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anonthenullifier · 3 years

Note

Fic request for touristy Maximoff family? (bc Vision's 'drunk' awkwardness in Wandavision ep 2 where he apologised to a handrail, is something that I as a Brit intensely and deeply relate to, and it reminded me of them hiding out in the UK in IW which also made me v emotional- they deserved better!)

Thanks for the ask! They really did deserve better and hopefully might get some happiness at some point. I hope you enjoy their family day trip!

***

“Where are the witches?”

Vision folds the map into a square and slides it back into his fanny pack, nonchalance embedded in the action “Oh, there are no witches.”

This isn’t what Billy wants to hear, “You said this is Witch House.”

“I did, yes.”

The conversation circles back around, “Then where are the witches?”

“Well technically there were never any true witches here in the first place.” Billy stares at Vision, betrayal drooping his mouth down into a deep and unforgiving frown. A history lesson isn’t going to save the moment, and yet her husband tries, determined to share the two weeks worth of research he’s conducted since they decided on the trip. “It is called Witch House because it was owned by Judge Jonathon Corwin who presided over some of the witch trials. Now, though some like to say witchcraft was rampant at the time, it in fact was -”

“But I wanted witches.” This is true, it was Billy’s only request—spooky witches to be precise. “You said there’d be witches.”

Tommy isn’t fully invested in the trip, having voted to go to an amusement park for their fall get-away, but he never passes up an opportunity to pile onto a complaint. “Yeah, where are the witches, dad?”

“Salem has far greater historical value than just the witch trials.” Not a smart tactic, which Vision realizes as soon as he says it, face scrunching up at the misstep while the gears in his eyes rotate furiously to the left signifying he’s attempting to figure out how to regain their confidence. “Um, from my understanding there may be some modern day witches in the village who provide tours and demonstrations. We can stop by once we have seen everything.”

This earns some consideration from their ten year olds. “Real witches or like herbal tea witches?”

Tommy piggybacks on his brother’s question, “Will they turn Billy into a frog?”

“No one is being transformed into an amphibian,” Vision reassures them.

“Lame.” Only a half hour in and the L word is out in the open, a new record for the Maximoffs.

Wanda rolls her eyes at the rebuttal and studies the building in front of them, a foreboding tiered facade with black wood trim that would fit right into a horror movie. Briefly she wonders if it was always black or if that was added to enhance the supernatural identity the town developed once they realized the tourism potential of their sordid past. If ominousness is what sells here, she knows how to reclaim their trip. “Vizh,” her husband meets her gaze,the exasperation of parenthood making him seem particularly desperate for her thoughts, “There was at least one witch you can tell them about.” Confusion crinkles his brow, “Agatha.”

Realization dawns, as if he had blocked out all memories of dear old Agatha. “Ah yes Agatha Harkness.” The name falters on his lips, uncertainty making residence in his body with the wringing of his hands. “I am not sure they are old enough to hear about-“

“You owe us a witch, dad.” Tommy is very dedicated now, a grave frown on his face and an arm wrapped tenderly around his twin’s shoulders. “Billy deserves a witch.”

Vision folds, shoulders inching down in submission of their desires. “Agatha Harkness,” it is not that they have had bad experiences, per se, with Agatha, but she always intersects with their lives at moments of both wonderful highs and crippling lows, which is why Vision seems to weigh her name so heavily. “You will not see the name Agatha Harkness in any of the books about Salem.” Wanda can feel Vision mentally shut the books of information he’d acquired for the day. “She was a witch, a real one and very powerful as well as very old.”

“How old?” Billy’s eyes are shining at the change in tone for the trip. “Like ancient?”

“Positively ancient.” An enormous grin erupts on Billy’s face, while Tommy stands unusually rapt. “There are accounts of her presence all the way back to 10,500 BC, there are even rumors she was involved in the lost city of Atl-”

A cloyingly sweet and chipper “Excuse me,” breaks the story and the atmosphere. The voice belongs to a short, blonde haired woman in a puffy vest and flannel shirt, “I couldn’t help but overhear your tour and was hoping we could join.” The we is a man a few years older than the woman, his gray mustache thick enough to hide whatever his feelings are about the request.

Vision’s lips part and then close a few times, hand half raised as he processes the intrusion. “Oh um, this is a uh private tour,” a nervous, placating smile tries to shoo away the couple. It doesn’t work, neither does his, “Terribly sorry for the confusion.”

Typically on their trips people come up to them because they are Avengers, but Wanda doesn’t detect the same motivation from the couple, neither seeming to actually recognize them. The husband appears a bit concerned about Vision’s appearance while the wife assumes it is for show, “Oh well, you just seem dressed the part, you little devil,” Wanda tries not to laugh, something Tommy fails at, chuckling at the way the comment wilts his father further. Whoever this woman is ignores the reaction, soldiering on ahead as if it is her job to get what she wants. “And you are giving this beautiful family such a lovely tour. We’d love to join in.”

Vision weighs his response, eyes first surveying the very clearly matching sweatshirts they are wearing, this year’s travel theme the Maximoff Bunch. Each of them has a navy sweatshirt with Cambria font declaring their role-- Vision’s sweatshirt (that is real clothing, not molecularly manipulated so that he has a keepsake from their trip) is emblazoned with Papa-ya, their less than thrilled 10 year olds are sporting ones labeled Bil(ly)berry and Tommy-rillo, and Wanda’s deviates a bit with Mom-osa, Vision crushed to not find a fruit close enough to mom to complete the bunch. This should be enough to convince this woman that they are all a family and not a tour group...and yet she just keeps smiling sweetly at Vision until he gives in. “We’re happy to pay.”

Now Vision turns towards Wanda, searching for a response or a rescue. She doesn’t get a chance to help, Tommy speaking up first, “Fifty a person fair?”

“Thomas I do not-”

“Completely fair.”

The glare from Vision assures their son that they are going to talk about this on the ride home, Tommy’s impulsivity almost always at odds with Vision’s desire for control and planning.

Vision turns towards the couple, hands clasped tightly in a sign that another apology is on it’s way but it is stopped by Billy recentering their attention to what is most important. “How can Agatha be so old?”

Faced with numerous smiling and eager faces, Vision seems to accept his newfound role with a deep, soundless sigh, “Well, she is a very powerful witch, one who even survived the Salem Witch Trials.”

“No way!”

“Very much so. Let us return to 10,500 BC first.” Now that he is free to regale them with history, albeit seasoned with a heaping amount of occult, Vision finds his element. They learn about how Agatha came to be in Salem, about the Witch House and the judge who dwelled there, of the frenzy that occurred in people pointing fingers at anyone who was suspicious or merely disliked. The boys are enraptured listening to the tales of injustice and prejudice and, as they move from the Witch House to the hill on which many witches were burned at the stake, their little tour group increases in size, a trail of eight people joining on.

Surprisingly her husband takes it all in stride, welcoming each new person and asking their name. What really seems to excite Vision is when their crew asks questions. One of the newbies stops him during his soliloquy on what behaviors were deemed witchy. “Is it true that witches danced naked?”

Vision’s charm is on full display, lips cocked to the side as he shakes his head at the idiocy of the past, “Merely a salacious rumor because titillation is more convincing than honesty.”

A voice from the back of the group declares, “That’s because history is written by lonely men.”

Without missing a beat, her husband nods appreciatively at the running commentary from this particular guest, “A very astute observation, Taiyah, yet again. Now let’s turn our attention back to the Court of Oyer and Terminer.”

As the tour keeps moving through the harrowed landmarks, Billy is at the front, always just to the side of Vision, soaking in every word of information. Tommy, on the other hand, oscillates between the front and the back, eventually deciding to stick with Wanda. “This is starting to get a bit lame.”

“Your father and brother are having fun.”

His annoyed sigh seeks companionship, which she won’t give because she’s enjoying herself as well. “It’s just so much talking.” It is more than Tommy is ever willing to listen to, his mind and body always seconds, if not hours, ahead of them all. “Where’s the excitement?”

Sweeping the environment is a key aspect of missions and right now Wanda has assessed that the majority of the group are crowded around a tree, listening to the story of how Agatha supported parts of the trials out of a need to cull the weaker witches and remove her competition, it is a dark aspect of the tour, barely a sound existing to interfere with Vision’s explanation of the witch’s intentions. “Watch this.” Tommy stares at Wanda as she lifts her hand, scarlet undulating around her fingers, and then she flicks a finger, the tree trembling mightily despite no breeze to speak of. Several people gasp, one woman screams, and instantly Vision locks eyes with her, not one to ever be deceived by her influence. She expects irritation at disrupting his story, but instead there’s a little spark of mischief in his swirling irises, an almost imperceptible uptick to the left corner of his mouth that takes all her energy not to go and enjoy.

“Don’t you all tell us not to do that?” Tommy’s voice is bated, eager to figure out if their limits on use of powers in public is about to be lessened.

“No one goes on a witch tour without hoping for a little bit of magic.” The shit eating grin on his face is almost a perfect replica of Pietro’s and one she can’t help but mirror. “Just watch and learn.”

***

By the time they reach the Witch Village, the agreed upon conclusion of their tour, Vision can’t get a word in edgewise, the entire group riled up, swapping observations of the branches that moved without wind, the sense of dread that engulfed their minds at the guilty verdict of Agatha, or the heat they felt when the pyre was verbally lit. It’s this sense of awe that makes not a single person listen to Vision’s insistent, “Sorry, please, I do not want your money. Please, keep it for yourselves.” Instead of listening to him, everyone shoves their payment into the cup that Tommy so helpfully procured from the concession stand nearby.

Once all the people are gone, it is just the Maximoffs once again. “Was that sufficient in witches?”

Billy’s enthusiastic nods sends his hair bobbing with glee. “So awesome.”

“I have a question,” this comes from Tommy, who has already bought an ice cream cone with their earnings, the swirl of chocolate and vanilla towering up from his fist, “would we have been considered witches back then?”

“Well,” Vision’s arm snakes around her waist, pulling her until their hips are touching, the pride in his voice wrapping her even more snugly with his affection, “your mother already is a stunning one.”

“Gross.”

“And I no doubt would be viewed as inherently supernatural and thus evil,” something that is said with levity instead of the usual depths of despair that accompanies Vision’s grapple with humanity. “The two of you would also be suspect, simply from your parentage but also, well-”

“So the answer is yes?” Vision concedes with a nod. “Great, wanna go take a picture in the arm thingies over there?” They follow the ice cream cone as it points them towards a small square where people are taking turns putting their heads and hands through the holes.

“That would be a pillory,” Vision helpfully defines, but neither of their sons are listening, having already taken off to join the line for the photo op.

Wanda takes their brief solitude to encircle his waist with her arm, squeezing him tight and kissing his shoulder. “You have fun?”

His arm moves to rest along her shoulders, “Surprisingly yes, it was a bit exhilarating to have a truly captive audience.”

Wanda hugs him tighter, “Good.” Billy and Tommy wave them over, only ten people now ahead of them in line. They look so carefree, jostling each other with whatever it is they are bickering about now, their happiness with the day unashamedly stitched into every movement. Given who they are, Wanda is glad they are alive now and not during a time of greater hatred. Which brings her mind back to the woman who made the tripa success. “Vizh?”

“Hmm?”

“When do you think we should let them meet Agatha?”

They stop, Vision sometimes unable to think and walk at the same time, and the toil in his mind is palpable even without her powers. “I believe,” he too takes in their sons, a fluttering smile on his lips the longer he stares, “it might be best she remains a story for a little bit longer.”

#vision #wanda maximoff #scarlet vision #wandavision #billy kaplan #tommy shepherd #the maximoffs #ask anon #replies #mine

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songtoyou · 3 years

Text

Chapter Three: Don’t Then

Paring: Ransom Drysdale x Fabiola Rossi (OC)

Story Rating: This story will mostly be rated 18+ as it is revolves around a relationship that is Dominant/submissive. For each chapter, I will do my best to rate it accordingly, but please know that the overall story will have very adult themes.

Chapter Rating: Rated R.

Warnings: Swearing, BDSM themes, public hand job.

Word Count: 3,019

Story Summary: Huge “Ransom” Drysdale always thought of himself as a powerful man. With his family’s money and status, Ransom could get away with anything. He had the power and control others would envy. Ransom could get any woman he wanted with a snap of his fingers. He was always in charge. He commanded attention. And he hated it. Never having a job in his life (thanks to his mother, father, and grandfather always there to supplement his bank account) or any real-life goals, Ransom felt incomplete and directionless. That is until Fabiola Rossi entered his life and turned it completely upside down.

Chapter summary: Fabiola and Ransom go on their first date. They are having a good time until someone stops by to ruin the evening.

A/N: It has literally been a year since I have updated this story. I apologize about that and hope to not take as long for the next chapter.

Bold font indicates text messaging.

I do not permit any of my fics to be distributed on other sites without my permission.

Taglist: @winchwm, @patzammit

With any sexual partner, it is vital to maintain the separation of fantasy and reality. Sexual activities deemed “kinky” do not always result in instant gratification moments like movies, books, and television tend to show. Many considerations need to be involved when partaking in the acts of BDSM, such as personal feelings and possible risks. It is crucial for the Dominant to not put his or her Submissive in any uncomfortable scenarios and vice versa. BDSM interactions need to be steeped in solid communication, along with the collaboration of willingness to take personal responsibility for one’s actions and choices.

For Fabiola, she was determined to make sure that Ransom understands the essential aspects of BDSM interactions. Since he was new to BDSM, particularly as a submissive, it was her duty to help guide him throughout this unique experience. It was a responsibility that Fabiola never took for granted when it came to being a Domme. It was her duty to protect and guide her Subs when playing a scene. She loved being a Domme.

Currently, Fabiola was standing beside her closet, picking our different outfits to see what would look best for tonight. She wanted something casual and nothing too fancy. So, Fabiola opted for her dark red bandage dress with strappy side cutouts, a halter neck, and an open back with zipper closure that flattered her figure. She accompanied the dress with a black bicker chic crop jacket. Fabiola adorned the ensemble with black peep-toe ankle boots with lace embroidery and buckles, along with a black clutch. Her long hair was curled to cascade down her shoulders in waves, with red lips and dark eyeliner highlighting her facial features.

Fabiola instructed Ransom to pick her up at 8:00 PM at her apartment, and not a minute over. One thing she wanted to do was implement structure and consistency with Ransom. She desired to get him in the habit of being responsible and taking accountability. Fabiola figured that was the best place to start.

As Fabiola finished up getting ready, she heard her cellphone buzz. Thinking it was Ransom, she quickly reached for the device only to deflate. It wasn’t Ransom.

Jonathan: I need to see you. I can’t stop thinking about you, Fabiola. Please give me another chance.

Fabiola let out a frustrated groan when she read the message. Jonathan was her former boyfriend/submissive who appeared not to get the hint that things with them were over. The guy was too clingy for Fabiola to handle. He always wanted to be around her. He wanted more than what she was able to give him.

Fabiola: I can’t talk right now. I’m busy.

Jonathan: Please! I need you!

Fabiola: NO! I told you that what we had is over. Now stop contacting me!

With a sigh, Fabiola put her phone in her clutch. ‘If you don’t want him to contact you, then block his number,’ Fabiola’s inner voice scolded her.

It wasn’t like Fabiola hadn’t thought about it. However, there was a part of her that couldn’t do it. She liked Jonathan. He was special to her. And some part of Fabiola still felt responsible for him.

She took out her phone and brought up the message chain.

Fabiola: Jonathan, I’m sorry. Look, I really can’t talk right now. How about tomorrow?

‘You’re an enabler!’ her inner voice yelled.

Jonathan: Yes! Thank you! Talk to you tomorrow, sweetheart. 😊

Fabiola rolled her eyes.

Thankfully, she didn’t have to stew over Jonathan’s messages for too long when the doorbell rang. She looked at the time, which read eight o’clock. She opened the door, and there was Ransom dressed to perfection. He wore all black from his jacket, shirt, slacks, and shoes. Very casual but still sophisticated. Fabiola could only guess Ransom’s clothes’ cost, which she knew each piece had to have been from a top designer.

“Hi,” Fabiola greeted. “You’re right on time.”

“I figured you’d count it against me if I didn’t,” Ransom confessed. He looked Fabiola up and down. “You look outstanding.”

“Thank you. So do you,” Fabiola complimented and walked out of her apartment to lock it up.

Ransom offered Fabiola his arm, which she took, and walked her to his car. He would show that he could be a perfect gentleman since he was the one who recommended they go out for the night before returning to her place.

He wanted to relax but also show Fabiola a good time. Wining and dining women was one of Ransom’s specialties.

“So, where are we going?” Fabiola implored as she looked over at the man next to her.

“I figured I would take you to Yvonne’s. It’s a restaurant and bar. Nice atmosphere. Cool décor. You ever been?”

“No, never been,” she answered.

“I think you’ll like it.”

The remaining drive to the restaurant was quiet. It was as if neither knew what to bring up to start a conversation, which was not surprising. Ransom and Fabiola still didn’t know much about one another.

“How is your writing coming along since we last saw each other?” Fabiola probed as the quietness was getting to her. She figured asking Ransom about his writing was the safest conversation starter.

“Uh,” Ransom began as he steered his car through traffic. “It is…well, to be honest, I’m kind of stuck. I don’t know where to take the story next.”

Fabiola nodded in understanding. “Writer’s block. All too common. You know, some writers have shared with me how they combat writer’s block. You want to hear?”

“All ears.”

“Do you ever develop a list of favorite things your characters like, such as food, music, television shows, all that stuff? A writer told me they did that to help flesh out characters. That way, it helped to steer them where they needed to go within the story. Another writer told me that they would write one-shots where a character would do something different outside of the overall story. That way, you’re still getting your creative writing juices flowing instead of stewing and feeling bad about yourself for not writing,” Fabiola advised.

In all honesty, Ransom appreciated the advice. He was not used to kindness from another person who did not appear to want anything from him, at least not regarding his money or status. With Fabiola, he could tell that she was genuine with her advice offering.

After another fifteen minutes of mindless chitchat, Ransom pulled into a parking lot. He put the car in park and got out. Ransom hurried to the passenger door to help Fabiola out of the car, but she got out before he could open the door for her.

“I’m sorry,” Fabiola giggled. “I never know if a guy is going to do that or not. I’ll let you open the door for me next time.”

With a chuckle, Ransom offered his arm once again and guided his date to the restaurant. Ransom was not kidding when he said that Yvonne’s décor was “cool.” Heck, it was more than that; it was fabulous. For Fabiola, it looked like gothic Alice in Wonderland, with its bookcases, elegant chandeliers, and other abstract lighting and art along the walls. Fabiola mainly got a kick out of the numerous skulls outlining the front of the bar.

“This place is amazing,” she gushed to Ransom.

“I had a feeling you would,” he smiled at her. Ransom was happy he was able to do something right.

They were greeted by the hostess and then escorted to their reserved table.

“I’m so tempted to go up to those bookshelves and check out what they got,” Fabiola raved as she continued to take in her surroundings.

Ransom tried to hold back his smile as he watched Fabiola. She looked like a kid in a candy store. He couldn’t fathom how this beautiful before him was a domme when she had the sweetest and, at times, goofy disposition. Fabiola was just who she was, carefree. Or at least that is what she presented on the outside. He wondered if she had any skeletons in her closet.

He put down the wine/cocktail menu and leaned his arms on the table. “Tell me something, Ms. Rossi,” he began, “What makes you…tick?”

She quirked one of her perfectly tweezed eyebrows at Ransom, “What do you mean?”

“Like, what drives you crazy? What annoys you?”

“Oh, that is easy. The answer to that is stupid people. I have an extremely low tolerance to people who willingly choose to be ignorant,” she answered and grabbed the wine/cocktail menu. “What about you?”

“My family. They are the worst. You’d hate them for sure. But I won’t spoil the evening talking about them.”

“How about we order drinks,” Fabiola suggested as she continued to look at the drink menu. “Help us relax more, eh. What’s monkey shoulder?” she asked Ransom as she pointed to the drink that was called ‘Monkeys In A Pear Tree’ that had monkey shoulder, spiced pear, vanilla, almond, and orange bitters.

“It’s a blended malt scotch whiskey. It’s rather good. You should try it. Not with all that other shit in the drink, just the whiskey.”

“Yeah, I don’t need all that sugar. And I’m not a whiskey girl, unfortunately. I think I’ll go with a glass of wine,” Raina pointed out.

Ransom took the list back and perused the assortments of wine offerings. “How about I get us a bottle. Red or white?”

“Let’s go with red. You pick.”

Waving a waiter over, Ransom ordered a bottle of the red 2017 Syrah. It was a good wine. Not too sweet, but not too “woody” tasting as some would describe certain red wines. With their glasses filled, both opted to go for the shareable plate items—nothing too heavy, just enough to satisfy their stomachs.

While they waited, Fabiola scooted her chair closer to Ransom. They were seated at a corner table with dim lighting. No one would be able to see what Fabiola was about to do. She placed one of her manicured hands on his thigh. Fabiola began to move her hand up and down. As Fabiola trailed her hand higher up Ransom’s thigh, she watched his face for any reaction that she should stop. When she didn’t see any hesitation from him, she rested her hand against the bulge in his pants. Fabiola squeezed it, and Ransom almost jumped from his seat.

Ransom felt Fabiola begin to unbuckle his belt and lower the zipper. He looked around the restaurant to make sure no one was looking over at their table. Fabiola let out a little chuckle.

“Do you want me to stop?” she asked him.

He shook his head ‘no.’ “I need you to voice it, Baby Hughie,” Fabiola ordered him in a low voice while she continued to rub him out. He stirred in his seat as she slipped a hand under his briefs.

“Don’t stop,” Ransom managed to breathe out. His cock was almost rock hard.

Fabiola continued to stroke him. Back and forth. Nice and slow. Agonizingly slow. Ransom began to move his hips to try to increase the friction against his cock.

“Look at you. So needy. You want to cum, don’t you? Is that what you want? You want to cum in a public setting, Baby Hughie?” teased Fabiola as she leaned over and began to kiss Ransom from his neck to his ear. “I want to see how long I can tease you before you eventually beg me to let you cum.”

Even when the waiter brought their food (who was oblivious to what was going on under the table), Fabiola did not remove her hand from Ransom’s pants. She ate her food with her other hand while she continued to stroke his cock with the other. Sometimes Fabiola would bring her fork to Ransom’s mouth so he would eat when she noticed he was barely touching his food.

When Ransom felt a thumb rub his tip, he let out a low groan. “I need to cum,” he whispered through clenched teeth.

“I know you do, but I’m not going to allow it,” was all Fabiola said and continued to eat her food.

It was only when she was finished eating that she stopped stroking Ransom’s cock and removed her hand from his pants. She assisted in zipping and buckling Ransom back up to make sure he looked presentable. Fabiola stood up from the table. She handed Ransom one of the clean napkins. “Wipe the sweat from your forehead and drink some water. I’m going to go wash my hands.”

As Ransom watched Fabiola’s retreating form, he leaned back in his chair and let out a loud sigh. Reaching for his wine glass, he downed the contact in one gulp and poured himself another. Ransom squeezed his own junk as it was still hard. He began to think about other things to stifle the hardness. ‘Family reunions. Aunt Joni in a bathing suit. Grandma in a bathing suit.’ Ransom throughout in his head.

Unsurprisingly, they worked. His stiffened cock was beginning to recede. Gulping down another glass of wine, Ransom poured himself another. He didn’t quite know how to feel at that moment. He was unsatisfied with not being allowed to cum, but also intrigued with how turned he felt.

The feeling of not being in control was all-new for Ransom. At that moment, it was Fabiola who called the shots. She told him that he was not allowed to cum. He noticed the chastising tone in her voice when she ordered him to wipe off his sweat and drink water. Normally, Ransom would scoff at someone commanding to do things, but there was something incredibly erotic when Fabiola did it. He picked up his napkin and began to wipe off the sweat from his forehead. He drank his water and waited for the woman, who excited and astounded him, to return.

Unfortunately, Ransom’s euphoria came to a crashing halt when he heard, “Hey, son. What are you doing here?”

Ransom looked up to see his father, Richard Drysdale, standing before him. “What the Hell are you doing here?” Ransom retorted coldly.

Ignoring his son’s cold tone and icy glare, Richard took it upon himself to take a seat at the table. He began picking the food off of the plates and took Ransom’s glass of wine to sip for himself.

“You got a date?” Richard probed his son.

Ransom let out a frustrated groan. He needed to get out of here. “Is mom here as well, or are you with one of your side pieces?”

Before Richard could reply, Fabiola came back to the table. She was caught off guard by the new addition who was eating their food and drinking their wine. “Sorry I took so long. I got caught up talking to a woman who wanted to know where I purchased my shoes, then we got off tangent, and well…I’m back now. Who is this?”

“No one important,” Ransom replied.

Richard glared at his son but hid his animosity with a laugh. “He’s a kidder that one. Hi, I’m Richard Drysdale. Ransoms’ father,” he introduced himself. Richard stuck his hand out for Fabiola. Which she accepted with the hand that was previously stroking his son’s cock.

“Fabiola Rossi.”

“Well, aren’t you beautiful,” Richard complimented. Ransom noticed a look in his father’s eyes. He knew that look. It was the look Richard always had when he wanted a woman that was not his wife.

“Again, I ask, what are you doing here?” Ransom again asked his father.

Richard looked over at the bar with Ransom and Fabiola following suit. They saw Richard wave a young woman who waved back. “I’m here for a business dinner.”

“Bullshit.”

Ransom knew that his father was having an affair. Everyone in the family knew, except for Linda. But that was his mother. She would rather ignore the problems in her marriage and family while pretending everything is perfect.

“Look, son, I didn’t mean to crash your date. I just stopped by to say ‘hi,’ that is it,” Richard pointed out.

Ransom merely scoffed. “Okay. You said your ‘hi,’ now leave.”

“Actually, Ransom, I think we should start heading out,” Fabiola spoke up while looking around for their waiter.

“I didn’t mean to cut your evening short,” said Richard as he got up from the table. He stood there awkwardly for a few seconds before bidding adieu and going back to his “business dinner.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Ransom was more than annoyed; he was fuming. He was ready to blow, and Fabiola could see it. She watched as Ransom pulled out a couple of hundred bills from his wallet and stood up. She stood up as well gathered her jacket and clutch. Following Ransom’s lead out of the restaurant, Fabiola was only a few steps behind him as they walked to the car. He stopped in front passenger door side and turned around. He watched as Fabiola put on her jacket. Her hair was lightly blowing in the night wind. His father was right; she was beautiful.

Moving towards Fabiola, Ransom ran his hands up and down her arms to help warm her up. “I’m sorry about that,” he said, indicating what happened in the restaurant with his father. “My dad…he isn’t someone I…”

“It’s fine, Ransom. Let’s not have him ruin the rest of our night. You still want to come over, right?”

Ransom leaned his forehead against Fabiola’s before pressing his lips against hers. He didn’t deepen the kiss and retreated after only a couple of seconds. Ransom went back to resting his forehead against Fabiola’s while she stroked his left cheek.

“Tell me what you want?” she asked him.

Ransom looked into her eyes like he was searching for something. He sighed at what felt like the hundredth time that night. “I don’t know what I want. That is the problem. All I do know is that I don’t want to be like him. I don’t want to be my dad.”

Fabiola nodded her head in understanding. “Don’t then.”

#chris evans #ransom drysdale #ransom drysdale x ofc #ransom drysdale x oc #knives out fic

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junghelioseok · 6 years

Text

forbidden.

↳ a dance with the devil under the pale moon.

◇ namjoon x reader ◇ smut | demon!au ◇ 6.6k [1/1]

notes: i have, quite literally, been sitting on this fic for nine months. i’ve carried this thing to a full-term pregnancy. it’s undergone two title changes and three rewrites and honestly i still kinda hate it but i’m tired of reworking it so here ya go!!! i’m gonna go crawl into bed and sleep for a week!!!

⇢ now updated with a lovely moodboard by the wonderful, talented @la-vie-en-tae! thank you, babe!

warnings: dirty talk, thigh riding, oral, some choking oops, dom/sub themes, light bondage aka your hands are restrained, joon’s literally the devil lmao

When you meet the Devil for the first time, it isn’t on some lonely, twisting back road in the middle of nowhere. It isn’t in a darkened bar or a pulsating club on a forgettable Friday night.

No, you bump into the Devil—quite literally—in the library on a sunny Tuesday afternoon, somewhere between science fiction and literary classics. The impact sends you sprawling to the ground, the scratchy carpet rough underneath your palms as you prepare to push yourself back to your feet with an apology ready on your lips. But the sight of the man standing before you leaves you breathless and gasping to recall the contrite words you’d prepared.

To say that he’s breathtaking would be an understatement. Tall and slender with ashy silver hair, he looks completely unruffled despite the earlier collision. He’s holding Dante’s Inferno delicately in one hand—which, in retrospect, is an exceptionally appropriate choice of reading material—and perhaps that should have been your first indicator of his true identity.

Instead, it takes a coffee date—instigated by him as an apology—and a conversation with your next-door neighbor, Seokjin, to convince you that the seemingly innocuous man from the library was, indeed, the Devil. Despite consistently erring on the side of paranoia, Jin’s knowledge on demonology cannot be matched. And when you tell him the name of the man you’d just shared coffee with, his brown eyes widen to almost comic proportions.

Namjoon? Did you say Namjoon?

Yes, I did. Why, do you know him?

It’s difficult to stop Seokjin from babbling once he begins, but somewhere between the frenzied bleating and cursing and countless ancient texts shoved in your face, you understand. Namjoon is a name that has floated down through centuries—but in countless iterations and every language, it has remained the name associated with the Devil.

Huh. So, the Devil likes lattes, then. That’s pretty quaint, don’t you think?

It’s not funny, {Name}.

Do you think he comes to Earth exclusively for the coffee? I can’t imagine there being good coffee in Hell.

Really not funny, {Name}! He could’ve killed you!

But he didn’t! I guess that means I still have some time left, which is reassuring. I still haven’t done most of the things on my bucket list… but hey, at least I can check off ‘date with the Devil’ now! That’s pretty neat.

Fuck, why are you being so blasé about this? Did you already sign over your soul, along with your brain?

Leaving behind an exasperated Seokjin, you returned to your own apartment that evening and immersed yourself in one of several books you’d checked out from the library. And you don’t think about Namjoon again—at least, not until two weeks later when there is a polite knock on your front door. Having ordered takeout about half an hour ago, you fully expect it to be the deliveryman and grab your wallet on your way to answer it—

—only to immediately drop it in shock, a yelp escaping your parted lips as you take in the figure standing on your doorstep. “Jesus!”

“Quite the opposite, actually,” Namjoon replies with a smile, and you are too distracted by the dimples dotting his cheeks to realize that he’s all but confirmed Seokjin’s suspicions. It takes a few long moments for his words to sink into your brain, and when they do, you can only manage a confused stammer.

“O-oh? Oh! Oh, um…“

The sound of Namjoon’s soft laughter brings you back to your senses, the sound dulcet and alluring. “I’m guessing you already know who I am, then.” His face stretches into another smile, and you find yourself once again drawn to his dimples, admiring the way they crinkle as he speaks again. “Please rest assured, though. I mean you no harm.”

“Sounds exactly like what someone with harmful intentions would say.” The words are out before you can stop them, and you promptly slap a hand over your traitorous mouth. “Oh god, sorry,” you mumble from between your fingers, voice slightly muffled. “I didn’t mean… I didn’t mean that.”

Namjoon just laughs again. “Honesty isn’t something you need to apologize for,” he assures, tilting his head to the side and regarding you more closely. “Curious, though, that you don’t seem afraid.”

“I’ve been told that I have very poor survival instincts,” you admit, a sheepish smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

His eyes glint with amusement. “True as that may be, I wasn’t lying when I told you that I mean no harm. I simply thought to bring you some coffee.”

For the first time, you look down at his hands, taking in the two steaming cups tucked neatly in a little cardboard tray. Dangling from his wrist is a white bag emblazoned with gaudy red font, the contents precariously close to poking through the thin plastic. “Is that my food?”

A smile. “I happened upon the deliveryman in the elevator.” Raising the bag, Namjoon nods in the direction of your kitchen, just visible from the entryway. “May I come in?”

You glance down, taking in the sight of his perfectly shined leather shoes toeing the threshold of your apartment. You think back to Seokjin’s frantic warnings and Namjoon’s easy admission of his identity. You wonder, briefly, if he’s insane, and consider the potential dangers that could befall you if you spend any longer in his presence.

And then you step aside and let him in. In one smooth step, Namjoon is in your apartment, glancing around with a curious little smile. You watch him for a few moments, admiring the shimmery silk of his cream shirt and loose black tie before your gaze falls back down to the cups in his hand.

“Isn’t it a little late for coffee?”

Namjoon’s smile widens into a full-fledged grin. “I’ll admit, I didn’t exactly take the hour into consideration when I made my purchase.”

“You really should have,” you admonish, reaching out to take the coffee from him and turning down the hallway toward the kitchen. “I’ll never be able to sleep after drinking this.”

“I’m sure we’ll find a way to tire you out,” Namjoon says serenely, but you don’t miss the wicked note in his tone. His voice is low and soft, and you can tell from the proximity of the sound that he is following after you. Thanking every lucky star that your back is toward him, you enter the kitchen and shift the tray holding the cups to one hand. Pulling open the silverware drawer with the other, you pluck out two forks.

“Hungry?” you ask, offering him one without meeting his gaze.

Namjoon chuckles and accepts the proffered utensil. “Quite, actually. Thank you.”

You hum in acknowledgment, tamping down the urge to ask him whether or not he’d prefer human souls over Chinese takeout. Instead, you make your way over to the small dining table in the corner, perching comfortably on one of the chairs and setting down the coffee. Namjoon takes the other seat, placing the bag of food carefully on the table, and you are all too aware of his eyes lingering on you as you select a carton and tear into it. “Want some noodles?” you ask after a few seconds of chewing, awkwardly offering the box to him.

“I’m all right with chicken for now,” he replies, jabbing a piece of sauce-covered meat for emphasis. You can’t help but watch, transfixed, as he brings it to his mouth, plump lips parting to receive the food and throat bobbing when he swallows. “Why don’t we trade in a bit?”

“That… yeah. That sounds good.” Tearing your gaze from his mouth, you force your attention back on the carton in your hand, vehemently spinning your fork around the noodles. His presence is magnetic, stirring a very different kind of hunger in the pit of your belly, and despite your best efforts at suppression you know it’s all in vain when you catch sight of Namjoon’s knowing smirk.

When he speaks, however, his voice remains perfectly even. “Are you all right? You look rather flushed.”

Your cheeks grow warmer under his scrutiny. “I’m fine.” Picking up one of the cups, you take a quick sip, noting with surprise that the perfect amount of cream and sugar has already been added. It does nothing to quell the heat curling in your belly though, and Namjoon knows it as well, his wicked smirk growing. You watch, frozen, as he reaches across the table and taps your chin, gently tilting your face up as his other hand comes up to rest against your forehead.

“You’re feverish,” he murmurs.

“And you’re teasing me,” you mumble back, your mouth moving before your brain can caution it to stop.

Dark amusement glitters in equally dark eyes, mesmerizing and hypnotic. “That pretty little mouth of yours is going to get you in trouble one day,” he says conversationally as he rises to his feet, his larger figure towering over your seated one. You suddenly feel very small.

When his hand comes up to tap your chin again, you all but melt into his touch. Namjoon urges you to stand, his thumb trailing along your jawline until his open palm is cupping the nape of your neck and his long fingers are threading through your hair. For a moment, his hand tightens and the dull throb of pain that shoots through your scalp has your knees buckling, almost dropping to the floor. But Namjoon is quick to slide his arm around your waist and prop you up against his firm chest. The silken shirt he’s wearing does nothing to hide the hard planes and ridges of muscle, and you let out a soft sigh of appreciation as your hands find purchase on his broad shoulders.

“Do you have any idea what I want to do to you?” he murmurs, hot breath fanning across your cheek. “What I’ve wanted to do since we met that day at the library?” His lips are at your ear, hand still twined through your hair, and already you are drunk on his spellbinding presence and dizzying proximity. Wordlessly, you shake your head, and you feel the way his lips curve up against your jaw.

“Would you like to find out?”

You shouldn’t. You really, really shouldn’t. But your logic is dwindling with every passing second, and the simmering heat in your belly only grows when his mouth dips down to nip at the column of your throat.

Breathless, you nod your assent, watching as his smile grows to impossibly wide proportions at the simple motion. His arm tightens around your waist as he moves to guide you down the narrow hall leading to your bedroom, your anticipation growing stronger with every step you take. Yet Namjoon’s pace remains steady and unhurried, his strong hand firmly anchored at your hip.

It feels as if eons have passed by the time you reach your bedroom door. Ever playing the role of gentleman, Namjoon is quick to hold it open and allow you to pass through first, a guiding hand lingering at the small of your back. Vaguely, you hear the door fall shut behind you, but you hardly have time to register the sound before both his hands return to your body, pulling your back flush against his warm chest. Through the thin layers of fabric, you can feel every taut ridge of defined muscle, your fingers itching to reach out and touch him. The simmering anticipation in your tummy sharpens and coalesces into something more needy, begging for relief—and it seems he is just as impatient underneath that calm, collected exterior.

“Get on the bed for me, pet,” he murmurs, mouthing at the sensitive skin just below your ear. A shiver runs up your spine at the nickname, tingling and electric, and you immediately rush to obey his order. The mattress dips beneath your weight as you settle onto it, and you don’t miss the way his hungry gaze takes in the exposed flesh of your legs and skims up the rest of your body. “Clothes off,” he commands huskily, stepping forward until he is bathed in the wan, silvery moonlight shining in through the open window.

Wordlessly, you reach down to the hem of your shirt, sighing softly as you tug it up and over your head. Your skirt follows, landing in a heap on the floor, and Namjoon is beside you before you can even breathe in again, his tall figure looming over your seated one as he rakes over your appearance with glimmering approval. He lingers on your lace-clad breasts for a few long moments, seemingly memorizing the exact swell of each before moving down to the apex of your thighs, and your breath hitches when you see his eyes noticeably darken. You’re sure that there is a visible damp spot on your panties, and judging by his ravenous expression, you realize that he must have seen it as well.

“Stunning,” he breathes softly. “Absolutely stunning.”

You silently congratulate yourself on your lingerie choice, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Thank you.” A deep breath later, you boldly add, “Sir.”

A satisfied smirk stretches across his face, one hand coming down to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “On your back, pet,” he commands, humming in approval when you obediently lay down. The sheets are cool against your bare skin, and Namjoon raises an amused brow when you suppress a shiver. “Are you cold?” The mattress dips as he takes a seat beside you, perceptive gaze raking across your prone figure.

“Not anymore,” you murmur, tilting your head back and letting your eyes slide shut, unwittingly exposing the long line of your throat.

The smooth glide of Namjoon’s hand along your neck sends your eyes flying open again, seeking out the predatory gaze of the man hovering above you with his fingers wrapped loosely around your throat. “Are you afraid?” he asks softly, voice deceptively gentle.

This time, you hesitate. Namjoon is dangerous—this much you know to be true. Yet, you can’t deny that you are intrigued by what the night will bring. “No,” you whisper.

He smiles. “Good.”

I really do have terrible survival instincts, is your last thought before Namjoon leans down and presses his lips to yours. All at once, your eyes flutter shut, your mind going hazy as your mouth parts to receive him. Your heart takes off at an unsteady gallop against your ribcage, and when his tongue slides against yours it skips a beat entirely.

Perhaps foolishly, you’d expected fire and brimstone when your lips met, but Namjoon tastes vaguely of coffee and dark chocolate. You��re not sure what to make of the fact, and you aren’t left much time to dwell on it either. Namjoon chuckles softly as he pulls back to allow you a breath of air, his hands wandering down your stomach and along your hipbones. “So pretty,” he breathes, roving dangerously close to your dripping core. Experimentally, he presses the pad of his index finger against your lace-covered clit, a smirk curling his lips when you release a shuddery moan and arch off the bed. “My perfect, pretty toy,” he murmurs in appreciation. “Tell me, little girl, do you want me to fuck you?”

“God, yes.” The affirmation escapes you in a whimper.

The man—no, demon—chuckles and straightens up, nimble fingers beginning to undo his belt. “No god can help you now, pet,” he croons wickedly, pushing his dark slacks down his hips to free his cock. Your tongue darts out to moisten your lips when you notice the tip already glistening with beads of white, a pronounced ache settling in your core as you await further instructions.

For a few long seconds, Namjoon simply stands there. One hand drops down to wrap around his length, stroking along the shaft almost thoughtfully as he regards your figure splayed across the bed. You watch as his penetrating gaze trails from your toes to your crown, lingering on your thighs and the swell of your breasts before finally coming to a rest on your face. His lips curl up into an amused smile.

“Sit up, pet.”

You do as he commands, shifting into a seated position atop the mattress with your legs curled up beneath you. Namjoon’s hand comes down to curl around the nape of your neck, gently urging you to turn until you are facing away from him. Then he’s pressing you down, until your back is flat against the sheets and the crease of your neck is at the edge of the bed, your vision turned upside-down. Your breath catches in your throat as Namjoon lets out a satisfied hum, one long finger tracing the delicate skin of your exposed neck.

“Such a wanton little thing,” he remarks calmly, as if commenting on the weather. His hand trails up further, running along the line of your jaw before skimming across your chin to settle on your bottom lip. At his gentle insistence, your lips part, and Namjoon’s smirk grows as he slides his thumb into your mouth.

Immediately, you close your lips around him, sucking gently before running your tongue around the pad of his finger. Namjoon inhales sharply, and the dark glimmer of hunger in his eyes coalesces into something almost tangible—something hot and heavy that surrounds you like a blanket. Silently, he removes his thumb from your mouth.

A moment later, the head of his cock is prodding against your parted lips, urging them wider to accommodate his substantial girth. You allow your jaw to slacken as he pushes farther in, focusing solely on breathing through your nose as he hits the back of your throat. “You’re doing well, sweet thing,” he croons softly, reaching down to stroke your cheek. “So sweet, taking my cock like this. I bet you can take all of it, right, pet?” His hips rock forward, and tears spring to your eyes as the tip of his throbbing length slides down into your throat. Gagging around the intrusion, you almost pull back, but the hand wrapping around your neck stops you in your place. Still teary-eyed, you glance up at an amused Namjoon, one of his dark brows raised appraisingly. “Right, pet?”

His deep voice leaves no room for disagreement, so you nod as much as you can under the circumstances, with your head tilted back against the side of the mattress and his dick still lodged in your throat. Your vision is beginning to swim, the tears escaping your eyes and trickling the wrong way down your temples and into your hairline. But your acquiescence seems to satisfy Namjoon, who loosens his grip on your neck and surges forward once more, halting only when his hips are nestled firmly against your chin and your throat’s swollen with the entirety of his length.

You’re positively aching by this point. Heat curls at the base of your spine and flares outward, rushing through your veins like fire until you feel fit to burst. You are painfully aware of the frantic rhythm of your heart, beating in time with the throbbing of Namjoon’s cock in your mouth. Everything burns.

And then Namjoon begins to move.

The first thrust is shallow as he gets a hold of his bearings, but he leaves little time for you to adjust. Each subsequent snap of his hips has you gagging around him, and the tightening of your throat only seems to spur him on. “Look at you,” he croons. “Such a pretty little slut, choking around my cock.”

Pride wells up in your chest and instinct has you stretching out, relaxing and opening up more of your body for him to possess. In the short time you’ve been acquainted, you have discerned that Namjoon does not like losing control—not one bit. Every fiber of his being screams dominance and authority—from the mildly curious expression that betrays nothing of his true feelings to the ashy silver hair that’s so perfectly slicked away without a single strand out of place. He is the very picture of composure. So when you look up to see his face crumpled in pleasure, his dark eyes sliding shut and lips parting to release a low groan, it’s all the more satisfying.

Saliva pools in your mouth, easing the slide of his cock as he increases his pace. A thin trickle dribbles out of the corner of your lips, joining your tears and dampening your hair, but Namjoon is relentless and you find that you can no longer control your breathing with the way he’s fucking your mouth. Your vision grows hazy as your brain realizes its own oxygen deprivation and goes into survival mode, relaxing your muscles and letting your eyes flutter shut. You have no strength left—not even to raise a hand and warn your tormentor of your dire state.

Just when you are certain that you’re about to pass out, Namjoon pulls back. Instantly, you gasp in a desperate breath, almost choking on the stream of air rushing back into your lungs. Your throat is burning from his harsh treatment, but it’s nothing compared to the scorching fire in your core. There’s no doubt in your mind that your panties are soaked through, your legs rubbing together in an attempt to quell the ache in your clit.

Namjoon zeroes in on your movement immediately, chuckling lowly as he reaches down and spreads your legs open. “Now, now,” he chides, a wicked smirk curving his lips, “I didn’t give you permission to do that.”

When you find your voice again, it comes out as little more than a raspy croak. “I… please, sir.” Your gaze flickers down to his cock, still glistening with an unholy mixture of saliva and arousal, and Namjoon’s smirk widens when he sees what has caught your attention.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, cupping the back of your head and urging you to sit up on the bed. “Are you already that desperate for my cock again?”

Hesitantly, you rise up into a kneeling position, drawing your legs underneath and pushing up until you are almost level with him. Sucking in another deep breath, you try to ease your frantic heartbeat into a more regular rhythm. “Please,” you murmur, your voice little more than a warble. “Please.”

Namjoon straightens to his full height, forcing your head back so that you maintain eye contact. His other hand trails down to pull his pants back over his hips, and you bite your lip when you see the teasing outline of his erection against the dark material. “What makes you think you deserve my cock tonight, little girl?”

You flush under his scrutiny, watching the way his brown eyes rake across your half-naked form. “M-maybe I don’t,” you manage softly. Embarrassment rises up in your chest like a plume of smoke, but you tamp it back down and plow forward with a stubbornness you didn’t know you possessed. “I-I’ll work for it, if it’d please you, sir.”

Namjoon’s gaze darkens to obsidian, so shadowy and deep that you almost feel as if you’re drowning. His irises are unnaturally wide, and seem to grow until there is barely any white surrounding the inky blackness. “Work for it, hmm?” he hums, his thumb stroking along your temples. “Why don’t you come sit in my lap then, pet?”

The words send an electrifying tingle down your spine. Intrigued, you watch as Namjoon sits down and gestures for you to straddle him.

And then:

“One leg on either side of mine, pet, and grind against my thigh like a good girl.”

A groan leaves your mouth as you obediently climb into position, his thigh pressing up against your core. You’re certain that you’re soaking through the fabric of his slacks even with your panties acting as a barrier, and the thought sends warmth blossoming across your cheeks in a bloom of color that only worsens when he reaches around to unclasp your bra. The lacy garment falls uselessly to the ground, and you keen when he thumbs across your pert nipples, the sensitive buds hardening at the sudden exposure to the cool air.

Hesitantly, you roll your hips once, a soft gasp escaping you at the delicious friction against your clit. Namjoon’s hands slide from your breasts to your hips, fingers digging into the flesh with almost bruising force as he urges you to continue with your sinful movements. You whimper as he increases your pace, and when he flexes his thigh, pleasure rockets up your spine like lightning. “O-oh! Fu-uuuck, Namjoon!”

He raises a single, perfectly arched brow. “What did you just call me?”

All the air whistles out of your lungs at the palpable danger lacing his tone. “I-I’m sorry, sir.”

Satisfied with your apology, Namjoon gives you an absolutely devilish smirk. “That’s a good girl.” His hands tighten around you, and you keen out a high-pitched curse when he shifts his leg to press against your clit harshly. You feel positively fit to burst, and it seems the demon underneath you knows it too. “Why don’t you let go and cum for me, sweet thing?” Namjoon murmurs, rubbing deceptively soothing circles into your skin.

It’s pointless to resist the allure of his words, and it only takes a few more rolls of your hips before you are shaking apart in his grip, one of his hands coming up to smooth comfortably along your spine as he murmurs hushed praises in your ear. He’s kind enough to allow you to continue grinding against him even in the throes of your orgasm, helping draw out every last bit of pleasure until you fall still in his grasp, your legs weak and utterly boneless.

Namjoon’s gaze is darker than ever, something wicked glimmering the unseen depths of his irises. “Oh, pet,” he croons, sliding one hand into your hair and angling your head so that his lips are mere millimeters away from yours. “You’re already such a mess, and I’ve barely touched you.”

You wriggle weakly in his grip, feeling the way his fingers dig a little more firmly into the small of your back. “S-sir,” you breathe. The thin lace of your panties is drenched by this point, sticking uncomfortably to your folds and reminding you just how aroused you are. “Please. Please, I need more.”

Namjoon grins. “She’s still begging,” he hums to no one in particular, sounding thoroughly pleased. “What do you need, pet?”

Hot embarrassment rises up again, but your lips form the words anyway. “Y-your cock, sir,” you stammer weakly, grasping at the silky material of his shirt. “I-I need your cock.”

The demon chuckles. “Be more specific, pet. Where do you need it?”

“Inside…” Your voice breaks off, and, swallowing, you try again. “Inside my pussy, sir. P-please.”

He hums, pleased. “Good girl.” Reaching for the tie knotted around his neck, he begins to loosen it, obsidian gaze never once leaving yours as he tosses the thin strip of silk carelessly onto the bed. His shirt comes off next, creamy material sliding off his shoulders to reveal the taut, tanned skin beneath. Anticipation swells within you, growing to almost unbearable levels when he reaches for his belt.

“Sir, please—“

Namjoon closes the distance between you in an instant, laying a finger against your lips. “Hush, pet. Back up against the pillows.”

Slowly, you obey, sliding back until you are sinking into the downy softness of the pillows at the head of the bed. Namjoon joins you, and in the span of seconds, he has his tie looped around your wrists and secured to the metal poles of your headboard. Leaning back, he surveys his work with a faint smirk dancing on his lips, dark gaze trailing from your flushed face to your heaving breasts until he reaches the apex of your thighs.

“So pretty,” he breathes. “Look at you, all nice and spread out for me.” Your heart stutters, and when his thumbs hook into the waistband of your panties it misses several beats altogether. The lace slides down your thighs easily, disappearing into the tangle of sheets below, and the flush blossoming across your cheeks worsens when Namjoon leans back to drink in the sight of you laid bare before him. “I can’t wait to ruin this delicious little cunt of yours,” he murmurs, gently running the tip of his index finger along your drenched folds.

You shudder at the insubstantial touch, toes curling at the pinpricks of pleasure suddenly dancing along the base of your spine. “Then don’t.” The words escape you in a breathy exhalation.

Namjoon clicks his tongue. “Dangerous words, pet,” he chides, leaning down and grasping your chin delicately between his thumb and forefinger. Slowly—deliberately—he presses forward until his lips brush yours, the touch feather-light and fleeting. Your fingers twitch with the sudden desire to tangle in his ashy hair and tug him in for a deeper kiss, but the bonds around your wrists prevent any motion beyond an unsatisfying swing from side to side. Your tormentor watches you struggle with an amused gleam twinkling in his obsidian eyes and a smirk twitching his cheeks. “I’ll release you if you’re good,” he promises, his lips tilting into a fully satisfied smirk when you immediately cease your struggle.

And then he’s pushing his slacks back off his hips, the metal buckle of his belt clanking softly. You watch in rapt fascination as the dark material falls away to reveal a new expanse of honeyed skin, stretching across the taut lines of his pelvis and descending down to where his cock stands proudly, hot and leaking and achingly familiar. A thrill runs through you at the sight.

“You’re drenched,” Namjoon hums, perverse delight lacing every syllable as he leans down and lays a kiss on your inner thigh before pulling back and tracing a slow, deliberate circle around your sensitive clit. A hoarse chuckle escapes him when you instinctively raise your hips for more and he immediately splays a strong hand on your stomach. “Patience, pet,” he coos, kissing your jaw.

And then he slides his index finger inside you, your sopping entrance offering up no resistance to the intrusion. Every muscle in your body seems to contract around him, drawing him farther inside your willing body, and Namjoon obligingly slips a second finger in beside the first, digging up and in as he endeavors to find the spot that will have you seeing stars.

You know he’s found it when a sudden rush of electric warmth bubbles up in your belly, pulsating in time with the rhythm of his hand. His thumb finds your clit again, rubbing hard, insistent circles around the bud, and it doesn’t take long for your body to tense under the onslaught of pleasure.

“Fu-uck, sir,” you plead, trying in vain to wriggle free of the hand still splayed across your stomach. “Please.”

“I don’t think so,” he purrs, looking every inch the demon he is as he retracts his fingers, stealing away your orgasm and dulling the heat in your belly to a simmer. Glittering obsidian eyes lock with yours as he settles between your legs, gently pushing your trembling thighs apart to accommodate his body. You whimper when you finally, finally feel the head of his cock prodding at your soaked folds.

“Sir,” you entreaty, meeting his heavy gaze.

Namjoon chuckles. One strong hand settles on your hip, digging into the tender flesh and anchoring you in place as he begins to press forward, inch by torturous inch.

It feels as if an eternity has passed by the time he sheathes himself entirely inside you, his bottom lip pulled between his teeth as he suppresses a hoarse groan. You can only keen at the surge of fullness, clenching around his substantial girth and fighting back the dull sting of pain that accompanies the breach. Namjoon is bigger than any partner you’ve ever had in the past, and you are certain that you’re being stretched to your absolute limit as your walls mold around every ridge and vein of his throbbing cock.

“You’re so tight.” Namjoon trails a finger up along your throat, and you swallow harshly as he traces the outline of your jugular vein before moving downward and refocusing his attention on the soft swell of your breasts. “So tight and warm and wet. It’s been so long since I’ve been with a human girl—I’d forgotten just how sweet your kind are.”

For a moment, you wonder just how many humans he has seduced before, but that train of thought is quickly derailed when he runs his thumb over your nipple, swirling around the hardening bud. His other hand remains curled around your hipbone, his grip tightening as he begins a slow rhythm. Your fingers ache to curl around his neck and pull him closer, but the silk tie wrapped tight around your wrists prevents any such motion. Instead, you can only wind your legs around his waist, your heels digging harshly into his lower back and your lips parting to release a low moan.

At the sound, Namjoon’s pace becomes even more leisurely, a smirk growing on his handsome face when you let out a protesting whine.

“Namjoon—“

“Patience, pet,” he purrs, forgiving your slip of the tongue with a deep chuckle and a finger rubbing teasingly against your clit. The sudden spike in pleasure has you gasping and writhing against your restraints once more, but the demon hovering over you just grins. “Why don’t you try begging again?”

All sense of propriety and pride evaporate in the wake of his taunt. “Please,” you warble weakly, wrapping your legs more firmly around him as if to urge him on. “Please, I need more.”

He gives you a terribly self-assured grin. “Be careful what you ask for, sweet thing.” You barely have time to process the warning before he rears back, retreating until only the head of his cock remains inside you.

And then he is surging forward, a strand of ashy silver hair falling across his forehead as his hips meet your skin with a resounding smack. The force of the thrust sends you sliding back against the sheets until your bound forearms are sliding against the cool metal grill of the headboard, and you are suddenly grateful for the silken material grounding you to earth as Namjoon abandons all semblance of self-restraint with a snarl. Every subsequent thrust pushes you farther backward, and it’s all you can do to curl your fingers around the metal bars as your secured wrists scream in protest.

“Fuck,” Namjoon growls into your ear, his voice so deep and cavernous you almost get lost in the sound. Your thighs tense around him as he picks up his pace, and somewhere between the keens and whimpers leaving your mouth, you manage to moan out something that sounds suspiciously like his name. Another growl ripples through his chest, a thumb and a forefinger reaching down to grasp your chin, and when your gazes meet it’s as if all the air has been snatched right out of your lungs.

It takes you a few seconds to realize that his hand has gravitated down to your throat, his grip unyielding as his stare continues to bore down into you. You’ve never felt more exposed—physically or mentally—and as your oxygen supply dwindles you wonder again if you’ll manage to survive this encounter. Terrible survival instincts, a reprimanding voice in the back of your mind sighs, already defeated. Absolutely fucking awful.

Black spots are beginning to cloud your vision, but still Namjoon does not release his grip. Your eyes flutter shut and your heartbeat slows to a whisper.

But then something warm starts to stir in your lower belly, bubbling up so suddenly that you are fully unprepared for the white-hot burst of pure heat that follows. Molten pleasure floods through your veins in a rushing torrent that washes every black spot clean away, your body shaking apart in spasms. The orgasm leaves you utterly boneless, and you barely register the feeling of Namjoon coming undone alongside you, growing impossibly before painting your walls in creamy spurts of white.

It’s only when a cool palm cups your cheek that you open your eyes again, realizing for the first time that you are aching with emptiness and that Namjoon is standing and fully dressed once more. “Sleep, pet,” he murmurs, his tone laced with something that could be akin to tenderness if you truly believed that the Devil could be capable of such a thing. “You’ll need it.”

Blinking blearily, you reach for his hand and discover that your wrists are no longer tied. Your fingers brush against the bony ridges of his knuckles, and he indulges the touch briefly before pulling away and straightening to his full height.

“Sleep,” he repeats softly, his ashy hair glimmering silver in the moonlight shining through the window.

So you do.

///

When you wake again, the morning sun is just beginning to peek over the horizon. In the warm golden glow of daytime, you almost convince yourself that the events of last night had simply been a fever dream.

But you can’t deny the tingling ache that still lingers between your legs, and when you glance over at your nightstand, you spot a very familiar black tie lying there in a neat silken coil. Slowly, you reach out to touch it, rubbing the soft material between your fingertips as the memories come rushing back.

Somehow, you manage to gather your wits about you enough to crawl out of bed and meander into the kitchen for something to eat. Upon opening the fridge, you are surprised to discover that your takeout has been stacked neatly inside, and the mental image of Namjoon taking the time to refrigerate your leftovers before leaving is absurd enough to leave you giggling haplessly, bordering on manic as you sink to the ground in hysterics.

The sound of your front door clicking open draws you out of your laughing fit, and you belatedly remember that you’d given your next-door neighbor a spare key in case of emergencies several months back. Staring up into Seokjin’s bemused face, you tamp down another bout of giggles and rise to your feet, greeting him with a small smile. “Morning, Jin. What brings you here so early?”

“There was a shift in the energy around our building last night,” your neighbor says, his eyes flickering around the room cautiously. “A major shift. Definitely demonic, and the strongest I’ve ever felt. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

You shuffle your feet nervously, and Jin zeroes in on your uneasiness with razor precision and rising alarm.

“{Name},” he begins. “It… it was him, wasn’t it.”

You suck in a deep breath at his accusing tone. “I’m fine, Seokjin.”

He shakes his head. “That’s not an answer.”

“You’re right.”

Jin’s jaw drops. “Fuck, {Name}, what happened? What did he want? Did he threaten you? Did you accept anything he gave you? Oh, fuck, what if you handed your soul over to the literal fucking Devil—“

He goes on, rambling and ranting about possession and demonic contracts but you barely hear him. All you can think about is Namjoon and his soft command for you to go to sleep last night—and the five little words that followed. Five words that you barely heard as you drifted off, but are certain you didn’t imagine.

I’ll see you next time.

#namjoon #namjoon scenarios #namjoon smut #bts smut #bts scenarios #namjoon x reader #namjoon x you #demon!au #demon au #bts fanfiction #rm #kim namjoon #bts #bangtan boys #kpop scenarios #lia writes

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centaurianthropology · 5 years

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The Magnus Archives ‘Flesh’ (S04E11) Analysis

Well, this is a … meaty episode. Come on in to hear what I have to say about ‘Flesh’.

Wow. I wasn’t anticipating kicking things off with a proper heart-to-heart with Melanie, but I am seriously glad to get her perspective. There were a lot of things there that I had suspected—that a part of Melanie wanted the bullet; that the rage was hers, and the Slaughter just pointed it at things; that she feels the contradiction of knowing she’s been saved and knowing it was probably the right thing to do and also hating Jon and Basira for doing it. There were also some things I hadn’t expected. Melanie’s perspective on Basira is especially interesting, that she’s killed off her emotions and is running on intel and assets. She’s acting on strategy, and is probably the most put-together person in the Archives because of it, but it’s also locked her away from any real connection with Melanie.

I also found it interesting that Melanie isn’t even bothering to mention Martin. He must have split off from them early in the six months, for her to completely disregard him in her calculations of being alone. Basira is a factor, and Jon is a factor, and they’re both not great for her. And not only because they did non-consensual surgery on her and took away the thing that directed her rage, even if it was killing her. Basira refuses to see others as more than game pieces at this point (possibly more evidence that Elias is seeing her more and more as a successor for him), and Jon tries to connect in disastrous ways. He really is trying to apologize, but he’s desperate for it partly because he needs someone to forgive and accept him.

And I get that. Jon woke up and found that everyone remotely close to him is totally rejecting him. Georgie walked away. Martin is blocked from interacting with him. Melanie sees him in her nightmares. Basira sees him as another asset, and likely an unreliable one at that. He has absolutely no one, and for the first time in a very long time, I think that bothers him.

And it turns out that Melanie might have one other person to be close to, or at least as much a person as Jon is these days. Helen Richardson has taken to putting a door in the tunnels, it sounds like, and has helped repel the attacks on the Archives on numerous occasions. That makes the Lonely, the Web, the Slaughter, and the Spiral all defending the Beholding against other attacks including the Corruption, the Desolation, and the Flesh. That’s a lot more alliances than I was expecting. I have to wonder if there aren’t overriding alignments that are intangible, yet lead some powers to be naturally aligned in certain ways. Or if it’s more down to individual actors. And I also don’t trust any of those alliances to be stable, or not fraught with betrayal. After all, Jared was asked to attack the Archives, specifically to kill the Archivist through anonymous letters. That sounds more like the work of the Web or the Lonely than any other power, and I really wouldn’t put it past them to play both ends toward the middle. Helen’s motives are equally mysterious, and it seems that she acted because the Distortion rather likes the Archivist, despite the fact that she herself is angry with him.

And Jon … Jon just can’t resist a statement, even if it means losing an extra rib to Jared (and really? Do you think he can’t do something with that rib, Jon? Something that will come back and bite you in the end, possibly literally?). I also find it interesting that Jon’s healing powers actively resisted him losing a body part. Almost like they were trying to tell him that a physical anchor is a stupid idea or something. And really, even though he has a lot of ribs, I hope from a medical perspective that Jared was considerate and removed his floating ribs, because otherwise that’s an invitation to a pneumothorax in the future. I know he’s got magical healing powers, but seriously Jon, your ribs are there for a reason.

But he’s deeply addicted to the stories, to the point where he disregards his own safety time and time again, so he probably never even considered long-term necessity of specific bones. If the other powers paid any attention, they would realize his greatest flaw is on ready display.

But instead they’ve been attacking. And in Jared’s case, it was because for several years he’s been getting letters, typed in large font with simple instructions to target specific people, all of whom seemed either attracted to the Flesh or who would make good material for him. I lean toward either the Web (obvious) or the Lonely sending him the letters, playing both ends toward the middle where the Beholding is concerned. Because they may be allies, but I also really doubt any other power wants to see the Watcher’s Crown succeed.

No matter who sent them, he came to trust those letters, always one to follow his own interests rather than pursue some grand ambition. I find it interesting that he was more than willing to follow that trail, when he flat-out refused to participate in the Feast, preferring the world as it was to any the Flesh might make of it. Maybe it speaks to his simplicity.

Or maybe he’s the first avatar since Jon that we’ve met who deliberately does not want their ritual to succeed. I’d love to figure out what it is about certain avatars that draws them to completing a ritual, and why others don’t seem terribly bothered by it. Is it a lack of ambition, as Jared said, or is there something more fundamental about their personalities? Both Jared and Jon are contrarian by nature, albeit in very different ways. Is it possible those contrarian tendencies were enough to withstand the drive toward a ritual, despite being an avatar? Helen pointed out that Jon is too frantic to label himself ‘not people’, when the distinctions are both far less clear and absolutely unimportant. Jon cannot see that Helen is still Helen, despite what was done to her. Although she was taken by the Distortion, the parts of her that were Helen survived, just as the eager-to-please parts of Michael Shelley survived before her. The distinction between the monster and the person isn’t as clear-cut as Jon wants to believe. So maybe it’s simply that certain avatars always had the personality to resist the rituals, and others always had the personality to embrace them.

Oh, and hey, we got some physical descriptors of the archival staff: Basira apparently still screams ‘cop’, and Melanie is ‘skinny’, and it’s possible Martin was the ‘wee’ one? It’s hard to say (and personally I cling to my absurdly tall Martin headcanon).

So, now Jon has a rib and a really dumb plan (I appreciate that absolutely no one seemed to think ‘I will use a body part as an anchor’ is a good plan, though no one outright told him he’s an idiot). Melanie has a possible-friend in Helen, and even seems to have started making her way past loathing Jon for what he did to her. Basira is elsewhere, and her actions (particularly Melanie’s description of them) make me very worried about how much like Elias she’s becoming. And Helen is … there. Since she’s the Distortion, we really can’t trust her to be a reliable ally, but thus far the Distortion seems to be holding to some sort of alliance with Jon, for whatever reason.

And Jon has a coffin to dive into next week, possibly. I can’t imagine that’s going to go well.

I’ll be interested to see if they try to actually narrate Jon’s journey through the coffin, or if we end up with more of an outside perspective. I suppose we’ll find out next week.

#The Magnus Archives #analysis

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houseki-no-suffering · 6 years

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Words: 3053 Genre: humor, college AU, nerds being nerds and idiots being idiots Characters: Cinnabar, Phosphophyllite Summary: AND THEY WERE ROOMMATES!

A/N: i’m super sorry this is so late. I had everything ready to post this on time but life got in the way and then nano did too. But here it is, at last! Cinnaphos comedy! Also, of course this is not betaed, who do you take me for

Among all the things they had expected from college, their new roommate barking orders and insults at them wasn’t one of them. Usually, people gave Phos a chance before they started insulting them. Even Cairngorm had conceded them a couple of hours of trial.

Phos would mumble an apology if they weren’t utterly speechless. And terrified. And they would at least try to look apologetic, even if they had no idea what about, but their face was frozen in a petrified frown. The rest of their body was struggling not to let go of the unruly pile of belongings that they had been hoping to drop on the floor of their new room.

“No snoring, no talking in your sleep, don’t overstep here, this part of the room is mine, if I catch you with so much of a hair near my stuff you’re dead. Don’t touch my things: never touch my things.”

Their tried to nod while what they had hoped would be their new friend went on some more house rules. What was the name again? Shi-Ci-Cinnabar? Gosh, Phos would never call them by name until they weren’t certain. Also, they were not quite sure that all of their stuff would fit into the corner that Cinnabar designated as their own side of the room, but there was no way they could just mention it without risking their own head be bitten off.

So they tried to start small. By some miracle, they wiggled one of their hands free, unquestionable proof that they had been a juggler in a past life, and offered it to their roommate.

“So, uhm, my name is-“

“Oh yes, one last thing,” Cinnabar said, sparing half, or better, a quarter of disgusted glance toward Phos’s hand, “Don’t. Talk. To. Me.”

When Phos found enough courage in them to ask around about Cinnabar, they had been expecting tales of roommates being murdered under the pale moonlight, not what looked like the description of a very, very selective cat.

A “cutie,” Padparadscha’s words. A cutie that had helped them with calculus, apparently. Which implied a lot of interesting and contradictory inferences. Like the fact that Papda had spent a considerable amount of hours in the company of Cinnabar, that Cinnabar had softened their bark enough to explain things to them, that those things were math, and that Cinnabar had been patient and good enough a teacher to succeed where even Rutile had failed. All without killing Padparadscha or even injuring them a little.

But Padparadscha didn’t count, Phos thought: everybody liked Padparadscha, it didn’t mean anything. So Phos went looking for their horror stories elsewhere.

Now Cinnabar went from “cutie” to “friend,” which sounded even stranger because it implied an even longer period of interaction and shared space. They were quite sure that Diamond even added the words “for years” next to “friend.”

Of course, Dia had a nice word for everyone, but by the time Bort seconded their opinion, adding tales about the one time they baked German sweets for Christmas rather than how they helped Cinnabar hide a body, Phos was very confused.

Cinnabar was a selective hatred-inflicting mystery, and Phos loved a good puzzle. As long as it didn’t mean ending up six feet under, but judging from their roommate’s meager if anything body-count, it was a risk they could dare take.

Like most things in Phosphophyllite’s life, they didn’t plan it. They waited for the universe to align in a position favorable for minding someone else’s business. And the universe delivered on a sunny October afternoon, in the form of a Cinnabar leaving their laptop open and unguarded on their bed when they went to the toilet.

As it was due, Phosphophyllite thanked the universe, tasting the sweet, forbidden flavor of danger in their mouth as adrenaline started rushing through their body. They were alone, and they would be alone for a few seconds at least, so they steadied their heart and did the unthinkable.

They stepped into Cinnabar’s side of the room.

They world went still. Phos imitated it standing immobile as if the walls around them could crumble at any moment. As if Cinnabar had only pretended to leave their laptop unguarded, like they would ever make such a mistake. They were testing Phos. Their sadistic, evil kitten personality was testing Phos’ loyalty to the fear they had worked so hard to elicit in them that first day. And all the days after that.

But like most times in Phosphophyllite life, Phos ignored their common sense, opting instead for the decision that would elicit the least foreseeable outcome. Which happened to also be the stupidest.

They made another step.

Was it their imagination or the air in the room was getting colder? Shinsha’s side was definitely inhabited by the ghosts of their former roommates.

The forbidden object was now so close that Phos could venture out to touch it. Would that leave any fingerprint on the black, shiny, vampiric surface though? Would those fingerprints be easily attributable to Phosphophyllite? That was the whole point of fingerprints, if Phos was not mistaken.

So they made another step, their legs now dangerously close to the bed, to the point that they could feel the soft consistency of cotton sheets against their shin. They had never felt closer to death before and thus had never felt so alive. And so determined to stay alive.

That’s when they decided that they must have a death wish. They moved their head forward, casting their eyes impossibly close to enemy territory, and stole a glance at Cinnabar’s laptop, enough to capture the image they had set as wallpaper.

And Phos brought both of their hands to their mouth and suffocated a loud, elongated scream.

Cinnabar.

Cinnabar “if you talk to me you’re dead.”

Cinnabar “I’ll stop wearing black when they make a darker color.”

Cinnabar “I have never tasted the sweet flavor of happiness.”

That Cinnabar had a picture of kittens as desktop wallpaper.

Little, cute, fluffy fur balls with a big sign with words of encouragement written on it.

And Phos wasn’t screaming, or trying to prevent themselves from doing so, because of the kittens. Because everybody had a right to live their emo life in any way they so preferred. Even if 2008 had come and gone ten years ago. Even if it meant walking around with eyes so empty they could suck you in like a singularity point while still using a freaking picture of kittens as desktop wallpaper.

No, Phos would never judge someone else’s aesthetic, however contradictory. It would have meant judging their own first of all, and they enjoyed feeling the power surge of entropy as they went about their day in mismatched colors and sandaled socks.

No. Phos was screaming, or trying to prevent themselves from doing so, because of the sign. A huge, fully saturated red monstrosity that hurt their aspiring graphic designer’s eyes, but still not quite as much as the font.

There it stood, on Cinnabar’s pitch-black laptop, surrounded by the naïve cuteness of kittens. There it stood, the forsaken font, in all its cursed glory. Desecrating, insulting, violating, blaspheming the blissful and yet beautiful contradiction of emo kittens.

If they didn’t hear Cinnabar’s footsteps approaching from the corridor, Phos would have suffered from a Comic Sans-induced heart attack right on the spot. In Cinnabar’s side of the room.

They had just enough time to contemplate if that was Cinnabar’s preferred method of killing unsolicited roommates before they plunged into their own bed with a leap worthy of an Olympic qualification, like their life depended on it. Because, quite frankly, it did.

With their heart beating fast both from the near-death experience and the horror provoked by their discovery, they grabbed a book, the first book they could find, and shoved it in their own face the moment they landed on the mattress, exactly 0.2 seconds before Cinnabar’s figure stepped through the doorframe.

They had a large, steaming cup of coffee in their hand and a murderous stare in those bottomless, blood-red pits that people around campus insisted on calling eyes.

All the cuteness and tenderness they could have felt after discovering about the kittens disappeared as Phos tried to decipher if that glance was directed at the world or at them in particular.

Their heart was marathoning a full 50km at the speed of a sprinter. And it was being loud about it. So loud. Phos knew that Cinnabar could hear it.

As if in response, Cinnabar’s head shifted imperceptibly toward Phos’ side of the room. Not enough to make out their eyes from beneath Cinnabar’s red, tangled mess of a mane, but definitely enough to have Phos question all of their life choices so far.

The scene kept replaying every day before Phosphophyllite’s eyes.

Their forbidden gesture, the way they had bolted to the bed, the way they had grabbed a book and pretended to be reading, the way Cinnabar had come back to their room and had looked at them, the way they had sat down on their bed without saying a word.

The way they had started using their computer as if nothing had happened, the way Phos had cast a panicked glance in their direction and the way they had discovered, upon closer inspection, that they had been holding the book upside down.

Cinnabar didn’t mention any of these things. Not that day, nor the day after that. It was like they hadn’t noticed anything amiss in Phos’ behavior. And that was what made Phos so suspicious.

Phosphophyllite knew about their own chaotic attitude towards life. They knew they would never commit the perfect crime, because they could easily find a needle in a haystack but would totally miss a sperm whale in a coffee cup. Phosphophyllite knew. Everyone knew. Cinnabar knew.

And Cinnabar was waiting for them to break down.

It was already happening. Guilt and anxiety and horror mixing up in an uncontainable cocktail in Phos’s stomach, dangerously close to overflowing.

Could Cinnabar hear the pounding sound of Phos’ heart every time they were alone in a room with them? Had Cinnabar noticed that something was wrong with their laptop where Phos’ eyes had dared taint it with their glance? Did Phos leave any traces of their irresponsible trespassing?

The silence kept stretching on between the two of them, heavier and more loaded with murderous repercussions than usual. And with it, the growing repulsion of that one, cursed sign, disfiguring the amenity of emo kittens. It must have been ironic, Phos thought, it must have been. Or it could have been another test for Phos. If so, how should they respond to it?

They realized that they were staring at Cinnabar again, ready to anticipate possible attacks.

Cinnabar was sitting on their bed, black clothed legs hugging their black laptop while long, black sleeves clad their arms and hands, fingers intently typing some mysterious something. It was probably a list of the reasons why Phos had failed the test and how Cinnabar could get rid of them and make the world a better place.

Cinnabar pressed enter one last time, a single, swift movement of the finger.

It was all Phos needed.

They knew. Cinnabar knew. It was in the satisfaction with whom they had pressed enter and made their list of ‘1001 ways to kill Phosphophyllite’ a reality.

And the emotional brew that had been fermenting inside Phos’ stomach broke free.

“I’m so sorry please don’t kill me!”

If Phos thought that Cinnabar had been considering them up to this point, they were definitely unprepared to bear the weight of their undivided attention. Because, yes, Cinnabar’s stare was now definitely murderous, and yes, all of that murderous intent was directed at Phos exclusively. Success.

They arched one single eyebrow in Phos’ general direction.

Phos felt their heart sink. Catching what could very well be their last breath, they realized they should fight for their life. Because Cinnabar spat the next word as if it was disgusting for the sole reason that it was directed at Phos.

“What,” they said.

Phosphophyllite could see their chances of survival physically dimming before their eyes.

“Y-your laptop, I’m sorry, I swear I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to, it happened, I looked at it!”

“You what?”

“I was just curious,” they blurted out, a curious mix of shame, relief and desperation lining their voice, “you never talk to me and you look super scary, but everyone else said you’re actually pretty nice and I didn’t know, I didn’t know what to do, I don’t know what kind of person you are so I thought I’d look just for a tiny second, please, please, please forgive me.”

Curiously enough, Cinnabar didn’t look murderous anymore. They looked perplexed.

They arched another eyebrow and that was when the magic happened because, rather than making them even scarier, that one gesture changed the expression on their face completely. They lost intimidation points, the second eyebrow easing some of the dangerousness from their face and replacing it with a new emotion that wasn’t gloom or anger or angst, or any of the emotions that Cinnabar had displayed in Phos’ presence.

Cinnabar looked surprised.

And it looked cute on them.

And did Phos just think ‘cute’ and ‘Cinnabar’ in the same phrase? They were definitely going to die today.

“You looked at my computer?”

“I did.”

And here was when the magic kept on happening. Because Cinnabar kept looking surprised. And, as such, kept looking less dangerous than they were cute.

“You- but why-“ even more: Cinnabar looked almost calm now, as if their disbelief had been enough to kick out anger and murder from their head, because there wasn’t enough room for all three of them. For a brief second, the thought that maybe, just maybe, they would live to see another day crossed Phos’ mind.

And then the thought crossed their mind again for a longer second, because Cinnabar’s face was an adorable frown of perplexity while they tried to make sense of their first experience of Phos’ incongruous lifestyle. If Cairngorm were here, they could help them through the process. It was less traumatic when there were two people instead of one to acknowledge the hopelessness of Phos’ case.

“Why?” Cinnabar managed to ask in a tiny, childish voice that Phos would never have believed could belong to them. And they destroyed it with chaotic pragmatism.

“I don’t know! I was just curios!”

Cinnabar’s eyes were back on them, their gaze significantly less cute now and Phos contemplated the option of pleading for their life once again, but they were on a rampage and couldn’t stop the words that come out of their mouth. So they uttered them at the speed of light to make up for it.

“Also please tell me it’s ironic!”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“The font!” what else? Was this another test? “The cursed one! The pic was super cute but you can’t ruin it like that! It hurts the kittens!”

“What the actual fuck. What’s your problem?”

“Gosh, I can’t believe this!” and wielding as a weapon that specific brand of courage that comes from an equal mixture of foolhardiness and spite, Phos did the unthinkable again.

They stood up and walked two oblivious steps into Cinnabar’s territory. And a third one toward Cinnabar’s bed. They bent down over their computer, dangerously close to Cinnabar’s face and blissfully unaware of the defensive way in which they were drawing back.

“That thing!” they said once again, pointing a finger at Cinnabar’s desktop, “gosh, I can’t even say its name, you used comic sans. Like, you used comic sans!”

“Stop staring at my computer, you creep,” Cinnabar protested, and shut the machine as a sign of defiance.

“How can you call me a creep? Look what you did to your kittens!”

“What the hell, go away, go back to your side of the room.”

“They don’t deserve this, and that red too, they don’t deserve this pain.”

Phos was so absorbed in their graphics-induced indignation that they almost missed the fierce, deep red that was dying Cinnabar’s cheeks. And they almost missed the way Cinnabar was no longer barking threats but tilting their head to the side and looking at them with a mixture of confusion and apprehension. Because Phos was ranting about designer’s stuff to a math grad. A math grad who knew about technology only the bare necessaire to write a couple of papers in which the quantity of numbers beat words 5 to 1, and who liked it that way. So Phos missed the exact moment in which Cinnabar’s irritation for their outrageous breach of privacy and personal space muted into defensiveness.

“’twas a gift. From my Sensei.”

“Uh?”

“The thing, I didn’t make it, it was a gift. It was nice of him. He said it was t-to bring me good luck.”

And suddenly the weight of all the things they had missed while they were ranting about gestalt and the faults of sans serifs hit Phos in the head with the violence of a very, very hard frying pan. And then they felt like shit.

“Oh. Oh! Shit, I mean, gosh, and how- how old is your Sensei?”

“I don’t know.”

“Like, more than sixty?”

“Yeah, definitely.”

“Alright, alright, gosh,” Phos ran a hand through their hair, they gazed at Cinnabar from beneath the teal and found them staring back at them, anticipation and worry on their face.

They were several years older than Phos, and several shades more bitter. And yet, they looked so tiny. A fragile, red-headed thing with adorable little freckles and what looked like a half-pout. In that exact moment, Phos understood how Padparadscha could call them a “cutie.” Padpa was never wrong about people, after all.

“Okay, listen. He was nice, but you both need to be enlightened about stuff,” so they put their hands on their hips in the cheap imitation of a power pose and donned their most charming smile.

“Therefore, I, Phosphophyllite, will help you out. I’m going to make you the best kitten wallpaper. The one that only you can use.”

And then proceeded to be smacked in the face by a skillfully thrown cushion.

#houseki no kuni #cinnaphosweek2018 #cinnaphos #cinnabar #phosphophyllite #fic tag #lets give these rocks more stupid moments #and some more clichey situations #just because i can #pls enjoy this it is super long #and my sarcastic purple prose is showing #everyone who reads this gets +10 vocabulary points #and sorry again this is so late

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johobi · 6 years

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When You Least Expect It | 09

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader x Taehyung

Word count: 11.6k

Warnings: depression, anxiety, a very vague allusion to self-harm, graphic, penetrative sex, vulgar language etc.

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16732419/navigate

A/N: I’m sorry this took so long to edit!!

Next: 10 || WYLEI Masterlist

You’re in love with your childhood friend, Taehyung. The problem is, you treasure your friendship with him far too much to ever risk losing it. Oh, and he’s quite the Casanova. At your wits’ end with feelings you can no longer hide as diligently as you once did, you ask him to set you up with someone, anyone, in a last-ditch attempt to avoid a heartbreaking conversation.

The three days following that ill-omened evening passed with as much ease as a spell in the Underworld. You could have been swayed into believing that that was where you were now sentenced, perpetually, to reside, but for your familiarly unextraordinary surroundings. The Black Dog had become Cerberus, and tirelessly upheld your condemnation. Never too far astray, and possessed, always, of a voracious appetite for your misery, the hound snuck its way into the sanctuary of your home and watched you reduce to a melancholic soup between the stale, rumpled sheets of your seldom-left bed.

And you still functioned, yes – to the casual eye. But only to deter interrogation over that most unbearable of subjects. Adopting a frivolous front was so mentally taxing, that you attended only those obligations that demanded your appearance. Like at work, for example. Your sole method of coping, there, came in the form of the new hire Hoseok presented to you on Day One, Post-Taehyung.

In the wake of such devastation, it was far easier to assume a different role; a different life.

So, on Day One, you became The Trainer. The Trainer was bubbly, comedically clumsy and ever so relieved to have the extra pair of hands. Even Hoseok loved The Trainer. So much so, you began to wonder if he preferred her to the real you. The you that slept little, ate less, and, when at home, did nothing. Even when the roots of your hair came to shine like you’d been baptised in a font of grease, you did nothing. And when the blank page of your perennially unstarted assignment began to blend in with the walls surrounding it, you did nothing then, either.

On Day Two, as you lay there in the comforting—for its sheer suffocation—murk of your apartment, the laptop winked its final goodbye as it gave up hope.

And on Day Three, the day that should not have been Day Three but the date with Jungkook you had so been looking forward to, you gave up hope.

As the intervals between his determined door-knocking grew, hailing his weakening will, the path to him felt far too long; far too treacherous to tread. The exhaustion that dogged you saw corridors and rooms outstretch the paltry floorspace detailed in your tenancy agreement, casting Jungkook beyond reach.

You would never make it.

The rapping stopped.

So, this was loneliness. Four blank walls and sour-smelling sheets.

You rolled over, eager to succumb to the lethargy that lapped at your toes. That buffered you from the vulturous circling of your more serrated thoughts.

But then you saw him. Saw his kind, softly-sloping features. A face that granted you succour for its sheer existence.

Your phone cast you in a cool glow, not far removed from your waxen complexion. Jungkook vibrated incessantly, and would not go unignored. When his attempt to reach you passed its fourth minute, the gamble of picking up had your heart hammering. If you answered, what would you be met with? An anger that burned so hot, it could disintegrate what fragile matter of you that remained? You just didn’t have the strength.

But if you didn’t, Jungkook would be gone.

Just like him.

And the crippling fear of that possibility had your thumb swiping in a panic-stricken fumble to admit his call. “H-Hello?” you mumbled, voice uneven for its prolonged disuse.

“____?” came Jungkook’s sweet, agreeable – oh, so, so agreeable – tones. They cracked under concern. “Noona, are you okay? Where are you? I’m at your apartment, like we arranged.”

No, you hadn’t even possessed the decency to cancel the meeting you knew you would never make it to. But that’s what you did, when things became unbearable. Avoided them. Like you did, now, with anyone or anything related to the man who had cut you to ribbons. Even Yoongi, who, by mere association, had become painful to be in the presence of.

“I’m sorry, Jungkook,” you rasped flatly. “I’m not feeling well. Hiking is too much.”

The fury would come, any second now. You didn’t even care to brace for it. Just a hope remained, that it would push you a stage past numb and into an anaesthetised utopia.

But it didn’t. Only warmth trickled forth from the speaker. “That’s okay, noona. We don’t have to go hiking. Are you sick?”

“Yeah, something like that that,” you mumbled, as indistinct as the enigma of an answer you’d given. Had you the strength, you’d have berated yourself for harbouring reservations about expressing your mental anguish to him. Jungkook had, after all, sworn himself to be nothing but a willing ear to your woes. As always, though, your reluctance to add to his burdensome load prevented you from voicing them. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

Wise to your tendency for deflection, however, he wouldn’t allow you to withhold it from him. “Not feeling well in yourself?”

Such a gentle, considerate way to put it. Dare you say, the faintest of somethings tickled your necrotic heart? Maybe it was still capable of sensation. “No, not at all. I’ve been having some very bad days.”

A sigh filtered through your phone, but it wasn’t one of frustration. Nor despondency, which you feared more. “Noona, I know you have this thing where you feel like you have to keep everything to yourself, but even when we can’t be together in person, I’m at the end of a line, at the very least,” was Jungkook’s tender appeal to you. “Texting is great at hiding emotion, because I had no idea you were struggling. That, or I’m an idiot and should have realised.”

“You’re not an idiot,” you immediately dismissed such undeserving slander. “I mislead you on purpose. I was trying to dig my own way out of this hole, but, uh,” you cast a despairing look around the disarray surrounding you. “That didn’t happen. Sorry.”

Jungkook was swift to scold you. “Stop apologising, seriously. We don’t have to go hiking, but I don’t want to leave you alone—I mean, unless you want to be alone, that is,” he added hastily. He was trying so hard to say the right thing. A blooming warmth began to thaw you. “But I don’t want to leave you alone. I want to be with you. We could just spend the day inside and chill out? That sounds just as appealing to me.”

You surprised yourself. Spurning his company had seemed like a dead cert. “No, I don’t want to be alone. But you can’t come in, my place is a fucking pig sty and I’m—I’m embarrassed.”

At your confession, he addressed you with an impassioned softness. “Noona,” he murmured, the word like a velvet-wrapped embrace as it kissed your ear drums. “There’s no need for you to be embarrassed. But, I understand, and I won’t ask to come in. Why don’t you come to my place?”

Now that it was he himself proposing it to you, the prospect of a fresh environment and more Jungkook became the only appealing suggestion to broach your shroud of gloom since its descension over you. Nothing could be better for you than to gain distance from the pungency of unlaundered clothes and the ecosystem that now thrived in your kitchen sink. You grasped the opportunity with both hands. “I-I’d love to. That sounds like a really nice idea. Can I have, like, ten minutes to make myself somewhat presentable? I’m sor—”

“Of course,” Jungkook cut through your forthcoming apology. He wasn’t having it today. “Take as long as you want. I’ll be waiting in my car, okay?”

“Okay,” you hugged the phone closer with both hands. “Thank you, Jungkook. Really.”

“It’s cool. Selfish, really. I wanted to see you so badly,” he admitted with a bashful chuckle, the pure noise summoning the makings of a smile to your face. And thank God, because you’d been convinced future appearances of the expression would prove elusive.

It was imperative that he knew this. “I wanted to see you, too. I really did, I was just—so—I don’t know. Well, you do know. And you didn’t give up and leave me to it. You could have done, probably should have, but—”

“Stop, noona. Go get yourself ready, and—” Jungkook paused to draw in a sharp, excited breath. “Hey, why not get some stuff together to do some baking? Not that I’m any good at it, but I know how much you love it. Why don’t you show me how to make something?”

A faint chuckle threatened to shake free the device you clasped so weakly. Jesus, you really needed to eat something soon. “That does sound fun. You probably won’t have all the utensils I’ll need, so I’ll bring what I can. Uh, just—”

“Hm?”

“I look like shit, so try not to look too horrified when you see me,” you rushed out with a grimace that couldn’t be seen, but felt all too well in your self-deprecative humour. Even as physically and emotionally weak as you were, you were incapable of giving yourself a much-needed break from criticism, no matter how undue. Indeed, had you been laid out on your death bed at this very moment, dragging in your penultimate breaths, you’d likely be apologising to Jungkook for the haggardness of your appearance, or how abrasive to the ears your final gasps might be. “I’ll try and lessen the damage if I can,” you continued, though the appeal of applying make-up was a zero on a scale of I can’t even be bothered to breathe to Do I really have to comb my hair?

Now Jungkook was frustrated. But only enough to target you with a playful chastisement. One that had you swooning like a silent movie starlet. “Don’t you dare, or I’ll come up there and throw you over my shoulder before you have a chance to,” he warned with an authoritative growl. “Just keep yourself comfortable. We’ll probably get messy anyway, I’m notoriously clumsy with food. Especially if I’m wearing a white shirt, which I am.”

“Okay, okay,” you relented, his encouragement invigorating your faltering limbs enough to haul yourself from bed. You fished around in the pile of clothes that, while a little creased, were still unworn. “I’ll get my ass into gear. I’ll be down soon.”

“’Kay. I’m just outside,” was his parting comment before he hung up.

One brisk shower, a hesitantly adorned romper and a perilously pinned bun later, you were ready. Well, not ready, as such, because you still considered your appearance lacking, but Jungkook’s sternly-worded warning rang in your ears and prevented you from making further embellishments. Bare- and fresh-faced was how he was going to receive you. Okay, so maybe not fresh, more weeklong, sequestered neglect-faced, but at least it was bare, as ordered.

Having haphazardly shoved into a box what culinary implements and ingredients you could think to bring, you hauled the cargo with great difficulty down the narrow staircase descending. Your choice of flats afforded you, at least, the agility to catch yourself on the next step when you nearly met your neck-breaking end a few times.

With an incredibly unattractive scowl, you sandwiched the box between the wall and your body as you fumbled with the lock, and wore the expression still when the door opened into Jungkook’s immediate face. Abruptly, you wiped your features free of their unsightly crumpling and, quite of their own accord, found them curving to accommodate a giddy smile. One he wrenched from you with such ease. And giddy, because how the fuck did he get more beautiful with each meeting? The party felt so long ago now, but in reality, it had only been a week or so. The heart — and, indeed, the eyes — evidently grow fonder with time. “Jungkook, I thought you were going to wait in the car? You made me jump.”

“Sorry,” your guts twisted at the crooked grin he slapped on as he immediately relieved you of your load. “I thought you might need help carrying stuff.”

Forever obliging to lighten your figurative and physical strains, Jungkook’s attentiveness sent you into an inward flap. And the re-emergence of his beautiful fucking buck-teeth only intensified the party-for-one taking place in your stomach. Luckily, you were adept at channelling an outward serenity. “Thank you,” was your predictably unimaginative response. Honestly, he deserved so much more than that – not just for carrying a stupid box – but the words to express complex sentiment often abandoned you.

One side of his mouth pitched higher as he led you to his car. “Wow, this is a lot of stuff. Are we preparing a seven-course meal?” he jibed, gently setting the culinary collection into the trunk. He treated even the most inanimate of objects with the care and consideration with which he handled you, as though he considered anything by proxy just as precious. Why, exactly, had you been so unwilling to spend this day with him, again? Free from insidious thought – momentarily, at least –and rooted in the reality of his uplifting presence, the hopelessness of 30 minutes ago seemed lifetimes past.

Jungkook caught your quiet smile as he darted around the car with an adamance to hold open its door for you. “There she is,” he grinned openly when you neared him, hands on hips. “I love your dress, by the way. You look beautiful, as ever.”

“Oh my God, stop,” you groaned, plopping into your seat with a huff and whipping the seatbelt around you. “And it’s not a dress, it’s a romper.”

He closed the door and leaned through the open window to scrutinise the garment in question. “I don’t know what that is.”

It was the most throwaway of comments, but it tore a bark of laughter from you, as though he’d hammered on your chest to extract it from you himself. It was an odd, but welcome, sound. “That’s so funny, and I don’t even know why.”

Giggles continued to hijack you as Jungkook rounded the car and took to the driver’s seat, an eyebrow hooked high in amusement. “If I just say random words, will you laugh?”

“No,” you were perceptibly shaking, now, exposing you for the flimsiness of your denial. And even when you perched an elbow on the door to better adhere a hand to your mouth, it did little to stifle the string of hiccups you were now stricken with. Your chest ached for each sharp intake of breath they prompted. “Fuck, I can’t s—hyuh!—stop!”

As the engine turned over, Jungkook adopted a brassy voice that was comedically dissonant from his usual, reserved tone. He strained his vocal chords into breaking. “Cucumber, squash—oh, this fucking car—moist, cheese, moist cheese,” a hyena-like cackle, interspersed by loud, abrupt squeaks, resounded as your attempts to hinder the noises fell flat. His unrelated interjection — as passionately voiced as the rest of his nonsense recital — only heightened the hilarity of the situation.

“Fuck,” you tittered, wiping away a tear born, for once, from something other than melancholy. “You’re—hup—insane.”

Jungkook yelled victoriously when the car finally growled to life. “I was getting worried, there.”

A snigger. “Yeah, me too. Not for the car, though.”

“I’ve got more where that came from,” he tongued his cheek like the appealing bastard he didn’t know he was, peering behind the both of you to check for blind spots. As he pulled away: “Especially if I get to hear more of your ridiculously adorable hiccups.”

Your cheeks bulged with captive air. “Please, no,” you sighed, releasing a long, restorative breath. When no further hiccups came, you wrapped your stomach in a wary hug. “I’m aching. Sounds like your car’s on its way out, though.”

Jungkook’s face fell slightly. “It is. I’ve been told to expect it. I can’t afford anything else, though, and it’s already had some emergency maintenance,” you watched, distracted, the way his mouth puckered and slackened as it shaped every enchanting syllable. Receptive to the allure of the sight, your lips parted in harmony. “It won’t go on for much longer. I’m looking for better paid work, actually.”

That drew you back. “You’re leaving the school?”

“It’s not that I want to,” Jungkook nibbled on his lower lip like the long-eared mammal he so endearingly resembled. “I don’t have much of a choice. I won’t be able to afford rent, soon. The car trouble is only adding to the list of money troubles I’m having. And I really don’t wanna be stuck in this situation for too much longer,” his addendum was voiced with an understandable, though subtle, distress.

You wanted to draw his hand into a consolatory hold, but it was more pressingly occupied. “I’m really sorry to hear that. I know how tough things can get.”

Jungkook delivered a heartening slap to your bare thigh, sending you rocketing up in your seat. “Don’t worry, I’m surviving. To be honest, I was doubtful of whether I was going to bother sticking around this city. Until I met you,” the volume of his admission plunged dangerously close to a whisper. He stole a meaningful glance your way, the coyest of smirks twitching upward his mouth. Jungkook had an aptitude for pulling off such contradictory expressions. “Moving away from home definitely seemed like the best decision at the time, but I began to doubt it a couple of months ago. When I got poor, basically,” he snickered. “Things are really tough on your own.”

The breath you’d been inadvertently holding since the – by no means unwelcome – introduction of his hand, flowed free. “Right? Bit of a culture shock. I should’ve gotten a roommate, really, but my studio is just about manageable.”

Your heart fluttered to an unsteady rhythm when Jungkook became conscious of where his fingers were so intimately situated. Lingering along the innermost of your thigh, they skimmed the supple flesh beneath them as he corrected the bold manoeuvre and removed them entirely. “Sorry, I wasn’t thinking,” he begged his pardon with a clear of his throat, eyes glued a little too firmly to the road.

“Now it’s my turn to tell you off for apologising,” your lips plucked up slyly. “Not after the things we’ve been talking about. Anyway,” you drizzled the last word with a stomach-turning sweetness. “What were you saying about not sticking around until you met me?”

Jungkook’s flushing subsided somewhat with the diversion from altogether more sordid topics. “It’s simple, really. I want to stay here, now. Because of, uh, you,” but ruby kissed his cheeks all the more avidly for the heart-pounding proclamation.

God, you needed to kiss him.

Unfortunately, unless a kiss was worth the certain, gory decapitation the distraction would bring, you’d have to go hungry.

And you were positively starving.

You clenched fists around your seatbelt, like you didn’t trust it to hold you in place for much longer. However, even if your traitorous hands didn’t uproot the meddlesome restraint, the blaze of adoration raging against your ribcage would easily incinerate it. “Wow,” was your eloquent response.

Jungkook didn’t allow you to elaborate. “I—I mean, don’t think that I’m putting pressure on you to like me, or anything—”

“Fuck’s sake,” you growled, all a shackled beast burning with the frustration of being denied its master’s touch. Jungkook’s eyes widened fretfully. “I really gotta kiss you right now, but I can’t. You’re driving.”

The heated exclamation alone was enough for him to momentarily forget the importance of steering the death contraption you were both belted into. When you realised he was no longer adhering to the highway code, but instead lavishing you with a protracted, open-mouthed ogling, you pushed his face frontward. As heart-stopping as Jungkook was, the magnetism of his stare would, for sure, guarantee your collision with something far more fatal than each other. Nevertheless, he spent much of his time casting you vital, sidelong looks. “I—I can stop. I can stop right now. I can pull over right here.”

Your head hit the headrest with a dull thump, overcome with mirth for his urgency. “We have all day. Keep driving, I have some refrigerated stuff in the back.”

Jungkook emitted a desirous whine. “I don’t know if I can wait that long.”

“Tough,” you snapped merrily, spotting a camera case in the backseat as your eyes perused its hazardously stacked contents. Guilt gored you when you caught sight of his thoughtfully-packed backpack. He’d clearly been prepared for your originally intended date activities. “You brought your camera, after all.”

He peered over his shoulder. “Hm? Oh, yeah. Well, now I can take pictures of you in the comfort of my own home, instead.”

Turning in your seat, you propped your chin upon the heel of your hand. There was no way you could let pass such a fortuitous opportunity to see him squirm. “Yeah? What kind?”

His mouth hung open a fraction at the bait, but avoided the snare. “Whatever you like. You’re my muse.”

The sincerity of the compliment threw off your sultry play. You’d never met a guy who countered coquetry with kindliness. Undefeated in all your many bouts of flirtation thus far, Jungkook was the only one to frequently give you pause. Who knew your Achilles heel was not, in fact, obscenities so appalling that Eros himself would recoil in revulsion, but plain old flattery? Flattery that spilled with such liberty from behind those exasperatingly darling teeth? “Stop being so nice.”

“Why do you always say that?” his brows met in bemusement. “It’s as if no-one’s ever treated you the way they should.”

He had no idea how close that hit to home. “Maybe. Or maybe you’re just particularly kind.”

“I’m not,” the furrow deepened. “Sounds like you dated some douchebags.”

“Quite a few,” you began, then thought better of elaboration. Jungkook didn’t need to hear the true extent of your hormone-fuelled regrets. “But that doesn’t matter, now. You’re opening my eyes to a lot of things.”

“I’ll take that as your roundabout way of admitting that you really like me and wanna spend all your time with me. Forever,” Jungkook’s jesting crinkled the corners of his eyes and the bridge of his nose.

And, yes, you did.

Because you no longer wanted a life that was absent of something so diminutive, so tremendous, as the way his features puckered around joy. You wanted to watch those creases, with time, score themselves between his brows and atop his cheekbones.

And you wanted to be the one who engraved them there.

“Forever is a long time,” you cautioned with a wink. But inside, you were already living it.

You were enamoured.

When he parked beside an obnoxiously up-market apartment complex, you presumed it was to grab some snacks from the gentrified establishments opposite. However, as he lugged the box of utensils to your window, he ducked his head in, confused. “Why aren’t you getting out?”

“Wait, you live here?” you gawped, eyeballing the building that emanated affluence. “No wonder you’re fucking broke!”

As you exited the car, mouth still unflatteringly ajar, Jungkook developed a sudden interest in the – miraculously unblemished – paving beneath your feet. As one of the great unwashed, you felt at risk of apprehension for even daring to tread there. “It’s nowhere near as expensive as it looks, but, yeah. All my savings are gone. I didn’t really budget all that well, but I kinda left home in a hurry. This was the first place I could find.”

Was he really that naïve about financial matters? “Why not just downsize, then?”

“The landlord won’t release me from my contract. I have another six months left on it,” he huffed in vexation, tapping a six-digit code into the pad adjoining the gate. With a buzz as grating as the needlessly extravagant entrance it controlled, the lock released. Jungkook stood aside, stubborn in his chivalry, to allow you entry. “If you ever wanna get in, the code is 093457. Can you remember that?”

Wow.

Without a whisper of doubt fogging his eyes, he’d placed a ghost of a key in your palm. Like it was of no more significance than those digits of his stored in your phone.

Boy, things were progressing rather quick.

And you were clinging, white-knuckled, to the front seat of this rollercoaster as it barrelled down a track conspicuously free of obstacles, squealing for it to go faster. The opportunity to alight had long since passed. All you could do now was throw up your hands and scream. “I think I can, yeah. Thank you. I’ll make sure to come here in the middle of the night to relieve you of all the rich-people possessions you probably own.”

As you entered the lobby, as plush and immaculate as it could only have been, Jungkook ushered you into one of the immediate elevators. The cubicle alone, less of walls and more of mirrored panelling – you know, so you can better appreciate how wealthy you look when en route to brunch with dahling Cressida – was bigger than your only bathroom.

“I’m far from rich,” he muttered into the box staunchly cradled to his chest. A billow of powder stirred under the gust of his breath. Looks like the flour didn’t survive the journey. “Not anymore. My parents are, though. Maybe that’s why it was hard to let that lifestyle go. I made a lot of mistakes learning, that’s for sure. Still am,” was his barely audible addition.

You stood a little straighter. This was his first time mentioning more than their existence in passing. “Why did you decide to leave?”

“They started pressuring me into things,” the offering was vague and ominous in tone. Eyes rising to the mirror image of him opposite, Jungkook engaged his counterpart in a steely staredown. “Business stuff. I didn’t want anything to do with it.”

The hum of the ascending elevator filled the hush left by your introspective pause. “You’re not part of a family-run crime syndicate, are you?” you posed, only half-joking.

Jungkook’s scowl broke with a bob of his shoulders. His laugh could be corked and peddled as a cure-all. And you’d be first in line. “No, it’s not quite that bad. Though, that’d probably be infinitely cooler than the reality. My parents—well, my father—is the head of a pretty large conglomerate. My mother is a member of the board.”

Your eyebrows shot up into the stratosphere. “Whoa. Hella rich, then.”

“Hella? Have you been playing Life is—”

“—Strange? Absolutely. I’m hella fond of that word, now,” you expressed that fondness with a toothy grin that tripled his. But your glee faltered somewhat when you recollected his earlier visitation of your apartment. “Shit, and you’ve been in my hovel of an apartment. I bet that must’ve been like dumpster diving.”

With a ding of announcement, the lift drifted to a halt. Taking the lead again, Jungkook shook his head. And like a cat stalking the metallic shimmy of a bell-toting toy, your eyes snapped to the quiver of his helix piercings. There wasn’t a thing about this man that wasn’t sexy as fuck. “I loved it so much I considered asking to move in as soon as I stepped foot inside.”

You rolled your eyes at his back. “Let’s swap, then. What do you have, a three-bedroom? Four?”

Jungkook crowed. “Okay, I’m stupid with money, but I’m not that stupid. It only has one bedroom. As you’re about to see,” he gestured to the door he now stood before. “Can you take this for a sec?”

“Sure, I should be carrying it anyway,” you relieved him of the box that clanked with the promise of sweet concoctions. “Did you just say I’m about to see your bedroom?”

He fished in the pockets of his jeans for his keys and, with a smooth turn of burnished brass, let you into the awaiting opulence. “I—I meant the apartment,” he spluttered, and you watched, with a kittenish smirk, the tips of his ears tinge red. “You know what I meant.”

“So, are you famous enough for me to Google y—whoa.”

Okay, so it wasn’t on the same scale as Yoongi’s gratuitous bachelor pad, but it was sumptuous all the same. “Nice,” you whistled, your focus fastening to the splendour beneath your feet. Rich, restored mahogany kissed your unworthy soles – something you were all too aware of, as you hastily slipped off your scuffed excuses for shoes – and played host to a number of tastefully-placed shag rugs. Rugs that just cried out to be rolled on. You eyed one, transfixed, a cat again. A cat that had located its next nap spot.

Juxtaposed with the knife-point angles and frigid decor of Yoongi’s apartment that so became him, Jungkook’s was warm- toned, with soft furnishings and of a lived-in air that appealed to you immensely. “This is probably how I’d decorate my place if I had any money,” you lauded, resembling a Nodding Dog for all your vague head-bobbing. “I like it.”

Like Yoongi’s, though, Jungkook’s apartment was open-plan but for the bedroom and bathroom tucked away to the side. Shafts of light, streaming from a slanted glass wall – a fixture imposing in its sheer immensity – brought forth golden tones latent in the dark wood. The sight further compelled you to flop down, belly-up, and bask, feline-like, in the warmth of its glow.

Jungkook deposited the the box – its contents, now, as tossed as a salad – on the asymmetrical countertop of his rustic breakfast bar. And with an expectant hand poised to catch his four-digit camera, he shrugged the strap free from his shoulder. “I’m glad you like it,” his voice took on that fondness for you that you could never quite understand.

What, in all actuality, did he see in you?

When you had drunk in your legal limit of his pleasantly sedative abode, you turned to him, giddy. His eyes played on you, cryptically astir at having won your acclaim. Chin in hand, he propped himself against the counter, looking nothing short of smitten. “I’m glad you like me.”

The boy had a talent for sending you off-kilter.

You tugged at the hem of your shapeless one-piece, jerking your head at the wonder of his affection. “I don’t understand why, but I’m glad you like me, too.”

“Don’t make me list the reasons, or we’ll be standing here all day,” he cracked over his shoulder as he rattled his way around an array of hammered-gold cannisters. Lifting each one free of its lid in turn, he peered dubiously into their depths. “I can never remember what’s what, here. You want coffee? Tea? Something else?”

“Just some water, thanks,” you croaked. God, you sounded like shit. Like a frog had taken up permanent residence in your windpipe and insisted on strumming your vocal chords for you. “I’m trying to keep away from caffeinated drinks at the moment.”

“Ah, of course,” Jungkook acknowledged with a click of his fingers. You watched with a vested interest as he rolled up the sleeves of his—indeed, white, and imminently on course for soiling—sweatshirt to oblige you. A succession of dulcet half-murmurs and airy croons drifted past his lips.

Fucking hell, he could sing, too?

“Voice of an angel,” you muttered, more an aside than anything, but the volume of your contemplation was enough for him to hear. With the full weight of his stare pinning you in place, you threw one of your own, much heavier, at the works of Bernini he called legs. “Thighs of a devil.”

Jungkook turned to the sink, a suppressed grin warping the corners of his mouth. “I didn’t realise I was singing.”

“Oh, you didn’t realise you were singing,” you pitched deeper to mimic him. “You just happen to have a voice that explains the immaculate conception, and you didn’t even realise you were using it. I see,” in a mannerism most certainly acquired from Jungkook, your tongue planted itself firmly in your cheek. “It’s not like you were trying to show off for me, anything.”

Whatever danced in the dark depths of Jungkook’s eyes, then, hit your circulatory system like a stimulant. “You’re asking for it,” was his harbinger of a warning.

You drew sullen circles into the countertop, jutting your lip to bait his scrutiny. “For what?”

The devious twitch of his lips was tacit enough. Leaving you to braise in the juices of your own undoing, he returned to the task at hand; your all but forgotten glass of water.

With a flurry of excitement, you pulled objects indiscriminately from the box, not caring where or with how much might you unloaded them. Your attention was better spent elsewhere, namely leering at the prominent veins that scaled Jungkook’s arms like ivy. When you tracked their descent to his generous hands, wet from the faucet, your want for him manifested in a bitten bottom lip.

“What are we making?” Jungkook startled you out of your indecent introspection, catching you on the edge of exposure. His lips curled tellingly. “Something sweet?”

“Something creamy,” was your proposal, steeped in suggestion. For some reason, Jungkook seemed oblivious to the water now surging over the rim of the glass. “I’m thinking a pavlova, because I’ve forgotten a lot of things. Got lots of eggs, though!”

Not a glint of recognition. “I don’t know what that is, either. I’m not doing great today, huh?”

“You’re doing just perfect,” you hushed him, taking the proffered drink. There was about as much clinging to the exterior of the glass as there was inside it. Looking up from the bowels of your emptied box, you affixed a sceptical smirk. “You don’t have an electric whisk, by any chance?”

Jungkook scratched at the back of his head. An imagined itch, to be sure; the gesture another of his wholesomely appealing habits. “Nope. I’m not exactly Gordon Ramsay, I’m sorry to say.”

“Then I’m gonna need your big, strong, man-arms, probably. Beating eggs is fucking exhausting.”

Flipping open the dozen you’d successfully remembered to bring with, you cracked one against the rim of your mixing bowl with a precision and fluidity that impressed Jungkook enough to provoke a gasp.

“Holy shit, I’ve never seen anyone do that except on TV,” he gaped, studying the art of yolk separation in an awed trance. He could catch flies with the amount of air exposure his mouth was getting.

And there he went again, affecting you in the smallest, most trivial of ways.

Teasing him was fast becoming a prized pastime. “You’ve never seen anyone break an egg before, Jungkook? Do you just live on instant ramen, or something?”

The swipe was barely glancing, but he played up the wound with the eyes of a Disney critter. “First of all, yes, I have seen someone break an egg. You know exactly what I meant. And, second of all, this is exactly what I was talking about.”

“What is?” you chuckled, siphoning your fourth egg into the awaiting gloop.

“All the bad things you say are gonna get you into trouble, one day.”

You stilled. That was a very direct attack. So direct, your pussy throbbed in the wake of its impact.

Feigning virtue was always fun. “I have no idea what you mean. I’m just crackin’ some eggs.”

Jungkook’s silhouette loomed closer. “You wanted me to beat something for you?”

Whisk in hand, your knees felt dangerously close to knocking themselves out and rendering you a floor-bound Salmonella risk. Unprepared for this lobbying of impurity, it took you a second longer than you’d prefer to formulate a counterattack. “I’ll need to see how capable you are, first.”

Yeah, not your best.

Jungkook, however, took it as his cue to mold himself to your back, granting your upper arms an explicit squeeze with the hands you were so fucking obsessed with. The sleevelessness of your romper had been a point of internal contention for you in your earlier clothing deliberation, but now it was the most valued of selections. You experienced, unobstructed, the softness of his unmarred palms as they ghosted down your arms’ reach and engulfed your fingers whole. Never had you felt so delicate as you did, then, swallowed in the expanse of his strapping hands.

Decisively, he plucked the implement from your slackening grip and hauled the bowl closer to him. Or you, rather, a little too comfortably wedged between the pressure of his body and the countertop that never asked to be part of this charged exchange. The warm, sturdy enclosure within which Jungkook held you captive tightened when he began whipping the bowl’s contents with a strength that struck you dumb. Like a primitive ape, you fawned over your mate's show of power, because the display was nothing if not to titillate you into a hard, dirty rutting.

And, fuck, you wanted that.

You leered, mesmerised, at the succulent bulge of tendon and vein alike as his hands whisked up a storm, his biceps rhythmically buffeting your shoulders with the effort of the motion. Hot breath met your ear, liquefying your entire being. “How’s this?”

“G-Good,” you couldn’t have given him a more vivid, greener light. All that he did piqued the fierce interest of your every nerve ending. And that was a reality all too apparent in the collecting slick coating the crotch of your panties. You should have been adding some sugar to the eggs around about now, but honestly, who gave a fuck about that anymore? “Until it forms stiff peaks.”

Jungkook pulled the whisk from the mixture to test its consistency, but didn’t return to the task when it proved unsatisfactorily blended. Instead, he dropped the implement into the creamy mess and seized, suddenly, the clothed swell of your breasts, adamant on turning you into a creamy mess, apparently. The switch in intent caught you wholly unawares. Like a boneless fish, you flopped into his built physique, lolling your head against his broad span of shoulder. “Oh, f-fuck.”

The fabric of your one-piece wasn’t the thickest. With impressively able hands, he kneaded you like dough, plying you into a putty that bulged from between the gaps of his wolfish grip. It wasn’t long before you were rising to readiness, a glaze streaking the space between your legs.

Jungkook was priming you for consumption.

His thumbs grazed to and fro over your budding nipples, wakening them to the chafe of your outer layer. “Feel pretty stiff to me,” he practically purred into the nape of your neck, his lips brushing a template of where he would later revisit. “I’d say you’re done.”

And from the burgeoning bulge making known its presence at the crack of your ass, you’d say he was about done, too.

A hand ventured lower, and then higher, as it slid surreptitiously beneath the hem of your shorts. “Do you want me to keep going?” Jungkook near-whispered, pausing his pilgrimage to your saturated cunt. You craned your neck, with some difficulty, to face him. “If you don’t want this today, I can stop.”

A dazed smile. “I want it. Today. Now,” and, bonding your lips in a kiss that should never have been broken on that night on the balcony, the heated, humid rejoining drew a muzzled moan from the both of you. Immersed, again, in the ambrosia of each other’s unfastened mouths, the steady undulation of Jungkook’s jaw as he received you felt as innate as your own heartbeat. How quickly he had attuned himself to your motions, your tempo; and, with a studious tongue, taken such an intimate cast of your mouth, knowing, already, how best to tease whimpers from you. Together you drowned, caught in a sea of saliva and amassed lust. Lust built from weeks of needless principle.

Oh, why had you waited so long, when this was nothing but right?

The potency of your monstrous, reciprocal desire now unleashed, it spurred your hands, your tongues, to paths they were keen to retread.

Jungkook was particularly quick in infiltrating that one part of you that begged for reunion. But despite his haste to submerse his fingertips in your gooey delight, he skimmed the outskirts of your panties with an infuriating lightness. He tore away from the kiss as though scorched. “You’re already this soaked?” he exclaimed, tormented, knocking his forehead to yours like the revelation had physically weakened him. “How are you so fucking sexy, noona?”

“It’s all you,” there was no need for exaggeration. Not when him simply broaching the meagre cotton barrier snatched the neediest of whimpers from you. Feeling his fingertips glide along the curve of your slippery slit, you briefly fretted that spontaneous human combustion may not merely be a myth. Because as he slathered himself with your syrupy, fervent welcome, you swore you were the pyre of a building inferno. “Don’t you dare tease me, Jungkook, you’ve gotten me so fucking horny,” was your urgent warning, coasting close to shrill. “Put those goddamn fingers--that you know I’ve been fantasising about--inside me, already.”

A husky chuckle tickled the nerve endings spanning your shoulders, every centimetre of your skin pining for the touch of his supple mouth. Kisses that he generously gave, but sprinkled chaotically, like he didn’t want to neglect any one part of you. The cupid’s bow that dipped his upper lip assailed you with volleys of heated adoration, riling you into a squirm that only pressed you closer to the tip of his other, drawn, weapon. “You mean, these?”

Oh how easily they sunk into you; two at once, with an immediacy that spoke volumes of Jungkook’s desire to touch the lining of your most sensitive parts. He half-hummed, half-whined his approval for having been re-embedded in the heat and squeeze of a place his cock wished it could inhabit. For now, it was forced to experience your narrow reaches vicariously, through the nubile probing of his fingers. Jungkook was bewitched. “You feel like fucking heaven, fuck.”

His dick twitched impatiently, pressed flush to your backside as it was. And, though cosy in the pressure with which your asscheeks provided, it answered to a higher call, now; your warm, throbbing pussy. You rocked against his languid insertion, more exploratory than possessed by hunger. It seemed Jungkook had become lost to the wonder of your calculated constriction, each tense of muscle prying further open his mouth and eyes. You snickered at his wonderstruck expression. “Never had your fingers this deep in a girl’s pussy, Jungkook?”

“Not one as delicious as this,” he shot back, leaving an aching void in the wake of his exit. Poised to question his knowledge of your taste, he spun you around so you could better view his sampling. He drew the drenched digits to his mouth, their savoury topping bridging the gap between as gooey strings that lit up his eyes in anticipation. As easily as he had buried them in your sopping cunt, he dipped them past the seal of his lips with an agonised crumple to his brow, like he was partaking of some tantalising elixir he’d been forbidden to let touch his tongue. “I knew it,” he murmured thickly, sucking clean his fingers and allowing your essence to titillate his tastebuds. “You taste as good as you smell, and as hot as you look.”

Enthralled by the vision of him drinking from you with all the reverence of a wizened man supping up the Fountain of Youth, the tail-end of his ardent declaration stole your attention enough to tickle you. “I don’t think it’s possible to taste hot? Unless that wasn’t water I showered with earlier, but sriracha,” you teased, slinging your arms haphazardly around his neck. You did so to close the far too vast a distance between your bodies, but, hands upon your ass and subjecting it to a voracious, possessive squeeze, he was already mashing you to him. Your romper may as well have been non-existent for all the dulling of sensation it granted you. When the top of your mound thudded lightly to the rock-hard protrusion reaching for you from behind Jungkook’s jeans, it did nothing to diminish the utter, raw aching the contact inspired.

“Don’t sass me, noona,” the admonishment was stern, but breathless. “Am I gonna have to bend you over my knee?”

Fuck, the suggestion was enticing. Unfortunately, the drooling maw between your legs had no such patience. It demanded gratification. “Not this time, baby. You can punish me all you like later on. Right now, I need your cock,” you cooed, granting its straining outline the coaxing smooth of your palm.

Jungkook stiffened to a rigidity that could rival his dick. “Ugh—I like that,” was his softly moaned encouragement. “Again, please.”

“I haven’t stopped,” a lone brow raised in bemusement. To demonstrate, you increased the pressure you were applying to his captive length, enough friction to have him grinding into your hand like a randy buck.

“N-No, not that—ah,” you stole his gasp with your determined toying. “Well, that too, but—c-call me baby, again.”

Your other brow arched to match. “Oh? You like that, huh?”

Jungkook sobered a little in his self-consciousness. “Yeah,” the arousal that dusted his cheeks deepened into an irresistible scarlet. “I don’t know why, but, man, that hit a note.”

You caught him before he could pull away. “Then I like it too, baby,” the endearment dripped as obscenely from between your lips as the honey from your lower pair. “So fuck me, already.”

The seconds proceeding your demand hung heavy; almost beyond endurance. But then, in slow motion, you witnessed that sudden click; the wildness that pitched Jungkook’s eyes into an all-consuming blackness that entreated you to an amenable doom. The shiver of energy that shifted through him was near palpable; it resonated from the soles of his feet and upward, until, like a carnivore coiled to pounce, he hoisted you with ease onto the countertop.

With a vulgar smack, the backs of your thighs collided with solid oak, and, God, did you wish you’d taken up his earlier offer of some disciplining. The sting would tingle all the more beautifully for having been dispensed by his hefty palm. “You don’t need to ask me twice, noona,” he puffed, excitement rather than exertion stealing his breath. “I’ll give you the fucking you so desperately crave.”

Jungkook’s arms encased your torso, sheltering your heart better than the ribcage that so freely allowed Taehyung to penetrate. “Whoa,” you hiccupped, steadying yourself with a grasp that landed, fortuitously, on his tautened biceps. They shifted excitably beneath your hands. “What are you gonna do with me?”

Legs free and sprawling, you welcomed him into the space between with an invitation written in your tongue’s ink, blotting his girthy neck with saliva.

An invitation he accepted wholeheartedly.

With an appreciative grunt, the mass of his body bore down on and nearly—oh, so nearly—inside you, dancing on the fringes.

You wanted him to invade you, claim and repurpose you. Dismantle your design; one so sorely built in error.

You would no longer be his, but Jungkook’s.

“So, so many things. But, first, I’m gonna give your pussy the beating it deserves,” he leered over you all stone-cold assertiveness, and you shrunk beneath his emanating power, both gut-squirmingly aroused and intimidated by the absence of the usual fumbled words and averted gazes.

He must have been practicing, you mused inwardly, allowing him this momentary victory over you with a sufficiently servile, doe-eyed pout. “Are you gonna let me see your pretty co—oh, fuck!” your yelp was consumed by a hacking cough, when one, misplaced hand catapulted the box whose only remaining contents consisted of the powdery residue left by your battered bag of flour. Your life, never having run the smoothest course, hit you with the timeliest derailments. This one presented itself as a billowy cloud that powdered most of you ghoulishly white. “Oh, God, look at me.”

Jungkook, who escaped relatively unscathed despite his proximity, cackled openly at your misfortune. But he didn’t surrender his hold of you; not even for a second. He only pulled you closer, marring himself to match. “You could be covered in anything right now and I would still be desperate to fuck you,” he stressed with a bow of his head, charting the topography of your sprinkled cleavage with a hot, open mouth, reducing the offending powder—and you, with every enthused flick of his tongue—to a streaky, viscous sludge. “You taste just as good when you’re a little salty.”

You wrinkled your nose at his willingness to ingest meal. “I guess you want this pretty bad, baby.”

Jungkook’s head shot up like he’d been conditioned into uninhibition on that one word’s command. “So bad,” he virtually snarled, scrambling to undress. Endowing you with your first, unfiltered view of his honed build, he yanked his sweatshirt free of his body, latching a smouldering gaze to you as soon as the obstruction was tossed aside. “Before you covered yourself in flour, I thought I heard a request?”

Your eyes trickled freely down his slopes of definition, steered into the trap that was Jungkook’s sublime anatomy. Cut, bronzed abs and a whisper of hair lay breadcrumbs to an outcropping so stark you could hang something off it.

Hopefully you.

“You know what I want,” your tongue painted the outline of your lips as he unbuckled and whipped off his belt with a crack that had your cunt quivering for the lashings of its master’s crop.

“Tell me again,” Jungkook barely breathed, peeling down the zipper of his pants at a pace that was far too leisurely for your liking.

“You’re getting a bit too bossy for your own good,” you cautioned, though the substance of your warning disintegrated upon each, agitated breath.

Clearly, it was for your own good.

Jungkook’s fingers fell away from his front. “Tell me again,” he reiterated firmly.

How effortlessly he flitted between subservience and indubitable control. Hopefully the thorough flouring you’d sustained would stave off the likelihood of you completely adhering to his countertop in your current, sodden state.

The thrum of your clitoris compelled you into compliance. “Please, let me see your cock.”

A triumphant smirk sharpened his features. “That’s my good girl,” he hummed, tugging his boxers down enough to allow it to topple into his awaiting palm like a freshly felled tree. Reality was far more generous to him than the feeble fantasies you’d concocted, with increasing frequency, the last few weeks. His arms weren’t the only appendages lovingly wrapped by veins, green and blue; powerlines supplying the monster that would soon be hollowing you.

Its perfectly pink head enraptured you. “God, you’re so hot—way too hot. I’m so fucking wet, Jungkook, you know I am. I’m so ready,” the sight of his fleshy offering stirred you into near-frenzy. So much so, you grasped for him without pretence; no longer did you possess the constitution to play ruler. “Fuck me, please.”

Jungkook’s calculated façade slipped when confronted with such raw need. He was on you before you could blink, inhaling you into a soul-sucking kiss that saw his tongue tickling the threshold to your throat. Was it possible to swallow and choke on someone else’s tongue?

If so, you gladly would.

He must have been in some state of severe desperation, because Jungkook spared no thought for your poor, flimsy romper as he yanked sharply at your shorts, inadvertently flossing your cunt with the seams. It should have been painful, in theory, and yet the angling strummed your clit to the tune of your resultant, yearnful moans. With a fistful of fabric, he paused suddenly, confused both by your fervid feedback and the stubborn garment that still adorned your body. “What the hell is this thing? Shorts? I thought it was a skirt,” his voice pitched with an adorable curiosity.

Yes, even now, cock out and teeming with pre-cum, he was adorable.

Tongue pinched between teeth, you giggled. “Yeah, and it’s all one thing. Gonna have to take it off in one go.”

With that, you sat straight, teasing two sets of straps down the round of your shoulders. Jungkook was your besotted audience of one, engrossed in your seductive shedding. His chest expanded with a sharp intake of breath when your bra peeled away from your breasts, tips painfully taut from his earlier bullying. “God,” was his succinct, but cock-felt response. And, sure enough, he watched the show unfold with a white-knuckled clench around said cock, spreading its drool the length of it through each your stages of undress.

Unclasping your bra with a fluidity born from nearly three decades of suffering the damned things, you threw the unwelcome item of clothing over Jungkook’s fruit bowl. And, with a jerk of your hips, disrobed yourself of what remained of your layers soon after—including a misguided choice in panties. In fairness, you’d hardly – having been wallowing in the depths of despair not an hour ago – been expecting his scrutiny. Not while you were spread-eagle and, with your fore and middle fingers scissoring the hood of your clit, beckoning him with your pussy like a wanton wench.

You eyed his vigorous pumping of his dick and tutted. “Baby, slow down. Are you that excited?”

Jungkook grunted past the lip caught between his teeth. “Fuck, yes. Ugh—” his gaze was unshakably fixed to the trail that oozed from your tender interior. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, the utterance barely audible above the mouth-watering shlip of his rhythmic movements. Whether his comment had been for your ears, you didn’t know. But your confidence ballooned exponentially, banishing the skulk of inadequacy that had intermittently threatened your enjoyment.

Hooded eyes flew wide. “Wait,” Jungkook panted, stalling his overzealous strokes. “I-I don’t have a condom, I didn’t think—oh, no.”

Wow. He really had left this decision entirely in your hands, hadn’t he? Your abdomen crawled with a warmth not possessed of arousal. “I do,” you assured him, pointing to your purse. “In there.”

“Thank you, Jesus,” he muttered, shoulders sagging for the relief of your divulgement. “And you, of course,” was his snort of an aside as he pulled the accessory to him and rifled, behind thinly-veiled excitement, through its compartments. “Aha.”

It relieved you endlessly to witness him tear open the packet with his fingers, rather than his teeth. Every man you’d ever bedded that had been a teeth-tearer, had, without fail, vastly overestimated their sexual prowess. Jungkook’s concentrated fumbling only made your heart more buoyant. “Let me?”

He couldn’t have moved fast enough. Surrendering the wrapper immediately, he observed keenly, how adept you were at removing it. It could have been candy inside for all the pre-cum his dick was salivating, eager to don the sheathe that would allow him access to the sultry stretches of your vagina.

With a practiced pinch of the tip, you wrapped him from end to base in one soft, sweeping motion, never quite allowing him the gratification of a firm grip. He squirmed nonetheless, ostensibly overcome by both the feeling and realisation of having your touch grace his—very nearly—bare cock. “I wish you could fuck me raw,” you grumbled, never having been too fond of the taste or texture of latex, nor the hindrance it posed when all you wanted was to fully appreciate his silken skin as it caressed your insides.

That was, perhaps, the most provocative thing you could have said in that moment. Because Jungkook snapped to you like he was impelled by magnetic forces and, with a squeak of flesh on wood, pulled you to the very edge. The angered tip of his cock hovered directly beneath, inciting you to your grisly end by impalement. “Don’t say that to me right now, noona, or I won’t even survive putting it in. Jesus,” he ran splayed hands over the planes of your thighs, and thumbs along the pulse points that gushed, with urgency, to provide oxygen to parts of you that were fast becoming deprived.

“I’ll let you fill me right up one day,” you teased, hooking a leg around his waist and bringing your throbbing genitals into closer proximity. “But I won’t tell you when. I’ll just pull it off and shove you back in when you least exp—ungh!”

Jungkook silenced you with a hungry bruising of lips and teeth, delving his fingers into your backside to better guide you to the beacon that, now, stood sentinel between the seam of your pussy’s lips, coating itself in your plentiful excretions. He wrenched himself free of your oral dalliance. “Ready?”

As if your entire body wasn’t crying out for his fullness. God, you’d never experienced such a haunting ache between your legs. “I’ve been ready since date one, and failed date three is the extent of my self-control. Hurry, baby.”

And with a smooth rock of his hips, he eased his way past your slit and into the clamp of your unaccustomed cunt. The sharpness of penetration pushed a gasp from you, halting him immediately. “Are you okay?” he whispered to your lips, tracing each syllable with his hovering mouth.

You were okay.

More than.

Beyond okay.

It was formidable, the intensity of this moment. Skin-on-skin, simmering under a sheen of perspiration; the intimate, reassuring canopy of Jungkook’s weight, anchoring you to reality.

And you needed that anchor, when it was nothing but an unreality that you were melding, after so long, with a man who returned your ardour. A man who pursued you, who desired you, who embraced you without pretence.

That first stab let flow months of unprocessed, pent-up loneliness and desire for companionship. For sexual affinity.

And as he bled you of pain, all that remained was a strengthening, terrifying appetite, brewing in the pit of your being. With an exuberant smile, you cupped the sides of his face. “I’ve never been better.”

Coaxed by the sincerity of your own words, you laxed around your gradual accommodation of Jungkook’s cock, permitting him to share your body; to become the vessel for his enjoyment. He gave in to the pull of your suckling pussy, a breath he had long been holding rushing free to flutter the wisps of hair around your face that had abandoned their hastily styled arrangement. And though it seemed to pain him, Jungkook steadfastly maintained the quiet, intimate exchange that passed between your torpid gazes. As consumed of lust as they were, the darkness that swallowed his eyes was not that same, meaningless, matte void you had seen stare back at you, time and time again. There glimmered, like an uncharted nebula, thousands of stars.

And every one bore your name; shone to be seen by you.

Jungkook allowed you that glimpse of tender emotion before body overrode heart. He pressed welts into your asscheeks with his boisterous grappling. “Noona—God—you’re so tight.”

And you felt it, too; how you hugged him so inflexibly. Your walls spread, burned around the circumference of his cock, hewn wider by Jungkook’s measured descension to your core. The tip of his member brushed conciliatory kisses to your softest spots as it passed, mitigating what little discomfort there still remained.

And soon, there was none.

Soon, each, sunken inch of him induced only the most moreish, pleasing of sensations.

Jungkook’s sculpted abdomen, drawn tightly under the burden of moderation, pressed flat to your mound as you enveloped his full length. You writhed, feeling his mass so perfectly planted within you. “I-It’s been a long while,” your voice was more air than sound, the feeble, soft noise summoning his mouth to provide your own succour.

A few sprawling, desperate seconds later he broke away, though his impression lingered upon your smooch-swollen lips. Despite the visible trembling of his arms, he kept his tone considerately even. “Let me know when, ____.”

Even now, even lodged so deep that his balls kissed at your crammed core, he put you first.

“Now, Jungkook. Now,” you urged, trapping him in a vice of thighs. “F-Fuck me, I’m ready.”

And he did.

Instinct overruled cognition with a hasty, acute snap of his hips. From the very outset he set a hurried, frenzied pace that saw him transform from the attentive man you so treasured, to a rapt beast heeding the call of a pleasure that could only be found at your centre. A centre he plunged with abandon, tapping you for a completion he was racing startlingly fast towards. “A-ah, noona, I—fuck, you’re perfect, you feel so good,” he gushed unfiltered, your clenching pussy torturing him into the most candid of outpourings. His fingertips dug with such resolve into your ass, it felt like he could tear away flesh.

“B-Baby,” you began, but a raucous groan burst forth from him at your weaponization of the term, striking him at his most vulnerable.

He was gone.

Immersed, so deeply, both in your cunt and the effort he was expending to pound himself into its limits, your provocation only served to accelerate his harried thrusting to a dizzying tempo. The furious pacing was nothing but sweet, sweet violence; your plastered, swelling pussy and endless caterwauling was an attestation to that. Each thunderous clap of your flesh battered your clit to inflammation; a willing casualty of the pummelling he was subjecting you to. “You’re fucking me so good, d-don’t stop, oh!—”

With an ear-sundering squeak, he slid you from the breakfast bar and onto the burly shelf of his stiffened forearm, the other more tenderly employed to cradle your waist. In his strong, resolute hold, he suspended you from the floor, legs dangling, as he continued fuck up into you with admirable determination. And though you were quick to ease his burden somewhat by encircling him with your legs, he then began to stagger away from your previous perch. His intended path was unclear, more-so as you ricocheted from countertop to countertop, entwined and blind in a kiss so sloppy you almost missed mouths, drawing the vicinity of your lips into a maelstrom of tongue and saliva.

With the grating crash of unseated pots and pans, Jungkook drove you to the wall, plastering you onto the decor with the momentum of his pussy-rending pistoning. How he was able to maintain such a potent, jarring rhythm despite the strain of your added weight was an absolute mystery, and one you were only sad you were unable to witness in the rippled strain of his muscular thighs.

“O-Oh God, I don’t think I can last much longer,” he whined, the centre of his face crinkling into agony. “I’m already so close, I’m s-sorry—you’re just so—so fucking—ungh!”

An orgasm would’ve been lovely— okay, that was an understatement— but unanticipated. First encounters were often desperate, grasping tussles that lacked the longevity and attention you required to get you there. And yet, this was the first time it hadn’t bothered you. Ushering Jungkook to nirvana was euphoria enough for this cursory experience. It was a gift you wholeheartedly gave to a man who put you first in all things. And, given time, would master your body enough to pay you back tenfold. With a gentle brush of his cheek, you prompted his unfocused attention. “Don’t worry about me. You’re gonna make up for it later, aren’t you?”

Jungkook loudly moaned his affirmation. “F-fuck, yes. I’m gonna worship your pussy, noona. Just wait,” a series of harsh, broken thrusts was his endorsement. The drag and draw of his rigid cock was so smooth, now, so lubricated by a unified ecstasy, that it truly felt like he belonged. Like he was a part long missing from your malfunctioning machinery, well-oiled and barrelling into you to fulfil a function you’d never quite known.

And now you knew.

“Are you gonna dirty my pussy, baby?” you purred the salacious incitement into his ear to feel him flounder. And, boy, did he. The targeted battering he’d been unleashing on you stuttered to an erratic, madcap blindfiring that struck you in places that you would be sure to tell him to focus on later. A jagged rasp of a moan bruised your vocal chords. “J-Jungkook, f-fuck, fill me! I wish I could feel you fill me, want my pussy full of your cum—”

“Agh!” he spat the strangled response from behind a clenched jaw, your body drooping in increments as his knees quaked from the stress. With a surge of decisive strength, he hauled you up and flopped you onto the dining table directly behind, the surface lower in height than where your entanglement first began and allowing him the unhindered scope of your nude vista. Forfeit of decency for being so deep within you, his eyes dwindled on the hypnotic spring of your breasts, fuelling a passion that raged toward combustion. “I-I’m gonna come, noona, I’m so close—God, how are you so fucking gorgeous—”

With one, final, fatal squeeze of your vagina, you bought him a one-way ticket to his end. A last gasp of breath and the indistinct blurring of his hips saw Jungkook through a climax that thrashed him with such intensity that he no longer appeared conscious of the grip he had of your waist. It tightened as painfully as the vicelike restriction that tormented his cock, and his thumbs delved so far into the supple flesh of your tummy it felt like he was palpating you for medical examination.

“F-Fuck, yeah, oh, noona, yes—” he shouted with such vehemence you became conscious of the existence of his neighbours. That thought was fleeting, however, in the literal face of Jungkook, stubbornly grinding every drop of himself into the true recipient you both begrudgingly permitted to participate. And though the condom, surely, dulled his – and your, because you couldn’t think of anything more soul-rendingly erotic than him emptying the scorching contents of his balls into you – enjoyment somewhat, you were an awed spectator to the seraphic beauty of his bliss. Features free of anything but a meditative placidity, Jungkook, with every whoosh of expelled breath, looked a traverser of Elysium’s peaks.

“Wow,” you chuckled, rosy-cheeked and more serene than you could ever remember feeling. “You still in there?”

Jungkook’s eyes peeled open, black as night. With him fucked-out and flying, you were better able to access the rawness of him through the dilated pools that stared back at you.

A secret, there, seemed so within reach—

“Only just,” he panted, each word ousted from lungs devoid of breath. “God. I’m just—wow. I lo—I mean, you were amazing.”

You sat up to take his face into your hands – hands that craved him still. “I barely did anything. You rocked my world and I came along for the ride,” Jungkook slipped his wilting cock from you, the desolate chasm it left in its wake soliciting a gloomy pout. “I don’t want you to leave. You feel so good inside me.”

He held the softening appendage in his palm, eyeballing the abundance of cum he’d soiled its latex prison with. “Jesus,” he breathed, flashing you an impish grin. “I submit this as evidence that I also feel really, really, fucking good inside you.”

“More, please?” you simpered, prying wide your legs to tempt him into another round. “I’m hungry for your cock, still.”

Jungkook was enthralled by the ruddied, slobbering sight. His sagging dick heaved a determined breath, levitating precariously from his palm. “Fucking hell,” he threw an anguished look towards the bathroom. “I’ll give you as much cock as you want, noona. But I need to take this off, first. Let’s take a shower, and then—well. I promised you something, didn’t I?”

Your eyes may as well have lit up with jackpot signs. “You’re gonna worship my pussy?”

“I’ll do more than that,” he vowed, stalking away to the bathroom with an urgency to his gait. “I’ll get the shower going.”

Watching his chiselled backside leave was a perk in itself. You were definitely going to bite it at least once in your future tumbles together.

In his absence, you evaluated the trail of destruction your frantic fucking had wraught. As his guest - and the lucky recipient of said fucking - you felt compelled to straighten the place to the best of your ability. You spotted your purse first, dusted with flour, and patted off the excess that stubbornly clung to its exterior, inadvertently dislodging your phone from its compartment. Quite against expectations, you caught the sleek object before it could clatter to the floor and ruin your week, and with a relieved sigh and a habitual click, began mindlessly scrolling through a day’s accumulation of unnoteworthy notifications. In the midst of the unexceptional, Yoongi’s name popped out at you.

[15:33] Yoongi I don’t know if you have already, but can you talk to Taehyung, please?

Your stomach bungeed to your feet.

No.

Not now.

Please.

[15:34] Yoongi I can’t get hold of him since he told me the news.

Oh, God. What news?

Had he really disclosed the grisly details of that catastrophic evening to Yoongi?

[15:34] Yoongi You know he broke up with Tara, right?

Oh.

Next: 10 || WYLEI Masterlist

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