#they had a faux studded leather collar for him and he liked to go for car rides | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

whatifyoulivelikethat · 4 years ago

Text

inventory, m | jjk

pairing(s): jungkook x reader

summary: You’re missing a piece of inventory from your erotica shop. Surprisingly, you find it in the same day. It’s around your boyfriend’s neck, who also happens to be your sub. Hm, well, you have to act accordingly, don’t you?

warnings: rated M (18+) for language; non-idol!AU; dom/sub dynamic; feels and there’s a decent bit of buildup; smut (mirror kink, spitting, cock ring usage, cock-slapping, scratching, spanking, vibrator use, overstimulation, edging, m-masturbation, cum eating, f-receiving oral); fluff; noona dom!reader x sub!Jungkook

technically part iv of ‘customer service’ series, but can be read alone

–

customer service part i | part ii | part iii

Jeon Jungkook was a problem.

Technically, your problem.

You tapped your pen against your recordkeeping book. No one was in the store. It was the middle of the week. Not usually the time to get freaky. People got freaky on the weekends. You usually spent these times doing the boring stuff. Setting up the deliveries for the rich customers that purchased clothing from you. Cleaning the store from top to bottom and finding some interesting fluids in interesting places. Typical. Answering emails, accounting, taking inventory. You were missing one piece of inventory, but those things always turned up eventually. You weren’t worried.

Eh, wasn’t a big problem.

Your big problem was Jeon Jungkook.

He wanted to be exclusive. Okay. He wanted it to be a relationship. Slightly less in your comfort zone, but you were willing to give it a shot. Unfortunately, Jungkook also wanted one more thing.

He wanted you to lose you temper at him.

Now, there were several things you, personally, did not do anymore. And number one on the list was losing your temper. You did not want to be in power and actively angry at the person you were fucking at the same time. It was dangerous. It was irresponsible. You’ve gone too far before and hurt your sub. You weren’t going to repeat it.

Not with Jungkook, no matter how much he tried to rile you up.

And he tried. Disobeyed you outright. Talked back. Taunted you. It took a lot of your skill and redirection to focus his attention elsewhere and not at his ultimate goal of pissing you off so much that you used sex as a weapon, because quite frankly, that was a fucked-up thing to do and you were not going to do it. You would rather leave than become that.

You told him this. You told him that he should not try to provoke you, especially not this early in the relationship. His body couldn’t handle it, he couldn’t handle it mentally, and you didn’t want to end up emotionally and sexually abusing him, even if it was an accident. Because it was your responsibility to not do that and you took that shit very seriously.

Jungkook had agreed reluctantly and he still tried.

Sigh.

You rubbed your forehead. If he was an experienced sub, then maybe you could be less strict. But he wasn’t. And yeah, maybe you were a little scared. Because your last relationship had ended very, very badly, because you had gone too far and your sub had been too scared to use the safe word even when it was too much and that really, really fucked you up. You regretted it, even after all this time, even after all the apologizing, even after your sub had forgiven you, multiple times.

You had never forgiven yourself for it.

The whole relationship had fallen apart because of that one time.

After that, you didn’t really date. All you did was have one-night stands with subs you already knew. It was easy having sex with no strings attached. Now you were dating Jungkook. Yeah, that. The dating bit. It was messing you up. It was making you overly cautious. You didn’t want to repeat your mistakes.

You let out a tense exhale.

You didn’t tell Jungkook about this, mostly because you didn’t want to admit it. You didn’t want to admit your sub had been too scared of you to use their safe word. You were ashamed. Scared of yourself and what you were capable of.

Sometimes, when you thought about it, you wondered if you should stop. Give up on the dom/sub thing and have vanilla sex instead with some nice guy who had a normal job and raise some babies and fucking chill out. Seemed nice. Life wasn’t about needing a power complex when being intimate after all. You could have a perfectly satisfying sex life with two people in equal power. Could even still be kinky without the whole ‘I’m the authority and you have to listen to me’ thing.

Yeah, well. Before you could commit to that, Jeon Jungkook decided to fucking seduce you in your own damn sex shop.

You placed your hands on your head and let out a big sigh.

Damn you, Jungkook.

You found your missing piece of inventory.

It was around Jeon Jungkook’s neck when he opened his apartment door for you.

Your face was completely neutral, one hand in the pocket of your black trench coat. The other holding your black leather briefcase. Underneath the coat, you wore a simple floor-length black skirt. Black heels. Nothing but your face and hands uncovered. In one second, you took in every detail upon seeing Jungkook.

One, his long black hair was tied back, his bangs framing his large brown eyes. Two, he was wearing a little bit of makeup. Slight amount of eyeshadow and liner, lip balm to make his lips pinker. Three, he was wearing a very low V-necked black t-shirt that was quite obviously meant to show off his shapely collarbones and sculpted pecs. The ink-black tattoos in his right arm stood out against his tan skin. Fourth, he was wearing leather pants – not the ones you made him, that would be indecent exposure showing up to the door like that – but, still, black tight faux leather trousers that he half-tucked his shirt in so his crotch was visible.

And.

Fifth.

He was wearing a black leather collar around his neck, one with a large silver ring hanging down at the center. It had silver studs with in the shape of a diamond pattern punched into the leather. It closed in the back with a silver buckle.

How did you know this?

It was your missing piece of inventory, of course.

You clicked your tongue.

“Oh! Noona,” Jungkook said nervously, biting his lip.

You little shit, don’t you ‘oh, noona’ me. You almost turned around and left. Almost. Irritation was putting it mildly. You were pissed. He had stolen from your shop. Became an actual fucking thief to get a rise out of you. You two weren’t going out on a date. It was already late, so both of you had intended on having a nice night in. He’d dressed up for it, as one does. Made himself pretty for you to ruin. Jungkook knew what he wanted. And he wasn’t being subtle about it, wearing the stolen inventory right in front of your face the second he opened the door.

He wanted you mad and he wanted you mad from the start.

You did not look at the collar. Instead, you stared into his eyes, furious internally, but completely placid on the outside. His brown orbs were observing you in anticipation. He wanted it. Bad. You had refused to let him cum last time because he had talked back to you. That was a week ago. You wondered if he had jacked off or not. You put no such restrictions on him even though he asked you to. You were curious on how far Jungkook was willing to go, so you let him choose.

And, clearly, Jungkook choose death.

Just kidding. But he was really testing you here. And so, you made up your mind.

You waited, raising an eyebrow.

Jungkook flushed and backed up, holding the door with two hands.

“C-Come in.”

You stepped inside, heels clicking on the hardwood. Jungkook closed the door behind you. The large, floor-length mirror was in the living room again. The incident in the fitting room must have really had an impact on him. Maybe he was developing a mirror kink because of it.

You felt Jungkook slide up next to you, his breath against your ear. Shallow, needy, already horny. You weren’t surprised. Nobody dresses like that and doesn’t want to be fucked.

“N-noona…” He was making his voice desperate and breathy, already submissive for you. “I really missed you.”

“That’s lovely to hear.”

You kept your tone light, no pet names, stepping out of your heels and walking towards the couch. Jungkook followed you like a shadow, still chewing on his lip, messing up his own hard work of making himself pretty for you. You placed your briefcase on the coffee table. He hovered as you undid your trench coat slowly, pulling open the tie and unbuttoning it deftly, fingers dancing on the placket.

“I can help you?” Jungkook offered, holding his hands out.

Your eyes gradually lifted, locking your gaze with his. You saw him visibly shiver in excitement.

“No need.”

You saw Jungkook pout as you slipped out of the coat, one arm, then the other, revealing the white dress shirt that was neatly tucked into your black skirt. It had pleated detailing down the front and silver collar pins, completed by the silver cuff links you used to close the sleeves. You folded the coat elegantly and laid it over the back of his couch.

“Are you mad, noona?”

You want me to be mad. Thankfully, at this point you had calmed a little. Yes, Jungkook was an idiot for doing such a thing, but he wasn’t doing it because he was trying to hurt you or actually steal from you. Maybe it was something he’d seen or read in porn. Maybe it was something his brain devised because he felt some weird need to prove to you that he was a good and obedient sub, because he knew you had previous partners and he wanted to outdo them or something. Maybe he wanted to see how much of a dom you really were.

And, most likely, it was all of those things.

“Jungkook.”

This time, you said his name with a sharper tone.

“Y… yes?”

You turned your right hand upwards, entirely aware of the placement of your fingers. Pinky, ring, middle curled inwards. Index up, thumb out. Poised, elegant, almost haughty. You flicked your cuff link, straightening the backing to slip it out. It was a diamond-shaped accessory, completely unnecessary for everyday life and completely necessary to force Jungkook to wait on you one more second. One more heart-stopping moment.

You glanced at his crotch. Hm. Interesting. Then you blinked and your eyes were on his. Hair hanging around his cheekbones, pupils dilating, swollen lips parted as he let out light pants of desire. He was slowly but surely losing it.

Maybe it was because his erection was suffocating in his leather pants.

You twirled your cuff link in your fingers. Jungkook watched the action, entranced by the dexterity of your digits. You knew what he wanted. He’d been texting you all day, trying to work you up. You had made him wait. Just like how you were making him wait now.

“What is your safe word?”

That was the question you used to start off the scene.

Instantly, you saw the relief, the hunger, the absolute need to serve flood his dark brown eyes. Now you were the dom. Now he was the sub.

“Euphoria,” Jungkook nearly moaned.

You nodded slowly, placing the cuff link on his coffee table. You upturned your other wrist, removing the other with a swift flick. You heard him whimper at the quick action. You almost smiled. He really wanted it. Ah, but you are a bad, bad boy, Jungkook. The metal clinked as it touched the walnut wood of the tabletop.

And there are consequences for being a bad, bad boy.

Your gaze connected with his once again. His eyes were practically begging for instruction.

“You look like you want to ask me something,” you drawled. His teeth sunk into his lower lip once more, the tiny mole underneath winking at you. “Go ahead.”

His eyes flitted about, trying to search for the trap. He swallowed, straining against the collar.

“Do… do you notice anything different about me?” Jungkook asked hesitantly, taking a step towards you.

You didn’t move from your position, observing him closely. His hands by his sides were antsy, itching to touch you or be caged with rope. You hooked your thumb at the base of your cuff and rolled it down. Once. Twice. Three times.

“You’re wearing makeup for me,” you replied, letting a small smile drift to your lips.

“A-ah…” He blushed. “Is it… is it too unmanly?”

Who the fuck put these ideas in Jeon Jungkook’s head? You just wanted to talk to them. And by talk, you meant flog the living daylights out of them. You had a big one at home. It could be arranged.

“No, of course not. You look very handsome.” Pause. “And fuckable.”

No reason not to tell the truth.

Jungkook’s cheeks flushed a dark pink. “T-Thank you, noona.”

During the entire conversation, you had folded the sleeves of your dress shirt up to your elbows. The stiff, crisp fabric held, and suddenly you were imposing, sleeves rolled up, black skirt skimming the hardwood floor. The neutral façade you had upheld for so long dropped away. Jungkook noticed the change instantly, even though you hadn’t actually said anything yet. His eyes widened a little, shoulders tensing.

Your eyes flashed, chin lifting.

“Or is that not what you meant, pretty boy?”

You did not hide the irritation in your voice this time. His breathing hitched, the muscles his arms ripped and Jungkook very, very much wanted to be punished.

“Um…” He fiddled with his hands guiltily, eyes skirting about. “It’s not what I was referring to, no…”

“Look at me.”

He snapped his head up, gulping. So obvious. His neck strained against the leather. You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms over your chest.

“What were you referring to?” you questioned icily.

Jungkook was shaking all over. He lifted his hand slowly, reaching up to his neck, hooking two fingers around the metal ring of the collar. He tightened them, tugging down a little, eyelashes fluttering, a tiny moan rumbling in his throat. You were going insane on the inside. Fuck, did he know how submissive he was? Did he know how his small, cute little actions made him look so fucking appetizing?

“T-This.”

“Ah, yes,” you finally acknowledged. You waved a hand and he removed his, biting his lip again. “I did notice that. A nice touch. Is it for me?”

He nodded quickly. He seemed to forget for a second that he stole it from you. “Yes, noona, it’s for you.”

You sighed. Jungkook’s expression changed, becoming slightly confused.

“Pause.”

The indication that there was an intermission in the scene. You narrowed your eyes at him.

“You are testing me, Jungkook, and I do not like it.”

Jungkook’s brows knitted together, looking down. “I’m sorry, noona.”

“I told you that you shouldn’t try to make me angry on purpose.”

He closed the distance between you two, placing his hands on your elbows. His brown orbs anxiously found yours. “I… I just… please…” His fingers pressed into your skin, his breathing deepening. “I want to see how far I can go. How far you can take me. You won’t…” Jungkook shook his head, hair flying everywhere, ponytail bouncing. “You’re holding back, but I can take it, noona, I promise. I promise I can.” His fingertips caressed you, determination in his eyes.

Hm. Jungkook could tell. You breathed in deeply, inhaling his clean scent.

You are aware of your mistakes. You have learned.

You pursed your lips.

I really, really do not want to hurt you, Jungkook.

“You must promise me.” You looked deep into his eyes. “You must promise me, that if it is too much, if you cannot handle it, if it is not something you want, you must use your safe word.”

He nodded quickly. “I promise.”

And then you crumpled a little bit, your strict demeanor falling, the fears rising, the vulnerability making your voice quiver as you unfurled your arms and grabbed his t-shirt, shaking him roughly.

“No, Jungkook,” you pleaded. “You must promise me.” And you couldn’t explain, couldn’t bring yourself to say why, but he could tell how serious you were because you were suddenly weak, suddenly the parts of yourself that you kept under wraps revealed themselves, the parts you were ashamed of appearing, and you were letting him witness it. Because he said he wanted you. Not just dom you, but you.

And this, well, this was you too.

Jungkook’s eyes softened and he smiled. He leaned in and kissed you, long, sweet, delicate. It was like time stopped. As if the world froze and there was nothing but Jungkook’s lips on yours, reassuring and comforting. He drew back and opened his eyes slowly, warmth in his chocolate orbs.

“I promise.”

You looked up at him, stunned. He grinned at you, showing off his teeth, a little cheeky and embarrassed all at once. You removed your hands from his shirt, lowering them gradually.

“Sorry, I…”

Jungkook’s hands dropped and held yours tightly. He shook his head.

“No, noona. I understand. I know you are looking out for me,” he said brightly. “Because I’m always trying to get into trouble.”

A muscle in your eye twitched. At least he admitted it.

His teeth caught his lip, still smiling. Less nervous now, more playful.

You removed your hands from his. Okay. Okay, fine. Jungkook wanted you to be the dom. Not a dom, the dom. You let out a breath, controlled, clean. Step back into your role. You are in control. You can do this.

“What is your safe word?”

You cracked your neck, a sharp pop that made Jungkook jump.

“Euphoria,” he replied automatically.

“Very good.”

A beat passed. Jungkook remained close to you, unsure what was going to happen. His eyes wide and flighty, chin trembling, hands in front of his chest. You lowered yours, placing them behind your back. Piercing gaze on him, taking a step. His eyes followed you as you slowly circled him, speaking carefully and deliberately.

“So, Jungkook, tell me,” you began, skirt grazing the floor as your glided around him. “What makes you think you’re wearing the collar for me?”

Jungkook’s head whipped around quickly, following your movement with darting eyes. Damn, his ass looked great in these leather pants. He looked unconfident, brows furrowing, trying to conjure the right answer to get what he wanted.

“Um… I thought… maybe you might like it…” He stumbled through his words. “B-Because you like controlling me…”

You smiled at him. Jungkook brightened.

“I do.”

The eagerness beamed off his face as you stopped in front of him, still smiling pleasantly.

“I love controlling you.”

Then the smile dropped. The air around you became ten degrees colder with your shift in demeanor. Jungkook barely had a half-second to realize the change before your hand shot out and gripped the silver ring, yanking down harshly. He yelped, arms flying out, falling to his knees hard, gripping your skirt for balance. Your other arm was still behind you, folded into the small of your back. You narrowed your eyes, holding the collar ring so tightly that your knuckles were white.

His eyes flew up, pain and surprise.

You ticked your head. “But clearly, I’ve done a poor job, because you’ve gone and stole from me, you bad boy.”

Jungkook shook his head quickly, scooting himself forward, clutching your skirt tightly. “N-No, please, noona, I only–”

You yanked the ring up and Jungkook gasped, words cut off from the sudden jerk of his head snapping back. “You only what? Pickpocketed? Broke the law? Took my hard-earned money from right under my nose, to hurt me?”

“No, no, never,” Jungkook whimpered, looking up at you, blinking rapidly. “I don’t want to hurt you, noona. Never.”

“Then explain yourself,” you barked severely.

His eyes were turning teary, pleading. “I only… I only wanted to borrow it. So you could punish me and so I could show you I could be a good boy and take what I deserve.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Your other punishments weren’t enough?”

Jungkook’s lower lip quivered. The shame of his true intent was creeping in his eyes now.

“I… I wanted to see you angry, noona.”

“Even after I told you that you shouldn’t?”

He nodded, scurrying himself even closer on his now, most likely, bruised knees. Eyes on you, holding onto your skirt, whole body trembling. He angled his hips forward, showing you how hard he was in his pants, straining it even more by pressing his erection into the zipper of the leather. His lips open, black curls hanging around his face, almost pathetic but not quite, because you knew Jungkook was acutely aware of exactly what he looked like. Doing it to entice you, doing it to assure you that he wanted it.

“Y-Yes,” he admitted.

You forcefully let go of the ring, flinging him away from you. Jungkook squeaked, releasing your clothes as his body twisted to the side from your sharp movement. You swept your skirts away and took a step back.

“Noona, w-wait!”

Jungkook tried to scramble to his feet, but you snarled deep in your chest, making him freeze.

“Crawl.”

He looked startled, looking at you with wide puppy eyes. You took another step back. Jungkook followed you, on hands and knees, his bangs flared out, the low neckline of his shirt hanging down, revealing his chest. You could see his back muscles rippling under the fabric. Fuck, he was so handsome. You weren’t heading for the front door. You watched his mind calculate the angle of your body, mood lightening as he realized that was the direction of the bedroom. You, however, stopped at the floor-length mirror in the living room. Pointed to the patch of floor at your feet.

“Here. Now.”

Jungkook immediately complied, getting on his knees in front of you, hands between his legs, keen to please, facing you.

“Other way,” you clarified, sounding disappointed.

He lowered his head at his mistake and spun around, now facing his reflection. You glared through the mirror, making eye contact. He looked very sorry and very dejected. You almost forgave him just like that. Maybe Jungkook didn’t like this. Maybe you were being too harsh.

“Do you want to use your safe word?”

His eyes on yours. He shook his head lightly, not breaking your gaze.

“No, noona.” Your heart thudded in your chest at his tone of voice. “I’ve been a very bad boy.”

Jungkook licked his lips slowly, not looking away, the tip of his pink tongue lingering before sliding back into his mouth. He kept the same look in his eyes, but his actions were giving you the go ahead.

Shit.

You raised an eyebrow and lowered your hands. They floated above his shoulders and you were reminded of the first time, in the fitting room of your erotica shop, the moment he seduced you and pulled you into his pace. Jungkook tipped his head back, long hair sliding to his ears, the reflection of the stolen collar taunting you.

This brat.

Slowly, finger by finger, you placed your hands on his face. Fingertips pressing into his jaw, cheek, temple, into his soft skin, nails slightly digging in. Scratching up his pretty face a little, claiming it as yours. Jungkook had perfect bone structure, high cheekbones, sharp jaw, pretty forehead. He was panting, mouth open, hot breath drifting down. Hands on his thighs, clutching them tight.

You bent down, chin above his head so he could feel your hot breath on his scalp.

“My pretty boy,” you murmured softly. “Why must you be so bad? Do I not treat you well enough? Do I not give you what you love?”

“You do,” Jungkook whined in your hands, the guilt creeping into his voice. “You do, noona. Your pretty boy is… g-greedy.” He rolled his hips a little, spreading his thighs more, staring at his own reflection of his low-necked shirt and his thighs open, cock bulging in his leather pants.

Your fingers slipped down, down, tracing the leather collar. You let your index finger circle around the metal, not yet touching his chest, so close but so far. Jungkook kept trying to raise it into your touch. Your other hand reached back and grabbed his ponytail, yanking his head back. He moaned right into your chin, too turned on to pretend he was hurt.

“I am going to my briefcase,” you stated, not looking at him under you and instead staring at his reflection, torso straining from how sharply you were forcing him to arch his back. “You are to remove your clothes. Whatever is left on you will remain for the rest of the night. Do I make myself clear?”

“Y-yes, noona.”

You abruptly let him go, striding to your briefcase swiftly, hearing a flurry of noise as Jungkook flung all of his clothes off. Snap, open, grab. You had already packed a black velvet bag holding the things you intended to use on him tonight. You spun around to see him practically ripping his leather pants off, the panic and regret evident on his face as he tried to shove them down his muscular calves. Smart boy had removed his underwear with his pants, smearing trails of pre-cum down his legs and onto the floor. You waited half a second for Jungkook to pop them over his ankles and he threw the pants to the far wall, so hard they made a loud slapping noise. Jungkook was on his hands and knees, panting, beads of sweat on his forehead.

It was actually hilarious to watch, but now was not the time to laugh.

Jungkook snapped his head towards you, eyes wide, his hard cock smacking his thigh. You raised an eyebrow at him. He gulped. Wearing nothing but the collar. Oh, he looked so good. You could tell him to get into position.

Or.

Tease him.

“Want to put my mouth on you, handsome boy.”

His cock twitched as his jaw dropped.

Your tongue slid out and stayed at the side of your lips as you spoke. “You look so tasty for me. When was the last time you came, Jungkook?”

His hands curled into fists on the hardwood floor, legs falling open, cock throbbing. The veins stood out against the hardness, head swollen and red.

“F-Fifteen days ago…” he whimpered.

He had denied himself. So cute. What a good boy. You smiled at him, still holding the velvet bag. “Really? You didn’t cum, not even once, without me?”

Jungkook shook his head rapidly, hair flying everywhere. “Wa… wanted to be tasty for you.”

You pouted a little. “Hm, that’s half a month. You waited so long.”

Jungkook nodded, chewing on his lip. You gestured for him to adjust his position and he turned his body to fully face you.

“Eyes on the mirror.”

He turned his head to face his reflection. Hands on the floor next to his ass, slightly leaning back, legs open.

“Look away and I’ll walk away,” you warned.

“Y-yes, noona.”

You floated down to the floor. He couldn’t exactly see you, but you slid into the frame of the mirror, right between his legs. The velvet bag was out of his sight, next to his leg, but Jungkook wasn’t paying attention. He was staring at his stiff cock and your proximity to it, holding his breath. You collected your saliva on your tongue and opened your mouth. It dripped down in a thin, slim line, hitting the angry red head of his cock and causing it to jerk at the sudden impact, coating it.

“A-ah, s-so good…”

“What do we say?” you purred, collecting more.

“T-thank you, noona,” Jungkook moaned, watching as you dropped more onto his aching cock, splattering onto his crotch. You lowered your head, closer. Closer. Jungkook sucked in a breath, waiting, needing, trying not to move. You made eye contact with him in the mirror.

“You’re a bad boy, Jungkook.”

And then you spat on his balls.

His head tipped back as he groaned, eyes barely open as he watched himself, chest shuddering as he felt it trickle down and onto the floor below. You spat on his genitals again, more force this time, spraying it across his cock and stomach. He cried out, slamming one of his fists onto the hardwood.

“Y-yes, noona, I’m a bad boy.”

And then you produced a cock ring seemingly out of nowhere, eyebrow raised as he wailed loudly.

“N-no, please, please don’t,” Jungkook panicked as you brought the black silicone ring closer and closer to his now saliva-drenched cock. “Please, I promise to be a good boy, please don’t do it…”

You said nothing, simply placing it on the engorged head and using three fingers to hold it, pushing down slowly.

“Noona, a-ah… no…” His eyelids fluttered, eyes on the reflection of his thick cock being viciously squeezed into the silicone ring. He let out a choked sob as it popped over the bottom of the head, sliding down, down, all the way to the base. You barely touched him, removing your hand as Jungkook shuddered, his pulsating length now bound by the black band.

You raised your head. He was still, very obediently, staring at the mirror.

You smacked his cock with your palm.

Not hard, but enough to make it bounce and for Jungkook to squeal, hips rising as his dick shook from side to side, unable to move much from the tight cock ring. He was making it move more by rocking his hips, heightening the feeling of being bound.

You waited until it stopped swaying.

“Your neighbors will hear you, Jungkook,” you said calmly. You turned your head and looked into the mirror. His eyes locked on yours, pupils dilated, strands of hair clinging to his sweaty face. “Should I gag you?”

“N-no, noona,” he whispered hotly, breathing shallow and tight. “They have to know I’m being punished. B-Because I’ve been b-bad.”

Good gracious, Jungkook.

Your panties instantly soaked. Who was losing it here? Was it him or was it you? Fuck.

You slowly smacked his cock back and forth, back and forth, staring at his face in the mirror. His head tipped back, not closing his eyes, moaning wantonly as his stiff length was roughly shoved around, barely any pressure and too much at once because of how hard he was. You stopped, watching his cock bob, almost purple-red now. Pre-cum beaded at the tip.

You couldn’t help it.

You leaned down, tucking your hair behind your ear so he could see, and gave the slit a tiny kitten lick.

Fuuuuuuuck.

Jungkook lost control, eyes rolling back into his head, and you almost moaned, his strong, intense taste all over your tongue. He tasted so good. So fucking delicious. You pulled back, pretending not to notice that Jungkook had looked away from the mirror as he quickly collected himself, back to staring at his reflection. You grabbed his hips and dug your nails into his skin, dragging him so his body was tilted.

“Flip over,” you growled.

You backed up, taking the velvet pouch with you as Jungkook obeyed, on his hands and knees now.

“On your face.”

Jungkook whimpered, lowering his cheek to the cool floor, leaning against it. Now his ass was up in the air, vulnerable and exposed.

“Both hands on the ring.”

His teeth sank into his lower lip, scooting his hands so he held the silver collar ring with fingers on both hands, arms against the floor to hold him up. His cock stuck straight down, stiff and swollen, trapped in the silicone circle. You waited to let Jungkook readjust his knees to be more comfortable and so he could see everything. The muscles on his back tensed with anticipation.

“I didn’t cover your mouth for a reason.”

“Yes, noona,” Jungkook breathed.

You raised your hands and raked your nails over his back, all the way to his ass. Hard, deep, leaving lines of pink and red, almost breaking the skin. Jungkook moaned, tongue sliding out, body shaking, eyelids fluttering. You did it again, and again, creating your pattern of lust on his back.

“Mine,” you growled possessively. Your eyes locked with his.

Thump.

Had anyone ever looked at you with so much adoration before?

Jungkook nodded.

“All yours, noona.”

You slapped his ass with your open palm.

He yelped, shoulders hitting the floor, face sliding a little against the wood. Pupils dilating, whimpering for more. You smacked him again, and again, and again, never the same spot, always with the full palm, all over, causing large red handprints patterned all over his ass. Jungkook was a groaning mess, legs slipping, the head of his cock touching the hardwood.

You stopped.

His ass was bright red, covered in your slaps and scratches.

Jungkook opened his eyes. He seemed to realize he wasn’t looking at his reflection anymore. He panicked, seeing your glare in the mirror, and tried to raise his hips, but your hand stopped him. The tip of his cock was in contact the floor, dripping pre-cum.

You pressed his hips down a little and shifted them from side to side.

Even the little stimulation of the head against the hardwood made Jungkook moan, pleading with you as he desperately clutched the collar.

“Noona, p-please… Please let me c-cum…”

You removed your hand. Jungkook continued rubbing himself in his own puddle of pre-cum on his living room floor, as you predicted. You didn’t stop him. You reached into the velvet pouch again. Jungkook’s eyes had fluttered closed as he continued stimulating himself, probably not enough, but he didn’t seem to care. You pressed the thing in your hand onto his scrotum and turned it on.

“A-ah!”

Jungkook’s hips flew up, balls suddenly shaking violently from the bullet vibrator in your hand. He shut his legs, sticking his ass out into your hand as he gasped, pressing back into the vibrator as you lazily drifted it around his balls.

“Oh, fuck, noona, oh, fuck!”

He was still holding onto the collar somehow as he tried to get more, wiggling his hips, but you were faster, grabbing his ass with one hand and digging your nails into it.

“Stop.”

Jungkook froze, whimpering and panting on the hardwood, cheeks hollowed out, eyes glazed over.

You traced his asshole with the tip of the vibrator.

His eyes rolled back, tongue lolling out.

“Oh, please, noona, put it in me, p-please…”

You drew figure-eights around his asshole and his balls, calmly.

“I bet you would love that, but you’ve been a bad boy, so I don’t think so.”

Jungkook whined, shaking his head, dark curls fluttering, soaked with sweat.

“P-please, I’ll be good, I need it, I need you to do it, fuck, please.”

“No.”

You pressed the vibrator into the cock ring and Jungkook nearly screamed, cutting himself off by snapping his jaw shut and yelling into the floor, hips jerking in your hands. You kept it there for a good five seconds before you removed it and backed up, reaching into the velvet bag again. Jungkook had maybe one shaking inhale before you gripped him under his armpits, hoisting him up.

“Let go of the ring,” you commanded, and his hands dropped, helping you get him to his knees. His bruised knees. Still, he leaned against you, soaking your clothes with his sweat, spreading his legs out more so his body lowered and your head could be seen past his shoulder.

You reached down and removed the cock ring, Jungkook gasping in relief. It rolled away, now forgotten.

“Get yourself off.”

“B-but, noona…”

Your hands appeared and pressed against his nipples, turning on both bullet vibrators at once.

“Get. Yourself. Off.”

“F-fuck!”

His hand immediately flew to his cock, viciously pumping himself as you rubbed his nipples with the toys, his groans rumbling in his chest with the vibrations, so strong, so intense, his tan skin glistening with sweat, arm tattoos dancing as he stroked himself fast, his cock so hard it was purple now, veins popping out.

And, like the masochist he was…

Jungkook grabbed the head and squeezed firmly, cutting off his own orgasm with a wail.

You responded just as fast, dropping your hands and shoving the vibrators against his balls, twice as much stimulation as before. His head fell back against your shoulder, half-moans, half-screams of your name as he bucked into them, working himself up once again, your breath against his neck, your eyes watching Jungkook’s reflection – his shaking legs, his balls cupped in your hands, his abused and overstimulated cock popping in and out of his tattooed hand, his now inflamed nipples, sweat dripping down his neck, long black hair flared out against your cheek, the mole under his lower lip trembling with his cries.

Fuck, he was everything. Everything you ever wanted.

“Ah, noona, yes, yes, you’re so good to me, so good…”

“Cum on the mirror,” you demanded. “Cum all over yourself, pretty boy.”

Jungkook whined, snapping his head back down, feeling you increase the vibration setting on his balls and that was it, the tipping point as he sobbed out your name, shooting all over the mirror in large splatters of white, jerking his hips so it traveled higher, sticking onto the reflective glass, all over his reflection.

And he watched it, moaning, so entranced by his likeness covered in his own cum, dripping down in slow smears, messy and dirty.

You turned off the vibrators, withdrew your hands from him.

“Lick it off.”

Jungkook was exhausted, wheezing, hoarse, and yet he still removed his hand from his cock, crawling to the mess he made, pink tongue flopping out, licking his own cum off the mirror, eating it up with groans of satisfaction. You watched him, fascinated, surprised he even listened to you, surprised he was still going, because honestly at this point, you really thought you had gone too far, but Jungkook was enthusiastically making out with his own face with his orgasm at your command, and loving every second of it.

“Jungkook.”

He pushed himself away from the mirror, immediately coming to you, his dark brown eyes hazy with pleasure. He dumped himself in your lap. You still wearing all your clothes. He looked up at you, lips curving into a naughty grin.

“I love it when you turn me into your plaything.”

This guy.

“What do you want?” Jungkook panted. “I’ll do anything. Anything for you.”

Oh, that’s right. You had spent so much focus and energy on Jungkook that you completely forgot about yourself. How did that happen? Ah, but you were so tired now. You let out a puff of disbelief and slid down to the floor.

“I want a nap. Get back to me tomorrow morning.”

You woke up slowly to something wet and hot between your legs.

Can I wake you up by eating you out tomorrow morning?

If you brush your teeth.

Really?!

If you brush your teeth, yes.

Your fingers curled into the sheets, breathing in Jungkook’s scent. His bed. His tongue against your opening, softly lapping, burying his nose into your core. You pursed your lips, sighing softly. The tip of the wet muscle slid up, licking at your clit. You pressed your hips into his face and the large hands around your thighs tightened, holding you closer.

He moaned, so hot, right into your pussy.

Your hands released the sheets, sliding across the fabric, up your hip, tracing his fingers. Eyes still closed, feeling for his long hair, clean, fluffy, wild from sleep. Burying your fingers in the strands, pressing him down into you.

“Ah, Jungkook��”

He licked faster, lips closing around your clit, pushing his head into you as he pressed your thighs into the sides of his face. You could feel his cheekbones, his jaw rubbing against your skin. Felt his wet warmth, rapidly rubbing your sensitive nub.

“That’s a good boy,” you purred and he whined, vibrating your pussy with the sound.

Your fingers tightened in his hair and you hissed, gliding into your orgasm, dripping into his mouth as your clit throbbed against his tongue, pleasure flooding you like a warm blanket.

You finally opened your eyes, breathing out as you saw Jungkook’s handsome face between your legs, cleaning you up. He kissed the insides of your thighs, nuzzling your skin. He seemed to feel you watching him and his eyes looked up, bright, doe-like, chocolatey. His pink lips glistened with your release.

“Noona?”

“Mhm?”

“Can I keep the collar?”

You raised an eyebrow. He smiled at you, playful, naughty.

“If you pay for it,” you replied, half-joking.

His tongue flashed out.

“I can pay in cash and in orgasms.”

You laughed as Jungkook dove down between your legs once again.

masterpost

#jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook smut #bts smut #jk x reader #jeon jungkook smut #jeon jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook x you #jk smut

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mehbzz · 3 years ago

Text

Degrees of Lewdity

This anon's dream spoke to me, so had to have a go at writing it.

M!Whitney/F!Reader. featuring soft Whitney, protective Whitney and Perv Leighton.

18+ fingering, spanking, exhibitionism/voyeurism, dubcon, pseudo incst, blood kink, abusive relationships. A small hint of serial killer wannabe Whitney at the end.

------------------------------

It had been a quiet, uneventful day until Whitney and one of his friends cornered you on your way to your final class. Your stuttered hello gets ignored as he pins you against a locker and kisses you hard. It’s abrupt, giving you no chance to even try to move away as his hands are instantly roaming, gripping your thighs and running up your body to squeeze your breasts. He’s rough and your body reacts of its own accord, shivering with pleasure. He breaks the kiss with a soft moan, gripping your hair and pulling your face close to his own.

He looks tired, there are dark circles under his eyes, and he’s not wearing his usual tongue stud. He licks your cheek before going to pull away but your hands grasp the collar of his shirt and keep him close. “Please.” He looks back to you with a flicker of surprise that turns into a smug grin as you arch into him.

“Needy little thing aren’t you?” He lets you tug him closer into another kiss even as his friend mumbles something about getting to class.

Whitney breaks the kiss and presses his hips against you as he turns to look at his friend. “Since when do you care about going to class?”

His friend replies with something you can’t make out, to focused on trying to undo the first few buttons of Whitney’s shirt. “Fuck off then.” He turns back to you with a roll of his eyes. One hand against the wall beside your head to steady himself as the other grips your thigh. The hand next to your head is injured, bloody bruised knuckles and several band-aids adorn his fingers. You feel a pang of worry but his free hand dipping between your legs immediately distracts you.

He slides his fingers between your folds, drawing an amused snort from him when he feels how wet you are and shame curls through you, adding to your growing arousal. He runs his finger over your clit and swirls around it in soft slow circles, continuing to play with you lazily until you are panting hard and you bury your face into the side of his neck.

He shivers as you suck at the sensitive skin there, and he makes a tiny, desperate noise in the back of his throat when you nip at the spot just below his ear. Your teasing turns into a loud moan as he slowly pushes a finger inside of you, this make out was feeling too soft, too slow for Whitney. You’d expected a quick rough fuck before class, not this sleepy almost tender touch.

You hissed and dug your nails into his shoulders as he pushed another finger inside you, working them faster, your moans not stopping the wet greedy sounds of your cunt from echoing loudly in the quiet hallway

“So wet, such a slut,” he groans as your wall clamp hard around him, “Are you close?”

You whine and dig your fingers harder into his shoulders as you arch your back. Your gaze drawn again to his injured hand and fuck why is his blood so sexy? Images flitter across your mind of his hand stroking down between your breasts, leaving a bloody trail in its wake, of him smearing blood across your nipple before taking it into his mouth. He doesn’t notice your fixation on his wounds, which is probably just as well. He would absolutely switch hands if he realised. He continues to thrust his fingers into you, stroking smoothly and gently, not increasing his pace even as you desperately try to rock your hips. It’s only just enough friction and movement to keep you teetering right on the edge.

“Whitney!” This was new. The teasing, the denial, you’re not sure if you like it and the frustration is clear in your voice.

"Do you want to come?" His voice is low, strained, and you feel a little better knowing he not as collected as he pretending. “Yes, Yes! fuck Whitney, stop teasing!”

He makes a small noise in thought, “You know what I want to hear,” his fingers still thrusting slowly in and out of your slippery cunt. “Say it,” rubbing his cheek against yours and nipping lightly at your earlobe. “Ask big brother to make you cum.”

It’s a role-play he’s been indulging in more and more and you hardly feel the embarrassment anymore as you respond quickly. “Please, big brother, want to cum.” It’s a needy whine, whispered right into his ear in a sweet, more faux girly tone than you normally would but it works and he shudders hard.

"Just like that, yeah,” He grunts as you clench hard around his fingers. “Such a good little sister for me, taking my fingers so well.” He shudders again, hips jerking so hard into your hip that you think he might have just reached his own peak. “Go on then, cum." His thumb presses hard against your clit and your eyes open wide in shock at the jolt of pleasure. Your gaze immediately lands at the end of the hallway where Leighton is standing, watching you with a blank expression.

You feel mortified, you open your mouth to say something but Whitney crooks his fingers just so and then you’re cumming hard with a desperate keen, your walls spasming and twitching on his fingers, unable to break Leighton’s gaze as Whitney continues to fuck you through your high.

“This is inappropriate school behaviour.”

Whitney tenses and something akin to genuine panic flitters across his face before it’s gone. He slowly slips his fingers out of you and sucks them into his mouth as he turns to face Leighton.

You expect Whitney to saunter off as he usually does and leave you to face Leighton’s wrath on your own but he doesn’t. Instead as he turns to face Leighton, he takes a step to the side, standing directly in front of you and blocking you from his view. If it was anyone else you’d say he was being protective.

“My office.” Leighton sounds entirely to calm and that scares you more than if he was shouting.

“We’re sorry.” You step out from behind Whitney on slightly wobbly legs just as a low fuck off is spat from his lips.

It shocks you, seeing him so immediately aggressive towards the Headmaster and you’re not sure what to say. Leighton looks disappointed. “I’m aware you try hard to maintain your lowbrow image to your peers but with your upbringing I’m sure you could think of more eloquent insults than just vulgar language Whitney.” Whitney just scoffs and crosses his arms. The tension is palpable. You’re not sure what’s going on between the two of them. Leighton seems reluctant to drag Whitney away as he usually does and Whitney, much more to your shock, seems unwilling to leave you.

“We’re sorry; we were just on the way to class.” Leighton’s gaze snaps to you at your repeated meek apology and takes a step forward at the same time Whitney reaches out and grasps your wrist. It makes you squeak in surprise. “What are you two doing in the hallway? Class started nearly 10 minutes ago.” Doran appearing behind you makes you jump but you feel relieved at his appearance. It seems to break the odd tension in the air, although Leighton still seems to be fixated on you and you find yourself unable to look away even as he speaks. “They were just on their way.”

No one says anything else and it’s incredibly uncomfortable and awkward. Doren’s confused gaze flicking between the three of you.

“Right, well, come on then Whitney.” Doren raises his arm and gestures down the hall, looking at Whitney expectantly who just scowls in return.

“Whitney. Class.” Leighton’s voice is stern. “If you continue being so defiant I will have to call your father,” Whitney’s grip tightens at Leighton’s threat and you try not to wince. “He’s a busy man, I’m sure he will not appreciate having to come down to school on a Friday afternoon.”

“Fine.” You don’t like how defeated Whitney sounds; it hits you with the foolish urge to draw him into a hug.

“Let’s go then,” Doren gestures towards the classroom, “Now, Whitney.”

“What about her?” Whitney glowers at Doren who seems unaffected by the venom directed his way. “Not fair if I have to go to class and she doesn’t.”

“I will escort your girlfriend to her class.” Leighton speaks up before Doran can respond. Whitney glares at him, “Yeah I bet yo-” “Thank you Headmaster.” You speak up quickly, not wanting him to get in any more trouble than he already is and twist your wrist from his grip, taking the few steps towards Leighton. You give Whitney a small smile over your shoulder, trying to reassure him. He looks unhappy.

You follow Leighton down the hallway but he veers left towards his office instead of right towards your class. “Umm, Headmaster?” You hesitate and he turns and gives you a stern look.

“Public indecency is a serious break of school regulations. Such a blatant disregard for the rules cannot go unpunished.”

You swallow hard and his look turns frosty. “Unless you would like me to inform your guardian of the situation?”

The thought of Bailey being summoned to school is more terrifying than whatever punishment Leighton wants to give and you shake your head. Leighton sighs. “Good. To my office."

Leighton’s office is all dark wood and leather; it’s oppressive and makes you feel more than a little intimidated. You stand awkwardly in front of his desk as he closes the door behind you. “Hands on the desk” “W-What?” They don’t do corporal punishments at this school do they? You’d not heard any rumours of the like but the thought of being caned suddenly feels like a real possibility.

“Hands. On. The. Desk.” Leighton stresses each word. His voice firm and you don’t dare turn round and look at him, instead reaching forward to press your hands shakily on the polished wood.

“Hmmm, very good.” He comes up behind you, so close you can feel the warmth of him along your back. “I will not tolerate such lewd behaviour in my school,” His hands rest lightly on your hips and it makes your breath catch in your throat. “Although I will admit, you do look a beautiful sight when you orgasm.”

Your face heats and a cold stab of fear hits you low in your gut. You feel completely out of your depth.

“Did you enjoy me watching?” His grip tightens as he pulls your hips back, forcing you to take a step backwards. “Keep your hands on the desk.”

He leans back over you, face close to yours as he whispers into your ear. “Even from the end of the hall I could hear how wet you were.” “I-I’m sorry.” You whimper, the situation seems to be escalating quicker than you can keep up with. “Please Sir, I’m sorry.” The fear is melting into a confusing mix of panic and arousal. He pauses, him draped over your back makes you feel incredibly small. He presses closer, his groin pressing against the soft flesh of your ass and you bite your tongue when you feel how hard he is. “I’m sure a straight A student such as you can think of something more… stimulating to call me than Sir.”

He pulls away and flips your skirt up over your hips. He makes a half choked sound low in his throat as he looks at you. “No underwear is also against school rules young lady.”

He walks around you, stopping briefly behind his desk to pull a small digital camera out of one of the drawers. He smiles as you make eye contact, and you lower your head quickly. He walks back behind you slowly and then it’s silent. The silence makes you more tense, your breathing uneven as you wait for his next move.

A harsh smack rings through the air, the pain taking you by surprise and stealing the air from your lungs before you can cry out, your hips jerking painfully in to the hard wood of the desk. “You’ve been a bad little girl.” He emphasises his words with three rapid strikes, it stings, but you think you can hold out. “10 minutes late for class, so 10 well deserved strikes.”

Another hit and your resolution breaks as you cry out loudly. Trying to keep your hips from crashing in to the desk again, it feels much harder than the first few smacks, more violent. The next flurry make you feel like your skin is on fire, tears running freely down your cheeks as you whimper and plea for forgiveness.

A large, cool hand presses into the base of your spine, forcing you to still until you tears calm to pathetic little sniffles, that was definitely more than 10.

“Did you want me to watch?” Leighton sounds a little breathless as he moves his hand to dig his fingers into your burning flesh, making your tears start anew. “Wanted me to catch you? Wanted me to punish you?”

“N-no! I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

“I don’t believe you.”

Another burst of pain and this time to your horror you moan. You didn’t mean to but your body betrays you as your back arches, pushing your ass higher and towards him, your tears flowing and dripping on to the desk beneath you. He pauses, hand resting on your ass at the sound of your moan. “This is supposed to be a punishment,” The heat of his palm is making your inflamed skin burn hotter. “Do you want me to touch you?” He speaks softly, palm still massaging your ass. “Do you want to cum on my fingers too?”

You sob, humiliation floods through your body and makes you shiver. What you want is to leave. He lets his hand drift lower, sliding down your thigh and letting his thumb glide through the wetness between your legs before he abruptly pulls away.

He steps beside you, and strokes your hair gently with his left hand. “You may stand.” You stand shakily, feeling relieved and maybe just a little confusingly disappointed. You fix your clothing. Leighton watches you intently as he sits in his chair, the leather creaking softly as he shifts his weight to place the camera on the edge of his desk. It’s still on, the screen showing a picture of you bent over his desk that you quickly look away from. His unspoken threat is obvious. His eyes are dark as he takes his thumb into his mouth, eyes closing briefly as he tastes you. It makes you tremble and you twist your hands in front of you nervously. He smiles.

"I took no pleasure in that. I hope you've learnt your lesson." His gaze catches on the little puddles of your tears that mar his desk, reaching forward to run his finger through them with a tut of disapproval. "This better not stain.” He gestures for you to leave. Oh. The dismissal makes you feel a little disorientated, the adrenaline still gunning through you and your hands shake as you close the door behind you.

The walk out of the school feels like a dream, the crowds and noise of students leaving sounding distant and muted, you don’t feel particularly conscious until the cool breeze of the playground hits your face and you blink hard.

Whitney is hanging out beside the gate. He looks agitated, unlit cigarette hanging from his mouth as he fidgets with his lighter. His friends are, as always, behind him, kicking a couple of empty beer cans between them in what looks like a chaotic game of impromptu football.

You give him a small wave when he notices you, relief clear across his face making your heart swell until his expression drops and morphs into anger.

“Where have you been?” Whitney snaps, cutting off your hello. He doesn’t relax when you flinch at his tone, but reaches out and grabs your face. He tilts your head to the side, like he’s examining you and then squeezes your cheeks until your mouth puckers and you whimper in protest. He ignores your mumbled plea of his name, and clicks his tongue. “What he do to you?” You try to shake your head and Whitney lets you go with a frown and repeats his question. “Nothing.” You swallow hard, the image of the camera making you hold your tongue as you force yourself to look him in the eye. “Gave me a lecture then made me write I will obey the rules on the whiteboard for a while.”

He’s still twisting the lighter between his bandaged fingers and you realise with another surge of affection that he’s genuinely concerned about you. You find it hard to imagine Leighton trying anything with someone as aggressive as Whitney but his unease makes you wonder. It makes his hatred of Leighton understandable, makes you see the amount of times he’s dragged you with him to Leighton’s office in a different light. You heart hurts. You reach down without breaking eye contact to grasp his hand between yours and still the frantic twitching of his fingers. The contact obviously startles him and he pulls away quickly, glancing behind him towards his friends.

“I’m fine.” You speak quietly, wanting to touch him but aware for some reason he’s uncomfortable with that. He looks back at you, the anger evident in his expression. You’re not sure if it’s aimed at you, Leighton or himself. He seems either unwilling or unable to ask you outright if you’re ok. He just looks at you for a few seconds then shrugs. “Whatever.” Pulling another cigarette from his pocket and lighting it quickly.

His friends are getting restless and he throws an arm over your shoulder as they finally get his attention. One of them makes a teasing move to towards you and Whitney practically snarls, tightening his hold and pulling you flush to his side. His friend looks surprised but backs off, holding his hands up in surrender.

Your skin chafes painfully against the fabric of your skirt as Whitney drags you through the school gates. You wouldn’t be surprised if you had several hand shaped bruises, and you find yourself almost praying that Whitney lets you go soon. You don’t want to imagine what’ll happen if he sees. "You’re going to walk me home,” he grins at your confused look “it’s your turn to be chivalrous.”

Chivalrous was the last word you’d use to describe Whitney but you don’t comment. He obviously knows what you’re thinking because his grin turns wicked, ignoring the teasing jeers from his friends about his use of a big word. “Empty house for the weekend and I need a well behaved slut to keep my bed warm.” He waggles his tongue and the catcalling from his friends gets a little rowdier. “I can’t, I-” His grin falters slightly, his mouth twitching downwards for a split second before the wicked smile returns, if a little forced, and you notice again how tired he looks. You sigh inwardly, cursing yourself for how easily you give in. “Ok.” You’re not foolish, you know that whatever this weary protective mood he’s in isn’t going to last, that you’re going to start school on Monday covered in more bruises, another huge dent in your self esteem, and his friends knowing more about your naked body than you’d like but as he links his fingers with yours you think maybe it wouldn’t be too bad to pretend for a little while. “And don’t think I didn’t notice,” Whitney holds up his injured hand in front of your face and smirks as you face flushes. “Didn’t take you for a blood kink.” He leans down and presses a kiss to your cheek. “Means we got some new games to play this weekend.” His blue eyes are icy, cold and you shiver as you look up at him. He squeezes your hand like he’s trying to reassure you but it does the exact opposite and you regret agreeing to stay, have never regretted anything more in your life than right at that moment. “Looking forward to seeing how fast you can run.”

#degrees of lewdity #dol #degrees of lewdity whitney

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starkeristheendgame · 4 years ago

Note

Hi! Can i give you a prompt? If yes... what are your thoughts on starker with mob boss!peter? I don't remember reading anything like that... thank you!

We love MB!Peter in this house. This is, safe to say, an AU wherein Tony works for MB!Peter as his bodyguard and not-so-secret lover. On that note, if anyone has any MB!Peter recs or rec lists for Anon, please don’t hesitate to share them!

TW: Implied off-screen death of non-major person | Weapons references | Demeaning talk/Mild humiliation | BDSM references | Soft violence

The man that strode into the hall for an audience with Peter cast his gaze over the both of them assessingly, then fixed it on Tony.

That was Peter’s favourite part. How they all glossed over him so easily, how they took one look at the duo and immediately disregarded him.

Who wouldn’t? A rumpled little twink with cherry-bitten lips and a shirt half-open, sprawled between the thighs of an older man in a Giovanni suit with grey at his temples and a gun at his hip. The choice seemed obvious - The man who looked like he owned the term Mafia Don. It hadn’t been deliberate the first few times. Peter had pouted and laughed when they’d addressed Tony instead of him. Now, it was something of a test. Who was smart enough to look past face-value and ‘obvious choices’?

Not this man, clearly. He threw Tony a steep bow and a simpering smile, hands twitching between dangling limp at his sides and forming nervous fists. “Its an honour to be given your time," he began, licking his lips. Tony kept soundless and stoic, carding his fingers gently through the brown curls that tickled the inside of his palm.

“I... May I... Perhaps the matter may best be discussed without your... Companion,” he tried, placatingly lilting it like a question near the end, and Tony had the skim the edge of his tongue with his teeth so as not to smile. Between his legs, Peter’s head lifted like he’d been woken from a slumber.

Two long, slender fingers traced their way along his jaw, stroking the prickle of his stubble before they dipped between his lips, sliding over his teeth and pressing teasingly on his tongue before hooking down. Peter used it to pull him forwards, and he took the hint, rising so that Peter could sprawl in his rightful place, sucking his fingers clean of Tony’s drool with his pretty lips pursed.

“Are you scared of dogs, Mr. Ross?” Peter asked softly, cheek atop Tony’s knee. The man looked almost affronted at being spoken to by what he surely presumed was some cheap whore, but he shook his head, mouth tight.

“Neither am I,” Peter murmured, twisting in Tony’s space to crawl atop him like some sultry lap-cat, one hand reaching up to cup Tony’s jaw as he leaned over him, soft-honey eyes gazing into his own with unbearable tenderness.

“What is it folks say when they have their precious hounds attack? Sic ‘em?” Peter asked, faux-casual and sweet. Tony knew better, though, and turned swiftly on his heel, striding down the courtly dais towards the man. Fear had began to leech into the confusion etched on his face, and he scrambled backwards as Tony reached for him.

“Loyal things, dogs,” Peter mused, as Tony’s hands closed around the man’s throat, cutting off his alarmed cry. “Obedient,” Peter hummed, propping his cheek up on the backs of his knuckles as he watched. No sooner had Tony gotten a good grip, teeth bared on a snarl like his namesake, Peter called out an idle “Heel,” and Tony, as ever, obeyed.

“I don’t take kindly to being betrayed, Mr. Ross,” Peter announced as Tony knelt before the throne-like seat, head ducked in compliance. Peter’s slender fingers found their way into his hair, tugging the strands gently. “Thankfully the officer you ran squawking to was one of mine. Hence your appearance here today. But... I’m afraid, I must make an example of you, you see." He sounded pitying as he said it, rueful.

“Y-- You-- Mr. Parker, Sir. I can assure you I don’t-” The man stammered to defend himself, scrabbling for any scrap of a lie that might save his hide, but Peter had already raised his fingers to his lips, whistling a sharp, pert note. Tony did not need to look to follow the sound of the doors and footsteps, of Mr. Ross being dragged away to his fate. The next Tony would see of him would be assisting in disposing of whatever remained of him.

“Trust is worth more than any currency,” Peter murmured, looking down at him fondly as he carded his fingers through the raven locks in his grip. Tony raised his gaze, levelling Peter with he hoped conveyed you can trust me. Always.

“My sweet Hound. Loyaler and prettier than any beast I could find in a kennel,” Peter praised him, a twisted pull on his hair bringing a soft whine to the hollow of his throat. It made Peter smile, lips curved in a manner just for him. When Peter was feeling meaner it was Dog. A slobbering beast that served only for his entertainment. Tony didn’t mind; he’d mount Peter every night for the rest of his life no matter what term of endearment called him to his master.

“I will always be loyal to you,” he murmured, tipping his head into the hand that drifted down to cradle his cheek. The smile and head tilt Peter gave in response showed the boy knew that. Had always known that, from the moment he’d first wrapped his legs around Tony’s head.

It felt snug against his throat, a reassuring weight as Peter laughed and shifted on his seat, splaying his thighs to drag Tony between them by the claim against his skin. He tipped his head and willingly opened his mouth for Peter to lick into, kissing him senseless, searing hot and sloppy in the otherwise quiet room. By the time Peter licked across his teeth then withdrew, lips swollen and dark, Tony was light-headed and hard against the pressed slacks that hugged his thighs.

“What would I ever do without you, hm? My Hound,” Peter answered fondly, hand roaming from his jaw down to his chest, slipping inside the crisp suit to find the inner pocket near his breast, fingers closing around supple, dark leather to draw it out. The collar was ornate, a perfect blend of decorative metal and soft, black hide.

“You fuck better than any stud,” Peter assured him as he unbuttoned Tony’s shirt collar to make room, and slipped the leather around his throat.

Peter reached between them and groped him shamelessly, fingers curling around the rise of his cock as he kneaded gently, feeling its girth and hardness. Tony exhaled sharply into the space between them and rut forwards against his hand with a growl, one hand snaking up to twist in Peter’s brown curls, gripping tight. Peter’s lashes fluttered and he pressed his thumb against the tip of Tony’s cock through his trousers, one canine bared in a warm, smirked grin.

“Tell me what you want, Dog,” Peter breathed at him, and Tony’s body warmed with the demeaning name, huffing out a breath as he shifted, one hand in Peter’s hair and the other closing around his throat, with just enough pressure for the weight of his fingers to be felt in the hollow of that pretty, slender neck.

“I want to feel you sink down over my cock,” he growled at the boy-king, gaze dropping to his mouth, teeth bared on an exhale. Peter’s hand left his cock and came back to his collar, tugging him closer.

“Oh, my Hound. You want to rut against your bitch, hm? Want to breed your claim?” Peter teased him, and it was all Tony could do to give one curt, sharp nod.

The boy released him and flopped back into his seat, sprawled and splayed like a whore on a bed. He gestured to himself almost lazily.

“Go on then, Dog. Mount and breed."

#fanfic #starker #starker fanfiction #starker fanfic #starker au #mob starker #mafia starker #ironspider #ironspider fanfiction #ironspider fanfic #ironspider fic #ironspider au #ironspider mob au #tony stark/peter parker #peter parker/tony stark #sie fics

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smuckersblr · 4 years ago

Text

Crybaby parody part 1?

“I swear man, they always plan these things when I can’t find an excuse to be in the damn theatre room.” One of the squares, Steve, mumbled to himself with self preservation. The squares and crybabies were all lined up in the gym, ready to get their shots for flu season, much to the squares’ dismay, they didn’t want to be in such close quarters to the damn holaguns.

The only one in this whole gym though, that didn’t really mind so much being near any crybaby, was Tony Stark. In fact he was intrigued with them, especially Peter Parker. The hottest crybaby he’s ever seen, in his opinion. “Come on, it can’t be that big of a deal…” Tony’s words were faint to his ears once he saw some of the crybabies push Peter up the front of the line, where Tony stood across from. Just the thought of sitting only an arms-length away from the guy has Tony’s pits soaked. “You better watch it with your gaze on that drape, Tones.” Rhodey mutters next to him, his eyes on the dirty floorboards of the old gymnasium.

“I-I don’t know what you're talking about.” Tony walked quickly up to the stool where the nurse rubbed a disinfectant on his arm for the needle. Peter fidgeting with the other nurse while she pestered him to “stay still, crybaby”. Tony was caught looking at his features when Peter finally looked up to see who was staring at him. Their eyes locked and Tony swore he felt a surge go through his body. Maybe it’s just him being a horny teenager, but Tony was in love.

Peter looked away quickly and smoothed his gelled hair back, a loose strand swinging at the front.

Peter stood out front of the school, hanging in front of his car with his crew, talking about plans for the weekend. Tony didn't mean to be nosy but he wanted to finally make a move. Once Tony started to walk towards their direction, his friends, Rhodey, Steve, and Bruce were begging him to come back. “Hey Parker.” Tony said dumbly, rubbing his clammy palms on his slacks looking like a complete dope. Peter looked Tony up and down slowly with a grin that showed the gem on his canine. “Hey Stark, you going to church or somethin’?” his friends chuckled next to him, all with cigarettes dangling from their mouths or a lighter to flick in their hands. Tony let out a nervous laugh and shook his head. “Nah, my ma made me wear this today for the senior photos.” Tony mentally slapped himself, because why the fuck did he tell him about that?

Peter laughed genuinely and stepped a little closer in Tony’s space. “Well if you’re not busy tonight you could come over and I could remove the issue.” Another loud chorus of laughter went up behind Peter, Tony blushed and smiled wearily, Peter's eyes scanning over Tony’s body made it clear what he would be removing. “Uh, yah sure I just need to ask my-” a loud horn honking behind them made Tony stop and turn around. “Mom?!” his mom had a crazed look in her eyes and her mouth agape. “Anthony Edward Stark, you better get yourself into this car right now and away from those drapes!” the crybabies feigned a hurt look and faux shock with their gasps. “Now now Mrs. Stark, if I didn’t know any better, I would assume that you squares shouldn’t be so rash around other folks like us.” Natasha, Peter’s sister, snarked back with a shark grin and a lollipop obscenely being sucked with her red lips. Mrs. Stark gasped and opened the door for Tony. “Tony, now!” Tony looked back at the crybabies and gave a sad smile. “Uh, maybe next time Pete.” Peter gave a wink and licked his teeth with a hungry look in his eyes. “I’d sure hope so Anthony.” Now Tony never liked his actual name, but once Peter said it, it just sounds so right. Tony blushed even harder and sat in the car, never breaking eye contact with Peter.

Peter watched the Cadillac screech off with a devilish grin on his face. “Peter’s got a crush~” Wanda giggled under Sam’s arm. Peter rolled his eyes and slammed his hand on the car's hood. “Lets ride!” they all yelled in excitement and got in the flame painted car.

There’s not one second that Tony can’t stop thinking of Peter’s soft face, contrasted with the leather jacket with the ‘crybaby’ logo on the back and the tattoo on his temple that just gets Tony weirdly aroused. Tony was scolded by his friends with his obsession, but he wasn’t the only one with these dark thoughts. Peter was in deep, every dream he had was filled with that dorky face that was so handsome underneath his big square glasses, his body hidden behind an oversized blazer and those loose slacks didn’t do him any justice. Peter would bite his lip and squeal to himself with every glance, every damn thought, it just drove him mad. So he went into action, cause that's what crybabies do. They take what they want.

Bucky had lectured him about dating a square, saying that Peter deserved the baddest of guys, and not some damn bible hugger. Peter naturally ignored what he told him, because Peter knew that Bucky was just being an overprotective idiot.

Peter sauntered down the school's hallway with a cherry lollipop and his gang's colors wrapped around his bicep since the heat has been high this week for a leather jacket.

The squares around Tony’s locker gaped and stuttered Tony’s name. Tony was oblivious with who was behind him, but once a hand tapped his shoulder, and he turned around. It felt like his body was lit on fire, like he was drowning in the damn attraction he felt for this guy. “Hey stud.” Peter’s voice smooth like wine, the lollipop being wrapped with his pink plush lips. “H-hey Peter, you look amazing.” Tony was amazed that he could even compliment Peter without combusting right there in front of him. Peter giggled and stepped closer, twirling a strand of Tony’s hair with his polished finger. “I missed you this weekend, I didn’t get to handle your little problem.” Tony felt his body go hot and heard his friends whisper to each other incredesly. Believe him, he was shook too that Peter was even wanting to be seen in front of Tony right now.

“I’m sorry, my ma and pops kept me locked in my room the whole weekend.” Peter pouted exateradedly and looked behind Tony briefly before smirking and leaning in closer, his lips grazing Tony’s ear. “Meet me behind the bleachers after fourth, okay?” Peter kissed Tony’s cheekbone while pulling back. Tony would do whatever Peter told him to, and he knows that sounds desperate, but he just wanted Peter so bad. “Ok.” Tony breathed, red seeping through his collar and the feeling of Peter’s lips on his cheek was still lingering there. Peter smiled and waved while sucking the treat back into his mouth, he looked at Tony’s friends once more with a wink and walked back to his sister Natasha.

“What the hell was that Tony!” Steve was baffled and quite frankly terrified for his friend.

Tony didn’t answer, but just sighed and looked longingly at Peter’s backside walk away.

Tony wouldn’t admit it if someone asked him, but he did run out of his fourth period class a minute before the bell rang to get to the bleachers early. He didn’t want to risk the chance of not being there on time, and Peter thought that he just didn’t show up and just left.

So Tony got to the bleachers out of breath, disheveled, yet still, on time. He was hunched over still once he heard a familiar laugh behind him. He swiveled around to see Peter leaning against a beam. “So you did want to see me again,” Peter stood up straight, his body defined with his tight shirt and those tight denim jeans. “I was starting to worry that you didn’t want to be seen around a drape.” Peter stood in front of Tony, his head tilted and a hand brushing Tony’s arm lightly, but dropping it before Tony could lean toward the touch. Tony’s brain caught up with what Peter was saying and shook his head wildly after realizing that he hadn’t denied it. “No Peter, it’s not that, I was just…” Tony trailed off, a nervous gulp moved his adams apple, which caught Peter’s eye. Peter smiled softly and leaned closer, his arms wrapping around Tony’s shoulders. “You just what Tones?” Tony breathed in sharply when Peter casually pushed their hips together, a mischievous look in the crybabies eyes. “I just get so nervous around you.” Tony didn't know he had it in him to hold Peter’s waist with a tight grip. But he was doing it, and Peter didn’t seem to mind.

“You do?” Peter says innocently, feigning a shocked face. Tony nodded, looking down but made himself look back up, because he needed Peter to know he wasn’t a square damnit. “Do I make you nervous when I do this?” Peter leaned in and ducked his head, the tip of his tongue lightly trailing up Tony’s neck to nibble his earlobe, moaning lightly in Tony’s ear. Tony groaned and pulled Peter closer. “You just make me excited when you do that.” Peter giggled and pulled back slowly. He tilted his head and played with the hair on Tony’s nape, twirling the short strands through his fingers and scratching his scalp, sending tingles through his head. Tony leaned his head into the touch, sighing contentedly and looking dazedly at Peter. “You’re so beautiful Pete.” Peter smiled at Tony’s dopey look, a puppy in love, how cute. “What else am I?” Peter leaned closer again and started to lightly kiss up Tony’s neck, with every peck becoming a little more wet. “You’re breath-taking.” Peter's kisses turned longer than just a simple peck, he would add some teeth. Grazing them against Tony’s pulse point and sucking a bit to rile Tony up more. Peter loved the compliments that just kept coming. “You’re a damn angel Peter.” Peter giggled against Tony's skin and pulled back. “I may be a lot of things Tony Stark, but I am no angel.” he leaned in again and pecked the corner of Tony’s lips. “I’m a crybaby Tones, got no place in my heart for that religious shit.” Tony nodded, not wanting to argue with Peter, he’ll go with anything Peter says. If he told Tony to stop going to church, he would. If Peter told him to stop wearing square clothes, he would. He’d do anything for him, he’d push mountains and go through hell and back for Peter Parker. “You know...you would look delicious in leather.” Peter licked his top row of teeth with that glint in his eyes again. If Peter said that Tony looked delicious in something, he would wear it everyday. So that's why he found himself standing in the main place Crybabies go to do their shopping at the mall. Bruce in tow with a nervous look and twitchy hands at his sides. “Tony why are we here again?”

“Because Peter said I’d look “delicious in leather”.” Tony idly went through racks of jackets and skipping over the studded ones, because the spikes seemed tacky, and Tony did have at least taste. “So you're here for a crybaby who doesn’t even know your last name?” Tony brushed off the glare Bruce was sending him and scuffed, pulling a hanger off the rack to inspect a nice looking leather jacket. “Bruce, he does know my last name, in fact I don't know one person in this town that doesn’t know my family.” Bruce gave a ‘your right’ look and pushed the jacket Tony was looking at down. “The back has too many gems on it, you’ll thank me later once they don’t laugh at you.” Tony nodded in agreement and pulled out another one. This one was just leather and looked like it would frame his body nicely. So he took that with him, along with the other shirts and jeans he grabbed.

At the dressing rooms they heard the loud rustle of clothes and some loud cursing with constant laughing. Bruce was fidgeting even more once Tony was starting to close the curtain for privacy. “Uh Tony can I come in with you.” Tony looked at his friend incredisiouly, “Dude really? You can't stand out there by yourself for like 5 minutes?” Bruce whined and looked at the curtains occupied with crybabies. Some were loitering outside the dressing rooms, smoking on cigarettes and looking at Bruce like he was their next lunch. “Ok man, hurry.”

Once they left the mall, to Bruce’s gratefulness, Tony felt a surge of power. “Do you know what this means Bruce?” Bruce frowned and shook his head, unlocking his ride and letting Tony inside the old car. “It means that I can date Peter now if I show him and his friends that I'm serious about changing for him.” Bruce’s frown seemed to get deeper and he gave a sad look to Tony while he pulled out the parking lot. “Tony, I don't mean to be a debbie-downer,” Tony scoffed, “Then don’t.” Bruce ignored him and spoke anyway.

“But, you know this isn’t some movie like Grease where the guy gets the girl after changing himself to fit into her circle.” Tony laughed and clapped Bruce's shoulder, making him tense and swerve a bit, then jerking the wheel to go straight. “Well of course not Brucey! He’s a guy!” Bruce shook his head and prayed silently for his best friend.

#starker #peter parker #tony stark #wrote this while intoxicated #bucky barnes #wanda maximoff #natasha romanoff #sam wilson #steve rogers #bruce banner #crybaby #fanfic #fan fiction #peter x tony

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infernobot · 4 years ago

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TEETH?

Teeth?

By InfernoBot

I had just finished recording, and was carrying my dog in from the office, when my mom handed me an envelope. Once I had my sweet pupper nestled into a blanket, I joined her on the couch and slit open my mysterious delivery. Inside was no note, just a brochure to something called ‘Furnal Equinox’ and an accompanying plastic badge bearing the image of a anthropomorphic dog, (maybe it was a wolf), wearing a graduation cap and gown.

As my eyes scanned the glossy pages, my excitement grew; some lovely person had sent me a weekend pass to a furry convention! This was my big chance to make a video detailing my adventures through a mass gathering of one of the internet’s most maligned and misunderstood subcultures. Over the coming weeks, I studied the brochure, read up on the panelists online, noted every question about the furry fandom that popped into my head. My itinerary for the whole weekend was mapped out.

Super chats and KoFi tips managed to cover the cost of a bottom-barrel airline ticket, and I got a great deal on an Air B&B from a charming indiginous woman named Semide, whose sisters had enrolled in college and left their rooms vacant. She was even kind enough to include meals as part of the deal. The weekend of the con finally rolled around; I threw my things in a bag and I was off to Toronto.

Eighteen hours and three layovers later, I was sitting at my host’s kitchen table with a warm towel draped over the back of my neck, sipping a cup of coffee. It turned out Semide was a naturopathic healer and knew some kickin’ remedies for aches, pains and jet lag. I don’t put much stock in essential oils, but damn if I didn’t wake up feeling fresh and ready to face the day the next morning. The convention was being held on the waterfront about nine blocks from Semide’s place, not too bad for a walk, and I reckoned I could make the trek each day.

I left late in the morning, well after the con had opened. No sense waiting in line, I figured. It was three blocks from the Westin Harbor Castle, when I saw the first fursuit.

There was no explaining the rush of exhilaration I felt. This was real. This was happening. I was gradually being surrounded by dozens of people decked out in bright, elaborate costumes. Some that couldn’t afford full suits wore just heads and gloves, giving a ghoulish Frankenstein’s monster appearance to their character. Or the wolf-man caught mid transformation after being bitten by a neon fox in a rainbow pride shirt. The less daring, or particularly destitute, settled for headbands with animal ears and strap-on tails.

Waiting to cross the last street, I was elbow to elbow with a giant Sonic the Hedgehog and a seven-foot tall purple giraffe sporting a quadruple-XL adult diaper. Something told me before the weekend was over, that particular garment would get filled. Before I could contemplate the logistics further, the light changed and the extremely polite, if curiously dressed herd moved into the street and we sorted into a semblance of a line being steadily processed through the doors into the main convention hall. I was in.

The lead-up to the main event hadn’t prepared me for what lay inside. A teenage girl in a ‘volunteer’ shirt thrust an opaque plastic bag into my hands before Big The Cat shoved me aside and began professing his undying love for her beauty. I stumbled into the row of booths on the main floor, further progress blocked by an electric green armadillo strumming an acoustic guitar with a stuffed fish tucked in the strings.

This was it, I weaved my way between con-goers and took it all in. Clip-on LED cat ears. A custom-fit fang booth. Stacks of comics focused on humanoid animals. Racks upon racks of faux-leather collars and leashes. The waifu pillows. I pulled my phone from my pocket and approached the nearest open booth.

Time for an interview, I thought.

Eight hours, two energy drinks and a box of granola bars later, I was dead on my feet. There was no way of knowing how many people I’d talked to as the day progressed. Or just how strange my conversations had become. I think I spoke at length with Cool Cat about the merits of various vape pens, despite the fact I don’t smoke. But it hadn’t all been nonsense.

Before I had degenerated into a gibbering wreck, I had chanced to be standing beside a fountain near the food court and heard a familiar warbling voice behind me. To my great delight, when I turned around I found a young woman with jet black hair, a hawaiian shirt and a black & yellow long-Furby draped over her shoulders; I instantly recognized her as Teya from Strange Aeons. After she’d finished speaking to her friend, I politely tapped her on the arm and introduced myself. She turned out to be super cool, excited to meet another youtube creator, and talked to me for about ten minutes as her girlfriend went off to wait in line for the bathroom.

While most of our conversation centered around videos and our special boy Greg, my eyes kept getting drawn back to Thursday Plurbonym Boyporridge. His black and yellow checkered belly, his luxurious black fur, those piercing green eyes; it was all so captivating. I couldn’t quit looking at the charm necklace below his little yellow beak spelling out his name; Thursday. Eventually, I complimented her on her videos and her handsome long-son one last time and we parted ways. It had been a pleasant break, but even here, the persistent strains of Insane Clown Posse that permeated the space were grating on my nerves.

When the time had come for all the furry folk to close up shop and head home, I staggered out into the street with all the lingering con-goers. Despite the initial culture shock, most of the people I’d met had been great. I could stand here, elbow to elbow with ponies, foxskies, giant pomeranians and adorable cat girl maids on the steps of Westin Harbor Castle, and just enjoy the last moments of the sun setting over Toronto. That is until the moment was shattered by an obnoxious voice that sounded more like it belonged outside a Patriots game accompanied by the echo of shattering beer bottles.

“Now that the party’s over, we can get down to the afterparty at my place; which of you bitches wants to come home with me?”

My head swiveled like a tank turret toward the source of the voice, my face bearing the expression which must have read did this motherfucker just?

A man-child wearing a My Little Pony t-shirt that had been stretched over his prodigious girth, a pair of denim jorts hanging past his knees and sweat-stained socks encased in mandles, slid his oily bulk up behind a group of teenage girls dressed as some kind of anime cat maids. He leaned his acne-studded face in close to them and said, “Since you’re dressed as maids, how about I take you home and make you change my cumm-y bedsheets after a night of passionate love-making.”

The overly-polite locals may have been in shock, but I knew a neckbeard when I saw one and knew immediately what to do.

“How ‘bout you back the fuck off bro, they’re kids.”

Maybe he wasn’t expecting resistance, but he seemed genuinely taken aback by someone speaking up. Once he got a look at me, he re-adjusted his fedora and stared me down. I admit, I might not look terribly intimidating; bulky, but not muscular, with my hair dyed bright teal and swept to one side. At least I had on a Pink Floyd t-shirt, that felt a little like a layer of protection against his fed-aura. He drew in a snot-choked breath and continued,

“They’re dressed as the maids from Painappuru No Oshiri, they’re harem girls that’re totally thirsty for the main character. Each maid is eager to bend over and present their ripe ruby star-fruit to their master. They’re, like, practically advertising how much they want it in the ass.”

“Why don’t you leave them alone, fuckmuppet?” I retorted. “You look like you're forty and they’re a bunch of teen girls.”

He was not pleased with my argument. The group of cat-maidens had shaken off their surprise and closed ranks. But they weren’t ready when he lunged forward and grabbed at the petticoat of the red cat-maid on the outside, lifting her skirts up to expose the shorts underneath.

“It’s not even a chick, it’s a dude. Chill out.”

A glance at the cosplayer’s face revealed a mask of burning red embarrassment, fear and confusion. Their friends were moving to grab at the neckbeard’s hand, but I was quicker. I swatted his arm like I was chopping down the internet itself and pushed right up in his face. Practically nose-to-nose, I couldn’t avoid the stench of fermented funyuns rolling off his breath.

“Keep. Your. Fucking. Hands. Off of them.”

His chins quivered slightly.

“Oh, you wanna start something, Rainbow Brite? I bet you like it in the ass, prancy-boy.”

“For a supposedly straight guy, you sure are obsessed with getting your dick in a guy’s butt.”

The flab of his cheeks reddened to match his acne.

“You’re gonna regret that. I’m a man with a very particular set of skills…”

I cut him off; I didn’t have the patience for a real-life copy pasta.

“Is one of your skills getting punched by me? Cause if you keep talking, you’re going to be teaching a master class.”

I could feel that neckbeardy-bravado wavering. Perhaps he could sense the crowd around us had turned against him, moving to shield the cat-maids and staring daggers into his lumpy flesh. With one last snotty huff, he turned and stormed away; the sound of his mandles slapping on the concrete echoed off the face of the convention center.

A group of several of the more adulty-er people had ringed the victims and were doing their best to calm them down. I shuffled over and started to apologize for the beardo’s behavior, when the red cat-maid began thanking me profusely and asked for a hug. Apparently, this was not the first time their group had been approached at the convention. We stood around chatting for a while, and they promised to check Evangelion when they got home. Once the cat-maids were safely in their Lyft, I waved them goodbye and turned to make my journey home for the night.

I started back up the street I'd taken this morning, but as I approached the doorway to a grimey building, I became aware of a fully-suited Yogi Bear propositioning a man dressed like Linda-Carter-era Wonder Woman. I was pretty wiped out and didn’t have it in me to process an altercation like this if they noticed me and instead took an abrupt right turn down an alley, intending to zig-zag back to my Air B&B.

I was nearly out the other side when my ears picked up the slapping of mandles on pavement rushing up behind me. A searing pain burst into existence in my lower back, like someone put a cigarette out on my spine.

I went down, hard.

The mylar swag bag I’d been swinging around all day splashed into a puddle off to one side. I was barely able to heave myself over onto my back to get a look at my attacker. It was him. The Neckbeard. He stood over me, grinning, his yellowed teeth visible in the night. The little black box in his hand flickered with a blue spark as he triggered the taser again.

“Heh heh. You like that, princess? I aimed a little high so I wouldn’t damage your sweet ass.”

“Fuck….you….” I gasped out through the pain. My muscles were cramping like someone had dug a burning fork into my lower back and twisted it up like a plate of spaghetti.

“Heh. You’re the one taking it in the ass, rainbow bitch.” He stepped over me, squatting like a linebacker, bringing the taser close to my face. “Maybe I’ll push this in your eyeball and see if I can make it boil.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of movement between his legs. Something thin and dark darted up from the shadows, toward his exposed back. He let out a cry of surprise, and shot upright, swinging his arms wildly behind him, grabbing at something. He hopped wildly from foot-to-foot across the alley, the tail hanging from the back of his pants swaying wildly with the movement. I thought it was weird I hadn’t noticed the tail before, especially with how long it was, practically sweeping the ground. The fuzzy black appendage was moving...wrong. It kept curling up and twisting out of his hands as he grasped at it, almost as if it were...alive.

“Oh Goddamnit!” He screamed. “What the fuck, dude?!”

He dropped the taser and got a grip on the tail with both hands, tugging on it. A ripping sound echoed through the alley as the seat of his pants tore out. The thing was, the tail wasn’t attached to his pants, it was going in through his pants, nestled between his prodigious posterior cheeks like one of those fetish plugs. As he violently jerked it side-to-side, it was ripping at the fabric of his trousers, the same went for his less-than-tidey whiteys.

“Get this fucking thing off of me!” He howled.

He grunted as the tail slipped his fingers and wriggled another foot inside him. Tears were welling up in his eyes and he collapsed back against a green dumpster. Like a man who had gambled on a street taco truck and lost, he bit his knuckle and gripped his abdomen through his stained t-shirt. It might have been a trick of the light, but I swear I could see his belly distend and squirm; the words ‘Friendship Is Magic’ bulging as something rolled under them.

His mandles dug into the alley grime as he feebly kicked his legs, and I could only watch in disgust as the rest of the fuzzy, black, thing slithered up inside him, forcibly dilating his leather cheerio. It was incredible. I could actually see its progress as it wormed its way through his body. He blubbered something about God and Jesus as his hand clawed frantically at his own belly, before his voice abruptly went silent.

There was a long, drawn-out wheezing sound, like one of those novelty rubber chickens, as the bulk of the thing moved up his throat. I don’t know how his flesh distended and deformed without bursting, but it reached his mouth and his jaw opened wide. First one small black, fuzzy ear lined with black and yellow plaid popped up, then another, followed by the crown of this thing’s head, pushing his teeth outward like flower petals blooming.

It rose before me, straight up from his mouth, its black and yellow belly slick, but not stained by his juices. His dislodged teeth clung to its matted fur like an obscene necklace. It swayed slightly in the moonlight, a pair of luminous green eyes fixed on mine, and its beak opened. With the rising inflection of someone asking a question, it uttered one word:

Teeth?

#strange aeons #moonhorse #furby #long furby #fan fiction #Teya

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lilithsgayadoptednephew · 4 years ago

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Holy Hands

Fandoms: Shall We Date?: Obey Me! Not Rated Graphic Depictions Of Violence F/M, Other Complete Work

Chapter List

Chapter 25

Lucifer ate when he was told, he took his medication, he slept enough to properly function. All of it fueled by memories of his own demise, the fear of wasting away and falling again.

Damn MC and their...vivid descriptions.

Lucifer was not the only one struggling with humanity however. Mammon had gotten into his fair share of confusion-based trouble. Likewise Lucifer was not the only one receiving help.

Acacia walked purposefully down the street towards the sheriff's office.

Opening the large door she strutted in like she'd done so a thousand times before. That being because she had. She spat her spearmint gum into the bin beside the door and addressed the man behind the desk.

"Hey Bill, how's the puppy? Come up with a name yet?" The man didn't even look up from his paper. He just held out his hand expectantly. "Ah, right to the point." Acacia placed a thick envelope in his hand and he pocketed it. Wordlessly he stood from his seat and made his way to holding, Acacia marching behind him.

He unlocked the metal cage with one of the many keys on his key ring.

"Come-on get out" he spoke gruffly to the man sitting in the cell.

"Oh what?" Mammon looked up surprised, "hey Acacia! You bailed me out?"

She just grabbed him by the collar and dragged him out of the building.

0"Thanks Kay, you're a lifesaver. I'll pay you back I swear, just give me a few weeks to–"

"Mammon this is your 4th offence in as many weeks. There wasn't a bail." She grumbled. Mammon blinked in confusion.

"So what you...bribed him?"

"Hmm" Acacia groaned anxiously. "Me and Bill kind-of have an... understanding." She responded cautiously. Mammon looked at his feet as he walked.

"Dang...thanks." it was genuine, and it made Acacia's cheeks heat up a little. "You're a good friend, you know that?"

What.

"Haha…" Acacia laughed nervously to cover the way her stomach sank. Good friend indeed. "Well, no more pick-pocketing people in the park, you're at the mercy of the law now and if you end up going to court I can't save you."

"Hah! I can worm my way out of much worse than 'human court'." He spoke with air quotes.

"Not without an ID you can't."

"I got a guy for that," he winked.

"That…" she put her hand on her face in exasperation. "will get you in even more trouble, doofus."

Mammon just rolled his eyes.

They walked along in silence, the stores were starting to close for the evening and the sky was growing dark from the setting sun. The air began to chill and Acacia found herself rubbing her arms that were exposed by her short sleeve shirt.

Something in a shop window caught her attention. The mannequin wore the most wonderful jacket she'd ever seen. Black leather studded with silver bands and embroidery. Long as a trenchcoat and cut perfectly for a shapely hour-glass figure. The hood was lined with incredibly soft- looking faux fur. So many pockets she was sure she could lose Mammon in it. Oh it was so punk and awesome and warm looking, and the shop was closing in 15 minutes!

Quickly she rushed to the door of the store, hoping they had more than just a display, hoping they had her size. She stopped with her hand on the door handle.

It was then that she got a look at the price tag. Definitely not something she could spend on a coat, much less an impulse buy. Reaching into her pants pockets she realized she couldn't buy it even if she was so frivolous. She'd spent the last of her paycheck from her part-time on bribing the police. Sighing she looked at the coat for a minute more before continuing down the street. Mammon stared after her.

What the heck was that?

"Kay! Wait up." He rushed to catch up with her. "You really just gonna let that coat go? That was real Italian leather, trust me I have an eye for these things." He elbowed her in the side.

"Oh well...I already have a coat at home, and it's way too much for just a coat." She waved it off. She wasn't too disappointed, she was used to pinching pennies and not getting what she wanted every time. That and she knew there would be other cool coats. Mammon was still incredulous.

"Just a coat? Kay, just a coat?? That is not just a coat, I saw the way your face lit up. That is a really cool coat. Don't you deserve something really cool?"

"No more than the next girl" she shrugged. She wasn't special, if anything she was just annoying and awkward, she had accepted it.

"No you're not getting it, it's not just a coat." He circled around and stood in front of Acacia, blocking her from continuing home. "It's...the feeling of sliding the card across the scanner and getting something new! It's the hanger that no longer sits empty in your closet. It's the knowledge that every time you step outside, not only will you be warm, but you'll be the baddest bitch on the block guaranteed." He was practically salivating.

Acacia hid her smile with her hand. He was like an excited dog.

"You have a serious spending problem, Mammon" she rolled her eyes and kept walking.

0"Levi!"

"No"

"Aww come on," Mammon sat down next to Levi on the floor in front of the PlayStation. "I didn't even get to say anything."

"You wanna borrow money."

"Well I mean if you're offering…" Mammon responded quickly.

"No! Even if I was born yesterday and thought you might actually pay me back, I don't have any. Take your panhandling elsewhere." Levi didn't look up from his game.

"Fine" he grumbled. Guess his brothers were as broke as him, who would have human money?

Turning his eyes to the kitchen he noticed MC turned away from him, cooking. That could be a good start. Sliding up behind them he planted one hand on the counter in front of them and spoke quietly in their ear.

"Hey MC, whatcha makin'?" They smiled slightly.

"Mac and cheese, your brother won't eat unless I make him."

"You're gonna make Lucifer eat kraft mac and cheese?" He shook his head.

"He'll eat rocks on bread if I make it for him cause he knows he can't cook for shit. What do you want?" They turned abruptly to face him, arms folded across their chest.

"I uh…" he always got flustered when MC talked to him like that. "Well I was wondering...um maybe...heh uh...you know you could…"

"Before we're dead."

"Ah so I wanted to know where I could get some money?" He said a little too quickly.

"You could try a job." They shrugged, turning back to their cooking. Him? Mammon? Work?

Obviously they weren't in the mood to give him a loan, and he thought even his most sophisticated scams wouldn't make it past their radar. None of his brothers had human money... maybe a job was his only option.

As he weighed his opinions he didn't notice Acacia peeking at him from the hallway. She pushed down the jealousy rising in her chest, she had nothing to be jealous of. She had no claim on who Mammon liked and she knew that. Still she couldn't help the envy and self hatred that rose when she saw how he stumbled over himself talking to MC.

Why wouldn't he like them more after all? They were straightforward and confident and knew exactly who they were and what they wanted. They were so good with people and stressful situations...what did Acacia have in comparison?

Sometimes it felt like everyone she'd ever liked ended up liking MC.

Sighing, she stepped back into the bathroom. She didn't want to embarrass him while he was trying to talk to MC.

But Mammon didn't have MC on his mind at the moment. He was thinking of money as he paced down the street. He was thinking of finally getting those boots he'd been eyeing. But apparently work was the only way to do that. He shivered at the thought.

He could always walk around town and... see what he could rustle up. It was a tried and true method of fast-cash-grabbing. He probably wouldn't get caught again. His pace slowed as he actually weighed the potential consequences.

Acacia bailed him out yesterday, and three times before that. It couldn't have been cheap, and his brothers probably would've just let him rot in holding to teach him a lesson. Even if he was 90% sure he wouldn't be caught…

He couldn't bring himself to believe it was enough.

Coming to a full stop he looked at his shoes as he processed what he was going to do. He could, in theory, just not work and not get the boots. The only question was whether he was more willing to work...or to not buy stuff.

There was really only one option here huh.

Squaring his shoulders he continued his stride, this time with more purpose. The purpose of getting a j-huaeh.

Ehem, sorry he gagged a little.

The purpose of getting a job! Surely it wouldn't be that hard.

0Mammon had worked in customer service for 2 days. He was never going to work again, he couldn't, boots weren't worth it. A woman spit on him. Actually spit on him.

And he couldn't even peel her skin off! He just had to take it like a trained dog. He was over it. Stomping down the street he started mentally plotting his elaborate job-quitting scenario. Then a familiar store caught his eye.

There in the window was the same jacket Acacia had been eyeing. He only looked for a moment before continuing down the street. He didn't know why she wanted that thing, it wasn't even designer.

And she couldn't afford it cause she had to bail him out. No, he shook his head, she couldn't have afforded it anyway cause she's poor and can't spend a lot on a stupid coat.

Oh...that was worse.

If she couldn't even afford a coat there was no way she could afford to bribe the cops on a regular basis. So why did she? Why was she helping when she didn't really have the means? Was she hoping he'd do something for her?

Or... maybe she was just being nice. Maybe she bailed him out once cause she was a good friend but then he kept being a selfish prick and getting himself in trouble. He turned around and looked back at the coat.

It really was a simple wish.

He made a decision, he'd make it up to Acacia. She'd been nice and hadn't asked him for anything. She hadn't even called him stupid when he screwed up, she just gave him tips to stay out of future trouble.

He'd postpone quitting for a while. A different scenario started to take form in his mind. One that wasn't as elaborate, but just as important.

0Acacia was upset that Mammon had been so flustered around MC, but she had come to terms with it. She trudged up the stairs, still tired from school, and flopped onto the bed. Distant conversation caught her ears.

"You can't expect me to eat that, it's not–"

"Eat the damn mac, Lucifer."

Rolling her eyes she turned to lay on her side and got a face full of leather.

What?

Sitting up she examined the foreign garment. Without explanation or credit, there on her bed sat a brand new coat.

The very one she wanted.

#obey me!#obey me fanfic #Holy Hands

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ansgar-martinsson · 4 years ago

Text

The Best Intentions - Part 21

“I know aptitude when I see it. Selfish of me, really. Get them whilst they’re young and all that. Get my pickings of the talent pool early on.” Ansgar replied. He leaned on the edge of her desk, his leg dangling, his shined brown loafer just scraping the floor. A curl of his fingers and he inspected his nails, trying to appear nonchalant as his mind worked. He debated revealing what he was about to say, what he was about to tell her. He knew he’d pressed her buttons enough intentionally that afternoon, and he wondered if exposing her to more of his… his humanity… would send her reeling.

Which is exactly what he wanted to do, to show her the reality that was himself, to draw her out of her shell, to draw her deeper into him; but he also knew when too much was too much. He’d read her. Read her like Shakespeare for Dummies just how much his very presence in front of her brother, in front of her nephews, in front of her entire family rattled her. He couldn’t help but wonder how she would react, how beautifully insane she would be when he met mother for the first time.

For that was something else he knew – a simple corporate background check can reveal a plethora of information – that she lived with her mother. That her mother was ill. That she cared for her mother. And that endeared her to him, but he wouldn’t admit that to her… not yet. He wouldn’t admit that it made him a little jealous, actually - as Ansgar’s father had died young, and his mother had all but ignored him in the past few years. Shelved him and his mad life in favour of the stability of Magnus and his family. Which was fine. Ansgar understood the doting grandmother role, Ansgar knew he could never gift Joanna with grandchildren himself, but, even as tough and as sharp and as jaded as he was - sometimes a man just needed to talk to his mother.

And his own was distant. Unavailable. Uninterested.

Something, after Faye left him, he swore he would never be to those he cared for.

“Her nephew,” he began, still picking one nail with his thumbnail. “Faye’s nephew, Rufus. He was like that. Like Adrian and Hugo. Brilliant, curious, mechanically inclined. Genius level, nearly.” He brought the fingernail to his teeth, scraping a tiny fleck of dirt out from beneath the corona. “I had him in my tutoring program a few years back. He excelled. Designed a working lift crane of all things - something that I ran by my own engineers. Had it built, and now I use it on smaller-scale projects.”

“Do you… do you still see him at all?” She turned around then, crossed her arms over her chest and rest back against her bookcase.

Ansgar sighed. “No,” he said. “I had a row with his father shortly after Faye left me. Threatened to kill the man, actually, so… no. I haven’t seen Rufus in two years. He’ll be fifteen this April. Nearly grown.”

“I’m… I’m sorry,” she said.

“Eh,” he shrugged, pushing himself off the desk. “It’s no matter now, is it?” He strode over to her, took her by the shoulders and planted a gentle yet firm kiss upon her lips, opening up to her quiet whimper, and the caress of her hands on his back. “I will see you at eight, darling,” he said. “Be ready by ten minutes before.”

“Why?”

“We’re having a quiet night in tonight, my place. At eight. Dinner - casual, of course - and a film in my home theatre, and whatever follows.” He smiled broadly, teeth pulling sensually at his lower lip. “Mickhail will pick you up at ten minutes until eight.” His finger traced the line of her cheek to caress over her bottom lip. “Don’t leave him waiting. He gets very cranky if he’s made to wait.”

“I won’t.”

Wink. “I know.”

****

And true to his command, Ansgar’s door chime sounded at eight o’clock on the dot. He grinned broadly as he opened the door to the elevator lobby, but that grin morphed quickly into a breathy look of astonishment, of pure desire, at the very sight of her. “Jesus, Joline,” he blurted, “you look…amazing.”

And she did, dressed as she was in a leather trimmed black blouse and a tight pair of studded and decorated jeans, the cuffs resting just at her ankles above a pair of high heeled shoes. Not the Louboutins, that time, but Ansgar found her own shoes to be somehow sexier. Her hair was done up in a high, fluffed-out ponytail, wisps of hair caressed her simply made up cheeks. A bit of eyeliner, some blush and a bright red lipstick.

“I’m casual. You said casual,” she dipped her head shyly, batting her eyelashes at him.

“I did, didn’t I?” his voice broke slightly. “Yes. You… you’re perfect.”

“As are you,” she smirked, fingering the collar of his blue linen shirt, tucked neatly into a pair of black jeans, held up by a leather belt and a decorative, yet tasteful belt buckle.

“Come in, please,” he said, gesturing. “I….” he hesitated. “I’ve a bit of a surprise for you.”

She smiled as she stepped past him into the foyer. “Oh, really?”

“Yes.” He chewed his lips together, like a small child upon entering a toy store for the first time. “Come with me.” He took her hand and crossed the expansive entry way. He turned her, took her by the shoulders and sat her down on a white leather chaise near the piano. He bent to her and indulged in a long, ardent kiss, licking his lips at the end of it.

“So what’s my surprise?” She whispered against his lips.

“I never did get to play for you,” he said. “Last night. We… never used the piano for its intended purpose.” He shuddered, remembering how he had taken her over the closed lid of the polished ebony Steinway, how she rode him as he sat on the leather piano bench, her legs wrapped around his waist and how she…. oh!

“No, we never did,” she smiled. “Are you… are you going to play for me now? Is that my surprise?”

He nodded, his smile almost shy, his eyes blinking, averting hers. “Only if you want me to.”

He felt her hands, warm and soft and gentle, on either side of his face. She pushed, gentle pressure to turn his gaze to hers. She pulled, drawing him closer to her, drawing him to where she could grace the tip of his nose with a soft, pillowy press of her lips. “It’s perfect. Yes. I want you to. I want to hear you play…. you fucking virtuoso.”

He barked a laugh. “I did say that, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, you did,” she shrugged. “Mind you it was in the throes of passion, but you know what they say about truth in it.”

“I thought it was truth in jest.”

“Jesting, fucking, it’s all the same.”

He laughed outright then. “Yeah, I guess it is.” He nodded, readying himself. “Okay.” He sat down on the piano bench, playfully tossing an imaginary set of tuxedo tails out from behind him, making her laugh again before he pulled the bench forward, laid his hands on the piano, and breathed.

In.

Out.

And with a roll of his hands, a closing of his eyes, a hunch of his shoulders and a melt of his muscles, he played.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wpRzZojcP40

As became Ansgar’s modus operandi with her, what Joline expected him to play on the piano and what he actually played were polar opposites. Worlds apart, in fact. The man continued to knock her expectations off kilter and kept her guessing, continuously breaking the barrier down of the compartment she tried to keep him in.

After the afternoon she had, trying to keep him away from her family, his showing interest and even favor in them, Ansgar was more than a one night stand. He called her on her deflection for what it was and allowed her into his life, even if superficially. Who would do the same for a one night stand? As she sat, feet tucked up beside her on his lounge (judging by the amount of leather it took to make, cost more than her mother’s mini Cooper), she’d already exceeded the typical one encounter by double.

She had to try to remain distant and aloof to keep her heart. For one thing she knew for sure, Ansgar Martinsson could break her heart, devastate her without taking the pleasure in her utter destruction. As the proverbial saying went, the opposite of love wasn’t hate, it was indifference. As soon as he got his fill of their faux rebound, he’d forget about her.

All she needed to do was keep her head, stick to her word of no expectations, and enjoy the sex for however long he wanted her around. It would be so much easier to do that if he wasn’t so considerate of her, of her nephews, of her family. It was already complicated it with offering to tutor or find a tutor for her nephews. She couldn’t allow him to hurt them.

The dulcet, tremulous somber music poured from his fingers and his piano instead of some great showoff symphony of some well-known composer. Instead he chose a soothing, reflective piece with a smattering of a hopeful melody of playful high notes. This wasn’t a flashy complicated piece of an expert, this was beauty in simplicity, a classic case of less was more.

As for his skill in music, Ansgar’s boasts were on the mark, earning him every right to brag. He played as a virtuoso, focused, dedicated, respectful of the music. A lovely example of an instrument making its player shine, the piano a mere extension of him. Because this wasn’t about showing off or impressing his date (which he did effortlessly), his eyes remained on his hands or closed, his focus solely on the music and the product of the sound he made. He didn’t steal any glances her way to see how she responded or wink at her, and somehow that fact pointed to his authenticity as a musician.

When he was done, Joline applauded his efforts, grinning, appreciative that he didn’t show off like a rock star. “That was a beautiful piece, Sgar. Truly. Thank you for playing it for me.”

He bowed his head in humility, a rare moment for him. “I’m glad that you liked it.” He pushed to his feet after swinging sidesaddle on the piano bench. “Are you surprised?”

She nodded, biting her lower lip.

“It was written by my favorite composer.”

“I can tell.” Joline patted the lounge beside her, asking him to sit with her. “Your respect for it comes through. It makes sense.”

Ansgar sat beside her, his arm slung over the back, his hand hovering by her shoulder, cheating his body in her direction. “What makes sense?”

“What you do. There’s structure and mathematics and building materials in music as there are in construction,” she stated easily. “Music is made of notes, of course… but rhythms and melodies, chords and progressions, counterpoints and dynamics. Construction is about textures and structures, angles and perspectives.”

“I suppose that’s true. How do you know so much about it?” His fingers reached up and touched some of the strands of her ponytail.

She looked down at her folded hands in her lap. “My roommate in uni studied music, a concert pianist actually. I might have sat in a few music theory classes.”

He chuckled. “Did you make it a habit to sit in on classes outside your concentration?”

She laughed, her head angling coquettishly. “Not a habit, no. But there’s some overlap in my major, so I dipped my toe in the musical waters.”

“AH! You’re surrounded by musicians in your studies and in your job.”

She rolled her eyes, “Don’t worry, I won’t ask for hazard pay or overtime. I like the way you play.” She gestured for him to give her his hands when she waved her hands in her direction.

Ansgar willingly gave her both, pulling his arm down form the elevated position.

Joline tilted her head up and on a slant after tracing his elegant fingers with her own. “I always found musicians hands to be the sexiest.”

“Is that so?”

“Truly.”

“Is that why you fell into theatre management? To be around the musicians?”

Joline unraveled from her position, sliding her high heeled feet out from under to straight before her, slinging them over Ansgar’s lap. She felt more comfortable in his physical space and felt that familiar pull for his bedroom. “I wish I could claim that, but I’ve never been involved with a musician. Except for friends, of course… my roommate, my friends, my classmates. All musicians. With the most fascinatingly sexy hands. All of them.”

Ansgar layed his hands on her thigh, positioning them as if he played her like he did his Steinway, but he only brought her that little bit closer. “What was your uni like?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Typical, I guess. All night cram sessions, midnight runs to McDonalds for brain food, congregating in one room to play a board game or watch a film, mini refrigerators, ramen noodle dinners, empty pockets, endless laundry and schedules to clean the bathroom.”

“How did you learn that you wanted to be in theatre?”

She reclined back, pondering it for a moment, “Gosh, I don’t know. When the two show days didn’t kill me?” She laughed to herself, her mind reminiscing to try to answer his question. “My uni ran shows for four weeks, one performance on Thursday and Friday and two performances on Saturday and Sunday. I remember, we did a production of Oklahoma my sophomore year. I was stage manager, my first as stage manager. I had three assistant stage managers, fifty cast members, and a set designed by the devil himself. I remember lying on the floor of the green room between shows feeling so drained, the mental capacity to manage that many people and cues drained me. That’s when I discovered M&Ms.”

“The chocolates?”

“They’re mystical and magic. That’s what the M’s stand for, I think. I survived on M&Ms,” she said matter of fact, in all seriousness.

“You survived on a sugar high.”

“You call it sugar high, I call it the power of M&Ms. They still get me through rough seasons or runs. Don’t you have any rituals or things you swear by?”

Ansgar slid his hands up towards her hip, enjoying the feel of her soft denim and her firm flesh underneath. “Oh, I don’t know. I suppose I do.”

She gave him a comfortable lead, but he didn’t elaborate on that. She found her opportunity to inspect the jagged and raised flesh on his arm. The scar had caught her attention more than once, but she never got the chance to ask in their fever to get physical. “What happened here?” she asked quietly, caressing her hand up and down the uneven scar tissue.

#the best intentions

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mxliv-oftheendless · 5 years ago

Text

Green Wounds, Ch. 6

Alright, we’re back with Green Wounds! I gave you guys a short filler that ended on a bit of a cliffhanger last time, but I promise this’ll make up for it! At least, I hope so lol. I’m actually seriously excited for you guys to read this chapter; it’s the first thing I wrote for this story, and it’s quite possibly my favorite scene out of the whole dang thing. I really really hope I did this scene justice, but I guess I’ll find out. Also on a side note, this picture is my favorite so far lol I love it.

Now without further ado, read on and enjoy!

All manner of folk came to the baby prince’s christening, even a trio of pixies who sought to foster peace and goodwill.

The christening had been wonderful so far for all parties. Gifts had been given for the baby prince throughout the day, and at the moment a crowd of people from all over the kingdom was gathered in the throne room, dressed to their finest, while King Ace and Queen Jeanette sat on their thrones. Off to the side, on a lower platform, was a bassinet, and inside the bassinet was the baby prince himself.

He was a month old now, so it was still a bit too early to figure out where he had inherited most of his traits from, but most people who had seen him said he looked rather like his mother. He was a bit small for a normal baby, but other than that was healthy and happy. His parents had named their newborn son Eric, and Eric had spent most of the day either dozing or blinking up at the people who looked at him.

Many in the kingdom had left gifts for their new prince. But there were those who had decided to bestow gifts from outside the kingdom as well.

Tiny male voices floated into the room, and the King and Queen, as well as the crowd, looked up as three pixies flew into the throne room, dressed in pink, green, and blue. Two of them, the pink and blue pixies, seemed to be bickering, while the green pixie was looking around in fascination.

As they flew closer to the King and Queen, the green pixie’s eyes fell on the cradle, and he grinned excitedly. “Look, there’s the baby!” he said to the other two, pointing to the bassinet. “I love babies!”

“Yes, I know, Erik, but concentrate, please,” the pink one said to him. “I’m not telling you again.”

Queen Jeanette smiled welcomingly at them as they hovered in front of the thrones, while King Ace gave them a look that seemed rather… impassive.

The pink pixie, who seemed to be the leader, went first. “Greetings, Your Majesties. I am Vinnie of the Moorland Fair Folk.” He bowed to them.

The blue pixie went next, also bowing. “I’m Tommy, Your Kingship… and, Queenship.”

The green pixie bowed next. “And I’m Erik, Your Royalnesses.”

Queen Jeanette looked at him. “Forgive me, but your name is Erik?”

Erik looked rather surprised at being directly acknowledged, but after getting a gesture to reply from Vinnie he bowed his head again. “Uh, yes… ma’am. Erik with a ‘K’.”

Queen Jeanette smiled slightly. “How funny—that is the name of our son.”

The pixie now was incredibly surprised. “Really?”

“Indeed… though his name is Eric with a ‘C’.”

Erik smiled. “Huh,”

Queen Jeanette turned to her husband, who was still looking silently at the pixies. “They bring gifts for our son, I believe,”

“We do,” Tommy said, smiling eagerly. He made excited gestures with his hands. “But these are not just any old gifts. For you see, we are magic!”

“And very good with children,” Vinnie couldn’t help but add.

King Ace seemed to be considering how to reply, and for a moment the pixies wondered if he would turn them down. But then he nodded and waved his hand. “Very well. Go on.”

The pixies grinned at each other, then flew over to the bassinet. Vinnie went first, smiling down at Eric and waving his hands, sending wisps of pink magic over the baby boy. “Sweet Eric, I wish for you the gift of kindness,”

He flew to the side and let Tommy go next. Twisting blue magic cascaded over the prince. “My wish is that you will never be blue, only happy, all the days of your life,”

Last to go was Erik. He smiled eagerly and let light green magic curl around his hands. “Sweet baby, my wish for you, is that you find—”

He never finished.

A powerful gust of wind tore through the room, blowing out all the candles and making the chandeliers groan and creak as they swayed dangerously above everyone’s heads. Grey clouds rolled over the sun, dimming its cheerful light and throwing the throne room into a light shadow. The powerful wind threw some of the people off-balance, and the three pixies were forced to grip the edge of the cradle so they wouldn’t be blown away. Cries of fear went up.

Then a dark shadow appeared on the wall, and footsteps echoed through the hall along with the constant, rhythmic tap of a walking stick. The cries died down to shocked, fearful murmurs as the crowd parted to make way for the surprise guest and the inky-black cat that followed at his heels.

Despite his best efforts to stay calm, Ace’s entire face went pale. In her throne beside him, Queen Jeanette could only stare blankly, though she was looking rather intimidated. The eyes of the three pixies widened and they whispered in panicked voices, “Starchild!”

A few more steps toward the thrones, and the dark figure came into the partially-dim sunlight.

It was indeed Starchild. Compared to the humans surrounding him, the faerie was perhaps of average height. But what he lacked in stature he made up in appearance. His paper-white face, the black star over his eye, and his blood-red lips all made for an off-putting look, combined with the look of cold, mild amusement on his face, as though the fear of the humans was simply rather entertaining. He wore all black—a black jacket with silver-studded collar and cuffs over a black and silver very-low-cut vest, black leather pants, and black platform boots that raised him up a few inches, all underneath a long black cape that showed off scatterings of silver glitter when he moved. In his left hand was his black walking stick, the constant echoing taps making everyone go silent. His entire appearance gave off a sort of poise and terrifying elegance. His cold eyes, which were fixated particularly on Ace as he approached, had a gleam of sinister anticipation—he’d made the right choice in choosing to bide his time. He’d been waiting so long for this day, and right now, it felt so much better than it would have been if he had just destroyed everything at once.

Not that he planned on doing that at all, however. Oh no; he was going to make sure everything Ace had worked for his entire life would slowly and systematically crumble.

When he had neared the steps to the platform where the cradle was, he finally stopped, with one final echoing tap of his walking stick. Starchild kept the cold look of amusement on his face. “Well, well,” he said pleasantly, as though this all was simply mildly yet pleasantly surprising. He let a sinister smile creep onto his face as he glided up the steps, his cape trailing behind him and Peter following.

“What a glittering assemblage, King Ace.” His tone was clearly mocking, and the fact that he was speaking directly to Ace made Queen Jeanette’s head turn to look at her husband. Peter jumped up to sit on his shoulder, and Starchild raised a hand to idly stroke his fur as he looked around at the crowd in pretend-interest. “Royalty, nobility, the gentry, and…” He turned to see the pixies by the cradle, Vinnie trying to glare at him. His smile widened, now having a tinge of genuine amusement, and he chuckled. He’d been wondering where the three pixies had disappeared to. “How quaint,” he sneered. “Even the rabble.”

Tommy and Erik sank down slightly, lowering their gazes, while Vinnie bravely stayed where he was.

Starchild turned from them to look back at Ace, and very nearly frowned. His face was still pale, and he looked afraid… but not afraid enough.

Starchild raised his head and projected his voice so that it echoed throughout the hall. “I must say,” he kept his voice light, full of faux-concern, “I really felt quite distressed at not receiving an invitation…” he trailed off, blinking innocently at Ace, as though to imply he wanted an explanation.

Ace finally spoke. “You’re not welcome here.” His voice was curt, but too quiet to be actually threatening.

The expectant look dropped from Starchild’s face, replaced by a look reminiscent of a kicked puppy. His eyes lowered, and he let out whimpering noises, as though he were about to burst into tears.

Then the look flipped into one of cruel humor, and instead of crying, Starchild smiled and began to laugh sinisterly. “Oh dear,” he chuckled. “What an awkward situation…”

Queen Jeanette leaned forward, her face still one of fear. “But you’re not offended?” she asked Starchild, her voice sounding slightly hopeful. Despite how much he was enjoying himself, he felt a quick pang of sympathy for the woman. She couldn’t be blamed for all this, and unlike her husband, she was afraid simply because of his frightening display. It wasn’t her fault she was married to such a horribly selfish man.

But even so…

Starchild turned to her, laughing lightly. “Oh, you silly dear,” he smiled sweetly at her like she was a cute little girl, “of course not. And to show that I bear no ill will… I, too, shall bestow a gift on the child.”

At that, Ace shot to his feet, now as afraid as Starchild wanted him to be. “No! We don’t want your gift!”

Peter hissed at him, and surprisingly, it made Ace fall still as Starchild glided over to the cradle.

“Stay away from the prince!” Vinnie demanded as he neared.

Tommy and Erik flew back up again. “Yes, stay away!” Erik echoed.

Starchild smirked. How adorable. With a simple flick of his hand he sent the pixies flying across the room into a small ornate chest, the lid slamming over them and trapping them inside.

Peter jumped off his shoulder onto the cradle’s canopy, and they both looked down at the baby boy lying inside. He stared uncomprehendingly back at Starchild, making the faerie wonder if he even knew what was going on… or what was about to happen.

Starchild stared at the baby for a long moment, letting out a remarking hum. It was the ever-so-annoying conscientious part of him that was making him pause. Are you really so cruel as to curse a little baby? it whispered, sounding desperate. He’s done nothing to you. It’s Ace you want to harm. If you do this, there’s no turning back.

But then Starchild thought of his wings. His beautiful black wings, the wings he’d never thought to cherish more until he no longer could. The wings that had been ripped away by the man who told him he loved him, all so he could have some meaningless crown on his head.

Starchild lifted his hand and made a slow circular motion in the air, deep purple magic swirling around his fingers. “Listen well, all of you,” he proclaimed, his voice echoing once more. He waved his hand so that waves of the deep purple magic cascaded over the baby boy. “The prince shall indeed grow in grace and kindness… beloved by all who meet him…”

Queen Jeanette, who had stood up alongside Ace, spoke again, perhaps in an attempt to mollify him. “Th-That’s a lovely gift,”

Starchild raised his head to glance at her, then turned his eyes to Ace. Ace shook his head at him, not quite pleading, but still rather desperately. “Don’t do this,” he begged, his voice so low only Starchild could hear.

How funny; he assumed he had a say in the matter.

Starchild raised a finger and pressed it to his red lips, almost playfully. Then he turned to straighten up and step away from the cradle. This was where, to use the human phrase, the other shoe would drop. And oh, would it drop.

But as Starchild turned his head, something in the far corner of the room caught his eye.

It was a spinning wheel, pushed haphazardly into the corner, but placed in such a way that the spindle still caught some sunlight. The tip of the spindle gleamed especially brightly.

Starchild almost grinned as his plan changed. He thought his original plan had been good… but this was even better.

“But…” He stepped away from the cradle so he was in the center of the platform, and lifted his arms. Deep purple magic trailed after his hands and enveloped his body like flames as his eyes gleamed the same purple. “Before the sun sets on his sixteenth birthday, he will prick his finger on the spindle of a spinning wheel, and fall into a sleep like death! A sleep from which he will never awaken!”

A wave of the purple magic left him and traveled over to the baby boy, washing over him as his curse began to bind itself to the infant.

Whatever pride that had kept Ace from outright pleading was now gone. “Starchild, please don’t do this! I’m begging you!” He sounded incredibly desperate now.

Starchild’s mouth quirked up in a smile. Now that was the reaction he’d been hoping for. But now his mind was turning again. Perhaps he could work with this…

“I like you begging,” he remarked to Ace, his enjoyment in his voice. “Do it again.”

For a moment, Ace hesitated. His eyes left Starchild to look out at the now-silent crowd, who had been watching the entire thing. He didn’t particularly want to kneel, Starchild knew.

He was about to repeat his command when Ace slowly sank down to his knees. His eyes flicked briefly to the men watching from the side, before gazing at him imploringly. “I beg you,”

Starchild smiled wickedly at him. “All right,”

Hesitant relief came to Ace’s expression, but it quickly vanished when Starchild spoke aloud again. “The prince can be woken from his death-sleep. But only by…” he stared right at Ace, “true love’s kiss.”

He turned to look out at the crowd, raising his arms above his head. “This curse will last to the end of time!” he declared, his magic coiling tightly around him. “No power on Earth can change it!”

The magic exploded, flying out over the crowd and sending many to the ground. The crowd screamed in panic as the floor rumbled and the clouds outside darkened until they blocked out the sun’s light completely.

Grinning widely, Starchild walked briskly down the steps and left the hall, Peter bounding after him. He was sure he would never forget this day—it had turned out to be so much better than he could have possibly hoped. Intoxicating joy surged through him, and he threw back his head and began to laugh as he left the hall. It was a loud, wicked cackle that bounced off the walls and bore into the skulls of all who heard it. As Queen Jeanette raced to the cradle to check on her son, Ace stayed where he was, watching Starchild strut away, cackling loudly and carelessly.

And his laughter was all Ace could hear as Starchild swept out of the hall and vanished.

#green wounds #chapter six #we have finally reached my favorite chapter!!!#oh my god guys you don't even know how freakin FUN it was to write this #it was SO. MUCH. FUN.#starchild kicks his revenge plan into motion #ace is helpless to do anything to stop him #meanwhile queen Jeanette has no clue what's going on #honestly I felt sorry for the queen #she was like the only innocent one in the entire debacle #also the baby prince is introduced!#yep: it's ERIC!#if you're thinking the fox has something to do with this you are correct #at least partly #the fox also mostly means something else #but anyway...#hope I did this awesome scene justice!#seriously it's like the highlight of the movie for me #maleficent au #kiss au writing #my writing #hope you enjoyed!#stay tuned for chapter seven!#picture this time comes from pintrest

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artemismoon12writes · 4 years ago

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Title: Autumn Boy, or The Halloween Special

Summer Boy speculation.

“Whatever, you’re here now and I get to subject you to an entire Hollywood party.” Julian said turning towards the mirror as Sneakers mewed happily at Dwight’s scritches. “You’re going to freak out so much, Cameron went all out with his costume.”

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing here.” Julian said, leaning out over the balcony of his mother’s Hollywood Hills mansion. The night was cool in the October air, but never missing the promise of humidity below the surface that permeated California even on the driest summer days. “What? You were the one who invited me.” Dwight sounded hurt. It shouldn’t surprise him, but surely Dwight should know better by now that Julian did most things not expecting a yes. “You texted me asking if I wanted to come to your Halloween party; and it sounded better than whatever Windsor was thinking up.” “I swore you’d have better things to do. Like I don’t know, make sure the Tweedles don’t contact the wrong spirits with an Ouija board?” Julian suggested. “Hold a séance? Hunt ghosts trapped on the mortal plane?” Dwight shrugged, “If they choose to mess with an Ouija board that’s on them. I leave those tools to Sadie because she’s better at the procedure than I am. If I have to clean up their horror movie later, well it’s better I don’t cringe at their bad execution.” “There’s a procedure?” “Yeah, it’s kind of necessary for any summoning spell.” Dwight didn’t sound surprised he didn’t know that; but unlike a few months back, he wasn’t freaking out that Julian didn’t know what might be fairly standard supernatural knowledge. “You have to cleanse the area before and after, make sure you’re not summoning any malicious spirits, and you need to release the spirits after the encounter or else you trap them in the circle… that is if you even create a circle in the first place. I doubt the twins will do that… I’m just going to prepare for the worst when I get back.” “Which might be a total haunted house?” “There are so many ghosts already in Dalton Academy so having them concentrated might actually make them easier to hunt.” Dwight shrugged, “Besides, Kurt is already cursed so Windsor might be the same when I get back.” “Cursed?” Julian tried to hide him amusement at the description of his frenemy. “I mean I didn’t like the guy but that’s pretty harsh.” “I’ll get Morgan to teach you how to see auras- his is all messed up. I blame that school he used to go to, it’s like on a whole ‘nother dimensional plane of weird. So probably not his fault.” Dwight leant against the railing. “You have a weird aura as well, not cursed but not normal though either.” Julian smirked. “I’m anything but normal Dwight, you should know that by now.” “Yeah.” Dwight smiled indulgently. “Not many people can get me on a plane; let alone to the West Coast. The traffic is horrible by the way, it took me far too long to get here from the airport.” “You say that like you didn’t meant to be late. You just wanted to avoid meeting my mom. That’s so unfair.” Julian pushed himself off the railing, heading back inside to where his costume was hanging over a chair. He’d already gotten his stylist to put something together earlier, and his mother’s makeup artist had already stopped by to help him out before putting his mother into her own Red Riding Hood outfit (she was going to a party at George Clooney’s house, so it wasn’t one for a true horror costume). Dwight followed, looking out of place in the soft greys and whites of the new bedroom that Dolce Larson had set up for her son (before his things arrived from their beach house). Just as out of place as Julian had looked in his he supposed; a dark figure against the fluffy white blanket on the bed, where Sneakers mewed softly up at him. Dwight didn’t seem to have any issues sitting on the edge of the bed, continuing the conversation. “It’s not unfair if it’s an honest mistake.” Dwight let Sneakers climb into his lap, getting white fur all over his black jeans. “Your mom is probably half as chill as mine, and the circumstances are probably much better.” What he doesn’t mention is that Dolce probably would eject him from the house as soon as he squirted her with holy water- which he did to Carlos, the cook hired for the party, and Julian, as he encountered them in that order. Julian, practically used to this by now, had already warned the makeup artist to use her strongest setting agents. The deep red painted down his chin didn’t even smudge. “Whatever, you’re here now and I get to subject you to an entire Hollywood party.” Julian said turning towards the mirror as Sneakers mewed happily at Dwight’s scritches. “You’re going to freak out so much, Cameron went all out with his costume.” “As in he actually made a deal to look like a demon?” Dwight asked. “No, as in he hired a great prosthetics team to make him look like a demon. Which, what’s the difference in this town?” Julian said, touching up the deep red dripping down from the corner of his mouth. There wasn’t much else to the look besides covering up non-existent blemishes but it wouldn’t look the same if he smudged it. “What are you even supposed to be?” Dwight asked, already at the mercy of the small kitten and was laying back across the bed with Sneakers padding all over his chest. “A vampire? I would have thought you’d get fangs in or something.” Julian rummaged through the pockets of the draped burgundy and black fabric over the chair, studded with faux decaying flowers and artfully torn edges before he found what he was looking for. He held the pomegranate up with a smirk, “I thought you’d appreciate it. Dramatic huh?” “Literally?” Dwight rolled his eyes. “Persephone? Why not Hades? I thought you weren’t trying to smack people over the head with your coming out, but ease them into it. It’s not a dress is it?” “Half toga and leather pants, again, I thought you’d appreciate it.” Julian tossed the prop over to have Dwight juggle with that and the demanding kitten on him. “You’re killing me here Larson.” Dwight said as Julian shook out, yep, genuine leather pants, from the pile of clothing. “I thought we were staying friends here.” “It’s up to you how you chose to interpret that.” Julian said. “Besides, I like the revisionist stories that are floating around. I have an idea to use one for an upcoming pitch- young beautiful god stolen away to the underworld, only to find her own power down there and come out more terrifying and strong than ever.” “So you’re going with Persephone, Queen of the Dead interpretation? You could have still done that with Hades, maligned of the three sons of Kronus who chose to rule the worst realm in the best way.” Dwight said, tossing the pomegranate into the air before catching it again. Sneakers batted at his hand and he paused to let the kitten inspect the prop and find it wanting before continuing. “You could still wear leather pants for that if you wanted. Hot modern Hades or something.” “Yeah, but Persephone is hotter.” Julian shrugged, “I also kind of wanted to make a point. I got dragged to hell, but I own it now.” Dwight looked up at the top part of the costume, noting the cluster of decaying flowers were in fact, half dead red roses. He let out a soft ‘oh’ and nodded. “I personally think my stylist went above and beyond for this personally.” Julian continued like he hadn’t brought down the mood a bit. “There’s also a collar involved, and arm bands. Got to make it look more Grecian even if it is a modern twist.” “You’re such a shit. A collar? Really? Do you want the internet to speculate for days? Your twitter mentions are going to be hell until Thanksgiving.” Julian clasped the silver band on anyways and had the distinct pleasure of hearing Dwight protest mostly to himself. “You’re so predictable White Knight.” “Yeah well you’re full of shit Cheshire.” Dwight propped himself up to Sneaker’s loud mewing protest. “Also, speaking of, the twins know.” Julian looked back. Dwight shrugged, already knowing the question Julian was about to ask. “I didn’t tell them. But they did ask me to say hi.” Hmm. Logan must have said something. “Do you mind them knowing?” “Well, they haven’t said anything yet. But I don’t really mind, again, I’m not the one in the closet.” “I’m working on it. It’s a delicate process.” “I know, I know. That wasn’t an attack, just the truth.” Dwight held up his hands. He tossed the prop back to Julian, who placed it on the desk. “What’s your costume anyways?” Julian asked, pulling off his shirt to put the costume on. “If I known you hadn’t brought one, I’d have gotten a Hades thrown together.” Dwight glared at Julian’s wicked grin. “You’re awful. I’m already wearing it, isn’t it obvious?” He picked up Sneakers and plopped him to the side as Julian adjusted the sleeves of his costume shirt. The armbands came next, but he was still paying attention to Dwight’s gesturing at his outfit, long trenchcoat, black everything, maybe a little more steampunk than normal but… pretty par for the course with Dwight. “You’re the Columbine shooter? That’s messed up.” Julian said ignoring Dwight’s swearing protest. “I’m not-“ “I know, I know. But you always wear a trenchcoat, it doesn’t even look like you tried.” Julian fastened the last band around his wrist. Dwight sighed, “Okay, maybe not without the hat, lemme grab it.” He got the hat from the corner of the room, and the dissembled crossbow he’d somehow gotten through security- again, pretty normal for Dwight. He shook his hair out of it’s ponytail and tried his innane gesturing again. “See?” “Nope.” Julian lent against the chair. “Unless you’re a Nice Guy who studies the blade in his mom’s basement.” “Come on! I’m Van Helsing! Even you should know that version of him!” Dwight was genuinely disappointed he hadn’t gotten it. But Julian just snorted. “You’re the living embodiment of Van Helsing day to day, excuse me if I don’t get your shitty movie references.” Julian was smiling though. “Hey, I thought you liked Hugh Jackman.” “It was a shitty movie. Admit it, this is just an excuse to be able to spray people with holy water and say you’re ‘in character’; it’s very method, I approve.” “Your standards for costumes are way too high. This is a new coat.” Dwight crossed his arms, annoyed. “I just have high standards. Luckily for you, you’re pretty.” Julian brushed his hair out of his face, knowing full well he was being a little shit and was completely uncaring about it. “Just friends remember?” Dwight said looking pained. “And friends help friends into their leather pants so they can knock everyone out at their Halloween Party. Sorry I don’t make the rules.” Sneakers wound through Dwight’s legs and mewed, as if agreeing with his owner. Dwight looked down and glared, “sure ‘into’. That’s the worst excuse I’ve ever heard.” “It’s an excuse though.” Julian said, not bothering with subtle as he placed his hands on Dwight’s chest. “Take it or leave it?” “This is really not helping the demon theory.” Dwight said monotone. “You already did the test, you just want plausible deniability for when Sadie asks you what you did when you go back.” Julian let his hands go lower. “Shut up.” And they did. Or at least until Carlos knocked on the door saying the guests were arriving soon, and it probably wouldn’t do to have the host missing… or pantsless with another guest until at least after midnight. Point made.

#daltonfic #summer boy #pg #otp #dwulian #dwight houston #julian larson #sd #artemiswrites

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leofemt · 8 years ago

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caution: beware of dog

The Seiseki soccer team decides to do a secret santa gag gift exchange for the holidays.

Someone gets Kimishita a leash and collar.

It ends... well.

on ao3.

NOTE: i hate this is so late aksldkdjsk

warning: actually not that much kink involved. well. its more the dynamic than anything else

this is ooc and wish fulfillment ;)

They're all crammed into one of the third-year dorms.

"Open your presents already!" Haibara shouts gleefully.

Kimishita, rolling his eyes, slides his fingers expertly under the tape on his gift, separating it from the wrapping paper in the meticulous way he'd learned to do as a child, unwrapping it in one piece before opening the hand-sized black box.

Inside...

It's a collar.

Kimishita blinks.

Not expensive, obviously- it's for a large dog, a fake black leather strip about an inch wide, with tiny, cheap metal studs embedded along it, and when he looks a little deeper he sees there's a thin leash too.

Kimishita can't help it.

He snorts in laughter.

The rest of the team laughs- Mizuki cocks his head, Usui chuckles. Kimishita rolls his eyes and drops the gift back in the box.

Ooshiba's eyes track its fall from Kimishita's hands into the cushioning.

~~~~~~

"Give that to me." Ooshiba glares.

"Eh?" Kimishita blinks, taken aback for once. "The collar? That gag gift? What do you want with that?"

Ooshiba rolls his eyes, presumably because of what he percieves to be Kimishita's stupidity, and grabs the collar out of Kimishita's hand. He pauses to register the feel of the fake leather against his fingers before unlatching it, the clasp where it's linked to the leash still tethered in Kimishita's other fist jingling, and Kimishita's eyes widen as Ooshiba brings his hands up to fasten the collar around his own throat.

"What the hell-" Kimishita starts. His eyes are fixed on where the black strip marks against Ooshiba's skin.

When his hands come away, Ooshiba's face is stretched in a vicious smile.

He grabs hold of the leash in the middle, where it's hanging between them, and yanks- Kimishita instinctively tightens his grip, and the result is him being forced to stumble a half-step closer to this nutcase.

"I'm gonna drag you around with this, Kimishita." Ooshiba grins. "Can you handle a dog like me?"

Kimishita forgets to breathe.

This isn't some out-of-character submission.

This is a challenge.

A similarly sinister, sharp smile spreads across Kimishita's lips, and he wraps the leash a few times in his fist before jerking his hand down, reveling in Ooshiba's choke of surprise when his head is pulled almost level with Kimishita's.

Honestly, what did he expect, tying a noose around his neck and giving Kimishita the end of the rope?

"Try me." He grins, watching the way every muscle in Ooshiba's body seems to tense in anticipation.

~~~~~~

"Mucchan!"

"Hmm?" Mucchan looks up from his work. "What?"

The other second-year snorts.

"You dumbass," he says, "Kimishita was your assignment, right? What the fuck were you thinking, getting that guy a dog collar?"

Mucchan laughs.

"I dunno." He shrugs. "'member, last year, Kimishita kept talkin' about how forwards were his dogs or something? I thought it'd be funny."

His friend shakes his head at his stupidity, smiling nonetheless.

~~~~~~

[11:38] Stupid Kiichi: come to my place.

[11:45] Kimishita: Don't text in class, idiot.

[11:45] Stupid Kiichi: dont tell me what 2 do!

[11:45] Stupid Kiichi: tonight.

[11:50] Kimishita: Why?

[11:50] Stupid Kiichi: bc i want u to.

[11:50] Kimishita: Is that a reason???

[11:50] Kimishita: ...Fine.

[11:50] Kimishita: I'll hear you out.

~~~~~~

Kimishita sticks his hand in his pocket, the other preoccupied with the Seiseki bag slung over his shoulder.

It's fairly cold, being winter, and he tries to shrink even deeper into his warm coat as he walks, breath fogging in the air. It's not quite dark, but when he finally gets up to the front door of Ooshiba's house he's slightly glad and raises one hand to press the doorbell.

The door opens almost right away.

"You came." Ooshiba says, staring at him.

Kimishita shrugs.

"I decided to." He replies, shifting from foot to foot. "Are you going to let me in?"

Ooshiba moves out of the doorway.

"You gonna tell me what I'm doing here?" Kimishita snarks, stepping inside and toeing his shoes off, leaving them neatly by the door. "Or-"

"Did you bring it?" Ooshiba interrupts, watching him. Everything about him- the way he stands, the way he turns his head, the way he tenses his fingers- screams restrained hunger.

Kimishita narrows his eyes. He'd had a feeling about this...

"What," he says, "is this why you called me over?" He looks sideways, upwards at Ooshiba. Ooshiba scowls and looks down at him.

"Tell me." He insists, and Kimishita rolls his eyes and takes his bag off his shoulder, unzipping it and pulling out the thing he knows Ooshiba is asking about- he can tell from the lack of other shoes by the door that no one but Ooshiba is home, but it remains to be seen how long that will last.

"Your room." Kimishita says, feeling the cheap leather texture in his hands- the idea of this strap cinched tight around Kiichi's throat gives him a little thrill, he's not going to deny that.

Ooshiba huffs.

"Make me." He challenges, staring Kimishita down until Kimishita scowls at him and unclasps the collar at the metal buckle, leaning up to wrap the black leather around Kiichi's neck, against his smooth skin. Ooshiba shivers.

"Who would have thought you want something like this." Kimishita murmurs, almost softly, and smiles when Ooshiba lets him clip the collar well around his neck, sees the tension bleed out of his shoulders when Kimishita runs his fingers around the edges, makes sure it's not too tight, and leans back to give an exploratory tug on the leash.

"Shut up." Ooshiba grunts, but he's perfectly still- not his usual constant movement, restless chatter, but a kind of almost-calm that seems to flood him at the locking of the collar around his throat.

Kimishita legs about half a grin creep up his face.

"So you are capable of shutting up and listening to other people for three seconds." He faux-muses. "They just have to do this to you."

He pulls a little bit on the leash, just the tiniest bit downwards, and Ooshiba lets out a tiny gasp of surprise before jerking his head back upwards, making Kimishita scowl and really yank on the leash, forcing Ooshiba to arch his back forward, the breath leaving his lungs in a huff.

"You keep pulling me down to your eye level." He laughs, out of breath, eyes never leaving Kimishita's, eating at the hunger he can see there. "Compensating for something?"

Kimishita scowls blackly and whacks him in the head. Ooshiba yelps and recoils- Kimishita lets him, slackening his grip on the leash.

"I didn't come here to fuck around the whole time." Kimishita mutters, not letting go of the lead, but sliding his hand into the loop so that it circles his wrist like a bracelet and pulling the other boy through the house, to his room, making his way to Ooshiba's desk, dropping his bag on the floor next to it and sitting in the desk chair. "I have actual work to do, too, you know."

Ooshiba follows, helpless to do anything else, and stands awkwardly by the desk as Kimishita takes out his language textbook and opens it to what looks like the homework due tomorrow that Ooshiba hasn't done- he huffs and crosses his arms, turning his head the slightest bit and feeling the collar settle around his neck.

"What am I supposed to do?" He asks angrily, because Kimishita hasn't given him any instructions, even though he's holding onto his throat by one intentfully relaxed hand. He sure as hell doesn't need Kimishita's instruction, but he wants-

"Sit down." Kimishita interrupts his train of thought, not looking up from his book. His voice is different from when they bicker and argue- authoritative, and Ooshiba scowls even as his shoulders tense. "Do some work for once, or something."

Ooshiba glances around.

"I can't sit on the bed from here." He complains, dropping his arms from where they're crossed on his chest but leveling a petulant glare at the side of Kimishita's head. When that doesn't provoke a response besides a twitch in Kimishita's brow and- what's that- a slight flush, Ooshiba frowns and tugs on his end of the leash, pulling Kimishita's left hand and disturbing the paper he's writing on, letting his pencil scrawl a chalky gray mark trailing off the side of the sheet and onto the desk.

Kimishita stops moving.

Ooshiba swallows.

The motion makes his adam's apple bob against the restrictive strap of the collar, and he feels himself tense when Kimishita slowly turns to him, the most irritated look Ooshiba's seen today settling between his furrowed brows-

"Kiichi," he starts, "sit the fuck down."

Ooshiba glares.

"You think you're gonna get me to sit on the floor?" He sneers, and he can feel the spirit of their antagonism rising in his chest, setting him alight- this is good, this is familiar, except Kimishita is holding the end of the leash that's hooked to the black collar around his throat, and Kimishita looks him directly in the eyes, seeing his challenge, and pulls slowly but firmly on the leash, dragging Ooshiba down.

"Are you," Kimishita scowls, "going to sit down?"

Ooshiba sits down.

~~~~~~

It's unexpectedly nice.

That's the thought gradually creeping up on Ooshiba, and he flips a page, letting a hand wander idly to the strap around his neck, running a finger under it, between the leather and his skin. He sighs and pulls his knees almost to his chest, as far up as he can with his horrendous flexibility, and dumps his book on the ground, burying his head in his arms.

Something presses the top of his head.

Ooshiba tenses, and almost looks up, about to tell Kimishita off for propping things up on him- he's not a table, even if he is on the ground- but a moment later fingers slide almost gently through his hair, touching his scalp, and he really does freeze. Kimishita's hand cards through his hair, softly, and Ooshiba can't see the expression on his face, but he doesn't know if he would want to. Would it be impossibly fond, like he imagines, with that tiny smile quirking Kimishita's lips, or more realistically, an irritated look of obligation or, worse, complete indifference...

Ooshiba almost shakes his head to clear his thoughts, but that would dislodge Kimishita's hand. It feels nice, really, so he puts the wondering about the other boy's intentions out of his mind.

As much as he can.

~~~~~~~

He's not quite sure how long they sit like that. At some point, the backs of Ooshiba's legs start to go numb, so he stands up, but there's only so far he can go with the restraint of a leashed collar around his neck, so he lays back down on the floor.

"Hey." He calls up at Kimishita. "Don't make me wait around like this, are you done yet?"

Kimishita, not taking his eyes off his paper, scoffs at him.

"Is there something specific you want?" He mutters, and god, asking Ooshiba that question is a terrible idea because all kinds of crazy things jump to the tip of his tongue that he never wants to say and he's never quite sure how to stop them all from killing themselves and him by taking that leap into the free air of the real world, growing their terrible wings as words, so Ooshiba swallows instead and scowls.

"I don't wanna sit around here all day, that's for sure." He growls, and Kimishita looks around now, sensing his discontent. "Don't you know sitting in one place for too long is bad for you?" Kimishita turns to face him, and Ooshiba sits up, still glaring, cross-legged.

"Like you know anything about maintaining proper health." Kimishita rolls his eyes, but leans forward, stretching out a hand to touch his fingers to the cold metal buckle on the strap of the collar. Ooshiba freezes. Kimishita moves slowly, running his fingertips between the leather and Ooshiba.

"Stand up." He says, standing himself, pulling slightly on the leash. Ooshiba does, and as he's getting to his feet, is struck by the strangest urge. Part of him protests, but the feeling soars inside of him, swelling in his chest- he looks down at Kimishita and feels the pull to kiss him, to wrap his arms around him, to feel the pressure of his lips against Ooshiba's own-

"What did you want?" Kimishita interrupts his train of thought, eyebrows drawing together. "When you texted me."

Ooshiba shakes his head.

"I have no idea." He responds, honestly, coarsely, his voice rough in his throat. "I..."

Kimishita watches him.

"What do you want now?" He asks bluntly.

Ooshiba flushes, glares.

"What do you think?" He mocks, and Kimishita scowls and yanks the leash so they're almost nose-to-nose, Ooshiba stumbling forward.

"Aren't you going to do something?" He taunts him, almost, a glimmer of expectation in his eyes and a challenge in the glint of his teeth, and Ooshiba restrains himself, tries to. "Show me the resolve you're so proud of, huh?"

Ooshiba snaps.

He rushes forwards, pressing Kimishita's lips to his, and Kimishita is more than ready to meet him head on- Kimishita pushes back at him, one hand circling around his chest and waist, the other moving up to press at the skin of his neck, to wrap his fingers underneath and around the collar still cinched around Ooshiba's neck. Ooshiba leans down, burying one hand in Kimishita's hair and sliding the other around his waist, turning his head to kiss him deeply.

They break apart, panting.

"How's that for resolve?" Ooshiba says breathlessly, feeling exhalted, jubilant, like he's just scored three goals in a row and everyone in the stands is cheering his name except this is caused by just one person- Kimishita Atsushi.

Kimishita laughs for the first time in the night.

"I haven't even started to test you yet." He grins. There's a looming danger in his words and in his voice. Ooshiba chuckles and leans forward to kiss him again.

NOTE: reinforce my ego: send me an ask, find me on twitter

join the shibakimi discord to encourage me to write a smutty continuation... you bad influence. ;)

#shibakimi #days #ooshiba kiichi #kimishita atsushi #days anime #mine #my fic

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hollyjjangu · 8 years ago

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Hi anon! Firstly, it’s not a bother at all! This prompt is fucking adorable. Sadly, it’s been sitting in our inbox for such a long time and I’m so incredibly sorry! I’m a shit person lmao but it’s out now so I hope you guys like it.

- bellona *:･ﾟ✧ ♡

Jeongguk isn’t the particularly wild type, at least not in the traditional, party way. That’s not to say he’s a boring person, Taehyung did not fall in love with some random, bland stranger; he fell in love with a boy painted with every color of the rainbow.

But that doesn’t mean he’s unable to do fucking crazy things either. He can. Given the right amount of alcohol (which is hardly any at all). That’s probably why the two never go to parties.

New Years was the perfect example.

Taehyung is standing in front of the slightly dirty mirror in his and Guk’s apartment, trying to determine if he looked good.

Tae had curled his hair slightly, the color was red and fading, he had to dye it again soon. He decided to wear a simple crism v-neck, a leather jacket over it to hide how plain the shirt was. His neck was adorned with a thin chocker and he wore his small black stud earrings. His legs were tightly dressed with tight black pants, some part spandex and other faux leather; it made his ass look good, almost as good as Jimin’s.

Still, he was critical. It’s rare that Jeongguk would ever want to go out to a party but it’s New Years and nobody could ever resist Hoseok.

Taehyung had to look good, he was not gonna go into the new year looking like a fucking trash can. Obviously.

Unsure and anxious, Tae sent a quick picture to Jimin.

you: not sure if this looks good. help.

chim: fuck. you do.

chim: dude ur ass looks hUGE

you: idk feels like something is missing...

you: :”( help me jiminie

chim: jiminie HYUNG

chim: and eyeliner.

Taehyung smirked down at his phone, diving for the drawers to find his tube. Carefully, he drew a thin line over each lid, slowly extending it to create a small wing. Slowly, Taehyung made the black line thicker and thicker, until his eyes seemingly popped off his face.

chim: get out taetae

chim: i’m outside ur place

Taehyung quickly fluffed up his hair once more and slipped his shoes on before tucking the apartment key safely into the pocket of his pants and leaving his home.

Jimin’s car is an old, slightly broken down American model. The back was open and the windows were rarely rolled up. Taehyung always felt oddly fond when he saw the car. Them and their friends have had so many good memories in the ancient automobile.

Immediately when Tae stepped out, Jimin started howling and whistling, quite over dramatically but Taehyung appreciated his best friend’s efforts to boost his confidence.

“Oh my god Taehyung.” Jimin said when Taehyung stepped in the car. “You look so good.”

“Thanks.” Taehyung smiles easily, as he always did around Jimin. “It’s the pants.”

“Your welcome.” Jimin grinned, speeding off to Hoseok’s house. “Best christmas present ever right?”

“Totally.” Taehyung agreed.

Tae’s phone dinged, signaling a new text.

Gukie my baby♡ : i’m here and waiting at the front for you baby

Gukie my baby♡ : i’m excited to see you taehyungie

you: i’ll be there soon, gukie. love you.

Gukie my baby♡ : love you too.

“Guk still hasn’t seen them, ya’ know.” Taehyung said after turning his phone off.

“Fuck, Tae.” Jimin laughed. “You’re trying to give the boy a heart attack.”

“Always.”

“Well?” Jimin turned to face Taehyung as the reached a red light. His voice was coming out higher than usual, an easy sign of his nervousness. “Me? How do I look?”

Taehyung studied his friend carefully. Jimin’s hair is a dark black, always pushed back but strands still manage to hit his forehead, making him look that much more attractive. Tae always teased Jimin about how he was always pushing his hair back now a days, but Tae was slightly jealous. Jimin didn’t really need to do anything to look hot, he just was.

That night he was sporting a pair of tightly fitted denim blue jeans, his favorite jeans, with a black shirt tucked into it, a bomber jacket lazily thrown over it.

Rather than complimenting Jimin first, Taehyung said knowingly, “That’s Yoongi-hyung’s favorite jacket on you.”

Jimin blushed as red as the stop lights, trying to shrug off his sheepishness.

“Shut up.” Jimin said, turning to the road again to drive. “Don’t.”

“It’ll be a lot easier if you just say something to him, ya’ know.” Taehyung urged. “You look hot as hell though, Jiminie. Yoongi-hyung isn’t stupid.”

“Whatever.” Jimin replied but Taehyung could swear he was sitting up a little straighter.

When they reached the party, Jeongguk really was waiting outside. In the freezing cold Seoul air. Like the idiot he was.

“Hey.” He said, smirking deviously.

“It’s fucking cold out, Jeon Jeongguk.” Taehyung scolded. “Why the hell don’t you have a coat on?”

Jeongguk shrugged, smiling. He slowly trailed his eyes down Taehyung’s body, reaching out to hold his boyfriend’s hand. Tae squirmed and burned under his intense stare, biting his lip. Jeongguk was so hot when he focused solely on something, especially if it’s Taehyung.

“You look... um, good.”

“Just good?” Jimin smirked, pushing dragging the two into Hoseok and Yoongi’s hectic house. Music was already booming in it, the smell of people and beer fresh in the air. “He looks just good?”

“Shut up, Jimin.” Jeongguk groaned, though there is a fond expression on his face.

“Jimin hyung to you, brat.”

“You’re shorter, I’m not calling you hyung.” Jeongguk said, making Tae snort at their dumb antics. “Just go fuck Yoongi-hyung already, won’t you? He’s in the living room.”

Jimin blushed once more, muttering something about how Yoongi is also shorter than Jeongguk before disappearing into the crowd of people in search of one of the owners of the house.

“Kitchen?” Jeongguk asked, his voice low and hanging over the music. “Wanna drink?”

“Yeah.” Taehyung said, dragging his brooding boyfriend to the kitchen. “Let’s go.”

Taehyung pushed through the crowd of people, scrunching his nose at the smell of drunk twenty-somethings. He tried to ignore the way everyone was staring, not at him, surely, at Jeongguk. Taehyung didn’t blame them. His boyfriend was looking especially beautiful that night.

Guk’s hair was not flopping in his hair like a hot mess (not that it’s a bad thing) for once, parted slightly to the side. It showed off his confident eyebrows and made his large eyes that much more endearing. The plain, white button down that covered his chest wasn’t doing it’s job properly, for it was peaking open at his collar and even lower. The fabric stretched across Jeongguk’s skin tightly, barely reaching over his broad shoulders. The shirt was tucked into a pair of tight ass skinny jeans, a belt extenuating Jeongguk’s dainty waist. He had his sleeves rolled up, his thighs hardly covered by anything.

And by the snide smile that covered Jeongguk’s face, the one that made his dark chocolate brown eyes that much darker, the one that came with his confidence stance– Jeongguk knew he looked fucking good. More than good.

Taehyung puffed his cheeks out in annoyance. He resisted the urge to be as petty and possessive as possible and drag Jeongguk down his his collar and push him against the wall of Yoongi and Hoseok’s stair case, to kiss him right there in front of all these thirsty ass strangers who were undressing his sweet but dangerously hot boyfriend with their eyes.

Taehyung didn’t, sadly.

“Taehyungie!” Hoseok said, standing at the fridge. “Gukie! You guys actually came!”

“Of course.” Taehyung said.

“You throw the best parties hyung.” Jeongguk smiled, wrapping his arm around Taehyung’s shoulder.

“Haha.” Hobi laughed sarcastically. “You wouldn’t know, now would you Gukie?”

Jeongguk blushed sheepishly, something few people are able to make him do.

“Whatever.” Hobi said, dismissing it quickly. “Drinks?”

“Drinks.”

Hoseok got them each a cup, a concoction that tasted like straight up vodka with the aftertaste of cherries. Taehyung steadied himself, he’s a mess when he’s drunk.

It’s not like Jeongguk is a lightweight, it’s just that he has no self control.

Jeongguk downs alcohol like it’s fucking tap water, sipping three cups in less than ten minutes.

Not that Taehyung minded. That just meant that Taehyung didn’t need whatever the hell was in his cup to make him drunk, not tonight, not when Jeongguk got touchy when he’s drunk.

They talked with Hoseok for ten minutes. Taehyung got bored, for the two were just talking about dance and the new routine Hoseok had planned and fuck, he wanted to dance.

“Guys.” Taehyung downed his drink, flinching at the bitter taste. “I’m gonna go dance with Jiminie.”

Jeongguk didn’t even look up before nodding.

Whatever. Tae thought. He’ll come find me later. It’s only nine. We have three hours before midnight.

Taehyung found Jimin on the sofa with Yoongi. Seokjin and Namjoon sat around them, along with half a dozen other people.

It was sweet and maybe even a little innocent, the way Jimin looked at the older. He smiled brightly, so bright his eyes sparkled at whatever lame joke Yoongi was saying. Jimin blushed whenever Yoongi could touch him.

“Jiminie-hyung!” Taehyung sang, his voice light and airy. “Yoongi-hyung!”

“Oh.” Jimin looked up smiling. He patted the seat next to him. “Hey Tae. Sit down.”

“Uh-uh.” Taehyung shook his head, offering his hand out. “Dance with me.”

“Um, I’m sorta–” Jimin shot a nervous look at Yoongi, who shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly.

“Alright.” Jimin smiled once more. “See you later hyung.”

“Yeah.” Yoongi said, his voice was low and gruff. “Defiantly.”

Jimin grinned at Taehyung deviously and grabbed the younger’s hand, dragging him to the dance floor. Taehyung knew Jimin didn’t mind him asking for a dance, even if he was talking to Yoongi. Jimin loved to dance, nothing would stop that.

Jimin is one of Tae’s favorite people to dance with. He’s flexible and sensual, as a contemporary dancer should be. He boosted Taehyung’s confidence instantly.

As the music played, Taehyung swayed his hips and tossed his head back, loosing himself in the crowd of people and heavy music as he let the alcohol seep into his system until he was a little dazed.

About half way through, Taehyung felt a heavy pair of eyes on him and Jimin and he tilted his head, surprised to find Yoongi shamelessly staring at them.

“Hey, Jiminie.”

“Hm?” Jimin asked, his voice half between a moan and a sigh.

“I told you that you looked hot. Yoongi-hyung is staring at you right now.”

Jimin’s eyes grew wide, his pink cheeks turning red.

“R–really?”

“Duh.” Taehyung smiled, “Go to him. Ask him to dance. I’m gonna find Guk.”

“But–”

“It’s fine, if he denies you, which he won’t, just tell him tomorrow you were too drunk to remember anything.”

After another thirty seconds of convincing, Taehyung saw Jimin nervously go up to Yoongi, offering the older his hand. Yoongi nodded quickly, wrapping his arm around Jimin’s waist and guiding him to the crowd.

When Taehyung came back through the hall that led to the kitchen, he was shocked to find Jeongguk.

The younger looked astonishingly stunning, his cheeks flushed and his hair a little messy and yet another button had popped off of the shirt he wore.

The shocking part was that there was another boy pressed up against Jeongguk, a lazy arm wrapped around Taehyung’s boyfriend’s waist.

The boy is taller than Taehyung and a muscle pig, just like Jeongguk. He wasn’t ugly (which fueled Taehyung’s anger that much further), actually, rather pretty. Sharp eyes and a sharper jawline, light brown hair. He wore a short sleeved t-shirt and blue jeans.

“Um.” Taehyung stepped in front of the two. “Jeon Jeongguk what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Oh.” Jeongguk’s eyes widened and any other time it would have been comical but it wasn’t, not when Jeongguk had his fucking arm against the wall, his legs crossed, the position he used to seduce someone. He had used it on Taehyung enough times for Tae to know.

“Yeah, oh.” Taehyung growled, crossing his arms.

“Who are you?” The boy asked, tugged Jeongguk closer until their chests and crotches were pressed together. Greedy, as if Jeongguk was his.

“His boyfriend.” Taehyung said, “And who are you?”

“Someone he prefers obviously, if you guys are at a party and he’s with me.”

Taehyung bit his tongue. He wasn’t sure if it was the drink Hoseok had given him or the tiring dancing with Jimin or how Jeongguk didn’t seem too phased but suddenly Tae’s knees felt weak and he needed to get the fuck out of the house; he wanted to go home.

“Fine.” Taehyung nodded slowly.

Taehyung turned and ran out the house, ignoring Jeongguk’s low curse.

Tae stood on the front porch, looking around in the cold. He found a new bottle of water, nearly frozen by the the weather. Taehyung took sips of it, dangling his legs over the railing of Hoseok and Yoongi’s house.

He felt tears push up in his throat.

Am I being overdramatic? Taehyung thought. Is this the alcohol talking or me?

you: can you drive me home?

you: i found jeon with some random stranger and they were nearly grinding against the fucking wall i swear

chim: i’m on my way bby.

Taehyung let out a satisfied breathe of air.

Something must have happened, right? There had to be a reason that Jeongguk was acting so irrationally. How could he just throw away their two year relationship over a random boy at some party? It must be something Taehyung did, maybe he wasn’t–

“Taetae.” Jimin’s soft voice called from behind him. Tae turned around. “Oh Taehyungie, you’re crying.”

“I–I am?”

Jimin wrapped his arms around Taehyung, surrounding him in a warm hug. They sat on the railing together, Tae’s head on Jimin’s shoulder.

“Why are you crying?” Jimin asked gently. “Tell me what happened?”

“I was on my way to find him and there they were. This tall and hot ass boy had his hands all over my boyfriend.”

“And?”

“And Jeongguk didn’t even seem phased. All he said was oh. L–like what the hell?”

“What the hell.” Jimin agreed. “Don’t cry over it, Taehyungie.”

“I don’t even know why I’m crying, fuck.” Taehyung whimpered weakly. “It’s just, I don’t know. Maybe some part of me knew Jeongguk wouldn’t love me forever. And the boy was so attractive, like all tall and muscular and–”

“Taehyung,”Jimin cut him off. “You’re attractive too, obviously. And Jeongguk is drunk, don’t you think that means something?”

"Yeah, baby.” The devil spoke. “Doesn’t that mean something?”

Jeongguk was behind them, his hands lazily and shyly tucked into his pockets, his cheeks still pink and his lips bitten.

“Jeongguk.” Jimin said. He looked at Taehyung briefly. “I don’t think you should be here.”

“Just let me talk to you, Taehyungie.” Jeongguk begged. “Please?”

Taehyung just fiddled with the water bottle in his hands.

“Tae.” Jimin said, stroking his cheek. “Just talk to him. Text me if you need anything.”

Tae nodded.

And Jimin left.

Jeongguk just stared at Taehyung for a little, his eyes heavy but Tae couldn’t bring himself to look at the boy. All he could see was the stranger’s arms around him and it hurt.

“You look beautiful tonight. You always do.”

“Say what you want to say, Jeon.” Taehyung said. “Complimenting me isn’t going to get you anywhere.”

“Did you dress up for me?” Jeongguk continued, ignoring Taehyung. His voice was small, as if he were shy.

“Yeah, dumbass.” Taehyung said. “Not that you care.”

“I do care, I’m just drunk.”

“Is that your idea of an apology?”

“I’m sorry, Tae.” Jeongguk said, taking a couple steps closer until he was close enough where if Taehyung reached his arms out, he’d be able to grab the boy.

“I’m drunk and I’m stupid and please forgive me. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Taehyung finally looked up at the boy.

He looked stunning, shy and begging. Taehyung wanted nothing more than to kiss him, to give into whatever lies he was saying. But he couldn’t, his pride was suffocated his need for Jeongguk.

So Taehyung tossed his water bottle at Jeongguk instead, spraying the water all over the younger.

It didn’t help with his frustration, in fact, made it billions worse.

Jeongguk’s white button down was suddenly completely see through, showing off his chest completely. No, it did not help at all.

“Okay.” Jeongguk said, wiping the water out of his eyes. “Do you feel better?”

“Maybe.” Taehyung tilted his head, sniffling. “A little, maybe.”

“How do I make you feel completely better?”

Taehyung’s brain was short circuiting, staring at Jeongguk’s broad chest.

“I think you know.”

Jeongguk dove, pressing Taehyung against the railing like he was starving for it. His hands were quick but gentle, easing the back of Taehyung’s head, patiently relaxing Tae’s loose muscles. As if under a trance, Taehyung found himself weak and submissive, melting under Jeongguk’s touch and opening his mouth wider and wider under Jeongguk’s tongue.

Jeongguk dipped his tongue into Taehyung’s mouth, sliding it against Tae. But he tasted like cherries.

Like the drink they drunk all night. Drunk. They’re both drunk.

“I love you so fucking much baby.” Jeongguk moaned against Tae’s mouth. “So much.”

Tae sighed, letting Jeongguk have his way with his mouth.

No. He thought suddenly. This isn’t right.

Instead of letting it go on, Tae pushed Jeongguk away.

“I’m sorry.” He panted, out of breathe. “I can’t do this.”

“But you said–”

“I know what I said.” Taehyung shook his head, ready to cry all over again. “But I didn’t mean it. Please... take me home. Can we talk about it tomorrow?”

“Okay.” Jeongguk said, sighing. He sounded frustrated as hell. “Anything you want.”

“Thank you.”

Well, that’s it lovelies. I hope it was good, I might be a little rusty. I wanted to continue this (like the morning after) but it was getting fucking long yo, this is almost 3000 words. Maybe I’ll do a part two, tell me if you want one ;)

- bellona *:･ﾟ✧ ♡

#taekook #taekook fic #college au #bts fic #kim taehyung #taehyung fic #jeon jungkook #jungkook fic #admin bellona #bts fics #bts fanfics

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spoiledsplendid · 5 years ago

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2020 Grammy Awards Fashion Critique

First of all, thanks for all the messages and notes asking if I was still doing fashion articles. I had a terrible cold during the Golden Globes and just couldn’t get an article out. So I’m going to try to make it up to you with this year’s Grammy review.

There was plenty going on at the Grammy red carpet this year - but maybe the most shocking was the lack of celebrity powerhouses. Beyonce (who was at 2 pre-Grammy award events this weekend) was very noticeably absent, especially considering her four nominations. Taylor Swift who had three nominations backed out from showing and performing. Lady Gaga - absent even though she ended up winning 2 Grammys. Cardi B - skipped the carpet entirely. Kacey Musgraves where are you? And Keith Urban’s fashionista and multi-talented wife Nicole Kidman was at home with the flu. But even with the lack of star-power, there was still plenty to look at.

THE BEST

Ariana Grande brought the drama (very fitting) in this oversized Giambattista Valli Haute Couture gown. The grey tulle dress was over 20 feet in diameter…which is pretty epic considering Ariana’s tiny frame. This is likely why she took a little rest on the red carpet. She finished the look with opera gloves and custom Louboutin heels with non-slip soles. And not surprisingly, she wore her signature ponytail and dark cateye.

Gwen Stefani stole the show in this short beaded Dolce & Gabanna dress. Stefani is taking a big risk, being one of the few A-List celebrities willing to wear Dolce & Gabanna on a red carpet. Over the past year, Dolce & Gabanna have been blacklisted for racism and extremely offensive social media. Regardless of that, the dress is perfection on Gwen. I love the shimmer, the design, the shape - pretty much everything. While I would have preferred a pair of killer heels, these boots make the outfit edgier which is more authentic to Gwen. Her hair and makeup - stunning. I hope Blake knows how lucky he is.

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Jameela Jamil is not a name I’ve ever heard before (she is the girlfriend of James Blake)…but it’s certainly one I’m going to remember. She bested the majority of the celebrities in this vibrant blue pailette shingle tiered gown from Georges Chakra - a Lebanese-based haute couture designer. The dress is young and playful and a great choice for her. Her makeup and hair are beautiful - and the absence of jewelry makes us focus on one thing: her face. Overall, one of the most memorable looks of the night. Can’t wait to see her on the next red carpet

Heidi Klum impresses me (finally) in this killer Dundas dress. 9 times out of 10, Heidi goes kooky and ends up on my worst dressed list. I love Heidi - and she is super sweet in person (we had a shopping moment together on Roberston Blvd in LA). So I was so glad she wowed me at the Grammys. Love the jewelry and the Giuseppe Zanotti sandals. If I was going to picky, I’d likely have pulled some of the hair back or up or cut off a couple inches. Happy seeing Heidi looking her best self.

Lizzo has never looked better - thanks to Atelier Versace. When I first saw this look, I loved how she was channeling a Marilyn Monroe look with the draped faux fur and diamonds. I’m glad that Lizzo kept the makeup and hair simple and fresh because there is a lot going on with this look already - and bold hair and makeup could have ruined this look. The construction and fit of the dress is perfection - proving Versace still has it. Her strappy sandals are by Rene Caovilla and the $2 million worth of diamonds are by Lorraine Schwartz.

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Oooooo oooooo ooooo. Bebe Rexha was certainly not shy in this oversized Christian Cowan tuxedo with chainmail turtleneck. Last year, Bebe had difficulty finding a designer to work with her (because she isn’t sample size) - but since then she is always one of my faves to watch and she almost always knocks it out of the ballpark. Her hair and makeup - brilliant. I think this is the sexiest look of the night. Well done!

Camila Cabello all too often dresses too girly for my liking - but at this year’s Grammys she embraced her womanhood. She proved that she can handle couture in this edgy gothic Atelier Versace gown. The sculptural overskirt sits atop a woven leather minidress embellished with Swarovski crystals. Certainly Camila appreciates her bling, including the $2 million (over 100 carats) that were provided by Le Vian.

Methinks that Shawn Mendes and Common went shopping together. Shawn totally rocked this Louis Vuitton berry colored tux while Common went for a deeper wine Dolce & Gabbana suit. Both look incredible - but these shades clash with the red carpet. So they might have looked better with black trousers. Overall, I can’t fault their fashion or how they look.

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The Jonas Brothers certainly turned heads in their metallic suits by Ermenegildo Zegna XXX. Knowing that they would be photographed together, I appreciate that they worked with a single fashion house to wear complimentary looks. I especially like Nick’s bronze suit and matching shoes and bracelet. A very modern take on formal wear.

The Worst

Lil Nas X is used to bold outfits but this is just silly. He looks more like a piece of bubble gum than an artist in this Versace ensemble. There is just too much going on from the studding, the exaggerated shoulders, the hat, the harness, the fishnet, the collar, the double belt, the scarf around the wrist and so much more. It actually hurts my eyes looking at this. Lil Nas X - keep the costumes for the stage, not the red carpet.

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Oh you two. What on earth were you thinking? Chrissy looks laughable in this peach Yanina Couture gown with dramatic tulle ruffles. I do think her hair and makeup look gorgeous. John isn’t a tall guy - so why is wearing an asymmetrical 3/4 length blazer. It chops him and makes him look even shorter. I couldn’t find the designer of his suit - but perhaps they have gone into hiding?

Billie Eilish proved that she can wear high fashion. Sadly, she also proved she can’t wear it well. This is just silly. Now I love my Gucci but this isn’t stylish, nor a statement, nor attractive. The face-mask makes me think she is either a ninja or has coronavirus or both. The oversized logo suit does nothing for her. The lime green matches her hair - but not sure that’s exactly a good thing either. While I actually think her GG nails are really awesome, the fingerless logo gloves make her look more like a crypt-keeper. Finally, the bejewelled Gucci shoes she is wearing are several seasons old. I much preferred the Gucci outfit she wore to perform in.

I like that Billy Porter embraces his true self - but Billy needs to embrace fashion and not gimmicks. Billy’s hat had a motorized fringe - but if you look closely, the construction was amateur. The hat is silly. The fact that it’s motorized is ridiculous. The sparkly blue pantsuit by Baja East looks like it came out of a terrible early 80s music video. Even Billy’s jewelry bothered me…for starters, whats with the spider bracelet? The spider bracelet didn’t even fit and looked as though it was about to fall off his wrist when he was presenting. Billy can work with any stylist or designer, and I would to see him in more luxurious and stylish fashion. Please Billy Please!

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Shania Twain don’t impress me much in this trainwreck of a dress by Christian Siriano. This polka-dot tulle ruffle dress over a black romper has way too much going on. The skirt and sleeves are oversized and not flattering. I actually like the ruffled neckline but the belt looks cheap. The romper is too young for the 54 year old songstress. But what I like the least is the hair. C’mon girl. You looked great in the silver mirrored dress that you presented in…that should have been your red carpet look.

I love Ben Platt. I love Balmain. But this just doesn’t not work for me. Did Ben raid Liza Minnelli’s closet? Was this from the original Cabaret? The turtleneck with the retro print just makes him look twice his age. I don’t like the short trousers but I do like the Jimmy Choos he is wearing. So I guess he did something right. Ben, I’ll be in NYC for the Tony Awards - lets go shopping and I’ll get you all suited up for next gala season - ok?

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dippedanddripped · 5 years ago

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THERE MIGHT BE no other place in the world as good as where I’m going to take you,” says Jonathan Anderson, with a final drag of his cigarette. We are standing on the vast stone steps of London’s Victoria and Albert Museum, which houses one of the world’s most extensive repositories of decorative arts. He grinds the cigarette out with his heel and hurries inside, bolting past reception and bounding up the marble stairs to a series of high-ceilinged rooms.

The ceramics galleries on the top floor have been relocated since their 1868 inception and were reconfigured a decade ago. The 11 rooms house over 30,000 vases, platters, cups and tea service in porcelain, earthenware and stoneware from 2500 B.C. to present day, from sub-Saharan Africa to the Cotswolds. Only a few of the anterooms contain the sort of edited, thoughtfully labeled, artfully lit displays found in modern museums; most of the floor space here is occupied by rows of 12-foot-tall glass cases, each ignominiously stuffed with stacked pieces. The contents’ origins are written in plain letters on the surface of each case, almost too high to see: China, Japan, the Middle East. You can glimpse the royal blue and marigold iridescent lip of a platter here, the rough neck of a sand-colored hand-turned vase there, but not much more: You would have to stand for hours — as Anderson has — day after day, to absorb it all. It resembles less a museum than a series of oversize storage closets of the sort you’d find in a Georgian countryside mansion, packed with generations of heirlooms secreted away to weather the Great War. “There’s so much here because families keep all this history,” Anderson says as he walks the aisles, stopping occasionally to look up at one of the cases. “Yes, it would probably be easier to put much of this in storage to make a better viewing experience, but you would never want to tamp down the love.”

Although he was recently named a trustee of the museum, Anderson himself is not a historian or a gallerist but the 34-year-old creator of strange, beautiful clothing and accessories that occupy the liminal space between the rivetingly avant-garde and the satisfyingly wearable, and among the most forward-thinking designers working today. He first visited the Victoria and Albert Museum as a teenager with his mother and now goes at least twice a month, traveling by cab from his Victorian house in East London or the headquarters of his namesake label in Hoxton. In 2008, he launched JW Anderson, his off-kilter, androgynous men’s line, introducing tissue-light leather dresses and ruffled hot pants in duffel-bag cotton fabric in an era before such gender transgressions became common. A couple of years later, he added a line of well-crafted and witty women’s wear (a mod silk paisley pajama suit with a white rubber clerical collar, square-toed studded boots balanced on a steel-barrel heel), all of which he produces from an airy 3,000-square-foot atelier. A 2012 collaboration with Topshop brought him mainstream attention, and a year later, LVMH bought a stake in his company while also naming himcreative director of Loewe, a venerable but sleepy Spanish leather-goods company that neither Narciso Rodriguez nor Stuart Vevers, now the creative director of Coach, had been able to awaken.

After moving Loewe’s design studio from Madrid to the Sixth Arrondissement of Paris (an easier commute to London, yet far enough to allow a creative distance between those collections and his own), Anderson set upon establishing his Loewe: collections of clothes and accessories that possess both a couture level of craftsmanship and a distinctly raw, handmade energy. It’s a conflicting, friction-producing combination that has come to define — and propel — his vision for the brand. The decisions he has made for Loewe may seem counterintuitive — there are no flashy logos, and he’s unafraid to show the figurative hand of the artist in his garments (a multicolored striped angora sweater, for example, looks as if it has been sewn by an amateur, and his popular calfskin handbags bear a signature exposed cotton top stitch, a plain-spoken touch). But Anderson’s concepts resonate because he has managed to speak to our moment, to our inchoate and inarticulable yearning for the earthbound, the slow, the imperfect and the anthropological.

For fall, the surface of a wool sweater is covered with luminous pearls of varying sizes, like barnacles, paired with raw, oversize, wide-legged jeans. A three-quarter-length patchwork coat with a traditional check has bell sleeves and a stand-up collar of natural-hued calfskin. A dress that begins as a soft wool turtleneck morphs at the waist into a white cotton organdy peasant skirt stitched with spare scalloped bands. Bags include iterations of Anderson’s best sellers — the geometric Puzzle; the Gate, with its rakish tie — but also faux-naïf one-offs like a knit mini-purse in the shape of an otter: something that could be mistaken for a child’s toy. There are also hats that suggest a nun’s wimple or bat ears, and headbands topped with dandelion-colored marabou feathers.

But what makes Anderson so radical — and explains why the ceramics collection of the Victoria and Albert Museum, in all its fusty, cluttered, rough-edged glory, is a diorama of his magpie mind — is that his vision includes much more than only things to wear or carry. “I love fashion,” he says, “but I will not let fashion dictate me.” It is a statement that’s both pronouncement and promise, and accordingly, he doesn’t labor to show unified collections, consciously attempt to follow the zeitgeist or even bother accentuating the human form — his muses are not models or actors. Instead, his primary sources are the people for whom clothes were generally something worn beneath a smock: the masters of early 20th-century craft. Both JW Anderson and Loewe have become his mad-scientist experiments in returning traditional handiwork to high fashion. It has proved to be a prophetic but provocative notion, partly because craft has always had an uneasy place in the world of fashion. Every now and then, a designer cultivates the genuinely homespun — Natalie Chanin, who in the early 2000s launched the sustainable American line Alabama Chanin, with its fine beading and embroidery on T-shirt cotton and denim made by local women in Florence, Ala., comes to mind — but it can often wind up feeling insincere or genuinely homely.

In 2016, Anderson made his connection to craft official by founding the juried Loewe Craft Prize for artisans from around the world working in everything from glass to leather to paper. It has become a cornerstone of the brand and of the designer’s aesthetic. His clothes are subversive because they suggest that craft ought not exist in the service of fashion but that fashion should exist to support craft. Under his hand, the wearer becomes a vehicle, one meant to display what the human hand can do. “Some places use ‘craft’ as a synonym for ‘exclusivity,’ to convey a sense of eliteness,” he says. “But for me, craft is a stripping back to the roots, a fidelity to something raw.”

ANDERSON WAS RAISED in Magherafelt, an Ulster town of about 8,800 people in Northern Ireland, the son of a schoolteacher and a professional rugby player turned Irish national coach. When he was in primary school, he was diagnosed with severe dyslexia. Along with coming out at 18, during the year he spent studying to be an actor at Washington D.C.’s Studio Theater, his dyslexia has profoundly shaped his life. Even now, he avoids writing simple emails. But he believes that having to visualize, contextualize and translate has heightened his ability to live in both future and present tenses, a necessary skill when creating 18 well-differentiated collections each year — six for his own label, 10 for Loewe and two for his ongoing collaborations with Uniqlo.

“Limitations can actually be really freeing,” Anderson tells me the day before our London museum foray, when I meet him in Paris, in his spacious office at the Loewe design studio overlooking the Église Saint-Sulpice. He splits each week between the two cities (his boyfriend works in fashion in Paris) and visits Loewe’s Madrid headquarters twice a month. The room, at the top of a grand, winding stair, is reflective of how he ricochets between the excessive and spare: His huge desk, clear as a cutting board, stands before a bulwark of flush, frameless wooden closets; on the opposing wall are long floating shelves displaying a collection of more than 27 late 19th- to early 20th-century French ceramic mushrooms that he bought at auction. “I can sometimes go into hoarder mode,” he says. “And then I’m suddenly sick of it all and wonder what I’m doing.”

When Anderson was named to head Loewe, some wondered if a polymorphous niche designer whose only experience beyond his own company was a year or so in merchandising at Prada could manage to reconceptualize a moribund legacy brand (while also coping with internal politics and economic realities). But in addition to his endlessly fecund imagination, Anderson has a quality that few young talents of his stature, especially those in the vanguard, seem to possess: a head for business. Instead of chafing under a corporate master, as other renegade designers have — Alexander McQueen, famously, for one — he seems to savor the balance of commerce and culture; Loewe has experienced strong growth during his tenure. “No designer today can be completely detached from the realities of business. Maybe a decade ago, but no longer,” he says. “It’s about surviving, of staying around long enough to say all the things you want to say.” This embrace of the practical has inspired his latest project: remaking many of the brand’s 111 stand-alone stores into what he calls Casa Loewe, a showcase not only for his designs but also for the artists, artisans and even floral designers he admires. The New York City store opens in SoHo this fall, but you can see the result of his most recent efforts in London’s three-story flagship on Bond Street in Mayfair, which opened in April. There, the clothes and accessories share space with colorfully pocked vases by the Japanese ceramist Takuro Kuwata, Anthea Hamilton’s drippy blown-glass stop-sign-red 2014 Vulcano table and baskets woven by Hafu Matsumoto. Throughout the shop are obvious inflections of Kettle’s Yard, Anderson’s self-described spiritual home, the Cambridge gallery that was once the four-cottage residence of the 20th-century art collector Jim Ede and his wife, Helen (they donated it to the university in 1966), a model for hybrid domestic-retail environments. There, works by the sculptors Barbara Hepworthand Henry Moore and the painter Helen Frankenthaler are displayed amid the Edes’ original furnishings, as well as with rotating shows of contemporary and modern artists.

But while the stores may be reflections of Anderson’s tastes and vision, the designer himself is not. It’s common these days for creative directors to embody their own aesthetic — think of Gucci’s fanciful Alessandro Michele, for one — but Anderson, whose uniform consists of loose jeans and a sweater or button-down, his sandy blond hair askew, is not a peacock. “I’m trying to dress better, but it’s hard for me,” he says. At home, he can’t bear the presence of anything he’s made. At both brands, he relies heavily on teams, perhaps more than some designers; they are enfranchised to transform his constant stream of inspirations — such as a 16th-century portrait miniature, which is translated into the puritan collar of a wool coat or the cravat-style flourish on a white silk blouse — into looks that can parade down a runway. Although he sketches well (his maternal grandfather, who worked as a manager at a textile firm and collected delftware, made Anderson and his younger brother sit at the kitchen table when they were children, drawing various teacups and vases over and over to teach them about volumes and dimension), he sees himself more as a curator than a designer. His working relationship with Benjamin Bruno, his longtime stylist, is closer to that of a partner, he says. He may be the only women’s wear designer who starts from men’s wear and adapts the shapes from there. “I’m a man who’s attracted to men,” he says. “So that’s where the energy is.”

That he has been able to maintain JW Anderson’s acute weirdness over the seasons as he rewrites Loewe’s long, sober story with leather into a tale both effervescent and enduring is, notes Amanda Harlech — an old friend and muse of Karl Lagerfeld, who brokered a friendship between the two men before Lagerfeld’s death this year — “a mark of a rare kind of genius, the sort of intelligence you saw in Karl, the sort of voraciousness.”

“THE UNDERLYING IMPULSE is the same with the clothes, to make something that can stand on its own terms,” Anderson says. He’s gesturing toward a tall, slender, gray stoneware vase by William Staite Murray, a celebrated English studio potter who worked after World War I and was associated with the Seven and Five Society of progressive artists, which included Hepworth and Moore. “Look at that piece. It’s both incredibly simple and incredibly intricate,” he says. “It was made to be used but also amaze.”

Ceramics obsess Anderson, certainly, but so do virtually all crafts — knitting, braiding, weaving, wrapping. Most recently, he acquired at auction a tiny 18th-century embroidery of people tilling a field, simply because he was intrigued that the artist had been able to convey the subjects’ plaintive oppression with mere stitches.

In conversation, Anderson veers easily into other eras and art forms (he is especially entranced by New York City in the early ’80s, including the work of the multidisciplinary artist David Wojnarowicz), but he is most truly the defender of the peculiar propriety and eccentricity of British craft from the Medieval and preindustrial eras, which saw a renaissance in the late 19th century as a reaction to the rise of machine manufacturing and cheaply rendered ornamentation. Back then, William Morris, the philosopher and designer who might be Anderson’s most direct forebear (Anderson used his patterns for a November 2017 Loewe capsule collection), became a crusader for artistic integrity in the decorative arts, championing the intellectual and social status of crafts and challenging the dehumanization of labor that characterized the Victorian Industrial Revolution. Morris famously mastered textile weaving on a loom in his bedroom as well as the block printing of cloth and wallpaper, which had been obliterated by shoddy mass production. At Morris & Co., his Oxford Street emporium, he offered the work of traditional artisans with small-scale countryside workshops, whose hand-hewn pieces in glass, straw, cotton, paper and molten metals had been shoved aside by cheaper, flashier, factory-made reproductions. Inspired by the writing of the Victorian-era critic John Ruskin, who posited a connection between the way in which goods were produced and the social, economic and emotional health of a nation, Morris codified the Arts and Crafts movement in the 1880s as a bulwark against what his biographer Fiona MacCarthy called “the cynical proliferation of the useless,” in hopes of returning to an era in which beautiful, well-made objects were created for everyday life, produced in a way that allowed their makers to remain connected with their product and those who used it. It is a message that is not lost on Anderson, whose first piece for his own line, more than a decade ago, was based on an Aran Irish fisherman’s sweater he saw in a museum; it had been dredged, he recalls — hundreds of years after its 18th-century creation, its beauty intact — from the bottom of a peat bog.

The cult of the handmade as purveyed by Morris, who died in 1896, held sway until after World War I — the movement’s influence can still be seen in places as far-flung as Pasadena, Calif., where the Arts and Crafts bungalows designed by the architecture firm Greene and Greene in the 1920s remain — but by the middle of the century, the design world, enamored of unadorned Modernism, came to dismiss handicraft, once again, as mere decoration. Over the past decade and a half or so, however, a contemporary English aesthetic, one that rejects the confines of polished minimalism, has announced itself. With raw energy, puckish intelligence, local materials and fine handwork, it invokes the region’s pastoral agrarian roots, echoing Morris’s call to return to preindustrial workmanship, with ceramists, basket weavers and textile designers as the drivers of innovation and creativity. The British design ethos has turned from a whitewashed, sharp-edged spareness intended to clash defiantly with the country’s historic architecture toward a craggy, hand-turned naturalness that seems at peace with it. Showrooms such as the New Craftsmen in Mayfair, which opened in 2012, have elevated hand-spun artistry into a fine art, representing the East Midlands-based British potter Bronwen Grieves, whose vessels are made from flattened coils of stoneware clay that have been grogged (fired and then ground up), and Catarina Riccabona, who works in southeast London, hand-weaving wall panels from paper yarn.

For Anderson, no technique or material more fully embodies the complex evolution of the English aesthetic than ceramics, the ultimate earthbound art, conjured from a clay pit in the ground itself. His principal obsessions as designer and collector are the British studio potters of the postwar era. They were inspired not only by the Arts and Crafts movement but by the Wiener Werkstätte, Josef Hoffmann’s Vienna-based precursor to Art Deco, as well as Bauhaus and the Omega Workshop, the Bloomsbury Group’s craft-focused offshoot, which produced textiles, murals and furniture. Clustered around London’s Camberwell College of Arts till the ’70s, this loose collective of ceramists included the Austrian-born Lucie Rie and the German immigrant Hans Coper, who began as her studio assistant. Though Anderson has never tried making ceramics himself — such artistry, he feels, can’t be attempted as a hobby — you can find allusions to the British studio potters’ rough glazes, aggressive shapes, unorthodox proportions and textural juxtapositions in the designer’s intellectually provocative creations: the swagger and curve of Loewe’s Hammock bag, say, or a JW Anderson dress patched together from contrasting panels of fabric, decorated with mismatched buttons.

ANDERSON HAS STUDIOUSLY ignored his phone during our time together, but now it buzzes and he looks down at it. It is not business that breaks his concentration but the latest salvo in an online bidding war for a set of six rare pale pink porcelain Rie buttons that he’s hoping to add to his collection of over 100 (he also owns dozens of pieces of her pottery). He loves them not merely for their delicacy but for their back story: Rie, who died at age 93 in 1995, escaped the Nazis and supported her early work by selling the buttons — tiny sculptures unto themselves, shaped like bowls or knots or mushrooms — to Harrods in the fallow years after the Blitz. With their imperfections and lack of refinement, they are a reminder never to forget the scrappiness of beginnings. “You used to be able to get them for nothing, but not now. Some guy in China is jacking them up,” he says, his eyes narrowing. “This is not good.”

But a few minutes later, as we wind our way out of the museum, he glances again at the screen: victory. He will add the buttons to the others he has had sewn in patterns onto lengths of vintage African cloth. Some of them are framed and hang in his weekend home in Norfolk, a two-hour drive north of the city. Others are draped over Axel Vervoordt tables beside the stacks of illustrated volumes on Chinese pottery and Egyptian glassware in his rowhouse.

On the steps, he takes a cigarette from a pack in his back pocket. One long inhale before he heads to a cab bound for his studio, where, pinned to white boards, dozens of fabric swatches, pebbly to silken; lengths of crocheted trims; and even bits of lamé will, in the coming weeks, become the JW Anderson spring 2020 collection. All he will say is that it will be “subtly fragile, collaged.” What is certain is that it will be as free of self-reference as it is feisty. Like the artisans he venerates, Anderson’s influences become unrecognizable after he’s respun them. In an industry built on jittery speed, quicksilver trends and the endless (literal) referencing of past decades, cultures and movements, his aesthetic stands alone as an artful, ragged quilt of ideas, stitched together in an order that only he could imagine — a product, perhaps, of his dyslexia and his unique way of filtering beauty.

But ultimately what makes his work transcendent is that it forces us to slow down; indeed, it gives us little choice. Esoteric yet primordial, the best of his creations are not instantly appealing nor easily likable; Anderson will never be mainstream. Instead, his clothes beckon, bewitching us, if we allow them to, synapse by synapse, as they bid to be touched and seen and felt. They allude to the past with their deliberate mix of ancient techniques and posit a future of a winsome, off-kilter mosaic beyond the reach of time and haste. And what emerges, season after season, is this: not merely a crocheted sweater for a crisp afternoon in Kensington or TriBeCa, nor a jaunty patchwork handbag, but a jagged poetry that is perfect and imperfect, modern but also unevolved. It’s not fashion, as he might argue — it’s something else. It’s another way to see the world.

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