ecomila

[artistic-vixen]

🌟Emeril

🍂Vixen

🌟- Is this oc good at expressing themself through words or do they have to use other means? So because Emeril is mute she isn't able to express herself as well as she'd like. She can only speak when her muscles allow her, which is very rare. She does however express herself deeply by writing, which she uses a journal for and she has a big collection of journals labeled by years.

🍂- What music does this oc like? So, for Taskforce! 141 Vixen likes a variety of music genres. She likes a bit of everything, but her favorite band is Three Days Grace. As for Shadow Company! Vixen, she likes music like Sleep Token, Bad Omens, and various other heavy metal music.

[astarrkatt]

I don’t think I’ve shown these OCS off on this blog properly but like

Salmon run am I right gamers

Here’s my salmon run oriented guys, Sardonyx the Goldie and Atlas, Tony’s long lost sister! This thing took forever lmaoo I am crawling back into my eternal sand pit to rest my bones or something idk

[star-my]

Vixen ~ Chapter One

➼ Pairing: Park Jimin x OFC (Shin Ara)

➼ Length: 5.7k

➼ Rating: pg-15

➼ Content: Arranged Marriage AU, CEO AU, Mafia AU | TW: Medical Issues (resolved), Mentions/Discussion of Human Trafficking (not by BTS or SKZ members) | JK is Ara's BFF and bodyguard and Best Boy; Bangtan and Stray Kids are mafia; think Kitty Gang Jimin; flirting and fluff; multiple ARMY and STAY easter eggs sprinkled throughout (I welcome comments detailing which ones you caught); author does her best to beat the Wattpad allegations and fails miserably, which is funny because she went straight to ao3 and skipped the orange app phase

➼ Many thanks to @kookthief @moonleeai & @yoongiobsessed for betaing this chapter<3

➼ Taglist (Open): @bangtan-famiglia-net @kookthief @otome-wandering

➼ Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and in no way represents any member of BTS, SKZ, or any other K-pop group mentioned in any way beyond the face and name claims the author made for this work.

➼ Chapter Two (14/10/23) ➼ Chapter Three (15/10/23) ➼ Masterlist ➼Ao3

The door to the opulent room swung open soundlessly, allowing the tall, muscular man to enter unnoticed. He cleared his throat, gaining the attention of the young woman seated at the vanity.

“Your father has requested your presence ASAP. When will you be ready?”

The woman glanced up from her careful application of sparkly gold eyeliner.

“Give me five minutes, Kookie! Is he home?” She moved towards the walk-in closet across the spacious bedroom.

“He’s at the office. I’ll bring the car around, then.” The woman’s bodyguard –but first and foremost her friend– left, and she began the process of accessorizing.

Fifteen minutes later, the car pulled up to the tall office building in downtown Seoul, the headquarters of ShinCorp.

As the heiress of ShinCorp, Shin Ara was immediately escorted to the CEO’s office and served tea by the secretary.

“Appa?”

Secretary Kim set the tray on the coffee table, leaving father and daughter to their meeting.

Ara glided gracefully over  to warmly hug her father. “Jungkook told me you wanted to speak with me about an urgent matter. Is something wrong?”

Shin Jungok sighed, lowering himself onto the sofa across from his only child. “No, nothing is wrong. What has my beautiful daughter been accomplishing lately?”

Ara crossed her legs, smoothing her ruffled swiss-dot skirt over her knees. “I’ve been looking at property for my gallery. Other than that, I’ve been rather quiet. You’ve been busy with work, so I haven’t wanted to disturb you, Appa.”

Jungok smiled. “You are such a respectful child, Ara. Yes, I’ve been occupied with work. I just finished a meeting with the new CEO of Park Group.”

“Oh, their former CEO died recently, didn’t he? His son took over, I suppose? Awfully young to be CEO,” she mused.

“Yes, he’s only twenty seven, but he has a good head for business. We’ve never partnered with the Park Group before, though a contract was once drawn up between us. I guess he’s trying to show the board he’s capable despite his youth.” 

“Maybe he’s capable because of his youth,” Ara arched her brow at her father.

Jungok took a long sip of his tea. “Ara, are you seeing anyone?”

She blinked at the non sequitur. “Uh…no? I’ve been busy planning my gallery. I haven’t had time to date.”

“Park Jimin asked for your hand in marriage,” Jungok stated simply.

Ara stared. “What?”

“Will you at least think about it? I’m sure he’ll take good care of you and be a good husband to you, and if we make this partnership, he’ll be more solidly accepted as a businessman. You know I’m getting older, and ShinCorp will stay in our family when I retire. I am proud of you for following your own path, and a little pleased that you do not want to take over ShinCorp, but I want to make sure you are taken care of.”

“May I see the contract?”

Jungok handed her the portfolio, and she read through it carefully. “Will ShinCorp go to Mr. Park or to our children?”

“Mr. Park will have a share and your children will receive the rest. Until they come of age, you and he will have joint control over the company,” Jungok explained. “I know you don’t want to be CEO, but we must take caution in this day and age. I know you will make sure ShinCorp is run according to our mission statement.”

Ara hummed an acknowledgment and flipped over a page.

“Do you have Mr. Park’s number?”

Her father looked up in surprise. “Are you sure? I’m not pressuring you, Ara!”

“I know, Appa. I accept his proposal.”

“Well, I believe he left his card…” Jungok moved to his desk and shuffled through some papers. “...here!” He handed it to Ara.

“Er…the marriage is best announced and signed on sooner rather than later.”

Ara barely glanced up from creating a new contact in her phone.

“I’m aware, Appa,” she said briskly. “Will next Saturday work? I saw the perfect dress when I was out shopping with Unnie last week. I’ve been planning my wedding since I was a little girl, Appa.”

It was Jungok’s turn to stare at her. “In just over a week?”

She smirked. “Money is king, is it not? I’ll get everything done in time.” She patted his shoulder on her way to the door. “Leave it to me.”

~~~

Twenty minutes later, Ara slipped into her car. She clipped the seatbelt in, and Jungkook took off. 

“You’re looking at the future Mrs. Park Jimin!” she announced cheerfully.

“What?!” Jungkook swerved, then corrected the car.

“I’m marrying Park Jimin next Saturday if that works for him.” Her phone pinged. “Speak of the devil. ‘Yes, Saturday is perfect. Thank you for accepting my proposal. I am sorry it is so short notice and businesslike,’” Ara read aloud. “He sounds decent. Good.”

“He’d better be more than decent,” muttered Jungkook darkly, turning a corner smoothly.

Ara cooed. “Aww, are you worried about me? You’re the one who trained me for my black belt in taekwondo.”

“It’s literally my job, Ara!”

“I know, but still…Anyways, can you drop me off at the Whalien Cafe so I can meet all the girls at once?”

“Sure. Should I come in?”

“If you want. Have you ever tried their special 52 Hertz menu item? It’s sooo good.”

“No, I haven’t. I’ll come to crowd control your friends and try it while I’m there.”

“Wise choice.”

Ara and Jungkook walked into Whalien Cafe and ordered, then joined the five girls at two squished-together tables. Ara’s friends and unnie updated her on their lives since she had seen them last, then Ara dropped her bomb.

“Will you be my bridesmaids next Saturday?”

There was a beat of silence, then complete chaos erupted.Once they calmed down, she explained the situation. They immediately agreed to be her bridesmaids and began planning.

Ara explained her vision, then sat back as the ideas ran wild. By the end of the afternoon, she had a list of her favourite suggestions and a promise from each of her friends to join her the next day for dress shopping.

The friend group had met in college, except for Ara’s unnie, Kim Sihyeon. Sihyeon was the cousin of Jungok’s PA, Seokjin, who Ara viewed as an older brother.

Ara’s mother died in a car accident when Ara was eleven and Jungok immediately hired Ara a bodyguard-chauffeur. Jungok had Jungkook befriend Ara and trained him to become her new bodyguard-chauffeur when he was old enough. The other four members of the friend group were Jennie, Rose, Jisoo, and Lisa. They’d all been dorm mates in college and were quite close.

~~~

After a light supper, Ara spent the evening reserving things and purchasing necessary items for her upcoming nuptials.

Her phone dinged with an alert. Curious, she turned from her laptop and tapped on the message.

PJ: You’re certainly very organized! I was honestly expecting a month at best. I have people working on a story of how we met earlier. Here’s a link to the rough draft. Make whatever changes you want.

Inquisitive, Ara tapped on the link to the document, a professional publicist’s work, of course. It was well-written, if a little sensational, but she frowned at the extra drama sprinkled in, such as their coincidental meeting in Italy in the spring and their secret romance (none of which she recalled).

SA: Why do we need an article? Do you need this for appearances? *I* don’t mind being ‘just a business marriage’. It is a good story, though:)

PJ: I thought you would want it to seem as normal as possible. You are quite intriguing, Miss Shin.

SA: Good;) Let’s just release a formal announcement stating we’ve decided to get married. The media really doesn’t need anything else.

SA: I have the place and time booked for the reception and ceremony. Is there anything you’d like me to add, like family traditions?

PJ: Whatever you like. I will be giving you my halmeoni’s ring, if that’s alright with you.

SA: Of course! One final question…pink?

PJ: It’s a decent colour?

SA: 👍

A light knock echoed from the heavy wooden door, then a man popped his head into Jimin’s private office.

“Hey, Boss, there’s a box from your fiancée.”

“Bring it in,” the man behind the desk ordered. 

He carefully opened the box and lifted out a pastel-pink silk tie. The paper inside read, “I hope this hue of pink is a decent enough colour to wear to our wedding. If this is satisfactory, text me and I’ll send over the rest for your groomsmen. Black suits, please. ~SA”

Jimin smiled a little at the slightly wonky smiley face Ara had drawn beside her name and carefully replaced the tie.

PJ: It’s perfect. Thank you.

A woman all in black walked purposefully into the old warehouse. Several men and a few women were working busily in the large space, barely looking up at the click of her heels.

The door to the private rooms built into the warehouse swung open with the slight squeak of a hinge needing oil.

Gold eyes scanned over its occupants.

“Where’s Hyunjin?”

“He’s restocking the medical room since he got his new supplies,” answered a man with vermilion hair, stretching from his slump over a computer.

“Thanks, Chan.”

A tall man with long black hair popped out of a side room. “You called, Boss?”

The woman nodded shortly, clapping her hands for attention. “You all know that since Park Wonshik died, Bangtan’s been targeted. Well, the head of Bangtan had a brilliant idea to partner with the Grays, business-level and gang-level, through marriage.

“The head of Gray’s daughter is marrying Park Jimin on Saturday. The other mafia will find out tomorrow. With Bangtan and Gray united, the mafia  looking to take over Bangtan may set their sights on smaller game, so we need to be prepared for any backlash against us.

“Minho, you figure out if the others are planning to attack anyone. Hyunjin, find out how much Bangtan has on Stray Kids. Everyone else, get ready for an attack, worst-case scenario.”

“Yes, ma’am!” saluted the eight men in unison. They turned to their tasks, leaving Chan to approach the woman.

“Vix, you sure about this?”

Vixen’s blood-red lips curved in a smile. “Don’t worry, Channie. I have everything under control and I have plans for every variable, just like oppa taught me.”

Chan sighed. “Alright, then. I trust you, Vix.”

“Boss, here’s the file on Shin Ara you wanted.”

“Thanks, Hoseok.”Jimin took the file and flipped through it.

Good grades, though they slipped the year her mother Aeri died; friendly but only had a handful of close friends- four girls she met in college, four of her father’s employees, and one ex-boyfriend, Lee Minho, whom she was still friendly with. Graduated high school and college with honours, has an arts degree in photography, and had recently purchased a building on the edge of downtown Seoul for a gallery.

Who are you, Shin Ara? Why did you so readily agree to marry a stranger?

Jimin mulled over the possibilities, staring at her picture on the screen before him.

Another knock on the door roused him. “Sir, it’s time for your suit fitting.”

~~~

Jimin looked eagerly at the doors, waiting for the first glance of his wife face-to-face.

The audience stood as Ara strutted down the catwalk with a grace only a girl who had been bred in high society could achieve.

She took his hand, her fingers gripping his tightly. Her hand fit perfectly in his. A whiff of her floral perfume wafted through the air. Her very presence seemed familiar, though Jimin figured that could be from the hundreds of texts they had exchanged in the past eleven days.

Kim Seokjin was officiating at Ara’s request; it seemed to Jimin that he spoke slowly on purpose, taunting him with the veiled face of his bride.

Finally they reached the vows, and Ara’s grip on his hand tightened momentarily.

Jimin slipped his grandmother’s ring onto her finger, admiring the sparkle that seemed right. The three red garnets bookmarked by tiny diamonds suited her.

Ara slid the gold band on his finger, a little shock running up his arm from where she touched him.

“Sorry,” she whispered.

“...You may kiss the bride,” announced Seokjin.

Jimin carefully lifted the veil over Ara’s reddish-brown hair, careful not to mess up her hairdo, and met her eyes with a smile he hoped wasn’t too eager.

Her eyes locked on his, a hint of a smile in their mahogany depths. He smiled back, placing his hand on her cheek, his thumb cupping her jaw. The steady beat of her heart pounded under his thumb as he dipped her slightly, the crowd cheering in celebration.

With a wink at her surprised glance, he swept his thumb over her lips, pressing his own to his thumb.

Seokjin gave him a minuscule nod that he caught out of the corner of his eye. No one else appeared to have caught the faux-kiss, thankfully.

Jimin really didn’t want to have to explain to his teasing brothers that the big, bad mafia boss didn’t want to scare his new bride away.

Sihyeon straightened the train of Ara’s Alexander Wang dress and handed her the bouquet of pink ranunculus. Jimin extended his arm, Ara looped hers through his, and they swept down the aisle.

Jungok caught his eye on the way by, “Don’t forget your promise,” he mouthed.

The promise, in Jimin’s copy of the contract– Jungok’s only stipulation.

Do not let Ara find out that you or I are in the mafia.

Ara was a total Daddy’s girl, only idolizing him. He didn’t want to break her heart, tell her that her appa wasn’t all she’d thought he was.

Jungok had been secretly overjoyed when she had come to him, saying she wanted to study art, not business to prepare for inheriting ShinCorp. It was much easier to hide the fact that he was the don of the Gray mafia, one of the biggest in Seoul.

Jungok could leave ShinCorp to his Head of Strategy, Kim Namjoon, who would run the Grays as well, and Ara would be none the wiser.

Jungok’s one wish was to never crush his little girl’s world of gold and pink and glitter and peace.

Yes, he had insisted she learn a martial art and have a bodyguard, but many CEOs’ families had more protection. Aeri’s accident may have truly been an accident, but after he failed to protect his wife, he vowed to make sure Ara would always be protected.

After the luxurious reception, the Parks drove to Jimin’s home and base of operations, codenamed Cypher. Jimin drove them himself- Ara had brought Jungkook with her but given him the night off, and he was hitting it off with his new colleagues and Jimin’s friends/groomsmen, Kim Taehyung, Jung Hoseok, Min Yoongi, Choi Soobin, and Choi Beomgyu.

Jimin pulled the bulletproof SUV up to the steps and sighed in relief. None of the other mafia or gangs had attempted anything, and Bangtan was now officially allied with Gray; the gangs pressuring and testing him since his father’s death should relax now.

He leaned his head against the headrest and looked over at Ara. Oh, right.

“So…it didn’t seem quite right discussing it over text, but where should I put your things? I have a suite prepared for you, or you can have the master bedroom, whichever you’d like…”

Ara smiled a little at his awkwardness, masking her own. They hadn’t exactly had the time to discuss the finer points of married life, beyond the ‘getting married’ point.

“I think the suite would be best for now, although I am looking forward to getting to know you better, and I hope we can make this relationship work.”

“I do, too.” Jimin pulled out his phone to text the housekeeper to move the rest of Ara’s things to the prepared suite . “You looked beautiful, I meant to say that earlier.”

“Thank you. Er- did you dye your hair to match the colour scheme? I wasn’t expecting that level of cooperation.”

Jimin chuckled, getting out of the SUV and stretching to relieve the lingering awkwardness. “No, that was a coincidence. I’m glad it didn’t clash with the colour scheme, though. When you asked about suits and colours all I could think of at first was, ‘Oh no, what if she wants one of those ultra-modern black-and-white weddings’ or something.”

Ara’s light laughter floated through the crisp night. “Don’t worry, I like colour. Photographer, y’know?”

“I was really impressed by how quickly you got everything prepared.” He paused, debating on broaching the subject now or later. Curiosity won, and he plowed ahead. “Can I ask why you agreed to marry me so quickly?”

Ara shrugged, bending over to pull off her sparkly pink Louboutins. “You needed a partnership with my father’s group. Appa would have a beneficial business agreement with your company. I would like to be a wife, and in the future, a mother. I’ve never had a long-term boyfriend or anything…all the chaebol heirs are too old, too young, pricks, immature, or just not my type. I confess I did a little stalking of you, and Appa approved of you. Even if this was a business marriage, he would never suggest a man who wouldn’t treat me well. And you saved me the time and stress of introducing my boyfriend to my family and waiting to see if the verdict would fall in your favour or not,” she shrugged again. 

Jimin nodded, fascinated by the peek into Ara’s brain. “I hope that, at the very least, we’ll get along as friends. Would you like to go on a date tomorrow?”

“Sure, I’m free. What time?”

~~~

Ara settled into her very comfy bed and pulled out her phone.

SA: 2:00 p.m. tomorrow

KS: Done so soon?

SA: Shut up. 2:00, be there or don’t.

KS: Got it. I’ll be there.🙄

At 1:55 p.m., Ara descended the stairs of her new house, ready for her date. Her peach tunic dress hugged her curves and fell to her knees, complemented by her chunky brown leather heels, gold jewelry, and an oversized burgundy purse.

Jimin had just pulled the car up, and his jaw loosened a little. “You look stunning!”

Ara blushed, pushing a loose curl behind her ear. “Thanks, you look pretty nice yourself.”

Jimin wore his loose white suit well, his plum shirt complementing his peachy-pink hair.

The car ride to downtown Seoul was filled with quiet chatter as the newlyweds got to know each other better.

Jimin pulled up to an art museum and got out, heading quickly to Ara’s side to open the door for her. She took his arm, and he let her tell him all about the art and curation as they toured the museum.

“Abeoji first took me to a museum when I was six, I think? I really liked it and begged Eomma to take me back. I just kept making my parents take me to museums until I’d seen them all, and then repeated it. I tried drawing and painting, but I wasn’t very good at them and didn’t want to put in the hours of practice to attempt to be good.”

They strolled along to the photography section, having gone through the traditional paintings and sketches.“Photography caught my attention when I was ten or eleven…Jungkook had taken up photography as his hobby, and he let me try sometimes. I really loved those times taking pictures and decided that’s what I wanted to do as a job, not run ShinCorp. Appa was surprisingly accepting of my decision, but he’s always spoiled me a bit,” Ara laughed.

“Jungkook, as in, your bodyguard?” Jimin asked curiously. “He couldn’t have been much use when you were ten…he’s only a bit older than you, right?”

“Oh, Kook wasn’t my bodyguard till he was eighteen. We grew up as childhood friends since my eomma’s accident. He’s from Busan, but he was kidnapped and trafficked around the time of my mom’s accident. The police rescued him and some other children when they broke up the ring of gangsters that had been trafficking kids,” explained Ara, pausing in front of a photo of a field of wildflowers.

“Jungkook was an orphan, so one of the policemen who’d rescued them fostered him. He was Appa’s friend, and they thought it would be good for both of us to have a companion.”

Ara turned to see what Jimin thought of this revelation. He was frowning at the floor, one hand in his pocket. Running his other hand through his hair, he exhaled. “That must have been tough.”

Ara nodded. “He doesn’t speak about it much–sensitive, you know? Oh, and you don’t need to worry about…anything between us,” she added hesitantly. “We did have a crush on each other in high school, but we realized we’re better off as friends. There’s no competition.”

He raised his head to smirk at her, pushing his hair back one final time. “So, there’s a chance of winning your heart?”

She smiled back, lifting her lashes flirtatiously. “I’d say there’s a good chance.”

“Shall we go for dinner, then?”

“Sure, I could eat. Could we try this new French restaurant nearby?”

“Whatever you want, milady. What’s its name?”

“L’Domino. Main floor of the Star Lost hotel,” Ara pointed down the street to a tall building several blocks away, visible from the museum parking lot.

“Ah…I’ve heard of that place. Let’s go, then!”

The maitre’d heard their names and immediately showed them to a table. Dim lighting, but not so dim you couldn’t see what you were eating, opulent fabrics and the quiet instrumental soundtrack gave the dining room an atmosphere oozing exclusivity. Jimin pulled out Ara’s chair for her, then sat opposite her.

A black-suited waiter approached, his chubby cheeks lifted in a smile. “Good evening! My name is Jisung; I’ll be your server tonight. Can I start you off with a beverage?”

At D9, Vixen’s HQ, Chan picked up the phone, halting its first ring. “Chan.”

“Christmas, it’s me. Have Park Jimin’s hacker find Jeon Jungkook’s file of his kidnapping. Shin Ara told him about it; he’ll be suspicious.”

“Got it. Did Seungmin make the drop?”

“The goods are in position. I’ll contact you later for news on our plans, I just wanted to give you a head start on the file. Vixen over and out.”

“Thank you for the lovely date, Princess. I enjoyed getting to know you. Perhaps we could make this a regular thing?”

Jimin opened the front door, and Ara stepped into the low-lit foyer. “Thank you. I had a lot of fun, and ditto,” she returned. “Making this regular sounds lovely.”

Jimin inhaled and pushed further. “Would you like to have breakfast together in the mornings if I’m not at the office early?”

“I’d love to. What time do you normally eat?”

“Quarter to eight. Does that work for you?”

“Sounds perfect. See you tomorrow, then?”

“See you then. Sleep well,” he called after her, already halfway up the stairs.

“You as well. Goodnight, Jimin.” Ara entered her suite, all done in pastels with gold accents. It was either a strange coincidence or someone had been talking (she bet it was her appa), but it was very similar to her room at home.

She headed to the ensuite to begin her nighttime routine, replaying the whole date with Jimin.

She had expected maybe dinner or an outing, but not the entire afternoon and evening. It was lovely, but she wondered if Jimin would face any backlash over spending so much time off work. It was crucial he maintained a flawless profile in the first months of being appointed CEO, Ara was enough of a businessman’s daughter  to know that. Their marriage was, in part, to help stabilize his takeover, and she didn’t want to be a hindrance.

He was a perfect gentleman and quite attentive. She’d miss his company, but she’d make sure their next date was a little shorter. By their first anniversary, he should be able to spend more time with her again.

It’s not like she was expecting love and him to wait on her hand and foot, even if she did hope they’d grow to genuinely care about each other. Time flew by, anyway– she’d survive a few months without his constant presence. Resolved to broach the subject at breakfast the next morning, she crawled into her comfy bed and replayed his every action again.

He was too perfect. She’d find his flaw sooner or later.

Jimin tapped his fingers rhythmically on his desk and sighed. Finally, he pushed a button and asked for Jungkook to be fetched.

Minutes later, Ara’s bodyguard stood at attention in front of him.

“You’ve known Ara since you were eleven?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You were adopted by Jeon Jeonghwa, an officer in Seoul’s police department, Organized Crime division?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ara told me you were kidnapped from Busan and brought here by traffickers, till you were rescued by your adoptive father.”

Jungkook nodded.

“You became her bodyguard at eighteen…you’ve trained in martial arts for twelve years?”

“Yes, sir. Mr. Shin insisted Ara and I take self-defense lessons, and I wanted more.”

“You know who Shin Jungok is? Who I am?” Jimin leaned back in his chair, studying Jungkook.

“Yes, sir. Head of the Gray Gang and the Bangtan Family.”

“Does Ara suspect who we are?” Jimin narrowed his eyes. The million-dollar question…or maybe, billion-dollar, considering the revenue estimated to be brought in by this alliance.

“No, sir. Mr. Shin wants her to know nothing about your other business. He’s made sure she knows nothing.”

“Tell me if she ever mentions anything about it to you, please. Thank you for your time.”

“Yes, sir. Also…there was never really anything between us. We’re like siblings, sir.”

Jungkook left, and Jimin resumed his finger tapping, staring at the spot where the man had stood.

Time went by, and the newlyweds fell into a routine. They would have breakfast together four times a week when Jimin wasn’t ‘at the office early’. When he came home, they would have dinner, either trying out a new restaurant or one of Ara’s home-cooked meals. 

Cooking was her hobby, and she enjoyed experimenting with various cuisines and fusions.

Mrs. Lee, the housekeeper, let her have free reign of the kitchen, a feat not easily achieved.

The long-date problem was solved by the compromise of several shorter dates. Once a week, Jimin would take Ara on a coffee or lunch date, the short distance between Ara’s gallery and Park Group’s buildings coming in handy so they could stretch out their precious minutes together. 

Ara had almost finished setting up her gallery and excitedly shared her plans for the opening and all the organizing she had to do. Jimin was bemused by her enjoyment of organizing things and creating organizational systems, imagining if she knew about his secondary business and how she’d whip everyone into shape. He had no doubt that she would be a force to be reckoned with if someone got into her path. Grinning at the mental image of Ara siccing Jungkook and maybe his own men on someone standing in her way, he realized he was smiling like a loon and quickly smoothed out his expression.

Just in time.

His secretary knocked on the door and poked his head in. “Sir, the dress was delivered. However, Mrs Shin has not opened it yet.”

With a fond smile, he rolled his eyes. She was probably busy focusing on the networking for the ball tonight.

For all her love of order, she could be so scatterbrained and distracted sometimes. Her suite was a disaster when she was getting ready to go out, and she was always leaving something behind somewhere. Maybe it should have annoyed him, but it only endeared her to him more. She wasn’t completely perfect, something that reassured him to no end. Perfect people were too good to be true, something that made him suspicious of Ara and Jungkook in the beginning.

At first, he’d only spent so much time with Ara because he wanted to know what she was hiding behind that girly-girl, society and gilded mask, but as they became closer, he realized she truly was that good-hearted; not shallow at all, but she didn’t shy away from being the cliche chaebol princess.

Her openness drew him to her like a moth to a flame. He had so many secrets. What was it like to just be who you are, unapologetically? Not worry about what people thought of you?

Jungkook was similar to Ara, probably because they’d been practically attached by the hip for over a decade. He’d quickly proven himself to Jimin’s closest circle, and as Mrs Shin’s guy, he was quickly welcomed to the inner ranks. He gave Jimin good advice about how to deal with Ara, which Jimin truly appreciated, and he was always down to join Jimin in a workout or spar.

Even Hoseok, Jimin’s Head of Security, approved of Jungkook, a difficult achievement.

By the second month of the contract marriage, Ara and Jungkook were permanent fixtures in the Bangtan Family’s life, and it seemed unthinkable that anything should happen to them. They were Parks now, and it seemed like they always had been.

Jimin knocked on Ara’s door, fiddling with his garnet cufflinks while he waited. The thick carpeting muffled her footsteps, and the door swung open unexpectedly.

His jaw dropped.

The form-fitting red dress had a sparkling corset bodice, laced up tightly to emphasize his wife’s curves, and a hint of thigh winked at him from the slit in the gauzy skirt.

Diamonds glinted from her ears, between fluffy curls he wanted to wrap around his fingers.

Shin Ara looked every inch the mafia queen she was, even if she didn’t know it. 

Jimin’s gaze slowly slid down to her strappy gold heels, then back up, making Ara blush.

“You look wonderful,” he said, extending his hand.

“Thank you.”

~~~

Jimin proudly escorted his wife into the high society, clandestine mafia ball.

Jungok spotted them arriving and came over to greet them.

Every two weeks, the entire group of Gray and Bangtan’s inner circles came together for dinner. Jungok had been at their mansion two days ago, yet he acted as if it had been two months.

“Hello, my beautiful daughter; Jimin. You look so much like your mother,” Jungok stared wistfully at Ara. “Speaking of, when will I get my own grandchildren?”

Blushing furiously, Ara thwacked her father’s arm. “Appa!”

“What? I’m an old man, I want to see my grandchildren before I die.”

Ara scoffed. “You’re so dramatic, Appa; you’re not that old. Anyways, how’s your new secretary doing? Has he learned anything yet?” she grinned, recalling her father’s exasperated rant on the secretary’s new structuring and organization tactics earlier that week.

“Yes, Seungmin just needed some time to learn the ropes; he’s quite bright. When will you have your opening night?” Jungok switched the topic.

“Next month, the twelfth. I’m so excited!”

Jimin chimed in with a chuckle, “It’s all she’s been focused on for a while now.”

Ara glared playfully at him and swept off for some punch. 

Rejoining the men, she saw her father grip Jimin’s wrist tightly and speak lowly into his ear.

“Appa? Gwaenchana?”

“Just a little thirsty,” Jungok said thickly. Ara quickly passed him her punch and watched in horror as it spilled all over the front of her dress, the cup crashing to the floor moments before Jungok.

“Appa!” Ara stared at the sweat gathering on his forehead, at the light, fast breaths he was taking as he weakly tugged at his tie to loosen it. 

"Call an ambulance!" She demanded of no one in particular, crouching beside him in worry.

Jimin dialed the emergency line quickly and waited for the ambulance to come. Jungkook rushed over, checking Jungok’s pulse and loosening his collar and cuffs, rolling him onto his side.

The EMTs arrived and transported Jungok to the hospital, sirens blaring as they sped through the streets.

Ara nervously twisted her fingers in her lap, her gaze fixed on the flashing lights directly ahead of them as Jimin followed the vehicle carrying her father.

Finger twisting was joined by impatient pacing in front of the row of chairs as she awaited any news.

After what seemed like hours of pacing under the glaring white lights, the doctor who’d taken her father approached.

“Mr. Shin is stable but unconscious right now. He had a heart attack. Do you know if he had any of these symptoms lately?” the doctor rattled off a list of concerning things Ara wished she knew about.

She shook her head helplessly. “I-I don’t know. I just got married recently and moved out- I’ve only seen him briefly…”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Jimin wrapped his arms around her comfortingly, returning from making calls to his secretary, letting her know that he wouldn’t be in the next day. “You didn’t and couldn’t know– that’s not your fault. It’s not anyone’s fault; it’s just a fact. Your dad is stable now. It’ll be okay, yeah?” His hand rubbed soothing strokes up and down her arm. “Ara, you’re cold.” Shrugging his coat off,  he wrapped it around her like a hug.

“We’d like to run some tests on Mr. Shin, just to make sure he’s okay besides this issue,” said the doctor, eyeing her sympathetically. “Could you come to my office to sign some papers?”

Once everything was finally sorted out and she had seen her father, reassured that he was going to be okay and there was nothing for her to do at present, Jimin took her home and sent her straight to bed.

Tucking her in, he smoothed the comforter over her shoulders, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead. “He’ll be okay, Princess.”

“Thank you for everything, Jimin.” She blinked up at his shadowed profile.

“Of course. Get some sleep.” His finger brushed her cheek, then she heard his light footsteps head toward the door and the quiet snick of the door closing.

Closing her eyes, she did her best to sleep. Its comforting embrace welcomed her swiftly.

[yeyinde]

LEASH CALLED YOU

PUPPY (RUINER) x F!Reader | 18+ Good dogs get rewards, and Puppy thinks you are the best prize to be found in this hovel. So, he takes you.

WARNINGS: smut | P-in-V, rough sex; D/s undertones; VERY HEAVY DUBCON!!; slight breathplay. female gendered anatomy. implied/referenced human trafficking, sex work. canon typical violence. implied threat of violence. loss of agency. obsessive behaviour. this is basically playing house with a psychopath who decides you're his. and he pretty much killed half the city and the guy who was kinda a god. or a king. or something. so like, what are you gonna do? say no? Pff. WORD COUNT: 7,4k imagine writing like, 7k for Some Guy after seeing one (1) gifset of him.

He finds you in South Rengkok.

Nestled amongst a conglomerate of seedy, black market shops in the red light district, you gaze out at the sea of people from a vaulted window in a seamy bordello. A voyeuristic view into the coquettish bedroom they placed you in—red satin sheets and pink, heart-shaped pillows. All dolled up and pretty. 

The harsh light cuts shadows under your eyes and frames you in a heavy, oversaturated glow. You look like you're bathing in red. In blood.

The sight makes something curdle in his stomach. He isn't sure why. There's not much of a difference between you and the other workers—all locked up tight; enticing passersby to join in on the garish body auction set to take place soon—but where they see the dollar signs in this, dancing and swaying their hips, pressing their palms flat against the window plane and fluttering their lashes, all lovely and coy, at the men who press back, you sit. Motionless. A little doll.

You don't belong here, he thinks. You're something much too soft and fine, like silk in his hands, and much too delicate to be in this part of town that stinks like wet, oxidising metal and saltpetre.

The slip of your black, lacy kimono barely covers your skin. He tracks it. The shadows, the dips. The curves. His eyes fix on the protrusion of your collarbones beneath the moody fabric, pushed to the side, and hanging off your shoulder in what, he guesses, is meant to be enticing. Kittenish.

They dolled you up to skirt this line between sultry vixen and twee innocence. The sight of it does something to his guts. Has them rolling over each other in tandem with each heavy thud of his heart. It's the way you look that catches his attention, sure, but more than that, it's the look in your eyes.

They glow under the neon smear, hazy and drifting far away, turned inward. Lost.

And then you look up. Catch his gaze through the glass. 

There's a moment when everything inside of him dims, quiets. Thoughts, missions. Reason, purpose. It falls under a thick blanket of whisper-soft snow. It's just him��something, nothing—and you. This little cosm of his own making. 

You make a motion, then, as if to entice him inside but you hesitate, staring back at him instead. He knows the LED screen on his mask is doing something funny, voicing the thoughts he can't say, because your lips quirk slightly at the corners—bemusement, maybe; he's never been good at reading people—but then HER is husking out orders in his head, all biting witticism, and acerbic humour. 

Later, Puppy, comes the clandestine whisper—hot oil down his nape—and he catches the warbled curiosity as it trickles through. Good Puppy’s get rewards. But there's work to do. 

Work. Yes, work. 

His helmet flashes. He catches the red flicker on the smeared reflection of the window. Garish red. Kill, kill, kill. 

You see it, and you flinch. 

Good, is the sudden thought. Good. 

Puppy isn't sure about much—not anymore, and maybe not ever—but he knows this: he likes the way your eyes widen. Fear, undoubtedly. Round and doe-eyed as you take in the horrible words scribbled in neon. 

Fright, dread. It looks good on you. 

Pretty, pretty, pretty.

His hands shake. He thinks about how you'd feel under him. How he'd feel inside of you. And—

Purpose, he thinks. Purpose. 

There's an emptiness inside of his heart. A hole left over from the remains of LITTLE BROTHER. The dream, the reason, turned into a ghost. Shrapnel in his chest.

He doesn't blame HER for his absence. For the machinations, the schemes. It all led somewhere in the end, even if that place was here. Alone. Stuck, now, with a gaping wound in his chest. 

But—

Not for long, maybe. 

It'll be an awkward fit—BROTHER was this unknowable, untouchable shadow that lingered in his peripheral vision; a driving force keeping him moving. The space carved inside Puppy for him feels like a cavernous chasm. You're so slight, so small, in comparison to that gaping void, that he wonders if you'll be enough to quench the hunger that brims up from those depths. Rapacious. Wanting. 

It's different, of course. You are real. BROTHER was—

Not. 

He satiated himself on artificial dreams and empty memories. Those spectral, hallucinatory feelings of desperation to save his younger brother carried him to the very end. 

But BROTHER was always chimerical. 

You are something he can touch. Have. Keep.

He sees the flash of uncertainty etched into the painted lines of your face as you look around the cesspit you've fallen into, and he knows that you, too, could be that for him. Purpose. Purpose. Purpose. 

(His, his, HIS.)

The people wandering around, perusing the shops, stop and stare at you. At this little wisp, all shaken and terrified, and in need of saving. Needing him—

His hand clenches around the pipe. 

You're too good for their eyes. For this place. 

He'll kill them all, and come for you. 

The room that houses his new target is in a penthouse on the better side of the city. Vaulted ceilings. Golden chandeliers. Crystalline glass in a mosaic of iridescent pastel. It looks blemishless, clean, in comparison to the hovel that is South Rengkok. It scrapes against the chalky insides of his skull as he slinks forward, and emerges from the shadows.

He makes his way through the levels, one by one, until all that remains behind him is a river of blood and a breadcrumb trail of dead bodies. Boss’ finest. It's all mostly just—

Cleanup. 

A necessary evil, HER calls it, and so, he sees it through. 

When he gets to the top, he hears noises. High-pitched, elongated. A sharp grunt. 

He finds his target sitting down on a sprawling chaise, knees notched apart. A woman sits in his lap, hands pressed against his chest. 

Both of them are naked. Their clothes are in a messy pile by the door. 

Puppy watches for a moment. Enthralled, almost, by the sharp juxtaposition their bodies make, and then—

Confusion. 

She looks just like you. 

His meaty hands are tight around her waist, jerking her down with each sloppy cant of his wide hips. Dwarfing her frame in his bearish paws. She mewls into the room, the reecho of her synthetic moans daggers into his temple. 

The pipe in his hand jerks with the rough spasm of his fingers. 

Puppy doesn't care much for killing. Doesn't care much for anything at all, really, except for HER, BROTHER. The mission. His objectives. 

Cold, they call him. Unfeeling. 

He thinks, suddenly, of Wizard. About something he'd said back when Puppy didn't have a name. 

You're—heh, you're a killing machine! It must feel so good, you know? To kill.

It doesn't. He feels nothing at all. Neither pity, nor guilt. Regret is an abstract concept in his mind; intangible. Unreachable. 

He's—

Ambivalent, HER once supplied. You feel nothing, Puppy, because you are nothing. 

Yes. Yes, he thinks. And yet—

There's a strange heat in his veins. A caustic feeling welling deep inside of his guts at the sight of them coupling. His hands on her body is an affront. An insult.

It makes him angry. Furious. 

He'll kill him, he'll—

(Go, Puppy!)

In the man's hands, she looks soft. Delicate. Breakable. 

Yes, so breakable. So—

She moans, then, and he jerks his chin up, catching her reflection in the marble pillar. 

Ah, he thinks. Ah. 

She isn't you. 

He gets to work. 

The success of his mission has HER offering a bleak congratulations in the back of his head. Job well done. He takes it all in, feeling a distinct thrum in his bones that is usually absent following his massacres. Its place, in the hollow gaps of his ribs, is strange. Foreign. 

Excitement, he finds. How peculiar. 

It offsets the adrenaline rush, the lingering anger coursing through his veins. Killing the Target, his companion who was entirely too similar to you, leaves him feeling satiated and starved at the same time. A paradoxical sensation that shouldn't exist together, but somehow found a way, a home, within the slurry of his chest.

He wants to find you. Has this pulsing need in the back of his head to make sure that the woman he killed wasn't really you. But you are contralateral to his current mission. His objective.

Almost pityingly, the route HER generates takes him right past you: a tantalising tease.

Puppy isn't sure what to call this. Madness, perhaps. Don't be stupid, Puppy, comes the choppy, mechanical whir in the back of his head. You are—human, after all. 

The way it's said by HER has his hackles rising, but he doesn't have enough insight on the topic to pursue the strange cadence any further.

Indulge. You earned it.

Your face flashes before him—different, this time. Gone is the thick gold on the crease of your eyelids, the heavy red on your lips. You're barefaced. Gaunt. Your complexion reminds him of the bruised blue of the sky above. Midnight. Iridescent rainbows in an oil spill.

He wants to touch you. His hands shake. 

A series of numbers flicker at the bottom. The price, he surmises, for you. 

An auction. Right.

Tonight, HER supplies. He feels the clinical amusement in the back of his head. Oh, but Puppy—

To offset the generosity, HER pulls up the amount he carries on him. Cruel. Mocking. It's compared and contrasted. The difference is staggering. He can't afford you. Doesn't even come close to the asking price.

(Couldn't even afford the entrance fee.)

Sorry, Puppy—

The mechanised warble is pushed down before it can start.

That's fine, he reasons, dismissing it all. Dismissing HER.

He has no intention of paying for what's rightfully his, anyway. 

The bordello—boasting some strange mix between classic geisha-sensualism and modern sex appeal (and somehow missing the mark for both)—appears closed for the night.

A fallacy, of course, as everyone is just inside. Squirrelled away with cheap vodka, cigars. Waiting their turn to cash in their victory tokens. 

He looks at your window, shutters closed with a looping scrawl on neon pink that says be back soon~!, and makes his approach. 

There's no plan for this. Not that he's ever really had any to begin with—most of what he does is driven by an endless need to fulfil someone else's objective through the brutal physicality he wields—but he makes an effort to go stealthier than usual. 

He doesn't want to risk triggering a failsafe that will keep him away from you any longer than he needs to be. 

Not that it matters—

These lowlives—some assemblage of Creeps, local gangsters, and general nobodies—are mere nuisances in the face of his ice-cold ire. His rage. Tearing through them is nothing. The fight they put up is flimsy. Tissue paper defences.  He supposes they never really anticipated him showing up to reap his dues at an event that has been advertised for several weeks now (how he missed your face on those gaudy billboards hanging above the taverns in the red light district, he'll never know). A high-class event, they snicker from behind the thin doorways.

Politicians gambling away public funds to buy pretty prizes. Gangsters, pimps, all looking to pocket more flesh for their own abattoirs. 

Killing them is insubstantial to this cleanup mission, he knows, but there's a thrum of vindictiveness that roars through his chest when they squeal, begging for forgiveness that they must know won't come. 

(He's barely merciful on a good day.)

HER is a cheerleader in his ear, egging him on. Go, Puppy! Get your prize, Puppy! and he lets it fuel himself forward until he's covered in viscera and gore—a jaw bone breaks off, tacks on to the lip of his boot; blood drenches the sleeves of his leather jacket, stains his collar—and surrounded by pulpy, broken bodies. Alone. 

It's quiet, now. The only sound is his heavy, ragged breath muffled by the mask covering his head. The harsh thud of his pulse cottons his ears, blotting out everything except the heady rush of blood raging in his veins. 

HER watches with an alien sense of amusement that prickles in the back of his head. Wrongness permeates from their mirth as they take in the carnage spread out amongst the halls. 

It all means nothing to him. A means to an end. 

Nothing to them, either. To HER. This is a game.

The wet end of the pipe drags against the herringbone floor in a metallic squeal done to announce his presence from anyone unlucky enough to survive the brutal apathy of his initial assault. He hears nothing. Just the grind of rusting metal on wood. Porous. Hollow. 

It all ends in a muted bloodbath. A bloodied trail of bodies leads right to your door. 

Untouched, despite the garish horror painting the walls in rotting red. Congealed blood blackened under the thin oxygen in the room. 

There's no movement from within, but he knows you're here. Can feel you through the wood. Catch the rabbiting of your heart. Your gasping breath. 

With the hand not clutching the pipe, he reaches for the handle, turns. Locked. He expected it. You must have propped something up against the knob during the first onslaught of his fury. Smart. 

But it's not enough to keep him out. 

He pries open the door to your room with one hand, shattering the flimsy back of the vanity stool you jimmied beneath the handle. Cute. Resourceful. His heart pounds in his chest. He can't wait to have you. 

Go, Puppy!

He takes a moment to shut the door behind him—no escape—before he slowly swivels his head toward you. Taking you in. 

(Finally.)

You stare at him with that same look on your face as before. Terror, he reasons, and tries to piece it together on the men who looked at him as he cracked skulls open with the blunt end of his pipe, tore jugulars out with his bare hand. Fear, he thinks. They look at him with fear. Loathing. 

But you're missing that one. There's no hatred on your face, no curses spat out even when he stalks forward with the same steady gait as always, the bloody end of his pipe leaving a macabre breadcrumb trail for anyone to follow. 

There's a sea of dead bodies behind him. Businessmen. Lowlives. Commonfolk. The other girls. It didn't matter. 

They were in the way. 

All of them. 

(The man, too, who came to collect you like a prize winner at a seedy casino. His head, in particular, is rendered into nothing but a pulpy mess of grey matter, tissue, blood, and bone.) 

He thinks you might cry, but you don't. You stare. Owlish. Wary. Between the thick, brick wall—your cage—and him, there's nowhere for you to run. He slows at that, coming to a stop several paces away. Watching you back. Assessing. Calculating.

You're nervous. Shaken. He's under no disillusionment that you hadn’t heard the screams just outside of your door. Heard the thuds. The cracking of skulls. The breaking of bones. A bloodbath only several paces away. A massacre. Scary enough to you that it made you try to save yourself, to lock whatever it was that stalked the halls from getting to you. 

How terrified you must have been. 

Puppy doesn't feel much for anyone. Maybe the odd moment of sympathy for the inhabitants of his city, the ones who beg and plead for his help with the things they can't control, can't fight back against. He extends small mercies where he sees fit. 

But for some odd, unfathomable reason, he has the sudden inkling to reach out. Pity. You're so pitiful to him. Poor thing. You poor, poor—

In a moment of pure absurdity, the words: are you good? flash across the curved plain of his mask, and you make a noise somewhere between a yelp and snort. Mangled in the back of your throat. 

“Does it matter?” 

And, oh—

Your voice does something to him. Turns his insides liquid. He's melting, he thinks. Burning up and turning to a heap of molten ore by your feet. 

He tries to reign himself back in, forcing himself to focus. Focus. Puppy ponders your question for a moment before ultimately deciding that it doesn't. 

(Or, rather, it does; but maybe not in the way you'd want it to.)

In the end, he gives you a shrug. Banal. Dismissive. It makes your brows furrow. A valley forms between them. Irritation bleeds through the flat apathy you forged. 

There's a scoff. He thinks you look prettier like this—a feral, hissing cat. He wants you beneath him, clawing at his chest. Spitting curses in his name. 

(Wants to try to tame you. Wants to fail.)

“Of course,” you hiss, hands fisting in the sheer fabric of your kimono. “You're no different from anyone else, are you?” 

Puppy shakes his head in response. He isn't a good man. He's made of spare parts stitched together to create an amalgamation of likeness to some king he barely even knows. A megalomaniac. A madman. 

In all honesty, there probably isn't much that separates him and the men who vied for your affection, paid for your attention. Threw coins toward an auction just for the possibility of taking you home. 

But there is a difference. 

Puppy will have you. This he is certain of. 

There's nowhere for you to go. This city doesn't want you. Doesn't deserve you. He'll take you with him, chained at the wrist if he has to. Shackled. Caged. 

You are so funny, Puppy, HER intones, amused. A puppy with a puppy. 

Yes, he decides. His puppy. All his. 

He found you first. 

Puppy lets the pipe—drenched in blood, bone; in viscera that makes you recoil sharply with a flinch—fall to the floor with a metallic clang. With his hands free, soaked, he lifts them up, offering his palms to you. 

It's not a peace offering, but he's seen what untamed cats can do when cornered. And while you're no match for his unfathomable physicality, he'd rather you didn't hurt yourself trying to maim him. 

Still—

Mine, mine, mine flashes, lightspeed, across his visor. He gives you a moment to let the words, the meaning sink in. 

—you’re his. With that ironclad notion comes the freedom to do whatever he wants. 

Whenever he wants. 

And then he moves. 

The difference in your size is almost hideous. Grotesque. He towers above you—a looming mountain—and knows that it would take at least three of you side by side to even hope to match the width of him. 

His hands, too, dwarf you. 

It curls something noxious inside of his guts. A poison-soaked miasma that subsumes in his bloodstream, pulses in the base of his spine. A hunger. A heat. You're so small in comparison to him. So delicate. He could break you in two, shatter every bone in your body. 

And there's not much you could ever hope to do to stop it. 

He shudders at the thought, and knows he likes it more than he should. 

Later, though. Soon. He wants your hands on his skin. Wants to see you come to terms with the vastitude of him, and watch as the realisation that you are well and truly his sinks in. 

He reaches out, palms upward, and waits. 

It doesn't take long. 

(Well-trained, is the hiss. He ignores it, lest he claw his own skin off.)

You flick a scathing glare in his direction first, caustic and hateful, but you bend to his whims without a word. You touch him hesitantly, running the soft pads of your fingers over the metal of his hand, feeling the bumps. The groves in his circuitry. 

Everyone so far has tried to chisel in his head. Galvanise him down into a mindless toy (HER makes a noise, he ignores it), but you seem to avoid his head. Touching the places on his arms not smeared with blood or gun oil, running down the thick wires in his artificial arm. The veins on his real one. The hair dusting his knuckles. 

Then you spot the blood caked, dried and blackened, under his nails, and you recoil slightly. Pulling back. Dropping to his chest. 

His breath whirs out in a deep tremble when you shiver at the muscles—hard iron, brass—that hums under your palms. It's tentative. Soft, almost. Exploratory as you navigate the newness of his body and this strange situation you've found yourself in. 

There's a fractured look on your face that he can't quite place when you slide the cup of your hand over his beating heart. 

(Surprise, maybe. You must have thought him a machine.)

You stay there for a moment, quiet. Pensive. Gaze inward as you mull something over, something he can't fathom, can't ascertain. 

“You…” your voice comes out on a stilted breath after a brief silence. “You killed them all.”

It's not really a question. He grunts his affirmative, anyway, and reaches out to settle his hands on your hips. You jump when he touches you. Tense and angry in his arms, but you let him pull you in close. Are almost docile when he tucks his chin against your crown, lets his hands slide to the small of your back. 

You make no move to pull away. He lets that notion marinate in the back of his head, bending reality to suit his whims when he decides that you must not want to. He hugs you tighter, nuzzling the top of your head when you shudder. 

He's not sure where you're going with this particular line of thought. Doesn't, entirely, see why it matters much. Everyone is dead except him, you. The only two breathing in this disgusting bordello that reeks of thick, spicy incense and myrrh to hide the scent of sweat, stale cigarettes, and sex. Something plastic. Synthetic. Lubricant, he imagines. Latex. 

Knowing that you spent an insurmountable time in this cesspool has anger spiking inside of him once more, but it's quelled, immediately, when remembers what the other men who lurked in these dilapidated corners look like now. Viscera, tissue, and bones are now all painting the cheap panelled walls in a deep maroon splatter. 

(He'll burn it all down before he leaves tomorrow.)

He keeps you close, shackled. A parody of a lover's embrace. 

Your hand drifts up, a slow crawl to the base of his neck. Puppy lifts his chin. The bright red question mark shading the room in an ethereal neon glow. 

“You killed them,” you repeat, knuckles grazing the over-sensitive skin where his mask melds to flesh. “But you didn't kill me. Why?”

He feels the press against his jugular. A soft ache in his throat. It doesn't hurt, but he knows you want it to. 

Puppy's puppy has fangs. 

Puppy reaches up, snatching your wrist in his mechanical hand. Feels, instantly, the grind of delicate bone under harsh, unyielding metal. 

You don't flinch. 

“Why?” 

Under the harsh edges of your anger, your feigned indifference, he catches sight of the look that drew him to you in the first place. Absolute despondency. A vacancy in the hollow of your eyes. Misery, maybe. 

If he were someone else, he might have felt pity for you. Ripped from the arms of whatever birthed you into existence, thrown into this disgusting hovel, and now—

A pet for a pet. 

Kept. Chained. 

Puppy will keep you forever. He knows this just as sure as he knows his heart pulses in his chest. The sun rises. Falls. He'll take you with him, wherever he goes.

You're his. 

A fine consolation prize you've found for yourself, HER quips, and he's content to ignore it for now. Their amusement is clinical, a kittenish scratch in the back of his head. 

But he does agree. You're a fine prize, aren't you? His little treasure found in a trash heap. 

His, his, his

all his, all his, all his—

(You look at the promises, the answers, flickering across the surface of his visor, and shudder—)

Puppy doesn't say anything when you lead him by the wrist to sit on your bed, simply opting to follow along with your demands for now. It's cute, he finds, the way you try to bully him around even when your hands shake, knees tremble. 

He rests his forearms on his thighs, letting his hands dangle in the space between his spread knees—the picture of ease; the manufactured torpor of predator—and he waits. Watching, rapturously, as you flit in front of him. All soft and pensive as you look him over. Taking stock of the blood on his leather jacket. The stains on his pants. The flat surface of his mask, broken only by the protrusion of his nose. 

Boss was a megalomaniac. A narcissist. Knowing that he's made in his image, his likeness (spare parts; a fractured failsafe), he can only assume you like what you see when you look at these scraps that make him whole. 

Whatever you find, it shades the appraising glance in a hue of calculative decision—suddenly firm, now: wily. 

“Okay,” you say, and bring your hands to the sash holding the sheer kimono in place. “I'll be yours—” his hands twitch; reaching for you already. You dance out of the way from his grasping knuckles with a scoff. “Only if you're mine, too.”

If he had a mouth, he might have grinned. 

You seem content to take the lead after a noncommittal response to your demand of shared ownership (the idea alone of which has him thickening in his slacks), placing your hands on his shoulders to steady yourself before swinging your thigh over his lap, taking (what he hopes becomes) your rightful seat. 

It places your barely covered centre right against his prominent bulge, sending an electric buzz down the base of his spine. The look when you feel him throb against you is equally as scathing as it is feverish, and nearly comes undone at your glare alone, panting harshly against your collarbones. 

“Down boy,” you murmur silkily before dropping your cunt right over him. 

Whiteout. Static. He sees nothing but blurry slashes of red, red, red—

His hands are bruising on your waist, and he's not sure if he's pulling you closer to him or pushing him away. Maybe both. Tugging, tugging, until he can feel the red-hot heat of you burning through the fabric of his trousers.

You can't kiss him so you pepper sweet, soft kisses against the column of his throat, teeth nipping the seam where metal meets flesh. Marking the column of his pale throat up with the brand of your claim. Your ownership. 

A collar in red, black, yellow, and blue—

He doesn't have a mouth to claim you back, but his hands punch your flesh until it's pressed harshly against bone. Bursting blood vessels under your skin. It puddles there. He runs his fingers against the pool of blood that softens your skin, and understands, then, why the sting in his neck feels so fucking good. 

He feels consumed. In a tailspin. You grind against him, and he sees stars. 

Puppy can't think when you do that, and you seem to know this because you don't stop rolling your hips over his straining cock, pinched tight in his slacks. It's too much. 

He wants you. Wants you. Wants you. 

You pull back, and huff at the projection on his face. 

“You're impatient,” you say, but you're slipping your hand inside the waistband of his pants in spite of your exasperation, fingers dancing over the soft skin of his groin. 

It feels molten when you touch the base of his cock with your knuckle. Just a nudge. Just a press. He thinks he could come undone like this. Just like this. With your hands on him. Soft, dewy skin. 

But he wants you pinned under him, taking him. Has thought about nothing except your knees spread, thighs open. Pussy bare to him. Full of him. Nothing but him. Him, him. It made him ache. Burn. A low grade fever in his guts at the enticing image of you beneath him. Pretty lips open, moaning. Eyes wide, doeish. 

“You’re too—”

You start to say something, but he can't take this anymore. It's too soft. Too gentle. He wants you bent over. Wants to be inside of you already. 

And so, he follows through. 

You make a noise in the back of your throat when he gets his hands on the underside of your knees, and unceremoniously tips you back onto the velveteen sheets. The flimsy silk of your kimono spreads, unveiling the softness of your body. Your bare breasts, nipples pebbling under his stare. 

With it haloed around you in an inky black spill over your arms, leaking from beneath your body, he thinks you look ethereal. Unreal. Otherworldly. 

The slip covering your pussy is barely in the way. He can see dewy lips peeking out from the sliver of black nestled across your slit, wet and red. Red. Red—

“P–Puppy—!” You yelp when he tugs his trousers down with one hand, the other keeping your leg up, pinched tight on the underside of your knee. Spread open. Nearly bare. 

He presses the heel of your foot where his neck meets shoulder, keeping it in place with a soft pat to your calf, before dropping his hand down to join the other in ripping the thin scrap of fabric keeping you from him. He's graced with another yelp, but it isn't in pain or distress, and he ignores it outright. 

Mindless, it seems, in this pursuit to be inside of you as quickly as possible. 

Your panties—if they could even be considered such a thing—are pushed deep into his back pocket. Saved for later. 

And then he turns back to you. Spread open. Waiting and willing under him. The sight of you like this steals his breath from his lungs. Sparks embers in his guts that smoulder, billowing smoke through the hollow of his chest. 

He tastes ash in the back of his throat. Wishes, suddenly, that he could quench it on the slick, hot taste of you—

Gripping himself in one hand, he presses the blunt head of his cock against your slit, glistening from your wetness in the jaundiced glow of the moody light above your head. He's glad he didn't cut the power to this shithole because the way you quiver beneath him as he rubs between your folds is nothing short of mesmerising. 

You're wet. Soaked. All for him, even if you keep hissing out that this is just a bodily reaction to stimulus, don't be so full of yourself, you psychopath—

His hand drops. The flat side of his thumb pressed against your clit. You arch so prettily when he touches you like this, knees shaking, eyes fluttering. He presses harder, makes small circles against your sensitive flesh that have you whimpering. Whining. 

“No more, no more, no more—”

He can feel the molten centre of you flutter around his weeping tip. Silken, inviting. He wants more. Knows that you want it just as bad, too. 

Impatient now, he lifts his fingers from your clit, and wraps it tight around your thigh, gaining leverage before he slowly, agonizingly, begins to presses inside—just the tip, the first inch—but the way you wrap around him (all tight, wet silk) makes his mind grow fuzzy around the edges. Electricity rockets down his spine. 

He thinks he blacks out for a second, short-circuiting at the white-hot pleasure of being inside of you, because when his eyes focus, he's pushed all the way inside, trembling above you. 

You're whining his name with tears dripping down your temples, legs quivering around him, and he wonders if this is that version of heaven, the real one, he'd read about once. 

It's too much. Not enough. He rolls back on his hunches to see the way you swallow him down to the base. Pulled taut, and far too pretty for what he's doing to you. Poor, pitiful thing. He'll ruin you, he's sure. Mess you up so badly, no one else would ever be able to touch you without thinking of him. Only him.

It's a thought that sends a thrill down his spine, and he rolls his hips just to watch you squirm. Builds up a sickeningly sweet momentum as he forces your body to acclimate to his girth, to the unyielding stretch of his cock. You're too tight around him, and he worries that the taut stretch might be too much for you, but it's passing. Temporal. He knows he doesn't really care. You'll take it all. All of him. 

Nothing will tear him away from this pretty cunt of yours. 

It flicks against a long dormant part inside of his hindbrain, and he pants for it. Chasing this feeling, this high. 

The slow crawl within you isn't enough to satiate himself. His belly rumbles. His throat burns. 

Puppy gives you no warning before he snaps his hips into you as hard as he can. 

Your wet cries start the beginning notes of his new ascension, and he pounds into you harder. Faster. He fucks you like he's starved for it. Aching. Desperate. Belatedly, he thinks about your pleasure, about bringing you to the same highs the tight clutch of your pussy is bringing him, but he can't focus. Can't think. It's mindless, this lust. Turns him inside out and makes him greedy. Selfish. 

He wants, wants—

Never, in all of his insignificant life, has he ever wanted something as much as this. As you. Pressed beneath him, mewling out his name as he forces himself inside of you, as deep as he can reach—

(and then deeper still because Puppy wants to crawl inside of you; want to nestle against your heart, tucked under the bracket of your ribs and with the way he fucks into you like this, bed whining in protest with each furious, sloppy snap of his hips, he just might make that dream a reality—)

—and fuck. Fuck. 

Somewhere in the tangled web of his thoughts, all white-noise, static pleasure, he can hear HER utter things in secret under the heavy pants of his ragged breath (things like, you deserve this, Puppy; good boy, Puppy; treat your toy—kindly—Puppy), and it spurns him on. Makes him ache to drive those mechanised whispers out of his head, filling the space they leave behind with the sweet echo of your voice in ear. 

Scream. For. Me flashes across the visor in bloody red, and he sees when it registers in your glossy, wet-eyed stare. Cuts through the haze of sex, the lashings of fear that still curl in the shaded valleys when you look at him, and digs its talons into tissue, bisecting the chemical slurry turning your thoughts to mush. There's a moment of clarity. Brief, ephemeral, because he's pressing in as deep as he can once more, grinding against some spot inside of you that makes your eyes roll, and your head drop. 

My

Name

It flashes again, and finally—

Your pretty mouth drops open, spittle running down the corners as you struggle to keep up with his frantic, feverish pace, but nothing comes out—nothing he wants to hear, at least. Please, you beg, and he feels the plea like a punch to his gut. 

You're so pretty when you beg. 

But that's not what he wants. 

Bad girl

It comes as a warbling flicker. Distorted in his anger. 

You shudder under him, eyes widening when he drops his hands down to your throat, palm swallowing you whole from chin to sternum. For him, it's as gentle as he could be, but you gasp for breath, tears pebbling in the corner of your eyes. Hazy, murky, with fear and pleasure; the warring sensations separated only a hairline fracture, a thin sliver. 

He shifts forward and has you take on more of his weight, stifling more air from your lungs, and making you feel the power flex of his massive body cocooning you entirely. No escape. 

Your hands unfurl from the white-knuckled grip on the sheets, slamming against his shoulders as you try, futilely, to push him away. You're frenzied. Desperate. 

Puppy finds it endlessly charming.

His hand lifts, offering a slight respite that you seize eagerly, greedily, gulping down wet, feverish lungfuls of air. 

“Y–you bastard—”

He likes it when you cuss at him. A feral, hissing cat. He falls over you once more, shadowing you under his bulk, and pistons his hips into the apex of your thighs, feeling the slickness of your cunt drench his groin. 

Angry, spitting thing. And yet—

You're so fucking wet for him. 

You like this. The way he bends you mercilessly to his whims. Folds you in half. 

His hand stays around your throat, feeling each breath and moan that reverberates up his arm. The other drops from your knee, falling to the black, iron headboard that grinds into the wall with each thrust. Centering himself. Gaining more leverage. 

Puppy fucks you like this. Trapped beneath him—a tumulus over you—and unable to do much except take his cock however he decides to give it to you. And give it to you, he does—

(Mercilessly. Pounding you so hard, your breasts jerk, and your eyes flash vividly as you struggle to stay afloat in that equinox of pleasure-pain that rages over you.)

HER says he doesn't have a face, and maybe that's true. It might just be a flat mess of wires sutured to flesh. But

Puppy wants to devour you. Swallow you whole. Wants to taste the sweetness of your cunt on his tongue. Feel your lips on his. He wants to pry apart your chest and suckle from the marrow in your ribs. 

He wants you. 

Wants you. Wants you—

He's not entirely sure if he's human, but he breathes like you. Heaves. Gasps. Can feel the wet, molten clench of your pussy around the thickness of his cock as he spears you open. Pleasure blooms at the base of his spine. Punches through his groin. Bludgeons him. It makes his head feel heavy, fuzzy. Somnolent with the mindless drive ticking in the back that pushes him forward. Makes him want to imbue himself in whatever it was that made you. A pithy god of old. Stardust. 

He wants to remake himself in your image. Spare parts just for you—

How romantic, Puppy. 

“Fuck—!”

Your voice is saccharine in his ear. A velvet gust of smoke curls in the back of his head. 

With his hand around your throat, he feels the words before he hears them. It sends a thrill down his spine—dancing fingers pressing tight to each vertebra as it splits open the ventricles housing his spinal fluid, letting it all leak out into his bloodstream. 

It's ecstasy, maybe. Or the closest thing to it he could ever reach. 

“What are you doing to me?” You slur the words out against his metal cheek, hushed and fractured. Raw. “It feels so—good—oh, Puppy—!”

He shifts his pelvis into the bracket of your thighs. The head of his cock rubbing over that spot inside of you that makes your eyes roll back, and your cunt squeeze him tight. A pretty box wrapped, velveteen, around him. 

There's friction in the pit of his stomach. Tension in his groin. It pulls taut, feels heavy. 

He's close. So, so close—

You seem to realise this, too, your eyes growing wide once more as he twitches inside of you, pressed deep. Cockhead nudging into your seal. 

“No, no—”

Despite your protests, your body is tightening up, quivering under him. 

He takes it as an invitation.

Puppy's hips stutter to a slow grind as he hits the apex of his pleasure, cock throbbing, spitting his release, deep inside of you. 

Around him, beneath him, you tremble. Shake. He can feel the tremors of your own hastily reached climax when you squeeze his cock tight in a vice, undulating pulses that seem to rocket from the sensitive nerve endings around him all the way to his brainstem. 

It's good. Too good. 

He doesn't have any other ambition right now outside of burying himself inside of you over and over again. 

He wonders how deep his spare parts go for a belated second, how much of himself was forged in Boss’ likeness, but dismisses it immediately. It's unimportant to him. 

“You're awful,” you gasp sweetly in his ear. “Terrible. A terrible man—” And fuck. He wants to ruin you again.

Puppy pulls you close, pawing at you until you're situated in his arms. Manoeuvred around like a little doll. He finds you precious, really. So malleable. So soft. He presses you flat to the lumpy mattress and folds himself over you. Thick thigh strewn over your hip, pinning you down. An arm tucked under your nape, bent at the elbow to curl over your shoulder, fingers brushing your collarbones. Shackled.

This is new. Foreign. He's never felt this before—all soft edges; sickeningly sweet. Unable to help himself, he bears his weight down, arching above you. Staring, openly and unabashedly. Drinking you in. 

He wants to crawl inside of you. Worm his way to the place where you burn. 

You're stiff in his arms. Silent. 

But that's fine. That's okay. He'll melt you eventually. Make you understand that Puppy is yours now, silly. All yours. And you're—

All his. 

Just like you wanted. 

He owns you. And in turn, is owned by you. 

It's fitting, he finds, considering all his miserable existence was spent handing his leash off to whoever grabbed it quick enough. Their hands were rough. Indelicate. He takes your hand in his, knuckles bleached white from the quivering fist you've rolled them into, and pries your fingers loose. Threads his between the gaps before you can swat him away. 

He can feel your pulse like this, pressed palm to palm. A precious little thing. So fleeting. A hummingbird in an ivory cage. 

Poor thing. 

“What—what are you going to do?” You rasp, voice hoarse from the grip he had on your neck. The sound of it—gritty sand, smoke—makes him shiver. He likes it, he finds. Wonders if you'll sound the same if he scraped your throat raw with the tips of his fingers. 

His cock. 

You huff when you feel him twitch against your hipbone—cock tacky from his cum, your wet cunt—but make no move to pull away. 

He purrs. 

Keep you, is projected and you suck in a sharp breath like you'd expected that. Then, he adds a heart. A red one. Mine. 

“I'm not yours. I'm not anyone's—” he doesn't bother correcting you. You'll learn soon enough. “And you don't even know me. Why do you even want this? I could be a liability. I could kill you in your sleep—”

Could, not should, he notes, fondly. 

Hahahaha passes by and you let out an aggrieved snarl at the sight. “You're so fucking horrible—!”

He nods in response, and presses the jut of his nose to your sweat-slicked hairline. Breathes you in. Amber. Humus. Loam. You smell like ozone. The streets after a heavy rainstorm. 

You smell good. Like home. 

“Do you even like me? Or am I just something to fuck?” is whispered so softly into the air that he might have missed it if he hadn't been trying to suffuse atoms. 

He hears the fragility in your voice. The paper-thin foundation holding you aloft. 

In all honesty, he doesn't know what he feels for you. It's all—

Abstract, perhaps. Grainy smears of feelings, sensation, all roiled around inside of him. Intangible. 

He just knows he wants you. Has wanted you since he first saw you, sitting all pretty in a glass cage. Untouchable to anyone except the highest bidder in your upcoming auction. 

(Spare parts. A pretty bird in a cage.)

What a pair you make. 

He likes that, though. The way you fill this barren hole in his chest. Pilliating the listlessness that rolls like a marble inside of him. In turn, he wants to do the same. To stuff you full of him. So full, there's room for nothing else. No one else. 

There are flickers of life buried deep within you that he longs to dredge up. He thinks you'd be beautiful with your hands wrapped around his pipe (disgusting, Puppy), and that, for him, is enough. 

He's sure one day you'll feel the same. 

Until then—

His fingers tighten around yours and you wince at the pressure before gasping when the metal gears in his joints begin locking in place. Stiffening. Shackled to him, now, until he decides to release you. 

Goodnight flashes. He sees the words reflected in the glossy canyons of your eyes. Smeared red bleeding into the dawning realisation that you are his. 

And no one else's. 

There's no escape. 

[appleblueberry-pie]

Nurse Geto x Doctor Reader

- fucking vixen

- doesn't really do anything but does everything at the same time.

- need her help? she's right there.

- just don't let her get too close because she will touch your work coat and oops! why is she groping your sex through your pants??? 

- "Sorry, it was an accident...."

- yeah, okay.

- you ask her to write data? sure. she's scribbling on the clipboard and you're typing on the computer while speaking to her.

- then she'll stop and you'll only notice once you stop speaking.

- She'll stare at you with a look on her face. ".....did you get that down?"

- She'll nod. "........no you didn't."

- She'll smirk. 

- "Geto, my patients' health and care mat-"

- "Oh, come on, doc. I'm only playing with you."

- sits closer and you can smell her perfume. she smells sweet...

- ".....pumpkin pie?" you shouldn't have said anything. once you fall in, it's hard to claw your way back out.

- she smiles and nods. "I knew you'd like it." She drops the clipboard on the desk and crawls onto your lap. You don't move her or anything, sitting back and letting her grind onto your lap. Her little whines fall into your ear and you place your hands onto her waist.

- "Geto, we're at work."

- "Who cares, I want you now. Please?"

- Will beg. 

- Will not care if you two get fired or anything. 

- will snatch off your id on your neck.

- will kiss down on your neck and will want to make hickeys in obvious places.

- you'll have to be firm.

- grabbing her chin, make her stare into your eyes.

- win the hardest staring contest in the world before telling her to hold off until you guys are alone.

- then she'll whimper before getting back into her seat.

- "good girl." 

- She likes that nickname secretly.

- barely listens to the other doctors.

- treats the other nurses like dogs,

- praises you like you're god or something.

- your name is always in her mouth.

- i guess it's because you're one of the few who are as wealthy as her. she is, in fact, top nurse.

- yet, her shenanigans continue as if she has no home training.

[who-knew-a-sheep-can-write]

Get Some: Bigby Wolf x Fem!Reader (NSFW)

Chapter 2

Contains: Choking, top Bigby, dirty talk

When you arrived at your apartment building, the last thing you expected was a package. You hadn’t ordered anything, at least to what you could remember after a day like today at work, so it surprised you when the doorman to your apartment building perked up when you were waiting for the elevator called out for you and handed you a package. It was bulky and a little heavy, square and very thick like a box, it was wrapped with brown paper and tied with dark string that prickled thoughts in the back of your mind. The familiar scribble of your name and apartment number was a great indicator as to who it was from, the smell just confirmed it.

You stepped into the elevator and rode it up to your floor. As you stood in the silent chamber, you ripped open the front of the package where you could feel an envelope just beneath the surface. A white envelope with your name on it once again was not sealed, inside was a piece of paper obviously from his desk of messy papers with words scrawled on it. It warmed your heart that Bigby did stuff like this for you even when he is so busy being the only real force of justice in this shitty city.

‘(Y/n),’ the letter started, ‘hope these are good enough. Sorry for the mess. ~ Bigby.’

You tore open the paper just a bit more to see that it wasn’t a box he had wrapped, but items. Two of them, in fact.

He had wrapped two new sets of bedsheets for you to replace the ones he had cut up during your last rendezvous in your apartment. You smirked to yourself devilishly; You loved that night, you couldn’t help yourself from constantly playing it over and over again in your mind. The look of slight embarrassment on his rugged face, the soft moans and harsh chokes he gagged out rang in your head like church bells, the feeling of his warmth inside of you and beneath you.

The elevator dinged rather loudly, snapping you out of your vixen thoughts. The pearly doors opened, already revealing another Fable on the other side. He paid you no mind as you stepped out.

You turned down the halls and stopped at your door. You were looking at the sheets now tucked in your arm, excited but also a little confused.

He only wrecked one set… So why did he buy you two?

You slotted your key in the door and turned, thinking nothing of it other than he was being sweet or maybe planning for the future as you opened your door.

Your apartment was dark, you cursed at yourself for not leaving at least one light on and closed the door behind you.

Before you could fumble at the wall for the light switch, you stopped when you heard a creak. You seized, completely freezing in place as your eyes went wide. Here you were in your apartment all alone- no, you weren’t alone! You dropped the sheets and looked around from where you stood, gasping when you saw two glowing eyes cutting through the dark.

You nearly screamed as the intruder lunged at you. His weight collided with you, a large and roughened hand connected to your mouth to silence you. You were smushed, back against the door and your front against the intruder. You cried into the palm of the stranger’s hand, whimpering and trembling until a familiar scent reached your nose.

Huff & Puffs.

And you knew the one and only person who kept that shit brand of cigarettes alive.

He flicked the lights on next to you, your eyes burned from the sudden flash of light that filled your apartment. Your eyes fluttered and quickly adjusted to the light. A pale creamy - used to be white - button up and black tie met your eyes. Looking up, you saw his eyes were still glowing bright like King Midas had touched them.

He released your mouth but still kept you pinned.

“B-Bigby!” You were at a loss for words, your heart was still racing in your chest. “What are you-”

Your lover cut you off by leaning in closer. His hand that was once covering your mouth now laid flat next to your head, and out of the corner of your eyes you could spot the long black claws where his nails used to be. A deep growl vibrated through his deliciously broad chest as he got close to your face. His nostrils twitched, he was smelling your scent and he was loving every second of it.

“Your heart is racing,” he stared right into you, “it sounds like a rabbit’s. Are you scared of the big bad wolf, (Y/n)?”

His lips were pulled back in a grin. It settled in your mind that this was some form of payback for what you had done to him last week.

“Bigby-”

You suddenly gagged, his other hand had came up and grabbed at your throat. His thumb and his index settled into the curves of your throat, barely cutting off your air supply. You felt his claws pricking at the very delicate skin of your neck, adding a dangerous spice to the mood. Fear and excitement shot down your spine, your fingers started to tingle, your lower belly blossomed with heat.

“You think you could put a dog collar on me?” You could see his sharp teeth, you wanted him to sink his fangs deep into your skin and mark you up. “You think you could just get away with that shit? Push me around? Choke me?” As he annunciated, his fingers dug deeper into your throat for a moment, really cutting into your oxygen and making you dizzy. You gagged once again, eyes fluttering as your apartment started to spin. “You’re not getting away with it.”

He briefly let go of your throat to snatch at the collar of your shirt, yanking you forward and away from the door. He carelessly kicked open your bedroom door that you had left open a crack and threw you down onto the mattress before he hovered back over you. You tensed under his golden gaze; no fucking wonder why he was made the sheriff, that gaze could snare the lies right out of your soul if he wanted to. There was danger in the air, you could taste its salty sweetness.

You wanted more.

Your body was crying for more.

You wanted him to be dangerous.

“Please,” you softly whispered.

Any other person would have ordered you to speak up, but not him. He could hear a pin drop on the opposite side of Manhattan and flinch if he wanted to.

He threw a brow up in a mocking glance, the corners of his mouth flicking up.

“Please, what? Choke you? Choke you like the needy slut you are?”

His words lit a passionate fire in your belly, your lower half fell limp as you laid there helplessly before the big, bad, and very hungry wolf in your bedroom.

“Bigby, please.” you pleaded louder, “choke me. I need you, I love you. Choke me like the slut I a-”

His big and meaty hand came back down and snatched up your neck again, fingers squeezing on your airways and leaned you fully onto your back. He had settled one knee onto the mattress and towered over you as you laid helpless on the mattress. It was times like these that really reminded you how truly powerful Bigby was; Rippling muscles, a vicious and primal power bristling right under his skin. It wasn’t out of the ordinary for you to daydream of him losing himself to the beast within and fucking you in the moonlight.

“You have a dirty mouth,” he growled. His fangs shined in the low light creeping in from your living room. Something had clicked in his mind as though he suddenly knew what you thinking, his grip suddenly stronger around your throat until you could hardly breathe. Your hands grabbed at the loose collar of Bigby’s button up and held on for dear life as you cried. “And you have a dirty mind, don’t you?”

“Yes-” you nearly heaved from the cut off of oxygen. “Yes, I do!”

He released your throat for only a moment, your lungs burned as you breathed in deeply. His hands had pulled off your pants and underwear at once, tossing them behind him and into the near-darkness of your room. His hands fumbled with the belt buckle and zipper of his black dress pants until he had finally managed to pull his cock out. It had been straining in his pants for a little while. How long? You couldn’t tell.

You laid there on the bed, trying to catch your breath from being manhandled as you glanced down at his cock standing at full mast. A trail of cum had started to roll down the underside of his deliciously thick cock. You wanted to lick it, the lust in you had been quickly building. You squeezed your naked legs together, your womanhood flared with excitement.

Bigby didn’t like your legs being squeezed together, your lover roughly grabbing at your ankles and spread you apart and yanked you to the edge of your bed. Your ankles burned, a short scream left your lips, your hands grabbed onto Bigby’s brawny shoulders for support. You hissed as the cold air in your apartment danced across your warm and very wet nethers and found yourself breathless once again feeling the tip of Bigby’s cock start to split you open once again.

Bigby had released one of your ankles to grab at your throat again, making sure to keep your head pinned to the soft and springy mattress. Your released ankle had come to rest on his trim waist, the heel of your shoe digging into his back, causing the werewolf to growl down at you.

The yellow of his eyes really did a number on your heart as it pounded away inside of you.

Your cry was cut off by Bigby’s hand around your throat. Your head dug into the mattress and your nails dug deeper into Bigby’s clothed shoulders.

Bigby’s didn’t give you the pleasure of sinking fully into you before he pulled back. He had nearly drug his cock fully out of you before he slammed back in. Your walls stretched around him, he fit so well inside of you. The burn from the stretch, the pain from the thrusts. It was enough to have you drooling over your lover.

He was merciless, his hips snapping all too quickly, his claws digging into your skin and nearly breaking it. It was like he knew when you were about to moan and cry and scream in pleasure, making sure to silence you by cutting off your airways until you were just dizzy enough and released.

Bigby snarled as your walls fluttered around him, his sharp teeth bared and his claws threatened to break your beautiful skin.

A moan had barely escaped your parted lips when his hand clamped down once again. Your throat was on fire, your eyes felt heavy, your body felt weightless. The corners of your vision felt warm and dark.

“Bigby,” is all you were able to strangle out.

“You thought you could’ve gotten away with that? Put a collar on me? Choke me with it?” Bigby groaned and nearly gave into his lust. You felt his cock twitch inside of you. “I saw the way you walked around the business office the next day. Wearing that dress, wearing that perfume, swaying those little hips thinking the consequences wouldn’t come biting.”

His words vibrated through you. Yes, you really did all of those things to tease him the very next day. A low cut dress, a little extra of your perfume, and you purposefully put yourself in Bigby’s vision to tease him. You bent over at the waist with your ass in the air to pick up stuff, sauntered by his open office door. He’s been planning this.

You tried to answer but he cut you off once more.

Bigby leaned in, his breath hot on whatever skin of your neck was exposed. He moved his fingers away for a second to lick at your raw skin, a cry of pleasure finally leaving your open mouth. The cry of pleasure quickly turned to pain as Bigby sank his fangs into the crook of your neck, biting down just deep enough to break the skin before he pulled away. His hand soon replaced itself.

The throbbing from both your throat and your pussy was too much, the pressure that had built up inside of you just added to everything.

Just as you finally found yourself about to climax, Bigby pressed down again, cutting off your air as you scream was barely heard. Your vision had went white for a moment, your body fell limp. It falt as though you were both warm and cold at the same time, like your nerves were both sparking and dead, like your body was both weightless and heavy.

It was amazing.

Bigby didn’t seem to last too much longer, your lover thrusting into you quickly. He growled and cursed to himself, nearly breathless. It felt like something was about to snap inside of him; whether it was his own climax or the beast brewing inside, he couldn’t tell.

He came inside of you with a shout, his hips bucking and driving himself deep inside of you. His eyes nearly rolled to the back of his head, a groan had strangled its way out of his chest. He buried himself as deep as he could inside of your aching pussy, his hot seed shooting right into you. Your hands had slowly dropped from his broad shoulders to the mattress when Bigby opened his eyes, a sudden spike of fear shot right through him like a silver bullet.

Your eyes had closed and were barely moving and your breathing had almost completely stilled as his hand was clamped tight around your throat. Releasing you allowed a sudden surge of fresh air to enter and your eyes to carefully open.

“(Y/n), I-”

You cut off his apology before he could even start, your eyes pinned to the ceiling as you panted for air.

“Bigby, that was the best fucking orgasm I’ve ever had in my entire life.”

[nightingalespen]

Signed L.W. Chapter 3

Larissa Weems x Reader Chapter 3 Summary~ Harper suggests the reader apologize through a sincere text, but reader is skeptical. Eventually, they follow Harper's advice and send an apology, expecting a response the next day. However, they are shocked to receive an immediate reply.

Reader’s POV~

After what felt like an eternity, her resistance finally wavered, and a softness appeared in her eyes. Breaking the deadlock of silence, this gorgeous and somehow familiar stranger let out a gentle sigh, as if conceding to your persistence. Slowly, she inclined her head slightly and said, "Apologies, darling, let’s have a rain check? Here is my number." 

After a moment of standing dumbfounded by her audacity, you couldn't help but feel a slight hint of curiosity. You watched as she discreetly slid a napkin across the bar towards you. Tentatively, you picked it up, unfolding it to reveal a phone number scribbled in bold ink and initials written perfectly in cursive. It was signed, “L.W.”...Huh, you thought to yourself. In the midst of your excitement and confusion, the mysterious woman suddenly vanished. At that moment, a thought hit you, and you couldn't help but feel incredibly embarrassed and foolish because you realized how obvious the answer was.

You practically screamed at your close friend Harper, "Of course!". You thought of the stunning lady from the park and the initials emblazoned on her handbag. Same initials… coincidence? Not at all. Finally, you made a connection between the familiar sparkle in the eyes of the drink thief and the silver-haired vixen from the park yesterday, letting out the most god-awful laugh as the absurdity of the situation sank in. You confided in Harper, revealing that the person you had shifted into for the night was the very same woman who had caught your attention in the park. Amusement had mixed with very visible shock on Harper's face as she processed your revelation.

She couldn't believe that you had unwittingly taken the form of the person you couldn’t take your mind off of and then continued to run right into her right at the bar. You know…the same bar the both of you had gone to in order for you to get her off of your mind in the first place. As you further explained the striking similarities, from the initials on the napkin to the sparkle in the woman's eyes, it became clear that she too must be a shapeshifter, putting on a disguise for a night out on the town. A tinge of guilt washed over you as you realized the need to reach out and apologize for the mix-up.

Regretfully, you admitted that this was an utter failure on your part in adhering to the basic rules of shapeshifting, something you had learned during your time at Nevermore. Feeling a sense of shame mixed with determination, you composed yourself and reached for your phone. This was going to be a long night, but at least you had her number. 

Larissa’s POV~

Larissa swiftly departed from the bar, making her exit before you could raise your head from the napkin that she had discreetly passed to you. She found herself chuckling at the thought of how she had managed to astound you, fully aware that you would likely reach out to apologize for inadvertently adopting her appearance. Understanding that you were a novice shapeshifter, she granted you some leeway in her mind, realizing that your actions were not intended to cause any harm.

As she strolled along the streets for a few blocks, purposely trying to free her mind from any distractions, she eventually lifted her gaze towards the night sky. The tranquility of the scene overwhelmed her, enveloping her in a profound sense of peace and serenity. Lost in the moment, the soft chime of her phone went unnoticed initially, blending effortlessly with the stillness of the night. However, as her senses gradually recaptured their grasp on reality, Larissa finally glanced down to find a heartfelt text message awaiting her attention. It was a genuine apology, an earnest attempt by the young woman to make amends for her involuntary transformation into her – a sight that had startled and bewildered her earlier. 

Reader’s POV~

“HARPER, WHAT DO I SAY–”, you practically screamed across your apartment. The two of you left the bar after your mysterious stranger left in such a rush. Both you and Harper made the decision to return to your apartment, with Harper insisting on escorting you to ensure your safety and making sure you get into bed.  You looked like you were going insane and your emotions were all over the place that Harper thought it best for her to make sure you were safely home and got some rest.  You managed to keep silent about the whole situation until you entered your apartment and Harper closed the door behind her. It was at this moment that you confronted her, astonishment evident in your eyes, as she proposed what seemed to be a simple solution.

"Babe, it's easy. Just text and apologize to her! Didn't you mention how she boldly claimed your drink as her own, teasingly suggesting a rain check so she could make it up to you?" You fixated your gaze on Harper as if she had suggested the most implausible and outrageous resolution to the truly unique situation you had found yourself in. Expressing your disbelief, you responded, "Harper, you can't just send a casual text to a Goddess."

Harper rolled her eyes at your words and sat down on the edge of your bed. You and her had been through so much together that you both trusted each other's judgements. She looked at you in the most sincere way and said, “Hun, this is truly an easy fix. Just tell your “goddess” that you are so very sorry for shapeshifting into her natural form. Make sure she knows it was because she fascinated you and not as a way to mock her. I’m sure she’ll realize it was all just a cute misunderstanding.”

With that, Harper hopped up and gave you a big squeeze, deciding to leave you to your own thoughts for the night and head home before it got any later. Curled up under the comforting layers of your cozy bed, you contemplated an apology for a considerable amount of time, your eyes fixated on the keyboard in front of you. The beautiful stranger's number loomed prominently at the top of the screen.

Eventually, spurred on by a mix of curiosity and the desire to make amends, you crafted a concise yet heartfelt message extending your apologies and introducing yourself, emphasizing your intentions were purely enticed by her captivating beauty. With a deep breath, you mustered the courage to press the send button, relinquishing control over the situation and awaiting her response, whenever it may happen. Anticipating for her to respond tomorrow, you never expected such a prompt reply. However, as a mere few minutes passed by, your jaw dropped in shock at the unexpected reaction that awaited you.

[kingkatsuki]

Found this super cute ♡My Ship at a Glance♡ game on Twitter and decided to play. I would love to see yours too💕 template is here.

It was super hard trying to decide on five songs, I think I coulda kept going forever!

Tagging: @katsukikitten @kweenkatsuki @bakugotrashpanda @cwtomura @trafalgar-temptress @strafepanzer @saturnsorbits @madarawasright @hxhwings @mitsurifanpage @vixen-scribbles @kozykeiji @mint-kitsune @miki-snake @chaoswithinstars @bakugous-tits

[manndelion]

coupla more artfight attacks! knocking out some helluvahazbin ocs then i'll be jumping on drawing some killjoysonas; i currently have a mass attack in the works with TWENTY-ONE characters and counting!! May the lord have mercy on my stamina.

Athalia Bellarose belongs to Artistic-Vixen Cotton belongs to Cottan_ball

clockapp vid of how scribbly sketches are vs finished

[faofinn]

you might’ve already answered this, but what do Fao’s tattoos look like?

hi! I don't think we have actually answered this. I'll spare you all my terrible scribbling (ev is the artistically inclined one in this relationship) and I'll just describe it. He has two full sleeves, and a few dotted around. The sleeve on his left arm is primarily a patchwork of animals - he has a lion, a tiger and a wolf as well as a rose, all worked together into a cohesive sleeve. That arm also has an ecg trace across the inside of his wrist - this is actually a trace from Finn's arrest and ROSC.

The right arm is one cohesive sleeve, it's a forest scene with loads of pine trees, a huge mountain, and a stag tucked away between the trees. Over his left collarbone he has the words 'In Arduis Fidelis' which is the motto of the British Army's Medical Corps, and means 'faithful in adversity'. On the right hand side, the 'front' of his ribs, he has a little vixen (his only tattoo with colour) and the date of Alex's death underneath. On the left, down the side of his ribs (just under his big thoracotomy scar), he has the shattered sword Narsil from Lord of the Rings. The last is a snarling direwolf on his left hipbone, his most recent addition.

-shiv

[coiled-dragon]

Cagula totally wears everything in the Rodarte Fall 2023 collection. Cagula goes to the fashion shows all the time. Gets Renny to scribble down notes. Cagula is the ultimate gothic vixen.

God I absolutely love this....

[astarrkatt]

Cw: mild eye contact//

So, Mystery of The Keys event, huh?

Sequel(?) to the angelic post, god I love Rebus so much he is so silly fr‼️‼️‼️ (also hid some messages in Sonarian for giggles, enjoy fellow creature liking guys)

[star-my]

Vixen ~ Two

➼ Pairing: Jimin x OC (Shin Ara)

➼ Length: 8.4k

➼ Rating: M (minors do not interact)

➼ Content: Arranged Marriage AU, CEO AU, Mafia AU | TW: Human Trafficking (not by BTS/SKZ members); Light Violence | Bangtan and SKZ are mafia; think Kitty Gang Jimin; Jimin calls Ara 'Princess'; Smol Ara is a menace to Seokjin | SMUT: Oral (M + F receiving); Fingering; PiV; Loss of Virginity; Aftercare

➼ Thanks to @moonleeai for betaing!

➼ Taglist (Open): @bangtan-famiglia-net @kookthief @otome-wandering @sarcasticbambi

➼ Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and in no way represents any member of BTS, SKZ, or any other K-pop group mentioned in any way beyond the face and name claims the author made for this work.

➼ Chapter 1 (13/10/23) ➼ Chapter 3 (15/10/23) ➼ Ao3 ➼ Masterlist

Jimin knocked gently on Ara’s door. No answer sounded from within, so he poked his head in. To his surprise, his wife was nowhere to be seen. 

Frowning, he headed downstairs to ask Mrs. Lee and Jungkook if they knew where Ara was, almost walking into her.

“Princess? You’re up early.”

Her white suit was open to show her silver-gray blouse and thin gold chain jewellery that glinted in the light from the foyer chandelier.

“You look nice; where are you going all dressed up?”

“Thank you. I’m heading to the hospital to check on Appa, then to ShinCorp to talk some things over with Jin-oppa and Joon-oppa. I’ll see you at lunch. Bye, yeobo!”

With a swift kiss to his cheek, Ara headed out the door, her ponytail bouncing behind her.

Jimin let her escape with Jungkook, momentarily stalled. “Yeobo?” he mouthed, pressing his hand to his cheek.

He didn’t stop grinning all morning (at least in private).

~~~

Ara sat confidently in the seat her father normally occupied. Namjoon and Seokjin stood in front of her desk, hands clasped in front of them.

“Namjoon-oppa, you’ll take over like Abeoji wanted, and Jin-oppa, you’ll stay where you are. I will be totally uninvolved, except when I’m not, of course,” Ara winked. “Let’s try and make Appa proud so he doesn’t worry, huh? Hwaiting!”

“Hwaiting!” echoed the two men.

Jimin entered the warehouse cautiously. A couple of lanterns in the middle provided just enough light to see who he was meeting: Vixen, head of the Stray Kids mafia that had rapidly grown over the last few years.

In the shadows behind her, he could just make out her two bodyguards, dressed all in black, just like Vixen: black combat boots with steel toes, black cargo pants, a black leather jacket with steel studs and zippers, and a black mask covering the top half of her face. The black hoodie underneath the jacket covered her head, casting shadows over her face that were only broken by her glowing gold eyes.

Jimin had to admit Vixen was a bit unnerving. Her mind games started before you even saw her face-to-face; there was the reputation of the female mafia leader who lived in the shadows, whose face no one had ever fully seen. Her gang had really exploded in the past five or six years, taking over a sizable chunk of the city with minimal bloodshed. Vixen relied heavily on secrets and manipulation, preferring nonviolent threats to force. Her reputation included being a whiz with a blade, proving she wasn’t a one-trick pony.

Vixen took a step forward, the glint of a silver-and-gold dagger strapped to her thigh catching Jimin’s eye.

“Why did you want to meet?” Jimin met her gold eyes steadily.

Vixen took another step forward. “I want to ally with Bangtan. I have a partnership with Gray…we run a bar; you may have heard of it, Blueprint?”

Jimin nodded. The Blue bars run by the Gray Family were some of the most popular in Seoul: Blue Moon, Blue Side, Blue Hour, and Blueprint. “I’m listening.”

Vixen’s signature red lips turned up in a smirk.

Jungok stayed in the hospital for another few days while his private doctor got caught up on his issues and treatment, agreeing a longer stay would be more beneficial to his healing.

Once he was cleared to go home and rest, he was taken back to his house, refusing Ara’s offer to have him move in with her and Jimin.

Taking time out of her gallery-opening schedule, she made sure to visit him twice a week and check up on his care.

Jimin didn’t see Ara very much (though they did make time for their weekly dates), as they were both busy working on their separate projects; Jimin on opening Dionysus, the bar Bangtan and Stray Kids were officially partnering over, and Ara on opening Secret Secret, the name she’d finally settled on for her gallery.

~~~

Ara surveyed her closet as she changed from the outfit she’d worn to her date tonight to her comfy pyjamas.

She frowned. “Jimin hasn’t been paying me much attention lately.”

She opened her spacious drawers, holding up outfits and juggling accessories.

“Hmm…”

She pulled up her contacts list on her phone, selected a name, and pressed call..

“Hey, it’s me. Want to help me with something?”

~~~

Jimin leaned against his car in the parking lot outside the mall, frowning when he saw his wife laughing with another man.

Jealousy bubbled up in his chest, and he frowned harder as they briefly hugged before separating.

The man turned–it was her ex-boyfriend, Lee Minho–and winked at her cheekily before heading to his car. Jimin walked up behind Ara and put his arm around her waist firmly.

“Hello, Princess,” he purred in her ear. “What a surprise to see you here.”

Ara tensed but relaxed when she recognised his voice. “Hello, yeobo,” she said cheerily, as if she hadn’t just hugged her (ex?)boyfriend in front of his salad.

He scoffed quietly. “What are you doing here?”

“Shopping, of course! I found something I’m sure you’d love,” she winked at him adorably, an awkward one-two blink. “Oh, and I got you some chocolate. But what are you doing here?”

“I was coming to shop for your birthday present, jagiya. I suppose I can take you home.”

“How sweet of you to offer,” Ara smiled, and Jimin felt his jealousy fading.

While Ara was distracted, gathering her bags before stepping out of his car, Jimin slipped her phone out of her purse and into his pocket. Being the exemplary husband that he was, he dropped Ara off at her suite with her armload of bags before heading to his office.

The bookshelves were rather obvious, so Jimin’s father had constructed his secret lair opposite them. Jimin put his thumb on the light switch, the built-in sensor reading his print and unlocking the Genius Lab.

“Suga, are you busy?” He greeted his tech guy by his hacker name in case he was on a call with someone.

Yoongi grunted, turning in his chair to face him. Jimin tossed him Ara’s phone, Yoongi’s fingers snagging it out of the air. 

“Can you put a tracker on it, in case she’s ever caught up in this?”

“No problem.”

“...and while you’re at it, can you trace her activity for the next few days?”

Yoongi eyed him but said nothing, opting to work in silence. “There’s already a tracker in here. Must be Seokjin’s,” mused Yoongi.

Before the alliance, Jin and Suga were rival hackers-slash-frenemies. The first time the two met in person, Jimin was a little worried until they decided not to deck each other but talk shop instead. 

Yoongi fixed the phone and handed it to Jimin. “That all, Boss?”

“For now, thanks.” Jimin left and knocked on Ara’s door. “Hey, I found this in the car,” he said when she answered.

“Oh, thanks! I was wondering where I’d left it! I guess it slipped out of my purse when I grabbed the bags or something.” She shut the door, and Jimin headed to his office to plan.

After one of Ara’s lovely meals, the couple said goodnight and headed their separate ways. Jimin lay on his divan, planning what to say tomorrow, when his phone got an alert.

Ara was talking to Minho.

Jimin scowled and tapped into the call, mid-chuckle from Minho.

“Yeah, it was pretty obvious.” Ara laughed.

“Anything to help,” said Minho smugly. “So, how does it work?”

“It fits perfectly, you smug cat-boy. Thank you for your advice.”

“I bet he’ll be shocked when he finds out, huh?”

Ara giggled. “Yeah, I can’t wait. That’ll teach him to ignore me.”

“Tell me if it works,” snickered Jimin’s rival.

Jimin ground his teeth.

“I will. He’s been off all afternoon, I should probably tell him sooner rather than later. He probably saw us.”

“Good, maybe he’ll finally realise what he could lose.”

“You’re so cynical, Lee. But yes, I am a catch for anyone.”

“Park is either blind or in denial if he’s not in love with you.”

“Thanks for humouring me today, Minho; it was fun. See you later!”

“Night, Ara.”

Jimin huffed and disconnected.

A second later, a text from his wife popped up on his screen.

SA: Can you come talk for a minute?

PJ: I’ll be right there, Princess.

Jimin yanked his robe’s belt shut, stomped into his slippers, and flounced down the hallway to his wife’s room.

She answered his irritated knock immediately. 

All thoughts fled his mind; in front of him was a blessed sight most certainly not intended for his mortal eyes: Ara in a red lace onesie.

He swallowed and tried to refocus his thoughts. Focus, Park! Did Minho pick this out for her? They discussed her wearing it over the phone?! 

…and Jealous Jimin was back.

“Why did you want to see me?”

“You seemed off all afternoon…I wondered if something was wrong.”

“Yes, something’s wrong!” Jimin exclaimed, his eyes travelling the length of her heatedly. “You went shopping with your ex-boyfriend for that? Is he even your ex?”

Ara grinned widely. “Ah, you saw Minho and me. No, he didn’t choose this for me, I chose it myself. I did ask his opinion on a hypothetical situation or two while we were at the mall, but nothing inappropriate happened, and yes, we are definitely exes. We only had one true date, where we realised we were better off as friends. We pretended to be dating for public appearances and such, a mutually beneficial, platonic relationship to keep gold diggers and well-meaning matchmakers away. Also, I’m married to you, and I’m not a cheater. I apologise if I gave you that impression, but I have in no way, shape, or form acted in a way that would break our vows.”

Jimin sighed, knowing that Ara was right. She wouldn’t hurt him like that; she was loyal to those she cared for.

“I’m sorry. I got jealous.”

“I can see that,” she said wryly, taking his hand. “Don’t worry, yeobo, I only love you.” She looked at him from under her lashes, her eyes sparkling, yet uncertain. Attempting to stay calm and ignore the butterflies in his stomach, he replied. “I was trying to plan the perfect date tomorrow to tell you that,” he said. “I love you too.”

The uncertainty morphed into complete love as Ara tiptoed and waited for him to kiss her. It was perfect.

~~~

Their lips barely brushed, then Jimin pressed more firmly against her, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her to him. Ara returned the favour, prodding his lips with her tongue until he opened up for her. He obliged, gentleman that he was. His warm hand trailed from her neck to her waist, sending sparks through her nerves as he grazed her almost-naked skin. 

He nipped at her lip before pulling back a smidgen, his eyes dark and hazy. “I love you, Princess.”

The words settled in her core, warm and insistent. “I love you, too.”

His plush lips turned up before he leaned forward for another kiss.

She placed her hands on his shoulders, pushing him down to the loveseat so she could straddle him, running her fingers through his hair and her other hand down his firm chest.

Sensing her goal, Jimin leaned against the back of the seat to untie his robe and push it off impatiently. 

He leaned towards Ara’s tempting cherry lips again but she wasn’t focused on his face anymore.

“And why haven’t I seen you shirtless before?” she demanded, her fingers sliding teasingly across his rib tattoo. “You never told me you had abs!”

Jimin shrugged, focused on sneaking his finger under the strap of her onesie. “Didn’t think to tell you. Would it have made a difference?”

Ara paused, tilted her head consideringly.

“Yah! Want me for my mind, not my body!” He pretended to cover himself with his hands like a scandalized maiden. “I’m more than just a pretty face!”

Laughing, Ara collapsed into his neck, pressing kisses down it as an apology. Her warm, wet mouth continued down his chest, pausing to run her tongue over his nipple. He shivered, and felt her smirk at the information she’d just received.

She straightened again, dropping a last kiss on his mouth. By now he’d slid the straps of her onesie down her shoulders, the loss of support causing the neckline to droop and expose her breasts to him. 

Ara’s hips began moving slowly over his as he began kissing and nipping at the sensitive skin on her neck and chest. A tug, and the red lace pooled even lower at her waist. His hand was arrested from ripping it off completely as Ara clamped her hand over his, surprisingly firmly. 

He glanced up at her, taking in her loose, mussed hair, shiny red lips, and half-lidded eyes; the prettiest sight he’d ever seen. “Princess?”

She glanced down to their hands, biting her lip. “I…uh…you’re my one and only, Jimin.”

Jimin’s eyes widened. “Oh! I see…uh…do you…Should I slow down?”

“No, it’s fine. I just want it to be slow and special?” She met his eyes.

“Of course, Princess. Thank you for telling me. Is there anything else you want…?” She shook her head. “No, you’re perfect. I just thought I should tell you so you’re not surprised.”

“Right, yeah, good idea…I just thought…y’know…” “Yeah,” she giggled awkwardly, swooping in to sweetly kiss him. “Thank you for being so understanding.”

Jimin smiled widely at her. “No problem at all, jagiya.” He kissed her softly. “How about you tell me what you want me to do, eh? Do you want to keep making out or…”

“Park Jimin, we have been married four months and have kissed only a handful of times. If you stop now, I swear I’ll call Minho back!”

“No need to call your ex when your husband is right here and is more than willing to help you.”

“Good.” Ara wiggled in his lap, pointing at her bed. “What are you waiting for, then? Make me yours.”

A growl escaped his mouth as he swept her up and carried her to her bed in three large steps. He gently tossed her on the bed, crawling up her body to cage her in with his arms and knees.

Breathless, Ara stared up at him. He was so pretty and handsome at the same time. It was unfair, she decided. 

His soft, expert lips covering hers broke her from her admiring musings, a tiny noise escaping the back of her throat as his hand slid up to gently twist her nipple between his fingers. She lifted her hips so he could pull her lingerie off the final stretch, his thigh settling between her thighs. 

Only Jimin’s underwear and sweats remained, and she hooked her fingers under the elastic band of his sweats. 

He got the message, kicking them off to join the rest of their discarded clothing. He crawled up slowly between her legs, running his fingers lightly over her sensitive skin till he reached her inner thighs, diverting them to trace over her stomach and hips teasingly. 

She caught her lip between her teeth as he glanced up to check on her, the vision of her husband between her legs a sight that made her unbelievably wet. 

“This okay?” he murmured, his fingers pausing just above her heat. 

She nodded eagerly, resisting the urge to trap him between her thighs and make sure he never left her. 

The first gentle stroke of his thumb through her wetness had her gasping, nerves lighting up like she’d never felt before. 

“You’re so wet, Princess.” His awed voice was strained, his other thumb holding her open as his tongue darted out to lick his lips. 

“All for you,” she replied, hands moving to tug at her nipples.

“You smell so good. Bet you taste even better.”

She whined impatiently, and who was he to deny his wife’s wishes?

At the first pass of his tongue over her heat, they both groaned, Ara at the sensation and Jimin in ecstasy. He dove in hungrily, a man starved for his wife’s plentiful juices.

Her legs tightened around him, and her hand flew to grip his hair as he swirled his tongue just right.

He brought a finger up, gently circling her entrance, gathering her arousal and his saliva before entering her tight heat.

Her head dropped back onto the pillow, involuntarily clenching around his finger as he worked it in and out.

He groaned, sounding pained. “Can you take another, Princess?”

She gasped out an affirmative, groaning louder as a second finger joined the first.

Jimin moved them around, feeling for something.

Sparks tingled up  her spine and she gasped, “There!”

He resumed sucking at her clit as he stroked her inner walls, the pressure building higher and higher.

“Come on my face, Princess.”

With a cry, she let go, falling over the edge to pure pleasure.

When she opened her eyes, Jimin was staring at her in awe, licking his fingers clean, his pink hair mussed from her grip. “You are gorgeous, Ara.”

She smiled, pulling him in for a steamy kiss, tasting herself on him as she waited for her legs to stop shaking.

With him distracted, she flipped him, straddling his thighs, arms around his neck. “Your turn!”

“Princess, you don’t have-”

“I know, but what if I want to?” She peered up at him, fingers already working his underwear down.

She licked her hand, wrapped it around his length, and gave him a couple tentative strokes. “Tell me what you like.” She licked at the head, looking up at him for guidance.

A pained sound escaped him. “You’re doing great so far, keep doing what you’re doing. A little harder, ye-ah.”

Ara took him further in her mouth, running her tongue over the smooth skin. This would take some getting used to, but lucky for him, she was a perfectionist and willing to practice often.

Careful to keep her top lip over her teeth, she began moving up and down, attempting to take a little more each time. 

Jimin’s head was hanging back, his mouth open. “You’re doing great, Princess. Use your hand...yeah, like that.”

She coughed and pulled off him, the tip hitting the back of her throat. “Yeah, I’m going to need some practice.”

“Anytime,” he groaned, holding the base of his length firmly. “What position do you want to try?”

“Good old missionary?” she asked, settling herself.

Jimin leaned over her, grabbing a pillow and tapping her hips so she’d lift them for him to slide it under her. 

“You’re sure?” he asked her, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“Yes.” Hooking her arms around his neck, she smacked a quick, reassuring peck on his lips. “I feel like you’re more nervous than me.”

“Well, it’s only the responsibility of making sure I don’t ruin this for you and us forever,” he said dramatically.

She snickered, making him pout. “You’re doing an amazing job so far, jagi. I have faith in you. Besides, even if it’s not great at first, we have a whole lifetime to practice together!”

He carefully pushed in inch by inch till he was fully seated inside her, the previous orgasm and foreplay loosening her up marvelously. There was only a slightly uncomfortable stretch that was quickly fading as he kissed and nipped up her neck.

“You can move,” she said, rocking her hips experimentally. 

He started off slow and gentle, getting into the rhythm. Ara moved her hips up to meet his, her fingers digging into his shoulders. “Harder,” she gasped.

He acquiesced, his head dropping to her chest, his lips finding her nipple and tugging. 

A particularly hard thrust had her nails dragging scratches down his back. “There, Jimin! I’m close!”

He moved his free thumb to her clit, rubbing in circles. “I’m close, too. Come, Princess. Let go, Ara.”

She loudly moaned his name, tightening around him and triggering his own orgasm.

“Princess…you are going to be the death of me.” He sank into her arms. “I love you.”

“I love you,” she replied, and kissed him softly. “Ew, we’re all sweaty.”

“Join me in the shower?” He kissed the tip of her nose.

“Of course, my prince.”

Gathering her into his arms, he swept her off to her ensuite, running the water till it was an appropriate warmth. 

Ara stepped in, and he lathered up a loofah with her body wash. They took turns washing each other, trading kisses and teasing touches besides the soap.

Once they had dried off with their fluffy towels, Jimin wrapped his robe around her, tied the belt, and picked her up.

“Where are you taking me?” she squealed as he headed for the door.

“My room. You’re sleeping in my bed tonight, Princess.”

The air whistled in his ear as he dodged Vixen’s roundhouse kick. He attempted to punch her stomach, but she brushed his arm away with her own. She feinted a sweeping kick and followed up with a jab to his solar plexus. 

One bodyguard pointed to Vixen. “Three points.Vixen wins.”

Shaking their sweaty hands, Jimin and Vixen ended their spar. 

His opponent took a bottle of water from a second bodyguard  and handed it to him before drinking her own. “I’m planning on attacking a human trafficking ring on Friday. I could use more manpower; care to join?” “What will you do with the ring?”

“Take care of the leaders, send the rest to the cops, find good homes and resources for the victims. Don’t worry; I know what I’m doing. I’ve done this a time or two.”

Jimin considered. “I’m in. How many men do you need?”

“Six to ten should be good. I’ll have my guy send Suga the time and place.”

~~~

The door shut behind Jimin, automatically locking. Vixen turned on her heel and headed for the back room, her inner circle already gathered there.

Vixen pushed her hood back and took her gold contacts out, grimacing. 

“Okay, there’ll be us nine, plus Jimin, Jungkook, V, Jay, Kai, Taehyun, and Yeonjun. The predicted twelve traffickers will be easily taken if we have all sixteen of us.

“Chan, when you send Suga the message, can you add that I’d like Suga to be on standby online to follow the police scanners? We don’t want them there too early, and Jin will be busy with his division.”

Chan nodded. “You got it, Vix.”

“Thanks. OK, you all take the next two days off, but prepare for Friday. I’ll be on a date at L’Domino Thursday night. I don’t think we should reuse waiters, so Hyunjin, you’re up. 

“Call or text me if anything comes up or there’s a problem. I’ll see you Friday morning for a final debrief.” 

Vixen hung her jacket in her locker and folded her hoodie, placing it neatly on the top shelf beside her mask and contacts case. 

“Boss, why aren’t you hurrying like normal?” asked Felix. “Did you hurt yourself? Need Hyunjin to look at it?”

Vixen waved off his concerns. “I’m fine. Ara just texted Jiminie to pick up ice cream on the way home. He’ll need to text her a picture of the case and ask which type she wants, so I’ll have plenty of time to escape.”

“Smart,” her boys nodded.

With a wink and a nod, she headed into the small bathroom.

Five minutes later, she emerged in old sweats, a college T-shirt, and a fluffy pink jacket; her blood-red smirk had become a pink glossy smile.

“Bye, boys.”

A beep sounded from her phone.

PJ: [1 Image Attached] Vanilla, chocolate swirl, caramel crunch, blueberry, or mint choco?

SA: Caramel crunch please🥰 Get two 😉

PJ: You got it, Princess

Friday night the members of Bangtan and TXT (Bangtan’s subunit of hoobaes) gathered in Stray Kids’ warehouse for the run-through.

Vixen sauntered in her usual outfit, but a kevlar vest bulked up her jacket. The dagger had a twin strapped by her left boot, and a pistol was fastened on her left thigh.

Her normal scarlet smile had received the expensive upgrade of fangs designed with razor-sharp edges. The better to bite you with, my dear, she smirked, remembering the first time she’d tested them out. Ah, that piece of trash had let out a most pleasing yelp when she sank her teeth into hisd forearm. Served him right; he’d attempted to choke her, besides committing many other crimes, of course.

The men introduced themselves as their callsigns, most of them meeting for the first time.

Jimin had brought JK, V, Jay, Kai, Fox, and Kang to meet Vixen and Chan, Lino, Hyune, Han, Felix, Min, Bin, and I.N. 

Chan handed earpieces out like candy, each one connected to his, Suga, and Jin’s lines. The members of Bangtan were directed by Suga and Stray Kids was guided by Chan. Jin was set to watch the police and help Chan if needed. 

The echo of doors slamming in the warehouse signalled the start of the mission as four black SUVs were filled with armoured men (and women). Tires screeched and they peeled out, ready for a hunt.

~~~

A breeze gently played with Jimin’s hair as he and Vixen carefully scouted the area ahead of their men.The soundtrack of city nightlife filled the air until Jimin broke it. 

“Do all your captains work at L’Domino?” He asked quietly.

“No; they were keeping an eye on someone for me, collecting information. It’s my chosen currency, you know.”

“It was my understanding that Min was a part of Gray.”

“He’s my spy in Gray,” Vixen returned in a monotone, peering around a shipping container’s corner.

“Do you have a spy in Bangtan?”

Even with the crescent moon’s feeble light, Jimin could tell Vixen was smirking. “What do you think?”

“Lino?” ventured Jimin.

She scoffed quietly. “You met him as your wife’s ex. No, he’s too obvious to be a spy on you.”

Up ahead, a figure of a trafficker exited from a crosspath. “Focus. Bin, two on your two o’clock.”

“Jay, one on your nine; V, one at twelve.” Suga’s voice cut through Jimin’s line. The dozen traffickers were quickly and quietly taken out by the combined gangs’ ruthless efficiency.

The shipping container’s lock was shot off. Even with the silencer on, the echo hung in the air, the humidity from the coming rainstorm accentuating every noise.

Unearthly groans sounded as the doors creaked open. Letting the people inside acclimate to the night’s dim light before barging in with bright flashlights, Vixen marshalled a few of her helpers to speak softly and convince the victims they were there to help.

The children inside still didn’t trust the men’s words, so Vixen crouched where the metal base met the damp concrete. 

Raising her hands high enough to be shown by the backlight, she spoke slowly and calmly.

“Hey, kids. My name is Vixen; I lead a mafia here in Seoul. I asked a friend of mine to help me get you guys out of here. All the bad guys out here are taken care of. The police are on their way to help you, alright? Do you have a person in charge here I can talk to and try to prove we want to help you?”

A gangly teenage boy, maybe fifteen or sixteen, Vixen guessed, raised his hand.

“If you’re mafia, aren’t you the bad guys? Why would the police come here if they’re not in on it?”

Ah, lovely, it was time to have the morals talk.

“Good question! Technically, mafia are the bad guys. In this situation, however, we are what you could call the good guys. Our mafias do not participate in human trafficking–some of our members actually arrived with us because they were trafficked themselves. We may be mafia, but we have rules, and one of ours is no human trafficking. As for answering your question about the police,” Vixen sighed, wondering how to explain dirty cops and their tenuous relationship. “We sent an anonymous tip. They’ll be here in a few minutes to make sure you get support. We’ll make sure they send you home, if you have one, or that you get a good living situation worked out.”

A tween girl nudged the boy and whispered in his ear. He straightened and looked at Vixen. “We’re trusting you,” was all he said.

She nodded solemnly. “Thank you. I will do my best not to break it. While we’re waiting for the police, how about we get your information, so we can make sure you’re taken care of?”

Jin logged the kids’ info as they gave it, creating a file for each one. Suga had taken care of identifying the three head traffickers.

By the time the police arrived, the kids were all in a huddle, wearing warm hoodies a size bigger than they needed and holding a pocketknife that Jungkook had given them once they promised not to use it unless it was an emergency.

The traffickers were left in a heap, thoroughly roughed up, courtesy of Jimin, Felix, and I.N. The three men heading up the operation mysteriously disappeared from the pile containing their underlings.

Once the red and blue lights disappeared from the maze of shipping containers, carrying the kids to the station to be processed, two shadows jumped from their vantage point.

Vixen’s fist met Jimin’s in an unspoken acknowledgement before they split, heading to their respective pieces of the night.

ARA, THIRTEEN (TWELVE YEARS AGO)

Ara ducked into the closet in her dad’s office, laughing to herself. She’d been taking pictures around ShinCorp’s HQ as she explored the newly renovated and furnished office tower.

Jungok was supposed to be in soon, and Ara planned to surprise him and then show him the photos she’d taken that day; she was really improving, thanks to Jungkook and Photography for Dummies.

The sound of his door opening made her peer through the crack, ready to surprise her appa…but there was a strange young man with him.

“You’ll be organising my schedule for both ShinCorp and the Gray Family’s business. You’ll have Jungjoo’s list of legitimate contacts and who I’ll be meeting with on both sides of the business. Jungjoo has agreed to be available to answer your questions if you’re unsure of my contacts’ connections. If I’m around, feel free to ask me as well. The rest of the details are in our contract. Please do your best, Secretary Kim.”

The young man bowed to her father and bent over the desk to sign his employment papers. The new angle let Ara see more of his features.

Ah, it was one of the Kim cousins– Kim Seokjin, she believed. Ara had heard of the Gray mafia of Seoul–they’d just recently opened a new bar downtown, Blue Side. So her father was the head, huh…

“My daughter, Ara, is around today. She does not know and is never to know of Gray’s connections to ShinCorp, do you understand? Generally, I allow her free reign in the building, as she is not a mess maker, but keep an eye on her if she's in the vicinity of a forbidden area or wants to enter my office when I’m in a meeting. Keep her out of sight of any of my visiting rivals and allies, except my immediate family and Jeon Jeonghwa. I want as little attention on her as possible. Her mother’s death was truly an accident, but I don’t want a second accident, planned or not. Ara is all I have left, and I will do anything to ensure she stays safe. My daughter’s safety is of the utmost importance, understand?”

“Understood, sir.” Seokjin bowed. “I will keep Miss Ara safe with my life, sir!”

“Good. You’re dismissed.” Jungok nodded approvingly at Seokjin as the man left.

A few minutes later, he called his car around to head for a meeting.

Ara snuck out of her hiding place and crept to the door. Observing the new secretary leave for a cup of coffee, she waited until he was fully gone before she snuck out of her father’s office.

Her sneaking skills had really improved over the past couple of years. Her appa was much more secretive, and in the months immediately after her mother’s death, she’d caught him breaking off a phone call about her more than once. Wanting to know what had happened to her beloved mother, she memorised all the creaks in the floors, how to wear socks and slippers to dampen her footsteps, and to remember to check where her shadow was falling while she eavesdropped.

This, however, was the first time she’d realised her father was involved in some less-than-legal proceedings.

A shrill yelp pierced Ara’s ears as Jin caught his mug, startled by her sudden movement from under his desk.

Brown coffee splashed dangerously close to the edges of the mug he clutched to his chest. “Are you Miss Ara? Aish, you almost gave me a heart attack, child!”

“I’m thirteen, not a child,” Ara rolled her eyes. “Just call me Ara. Are you the new secretary? I’ve seen you somewhere before.”

“Kim Seokjin at your service. Yes, I'm the new secretary. Your father is good friends with mine, Kim Honggil.”

“Ah, you’re one of the Kim cousins. Kim Seokjin, Kim Sihyeon, and Kim Namjoon.”

Seokjin nodded. “What’s in your hand, Miss Ara?”

She glared at him. “Ara. It’s my camera. My best friend Jungkook taught me how to take good pictures. Can I take a picture of you…oppa?”

Seokjin shook his head. “Aish, I’m going to die of a heart attack caused by this girl. Sure, you can take a picture, as long as I get a signed copy.” At her quizzical glance, he explained. “I need to have an autographed copy from when you were young and unknown, before you become some hotshot photographer and forget your first model, whom you used to call Jin-oppa.” He sighed. “Ah, the good old days…I don’t know how she forgot such a handsome face,” he mourned.

Ara giggled. “You’re ridiculous, but I like you so you can have a photo.”

Picture taken, Ara headed for the elevator and waved goodbye. “I’m just keeping you on your toes, oppa! You’ll never get old with me around!” She laughed maniacally as the door slid shut and Seokjin slumped over his desk.

“What have I gotten into?”

ARA, FIFTEEN (TEN YEARS AGO)

“Jungkook, you know how you’re going to be my official bodyguard in a couple years, when you turn 18?”

Jungkook’s head was in Ara’s lap, her fingers combing through the soft black strands. “…yeah?”

“So then I won’t have Lee watching us all the time?”

“Yes? Where are you going with this?”

“Patience, Kookie.” Ara booped his nose, making him crinkle it at her.

“Well, then I’ll be able to sneak out with you more. I won’t have to make you sneak out to get my stuff anymore, and I can really begin my- our plans.”

“But I don’t mind it! I like it!” Jungkook protested. “It keeps you safe and under Lee’s watch, where you’re supposed to be.”

“Yeah, but it’s so boring. I don’t get to practice my black belts on anything…you can join the underground rings but I can’t, yet. Ugh, I wish you were older so I could polish the plan better.”

“Slow and steady wins the race, Ara. You’ve got two years to finish learning all that stuff you want to know, as if Namjoon-hyung and Jin-hyung won’t help.”

“Yeah, but they’ll be busy for appa, and it’s too close; he’d be suspicious, and they’ll be in trouble even if I’m not. It’s good for me to know hacking and strategy, anyway. You’ve been with me for my physical training, but I can’t lead a gang just because I have five black belts in martial arts and a gun.”

“Okay, you have a point, Bug.”

“When do I not?” she smirked saucily at him.

ARA, AGE 17 (8 YEARS AGO)

Ara popped the second contact in and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Two gold eyes stared back at her. Black combat boots laced tightly; black stretchy jeans to allow for more agile movements; black kevlar weave-shirt layered under her black hoodie and leather jacket; scarlet lipstick; special-made mask seated over her face, forehead-to-nose.

Perfect.

The get-up was about as far as she could get from her typical glitter-and-pastel outfits. She slipped the knife Jungkook had given her to celebrate Vixen’s first outing into the holster, her pistol into her ankle holster, and her backup knives up her sleeves.

Vixen stepped out of the bathroom and Jungkook, also masked and all in black, fell in behind her. Their black motorcycles sped quietly through the night to the old warehouse. Underneath the floor was a lively auction in full swing.

Jungkook entered first and began mingling with the patrons, sussing out any members of Gray or a rival family she’d need to be aware of. Seven and a half minutes later, Vixen entered quietly, staying in the shadows at the back as she analysed the room. About half an hour later what she was here for was beginning to be auctioned off.

Making eye contact with Jungkook, she nodded at him to place an opening bid. Once a couple offers were made she also joined the bidding. She and Jungkook upped the price, creating a flurry of a bidding war, until Jungkook acquired one and she the other two. 

This was the highlight of the auction, so once they won the bids, the auction house cleared out slowly. Too many people leaving at once would be far too blatant to any prying eyes.

The auctioneer approached Vixen. “Lady Vixen, your goods await your retrieval.”

She nodded curtly, motioning him to step forward, and she followed him to the room at the back, covered with steel bars and securely locked up.

Jungkook passed her on his return from the vault, nodding subtly, his new purchase behind him.

The auctioneer unlocked the door and the armed guard retrieved Vixen’s purchases: two Korean-Australian teenage boys, handcuffed and blindfolded. “Pleasure doing business, Lady.”

She smirked slightly and inclined her head at the auctioneer. “Indeed …I hope to do further business with you.” She put a hand on each of the boys’ shoulders and turned them to face the exit. “Straight ahead, boys!”

With a jaunty wave at the remaining staff in the warehouse’s secret bunker, she headed for the exit to meet up with Jungkook.

Once they were topside, Vixen put motorcycle helmets on their heads, warning, “No funny business, or we all die.” She put the smaller one in front of her and the bigger one on the seat behind her. Revving her engine, she headed for her warehouse HQ, where Jungkook awaited.

~~~

The two boys Vixen had brought were put in a small, specially prepared room while Vixen surveilled them and Jungkook’s boy, who was in a room twin to the other.

Vixen didn’t put it past the black market guys to slip a plant in, attempting to pull the wool over her eyes since she was small, fairly new to the illegal scene, and a woman.

She flicked her knife open and cut the zipties binding their wrists tightly. Leaving them, she shut the door and joined Jungkook in the surveillance room.

The first boy pulled his blindfold off, blinking at the dim light till he could see a table, two chairs, and two sealed water bottles. Once he perceived no one else was in the room and it was (so far) harmless, he undid the second boy’s blindfold and started rubbing his wrists. 

They began to talk in whispers, but Vixen had bugged the room so she and Jungkook could hear everything plainly. They spoke in English, with an Aussie accent.

“Where are we?” Boy Two asked.

“Another holding cell, it looks like.” “I hope Innie’s okay.”

“Me too. At least we’re together,” Boy One reassured him. “I wonder why the ‘Lady’ bought us…” “She didn’t seem as bad as the others, but you remember Roxie…”

Both boys shuddered.

Boy Two continued, “Do you think the water is for us?”

“It could be a test. We should inspect it.”

Each boy grabbed a bottle, carefully holding it up to the weak lightbulb in the room.

“Let’s just share a bottle in case it’s not for us,” Boy One suggested, twisting open the cap.

“Good idea, Chris-sorry.”

“Chris”--Boy One– tasted a sip thoughtfully, then passed the bottle to the other. “It tastes okay.”

The water quickly disappeared, and the boys sat on the floor facing the door, backs to the wall.

It was the same position “Innie”--Boy Three– was in. He, too, had carefully inspected the water before drinking it, before retreating to his current position.

They had definitely communicated before, Vixen decided. If anyone was a plant, it was likely to be Innie, but he seemed a bit young to be an actor. 

She unlocked the door and Jungkook walked in. “Innie?” he tried.

The boy’s head snapped up. 

“Do you know ‘Chris?’”

Innie pursed his lips, then nodded slowly.

“Please come with me.”

Innie followed Jungkook to the door, retying his blindfold behind his head.

Jungkook frowned, then mimed a punch at Innie’s head, stopping just before he actually hit him.

Not a flinch of a reaction showed on Innie’s face.

Jungkook gently took his elbow and led him to the room next door, opening the door and spinning him in. 

Vixen, watching the cameras, saw the two scramble up to meet Innie, hugging him tightly. 

Jungkook rejoined her and they shamelessly eavesdropped as the three caught up.

“We were so worried about you!”

“You got taken together?”

“Yeah, by a woman. The man took you, right?”

“They must know each other,” nodded Chris.

“Are you okay?” asked Boy Two.

“Yeah, you?”

“We’re fine. What do you think they want?”

“I don’t know. The guy just came in and asked me if I knew you and told me to follow him. I didn’t see the woman, and the man had a mask on.”

“They’re listening to us, then,” said Chris. “Unless they asked the guard at the other place our names, but they just called us all ‘Boy’...”

The trio looked at each other. 

“Why? We don’t know anything; we were handcuffed and blindfolded most of the time,” said unnamed-Boy-Two.

Jungkook left Vixen to knock and enter the boys’ room.

“That’s the guy,” whispered Innie to his companions.

Jungkook kicked the chair from Innie’s cell over to the other two and nodded at them. “Sit, please.”

They sat down, eyeing him, and Jungkook moved to face them all.

“We were eavesdropping because we wanted to make sure none of you were plants to take down our newly-formed operation,” explained Jungkook. ���What’s your name?” he asked Boy Two.

“...Yongbok.”

“Chris, Yongbok, and Innie?”

The boys nodded, confirming their names as Jungkook pointed at them.

“Do you remember how you got to that auction?”

Chris and Yongbok told their take on how they’d been kidnapped in Australia and became friends on the way to Korea. 

Innie was taken from his native Incheon streets and met the other two at the cells where most of the trafficked children and teens were kept. They became friends during the three weeks they were captives before they were moved to the auction warehouse the day before this one.

“No one’s looking for you back home?” Jungkook asked the Australians.

“Why?” asked Chris, while Yongbok simply shook his head.

“So you’re technically illegal immigrants,” mused Jungkook out loud, telling Vixen to contact Jin and have him finagle two new Korean IDs and an updated one for Innie.

Once that was done, Vixen joined the group in the room, smiling at the boys.

“Hello, Innie, Yongbok, Chris. I’m Lady Vixen. JK here, and I bought you from the traffickers.” She nodded at Jungkook to continue.

He inhaled deeply.

“I was a trafficked kid, too. I’m from Busan, but one day a bunch of us young street kids were grabbed and shipped up to Seoul. We were rescued by cops who were breaking up the ring, and I was adopted by one of the cops, who is friends with Vixen’s dad. I’m Vixen’s bodyguard, so we spend a lot of time together, and one day Vix hatched this scheme to help trafficked kids like me. If you want to go home or find accommodations elsewhere, that’s cool; we’ll help you as much as we can, or you can stay and help us. No pressure either way,” JK said slowly.

“Right, you spent all that money on us just to let us go home? What do we have to do first?” asked Chris sceptically.

Vixen smiled. “I know; it’s strange. But I know not all the kids get happy endings like JK did, and I don’t want that to happen to more. He’s my brother in all but blood, and I have plenty of money to spend as I please, so why not help little JKs?”

“If we don’t leave, how will we help you?”

“I’d like to analyse you separately and see what you’re best suited for. Tech, medical, espionage…” “You make it sound like a gang,” said Yongbok facetiously.

Vixen didn’t bat an eyelash. “I am starting my own mafia, if you must know.”

“Wait, jjinja?”

“Yep! There’s a difference between a mafia and a gang, you know,” Vixen explained. “Mafia are higher calibre and have more rules. They only bring out the big guns if they need them; they prefer to have boring meetings first to attempt peace or treaties before full-on bloodshed. Ideally, no one knows they’re mafia. They’re the one percent. 

“In comparison, gangs are…the middle class, at best. Gangs are always fighting for their turf, showing off their affiliations. There is a world of difference between a gang and a Family.”

The three fell silent, contemplating.

“What if I join and I want out later?” asked Innie.

“As long as you spill no secrets about us, you’re free to leave whenever. I’ll even help,” promised Vixen.

“I’m in,” they decided at last.

“Glad to have you join us!”

Jungkook left and Vixen stood up, slapping her thighs. “Okay, JK’s off to prepare your assessments for later. I have a room ready, but I’d like it if you’d shower and see my doctor to make sure you’re all in good health before you sleep.”

They agreed to her suggestion, and she led them down the hallway to a plain wooden door.

Rapping on it four times in a row, she waited till a tall, lean man with long dark hair answered.

“Hey, Doc, these are tonight’s recruits: Chris, Innie, and Yongbok. Dr. Hyunjin is my team’s doctor–he’s currently apprenticing under my father’s doctor, Dr. Lee. Are you okay with me leaving to get some breakfast for you?”

Chris nodded, and Vixen left with a smile and a look for Dr. Hyunjin.

JK found Vixen in the small kitchen, frying egg rolls. He snagged one off the plate and she smacked his hand.

“Tonight went well, Bug.” He leaned against the counter, mouth full of egg.

She turned back to the stove, rolling another layer. “Names, JK. Yeah, it did. Thank you for helping me. How were the memories?”

“Better than I’d hoped. I think it helped that I was the one in power that time, going there to help instead of as a weak little kid, y’know.” “Mmmh.” Vixen flipped the roll onto the plate and sliced it neatly. “Hyunjin’s making sure they’re all physically okay, but I’m sure we’ll need to get them a counsellor, too. Should I hire one when we make it big?” she mused.

Jungkook swallowed another slice of egg roll and contemplated as he danced away from Vixen’s spoon. “It probably wouldn’t hurt, but I don’t think you need to worry about that at the present.”

“Right. Thanks, Kook.”

~~~

The boys were in pretty good shape, all things considered, so once they said they were ready for their assessments, Jungkook set them up.

Jin made and dropped off IDs for Bang Chan, Lee Felix, and Yang Jeongin–the names the boys chose for themselves–now that they were confirmed to stay as a part of Stray Kids for the foreseeable future. 

Chan became the Head Strategist and Hacker, Felix the Head of Security (Vixen’s bodyguards and strike team), and Jeongin was appointed one of her bodyguards.

Seo Changbin was her other main bodyguard, and the pair became known as the Double IN team.

Vixen’s close friend Minho was her spy in high society since he could gather intel on the male-only parties that she couldn’t attend. 

Her second spy was a street kid Jungkook had saved in the winter and introduced to Ara. He fell for her hard and rapidly agreed to join Stray Kids as its first member, though officially he was still unaffiliated with any gang or mafia. Jisung (or, as his contacts knew him, Han), was Vixen’s Head of Espionage.

Even the best-trained forces aren’t always perfect, and Ara’s small band often needed medical attention. Namjoon was able to get Hyunjin in with the Gray Gang’s doctor as an apprentice medic; when Hyunjin wasn’t busy patching up sparring wounds, he was acting as an infiltrator for Vixen, utilizing his good looks to their best advantage. He was kept in the wings, so he wouldn’t become easily recognized.

Since Jungkook couldn’t be with Vixen all the time, he began training Felix and Jeongin as her bodyguards and fighters. Felix was promoted to chauffeur once he got his license, and Jeongin, or I.N. –his street name– became the Head of Information.

Changbin became a member of Stray Kids by following Jungkook and Vixen from an underground fight he’d spectated at. Finding them curious, he stalked them back to their HQ, where they agreed to let him join once he proved his skills in the ring. As the son of a wrestler, he was a prime candidate for bodyguarding.

Vixen’s third and final spy, Kim Seungmin, was kept under wraps from all but her inner circle. He was needed on the inside of Gray, to uncover the more mundane information Namjoon and Seokjin were usually too busy to gather for her. These eight became Vixen’s closest friends and joined Jungkook in the ranks of honorary brothers.

A/N: Jungkook's nickname "Bug" for Ara is a shortened form of the nickname "Shutterbug" because she was always taking pictures.

[thereaderinsertlady]

[ 💌 ] This is for the character letter event for valentines day :]! The letter is being written to Melvinborg and the P.O.V. is my OC (Vixen) is giving him a love letter confession. (there's scribbled out words for more like, realism? But the transcript just shows the clean words.)

( Clean Transcript ;; "To: Melvin(borg). I am far too nervous to say this to your face (very sorry AAA). I love you. I love you a lot. (Trying to write this formally is hard). That's the point of this letter though. I'm in love with you. If you don't reciprocate the feeling I understand. If you do, I'd love to take you on a date (I'll obviously pay). I think the restaurant "it's amoré" is open so we could go there! Love, Vixen." )

The letter Melvinborg gives you was printed out on a plain piece of paper. It seemed like he was cautious with his wording in each sentence, as if he didn't want to say anything 'wrong' and mess up his chance with you.

[Dear Vixen, I would love to go on a date with you. I've been meaning to get to know you better in a more romantic setting, though I haven't had the confidence to do so until after seeing your letter. I am glad you sent that letter, because I don't think I would've been the first to confess. I am available at any time and I don't mind paying for whatever restaurant we end up at, expensive or not. I’ve had feelings for you for a few months now, but the time never seemed right to tell you. I can’t help but find myself staring at you sometimes, at a loss for words. Please contact me at this number (xxx) xxx-xxxx to discuss the date further; I feel it would be tedious to send letters back and forth. With Love, Melvin Sneedly]

[impuriities]

𝙷𝙾𝙶𝙶𝙻𝙴𝚂𝚆𝙰𝚁𝚃 𝙰𝚂𝙺𝙴𝙳  :   5, 10, 15, 20 & 25 !

5.   WHAT PAINTINGS AND / OR POSTERS ARE ON THEIR WALLS? : hande's apartment is decorated with a lot of care, and the paintings that she has mounted on the walls in the living room / kitchen room combo are a mixture of things she painted and things she purchased, but they're all similar styles. her own artwork is of foxes - scenes that played out before her very eyes as she watched from the windows of alton house, the same vixen and her various kits caught in different moments through time. the things she bought are generally of plants, some of them artistic and some of them more educational ; she has a beautiful painting of jasmine flowers hanging over the unused fireplace and then various sketches of different flora, including scribbled scientific names and diagrams, hanging around it. she doesn't have any posters, at least not anymore, but she does have a lot of hanging plants, too - the apartment is filled to the brim with them, and hande has always made sure to take good care of them.

10. ARE THEY A NAP PERSON? IF SO, HOW LONG ARE THEIR NAPS? DO THEY SET A 20 MINUTE TIMER AND WAKE UP BEFORE IT? OR SET NO TIMER AND WAKE UP IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT? : she was not previously a nap person, but she's been into them way more since melike was born, for probably fairly obvious reasons. she naps whenever the baby does but wakes up before her, which allows her to get minimal work done around the apartment before she's needed elsewhere.

15. WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME THEY WERE HELD, AND TRULY HELD, FOR SEVERAL MINUTES? WHO WAS IT WITH? : i honestly ... am not sure. i have a funny feeling that hande doesn't know, either - not that she doesn't have a number of friends who do comfort her when the moment for that arises, but i don't think she's been held ( however much she probably would like to be ) in a good long while.

20. DO THEY LIKE THEIR BROWNIES FUDGY OR CAKEY? OR NOT AT ALL, AND ONLY WANT THE CRUSTS? : she likes them to be very fudgy, but she loves the corner slices most of all. even better if they're soft on the inside and crisp on the out.

25. ARE THEY MORE AFRAID OF BEING ALONE WITH THEMSELVES OR WITH OTHERS? : hmm. i don't entirely get this q. but if MY understanding of it is correct, then i think that hande is more afraid of being alone by herself than anything else - i don't think she's someone who operates well when left to her own devices, which is why i don't think she's ever lived alone in her adult life and why she shows no signs of changing that up, any time soon.

𝚃𝙸𝙽𝙸𝙴𝚂𝚃 𝙳𝙴𝚃𝙰𝙸𝙻𝚂 𝙼𝙴𝙼𝙴  »  currently  not accepting  !

[thebastardmeteocrusherpilot]

"Oh," she smiles softly, "I've actually been here! I've just been in the corner scribbling in my sketchbook!" Her words are quickly followed by a confident but gentle bout of laughter. "When I looked back up, you were sitting over and well..." Fara considers her next words carefully, taking his vanity into account, she tries her best not to accidentally hurt Galaxicos's feelings.

"I don't think I've seen you come here looking as disheveled as you are! I don't mean to pry, but... Are you sure you're okay?"

Galaxicos listens carefully to her. He hasn't actually noticed the vixen lady, perhaps caught up in his own thoughts of his that he has not only ignored her (and Monty) but every shadow of the bar.

Fara is clearly worried about him and the greater ape is ashamed of himself for worrying her about him for what might be silly. Seeking to defuse the situation, he just scrunches his face into a warm smile at Fara, gentle as she is with him, "Oh please, miss, it's not really a big deal, don't worry ~ It's just…" He bites his lip, trying to think well hisr words. Perhaps she will feel somewhat unpleasant if he tells her what happened or laughs, two options that he would not like to see. Galaxicos tries to think straight while she waits for his answer.

"It's..uh..well…" He blushes in embarrassment, finally deciding to answer the girl even if he looked stupid, speaking in a whisper for the fennec to only hear it " You think nothing serious will happen if I accidentally eat dead worms in a soup, don't you?"

He now feels like shooting himself in the foot