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georgesdamnton · 2 years

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You know what I hate to say it (truly) but I think Olympe had a thing for Ramard. I've had plenty of people in my life that I dislike on all ends of the scale, and not once did any of them appear in a single one of my dreams all "my p*nis is huge" "I'm epic at s*x" "f*ck me mommy" like. Olympe, babe, that's unusual. Like seriously girl get therapy.

#like damn girl was Ronan not pathetic enough for you #did he not bring enough cringefail to the table #idk what else ramard could possibly have on ronan #besides embodying the post about trying to snap a pencil and not being able to and starts crying #and ig she knew him longer than Ronan but that says more about her than it does any attractiveness ramard simply doesn't have #1789 les amants de la bastille

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ok-sims · 8 months

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Things in Good Omens 2 I still find weird after maaaaany rewatches

Yep, brace yourselves, it's exactly what's in the title:

Maggie making the spelling mistake ("urgrency") in one of the very first scenes of S2.

It is in the very first scene set in the present day. It is the first time we are presented to Maggie. And the spelling mistakes being very much connected to demons all through the season (specially in The Ball episode, with the note about the "angles" and Shax spelling "T-O-S-T-E", not to mention Furfur mispelling Aziraphale's name in 1941).

It is stands out so much because Maggie's mispelling is never brought up again, but the demons' is. And again, it was the audience's first contact with Maggie (even if she is offscreen). It might be just a callback joke (which does not make much sense to me, to be honest), it might be just red herring, or it might be to reinforce the "Maggie is a mirror to Crowley" theory (which does not make much sense to me either, because while Crowley is/was demon, we never see him making spelling mistakes himself).

I'm honestly at loss about what was the intention here. Seens to specific to be just random, given the demons do it many times. My best guess is that it is pure and intentional red herring, to mess with us. But then again, what for?

Miss Cheng (specially in E5S2, "The Ball")

Since my first watch, the brief scene when Miss Cheng is entering the Bookshop for Aziraphale's thinly disguised excuse to have a Jane Austen ball, she has a very... particular look in her face. It is when the weather is getting darkier e gloomier, resembling Michael Jackson's "Thriller" videoclip, because Shax and her "legion" of demons are arriving. The thing is, Miss Cheng does not look afraid at all, or even like she is suspecting something is going on. Miss Cheng looks suspicious herself! I feel like this scene is off in so many levels. First of all, it did not need to be included at all. So why add this scene to the final cut? Miss Cheng does not have a very clear role in the narrative, while all the other shopkeepers have at least something that not only sets them apart from everyone else, but adds something to the narrative and/or callbacks something else in the series.

Beside the obvious Nina and Maggie, Ms Sandwich brings to the table the comical relief, Mr Brown is there to set the excuse for the Jane Austen ball, Mr Arnold provides the fancy classical music for the ball AND the Doctor Who jokes, Justine is an excuse to bring up Aziraphale's bad French again, and give us a callback to the Bastille scene in S1, and Mutt is a callback to the magic shop shown in the zombie minisode.

But Miss Cheng on the other hand brings none of those things. We don't even get to see what is her bussiness. Of course, her scene discussing Ms Sandwich's work is a delight, but honestly, it could have been any other character asking about Ms Sandwich's job. And opportunity to have Ms Sandwich ask what Miss Cheng's work was there, but it was not taken.

Now, the only other scene Miss Cheng is in focus is in the very end of E6S2, when Maggie and Nina decide to sit down with Crowley to have The Talk. Nina asks Miss Cheng to look after the coffeeshop for a few minutes. Again, seens kinda random to have Miss Cheng there, and I really think this specific scene, by itself, might not have any further meaning. But when viewed along her other scenes (and specific lack of better fleshing out, which was given to all other shopkeepers), it just seens weird. Again, might just be a red herring to mess with us, but Miss Cheng is presented in a very sus way.

Aziraphale not having a replacement

Odd phrasing, I know, but I could not find better words to describe it. We are presented very early on to Shax, who is replacing Crowley in his former job in Hell. Shax is an important character all through the season, yet we never get a hint at who is replacing Aziraphale's job vacancy. We don't even get a hint if there is a replacement, or if it was decided Heaven would not be replacing him. We just get radio silence about who is Heaven's representative in London now, or if something happed to that position and why. Maybe if Shax simply did not exist, it wouldn't have bothered me. But since she does, and it is made clear many times that she has Crowley's former job, it stands out to me that nothing is ever said or even alluded about Aziraphale's former job position.

There are some other things that stand out to me, but these are the more obvious ones to me. I would be delighted to hear other people's takes on these matters, as I might have missed something. Oh well, I guess here is my first piece of Good Omens meta.

#good omens #good omens 2 #crowley #aziraphale #ineffable husbands #good omens meta #miss cheng

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red-write-hand · 7 months

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Modern!Tommy headcanons

(this could just be my thoughts splat onto a page but have fun! also no beta read we die like tommy's sexuality the moment he saw alfie solomons)

If that man could take his computer to bed with him, he would

He runs on cigarettes and coffee

I feel like he would totally have those machines that are super intricate about making coffee

Usually an apple loyalist but buys add-ons from others (think headphones, charging cables, other Bluetooth items)

Listens to The Neighborhood, Drake, Hozier, Eminem, The Rolling Stones, The Beatles, Kendrick Lamar, Bastille

Exclusively buys from Boss, started as a joke with his brothers but then he realized he really likes the suits he bought

Owns a bunch of clubs and knows about the best clubs to go to if you want a good time

Likes to eat expensive food but will never turn down Italian take out at horrible hours of the night

Absolutely owns a pair of those Bluetooth Raybans that play music discreetly

Favorite movies are the Tobey Maguire Spidermans, Star Wars (only the New Hope, Empire Strikes Back, Return of the Jedi, Revenge of the Sith, and Rise of Skywalker)

Has better figured out his own mental health and sexuality

this👏man👏is👏bisexual👏 (it radiates off him, takes one to know one)

since it is more widely accepted, he feels a little better about it

he absolutely had his first bi panic when he would banter with Freddie

that and EVERY interaction with Alfie

alfie bought him a tiny pride flag which he keeps in his desk, right next to his incredibly expensive alcohol ~x fem!Reader headcanons (m! in part 2)~ warnings: kinda unethical office workplace relationship?

its become a joke of sorts about being tommy's secretary around his family

this all stemmed from him taking an interest in you when you applied

you really were gorgeous to him

you're the only person he is slightly comfortable around besides the Blinders or his own family

the longer you work with him, the more comfortable he gets

after awhile, he (politely, our boy is respectful) asks you to call him Tommy instead of 'Mr. Shelby'

he is one of the most sought after men in the city which makes him very alluring to most

you don't super see it, he's always been very "normal" around, not the silver tongued devil most people knew him as

it wasn't that you didn't like him, you really did, his gorgeous frame, his perfect eyes, his slender fingers, his dark hair, everything was amazing except for the fact that he never really showed any interest in you, to him (you thought), you were his secretary, nothing more

oh how wrong you were

this all changes one late night, him still tirelessly working and you still there making sure that he doesn't stay there all night

it doesn't take much for him to just keep running on fumes so it usually falls upon you to remind him what god awful hour it is

you gently crack open the door and poke your head in

"Hey, Tommy, it's almost 1, pack it up and get some actual sleep."

He rolled his neck and closed his computer, just before packing everything up, he stops

"Cmon 'ere"

It was simple and you knew what could happen if something were to go down but you could find a new job if you had to

The Shelby building was quiet and the only office with any lights on was his

You leaned on the side of his desk and he opens the big drawer at the bottom

He procures the bottle of probably very expensive alcohol and starts pouring you one

"Why do you stay so late? Making sure I go home isn't in your contract."

You thought about it, it had become such a part of your daily cycle

"I guess I've just gotten used to it. Seemed like the right things to do after awhile."

He thanks you quietly and hands your glass of the whiskey he had poured

This was the softest you had ever seen him, you decided to capitalize off of it

"I've never understood it, why are you so comfortable with me Tommy?"

He nods slowly, knowing he would have to explain himself soon

"Polly says I don't 'ave my head straight yet, so my answer won't do you much good."

You, of course, weren't satisfied with that answer so you decided to play a hunch

By this hour of the night, his hair was rather disheveled so you tentatively ran your finger through it, fixing it for him

a small smirk bloomed on your lips when his expression seemed to soften more

This sort of tension was now a pattern for the two of you

The tension got to such a height that after awhile, late at night, he would just pull you into his lap and have his hand wrapped around your waist

You like to run your hands through his hair or trace his jaw with your fingertip

this is just how it is for the two of you and both of you like that <3

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wordsinhaled · 9 months

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augh, y'all. The Ball episode is so lovely?? ?? it is just the most episode. i'm emotional about it so you're gonna hear about it.

okay, it's the way crowley is indignant that anyone could ever suggest anything against aziraphale's pureness of heart, even while knowing aziraphale's a bit of a bastard and finding that wonderful about him. and his vehement objection that he'd ever relegate aziraphale to anything less than the most important person in his life. the way crowley is like "oh. i have had. a Realization," after talking to nina, and he has to go and get day-drunk to deal with the enormity of it, and he asks aziraphale if he wants a glass, probably thinking - maybe aziraphale will sit with him and maybe they'll Talk About It. and... "smitten, I believe."

and the way the whole time after his conversation with nina crowley's just subtly different around aziraphale from then on - watching him just a tiny little bit differently, partially like he just can't look away and partially like the realization is sinking in, "this is actually the person who's walking around with my heart and doesn't know it, and i actually have to grapple with that" - you know??? the way crowley's always marveling at aziraphale from beside him - "can i watch?" and then the way aziraphale ushers crowley out of the bookshop so he can make his preparations. the sweeping music while aziraphale miracles the beautiful glowing chandelier and crowley stopping in his tracks outside the window to look at it...

the way crowley rushes into the bookshop from outside and stops short by the door just boggling because the entire place is transformed and aziraphale did all that. aziraphale is absolutely freaking out about asking crowley to dance just before he does it; his eyes dart all over and voice goes all funny with nerves and everything, because he's thinking oh god, i planned this whole thing just for this, and now is the moment. the way aziraphale knows every step of the dance and crowley doesn't really follow the steps of the dance beyond the bare minimum (there's a point where he even sort of shrugs, when that's not the dance step) but he's still taking every opportunity for them to touch. the way they almost hold hands and their fingers nearly twine together each time, while they barely touch the other shopkeepers only as much as necessary.

crowley's "i won't leave you on your own," and aziraphale's answering "i know." the confirmation that aziraphale can stand up for himself perfectly well, but knows it makes crowley happy to be a rescuer and indulges that about him in their relationship - coupled with crowley's "he's unpredictable" from earlier which shows crowley knows his madcap angel can get out of anything but that he enjoys letting himself be rescued. (it's an echo back to the bastille scene too, really, where crowley's basically like you called me here for this??? because you wanted to have crepes??? and aziraphale's like and so what if i did? it's their thing, their thing they both enjoy so much.)

the way their love in so many ways is about knowing one another and understanding one another and giving each other what they need. and the fact that even with all their roadblocks in communication they STILL know and understand one another best, because they've each been witness to the other's first moments of genuine joy and pleasure. (i have a separate set of thoughts about that that i won't go in here because this has gotten long, but -- )

they!!!

#good omens #ineffable husbands #aziracrow #just having feelings here don't mind me

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ninjigma · 7 months

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QuinObi Week Part 4/5 - First / Previous / Next

Day 4: Post Order 66 Track: 'Flaws' - Bastille (Spotify / YouTube)

Everything went so wrong, but at least this, this, they managed to once again make right. I think it would be a very dramatic reunion, of Obi-Wan always hoping and Quinlan always seeking, finally stumbling back together. Though a part of me also imagines Quinlan tackling Obi-Wan into the dunes and it being the first time since that horrible day that Obi-Wan hasn't cursed how the sand gets into his beard. And besides, Quinlan didn't seem to mind when he kissed it anyhow.

Enjoy!

@quinobiweek

#Post Order 66 #it would be a tear jerker #but also make me laugh #as the best reunions always do #they deserve it #QuinObi Week #obi wan kenobi #quinlan vos #quinobi #voswan #obi wan x quinlan #star wars #fanart #my art

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baldursgrave69 · 4 months

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Promise Me

Summary: Agnes worries about the Urge, what if she can’t control herself? She asks Astarion to do the unthinkable if the need arises.

Pairing: Astarion x fem!durge (named)

Word count: 890

Tags: angst

While writing this I was listening to: Oblivion by Bastille

Find me on Ao3 here

Agnes sat between Astarion’s legs on the rooftop of the Elf Song tavern, his arms draped over her shoulders. They had finally made it to the Lower City. The last few days had been eventful to say the least. Agnes finally knew what she was. Who she was. A child of Bhaal. The sickening Urge within her had a name, an origin at last. That didn’t make it any easier to resist. In fact, she played with the idea of embracing it. Of fulfilling her destiny and becoming Bhaal’s Chosen. The idea of killing her sister Orin and taking her place gave her butterflies. Agnes was still struggling to process her meeting with Enver Gortash. He had revealed to her that not only had they been partners in the planning and implementing of the Absolute, they had been more than that. Enver Gortash had shown her correspondence between the two of them, detailing their story. Their love story. Agnes shuddered, trying to push the thoughts from her mind. She didn’t want to think about that night. Or what she had done. Astarion stirred behind her, holding her closer. “What is it, love?” he asked, resting his chin on her shoulder. Agnes let out a huff, leaning against him. “I’m… scared,” she admitted. “The Urge, it’s bothering you again, isn't it?” he asked, shifting behind her. She nodded. He wrapped his arms around her middle, pulling her closer to him. “What if I don’t resist it? What if I can’t?” she asked, feeling a knot of worry in her stomach. Astarion frowned, this was so unlike her. She was always confident, always ready to take on whatever horror came next. “Do you want to?” he asked, cautiously, pressing soft kisses to her neck. Agnes paused for a moment. “Yes,” she finally said, hoping it sounded convincing. “Then you will,” Astarion said, leaning back against the cold wall behind him.

“How can you be so sure? What if your confidence is misplaced?” Agnes asked, pulling her knees close to her chest. “I’m rarely wrong,” he sighed, turning her to face him. “Besides, I know you. You won’t hurt me.” he said confidently. Agnes frowned, turning her back to him once more. Astarion sighed, pulling her closer again. He knew she wouldn’t hurt him on purpose, but he also knew that she didn’t always have control. If she did, Alfira would still be here. “You shouldn’t have to constantly watch your back around your partner. You shouldn’t have to worry that I’ll murder you in my sleep. That’s not fair to you,” Agnes started, moving to look at Astarion. “We should just end this now. Before it goes too far,” Agnes said quietly, leaning her head against her knees. “Are we really doing this again?” Astarion growled, leaning towards Agnes. She looked over at him, a wounded expression on his face. “I mean it, Astarion. I don’t want to hurt you,” she hissed, tears forming in her eyes. Astarion rolled his eyes, leaning back. “What, you think I’ll just disappear if you break up with me? Come now, darling. I told you, I’m not going anywhere.” Agnes let out a sigh, a small chuckle leaving her lips. “Gods, you’re stubborn,” she said as she looked up. Astarion smiled at her, a tear running down his cheek. Agnes leaned forward, wiping the tear from his cheek as he pulled her closer to him. “I waited 200 years for someone like you, I’m not letting you go that easy,” he sighed, burying his face in her hair.

“Fine, but you have to promise me something,” she said, suddenly serious again. Astarion pulled back to look at her, a somber look on her face. “If it happens again. If the Urges take over and you can’t restrain me,” Astarion cut her off, hugging her tight. “Promise me you’ll end me before I hurt anyone,” she said quietly as he held her. Astarion held Agnes tight, his mind reeling as he thought about what she was asking of him. Agnes pulled away from Astarion to look at him. He averted his eyes, trying to hide the tears beginning to form. “Remember that first night in camp? You asked me how I’d want you to do it,” she said quietly, pressing her forehead against his. He let out a laugh, wiping a tear with the back of his hand. “You said there were too many choices,” he laughed. He had called her dramatic at the time, he thought she must be insane. “A knife, clean across the neck,” she said quietly, looking into his red eyes. Astarion closed his eyes, shaking his head. “Promise me,” she whispered, placing her hand on his neck, caressing his bite scars. “Agnes, I can’t. Don’t ask this of me,” he pleaded, avoiding her gaze. “I trust you to make the right decision if the time ever comes,” Agnes said quietly. “Alright,” he replied, refusing to look at her. Agnes pulled back from Astarion, lifting his chin so he would look at her. His eyes were rounder than normal, sad. “I’ll keep fighting it, I’ll do whatever I can,” she reassured him. He nodded, his expression still somber. “Enough of the heavy stuff,” Agnes huffed, kissing Astarion on his nose. Astarion wrapped Agnes in his arms, holding her as tightly as he could.

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frasers-of-my-heart · 6 months

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Wednesday 100: Claire and Fergus wait for Jamie to return from the Bastile post-dinner brawl

Claire sat staring at the fire from one side of the chaise, while Fergus occupied the other.

“Milady?” Fergus finally broke the silence.

“Hm?” She barely focused her eyes on him.

“Milord will return soon, no? He is innocent…” he looked down to his lap, fidgeting with his fingers.

“I’m sure he’ll be home soon, darling, go rest.”

“No, I will stay right here beside you. Milord would never forgive me if I left you to wait alone.”

Claire smiled for the first time all night and pulled the boy down to her lap, looking down at both their children.

#outlander #jamie x claire #my fic #wednesday100 #fergus fraser #back in my Fergus feels #post la dame blanche scene

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littlejuicebox · 7 months

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Protect the flames from the wild winds

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Chapter number: Four

Themes: BG3, slow burn, original female character x astarion, dialogue heavy, mostly canon behavior, angst, gore

Masterlist: Click here.

Song inspiration: “Icarus" -- Bastille

Notes: Oof. Battle scenes are hard. I know this is a little shorter than the other chapters but wow it was a lot of moving parts to keep track of! Leave a comment if you have a suggestion or any feedback. :)

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The smell that confronted them outside the tent was vile; a swirling, dizzying aroma that was both metallic and saccharine. Astarion's stomach lurched as he broke through the tent, but he ignored the nauseating sensation, shifting his focus to towards the center of the campsite.

Bright rays of early morning sun assaulted their vision, a break in the gray clouds allowed the first rays of daylight to blaze into their shelter. The soil was caked in thick wads of mud and debris; it was clear last night's storm had done its fair share of damage. Deep pockets of water were spaced throughout the camp, and Astarion lamented the hostile terrain, which proved to be horrible for either travel or battle.

Karlach was positioned near the middle of their tents, her large fists bunched, no weapons on her person; Scratch was beside her, hackles raised, still emitting a rumbling warning to their intruder. A quick glance around the area revealed that a cautious Gale and Wyll were present, both hanging further back from the intruder, expressions laced with confusion and casting hands held at the ready. Lae'zel and Shadowheart were, notably, nowhere to be found.... a curiosity for another time. Just in front of the silver-haired elf stood Wren, her scimitar held low in her dominant hand.

Astarion gripped at the hilt of his own weapon as his scarlet eyes narrowed towards the stranger in their midst. What gall this man must have, to walk into a circle of unknown tents so brazenly.

"Ah... hello fellow wanderers. Forgive the aroma." The man stood, only a few paces between the tiefling and himself. His body was stock-still as he eyed the other party members. "And, apologies for the poor first impression." He added with a humorous smile flashed their way; his hands were lifted, fingers wriggling to show he wasn't holding a weapon.

"Enough with the apologies, mate! Who the hells are you and what do you want?" Karlach's enraged voice was an acute contrast to the good-natured tone she always favored with her campmates. Subconsciously, Astarion admired the full power of her intimidation and her innate ability to wield both sides of her nature -- a lion in a sheep's costume around her friends. Wren remained stoic as she expertly navigated herself around the sinkholes, focused on pushing herself closer to the center of camp. Her honey eyes kept flashing between the red woman and the burly, long-haired man; the vampire could feel the wheels turning inside the little bird's head... she was formulating a plan and running a million scenarios through her mind all at once.

"Gandrel. My name is Gandrel. And I swear I mean you no harm... I am simply passing through. I am need of assistance with my hunt and hoping to find aid from the hag of these bogs... if I can afford her blood price, that is."

The sharp chortle that exploded out of the ranger ripped Astarion's attention away from the stench-riddled man. Wren hissed, voice full to the brim with vitriol, "What a fool you must be... both to walk into our camp as if it belongs to you and to seek out a hag."

The ranger's scarred lip was curled into a sneer unlike anything Astarion had witnessed from her during their travels. He felt the fury and distaste radiating off of the half-elf as she spat out her words. Wren had quickly crossed the camp with expert footwork and she had positioned herself to face the intruder nearly head on. Karlach remained fixed in the same position, muscles coiled like springs, waiting for Wren's next move.

Gandrel nodded his agreement with a wry smile. He did not seem interested in taking on a group when he was so heavily outmatched. 'Smart man...' Astarion thought, head cocked as he watched the encounter play out.

The long-haired hunter rolled Wren’s insults off his shoulders and continued, calmly. "It is true. Hags are dangerous... and tricky. But I am afraid my trail has run dry and the task I have at hand is quite urgent... I am hunting a vampire spawn."

As the burly man revealed his target, the parasites in everyone's minds reared their bodies in unison, their offense soaring through the group in a domino effect. Gandrel takes the silence from the group as a signal to continue on with his explanation. “I am on strict orders to return him to Baldur's Gate and—AGH YOU BITCH!—“

The vampire's red eyes caught the glint of a blade just as a deafening howl of pain rang through the bog. To his surprise, Wren stood practically on her tip toes, holding the hilt of dagger in her non-dominant hand (where had she been hiding that?). The barbed edge of her blade was lodged soundly in the Gur's eye, and she twisted the hilt of her blade violently, grinding it further down into the depths of his socket. The brunette woman's scimitar simultaneously burred a hole into the man's abdomen with a sickening squelch.

Ribbons of red shot out of the intruder's newly opened orifices as he roared through his pain in a flurry of curses. Wren may have had the element of surprise, but it was quickly apparent that she was no match in physical strength or close-combat prowess when compared to the outsider. The large man tackled the ranger to ground with a crack — 'Her bones or his?' — and his mammoth hands drew desperately around her face.

The Gur's strength was enhanced by a potent mix of agony and adrenaline, exploding him into a fit of violent rage, Wren his only target. One thumb was lodged firmly in the brunette woman’s right eye socket with ease and the other giant paw held her chin in a vice-like grip. The burly male smashed Wren’s head haphazardly into the ground below, sprays of blood salting the earth; the blade that had taken purchase in his eye clattered to the ground. Wren still clung to her scimitar but was unable to wield it to her advantage while under the overpowering weight of the stranger.

Astarion shot forward with his dagger raised, but the mud-riddled terrain stuck to his legs and pulled him into an infuriatingly slow pace. He felt his anger ricochet through his body, cursing the bog and everything in it to the nine hells as he was forced to watch his female allies face the man’s wrath. The warlock and wizard anxiously studied the encounter, their keen eyes searching for an opening; both the spellcasters were painfully aware that they risked hitting one of their allies in such a close fight. For a brief moment, Gale's attention flicked to Astarion and he cast a longstrider spell towards the pale-elf, hoping to aid the rogue's advances. Day later, Astarion would reflect on the fact that it was the first time the wizard ever offered him a hand in battle.

The sturdy stranger landed a final, wrathful blow to Wren's face just as Karlach bulldozed into the Gur, knocking him prone. The female soldier straddled either side of the monster-hunter’s torso, pummeling him with her bare fists as she bellowed a war cry. Scratch lunged forward and grasped the stranger's forearm in his maw, ripping a chunk of flesh from limb.

The Gur grabbed Wren’s bloodied dagger from the ground and stabbed half-blindly at the dog; the blade sliced at the animal's maw and shocked it into retreat. Another swift strike to Karlach left the dagger securely fixed in the side of the tiefling's knee. That searing shock of pain halted the red woman’s onslaught just enough for Gandrel to toss Karlach aside and catapult himself back toward the brunette he'd marked as his quarry.

The ranger was back on her feet now, trails of blood leaking from her eye socket and the gaping wound near her temple. Her hair was caked with filth and crimson; she'd dropped the weapon she'd clung to moments ago. She was swaying, her vision blurred by the endless waterfall of blood coating her face. A sick, twisted smile spread across her mouth as she welcomed the Gur’s tackle, willingly crumpling like a ragdoll under his weight as he snapped his fingers around her neck.

Astarion finally made it to the center of camp, whispering a small prayer of thanks to the gods that never answered him for Gale's clever spellcasting. As the vampire readied his dagger to join the thrall, a burst of blue energy shot through the Gur, forcing a strangled scream from his bloodied mug. Wren echoed the outsider's cries, hands gripped around his beefy forearms. She was a conduit to the energy she’d summoned in her fury, and an overpowering crackle of electricity broke into buzzing fractals around the two.

The dense wetness of the swampland gave immense power to the lightening's current. A dome of jagged blue lines surrounded Wren and Gandrel; the electricity buzzed threateningly as it snapped its energy around the camp. Karlach made the mistake of reaching for the Gur and was punished with a jolt that knocked her prone. The Gur could no longer scream, now paralyzed in the half-elf woman’s grasp, but Wren was still hissing a groan of effort through clenched teeth. The ranger was exhausting all of her energy with the force of her spell, and all at once the azure streaks of lightening reverberated through the sky and dissipated. The Gur's body was still situated over her frame as her arms dropped with a squish into the bogland.

Astarion plunged the final few paces forward, using the opportunity to bury his dagger in the Gur’s throat as the outsider’s body shuddered with aftershock. An agile removal and snappy reinsertion of the blade, followed by a satisfying slice of flesh, and the vampire deftly severed the stranger’s jugular. Blood sprung forth in a foaming cascade of ruby, and the Gur choked out his final, strangled cry. The vampire shoved the threat’s limp body to the side in an effort to relieve Wren of the Gur’s weight. When Astarion turned to his companion, he nearly vomited the meal she'd given him last night up at sight of her. A pool of ichor and muddy water lay beneath her, brown and pink swirling in a filthy basin of water. The little bird appeared unconscious and unaware of the victory; her face full of burgundy, blue, and brown. Her right eye was imperceptible through the well of blood that sat in the socket; the left side of her face was caked crimson and swelling profusely.

“Get up, damn you!” The silver-haired elf gripped at Wren's shoulders. He shook her violently in his desperation to return her awareness to their plane of existence. The woman's head lolled sickeningly until Wyll’s hands grasped Astarion's arms and pried him, with much effort, away from Wren.

“Astarion! Stop! Get a hold of yourself, you’re going to hurt her.” Wyll shouted his plea. Astarion was clawing at the warlock’s insistent grasp, a string of empty threats escaping his mouth as he fought to make contact with Wren. Karlach and Gale both rushed to examine Wren while the pale elf hissed insults and threats through his fangs. The dam of panic seething inside burst without warning, and the rogue emitted a choked, agonizing cry. He continued to claw at the Blade of Frontiers, but Wyll remained steadfast.

"Please, Astarion." The warlock whispered, and finally, the vampire relented.

Shadowheart and Lae’zel tore through the treeline simultaneously, the unlikely pair making a dash for the heart of the group. Lae’zel holstered her blade when she realized the threat was neutralized, but quickly cast her gaze around the camp to assess if there were anyone coming to avenge the intruder. Shadowheart sank down in the muck and held her hands over the ranger, reverently reciting healing incantations.

Several painstaking minutes passed; everyone’s eyes were fixed on the limp body of their leader. Finally, Wren gasped a shuddering breath, and a blanket of relief covered the group. The little bird jolted in fear, reaching out to grasp whatever she could find. She desperately grabbed hold of Shadowheart’s wrist, fingers shaking. “Kol! Kol, I can’t see.” The confession was hushed with panic, the ranger's voice wavering at the end.

The entire group stood still, their relief sliding into unease as they watched the terror and pain overwhelm Wren. She was groaning, one hand clasped over her right eye. “Kol, gods dammit! Say something, I beg you!” She wailed in distress as tears began to stream from her left eye, narrowly escaping between bruised, bulged lids.

No one knew what to do in that moment but stand in a cloud of solemn silence and confusion. Mercifully, Gale mustered the courage to unleash a pink whisper of a spell upon the half-elf, knocking her into a slumber. She slumped against Shadowheart, and the group exchanged anxious glances, but no one dared to say a word... no one could think of what to say. After another breath of silence, Wyll released Astarion and moved to pick the ranger up. He carried her towards her tent, Shadowheart trailing closely behind and continuing her incantations.

Astarion remained on his knees in the mud for what felt like ages as he processed the entire battle. He stared at the blood Wren left behind, fingers dumbly grasping for where her schmitar lay beside him. The woman had been both captivating and terrifying in her uncharacteristic fit of rage. Up until this point, she was typically more inclined to stealth and tactical moves, attacking from the shadows or luring enemies to their death one by one. In most altercations, Karlach and Lae'zel had been in the forefront of the battle and Wren typically hung back, defending them with a well-placed arrow.

The vampire's head reeled. While she was terrifying in the center of battle rather than on the edges of it, her characteristic level-headedness tossed aside, she had been even more terrifying to Astarion in her panic. His gut rolled again as the flashes of her limp and bloodied body looped in his mind and he gagged, desperate to relieve the tormenting waves of nausea. Nothing came. Everyone rushed around him, tending to their own wounds or the wounds of their campmates, but the vampire couldn't make himself move.

Finally, Karlach came to him, offering a red hand to the pale elf. “Come on, soldier, let’s get you over to your tent. I think you just need to lay down for a bit.” She muttered, patting the elf's back with a strong but comforting hand as she hoisted him up. All Astarion could do was dumbly follow the tiefling woman as she walked him to his bed. Karlach was wincing as she bore weight on a still-tender knee and pushed him gently into the confines of his own tent... which he remembered he hadn’t even slept in the night prior. “Get some rest, mate. And then go check on your girl.” Karlach whispered, placing another small pat on the elf's back before she stumbled away.

'His girl? His… girl?' The sentence floated in the vampire’s head as he lay on his bedroll, too tired to move. His exhaustion from the restless night prior and the events of the morning forced the vampire into a trance. The words "his girl" echoed in his mind as he slept, the relentless chant lulling him through the merciful peace of sleep.

#astarion fanfic #astarion fic #astarion x original female character #astarion x tav #baulders gate 3 #baulders gate astarion #baulders gate tav #bg3 fanfic idea #bg3 fanfiction #slow burn #bg3 blogging #bg3 brainrot #bg3 ranger

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technoturian · 2 years

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RING OF BRASS // RING OF ASH - an eXu calamity playlist

[ Spotify ]

BRASS

01. Zayde Wølf - Golden Age Don't you know that we / We're living in a golden age / Don't you know that we / We're living in a golden age

02. Imagine Dragons - Warriors Here we are, don't turn away now / We are the warriors that built this town

03. [Nydus] Ellie Goulding - Burn We, we don't have to worry about nothing / 'Cause we got the fire, and we're burning one hell of a something / They, they gonna see us from outer space, outer space / Light it up, like we're the stars of the human race, human race

04. K/DA - The Baddest Way that I look should be breaking the law / If I don't got it, I take what I want / My circle small like a round of applause / You know that I love the sound of applause / You know I mean everything that I say / When you see me coming get out of the way / I came to slay, I came to slay / Back and I'm better and ready to stay

05. aeseaes - Plenty Everyone will know our name / Did you know that no two missteps are the same?

06. [Laerryn] Tribe Society - Kings I always wondered how far we could go / If we could break through the ceiling above us / There'd be no point of us looking below / We could be free / We could be free / Finally / We could be free

07. [Loquatius] Vance Joy - Like Gold Gold, when you see me / Hi, if you need me / Babe, that's the way it was / That's the history / Blue, how we used to roar / Like an open fire / That's the way it was / But that's history

08. [Patia] Claire Wyndham - Kingdom Fall Underneath a spotlight / And all the splintered wood / Nothing here is shining / Shining like it should

09. Fall Out Boy - Centuries And just one mistake / Is all it will take / We'll go down in history / Remember me for centuries

ASH

10. Sleeping At Last - Earth Fault lines tremble underneath my glass house / But I put it out of my mind / Long enough to call it courage

11. Bastille - Pompeii Oh, where do we begin? / The rubble or our sins?

12. Mumford & Sons - Broken Crown But oh, my heart was flawed / I knew my weakness / So hold my hand / Consign me not to darkness

13. [Zerxus] Black Math - Flesh and Bone Break the truth inside of me / Climbed down to hell on the devil's tree / I clutched a branch of soot and flame / The thought that rose, to scorch my feet / I walk alone/ Beside myself / Nowhere to go / Ahh, this bleeding heart / That's in my hands / I fell apart

14. The Lumineers - Nightshade We were surrounded and the ending was near / All of the sudden, a ranger arrived, a savior appeared / Made it to safety, but the devil was here, oh no

15. [Cerrit] X Ambassadors - Eye of the Storm I believe in you / I believe in you / It's not over / I will stand in the eye of the storm

16. [Loquatius & Laerryn] Lily Kershaw ft. Goody Grace - Now & Then Remember the rooftop parties / Remember the friends / Remember the way I love you now / And the way I that loved you then

17. Lee DeWyze - Blackbird Song Pack your things / leave somehow / Blackbird song is over now

18. Phlotilla - Don't Fear The Reaper All our times have come / Here but now they're gone / Seasons don't fear the reaper / Nor do the wind, the sun or the rain / We can be like they are

19. CLOVES - Don't Forget About Me I just need to know / That you won't forget about me

20. Ingrid Michaelson - Men of Snow Oh one day you will go / Away from this / Oh one day you will know / We're men of snow / We melt one day

21. Zack Hemsey - End Of An Era (Instrumental)

BONUS 22. [Bolo] Queen - Killer Queen She's a Killer Queen / Gunpowder, gelatine / Dynamite with a laser beam / Guaranteed to blow your mind / Anytime

#Critical Role #Exandria Unlimited #ExU #Exandria Unlimited: Calamity #ExU Calamity #Playlist #Playlists #been working on this for a while

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muriel-not-the-dim-one · 6 months

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@actual-changeling explained, beautifully in my opinion, what happened that afternoon in the bookstore. I did look in the window but only for a moment to thank Mr. Fell for the book Mr. Crowley gave me. At that moment, I realized what “broken heart” really meant.

I decided to write down some things for Mr. Crowley in case he ever came back by. I’m only a 37th scrivener, but I keep very good records.

From the journal of Muriel, 37th Scrivener, Assistant Bookstore Keeper to Mr. AZ Fell: Entry #1

It’s been *7 hours and 15 days*, since Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley left. I keep finding things to keep myself busy, but I find myself missing them both.

I love the books. The rich smell of them. The sweet bergamot, leather, Earl Grey and Talisker that lingered in the back room especially.

Sometimes I take Mr. Fells soft, grey jacket off the coat rack, where it has lived since he left, wrap it around my body and sit in the sunlight, my body tucked into the chair I have come to love. The first time I did this, it was almost a guilty feeling. Like peeking into someone’s private memories without their permission. But as time went on, it became soothing, calming, loving.

I close my eyes and see flashes of memories. Meeting the snake/demon in the garden. Feeling that first rain, and the overwhelming feeling to protect the demon. To cover him with his wing, when what they really wanted to do was wrap him tightly, hold him close. To take away the pain they felt within.

Sometimes I never even opened the blinds in the shop. (That came as no surprise to anyone who was familiar with the bookshop and it’s strange hours.) The memories flooding through me, transporting me to a time that only a deep love can take you to. As much as I loved reading the books, wearing Aziraphales jacket was like BEING in a book, like living each moment.

Standing with Crawley/ Crowley feeling the rain on their face as the flood was beginning. Sensing the pain inside the demon as he looked at the kids playing. I knew something was wrong with this, but God had to do it, right? I just couldn’t put my finger on why.

Being in Rome, hearing Crowleys voice. Aziraphales heart (even though angels and demons didn’t need them) leaping in excitement, only to feel the overwhelming anger, anxiety, deep shame (?) not because of Crowley or what he had done, but because of the human capacity for evil, far worse than even hell and it’s demons were capable of. Trying to joke with Crowley about still being a demon, only to have it backfire in his face. Telling Crowley he was in Rome to go to a new restaurant. (I really need to try some of the human food. If it was as good as the cuppatea and cocoa I had tasted, I was pretty sure I would like it.) Aziraphale offering to tempt Crowley with oysters and the warmth that surged through their body when Crowley looked at Aziraphale, that half smile radiating like the sun within them.

Standing in a crowd, watching the horror they were inflicting on this beautiful, kind soul. Hearing Crawley/Crowley come up beside him. Turning to look at the demon, her beauty radiating. She cared deeply for the carpenter, and couldn’t understand until Aziraphale told her the message the carpenter was delivering, why they would choose to hurt him. That memory seemed the most painful to me.

Realizing Crowley would face a horrible death if Hell ever found out about Job and what Crowley had done. The pride I felt knowing that Aziraphale, his love of Humanity and Crowley, would be willing to sacrifice his life as well.

On and on the memories went, flashes of joy, love, and a never ending relationship between them.

The Globe and Shakespeare. Why did Aziraphale deny Crowley so much? I couldn’t decide if it was fear or protectiveness.

The way Crowley would do anything for him.

Saving him from the Bastille when he could have saved himself.

Realizing Crowley was always watching out for his Angel. The nazis and possible discorporation, saving Aziraphales beloved books. The touch of his hand as he gave him the sachel. The almost breathlessness I felt at that moment revealing the depth of love that Aziraphale felt for Crowley. The magic show Crowley gave him the confidence to do.

Crowleys note when he asked Aziraphale for insurance. The complete HORROR he felt when he thought Crowley wanted it in case he needed to destroy himself. It seemed to Crowley the way Aziraphale acted, he was appalled at him for asking. Like he thought he wanted him to possibly get into trouble for it. In reality, Aziraphale couldn’t bear the thought of a life without Crowley, the pain and terror showing on his face.

Later hearing about Crowleys “little caper” scared Aziraphale. It made him almost go mad with worry. He knew no one involved but he, understood what even one drop of Holy Water could do to Crowley. As much of a danger, sneaking Holy Water to a demon could be for Aziraphale, he was NOT going to let this happen. He was not going to allow a chance that anything could happen to Crowley.

The sense of relief, the deep love, the rush of feeling, I heard the words almost spoken with an ache, “Aziraphale DOES love me as much as I love him.” The power so strong, so beautifully pure it slammed me in the chest. I had to stand and take the jacket off.

Tears welled up in my eyes, and as I touched the wetness on my cheeks, unbelievably aching for an Angel and a Demon that were kind to me.

*End Journal Entry for the day*

I began sorting through the books, anything to keep myself busy, willing the tears to stop.

#Muriel’s journals #crowley #aziraphale #bookshop assistant #the jacket #I can smell you #eons of love #through the years #ineffable husbands #michael sheen #david tennant #entry 1

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willgrahamsbecoming · 7 months

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ok as much as i love the more literal interpretation of icarus (bastille) as a hannigram song (cliff mention!!!) it is so very much chilton. to me. he is The icarus

he digs his own grave again and again and again because maybe just once he'll find something down there besides his own suffering. he flies into the sun repeatedly because maybe if he manages to fly just a bit higher this time he'll reach the warmth it offers. and the wax is melting, the air is thin and he's suffocating and the sea when he falls is freezing, the salty water rushing in burns his lungs but it's not the end. it's never the end. and he'll just get back up and do it again.

icarus' life, it has only just begun - this is still the beginning. one day, he'll have his breakthrough - even if not with gideon, if not with will, or with hannibal, or the dragon. it will happen if he just continues trying. even if he falls once or twice or dozens of times. this is just the beginning.

#no im not projecting shut up #i should be studying rn but this wouldnt leave my mind #hannibastiiiiiilllleee #frederick chilton #nbc hannibal #hannibal #willgrahamsbecoming #bastille

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ugh-yoongi · 2 years

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heart got teeth | knj

(or, the one where namjoon meets his match and isn’t quite sure how to handle you.)

→ pairing: namjoon x f. reader → genre: pwp; smut, angst, enemies to fwb to lovers (kinda) → rating: explicit. minors dni. → warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, reader is kind of a dickhead for a while but namjoon is a very into it and generally a horny disaster so it cancels out, side jihope because i can, hobi can’t hold his alcohol and namjoon says baby a lot so this is basically canon compliant, this is just porn with a crumb of plot so i will do my best with the explicit tags: kissing, joon has a wet dream, oral sex (m/f receiving), masturbation (namjoon does it a lot, reader once), fingering, i think there’s a handjob, dirty talk, dom undertones but nothing full-on, thigh riding, facesitting, referenced semi-public sex, unprotected sex, hair pulling, one ass slap, very light choking, namjoon is just down really bad idk what else to say. → wordcount: 12k → playlist: 5 seconds of summer - teeth • monsta x - nobody else • waterparks - stupid for you • poppy - all the things she said • namasenda - 24/7 • bastille - goosebumps • monsta x - wildfire → a/n: this is a fic i wrote for an old fandom and reworked/rewrote to work in this context, so if it looks familiar, it is. don’t report me, i promise it's mine. :’) as always, thank you to lauren, jess, and bee for looking this over and catching all my fuckups. you all are the best and i would be a whole clown without the three of you.

To your credit, you truly have no ulterior, unsavory motives as you step inside.

It’s meant to be a simple night out with a few of your friends. A club, of course, because they never pass up an opportunity to go all-out: impeccable hair and makeup, outfits that are more like a second skin, fuck-me eyes with the glossed lips to match, ones that leave very little to the imagination of how low that mouth will go and how it’ll feel once it gets there.

Tonight’s about mourning. No more Seokjin in your entourage, seeing as he’s too busy fucking some boring accountant now. A “one-man man” he’d called himself, and you can’t possibly think of anything worse. There isn’t an accountant on earth hot enough to inspire monogamy.

So, you came to the club. The high-end one your friends like in the city with the hot bartender. Taehyung had wanted to blow off some steam before heading back to Daegu for a few weeks, anyway. Not that he has to wait long—someone catches his eye a few minutes in, leaving you and Jimin on your own.

Just as well. Neither of you have much trouble pulling.

Twelve minutes. Not your personal best, but it’ll do.

You have them pegged from a mile away. The taller one will have money and some sob story about growing up wealthy, fake humility dripping from every word as he waxes poetic about never taking anything for granted, while his friend—shorter by a few inches, hair looking neon red under the club lights, and certainly in his element—will play his good-cop partner in crime. He’s probably very charming, the type who will use his disarming, megawatt smile to secure a seat at the table and learn the drink order and pave the way for the dark-haired one to work his magic.

Because the dark-haired one will definitely work his magic. That smolder alone has probably been the cause of hundreds of weak knees, the kind of look that gets him whatever he wants with few questions asked besides, “yours or mine?”

You don’t bother to hide the disinterested look on your face, which suits you just fine. You know it’s flattering, your honeypot look. All to do with the slightly parted lips, the steeled, blasé stare that men fell over themselves to have focused on them. And, sure, you’ve taken a keen interest in vapid, meaningless sex with attractive strangers, but you aren’t sure you’ll be able to stomach the small talk these two will inevitably require to get to that point.

“Heads up,” Jimin says, nodding to his right.

You snort, hiding the downward tug of your mouth behind your whiskey glass. “I know.”

“Are you not interest—”

Jimin’s question is cut off by the smiley one finally reaching their table, immediately sliding into the booth beside him, both unprompted and unwelcome. Lithe limbs knock unceremoniously against the underside of the glossy table, and you can already see the gears turning in Jimin’s head. He never was able to resist a dancer’s body, which means the other one will be your problem for the evening.

“Would it be okay if I joined you?”

You cock an eyebrow at that. The dimly-lit, grimy club hardly seems like an appropriate setting for that level of refinement. “If you must.”

His bravado falters just for a second. Blink and you’ll miss it. Just as you expected, he isn’t used to being denied anything. “Oh,” he stammers, his eyes darting to his friend on his left who is too busy whispering god-knows-what in Jimin’s ear to notice. “It’s just… my friend,” he tries to explain.

Still gazing up at him, your lips stretch into a challenging smirk. “Mm, I noticed.”

He’s fidgeting. Weight shifts from one leg to the other, fingers flexed around the glass he’s holding before relaxing. “So, can I—”

“I don’t know,” you muse, “can you?”

“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters, his features immediately resetting to appear calm and collected. “May I?”

With a smug grin, you nod, gesturing to the empty space beside you. Your night was bound to be interrupted one way or another, and it’s always better to have it done so by someone so easily affected. There’s something deeply gratifying about making this stranger lose just that bit of control, of seeing his composed mask slip for only a second.

His enormous presence is immediately felt beside you, heat emanating from his flushed skin and calling to you like a siren song. And, god, is he attractive up close, the type of bone structure that plausibly could have been carved from stone, worshiped centuries ago. It takes a lot of self-restraint to not reach out and touch him, to keep your hands wrapped around your glass instead of skimming them along the outside of the thigh pressed against you.

If he’s going to be your only option for the evening, there’s nothing wrong with having a bit of fun, even if you aren’t particularly charmed by him.

Liking him isn’t a necessary prerequisite for taking him home—or to the bathroom, if the situation requires it—and having him fuck you senseless.

This is a game you’ve played—and won—countless times before. Because you can feel his dark gaze on you, each sideways glance lasting longer than the one before. Can see how jittery he still is, as if he feels the electricity between you, too, but is too paralyzed to act on it.

So, really, it shouldn’t be a surprise that you toy with him. He sneaks a glance, you make a show of crossing your legs, the garish club lights reflecting off smooth, soft skin. Another glance and you run your tongue slowly over your bottom lip, pretending to listen intently to whatever Jimin’s saying. You bare your neck to him as you throw back the last of your drink, head lolling to the side just enough to have him wondering how it’d feel to press his lips against the skin there.

A small, private grin to yourself when he sputters and tries awkwardly to cover it by clearing his throat. “Can—can I buy you another drink?”

God, he almost makes it too easy. “I don’t know. Can you?”

There’s a sharp sound as he bangs his fist on the table, jaw clenched in frustration. “I’m not going to ask twice.” Meant as a threat, but you know exactly what it is: just another attempt to regain control. You almost take pity on him. The poor guy really isn’t used to not easily getting whatever he wants.

You lean over, lips close enough to the shell of his ear to make the hair stand on his arms. “You’re lucky I let you ask once.”

He looks positively flustered now, a furious, rapid blush creeping up his neck, and you take his reaction and tuck it away for later. Want to save it, want to memorize the look on his face—the small parting of his lips, the barely-audible groan, the subtle roll of his shoulders. Want to think about it all later, preferably when you’re alone. Maybe in bed.

Jimin’s still engaged in conversation with the one who can’t stop laughing, his eyes lighting up every time he leans in to say something with that heart-shaped mouth only meant for Jimin to hear. When he pulls away from Jimin and turns his attention to you, you’re finally able to take in the lines of his face. Softer than the one you’re currently sitting next to, a bit more feminine, but you know there’s bite to him. Definitely attractive, has that familiar brand of confident swagger, and one-hundred percent Jimin’s type.

You think Jimin calls your name.

You turn your attention back to your friend, who’s looking at you expectantly. “Hm? Sorry, Chim, I couldn’t hear you.”

“Hoseokie-hyung says the next round is on him. D’you want another drink?”

“A few shots of tequila would be lovely,” you smile. “Thanks so much.”

You can feel the man beside you tense as he says, “I’ll join you, hyung.”

He stands, staring at you with a look that says he knows exactly what game you’re playing, giving everyone else all of your sweet and reserving the sour only for him. Seems like he isn’t all that impressed, either, if the tight set of his jaw is any indication. All you bother to offer him in return is a slow, deliberate smirk. Game on.

Jimin leans across the table conspiratorially. “So…? What do you think of Namjoon?”

“Who’s Namjoon?” you answer, nails clacking away as you reply to a text from Taehyung.

“Are you serious?” Jimin frowns. “He’s been sitting next to you all night.”

You chuckle at that. “Why do I need to know his name if you’re just going to fuck his friend?”

“I’m not—” Jimin pauses, pushes his bubblegum pink hair out of his face, chews the thought over. “Okay, I am, but—”

“It’s fine, Minnie. Do your thing. That’s the whole reason we came out, anyway.”

Jimin clicks his tongue. “You don’t like him at all? Not even a little bit?”

“You know he’s not my type.”

“Excuse me?” Jimin nearly shrieks. “Tall, extremely handsome, and rich isn’t your type?”

You roll your eyes. “Stuck-up dickhead isn’t my type. I’m extremely good-looking and rich on my own.”

“I don’t think he’s a dick,” Jimin defends. “Plus, he seems super into you. He was making googly eyes every time I looked over.”

“Guys always look at us like that on a night out.”

It takes a few minutes and a disregarded pleading stare, but Jimin eventually throws his hands up in surrender. “Fine! Just… be nice, at least.”

You quirk an eyebrow. “Why? You planning on keeping that guy around awhile?”

Jimin frowns, moves to protest, but his words are cut off by Hoseok again stumbling back to their table, a massive grin spreading across his face as he sidles up next to Jimin. With none of the same enthusiasm, Namjoon stands awkwardly next to the table, refusing to meet your eye as he hands out shots, two for everyone. Amused, you wonder if there’s a reason he might need to take the edge off. You huff a knowing, soft laugh.

As he reluctantly slides in next to you—distance kept, of course; no contact—you and Jimin move to clink your shot glasses together. You’ve rehearsed this scene a million times before: lean across the table, nearly touching; then, you’ll use a bit too much force, sending the drink spilling over the rim of the glass, sloshing onto the exposed skin of Jimin’s chest, which you lick off with an, “Oops, sorry, babe!” and an innocent smile.

Hook, line, and sinker.

Works every time.

Namjoon shifts beside you, clearly trying to appear unbothered. Some mumbled sentence about the club getting too warm and he rolls his sleeves to his elbows, the slight sheen of sweat covering an expanse of golden skin—the sight of which sends an unwelcome pang of heat straight to your core.

And he doesn’t miss it, either. “See something you like, baby?” he asks, confidence returning with a smugness that doesn’t sit right with you.

“All I see are two sweaty arms, so… no, not really.”

Namjoon studies you, nostrils flared as he tries to seem unfazed again. “You are truly insufferable, you know that?”

“I don’t recall asking for your opinion of me.”

He rolls his eyes. “Consider the first one free.”

“Well, I don’t plan on paying for a second, so I guess you’ll have to sit there like a good little boy and keep your thoughts to yourself.”

He chokes on his drink, sputtering and coughing in a way that has Hoseok leaning across the table to slap him on the back. “Namjoon-ah, are you—”

“I’m fine,” Namjoon snaps, not meeting his friend’s eye.

Jimin, with a knowing look on his face—yet still pointed, since his request for you to be nice has clearly fallen on deaf ears—offers Namjoon a sweet smile. “So, Namjoon-ssi, what do you do?”

“I’m—”

“He’s a psycho,” Hoseok slurs, cheeks flushed from all the alcohol and enough confidence in his answer to wipe the smile from Jimin’s face. “No, wait—”

You try really hard to mask the snort of laughter that manages to escape, but it only worsens when Namjoon says, “I’m a psychotherapist,” at the same time Hoseok clarifies again that, “He’s a psycho?”

“A therapist, huh? That seems important.” You know what Jimin’s doing, still hell-bent on his mission to get you to give Namjoon a chance. “What else are you into?”

“Bicycles,” Hoseok slurs again.

Namjoon groans, tossing back a shot before answering, “Motorcycles.”

“Mm, no, it’s definitely bicycles and you’re lying to seem cool since you don’t even have a license. But whatever.” Then he turns to Jimin, a 24 karat smile on his face as he asks, “Do you wanna come back to my apartment and have sex? I live alone.” Despite yourself and the horrified looks on both Namjoon’s and Jimin’s faces, you have to respect the boldness.

“You’re really drunk, hyung,” Jimin replies hesitantly.

Hoseok just shrugs. “You can stay over. I’ll sleep on the couch and then I’ll make you breakfast in the morning and we can have sex after.”

“So respectful,” you laugh. “I’ll fuck your brains out in the morning, but I won’t defile your honor by sharing a bed with you.”

Jimin seems gobsmacked. “I…” He looks at you, who just shrugs. Not the first time Jimin will leave with someone from the bar and, despite your friend’s initial hesitation, it probably won’t be the last, either. “Okay. But I want a full spread in the morning! All the banchan, too! Nothing weird.”

Hoseok doesn’t press his luck, just tosses some money in Namjoon’s direction, grabs Jimin’s hand, and does his best to stumble out the door while he calls for a taxi.

Namjoon’s presence feels almost overwhelming once the two of you are alone, still sitting too close together on the same side of the table. You know he’s stealing glances at you again, can feel his eyes on you, your skin, as you busy yourself with your phone. Send quick ‘text me when you get to their place and again in the morning’ messages to both Jimin and Taehyung even though they always do and don’t have to be told, but Namjoon’s gaze is heavy and there are implications and questions behind it that, frankly, you’re looking to avoid.

Maybe he’s affected more than he’s letting on. Surely a guy like him—so used to being in control, so used to being chased—isn’t the type to sit around and wait for orders, especially concerning something he wants. And he does want you. That much is clear.

You’ve dragged him so far off course it’s all he can do to tread water. Namjoon is fine with disinterest; not every person in the world is going to want him, despite the ego that tries very hard to convince him otherwise. Sometimes they want the charming, outgoing one instead of the reserved one who doesn’t do anything without a purpose, and such is the reality of being Hoseok’s wingman. That’s fine—really, he doesn’t mind. Always better to go home alone than with someone who isn’t all-in on him.

But he hasn’t been able to figure you out at all.

Worse, you know it.

So, if you accidentally-on-purpose rub your foot along his calf as you cross your legs and smirk at the strangled groan that escapes him, who can blame you?

“Guess that’s my cue to leave as well.” No room for misinterpretation, there. It’s as closed-off and uninviting as it can be, yet Namjoon stays frozen in place, unable to move aside to let you out of the booth. “Well?”

He comes to, coughing a bit as he shuffles into the aisle to his left. “Right, yeah. How are—will—do you need a ride home?”

You roll your lips. “Are you offering? With no license?”

“Yes,” he says, the word breathier than he’d like.

You smile sweetly, a slender finger moving to trace along his jawline. His eyes flutter closed at your touch, thick eyelashes ink-black and out of place against his cheek. Your lips move back to the shell of his ear. “Then no.”

Undeterred, Namjoon gently wraps his fingers around your wrist, keeping you close. “The alternative is giving me your number and letting me know you get home safe.”

“That sounds an awful lot like an order,” you muse. “So, what would happen if I took your number, promised I’ll text, and you never heard from me again? Would I get punished?”

Something dark flashes in his eyes—perhaps your first glimpse of who he typically is, confident and dominant and very comfortable playing this game. “Something tells me you wouldn’t do that to me.”

You smirk, reaching out with your free arm to graze your nails down his side. His muscles flex under your touch, defined and solid, as he hisses. “I think that’s called your ego.” Your eyes trail lower. “Unless it’s… something else?”

“Something else?” he questions. “Didn’t take you for the shy type.”

Entranced, Namjoon watches as white teeth bite down on your bottom lip, your tongue darting out briefly to ease the sting. One brief, fleeting thought about how it’d feel to have that tongue someplace else and his cock twitches in his jeans. Barely an hour together and he’s certain you’ll be the death of him. A million little deaths he’ll willingly endure.

“Like your girls with a dirty mouth, do you?”

All he can muster is a crooked grin. “And if I say yes?”

You laugh softly. “Then I’ll ask you, kindly, to remove your fingers from my wrist and go splash some cold water on that pretty face of yours. You’re about two seconds away from coming in your jeans and not even I dislike you enough to let you embarrass yourself like that.”

His grip on you loosens. “You don’t like me? Don’t you think that’s a bit strong? You barely know me.”

“Oh, were you under the assumption this was something more?” When he doesn’t answer, you extract yourself from him and wink. “Maybe you can think about me later when you’re jerking off.”

And if he spends the rest of his evening doing exactly that? Well, that’s his business.

Namjoon spends the next two weeks doing that, actually.

Your touch is seared into his mind—the feel of your fingers tracing along his jaw, his sides, the way his body reacted to you, an obvious desperation even before he’d let it get this bad, fester this long. The urge was slowly growing out of control, and he told himself each morning that today would be the day, he’d send that stupid fucking Instagram message asking you out—

Because that’d been your play the night you’d met. As promised, you took his number and never texted, just posted a goddamn thirst trap to your Instagram story that was clearly meant for him. Because you knew he’d chase you, figure out some way to find you. Fresh out of the shower, hair wet and droplets teasing down your chest, silk camisole barely hanging on as you snapped a photo over your shoulder in your bedroom mirror. A small winking emoji in the corner as if to say yes, I made it home—alone. And since you’re alone, too, have fun touching yourself.

He’d barely been in bed ten minutes before his pants were pushed halfway down his thighs and he was spilling into his hand.

It became routine somewhere around day six. Instead of sending the message, he’d lose his resolve, fall into bed at the end of the day, and let you consume his thoughts as he got himself off. God, he’d started to get greedy—always wanted more, imagined more, and it never took long. A vague memory of the perfume you wore, a stray thought of the way it’d smell imprinted into his sheets, his skin; the hawkish look on your face as you’d studied him, trying to decide if you wanted to worship him or ruin him.

Bit late for that, Namjoon thinks as he comes into his fist. He’s already ruined.

Part of him wants you to know, wants you to see how undone he becomes just at the thought of you, almost wants you to humiliate him for what he’s just done—and his hips stutter one last time at the thought, shocking him into contemplative silence. That’s new.

Instead, he stands on shaky legs and moves to his bathroom, running a washcloth under cool water to clean off his hands. God, he’s utterly wrecked. He begs his brain to figure it out, get it together long enough to just compose a simple text asking you on a date. The inevitable rejection will quell the wildfire and he’ll finally be able to go more than a second without thinking about you, about how you’ve reduced him to a writhing, nervous mess.

His heart hammers in his chest as he fetches his phone and stares down at an empty Instagram message. Words suddenly don’t seem to make sense as he wracks his brain for a way to phrase his question that won’t make him sound like a complete fool.

I’d like to take you out tomorrow, he types, only to delete it once he realizes the only response he receives will be some variation of “I bet you would.”

Can I… he begins to type again. Quickly deletes that, too, and types May I take you out tomorrow? instead. It still doesn’t feel like enough, he’s sure you’re going to tell him no and tell him to fuck off, but that just means he won’t be disappointed when that’s exactly what happens.

Before he can overthink it, he presses ‘send’ and resists the urge to turn his phone off completely. He can’t remember the last time he was this nervous asking someone out—then again, he was usually able to skirt by on his good looks and a well-executed smolder. Not now, though. Somehow, he’s managed to become ensnared by the one person in the entire country who finds his charm repulsive and off-putting. And it’s not like he can suffer in silence, either. Hoseok had caught on quickly, sometime during the first week, because Namjoon didn’t have much time or desire to go out. He’d been able to fumble an excuse, something about working late, because he couldn’t tell him he couldn’t stop jerking off over a woman who wanted nothing to do with him and still be able to look his friend in the eye afterwards.

Their friendship doesn’t have many limits, but that’s certainly one of them.

He’s halfway to Googling “how to unsend an Instagram message” when his phone vibrates in his sinful hand, his stomach dropping to the floor when he sees it’s from you.

And clearly not meant for him.

It’s a screenshot of a selfie he’d posted weeks ago on his parents’ boat, a picturesque sunset in the background that bathed his silhouette in golden light. Namjoon knows he’s photogenic, looks damn good from all angles and has never taken a bad picture in his life, even candidly, but that one had been especially striking, so he’s not really surprised. He has, however, gone dry in the mouth at the text below it.

Tae, you don’t understand. He’s so fucking hot it pisses me off a little. He’s kind of a dickhead but I’d still fuck the shit out of him.

Oh.

Well, fuck. He certainly hadn’t been expecting that.

His fingers twitch, both to reply to the message and wrap around his cock for the umpteenth time since that night at the club. And he knows the right thing to do is pretend he hasn’t seen it, not mention it, don’t rub your face in it, because if the situation was reversed, he doesn’t figure he’d like someone ribbing him, either. But he’d be a fucking fool to pass this up, so he replies with “Oh?” and throws the winking emoji back at you.

Another ten minutes pass and he’s certain he’s blown it. And then—

He nearly blacks out at what’s on his screen. Desire needles at his skin like a wildfire destined to burn out of control as he drinks in the sight of you, all that naked, smooth skin contrasting against the crisp, white sheets you’re wrapped in. There’s just a hint of indecency, a promise of a whole lot more, and Namjoon suddenly can’t remember having seen anything so perfect, can’t focus on anything except the sound of his blood in his ears and the picture in front of him. Wonders how it’d feel to run his hands over all that bare skin; how it’d taste. What you’d sound like as he took his time unraveling you—if you would even let him.

A whimper escapes him as another message comes through.

You can’t take me out, but I might let you invite me over if you behave and keep your hands to yourself until tomorrow.

“Fuck,” he mutters to himself, already feeling his boxers begin to tent.

You break your kiss and plant your hands on his chest, pushing him backwards into the wall. You’re a vision in crimson red before him, the lingerie leaving nothing to the imagination besides a plethora of unholy thoughts. Fingers twitch at his sides, itching to reach out and grab you.

You take a step back, just out of his reach. “You’re a very dirty boy, aren’t you?” you tease, your head cocking to the side as you take him in. “Can’t ever keep your hands to yourself.”

Lighting himself on fire would feel the same, Namjoon thinks. His blood burns in his veins, thick with such a heavy desire that it consumes him. He’s still fully dressed yet completely unraveled, so hard it’s painful, and he needs you to keep talking, needs you to touch him, needs you—

“Baby,” he whines, his hips betraying him as they thrust against nothing. “Please.”

A slow, sultry smile. “Didn’t take you for the begging type.” He groans again at his words being parroted back to him.

“I’m not.”

“And now?” you ask. “Would you beg for it?”

“Yes,” he says without hesitation. “Whatever you want.”

You quirk an eyebrow. “Are you sure it’s a good idea to give someone that kind of power? You never know what they may do with it.”

The words are out of his mouth before he can reconsider. “Baby, no one has complete power over me.”

He knows immediately he’s fucked, knows it even more when a mischievous smile stretches across your face. You’re so composed, just standing there in front of him as if he wouldn’t drop to his knees and do whatever you asked of him, like you have all the time in the world and this is just a minor inconvenience. As if you aren’t taking him apart at the seams, popping each stitch one by one and letting him hang in freefall. Making him sweat it out.

Beating him at his own game.

“Is that so?” You take a step closer, study him. See the way his eyes flutter closed in anticipation, the intake of breath, almost a plea. “Should we put those words to the test?”

You drop to your knees languidly, still too far away, and look up at him through dark lashes, your tongue rolling across your lips just enough to moisten them and state your intent. “What do you want, Namjoon?”

His name sounds obscene in your mouth. “I—” His brain and his body are at war, too much information to process that he can’t find the words, can’t formulate a single coherent thought. “I don’t, I—”

“Surely someone so in control could use their words?” He’s fucking ruined. “I’m on my knees in front of you and you can’t think of a single thing you’d like me to do?”

“I want your mouth,” he breathes.

“That’s not very specific. There’s lots of things my mouth can do.”

“Like talk a lot of shit,” he responds tartly.

“Yes, but that’s nowhere near as fun as the others.” You huff a laugh as you move close enough to rake your fingernails down his thighs. “Take these off.”

You’re still staring up at him from your place on the floor, your rapt attention doing fuck-all to help the way his hands are trembling. It’s not the first time he’s had a woman on her knees in front of him, but it’s the first time he can’t stop shaking long enough to pop the button on his jeans and drag them down his legs. Usually skilled, deft fingers rendered completely useless.

“You could make yourself useful and help me, you know,” he quips. Another failed attempt at the button before he finally gets it; something between a relieved groan and a hiss as he drags the zipper over his strained erection.

“Would you rather I undo your pants or make you come down my throat?” Namjoon is too dazed to answer. “You need to think before you speak, babe. That smart mouth will get you into trouble.”

“I’m already in a world of it, baby,” he responds, moving to palm himself.

You catch his wrist and move it back to his side. “No touching, yourself or me. You touch me and I stop.”

He barely resists the urge to ask what in the hell is wrong with you, can’t you see how desperate he is, how he’s already at the edge and you’ve barely touched him, that you’ve already won, might as well give in and stop fucking around.

Instead, he barely manages a nod. Plants his hands against the cold plaster of the wall at his back.

And waits.

You’re still kneeling on the floor in front of him, but the smug grin is new. He cocks an eyebrow, whether in question or challenge he isn’t sure, but you ignore it all the same. “How in control are you?” you ask.

“What?”

“No one has complete control over you, right?” You move so you’re laying back, propped up slightly on your elbows. “Would you be in control if I took this off?” you ask, tracing a finger along the lace trim of your thong.

His breath feels thick in his throat. “Yes.”

Hips jut into the air as you shimmy the garment down the expanse of your legs. If he was having trouble breathing before, he’s damn near suffocating now as he takes you in again, laying bare before him. Your nails graze along your skin—slowly, teasingly—and he watches, hypnotized, as they near your core. A hitched breath, wondering if you’re going to touch yourself as he watches. A silent prayer the answer is yes.

And it is. Fuck, it is.

You repeat your question—“Are you in control now?”—and he doesn’t know the answer. He is and isn’t, knows the reality doesn’t quite match up with what he wants to say. It’s a struggle just to tread water, let alone think up some smart response to hide how untethered he really is, to maintain that façade.

“Baby, I—”

“You want to touch yourself, don’t you?”

He groans, his fingers grasping at nothing as they try to dig into the wall. It’s all too much. Sensory overload. The sight of you, the lilt in your voice as you tease him. He’s always prided himself on his control, his dominance, and now that the trap door has given way beneath him and he’s left suspended, he’s simultaneously never felt more terrified and more alive.

“Yes,” he finally chokes out.

Your eyes lock on his as you say, “Go ahead.”

The first stroke brings such relief he’s certain he’s going to black out. A loud, unabashed moan comes with the second. The third—god, the third has his toes curling against the wood floor, that familiar heat pooling in his belly, ready to engulf everything in its path. His thighs begin to tremble as he keeps working himself over, and it’s not a second later that—

It’s nearly the afternoon when Namjoon jolts awake, his heart feeling ready to burst right through his chest. He doesn’t bother peeking under the covers, already knows, without having to look, what a mess he’s made of himself. Again. It hadn’t even been this bad when he was a teenager, and it’s this thought that has him stumbling to the shower to wash away his indiscretions. Sets the temperature all the way to cold as he steps inside, standing right under the spray.

Pathetic, really, how he can’t stop thinking about you. Can’t stop replaying in his mind how you’d felt, how you’d made him feel. The feel of your skin on the pads of his fingers, against his own; the smell of you, the taste of your mouth. The sight of you open and wanting and coming undone in front of him. If you’d managed to overwhelm every one of his senses in a dream, what was the real thing going to be like?

You’d told him to keep his hands to himself, but not even the sting of the freezing water is enough to cool him down, so he thinks about it once, twice, nearly three times before he slips his hand around his cock. What you don’t know won’t kill you, and he’s certainly not planning on coming clean.

Just needs to take the edge off. It’d assuredly be worse to walk around his place all day with an erection, he reasons.

The wait is torturous. Time itself seems to betray him, the clock barely moving every time he sneaks a glance at his phone. If he goes to hell when he dies, it’ll just be this, he thinks—the maddeningly slow wait for a booty call he can’t stop thinking about.

Because that’s all it is. He has to remind himself of this when it starts to feel too real, too comfortable, like he’s waiting for a date or something more serious than whatever this is. You don’t like him, don't like the way he carries himself or any aspect of his personality at all, really. Usually he’d be fine with a quick fling, a casual hook up or two to blow off some steam. But he’s a relationship, commitment kind of guy at heart, so despite his best efforts, the thought of this becoming something more still creeps in every now and then. A daydream.

Send me your address.

Nerves engulf him as the message comes through, and he must type and retype his response a dozen times before he finally gets it right.

Half hour.

The waiting game again. He moves around his place frantically, tidying and straightening, lights a candle, changes into something more presentable than joggers.

There’s a knock at the door and he swallows hard, tries to muster up some of his old confidence again. This isn’t him. Namjoon has never been reduced to a pining, uncertain mess, and he’s so off-kilter he barely manages to make it to the door before the third series of knocks.

As he pulls it open, his face drops unceremoniously. You aren’t standing on the other side, ready to greet him with a sultry grin. Instead, there’s a gangly-looking teenager in a uniform, his hat askew as he holds a pizza box.

“Uh, hi. Can I help you?” Namjoon asks, peering around the kid to look out into the hallway.

“I have a small sausage for you,” comes the response. Nasally and bored.

Namjoon chokes, the choice of words catching him off-guard. “I didn’t order a pizza.”

“Are you Kim Namjoon-ssi?” He nods. “Then this is for you.” The kid tries shoving the box into Namjoon’s hands, but he takes a step back.

“I promise you, I did not order a pizza.”

“Look,” the kid sighs, all politeness tossed aside immediately, “it’s already been paid for. Just take the damn box and throw it away if you don’t want it. I really don’t give a shit what you do with it, but I’ve got other deliveries to make.”

Eyes narrowed, Namjoon grabs the box and slams the door, opting to ignore the muffled you could’ve at least tipped me, you cheap asshole from the other side. Tosses the pizza onto his kitchen counter and stalks towards his bedroom where he’d left his phone.

Did you send me a fucking pizza? he types.

Told you not to touch yourself, comes your response.

It’s another week before he can convince you to see him.

A week of borderline begging—because he refuses to actually do so—and teasing and whispered confessions he doesn’t think twice about. He wants you. He wants you so badly he’s dizzy with it, and he’s done playing games. His desire is out there already and it’s obvious. No point in acting coy now.

You agree under the condition the two of you meet at the club. Have a few drinks with Jimin and Hoseok. No doubt to prolong his suffering, Namjoon figures, but he agrees all the same, willing to play along. He just wants to see you; hopes maybe being face-to-face will extinguish some of the heat.

But it doesn’t.

Of course it doesn’t.

You’re barely in each other’s company twenty minutes before he lets you drag him down a quiet corridor and into an empty bathroom. You let him press you against the sink, dress hiked up around your thighs; let him press a desperate, searing kiss to your mouth, all tongue and teeth and sighs of relief.

The first time scratches the itch. It’s quick—almost embarrassingly so—and rough, right there in the club, and all Namjoon can think about is the taste of you, how all those daydreams hadn’t done you a lick of justice. Swears stars pop behind his eyelids and he can hear a choir. You had been stunning in all his fantasies, but up close, in person, you’re so much better. As if your body is meant only to bring him to his knees, to make him surrender.

Namjoon very quickly realizes he’s got a problem on his hands.

There’s no way he’ll be able to let you go—already can’t stomach the thought of you being with anyone else. He doesn’t want to be with anyone else, and he curses at himself for letting it get this far, for letting someone ruin him this way. He knows without having to hear you say it that you aren’t the type to be tied down. Probably goes running at the first sign of attachment. But he can’t help himself, torn between touching himself to the memory of the way you felt around him and the thought of what it might be like to have something more.

The second time you come to him. Press him against the wall in the entryway and drop to your knees, your mouth working him into a frenzy before he can barely mutter a greeting. Fingers itch to tangle into your hair when he remembers his dream, wonders if he’s allowed to touch you like that, hopes that maybe he isn’t.

He wants you to destroy him.

“Baby,” he says, a fractured moan punctuating the sound of your name that follows. A hand joins your mouth in moving along his length and he swears. “Baby.”

There’s an obscene noise as you release him from your mouth, a trail of spit barely connecting the two of you as you look up at him with a gaze that’s been seared into his memory for weeks. “What?”

“I—fuck.” Your hand’s still working him, still doing that thing where it twists on the upstroke that has him feeling like all the air’s been punched from his lungs. “I want you,” he breathes. “I want—wanna make you come.”

A smile betrays you, the corners of your mouth turning up just enough for him to catch. “Do you want it?” Your free hand moves to his thigh, kneading at the cords of muscle there. Fingers dig into the crease at his hip, the ditch of his knee. “Or do you need it?”

“Yes,” is all he manages to say.

You sit back on your haunches, looking straight out of his wet dream as you stare up at him, bottom lip tugged between your teeth. “Go sit on the couch,” you instruct.

If he’s ever moved faster, he can’t recall when. You follow slowly, items of clothing dropping behind you as you go, only your matching lingerie left by the time you reach him. His breath catches again, both in awe and in anticipation. Yes, you’re stunning, but Namjoon can’t remember anyone else having ever invoked such a strong response from him. Every part of him needs you.

You straddle him, legs anchored at his sides as he grabs the back of your neck to pull you into a kiss. You’ve kissed dozens of times before, desperate, more teeth than anything else. This one he’s determined to take slow, take his time, savor you.

And as soon as he feels you tense, as soon as you pull away and move your lips to a spot just below his ear, he knows he has the answer to a question he never bothered to ask.

Teeth graze his earlobe. “I’ve been thinking about these,” you say, your palms dragging up and down his thighs. “Wanna get myself off on you.” And just like that, all those thoughts of something else are pushed to the back of his mind.

A loud whine escapes him, hips rocking forward to press his erection against your clothed center. Decides to take a risk and dig his fingers into your hips, a stray hope he might leave a mark, have just that bit of claim to you. Uses his leverage to situate you onto one thigh.

“By all means,” he says, lips moving against your collarbone. Hooks the fabric of your thong to the side, hands still on your hips to begin moving you. “But I want to feel it. All of it. Want to watch you make a mess on my leg.”

You move slowly at first, trying to find a balance between what you need and the tempo Namjoon is setting. A relieved moan when you find the right combination, and Namjoon matches it when he feels how wet you are. You move unabashedly, plant your hands on his chest as your hips grind faster, more frantic. Namjoon covers your hands with his own, fingers moving over yours as he digs your nails into his chest, drags them down far enough he knows they’ll leave marks. Thrusts at the thought of being marked by you, of having a reminder to come back to in the morning when you’ll inevitably be gone.

“Fuck, Joon,” you moan. “Feels so good.”

Hands still covering yours, Namjoon moves one to his neck, praising you as you tighten your grip around his throat. “That’s it. Just like that, baby. You look so beautiful using me like this.”

Namjoon can tell how close you are long before you ever bother to tell him. Sees the slight falter of your motions, feels you press yourself harder against him, desperate for more friction, the light sheen of sweat forming at your brow. He wonders, briefly, if you’ll actually let go, if you trust him enough to let him bear witness to you coming undone.

His question is answered as you break into a shaking, gasping mess, collapsing into his arms as he wraps them around you, tangling a hand in your hair and pressing kisses to your temple. Rains praise down upon you, tells you how thankful he is to be able to witness it. Wants to commit all of it to memory—your heaving chest, trembling thighs, the sounds you make as you come down from your high, the dazed look in your eyes as you open them and meet his own.

Knows he’s going to say something stupid, so he crashes his lips to yours, hungry for you in a way that honestly terrifies him. A way he’s never wanted anyone else. And he knows that’s the catch with you, knows this has an expiration date, and so he pushes this thought to the furthest corner of his mind. Knows he has to stay in the moment lest it all comes spiraling down around him.

He grabs the back of your thighs and stands from the couch, waits for you to wrap your legs around his waist before he moves toward his bedroom. Isn’t sure he’ll be able to make it, thinks about just fucking you into the wall in the hallway, but judging from the state of his leg, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to afford the dry cleaning bill if the two of you stay on the couch.

Obscene words spill from your mouth with each step he takes and he spares a moment to marvel at his self-restraint. Wonders when he’d acquired it, because he seems to have lost all of his old sensibilities when it comes to you. “Want you so bad,” you say, words nearly a purr as you speak them into the crook of his neck. “Just fuck me right here.” You use his grip on you to roll your hips, slick center gliding along the length of his cock.

He groans at the contact, lets your words wash over him and bathe him in your indecency. You roll your hips again, a lewd temptation and always a challenge. You want to tempt him straight to the edge and watch as he goes over, want him to regain control and lose it over and over again, want to ruin him for anyone who comes after you. And Namjoon knows you’re going to, knows this has already gone too far despite only having just begun, and he feels the anger seep in alongside the lust, though he can’t tell who it’s directed at. Probably himself, but that doesn’t reign him in.

He presses you against the wall of his bedroom, presses a searing kiss to your mouth—that dirty, unrelenting mouth of yours that never seems to stop—and he wants to kiss you breathless. Wants to shut you up, wants you to surrender, to beg, wants a million things he will never get.

And, all along, you were right. He always wants. Wants you, wants more, wants impossible things. Despite having you exactly where he wants you right now, you’re going to leave. You’re going to leave and he’s going to be left behind, wanting and destroyed and longing, and he’s none too impressed to be on this side for once.

Because, as he moves you to the bed and drapes his body atop yours, your words echo in his mind:

Want you so bad.

Want.

Not need. Never will be need.

“You drive me fucking crazy,” he says, hands everywhere at once, the feel of you beneath him nothing more than an answered prayer. His fingers move lower to your clit, teasing, circling slowly. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want,” you drawl, fingers tangling in his hair and tugging, and he gasps at the sting, “to watch you. I want to see exactly how good I make you feel.” His hips move of their own accord, pressing you further into the mattress. He’s so fucking hard, can barely believe he’s still conscious, and he’s absolutely drunk on the reality of you. “Do you want that? Want me to ride you until you come?”

“Fuck,” he moans. “Yes.”

You pull at his hair again, forcing him to look at you. “Then say it. Tell me you want it.”

“Fuck, baby, yes.” Slips a finger inside your cunt, desperate to make you as needy as he is. Pumps once, twice, before he adds a second. “Want you to make me come. Want all of it. Everything.”

A wordless demand for him to roll over as you nudge his shoulder, but not before your hips jerk upwards to meet his fingers, seeking him even though you’d never dare admit it. He smirks down at you, cheeks dimpling, moves his thumb back to your clit just to watch you writhe. Traces slow circles again just to listen to the way your breath hitches, to hear the small, gasping pants against his neck. Applies a hint more pressure just to feel your muscles clench tighter around him, the grind of you against his hand, hungry for more even when he’s ready to give you everything you want.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” he asks, delighting in the whines spilling from your mouth. “First my leg, now my fingers. I think you’re getting greedy, baby.”

You glare at him through lidded eyes. “Maybe I should hold it in. Think twice about stroking that massive ego of yours.”

He finds your wrist and grasps it loosely, moving it down his body to his cock. “You can stroke something else, if you’d prefer.”

You take him in your hand, pumping slowly. Gather the beads of precome at the head and move down the shaft and back up again. “Notice you didn’t mention anything about it being massive. Is that what the ego’s for? To compensate?”

Anyone else and he might be offended. But, coming from you, it’s just a challenge. Another jab. The game you love to play and have become very, very good at. A lesser man might not be able to handle it, but Namjoon… Well, it’d been his game first, after all, and he knows better than anyone that the only way to win is to not play.

So, he withdraws his fingers right as you’re at the edge. Makes a show of putting them in his mouth and sucking them clean, does his best to ignore the obscene jolt of arousal as you mutter a “Jesus fucking Christ” under your breath. “That’s not a very nice thing to say, baby.”

You roll your eyes, releasing his cock from your grasp. “So what? I’m being punished?”

“Only nice girls get to come.”

He’s on his back before he realizes he’s moved. Your fingers are wrapped tight around his wrists, pinning them above his head. A truly wicked grin forms on your face and he wonders, briefly, how anyone survives you. How no one has combusted under the sheer force of you and that look and everything that comes after it. Namjoon wants to burn beneath you for centuries, or however long you’ll allow.

Your body moves languidly up his own until your core is positioned over his face. “Maybe so, but nice girls don’t take what they want, either,” is all you manage to say before he wrangles his wrists out of your grasp and grabs onto your hips roughly, pulling you down against his mouth.

The first kiss he presses against you is soft, teasing. You groan, curse at him for being a tease, and press harder against his face. He flattens his tongue as he laps at you, desperate and hungry for your taste, pausing every so often to slap your ass, tell you to take exactly what you need from him. As you move above him, hips rolling against his mouth, his own body writhes at the heat between them, the brazen frenzy that’s taken over you.

He’s not sure how long he spends between your legs, but he knows it’s not long enough. He’d spend forever there if he could, drunk on it. You taste divine, and he tells you as much over and over, words spilling from his mouth when you aren’t putting it to use.

Thighs, still anchored on the sides of his head, begin to tremble, energy still pent up from the orgasm he’d denied you. He considers doing it again, payback for all your teasing and that smart mouth, but his body betrays him before he can even make up his mind, tongue flat and anchored against your clit as you grind and roll your hips across it. God, he never thought he’d get off on being used like this, always thought he needed to be in control to enjoy sex, but nothing about you has ever really made sense to him except that he can’t get enough.

As you come a second time, all he can do is gaze up at you in admiration. He wants you to take the piss out of him, loves watching the twinkle in your eyes as you scheme up some tart response. He wants the denial, the what-ifs, the second-guessing that always ends with you a blissed-out, moaning mess on top of him. Even now, when you’re exactly where he wants you most, it’s not enough. He still wants more.

He maneuvers so you’re eye-to-eye. Allows himself only a second of pride at how disheveled you are before he wraps his hand around the back of your neck, pulling you into a rough kiss. Receives a whimper as you taste yourself on his lips, his tongue, his face. Blindly, you reach behind you for his cock, hand wrapping tightly around the base as you pump him. Whispers something about returning the favor, about making him feel good, but Namjoon’s focus went to shit hours ago. Nothing exists in this moment—in this room, perhaps in his entire world—except you.

“Come on, baby,” he urges, situating himself against the headboard. Even though you’re inches apart, he can feel the heat emanating from your cunt and his cock twitches, seeking your warmth. “We’ve gotten a bit sidetracked. I believe you promised to ride me until I came.”

You grip him again, aligning his length with your center. The head of his cock teases against wet folds and he moans, earning him another knowing smirk. “Beg me,” you say.

“What?”

Another roll of your hips, another fractured gasp. “Do I need to repeat myself?”

His brows furrow in annoyance. Says your name in a way that sounds like a slur. “This isn’t funny.”

You lean down, hair draping your face. “Who’s laughing?” you ask before you lick a long stripe up his neck that causes goosebumps to erupt all over his body. “Beg me.”

“Please,” he breathes, the word sounding more familiar than he ever thought it could. “Baby, please, I—I fucking need you so much.”

“Do you?” you tease, fingertips tracing the ridges of his muscles.

Namjoon grabs your chin, forces you to look at him. “Stop teasing me and ride my fucking cock.”

Eyes go wide, pupils dilated at his dominance, the flaring of your nostrils giving away exactly what you think of it. But you smile all the same and sink down on him agonizingly slowly, take the first inch when you say, “As you order, sir,” sardonically.

You feel like heaven.

He’s not sure he’ll ever get used to it—not sure he’d even want to. Being able to experience you over and over, every time feeling like it’s the first… Namjoon isn’t a religious man, but having the privilege of having you so intimately is the closest he’ll ever get to seeing god.

“Fuck,” he moans.

Blinding, wet heat surrounds him as you take all of his cock. Don’t bother taking any time to adjust, just start moving immediately. His eyes roll back in time with the roll of your hips, back and forth the way you rode his thigh. One hand on your hip to brace you, the other palms at your breast, rolls your nipple between his fingers. The moan that escapes you is borderline pornographic. Lust overtakes him, primal and raw, and he moves his hand to join his other at your hips, holding you in place as he thrusts into you roughly.

“A masterpiece,” he praises. “You look so fucking beautiful bouncing on my cock. I’ll never get tired of watching you.”

He’s determined to make this as good for you as it is for him, determined to redeem his first performance. Tries to focus on anything he can besides the sharp slap of your skin meeting, the way your body clamps around him like a vice. But you love to torture him, don’t you, because you’re just as determined to put on a show. You toss your hair back, preen under his watch. You’re an absolute goddess, the most beautiful thing Namjoon has ever seen in his entire life. Perhaps stronger than his determination to make this good for you is his determination to keep you.

He’s a jealous man. He knows this about himself, has had plenty of time to make peace with it. And he knew from the second he laid eyes on you that he didn’t want to share with anyone else, knew he didn’t have the right, but now he thinks the thought alone might kill him.

So, he rolls you over, pins you beneath him so he can fuck you exactly the way he wants. “What are you doing?” you ask, eyebrows raised as you study him.

Proving something to you, he wants to say. Wants to be the best you’ll ever have, ruin every other partner for you. Wants so many things his head is swimming, and as he pushes into your tight, wet heat again, he wonders if he’ll be okay if this is the only one he ever gets.

His pace is slow, sensuous. “Fucking you,” he finally replies. “That alright?”

A loud moan as he adjusts the angle. “More than alright.”

He keeps on like this until he feels himself start to unravel. Starts in his toes, moves to his stomach where it branches out, warm and enveloping. Still, he stays even-keeled despite everything in his body screaming for more. Yours, too—the curling of your toes, your nails digging into his back, pulling at his hair. Your coarse, ragged breaths as you ask for more, more, always more.

“You feel so fucking good,” he growls into your neck. “Incredible, baby. Touch yourself for me. Make yourself come on my cock.”

You moan again. “Why? Can’t get me off yourself?” you tease, but it’s short-lived as he finally increases his pace, slamming into you hard before you can utter another word.

“You were saying?”

He expects another snappy reply, your smile catching him off-guard as he looks down at you. You’re touching yourself just like he’d said to, fingers working at your clit in slow, lazy circles. Another growl as he drinks in the sight of you.

“You like watching me, don’t you?” Namjoon nods. “Then tell me: how do I look?”

He squeezes his eyes shut, knows he’s not going to be able to hold off the longer he stares. “Like perfection.” You seem to whimper at his words. Just another sound he commits to memory.

A few more thrusts before his movements become erratic. He can feel how close you are, wills himself the strength to hold on just a minute longer—plans that are immediately forgotten as he feels your orgasm hit you, your walls clamping around him so tight his vision goes black.

“Fuck, fuck, oh fuck,” you cry out. Namjoon nuzzles into your neck as he follows you over the edge, coming so hard he can’t remember his own name.

Minutes—maybe hours, maybe even days—pass between the two of you, not a sound to be heard except jagged, labored breathing. Once he regains some semblance of consciousness, Namjoon pulls back enough to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips.

“You’re going to be my undoing, baby.”

His memory’s not so great, but Namjoon thinks he properly falls for you the tenth time you meet up.

It’d been nearing eleven-o’clock on a Tuesday night, thunder rumbling off in the distance, when you texted to ask if you could come by, which had been out of the ordinary. The two of you never met during the work week—a rule you had never clearly stated but one Namjoon had quickly picked up on nonetheless—so he hadn’t known what to expect when you knocked on his door.

“Bad day,” was all you’d said as you shrugged off your coat and pressed a hungry kiss to his mouth.

He’d wanted to ask why. Wanted to know what’d happened, but it wasn’t his business, your relationship not like that. You’d come over for sex, not for him to play therapist. Namjoon knew this, but as he pushed the fabric of your underwear to the side and pressed his mouth to you, he also knew your heart wasn’t completely in it, so he’d told you to make yourself comfortable in his bed while he made some tea. (He hadn’t bothered to mention he’d picked up your favorite brand while out shopping the weekend before, of course, because that would’ve been weird. It would’ve implied things. So, he’d simply fixed your tea and ignored your questioning stare when you took a cautious sip and hoped you knew he cared about you beyond the little arrangement the two of you had found yourselves in.)

(He hadn’t bothered to tell you that, either, of course.)

But the mind is a traitorous thing. As much as he’d wanted to stay logical, his brain and heart teamed up to conspire against him, to wonder and hope for things that couldn’t possibly have been true. Because, as he fell asleep wrapped around you, he’d found comfort in knowing you’d had a bad day and came to him.

Somewhere along the line, things had shifted. The two of you started laughing together, forming little inside jokes. Started texting about things beyond “your place or mine?” You became softer. Not any more available, at least emotionally, but you’d seemed to relax in his presence. Let down a wall or two.

And it’s been downhill ever since, really.

Your meetings have grown more difficult. Feelings had become involved months ago, and Namjoon comes close to admitting them out loud nearly every time you’re together. Sometimes, on Fridays, he lies and says he has to work late; on Saturdays, he has to “take an emergency weekend appointment” or “make a trip back home” to visit his parents for pretend birthdays and anniversary parties. He knows the two of you have an expiration date and he does what he can to prolong it, even when it’s dishonest.

Until, eventually, he can’t anymore.

Until he’s finally out of lies and agrees to meet you at the club, where he has one too many drinks to hide how stupidly smitten with you he is; too many drinks to forget that you don’t feel the same.

Until he’s so drunk he can barely stand and you offer to split a cab with him back to his place to make sure he doesn’t pass out and choke on his own vomit and he declines.

Until you tell him to stop being so goddamn stubborn because you’re just trying to help, you’ve seen him this fucked up before and it’s nothing to be embarrassed of, he’s too drunk for you to feel okay sending him home alone.

Until he tells you no, he isn’t embarrassed, he just can’t be around you any longer because he’s fallen for you and you don’t feel the same and he can’t keep hurting himself by trying to keep you.

Until everything comes tumbling out of his mouth and he thinks he feels the world tilt.

Then, you don’t say anything and just stare at him with a slack jaw and a mildly displeased expression as he calls Hoseok and slurs all his words when he asks him to come pick him up.

Then, he convinces himself you only looked that way because someone like you isn’t used to being rejected, that’s it, nothing more.

Then, Hoseok shows up and Namjoon doesn’t bother to look back as he leaves, missing the tears well up in your eyes.

When he wakes up on Sunday afternoon with a mind-splitting hangover, he remembers just enough of the night before to marinate in his self-loathing. He’d fucked up a good thing. Sure, you and him hadn’t put a label on whatever the two of you were, never bothered to define it, but you didn’t really have to. The no feelings part of the contract had been implicitly stated from the beginning, highlighted in neon yellow and underlined for added emphasis.

But there’s relief, too. He’d told the truth, was hurting himself to keep you, and now it’s over. He doesn’t have to worry about the unknowns anymore—what (or who) you’re doing and how you feel about him.

Because weeks of radio silence go by, so that tells him everything he needs to know. He knew you wouldn’t chase him so he’s not disappointed, but he’d allowed himself a strand or two of hope nonetheless that still feel crushing at times. Mostly on Friday evenings after he showers off his day and climbs into an empty bed, just wanting to hear his phone chime with a text from you asking to get together. Those strands of hope feel worse when he falls asleep alone, no unread texts except some stupid memes from Jungkook he doesn’t understand.

It doesn’t help that Hoseok’s properly seeing Jimin now, so he can’t fully escape you. Still hears bits and bobs about you and what you’re up to, still sees you in the background of Hoseok’s Instagram posts from parties Namjoon declines to attend.

He doesn’t know how long it’s supposed to take to get over a fling, but he can’t help but feel it’s taking an awfully long time.

Another month goes by. Nearly five since the first time you two had met. Namjoon starts to feel normal again; stops waiting for texts that never come and stops avoiding Hoseok because there’s only one thing he wants to talk about, and Namjoon hasn’t quite been in the right place to hear it. But he figures another four weeks have done him some good so he agrees to meet him at their favorite restaurant and they drink until they’re tipsy.

He doesn’t ask about you and Hoseok doesn’t mention a word, just says things are going well with Jimin and he’s planning on making it official soon. Namjoon doesn’t have to fake his enthusiasm and it feels nice. Normal. He doesn’t even make a thinly-veiled threat when the check comes and he sees Hoseok’s back to his old tricks, ordering all the most expensive items on the menu when it’s Namjoon’s turn to pay, just hands his credit card to the server.

It’s another four days when someone knocks on his door at nearly ten-thirty at night. There’s a sinking feeling in his stomach that tells him exactly who’s on the other side before he can pull the door open.

“Oh,” he breathes, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice even though seeing you is anything but.

It bothers him how affected by you he still is, how you’re still able to take his breath away despite not seeing you for months. And you’re still stunning, of course, so it makes sense he’d still go dizzy at the sight of you. “What are you doing here?” he asks.

Cautious eyes stare up at him as you swallow. “Can I come in?”

He fidgets, weight shifting from side to side. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

Braces himself for a quip that doesn’t come. Instead, you shrug and avert your eyes, staring blankly at the wall outside his door. “No, probably not,” you admit. Your tone is quiet, almost soft. That signature smug look is nowhere to be found, and months ago Namjoon would’ve loved this, would’ve delighted at seeing you so vulnerable, but now it just feels all wrong.

He coughs to clear his throat. “Did you, uh—is there something I can do for you?”

“I came to apologize,” you say, though it almost comes out more like a question. “I should’ve called sooner.”

Namjoon blinks. Of all the things he anticipated coming out of your mouth, an apology wasn’t one of them. “Oh. Well, you have nothing to apologize for. I’m the one who—” Ended things, his brain finishes, but he can’t bring himself to say the words. The two of you were only fucking, and ‘ending things’ makes it sound like more than what it was.

“Right,” you agree, though he can tell you don’t want to. “Okay. Well, I guess I’ll just…”

Unsure of what else to do, Namjoon simply nods. His fingers are digging into the door frame so hard they’ve started to turn white, and it’s all he can do to hide how badly they’re shaking. He’s anxious. Why is he so anxious? It only gets worse as he watches you exhale a steadying breath and turn on your heel, not bothering to look back at him.

His brain is screaming at him to go after you. After all, hadn’t he just spent months wishing for this exact thing to happen? But that kind of thing is only meant to happen in movies to people who are in love, and after all this time, he still hasn’t got a clue of where he stands with you. Showing up at his place unannounced should mean something, but you hadn’t pushed when he declined to invite you in, so he figures it was simply for a belated goodbye fuck. But…

“Hey!” he yells down the hallway. There’s relief when you pause and turn around, even though you stay where you are, don’t come closer, but that’s okay—you don’t need to. “Why did you really come here?”

A slow, neutral smile graces your lips. Not sad, but not happy, either. “Guess I figured things out a little late.”

Namjoon’s brows knit together, feels the crease between them. “What, that you miss fucking me?” He doesn’t mean for it to sound so brash and crude, but he supposes it needs to be said regardless. If any of his neighbors happen to overhear him say it, well, he also supposes they would’ve heard everything that came before, too.

“Of course I miss fucking you,” you reply, not bothering to lower your voice at all, “but I think I miss everything else a little more.”

“Everything else?”

“You bought my favorite tea,” you shrug. “And let me in when I had a bad day.”

He still doesn’t understand. “You told me you didn’t like me,” he says. “I wasn’t aware that’d changed.”

“Because I hadn’t told you.”

“And that’s why you’re here now? To tell me… what, exactly? That you don’t dislike me anymore?”

You seem unable to help yourself as you snort. Take a few steps closer until the two of you are nearly touching. “I came to ask if you’d like to go to dinner with me.”

“Right now?” he asks, clearly confused. “It’s nearly eleven-o’clock. I don’t think anywhere worth going is still open.”

“Well, if all else fails,” you quip, that smug grin brilliant as it returns, “we can always order in a pizza.”

Consequences be damned, Namjoon grabs the back of your neck and pulls your lips to his own, desperate to feel his mouth against yours again. Feels nostalgic at the taste of you, the feel—smiles against your lips when it’s all the same as he remembers. Familiar, like coming home. Revels in the way his heart nearly bursts out of his chest when you smile back.

You kiss for what feels like hours. Until you’re both weak in the knees and breathless, breaking apart only to gaze at one another stupidly and punch-drunk.

Namjoon presses a final kiss to the top of your head as he lifts you, not bothering to hide the megawatt smile on his face when you wrap your legs around his waist. “Pizza sounds good.”

“Let’s get a large sausage this time,” you offer, giggling into his neck.

It sounds like the best idea Namjoon has ever heard.

Thank you for reading! My inbox is always open if you’d like to leave feedback. I’d love to hear your thoughts! ❤

#btsgoldnet #btswritingcafe #btshoneyhive #namjoon x reader #namjoon x you #knj x reader #namjoon fic #namjoon angst #namjoon fluff

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yoursummerfrost · 7 months

Note

Can you say something about your current spuffy wip? Saw you mention it in the tags

Rskdkkdkdkd listen,,, the thing about this fic is that I do not know how to talk about it because I feel insane. I literally refer to it to Elise and Jaime as stab wound sex fic. It is a fic about nasty freak sex. Also it is a love story. Because of the nasty freak sex. Outside of that I would say the vibes are kind of like, season 5 but make it season 6? If that makes sense to anyone besides me.

A mini playlist: Out on the Town by Fun., Another Place by Bastille, and Dance Dance by Fall Out Boy.

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