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gimmethatagustd · 12 hours ago

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blunt rotation | pjm

Supplying your law school classmates with weed on the regular might as well be a full-time job. It's lucrative, but lately, you've seen a dip in profits. Maybe it's because you keep giving out the Pretty Boy Discount to a certain guy in your ethics class…

Pairing: Pretty Boy Jimin x weed dealer Reader

Rating: Explicit

Genre/Trope: Law school, classmates to lovers, smut, a classic jai weed fic

Word Count: 7,477

Content Warning: Marijuana, a somewhat subby Jimin, consensual sex while high, choking, fingering, cunnilingus, protected vaginal sex, self-indulgent rants about capitalism and classism, lame dick jokes

A/N: On god, this fic is probably more about weed than anything else khskdjfs. My 420 fics are probs especially bad, and i decided i do not care. #blazeit

Soundtrack: a weed playlist made by yours truly

“What is the difference between ethics, morality, and law?”

Professor Kim leans against the desk at the front of the lecture hall with his hands gripping the edge on either side of his hips. The action makes the muscles in his arms flex, and you eat up the tan skin exposed by how his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. The tight white button-up accentuates plump pectoral muscles that threaten to pop and lose a few buttons. It wouldn’t surprise you if it happened. Professor Kim is known for being accidentally destructive.

It is unethical to fuck your professor because it would create a conflict of interest; you’d imagine it would be hard for Professor Kim to ethically assess your academic performance if he’d been balls deep in you.

It’s morally wrong to fuck your professor because you know he’s married, not because he has ever provided your class with information about his personal life, but because you sit at the front of the class. From your position, you can see the glint of his wedding band.

Legally, you’re pretty sure there isn’t a law against fucking your professor. It probably goes against your university’s code of conduct, but that’s not a law.

You sink further into your seat and let your eyes wander the room. Everyone diligently takes notes as Professor Kim turns to the presentation projected on the large screen behind him. Ethics and Professional Responsibility isn’t your favorite class, but no one said getting your J.D. would be fun. On the contrary, everyone you knew said it would fucking suck. And it kinda does.

One thing that doesn’t suck, though, is having a class with your program’s resident pretty boy, Park Jimin.

Pretty boys aren’t your type at all. You prefer boys who are rough around the edges. You’re not interested if a guy doesn’t look like he’s a one-way ticket to jail or hell. Maybe it’s the rebel in you. Maybe you like the idea that opposites attract. A lawyer and a criminal sounds like a cute ship, no?

Pretty boys are too soft for you. They’re the type to have skincare routines and listen to Jack Harlow. No thanks.

Yet your eyes always manage to find Jimin.

He’s sitting to your left and a few rows behind you, but close enough to see him when you turn your head. He sits with perfect posture as he scribbles notes on his iPad, plump lips puckered in a cute little beak of concentration.

Fuck, no, not cute. Ridiculous. Soft and childish. Everyone in the room is at least in their mid-twenties, some even in their late fifties. A prestigious J.D. program has no room for beaks and squishy cheeks.

You’re about to look away when Jimin lifts his stylus to his mouth. The end presses a small dent into his plush bottom lip. You instinctually lick your lips, though your mouth suddenly feels dry.

Jimin sits that way for a few more seconds with furrowed eyebrows as he focuses on his notes. At Professor Kim’s mention of the end-of-the-year oral argument, your classmate finally lifts his head to face the front of the room. His eyes are bright and wide, unlike the haggard look of your peers, and you watch them shift back and forth as he reads whatever is on the screen. You have no idea what Professor Kim’s talking about; your roommate, Hoseok, will fill you in when you get home.

All you know is that Jimin finally pulls his stylus away from his lips and casts a sideways glance in your direction. You lock eyes for a split second before he quickly ducks his head, suddenly interested in his notes again.

You snort loud enough for the woman sitting next to you to give you an odd look, but you ignore her and return your eyes to Professor Kim.

Your eyes don’t stray from the front of the lecture hall for the rest of the class. It’s not difficult; there isn’t anything else you find interesting enough in the room to distract you. Nothing. Especially not Pretty Boy Jimin.

“Hey, can I come over tonight?”

Two pale hands splay across your desk once the class is dismissed. Chipped, black polish adorns each nail, except for the pinkies, which are painted white.

“Why are you asking me? You don’t need my permission to visit your boyfriend’s apartment.”

“I’m trying to work on my manners, jeez.”

You roll your eyes and slide your tablet into your backpack. “Where were your manners when you and Hobi fucked on my couch? Hmm, Yoongi? Where were they then?”

Yoongi lets out a low groan as he steps to the side to let you fall in line with him as you exit the classroom. Your roommate is waiting in the hallway, always the last student to arrive and the first to leave.

“That’s different,” Yoongi huffs, though this time, the sound is due to Hoseok crushing him in a hug once they make it into the hall. “Besides, I’m asking because I’m bringing my friend. We aren’t going to stay. He just wants someone to come with him.”

Hoseok untangles his arms from Yoongi’s and adjusts his backpack. Your best friends act like surviving a three-hour class is like surviving a lifetime apart.

“Ohh, a friend?” Hoseok leans against Yoongi with his eyebrows arched. His questioning tone is fair. The three of you don’t have many friends aside from each other. It’s hard to maintain friendships with people outside of law school. There’s simply no time.

“What is this, the buddy system?” You snicker as you follow the two men to their cars. “Sorry, I only do business with adults.”

There is quite literally no reason for you to be judgemental about whoever this mystery friend is, but class has put you in a cranky mood. Probably because of stupid fucking Park Jimin with his distracting lips. Your unpreparedness for the oral argument is slowly causing anxiety to creep into your chest.

Yoongi gives you a light smack to your bicep. “Some people get nervous about this shit, you know that.”

“It’s weed, oh my god. You act like we’re cooking meth in our basement.”

Yoongi stops walking to give you a stern look with narrowed eyes and a cocked head. “You don’t even have a basement.”

“Yeah, well, it’s 2023, and weed is legal.”

“It is legal to purchase weed at a licensed dispensary. However, you are not licensed to sell weed, nor is your apartment a dispensary.”

“It’s got enough weed in it to be one,” Hoseok snorts, but the sound quickly morphs into a severe cough when Yoongi’s glare is directed at him.

Yoongi yanks his car door open and slides into the driver’s seat. Then, with one leg still on the ground and his arm holding the door open, he lets out a long sigh. “You two are insufferable.”

“Love you too, babe!” Hoseok giggles and sends his boyfriend a flying kiss as Yoongi drives out of the parking lot.

“For an anti-capitalist, Yoongi is so old-fashioned. I’m providing a product to the everyday person at a reasonable price,” you grumble while you fasten your seatbelt in Hoseok’s car. “Dispensaries are classist. They’re way too fucking expensive, and they’re all in affluent neighborhoods, anyway. The gentrification of marijuana in this country is ridiculous. Where does Yoongi think those tax funds end up? Not in neighborhoods that need them. And what about expunging people’s records? Is the government ever going to do that?”

You slump in your seat, the sudden energetic burst of social consciousness in you dying out. “I hate rich people.”

Hoseok hums in agreement, keeping his eyes on the road as he drives. “We’re about to be rich people, though.”

“Not me. Civil rights law isn’t going to make me rich, and I’m not touching corporate with a ten-foot pole.”

Yoongi and so many other people in your program are too dependent on what is and don’t stop to question what can be or what should be.

Ethics is a social construct, morality is subjective, and law is arbitrary.

Going to law school is less about learning how to be a lawyer and more about learning how to play a game.

When Park Jimin walks into your living room, all you can do is blink at him. Your eyes are red and glassy, your mouth dry even though you’ve been sipping water, and your limbs feel too gooey to bother getting up. Maybe you’re hallucinating him, which would be very upsetting because you don’t want to explore why he’s sticking around in your head.

But then Yoongi is ushering the guy to sit next to you, and the dip in the couch as he eases down feels too real.

“Ah, Jimin! You’re the friend!” Hoseok gives the newcomer a blinding smile. Smoke punctuates each word, billowing toward the ceiling. There’s already a thin haze to the room; you and Hoseok have been smoking for a while. “Welcome to our humble abode.”

Jimin gives Hoseok a small smile. He also turns to give you one, but it falters when you meet his gaze.

You’re not sure what expression you’re wearing. It could be anything, really. Or nothing at all.

“Hi,” he says quietly. His lips are so pink. You want to ask him how soft they are.

“How much do you want?” Is what you ask instead.

Jimin turns to Yoongi, who is now cuddled up with Hoseok on the other side of the room. The chair is made for only one person, but they have never known personal boundaries. You suppose if they’re dating, it doesn’t matter.

“Just give him an eighth,” Yoongi says with a dismissive wave. He’s more focused on plucking the blunt from Hoseok’s lips and bringing it to his own.

“Of what?” You huff your words, twisting the joint you’ve got between your middle finger and thumb. It’s clear that Jimin knows nothing about weed. He can’t even come up with a measurement or a strain.

Yoongi glares at you as if this is somehow your fault before saying, “Anything. Maybe not Girl Scout Cookies or Sour Diesel, though. I don’t want his brain melting out of his ears.”

Jimin makes a slight noise of surprise at that.

“Kidding,” Yoongi teases. “Well, about the brain-melting part. I mean it about the strains, though.”

Leaving your joint in an ashtray on the coffee table, you stand up with a groan. Moving is low on your list of things to do right now. The indica you’ve been smoking makes your movements feel slow, though you can’t tell if they actually are.

“Come on,” you mumble, gesturing for him to follow you down the hall. He goes without a word, eyes wide as if he’s about to discover something profound within the walls of your apartment. You don’t want to admit how cute he is, just as timid in your apartment as in class.

“We keep everything in the office. It’s super organized, but I guess that’s expected.” You don’t know why you’re rambling (yes, you do, it’s the weed).

Jimin nods. “Makes sense.”

He’s so cute, you think, when he asks if he wants you to close the door once you’ve reached the office. As if there is something to hide in here. Hoseok and Yoongi are the only other people in the apartment.

“I’m going to give you a hybrid. You know what that means?”

Jimin hovers over you when you crouch next to a dresser with multiple drawers. Numerous glass jars, all labeled with pieces of white tape and messy handwriting, are stacked in the drawer you open. You sift through them, taking a few to inspect before placing them back again.

“I do not.” At least he’s honest.

“It’s the happy medium between sativa and indica. Sativa gives you a head high. People tend to feel alert and creative sometimes. Indica gives you a body high. It’s the stereotypical kind of weed people talk about that makes you lazy and get the munchies. It’s because sativa has more THC than CBD, whereas indica is more CBD-heavy. Think about how people use CBD products when they’ve got joint pains or anxiety, right?”

“Oh, I didn’t know that.” The statement is redundant, but you don’t mention it. Jimin looks like he hangs onto your every word as though his life depends on it. It’s funny, and you have to stop yourself from laughing at him.

Finding what you’re looking for, you hand a jar to Jimin. “It’s already weighed, so you can take the whole thing.”

Jimin holds the jar like it’s a newborn. This time, you let a few giggles slip out.

“Do you have something to smoke it with? A piece or a bong?”

A shake of his head is no surprise, but you act shocked because you’re high and feeling good, and you love how he looks when his eyes grow wide.

“Wow, you’re so cute,” you say with a grin that starkly opposes the shy blush that paints Jimin’s face. “You probably don’t know how to roll either, do you?”

Another shake of his head. Of course.

It’s not difficult to show Jimin how. You pull up another chair at your desk and push away all your notes and textbooks for school to clear a path to work. You show him how to grind the weed and roll a blunt and a joint — so he can figure out which one he likes better.

Jimin’s body is warm as he presses against yours, your shoulders bumping into each other every time you move your arm. He keeps close, eyes glued to your hands as you work slowly but diligently. It’s a bit disarming having him so close. Aside from the occasional hello during class, you’ve never really talked to Jimin. Concentrating with all his Pretty Boy energy fogging up your mind is tricky.

Or is it the weed? Nah, it’s the weed.

“If you end up not liking either, go to a head shop to buy a bowl — it’s a pipe. Maybe don’t go with a bong yet. Yoongi can help you. He likes bowls better, so he’ll have good recommendations.”

Once finished, you slip the blunts and joints into a ziplock bag. When you pass it to Jimin, you can’t help but let your fingers brush against his. The touch sends waves of hot electricity up your arm. The shock of it makes your entire body tingle. Sure, the weed is making your body extra sensitive, but it’s not only that. He’s so fucking hot.

You don’t realize you’re staring at him. It’s hard not to stare or even know where to begin. His plush, pillowy lips? His fluffy, dirty-blonde hair that falls into his eyes? So cute that you don’t even care when he has to do a Bieber flip to get his bangs out of his face?

And, fuck, he’s not wearing the usual crisp white Oxford shirt and black chinos get-up. He must have gone home to change after class because now he’s wearing a form-fitting black t-shirt (probably designer from the looks of it) and grey jogger sweatpants that do nothing to hide how thick his thighs are and you’re sure if you get a chance to look at his ass you’ll find that that part of his body is thick, too. Expensive athleisure wear looks even better on him than professional clothing. It makes him look soft.

“Thank you,” Jimin says, speaking your name softly, and you feel like your knees grow weak at the sound of it tumbling from lips like those. “I’m sorry, I feel like I barged in here and took up your time. Not knowing anything… I’m sure you’re used to people with more knowledge than I do.”

Shaking your head, you guide Jimin out of the office and lock it behind you. “Don’t worry about it. Everyone has to start somewhere, right?”

It’s funny that he’s concerned about something like this, as if marijuana knowledge is so embarrassing not to have.

When you turn around, you realize the two of you are standing way too close. Your apartment isn’t a shoebox, but it certainly isn’t large. The hallway is slim, and Hoseok has a million and one plants and decorative furniture scattered around for the “aesthetic,” which makes it even harder to navigate tight spaces.

You’re not complaining, though. This close, you can see that Jimin is wearing contacts that make his eyes hazel, little flecks of orangish-brown highlighting his naturally dark irises.

Jimin’s eyes drop to your lips, and you feel your stomach drop along with them. Even though you’re not touching each other, your skin tingles with the knowledge that you could be touching. He’s so close. All it would take is one tiny shuffle forward, and you could slot yourself against his nimble — but what you assume is a very solid — frame.

“Yeah,” he speaks as he releases a soft exhale. You feel his warmth and shudder. “Thank you, still.”

“No problem,” you whisper.

Jimin’s tongue darts out to run across his bottom lip. His teeth draw it in slightly, and when he lets go, you can see how his lip bounces back into place.

Dragging your eyes back to meet his takes an embarrassing amount of effort. He’s finally looking at your eyes, too, with an expression you don’t understand because you don’t really know him.

“How much do I owe you?”

Right. Because he’s here with Yoongi for a reason. You swallow, turning your head to the side to hopefully break whatever spell Jimin and weed have put you under.

“Don’t worry about it.”

Jimin inhales sharply, but you keep your eyes down. “I must pay you something. I don’t know what’s a standard amount.”

If you were anyone else, you could honestly rip him off. The guy has no clue — he is even admitting that he doesn’t! But there are embers smoldering in the pit of your stomach.

“Nope,” you say with a tone of finality. You can hardly think before your following words slip out of your mouth like snakes. “Pretty Boys get weed free of charge.”

“W-w-what?” Jimin looks unbearably cute when he’s confused. It’s almost too much for you to handle.

So you don’t.

Without another word, you head back to the living room. Jimin follows silently. You’re sure his face is still painted with shock because Yoongi gives the two of you an odd look.

“Right where I left you,” you tease.

Untangling his limbs from Hoseok’s, Yoongi lets out an old man grunt and stands. You hadn’t believed him when he said he wouldn’t be staying, but it’s clear that he’s sticking to his promise when he starts patting down his legs to make sure he has his keys.

“Got what you need, Chim?”

Chim? How close are Yoongi and Jimin? And why are you only now learning of this friendship?

Jimin nods, his bottom lip between his teeth once again. He insists that you’ve been a great help to him, all while keeping his eyes locked with yours. It’s so different than his shy avoidance in class.

“Don’t worry, Yoong,” you insist as you plop back on the couch. Your joint is patiently waiting for you. “I took good care of him.”

You’ve never been very good at math, but it doesn’t take a mathematician to know that Pretty Boy Jimin ends up costing you hundreds of dollars as the semester progresses.

All your peers will walk away from law school making six figures easily. But not you. You just had to give a shit about the world, didn’t you? You just had to pick an area of law that values protecting human rights over making a profit.

God, being a good person is so hard!

And now, Park Jimin is sucking you dry before you can even earn money. Every time his fat little ass sashays away from your apartment with another jar of free weed, you can practically hear the chime of money signs ringing out with each step.

There’s a worse feeling, though. It hadn’t occurred to you until now, as you stand in the entranceway of Jimin’s apartment unit, your backpack carrying precious cargo inside slung over one shoulder.

Allowing Jimin to walk out of your apartment with the Pretty Boy Discount of free marijuana hurts your pocket, but doing a free weed delivery is even more pathetic. You’re wasting your own time and gas money to drive to Park Jimin’s motherfucking apartment to deliver him weed that you aren’t even going to charge him for simply because he’s hot.

Maybe this is the terrible consequence of abstaining from sex to “focus on school” — as if smoking weed with Hoseok all day isn’t a distraction. But, on the other hand, maybe you just need to get laid.

Dipping on this commitment would be easy, you think as you bounce on the balls of your feet. You could leave right now before Jimin answers the door, ask Hoseok to handle Jimin’s future requests, and put all of this behind you. But, of course, the entire situation is ridiculous anyway. You don’t even know Jimin. Not really.

There’s a clicking sound from the other side of Jimin’s front door. Logically, you know it’s the sound of him unlocking the door, but your nerves tell you it’s the sound of your fate being locked into place. It may as well be because Jimin opens the door with a smile that puffs up his cheeks, his hair looks damp, and he smells like body wash.

Fuck.

“Hi!” His voice squeaks, but a deep cough returns it to a normal tone. “I mean, uh, I appreciate you coming by.”

Your tongue presses into your cheek as you regard him for a moment. He might consider your silence as negative because he quickly sidesteps to allow you into his apartment.

You give Jimin a smirk. “I think you should at least give me a tip.”

“O-oh, I mean… oh, um,” he stutters, and you can’t help but laugh.

A rush of air escapes your nostrils in a low-energy, nearly silent laugh. While coming to Jimin’s place might seem like a lot of effort, the truth is that you’re bored, and lately, you’ve been seeking anything to get your mind off the loneliness you feel when your apartment is dark and Hoseok is with Yoongi.

So, even though part of you chastises yourself, you’re willing to risk looking pathetic or desperate if it means you can have someone to smoke with and get some time away from your too-quiet apartment. Not because Jimin is the most attractive person you’ve ever seen in your entire life.

Jimin’s pretty eyes widen, and you quickly wave your hand to brush off his sudden panic.

“I’m kidding,” you confess as you twist your backpack around your body to pull out a small glass mason jar. It’s cute how concerned he is.

No, not cute. Naive. You shake yourself out of the feeling.

”Well, come on then.” You walk through Jimin’s apartment into the living room. It’s your first time making a delivery with him, so you’ve never been to his apartment. Yet you walk through the building with unearned familiarity. You’ve got manners; sometimes, you choose not to use them.

“How have you and Hoseok been?”

“Prepping for finals. And that fucking oral argument Kim’s got us doing,” you groan. School talk wasn’t something you had in mind when you showed up, but in the months you’ve spent getting to know Jimin more, you’ve learned he’s a total nerd. He’s probably excited about the assessment.

“Sometimes I think he’s trying to kill us,” Jimin says with a slight grin. “Is it ethical, moral, or legal to terrify your students to the point of throwing up before evaluations?”

“Don’t tease Yoongi like that! You know he has public speaking anxiety!”

Jimin does a little half-skip to avoid your attempt to slap his chest. Although you know the both of you are drowning in student loans and law school tuition fees, the apartment is much nicer than expected. You wonder if Jimin has a roommate. He’s never mentioned one before.

“Don’t tell him, or he’ll beat me up.”

Eyerolls aren’t a commitment to anything, but you know Jimin knows you wouldn’t dare repeat his words.

Plopping onto his couch, you scoot the coffee table between your knees and set the jar down. Beside the jar, you place everything you need to roll for Jimin, including a grinder and swishers. You could have rolled it all in advance, but you don’t like to feel rushed. Prepping is the best part. It relaxes you.

Jimin slowly slides into place beside you on the couch. He leaves enough room between the two of you to be respectful, although something tells you it’s less about his desire to make you feel comfortable and more about his discomfort.

He’s nervous, but you don’t know why. He keeps dragging his palms against his thighs, roughly rubbing his jeans. Every once in a while, he lifts his hand to touch his bottom lip. Then, when you sneak a glance at him, he quickly turns away. There’s nothing of note to look at in the apartment, but he seems engrossed in something for those fleeting moments before you’re sure he’s looking at you once again.

“I should probably learn how to do this… Like, properly… I can’t remember everything you did the first time,” Jimin mumbles. When you look up, his cheeks are dusted a light pink.

“Sorry, I probably went too fast that time.” You give him an apologetic look that makes his face redden even more. “It’s not as hard as people make it out to be. Just need a good teacher.”

If Jimin expects you to be his teacher again, he doesn’t say so. You could be. You can’t stop yourself from giving the guy free weed; you might as well add comprehensive rolling lessons in the mix.

By this point, rolling a blunt is about muscle memory; you don’t have to use an ounce of brainpower. Your eyes can wander, sweep over the contents of Jimin’s living room, your thoughts floating off to wonder about the little details of the man’s life you aren’t privy to. Who are his friends? Where is his family? You look for photographs on shelves or hanging on the walls, items that are a staple in your and Hoseok’s apartment. Would Yoongi be in any of his photos? So many people in the city come in like ghosts.

“Do you, um, would you like to stay?”

Jimin’s voice pulls you back to the living room, where your hands have already finished two blunts without you realizing it.

“Isn’t that what you meant when you said I could smoke with you?” You question around the blunt you’ve brought between your lips, pausing to light it.

Jimin shakes his head, not as an answer to your question, but to himself. “Yes, of course.”

“You wanna share this or smoke your own?“ You can keep working on rolling the rest in the meantime.

Rather than answer your question verbally, Jimin does something that makes your heart fall into the pit of your fucking stomach. The supposedly shy, naive man parts his lips and juts his chin toward you.

The meaning behind his action hits you in the chest immediately. You let your eyes drift over his mouth, and you try not to react when his tongue swipes across his bottom lip while he patiently waits for you to give him what he wants. And you’re gonna do it, too. No questions asked.

Pinching the blunt between your middle finger and thumb, you twist on the couch to face Jimin with your legs tucked beneath you. Of course, if your fingertips brush against his lips when you place the blunt between them, that’s no one’s business, and you fucking plead the fifth, thanks.

Jimin’s eyes never leave yours when he wraps his lips around the blunt and inhales. He takes the hit like a champ, not coughing once despite the smoke’s thickness when he exhales. It’s been a few months since he started coming to you for weed. You shouldn’t be proud of his improvement, but you are anyway. Even if it’s weird to be.

“Thanks.” Jimin looks like a droopy-eyed dragon, eyes heavy and narrow when he expresses his appreciation. His voice is low and thick, and it makes your stomach swoop.

You nod your head and take the blunt from him. “No problem.”

Time is hardly discernible in normal circumstances for you, especially when you’re high. So you can’t imagine how long you sit with Jimin on his couch, watching smoke billow in the air and talking about how unfortunate it is that Frank Ocean and Rihanna ghosted the music industry.

For a while, the two of you fall silent. You lean your head against the couch and close your eyes, content with listening to the music Jimin put on until another thought enters your mind. One you can’t bring yourself to ignore.

“You ever fucked while you’re high?”

You ask the question once you and Jimin have finished the first blunt and move on to the second. The lighter you’re using is hot pink with blue and purple flowers printed on it. Something feels fitting about that.

The question takes you by surprise even though you’re the one asking it, unsure why you’re asking it aside from knowing the weed will make you more likely to speak your mind. Jimin, though. The poor guy is even more startled. As he should be, you think.

His hand trembles slightly when he passes you the blunt when it’s your turn to take a hit. “Uhh, um, have I— what?”

You roll your eyes and blow a smoke ring in Jimin’s direction. You wait for his coughing to subside before you repeat yourself.

“Have you ever had sex while under the influence of marijuana, Jimin-ssi?”

“No…”

“Hmm, you should. It’s really fun. Feels good.”

“Oh.”

“Do you wanna try it now?”

It’s comical how Jimin gulps, literally gulps, like a fucking cartoon character. “Now?”

Marijuana is an aphrodisiac. It won’t make Jimin want you, but it’s clear from his suggestive behavior that he already does. The weed will simply, hopefully, make him less nervous about it.

You pretend you don’t notice how he shifts to press his thighs together on the couch.

“Come on,” you encourage him. “Stop thinking so much.”

You know you’re too forward and sudden, but it feels justified because you’ve been thinking about Jimin for months. The buildup over the past few months has been stifling.

Giving consent is what finally unlocks something in Jimin. One moment he’s staring at you with wide, timid eyes; the next, he’s got his hand around your throat.

With a light squeeze, Jimin pulls you into him to slot his lips with yours. Holding back a moan is nearly impossible when his tongue pries your lips open. It’s wet and hot, and your skin tingles when you taste the smoke on him when his tongue curls around your own. Smoking always makes you feel warm, but you feel like you’re on fire when Jimin whimpers into your mouth. His pace is unrelenting. You feel like you’re tripping over yourself as you attempt to keep up with the quick work of his lips. The effort has you practically straddling his lap.

Tightening his grip on your throat, Jimin uses it to tilt you how he wants you. A pleased hum vibrates against your mouth when he hears you moan from the pressure of his fingers digging into the soft skin of your neck. It’s only when you start to get lightheaded, and your lips slow that Jimin finally pulls away.

His eyes’ heavy, sensual look remains, but you’re surprised to find his slick lips forced into a frown.

“I’m sorry.”

You could ask why, but you assume Jimin’s forwardness isn’t typical behavior. The good thing is that it is for you.

Rather than address the unnecessary tension, you let your lips do all the work and pull Jimin in for another ruthless kiss.

“I don’t wanna hear any apologies from you,” you murmur against his mouth. “The only thing I want your lips doing is eating me out.”

Jimin lets out a high-pitched whine that sets something dangerous off, buzzing through your body. “Please.”

Maybe you’re pathetic with how quickly you strip yourself of your clothes, but Jimin doesn’t seem to care. His eyes never leave your body as you toss the clothing onto the floor. “You’re so beautiful…”

“Yeah?” You lean with your back against the arm of the couch, scooting down slightly so you can let your legs fall open.

He nods sharply and is silent momentarily as he rubs his palms down the length of your legs, settling between them.

"I’ve always wanted to talk to you,” Jimin speaks with a hushed tone. He presses an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh. “I just get nervous. I’m sure that seems pretty lame."

You shake your head, not trusting yourself to speak. Every touch sends goosebumps pebbling across your skin. It’s exhilarating. You feel like your entire body is a hot wire, sparking and buzzing at a dangerous frequency.

"Yoongi said this would be a good way for us to get to know each other. The weed, not this this!” It’s shocking to you how adorable he can be at the same time he sucks the skin of your inner thigh into his mouth, swirling his tongue around after biting down hard enough to make you gasp.

Your head falls back as you feel the tip of Jimin’s tongue drags along your clit. He swirls it around, drawing small circles in a steady rhythm. Every time his tongue pulls back, you can hear a soft smacking sound of his lips. He’s likely swallowing the drool collecting in his mouth. You’re sure he’s probably getting a bad case of cotton mouth from the excessive sound.

It makes you smile knowing he’s that sensitive. It takes much more weed in your system to start feeling dry in the mouth, but you’ve been smoking more years than Jimin and at a higher frequency.

“Oh fuck,” you moan out a misshapen puff of smoke when Jimin’s tongue returns to your clit.

This time he wraps his plush lips around it and suckles lightly, using his tongue to flick from side to side. His little grunts and moans make your pussy vibrate, sending a tingling sensation through the inside of your thighs and down to your toes.

Your hand shakes as you bring the blunt back to your lips. A whine tries to break through, but you force it back down your throat as you inhale more smoke. It’s hard when your body feels like it’s burning up.

Every gentle touch of Jimin’s lips and tongue on your skin feels like a punch to your stomach in a way that is so deliriously delicious you can hardly take it. Wetness drips down your pussy and smears against your thighs, either from your arousal or Jimin’s drool or both, but you don’t care how messy it is when Jimin pulls back enough to spit more onto your clit.

You let out a surprised sound, lifting your head slightly to see a string of saliva connect Jimin’s pouty bottom lip with your skin.

Fuck, you didn’t think Pretty Boy had it in him.

Using two fingers, Jimin spreads his spit around your clit, pushing it down until he slides into your pussy with ease. You didn’t need the extra lubrication, but you groan at the wet sound that echoes through Jimin’s apartment as he thrusts his fingers deep inside you. He brings his lips back to your clit, sucking harder and massaging your skin with his tongue even faster to match the pace his fingers take.

When he finally locates the spot that makes your legs shake, hitting it repeatedly, you dig your fingers into his fluffy hair and yank his head back.

“H-h-here,” you stutter, pressing the blunt against his lips. They’re shiny, and the idea of sticking a wet blunt between your lips makes you want to cringe, but you don’t care because his lips are shiny with you.

Jimin doesn’t stop thrusting into you, but his pace slows as he concentrates on taking another hit.

“I’m so fucking hard,” he groans. With the blunt between his lips, Jimin’s hands fly to unbutton his jeans. Another groan sounds around the blunt once he’s freed himself of the retraining pants.

You let out a quiet sigh as you try to collect yourself while Jimin smokes. “I told you it feels good. It’s different, isn’t it?”

“Mhmm…”

There’s a large wet patch staining the front of Jimin’s briefs. It makes the fabric stick to his cock, clearly outlining his length and girth — big enough to make you drool but small enough that you won’t go home sore and regretful.

“Lemme ride you.” You use your free hand to push Jimin into the back of the couch. He plants his feet on the floor and spreads his thighs as you get comfortable in his lap. “Wanna smoke the rest while we fuck.”

Your head is in the clouds, your body melting like butter as Jimin skirts his hands along your sides. He eventually pauses to squeeze your hips, and you swear you can feel him all over you.

It’s quick work, tugging down the final article of clothing separating the two of you. It’s hard not to stare, especially when Jimin twitches and shivers with every light touch of your fingertips along the ridges and veins of his cock.

Your clit drags against the head of his cock when you adjust in his lap, and you let out a ragged moan.

“Soaked,” Jimin murmurs, “You’ve got me all wet.”

It’s true. Jimin’s thighs glisten from where you’ve leaked all over him. Your clit throbs so much it’s beginning to hurt from the sensitivity.

“Condom,” you practically wheeze out. “If you go in raw, you’re probably gonna bust a nut immediately, and I’m not interested in that for many reasons.”

Jimin’s face turns even pinker.

“O-okay, give me a second, please.” So fucking polite, and for what?

He holds you at the base of your spine with one hand as he leans forward to snatch his jeans with his other hand. There’s a condom in his wallet, so you assume your classmate isn’t all innocent.

It’s quick work rolling the condom on. Uninterested in teasing yourself further because you feel like you’ll die if you don’t orgasm soon, you push Jimin hard against the back of the couch. You slip down his cock with ease, with no stretch or sting, from how turned on you are.

“I feel like I’m already gonna come.” Jimin throws his head back against the couch.

His lips fall open, and you quickly snatch the blunt from them so it doesn’t fall and burn one of you. He looks beautiful, angelic even. His lips are puffy and pink, his cute little mismatched front teeth peeking out. His tongue flicks around his mouth as his breathing grows heavier.

You squeeze one of his shoulders with your free hand while your other keeps the blunt pinched to your lips. As you take a drag, you lift your hips and quickly bring them back down, your ass slapping Jimin’s thighs as you engulf his cock again. Your skin sounds wet and sticky, but Jimin’s whine drowns out the sound.

“Shit,” he hisses. Blunt nails dig into your skin, but it doesn’t hurt; it only feels good. Everything feels so good.

You hardly notice how hard you shake as you slam yourself down on Jimins’ cock again. Your head is too spacey to go fast, but you do your best to set a steady pace of bouncing on Jimin’s cock. It doesn’t matter if he’s already going to come. You feel your orgasm building up with every squeeze of his fingers and the pathetic moans from his mouth.

You lean forward to latch your lips to the base of Jimin’s neck when he again drops his head. Pulling the skin into your mouth, you suck hard. You know the shock the discomfort will send across his body, pain that quickly morphs into pleasure and makes his cock twitch inside you.

“Jesus Christ.” Jimin reaches up to brush his bangs away from his eyes. Sweat makes the hair remain in place, pushed up, making him look as wrecked as he sounds. His cheeks are bright red now, and the color bleeds down his neck, where you’re sure his chest is bright red, too.

Fuck, why didn’t you take off his shirt? It feels like a quick and dirty fuck, although you’re not sure you want it to be. You’re unsure what you want this to be or mean. Or how you want it to feel.

All you know is that you feel like you’ll come at the sight of Jimin’s toned stomach and chest when you pull the hem of his shirt up to bunch it right above his nipples.

Holding onto the fabric gives you more leverage to pick up your pace. It’s needed because Jimin is a puddle beneath you. His arms are tossed to his slides like they’re made out of rubber, flopped onto the couch cushions. He can barely lift his hips. He only makes a few weak attempts to thrust into you before he’s whining again, head lolled to the side with furrowed eyebrows. He looks so fucked out.

“Please, ahh, fuck, please,” Jimin begs, though you’re not sure for what.

“Wanna come, pretty boy?” You squeeze his t-shirt harder and yank it slightly, just enough to pull Jimin’s back a few inches from the couch. “You’re gonna have to work harder. I already gave you so much.”

Jimin’s eyes roll in pleasure when you clench around him, little “oh’s” and “ah’s” punched out of him. “Okay, yes, yes, fuck, yes, I’ll be soooo—”

You bring his hands back to your waist as he babbles. The contact must give him a bit of clarity because he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and begins to thrust into you hard.

“I’ll. Be. So. Fucking. Good.” Every word is punctuated by a mind-shattering thrust as Jimin pulls you down onto his cock.

If you were on the edge before, you’re falling by the time he picks up the pace and thrusts into you even harder. The buildup was long and hot, yet your orgasm hits you so hard it might as well have been a surprise.

You curl into yourself and press your face into the crook of Jimin’s neck while he continues his unforgiving rhythm until he comes with a choked-out moan of your name.

The silence should be uncomfortable. How awkward and irrational was it to simply… tell Jimin that you wanted to fuck? And for Jimin to go along with it? Casual hookups aren’t really your thing. Pretty Boy Jimin seems to be the exception for everything, though.

Heavy breathing fills the silence as the two of you try to calm down, your chests rising and falling in tandem. It’s comforting to lean all your weight on Jimin, despite how his bunched-up t-shirt presses uncomfortably into your chest. Even the feeling of his cock softening inside of you doesn’t bother you any.

At some point, Jimin had placed the blunt in the ashtray on the coffee table. It’s shocking that he had the mind to do so; you would have accidentally burned a hole into his comfy, expensive-looking couch. It’s a good thing you had the mind to use a condom. Imagine burn marks and cum stains. Sheesh.

The kiss Jimin presses to your temple when he turns his head feels way more domestic than you deserve. You smile, teeth pressed against his skin, despite yourself. You can blame the giddiness you feel on the weed, and not whatever Pretty Boy Jimin has done to trigger warmth inside your chest.

“I think I gave you more than the tip…”

With narrowed eyes, you lift your head from Jimin’s neck to look him square in the face so quickly that you’re worried you might pull a muscle in your neck. “You’re not fucking funny.”

Jimin lets his head fall back to laugh hard enough that his eyes squeeze shut. It’s so endearing that you overlook such a bad joke. Pretty Boy Jimin seems to get away with a lot. You don’t mind it as much as you act like you do.

#bts fanfic #bts x reader #jimin x reader #jimin fanfic #bts smut #jimin smut #gimmethatagustd #blunt rotation

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burningcheese-merchant · 9 days ago

Text

Ten.

The dragon slumped forward, the newly formed cavity in its chest inadvertently sucking Hollyberry's fist in even deeper as it did so. A bottomless well of blood sprung forth from the mortal wound, soaking her leather gauntlet through and staining it - and many other parts of her person, as the sticky, foul-smelling life essence was blindly spat at her - a hideous dark color. Quickly and unceremoniously, she yanked her hand back out, allowing gravity to take back control and force the dragon's fresh corpse to the ground. The hole in its chest was far from its only injury, but it was the most grievous one. And with all of them together, the creature was slain; vanquished by a fellow predator that ultimately proved herself superior.

Hollyberry stared down at the remains of her prey, as cold and stoic now as she'd been when their battle had first started. The telltale glimmer of life in its eyes was long gone; it dimmed rather quickly, fading almost in tandem with the stream of blood that drained from its body with each erratic pulse of its dying heart, vanishing completely with the slam of its head against the tarnished earth. Once a mighty beast, now beaten and broken at her feet, its face now forever frozen in incomprehensible agony.

That's ten. Ten dragons slain. If memory served, ten was the amount of dragons that had been plaguing this area and terrorizing the nearby village. At last, she had gotten them all.

She wiped some of the blood off of her shield - just enough to allow the gem at the center to enjoy the sunlight again. Taken in by its renewed shine, she drew the shield closer, gazing into the pretty, polished jewel and the grim, unkempt reflection gazing back into her.

She didn't look any different.

She didn't feel any different, either.

-------------------------------------------------------

"A tragedy, really. A doughy little Cookie, carried off by a dragon... Tsk tsk."

Never did that singular phrase ever stop replaying inside of Hollyberry's mind. Never did her mind rest; never did her thoughts grant her a moment's peace. Never. Not once. Every second of every minute of every hour of every day has just been this; this terrible memory that her mind and heart and soul simply could not, would not perish. The monster hunter's countenance, as real as though he yet stood before her. The monster hunter's voice, crystal clear as a berry juice glass.

If only she'd had it in her in that moment to punch the sneer right off of his godsforsaken face.

But it was fine. It is fine. It will always be fine, if she can help it... and she can. She will. She already has. Just a messenger, he was; not worth the ammo nor the aim. There were better targets out there. Tougher ones. More deserving ones. All in far more dire need of punishment than he.

After the village had been cured of its draconic sickness, she moved on. One last day was all she chose to afford the villagers, with all of their cheers and tears and now remedied fears. They made her a feast; a hearty sampling of their finest culinary selections, the cream of what little remained of their crop. The dragons had done a number on them in more ways than one: fields torched, loved ones devoured, homes and businesses reduced to smoking ruin. But it was fine now. They are fine. And now, they shall continue to be fine, without the monsters prowling around. Without her.

What was it they'd served her again? Pumpkin soup? Roasted quail? A smorgasbord of fruits and vegetables? Even as she ventured back through the houses and streets and reached the village gates after bidding them all farewell, she scarcely recalled a single morsel. In fact, she scarcely recalled sitting down at the table at all. Life and all its contents blended together and disappeared into the fog more often not nowadays - all but her hunts. Her battles. Her cullings.

...Juice. The elegant scarlet lettering painted onto the village welcome sign, carved and decorated in such a way as to draw one's eye and heart in at a glance, awoke a single memory of the night before: a goblet of juice, eagerly set beside her plate. Their last bottle, one villager said; the dragons had either drank or destroyed the rest. A gift, one of many, for her heroism. They admired its gorgeous color, yearned for its sweet yet tart taste - but for their savior, they would happily part with it. They would be remiss and horrendously rude not to.

She made up for their politeness by being rather rude herself, and turning the juice down wholesale. "But why?" they had asked her, in such overwhelmed surprise that it was almost comical. "Is it not to your liking? Please, won't you have even a sip? We only wish to honor you! We beg!"

"I can't accept such a gift," she answered them. "You have sacrificed enough already. Don't give up any more for my sake."

"But we insist!" Of course they did. Insistence is the foundation of all gratitude, and the fuel for all celebration and merrymaking. In a different time and place, she would've obliged without question. But not this one.

"No." Her tone was cool, her words clipped; painfully firm as her grasp on her silverware had suddenly become. "I need to keep focus. Juice would get in the way of that. All of you, keep it. You deserve it more than I."

How amusing it had been, in a morbid sort of way, when their rosy-cheeked insistence withered at the sound of her harsh voice. In a different time and place, she would've apologized. In a different time and place, she would've laughed and said they fell for her joke, her act, and perhaps then she would've down the whole glass in one fell swoop to the sound of applause.

But not this one.

Her shield provided much needed protection from the morning sun's glare. Light is always welcome, but not when it dares to overtake the lines on the map. She couldn't afford to lose track of her next destination.

"A tragedy, really..."

No. She needed to keep focus.

-------------------------------------------------------

What might they be doing now, Hollyberry wondered?

Who "they" were, she could not tell you. Who "they" were, she knew all too well. "They" were those clouds that drifted in and out of sight on a windy afternoon. "They" were those shadows cast on the wall by the dance of the torch light, too ethereal and erratic to keep any proper shape for too long. "They" were those wandering reflections in the windows, in her shield, in the all of those berry juice glasses she shunned. "They" were a mystery. "They" were a paradox.

She wondered if there had been a search party. If the Crown had spared no expense, no soldier, no single second of time, in hunting their targets down. She wondered if her son tore his robes and dirtied his hair pacing through the jungle, parting every bush and overturning every stone himself. She wondered if her daughter-in-law could see through her veil of tears or speak past the lump in her throat; if her strength waned with each passing day, little by little, until her knees buckled and bent and she finally collapsed, howling her grief into the earth below until her voice failed her for good.

She wondered if there had been a funeral. Might as well have. From the clutches of dragons, even great warriors seldomly escaped. No exception would have been made for a child, especially one so small and feeble. Easy pickings.

She wondered if the other child felt her sister's absence. Never for a moment were they apart, those two; not in the womb, not in the crib, not even in the playpen or the bathtub. One so loud and vibrant, the other calm yet curious. But no matter their differences, it was plain as day that they loved one another. Before they knew of the world, before they even knew their own names, they knew and loved and trusted each other. Partners in crime, they were. Or, they were supposed to have been.

She wondered what the others would have said - to her, to the king and queen, whoever, it didn't matter much. The ghostly memory of a voice, sad but serene, drifted through her ears; there was never a shortage of heartfelt prayers with him. Perhaps, in the face of a tragedy like this, even his staff would have wept. Two weapons were drawn before her mind's eye, one great and powerful sword and one sleek and dazzling spear; he would proclaim that such an injustice could not stand and he and his warriors would gladly pursue retribution on their behalf, and she... she would likely say something similar, Hollyberry thinks. She would have, if she knew her well enough. Never mind that she probably didn't know what happened. Never mind that Hollyberry didn't even know where she was now.

In the corner of her thoughts sprouted a lily, small and thin and so unsure. She paid it little mind. Before all of this, Hollyberry might have imagined her gazing upon them all with such an overwhelming sorrow, even setting her staff aside so she may offer a proper hug. But now, she wasn't so sure. Nowadays she isn't so sure she ever knew her at all.

They were the sharp cries the dragons let out when her fist collided with their snouts: agonizing, deafening, piercing through her skull and haunting her thoughts well into the night. They were the droplets of blood that ruined her clothes and her hair when she rended the flesh from the bones, and bashed the heads into the rocks: small and bright and numerous, washing away in the river and rain and always leaving her behind. They were the reflections in their wide eyes, colored first with rage and then with panic, growing cold and still as their vitality slowly faded away.

She wondered what they were doing. She wondered if they wondered the same of her.

She wondered if any of them could hazard a guess.

-------------------------------------------------------

Ten. Ten dragons slain this week. Or, at the very least, Hollyberry believed so.

Back and forth across the world, she continued her endless trek: through the woods and across the lakes and over the tallest mountains. Wherever she heard whispers and wails of dragons being a blight, she went. And she killed them all, one by one, until their extinction in the area was all but guaranteed. And then her endless trek resumed, with hardly so much as a brief pause.

Interesting, really, how many of them there proved to be. As she trudged through the mud and snow, she racked her brain for answers - has is always been this way? Could she remember a time when dragons weren't there, appearing as the black marks on society and history they always were? Ten, twenty, thirty, forty - she was starting to lose count of them by now, to the point that she'd begun keeping tally with her shield itself, whittling a slash mark into the wood with each conquered beast.

An occasional glance into its back told her she'd run out of space soon. Pity.

She was in Beast-Yeast, somewhere in the north. There were dragons there, too. No one had called her there - no one ever called Hollyberry to Beast-Yeast, save for fun and adventure and the pain tucked away deep in her heart, still knocking on the walls - but she set out for it anyway. Always some unholy creature of some sort skulking around in that place, making it worse than it already is. A revisit or two or three or ten or one thousand to clean house never did any harm. Fewer dragons in the world at the end of the day.

She was back in Crispia, near the Cream Cake Mountains. An overheard report detailing an ice dragon beginning to circle the outskirts of a snowridden village brought her there quick; a day of preparing a trap and a lure brought the dragon out quicker. Some small, unfortunate part of her almost lamented the creature's demise; countless snowflakes of all shapes and sizes took the place of its scales and icicles of a shimmering, semi-translucent beauty made up its many spines. From above, it appeared as a sentient aurora, streaking across the night sky. It was almost a shame that that sky had to be darkened for eternity. Almost.

She was near the Crème Republic. She was in somewhere in Wholegrainia. She was meandering around some old, worn path that stretched into both ends of the horizon - the Sugar-Free Road or some such nonsense. She was everywhere. She was nowhere.

Ten. Twenty. Thirty. Forty.

Fifty.

One hundred.

One thousand.

She ran out of space on the inside of her shield.

She didn't care. She simply stopped counting after that.

-------------------------------------------------------

"Sweet Pinkyberry! It's been so long!"

Fighting the urge to wince at that old, silly name, Hollyberry dredged up a smile, hoping against hope that it actually bothered to reach her eyes this time.

"What brings you back to Dragon City this time around, hm?"

"What always brings me back here, my friend," Hollyberry said. "I'm here to hunt some dragons."

"Fair answer, haha! Not too much else to do here." Tapping on the side of the empty bowl in front of her, the Innkeeper's smile turned a bit wry. "Besides helping yourself to some of my famous stew, isn't that right?"

"Isn't that right, indeed," Hollyberry tried her best to play along.

"Let me get you some, then! And a mug of fireade to go with-"

"That won't be necessary."

"Eh?" The Innkeeper blinked. "Are you sure about that? You look thirsty to me. And you never say no to my fireade."

"I'm sure."

"Alright then, chum... If you say so."

She only half-heard her old friend call out to one of her sons to ready a bowl of dragon's head stew. She only half-noticed when it was placed before her a few minutes later, the hot steam wafting from it only somewhat snapping her out of her daze.

"The dragons have gotten quite rowdy these days," the Innkeeper remarked. "Moreso than usual. It's been a bit of a pain for local hunters."

"Oh?"

"No one's quite sure what's got them so spooked. But there have been rumors of a slayer running around the continent, culling their numbers awfully quickly."

"Maybe that's what it is, then," Hollyberry murmured into her spoonful of stew.

"Maybe, but... There's hardly anything to go on, save for the rumors. If that slayer is real, then they don't seem to want any attention. All that's ever been left in their wake are dragon corpses. Nothing else. Not even a name or a face."

The Innkeeper slowly leaned forward, propping herself up on her elbows, eyeing Hollyberry in a way that made her feel as though a thousand eyes were suddenly upon her, trying to dissect her. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about it, would you?"

"...No," Hollyberry eventually answered, the agonizingly slow sip of her stew having done nothing to soothe her nerves. "I can't say I have."

The Innkeeper raised an eyebrow at her, but ultimately shrugged. "Alright then. I'm surprised to hear you say that, in honesty. But it's understandable. Elusive fellow, that fabled slayer seems to be."

Hollyberry nodded slowly, feigning agreement long enough to appear convincing before safely turning her full attention back to her meal.

"In any case... Have you heard what happened in the Hollyberry Kingdom recently?"

It took everything in Hollyberry's power not to choke on her stew.

"That poor girl," the Innkeeper lamented. "I can hardly imagine what the royal family is going through. I don't know what I'd do if something like that happened to either of my boys, especially with their father leaving me alone to hunt so often. It's a tragedy."

Everything looked, sounded, felt so, so far away now. Blurry. Incomprehensible.

"Those damned dragons," the Innkeeper muttered. "Whoever that slayer is, I wish them all the luck and give them all the thanks in the world. Who knows, maybe they'll even take down whichever one of those devils took the princess."

The sudden screech of the bar stool legs nearly deafened them both.

"Wha- Pinkyberry? You alright? Where are you off to so soon?"

"I have somewhere to be," Hollyberry spoke quickly. Perhaps too quickly. "I could never stay long, anyway. Forgive me."

In the blink of an eye, a rather hefty looking coin pouch appeared from Hollyberry's pocket, being all but slammed on the table before she made a heel-turn and began hurrying to the inn's front door.

"Wait! Sweet Pinkyberry!"

Biting back a sigh, she turned and looked back over her shoulder one final time.

"Be careful!" the Innkeeper warned her. "Dragons here are more hostile than ever thanks to the goings-on! Promise me you'll take care of yourself!"

Hollyberry nodded, a bit impatiently.

"And don't you forget! The only good dragon is a dead one!"

"How could I?" Hollyberry called back to her, before leaving the inn for good.

-------------------------------------------------------

It's a tragedy. It's a tragedy. It's a tragedy.

Was there nowhere she could go to escape this? This- this word? This feeling? This bitter, endless mourning, corroding her bones? Devouring her soul?

Stray embers and volcanic ash particles lazily rained down upon her, dusting her head and shoulders and shield as she steadily hiked up the volcano's slope. The Dragon's Valley today was the same miserable, heat-stricken, inhospitable wasteland it had been yesterday, and would be tomorrow, and would be the day after that. Simply abominable in every conceivable fashion - most of all in how it so brazenly housed dragons of all kinds.

...But it wasn't the fault of the valley itself, now was it.

All manner of creature came for Hollyberry as she traversed that hellish landscape, practically the moment her feet first touched its cursed ground. Dragons, wyverns, lesser reptiles big and small. Perhaps her visage was too obvious, framed against the rich browns and dull oranges of their surroundings, even after generously allowing ember and ash to dress her in their likeness and offer her a free disguise. Perhaps her scent was too unique, too cloying, just enough to rise above all those hideous, overpowering smells wafting through this godsforsaken place.

Perhaps they sensed her anger, and their impending doom along with it, and sought her, and thus, their destiny, out of their own accord.

Whichever one was the real answer... she did not know, and she did not care. Regardless, she appreciated it - all of her enemies delivering themselves to her right on her doorstep. Easy pickings.

Ten, twenty, thirty, forty- oh, what did it matter. What difference did keeping count make. What mattered was that they all fell before her. That she left behind a slew of dragon corpses in her wake.

The more blood she spilled, and the more viscera she lavished upon these lands, the more likely it would be that they would come out.

In all of her long years, Hollyberry never succeeded in finding Pitaya Dragon's nest. Her usual excuse was that challenging a foe to a battle in the foe's own house was unfathomably rude - but, the truth of the matter was that she simply didn't know where their house was in the first place, and all of her long years of adventuring and tracking expertise did far less to remedy this than she'd hoped they would. Ah well, it was nothing Hollyberry couldn't otherwise overcome; the next option was to draw that old lizard to her instead.

The so-called "legendary" Red Dragon. Undisputed lord of the Dragon's Valley since time immemorial. They had answers, didn't they? Surely, in all of their timeless and impeccable wisdom? The dragons that came to terrorize her kingdom and people always hailed from the Dragon's Valley - never anywhere else.

Pitaya Dragon has to know something. They must. They will. She won't entertain any other option.

-------------------------------------------------------

Tendrils of steam whispered and coiled around Hollyberry's ankles. The air surrounding them crackled with heat and energy, born from both their godlike power and the valley itself.

"Pitaya!" she called out, daring to take another step forward. "What happened?! Where is she?!"

"What doesss it matter?" Pitaya Dragon drawled, lips curling to form a dry, mocking smirk. "She'sss gone. Ssso much for a hero."

Overcome with rage, Hollyberry lunged forward with a battle cry. Pitaya Dragon stayed where they were, feet firm and arms crossed, obnoxiously cruel expression only being wiped away with the hard swipe of her fist against their cheek.

Their fight lasted only minutes. Their fight lasted for an eternity. She blocked, parried, threw back every swing of their greatsword with terrifying ease - and a hideous smile of her own had begun to bloom as their little war raged on, growing bigger and brighter with every snarl and yelp of pain she managed to knock out of their lungs.

Yet still, something was missing. Yet still, her words and actions rung hollow. Yet still, through all of the blows they exchanged, in every hit she landed, she found no peace. No resolution. No respite.

Yet still, the voices wouldn't stop.

"Wouldn't you know it? Soon after the queen left the Hollyberry Kingdom, dragons began to roam freely, terrorizing the land!"

Carefully, she tried to step- careful not to trip over the dragon corpses. The beaten, broken, bloodied remains of those slimy, pathetic, cold-blooded cowards she dutifully removed from the face of the earth. Everything that happened, everything she did- it was deserved. It was destined. It was justice.

"And in all the chaos and confusion, those lizards kidnapped one of the twin princesses!"

Pitaya Dragon's face was a kaleidoscope of emotions, each more contemptible than the last. Smugness. Derision. Anger. Shock. Confusion. Realization. Betrayal. Terror. All the sight of them did was stoke the flames of Hollyberry's wrath even more.

"A tragedy, really. A doughy little Cookie, carried off by a dragon... Tsk tsk."

Ember and ash, fire and brimstone rained down upon them as their terrible duel shook and tore apart the heavens and earth. Red as blood, blinding as the sun, searing through skin and flesh and bone. Slowly, their color and texture changed; a new element was added to this hellish mixture. Ember and ash, fire and brimstone - and dark flour, mountains of it, turning the heavens and the earth and Hollyberry's eyes and lungs pitch black.

"Terrible, terrible stuff... Too bad the queen abandoned her duties and her land..."

In a last ditch effort to turn the tides of war in their favor, Pitaya Dragon transformed. The strain was great, Hollyberry could tell; as scarlet and emerald flames engulfed their person, hisses and howls of pain rung out from within, culminating in one skull-splitting roar as the dragon's true form came back into being. At this, Hollyberry barked out a laugh. A waste of time and effort. It meant nothing in the end.

"I bet she would've never allowed the dragons to do what they please!"

Pitaya Dragon fought frantically, mindlessly, beating and clawing anything and everything within reach, spitting fire every which way with little regard to what they actually hit, flapping their wings with such force that entire boulders were swept away in the wind. But every attack proved fruitless; Hollyberry was too quick, too tough, too clever. She had waited too long for this moment. She'd be damned before she let it pass her by.

"So much for a HERO!"

Eventually, they slipped up for the final time, and Hollyberry struck back for the final time. When they made the fatal mistake of flying too too low and too close, Hollyberry seized the opportunity and every last bit of her strength to jump up, shield outstretched and aimed at that precious gemstone, that window and key to their heart. The gem embedded in Pitaya Dragon's chest shattered on impact, blazing red shards splintering and exploding every which way. Their mouth fell open in a silent scream, eyes wide as the moon, blood staining their teeth and spurting from their mouth and nostrils. Quickly and unceremoniously, Hollyberry shoved them backwards, watching them collapse with a loud thud, blood oozing from their many wounds and pooling all around them, dyeing the soil an uglier shade of red than it already was. In a smoking crater in the middle of the Dragon's Valley thus lay the legendary Red Dragon. Beaten. Broken. Dead.

In their eyes, Hollyberry thought she had seen tears. It must have been a trick of the light.

She marched forward, making her way around her slain opponent's body until she at least reached their face. Wedging her hands between the teeth of their lower jaw and gripping them tight, she pulled, pulled, pulled; slowly but steadily prying their massive jaws open, until Hollyberry could all but stroll into their mouth with ease.

She didn't have to search for long. Sitting on Pitaya Dragon's tongue for the whole world to see was a cream-colored swaddling cloth, with a tuft of teal hair poking out of the top.

"Tiger Lily!" she shouted, rushing forward and kneeling and gathering the princess in her arms. "Tiger Lily, I-I'm here! I've got you! It's alright!"

She cradled her, rocked her, but the girl did not stir.

"Tiger Lily? Tiger Lily, please, I'm here now! Look at me! Come on!"

Nothing.

"Tiger Lily..." Her vision blurred in an instant, her whole body trembling with such force that it was a miracle she remained upright. "Tiger Lily, p-please- Please, I, I-I'm sorry, I know this is my fault, I'm sorry, I-I'm here now, see? See, everything is alright now. Please, p-please look at me, wake up, look at me, please-!"

Tiger Lily's skin felt freezing cold to the touch, startling Hollyberry when she brought her hand to her cheek. Cold, clammy, with a faint blue tint. Her eyes were closed and nothing Hollyberry said or did opened them. No matter her efforts, no matter her pleas, the little princess lay still. Silent.

Dead.

"No." Hollyberry's came out so small. So feeble. Warm tears began streaming endlessly down her face; she clutched at her chest, a deep, sharp pain suddenly striking her heart. The world blurred and spun all around her, the heavens and earth and her old friend's lifeless body melting together into a single abhorrent mess. All that remained within her comprehension was her dear granddaughter, and the tears soaking through her face and clothes, and the dark flour still floating down from the sky.

Hollyberry woke up with a start, clutching at her chest and gasping for air as though someone had tried to drown her. Frantically, she looked over her surroundings - everywhere her eyes were met with walls of cool obsidian, save for the opening a ways off to her right that offered an escape to the outside world. She'd taken shelter in a cave the night before, after slaughtering her way through the valley and ending up nowhere, with no Pitaya Dragon in sight all day. The night looked young still. The moon shone bright from a gap in the clouds, offering her a single source of precious light.

Still reeling from her nightmare, Hollyberry stared down into her lap, at her trembling hands. Caked in dried dragon blood, as were the rest of her clothes. Specks of gore could still be seen on her person, clinging to her vest and boots and even strands of her hair. Instinctively, she reached for her shield; polishing off the jewel in the center, she gazed into her reflection and stayed silent as it gazed back into her.

...Who is she? What is she doing? Who has she become?

Setting her shield aside and burying her face in her blood-soaked hands, Hollyberry began to weep.

-------------------------------------------------------

Ten.

She slammed the crystal glass down onto the table - quite carelessly, sure, but who could blame her? It's hard to keep control of such things after a while.

"Care for another shot, miss?"

"Would I ever! In fact, I'm disappointed you'd even bother asking instead of just pouring! Haha!"

Ten shots in ten minutes. Was this a new record? She thinks it is. She hopes so.

Every day, Hollyberry sunk a little bit lower. But, at the very least, if nothing else at all, she could choose where she sunk. She could choose not to sink into rage and death and depravity. She could choose to sink into a tall, cold, delicious glass of beer or two instead.

The Hollyberry Kingdom, though renowned throughout the world for its berry juice, was far from the only kingdom with a fine drinks selection. The Crème Republic, for example; now there was a place and people that knew how to brew. And such friendly barkeeps, too! Polite, charming, well-versed in their trade. Perfect to buy a round from. As many rounds as they'd indulge.

The beer went down crisp and fresh, warming her throat and her stomach and her aching soul with each gulp. Delicious. Almost a rival to her own people's wares, even. She would have to leave the barkeep an even bigger tip than she'd already planned.

She hardly thought about that night in the Dragon's Valley, that she'd spent sobbing her heart out. She hardly thought about her nightmare, of her imaginary duel with Pitaya Dragon and its implications. Of the grave truth underlying her motives. The truth that she had not come looking conversation or civility from her old friend. She sought something far, far worse.

She hardly thought about the Innkeeper, or the fact that Hollyberry had fled the valley altogether as fast as she could at the first sign of morning, without stepping foot in Dragon City again to see her or say goodbye.

She hardly thought about the mountains of bodies she dumped practically everywhere she went. Almost every region of the world, littered with slaughtered dragons. In her quest to punish savagery, she became a savage herself.

She hardly thought about her newfound, twisted sense of justice, and the brutal nature of her one-woman crusade.

She hardly even thought all that much about her granddaughter now.

No, now it was back to her old routine; the only routine she ever should have known or abided by, that of fun and adventure and the illusion of freedom from her burdens. Though she was a connoisseur of poison, that which vengeance provided was simply too strong for even the likes of her. Her beloved drinks, and her beloved adventures, and the crystal clear reflection of her carefree smile captured within her glass made for a much finer alternative. One vice traded in for another.

It tasted less bitter than her shame.

#cookie run kingdom #hollyberry cookie #pitaya dragon cookie #tiger lily cookie #princess cookie #ancient cookies #royal berry cookie #jungleberry cookie #merchant shorts #holy lord i finally finished this story......... all of you have to read it now. immediately #it might not be 100% perfect but I'm satisfied with it for the time being. i can always come back and edit/redo if necessary #how does that saying go? “one who seeks vengeance should dig two graves”?#I'm not sure Holly knows it. I'm even less sure she'd care even if she did.#also I'm sorry if the Innkeeper doesn't sound that great or accurate i wasn't really sure what to do there #that segment is my least favorite part tbh. but whatever. can't always hit home runs #hollyberry crk #I'm also sorry the fight scene is so lame #i literally stayed up all night writing this shit my head is killing me give me a break

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