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violetsiren90 · 3 months

Text

Make Me

Pairing: dom!Hoseok/sub/brat!f!Reader

Genre: Oneshot; hard smut; platonic(?) fluff; BDSM lifestyle; friends to fwb to?; canon-compliant (idolAU)

Summary: You've been friends with Hobi for years, and he's your comfort zone - but when he gets wind of a dark secret you drunkenly let slip, things between you take a sudden extreme change.

Warnings: 18+ (minors, dni); hardcore BDSM themes/relationships; full consent and safe-words ❤; Hobi is a hard dom (and such a good one); MC is a brat (mostly); dominance and submission; elements of primal play if you squint; mentions of wet dreams and sexual fantasies; sexual degradation (deg-play use of the word "b*tch"); mentions of MC's hair and hair pulling in a domination context; rough physical contact in a sexual context (manhandling); mentions of drinking; kink-outing; Jimin is a menace but also the absolute best; Hobi in the studio 👀; wrestling (sexual context); spanking (sexual context); p*ssy-stepping; p*ssy slapping; sexual frustration; some initial shame and embarrassment (reader needs to work some things out); reader tries to run away from herself a bit; temporary ghosting; working through new desires and feelings; dirty dancing; ALL the communication; establishment of sexual roles/partnership; talk about birth control and protection; Hobi curses a LOT during domination scenes; leash/collar play; oral sex (male receiving); throat fucking; Hobi slaps Reader's tongue with his c*ck; cum swallowing; aftercare; restraint play (sex swing, heehee 😈); manual clitoral stimulation; teasing; unprotected vaginal sex (reader is on birth control & previously consents); female orgasm from vaginal penetration; very brief implication of a possible brush with subspace.

Word Count: ~16,000 (Double its originally intended length, oops 🙈)

Author's note: HOLY HECK IT'S FINALLY HERE. When I say I had the time of my life writing this...like, wow. I was already under Hobi's spell, but now I am OFFICIALLY down in the worst way. This fic and it's premise were completely out of my comfort zone, but I couldn't be happier that I ventured into this world, because the research alone has given me so much respect for the BDSM community, and specifically the dom/sub relationship. I hope I did as much justice to that very special dynamic as possible between these two characters (with whom I have deeply fallen in love). If you read this, I hope so very much that you enjoy it!

If no one has told you yet today, you are loved and worthy of love! 🧜‍♀️💜

Acknowledgements: The biggest of thanks to @orchidyoonkook who not only beta-read this fic multiple times, and is practically the voice of this Jimin, but also gave me so much wonderful insight into the BDSM communicty from that big sexy brain of hers (which contains an incredible amount of knowledge about so many things, let me tell you!). But most of all, she gave me the encouragement I needed to get this out of my imagination and onto the page, even when I was doubting myself the most. Yoons, I love you! Couldn't have done it without you. 💕

"What?" Hoseok's wide grin stretches further as he regards your flustered face with giddy anticipation.

You groan into your hands, willing the cushions of your friend's leather couch to swallow you like quicksand.

"Fucking Jimin - I'll kill him!" you whine, pressing your fingers to your temples, and keeping your eyes glued to the hardwood of the studio floor.

The rapper laughs as he swivels his baseball cap to sit backwards on his fluffy brown mop of hair.

"Come on! Tell me!" he insists, sprawling back in his rolling chair, the tips of his fingers touching deviously together as he regards you with twinkling eyes.

You sneak a glance at him before sighing defeatedly, which only earns another chortle of laughter from across the room.

Park fucking Jimin. You really were going to kill him. Too many bottles of soju the week prior saw you blacking out at the BTS member's pad, the one he shared with your mutual friend, Jung Hoseok. You woke up the next day, memories of the night before obscure concepts of debauchery merely alluded to by the taste of bile and the dull cranial throb of dehydration. When Jimin rather gleefully handed you, along with an iced americano, one of the booze-fueled revelations you had let slip, you begged and pleaded with him to erase the memory from his brain...or at the very least to take it to his grave. He made no such promises. And now, you are facing the man of the hour - the subject of your divulgement - who had apparently been informed that you harbored certain strong opinions in his regard. Humiliating.

You flick mildly irritated eyes back up to your friend who waggles his brows in a way that makes you want to crack a smile and sock him at the same time.

"Before I say anything, I want to know exactly what he told you," you demand, crossing your arms defensively, no cracked smile to be found.

He rolls his eyes up to the corner of the ceiling in recollection.

"He just said that you had gotten wasted and admitted something kinky...about me."

At the last two words he drops his voice dramatically low and pins you with a grin that is sickeningly predatory. Your pulse begins to hammer and you have to remind yourself that you are, in fact, capable of speech.

Fuck, you think to yourself, it's happening.

You can feel sweat starting to bead at your hairline. Maybe if you get it out there, just say it aloud, it will lose its power. Maybe the spell will be broken. Maybe he will laugh and you will laugh and you'll order lunch and keep irritating him while he's supposed to be working on a track. You're both adults, right? You whoosh out a breath.

Hobi is still looking at you, his bottom lip pushing up and the corners of his mouth tugging down in one of his little inverted smirks while his right leg bounces a little up and down.

It is just Hobi, after all, you tell yourself. Just Hobi. You are roundly aware that it may be a lie, but it seems to allow you just enough courage to jump.

"Okay, okay!" you practically shout, and he giggles and stomps his feet, which admittedly makes revealing this particular chestnut a bit easier.

"I told him…

“What?”

“I said..."

"What?"

"Oh, Christ! Fine!" And the rest comes out like water from a fire hose. "One time I came to drop off Jimin's charger and you were in dance practice and you were watching the guys and you had this look on your face - like you were pissed or something - and it was so unlike you and I got turned on and ended up having a fucking wet dream that you were stepping on my mother-fucking pussy, okay?! Are you satisfied now?!"

You heave a sigh and throw yourself back against the cushions, hands over your face. How you just mustered the courage to form those actual words you haven't even the faintest notion - but it was going to be you or Jimin, and it might as well be you. After your heart has begun to return to its resting rate and you've heaved a few deep breaths you steel yourself against the certain impending onslaught of Hobi's laughter and general mockery...which doesn't come.

You peek through your fingers to see that your friend has shifted in his chair, facing a bit away from you toward the inside of the room, leaning forward, his hands gripping the ends of the chair's armrests. His face looks a little troubled, or pensive, you can't tell which. You sit up and really look at him, suddenly worried.

Did you just fuck things irrevocably up?

That was an incredibly bizarre and intimate thing to admit.

Shit.

"Hobi?" you squeak, barely over a whisper, as you regard him.

He tilts his head suddenly to look at you, quick like a bird, and when those dark eagle-eyes regard you in return, you feel like a small, helpless creature scurrying across the tundra. Nowhere to hide. A bead of sweat escapes its perch and slips down from your temple. As he utters his question of response, the air suddenly becomes as thick as the tropics.

"Is that something that you'd want, Y/n? To be treated like that? To be...put in your place? Put down?"

You don't answer him. You can't.

Your words, your breath, your coherent thoughts are stuck, inert, useless as your chest begins to rapidly rise and fall in heavy swells. Your eyes are locked on his face as if by magnetic force. He stands, his baggy Louis Vuitton tee falling over his gray sweats. He shoves his hands in the pockets and takes a step toward where you sit. His posture is relaxed. His gaze is anything but.

"Is it?"

You want to say you don't know. That you'd never considered it again. Never once recalled the image of it - of him - standing over you as the sole of his shoe punished your throbbing sex.

"Fuck..." you breathe, and when he doesn't take his eyes from your squirming form, you relent. "...y-yeah."

He takes another step toward you, slowly. He's crowding you now, as he looks down, and the proximity is almost more than you can bear.

"You see," he remarks musingly, "I thought you were gonna say something funny - something ridiculous," he tilts his head to one side, the faintest hint of a smirk on his lips, "But that's not funny, Y/n. No, that's not funny at all. Because, as it turns out..."

He leans down, his breath fanning over your face as he speaks. Mint and espresso. You shiver and close your eyes.

"...that's something I can do."

...what? He can...h-he can....

"Hoseok..." you whisper shakily, because it's all you can manage.

You hear him laugh darkly and you don't look at him.

"Hoseok?" he mimics, "Not, Hobi, huh? Hoseok when you're like this, is it?"

"When I'm like...what?" You practically whimper in complaint, eyes still pressed shut as your last line of defense.

But any manner of defense is in vain as he answers your query, the words dripping from his lips slowly like honey, sickly like venom -

"When you're a filthy, pathetic little slut."

A whine escapes you at the complete and utter shock of his words. Suddenly you clamp your thighs together – whether to provide friction or obscurity to your quickly dampening cunt you are unsure. When he takes your jaw between his fingers and roughly jerks your chin upwards, your eyes flutter frantically open.

"Is this what you want?" he hisses, "For me to have my way with you like a needy whore?"

Fuck, is this happening? This is really happening. Your mind reels, but that's alright - it stopped doing the thinking when he got up out of that chair. Something primal in you had taken over, something that's been starving for so long – something that yearns to feed.

You do your best to nod with your chin in his grip. He swallows thickly, his eyes darting to your lips, and then back up to yours. His pupils are blown, his eyes almost wholly black as they trace over your face. Suddenly his hand slips from your chin to the nape of your neck where his hand tangles in your hair and his head drops to the side, his gaze softening.

"I need you to say it, Y/n, are you sure you want to do this?" he asks, his voice so, so low but without the edge that sends ice through your veins.

His voice. He's asking you as someone who cares about you, cares what you want – your friend.

Do you want this? No...you don't want it. You need it.

"Y-yes! Yes, Hobi - I want this," you find yourself stumbling over the words to get them out.

So quickly and so assured. Have you ever been this certain of anything in your life? His fingers dance against the nape of your neck and you sigh as his eyes travel all over your body.

You want to hide. You want to strip down. You want to run and you want him to chase you. You want him to punish you when he catches you. You are sick with want.

"A safe word, baby, we need a safe word," he nudges your racing mind back into the current moment with his saccharine words.

You blink, your mind running up against the sudden pet name – one that he has never uttered in a tone like this before – as it scrambles for something obvious and yet not ridiculous. Something simple maybe...a flower...?

"Foxglove," you say, and he raises his brows with a grin.

"Foxglove it is," he acquiesces. "So if you ever want me to stop, ever – okay? You say that. Foxglove."

You nod.

"Say it for me," he whispers, and you shiver again. Fuck.

"Foxglove." It's slow and thick leaving your mouth.

"Good girl," he purrs. Butterflies erupt in your rib-cage and your eyelids flutter. "How hard do you want it?" He asks, "How rough?"

You scramble to find your voice.

"Pretty rough, I think," you posit, a bit unsure of what that means.

He hums in response, his brows knitting in thought. You were going to have to give him something to go on, you could see that.

"I..." you stammer, "I want you to...to punish me. I want you to...to hurt me a little."

He raises a brow - looks at you, just stares as if considering. Then suddenly you know what to say.

"See...I'm not a good girl," you insist tilting your head back a bit haughtily, a bit defiantly. Being a good girl had gotten you butterflies, but that's not what you wanted right now. That's not what every cell of your body was screaming for.

He's grinning wickedly again - his other hand is slipping out of his pocket and the one in your hair is gripping at the roots.

"Hm. You're not are you?" he asks, his voice as dark and cold as the Pacific once again.

"No, Hobi," you whisper.

And suddenly your world is tilted on its axis as he tightens his fingers against your scalp and yanks your head back, sending a searing pain shooting through your skin as he stoops to hiss in your ear.

"That's Hoseok, you pretty little bitch."

You let out a whimper so needy it's nearly a sob. Your heartbeat is pounding between your legs. He lets go of your hair as roughly as he grabbed it and goes to lock the door and your stomach flips - you are totally and completely at his mercy. It's a little bit terrifying and absolutely exhilarating.

When he comes to loom over you again, you decide just exactly where you stand in all this. You know exactly what you want.

You glare up at him. He narrows his eyes.

"You gonna listen, hm?"

It's not a question, you know it's not - it's a command. But you have one, just one, of your own...

"Make me."

His eyes go wide and wild.

"So that's how it's gonna be?"

The words are heavy and dark, but you think his mouth twitches up at the corner when you arch a recalcitrant brow in response.

He hums and licks his lips, and you're on the verge of saying something about getting on with it when his hand darts out and fists a chunk of your hair, yanking it back with a force that makes your head spin. He's glaring down at you with eyes so hard and menacing that your rebuttal dies on your tongue. The hand at your nape squeezes and the pressure that seers your scalp is exquisite, spilling a moan from your lips as your arousal becomes more than you are capable of repressing.

"Don't you challenge me, brat," he rumbles from low in his chest as his hand twists against your head and lowers your back to press against the black leather.

You whine in protest, and your palms fly up to shove at him, but his reflexes are like lightning as he snatches your wrists away to pin them above you. Your head spins, eyes losing focus as your whole body flushes with warmth in the wake of his domineering aggression.

You wriggle in his hold, relishing in how his grip tightens and the cold steel in his eyes glints as you resist him.

A knee slides between your legs as he leans over you menacingly, close enough for the padlock charm around his neck to lightly tap your raised chin. Good girl, it seems to whisper in Hoseok's voice, stay put.

Yeah, fuck that.

You snatch the necklace up between your teeth and yank it to the side where it bites sharply into the corner of your mouth.

The sudden motion catches him off guard and he falters, crashing down on top of you with a noise of surprise and losing control of your hands.

You scramble against him, rolling both of you to the floor with a thud.

Your heart is hammering in your chest.

You hear him grunt, his strong hands grappling with your thrashing form, and you catch just a glimpse of his shining eyes and white clenched teeth as he flips you over onto your stomach, hands in a vice grip at the small of your back and your cheek pressing into the cold, hard laminate.

You start to move again but he pushes his weight into the slender fingers splayed over your spine with a low rumble in the back of his throat and you still with a groan.

You're pressed so deliciously firmly to the floor. You can feel arousal soaking your panties as your nerves alight everywhere he has wrested control of you. You can hear him pant, proof of his efforts, and the image of his provoked expression from seconds previous flashes through your mind.

He seemed so cool and collected before. So unbothered. To think that his blood is up and because of you? You let out a trembling breath.

"Fuck," he hisses lowly, then bends to bring his lips to the shell of your ear.

They're soft as they drag over your skin there, feather light. Your whole body shakes, and you feel his mouth pause.

"I don't know who the hell you think you are," he whispers cruelly, "But you were right about one thing...you're not a good girl. You're a disobedient little harlot who needs to be taught the rules of this house."

You whimper pathetically as he presses into you even more intensely, restricting the expansion of your lungs.

"Now," he says nosing at your exposed neck as he begins to pull away, "how about we teach you a lesson or two, hm?"

You feel his weight leave your back, and see his figure rock back on his heels out of the corner of your eye. You are just on the verge of retaliating again when you let out a yelp at the sudden shock of your hips being yanked upward by the back belt loop of your denim shorts. Hoseok lets go of your hands and they fly forward to brace yourself as your ass raises into the air and your knees move toward your chest.

And all at once you know what's coming and you feel your pussy clench in the mere anticipation of -

Smack!

You let out a wanton wail as the sharp crack of his hand against your right glute jolts through your body like a lightning strike and ends with a slam at your swollen clit.

Again - harder! Your mind screams. So you press out a whinging moan of complaint.

SMACK!

It has the desired effect.

CRACK!

Your jaw is slack, but no sound escapes as he punishes you. It hurts. Fuck, it hurts. As if he's attempting to brand your ass with the shape of his hand. But holy hell is it making you drip. Every slap jolts your body and brings the tiniest friction to where you're neediest. Where you've never been needier in your life.

Please punish my pussy....

You try to mumble the words but all you can do is drool onto the floor as he deals out pleasure and pain from above.

And then he stops. You feel hands deftly and swiftly rolling you to lie on your back.

You blink up through bleary eyes, drawing a hand across your mouth to wipe the spit away. Your shoulders are sore.

He's leaning over you, a hand still on your hip, eyes scanning your face.

"What? Did you say something? You need to speak up."

His tone is still biting but his eyes seem to hold a genuine question. Concern.

Warmth floods your chest as it registers that he wants to be able to hear you if you need him to. If you want to stop. But the light has never been so goddamned green.

"Want..." you murmur, "...more, Hoseok."

He curses, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he leans forward to take your jaw in his hand again. He rakes his gaze over your soft, swollen features, unfocused eyes, and heaving chest.

"Look at you so fucked out and all I did was smack that gorgeous ass."

He licks his lips, shaking his head in seeming disbelief as he releases your chin with a little shove. He leans back, dragging his hands over your bare thighs.

"More, hm?" he hums.

You nod eagerly.

He purses his lips and considers you through narrowed eyes, and you sense that if you want him to give you what you so desperately desire, you're going to have to show him you can take it - and take orders. You lay still, hands twitching at your sides as you look up at him through wide eyes.

He continues to run his fingertips up and down your legs as he breathes out a long relenting sigh.

"Alright," he relents, "You took your punishment well, so you should be rewarded, I suppose."

You clamp your bottom lip between your teeth, your heart rate rising again at the prospect.

He tilts forward, looming over you again as he asks the question you've been dying to answer since you woke up breathless all those weeks ago.

"What does my little brat want me to do to her? Let's see if she can use her words."

You blink up at him, unsure if you have permission to speak...or how to put your request into words that won't make you want to immediately melt through the floorboards.

"Cat got your tongue?" Hoseok sneers, pretty, heart-shaped lips curling up at one side.

His hat discarded in your tussle, wavy brown tresses hang down over his brow and his eyes sparkle darkly through them. His features are so beautiful - their loveliness thrown into sharp relief by the flinty pitilessness of their expression.

You're tempted to continue simply soaking him in, if not for the pounding ache in your core demanding that you find your voice.

"I...I want..." your lips tremble as you will yourself to tell him what you need.

Perhaps he senses that you require a little encouragement, because his eyes harden and he digs the edges of his nails into the flesh of your knees, causing you to yelp and moan and then...

"I want you to step on my pussy! Please..." You press out your request with the last of the breath in your lungs.

Hoseok's eyes flutter shut at the last word of your plea.

"Say that again," he commands in a husky whisper, and even without further specification, somehow, you know.

"Please..." You groan, letting your legs drop open demurely.

His eyes are still closed, but he can feel the action with his hands, which have now slipped just inside your knees to your inner thighs. He inhales deeply through his nose, before exhaling with a shuddering breath. When his lids languidly raise again the piercing onyx of what they have unveiled is pinning you to the floor with more deadly force than even his hands ever could. Your pulse pounds in your cunt, your head still swimming from your previous position as he pushes himself up to stand.

As you blink up at Hoseok towering over you, standing between your splayed thighs with his midnight gaze boring into the damp denim covering your heat, something inside you long ajar quietly but firmly clicks into place.

"Tell me, brat" he seethes, eyes roving your trembling form stretched out beneath him, "Who makes the rules in this house?"

"Hoseok-ssi," you whimper, so needy the ache is beginning to hurt.

Every cell of your body is awake with a desperate anticipation that only he can satisfy...or deny.

You have never felt more alive.

And then something happens and your brain shuts off entirely.

Everything vanishes: the studio, the traffic outside the western window, the city of Seoul and South Korea and the whole goddamned planet rolling around in the Milky Way. Nothing exists except the tip of Hoseok's Air Jordan ghosting over the swell of your crotch.

Your mouth waters as his foot slowly slides forward, then goes completely dry as you feel it settle with the sole aligned directly with your slit. His eyes flick up to your face, but you can't hold his gaze for more than a millisecond as he begins to apply pressure to your mound.

Your eyes roll back in your skull, head lolling as your neck goes slack, lips parted in a silent scream as the man above you presses down with a low hum over your sex. The seam of your shorts is biting deliciously into the tender flesh of your clit, sending shockwaves through your core like a live wire, and when he rolls his foot in a circular motion you think you see god.

You do scream then, but it's nothing more than a strangled sound in your throat as your fantasies materialize and he leans his weight into his stance, punishing the soft fat of your cunt with the sole of his shoe.

You're going to cum. He's barely touched you and you're going to cum. He seems to see it in the twisted ecstasy of your features as his lids hood his eyes and filth begins to spill from his lips.

"Do you like that, brat?" he taunts, "That's what you get when you're a good little girl for Hoseok - you get your pretty wet cun-"

Click jangle clack - boom boom boom!

Hobi springs away from you, hopping back on one foot with wide eyes as a succession of rapid knocks follow the stilted motions of the locked door handle. You scramble up from the floor, heart pounding and breath coming fast as you toss yourself into the corner of the couch.

Boom, boom, boom!

"Hyung, are you naked or something?" comes a familiar if muffled voice from the other side of the wall.

You fumble for your phone and Hoseok runs a hand through his hair and takes a deep breath before pulling open the door.

The man belonging to the impatient knocks and muffled accusations stumbles headlong into the studio, the locked entrance against which he had pressed his ear and most of his weight having been pulled out from under him.

"Jimi...nie...?" Hobi greets his bandmate and his eyes track the other's toppling form with surprise and a hint of agitation.

Yoongi ambles in casually behind him, sipping a dewy americano through a straw, a beanie sitting atop his ashy locks gnomishly.

Jimin nimbly pushes himself to a stand from where he had crashed against Hobi's desk, not a strand of his coiffed platinum blond hair askew as he spins around face to the dance captain. But before he can get out a greeting or an excuse for his manner of entrance he freezes as he spots you in the corner.

His eyes flick to Hobi's hat on the floor, then to the pink flush on the apples of his friend's cheeks. When Jimin's eyes slide back over to where you are curled into your nook, eyeing him warily over the tiny shield of your phone, his plush lips slowly spread into a sickeningly devious smile.

Hobi scoops his hat up off the floor and tugs in back on before taking a seat, carefully, you notice - thighs pressed together and leaning forward - in his rolling chair. The implication of his posture has you sweating into your shirt.

You need to get it the fuck together.

"If I would have known you were here I'd have brought you a kimbap," Jimin says, wicked grin still plastered on his face as he holds up a plastic convenience store bag.

You blink.

"Oh, uh, that's okay..." you bluster, waving your hand. "I'm not hungry anyway."

It's true. You just lost your appetite for the foreseeable future, stomach a raging sea of nerves as Jimin places the bag on the desk.

Yoongi shuffles over to sit at the other end of the couch, raising his free hand and drawing his mouth into a straight line in greeting. You manage your own tight-lipped grin and flash him a peace sign, hoping you did it quickly enough that the tremor in your hand went unnoticed.

"To what do I owe this visit from my bros?" Hobi asks from where he's turned toward his computer screen to save the neglected file.

His voice is cheerful, but you can hear the strain - how it's pitched just half a tone too high - and Jimin's eyes are still on you.

"I dragged Yoongi hyung out for some fresh air. I took him to lunch and grabbed you a snack on the way back."

"Yah, you took me to lunch? Then why did I pay?" Yoongi grumbles from beside you, his bare features pinched into a grumpy pout that makes him look particularly feline.

"Because you love me," Jimin coos at him and the older musician's mouth quirks up into a smile he can't seem to repress.

"What are you working on, Hoba? Which track?" Yoongi murmurs around the straw between his lips, blinking patiently as Hobi seems to shake himself, pulling his hat off to run a hand through his hair before readjusting it on his head and swiveling back toward his computer screen.

He hits play on the track and Yoongi leaves the couch to join the other two.

This is all so normal, so typical of the guys - the affectionate repartee and chat about ongoing projects. And on an average day, you'd have joined right in.

But today is not an average day.

No.

Five minutes ago, you were spread-eagle on the floor six inches from where Jimin stands, with Hoseok's shoe on your bits.

You have to get out of here.

"I'm, uh, I'm gonna head out, boys," you muster, making a beeline for the door as soon as the inertia of your decision gives you the courage to peel yourself from the corner of the couch.

"You're leaving?" Jimin's voice quips in a saccharine whine, with the slightest edge that makes you avoid his eyes as you slip out with a parting wave.

You do catch Hoseok's expression, whose head snaps up at your parting movements. His brows furrow and his lips part, looking as if he wants to say something, but he doesn't.

And then you're gone.

Your smart watch trills as your heart rate enters cardio territory. Your chest is heaving, breath coming heavy as the pliant cushion of your couch gives way to the crown of your head pressing back into it, eyes pinched shut and hand shoved down your pants.

The bullet vibrator you have pressed to your clit is doing everything it should, and you feel it coming - your orgasm. 6:12pm on a Tuesday and it's already your third self-love session of the day.

You tense your thighs, urging the building pressure in your core to boil over, and quickly. You groan and grit your teeth as your administering hand starts to shake. You writhe and whimper for a moment. And then it's over.

You stare up at the ceiling of your apartment, breathlessly huffing out a despondent sigh as the empty ache in your chest returns. It has become your loathsomely devoted companion in every waking moment over the last ten days, filling you with an unshakable restlessness and sickly discontent.

Nothing can slake it. Not reality TV. Not Cabernet Sauvignon. Not overtime hours. Not ASMR wood-soup videos. Not yoga. Not Ben and Jerry's. Not midnight runs on your NordicTrack. Not fucking yourself to climax on every single goddamned toy you own.

The little monster you roused the weekend before last in Hope World hasn't returned to sleep. No. She is wide awake. And she seems to grow more ravenous with each passing day.

At first you tried to ignore her, but she kept you up into the long, bleak hours of the night. And so, in a fuzzy, staticky haze some time after midnight a number of days ago you typed some words into a search engine that would probably have your assigned FBI agent doing a spit-take.

The thing is, you'd never seen "50 Shades of Grey", you'd never been interested. It wasn't as if you were a prude - hardly! You have always enjoyed sex, both intimate and recreational. In fact, it has always been one of your favored methods of blowing off steam, and you knew quite well how to please yourself and how to guide partners in doing the same.

You have never had problems in taking what you wanted in life, in taking charge and ensuring that things play out your way – it's what makes you so good at your job, and valued by your peers who know that they can rely on you to take the reins and rise to the occasion.

So when you suddenly stumbled unprepared into the world of BDSM, your visceral reaction to the concept of submission left you wondering...why?

Why, why, why?

Why does this do it for you? Why did your very linear, stable existence have to be completely disrupted by this discovery? And most urgently of all, why, for the love of everything sacred, did all the porn in the whole wide world fail to accomplish even a fraction of the effect of Jung Hoseok's size 9 sneaker? It's all too overwhelming to process.

You let out a frustrated whine as you pull your sticky, cramped hand, still clutching the little purple bullet, from the confines of your pants. Your phone buzzes on the coffee table and you can see the notification is from Jimin. You've been ignoring his calls and pleading texts to meet up, or just pick up. You can't face him. Not after ghosting Hobi.

You feel a pang twist in your stomach as you haul yourself toward the shower, hoping the hot water will wash away the guilt you feel for ignoring Hoseok outright. He texted you almost immediately after you left the studio, asking if you were alright. You let him know that you were, with just one word: yeah.

You had typed and retyped that response. "Yeah, thanks" seemed too weird. Like, thanks for what? Almost making you cum with the tip of his shoe? No. "Yeah, sorry" felt pathetic. What were you apologizing for? It seemed to imply...regret? Or fault. Neither of which would have come from a genuine place. And beyond a simple affirmation, you certainly didn't have words. So, "yeah" it was. He tried to call you later that evening, but you didn't pick up. You were already way up in your head by then. It had been radio silence since.

You toss a coconut steamer onto the wet shower tiles and sigh, catching a glimpse of your face in the bathroom mirror as you slide the glass door shut.

"Coward," you mutter as you close your eyes and slip under the cleansing stream.

You're wrapped up in a blanket cocoon and sipping a cup of sleepy-time tea, trying to distract yourself from the messy tangle of emotions waging war across your various chakras with season two of Single's Inferno, when a knock on the door startles you out of your simmering reverie. You heave yourself off the carpeted floor of your living room and scoot toward the door like a fleecy Jabba the Hutt to peek through the peephole.

Your vision is obscured as another eye looks back at you from the other side of the concave glass. You jump back, dropping your blanket shroud in a pile around your feet and let out a yelp of alarm. You slam a hand over the peep hole as giggles erupt on the other side.

"Yah! I know you're in there - so let me in!"

Your entire body sags against the door in relief as you recognize the voice of the would-be intruder. You swing the door open to grant him exasperated entrance.

"Park Jimin, you just took ten years off my life! Creep," you bluster, gathering the blanket up around your body as you retreat back into your apartment.

You plop down again in front of the TV, knowing that Jimin came to either talk you into going out or to just talk, and either way, you are truly not in the mood. Your friend snickers behind you, sauntering into your kitchen. He returns with a beer, bringing the frosty green bottle to his lips before sinking into an armchair and regarding you with an expression that waivers between amusement, pity, and disgust.

"You look awful," he remarks, taking another swig as his gaze roves your unkempt appearance.

Your features twist into a frown, eyes never leaving the television.

"You don't get to barge into my apartment, steal my booze, then insult me, Park," you snip, burrowing further down into the fluffy mass encasing your body.

Jimin raises a brow, a small smile still playing on his lips as he follows your eyes to the television where YouTuber Dex and professional model Lim Minsu flirtatiously splash about in a ridiculously opulent indoor swimming pool.

"Fuck, Dex is hot," Jimin mutters.

"For some reason he reminds me of Jungkook," you smirk, glancing over at him for the first time since he arrived.

He grimaces theatrically.

"I don't see it."

The contestant on the screen flashes his Paradise companion a blinding smile and raises a tattooed arm to cut through the water, content to show off his stroke precision as his date watches on. The resolve on Jimin's face falters .

"Yeah, well...Dex is hotter."

You scoff.

"Yeah, no. Kook-ah is definitely hotter."

"For the love of god, just don't tell him that, okay?" Jimin pleads, "That kid is insufferable enough these days."

"You love him."

He hides a smile behind another sip of Hite.

"Why did you ghost Hobi hyung?"

Jimin blinks innocent eyes at you, as if he hasn't just dumped the last week and a half of silent agony over your head like a bucket of ice water. But the chill is momentary, because the next second your body feels like an oven. You stammer.

"I-I...ghost him? I didn't ghost anyone...I'm busy...I..." you trail off weakly as your friend's unimpressed and knowing gaze bores into your soul.

You sigh and scrub your hands over your face.

"Because I'm a big chicken, okay?" You murmur into your palms.

You don't know why, but you feel like crying. When you pull your hands away from your face, Jimin must see it because suddenly he's on the couch wrapping you in the kind of hug that reminds you why he's your ride-or-die, and in the safety of his embrace the tears begin to fall. Days of being alone with yourself and your conflicted feelings pour from your ducts and onto the front of Jimin's bright yellow flannel. He coos words of reassurance, admonishing your tears, as he strokes your hair.

"Talk to me, you silly goose," he hums with an endeared chuckle.

You sniff and hiccup as you pull away, wiping your puffy eyes.

"I don't even know what to say, Minnie...I don't know what's wrong with me..."

Jimin smiles and grabs a few tissues from the box on the coffee table, dabbing them against your nose.

"Well, first of all, nothing is wrong with you. But second of all, tell me what is bothering you."

You heave a dramatic sigh.

"If I tell you, you have to swear - and I mean swear - that you will not make fun of me or tell anyone else. And I mean not Taehyung, not Yoongi, not anyone, you hear me?"

He smirks, but nods in assent. You narrow your eyes at him.

"Say it. Out loud." You demand warily.

Jimin rolls his eyes and throws up his hands.

"Yah! Okay! I won't tell anyone," he quips mockingly.

You sigh again and draw your knees up to your chest, wrapping your arms around them. If this gets too hard to talk about with eye-contact at least you'll have a place to hide your bashful face.

"I..." you start softly, not sure where to begin except the beginning, "Re-remember that thing I told you when we got plastered a little while back...about...Hobi?"

Jimin's lips quirk at the corners as he nods.

"Well...the thing is...wait!" You cut yourself off, suddenly gripped by a notion that has you prematurely flustered and indignant. "What did he tell you?"

Jimin shakes his head, a small smile still playing on his full lips.

"Nothing," he responds, looking you dead in the eye in a way that has you almost believing he's telling the truth.

"No, really," you press.

Jimin leans back against the arm of the couch from where he faces you, running a hand through his hair and drawing his legs up to criss-cross in front of him.

"Jagi, this is Hobi hyung we're talking about. You think he would do that? He has too much respect for you. He would never. Not to anyone. Not even me."

Your chest floods with relief, affection, and regret. Fuck. Of course he wouldn't. He was too mature of a person for that. Too considerate. Too lovely. And you hadn't even had the gumption to speak to him for the last ten days beyond a mono-syllabic SMS. Jimin watches your expression do emotional acrobatics.

"So..." he offers encouragingly, "something...happened....between you guys, right? That day Yoongi hyung and I showed up? We...uh...interrupted something, didn't we?" He can't help a devilish smile, eyes twinkling as he carefully phrases his query.

You bury your face into your knees and squeak out an affirmation. Jimin lets out a bright laugh and you immediately raise your burning face in a scowl.

"Hey! You said you wouldn't-"

He waves his hands in apology as he attempts to gain his composure.

"Mianhae, mianhae! I'm not laughing at you!" He insists, leaning forward to grab your swatting hands by the wrists.

"Sounds kind of like you are!" You huff, yanking your arms from his grasp.

"So..." Jimin hums, tilting his head to track your gaze as you try again to hide your face, "If he's down, and you're down...what's the problem? Why did you run and hide? Did your feelings change?"

You slowly raise your eyes to his, searching them as you decide just how much you're willing to tell him right now. You chew on your bottom lip as you realize you need to get it out. All of it. You drop your legs to mirror Jimin's posture, lowering your defenses with your millionth-and-first sigh of the evening.

"Okay...well..." you muse, fiddling with the blanket still draped over your lap. "You know how I told you that stuff that I...dreamt...about Hobi?"

Jimin nods.

"Well...something did kind of happen...and well..." you trail off as Jimin raises his brows expectantly.

"Oh, fuck it!" you bluster, exhausted by your own attempts at delicacy. "He dominated me and I liked it. I really really liked it, okay? And it freaked. me. the fuck. out. Like...I've neeeeever felt that way before about fooling around. It wasn't just fun, or, like, pleasurable...it was...almost..." you search for the words as Jimin stares at you raptly. "...Freeing? Like, a relief. Like, a 'where has this shit been all my life' moment."

Jimin hums and nods, interlacing his fingers and leaning his chin against his knuckles.

"Like...I don't know...I'm a very independent person. And capable. And, yeah, things have been crazy stressful at work, and I have a lot on my plate...but I handle it, you know? In fact, I don't just handle it, I kind of...enjoy the pressure of leadership and responsibility? It drives me. I've always been like that, in every area of my life..."

Jimin smiles and lets out a sound of recognition.

"So the one who wears the crown is wondering why it feels so good to be...subjected?" He waggles his brows. You roll your eyes.

"Grow up, dude."

"Am I right, though? I'm right."

You find yourself chewing your bottom lip again.

"Essentially. I like power. I like control. What is this sudden obsession with losing it? It's...scary. And confusing."

Jimin smiles.

"You know, it's actually not that uncommon, from what I understand," he states, reaching for his abandoned beer on the coffee table.

You quirk an eyebrow.

"I mean, everyone is different, and this is a journey you're going to have to take for yourself to get the answers, but from what I know about the BDSM community, it's not unusual for people who are in positions of power to crave a bit of a...reprieve."

"Really?"

"Yeah," he nods, reclining back again against the arm of the couch, "The bedroom is a good place to let your walls down. Maybe the only place, for some people. And with a trusted partner it can even be healing to play a different role than you do in other parts of your life."

It's your turn to smirk.

"You talk as if you know," you prod playfully, shoving your toes into his shin. He smiles that wicked smile of his and you laugh.

"What I'm trying to say is, maybe it's not just about the...dynamics. Maybe it's also that it's Hobi hyung. He knows you. You know him, too. You trust each other. Maybe you could get to know each other in a new way. Be something for each other that you both need." He takes the last sip of his beer and twirls the bottle in his hands, gazing at you with a gentle thoughtfulness.

You nod slowly, digesting his newly offered perspective.

"So," you muse, raising your eyes to him again, "You think he needs it too?"

Jimin shrugs.

"Only he could tell you that for sure. But I do know this, he's awfully good at being bossy, and doesn't get a lot of opportunity to run the show - outside of dance practice, that is."

Chuckling nervously at the thought, you try your best to conceal the spark that has crackled to life from the burning coals inside you at the mention of his natural command of authority.

"Hey," Jimin posits with a grin, "Maybe if he's spanking you he'll go a little easier on us when we screw up the choreo..."

"EXCUSE ME THE FU-WHAT?!" You shriek, snatching up a throw pillow to beat him mercilessly as he falls in raucous laughter to the floor.

Turning to glance over your shoulder at your reflection in the mirror, you smooth your hands over the back of the svelte black bodycon number you've donned for the evening. You're a vision in monochrome, having paired your LBD with sleek stilettos and dark smokey eyes with heavy lashes.

Your phone buzzes, indicating that your ride share is close by. Butterflies flutter in your belly as you reach for the finishing touch to your outfit: a velvety black choker with a sliver o-ring studded in colorless topaz. It's just fashionable enough to still look like a necklace, but it gives you a bit of a thrill to know that it's not. To know what's tucked inside your purse to accompany it. To wonder if, going unnoticed by most, it will catch a certain pair of dark eyes.

The drive across town to reach the Jihope residence never felt so long. You try your best to calm your nerves over the last few blocks of distance - it’s just a party, after all, and kind of a silly one at that.

During Jimin's last visit, he mentioned that he and Hobi would be throwing a Black Day party for all of their single friends the following weekend, and after dodging his attempts at socialization so religiously of late, you felt you owed it to him to attend.

Black Day had never been something your group of friends had ever observed before, but it was incredibly chic to do so this year, for whatever reason. And of course, all the organizing duo of the soiree needed was the slightest excuse for Jimin to party and Hobi to host.

Upon arriving at the building, you can already hear the music pumping from the top floor, and the chatter of guests spilling out onto the terrace. You present your ID to the security guard at the front gate, and are escorted to a private elevator that whisks you up to the penthouse. Being quite successful and comfortable yourself, you still find yourself surprised when reminded of the sheer net worth of your humble, down-to-earth Bangtan pals. Hobi is worth the most, and while he is an excellent investor and a generous philanthropist, he also likes to show out, and in style.

You take a deep breath as you buzz the bell.

The door swings open to reveal a handsome young man in a black t-shirt tucked into baggy dark-wash jeans, his fluffy brown hair parted in the middle and his ears glinting with rows of silver hoops. His round eyes scrunch into little moons and he flashes an adorable toothy grin, endearingly lopsided where it stretches deeper against the little orbital piercing at the right side of his bottom lip.

“Noona!" he growls, pulling you into a bear hug. "Where have you been? The last two times we went to noraebang there was no one to sing Through the Night with me!"

"Ah...hah...", you nervously chuckle, pulling away from his embrace as you search your brain for an excuse other than business.

"I'll sing with you, Googie!"

You turn to see your salvation from further explanation in the form of a giggling young woman bouncing up to clutch Jungkook's arm and steady herself as she sways on her platform heels. She smells like soju and fruity perfume.

You smirk and thank her, patting her hand where it clutches your friend's tattooed forearm before she's dragging him away down the hall.

"Make sure she stays hydrated!" You call after him with a shake of your head, making your way through the throng of guests to the bar area.

The furnishings of the residence are a study in classy postmodern minimalism, punctuated with abstract urban art – though you notice that some of the Kaws pieces are missing, likely stored away for safekeeping from rowdy party-goers.

The sleek chrome and granite full-service bar is stocked with liquor and beer, and a commissioned mixologist is crafting darkly colored cocktails. A buffet-style spread offers the traditional jjajangmyeon and an assortment of other delicious eats.

The spacious dining area is littered with small tables draped in black linens, each bearing centerpieces of hellebore, leather leaf, black carnations, and eucalyptus. The living room has been converted to a dance floor, complete with a glittering disco ball. House music booms through the built-in speaker system as guests in groups and pairs move to the beat.

You glance over a drink menu of themed cocktails as a voice sounds from over your shoulder.

"I recommend the Down With Love."

Turning, you flash the speaker a grin.

"Alright, but is it giving Judy or Barbara?"

Taehyung raises a disparaging brow.

"It's a gimlet. Judy, obviously."

You chuckle, putting in your order for the suggested beverage.

"You look good," he remarks, gesturing at you with the unlit cigarette tucked between his first two fingers, his other hand slipped into his pocket as he leans against the wall.

He doesn't look bad himself, you think, in his black satin top and flared Merlot trousers.

"Thanks," you smile as the bartender hands over an inky concoction garnished with a grapefruit slice twisted into the shape of a heart and run through with a toothpick.

You eye it skeptically.

"How do they make it black?"

"Activated charcoal. C'mon."

Tae links your arm through his and weaves through the bustle to a table of familiar faces. Yoongi raises a whiskey tumbler in greeting and you clink your glass with his, sliding into a chair next to Taehyung and reaching over to give Namjoon's arm an affectionate squeeze. It seems that all the members have turned up, save Seokjin, who's been a taken man three years strong.

You fall into easy conversation with the boys, and just when your difference of opinion with Namjoon over Lee Bul's latest installation piece is developing into a full-blown debate, Jimin slides up to the table and spills onto Taehyung's lap.

"None of you are dancing!" He whines breathlessly, poking Tae's cheek as the other man smiles shyly.

"Jungkook is," Yoongi rebuts, taking another bite of jjajangmyeon.

He's not wrong, though to your amusement, the maknae appears to be getting danced on more than anything else.

"Where's Hobi hyung?" Tae queries, prodding gently at Jimin's full cheek in return.

Jimin's eyes dart to you, a smirk spreading slowly across his lips as his gaze rakes up from your heels to the choker around your neck.

"Good question," he hums, rising to take your hand and pull you up from your seat. "Let's go find him."

Jimin heads for the French doors at the far end of space that lead onto the terrace. They're propped open, and cool evening air floods the apartment, keeping the atmosphere from suffocating under the warmth of body heat and the scent of rich food.

"Jimin!" You hiss, as you approach the rooftop patio, "What are you doing? This is the opposite of subtle!"

He laughs merrily.

"You're so cute when you're flustered!"

You don't have any more time to grumble as you emerge under the darkening sky, just beginning to speckle with stars barely visible against the glow of string lights wrapped around the cozy outdoor enclosure. There's a small electric fire pit surrounded by plush patio furniture, and live greenery all around.

The energy is much more relaxed than within, but even so, you feel your pulse quicken as Jimin guides you toward a small group at the corner of the terrace. You recognize a few of the men and women gathered as industry producers, but none of that really matters because all your brain can register is him.

And holy shit does he look good.

He's arresting sophistication and effortless elegance. A silk charcoal dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, ripples along the lines of his torso - save where the top three buttons have been neglected to expose the smooth planes of his toned chest. His lean, athletic legs seem even longer than usual in fitted black slacks, his pretty wrists and fingers sparkling with jewelry where his thumbs are slipped into his pockets. His hair has been slicked back from his face, and his eyes are just barely obscured by a pair of lightly tinted wire-rimmed aviators. That brilliant, warm heart-shaped smile cuts through all the sharp darkness of his garb, and your breath catches in your chest when Jimin calls out to him.

"Hyung!"

As Hoseok's eyes meet yours the grin stretched across his face falters, but he quickly regains composure.

"Eyyy," he greets you, striding forward and wrapping his arm around your shoulders to pull you into a side hug. Of course he smells as incredible as he looks.

"Hi, Hobi," you murmur a bit shyly, returning his embrace.

"Hyung," Jimin pouts cutely, "Save us! She was putting our guests to sleep talking to Namjoon-ah about art theory."

"Hey," Hobi chides in a warning tone, cocking his head to the side to glance down at you. "Don't enable the poor guy – he needs to get laid."

"Well nobody is going to approach him if she's hanging around looking like that." Jimin gestures casually, a mischievous twinkle glinting for a moment his eye.

Hobi's arm slips off your shoulders to grasp your hand as he steps back. He's never been good at keeping his feelings from his face, and the look trained on his features as he appraises you has you thinking you made the right decision when you put on that dress.

"How about we keep you out of trouble and on the dance floor, hm?" Hobi says with a sly smile, raising your hand and tilting forward in a posture of invitation.

You roll your eyes playfully, unable to bite back a smile of your own as you motion for Hobi to lead the way, careful to avoid Jimin's eyes as you let the rapper guide you back into the thrumming pulse of the festivities.

He gently pulls you onto the dance floor and tugs you into him, keeping a hold on your right hand as he slips the other just below the curve of your waist. You settle into an easy step to the lively beat. Hobi's eyes search your face as you tilt it up to him, running a hand up his chest to adjust the collar of his shirt with a sigh. You fiddle with the soft fabric between your fingers.

"I'm sorry, Hobi," you murmur, just loudly enough for him to hear.

When he just smiles a bit sadly you feel your heart squeeze and you drop your head to his chest. You will yourself not to cry as he slows his movements, slipping a knuckle beneath your chin to raise your gaze to his own.

"Hajima," he protests, "Let's talk later. Right now, how about we just have some fun? I missed you."

His expression is sweet and earnest and you feel like your chest might not have room for anything more than your complete and utter affection for this man.

"I missed you too," you admit with a little grin, pressing yourself against him just a bit more firmly and gazing up at him through widened eyes. He blinks for a moment, and then suddenly, there it is again, blooming across his lips - that blinding gorgeous smile, and that heady, infectious laugh.

In one quick motion, he spins you around to face away from him as the music drops to a deep, throbbing EDM number, his fingertips grazing your hips and his lips ghosting the shell of your ear.

"You did, huh?" he purrs. "Alright, then...show me how much."

You suck in a breath because you don't ever think you'll be ready for how quickly he can turn that dark, deep voice in his chest into something that makes you feel like you're astral-projecting. Your first instinct is to push him away, make him take it from you...but this moment isn't for that. After your exit last time around, you’re determined to make him so incredibly certain that you want him. That you need him.

You lean back into him and, whispering a silent prayer of gratitude to the goddess of stilettos, press your ass firmly into his groin. You feel the air leave his lips in a hiss against your neck, and his hands slide to squeeze your hips and tug your body even deeper into his. You grind back against him as your body undulates with the hypnotic rhythm of the beat, but it's not long before he's taken over guiding the motion of your hips to match the rolls of his own.

Your eyelids flutter. You've never been this close to him. Sure, in the studio, things had gotten hot and heavy - but you had only been in his hands. He had only touched you to move you, still you, punish you. Now you are flush against his body, and everywhere you touch as he rocks you in tortuous waves against him tastes like the first sumptuous bite of a forbidden fruit.

You can feel him beginning to swell against the plush of your ass, but even that isn't what has a familiar ache throbbing at the apex of your thighs – it's the effortlessness with which he wrests control of your body, your mind...your very being down to its most primal core.

Hoseok's hand skids up your side and slips over your collarbones.

"I like this necklace," he mumbles into your hair.

You turn in his arms, slipping your fingers around the back of his neck as you raise your lips to his ear.

"I'm disappointed in you, Hoseok," you tut, "It's not a necklace, you know."

He doesn't respond, but focuses on bringing his leg to slot between yours, hiking your dress up enough to tease your mound with brushes over the front of his thigh. You swallow a moan.

He's toying with you, but you won't give in. Not so easily. Not yet.

"I guess you could call it a choker..." you rasp, trying to keep the tremor from your voice as your face presses into the side of his jaw, "That is more descriptive of its actual purpose, I suppose."

For one millisecond in the fabric of time and space you feel his pace falter as the words spill from your lips - then he runs his hand up your back, slipping two fingers under the tight strip of velvet surrounding your throat.

For the first time since you started dancing, you look at him. Crystalline beads of sweat have broken out on his brow, and his mouth is set in a stern line, his eyes hooded and dark as tugs his fingers back to command a view of your gaze.

"Are you telling me," he grits out lowly, digging his fingers into the flesh of your hip so bruisingly you gasp, "...that you showed up to my party wearing a fucking collar?"

You don't answer him - instead you let a wicked smile slip over your lips, refusing defiantly to drop his piercing stare. He has stopped moving you against him, stopped moving entirely. His hands are firm but still where they hold you as his eyes bore down.

"Are you out here trying to finish what we started?"

You tilt your head back, narrowing your eyes seductively.

"What do you think?"

You watch a thousand and one thoughts race through Hoseok's mind as his eyes drop to your neck again and he swallows thickly.

"Oh, fuck it," he hisses, turning and catching your hand to pull you impatiently through the crowd.

You barely have time to wonder what he's thinking or where you're headed when, at the opening to the hall, he spins to grasp your waist and tuck you into a small alcove. He does it so quickly and with such force that you nearly topple the potted plant on the stand beside you.

He pushes himself against you, the tip of his nose brushing yours, and his firm body pressing you to the wall. He holds your wrists in his hands, pinning them to either side of your body. You let out a tiny whimper.

His peppermint breath fans over your cheeks.

"I was going to wait," he whispers loud enough for you to hear him clearly over the music from the room behind you. "I was going to ask you...to stay. After..." he traces his nose along the ridge of your cheekbone as he squeezes your wrists tightly, his nails nipping into your skin. "But you come here with the audacity to tease me like that? Out there, in front of everyone like a desperate little slut?"

His mouth is hovering over your ear as he speaks, sending shivers cascading down your spine.

"I'm not a patient man," he mutters darkly, and you feel your pussy throb.

You struggle slightly against his grasp, and he growls lowly. Turning into him, you press your mouth against his throat, letting your teeth graze his skin as you respond.

"Then don't be."

It's all the permission he needs. He snatches you away from the wall, dragging you down the hall toward the master bedroom at the far end. Your heartbeat hammers in your chest as you gaze at the dark mahogany door growing closer and closer with every stumbled step you take to match his hurried pace.

He turns to glance over his shoulder, and you follow the action as he grips the handle, turns it, and...

"What the..." Hoseok mutters, rattling the handle forcefully before raising his fist to pound against the door. "YAH! UNLOCK THIS DOOR!" He booms.

You hear muted voices and sounds of scurried movement from within. He bangs again and again until the door swishes open to reveal a flushed and flustered Jungkook, still fumbling with the button of his jeans.

"Hyung! S-sorry, hyung, I was just...we were..."

"OUT." Hoseok demands icily, pushing the door inward on its hinges to reveal the peppy, strawberry-scented young woman from before hurrying forward to tuck herself behind Jungkook as she draws a hand across her smeared lipstick.

You bite back a grin as you watch them scuttle down the hall before Hoseok shuts and locks the door behind you.

"That kid...seriously," he grumbles. "He knows my room is off limits."

You chuckle, despite his lack of amusement, and he takes your hand again, drawing you toward a small couch at the far side of the large room. You take in your surroundings as you cross the space - similarly furnished to the rest of the apartment. The furniture is sleek and modern, Kaws sculptures and collectible figurines occupy tables and shelves. There are a few live plants, including one hanging from a large hook in the ceiling near a massive, raised canopy bed.

He draws you to sit beside him, a crease still pinched between his brows, likely from having to evict the irksome intruders. You laugh softly and run a thumb over his forehead.

"They're gone!" you chuckle, "Don't let it bother you so much. You'll get wrinkles." You tease, and his face softens.

He catches your hand in both of his as it lowers. He sighs.

"I needed a bit of water thrown in my face anyway," he smirks, and you glance down bashfully. "Before anything really happens, I think we should have…a conversation."

You nod in agreement.

"Can I start?" you interject and he nods in return.

You huff out a long breath.

"I want to apologize for how I reacted...last time."

He smiles wryly.

"It was all very new and sudden to me, and...I don't know...I freaked out."

Hobi squeezes your hand.

"You have no reason to be sorry about that. I should have never initiated like that somewhere that wasn't really private. I just got caught up..." he shakes his head.

"No! Me too! I'm glad it happened. I..." you trail off, feeling your face heat. "Oh, fuck, I don't know how to say this..."

He claims he's not a patient man, but he waits, watching with tender eyes as you choose your words.

"I haven't been able to stop thinking about it...like..." you take a deep breath as you gather the courage for vulnerable transparency.

You remember what Jimin said. It's Hobi. You are safe with Hobi.

"It was like nothing I've ever felt before. Like a release...more than sexual, you know? Like, freedom. Like, I felt so alive."

He smiles, nodding his head in understanding.

"I..." you continue, still nervous but with mounting confidence as he makes you feel heard, "I would like to...explore this part of myself, this new world," you gesture, "And...well, I would love for you to be the one to guide me."

You raise your gaze to his. His eyes are shimmering. He slowly raises a hand and brushes his fingers over your cheek.

"It would be my honor," he murmurs earnestly.

A smile blooms across your face and your chest fills with warmth. You raise your hand, curling your fingers into his where they rest against your jaw. He drops your hands, still holding on, to his knee.

"Can I ask how much you know about the community?" he queries, tracing his thumb softly over your knuckles.

"A lot more now than I did a couple of weeks ago!" you respond with a laugh. "I know that I'm a sub, but one that likes to...fight back a little bit?"

Hobi smirks, pocketing his tongue in his cheek. His eyes glint.

"A brat," he answers.

"...Yeah."

"Want me to work for it."

Your mouth quirks up in a grin.

"The harder the challenge the bigger the payoff," he hums, glancing thoughtfully down at your joined hands.

"I think," he says after a pause, "Since you're new to all this, we should start slow. I already know some things you enjoy, and vice versa. But part of this kind of thing is about testing your limits. You're going to come across things you don't like, too. I need you to be able to tell me. Without a second thought. Seriously."

He looks at you intently.

You smile.

"I trust you enough to know that you’d stop if that’s what I wanted. I may enjoy being dominated but I do still know what I want. And with you...I..." You tug at his hand, "I know I could say what I...need.”

He huffs out a little breath, his brows drawing together as he regards you in reverence.

"You know you can be that way with me too, right? Needy?" You ask softly. "I want...to take care of you, that way. Maybe we can...take care of each other."

You're not looking at him. You can't. It's all incredibly intimate and strange. When he doesn't respond, you begin to wonder if you said something you shouldn't have. And then your doubts vanish as quickly as they had appeared when you feel his arm slip around your shoulders as he pulls you into his chest, tucking your head beneath his chin.

Your heart sings.

After a long, quiet moment, Hobi pulls back to look at you.

"Should we set some rules for ourselves?" he asks.

You purse your lips and nod. Admittedly, you had come with a few in mind.

"I think...we shouldn't kiss. Well, not on the mouth. It's...I don't know. I think it might make things confusing."

Hobi looks thoughtful, nodding slowly.

"Which brings me to my other thought," you chew your lip. "I think this should just be about sex. We're friends, and I want to keep that aspect of our relationship strong and uncompromised."

He smiles.

"Makes sense to me. But..." he says with a raise of his brows, "If we do start seeing other people, I think we should tell each other. Especially if they're going to be people we're fooling around with."

You give an enthusiastic hum of assent.

“I don’t have a partner at the moment,” you shake your head, glancing up at him.

“Me neither.”

He clears his throat and shifts his stance.

“When we’re…together,” he gestures in the space between you. “What about protection?”

You blink thoughtfully.

“I’m on birth control.”

He nods.

“Okay…would you want me to wear a condom?”

You feel heat creep up your neck as you meet his gaze with a shake of your head.

“Not unless you wanted you.”

He stares at you for a long moment before chuckling and shaking his own head.

“Ay, you’re gonna be the death of me, you know that?”

You smile and pull your bottom lip between your teeth.

"Oh! And we already have a safeword!” you remind him with a grin.

"We do," he acknowledges, his eyes dropping to the glinting metallic ring adorning your throat.

Your smile falters and your heartbeat quickens…and when he looks back up at you it's like whiplash as he sets you reeling again with a dark, hungry gaze.

"If that thing isn't a necklace," he rasps, reaching his fingers up to touch the cold silver, "How about we put it to its proper use, hm?"

You shiver, pressing your thighs together as your heartbeat drops to your clit.

"Yeah..." you whisper, your breath already starting to come quicker as you reach for your bag and fumble with trembling fingers with the clasp.

Hoseok's brow knits as he watches you open the purse, reaching in to produce a length of light chain about three feet long with a velvet strap on one and a claw clasp on the other. You double it up and dangle it from your hand, your heart thrumming in your chest as you raise your eyes to his.

"You can put it on me," you purr, "...But you'll have to take it from me first."

Click.

That ineffable thing, that invisible force he wields that arrests you has slipped back into place. You can feel it, pouring off him in devastating waves...and you're already starting to drown.

It didn't take him long to wrestle the leash from your grasp. Now you're on your knees before him, hands at your sides as he leans forward to affix the chain to the o-ring at your neck. You're breathing hard from your struggle. He stands to his full height, wrapping the links around his hand until the line is taught. He clicks his tongue condescendingly.

"What am I going to do with you now, hm?" he murmurs, tugging at the chain briefly so that you lurch slightly forward. You whine complaintively.

"Quiet," he hisses in warning.

You bite your lip. You need to obey now. Your panties are soaked and you can feel the turgid swell of your clit with every slight motion of your body. If you are good for him, then maybe you will be rewarded. Being a good girl should earn something. Right now, you will take anything.

Hoseok glowers down at you, tilting his head to the side as his eyes trail over your features, coming to rest on your pouted lips. He wets his own.

"You like to run that mouth of yours...how about we see what else it can do?"

Holy fucking shit. You feel saliva begin to pool under your tongue, your eyes flicking down to the bulge at the front of his slacks. You start to raise your hands toward his belt but he yanks sharply upward on the chain, the metal ring biting into the underside of your jaw, ripping a mewl of discomfort and impatience from your lips.

He lets out a long sigh, shaking his head as his lips curve into a cruel smile.

"So eager that she can't even wait for permission?"

You whimper again, biting your lip as he laughs darkly above you.

"My little whore wants something, doesn't she?"

You give a silent nod, letting your tongue slip out to wet your lips and watch his eyes darken as his pupils swallow his deep brown irises.

"Mmm..." He hums in consideration, bringing his free hand to cradle your chin. "I've told you before, sweet thing, if you want something, you have to ask for it."

Your eyes blink languidly as you look up at him. Your head is swimming as you sway on your knees, the dizzy helplessness of being spun between degradation and endearment hanging over you like a heavy trance. His fingers tighten around your jaw.

"Come on..." he coaxes in a chilly whisper, "Use that pretty mouth to ask Hoseok."

You swallow thickly.

"Wan..." you start softly, but his grip on your jaw sharpens.

"Speak up, I can't hear you," he commands reproachfully.

Heat swells up from your neck and sweat begins to tickle your hairline. You know what you want, you've been thinking about little else since he was pressed against you on the dance floor...but the thought of giving your filthy, aching desires shape has every inch of your body trembling.

"Wan...want..." you struggle over his fingers pressing harshly into your cheeks.

He tuts, and the look on his stony features suddenly warns you that if you don't overcome your nerves...

"Wan' your cock!" you choke out desperately.

Hoseok's lids dip slowly and his lips part, as if your words have been injected into his veins, and you think you could fucking cum at the sight. His eyes flutter open again and he gazes down. You fight for patience and composure with each maddening second of silence that passes. You can feel your pussy clench and your hands follow suit. Hoseok catches the motion. A sickening grin spreads over his lips.

"Want this cock, hm?" he hums, releasing your chin from his grasp to palm over the clothed swell inches from your lips.

You whimper pathetically, letting your eyes slip shut. Fuck you want him. You want your mouth around him. You want to choke on him. You want the thick, sticky milk of his release on your tongue.

"So tell me, brat," he hisses, wrapping another loop of chain around his palm so that he holds you on a mere few inches of leash. "How do you want my cock?"

Any shame has been dispelled from your being in the presence of your burning desire, and you raise heavy, lustful eyes to his dark ones.

"Wanna suck it off."

You can see his chest beginning to rise and fall with more effort as he pulls you by the leash, in tortuously slow deliberation, until your lips are ghosting over the zipper of his slacks. He glares down at you, the corner of his mouth curling up in a sneer as he holds you in place.

"BEG."

A violent tremor of arousal jolts through your abdomen and you gasp.

"P-please..." you stammer dumbly against the soft, dark cotton.

"Again."

"Please..."

"Please, what?"

"Please..." you breath shakily, "Will you fuck my mouth?"

You feel him twitch under the vibration of your supplicating words.

"Alright," he relents in a rasp, "But keep those hands at your sides, understand?”

You nod.

“Unless,” he tugs at the chain again,”You need to stop. Then you grab my leg and squeeze.”

“Okay.”

“What are you going to do, baby? If you need me to stop?”

“Squeeze your leg.”

“That’s right,” he hums and the repeated instruction.

You chew on your lip as he pulls off his belt and slips open the button, giving a tug at your collar. As you look up at his hooded eyes, you know exactly what to do.

You nose at the seam, trying for one moment to ignore the throbbing bulge against your cheek as you find the zipper with your teeth and drag it slowly downward, your eyes never breaking his burning gaze.

"Good girl," he hisses, pushing his pants down his hips to reveal a pair of tight, black boxer briefs, a sizable strain pulling at the flexible fabric where he's hard beneath them.

He hooks two thumbs into the elastic and tugs down, his fully erect cock springing free to bob against the side of your face. A sticky streak of precum smears across your cheek as you seek his head with your lips, barely having time to register the smooth tip, or the pretty, pulsating veins as you rush to swallow him whole.

Hoseok lets out a long, deep groan as you suckle greedily around him. Allowing your spit to slick his shaft you pull back, keeping just the crown between your lips as you worry your tongue along his dripping slit.

He's rock hard and heavy on your tongue as you lean in to take him farther down your throat, bunching your hands into your dress at the aching urge to cup and stroke the velvet skin of his scrotum.

"Fuck," he grits out from between clenched teeth, "That's right..."

You bob lower and lower on his shaft, seeking to take as much of him as you are able. When you feel his tip brush the back of your throat, you moan around him. His free hand flies into your hair, and suddenly he's yanking you off of him. You cough and splutter at the sudden motion and he tugs the chain so that you raise watery eyes to him. He releases your hair to absently stroke himself as he lightly pants over you.

"Asked me to fuck that throat. Think you can take it?"

You nod as you attempt to wipe drool pooling on your chin into your shoulder.

"Words," he pushes, snapping the chain around his wrist.

"Yeah," you mock, matching his tone, a spark of defiance reigniting inside you.

Hoseok lets out a hollow laugh.

"So confident. We'll see about that."

He slips two fingers of his free hand into the strap of your collar and tugs you back toward his cock. You open wide, extending your tongue to catch the head and pull him between your lips.

You move to swallow him again, but he halts you.

"Keep still," he mutters coldly, and the fingers at your collar hold you tightly in place as he slowly slides his hips forward in a thrust that has him inching toward your soft palate.

Your eyes water, but you have never been more determined to fight your gag reflex as he pulls back and pushes in again, deeper, his cock tapping again at the back of your throat.

"Goddamn, you really can take it," he groans in a shaky voice. "Such a good little slut for Hoseok. Such a pretty, filthy little mouth."

Your nostrils flare as you draw air through your nose, and you swallow, the muscle of your throat contracting tightly around him. At this he seems to break, suddenly pulling back his hips to snap them forward as he sets a rough, self-indulgent pace.

Your eyes water, spilling over from the brutal stretch and sting, but you dig your fingers into your thighs, determined to take him as long as you possibly can.

You start to feel light-headed, and just when you think you're going to have to tap out for air, Hoseok's pulling you off of him and wrenching your face upwards to run his wild eyes over it.

You gasp for breath a moment, and then you're opening your mouth to him again, blinking up through bleary eyes in a silent, hungry plea. He shakes his head slowly as he gazes down at you, chest heaving.

"Shit, look at you..."

You're a site. Tears and mascara streak your cheeks, saliva and precum slick your chin and neck, your parted lips swollen. Hoseok's fingers twist where they're still hooked into the collar.

"You still want it, don't you? My god..." he smears the tip of his cock along your bottom lip.

Your eager tongue wriggles forward to brush over him again. He swallows, and with a growl he slaps his cock down harshly over it. You let out a little sob as your soaking, aching cunt clenches around nothing.

"Alright," he mutters in a husky whisper, "Gonna fucking ruin that tight little throat. Gonna fill it the fuck up. Blow my load all over that nasty little tongue. And you want that, don't you? Wanna be Hoseok's pretty little cumslut, hm?"

You nod, and then remember the rules.

"Yes," you croak, and open wide for him again.

He grits his teeth and tugs at the collar to pull you slowly over him again with a shudder. You've proven more than capable and it's not long before he's chasing release at a punishing pace. It's sloppy and desperate - the hollow, wet sounds as he fucks your face a pornographic symphony.

Suddenly you think you can feel his cock twitch and jerk as it hammers into your mouth, and when he grows so incredibly hard, you know he's about to reach his peak.

You lock eyes with him through your tears, watching his features strain to maintain their composure. Without warning he grabs the back of your head and slams into you, arching over as he cries out.

And he cums.

Thick ropes spurt down your throat as he quivers and throbs.

The moment he's spent his last drop of release he fists into your hair and roughly pulls you back, letting his softening cock fall free. You gasp for breath, coughing as you choke down the last remnants of his seed. Lips trembling, your eyes search his face for what you so desperately need...and you find it.

His lids are heavy over his eyes, mere glistening slips of midnight visible as they gleam down at you; his beautiful lips are parted as he pants, the honey planes of chest glistening with sweat where his shirt fails to obscure it.

He's breathless and sated and glorious, and you bask under the intensity of his gaze. He releases his hold on your collar and lets the leash clatter to the ground, bringing his hands to your face. He cups your cheeks, brushing his thumbs over the streaks of tears.

"So, fucking good for me," he mutters shakily, his brow drawn, "Such a pretty, perfect little brat."

Your eyes slip shut under his words of praise. You could move mountains if he asked you to, you were certain. In this moment, in this space, anything for this man. Everything.

You feel his hands leave your face as he moves to help you stand, before tugging his briefs back into place.

The heat of the moment past, you become acutely aware of the stinging soreness in your knees as you struggle to your feet – and the sticky ache of persistent hunger throbbing between your thighs. You teeter on your heels as blood rushes to your lower legs.

Smiling, he reaches out and pulls you to him gently by the waist, swiping a thumb over your chin.

"You were a good girl, baby. So, so good," He coos in a husky whisper. "You remember what good girls get, hm?" He's still calling the shots and demanding answers, but his eyes are soft as they regard you.

"A reward?" you answer hopefully.

He hums in assent.

"That's right, baby. That's right," He brushes at the smeared makeup under your eye. "But let's get that messy little face cleaned up first."

After unfastening your collar he sits you down on the bed, bringing makeup wipes to gently dab away the proof of your efforts, and offers you a bottle of cool water. He comes to sit beside you, eyes tracking you attentively as you drink.

"Want Hoseok to take care of that needy little pussy?" he asks, with a smirk.

"Fuck yes," you breath as you lower the bottle from your mouth.

He arches a brow, and you purse your lips in an attempt not to grin.

"Please," you add in correction.

"Mmm," he acknowledges thoughtfully, turning to gaze over his shoulder at the spider plant hanging from the ceiling a few feet past the other side of the bed.

"Does my little girl want to try something new?" he asks, his eyes still on the suspended planter.

You feel your pulse quicken and stomach twist in anticipation.

"Yes, Hoseok, I trust you," you respond without reserve.

He flicks his eyes to your face, brows drawing together. He wets his lips and huffs out a breathy laugh.

"You have no goddamned idea what you do to me when you say shit like that."

You look away, smiling brightly as you preen under the heat and affection of his gaze.

He reaches for your hand and guides you to rise to your feet.

"Alright, ditch the dress," he orders, gesturing with a flick of his chin as he leans back on his hands and spreads his thighs in a posture of recline.

You step back to give yourself space, already weak in the knees at the prospect of stripping for him. You steel your composure, a spark of boldness lighting in your belly. Taking a few steps away and turning from him, you look back over your shoulder to watch his face as you reach behind to slowly drag the zipper down your back. You make a slow, sensual show of peeling the garment from your body to reveal a lacy black balconette bra and matching thong. Stepping out of the dress and tossing it away, in nothing but your lingerie and stilettos, you stride back to stand patiently before him.

He leans forward and runs his hands up the sides of your thighs until they reach your hips where they slide back to squeeze the meat of your ass.

You bring your hands gingerly to his shoulders.

Tugging your body toward him, he draws himself to the edge of the mattress, pulling you between his thighs as he uses his sharp, white teeth to nip along the soft flesh of your belly. He sucks harshly at some places, leaving flushed little souvenirs of claim in his wake. You don't hold back the proof of your pleasure - repaying his ministrations with gasps and low moans as his hands and mouth explore you.

Hoseok raises his face from your skin, his pupils wide as his gaze settles at your breasts.

"Bra off," he commands, squeezing your ass again as you reach back to unfasten the clasp and pull the straps from your arms.

He hisses and grits his teeth, raising greedy hands to knead at your supple flesh, before pulling them away to twist and slap at your nipples.

You groan and throw your head back, relishing in the shocks of sensation – gushing, as if you could ruin your soaked panties any further. As you press your trembling thighs together he glances down at the last remaining vestige of your modesty, lips spreading into a wicked grin.

"You know I can fucking smell it - how wet you are? My god, want you to wear it like a perfume, fuck..." He runs his right hand to rub against the dampness that has the lace clinging to your slit.

The moan you let out is so needy it's practically a sob. Hoseok laughs low in his chest.

Suddenly he’s standing and spinning you around, leading you to the end of the bed. He places your hands on the footboard and instructs you to bend over, sliding your hips back until your ass is on full display. He runs his hands over the bare flesh of your cheeks.

"Now," he growls, "Can't fuck this ass until it's properly marked, can we?"

You swallow and let out a whine. The blood is already rushing to your head in a familiar surge and in the split second of silence before impact, you know what's coming - the anticipation somehow even more intoxicating when you remember how it feels when he...

Smack!

You whimper, your fingers gripping the bed frame as he delivers blow after searing blow. When he has satisfied himself with the flushed tone streaking the globes of your ass, he gives it a final squeeze, commanding you to wait where you are.

You hear him as he moves to the side of the bed to pull an object from beneath it. He seems to be grappling with something - the clink of metal and soft rustle of leather interrupting the sudden heavy hush. He returns to your side, taking your hands from the bed and bringing you to stand. As he leads you to the far side of the bed, you see it: hanging from the large hook in the ceiling that once bore the spider plant there is a large leather contraption. You've never seen one in real life, but you know what it is.

"You have a sex swing?" you murmur in awe, momentarily forgetting yourself as you reach out to brush your fingers over the soft leather. There are buckle straps at different places and a metal bar running across the top. He lightly grips your waist, turning you to face him again. He dips his head forward and you inhale the cool mint of his breath.

"Gonna put you in it," he murmurs, "You remember our word, right?"

"Yes," you breathe.

“Say it.”

“Foxglove.”

He smirks.

"Good girl. Panties off," he instructs.

You couldn't be more eager to pull the sopping fabric down your legs and toss it aside, but when you reach to remove your shoes, he catches your wrist.

"I didn't say you could take those off, did I?" he reprimands, and your pulse begins to hammer in your throat.

He’s gonna fucking strap you to this thing in your goddamned heels.

You comply with him as he helps you into the seat, fastening your wrists together to a strap that has them raised above your head. After securing your hands, he raises your legs, carefully stretching them so that your feet are on the outside of the wide set cables, hooking your heels to catch on the bar across the top to hold your legs, spread wide, in place. With each restriction he checks in, making sure you’re completely comfortable with his choices.

When he finishes he comes to stand before you, heaving out a sigh through his nose as he trails a hand down the back of your thigh.

"Look at you," he groans as his eyes rake over your body.

You can feel your pussy leaking. Your heart pounds. The muscles in your legs strain a bit from the stretch and the bindings nip into your wrists and feet. You are completely exposed to him...and it is utter perfection. Like you were made to be at his mercy. You blink up at him through the fuzzy haze that keeps intensifying as you relinquish yourself deeper and deeper into his control.

His eyes slip shut for a moment and he gives an almost imperceptible shake of his head before bringing his lips to graze against the back of your calf.

"Hoseok..." you whisper, trembling.

His eyes open and lock with yours. You hold each other's gaze in silence.

Nothing needs to be said - you both know. You both understand.

He unbuttons his shirt and slips it off, and after discarding his briefs he is as naked as you are. With one hand he grips your leg, slipping two fingers of the other to slide through the swollen, sticky folds of your cunt. You cry out, your pelvis shuddering - so ripe to be touched that the contact sends a shock like an electric pulse through your being.

"What a pretty fucking pussy...so desperate for me," he mutters.

You watch his beautiful fingers as they slip through your glistening lips and over your throbbing clit before he pulls his hand up. He lets it hover in the air for a moment before bringing it down with a harsh smack against your mound.

A scream strangles in your throat as he repeats the motion again. Your whole body shakes with arousal.

He clenches his jaw as he trails his fingers down to your aching hole, dipping in shallowly to gather your bountiful slick. He raises his fingers to his lips, tasting you as he watches you tremble beneath him. He withdraws them with a pop.

"You know how much you like that? Getting this little cunt slapped?" His eyes trail down. "You're dripping down your fucking ass."

Shuddering violently, you whimper, tugging impatiently at your restraints.

"Yah," he warns, and you still. "Guess you're ready for me, huh? Just like that day..." He smirks condescendingly. "You're always ready, aren't you?" He hisses. "Need me so fucking badly...all of the time."

You sob as your walls contract again and again. He takes his cock into his hand and slides it through your folds, teasing the tip over your clit.

It's euphoric, but it's not enough. You sink your teeth into your bottom lip as you fight your own desperate need until the copper taste of blood seeps across your tongue. Somehow, it doesn't even hurt – you can't feel anything past the need for him to fill you. You feel his tip prod your entrance and you gasp.

“Look at me," he rasps.

Your eyes snap open. Your legs are shaking, vibrating the entire apparatus as he finally, slowly, sinks into your wet heat. The stretch of him is exquisite, and your eyes roll back in your head as he groans, steadily pulling back to push into you again.

“Shiiiiiitttt…” he hisses through his teeth, “Fucking made for me. Does my little brat like that? Hoseok’s cock stuffing that tight little cunt?”

“M-more…p-please…” you mewl, nearly unable to even form the words as his ridges drag deliciously along your taught walls.

You're so incredibly worked up that already you can feel a climax building in your belly, and he's only just started to fuck you. Unable to touch him any other way, you squeeze around him tightly.

He lets out a grunt, picking up his pace as he uses the mobility of the swing to pound you onto his cock.

You cry out, your head rattling against the leather as stroke after stroke sends you hurtling toward your high. Your mouth hangs open, and your vision begins to blur at the edges, the position of your arms making it harder to breathe. It’s going put you over the edge. He catches your glazed stare.

"Don't you fucking cum until I say," he grits out breathlessly, and you let out a wail, head falling back.

You can feel yourself barely holding on as he slams into you, teetering on the edge as you hear his voice.

"Whose little whore are you?"

You try to speak but the words won't rattle out of your chest.

"Whose?" he booms.

"Yours!" you press out in a sob.

"Who do you kneel for?"

"You!"

"Who owns this pussy?"

"Y-you!"

"And who the fuck am I?"

"HOSEOK!"

"Cum, slut." he growls.

...And you free-fall through time and space.

The summer evening air is warm against your skin as you step out under the rose gold twilight. Behind you the chic dining venue is still abustle, and you wave coworkers a fond farewell as they head off to continue the evening with karaoke. It's been a big day for you, and there's someone you've been waiting to talk to.

You press the green call button and wait as the line rings.

"Yeoboseyo?"

The warm voice on the other end has a smile blooming on your lips.

"Hey, Hobi-ssi!" you hum.

"Hey hey!" he chrips, "What's up?"

"Oh, nothing," you respond casually, "Just got done with a company dinner. Someone got a promotion, so we all went out."

There's a pause on the other end.

"Oh," answers slowly, "That one you put in for?"

"Mhm."

You hear him scoff in amusement

"Well, at least you seem to be taking it well."

"I'd say I'm taking it extremely well, which is only natural, considering I got the job."

"Yes, well...wait, YOU WHAT?!"

You pull the phone momentarily away from your ear as his joyful, raucous laughter blasts through the speaker.

"You're gonna make me go deaf!" You chide. Your smile is brighter than the setting sun.

"I'm so proud of you."

"Thanks, Hobi."

"You should celebrate!"

"I did go out with my work friends...but..."

"You should come over," he interjects.

The register of his voice has changed. You recognize the new one.

"Yeah?" you swallow, as your heart rate quickens. "Well...what if I do want to go to karaoke?"

You wait for his response, watching your ride share pull up to the curb.

"Yah - you gonna be a good girl…”

You hold your breath.

“...Or do I have to make you?"

-FIN-

#hoseok fic #oneshot #bts oneshot #hoseok smut #hoseok imagine #hobi x reader #hobi smut #hobi x y/n #jhope smut #jhope fanfic #jhope x reader #jhope x you #jhope x y/n #jhope imagine #bts imagines #bts smut #bts x reader #fic: make me

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crystallizsch · 20 days

Text

thinking about jamil traveling alone for the first time but for some reason you’re still constantly on his mind

(i’ve been thinking about this and i just needed to get this out of my system and omg this was just supposed to be shorter but it ended up wayyy longer than intended)

(this is also an attempt at another x reader and it was proofread only by myself. some things might read awkward so go easy on me, i barely write 😔😔😔)

(kind of like a future au??? and can be read as romantic/(queer)platonic??)

Jamil had been planning this trip for months.

He had always wanted to travel to a new place by himself where he didn’t have to worry about anything or anyone else. Just himself and his own enjoyment.

Jamil planned on maximizing this whole trip. Reading everything about the place and making sure to see all the things that he would want to see while he was there.

However, you made sure to let him know that he should let himself loose and enjoy his trip naturally. It was supposed to be a fun, stress-free trip after all. Planning it out entirely defeats the purpose of that.

He needed to embrace a little bit of unexpectedness. You said it was “all part of the fun”. If he knew everything there was to expect, what would be the point in visiting?

Jamil saw what you were saying and admitted defeat. He gave you the benefit of the doubt and decided to have flexible and “loose” plans, as you suggested.

Meanwhile, Kalim had already thrown a whole “goodbye” party for him. Thank goodness that Kalim had gradually learned over the years to be more aware of Jamil’s wishes. They simply compromised on a small and humble party (even though Jamil would have preferred not to have one in the first place).

You came with Jamil to drop him off at the station where he was heading. You both exchanged your usual banter, and you wished him safe travels and for him to have fun especially.

You thought you imagined it, but before he was about to leave, he looked like he was about to say something else. And he definitely was about to. You'd never know what it was though.

Instead, Jamil simply bid you farewell.

As Jamil was walking away, you playfully shouted after him to not forget about you. It was only a joke (for the most part).

Jamil didn’t look back, but you know he rolled his eyes in exasperation. And he certainly did, which was followed by a soft smile on his face that you wouldn't get to see.

━━━━━━✦

Once he reached his destination, Jamil took in the new sights. He breathed in fresh air, his chest feeling lighter and more relaxed.

It felt wonderful that, in this place, he was just another face in the crowd. Nobody knows him. And he knows nobody. Everything was new and unfamiliar and he reveled in that feeling. You were right, it was better to experience these things firsthand as being there felt like a fresh start. Even though he knew that this anonymity would only be temporary.

One of the first things Jamil made sure was to keep his phone out of the equation. He needed to experience everything naturally without having the need to document what he saw as well as the stress of other people contacting him.

Jamil might have partially failed on the latter. He had to have his phone open for emergencies for certain people. Unfortunately, some worries and responsibilities can’t really fully leave him.

━━━━━━✦

Jamil first visited an antique clothing store. It was a charming and unique place filled with different kinds of wear, displays of jewelry and trinkets, and of course, the touristy souvenirs. Those were noticeably out of place, but it was to be expected.

Having experience and knowledge about his own job of being aware of what is around Scalding Sands, Jamil was delighted to know that the majority of the products in this store, at least, seemed to be of genuine quality.

Jamil may have to come back to this place. He thought you would really like that little trinket he saw through the window.

As Jamil strolled through, he was surrounded by a vibrant mix of sounds and colors adorning the streets. Individuals, families, tourists, and locals bustled about. There were even street entertainers as well as vendors who tried to sell him their wares, which was always amusing to say the least.

A catchy melody caught Jamil's attention, and he spotted a breakdancer performing on the street. He thought to himself that he might try out the routine for fun, and he'd ask what you would think. You'd enjoy the performance too, wouldn't you?

Jamil was exploring when he unexpectedly stumbled upon some festivities. It appeared to be the festival he had read about that he hadn't planned on participating in until later. Since he stumbled upon it now, he figured he might as well just check it out.

As Jamil looked around, he noticed a dance circle filled with people of all ages. Friends, families, and couples were all dancing together. He felt compelled to join in. It was as if the lively music and the enchanting atmosphere were inviting him personally, and he found himself dancing amongst the people.

The band played with much fervor, and the people were equally as energetic. Jamil was having fun. He caught himself laughing despite himself, his body swaying to the beat and in sync with the other dancers.

No one was here to judge him. No one to evaluate his front, or tell him to keep up an image. Jamil could easily just be himself. And after everything, he could easily choose to fade back into the background.

As soon as the energy died down for him, he looked back at the crowd. It still held the same energy when he went in, but he was personally spent.

Jamil wondered. If you were there, he might have enjoyed it more with you. That thought slipped through his mind, and immediately went away as it came.

The following days were a bit more mellow but still enriching. Jamil wanted to build up to an exciting finish but it seemed like the enjoyment peaked within the first few days.

The cuisine being served there was particularly fascinating. Jamil entered a restaurant, the aroma of delicious food enticing him in. He ordered dishes at a surprisingly decent price for the amazing quality they were being served. Seeing the way the dishes looked reminded him of how he had been getting better at making his own dishes more presentable. It still wasn't perfect; he could still learn more. He could actually take some inspiration from these dishes.

Jamil planned on researching more of the local cuisine once he returned. Then, he could try some rendition of his own and see what you think, as well as hoping that he could do these dishes justice.

━━━━━━✦

This isn't good.

Jamil felt... lonely?

He shouldn’t be feeling this way. What happened to enjoying this trip by himself?

Against everything Jamil told himself not to, he opened his phone and checked his messages, the majority of which were from people who inquired about his trip. This simply soured his mood. If Jamil had his phone ringing for them, he wouldn't have had a break. Why did he even open up his phone for this?

Oh, he knew why.

Your name specifically caught his eye with a preview of your message. He decided to open it up and he saw texts from you telling him to be safe and to have fun, which were basically the same things that you both exchanged when he left.

In the most recent text, you jokingly asked for him to send pictures, fully expecting that he wouldn’t. Admittedly, you were wondering what he was up to. You had really wanted to come with him but knew he really needed his trip for himself.

You felt a bit selfish sending that text because you knew Jamil shouldn't really be worrying about updating you or anyone else about what he was up to.

You didn't know that as soon as Jamil read that message, he briefly considered humoring you. He thought that perhaps he could take only a few photos here and there just to satisfy you. And then explain what else he had seen and experienced so far.

Jamil started to draft a message to send to you. He’s sure that you’d enjoy hearing all about it, plus it’ll be nice to have someone to share this experience with—

He paused at the thought. He saw that typed all he wanted to share at the moment, his finger hovering over the send button.

Wait a minute. No, no. What was he doing? Jamil quickly erased everything he typed out and shoved his phone back in his bag.

This experience was for him and himself only, at least for now. You’ll just have to wait once he returns from his trip.

━━━━━━✦

If Jamil was to be honest with himself, he had actually initially planned this whole trip with you in mind.

Throughout those months of planning, there was never a moment when he wasn't going back and forth with himself whether or not to include you in the trip.

You didn't know about this, of course. If he did manage to plan this whole trip with both of you, it would have been a surprise leading up to it.

But you yourself drilled into him how wonderful it was that he was finally able to go on a trip by himself. This was his very first opportunity to travel by himself and he doesn't know how long he will have that opportunity again. Perhaps it was your sentiments that finally convinced him that this trip was supposed to be for himself alone.

But deep in his heart, Jamil still felt something missing. He felt some kind of regret and longing that now he could not shake off.

As Jamil brooded to himself, he found himself standing in front of the antique store again. Once again, Jamil caught a glimpse of the trinket he had been eyeing the very first day he had been there.

━━━━━━✦

When you told him to not forget about you, you didn’t mean for him to take it so literally.

Jamil shrugged at the call-out, attempting to look unbothered. He had souvenirs for his family too, so it wasn’t like you were the only person he had on his mind.

But you just know he was embarrassed knowing that most of the souvenirs were meant for you. It was funny but really sweet. You assured him that you’d just return the favor next time.

Jamil really didn’t need you to, but perhaps it’ll also be payback enough for you occupying his mind while he was supposed to be away focusing on himself.

Maybe next time it'll be easier if Jamil would just bring you along.

156 notes · View notes

sunkendreams · 4 months

Note

uhh asking for a request of bo and just anything that involves with duct tape 😭😭 gagging or bounding im happy either way

Also love ur work! 🩷💖

souvenir.

➾ pairing ; bo sinclair x fem!reader.

in which bo decides that he’ll take you as his souvenir — a pretty hiker lost in ambrose.

format: one-shot — requested.

word count: 5.3K.

warnings: SMUT (mdni), DUBCON, drugging, kidnapping, bondage (tape and chains), restraints, cunnilingus, oral sex (f!receiving), fingering, groping, knifeplay, rough sex, p in v sex, different positions, spitting, choking, bruising, hair-pulling, scratching, marking, use of pet names (good girl, sweetheart, etc.), dom/sub dynamics, begging, dirty talk, edging, creampie, unprotected sex, bo is definitely not nice in this fic

author’s note: this is definitely more of a darker fic, but I actually loved writing it ,,, nothing like gross and horny sex with bo sinclair to get the blood flowing! I hope you all enjoy! Still working on requests, I’m hoping to post a few things this week since I’ve been so busy!

Warm, glittering rays of a vibrant Louisiana sun cut through the thick canopy of trees and marshland, bathing your face in a haze of heat. It was midday — hot and sticky, accompanied by a stifling humidity that was prevalent in the South, not terribly far from a saltwater coastline.

Beneath you was the grass — clutches of wildflowers blossomed amongst strands of emerald, a temporary refuge for you to rest as you savored the outdoors. A town sat in the near-distance, baking away underneath the sun, as evidenced by the paint wearing thin and the asphalt looking gray instead of black.

You’d been hiking by yourself — that was your first mistake. Too brazen and bold enough to be without the company of your friends, and now, subject to the ire of Ambrose’s hidden devils.

It was akin to ringing the dinner bell when Lester had caught wind of your presence through the scope of a well-used Barrett. Once he’d informed Bo over a very colorful phone call, your fate was sealed, doomed to become another pretty fixture in the House of Wax.

There was no getting out of Ambrose — you just didn’t know it yet.

As the glaring sun began to slip behind the verdant canopy above you, you took it as a sign to relocate, trekking the short distance toward the quaint town. You could hear the general buzz and chatter of townsfolk, but there wasn’t a soul in-sight — the ones that were, confined to their eternal tombs.

“Nobody’s home.” You murmured, thumbing the thick straps of your backpack as you sauntered down the middle of the road, glancing at some of the vehicles lining the road. Some appeared brand-new, others showing signs of weathering.

You passed the gas station and row of various houses, making your way toward the church. The distant hum of an organ guided your path, leading you to the steps and to the devil himself.

Bo Sinclair stood in front of a set of white doors, a cigarette hanging from his mouth, a bead of sweat glistening upon his brow. He wore his Sunday best to look the part, gaze flickering toward your pretty, doe-eyed countenance when you’d stopped a few feet away.

A cloud of billowing smoke drifted into the air, a thin gray wisp that dissipated into the staggering heat. He appraised you in an unusual silence, drinking you in, shamelessly admiring the way your jeans clung to your body. Bo’s own fascination was nearly palpable — he still wondered what possessed a girl to go hiking alone.

Maybe you were stupid — he didn’t think so.

“Sermon getting to you?” You hadn’t intended to come off as simpering or awkward, gesturing toward the cigarette in the stranger’s mouth. A chattering ambiance and piano music emanated from inside of the church, and you felt severely underdressed in the presence of this man — the only one you’d seen in the town so far.

A huff escaped him as he ashed his cigarette, granules of charcoal floating towards the steps. “Might need another cigarette if that’s the case,” Bo chortled, taking another long drag. He ogled you again, jaw tensing as he sized you up, unbeknownst to you. “You lost?”

You would do perfectly — prettiest thing he’d seen in ages, that much was for certain.

Bo’s mind worked differently than yours, sinister and callous when compared to your innocuous demeanor. Whilst you stood along the picket-fence, contemplating about finding a good drink of water, Bo was picturing you strapped down to his bed, clothes cut away.

“A little bit,” It was painful for you to confess to being lost, considering how many times you’d traversed the backwoods of Louisiana. The sound of your voice was enough to momentarily sever Bo’s salacious train of thought, watching as you picked at the fading paint along the fence. “Do you know if there’s a convenience store around here or anything?”

He shook his head, motioning down the street. “Closed for th’day, I’m afraid. Lookin’ for somethin’ in particular?” Bo asked, attempting to lay the foundation for you, building a rapport that was surely to break once he got his hands on you. It was all about the building.

You shrugged, withering away beneath the oppressive heat of the midday sun. You wondered how this man was so unusually comfortable within an all-black suit and tie. Nonetheless, you decided to be truthful. “I’m just looking for a quick drink before I hike back to the main road. I’m a little low on water.”

“If you’re willin’ to make the trek, I can take you up to my place. Won’t take long, ten minutes or so.” Bo offered, attempting to sweeten the deal. It was akin to a predator skillfully drawing their prey inward, making it difficult to resist. He took another lengthy drag of his cigarette before smashing it against the concrete with the toe of his boot.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to be a bother,” Admittedly, you felt intrusive — a meddlesome presence amidst a quiet, peaceful town. You felt even worse interrupting a church service, but Bo didn’t seem phased whatsoever. “I don’t want to distract you from church, either.”

Bo scoffed, lips twitching into something sardonic, one hand perched atop his hip. “Don’t think th’good Lord really cares a whole lot for me these days,” He mused, and you couldn’t tell if he was being serious. “Let me take you up there.” He motioned for you to follow him.

Leaving the white chapel behind, you walked alongside him, somewhat smitten by his Southern drawl and charismatic charm. Beads of sweat glistened along his brow, and he promptly loosened his tie as the two of you made it toward a stretch of beaten-up road.

“Name’s Bo, by th’way. Forgot my manners.” Bo mused, making sure to really lay on the flirtation and appeal. It wasn’t hard for him to tell how flustered you were already — and he fully intended on manipulating such a fact.

“Nice to meet you, Bo.” You smiled, cordial and polite as you sauntered alongside him. “How long have you lived here in Ambrose? It seems so far from the rest of civilization.” It was out of reach, away from the rest of the world, a world that was impervious to the sinister deeds of the Sinclairs.

Unfortunately, you were now in their territory, subject to their rules and ire.

Bo chuckled, shamelessly stealing glances at you whenever possible. You were gorgeous — a looker with a sweet demeanor. He wanted to lick that sweetness right off of you, drain it all, keep it for himself. “Lived here for most of my life. Town’s real quiet, jus’ known for the House of Wax.”

Intrigue glistened upon your features, and you recalled the sign that you’d spotted during your hike — Trudy’s infamous House of Wax. The building itself sat in the distance, nestled amongst a cluster of hills. Even that seemed relatively dormant.

“It’s nice here, really peaceful. You must get used to the silence.” You replied, stepping up the incline as Bo gently steadied you with one arm. You murmured a soft ‘thank you’ as a house came into view, rustic yet large. This must’ve been Bo’s home. “Is this it?”

He motioned toward the house, wrapping his tie around his hand as he loosened up his collar. “Yeah, this is it. We’ll go on inside, you can sit an’ I’ll get you fixed up with somethin’ for the road.” Bo chimed, making his way to the front door.

Bo let you inside, gesturing toward the couch and recliner that sat in the living room. It was a very well lived-in home, but you didn’t seem to mind. You moved toward the couch, finally able to sit somewhere comfortable and relax, placing your backpack beside you.

“Thank you for doing this, Bo. I appreciate it.” You piped up, watching as he moved toward the kitchen. The interior of the home felt warm and inviting, littered with plenty of things to look at. There was ample opportunity for Bo to take matters into his own hands.

One of the cupboards in the kitchen had what he needed, a syringe filled with some strange concoction, a thicker liquid. His dark gaze darted toward you, distracted by your surroundings. Bo took the syringe, discreetly keeping it by his side as he stepped behind you, offering you a water bottle.

“‘Course. Heat’s pretty bad in these parts.” He replied, and you immediately unscrewed the lid, greedily drinking several gulps of icy water. Bo was close, hovering above you with a manic look in his eyes.

Before you had time to properly react, his hand closed around the underside of your jaw, squeezing tight to hold you steady. The intrusive, cold prick of a needle digging into your neck made you scream, but Bo had you in a rather uncomfortable chokehold.

“Shh, shh,” He soothed, stroking at your hair. Everything felt numb, and you could no longer feel anything in your arms and legs, reduced to simple tingling sensations. Your cries were in vain, throaty and hoarse as you sank into the couch, limp and lifeless. “Jus’ relax. All that strugglin’ is gonna make it worse.”

Your eyes felt heavy, beginning to close with a weight to them — the last thing you remembered was the glimpse of Bo’s insidious smirk and dark hues before you’d been rendered unconscious.

———————————————————————————

The scratch of duct-tape reverberated around the concrete cellar, obnoxiously close to your ear, causing you to involuntarily wince. The haze of unconsciousness was lifting, but that sound — it made you groan, unpleasant and invasive. You attempted to move as the heaviness wore away in your limbs, but you had no such luck.

You were in the underbelly of some cold, dingy cellar, cement walls lined in grainy polaroids, tools, and obscene amounts of sex toys. An icy, uncomfortable sensation began to pool within the pit of your stomach, and you tried to jerk against the tape around your wrists.

A strange, unsettling chill fluttered about your body, causing you to shudder. Your hiking boots were nowhere to be found, flannel stolen too, leaving you in your shorts and tank top. Something felt intrusive, as if there was an outside presence bearing down on you, crawling beneath your flesh.

Bo was standing at the foot of a strange chair, stained with months-old cruor, dressed differently than before. A pair of mechanic’s coveralls were stained with grease and oil, dark enough to conceal bloodstains. He bit at the strip of duct-tape, clutching it between his teeth as he bound you, keeping you restrained.

“W—Wait,” You babbled, and suddenly, the heightened sensation of fear and startlement blistered through you, visceral and volatile. “Please don’t do this.” Your whimpers fell on deaf ears as Bo continued his mission, sweat layered in a thin sheen along his temples.

Death in a town that wasn’t on the map was a fate worse than any other — you would rot into the ground with no one to find you, only the animals and trees would know; bear witness. You would cease to exist and become a memory, a painful one, eternally trapped within Ambrose.

“You can make this real easy on yourself,” Bo’s husky, dark drawl emerged from the bitter chill of the cellar, roughened hands sliding along your legs. “All you gotta do is behave for me, yeah?” He stood above you, a twisted version of the man you’d met at the church — or perhaps, the real him.

You sucked in a sharp breath, feeling vulnerable and exposed in your current position. Your hands were bound on either side of you with many rings of duct-tape, legs chained to the floor, yet there was some room for you to walk — if that were even possible. You shivered, mostly from the oppressive cold of the basement coupled with fear.

“Please,” Your chest felt tight, fear unfurling from your ribcage as it spread across your body. A shudder rolled down your spine when Bo grabbed your chin, thumb stroking along your lower lip. “Please don’t kill me.”

Something about this place told you that he’d killed before — they’d been in the very same spot that you were now. A sinister, lascivious gleam glimmered within his dark eyes as they raked over your body, lips curling into a smirk.

“Didn’t say anything about killin’ you, beautiful.” Bo corrected, digits beginning to squeeze your chin, putting pressure on your jaw. “But I might change my mind if y’make this hard for me.” His other hand moved toward your shorts, unbuttoning the front as he ripped the zipper down in one swift movement.

You began to squirm, mortified and flustered as you fought against the tape wrapped around your wrists — but it wasn’t any use. “Don’t.” Your voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper as he gave you a pointed look.

Bo scoffed, head cocking to one side. “Be a shame if I gotta shut that pretty mouth of yours, too.” It wasn’t a warning, but a threat, a promise — one that he intended to make good on if you weren’t careful. “Gonna open up for me?” He crooned.

There was something hideous about him touching you — and even more so was the disgusting fact that you wanted to let him do it. He was handsome at the church, all a facade of Southern charm and debonair wit, but this was something else entirely.

With a defeated, pitiful expression, you began to part your legs, and that was akin to victory for Bo. His dark chuckle made you shiver, feeling his hand brusquely tug and wrestle with your shorts, inching them down your legs. “You’re real pretty,” He uttered, looking you in the eyes. “Prettiest thing I’ve seen in ages.”

Heat pooled within the pit of your stomach, and you clenched your hands into fists, nearly whimpering when he ghosted his fingers across your clothed cunt. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction — this was wrong, depraved on so many levels, but you found yourself submitting instead of retaliating.

A strangled whimper escaped you as he rounded the chair, standing right in front of you as he planted a kiss against your forehead. “Bet you’re all wet from this, huh?” He husked, voice kept to a low growl as he slipped his fingers into your panties.

Arousal had collected there, slick and warm upon his digits. Part of you wanted to melt into the chair and disappear, muscles tense and taut as you worked to suppress your whining.

“Fuck, look at that,” Bo sneered, greedily sucking your nectar right from his fingers, causing your breath to hitch within your throat. “Guess I was right.” His hand returned to your aching cunt, the other wrangling your panties aside, movements harsh and rough.

You hated that it felt good, offered you a sliver of relief — you wanted to scratch at your restraints, thighs beginning to quiver. A string of incoherent babbling escaped you, mumbled pleas for him to stop. It was quite the juxtaposition to your hips, which happened to lurch forward into his hand.

Bo bullied his way in between your legs, spreading you apart as he lowered himself to his knees — unexpected, but you still felt embarrassed. “Gonna have to have a taste of this pretty cunt,” With a gravelly hum, he grabbed your thighs, unceremoniously spitting a wad of saliva onto your throbbing cunt. “Don’t move.”

“Bo,” It was almost involuntary, moaning his name as you jolted forward, mouth agape. Bo’s grin felt like a hot brand against your inner thigh as he clamped his hands down into your legs, hard enough to cause bruises. “P—Please.” You sputtered.

Part of you felt terribly embarrassed for enjoying yourself at the hands of this man who’d kidnapped you, your innocence being taken advantage of. His calloused, rough hands spread you apart, broad tongue licking a stripe along the length of your slit.

Bo was eating you out like a man starved, breath hot and heavy as he savored you with his lips, tongue swirling across your cunt. His hands groped into your haunches, against the swell of your pliant flesh, practically forcing your hips to tilt into his face as he buried his head between your legs.

With a wanton moan, you slouched back into the rigid frame of the chair, listening to it creak and groan as you writhed around. The manacles that shackled you to the concrete rustled with your movements, fingers curling into your palms. His tongue was deliberate and slow, teasing you with every stroke.

You tried to smother your noises, not wanting to give him the satisfaction, but he was ten steps ahead of you. “Can’t hear you, sweetheart,” Bo stopped, ceasing any further contact until you submitted to him. “Gonna have to beg for it, I s’pose.” His sigh was theatrical and badgering, forcing you to whimper.

A simpering, choked-up noise escaped from the back of your throat, desperation beginning to mount as you jerked and jolted forward. Bo simply sat still, attempting to smother that smarmy, devilish grin of his as you shook your head back and forth. “Please keep going, please!” You cried.

Bo clicked his tongue, seemingly unimpressed and dismissive, reaching for the knife that sat in his back pocket. “Ain’t ever met a girl this ungrateful. You rather I stop an’ get this all over with?” His voice was vitriolic, full of a manipulative venom that only served to drag you deeper into his pit.

The sharp, icy blade suddenly traced over your legs, goosebumps erupting in its wake as you shook your head. You didn’t want Bo to hurt you — the idea of being harmed, of being so helpless — it frightened you. Bo enjoyed seeing that little pang of fear within your doe eyes as he prodded the tip of razor-sharp silver into your flesh.

“I’m sorry,” You gasped, stumbling over your words and babbling, restless within the chair. “Bo, please! I — I’ll be loud, I’ll do whatever you want, just don’t hurt me.” It was a gushing string of pleas and begging that didn’t go unnoticed this time.

With soft shushing, Bo sighed, kissing along your inner thigh as he dug his nails into your flesh. It was rough enough to make you feel the burning sting of pain, chest heaving with labored breaths as he nudged his lips against your cunt again. “I think I’m gonna keep you for m’self, how’s that sound?” He uttered.

“Good, good,” You nodded. “I — I want you, please keep going.” Whatever bite and edge you had before had diminished completely, shadowed by his dark, domineering nature. It was hard for anything to break through that barrier of his. He retracted the knife, then and there.

A cajoling chuckle escaped him, one filled with mockery and a duplicitous edge as he lapped at your cunt once more. His tongue was like hot coals, raking across your slit with a wanton need, fingers grabbing and groping at the meat of your thighs.

His cock twitched within his jeans, desperate to be inside of you, make you scream. You wanted to grab at his tousled tresses or grip onto his shoulders, but the duct-tape prevented you from going anywhere, digging into your wrists.

Bo savored you as if you were some delectable meal, licking his lips before toying with your clit. His mouth was feather-light and teasing that bundle of nerves, enough to make you contort within the chair. A strangled moan left you, noisy and desperate, wrought with desire.

“Please, Bo, please,” You breathed, and when your thighs threatened to squeeze his face, he roughly pushed you apart, gazing at you from between your legs. The duct-tape chafed at your flesh, uncomfortably tight around your wrists as you writhed, hips bucking forward. “Please!” You were nearly sobbing.

All inhibitions had been abandoned — you were his now, reduced to his pretty plaything, all spread out on a silver platter. Molten heat surged through you when he lapped at your cunt, hand slipping down as he teased your entrance, giving you no warning as two digits sank into you.

A blissful whine left you, head rolling back against the chair as he nudged your clit, just enough to keep you chasing after that sensation. Bo was undeniably cruel, grazing his teeth over the sensitive bud, causing you to squirm and shiver, all sound escaping you.

“Sing pretty for me,” Bo’s husky, Southern purr emerged from between your thighs, teeth nicking your thigh before he finally began to suck on your clit. His thick digits pistoned in and out of your weeping cunt, providing you with an overwhelming barrage of pleasure. “That’s it.” He huffed, lurching forward.

The rattling of chains couldn’t rip you from the moment as liquid heat coalesced between your legs, with Bo’s chin steeped in your arousal. You moaned again, flexing against your restraints, stomach churning with an anticipation that made you want to melt.

Bo grunted, greedily lapping at your sweet cunt, fingers beginning to curl into that sweet spot, prompting you to choke on any sound that bubbled within your throat. He was like a predator, with you in his clutches, a rabbit trapped within the jaws of a wolf.

With another barrage of practiced licks, he continued his onslaught against your clit, eliciting a myriad of sinful, inhuman sounds from you. Bo — it was the only word that fell from your lips like some chant, and he didn’t stop, feeling your knees buckle and shake around him.

His digits buried themselves into your tight cunt, sluggishly rocking in and out as he sucked on your clit. It sent you careening over the edge, lost to a white-hot explosion of ecstasy as you came, moaning and shivering, a complete and utter mess.

He was the devil — pearlescent teeth glinting in the low, buzzing light of the cellar. The shadows moved in a way that made him seem sinister. You were surprised that he didn’t have horns and a forked tongue, but it was likely a trick of the eyes. You huffed, fading away into your post-orgasm haze, but Bo was far from finished.

“We ain’t done just yet,” He uttered, licking his lips as he moved up from between your legs, hand gripping your chin as he dragged you forward. Bo made you open your mouth, head tilted backward as he leaned in, countenance contorting into a sneer. “Got a little gift for you, for bein’ good.”

A wad of his saliva landed upon your tongue, and you nearly choked, feeling filthy and vulnerable. His eyes glistened with an insidious shade, shadowed and bemused as he closed your mouth, forcing you to swallow his spit.

Bo was expectant, waiting for you to say something — but when nothing emerged, he clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “Where’s your manners?” He reminded you, patting your jaw like he would a beloved dog.

“Thank you.” Your voice was barely above a whisper, somewhat shrewd as Bo grinned, seemingly satisfied with your answer. You squirmed again when Bo began to unzip the front of his pants, breathing noticeably heavier and wrought with unrestrained excitement.

“Now,” Bo hummed, fishing his cock from the confines of his jeans. His erection was thick and heavy within his calloused palm, oozing with pearls of precum. With a step in your direction, he pressed the head of his cock against your cunt. “M’gonna fuck you right.”

You swallowed the growing lump within your throat, letting out another moan as he teased your entrance, hooking his hands around your hips. Bo was rough and callous, dragging you forward as he sank his cock into you, grunting at the tightness and warmth.

Another wanton moan escaped you, back beginning to arch as he thrust forward, chest rippling with grunts and subtle growls. Lewd, crass noises reverberated throughout the cellar, the only ambiance that you could really focus on. His shadow eclipsed the stark glare of the light, gaze fixated on you.

Bo’s eyes were shadowed, brewing with something dark yet indecipherable. He began to adopt a very brutal pace, cock pounding away at your poor cunt. You hadn’t done this in so long, to the point where it felt borderline unfamiliar. You sputtered and moaned, feeling one of his hands abandon your leg.

That rough, calloused hand of his found its way to your slender neck, digits squeezing at your throat. It wasn’t particularly gentle, but not enough to completely rob you of air. You whined, unable to keep from watching the way his cock disappeared again and again into your sweet, oozing cunt.

You wanted to grab onto him, onto his arm, chest, anything — instead, you were met with harsh resistance from the duct-tape. “Bo,” You moaned, hips rolling in-tandem with his movements. Bo hunched closer, hand tight around your throat as his thumb pressed into your jugular, causing you to wince. “Feels so good.”

“Yeah?” Bo’s voice dropped to a lower octave, cock rutting away into you with a rough, unyielding amount of force. If he went any harder, he might’ve threatened to split you in half. “Fuck, you’re nice n’tight. Can’t believe you’re gettin’ off to this. You like bein’ tied down an’ fucked by a stranger?” He uttered, and you began to stammer.

A wave of liquid heat burned bright within the pit of your stomach, a flame that only grew in intensity as he kept up with his brutal ministrations. Your cunt clenched pathetically around his cock at his words, causing you to shiver again. “I—I …” You didn’t know what to say, embarrassed and ashamed.

Bo scoffed, voice tapering off into a grunt as he continued to rut forward, cock buried inside of you until he could go no further. “Got you so fucked you can’t even speak,” He sneered, grip tightening on your throat. It was bound to leave some sort of mark, but you knew he didn’t care. “You gonna behave?”

Your head bobbed up and down several times over, voice barely above a whisper. “Yes.” You squeaked, watching with blown-out pupils as he reached for the knife, cutting you loose from the duct-tape. Though, once your hands were free, you were being dragged onto the cold concrete on your stomach.

The steely, sharp bite of the knife sliced through your tank top like butter, leaving you completely exposed to Bo, who remained entirely clothed. Goosebumps coalesced along your spine from the icy temperature of the ground, feeling his hand close into your hair as he fucked you from behind.

His cock battered away at your cunt, stretching you in ways that you never thought possible. It was harsh and intrusive, digits tugging on your hair, wrangling you like you were molded from obsidian. Bo savored the sensation of you rocking back into him, thighs quivering like a leaf.

Your eyes flickered toward the muted brick wall on your left, met with a garish display of polaroids — other girls, girls like you. You had a feeling that none of them had lived to tell the tale.

A pang of dread consumed you, followed by fear — you hoped that you wouldn’t end up on that wall too, immortalized in some sick photograph. Instead, you wanted to increase your chances of survival, moaning and whimpering his name, forehead snug against the concrete.

“You wanna cum?” Bo asked nonchalantly, spoken through labored breathing as his thrusts became quick and sporadic. He was close, cock throbbing inside of you as his other hand clawed bruises and marks into the swell of your hips.

“Yes,” You didn’t hesitate, moaning again when he dug his nails into your flesh, causing you to squirm from discomfort. “Please, Bo! I want you to let me cum!” Desperation was laced within your voice, high-pitched and simpering as he let go of your hip.

“Good girl,” Bo grunted, somewhat perplexed by you. “Finally usin’ your manners.” He reached between your thighs, slathered in your slick and his precum, thumb rubbing circles into your clit. Your back began to arch, pushing back into him as he fucked you like a wild animal, chains clanking against the floor.

Pleasure rippled through you in blistering waves, coupled with the faint sting of pain that radiated from your hip. Bo grunted, breath hot and strenuous as he fucked you senseless, pounding away at your cunt with little regard for your comfort. His thumb toyed with your clit, causing you to writhe and moan.

With another harsh rut of his hips, Bo grunted, pushing his hips forward as he came inside of you, ropes of white-hot seed flooding your cunt. His brow glistened with perspiration as he pulled his cock free, leaving you with the mess of it all, haphazardly smeared between your legs.

Bo, in all his cruelty, tore his hand away from your clit, leaving you a throbbing mess, edged to the brink. You wanted to beg for him to continue, but you were spent, hot flesh soothed by the cold temperature of the floor.

“W—Wait,” Your protests were weak, but still strung-out with desperation. “Aren’t you going to keep going?” There was a little sliver of hope within your voice, but he relented, lips curling into a bemused smirk as he gave your ass a light smack.

“Changed my mind.”

You hated him.

For a moment, you saw red, frustrated without any semblance of relief, but also in misery over your current situation. You didn’t know what to do or say — and the last thing you wanted was for him to become angry with you. You didn’t want to become a permanent fixture on his wall of past trophies.

He stood up, hovering above you as you sheepishly rolled onto your back. Bo’s unsteady, dangerous leer sent shivers down your spine, watching as he stared at you for several moments. “Guessin’ you’ll last longer than the rest have,” He crooned, swiping his tongue across his lower lip. “Go on.”

His head jerked toward the chair, signaling you to climb back in. Your legs quivered in the aftermath of being fucked stupid, and you awkwardly reached for your panties and shorts, but Bo intercepted you. Wordlessly, you sat down in the leather seat, naked and entirely vulnerable.

“Keep you like that for when I come back.” Bo’s Southern purr made you shudder as you trembled, both from fear and from the cold. He couldn’t help but take a little bit of pity on you, tossing you a blanket from the old mattress that sat several feet away from you.

Something about being left entirely alone, naked and used in this basement, made you more terrified than anything else. You didn’t want to be left alone with just your thoughts. Even if Bo had kidnapped you, he was more tolerable than solitude. “You’ll come back?” You asked.

Bo huffed, retrieving his baseball cap. “Maybe,” He could see the hint of fear that had glossed over your eyes. “Maybe I’ll leave you down here an’ let you rot.” His voice was somewhat vitriolic, but undecided — part of you knew that he couldn’t leave you alone after this.

You would take the physicality over being isolated.

Silence drifted between the both of you as your legs shifted, the sound of clanking manacles providing the only bit of ambiance. Bo made for the iron-wrought door, standing in the doorway to give you one last look. Even in your disheveled state, you were beautiful — and now?

You belonged to him.

Before Bo shut the door, his lips twitched into the ghost of a devilish smirk. “Guess I’ll see you soon.”

#slasher x reader #slasher x you #bo sinclair x reader #bo sinclair x you #house of wax #house of wax smut #bo sinclair #bo sinclair fanfic #slasher fanfiction #slasher fanfic #slasher fandom #slasher x y/n #house of wax fanfic #house of wax 2005

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thesherrinfordfacility · 10 months

Text

it goes something like this: this is a demon that isn't a very good demon and has survived this far by not allowing anyone to see other than himself that he's not a very good demon. after all, he's been in this position before, hasn't he? he's shown Someone who he truly is, what is in his mind and heart so to speak, and was ruined because of it. but he still can't shake off the feeling of doing the right thing, regardless of whether it goes against heaven or hell.

and then appears this angel that has already told him on that wall that it would be awful if he, the angel, were to do the wrong thing and he, the demon, to do the right thing. it's meant to be the other way around, simply by the will of someone they haven't heard a voice from in centuries, millennia, let alone be able to even understand. this angel who the demon knows is going to be set on doing the divine thing, wrong thing, so he can't trust him to know that he's doing the right thing. he has to keep his cover, make this angel fear him, so he doesn't get close enough to see beyond the facade. because to thwart him as a demon is the good thing, but he can't trust the angel to see that he's doing the right thing.

but this angel accosts him, tells him that he doesn't think this is right, that it can't be what god intended; well, close, but no cigar. the angel beseeches to the demon to do the right thing this time, that the goats were one thing, but please, please, don't harm the children. and it's a close call, but how could he trust this angel? trust the angel to have some sliver of faith in him? trust him to re-examine his prejudice and see him as more than a demon, and all its preconceptions? but the angel does work it out, does see, and it perhaps births the hope that this angel won't stop him from doing the right thing.

it goes something like this: this angel is now a smug but tentative temporary ally. he's seen through him, and he hasn't been thwarted yet, so maybe he has the room to continue with his plan, his agenda, to do the right thing. but he doesn't have the full measure of this angel yet; how mercurial is he? will he change his mind? he seemed hesitant at the flood, but he doesn't get consulted on policy decisions; will actually saving the children be a step too far for the angel? will the angel baulk, and run back to the comfort of just following orders?

he sets the house on fire, and the angel initially doesn't seem to realise that it's a mirage, a magic trick. the demon's just setting the stage. the angel is shocked, momentarily panicking that his faith in this demon was misplaced. but the angel doesn't understand that it's a test, that the demon is scrutinising where his allegiance lies, that he won't thwart this trick, believing it a genuine attempt to harm the children. he offers deniable plausibility; offers the version that he is naturally a bad person because he's a demon - but fear me, stay away, you can't beat me; if you have changed your mind, don't try to stop me because i won't let you win.

but the angel shows again where his moral compass lies, and resolves that he does know this demon, and knows that he won't do what he's threatening to do. that he will do the right thing, and push him to follow it through. so he picks up the gauntlet. he knows that the demon lied before, and he would stake his faith on the fact that he's lying now. that he's not reneging on the true him that was revealed to the angel, that that was the important bit that wasn't a lie.

it goes something like this: now it's the angel's turn. this demon, this good person who does the right thing, is staring him down. setting up the challenge, and silently pleading that he does the right thing too. but the demon knows the stakes are higher for this angel; the demon operates alone, has had the freedom to somewhat pave his own way, and do whatever he wants, and only truly cares about answering to himself. this angel is literally surrounded, backed into the corner. the demon wants to know what he'll choose; will he choose the good thing - telling the truth, and bring down the fledgling trust they've just set up between them? or will he choose the right thing - to lie and ensure that this family, that has done nothing to warrant any of these horrors, can continue to exist in peace?

not only does the angel lie, but he stakes it on everything that he is. he stakes it on being an angel. a direct wager that if the other angels see through the lie, that is the price the angel will need to pay. the demon is suitably impressed, he applauds the performance and the sacrifice, and possibly even feels some degree of sympathy. because whilst this demon's existence isn't easy, he doesn't have much else to lose. he's already lost it, and still feeling the waves crashing on the shore, but it doesn't knock anything down. for this angel, this is everything he embodies and believes himself to be. he still has everything to lose. the demon has been there before, facing the risk of, and survived, losing that, and knows that conflict and pain. but is the price worth it? is it worth doing the right thing?

it goes something like this: the demon goes to the angel. they're not friends, not even really allies, but they've shared the same experience. the demon is surprised that the angel thought he'd fall, but he understands that fear. he recognises and respects that vulnerability, to show the shards of yourself to someone else knowing that they could either help to put them back together, or further trample them into dust. so he comforts the angel with not an assurance that they are still good, because that would be a lie. instead he offers the truth - that he did the right thing, and whilst its a lonely and thankless path to walk, a dangerous moral ground to tread, he won't be alone in walking it.

he lets the angel in on a little secret: that he too is vulnerable. that he is lonely. he has a weakness that at any given moment this angel could exploit if he were so minded. that this angel could experience is a one-off, and he could revert to seeing the demon as someone incapable of doing the right thing by nature of what he is. but he trusts that he won't. the demon recognises and acknowledges what the angel risked for a greater purpose, for helping him achieve that purpose, and for seeing who this demon actually is. he is showing the angel behind the curtain screen, the murky and unknowable that lies ahead when stepping out of the light. showing that they can be, and are, more than the labels they are assigned, and that doing the right thing is the only thing that truly matters.

it goes something like this: the demon trusts the angel enough to admit, unequivocally, out loud, that he lied.

#good omens #good omens meta #this one ran away from me and got a bit poetic please excuse me #you find rhi on this lazy sunday in a fanciful mood #flashback meta #crowley meta #aziraphale meta #s2 meta

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iamthecomet · 9 days

Text

𝘔𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘺 𝘔𝘢𝘺 𝘋𝘢𝘺 𝘛𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘷𝘦: 𝘍𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘛𝘪𝘮𝘦

Rating: M (nothing explicit on screen but the thoughts and intentions are there) Pairing: Aeon/Swiss Word Count: 847 Mushy May by the beloved @forlorn-crows divider by the amazing @ghuleh-recs

Swiss’ hand is warm and heavy where it rests on Aeon’s thigh. Innocuous to the crowded bar around them, but Aeon feels every twitch of Swiss’ fingers. He tries to focus on his drink–something syrupy and much sweeter than it sounded on the menu. It's hard though when all he can think about is the feeling of Swiss’ thumb sliding up and down just above the seam on the inside of his thigh.

He's wearing jeans. But he might as well be wearing nothing for how electric this feels.

Swiss is engaged, fully, in a conversation with Cirrus, and Aurora is saying something to Aeon that he can't quite hear over the blood rushing through his ears.

He takes another sip of that sickly sweet drink. All the astringent bite of alcohol covered by the taste of something artificial that makes his skin crawl a little.

He has a lot to learn about life topside. About his vessel. About what he likes and what he doesn't. Above all else he is built to chase pleasure. To drown himself in hedonism until it consumes him. He wants nothing else. He could order another drink. Find something he likes better. But that easy, temporary, pleasure is dwarfed by the way it feels when Swiss touches him.

What had started as a small pocket of warmth in his gut when Swiss put his hand on the small of his back earlier, has grown into an inferno.

Swiss tips his head back and laughs at something Cirrus says, and Aeon knows he's staring, but he can't help it. Can't take his eyes off of deep brown skin, And the bluntness of Swiss’ cheekbones or the way his eyes crinkle in the corners.

Aurora nudges him. “Are you listening?”

Aeon shakes his head. “Honestly? No. Sorry. What?”

Aurora rolls her eyes. “I asked if your drink is good.”

He shrugs. “It's too sweet. You'd like it.”

He pushes it over to her, watching only long enough to see her take a sip and hum happily.

“Want me to get you something else?”

Aeon shakes his head. “I'm fine.”

He's already looking at Swiss again. Watching him tell a story. His free hand moving wildly as it gets more intense. The hand on Aeon's thigh squeezes. The thumb digs in just a little. Aeon gasps.

Of all of the things he wants to try–this is the most pressing. He wants to know what that hand feels like on bare skin. Wants to feel the burn of those thick fingers inside of him. Wants to know what it feels like to be pinned beneath the solid weight of Swiss’ body.

He wants to know what Swiss sounds like when he cums.

He's not inexperienced. He's been topside for months. But between being new and learning all the songs and preparing for tour, there hasn't been as much time for Aeon to get as acquainted With Swiss as he'd like. The blow job in front of the altar after mass barely counts. He's sick of waiting.

He wants it all.

Swiss looks over at him like he can hear Aeons thoughts. Eyes narrowing into mischievous slits when he catches sight of the flush on Aeon's cheeks.

The hand squeezes again. More intentional this time. And slides higher until Swiss’ thumb is dragging over the growing bulge behind Aeon's zipper.

“You want something, bug?”

“I want to go back to the hotel,” Aeon says it a little louder than he intends to. Aurora laughs into her drink, eyes bright as she looks at the two of them looking at each other. She nudges Aeon’s leg with her knee playfully and he ignores it–fully engrossed in the amber of Swiss’ eyes–the barely human color he picked for his glamor. As he watches he seems them flash, a quick show of their true gold and amethyst and Aeon can feel himself get harder against his zipper.

Swiss smiles at him, easy. It’s not his usual hungry grin and it makes Aeon’s stomach swoop. There’s softness in it that is unexpected, but very welcome. And Aeon knows Swiss will take care of him–that they will be slow and methodic and they will bathe in each other’s pleasure until they can’t keep their eyes open.

“Lead the way,” Swiss says, and Aeon practically springs from his chair–maybe too eager but he can’t help it. His pants are tight, and when Swiss sets his hand on his lower back again–warm and solid. Guiding him toward the door, Aeon feels like he might literally swoon. Swiss laughs at him, just a little chuckle that feels warm and good natured. Laced with excitement over Aeon’s excitement.

Swiss kisses him softly on the temple as they slip through the bar’s front door without saying a word to the rest of their packmates. The air outside is warm and damp, and Swiss’ hand slides a little to the side to rest just above Aeon’s hip.

He doesn’t let go until they're in the hotel room. After that–his hands have much more interesting places to be.

#comet writes #Aeon ghoul #Swiss army Ghoul #Phantom ghoul #swisstom #aeon/swiss #swiss/aeon #nameless ghoul fanfiction #ghost fic #the band ghost fanfic #the band ghost fanfiction #ghost fanfic #mushy may 2024

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stressfulsloth · 8 months

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In regards to your post “and now I'm. Just thinking about the loneliness that is SO pervasive through Elysium.”…

I have one thing to offer, or perhaps nitpick if you’d prefer it that way.

I don’t think it’s entirely fair to say the Sunday Friend isn’t a real friend. The Smoker On The Balcony believes him to be a real friend, even if he isn’t going to be there come Monday morn. But isn’t that enough? A friend on Sunday is still a friend, even if it makes waking up Monday all the worse.

Perhaps I’m biased though! Now that I think about it, most of my friends would fit the description. “Fair weather friend” feels to cold, but “sunday friend” is good enough.

And of course none of this is to say your post is at all wrong. It’s lovely and true. I just felt the need to quarrel publicly with that little detail.

To conclude, since I really just did not make myself very clear here; you are utterly correct to include the Sunday Friend in a post about loneliness but I take slight issue with saying he’s not a real friend. And so I wrote you a very long ask. And now as I reach it’s end I’m realising this was a very silly undertaking. But I’ve come this far so I’m going to grow a pair and hit “ask”.

Thank you for taking the time to read this, I hope it isn’t too desperately obnoxious.

Peace out ✌️

Ahh man I'm sorry anon but I'm going to have to disagree with you pretty strongly here 😅 tbh I was a little too easy on him in the original post. It's not necessarily the temporary nature of their acquaintance that makes the Sunday Friend's friendship questionable on its own, although it doesn't help.

The Sunday Friend is quite literally not a friend. "Friend" in his title is a euphemism; he's not coming to visit the Smoker because he's his friend. He's coming to visit the smoker to do a bit of poverty tourism, to admire the crumbling place that his beliefs have helped to destroy, and a bit of heavily implied sex tourism too. A "first world" tourist, a bureaucrat from the international government, visiting one of the most impoverished districts of Revachol to spend his nights with a student. He's not the Smoker's friend, he's a client. They're using 'friend' as a stand-in for his actual role, which is a) as a part of the moralist bureaucratic system repressing the revolution and keeping the city as a whole trapped in a laissez faire purgatory easily exploited by foreign capitalists and ultraliberals, while still maintaining a friendly respectable face, and b) as the Smoker's customer, exploiting the poverty of Martinaise's residents to get what he wants for cheap and using the easy mobility that his money and status give him. Imo he's intended narratively as a parallel for the moralist coalition government; he views from a distance, focused on money and *ze price stabilité* but entirely divorced from the poverty and consequence of his work. Happy to dip his toe in and make use of exploitable populations in Revachol, but always ready to leave too. When asked how he became 'friends' with the smoker, his response is literally to describe the coalition occupying Revachol.

He knows so little about the Smoker beyond him being there to study art, but what kind? "Perhaps graphic design? Printmaking? Who knows?" As to your point about the Smoker thinking he's a real friend, the Smoker is under no illusions about who the Sunday Friend is. An injection of money. Someone with power, someone with the mobility afforded to him by ownership of a non-Revacholian passport, someone content to watch the place decay and do nothing but indulge himself in pet projects and worry about bureaucracy. Someone with the freedom to leave when things get bad; a freedom that is narratively only assigned to a rare few extremely bourgeois characters. Dora, on her flight to Mirova, Joyce and her boat, Trant and his academic travels, and the Sunday Friend who will be out of Martinaise like a shot the moment things start to kick off despite being a part of the overarching structure that is responsible for Revachol's subjugation and rising political tensions. The Sunday Friend will use the Smoker's labour, use the vulnerability of Revachol's precarious situation to his advantage, then once it becomes too precarious or he gets bored, he'll withdraw. In answer to your question, no, I don't think that's enough. Again I probably oversimplified in my last post but the loneliness all throughout DE is not just an emotional state but a political one. Alienation is a major theme. As is the impossibility of building community in the face of capitalism relentlessly subsuming anything in its path, in the face of shallow relationships dictated by the need for survival. The Sunday Friend embodies that concept perfectly. He is exquisitely shallow in conversation, a perfect moralist who at all times strives to remain impartial and distant.

Anyway. Tldr; my point is that the relationship between the Smoker and the Sunday Friend is far more transactional, and far more exploitative, than you seem to believe. "Friend" is not being used literally but euphemistically. A 'fairweather friend' is better than none, sure, but that's entirely inapplicable to this situation. Sorry for the long post and I hope it's not too rambling- I'm surviving on very little sleep right now but I hope it clears up for you a bit why I referred to the Sunday friend in that way initially.

#disco elysium #sunday friend #long post #sorry this is such a long reply- there is so much more that i could add but i am cutting myself off or I'd carry on forever

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clusterbuck · 1 year

Text

i wanna roll with him

6x13 poker spec

Buck let Bobby talk him into going undercover at an underground poker game with Eddie because it’s not like he has anything better to do.

He lets Eddie talk him into pretending that they’re dating because sometimes his mouth says things before his brain has a chance to catch up.

“It just makes sense,” Eddie is saying as they drive to the club. “It’ll be less suspicious.”

“Suspicious how?” Buck asks, though he’s already said yes.

“Like—if we need to talk about the marks,” Eddie says. “Couples whisper to each other all the time, so it won’t be weird.”

Buck tries to fight the shiver that runs through him at the thought of Eddie whispering in his ear, Eddie’s lips brushing against his skin and his warm breath fanning over his neck. He’s on edge already, tormented by the suit Eddie wears like it was painted on him, and now he’s supposed to survive an entire night of Eddie pretending to be his boyfriend?

He must stay silent for longer than intended, because Eddie looks over at him from the passenger seat. “What, you worried I��m going to kiss you or something?”

Please do, Buck thinks, but this time he manages to catch the words before they slip out of his mouth. “You think you’ll be able to resist?” he asks instead, and Eddie laughs, but when Buck glances over at him there’s something dark gleaming in his eyes.

“Maybe you’re the one who won’t be able to resist me,” Eddie says as Buck pulls up to a parking spot and cuts the engine.

As they climb out of the car, Buck realises Eddie never said he wouldn’t kiss him.

The game is unlike anything Buck’s ever seen. He’s sat at poker tables all the way across the country, from coast to coast and down in Peru, too, but they were all the same kind of temporary as Buck’s entire life was back then. They were games set up at corner tables in a seedy bar, at beaches and in living rooms and once in the back up a pickup truck. They rarely played with actual chips, and sometimes not even money, just a barter system of favours won back and forth until everyone had what they need.

This is not that. This is a table in the basement of a gentlemen’s club, the kind Buck thought didn’t even exist anymore. Not in southern California, at least. This is a table upholstered in emerald velvet, carved out of a wood Buck can’t identify as anything other than expensive. This is sleek ceramic chips clacking against each other as they move in piles that could cover Buck’s entire rent, tossed around like milk money.

Beside him, Eddie must be coming to the same realisations, because he lets out a low whistle.

“Eddie, is this—” Buck murmurs, then remembers what Eddie had said about the suspicion and the whispering. He leans in, his mouth just below Eddie’s ear. “These guys look like they mean business. Pretty sure I’m Little League in comparison.”

“It’ll be fine,” Eddie whispers back, and Buck only startles a little when Eddie’s hand comes to rest on the small of his back. “We don’t have to win, right? Just get to know them.”

“Won’t it be suspicious, though?” Buck asks. “Don’t you have to be good to get into a game like this?”

Eddie thinks for a moment, then one side of his mouth tugs up in a flicker of a grin. “In the movies,” he says, “When the main guy goes undercover like this. If he brings his girl, the girl doesn’t play the game. She just sits on his lap and watches.”

Heat rushes up the back of Buck’s neck, and he’s pretty sure Eddie can feel it as it spreads across his cheeks. “You want me to sit on your lap?”

“That part’s up to you,” Eddie says, then turns his head so his lips land right next to Buck’s. To anyone watching, it’d look just like a real kiss.

—

It turns out to be a very good thing Buck had chickened out of playing. He’d been right about these people being much better than he is, for one, but the bigger issue is that three rounds into the game he’s still thinking about Eddie’s lips on his skin.

He’s not on Eddie’s lap, but it’s close. They’re pressed right up against each other, Eddie’s ankle hooked around his, so far into each other’s space that Buck can practically feel Eddie’s ribs move as he breathes.

The other players had looked at them a little funny when Eddie had said only he would be playing, but understanding dawned upon them when Eddie had called him his good luck charm.

“Never seen a six-foot good luck charm,” the woman at the head of the table said, and Buck, still distracted by the fact that Eddie had just kissed him, scraped together just enough brainpower to smile and say “Actually, I’m six foot two.”

There’d been a round of polite laughter, and no one else had challenged him.

And Buck knows they’re not actually here to play poker, that he’s supposed to be getting to know the people opposite him so he can report back to Bobby, but there’s something about Eddie tonight that makes it hard for Buck to take his eyes off him.

Eddie’s like a different person at this poker table, starting from the set of his shoulders and the way a hint of a Texas drawl slips into his speech. Buck’s fascinated, but it’s almost disturbing, like he’s looking at Eddie in a funhouse mirror.

Then Eddie will look at him, and for that split second he is Buck’s Eddie again, the man Buck knows better than he knows himself. And it’s enough to reassure him that no matter how far away from himself Eddie gets, his Eddie is always in there.

It starts to get a little complicated when Eddie starts flirting. Because he’s been teasing the two sides apart all night, but when Eddie looks at him and winks, Buck can’t tell which Eddie it is. When Eddie leans over to press his lips to the curve of Buck’s jaw, he can barely remember his own name, let alone that Eddie is playing a character tonight.

Eddie’s hand is on his thigh, and Buck can’t take it any longer. “Wait a minute and then meet me in the bathroom,” he murmurs into Eddie’s ear, then flashes the other players a quick smile and a nature calls.

He hopes the fact that he’s half hard isn’t visible through his pants.

In the bathroom, Buck takes a deep breath and tries to organise his overheated thoughts into words he can say to Eddie. Words like what the fuck are you doing and can you please cool it before I do something we’ll both regret.

But when Eddie comes into the bathroom, Buck doesn’t have time to say any of these words. Because Eddie walks in with a look Buck has never seen on him, and within moments Eddie’s hands are on Buck’s waist and Eddie kisses him.

Really, truly kisses him, not just on the cheek and not just for show. Eddie’s lips are warm against his and open for him almost immediately, and he tastes like the bourbon he’d been nursing at the poker table.

Buck stands still for just one stunned second, then he’s reaching for Eddie, for any part of him just to hold on. He feels desperate, frantic and uncoordinated, but Eddie rocks against him and Buck finds Eddie is just as desperate as he is.

“Thank fuck you didn’t actually sit on my lap,” Eddie mumbles between gasped-out breaths. “I’d have come in my pants.”

“Maybe I’d have liked that,” Buck counters, breathless, and Eddie groans.

“You can’t—can’t just say things like that,” he says, then ducks his head to mouth at Buck’s jaw like he’s trying to leave a mark.

“Then do something about it,” Buck says. Eddie looks up at him, eyes dark and pupils wide, then puts his hands on Buck’s hips and steers him into the nearest stall. The door slams shut, and Eddie pushes Buck up against it and starts fumbling with the fly of Buck’s pants.

“Well, if you’re asking,” he murmurs, returning his mouth to Buck’s jaw. Then his hand wraps around Buck’s cock, so strong and sure it makes Buck a little weak in the knees, and he starts to move—

Buck wakes up panting, thrusting desperately against his mattress. For a groggy moment he isn’t sure what woke him, then, on the bed next to his face, his phone chimes again and the screen lights up.

Here’s the address for tonight, the first text from Bobby reads. The second one just says Dress nice.

And for a moment Buck is confused, but then it hits him.

The real undercover poker game isn’t until tonight.

He’s so fucked.

#who let me write poker spec i was supposed to write something else today #911 fic #911 6x13 #buddie #buddie fic #shush emma #emma writes

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aziraphales-library · 7 months

Note

I *love* any fics where Crowley is hurt incredibly bad and Aziraphale must save him or bring him back to health. I also LOVE fics that delve into trauma or mental health which stripes the characters of their mask and they must rely on someone/each other. Do you have any recommendations for fics that are either, or both? Happy endings are a major must for me, but I am open to any suggestions!

You'll want to check our #crowley whump, #hurt crowley, and #protective aziraphale tags for loads of fics like this. Here are some that may or may not have been recommended before, but mind the tags on all of these!...

Where's My Mind? by ebullience24 (T)

See, the thing is: Crowley is tall. His height had caused a few stares back in the days where the tallest man stood at five foot five. And, because of his height, one might be inclined to describe him as slender with spindly fingers and snake-hips. The pun is never intended on that last one but it stands true nonetheless. And Crowley would be likely to agree with these statements: he is tall and slender and spindly and snake-hipped. But what Crowley would be less likely to agree upon is the statement that he, Anthony J Crowley, is underweight. OR: Crowley has an eating disorder. Trigger Warnings now and at the beginning of each chapter.

Safe Haven by McRaider (T)

When Anthony Crowley stepped back into Aziraphale's life for the first time after eight long years missing, it became exceedingly clear with him came a world of trouble and heartache. But Aziraphale never could say no to his beloved Crowley. Can he help Crowley heal after a failed marriage, a gas-lighting ex-wife with an evil plan?

To Speak the Unspoken by ihamtmus (T)

“Uhhhh… Hi,” Crowley started lamely, scrambling to find a way to explain the situation as quickly as possible. His mind was refusing to work properly, thoughts slow as if doused in oil. He hadn’t really thought about what to say on his way here – he’d been too busy focusing on the getting here part before he would collapse. “I was wondering if I could… If I could maybe die in here, if you don’t mind..?” The expression on Aziraphale’s face changed abruptly, telling him that the angel did, in fact, mind. (In which a mortally wounded demon just wants to get somewhere quiet to die but his Adversary will have none of it. A story of how they both learn just how much they care.)

Death in Love by Aspirina_Effervescente & Cyanidechan (M)

After tempting a composer to fame and success, Crowley is cursed by his wife and tormented by her ghost until the end of his days. Aziraphale would do anything to save him, the only problem is that he doesn't know what's going on and, anyway, the problem could be much more complicated than it seems. Inspired by Giuseppe Tartini’s Sonata “the Devil’s trill”

Drops of Sorrow by EdosianOrchids901 (M)

Ten years after the failed Apocalypse, Crowley is captured by Heaven. Gabriel plans to use him as bait to lure Aziraphale into a fight. Can Crowley survive captivity, and will Aziraphale be able to rescue him without walking into the trap?

A Touch of Heaven by IneffableToreshi (E)

A despondent and defeated Crowley has been through the ringer, moreso even than his roommate, Newt, realizes. After a car accident puts him though a number of surgeries and a temporary - but terrifying - few weeks of blindness, the club owner wants nothing more than to curl up in his bed and refuse to move until things return to normal...or as normal as they'll ever be again. Newt - and his cafe-owning girlfriend, Anathema - have other plans. They think that Crowley just needs some care and pampering, so Anathema schedules him a special, off-hours appointment with a friend of hers who is a rather sought-after masseur. Crowley is hesitant and stubborn, but Aziraphale's soothing voice and comforting nature soon win him over, in more ways than one...

- Mod D

#good omens #ineffable husbands #hurt/comfort #crowley whump #hurt crowley #protective aziraphale #crowley has ptsd #mind the tags #mod d

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alexanderlightweight · 1 year

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You know what I rarely see? In the show after wooing Alec, Magnus is not shown as overly invested and it always appears as Alec reaching/apologizing/moving the pair along. Which was definitely a writing/directing choice. But what I’d like to prompt if it suits you, is Magnus being the one to apologize or to reassure Alec that he is important and not temporary-I’m team immortal but this convo certainly should happen. I liked the way you had Alec be angry in that prompt fill about his birthday and Magnus had to own up to that. If this isn’t your thing no big deal! Hope the weather is nice where you are and nightshade has enough pets and treats for the day!

i believe in 'no partner is perfect' and while i don't tend to write the angstier couple stuff 'i like my malec happy' i don't mind occasionally dipping my toes into partner angst (with an immortal happy ending)

this particular fic isn't about about immortality but it's about haing two people who have fundamentally different lifestyles having a miscommunication that devolves and while the argument is based on the show scene, it doesn't follow it perfectly. nor is the actual argument written. just the aftermath.

my thoughts are that magnus tries to spoil alec in season two still but it's more intimate and offscreen and he sort of in season 3a but magnus relies heavily n his magic to spoil alec and he kind of is spiraling all of season 3 tbh. they just really were sprinkling angst on malec like it was salt and they realized the show was bland.

all they did was get oversalted content which got salty fans, since they forgot to add actual herbs and spices.

it's a bloody hot day okay. i love the sun as much -nevermind apparently this is a lie-

so i don't hate the sun okay. i enjoy sunshine in specific environments. the sun is not a tyrant devoid of compassion.

anyways i live in a desert because its whats best for the people i love but give me mist and foggy days and give me winters of waist deep snow i can fall in. oceans so cold your lips go blue and rivers so deep and clear and still cold with melting ice.

if people are going to send me 8-10 feet to the bottom of the lake because they lost their electronics. it better be cold and clear. not warm and murky. (this has only happened 3 times but i have a preference).

So I made Say breakfast and nightshade breakfast and then I made @saeths breakfast a few hours later so i made an extra egg for nightshade to tempt him to eat another bowl of kibble.

so i fed nightshade twice and forgot to make any eggs for myself ^_^ so he is plenty spoiled (don't worry his egg was made without cheese and salt).

also the reason i'm awake is because he needed snuggles and after that he wanted to play in the pool and then i was too awake to bother

but that's our wednesday so far and i'm getting my work out of the way so i can focus on writing and house things.

<3 lumine

Magnus is ready with another quick retort when Alec’s face goes blank for a moment.

The argument fades from Magnus’ mind in an instant, because while this is the perfect moment to land another barb, the words die and his sentence stops, ending with a snide comment he doesn’t really mean.

“That’s fine Magnus.” Alec says and he’s not angry, which is worse. He sounds tired and yet professional. His manner restrained and placating in the way he does when he no longer has any fight left and he just wants to retreat and lick his wounds.

Wounds that Magnus caused.

“Alexander—” Magnus starts, because he didn’t intend to get so upset but Alexander just shakes his head.

“You’ve said your piece, Magnus. I get it.” Alexander sighs and runs a hand through his hair as he shuffles. “I messed up, again.”

Magnus winces, because he’s begun to feel more like a scolding mentor than a partner.

“I need to get to the Institute—” which makes sense, the argument started as they both got ready for their days. “I’ll—” and Alec hesitates and then shrugs, “I’ll see you tonight.”

—

Magnus waits until it’s dinner time and then portals to the Institute, already preparing words to once again explain that it’s not Alexander, it’s just not time yet.

He opens the door to the office without knocking and steps in.

“Alexander—” Magnus starts and then he hesitates.

Because for once, Alexander’s eyes don’t soften when they meet his. They remain cold, devoid of the warm ardor they normally contain but once again, without anger. Only an empty tiredness that Magnus longs to chase away.

“Do you have an appointment today, Magnus?” Alexander asks, setting down his pen and turning off his tablet with a sigh. Even upset Alexander will still give him his full attention and Magnus steps closer to the desk when Alexander continues, “because I’m sorry, but I don’t have time for a meal, or a conversation if it’s not official. So, if you don’t have an appointment, it needs to wait until I’m off.”

Alexander doesn’t mention coming home like he normally does, and Magnus suddenly misses it, with a deep lonely ache.

It also reminds Magnus that despite how often Alexander drops everything to join him, his boy is being worked to the ground and also driving himself to his limits in his pursuit of building a better Institute. Alexander is struggling to create ties between an Institute and local downworld leaders that would be revolutionary, with a sincerity that is unmatched by anything Magnus has ever seen.

Of course, he’s exhausted, and Magnus feels hollow now, remembering their fight all over again with a new clarity.

“No darling, it’s nothing official. I’ll see you tonight—” Magnus pauses, wanting to offer to summon Alec something to eat or drink, but it feels too much like an emotional bribe with how shuttered his boy is. Alexander nods and gives him the same perfunctory, polite smile he gives his siblings when he’s too exhausted to deal with them and doesn’t know what else to do.

It cuts Magnus to the heart to have that same expression directed at him, when he’s supposed to be safe for Alexander.

Magnus can’t handle the idea of reaching out only to be shied away from, so he runs from the possibility and instead summons a tiny flower to land by Alexander’s pen when the door shuts.

No one in the Institute seems to notice anything is wrong. Magnus gets a few strange looks, but he quickly realizes that it’s because everyone expected Alexander to be leaving with him, like his boy usually does.

Magnus feels cold and it’s with determination that he sends out an emergency message.

—

“I became stagnant in my old, single age.” Magnus bemoans, “I spent so long on my heartbreak that now, with a man I adore over every living being, I keep pushing him away.”

“Truth potion?” Catarina offers but Magnus shakes his head. Alexander deserves Magnus explaining this without the aid of something to help his thoughts form, even if it’s a trick Magnus has used continually and without remorse on himself.

This is different though because Magnus wants to become aware of what is wrong, not rely on a potion to figure it out.

“He wants to move in.” Magnus starts, about to launch into it when Cat laughs, interrupting him.

“What do you mean he wants to, he already has. Or did you just move him in on the sly and forget to ask him if he wanted to?”

“Cat—” Magnus says hesitantly, “he’s never moved in. He’s the one who brought it up. I told him no.”

Catarina pauses and then she sighs, and she summons her favorite, light summer beer and pinches the bridge of her nose.

“Start from the beginning, Magnus. I need details.”

Magnus does, realizing things that he missed as he’s explaining so many details that he just assumed and took for granted.

“I did wonder that the Loft hasn’t changed much. It seems more like Alec’s an addition to your things rather than his own person.”

It’s that comment that drives Magnus into a frenzy the moment he’s home.

Magnus doesn’t go overboard; Alexander wouldn’t want him to. Also springing this on his boy after the prior rejection will be too much like whiplash.

So, Magnus starts very small.

He finally creates the foyer he promised himself and Alexander he would make.

Alexander’s never pushed but Magnus remembers the tightening of his shoulders and the way Alexander will be too tired for anything but cuddles — rarely even hungry — after barrages of people through the loft.

The kitchen he only summons when Alexander asks, which is rare, so he makes it a permanent fixture and makes sure to hang an apron with little angel wings up. It’s with a pained smile that he sighs and wonders when he got so old that he forgot to enjoy life, and instead spent all his time focused on the past, just like Ragnor always warned him about.

Magnus doesn’t want to regret any time with Alexander, and he finds that he already does.

Not the time spent with his boy, but the time he could have focused on him more.

Magnus has spent so long protecting himself from losing Alexander, that he hasn’t noticed that he’s pushing him away, stopping him from coming too close.

Except Magnus has also bound him tightly.

Alexander sleeps more often in Magnus’ bed than his own. He’s rerouted his own schedule so he can take the last patrol before shift change, come to Magnus’ loft, write his report there and send it in, and be in bed for Magnus to return to.

Except for work, Alexander spends the majority of his daily life either in the loft, or with Magnus.

There are signs of him, all over the loft, but Magnus can’t look at a single piece and think, “Alexander picked that out.”

It aches in way that is almost visceral, because now that Alexander isn’t here, it’s only more obvious.

Magnus is chest deep in a drawer when he becomes aware of his boy stepping slowly into the bedroom.

“Is this a bad time?” Alexander’s tired voice asks. “I noticed there was a new door and tried to knock but the door just opened.”

Magnus wants to say something except he’s furious with himself and everything and the idea that Alexander saw a new door and knocked instead of walking right in, tears something in him.

They stare at each other for a moment, Magnus with his hands still wrist deep in the dimensional dresser, sure he’ll eventually find more than the sparse offering of Alexander’s clothes that he has.

“Where are all the clothes that you leave here?” Magnus asks instead of answering because he genuinely doesn’t know, “I was cleaning, and I couldn’t find them.”

Alexander sighs and Magnus just knows that he’s gearing himself up to — once again — explain to Magnus that it’s not about the clothes, before his boy visibly gets too tired. Instead, he just shrugs and potions to the paltry pile that Magnus has found.

“You have more than that!” Magnus exclaims, frustrated because he knows Alexander does. “That green shirt I got you that you loved. And those pants, the black ones with the umber stitching. The cream sweater I adore you in! That suit I had tailored for you in Milan and the other one in Hong Kong.”

Alexander sighs and he rubs a hand over his face, the stubble he normally shaves away in Magnus— in their bathroom, shadowing his face.

“Magnus, those don’t exist anymore.” Alexander doesn’t seem upset, if anything his face softens into an almost reluctant fondness, “you tend to vanish all the clothing you get me, some way or another. Mostly before fucking me. I tried to ask you one time where they went and you waved a hand and said, ‘another dimension, nothing to worry about’.”

“Surely that’s not all I said.” Magnus protests weakly.

“Well, you proceeded to fuck me unconscious so no, it wasn’t the last thing you said. But it was the last thing you said abut clothes.”

Magnus gives a flat chuckle and then sighs, snapping his fingers to clean up the mess.

“Have you eaten?”

“I figured I could grab something from the cafeteria when I head back. It’s fine.”

It most certainly is not fine, but Magnus doesn’t think coaxing Alexander into eating is going to work this time, which means that Magnus has accidentally undone weeks of effort.

Magnus doesn’t press, doesn’t remind Alexander that he can here. Or that, if by normal standards Alexander stays until he usually leaves Magnus, it would be the early evening of the next day.

“So, you were cleaning.”

Alexander is looking around, voice faltering but face devoid of actual emotions.

“I realized some things, after this afternoon.” Magnus admits slowly, “you’re the first person I opened my heart to, Alexander. In a very long time, I’ve told you that before.”

Normally, explaining things is easier but all Magnus can think is he’s not explaining it correctly.

“I know. But Magnus, you’re the first person I’ve ever opened my heart to.” Alexander interjects and he sounds raw and broken, like he’s been torn apart. “Doesn’t that get to mean anything too, to you? Because I don’t know what I’m doing, and you told me that there was nothing wrong with that. That I had nothing to feel ashamed about but now, it doesn’t feel like that.

"It feels like I can’t do anything right and I thought, I hoped something was coming together with us but now—” Alexander gives a heavy sigh and shrugs. “Now I don’t even know what I am to you anymore. Where do I belong, in your life Magnus? If you tell me where to fit, I’ll make it work.”

And that breaks Magnus’ heart, because Alexander was never meant to feel like he had to cut off pieces of himself to ensure Magnus loves him, that he has a place in Magnus’ life.

“Oh darling, beloved.” He murmurs and Alexander flinches, like it was a knife to his side. “You belong. The entirety of you. You belong in my bed because it’s no longer just my bed. How can I say it’s my bed when I lay in it without you and can’t sleep? When I reach for you in the night and can’t find you?” Magnus moves across the room with slow, purposeful steps and then reaches out to carefully — only because Alexander allows it — cups his face.

“Alexander, I have no excuses. My heart is old, and it is scarred and it is a wonder that you love me with all the cracks you’ve seen exposed. I don’t fear men or demons or angels, Alexander. I fear my heart being torn from my body and leaving me alive, an empty hollow cavern where it should be in the shape of you.

“I’ve always been too much, Alexander. I put my own fears on you, not that you deserved any of it, sweetheart. You’re right. I am your first relationship, and you grew up and live in a shadowhunter society. The relationships you've witnessed aren't similar to ours at all.

"You trust me to guide our relationship but I’m always encouraging you to ask me for things and you rarely do. I’m sorry, that you finally trusted me enough to ask me for something and that I broke that trust.”

And Alexander breaks, his eyes filling with tears and he coughs, scrubbing over his eyes because he hates being emotional during talks like these. As if Magnus will use the crystal sorrow streaking his face against him.

“I don’t understand.” Alexander murmurs against Magnus’ shoulder, “I thought this was already my home, here with you. I don’t know what I did wrong, I’m sorry Magnus.”

“Oh sayang.” Magnus whispers, eyes stinging because his heart is lanced every time Alexander apologizes. “You did nothing wrong. My heart was too scared to admit that you already were home for us, I pushed you away because I panicked. I’m sorry, my darling.”

Magnus is as tender and sincere as he can be, because he doesn’t want Alexander internalizing anything over this. Especially not when he realized that for Alexander, the loft already was home and he just wanted permission, for it to be official.

It’s endearing and sweet and Magnus presses a kiss to Alexander’s temple, softly and then harder when Alexander pushes into the caress.

"This is already your home. Where ever I am, will be your home." Magnus promises, "that will never change, my love. This is our space, for us to grow together and live together in.

Instead, Alexander tackles him to the bed and just lays there, pinning Magnus to the comforter as he snuggles into Magnus.

"Alexander?"

There is no answer, just a soft, exhausted snuffle and Magnus wonders how upset Alexander's been, thinking he was deprived of the home Magnus gave him.

He uses magic to change their clothing. More conversations and decisions can be made after rest and well, Alexander certainly isn't going anywhere and neither is Magnus.

#lumine writes #writing wednesday #writing wednesdays #magnus bane #alec lightwood #malec #shadowhunters #shadowhunters au #my fics #my fanfics #my ficlets

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lesbianranpoe · 15 days

Text

i have so many bsd zombie apocalypse fic ideas in my google docs folder and idk which to write so im posting them here lmao

Soukoku

Fifteen-year-old Chuuya is on the run from Arahabaki Lab---the lab that tried to perfect the ARAHABAKI Project, an experiment with the goal of creating a human immune to the zombie virus that's ravaging Earth. Chuuya searches desperately for a place where the scientists can't get to him, even if it means crossing the Wastes, the large expanses of infested land between Suribachi City and Yokohama, where he hopes to take refuge.

However, the Wastes are hard to cross, and when Chuuya runs into a boy who offers to guide him to Yokohama, he says yes. Dazai is annoying, but he's a good shot; and best of all, he doesn't ask about Chuuya's past.

The trip is long and dangerous. Zombies, violent groups of survivors, and scavenging missions are all hazards, and if they want to survive, they have to work together. Fighting their way through the ruins of Japan, bickering, and encountering new people, the two grow closer, but Chuuya begins to wonder... just who is Dazai? And what is he hiding?

2. Ranpoe

When the apocalypse started, Poe lost all communication with his best friend, Ranpo, who lives overseas in Japan. Now five years later, Poe decides to go looking. (Or: Ranpo and Poe are long distance besties, The Guild are a smuggling ring with a giant ass boat that is actually plot relevant, the Armed Detective Agency are doing ADA things in Japan.) (Or: Poe and the rest of the Guild sail to Japan on the Moby Dick five years after the apocalypse after like 50k words and ranpoe canon)

3. Kunikidazai

Kunikida and Dazai are college roommates that don't really get along. but after the apocalypse starts, they have to work together to survive, at least until they get to the safehouse on the other side of the city. But as they fight their way through Japan, they end up getting closer. (Dazai is immune to zombie bites lol. The idea of having a scene parallel to that one in Dazai's Entrance Exam where Kunikida threatens to shoot Dazai but its because Dazai might turn into a zombie??? mmm)

4. Fukumori (ik, im suprised too. i dont even ship them, idk where this idea came from)

When Fukuzawa was 32, the world ended. Now three weeks later, the Silver Wolf travels from place to place, searching for somewhere to settle down as the chaos of the apocalypse takes Yokohama by storm. When he finds a seemingly abandoned building, he hopes to start a new life there, away from the city.

However, Fukuzawa is not the only one looking for somewhere to live. The building he had intended to make his home was actually an elementary school—and the four children left; Ranpo, Yosano, Dazai, and Kunikida, are still alive. Most interestingly, there is a man there—a children's physician who introduces himself as Mori Ougai. His leg is injured, but as a doctor, Mori is a useful asset to both Fukuzawa and the children, so the two make a compromise: Until things in Yokohama calm down, Fukuzawa will scavenge for food and protect Mori and the kids, and Mori will take care of any medical necessities. It's only meant to be a temporary arrangement, but time passes, Fukuzawa and Mori stay; more kids are rescued, friendships form, and before they know it, years have gone by. (Or: i slamdunk fukumori into the found family trope)

5. Fukuzawa + Ranpo

This is just an Untold Origins zombie au.

When the apocalypse started, Fukuzawa lost his best friend. Five years later, Fukuzawa is a powerful hunter capable of bringing a whole hoard down. And he does it all alone. But when he saves a 14-year-old boy from a zombie hoard and the child insists on staying, he finds that maybe it isn't too late to try again. And when the kid gets in danger, Fukuzawa has to choose between keeping his current life, and starting a new one.

anyways. if any of you guys want me to write one of these, pls comment. (or if u guys want to use any of these as prompts, go ahead, just tag me when ur done writing !! i want to see the finished product lol)

#bsd #bungo stray dogs #bungou stray dogs #soukoku #fukumori #kndz #kunikidazai #ranpoe #fic ideas #fanfic

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clowngames · 2 years

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Really fascinated by the way Deep Space Nine doesnt just depict fascism but specifically depicts the psychology behind it, how it imposes itself on various classes not just in the out groups (Bajorans, the Federation) but also on the in groups (Cardassian citizens, politicians, Garak).

First and foremost you have Dukat. He's a textbook fascist. The only thing he cares about is power. Every decision he makes is in the interest of consolidating power towards Cardassia as a whole, but towards himself specifically. Even his demeanor as a polite charmer (to the best of his ability) is carefully constructed to position himself above people. He believes himself superior to everyone around him except specifically Sisko. When he joins the dominion, he always frames it as an alliance and you can tell he intends it to be temporary - that Cardassia will eventually turn against the Dominion and seize their assets.

An understated facet of Dukat is that he has a deep sexual complex where he fetishizes the people he oppresses. We don't have time to get into everything about that particular subject but I do want to mention his constant rationalization of "I'm the nice fascist!" does make me think that at least on some level he needs validation from Bajorans that he is likeable or can be kind, and he gets that through sexual gratification.

Moving on, Garak is everyone's favorite ordinary tailor. Nothing weird about him.

Damar, on the other hand-- okay, I'm kidding. Garak is unique in that he used to be in a position of power, and doesn't seem to actively want that power back so much as he just wants to go home and have friends who share his worldview (where the lights aren't so goddamn bright).

So does that mean he's not a fascist? Not quite. He sort of represents, in a weird way, the average citizen of a fascist state. Maybe the average upper class citizen. He's fully bought into the propaganda of Cardassian greatness, and clearly would have no qualms about the ethical implications of any actions he could take to maintain/restore that greatness. It's hard to say if it's specifically a sense or Cardassian superiority or just an extreme nationalism, but let's be honest, the difference between the two is hazy.

While he may not be interested in politics, he obviously has no problem with the state as it is currently being run. Cardassian trials, Cardassian interrogations, he's been conditioned to see the beauty in them in a way only a fascist culture could. He even loves fascist literature. I wouldn't be surprised if he hates modern art.

Damar, on the other hand, is in a weird spot. I mean, he's a soldier. He's not a politician like Dukat and he's not a nationalist like Garak. He's a guy who follows orders and doesn't think super hard about those orders because a) Cardassia looks down on that sort of thing and b) high ranking military officials look down on that sort of thing. He became Dukat's right hand man by being obedient.

It's only when he becomes a politician, when he stops taking orders and starts making them, that he starts to think critically about what's going on - I like to think that he sees the parallels between the Dominion and Cardassia sooner than he points them out. I think he starts out as a Liberal - someone who doesn't necessarily like fascism but isn't quite interested enough to resist it - and I think his experience with the Dominion radicalizes him. There's a strong implication that by the end of DS9, Carsassia is, at least, going to be less fascist.

The Dominion radicalizes Garak too - his love of Cardassia extends to people first, culture second, and government in dead last. One wonders if he may reconsider his stance on Cardassian trials after the rebellion.

Unfortunately the one thing fascism discourages above all else is introspection (for those in the ruling class, anyway. They tend to discourage existence entirely for other groups). Elim "trampling on the freedom of citizens who have done nothing" Garak may not notice, or may choose not to notice, the similarities between that and the Cardassian justice system.

I almost want to see like an episode-long epilogue that shows us what happens to Cardassian society post-Dominion. Do they make Cardassia great again in Damar's name, or do they bring it, finally, to the greatness they were always promised?

#garak #dumar #dukat #deep space nine #ds9 #star trek #cardassians

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ghost-proofbaby · 2 months

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“I don’t care about your letter,” he tries to defend himself. He really does. But his voice raises in pitch, and she can feel his curiosity that burns incessantly over their tadpole connection. It’s going to eat him alive at some point, “It’s probably just some dreadfully boring love letter from whatever poor fool awaits your return in the city. Nauseating poetry you cling to each night before bed, no doubt.”

summary: out of all the things aruna is coming to learn, her past and her heritage should be amongst the most interesting. but when her pale, vampiric friend slips up with one common phrase of endearment, she realizes there are far more interesting things to uncover.

wc: 7.7k+

warnings: mentions of a possibly deceased parent, these characters are so so lonely and so so traumatized it isn't even funny, more memory loss mention of course

a/n: the terrible attempt at drizzt lore. i just. my bad. i'm trying my best i swear. for anyone keeping track - yes, this is one of the chapters already posted on ao3 <3

ao3 | masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

“I need to speak to Astarion. Alone.”

Amethysts meet rubies. Two sides of the same coin; two different creatures of the night used to scare the children of Faerun.

Aruna is part drow, and Astarion is a vampire.

Shadowheart is smart enough to exit the tent in a timely manner, even without knowing.

Everything in Aruna craves to lash out, to confront him, to reveal to him that she knows his secret. She’s sure of it as she looks at him through brand new eyes now – he’s a vampire, and he seemingly has no plans on telling the rest of the group any time soon. She should just do it; she should yank off the bandaid for the safety of the others in camp, for her own safety.

He musn’t know.

She knows more now. Gaps in her synapses finally filled in, an illusion of sparse memories returned to her. She has the most basic understanding of what drows are. The concept of Faerun is less a fairytale she nods along to, and one that she can fully grasp now. Baldur’s Gate isn’t a whimsical idea anymore but instead a city she can almost picture the buildings of if she focuses hard ernough. She knows exactly what vampires are capable of. They were small gaps, ones that she hadn’t even noticed bothering her until they’d been soothed over with her new knowledge.

For the first time since the crash, Aruna nearly feels human. Or, as human as she can, given her bloodline.

And amidst humanity, common sense trickles back in. She can’t confront Astarion, not yet, because she knows he would only fight her. Denial, anger, lashing out – those are the only realistic reactions she’ll be allotted. The explanation of how she knows isn’t exactly soothing, either.

He musn’t know.

About the memories. About the moments between them that exist somewhere else, somewhere far from where they are now. For now, he cannot know. A secret to be kept until the timing is right.

And quite the challenging secret to be kept, considering Aruna and Astarion have just learned how to essentially join their minds before this entire ordeal.

In the moments after Shadowheart has left them alone, Aruna comes to her temporary conclusion as Astarion slowly recovers from the shock of how abruptly Aruna had shut him out of her mind. Just as she subtly nods in determination to protect her mind, to protect her memories, Astarion looks back up at her suddenly.

“Care to explain exactly why you slammed that mental door shut on me-”

She can’t answer that. So she interrupts with a sincere, “I’m sorry.”

He’s taken back, just as she’d intended.

“Sorry?” he asks, almost matching her sincerity before he seems to remember who he is, clearing his throat before carrying on in a more airy tone. Somehow more guarded, now that she can see more familiar pieces within him, “For what, exactly? The mental door, or the part where you were an absolute fool who nearly got yourself killed?”

“Both,” she finally relaxes back into the bedroll. Shadowheart had been right; her entire body aches, and her palm is still tender, “I’m sorry for both, and I want to thank you for saving me.”

“I didn’t save you-”

“Someone had to bring me back to camp,” she smiles weakly. Of course he was going to deny having committed a heroic act. For all the gaps of common knowledge that had been filled for her, there were also several holes in the puzzle that was Astarion that also had been permeated. The vampirism was probably the least interesting realization she could have taken from all she learned, “Deny it or accept it, I’m still thanking you.”

There’s more words on the tip of her tongue. She wants to tell him she knows, and she wants to tell him that he’s safe with her. She wants to convince him that he doesn’t need this mask with her, that she much prefers the version of him from the memory. With his guard down and humor still intact, not vying for her attention but understanding that they were both captivating one another simply by existing. No pressure, no weights. The version of him that keeps slipping through the cracks in rare moments alone.

But for now, she’ll leave it at a simple thank you.

He doesn’t say another word, only nods, face twisted in an amusing discomfort and strange contemplation before he turns and motions for Shadowheart to return. Fine enough.

Aruna just wishes he would stay instead of slither out just as the cleric slips back in.

—

“He’s pouting, you know.”

Aruna doesn’t so much as glance up from her position on one of the plush pillows in front of Gale’s tent, staying focused on the book in her lap. The wizard sounds amused.

“He’s not pouting,” she absent-mindedly replies, slowly turning the page as her eyes continue to drink in the words. They’re beginning to slowly blur together from how long she’s been reading, “He’s just being his usual delightful self.”

She’s right – Astarion isn’t pouting.

Whatever looks he’s been shooting her way since she’d been given permission by Shadowheart to venture over to Gale’s tent and read, as long as she promised to do nothing more than that, were just him being nosey as per usual. It had started with curious flickers, and as thetime passed, they became something more annoyed than anything else. But he had been the one to leave her behind in Shadowheart’s tent, and he had been the one avoiding her since that conversation between them. It’s not Aruna’s problem that the elf can’t handle someone expressing gratitude for having their life saved.

“That,” Gale points to accentuate his point in the general vicinity of where Astarion is brooding by the campfire pit before ungracefully flopping himself down on the ground beside her, “is not his normal self. I’m starting to genuinely fear he’ll come after me in my sleep tonight if I continue to let you loiter in my space.”

He has no idea how easily Astarion could truly accomplish that, should he so please. Part of Aruna nearly feels bad for keeping his true nature a secret, but she has no doubt that he’ll eventually expose himself. Especially if those brief flashes of visions that had been precursors to her full memory were anything to go off of. They’ll either find a drained boar, or he’ll attempt to drink Aruna’s blood, or she’ll simply confront him about it. Who knows, maybe this time, he’ll try to sneak a bite of Gale instead of Aruna.

It’s strange to think of her journey as a repeat. But between the deja vu and the new memories available to her, that has to be what it is. History is repeating itself for some unknown reason.

Save Astarion.

Perhaps, some greater deity had sent her back in time. Perhaps something terrible had happened to Astarion that called for divine intervention.

Well, she knows something terrible did in fact happen to him. She remembers the sobs and wails of her own volition, and she knows.

Aruna turns another page instead of replying, so Gale finally continues, “May I ask why you needed to read a book on drows so urgently?”

“Weren’t you the one that rambled on about a hungry mind and such nonsense?” Aruna grumbles, squinting her eyes at the page. She’s reread the same sentence three times now, but she refuses to look up on the off-chance that she sees another one of Astarion’s inconspicuous looks being shot this way.

“Make no mistake – I don’t mean to dismiss your sudden craving for knowledge,” Gale holds up his hands and the motion has Aruna sparing him a glance, “Just quite the jump from the research you’d been doing regarding classes. Do you truly not remember your own race?”

No, she thinks bitterly for a moment, apparently I did not.

She sighs and closes the book softly finally, careful to dogear the page she was currently on, “What do you see when you look at me?”

Gale’s eyebrows shoot up, “Is this a trick question?”

She shakes her head, turning her body slightly as she discards the book to the pile forming at her side. She’d also gathered up a book on fighters and a book on rogues – she hadn’t forgotten the unspoken deal ongoing between herself and Astarion regarding his class, and had finally narrowed down her options, “Not at all. Friend to friend, how do you perceive me?”

Friends. Gale smiles softly at that, and Aruna can’t help but let her own lips twitch. They needed friendship on this journey. And Gale seemed like a safe enough option, for now.

“Well, for starters, I see someone lost,” he begins, and Aruna’s nose immediately scrunches in disgust as he rushes to continue, “But I also see someone very determined to find their way. Someone capable of great leadership thus far, and someone I find easy to put my trust in. I see someone good.”

She lets out a breath of a laugh, looking at Gale slightly amused, “Very kind words, but I meant regarding my race.”

She swears she can see a trace of a blush along Gale’s neck as his eyes widen, “Oh. Oh, I see. Well, clearly elven descent,” as he says such, Aruna can’t stop herself from reaching up to tuck her hair behind those almost pointed ears of hers, “Although it’s unclear just how strong that elven heritage is. I assumed you already knew, between your ears and your eyes.”

“Are you telling me purple eyes aren’t common, Gale of Waterdeep?”

If she would turn to look at Astarion’s, she’d finally see all the pouting that her wizardly friend had been prattling on about. He can’t hide it, clear as day as he watches the man preen beneath the attention of their leader.

“Not in my travels,” Gale chuckles. But his laughter falls short when he catches the look on Astarion’s face over Aruna’s shoulder, “Then again, red eyes also aren’t all that normal.”

She doesn’t turn to look. She only leans in closer, pulling a teasing face, “He’s looking over here, isn’t he?”

“I’m almost moved to beg you to give the poor man just a second of your time.”

“I’m not the one who's doing the ignoring. He can come to me when he’s ready.”

Gale holds up palms of surrender, “I see. Still. I think Astarion might be a bit more sensitive than any of us take him for, and-”

“I can hear you two, you are aware, yes?”

As a shadow falls over Aruna, the warmth of the sun suddenly stolen as she knows exactly who’s looming over her shoulder now, she only grins. She had been very aware that he could hear every single word spoken – she had been counting on it, even.

“Astarion!” she greets him overly enthusiastically, turning with flourish to challenge his own as she holds out an arm towards one of the empty pillows across from her, “Please, by all means, join us.”

His scowl is almost cute, “I’m quite fine.”

“Indeed you are. Why else would you decide to interrupt our casual conversation?”

She’s pushing him, testing his limits. Given all her new knowledge, she should truly be focused on being more careful. By all counts of logic, she should be walking on eggshells around the vampire. But he doesn’t scare her. Not when he’s covered in blood from battle, and not now as he glares down at herself and Gale.

“Gossip is unbecoming, my dear,” he snipes, still standing, blocking the setting sun still and allowing Aruna’s eyes to stay relaxed as she peers up at him, “Besides, if anyone is interesting enough to be whispered about in this camp, I’d argue it would be you.”

Gale is all but forgotten as she finally awards Astarion the attention she knows he’s been secretly pining for. His mask of indifference and shield of annoyance are no match for her; she doesn’t understand why he craves for her words and her quiet looks, but he does. A soft spot she fully intends to explore more in the future.

“And why is that? Is it because of my half-heartedly pointed ears, or my eyes of a drow?”

Gale stiffens up as she puts it so bluntly. She’d already read enough of the text to understand it; her heritage was the reason for her unique eyes. No need to refuse to speak it outloud. She was part drow, plain and simple, even if no one had brought it up to her previously.

Astarion almost seems impressed by her candor, “Well, you said it. Not me.”

“Drow isn’t a bad word,” she argues, subtly motioning to the book atop her pile, “A few rotten eggs shouldn’t spoil all the fun.”

Astarion’s eyes dart to that open pillow once more, and Aruna waves towards it once more. A silent invitation she’s secretly begging for him to take.

Let me back in. Just accept my kindness and stop playing these games.

She almost sends it down the connection, but she hasn’t reached out across the tadpoles since she’d shut him out to begin with. There’s no guarantee if she reignites that bridge between them that she could keep her thoughts, her memories, private from him. If he finds out what she knows, she has no idea what to expect as his reaction.

It’s all complicated. Terribly, brutally complicated.

“In all fairness,” Gale clears his throat, “Your eyes… Drows donning that specific shade are usually not of the evil variety.”

“No, drows donning this specific shade are usually of the surface variety.”

The book had made that very clear – those blood red eyes, ones to rival even Astarion’s, were exclusively reserved for the drows that crept amongst the shadows.

Astarion suddenly seems to decide the conversation is worth further indulging in, committing to his participation as he settles himself down on the open pillow with far more grace than Gale had exhibited when he lowered himself to the ground, “Have you ever heard the name Drizzt?”

Her confused look, vacant of recognition, is the only answer he needs.

“Right,” the vampire huffs out, “Of course you haven’t.”

Aruna is about to inquire who the Hell Drizzt is, but Gale is faster, clearly sensing her perplexity, “The history of Drizzt Do’Urden is a very long, very complicated one. All you need to really know, for now, is he was one of the first drows to escape to live amongst the surface rather than the Underdark. He lost the favor of Lolth, the goddess commonly worshiped by drows-”

“Hold on, hold on,” Aruna has leaned forward without even noticing, trying to understand all the sudden lore of her unexpected heritage. But it’s nearly impossible, a few gaps still existing in this corner of her mind, “What’s the Underdark? Who’s Lolth?”

“She’s hopeless.”

“Astarion,” Gale scolds. He’s a good teacher, she realizes. Patient, understanding. All things she desperately needed, “The Underdark is home to many creatures, drow included. The sun does not penetrate the lands. I’m afraid my knowledge of it falls a bit flat for the time being, but I can surely find a book on it if I don’t already have one,” he offers a kind smile, “We can learn. Together.”

The mention of Astarion killing Gale in his sleep creeps back into Aruna’s mind as she watches Astarion’s eyes narrow at the suggestion. He’s acting as though she’s a rare commodity, as if her companionship and attention are something to ration carefully amongst themselves rather than something she gives willingly.

She can be friends with both Astarion and Gale. The sooner he realizes that, the sooner all this ridiculous tension can cease.

“And Lolth?” she keeps her eyes trained on Astarion, practically urging him to stop with the death stare.

It doesn’t.

She’s going to regret it, but she throws out a mental hand for that bridge between their minds, one tadpole caressing against the other as she asks for entrance to his mind.

She can handle it. She can do this and close the connection without exposing any of her memories. It’ll be fine – it has to be fine.

The death stare is cut off by his look of shock, head whipping towards her with a questioning glance. In an instant, the pressure gives, and she knows he’s let her in.

If you kill Gale in his sleep over something as petty as trying to teach me of my heritage, I’ll sharpen my axe, just as we discussed.

Astarion’s eyebrows raise ever so slightly, promise?

I’m not a commodity, Astarion. And jealousy is not a good look on you.

Jealousy? He’s doing well, hiding his irritation at the suggestion, but she still catches the flare of his nostrils, I am not jealou-

“Are either of you even listening to me?”

The moment evaporates, but Aruna doesn’t make any move to clip the connection quite yet. She leaves it open as she turns her head to an offended Gale.

And she catches that slight quiver of delight that runs down it once Astarion realizes he isn’t being pushed back out.

“I’m sorry,” Aruna apologizes, offering up a pitiful smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, “As you were saying?”

She listens to Gale’s explanation this time. Astarion, it seems, doesn’t. He’s too preoccupied sparing her endless glances.

Lolth sounds terrifying, even with Gale’s soothing voice explaining who she is. A goddess worshiped amongst drows, revered of the highest status. Often referred to as the Queen of Spiders. A merciless goddess who thrives off of chaos, off of cruelty. The more that Gale explains her, the more that Aruna detests her. Someone who demands obedience, someone who demands violence.

Part drow or not, Aruna would never worship Lolth. She knows such with finality.

Her staunch hatred drips down the mental connection with Astarion before she can catch herself. Even if she had, he’s surely caught the brief scowl that passes over her face momentarily. He makes no move to comfort her, only stares, gaze more curious than anything else.

“Queen of the Spiders?” she finally scoffs. A weak response that hardly vocalizes the true disdain she holds, but she isn’t sure how to navigate that yet, “What a ridiculously stupid title.”

Astarion snorts. Gale looks entirely unamused.

Aruna continues to try and tame the flames of negativity that have sparked at the entire conversation.

“I know you mean well and are joking,” Gale starts to lecture, “But I would tread carefully considering we don’t know your pas-”

“Yes, yes. Her past,” Astarion interrupts, leaning forward as he stares into Aruna’s eyes, “You know, I’m starting to believe it may not be as unknown as we have come to think.”

Aruna swears her heart stops, “What are you trying to say, Astarion?”

“I just find it odd that you dance with death, and awaken with a morbid curiosity for your heritage. When exactly did you realize you have a little drow inside you, dear?”

Her blood runs cold. The connection is wide open, leaving her mind vulnerable as her thoughts begin to race. She’s trying to scramble to slam that door shut, to keep Astarion out of her thoughts and out of her memories, but it seems as though he has one foot in the threshold now. He’s not being pushed back out without a fight this time.

His voice is velvet as it caresses along her cerebrum.

What aren’t you telling us, little fool?

“We’ve repeatedly said my memories might return to me,” she purposefully chooses to answer out loud, keeping the safety net of Gale’s involvement within reach, “I- I can’t explain it. I simply knew when I woke up.”

Only a half lie. Only a slight perversion of the full truth.

She can feel the weight of his tadpole pressing up against her boundaries. Just as she had chosen to push his limits, he’s doing the same. Meddling where he knows he shouldn’t, attempting to elicit chaos that he must be aware won’t end well.

Get out of my mind, Astarion.

You were the one who reopened this wonderful treat of a connection, he tsks silently, Already regretting it?

I’ll show you true regret if you don’t mind yourself.

The only flaw of threatening someone who has access to your mind, to all your thoughts and all your emotions, is when they can immediately call your bluff. Astarion doesn’t believe she’ll bring any harm onto him for even a second. There is a softness, a fondness, that lies beneath that she cannot hide no matter how deeply she attempts to bury it. It’s why she’s yet to bring up his vampirism, it’s why she hadn’t fought harder against him during their first meeting at the beach when he’d held a dagger to her throat.

It’s why he sits now before her, a delightful grin playing at his lips as he taunts her without repercussion.

“Well, that’s certainly interesting,” Gale hums, seemingly unaware of the internal argument flaring up. That, or he’s ignoring their odd behavior, “So you can recall that you’re a drow-”

“Quarter drow,” she corrects uselessly, not causing the slightest falter in Gale’s cadence.

“-and you’ve learned you’re a sorcerer. Anything else worth mentioning?”

Yes, dear. Anything else?

She presses harder on that mental door, still trying to slam it shut, still failing miserably against his strength.

Clearly, he had been true to his word. He really does relish in annoying her at any given chance.

“Nothing I can think of at the moment,” she quips shortly. She’s trying to school her expression towards Astarion, but she’s coming up sorely short.

Gale nods, twisting his lips, careful in thought, “Right, well. If anything does come to mind, I’m sure you’ll clue us in.”

“Of course.”

Astarion is about to send another sarcastic comment over their connection. She can sense it, feel the vibrations of his laughter before he’s even sent it. But in his amusement, his concentration of keeping one foot in the doorway has slipped, and Aruna’s mental strength is finally enough to shove him out with a resounding slam through her mind. He looks significantly less like a kicked puppy this time, as though it had all been a game, and this wasn’t him losing so much as it was her sending the ball into his court.

“Now,” she says suddenly, moving quickly to stand, head whirling a bit from the entirety of this conversation. There’s still echoes of her clicking the lock into place to keep Astarion firmly out of her cognitive space. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to go get some proper rest before Shadowheart throws another fit.”

She’s quick to gather up the few books Gale has so graciously offered her, pressing them hard enough into her chest to leave a mark. In her scramble to pick them up, the cover of the rogue book has flashed to where Astarion can see it.

He grins, and she doesn’t notice.

She does notice the caress of icey, gentle fingers along the outskirts of her mind as she walks away, though. A reminder that her locked door can only keep him at bay for so long. And he won’t even have to be the one to unlock it.

By the time she’s made it to her secluded destination, her perch overlooking the camp, the very same spot that had served as sanctuary to herself and the Astarion from her memories, her nimble fingers are already the one toying with unlocking the door.

Not quite an invitation, but not quite a warning. Simply a reminder.

—

The hours pass by a bit slower when Aruna’s left to her own devices.

She’s found comfort in the patch of grass just below the cover of trees, back pressed into the bark of one of the thicker oaks rather than trying to find a good reading position on her usual boulder. Her attention and intentions divide themselves out over the time; she practices small incantations in the palms of her hands, she continues to dance with the idea of unlocking her mental door once more for Astarion, she reads more of the book on drows. Eventually, she stumbles across the name Drizzt.

Gale had highly undersold the legendary drow.

There’s tales of his adventures put into plain terms across a spread of pages. A brief overview of House Do’Urden, a quickened history of Menzoberranzan. At some point, a headache forms from all these concepts that Aruna can’t fully grasp yet, things she craves to dive deeper into the knowledge of but simply can’t with nothing more than a book written by someone who clearly had no vested interest in drows.

It’s the shortest of the books she’s taken thus far. No flourish to the words. Just facts, laid out in the simplest fashion possible, as though more elaboration would have pained the author.

Aruna finally gives up at some point, somewhere between reading about Drizzt’s departure from his people and his acclimation to life on the surface that led to his adventures, and tosses the book to her side. There had only been one useful bit of knowledge that had stuck with her – lavender eyes. Drizzt Do’urden had lavender eyes, previously unheard of, only a few shades lighter than Aruna’s own.

Or has, she supposes. She hadn’t seen anything about his explicit death during her skimming.

She reaches up and takes out the tight ponytail she’d been donning during most of their travels. Dark hair spills down her shoulders, catching in the breeze, almost mimicking her past memory she’d finally unlocked. This time, however, the shades of the setting sun filter through the locks rather than the caress of moonlight. Deep oranges and pinks give a different hue to the strands. There’s a pounding in rhythm with her heartbeat as she tilts her tender head back against the bark, eyes fluttering shut, the vibrance of dusk painting brilliance across her closed lids.

Drizzt was the first to don eyes like hers. The first to dare to dwell on the surface. She tries to picture them as she relaxes, mere shades lighter than her own.

All she can see, though, are the ones belonging to the motherly figure from her memory.

I was someone’s daughter once.

There is no one waiting on her out there. The past tense is deafening as she feels that acceptance seep into her bones. She was someone’s daughter, but she hadn’t been in a very, very long time. Whoever’s eyes she bore was long gone, below the ground, marked by a gravestone that she knew her younger self had defiantly carved markings into.

Her mother. Her mother’s eyes, and her mother’s grave.

Her eyes shoot open and she overlooks the camp, just as this version of herself has done a handful of times. Just as the shadowed version of herself had done hundreds of times.

Aruna’s hands move before she can think. She doesn’t reach for any of the books she’s carried up with her, doesn’t reach out to push her fingers through moss to ground herself, and certainly doesn’t reach for her daggers. Her fingertips make straight for the small pouch that hasn’t left her side since the crash – for the destroyed paper within.

It’s finally dried, despite being tucked away into leather all this time. There’s a delicate crinkle to it, one that makes Aruna fear breaking it as she carefully undoes the trifold of the letter. She doesn’t know what she was expecting – for the words to have magically restored themselves, for a new answer to have suddenly appeared on the parchment, for a new clue to present itself to her now that she’s regained some of her memories – but it’s the same as the very first day.

One handwriting addressing her by name neatly across the top, and another frantically instructing her across the bottom.

She lifts the paper until her nose is nearly pressed to it, eyes digging deeply into the overall blue hue that marks the center of the letter. What did it once say? Did she write this letter? Did someone else?

Had her mother possibly written this letter? And was it possible that saving Astarion had everything to do with her?

It doesn’t feel very possible. Her mother’s death feels far removed from whatever situation she’s gotten herself into with Astarion.

“For someone calling out across a mental bond, you have made yourself quite hidden.”

Speak of the Devil, and he shall appear.

She looks up just as he breaks between the two trees that had been functioning to keep her out of sight from the others, a sly grin on his face.

“I’m no Devil, my dear,” he corrects her, and she stiffens. Had she said that out loud? “And no, you’re not speaking out loud. Did you not realize you’d reopened the connection?”

“I-” her mouth falls open, brows furrowing. She knew she’d been playing with fire, fiddling with the lock, but hadn’t even heard the click of her opening the door back up. She finally sighs in acceptance, letting her head fall back to the tree with a thump, “No. I hadn’t realized.”

He nods, stopping right at the edge of moss and grass that she’d made into her seat for the night, “Well, that certainly puts your odd message into perspective.”

“What? What did you hear? What did I even say?”

He hesitates. The same contemplative look from in the Grove has passed over his face for just a second.

“I was someone’s daughter once.”

Her heart effectively drops. “Oh.”

He nods awkwardly for a second, passing his weight between his two feet until he suddenly waves a hand towards the little space beside her at the tree trunk, “May I?”

It’s the exact opposite of their interaction outside of Gale’s tent. She isn’t the one beckoning, the one nearly begging to be let in. That whisper of desperation clings to Astarion instead.

“You may,” she goes as far as to scoot over, leaving him more than ample space to sit on the patch of moss rather than in the dirt.

The sky has begun to bleed navy, darkening with each passing second. Time seems to stop as shadows creep up all around them, the moon preening over the horizon to catch a glimpse of them. The entire night seems to wait with bated breath, as though this is the first step of a very long journey, something entirely separate from the adventure they’ve embarked on with their odd companions and their dreadful tadpoles.

Something expected. Something delicate. Something remembered.

He’s just as graceful as he had been earlier as he descends to sit beside her easily, legs crossing but knees careful not to brush a single inch of her own thighs. A certain amount of distance is maintained. They’re not there yet.

“I don’t know all of what you remembered, and that is your secret to keep,” he starts off, uncharacteristically careful in his choice words, “But… if you happened to remember some bits of that childhood, the one you spoke of not having in the Grove…”

She doesn’t know why, but she’s more willing to be honest when it’s just them. When it’s just her, him, and the moon to bear witness to her vulnerability.

“It wasn’t quite my childhood,” she admits. She can’t let him know the full truth, that cleaved half of her soul has made sure to remind her of such as it burns in her chest, but she can at least tell him of this, “Just… It’s hard to explain. I was in a past memory, and in that moment, I just knew things about myself. Like… how I’m part drow, or how- how I’m somebody’s daughter.”

I was somebody’s daughter.

He’s quiet for too long for her liking.

“Does that even make sense?” she questions, turning to him, shoulders drooping in exhaustion, “I sound insane right now, don’t I?”

“You do,” he answers quickly, “You sound positively mad right now.”

“Great. Awesome. Perfect,” sarcasm drips off each staccatoed word she breathes out, face twisting with a scowl as she turns back from him.

She was going insane. She had a worm in her brain instead of memories, and she was going delirious. How fitting.

“You didn’t let me finish,” he chuckles at her flare of attitude, “There was a but somewhere in there, you know.”

“Was it something along the lines of, ‘but we need you to survive’, because-”

“But I think we’ve all earned a bit of insanity given our current circumstances.”

Her tongue falls silent, eyes wide as they glance his way. Darkness has fallen entirely upon them, but even in the shadows, she can catch the glint of his half-there smile. There’s a comfort about it that burrows somewhere deeper than she can reach, and it only reminds her of the letter still settled in her lap.

The letter.

Her sudden urgent awareness of her most prized secret clearly exposes itself over the tadpole connection, as Astarion’s eyes follow her own as she looks down to the parchment.

“Oh,” he livens up a bit, the heaviness of the moment slipping between their fingers at an alarming rate, “What do we have here?”

He reaches out with the intention to take the paper right out of her lap, but she’s faster. Ironic, given his vampiric status.

The page wrinkles ever so slightly within her eager fist as she holds it out of his reach. He’s almost unrelenting, beginning to lean forward and chase after it, until she snaps, “Don’t.”

Any playfulness is denied. Her heart races, hand shaking as she continues to hold it out, merely fooling herself that she has it out of his reach. If he really wants to, he’ll take it from her. Part of her knows such.

But part of her also trusted him to receive the message of denial, loud and clear. And he does.

His hands lift in surrender, looking at her surprised, “My apologies. I wasn’t aware you were so… protective of a piece of paper.”

“It’s not just a piece of paper.”

“What is it, then?”

And- well, she can’t answer him. Not truthfully. How does she even begin to explain it?

A letter from someone. Addressing me. Actually, I can’t be entirely sure that it’s addressing me – I just happened to be so unlucky as to find it near where I landed after the crash. And, oh, yes. Yes, it does indeed mention you by name. Why? Who knows.

“Just…. Just some letter,” as she says it, she’s already folding it back up, hands not working nearly fast enough for her need to keep away Astarion’s prying eyes.

“A letter?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to elaborate?”

“No.”

As Aruna finally shoves the letter back into her pouch, albeit with more care than necessary, Astarion is rolling his eyes, “What is it with our group and super secretive items?”

“Super secretive items?” Aruna’s fingers pause their smoothing out of the paper into a secure position, barely brushing against that opal stone at the bottom of her small velvetine bag, “Who else even has one besides me?”

“Shadowheart and her ridiculous polyhedron,” he sighs, leaning back into his own space, clearly putting on dramatics, “Gale and his… general magic. I swear the man jumped out of his skin when I questioned what he was conjuring in his hands the other night.”

“What was he conjuring?”

“If I knew, why would I be referring to it as a secretive item?”

Fair point. Aruna finally removes her hand out of the pouch and draws the gold cord tightly, “Right. Well, is there a point to all this, or are you just jealous you don’t have an item of your own?”

He rolls his eyes again, and she nearly makes a sarcastic joke about them getting stuck like that if he keeps it up.

“How many times must I tell you I’m not jealous?” Until I actually believe it, “I just find it peculiar, how those damned mind flayers seemed to have chosen the most secretive and elusive bastards they could get their hands on to shove a parasite into their brains.”

“Lae’zel seems to be an open book, if it’s any reconciliation to you.”

Aruna’s mind is wandering, absent-mindedly pulling at loose tufts of moss from below where she sits. She almost feels guilty, suddenly heavy from all the secrets she realizes she keeps. The letter, the stone, her memories – she’s gathering up quite the arsenal. She silently begs for Astarion’s honesty, for his own trust, but it seems she can’t even have the decency to award her own.

How is it any fair that she wishes for him to lower his own mask as she only raises hers higher?

“I could care less of Lae’zel’s secrets, if she were to have any,” Astarion snorts.

“Is that your way of saying you care about mine?”

“Please,” he chuckles, tilting his head in her direction, “Don’t be so full of yourself.”

It’s almost the same as the memory, if she closes her eyes and lets the moonlight seep into her skin. Playful banter, easy back and forth. For a second, even with the topic at hand, it feels like there may not be a mask in sight. Only two friends, gossiping. As if there isn’t an impending doom squirming in their brain matter. As if they’ve known each other a lifetime and not a week.

“You’re the one who seems insistent on interrogating me about my memories and my letter,” she reminds him, keeping a light-hearted tone.

She doesn’t really mind. Even if she feels terrible for not being able to reveal more to him. Which doesn’t make much sense, especially given that she knows he’s keeping a secret of his own.

“Ah, yes,” she sighs out wistfully, clearly forced and insincere, “My dreamy lover who gazes up at the stars with each passing night, mourning my absence and wishing for my safe return to his safe arms. Laugh lines I could follow to the ends of Faerun, hair that curls so delicately upon his ears-”

“I didn’t ask for you to begin to wax poetry,” he cuts her off. His lips betray him, twitching out of whatever grimace he was trying to put on, a glimmer of a smile beneath the surface, “I was simply making an astute observation. Surely you have someone waiting for you.”

And just like that, Aruna is deflating.

Because she doesn’t know if she does. She had the smallest of hopes that maybe a family would be awaiting her, but the memory has crushed all of those childish dreams. She might have a lover longing for her, but something inside of her stirs uncomfortably, as though that fate doesn’t quite align. For a quiet moment, Aruna is reminded of just how truly, terribly, scarily alone she is.

They all have someone. Surely, even Astarion has something waiting for him back in the city. Someone, something. And Aruna has nothing.

“Maybe,” she weakly whispers, glancing up at the moon.

Maybe, but I highly doubt it.

It’s meant to be a private thought, something forlorn for only her own personal pity party, but it slips down the connection before she can even think to close herself off.

Astarion’s head whips towards her, “You doubt it?”

She doesn’t have the right words, stricken with embarrassment and lingering sadness. She’s beginning to hate that connection, truly.

All she can do is look at him and try to not let too much of her uncertain despair seep into her violet eyes. To gauge his reaction in her silence with care, see if he’s receptive to her accidental vulnerability. It’s useless, though – she knows they shine with it, nearly brightly enough to have it reflected back in Astarion’s eyes for her to see in full force.

“You were somebody’s daughter once,” he repeats the thought that had carried him up to her to begin with slowly, voice nothing more than a whisper as he tests out the weight of the words on his tongue. And then he whispers it again, and she feels just how heavy he’s come to find them, “You were somebody’s daughter once.”

She doesn’t want to do this. She doesn’t want to dissect all that it means and have to say it all out loud. That loss only feels half hers – that past isn’t quite within her ownership yet.

Yet.

“Tell me something about your past,” she nearly begs as she takes deep breaths, forcing away the thoughts and her memory.

“Demanding little thing, aren’t you?”

“You can either tell me,” she sniffs hard, blinking up at the night sky, focusing on a gathering of stars as the burn of her near tears retreat, “Or I can simply start rattling on about assumptions.”

She was somebody’s daughter once, but she is no longer, and there was no need for them to linger on the fact.

“Hm,” he’s watching her carefully, even when she doesn’t notice. Alert to all of her emotions and all of her attempts at a distraction. She’s just grateful he’s a good sport, willing to play along. The other might not have done the same, “Well, now I’m curious what these assumptions might be.”

“You were a tailor,” her tongue is rapid, quickly firing away, desperate for the change in the conversation, “Probably the best in all of Baldur’s Gate, given what I’ve seen of your tastes. You charged an arm and a leg, but you never spent a piece of the gold. It’s definitely all been piled into some grand underground safe that you would go and sit in as you stared at your riches each night before bed.”

It’s ridiculous, and he snorts so hard that he falls back against the tree.

“A tailor? May I ask what gave you that idea?”

They’re a tad bit closer now, at least physically. She can see clearly into his garnet eyes when she turns her head to face him tiredly.

She keeps her voice low, as though sharing a secret, “Your clothes. I can see the gold threading where you clearly stitched it back up yourself.”

His smile falls slowly, not entirely erasing itself from his features, but his eyes look off into the distance and she knows she’s nearly lost him. He’s floating away, somewhere faraway – back to what his life must have truly been.

“I’m not a tailor,” even his voice is drifting off. She resists the urge to reach into the air and capture them – capture him – back in the moment. There would only be the cool air of the night, anyways, slipping between her fingers, “Though it is a nice thought. You paint quite the pretty picture.”

A rush of emotions that don’t belong to Aruna suddenly floods her senses. A hunger, deep rooted and panging in her stomach. A fear, ever twisting and clawing with desperation like no other. Like fingernails digging through the dirt of a grave, like a year spent in solitude. It nearly suffocates her at the unexpectedness.

The tadpole connection works both ways.

Wherever he’s gone, it’s a painful place to be. Her need to bring him back to the here and now only rises.

“So no secret safe full of gold?” she attempts to keep up the bit, to see if he’ll bite.

“‘Fraid not, my sweet,” he murmurs in return, not taking the bait.

My sweet. She doesn’t think he’s noticed the new term of endearment slip off his tongue so naturally. It should alarm both of them, a boundary being overstepped after such little time of being acquaintances, but she swears she hears the moon sing and the shadows sigh in relief when he calls her it. Like he was always supposed to regard her with such adornment. Like his tongue was only ever sculpted to whisper pretty words to her and only her.

“If you weren’t a tailor, what were-” she cuts off before quickly correcting herself, “What are you?”

She knows. Gods, she knows what he is.

She knows what that hunger is. It should scare her.

But then his eyes find hers, and the cicadas begin to hum their song, and it doesn’t matter. She can see the focus reentering him, the slow drag of leaving behind the past as he returns to her. He’s still touched with a sadness, still reeks of a desperation she can’t understand, but he’s back.

“I was a magistrate,” he answers her. When his eyelashes flutter, she knows it’s only a half truth, “It was all terribly boring, to be honest.”

“I don’t even know what a magistrate is.”

“Ah, my dearest Aruna,” he grins slowly, rolling his head away from her, looking up between the branches that form the canopy over them, “There is so much to teach you.”

She doesn’t even notice. He’s talking, wildly spinning tales of what exactly a magistrate does, and she knows he’s exaggerating, but she can’t help but become entranced. She listens, and she laughs, and she offers up her full attention so freely that there’s no space for her to linger on three silly words.

It’s only later that night, once the fire has died down and she’s slipped into her bed roll, that Astarion’s voice begins to echo in her mind.

My dearest Aruna.

If it wasn’t for the man of the hour resting on the other side of the fire, she would have shot up at the realization. She hadn’t even noticed. The endearment rang out just as comfortably as my sweet had, drifting right over her head in the moment, but now it stares her dead between her eyes. Taunting. Mocking. Plaguing.

My dearest Aruna.

She clutches the letter extra tightly that night, between her fists and just out of sight within her bed roll, and doesn’t sleep a wink.

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#ghost's stories #the moon will sing #astarion #astarion ancunin #astarion x tav #astarion x oc #astarion fanfic #bg3 fanfic #bg3 #bg3 astarion #look at me. finally formatting this chapter for tumblr.

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