she can hear her quietly ask Derek who Y/N was and how he knew her.

Counting down the minutes until Y/N expects Derek’s return, she’s in a world of her own - bobbing her left leg up and down, twiddling her thumbs and biting her lip. Her thoughts quickly begin to consume her mind. Wondering if Spencer had ever accidentally let something slip out about being married but she can’t think of anything that sticks out. She had absolutely no idea or even an inkling that he was being unfaithful. How long would he have let this continue? Was he ever planning to break up with Y/N for Isabella? Or with Isabella for Y/N?!

“Y/N” A deep voice calls, causing Y/N to spin her head around to see Derek standing near the hallway, leading to all the hospital rooms. Hoping her legs don’t fail her, she shakily walks over to Derek with a palpitating heart, eager to hear what he has to say.

“Is he okay? What happened? Is he hurt? I-” Y/N doesn’t even give Derek a chance to inform her of what’s happening.

“Shh he’s okay - Spencer’s okay. He’s stable. But Y/N, the officers need to speak with you. I had to tell them you were the last person to see Spencer." Y/N's heart sank, especially at the thought of his wife potentially finding out about her and Spencer.

"D-do they know... we were dating?"

"Well, our team and the officers know. I'm sorry, I know you would have preferred no one to find out but I wouldn't be doing my job if I hadn't informed them." Derek tries to explain. Even though Y/N knows he's right, she still thinks of every possible worst-case scenario that can come from her going with him to talk to the police and now no doubt, the rest of his team too.

Y/N's just about to ask Derek another question, but he beats her to it. "Spencer doesn't know you're here, and right now it's important he doesn't, especially until after we've spoken with you."

Derek reaches his hand out for Y/N to take, helping her out of her seat to take her down the hallway he had just come from. As she notices they are walking closer to what she assumes is Spencer’s room, she immediately stops walking, causing Derek to pull back a bit.

“I-I can’t go in there with them, please I-”

“Relax it’s okay, you’re not going in there. We have to take you to the room next door, that’s where we’re going to talk to you.” Feeling a little at ease, Y/N continues to walk with Derek, looking the opposite way while they walk past Spencer’s room, fighting the urge to look through the window to check on him.

The door to the next room opens, inside is a round table with three chairs encircled, one of which is occupied by a man in a suit taking notes, his dark brown hair and eyes look intimidating making Y/N gulp at the sight. Once he sees Y/N and Derek enter the room, he stands up from his chair and reaches his hand out to shake Y/N’s hand.

“Hi, Miss Y/L/N, I’m Detective Madden.” Y/N’s hands are now shaking, Detective Madden’s hand firmly shakes Y/N’s before signalling for her to sit down, along with Derek.

She feels very out of place and scared. Having two intimidating looking men sitting across from her staring intensely isn’t what she expected to happen when all she wanted was to see Spencer.

“Now, just so you know you are not in any sort of trouble, I’m just wanting to talk to you as I understand you were the last person to see Dr Reid before his accident.” Detective Madden informs. It’s only now that Y/N realises that no one has actually told her what exactly happened to Spencer, just that he is awake and stable.

“Can you tell me what happened to Spencer? Please.” Y/N asks quietly, her face desperately looking between the two men for some answers.

“We will get to that, I promise.” The detective smiles sympathetically, before reaching for his notepad and pen. Y/N looks at Derek, who gives her a reassuring nod.

“Now, you told Agent Morgan here that the last time you saw Dr Reid was yesterday morning… and you were notified of his accident by Mrs Reid’s carer?” He asks, to which Y/N replies with a soft ‘yes’ and nodding her head.

“Where yesterday morning did you last see him?”

“At my uh- at my apartment.” She is mortified at the fact that this detective would definitely know by now that Spencer was both married and dating her at the same time.

“And are you close with Dr Reid’s mother? Would that explain why you were contacted by her carer?”

“I was planning to see his mother this afternoon actually, after work. We’re not that close but I just wanted to check in with her. Her carer, Wendy called me about an hour and a half ago before I showed up here and only told me that the hospital called her to inform Diana about Spencer.”

Detective Madden was scribbling down notes as fast as he could, nodding his head every few seconds as Y/N was explaining her recount.

“And did Dr Reid tell you where he was planning to go after he left your apartment? Anything that you remember?” The detective looks at Y/N, waiting for her answer.

Y/N’s tries to remember everything that had happened yesterday, from the second she woke up, afraid that she may miss something that could be important.

“N-No he just said that h-he’d be going back to his apartment… that’s all he said.” Tears start to run down her hot cheeks, blaming herself for not thinking that something was wrong sooner. But how could she have known?

“Now… this may be hard to hear Miss Y/L/N, but we believe that Spencer was beaten up and held for a few hours by a group known as the ‘Unswerving Faith’, a religious group who target married individuals who commit – uh… infidelity.” Detective Madden awkwardly explains, clearing his throat among the awkward silence.

Y/N doesn’t know what to say. Is she the reason this group took him? Hurt him?

“Oh my god… I- Does his wife know?” Y/N asked, fearing for the worst. Derek lets out a big sigh, leaning his arms on the table they all share.

“As of right now, all she knows is that Spencer was taken by a religious group, she doesn’t know their motive behind it. But Y/N, with all due respect, she’s his wife… we have to inform her of what’s going on, including about you.” Derek’s eyes pierce into Y/N’s, making sure she understands the magnitude of the situation.

Y/N’s knows that Isabella needs to know about this, but she selfishly doesn’t want to be stuck in the middle. Throwing her head back in distress, she nods and sighs.

“I know, I just… I don’t want to cause any stress between anyone, especially with the condition Spencer is in.” Y/N tries to explain.

By now, her face is even warmer than before and she’s exhausted. The two men stand up out of their chairs, Y/N following along. Detective Madden puts his notepad in his pocket and tucks his chair in.

“Thank you for your time, Miss Y/L/N.” Y/N smiles and watches him walk out of the room, closing the door behind him so only she and Derek are left.

“I’m going to talk to Spencer, tell him you’re here and what’s going on. Isabella has gone home to grab a few things for Spencer but if you would like to see him before she gets back you may do so.” Y/N’s relieved and grateful for how sympathetic he has been for her, but she’s also slightly scared for what is to come.

She obviously wants to see Spencer and see how he’s doing, but in a way, she feels like it might be… wrong? Now knowing he’s married – she doesn’t want to ruin a marriage. Well, by the looks of it, it didn’t seem to be going all that well if Y/N is in the picture.

Before she can try and talk herself out of it, she quickly tells Derek yes before making her way out of the room with him walking besides her. Her heart rate starts to increase again, she’s trying to plan out what she’s going to say to Spencer. Does she tell him that she knows he’s married? Does he already know that she knows?

They walk a few feet before Derek halts in his spot, looking at Y/N. He slowly nods to the left, indicating that they had reached Spencer’s room. Y/N gives Derek a small, grateful smile, taking a big deep breath in. She softly knocks on the door, slowly walking in and shutting the door behind her. She’s met with curtains but she’s now somewhat hesitant to draw them. Y/N feels her eyes already begin to water and she hasn’t even seen Spencer yet.

Quickly counting to three, she whips the pale blue plastic curtains back and sees Spencer laying in his hospital bed, reading a book in a language she wouldn’t have the slightest guess in what in. This makes her smile slightly, but when Spencer notices the other presence in the room and meets her eyes, she’s back to feeling helpless and distraught.

Spencer doesn’t look nervous to see Y/N here, which concerns her a little, considering that Isabella would probably be back very soon. If anything, his shoulders relax and his smile melts Y/N’s insides. She forgets about being mad at him, pissed off, hurt. Seeing Spencer in such a vulnerable state with a loving look in his eyes is more than enough for her to forget about the bigger issue she has to face. Spencer opens his arms out, various different coloured cords moving with his arm. Walking quickly into his arms, Y/N is careful not to move him too much, in fear of increasing his pain – how ironic.

“Spence, I’m so glad you’re okay.” She mutters, her face buried deep into his warm neck, calming down at the sounds of his heart beating. In the back of her head, she is constantly trying to remind herself of what he’s done to her and to his wife, suddenly squeezing him a bit tighter at the fact that this may be one of the last times she’s able to be held in his arms ever again.

From his bedside table, Spencer’s text tone goes off, signalling he had a text message. Leaning back, he grabs his phone for a few seconds skim reading the message before placing his phone back on the table and clearing his throat.

“Hey, you know… you don’t have to stay, it’s going to be boring for you here; besides, I’ll probably sleep the day away” Spencer chuckles, his eyes darting around the room.

Y/N’s heart drops and she immediately recognises what’s going on. She assumes that Isabella is not far away – it explains Spencer’s sudden anxious demeanour. She wants Spencer to know that she knows about him being married, but she also figures that right now probably isn’t the right time.

“Oh- um, yeah okay. I-I’ll see you soon then… right?” She asks. There is now a weird tension floating in the air. It’s turned awkward.

“Yeah, yeah I’ll see you later babe… okay.” Spencer chuckles, giving Y/N a faint smile, leaving a light kiss on her cheek that she can barely feel.

“I-I love you.” She tells him, making her way to the door, turning back to him and giving him a small smile. Her chest hurts when she realises that he’s not going to say it back, he’s just waiting for her to leave. Opening the door just enough for her to fit between, she closes it right behind her.

Derek and Detective Madden are nowhere to be seen, which works out better for Y/N, considering she couldn’t possibly be in the mood for conversing with anyone any further. She’s in too much pain. Pain she doesn’t know how it will ever subside.

As Y/N turns a corner around the hallway, she sees Isabella and a man dressed in all black, loudly whispering to each other. They both appear angry. Y/N quickly throws herself back around the corner into the wall, in fear that Isabella may have seen her.

While trying to figure out a way to leave the hospital without her seeing Y/N, although Isabella doesn’t know who Y/N is, that’s besides the point. Loud, angry whispers are coming from the other side of the wall, prompting Y/N to lean closer towards the edge, listening.

“You idiot, I didn’t pay you for this! What have you done!” Isabella yells, her eyes wide, glaring into the eyes of the man. Y/N remains frozen, scared to try and leave but also wanting to hear the rest of what she’s about to say.

“I-I’m sorry, it was a massive understanding… we didn’t mean to-” a voice stumbles yet cut off by Isabella’s raging voice once again.

“I don’t care! I asked you to take her out! Not Spencer you fucking idiots.” Y/N’s eyes feel like they’re about to pop out of her head. Isabella had people hurt Spencer?

Y/N’s breath becomes shallow and she can’t stop her chest from rapidly falling up and down, her hands begin to tremble, and it feels like her legs may give out any minute.

The man stumbling over his words looks like he has seen a ghost, so in fear of Isabella’s wrath. Y/N couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She refused to believe that Spencer’s own wife would hire people to hurt him, or by the sounds of it, they weren’t meant to hurt Spencer, but someone else. A woman.

“I-I’m sorry Issy… we will not fail you this time. We’ll get the bitch don’t you worry… we can’t let her continue to poison and destroy this sacred union.” The man declares firmly. Y/N’s body begins to heat increasingly, she has a feeling she knows what they’re talking about… and who they’re talking about. She desperately wants to run to Derek or someone who can help her but there’s no one around anymore, the quietness of the empty hallway was something she didn’t notice before.

Leaning her head against the wall, Y/N tries to form some type of plan – of how to leave, where to go, who to talk to and what she is to do. The uncertainty of the situation has never made her feel so unsafe and vulnerable. Her scattered thoughts are disrupted at the sounds of many footsteps getting louder. Peering over the corner, Y/N sees about five other men make their way to Isabella and the man, dressed in black also. All the men now have their faces covered with a hoodie, whispering to each other before looking at Isabella. Y/N tries her hardest to hear what Isabella is about to say, but as soon as she does – her heart sinks, her body goes into overdrive and she feels like she may collapse.

“Find the slut. Do with the bitch what you will.” She directs firmly. Y/N’s heard enough to realise that Isabella knows about her and has ordered these men to hurt her, presumably the same men who hurt Spencer. Y/N’s eyes are frantic, trying to decide who to turn to for help.

She’s so scared she doesn’t even want to move, fearful of them hearing her shoes against the pale tiled floor. Spotting Derek on the other side of the hallway, a significant number of metres away, Y/N can’t feel her legs move – her head is screaming at her to run and seek help from Derek but her legs physically won’t allow her. It’s as if they have been glued to the floor. The blood inside her body has turned extremely hot and her head is pounding, Y/N is in a total trance that she can’t get herself out of. The room around her is suddenly quiet, her ears are ringing in a shrieking high pitch and Derek only looks further and further away from her reach.

Y/N’s ears are now filled with the shuddering sounds of the all too familiar footsteps of the people who are in charge of her pain, getting closer and closer to the other side of the hallway where she’s hiding, it’s enough motivation for her to pull herself back to reality.

In order to calm herself down and think rationally, she leans her head against the hard wall, working out her plan of action hastily. Her eyes squint hard against their sockets, drowning in a black swirl of nothingness.

Opening her eyes with a somewhat haphazard plan in place, she eyes off Derek, remembering her plan of escape and exactly what she needs to do. Just as Y/N was about to take the first painstaking step running towards Derek, she feels a vigorous pull, a thick hand gripping onto her flimsy shirt. Retracting back into the wall with a thud, her eyes lock with those of a man – one of the men from the group talking with Isabella. The Unswerving Faith. Before she has time to scream or shout for help and thrash, a warm, grimy hand clawed its way to Y/N’s mouth, her cries now muffled and soft. Y/N’s limbs ache as she continues her attempt to thrash and kick at the man gripping her for dear life, but she can slowly start to feel herself give in to his strength.

The physical, emotional and mental exhaustion from today had finally caught up with her, only, it came at what was probably the most unfortunate time, because as Y/N looks over to Spencer’s door, Isabella is just about to open it, looking straight into Y/N’s eyes, her smile growing creepily wider as she sees the distress in Y/N increase. Giving her a spine-chilling wink and small wave, she enters his room and shuts the door.

Y/N is in such a traumatic state that she doesn’t even realise that the thick hands that were once wrapped around her, gripping her skin harshly, had disappeared. With all the strength she could muster inside of her, she screams for Derek, her eyes filling with tears blinds her. Just as Derek runs to Y/N she collapses in his arm, sobbing and muttering incomplete and incoherent words over and over. The initial shock combined with her exhaustion finally takes over her. Her heavy eyes struggle to stay open, her muscles severely weak. She sees the man, eerily staring into her rolling and blurred eyes, making his way to Spencer’s room, shutting the door and closing the blinds.

That’s the last thing she sees in her fragile state of mind before she is snapped back to reality by Derek, painfully left wondering what would happen to her… and what would happen to Spencer in that god awful room.

Tags: @emmalvei-blog​

[aipilosse]

I don't know if you're still doing the ask prompts, but I saw you'd already filled the one I'd put for Mae Squared before so I thought I'd pick a different one so you didn't have to do the same one twice. I was thinking maybe 15? But only if you're still doing them/want to! Thanks for all the lovley writing you give to the fandom!

Yes I am! My first attempt at Maedhros/Sauron AKA Mae Squared, and the prompt ‘Out of your element’ from this prompt list. Rated Teen or so for, ya know, Angband.

There were so many different layers of misery in Angband. 

There was the misery of torture of course, of having the flesh torn from his back with spiked whips until he passed out from blood loss, only to have the whips brought out again when he was half healed. There was the horrible pain of glowing metal set to his flesh until he thought his bones must be singed, all the while his tormenters asked for answers he did not know and had never known. There was the misery of constant humiliation, sometimes as a method of torment, but also the just the daily degradation as he was denied clothes and the filth on his body built up, until he felt lower than a worm. 

He also learned that misery could be delivered just as well through neglect. At first, he thought he could bear hunger, but as the years passed and he saw his body waste before his eyes, the gnawing pain in his gut became harder and harder to bear. The pain of thirst moved faster; he soon learned that even if he had been allowed a cup of bitter, oily water, in just a few hours Maitimo’s throat would be burning. He would wait for days with his awful thirst in whatever position he had been chained in, the ache in his joints and the cramps in his muscles growing into agony.

Misery sank into his bones, until it seemed to encompass his past, his present, and his future. When they came to unchain him from the horrible crouch he had been kept in for several days, Maitimo felt a brief moment of relief despite the more logical part of his mind that told him he was being released only for further pain. The four orcs sent to escort him had to drag him; his legs refused to move after being locked in place for so long.

When the walls changed from the rough texture of the caves he was usually moved between to smooth dark stone, Maitimo felt his dread grow. The only time he was taken this far above ground was when he was taken to Morgoth, and that was the worst misery by far in Angband. The Vala’s piercing eyes and terrible burning spirit seemed able to torment his mind as much as whips tormented his body.

He wasn’t brought to the throne room. Instead, they stopped in front of a pair of iron bound double doors.

“We have a guest for Lord Mairon,” one of the orcs said.

The guard at the door peered at him suspiciously. “My lord did not tell me he was expecting any visitors.”

“Order from the Mighty One,” the orc replied.

“He’s not going to like this,” the guard warned, but rapped on the door with his spear anyway.

“What?” The flat question came from inside the room.

“Lord Melkor has sent you a visitor.”

There was a sound that seemed penetrate Maitimo’s very being; whatever was on the other side of that door wasn’t pleased. “Make it quick.”

Maitimo didn’t know what he expected as he was dragged through the door, but whatever it was, it wasn’t this. The floor was carpeted, the plush surface unbelievably soft against feet that had only felt stone for years. The room was diffused with light, the soft glow of candles magnified by crystals and colored glass. The large room seemed to be divided into different purposes — Maitimo could have sworn he saw goldsmithing tools at a workbench and another corner with glass containers filled with multi-colored liquids — before he was thrown to the ground.

“Kneel,” snarled the orc, as if it was possible for Maitimo to do anything else. He bowed to Mairon. “The Mighty One says you must interrogate him.”

“Oh really? I must interrogate him? As if I have nothing better to do with my time than question a useless prisoner? I suppose requisitions, excavations, and the logistics of arming our entire host is not enough?” Mairon’s low musical voice was at odds with the sharp sarcasm of his tone. Maitimo watched his guards shuffle awkwardly from his spot on the ground.

“Get out. And if you breathe a word of what I said, I will slowly boil you from the inside out.” The orcs beat a hasty retreat, and then they were alone. Maitimo didn’t look up; whatever horrors were in store for him would happen whatever he did.

“Well, have a seat, I’ll get to you in a moment.” That at least grabbed Maitimo’s attention. He peered up from his spot on the floor. Mairon wasn’t looking at him at all; his entire focus was on whatever he was writing. Maitimo almost gasped out loud; Mairon was stunning. Red hair, a deeper shade than any he had seen tumbled around his shoulders. The golden flame of his eyes was mesmerizing. Maitimo swallowed; he already felt horribly out of place and filthy in the rich, pristine chambers. Now he felt like a twisted creature compared to the being before him. 

But he had been asked to take a seat. Earlier, he would have fought even the smallest order in Angband, but now he knew there was no point in resisting this reasonable request. Better to save his energy for the actual questioning. Maitimo crawled to the chair, and pulled himself onto it. He winced as he sat down. His back and buttocks were still only partially healed from the last time he had been whipped, but the flinch was more so at the thought of his filthy skin touching the elegant upholstery. 

Mairon didn’t look up through the whole laborious process. He appeared to be filling in some sort of grid, carefully writing figures and occasionally tallying up the columns. Finally he looked up.

“So you are the High King of the Noldor?” He sounded bored.

“I was. I am not king of much here.” Maitimo met Mairon’s eyes, trying not to be the cringing thing he could feel himself becoming. 

“Hm, so I am to interrogate you. Are they still asking you about silima?”

“Among other things,” Maitimo said cautiously.

“I already know the size of your army, how they are armed, what they have gained, what they still lack, where you are camped, the messages that have been exchanged with the local Sindar, and who now calls himself the High King. I’m sure I know more than you at this point about the Noldor on these shores.” Mairon sighed heavily. “But I shall question you nonetheless. How did Fëanáro create the Silmarils?”

“I don’t know,” Maitimo said, reflexive terror closing around his throat and making his voice shake.

“Why did Fëanáro burn the ships?”

“To prevent anyone from fleeing, and from his half-brother from joining us.” He had agonized over letting that information slip, but it had spilled out some time ago. In the end he wasn’t sure how much it mattered. Morgoth already knew of the strife between Fëanáro and Nolofinwë; he had helped sow it. At least Maitimo had not spoken of the kinslaying.

“Anything else you wish to share?” Mairon absently flicked a contraption on his desk, setting off a tinkling cascade of chimes.

“No.”

“Well, that was a very productive conversation, a good use of time for us both.”

Maitimo felt a huff of air leave him, something like a laugh. “This is the best use of my time since I arrived.”

A corner of Mairon’s mouth rose. “I suppose it is.” He drummed his fingers against the desk. “Nelyafinwë, do you like games?”

“Yes,” said Maitimo hesitantly. 

“The only thing that’s enjoyed by folk here is base gambling. A good wager can be entertaining, but only for a moment.” Mairon carefully set the ledger to the side. “The numbers are as good as they are going to get until Langon sends his update.” Mairon stood and returned with two goblets. He handed one to Maitimo. Maitimo sniffed it suspiciously. 

“It’s water.”

After a cautious sip, Maitimo began to drink greedily, the cool, clean water soothing his parched throat and tasting sweeter than any nectar.

“If you throw up, I am expelling you immediately.” 

Maitimo reluctantly lowered the goblet, and saw a board with many glittering pieces had appeared on the desk. 

“So, you are the silver pieces, I am the gold,” Mairon began. Maitimo tried to focus on the rules, his mind still reeling from the unexpected, if temporary, relief from torment and his surprisingly charming host.

[jimlingss]

Game of Temptation

➜ Words: 16k

➜ Genres: 60% Smut, 35% Angst, 5% Fluff, Succubus!AU

➜ Summary: As a succubus, your beauty is unrivaled and shaped to tempt mortals. But it's still hard to resist Taehyung, and there's little you can do once you've been coerced to do his bidding for him. This time, you find yourself entering the affluent Kim Household as a housemaid. And these poor humans don't know your intentions are far from being angelic.

➜ Warning: seduction, sex, homewrecking, infidelity, daddy kink, creampie, etc. There were no morals in the making of this fic. I do not subscribe to my characters’ beliefs, y'all. It's just some crazy fiction. Reader discretion advised.

It’s your chance to have a little fun, peach.   The four wheels of the luggage roll against the smooth pavement, over the cracks and up the massive driveway. The sweltering sun isn’t a bother when the feeling of flames licking against your cheeks is such a familiarity. Yet, you still feel disgruntled as Taehyung’s words ring inside your head.   I know you want to try your hand at it. And you’ve been telling me how much you want a little subordinate of your own. You could do whatever you want with them. There are no rules.   He’s a bastard. If it wasn’t for you being so wrapped around his finger and dancing in the palm of his hand, you would never do something this ridiculous. But it’s not like you have much of a choice. Taehyung’s words of persuasion act like you do have a choice when in reality, he mocks.   Yet, in spite of what you might really think, you continue on your way, lugging your heavy baggage up the stairs and steadying your breath. Feeling a sense of calmness, the pad of your index finger presses the doorbell. You listen to how the sound echoes inside the enormous manor.   There’s shouting, footsteps, and a second later, the door swings open.   There’s a plump woman with an apron tied over her body, her gray streaked hair pulled back into a bun. She’s out of breath as she is fatigued even though it’s only eight in the morning. But she still greets you with a smile that spreads into her chubby cheeks. “Hello! You must be the new live-in nanny and housemaid! Come in, come in. Don’t just stand out here! It’s so cold!”   She helps drag in your luggage.    The large foyer opens up to a grand staircase, two archways on both sides that allow you to peek into the chandeliered and golden curtain rooms. There’s antique china in a display case and vases on tables — more to paint a picture of wealth than for any actual purpose. But while one would expect a quiet and proper home, there’s chaos instead. Feet rumbling from upstairs. Sharp laughter and exhausted sighs. Noises of shouting and screaming.    “You’re younger than I expected. What’s your name?”   “Y/N, madam.”   “Oh, I’m not the madam,” the woman giggles at the thought and bats the air with her hand. “The madam isn’t as old as I am. I’m the Kim’s housekeeper, Ms. Yoo. We’ll be working close together. Have you eaten yet? The trip must’ve been long and tiring. Would you like to rest?”   The corner of your lips quirk. “I’m alright, thank you.”   “I’ll give you a tour around then. The faster you can become accustomed to this home, the faster you can help out.”   You nod, but before she can get in another word, there’s thundering stomps down the stairs.    A boy’s face pokes through the banisters and he gives a toothless grin. Not more than five years old, he wears a blue, collared shirt and khaki shorts, one foot with a sock and the other without — he’s no doubt a spoiled, little brat.   The kid makes a ruckus while running down the rest of the steps, jumping from the last three and he comes up to you, eyes wide and sparkling as he looks up. “Who’re you?”   You lower yourself and offer a soft smile. “I’m going to be your daddy and mommy’s new little helper. We’re going to have lots of fun from now on.”   “Jaesun! Jaesun, get back here! What did I say about slamming your bedroom door?!”   A frail woman with grating vocal cords comes down the stairs as well. Her chest is rising and falling, evidently winded from her son but her eyes visibly light up when she sees you.    “You must be Y/N, aren’t you?” She’s a pretty woman with few wrinkles even in her forties, dressed cleanly in a rosy blouse and white skirt. But her dark circles ruin the pristine image.    “Yes, I am, madam.”   She shakes your hand vigorously. She looks at you like you’re her guardian angel. An irony that tickles your senses. “Oh, I’m so happy you’re finally here. I’m Kim Yijin, my husband is Kim Namjoon, but we should head to the kitchen to talk. There’s not much time left.”   The housekeeper smiles. “Yes, I was about to show her the way.”   “Let’s go, Jaesun.” You offer your hand to the boy and he happily takes it, something that Yijin doesn’t miss and even grins at.    The kitchen is twice the size of the foyer, two stove sets and two refrigerators side by side. The counter space is enough to stretch your entire body across and you can only marvel at the surroundings.    “I hope you don’t get too overwhelmed,” Yijin says as she turns to get her coffee started and Ms. Yoo sets out breakfast for Jaesun at the table. “But I should tell you now before I forget to. My family eats a gluten-free diet. Our Jaesun is lactose and tolerant, so he’s only to have soy milk and calcium-fortified orange juice. My daughter has poor digestion, so try to avoid whole-grains when you’re preparing the meals.” She stops for a second, lamenting, “and she has such bad skin these days, so avoid milk and anything bad, like instant noodles, even if she begs for it. The girl doesn’t know what’s good and bad for her.”   With her steaming coffee cup in hand, Yijin waltzes around the kitchen, forcing you to follow her whims.   “Make sure the kids have at least three servings of fruits and vegetables. My husband doesn’t like eggs and Jaesun isn’t supposed to have candy. Also, this is less important, but I really like fried foods that aren’t too oily, so if you have anything you can make…”   The corners of your lips lift. “I have a fried chicken recipe.”   “I like you already.” She snaps her fingers, smile brightening. She looks over to the older lady, calling out to her, “Ms. Yoo, I can get breakfast ready for today. Would you like to continue showing Y/N around?”   “Yes, I will.”    Even when you could tell from the outside, the house is grand. It’s a closed concept, full of mahogany wood panels, twisting halls, oak doors and chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. It looks like a place Taehyung would enjoy.    “Every day, we meal prep breakfast, lunch and dinner. Typically only the master of the house is here for lunch, so we have to watch our portions. He works a lot from home. Oh, his younger brother is also living here for some time. He’s an editor, so he’s quite busy. I tend to deliver his meal to his room if he doesn’t come down for dinner.”   You nod, entering the living room.    There’s a giant family photo above the mantel that looks all too artificial — stiff smiles and pressed clothes with a white background. But the space is warmed with cedar bookshelves, a coffee table to match and perfectly positions cushion chairs. In one of them is a sleepy man with dark hair, sipping on a mug as he reads the newspaper.   He looks up at you, features more tender than expected.   “Hello.” You dip your head to the so-called younger brother, keeping your voice soft-spoken.   “Mr. Kim, this is our new helper,” the housekeeper introduces.   “Yes.” His voice is also surprisingly husky. “I’m Yoongi. It’s nice to meet you.”   The two of you stare at one another until you dip your head as Mrs. Yoo keeps going and you leave the room, walking upstairs.   “We dust every day and clean the kitchen each night. Every other day, we do laundry and vacuum the rooms. The living space and foyer get especially dirty, so we have to stay vigilant. If your back ever aches from hunching over so much, tell me and I’ll give you some cream and heated pads.”   A door down the hall shuts and there’s an audible sigh. What follows are footsteps and a teenage girl in an ironed school uniform, backpack on her back. Her black hair is sleek, ending at her waist and in spite of puffy cheeks, her eyes are cat-like.    “Good morning, Sohee. Sleep well?”   “I guess.” As her pupils dart from the housekeeper to you, her steps slow and she halts altogether.   You lock your gaze with her and smile. “Hello. I’m the new housemaid, Y/N.”   You extend your arm, but she dwells — staring like a deer in headlights.   It takes a moment for Sohee to come to her senses and she shakes your hand while brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. She timidly murmurs, “O-oh. Nice to meet you.”   “Sohee!” There’s a sudden screech of her name from downstairs, grating to the ears. Immediately, the young girl deflates.   “Coming!” she shouts back to her mom with a groan, rolling her eyes before running down the stairs.   The housekeeper smiles sympathetically. “Sohee’s going through a bit of a growth spurt, so she’s been a bit sensitive lately.” You nod and she continues, “We clean the bathrooms once a week and once a month, we wash the carpets. Your room is just this way.”   Down the corridor is a small mahogany door. But there’s grandiose double doors with golden handles right where the hall begins from the open area. And your strides reduce. You linger from curiosity and peer through the crack with an eye. Vaguely, you’re able to make out bookshelves and an imposing desk. More importantly, there’s someone seated in the leather seat behind it.   Mrs. Yoo notices. “Oh, that’s master Kim’s office, but there’s no need to bother him right now.”   Your body moves a little too late. While you’re still peeping through, the man behind the desk raises his head. Your eyes meet, but you leave before either of you can get a good look at each other.   The room you’re given is a meager space — more like a closet compared to the rest of the house. You hold in your scoff, looking around at the single bed. The empty desk. The tiny window with dead bugs on the sill. The wooden chair with splinters sticking out of it. It looks like antiques shoved in a shed. Not even Taehyung treats you this poorly.   “The bathroom is across from your room, so it’s rather convenient!”   You set your luggage down.   “Also, you’ll be watching Jaesun when he comes home from kindergarten. You’ll wash him and put him to bed as well. I’ll help you out until you get the hang of things, so don’t worry too much.”   You wonder if the old lady ever shuts up, but you keep your voice soft-spoken and your demeanour timid. “Thank you.”   “It’s not an issue.” Ms. Yoo pats your shoulder. “Oh, you can get settled a little later on. We should help the madam with breakfast. She doesn’t cook very well.”   It’s possible to get lost in this abyss of a house. There are endless halls and pompous rooms. You don’t understand the purpose of having a large music room next to a drawing room, but you suppose with this much money, it’s fun to throw it into a blazing fire.   The housekeeper continues yapping away as you make it back downstairs. But on your way, you catch a different individual standing in the foyer. Someone in a black suit with doe eyes, boyish features that draw you in.    He seems surprised to see you too.   “Ah, Jungkook! Have you eaten yet? Would you like a coffee?”   “I’m fine, Ms. Yoo.” He has a cute smile full of teeth and his eyes flicker to you. “This is...?”   “Oh, it’s the new helper I was telling you about. Y/N, this is Jungkook, Mr. Kim’s personal chauffeur. He’s been working with this family for almost as long as I’ve been here.”   “Not that long,” Jungkook retorts mischievously. “I only started here a few years ago after I finished school.”   “Only? Oh my. Feels like you started here thirty years ago like I did! Time goes by so fast!”   “Only when you’re having fun.” Jungkook grins and then redirects his attention towards you, clearing his throat. “I-It’s nice to meet you.”   “Likewise.” You shake his hand and dip your head with a tiny smile. He averts his vision too, becoming shy. Yet, when you lift your head, your eyes meet each other’s. You can feel the way his hand is getting sweaty, but you let it linger for a longer amount of time than necessary. Until you’re the one to let go.   He’s too cute.   You catch the way his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat.   The tension between the pair of you is only broken when a voice coughs from the top of the staircase and Jungkook breaks apart from you, taking a step back. You look up at the master, Kim Namjoon. A man in his forties, tall with a commanding aura. His hair is styled neatly, thick glasses sitting on his face, sharply dressed in a tailored suit. Everything about him screams of new money.   “Good morning, Mr. Kim.”   He hums at the housekeeper. “Good morning, Ms. Yoo. This must be the new helper. It’s nice to meet you.” The man comes down and visibly inspects you, as if trying to figure you out and only looks away when he’s satisfied. “I hope you’ll do a good job.”   “Yes, sir.”   “Are you going already, daddy?” Sohee comes from the kitchen, crestfallen. The volume of her voice is quiet and tapers off, “You’re not going to have breakfast with us...?”   “I don’t have time today.” The words tumble out and he looks at his phone. Ms. Yoo opens the door as he answers a call outside.    You look over at Sohee who’s become dejected. Her shoulders have slumped and her hair falls in front of her face. She pouts and tries to hide it. But Jungkook smiles softly and ruffles her hair.   “Don’t be so sad. I’ll have breakfast with you tomorrow, okay?”   “Really?” Sohee looks up at him, eyes gradually brightening and her cheeks becoming rosy.   He nods. “I’ll make sure to come early.”   “I’ll have to cook more eggs then,” the housekeeper chortles and Jungkook grins until his eyes travel to you. The glance turns into a gaze and neither of you speak until Ms. Yoo turns. “Come on, Y/N! We can’t dawdle all day now.”   “Yes,” you murmur and follow after her, all too aware of Jungkook’s stare on your backside as Sohee still talks without him really listening. Once you turn the corner, the older woman pauses and your brow cocks. “Is….there something the matter?”   She smiles endearingly at you and shakes her head. “No, nothing’s wrong. You’re just very beautiful, that’s all.”

The house is chaotic.   Before going to bed, Ms. Yoo gave you one piece of furniture to add to the sad collection — an alarm clock. And it blares with red digits reading that it’s five in the morning. Lugging yourself up, you’re bombarded with chores. From laundry to wiping down windows and making the bed.   “Excuse me.” You knock against the door and there’s a muffled ‘come in’.   Yoongi sits at his desk with a stack of papers in front of him and a red pen in his hand. His room is similar to yours, cramped and modest, but with a larger window and mattress, and a proper wardrobe and closet.   The man in his pajamas doesn’t look at you. “You can leave it there,” he mumbles and you set his tray of breakfast food on his nightstand.    Your eyes linger on his slouching form. But he never turns around, so you leave.   The noise and bickering from the kitchen can already be heard from the stair landing. The stove top fan is blasted while Ms. Yoo fries eggs, Jaesun sitting at the table with his legs swinging and spitting his cereal all over the place as he plays make-belief with his robot, but most of all—   “Why won’t you let me go?” Sohee is standing by her mother, exasperation and the furrow of her brows ruining her otherwise innocent exterior. “It’s only Yeeun’s house! And you already know her mom!”   “I already said that she isn’t a good influence on you!”   “We’re only studying! I don’t get why you don’t like her!”   “Her family is lower than ours.” Yijin forces herself to become calmer and feeds Jaesun a spoonful of yogurt as he plays. She glances at her daughter after a moment. “If you know what’s good for you, you’d become friends with Lee Sunmi. At least they have something to offer us. And are you going to eat that bagel? It’s filled with cream cheese. We have to watch your weight, remember?”   “Why are you always picking on me?” The girl drops her choice of breakfast and cries, “What about Jaesun?!”   “Are you going to compare yourself to your brother?” She gives her an astonished look full of disbelief, tinged with disappointment. “He’s only five.”   Sohee is frustrated to no end. “I hate you all!” She screams and stomps away as you resume slicing the strawberries, eyes lifting every so often. You watch as Jungkook enters the kitchen at the same time Sohee’s leaving. She pauses for a second but then pushes past him.   Her mother screams after her. “Sohee! Are you not going to eat at all?! That girl! So rude.”   In the meanwhile, Ms. Yoo reads the expression on your face and smiles. “Don’t worry. They never argue for too long.”   “Shouldn’t we at least say something?”   She shakes her head. “I’ve tried to get involved a few times, but it never helped much. Better to keep quiet. Every family argues.”   The housekeeper finishes up in the kitchen while Yijin settles down and sips on her coffee as she scrolls through her phone. She asks for a plate of fruits from Ms. Yoo and at the same time, you notice Jaesun scooping his cereal and purposely spilling it on the ground. No one notices.   It sloshes into a pile.   You hold in your cusses and grab a rag.   The five year old realizes he’s been caught in the act and grins like a little shit. You get on the floor, scrubbing the mess. But the moment the floorboards are back to brown again, there’s another splatter of milk by your hand and a spoonful of cereal flakes that follow. It splashes on your hair and apron and you raise your head to find the little shit plastered with a ginormous smile.   “Done eatin’!” He announces, scooting back his chair before running off in giggles.   May Satan have mercy on the child before you tear his limbs apart.   The minute you’re finished scrubbing the floor and clearing the table, you go off to find the brat. Because god forbid there’s a scratch on him.    You find him in the hallway between the laundry room and garage. “What do you think you’re doing?!”   There’s a bright red crayon in his tight fist. And he’s scribbling all across the wall while laughing at a piercing volume. At the sight of you, Jaesun draws a line as hard as he can until his knuckles are white, bits of wax are sprinkling and the crayon is a half the size it used to be.   The kid runs away before you can snatch him.   Much to your dismay, Ms. Yoo merely smiles in endearment when you tell her. “Kids like to have so much fun, don’t they? I remember when my son was at that age, he was such a troublemaker too. But it’s nothing a little baking soda can’t fix!”   You end up on your knees, scrubbing the wall with a damp rag dipped in the white powder.   You’re humiliating and exhausted.    Taehyung was wrong — there’s nothing fun about this whatsoever. You swear to God you’re going to murder someone.   “How are you doing?”   You look up, discovering doe eyes and pink lips quirked at you. Jungkook is dressed in his suit that’s a bit too big for him, hands dug into the pants pockets as he glances at the wall. You smile at him, brushing away the strand of your hair that came loose from your bun.   It’s not too bad of a time to be sweating. To allow the beads to roll down the nape of your neck.   “It’s tiresome, but nothing I can’t do.”   “I’m assuming this is Jaesun’s little artwork project.”   “Who else could it be?”   Jungkook grins boyishly. “Once he decided to paint the inside the car using the leather seats as his canvas.”   “Why don’t they ever discipline him?” you ask genuinely, tilting your head up at him and he matches the playful glint in your eyes before shrugging.   “Probably because he’s the youngest and the only son, so it’s natural they spoil him.”   “But this is a bit much, isn’t it?” You shake your head, voice pitching upwards into a whine. The irritation was leaking through the facade you’ve created, but all it does is make Jungkook’s grin widen.   “It is. You know—”   “Y/N!” There’s a call of your name in a screeching voice. “Can you come here for a second?”   “Yes!” For the most part, the crayon is taken off and you breathe a sigh of relief. You look over to Jungkook as a tiny smile appears on your features. “See you.”   “Y-Yeah.”   His eyes linger on you as you leave.   “I’m about to be late for work, so can you please bring this up to my husband?” Yijin hands you a wooden tray with a tall glass of some sort of sludgy green liquid filled to the rim. The drink stinks of kale and lettuce. You wonder if she’s trying to poison him. “He hasn’t gotten anything to eat yet and I’m worried. That man never takes care of himself properly. Oh, and I’d really appreciate it if you could Jaesun dressed. Don’t know where he’s run off to.”   You nod and balance the drink up the stairs before coming to the familiar grandiose doors.   You knock timidly.   There’s a disgruntled noise of acknowledgment, one that signifies he’s inside but preoccupied. Still, you push the parted doors open and come forward with the tray. Namjoon never looks up at you, busy studying the files of documents.   The room is warmer than expected, oaks and mahogany, paintings and bookshelves, a large desk that reminds you of a judge’s bench — imposing, commanding. Not unlike him. There’s a fireplace, two leather sofas facing each other and a coffee table in between, and above the mantle is another family portrait that exudes a kind of stiff perfection.   You place the glass down on his disorganized desk, eyes peering up at the man. As you retract your arm, your skin brushes against a stack of papers and they’re knocked to the ground. He whips his head over, brow cocked.   “I’m so sorry, sir,” you whimper. As you frantically pick them up, you bend over in front of him.   “It’s fine.” You feel his eyes linger on your rounded behind before he looks at his document again. You mask a smirk. Namjoon mutters from the corner of his mouth, “Where are you from?”    You purposely pause so he directs his attention to you again.   “I grew up in the countryside not far from here, sir.” You hold the tray to your stomach, presenting a timid disposition as if his gaze weighs heavily on you.   “And what did you do before you took this job?”   “I was in university, sir, but I’m taking a break to save some money.”   The man gives a pleasant nod. “What was your major?”   “Education, sir.” You divert your vision elsewhere, but a sweet smile pulls on your lips. “I would love to become a teacher someday.”   He hums in approval, “I could see you doing that.”   “Daddy?” The conversation is interrupted by Sohee at the door. She’s dressed in her school uniform, but is nowhere near ready to step into a classroom with the way she’s teary-eyed and her voice croaks with a lump in her throat. “Mom’s not letting me study with Yeeun!”   Namjoon exhales exhaustingly. He sits back in his leather chair, looking at the ceiling. Sohee’s eyes stings at how she’s evidently annoying her father. But you don’t dwell, bowing your head and dismissing yourself.   //   You would’ve never picked up this job unless you had to. Not even for the useless money.   You detest education. Never did well, never had fun, never got along with anyone. Be a teacher? You could scoff ten times over. You hate children. You hate kids. They’re absolute brats. Noisy at their best and tormentors at their worst. There’s only a few perks to this job.   Like right now.   “I’m glad to be of service,” Jungkook breathlessly laughs.    His hot breath ghosts along your cheek while your legs wrap and lock around his waist.   A comfortable darkness surrounds you. The moonlight cascades through the small window, enough that you can see his handsome profile. And the slick, obscene sounds are covered by the dryer machine still rumbling underneath you. It has the last load of towels the housekeeper wanted to get done tonight — and it’s also helping Jungkook release his load into you.   The vibrations of the dryer flow through your body, adding to his raw strokes and the moans choking out of you. It didn’t take much to convince him to sneak away. The one-dimensional family is completely oblivious too, sleeping upstairs in their warm beds. You’re tempted to whine Jungkook’s name louder and make one of them investigate. You wonder what the look on their face would be if they found their little maid and chauffeur fucking in the laundry room.   Jungkook tugs down your dress further and gently noses your hardened nipple before his mouth travels upwards to the juncture of your neck. You feel his lips suck into your soft skin, but the fingers sunk into his dark hair tightens and you pull his head back.   He gives a throaty groan, half-lidded eyes pinned on your face.   You writhe against his hard chest every time his thick cock drags out of your walls. He’s bigger than you expected. Eager too. Jungkook is a healthy and young one, hips and strokes fluid albeit a bit fast and excited.    You can tell he likes you a lot.   “I-I would’ve never guessed you hated kids.” The boy watches how his cock enters you and disappears. Your pussy clenches around him and he sweats at his hairline, trying to hold back from cumming so soon.   “There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” you sing-song cutely and roughly pull him in by his shoulders, batting your lashes. “Can you kiss me, please, Jungkookie?”   He nods enthusiastically and leans in to nose your cheek. Then, he tilts his head and your mouth meets his. Your lips immediately part to welcome him deeper and his hands force your thighs farther apart, fingers digging into your flesh. Jungkook’s tongue licks into your hot mouth, making you moan.    Yet, the kiss is somehow sweet. Much too pure for someone like you.   The two of you break apart, lips wet with his spit. “I-I’m close.”   Jungkook’s strokes start to lose their rhythm. They become frantic. Frenzied. He can feel the shaking of the dryer jumping beneath you, how tight and wet you are around him.   You watch him through hooded eyes, tempted to coo at him and tell him that he can do it — encourage him that he can release his load right into your womb. But not wanting to ruin his fun moment, you instead squeeze as tight as you can.    Jungkook groans, hips jerking and he plunges deep inside your cunt to cum.    He gives two more thrusts. His entire body trembles and he realizes you’re still unfinished. Even with half a mind, he has the courtesy to lick his thumb and rub at your clit. You writhe with moans of his name, holding him close and a few seconds later, you get to where you want to be.   As you come down from your high, you pet him. “Good boy. Thanks for that.”   “Y-You’re so pretty.”   “Am I?” you hum and he nods madly.   Jungkook’s sticky breath heaves, chest rising and falling and you wrap your arms possessively around his shoulders. Whining incoherently, he understands that you’re pleading for another kiss. He happily obliges and you angle your head to deepen it. The kiss is lazier. Languid. Giving you a chance to taste him properly.   Jungkook starts to groan when you don’t pull away after thirty seconds.   He tries to part, losing oxygen. But you keep him in your tight grip. And you inhale.   It’s delicious. It fills you with a sense of euphoria, making goosebumps raise all over the back of your arms. It’s been a while since you’ve had a soul for yourself. And as it leaves his body, you feel him go limp around you.   Jungkook falls to the tiled floor, leaving a sopping mess at your center.   “Would you look at that?” A deep timbre sounds. He appears, manifesting himself across from you with the corpse in between. The corner of his thin lip is curled as if he’s impressed. His blonde hair looks white in the milky moonlight and the darkness causes his piercing brown eyes to glow. “Not too bad, peach.”   “It’s so easy, it’s not even fun.” You hop down from the dryer machine.   Taehyung’s devilish smirk grows. “That’s because you’re so naturally enticing.”   You roll your eyes.   He comes close, large hands lifting to cradle your cheeks. Taehyung kisses you without much warning — not that you need it — and he licks into your mouth, inhaling deep. He retrieves the soul you took, taking it right from your parted lips.   The two of you part and the thin strand of saliva breaks. Taehyung boops your nose. “I always knew my succubus was a talented one.”   You scoff. “Don’t act like you came here to praise me. You just wanted to collect the soul.”   “Can’t I come here for both?” He lolls his head, another smirk gracing his perfect visage that’s been sculpted by porcelain angel tears. “But it looks like you don’t need my help, so I’ll be on my way.”   Taehyung winks and takes the discarded body on the ground, disappearing with it. He vanishes as quickly as he came.   After he’s gone, you dip your hand between your messy legs.    It’s the last remnants of Jungkook and it’s salty on your palette when you lick your fingers.   //   The mattress is soft against your knees. It cushions and molds against you each time you push down. But still, your wrists strain against the hardened muscles and knots.   Yijin hums, a pleased smile on her face. “A little harder please. And oh, up there. Yes, yes. That’s the spot.”    You continue to massage her, making sure to knead your thumbs into the sweet spots. The madam of the house moans in satisfaction. If she wasn’t so annoying and if her soul wasn’t so bland to you — you would’ve taken it long ago. But well, she might be fun to have around a little longer when you start messing with her family more.    “You’re good,” she hums. “Where did you learn?”   “Here and there. My grandma had a lot of sore muscles, so naturally, I kind of picked it up.”   In reality, Taehyung makes you rub his shoulders all the time.   She looks like she’s enjoying herself, head placed to the side, eyes closed and the corners of her mouth raises. She’s melting under your touch. But even when she’s this relaxed, she still manages to yap.    “It’s been so long since I’ve been treated like this at home. I used to go to the spa often but there’s nothing like a home massage,” Yijin mumbles, “Namjoon used to do it for me all the time before we had kids and then he got busy with work, and well, it’s the reason we have this big house.”   She flips her head to the other side and you rub between her shoulder blades. “I used to be as pretty as you are.”   You keep your voice quiet and meek. “Pardon? You’re still pretty, madam.”   “You don’t need to flatter me.”   “But it’s true…?” Your voice pitches upwards as if you’re incredulous as to how she could think otherwise. “You have a maternal aura about you that I don’t have and you’re an established professional. Women can only dream of having that.”   Peering at her, you catch the way her smile sweetens.   At the same time, her husband enters the bedroom. Sighing and pulling off his tie, he places his briefcase down and moves to the minibar. Namjoon pours himself a glass of whisky and collapses into the white armchair beside the modern standing lamp, thighs spread wide and rather inviting. You look up at him, lashes fluttering in curiosity.   “What’s wrong?” Yijin opens one eye, clearly catching how stressed Namjoon is.   “I found that damn punk’s resignation letter on my desk. He’s gone.” He lifts his glass, taking a long sip of the amber liquid and letting the glass rest between his fingertips.   “Who?”   “Jungkook.”   “What?” Both of Yijin’s eyes peel back, pupils widening in shock. “How could that brat leave without warning?”   “I don’t know.” Namjoon looks to the whiskey, exhaling yet again. “After years of working for us, he upped and disappeared. I guess workers are always like that. Sohee’s been crying and throwing a tantrum. But anyway, I need to hire someone new. I don’t know who’s going to work this far from the city though.”   You continue rubbing Yijin’s back and you feel Namjoon’s gaze traveling to you from his place on the armchair. From the profile of your face, the nape of your neck, to the skin of your thighs that’s exposed from your dress being hiked up so you’re able to kneel on his mattress.   Yijin makes a noise. “Well, there’s nothing we can do. Do you want a massage too? Y/N’s really amazing.”   Namjoon looks away, tearing his eyes from you. “No. I’m fine. I only need to rest a bit before I have to go back to work.”   His wife opens her eyes again and this time, she gets up. You lean back, allowing her to do so.   “Oh my goodness! Your associate is coming for dinner tonight, isn’t he? I almost forgot!” She snaps her fingers and looks at you. “Can you please draw me a bath, Y/N? I have to look presentable.”   //   The business associate is Taehyung.   You couldn’t roll your eyes any harder when you see the blonde seated on the leather sofa as if he owns the place, suit and tie crisp, shoes polished. You don’t know what he’s doing or how he even set himself in their lives, but you suppose you had planted yourself in this household in dubious ways too — with his help, of course. So you don’t question it too much.   “I must say, this house is much more beautiful than I thought it was going to be.”   “That’s all thanks to my wife,” Namjoon chuckles, hands clasped together. “She has a better sense of aesthetics than I do.”   Yijin smiles. She’s dressed in another one of her rosy blouses and white skirts, polished without a hair out of place — to both play the role of the perfect wife and appeal to the handsome stranger. “Thank you. I wanted to be an interior designer a long time ago, so it was really fun to try my hand at it even if it’s not much.”   “Nonsense. It’s wonderful. Do you still want to be an interior designer now? You certainly have the skills for it.”   “Oh, no.” She bats the air with her hand. “I lost the dream when I got married and had kids. Plus, I don’t think I could ever work for anyone. It doesn’t really suit me.”   “Ah.” Taehyung leans back, all too comfortable as he is playful. “You prefer reaping the benefits of your husband and enjoying yourself? Can’t say I blame you.”   The corner of Namjoon’s mouth tilts while you approach with a bottle of wine, setting the crystal glasses down for them. “You know how women are.”   “On the contrary, they’re the more intelligent ones for letting us do all the work while they take pleasure,” Taehyung says, causing the other man to laugh and agree. You round the table to pour him a glass of wine and Taehyung looks at you with that infamous smirk, but you try to not make eye contact for long. “Thank you.”   You dip your head wordlessly.   “Oh yes.” Yijin perks up. “Thank you for recommending the company that you did. If not, we wouldn’t have been able to hire Y/N.”   “It’s not a problem at all. I’m always happy to help.” He smiles, taking the stem of the wine glass and rotating it to slosh the ruby liquid inside. “I take it she’s a good addition to the house?”   “Yes, she is.”   Taehyung exhales through his nostrils, lips adorned with a devilish smile. “I’m glad.”   You return to the kitchen unscathed, but damning Taehyung in your head for messing with your game. Though your irritation can’t last for long when Ms. Yoo hands you a wooden tray heavy with bowls and dishes. “Can you bring this up to the master’s younger brother? He’ll be having dinner in his room today.”   “Okay.”   You knock on the door. There’s a pause and after a moment, you open it.   Yoongi is in the same spot he was this morning, crouched over his desk with a red pen in hand, papers in front of him and round reading glasses perched on his nose. The curtains are drawn but the glow of the lamp gives him enough luminescence to work.   “You can leave it over there,” he mumbles and you place it on the usual spot.   The man never raises his head or pays any attention to you.   Your brow cocks and you take the tall glass, deciding to bring it to him. “Here’s some water, sir.”   And you purposely waver. The liquid sloshing on the sides and unceremoniously spills onto his lap. Yoongi jolts, arms lifting to save his papers while you sharply gasp. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry!”   You fall onto your knees and begin dabbing all over his lap and crotch with your apron. Yet your antics doesn’t last for a few seconds before he’s brushing your hand away. “It’s fine. It’s just water.”   You peer up at him through your lashes. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Kim.”   “I told you to leave it over there,” he grunts, casting a measly glance at you. “But it’s fine. If you have nothing else to do, please leave. I have a lot of work to get done.”   You rise to your feet and exit. He’s a harder one to crack. Those little tactics might not be enough, but you’ll get there soon enough. You’re certain of it.   “Y/N?” There’s a strangled whimper and you turn around in the dark corridor to see Sohee emerge from her room. The area underneath her eyes are reddened, nose raw. Her whole body trembles as she sniffles. The girl looks small and vulnerable, almost like a puppy.   “Is there something wrong?” you ask gently, akin to a mother cooing at her child.   Sohee’s eyes flicker up to you. “Did...Jungkook ever tell you anything before he left?”   You shake your head. “No. We were never that close. I’ve only spoken to him a few times.”   She nods. There’s a beat of silence and you lift your hand to caress her hair. The girl is startled but then eases, even leaning into your tender touch. You draw your fingers through her long, straight strands, petting her gently. “I’m sure he left for good reason. Maybe something happened or it was a family emergency. He was always close to you, right?”   Sohee nods again while choked cries come from her. “W-We were family.”   You embrace her, patting her back and she leans on your chest. “You’re not alone, Sohee. You have me now and I won’t ever leave like Jungkook did.”   She squeezes you back.   But the moment is shattered by a grating voice of her mother. “Sohee! Where are you?! Get down here and greet your dad’s friend!”    Her jaw clamps. She parts from you, rubbing her eyes.    You watch her go and she turns around to look at you. You smile at her.   //    “Your maid outfit’s cute.” He appears. A creeping shadow casted against the wall first, then flesh that stitches into the room. You’re resting on your bed, leaning against the headboard and filing your nails one at a time — the yellow glow of the desk lamp giving you barely enough light. “I didn’t get a good look last time.”   “What are you doing, Taehyung?” You blow against your index finger and finally ascend your gaze.   “Just having a little fun,” he chimes and muses that— “You’re taking a lot longer than usual.”   “Well, I’m just having some fun.”   Taehyung scoffs. “Don’t take too long.”   “You shouldn’t act like you’re busy when you’re not,” you bite back without missing a beat.   His brow cocks, smirk playing on his lips. “I think it’s been too long since I’ve disciplined you.”   Before you can react, he ambushes and pins you flat onto the bed. Taehyung hovers over you with a glint in his eyes, heavy body on top of yours, hips pressed together. He holds your wrists above your head, preventing you from squirming. But you make no attempts to do so, simply glaring at him like a petulant child. You’re neither surprised nor caught off guard. Taehyung always likes to be the one on top, in a literal and figurative sense. And truth be told, you don’t particularly mind.   His pink lips are curled and he leans down to your neck. He starts to suck into your skin, rough enough to break through and your pathetic cries only spur him on. Making him smirk against you. But your fingers find their way into his hair and you yank his head back.   Flesh coated in his saliva, a giant purple bruise is left blooming on your supple skin as the redness fades. “I told you no marks.”   “You’re going to need it, peach,” he says with a mischievous grin and then vanishes.   You’re left rolling your eyes.   //   The grandiose double doors have never been intimidating. Even when Ms. Yoo has warned you on your first day to not disturb the master working and to not approach unless necessary. As much of a brat as the five year old is, even he doesn’t come close to his father’s office.   But to you, those doors have always signified that a very fun game is waiting behind them.    Your knuckles rap against the wooden surface and you pull the golden handles without waiting for confirmation. Kim Namjoon’s seated in his leather chair behind the imposing desk, eyes flickering upwards and you smile, holding your tray higher. “It’s fruit, sir.”   “That isn’t necessary,” he says and you feign dejection, downcast eyes, shoulder slumping. He swallows hard and then beckons you over. “You can bring it here.”   You come forward and place the plate on a single empty spot on the desk not coated in file folders. You’re close enough that he catches a whiff of your scent and the hickey on your neck.   A scoff spills from Namjoon’s chest.   “You’re doing a lot of unnecessary things in my home,” he comments offhandedly, perhaps not for your ears to hear. It’s passive aggressive and you mask your smile. Namjoon looks at you. “I would prefer if you would work properly and complete your duties without doing much else.”   You feign confusion. Wide-eyed blinking. Lashes batting.   As if giving you the reason for his mention, his eyes linger at the hickey.   In a delayed manner, your hand raises to the juncture of your neck, covering the spot Taehyung made like that alone could remove it. And then, you immediately drop to the ground on your knees.   “I-I’m so sorry, sir. It...it wasn’t my fault,” you cry out, searching the floor as the volume of your voice becomes timid and shy. It isn’t hard to come up with an excuse. “J-Jungkook did it. I didn’t know what he was doing, but he cornered me in the laundry room and I..told him to stop...but…”   He slams his desk.   Hand curled into a tight fist. Making the pens on the surface jump. It’s startling and you look up at him, viewing just how upset he is. “He left the next morning and hasn’t been back…”   “So that’s why he left. Why didn’t you tell me?” Namjoon stares at you in distress. “This is very serious.”   You shake your head. “I was afraid of saying anything. I know Jungkook’s been here longer than I have, so I didn’t think anyone would believe me and I can’t lose this job, sir.” Your head tilts to look up at him, eyes gleaming through your lashes, lips pouted, still on your knees. “I’m sorry.”   The man sighs. “There’s no reason to apologize. If he ever comes back, I’ll call the police immediately. No one in this household should ever feel unsafe. I’ll promise you that.”   You nod and he helps pull you up by your arm. You stagger upwards and on weakened knees, you stumble. With agile skills Taehyung would be proud of, you land on the man’s lap. Perched on his spread thighs, your legs placed along one side, and hands securely on his shoulders. Namjoon’s steadied you as well with his own palms sprawled on the small of your waist. And your parted lips are gasping mere millimeters away from his.   It’s an intimate moment. One where your gazes lock. One where you make sure lasts three seconds to imprint into his mind.   And then true to the character you’ve created, you pull yourself away. You grab your chair and dip your head. “I’m so sorry, sir.”   Before the master of the house can get another word out, you run out the room.   The minute you’re outside, you run into Yoongi. Passing by, he cocks a brow at the way you frantically shut the doors and your breathing is laboured as if you ran a marathon.   “Something wrong?”   Your head shakes and you devilishly smile at him. “It’s nothing at all.”   //   It’s a game with these mortal men.   You know they want you — that they helplessly dream about you at night. Your words, your lips, you crawling over to them and doing whatever they ask. Showing what reality could be. But the more you let them peek without giving it to them, the deeper they fall into your trap of honey.   “What do you think?”   You place the papers down, a tender smile placed on your features. “Shouldn’t you ask your uncle who’s an editor to look over your essay instead of me?”   Sohee playfully sulks. “Yeah, but he’s always busy. I don’t want to bother him.”   “You made a few errors here and the conclusion isn’t as strong as the introduction. I think you should expand on this point into one or two more sentences. But overall it’s very well written, Sohee. You might even have a knack for writing.”   The girl nods with a grin and when you stroke her hair while telling her how proud you are, she looks up at you and leans into your touch.   Ms. Yoo enters the dining room, endeared at the sight of you and Sohee sitting together at the table and working on her homework. She’s reluctant to interrupt but does so anyways. “Y/N, the master is calling for you.”   The housekeeper never tells you for what purpose, but you have an inkling sprouted from your intuition. Swiftly, you leave and Ms. Yoo takes your place as Sohee continues on other assignments she’s able to do on her own. The pair of them are equally unsuspecting.   It’s evening and long after dinner. The sun is dipping over the horizon, crimson shades fuzzy in the sky. Everyone is preoccupied and there’s no real reason why he should be calling you.   But you don’t hesitate.   Your knuckles rap against the grandiose doors. There’s a pause and you push it open.   Inside, there’s a fire roaring in the fireplace — above the mantle is the family portrait — and the man is standing and staring at the flickering flames. His face casted by the warm glow and he’s nursing a glass of whiskey. Namjoon raises his head as you push the door back to where it was, leaving it slightly parted.    “Good evening.”   “Is there something wrong, sir?”   He shakes his head. “Not at all. I’ve just been thinking and I...realized I haven’t been as kind to you as I should’ve been. It didn’t occur to me that this wasn’t a safe place for you and I want to change that. I don’t want anyone in this house to be afraid.”   You know he’s referring to what you’ve accused Jungkook of doing and promptly you close the distance. Your steps are slow as your hips sway and you look at him through lidded eyes.   “Sir.” You keep your voice low. “This has always been a safe place to me, because I know you’re here.”   Your eyes locked into one another and a tense silence lingers.   Finally, Namjoon swallows hard and diverts his vision. “Would you like a drink?”   “I-Is that allowed, sir?”    “I’ll allow it.” The suited man smiles and moves to sit on his dark leather couch.    There are two couches facing one another by the fireplace with a coffee table in between, opposite of his desk and the bookshelves. A once private sanctuary meant for no one but him, yet you have an exclusive invitation.   His thighs spread as he gets comfortable and he reaches for the fancy bottle of whiskey. Namjoon pours a glass of the amber liquid. It sloshes on the side and he extends his arm.   You take it nervously as if you’ve never drank much before.   “You don’t have to drink it all if you don’t want to.”   “It’s not that.” You smile at him through your lashes. “I’m just wondering how expensive it is.”   Namjoon scoffs lightly, but not out of malice or annoyance. It’s from endearment. “You don’t need to worry about that.”   The rim of the glass is placed between your plush lips and you take a sip. It’s bitter, but slides smoothly down.   He watches you and in the meanwhile, your eyes flicker away from him. Something catches your attention on a mahogany bookshelf, so you cross the room. You allow your knees to brush against his, the loose strands of your hair nearly skimming along his nose.   Namjoon clears his throat, holding the crystal glass casually between his fingertips. “Can I ask what kind of perfume you use?”   You twist around with another easy smile. “I don’t really use any, sir.”   Bending over in his line of vision, you look at his stacks of books and other knick-knacks on his shelf. “You have chess?”   “I do.” He places his glass down. “Do you want to play?”   You turn around with another coy smile. “Can we really?”   The darkness of the room thickens, fire crackling and sputtering in the background. The glow is dim against your profiles and casts your shadows along the wall. The game of chess has been set on the small table. You tell him you barely know how to play to which he replied he’d go easy on you. A few minutes have passed and you’ve moved a few pawns around. Yet, it’s intimate and quiet as if the room is hidden away from the rest of the house. Something you’re sure isn’t too far off.   “Are you alright, sir?” you ask in a husky murmur, pupils flickering up to him as he’s mid-way from taking another sip of his whisky. “You seemed pretty stressed a few days ago.”   Namjoon leans back into the seat. It sinks underneath his weight. His thighs are spread as you hold your knight, still debating on where to place it on the board. “I still am, but it's just the usual business stress.”   “Your wife worries a lot.”    You place the chess piece down and he leans forward again, capturing your pawn with one smooth move of his rook.   “You don’t need to try to make me feel better. I know she doesn’t care.”   “That’s not true,” you refute half-heartedly. “Why do you feel that way?”   “It’s obvious,” he mumbles and takes another pawn of yours when you move it. “My wife is more preoccupied with using my credit card and all she does all day is nag which makes it worse.”   You move your bishop across the board.   “Because of her, we have to have two live-in maids in the house at all times,” Namjoon continues. The liquor makes it easy for him to relax and let the truth spill. He’s defenseless. “Sohee doesn’t get along with her at all and Jaesun isn’t disciplined whatsoever. Sometimes I wonder why my family is like this and where it went wrong.”   The older man exhales and slides his king forward.    He waits for your next move, but you don’t go.    Your gaze is pinned on him and his eyes travel upwards to connect with yours.   “It doesn’t need to be that way, sir,” you whisper.   It’s your moment. You can feel it. And you disregard the game in favour of crawling towards him. The chess pieces knock over, some to the table and the others collide to the ground.    He has no idea you were two moves away from checkmate.   In seconds, you straddle his thighs. Namjoon’s at a loss, arms not yet touching you, but hands never pushing you off of him. His eyes have gone hazy. He’s completely entranced by you, bewitched under your spell. Vulnerable to your seduction and the wicked temptation you offer.   “What are you doing?” His breath laboured and he tries to muster sternness to no avail, as if you shouldn’t entice him with such a dangerous game.   The corner of your lip pulls into a devilish smile. “I’m doing to fulfill every single one of your fantasies, daddy.” And you kiss him. Slotting your soft lips against his chapped ones, letting them move gently. It’s a brief moment before Namjoon surges forward like a man possessed.   Namjoon’s hands grab your ass and he pushes you forward until you’re sitting directly sitting above his crotch. You whimper, teeth sinking into his bottom lip. His brows furrow, mouth parting from the pain and you steal the chance to deepen the kiss.    He struggles for control but you ultimately give it to him, feigning submission.   It’s too easy.   You roll your hips over his hardened crotch, feeling how your panties stick to your slick folds, and he grabs hold of your waist. The pair of you break away from the kiss with your arms wrapped possessively around his shoulders.   “God, you knew what you were doing this entire time, weren’t you?” Namjoon’s chest heaves against yours. “Every time you fucking bent over. Every time you tried to play coy. Such a goddamn tease.”   His fingers rub over your wet lips then down to your neck and collarbones. His hands travel to the low collar of your dress and then he tears it. The fabric rips against the threads and you whine in shock. But Namjoon never halts, undoing your bra and tossing it aside. He grabs a handful of your soft breast and pinches your nipples roughly until the bud hardens against the pad of his fingers. You sob out as he watches you through lidded eyes, mesmerized by the way your expression contorts into pleasure.   “I can see why Jeon liked you so much.”   “But I didn’t want him to touch me, daddy.” You pout at him. The thin layer of your panties and his slacks prevents you from feeling it completely, but it’s still dry fucking. “I-I only wanted you.”   “And you’re going to have me,” the man grunts and pulls aside the skirt of your uniform. His hand dips past your thin, white underwear and his fingers feel against your folds.   “Fuck,” he hotly exhales, “you’re soaked. Do you really want me that badly?”   “Yes, daddy.” Without warning, Namjoon’s index and middle finger plunges into your cunt until he’s knuckle deep. You cry out, hugging him tighter to you and he pants, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.   “Your cunt is so tight.”   You squeeze around his prodding fingers. “Tighter than your wife’s?”   Before he can answer, you kiss him again. Your sticky tongues interlace, sloppy and obscene. You taste his spit at the back of your throat — and it’s just the way you like it.    The kiss lasts long enough that you can swallow his groan and you pull off his suit jacket. The rest of your dress pools around your hips. It becomes frantic after that, breaking apart just to rid of your clothes. He tosses your ruined underwear aside, but keeps the rest of his own attire on.   It’s some kind of power play as if you should be the only one naked and vulnerable.   Yet he’s oblivious to how you have him wrapped around your finger.   “Tell daddy.” The older man’s hand wraps around your throat gently. “Have you ever been fucked properly before?”   His slacks have been tugged down enough that his cock has sprung free and his other hand grips the base of it. The reddened tip leaks with a bead of precum and you eye how big he really is. It’s more than Jungkook’s but less than Taehyung’s.   You shake your head and lie. “No.”   Namjoon cusses.   “Is that okay?” you timidly whimper and he smirks.   “More than okay, baby. It won’t hurt too bad.”   He guides his shaft to your pulsing cunt and runs the head of his cock along the collected wetness that has stained his pants and dripped to his leather couch. Both of you lower your heads, watching as he starts pushing through your folds. Immediately, your fingers tighten on his shoulders, wrinkling his expensive white shirt that was ironed by his wife.   Namjoon shushes you. “Relax. It’s okay.”   “I-It’s too much, daddy,” you complain in a pitched voice. “It’s too big.”   His jaw ticks, fingers sinking deeper into the flesh of your parted thighs. “You can take it.”   You nod and sink down on him slowly, making sure to draw it out as long as you can. And Namjoon’s head falls back. He groans and makes it balls deep inside of you.   You make sure to tremble and squeeze around him, keeping his cock at a vice grip. “Is this okay?”   “Uh-huh, sweetheart. It’s great.”   With his eyes closed, he misses your smirk.   You begin to fuck yourself onto him, feeling the pull and thrust of his big shaft dragging along your wet walls. The way your cunt stretches deliciously. Namjoon meets you half-way, hips thrusting upwards while you rock yourself against him. Your nipples are hardened and your breasts bounce in front of him. Tying the sight all together, you reach behind and pull the pins from your hair, letting it cascade down.   You know it must be a sight for sore eyes.    While you’ve never flaunted your appearance, you know you’ve been subtly altered to lure mortal men in. Your face and body are the accumulation of their fantasies. And it’s effortless to tempt them. To captivate their attention with a simple smile. You’ve looked at yourself enough times in the mirror to know that you aren't shabby too.   “Daddy, it f-feels...so good,” the words are choked out of you, sobbed as you bat your lashes.   Jungkook, the poor boy, was much more eager and sweeter. But with Namjoon, his experience is evident in his strokes. He’s rougher with the way he squeezes your ass until a handprint is left. There’s less regard with how he treats you, as if you’re just a pretty placeholder merely giving pleasure.   His hard thrusts against your cervix would hurt if not for how the pleasure overtakes you.   “You have to pull out, daddy,” you stutter. “I-I can’t get pregnant.”   Your kind can’t carry children from mortals but he doesn’t need to know that.   “I’ll do whatever I want,” Namjoon grunts, jaw clamped and brows furrowed. He sweats at his hairline. “I’ll cum where I want.”   You give a loud and exasperated moan that you hope he enjoys. “B-But it’s not right.”   “Shush. I’ll take care of you.”   You squeeze around him again, hands tight on his shoulders. Namjoon’s eyes are shut as he revels in the feeling of you rocking against him and you smirk, looking down at him. At how pathetic he’s gotten.   Just sitting on his lap and giving a simple kiss was enough to reduce him to this mess. From an established mogul in his forties into a helpless, hormonal teenage boy. In a few minutes, he’s thrown away years of marriage and loyalty for his wife for some maid’s cunt. A measly housemaid who’s supposed to be only a few years older than his own daughter.   Taehyung was right — this is fun.   At the same time, Sohee walks up the stairs while humming, hugging her textbooks to her body. She beelines straight to your room at the end of the other hall, wanting to show off how she’s finished everything and secretly hoping that you’ll gently stroke her hair like you always do.   But as she passes by her father’s office, her ears catch a high-pitched whine. She stops. On sheer instincts, her head swivels over. And through the crack, she finds her dad’s backside. She sees the way you’re on top of him, naked, riding her father. Your eyes flicker to her through the gap. She gasps.   Sohee backs away into the darkness. She turns around, a thick lump forming in her throat, her brows knitted together. But she doesn’t watch where she’s going and her mother meets her in the corridor.   “What are you doing? You’re supposed to be in bed, Sohee.” Yijin’s voice is grating to the ears and she frowns at her daughter’s disposition. The way her downcast head and eyes search the ground. She looks like she’s seen a ghost. “What’s wrong with you?”   She doesn’t mean to — but Sohee’s eyes incidentally travel back to the grandiose double doors.   And Yijin follows her line of sight.   //   “I can’t believe you’ve done this!” Her screeches fill the manor. It’s always been noisy, but never solely because of an individual and certainly never at this ear screeching pitch. “How could you do this to me?!”   Yijin’s absolutely deranged. She’s throwing a fuss early morning after what she saw last night and retreated to her bedroom. She waited for him to return. Yet Namjoon never came to join her.   Now she stands at the foyer with a suitcase that Ms. Yoo packed, but she has no plans of leaving. Instead, she’s tossing porcelain vases on the ground and tugging the tablecloth off of the table. The display case is open and fragments of antiquities litter the marble floor.   Jaesun is crying hysterically at the staircase while rubbing his eyes with two tight fists. Sohee remains silent, standing at the top and looking down at her mother.   “What the fuck is wrong with you?!” The woman shrieks at Namjoon who stands there motionlessly, expression blank and impassive. It doesn’t seem like she’ll be satisfied until she gets a remorseful reaction from him or tears this entire house apart. Either of which you’d be amused to see. “You selfish bastard!”   Although this was entertaining in itself. You’ve never seen her like this before. The once polished and poised woman has been diminished to this vengeful bitch that’s about to pop a vein — a version of herself that you always knew was hidden deep inside.   Ms. Yoo is the only one who comes forward and tries to put a stop to it. “Please, madam. Don’t do this,” she pleads softly, tears streaking down her own face.   Jaesun weeps. “Mommy!”   “Madam, please,” Ms. Yoo begs as if she’s trying to placate a child throwing a temper tantrum. “You’re only going to hurt yourself.”   “You can’t do this to me, Namjoon!” Yijin’s hair is all in front of her face in a tangled mess. Her dress is wrinkled and she’s bare feet. Crazed — just like her husband was last night….except in different contexts.   Ms. Yoo starts to guide her away from the foyer to the front door, dragging the suitcase with her.    “Even if you divorce me, I could still get the house! Get our kids! Namjoon! Fuckin— Namjoon!”   Ms. Yoo pulls her out the door while crying and Yijin collapses at the steps as violent sobs wrack through her. The housekeeper sets the suitcase outside and looks down, hesitating.    Namjoon deadpans, “Close the door, Ms. Yoo.”   She shuts it. Fists bang against the surface for a moment before it stops, being replaced by the noise of wails. Instantly, Sohee runs upstairs, disappearing from sight. Namjoon turns away. Ms. Yoo sighs, taking Jaesun’s hand and comforting him.   The only other person is Yoongi. His gaze is darkened and he leans against the wall with arms crossed. You turn and his eyes pierce into yours. But wordlessly, you bow your head to him and go on about your day.   //   The house is finally quiet. Just the way you like it.   But it brews with a sort of intensity, a tension that doesn’t let you breathe easy. It was the calm before the final storm and your guard wasn’t going to be put down just yet.   You knock against Sohee’s bedroom door and after hearing no protests, you open it. She’s laying on her bed, covers over her head, having skipped school today which no one blamed her for. You clear your throat, speaking gently as if you were cooing a puppy, “You didn’t have any breakfast, so I brought you hot chocolate, Sohee. I’ll leave it on your nightstand.”   The mug is placed down and as you turn away, the sound of rustling slows your steps. She’s come up for air, hair in a disarray and covering her face, and she calls for you, “Y/N.”   “Hmm?”   “Are…..” She hesitates and you take the invitation to sit at the edge of her bed. The girl looks up at you after a moment. “Are you going to become my new mom?”   The pause is purposeful. It makes it seem as if you’re considering it. Makes it seem as if you’re staring at her because you’re wholeheartedly endeared by her. And that nothing else matters.   To top it off, your arms reach out and you hug her. Sohee is vulnerable, small against you and she eases in your secure embrace, allowing you to hold her. You even run your fingers through her hair, caressing her gently and she softly sighs, relishing in the comfort she never received from her own mother.   In a lot of ways, you share many similarities with her.   “I’m sorry, Sohee,” you murmur. “I didn’t mean you to see that. For all this to happen. I adore you and if you want me to be your new mom, I will, but it’ll be a decision made with you.”   She nods against your shoulder and the corner of your mouth pulls into a subtle smirk.   To think she would ask such a question merely hours after her biological mother was booted out the house is both astounding and unsurprising. It’s partly from her poor relationship with the woman and how she was charmed by you moments after your first encounter. A kind of love at first sight.    Not unlike how most men succumb to your allure — yet differing from lust. Instead, Sohee has developed a familial affection towards you.   But not everyone is as welcome as she is to the new change.   “Did you have anything to do with this?” Yoongi asks you. A surprise that he’s stepped out of his bedroom for some sunlight. Or perhaps to find answers.   You hum, continuing to place the stack of books back onto the shelf in the living room. “Maybe.”   His cat-like eyes are focused, pierced into you with a kind of intensity that would make anyone sweat. But you aren’t anyone. “What are your plans? Is it the inheritance? The status? Namjoon’s money—”   “Neither.”    Finished with your task, you move to the kitchen. But Yoongi blocks the doorway, leaning against it and never moving away. You stop, allowing your bodies to press together, testing as to who will give in first. Yet, he never once yields. Wavers. You’re close enough that he can feel your hot breath against his skin and as his jaw clamps, your pupils flicker down to his pouty mouth.   Against his own will, his eyes mimic yours. They follow to your own lips. And you smirk.   It’s a heated moment and then you brush away from the sharp-witted man.   //   For a short while, there’s a mirage that the game has several winners. But the instant gratification comes with consequences and there is only one ultimate victor.   “I’m terribly sorry, but I can’t work in these conditions. With the madam gone, it’s just too hard for me. I…” Ms. Yoo shakes her head tearfully, a wrinkled hand placed over her chest where her heart is. “I’ve spent decades working in this house, master Kim, and I think it’s time I retire and spend some time with my grandchildren.”   Namjoon stares out the window, unable to work, unable to move.   His frustration overwhelms him.   “I won’t force you to stay, Ms. Yoo. Sohee and Jaesun will miss you, but you’ve done a lot for my family and I. We couldn’t thank you enough for your dedication and hard work over the years.”   He is calm and she bows her head before retreating.   You catch her in the corridor and she takes your hands, squeezing them and wishing you the best of luck with a sweet smile. After Ms. Yoo leaves, you wipe your hands against your collared dress.   You knock on the grandiose doors.    “Get out.”   Disregarding his command, you enter anyway. Namjoon is disgruntled, seated behind his desk in his leather chair, a finished glass of whiskey discarded on the side. His hands are clasped together, elbows propped on the surface and he leans his head on his fingers.   “What don’t you understand? Leave!”    But you approach him until you can press your hands on the edge of his desk and lean forward.   The once powerful man established in his wealth looks up at you, dark circles deepening, the wrinkle between his brows made permanent. He stares at you as if you’re a fearsome curse, a bothersome pest, a fiend. And you have to resist the delicious smirk that tickles your lips.    “You did this to me,” he mutters, simmering in animosity. “You destroyed me.”   You round the oak furniture and plop down onto his lap. Before he can shove you off, you grab his hair from the back of his head, letting the strands thread through your fingers, and you pull.   He groans, chin lifting up.   “You were the one who made the decision,” you tell him. “It’s you who became weak. You thought about me and even now, you still want me.” The edge of your mouth tilts and you watch as his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat before you lean in, whispering in his ear, “You can’t stop thinking about me, can you, Namjoon?”   “You’re a vixen.”   “Oh, I’m much more than that.”   You end up sinking to your knees and taking him to the back of your throat. He cums there, the taste salty and consistency thick — a kind of bitterness that you’ve learnt to find savoury. And Namjoon cums again in your tight cunt when you’re bent over his desk and he’s pounding into you, fucking you hard enough to feel his anger and for your ass to bruise against his pelvis.   “N-Namjoon, it feels so good.”   “Shut the fuck up, slut.” He sweats at his hairline, holding your hips and jostling you around as he chases his own release. You look across the room to the family portrait above the mantle and smirk to yourself. “I-I’ll spank your cunt again.”   He couldn’t even scold you. He couldn’t blame you for ruining his marriage.   You have him wrapped around your finger.   //   The photograph captured a moment of Namjoon holding newborn Jaesun, Yijin smiling with her arm looped around Sohee who was only eleven at the time. They’re in front of the house with Ms. Yoo beside them wearing a grin. She remembers that day, the family barbecue outside, the laughter and joyous atmosphere. Yet now, Ms. Yoo only sighs to herself and packs the framed picture into her duffle bag.   “You’re still here?”    Your voice nearly startles the old woman to death. She jumps and turns around, finding you at the doorway. “Yes, I was just finishing up. I didn’t realize I had so many belongings. I guess this is what thirty years gives you.”   Ms. Yoo takes a gander around the room, what was her home, then to you. She never once notices Namjoon’s cum dripping down your thigh from your messy and puffed center that still delightfully aches.   “I’m going to miss this place.”   “Or you could always stay.” Not wanting to waste any more time, you take three strides and your mouth presses against hers. The older woman is shocked, eyes widened at your kiss, but you inhale.   She goes limp against you. Her soul taken right from her. And Ms. Yoo collapses to the ground.   You shudder at the taste, at how your guts coil inwards. It’s terribly bland.    Her soul isn’t half of what it takes to satisfy you.    Not like you’re surprised. As a succubus who’s meant to entice mortal men, male souls are the desirable ones.   You wait for Taehyung to come pick up the corpse, but he never shows up and you curse him. He always finds a way to show his face and steal the good souls away from you, satisfying his own appetite and leaving the scraps left for you. But when it comes to souls that are bland to you and therefore bland to him, suddenly he has no business manifesting himself.   You kick Ms. Yoo’s lifeless body and having no other options, you roll her heavy body with the rectangular carpet. You start sweating as you heave her up. But with enough effort, you manage to stuff her in the closet and shut the doors.   Someone will deal with that later.   //   It’s amusing. Namjoon does everything within his power to act like nothing’s changed. That nothing’s happened and he isn’t missing his wife or housekeeper in his home. He grabs onto any semblance of normalcy, perhaps to cope with the changes of the past twenty four hours.   He calls for dinner to be set at the usual time and you’re thankful Ms. Yoo made sure the fridge was stocked up before she was to leave. All you do is slap the container food into bowls and heat them in the microwave before setting the table as you usually do.   The entire family gathers around the table — Sohee, Jaesun, Namjoon and even Yoongi.   “Y/N will be joining us for dinner,” Namjoon suddenly announces as you set down the last bowl. Your brow raises and Yoongi’s eyes round but no one questions it.    Not even Jaesun who often throws tantrums. The kid merely pouts. Never once lifting his spoon of rice into his mouth, putting on a defiant act, but you don’t care. If the brat wants to starve, he can starve.   You sit down beside Namjoon, across from Yoongi and diagonal to Sohee.   It’s tense at the table, the silence suffocating those around it. But you settle in comfortably and even pass some side dishes directly into Sohee’s bowl that you know she likes. Her eyes flicker up to you and a tiny smile tugs on her face. “Thank you.”   Namjoon clears his throat and looks to his brother. “You were working on editing a science textbook, right?”   “Biology,” Yoongi answers shortly. “For grade eight students.”   “And how is that coming along?”   They continue their conversation, making some small talk and you chew in your cheek while your foot lifts underneath the table. Your leg stretches and it grazes along the leg of the man across from you.    Yoongi immediately freezes. His brown eyes pool close to black and he glares. But you don’t let up, stroking the inside of his leg as you eat and look away from him. Yoongi pushes away. You scoot yourself forward. He tries not to draw attention to himself. Asked another question, he gives half a mind to responding.    Your toes slowly travel up to his thighs and then they tickle and twitch against his crotch.   Yoongi’s breath staccatos.    No one knows that you’re playing footsies with Yoongi underneath the table. That you can feel the way he hardens against his sweatpants.    “What game do you think you’re playing?!” he harshly whispers after dinner when the two of you are away from the others. Yoongi corners you, his good looks sadly marred by his twisted expression.   You blink, feigning ignorance. “What do you mean?”   But the little act doesn’t faze him. You knew it wouldn’t work the second you met the man.   “I know you have something to do with Yijin leaving.”   “I didn’t do anything, Yoongi.” You grab his shoulders, pulling him closer until his body is pressed against yours and you grin, breath skimming along his neck. “The dominoes were already in place long before I came here. You know that too. I just needed to give it a little push,” you exhale the word and he can’t stop himself from swallowing hard. From staring at you.   He eventually musters enough self-control to push you away and leave.   You turn the corner, the darkness enveloping the corridor and bringing a sort of eeriness. But it might just be from Taehyung who you find leaning against the wall. His arms are crossed and he’s smirking. “Aren’t you having a little too much fun, peach?”   “This is the best part.” You loll your head to one side. “Sometimes playing with your food before you eat it makes it much more appetizing.”   He laughs, chuckling from his chest and the sound tinkles. “I taught you well.”   Taehyung pushes himself off the surface and as he passes by you, he taps your butt.    He disappears seconds later, leaving you on your lonesome to keep playing.   //   Everything is falling into place.   It’s like you’re playing chess without an opponent, simply arranging your pawns as you’d like on the board. But because of how effortless and simple it is, it’s easy to get bored.   One day you’re waking up to a blaring alarm clock and slaving after the whims of humans as their servant and the next, you wake beside Namjoon in the master bedroom, having taken the madam’s place. You slept on her sheets, on her pillow, beside her husband.    There’s nothing fun about it anymore once you’ve won.   You roll over to straddle Namjoon’s hips, placing his morning wood right under your center. He’s shaken awake by the movement and groans, rough hands instinctively coming to grab your ass.    “W-What time is it?” his voice is still thick with sleep and you smile devilishly, rubbing your clit through your silk slip that barely covers your nipples. Your pink cunt is still swollen from last night’s endeavours, but you think one last one ought to be enough.    You won’t miss his cock after this.   “You were dreaming about me, weren’t you, Namjoon?” you whisper and before he can respond, your hands reach out, wrapping around his neck.   He’s completely at your mercy.   The man slowly blinks awake, coming to consciousness and a staggering exhale leaves his mouth as you position the bulborous head of his shaft to your folds. He mumbles something about how insatiable you are and lightly chuckles. But Namjoon should consider himself lucky. It’s not often you let the same human fuck you three times.   He pounds into you, hips lifting off the mattress. The stretch of your pussy is rather pleasing, but with the repetitiveness, your mind wanders and your hands around his neck tighten. You cut off Namjoon’s airway and his eyes slam shut with a loud groan. You can practically feel his cock twitch inside of you.   Unfortunately, the man loses it all too soon. It’s a bit amateurish for someone as experienced and punishing as he is, but you don’t blame him. Well...only a little as you lean down and capture your mouth with Namjoon’s before inhaling sharply.   Out of the three times you spread your legs for him and the numerous times you let his cum leak out of your pussy and drip down your thighs, he only made you cum once.   It’s kind of sad. Selfish.   Once you’re done with him, he falls back.    You hum to yourself as you climb off the man’s used dick and move to the vanity across the luxurious bedroom. You freshen up and pin up your hair, allowing a few strands to frame your face. After you’re satisfied, you grab Yijin’s shawl to cover your top half and you stride down the hall to Yoongi’s door.   He’s at his desk as usual, red pen in hand, crouched over a stack of papers.   But the curtains aren’t drawn, allowing the bright sunlight through his modest room.   “Mornin’.”   He turns around, brow raised, eyeing how you’re leaning against the door frame, casually greeting him in spite of being dressed in a measly scrap of fabric. “What are you doing?”   You quirk your head. “Something we should’ve done a long time ago.”   “And what is that?”   “Hmmm, I think you know, Yoongi.” You flick a piece of dirt from underneath your fingernail. “Let’s not drag this on for any longer than we have to.”   You stay ambiguous and he maintains an impassive expression. But his stoicness has no effect to deter you when you smile and approach him slowly. “You know, I was once like you. Complacent. Quiet. A little like Sohee too, maybe even more naive than she is right now.”   “Once?”   “A long time ago,” you hum. “I was going to get married to a bad, bad man until I became liberated.”   You come close enough to grab a fistful of his hair at the back of his head. His head tilts upwards when you tug, powerless to your enchantment. “It’s okay to give in, Yoongi,” you whisper against his skin. “It’s okay to be selfish and indulgent. You’ve done so well up to now.”   “What makes you think I’ll sleep with my brother’s mistress?” he asks in a harsher tone. “The whore that ruined his entire family.”   You laugh. “That’s not very nice.”   “But isn’t it the truth?”   “It is. But I’m supposed to be irresistible to men. Your restraint is impressive, Yoongi, but it’s only natural that you give into your primitive needs or at least be honest with yourself. You dream about me, don’t you?” The ongoing silence makes your grin widen and your eyes glimmer in the morning sunlight. “You’ve fantasized about me a lot. You want me.”   You lower yourself, hooded eyes connected with his. Your hair is messy, yet not in a disoriented way from sleeping. Yoongi smell it on you too — the sweat and musty scent. “You fucked my brother.”   “And I can fuck you too.”   You surge forward, capturing his mouth with your own.    It’s different. Languid with the soft caresses of tongue, his lips not chapped but puffy. The kiss is slow and lazy. Not eager like Jungkook but not as rough as Namjoon. Yoongi sighs, savouring and truly enjoying it, and it’s something you lean into.   You match his speed and rhythm and once you pull away, his eyes are hazy.   Yoongi pants, swallowing hard. “Who...are you?”   “Secret,” you sing-song and pull him towards you. The two of you nearly fall to the floor, though his bed is close enough in his small room that you collide against the mattress. The man hovers over you and you hold his arms in a vice grip. Cocking your head to the side, you giggle. “This is fun, isn’t it?”   “You’re a heathen.”   “Not quite, but close enough.” You grin and kiss him again. It feels good to.   Not long after that, you’re beneath him and he’s bare, quiet without a single moan. His cock draws deep into you leisurely, languid rolls that’s not necessarily chasing for an end but relishing in the pleasure.   “I was never going to fuck you,” Yoongi murmurs. “Even if I wanted to.”   You pout. “Why not?”   “Because I have dignity and respect for myself.”   You scoff. “Guess you lost all that.”   “No. I still do.” His voice is husky around the edges. “But if I give you what you want, maybe I’ll understand your intentions better.”   The corner of your mouth curls and your hips lift to meet Yoongi’s. You squeeze around him just to tease. “And what do you think my intentions are?”   “I-I still don’t know yet.” He sweats, hips sped up and then keeps a constant rhythm. “Why do you do the things that you do? Why did you try to tear this house apart? Gain Sohee’s favour.” Yoongi’s brown eyes pierce into you. He’s a perceptive man. “You don’t love Namjoon. I don’t think you loved Jungkook either.”   “Jungkook?”   “He would’ve never left like that out of his own free will.”   “You’re smart,” you coo affectionately and run your hands through his fluffy hair. It’s such a shame he’s just a mortal. “I promise you’ll know by the end of this, Yoongi.”   Another minute passes and Yoongi pulls out. You watch as he pumps himself thrice and finishes on your stomach with a quiet grunt, cum painting all over your flesh. You’re about to grab his shoulder to kiss him, but he parts your thighs and lowers himself. His mouth attaches to your cunt, forcing his wet tongue inside your used hole and he eats you out, licking at the juices that leak out of you.   But he remains meticulous and careful, drawing unrestrained moans from your lungs.   “S-So good…”   Yoongi works you up until you feel hot all over your body and your hands have sunk into his head of hair, threading through the strands. As if that wasn’t enough, he sucks on your clit and inserts his index into your walls. He sinks deep and curls the finger against the perfect spot.   Your back arches and you cum all over his tongue.   He lets you ride it out against the stiff muscle and his plush lips before he’s lifting himself up, revealing all of your slick that’s coated his mouth and chin.    “Thank you,” you pant, chest heaving. You gaze at Yoongi with heavy lids and you sit up. “I’ll give you the answer to your questions. Who I am. Why I’m here.” You cradle his cheeks in your palms and you lean forward.   Yoongi’s eyes droop and he kisses you back, softly and deeply. You keep it slow too, savouring the taste of yourself on his palette and then, when the moment is right, you inhale.   His lids open slightly, feeling himself weaken. Yoongi’s not sure if it’s from exhaustion, but as your kiss continues, his surroundings blurs more. He groans at the back of his throat, wanting to pull away, but without having the strength to.   The world around him darkens. His consciousness lasts three seconds afterwards. Enough to realize you’re a monster.   Yoongi’s body falls back onto the mattress.   His soul has been consumed by you and as tasty as it was, you’re a bit regretful. You pull the plush blanket up to give him some modesty and you ruffle your fingers through his bangs. “Truthfully, I liked you the best in this house.”   The sadness lasts another second before you’re humming and climbing off the bed.   The job is finally done and you roll your shoulders, walking out the room. As you do so, your exterior finally sheds of your human disguise into your true form. While your face remains the same, your lips redden and your hair becomes luscious and longer, draping your backside. The white, silk slip morphs to a dress in the blinding shade of crimson. It hugs your body, from the dip of your waist to the swell of your breasts. And at the crown of your head, two small horns manifest.   Downstairs, Taehyung is standing on the porch. He turns as you join his side and smirks. “About time you finished, peach.”   He’s been watching Jaesun. The five year old is running around the backyard underneath the sun and flinging around the toys his wealthy parents got for him. He’s completely oblivious to the situation and unquestioning to Taehyung’s presence.   Taehyung is the tamer of all brats after all.   “Didn’t you say I could take my time to have fun?”   “I think you’ve been having too much fun.”   The corner of your reddened lips pull. “I don’t think so.”   “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself though.” He lolls his head over and grabs a hold of your chin. Taehyung leans himself down to your height and comes forward for an invasive kiss.   Without warning, he licks into your mouth and you moan helplessly, completely at his mercy. Taehyung’s tongue is sticky as he tastes you, calm yet impatient. It’s a pleasant kind of intimacy as he steals your breath. But when he starts to inhale deep, you bite him.   Taehyung pulls back with a grin, the bottom of his lip split slightly.   You pout. “You should at least give me some. I worked hard for those souls, you know.”   He gives you a look. “Did you really?”   “More work than usual,” you bite back.   A black cat mewls at Jaesun. The kid swivels his head over, fascination growing as the feline hops from the fence to the grass gracefully as if inviting him to play. The cat has a short but luscious coat and its tail curls, green eyes wide. Jaesun instantly drops the ball he’s holding.   His greedy hands extend and he follows the cat behind some bushes.   There’s a flash of bright light and Jimin stretches himself out from his feline form. He cracks his bones and leans over, interrupting your conversation. “Thanks for the kid, Tae.”   Taehyung waves. “No problem, Chim.”

Sohee wakes up to a silent house.   There’s a strangeness in the air, a certain uneasy feeling in her body, but she dresses herself and continues her morning. It’s when the peace is ongoing that she searches for people, for her father first.   She screams when she discovers Namjoon on the bed lifeless. No matter how much she shakes him or calls out his name, he never moves or twitches. He doesn’t breathe.   The girl cries and runs to her uncle for help. But he, too, isn’t sleeping and isn’t resting like he appears to be. The man’s skin has gone cold, eyes shut tight, his lips pale.   She cups a hand over her mouth, silencing a sob in the eerie house and she stumbles down the steps. There’s only one person left. One person to help her. And she sees you through the back door on the porch. Standing next to a tall man.   Sohee’s confusion stops her tears while hiccups continue to wrack through her body.   “W-Who are you?”   The two of you turn at the sound of her voice.   Taehyung grins. “Oh. Nice to see you again, little girl. Remember me?”   Sohee’s eyes are swollen, cheeks stained with saltwater. Her body trembles as she grips the door frame. You coo at her, stepping forward with your arms open but she flinches. “W-What did you do to them?”   You sigh, arms dropping to your side, yet your voice remains tender. “They got what they deserved, Sohee.”   “W-W...h..at?”   “They succumbed to their primitive desires and suffered the punishment for it.”   “This is what you wanted, didn’t you?” Taehyung’s brow cocks and he smiles at her. “You were the one who summoned me here in the first place.”   Confusion is marked across her visage — brows furrowed, mouth lopsided.    But it was Sohee that called out to you and Taehyung. She was the one who began your assignment. She was the one who invited the pair of you into her home. Practically opened the door and ushered you in desperately.   “All those nights of prayer, did you really think God would grant you such evil wishes to get rid of your family? You were praying to the devil, little girl.”   Incubi and succubi like you and Taehyung need invitations to enter an abode. Yet Sohee handed the both of you that on a silver platter. Taehyung might’ve assigned the task to you, but it was a win-win. Not only could you grant her wish, but you could reap all the benefits by stealing the souls of her family members and indulging in their lust.   “All those nights of wishing your mother would get hit by a car. That your brother would cease to exist. That your father would fail his business….”   It was a victory from the start.   You give Sohee a moment since it looks like she needs it. It’s understandably shocking. You were once in her position after all and just as surprised. But the realization seems to sink into her with the way her eyes widen. “I-I didn’t know this is what would happen!”   “You wanted an escape from your life,” you say to her in excitement. There was one more benefit to this ordeal too — just as Taehyung has you, Sohee will become yours. “This is it, sweetheart.”   If you didn’t know you would get such an endearing subordinate from all this, you wouldn’t have gone through the trouble of it all. But ‘subordinate’ and ‘underling’ are such unpleasant words Taehyung uses. Sohee’s more like a little puppy for you to love, mentor and show around.   “Come with us.” You extend your hand, palm open to the sky. “We came all the way here for you.”   Sohee looks at both you and him, brows furrowed, hesitation evident. “What will happen to me?”   “You want to be like me, don’t you?” You smile at her along with Taehyung who remains patient. “I’ll take care of you and so will Taehyung. What else does this place have to offer you?”   This is the true game of temptation.   No one is ever forced into making a deal with the devil. It’s a choice. And one she takes.   The girl lifts her arm, taking your hand. A bigger smile pulls on your features.    And just like that, the three of you vanish together.

[every-bad-thing]

Your Parents Aren’t Themselves

Your parents are different. You know this because late one night you were coming back from the bathroom when you saw these two things creep through a tiny crack in the top of the window. They were like long, flat worms as big as a surfboard. They slid up the walls and onto the ceiling, where you couldn't see them anymore. But you heard them creep, closer and closer, and your heart beat faster and faster, until you could tell they were right above you, and you screamed, but then realized they weren’t going for you. They were going down the hall, where your parents sleep.

One of them opens the door and asked what's going on. You see one of the things drop from the ceiling and wrap itself around and around and around their body until there's just a struggling, moaning form writhing on the floor. Then, from the bedroom, you hear your other parent say ‘what in the,’ before being cut off abruptly. You run screaming into your room and slam the door. You get onto your bed and hug your knees close to your face. Then, after waiting for whatever got your parents to come for you too, you fall asleep.

You're startled awake by one of your parents telling you it's time to get up and go to school. You come downstairs and see your family sitting around the table eating breakfast, like last night didn't even happen. But you know it did. You feel it, deep inside. You summon your courage and ask them about what you saw, and they just laugh between themselves and say that was just a nightmare. But you know it didn't feel like a nightmare. Right? You spend all day at school thinking about this. You're pretty sure you saw what you saw. But then the question becomes: what will you do? And on that you're stumped.

Time passes. You see your parents a lot less. Sometimes you come home from school and one of them tells you the other is out somewhere, but never says where. They usually don't come back until well after your bedtime. Sometimes neither of them are home, and you just find a note telling you supper's in the fridge and that they love you. On those nights they're usually back by about seven or eight but one night they didn't get home until ten, after you'd fallen asleep watching TV.

Sometimes both of them would be home and life would seem normal again. But on those nights they'd be short with you, and you wouldn't know why, so you soon learn to just be quiet and try not to talk if you don't have to. This seems to suit them just fine.

You get used to all the changes. You get better at taking care of yourself. You know how to cook spaghetti and can even wash up when you're done. You know how to do the laundry and run the dryer. You pick up your own things and make your own bed. Overall, you’re becoming much more independent and it actually feels pretty good.

One day, when both your parents are out, you're in the basement trying to find where the lightbulbs are. You instead find a large container full of weird looking bags. You take some out and realize it's your parents--their skin and hair at least, all floppy and kind of oily. You drop them in fright. You look into the box and realize it's full of skins. Then you hear your parents upstairs. They're home. Before you can stuff everything back in, they come down to the basement and see what you found. You tell them that you were right and that this is why they've been acting weird, that they're really monsters!

 And they sit down and apologize for you having to see those, that you weren't supposed to, and that they should have hidden them better. And then they just take the container and don't say anything else . No matter how many times you bring up this whole situation, they just change the subject or, at best, say they'll tell you when you're older.

So, of course, you run away from home. And, of course, they find you and tell you with tears in their eyes how worried they were and how you should never do something like that again because god forbid something were to happen to you. And, with tears in your eyes, you say that the reason you ran is because they won't tell you what's going on, and they say oh don't you worry about things like that, everything is going to be just fine and let's go home. And after that point, you see them a little more. They're still out, sometimes alone sometimes together, but not as much as before, and when they're both home you play a game or something. They're still a little distant, but you see that, weird monster people or no, they're making an effort. You stop bringing up what you saw and just live your life as they live theirs.

Years pass. And then one of your parents sits you down and says you're finally old enough to learn about that weird period when you were young. What you’re told is that sometimes marriages get stale and that even though your parents love each other deeply, sometimes they also need time apart to hear other voices and see other people. And you kind of nod and ask when will the part about the horrible skin monsters that creep through the windows come up. And your parent looks surprised and says oh that? And casually notes that they were taken control of by the worms from the planet Mnuui in the Crab Nebula, who grant a life of perfect bliss in exchange for use of their bodies to carry out their dark agenda of galactic conquest and that once you're an adult you too will come to learn the perfect fulfillment of being a vessel for the almighty Worm Mind that waits at the edge of wakefulness and sleep for the time to break the barrier between worlds and rule creation as it did in the Long Ago. Then pats you on the back and tells you they're making your favorite tonight: lasagna.

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[namjoonchronicles]

healing | yg

↳ genre fluff, domestic, established relationship ↳ words 1.9k ↳ summary Yoongi maybe the worst in projecting his emotions, but his actions don’t lie ↳ warning suggestive content ↳ song james arthur ‘let me love the lonely’ ‘safe inside’ ‘can i be him’ ‘certain things’

“I would do anything to forget.” “And I would do anything to remember.”

The second male lead actor bore a wounded expression on his handsome face. The female lead actress was unapologetic and relentless to his heart. She swore that forgetting that she ever loved him is the only way to go on with her life. But the actor finally remembered all the love they had before he loses his memories as a result of an accident orchestrated by his step mother. He pretended to not remember just to know how she really felt about him. She said enough. Yoongi gawks at the screen. “Does that even make sense? How can he stay silent after that? How can he be okay with just that? What a load of bull--” His phone vibrates just as he is about to curse. With his wife’s picture flashing on the screen, he wipes his hand on his flannels and refastened the velcro straps of his arms to secure them back on. “Hello?”

“Hey sweetie, what are you doing?” “Watching that episode was a mistake, why would they ruin the story like that, everything was going just fine, I don’t understand…” You chuckled at your husband’s adorable whines, and “How far in were you?” “Joonsoo told Bora that he wanted to remember…Ah! I am so upset, I am not going to watch the rest of the episode… I don’t care…” “But you have to see what happens after that! A little spoiler for you…” you sang and he replied, “Ah! Ah, no. Don’t tell me what happens. No!” “She knew that Joonsoo’s memories came back, but she is doing that to follow Joonsoo’s mother's instructions…” you told him anyways. Yoongi leans back into his chair and it wobbles back and forth at his weight. He swiveled away from the screen, holding the phone close to his ear and he sighed out loud. “Why did you call me?” “I am just walking out a fried chicken hawker stall and was wondering if you’d like some but I remember your doctor saying you can’t have oily food… so that’s cancelled.” His wife is a tease. All she does is tease. Yoongi left his home studio and walked down the hallway to the living room. He then revealed to you that he found your gastric medication laying around the cabinet with several pills gone. Yoongi had always been so attentive towards things like these. Ever since he had to stay home longer than usual because of his shoulder surgery, he is policing you around with his keen eyes. He found out that you don’t really take care of yourself as well as you told him you were. There were antacids, antiemetics and all kinds of painkillers he found in the medicine cabinet that weren't his. This was alarming, at least to Yoongi. “You’re telling me that you crawled to work despite having gastric two days prior?” he scolded you with a low monotonous voice, pinky pushing the blisters away to see just how much you’ve been taking behind his back. “It’s nothing to worry about, it’ll go away soon… I learn endurance from the best,” you pushed your tongue to cheek, leisuring down the pedestrian walk area, pouting hard at your husband. “You’re talking back at me,” he scoffs, “I taught you that? I guess it's fair… Have you eaten?” You didn’t eat because you don’t have the appetite. After the gastric attack happened, you have been vomiting every time you ate, and your throat burns every time from the acid reflux. “Eating is terrifying…” you confessed. Yoongi poked his head into the refrigerator after the call ended. He took out leek, dried lavers, and whatever he could find in the fridge to start a small dinner. And he did them all with one hand. It wasn’t easy. The carrots were roughly chopped and the potatoes are barely peeled properly. It’s the best dish to take after gastric. He took a couple cups of rice and had them washed under running water. He measured the water and threw in a thumb-sized ginger so it got cooked together. He doesn’t say it out loud, but he really enjoys cooking. He was raised in a house that always belittled women's chores and because of the whole ‘boys shouldn’t cook’ agenda, he was more curious than ever in the kitchen. It comes naturally to him. He would secretly help his mom cook and prepare food to sell in school during the day. It remains one of the memories he is most fond of. He doesn’t really like telling people out loud how he feels. It was something  you both had in common. Coming together was difficult. It was like a race to the end, who will clamor up or who will fall apart faster, to you. Yoongi was determined to keep his emotions sealed in his dungeon called heart. Which was ridiculous, because everyone knows, the more you try to hide your feelings, the louder it is. He doesn’t say ‘I love you’ like normal people. His ‘I love you’s’ are scattered all around you. It was in the walls he painted and in the bookshelf he helped build. It’s in the picture of the milky way he took and in the pile of bandages he bought you when you sprained your ankle. They say, the eyes are windows to the soul. Yoongi had never looked you in the eye. It’s like he runs away from the things he wants the most. It almost made you give up. Seeing how the feelings aren’t verbally reciprocated almost made you leave. Winter, several years ago, “For Yoongi-hyung, you have to force it out of him…” Taehyung advised. “I don’t want to force him…” you sighed, “What if he does this to all his girl friends?” Taehyung stared at you dead in the eye with a cunning smile. “What does your heart tell you?” He asked. “My heart had been wrong before,” You shot back. Taehyung suddenly turned his attention to his phone, his face shone by the light from the screen and he smirked, “If he doesn’t, would he be running all the way up here at this time?” Just then, Yoongi bursted through the door. Chest heaving up and down, eyes blown wide, mouth gaping. His eyes darted to Taehyung and then to you. “You know he won’t leave his bed for anything…” Taehyung glances at you with a knowing smile, “What could this mean?” He feigned a surprised face at you and walked towards the door at Yoongi. And even then, he wouldn’t confess. “You love me, right?” you asked him. “It’s already so late…” “Please answer me…” He appeared conflicted. “Min Yoongi, you don’t love me?” “I… Let’s not do this…” “I think you do… Everyone knows you love me, everybody. Everyone, but you…” “Let’s talk in the morning…” At that time, Yoongi is afraid of commitment despite never really having problems actually committing. His past relationship didn’t go so well because he felt inadequate. And for that, he feared karma. He left the last one because he didn’t think he could be a good person for her. He was bound by depression, crippling sadness and fear so great, it left him in shambles. Being in a relationship back then made him feel like a boulder to a smooth sailing ship. He felt dragged along. He was responsible for two hearts and it felt a lot at the time. He knows just how much hurt he caused her and he knows that karma will come after him. That’s why when he fell for you, his first reaction was to be defensive. He doesn’t want the same hurt to happen to you. Because, what if he hurts you?

“And if I tell you I don’t care?”

The winter arrived on schedule this year. You shivered as you walked into your house. Yoongi is still in the kitchen, turning off the stove. “You didn’t rest like I told you to!” “How could I if you were not eating… I rested for a surgery and couldn’t cook ever since I returned, and you are already getting gastric from not eating…” You helped Yoongi carry the soup on the table. And you scooped him his rice. He was right. Your appetite went down ever since you had to cook on your own. His cooking has always been the thing you look forward to when you return home, but now, you don’t feel like eating because it’s always the same food over and over again. “Does it taste good?” He asked, lovingly. His eyes oozing fondness. “So-very good…” you said with a mouthful. “I have to shower after this… I am sweating so much,” he spoke to his bowl of rice. You unbuttoned his shirt and carefully slid the long sleeves down his arm. You keep glancing up his face to see if he is in any type of discomfort. His ears were the first to turn bright red and he had been biting his lower lip ever since you started undressing him. That wasn’t alarming. The strange thing about Yoongi is that he giggles or laughs when he is in pain. No giggles is fine. No smiles are good. By the time you took off his flannel buttoned up shirt, his face was bright red like he had been drinking whiskey. You couldn't help but smile when he gets sheepish like this. He looks like a sheep ready for the slaughter room. Next thing to come off is his trousers. The bath is ready and he climbs in. You went to the cabinet and showed him two bath bombs he could choose from. He wanted the lavender one. You always liked how it smells. Yoongi sat docile in the middle of the bath, while you swept his hair back and dabbed his face with a dampened towel. Then you move to his back and wipe along the spine, carefully avoiding harsh movements around the stitches on his shoulder. “The stitches are coming together nicely,” you spoke in whispers. Just the sound of the water dripping into the pool was heard. Yoongi let out an encouraging, “Is it…” “The skin around it is not swollen, and its closing up prettily,” you gushed, “At this rate you can start physical therapy around next month...?” “That’s nice to hear…” He hums happily, “I had been feeling rather helpless, and shackled, and unable to work at the speed I used to.” “Hence,” you started with a scolding tone, “Take care of yourself better from today onwards. Everyone frets around you, worried and bustling over you. Coddling you like a baby…when you get hurt like this, you worry everyone. Why did you keep quiet about this pain for so long…This type of perseverance is inhumanly. What are you… a saint?” He chuckles. You took off your own shirt and garments. Yoongi mashed his lips together, stealing glances on your body and when you climbed in the same tub and started washing yourself, he started to gather all the foams. “That’s why, stop hurting yourself…” you repeated your warning, unhooking your bra and throwing it on the marble floor next to your crumpled heap of blouses and trousers. Yoongi sighs. Loudly this time. “What is it now…” you blinked at him. “I want to get well faster… I missed unhooking your bras with my own hands…” 

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Copyright © January 6th, 2021 namjoonchronicles do not repost, and thank you for reading! Likes and reblogs are free!

[c-estmabiologie]

nine terrible cups of tea (and at least one equally terrible cup of coffee) | the haunting of bly manor fic

Dani tries to master the art of making a proper cup of tea. It goes just about as well as you'd expect. (1987 - 1994)

Also on AO3!

One

“Really you could just throw a tea bag into your mug, pour some water on top, and call it a tea. But we’re better than that.”

Dani isn’t convinced but she tries her best to follow the steps as Jamie patiently describes them. She talks about making tea with the casual confidence of someone who believes that Dani can will a good cup of tea to exist. As if this isn’t the first time that she has tried to hold Dani’s hand through the process. Dani’s pretty sure it won’t be the last time either, but she tries to wield some of Jamie’s confidence as her own.

“If you want to be really proper, you can even warm the pot first with some hot water from the kettle and, you know, just dump it down the sink.”

Dani swirls the hot water around inside her teapot, feels it warm under her palms. It’s nice. Wasteful, but nice.

“What does this do?”

“No idea. Somebody probably decided that it makes the tea taste better.”

“Okay,” She drops two teabags in. One for herself, and one for the pot, according to Jamie who’s not leaving tea totally up to chance and Dani’s efforts; her arm is soft and cool against Dani’s as they stand shoulder-to-shoulder at their kitchen counter, each with their own pot of steeping tea.

“Now here’s where you might make a mortal enemy of a Brit: adding milk to your cup before or after the tea.”

“Does it have to have milk?” Dani asks, thinking Aren’t there people who drink their black tea black, like coffee? That’s a thing, right?

Dani can feel Jamie twitching a smirk beside her without having to look.

“It has milk if you’re making English tea.”

She remembers the looks she got from Hannah and Owen and even the children whenever she’d made an attempt at tea. She can’t remember when she’d added the milk. Jamie, for sure, must be exaggerating the offense.

"But which one’s the right way?”

“Hmm? Oh, I don’t really care as long as it’s the right amount of milk.” Dani realizes that Jamie’s already gone ahead and poured her own cup without her, milk and all, and she’s missed it. She pours her own tea and splashes in milk until its colour matches the tea in Jamie’s cup.

They look the same to Dani.

“Alright,” Jamie says, “let’s have a taste shall we?”

They taste the same to Dani, but Jamie’s brow furrows just a little as she takes the cup away from her lips. And then she starts laughing.

“Okay, how is that possible? We did the exact same thing!” Dani takes another sip from her own cup to prove her point. It tastes fine! It’s tea!

“I really have no idea, Dani,” Jamie’s still laughing. “You’re just shite at making tea.”

Two

Jamie's been trying to relax with a book in the bedroom when she hears the beeping coming from another room. Just three little beeps, then nothing. A minute later, the three beeps chirp through her focus again.

When it happens a third time, she finally puts down the book to shout.

“What is that?”

“What’s what?” comes Dani’s reply from across the apartment. Then the beeps make themselves known once more.

Then: “Oh. It’s the microwave. I got distracted.”

Owen had bought them a microwave as a housewarming gift. It was a convection microwave, he’d told them proudly, which apparently made it special because you could microwave your food on a metal tray if you wanted. The idea was that they could warm up their takeaway faster, or cook frozen dinners (Owen’s very generous way of chiding them for both being awful cooks). Jamie hated it. It was big and ugly and had faux-wood paneling on the side. She’d rather stick to making burned stews on the stovetop.

Dani appears in the doorway with a mug in each hand. She holds out one mug to Jamie.

“I made you tea.”

“What, in the microwave?”

Dani shrugs and sips from her mug.

“No.”

“It’s fine—”

“Absolutely not.”

Three

It’s a quiet-ish day at The Leafling and, to be honest, Dani is sort of enjoying the peace of arranging flower displays and curling ribbons. The sun is warm through the windows.

Jamie is laid up in bed with some sort of cold. She’s being a surprisingly big baby about it, too, Dani is surprised to realize. Her wife doesn’t like it when she can’t be useful.

Speaking of certain wives who shouldn’t be up, Dani can hear steps coming down the stairwell that connects the shop to their apartment. The shop’s back door pushes open a moment later and Jamie appears with jacket on and her curls stuff up into a hat. She’s pale and her nose is pink and tender-looking around the nostrils.

“What are you doing down here?” Dani demands in her most teacherly voice, but Jamie clearly has plans to go out, not back upstairs.

Jamie’s voice is raspy and hoarse.

“I need to go out to the shops and get some more milk. Ours is off.”

“I had some in my cereal this morning and it was fine.”

Jamie coughs into her collar.

“The date on it’s fine. But I add it to my tea and it’s curdled.”

“Oh.” Dani’d left the tea steeping for her before she’d come downstairs.

Then: “It’s probably the lemon doing that. In your tea, I mean.”

“There’s lemon in my tea?”

Dani nods. “There’s honey in it, too. It’s supposed to help with your sore throat.’

Jamie sighs, then sniffles, then seems to deflate a little.

“I’m gonna be honest: it sounds absolutely disgusting.”

But Dani insists that she at least give it a try (without milk), that it will make her feel better (it does, a little, admittedly), and that, who knows, she might like it (she does not).

Four

Summer heat hits hard, and The Leafling doesn’t have air conditioning. The ceiling fans do nothing more than push hot air around the shop. The plants slump in their pots (which annoys Jamie), and fat houseflies keep finding their way indoors, only to bang themselves relentlessly against the windows until they fall dead on the sills (which annoys Dani). Everything is slightly damp with sweat or condensation.

“This is something my ex-almost mother-in-law used to make,” Dani says, stirring the ice around in the pitcher with a wooden spoon.

“You know there’s probably a less complicated way to say ‘ex-almost mother-in-law’.” Jamie says. Her hair is sticking to her neck, and her gardening gloves feel like they’re being peeled off of her skin as she takes them off.

“She used to make it for my, you know, Eddie and me in the summer when we were kids,” Dani hesitated. “I don’t know. It just always reminds me of the best parts of summer.”

But when she looks up Jamie has a glass and is holding it against her cheek.

“You know,” she says, “I do know what iced tea is. It’s not exactly a foreign concept.”

Jamie is thoughtful as she drinks the tea slowly.

“So,” she says finally. “This is what makes Poppins think of summer.

“It’s kind of a funny taste isn’t it? Cold tea on purpose.”

Jamie gets up and pulls Dani into a hug that’s nice, but not altogether pleasant — their skin clings together and comes apart audibly in the heat and they both smell very strongly of themselves.

“Thank you for sharing it with me,” Jamie says into her shoulder.

“I’m going to go upstairs and put the kettle on.”

Five

“What is it?”

The gift sits on their kitchen counter, out of place and mysterious with its glass-and-stainless steel modernity next to their wooden cutting boards, cluttered and kind of oily spicy jars, and that obnoxious faux-wood panelled microwave.

“Owen says it’s a French press. He was really excited about some Danish company. Said it’s apparently great for beginners.”

Jamie makes a note to herself to somehow ask Owen to stop giving them gifts for their kitchen.

“I didn’t think Owen drank coffee.”

Dani looks thoughtful, “I don’t think he does.”

Owen’s gift doesn’t come with instructions, and neither one of them wants to ring Owen up to ask for help. Dani takes charge, grinding the coffee beans (which Owen had also generously provided) in the spice grinder… and then washing out the grinder and starting again when Jamie points out that the fresh grounds reek of coriander.

They aren’t sure if they’re supposed to give it all a stir once the water’s been added. Or when to press the plunger. Or how long it’s supposed to sit. Their first attempt produces faintly coffee-flavoured water. Their second, a grainy, chewable mess.

The French press gets relegated to a high shelf above the stove, behind a fern. Eventually it will pinch-hit as a flower pot and Dani will love how the glass reveals the root systems buried in the soil.  

Six

“This tea tastes weird.”

It’s Dani who says it.

Jamie looks up from the arrangement she’s been working on. It’s wedding season and The Leafling has been swamped with orders for bouquets and table arrangements. Jamie’s been going back and forth on this particular order all week with a bride who seems unhappy no matter how precisely she tries to follow the bride’s vision. Frankly, it’s been pissing her off (the last time she’d come in and rejected Jamie’s work, Dani had sensibly stepped in to take over the conversation before Jamie could get their shop shut down for punching a customer).

“Are you sure you didn’t accidentally drink vase water?”

She picks up her own cup and takes a sip. The milk must have been added too soon and seized up the brewing. The tea tastes like nothing. Dani is watching her.

“Yeah, this is pretty bad.”

Dani says nothing.

“Oh shut up. I’m allowed to have off days, too, you know.”

“I didn’t say anything!” Dani says, but she’s smiling.

Seven

Jamie somehow manages to drink vase water.

Neither of them can explain how it got into her tea cup or where her actual tea had gone.

Eight

“Hey.”

The word is spoken into Jamie’s hairline and followed with a kiss. She smiles, half-awake, and reaches to pull Dani to her so she can kiss her properly. Her hand jostles a tray and something makes a precarious, jangling sound.

“What’s this?” she rubs at her eyes. It’s still mostly dark in the room.

“You’re up early.”

Dani’s at the side of their bed with a serving tray. She’s barefoot, still in her pyjamas and, from what Jamie can tell, still pretty sleepy herself.

"What’s the occasion?”

“No occasion.” Dani places the tray on the bed and climbs in next to Jamie slowly, careful not to tip anything on the tray.

"I just thought it would be nice to have the morning together. I bought scones.” Dani warps her voice around the word in a way that is definitely not the American pronunciation, but just as definitely not a passable approximation of Jamie’s accent. As Dani hopes it would, it makes Jamie smile.

“I see that. Scones.”

“Mm-hmm. And biscuits,” Dani never could manage that one without the secret sort of laugh that says that the Rich Tea biscuit that she’s picking up off a plate will only ever be a cookie to her.

It’s all lovely. The biscuits, the morning, Dani: lovely.

And then, of course, there is the matter of the tea.

A few problems that meet Jamie immediately as she takes a tentative sip. First, it’s cold. Second, even with what looks like an alright amount of milk (Jamie notes that Dani’s been getting better on this front)...it’s bracingly bitter.

She bravely takes another sip to avoid spoiling the otherwise perfectly cozy moment. Something solid dislodges itself from the bottom of her cup and hits her wetly on the nose. Jamie can’t help but splutter a little, and the thing plops back into the cup. It’s the tea bag.

“Uh, Dani?” Jamie realizes that she’s poking a bruise a little here, and Dani looks so happy next to her, breaking off pieces of scone with her fingers.

“How long was the tea left sitting?”

Dani’s brow furrows.

“I’m not sure how early you wake up these days,” she says. “I may have made it… a while ago. Is it okay?”

Jamie gently places the cup back onto the tray.

“It’s just a little on the cool side, that’s all.”

“Oh,” Dani tests the side of her cup with the back of my hand, as if to memorize what a little on the cool side means to Jamie.  

“I can just warm it up in the microw—”

“ No. Let’s just enjoy our morning.”

Nine

“Does anyone who drinks this stuff actually enjoy it?”

They’re in bed, limb flung loosely over limb. On the TV screen, a woman sits tensely under a tree while another sticks her bare arm right into a beehive. Bees swarm up her sleeves and into her undone braid.

“I think it’s pretty nice,” Dani says, “It’s peppermint. It’s supposed to be relaxing.”

Jamie curls up against Dani’s chest. She cradles her cup between them, more for its warmth than for any interest in drinking it.

“It tastes like hot toothpaste.”

On the screen, the bee charmer has returned with a mason jar full of honey. She invites the other woman to have a taste.

“Do you think they’re gonna get together?” Dani says. Jamie considers the scene for a few seconds.

“Yeah. But it’s a little weird to go after your dead brother’s fiancée like that isn’t it?”

Her own mug empty on the bedside table, Dani picks up Jamie’s abandoned tea. It’s still warm and it’s left a warm spot on the blankets between them.

“I guess it’s a little weird. I still want them to get together.”

Jamie makes a sound that might be agreement, but her eyes are drifting closed.

She’ll fall asleep before the movie’s over. Dani will fill her in on the details she’s missed over breakfast, before they have to return the tape to the video store.

Ten

“It’s so nice to have someone cook for me for a change,” Owen says, pleasantly. It’s not often that he’s been able to come around to their place over the years (and lately it’s become even less often).

“You’ve always done so much for us,” Dani calls from the kitchen. Something clatters loudly into the sink. “We just want to return the favour.”

Owen glances at Jamie, who confirms with a nod that it was, of course, Dani who had had such a thoughtful idea.

“I’m just nervous to serve dinner to the accomplished chef and restaurateur Owen Sharma,” Jamie says. “I’ll have you know that if it were my idea, I’d have just gotten takeaway and arranged it artfully onto plates. Real plates, of course. Nothing but the best for our Owen.”

Dani comes in then with a tray and busies herself with setting up the table. Jamie clears away the half-melted candles and clutter to make room.

“I thought we could have some tea before dinner.”

The hesitation that hangs in the air is palpable mist off a pond.

Owen clears his throat and politely reaches for a cup.

“Did you make it, Dani?”

“She’s been practicing,” Jamie says, drawing one knee up to her chest and reaching over to get a cup for herself.

“She says I’m not allowed to be a judge anymore. Says I’m biased against her, but really my tastebuds are probably shot. So, you are her lucky new victim.”

They toast to friendships and loves that are never truly lost and gamely drink Dani’s latest attempt at a proper cup of tea.

“You know what,” Owen says after a moment. “It’s not that bad.”

“Really?”

“You hear that, Poppins?” Jamie says, with another half toast of her cup. “You did it.”

“Really?” Dani says again. She takes her own sip, searching the taste for what might have made this brew remarkable. It just tastes like tea to her.

“It’s good?”

Owen and Jamie both make non-committal sounds, but neither do they abandon their drinks.

“It’s not the most amazing tea I’ve ever had,” Jamie admits. “But it’s absolutely, absolutely a decent cup of tea.”

“You know what?” Dani says, “I’ll take it.”

[needs-to-stop-looking-at-yigas]

No worries on that polite pass, my good dude! We all have our nopes. After reading that one with Daruk, I guess I got excited by the idea of Kohga getting fucked by something *big*, but with Sooga there. Maybe Kohga got that Goron dildo he was thinking about and he lets Sooga use it on him? 😳

I've had so many fucking people ask for this holy SHIT, get your juice you cock hungry Goron fuckers.

“So, you and Daruk.”

“Yep!”

Sooga and Kohga were having their daily one on one time together, playing cards. Conversations came and went, and the topic of Kohga getting FUCKED by Daruk that one time was brought up. Sooga was VERY selective of who he got jealous of, and apparently Daruk wasn’t on that list. Sooga hummed in response, looking over his cards.

“I’m going to regret asking, but what was that like? Also, do you have any threes?”

“Oh, Sooga, my friend, you don’t know Gorons unless you’ve had that MONSTER of a cock in your ass. He lacked finesse, but dude had a sorta rugged charm that I was into. And go fish. Do you have any fours?”

“Go fish. And...I hate that I’m asking this as well, but how...was his...you know.”

“We’re adults, Sooga, just ask the actual question.”

“You just want me to say it. Fine. What were his gentiles like? Also, do you have any kings?”

“Fuck you, here. Second, I could tell you, or I could show you.”

Sooga grabbed the King from him (Kohga may be better with his hands, but Sooga was way better at Go fish than him), before halting. He saw Kohga’s eyes lock onto their closet, before he pointed to it.

“Is...is Daruk in our closet?”

“No, but that’s actually a good idea, make a note of that for next time. I got something just as good!”

Kohga got off the bed, and Sooga put his cards down. Course, just when Sooga was winning. Sore loser, his Master. Kohga dug into the closet, pulling out a box, and throwing it right at Sooga’s lap, before hopping back into bed.

“Open it, open it!”

Sooga obeyed, pulling out a toy. Not just any toy, but a big, brown toy. One with scales, length, and an INSANE amount of gerth. Sooga gawked at it for a minute, before finally finding words.

“I have...SO many questions.”

Kohga shrugged.

“Dude had a DAMN good cock, Sooga, I had to have one to take home.”

Sooga looked it over, curiously running over the scales with his thumb.

“This is...accurate?”

“For the most part, yeah. Size and shape is the same, I made sure of that. Trust me, I WOULD not forget a cock that good.”

Sooga looked at the toy, then at Kohga.

“You...took ALL of this?”

“One, that’s SO sweet that you think I can fit that, I’m flattered. Two, I did around half. Haven’t tried it again lately, because I’ve been dealing with THIS stud here,”

Kohga chuckled, lightly smacking Sooga on his shoulder.

“But I’ve been meaning to give it another shot. You wanna be a sweetie and help me out?”

He knew Sooga couldn’t say no to that pet name, especially when Kohga bruised his face in his neck, kissing him through his yiga uniform. Sooga chuckled, lightly shaking his head.

“I would’ve preferred to be in the room where it happened, but I suppose this is just as good. I’m not going to lie though, I’m a BIT self conscious here.”

“Daruk can put us all to shame, Sooga, I’m surprised I was alive after that.”

Sooga chuckled, leaning up to grab the lube while Kohga stripped. It was odd, how automatic their movements were. Kohga dove back into bed right after he was done, hair down and everything. Sooga was about to get started, but he couldn’t resist. He hunched over Kohga, kissing him right on those perfect lips.

"Did you look this good for Daruk?"

"I ALWAYS look good, Sooga."

"Well, me and him might just need to have a chat after this."

Kohga chuckled, patting him in his big, stupid cheek.

"So protective of me. Don't worry, I kept thinking of you during."

"You were?"

Sooga asked, now sitting up in order to coat his hands in the lube. Kohga sat there, hands behind his head, legs spread wide open.

"Yeah, I was sitting there thinking 'this guy isn't stupid sweet like Sooga is. It's weird. Dick is HUGE though'"

"That sounds like your thought process."

Sooga chuckled. He was always nervous whenever Kohga was naked, but the idea of pleasing him? And him alone? That was enough for him to be rid of his poor nerves. At least, for now. He let his oily hands run up and down his legs and thighs, getting him used to his touches. He even made sure to get his feet, just to make him extra comfy. Kohga snickered after a minute of this rather sweet treatment.

"Sooga, this is nice, really, but come on, imma fall asleep here!"

"Right right. Sorry, I like the face you make when you're comfortable. I'll proceed."

Sooga gave his cheeks a light pat (if you wanted to imagine what it sounded like, picture patting a wet honey ham), before his hands finally got to work. First, he lightly stroked his cock. Nice, slow movements that'd make Sooga swoon, and make Kohga ansty. Sure he liked it, but Kohga was SO enthralled with pleasure, he wanted more, and wanted more now. He could see it on his face.

"We could be moving it a bit FASTER, Sooga."

"Patience, Master Kohga. It is a virtue."

Kohga folded his arms, pouting something fierce. He always liked that face. It was why he took his sweet time, massaging his cock and balls slowly, steadily, smearing the oil everywhere. It was a nice sight, if he was allowed to be honest. Then, right before Kohga could complain, Sooga dug his fingers inside of him. That seemed to take a little bit of grumpiness out of Kohga, as he sighed, hands laying at his sides.

"Fucking, finally. Felt like you forgot where it WAS."

Sooga chuckled. Kohga was so precious.

“I won’t ever forget how to please you. I won’t ever forget to give you what you need.”

Sooga let three of his fingers slide inside of him, helping to ease him for what was coming. Granted, his fingers weren’t NEARLY the size of the toy, but Sooga was doing the best he could here. He sat there for a moment, watching as Kohga squirmed and writhed in his arms. It wasn’t because his fingers felt good (though he hoped they did), it was because Kohga knew this was but a sample for what was to come. If he kept him waiting any longer, he might just get mad enough to throw something at him. He slowly peeled his fingers away, trying not to gulp. The way his cock throbbed, the way his legs twitched in excitement. Kohga...was really into fucking Gorons.

He leaned over to grab the toy, making quite the show of lathering it up in lube. It was TERRIBLY thick, terribly long, and it took a minute for his hand to fully coat it in oil.

“You REALLY gotta be slow as shit, eh?”

“The better to tease you with, Master Kohga. That and I’m not even trying to tease you, this thing is actually that big. And it has SO many ridges-how much did you spend on this?”

“Not important, fuck me.”

Sooga was going to scold him for spending such money on frivolous things, but Kohga looked ready to kill him, so he silenced himself. He leaned over to kiss him one more time, before he pressed the tip of the toy against his ass. The tip slowly slid inside of himself, and Sooga, a bit worried that Kohga would lose his temper, pushed it a quarter of the way in. Sooga couldn’t help but feel incredibly jealous as he looked at Kohga’s face.

He covered it with the back of his hand, shaking as if this was all too much. His back even had such a lovely arch to it, and Sooga hated that Daruk got to see him like this. He was about to ask if there was something between him, when an idea popped into Sooga’s head. Kohga REALLY liked this toy. Enough to act so lewdly and bitterly. He could get whatever he wanted with the help of this toy. He decided to test his luck as he gave it a bit of a turn, making Kohga yelp.

“Play with your cock.”

He thought the command was rude, and was about to apologize, when Kohga obeyed promptly, pumping his already hard cock. Sooga couldn’t believe it. No snarky comments, no prideful comments over him taking charge. Just complete obedience. Sooga had no idea what possessed him, but as he moved the toy in and out of his ass, an idea came to him.

“Master Kohga. Why don’t we play a game? Since I’m just sitting here and watching.”

Kohga nodded, clearly trying to stifle his whines. Sooga teased it just a bit further in, before pulling it back back out, giving his Master just the tip.

“Do you love me?”

“Are you FUCKING-”

“If you’d like me to stop, I can.”

Kohga’s fist slammed against the bed, and for a second, Sooga was ready to apologize. That is, until Kohga finally answered him.

“Yes. I do. I love your stupid ass so much. You’re hot, dumb as hell, and I like having you around. There, happy?”

“Quite. Good job.”

He pushed more of the toy in him, enjoying the look of clear pleasure on his face. He let it sit there for a moment, letting the spines pleasure his inner walls.

“F-fucking hell, Sooga, I’m gonna-”

“Next question. Do you prefer this toy, or me?”

“YOU idiot. The hell am I gonna take a toy over you f-FUCK!”

Sooga, as if proving a point, shoved half the toy inside of him, sending Kohga’s head back and onto the pillow. He held a finger up to signal to give him a second, before he continued, albeit shaking and panting, with precum dripping down his cock.

“Y-you. I can’t get anything out of a toy that I can’t get out of you. I really do love you. I know what ya doing. You’re jealous because Daruk saw me acting like a five rupee whore. Course he did, he’s a hunk of man meat. Er, rock-point is, YOU’RE special, HE isn’t, alright?”

Sooga halted for a moment, before he chuckled, slightly shaking his head.

“One more question. Would you like me to push this in as deep as I can, while I kiss you?”

“Now that’s an actual fucking question-YES.”

Sooga took a minute to kiss his stomach (because it was heaving so beautifully for him), before he scooted up to him, and proceeded to push the toy quickly in and out of him. With how much oil he used, it made quite the lewd sound, and Sooga adored it.

“There we go, Master Kohga. You cum as soon as you feel like. I’d like to watch the face you make for this little toy of yours. A face that you show when you aren’t loving, but lustful. Show me the look of a whore.”

He cupped Kohga’s face as he whined, legs shaking as Sooga continued to push the girthy toy right inside of him. Kohga didn’t take very long at all, and he came, ribbons of cum soaking his hand and his chest. It was just. The way his ass was stretched, the way Sooga talked to him in just that voice he liked. Even once he finished, Sooga kissed him, silencing his overwhelmed whimpers. He parted his lips for a moment, chuckling as he sat there, looking at his poor Master.

“You took most of it, I must applaud you. Take it you’d like to try it again?”

“In...in a minute. H-holy shit, they did a good job on this one. You know they could’ve made it so it shoots fake cum?”

“Why didn’t you get that one?”

“Eh, it costs a bit much, in my opinion. Besides, why would I need that when I get the real deal right here?”

Sooga realized what he meant, and felt heat on his cheeks. That was honestly...sweet. He pulled the toy out of him, crawling over him.

“I can most certainly provide, Master Kohga. As much of it as you crave.”

Kohga chuckled as Sooga grinded into him. Not just because he was SO ready to feel stuffed again, but because Sooga was grinding himself against him, AND the thick ass toy in between them. Suffice to say, Sooga liked the idea of playing with this not so little toy. And Kohga would play with him too.

After he was done with him, of course.

[iamnotsensical]

This Air I Can’t Breathe

@cat-clawz said: “Welcome!! If you'd like, you could do something where Jaskier isn't human and uses a glamour to hide his less human traits, but a group of highwaymen rob him and Geralt (and either take the glamour or Jaskier is forced to help out with some very nonhuman reflexes). :) Have fun!”

With this prompt we said ‘Fuck you!’ to everything I know about Jaskier’s backstory, lol. (I usually advocate for BAMF!Jask? But unforeseen circumstances have him relying a little more heavily on Geralt than usual.) I also chose to make some shit up including mythology/biology of mythical creatures, and characters I’m sure do not exist XD. (It also got a little more emotional than I planned. But here we go!) 

X

“No- Hey- You bastard with selkimore guts for brains, leave that be-!” Jaskier spat at the man who was rubbing his oily greedy thumb over the pendant that always sat against Jaskier’s chest.  “Take the lute- Hey, please- Take my lute, just leave that alone-” He begged.

Geralt’s eyes widened just slightly at the offer. Filivandrel’s lute hadn’t left Jaskier’s side since the mountains, he almost couldn’t believe that Jaskier was so ready to trade it for a necklace. Though, when he came to think of it, Jaskier always wore that necklace. Geralt had just never asked why . . . 

They hadn’t been out of the city for long and it wasn’t even dark. Honestly, it was rather ballsy for this particular group of bandits to attack a witcher in broad daylight. Yet they jumped out of the trees and descended on Geralt and Jaskier with a singular intent. Their movements were languid and elegant, they moved almost like dancers. Still, Geralt and Jaskier each held their own fairly well. That is until Roach had been threatened and Jaskier grew distracted.

The bard turned his back on the woman he’d been fighting to throw a dagger at the man who’d reached for Roach’s bags. In his moment of urgency, his opponent managed to grip his wrist as it fell from the throw and use the momentum to twist it behind his back. She dragged her own dagger over one of his thighs, cutting it deeply and continuing to move her hand up. The one fluid movement gave her the position to twist Jaskier to her desire and pull the knife close against his neck. “Enough!” She yelled. In any other moment, Jaskier would have swooned over the rasping alto of her voice, but right now he found himself pissed that such a vile woman possessed such a beautiful tone. The gods always gifted the worst of people. “Put down your weapon, mutant, or I will cut your friend’s throat.”

Geralt slowed to a stop across the clearing, his eyes shooting over to where Jaskier was standing. Jaskier shook his head, a silent ‘Don’t even think about it.’ But the woman twisted his arm more harshly and Jaskier winced, persuading Geralt to toss his sword to the side.

“Godsdamnit, Geralt.” Jaskier breathed. 

The woman nodded to two other of her men and they both descended on Roach’s saddlebags. Before they could get there Geralt whistled sharply and Roach kicked the man beside her and took off into the forest. The bandits were fast, but Roach was faster. Geralt suffered a sharp blow to the cheek for it, but Roach escaped mostly untouched. 

Much to Jaskier’s dismay that turned the bandits’ to Geralt, and they were certainly not happy. Jaskier knew that Geralt could have defended himself, would have too, if Jaskier were not standing there with a knife against his throat. He tried briefly to struggle free from the woman, but at the cool drip of his own blood down his neck he stilled. “My pack-!” He said suddenly. 

The bandits slowly pulled back from Geralt, showing their damage, but giving him a break from the beating. Jaskier swallowed hard and pointed with the hand he had twisted behind his back. “My bag is behind that tree. I’d set it down for a moment.” He admitted. “You’ll find a bag of gold there, please. Take it and go.” 

The woman looked over at the same two men from before, both of whom had been taking care of their companion. The one who’d been struck by Roach. She nodded towards the tree and the two walked over to it. They found the bag and subsequently Jaskier’s lute, which he’d been hoping would go unnoticed. They pulled out the small bag of coin, it was all Jaskier had earned at the town they’d been in. She scoffed, “Can you not count? The three men and two women with your friend, the man your horse mauled, and my two partners Jei and Kei. That makes nine of us. You think one bag of coin will satisfy us? You think us too dumb to know that your witcher sent the horse away on purpose?”

Jaskier squirmed, “I think you shouldn’t ask questions you don’t want to hear the answers to-” He started to bite back. He was cut off by the sound of his own whimper, the knife cutting deeper into his throat. 

“A smart ass. How fun.” The woman snapped. 

One of her two partners- Kei or Jei, Jaskier didn’t know- walked over, muttering in a language Jaskier did not recognize. The woman laughed in Jaskier’s ear and he felt her nod. “You’re right. He is wearing such pretty clothes.” She said. 

Geralt’s eyes shot up, a look of warning in his eyes, “You will not strip him.” The witcher snarled. 

The woman merely laughed as the other partner reached out and plucked the chain that rested around Jaskier’s neck. If he wasn’t already tense enough, Jaskier grew stone still as the necklace he always wore hidden behind his clothes was pulled out into the daylight. “No- Hey- You bastard with selkimore guts for brains, leave that be-!” Jaskier spat at the man who was rubbing his oily greedy thumb over the pendant that always sat against Jaskier’s chest.  “Take the lute- Hey, please- Take my lute, just leave that alone-” He begged.

Geralt’s eyes widened just slightly at the offer. Filivandrel’s lute hadn’t left Jaskier’s side since the mountains, he almost couldn’t believe that Jaskier was so ready to trade it for a necklace. Though, when he came to think of it, Jaskier always wore that necklace. Geralt had just never asked why . . . 

The necklace was plucked from Jaskier’s neck and pocketed. Almost instantly, Jaskier doubled over. The movement took the woman by surprise and she dropped him to the ground. Jaskier curled up almost pitifully and wrapped his arms around himself. Geralt instantly stood and stepped forward. With the sudden movement, the woman made a sharp yell-like noise and took off. Her group followed her.

When faced with the decision to follow them or to go to Jaskier? Well, Geralt had no choice. He dropped to his knees and looked over Jaskier carefully. He could not believe what he was seeing.

Jaskier’s hair grew darker and his skin developed a sort of bluish tint. It became almost clear and Geralt didn’t need sharp eyes to see the cold veins just below the surface. Sharp dark fingernails grew from the tips of Jaskier’s hands which were quite suddenly webbed. Spiked fins stabbed through Jaskier’s doublet, and protruded down his spine. 

Perhaps the biggest surprise was the dark black and blue tail where legs were not moments ago. 

Jaskier was shuddering and wincing against the sun, his eyes squeezed shut and expression contrite. One of his webbed hands was holding the side of his tail. The cut landed to his thigh now oozed an almost black blood, but looked dried and cracked. Actually, nearly every bit of him seemed to be cracking. 

Geralt’s eyes darted around to the ransacked bag that the bandits had left behind when they’d run. They took Jaskier’s necklace and his coin, but they were otherwise fairly unsuccessful at doing much more than causing chaos. Geralt pulled a flask of water from Jaskier’s bag and a blanket, dumping the water over the cloth and then carefully wrapping the cloth around the most of Jaskier’s tail that he could reach.

Jaskier had a tail. 

Geralt stared at his bard, expression tight and confused. “How-” He started before realizing that the necklace had to have been some kind of glamour. “When-” Surely Jaskier had to have revealed himself some times? When did he do so to keep it from Geralt? . . . Probably when Geralt was away on a hunt. They almost always made certain to have a room with a tub, Geralt had thought that Jaskier wanted to treat him after a stubborn contract, but clearly it served more than one purpose. “Why-” That was a stupid question. Why would Jaskier tell Geralt? Geralt’s entire life was devoted to killing monsters. Jaskier would have had to have been insane or suicidal to share this with Geralt. He was neither. “What-” Another stupid question. Clearly a siren. Mermaids could not breathe above water and Jaskier was breathing right now . . . not to mention the singing. Melitelle, the singing. Geralt should have figured that out sooner.

Jaskier took a labored breath, but the damp blanket was clearly helping. He tried to push himself up. He braced himself against a tree and winced as he squished his back fins. He brought trembling hands back to the gash in his tail and made a small pained noise. 

Geralt noticed the very careful way in which Jaskier’s face remained guarded, and his eyes avoided contact. “If you aren’t going to slit my throat would you mind calling Roach back? I’ve got another flask of water packed on her and- I’m feeling rather parched.” Jaskier requested. Though his tone was decidedly light, it came across as airy and strained rather than it’s regular carefree disposition. 

Geralt nodded silently and whistled again. In the distance he heard the horse turn around and start back their way. He carefully returned his attention to Jaskier and cleared his throat. “I’m not going to hurt you.” He assured him quietly. “I’m never going to hurt you, Jaskier.”

Jaskier’s eyes, somehow even bluer in his true form than when glamoured, met Geralt’s. He regarded him suspiciously. The pain, both physical and emotional, sat just beneath the surface of Jaskier’s gaze. “I’m a siren. I’ve seen you kill more than one of us.” He said skeptically.

Geralt looked solemn, but assented. “You have. But you’ve also seen me spare sirens. Just like every other creature I’ve dealt with. I only kill what will not stop hurting others . . . I don’t believe that you can hurt others. It is not your nature.” He said quietly. 

Geralt wanted to argue more, but when it came to words he was aware that no sentence he could structure would be clever enough to fight whatever arguments Jaskier’s mind was constructing. Action it would have to be. 

Roach came into the clearing and Geralt got up, walking over to the horse and pulling both his own waterskin and Jaskier’s. He returned and knelt beside the bard- the siren? The- . . .Jaskier. He knelt beside Jaskier and extended one skin while slowly pouring splashes of the others into his palm. He knew his hands were calloused, but he was careful to gently massage the water into the fins on Jaskier’s sides and back, he gently pulled each of Jaskier’s arms forward and poured some of the water on Jaskier’s hands. He gently patted it against the gills that flayed the sides of Jaskier’s neck. 

“Can you survive out of the water for long? Without that pendant?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier’s tail curled up in a slightly defensive manner. “Are you hoping the answer is no, and nature will do your job for you?” He retorted.

Geralt sighed softly, “No. I’m trying to figure out if it would be better to get you to the nearest body of water or to a mage who could make you another pendant . . . if you want, of course.” He explained.

Jaskier huffed with wise resignation he rarely showed, “I don’t have the money for that, Geralt. Why do you think I was willing to trade anything not to lose that one? They’re expensive. I wouldn’t even know where to find another.”

The witcher shook his head. “Jaskier. Can you survive out of the water without magic?”

“I- Yes. So long as I don’t dry out . . . the uh- the wet cloth was a stroke of genius. It is helping quite a bit.” He admitted quietly. 

Geralt nodded. “Good. Then we’ll find a mage.”

Jaskier’s eyes once again found Geralt’s, and Geralt once again saw that suspicion lurking. He wrapped his arms over his own chest, “Who’s going to pay for it? Those fiends took all of my money. I couldn’t earn that back in one stay, let alone the more I would need for a mage’s help.” He said curtly, clearly frustrated with Geralt.

Geralt shook his head. “I have savings. And I know a few mages who owe me.” He said evenly. “I can make it happen.” He said and carefully hooked his hand under the bend of Jaskier’s tail and behind his back. “You’ll have to hold onto Roach tightly-”

Jaskier sputtered indignantly, but gave in and held onto Geralt’s chest. “Geralt.”

“You will also have to let me know when you’re getting too dry-”

“Geralt.”

“It’s the summer months, so the sun will bake you if we aren’t careful-”

“Geralt!” Jaskier finally huffed, exasperated, even as Geralt was carefully setting him on top of Roach. “Doesn’t this seem like exactly the opportunity you were waiting for? I can’t keep up, now is the time to leave. I wouldn’t be able to follow you-” He said, voice tight and low. 

Geralt’s heart seemed to stop. “What-?” He breathed in confusion. “Why the fuck would I leave you?”

Jaskier stared at him sort of incredulously and then dropped his gaze. Despite towering over Geralt from his position on the horse, Jaskier looked . . . smaller. Definitely smaller than usual. Geralt regarded him in confusion as Jaskier cleared his throat. “You’ve made your position quite clear. We are not friends. I am only still around because I’m persistent, of all of the times you’ve up and left in the middle of nights, it only makes sense that you’d- . . . Well. Seize this situation for what it is . . . a chance to leave.” Jaskier gripped tightly onto Roach’s reins, Geralt could see that the webbing on his hands was already drying and cracking again. “I’m no longer just a nuisance. Not even just- a creature you should kill. But past all of that, a hindrance preventing you from continuing on the path, I don’t understand why you’d- . . . help me.”

Geralt stood still, his hands still holding Jaskier up on the horse. One on his hip, one where Jaskier’s knee would be. He couldn’t quite believe the words the bard was saying. Did he truly believe all of that? Geralt had thought- it was all just- banter, wasn’t it? “It seems . . . I owe you an apology, my friend. I- thought we operated with an understanding. I thought that- well, that you knew . . . my sentiments for you.” He explained quietly. 

Jaskier slowly looked up. “Sentiments?”

Geralt nodded, “I do not think of you as any of those things . . . You are my closest friend. At times my only. I- . . .” Geralt cleared his throat awkwardly. “I care a lot about you.” He admitted.

And if in that moment, Jaskier was bursting with relief and affection? He settled it all down into a small smile so as not to overwhelm his witcher. He took a slow breath and gently covered Geralt’s hand on his knee with a cold webbed hand of his own. “Oh . . . well. In that case. I suppose we should find one of those mages you spoke of . . .”