#this was prompted by disintegration

[tadaxii-i]

There he is

*intense screaming*

[celestialpaperhaze]

Me: Okay, TONIGHT I'll finally do something productive. Maybe I'll write a little drabble or hum a tune...

Also me:

[firepassed]

MORTAL

pain. the pain that hits her form even before she drops to the ground from her elemental form. she feels herself loose balance, but she's determined, and she stands her ground. never in her life has keyleth felt this much pain. shes died before, yes, but that felt like suddenly blink her eyes, unable to open them, then nothing.. then an ache. this? this felt like she’s been ripped apart.

is... is that what's happening? is she dying? what will the rest of vox machina think? will they be able to feel it? and what will happen to her people?

no... no she's taken hits like this before. certainly this feels different then anything she's been attacked with before, but she knows what she's doing. even if she's a little out of practice, she's got things to do, and people to protect, her eyes briefly shifting out to orym's mercenaries, trying to see what they are doing, how they are, expecting the attack on her to be ending and that she will be able to patch herself back up but she doesn't get the chance.

-another strike. she's, the voice of the tempest, the half-elf, is on the ground, and still being hit and hit time and time again. she feels blood filling her throat and the world spin, her hands grasping on the ground to try her best to keep awake and aware, trying to fight without fighting, even as her vision is beginning to blur. blurring vision or not, it's hard to deny the sudden chill in the air, hair standing up on her arm, then the sight in front of her.

...vax? coming to walk her into the beyond? then why is he...?

" don't you even dare. "

an unconscious answer. he's here. he's protecting her. beyond the veil the champion of ravens is here for her. with her.

somehow, though it felt as though it was slowing, her heart began to thunder inside of her chest and she feels herself steadying, trying to heal herself so that she might stand and stand beside him, though she does not even have a chance to note that it's not working as it should as suddenly her vax'ildan is screaming. and transforming... and is gone... her entire being wants to scream, to shout to cast, to do something to save him---

but she can't even move to react-

and then she wakes, the memory having her mind aching and pounding in her head, and though the tempest still feels weak, and as she stands her legs shake threatening to give out on her she moves and gets to work.

it felt as though she is still being torn open, like the blade still carves into her, cutting into her mind, body, heart and soul. blood still drips from the five deep gashes all over her body, she can taste it in her mouth, feel it soak the loose bandages that had been wrapped around in attempts to do to what arcane healing could not, she feels the sweat dripping from her head, hopefully something she's bringing about on her own as she sits on the floor, besides her open window, and not her getting rest as she knows she ought to. in her lap, a notebook, in her hand, a feather, hand shaking as she tries to think on what to write other than to my most dear friends...

how is whitestone?

something happened?

is everything okay after the solstice?

are you both safe?

vax is -

im sorry it's all my fault

i am afraid and scared and beyond that, extremely angry and i think i might die and you need to know something before i do

frustration bubbled inside of her, hot tears prickling at her eyes that drips from her eyes, one hitting the paper a second after a spot of deep red hits the paper, keyleth muttering a curse as she rips out and crumbles up the letter and lets it join the pile that is on the ground. for a moment, she lets her head rest in her hands, not caring if ink spilled on her face, not caring about anything as she tried her best to keep herself together and unable to do so, instead staring at the empty ledge that is unfamiliar, but echos the very feeling she feels inside of her chest.she sniffs. she swallows, and tears still slip unashamed, unembarrassed, wondering if perhaps with the blood still seeping gently from her wounds if perhaps the matron might give her fucking ear with the blood still seeping on the occasion from her wounds. wouldn't that be amusing?

' if you kill me now, i will despise you even more than already. and i will throw everything in my power at you when you come to collect me. ' do. she thinks and she scoffs, her eyes looking beyond as though she might see a raven, familiar or not but again, there's nothing. it doesn't matter. so she instead tries something else to offer. ' if you kill me now, you will never get him back. you need me .' the thought making a smirk stretch on her lips, the goddess of death having something they both understand about each other now, the main difference between them being she is going to do anything and everything that she can even if she must keep true to her duties.

and one of those duties is to vox machina, to her family. and so again she writes---- and when she finishes, she goes through the motions to send it, snowdrop and a blue hyacinth inside the envelope alongside the letter .

dear percy, i know you both are very busy almost constantly but something has happened. i would come to you to make things easier on everyone, but i know not if i can at the moment. i need your help. i need vex's help. and i might need vox machina's help but i know i for sure need the both of you here as soon as you are able. write back if you can, when you can. keep safe. i love you both so very much and give my love to the children. - keyleth

send MORTAL for a scene from my muse's past in which they had a brush with death, either themselves or someone close to them

[likelyslumbering]

.

[nightingale-prompts]

Danny can't taste- DCxDP Prompt

The problem with being half dead is that so are your senses. While certain foods are still as tasty as ever they are relegated to food found on offering plates like bread, fruits, cheese and wine. But Danny just wants to eat a good burger and unfortunately, those aren't offered to the dead.

This has led to Tucker and Sam burning food offerings for Danny in the past, but there has been another solution.

Danny just adds copious amounts of extra stuff to his food to satisfy his numbed tastebuds.

20 sugar packages to his coffee, a flood of hot sauce on his burgers and anything else he could get his hands on.

One afternoon after class Danny ended up meeting Tim at the Batburger on campus. There Tim watched in horror as Danny filled a cup of Sprite, added blue raspberry sour Death Ball candies to it, added citric acid, added plutonium 9 hot sauce, and extra sugar. It was the most horrifying baby blue concoction Tim had ever seen. It looked like a normal soda but it was liquid death.

And Tim wanted to try it next.

(A drink that would cause a small Victorian child to disintegrate)

[avocado-frog]

Hi Isaac! 8. Is there any character you don't like at all, even though you've written them?

Hey!

I have plenty of characters that I use for general antagonists (a very long google doc page) but those are mostly just names and a few picrews if they're special enough. I have two characters that have been lurking in the background since the first version of the story. They're not in it anymore but i might give them a cameo later. been thinking about it

Out of the kids though.. Marcy. Literally she has nothing going for her. She has MAYBE six lines total, and the only reason she didn't get cut was because by the time i decided i wanted to, i had already posted the first chapter and I didn't want to edit her out. There's a secret twelfth character who got cut out right before I started posting and sometimes I find stuff I've written that still has her in it

[ceilidho]

prompt: ghost and you are the only survivors of a military plane crash. you spend weeks alone in the wild together. (ns/fw)

-

In the years you’ve worked as a flight attendant, you’ve never experienced a plane crash before. It’s exactly like what you would’ve expected.

Clear skies rapidly turn grey outside the tiny windows to your left and right; you notice it almost instantly because it casts a pall over the interior of the aircraft. It makes the small group of men that you’ve been travelling with sit up a bit straighter in their seats, only a few of them looking genuinely concerned. Military men often do; it’s in their nature to worry and fret. You feel it like a twinge in your gut, like something telling you that you don’t usually fly through dark clouds. 

The soft ding of the seatbelt sign comes on a handful of seconds later. The turbulence only a few moments after that.

Pilots are trained to avoid cumulonimbus clouds like they’re a harbinger of death (and they are). Even large airliners avoid crossing the path of a cumulonimbus. Your pilot should’ve known to divert and fly around the cloud, avoiding the possibility of flying through a thunderstorm altogether. The pilot’s voice crackles over the intercom for everyone to fasten their seatbelts and you notice distantly that his voice seems frazzled. 

Your hands grip the seat as you strap in. This is exactly the kind of scenario you’ve prepared extensively for, but in the face of it, your stomach tosses and turns. Practice can only hope to ape reality; it often falls short. 

From across the aisle, you lock eyes with the lieutenant in the skull mask that politely refused a beverage ten minutes ago. The plane jostles you violently in your seat as it passes through a rough patch of turbulence. Even the lieutenant, twice your size and rooted into his seat, his hands clamped around the arm rests, grunts when he’s rocked side to side. 

There’s a loud pop outside the aircraft and the plane teeters dangerously to one side. The bags in the overheads bash against the doors, the plastic squeaking under their weight. 

Someone screams. The other attendant sitting across from you is already shouting, “Brace! Brace! Brace!” The mantra bursts from his chest along with spittle and the singular, quivering note of fear. There’s not much more you can do but follow his lead, dropping your head to your knees and wrapping your arms around your legs.

Your stomach drops when the plane descends far too suddenly. You would’ve been pulled back against the wall if your arms weren’t wrapped around your legs. You have enough time to peek up briefly to see all of the other men assuming the same position, some with their heads pressed against the seat in front of them before the aircraft nosedives and there’s a sharp whistle in your ear and the lights flicker ominously in the cabin and something tears and tears and tears and—

Then it’s dark.

Your grip must have loosened because the world disintegrates after you hit your head. There’s only a faint buzz and something ice cold, something that grips you from the inside and slithers over your skin. The aftermath of a crash is so quiet for the devastation it brings.

The big one in the scary mask is the one who drags you from the wreckage, lifting you into his arms when you’re still too dazed to do more than whimper pathetically. Fear and pain and adrenaline have crumpled you up into a little ball. 

“Keep your eyes open,” he says, and maybe it’s a shout. His voice is so loud. When you open them, you nearly close your eyes instinctively when you see the gaping hole in the plane where it’s been torn apart. 

“Where are—” it hurts to speak, but you have no choice, “—the others…”

He doesn’t respond. That makes it worse. You slip your arms around his neck so he can hike you closer up his chest. Slung over his shoulder is a black duffle bag that he must have pulled from the overhead, or what’s left of them. When your head turns on a swivel, you startle at the sight of the other attendant still strapped in his seat, his neck snapped back at an odd angle. 

You turn your head away. 

“My leg hurts really bad,” you sob, fingers clutched in the sweat-matted fabric of your saviour’s shirt. 

He palms the back of your head and tips you just enough for you to meet his eyes. Something dark shutters over his face for a split second. If your eyes weren’t filled with tears, you might’ve noticed it. It passes fast though, too quick for you to register it in these conditions.

“‘Gonna be okay, sweetheart,” he says, gentler this time, rough-sounding like he’s not used to using that tone. “Gonna get us out of here and then I’ll check your leg. Just hang on to me.”

It’s hard to catalogue every moment because you drift in and out of consciousness. You feel the man shift you in his arms whenever he clambers down the side of the mountain your plane must have flown into. There’s debris from the wreckage scattered around the rocks, the other half of the plane not too far away. When your eyes blink open briefly, you see how decimated the other half is. 

There aren’t any other survivors. Only bodies. He doesn’t stop for them.

Far off from the wreckage, he sets you down onto the soft earth and rifles around in the bag he took. There’s a first aid kit with supplies that he uses to wrap your ankle, which is swollen and tender. The adrenaline crash is nearly more violent than the plane crash you just survived. It wracks through your body as the lieutenant strips your shoes and socks, gently manipulating your foot in his big hands. You notice he’s also lost the mask.

Ochre yellow and green plains spread outward from the mountains. You remember from the flight maps on board that you were somewhere over Mongolia, but the exact mountain range eludes you. This could be the Khangai or the Sayan or the Altai, but you have no way of knowing. 

“Is there a…a phone in the bag? How’s anyone gonna know we’re out here?” You sound helpless, smaller than you’ve ever sounded. 

He shakes his head. The tight ball of tension in the middle of your chest grows tighter. The thought that you’re stranded in the mountains in Mongolia, thousands of miles away from home and no way to get help is almost enough to send you into a panic attack. 

A hand cups under your chin to tilt your head up. His face up close is exquisite and haunting—weathered in the way that career military men often are, burn marks and old scars littered across the delicate skin, lips perpetually chapped, and a nose that looks like it’s been broken way more than once. You can’t look away. 

“Someone’ll be looking for us,” he says. It’s reassuring only because he says it like it’s a certain thing. “Don’t know if you saw who was on that flight roster. A lot of important men were supposed to arrive in Germany at twenty-one-hundred hours.”

You nod, tears still dribbling down your cheeks even when he swipes his thumb across to rub them away. He’s not wrong. There was a colonel on your flight after all. Dead now, hot corpse still steaming in the wreckage half a kilometre away, but he would’ve been important enough to warrant an immediate rescue. 

You go still under his touch. “You weren’t on the flight list.”

He shakes his head. “Never am.”

“But you were with them?” You remember someone on the flight addressing him by his rank. It was early on in the service, when you were still strapping down bags and doing cross-check, making sure everything was in place. But you remember, even then, seeing that there were more bodies on the plane than names on the list; you’d brought it up to the captain, but he’d brushed off your concerns. Maybe he knew the reason behind the lieutenant’s name being held off the passenger list. 

It’s all moot now anyway. 

“Can’t bring a ghost on a flight,” he says darkly, like it’s a joke. Like you’re in on it together. “Can’t put it on the roster at least. S’bad luck after all.”

It’s a monstrous joke at a time like this. Your life feels cracked in half and the scarred brute of a man that pulled you from the wreckage makes jokes like it happens to him every other day. When the sky splits later that night and pours out a lake’s worth of rain, it feels appropriate. You huddle with the lieutenant at the base of a densely branched tree and shake.

Five weeks in the mountains go by slowly. 

The shelter he builds is haphazard but meticulous, composed of various materials that Ghost scavenges from the plane wreck. A door becomes a makeshift roof. He makes you sit and wait as he collects dozens and dozens of branches, chopped down from the surrounding trees and fashioned into a lean-to. Padded with moss and leaves. 

“I can help with getting the leaves,” you protest when he catches you hobbling around and carries you back to the nest of blankets and tarps that he’d pulled from the plane. He goes back every so often to see what remains and what can be used. It’s the only time other than when he hunts that Ghost leaves you alone for even a second, preferring to be within arm’s length of you the rest of the time.

“You can help by sitting your ass down,” Ghost grunts without even looking up at you. 

You frown, fingers digging in the dirt by your feet. It’s a silly complaint but there’s never anything to do but wait. 

In the early morning hours, Ghost goes off and hunts for you, when the world is still quiet and the animals are still asleep. They’re sluggish when dawn still hasn’t peeled its pink belly off the surface of the world. Ghost comes back with a deer slung over his shoulders one week, his knife still protruding from its neck, and your stomach only twists a little bit. Not used to seeing where your meat comes from. 

There’s not much choice when you’re on your own in the elements. Every day, you expect to see a helo appear over the horizon, and you end each night crestfallen when it doesn’t. 

It’s not like you haven’t completed basic training, a prerequisite to applying as a military flight attendant, but admittedly it’s been several years and basic never taught you to hunt for your food. You did other things that seemed, at the time, inconsequential to your career path, like learning to rappel and how to wait an hour for your NCO to show up for PT in the morning. 

Even if your ankle hadn’t been badly sprained, you wouldn’t be much help. Ghost’s remarkably self-sufficient. It makes you question whether he’s done this before—whether he’s gotten stranded in the woods for weeks on end and had to learn to live hand-to-mouth. 

“Have you…where’d you learn all of this?” you ask him in the dead of night, when the wind is a shrill hiss through the trees and you cower close to him in your sleeping bag (also salvaged from the wreck, though his has a tear down the side of it).

Ghost is quiet for a moment. “All over the place. Been doing this for years, love; had to learn.”

“Anything ever like this?”

Even with the absence of his mask, it gets so dark at night that you can’t see his face. You can hear the wry smile that plays on his lips in his voice though. “I’ve had worse days.”

There’s a story there that you see like a fish darting under the water. Too quick for you to catch with your bare hands. 

You wake up with your cheek pressed against his pillowy chest most days. It’s embarrassing at first, but you learn to let it melt off you when you meet Ghost’s eyes and there’s nothing there but piercing blue. They root you in place most of the time but they never tell you to move. 

It takes a while before your ankle starts noticeably healing. In the intervening weeks, Ghost almost dotes on you, in a rough, untested sort of way. Like he doesn’t have much experiencing tending to another person besides himself for weeks on end. As the weeks drag on, it morphs into something unrecognizable, like a wounded animal healing wrong. 

It starts when Ghost insists on sharing sleeping bags. It’ll be easier for him to pull you close if something tries to drag you off in the night (and doesn’t that thought put you on the brink of a panic attack until he shushes and soothes you). It escalates when you make the mistake of tending to the meat hanging over the fire while he fiddles with the little radio he’d dragged back from the plane, and the look he gives you when you tell him that supper is ready borders on reverent. 

It gets even worse when he has you both strip your clothes off on a particularly cold and rainy night, wrapped around each other for warmth. 

“Sweetheart, you’re shaking,” you hear him rumble, big hand drawing a line down your back. You do tremble at that. “C’mon, get closer. Gonna warm you up.”

You wake up in the middle of the night when your ankle is starting to feel solid enough that you think you can manage to go off on your own to relieve yourself instead of waking Ghost up again. That’s the plan anyway. Before you’ve even managed to crawl all of six feet away from your sleeping bag, a rough hand pins you by your shoulder to the ground and the heavy, over two-hundred pound body of your companion drapes itself over you.

“Where the fuck do you think yer going?” Ghost snarls. 

For the first time in a week, there’s a moment of genuine fear. It’s like realizing for a split second that the animal you’ve let creep up behind you is a lot more dangerous than you thought it was. 

“I have to pee,” you whisper-hiss, heart still skittering in your chest.

He’s silent behind you while he mulls that thought over; you think maybe he’s still half-asleep, his body acting on instinct before his brain’s ready to take over. The tension only releases you when he finally picks himself up off you, but it’s immediately made worse when he insists on accompanying you into the woods. 

He doesn’t even turn around while you pull your underwear down and squat. Ghost’s eyes are bright in the dark, trained on you like it’s the thing that gives him purpose. 

Things change in the woods. There are people who are only one bad thing away from reverting to their neolithic mind; as the weeks go on, you see the way his eyes change when they fall on you, no longer detached but gluttonous. 

There’s a brown bear that slouches past your camp one day, sniffing around only because it’s curious, and Ghost all but completely obstructs your vision with how he shoves you behind him. He puffs up big when the bear gets too close, keeping you hidden until it snorts and ambles off, not interested in the pair of you. 

Do animals act like this? He curls you around him in sleep, legs tangled together. When you soak in the lake under the glare of the sun, he slips into the water and comes up behind you until his hands close around your waist and he tugs you closer to the edge, away from the deeper parts. It’s testament to how long you’ve been out on your own that you’re no longer unaccustomed to the feel of his hands on your bare flesh. 

His lips on your bare shoulder are a little less commonplace, but you only shiver and stare out at the mountains. 

Then one day, you look up into the sky away from the sun and there it is, a black dot on the horizon at first. You scream for Ghost, who’s skinning a fish on a damp log near you and start waving your arms wildly in the air, unbridled joy streaming out of you. He’s quick to pull his mask on when the chopper lands a few hundred yards away and two similarly dressed soldiers spill out. 

You ignore the stiffness in his body as he sits beside you in the chopper, pinning you against the side. Ignore the way he answers for you when the men start asking questions. 

What does it mean to come back worse?

“Wha’s that, love?”

“Trauma bonding,” you repeat, swallowing nervously. It’s months later, but the weeks on the mountain and the forest still haunt you. The real world seems flimsier now that you’re back in it, less real somehow. Here, no one hunts for their food. “The therapist said that we trauma bonded. And—and that’s why you won’t—”

Here’s where the words can’t seem to come out on their own. 

He sleeps in your bed these days—can’t stand to be more than a room away from you at any given time. Follows you into the bathroom when you need to clean up at the end of the day, crowding you into your too-small shower. The you from a month ago wouldn’t have been able to imagine inviting a six-foot-four soldier into your apartment, but—and here’s where your brain scrambles a bit to catch up—you didn’t invite him in. 

He lifts a brow. The mask comes off in your apartment, so you’re able to see the way his lips slip into something unimpressed. “Why I won’t what?”

You swallow. “You know. Leave.”

“Do you want me to leave, love?” 

That’s the crux of it. The heart of it. You really don’t. In the dark sometimes, if the wind rustles outside your window just right, shrill like those weeks in the forest and out on the open plains, your heart pounds in your chest until it grows so tight that you think it’ll just stop. 

“No,” you whisper in response to his question.

Most nights, you wake up drenched in sweat, still half in a dream where you turn your head and the other flight attendant is staring back at you with wide, empty eyes. Blood dribbling down from his head. Where a plane is ripped in half, grey metal strewn across a mountain and the valley below is a dark pit where you go to die. 

Then you roll over in your bed and Ghost is there, already awake and cupping a wide hand over your cheek, laying kiss after kiss across your face. Murmuring that it’ll be alright, that you’re safe. That he’s got you. 

His breath is hot on your skin.

You let him roll you over and spread your legs when he says those things. Let him be a bit filthy after being so kind to you in the woods. 

He spits on your pussy and rubs it in with a coarse thumb, chuckling when you yelp all breathlessly and squirm away. Sometimes when you fuck, he gets rough with you and slaps it, but he’s always tender with you after a nightmare, content to sooth you with his mouth on your pussy until you’re close to hyperventilating. 

“S’alright, sweetheart,” Ghost breathes, spearing you on his turgid length, barrel chest heaving when he finally crams it all in. Always a bit too big for you to take without crying. “I got you, I’ve got you. Not gonna let anything happen to you.”

It’s a new development, but it feels older than time. You could’ve let it happen in the woods and you might have, if no one had ever come. 

“Look at me, sweet girl,” he tuts when you turn your head to the side, holding your face in one hand until you have no choice but to stare at the bulk of him straining over you. He has shoulders like mountains that roll when he pushes into you. “Didn’t I say I’d take care of you?”

You don’t want to acknowledge what this is: that you found something in the woods and it followed you home.

[multifandomme]

A Dangerous Game

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Female Reader

Summary: Natasha is forced to admit that her feelings for you, an escort, are far more than transactional.

Genre: Smut, (mommy kink, power dynamics, exhibitionism vibes, semi-public sex, pet names, praise kink, light degrading, strap ons, fingering), not suitable for minors.

Word Count: 3k.

A/N: This is a gift for @ionlylikemarvelforthewomen as it's her favourite fic.

This piece is for day 7 of kinktober under the 'semi-public sex' prompt. This is a new and modified version of a fic I wrote in 2022.

More works from me here. || Masterlist here. || Kinktober 2024 Masterlist here.

––--– ♡ –––--

––--– ♡ –––--

“You’re so tense.”

A brief silence engulfed the lavish hotel room, your adept fingers digging further into the canyon that separated Natasha’s shoulder blades, softened grunts escaping her.

“Yeah,” she scoffed, her expression disgruntled due to the pain that materialised from your attempt at reducing the knots that hardened her muscles. “That’s not the only place.”

Natasha sighed loudly as you released her from your grasp, jogging her shoulders to assure that you had been steadfast in your endeavours. Over the last few months, Natasha’s visits had fluctuated to the point of concern, appearing at this same hotel room more than thrice a week. 

You couldn’t complain, Natasha a model client, respectful, obedient and left your pockets brimming with wads of cash. Knowing so little about her didn’t help stymie your overriding worry for her and for yourself, a bizarre kind of comfort surrounding you whenever her presence was near. You could not place the feeling, nor begin to describe it, though you did know that whatever it was that you had felt could only spell danger, territories that were better left unexplored.

“You know, you should probably find a better outlet than this,” you advised, the compassion that brimmed in your voice soon passed off as a mindless suggestion. “There’s only so much I can do for you, Natasha.”

Natasha surged upwards, swiftly abandoning her prior position perched on the edge of the bed, the sound of her kissing her teeth in irritation echoing out into the expansiveness of the room. The topic always seemed to incite inflammation, though you were all too wary of becoming too intertwined with a client, knowing the hardships that arose from personal experience.

You had your rules and at first, adhering to them provided no issue, though as the time passed and the frequency of your meetings grew, so did the temptation to shirk the consequences. Thus far, only two rules had withstood the test of time: no personal information that exceeded necessity and no visible markings left behind. 

Even with such boundaries in place, Natasha was undeterred, resolute in her pursuit of abandoning the latter. And when the throes of pleasure engulfed her in her entirety, her mind and desires unencumbered, she would beg, plead, do anything to convince you to reconsider your judgement. You had yet to relinquish, though you feared that one day she would reign victorious and break you, at times, you secretly hoped that she would.

“What I want is for you to do your job," she flared, frustratedly, "that is what I pay for, no?"

The smart remark almost triggered the emergence of a chuckle from you, profoundly amused by her ability to implement avoidance tactics whenever this particular topic was called into question. Instead of permitting her the delusion of her ardent denial, you decided to probe further in the hopes of collapsing her walls.

In an effortless manoeuvre, the black silk robe that shrouded your lingerie from view disintegrated into a velvety pool at your feet, Natasha’s gaze possessed with immediacy as you strutted towards her.

“Are you certain that’s all you want?” You interrogated, sultrily, your voice like honey as you attempted to distract her from the daring nature of the question. “I see the way you look at me. This isn’t just a fuck for you and you know it.”

Tenderly, you reached out to trail the soft skin of her cheek with your thumb, the gesture impeded as Natasha batted you away with intent, her guardedness rebuilding itself before you. Without a word, she travelled to the furthest corner of the room, her attention redirected to the cityscapes that lay beyond the window. An audible sigh exuded and you knew that your prodding had instilled a festering sense of doubt inside of her. 

“So what if it is more?” Natasha challenged, bluntly, the words falling from her lips as if her inner monologue had accidentally blurted its way out of her mouth, unchecked. “I know what I’m doing,” she assured, though the flickering of her eyes conveyed a distinct uncertainty, as if her lips were speaking of a truth she inherently knew she could not uphold.

The last sentence tugged a quirk from your eyebrows, a smug smile plastering itself across your face as you sauntered over, your lingerie-clad form shadowing hers from behind. Instantly, her breath hitched and the boldness that she donned only seconds prior seemed to ebb away until it had dissipated completely. Your smirk seared into the side of her neck as you attacked her pulse point with softened kisses, delicately as to activate the docility that bubbled just below the surface. 

“It’s a dangerous game that you’re playing,” you purred, sexily, your fingers creeping down to cup at her pussy, Natasha’s body tensing in surprise until she surrendered to the glimmer of pleasure that it delivered.

Natasha gasped softly, her legs shifting with heightened impatience as her thighs clamped firmly around your hand to attain further friction.

“I like dangerous games,” Natasha breathed, weakly, and you could tell from the way in which she spoke that her eyes were tight shut, a pliable state beginning its activation.

“Oh, I know, baby,” you whispered, your fingers abandoning her pussy to make quick work of her breasts, the light patronisation in your tone causing her to groan aloud. “But they’re not so fun when you lose, hm?"

“I’ll do whatever you ask of me. I’ll be so good for you.”

“Kneel,” you barked, authoritatively, pleased to discover her immediate compliance, dropping to the floor without a protest nor a sound.

Natasha’s obedience could not be faulted, revelling in the way she stared intently, her beautiful green eyes glazed over as she awaited your instruction. She would ask and beseech to be debased, which often led you to wondering what she was like in her day to day life, wondered what had shaped her into the quaking mess below you. 

“Good girl,” you praised, earnestly, a hand ruffling absentmindedly through her silky locks.

“Thank you, Mommy” Natasha blushed, a feeble smile playing on her lips as her eyes averted to the floor below, a slight glint of  apprehension filling her.

“Let’s see that pretty face of yours, hm?”

Orbs of serpentine raised to meet yours, her beauty undeniable as it captivated you with no means of escape. Delicately, you thumbed the apples of her cheeks, noting how a rosy hue began to appear. The deft touches allowed no prior warning as to what would occur next, though Natasha knew, her eyes tight shut as your palm thrashed against her cheek. Scarlet tinged her cheeks with vigour, adrenaline coursing through Natasha’s veins as she simpered, devoid of thought.

“Thank you, Mommy,” she beamed, dumbly as she excitedly braced for another wrecking impact.

But, you had other plans for her.

“Open that pretty mouth for me, angel,” you instructed, flatly, a hum of approval exiting from you as she promptly abided. “I think it’s time that Mommy put it to good use, hm?”

Natasha inwardly ascended at the idea, nodding avidly with her jaw widening at your request, her tongue slipping out from her mouth. She loved to be at your disposal and her features shone with enthralment.

Roughly, you stuffed two digits into her mouth and hummed in extolment as Natasha laved them generously with saliva, swirling her tongue with passion. Her pink lips blossomed into a deep shade of crimson, swollen below her valiant endeavours. The enthusiasm dripped from her, spurring you on as you pushed in further, a spark of bewilderment flecking her stare.

“Such a good girl,” you cooed, retracting your fingers to find a string of saliva dangling, momentarily retaining connection until it fell away.

“Thank you, Mommy,” Natasha enthused, her teeth peeking out to nip softly at her lips, her appetite noticeable, burgeoning. 

“Is someone getting needy already?” You probed, knowingly, Natasha’s face flushing with sheer humiliation as she pried her eyes from you in aversion. “Tell Mommy what it is that you want.”

A faltering gulp sounded, a pause of silence prevailing until you drew her chin upward and subsequently forced her into meeting your eye line. 

“I want you to fuck me, Mommy,” Natasha divulged, shyly, her blush all but darkening as the words exited her lips. “I want you to take me where everybody can see.”

“What a filthy little slut,” you taunted, unable to bite away the smirk that had subconsciously upturned your lips, more so when you had caught Natasha in a state of utter transfixion, taken by the large windows.

The redhead’s pupils visibly dilated as the fantasies flooded in her mind, robbing her of coherence as she imagined people staring up from the city below and gawking at her nudity, studying her. Unknowingly, a desperate mewl fell from her mouth, her arousal beginning to seep against the material of her underwear.

“Take off your clothes and face the window for Mommy, princess,” you purred, the sound of your voice able to coax her from her state of entrancement. “Don’t make me wait.”

“Yes, Mommy.”

The eruption of hasty movement behind you signalled Natasha’s expeditious compliance with your request, barely a minute having gone by before she quietly reappeared, her exquisite form unveiled, bare. Your mouth salivated profusely at the image of her, clearing your throat as a means of regaining the concentration that had been briefly stolen from you. 

The remnants of sunset light projecting through the window seemed to encompass her physique in gold, her irises boasting a milder green as she twisted to regard you, praying that you would sate her limitless hunger.

Cautiously, you approached, slowly as if you were stalking prey, only Natasha wanted to be captured, wanted to be devoured with carnal desire. Again, you found your place behind her, the soft silhouette of your black lingerie firmly pressing up against her. Natasha’s nakedness allowed for effortless access, taking her breasts into your hands as you played roughly with them. 

Her nipples stiffened instantaneously, perhaps furthered by the slight plummet in temperature her lack of clothing had incited. But she was breathtaking, her head relaxing backwards to bruise against your clavicle, her lips in fatally close proximities.

“It feels so good, Mommy,” she complimented, despite the shakiness of her breath, her eyes settling to a close. “I want more of you, I need it. 

The encouragement that she had offered was not lost on you, and only invigorated you with a heightened sense of accomplishment. Your hand trailed downwards, snake-like, the obstruction of her underwear no longer stymying your efforts as you made immediate contact with her delicate flesh. 

What had greeted you had racked you with genuine surprise, her arousal leaking languidly as you gathered it amongst your digits. Natasha sighed in annoyance as you quickly retreated from her, though her eyes became instantly restored with anticipation when you dangled the glistening fingers before her mouth.

“You’re dripping, princess,” you whispered as you sank your fingers into her mouth to be cleaned. “What a desperate little slut and all for me.”

Natasha cried out in response, the sound ebbing out into a lustful moan the minute your hand returned to where she needed it the most. She bucked sporadically, the volume of her protests only intensifying as you continued to prolong her suffering, rejoicing in it. 

“Please, Mommy,” she pleaded, her voice no louder than a softened whisper, her energy dwindling along with her patience. “I need you inside of me.”

Her pitiful pleas rang out like music to your ears, your free hand wrapping around her from behind to secure itself around her throat. Fixed in place, Natasha’s motion was thwarted, every trace of control stolen from her. A frenzied jolt reverberated through her as she felt you align your fingers against her pussy, an all-encompassing tremor claiming her when you finally slipped inside. 

As you thrust steadily inside of her, you scattered her porcelain neck with pecks, occasionally delivering an aimless bite as she panted. The lewd sounds that emitted as your fingers buried inside of her filled the vicinity, echoing, your addiction to her only reaching new heights. And just when you suspected that Natasha was approaching an orgasm, you removed all contact from her.

“Bend over for me, angel,” you insisted, a devious expression lurking upon your features. “Let Mommy see that pretty pussy of yours.”

Natasha obliged, her cheeks hued scarlet, palms pressed to the glass of the window as she presented her exposed pussy to you. Arousal splayed the area around it, fluttering as it clenched around the absence of your fingers. The woman groaned exasperatedly as you prodded her from behind, a probing digit stuffing itself inside of her just to feel the way she constricted desperately around it. She wasn’t going to be able to hold out much longer, you knew that.

“Do you want to cum, princess?” You asked, mockingly, the evidence staring you in the face as she quivered lightly, her face disgruntled in displeasure at being denied. 

“Yes, Mommy,” she sobbed out, her head knocking against the glass, her shallow breaths tainting its clarity with translucent condensation. “Please, please.”

Hastily, you raced to collect her favourite toy but not before landing a quick slap against her ass, earning a squeal from Natasha. In the silence, Natasha could hear the sound of you securing the harness around you, her eyes peering around from her position as she stole a sneaky preview. You could almost see her pushing up to her tiptoes in preparation, her breasts squashed against the window for all to see. Her zeal was unrivalled.

“Aren’t you a good girl?” You praised, noticing the way she had modified her position, your hands ghosting her sides until they settled in firmly against her hipbones. 

“Yes Mommy,” Natasha acceded, delightedly, her palms spread as she gripped the window with a harsher force, readying for what was inevitable. “I’m your good girl.”

The tip of your strap on slid against her pussy as you teased her, before its entire length disappeared into her warmth. Natasha collapsed forward, saved only by the sturdiness of her arms as her breasts rocked methodically against the glass. You held her in place with an unyielding grip around the back of her neck, erratic breaths of oxygen spring from her as she adjusted to the intrusion, delighted in the sensations that it activated. 

“Oh, mhm,” Natasha moaned, shamelessly, the volume exceeding anything you had procured from her to date as she assisted you in rutting against the toy, taking it deeper than you had thought possible.

“You like that, princess?” You growled, breathlessly, tightening your grasp upon her until a brute force incurred. “Do you like it when Mommy fucks you like a whore?”

“Yes, Mommy, oh, fuck-”

With Natasha’s fiery locks wound around your fingers for leverage, you forced her closer, her body solidly against you. A wandering hand sought the apex of her thighs, pinching and rubbing at her clit as she began to convulse in your arms. 

“That’s it angel,” you encouraged, zealously.,“cum for Mommy.”

Natasha craned until her lips ghosted yours, intent on overstepping the boundaries and willing you into a kiss. For once, you did not possess the self-control to deny her, did not want to. She was angelic, the repercussions pushed so far into the back of your mind that they ceased to exist. So, you surrendered to the gravitational pull, claiming her lips as she jolted, her words stifled by your mouth as she unraveled. 

Natasha kissed with undying passion, the flames felt as soon as the contact was made. Her tongue infiltrated your mouth, sharp teeth tugging at your bottom lip as her moans were breathed into you. Abruptly, she broke the connection, staring into your eyes with an expression you could not quite fathom. 

“I like you,” Natasha blurted, her breathing still uneven, though her eyes were more alert than you had ever witnessed as they burned holes into your own, unyielding.

The tension hung in the air like thick cloud cover, an unnerving quiet whipping up and taking you under as you pondered your response to her confession. Toying with her first was always the more enjoyable option and thus, you decided to do just that.

“You like the way I fuck you,” you corrected, feigning seriousness, your gaze narrowing in order to convince her of the facade. “There’s a difference, Natasha.”

“If you don’t feel the same,” Natasha began, moving to collect her clothes from the bed, “then just say that.”

Laughter rumbled inside of you, unable to be stifled as it burst out from your throat, a hand covering your mouth to no avail. Natasha merely glared at you with fury unbridled, dejected, hurt. 

“Why are you laughing?”

You settled upon the edge of the bed, observing as Natasha willed herself into a state of fluster.

“Why don’t you take a look in the mirror, princess,” you suggested, the unexpected segue enough to pique Natasha’s curiosity, though she was still highly perplexed by the sudden redirection.

“I know I look a mess, I-”

“No,” you interjected, guiding her to the full-length mirror beside the bed and studying her features as the situation slowly ebbed out into clarity. “Look.”

Natasha stared mindlessly for a moment, her eyes dulled until she finally caught sight of what you were attempting to unearth. Her hands flew up to survey the skin of her neck, purple little bruises decorating the previously pale skin.

“You broke the rule,” Natasha gushed, wide-eyed, confused. “You marked me.”

You nodded, knowingly as you pulled her to take refuge on your lap. Her mouth was still lightly agape in shock, burning questions flocking to her mind.

“You… don’t mark clients,” Natasha remembered, the words exiting her as more of a question, as if she was confirming your knowledge of its sentiment.

A beam plastered itself upon your face, Natasha’s naivety bringing a warmth that seemed to persist. In that moment, everything seemed to fall into order, unable to take your eyes away from the ethereality of the woman in front of you. Softly, you pressed your lips against hers, hoping that the act would be enough to convey the words that you had struggled to find.

“I know,” you mused, “but I think it’s time that we both admit that we’re more than that, hm?”

––--– ♡ –––--

––--– ♡ –––--

[stychu-stych]

day 29 < Day 30 "Disintegrate" > day 31

Continuation of this one

Prompt list

yeah I think I've made typo in my prompt list for that day shnshs not the first, not the last time

[daisymbin]

hii can u pls do angst #50 with seungcheol? and ofc, not an happy ending >__< i love ur writing sm, thank you!

ah!!! yes I can!! thank you for requesting 🤍

request your own: full prompt list!

check out my masterlist! // cheol's m.list

angst prompt #50: "I hope they're worth it."

seungcheol stumbled through the front door, the faint scent of alcohol and guilt clinging to his skin. the clock on the wall read 8:23am, but he didn’t need to check the time to know he was late—too late. the moment he stepped inside, he saw you sitting on the edge of the couch, arms folded tightly, face pale and blotchy, with dried tear tracks staining your cheeks.

you had been crying.

"you’re home," you said flatly, your voice raw like you’d been screaming into a pillow all night.

his heart sank. he’d spent the entire cab ride rehearsing what to say, but the words disintegrated in his throat. his voice came out hoarse. "yeah. i… uh, i lost track of time."

you laughed bitterly, the sound low and hollow, and reached for your phone. you slid it across the coffee table, the motion sharp, deliberate. the screen was lit, an image burned into it—a picture of him kissing someone at the bar.

someone who wasn’t you.

his breath caught. his fingers trembled as he picked up the phone, staring at the evidence of his betrayal. the rush of blood to his ears drowned out everything else.

"you weren’t even going to tell me, were you?" your voice cracked, anger bubbling just below the surface of your words.

"i—" his voice faltered. "i didn’t mean for it to happen. i was drunk, and—"

"don’t." the single word stopped him cold. you stood abruptly, wrapping your arms around yourself like you were holding yourself together with sheer will. your eyes shimmered, fresh tears threatening to spill, but you blinked them back, your voice sharper this time. "don’t insult me by blaming it on the alcohol."

his chest tightened, the weight of his mistake pressing harder with every word you spoke. "it was a mistake. i swear, it didn’t mean anything. i—"

"you don’t get to decide what it means, seungcheol." your voice broke, and this time, a sob slipped out. you pressed a hand to your mouth, as if you could stop it, but it was too late. the tears were falling again, streaming down your face even as you tried to stand tall. "you don’t get to brush it off like it’s something small, like it’s something i’m supposed to forgive just because you feel guilty now."

he moved closer, his hands trembling as he reached for you, desperate to bridge the chasm he’d created. "please, it was a moment of weakness. i love you—"

"love?" you let out a strangled laugh, the sound choked by tears. you wiped at your face with shaky hands but didn’t bother to hide how much you were breaking. "is this what love looks like to you? leaving me here all night, wondering if you were safe, only to find out you were with someone else?"

his knees felt weak. he sank onto the couch, burying his face in his hands. "i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to hurt you. i don’t even know why I—"

"stop." you cut him off sharply, your voice steadier now, though the tears kept falling. "don’t sit there and act like you don’t know why. you knew exactly what you were doing. you just didn’t care enough about me to stop yourself."

his own tears started to spill, hot and heavy, but he didn’t wipe them away. "it was a mistake," he whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of his guilt. "it didn’t mean anything."

"it meant enough for you to do it," you shot back, your tone trembling but firm.

you bent down to pick up your bag from the floor, your movements slow, like every step you took was crushing you.

"wait," he blurted, panic lacing his voice. "where are you going? we can fix this. we can—"

"we?" you turned to face him one last time, your tear-streaked face filled with heartbreak and resolve. "there is no ‘we’ anymore, seungcheol. you destroyed that the moment you kissed her, the moment you decided i wasn’t enough."

his throat tightened as he tried to hold back his own sobs. "i’ll do anything. just… don’t leave. please."

you shook your head, the weight of the tears on your lashes making them shimmer in the dull morning light. "i hope she was worth it," you said quietly, your voice trembling as your lips quivered. "i really do."

he could only watch as you walked out the door, the sound of it closing behind you echoing in the empty apartment.

he stayed on the couch, staring at the spot where you’d stood moments ago, his tears falling freely now. the silence was suffocating, filled with the weight of everything he’d lost. he buried his face in his hands again, but this time, there was no one left to comfort him.

and he knew he deserved it.

[bekkachaos]

I wish I didn't linger on every thought

8x06 coda | 700 words

Buck goes to Eddie's so he doesn't have to be alone. They don't really talk, but they don't really need to. aka, a continuation of the final scene in 8x06

Eddie didn't get up to turn the music off, in fact he was quite enjoying it. He never really played music around the house and it had been far, far too quiet lately.

As he leant back he turned his head to look curiously at Buck. He looked like someone had dropped him in cold water and put him out on their doorstep. Then there was the way he had already finished his beer when Eddie was only halfway through.

He took another bottle from his six pack and held it up, looking back at Eddie who just shook his head and gestured to his own bottle.

Buck sighed, cracking it open and taking another long swig.

"Slow down there," Eddie said, nudging Buck's knee with his own. "You only brought six."

He smiled like he was prompting Buck to do the same, but he didn't.

"I'm sure you've got one or two in the fridge," he said instead, sullen and monotone.

"Probably," Eddie said, putting his bottle to his lips.

He bobbed his head to the song as it played, taking in a deep breath and resting his head against the back of the couch. He was trying really hard not to feel guilty for taking a moment to feel joy, to do something silly and frivolous just because he could. It felt nice, and he was going to lean into that. He had to.

He turned back to look at Buck, now with his elbows propped on his knees and his fingers peeling at the label on the bottle in his hands.

"You... want to talk about it?" he asked, watching the way Buck's lips tightened as he chewed on the inside of his cheek.

"No, not really," Buck said in that same listless voice.

He turned his eyes to Eddie, and god they were so sad. Eddie thought that maybe there might have already been tears, or that they were so glassy because he was desperately trying to hold them in. He knew when to push and when to just let him be though.

If Buck wanted to talk then he would (usually it was impossible to get him to stop), but that didn't seem to be what he needed right now.

Buck's eyebrow cocked slightly as he gave Eddie a once over look.

"Do you?" he asked.

Eddie smiled, shaking his head and letting out a low chuckle.

"Nah," he said, taking in a steadying breath. "No I'm um, I'm good."

It might be the first time in a long time that he's said that and actually meant it.

"Good," Buck nodded, turning away from him and back to the disintegrating label at his fingers.

"You want to put a movie on or something?" Eddie offered.

He didn't mind just sitting there with Buck, but he seemed like he could use something to take his mind of whatever seemed to be revolving around in his head, not to mention some company.

"Yeah," he said, lips growing soft in the corners. "That sounds good."

"Any suggestions?" Eddie asked, and Buck turned to look at him.

"Risky Business?" he said, completely straight faced.

Eddie just looked back at him a moment, holding his eyes until he saw just the hint of a sparkle, and his lips pulled up in a smile.

It was a shadow of his usual one, but it was there, it was enough to let Eddie know that he was okay, just hurting.

Eddie let out a laugh and shook his head.

"Alright wise guy," he said fondly, getting to his feet with a groan and reaching for the rest of the beers at Buck's side. "Give me those, I'll put them in the fridge, you just pick something."

He started walking towards the kitchen when he heard Buck's voice call him back.

"Hey Eddie?"

He turned, resting one hand on the wall and looking over at him with eyes that answered his soft question.

"Can I crash here tonight?" he said, eyes crinkling in the corners. "I just... kinda don't want to go back home."

Eddie's smile was warm, feeling. Seeing Buck so in need of comfort left a tugging sensation in his chest.

"Couch is all yours, anytime. You know that."

Buck let out a sharp sigh and Eddie watched just a little bit of relief flood over him.

"Thanks," he said.

Eddie just gave him a nod, watching for a moment as Buck reached for the remote before going to put the beers away, and check that he had enough in the fridge in case Buck needed just a little more.

[moonsaver]

I’m just imagining the arranged marriage thing but this time it’s Sunday who is head over heels for reader (maybe he was the one who set this up in the first place! This could also tie into reader being higher status but Sunday does something to make them fall and then saves them by entering a relationship with the head of the oak family) but reader doesn’t like him or is into someone else, the angst….i feel like Sunday would do everything to make them love him but it just won’t work so in the end he just begs them to at least pretend they love him and that’ll be enough. A happier prompt on this could be he does actually succeed in getting some of their genuine love in the end. Anyway just thought of this after seeing a clip of Aqua and Akane from oshi no ko. Don’t judge me.

Okay, tons of possibilities here so lets go turn by turn because i really like this idea and unfortunately let it marinate for way too long

And it might have become unintentionally yandere, so i might redo it lol + there's not much fluff.

1 . Sunday arranging the marriage himself because he really likes reader – normal au

Sunday would definitely do this if he was pushed to his wits’ end. If his feelings for you not only disintegrate, but instead worsen and delve deeper, and on top of that, if he senses you yourself are drifting away from him. The added pressure of not reaching you in time after a conclusion to his own feelings is scary to him. In his desperation, he might as well pull some or the other reason out of his ass to marry you, even going as far as to even bribe your parents/guardians or anyone who has the power to object on your behalf.

Negotiations, contract handling, etc.. are all planned by him, so if you have a problem or you want to object, you can only do it by directly confronting Sunday himself. The added intimidation of his knowing, mysterious smile when he stands before you, almost irking you to continue in silence when you hesitate at wanting to object is something he almost relishes. Any problem you might have, has to be directly communicated to Sunday.

In the actual marriage? He's much easier on you. The hard part of coercing you into the marriage was over. He allows you more freedom in the marriage than he does outside of it.

He allows you separate rooms, reigns in any affections for you until you're comfortable, and even openly lets you know you two won't have to immediately consummate your marriage. He'll generally make sure you're comfortable in your marriage.

Of course, deviations and exceptions occur if you happen to still have lingering feelings for.. some nobody. He's bitter about it, so so bitter you can feel the tension in the air when his smile slightly falters at even the mention of their name. Sunday might try to hasten the process of you getting “comfortable” and perhaps even start forcing a few affections on you, such as kissing or holding your hand, brushing your hair in the morning and before bed, lingering his eyes on your lips. He might even not so subtly try to pressurise you, by telling you things like “at this rate, many might not even think we are married, my dear”. 

He plays slightly dirty, but there's so many moments of clarity that he hesitates still. He doesn't want to force you to love him - he wants it to happen on it's own. He's often so loving to you from afar in hopes you'll notice and maybe even return them, but when you look away in anxiousness or discomfort, Sunday's smile falters into a resigned, solemn expression. It hurts, deeply.

2. Sunday arranges the marriage with a reader of higher rank

Its similar, but you'll find the process is hastier. Perhaps it even causes a few slip ups in the middle.

Sunday would be practically tearing at his own hair before he finds the key to catalyze the negotiations of your marriage with him. If it's something that happens to knock you down or push you into unfavourable circumstances, he hesitates. But if you happen to like someone else? All that hesitation vaporises in an instant. He's practically over the moon when you have no one to turn to, his hand is almost shaking from excitement when he reaches it out to you. 

He's much more.. smothering if it makes sense, but he's not outright/direct about it. He always wants to be wherever you are, sometimes stands too close for comfort beside you, and even puts you in circumstances where you won't necessarily be able to push back in the case you damage your already fragile image or so. He's so elated, it's almost creepy. If you don't seem to be driving the relationship, or remain stagnant, his suspicions will grow immensely regarding your feelings for anyone else. Whenever you aren't present, he probably rifles through your belongings, scours for any possibility of traces of that nobody in your life.

He insists on spending the night with you – a familiar knock at the exact same time almost every night on your room's door. He stays with you, talking until it's late at night and you're too tired to shoo him away. But he'd never think himself superior than you, rather he almost takes advantage of it. He's constantly telling you how much incharge of the relationship you are. He disguises choices he wants to make on your behalf as something you can decide on. “Would you like a separate room for us both, or would you like us to have connected doorways?” , “shall I spend the morning with you, or the night?” , or so on. Not doing anything with him makes him sour, but he hides it with a smile. Sooner or later your plans are sabotaged, and in the end he joins you in “fixing” them anyway, and well.. since he's already been here for so long, it won't hurt to have him stick by until the end of it, right?

In some extreme cases, maybe one where the reader is desperately trying to leave the marriage or push back against anything that solidifies it, Sunday might even insist that you two consummate as fast as possible, regarding it as something necessary or even vital. He's so persistent about what he wants from you, like a dog begging and whimpering, that you're practically coerced into giving it to him.

He often poses himself on his knees to you, and stares so tenderly at you, you might crack. It hurts to not give him what he wants. There's times where begging words almost slip out of his mouth when he has to pull you closer. He wants your love so desperately it hurts.

[bonesofapoet]

ruination [ lucanis dellamorte x rook ] author's note: i am sleepy and threw this together, but I wanted to share lucanis reacting Badly to rook being reckless in battle so! yeehaw kids let's goooo word count: 839

Everything disintegrated upon your return to camp. 

The copse of trees sheltering the clearing sighed with your weary bones, welcoming you back to this makeshift home after a mission gone so magnificently, catastrophically sideways. Your tent beckoned you into it's sweet embrace, in which you were seconds away from answering it's call - yet a body grazed past, a mere breath away from clipping your shoulder.

A tightness began to slip around your ribcage, burrowing deep and harsh and stubborn into your unsuspecting heart.

Lucanis veered off towards his tent, soundless in voice, yet lacking stealth in his execution. Twigs snapped under boots, metal twanged as gear unclipped and fell to the ground. 

It was obvious how he felt by the way his brows fell together, eyes narrowed so their corners crinkled. Arms were crossed over leather armor upon your approach, half discarded with a grip tight enough to bunch up fabric exposed and straps hanging loose. Angry, would be an understatement, you decide. Livid, however, seemed to be a more accurate description.

"You could have - you almost died."

He sees the rise and fall of your chest as your breath deepens. The audible sigh of an exhale being the prelude to something he knows is going to rile him even more, knowing you. And he does - know you, that is - more than he'd like to dwell on. He knows you and that, apparently, seems to be the trouble.

"Yes," you nod once. Hold yourself a step back, giving him his space. "But I had an opening, and you were busy, if you recall-"

"I was there, yes -"

"I'm sorry." The harshness of his tone was enough  prompting for the words to come spilling through your lips. They still tasted faintly of blood and sweat and magic. You wished he would come near and kiss it away.

Your words sounded scratchy, rough almost. Sincere, for sure. Lucanis wishes he could reach for you and -

"You're sorry."

"I -" you hesitate, unsure how to navigate what you may have just broken. It's new, this version of your Crow. You haven't met him yet, not directly, and now balking in the face of such an occurrence seemed like the thing to do, when caught so off guard.

Truth be told, you hadn't been expecting a confrontation. At least not one so. . .personal.

"I reacted," you mend. "And I suppose in hindsight, I see how it - how I miscalculated. Obviously." the hand not wrapped in bandages raises, gestures to the remnants of the fight marring your skin. It all aches, but you're not going to let him see that. 

Lucanis stares, and stares, and stares. The grip on his elbows lessen, and he shakes his head, stepping back to create more distance. He sees you watching him, eyes wide and clouding with something like hurt, when he backs away from you.

His response is quick, sudden in the way he tears off his gloves and finishes unlatching the buckles of his leathers. They don't fall to the ground so much as they are aggressively dropped, a pile of bloody gear laying at his feet. He needs to take a minute. To breathe, to think, anything - because he's not sure he can hone this kind of anger into anything useful at this very moment. Except -

Except.

You catch the way Lucanis hides the tremors of his hands by busying them with his blades. The way his response time is longer when he removes the bandolier across his chest. How they shake when reaching down to unearth hidden knives in boots and daggers secured in hidden sheaths. He says nothing, yet doesn't turn you away, doesn't walk away, either.

Because Lucanis had come face to face with a possibility he had not allowed himself to foresee. You could have died, and he would be here, in camp, mourning over your pyre instead of hiding how impossibly, magnificently, gut-wrenchingly unprepared he is to lead a life void of - well, you.

A few paces away, your boot toes the ground. You can't look at him either, right now.

"Right. Well. I'll leave you to it then."

Lucanis stops. Slips his gaze to where you stand, a picture of valiant failure to appear nonchalant. He sees the regret tainting your expression, coloring your vibrant heart into melancholy shades of mountain greys. The way you hold yourself back from anything remotely resembling yourself in the wake of a mistake, yes, but - don't you care you almost died?

The blades in his hands fall to the ground, their CLANK clattering loud in the mutual silence. The way your eyes shine as you turn and walk away - 

He lets you go, this time, a hand ripping through hair, an exhale tearing up his lungs. He knows he's hurt you, but until he calms the hell down - it's something he can live with, even if it reopens wounds he thought he'd burned shut.

This dance is tearing both of you into a million pieces, because neither of you will take the goddamn lead.

[on-a-lucky-tide]

If you're looking for prompts, I've got a little idea, ,,,, I wanna see Nik fight someone for John. Maybe some asshole doesn't like what he sees when they're outside together, or an enemy, or whatever suits your fancy, but Nik unleashing the beast and maybe going too far but no one touches his love while he's around. Nik losing control of himself for a moment and then waking up, feeling very bad about it all. Angst with comfort, you know :3c (if you haven't written anything similar already, of course !! )

Nik believes Price is dead. He tears the world to pieces in his grief.

cw: extreme violence, torture, child endangerment, no MCD. Nikolai goes off the deepend. (Also for Anon who asked for the same.)

Laswell had delivered bad news many times in her career. It usually started the same way. 'Please sit down...' and then you moved onto the facts of the matter - the ones you could actually tell them - 'they died in the line of duty, they were killed by... they served with distinction' - and finally, you finished with 'I'm sorry for your loss, the United States government is at your disposal if...'

She knew what the relative, or relatives, looked like at each stage. The disbelief, the cracks of emotion spidering through their eyes as they tried to keep themselves together, and then the inevitable disintegration. Some people wailed, others sobbed softly into their hands, one person had roared in anguish and dropped to the floor. Grief looked slightly different on everyone, but she had seen every permutation.

There was usually another family member to pick them up, to offer comfort. It was hard. People got through. They healed, or they didn't. But that, as brutal as it was, was none of her concern. She had no loyalty to them and no history.

Nothing in her career had prepared her for telling Nikolai that Captain John Price had been killed in the line of duty.

John's task force stood with her as Nik walked into the room. She had placed damn tissues in the table. Tissues. Like Nikolai, of all people, would disintegrate into weeping and mucus. Perhaps it would have been easier if he had.

"Laswell," Nik greeted her in his usual manner, eyes crinkled in the corners, his hands spread. He looked at the three men standing around her in turn and instantly noted a fourth missing. The one he looked for first every time. The one that owned his heart and soul. His gaze lingered on Gaz, whose head tilted as if to begin an apology, and then finally Nik looked at Laswell. "Where is the captain?"

"Nik, take a seat." She gestured at the chair next to the table. Nik glanced at it, and then looked back at her. There was no point insisting. He was as stubborn as John was... had been.

The facts. "On 8th October, the 141 were involved in a raid on a base in search of a high value target. The mission went awry, and John was... killed covering the escape of his men." She swallowed, lowering her voice. For the first time since she had learned the news herself, she felt a stab of pain in her chest. "I'm sorry, Nik."

She believed she had seen grief in all its forms, but what she saw in Nikolai's eyes added a new dimension to her understanding. It was like all the light vanished in an instant; the jovial, lively man she had known for years since he turned informant for MI6 dissipated like smoke in the wind. It was a silent death; his face turned hard, his eyes darkened, and his huge body seemed to expand, casting a bigger shadow. The Nikolai she knew, and loved in her own way, disappeared before her very eyes.

"How?" he asked, his voice no more than whisper.

"He was shot," Sergeant MacTavish stepped forward. The scar down his face was still raw; a livid red in the artificial lights. "Savin' us. Watchin' our backs. Like he always did." Soap pulled something from his pocket and slid it across the table to Nik's hands. A boonie hat, Laswell noted. "Don't even 'ave his dog tags tae give ye, I..."

Nik looked at the folded beige cloth in silence, his eyes moving left to right as if he was reading something from it. When he picked it up, he touched the folded rim to his lips and then his forehead, before gazing down at it in his palms. "Who?"

"Nik?" Laswell asked, watching him carefully.

"Who is to blame? Give me the name."

"Nik, I can't--"

"A name, Kate!" His voice snapped like a whip through the room, with all the impact of a gunshot. She saw the fury in his eyes, the sharp edges, the fury, turning his usually warm brown hue into two bottomless pits.

"Makarov," Lieutenant Riley said. "Vladimir Makarov."

"Ultranationalists." It rolled out of Nik's mouth like he was spitting poison from his tongue. The corner of his eye twitched, his lips curling in a sneer. Laswell often forgot how dangerous, how volatile, Nikolai had been in those early days, when his wounds were raw and open, before John had helped him heal into the best version of himself. But she remembered now as she watched those proverbial wounds split open again, rending through psychological scars long since faded. Nik said nothing more, but tucked John's hat into the loops of his belt as he turned to leave.

"Nikolai, whatever you're planning on doing, we must ensure you--"

"There is no 'we', Laswell," Nik said. "There is not even a 'me' anymore."

She watched him leave, her words lodged in her throat. No one else tried to stop him either. They had lost their mentor, their captain, their friend. Nik had lost his heart. She cast a glance at Riley. "If it gets bad, if he goes too far, it'll be you that has to put him down."

Soap scoffed. "Why'd we do tha'? Hope he gives 'em hell."

"The only thing that kept Nikolai on our side was John Price," she said. "And once he's finished tearing through Ultranationalists and realises it hasn't healed his grief, or brought him peace, who do you think a man like Nikolai will come for next?"

They stood in silence.

***

"König, ich möchte dich einstellen."

"Ha! Nikolai? Was ist mit Chimera passiert?"

"Dafür brauche ich eine andere Strategie."

***

"Do your worst. I have nothing to tell you," the prisoner spat, a globule and saliva and blood landing on the floor near Nik's boot. Nik had already torn out three teeth with pliers, broken his ribs and two fingers. The man, one Ivan Yegerov, was tied to the chair with rope and barbed wire, which meant every convulsion tore into his skin, leaving deep welts of rended flesh leaking onto the floor.

He wasn't the first. Not even tonight.

Nikolai had shattered Yegerov's friend's skull with the wrench propped up against the wall nearby. The blood had spattered up his bare torso, matting his chest hair, stained the side of his face. Shirtless, with a buzzcut he hadn't worn since his time in the Russian Air Force, he looked every part the madman he had become. He had ignored Laswell's attempts to contact him, leaving bodies for her men to find, with notes pinned to their foreheads containing their sins. She had stopped trying after two years, but he knew she was still following his blood trail.

Yegerov and his ally had been at the base in Ukraine and, with KorTac's help, it had been a simple matter of extracting key links in the chain for a conversation. Nikolai was tracking them down, one by one, and once he was done there, he would make his way slowly to the top.

"This is not an interrogation," Nik said as he ran his fingers over the tools on the table. "This is revenge. The interrogation will start soon."

Nik selected a serrated hunting knife and turned it over his fingers as he walked towards his captive. Yegerov leaned back in the chair as Nik planted his hands over his broken wrists, seething and whimpering in pain. "Do you know the best way to extract information?" Nik asked. Yegerov said nothing, so Nik squeezed his wrists. "Answer."

"Ah, no! No! I do not."

"They truly do not make terrorists like they used to," Nik said quietly. "I will tell you." Nik ran the tip of the hunting knife down Yegerov's cheek as he spoke, not quite pressing hard enough for it to cut in yet. "You must find a bargaining chip. Every man has something in their life that they cannot live without, a line they will not cross. It is their reason to breathe, it governs their actions, it helps them... find their limit."

Nik stood up straight and reached into his back pocket, his fingers skimming over the folded boonie hat threaded through his belt loops. The picture he pulled out was crumpled and worn, spattered with sweat and blood. It had been pristine when he had snatched it from the overhead screen of his Black Hawk, the rage running in torrents of tears down his face as he had pressed it to his lips.

He had torn himself out of it, because he looked nothing like the man he had; his hair buzzed down to a military shave, his body leaner, his eyes dead. Only John remained, with his big grin and his glittering eyes. Nik pushed the picture close to Yegerov's face as he had done with every man he had killed so far. "He was my line. My reason to breathe. And you took him away."

Yegerov squinted, terrified eyes lifting away from the picture of a smiling John Price to Nik's. Before he could say anything, the nearby door burst open and König forced two hooded figures through in front of him, one so small he barely reached his hip. "Ah, bargaining chips," Nikolai stood, throwing the hunting knife to the table. "Shall we find your line, comrade?"

König shoved his hostages forward to stand before Yegerov and then tore their hoods off. Yegerov let out a strangled wail of horror as he drank in the tear-stained faces of his wife and daughter. "No, no!"

"This is how it works," Nikolai said. "You give me name of someone who will know the current whereabouts of Makarov, and I will allow you to choose who survives." It was unlikely Yegerov would know anything. Nik just wanted him to experience the feeling of powerlessness as his loved ones died before his eyes.

The same feeling Nik had felt when he had been considering turning his Black Hawk towards the White House; suicide by F-15. Numb emptiness, desperation, a bottomless, writhing grief that shredded his heart. He had decided then to leave a trail of bodies in his wake first, only then would he join John.

"No, please... please, no."

Nik picked up his M9 and checked the magazine. "I count down; five, four..." He pulled back the pistol slide and turned the weapon first to the woman, who cowered, clutching her child's head to her chest.

"Please, she is just a child!"

"...three, two.."

"Wait! Wait! He's alive!"

Nik's finger lifted from the trigger just as he was about to pull it, settling along the barrel. He looked first to König, and then to Yegerov. "Repeat."

"He's alive... John Price," Yegerov said, almost hyperventilating. "Stop pointing that gun at my wife! I will tell you! Tell you everything. Please."

Nik hesitated. For the first time since this crusade had begun, he hesitated. He returned the M9 to the table and trudged back to his captive, both hands slamming down onto his broken wrists. "If you are lying to me, I will make you watch as I peel every inch of skin from your wife's body while she is still alive."

Yegerov swallowed. "On her life, he is alive. Prisoner 627. He is at a gulag in Petrovpavlosk. Please. He is alive. You can check using my... my passkey in our system. Do not kill my family. Mercy."

Nikolai looked at König who inclined his head, disappearing from the room to follow the lead. The two hostages sank against the wall, whimpering and shivering, and Nik straightened slowly. His fingers ghosted over John's hat, and then found his picture again. Hope was a dangerous thing and Nik resisted the heat of it burning in his chest. "Mercy is for those with a heart," Nikolai said. "You tore mine out the day you took him from me. Pray that we find him."

***

"This belongs to you, sir."

***

Price watched the drills in the parade square outside and wondered whether the drill sergeant noticed the trooper lagging slightly out of step in the third row.

The medics had cleared him to leave. There was a pamphlet about PTSD shoved in the side pocket of his bag, and he had weekly meetings with the base psychologist until they were happy he wasn't going to snap at the wrong moment. He wasn't sure what the road forward looked like, or how to even take the first step, but there was one person who he knew he wanted to be there when he did.

The door behind him opened and Price turned. The man that stood in the doorway was leaner than he remembered, his black hair cut in a military-short back and sides he hadn't seen for nearly a decade. Nikolai looked knackered, no better than Price did, which was understandable given what Price had been told.

Nik walked in tentatively, as if he felt like he was intruding, and that cut Price down to the quick. If there was one fuckin' person he had wanted to see all this time, it was the weary Russian pilot currently stood before him. He surged forward, wrapping his arms around Nik's broad chest and burying his face in his shoulder. Nik squeezed him back, just as desperate.

They held each other in the quiet, confirming, checking they weren't dreaming, until finally Price pulled away to study Nik's face. "Yer hair looks shit," he croaked.

Nik smiled, just as lopsided as Price remembered. "And your beard is bad."

"Least I had an excuse," Price said, scratching at the scruffy stubble on his jaw.

Nik's eyes saddened. "As did I." He lifted a hand and cupped Price's face, bringing their foreheads together. "My life ended when I lost you."

"Ya didn't lose me. Ya found me, didn'tcha? Tore the world to pieces, Simon said."

"My hands got dirty, John," Nik rasped.

"Dirty so that my men could stay clean.'

Nik lifted his face away, studying Price's eyes, looking for condemnation, anger, disgust. He would find none of it, Price was certain. All he felt in that moment was gratitude, relief, exhaustion.

"Laswell has agreed to waive my arrest warrant," Nik said, clearing his throat. "Under the agreement that I am to retire when we have defeated Makarov."

"Sounds fair. I've always thought ye'd make a good stay at home husband."

Nik looked startled, and Price leaned in to kiss the stupid look right off his face. Bewilderment broke into relieved laughter, and then eventually tears. Price held Nikolai's face to his shoulder as the sobs shuddered through his body.

"S'olright, I'm home."

[hufflepuffwritingstuff2]

Heartless

Thank you to @rainy-writes for giving me the prompt for this snippet!

Hero found Villain just where the frightened security guard said they would be- in the children’s section of the museum. The odd thing was, as Hero had noticed while passing through the rest of the building, nothing valuable had been taken. Now wasn’t the time to think on it though, because Villain had something concealed in a bag, and Hero knew full well it wasn’t bought from the gift shop.

“Villain,” Hero hissed, “seriously? Robbing the children’s section of all places!? Have you no heart at all!?”

Villain smirked.

“None whatsoever,” they said, shrugging, “now are you going to make this easy on yourself, or do we have to do things the hard way?”

A beam of ice shooting right past their ear gave Villain their answer.

“I was going to ask you the same thing.” Hero glared.

“Eh,” Villain sighed, attaching the bag to their belt, “worth a shot.”

Villain lunged. Hero took on a defensive position. They tried to keep Villain and themselves from damaging any of the exhibits during the fight. They only hoped the authorities would arrive soon.

Right hook. Jab. Ice beam. Energy blast. Kick. Punch. The same old song and dance they performed almost every day. One good hit and an icy stomp had Villain skidding across a now-frozen floor, the contents of their bag emptying in the process. Hero stooped down to pick the mystery item up.

“Looks like you won’t be stealing-” Hero held in a gasp.

They held up an exact copy of their favorite childhood toy. A plush rabbit, with soft, white fur and a smile on its face. Hero had gotten it during their childhood, and the toys had stopped being made years ago.

“Why did you take this?” Hero demanded.

Villain stood up, slipped on the ice, fell, then cautiously stood again.

“I saw the blast from here, Hero,” Villain said, “I know your apartment got destroyed, and I know your old friend got disintegrated in the process. I just thought… I don’t know, you seemed really upset about it last we talked.”

Hero’s eyes filled with tears. They shook their head.

“Villain, it’s sweet, but, I can’t in good conscience let you give this to me. It isn’t yours to give.”

Hero sniffled and put the bunny back in its display case. They waved goodbye to it sadly. They turned, and Villain was gone.

…

Hero stretched and opened their front door. Someone had left a package on their doorstep, which was a nice change from the scolding they had gotten from the police for letting Villain get away. They opened the box and froze. Their old friend stared back up at them, with its white fur and soft smile. Hero picked it up and saw a note tied around its neck. They took it off to read it.

To: [Hero’s Name] From: [Museum Name]

An anonymous benefactor has given us a generous donation with the request that we send this beloved exhibit to you. May you enjoy it as much as our patrons have!

Hero sobbed, hugging the bunny tight. They went inside while Villain watched from a distance. They were still heartless, of course, but maybe they were growing just a tiny soft spot for a bunny-loving Hero.

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@electrons2006

[onlyswan]

summary: in which jungkook is too lazy to shower and you’re too weak to resist each other.

> est. relationship, fluff, v brief smut bc aftercare, some angst / wc: 4.7k

> warnings: subby!jk, implied edg♡ng and or♡l (and mention of f. receiving), brief h♡ndj♡b, c♡m eat♡ng, oc lowkey possessive oop, jungkook cries bc he is so full of love then i cried too </3 oc washes jk in the bathtub <3

> in which masterlist!

note: oc is stepping up what else can i say 🤷 and yea it’s jk at the ck event for the second part <3 this is… the sexiest time u’ll get from me i just felt the need to establish exactly how jk is smitten for oc. like i need u to understand!!!! before the next drabble bcoz 🥲 as alwaysss i love hearing your thoughts thru comments/reblog/asks !! <3

—

jungkook’s rhythmic knocking prompts you to blindly fumble for the handle with a slippery hand, sliding the glass door open to get rid of the barrier separating the two of you.

“what?” you mumble, eyes squeezed shut as you spread the shampoo in your hair.

your boyfriend gingerly wipes away the bubbles posing threat to your vision, allowing you to finally open your eyes and bask in his breathtaking beauty this fine morning. he stands by the door wearing only his black boxers, untamed hair and starry eyes softening the edges of your sharp temper. you will never not hate waking up early.

his voice is muffled by the pink toothbrush hanging from his lips as he beseeches you, deliberately using the charm of his pleading doe eyes.

“will you wash me, too…? i’m so tired, baby. i barely slept.”

“okay, babe.” you let out a sigh as you turn on the shower again. “but don’t get frisky. i can’t be late for work again.”

your approval makes his face light up as bright as a clear, sunny sky. why is he acting as if this is the very first time he will be standing underneath the shower with you? you fail to keep an endeared smile at bay.

“wait for me, okay?! i’ll just feed song and ppaeng real fast.”

he carefully closes the glass door, and then you hear it — his heavy feet stomping on the floor as he runs out of the bathroom as if he’s being chased by the hands of the clocks in the apartment.

“so annoying.” you snicker humorously, burying your face in your hands as you allow the water to wash away the thick foam from your hair.

—

“so annoying!” you exclaim as you turn off the shower for the final time, wholeheartedly meaning it this time around. you even took your time washing the conditioner off your hair and cleaning your body, but your patience has thinned and disintegrated into dust.

you reach for your towel, and in that moment, jungkook finally barges in the room.

“you’re finished?!”

your piercing glare meets his ingenuous doe eyes, and he winces guiltily.

“i got distracted with chores. sorry.” he bravely takes several steps closer, stealing a quick peck from your lips. “but i packed up your lunch so you’re ready to go.”

as of recent, your boyfriend has added cooking your lunch to his daily routine so you can spend your midday break at the park instead of a busy and stuffy restaurant. and although you’re dreading the exhausting day that awaits once you step foot outside the house, your heart melts when you think about the hour reserved for you to savor the food he cooked with love from his heart. it’s so easy to feel isolated in this world, but if you think about how the food that you eat requires effort and care to be made beyond fuel to live, doesn’t it make you feel a little lucky to be here?

“i guess i have some time to wash your hair.”

“i’ll take it!” he almost cuts you off, jumping at the offer before another precious millisecond is wasted.

you chuckle at his ardent display of eagerness. “will you fetch my robe then?”

—

jungkook comfortably settles in the far left of the drop-in bathtub where the showerhead is attached to the wall. meanwhile, you’re by his side facing him, sitting on the second step of the low white chair stool you both agreed to buy specifically for this type of situation.

with the heel of his palm, he wipes away the lone tear that trickles down his cheek as he lets go of another irrepressible yawn. he thought that the iced americano he was leisurely drinking in the kitchen already woke him up, yet here he is being lulled to sleep once more.

it was wrong of him to expect you to simply drizzle products on his hair and wash them off in a hurry. so wrong. you refuse to live your life halfheartedly, and that bleeds into your daily actions, he realizes.

you didn’t forget to comb his hair, untangling the knots painstakingly, before instructing him to sit under the shower. and once you were finished with generously applying the shampoo to cover his head, your artful fingers weave into his long hair to massage his scalp in small, circular movements. it’s not much, but you’re hoping that even with only five minutes of this small gesture, you can bring him some sort of comfort after having a bad night’s sleep.

“ah- this feels so nice. you’re healing me.” he sighs in relief, instinctively leaning into your affectionate touches.

you swoop in to plant a quick kiss on his lips before you take a peek at his phone. he has been diligently protecting it from the water, along with his hands.

“so, you’re buying a new polaroid camera?”

he nods, round eyes anchored in the screen as he reviews the product description displayed. “i couldn’t sleep so i started checking them out last night. i don’t really know what i’m looking for this time… i just want it to be black.”

“what made you think of it so suddenly?” you curiously inquire, ignoring the growing soreness in your arms as your fingers travel their way down to the lower half of his hair, consistent with the light pressure to release his tension.

“i want to do that thing.”

“what thing?”

“you know… tha-that thing, putting a photo of your favorite person on the back of your phone.” he stutters, lips curving into a sheepish smile. “you do it, too. sometimes.”

you snort, cracking up in laughter as you’re reminded of a running gag in your relationship. every time they have a new album release, he goes out of his way to ask for his photocards so he can jokingly present them to you as gifts since he’s your ‘favorite idol’. you do own quite a lot of phone cases, including a transparent that you use every and now then. the last one you put in the back of it was a random from his photofolio, the one in which he was doing a kissy face. how many people out there can say that their boyfriend was a vampire once?

“don’t laugh!” he whines grumpily. “you need to pose for them cutely, okay?”

“i’ll dress myself up prettier so you’ll look at me longer than the screen.”

a brand new camera always means having jungkook follow you around like a lost puppy, devoted to learning how to use it as an expert photographer and filmographer.

“but you better be sure not to burn my eyes with the flash again.”

it’s an honest mistake he’s done one too many times, even with his phone.

he scrunches his nose in shame, cackling. “it will never happen again. never. i really, really, really mean it this time.”

“sure, i should trust you.” you grimace, picking up the scalp brush on your lap before standing up to grab the shower head. “put your phone away now.”

swift to obey, he stands up to cross the distance between him and the highest floating shelf where you store the essential oils and small towels, leaving the device in between them for meantime. when he returns to his previous position, you begin rinsing his hair.

“wait- you hold this instead.” you hand him the shower, which he accepts unwittingly, moving it back and forth so he’s covering the entire area.

while he does that, you use his purple brush to be certain that the chemicals will be removed and washed away from his scalp, gentle fingers combing portions of his silky hair aside to reach every spot.

he cheesily smiles to himself under the stream of refreshingly cold water. as someone who goes out like a light when his hair is played with, jungkook is living his best life.

until he’s not.

“shit, shit, shit- i have to get dressed up.” you panic as your phone in the bedroom wildly blares the alarm sound that serves as your final warning. “oh well, i’m done anyway.”

abandoning the brush on the edge of the tub, you regain possession of the shower and run your fingers through his hair one last time for good measure, turning it off straight after.

“drive safe today. i love you. i love you. i love you.” you cage his wet face in your hands to kiss him repeatedly, tasting the coffee on his lips.

jungkook is left alone in the bathroom as you get yourself ready for work.

he side-eyes the bottle of conditioner with disgust. “guess it’s just you and me now.”

—

“i really need to shower but i don’t want to… aish, i wish i had someone to help me.” jungkook sighs dramatically as he rubs his stinging eyes. he expectantly looks over at your figure lying on the sofa, stroking your bare shins propped up by his thighs.

but you pretend that you don’t hear a single word he says, too engrossed in the anime ‘cells at work’ playing on the television to spare your boyfriend a glance. a sad frown appears on his face. he’s yearning for you after long hours of being apart.

he drops down to rest his weary body over yours, hugging your hips and face nuzzling the side of your chest. this impels you to wrap an arm around him, his half ponytail caught between your middle and ring fingers, but your hand remains idle on the back of his head.

he pitifully sobs as he whines, squeezing you tightly. “why am i like this? i don’t want to do anything… i’m too lazy… it’s seriously getting annoying now. what do i doooo?”

his speech is slightly slurred because his cheek is squished against your side. you can feel his warm breath fanning your skin, and your tickled laughter mixes in with the laughter brought by a funny scene. a minute later, the outro rolls in, which is your cue to wiggle out of his snuggling.

with his elbow anchored in the couch, jungkook watches you with disappointment swimming in his eyes as you pause the next episode and begin walking away.

“where are you going?”

you stop on your tracks, turning a little to the side to innocently flutter your lashes. “taking a shower so i can go to bed.”

your answer lights the fuse inside of jungkook, to put it lightly. still dressed in the all-black outfit he wore to an event today, minus the button-up and the stompers, he staggers on his feet. he hastily pulls out the hem of his t-shirt from being neatly tucked into his pants before bringing it over his head. he throws it aside without care, and there he stands with a sparkling silver chain dangling over his bare chest, looking like a walking daydream.

your droopy eyes widen as you’re taken aback by the rather alluring view. it seems that neither of you is making this game easy. “excuse me, mister? what are you doing?”

“well, what does it look like?” he shoots you a smirk, bangs falling over his eyes when he looks down to unbuckle his belt with practiced ease.

and you think that if you just play your cards right, he might wear them around your wrists next. oh no- no, no, no. the only restraint you should be thinking of right now is self-restraint, damn it.

“no, you’re not.”

“yes, i am.”

“no-”

“yes.”

your heart violently races when he begins wrapping the belt around his large palm, raising an eyebrow at you. but still, you stand your ground with a sweet, sarcastic smile.

“you’re not a baby. you’re 27 years old. i’m pretty sure you can shower on your own by now.”

and with that, you sprint to the bathroom before your hot boyfriend can strip off his pants, because you know it would be impossible to resist his charms then.

jungkook collapses on the couch, eyes turning into little crescent moons as uncontrollable giggles rack his body. at last, it dawns on him why you’ve been acting a certain way.

he may or may not have unintentionally snapped at his mother over the phone last night, rudely spitting out the two sentences you just used against him. despite witnessing him call and apologize not long after, you still have your own playful way of scolding him, it seems.

“what a brat.” he snorts as he chucks the belt on the table, having a feeling he will have another use for it later.

he sets his hair free from the ponytail and wears the hair tie around his wrist, running his fingers through the locks to tame the unruly mess. he shakes his head as another airy laugh is invoked from him by sheer amusement, tongue poking the inside of his cheek before he huffs.

“____ is really setting me straight like this…? ah, i’m angry!”

since he’s already half-naked anyway, he decides to remove his accessories, too. he starts with the silver bracelet around each of his wrists, tilting his head to the side as he reads the subtitle of the frozen frame on the television screen.

In the human body, there are roughly 37.2 trillion cells…

“i think i met the right person.” he nods to himself.

—

the air around him is sweltering and he doesn’t know how to breathe anymore.

“ohh fuck, fuck! i’m so— i’m so close, if you d-don’t stop-” jungkook cries out in desperation, losing any semblance of control he has over his body as he writhes on the mattress. “please, please… it feels too good, please. i’ve been behaving.”

“hm, go on, my love. want to taste you.”

your merciless hand pumps his length and your sinful lips scatter sloppy kisses along the tense muscles of his thighs. lewd, unrestrained moans escape his cerise lips as sparks of electricity burn beneath his eyelids, hips frantically rutting forward to chase his high. driven by lust in his dazed state, he holds himself up by his elbows to watch you reward his tip with languid licks of your tongue, sultry eyes staring back at him, and his head tips back into the pillows as he completely falls apart.

he lies absolutely boneless in the aftermath, mind and body floating in the abyss as he attempts to get back in touch with reality and recall his godforsaken name. his white-knuckled fist’s grip loosens, allowing his slender fingers to slip away from your hair when you remove yourself from between his legs. he covers his eyes with his tattooed arm as his chest heaves, catching his breath.

but then he is pulled out from the darkness by the sound of your giggles, bubbly and achingly familiar, coaxing his damp eyelashes to part from his flushed cheeks. with a blurry vision, he watches you scoop up some of the come that landed all over his chiseled abdomen. you push your middle and ring fingers past your lips, evidently debauched and delighted as you hum. your glasses hang loosely over your nosebridge, and he’s clueless how it managed to be clean while staying on your face.

all over again, the filthy scene pricks his skin with desire and coils the heat in his stomach… it looks reminiscent of your first kiss. but after being edged for what felt like an eternity, he’s afraid of what would become of him if he feels another ounce of pleasure.

“baby, you’re so fucking mean.” he croaks out, voice low and hoarse from choked sobs and begs. it cracks, sounding as though he doesn’t even have a voice left.

you’re more straightforward when you crave to be touched, whimpering a simple ‘i need you’ or ‘please take care of me’ with a pleading face as you play with his fingers. however, on the rare occasion that you get into a very… particular mood… you sigh and say ‘i’m bored’ before looking at him with faux innocence in your blown-out pupils… and because you’re just too damn enticing to resist, he ends up in this position — completely exposed while you’re cozily dressed in a t-shirt over your slip-on night dress, the one he was wearing before.

consequently, it has been making his life difficult. he instantly becomes turned on when you utter the commonly used words, even when there’s obviously no other meaning behind them. like when you’re in public. especially when you’re in public. he can foresee this moment flashing in his mind when he finds himself in the same predicament again. at this point, all he can say is heavens help him, he is so fucked. the angel they sent is well-versed in driving him wild.

“i love you.” he follows up, and your smile grows when you meet his hazy eyes.

“i love you more.” you reply in a sing-song voice, also raspy after having him down your throat. you bend down to plant a featherlight kiss on his pelvis, but he wants it somewhere else.

with his remaining shred of strength, he tugs at your arm to pull you in for a hungry kiss, his hand cupping your nape and his thumb rubbing your cheek. your tongue ghosts over the metal ring piercing his bottom lip, and he shakily breathes out a quiet moan.

you’re the first one to break away, pampering his lips with chaste pecks as you mumble, “my boyfriend is so pretty. mine. mine. mine. love you better than anyone could.”

jungkook’s heart does somersaults, the butterflies inside of him multiplying by the thousands with your every declaration.

you pout as you lovingly brush away the locks of hair sticking to his honey skin, glistening with sweat. “oh? are these sweat or tears? you cried again this time?”

with watering eyes, he can’t help but to dumbly stare at your glossy and swollen lips as you coo.

“but you took it so, so well. you were so perfect, baby boy. thank you.”

“don’t act so innocent.” he mutters, tattooed arm wrapping around your waist to pull you closer, longing for your weight on top of his. “you know what you did.”

you chuckle as you drag the blanket over his body, concerned he might freeze from the blasted airconditioner now that the ecstasy is ebbing away. “but it felt good, right? did i do anything you didn’t like?”

he gets a sinking feeling when you look at him, asking for confirmation as if you didn’t reduce him into this incoherent puddle of beyond satiated appetite. holy shit, he’s the luckiest man on earth.

“mhm-mhm. more than good… always. you’re too good to be true.”

he sighs in contentment when you offer your arm as his pillow, embracing him tightly. his eyelids flutter shut as he feels the soreness of his muscles taking reign. oddly enough, he doesn’t mind the pain at all. he revels in it, almost. gradually, his heartbeat returns at its normal rate.

he doesn’t flinch when he feels a metal straw nudging his lips, instead he sips heartily to soothe his throat. you have pink hearts for irises as you adore his face, falling in love with your lover all over again.

“i love you. you’re so cute.” you giggle, tucking his hair behind his ears as you hold the water tumbler for him. “you’re so red- especially your ears- it’s so cute.”

this makes him smile sheepishly, bunny teeth biting the straw. he pops it out of his mouth to bury his face in the crook of your neck, laughing breathily.

“well if you point it out, i’ll turn redder!”

“is that so bad? then you’ll be cuter.” you squeeze his cheeks together to tilt his head towards you. “come on. how do you feel…? maybe a bit better? let’s get cleaned up so you can rest.”

he frowns. “i want to taste you, too.”

want to get his payback, more like.

“later, my lov-”

he doesn’t waste time in ducking down, hooking a finger around the waistband of your underwear while he sucks a bruise on your inner thigh.

“jungkook!” you giggle, dragging him off you by his hair. “no! stop! i just wanted to play and make you feel good.”

he refuses to relent, stubborn in his defiance, chasing and chasing until his puckered lips touch your soft skin again, peppering sweet kisses. pulling his hair only spurs him on, it looks like, so you end up using both hands to guide his face inches from yours.

“your busy bee needs to go back to work.” you give his pout an apologetic kiss, knowing full well that you’ll be in bed for much, much longer if you indulge him.

you still need to finish the due project you abandoned in your laptop because you would rather do this. or him? for a lack of better term.

“you can do it however long you want if you wait.”

he beams upon hearing your saccharine promise, eagerly nodding in agreement. and with a naughty smile, he pushes his luck. “then will you wash me now?”

and when you take more than three seconds to answer, he rushes to defend himself with- “i deserve it this time!”

—

jungkook is still and silent as he sits across you in the bathtub, extremely drowsy after you gave him another one of your soothing scalp massages when you washed his hair. the scented candle melting over the sink mixes with the drops of lavender oil you added into the water, and not far from it is his phone playing mellow music.

however, that changes when he clicks his tongue in disapproval.

“you’re too gentle. are you sure i’m being cleaned?”

an irritated expression is drawn on your face as you grab his wrist, forcefully making him hold the soapy wash cloth you just started using. “then you do it yourself so i can focus on me instead.”

“i’m kidding, i’m kidding!” he winces when you make a move to stand up. he reflexively seizes your arm to stop you, lisp discernible as he grumbles. “babe, i can’t do it. i have no energy left and it’s your fault!”

you roll your eyes, reclaiming the cloth from his hand. you add a little more pressure to address his concern as you move on to lathering his tattooed arm, a coat of small bubbles decorating the diverse colors of ink covering his skin. you make a game out of neatly smoothing down his body hair.

“you know you have sensitive skin but you’re too rough when you do it. what’s the point of using a mild body wash?”

his brain fails to process your scolding, still weak and fuzzy like cotton, overcome by fragmented thoughts. the beckoning sound of your voice. the intoxicating scent of your newest perfume, strawberry clinging to your skin until now. your cleverness paired with seduction equals his blissful doom. your tenderness while you were making him cry. after making him cry. even when he’s not crying at all.

“____,”

your eyes flicker up to him in confusion. why is that you feel a little more real when he says your name?

“what?” you squeak out.

“you’re so beautiful.” he thinks out loud, ‘lovestruck’ written all over his softened features. “i wish there’s a better word for it. ehh, uhh, there probably is but…”

his forehead creases as he exerts mental power to flip through his dictionary, eyeballs pointing in different directions as if he will read the word somewhere on the walls.

“but i can’t think of one right now… my brain isn’t working.”

the compliment told dreamily makes your fragile heart beat louder inside your ribcage. concealing a flattered smile, you shake your head in disbelief.

“you think changing the topic like this will work?”

the water sloshes around as you inch closer, running the cloth over his shoulders and across his collarbones.

“i mean it.” he replies firmly, hands sneaking in to caress the sides of your waist, fingertips grazing your skin to trace amorphous drawings. “i didn’t always get the chance to look at you… like take my time and, really look at you. i hate that.”

you reach for the tallest bottle on the corner of the bathtub. as you spritz more body wash on the cloth, you give him a fleeting glance. “you’re doing it right now. that’s what matters.”

“i am.” he nods timidly.

his vision is fixated where your gentle scrubbing travels down to his chest. he sharply inhales, and exhales, choosing to pour every ounce of his attention on you. his tattooed hand slides up your body, gliding across your skin until he reaches your face. and as if he’s doubtful that you’re truly tangible and not a figment of his imagination, the back of his fingers tentatively brushes your cheek.

it rises under his touch as you sneakily steal glances of him getting lost in a trance. with droplets of water dripping from his wet hair, he blinks sleepily. his adam’s apple bobs as he swallows the lump in his throat, suppressing the new wave of salty tears threatening to leak from his eyes.

he doesn’t want to roam the roads of the past too much but — years after he broke your heart, has he become a man worthy of soaking in a bathtub with you? it’s an honor. it’s a joy. everything is clear. you’re not here to fill in a gap but to consume space. his body is permanently stained by the colors of your soul. he is loved.

considering that he still looks gorgeously wrecked from earlier, you only take it as a sign that he’s still not entirely present in this sphere. you want to give him more water, but neither of you feels the need to speak. wave to earth’s ‘evening glow’ is more than enough to fill the evening’s restful silence.

as he painfully yearns to do so, he takes his time, and you spread the body wash on the curves of his waist slower than you normally would.

his calloused thumb traces your jaw, and your breath hitches when he pauses at your bottom lip. he applies just enough pressure to memorize the softness of the flesh under his touch, slightly separating it from your upper lip. he fails to take notice of his own lips unconsciously mirroring yours. and he swears on his life, all the clocks in the world have stopped ticking to let him live in this moment forever.

on the other hand, you also fail to shut out your own impulses. your lips pucker to kiss the pad of his thumb with a smooching sound. he breaks out into a toothy grin, the long dimples running down his lower cheeks popping out.

he delicately holds your face steady in one hand, pointer finger digging in one cheek and his thumb on the other, before he draws in to grant you a proper kiss. his nose bumps against yours when it breaks.

“need to sit on your lap so i can reach your back.”

“i’m all yours.” he whispers while he guides you into position, softly squeezing at your hips.

with you straddling him, he can embrace you as he likes, his chest pressed against yours. he happily tucks his chin over the shoulder of your unbusy arm, and he’s on top of the world. he hums and sings along to johnny stimson’s ‘honeymoon’, harmoniously swaying in the limited space as you knead his back. he is undoubtedly, thoroughly drunk. the 80- to 90-proof bottles of whiskey gathered in the kitchen cabinet got nothing on you.

he sniffles quietly, using his wrist to pat his tear-stained eyes and cheeks dry. he plants a small kiss on the soft flesh under your ear before succumbing to the heaviness weighing on his eyelids.

jungkook’s adorable snoring contests with his phone’s high-quality speakers. almost, almost too identical to the sound of the candle wick burning.

“oh, for fuck’s sake.” you curse under your breath, splashing water on the expanse of your boyfriend’s back to wash away the bubbles.

“…it’s 9pm. did i seriously tire him out that much?”

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