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honeymoonjin · 4 years

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ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ot7 x reader || ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 12k || ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: smut - rated 18+

sᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ:

Sick of unsatisfying hookups, boring relationships or the company of your own hand? Apply today for the chance to be on bangasm.com’s very first reality show! Seven attractive young gentlemen will be vying for your choice of who is best in bed. All from different backgrounds, these men claim they’ll be able to rock your world, so don’t hesitate! Apply now!

Congratulations! You’ve been accepted as the Lady in the first season of The Gentlemen.

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ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs: good god where to begin, loss of virginity : ) for real, big dick joon, cowgirl, unprotected sex, special appearance from namjoon’s sensitive neck o.o, premature ejaculation sorry bud, creampie, dom!joon still tho, sub!reader, sexting, dom!hoseok/master!hoseok, sub!jungkook, sub!reader agAIN, bondage and shibari, master/slave dynamics (sorry i have to spoil the prompt but want to properly TW this stuff, but the word slave is only used once out-of-scene), filmed sex, exhibitionism, voyeurism, hoseok wearing the tear dior fit you are WELCOME, fingering, orgasm control/denial, oral (m receiving), anal (m receiving), a position i am told is called a lucky pierre/french sandwich, threesome in case you couldn’t guess, aftercare, guided masturbation, phone sex, pet-names, discipline/punishment

banner designer @jamaisjoons | thank you my darling SFHS babies ! i love you

DAY EIGHT

“Are you ready to make your decision?”

No. Of course the answer is no, but there’s no delaying it anymore. “Is it nine already?”

Sejin sighs, shuffling to the side of the table to indicate you’re to sit beside him. When you do, facing the boys on the couch, your heart gives another sickening lurch. Sejin squeezes your shoulder kindly. “Just a game, sweetheart,” he assures quietly, before raising his voice into the authorial tone he used for announcements. “Thank you for all being here on time, any on topic questions before we begin?”

Nobody answers, not even Jin. There’s a tense atmosphere, and you feel caught right in the centre of it.

“Okay, then,” he says softly, sensing the sullen atmosphere. “I’d like to give each of the Gentlemen a chance to explain why Y/n should keep them in the show. Let’s go around the room. Yoongi?”

To Sejin’s left, perched on the end of the three-person couch, is the doctor himself, legs crossed and face relaxed. “Um, Y/n should keep me in becau-”

“Say it to her,” Sejin guides, shuffling back to move out of the way.

Reflexively, Yoongi glances up at you, and the calm warmth of his eyes reassures you. “Y/n, I’d ask you to keep me in because we’ve had a good time together so far, but there’s so much that we have yet to explore. Beyond that, I’d like to think I’m a good fit for the house, and I’ll continue to assist Jin-hyung in cooking many meals.” Once he’s done, he sends you a small smile, eyes glinting playfully.

The younger boy sitting next to him is not as cheerful. Bottom lip red from gnawing, Jungkook tucks his feet up on the couch, resting his chin on his knees. His eyes meet yours after Sejin signals for him to begin. “I really hope you don’t vote me out because I like it here a lot. You’re so cool, and the hyungs are so cool, and I feel really happy here. I know we haven’t spent a whole lot of quality time yet, but I want to, if I stick around long enough.”

You bite down harshly on your tongue, sending him a strained smile. Fuck, this sucks. Beside Jungkook is Hoseok, who props his elbow on the arm of the couch, posture casual but face stricken.

“Y/n,” Hoseok begins, voice tentative and uncharacteristically subdued, “you’re a very intelligent girl and you have a lot of potential in being a sub. I’d appreciate the opportunity to stay in and show you and the audience how enjoyable BDSM can be. We’re all very lucky men to be on the show with you.”

On the couch beside, Namjoon is the next one around. He pauses, eyes dancing about the room as he thinks. “I think it probably doesn’t make much sense to keep me in the game,” he allows. “I’m not experienced like the others and so it’s a little hard to defend on that front, but I think me staying allows you the advantage of being my first and best experience. I feel like with just a bit more time, I’ll really grow into my element, and I feel safe doing it with you. So I really hope I stay.”

Squished beside him is Jin, who sends you a big grin, even if it doesn’t fully reach his eyes. “This is so shitty,” he says with a laugh, “it’s harder than I was prepared for before I came, and I think that’s due partly to the warm environment that we’re developing with each other, but also because you, Y/n, are a very genuine and lively person. Of course this is a game about sex, but I don’t think any one of us could say that’s the only factor here. As for me, I ask that you keep me in at least a week more because I can promise not only a good time, but also an ear if you need one, and advice should you ever want it.” He pauses to glance around the room. “That goes for all of you,” Jin adds, “I cannot believe that I don’t hate any of you, I don’t know how the producers found such great people.”

His words ease a bit of the tension, and the rest of you let out laughs of relief, your heart easing slightly.

Next, it’s down on the floor for Taehyung, who seems to prefer sitting cross-legged on the carpet to any other spot in the room. “I really wanna stay here,” he pleads with his eyes locked on yours, so earnest, “you’re so fantastic, and Jungkookie and the hyungs are all so fantastic, and I don’t wanna go home so soon. And also I think in terms of sex and stuff, I bring a lot to the table.” Taehyung avoids Sejin’s gaze, fiddling with the hem of his shirt innocently even as he stares up through his eyelashes at the rest of you cheekily. “I think we saw that yesterday. Though in the future, hopefully it’ll cost me less.” He sends a withering glare at Yoongi and Jin. “You assholes.”

You let out a chuckle, Jin huffing in response and Yoongi just shrugging with a shameless grin. Finally, it’s Jimin’s turn, and your chest pangs as you remember the last time you were together. The way he squeezed your hand gently before getting out of the car last night, the way he walked you to your bedroom door, wishing you sweet dreams. The way you saw an entirely different man to the one he’s been advertising.

His eyes on you are imploring even as his back is straight and legs crossed. “I value the time I spend with you. This is, after all, a game about sex so I’ll defend myself by saying you can rest assured I’m skilled enough to please you well, but if you allow me to stay,” he drops eye contact, fiddling with his rings even as he fights to remain poised, “I do hope it’s not the sex alone that keeps me here.” Like a switch is flicked, his momentary vulnerability vanishes, and he glances up and sends you a smile, warm and at-ease, having said his piece.

“And Y/n,” Sejin guides from beside you, his kind eyes on you, “anything to say to the guys?”

Your heart stutters in your chest. It’s been a week? Why is this so hard? “I- First of all, this decision has been insanely hard. You’re all amazing, not just in bed but as people, and I hope that whoever has to leave will still stay in touch. It feels really cruel that I have to say goodbye to someone so soon. The reality is, none of you did bad, and there’s nobody I don’t like; nobody that doesn’t belong here. I’ve made my decision, but- I don’t know. I’m not happy with it, but I don’t think I’d be happy with any decision. In the end, I guess I just went for the least painful option.” You take a deep breath, eyes lifting to look at Hoseok, who sends you a sad smile. You open your mouth-

“Wait!” Sejin interrupts loudly. Everyone turns to look at him in unison, eyes wide. “There-” He breaks off with a sigh, glancing at the camera closest to him before looking back down at the group. “Listen; this will be edited out, but ratings have been doing far better than we’d ever anticipated. We already hired a third editor to keep up with demand and get more episodes out than was on the schedule, and there’s talk we may even start getting sponsorships because the support has been creating headlines, at least on Twitter. The higher-ups at Bangasm, well… they want to make an exception.”

You furrow your brows. “What do you mean?”

“You’ll see,” Sejin answers. “Act surprised.” The eight of you stare at him with varying degrees of bewilderment as he puffs his chest and carries his voice louder, switching back into producer mode. “Wait!” he repeats in the same tone as earlier. “The production team hasn’t been completely honest with you. This isn’t just a basic game with prompts each week like we told you. There will be a special advantage, a wildcard if you wish, that changes things up. They could affect the prompts, or how the game proceeds for that week. We call them Bangasm Bombs. And while we didn’t tell you, our production team has drawn the Bangasm Bomb for Week One.”

Sejin pauses to look at you all meaningfully. Jimin picks up the hint. “So; what’s the ‘Bangasm Bomb’ for this week?” he asks for you, gesturing quote marks with his fingers.

Your mind is starting to whir, possibilities beginning to percolate in your mind, but you aren’t prepared for what Sejin says next.

“Nobody goes home this week.”

Your mouth drops open, eyes darting around the room to see the open disbelief on the guys’ faces. “So I- I don’t have to send anyone home today?”

“No,” Sejin answers warmly, and you feel your shoulders sag in relief, a breath rushing out you didn’t know you were holding. Sejin winces, clearing his throat lightly. “That’s… the other thing.”

“Other thing?” Yoongi asks incredulously. “There’s more?”

“With the success of the show comes other benefits. For example; the CEO and treasurer of Bangasm have agreed to double our funding if we can keep the views up. No, Seokjin,” Sejin quips the second the eldest contestant raises his hand. Jin puts his hand down, lips pursed in a pout. “We’re changing the rules a bit. Before, we said if Y/n eliminated you, you’d pack your bags and leave. Now; you stay.”

Sejin can’t get another word out over the clamour that arises, everyone shocked and excited and confused all at once. He waves his hand for silence, and only after a minute or so everyone calms down.

“So, there’s just no eliminating?” Jungkook asks with a comically quizzical look on his face.

“Please just let me explain,” Sejin requests, sighing. “Yes, there will still be eliminations. But if you get eliminated, you stay in the house.”

“So it’s a free pass,” Jungkook surmises.

“Not quite. No longer will you not be competing in the game, but you won’t be able to have sex with or sexually touch Y/n in any way. If you do, then you’ll be sent out of the house for good.”

“No sex with Y/n?” Taehyung asks meaningfully. “So… otherwise…?”

Sejin sighs, a tired laugh falling from his lips. “Just no sex with Y/n,” he confirms. “If you touch Y/n sexually, you go home. If Y/n touches you, of course we can’t send her home, so we’ve devised a punishment.”

At the word punishment your head darts up to stare at the producer, but Hoseok beats you to the punch. “She’s gonna come join us in the bunkroom?”

“That’s for failing prompts, Hobi-hyung,” Namjoon points out, “Y/n doesn’t have any prompts.”

“Correct,” Sejin confirms. “If Y/n touches an eliminated member in a sexual manner, then that member gets to choose what she wears for the next 24 hours.”

You frown. “That doesn’t sound so…” you trail off when you glance up, only to be met with seven hungry sets of eyes. You can just about see the cogs turning in their brains as they stare at your body. “Ah.”

“Yes. So stick to the rules, and you get, as Jungkook so elegantly put, a free pass minus Y/n. Got it?”

The eight of you stay silent, still shell-shocked from the two revelations. This changed things. Now, when you voted someone off, they would get to stay, but they would get to stay. You can see both the positive and negative possibilities there, and it’s no surprise that a reality show would have such a sneaky plot twist.

So you’d have all seven fucking you for one more week, and then all seven every week in the future, only with your sexual prospects dropping as you went. It does ensure that you’ll begin voting for them purely based on sexual performance; considering their personalities in the house wasn’t an issue if you’d have those anyway.

As you glance around the room, you can’t help but wonder if your vote would’ve been different had you known that he’d get to stay. And you wonder if you’ll end up picking the same person in a week’s time, after a new set of prompts. The thought makes you sit up, turning to Sejin again.

“Will the boys draw their new prompts, then?” you ask. “Do I get to know the theme again?”

“Ah, of course-” Sejin breaks off to sit up, retrieving a stack of slightly crumpled papers from his back pocket. “This week’s theme is dynamics and roleplay. Come pick a card.”

Like last week, you pay close attention to the reactions of each of the seven. Namjoon blinks wide at his, but doesn’t seem as put off as last week, and his eyes go distant when he sits back down, like he’s already picturing it. Jimin takes two, one for him at one for Taehyung, and the two compare, Taehyung laughing at Jimin’s and Jimin smirking at Taehyung’s, brushing his clean-shaven cheek with the back of his knuckles and murmuring something in his ear.

When Jin gets his, he bites his tongue and shakes his head with a light laugh, and Yoongi’s mouth drops open upon reading his card, eyes darkening with lust. Jungkook winces at first, but thinks on it a moment longer and grins eagerly, taking a second glance and scrunching his nose cutely at it. Hoseok takes his last, calmly reading it with a pleased smirk, sliding it into his front pocket and taking a seat.

Your breath leaves you in a slow stream. You’re back to the not-knowing. Dynamics and roleplay. It could really be anything, you supposed. Naughty schoolgirl, pizza delivery guy. You didn’t watch a lot of porn but you vaguely knew some of the tropes, and it’ll be a rather interesting week indeed.

“That’s not all, of course,” Sejin adds, and you feel like your brain could implode with the information dump that this morning has been. “Would you like to hear the Bangasm Bomb for Week 2?”

“We find out now?” Hoseok questions. “Not at the end?”

“Well, in order to fulfil it you need to know now,” the producer explains. “This week, Y/n may not sleep in her own bed, and she may not sleep in the same bed twice.”

You blink, not expecting it to be directed at you. “I what?” Your mind catches up with the rule, and you let out a light laugh. “So, I’ll have to share with the other guys?”

"Let's not forget the type of show we're on," Yoongi points out, leveling an impressed stare at the producer. "Well-played."

"Thank you," Sejin replies shortly. "Now, that'll be all. Just a reminder, if your scene isn't filmed, it doesn't count, and it's okay if Y/n guesses the prompt, but if you tell her directly then your prompt is void. Seokjin; we ordered you a set of chef's knives that should be here later today. Please stop spamming the company's inquiries email."

He's out of the room before Jin can even react, open-mouthed but smug like the cat that got the cream.

The eight of you sit in silence for a moment or two, still reeling. It's Hoseok in the end that recovers first.

"So we all stay," he muses. "Even if we get voted off, we stay. Why is that both a blessing and a curse?"

"This is reality TV," Jimin points out calmly, "and it's porn on top of it. Tension and drama skyrockets ratings. Well; I'm going to make some coffees if anyone wants one."

Most of the group move back into the kitchen, rifling through cabinets like zombies to make their breakfasts, but Namjoon approaches you hesitantly, biting on his lip.

"Y/n, can I talk to you? Privately?"

You stand up off the coffee table, though still you're lifting your chin to meet his gaze. "Sure," you reply easily, "privately or privately privately?"

"Um," he hesitates, glancing towards the entrance foyer, where across the hall lies the unfilmed rec room. "Just privately is fine for now."

Everyone else distracted with the prospect of food and hot coffee, it's easy enough to just sit on the stairs, side-by-side and thighs touching. Like this, you become aware of how much bigger he is than you. Namjoon's legs sprawl out down to the bottom of the stairs, socked feet slipping slightly on the glossy stone floor, whereas yours are tucked on the step below you. He glances down at you with a nervous disposition, but his eyes are surprisingly steady.

"Hoseok-hyung and I slept in the bunk bed room last night, as you probably know," he explains. "Him and I talked a lot. About a bunch of things, but he helped me realise something. And after I got the prompt today, I was sure."

Your eyes widen as they watch him carefully. The roots of his purple are starting to grow out in a soft brunette that makes him look even younger, his face round yet gently sculpted, chin pressed out in solemnity. "Sure of what?" you question quietly.

Namjoon takes a slow breath, rubbing his palms over his knees. "I think it's better if I don't lose my virginity while doing some cheesy role-play for a porn show, you know? I know I chose to come here knowing what I was walking into, but... Hoseok suggested maybe we could use the rec room for some privacy and then I could just fill my prompt later in the week. Of course, the producers will probably get annoyed at me not losing my virginity on camera, but they never said I had to, and I think I want it to be something just for me, you know? Something that's just you and me, outside of the show. I understand if you don't want to do that, but if you're happy to, I think I'm ready now."

You take a few moments to fully process his words, the gravity of them. "You sure you're ready? If you are, I'm happy to do that, Joonie. I want it to be good for you. You deserve that."

He smiles at that, broadly, but with his head ducked down. "That means a lot," he admits, "but yeah. I'm ready. If you want to...?" He trails off, tipping his head in the direction of the private rec room.

You sit up straight. "Oh! You mean- now now? Yes, I can do that, wow, okay-"

"If that's alright?" he asks hastily, face pinched with worry, but you just stand up, holding out a hand to him. He takes it, letting you lead him to the door.

From the few times you've needed to use this room, it's been pretty empty. It's small; most likely originally intended as extra storage or a home office, and the producers had put a visibly second-hand couch on one wall, a skinny coffee table and a lamp in there.

Generally, it's a glorified staffroom of sorts, a time-out that's more valuable for its lack of cameras than anything actually inside. Today, though, you freeze in the hallway at the sight that greets you.

With the table pushed to one side, boasting two bottles of water, a box of tissues, a bottle of self-heating lube and a small bluetooth speaker, the rest of the room has been converted into a massive bed.

The floor is covered with blankets, sheets and duvets, thick enough to be like a bedroll, with pillows stacked on the edges. They cover most of the floor, roughly the size of a queen size bed. On top of the impressive set-up are a colourful variety of packaged condoms, arranged in a tasteful love-heart.

Namjoon groans at the display, pinching his brow. "Hoseok said he'd set up for me and make it a little more comfortable, I'm sorry."

"It's cute," you say with a laugh, "are you wanting to use condoms?"

Namjoon swallows. "Uh, you- what would you prefer?"

You shrug, collecting them up and flicking through the buffet of options. You chuckle as the majority are L and XL. Unsurprising. "I mean, we don't need one. So if you want to feel everything fully, I say go bare."

"G-go bare, please," he coughs out awkwardly, shutting and locking the door behind him, double-checking the handle. "Can we put some music on? It's really quiet in here."

"Of course." You busy yourself with the music, smiling at the fact that he must have appreciated it last time. By the time you select a nice playlist on your phone and pick a decent volume, Namjoon's surprised you by hastily stripping down to his underwear, shyly rubbing at his knees.

You stand stock-still for a moment, just taking in the gorgeous sight of his body, all understated muscle and bold lines and planes. He must do some form of exercise, because his chest is thick, as are his thighs, and his lower stomach is soft but lean. He's gorgeous, and between your legs you feel your excitement grow.

Hustling to strip your clothes off as a gentle guitar strumming fills the air, you feel the cool cotton of the duvet under your knees as you straddle Namjoon, the man sucking in a breath as your clothed pussy presses flush against his hardness.

"Give me a kiss," you ask softly, a suggestion to let him take control, and a sigh of relief leaves his lungs as he cups your face in his hands, tugging your lips onto his greedily.

The ferocity with which he kisses you takes your breath away. It's powerful, greedy and demanding like he's waited an eon to kiss you again. While he was surprisingly skilful the first time, now it feels like he's come into his own.

You make a noise of surprise in the back of your throat as you feel his tongue slipping between your lips, licking up into your mouth like he's trying to devour you. You're drunk on it, mind feeling hazy, but you manage to pull away for a moment, gasping out a, "how the hell did you get this good?"

Grunting, Namjoon's eyes flutter open and one of his hands slips back to cup the nape of your neck securely, preventing you from backing up further. "Hoseok gave me some tips," he admits. "Now get back here."

You let yourself be pulled in again and eaten alive, muffled groans and sighs of bliss slipping out between swipes of tongue and flashes of teeth, nipping at your bottom lip until it's swollen and aching in the best way.

Without realising, you've begin to grind your hips against him, needing friction, and he pants into your mouth at the feeling. The pleasure makes him sloppy, and you groan as his lips leave yours, veering down to kiss along your jawline, tugging on your earlobe before sucking blossoms of colour down your throat. You tip your head back, arching into his mouth and rocking your hips against him, the friction addictive.

"Gonna fuck you now," you hear him groan against your collarbone, lips on your skin that's slick from his spit. Even in your heightened state of arousal you can sense the slight question in his voice, like he's checking you're still okay with it.

More than okay, you glance down to see the point that joins you, your panties so wet that the grey of his boxers is marred by a dark spot, wet and clinging to the stiff outline of his cock. You curse lowly at the sight of it. "Fuck, please, I need you, Joonie."

He lets out a strangled sigh, hands trembling slightly as he pushes down the waistband of his boxers so that it rests below his balls, cock bobbing up to rest at his stomach. He swallows hard, eyes closed and back resting against the base of the couch. The sheets beneath you have heated up with your body temperature, arousal radiating off the two of you in waves.

When you first reach out to touch him, you keep your eyes on his face, on his reaction. The initial contact makes his brow twitch, eyes clenching shut. So thick your fingers don’t touch around him when you grasp his base, he’s definitely the biggest you’ve seen in the house; a touch of irony that the least experienced member had the biggest genetic advantage. His bottom lip finds his way tucked between his teeth, thighs tensing beneath you.

“Joonie,” you mumble in a mock pout, “are you gonna fuck me now or so I have to do all the work myself?”

His eyes fly open, gaze landing on your widened eyes of innocence, before darting down to where you’re gently stroking him, fingertips catching on the sensitive ridge beneath his head. “Hobi-hyung said you should ride me so you can get used to it.”

You chuckle, tapping your thumb over his weeping slit, making him hiss. “Let’s stop thinking about what Hobi said and start worrying about what you want. Do you want me to ride you? Feel how tight I am for you?”

He curses, brows knitting as he nods shakily, and you can’t hold yourself back any longer. With a low curl of thrill in your stomach, you sit up so you can quickly slip off your panties, before straddling him again. He feels heavy when you brush his length through your sodden folds, readying him for you, and the thought makes you groan lowly.

“Wanted you so bad,” you confess over the music in the background, now a simple drum beat that gives you rhythm as you grind your hips over him, letting his blunt head catch at your entrance. “Fuck.” His fingers are digging into your hips just with the feeling of your pussy clenching over his tip, and you lower yourself painfully slowly, adjusting to the way he stretches you to your limit, dragging inch by inch against your walls.

“H-oh god, it is, it’s so tight,” he comments with a hitch in his voice, and again you feel the muscles of his thighs twitch, like he’s fighting the urge to bury himself in you. Though the thought of it is hot, you’re merciful that he’s giving you time to grow accustomed to the sheer girth of his dick inside you.

“Does it feel good, Joonie?” you ask, the question panted as he takes your breath away, grinning at the quick stuttered nods he gives in reply, fingers flexing on the flesh of your hips and ass. By the time you’re sitting flush against his lap, you can barely breathe, a shaky hand pressing onto your stomach almost expecting to feel him bulging out of you from the inside. He’s not just the biggest on the show, but the biggest you’ve ever had, and you feel like you could cum just from rolling your hips against him.

“You feel so amazing, Y/n,” he praises, arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you in close so that he can press his lips to yours. You whine as he shifts in you, feeling shakier than ever, but appreciate the chance to adjust to him, tongue chasing his and fingers slipping into his hair as you kiss.

You’re content to stay like that for as long as he continues to move his mouth against you, mouth watering at the feeling of cockwarming him and joining your bodies so intimately, but the excitement of new sensation gets to him, and after a while he begins to shift, holding your hips down and grinding his hips.

Your jaw drops open, hands flying out to grip at his shoulders at the feeling. He’s so deep you can barely comprehend it, can barely think with his cock filling you so completely, and find yourself pleading quietly, an unintelligible babble of more, please more, need more. He shifts his posture as you sit on his length, uncrossing his legs and instead bracing them in front of him.

“Want me to fuck you like this?” he asks, nipping at your throat, and you shiver at the husky gravel of his tone. What happened to the shy virgin?

“Please, Joonie,” you gasp, clenching around him, “need you to move.”

His first thrust takes your breath away, punching the air out of your lungs. When he moves inside you it feels monumental, like a core piece of you shifting, and your eyes water with the delicious burn. You whine when he pauses for a moment, hands slipping down to knead at your ass. Namjoon’s eyes are like molten dark chocolate as they focus on you, rich and intense, and when your head tips down to kiss him again it’s so needy your teeth clash, the keening whimper in your throat sign enough that you want more.

It’s only once he begins to fuck you in earnest, bouncing you on his cock, that you see how truly affected he is. Strands of lilac cling to his temples as he sweats, chest heaving and hands trembling even as his fingers dig in hungrily. His lips are slick with spit, but he makes no move to wipe them clean, just biting onto his bottom lip and sucking, hips snapping up with bruising momentum.

You can’t catch your breath, but still you chase his lips like oxygen, needing to be as close as possible. His panting keeps you anchored as you moan shamelessly, toes curling and back arching. Your high approaches quickly enough that it shocks you, but there’s no escaping the pleasure that rushes through you with every snap of his hips.

You lose contact with his mouth, cheek resting limply on his shoulder as he speeds up his pace, the muscles in your legs failing you, twitching uncontrollably.

“No, no, no, fuck,” Namjoon chants lowly, and you feel a hand bury in your hair, holding you to the crook of his neck, “I’m sorry, I’m not gonna last.”

You moan at that, feeling him stiffen impossibly more inside you with every thrust. “Wan’ you to cum,” you promise in his ear, barely more than a gasped breath, “wanna cum with you.” To end the statement, you nuzzle your nose against his throat and nip at his pulse point. To your surprise, he shudders violently, suddenly going stock still.

Your eyes widen as hot ropes of cum fill you, Namjoon clutching you to him helplessly, groaning nonsense as his orgasm hits him out of nowhere. Your own high recedes, but you barely notice it as you sit up tiredly and clench around him, watching the pleasure flicker across his face as he rides the high.

“Fuck,” he breathes, eyes cast towards the ceiling and chest still heaving, “I’m so sorry, I… sensitive neck.”

You grin, running your hands up to gently brush over it, feeling him pulse inside you, spurting the final drops of cum from his spent cock. “Don’t apologise,” you assure, leaning in quickly to nibble at his lips and give him a lazy, indulgent kiss. “That was really fucking hot.”

He laughs, cheeks pinkening slightly, and you feel your heart warm at the return of the shy Namjoon you’d gotten used to. So he’s a lot more dominant and confident in the heat of the moment, you muse as he catches his breath, good to know.

When you find your strength again, slowly sitting up off him, you wince at the rush of cum leaving you, and the uncomfortable feeling of emptiness. That’s only exacerbated by the fact that you haven’t cum yet, but it’s his first time and you don’t want him to feel bad. Collapsing on the sheets beside him, you rest your head on his shoulder, breath still coming in shallow pants. “Good?”

“Good god, Y/n,” he exclaims earnestly, “I think I might be a sex addict now.”

A surprised peal of laughter leaves your lungs, and you shove him playfully before crawling over to the coffee table, cracking open a bottle of water and cleaning yourself up with the available tissues. “Hoseok really did think this through, huh?” you muse, chucking him the box once you’re done.

Namjoon clears up the cum on his cock and thighs, grimacing at the way some of it has stained his boxers, but he sends you a guilty look. “I’m sorry.”

You frown, reaching for your clothes. “What do you mean?”

“You didn’t-”

Whatever Namjoon is about to say is cut off by a sudden thud that gives you both a fright, followed by three polite albeit enthusiastic knocks. You stare in bewilderment at the door, before hastily dressing yourself.

“Is everything alright?” Namjoon calls out, putting his underwear back on properly and hopping into his pants. “Has something happened?”

“I should hope so, young grasshopper!” an enthusiastic voice chirps from the other side of the door, muffled but unmistakably Hoseok. “You’ve popped your cherry, Kim Namjoon!”

The academic winces, reaching out to unlock the door once he’s made sure the two of you are dressed. “Hoseok, what are you doing? Wha-?” He breaks off once he opens the door, and you rush around behind him to see what gave him pause.

In the foyer are Hoseok, Taehyung and Jin, all in matching paper birthday hats, the strings of thin elastic digging into their chins. Hoseok’s holding two more in his hands, and he thrusts them towards you as Taehyung wiggles the weighty bottle of champagne in his grasp. Behind them, Jin calmly holds a kitchen knife.

“What’s going on?” you ask in bewilderment, stepping out into the foyer and wincing at the ache between your legs with each step. “Why the fuck are you holding a knife?”

Jin, his bright blue party hat on at a jaunty angle, stares down at his hands blankly before gasping, tucking it behind his back. “Sometimes I forget I’m still holding it.”

“That’s extremely alarming,” Namjoon says with a frown. “I still don’t understand why you’re all gathered outside the door.”

“It’s time for the party, hyung,” Taehyung explains, “to celebrate you finally getting your dick wet.”

Your cheeks go flaming red as you glance at Namjoon, the poor man spluttering and eyes wide like he didn’t know what to do. “If there’s champagne, I’m there,” you announce calmly. “Come on, Joonie, let’s go celebrate.”

Namjoon visibly relaxes when you aren’t offended, flicking you a warm smile. “Is everyone wearing a hat?” he questions incredulously, taking the thin cone card.

“Mo-mostly everyone,” Hoseok answers suspiciously.

“It’s just you guys, isn’t it?”

“Well, if you both wore one, we’d have the majority.”

You grin, patting Hoseok on the shoulder as you walk past him into the foyer. “Let’s just go,” you call out to the guys behind you, “there better be food.”

As expected, the three that greeted you were the only ones wearing party hats. At the dining table, which has been laden with aromatic dishes, steaming rice and empty champagne flutes, the other three await. Jimin’s is resting beside his plate and chopsticks, untouched. Beside him, Yoongi has his upside down, using it as a bowl for the rice snacks he’s munching happily on. The youngest man in the house hasn’t even noticed you’ve arrived, using it like a very inefficient telescope, one eye scrunched shut and the other focused on the pinhole at the top of the cone. Sitting at the head of the table, he aims it at Jimin, mouth hanging open as he tries to see through the tiny gap.

Giving up, he waves the wide end around the room, desperate to catch a glimpse of something. Once the cone lands on the five of you, he gasps, chucking down the party hat. “You’re back! I didn’t start eating the cake, like you said!”

Jin frowns. “That sounds awfully suspicious.” Knife still in hand, he makes his way to the kitchen island, where you catch a glimpse of a beautifully iced cake with writing on the top that you’re too far away to read.

Jungkook shifts restlessly in his seat, staring worriedly at Jin. “The- um, the birds attacked it.” If you look closely, you think you can see the slightest hint of vanilla icing in the crook of his mouth.

Jin stares at the cake desolately. “The birds?” he deadpans.

“Seagulls, you know,” Jungkook tries to pass off casually, the pink of his tongue dashing out to lick the sugar off his lips. “Absolute vultures.”

Hoseok tsks in disappointment. “Was it seagulls or was it vultures?”

Jungkook stays silent an inexplicably long amount of time, glancing slowly between Hoseok and Jin. His eyes are wide like he’s trying to work out the lie in his head “...It was me.”

Jin’s fingers are pressed to his temple as he sighs. “Right.” Setting down the knife, he picks up the cake and brings it to the table, placing it in the middle of the table. The rest of you all take a seat, filling in the spaces around the table. Taehyung slips in beside Jimin, Hoseok at the end of the table opposite Jungkook, and finally Jin, Namjoon, and you take the last of the seats.

The cake is beautiful, neat and fluffy buttercream all over with swooping cursive written in a thin black stream. Unfortunately, a very delicate but obvious slice has been taken out so you have to focus to work out what the writing says. Once you do, you let out a reluctant chuckle, watching Namjoon blush once more, tucking his hands into the sleeves of his shirt shyly.

“‘Here lies Namjoon’s virginity,’” you recite, “‘1994-2020.’ Who came up with that?”

“That’s not impor-” Jin begins, but Taehyung swiftly cuts him off.

“I did!” he declares proudly. “Everyone agreed mine was funnier than Jin-hyung’s.”

“Obviously not everyone,” Jin replies bitterly, dishing himself up some of the rice closest to him. “Dig in, everyone, Yoongi and I worked hard on this. And congratulations Namjoon,” he adds, though he sends Namjoon a genuine smile, eyes twinkling.

After everyone says their congratulations, the food is dug into and the cork of the bottle is popped, conversation flowing like the champagne.

Over time, Namjoon seems to get used to the chatter about sex, perhaps not feeling so left out of the loop, and his face is more open and relaxed than ever, a dimple poking out when he smiles. You occasionally reach out to shove him playfully or squeeze his arm as the chatter continues, and he no longer freezes or stiffens up. It warms your heart that he feels a little more comfortable amongst you.

You’re happy to tuck into your meal, having worked up an appetite for lunch, but it’s barely more than a second after finishing your first helping that your phone buzzes.

You slip it out casually, frowning when you see it’s a notification that you’ve been added to a group-chat.

After that, you smother a scoff and slip your phone back into your pocket, hoping if your cheeks are red they can safely be attributed to the alcohol.

Glancing up, you see Jungkook stand up suddenly, eyes wide with barely-contained excitement as he picks up his bowl, chopsticks and champagne flute, scurrying over to dump them in the sink before disappearing upstairs. Yoongi stares at his empty seat in confusion, but shrugs and takes another mouthful of cake. You eat yours quickly enough that your stomach flips, or perhaps that’s just the anticipation.

After you’re done it takes you a few moments to build up the courage to look across to Hoseok, feeling his gaze hot on your skin. When you do, your eyes lock immediately, but he just continues to stare, lips pressed in a narrow line.

Your heart leaps for a moment, wondering what that hard gaze means for you later on. Silently, as Taehyung continues to explain something to him with a mouth half-full of food, Hoseok lifts his eyebrow once, gaze darting to the roof. The message is clear. Go upstairs.

Biting your lip, you let Namjoon know you’re heading up, waving off his concern until he’s pulled back into a thread of conversation. You try to ignore the uncertain adrenaline rush that makes your hands tremble and your core throb all the way upstairs, until you’re knocking on Jungkook’s door.

The two of you share a look once he opens the door, one of anticipation and desire, and you let out a breathy chuckle.

“What the fuck have we gotten ourselves into?” you ask rhetorically, stepping in and collapsing onto the bed.

“I’ll take it if it means getting a good fuck,” he states matter-of-factly, sitting himself beside you and tucking his legs up. “Besides; I’ve wanted to see Hobi-hyung in action for a while.”

Sitting up, you think back to that day in the confessional booth, where he had so easily made you fall apart without even taking a single item of clothing off. You wondered if he’d deprive you of his body tonight as well.

“I think he’s angry at me,” you admit, “before I left, he looked… intense.”

“Why would he be angry at you?” Jungkook asks with a frown, his hand slipping under the baggy fabric of his black tee, rubbing at his shoulder like he’s aching to take the item off.

You go to shrug, but then your mind flicks back to this morning. “The elimination,” you realise, dread rising in your stomach just as much as your arousal is. “I think he knows I was going to eliminate him.”

Jungkook’s eyes widen, round enough to be saucers. “Wait, really? Why him?”

You find the words dry up in your throat. “I- God, I don’t know. How am I meant to choose anyone when you’re all amazing? Maybe his had the least impact on me, I suppose.” You eye the door to the walkway warily. “I guess he’s determined to change that now.”

Instead of replying, you’re taken aback when Jungkook throws his arms around you in a tight hug, his long hair brushing at your neck and shoulder as he tucks his chin into the hollow of your collarbone. Hesitantly, you bring your own arms up to hug him back, feeling your tension melt in the warm embrace.

“It must be so hard,” he murmurs, “I don’t think Hobi-hyung is really mad, you know? He probably just feels like he wasn’t good enough for you and wants to prove himself.”

This thought just sends another spike of guilt through you, but you have no time to dwell on it before the door is clicking open, making you and Jungkook instinctively jump apart.

Hoseok stands there, as intimidating as last time in all-black. Though he’s wearing just socks instead of the heavy duty boots he was in that day, there’s no denying the power he holds in the clothes he wears like armour. Leather pants so snug they’re like a second skin and a black long-sleeved shirt, tight but breathable cotton with a harness of thin leather straps providing some structure. His raven hair is swept back, but just a single stray lock hangs low over his brow, drawing your eyes back to his. “Starting without me?” he questions lightly, though his face is devoid of humour.

You swallow hard. “No… Master,” you add, seeing the expectant look on his face. Once he steps further into the room, you notice the black bag that was previously hidden behind his back. The duffel bag from last time. You suck in a breath and clench your thighs before you can even think to stop yourself, and Hoseok’s positively gleam at the sound.

“Both of you have been very naughty today,” he explains, dumping the bag on the bed beside Jungkook, beginning to casually pull a heap of bright red nylon rope out. “Little Jungkookie ate the cake that Jin-hyung worked so hard on, even when he was specifically asked not to. And Y/n… Y/n knows exactly what she did.” Your eyes widen when Hoseok sets the multiple lengths of rope to one side in a neat folded coil and reaches back into the bag to produce a pair of wide, heavy-duty shears.

“Woah, hyung,” Jungkook exclaims in alarm, “I can apologise for the cake, I-”

“Settle, Jungkook, it’s okay,” Hoseok explains softly. “I told you we’re gonna be tying you up, yeah? This is so that we can cut the ropes quickly in case you want out. They aren’t part of the scene.”

You feel a thrill run through your veins at the gentle click of metal resting on the nightstand once Hoseok sets the scissors down. He hadn’t needed them for when your arms were tied. It meant that whatever you were going to do tonight would be more intense. The thought of everyone else downstairs having a good time and hanging out while you and Jungkook were up here getting bound by Hoseok… it somehow feels even more illicit and dirty.

“Let’s do Jungkookie first, hm?” the dom proposes. “I’ve been wanting to see what you’d look like all prettied up for me. Choose red just for you.”

Jungkook positively preens at the compliment, hands tucking into his lap and chest puffing out. “I’m excited, Master!”

Hoseok gestures for Jungkook to remove his clothes with a flat expression. “Don’t be,” he retorts calmly, “this isn’t a reward, it’s discipline. We’re going to learn a lesson about behaving.”

The camboy trembles, hastily shucking off his baggy shirt and pushing his sweatpants down, naked except for a pair of white socks. Your breath is taken away by how easily he bares himself to the cameras and to the two of you, eyes eager and nervous as Hoseok picks up one of the longer lengths of rope.

“I want you to kneel, Jungkookie,” Hoseok instructs, “kneel on the bed for me, arms at your sides.”

Jungkook obeys, breath hitching as Hoseok approaches, passing the coil over his palm. You watch with baited breath as a bright red strand of rope is run around his narrow waist. As the professional dom begins looping, knotting and wrapping the rope around Jungkook’s torso, the boy’s eyes grow lidded, cock twitching as it rests back against his lower abdomen.

It takes a while, but time is as smooth as velvet in the soft silence of the room, just gentle breaths and the whir of nylon rope sliding so beautifully along Jungkook’s skin.

By the time Hoseok is done, Jungkook’s eyes barely open, so content with the feeling of being patiently wrapped up, and he hums lightly as Hoseok rechecks the tightness of each loop, slipping two fingers between rope and skin in several places.

Rather than bondage or restraint, this looks like art. An elaborate harness of red contrasts beautifully against the pale golden flesh below, hardness of his chest and abs softened by the vaguely fishnet pattern, loops that interlock and curve across his body gracefully, the most careful and precise lattice of scarlet ropes.

“Pretty, isn’t he?” Hoseok questions, and a finger comes down to run through the glossy precum that has been smeared onto Jungkook’s lower stomach. The boy hisses, arching his hips up in search of contact, but all it takes is a sharp swat at the head of his cock and Jungkook is whining, thighs flexing with the force of keeping still. “Patience, my little prince,” Hoseok tuts, patting Jungkook’s cheek with a hand still wet with the camboy’s own precum, “we’re gonna teach you how to be patient today.”

Jungkook groans low in his throat, lips parting at the term of endearment, and Hoseok grins at it, tiger-like.

“Oh, do you like that, hm? Wanna be my special prince today?” Hoseok runs his fingers through Jungkook’s long hair, the camboy sucking in a sharp breath when they snag on some knots. Jungkook nods, eyes round and glittering as he looks up at his Master. Hoseok pouts, tapping him once on the end of his button nose. “It’s a shame you weren’t behaving today, then wasn’t it? Maybe if you’re good for me tonight, you can earn it.”

Jungkook’s brows lift pleadingly, looking so small under Hoseok’s harsh stare. “I’ll be good, though, Master.”

“Mm, I’m sure you will,” Hoseok confirms, swiping a thumb over Jungkook’s nipple to make him shiver, before he fixes an iron gaze onto you.

You swallow, slipping out of your clothes as quickly as you can once he gives the same gesture as before, crossing your legs and arms to try and preserve some dignity. Hoseok just tuts, picking up two of the remaining sections of nylon rope, only one still left waiting on the bed.

“Hands at your sides, kneeling,” he instructs sharply, and you feel the way your walls clench at the authority in his voice as you hustle to get into position.

The harness he puts you in is different to Jungkook’s, accentuating your breasts with bands both above and below them, leaving your stomach free but doubling the rope over so that every loop that wraps around you is twice as thick. The final tie is slipped up between your breasts, around the back of your neck and tucking back down to hold it all together, and your breath shallows at the secure feeling of the rope.

It’s peaceful; the warm stripes of friction as he pulls strands through loops, the gentle flicking of the ends against your skin until he folds them away, the way it embraces your chest so snugly, but not too tight. It’s only once he’s done checking the rope like he did with Jungkook that he picks up the second, shorter length of nylon, and by then you already feel the sleepy yet electric haze of subspace seeping throughout your body.

“Hands,” he instructs, and you hold them out for him, watching with heightened arousal as he binds them, the rope wrapping around and between your wrists until they’re locked together. Last time your hands were bound behind your back but like this, you can watch him as he works.

It’s quick - a testament to his expertise - but you spend every moment with your eyes locked onto him. The eyes, gleaming with control and satisfaction, the pink tip of his tongue poking out just slightly as he focuses. His thin fingers, looping and wrapping and knotting with such skill.

His last move, eyes darting up and smirking once he catches you watching him, is to connect the thick cuff-like ropes to the top of your harness, pinning them up to your chest, folded hands resting at the base of your throat. You instinctively tug once he’s done, only to feel the rope around your back tighten and dig in, but no distance made. The feeling of being at his mercy only adds to the slick gathering between your thighs.

Once he steps back, eying the two of you up, your breath catches in your throat. Both you and Jungkook are fully naked, somehow feeling even more vulnerable in the rope, and Hoseok stands across from the bed in all his black leather glory, eyes raking over you like he’s assessing his work.

“Are you gonna touch us, Master?” Jungkook questions in a small voice, fingers clutching at his own thighs, cock flushed and needy between them.

“Not you yet, Jungkookie. Gotta warm Y/n up first.” Your eyes widen - for what? - but Hoseok is moving closer run a hand down Jungkook’s back, fingers jumping over the strands of rope. “Do you wanna help me, baby?”

Jungkook nods, blushing when Hoseok pinches lightly at his cheek.

Hoseok leans over to you, carding his fingers into your hair and curling them in so that he can hold you steady. Like this, kneeling on the bed, you have to tilt your head back to meet his gaze, but he just tuts, holding you face-forward to Jungkook. “You wanna give her a kiss, Kookie?”

You swallow, fingers interlocking together as you look over to the camboy. He looks so needy, blissed out and pretty in his red rope, cock untouched and weeping. Your lips part automatically, tongue darting out to wet your lips and you don’t miss the way Jungkook’s eyes are drawn to it, lids now as he nods.

With your hands pinned to your chest and kneeling, you don’t feel able to meet him halfway so you just wait as Jungkook crawls to you, glancing up at Hoseok for permission before burying your hands in your hair alongside the dom’s. With barely a second to suck in a breath, Jungkook ducks his head, his lips descending onto yours with sweet, unrestrained need.

Unable to touch him back, you let your eyes slip shut with the soft presses of his mouth, taking everything he gives you. Everything about Jungkook in this moment is soft; his lips, his thumbs brushing across your cheekbones, even the subtle scent of vanilla as his hair tickles your face - but the stiff grip in your hair is anything but, reminding you where exactly you are and the hand you’re under.

Your breath hitches as two things happen at once; Jungkook’s tongue presses into your mouth, deepening the kiss, and behind you Hoseok shifts, getting up on the bed behind you. Though you can’t see him, you become even more aware of his commanding presence, through the simple gesture of a fingertip, tracing beside lines of rope with a touch so light you shiver.

“You both look so pretty for me,” Hoseok murmurs warmly, his voice closer than you’d expected him to be, sounding like it’s right beside your air. Jungkook doubles his efforts in response, and your core is alight with excitement when you instinctively go to touch him, only to be reminded of the restraint you’re in.

Jungkook kisses without abandon, not hurried but deep and purposeful. Though you still tremble under Hoseok’s teasing touch, your mind is so enraptured by Jungkook’s tongue in your mouth and teeth on your lips that you lose track of it.

The camboy doesn’t dare venture his hands further than your face, cupping it so tenderly as he delves into you, so your eyes fly open with shock when two fingers are suddenly slipping through your folds, running over your clit for a single delicious moment of pleasure. You moan in shock and pull away to look down.

Between your kneeling legs is the slender but calloused hand of your Master himself, wrapped around your front and slipping inside you without question like you’re his. His to explore, his to ruin. You pant at the intrusion of two fingers, clenching around him, but his only response is to tug suddenly at your hair, pulling your gaze back up again.

Nipping sharply at the bridge of your ear, Hoseok scolds you. “I didn’t tell you to stop,” he growls harshly, “did I?”

“Sorry, Master,” you reply without thinking, barely a moment before you let out a muffled squeak from Jungkook joining you together again, wasting no time to obey.

Hoseok doesn’t stop his motions between your legs; on the contrary, he continues without pause, fingers moving inside you with a steady urgency.

For a while, your brows furrow, hips rocking below him. He keeps missing your g-spot, fingers too straight to press against it on each thrust, and he moves to three fingers without touching your clit at all, hand held foward off of you to avoid friction. You moan brokenly into Jungkook’s mouth as you realise Hoseok’s doing it intentionally, stretching you out almost clinically, without regard or want for your pleasure. You go weak at the thought, sinking forward into Jungkook’s embrace, but soon enough the fingers are removed from you completely. Empty and unsatisfied just like earlier, you huff and begin to kiss the camboy more frantically, desperate for some pleasure to replace it.

But Hoseok clearly isn’t having it. “Stop,” he commands shortly, “hands off.”

Jungkook sits back quickly, making sure you won’t slump over before he presses his hands to his thighs again, cock twitching at the continued neglect. Blinking, he licks his swollen lips and glances behind you to Hoseok in confusion. “Master?”

Your mouth goes dry when you hear the unmistakable sound of a zip being lowered. Hoseok’s hand leaves your hair suddenly, and you feel unmoored between the two men, just you and your hands tucked under your chin. “You tasted her pretty little pussy in Week One, didn’t you, Jungkookie? Would you like her to return the favour?”

Eyes wide, you drop your gaze down to Jungkook’s aching dick, as it twitches and leaks another thin trail of precum, the boy groaning. “Please, Master.” His fingers flex, holding back from touching it. “‘Hurts,” he whines.

You bite your lip, mouth watering. He’s not as big as Namjoon, but you know how fully he filled you just yesterday, and to have him in your mouth… “Please,” you croak out, fingers wiggling in the air as you’re unable to lower yourself to him.

“Good girl,” Hoseok praises, hands strong on your shoulders as he helps you down, elbows propping yourself up awkwardly in the space that Jungkook’s shuffled back from. “Gotta warm Kookie up too, don’t we? Open up, princess.”

Like this, you’re able to keep upright, but barely, craning your neck to look up at Jungkook. His cock is in front of you, and this close you can see just how flushed it is, the tip almost perfect. Hoping your pleading gaze can communicate your desperation, you open your mouth, letting your tongue rest just over your bottom lip.

Jungkook’s brows furrow in wanton need as he glances towards Hoseok. “Can I touch her, Master? Help her?”

“Of course,” Hoseok’s voice allows from behind you, palms running over the flesh of your ass, “but my little prince better not cum.”

Jungkook visibly shivers at the nickname, hips jerking uselessly. “Y-yes, Master,” he allows, before tipping your chin up so gently, gripping himself to guide his length into your waiting mouth.

You moan the moment your lips wrap around his tip, the tang of his precum bursting on your tongue as you flick it over the slit, making Jungkook thrust up again, enough that his cock reaches the back of your mouth. You’re barely able to avoid gagging, but you inhale harshly through your nose, blinking up at him as he brushes your hair back with a shaky apology.

Knowing he can’t orgasm, Jungkook seems happy enough to lazily roll his hips, just enjoying the wet warmth around him as you follow his rhythm, enjoying the slight ache of your jaw around his girth. Hoseok gives you only a few moments to reach this equilibrium before you feel his cock lining up against you.

Eyes widening, you’re given no time to prepare as he slides inside you, slowly but without pause, making your back arch with the intrusion.

You moan, muffled, as Hoseok pulls out and begins to pick up a steady pace, once again sliding right past your g-spot, not fast enough to make your toes curl and not deep enough to make your eyes roll. There’s no denying he’s doing it on purpose, and the thought that he might not let you cum at all has you whining desperately around Jungkook’s cock, loud enough that Hoseok hears.

To your disappointment, he tsks and pulls out, tugging at your hair to pull you off Jungkook. “What the fuck?” you complain bitterly, sucking off the drool that’s accumulated in the corners of your mouth. Equally deprived, Jungkook makes a noise of confusion, but before he can speak up, a commanding voice calls out to you.

“That’s it, on your back,” Hoseok orders, making you jump as he smacks the flesh of your ass. “If you’re gonna be ungrateful you won’t get anything at all.”

You pout, craning your neck to look back at him. “Hobi,” you whine, hoping to appeal to that soft inner that got you what you wanted the last time you were scening with him, but it doesn’t work.

Impatient, his hands find your hips, flipping you around unceremoniously. Your breath is punched out of you as you’re suddenly landing on your back, and you whimper as he hooks a finger in your harness over the top of your breast, using it to tug you higher up the bed so that him and Jungkook are on either side of your waist.

“You’ve been far better behaved,” Hoseok directs at Jungkook casually, reaching into the duffle bag to pull out a square foil packet, “so you’ll get my cock instead.”

Jungkook bites his lip harshly, shuffling on his knees as Hoseok rolls a condom on. “Thank you, Master,” he replies politely, eyes lidded and needy.

“What a good boy,” Hoseok coos, reaching over to brush a fond hand over Jungkook’s cheek. “Do you wanna fuck Y/n too, my little prince?” You let out a low groan at the prospect, at the way Hoseok speaks for you like you’re a toy of his. The thought is more erotic than you’d expect, and your legs part unconsciously.

Jungkook whimpers at the sight, dark hair curling at his temples with perspiration. “Please, Master.”

“Go on, then, baby.” Hoseok gestures for him to straddle you, and you whimper as Jungkook’s form blocks the light from the ceiling, framing him in a silhouette of dark hair.

Your legs part further as he settles between them, cock brushing between your folds lightly until he puts a hand down to line himself up. With one arm bracing himself, Jungkook slowly drives his cock deep inside you, small rocking motions to get you accustomed to him as he bottoms out. The two of you groan in unison, the feeling of being full again like bliss.

Before Jungkook can set a pace, you hear Hoseok’s voice again behind him. “There’s only one thing,” the dom adds in an apologetic tone, “Y/n hasn’t earned an orgasm yet, not like my sweet prince has. If you want to fuck her, Jungkookie, she better not cum.”

You let out a frustrated moan, heel kicking into the mattress. “Fuck,” you whine, hips already rocking against Jungkook’s length inside of you, “are you serious?”

Calmly, Hoseok clicks open a bottle of what must be lube, and you feel Jungkook go lax above you, holding his weight off of your torso but dropping his head onto the bed beside yours, groaning lowly. “Of course I’m serious,” he explains simply as he preps Jungkook with his fingers, “I’m doing you a favour, Y/n. This way you won’t make the same mistake twice.”

You sob, feeling Jungkook twitch inside you from the pleasure he’s receiving from Hoseok. As the dom finally deems Jungkook ready and lines himself up, you realise why Hoseok was so popular at his job. Handling two subs, let alone one who was getting punished and one who was now getting rewarded, was a tough balance, and yet he does it with such cool and professional ease.

Jungkook curses, rocking his hips with stuttered gasps, and you feel the impact of Hoseok’s hips through Jungkook’s body as he thrusts the first time, the camboy hurriedly throwing his other arm up on the other side of your head to prop himself up with more stability. You can feel the rhythm as he gets fucked, and the way his chest heaves, breaths panting over your bare shoulder.

With your hands tied to your chest and lain on your back, you quickly realise there is nothing you can do to chase any pleasure for yourself, and you let out another low sob. You won’t be making the same mistake twice indeed, you muse as Jungkook barely shifts inside you. He feels so good, but it’s just not enough for you to get anywhere close to your own high. The lesson has most certainly been learned; if you want pleasure, you play by Hoseok’s rules.

“Please, Master,” you pipe up desperately, looking past Jungkook’s shoulder to the dom’s face, calm even as his hips rock with the graceful fluidity of a dancer, every stroke making Jungkook cry out. “I’ll do anything, Master, I’m sorry for being bad, just please let me come!”

A grin spreads across his face, satisfied, even as he grunts from exertion, Jungkook trembling above you as he’s brought mercilessly to the edge. “It’s too late for that,” Hoseok pants out with a chuckle, “it’s already time for my little prince to cum.”

Jungkook moans, a high-pitched keen at the pet-name, and the sound is so sinful you can’t help but clench, making him stiffen impossibly inside you.

It only takes a thrust or two more, and a gruff command to cum before Jungkook does just that, spilling inside you with a drawn-out whine, thanking his Master with every breath he can suck into his lungs.

He manages to keep his weight off of you as he rides his high, Hoseok fucking him into oversensitivity before he pulls out, leaving briefly to discard the condom. Jungkook pulls out of you with a wince, but a satisfied one, and rolls over onto his back, running his fingers under the lines of rope lazily as he catches his breath.

Once Hoseok returns, he begins untying you first, and as your wrists are loosened from your chest and promptly released, the cool air on your skin feels like defeat. Your eyes slip shut, a pout no doubt on your lips as you give him nothing but dead weight, forcing the professional to manhandle your torso as he undoes the rope bit by bit.

You open your eyes once he’s done, frowning at him as he releases the rope from Jungkook’s body. Without looking, Hoseok chastises you. “Don’t look at me like that,” he scolds, “I’m sure next time you’ll be behaved like our Jungkookie here.” The boy in question preens softly at the compliment, blinking up at Hoseok as the dom brushes his hair out of his eyes.

The sight warms your heart, and you can’t deny that Hoseok has the right to discipline you, no doubt feeling self-conscious about his place on the show. And the feeling of him playing you so skilfully is something that will stick with you for a good while. You press your thighs together, sighing out at the slick still between them.

After finishing with Jungkook, speaking quietly with him in praise or reassurance, he comes back around to you, rubbing at the few red marks on your chest and wrists that have appeared from your movements. His eyes search your face, and you’re surprised to see the absolute calm in them, clearly switched out of the Master persona and just into a dominant but caring one. “Not hurt?”

You shake your head after taking the time to really think it through, wiggling your fingers and toes.

“Not angry?”

Again, you take a moment to consider, but shake your head.

Hoseok smiles down at you, warm as he squeezes your hands fondly. “Good. Now I know you can’t sleep in your own bed, so Jungkookie has kindly offered for you to stay here with him. Take care of each other, okay? I’m just down the hall.”

By the time Hoseok zips up his pants - you note that even after all that, you hadn’t seen him properly naked - and gathers his bag, Jungkook’s managed to slip his legs under the blankets, snoring away peacefully with the aftermath of a good orgasm.

After the dom leaves, you get under the covers yourself, watching the relaxing cycle of Jungkook’s chest rising and falling, the way his eyes flutter lightly in his sleep, but it doesn’t lull you to unconsciousness.

Instead, the unsatisfied throb between your legs just grows more ferocious than ever. If you could just get yourself off…

Your hand trails down, slipping between your legs naturally, but the first swipe of your index finger against your clit gives you pause. Hoseok had pretty clearly stated that you weren’t to masturbate without permission unless you were in a scene with another contestant and, well…

You grimace as Jungkook snuffles in his sleep, wriggling around to get more comfortable. You can’t exactly wake him up.

Which leaves you with only one option.

Fuck it. As quietly as you can, you slip out of bed, stumbling over to your pile of clothes. After retrieving your phone - still somehow tucked neatly into your pants pocket - you hop back into bed and seek out the one contact who can alleviate your need. Hoseok himself.

You answer the call with shaking fingers, those not still buried inside you. When Hoseok’s voice comes through, it’s thankfully quiet and low, but the words still make you keen.

“Princess couldn’t wait until the morning, hm?” Hoseok chuckles quietly at your whine of response. “That’s okay. Let Master help you.”

You sigh out, sitting the phone so that it lies on the pillow beside you. “Please, Master,” you whisper, “can I touch my clit?”

“Fuck,” he curses under his breath, “such a polite girl now. Baby took her lesson well. You can touch it, princess. Get yourself close for me.”

When you change the angle of the fingers thrusting inside you to make room to rub at your clit, you could cry from the satisfaction, biting your lip to muffle the moan that’s pulled from your lungs.

Glancing quickly beside you to ensure Jungkook’s asleep, the sight of him sleeping so peacefully as you get off right beside him has you clenching down, and your back arches off the bed.

Your high is close, and the faster you strum your clit frantically, the more you pant, desperate to keep quiet. Your mouth drops open as you suddenly feel the orgasm approaching, and you turn to the phone on the pillow, getting close enough that he can hear your whisper. “I’m go-gonna cum, Hoseokie, fuck,” you choke out before quickly pressing your lips together, preventing further noise.

His voice is low velvet on the phone, a calm command. “Cum for Master now, princess.”

You feel your orgasm hit you like a tsunami, crashing so violently that you curl over your hands, shivering and convulsing as pleasure rocks every inch of your body. As it floods you entirely, you feel hot tears stream down your face, ones you didn’t even know you were shedding. Your thighs shake and your chest heaves and you don’t stop your fingers until there’s no more pleasure left to be milked from you.

When you finally cum down from your high, panting, you fumble clumsily for the phone. “Tha-thank you, Master.”

Perhaps it’s the post-orgasm delirium, but you swear you hear the smile in his voice when he murmurs, “you’re most welcome, princess. Now get some rest. You’ve earned it.”

After hanging up, you lock your phone and chuck it down onto the carpet beside the bed carelessly, the wetness between your thighs no longer uncomfortable, now just a satisfying reminder of the pleasure he finally allowed you. Taking one last look at the tranquil face of Jungkook as he slept, you let yourself join him in a blissful unconsciousness.

ELIMINATION GRAPH

No elimination this week ! What a doozy, huh? If you were curious, here are the results of the vote!

It was taken after exactly 48 hours of the poll being open, and required a sign-in with email to prevent spamming so that it was as fair as possible!

In the future, we’ll use this format for both Fan Favourite and Elimination voting. I’ll tell you the top three for audience fan-favourites in the following chapter, and for elimination you’ll find out Y/n’s final decision in the following chapter, plus this graph at the end for the complete results.

Thanks for all your support !

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prinxlyart · 4 years

Note

just any individual toh character hc would SLAP. mebbe ur thoughts on the twins idk this is vague

Nah it’s cool, I can dig it let’s do this

I only put this under a line break cuz it got so long oops lol

Emira:

Defo has a stutter that she went through a lot of intensive and grueling speech therapy sessions for (when she was about 7 years old) that she hated. Amity and Edric both know this and know it’s a sensitive topic for her. They’ll tease her lightly about it, but never in front of anyone else and they know where to draw the line. In my last Vinera post, I mentioned how much Viney adores her stutter. She absolutely loves getting Emira flustered enough to start stuttering. She’s incredibly patient and understanding when it comes to Emira’s stutter and Em’s feelings about her stutter, and she helps Emira learn to be okay with it again. It’s nothing to be ashamed of (and it’s cute).

My girl likes carrots. Like, really likes carrots. As in she’ll eat them straight out of the ground if she’s given a chance to wash it first. She really loves carrots. This is only an issue later on after she and Viney start taking care of beasts together and Emira’s been caught eating their entire stock of carrots that’s meant for the beasts. Viney has to keep the carrots in a secret box away from Emira after that point.

Emira actually really loves beasts/animals but has never been good at handling them. Any time she’d try to approach an animal to pet it, it would try to bite her. She’d get extremely pouty whenever this happens because beasts/animals love Edric. It’s not until after she and Viney start dating that Viney actually starts teaching her how to approach different creatures and her love for creatures reignites.

Emira’s a giant pushover for Amity. Only Edric knows this because he’s also a pushover for her. If Amity ever found out what power she actually holds over them, they’d be in so much trouble. They mask their love for their sister with constant teasing. Yes of course they get annoyed by her, that’s how siblings are, especially when Amity tattles on them, but at the end of the day, they’d help Amity hide the body if she asked. (The few times they witnessed her crying by someone other than their parents, they had gone on a warpath. Nobody hurts Mittens.)

Defo had a brief infatuation with Luz for like 5 minutes before she realized how head-over-heels Amity was. As long as they’re both happy, that’s what matters. She’ll take that secret to her grave though.

L O V E S having her hair played with, but like, only with people she’s super comfortable with. She has so much hair (mostly due to her mother’s wishes) and any time they all have attend some fancy gathering, Emira has to be seen by a stylist in order to get all her hair into whatever wild fancy shape her mom wants for the event. That she hates more than life itself, but whenever she’s upset, Edric or Amity grabs her hair brush and just gently brushes her hair out until she’s chill again. (She absolutely melts when Viney starts playing with her hair). In an act of defiance and because she needed this Change, the moment she and her siblings leave the Blight Manor permanently, she cuts off all of her hair. It’s very reminiscent of Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday. Viney loves it. Everyone loves it actually, but the biggest reactions come from Viney and Luz (they both love running their fingers through the newly cut hair because it’s so soft).

She likes to sing to herself when she’s alone. It’s rare that it ever happens because if she knows there’s other people in the same building as her, she won’t chance it. But when she knows she’s alone and no one will notice if she casts a silence bubble around herself so she can sing at the top of her lungs? You better believe she closes any doors or curtains in the area, locks everything, casts that spell and goes nuts. Her voice isn’t all that great, but it’s lovely when she’s singing quietly to herself while she does homework or something. On especially bad nights, Amity will ask her to sing to her. Emira sang to her once when they were like, 3 and 5 respectively, and it’s been their secret thing ever since for especially rough nights/nightmares.

Edric:

Yknow how James from Pokémon is just super good with Pokémon ?? Like, he knows how to treat them, he knows what they like, he asks them gently if they’d like to join them, etc. That’s exactly how Edric approaches creatures. He’s a natural with them, but he and his sister’s natural affinity for illusion magic kept him from pursuing that track of magic.

He’s always wanted a pet, but every time he brings it up to his parents, he’s met with the same firm No as always. He’s definitely gotten in trouble for trying to sneak wild creatures into the house to keep in his room. Thank Titan for Em’s cool new girlfriend who’s not only a multi-track student, but studying the exact subject he wants to study and is super eager to teach him everything she knows. He learns vicariously through her and helps her study for her tests. At first, Emira is suspicious of them, but she knows her brother wouldn’t be so cruel as to try to steal her girlfriend away from her. He’s just a dork.

My boy’s got a sweet tooth. He loves desserts and sweets and fluffy baked goods and often tries to sneak candies when he thinks no one is looking. Chocolate is a big weakness for him. When Luz introduces him to Human Sweets, he’s practically bouncing off the walls. Cotton candy??????? Flan?????? Dulce de Leche en Tabla??? He nearly passes out when Luz busts out what she calls a “chocolate fountain” and turns it on. Y’all remember that one image of a bird bathing in a chocolate fountain from a million years ago? That’s Edric.

Edric Blight LIVES to see his sisters laugh. He would pull all sorts of silly faces and dumb tricks to make Amity laugh when they were little. He still tries to make her laugh, but usually those have grown from giggles to disgruntled mumbling. He’ll never admit how much it breaks his heart and it’s not until he sees her laughing at something Luz has done that he has hope he may still be able to get her to laugh again (it’s also the first time he’s heard her laugh in years and it makes his heart soar in relief. He was almost certain their parents had stamped any concept of laughter out of her).

My boy Edric is so full of love and passion; actually quite similarly to Luz. What makes them different though is that Edric is Aromantic. He’s never had a crush in his life. He’s happy with his sisters and all of their friends and their family as it grows in the future. He has some best friends that he lives with for a while (after his sisters move in with their respective partners), but for the most part he’s chill. He loves his family, he loves spoiling his sisters’ kids, and he’s content with himself. It takes him a super long time to be content with himself, but he gets there. I will literally never get over the fact that his biggest fear is “being alone forever”. He’s never alone. He will always have his friends and family. And, thanks in large part to Luz, he has his parents back. His parents that actually were excited when he cast his first spell and tucked him in at night when he was a toddler, giving him kisses goodnight and pleasant dreams. Not the parents he’d run away from; those were the cold, uncaring, obsessed with fake concepts of popularity and status people he ran away from with his sisters. It took years, but Luz helped bring his real parents back. He loves getting to know them for who they are now that he’s an adult too.

He and Gus become best friends. Like, dumb buddy cop movie levels of best friends. They get into so much trouble when it’s just the two of them and they have the time of their lives. At first, he and Em just sort of took Gus under their wing because he was a little bit of an outcast in their homeroom for being so much younger than everyone else. But he’s a friend of Luz’s and a friend of Amity’s after a while, which automatically makes him cool in their book. They soon find themselves actually enjoying his company, rather than just protecting him from stray bullies, and they find his ability with illusion magic exciting. They themselves are considered prodigies so having another prodigy to show off practice with is super stimulating for all of them. As the years go on (and Emira spends more time with Viney) Edric starts calling more and more often for “Bro Time” where they go do stupid teenage stuff or test the limits of their magic or even just hang out and talk for hours. It’s actually all this time hanging out with just Gus that Edric discovers he’s aro; somehow it comes out that Gus has developed a crush on Edric and (major age differences aside) Edric realizes he’s never had a crush on anyone before. It’s a conversation that sucks a lot, but they’re besties and they manage to get through it. Gus maybe needs to take a day with his original gal pals to just cry about it, but he gets over it just fine. He also helps Edric understand what it means to be aromantic. Well, with the help of Luz and Willow as well; Luz is a walking dictionary for lgbt terminology and Willow’s super good at helping dissect feelings (when they’re not her own cough’outofsightoutofmind’cough).

I genuinely don’t know what he might pursue for a career. Part of me wants him to be independent and do his own thing, but a much stronger part of me wants him to just be part of Viney as Emira’s business. He loves creatures so much and he loves taking care of them, but I don’t want him to feel like a third wheel around his twin sister either. Maybe he becomes a dual track teacher at Hexside specifically for healing and beast keeping so more students can learn about Service Creatures. He can substitute for the Illusion track homeroom when needed, but he’s super passionate about the Service Creature sub-track he and Viney pitch to Principal Bump.

#prinxly inquiries #anonymous #the owl house #emira blight #edric blight #toh headcanons #I have a lot of Thoughts and Feelings about these two

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1989dreamer · 4 years

Text

FTH-2020-Seventy-Five Percent

For @fandomtrumpshate‘s 2020 auction, big thanks to @evanesdust for bidding on me and for being so patient.

AO3 link

Summary: Stiles and Derek are roommates at college, and living together is going well considering Stiles is harboring the hugest crush on Derek. When Derek needs an emergency date to his sister's tenth anniversary dinner, Stiles agrees. He doesn't expect it to get messy. He's kept his feelings in check for three and a half years. Spoiler alert: it gets really messy.

From this prompt. “We’re fake-dating and I’m supposed to publicly break up with you but you’ve been irritating me lately so instead of dumping you I publicly proposed to mess up your plan and now we’re getting married, fuck” au.

Tags: Friends to Lovers, Fake Dating, Pining/Mutual Pining, Minor Misunderstanding, Human AU (full tags can be found on AO3).

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“I need a date,” Derek says apropos of nothing, and Stiles carefully sets down his brush, leans across the aisle, and stares at his friend. Derek flushes. “I mean,” he all but spits out between gritted teeth, “that my sister is having her tenth anniversary dinner, and I am the only single one in the family. If I don’t have a date, I’ll spend the whole time being accosted by my relatives.”

“And that’s my problem how?”Stiles asks. He goes back to his painting. The life model flexes just a tiny bit, and Stiles rolls his eyes at him.

“It’s your problem now because I will pay you to come with me,” Derek says, an undercurrent of threat in his voice. Or tears. Could be tears. Derek sounds mad when he’s about to cry sometimes.

Stiles sets his brush down again. Of course Derek would hit him where it hurts the most. All of Stiles’ meager earnings from his part-time job go toward keeping his Jeep running so that he can make the trek back up north to visit his dad when he’s on break from school.

“How much?” he demands, hating himself for being this easy.

Derek looks relieved. It’s a good look for him. Although, Derek looking good is any day of the week. “Thanks. Like three hundred for the day of? Maybe fifty for each additional thing that comes up?”

“And how often will things come up?”

Derek shrugs. “Maybe once or twice. I’m sure at least some of my family will want to call you to make sure that you’re real.”

Stiles claps a hand to his chest. “You haven’t told them about me?” he asks, pretending to be scandalized.

It’s Derek’s turn to roll his eyes. “I have told them about you, but in the context that you’re my best friend at college and we live on opposite sides of the state.”

“So they don’t think I’m real?” Stiles asks, not sure if he should be insulted or not.

“The most common thing I’m asked about you is ‘What is a Stiles?’” Derek grins, private and sort of cheery. “I’ve kind of stopped referring to you by name now. Just easier that way.”

“Hardy har har.” Stiles pokes Derek. To be completely fair, their freshman year, when Stiles would go home, he’d complain to his dad about his unfairly attractive, selfish, loud, attractive roommate. His dad had been convinced that Derek didn’t exist until he met him when Stiles was emptying his dorm room.

Now he and Derek have an apartment off campus, and Dad keeps trying to get Stiles to invite Derek to Beacon Hills because he claims he should at least get to intimidate his son’s future husband before their wedding.

Never mind that Derek has never even been seen with any dates, much less given Stiles any hope that he could possibly have a chance with him.

Until now. Except not really, because Derek just needs a pretend boyfriend, not an actual boyfriend.

“Why me?” Stiles asks, squinting suspiciously at Derek as he tries and fails to draw the absolute lounge of the life model. Stiles is recommending that Isaac never model again. It’s too much ego and not enough clothes, although Isaac did keep his scarf draped artfully around his neck when he dropped trou. “Why not Boyd or Erica? I’m sure either of them would be pleased to play Derek Hale’s date for a night.”

Derek shakes his head. “Both of them have already met my family. And so has Isaac. We were all friends in high school. You’re the only one I talk about regularly. It’d seem too weird if you weren’t the guy I was secretly pining after all these years.”

Stiles intensifies his squint. “Am I?” he asks bluntly.

“Are you what?” Derek refuses to make eye contact, making quick lines with his charcoal across his drawing of Isaac.

“Am I the guy you secretly pine after?”

“No…?”

Stiles throws his brush at Derek, not even a little sorry when it smacks against his chest and Derek complains that he’s wearing his favorite shirt. It’s not his favorite shirt. Stiles stole that a year ago and has yet to return it.

He’s a bit of a stalker. It’s a habit he’s trying to break. He will break. When he and Derek have graduated and gone their separate ways. When all they’ll be in a few years is the occasional drinking buddy, living too far to justify visiting more than once every couple years, work and life getting in the way of their friendship.

Stiles shakes himself. “So don’t make it a question.”

Derek sighs in defeat, handing Stiles his brush back. “Look, Laura already thinks that you’re my secret boyfriend.”

“I thought they thought I didn’t exist,” Stiles says, bitterly. He takes the brush and lays it down, turning to face Derek. Then he gives Derek a tissue to at least wipe off most of the paint. Too bad it’s oil and will stain.

“Laura helped me move in this year. She saw you and your dad from a distance and I pointed you out.”

Stiles narrows his eyes. “I could have met your sister?”

Derek squirms. “Yes?” he hedges. “But she was asking all these weird questions like our first kiss, where we go on dates, if we’ve gone all the way yet. I didn’t want you to deal with that, so I distracted her until she had to leave.”

“So I get to meet her now?”

Derek nods. “It is her anniversary after all.”

“Cool.”

Then Stiles ignores Derek in favor of finishing as much of his painting as he can before class lets out.

~ * ~

Lunch is leftover chili with homemade cornbread that Derek made earlier. Stiles taps a pen on some paper, thinking over all the things he knows he should put into a contract of sorts for his and Derek’s arrangement.

Stuff like pet names, PDA, just what they’ve “done” as a couple, how long they’ve been dating, and just how long they are supposed to be together before they break up.

Derek sees the list, scratches out pet names—“Trauma,” he mutters as explanation—and adds the terms of payment as well. He also writes down that the breakup should be public so that Derek can take time to “recover” without his family breathing down his neck.

Overall, there’s nothing really objectionable to pretending to date Derek aside from the fact that Stiles would much rather actually date Derek, but how to tell your presumably-straight roommate that you wanna suck his dick and kiss his lips?

Derek gathers the dishes and starts washing them. “Hey, so, my lab is today, so I’ll see you after 5:00. We can talk more when I get home.”

“Sure thing.” Stiles has to run himself or he’d stay and watch Derek clean up. It’s almost like a dance when Derek really gets into it. Stiles likes to park his butt on the couch and watch him while he pretends to do his homework. If Derek’s lab runs late, it explains why he’s cleaning now. Which means that not only will Stiles miss it because he needs to go to class, but it will be his turn to cook and clean tomorrow.

Ugh.

Stiles had considered Derek selfish freshman year because Derek hadn’t known how to share a room. He’s not sure why though, it’s not like they were each other’s first roommates either. Now Stiles feels selfish because he doesn’t mind cooking or doing chores but he had enough of that at home and was hoping to relax at college.

“Hey, see you tonight?” he asks, Derek waves in response.

Stiles goes to class, the pit of his stomach rebelling with every step. Why are things different now? Derek doesn’t want to date Stiles. He just wants to get his family off his back.

Concentration is out the window, so Stiles just spends all his class time thinking up the various scenarios that his and Derek’s plot could go so, so sideways.

By the time he makes it back to an empty and sparkling apartment, he’s nearer to a panic attack than he has ever been in the last three years including the whole fiasco with his first roommate during freshman year.

Stiles goes to wash his face, hoping that the cold shocks his system enough for him to stave off the attack, but Derek finds him there a few hours later, and Stiles has no memory of it.

Derek gentles him through the remainder of his attack, sets him up on the couch with a mug of hot chocolate and his favorite movie, and then just sits in silence while Stiles tries to process the fact that he just had a goddamn panic attack over pretend dating his roommate.

After another movie, Derek moves onto the couch, letting Stiles snuggle into his side.

“All good?” he asks.

Stiles shakes his head. “I will be though.” He waits for a few minutes, long enough for Derek to lean against him and start drowsing. “Tell me about your family.”

Derek yawns. “Well, you know Laura, the one who’s celebrating. She’s older than me, by like a million years. Made her insufferable growing up. And then there’s Cora, who’s about four years younger than me. We were rivals growing up. Every crush I had, she had too. And she’s kissed about half of them. I have a couple older brothers who are even older than Laura and even more insufferable, but in the way that us younger Hales are the dirt under their shoes. Especially my youngest sister. She’s the baby of the family and the most normal. But I guess it’s because my parents were tired when they got around to raising her.”

“Hmm, so many Hales to meet.” Stiles’ heart beats extra hard at that. Not only does he have to pretend to date Derek, but he has to pretend to date Derek in front of—Stiles counts on his fingers—seven Hales that aren’t Derek. Five sibling Hales and two parent Hales.

“And my uncle Peter,” Derek adds, drowsily. “He’s a dickhead. He’s also as old as my brothers but he was far more invested in causing drama with the younger Hales.”

“Laura too?”

Derek nods. “Laura especially. He almost wasn’t invited to her wedding. I will be very surprised if he doesn’t do something that gets him kicked out of her anniversary dinner.”

“And you want me to meet them?”

“Well,” Derek hedges, and that hurts so much and so viscerally that Stiles climbs off the couch and goes to the kitchen to pretend to drink a glass of water from the tap. Derek follows him after a minute. “Look, it’s not that I don’t want you to meet them. You’re my best friend. It’s just that they don’t have the greatest track record with people I bring home.”

“What, like I’m not good enough for you?” Stiles fans the flare of anger growing in his chest. Anything but another panic attack is preferred.

Derek sighs. “It’s a dumb test. I think everyone goes through it, but I don’t know because I don’t participate. I mean, it’s dumb to make your sister’s boyfriend hate her family when before he wanted to be with her, right? It’s like we’re trying to scare them off.”

“So like they’re not good enough for the family,” Stiles repeats.

Derek’s shoulders fall. “I guess. I always hated it, so I wouldn’t bring anyone home so that they couldn’t do that to them.”

“Partners,” Stiles points out.

“What?”

“You said ‘sister’s boyfriend,’ so this assholery only happens with potential partners. Is that it?”

Derek frowns at him before nodding, understanding dawning on his face. “Yeah. That’s it.”

“So, I’ve never met your family because…?”

The absolute look of panic that flashes across Derek’s face is in parts thrilling and heartbreaking to see.

“I understand,” Stiles says. “Well, it just means that I truly am the right choice of friend to take home to mother.”

Derek barks out a strangled laugh. “Yeah, sure. Please don’t call my mom ‘Mother.’ It makes her unreasonably angry. I think she thinks it makes her sound old. I think she sounds older when my nieces and nephews call her grandma.”

“How many nieces and nephews do you have?” Stiles asks, suddenly, acutely aware of just how much he doesn’t know about Derek. It makes him feel like a chronic over sharer and like Derek doesn’t fully trust him.

Derek shrugs. “I think Laura has three kids and my brothers each have two, but that was last Christmas so they could all have more on the way. I have five nieces and two nephews that I know of.”

“And we’re driving down to Chula Vista, right?”

Derek looks relieved, grabbing at Stiles’ floatation device of a conversation change. “Yeah, yes! Definitely. I mean, it’s about seven hours. We could take a flight down, it’d probably be quicker, but more expensive. And besides, this means that we can leave whenever either of us want to.”

“Yeah, how’s that going to work?” Stiles points, and they head back to the couch. Derek sits, angled so that his knee is brushing Stiles’. “Do I just say, ‘Laura insulted me, I want to go back to college now’?”

“Absolutely yes. If any of my family makes you feel uncomfortable in any way, let me know, and we’ll leave as soon as possible.”

It’s a nice reassurance, and Stiles hopes to assuage all his fears as easily, so he and Derek spend the rest of the night, until Derek falls asleep, discussing the finer matters of how to “date” a Hale.

~ * ~

The rest of the week until Derek’s sister’s tenth anniversary dinner blurs by. Lots of packing for what is essentially just a day and a half, getting Boyd to agree to look in on the apartment even though they have no pets or plants that require sitting, and arguing over whose car they’re taking. In the end, Derek agrees to allow Stiles to drive his Camaro for a short stint, and they depart, happily, on Friday after classes.

The drive is uneventful, even when Derek oversleeps the first leg and Stiles ends up driving two thirds of the way to their destination. Derek doesn’t even grump about it, just smiles dopily until he notices Stiles looking at him, and then he steps on the gas.

They pull into the drive of an enormous house at about 11:00 pm. The whole house is lit up. Stiles snorts awake to stare at it.

“That’s your house?” he squeaks.

Derek shifts, uncomfortable. “My parents’ house,” he says. “They’re rich. I’m not.”

“It’s a big house.”

“Yeah. That’s because my uncle and his family live with them, and I think Cora still lives at home and so does Laura and her family.”

“And you? Are you going to live at home when we graduate come spring?”

Derek doesn’t answer. Instead, he opens his door, shuts off the engine, and pops the trunk.

Almost immediately, the door opens and a very pregnant woman waddles out to stare at them, her hands fisted on her hips. The light from the porch illuminates her perfectly.

Derek hands Stiles his suitcase and then starts up the stairs. When he reaches the woman, he takes a step back.

“Cora?”

“Yeah, dumbass. Who else would it be?”

“But aren’t you dating what’s-her-name?”

“Lydia, and yes. We decided we would use sperm donors.” Cora rolls her eyes. “You would know all this if you talked to us more than just at the holidays.”

Chastised, Derek ducks his head. “Sorry.”

Stiles thinks it’s been awkward long enough, so he sticks out his hand. “Stiles Stilinski. Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Hale.”

“What kind of a name is Stiles?” Cora asks.

Derek clears his throat. “He’s my boyfriend. And Stiles is a nickname.”

Cora gives Derek a flat look. “Your boyfriend?”

Derek nods. He looks so nervous. He hasn’t looked this nervous since he and Stiles were paired together after the first rooming fiasco.

“Well,” Cora eyes Stiles with a disapproving glare, “I guess you’d better come in and meet the rest of the family. The ones that are awake anyway. Be extra quiet: the kids are asleep.”

Inside is just as opulent as the outside, perhaps more because inside is completely lit up and doesn’t have to battle the darkness of night.

There are portraits of what must be the Hales and their families everywhere, tasteful crystal décor, and polished marble floors.

It’s very austere, and Stiles understands why Derek said his parents were rich but not him. Stiles has seen how Derek chooses to decorate, and it’s in warm tones with soft surfaces and very limited bits of chrome.

Twin sweeping staircases stand guard at the end of the foyer, leading up to what presumably is more austere marble and crystal, severe lines of cold.

Two handsome people, the woman is an elgant black gown, the man in a black suit, Windsor knot in his silver tie, stand in front of the staircases. Cora stops next to them, says something lowly, and then heads upstairs. Nervously, Stiles clings to his suitcase and follows as Derek walks, spine straight, face blank, toward what must be his parents.

His mother lifts her head, and Derek stops in his tracks.

“Wonderful of you to join us, Derek,” she says, like she’s a queen surveying her subjects and finding them very lacking. Stiles had thought his clothing, a dark t-shirt covered with an open blue flannel shirt and khakis, was fine in Berkeley. Here, it’s completely out of place. Derek’s outfit of a maroon shirt and dark slacks looks a little less out of place, but far too casual for this foyer.

“Mom, Dad,” Derek returns, and it is so incongruous with the image they’re presenting that Stiles has to stifle a hysterical laugh.

After a few more moments, Derek’s parents break, and smiling, they all but run to Derek and hug him at the same time. Derek’s father disentangles himself first, turning to Stiles and offering his hand for a shake.

“So this is the man who’s caught our little Derek’s heart?”

Derek flushes at his father’s words, but he doesn’t disagree.

Mr. Hale grins, using Stiles’ hand to tug him into a quick hug. “Welcome to the family, Stiles.”

“Uh, thanks?” Stiles doesn’t wriggle free, but it’s a near thing. Derek must realize how out of place he’s feeling, still reeling from the complete change in demeanor, because he laces his fingers through Stiles’, grounding him.

Talia nods at their hands. “And how is the relationship? Single rooms?”

Stiles coughs to cover another laugh. He and Derek share a bedroom in their apartment—it was cheaper than two bedrooms—so they should be okay sharing a room. A bed might be another matter, but they’ve been living together at college, so if they’re dating, they should already be comfortable with seeing each other naked, having morning erections around each other, and all those other embarrassing things no one ever talks about happening when people start having sex with each other.

Derek blushes. “It’s a little new, the relationship, but it’s strong. We can be trusted to be in the same room.”

“It’s late,” Derek’s father says. “Let’s get you boys settled, and then we can all talk tomorrow.” He looks at Derek with kindness in his eyes. “I can’t wait to hear what you’ve been up to.”

The room he and Derek are deposited into is medium sized. Stiles would have thought all rooms in the house would be enormous. Derek watches him studying it before explaining, “I went through a phase where I didn’t want anything from my parents, so they moved me in here. It used to be a closet, but it was the smallest they were willing to let me be without me moving out.”

“How old were you?”

Derek shrugs. “I was ten.” He frowns at Stiles’ sudden chuckle. “I was very self-righteous. I thought we were bad because we were rich and I didn’t want to be.” Quieter, he adds, “I was very bullied in school.”

“So was I,” Stiles reveals. “I always pretended that it didn’t bother me, but it did. It’s why I chose Berkeley. Close enough to go home to see my dad, but far enough away that I didn’t have to see my tormentors again.”

“I’m glad we found each other,” Derek says. He points at his bed, a single twin. “You can have the bed. I’ve got an inflatable mattress around here somewhere. I can get that blown up and sleep on that.”

Stiles is too tired to argue. It’s only a little after 11:00 pm, but they’ve been driving for most of the day, and he just feels under stimulated and uninterested in anything except brushing the gnarly taste of garlic pretzels out of his mouth and collapsing into a deep, refreshing sleep.

“Bathroom?”

Derek points down the hall, and Stiles takes his travel bag with him. He’s not sure what he’s expecting when he opens the door, but it certainly isn’t a soft coral pink bathroom with matching rugs, toilet cover, and shower curtain. It’s hideous. Stiles loves it.

Everything was getting a little too marble for his liking. This shows a human side to the Hales.

Because he’s Stiles, he snoops a little. Finds magazines in a holder on top of the toilet. Gross. Finds extra soaps and feminine products hidden in the cabinet under the sink. Cool. Other spare products and towels are kept behind a closed door. Good.

Overall, the bathroom passes muster enough that he feels comfortable scrubbing his teeth clean, scraping his tongue, and washing all evidence down the rose quartz-colored sink.

Derek comes in before Stiles finishes drying his hands on the fluffy, rose-scented towel.

He does a double-take at the room, digs under the sink for a little while, and stands up. “We’d better leave no evidence that we were ever here,” he says, ominously. “The bathroom’s been redone since I was last here at Christmas. I think that means, especially because her favorite color is pink, that this bathroom is Lydia’s and we shouldn’t ever be caught in here.”

“How unhygienic,” Stiles replies, pointing at the magazines. Derek claps a hand over his mouth to stifle the sudden bark of laughter.

“I agree. But honestly, it’s probably a lot more hygienic than your phone.”

Stiles bumps shoulders and then heads back to the room. Derek has indeed found and inflated an air mattress. Stiles crawls onto it to test the bounce, and oh, there’s his pillow. For some reason it’s on Derek’s bed. He grabs it, tucks it under his head, and just like that, out like a light.

~ * ~

Stiles wakes up to a warm body next to his, someone’s leg wound around his, someone’s head on his shoulder. He blinks up at the ceiling, watching as the sunrise fills the room with a lovely, rosy glow.

Then he remembers where he is and what’s supposed to be going on and sits up, arms flailing as he tries to dislodge himself from a very deeply asleep Derek.

He hears a clicking sound, and his head snaps around to find an elegant strawberry blonde in very tight blue wrap dress aiming a phone at him.

“Whasit?” he grumbles, glad that both he and Derek apparently decided to sleep in their clothes. Usually, they’re both strip down to boxers kind of guys. It makes it hard for Stiles to sleep sometimes when he just really wants to lick Derek’s abs or jerk off over him. And apparently there goes his morning wood.

“It’s just payback,” the strawberry blonde says, loud even though it’s obviously early. Derek jerks awake, snorting, and gasping like someone doused him with cold water.

It doesn’t help Stiles’ inappropriate boner at all.

“Payback for what?” Stiles asks. He’s never met this woman. Why does she need payback?

“Oh hey, Lydia,” Derek says, gruff. Sexy morning voice alert. “What brings you to our room today?”

“Someone used my bathroom.”

“Didn’t used to be your bathroom,” Derek responds. He turns to Stiles. “Stiles, this is Cora’s fiancée, Lydia. Lydia, this is my boyfriend, Stiles.”

“Hmm, so he is real,” Lydia remarks. She snaps another picture, says, “Stay out of my bathroom or I’ll expose your sleeping arrangements to Mom and Dad.”

Derek yawns, lazily slipping an arm around Stiles’ shoulders and using the lax grip to tug him back down. “Mom and Dad already know we’re sharing a room. It stands to reason that we’re comfortable sharing a bed too. After all, we’ve been living together for almost four years now.”

Lydia huffs and flounces out of the room, but Stiles saw on her face; she lost and she knew it. And she didn’t mind.

Derek adjusts his grip, nuzzles into Stiles’ neck again. “Hope this is okay?” he murmurs.

Stiles swallows hard. “Yeah,” he grits out. “This is perfect.”

Still, Derek rolls away from him. “I’m going to get up now. It’s the perfect time for a quick run. There’s a bathroom down stairs, third door on the left. Ask my mom or dad if you can’t find it. Don’t trust anything Lydia or Cora tell you.”

He grabs a pair of shorts and a t-shirt from his suitcase and heads out.

Stiles flops back on the bed, wondering if he’d done something wrong. Derek’s leaving feels like dismissal and Stiles isn’t sure if it’s because he was being a little too enthusiastic, i.e. the boner, or not enthusiastic enough.

It feels horrible, like a pit is growing in Stiles’ stomach, and he realizes that he won’t be able to maintain the charade of being Derek’s boyfriend without someone on his side.

But he’s in Chula Vista, not Beacon Hills. His dad is a whole ten hours away, and Stiles hadn’t realized that he only has one friend in the whole world.

How Derek is more sociable than him, he doesn’t know. All he knows is that if he doesn’t spill to someone, he’s going to break down, and the public breakup won’t be public nor a breakup.

He’s sort of saved when Cora knocks on the door and comes in before he can do more than say, “Yeah?”

“I just wanted to apologize for Lydia,” Cora says. She sits on the bed, cradling her stomach. “Mom and Dad are humoring her because her parents just got divorced and she’s not taking it well.”

Stiles studies her. “You weren’t this nice last night,” he says, hoping that she isn’t offended. When she throws her head back and laughs, he lets out a little sigh of relief.

“No. I’m not a night person.” She rubs at her stomach, catches herself, and sits on her hands. “Look, the baby likes to tap dance on my bladder, and whoever said morning sickness was only morning or just in the first trimester lied their fucking head off. I was startled when Derek brought you home. He’s been talking about his roommate nonstop. I actually thought you were dating before now, but he never said your name, always claimed we’d think you were imaginary if he did that.”

“I get it,” Stiles says. “Whenever someone stumbles over my real name, I tell them I go by Stiles, and every time, I get, ‘What kind of a name is Stiles?’ instead of ‘Cool, something easier to say.’ It’s discouraging.”

Cora’s hand comes up to pat at her belly, and she frowns down at it. “I swear I’m not usually this tactile.”

“It’s okay. It’s your body. Hormones and all.”

“Tell me why you decided to date my brother. Did he finally get his head out of his ass and ask you?”

Stiles coughs. “Uh, sort of?” He winces. “I mean, yeah, he finally asked and we made it official, but I mean, I haven’t dated anyone since high school, and Derek’s never been with anyone else as far as I know.”

“That’s it exactly.” Cora points at Stiles and he looks down at himself. He’s not bad looking—if his dad can be trusted—and he’s been making more of an effort with even his casual clothes since he and Derek began living together. “Derek doesn’t date. So why you? No offense.”

“Some taken,” Stiles replies. He shrugs at her. “I don’t know why.”

“Oh, I think you do.” Cora hauls herself up, shakes her head, and sinks back to the bed. She pats next to her, and Stiles hesitantly joins her.

She leans in close. “So, how much is he paying you?”

“Wh-what?”

Cora has a gleam in her eyes that makes Stiles entirely uncomfortable to be trapped here with her. “I’m guessing that you and he aren’t really dating, but since it’s Laura’s tenth wedding anniversary this weekend, he doesn’t want to be bothered by the copious aunts and grand-aunts that like to pinch his cheeks and ask when he’s bringing home his bride. Ergo, you, because my brother may be many things, a coward, spineless, and utterly useless at getting dates, but he does have a soft spot for you.”

Stiles stands up. “Derek isn’t spineless or a coward,” he says, angry at her. “Why would you even say that? Do you even know your brother? He was terrified to come to college. I don’t know why. He hasn’t shared that with me yet. But when I needed a roommate after my first roommate turned out to be the biggest bastard on campus, he stepped up. We’ve been friends since. It was a natural progression of our relationship because, yeah, we fell in love with each other.”

Cora grabs his wrist. “Don’t leave. Not yet. I’m sorry.” She tugs, and he sits. He’s breathing hard, heart beating a little too fast. He doesn’t know why he got so angry except for the fact that he knows the true Derek, the one who likes cooking and cleaning and studying microbiology and taking life art with Stiles just so he’d know someone in the class.

Cora takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry I said that about Derek. I just needed to know.”

“Know what?”

“That you love him too.”

Stiles blinks. Derek doesn’t love him. Not like that.

“I can see that you don’t believe me, but it’s true. Derek loves you. He won’t admit it but it’s in his voice when he talks about you. It’s in the way he won’t let anyone call you imaginary but also won’t reveal your name, because he’s trying to protect you. I don’t know. I do know my brother, and I know that he loves you, and you love him too.”

Stiles doesn’t even know where the tears come from, but he finds himself sobbing on Cora’s shoulder as he confesses that Derek did actually hire him precisely for what Cora accused.

She listens patiently.

Then. “You’re both the biggest idiots.” She throws a roll of toilet paper at him. “Kleenexes get a little rough on the nose when you’re prone to hysterical fits,” she explains to his raised eyebrow. “Quadruple ply is a Godsend.”

Once he’s dried his face and blown his nose, Cora takes his hand again. “Look, I get it. I do. Our family can be overbearing. It was hell keeping them off Lydia’s and my backs long enough to have the discussion about children. And we’re not even married yet. But trust me on this: Derek does love you.”

“So how do I get him to ask me?” Stiles asks. “I mean, after all this. We’re supposed to have a public breakup after this weekend.”

Cora laughs. “Mom and Dad are going to be so pissed they let you sleep in the same room if you do that.”

“I’m serious. I’m supposed to break up with Derek so that he can, I don’t know, save face with his family. I guess because they’ll never see me again.”

She nods. “Makes sense.” She tilts her head, chewing on her lip. “Okay, I’ve got it: instead of breaking up with him, you propose to him. Confuse him. If he really likes you, he’ll probably say yes, and you can be engaged for however long you like. If he still wants to break up with you, then he can’t do it without a little shit sticking to him.

“Oh, I know! You can do it when we go to the mall!” To Stiles’ confused face, she explains, “It’s a tradition to do a scavenger hunt in the mall after a celebration. After we celebrate Laura’s anniversary, we’re going to the mall. It’ll be the perfect place to propose. Or breakup.Whichever it ends up being.”

“One problem: how am I supposed to live with Derek if he says no?”

Cora shrugs. “I don’t think he will, but you could make him move out if he does.”

“Another problem,” Stiles says. Cora rolls her eyes. “I don’t have a ring. I don’t even know Derek’s ring size.”

“That’s easy enough. I have everyone’s ring sizes. I’m the official jewelry expert in the family. That’s why.” Stiles nods. The Hales are so weird, but he finds it endearing. He supposes the Stilinskis would be just as weird to the Hales with their traditions. “Anyway, I’ve got the perfect ring for you to use.” She struggles up and then waddles toward a room three doors down the hall from Derek’s closet room. Stiles waits for her at the door. When she comes back, she tosses a small black box at him.

He flips it open and stares down at the silver band set with a single black cubic zirconium stone. Cora’s right, it’s perfect. It’s neutral enough to go with Derek’s wardrobe full of warm tones and dark pants, but also enough of a statement to bring attention to the fact that he’s wearing an engagement ring. Classy but not overstated.

Derek does have a few bright shirts mixed in, but he doesn’t wear them anywhere but around the apartment. Stiles thinks it’s because they’re gifts from him and Derek likes how soft they are. It makes Stiles unreasonably happy whenever he catches Derek wearing one of them.

“Are you positive he’ll say yes?” Stiles asks. He really doesn’t want to destroy his and Derek’s relationship. Although, he has a feeling that they’re already way past that.

“About seventy-five percent,” Cora says, and because they’re at her room, she shuts the door in his face before he can complain about those odds.

Stiles wanders back to Derek’s room. He keeps staring at the ring. It’s too soon to propose, right?

They’ve only just started dating, right?

They’re not really dating. It won’t be a real proposal. Right?

He closes the box and hides it in his pillow. Then, he grabs a change of clothes and his travel bag and heads to the downstairs bathroom for a quick shower.

~ * ~

Over the course of the day, Stiles is introduced to far more people than he ever expected to meet, and is frankly exhausted by the time they all pile into vehicles, he and Derek riding with Derek’s frankly frightening Uncle Peter and his partner, Freddie, to go to the restaurant.

The ring box is secure in his pocket, and he does his best not to touch it, aware that as the “new” significant other, he’s being subjected to a lot of interrogations, hugs, and all around suspicion. Through it all, Derek stays by his side, directing him away from the more prying of the aunts, or having him hide in an empty room until someone can make an announcement that makes Derek’s boyfriend seem like old news.

Finally though, they all sit at six tables pushed together, a buffet against the back wall of the room. The restaurant is owned by a pair of great aunts who insist on Derek and Stiles sitting next to them so they can gossip about the changes at California University-Berkeley.

“You know, Marsha was a co-founder of the first LGBTQ organization,” the more wizened one states. “How’d that go for you, dear?”

Marsha rolls up her sleeve to show off a large scar. “Thirty stitches and an expulsion.” She winks at Stiles. “And I’d do it all over again because it’s how I met the love of my life.”

He smiles politely. “I’m glad times have changed,” he says. “I don’t think I could scar as neat as that.”

“Well, that’s Diana’s doing. Such steady hands even as she berated me for putting my life in danger.” Marsha sighs wistfully. “Some things don’t change.” With sharp eyes, she pokes at Stiles’ soul, and he shudders at the sensation of being seen and known. “You may think you’re not scarred, but you are.” She turns to Derek. “Make sure you treasure this boy, eh?”

Derek nods almost frantically. He grabs Stiles’ and his aunts’ glasses. “Refills?”

“How long have you been together?” Marsha asks, and Stiles knows he should stick to the script he and Derek came up with, but he can’t. So, he leans in, like he’s telling a big secret, and whispers, “Three and a half years.”

Diana whacks at Marsha’s shoulder. “That means they’ve been steady since they met,” she excitedly exclaims. Stiles flushes at the sudden eyes on their end of the table.

“What I meant,” he stutters out, under the heavy, heavy gaze of, like, a million Hales, “is that we’ve been dancing around each other for years. We’ve only just decided to make it official.”

Derek plops down the glasses. “Don’t scare him,” he chastises his aunts, and by extension, all the nosy, nosy relatives. “I actually happen to love him, and I’d appreciate not having to find him again when you all chase him away.”

As if practiced, all the Hales go back to their own plates and conversation.

Stiles leans into Derek, gratefully sipping at his Sprite. Derek leans back a little, and they balance nicely. Until Stiles remembers what he’s planning to do during the after-dinner excursion. Then, he just sits there while Derek chats amicably, offers to refill Stiles’ plate, and almost holds his hand whenever he gets up from the table.

After the meal, Peter and Freddie give them a ride to the mall. Surprisingly, Peter hadn’t done anything to get kicked out, like Derek had predicted. Stiles thinks it’s because whenever Peter opened his mouth, Freddie squeezed his leg. Someday, Stiles thinks, if things work out, he and Derek could be like that, communicating with just a touch.

At the mall, Laura and her husband, Jordan, hand out a sheet of paper with things to find, and the Hales disperse, a literal army of at least thirty people, led by Marsha and Diana on their motorized wheelchairs.

Stiles allows Derek to hold his hand as they follow along more sedately. Stiles isn’t going to participate in the scavenger hunt, too nervous and afraid that if he uses it as a distraction, he’ll forget why he’s really here.

They get to the second level, and Derek points out a few things on the list, but Stiles has had enough. He sees Cora and Lydia in the crowd and makes his way toward them. Cora catches his eye and nods.

Stiles takes a deep breath, drops Derek’s hand, and then kneels down before he can think about it.

Derek turns to see what’s up and claps his hands over his eyes, like that’s going to make Stiles stand up again.

Deep breath in, deep breath out. “Derek, love, can you look at me?”

Derek shakes his head. He’s blushing, hard. Probably because they’re in the middle of a crowd. Apparently neither of them quite care for the public spectacle. Good to know.

Stiles pulls out the ring box. He takes another deep breath, teetering on the edge of backing out and letting Derek think it was a prank.

Behind Derek, Cora and Lydia both stand, hands clasped together, staring wide-eyed. Cora knows it’s not fake, so why does she look so invested?

Faintly, Stiles hears someone say, “Go for it!” So he gathers his conviction and opens his mouth.

“Please open your eyes,” he says, softly. When Derek does, Stiles is surprised to see tears there. “Derek Hale, I love you. I know we haven’t been dating for very long, but I already know I want to marry you.” And suck your dick, but Stiles doesn’t say that out loud. There are children present for God’s sake. “We go together like two things that you wouldn’t think would be good, but then they end up being the perfect pair. And I don’t ever want to give that up. Please say yes?”

Derek is already nodding, his expression goes from obviously embarrassed to fond and soft, in a way Stiles is entirely unused to seeing from him, even after living together for most of three and a half years.

Behind Derek, Cora and Lydia begin jumping up and down, squealing. Startled, Derek glances back at them before quickly focusing on Stiles again. He helps pull him to his feet and then wordlessly extends his hand. Stiles slides the ring onto his finger. Cora was right about the size and about the style. It fits perfectly, and Derek smiles at it.

Something warm blooms in Stiles’ chest, and it’s because he put the ring and the smile on Derek.

And oh fuck. Oh fuck, he just proposed to Derek fucking Hale and has gotten a yes. Fuck seventy-five percent. Fuck being unsure if his love is unrequited. Stiles leaps into Derek’s arms and is met with a completely off-kilter, totally unbalanced, completely perfect imperfect mashing of lips and noses, and they tumble to the ground, Stiles on top.

Derek is laughing, patting at him, but he also isn’t saying get up.

That’s Lydia, tugging at them. “Do you know how many germs are on this floor?” she grouses, but despite the hard edge from this morning, she keeps smiling at them like she actually likes them.

The rest of the Hales appear suddenly—probably summoned by a text—and all of them, not a one of them looks angry, they all look happy, pleased, already singing congratulations.

Cora raises her phone to show them that she recorded it all, everything, including what was their first kiss.

Oh shit. He’s so fucked. But he’s so happy too.

Cora’s right that they can be engaged for however long they need. At least they are engaged.

~ * ~

The rest of Saturday passes in a whirlwind, and Derek never stops smiling. The whole drive back to Berkeley on Sunday is spent in contented bliss, and when Derek isn’t driving, he just stares at the ring.

About an hour from their apartment, Derek pulls over, and Stiles jerks awake.

“What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Derek says, but Stiles can hear it in his voice. Something’s wrong.

“What’s wrong?” Stiles asks again, gentling his tone.

Derek takes off the ring and hands it to him. “Thanks for that. I really liked it.”

“Liked what?” Stiles stares at the ring. It looks wrong in his hand and not on Derek’s finger. It’s only been there about twenty-four hours. It shouldn’t look wrong, but it does. “Is this about the agreement?”

“Yeah.” Derek clears his throat, a clear sign that he’s about to start crying. He looks heartbroken. “The agreement. I’m sorry. I don’t think I can do this.”

“Do what?” Stiles asks. He turns the ring over, grabs Derek’s hand, and slides it back on. “Your sister already told me that you’re in love with me. I’m in love with you. I proposed-proposed to you. If you really don’t want to marry me, at least wait until we’re home before you break my heart.”

Derek just stares at him.

Stiles waves his hand by his head. Maybe he’s just too tired of this damn charade that they never should have done. Maybe he just wants something for himself for once and he’s willing to fight for it. “I know, you told me don’t believe what Cora says, but she also said you talked about me incessantly ever since you met me. Dude, we’re in love with each other, and yes it sucks that it took making up this fake dating thing for us to realize it, but if you think that I’m going to just roll over and say, ‘Hey, that was great, let’s never do it again,’ then you’re sorely mistaken.”

Derek covers the ring with his other hand, watching as it peeks through his fingers. “You’re in love with me?”

Stiles feels like snapping, but doesn’t. “Yes.”

Derek nods. “Thanks. I-I love you too.” He puts the Camaro in drive.

The rest of the drive is spent in silence. Stiles doesn’t feel relief at things being in the open nor at the sight of the ring on Derek’s finger where it belongs.

Instead, he feels dread rising. Something is going to happen when they get back to their apartment, and it might just be the end of them. Stupid, stupid, they just confessed their feelings for each other. Things should be looking up, not down.

Derek parks and immediately goes to grab their suitcases from the trunk. Stiles heads up the stairs to unlock the front door.

“So, I want a redo,” Derek remarks suddenly, his tone forced into easy and cheery.

Stiles pauses where he’s unlocking the door. “Redo?”

Derek moves closer, shoves the suitcases aside, and brackets Stiles’ head with his hands. He leans in until their faces are just an inch apart. “A redo.” And he kisses Stiles, and even though the doubt is still there, warring in Stiles with the warmth of knowing he has Derek’s love, it gets a little smaller when he falls back against the door and Derek follows him in.

“I am gonna suck your cock so good,” he murmurs against Derek’s lips.

“Not if I suck yours first,” Derek returns.

And that is the story of how Stiles and Derek finally stopped pining and started boning.

Cora tells the story of how they got together at their wedding five years later, conveniently leaving out the part about being seventy-five percent sure that Derek was in love with Stiles, but Stiles forgives her because while she may have been only seventy-five percent sure, he and Derek are both one hundred percent in love and getting married.

~ The End ~

#FTH2020 #evanesdust #Teen Wolf Fanfiction #Stiles Stilinski #Derek Hale

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xmemeanonx · 5 years

Text

Tough love

The second part of my yandere Luther Hargreeves fic which was based from @yanderepeterparker s (❤️) headcanons for said character.

The story will be told from your POV and Luther's POV.

Tw. emotional abuse, kidnaping, past talk of physical abuse, disabilities, past noncon talk, Luther's basically no help

Darker than the last one DO NOT READ IF THE WARNINGS OFFEND YOU

Enjoy! :)

= = =

The squeaking of the wheelchair on the hardwood floor became a normal sound to the both of you. Though it made each of you feel very different emotions.

To him its a symbol of his love towards you, a mark of every generous thing he has done for you. The vague reminder of the noise puts a smile on his face.

To you, a constant reminder of the type of monster he truly is. He calls it love, you call it bullshit. This isn't love. Love is selfless and understanding, his love is selfish and one sided.

But he doesn't see it that way. Never did, never will. Stubborn bastard.

= = =

“What would you like for breakfast, dear?” He chirps. He’s facing the counter but you can tell he's smiling.

You cringe on the inside. “Can I make my own breakfast, Luther?” you say quietly, picking at wood on the table.

He turns to you silently, frowning. “It's not Luther, dear.”

He tries so hard to be a normal “couple.” From pet names to breakfast in bed, he tries everything that normal couples would do. But it all feels so empty, so forced. Even his love for you feels fake. Sometimes you wonder if he even truly loves you, or if it's just something to take his mind off of how much he hates himself. You want to confront him on it someday, but for now it's easier to just play along.

“(Y/N)? dear?” he says expectantly. You look up at him.

“Sorry. . . . . honey. I was just thinking”

His smiles, eyes softening. “Its okay, dear. What were you thinking of?” he says expectantly

Your stomach turns, “oh. . .” you gulp, look up at his smiling face, fake smile on yours. You sit up in your wheelchair.

“I-I was just thinking about how. . . . happy I am with you.” The words felt disgusting on your tongue. Heavy and tough to say.

“Oh, that's great dear.” He grabs your hand, holding it gently. “Im happy with you too.”

Its silent. You clear your throat, turning away. He takes the sign.

“So uh. . . breakfast?” he asks.

You nod.

“. . . . eggs?”

You nod again.

= = =

“Honey?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Can. . . . can I go outside? Please?”

He stops pushing you, next to a window. He looks out to the backyard. “Sure, we can go outside. It looks like a nice day out, kinda grey though.”

You sit up, turning to look at him. “No. . . Can I just go out by myself. . . . honey?”

Brows furrowed, he frowns, “no, dear.”

“Why not?!”

He scowls down at you. You forgot how quickly his moods changed, almost like he was waiting for you to “mess up.”

“Because I said so.” You almost scoff at this. Did he really think you actually cared about him, or hell, even his opinions? Fucking idiot.

You put your head down, sighing.

You felt your emotions build up, yet you swallowed them down. You know they will come out as bullets one day. Wanting to pierce his skin, directly into his heart. Hopefully killing him, lord knows he deserves it, especially after everything he did to you, but that’s just wishful thinking.

“(Y/N)” he growls, gripping your shoulder. “Talk to me.”

You shake your head.

He grips you harder, “(Y/N). . . . .”

You put your head down lower, tearing up. Picking at the skin around your nails, you get the same feeling you got when he crippled you. He’s going to do something bad to you very soon, you felt it, but really. . . . . what did you really have to lose?

Your life? His lost.

“(Y/N), say something!” You sob. That shuts him up. Good, he talks too much. Now it’s you turn to speak.

You turn, eyes leaking hot tears, smiling dryly at him. “Why?”

“Wha-“

“Why do you want me to talk, Luther?” It's becoming too much for you to handle

He squints, “(Y/N) I’m not playing your games.”

Way too much.

“Is it because you can’t handle the silence? Because you know that, then you’ll be alone with your thoughts? Maybe then you’d actually think about what your doing, instead of keeping, crippling, assaulting and abusing someone who barely even knows you.”

He punches the wall beside the both of you. You suck in a breath, looking between it and him. Ohhhhhh shit, you messed up.

This happens quite often actually, surprising or not. You mess up and he get pissed. He's going to get angry now and you're going to pay the price of his “mistakes.”

Mistakes. That's what he calls them. As if your legs were a mistake. He says they'll heal but you don't really care, he would just do it again if you tried to run. And you will try again.

But that's how it normally goes, you “misbehave,” he loses his shit, he takes it out on you, then cries and begs for forgiveness. You give him what he wants, fearing for your life, but recently you're getting really desperate.

“. . . . . I'm sorry. “ you say quietly. He can tell your lying.

“Were going to bed.”

You may have no respect for him but at least you`re not stupid.

“Okay, honey.”

= = =

After helping you get ready for bed, with surprisingly very few words exchanged, Luther's body ached for a shower. He felt tiredness like he never felt it before when he had to deal with your childness. If he told his younger self that this was what love was like, he would have never even bothered. But he's changed so much hasn't he?

He'd never enjoyed showers, even as a child to now, with his grotesque body. He remembers his mother telling him that they were good for him, especially after training. She said it was a great way to get clean and to calm down.

He still thinks about her now, Pogo too. But what had to be done to keep you safe was done. Every risk, chance, or possibility of you being taken away from him, he'd take care of. Even if it means removing his own family from the equation or taking away your dignity.

Yes, it hurts him to see you cry, but what are his other options? He's never been good with words.

= = =

Lying on his bed, waiting for him, had to be the longest 20 minutes of your life. Picking the skin around your nails, silently listening to the shower water falling on a human body would normally be a calming thing for you, but nothing about this is calming is it?

You knew what was going to happen but that didn't help the feeling of dread coursing through you.

You weren't a virgin when he first did those things to you, but it didn't make it any less painful. You pissed him off real bad, but you didn’t run or try to fight, you just yelled, you spoke out, and that was enough for him to force himself on you.

You remember lying there, wishing you were dead. You told him to stop, you told him no, screamed it even. But he didn’t care, in fact, he made it even more painful. All for his amusement, his pleasure.

It was when he just left after he finished, not caring for your comfort, you realised how much of a monster he truly was.

Now your scared he’s going to do it again.

= = =

“You do this to yourself, you know?”

“. . . . . “

“I’m only doing this because I love you.”

“. . . . . “

“I love you so much.”

“. . . . . “

“(Y/N)?”

“. . . . . “

“Please”

“. . . . . .”

“Please (Y/N), please just say it back.”

“. . . . . “

“I know you wouldn’t mean it bu-“

Oh, so he does know. Even with him spooning you now, he knows just how much you hate him. Honestly you’re surprised. Considering how much he plays into his little fake domestic life with you, he knows just how much you hate him. You can’t tell if you feel bad or if it makes you hate him even more. But for once, why not play a bit too?

“I love you too, honey.” You say, petting his hand in fake comfort. It’s hard to say, but in a way, you hope it would comfort the pitiful, love-hungry beast behind you.

“O-oh. . . That’s. . . . n-nice to hear.”

“I’m glad, honey.” You feel his tears on the back of your shirt, they make your shirt damp and uncomfortable.

It’s silent. A comfortable silence surprisingly. But then he asks you a question that surprises you. Something you’ve thought about for so long, yet sounds so awful coming from the person it’s directed at.

“(Y/N), do you hate me?”

Yes. oh my god, YES! Oh how much you wanted to tell him that! Yet, you chose not to, especially after what he did to you legs. Broken, yes. But they will heal. At least that’s what he says. But you don’t really trust him do you?

You wanted to tell him the truth, for your sake, not his, never his. Although you try and think of you options and their possible outcomes.

If you say no, you continue to lie. Possibly fueling the already smoldering fire inside of him, feeding his ego yet, at the same time, his insincerities.

Yes on the other hand could burn the whole forest down. It would either burn you or him to death. And honestly, at this point you can’t decide which is the better possibility. You, finally being brought the sweet relief of death, or him, being left to care for a person who he knows hates him while he constantly yearns for their, although fake, love. It almost seems like the better choice is the one where both of you get burnt.

You know which one is the better answer, you even say it what a smirk on your lips.

“Yes. Yes I do Luther.” Your words pierced him right into his heart.

Closing your eyes, listening to his soft sobs behind you, you felt something you haven’t felt in a long time. . . . .

Satisfied.

Because now, he knows the meaning of tough love.

= = =

Hoooooo! That got intense! I’m so sorry if this offended anyone, but I did put a warning at the top. Also Happy New Years, y’all! Hope y’all have a great 2020! Love you! I have a lot more ideas for Luther and the umbrella academy so I might write more. But please request more in general, requests are always open for the umbrella academy!

#the umbrella academy #yandere umbrella academy #yandere luther hargreeves #yandere x reader #yandere #writing #tw

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somefantasticplace · 4 years

Text

THEY DIDN'T LET IT LIE

After four years of writing in secret, Vic Reeves and Bob Mortimer are about to bring their surreal masterpiece Catterick to television screen. Glimpse here an interview that treads the outer regions of sanity…

A long time ago Vic Reeves (real name Jim Moir) and Bob Mortimer were television revolutionaries, their work genuinely baffled as it made you laugh. But in recent years they have lurched perilously close to becoming light entertainment stalwarts. Their new six-part series for the BBC, Catterick, named after the North Yorkshire garrison town, might be the TV show that puts Vic & Bob back in a deeply disturbing and equally funny place. Or it could be a creative disaster. Either way, as this exclusive on-set interview shows, it will certainly be strange.

Catterick, what is it then?

Vic: It’s just a great long story about people who have lost things and then try to find them. We’ve been working on it for four years as a movie but then the BBC offered us a sketch show so we’ve put it into that space.

Bob: It’s different, a real treat. But it’s bonkers. It’s not Phoenix Nights or Early Doors but in a funny way we hope it will be as easy to watch as they are. There are mysterious crows influencing events.

Vic: It’s got very sinister undertones.

Bob: If we do get away with it, it will be a much bigger thing than we’ve done before. But they’ll only trust us to a certain extent.

The BBC don’t trust you?

Bob: I don’t think the BBC is sure about anyone for much longer than about a year, or two years. They might not even be sure about Ricky Gervais in three years time. I do get that feeling that they don’t fucking know either way of it’s good or bad.

Vic: The BBC just usually let us get on with it. Because it’s a drama they got us involved, or tried to get us involved because at the end of the day we are the ones who say yea or nay.

Bob: Just little things. Like they didn’t want it to be called Catterick. Should it be called Catterick? Should it be this long? Should it have more plots? The sort of things that come out of corporations.

Were you disappointed by Randall & Hopkirk not getting a third series?

Bob: I was surprised we got the second series really. To be honest, I didn’t think the stories were good enough. Charlie Higson wrote it… well, it was a fuck of a lot to take on, six one-hours on the BBC. We knew it when we were doing it. You know when you’re doing something and saying, “This isn’t the sort of thing that we do but we’ll try it.”

Do you suffer from people thinking you are dark geniuses rather than just comics?

Vic: If people do feel that, they don’t ring us up, they’ve thought about it in darkened corners.

Do you think you are dark geniuses?

Vic: Well, Emile Zola didn’t have people ringing him up and saying, “Are you a dark genius?” you do what you do. And we never hear of anything from fans.

Are they kept away from you?

Bob: No

Vic: It’s not that we’re not interested but we never hear of them.

Bob: I mean we don’t set up web lines and we don’t get aggressive not see fans, it’s just not…

Not what you do?

Vic: (looks over at Bob who is wearing a tracksuit top beneath a formal jacket): That’s quite unique is that look. That approach.

Bob: I’ve got a Gentle Giant t-shirt on (with a patriotic US design featuring a stars ‘n’ stripes-coloured horse).

Vic: A sports top.

Bob: And quite a formal shirt these days.

Vic: But a sports top and a suit.

Bob: What’s your verdict?

Vic: Well, it’s the new thing. The younger set will be wearing that next week. Is Jack in the younger set?

Not really, no. Is your show similar to what Paul Whitehouse did with Happiness?

Vic: No, it’s nothing like it at all.

I don’t mean the end product, but whether it’s written with similarly downbeat inclinations.

Vic: I think if you wanted to really analyse it the essence of comedy is about sadness. And there’s a lot of sadness. It’s very similar to Voltaire’s Candide, in that a bloke meets a woman who he falls madly in love with, she gets kidnapped and he spends the rest of his life looking for her and when he finds her, he finds out he doesn’t fancy her anymore. But that’s his entire life gone, for nothing. Also in Candide, people get killed and then come back to life.

And in Catterick?

Bob: Well a few die.

Vic: But if someone gets killed they are not necessarily dead. Although they’re not far off. I think it’s the best thing we’ve ever done, one of the best things ever on television but whether people like it or not is a different thing. I think people are now numbed; they’re dumbed down to the state where they’re going “We just want to watch someone decorating someone’s house.”

If everyone’s stupid, what hope is there for clever humour? Or clever anything?

Vic: I think it’s got to the state of just before punk rock emerged. Someone’s going to have to say, “Look, this is getting too much. It’s too shit, it’s too boring.” Fortunately we grew up at the right time. People of our age, from our era, are the only creative people around. There’s fuck all going on. I get so agitated watching television – there’s nothing on.

Bob: If we get away with Catterick it will make people more ambitious, take more chances. This isn’t Early Doors or the Alan Partridge thing, it has no element of – and this is something I’m not particularly keen on – “Oh he’s just like the bloke in our office” or “I know people like that”. All that stuff, there’s none of that, there’s no-one you recognise.

Vic: The characters in Catterick, they don’t look and act like normal people but they are normal. You can take somebody who’s outlandish in their look or the way that the speak and put them in a real life proper situation. It’s confusing and then it becomes funny.

Do you think that’s a Northern thing?

Vic: What do you mean?

A warmth towards outlandishness.

Vic: There’s some of that in our area.

Bob: You used to follow oddballs, didn’t you? Around the streets.

Vic: Yeah, but I think there’s something particular about where we grew up, the northeast of Yorkshire. It seems to breed a particular viewpoint, which is, I think, funny. And we’ve got Mark Benton who is a superb character and he’s from Middlesbrough, and it’s so easy to work with him because he’s got that particular… he knows what the humour is. But it’s from darkness and from sensibilities and straightforward people. And you just take a twist off to the right or left. That’s where humour is.

What do you thing to Ant and Dec, who’ve, arguably, done a childish version of your act?

Vic: Well, all the best to them. They do stuff that’s so popular and I’m sure they enjoy magnificent flats.

Bob: When they started doing Saturday morning telly, they did it well. Just because we’re from the same neck of the woods and there’s two of them…

Vic: I hope they don’t go too far and people start to despising them. Like what’s his name… not Michael Jackson… the ginger-haired fella…

Bob: Terry Evans?

Vic: Chris Evans.

Did you work with Evans?

Vic: We must have met him… he had a snotty nose.

Bob: We thought he was a sneezer.

Vic: So am I. It’s all the cocaine I abuse.

Bob: You do?

Vic: I have cocaine constantly. I love it.

Bob: (returning to the subject of Ant and Dec): Yeah, their early stuff has probably got a half-life but at the moment they are the top presenters. If there’s a big event they’ll probably be the number one choice for it at the moment.

Was your first television break on Jonathan Ross’s ‘The Last Resort’?

Vic: I wouldn’t say it was a break, as we weren’t looking for a break at the time. I think Jonathan got in a lucky position hosting a programme – he’d get all his mates on.

Bob: The other thing you realise is how indebted you are once you’ve got a show. We used to do a live show down in Deptford, but people heard about it and they wanted to put us on. By the end of it we had this fucking theatre in Deptford. As soon as we did a run of five weeks in it, it was sold out in hours.

Vic: There were people coming from all over to see it and then we had TV bosses sniffing around but they didn’t know what to do with us.

Bob: What would we have done, would we have just carried on doing that?

Vic: Well I remember sitting in a cab and you said, “Shall we be famous then? Do you fancy it, do you want to be famous for a bit?” And we really didn’t think – and it didn’t matter…

Bob: I think I took 10 weeks off work. We were doing a shitty little tour.

Vic: We didn’t think it would carry on from there. I think it was a case of… (we stop as a waitress arrives).

Bob: Cup of tea, please. (Bob points at my chip bowl, which he has gradually filled with fag ends.) Sorry about that, pet.

Vic: Can I have a large gin and tonic. I need a hair-of-the-dog and I don’t usually do that, but…

It works.

Vic: I bet it does – because you were here late for the interview I bet you got up out of bed late, didn’t you? What were you doing last night? I was singing with me father-in-law. Were you living it up?

Drinking, talking rubbish.

Bob: That’s your job though, isn’t it?

Vic: That’s alright!

Bob: I watched Harry Hill’s TV Burp. You know, it was one of those nights.

Vic: Quiet night, then.

Bob: Quiet night, yeah.

How close do you live to each other?

Bob: About 16 minutes.

Vic: No, longer, I reckon 40 minutes.

Bob: I’d say 28, if it’s important to you then we have to get it right.

Vic: More 29. Depends on the wind.

Bob: Mmm.

Isn’t that like giving up on life, moving to Kent?

Bob: Why do you say that? Where do you live?

Me? Camberwell.

Vic: Do you like it there?

I’ve not been there for that long, I was in Greenwich before.

Vic: You’re obsessive, that’s where we lived. The next thing you’ll be in Kent – you’re living the same places that we lived. You would have been here (central London) quicker if you lived in Kent, and you have the luxury of having a nice quiet life with beautiful countryside and fresh air. What happens with you now? You wake up and open your windows and you’ve got…

A gherkin.

Vic: Or a Nigerian taxi going, Waaaah! Waaaah!

Bob: You’re got a Gurkha?

A gherkin. It’s a building. And apart from me everyone else in the block is Nigerian.

Bob: Ah, yes. Do you drink in The Grove?

No, that’s turned into a big-box-little-box place. I drink at the Hermit’s cave.

Bob: That was the police pub. It was a no-go.

Vic: Do you go in at lunchtime? What do you have, pie or fish?

Just a drink.

Vic: Really, and then do you go home and have your tea? And then have some pints. What do you have for your tea?

My flatmate’s doing a cooking course so…

Vic: So she comes back with some good recipes. I left a recipe for Nancy when I was coming up here. I said “Get those chickens’ breasts out, put them in lemon juice and soy sauce then a bit pf paprika and let them marinate for some time and we’ll have those with a nice bit of cabbage and some mushrooms.”

Bob: I loved Camberwell. But I’d been in Peckham and Camberwell for 15 years and one weekend my girlfriend got attacked, my motorcycle got nicked and the police, with their helicopters, cornered a criminal in me back garden. And then the spell of it were gone. I couldn’t live there. I’d lived there happily but as soon as something happened I walked out.

Vic: I remember when we first did Big Night Out. I’d secured myself a really nice flat in Blackheath. One bedroom, but nice. It was posh. And he was living on the worst estate in Peckham and it used to make me think that other people were thinking that I was getting all the money and he wasn’t getting anything and he wouldn’t fucking get out of this shit hole. Even when we had quite a good deal of money he wouldn’t get out of that shithole in Peckham and it used to make me highly embarrassed.

Bob: I was in a homeless hostel, it’s true, and then I got this council flat just off the North Peckham council estate.

Vic: It was going to be on Through The Keyhole.

Bob: I wish I’d done it, like.

Vic: It was fucking frightening, like. When we were on tour I’d get picked up, it wasn’t a luxury flat but it had a nice front piece and it looking like a nice big hour and then I’d go and pick that fucker up and it was a disgusting hole.

Bob: It was fucking noisy at night.

Vic: And he made it worse because he was a lazy fucker. He couldn’t be bothered getting out of his bed and walking round to go to the toilet so he kicked a hole in the wall to the toilet. I said “What are you doing about getting this rubbish out of the house?” and he said, “Oh, I’ll put it out the window.” There was a triangle of shit, milk bottles and crap out the back window. Piss everywhere, piss in milk bottles…

Bob: They were the days thought, you can’t do that in Kent. And you know what, it’s embarrassing. I’m not being nasty to Nigerians in any way, I’m just making the clear point that they are noisy. Eight or nine of them in a very tiny space and they never shut up. Either that or it’s the tinkle of chicken bones falling on the pavement all fucking night.

Could that be construed as racist?

Vic: I don’t think it’s racist. When you go into an Indian shop they are always on the phone. Always. And it’s not racist but you get accused of being racist if you say that all Nigerians are…

Bob: They are fucking noisy.

Why isn’t that racist?

Bob: Because it has been my experience.

Vic: With our type of humour – a lot of people from the North East have our sense of humour – it’s a positive thing. We can say it because it’s the way we sound.

Well you’d have to ask a Nigerian whether he minds it in a North Yorkshire accent or not.

Bob: You noisy bastard.

Vic: One of the characters in Catterick is white, Jewish, ginger haired who’s got an Asian accent.

Bob: See that could be a stumbling block… it’s quite idiotic.

Vic: When we did The Club on Bang Bang, Bob played a character who had a Chinese accent and that was covered by the fact that…

Bob: But we seemed to get away with that but Asia’s different, isn’t it? As for what people are going to say? Fuck, I don’t know. Vic: If you were raised in Hong Kong and you were white Anglo-Saxon and you came back you’re going to talk with a Chinese accent. Which might be intriguing.

Bob: See the other thing is that I reckon probably in fucking South Yorkshire it’s incredibly cool to be Asian.

Like it used to be cool amongst some whites to pretend to be black?

Vic: That’s still cool now. White children in Southeast London have got a basically West Indian accent, haven’t they? It’s cool but will it ever be cool to come from the Isle of White.

Bob: I don’t think the BBC have cottoned on to that yet. That Matt Lucas is going to be Asian.

You said your humour is a product of where you come from, but Roy “Chubby” Brown is from the same area, isn’t he?

Vic: Do you know, when I was talking to my friend Eugene at the weekend, Nancy said “He says ‘cunt’". And Nancy says, “You say ‘cunt’ a lot.” She says she doesn’t like it. Being from the South she finds if, well not offensive, but she says she “notices” it, it’s a serious word. But Eugene said it’s a particular thing to our particular area. People will say cunt in the Northeast without thinking about it and I think it’s because of the accent. It’s not forced out. If it were in the South it would be “CAANT!” so it sounds like it’s being shot out. In the Northeast it’s nice, and it’s rounded. I mean I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that word. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with any language. It’s just a natural thing.

Isn’t it violent towards women?

Vic: No, not really. The word cunt is the same as “Kent” and “quaint” if you take it right back to language. Where it first came from (all this is palpably untrue); from the English language when we had fewer words in our vocabulary Kent, quaint and cunt were all the same thing. So what do you do? Do you start saying you can’t say these words?

Bob: That’s terrible.

Northerners say “bastard” better.

Bob: I think they are the best words. Whatever you think to “Chubby”, he’s a fucking great swearer.

Vic: With Roy “Cubby” Brown those words can come out and they’re got the same amount of force but they’re used in a certain way so you can accept them a little bit easier. This Jethro character – I’ve never heard him but he’s quite oo-arhh, isn’t he? And I can imagine he says (speaking in an almost Long John Silver pirate accent to denote the West Country), “You farking Carnt.” It’s a lot smoother, but if it’s cockney it sounds like a battering ram of a machine gun.

Bob: There’s not that much kudos up North in being sharp, it’s not the thing to be the aggressive comic.

(Looking at photographs that Vic has brought) Is this the stuff you’ve been taking?

Vic: Yeah. I liked the way you said that. Are you the boss of Jack?

I am actually, yes.

Vic: Are you enjoying it?

Bob: Have you got a good office?

Yes. I’ve got a chair on a castor and a floor with no carpet so when I put up the phone I move…

Bob: Are you going to stick to the castors, though?

Well, we’re moving office… today, in fact.

Vic: To a place with carpets?

Yes, afraid so.

Vic: You might find that more tricky.

Bob: You’ll miss the movement you know. Have you booked your office and said, “That’s my fucking office.”

The new place is open plan…

Vic: Oh eh!

Bob: Oh fucking cordon it off man and put “The Boss” up.

Vic: (Handing me some photographs) I want them all back. I want to do a portrait book so you have to promise me that you’ll give them all back.

Bob: Well, what will you do if he doesn’t?

Vic: I know where he lives.

What, you’ll send the boys round?

Vic: Yes, to go in your pub. I know coppers.

They shut the police station.

Vic: It doesn’t matter, not coppers from Peckham.

Hull coppers are direct and to the point.

Bob: Hull? They’d be great coppers.

Vic: Leicester’s the worst city, though.

Bob: I tell you what I think is worse, when you go down the Thames to those towns…

Vic: Marlow!

Bob: Marlow’s the worst.

Vic: Complete fights… and gang warfare. We should have a street fight.

Bob: It’s been a while hasn’t it?

Vic: Yeah. Do you want to join in or are you not a street fighter?

No. I’ll leave that.

Bob: You arrange a street fight for soft lads where no-one really gets hurt. It looks fucking amazing.

Vic: Bob used to be a big street fighter.

Bob: There's a lock-in pub (Bob here gives extended directions to a particular pub in South London). I used to live next door to it, Fucking hell. Every day of the year.

Vic: Where was that other place you used to do a lock-in?

Bob: Oh the Mexican place. That was a long one, an all-nighter.

Vic: I never did all that, you used to do three days of drinking…. You were a real drinker.

Bob: I used to be.

Have you stopped.

Bob: To be honest, more or less. We had some dos recently because we’d finished filming and I don’t seem to be able to get past five fucking pints.

Do you fall over or just go to sleep.

Bob: I’m just fucked.

Vic: Twice a week I’ll have a really good piss up.

Do you turn into a violent drunk or a lachrymose “I love you” drunk?

Vic: You know what I like? I really fucking love getting nicely pissed in me house and do fuck all. I’ll mess about. I’ll do a drawing or fiddle about with a candle, or poke the fire. Poking the fire when you’re pissed… I fucking love it. I’ll do that twice a week, get heavily pissed poking a fire. The other times I’ll drink camomile tea. Me and my lass drink camomile tea and eat sweets. I tell you what, and I don’t know how the fuck she does it, she’ll get a big box of chicken legs and stuff and she goes through all the chicken legs and she doesn’t put on an ounce. She’ll have eight chicken legs in a night and… nothing. And we have a big jug of squash, chicken legs, sweets and cheese comes out every night – like a bastard! Cheese is going to kill me.

Which is your favourite cheese?

Vic: I love all Bries and the Camemberts. I love that and pickles. Pickled eggs. Every night the tray will come out with all the shit on it and she’ll eat and eat. And she’ll not put a thing on.

Why do you think the tabloids always chase Vic’s personal life, not Bob’s?

Bob: I think it’s because he’s “Vic Reeves”. That’s the story there, that’s the way they see it.

Vic: Bob and me are both equally dull as each other. We don’t do fuck all but they seem to want to think that I have an exciting life because I married an underwear model. They seem to think that we have rampant sex all the time. She makes the dinner and puts her pyjamas on.

Bob: And you poke the fire.

Vic: I poke the fire. And then I occasionally poke her. Nothing happens, we do fuck all. But the tabloids want us to have an exciting life. They expect more of me and I don’t know why.

As a double act you’re quite unique, there’s not a straight man and a funny man – it seems an equal opportunities arrangement…

Bob: In the old days there was a straight man and a funny man but if you look at Ant and Dec they're equal as well.

Vic: Maybe it’s just a copy of us. Maybe we were the first…

Bob: It seems a bit of a waste, up a blind alley ultimately if one’s straight and one's funny. I was quite straight in Shooting Stars.

Vic: But you were never the straight one. You can have the straight one or you can have two straight men. You can have someone who is the dozy one but then if you switch the tables… in Catterick I’m clearly, if you look at it straightforwardly, the dozy one and my brother Carl is the one who has got it together. But then if you look more deeply maybe I’m cleverer… and he’s a liar. But it’s got that underlying thing all the way through that you don’t really know.

How scripted is your stuff?

Vic: Quite heavily. If we’re going to do a routine then we’ll know about it.

Bob: The nice thing about Shooting Stars is there are surprises. It’s not like Buzzcocks where they give them the questions beforehand. They are quite brave some people, they don’t get any chance to think of something funny.

Vic: When we are writing we have an office and we go in at 9:30 and leave at 3:30. Deathly silence, we never speak.

Bob: You’ve just got to sit down and do it. It’s no good going to Denmark and thinking you’ll be inspired. It’s, “here’s an office and a table”. Sometimes you do three pages and sometimes you do three lines but we try and stick to it.

Has anybody ever turned you down to appear on Shooting Stars?

Vic: I tell you who we never get – boxers, because they all want five grand and they think they’re fucking it.

Bob: We send off massive lists.

Vic: We nearly had Art Garfunkel once.

Bob: He’s got an airport problem.

Vic: I don’t think we are au fait with the younger set so you get someone like Destiny’s Child on to the show, or someone else and you think, “Who the fuck’s that?”

Bob: There's a lot of that.

Vic: My daughter's like, “Wooooooooh, yeah, you’ve got Mis-Teeq on!” and I say “Mystique – is that a juggling act?”

Bob: We don’t know their names.

Vic: And Mis-Teeq is a big deal, isn’t she? I thought she might have been a trapeze act but no, she’s a singer.

How do you cope with someone as patently Southern and middle class as Will Self being in love with you?

Vic: He finds us fascinating.

But slightly patronising?

Bob: He really cares for what he’s doing.

Vic: He’s bombastic and we’re vicarious.

Do you worry about Johnny Vegas?

Vic: Yeah. We have to edit out a couple of hours. We once did a take of Shooting Stars in 36 minutes, but when we get Johnny Vegas in we were lucky to get three hours and I just felt sorry for the people who were sitting in the audience. I mean he’s fucking bright, he’s hilarious but he’ll go on for an hour-and-a-half with his answer and you’re thinking, “Fuck, can we just get him to the green room?”

Do you drink and work?

Bob: A live show, I like to have three pints before I go on. A television show, I like to have three cans. I’ve never recorded a show where I haven’t had a drink. I don’t think so.

Vic: It wasn’t religious but we’d have lagers, cans. I do remember once when I had one too many at Sheffield.

Bob: You know how lager’s powerful, at some venues we’d phone up and say, “Please, don’t fuck us up with this Skol and Stella and stuff,” Just three and that would fuck us. You don’t realise at the time but you can see afterwards.

Vic: It’s acting, that’s what it is, and you can’t act if you’ve had anything, you just can’t do it. I don’t understand how people smoke pot. I don’t know anyone who can have any drug or drink loads and go on stage.

Bob: That’s a fucker.

Vic: Here’s something interesting. Two comedians in Denmark are re-creating Shooting Stars ad they’re going to film it.

Bob: Who wants to do that?

Vic: The BBC, with us.

Bob: Denmark? That’s butter.

Well, bacon really.

Vic: And very soft shoes.

NO, YOU LYING GET…

A brief history of Reeves & Mortimer.

1986: The Vic Reeves Variety Palladium begins at Winston’s Wine Bar, Deptford. Sketches include “Tappy Lappy” – Moir dancing to “Fly Me To The Moon” with planks on his feet, wearing a Bryan Ferry mask. The show is re-named Vic Reeves Big Night Out and moves to Goldsmith’s Tavern, New Cross Road. Moir is joined by pal, Bob Mortimer.

1988-1989: Big Night Out shifts to the Albany Empire, Deptford. Spotted by Jonathan Ross and invited onto Ross’s The Last Resort, giving Reeves his big break.

1990-1991: Vic Reeves Big Night Out on Channel 4. Classic end sequence as Reeves belts out “Mr Songwriter”, turning side-on to accentuate the flare in his trousers.

1991: I Will Cure You album released. “Dizzy”, performed with the Wonderstuff, reaches Number One.

1992: The Weekenders is on Channel 4, where Vic and Bob visit a meat festival and buy sausages for aliens.

1993-1995: The Smell of Reeves & Mortimer on BBC2, giving us Mulligan And O’Hare, Stars in Their Eyes and TV chefs eating the flesh from a giraffe’s antler.

1995-2003: Shooting Stars, a quiz format featuring regulars Ulrika-ka-ka-ka, Mark Lamarr, Donald Cox The Sweaty Fox, Will Self, Johnny Vegas, The Dove From Above and multi-talented drummer, Matt Lucas.

1997: ��Comedy” show It’s Ulrika! hits the screens with the duo credited as writers. It’s bloody painful viewing.

1998-1999: Families At War includes a Vic & Bob five minute bit with Bob as a spider on a crane. Bang Bang It’s Reeves & Mortimer gives the duo more space. “The Club” shines.

2000-2001: Randall & Hopkirk (Deceased) on BBC1, but it doesn’t quite work.

2004: Catterick begins, which charts the first hours of a brotherly reunion. They become involved with a murderer and a hotelier who has lost his penis.

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akozuheiwa · 5 years

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Professors Tarron and Johnson

A post-canon not-yet-AU-technically by myself, @lizzylucky, and @brising. See the long post beneath the cut.

After grad school and everything, Seamus goes on to become a professor at the same college he and Krel and everyone went to. Krel drops into class on such a regular basis that the students pretty much regard them as co-professors. At some point, the deans or whatever realise this and sort of offer Krel a position because students seem to like him. Seamus thinks it’s a great idea and that’s how Krel gets coerced into being Professor Tarron.

Krel is the cool professor who doesn’t ever want to be called professor (because Aja made fun of him for it) and tries for a solid three semesters to get his students to exclusively call him DJ Kleb. Seamus is fine being called by first name, but he’ll introduce himself and Krel as “Professors Johnson and Tarron” at the beginning of the semester. Almost always, the two co-teach lecture and then split up lab, except the one not in charge of lab always shows up anyway.

Their students love them, even if tests can occasionally be murder. Class and lab are full of super awesome experiments. Krel shows up some days with something random he invented the night before with the help of either alcohol or caffeine. He’ll take over the class and throw the syllabus to the wind to get his students to help him figure out what, exactly, he invented and how, exactly, he invented it. Some love it. Some hate it because they did the reading which is now out the window. Usually Seamus is very frustrated at first because he “had a plan for today’s lesson, we only have six weeks left in the semester”, but then he just gets super into it too and makes sure it becomes a teaching moment and nothing blows up. Students learn quickly that if you like explosions, you take lab with Krel, and if you’d rather play it safe, you take lab with Seamus.

Sometimes students also bring in things like this, although they usually try not to mention exactly what substance they were on when they created it, except for one student who walks in and shamelessly declares that that weekend she was “super fuckin’ high” and she thinks she mad something awesome but has no idea what it is, and the class spends the entire period reverse-engineering whatever it is only to find out it’s actually just a really, really weird hair-dryer. She gets extra credit just because Krel and Seamus are nostalgic and have, obviously, done the same thing multiple times in school. Unfortunately, this triggers a wave of students trying to replicate it by sleep deprivation or drugs or alcohol, which turns out some really cool class projects, but is banned after one kid passes out in the middle of class. Krel and Seamus either take back all the extra credit or just give everyone equal extra credit.

Students always find out about the Akiridion sci-fi site where all the theories about Krel and Seamus ended up, and they use it both as a forum to keep up with each other and also to speculate about their professors. Graduated seniors and anyone in the know help to make sure there’s no way to prove their favourite professors are (both?) aliens, and Krel and Seamus go through to check as well.

They give all their graduating seniors gifts, whether they were in one of their classes this year or freshman year or never but got stuck with one of them as a major advisor. If the kids were good, trustworthy kids, which most of them are, they get sworn to secrecy and get to find out that, yes, Krel’s actually from space. It’s impossible to convince them Seamus isn’t, but it amuses the two professors enough that they let it go.

They do teach a special senior seminar course that focuses on Akiridion technology, but it’s permission only and you pretty much can only get in if you’re a dedicated student of the Tarron-Johnson duo. Not to mention that the course description is misleading enough that only those students want to take it. The first day of this class is largely introducing the students to the fact that extra-terrestrials are real and that their tech is way better than Earth’s. They usually take a vote to see which of them the students think is the Akiridion, and usually the winning vote is both of them. Krel doesn’t reveal himself until the end of class so they can get through the syllabus and everything, because otherwise the class would never calm down.

The Akiridion Tech class takes two annual fields trips. One is to Akiridion-5, of course, where they get a special tour and the chance to work in what was Krel’s lab when he lived there. Aja begins looking forward to these trips because, ironically, it's one of her easiest days as Akiridion-5 Ruler. The students are always excited to meet her and the citizens are respectful and peaceful on those days. The other trip is to a planet of their choosing, which is disguised as an assignment where the class as a whole is given a bunch of data and has to determine which planets are habitable and pick one to visit. They almost always go, even if it’s not particularly habitable, just because Krel and Seamus can usually rig up safety suits. They also have a day where they study transduction technology. It’s Krel’s least favourite lesson because the students get to experiment with it on the only Akiridion available, AKA him, and so he ends up looking all sorts of crazy. Yes. Pictures get taken.

One year, after the field trip, one kid doesn’t listen and ends up accidentally bringing a skelteg back to Earth, which of course goes nuts in class. Professor Tarron goes around blasting music until they all explode. When the students find out he made the music, they go nuts. Someone finds all of his demos and shares them in the class group chat. There’s a petition for Professor Tarron’s music to be broadcasted in the dining hall. Krel signed the petition, of course. A few students form a DJ/music club and ask him to be the faculty contact for it, and of course he's thrilled and gets super into it. Really, he and Seamus go to as many of their students’ events as possible.

Some of the more internet savvy students compare them to vines on YouTube and through brief discussion decide that these trips are very Magic School Bus esque. Someone makes the mistake of bringing this up in class and introducing Krel to Magic School Bus, which is something Seamus was very specifically avoiding. All of the classes start having a lot more fun field trips after that, much to Seamus’s frustration and secret amusement. The trips very much cater to and play on the Magic School Bus jokes. One student gets them a pet lizard. It becomes the class pet. Krel takes to it immediately. Seamus gives up.

Krel won’t always focus in lecture, and he has a habit of stopping mid-sentence and leaving the room, at which Seamus just sighs and picks up where Krel left off until the Akiridion comes back with some bizarre piece of tech. He’ll wait for Seamus to finish before explaining the jump in his thought process and how it relates to his tech. Seamus has done it once or twice himself, but he usually finishes talking before adding. They’ll also completely baffle the students by stopping mid-lesson to discuss how, “Wait, didn’t we disprove this once?” or “According to Akiridion science, isn’t this wrong?” or “Well, if we did this instead I bet we could prove this wrong.” No one ever understands what they’re talking about in those instances.

Professor Johnson is the only one to have office hours (and grade stuff, usually), but if you can’t make it, you can probably find Krel somewhere on campus and ask questions. He can always answer, even if it’s about a comment Seamus made on an essay Krel didn’t grade. Half the students are convinced they have some sort of telepathy device because they can pick up each other’s thoughts mid-sentence, sometimes even when they weren’t in the room. Sometimes one of them just moves to go sit down and starts researching something on the computer while the other takes up the rest of the lesson, knowing full well that they'd had the same idea at the same time.

They tell new students the first day to “forget everything you’ve learned in any physics class not taught by one of us.” They, in fact, have a class (PHYS 351 with Lab) called “Physics is a Social Construct”. All their classes always start with a syllabus, but by the second week, Krel (and it’s always Krel) is like, “Alright, so due to unexpected circumstances, and by that I mean Seamus and I disproved three of these theories last night, we’re throwing away the syllabus!” There are days when the students are so stuffed up with questions and confusion as to what their Professors are doing that an entire class will be spent just answering their questions. Some of the students already understand some things thanks to Akiridion Science Fiction and just laugh at the younger students' questions, but then find themselves asking questions too. Questions range from “Why did Professor Tarron vanish for a week?” to “What the hell is that thing on the desk?” to “What about the syllabus?” and finally, the most common one, “But that’s not possible!” PHYS 351’s final project is to break one of the laws of physics. The Tarron-Johnson duo’s motto is that everything is possible.

Krel, surprisingly, is really bad at lab safety, in that he doesn’t do it at all. He’ll get sucked in and forget things. Seamus has to remind them all the time, things like, “Krel, please put your hair up, you’re going to catch it on fire again” or “Krel, please wear goggles, we don’t want a repeat of the junior year fiasco.” If Seamus shows up alone and starts class with, “Let’s go over lab safety”, then you know Krel did something stupid. Some days Krel will have to tell Seamus, “Do not tell them why I’m not there”, and Seamus tells them because it’s usually something really stupid, including the time he fell off a ladder.

Sometimes they bring guest speakers to class. Akiridion Tech gets the best guests, scientists from across the galaxy and usually the Queen of Akiridion-5 at least once, but even other classes get cool Earth scientists and occasionally extra-terrestrials in disguise. Apparently, Professor Tarron is good friends with a high-up military general that runs the mysterious Area 49b, so he usually visits too, and sometimes Akiridion Tech even gets a tour of the military base. Students who don’t get a tour beg for one, and Krel, certified disaster even as an adult, tells them that “it’s not that hard to break into there anyways” and that he knows someone who did it at least twice. Professor Johnson is not pleased to hear about this when he discovers students plotting to break in. General Costas is even less happy, and every semester he drags anywhere from two students to the entire class to Krel and Seamus’s house in the middle of the night after they tried to break into Area 49b. Yes, this fuels the debate about whether they’re married. No, no one is sure. Krel secretly gives them extra credit by claiming it tests their capacity to plan and also, it helps test the security of the base. Neither Costas nor Seamus like this answer.

Seamus pretty much stays in the physics and engineering departments, but Krel actually ends up branching out. He stays involved in theatre, of course, and ends up teaching a class about sci-fi theatre in which he only teaches one play from Earth, if that many, and at least two are from Akiridion-5. The others come from random planets with plays Krel likes.

Krel is also in the habit of just… walking into other classes whenever he feels like it to see what’s happening or if it’s interesting. Students not aware of Professors Tarron and Johnson assume he’s maybe an older student or a grad student or something. He almost always goes to classes that talk about space and sci-fi. The special creative writing class about writing sci-fi is something he has to see, and the professor actually thinks he’s a student who isn’t on the list because of add/drop/swap and Krel, while finding it hilarious, has to explain that, no, he’s from the physics department, he specialises in astroengineering and cool stuff like that.

They also get super into things like holidays and spirit week, and will always go all out for any costumes. They’ll set up holiday-themed projects for extra credit. Students are challenged to relate their Halloween costumes to class (so they get a lot of superheroes) and they usually reserve the unit on holograms for February to allow the students to make hologram Valentine’s cards. They try to be as inclusive as possible, and research different holidays and make sure they know what their students celebrate, especially come winter time when so many holidays come up.

TL;DR: Seamus and Krel are the best professors for so many reasons and nobody knows if they’re married or not. That’s up to you and what you ship.

#3below #toawizards #tales of arcadia #krel tarron #seamus johnson #professor kreamus #kreamus #platonic or romantic your choice #i personally like romantic but can't speak for everyone #listen #they're a mess #and we love them anyway #and this #like wizards fic #has taken over my life #i have doodles #post-canon

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artificialqueens · 5 years

Text

Gloxalias and other ways to say I love you (branjie) - writworm42

A/N: Brooke works in a hospital gift shop. Vanessa is the mom of a young cancer patient who really loves flowers. It’s no match made in Heaven, but they might just be able to create their own.

This fic has the potential to be hugely, massively triggering. There’s grief, mentions of death, descriptions of anxiety, and explicit content to do with childhood cancer, surgery, and there’s a lot of medical content. PLEASE take care of yourselves.

Thank you Holtz for beta-ing this and for being a wonderful human. Also thank you to all the folks on AO3 who shared their stories with me. The responses from everyone who’ve been touched by cancer in some way have been truly humbling, and I hope readers here on AQ will find it resonates with them too.

The first time Brooke sees Vanessa, she’s combing through the hospital gift shop looking for flowers.

“Are you sure your unit allows flowers?” Brooke asks when the woman reaches the counter with an armful of daisies.

“Oh, um… No.” she looks taken aback by the question, like it was one she’s never considered. “You even allowed to ask me that? Consternationality an’ all that?”

Brooke is unable to keep herself from cracking a little smile. “Nah, confidentiality only applies to doctors. I’m just a lowly cashier,” she sighs with a fake forelorness that makes the other woman laugh, a loud, scratchy bark that makes everyone within fifty feet of the gift shop turn around in alarm.

Brooke thinks it’s infectious.

“Seriously though, mama, I ain’t actually sure.” the woman shrugs after they both finally calm down. “You know if the pod—peda—pom—the kids’ ward lets people have flowers? My kid loves ‘em.”

Brooke doesn’t, and she tells the woman so. For a moment, from the way the bright, lively twinkle in the woman’s eyes dies down a little, Brooke is afraid the woman might start to cry, or even yell. She’s seen it before; distraught family members upset at the exorbitant pricing of stuffed animals or the fact that their loved one’s favourite snack isn’t available taking it out on her, screaming until their voices are hoarse and their rage is subdued by a peace offering of a free purchase of any one item they want. Brooke isn’t supposed to do it, but it saves her jugular, and she can get the desperation and pent-up grief they’re feeling.

She’s about to offer the same consolation prize to this woman when the woman collects herself unexpectedly, letting out a sigh as her face smooths over into something that’s almost a smile.

“Alright, Mary. I’ll check with the nurse and come back if I can.”

“Brooke.” Brooke says, almost inaudibly, as the woman turns to leave.

“Huh?” the woman turns around, a confused frown knitting itself onto her face.

“Brooke. Not Mary. My name’s Brooke.” She blushes the minute the words are out of her mouth, realizing how nitpicky and stupid she must sound. But if the woman thinks so, she doesn’t show it; in fact, she smiles brightly, the sparkle returning to her eyes as she laughs again, making Brooke relax and laugh a little, too.

“Alright then, miss Brooke-not-Mary. See you soon as the nurses tell me I can come back down and pick up these flowers.”

“Alright then,” Brooke nods, an inexplicable thread of hope weaving through her chest, “See you around…”

“Vanessa. But my friends call me Vanjie.”

—

Vanessa comes back down a few days later, a triumphant smile spread across her face as she marches straight up to the counter.

“Guess who can buy flowers, bitch!”

Brooke looks up from the stolen magazine she’s not supposed to be reading and grins.

“I was hoping you’d come back.”

Vanessa arches a brow. “You flirtin’ with me, Mary?”

Brooke almost chokes on her tongue.

“I’m—no, I’m so sorry, I’m not—“

“Relax,” Vanessa chuckles, raising her hands in mock surrender. “I’m just jokin’, I ain’t mean nothin’.”

Brooke can’t figure out why she feels a little disappointed at the words, nor why Vanessa’s voice seems to hold the same feeling.

Or maybe she’s just imagining it.

Nonetheless, Vanessa circles the flower section for about five minutes before returning to Brooke with the same armful of daisies she had picked out yesterday. Only this time, there are twice the amount, such that the brunette’s face is almost completely hidden behind their petals.

“You good?” Brooke laughs as Vanessa drops the flowers onto the counter with a huff.

“Just ring ‘em up, mama.” Vanessa rolls her eyes, but she can’t hide the little smile she’s clearly trying not to crack.

Brooke starts to do just that, and soon the only sound that fills the room is the rhythmic beeping of her scanner.

—

“So… your kid really likes daisies, huh?” Brooke ventures the next day, when Vanessa was back with the same armful of flowers. The younger woman just blinks.

“I mean, they like most kinds of ‘em, I just don’t wanna fuck up, y’know? I been reading up on all that petal-talk shit, I ain’t want to get them somethin’ that means divorce when I’m tryna make them feel better. I know daisy means happy shit, so that’s what imma stick to.”

Brooke’s heart softens. She’s been working at the gift shop for about five years now, and she’s seen countless parents blow through looking for something to either get their kids or pass the time while trying not to worry about them. She’s never met a mother so hung up on details that she’d worry right down to the hidden meanings of the flowers she’s buying. It’s downright adorable, and even though she probably shouldn’t, she can’t help but get involved.

“Y’know, I used to be into flower language myself.” She shifts on her feet, suddenly acutely aware of how her suggestion could be taken. And, just as she feared, Vanessa laughs.

“There you go, flirtin’ with me again.” Vanessa winks, still giggling as she watches Brooke’s face go crimson. “Tell you what, I gotta go ‘cause my kid’s got an MRI, but imma be back tomorrow, an’ you can teach me all about that daisy tulip pussyfoot mumble-jumble. Sound good?”

“Sounds good.” Brooke smiles.

For some reason, even after she gets home that night, her body is still buzzing with nerves and something that feels suspiciously like excitement.

—

As it turns out, Vanessa isn’t just back the next day—she’s back the day after that, and the day after that, and so on for the rest of the week. At first, they stick to flowers; Brooke runs through every plant in the gift shop’s small collection, rattling off any fact she thinks Vanessa might find interesting.

“You know, even though tulips are commonplace now, in the 1600s, these things were actually more valuable than gold in the Netherlands. Isn’t that wild?”

“I actually read that the juice from bluebell flowers can be used to make glue. See how sticky it is?”

“Orchids are actually my favourite flowers��Did you know that they don’t even need soil to grow? They can get nutrients from the air!”

Vanessa always listens with intent, nodding and smiling in a way that Brooke can tell shows she’s genuinely interested.

Slowly, they get to talking more, Vanessa hanging by the counter long after she’s traded a creased wad of fives for a new vase or packets of plant food. Sometimes, she doesn’t buy anything at all, only stands across from Brooke, or drags her over to the flower section to talk, the perfumy smell of pollen tickling at their noses as they trade snippets of their life stories.

Vanessa is a fashion designer who works part-time for a swimsuit company, part-time on her own small business designing adaptive clothing for disabled people of all ages. Vanessa’s kid, Frances, is twelve years old and loves soccer, flowers, and their pet frog, Bertha. They’re in the seventh grade but doing math at a grade eight level, and they had come out as non-binary when they were ten, the same year they were diagnosed with a tumour lodged in their occipital lobe. Vanessa and Frances were Catholic, and even though cancer, transness, and faith were difficult to reconcile, the chaplain at the hospital was fearless and the two of them had managed.

Vanessa had been married before, but he had died of the same illness that Frances is struggling with now, long before Frances even knew him. They don’t remember him now, and for that, Vanessa is grateful.

“I still haven’t told them,” Vanessa shrugs through a noseful of baby’s breath. “I don’t want them thinkin’ that they’re goin’ the same way. It’s been two years now an’ the cancer’s gonna be gone after this last round of chemo and then their resection, I can feel it. I don’t want them worryin’ about how their daddy didn’t get the same chance.”

Vanessa leaves that day with an armful of violet chrysanthemums and a weight lifted off her shoulders.

–

“I can’t tell you how nice it is you don’t pity me.” Vanessa says the next day.

“Mm, what do you mean?” Brooke frowns as she deadheads a pot of violets that nobody’s buying.

“I can tell. Whenever I tell people it’s my kid I’m here for, they get all sappy, an’ tell me they’ll pray for me. An’ it’s nice and all, but it gets old real quick, you know what I’m saying?”

Brooke does. She’s seen it too many times before not to. It’s one of the reasons only she works at the gift shop now; other than the fact that it’s stocked by a rotating parade of high schoolers and a few well-intentioned volunteers on her days off, she’s the only person who’s ever been able to shut that pity off. Most of the time, it’s a survival mechanism.

With Vanessa, though, it comes easier than that.

“You don’t need my pity.” Brooke shrugs. “You need this pot of violets more.” she kicks the massive pot over to where Vanessa is kneeling, and relishes in the barking laugh that follows.

Everyone in the lobby hears Vanessa’s laugh so often now that no one turns snaps to attention at its melody anymore.

And as for Brooke, it’s become one of her favourite sounds.

–

The date of Frances’ resection approaches far too quickly, and the closer it gets, the more Vanessa asks to hear about Brooke’s life.

“Well, what do you want to know?” Brooke passes the illegally-opened bag of maltesers that she and Vanessa have been sharing into the smaller woman’s hands.

“I dunno.” Vanessa wiggles on Brooke’s stool, a spare volunteer vest that’s far too big for her framing her hunched-over form. She’s not supposed to be wearing it, not even supposed to be behind the counter, but at this point, nobody would know the difference, and Vanessa needs the shelter. “Tell me how you got into flowers, an’ how come you ain’t a florist.”

“I am one, technically.” Brooke pops another malteser into her mouth and chews casually. “It’s just hard to get work in a flower shop these days. I’d save up to open my own, but…”

“This job ain’t pay well.” Vanessa nods. “I can tell you kinda like it here, though.”

Brooke shrugs. “Some people collect stuffed animals, I collect stories.”

Vanessa looks at her with an expression she can’t quite decipher, but dares to hope means something good. Her hopes are realized when Vanessa’s face smooths out, her voice suddenly gentle.

“I bet you got lots of interesting stories yourself, huh, miss Brooke?”

Brooke can feel her face grow hot, and hopes to God she doesn’t look as flustered as she feels. Taking a deep breath and pulling herself together, she forces out a joke. “Wow, now who’s flirting with me?”

Vanessa arches an eyebrow, but doesn’t protest. In fact, she only hums as she pops the last malteser in her mouth, gets up, and walks away, a swing in her hips, twinkle in her eye, and stolen volunteer vest still hanging off her shoulders.

–

“Tell me more about you.”

Brooke is locking up the shop when she hears the telltale scratch of Vanessa’s voice behind her.

“Oh, hey.” she smiles reflexively, the muscles in her face so used to stretching into a grin when Vanessa’s around now that it feels second-nature. “I’m actually just about to close–”

“I’m not tryna buy anything.” Vanessa shakes her head. “I wanna… I just… Please. The third floor Tim’s is twenty-four hours, let me buy you a coffee or somethin’.”

The realization hits Brooke in the chest before she can feel any sort of celebration at the suggestion.

It’s April twenty-fourth.

The evening before Frances’ surgery.

“Okay.” Brooke nods, “Let’s go get coffee.”

–

Brooke can tell that Vanessa doesn’t drink coffee much from the way her hands start to shake about halfway through her first large triple-triple. Or maybe she’s just that nervous; either way, when Brooke offers her hand, Vanessa takes it without hesitation.

Their fingers knit together almost too comfortably, and Brooke pretends not to notice Vanessa’s blush as the warmth of Brooke’s hand connects with the cold sweat against her own.

It’s just a comfort gesture, Brooke tells herself, but from the way Vanessa grips back, soft and natural and like her hand has found its way home, she’s not sure she believes it.

They talk for hours, bouncing from topics like Brooke’s favourite childhood TV shows to how she used to dance to her top five role models. At some point, they run out of things to talk about, but rather than settle into silence, they lapse into a spontaneous game of truth or dare, letting swigs of even more coffee keep score as they trade escalating challenges between one another.

At first, the questions and dares are innocent enough. Vanessa asks Brooke her favourite hockey team, Brooke dares Vanessa to try to throw a balled-up napkin into the trash from her seat at the table. At some point, though, when they’re both full up on coffee and their box of forty timbits is running low, things take a different turn.

“Truth.” Brooke nibbles on one of the last sourcream glazed in the box, watching Vanessa intently. She’s expecting another commonplace question, something boring and by-the-book, but then Vanessa pauses, chewing her lip.

“What is it, Ness?” Brooke prompts. Vanessa exhales deeply in response.

“Are you single right now?” Brooke’s heart stops as Vanessa spits out the question, her eyes locked on Brooke’s face and anxiously searching for an answer in her expression.

It’s nothing; it’s probably nothing. Vanessa’s just trying to make conversation, that’s all. Their connection, their jokes about flirting, Vanessa’s hand still stuck intertwined with Brooke’s–it’s all just two women brought together by an unfortunate circumstance, two women who have become friends, no matter how much Brooke wants it to be more. Vanessa’s different. Vanessa doesn’t want the same thing as Brooke. She can’t want the same thing as Brooke. She’s a mom, an amazing, fearless, talented working mom, and Brooke runs a hospital gift shop. Vanessa is fierce and passionate, and Brooke sells flowers and candy while watching her life go by. There’s no way Vanessa is asking for the reason Brooke wants her to be. Brooke shouldn’t get her hopes up.

She can’t help but get her hopes up as she answers with a quiet, hopeful, “Yeah. I’m single. Yeah.”

She can’t help but have her hopes melt into relief when Vanessa smiles.

“Your turn.” Vanessa’s grip tightens on Brooke’s hand, and the sparkle in her eyes, that beautiful fucking sparkle that always seems to feel like it’s just for Brooke, is somehow incredibly reassuring. Encouraging.

Almost like a dare.

Brooke takes a deep breath, and then she takes a chance.

“Truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

“Why do you want to know if I’m single or not?”

There’s a beat, and Brooke falters, an apology readying itself on her tongue. Before she can completely lose her nerve, though, Vanessa stands up, and then she’s crossing around the table, walking towards Brooke, and then she’s leaning down, she’s leaning down with her hands cradling Brooke’s face, and–

Oh.

Brooke’s eyes flutter closed as she leans into the kiss, her thoughts fading away as everything becomes focused on the feeling of Vanessa’s lips against hers, soft and wanting and tinged with the bitter taste of dark roast that’s been mixed with too much sugar. And when Brooke kisses back, Vanessa sighs just a little, her thumb instinctively moving forward to stroke against Brooke’s cheek, and Brooke finds herself wishing that the moment will last forever.

But eventually they separate, and even when they do, Brooke is still buzzing with nerves and happiness and, most of all, relief. Relief that Vanessa likes her, that Vanessa likes her back , likes her back enough to kiss her. Relief that she’s not the only one that the kiss left absolutely breathless, and that she has the foresight to push back a little in her chair so that Vanessa can collapse onto her lap, relaxing against Brooke’s still-pounding heart.

Relief that not a moment later, Vanessa kisses her again.

“Wow.” Brooke mutters against Vanessa’s lips.

Vanessa’s mouth is too busy to answer back.

Brooke doesn’t leave the hospital that night–they’re too busy talking, giggling, and kissing some more, the weight of Vanessa’s body on top of Brooke’s keeping her awake and content until dawn.

–

Vanessa comes in a little later than usual that morning, but when she does, she’s not alone.

“You must be Frances!” Brooke exclaims as she bounds towards a little kid whose arm is interlocked with Vanessa’s, the hospital gown and cover-up robe they’re wearing billowing around them and almost sloping onto the white cane they hold in front of themselves. “I’m Brooke, I work here at the gift shop. I’m a friend of your mom’s.”

“No you’re not,” Frances smiles wryly in an expression that looks remarkably like their mother’s, “You two kissed last night, my mom told me.”

“Okay, that’s enough!” Vanessa blushes deep red as she shushes her child, “Brooke, we came by to see the flowers before Frances’ surgery.”

“I came to meet you, too, but the flowers are a good bonus.” Frances adds, and this time, Vanessa joins in the laughter.

“You’re just like your mom, you know that?” Brooke jokes, sticking her tongue out at Vanessa when she gets a silently-mouthed fuck off in response.

But still, Vanessa is smiling, and Brooke’s heart picks up a few beats.

Vanessa told Frances about Brooke.

And Frances is eager to meet her.

“Okay, well, if I swap places with your mom, I can take you to where the flowers are.” The minute Brooke suggests it, she’s seized with anxiety–what if that’s too much too soon, and she breaks the budding camaraderie between herself and Frances? What if Vanessa hates her because of it?–but Frances only smiles and starts to wriggle free from their mom’s grip.

“Sounds good.”

Within a few moments, Frances is leaning down to trace their hands over the petals, leaves, and stems of the plants around themselves, breathing in their smell and rattling off theories as to which plant is which.

“Okay, this is definitely a rose.” they say matter of factly, carefully tracing their fingers along the flower’s thorns so as not to prick themselves.

“Did you know that the world’s oldest rose is 1000 years old?” Brooke leans down, tentatively placing a hand on Frances’ shoulder and sighing with relief when the child doesn’t shrink away. Instead, they grab a handful of the flowers perched next to the roses and shove them excitedly into Brooke’s face.

“Carnations.” they state proudly, and Brooke smiles. Before she can tell Frances that they’re absolutely correct, though, a voice from behind them drags both their attention away.

“There’s a legend that says when the Virgin Mary cried at Jesus’ crucifixion, carnations sprung up where her tears fell.” Vanessa cuts in. “What?” she cries indignantly when the other two look at her in surprise, “Y’all hoes ain’t the only ones who can use google.”

They continue to pass the time like this until an alarm goes off on Vanessa’s phone, and the air in the room changes.

“We gotta go get you prepped, baby.” Vanessa’s voice is soft, and Frances’ mood is sober.

Brooke has seen this before; families seeing their loved ones off, spending time cruising the magazine racks instead of sitting in the waiting room worrying, not knowing if their husband or daughter or best friend will come back. Those moments are always the hardest for Brooke, the times when her sense of empathy leaks out just a little too much for her not to feel affected even a little bit.

Somehow, even though she’s only just met them, it hurts even more knowing that it’s Frances.

“Hey, good luck today, okay?” Brooke helps Frances up and wraps them in a friendly hug. To her surprise though, Frances only shrugs as they pull away.

“I’ve been through this surgery once before. My mom says this is gonna be the last one, she can feel it. I can feel it too.”

Brooke thinks about that long after Frances and Vanessa go, planting one long, calming kiss on Vanessa’s lips before the two retreat back up to the pediatric floor.

–

Brooke isn’t supposed to leave the giftshop unattended by whatever disaffected sixteen-year-old volunteer she’s working with that day, but no one really ever checks up on her anyway. Besides, being by Vanessa’s side is more important right now; so she tells the teenager restocking stuffed animals that she’ll be back before leaving with a bag of maltesers and huge stuffed frog under her arm.

She finds Vanessa in the chapel, sitting on a pew with a rosary in her hands, the beads clinking as she runs them through her fingers nervously.

They sit together for a while, saying nothing, Vanessa leaning over to rest her head on Brooke’s shoulder and Brooke hugging her close, humming the closest thing to a hymn she knows under her breath.

Later on, Vanessa will tease Brooke for thinking of ‘Always With Me’ from Spirited Away as spiritual, but right then, from the way she closes her eyes and breathes into the melody, Brooke thinks that Vanessa might just think of the song in the same way.

–

Brooke visits Frances the day after their surgery while they’re in the pediatric ICU, fading in and out of sleep.

The nurse lets Brooke and Vanessa know that they can’t bring flowers into Frances’ room, not while they were still at risk of infection, but after some fierce negotiation, they reach a compromise, and Frances snuggles happily into the frog’s overstuffed side as Brooke reads to them from a book about gardenias.

–

Two years later

“Babe, come on! ” Brooke calls upstairs to Vanessa, who crashes about in response.

“I NEED TO FIND MY EARRINGS! FRANCES, HAVE YOU SEEN MY EARRINGS?”

“No, mami, I haven’t seen anything in four years!” Frances calls back sarcastically, and Brooke has to stop herself from cackling when Vanessa answers back with a string of threats to whoop Frances’ disrespectful ass. But the rant doesn’t stop Frances from beginning to laugh too, their chin-length brown waves shaking as they double forward, lost in giggles.

Not for the first time, it strikes Brooke just how much Frances looks like their mother.

Eventually, Vanessa does stomp downstairs, rolling her eyes but smiling despite herself as she fixes her earrings into their place on her lobes.

“Can’t believe we’re gonna be late for our own grand opening because of some Claire’s jewelry.” Brooke teases sarcastically.

“ Claire’s? Bitch, this shit is from Pandora, so don’t you dare–” But Vanessa’s indignation melts into begrudging forgiveness as Brooke pulls her close and smothers her in kisses.

“Alright, alright, kids, before I puke, let’s go open this shop.” Frances coughs with false irritation, moving briskly right through Brooke and Vanessa and breaking the two lovebirds apart.

“Yes, mom.” Brooke replies saccharinely, hooting with laughter when Frances responds with loud gagging noises.

Consisting of only one room, Hytes-Mateo Flower Emporium isn’t quite as grand as the name makes it out to be, but to Brooke, it feels like a palace as she roams between rows of planters, pots, and perennial blooms.

“I’m so proud of you, baby.” Vanessa comes up behind Brooke, leaning on her tiptoes to kiss Brooke on her cheek as she wraps her arms around Brooke’s waist. Just beside them, Frances reaches up to flip their sign from CLOSED to OPEN, and Brooke lets out a deep, contented breath as the waiting crowd of family and friends begins to trickle in.

Everything in the room has been two years in the making, and now, it feels like home.

#rpdr fanfiction #brooke lynn hytes #vanessa vanjie mateo #branjie #angst #lesbian au #hospital au #writworm42 #tw cancer #tw death mentions #tw surgery and medical content #tw grief

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jjkpls · 5 years

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pretty flowers & grumpy cats (G)

> genre : fluff

> pairing : min yoongi x jung hoseok, kim namjoon x park jimin

> words : 3.3k

> warning : coarse language

> Namjoon finds that his grumpy grandpa's crush on his sweet neighbour is the most adorable thing. (granduncle!yoongi, grandnephew!namjoon, elderly!hoseok, unrequited (???;)) love)

> A/N: I swear, some day, I’ll write Min Suga as a sweet and soft ball of uwuwu accurate to the real one. I’ll also learn to write better summaries. Hehe. Please enjoy. Let me know your thoughts. ♥

*halabeoji: grandpa

The Sun is high in the sky, a bright ball of light in a sea of clear, pure baby blue. It is not very hot yet. There is a pleasant, soft breeze, remnant of the night who's left only a few hours ago. The birds tweet cheerfully, different species competing, showing off their remarkable singing talents. Children are still asleep but they'll soon awake from their cosy tiny beds, hop out on the porch with a pastry in their mouths and invade the street with their loud cheers. It's a beautiful day of early summer.

Min Yoongi-nim hates it.

Mumbling non-sense about the seasons and the birds, he drags his feet on the ground, sinking his head deeper in his worn-out straw hat. It's so large, it hides his face entirely, the edges so damaged, it allows him to peer through the fibres to the neighbouring front garden. He wrinkles his eyes in the sharpest slits, scans it over: it's empty. There are all the pretty flowers, kissed by the morning dew, waving and smiling at the old man but he doesn't care since the one flower he likes is not here yet.

Sitting on his bench, he winces as he feels the wet layer the wood is covered in soak his pants, Vanilla is watching him with her big round eyes. The jade is shinning with a little glint of excitement that Yoongi-nim is quick to pick up on. He pats his knotty hands on his side and the chubby kitty happily trots to take the seat.

When the cat leans against his thigh, head spinning around to expose her fluffy neck and her sweet eyes seduce him, he spits disapprovingly. “Why are you like this?” Yet he reaches with two hands to scratch and knead through the fur, despite his left shoulder screaming in pain. Vanilla purrs, straightens her tiny paws away, pushes against his leg to expose her white belly. The old man scoffs, muttering in his beard about how too lucky she is to have a friend like him.

Then, suddenly, the front door of the neighbour's house slams open, knocking to the ground a tiny silver bucket who rattles loudly in its fall. Jung Hoseok-nim's creaky laughter reaches to the two old friends, whose ears and heads perk in interest, observing the tall man sauntering through his garden.

When he starts approaching, Yoongi-nim retracts his hands from Vanilla, crossing his bony arms over his chest, scowling without even meaning too. “Hyung-nim! It's a beautiful day, isn't it?” He's chipper as always, tootling as he hops around the hedge to slip into his neighbour's front garden, long hands held far away in front of him, ready to indulge in the cat's fur.

Yoongi-nim watches under his hat, frowning deeper as his old heart warms up to the squeaky coos coming out of the tall man who pours his affection into the cat, in a riot made of love and kindness. Vanilla is scowling too. Hiding her head in her neck like a turtle when Hoseok-nim pretends to press smooches all over her face, whining in disdain, and paws threateningly swatting away his energetic petting. Still, she purrs wholeheartedly and never squirms away enough for his reach to fade.

“She's taken a bit of belly, no?” Yoongi-nim hums in agreement. She has indeed. He hurts each time she comes to lie on his old bones exposed by his gauntness. It's his fault. He knows it's better for her to limit the food he gives her but she rubs her head and her flank against his shin, stepping her little paws on his slipper, sending kisses through her eyes, and he can't help stuffing her plate with as much of her favourite mash as it can hold. “How are you, hyung?”

“It's very sunny.” Hoseok-nim laughs, nodding his head. Min Yoongi-nim frowns. He is so inapt at conversing in general. But as the Sun shines so bright, it compliments the honey quality of his skin and that's what he attempted to say. When he smiles, his cheekbones pointing high look like two shimmering stars even brighter than the Sun. “How are you?” He mumbles after a while, so quietly Hoseok-nim catches it only because they've known each other for so long and their quirks are no mysteries to one another. Then Hoseok-nim bursts into a babbling mess, talking about what he's planned to do today, about how his favourite flowers are doing and sighing sadly when he mentions one of his exotic plant who hasn't been feeling well lately, also the pastries he's tried to make yesterday but failed.

“Aren't you saying that because you ate it all on your own?” That makes him cackle. Yoongi-nim puffs a tiny laugh, quite proud of himself even if he would never admit it aloud.

It's his laughter that animates his peaceful life. An earsplitting rasping disrupting the quiet, slumber-like existence he lives, yet an upheaval so welcome. He's a ray of sunshine. Even if he hopes not to let it on, he finds deep joy in every and any sprinkle of Hoseok's in his routine.

“Jung-nim!” The thing about it is that he's everyone's ray of sunshine. And that old hag from down the street, despite her knees shaking at each step she takes -and she dares complain about it too!-, is always attracted to their gardens like an annoying stubborn mosquito to a fresh-blooded filled body.

“My grandson will come visit me later!” Hoseok-nim's head diverts his attention from the woman and back to his friend, grinning wide.

“Namjoon-ah?” Yoongi-nim hums, satisfied to have captivated his attentiveness back. “Oh, I haven't seen this sweet child in a while!”

“Jung-nim, oppa,” Calling him oppa, as if, in her oh-so ancient age, she thinks herself to still be a cute little schoolgirl. The curses slip out through Yoongi-nim's mouth before he even gets a chance to stop them. Hoseok-nim, who's heard it, throws him an amused look that would have brought red to his cheeks if he were the kind to flush from embarrassment. Thankfully for him, he's never had and it's not now, at 79 years old, that he'll start. “It's so good to see you! Your complexion looks wonderful under this Sun!” This goddamn clack-box. “I've just come back from the market! Come by my place, I've picked up a few things for you!” Hoseok-nim stands up, pinching Vanilla's neck with a bye-bye, before following the old woman, listening kindly to her rambling while Yoongi-nim simply watches, furrowed eyebrows, mean pout on his lips. Her steps are slow, tumbling and ridiculous, and Hoseok-nim, being the sweetheart he is, lends her a rather steady arm to help her keep her footing. They look droll together. She's struggling so bad to just hold her balance while he, even if there is a little tardiness in his movements, still holds the lean stature, the energy and healthy strength of his younger years. They just don't match.

“I can't stand this cloddish witch.” Vanilla meows indignantly in agreement. He pets the top of her head. Unsurprisingly, it is not helping the growing anger but enhancing it, for their shared aversion for the old woman feeds itself the more they complain about her to each other. “She steps on our propriety like she owns the place. When we'll have her break her useless leg on one of our stones, ha! I'll love to see how-”

“Halabeoji*!” The low call breaking their quiet conversation almost gives Yoongi-nim a heart-attack. He twists his stiff neck to look at Namjoon, too tall and too lanky as always, waving his giant hand his way. Annoyed, he wants to scold him already because the idiot is wearing, again, those linen trousers resembling his and he doesn't understand why he tries to walk around looking so uncool dressing up like his halabeoji. He doesn't say anything though. Preferring to simply frown because getting mad at the other stupid woman kind of sucked his energy. What a she-devil. “Who are you badmouthing about on this fine morning?”

Slowly he raises from the bench in a concert of cracking that makes Namjoon grimace. “Grab the cat.” He groans before sauntering his way inside.

Yoongi-nim takes a seat on his sofa, dipping deep as he sighs, grabbing his hat to place it on his coffee table. Namjoon sits Vanilla next to his halabeoji before he’s heading to the kitchen where he finds, without surprise, the mess the old man has been living in since the last time Namjoon came to visit and cleaned. He would complain if only he didn’t know what reaction he’ll get. As he spends the next half hour tidying up and cleaning and putting away the food he’s brought, he resolved to simply indulge in his own feelings to wear them out. His halabeoji is too old and way too stubborn to change his ways now. It’s not that it makes him mad or annoyed to have to play the maid each time he comes to visit him, it’s that he feels sorry. Sorry that he doesn't mind living in this mess. And sorry that no one is here to help. The rest of the family is quite far and he’s the only one with the schedule allowing him to come so often. As for a hired maid, their finances don’t really allow it. Namjoon has the feeling he would be too embarrassed to have a help coming in and out of his house for the whole neighbourhood to see anyway.

“I put away some ginseng tea mom has made for you. Don’t forget to drink it. And only one glass a day, ok?”

Yoongi-nim grunts. There are always stupid ads on the radio nowadays. It’s like you don’t turn it on to listen to music anymore but to prepare your next shopping list.

“So how’s Mr Jung?” He glares his way, the bony fingers taping threateningly on his thigh. Namjoon grins wide. He knows him too well. That bitter mood always means that he’s been illuminated by his neighbour’s smile and then rained on by that old lady living a couple of houses down the road. He thinks it’s cute his halabeoji has a secret crush at 79 years old. He actually thinks it’s the cutest and most charming thing ever. But the fact that it renders him with an extra layer of salt on an already sour personality kind of makes it hilarious. “She wants caresses, pat her a bit!” Namjoon says pointing at the cat who’s rolling on her back to flash her inviting fluffy cloud of a belly. The old man scoffs, aiming a disdaining chin away. There’s no way he’s petting her in front of anyone. “Are you ever going to ask him out? You know you don’t look that bad when you put on your nice beret instead of that ugly thing.” The straw hat, almost as old as his owner, looks even sadder and more pathetic abandoned on the table amongst a pile of rubbish and months-old newspapers, all smushed and discoloured as it is.

“Yah brat! I can’t- I can't believe you coming to your halabeoji’s to disrespect him under his own roof! Trust me if I were a few years younger I would teach you a-“

“I forgot you’re a hundred years old. Is that why you won’t ask him out?” Namjoon asks, rolling his eyes teasingly, but his halabeoji is rambling now and even if he knows he’s heard him from the ever-growing flustered quality to the wild movements of his pale hands, Namjoon also knows he’ll just pretend he hasn’t heard. Avoiding at all costs talking about the pretty neighbour.

“Ha! When your dad was your age, let me tell you, he wouldn’t dare address me like that! Looking straight in my eyes and disrespect me- this brat.”

After a while, his raspy voice quiets down to a halt, and Namjoon starts again, “Are you done? I’m serious though, halabeoji, I’d feel better knowing you’re not lonely.”

“I’m not lonely. I’m at peace.”

“I meant if you were spending your time with someone you care about.” Yoongi-nim shrugs, ignoring his grandson’s benevolent eyes. He has the eyes of his mother and they are painfully soft, always bleeding love and care; he isn’t up for it right now. Especially when they come with a mouth saying ridiculous things he couldn’t even begin to imagine.

He isn’t happy as he was. He doesn’t want to be anyway. He’s come to an age where he understands that happiness is a myth and what matters is peace. Peace of environment and mind. Especially when he could not guarantee his old heart, after having mistreated it for decades of intense rollercoasters of passions, to handle any burst of ardour anymore. It is nice as it is. Sitting on his bench outside, in the usually cloudy weather, wrapped in his warm wool jacket Namjoon bought him, watching with pleasant daze this old friend and handsome man healing and nursing his flowers and blinding him with his smiles. He doesn’t need anything else. And certainly not parading around town, arms linked like two old fucks who wouldn’t see how old and dumb they looked -like that stupid old hag.

“What about that short boy from school? Are you dating him already?” Namjoon’s smart mouth shuts abruptly at that. Embarrassment paints his cheeks a vibrant red as he starts toying with a thread hanging from his shirt. He kind of asked for it.

“Mmh no...”

“Did you even confess?”

“No, I didn’t...” He admits bashfully, causing his halabeoji to scoff even louder. So loud and unexpectedly, Vanilla whines in disapproval before jumping off of the couch and heading for the kitchen where, no doubt, she is about to eat her little fright away.

“Why are you even talking to me? What did I tell you last time, useless idiot?”

“Halabeojiii~” He starts whining, hiding his face in his large hands. “Seriously you don’t understand he’s- he’s just- so sweet and gentle and kind and like- so handsome,” He blushes more at that. It’s not the first time he says it aloud, to his halabeoji too, but it just has that effect on him. He is beautiful. Prettier than all girls and sexier than any men, and Namjoon wants to scream just thinking about it. “-everything I’m not. I already know he won’t want to go out with me.”

“What- Why? What’s wrong with my grandchild? Uh? Have I raised a useless ugly punk or what? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“You could have made me smoother instead of teaching me Morse code and freaking fishing.”

“I really did a bad job then, uh!” Namjoon is cackling shamelessly now as his halabeoji mumbles about how he can’t believe this conversation and how he must have gone crazy. He’s glad the conversation has diverted from the direct subject -Park Jimin- since he doesn’t want his halabeoji to start pep-talking him into how great he is and confident in his own qualities he should be as it would be both painful and traumatizing for the both of them. He knows what he means from his antics about how much of a good job he’s supposedly done.

“Okay, halabeoji, I’m gonna head out.” Namjoon muses after a while of tranquil conversation about his life and what’s he’s been up too at this art school of his. Yoong-nim has never worded his actual interest for it out loud (even that time he had to fight Namjoon’s mother who disapproved of her son’s choice of orientation) but he loves hearing about all those things he doesn't know much about but is fascinated by from Namjoon’s passionate words. He could listen for hours about new and old artists and technics Namjoon has been obsessing over recently while his old music was playing for them in the background.

“Already?” It raps out before he even realizes. That’s the thing about being old. He spends so much time talking to himself he sometimes forgets how to withhold things. It makes Namjoon laugh because each time, a silent cuss is quick to follow.

“Yeah, I’m really sorry, halabeoji. I have this presentation on Monday and so much work left. I’ll spend the next weekend with you, ok?” He nods, strolling along with Vanilla who’s joined the procession to the door. It’s precisely when Namjoon raises his hand to grab the handle that someone knocks on it. It’s Jung Hoseok-nim, holding two bouquets of gorgeous flowers, smiling from ear to ear as his eyes glint with relief.

“I was worried I had missed you, Namjoon-ah!”

“I was just about to leave, Jung-nim. It’s good to see you. How are you doing?”

“I’m very well and you? I’ve just bought these from my garden, look!”

“They look incredible!” They really did. Jung Hoseok is a real flora fairy. He makes the most enchanting, beautiful specimens bloom in this garden of his as if his smile and kindness were as effective on plants as they were on humans. He is proud of his talent that earned him praises from every passerby, and always aims at creating new landscapes introducing new friends -as he calls them- into his collection.

“Do you think your little boyfriend would like them?” Namjoon stutters, taken aback. He peers at his halabeoji who looks away, shrugging dismissively.

“He still hasn’t confessed to him.” Yoongi-nim snitches, ignoring blatantly the way his grandson turns mortified. I mean, talking about his grandchild's love life has always proven to be the easiest way for him to successfully make conversation with him, he's not going to pass on the occasion even if the person concerned is standing right here.

“Oh, then this is perfect!” Shoving the fullest one against the young man’s broad chest, he squeals from excitement. “I’ve made it especially for you to give it to him. You give it to him and confess, alright? Then you bring him to your halabeoji’s so we can finally meet him!” The 'finally' makes him cringe a bit. For how long has his halabeoji been talking about his lame failure of a love life? And how much has he said?

“That’s so nice, Jung-nim. Thank you, I really appreciate it.”

“Don’t mention it. I hope he’ll like it.” He says, shaking his head, slightly embarrassed. There’s still one bouquet in his hands. It’s a firework of blues and greens and tiny bits of lavender minutely selected and arranged. It looks really pretty. Rich and vibrant like the young-at-heart old man who made it. “Hyung, this is for you. I thought it’d look good in your living room.”

Namjoon gasps. He hides behind his bouquet since no matter how hard he tries, he cannot contain the face-splitting smile that took over his mouth. Oh my god, this is the cutest thing.

Yoongi accepts the bouquet with shaky hands he hopes they’ll take for his old age when really, it’s his heart pumping too hard that causes it. He doesn’t mention how, since the last time his neighbour walked in his house, the curtains from the living room along with the couch had changed from a soft blue to a now maroon and yellow mix that will definitely clash with the bouquet. He doesn’t mind at all if it fits or not. He loves those colours because they truly are like Hoseok-nim.

Yoongi-nim is awful at saying thanks and expressing about any emotions other than annoyance. That makes his grandchild rolls his eyes. Even he is not that bad at it.

At least Hoseok-nim seems to have known the beast for long enough and instead of taking offence at the lack of enthusiasm, he giggles and winks to a scowling mess.

When Namjoon hurries on his way to the station where he’ll take a train back to the city, he thinks deep and hard about Jimin and something he needs to text him because it’s decided, getting the pretty boy is not even about him anymore, it’s about having an excuse to get his halabeoji to spend more time with his crush. It won’t be hard as he can already tell that Jimin will love this story.

#btswriterscollective #thekimlinenet #bts fluff #bts fanfic #bts drabble #jimin fluff #namjoon fluff #yoongi fluff #hoseok fluff #jimin fanfic #namjoon fanfic #yoongi fanfic #hoseok fanfic #yoongi drabble #namjoon drabble #hoseok drablle #jimin drabble #my writing

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iamalivenow · 5 years

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“Well.” The man takes his glasses off of his nose and slides them into his front shirt pocket. “Nice to finally meet you.” Martin blinks, more shocked than anything, when Peter exists in front of him- between him and the man. “And you are? The secretary didn't call ahead.” “Rude of her.” The man looks between Peter and Martin as best he can. Peter's certainly not making it easy for him. “You gossip about me so much, and you don't even know my name? I'd feel hurt, but.” He's thin, hair graying at the roots, biggest circles under his eyes that Martin's ever seen. “Extinction.” He whispers, and Peter sighs.

“I suppose. Though I'm still shopping around for proper names.” He smiles and Martin thinks it would be a rather charming smile if it wasn't for all the smoke- no, smog pouring out of his mouth. “You've Done This feels right but a bit on the nose.” “They're all on the nose,” Peter says and takes a step back as the smog begins to settle on the floor, the smell of chlorine and paint thinner and gasoline sinking into their clothes. “Blackened Earth is interesting. Watcher's Crown too.” Martin chances another look just as the man scratches his neck, sickly pale. “Where are they, by the way? Watcher and Archivist.” “Jail,” Peter says, and takes another step back forcing Martin up and against the door. “And where's Basira, Martin?” “Don't know.” “Doesn't know. Travesty.” Martin chances a look out the windows of the office. The hallway is empty but not the wrong kind of empty. It's still here. Peter can't leave- this man won't let them leave. Well. At least Peter's come back for him. It's more then he expected. “Yes.” The man says and sighs. The smell of burning plastic coming off of him makes Martin nearly gag. “Travesty.” He pulls his phone out, not a model Martin recognizes at a glance, and taps away at it. “Martin you need to-” Peter shakes his shoulder and Martin catches his eyes. “You need to go.” “Where- I-” He makes a hand movement, fingers twitching. “Fixed your CCTV for you.” The man says, not bothering to look up. “Did you know that was off? What a lark. This place and no CCTV?” “If you get to the street, they'll be a car- my nephew will get you away-” “Oh, black sedan?” The man looks up, flips his screen around. “You know most new cars are so- what is it- convenient? All electronic now, don't even need real keys anymore.” Martin doesn't need to look to know that it's a photo, several photos even, of a car wreck. Peter swallows, audibly. Not a good sign, generally, Martin's found. “So where does that leave us now then?” His voice doesn't waver, and that's fairly impressive, circumstances considering. “Barely even born and you try and sweep our legs out from under us? The rest of you had chances, where are ours? You understand, don't you, Peter Lukas? Whispering about things like that, it's nice to know you're scared.” “We've had bigger concerns,” Martin says, over Peter's shoulder. “Have you? Worms, I suppose. Very frightening. And dolls.” He walks around the desk and sits in Elias' chair. “Aren't you tired of it all? Aren't you always tired?” He rests his hands in his hands. “I was. I still am, really. But I suppose that never leaves anymore. Aren't you exhausted? Hm-” He stops, looking back at his phone. The click of the phone camera goes off before anyone has a chance to do anything. “Martin Blackwood. Still, have a facebook? Really?” “I meant to... delete it.” Peter looks at him with the sort of disdain he's so much more used to, and the slip of normalcy almost grounds him. “Not a lot of friends. No wonder you're with him.” He almost looks bored now, sliding through his account. “Oh you write poetry- that's sweet. Not particularly good, though.” “That's just-” Rude, he wants to say as another wave of nausea rolls over him. The man smiles again, and more of that smog rolls out, like nitrogen, rolling slowly across the desk and down the floor. “I friended you.” Martin looks at Peter who's not really paying attention anymore, thinking of ways to get away or at least get Martin away. He didn't think the Lonely was as weak as the Beholding was. The man's name is Jon Sims. He only has three- now four friends. One of them is a pet account. “Thanks?” “Anytime, Martin.” The man- Jon closes his eyes for a moment. “It was nice meeting you both.” And just like that, he's gone. “Well.” Peter opens the door, finally, and the smog pools out into the hallway. “That's enough excitement for one day, don't you think? You should take the rest of the day off.” “Right. Are- are you okay? I mean- Your nephew-” But Peter's gone too. Martin's head hurts.

…

There's a rash on his forearms, almost down to the wrist, that he notices when he's lying in bed and scrolling through his phone. It's sore and blistering, and when he prods at it lightly it bruises almost instantly, and when he touches the spot again, his finger comes away bloody. He considers calling Peter, but then, Jon's not Corruption. This could just be a spider bite that he didn't notice in all of the commotion. There's been so many of them at the office lately anyway. It's not getting any worse really, and with the way he's been existing lately, he really doesn't want to bother medical staff and ruin their lives, somehow. He bandages his arm and lies in bed, staring at Jon's facebook. He's doing research, obviously. There's not a lot on there, just some pictures of the man when he was obviously younger, mostly tagged by other accounts. His university days. If he wasn't a monster he'd be cute, Martin thinks with some sense of embarrassment. The two other accounts are of some girl who runs a podcast and uses her page as a business advertisement, and the other one is of a deceased page of some angry looking goth. Jon's account is the only one to leave a farewell message. That's kind of sad, almost, but again, scary smog monster. The nausea still hasn't gone away, not really. The pet account is of some massive orange thing that could be a cat or could be a fox in certain angles. It seems pretty popular. Jon likes most of the photos. It is pretty cute. The Admiral, it's called. Jon leaves comments under the videos and the account actually reply to him. It's shockingly simple. He expected something worse. He wakes up late for work the next day, still tired. A lot of hair on his pillow, but otherwise, fine. The rash hasn't gotten any worse. Hasn't gotten any better, but. He's fine.

…

Martin gets lunch at the Deli he used to visit with Sasha and Jon sits in the corner, reading his phone. The building is oddly empty, aside from them and two workers who look rather under the weather. Maybe something's going around. “Martin.” “Jon.” Smooth. Smooth and respectable. “How have you been?” He doesn't make a habit of looking up from his phone, glasses still down, thin curls of smoke twisting up towards the ceiling, darker than the smog. That same burning plastic smell is back, with undertones of exhaust and maybe just a hint of aerosol again. “Fine, I guess. Considering.” “Right. Stressful. I understand. Everyone's tired these days. Have you noticed? Tired and sad.” “I suppose that's a sign for you? End times?” “Maybe,” Jon says. “I'm still figuring things out. It was a lot of nothing, and then everything accelerated so quickly, I don't have teachers like everyone else does. But people want to rest. Talk to anyone our age.” “Oh so- you're what? Thirty?” “Twenty-nine.” A year younger than Martin- but then he knew that, from the facebook page. “It's just-” He shrugs. “Just the zeitgeist.” “Well, maybe you'd know better than me.” He says. “You're the one jumping from power to power.” There's an implication that makes Martin frown, He should leave. Get lunch elsewhere. If he could eat at all really. He coughs, to try and clear his throat before hacking harder. An allergic reaction, maybe. To the spider bite. Jon waves as he leaves.

…

Peter has the same rash, up and down his arms, and around his neck and when he coughs he draws blood, and it does little other than turn Martin's stomach. “At least Corruption has the decency to be quick about it,” Peter says bitterly while Martin pours their third cup of tea. “And you?” “No blood yet.” “From your throat you mean.” And he points at the bandage that's turning pink. Martin didn't even notice when the skin must have broken. “I guess.” Peter coughs again.

…

He finally throws up. There's blood, and Martin can't bring himself to be surprised. He drinks water and lays in bed and tries not to cough his throat anymore raw. The angry goth's name is Gerard Keay. Martin is only familiar with his mother because his mother skinned herself alive. The woman is Georgie Barker, and her podcast is called What The Ghost and the Admiral is her cat. They went to university together, her and Jon. They used to date, for a year. There's a few pictures of them together, one of Jon holding a much smaller Admiral and trying to hide a smile. The only picture of Jon and Gerard together is on vacation. Jon's wearing a tacky bar shirt. It's a selfie. They look horrifically mismatched, but Jon looks happy. He messages Georgie, more out of curiosity than anything and unsurprisingly doesn't get an answer back. He wakes up twice to throw up again, and when he gets back in bed, he's certain its a fever now. In the morning, when he showers and washes his hair, it comes out in clumps.

…

A young woman talks to Rosie when he gets in for work, and she takes one look at him and sighs. Georgie looks like what he expected her to. Prettier, in real life. Photos really didn't do her justice. “He applied here, I think? When we were still together.” She says. “Someone turned him down though.” “And now he's-” Martin trails off. He's not going to be the one to say- “And now he's a monster. Who's given you radiation poisoning, by the way. That's what that is.” She reaches into her massive bag and pulls out a slim well-worn box, and after turning a dial, an obnoxious loud clicking sound goes off. Even louder when she points it at him. “Do you just carry that around?” Because that's a good first question. “He does this a lot.” “Oh. Are you... also...” “No. I'm not involved in whatever this place is. Or any of the others.” He coughs, off to the side, and wipes the blood on his jeans. “Yeah. If it's that bad, I'd say go to a doctor but, I doubt any hospital will actually admit you. You're a walking biohazard.” “Oh.” “If I were you I'd get your affairs in order. Or ask him to take it back.” She shrugs. “He might.” “Oh.” He says again, like an idiot. “You know the fire people?” “Desolation?” Blackened Earth, he had mentioned. “He hangs out with them sometimes. Or the weird murder band.” Georgie pauses for a moment. “Actually, they're not that bad, now that I think about it. Ethically, horrific, but musically? Anyway.” She stands up and packs her counter with her. “Good luck.” “Right.” Later, when there are people running all of a sudden, down to the office, and Martin doesn't have to run after them to know Peter died.

…

He finds Jon surrounded by Lightless Flame members, smoking. Jon either doesn't see him or pretends not to see him so Martin inches around the hot bodies of the cultists until he's right next to him. Jon startles when Martin tugs on his sleeve, a large plume of dark smoke pouring out of Jon's mouth at once before he coughs. “Sorry,” Martin mumbles while a woman laughs beside them. “Really.” Of to the worst start, maybe. The smog makes him cough, and he doesn't bother cleaning the blood from his mouth. Maybe with his teeth covered in it, he'll look more pitiful, and that might be the only thing going for him. “Martin.” Jon blinks, pulling his glasses off his face. The woman whistles and he doesn't spare her a glance. “Peter died.” “Did he?” The woman whistles again, and claps Jon on the back. Martin swallows and nods, and the woman laughs, leaning on Jon's back, arms over his shoulders, before she ruffles his hair and Jon looks shockingly self-satisfied. She practically hangs off of him, her fingers dripping onto the floor. “Look at you.” She says, proud, and presses a singeing kiss into the side of his head. “Jude.” He sounds like an embarrassed child who's clingy mother won't leave him alone. “Agnes would be proud too.” She says, and he softens with that. “Could you-” Martin tries to clear his throat which only turns to more pathetic hacking. “Sorry to- to interrupt. Could you fix me?” That sends Jude cackling again, and Jon turns his head to try and hide a smile. “How do you imagine I do that?” “I don't know-” He feels very small. Tired. “Jump ship, kid.” Jude leans forward over Jon again. He can feel the heat that rolls off of her even through his fever. “Don't you want an little helper, Jon? An assistant?” “Not really.” Of course not. He doesn't know what he was hoping for- what he thought any part of this would even accomplish, really. “Aw. He looks like a kicked puppy.” “I have that effect on people.” Martin turns to leave, Jude's cackling following him all the way on to the street. He tastes blood in his mouth. It drips down his nose too.

…

The angry goth shows up in his dreams. Martin thinks it's odd at first, until Gerard “Call me Gerry” Keay tells him that he's bound, literally, to an End book, and then it's just more business as usual. “Just appeal to his better nature. Or get a cat.” “A cat?” In the dream, his skin doesn't feel like its dipped in acid, and his lungs don't ache. He can't taste iron anymore. He has a full head of hair. “Massive soft spots for cats. I think he had one, before? Or his ex had one. It's his phone background at least.” They sit in front of the Trevi fountain which Martin was sure he'd never see in real life, where Jon and Gerry took that one picture together. It's a gorgeous sunny day, and if he doesn't focus on the fact that the other tourists don't have faces, he thinks he could really learn to like this. “Why are you helping?” “He needs more friends who aren't dead.” Gerry pulls out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and lights one with a cheap looking lighter that looks a lot like Jon's. “I don't think he likes me.” “You'll grow on him. Probably. You seem friendly.” “Do you give this pep-talk to everyone he poisons?” “No.” Gerry blows a thin line of smoke through his nose. It smells of nicotine, faintly. “He doesn't bother keeping most people alive this long.” “Ah. Does he- Does he know?” Gerry shrugs. “He does, or he doesn't. I only found you cause you're irradiated the way you are.” Through Jon, Martin thinks he means. “I spend most of my time in his pocket,” Gerry explains like that's a normal thing to say casually. “Right.” “Oh-” Gerry puts a finger up, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a cheap looking felt tip marker. “Before you go.” He grabs Martin's hand and scribbles an address on Martin's palm. “He'll be there tomorrow, sevenish, if you want to try again.” “He didn't seem- interested last time.” He says again, starring at the address. “Well, look at it this way.” Gerry gets up, cigarette already down to nothing in what feels like a few seconds, and he tosses it into the fountain. Some people shriek in objection, but Gerry walks back to him, pulling his long hair up and out of his face. Same deep circles under his eyes, made even more obvious by the eyeliner. “Either you make nice, or you die trying to vomit your lungs up alone in your apartment.” “Well, when you put it like that.” Gerry shrugs. “Tell Jon I like you, maybe it'll net you some favor.” “Do you?” Gerry pulls on a pair of glasses- Jon's glasses, and turns to walk away, almost disappearing into the faceless crowds. “Why not?”

…

He can barely move his legs, can barely keep his eyes open by the time he stumbles into the dive bar. There are some people setting up on stage, or unsetting up, Martin can't tell, and Jon sits at furthest bar seat, talking to- no- talking at one of the musicians. A cellist, leaning against his seat while Jon whispers about Peter Lukas' death. “Jon.” The monster turns around and gives him a glance before finishing his one-sided conversation. “Please.” “Please what, Martin?” “Please- Please anything-” A flutist clears his throat and taps the microphone before giving Jon a wink and playing the first notes. Martin doesn't pay attention to the mountain frenzy around them. Barely can with the blood pounding in his ears. And out of his ears. “Jon.” “I can't undo this.” He says, and the lighter smog pours out of his mouth. “Best I could do is speed it up. And that is something, isn't it?” “I'm-” Martin leans against the barstool, almost slides off of it. He doesn't want to die. Not after the worms and Not Them and the Unknowing. Not after Sasha and Tim and his mother. He's not going to- He doesn't want to yet. Not yet. He's suffered too much to just throw it all away because some cute abomination had a fight with his stand-in boss. “You're?” Jon's obviously not listening, too enraptured by the senseless violence in the rest of the place, glass flying and bones shattering. Georgie was right though, the music's nice. “I'm useful.” He says, hands shaking, dripping red on to the floor. “And sturdy. A- A really quick study.” “But aren't you tired, Martin?” There's the tiniest smile on his face. “Don't you want to rest, Martin?” “Why do you keep saying that-” He cuts himself off with a miserable cough, deep and red. “Because things don't hurt when you sleep.” He says. He reaches into his pocket, and there's the flesh page, just like Gerry said it would be. “There's nothing to worry about. Real life is a nightmare. Wouldn't it be better to just- rest.” Jon runs delicate fingers over the pale skin, flipping it over in his fingers. So Martin does what he does- well no, not best, Basira is way better at on the fly choices likes this- but he does- he does something. “What if I could get him back?” Another cough. “Corporeal.” And another. “The Archives- The Archives are-” “Very big, yes I know.” He sighs, and maybe the fever finally starts melting his brain, but there's a look of hopefulness, maybe. “Georgie likes you.” “Oh.” That's nice of her. “I'm. Fairly demanding.” “But you need help- all of them need help-” Even if it seems like Jon might be the exception to the rule. “Tell me where the Archivist is. And then I'll- I'll fix you.” “I-” Peter's kept him in such isolation that even if he wanted to, he had no idea. But- But he knew where Daisy was- and that's- that's almost like knowing where the Archivist is- where Basira is. “Martin?” Yes, he supposes, it's only polite to inquire about one's health when one faints at a concert.

…

He wakes up in a hospital room- no. In a hospital bed in a room made out of plastic, with iv's and monitors, thirsty and delirious. “What happened?” He asks no one in particular. “You died.” That's Jon's voice, unmistakably, even if muffled by the bubble Martin's in. “Oh.” Martin tries to turn his head, and it's harder then he imagined it would be. Jon's holding a big ball of- “Is that a cat?” “I'm babysitting.” It's hard to see through the plastic, but Jon scratches behind its ears, and it purrs so loudly, Martin thinks he's losing his mind again. “Georgie had to go to a convention.” “Oh.” Again. The- the normalcy of it all just really threw him. “I've thought about what you offered. I wouldn't mind if you did.” “That was on offer before I died.” He says without thinking because really, the nerve. “Oh, my mistake.” Jon stands, and The Admiral jumps up onto his shoulders, and then they're both in Martin's bubble. “And if I reintroduced the same circumstances again, would the offer return?” The smell of disease and fire and metal might as well drown him. “Didn't realize you were such a glutton for punishment.” Well obviously. Martin takes a deep breath, and smog pours out of Jon's mouth. It's in him again. He can feel the slow creep of it, the rancid smell of burning plastic sticking to his hair as his skin begins to burn itself from the inside out. The cat seems entirely unphased. Like it's used to this. “Wait-” The smog gets pulled back into his mouth like a smoke trick. “I'll- I'll start research tomorrow.” “My very own assistant.” Jon smiles at him, the dark wisps rising and fading like regular cigarette smoke. “Really moving up in the world, aren't we?” The Admiral purrs when Jon scratches under his chin.

"So-"

"I'll come collect you soon. Once my friends flush the rest of it out of your uh-"

"Irradiated corpse." He should ask who Jon's friends are- who does hospitals? Or places that look like hospitals? Rich people? Maybe? For someone power that doesn't even know what it's going to call itself Jon sure has a lot of friends. Martin can't help but wonder where he finds them.

"That's the one."

And then Martin is alone.

Again.

#the magnus archives #writing #full fic #once again on tumblr for those who like it more like this #long post

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honeymoonjin · 4 years

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ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ot7 x reader || ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 9.8k || ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: smut - rated 18+

sᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ:

Congratulations! You’ve been accepted as the Lady in the first season of The Gentlemen.

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banner designer @jamaisjoons

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs: voyeurism, exhibitionism, filmed sex, sex toys, bondage, blindfolds, use of safeword (yellow, not red), aftercare, pet names, praising, degradation, controlled orgasm - delay/denial/forced, oral (m receiving), masturbation, face fucking, loss of virginity (wink wonk it’s our namjoonie), however not full sex just a bj

DAY FIVE

“Going outside again today, Namjoonie?” Yoongi questions with a teasing grin.

Namjoon sighs morosely at the thunderous downpour of rain visible through the kitchen windows. “It’s over for me,” he announces sullenly. “I’ve lost.”

You pause, spoonful of rice hovering in front of your open mouth. “So your prompt was ‘the outdoors’, huh?”

A miserable cry leaves his throat before he buries his face in his arms, slumped at the dining table where a few of you have gathered for breakfast. “Damn it,” he whines, muffled by the thick cable knit sweater he’s wearing.

You’d woken up early to a crack of thunder; the weekend storm apparently descending upon the villa earlier than expected. For once, you’d had to help Jungkook work out the heating system, cranking it up until you could smell the quickly-heating dust that had gathered from lack of use.

Yoongi, also an early riser, had announced that a day like today required a hot breakfast, and you’d helped him prepare a basic stew and some steamed rice as you were gradually joined by Namjoon, Jin and Hoseok. You’d waited a bit for the remaining two contestants, but the wafting aroma of beef and potato quickly broke your patience.

You finish your mouthful with a chuckle, leaning over to rub his back. “But now that you’re already going to get the penalty, you may as well do whatever you want.”

Namjoon’s body is still for a few moments as he considers this, before the faded purple of his hair jostles with a nod. “I guess so,” is the reply that comes from the crook of his arm.

You grin. “It’s okay, it’s not like you’re the last one. Hoseok hasn’t gone yet, and I swear Jimin doesn’t even wake up before midday.”

Hoseok narrows his eyes at you challengingly but before he can retort, the youngest makes a noise of disagreement in his throat.

“Oh, he’s not sleeping,” Jungkook answers breezily between cheeks stuffed with rice. “What? Yesterday I wanted to ask if I could borrow one of his shirts for my stream this week - you know, that see-through pink one he wore over a white shirt? - and he didn’t answer when I knocked so I opened the door-”

“Jungkook,” Yoongi and Jin cut in simultaneously, faces turned down in disappointment.

“Wait!” Jungkook protests. “It’s not as bad as it sounds! I just stuck my head in the door and he was in the bathtub-”

“He gets a bath and I don’t?” Hoseok asks incredulously.

“Hobi-hyung, please,” Jungkook whines. “Not the point. So like, his hair was covered in white stuff and he had this bright green clay mask on his face and a black one all over his hands and the water was like pink, but still see-through and I could kinda smell rose and maybe tea tree oil but then he was yelling at me to get out and then I got a text saying if I told anyone he’d-” Jungkook pauses, his excitement fizzing out suddenly, replaced by a look of pure fear. “Oh, I probably shouldn’t have said all that. Let’s pretend that never happened.”

Jin looks like he wants to ask for more information, but Hoseok huffs, shuffling in his seat impatiently. “Who cares,” he spits petulantly. “He isn’t fucking Edward Cullen; just because he’s mysterious doesn’t make him hot. I can be mysterious.”

Yoongi gasps, pointing at Hoseok’s feet wordlessly. That alone is enough for the younger man to let out a pealing yelp, stumbling up out of his chair and jumping on his feet, frantically patting himself down as he wide-eyes the floor. Yoongi begins chuckling, a dry cackle that spreads to the others at the table, and Hoseok deflates, sending him a withering gaze.

Sitting back down in defeat, though not without glancing down one last time cautiously, Hoseok huffs at Yoongi, mouth sticking out in a pout. “You’re lucky I’ve already found my arch nemesis or it would be you, Yoongi-hyung.”

“What a relief,” Yoongi replies in sarcastic monotone.

Hoseok frowns, before cheering up again to send you a bright grin. “Hey, Y/n, are you gonna go out to the confessional booth today?”

“Real subtle,” Yoongi murmurs lowly.

Ignoring him, you shake your head. “It’s raining,” you reply, “I’ll get wet.”

“I’m sure you will.”

Hoseok tuts, the dull thud of his foot stomping making Yoongi fight to prevent a smile. “Stop it, hyung! You’ll give it away!”

“It’s okay, Hoseok,” you assure, “it doesn’t really matter if you lose. The penalty is just spending the week in the bunk room. If you think about it, it’s like a sleepover.”

The doms eyes slide back and forth as he considers this. “Okay!” he announces cheerily. “My prompt is the confessional booth! If everyone else says theirs, we can all hang out together!”

You swear you could hear a pin drop. Namjoon looks like he’s feeling sorry for himself again, Jungkook and Jin are both avoiding his entreating gaze, and Yoongi just stares at Hoseok unabashed, smirk deepening as the silence stretches out.

After a minute of dead air, Hoseok frowns. “Fuck you guys. I wanted to sleep on the bunk beds anyway.”

Feeling bad for him, you stand up, collecting the empty bowls around the table and taking them out to the kitchen. “It’s okay, Hobi,” you chime, “if everyone else succeeds for theirs then I can keep you company.”

Hoseok’s eyes go wide, before he turns to Namjoon. “Buddy, you gotta fuck her outside. Let me have this.”

Namjoon pales, staring at the rain outside which continues to bucket down. “We’ll catch a cold.”

“Fine, I’ll just make sure I don’t lose,” Hoseok insists, standing up himself.

You walk back towards the dining room. “What are you gonna do, ma-Hobi!” You squeal as your body is suddenly lifted, swung over a shoulder.

“Woah, hyung, you’re strong!” you hear Jungkook gush as Hoseok carries you without so much as a grunt. “That’s so cool!”

“Hey!” you try to snap, but with your body folded over a bony shoulder and hair dangling on end, you can’t imagine the heat of your comment is felt by anyone. “This is kidnapping!”

“Not really,” Jin calls out in a bright tone, “he’s not taking you off the property.”

You kick your legs in the air in frustration, blood rushing to your head. “Fuck you! You can go fuck Yoongi without me next time!”

“As far as threats go, that’s not strong,” Jin retorts, his voice carrying over the three shocked parties. “Fucking Yoongi would be a pleasure.”

“Thanks, Jin-hyung.”

“No problem.”

You feel your cheeks heat up with the added blood and your eyes ache, so you give up the fight, instead batting your fists against Hoseok’s ass in protest. “Hurry up, John Cena,” you grumble. “Either let me down or take me to the confessional room before I pass out.”

“So demanding,” Hoseok tuts, but before you know it you’re shifting, getting tugged down and up and sideways, vision spinning sickly until you’re resting, bridal style, in Hoseok’s arms.

You pout up at the dark-haired man. “Hobi, I feel seasick now.”

He grins, lips quirking into a heart shape. “Are you that wet already?”

Your head lolls back as you kick your legs weakly in his hold. “Stop it,” you whine. “Being mean.”

“Poor baby,” he jibes, and calls out a cheery goodbye to the others, walking you out to the outside dining area where you’d spent that first night, and following the house around until you arrive at the garden shed that houses the confessional room. Once he lets you down, he checks his phone, wincing at what he sees. “Shit. Producer Shin is getting impatient.”

Even with all the excess blood in your head, you pale at the thought of the friendly middle-aged man that operated the camera in the room. “He’s not waiting there, is he?”

“No,” Hoseok dismisses distractedly, typing out a reply, “I exiled him to Sejin’s caravan out front. He just doesn’t like leaving his post for too long in case others want to film.” After he pockets his phone, he glances up at you, a strange dark flicker in his eyes. “Get inside and sit on the stool. Wait for me.”

Your mouth drops at the sudden change in his tone, his demeanor. “Why should I have to wait?” you protest. “You’re the one that wants me in-”

You jump when a sudden smacking noise rings in your ears, sharp and thin. In front of you, Hoseok has simply clapped his hands together once, but the fright as well as his sudden seriousness has your words dying in your throat.

“I don’t appreciate subs that talk back,” he says slowly, each word enunciated and clear, like he’s reciting an important law. “So go inside, sit on the stool, and wait.”

“Yes, sir.” The honorific is meant to be a final sarcastic sign of defiance, but you find yourself meaning it as you say it. This isn’t Hobi that you can joke and laugh with. This is a glimpse of what he’s like at his job at the dungeon. Of what he’s like when he’s Master.

His back straightens and his face clears in approval, but he doesn’t praise you for it, simply standing in stoic expectation for you to follow his order.

When you get inside, you feel his eyes on your back like two hot pinpricks, but you don’t dare look back, leaving the door open a crack as you sit on the stool.

The room itself is cramped, with just enough room for the stool, the camera, and a seat behind it, empty for the first time since you’ve arrived. You’re used to seeing a producer sitting behind it, open from eight in the morning until midnight; Producer Shin doing the early half and Producer Kang in the evening. Both were friendly, middle-aged men. Shin was divorced and Kang was happily married with two kids in primary school, and after you’d gone through whatever thoughts were on your mind and whatever questions fans had sent in, both men would often switch off the camera and chat with you about whatever topic felt interesting at the time.

Though it wasn’t broadcasted like your interactions with the other guys, you really had found good company in the two of them, as well as Sejin. On the Tuesday after Namjoon had walked out on you, you’d even gone out the front door to the caravan where Sejin resided, joined by Shin as the two ate dinner. While the two of them, Sejin especially, preferred not to know any extra information about the game just to maintain a professional distance, but that didn’t mean they didn’t give you a hot cup of tea and a portion of the Chinese food they’d ordered in and distract you with chatter about a k-drama Sejin was watching.

Used to them, it feels strangely empty in the confessional room with that empty chair, more so now that you’re restless with anticipation, eyes straining to see outside the sliver of door you left open.

He leaves you for a long time. Whether it’s on purpose or not, or whether you’re just feeling the drag as you wait, you don’t know, but it seems like hours of being on full alert before the sudden metallic screech of the door opening gives you a fright, heart racing as he steps inside.

You gape as he casually steps behind you, a hand on the back of your head locking you in place when you try and look back at him. The glimpse you got was enough to see that he’d changed clothes slightly; bright yellow sweater replaced with a black leather jacket open over a see-through black shirt. The sight of him in your mind flashes every time you blink like an afterimage. Beyond the all-black ensemble, the tight ripped jeans and the heavy boots, perhaps the picture that stays behind your eyelids the longest is that of his hands. You didn’t have enough time to see, but he was holding what looked like a small rucksack, like the kind you’d take swimming or to play tennis. Somehow, you imagine what it contains isn’t so innocent.

You swallow as his fingers press on your scalp, splayed out. “Face the front,” he commands, and his voice brooks no protest. Once his hand leaves you, you remain still; hyper aware of the effort it takes to keep your eyes ahead, staring at the wall behind the Producer’s chair. “Arms.”

Pausing, you stare dumbly down at them as they rest on your lap. “What?”

Hoseok lets out a light sigh, like he’s exercising great patience, and taps your elbow. “Behind your back. Both of them.”

You follow his order, a shiver running through you when his hands, calloused but limber, grasp your wrists tightly. He ties you up in silence, the cool caress of silk making your eyes slip shut in bliss. While you definitely have an interest in it, your experience in bondage isn’t particularly vast, and you marvel at how such a simple tie changes you. With every swish of fabric against the delicate skin of your wrists, your nerves all over your body sing out, need pooling between your legs. Your shoulder blades are tucked back, opening out your chest, and even in a thick hoodie and leggings, you feel deliciously exposed. Your forearms are crossed over in the hollow of your back so that the tie binds your wrists together. Instinctively, your fingers wrap around your opposite forearm for support, and knowing that there’s no back to the chair, that you’re now open on all sides, has your heart-rate picking up.

You feel your arms tugged as he tightens the knot with a flourish, before slipping two fingers under.

“Wiggle your fingers,” he instructs, and you obey. “Try to get out.” You pause for a moment, but then pull in opposite directions, attempting to wiggle yourself out, but to no avail. “Good.”

You swallow again, fighting against the dryness of your mouth. “What are you-” Your eyes fly open wide as his hand claps over your mouth, pulling your head back to rest against his chest as he looks down at you. You make a noise of protest, but he shushes you, brows in a straight line of disapproval.

“I ask the questions, princess. You see that chair?” He points ahead, and you try to nod but fail as his hand keeps you still, your breath coming hot through your nose. “That’s where the producer sits and asks you questions. So the only thing I want to hear from you are the answers to my questions, and your safewords if you need them. Understood?”

You try and nod again; this time, he unwraps his fingers from over your mouth and lets you catch your breath. “Yes, sir,” you confirm, voice small.

“Do you remember your colours, princess? Can you tell me?”

You lick your lips where they’ve gone dry. “Green for go, yellow for slow down and red for stop... Sir.”

If he catches the pause where you almost forgot to say his title, he lets it slide. “Good. Let’s begin.”

You’re left dazed when he lets go of you and steps away in one swift motion, stepping to the side. You force yourself to keep your gaze ahead, unsure if the command from earlier is still in effect, but your eyes strain to make out the peripheral of him bending over the rucksack, rifling deep inside it. Your stomach curls at the sounds that emanate; the soft thuds of glass and silicone, the jangle of metal, the rustle of fabric.

Finally, he stretches up again, and you suck in a breath when his hand finds its way to your mouth again, this time wrapping tightly around your jaw and turning your face to look up at him, at the small device he’s wiggling in his fingers.

“Do you know what this is, princess?” Hoseok grins, and your eyes focus in on the small metal object. It’s short, a stubby cylinder. On closer inspection you notice a small remote tucked in his palm. A remote-controlled bullet vibrator. You nod as much as you can in his iron grip, and his eyes twinkle. “Are you gonna be a good girl for me and let me put it in?”

Your heart stops, blood rushing south as your desire skyrockets. “Yes, sir,” you gasp needily, unable to help yourself rocking your hips against the smoothed top of the wooden stool.

Hoseok tuts at your movements. “Good girls stay still,” he chastises, and you freeze, feeling your jaw ache once he lets go.

As it turns out, ‘in’ doesn’t mean inside of you, but rather in your panties. Your fingernails dig into your forearms with the effort to not move, biting down hard on your tongue. He steps in front of you, hands dipping shamelessly to the front of your leggings, fingers tugging at the elastic and releasing, letting it snap onto your front. You hiss in a breath through your nose but don’t speak, remembering his rule. Going back, this time his hand slips under both layers, and you can’t help the whine that comes out when you feel cold metal against the heat of your core, sliding over your clit. Frustratingly, he himself doesn’t touch you, only placing the vibe before removing his hand, patting over your crotch where you can see the obscene bulge, straight down the middle.

You let out a breath, brows furrowing with want, but he simply walks away, leaving you tied up and waiting as he sits behind the camera.

He looks entirely in his element, legs spread and leaning back in the chair, fingers running over the control in his hands. In front of him, slightly to the right so his face isn’t blocked, is the camera. It’s still set up, black lens staring you down from its position on the tripod. You watch with baited breath as he leans over and turns it on with a little electronic beep, Your pussy clenches at the thought of him filming this, not for the show but for himself.

How he’d take it to his room, booting up his laptop and locking his door. He probably sat much like he is now when he jerked off; legs wide to make room for his hands. Watching you moan and writhe, hands trapped behind you and chest pressed out as the metallic whine of the vibrations is just barely audible through his speakers. Would he drag it out, wanting to savour every last minute of the video, stroking himself slowly so as not to cum too soon, or would he be frantic, desperate, panting alone in his room as he tries to orgasm in time with you, spilling all over himse-

An unbidden cry leaps from your throat as you’re taken off-guard by the sudden voltage between your legs. Your thighs snap shut but the pleasure continues, Hoseok watching raptly as your shoulders twist, the instinct to pull your arms forward even as soft silk holds firm. “Hobi,” you whine imploringly.

He ignores you, ramping the vibrations up enough that the noise fills the room; a constant high-pitched whirring that rings in your ears even as you clench your thighs around it. Though you’d enjoyed the odd vibrator yourself, you were sure Hoseok knew full well that there were always a few high settings that were quite simply too much. It overstimulates you before you’ve even orgasmed, so much you can’t take it.

“Hobi!” you cry, curling over yourself as if you can escape it. Belatedly, in your electrified brain, a puzzle piece clicks into place. “Sir! Sir, please, turn it off! It hurts, please!”

You go lax, shuddering when it stops suddenly; the only sound in the confessional room coming from your heavy breathing.

“Oh, princess,” he soothes in a warm voice, “don’t worry. Sir will help you learn. Think of this as training, hm? I want our time together to be enjoyable, but it’s important that you know how to behave. Sir would rather reward you than punish you. That’s fair, don’t you think?”

You straighten up awkwardly, the weight of your arms crossed over your back making it difficult. He’s patient, smiling once you face him upright again. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

His eyes glimmer at that, and your core clenches, all too aware of the powerful motor resting over your clit. You wanted him to be happy with you, not just because you want a reward, but because you know just how unbearable his punishment would be. “Here’s the plan: I’m going to ask you some questions, and you’re going to answer them. If I don’t like your answer, you know what happens. Understood?”

You feel your arms and thighs break out in goosebumps at the thinly veiled threat. “Understood, sir.”

“Then let’s begin. We’ll start with an easy one, hm? How do you address me?”

“Sir.”

“Correct. When should you speak?”

“When spoken to,” you answer automatically, but his head cocks to the side, raising the remote meaningfully. Your mind scrambles. “Wait! And if I have to use the safewords, sir.”

The hand holding the remote lowers again as he nods. “That’s right. I can punish you for forgetting the other rules and move on, but if you ignore that then we can’t play at all, princess.” Hoseok smiles placidly. “Those are the ones we’ve already learnt. Let’s see how good your instincts are.”

You take in a deep breath, eying up the remote warily. This was uncharted territory, so the chance of you making a mistake just went right up. Rather than making any comment, you bite your tongue and wait for him to address you.

“When do you get to cum?” Hoseok asks in an authorial tone.

You pause for a moment, not wanting to blurt out something wrong. “When Sir gives me permission?”

He smiles placidly. “Good. Now; normally with my subs, they come only by my say-so. But I know for you, that isn’t reasonable given you have to play with the others. However there is still something I expect to have control over. Think for a bit; I’ll give you time. What can you not do without my permission?”

You stare at him imploringly but he just waits for your answer. You rack your mind for some clue, running over his words. He only wanted you to cum with his permission, but he was saying sex with the others was fine. So it wasn’t like you couldn’t cum at all without him around... You blink, feeling cold dread settle down your back as you come up blank. “I don’t get it, sir, I’m sorry.”

“That’s disappointing.” Even as you brace yourself, the powerful vibrations shock you to your core, more intense than you remember them. Hoseok’s eyes remain on you as you rock your hips and wiggle your torso, body trying to escape the overwhelming sensations even as you know you can’t. He holds you like that for what feels like an eternity, though it can’t be more than a minute or two. Finally, just as you feel like you’re going to fall apart, he takes mercy, and the vibrations cease, leaving you gasping.

“The answer I was looking for,” Hoseok explains coolly, “is masturbate. You are not allowed to masturbate as long as I am in the show. If you want that release, you’re to come to me, and I’ll decide if you’ve earned it. Is that clear?”

You open your mouth for a disingenuous yes, but he beats you to the bunch.

“And if you break that rule, don't think I won’t notice. I have mercy for mistakes but I don’t take well to direct disobedience.”

You deflate, lips turning down in a frown. It takes you a moment to commit. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” His eyes glint proudly at the power you’ve handed over to him, and you clench your thighs together, not wanting to admit just how much that look affects you. “I have one last question for you. What would you like from me?”

This feels like a question with no right answer, but still you hesitate. Ask for too much and he might chastise you. “A kiss, please, sir,” you try tentatively.

Hoseok’s eyes crinkle slowly as he smiles, standing up. “How romantic, princess.” You turn your chin up in anticipation, toes curling as he sidesteps the camera and moves closer, leather jacket shifting to reveal tantalising slips of skin, covered by the black sheer mesh. Once in front of you, he bends down painfully slowly, close enough that your eyes slip shut, the lightest brush of his lips on yours and-

He chuckles above you as the vibrations reappear with a vengeance, making you jerk violently and curse.

“Sir! Please!” you cry. Each time the vibrations come, they’re more insufferable, like they’re breaking down your defenses one pulse at a time. “Sir, please stop it, it’s too mu-uch!”

Hoseok turns it down, but not off, so that a gentle thrumming keeps you shuddering. He reaches behind you to tug your hair, pulling your head up to face him as he stands above you, tutting. “Why would I give you what you want?” he asks rhetorically. “You didn’t answer all my questions correctly. Maybe next time, hm?”

The vibrations are now the exact opposite of before - too low to bring you close to your high. “Hobi, plea- Sir, please, make me cum! I tried my best!” You round your eyes and pout, trying to plead with him.

Though he tries to hide it, his poker face falters for just a second. Just a twitch of his eye, a softening of his jaw, but you know you have him.

You let your voice soften even more, the sweetest begging. “I’ll be good for you, sir. Please just let me cum.”

Hoseok lets out a sigh, eyes melting. “Just this once, princess,” he allows, “Sir will go easy on you since you’re just learning.” He smiles at the way you moan in relief once the vibrations pick up again, the divine middle ground between too much and not enough. With your senses so heightened, it’s no surprise to feel the coil in your stomach quickly tightening, egged on by the fond way he strokes your hair, brushing it off your face to drink in your reactions. “Are you going to cum for me?”

“Y-yes, sir,” you breathe, hips rocking as much as you can without compromising your balance. It’s an overwhelming feeling having your arms still tied behind you. The thought that you aren’t in control of your own pleasure. Considering his prior rule, it doesn’t surprise you that he started with a scene where you didn’t even have the choice to cum without permission. Every time the silk tugs at your wrists or the metal vibe slides slightly with your grinding, it just reminds you of how you’re fully at his mercy, and you can’t wait to feel what that’s like once you finally cum. It’s not quite enough though; so wet, the metal slips more than you’d like and it frustrates you when the pressure isn’t enough, or is in the wrong place. You hiccup a sob when he turns the vibrations up just one more level, so close to your edge you could cry. “Ho-hobi, please, I need more.” You sniff at the way his brows tick. “Sir,” you cry desperately, legs widening in invitation.

Hoseok lets out a low grumble as his jaw flexes. “You’re lucky I’m going easy on you,” he announces, before dropping a hand down and cupping it over your center, pressing the vibrator right over your clit. “You better cum now, princess, I’m getting impatient. You wouldn’t want Producer Shin to walk in right now, hm? Poor man just wants to do his job, not deal with whiny little girls like you who just want to cum. Do you know why I’m not fucking you right now, princess? Because I know you couldn’t help yourself from making a mess. I bet you’re sopping wet in those panties of yours.”

With every sentence, Hoseok grinds the heel of his palm over you, jostling the vibrator against your swollen clit and before you know it, you’re cumming, leaning forward and burying your head in his chest as you latch your thighs around his hand, cresting the high.

He holds you there the whole time, vibrator jumping up another level to make you let out a squeal. As your vision begins to clear and your body returns to normal, the vibrations make you jump and whimper against him, arms flexing aggressively as you fail to pull your hands in front of you, no way of stopping the assault of sensation- unless; “Sir! Turn it off, sir, please!”

Hoseok takes mercy on you and the vibrations cease. As you gasp for breath, the sheer fabric of his shirt itching your cheek, you feel his palms slide over your shoulders and down your back, warm even through your hoodie, and reach for the length of silk. You make a low noise of disapproval at the feeling of being untied, not wanting the scene to be over, but he just shushes you gently, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.

Your shoulders twinge once your hands fall to your sides, and you follow his instructions to roll them out as he massages the muscles. While his fingers aren’t as heavenly as Taehyung’s, it does ease the ache, and you let him sit you up as he fishes the slick metal bullet out from between your legs, smirking at the way you shudder when his knuckles brush against your sensitive clit.

“Now, princess,” he announces lowly, “Shin will be coming back soon, so we need to head out. But I still have one last lesson for you. Are you able to keep going? It’s nothing too crazy, I promise.”

You swallow the dryness in your throat that’s come from your heavy breaths and nod, a soft smile gracing your face with the satisfaction of a good orgasm.

Hoseok hums, pleased, and pats your cheeks warmly before holding up the black silk. “One of the most important things in a scene,” he explains, brushing your hair back with his free hand, his knuckles light against the sensitive skin of your neck, “is trust. So we’re going to take a walk back to the house together, princess. Only you’ll be wearing this.”

Your breath hitches as the silk comes over your eyes, cool on your lids and temples as he ties it in a knot at the back, tight enough that it won’t slip but making sure it isn’t catching your hair or digging in. It’s a new kind of vulnerability, having your hands free but your sight prohibited, and you find your head tilting up blindly, seeking him out in the void.

“Oh, Y/n,” you hear him chant in a whisper, “you have no idea how beautiful you look right now.”

You shiver, hands clutching at him, slippery fabric and sharp teeth of a zip scratching your palms. “Sir,” you say, no words coming to mind but his title as his hands grasp your sides, lifting you off the stool. You stumble a but, hands flying out to steady yourself in the darkness. Your heart races when you realise your hands are empty, and as you wave them around, it’s all open air, feeling deep like a crevasse. “Hobi?”

Hoseok ignores the slip, his voice coming slightly to your right, but at a distance. “Follow my voice, princess. I’ll keep you safe. Come.”

Your mouth hangs open and your feet feel leadened to the floor. As fear begins to roil in your chest, you slide your feet forward, shuffling closer, hands scanning the air in front of you. With no sight, every inch feels like walking up to the edge of a cliff, hands grasping for contact that never comes. Your breath hitches, lungs not expanding fully. “H-hoseok, yellow,” you gasp, eyes tearing at the fear that grips your heart. “I don’t like it.”

“Okay, shh, you’re alright, I’m here,” Hoseok comforts, his voice closer, and you let out a sob of relief when your hands touch the mesh of his shirt, elbows buckling as he pulls you into a tight hug. The restriction on your ribs falls away the moment his chin rests on the crown of your head and his hands rub soothingly at your back. “I’m so sorry, princess,” he murmurs gently, “too far, hm? Are you still okay with the blindfold?”

You sniff and nod, bottom lip trembling so much that you don’t dare speak.

“So not being able to touch me was too much? That’s okay, don’t get upset, we don’t have to do that. Do you think you could walk to the house with me if I hold your hand? Would you like to try that instead?”

As he speaks, he slips a hand into yours, squeezing tightly. You take a steadying breath, feeling those sickly stresses fade away. “I wanna try, Sir,” you decide, voice only wobbling a little.

“Are you sure?” You hum in confirmation, and he rewards you with another soft kiss to your forehead. “Then let’s go, princess. Walk this way with me.”

It’s still scary stepping out blindly, but Hoseok reassures you every few moments, and his hand is like an anchor in the black ocean, keeping you steady. His hands are surprisingly slender, but they just fit into yours all the better, warm and strong and tugging you along slowly.

The first thing you feel once you leave the shed is the spots of rain on your cheeks, air fresh with moisture. Rather than be a negative, however, the lighter downpour soothes you, as well as gives you an incentive to walk faster.

There’s a slight lip where the patio begins, and once Hoseok guides you to step up on it, the rain ceases to hit you, now a soothing patter against the eaves of the house and the roof over the outdoor dining area. The swish of a glass sliding door, and finally you’re led inside, Hoseok warning you about furniture you’re close to so that you don’t trip.

Even as it gets easier with time, you still let out a heavy breath of relief once he slides back a chair at the table and helps you sit, unwinding the knot and baring your eyes to the world once more.

You blink, wincing at the bright lights of the kitchen and dining room, feeling Hoseok’s hands on you, warm voice praising you. Strangely, your mind feels more fuzzy now that it’s over, and you tell Hoseok, rubbing your eyes to try and get your vision to focus on his face.

“Probably subspace,” he answers, taking the chair next to you and holding out his hands, palms up. You frown blearily at him and he just laughs, reaching out for your wrists. You look down and let out a noise of surprise. All your struggling has left harsh red lines circling your wrists, and you hiss as Hoseok gently rubs them, pressing in an almost clinical manner like he’s making sure you haven’t hurt yourself. “Typically the trust exercise alone wouldn’t make someone fall that much, but I suspect cumming first had gotten you halfway there.”

“Okay,” you answer dumbly, making his lips quirk in a smile, letting your wrists down.

“I’m going to get you a drink of water and something sugary and then we’re going to sit down at the couch and watch a movie together, okay?”

“Okay,” you say again, head feeling heavy. Perhaps you’d lie rather than sit on the couch, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“You did so well for me today, princess,” he praises. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Thank you,” you slur happily, waiting for him to duck into the kitchen and retrieve the supplies.

And so for the rest of the morning, the two of you curl up together on the couch, gradually joined by the others, until all eight of you are watching Paddington 2, Jungkook furiously playing a game on his phone to hide the fact that he’s tearing up at one of the climaxes.

It’s easy to let time pass like this; long after you feel fully clear and coherent again, you remain safe in Hoseok’s lazy embrace, his head resting against yours and his arm wrapped around your shoulders. Jin and Yoongi bicker about the movie choices as the day goes on, and Taehyung demolishes enough snacks to clear the pantry, but you and Hoseok just relax, enjoying the mutual comfort after your scene.

In fact, you barely notice the afternoon drifting by until Jin stands up and announces you order in some dinner, because it was too late to cook. True to his word, it was almost 8pm, and you didn’t fancy waiting until 10 or later to eat.

It’s not you, or even Jin or Yoongi, but Jimin that notices Namjoon’s change in demeanour. The eight of you are crowded around the coffee table cross-legged (or, like Taehyung, lying on his stomach) in an uncommon silence founded by the delicious food you’re all stuffing into your mouths.

Not all, apparently, as Jimin’s voice breaks the silence. “Namjoon-ah, why aren’t you eating?”

The silence changes, then. No longer the contented hush of eating, but the frozen uncertainty of a social faux pas. You’d only known each other five days and already Jimin was using a very familiar term, one that normally you wouldn’t dare use to someone older than you. Namjoon, however, doesn’t seem offended, but rather sends the younger man a grateful look.

“I’m just not hungry,” he weakly explains, staring mournfully at the steaming dishes in front of him.

“You didn’t eat lunch either,” Jimin points out, making you raise your brows. You’d seen on many occasions that Jimin was an observer - the memory of his hand around your throat still makes you shiver - but to hear it directed at someone else’s wellbeing impressed you.

Namjoon just shrugs. “I wasn’t hungry then.”

Abandoning his own meal and ignoring the gawking stares from the others at the table, Jimin reaches out with his chopsticks, piling food from all of the dishes into Namjoon’s bowl. “You’re going to sit here and eat with us, Namjoon, and then you’re going to tell whoever you feel comfortable telling why you’re upset.”

Namjoon’s face falls, guilty. His fingers fiddle with the hair tucked behind his ears as he watches his portion grow. “I don’t want to be a burden,” he mutters softly.

“You aren’t a burden,” Jimin says firmly, sending him a firm look and sliding a set of chopsticks his way. “Just say thank you and eat.”

“Thank you, Jimin,” Namjoon says in a small voice, grabbing a piece of pork cutlet first, biting into the crunchy crumb.

With a quiet smile, Jimin turns back to his own food, continuing to dig in. As if that’s the signal for the rest of you, the group returns to their bowls, a satisfied silence falling once again.

After a few mouthfuls, Jin sets his cutlery down, wiping his mouth on a stray napkin. “I think all of us are probably facing some challenges in this situation. No matter who gets voted out and when, we’re the only ones we have right now, so let’s be honest with each other and support each other. We shouldn’t expect Namjoon to be vulnerable with us without being able to do the same. So I’ll start; one thing I’ve been worrying about is that I’ll get my own feelings in the way - whether that’s affection or jealously or competitiveness - and not be able to give you all objective advice. I want you all to see me as a person you can talk to and a shoulder to lean on, so I’m worried if I get too in the game I may no longer be able to do that.”

Finished, Jin returns calmly to eating, pulling a long trail of cheese ramen into from the bowl into his waiting mouth. To your surprise, it’s Jungkook that speaks up next; the boy having kept quiet this whole time.

“I’m worried-” he begins, before his nose twitches violently like he’s fighting the urge to tear up. “I’m worried that I’ll miss you guys. If I get voted out or any of you get voted out. Like; once the competition is over we can still hang out at stuff sometimes, and we can still talk, but it won’t be the same.”

You coo as he presses the back of his hand to his nose, blinking hard. Sitting beside him, you leave your own food and wrap your arms around him in a sideways hug, resting your head on his shoulder. He sniffs, but his head tips to the side to lean against yours, and you feel his body relax into the embrace.

“I worry about that too, Jungkookie,” you admit. “Though my biggest fear is that whoever I vote out each time will hate me for it. I know it’s hard not to take things personal. It’s going to be an impossible decision every week, and I don’t think I could handle it if you got angry and didn’t want to speak to me again.”

“That won’t happen,” Taehyung answers certainly. “You’re so cool, Y/n, and getting a bunch of hot people to fuck you every week is the dream, but I would never want to be in your decision. We all know it’ll suck more for you than it does for us.”

You smile as the other guys at the table nod in agreement, letting out a low hum as Jungkook’s shoulder jostles beneath your head, the boy reaching forward to grab his bowl. As he lifts a hunk of white rice to his mouth, you poke him in the ribs, opening your own lips.

Though you can’t see his face, Jungkook scoffs and you can picture the reluctant grin he must sport as he changes angles, lowering it to your mouth instead. You hum happily once the warm rice fills your mouth, but it soon turns into an indignant squeak as Jungkook pulls out a cut of cooked pork with his chopsticks, eating the much better morsel. He chuckles, feeding you the next strip, and the two of you sit contentedly like that, feeding each other as the conversation continues.

It seems like it’s Hoseok’s turn. He has his gaze internal, biting at his lip. “I’m terrified that I’m gonna fuck up and say something wrong or do something wrong and then people at my work will think I’m a bad dom. I swear I’ve read Y/n’s limit sheet a million times but I still messed up today.”

“Hobi,” you sigh, voice soft with empathy, “that wasn’t your fault. And you handled it perfectly. Please don’t feel bad.”

Though you know the others have questions - Jimin especially is staring hard at Hoseok, not angry but burning with curiosity - nobody asks, simply letting things move on. Yoongi pats Hoseok on the back from beside him and looks towards the center of the room.

“My concern is with the editing team,” Yoongi explains. “We don’t really have any way of knowing how much is going to be shown in the episodes on the website, and I don’t want people to watch this and get altered perceptions of things. I’m sure it can’t be avoided, but I do sometimes wonder how much the audience even sees.”

“I bet if one of us takes our clothes off, they’ll air this part,” Jin offers between mouthfuls of meat. “If you ever want to make sure something gets on the show, just remember it’s a porn website. I bet I could get five minutes of me talking about the economic state of Poland on the show if someone was going down on me at the time.”

Namjoon chokes on a sip of his water and you laugh heartily at the satisfied grin on Jin’s face. Always one to lighten the mood, the eldest seemed relieved at the way Namjoon blushes, but still chuckles, looking less anxious.

“Alright, then,” the virgin announces shyly. “I’ll get it off my chest. I’ve wanted to make my move this whole week but I keep chickening out. I’m worried that I’ll get to Sunday and not have done anything.”

You straighten up off of Jungkook. “That’s easy, Namjoonie. I’ll just make a move for you. After dinner, let’s go to your room.”

He chuckles nervously, but the whole room burst into a joyous cheer when he nods at you.

“Namjoonie, you casanova!” Hoseok jokes, but you can see how his eyes glimmer with pride, all the guys genuinely happy for him.

Namjoon senses it too, and some of his nerves seem to dissipate. He laughs, rocking his fist like a small punch of victory, and sends you a grateful smile. “Anyway,” he says once the celebration calms down, “we still have Taehyungie and Jimin to hear from.”

“I’ll go first,” Taehyung insists, jumping up from his spot lying on the floor to sit instead, placing his hands palms-down on the table like he’s divulging state secrets. His eyes narrow, his voice lowers. “My deepest, darkest fear is that either I or Jimin-hyung will get voted out before I get the chance to give him a massage.”

Jimin rolls his eyes as everyone oohs at the confession, but he can’t hide the upwards twitch of his lips. “Go on, then,” he allows, cheeks plumped as they fight to hold back his grin. “I need to be loosened up to admit my feelings anyway.”

Taehyung hoots, springing up and stepping around limbs and bodies until he’s sitting on the couch behind Jimin, legs on either side of the older man’s body. “You’ll have to take off your sweater,” Taehyung announces, fingering the cream-coloured fabric around his shoulders, “it’s too thick.”

Once again Jimin surprises you by actually removing his sweater, delicately slipping the ends of the sleeves over his wrists before lifting it up. He’s not shirtless - underneath the sweater is a thin cotton tank, tucked into his white jeans - but it’s the most skin you’ve seen on him, and you gape at his bare arms, lithe and pale.

The atmosphere in the room has changed very suddenly, everyone’s eyes on the pair as Taehyung rubs his palms together, warming them before laying them over Jimin’s shoulders with an excited grin. Jimin sighs almost inaudibly, lips parting as Taehyung begins to work his magic.

“Tell us then, hyung,” the masseuse requests, “what’s eating Park Jimin?”

Jimin’s lids flutter, the tension returning to his face with a frown. “That none of you would like me. That I’d get voted off just to make things less awkward for the rest of you.”

Taehyung’s hands freeze, his face falling. “We love having you here, hyung,” he insists lowly. “You’re a tough egg to crack, but I bet you’re a softie deep down. We’ll get there.”

“Thank you,” Jimin replies shortly, feeling considerably uncomfortable with the eyes on him for once. “I do hope that wasn’t the end of the massage, Tae, you barely sat down.” His tone is flat, but he lifts his head up to send the younger boy a sidelong grin.

Taehyung winks back at him, gently turning Jimin’s head back to face the front. “Of course, not, that was just the warm-up. You’ll be so relaxed when I’m done, you won’t be able to walk up to your room.”

Jimin lets out a little laugh as Taehyung begins pressing his fingers in more deeply, the flesh rippling beneath his touch. The masseuse, however, glances up to the rest of you, jerking his chin away like he’s asking you all to leave. Privacy, he mouths, and you fight the urge to nod in understanding.

Jimin probably wouldn’t let himself relax like that if all of you were just sitting there staring at him; you can see the way he nibbles lightly on his bottom lip that he feels out of his comfort zone.

Jin takes the first iniative, letting out a satisfied sigh and standing up. “I’m full,” he announces, “who’s gonna come help me do the dishes?”

And like that, you all clear out and leave Taehyung and Jimin behind, Jimin’s shoulders dropping in relief when he thinks nobody can see. Instead of helping clear up, Jin tells you to take Namjoon upstairs, and before you can really comprehend it, the two of you are sitting on the end of his bed in his room, kicking your legs out awkwardly.

“Well,” you say after a moment, Namjoon jumping slightly like he hadn’t expected you to speak, “how would you like to do this, Namjoonie? Lying down, sitting up, standing?”

He swallows, fiddling with the ends of his hair. “I think sitting,” he answers. “Could we, um, do it under the covers?”

“The blowjob?” you ask in surprise, and Namjoon nods, cheeks bright red.

“Nobody’s seen me naked before, and it doesn’t matter if I get disqualified for not showing everything because I’m going to get the penalty anyway for not doing it outside.”

“That’s fine,” you coo, “whatever makes you comfortable. How about I turn away while you get undressed?”

He nods, and you face the wall, listening to the sound of him hastily undressing, like he was worried you’d get impatient and turn around.

“You do realise I’m going to see you naked anyway?” you call out. “I can’t suck your dick with my eyes shut. Well-” Your voice lifts up as you consider it. “I suppose I could.”

Namjoon laughs, and you let yourself smile proudly at the sound. “You can turn around now,” he instructs, and you do, smile widening at the way he sits up in bed, pulling the covers up over his chest cutely.

“Namjoonie,” you sigh, stepping over to perch on the side of the bed, “I don’t want to push you if you aren’t ready. Are you sure about this? I don’t mind waiting.”

He mulls it over for a moment, chin pressing out as he tenses his jaw. “I think I’ll be fine once we get into it, you know? I’m ready.”

“Then let’s get into it,” you announce, fishing out your phone.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Namjoon’s shoulders deflate. “What are you doing?”

You smile softly, selecting a romantic playlist to set the tone a little; a slow, soothing guitar and husky male vocals emanating from your phone. “Setting the mood,” you answer, placing it on his nightstand and turning to him. “You’ve kissed before, yeah?”

Namjoon nods, his eyes widening once you stand up, shimmying out of your clothes. “I- y- mhm. Oh, god.”

“What?” you ask innocently, like you didn’t just get naked in front of him. This whole ‘being filmed 24/7’ thing had done wonders for your body confidence, and so you boldly straddle him, the duvet being the only thing that separates you. “We’ll just start with something you know, then.”

He makes a little muffled squeak of surprise when you press your mouth to his, but it shocks you just how quickly he seems to calm down and kiss you back. Perhaps he was a natural, or he had more experience than he’d let on, but in few short moments he begins to take control of it, deepening it and making your mind hazy with slips of his tongue.

“Wow,” you gasp out between kisses, “how did you learn to - mmph! - kiss like this?”

“Sorry,” he replies, voice already husky with arousal, “I’m excited.”

“Good,” you chime with a light giggle, “are you excited all over?”

“N- Yes,” Namjoon admits, stricken.

“So soon?” you question teasingly.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, pulling away and clenching his eyes shut like it pains him. “You’re really pretty.”

To hide your blush, you slide a hand down his chest and stomach. “Do you want me to touch you now?”

He nods quickly, jerky motions as his hands fist at his sides. “Shit, can you- This duvet was a bad idea, I shouldn’t have-”

“Hey,” you interrupt softly, standing up off him. He makes a low noise of loss and opens his eyes, widening when he’s visually reminded of just how naked you are. “We can take the duvet off, don’t worry. It’s easier this way, too.”

Once he nods his consent, you flip the covers back, revealing his naked body.

Your mouth drops open. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

Namjoon frowns, brows knitting together. “That’s not a good reaction,” he says unsurely, hands tucking over his hardness. He’s huge - big enough to rival Seokjin’s - and he’s practically leaking precum like a faucet, his tip looking so red it must be painful.

“Oh, I can assure you it most definitely is,” you gush. “God, I’m so lucky. How did I get this lucky?” you ask yourself in wonder, stradding him again. This time, you sit lower so that you can bend over and take him in your hand, marvelling at the weight of it.

With that simple touch, Namjoon’s head falls back and knocks loudly on the headboard, making him hiss. “Y/n, if you don’t put your mouth on me now, I swear...”

Your eyes widen, mouth in question falling open in shock. “So Namjoon’s a baby dom, hm?”

He lifts his head off the wall, staring at you like he can’t believe the words that came from his own lips. “Sorry, was that rude? I’m going crazy, I want you so bad.”

“Don’t apologise,” you croon, running a single nail lightly up his side, “I like it. I’m going to suck you off now, okay? Tell me what feels good.”

He nods, a small amount of his prior nerves returning, but before they can take over, you dip your head, wrapping your lips around his tip and simply sucking off the precum that pools there.

“Fuck! God, oh my god,” Namjoon all-but shouts, and you can’t help but chuckle around him. “Don’t laugh,” he chastises, a hand winding its way in your hair to pull it back from your face.

You glance up at him, lips still on him, and slowly sink down, letting his hardness fill your mouth all the way to the back. He’s barely halfway in, but when you flick your tongue against one of the veins on his underside, it looks like he’s reached nirvana. You pull up, licking your lips, and use your hand to spread the wetness around his length. “Good?”

“Good, just keep - fuck - keep going.” You grin when his lips press together and he visibly forces himself from saying please, now that you’ve said you liked his dominant streak.

Always one to please, you drop your mouth onto him again, this time building up into a bobbing rhythm, a salty tang hitting your tongue as sweat and precum mingle. As you jerk off what can’t fit in your mouth, Namjoon curses lowly and his hips rise off the bed, pushing himself deeper so that his tip begins to breach your throat. You gag in shock, but he just groans louder at the obscene noise.

Expecting him to do it again, you try and relax your throat, but instead you feel tugging on your scalp as he pulls you up by your hair. He’s still slow enough to be painless, but he seems more comfortable taking some control and it makes you grin when you get pulled up off him, sucking air into your lungs.

“I want to try something,” Namjoon admits with wide, lust-ridden eyes. “I won’t push if you don’t want to.” He swallows, fingers tightening in your hair. “Can I fuck your face?”

Your mouth drops open even more, but your grin only broadens. “Fuck, yes,” you enthuse. “Is like this okay, or do you wanna change positions?”

“Like this,” he says, and his other arm moves down so that he can hold your head with both hands, fingers brushing back the hair that’s fallen in your face. “Just hit me if it’s too much?”

Your heart warms at the thought of him worrying about your safety, and you nod, taking the initiative to lean down, opening your mouth to rest his tip on your tongue, glancing up at him.

“Okay,” he breathes, and begins.

Rather than fucking up into you, he first starts by guiding you up and down on his cock with his grip on your head, each time a little lower, a little deeper down the back of your throat like he’s readying you. After only a few pulls up and down, his head tips back again, smacking noisily against the headboard as he speeds up, eyes shutting in pleasure.

It’s only once his eyes have closed that his hips begin to thrust up too. Like he’s letting himself get lost in the pleasure and just feel. You get lost in it, too. It’s easy to go passive like a doll, just focusing on the way he fills your throat. The way he hisses when you gag, and moans when you swirl your tongue in time with his thrusts.

Your eyes tear up with the intensity of it, breathing through your nose and trying not to cough on him, but you’re in heaven, a hand slipping down between your legs to give yourself some much-needed friction.

It’s once you start touching yourself that everything suddenly happens much faster. The rush of pleasure makes you moan around him, which makes him open his eyes blearily to look down at you, slowling his thrusts when he sees your hand between your legs. Once he realises what you’re doing, he curses again, and his hips pick up their speed, surpassing it until you’re gagging on every thrust, your jaw aching and tears streaming, but still you rock against your hand and moan onto him, caught in the pleasure of feeling, watching, and hearing him fall apart as you fall apart yourself.

As you grow close, a hair’s breadth away from orgasm, you reach your free hand between his legs and cup his balls, softly rolling them in your grasp.

Namjoon shouts as he reaches his orgasm, and suddenly he’s pressing you still against him, cumming down your throat with a stream of intense groans, thighs shaking.

You can’t catch your breath; his cock triggering your gag reflex but staying deep inside you, and it’s that desperation, that lack of control that brings you over the edge yourself, soaking your hand and the sheets below it with the force of your orgasm. He lifts you up as you’re riding your high, spent himself, but the sudden rush of oxygen to your lungs only heightens your pleasure, and you collapse, face pressed against his stomach as you cum and suck in air and cum some more.

Your own legs are shaking by the time you finish, core throbbing with aftershocks, and it takes all of your energy to push yourself up beside him so that you can lie against his bare chest again.

The room is filled with nothing but panting for a few moments, your fingers lazily tracing patterns on his chest as his arm wraps around you, holding you tight.

Namjoon is the first to speak, his voice low even in the silence of his bedroom. “Will you stay?”

You swallow back the hoarseness in your throat, using your foot to hook the duvet back up and over your lower halves, snuggling closer to him. “I’ll stay.”

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