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cheollipop · 1 year

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ginger & cinnamon tea

navi | taglist

pairing: choi san x fem!reader

w.c.: 3.5k

tags: smut, fluff, established relationship, sick fic

after his roommate suggested a way to get rid of the sniffles, san – being the trusting friend he was – just had to try it.

warnings: praise, begging (so... much... begging), pussy-drunk! san, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected sex (boooo!!! 👎🏻), multiple rounds/orgasms, multiple creampies, a sprinkle of overstimulation, a hint of anal (m receiving), one (1) chomp, san's stamina is through the roof in this one oof, perhaps a slight breeding kink bc why not, I think that's all-

A/N: here it is... my first smut fic (yes, its another sick fic. we won't speak about it)... I'm absolutely terrified posting this, but I really hope you all enjoy reading it! a special thanks to alyssa (aka @toxicccred <3) for entertaining my horny thoughts for literally hours yesterday. mwah ily lots.

nsfw under the cut - minors dni!! 🔞

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

San's sneeze blasted through your phone's speaker, your body flinching back at the sound.

"Sorry," he smiled sheepishly.

You shook your head, a small smile on your face as you watched his face sink deeper into his pillow.

"Does your head still hurt?"

He hummed. "It's not as bad. I think the painkillers have finally kicked in."

"What about your fever? Have Woo check it for you."

"(Y/n)."

"Have him make you some soup as well. With extra veggies-"

"Baby, calm down. It's just a cold," San chuckled, the sound coming out rough and gravelly.

You pouted, eyebrows furrowing, exhaling a long sigh. "I hate not being there for you when you're sick. This business trip wasn't even that important." You slumped back in your armchair, yet to change out of your clothes and into something more comfortable.

"You're coming back tomorrow," he reminded you, clearing his throat, the corners of his lips tugging upwards. "You can give me all your love and attention then."

His words brought a smile to your lips. Perhaps it was also the two dimples you loved so much peeking out to greet you.

"No kisses, though."

His bottom lip jutted out. "I guess I'll settle for cuddles."

"Then I'll be sure to put my all into them," you promised.

You kept the call open while you went about your nighttime routine, telling San about your two-day business trip, and how your boss got too drunk and embarrassed himself over dinner. Sliding under the covers, your skin glowing with the fresh layer of skin care he had bought you for valentine's day, you rested your head on the pillow. Neither of you spoke, simply pretending that the other was an arm's reach away as your breaths slowly evened out, falling asleep to soft smiles and pretty dimples.

The door opened after a few seconds of you knocking, a large smile on the man's face greeting you.

"Welcome back!"

"Thank you, Woo.” He pulled you into a hug, squeezing you once before letting go. You spoke while you slipped your shoes off, "how's he doing?"

"He's a big boy, don't worry too much about him." Wooyoung walked with you as you made your way to San's room.

You breathed out a laugh. "You know I can't help it."

Wooyoung only smiled, ruffling your hair before disappearing into his room – the door adjacent to San's.

Peeking into San's room, your eyes instantly met with his. He was sitting up in bed, holding a tissue to his nose. You couldn't help the grin splitting your face, nearly hopping with excitement as you made your way towards him. San threw the tissue god-knows-where and held his arms open for you, wrapping them around your frame once you were close enough. You pressed your lips to his forehead, smacking a kiss onto the heated skin before sitting by his side and relaxing into his embrace.

"I've missed you, my love," San muttered against your hair, kissing your temple. His voice was hoarse, and you could tell he had a stuffy nose.

"Me too. So much," you inhaled his scent, hands running up and down his clothed back.

Wooyoung peeked his head back into the room, gym bag slung over his shoulder. He smiled at the sight of the two of you holding each other so close, he wasn't sure where you began and where San ended.

"Alright, lovebirds, I'm going to the gym for a few hours," he spoke, unsure if you could even hear him from how deeply molded into each other the two of you were.

San waved at him with one of the hands wrapped around your back, and you sent him off with a quiet "have fun."

Wooyoung hesitated at the door, peeking in once more, the corner of his lips curling into a sly smirk. "You know…"

You turned your head to look at the man, raising an eyebrow at him, urging him to speak.

"They say some sweet lovemaking gets rid of colds prettyyy quick," he winked.

Heat rushed to your cheeks, and you could see San's ears turning a bright red – yet you weren't sure if that was Wooyoung’s doing or the cold's.

"Ya!" San grabbed the nearest pillow and threw it at him.

Wooyoung ran away, effectively dodging the swarm of pillows being thrown at him, his squeaky giggles echoing in the apartment even after the front door clicked shut behind him.

"Sorry about that. Just ignore him," San pressed a kiss to the crown of your head, tucking you back into his chest.

You let out a breathy laugh, nuzzling your cheek against San's collarbone. "It's Wooyoung, I'm used to his antics by now."

"You're right," he grinned, laying down on his bed, taking you with him.

"Is there anything I can do to make you feel better, Sannie?"

"Just let me hold you," he flexed his arms around you, squeezing you for a few seconds before relaxing again.

You hummed, letting your eyes flutter shut, your hand sliding under his shirt to settle against the soft skin of his hip.

You remained that way, limbs tangled up with his under the comforter, your cheek pressed to his chest as it rose and fell steadily. You felt his breath hitch, chest hiccuping as he cleared his throat repeatedly. You raised your head to meet his eyes, your hair disheveled and tangled from where his fingers had been running through it.

“Are you okay? Does something hurt?”

His hand smoothed down your unkempt locks, cupping the back of your neck and giving it a small squeeze. “I’m okay,” he cleared his throat again.

You stifle a laugh at his attempt to hold back his cough. “Don’t hold it back, you idiot.”

He pouted, muttering under his breath, “such heartwarming words.” He hid his face in the crook of his elbow and coughed, the sound ripping through his chest. He winced, eyes shut tightly and the corners of his mouth turning downwards.

“Oh, baby,” your fingers ran through his hair, scratching at his scalp before moving down to cup his cheek. San leaned into your touch, turning his head to kiss your palm, his skin heated against yours. “I’ll go make you some tea.”

“Don’t go,” he mumbled, taking your free hand in his and interlocking your fingers with his, giving them a tight squeeze.

“I’ll just be a moment,” you leaned in to plant a kiss on his cheek.

“Just stay here, I don’t need any tea,” San touched his forehead to yours.

You kissed the tip of his nose, then placed another one on his cheekbone. “Yes you do.” Untangling yourself from him, you made your way to the kitchen, stopping at his bedroom door. “Just call out if you need me.”

You left the room, finally allowing yourself to laugh at the expression San was giving you – bottom lip jutting out, eyes big and pleading.

He was so cute, you thought, as you stared at the boiling water. Dropping a few pieces of ginger into the water, followed by a stick of cinnamon, you left them to boil on low heat for a few minutes. You turned the stove off before placing a tea bag into the kettle and watched as the liquid slowly darkened.

Pouring the steaming tea into his favourite mug, you walked back to his room.

You immediately noticed his restless shuffling under the thick blanket, his breathing heavy and labored, a sheen of sweat reflecting the dim light from the small lap perched on his bedside.

"San?" You hurried to his side, setting the mug down by the lamp before placing your palm on his forehead, worried his fever might have returned. "Does anything hurt?"

"(Y/n), please…" He muttered, voice so breathy his words were barely coherent, still fidgeting under his blanket.

"What's wrong, Sannie?" You began to push the blanket off him, allowing the cool air to hit his heated skin.

Your worry faded as soon as you pulled it off his torso, leaving it gathered at his knees. Your eyes traveled between his pants – pulled midway down his thighs – and his hand, wrapped around his hard length, his hips thrusting into his fist with vigor.

"S-san! What are you doing?" Your hands twitched at your sides, not knowing what to do, your eyes stuck on San's lower half. Arousal pooled between your legs, waves of heat surging through your body.

"Please, (Y/n)- ah," he whined. His fingers squeezed around his girth, the breathy moan that escaped his lips going straight to your core. "Please, help me. Wooyoung said-"

"Sannie, Wooyoung’s an idiot. You need to rest," your voice wavered, prying your eyes off San's middle to meet his eyes.

"Please… please, please, (Y/n)."

You were stuck battling between your morals and your arousal, rubbing your thighs together as you struggled to speak. But San was looking up at you with hooded eyes, lips parted as he panted heavily, hips never ceasing their movement. You eyed the bead of precum leaking from his tip – how his hand smeared it down his length with its relentless movement. With those flushed cheeks and whispered pleads – how could you ever say no?

"What can I do to make you feel better?"

"Ah, San. Fuck. Your mouth is so-," warm, you wanted to say before San ripped another moan out of you, your hand fisted in his hair as he lapped at your cunt like a starved man.

He slipped another finger alongside the two he had stuffed inside you, curling them to drag along your walls, pressing against the spot that made your back arch, your breathy moans egging him on.

"Taste so good," he nuzzled his nose against your clit, his tongue slipping down to lick up the wetness dripping out of you and around his fingers. His hips rutted against the sheets where he laid on his stomach, eyes fluterring shut as he breathed heavily against your folds, drunk off your arousal.

"Oh, God. San- hnngh," your hips jumped off the bed, your hand on the back of San's head helping you push him closer to your core. "I'm about to- ah, baby, you're making me feel so good."

San's fingers thrusted into you harder, encouraged by your praise, pressing against your sweet spot every time he pushed back in. His tongue was back on your clit, alternating between lapping at it and sucking it between his lips. Your back arched once more as waves of pleasure rushed through your body, your thighs shaking around San's face as he helped you ride out your high, his fingers deep inside you while his tongue worked to swallow everything you gave him.

Panting heavily, your eyes closed, trying to regain your breath. "Shit, San."

San climbed up your body, his chin dripping with his spit and your arousal. "Did that feel good?" He looked at you through hooded eyes, his chest rising and falling at the same rate as yours.

“Yes, San, it was amazing,” you breathed out a laugh, jumping when the tip of his cock brushed against your sensitive clit. San leaned closer, his chest pressed against yours, head tucked into the crook of your neck.

"Can I-" San pressed his lips against your skin, taking the shell of your ear between his teeth, the hand not holding him up wrapping around his cock again. He pumped himself a few times before running his tip along your folds, his precum mixing with the spit and arousal.

You tucked a few strands behind his ear, holding his cheek in your hand, smiling when he nuzzled into the touch. "Kiss me, Sannie."

San shook his head against your palm. "I don't want to get you sick."

You moved your hand to his nape, pulling his face closer to yours, pressing a kiss to the corner of his lips, smiling against the skin. "I think it's a little too late for that."

That was all it took for San to slam his lips against yours and moaning into your mouth, his teeth clashing against your front ones, desperately biting into your bottom lip.

"Let me have you, please, let me," he whispered against your lips, diving back in to suck your bitten bottom lip into his mouth.

You nodded, reaching down to take his length between your fingers – eliciting a sharp hiss from the man above you – and positioned him at your entrance, adjusting your position to take him more easily. San pushed forward, his tip breaching your tight hole, sliding more of his length inside you as his tongue ran over the roof of your mouth, sucking your tongue between his lips. He bottomed out inside you, pulling back to pant against your lips, his moans breathy and needy. Grinding his hips against yours, your eyes rolled back with a whispered fuck.

San pressed his forehead to yours, struggling to keep his eyes open while your walls squeezed around his length. "Is that okay, baby? God, you feel so good, I could cum right now."

"It feels so- so good, Sannie," you cupped his cheeks, one hand slipping down to his neck. "Just- please, move."

With his lips attached to your neck, he gave a few slow thrusts, the stretch of his cock between your walls almost overwhelming. You wrapped your arms around San's shoulders, feeling his muscles flex under your touch.

"I need-" he panted against your skin, lips pressed to your cheek, peppering open-mouthed kisses all over your face. San bent one of his knees, pressing it into the mattress by your hips, your thigh hooked over his. "I need more, please. Can I have more, please baby?"

San's eyes were teary as they stared into yours, pleading, his hand squeezing the flesh of your hip, cock dragging against your walls.

Your hand slid down to his lower back, lips pressing against his jaw. "Take what you want, Sannie, I'm all yours."

Digging the knee by your hip into the mattress, San pushed his cock all the way inside you, rolling his hips until they were flush with yours, your eyes rolling back at the stretch. With a hand on the underside of your thigh, he bent it back until your knee rested under your armpit before he began to piston his hips, building a steady rhythm as he fucked the moans out of you. San’s lips pressed gentle kisses down the column of your throat, stopping to suck and bite at the flesh, leaving behind a trail of purple and blue bruises that you would scold him for later.

He breathed heavily against your skin, a mix of grunts and airy moans escaping his lips. “You’re so perfect, every last bit of you,” he took your nipple into his mouth, giving it a sharp suck before biting down on it, your body jolting under him.

“San – a-ahh – more, give me more.” Your whole body spasmed every time his cock brushed against your sweet spot, his hand pushing your other leg over his shoulder, folding you in half so he could fuck you even harder. “You feel so good, baby. So, so good.”

“Fuck. I’m not going to last,” he tongue made a trail up your cleavage to the hollow of your neck, moving to your face and slotting his lips against yours, running his tongue over your teeth.

Please, please, please, you repeated, unsure of what exactly you were asking for, San’s hips slamming so hard against yours it left your brain lagging. He brought the hand on your thigh down to your sopping folds, two fingers rubbing hastily at your swollen clit as he tried to bring you over the edge with him. Your walls clenched around his throbbing cock as a numbing wave of pleasure coursed through your body. San’s hips stuttered, managing a few more thrusts before stilling, cock pushed all the way inside your pulsing cunt as the familiar warmth of his cum took over your senses. A series of high-pitched moans escaped his lips as he emptied his load inside you.

He pulled out just enough to shoot the last rope of cum onto your mound, rubbing it through your folds with the tip of his cock, your legs closing in around his hips when he brushed against your clit.

He looked down at the mess he had made before sheathing himself back inside your cunt, pushing some of his cum out in the process.

“S-san!” Your hips jolted, trying to move away from him as you began to feel overstimulated.

“I’m sorry, please, just-” He rocked his hips into yours, his face tucked into your neck, his hot breath blowing against your skin. “I need more, (Y/n).”

Your thighs shook uncontrollably around him, the pleasure mixing with pain as your nerves went into overdrive. But San was looking at you with teary eyes, sniffing every other second as his nose started running. He looked so fucked out, hair disheveled and the sheen of sweat covering his body reflecting the dim light. He pushed his hips flush against yours, grinding slowly, unable to stop himself as waves of pleasure shot through his spine.

“Please… just one more… please, baby, will you give it to me?” He pressed his lips to your cheek, then to your nose, and finally your mouth, placing short sweet kisses on your lips while he begged you for more.

When the tears welling up in his eyes – a mixture of his cold and the pleasure overwhelming his every sense – dampened his precious skin, his eyes glimmering as he looked down at you, you knew you had lost this battle. Perhaps even the war, and everything in between.

“I’ll give you anything you want, Sannie,” you whispered against his lips, moaning into his mouth as his thrusts picked up their pace, the sound of skin slapping on skin echoing between the four walls.

Sliding his arms under you, he held you closer to him, your tits squeezing against his chest as his cock slid in and out of you, pushing directly against your g-spot with every thrust. San’s moans got louder – needier – as he pumped himself into you, desperately chasing his high.

“You’re taking me so well, my love – ahhh – fuck, (Y/n), every single inch,” he bit down on your shoulder, squeezing your waist so tight he was bound to leave bruises. “I’m going to fill you up with so much cum, it’ll be dripping out of you for days. You'll take all of it, won't you?”

His words made your walls clamp up on him, his thrusts faltering and turning sloppy. “Please, Sannie, want your cum so bad – hnnngh,” your nails dragged over the soft skin of his back, your eyes rolling back when his fingers made contact with your clit, rubbing at it desperately, reveling in the feeling of your pussy clenching around his cock. “I’m- fuck, I’m so close.”

"My pretty baby," he slid his tongue over your parted lips. "So beautiful, letting me fuck my cum into her."

Your hand slid down his slick skin to squeeze at the firm flesh of his ass, making him groan into your neck. Slowly, your fingers made their way between his cheeks, brushing over his puckered hole. San’s eyes rolled to the back of his head, pounding his cock into you with fervor as you sunk the tip of your finger into his ass, feeling it clench around your digit. A familiar warmth surged through you as San pumped his cum into you, sliding his cock in and out of your abused cunt as ribbons of white painted your walls. He slowly stilled his hips and you felt his cock throbbing inside you, his cum fucked so deep into you, you feared no contraceptive could stop you from bearing his children. He leaned in, pressing his mouth to yours as he filled you up; his lips parted after a few seconds, the pleasure leaving him too fucked out to do anything but moan and groan into your mouth.

“(Y/n), baby, you feel so good... it won’t stop coming out,” he ground his hips into yours, feeling more of his cum filling you up, a stream of it leaking out and pooling on his sheets.

The tears in his eyes, the euphoric expression on his face, his thumb rubbing slow circles over your sensitive clit, the feeling of his cock buried so deep within you still shooting out ropes of cum – you weren’t sure what threw you off the edge, perhaps it was all of those factors combined. Your toes curled, and you could swear you saw stars, vision blurring as your body writhed under San’s, clawing at his back while he helped you ride out your high.

Your legs didn't stop spasming even after San plopped down on his side next to you, reaching out to brush your hair off your face, his palm cupping your cheek, thumb rubbing against the flushed skin. “Are you okay?”

You blinked slowly at him, a lazy smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Mmm, perfect.” You turned your body to face him, your knees shaking in the process – and San may or may not have smiled proudly at that. “You know, I would have hid your scarves a long time ago if I knew you could fuck like that.”

Your giggles vibrated between the walls as San attacked you, fingers prodding at your sides, limbs too heavy to fight him off your body.

Wooyoung peeked his head into the room, grimacing at the overbearing stuffiness. Looking around, he noticed the pile of clothes thrown into one corner, soiled towels tossed in the opposite direction. A pair of bodies slept soundly, tangled up together under the thick comforter, San's soft snores breaking through the stillness in the room.

Wooyoung’s hand reached up to cover his mouth, stifling a squeaky laugh as the realization hit him.

“Holy shit, they actually did it.”

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ugh-yoongi · 2 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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saleeba · 6 months

Text

fool ; jude bellingham

summary ♡ betting on the phenomenon of unrequited feelings, you and jude have never dared to make the first move with the other until a reunion forces new questions to be answered.

pairing ♡ jude bellingham x fem!reader

content ♡ 18+, smut, friends to lovers, alcohol consumption, cursing, kissing, both jude & reader are pining idiots, fingering, p in v sex, marking, missionary, unprotected sex (jude pulls out but still pls practise safe sex!!)

a/n ♡ she's baaaack :D but first☝🏽alexa play fool by nct 127 !!!! the lyric "you’re a goddess but i’m a fool, what should i do?" was written for this fic in particular i just know it was :] anyway hehe this fic is based off this request so tysmm to anon for sending such an exciting prompt !! i hope yous enjoy 🫶🏽💗 WAIT P.S this isn’t proofread bc i lowkey am not rocking with it so i didn’t wanna put myself thru having to read it again & again … im sorry for any mistakes :’)

you had just gotten off work to a stream of relentless texts from your best friends’ groupchat — phone pinging off the rails whilst you were on shift, muffled buzzes from your bag making you wonder what on earth was worth blowing up in that whatsapp group on a random friday afternoon.

on the train back home, you tap open the green app, anticipating yourself easily spending the entire journey catching up on the three hundred-plus texts from your closest mates. you decide to start right from the beginning of the influx, thumb scrolling nonstop and eyes blurring from the rapid movement until they focus back on the screen where you stop, finally having reached the destination of the first text that set it all off.

it was from none other than jude bellingham, and you were nearly embarrassed by the way your face instantly lit up upon reading his message. the groupchat’s golden boy had popped up after weeks of minimal contact, asking if he could take everyone for a night out tomorrow to make up for it, stating that he finally has some small gaps of free time between hectic pre-season schedules to allow him to do so.

it honestly warmed your heart that the first thing he wants away from football is to see you all. you’d been a band of good friends since the first year of secondary school, contact not necessarily strained as you all had a lot of love for each other but rather unspokenly reduced after leaving school two years ago and falling into busy university or career ventures.

instead of scrolling through to read and react to the plethora of follow-up texts after his, you ignore them and jump straight to typing your reply to his invitation, casting aside that nagging voice asking you: doesn’t that seem too desperate?

no, right? i’m just accepting his invitation, getting straight to the point, the convo ended half an hour ago anyway. you’re arguing with yourself now, feeling the need to give unnecessary excuses to nonexistent accusations. if you were to be honest with yourself, you were always self-conscious of the way you behaved around jude, even now debating on whether to add your signature heart emoji or if it’d come across as you trying too hard given your feelings for him; albeit them being feelings that no one knows about, not even him. you made sure for it to be that way.

with a mental note to get over yourself, you send an affirmative ‘i’m up for it!’, signature heart included, and quickly shut off your phone. heart beating so rapidly, you scolded yourself for getting so worked up over a mere reply and for definitely not getting over yourself. god knows how you’re going to handle seeing him in person.

a sudden double buzz from your device does nothing to calm you down, instead dampening your hands with sweat when you grab it and see a pair of messages from him.

jude 🌟: heyy i’m so glad you can make it tomorrow :)

jude 🌟: can’t wait to see you!! ❤❤

he had messaged you separately for some reason and he had included two hearts… the overthinking starts for you again, without even beginning to think about what to reply this time, and you question why he couldn’t have just replied to you in the groupchat or why he couldn’t have just left the end of the messages with a ‘x’ like he usually does or why he would even say what he said in the last message. mind frantic and unable to clear itself, you thank yourself for having your read receipts turned off so you can have your mini meltdown without worrying about jude knowing you’d seen his messages multiple minutes ago. god, you were down so bad.

you force yourself to open the messages app and send the most casual reply you can type.

you: can’t wait to see you too! ❤

you try to keep it short, sweet and nonchalant even if your fingers are itching to type more – more about how much you had missed him, more about what he was planning to wear tomorrow night so that maybe you could match your own outfit with him, more about your true, unfiltered feelings for him. it’s pathetic really; you hadn’t seen him in two years and the first thing you wanted to do was throw yourself at him, spilling all the secrets you’d been holding close for so many years. you leave it at that, put your phone on do not disturb mode and head on home, waiting for the long hours of friday evening to pass and saturday night to arrive.

***

and so saturday night rolls around and you just about finish touching up your makeup and smoothing out your dark blue dress before the doorbell rings, and you’re whisked away to the club by a couple of your girlfriends.

as soon as you step your high heels into the building, you’re met with the sight of flowing booze and the noise of noughties r&b beats bouncing around the brightly lit walls. dragged by the hands of your friends, you find yourself standing next to a booth at the back of the club, the rest of the group now welcoming you latecomers with a loud cheer.

“finally, girls. you took your time!” one of your male friends remarks, ushering you all to sit down.

“oh god, what have we missed?” you beam, trying to scan the group amongst the strobing lights to catch a glimpse of the person you were really there for.

“nah, you’re just in time because… first round’s on mister madrid!”

the callout breaks your friend group into a raucous holler as your gaze fixes onto the six foot-one footballer who stands up with an amused grin and a sigh of feigned defeat. your heart quickens and your smile turns into a state of near disbelief over how good jude looks right now – graphic white t-shirt hugging his biceps in all the right places and hanging over a pair of smart-casual black trousers.

“yeah, yeah, anything for my groupies,” he winks at no one in particular but your brain almost convinces you that he was looking at you while doing it. you send a shy smile his way just in case but what he says next has your mouth running dry. “help us out, will ya, y/n?”

you hesitate for a second too long for your liking, stumbling over your words while your friends peer at you. “uh… uh-huh, yeah, of course.” you answer as quick as you can, standing up on your feet slowly as to not trip over your now-shaking legs and send yourself flying into jude, and to avoid embarrassing yourself more than you think you already have.

he responds with a grateful smile and you follow him to the bar where he places an order for a round of drinks and some shots to be delivered to the group by the two of you. there’s an odd unfamiliarity to the silence between you both and you realise that you aren’t normally this quiet around jude, and neither is he around you; you would always joke that he’d be eligible to talk for england if he wasn’t already playing football for them. he’d retort with a comment about how his ears could almost fall off with the amount of chatting you do, and you’d dryly reply with a ‘well, they’re too big for your head anyway. look at the size of them!’ the pair of you were always as thick as thieves in the eyes of everyone else. which is why you didn’t expect it to be like this, especially after two years of not seeing each other – there was so much you wanted to catch up on from his world and so much you wanted to share from yours. you decidedly gain some courage and take the initiative to spark some conversation, get something going at least.

“soo, how have you been, then?” you’re both facing the bar, your head barely tilting in jude’s direction to indicate that yes, it is him that you’re talking to and not some random like he assumes you are with the way you’re positioned away from him, eyes just about turning to steal a glance of his figure but not to hold eye contact. “how’s la vida española?”

jude finds amusement in your sudden flaunt of the spanish language, a smile breaking out on his face, unseen to you since he’s still facing the same direction that you are, preoccupying his eyes with the myriad of bottles on the shelves while his mind searches for an apt reply.

“yeah, it’s been great, i think i wanna stay there forever,” jude laughs, his fingers tapping on the black surface of the bar. you can’t help the selfish feeling of your heart dropping at his confession. “i miss you, though, y’know… a lot.”

this one confession forces your whole body to turn itself towards him, eyes now chasing after his to seek some form of sincerity, to see if he was just messing about or if he really meant what he just said. he shifts his head to face you now, a bashful look painted onto his features. the expectant silence says it all really; of course i mean it.

you gulp and decide to break the quietness with a sarcastic, jesting “ugh…”, jude’s face dropping at what he thinks is genuine disgust from you. you realise your attempt to denounce the awkwardness has backfired.

“oh my god, you dickhead, i’m joking,” how is it that mere moments ago you were shaking at the sheer real-life presence of him but now you’d transformed into having this confident playfulness? and all of it without a drop of alcohol in your system as well – you’re quietly proud of yourself. “i missed you too, jude… a lot.” you coyly repeat his words.

upon your turn of the confession, the bartender sets down your drink orders and the two of you wordlessly carry the trays over to where your friends are situated, the silence way more comfortable now that you’re both basking in assurance, unbeknown to the other that your hearts were racing at a hundred miles per hour.

***

not even two hours and an innumerable amount of shots later, you’re all a drunken mess; definitely not a surprise to a single one of you. what is a surprise is the way you’re strewn across jude, right leg wrapped around his left, head on his chest, swirling and sipping from what’s clearly an empty glass to any sober, sane person. you grumble and mutter a complaint about the lack of liquor in the booth, taking it upon yourself to head to the bar and order another round for everyone.

“i’ll come with you,” jude announces over the pounding of the music, standing up so quickly that his next five steps are staggered and he has to cling onto your arm to steady himself. “i’m fine, i’m okay.” he assures nobody that asked.

the two of you stumble your way into the path of the bar, determined to drink until the sun comes up and forget every strand of stress until the hangovers come knocking. jude’s soft grip on your arm has you being led in the opposite direction all of a sudden, though.

“uhm, where are we going?” you question, head still turned to where the bar is located, about to ask him if he was so hammered he couldn’t walk in a simple straight line to get to where you’d planned to go. “jude?”

he’s silent, save for humming his way to his desired destination, and you question if he even knows where he’s leading you. before you make the choice of going along with him or leaving his clearly confused self to go cop your next cocktail, you find yourself in the disabled toilets, pushed up against the sink with the door not even shut properly, gasping at how rough jude is handling your body compared to his soft touches from before, and how close his face is to yours, warm breath fanning the skin of your lips. you weren’t strictly against it all but how the hell have you ended up like this? The alcohol and the questions come at you fast, dizzying your brain but you can’t help but feel so keenly anticipative.

“i’m sorry, i just…” he pulls away from you, eyes fluttering closed so he can re-evaluate his actions, exhaling through his nose as if he was letting go of all doubts before continuing. “am i okay to do this?” he places his hands on your waist, pushing himself back into your space, his full lips more or less about to take yours. you have to refrain from letting the effects of alcohol take over your tongue and uttering back with a breathy ‘you can do whatever you want to me’.

instead, you answer with an earnest, eager nod, inviting his lips to finally do that one thing you had been dreaming of for so long, to kiss yours so silly that they’re left with the imprint of him. and jude does just that.

his mouth takes in yours so determinedly, shyness and hesitation now long-dissolved feelings for you both as your hands find home around the back of his neck, pushing his head further onto you, feeling the need to taste him more and more until you’re both consumed by each other.

it’s a messy makeout, noses bumping and teeth clashing, but it’s oh so hot, the way he gasps into your mouth from breathlessness and pleasure, running and gripping his large hands over the material adorning your waist and hips as the need to rip it off you nearly overtakes him. to you, he’s so utterly intoxicating that a gallon of alcohol would pale in comparison to how dizzy his skin on yours makes you feel.

you release a moan at the meagre thought of jude all over your body, and he takes the opportunity to slip his tongue over yours, filthy noises of wetness and carnality from the both of you reaching high pitch as jude somehow simultaneously pushes you against the sink and pulls you against his chest, his manhandling of you getting you even more hot and bothered before you’re both interrupted by the hub of people passing by and huddling right outside the bathroom, their self-occupied shouts and cheers dragging you out of the bubble that the two of you had wrapped yourselves in, almost sobering you up on the spot.

you push jude out of your way, gentle but abrupt, and give him a look of apologetic regret. “i-i’m sorry,” you say, jitterily walking past him and exiting the room without a second glance or word, heading straight to the booth where your friends are hollering and hurraying, occupied with shot-drinking contests.

your girlfriends offer to go home with you when you lie and tell them you’re not feeling very well, but you decline them, instead telling them to have fun on your behalf and letting them know that you’ll try to text them once you get home safely. you can tell they’re confused by your shaken state and the absence of jude but you grab your bag and make your exit before the interrogation can even begin to brew.

you manage to grab a taxi back home, surprised by how competent you are despite the alcohol in your bloodstream and confusion in your brain. on the way there, you can’t stop the bouncing of your knee nor the racing of your psyche, asking yourself how and why whatever went down with jude went down like that. you curse at yourself for being so impulsive in starting and finishing the whole ordeal with him in the way that you did – you don’t know if it’s the empty, depressive drunk thoughts or just clarity from the whole jude thing that makes you feel like there’s no coming back from this at all. you feel like crawling into your bed and never coming out from it ever again.

the taxi driver has to call for your attention multiple times until you reach earth again and pay him the journey’s fee. you go skulking all the way up to your front door, only letting out a breath that you feel like you’ve been holding since the beginning of the night once the door shuts behind you.

the rest of the night is quiet and orderly for you, telling yourself to not invite any more chaos into your brain and to simply drink some water and to go to sleep. waking up tomorrow morning is going to be painful in more ways than one.

***

you spend the rest of the weekend nursing a ferocious hangover and a frazzled heart, only contacting your friends to tell them that you got home fine and to joke that you probably need a century or two for this hangover to be gone. you thank the high heavens that they don't bring up the topic of you and jude

you try not to think too much about jude, you really do, but sunday night has a couple of taps landing you on the instagram app and you learn that he’s already back in spain, pictures of him in training sliding across your phone screen on his story along with selfies with his teammates. usually, you tap that small red heart at the bottom and hope that he sees it amongst his millions and millions of notifications, a tiny ritual of yours that now has you feeling so pathetic that you don’t dare to do it anymore.

running a hand over your weary face, you set your phone down and opt to nap the night away, finding comfort in the non-intrusion from your friends and the no contact from jude, hoping to keep yourself busy and distracted with whatever the work week brings.

a ring from the doorbell rips through your flat just as you’re organising your pillows, forcing you to stop what you’re doing and ponder who could be at the door on a sunday while the clock ticks some minutes past one o’clock. you don’t recollect ordering any food nor are you expecting a delivery, especially not this late.

trudging your way to the front door, you open it to find jude bellingham standing there and you feel an instant pang of regret, wishing you had peeked through the window to see who it could be, wishing you had pretended to not be in, wishing the ground would open up right now and swallow you whole – anything to escape the confrontation that you’re now having to face. your face heats up with embarrassment and nerves but you manage to rupture the silence before your mouth can turn dry.

“j-jude, hi,” you try and keep your greeting as polite and cordial as you can, even when all you really want to do is to chase him off your doorstep. “what are you doing here?”

your query has jude visibly gulping, hands fiddling with each other as he attempts to hold eye contact with you, his vision a bit blurry from exhaustion. “y/n… sorry, can i come in?”

you oblige, holding the door open wide before you guide him to the living room and invite him to sit down on the plushness of your sofa, settling yourself on the opposite end of it. you silently prompt him to say what he came here to say with a nod of your head.

“uhm, i’m sorry for turning up unannounced, and so late…” ever the courteous. “i had to sneak away from the lads and catch the last flight to here so it was all a bit down to the wire.” he lets out a small, uneasy laugh.

you cut off his rambling with a curt “what do you want, jude?” you don’t mean for it to sound so rude but you still hold the attitude of wanting to get this over and done with, already feeling annoyance at yourself for even letting him into your home.

“right, yeah, i actually wanted to talk about what happened on saturday,” he goes back to fiddling with this thumbs, eyebrows furrowed but he avoids looking at you this time. not that you can blame him because your own vision shifts to anywhere but his direction. “i’m so sorry for making you uncomfortable a-and please tell me if this is inappropriate, but i haven’t stopped thinking about last night, i haven't stopped thinking about you, i-i’m sorry, i know this is all so silly and you probably don’t even feel the same bu-”

you stop him right there, this time with good reason as you can’t bear holding back your real emotions, not when he’s practically given you the green light to spill the contents of your heart.

“no, jude, i didn’t feel uncomfortable at all,” you assure him, gaze now on the footballer in front of you and you almost can’t believe the words leaving your mouth right now. “i wanted it to happen, i’m glad it happened, you know, i think i’ve had dreams about it happening,” you try and offset any tension with a timid chuckle before turning quite pensive. “i really like you, jude, i have for a long time… god, sorry, this is so embarrassing.” you return to making light of the situation you’ve put yourself in, the timidness sinking back in as quick as the relief lifts you up.

jude moves closer to your now-cowering body, knees touching as your heartbeat surges with worry and self-consciousness all wrapped up into a tight, miserable ball. he puts his sweat-dampened hands into yours and squeezes in silent assurance before raising them up to his lips and laying a chaste kiss on the heated skin.

he can’t help but break out into a sweet smile, eyes threatening to crinkle at the edges. your face is still sketched with tension and now confusion has joined the mix.

“i can’t tell you how long i’ve waited to hear that from you, how much i needed to hear it,” your eyes meet his, widening in surprise a little. “i’m a fool for not telling you sooner… i like you, y/n, i really like you.” he repeats your own words back at you, leaning in with a smattering of amusement dancing in his vision.

“can i kiss you?” the question leaves your lips faster than you can even process it in your brain.

jude wastes no time in replying with a firm pressing of his mouth on yours, deepening it within seconds, the need to cement his feelings for you being told through the way he cradles your head in his hand, leaning you back onto the arm of the sofa to further intensify the kiss. your lips move along with his, the soft weight of his body pressed against yours making you whine into his mouth in ecstasy.

he lifts off of you with a puckering of his swollen lips, the both of you taking the chance to draw in some air and attempt to regulate your breathing pattern.

“please take me to the bedroom,” you beg, breathless from the sheer sight of his dark eyes and pretty pout. there’s no fight nor denial from jude as he picks you up and prompts you to wrap your legs around his waist, quickening his pace once you point in the direction of your room.

he lays you down on the bed so gently, lips latching onto yours once again before they travel down your jaw and over the warm skin of your neck. the light touch of his fluttering eyelashes married with the pressure of his soft lips has your head spinning, hands tentatively laid on top of your sheets since you don’t trust yourself to not grab his head and bring it back to your lips. his fingers tinker with the waistband of your pyjama trousers, stretching it off your skin before he asks permission to peel them down your legs.

once they’re cast away in some corner of your bedroom, jude divides your legs by the underside of your knees, tucking himself into the now available space between them, turning onto his side and resting on his left forearm. he leaves a small kiss over your covered cunt and you try your best to not just clamp his head in between your thighs and smother him with your growing wetness here and now.

“need to get you ready, baby,” the sudden mention of the petname has you throbbing, squirming even more when he traces a line from your clit down to where there’s a small damp spot forming on the dark material of your underwear.

“jude, please,” you whine out, lifting your hips in a desperate bid to get the boy to strip your lower half completely.

he shushes you in his own charming way, making sure to comply with your demand by getting up onto his knees and discarding your soaked panties in a matter of seconds, the cold air generated by his large hands whipping them off you hits your exposed pussy, making you hiss through gritted teeth.

jude returns to the gap between your spread legs, sitting back but still on his knees, his higher position causing you to shift onto resting your body weight on the palms of your hands in order to peer at his actions – which start with him re-tracing that same teasing line from your aching clit to your hole with his thumb, the feeling now so intense on your unclothed skin. he hums in what sounds to be satisfaction when you throw your head back in pleasure, taking it in his favour to slip his index finger into the tightness of your pussy.

you release a guttural groan at the feeling of finally having some part of him inside you; you of course don’t want this to be the only part but you’re still so very grateful, so fucking grateful he’s now rubbing at your clit in delicious rounds, thumb tracing circle after circle while his fingers form a pair, pistoning in and out of you so easily due to the way your cunt douses itself with every move of jude’s.

“fuck, baby,” jude moans at the sight of his soaked digits every time they barely pull out of that pretty pussy, his thumb torturing your sensitive bud increasingly so, the cries and whimpers spilling from your lips an incentive for him. “feel so good and tight around my fingers, can’t imagine how you’ll feel around my dick.”

his words have you absolutely reeling, writhing against his hand to try and chase that moment of release.

“please, jude, i’m so close,” you’re warning and demanding at the same time, almost begging him to not stop or even think about moving his fingers out of you. “god, please, i need it,”

jude suddenly retracts both of his hands, leaving you bare and empty. “no way, baby, need to have you cumming on my cock or not cumming at all,” he comments with a shake of his head, denying you the opportunity of leaking your cum over his hand. upon seeing your bewildered face, he makes up for it by putting on a show of licking your juices clean off his fingers, the digits popped inside his mouth and dragged right back out with a low moan, him praising the way you taste.

“move up the bed for me, angel,” he orders, watching you while he stands up and unclothes himself as quick as he can. you scoot backwards, legs still spread open like they’ve been locked in that position, before pulling your oversized t-shirt off of you, chest void of a restricting bra . “good girl,” he praises, crawling up to hover his body over your laying one, cock in hand as your legs come to wrap around him. “are you still okay with this? we can stop at any point, okay?”

the sincerity of his voice has you melting. some would remark that the bar is in hell for you but the truth is that you hadn’t been with anyone like this for more months than you could count on your hands. you've been touch-starved and lacking words of affirmation for so long, and you needed something to be only about you for once.

“i’m more than okay with this,” you smile up at him, nodding to make your approval fully known. “and yes, i know i can stop you if i need to.”

jude reciprocates the same smile before leaning in and smothering your lips with his, pushing his cock into your tight wetness, so tight that your pussy almost pushes him back out, not used to being penetrated by something so thick.

“oh my god!” the feeling of tightness/fullness has you both gasping out the same thing at the same time, erupting into quiet giggles when the two of you realise your matching reactions.

jude’s mouth finds its way back home in the embrace of your lips and you swear this is heaven, the way his cock slides in and out of your sopping cunt, set at such a perfect pace, the slight friction causing you to grow even wetter – the filth of it all contrasts so well with the sweetness of his muffled moans and tender kisses on your neck, moving down onto your collarbones and tits.

a particularly harsh thrust of his cock has your back arching, chest pushed up to his heated face, and he takes this golden opportunity to wrap his lips around your erect nipple, spending a good while sucking and tugging on the skin around it. you’re amazed at how his cock doesn’t relent inside you, the speed still so quick and consistent even when he’s so occupied in painting splotches on your tits with his mouth.

“there,” he pants out, pulling his head back and marvelling at his own creation. “now, there’s no doubt that you’re really mine.” the smile he gives you is a killer.

you whine at his declaration of you belonging to him, scratching at his shoulders and calling out his name to indicate that it’s all too much for you, that you’re so, so close to cumming on his cock and really giving him what he wants rather than pleasing yourself. you figure that’s you gone now; you’re more willing to put the boy above your own needs because you’re down that fucking bad for him.

“fuck, jude, i’m gonna cum!” you sob, your moans becoming more frequent and higher pitched, legs starting to shake from the intoxicating mix of exhaustion and delight. you’re frantically chanting “please, please, please” into his mouth which parts to swallow your whimpering, wet lips kissing your trembling ones.

“go on, baby, cum for me, cum all over this cock,” he groans out, eyes squeezing shut when the feeling of your pussy clamping down tightly on his thickness proves too much to handle, face finding refuge in the crook of your neck. he knows you don’t need his permission, he would’ve let you orgasm as many times as you wanted to, would’ve let you use him like your own personal sex toy, but the words were only there to keep you going when his hips felt like faltering – he needed you cumming on his cock like he promised before, and he wasn’t about to fuck it up himself.

a final scream rips from your throat as you cum hard around jude, pussy clenching and pulsating around his cock so sporadically you thought you were having two orgasms at once. jude can’t handle it anymore, pulling out with a myriad of moans as he pumps his shaft with a hand, decorating the expanse of your lower abdomen with warm, white liquid. you’re still squirming, slowly trying to wheeze out the remaining whimpers from your lungs which you’re finding hard to do with the way jude pants and moans above you, the boy so spent he can’t help but breathe like he hasn’t had access to air for the past hour.

he flops down by your side, arms and legs sprawled like a starfish, chest rising and falling as he attempts to recuperate from the mindblowing sex you two just had. the image is so unserious that you can’t stifle your giggles but you decide to take another step of courage to lay on your side resting your head on his shoulder, fingers stroking his abs and playing with the curly hairs of his happy trail.

the room is quiet now with the scent of sex wafting through your nostrils on occasion but it’s the most comfortable silence you’ve experienced with jude, the feeling of his hot skin on yours so soothing to you.

after a period of panting, jude clears his throat and your ears prick up at the presence of sound. he turns his head towards you and you lift yourself up and off him out of instinct – you want full attention on him.

“i don’t want this to be a one-time kinda thing, y’know,” he proclaims, biting his lip from saying too much in one go.

“what, is this your way of saying you want round two already?” you joke, nose crinkling at the way he rolls his eyes playfully.

“shut up,” he delivers a poke to your side. “i mean, well, i don’t want either one of us to see this as a spur-of-the-moment thing, i just…” you look at him expectantly, silently telling him to continue. “i want you to be my girlfriend, y/n.”

you’re nearly knocked back by his words, wondering if they’re real or if you’re simply just hearing things. you thought dialogue like that, coming from him, was only reserved for your imagination, kept secret and only spoken to you in late-night mental scenarios that would comfort you on your way to slumberland.

you let out a laugh that’s an odd mix of relief and disbelief, quickly replying “yes, yes, of course” to his awaiting face, which releases a look of relief itself before jude captures your lips with such passion you’re both knocked back onto the plush pillows, giggling into each other’s mouths until your hands find themselves running down the defined muscles of his abdomen and over his hardening cock.

#girlies i’ve never had alcohol in my life so i hope the way i wrote reader & jude being drunk was ok !!! 🫶🏽#then again i’ve never had sex in my life and i write extensively about it so u know . 😭😭😭#guys imagine if before every smut fic i wrote a disclaimer like ‘guys i-i’ve never had sex before but i hope i did okay with this 🥺🥺' LMAO #ALSO omg im sorry abt the inconsistencies in tone + tempo i legit wrote this over a 5 month period + came back to it at times when i didnt #feel like writing + i was just tryna get to the good bit iykwim ( ͡ ° ͜ʖ ͡ °)#˗ˏˋ 📝 ˎˊ˗#˗ˏˋ 💬 ˎˊ˗#jude bellingham #jude bellingham smut #jude bellingham imagine #jude bellingham x fem!reader #jude bellingham x reader #jude bellingham x you #jude bellingham x y/n #football imagine #footballer smut #footballer imagine

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beiasluv · 1 year

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ok so i sent a request but im not sure if you got it bc it glitched for me

anywy its like the fic you did wherin reader and neteyam are twins and stuff and reader likes aonung and aonung likes her and stuff, and the main thing of the fic is that jake and neteyam (mostly jake) are protective of her like the "no boys until i die!" shi yk

anyway love your work xx

protective sullys

a/n: PLEASE, GUYS WE NEED JAKE’S DAD GIRL ERA PERIODT / i feel something’s not right in this fic, but i hope you guys still enjoy it 🤍

masterlist

the day your family arrived at the metkayina clan was one of the most beautiful and hideous days in the history

you guys were met with judging eyes and snickers from the people, while some gave reassuring smiles. you don’t know who to trust or where to go, but you hoped for the best and put on a fake smile to calm your siblings down.

but, neteyam being neteyam, he knows you too well. he sensed a feeling of uneasiness in your gut and he can feel it too. i mean, what do they say about twins?

while tuk held on to neytiri and jake, neteyam wrapped his arm around your shoulder, rubbing gently along your marks, and whispering comforting words.

“it’s goin’ to be alright, y/n…, i know we can do it, sully sticks together, huh?” he was met with your snicker to his joke.

but…one particular eye caught your attention. the bluest and tender teal eyes amongst the crowd stared into your soul. you felt your legs trembling under his gaze, yet you stood tall. neteyam noticing him as well made an unwelcoming face toward the intruder’s view

“well, our daughter, tsireya, and son, ao’nung, will show you the way of our lives. treat them with respect and be kind to them, for they are like babies taking their first step,”

‘so…‘ao’nung’…huh?’

settling down in your marui wasn’t as easy as it was back home. the floors are bouncy, which tuk liked A LOT, and there is little to no privacy at all. you miss the pandora plants and leaves that provided shade and coverage.

anyways, life was starting to look better.

until someone had to ruin it again…that familiar eyes you know so well, yet to little. he was staring at you again.

the very first practice session your siblings and you received much unnecessary embarrassment from the metkayina’s teens

well, it would be fair to say that you received them the least. ao’nung is always coughing or changing the subject

“well, you know, freak, if you don’t have those five little fingers then-“

“ahem, where were we? oh, right, let’s go to the reefs over there, numnuts,” ao’nung pointed towards the sea with his real fingers. “last person’s a raw egg.”

without another word, he swam off into the sea. and unknowingly to you, a grownup teenager, you still fell for the stupid game every time. seeing your siblings beating you to dive into the ocean, you followed in quickly.

but it seemed like your attempts had been in vain. bubbles leaving your mouth, covering your views of the world around you. like heaven sent, his -yes you knew this color- teal marked hand clutched your body from drowning into the ocean floor, dragging you up to the surface.

“are you alright? i am sorry, so sorry,” he clutched your face in his arm. “are you hurt?” he grabbed hurriedly along your body checking for injuries.

“i- i am fine, no worries, thank you,” you smiled sheepishly.

“now, hold my shoulders, okay?” he guided you behind his back. “breath in…we’re going down,” you breathed your last air and your body was submerged underneath again.

while at the coral reef, he took an extra effort to stay close to you. neteyam caught on what was going on and he wasn’t happy about you being close to that teal freak. lo’ak definitely gave a side eye on ao’nung.

that simple act of kindness melted your heart by a little, even if you didn’t want to accept it.

to say that when jake heard the news of your possible death, he wasn’t the most friendly towards ao’nung. tonowari wasn’t the most glad either. (dads being homies vibe)

plus, the fight they had on the beach didn’t help the situation get any better.

“please! guys! stop!” you shouted as you ran up from the ocean, finding yourself with the sight of a tumbling ball of blue na’vis

your sight caught the eyes of one particular metkayina and a gulp in his throat. looking at your fresh of the water and hair sticking to your body he managed to croaked out, “hey…y- y/n.”

“neteyam! lo’ak! c’mon!” you insisted. without a second thought, you dragged them by their ears and kicked off a metkayina attacking their tails. “please, show us some respect and we’ll reciprocate them, sorry for them.”

you flicked your head back and turned away from them, making your way towards your marui. that sight caught one metkayina to get lost in his mind and a drool slipped down his lips. ‘man, he messed up real bad.’

but in the mist of the mess, the heart of the storm, was just a lover boy trying his best to retrieve his chance

jake and neteyam turned on their ultimate protective mode 110%

“never bother my sister, ever AGAIN. you hear that?” neteyam hissed against ao’nung’s face, adding extra effort to spat a saliva against his teal face.

jake would be so protective of you 😭

he would always remind you every morning like: “no boys until i die, understand?”

hugs you all the timeeee. when walking around the village, wrapping a hand around your shoulder is a must for him.

protecting you from the eyes of the boys is his first priority. (cuz, obviously, he knows what those boys thinks, because he was once like in their place 💀)

jake would always tell you to cover up 😭 (as if na’vi clothes provide any coverage-) but anyways, he’ll say like “wear a shawl over your shoulder, it’s hot outside.”

always asking where are you going and when are you gonna come back.

lying to jake about those stuff are useless, so you did what a good child would do: telling him that you are going to hang out with ao’nung

i am telling you that jake lost his MIND, “WHAT, Y/N, HONEY, NO, WITH HIM? WHY?”

but anyways, our consent king respected his baby’s decision and let you go, BUT was panicking so much.

“okay, honey, what did i tell you?”

“yes, dad, no kissing, no hugging, no mating, come back before sunset, and use the talkie-walkie if he does something weird,” you rolled your eyes. for sure you are not going to mate with some dude on a first date.

“you missed one…”

“no touching, right, dad, what do you expect us to do if we are not allowed to have physical contact, meditate?”

“right, then, meditation sounds nice, doesn’t it?”

“dad!”

neteyam would kill for you without a hesitation. scaring some creepy dudes? easy

he gives out the best bear hug for youuuu

loves to comfort his siblings, especially you

jake is not much of a difference. he is super protective of his kids and you especially. his prized possession and the apple of his eyes.

being his oldest daughter, requires lots of sacrifice but jake’s affection for you is all worth it.

anyways, GOOD LUCK ao’nung, you need that. passing through the death valley with two demons behind your trail is not easy 💀

every time he comes to pick you up, he is sweating like a DAWG

“hello, mr.sully, is erm…y/n here?”

“well, where do you expect her to be? did you made a proper plan? son…, my daughter is not an object you could just pick up whenever you are bored.”

“yes, sir, we agreed to go-“

“ao’nung!” you called as you walked out. “bye, dad, love ya,” a peck on the cheek for jake and you’re off the marui.

“bye, sweetheart,” a smile for you and a death glare for ao’nung, pretty basic.

neytiri to the rescue, guyssss. she definitely have a soft spot for boys, and boys like *ahem* jake ao’nung.

she sees his effort for you and tries to persuade jake into giving in. and jake will be like: “pLEASE, no.”

but changing someone as egotistical as ao’nung to become more humble isn’t the easiest job. every moment, hanging out together, it was as if you rubbed his ego down step by step.

ronal and tonowari were GLAD. “please, y/n, tell us how you do it” 💀

ao’nung became the sweetest boy for you 🥺 *neteyam staring behind*😈

today’s a great day to treat yourself! 🤍

@rosaryos / @bumblinbumblvee / @nyotamalfoy / @fangirl-2610 / @astablacksword / @lokisblueskin

#fanfiction #avatar imagine #avatar the way of water #avatar x reader #imagines #neteyam imagine #neteyam x reader #jake sully imagine #jake sully x reader #ao’nung

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writtenbymoonflower · 3 months

Note

hey I just wanted to say I love your work!!!! I keep binge reading your marauders posts especially!!! You are such a good writer. If it’s ok, can I send a request for the managers with an autistic reader? Maybe where they feel insecure bc of overthinking bc they act different to everyone else? I hope you have a good day xxxxxx

thanks so much for reading hunny! i hope this is okay. i'm not autistic myself so this may not be the most accurate, please let me know! autistic gn!reader x poly!marauders. modern!au

cw: insecurity, overthinking, mentions of alcohol

1k words

You couldn’t stop replaying all the interactions you had that day over and over in your head. You were scrutinizing every word you had said, every way you had gestured. You didn’t know if everyone loved, hated, or pitied you. It was possible that everything was fine, but it was equally as likely that everyone who you talked to today were still thinking about your conversations and were still annoyed with you. It was an indescribable feeling, it just made you want to curl up in bed and never see anyone again. Everything was just too much. You were grateful you were home alone right now so no one would have to see the state you were in.

You had taken off your work clothes from the day, changing into a comfy sweater and soft lounge pants. You were on the couch wrapped in a fluffy blanket. (You thought that maybe Sirius had used it last, it smelled just like his soapy and musky cologne. You hummed in satisfaction from the comforting scent.) You buried your face in between a cushion and a pillow, hoping your nest would just swallow you whole and never release you. You had a few minutes to calm down before your boyfriends started barreling in.

First it was Remus’ soft steps as he shucked off his coat before making his way to the kitchen. He probably assumed you were asleep, because when he passed you on the settee all he did was lean down to kiss your temple. You heard him (quietly) clanking around as he put the kettle on. Thankfully the sounds were familiar and comforting, rather than overstimulating.

Then was James and Sirius, being very loud as they burst through the door, laughing and joking. It made you smile against the pillow. They were talking about something they had seen on the way home.

“Moons,” Sirius made a beeline to the kitchen. You heard James hiss when he looked over to you.

“Quiet, Pads.” He scolded. “Baby’s sleeping.”

“Shit,” Sirius whispered, walking past to get to the kitchen.

“It’s okay. ‘M awake.” You mumbled, shifting to sit up.

“Oh, hi sweetheart.” James crouched by the couch. He could cry at how adorable you were, all wrapped in the blankets and what he recognized as his jumper. Sirius and Remus came back into the living room, each holding mugs of tea.

“Wow, Prongs.” Sirius rolled his eyes. “Gettin’ onto me for being loud only to wake them up right when I leave.” He tsked disappointedly and shook his head.

“I wasn’t asleep, just resting.” You took a mug from Remus while James sat beside you, hauling Sirius into his lap. The ink-haired boy turned to face you excitedly.

“Babydoll,” He started. “I was thinking, Marlene is havin’ a thing at her house tomorrow. Not really a party, just a little get together. She was saying something about ‘playing Cards Against Humanity and getting shitfaced.’ How’d you feel about going?”

You were contemplating heavily. You wanted to go, yes. It sounded like a lot of fun. But hangouts like that stressed you out. You always felt like you were saying the wrong thing, not acting the right way. Especially in small groups. You loved Marlene, you loved her girlfriend and probably everyone else that would be there. But that only made it worse. You wanted them all to like you so much that you overanalyzed everything you said, which likely only made things more awkward because you sounded so robotic and scripted. You tried to keep the worry from your face, but unfortunately James could read you (and almost everyone) like the morning paper and he usually felt the need to call it out.

“You okay, sweetness? You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.” He reached over to rub your thigh with his warm hand.

“No, I want to go, I do!” You cut in quickly. “I just-” You snapped your mouth shut before taking a big gulp of your tea.

“You just what?” Remus asked curiously from where he was sitting on the coffee table.

“Are you sure she wants me there?” You asked, worriedly. Sirius looked like you had asked if the sky was green.

“Yeah she does. She wouldn’t have asked if she didn’t. Why wouldn’t she anyway?” His sculpted brows scrunched in confusion. You sighed and set your tea on the side table, starting to fidget and stim with your nails, using enough force to shred your cuticles. James grabbed your hand, encouraging you to play with his fingers instead.

“I just feel like I never fit in at those things. Like, I don’t know. I just make things weird.” You muttered shamedly.

“You don’t make things weird.” James said, squeezing your hand. “Why do you think that?” You lost your words suddenly, feeling all too vulnerable. Sirius was looking at you with enough gentleness to make you sob, like he knew you inside and out (he does).

“I know you get anxious about this stuff. But baby, everyone loves you. I don’t see how they couldn’t. I can promise no one is thinking about how you act as much as you are.” He looked at you, seeing right through you. He abandoned James, making him let out an indignant huff to catapult himself on top of you, wrapping you up and squeezing tight.

“You know,” Remus started. “I was at work today and Aoife would not stop asking about you. She kept saying I need to bring you over during break because you’re ‘heaps of fun.’” You wanted to scoff but you were too tired.

“Angel, everyone loves you. I know it doesn’t seem like it, because your brain can’t always tell what people are thinkin’ but they really do.” You looked at James over Sirius’ shoulder. He was looking so soft as he leaned forward to peck your forehead. You were looking doe eyed at Remus and James.

“Promise?” You asked, quiet and insecure. Sirius pulled away, bringing his hand up to your face.

“Pinky swear, dollface.” You knew how seriously he took those. You reached up to wrap your pinky around his, face heating as he brought your hands up to kiss your knuckles.

“Okay, it sounds fun. I’ll go.” You relented happily.

“Oh thank god.” Remus sounded oddly relieved. “Lily texted me earlier asking if you would be there and I said yes. I really did not want to face her fury.”

#poly!marauders x reader #poly!marauders x you #poly!marauders fluff #poly!marauders imagine #poly!marauders #poly!marauders hurt/comfort #hurt/comfort #fluff #remus lupin #sirius black #james potter #marauders #marauders fanfiction #drabble #marauders fandom #marauders era #anon ask #anon request #request

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buckys-wintersoldier · 1 month

Text

Safe Place | Steve Rogers

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 -> Boyfriend!Steve Rogers x Girlfriend!Reader

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 -> It’s your and Steve’s anniversary but he looks kinda distracted, when he has a nightmare he tells you what’s going on in his mind.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 -> 846

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 -> (T) PTSD, Bucky falling from the train, nightmare, angst, fluff

𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 -> hili! I was thinking on maybe a one-shot with this one? Maybe Steve and his girl meeting on the Smithsonian? and a few months later when the relationship is going well, she helps with him a nightmare bc of his PTSD? Steve is pretty shaken up and only her can calm him down? Maybe he had a nightmare from when Bucky fell of the train and just keeps getting worse and worse? @rogersbarber

𝐀/𝐍 -> Thank you for the idea for that oneshot. Enjoy and hope you like what I made with it.

𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 -> 10 Years Anniversary CA:TWS | March 26 | Theme: On your left | The Smithsonian, First Meetings, Endurance, Mission, PTSD, Favourite Quote | @catws-anniversary

Masterlist | Steve Rogers Masterlist

"Either one of you know where the Smithsonian is? I'm here to pick up a fossil," Natasha says with a smirk, looking out of the window of her car. Steve rolls his eyes and groans, frustrated, while Sam bursts out laughing.

They just finished their morning run, and Steve was once again faster than the dark-haired man. He just passed the other man, smirking and saying his favorite morning line, while Sam tried to convince him with a lot of no's not to say that line. 'On your left.' Steve said and ran faster, around the corner. Sam tried his best to run after Steve, but he was way slower than the super soldier. Now they are standing next to each other under a tree, looking at Natasha, who waits for Steve. The blond man smirks at Sam and makes his way to the car, opening the door, and then he gets into it.

"Come on, Grandpa. Don't have the whole day," she says, rolling her eyes playfully.

Steve nods towards Sam. When he closes the door and looks out of the window, Sam laughs and nods back.

"Can't walk everywhere," Steve says before Natasha drives away.

// Divider //

After the mission they had that day, Steve went another day to the Smithsonian; he heard a lot from there, and then he was back, back in the 40's, back where the small boy from Brooklyn turned into Captain America. When Steve walked a few meters through the museum, a little boy immediately recognized him, and his small eyes widened. The boy started smiling, but before he could tell his parents about Captain America in the Smithsonian, Steve lifted his finger and held it in front of his lips, showing the boy to be quiet. Later that day, Steve accidentally crashed into you. You threw your whole coffee over his shirt, and he asked you out to get a new one. After that, the two of you dated each other, got closer and closer, and now you're living with him in a small apartment.

Every anniversary, the two of you go out to the Smithsonian and get a coffee in the coffee shop you did when you first met. So you did today, but something was different. Steve wasn't as happy as he used to be. He stood the whole time in front of the memorial with Bucky and watched the movies a few times. Steve's eyes were red and teary when you went back home, but when you asked him what was wrong, he just said he was fine. You're lying next to him in bed, staring at the ceiling, while you listen to the heavy breaths of your boyfriend. He turns from one side to the other, and sweat covers his forehead.

"Stevie? Wake up; you're fine. It's just a nightmare," you mumble and turn yourself toward him.

You let your fingers slide through his hair, moving them out of his face, while you lean closer to kiss him softly. Steve groans softly, opening his eyes slowly. His eyes are red, and some tears fall down his cheek. Before you can say something, he sobs quietly. His hands are clinging to the sheets when he looks through the room before he looks at you.

"Princess?"

"Yes, I'm here."

Steve sighs softly, running his hand through his hair. Then he inhales deeply and grips you by your waist, pulling you on top of him. You place your chin on his broad chest, looking up at Steve.

"Do you want to tell me what happened in your dream?" Steve inhales deeply, closing his eyes for a moment before he exhales and opens his eyes again.

Even when it's dark, you can see his steel-blue eyes. The room was slightly brightened by the moon.

"It was- Bucky was there; we were on the train, and then there was the big guy, and Bucky was suddenly thrown out of the train. He was clinging there- there at the edge of the train and tried to reach for his hand, but I-I just didn't get it, and he fell," Steve says, and you kiss his chest, calming him down slowly. "A-And since that one mission, I-I feel like I heard someone mention that Hydra found a man in the Alps in the 40's. And they said he is now the most powerful weapon from Hydra. The Winter Solider. B-Bucky could be He could be alive. I need to find him.”

You move your hand over his shoulders, his heart racing against his ribcage.

"We will find him, but first you need to calm down. Then we eat breakfast, and then we're talking with Nat and Sam to get more information about the Winter Soldier." Steve smirks, leaning closer to capture your lips with his before he kisses your nose.

"That's why I love you, princess."

"I love you too," you mumble and bite into his chest, making him laugh and causing him to tickle you.

You're his biggest supporter, the one woman he really loves; you're his home, his safe place.

┏━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━┓

𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐑𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠 𝐭𝐨

𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐬.

┗━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━┛

Taglist: @kandis-mom @sergeantbarnessdoll @identity2212 @km-ffluv @lunaalovesyouu @blackhawkfanatic @armystay89 @suz7days @felicitylemon @cjand10 @lives-in-midgard @casa-boiardi @cevansbaby-dove @flstrawberry @capsbestgirl77 @bookishtheaterlover7 @rogersbarber @sebastianstanisahotmf

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lyney-s-bitch · 1 year

Note

how about headcanons about some of the genshin boys‘ reaction to you squirting? I’d like to see diluc, tartaglia, kazuha, cyno, xiao, tighnari, alhaitham and scaramouche ;)

hello luv~

I will split my Genshin writing debut (aka this request) into two parts due to the amount of characters, so enjoy pt. 1 for now!!

EDIT: pt. 2 is up!!

————————————————————————

Genshin boys reacting to you squirting for the first time (nsfw) || pt.1

Diluc

• mans is dumbfounded (and kinda in awe)

• he looks up at you and blinks a few times, parts of his face covered in splatters of your slick

• "Well.. That’s new" he remarks, still processing what just happened while absentmindedly swiping his thumb across his bottom lip

• and you can bet your ass he’s going to make an effort to recall and memorize exactly what he did to get you there

• might even ask you what it was that you especially liked this time (he’ll wait until you’ve calmed down from your high before interrogating you though, he’s not a monster)

• and once he deems you ready for more, he will put his new hypothesis to the test right away bc he definitely wants you to do it again

• he’s a clean man and generally prefers not to get too messy, but in this case he doesn’t mind putting in some extra work for the cleanup after

—————

Childe/Tartaglia

• this man did it on purpose, 1000%

• not surprised in the slightest, but visibly elated at the fact that he finally got his sweet, innocent (on the outside at least-) girlie to squirt for him

• yes, he had been working towards it ever since you first started getting intimate with each other

• he’s an ambitious guy, training and practicing to get better at everything he does, and sex with his girlie is no different

• he can be a huge jerk, both in the streets and in the sheets, but in the end your pleasure and enjoyment is definitely top priority

• and what will he do now that he’s achieved this goal? why of course he’ll keep adding onto it to keep maximizing your pleasure

• meaning overstimulation all the way baby, now even more than usual

• he always enjoys your whining and begging, even more so when you’re crying because everything is just too much

• but he will always just shush you with a smile, kissing away your tears and cooing "I know baby, I know… but you’ll need to bear with it for just a while longer, yeah? Do it for me angel"

—————

Tighnari

• "Oh? I didn’t know females could do that too. You must’ve enjoyed yourself a lot just now, darling" the man with the fox ears purrs, visibly fascinated

• he assumes you didn’t know you could do that either, else you surely would’ve told him before, right?

• meaning he’ll have to find out himself how to please you in a way that gets you this ecstatic again

• like Diluc, he’ll inquire what it was that you particularly enjoyed

• he’s more… detailed with his inquisitions though, and very prone to experiment

• he’ll be trying out variations of "methods" and techniques on you, curious to explore the various reactions he is able to draw from you

• and yes, he does take notes. actual notes.

• so congrats, you just managed to become the Forest Watcher Academic’s #1 test subject and are in for a LOT of fun (and work😭😭👋🏼)

—————

Kazuha

• "Mmm such a good girl for me.. You did so well my love"

• a very humble man, not smug about being the source of your immense pleasure (ofc he’s still somewhat proud tho)

• will thoroughly lick you clean and then scoop you up into his lap to pull you into a deep kiss, letting you taste yourself on his sinful tongue (quite the generous gesture, seeing as he himself loves the taste of you so much)

• will try to get you to squirt for him again in the future, but doesn’t make it his main goal

• he prefers to just enjoy the moment and the emotional intimacy between the two of you, a "goal" such as this would only sully the act for him

• he’s an extremely attentive lover in general, picking up on every little reaction you offer him upon his touch, so you will enjoy yourself to the fullest every time, whether you squirt or not

• on a side note: if you were to specifically ask him to make you squirt again, he will. he now definitely knows how, and who is he to deny his love the pleasure she wishes for?

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subskz · 3 months

Note

hii :) my first time ever sending an ask on here but what do you think skz safewording would be like?

hihi ^_^ welcome!

slight warning for mentions of crying and subdrop!

chan - usually, it’d take a lot for channie to reach the point of safewording. he can endure almost anything if it’s for you, and he hates the idea of disappointing you in any way, no matter how many times you tell him that you’d never be disappointed over him prioritizing his comfort. he can’t help but wanna put you first, so a lot of the time he’s genuinely fine as long as you are. however, channie is a naturally soft sub and really craves being taken care of. on days where he desperately needs that gentle dynamic, he might still agree to a rougher scene without question if that’s what you’re in the mood for, and he takes as much of it as he can for you even when he knows he’s not in the right headspace. you can tell right away when he’s out of it though, his reactions are delayed and his eyes have a far-off look to them, and not in a good way. you’d probably need to be the one to drag it out of him instead of him safewording himself, which always gets him a gentle scolding bc the last thing you want is for him to force himself. he feels immensely guilty for it and may even start to cry. not necessarily bc you hurt him, but bc he feels so vulnerable and frustrated w himself, like he ruined things for you. he tries to reassure you that he’s okay even as his tears spill over, he apologizes a lot and has a hard time facing you out of shame. but the moment you take him in your arms, he calms down instantly. he nuzzles into your neck and lets your sweet words reassure him, reminding him that he’s not just there to be of use to you. he’s extra extra clingy afterwards and would either want to continue w a softer scene, or if it’s a full subdrop, he just needs to be held and looked after by you, reminded that he’s safe. lots of kisses and cuddles and praises as you attend to any sore spots on his body, wash him up, and give him snacks and water. he basks in every bit of being babied by you, even if it makes him shy

what he needs most after: words of affirmation, to be babied/cared for

lino - he also rarely safewords—probably the least out of all the boys—but not exactly for the same reasons as chan. minho can already have some trouble w the vulnerability that subbing entails, so having to admit to you when the play gets too rough for him is a challenge. it makes him feel kinda weak and insecure, esp since a lot of the time, he’s the one who asked for it in the first place by bratting out so that you’d punish him. his reactions and body language would let you know when smth’s up with him before he actually communicates it. he’s less playful, less provocative, and he goes very silent. it’s not uncommon for him to go nonverbal when he’s deep in subspace, but in this case he stops making any noise in general, like he’s purposely holding back his voice. that subtle difference tells you that smth’s off. sometimes you have to prompt him a bit to see what’s wrong, other times his safeword quietly slips out. he also might prefer a safe gesture over a word so he doesn’t actually have to say it, it makes it more comfortable for him to express that he needs a break. he makes sure you know he’s okay, but doesn’t immediately fall into you for comfort. he’d need a few moments for himself, just to come back to his senses, process what he’s feeling, and become a little grounded again. afterwards, he still doesn’t say much and doesn’t really need words of affirmation, but he needs to feel close to you, he doesn’t even try to hide it. he nuzzles his face into you like a cat, rests his forehead on your shoulder humming softly, locks your fingers together/strokes your hand, and throws his leg over you to trap you close to him. a lot of the time he safewords bc he feels far away from you, like the sex had become cold or emotionless, so he just needs a reminder that he’s still loved by you

what he needs most after: to quietly sort out his thoughts, to feel close to you

binnie - most of the time when binnie’s safewording, it’s more of a physical reason than emotional. he’s got a bit of pride too, so initially he feels kinda embarrassed letting you know that smth hurts too much for him to continue or that he’s too overwhelmed to take it anymore. but his pain tolerance isn’t the best, so even if he wanted to he wouldn’t be able to hold it in for long before the word slips out. it’s usually very sudden, like one slap or stroke too much is the breaking point. in the case of degradation/humiliation, he’d say it a lot sooner bc that would be one of the quickest ways for him to feel uncomfortable w a scene if it goes too far. despite the way he squeaks out his safeword in a panic, binnie tries his best to be lighthearted abt it afterwards. he doesn’t want it to be a big deal, bc he knows that these things happen and the last thing he wants is to make you feel guilty for possibly hurting/upsetting him. he handles it so sweetly and maturely, maybe joking w you a lil bit too so that you know he’s okay, whining smth like “that hurt y’know~ i know i’m strong but i can’t help being weak for you~” and playing up his cuteness just to lift your spirits. though he tries to brush it off as nothing serious for your sake, that isn’t to say he doesn’t need comfort himself. if he reached the point of safewording, he’s in a fragile state of mind and he makes it no secret how much he wants to be looked after by you. he needs lots and lots of praise, he needs to hear that he did so well for you and how proud you are of him for enduring it. he’ll let you fuss over him w no complaints, enjoying every bit of being coddled and cared for, letting out the sweetest little hums and wiggling happily when you kiss his sore spots and rub soothing cream on his skin

what he needs most after: praise/affection, to be pampered and relax together

hyunjin - i think hyune is the type to like more intense play than most of the other boys (not all the time, he can very much be a soft sub too! but he’s also a huge masochist) so safewording might be a more common occurence for him bc there will inevitably be more instances where the scene gets too overwhelming for him, or he just isn’t in the right headspace for it. usually he’s the one begging you to go harder, to be meaner to him until he’s covered in marks and bruises and maybe even some degrading words written on his body. but he needs a lot of aftercare bc as much as he lives for being under your complete control like that, he can get very stuck in his head once the haze clears—overthinking and mentally degrading himself for being so gross and needy asking you to do all these things to him. sometimes those insecure thoughts surface in the middle of a scene, and sometimes the pain simply becomes too much for him to enjoy. his emotions show all over his face so more often than not, you can realize smth’s wrong before he even says anything, maybe even before he himself realizes it. he’d be very prone to crying after he safewords—whether out of relief, guilt, embarrassment, or just a need to let his emotions loose. he needs to he treated w a lot of care and gentleness. as rough as jinnie likes it, he still has a sensitive heart. he needs to feel safe and secure, all he really wants is for you to clean him up and hold him until he feels grounded again. but if he’s already feeling self-conscious abt asking so much of you, what he needs most of all is reassurance. lots of validation and words of comfort just so he can come back to his senses and stop convincing himself that he’s messed everything up or that you’re upset with him. he’s also very physically clingy!! if he doesn’t have any injuries/sore spots to attend to then everything else can wait in that moment, he just wants to cling to you and hear your murmur sweet words in his ear

what he needs most after: physical comfort, reassurance and communication

jisung - he is very vocal abt his needs and desires so communication is rarely an issue between you two! hannie’s eager reactions always let you know what he does and doesn’t like (and chances are, he likes most things lol) so it’s not a common occurence for him to get to the point of safewording. i think he’d be most likely to on days where he feels out of it, kinda like chan. maybe he thought he wanted you to be mean to him, to tie him up so that he can’t touch you, degrade him and rough him up bc he usually loves it. hearing you talk down to him, yanking at his hair, pushing his face into the mattress relieves his stress and excites him like nothing else, so he’s always a bit confused when he suddenly doesn’t feel right in the middle of it. hannie also has a lot of soft sub tendencies and loves being spoiled, so on days where he isn’t feeling his best, he thinks it’ll make him all better to just let you take control. but once the scene actually starts he realizes midway that what he really needs is to be taken care of gently. the moment you say smth that’s a lil to cruel or make his skin sting a lil too much, he safewords. he doesn’t understand why he feels so sensitive out of nowhere and that just upsets him more, he’d often cry after safewording like chan and hyunjin bc he feels so overwhelmed and weirdly guilty/ashamed, like he’s disappointed you. all it takes is the sight of your worried face as you ask him what’s wrong, and he bursts into tears. he falls into a very vulnerable headspace and needs a lot of comfort from you during aftercare, both physical and verbal. he asks a lot of questions to make sure everything’s okay like “i’m still your good boy, right? you’re not sad, right?” he becomes even clingier than usual, you physically cannot peel him off of you and no amount of kisses is enough for him!

what he needs most after: words of praise/reassurance, to be babied

felix - i think lixie is a very flexible sub who either wants it very soft or very rough depending on his mood. he’s very experimental and always curious to explore new things, so most of the time he’s the one asking you to try out harder or more unconventional kinks. even when you’re doing a rough scene or when ur nervous abt trying out smth new, he keeps a sweet air of playfulness that makes you both feel comfortable. he doesn’t safeword often, but when you’re experimenting there will inevitably be times where smth doesn’t go as planned. he takes a moment or two to process his thoughts before saying it, esp when he’s deep in subspace and thinking doesn’t come as easy—he’s very dependent on you. sometimes, you have to be the one to make the decision if you notice smth’s off w him. he rasps out his safeword very suddenly and, if he’s not restrained, reaches out for you like a reflex to hold on to you. lix is another one of the boys who’d likely start to cry afterwards, almost the instant he says it tears well up in his eyes. it’s usually bc he’s overwhelmed, but he also can’t help but beat himself up inside for asking so much of you, then changing his mind once you try it. he clings to you immediately and apologizes a lot, sweet angel would try telling you he’s okay even w tears streaming down his face. comforting him might make him cry even more bc he realizes how safe and loved he is w you, and that just makes him more emotional. though he cries a lot, it’s a very cathartic release and he’s usually back to his bright, sunny self after you hold him for a while, shower him in affection, and wash up together. he’d like doing smth fun afterwards like playing video games or cooking/baking to feel more like himself again

what he needs most after: physical affection, to spend time with you

seungmin - he’s another one of the boys who doesn’t safeword often, bc seungmo is very aware his boundaries from the get-go. he’s diligent enough to anticipate what he would and wouldn’t be okay with, and makes sure to be clear abt it. that being said, you can’t always predict everything that’ll happen during sex, so there may be rare occasions where smth goes too far. he’s calm abt it for the most part. it’s very matter-of-fact and he doesn’t treat it as a big deal, just utters the word quietly so you can know he needs to stop (he may also prefer a safe gesture like lino) sweetheart seungmo made sure to learn all abt the right affirmations to say to you in a situation like this, bc he knows it can make you feel just as bad or guilty as him if a scene goes wrong. even when he’s a bit dazed and disoriented himself, he still takes your feelings into consideration. the first thing he does is tell you that he’s okay, he isn’t upset w you, and that he isn’t badly hurt. he might need a moment to compose himself and steady his mind, but he definitely still wants to be close w you afterwards. other than physical discomfort, his main reason for safewording is usually bc he feels distanced from you, esp if you were hard domming him in way that felt detached. he can handle harder dynamics only as long as he feels that the love and care are still there. once he’s calmed down a bit, he’s a bit quiet bc he feels self-conscious abt what happened, even when it’s nobody’s fault. his go-to method of aftercare is to take a nice warm shower/bath together, and though it makes him shy, you notice him allowing you to coddle him more than he usually does. he softly murmurs that you don’t have to, but he still lets you fuss over him w no resistance as you wash his hair and body, leaning in to your touch and letting his eyes flutter shut blissfully. you can see him soften little by little as you clean him up, and he eventually lets loose enough to talk abt it properly in case there’s anything to change in the future

what he needs most after: domesticity, to feel cared for/cherished

jeongin - innie doesn’t have a lot of trouble actually saying his safeword, a lot of the time when you try new things out together he might impulsively say it in a moment of panic bc he’s nervous, then change his mind once he relaxes again. when he feels unsafe or uncomfortable w something, it slips out pretty quickly without him needing to think much abt it, like a reflex. the color system would probably work best w him so he can warn you with “yellow” instead of immediately jumping to his safeword to stop the scene, bc he gets a bit embarrassed once he realizes he just needed things to slow down a bit and not completely stop. though innie might have the least trouble setting that boundary out of all the boys, funnily enough, he tends to beat himself up over it the most, second only to chan. he’s curious abt trying new things, always itching for you to experiment new kinks w him, so when he starts to get cold feet abt smth that he asked you for, he feels very silly, ashamed, and frustrated w himself. he avoids your gaze after safewording and has a hard time answering your questions abt what’s wrong/what he needs from you, bc he feels so guilty for not being able to handle it, he doesn’t think he deserves your concern on top of that. innie always wants to impress you, especially if you’re more experienced than him, so he can’t help but take a childish approach to his mistakes. you can tell when he’s inwardly berating himself bc he gets very quiet, letting you fuss over him and hold him without any complaints, only ever really speaking up to apologize to you. it’s one of the few times he really seeks skinship from you, but what matters more to him than that is your spoken reassurances. he needs to know that he hasn’t disappointed you, and hearing you praise him for how well he did is a definite way to lift his spirits. focus on the positives, tell him how proud you are of him, and that you can always try again when he feels ready for it. the best aftercare for him is doing things to take his mind off of the embarrassment, like carrying on with your day once you’re both cleaned up and doing fun things together like playing video games, going shopping, or going out to eat until he feels like his normal self again

what he needs most after: praise, to distract himself and spend time with you

#ask #💌 skz

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delacoursshp · 9 months

Note

Hii I came across your fred fic and i have to say that it was really amazing ! I saw that you were taking requests and i was wondering if you were down to write either a victor krum smut where the reader is close to the golden trio and a bit jealous of the relationship him and Hermione have, but ends up being invited to the Yule Ball by Viktor, or a brother's best friend smut fic with Fred where the reader is Ron's best friend and stays a lot at the Burrow and secretely becomes Fred's gf but get caught by Ron and are forced to reveal their relationship.

Have a nice day, sorry if there's any mistakes, english isnt my first language !

oh myy dayss. i love both ideas! i chose the viktor krum smut bc my boy needs more attention. i think this is longer then i wanted it to be, i got carried away😭 but here you go love!

viktor krum x fem reader

"my jealous girl."

- use of y/n, jealous reader, reader is friends with the golden trio, both are of age, yule balllll😍😍

warnings: smut, 18+, doggy, oral (f receiving), rough but loving viktor, love-making, dirty-talk bc we need to hear our mans sexy accent.

you were sat with your friends, neville, seamus, harry, ron and hemione; the 4 boys were gawping at the triwizard cup. you rolled your eyes at them, and you started a rather hateful conversation about mrs trelawney with hermione.

you never really found the triwizard cup that interesting; yeah, it was cool and yeah, anyone who won the cup would be one of the bravest people alive, but whatever.

a lot of people entered the entrance hall, admiring the blue object. one particular figure caught your eye. the buff, burly yet skinny visitor; viktor krum. your eyes stayed glued on him. yesterday, when he first made his appearance at hogwarts, before you even knew he was an amazing quidditch player, you already had a big crush on him. he was exactly your type. for a split second, his deadly eyes caught yours too. he savagely strutted towards the cup, stepping inside of the age circle.

he dropped what looked like a small piece of paper into the cup, and an enormous flame flew upwards, calmed down and his mates were cheering.

viktor smirked proudly; it looked like his eyes were fixated on you again. you almost blushed, and glanced at hermione, who was smiling at someone opposite of her. following her eyes, you saw viktor again, who was now smiling a lot brighter, and winked at.. hermione? the two didn't break eyecontact, until fred and george caught everyones attention.

you felt a sort of unease rise up within you. it felt like an itch, that you were unable to scratch, or a knot in the stomach that wouldn't let go. the feeling wouldn't go away, and you started to feel like it was becoming visible on your face.

you stood up, muttering a 'see you later' to your friends and hurrying off to the gryffindor dormitory.

you sat down on one of the scarlet red sofa's, grabbing a book and began "reading", although the book was held upside down. your face was heating up, your brows were furrowing and your nostrils stood flared. why hadn't hermione told you something was going on between her and krum? or was there even something going on? well it certainly seemed so didn't it?

tumultuous thoughts relentlessly raced through your head. your grip on the book hardened so much, the pages started ripping.

the bell rang.

you almost forgot that you still had one last lesson today. you dropped the book on the floor and rushed to your next class. everyone was already seated, and you went to sit next to hermione, who was sat behind ron and harry. she looked at you as though worried, as you were taking your books out of your bag.

"y/n, are you alright? you dissapeared just like that, earlier." she had this merciful expression glued on her face, and you smiled and muttered 'fine, i'm fine' to relieve the tension from her sad face, but you also still felt uneasy being in the presence of someone who possibly liked someone you did too.

once the lesson had finished, you stuffed your books and -about the 7th time this day- a work sheet into your bag. you immediately walked off. "hey- y/n! wait up, will you?" ron yelled. great, you thought. just perfect. hermione was the first out of three to catch up with you. "are you sure you're fine?" she asked. you sighed.

"hermione, what is between you and krum?" you spit spontaneously. she looked at you as if flabbergasted, then said, "well, me and viktor are kind of, you know, dating."

'what?' you thought.

"right." you replied blankly, nothing else could come out. they're together? this only made that irritating storm inside you worse, like you were about to puke.

you walked with the three of them to the dorms, staying quiet. on the way, you glanced at one of the yule ball posters. 'now who am i gonna ask?' you thought. of course, there were lots of other boys willing to ask you. but you didn't care. you thought you had a chance with viktor. how stupid, too. of course he'd already have someone, considering his reputation.

you realized the four of you stood before the fat lady, who was whining about something that sounded like 'that longbottom child.' hermione muttered the password and she, ron and harry stepped in, except for you.

"actually, guys, you go ahead. i'm just gonna go fetch neville, he's probably stuck again somewhere." you lied. they nodded in agreement and hermione yelled 'bye!' as the painting closed. the fat lady looked confused at your presence. "my dear, i've already let you in. i don't suppose i have to-"

"no, i'm going." you spoke quickly, not being able to bare another one of her rants.

you made your way down the frustrating stairs. instead of actually fetching a probably struggling neville somewhere, you went to the triwizard cup. you just stared at it, the blue light radiating on your skin. there were barely any people here, most of them still had lessons to attend.

you rested your head on your hand, focusing on the blue flames, waiting for anything to happen; even if it was the most impossible thing ever; viktor krum asking you to the ball.

just then, viktor entered the hall. great. he sat down next to you. you avoided his eyes, but your breathing was far from slow. it was awkward, but comforting. having him close to you. sad that nothing more than that could ever happen, as you wouldn't betray your friend.

then, viktor inhaled. a shaky, sort of inhale. "y/n" he spoke.

'y/n? as in, me?' you thought.

"what?" you said, still avoiding his gaze. it wasn't supposed to come off rude, but you just couldn't look at him. he sighed, in a nervous way, then spoke words you'd never thought would come out of those beautiful lips.

"y/n, would you like to go to the yule ball with me?"

you gasped softly, eyes widened and immediately averting your gaze from the cup, to viktor. of course you wanted to say yes, but what about hermione? you were truly confused. so he wasn't going to ask his own girlfriend?

"viktor," it felt weird to say his name infront of viktor himself. "what about hermione?"

viktor pursed his lips, "we are no longer something. i broke it off with her just now. she was pretty, yes, but i do not want her. i've always wanted you. i know you want me too, right? i see it whenever i am with hermione. your face goes murderous."

you laughed in embarrassment. "oh, please. i don't want you that bad."

"sure, y/n. but... what is it? yes or no?"

"it's okay, y/n. it really is. he apologized. though you should've told me earlier that you liked him!" hermione assured. you had told hermione everything about what happend. her reaction was relieving.

"i know! i still feel bad, though. who are you going with?" you asked. you truly felt bad that viktor just ended it with her like that. hermione grinned. "oh, no worries, i've got someone." she said mysteriously. you both let out loud laughter at her tone of voice.

"'mione! c'mon, tell me!" you begged. "well, he's a hufflepuff, brunette, handsome. good at quidditch." she whispered. you thought deeply. hufflepuff.. brunette.. good at qui- "DIGGORY?" you gasped. hermione shushed you while chuckling and nodding her head. "we're both some lucky girls, aren't we?"

bang! the door slammed open.

"hermione! y/n! we've already found dates!" it was ron, harry next to him. "i suppose you haven't yet. that's okay, you can take eachother!" he teased, both boys chuckling. "i think all the best guys are unavailable by now-"

"mind you, ron, we've already gotten dates. the best ones, too." you said, grinning.

hermione laughed at rons dumbfounded expression.

"what? who?" ron squeaked.

"i told you, the best ones." you repeated, giggling with hermione.

"pfft, alright then, don't tell me! like i care!" ron said angrily before storming off, a smirking harry behind him, looking back at you and hermione.

you winked at harry then playfully shoo'ed him away with your hand.

"atleast harry got it."

it was the day of the yule ball. everywhere you went was excited murmuring; girls talking about dresses, boys sharing which girl they were gonna take, and even staff giggling happily.

the lessons were shortened to give students more time to get ready for the ball. once all the lessons finished, you, hermione and ginny rushed to the girls dorm to get ready. hermione wore a beautiful, soft pink gown, a light tint of red lipstick, and her hair done in a glossy, tight hairstyle; your almost empty, abandoned bottle of sleekeazy's hair potion finally came in handy.

ginny was also allowed to go, since she's been asked by neville. she wore a white-beige dress with a gorgeous tiara.

then there was you, you were wearing a long, tight, glimmering dress that revealed your back, neck and shoulders. your hair sat loose, shining. you haven't ever felt prettier.

the three of you admired eachother and giggled, before making your way to the ball.

you were greeted by viktor, who was wearing a red suit of rough material. "you are beautiful." he said. you smiled up at him as he offered you his hand. you took it, and the both of you walked off to the ballroom with the other contestants and their dates.

after a while of dancing, viktor suddenly took your hand and walked to an empty, faraway space in the ballroom. "viktor, wh-" he shushed you with a deep kiss before you could finish your sentence. his hand crept up your waist and you leaned into his touch. the kiss ended rather difficult and sloppily, since both of you didn't want it to stop.there was a moment of just examining eachothers facial features, lust and need filling the air so quick, that your pants were being heard. your heart was beating so fast you were sure viktor could hear it.

"come on." he said, and you had no choice as he brought his arm around your waist and forced your steps to follow his.

"viktor, are you sure we can just leave the ball like that-"

"shh. in here." he said firmly. he pulled you into a barely lit, small messy room. it looked like an abandoned cupboard. your eyes wandered around the room for a second before viktor had you by the waist again, connecting his wet lips to yours once again.

it didn't take long for his rough hands to slide down to your butt. he squeezed the perfectly round cheeks, making you whimper into his mouth. he kissed you harder, deeper. you backed up on instinct. he followed, still in the what seemed like an endless make-out session. your back was now against the door, and viktor snaked his hand behind your back, easily unzipping your dress. you broke the kiss, gasping for air. viktor now had his attention on sliding your dress off, slowly. teasing.

"viktor.." you whined. it was supposed to be warning, but it came out desperate. and you were. who could blame you, when his lips felt that good.

he bent his head forwards licking a stripe up your throat and then kissing around your earlobe. he sucked on a spot by your jawline, making you let out a high-pitched gasp. "i love your little noises." he whispered into your neck. your dress finally fell off, leaving you in your bra and panties.

"ohh, fuuck." viktor mumbled, as he raised his head from your neck, eyeing your body. you automatically moved your arms to cover up yourself, but viktor grabbed both of your wrists with one hand and held them above your head.

"don't do that. you are perfect." he said, his other hand playing with the waistband of your underwear. you thrusted your hips forward, impatiently waiting for him to give you something.

he chuckled at your antics. he slid your underwear off and turned you around. your hands clawed at the door material, as krums back locked you tightly to the door. you heard the faint sound of a belt buckle unlocking, and you let out a sigh of relief. viktor smacked your butt one last time, making you squeal. you cursed your current position for not being able to see how his pants and boxers slid off. he teased your entrance with the tip of his cock, swirling it around the little hole.

"viktor, please." you softly said. viktor chuckled darkly, kissed the back of your neck and held your wrists behind your back. he entered you slowly, the both of you moaning in unison. he stopped at the hilt, pulled away fully, then pushed back inside completely, making you cry out.

"so sexy." he moaned, biting at your neck. he started a slow, passionate pace, which didn't last long. you gasped loudly as he sped up, faster and faster, until wet skin-slapping noises were to be heard.

your moans did not only increase in volume, but in amount as viktor let go of your wrists to hold your throat tightly. your head now fell completely limp onto his shoulders, eyes shut. his other hand moved to your bra, clicking it open and letting it fall off.he played with your breasts, in a way they jiggled every now and then. "fuck, viktor! don't stop.." you screamed, not caring as the music from the ball was far too loud for anyone to hear you.

"thaaat's it. cum on my cock, beautiful." his words sent shivers down your spine, one in particular that sent shockwaves to your core.

he retreated his hand from your tits, lowering it to your thigh. he squeezed the flesh before lifting it up so he was tip was probing at your cervix.

"oh god- ah!" your voice was barely working anymore, as you were close to your orgasm and mainly because of viktor grip on your throat. "i'm, i'm-"

"go on." he said, his voice sounding strained. "please, baby." this sent you over the edge. you shook and choked on your own moans. the feeling was nothing like you had ever felt before. with the little strength you had, you reached for viktors hair and held onto it, to express your gratitude. he grunted in amazement, once again placing kisses along your jawline as you came down from your high. "my jealous girl."

your legs felt like jelly, so viktor muttered a spell that shoved the junk away to a corner of the room, making space for you to lay down. he picked you up and followed you down onto the floor. he was placing kisses all over your body, making you sigh in sensitivity. then he reached your stomach, licking around your navel and kissing it. tiredly, you smiled at him. he grabbed your legs and moved them just slightly upwards, making you wince. viktor then stuck his tongue out, before letting it dissapear into your cunt. "oh, viktor." you moaned.

the new level of overstimulation made you squirm and gasp for air. it felt so good, but it was too much. he licked you clean, his tongue swirling around the bundle of nerves, and dancing along your entrance.

"hmmhh.." was all you could let out, as he finished with a kiss to the clit, and sat up on his knees.

viktor watched you intently as you got up on your elbows, too exhausted to move any other muscle in your body.

"look what you did, krum." you said playfully. he just smiled in return, looking rather proud.

"next time, you reward me for it, yes?"

.・。.・゜✭・

a/n: no bc, LOWKEY in love rn. i love love loveeee this idea, and i'm so grateful i got to write this. anywayss, hope you enjoyed! <33

.・゜゜・

- sincerely,

@delacoursshp

454 notes · View notes

highvern · 5 months

Text

Teach Me V

Hands on

Pairing: Lee Dokyeom (Seokmin) x fem!reader

Genre: smut, humor, college au, frat!svt

Warnings: fingering, mastubation, dom!reader, spitting, ass play, doggy style, facial, sex tape. Dokyeom with a praise kink pt. 2 (he's a good boy :c), unfortunately we have reached the actual angst. Poor DK gets his shit rocked :/// and everyone is upset

Length: ~7.6k

Note: picking up right where we left off in part 4 so go back and read, honestly every thing bc nothing will make any sort of sense. i think this is the longest part so far which is BANANAS but a lot needed to happen before the final part. ANYWAY! leave comments or silly tags in the reblogs, I read every single one obsessively

and because bennie aka @miniseokminnies is the number one lover of this couple, i'm giving them a shoutout for being the absolute sweetest