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ugh-yoongi · 4 months

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the very last thing i decide | pjm

(or, the one in which a love exists that's easy and instinctual as much as it is painful and self-destructive.)

✘ PAIRING jimin x f. reader ✘ SUMMARY you learn what it means to love with blood on your hands. ✘ GENRE hitman/assassin au; angst, smut ✘ RATING explicit. minors dni. ✘ WARNINGS they are both hitmen (hitpeople?) so there's all the content that goes along with that: violence, death, mentions of blood (a lot) and weapons, murder, but no explicit gore. everyone is morally grey at best and downright psychotic at worst (especially yoongi). reader gets stabbed. no one knows how to be a functional human being. swearing, smoking, light smut (penetrative & oral sex), miscommunication and unrequited love but not really, i drop a classic tumblr meme in a line of dialogue. ambiguous/hopeful ending!! some of the themes here are kinda heavy and i am not entirely sure how to tag them so if you have any questions pls don’t hesitate to ask! ✘ WORDCOUNT 12k ✘ LISTEN TO manchester orchestra - telepath ✘ THANK YOU i cannot remember everyone i’ve showed this to over the years. @the-boy-meets-evil for looking this over and brainstorming with me today. @hot-soop for always being a help. @effortandmore because you told me an embarrassingly long time ago this was worth finishing. and i’m pretty sure i also sent this to @jihopesjoint at some point too. i did a quick edit of this on my own, but after nearly three years i just wanted it posted and out of my wips so i'm sure i missed things. pls ignore them. ✘ AUTHOR'S NOTE fic drops two days in a row?? who am i?? i started this in may 2021 and it was supposed to be a simple pegging fic. i abandoned it bc i was convinced no one would want to read it. between today and yesterday i have written thousands of words and made it across the finish line. i hope you like it. the violence is a metaphor for love or whatever.

[37.5665° N, 126.9780° E | Seoul, SOUTH KOREA]

Jimin’s hair had been red the first time he met you.

How fitting, he thinks, considering he’s currently bleeding out on a table.

Well, there’s still a bit of fight left in him. He hasn’t lost consciousness yet, which he assumes is a good sign; he can still hear Hoseok barking out orders quite clearly. The edges of his vision are fuzzy and the pain in his abdomen is sharp and unrelenting, but he still has enough brain power left to wish he’d died instead.

Because you’d saved his life. And now he’s further indebted to you.

(Jimin never leaves a debt unpaid, but he’s not sure how to make even on something like this.)

Jungkook and Taehyung are fetching supplies faster than Hoseok can ask for them. Two pairs of frazzled, spaced-out eyes. Four sets of trembling limbs. Namjoon’s wearing burn marks into the floor, his cuticles bloody and nearly worried to the bone since he can’t keep them out of his mouth.

And then there’s you.

Sitting cross-legged in a chair as you scroll through your phone. Jimin’s blood is still drying on your hands, leaving smears as you drag your thumb back and forth across the screen, and this doesn’t seem to faze you one bit.

Behind you, Yoongi takes a seat at the piano and starts playing Toccata and Fugue in D minor, and Jimin simply cannot die like this. He can’t die on a wooden table in a room with a piano on which Min Yoongi is playing Baroque organ pieces.

“What is this, a fucking funeral?” Hoseok snaps, though there’s a desperation creeping into his tone that Jimin does not like, does not want to hear. “Cut it out, Yoongi.”

Said man staunchly ignores the doctor, transitioning flawlessly into the fugue. Jimin barely hears the tinkle of your laughter but he hears it all the same, and he wants to pretend it doesn’t calm him, bring him back down to earth when he starts drifting too far away. But you do, and it does, and all he can think about is: will you miss him if he dies? Will it take you long to wash his blood from your hands?

Hoseok’s absolutely incensed, pushed to the limits of his stress at the thought of not being able to save Jimin’s life, and Jimin appreciates this, really, but not when Hoseok pushes two gloved fingers deep into the wound in his stomach so hard all he can do is cry. “Yoongi—”

You snort. You don’t even look up from your phone.

Namjoon, for all his leadership and stoicism and poise under pressure, is just as frantic and panicked as the rest. It’s not everyday one of his people is inches from death ten feet away from him. Most people usually die in the shadows. Kim Namjoon has faced down death more times than most, yet watching the life slowly fade from Jimin’s eyes is too much even for him. “Yoongi, please—”

But the fugue keeps going, tempo change after tempo change, the two pillars of this organization spiraling completely by the time the coda starts, unfocused and sweating and praying. To gods they don’t believe in, to hope, to chance—whatever and whoever might be listening. Jimin usually loves hearing Yoongi play. It’s the only thing that humanizes him, and Jimin had spent so many restless nights shoulder to shoulder with him on that exact bench in the blue hours of the early morning, hypnotized by the way the older man’s knobby fingers moved across the keys.

This is it, he thinks.

Jimin’s going to die with Toccata and Fugue in D minor playing in the background.

He’s imagined his death so many times. Stupid not to in this line of work. Violent, quick and painless, in his sleep, drawn out and gory, a message. And in all of those scenarios, it’s either jarringly silent or there’s someone screaming. Usually him, sounding much like he is now, two fingers stuck in his gut. In all of those scenarios, Min Yoongi is never playing Bach as everything fades to black.

You sigh. “Shut the fuck up, Yoongi,” you say, your tone as blasé and inconvenienced as ever.

Shocked at your audacity, one of Yoongi’s fingers slips and hits the wrong key, something dissonant and metallic as it rings out. But the music stops all the same, the silence nearly giving Jimin whiplash. Now he can hear the clinkof Hoseok’s tools, the squelching of his wound, Jungkook’s desperate pleading for him to just be alright, please God, just hang on. He wants the music back. He doesn’t want Jungkook’s crying to be the last thing he hears. Doesn’t want the sound of his own organs imprinted into his memory.

“What’d you say?” Yoongi asks, because no one talks to him that way. They wouldn’t dare. Most people try not to talk to him at all.

But you do.

And, inexplicably, Yoongi listens.

You roll your eyes. “You go deaf in your old age? I said shut the fuck up. Hoseok’s two knuckles deep in Jimin’s fucking stomach and you’re over there having your little Amadeus moment.”

He bristles. “Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?” Yoongi repeats, and Jimin can’t see him, but he knows his eyes are narrowed, lips pulled back in a snarl, fists clenched at his side.

“Oh, princess,” you coo, and Yoongi’s fury is palpable, permeates every inch of this place, overrides all the fear and anguish. “I’m talking to you, baby. I know Jiminie’s busy trying not to die and that’s stressful for all of us, but please do try to keep up.”

Jimin hears the flick of Yoongi’s switchblade. Then he hears him say, “Please let me fucking kill her,” in that lazy Daegu drawl of his, like forming full words are beneath him. Not worth the effort when they’re directed at you.

Still seated, you uncross your legs and, through blurred vision, Jimin watches you grab Yoongi by his belt loops to tug him closer, grab the wrist that holds his knife and press it to your own throat. “Don’t threaten me with a good time, Yoongi. Be a good boy and make it hurt.”

Jungkook’s near hysterics at Jimin’s side. “What the fuck is wrong with you two? He’s dying!”

Jimin tries to say I’m not, Kookie, I’m okay but the pressure on his abdomen is too intense. He can barely breathe, and Hoseok’s still digging around, still looking for that stupid fucking bullet, had to do something and do it quick so there’d been very little anesthetic and finesse, and he’s silently screaming for someone to just comfort Jungkook, tell him everything’s going to be okay, but instead—

“Serves him right for being a fucking idiot,” you say, words muffled by the knife still pressed to your throat. “What a painful, permanentlesson in not forgetting your fucking vest.”

“Stop it!” Jungkook sobs, fingers ghosting along Jimin’s matted fringe.

Yoongi’s still scowling. “Just say the word, Joon-ah. I’ll make it quick.”

You actually laugh at that. The kind of full-belly laugh Jimin would kill to be able to produce. “You wanna fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid.”

Someone snarls. Probably Yoongi. “You’d look so good gutted on the floor like a fish,” he replies, and if Jimin knows him at all, he knows he’s got that dreamy, faraway look in his eyes. The one he always gets when he’s about to kill—the one that makes him so unhinged and dangerous. “Left there to bleed out and die all alone like the trash you are.”

No one’s survived that look before, but you just grin, as if being on the receiving end of it is nothing more than another simple inconvenience. “Do it, then,” you prompt. “You’re so big and bad, yet here you are, waiting for Namjoon’s permission like some kind of pathetic fucking dog.”

“I’m no one’s dog.”

Your eyes slowly flick over to Namjoon. “No?” you ask, smile widening as Jimin watches you drag your heeled foot up the inside of Yoongi’s calf, his thigh, stiletto coming to rest in the center of his sternum. “That’s a shame, princess. That pretty neck of yours was just made for a collar.”

There’s no doubt in Jimin’s mind now that he actually died back in that penthouse and is now residing in whatever level of hell is watching you give his associate a semi despite him being a millisecond away from murdering you.

Yoongi would do it, too. No hesitation. You’ve been on his shit list for as long as Jimin can remember, and you’ve been daring him to put his money where his mouth is and just kill you already for just as long.

Taehyung groans. “Can you two just fuck already so the rest of us can be spared of this?”

You click your tongue, tone melting like butter. You’re fond of Taehyung, soft on him. “No can do, angel. Yoongi here knows I only have eyes for our Jiminie, and god does that hurt his little feelings.”

Your wicked smile gives away nothing—whether you’re telling a bold truth or just unnecessarily needling Yoongi further—but Jimin’s caught off guard and chokes on your words nonetheless.

Hoseok’s forceps still digging around in his stomach, there’s a quiet hurrah of triumph as he finally locates the bullet. Jimin feels nothing as he retrieves it and plucks it out, a reverberated clank! as he drops it into a kidney dish, your words the anesthetic he’s needed as they play on a loop in his head.

When he finally blacks out, either from the pain or the adrenaline or both, it’s your face that greets him. He never gets the chance to tell you why he forgot his vest.

[64.1466° N, 21.9426° W | Reykjavík, ICELAND]

Jimin’s hair is blue when it happens the first time.

It’s November. Namjoon has sent the two of you to Reykjavik and it’s dark all the time, the midnight hue of his hair blending into the impenetrable nighttime that surrounds you. Jimin works best like this—out of sight, part of the shadows. He’s light on his feet, lithe in ways no one else is, not even you, and he’s impossible to anticipate under the cover of darkness.

That’s why Jimin always takes care of the appetizers.

It’s your job to clean up the main course.

The two of you are two halves of the same lethal coin, working together flawlessly after years of carefully honed practice. Jimin slams an unsuspecting man’s head into a wall and you’re right behind him to put a bullet in it.

It’s just how it goes.

And he trusts you. He has to, otherwise he would’ve gotten taken out years ago. You’re not always in his line of sight, but he always feels you, senses your movements before you’re even on your feet. The times it’s gone wrong—and it’s gone wrong so many fucking times, despite how cautious and skilled the two of you are—you’re always right there to catch him before he even hits the ground. Just like a ghost, as if your only purpose in life is keeping Jimin safe and alive.

(It isn’t, but it sure feels that way.)

Tonight it’s another hit carried out in an overpriced penthouse overlooking the northern shore. You’re in and out, don’t waste a second more than you need to. Jimin doesn’t spare a glance at the carnage left behind. Nothing he hasn’t seen a hundred times before. All blood bleeds the same, but he still wonders, foolishly, if his looks different to you. If it feels wrong when it stains your hands and seeps into your clothes.

Jimin has never been covered in your blood before, but he likes to think it would.

The two of you don’t speak until you’re in the quiet safety of yet another hotel room, chain lock thrown across the door, deadbolt secured. A small arsenal of weapons is retrieved from ankles and waistbands and cleaned and packed away meticulously. Jimin’s the one who makes the call to Namjoon, tells him in code that the job’s done. You’ve barely broken a sweat, but under the fluorescent light of the bathroom, Jimin can see a small smattering of blood just along your temple when he closes the distance between you.

Someone else’s, of course.

Anyone who made you bleed your own blood wouldn’t be a quick, clean kill. Jimin would make sure of that.

There’s less to be done about the half-inch scar in the hollow of your throat—a pearlescent reminder of the twin scar he has just below his navel; a callback to the day your devilish mouth said the words Jimin can’t stop thinking about.

“No can do, angel. Yoongi here knows I only have eyes for our Jiminie.”

Maybe it’s stupidity. Maybe it’s the feral, years-long build up that’s been simmering between the two of you—low enough to keep warm, contained enough to never evolve into a rapid boil. Maybe Jimin’s just finally desperate enough to go seeking out answers to questions he’s far too scared to put a voice to.

(Really, Jimin knows it’s adrenaline. Nothing more than chemicals. The two of you high on it, heads floating above the clouds. Powerless; or, at the very least, indifferent to stop the very clear path that’s unfolding on the ground below.)

But, god, he needs to know.

Needs answers.

Needs to know if there’s even a chance you feel it, too: the magnetic ebb and flow the two of you have been dancing around for years. If you see how fondly he looks at you. If you have any idea how easy it is for him to get lost in you. If you know he’d let someone put a bullet between his eyes before he placed his life in the hands of anyone else.

Jimin knows he loves you. He’s known it for a long time, just like he knows all those other things that are second nature to him. Loving you is easy and instinctual as much as it is painful and self-destructive.

At least that’s what he’d thought. Until your devilish mouth said those devilish words and sent him into a tailspin he’s yet to recover from.

You have to feel it. God, can’t you? The way the air crackles between you. The way his skin ignites with a simple look from you. The trembling of his fingers at his sides, desperate to just reach out and touch you—fingers that have been bathed in blood, that have taken life. Fingers that now just want to graze softly across your cheekbones, catch on your bottom lip. Fingers that want to hand you the world on a silver platter. Jimin would do anything for you, give you whatever you wanted. You wouldn’t even have to ask.

Can’t you feel that?

He needs to know.

Jimin is composed, elegant. He kills with grace and still maintains as much of his softness as he can. Isn’t ruled by emotion the way Yoongi and Jungkook are. But now, as he teeters on the edge of the unknown, all he wants to do is jump. Wants to buck all his training, all his resolve and forethought, and jump.

“Did you mean it?” he asks, voice thick. Fingers curl into the expensive silk of his shirt just so they have something to do—something to keep them from reaching out and touching you. “Back in Seoul.”

You’re the smartest person Jimin knows. When you ask, “Did I mean what, Chim?” he knows you’re fucking with him. Dragging this out. You know exactly what he’s asking and he knows you’ll never give anything away so easily.

“What you said to Taehyung,” he answers.

You tsk, eyebrows raising in intrigue. As much as Jimin trusts you, as well as you know him, know all those dirty, dirty secrets he’d never tell anyone else, he’s never been so bold with you. “That those long fingers of his would look good wrapped around my throat? Yeah, I meant that.”

Jimin’s jaw clenches at your taunt. “Don’t play games with me.”

A smirk graces your lips. “Trust me, sweetheart,” you say, voice sickly-sweet as the affection starts popping at the last seams holding him together, “if I wanted to play with you, there’s nothing you could do to stop it.”

With Jimin pressed into the wall behind you, you turn to meet his eye in the mirror. Another smile, teeth bared as you run your tongue across your lips, and this one is his undoing. Makes his cock twitch in his dress pants. Makes him bold. “Do you want to, then?” He takes a step forward—close enough to smell the gunpowder stuck to your clothes, your hair. Close enough for the sulfur and metal to sting his nostrils each time he breathes you in. “Do you want to play with me?”

You love Jimin. Maybe it’s a trauma bond or the implicit, unwavering trust the two of you have in one another, but you know you love him limitlessly. But you also know you can’t love him the way he loves you, the way he deserves to be loved by someone, which is why your mask slips as you say, “I can’t give you what you want, Jimin.”

You try to make him understand that. Really, you do—because Jimin is the smartest person you know, and you know he’s thought about every possible consequence down to the most minute detail and has decided this is worth it anyway. You want to believe in something the way Jimin believes in you, even though he’s wrong. You want something worth throwing all of this away for.

Maybe it’s Jimin, maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s just been so fucking long since someone has looked at you with any gentleness in their eyes at all that when Jimin meets your gaze and says, “I don’t want anything more than you’re willing to give,” you take his hand and jump, too.

And there’s nothing gentle about the first time.

It’s all raw, urgent need, Jimin trying desperately to convince himself it’s more than it is while you convince yourself it’s less.

It’s the two of you finally giving up and giving in, letting yourselves be pulled taut by that invisible string tying you together.

It’s Jimin’s sharp intake of breath when you fully step out of your clothes, the sight rendering him immobile. Whatever plans he’d had before seeing the curves of your body, all the scars from years of working by his side, the mottled yellow-greens and purples from the bruises lining your skin—he has no plans now. Can barely think. Wouldn’t be able to tear his eyes away from you with a gun to his head.

It’s the final bricks of the wall he’d built around himself—around his heart, around all those words and feelings he’d never put a voice to—crumbling into ash at his feet. Now he knows he can’t go back. Can’t return to a reality where this isn’t his truth. Where there’s no you and him, him and you. Where it’s just a physical exchange, a give-and-take, tit for tat.

And god, he knows he shouldn’t think like this; knows he’s keeping the truth buried somewhere deep behind lock and key.

…But now that he knows how it feels to move inside you, what else is he supposed to do?

You’re everywhere. Clenched around him. Your taste on his tongue. The feel of you on the pads of his fingers. The smell of you making a mockery of all logical thought. No—no, he can’t do a goddamn thing to stop the avalanche now it’s started.

“Fuck,” he whines, fingers digging into your hips. The soft skin he finds purchase in such a contrast from your hardened exterior, but Jimin knows. He knows you, knows the person behind the mask, sees straight through you each time it slips.

What stared back at him had always been just out of reach.

Taunting him.

Screaming come and get me, come make me yours, come and fucking take what you want.

Until now.

Now it’s tangible. Now it’s breathy, fractured moans that echo off tile walls. Now it’s the sound of his name thatleaves your lips like a prayer. Now it’s the sheen of sweat that covers both of you. Now it’s nails scraping down his back, tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck.

(And Jimin won’t tell you this, but those red welts are proof that this is real, this happened, and later on when he’s alone, when his mind is working overtime, he’ll look at them and he’ll smile. Because they’re real. Because this happened.)

Now, it’s the way blue becomes his favorite color. Because he can see his reflection in the mirror as he unravels and comes to his own demise as he spills inside of you; can see the fluorescent lights reflecting off the hue of his hair.

Jimin’s hair is blue when he realizes he’s in love with you.

[34.6037° S, 58.3816° W | Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA]

Jimin is blond when Namjoon sends you to South America.

The details had been scarce: a diplomatic advisor with a rap sheet of human rights violations that have been continuously swept under the rug and his equally-corrupt lawyer. A candid photograph paperclipped to another manila folder, Namjoon a fan of all those old cliches. Likes being a little cheeky that way when he can get away with it, because god knows he can’t get away with much, doesn’t have much of a sense of humor.

It’s a simple job. You and Jimin will have it dealt with in a matter of hours. Less if you’re lucky and the universe is agreeable. But the humidity sticks to your skin, has sweat seeping into your clothes and rolling down your temples, and if there’s one thing you can’t stand it’s the heat. Makes it hard to think. And Namjoon—Namjoon, who makes sure all of his agents want for nothing—is a cheap bastard. Rarely approves nice lodging, says it’s too risky despite your arguments to the contrary, that people don’t care what you do when you have money, so you’re stuck in some shithole motel room with an aircon unit that keeps blowing out stale, warm air.

And maybe you shouldn’t, maybe you should be more cognizant of Jimin and all his feelings, but it’s fucking hot, so you peel your shirt over your head and undo the button of your pants. Sit on the edge of the bed and try to think about anything other than the temperature, how it’s starting to prick uncomfortably at your skin.

Jimin clears his throat, keeps his eyes glued to the disgusting carpet. “Got a text from Seokjin-ssi,” he says, words strained. “Looks like they’ll be solo jobs.”

You groan. Leave it to Seokjin to change the plan at the last minute. “Tell Kim Seokjin he’s a useless piece of shit.”

“Done. Anything else?”

“Tell Kim Namjoon if he ever sends us to South America in the summer again I’ll kill him myself.”

Jimin has a laugh like an anodyne. A laugh that takes all those broken, bleeding parts of you and soothes over them like a balm. “Seokjin-ssi says he’s not passing along that particular message.”

“Tell him he’s a bitch, then.”

“He’ll kill me if I say that.”

“He hasn’t done field work in years and he’s probably too vitamin D deficient to leave the basement. He couldn’t even kill a fucking rat.”

There’s another laugh. More forced, less tinkling. You recognize it right away, the sound of anxiety. Solo jobs aren’t common for the two of you. For Yoongi and Taehyung, sure, but not you and Jimin. You’re a team for a reason, and though you’re more than capable of getting this done and out of the way, it doesn’t feel right. Settles in your gut like something rotten, knowing you’ll be without Jimin.

And you know he’s thinking it, too. How he turns the burner over and over in his hands, as if there’s some combination of words he can send back to Seoul to get Seokjin and Namjoon to reconsider. Plans don’t change often; not like this, anyway. These have been declared solos for a reason, and that’s a thought you can’t linger on too long.

“Are they leaving it up to us?” Jimin nods, still not meeting your eye. “Do you have a preference?”

He shrugs, tossing the phone on the small table in the corner. Nothing else to be done. “Not really. What do you think?”

“Nah, don’t care, either. Just toss me one.”

Santiago Aguirre… 47 years old… Resides in a high-rise luxury apartment in Retiro…

Your eyes skim the file, study the black and white photograph of the lawyer. Read over the list of all his high-profile, degenerate clients and all their high-profile crimes. You read about the previous attempts on his life, the seemingly never-ending list of people who want him dead. Your eyes go back to his photograph, frowning at the smug look on his face. What stares back at you is a man who thinks he’s invincible, who thinks a penthouse apartment on the top floor and a security team in the lobby means he’s impervious to harm. A man who has made money off people just like him: dirty, corrupt, hands stained red.

“Okay?” Jimin asks, looking up from his own file.

He’s so striking. So safe. And you know what he’s done, giving you the hit he thinks is easier, willing to risk himself on a solo mission to ensure you make it out. There’s no guarantees in this line of work, in life in general, but Jimin’s brand of selfless love is certainly one.

So you just nod, knowing someone slimy like this can quickly go sideways, and decide you can do the same.

“I’m gonna get ready,” you say. “The plan is the same as all the other solo jobs. Get in, get it done, get out as quickly as possible. Lay low. Don’t come straight back here.”

Jimin rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Anything else?”

You exhale. Try to quiet the nerves roiling in your stomach. Barely resist the urge to press a lingering kiss to Jimin’s forehead before you swallow hard and say, “Yeah. Stay alive.”

It comes out more like a plea.

—

You’re good at your job.

Rarely feel much guilt over it, either, which—well, you’re not sure what that means. That something is permanently broken in your psyche, probably. Being able to take life so easily and without remorse. It’s not natural.

Kim Namjoon is a man who plays God, is the one who decides who gets to live and who has to die. His word is the only law you adhere to. And that’s… that’s something. Makes it less burdensome, takes some weight off, because Kim Namjoon wouldn’t accept a morally-ambiguous job. He wouldn’t ask you to put your life on the line for some petty bullshit.

This is how you’ve lived for the last four years. Four years of blindly following Namjoon’s word, of being a good little soldier and doing whatever is asked of you. Four years of being responsible for not only your own life, but Jimin’s as well, just as he is for yours. Four years that have served you well, all things considered.

Until now.

Something about this job hits you hard. Doesn’t settle quite as quickly as the ones that have come before. For the first time, you’d looked down at the lifeless body at your feet and couldn’t stop the trembling, could barely quell the nausea. Thought what the fuck am I doing, what kind of life is this for the first time. Thought back to that day four years ago when Kim Namjoon saved your life and offered you a job and wondered, for the first time, what would’ve happened if you’d said no.

Now, as you suck on a cigarette, legs dangling off the roof of a building looking not far from collapse, a new thought:

Would Namjoon let you go if you asked?

He’s taken care of you. For four years you’ve wanted for nothing. Have socked away more money than you’ll ever be able to spend, even if you live to a thousand. You could go anywhere, become anyone, and no one would suspect a thing. There’d just be you and a million lifetimes’ worth of transgressions, alone under the weight of all that burden; alone, except for all the ghosts that come to greet you every time you close your eyes.

Doesn’t matter. Namjoon might be willing to let you go, give you the chance to salvage something from this life in the name of normalcy, but Yoongi would gladly put a bullet in your head before he let you disappear with all his secrets.

Doesn’t matter.

You stub out the cigarette and put the butt in your pocket. Make your way down to the street. Stay under the shadows—just visible enough to redirect any suspicion shot your way. You pretend to take a call, flawless Argentinian Spanish falling from your lips as you tell the imaginary person on the other end all about your fucked up day at work. How your manager never gets off your ass, doesn’t trust you, thinks you’re too fucking stupid to run a simple executable.

No one spares you a second glance.

Not here, on this nondescript street in a nondescript Argentinian neighborhood, and not when you stumble into the tiny lobby of your shithole motel. The poor kid behind the desk doesn’t even glance up, just mutters a good evening, miss under his breath that you return in a voice far too high-pitched to be your own.

Better to be seen and be unremarkable than draw attention to yourself trying to stay invisible, you figure.

The cameras in the stairwell are broken so you take the steps two at a time. Pull the room key from its place inside your boot, happy to no longer have it digging into your skin. Pause just long enough to make sure you don’t hear anything on the other side of the door before you’re unlocking it with your free hand wrapped around the trigger of your gun.

It’s empty.

Of course it is.

Jimin stashed the burner in a place no one but you would think to look. You text one simple word to Seokjin—Hey!—and you get two in return: Who’s this?

You know who it is, you fucking dickhead.

It takes a few seconds, but the reply is a simple—

Sorry.

Then you toss aside the phone and float in the darkness of the room. There’s nothing to do but wait, because you don’t dare to do anything alone. There’s sweat and blood and fuck knows what else stuck to your skin, your hair, but you can’t risk taking a shower. Can’t risk the water dampening your senses. Can’t risk being cornered in a moldy bathroom, only one way out. Can’t risk doing anything alone. Can’t take a fucking shower.

It’s this thought, more than anything else, that has your body flushing with rage.

What kind of life is this?

Namjoon had never mentioned repaying your debt. He’d never insinuated you owed him anything at all for saving your life, but you know something like that never comes for free. Namjoon doesn’t do anything just because. Has no goodness in his heart to do anything in the name of it. Watching Jimin nearly die in front of him had been the exception to his usual nature; a rare slip-up by an otherwise detached, uncaring man.

Still, whatever you owe him has surely been repaid by now. Tenfold, if the bloodstains along your collar are anything to go by.

It’s time for Namjoon to let you go.

—

Something is wrong.

Two hours have ticked by and there’s no word from Jimin. No word from Namjoon or Seokjin, either, which is the only reason you’re still in this nauseating motel room and not out on the streets searching for him. Solo jobs don’t go like this. The two of you are always in and out, tragically efficient. Back to where you started and then back on a plane, nothing left behind except a singular bullet hole and another fragmented piece of your conscience.

You’ve had a lot of jobs go wrong, but never two hours.

You’re about three minutes from coming out of your skin. Sick to your stomach with worry, anxiety weighing you down like an anchor. You wouldn’t be able to go out searching for Jimin like this even if you could, and there’s no point in dwelling on that, examining it further. All you can do is wait.

It’s another hour before you hear the click of the lock. You’re nearly on your knees in relief, but you stay rooted to the flimsy mattress. Try not to think about how you’ll have to sleep on it, even though you’ll be up half the night with residual worry. All those lingering ghosts.

Jimin doesn’t say anything, so neither do you.

[55.6761° N, 12.5683° E | Copenhagen, DENMARK]

Jimin’s hair is orange when you go to Copenhagen.

Not for a job, just to breathe. You wanted to see the city at Christmastime; Jimin’s never been.

You crack a joke. Point out buildings of similar color, have him stand in front of one as you take a picture. Everyone smiles when they pass the two of you on the street, Jimin’s eyes fond even though he rolls them as you pose him how you want. Still stands against an apricot-colored wall and flashes a smile and a peace sign, cheeks pink from the cold. Does a good job of pretending the two of you aren’t here just for fun, that this is something more.

It’s not.

The two of you fucked in a hotel room in Reykjavik and haven’t spoken a word of it since.

You nearly lost your mind over him in Buenos Aires and haven’t spoken a word of that, either.

Instead, his hand finds yours as the two of you walk around Tivoli Gardens. You marvel at the lights and Jimin marvels at you. You share mulled wine and spiced doughnuts. Jimin tries to drag you on the swings but you plant your feet and refuse, laughing through your refusals. As dangerous as your lives are, motion sickness might be the most. He gets his revenge and poses you in front of a giant nutcracker, then again in front of one of the endless Christmas trees.

Jimin pays for the two of you to decorate honey cakes. You’re surrounded by families with shrieking children and palpable adoration, and it’s all you can do not to wonder if anyone you’ve taken out had ever had something like this. Something that makes your soul warm; something that still lingers in your bones years later.

The two of you take a selfie when it starts to snow. It stings when you have no one to send it to, so it just lives in your phone. Maybe it’s enough.

On another day, Jimin holds your hand through Torvehallerne. This time you marvel at him while he marvels at all the food, eyes wide each time he turns to ask if he should buy something. You always say yes and he always shares, and it’s all you can do not to think about why you don’t have to budget yourselves. Why you’re able to walk through the market and buy whatever you want; how you could buy every item for sale and it wouldn’t make a dent.

(You pick up small trinkets for Taehyung and Jungkook. Not because you want to, but because it feels nicer than remembering that you have no one to buy gifts for. Not really. Not anymore.)

Jimin wants to ice skate, so you do. He holds your hand then, too. More out of necessity than anything else, and he has none of his usual grace. Someone hands you a free cup of hot chocolate, just because. Jimin pouts and then it’s his hot chocolate. It’s all you can do not to kiss away the whipped cream on the corner of his mouth.

Back in your lavish hotel, after countless days have blurred together and Jimin’s fresh from a shower, skin flushed, you finally ask yourself if it’s worth putting up such a fight. If it’s really all that bad to care for Jimin and be cared for in return. If it’s all that bad to be someone else, just for a little while: someone with a normal life who makes a normal living and has a normal capability to love. Someone who isn’t damaged beyond repair.

That will never be you. Not fully, and certainly not in this lifetime, but maybe it could be, a little.

“Jimin,” you say, because you need to try. Jimin loves you in ways you’ll never understand, and you want to be better for him. “We should talk.”

Your voice is small and hesitant, and Jimin hates it. Sees trouble where there’s only vulnerability, so he misreads. Shakes his head. Takes a risk and stands between your legs at the edge of the bed—yours, because there’s two—as he tilts your head back, thumbs pressing into the contours of your cheeks. The scar still sits in the hollow of your throat, and that version of you feels so far away. That life feels so far away.

There’s no violence here. There’s no blood, no fugues. There’s just you and Jimin, whose voice is small like yours when he shakes his head and says, “You should kiss me instead.”

The second time is nothing like the first.

Jimin moves delicately. Feels like silk lace, tastes like spun sugar. Moves both his mouth and his body fluidly, no hesitation, yet he still takes his time. Still pauses to look at you with endless devotion; with awed reverence. Makes a map of your body and marks all his favorite places with his lips.

“Tell me what you want,” he says. Speaks the words against the skin just beneath your ear. “Anything. I’ll give you whatever you want, just have to ask.”

What you want isn’t tangible, isn’t possible, so you stay quiet. Thread your fingers through Jimin’s hair, gasp when he mouths along the column of your throat. Jimin reserves all his softness for you. Bathes you in it. Would kill anyone to keep it that way.

So you say, “Want your mouth,” and let slip a quiet moan when he gives you what you’ve asked for. When he situates himself between your thighs and sucks and licks until you’re writhing, making a mess, grasping fruitlessly at the sheets, his hair, his shoulders, only calming when his hands find yours and your fingers interlock.

Jimin mouths at you until you’re trembling. Until you’re needy and desperate, hips moving on their own, fucking yourself against his face. Until nothing exists except the heat in your belly, the stars behind your eyelids, the heady, fucked-out sound of Jimin’s voice as he talks you through it, murmurs praise against your cunt.

Jimin mouths at you until you forget.

This isn’t your life. This is not something you can have.

But, in the grand scheme of things, what does it matter? You’ve made peace with death, and there’s only one of two ways it’s going to come for you in the end: by Namjoon’s hand or someone else’s. So what does it matter?

This time, Jimin fucks you slow. Kisses you with your taste still in his mouth. Thumbs over a hardened nipple just to see what earns him a reaction, and what you truly want is more time—something else that’s impossible.

Jimin’s hair is orange when you think you might be in love with him.

[ 48.8566° N, 2.3522° E | Paris, FRANCE ]

Jimin’s hair is pink when—

“Sit,” he says, gesturing to the toilet.

Soaks a washcloth in warm water. Wrings it out. Stands in front of you, and there’s water dripping onto the floor and Jimin doesn’t care, doesn’t seem to see anything in this moment except for you, your hands covered in someone else’s blood, and he reaches out, gently grabs your wrist. Palm up. Someone else’s blood. Everything smells like copper and iron. Looks too surreal beneath the fluorescent lights of this hotel bathroom for your mind to make sense of it.

There is care in the way Jimin cleans your hands. There is tenderness in the way he both refuses to see what you really are and the way he’s the only one to ever see you so entirely, when you look down at the blood he’s washing away and all you can see is stigmata. When all you see is sin.

“I know you don’t love me,” he says, and there is a conviction in his words that stuns you into silence. “Not the way I love you, anyway.”

That tenderness is still there as he says this. As he presses the wet fabric into the meat of your palm, wipes the stains away, and the warmth is as calming as it is undeserved. It feels like something forbidden. It feels like salvation and condemnation all at once, like whatever sick depravity permeates you is contagious, will take over Jimin, too, just from touching you.

Jimin is close enough to reach out and touch. Close enough to see the violence that he exists in alongside you: the rips in his clothes, the scars that decorate his skin. Close enough to know he smells sickly-sweet, just like death. Your hand shakes as it reaches for him and never follows through. Doesn’t want to contaminate him.

“I do,” you finally say. Whatever is in your voice is not conviction. “I can’t.” You suck in a breath, try to steady your breathing. This is where it all comes crashing down, you think, because in all the years you’ve done Namjoon’s bidding, you’ve never cried. You can take life so freely and without thought, but you cannot love Jimin. “Someone like me isn’t capable of it.”

Jimin pauses, the washcloth stuck in the space between your ring and middle fingers. “And who is someone like you?”

Water is still dripping to the floor. Serosanguineous: blood tainting something untouched. Not something one thing or another but both, watery-pink. Looks like Jimin’s hair. “I’ve killed a lot of people,” you answer. “More than I can count. More than I can name. More than the ones that come to haunt me at night.” Your free hand moves to your chest, covers your heart. “There’s nothing here, Jimin. I’m not sure there ever was.”

The washcloth drops to the floor, and all that blood belonging to a man whose name you never bothered to learn before you put a bullet between his eyes finds a new place to rest. “I think,” he begins, clasping your unclean hand in his own, voice dropping to a whisper, “you forget, sometimes.” You gasp as he places your palm to his cheek, drags it across his face, smears a stranger’s blood across his skin. “That we’re the same.”

Jimin is always overwhelming, but the love he has for you is even more so. It consumes you entirely, embeds itself beneath your skin, makes a home, would tear you apart, body and soul, to return to him.

[ 47.4979° N, 19.0402° E | Budapest, HUNGARY ]

Jimin’s hair is lavender when it all goes to shit.

“You’re being followed.”

Seokjin’s voice is garbled through the earpiece, tinny and metallic, and you roll your eyes. Some things don’t need to be said, because you’ve known someone was following you for the last three blocks. Average height, black peacoat, close-cropped haircut. Not the kind of person that’d stand out here, and that’s exactly why you’d sent Jimin in the other direction.

“No shit,” you respond in Hungarian, because you already know the man following you doesn’t speak or understand it. “Give me somewhere to go.”

It takes Seokjin a few moments to run the translation. “There’s a side street up on your right,” he answers. “It’s tight, but there’s an alleyway at the end. You can buy some time if you’re quick.”

“Where’s Jimin?”

You pass a vendor selling lángos and duck into the street behind the stall. Just as Seokjin had said, there’s a small alleyway up on the left, and your footfall is near-silent as you break into a sprint to reach it. “Safe,” is all Seokjin says.

You take a second to steady your breathing, knowing you’re good on time—the man following you was close enough to know where you’d turned, but, if you’re lucky, not much after that. That plays on a loop: if you’re lucky, if you’re lucky, if you’re lucky. What is luck, what does it look like, in a life left entirely to chance? In a life with no guarantees?

You tuck yourself away, focus on Seokjin’s metallic breaths. Think about his basement in Seoul, why he’s in it. Ask, “What happened in Addis Ababa?” because it feels important to know.

There’s not much you know about Seokjin’s life. Whatever happened in Ethiopia had been before your time, reduced to hushed whispers and gossip fodder after your arrival. No one spoke of it, Seokjin especially, but every now and then something would slip in the same way weeds grow in sidewalk cracks.

A job gone wrong. A bombing at the consulate with Seokjin inside.

His reply is simple, words spoken carefully: “I loved someone once, too.”

He can’t see it, but you nod nonetheless; an answer that doesn’t require a response, because you know. It’s enough to fill in the rest. What Seokjin’s trauma looks like. Why he doesn’t do field work anymore. Why he prefers the solitude of the basement, rarely a sound beyond the electric thrum of the server racks.

Who had gone in to retrieve him, and why Yoongi has the scar over his eye.

“You loved someone,” you conclude, “and he would’ve been willing to die for you.”

“Yes,” Seokjin says, and it’s like the word’s been punched out of him. Sounds like something repressed, something left to rot in the darkest corner of the world.

Love, to Seokjin, looks and sounds the same as death.

“I think most people spend their entire lives searching for a love like that,” he continues, and if you could see him you think he might look dazed, off-kilter. You think he might be an avatar. Seokjin is prying his ribcage apart, unwrapping the barbed wire from his heart, saying I once was in love and this is all I know of it. “But, to me, in this life, it’s a prison. Once someone is willing to die for you, how do you keep them alive? How do you—I kissed that skin. I worshiped it. I pressed my lips to it with whatever softness was left in me. How do you look at that same skin and know you’re the reason it’s mangled?” He exhales, all tremor. “You can’t. You can’t.”

You know this all too well. You know what it feels like to look at Jimin and know, intrinsically and subconsciously, that you wouldn’t even hesitate. You’d take and give life to keep him alive and safe. You know that when you exit this world at someone else’s hand his face is the last thing you want to see.

You know it’s a liability.

You know it’s a target painted on your back. Between your eyes.

You know there’s nothing left to say, that this particular conversation has run its course. The two of you sit in an amicable silence, and you hope Seokjin can hear the life that surrounds you, however mundane. Hope he can hear the lángos vendor trying to hawk his goods; hope he can hear a city 8,000 kilometers away; hope he can hear these regular, everyday people going about their lives and remember there’s hope beyond his four walls.

I think you’d like it here, you think, but you don’t dare to say it aloud.

Time passes in a meaningless blur. Could be minutes, could be hours. No one’s come to kill you, so you reckon you’ve long since been in the clear. And maybe it speaks to Seokjin’s idea that love is a prison, because you know something’s happened to Jimin long before Seokjin speaks it into existence.

You’re up and out of the alleyway before you’re told to move. Have no idea where you’re going, but you’re racing through the streets of Budapest with a panic you haven’t ever felt in your life. Feels like quicksand; feels like molasses; feels like you have to wade through all the blood you’ve spilled, now congealed, to get to him.

“Where am I going?” you demand. Your lungs are on fire. In the split-second of silence it becomes a desperate scream. “Seokjin, tell me where the fuck I’m going!”

“The—fuck, the wa-warehouse up on your right.” You can’t think about why he’s crying. “I don’t—I don’t know wha-what’s there, you need to be careful. Please, you have to—”

Twenty seconds and you’ll be there, you’ll be with Jimin, you just need to keep running. You need to keep your head on straight. Remember your training. Remember you’ve built a life in a viper pit.

A man in a uniform is unloading a shipment around the back of the building. Faces away from you, bent at the waist. Takes very little effort to smash his head into the stone exterior and knock him unconscious, pocket his badge. You can’t get stupid now. Tell Seokjin to make sure all the cameras are cut, ask what floor when you shut yourself inside the freight elevator, unwilling to take the stairs and run into anyone who might be waiting. All the way to the top, he says, so all the way to the top you go.

—

Over the course of your life, you’ve made peace with death. Have stared it in the eye more times than you can count. Have dealt it out, evaded it, shook its hand.

You are wholly unprepared for the sight that greets you.

Red. Everything is red—the walls, the floor, what used to be a beautiful parquet pattern in the wood. In the center of the room: two bodies, maybe three. Not much that’d be able to identify them beyond a pile of teeth, no saying whose is whose. Slaughterhouse scraps.

And this is not—Jimin doesn’t work this way. Isn’t his MO. Jimin’s kills are elegant and neat, topped with a bow. What you see before you is ultraviolence. It is unhinged, it is fury, it is a complete loss of control. It’s what love looks like to Jimin, because he sits at the very edge of a rotted chair, legs crossed. Face streaked with blood, clothes covered in it.

“Jimin,” you say, because what else is there?

He tilts his head to the side, smirks a little, looks at you beneath his lashes. Eyes that used to find you across a room and calm you. Eyes that have locked onto you in the throes of pleasure. Eyes you’ve seen yourself reflected in, bathed in love and adoration.

Eyes that now contain nothing.

“Jimin, what the fuck happened?”

He removes his gloves with his teeth and doesn’t flinch away from the taste of iron. “They said they hurt you,” he states simply, “so I did what needed to be done.”

“What—” Nausea claws at your throat; for the first time, it’s all too much. This isn’t Jimin. This isn’t your Jimin, who smiled as you posed him against apricot walls in Copenhagen, who took a bullet to the stomach to protect you and never, ever told you. This is not the Jimin who wasted the last of his goodwill on loving you. “What did you do?” you whisper.

He rises to full height and it makes you flinch. You are scared of Jimin for the first time in your life: scared of who he is in this moment, what he’s capable of. And he sees it, lets that brand of anguish overtake him. Reaches for you before he decides against it and lets his hand drop to his side. Says, “I would never hurt you,” as if the words could brand themselves into your skin so you’d never forget.

“No, you’d just—” You squeeze your eyes shut. Don’t think about how one of the men nearly embedded into the floor was the one trailing you earlier.

Instead, you think about Seokjin: Once someone is willing to die for you, how do you keep them alive? You think about: How do you look at that same skin and know you’re the reason it’s mangled? You think about: In this life, it’s a prison.

You drop to your knees. Let the blood seep through your clothes and into your skin, undeserving of shying away from it.

Namjoon should’ve let you go.

You think about the men in front of you. Who they were, who they loved. The grief all of this is going to leave behind, and it becomes impossible to breathe. You grasp at your throat, think about all the times you’ve been strangled and who’d been there to cut the rope. There is no limit to Jimin’s devotion, and you understand now, how it drove Yoongi to madness. How he loved someone so much he would’ve retrieved their corpse from a building and how that same person can no longer bear to look at the damage they’d caused.

“This isn’t love, Jimin,” you choke out.

He stands in front of you. Stigmata. You’re worshiping at the altar of some kind of devil. At least his hands are clean when he places his fingers beneath your chin, forces you to look up at him. “What is it, then?”

“Destruction.”

A quiet huff of cruel laughter. “See, this is the difference between me and you, darling.” He takes back his hand, runs it through his blood-streaked hair, and your chin sags to your chest without his support. “Because I already knew that. Because I have destroyed myself every single day loving you.” He squats down, eye-level, and he says, “I need you to listen to me when I say this, sweetheart: you do not love me the way I love you, because I would do worse. When it comes to you, there is nothing on this earth I would not destroy to keep you safe.”

He clears his throat. Collects whatever’s in his mouth and spits onto one of the bodies. “If this is enough to have you tucking your fucking tail between your legs, then go, because this doesn’t even scratch the fucking surface.”

You can’t bring yourself to say anything, and sometimes that says it all.

Jimin presses a kiss to the top of your head. Makes a call. Cleaners will be here soon, he says, better get going.

You watch him go.

[ 37.5665° N, 126.9780° E | Seoul, SOUTH KOREA ]

Jimin’s hair is black when Namjoon calls the meeting.

He takes the seat across from Namjoon’s desk because they don’t meet like this often. Assignments are usually manila folders slipped under doors, hushed whispers in hallways confirmed with a nod or a text on a burner phone. Assignments are not last-minute assemblies in conference rooms and offices.

But the way Namjoon is looking at him, with his clenched jaw and a gaze that’s meant to look barbed to anyone who doesn’t actually know him—Jimin doesn’t need to ask what this is about.

Had he bothered to look, he would’ve known by the way you stood in the far corner of the room, face obscured by the mid-afternoon shadows. Yoongi’s close to you, for some reason: dressed head to toe in black, perched on a lateral file cabinet, using a metal corner to sharpen his switchblade. Just like a harbinger of death. Some sort of fucked up omen, a warning that’s come too late.

Didn’t I tell you this would end badly, he hears Yoongi taunt in his head. This is what happens when you lay with trash.

Easy for Yoongi to say when he doesn’t know what it means to be cared for by you. Doesn’t know how it feels to give in to the freefall and plummet at your feet, stripped back and laid bare. Doesn’t know how it feels to kiss secrets into your skin like constellations, to map his tongue along every unspoken confession.

Easy for Yoongi to say, because he doesn’t have to survive the aftermath. Doesn’t have to feel the heartbreak, the agony of having you and watching as you slip through his fingers. Yoongi doesn’t have to struggle just to breathe, doesn’t have to endure the nights staring at the ceiling, watching as the daylight creeps into the corners of his vision. Doesn’t have to watch you looking so unaffected.

“Jimin.” Namjoon’s tone is flat, needlelike.

Behind him, Yoongi chuckles lowly. “What?” Jimin asks, his gaze trained on the painting behind Namjoon’s head. Looks like one he’d seen in Berlin, the time the two of you had gone just because and spent an afternoon ducking in and out of museums to escape the rain.

When he closes his eyes, he still sees the raindrops stuck to your eyelashes. The beads of water rolling off the sleeves of your leather jacket. How blinding your smile had been. The laughter in your voice as you ordered beer after beer after beer for the two of you in flawless Berlinisch. A brief, fleeting glimpse at normalcy. At the kind of life the two of you could have if you were just… different. Lived different lives. Were different people.

“You’ve gotten sloppy.”

Namjoon’s words are a cold bucket of water. Snap him back to reality, yank him back to the present where he’s forced to leave those river-lined streets behind. You’re silent and Yoongi’s still snorting laughter. “Okay,” is all Jimin can bring himself to say.

Jin had gotten sloppy once, too, and Namjoon stuck him down in the basement to work logistics. Might not be so bad, Jimin reckons. He’d be away from you, spared of this fucking misery. “So you know that’s unacceptable.”

Jimin just shrugs, resigned to his fate, whatever it may be. “I’m reassigning the both of you,” Namjoon continues. “You’ll both have new partners for your next assignments, since you clearly can no longer be trusted together.”

“Who?” Jimin manages to choke out.

Namjoon raises an eyebrow, clearly having expected an argument. “You’re being sent to Shanghai with Jungkook. You,” he says, turning his attention to you, “are going to Moscow with Taehyung.”

She’s fond of Taehyung, Jimin wants to say. But you’d been fond of him too, once upon a time, and that’d only ended in heartbreak, so who fucking cares.

They’re cruel, the tricks Jimin’s mind plays on him. How he convinces himself you look pained. How his fingers wring together at the thought of entrusting his life in the hands of someone else, someone new. At your life being just as at stake; at Taehyung being tasked with keeping you alive. Would you die for him, too, the way you’d always told Jimin you would for him? Would Taehyung take a bullet to the stomach to keep you safe the way Jimin had?

Even more cruel is the way you scoff, pushing yourself off of the wall as you fold your arms across your chest and say, “That’s bullshit, Kim Namjoon.”

No one talks to Namjoon that way except you.

Yoongi’s knife stops twirling. Just like a bird sensing a storm, senses on high-alert as he flicks his gaze over to you. “I’m sorry?” Namjoon says. “What part of Jimin losing his mind and nearly outing all of us seems like bullshit to you?”

“Hm, let me think,” you retort, a manicured finger tapping against the hollow of your cheek. “The part where you’re reassigning me for someone else’s mistake?”

Which part was the mistake? Jimin wants to ask. Needs to know how much you regret. Was sleeping with you the mistake? Falling in love with you? Getting too caught up in all these daydreams and letting reality get away from him?

“This organization is more important than Park Jimin getting his goddamn dick wet,” Namjoon snaps. “Keeping all of you safe—keeping you alive—is more—”

You scoff. Take an entire container of gasoline and pour it right on top of Namjoon’s flammable ire. “Then perhaps you’d be so kind as to explain to me why Min fucking Yoongi can fuck damn near everyone in this establishment, yet I have to sit here and listen to your goddamn mouth—”

Jimin doesn’t think Yoongi even knows his arm is moving.

There’d just been the trading of barbed words. His own name being spoken into the ether. Yoongi’s arm moving away from his body, switchblade clasped tightly between his fingers as he plunges it into your flesh.

Jimin watches it puncture your arm in slow motion. Feels the bile in his throat, the heat in his belly. Looks first at Namjoon whose jaw has gone slack, skin pale, as he stammers over words that won’t come. Then he looks at Yoongi—expects to find shock or guilt but finds only a muted disinterest and flared nostrils.

Finally, he looks at you. Watches the white cotton sleeve of your shirt slowly turn red and sticky-wet. Watches as your lips move around syllables and vowels and consonants Jimin can’t decipher.

“—fucking piece of shit, this is my favorite shirt! I’ll never get all this goddamn blood out of it—”

Jimin thinks he hears Yoongi say you deserve it. But Jimin isn’t really thinking much as he clambers out of his chair and moves in Yoongi’s direction. Doesn’t think at all as he lets instinct take over, lets adrenaline steer him headfirst into yet another bad idea.

He’s always known there’d come a day he’d be face-to-face with the sight of your blood. Had always known it’d come from someone else’s hand. Had always promised himself that hurting you would be the last thing anyone ever did.

Jimin has his fingers wrapped around Yoongi’s throat and he finally understands it—the joy Yoongi finds in taking life.

“What’s the matter, Jimin-ah?” Yoongi taunts. Jimin tightens his grip. Suddenly hates that fucking scar across Yoongi’s eye. “You’re never on clean-up duty. Always make your girlfriend do the dirty work. Finally grew some fucking balls, huh?”

“Fuck you,” Jimin says stupidly. Can’t think of anything more to say. Not that he needs to. Wrapping your hands around someone’s throat sends enough of a message, he thinks.

Namjoon’s still tongue-tied as you yank Yoongi’s blade from your arm, immediately pressing your other hand over the wound to stem the bleeding. The sight of your blood is making Jimin dizzy; the smell of the iron hanging in the air. All he wants to do is choke the life out of the man in front of him, but more than that, he just wants to hold your hand. Wants to comfort you, even though he knows you don’t need it. Not from him, not from anyone, but he still wants to. Wants to press his lips to the sweat at your brow.

And Yoongi can see it, too, because he starts laughing. It’s an odd, fractured noise. Jimin isn’t sure if he’s ever heard him laugh before, decides he also hates the way it sounds. Feels all wrong watching it leave his crooked smirk. Makes Jimin’s stomach plummet to the ground.

“Oh, you’re fucked, aren’t you?” Yoongi teases around Jimin’s slackened grip. “You weren’t just fucking her, you’re in love with her.”

Weird how Jimin is the one with his hands around someone’s neck and feels like he’s the one suffocating.

[ 31.2304° N, 121.4737° E | Shanghai, CHINA ]

Jimin watches the life drain from an innocent woman’s face and feels nothing.

Jimin watches Jungkook cut a man down and feels even less.

When it’s over, he cleans up wordlessly and doesn’t eat for three days.

[ 37.5665° N, 126.9780° E | Seoul, SOUTH KOREA ]

Jimin’s hair has faded to brown by the time he returns from Shanghai.

The more complicated job had gone to you and Taehyung. Jimin had tried not to take it personally. The Russian hits are always unnecessarily violent and Jungkook still isn’t fully trained. There’s still a phantom pain in Jimin’s stomach that warns him of the consequences of taking on more than he can chew. So, sure, Shanghai had gone fine, but his mind had been nearly 7,000 kilometers away the entire time.

Good thing he’d returned to Seoul unscathed, too, because he’s sure Namjoon would’ve eliminated him without a moment’s hesitation if he’d fucked up again.

But Shanghai had only served to prove the leader right. Jimin can’t work with you anymore. Can’t focus, can’t stomach the violence, can’t keep his goddamn head on straight.

He sighs as he glances at Jungkook to his right. Jimin had watched him murder two men in cold blood not even thirty-six hours ago and now he’s doe-eyed and sucking down his third banana milk of the morning. It really makes his head spin, being paired with this grown-up infant of a man now instead of you, but for all of Jungkook’s apparent shortcomings, he’d kept Jimin alive. He isn’t dead.

And then you walk in with Taehyung and he wishes he was.

Because you’re laughing and Taehyung’s got his arm slung around your shoulder and you look happy. It’s the kind of happiness that should be contagious, bloom warmth in his chest, but it doesn’t. It just takes the last frayed strand of hope he has and sets flame to it.

You don’t look like you miss Jimin at all. Don’t look like you’ve lost sleep or skipped meals.

“Didn’t take you long, did it?” Jimin says, because he’s wounded and lashing out. Not because he means it.

You must know he doesn’t, too, because you don’t react. “Watch your mouth, Park Jimin,” Taehyung warns, because he doesn’t know, and this only sets Jimin off more. You don’t need defending. Or had you, and Jimin had simply thought it wasn’t his place to provide it? That you wouldn’t want it?

“Or what, Kim Taehyung?”

Taehyung is cherubic. It’s part of his charm, one of many reasons why he’s so effective. If you’re looking to die, you look for the guy who looks like Yoongi, not the one who smiles wide and warm like Taehyung. So when he sets his jaw and pokes his tongue into his cheek and says, “Or I’ll cut your fucking head off, you stupid fuck,” your attention is finally piqued.

“I’m so sick of this,” Jungkook wails, banana milk tossed carelessly in the trash. “All of you need to get your fucking shit together!”

Taehyung rolls his eyes at the same time you pretend to inspect your nails. “Is that why you’re so temperamental, Chim?” Taehyung prods, looking every bit the pretentious, murderous angel he is. “Because you got sent to China on a babysitting mission while the grownups did real work?”

“Fuck you,” Jungkook snaps, rising to full height. “I’m not a fucking child.”

“Oh? Could’ve fooled me.” Taehyung’s words are razor-sharp and smell like kerosene. “Tell me, then: were you on babysitting duty? Had to look after our precious little Jiminie while he nursed his broken heart?”

You sigh, full of faux-exasperation, and place a gentle hand on Taehyung’s forearm. Dig your nails in just enough to be a warning, and if Jimin hadn’t been looking he’d miss it: the way Taehyung deflates instantly, anger dissipating like smoke, back in control. Just because you’d touched him. Just because you were there. Jimin knows that touch, how it feels to be under your control, and it makes his chest ache. Makes everything feel like it’s sitting wrong in his stomach, and he’s either going to be sick all over Namjoon’s overpriced fucking rug or wrap his hands around Taehyung’s throat the way he’d done to Yoongi.

He’s out of his goddamned mind; he feels untethered. Helpless. Like it was always going to end like this, and maybe Jimin knew that and had just ignored it. Maybe now he’s paying the price—maybe he’s finally found something he can’t afford.

Jungkook’s still going off, nasty gaze set on Taehyung because he’s the only one playing along. They’re exchanging words Jimin can’t make heads nor tails of. Words he doesn’t care about. Words that ring empty and hollow because they sound nothing like the way you say his name. Shapeless, unlike the way your lips move around those syllables.

“Jimin,” you say, the sound finally registering and bringing him back down to earth. All he can do is stare. “Can we talk?” Taehyung and Jungkook are still trading barbs.

Wonders how he got here. Looks around the room and wonders if each and every one of them is destined for this same fate, this madness. Wants to tell you why he forgot his vest, why he was three hours late in Argentina. Wants to grovel and beg and leave this place and never look back.

More than anything, he wants to know what it feels like to actually be human.

So he shakes his head. Tries not to be haunted by the way your face falls at the rejection.

There is a scar on his abdomen and a scar on your arm that both tell the same story. There is a man in the basement who is in love with a man above ground and is too weighed down by guilt to do anything about it. There is a man here who plays god, has soldiers to do his bidding, and there is very little here that Jimin has only for himself.

The two of you will have that conversation, but he needs to be human, first.

[ 34.6901° N, 135.1956° E | Kobe, JAPAN ]

This is a waste of your fucking time.

Whatever Namjoon had thought would be here doesn’t seem to exist. Yoongi can barely tolerate you on a good day, threatens to stick a dagger in your neck at least twice an hour, but the more time the two of you waste chasing ghosts, the closer he comes to unraveling entirely.

“Stop fucking staring at me,” he snaps, blowing the smoke of his cigarette right in your face.

You tut. “But you’re so beautiful, Yoongi, I just can’t help it.”

He digs his switchblade from his boot. Makes a show of flipping it open. “I can cut your fuckin’ eyes out of your skull,” he intones. “Maybe that’ll help.”

In your ear, Jimin’s laughter rings like crystal.

Ricochets off of all the corners of Seokjin’s basement, makes the echo sound warped through the earpiece. “Please tell Yoongi-ssi to keep an eye on the man with the shaved head. In front of him, roughly sixty degrees to his right.”

You relay the message. Watch as Yoongi transforms—sharpened gaze, rigid posture, disappears into the shadows. More apex predator than man. “And me?” you ask.

“Backup,” comes Seokjin’s voice. “We haven’t found your mark yet.”

You hum. Pick up the cigarette Yoongi left behind and stick it between your lips. Smoke it nearly to the filter. “You got it, boss,” you tease, just because it flusters him.

“I’m—that’s not—knock it off.”

Exhale. Stub out the cigarette. Butt in your pocket. “Anything else?”

“Yeah,” Jimin says, and his voice is soft, sounds like spun sugar. “Stay alive, all right?”

Jimin’s hair isn’t dyed at all.

if you've read this far: thank you so, so much! i am more appreciative than i can put into words. this is very different from what i typically write, but i hope you enjoyed it nonetheless.

i would love to hear your thoughts if you have any. <3

#jimin x reader #jimin smut #bts x reader #bts smut #jimin imagine #jimin scenarios #jimin fanfic #jimin x you #jimin x y/n #bts imagines #bts scenarios #bts fanfic #bts x you #bts x y/n

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cucumberteapot · 1 year

Text

I feel like people aren't as open to discussing E-42 Prowle because there is so much about the character we don't know or the films haven't explicitly told us yet. However, I'd like to think writers have presented us with enough information that we can make a strong assessment as to not to what kind of role they'll serve (I think it's fair to say Miles G is going to be an antagonist later-turned hero or anti-hero in BSTV), but what kind of character this is and how they challenge Miles as the main character.

I'd like to discuss one crucial aspect of piece of body language and physical characterisation. This right here:

This is our first proper shot of E-42 Prowler and it closely parallels Aaron Davis in then first movie when he's watching Miles run away.

Now I want to pay mind that in deliberately holding off the plot twist of Aaron being the Prowler, the audience is given no key identifiers as to the Prowler's true identity. He doesn't even have any lines of dialogue until Miles is hiding in his apartment and we after we get the reveal. In every sense of the term, Prowler is a gun for hire. Except he doesn't use guns. The point is he is a hitman. He consistently does what he's told by Kingpin - "You can count on me, sir. I don't ever quit." But then when he's confront with the reveal of the kid he's been hunting is his own nephew and he must choose between his identities as Aaron and as Prowler, that loyalty is severed and it costs him his life.

Which leads us to this specific visual of E-42 Prowler dangling from the rafter before dropping down to face Miles. The camera doesn't cut away from how he drops. Instead we're put entirely in Miles' perspective as to this guy's every move. Between us and Miles, the crew don't want us to miss anything. So what are we seeing here?

Well firstly I think it's clear this is something the Prowler we know wouldn't do because this is a merge of personas of Miles as the Prowler and as a 15-year old. This reads to us as something a lanky kid would do on a jungle-gym, and the fact E-42 Prowler doesn't take his eyes off Miles not only demonstrates curiosity but almost an invitation to play. Not literally, but I believe this Prowler is someone who likes to toy with their victims (which he see a bit of towards the end). And in this case, Prowler is definitely testing Miles from the moment he starts talking about ideas counteractive to his reality - That Aaron Davis could be a "good guy" and that the Prowler identity is something detrimental to the E-42 dimensions' existence. Granted, Miles is speaking from the experience of someone who's Prowler didn't provide income for their family and represent a symbol of strength like the Spiderman identity, so it's a no brainer E-42 Prowler views Miles as antithetical to his state of being. Another thing is that this is how Miles hangs from his webs throughout the movie (under the clocktower, before going through the portal to mumbattan, etc.), so it's a nice consistent characterisation between the two.

But that only leads us into what separates them. After keeping their focus directly on the other, they have their first exchange:

Prowler: Your dad is still alive? Miles: What? Prowler: Your father... You said he's still alive. Miles: Yeah. Prowler: Oh.

Okay, let's dissect this. Specifically Miles' confusion at to why Prowler's asking this because the audience is in the same boat but for very different reasons.

Now I don't want to make assumptions but even before Prowler unmasks, Miles already knows it's his counterpart and his question isn't so much as not knowing but a request for confirmation. However the reason why Miles is confused here is because he expected that same curiousity about identity from his counterpart - not about relatives. Prowler doesn't ask who Miles is even though he doesn't really know, and when he gets his answer that, yes, Jefferson is alive in the other universe, his reaction is played off as dismissive, separating his identity and priorities from Miles. Whatever it is, considering it's the first thing he's asks, this is a vital piece of information for Prowler but his reaction removes any possibility he can be negotiated with... which Miles continuously fails at.

Miles: Who are you? Prowler: My name is Miles Morales. But you... You can call me the Prowler. Miles: If I don't get home, our dad is going to die. Prowler: Your dad. Miles: Please... You have to let me go. Prowler: And why would I do that?

That then leads us on to Miles' question because he's not only asking for his kidnapper's name, he's asking for who this person is. And in turn who we see isn't particularly angry or vindictive - we'll get to that. Instead, Prowler's expression is complete desolation.

It's only when Miles further insinuates they are the same by referring to Jefferson as "our dad", does he shoot back with "your dad". It's quick because this Prowler is still separating himself from this version of himself and the idea he could or would've been or had anything like his life. Finally Miles accepts that they are separate and ask Prowler to let him go, but Prowler has another rhetorical question which implies although he considers this Miles separate to himself, he still has use for him somehow. Which honestly if you had this strength-is-all mindset, it might feel rewarding to have captured this part of yourself that you considered weak - which for all Prowler knows, Miles is just this inferior version of himself who got decked in one hit.

And then lastly we have these two shots here where Prowler raises his "claw" beside Miles' head and sizes him up.

If Aaron can scare Miles by punching the sand out of a boxing bag while Prowler only has to put his fist on it, you tell me who's more terrifying?

But truthfully this last non-conversational exchange before Miles stares Prowler back down is evident that not only is Prowler going to beat the shit out of Miles, but that Miles' "flippy, little sassy jokes" as Spot puts it, is not going to help him here. Because if he wants to survive, he's going to have to match Prowler's energy. This film has a bittersweet ending not because Miles is captured but because Miles has internalised what he's been fighting against the whole movie - The emotional desolation of being Spider-man that lets them deal with or appear indifferent to the harm or death of people around them and it's exemplified when he applies Peter's first lesson of being Spider-man:

"Don't watch the mouth. Watch the hands."

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chvnnie · 2 years

Text

Heavenly

han jisung x reader x bang chan

word count: 3.1k

genre: smut - MINORS DNI

warnings: mafia au, multiple mentions of blood, mentions of a crime (murder), mentions of an injury, assassin/hitman jisung, switch!jisung (falls into both dom and sub headspace in this fic), sub!reader, dom!chan, a bit of teasing, dirty talk, daddy kink (towards chan), pet name: baby, humiliation/degradation-ish towards jisung, implied reader x other members, implied member x member, nipple play+one slap, choking, oral fixation, unprotected sex, this is just pure filth tbh idk y'all. if i missed anything, PLEASE LET ME KNOW.

summary: you're more than a stress relief - you're their heaven.

a/n: i have...many mafia skz thoughts that all play into this universe and i had to get this out. idk i may delete it? but while i have the guts to, i'm posting it now l o l. if we're a fan of mafia skz, lemme know because i have endless content.

this is a work of fiction. this fic in no way represents han jisung or bang chan as people or stray kids as a whole. you are responsible for the media you consume. please read responsibly.

taglist: @lix-ables, @rachalixie, @agustd-essert, @gibbysupremeacyisreal, @katieraven, @miamormi, @woahfruity, @isilentprincess, @hugs4chan, @stranger-thighs, @beautifulcolorgarden, @scottmcallisdaddy, @whatudowhennooneseesyou, @raspbinniecreme, @humayraaaaa

The blood on Jisung's shirt was a little more damp than he expected it to be, the white sleeve turning darker the longer it sat. It dripped off the cuff, falling onto his slacks and seeping through the fabric. He clutches the wheel, eyes narrowed and focused on the yellow lines, trying to calm his breathing.

Fuck, that got out of hand. He wasn’t sure if it was his or the other guy’s, and Jisung didn’t know if he wanted to know. It’s better to be blissfully ignorant, leaving the scene behind him as he keeps an eye on his speed. He doesn’t want to risk getting caught like this. After what he just did.

Jisung prides himself on his work. He’s good at it; clean, quick, efficient. There was no reason tonight should have gotten so out of hand. He was prepared. More prepared than the target was. And yet, here he was, questioning whether or not the cut on his arm needs to be tended to by Seungmin immediately or if he can clean it himself.

The gates to the mansion are slow to open, teeth digging into his lower lip in impatience. They’re just as slow to close, but he can’t focus on that.

He can’t focus on anything.

His heart is hammering against his chest, ready to bust out. The adrenaline coursed through his veins making his body hot, brown hair sticking to his forehead. Lifting a hand up, he pushed it back, wanting it out of his face and-

Fuck.

The blood.

Luckily the rearview mirror eases his fear; most of the blood is in his hair, not on his skin.

Good. He can’t see you with blood on his face.

The front door slams shut behind him, echoing through the empty entryway. There’s no sign of life — everyone too far into their slumber to notice his arrival. He kicks his boots off, letting them bounce against the white wall and land with a thud.

God, what fucking happened tonight? How could he have fucked up so badly? He’s jittery with anger, heart pounding harder and harder as he climbs the curved staircase. That guy wasn’t supposed to be there — Jisung had watched for weeks preparing for this. It should’ve gone exactly as planned. But it hadn’t, and now he was injured and angry, pent up aggression begging to get out.

He rolls his sleeves up as he approaches the door at the end of the hall, the cut on his forearm throbbing and stinging as the cold air hits it. Slowly turning the knob, he pushes the door open, the moonlight from the hallway windows spilling into the dark bedroom.

Your chest rises up and down slowly, breaths deep and slow with a soft snore falling from your lips. Careful not to disturb you, he sneaks into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him before he turns on the light. The blood stains the clear skin, watery and spinning down the drain. Jisung scrubs and scrubs, making sure every inch of his arms and hands are clean before stripping his dress shirt off.

The cut is bad. Nothing that can’t wait, but worse than he thought. Chan would be mad, both about the injury and extra casualties. He can see his disappointed face when he blinks, throbbing heart dropping to his belly. Pushing it to the back of the mind, he exits back into the bedroom, where you’re still fast asleep.

Hair fanning on the silk pillow, you’re a picture of bliss. Relaxed and happy, eyelids twitching with what he hopes are the most wonderful dreams. What’s going on in that head of yours? Were you told where he was going tonight? When he kissed you goodbye, did you worry about him? He hopes not — the last thing he wants is for you to be kept up with thoughts of him not coming home.

Tears sting his eyes, and Jisung presses the heels of his palm to them. He hopes you weren’t, because he was worried enough for the two of you. The thought of never seeing you again plagued him the entire time. His fuck up almost cost him everything and he just can’t bear it.

He sits on the bed next to you, reaching out to stroke your cheek. It doesn’t take long for his touch to stir you awake, sleepy eyes slowly fluttering open. They light up a bit when you realize who’s pulling you out of your slumber.

“Jisung?” You whisper, a slight whine to your voice as you reach out to him.

He quickly collects your hands, bringing them to his lips to kiss them. “Hi, baby. Missed you.”

You smile softly at him, ready to return the sentiment when you notice the cut on his arm. It’s poorly wrapped, the blood seeping through the bandage just slightly. “You’re hurt.”

Eyes flickering down to his cut then back to yours, he’s quick to soothe you. “It’s nothing. Just a little scratch.”

“No.” You say with a shake of your head, sitting up and reaching towards the injury. “You’re bleeding-“

“Don’t worry.” There’s a myriad of feelings clouding his brain; anger with the target, fear of Chan’s disappointment, affection for you while also a deep frustration for himself for making you worry. “I’m really okay.”

There’s a flash of hesitance in your eyes. You don’t believe him, and he doesn’t blame you. Quickly your eyes soften, the way you squeeze his hands easing the tension a bit. “Make sure Minnie looks at it.”

He nods in agreement, already planning on doing so but it reassures you nonetheless. You lean forward, placing a gentle kiss on his cheek. Turning his head, his nose nudges against yours, smiling at the way you hum sleepily.

You make the first move, lips brushing against his. It’s so soft, so loving and sweet. Cupping your cheek, he deepens the kiss just a bit, smiling as you reach out and wrap your arms around his shoulders. Creeping up the nape of his neck, you run your fingers through his hair, scratching just a bit in a way that makes him moan lowly. Your touch feels so heavenly, so comforting after a horrific mission.

The realization hits him right as you scrunch your nose, pulling your hands back slowly. Jisung moves back, trying to grab your wrists before you see it.

“Did you shower?” You ask, eyebrows furrowing as his grip tightens. “Why is your hair wet?”

He regrets taking off his shirt, suddenly needing something to wipe the blood off with. “Let’s go take a bath, hm? Since you’re up-“

“Jisung, what is that?”

“Blood.” His answer is clipped, filled with guilt that he let you touch him like this. “Let’s go clean it off-“

“Who’s?”

He sighs, reaching down for your abandoned sweatpants by the side of the bed. “Remember the guy that Changbin was talking about the other night?”

You nod, staring at him while he focuses on cleaning your hands. “Him?”

“I had too, baby-“

“Good.“

Your response makes him pause. Rarely does he talk about his job with you; not because you’re uncomfortable with it, but out of protection. The less you know about what he does when he disappears in the middle of the night, the better. Slowly, he nods.

“That’s the one who’s been causing trouble for Chan?”

Again, he nods.

“Okay.“

It’s not what he expected, but nothing about this night has gone the way he thought it would. Hands clean of blood, Jisung drops the dirty sweats on the ground. Silence falls between you, both of your eyes focused on the palms of your hands.

“We still need to wash them.”

But that fact is quickly lost by the intensity in which you kiss him, tongue immediately parting his lips and diving in. There’s no time to process what’s happening, Jisung’s body reacting before his brain can. He’s so pent up, so frustrated and dealing with too many feelings to keep his head on straight. He needs to get it out.

Why not on you?

Jisung sits up on his knees, all but pushing you down on the bed. The kisses are rougher, teeth pulling at each other’s lips and tongues canvassing, wanting to taste each other like it’s the first time. Slotting a leg between yours, a hand teases the hem of your shirt, slowly pushing it up your body.

He cups your face, tilting your head back to taste more of you when your hand wraps around his wrist. The kisses don’t halt as you bring it to your throat. Jisung can’t control the groan he releases, putting pressure on your throat and drawing a long whimper from you.

It’s loud.

Too loud.

Chan shifts in the bed, groaning as he brings a hand to his face and rubs his eyes. “Keep her quiet. I’m trying to sleep.”

Jisung chuckles against your lips, increasing the grip he has on your throat. “Sorry, hyung. I’ll try my best.”

His hand creeps under your shirt, moving to cup your breast. Quickly catching your lips, your moans vibrate against his, only encouraging to toy with them more. Pinching your nipple and pulling, you break the kiss, a strangled cry leaving your lips.

“Oh baby. Does that feel good?” He coos, digging his nails into the sensitive nub to pull another cry from you.

All you can do is whimper, eyes squeezing shut in pleasure. It’s so heavenly, having you sprawled out below him, putty in his hands from just a few rough touches. He lets go of your nipple, landing a hard slap on the tingling skin. You squirm, hips bucking up and core coming in contact with his slacks. The friction makes you moan, unable to stop yourself from moving up and down his thigh, desperate for more.

“Such a needy baby.” He scolds, hand traveling down your body. Fingers tease the lacy hem of your panties, not quite ready to slip in. Jisung needs more from you. He needs you desperate for him, crying his name as your boyfriend lays in bed next to you.

This isn’t the first time he’s fucked you in front of Chan, and it won’t be the last, but the rush is always the same. It covers him like ice water, skin prickling and numbing his body in the best way. The feeling of your skin on his is something he’ll always crave, something he’ll never be able to shake. You’re his good and his bad, regardless of who you’re with. He needs you like he needs to breathe, and he’ll share you with whoever the fuck he has to. As long as he doesn’t have to go without the person he needs the most.

The feeling of the lace against his fingers as he finally slips inside is like no other, a wide smile on his face as he watches you react immediately. Big eyes blink up at him, teary and filled with a desperation to rival his own.

When his thumb brushes your clit ever so lightly, Jisung watches as your eyes roll back. His name sounds so beautiful falling from your lips in this state. Fuck, he needs to hear it again-

The bed shifts as Chan sits up, curls all out of sorts and sleep still lingering on his face. Narrowed eyes bounce from you to him, the playfulness evident even if his expression says otherwise. “What did I just say?”

Jisung chuckles, hooking your panties and pulling them to the side. He lets go of your neck briefly, pushing his slacks down just enough to free his throbbing cock. “It’s not my fault.” The tip runs through your wet folds, his teeth pulling his bottom lip in. “She just sounds so pretty.”

Chan looks over at you, seeing your grabby hands reaching for him. He gives you a gentle smile before leaning down and kissing your forehead. “Still. You know how to shut a whiny puppy up, Jisung.”

With a quirk of his eyebrow, a challenging smile spreads across his face as he pushes into you. The gasp you release is so loud and whiny as it fills the bedroom. “Do I?”

Taking advantage of your parted lips, Chan slips three fingers into your mouth. It’s embarrassing how easily you accept it, wrapping your lips around them and sucking, soothed immediately by the weight. You hum happily, tilting your head back to take more of his fingers.

“That’s a good girl.” Chan coos, and the praise makes you clench around Jisung’s cock, which was now halfway in.

You were already tight from the lack of prep, warm walls barely squeezing his cock in. Now you’re constricting him, unable to move deeper. His eyes roll back, hands coming to your hips and digging his nails into your skin. “Fuck, she’s so tight.” Jisung can feel his face redden, panting a bit as he tries to push further into you.

“Is she?” This time Chan coos at Jisung, sitting up fully in the bed so he can lean closer towards his friend. “Does she feel good, Sungie?”

Jisung’s nose twitches, the redness now up to his ears. “F-fuck off, Chan-“

“Answer me.” His tone leaves no room for argument. “Does my girlfriend’s cunt feel good?”

He somehow finally bottoms out, your muffled moans making him lightheaded. Jisung pauses, head hanging as he attempts to catch his breath. The way you’re clenching around him is bad enough, but Chan’s words make everything so. Much. Harder.

“Y-yes.” He grunts out, hoping that he’ll stop now that he has an answer.

Chan chuckles, free hand cupping the younger man’s face. Jisung can’t help the way he leans into his touch — Chan has such a pull on him, something he’s never been able to explain. He’ll do anything, anything, to make him proud.

“Kinda pathetic, isn’t it?” Chan says, an evil smile on his face. “Can’t get your own girl, so you have to fuck mine?”

He wants to deny it. To reaffirm to Chan the way he feels about you, to prove to him that it’s so much more than that. Like he hasn’t always known how crazy in love Jisung has always been with you.

With him.

He nods weakly, pulling out barely a quarter of the way before slamming back in. “She just is so good, Channie-“

Chan clicks his tongue, thumb finding his bottom lip and playing with it. “Who?”

He can’t help but snap into you harder this time, making you squirm as he hits your sweet spot. Oh how pretty you look, tears finally falling from the intensely wonderful feeling. Watching your boyfriend tease Jisung always does something to you; this strong, dominant man who always takes you as he wants, crumbling under Chan’s words.

“Daddy.” It’s barely above a whisper, and you’re sure you would have missed it if the room wasn’t so quiet. “She’s so good, daddy.”

The happy hum Chan releases makes Jisung’s chest fill with warmth, the validation that he’s done good only serving to help his hips move fast. Letting go of his face, your boyfriend gently begins to rub your clit.

You jolt, the intense feeling of Jisung repeatedly hitting you exactly where you want him and Chan’s circles heavenly. Legs beginning to shake, your core tingles as the orgasm builds and builds. You’ve never felt as good as you feel with the two of them, never felt as alive.

“Look at you.” Chan’s focus is back on you, applying more pressure to your clit. “Baby’s gonna cum?”

He pulls his fingers out of your mouth — a deep breath mixed with a broken cry ringing through his ears. “Y-yes, daddy. Baby cum? Pl-please?”

The attention Chan gives you is the opposite of the attention he gives Jisung. Soft, gentle, careful to give you exactly what you need to feel good. His lips brush against yours sweetly, free hand holding one of yours. “Of course, my love.”

He turns his head, the evil smile making another appearance as he takes in Jisung. He’s beet red, breathing heavily as he tries to control his thrusts, silent tears rolling down his cheeks. Just like Chan knows you like the back of his hand, he knows Jisung. All his tells, from the shaky thrust patterns to the barely audible whimpers.

“Aww. Are you going to cum too, Sungie?” Chan coos, tone dripping condescendingly.

Jisung is right on the cusp, ready to topple over at any second but trying his best to hold out. There’s a slight tremble to his lips as he sniffles a bit, your walls so divine that his brain is fogged. He doesn’t know where he starts and you end, and what started out as taking his frustration out on you turns into something much deeper. The need to please higher than the one to be pleased.

“Yeah.” Is all he can say as he focuses on savoring the feeling of completing you.

He’s not sure when Chan let go of your hand, but the next thing he knew it was on the nape of his neck, turning his head to face him. His eyes have never been so dark, smile never as twisted. There’s just somebody about Jisung, post kill, that drives him insane.

“Who cums first?”

“Baby.”

“And then?”

Jisung swallows, trying so hard to focus on Chan even as you’re crying out his name beneath him. “Me.”

“Make our girl cum, then you can pump her full.” He drops his hand, attention falling back to you.

Beautiful, wonderful you, always so ready to take his friends whenever they want you.

Whenever he had pitched the idea almost a year ago, he never thought that this is what it would turn out to be. Just a stress relief, that’s all. He didn’t think that he would watch you and Jisung, as well as everyone else, fall in love with each other.

But, god, was it more than he could’ve asked for. A little slice of heaven that’s all his.

His heaven that’s you screaming Jisung’s name at well past four in the morning, clawing into Chan’s bicep as an intense wave washes over you. It’s Jisung praising you, leaning down and finding your lips as he whispers filthy things that make you crave him all over again.

“Did so well, baby.” He grunts, ruthlessly chasing his high. He doesn’t have to run far before it’s crashing down on him, moaning your name as you exchange sloppy kisses. Cumming inside you is the best feeling in the world, a high that nothing can compete with. It feels so good, so well deserved after an evening of unfortunate events.

Jisung starts pulling out when he feels hands on his hips, pushing them back and keeping his cock snug inside you. Chan has moved behind him, kissing his bare shoulder blades as he slowly pulls Jisung’s slacks down fully.

“You didn’t think we were done here, did you?”

#stray kids smut #skz smut #straykidsland #han jisung smut #bang chan smut #han smut #jisung smut #chan smut

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berylcups · 2 months

Text

Yandere Files: Risotto x Reader

CW: creepy behavior , stalking, groping , period, alcohol, injury, blood, masturbation, face sitting

Notes: I decided to try to do things a little differently this time. I wanted to do a more of a creeper/pervert yandere. I hope it’s not too ooc it’s more self indulgent than anything! I hope you all can enjoy it 💜 Beryl

The hitman team had 10 members. They were all hand picked personally by Risotto Nero himself. He cares for them all deeply and would risk his life for them. He doesn’t play favorites… that’s what he tells himself. There’s one he’s particularly soft on, and it’s Y/N. They were AFAB. Normally Risotto would have some reservations about this type of person being a part of his group but they had a very gruesome stand.

It wasn’t well hidden that Risotto treated Y/N differently. He never really raised his voice at them, or scolded them outside of telling them not to overexert themselves. He always made sure they had a seat when there was a meeting, he wouldn't even start the meeting without them present. He always knew when his teammates were missing but with Y/N, he was hyper aware. If he didn’t know where they were he needed to know where they were exactly at that moment. Thankfully for him, Y/N lives on base.

The guys knew how obvious it was that he did more than favor them. He’s falling hard for them. They would never dare tease him about it but they definitely joke about it between each other. When has Risotto ever been attentive to the guy's comfort/needs?

“Formaggio, quit spreading your legs and move over so Y/N can sit down.”

“Hold on, someone is missing… Where is Y/N? In the bathroom? Are they okay? We will distribute the pay from the boss when Y/N is done.”

“Y/N. I told you countless times now - don’t overexert yourself. You kill the target but you also just end up exhausted. That’s not worth it. I can’t rest until you’re well again.”

———————————————————————

Risotto is always watching over you like a hawk. You though? You don’t really know that. He watches you while you sleep. You can’t see him because he’s using his stand ability to remain invisible. Also he’s gotten pretty good at syncing his breaths with yours so when you do wake up feeling like you’re being watched you’ll just assume you’re being paranoid again. This place is probably haunted after how many people died in the basement…but we don’t think about that when we are trying to fall back asleep.

When you’re not at the base he sometimes follows you to make sure you’re safe. Napoli isn’t safe at night. He doesn’t really like it when you go out to the bar or the club all alone. Even if some of the guys accompanied you he knows they will be too distracted by the other singles there or watching football to notice you’re getting hit on by a stranger shooting their shot. Unfortunately for that person flirting with you is the last thing they’ll ever do. Their last thoughts were how in the hell a pair of scissors ended up inside their neck.

He makes sure you get home okay. He always seems to be around when you’re ready to leave the bar/club. He drives your heavily drunk ass back to the base and gets you to bed. You pass out cold almost immediately after you hit that pillow. Watching you be that vulnerable is giving him dark thoughts. He just wants to be inside you so badly but… he holds himself back. It’s frustrating him so bad that he’s biting his lip hard enough to draw blood. Maybe he can compromise by getting a view of your bare chest. Regardless of the size of your breast or if you don’t have any his whole hand can nearly cover the entirety of one. Feeling the soft flesh in his hand is causing a wet spot to form in the strained crotch of his pants. His cock is weeping for stimulation. Whether you have them or not, he thinks you’d look amazing with nipple piercings and would want to do them himself for you.

He’s always there when you have a cut. When ever you’re chopping up vegetables or using a box cutter to open a package he manipulates the magnetic pull to get you to accidentally cut yourself. He wants an excuse to be there to touch you and to mend your wounds. He doesn’t look like it but if you’re shaken up about the accident he’ll be there to emotionally support you.

“Just breathe slowly Y/N. It’s just an accident. It’s okay. Everything will be okay. I know it’s a lot of blood but you didn’t cut any of your major veins or arteries. You're safe, I won’t let you bleed out.”

Speaking of blood, he’s very supportive of you during your period when most of the guys would cringe and scurry away. He uses his stand to help make your period flow easier. He uses his big warm hand to rub your lower stomach for you and the cramps ease up quickly. But the minute you pull away to do something the cramps come back immediately. It looks like you’re stuck with him rubbing on your stomach for the remainder of the day but he doesn’t seem to be bothered in the slightest.

When you two have missions they are usually separate due to the nature of your stands but he always insists on driving you to yours since it’s always on the way. He put your music on as long as it’s compatible with his tastes(can you imagine him listening to Brittany Spears? oh my lort) as you drift off to sleep on the long ride he’ll rest his hand on your inner thigh and squeeze it a bit. You're so sleepy that you don’t register it and even if you did, do you really care? It’s hard to tell what’s real and what’s a dream when you’re drifting in and out of sleep.

The walls of this shitty building are ridiculously thin. You can hear full conversations 3 rooms over, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t have its perks. Your room is right next to his office so he can hear everything you’re doing. He can hear all the phone conversations you’re having. You’re unknowingly just letting all your secrets spill out that was just meant for the ears of your closest friends. Now he knows more ways to get closer to you. And his most favorite thing to learn about you is, your sexual appetite. He can hear the type of porn you’re watching on your computer, the low hum of your vibrator, and your sweet moans. He can’t help but feverishly stroke his cock in his office to your voice. He just wants to imagine you making those sounds as he’s buried deep inside you. He wants to see your stomach bulging every time he thrusts in and makes you cry from how full you are.

You’d think they’d be too poor but having their own washer and dryer is a must for assassins. You can’t exactly take bloody clothes to get cleaned at the local laundromat. You take good care of your clothes and not lose them getting mixed in with the other guy’s clothes but your underwear seems to disappear into thin air. You have a feeling one of the perverted teammates may have taken them. You confront the team about it and air your frustration but not one of them has any idea what you’re talking about!

“Don’t play dumb! I know one of you creeps did it! Now fess up and tell which one of you took my panties!” You hissed.

“ steal your underwear are you kidding me?! We wouldn’t dare!” Illuso retorts.

“Yeah! especially since Risotto got the hot-ow!” Formaggio blurted out before getting interrupted with a punch to the side by Prosciutto. “What the hell man? That hurt!”

“Now Y/N, you need to take some responsibility and accept the fact that you just lost your clothes rather than childishly blaming it on us. You’re __ years old now, act like it.” Scolded Prosciutto.

While you were arguing with the rest of the team, Risotto is furiously stroking his cock in the bathroom while deeply inhaling the musky natural scent from your used panties. He’s thinking very intently about you sitting on his face as he eats out and suffocates in your wet cunt.

Things are just escalating and he can’t seem to hold himself back anymore. He needs to come clean to you and make you his whether you want to or not. He’s going to want you to meet him in his office and he silently locks the door behind you.

“Y/N…We have known each other for a long while now. I know I’m supposed to be your leader and keep it professional but… You’re all I think about. I always think about holding you, kissing you, touching you, making love to you, breeding you. I need you to be mine. For good.”

Whether you accept his feelings or not you’re like a deer in headlights and let him lean in to kiss you deeply. He was going to take what’s his and that’s you. Get ready to have your back blown out by this behemoth of a man because he likes it slow and hard. But don’t worry he’ll treat you like the monarch that you are!

#jjba #la squadra #jjba part 5 #jjba x reader #la squadra x reader #la squadra esecuzioni #minors dni #jojo risotto x reader #jjba risotto x reader #risotto x reader #risotto nero #jjba risotto #jojo risotto

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bangtanhoneys · 9 months

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Namjoon & Grace - First Meeting

It’s often said that when BTS came together, it was fate. That the merging of eight talented people had been a once in a lifetime opportunity that would never happen again due to their individual personalities, talents, skills and backgrounds. And while some believed the origins of BTS started with Namjoon, Yoongi and Hoseok - it was actually the meeting between Namjoon and Grace.

He had signed with Big Hit Entertainment and Hitman Bang two weeks ago to start life as a trainee. Hitman Bang was putting together a hip-hop group (later an idol group) and Namjoon was the first piece of the puzzle, his rapping skills were superior to what had been picked before and he was nearly fluent in English. He just needed to be molded and formed into what he would later become - RM.

But first, there was someone who he would have to meet who would become his mentor.

It had been clear from the start that the hip-hop group would be men but his mentor would be a woman, five years older than himself. Grace Chu had entered Big Hit over a year ago as a bit of an enigma - she had training in ballet and ballroom dancing, she could sing, she was fluent in English having been born in the UK, she was somewhat fluent in German and she had the upbringing of a mixed Korean-British household.

Yet, there were no plans to make her an idol.

She was back up - learning the ropes of singing to do background vocals, rapping, contemporary dancing, how to look like an idol, how to work a crowd but there were no concrete plans. A spare part yet used for everything including paid work as an assistant to various people in the building. Her training had been done by Lee Hyun, who was currently in the military.

Namjoon stopped outside the small room that had been set aside for Grace. It was smack in the middle of the managers and producers, so she could go between the two departments easily. He could hear typing behind the door and every now and then he could hear classical music playing.

Another piece of the large puzzle that was Grace.

“Come in,” came a soft voice when Namjoon knocked on the door and he paused, taking a deep breath before opening it.

He didn’t know what he expected but he’d later admitted he expected her to look more European than Korean. She was only 5’4, later 5’8 in heels, and dark brown, almost black curly hair that had been pulled into a ponytail. Her Korean eyes were dark brown yet small flecks of hazel in them. She was tan but not overly.

“Kim Namjoon?” she asked, grinning slightly at the tall boy in front of her who was all arms and legs, his face a bit too big for this body.

He bowed politely then remembered she was British so he held out his hand, “Pleasure to meet you, Miss. Chu.”

Perfect English, near enough. If not sounding a bit too American for her liking.

“Please, call me Grace…unless you prefer to call me noona? I’ll leave that up to you.”

Her accent was a typical British accent, maybe slightly upper class if Namjoon paid close attention to it. There was something else underneath it as well but he couldn’t tell what it was.

“Grace is fine with me,” he paused and stood there awkwardly. She was five years his senior, she had been in the company for over a year and while he expected her to take control of the conversation immediately, she could tell he was nervous and unsure.

“Don’t worry Namjoon, I don’t bite. Hitman Bang told me everything, though Bang PD would be the right thing to call him I suppose. He’s sent you to me for mentoring though I’m going to be honest, I don’t know much about rap or hip-hop. I’m only doing the lessons because I’m going to be doing background vocals for the next big hip-hop group,” she sighed and nodded at the chairs in front of the desk. “Take your weight off your feet Namjoon.”

He slowly sank into one of the chairs. “Did he say what you’re mentoring me in?”

“English is one, though you speak perfect English to me. Maybe a bit of work needs to be done on pronunciation but only a bit. And I’m meant to teach you the way of the idol life,” Grace suddenly grinned. It had occurred to her, as it had Namjoon, that she would be his idol mentor while not being slated to be an idol herself.

“You’re not going to be put forward as a solo artist?” he found himself asking, seeing the pictures of the artists and bands that had gone before on the wall behind Grace’s desk.

“My contract is purely work - I’m going to be a trainee but one who is going to help other artists, like yourself. Bang PD wants to focus on the new hip-hop group, BPB, which won’t be co-ed. I’ll help with background vocals, meetings, some lyrics but not many.”

Namjoon sighed and looked down at his hands, fiddling with a ring that was on his index finger. “Well, thank you Grace then. For all the future help you’ll give me.”

God he was cute.

Sixteen years old and already sounding like a leader.

“You are more than welcome Namjoon. So, let’s work out a schedule. It’s going to be one to one with you and me for a while until others are signed - I believe there’s more auditions coming. Why don’t you work out a list of things you want to learn and I’ll schedule lessons around your training and school,” Grace said as she got out her diary.

He was silent for a moment and she wondered if she had said the wrong thing when he spoke, shyly for the first time since entering the room.

“Can I call you Gigi?”

Of all the nicknames she had been given in her life, Gigi was not one of them. It was certainly unique and not what she was expecting - it was a bit hard to create a nickname out of Grace or even her Korean name, Hea.

“Only if I can call Joon.”

From that moment on, a solid relationship between mentor and student was formed. Within a month to a year, it would change to leader and artist, not before it was brother and sister. Grace would become Namjoon’s back, his silent supporter, his go-to for when being a leader got too much or when he couldn’t translate. Namjoon in return would become Grace’s solo supporter, championing the use of her lyrics and notes, spearheading her career as Grace Chu, not as BTS.

Their family would form when six others would join that small little office and make their introductions to their leader and their noona.

#bts 8th member #bts additional member #bts eighth member #bts female member #bts fic #bts fanfiction

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jinx-on-mars-19xx · 2 months

Text

In the Darkness

🩸Previous Parts Here🩸

Dom x Colson (Yungblud x Machine Gun Kelly)

Warnings: ABO dynamics (knots, slick, heats, mpreg), alpha serial killer/hitman Dom, omega mob boss Kells, cursing, threats, nervous boys, Dom on edge, Kells being a freak, actual murder, Dom snapping, weapons (guns and knives), lots of blood, improper self pleasure situation, sexism, masterbation, needy boys, voyeurism, getting caught, Kells being a princess, more blood, playful insults, cunnilingus, sex, messes, biting/marking, acceptance, more actual murder, sex at a crime scene (seriously guys this one is weird but funny!), enemies to lovers 💣 Rating: explicit

All ideas helped by @iamnotanearthlingmotherfucker 🖤

Dominic was finally in his element again. He hadn't meant to ever do it again but his day had been full of stress and those idiots had been the last bloody straw. It felt like an old dance he knew step by step, something almost as simple to him as breathing. The first man was dead before either even realized they were being attacked, though the kill felt almost wasted for the Alpha. Where he normally shook from overwhelming energy and anxiety brought on by his ADHD he now had the hands of a surgeon. Everything happened so quick but every moment was perfectly calculated. He was a predator in the savage garden that was LA’s underworld, and he was intent on his prey.

Colson swallowed hard as he watched the scene play out in front of him, his heart racing in his chest. He'd turned the moment he heard the zipper of Dom’s little kill kit so he hadn't missed a thing. The knife he kept now was a butterfly- something that felt all too accurate for how it made the omega feel but he knew his lover insisted on it so neither of them would accidentally hurt themselves when they were close. The blade flipped open with a sure steady flick of the boy's wrist before he was silently lunging for his target from behind. One quick leap and a perfectly positioned slash and crimson was flowing over his floor. Kells had to wonder for a moment if he was high because to him it looked like a ballet. One of those really fancy ones with the ruby colored scarves signifying exactly what was spilling in front of him.

As Dom's feet touched back on the ground and the first body fell at his feet the other man finally noticed and turned to face off with him. It was the one he was sure had spoken and he wanted to drag it out but he knew he shouldn't. He couldn't savor something like that anymore, he was trying to be a good Alpha, a good parent, and good father's didn't get their rocks off with death. “Dude, what the fuck?” The guard was obviously torn, he was supposed to be here to protect them all but this probably wasn't in the handbook.

“Eloquent. Wha’ ya said about an omega- who was ya talking about?” The Alpha growled, even his voice sounded different. Direct. Authoritative. Maybe even a little mad.

“What?”

“You ‘eard me. You said to ya friend summat about a sexy omega. Which one? Was you talking about the long ‘aired bloke?” It shouldn't bother him so much, a sexist comment was a sexist comment and they were all his family but he had to make sure. Colson didn't want anyone knowing what he was yet and if this bastard had worked it out…

The man floundered for a moment, his mouth falling open like a fish. Accurate Dom thought, he was about to be gutted like one. When he didn't get an answer he rushed forward, the tip of his blade meeting the guard’s throat. It was so hard not to press but he wanted a damn answer first. “T-the lady! The blonde! What the hell asshole? Did you not fucking see her? I saw you walk in here with her on your fucking arm. You get it!”

Oh that was the very wrong answer. Even Kells knew that. His own rage bubbled in his chest and he mentally cheered his lover on. As he watched the boy start laughing darkly he felt a rush of need. It didn't make sense and it was probably fifty shade of fucking wrong but a warmth spread through his core and he felt himself wet between his thighs. As his predator started to toy with his prey Col’s cock filled hard and fast. When blood flowed from the guard his own flowed faster through his veins. If the omega didn't know better he would have thought his heat was back. He felt as out of control as his killer when his trembling hands worked open his pants. He leaned against the solid door and slid his boxer briefs under his dick. Instead of using spit for lube he wiggled his fingers between his legs and gathered enough slick to get the job done. Everything felt hot and desperate and he couldn't tear his eyes away. His boy was a sight and one he was thankful he got to see.

Dom knew he didn't have long, he didn't think his mate would look around much but he couldn't help enjoying himself just enough to feed the beast inside. It started with a few small cuts as he moved in circles around the man. The gun came out because of course it did and he aimed for the tendon in his hand. “Why won't anyone understand…” His voice grew louder as he kicked the weapon away. The bastard fell to his knees from pain and gripped his wrist to stop the blood. They always did. “I fucking ‘ate guns!”

A roundhouse kick to the guy's face took him flat to the ground and Dom knelt over him and growled in his face. “You weren't supposed to struggle so bloody much. You tryna get me caught?” His hand curled around a weak jaw and he pushed the bastard's head up to lay his blade against the guard’s frantic pulse. “Ain't supposed to teach ‘ese lessons anymore but you-” He paused long enough to shove the metal deep and he took a shaky relieved breath. Did he hear a gasp? What was that? It sounded…

Col knew he should have hid himself or kept his mouth shut but there was something about watching his lover slide a knife into flesh. He was sure it was something Freud would have a field day about and had to be phallic in nature but he couldn't even make himself stop when the Alpha’s red gaze fell on him. If anything his hand moved faster stroking his cock.

Dom's stomach dropped at the sight of his mate staring at him and he was so mortified in the moment his brain didn't filter in the whole picture. He pulled his blade free and wiped it clean on the gurgling man’s shirt before he stumbled closer to his omega. Would Kells leave him? Had he scared him? Was… was his dick out? What the fuck? His feet stilled under him as he took in the whole image. Kells was indeed wanking in front of his murder scene. “Wha’ ya doing? Are you mental?” He didn't want to ask what part was turning Col on.

Colson's brow arched as he glanced between the body, the dying man, and his lover. “Are you shitting me right now? Me? Mental? You just killed someone for thinking my mom was hot! And you ruined my rug!”

The Alpha blinked slowly, he was still trying to draw himself back mentally and this was absolutely insane. “Ya rug? You wanking over a fucking corpse!”

“I'm wanking over you! Asshole! And that was a hand knotted Persian! You couldn't have moved over a few feet?”

“Oh it were ‘and knotted? 'Scuse me! ‘Ow about I ‘and knot you?!”

Kells finally moved his hand from his cock to instead rush forward the last few feet between them and push his killer hard. “Should fucking wank me-eee!” The last huffed word broke off in a squeak when Dom grabbed for his arm and they fell in the mess together.

Crimson eyes locked on gold and it felt like the world paused around them. “You're such a freak.” The omega muttered with a small smile on his face.

“Says a man wanking over a murderer.” Dom smirked back. He felt more himself than he had in a while and his fear of being turned away was vanishing with every little thrust against his stomach that his omega couldn't seem to help.

“Then maybe you should wank me.” They both knew how crazy they seemed as their lips met in a messy rough kiss but the more clothes they shed the less fucks they gave. They matched just fine and as long as the other was okay with it, why worry?

Dom sat up and pulled his shirt off over his head before doing the same with Col’s. Their touches were harsher than normal, more akin to their first day together. Colson had to stand up to push his pants down and as soon as he wiggled one leg free the Alpha dove between his thighs to devour him. “Oh f-fuck!” Kells choked, burying his hands in messy hair. He gasped when Dom’s blood stained touch groped over one of his thighs but the boy didn't taste him for long. He teased just long enough to get his own slacks worked open and his cock free to the cool air.

“D-down. Need you.” The Alpha muttered against dripping folds and Colson had never felt those words more. His knees felt so weak that his legs collapsed under him and he all but fell on his lover's dick. His knees crashed into the now red rug but his psycho was as careful with him as he could be. “Need you.” Dom growled again as they panted together and started to move at a frantic bruising pace.

“Need you. Got me. M’here.” Col tried to soothe through stuttered breath but everything was too much and not enough. His hands stayed tangled in the boy's wild hair as Dom's wandered anywhere they could reach. He knew he'd asked to be bitten just a few hours before but with their hips rolling, his partner's knot already trying to lock them together, and Dom's touch painting his inked skin red he had never felt safer or more claimed.

There was a weight in the Alpha's chest that Col was lifting with his steady stare and sweet moans. The omega had seen what he was capable of and accepted him fully. With that golden gaze staying intent on him he knew he'd never been so seen. They may not know how to say the words but he was loved and he deeply loved his mate in turn. “Can I-” He tried to speak but the next thrust stopped the air in his chest. His man was chasing his pleasure and he was sure he knew how to call it closer by name like the beast it was.

Strong fingers gripped gently at Col’s jaw and tilted his head as the Alpha worked kisses down his skin. Their chests pressed together as Dom held him tight and fangs scraped over his throat. He didn't know if he screamed yes or just thought it with his entire being, but either way his psycho boy seemed to hear.

Blood hit Dom's tongue as his teeth sunk deep. He was claimed by the man already but now everything felt complete. He was so lost in the taste of his mate's blood and slick combined that he barely noticed when Kells slammed his hips down and his knot popped fully inside. They chased their rapture together with grinding bodies and needy whines and when it hit Col gushed for him, washing away so much of the red staining his skin.

Colson cursed as his lover’s dick jerked out load after load inside him. He was getting used to it but it still made him flush every time. Eventually the bite turned to gentle licks and soft kisses before the Alpha finally leaned back. The boss was surprised that he wasn't pissed at the placement though it might come up later when he wasn't filled with jizz and oxytocin.

“Mine.” Dom purred, a lazy smile on his face. Kells rolled his eyes but he didn't mean it. He couldn't help but grin back.

“Yeah yeah. I think you already know who the bitch is here.” He teased and the boy nodded back.

“So… you really pissed about the carpet?” The Alpha asked sheepishly. All his hardness was erased with his finally quelled urges and he never wanted to upset his man.

Col looked around at the mess and shrugged. “Nah, I can get a new one. I'll just have to pay my cleaners extra.” He was okay with that as long they didn't have to deal with the bodies. They had to get home to start the move. “Did you know there's a few spare rooms in my apartment?”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. You think Tom would like one of those instead of his own place?” Col asked while tracing patterns on the boy's chest in their combined slick and cum. The fucker was still filling him and his body was still feeling aftershocks but he couldn't wait to ask or he might not be able to.

“I fink so. Wouldn't ‘urt to ask. Where would I go?” Dom hummed but he hoped he knew the answer already.

Kells heard a soft gurgling sound and he really didn't want their peace ruined. How dare the guard interrupt while he was trying to talk. “Hang on.” He grumbled, reaching over to the pile of discarded clothes to pull his gun from its holster. “I'm trying to have a moment here asshole!” He snapped before aiming at the guy across the room. The sound of the shot made Dom wince but for once he didn't complain about the weapon, he just waited as Colson dropped it again and focused back on him. “Do you wanna move in with me? I don't know if it's the right thing and I'm sure we'll both drive each other a little crazy but-” He paused again and looked around, gesturing to the mess with a chuckle. “I think we can handle it.”

The Alpha beamed happily at his fully mated omega and hugged him tight to his chest. He was sure Col was correct but he didn't fucking care. They were all mad here and he could finally make a home. Something he'd never truly had before. “Only if you get rid of the bloody chrome.” The laugh that answered him was a beautiful thing.

“Fuck you, but deal.” He couldn't believe it but he was taking his Alpha home for good.

Author's Note/Tags: @iamnotanearthlingmotherfucker @hollywoodxwhore @jaxbreaker @fenoy7 @cole-way-iero28 if anyone wants tagged let me know 🖤

So that happened 😅 I hope it wasn't too much. I thought it was time they finally started to show themselves to each other and feel accepted. I hope you're all enjoying it! 🩸🖤

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papibite · 1 year

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On a scrooge binge so here’s some more ideas (if someone wants to use these then be my guest I just wanna share ideas with someone 😩)

• Could you imagine what would happen if scrooge hired a maid/butler who was once a hitman but retired that old life to have a more simple one? Like, you would imagine the miser having so many enemies and some trying to off the man, but the scrooge is so unaware because his maid/butler always ensures his safety? Goodness what if they get caught by scrooge as they are beating up a group of men who planned to jump the man?

• What if the reader helps Jenkins (I believe was the toy store owner) with sales and both try to find ways to bring customers in. Then reader asks scrooge for help and they have him dress up as Father Christmas and entertain the children? Even the grown ups are amused watching the man put a voice and act in a red suit and beard just to help.

• Omg if scrooge and the reader are asked separately by Bob and his wife to babysit and both are surprised to be there that night, and the children are trying to bring them together but also want attention so the two have to work together to make sure things are going well until the kids are all asleep and they both pass out as the couple returns??

Spicy-

• (After the events of the movie) What if the reader tells scrooge that although they welcome his change and are happy that he’s happy, they somewhat miss how powerful he was. The power hungry, grumpy, and demanding person he was being very… attractive to say the least. Scrooge takes it as a challenge to try and use this knowledge in the bedroom while still checking in with the reader to make sure they’re ok.

• What if the reader is someone who pays everything on time and even helps the other individuals who are behind with some occasional payments, leaving scrooge to tell them to not meddle in the affairs of others? The tension and hatred between the two of them is obvious but the final straw is when the butcher owes scrooge double and the reader, who was conveniently helping the butcher out with work, swoops in and pays enough to help? Scrooge asks to speak with them later as to discuss this little, “game” they are playing.

More ideas later, this is all I can type rn

#scrooge x reader #scrooge x y/n #scrooge x oc #scrooge x you #scrooge 2022 x reader #ebenezer scrooge x reader

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diana-fortyseven · 5 months

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I wrote this instead of sleeping...

You can find the prompt bingo right here.

It's still a work in progress, and there's so much more I want to add eventually, but everything that's already there is working.

And what's there is a lot. Like, a metric shit ton.

I've added all

Cinematic Titles

Mission Names

Mission Stories

Challenges

Destinations

of all Hitman World of Assassination Game Modes.

Some challenge prompts might look like typos to you. While I always appreciate when you point those out to me so I can fix them (seriously, please do let me know if I missed something!), please check first if there isn't an in-game challenge with that exact name, because so many of them look like I forgot how to spell. :D

Fun fact, did you know that there are roughly 1,200 challenges in the game? I wasn't joking about the "instead of sleeping" part of the title.

Additionally, there are long lists with smutty, kinky, romantic, angsty and whumpy prompts.

You can opt-out of NSFW, Shipping and Angst by not opting in (I swear this makes sense in my head right now), but if you select the theme "Romance" from the dropdown menu, you will get shippy prompts even if you don't tick the Shipping checkbox, and if you select Hurt/Comfort from the dropdown menu you will get angsty prompts even if you don't tick the Angst checkbox. I recommend ticking the Shipping or Angst checkbox if you select Romance or Hurt/Comfort for a larger pool of prompts.

You will not get NSFW prompts unless you tick the NSFW checkbox.

However, some mission stories and challenges have names that could be mistaken for NSFW prompts. I haven't put them behind the filter, and I don't know if I will do that in the future.

If you don't like a prompt, you can just re-roll that one specific prompt by clicking/tapping the field it's in.

The Themes

The bingo generator has four themed lists so far: General Prompts, Mission Fic, Romance, and Hurt/Comfort.

I will be adding more at appropriate times, such as a summer list for summer (Northern Hemisphere) or a Halloween list for Halloween. Those will be permanent additions. It's just a lot of work, and I have so many more plot bunnies and code bunnies and art bunnies, so I really have to space these updates out. xD

If you'd like to suggest a theme or donate a list of prompts, please feel free to do so!

How to Play

Create the card you want, do with it whatever you want.

You can take the prompts literally or interpret them any way you like. If it's the name of a mission story or challenge, you can use the mission story or challenge itself as a prompt, or come up with something just based on the name. If it's a pun, you can use the prompt as-is or remove the pun element from it.

Use as many or as few prompts as you want in a fic, or in a drawing, or in a daydream. You make the rules!

If you think a bingo should require a line of prompts used in one single work, cool. If you think four single works should count, that's cool too. And again, if you don't like a prompt, just re-roll it until you get one you like more.

Just have fun with it! :)

Mobile Version

The mobile version is working, but word breaks for longer words won't be pretty. I still need to add word break opportunities, but that's a lot of work, and I will probably do this in small batches over the next month or so.

If you want a prettier card, you can re-roll prompts with unpretty word breaks by tapping on the prompt you want to change.

Keyboard-Only Users

For accessibility, all prompt fields have added button functionality, which means you can use tab to select them and enter to interact with them. Your browser needs to have JavaScript enabled for that to work, though.

Now go play with it!

Or don't, I'm not your mum, I can't tell you what to do.

Final disclaimer: The platform I'm using to host my generators, Perchance, recently added AI options. My generators were not built using AI, and none of the prompts you'll get are AI generated.

My generators are all 100% handcrafted chaos. :D

If bingos are not to your liking and you'd like more detailed prompts, try my Hitman Prompt Generator!

#Hitman #Hitman Fandom #Hitman Bingo #D47 Codes

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colormepurplex2 · 2 years

Text

Till Death Do Us Part | Enigmatic Decisions Of The Heart

↳ Hitman Yoongi x Kidnapped f.Reader ⤜ Enemies/Lovers ⤜ Rating: MA 🔞 ⤜ WC: 8,766 ⚠️ Lots of angst, fake virginity loss, mild blood, mild cum play, things get a little weird...but in a good way?

Next Chapter⇾ ⇽Previous Chapter ◅ Back to chapter list

Happiness, like many other things, is a subjective experience. What makes one person happy may not be the same for someone else. If anyone were to ask whether or not you're happy, you're not entirely sure how you would respond. Happy that you're alive? Sure. Happy that you'll be walking down the aisle to marry someone you consider an enemy in just a few short hours? Not exactly. Happy you have a roof over your head? Only when it's snowing. Snow reminds you of a day you'd rather sooner forget. Happy to have food in your belly? The way the sausage and eggs from breakfast sit in the pit of your stomach right now means the jury is still out on that one, but you'd wager to say yes most times. The point is, you're trying to come to terms with finding your own happiness. There has to be a silver lining. If there was ever a lesson from your father that you took to heart, it was the fact that we are often the product of our own choices. Meaning, you can choose where to find happiness. You just have to want to see it. Even if it's in places you may have once taken for granted. The sun on your face, the wind in your hair; they may be little things, even a little cliché, but they're things that are so common no one would think to deprive you of them. Small pieces of happiness.

You're sitting at one of the windows in your room, staring out over the backyard. There are a handful of men dressed in dark blue jumpers working diligently to set up a few chairs in front of the gazebo in the garden. Others are placing arranged flower pieces of royal purple and black down the makeshift aisle. You can't help but smile bitterly, looking at the colors you chose. It was a surprise when Yoongi gave you that choice, the one thing you've had control over for this entire arrangement. You chose purple because it's your favorite and black because you think it suits Yoongi and his damned soul. You thought it would be ugly. Though, the irony of them blending together so well in the flower baskets is not lost on you. But, it's too late to change it now.

The rest of the reception last night went by in a numbing motion of flowery speeches and forced pleasantries. It was hard to focus on any of the words. All you could focus on was the crawling feeling between your thighs. Cleaning up with Yoongi's discarded jacket didn't exactly give you any peace of mind other than the fact the garment got soiled. It made you grin for a moment before the guilt set in, thinking how it wouldn't make a difference to Yoongi, as he wouldn't be the one cleaning the jacket. You made it a point to locate Mai after the speeches and profusely apologize. She took the jacket with a bit of trepidation but didn't ask any questions, simply excused herself to take care of it.

A soft knock at the door makes the memories fade away, leaving behind just the ache in your chest.

"It's open," you call, as you stand from the seat by the window. The door swings open slowly, revealing Mai on the other side. She has traded in her usual black pants and white button-down for a floor-length, long-sleeve black dress. You give her a once over. "Mai, dressed for the occasion, I see. Funerals, weddings, might as well be the same thing, huh?"

Her steps falter with your words. Large brown eyes meet yours and you watch as the color drains from her face. "Miss, I'm sorry, I didn't- this is just- please, let me go change."

You wave a hand in the air, shaking your head. "No, no. I'm sorry, Mai, I was only kidding. You look great. Please, I love that dress on you. I was just trying to lighten my mood, that's all. Truly."

The look on her face slips a little, her shoulders relaxing just a fraction. "Okay, Miss," she accepts softly. You can tell she's having an internal battle about whether to actually accept your words or immediately go change as she said she would.

"What's first, hair or makeup?" you ask in hopes of drawing the conversation away to something else.

Mai gives you a tight smile with a small nod of her head. "Right. Well, I think it's best we start with both."

"Both?"

Before Mai can respond, you hear the clicking of high heels coming toward your room from out in the hall. A moment later you're greeted with a sing-songy, "Good afternoon, you beautiful bitch."

Miriam struts into the room, bringing with her a cloud of floral perfume. "Miriam," you say in surprise. You weren't expecting to see her here.

"The one and only." She winks and gives you an exaggerated bow. Snapping up and tossing Mai a sweet smile, she smooths her lilac-colored dress over her ample hips. The color of the dress contrasts beautifully with her deep ochre skin and ebony ringlets. "Let's get to it, Mai-Mai, we only have a few more hours before our friend here joins the ranks of us degenerates." Her sparkling brown eyes meet yours and she bites her pink-painted bottom lip. "Ready to enter Hell for all eternity, princess?"

An hour later, Miriam is still working pins and curls into your hair while Mai applies subtle makeup meant to emphasize your eyes and lips. The two features you long ago learned are Yoongi's favorites of your face. "What was your wedding like, Miriam?" you question, taking a small sip of the champagne she had snuck into your room. You weren't allowed to attend their wedding, but you remember the day it happened.

Miriam gives a sharp laugh. "Oh, fuck. Let's see...well, it was similar to this. Only in the fact I was about to marry a man I hardly knew and become part of a family I wasn't the biggest fan of. That's the thing with arranged marriages, though, right? It's so archaic." She takes a step back, drawing your attention through the mirror of your dressing table. "I am man, let me beat my chest and proclaim women as property to trade," she mocks in a deep grumble, smacking her fist against her chest for emphasis. "Bunch of assholes if you ask me. But, daddy wanted in with The Hitman, so here we are." Her shoulders jump up in a quick shrug. "I chose hot pink and lime green, intending to just piss Seokjin off. It didn't really work, the jerk actually complimented them. I'll say, really, Seokjinnie isn't so bad. After I bloodied his nose or lip a time or two he learned I wasn't just some sniveling little girl he could walk all over."

She catches your wide-eyed gaze in the mirror. "Bloodied nose?"

"Pow, right in the kisser," she chortles, punching the air a few times. "You can't let these apes get the best of you, love. You have to give just as good as you get. That goes for all aspects." She gives you a pointed look. "If he treats you right, you treat him right. End of it. Got it?"

You want nothing more than to cling to her words. But, all you can seem to do is give a small nod and hope she doesn't notice the already flowering defeat in your eyes. You're not sure Yoongi will ever treat you right again, so what's the point? After a moment you smile a little. "Bloodied nose," you murmur to yourself. Maybe you'll try that next. What's the worst that could happen?

"You're still a virgin, right?" You gawk at her in the mirror, her question taking you by surprise.

"Miriam, I don't-," you begin but she bursts out into a full belly laugh, cutting you off.

She waves a hand in the air. "I'm only asking so I can impart a little bit of advice where that's concerned." Her right eyebrow arches high up her forehead.

You clear your throat, dropping your eyes to Mai's feet where she stands in front of you. "I am and have it constantly monitored. It's part of the contract, I've never even used a tampon," you murmur, your upper lip curling in irritation. Growing up, your mother would go bonkers anytime you brought them up, saying you shouldn't use such things until you're much older. After everything that happened, you couldn't help but think perhaps maybe your mom was somehow trying to appease whatever future husband you might have gained the interest of. All she really did was manipulate and control your life much the way it's being controlled now, it was just disguised as the love of a mother.

Miriam sighs. "It was the same for me," she confirms, softly. "Look at me," she requests, placing a hand on your shoulder. Your eyes come up, meeting hers in the mirror. "I know it might seem impossible now, but if you can look past the situation and just focus on the good you know is here in Yoongi," she taps her chest gently, "it won't be so bad. You might even enjoy it."

An unattractive snort works its way out of your nose. "You don't have to have the birds and bees talk with me, Miriam. I know what sex is and what it involves. I don't expect to enjoy it, not when I don't have a choice in the matter."

"That's where you're wrong, though," she muses as she resumes teasing your hair into place. "You do have a choice, in a sense. You can choose to own the moment. Don't just slap on a brave face and bear it. Take control, find your own pleasure."

Is that something you're capable of? Miriam makes it sound so easy. But, the more you think about it, the less you feel like that's something you can do. A choice? It doesn't feel much like a choice. Perhaps, when the time comes, you'll be able to see it a little differently.

The only attendees of your wedding, aside from yourself and Yoongi, are his dad, brothers, Miriam, Mai, and Wenton, Yoongi's assistant. The Hitman, himself, officiated the wedding. His words were gruff and to the point, skipping all the fluffy symbolism. You went through the motions, walking yourself down the aisle, handing your purple and black bouquet off to Miriam, reciting the vows, and eventually, became Yoongi's wife. He barely looked at you the entire time, his focus either on the ground at your feet or on his father. A small part of you kept screaming at him in your head, begging for him to just look at you...to see you. He didn't.

It doesn't go unnoticed to you that The Hitman didn't offer up for anyone to make objections. Not that you would expect any of these people to come to your rescue. It's just the principle of the matter, you think. There is no after-party or dinner. Everyone simply goes their separate ways after you're pronounced husband and wife.

"Meet me out front in an hour," Yoongi grumbles, leaving you standing in the gazebo with his father.

His dismissive attitude shouldn't surprise you, but you can't help the way the ache in your chest digs a little deeper. You begin to gather the voluminous skirt of your dress to head toward the house when a hand catches your wrist.

You look back, eyes meeting those of The Hitman. Fight or flight is a serious battle of wills. Right now, you want nothing more than to rip your wrist from his grasp and run screaming. There are no words he could utter to you that you want to hear.

"You're part of my family now, girl. I expect you to act like it, you understand?" When you just blink up at him in silence he gives your wrist a generous shake. "Understand?" he repeats.

"Yes." His eyes narrow and his grip tightens around your wrist. You wince, adding, "sir. Yes, sir."

He gives a jerk of his chin, roughly releasing your wrist before turning on his heel, stepping from the gazebo and heading further into the garden. "See to it that you do," he calls without looking back.

Despite the burning behind your eyes, you stop the tears before they can even begin, refusing to let that man have any control over your emotions. Giving his retreating form one last glance, you turn toward the house and make your own way out of the gazebo.

Mai follows quietly behind you all the way to your room. You half expect Miriam to show up again, but shortly after you begin pulling the pins from your hair, you hear her voice carry down the hall and continue past your door. Miriam once had a room here, too. After marrying Seokjin, though, they both moved to another home on the property. It's not all that far from the main house, but far enough away that you've only seen her two other times since then. You imagine you'll be in your own home with Yoongi soon enough as well. It's hard to decide whether that's a blessing or a curse.

"I know of a precious little boutique that will put this in a shadow box for you," Mai comments, helping you slip out of your wedding gown.

You can't help the scoff that slips out. "I don't know about that, Mai. I don't exactly care that much about it, sorry." That's not exactly the truth, but not wholly a lie either. You didn't get to pick the dress out, but it seems Yoongi has a knack for choosing pretty things for you to wear. It's a painfully beautiful dress, one you would have cried happy tears over if it were for any other reason than marrying him. The sweetheart neckline is adorned with real amethysts that cascade in a light gradient down the bodice. The full skirt flares from the hip with small black roses embroidered along the hem. It's definitely not a traditional gown by any means. You'd almost wager to guess he had it custom-made. But, that seems a bit absurd considering the circumstances.

"As you say, Miss." Mai just nods and scoops up the dress when you step out of it. You know she'll probably have it put into a shadow box anyways. Perhaps that should bother you, but instead, you feel a small pang of gratitude for her putting up with your shit moods, this one included.

Half an hour later, you follow Wenton as he carries your suitcase down the stairs. Mai helped you pack. Or rather, she packed while you sat on your bed and sulked. You're not bringing much, just enough clothes for a week, a few essentials, and a book you doubt you'll actually read. Yoongi is taking you to a cabin in the mountains, one of the properties owned by the family. Mai was instructed to make sure your clothing was suited for snow, as the weather on the mountain is a bit unpredictable this time of year. It's still mild here in the valley, a chill in the air at night, but nothing beyond warranting a light jacket as the sun goes down.

Wenton loads your suitcase into the trunk space of the SUV waiting out front. Yoongi is standing by the backdoor scrolling through his phone. He gives you a quick glance before pulling open the door and waving a hand toward the interior.

Mai whispers a quiet 'goodbye' as you climb into the backseat. The door clicks closed behind you. It's not soundproof by any means, but still, you're only able to barely hear the conversation outside.

"You'll be expected back no later than next Monday," The Hitman barks from the doorway of the house. "We have a flight to Warsaw that we can't afford to miss."

Yoongi scoffs, but you're certain it's not loud enough to carry to his father. "Understood, sir," he calls a little louder.

The other door to the back pops open, surprising you. "Hey there, little mouse," a deep voice purrs. Just as your eyes go to the open door, Namjoon appears. Lightheadedness creeps over you as your heart begins to pound. "You're going to be good for my big brother, right?" Suddenly, he's looming over you, one knee pressed into the seat with a large palm against the driver's seat headrest. He chuckles darkly as you start to fumble for the door handle, trying to get it open and escape.

You nearly go tumbling out of the vehicle when the door snaps open, but you find yourself caught in Yoongi's arms instead. "Fuck off, Namjoon," he growls.

Namjoon turns his lips down into a mock pout. "I was just making sure your wife would be on her best behavior, brother. You know, uphold her wifely duties and all." He winks, tugging his bottom lip between his teeth.

"Get. Out." Yoongi snaps, still holding you against his chest.

Finally, Namjoon slides out of the vehicle. Before he closes the door, he gives Yoongi a look filled with so much violence that you're surprised blood isn't being drawn. "Don't make me have to have another little chat with you, Yoongi. Unlike you, I keep my promises." The door slams shut and Namjoon disappears from view.

"What is he talking about, Yoongi?" you ask into the quiet interior.

Yoongi shakes his head before helping you sit back up in the seat. He nudges you until you slide over and make room for him. Which is surprising. You thought he would be riding up front with Wenton, who is now sliding into the driver's seat.

"It's a long drive, we'll stop for dinner in about two hours. You should try to rest between now and then," Yoongi explains before promptly pulling out his phone and ignoring you again.

Dinner consists of drive-thru burgers and fries. You were hesitant to give your order, waiting for Yoongi to gripe about the carbs and saturated fats. But, he didn't say anything to you, just ordered his own burger and a vanilla milkshake.

Wenton is quiet the entire ride, only deeming to speak when spoken to by Yoongi. He listens to classical music on the radio so low you're barely aware of it unless you focus really hard. Yoongi continues to ignore you. After dinner, it's another three hours before Wenton pulls off onto a side road and the terrain changes.

Before long you're jostling in your seat, gripping the handle above the window, and trying not to smack your head against the glass as you peer into the darkness. The sun went down shortly after the stop for dinner, so it's pretty much impossible to make out anything that lines the road at this point.

"Is it safe to be driving on this road at night?" you venture to ask, feeling uneasy as the SUV crawls through a dip that sends your shoulder bouncing off the door.

"Wenton has driven the road many times, there is nothing to be worried about," Yoongi mumbles in response, still glued to his phone. "We'll be there soon anyway."

True to his word, maybe ten minutes later, the road evens out and you catch a glint of iron in the moonlight as Wenton drives through an open gate. The headlights illuminate the cabin as he pulls the SUV to a stop. It's not terribly big, but it looks cozy enough with large windows and a wrap-around porch.

"Do you think it'll snow?" you ask softly, silently praying he says 'no'. You hate the snow.

Yoongi opens his door, steps out, and then offers you his hand to help you down beside him. "Most likely," he finally responds, releasing your hand and turning towards the back of the SUV. Wenton already has the hatch door open, pulling out your suitcase. "Let's get inside and I'll show you around."

The inside of the cabin is much like you would expect. An open concept living room, kitchen, and dining room combo. There is a small mudroom off the kitchen. Through there, there is a door that leads outside and two interior doors. One opens up to a single bedroom where Wenton will be staying, the other to a bathroom that houses the washer and dryer, too.

A large river-stone fireplace takes up almost an entire wall of the living room. The couch and recliner look like they've been well-loved, their beige upholstery faded with use. The oak cabinets in the kitchen are stained a dark chestnut that matches the rugged bench-style dining table. It's a stark contrast to the house back at the estate. You love it.

Family portraits line the wooden staircase leading up to the second floor. You follow Yoongi up the stairs, he has both yours and his suitcases clutched in his hands. Just as you make it to the top of the stairs, one of the photos catches your attention. It's just like all the others, a candid shot of a happy family. You recognize The Hitman and the seven sons. It's clear the picture is old, as the boys don't even look to be more than in their early teens.

But, what really draws your attention is the woman in the photo. She's sitting on a wooden swing in what you recognize as the rose garden back at the estate. Her head is thrown back and her mouth is open wide in a laugh as Namjoon and Jungkook are frozen behind her with their arms extended like they just gave her a good push on the swing. The other sons are sprawled out on a checkered blanket off the side, in the middle of spreading out what looks like a picnic. The Hitman stands almost out of frame, his arms crossed as he looks down at the boys on the blanket. You study the picture, leaning in trying to get a better look at the woman. It's hard to make out her face due to the angle it's tilted back at.

"Yoongi, who-," your question about who she is cuts off abruptly when you turn and find Yoongi no longer in your sight. "Yoongi?" you call, hurrying up the last few steps and down the hall before you. "Where did you go?"

"In here." He pokes his head out from the last door on the left.

You jog down the hall, passing the other two doors in the hallway. Stepping into the room, your feet falter. "Holy shit," you whisper, taking in the view. The entire back wall of the room is floor-to-ceiling glass. There is a large four-poster king bed directly across from it, ensuring the first thing you'll see when you wake up is a view of the mountain and the river that winds behind the cabin. There is scant other furniture in the room, simple wooden bedside tables, and a cushioned chair beside the door leading to the bathroom and closet.

Yoongi's back is to you as he rolls both of the suitcases into the closet. "Just wait til the sun comes up in the morning. It's one of my favorite views," he comments absently. When he turns, the look on his face is one you've never seen before. He looks...sad.

"Is everything okay?" You don't expect him to tell you if there's something wrong, but it's natural for you to express concern for others.

The bedroom is only illuminated by a bedside lamp. It casts his profile in shadows as he closes the distance to you. He stops just a few inches short of you. This close, you're able to see the thin sheen of perspiration coating his forehead. "It will be," he whispers, barely loud enough for you to hear. In a louder voice, "best get this over with."

"Get what over with?" Your words turn into a small gasp as his hands grip the bottom of your sweater and begin to pull it up. "Yoongi, wait. Can't we wait?" He continues trying to tug the top over your head. "Please!" You swat at his hands but they get tangled in the material as he finally pulls it over your head.

Your arms are yanked free and he tosses it to the side. Before you can take a step back and put space between you, his arms are locking you in place. The whooshing sound of your blood pounding echoes in your ears. It makes it hard to hear his words. "I know you hate me, I know you don't trust me. I get it, I expect nothing less. But, please, please, just trust me this once. I promise I'll explain, I promise I won't hurt you." You can hear the plea in his voice, the way it cracks with emotion as he makes that last promise. His lips are so close to your ear that they brush it with each word.

He's scaring you, the words just adding to the feeling. Finally loosening his hold, he puts a few inches between your bodies. "Yoongi, I...," you begin to question him but your words trail off when his eyes fill with anguish. His chin jerks just slightly, like he's wanting to shake his head no but stops himself. It's like he wants to say something but can't. There is no reason for you to trust him, he said as much himself. But, the ache that's been sitting in your chest for days now is turning into an ache of sympathy. There is clearly something going on with him, something he isn't able to express. It's a leap of faith, but you roll your lips between your teeth and finally try to relax. It's not like you didn't know this would be happening anyway.

Lifting one of his arms from around you, he grips the back of his shirt and pulls it up over his head, discarding it next to yours. You've never seen Yoongi without a shirt on. Surprisingly. Any time you found him in the pool room or he took you to the lake, he was wearing a rash guard top. Scars litter his chest and stomach. Some are faded, barely there, but others are thick and puckered, still pink like they're recent. You don't realize you're running your fingers over one across his chest until you feel him flinch away. "Don't," he whispers. "Come on," he takes the hand hovering over his chest and pulls you toward the bed.

His movements are slow, deliberately so. It's like he's trying to soothe you even though he's stripping your clothing off. With each article he removes, his fingers skim over your skin in feather-soft brushes. By the time you're completely naked, your body wears a coat of goosebumps instead. All you can do is stare at him, his eyes locked on yours, as he slips off the rest of his own clothes. For a moment you think maybe you should be the one to do that, but you can't seem to make your limbs function anymore. His throat contracts as he audibly swallows. If you didn't know any better you'd think he was nervous.

You don't even have to look down to know something is mildly wrong, but you do anyway. Just a quick flick of your eyes and you confirm it. He's not hard. You have a moment of panic, a self-conscious drop of dread that there's something wrong with your body. Though, you quickly realize it's not you, it's not that you're not attractive or that he doesn't like your body. You know he does, it's gotten him hard before. But, it's the anguish that is still evident in his face, the hollowness in his eyes. It's like he's not all here, his mind somewhere else outside of this bedroom.

What needs to happen obviously can't if things stay how they are. You reach out and cup him, trying to coax him into a state of arousal. "Is this okay?" you ask softly. Is this part of the choice Miriam talked about? His brows pinch together but he doesn't move to stop you. It works. You can feel him growing against your palm, the rise and fall of his chest quickens. His hand is suddenly on yours, halting you from going further. Maintaining eye contact, he reaches out and pulls back the sheets on the bed.

You crawl backwards onto the bed and he follows. There is a tremble to the way he moves like he's fighting not to shake like a branch in a windstorm. "Leave it on." He stops your hand from reaching out to the bedside lamp to turn it off. "I, uh, I ne-...want to see you." There is definitely something wrong. Warning bells are sounding in your head.

"Yoongi, what's-?" He cuts your question of concern off with a finger to your lips.

He gives you a look that only lasts a brief second, but in that second you see his vulnerability. Gone is the monster from last night. The man you stood across from in the gazebo just hours ago has disappeared, in his place is a scared and lost soul. You begin to shake your head and push away from him, intending to get out of the bed.

"Stay," he barks, the tone reminiscent of the man you just thought lost. Yoongi grips your ankles and pulls them until you're laying flat on your back before him. Like donning a mask, the vulnerability and anguish from before are covered with cold indifference. Oddly, he leans back and casts a glance over his shoulder, his head angled like he's glancing into the far corner of the room. He brings his attention back to you and sucks in a sharp breath that he lets ease out slowly. "Touch me," he offers, settling back on his heels between your spread thighs and gesturing down.

When you hesitate, he grabs up one of your hands and presses it to his half-hard length. A soft strangled sound leaves his chest and his lips twist up in what looks like disgust. Despite how much his face says he doesn't like it, he grows hard all the same. He's still guiding your hand, forcing your fingers to squeeze around him, to the point you're sure it's causing him pain. Is he punishing himself? The thought disappears just as quickly as it came, your focus being drawn to the fingers of Yoongi's free hand skirting up along your inner thigh. You've experienced so much whiplash within the span of the last few minutes that your body isn't even sure how to respond. There is no arousal, no tingling sensations or warm fuzzies. Just confusion. It's even more confusing when Yoongi presses two fingers just mid-knuckle deep into you, gives them a small circling, then withdraws them and rubs his fingers on the sheets just below your ass.

He's suddenly pulling your hand away and dropping his weight onto you, propping up on an elbow and fitting his hips between your thighs. "Yoongi, wait, I'm not ready. Please, kiss me or something," you mumble, your hands skirting over his arms and pressing against his chest. He doesn't move, or speak, he just grabs a handful of the sheets and pulls them up over his own hips, covering you both from the waist down. His breath shudders from his chest, his hand that's still between your bodies hooks under your knee and lifts your leg until your thigh practically rests on your stomach. With more shifting of his hips, you mash your eyes closed and try to brace for what you know will come next, but they fly open in even more confusion. Instead of feeling his cock probing your sex, you feel the velvety skin slide along your thigh before lodging itself in the gap between your thigh and stomach. "What are you-?" His hand clamps over your mouth, effectively silencing your confusion.

Yoongi leans in so close you feel his warm breath stir the hairs around your ear. "I said trust me." His hips subtly shift, rocking a little from side to side. He works his free hand from between your bodies and slides it under the pillow beneath your head. You can faintly make out the sound of something sliding against the sheets as he draws his hand back out. You're both breathing so loud, you're sure you would have missed it if it wasn't right by your head. Something cold presses against the underside of your thigh, surrounded by the warmth of Yoongi's hand, like he's palming something to your skin. "Do you know what this is?" he whispers, just as close as before. You focus on the feeling of it, the shape of it pressed into your skin. It almost feels like a...your eyes go wide and press back into the pillow until you can meet his gaze. His hand is still firmly pressed over your mouth so it's hard to shake your head, but you do vehemently. Not saying you don't know what it is, but saying please don't use it. Because you definitely know the elongated and rounded-edged feel of the hilt to his pocket knife. His hips pull back, you almost forgot the fact he had wedged his cock between your thigh and stomach, just a bit. He dips back down until his lips brush your ear, then simultaneously he removes his hand from over your mouth, clicks the button to extend the blade on his knife, and whispers, "scream for me," as he snaps his hips forward.

Shock, confusion, fear. One of those drives the sound from your throat, a shrill screech rending the air. It's like you're watching everything happen from across the room, it's so surreal. It takes you a moment to realize the blade of the knife is only pressed flat-edge down against your thigh instead of piercing your skin. To add even more to the odd sensations, his cock is moving against your stomach and thigh, his hips working like he's fucking. "What the fuck?"

"Shut up," he snaps into your ear with a low hiss. "Make it believable, they have to believe it. Spit in your hand and help me out," his voice turns into a soft plea, breaths panting between his words into your ear. Rearing back just a fraction, putting about an inch between your bodies, he gives you a look to accompany his plea. It's the softness in his eyes, the way his lips are slightly parted, and the pinch between his brows.

You find yourself spitting into your palm and sliding it between your bodies to grip his length. He pumps a few times, letting you work the moisture into his length before he grunts and jerks his chin up like he's dismissing your hand. None of this makes any sense, but the more that happens, the more the pieces start to fall into place. He's faking this. For some reason unknown to you, he's faking it...and he wants, no-...needs, you to play along. They have to believe it? His words from a moment ago are just now registering. "Yoongi?" His name comes out on a rasp as your eyes frantically flick around the room. Did someone come in while you weren't paying attention?

The hand that was covering your mouth slips into your hair and pulls your attention back to him. "Stay with me, princess, focus on me." He nods, eyes open and pleading for your understanding. You only manage a small, almost imperceptible nod. Relief flicks across his features before they morph back into a careful mask of indifference. He turns his head to the side, his chin dipping down to his shoulder like he's looking back toward the other side of the room again.

It becomes sort of a dance, a mockery of intimacy. Each time his hips snap forward, shoving his length between your thigh and stomach you feign pain, crying out or thrashing under him. He grunts out his own displeasure, calling you names and even going so far as to place his hand around your throat though he doesn't apply any pressure. The knife is still pressed against your thigh, a small reminder that anytime you need it, he can still hurt you, that maybe he still intends to. It's hard to think he's capable, considering what he's doing...faking this.

You rewet him a few times, trying to help ease the pass of his cock against your skin. All thoughts of arousal for you have gone out the window, you're solely focused on keeping up this illusion for however long is needed. You wish you knew what was going on, why the need for the theatrics. Wouldn't it have just been easier to do the real thing? You're trying to reason out the possibilities when there is a shift in Yoongi's demeanor. His eyes are shuttered closed, brow pinched tight, and his hips are losing their rhythm. "Please," you plead in a faux attempt to stop him, but you tighten the space he's pistoning into instead, encouraging him with your body.

"One more scream, princess," he grunts into the side of your neck. You can feel slick sweat from his forehead smearing onto your shoulder as he tilts his head down, bowing his body. You open your mouth to give him your best impression of a fearful yelp but it turns into a full-blown tearful bellow as he presses the tip of the knife against your thigh. It's just a small prick, but it stings. You grit your teeth and slap at his arm but you might as well be just a fly for as much as he pays attention to you.

The knife leaves your skin and you can feel a warm wetness bubble up. It's like a shock to the system, adrenaline pumps through your veins and you break out in a cold sweat. He actually cut you. You had thought the knife was just a pretense, something to get you to play along. A flare for the dramatic, sure, but you didn't honestly expect him to use it on you. He gives one last heaving grunt, his hips pulling back before another rush of warm wetness is on your body. You feel his fingers wipe across the small knick on your thigh before it smears across your core, mixing your blood with his cum. He had to fake it. The cold reality of that hits you like an ice block to the chest. The blood, the cum, it's all part of the act.

Yoongi finally heaves himself off your body, throwing back the blankets that were covering you. You catch the faintest glimmer of metal as he pushes the knife further under the blankets and out of sight. His gaze is locked between your thighs, drawing your own attention there. It's not as bad as you imagined in your head. There is far more cum than blood, just a soft swirl of pink and red. You can see that he rubbed it on himself, too, red dots his pelvis and pink-tinged moisture coats his now spent cock. You drop your knee, noticing the subtle chaffing blush on your skin where he fucked it.

If you didn't know any better, you'd think the sight between the two of you represents what you'd have expected it to be. But, it's not. For a reason still unknown to you. A reason you'll soon know, you'll demand it. He said he would explain and you're not going to let him go without doing so. "What-?" For what seems like the hundredth time tonight, he cuts off your questioning. All he does is raise his hand, palm out toward you, in a request of silence.

"Get cleaned up," he says to you, rolling his shoulders back. As he shifts his weight to throw a leg over your hips so he can roll out of the bed, he leans forward and whispers, "meet me out by the river." He's already sliding off the bed by the time his words truly register.

Yoongi grabs his jeans and pauses for a moment, glancing toward the far side of the room, then disappears into the bathroom. A moment later he's walking out, jeans on and snagging his sweater off the floor before exiting the room. You're left there, in a growing pool of wetness as the cum and blood mixture drips down your ass and onto the sheets.

Mind still reeling, you make your own way out of the bed, snatch up your clothes, and head into the bathroom to clean up. There is a small first-aid kit and fresh washcloth sitting on the sink. There is an already wet cloth discarded into the wicker hamper beside the sink. You clean up in a daze. Those puzzle pieces that were falling into place don't seem to fit nearly as nicely as you were starting to think. There is an ugly truth being revealed here, one you're not sure you want to know. The small cut on your thigh is mostly superficial, like Yoongi's intention was only to draw the smallest amount of blood that he could. It hardly requires a bandaid, having already clotted. You add a small one just for good measure, not wanting your jeans to scratch and irritate it.

By the time you exit the bathroom, Wenton is in the room, stripping the sheets from the bed. "Oh, shit!" You jump back in surprise, not expecting to see anyone, much less him, standing there.

"Sorry, Miss," he mutters, continuing with his task. "Just going to change the linens for you."

A queasiness settles into your stomach thinking about what's on those sheets. For a moment you think about the pocketknife. You step forward, intent on telling Wenton to watch himself, but you catch a glint of metal out of the corner of your eye and see the knife sitting on the bedside table like it was never anywhere else to begin with.

You can't make it out of the room fast enough. Flying down the stairs, you make a beeline for the mudroom and door to the patio out back. Cold air slaps you across the face, helping to cool your heated cheeks. You hadn't realized how flustered seeing Wenton wadding up the soiled sheets made you until now.

There is a winding stone path that leads down to the river. This stretch of the water is wide, serene as it meanders through the mountain. Yoongi has told you many stories about this cabin, about how all the boys would dare one another to swim across. The river isn't very dangerous here, but you know just down the way and around a bend it turns into rushing rapids that bleed into several rocky waterfalls. If you listen closely, you can hear the rush of water over stone in the distance, like a hushed whisper of darkness.

With no city lights nearby, the light pollution is next to nonexistent, leaving the stars and fat, near-full moon to shine brightly overhead. You catch the silhouette of Yoongi against the shine of the moon on the water. His back is to you as you approach the end of the stone path.

He turns toward you, waiting until you're right in front of him before he reaches out and begins to pat down your pockets.

"What are you doing?" You try to take a step back but he snags a hand in your sweater, stopping you from retreating.

"Your phone, it's inside?" he asks, bringing his eyes up to yours. You give a nod and he finally releases you.

You do take a step back now, putting a bit more space between the two of you. "Now, are you going to explain?"

He takes a deep, slow breath. "First, I want to apologize," his voice is soft but carries over the softer burbling from the water just a few feet away. He crosses his arms over his chest, his face unreadable in the dim light. "Second, I want to thank you for going along with...that," he flicks his fingers back towards the house before shoving them back into the crook of his elbow.

"What exactly was that?" you push, mirroring his cross-armed stance. Yoongi opens his mouth to speak but then his teeth click shut and his lips form a thin line. "No, you don't get to shut me out this time, Yoongi. Fucking. Speak. Now."

He lets out a frustrated grunt, his arms unfolding so he can mash the heels of his palms against his eyes. He grinds them before his hands slide down his face like he's trying to wipe away his stubborn hesitancy.

"There are things, big things, that you have no idea about," he begins. "Things that are bigger than both you and I. This," he gestures between the two of you, "is just a small piece of a much bigger, and darker picture. What I did in there, what we did in there, was for you."

You raise a skeptical eyebrow. "Keep going."

"We're married, it's what's expected...it's what they expect to happen, regardless of whether or not you want it. I've done nothing but fight on your behalf the last year. Relentlessly working toward a way to make things different. But, my hands are tied, have been tied...by that bastard." Yoongi begins to pace, shoving his hands in his pockets. "There are cameras everywhere, tracking devices, your phone," he gives you a quick glance before resuming his pacing, "we're both being watched. If I didn't make it seem like it happened, then we'd both be in big trouble."

"Why fake it? Why not just do it?" He's still not giving you the answers you need, he's holding back.

His face is pinched when he looks back at you. "I didn't want your first time to be like that," he whispers. "I couldn't take that from you, not like that."

"I don't understand."

Yoongi huffs another sigh. "I'm going to start from the beginning, I'll try to explain the best I can, okay?" You nod, relaxing back on the heels of your boots. "I never expected to have a happy or love-filled marriage, that's just not part of the deal when it comes to these things, right? But, I did try, in the beginning...and after a while, I started to care about you. Then...Namjoon came back from that assignment in Tokyo and everything changed."

The fact he's bringing up Namjoon throws up a red flag for you. "What does Namjoon have to do with this?"

"Everything." The word is so quiet you barely catch it. "He has everything to do with this. He's the one watching, he's the one that Wenton has been instructed to send our bedsheets to for testing, he's the one that forced me to be a monster to you, he's the one who has threatened your life if I don't make it a living hell," he finishes on a whisper, his voice thick with emotion.

Each new revelation is like a punch to the gut. "But why?" you sputter. What the actual fuck? You know Namjoon is an evil man, but what on earth did you do to earn his scorn to the point of death?

"It's not you, not really." Yoongi stops his pacing and comes to stand before you. He untangles your arms and clasps your hands in his. "While Namjoon was in Tokyo he found out something, something that derailed him." There is a sadness in his eyes as he continues, "What I'm about to tell you won't make you happy, but please know that it's true and I have proof if you need it."

He waits for you to acknowledge his words. "Okay," you agree, chewing your bottom lip, suddenly filled with trepidation.

"Your father is the reason our mother died."

Air leaves your lungs in a whoosh. "Don't be ridiculous."

"Please, I said it wouldn't make you happy, but you need to trust me. You wanted an explanation, this is it." His tongue darts out and wets his lips. "My mom was in love with your dad before she was forced into an arranged marriage with my father. They couldn't have children of their own, so that's why they adopted. She was always so happy on the outside, full of laughter and smiles. We lost her seven years ago. Father said it was an accident, she slipped and fell down the stairs. We were all away, either in school or working. We never got to see her body, just the blood in the foyer before it was cleaned up."

"They were in love at one point. So what? All of this just sounds like an excuse for you and your family to do shitty things."

Yoongi gives your hands, still held in his, a small squeeze. "Just, let me explain. They continued to see one another even after they both married. Your mother was just as unaware as my father, at least, as far as I know, she was. When Namjoon was in Tokyo, he came across some old files that had my mom's name on them. Her death nearly destroyed him, what he found was the last straw needed. The files lead to a small apartment, old and abandoned. It was filled with some of her things, bottles of her perfume, along with men's cologne and suits. Tucked away in a small box were two letters. One was a suicide letter, addressed to your father. The writing is unmistakably my mother's. The other was a letter signed by your father to our mother, essentially ending their near twenty-year tryst. My mother was heartbroken, so she took her own life."

A shiver runs through you, one not from the cold air seeping beneath your sweater. "I don't know what to say," you whisper, blinking back the emotion threatening your lash line. It's the whiplash from the bedroom all over again. He's treated you so horribly over the last year, all for what? Because Namjoon is holding some sort of grudge for something you had no part in...is that really a good enough reason? Part of you is melting with sympathy, begging your mind to wrap around this as an act of kindness; the lesser of two evils. But, another part of you is disgusted and outraged that Yoongi didn't bring this to your attention much sooner. Instead of making you aware of what was happening and making a plan with you, Yoongi took it upon himself to play into Namjoon's hands, let his strings be pulled, and turn him into a macabre puppet of some kind. "Did the proposal even have anything to do with how you've acted? Or was that just a coincidence?"

"That was me...all me. I thought I could use that as a way to get you out, a way to speed up the process. I thought, maybe if you said yes and had shown a desire to get married sooner, then dad would have allowed it and we would have been out of the house and away from Namjoon, giving me more space to be able to come up with a better plan. The anger from your denial was real, that was me...acting like an insensitive jerk being rejected by the pretty girl." He at least looks ashamed, the way his cheeks pink a little and his brow scrunches. "I never should have taken my frustrations out on you, but it made the transition into my compromise with Namjoon seem authentic on the outside. Everyone thought I was lashing out because of that, so no one suspected anything different."

"So, no one else knows...about any of this?"

"No one. Wenton knows a little, he knows he needs to do what Namjoon requests, but no more than that. My father doesn't know, won't know. Namjoon doesn't want him to know because he's worried he'll take matters into his own hands in regards to you. He came directly to me. He wanted to take you away, make you suffer for what your father did. I tried to make him see reason, that the sins of the father couldn't be blamed on the daughter. He wouldn't listen, so I finally compromised with him. I agreed to make your life a living hell, make you suffer, as long as he kept away. The more I push you, the more I hurt you, the more satisfied he is with keeping you alive...if only to see you hurt more. I've tried everything, ignoring you, leaving you for weeks on end, but every time I was gone for too long or spent too many days letting you live in peace, he'd swoop in and remind me of his threat," his voice breaks. "I've spent the last year protecting you from a different kind of evil...but, I don't know how much more I can take. I don't know how many more days I can look into your eyes and see hate staring back at me. So, I've been working on a plan to get you away from here...to finally set you free."

Freedom. Is that even possible? For that matter, is Yoongi even telling the truth?

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pb-dot · 5 months

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Film Friday: Bullet Train

I've been missing a few Film Fridays lately, partially because mental health has just kinda been like that and partially because I've been struggling with a slightly more meaty analysis that my brain just won't let me figure out properly. As such, I'm going to get into the swing of things again with a movie that is pretty stupid, and I say that with all possible love and admiration.

Ladybug isn't really comfortable with the title of hitman anymore, he's trying out a more harmonic life, but even so he does find it in himself to undertake what should by all accounts be a simple last-minute job. Board the eponymous train, grab a suitcase, and get off at the next station. Oh, were it only so easy. Turns out said bullet train is flush with kooky assassins and hitmen who are either out for the suitcase, the lives of one or more of each other, or have larger and more ominous designs.

There's Ladybug, of course, the quirky pair of British wetworks men Lemon and Tangerine out to escort a drugged-out VIP and a suitcase full of money, notorious and sneaky The Hornet who's skulking about somewhere, the megalomaniacal but brilliant Prince playing a larger game with the life of desperate father Kimura's child as ante, as well as the hot-headed Wolf who is out for vengeance and a paycheck, but mostly the vengeance thing. It's quite the web of coincidences, interferences, and merry chaos as these murderers navigate the crowded train.

It's chaotic, but one throughline that honestly makes the constant shifting priorities and allegiances of Ladybug and the other hitmen work is that it's all a job to them, a very messy job that may or may not be arranged by a Russian usurper of the Yakuza crime syndicate known as White Death, but still a job. Whenever it's expedient for our heroes and antiheroes to not kill each other, they'll show professional courtesy to each other, bantering in that "a little bit too cool" stylized way that's second nature to Hollywood assassins.

What sets the banter apart, though, is a distinct sense of humor. Lemon, much to Tangerine's annoyance, has a theory of human personalities and moral character based on Thomas The Tank Engine. Ladybug has luck that fluctuates wildly between being impossibly good and impossibly bad, and he has a problem with remembering faces which makes some of the networking with his fellow killers challenging. Wolf's role in the movie is short in a way that feels darkly comedic yet apt, and I was surprised to learn this was, in fact, a cameo from musician Bad Bunny (listen, I'm old, ok?)

It's all breezy fun. The movie takes itself about as seriously as any movie that features a Japanese-language cover of "Holding Out For A Hero" in a moment of high drama, but that's fine, the movie expects you to chuckle along, knowing full well it has your heart in a vise by the third cover of "I'm forever blowing bubbles." Not a joke by the way, the few moments that Bullet Train allows itself to express emotion more complex than "holy shit" and/or laughter, it's acted well enough and with enough genuine skill that it actually gets to me a fair bit.

It'd be an act of overstatement to call Bullet Train all that deep, but it adds up to more than the sum of its parts. It ends up saying some fun things about fate. I wouldn't exactly cite it in a philosophy paper or anything of the sort, it is fun to sit at the end of the "Michael Shannon plays Russian roulette in an oni mask to look badass" movie and go "You're right movie, maybe human misery DOES come from the hubris of believing ourselves to be masters over fate." I don't know, it's just nice for a crowd-pleasing action movie to go out on a note of what seems like a genuinely held belief and not "welp that happened" glibness. It reminds me a bit of Mr. and Mrs. Smith like that, a movie I'll probably end up talking about here one of these days.

#film friday #bullet train 2022 #I also didn't really have time to get into it #but there are some parallels between Ladybug and Nagito Komeda of Dangen Ronpa #in that “very intense luck that could be argued to be very good or very bad but whatever it is it is a lot” sense #No idea if it reflects a Japanese cultural idea about luck or not #would love to dig into that a little deeper one day if the opportunity should present itself #anyway Bullet Train is fun go watch it

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fictionfixations · 4 months

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twisted wonderland (and talking about visual novels)

TWISTED WONDERLAND SPOILERS.

and brief mystic messenger mention

okay. so. im getting into twisted wonderland

and. can i just ask. why does the story actually seem cool? also DESIGNS??? WOAHHH.

Maybe I'm biased, I've had the story a bit spoiled to me cause. Okay so I got into Twisted Wonderland because I was reading Katekyou Hitman Reborn! fics, and there's this series filled with Skull being characters from Twisted Wonderland (and other stuff ofc). And I decided, why not, and it seemed so cool (I adore bamf skull), and also. Honestly. My favorite is Riddle Rosehearts. (Also the 'OFF WITH YOUR HEAD!' ability. 1. Ayo CoLLAR ME PLS HAha- 2. I don't know if it gets more extreme but in the fics its been used to kill a bunch of people at once because, y'know, off with your head. The ability seems very cool.)

honestly i have no complaints about the story?? and maybe thats on me because the most experience i have with japanese visual novels is they're all romance games. and i really appreciate it not being that. HELL YEAH. give me my fantasy adventure with disney villains everyday!

i cannot tell you how much i LOVED Ever After High. And then there was Descendants (i think it got so popular that Ever After High got discontinued, which NOOOO)

Anyway I got so obsessed with Descendants. And then I went to a store and there was Descendants stuff and I bought a lot. I don't know why but I even bought like a Mal wig?? I don't even know why, I don't cosplay.

I'm not sure whose related to who and where exactly it fits in the universe (like, for example, if Riddle's related to the queen of hearts or something, no idea), but there's basically these dorms for seven of these like.. villains. Introduction to who they are in the prologue imo is kinda portraying it in a way that you want to be inspired by them? Like, oh, Scar just wanted equality between the Hyenas and the Lions (I think? I haven't watched that movie in so long), and while technically that's kind of true.. I think other stuff happened but I honestly can't remember.

Or like... The. evil queen? I think that's from Snow White's story. Uhh, that she wanted to be the fairest in all the land and was willing to do whatever it takes, which that was something to be admired about. Honestly don't hang on my word if you don't know about the game's story and reading this anyway because I don't remember a lot from the movies.

(ALSO for once not a story where we're assumed to be like, a girl? again, my only experience is those romance games sadly, but oh my god. I've been trying to get back into Mystic Messenger cause I never had the patience for it before, but the

me: I'm not a girl [dialogue option]

707 I think: ..Then why are you here??? Did you miss the 'something something. It was like [for females] or [female-oriented]'

it was 'youdidntreadsweetfantasyforladies?'

apparently its cause korea wasn't supportive of lgbtq stuff so even the more gay-er routes (COUGH COUGH jAEHEE MY BELOVED) were risky, sad.

but i don't know man. (can we talk about how guys are pushed to like those really overly muscular and buff men.? Wouldn't that technically make them possibly more gay? like idk. question:

if a boy were to play with, say, a barbie doll, would that be more gay then

playing with muscular half-naked men??? i really wonder why it's not flipped the other way around to promote f/m instead of f/f or m/m admiration lol)

anyway i got so off topic. and then i got distracted and i dont remember what i was talking about

segway to my next topic:

also. also. can we just. talk about the overblot designs? okay so im spoiling myself and going on the wiki but im not that patient

LOOK AT HOW GORGEOUS. ALSO HEELS. and i cant tell if its heeled boots but STILL. that little dress part that hangs around the body, the thing behind the head i dont know the name of but ive seen it before, the marking on the face reminding me of like one of those widow veils, the flowers around the waist is a nice touch

and the mark on his neck is 👀

like just SQUEEE, its very pretty, i would LOVE to play him but I'm pretty sure that's not possible

and cause overblotting is like a dangerous thing

(ive read that its like a rare thing in a fic but kept happening often since we arrived [one overblot for every 'book' or dorm] but idk if its canon cause i havent gotten to the explanation in the game and i dont think the wiki mentions it)

#thoughts #spoilers #twisted wonderland #disney twisted wonderland #twst wonderland #disney twst #visual novel #i rant about otome games and visual novels and stuff like that

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vendetta-if · 2 years

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Hi! So, I haven't seen a question about this, but soory if this was already asked. For now I only played with "I'm happy for them" option for our uncle and Jackal, but I feel like an option like "I'm really happy for them, but if something happens to Luca he's dead", you know? Worrying a little bit cause anything can happen in this life (Mc's mom said she loved Viktor but still abandoned us, in general there are a lot of.people out to get.us and etc), so I think some MC would try to give Jackal "the talk". Like, "look I'm happy for you two and you do look happy together, but I will hurt you if you hurt my uncle. Mark my words, I'll use everything at my disposal to hunt you down if you betray him." And etc. So the question is - how would Jackal react to this? How would Luca react to this is he overhears this/is told about this?

Also, a.little question. Maybe I'm just bad at reading and missed this in.the.text, but how does Ash feel about Luca and Jackal? I mean, they also were raised by.him and consider him family.

Sorry, another question. Can you.tell us more about Jackal? He knows at least a little bit of Russian, his name is Artyom and Luka calls him Tyoma, does this mean he got at.least some.roots in Russia or a post USSR country? What's his nationality/what nationalities is he "a mix" of? (Sorry, not sure if this is the correct term, English's not my first language). I would love to hear some.bits of information about him (how he met Luca and how did they hit this off, where's he from, how did he came into his profession and etc. I'd love to hear even about his favorite ice cream flavor, he is an absolute delight of a character).

Sorry for this lengthy ask!

Aww ☺️ I’m really glad that you’re loving Jackal! ❤️

For your first question, I wouldn’t be able to answer that because you’ll be able to give Jackal the shovel talk pretty soon in the story 😉 So, you’ll be able to see for yourself how he would react to that!

As for your second question, Ash is just mostly confused and also a little worried. They have heard the rumours spreading around about Luka seeing someone, but they thought they were merely that, rumours. But seeing that Luka is actually in a relationship makes them happy, but also worried, especially considering Jackal is a professional hitman. Ash really loves and cares for Luka; Luka has been a part of their life for a long time and he took them in and raised them and MC after both Viktor and Cara died. So, Ash also felt indebted and is very loyal to him and the family.

And you’re correct; Jackal/Artyom Zhang is half-Russian and half-Chinese (his mother was Russian and his father was Chinese), but he was born in China and grew up there for a while, so his nationality was Chinese. He’s pretty fluent in Russian, Chinese, and English.

He was the one who first sought out Luka not long after he stepped foot in Elysium City. He had been running away from home and moving from one place to the next trying to evade and shake off his pursuers for years and years, to no avail.

He was about to solemnly accept that running away and not staying in one place for long might be his sealed fate until he died, either from a job gone wrong or his pursuers finally catching up to him for real and execute him.

That was until a sympathetic fixer decided to tell him about the top of the food chain in Elysium City, the Morozov Family and suggested that he met with the head here, Luka, to ask or negotiate some kind of protection deal. The fixer also told him to speak in Russian when first introducing himself to Luka to gain as many points with Luka as possible 😂

The idea sounded crazy, but Jackal was desperate enough that he’d be willing to give it a shot. The only problem was how to even ask an audience with Luka? He was infamous for having little patience in listening other people’s—many of which are more influential than Jackal—petitions and was known to not be a pretty sociable man, only selectively choosing people to meet face-to-face with in a specific amount of time.

As to how Jackal actually pulled off meeting Luka in the first place, it’ll be a tale for another time 😄 But he actually did and they did strike a deal: Jackal is under the Morozov’s protection and in return, whenever Luka needs his hitman skills, he won’t be able to refuse taking the jobs.

Eventually, they actually got closer and got into a friends-with-benefits arrangement with Luka. As it went on, the both of them ended up with real romantic feelings for each other.

Luka fell really hard though 😆 Artyom also fell hard, but tried to play it off, deny it, or fight it off for the longest time until he finally can’t lie to himself anymore and caves in. Their date in Chapter 3 was really supposed to be their very first proper date as boyfriends 🥺

So, yeah, Luka and Jackal have known each other for quite a while, even though they just pretty recently gotten into a serious and steady relationship with one another.

Jackal becomes a professional hitman because killing people with his power has been what was trained and ingrained in him ever since he was young. It’s what he’s good at. And he basically needed to do something to get some money and survive while also running away from his pursuers not long after his mother’s death.

That’s all I can answer about Jackal’s backstory. You’ll be able to ask a little bit more stuff about him later on in his conversation. Although, he might not be 100% fully open to MC considering he has just met them. Although MC got special treatment for being Luka’s nephew/niece/nibling 😁 I also currently plan for one ‘hangout’ session with him and Luka that might reveal more about his backstory 😉

#asks #anon ask #if: vendetta #char: jackal #char: luka #ro: ash #char: info #lore #info #if game #if wip #dashingdon #choicescript

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berylcups · 2 months

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PLEASEE do cuckhold la squadra

ITS A VISON NO ONE ELSE IS SEEING.

Hey there! Sorry it took so long! There were so many possibilities I could do for this one so I’m going to try more in the future! 🤩

Get Cucked! Illuso/Formaggio x Reader

CW: Cucking, cheating(does it count if it’s just fantasy?), drinking, petnames(lots of em), masturbation, oral,

Notes: technically the GameCube doesn’t come out in the EU until everyone is DEAD in 2002 but we are going to ignore that little detail 🥲 also it doesn’t seem as descriptive as I want it to be, I’m going through a writers block but this is helping me come out of it so thank you for asking for this! 💜 Beryl

MINORS DNI

It was another night of hanging around the base. When a few or more people aren’t out on missions they tend to hangout at the base and get drunk, watch football, gamble, and just chill out.

Y/N was splayed out on the sofa playing on their game boy. They were playing tetris and they were pretty tipsy from drinking nearly a whole bottle of Chianti by themselves so they weren’t doing as well as they usually do in their game.

“Fuck… lost again? This game sucks.” They groaned.

Illuso and Formaggio were drinking together like usual. Despite all the teasing they were good friends but they just had a strong rivalry and wanted to outdo each other in every little thing. Illuso looked over at Y/N and snickered at their frustration at their game.

“Aww poor baby is too drunk to play their game huh?” Formaggio called out to Y/N.

“Fuck off man…I’m not drunk. Dis’ game is just bullshit.” They slurred, giving him the finger . “ Dammit I lost again!”

He laughed at their response. “C’mon now sugar, I’m just teasing.”

He lowered his voice so only illuso could hear.

“Y’know you're really lucky to have Y/N as your partner. You should let me have a chance with them once in a while.” He whispered.

“Me sharing my Y/N? No way man. That’s just cucking and I’m no cuck.” Illuso laughed.

“Friends share but fine-be a greedy dick.” Formaggio huffed. “Well you can’t blame me for asking. You hit the jackpot with them.”

“Why thank you. I’m very aware of that.” Illuso said smugly. “ Y/N maybe a cold and reserved AFAB but they know quality when they see it.” He said, flipping his hair.

“Yeah yeah- if you’re going to jerk your ego off go do that in private.” Formaggio said annoyed.

Iluso gets up and walks over to Y/N who’s now half asleep. “Hey- scoot over so I can sit down.”

“Nuh uh. How about you come sit in Zaddys lap” they smirked while patting their lap.

“ no— because I’ll end up crushing you.” He snickered at their drunken attempt at flirting.

They tried to get up for him and immediately got a head rush. “Woah… dizzy.” They mumbled.

“Yeah you had enough for one night. Let’s get you to bed.” Illuso picked Y/N. “Well I guess that’s it for tonight. See you assholes later” he said as he took Y/N upstairs to his room and placed them into bed. They snuggled up to illuso as he draped the duvet over them and he tried to fall asleep but…he just couldn’t. His mind kept going back to what Formaggio said—to let him have a night with his Y/N.

Getting with Y/N was tricky. When they first joined the hitman team they were very reserved and quiet…so much that he was ordered to spy on them to make sure they weren’t doing anything against them for the boss. But somehow by some miracle he was able to win their heart. They’re very domestic and loving… and when working they are sadistic and cruel. They were the perfect partner and coworker. He won’t admit it but he’s very lucky to have Y/N and can’t imagine life without them! But… something feels missing. But what could that be? He has everything he wants right? That’s what he thought until his damn friend Formaggio got inside his head about fucking Y/N!

When he really thinks hard about it…He really wants to see them let guard down and be slutty for once. Not just a slut but a whore. The thought of Y/N being uncharacteristically promiscuous and cheating on him is somehow making him hard. That’s a secret that he’s going to take to his grave. He doesn’t want to be known as “ Illuso the Cuck”. But the thought of Y/N being unfaithful just makes him blush.

He’s never going to act on these fantasies but how realistic could it be to get Y/N in on this kink? He knows they’re extremely selective with who they allow into their pants. With Y/N being reserved it does make things a little more complicated. Formaggio would be the perfect guy for them to cheat on him with. The three of them work together the most and Y/N has stated they feel the safest with the 2 men. And… they get along very well—always joking and talking about morbid topics. As curious as he is to let it play out, He’s just going to have to keep it a fantasy.

His pride is far too strong to allow another set of balls near his precious Y/N. They’re his! He found them first! He’d never let him fuck them! That’s his partner! They are a power couple! Nobody is gonna waltz in and take Y/N away from him!

He looked over at Y/N who’s now fast asleep. They have an innocent look to them when they snuggle up with him sleeping. He wanted to sleep but he couldn’t ignore the erection he had straining in his boxers. He pulled his stiff cock out and closed his eyes focusing on his fantasy as he jerked off hoping he didn’t wake Y/N up …

—————————————————————————

“C’mon sweet thing. Don’t tell me you don’t want this” Formaggio purred, gently holding Y/Ns chin up to make eye contact with him.

“ I do like you Formaggio but… I’m with illuso. I can’t just betray him like that.” Y/N said hesitantly.

“ don’t worry about it! If anything happens I’ll make sure I get in trouble and not you.” He reassured them.

“I mean, how can anyone be mad at this cute face? Just one little kiss? Pretty please?” He cooed.

He was really putting the charm on. If all he wanted was just one kiss would it really be that bad?

“ I don’t know…” they hesitated. They were starting to break down their barrier just a bit. “ as long as it’s just one kiss then okay.”

He tilted their face back up towards him and leaned in and kissed them deeply. He nibbled gently on their bottom lip and sucked on it, tempting them to let him in. They were reluctant at first but they were starting to feel fuzzy with lust and opened their lips enough to let him slip his tongue in.

He pulled them closer as they finally reciprocated and let their tongue fight his for dominance. He chuckled into the kiss and grabbed their ass.

“!!” They gasped as he groped them and pulled away for a second. “ wait wait wait- this is getting out of hand” they stuttered.

“Aww come on sweetie~ you need to loosen up a little. I bet I could treat you better than he ever could.” He caresses their face. “I mean- who is so secretive about their relationship? The entire team didn’t know you two were together for 3 whole months! Who the hell would ever keep you a secret? I’d be showin’ you off left and right! I definitely wouldn’t be afraid of showing you some love in front of everyone! He’s not doing good enough for you honey~ let me show you what real love looks like. How about it?” He sweet talked them.

They thought hard… “well…it would be nice if Illuso showed me off more… Maybe hes ashamed of me? I just thought it was because he didn’t like PDA.” They said, voice wavering. “Maybe I don’t put out enough? I’m just so self conscious because I worry about my appearance and my personality since I’m so shy…” they started tearing up.

“No baby of course not. Don’t think that way. You’re perfect just the way you are.” He cooed while kissing away the tears running down Y/Ns cheeks. “He just has a bad habit of not appreciating the things he has. He's spoiled. It has nothing to do with you, no more tears bella.” He hugged them tightly.

They said nothing but nuzzled into the hug. “You’re really good at hugs.” Y/N said, laying their head on his shoulder.

“Hmm is that so? Who’s better- me or Illuso?” He asked with a hint of playfulness.

“Oh I don’t know… don’t make me answer that!” He nuzzled his face into their neck and gently placed a few butterfly kisses on them in response. “You realllllly don’t know? Are you sure?” He teased.

“Okay okay. It’s you. You’re better at hugs.” They giggled. “But don’t tell anybody!”

“I keep it as our little secret.” He said with a wink. “Speaking of secrets…how about I show you a good time? I bet I can satisfy you better than he can~” he purred.

Y/N finally caved in to Formaggios charms. “Ok but we take this secret to our graves. Nobody can ever find out about this.” They said sternly.

“Of course bella. You won’t hear a word out of me once this is all said and done!”

He gently pushed them onto his bed and pulled their pants off.

“You have the cutest panties you know. I bet you’d rock some crotchless ones~” he flirted, hooking a finger under the waistband and pulling them off.

Y/N covered their face out of shyness. “Crotchless?! That’s lewd!” They whined.

“Being lewd would be a good look on you~. We just gotta get you in the mood. I’m gonna turn you into a little whore” he spread their legs and gave their cunt an experimental lick to see their reaction.

“Ah~” they softly moaned and shuddered.

“So cute~. But I know you can get louder than that!” He grabbed their hips and pulled them closer to his face so he can eat them out. He licked them roughly focusing on fucking them with his mouth.

“Ah~! Maggi!” They mewled at the sudden intrusion.

“That’s right sweetheart! Let everyone know who’s making you feel this good!” He encouraged them. He fucked them with his tongue and gently rubbed on their clit to make sure that no part of them was neglected.

They kept crying his name over and over. He wanted to fuck Y/N right then and there but he was there to please them. He kept himself sane by grinding his hardness into the edge of the bed.

“Tell me angel, who’s better at eating your pretty pussy? Me or illuso? Be honest or I’ll stop~” he teased.

“Uh… I don’t know… don’t make me answer!” They whined.

“Wrong answer!” He stopped licking and gave a wicked smile. “I’ll give you one more chance. Who’s better at eating you out? Me or him? Be honest now!”

“Wait don’t stop! Please!” They cried.

“Baby all you gotta do is tell me and I’ll do whatever you want! I promise” he said squeezing on their inner thighs.

“Okay! It’s you! You Formaggio! You’re better than Illuso! Happy?!” They cried in frustration.

“Verrrry happy!” He teased. He spread their bottom lips and slipped a finger inside. “I bet you want more than one finger right?”

“Mmm…yeah. More fingers please.” Y/N softly moaned at the intrusion.

“Well…only because you said please.” He teased as he slipped a 2nd finger in and curled them to brush up against that sensitive spot. He nearly pulled out their drooling cunt and back against the spot again to a slow brutal rhythm. He flicked his tongue over their clit and gave a harsh suck to the small bundle of nerves.

“Augh… maggi~” they whined. “Don’t stop~” they spread their legs further, and grinding their cunt on his face.

He fingered at a faster pace and lapped at their clit. He made a lewd slurping sound as he sucked on their clit and the fingering made wet squelching noises.

“Oh fuck Maggi~! You’re gonna make me cum!” Y/N held his head down in their crotch.

“Mmmph~” he moaned into their cunt and fingered as fast as he could as his way of encouraging Y/N to cum.

“Maggio~!” They cried as they came. They nearly crushed his head between their thighs as they rode out their orgasm. They went limp and panted hard looking down at him in a lust induced haze.

“Wow… that’s the best orgasm I ever had.”they panted, trying to catch their breath.

“Glad to hear it honey. But I haven’t even gotten started yet.” He purred. “I’m gonna make sure you cum on my cock too. Now be a doll and get on all fours for me won’t you?” He said rubbing your thighs.

Y/N obeyed and rolled over on to their hands and knees.

They could hear him unzipping his pants and pulling them off. He gives their ass a firm smack and he snickers.

“Did I ever mention that you have a cute little ass? Well ok sweetheart I’m gonna start now.”he says as he lines his cock up with their entrance.

They were well lubricated enough so he was able to squeeze his way in without much sting.

“Shit angel… you’re tight as hell. Illuso better be treating you like royalty over this cunt!” He groaned.

Y/N moaned from the sudden intrusion. They could feel that he pleasantly stretched them out. He nearly pulled out and then thrusted back in. He did this at a slow but forceful pace.

“Tell me who this ass belongs to now?” He slapped their ass as he buried his cock deeper into their wet cunt.

“It’s yours! My ass belongs to you Formaggio!” They cried.

“That’s right~ this is my ass now!” He grunted as he picked up the pace.

They arch their back and mewled and he brutalized their sopping cunt. They were moaning his name over and over like a broken record.

“Who do you belong to?”he grabbed their hips hard as he bounced them on his cock in time with his thrusts.

“You ~! I belong to you Maggi! Nobody else!” They howled with tears streaming down their face from the intense pleasure.

“That’s right! You belong to me!” He thrusted hard enough to where the tip was kissing their cervix.

“I’m gonna take you away from him and show you how a true man treats their partner!” He groaned.

He kept talking about all the promises of the future and what he's going to do for Y/N. Meanwhile his thrusts were starting to become ragged and out of sync. He reached around and started to run circles into their clit.

“Oh Y/N your pussy is so good it’s gonna make me cum!” He panted.

They felt their orgasm coming on quick with their clit being rubbed and their g spot being brushed up on in tandem.

“I’m gonna cum too ~!” They cried.

He rubbed faster and thrusted until he released inside of them.

The sudden warmth from his release finally tipped them over the edge and they cried as they came hard.

“Maggi~ I’m cumming!” The mewled and their cunt spasmed around his cock.

—————————————————————————

Illuso looked down at his hand which was now covered in his own cum.

“I can’t believe I came to that …” he thought as he reached over for a tissue on the nightstand.

“ Am I really into that?” He mumbled as he cleaned his hand off with the tissue.

“Into what..? What are you talking about?” Y/N yawned.

Y/N woke up? Shit… Illuso hoped they were still drunk and wouldn't remember anything.

“Nothing-don’t worry about it.” He said trying to play it cool.

They squinted to see in the dark and saw that he was holding a used tissue. “ You know if you get horny you can always come to me right? I don’t care if you fuck me if I’m sleeping as long as you don’t cum inside.”

“Yeah I’m sorry. It’s just you’ve been drinking and I didn’t want to wake you.” He said trying to cover the reason why he was masturbating.

The impulsive thoughts were coming back… he wasn’t going to let it happen but he wanted to see for research.

“Hey Y/N…”

“Yeah Lulu?”

“What would it take for you to fuck one of the other members here?” He asked.

“Eugh. Why would you wanna know that?” They asked with a disgusted tone.

“Not really do it! I mean for shits and giggles !” He clarified.

Y/N thought about it… well they were both drunk so likely none of them would remember what Y/N said so why not answer?

“A GameCube.” They said bluntly.

“That new game system???” He asked dumbfounded.

“Yeah. Get me a GameCube and I’ll do whatever freaky shit you want me to. There’s this cute game called “Animal Crossing” that I’m really curious about and it looks like it would be fun . So I’d whore myself out for something like that.” They said deadpan.

Illuso stares at them for a second and then starts laughing. “This is why I love you! You never hesitate to answer my fucked up questions!”

Now Illuso has something in the back of his mind to think about…but he cares more about his pride than anything so maybe he’ll just get them a GameCube just as a gift.

#jjba #la squadra #jjba part 5 #jjba x reader #la squadra x reader #la squadra esecuzioni #minors dni #formaggio x reader #illuso x reader #jjba formaggio #jojo formaggio #jjba illuso #jojo illuso #illuso #jjba Formaggio x reader #jjba illuso x reader #jojo Formaggio x reader #jojo illuso x reader #beryl asks

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