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lovelytsunoda · 7 months

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kill of the night // lando norris

summary: she hates parties. especially quadrant parties hosted in large creepy mansions. at least the hot pirate hosting the party is into her, or she would have left ages ago.

pairing: lando norris x female reader

warnings: consumption of alcohol, lando cannot take anything seriously to save his life, the eerie feeling of being watched (anxiety or haunted house, you decide), pirate themed sexual innuendos, mention of spiders (arachnophobia warning!) reader has mild autism

the lights were low and the music loud as she pushed her way through the crowd, desperate for a drink and a moment of peace. the music was bad (some club mix of the rocky horror picture soundtrack) and all she wanted was for her massive headache to go away.

too bad she didn’t drink often. maybe something stronger than a hard lemonade would make this evening bearable.

she sat at the bar, feeling the eerie sensation of all eyes on her as she scanned the sea of bodies for the slew of other glittery fairy wings she had arrived with. she didn't even know some of the girls that well. all of the girls from her program had been invited, and she was trying to be a team player.

one girl was making out with a stranger, two others playing beer pong. the rest were lost to the crowd, dancing in ways that would definitely have disappointed their parents.

when the tuxedoed bartender came back with the crystal tumbler that had her vodka lemonade in it, she frowned at the tiny plastic sword, a gummy worm speared through it.

she just wanted a normal fucking drink.

sighing, she grabbed the glass and got to her feet, sending one last glance to the other girls before she started making her way towards the exit, mindful of the massive plastic wings strapped to her back. she had half a mind to just rip them off and throw them into the nearest trash can.

the outside hallway wasn't much better, and she found herself reaching into her purse for her airpods, less for music and more to just to cancel out the noise. she extracted the green plastic sword, taking the gummy worm off the plastic and dropping it into her mouth. the dj was playing ghostbusters, and she wanted nothing more than to be back home in her small, peaceful dorm, wrapped in her fleece blanket and reading 'love in the time of serial killers', or in the warm movie theatre watching 'a haunting in venice'.

instead she was here.

folding the small sword over in her hands, she grabbed her drink from the side table and made her way down the dreary hallway to get some fresh air.

the outside of the mansion was peaceful, if not a little disused. the hedges were neatly trimmed, the flowers well tended to as she sat down on a stone bench, the cold from the surface seeping in through the fabric of her dress as she took a sip of her drink.

truth be told, the peaceful atmosphere of the large, creepy mansion had been one of the few reasons she had agreed to come, living out her 'haunted mansion' fantasy: ghost who's been pining after her for centuries, the promise of eternal love. all but the evil ghost butler trying to kill her.

"the party's inside, you know!" a shout carried over the breeze, bristol accent sharp.

she yelped, dropping her drink and watching the glass shatter against flagstone.

"jesus! you can't just sneak up on people like that!" she shouted, yanking out her earbuds. "what is wrong with you, you fucking wanker!"

she got to her feet, spinning around to see who had spoken. he was tall enough (taller than her at least), dressed in a billowy white shirt and leather vest, leather breeches hugging his impressive thighs, a mane of curly brunette hair on the top of his head, and a fake sword strapped to his thigh.

at least, she hoped it was fake.

"woah, hang on." he frowned, coming closer to her. he looked like a prince, straight out of a disney movie. "i didn't mean to scare you."

could this be him? the ghost lover from her haunted mansion fantasy?

"it's fine. i guess i'm just jumpy. mansions that are almost certainly haunted will do that to a girl." she took a step back, trying to avoid the smashed glass as she turned, intending to go back to the stone bench before her wing got caught on a hedge. she cursed, resisting the urge to yank at the iridescent plastic.

"let me help." the stranger encouraged, coming closer to the hedge.

she shook her head. "it's fine, just let me take it off my back."

she gently eased out of the elastic straps securing the wings to her body, attempting to make it happen as gracefully as possible. one wing snapped back and smacked her in the face, and she tried to shake it off as she moved away, allowing them to dangle dejectedly from the hedge.

the prince came to stand beside her, his cologne overloading her senses as her reached over her to help disentangle the wings, his body heat against her back making her skin flush.

"here you go." his voice was soft as her passed her back her costume.

she could have left the wings there, she'd only paid three dollars to make them. she folded them up, placing the scratchy plastic on the stone bench before looking down at the shattered crystal.

“sorry about the glass. you’ll probably have to pay for it, being the host and all.”

“how did you know I was the host?”

her face blushed pink “havw you ever seen the haunted mansion? the original one with eddie murphy and wallace shawn?”

she gave him an opening, ready to hide her face behind her hands if it didn’t work out. there was a slight pause, and then he burst out laughing.

“you think that I’m some dead ghostly prince searching for his lost love?” he sputtered. “hate to break it to ya, tinker bell, but I’m not a prince, and I am very much alive.”

“I never said you were dead!” she crossed her arms indignantly, stomping one sneaker-clad foot against the flagstones.

chuckling, the suitor extended his hand. “I’m lando.”

“y/n.” she sighed, reaching to shake his hand. “sorry about the hostility, I just felt overstimulated in there. it’s the ‘tism in me.”

lando gestured for her to sit on one of the benches, looking out at the algae-caked fountain. it smelled earthly, yet his cologne was still all she could comprehend.

“have you had a chance to explore the house? based solely on your haunted mansion statement, I feel like that would be something you were in to.”

“it’s the only reason I came, truth be told. I hate parties, but some of the girls o study with thought it would be a good idea. what i didn’t realize was that we’d all be packed into the ballroom and pretty much the rest of the house would be off limits.”

lando laughed, straddling the bench next to her, one leg on either side. not very prince-like, if you had asked y/n. “well, I didn’t pick the venue. you can thank max and steve for that.”

“I don’t know who either of those people are.”

“I work with them in quadrant, they’re hosting this thing. I’d stepped out for a minute to take a business call.”

she snorted. “you? a business call?”

“what’s so hard to believe about that?” lando feigned offence, smacking his chest with his palm. “and why did your mind immediately go to the haunted mansion when you saw me? I was going for less master gracey and more will turner.”

“please, you’re jack sparrow at best. I can tell you bought your little pirate outfit at spirit halloween. and if my first instinct was that you were dressed as a prince, something is missing.”

she propped one leg lengthwise on the bench, tucking one sneaker-clad foot under the other, smoothing her dress over as to not give the man in front of her a glaring look at her dusty pink panties (although an intrusive thought did prompt her to wonder what would happen if she did).

“have you had a chance to explore the mansion yet?” she asked the man. well, the boy. he couldn’t have been too much older than she was.

lando shook his head, a few errant curls falling from his shaggy hair and over his eyebrows, and something about the way he shook his head to clear the curls from his eyes had her mouth watering. she wondered briefly what it would be like to kiss him.

“i saw a bit of it when we were bringing everything in. it’s a maze of service tunnels and secret doors. i actually got myself locked in a cellar.” lando laughed, and the butterflies erupted in her stomach, a giddy feeling spreading through her bones. “and that’s why ria thought it would be a good idea to cordon off most of the house. so that idiots like me didn’t get themselves locked in anywhere they couldn’t get out of.”

she raised an eyebrow, almost questioning exaclty how th man in front of her got himself locked in a cellar before she thought better of it. “so you know where all these secret passageways are?”

lando wagged his eyebrows. “is that something you’re into?”

“why do you have to say it like that?” she giggled, bringing her hand up to cover her mouth when she remembered how she usually looked when she laughed. “you make it sound weird. like a sex thing.”

“well, it’s not a sex thing,” lando reassured, stepping off the bench like he was dismounting a noble steed. “unless you want it to be? I’d be down to, uh, shiver your timbers in a secret hidden alcove.”

“not if you make bad pirate puns.” she rolled her eyes, taking landos extended hand in hers and allowing him to help her up. “but we can see where the night takes us.”

she shouldn’t have said that. why did she say that? would he think she was propositioning him?

the wind was breezy on her bare legs as lando led her across the moonlit backyard, pushing open the same door they had just come through. the family photos on the wall were old and faded, frames of orange gold around them. lando ushered her up the stairs, clouds of dust flying off the carpet as they ascended. the further up the stairs they moved, the mustier it smelled.

lando stopped her on the landing, hardwood covered in a threadbare oriental carpet, everything covered in a fine layer of dust, save for the cracked mirror.

"press on the edges of the fame, but stand back." lando suggested. "max brushed up against it earlier and almost got flung off the landing. it's a service entrance door."

"sick." she mumbled, pressing her slender fingers along the filigree gold frame. "just like this? do you remember where the latch was?"

"if i did, i'd have opened the door myself." he shrugged.

all at once, she felt the mirror give way under her hand, a clicking sound barely audible as the door began to move. lando reached for her hand, gently pulling her out of the line of fire.

"that was fucking awesome." she giggled, pulling her phone out of her purse and switching on the flashlight. "you know we need to go in there now, right?"

"just as long as you can get us back out." lando pleaded. "i don't want to die in a service tunnel."

she lead the way up the stone staircase, her flashlight illuminating the pounds of dust and cobwebs (as well as the occasional lump that might have been a dead rat, but she actually didn't want to know).

"if i see any big ass spiders in here, killing them is your job." she tried to keep her voice steady, but the thought of a massive spider crawling up her leg was not her idea of a good time. in fact, it would likely send her into hysterics.

they reached the top of the winding staircase, coming to rest in front of a large wooden door with a wrought iron knocker shaped like medusa's head. the hinges were slightly rusted, and it was clear that nobody had come up here for a while.

until them, of course, their footsteps clearly imprinted in the dusty stairs below.

"well, it would be a shame to turn back now." lando remarked, reaching for the door handle. it was stiff, but the room was unlocked.

she followed lando inside, reaching blindly for the old dial lightswitch on the wall. the room flickered to life, lit by two dull bulbs hanging from the ceiling.

a large bookshelf took up one wall, a dust and dirt caked window overlooking the grounds on another, equipped with a window seat for reading. a small crosley record player sat on a teak stand, pressed up against a wall painted an off cinnamon color. she walked to the milk crates stacked neatly next to the the player, flipping through well-worn vinyls.

"whoever was last up here was really into seventies disco. we've got abba, donna summer, elton john, blondie, hot chocolate, earth wind and fire." she mused, pulling a blondie album out of the basket. "although i always considered blondie to be more new wave than anything."

lando reached over her, his chest just faintly burshing up against her arm, body heat causing her skin to flush as he grabbed an elton john record from the basket.

"elton john? now this guy wrote some great stuff."

"nothing in this basket is organized in any way! they've got wild cherry at the front with earth, wind and fire, but blondie is pushed way to the back with chaka khan and ike and tina. no rhyme or reason! i have half a mind to rearrange it myself."

the record player crackled to life, the sound coming out of two old wooden marley speakers, a sound system that hadn't been updated in a while but still came through crisp as they day it was put together. elton john and kiki dee's duetting voices began to fill the room, and lando extended a hand.

"can i have this dance, my fair maiden?"

she smiled, leaning against the stack of milk crates. "i dunno. ladies like me don't dance with scoundrels like you."

"but a scoundrel like me will show you a damn good time. if you let me, of course."

giggling, she grabbed his hand, allowing the young man to twirl her in a circle before dipping her towards the floor, her hair dusting the shag carpet. soon, their laughter was louder than the stereo itself.

out of breath, their gleeful dance began to slow. they stood in the middle of the dimly lit room, 'don't go breaking my heart' playing lowly in the background, the thumping bass from the ballroom travelling upstairs as lando leaned in.

the craned her face up, pressing on to her tip toes to meet him halfway, brushing her lips against his before her pulled her in for more, his strong arms like a safety net around her body, ready to catch her if her knees buckled (which she was almost sure they would).

"i've gotta hand it to ya, captain. you're one smooth operator." she giggled, kissing him again. "i wonder what else you can do with that tongue?"

"come dock in my port, and you'll find out."

she burst out laughing, dropping her arms to playfully smack him in the chest. "that was your worst pick up line yet!"

"really? i've got a ton more, read up for this very occasion. what else have i got? there's 'i sure would like to pillage your booty', but that one sounds a little sleazy, 'not only do i have a ship, but it's a long one."

"oh my god, you need to stop. they're all as bad as the one that came before." she was laughing so hard there were tears in the corners of her eye. he thought he was so suave, rattling off stupid pickup lines while he leaned against milk crates of vinyl pressings.

and the stupid thing was, it was working.

tired of listening to him ramble, she stalked over to him, grabbing his leather vest and pulling him in for another kiss.

TAGS: @userlando @magnummagnussen @diorleclerc @scuderiamh @lorarri @cartierre @clemswrld @httpiastri @love4lando @silversainz @silverstonesainz @scuderiasundays

#lando norris #lando norris x reader #the cozy collection 2023 #formula one x reader #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #lando norris imagine #lando norris POV #Spotify

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basichextechml · 1 year

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Wet Braids and Ribbon Ties

Wednesday Addams/Fem!Reader

Rating: Teen // 2.4K Words // No pronouns used for reader, but implied Fem, Soft as hell, Teen for graphic jokes and it being somewhat suggestive at the end, Wednesday being someone emotionally vulnerable, Makeout sesh

A storm brings you closer to Wednesday than you’d ever thought it could.

---

Pattern recognition was a necessary trait of human evolution, and essential for the continued survival of any species. Those that came before you had used it to scavenge food, tame animals, create languages, and form communities. Sure, you were still doing these things, but it was less urgent, society collectively pushing past those base instincts to refine such senses. Vaguely, you wondered if your ancestors would be a bit disappointed that your brain’s neocortex was being used to psych yourself out over the sight of braids. While they were trying to figure out what berries and fruits wouldn’t kill them, you were worrying about Wednesday Addams and her twin braids that seemed to haunt you. Though, you guess it wasn’t their fault that you had pavlov'd yourself into associating the hairstyle with pretty brown eyes and a penchant to make your heart race.

It was all made much worse by the storm that had been rapidly approaching Nevermore. Again, ancestors fighting for their lives in the elements- while you were fighting for your life at the sight of Wednesday with water droplets clinging to her lashes.

Wednesday’s investigation into the murders around the town had all but halted, all her leads running dry. The Sheriff wasn’t responding to her evidence, and Xavier hadn’t made any moves- but she still felt a pull in her chest, like something was missing. She had requested (demanded) that you follow her to the Gates mansion to poke around once more. Enid had vehemently rejected both of your requests to follow.

“What time are we going then?” You ask, leaning against her bed frame as you watch her fill up a bag with flashlights, rope, and a first aid kit.

She zips the bag shut in finality, “Tomorrow night, after curfew. We’ll have to walk, so wear a jacket.” It seems she never got over the time you wore a tank top in 45-degree weather and you kept putting your freezing hands on the back of her neck.

“Isn’t there a storm coming, though?” She raises an eyebrow as if asking ‘so?’, “We don’t know how structurally sound that place is, what if it floods?”

Wednesday lets out a quiet huff, lips pursed in a thin line, contemplating your words. Finally, she concedes. “You’re right, be ready to leave at 4. I’ll meet you in front of your dorm.”

Okay, yeah that seemed more reasonable-

“4? Like four in the morning?” You questioned incredulously, arms crossed in front of your chest.

There was a ghost of a smile at your confusion, an inherent pride to it. “I thought you wanted to beat the rain?”

While Wednesday had pavlov'd herself into being associated with the debilitating symptoms of falling in love, you also came to associate the girl and her long, dark braids with the troubling feeling of everything going wrong at once.

---

Stupid Pavlov. Stupid neocortex. Stupid pattern-seeking brain.

Due to years of evolution, you were now trudging through cold sheets of rain in a forest with the girl you liked looking for clues on a murder investigation at 4:48 in the morning. Your boots making contact with the mud made terrible squelching noises as you both slowly made your way back to Nevermore, the only sound between you being that of twigs snapping beneath your weight.

This endeavor had resulted in nothing, it was a long shot if Wednesday was being honest. She had already found the evidence once in the basement, and it had been moved when she came back. Why would the perpetrator come back to the home? She had no clue- but she had nothing else to go on, and was feeling a bit -to her disgrace- defeated. While she was in the middle of looking around the basement for the umpteenth time, the storm predicted on the forecast came early, The house, just as you had predicted, began flooding, cutting her even deeper.

Now, with no fruits born of her labor, and your cold hand in hers guiding her through the dawn of a new day; you were slowly and surely going home.

As the lights of Nevermore Academy shone through the thicket of the forest, you both continued on your leisurely pace, despite the pouring rain. You both were already wet, running would do you no good now. Despite the shiver that ran down your spine at the nipping cold, you were fine with staying outside a little longer.

“I’m sorry,” Wednesday said suddenly. The apology nearly made you stop in your tracks, looking at her in disbelief. Never had Wednesday apologized to you- for anything.

The look on your face, as if you weren’t trusting the words she was saying, snapped at the strings of Wednesday’s heart. Enid’s words come back to haunt her, tearing into her about her inconsiderate nature. She’s sure you’d been made to feel that way as well. It was confusing. She should feel overjoyed at the misery of others. But seeing you by her side, being soaked head to toe by the rain, chilled to the bone? She was just as miserable as you.

“I’m sorry.” She reiterates, knowing fully that you heard her the first time.

“You don’t have to apologize-”

“I do.” The words are biting, and that does stop you in your tracks, inadvertently stopping her as well. Wiping the rain from your eyes, you look down at your interconnected hands. This was the longest you had ever touched her. The longest she’d ever let you touch her. “I have been… Selfish, as of late. And for that, I apologize. I am single-minded, I put you in danger, and I…”

You watch with a hitched breath as she avoids eye contact. This is difficult for her. Her shoulders are rigid, her mouth tense, and her hands twitching. The rain pelts down on you both, and you suddenly feel like you’re the main characters in a film.

“I believe I’ve hurt you, so I’m sorry.”

She looks terribly beautiful, hair sticking to her face in waves, her lips, and her nose the brightest red you’ve seen on her, doe eyes big with her eyeliner running from the rain. You simply squeeze her hand thrice. As unhealthy as it may sound, you had already forgiven her for anything she had done long ago- and you’d continue to do so, as long as she kept dragging you around with her hand in yours.

“Thank you, Wednesday. I accept your apology.” And, again, you mean it. Pulling her a bit closer, just so your shoulders knock together, you begin your journey once again. “Now come on, I think we should both get dry before we die horrible deaths from contracting pneumonia.”

“I believe we have conflicting ideas on what constitutes a “horrible death”.”

“I’m sure we do, Wednesday.”

You both gingerly sneak through the door and through the foyer, tracking mud on the carpet up the stairs. Wednesday makes you stop once you get to the top, and take off your shoes so you don’t track the mud back to the dorms- so Principle Weems doesn’t suspect you two. Though, you think it’s a lost cause because you’re both the number one suspects for anything slightly off that happens.

Your dorm is closer, and quietly, in the early morning embers, you usher Wednesday into your room, locking the dorm behind you.

The single dorm you resided in was smaller than the rest, the space easily filled up by your belongings. But you wouldn’t be caught dead asking to switch, you liked having your privacy- a rarity at a boarding school.

Wednesday is already making herself at home, leaving her shoes at the door and shrugging off her coat and scarf. “You can shower first.”

“Are you sure?” You ask, doing the same. Wordlessly, she takes your own jacket from your hands, spreading it on the floor next to hers. The space heater you have for nights like these is already cranked on high.

“Yes,” Wednesday confirms, sitting down in front of the machine, “I just need some time to think.”

“Alright, I’ll be quick.”

You’re true to your word, grabbing your pajamas and heading to the bathroom. The shower feels nice on your frigid skin, and you make sure everything is still organized for when it’s Wednesday’s turn. An extra towel is left on the sink once you’re done. She’s sitting in the exact spot you’d left her, the lines troubling her forehead just as prominent. You search through the black clothes in your closet, pulling out a pair of sweats and a matching sweater with some socks, and tapping her shoulder. “Your turn,” You mumble, presenting your offering.

Her fingers linger on yours, the shadows and movements emphasized by the low lights in your room. The clothes are held away from her still-wet body, and she gets up, closing the bathroom door behind her. As you hear the shower start again, you put your towel on the floor, mopping up any water that had dripped off of her.

This evening hadn’t gone as you thought it would’ve. It was like that morality test, if an oncoming train had its brakes cut, and you had to choose between crushing six people or one, what would you choose? You, of course, were all seven people- you would die either way. That made Wednesday the train, didn’t it?

Before you knew it, the door to your bathroom opened again, Wednesday stepped out in your clothes, using the towel you’d given her to scrunch the water out of the ends of her hair.

Your mouth felt dry like you were at the dentist getting a tooth pulled, and they had to suction all the saliva from it.

“Do you have a brush?” She asked. Getting up from your spot on the floor, you flitted around your desk, grabbing the one you’d left next to your vanity mirror. Holding it for a moment, you contemplated your next words.

“Could I do it?”

Time stood still in your dorm, fingers nervously pushing over the prongs on your brush as you awaited a response.

Wednesday felt warm. Swallowing her tongue and sitting down on your bed, cross-legged. “You may.”

Her hair was long and thick, pitch black as the night sky, and softer than anything you’d felt before. She smells faintly of your shampoo, and you find yourself light-headed as you gingerly rake your fingers through the ends of her hair, ridding it of any tangles. Starting at the ends, you slowly brush through the damp hair, working your way up. It’s longer than you had initially thought, undone of its iconic braided style.

Wednesday felt nearly naked with her hair unstyled and wet in your hands. The brush working against her scalp treated her so tenderly. As if you would rather walk through the fires of hell than yank against a strand of her head. She licked her lips, eyes suddenly watery. She had forgotten what tenderness had felt like these past few years. She believed she didn’t need it. Maybe she was wrong.

Using your nail to part her hair in two, you push both sections over her shoulders, and the bed creaks as you get off to sit in front of her.

The girl who avoided your gaze when apologizing earlier is gone, and instead wholly intent on looking at you as you finger comb through the section of hair on her left shoulder. Deftly, you split it into another three, even sections, slowly beginning to put together her signature braids. Wednesday watches as your lashes flutter while you concentrate, enamored with how you lick your lips and twitch your nose. You’re engrossed in her. Sitting here in your clothes, letting you do her hair, she must be equally captivated.

You get to the end of the first braid before you notice an issue. “I don’t have a tie,” You announce, pouting.

“I left them in the bathroom,” Wednesday says, already getting up. But you stop her.

“Wait-” And you're leaning over to your desk, rummaging through the top drawer. Pulling out two strands of black ribbon, you’re back in your spot in front of her. She’d seen them in your hair before. Setting one down in your lap, nimble fingers keep her braid in place while the other positions the ribbon. Soon enough, she had a perfect little bow tying the braid together. You start immediately on the next one.

Wednesday Addams has bows in her hair.

Once you’re confident they’re even, you lean back, eyes immediately shooting up to her neglected bangs. Taking the forgotten brush, you lean in. Much closer than necessary for the task, but instead of pushing you away, she tries to see if she can feel your breath. Rounding off her bangs, you discard the brush for a final time, hands coming up to finger curl the longer ends, framing the hollow of her cheeks perfectly. Your hands settle on the curves of her jaw.

Her pupils are blown wide, eyes narrowed dangerously, and you feel like a meek hare in front of a desert viper. You’re sure her venom would sting, and you’d be happy to let it flow through you.

She lets her fangs sink into you, pulling you in until her lips connect with yours. Unlike her demeanor, she was soft against you, hands coming up to the nape of your neck to keep your lips flush against hers. The warmth of your sweater and your hands and your lips are too much and not enough, and when you finally pull away to catch your breath- cheeks hot and eyes lidded- she finds you irrevocably adorable. She understands why Anaconda kill and eat their mate. If you don’t stop looking at her like that, you’ll undoubtedly meet the same demise. Wednesday finds herself pushing you down, pillows cushioning your fall as you lazily bring her back into your embrace.

As the clocks crawl forward, you both stay the same, warm and flush against one another. And as the clock strikes 8:30am, you’re both broken from your reverie.

“Good Morning everyone,” Principle Weems sounds from the intercom, “Due to the storm, faculty has made the decision to cancel classes and extracurricular activities for the remainder of the week. If the storm lets up, this schedule is subject to change. Stay dry everybody!”

A bit late for that.

“We’ll be staying here.” Wednesday decides for you both, already pulling you back in. You kiss against her jaw in agreement, fingers pulling apart the bows in her hair.

---

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed it, please consider reblogging, I'd really appreciate it! As always, my asks are always open to talk ^-^

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1CbNa8jneefleLKCK98HHC?si=1c7e5b671ae14e42

#Wednesday (2022)#Wednesday imagine #Wednesday x Reader #Wednesday Addams x Reader #Wednesday fanfic #my fics #all of my Wednesday fics so far have been written in the wee hours of the night

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copperbadge · 3 months

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[ID: Two images of a flat sewn cloth for reading tarot on; it is essentially a rectangle with tabs on the end. The "outside" is made from tan fabric edged with purple, with a pair of patches sewn on; the inside, where the cards would be kept and laid out for a reading, is a busy checkerboard pattern of black, grey, and orange.]

I've been trying to use up fabric from my stash, and also get better at both sewing and designing my own patterns, so I made a Tarot reading cloth that also carries a couple of decks stylishly and securely. Finished it this morning with the final addition of a couple of patches and the button closure.

The outer fabric is printed with dinosaur fossils and the purple is a replica of the wallpaper from Disney's Haunted Mansion. The inner fabric is skeletons (orange), Ed Emberley cats (grey), bats from an old pair of pajamas (other grey), and a couple of squares of plain orange from an old bedsheet.

[ID: Three detail images; left, a patch of a haunted garden featuring regular plants like carrots and watermelon, along with a skull, a ghost, a jack o'lantern, and several crossed bones; beneath the patch is a subtle buttonhole. Center, a pair of decks, the Fantod Pack by Edward Gorey and the British Gothic Tarot, are sitting in the center of the interior of the reading cloth. Right, the cloth has been wrapped around the decks and buttoned shut; it is a neat purse-like bundle.]

The patch on the front was a gift from a reader years ago who went by Niamh at the time, but that doesn't appear to exist anymore; if you're still reading, I saved it for YEARS so that I could put it on a tarot cloth and finally got to!

I'm pretty pleased with how the thing folds up -- it's not exactly how I wanted it to, but it gets the job done. I might put two more buttonholes into it so that I can fix a strap to the fabric itself, but if I want to carry the pad without a strap (just tucked into a bag) I can, and if I want to have a shoulder strap I can run a strap under the top flap pretty securely (the ends of this strap have D-rings that just hook into each other to make a loop).

[ID: The folded bundle of the cloth has a quilted strap attached, tucked under the upper flap; the strap suspends it from a coat hook on the wall, showing how it would hang from a shoulder.]

Very pleased to have completed a sewing project -- I basically at this point have a basket of half-finished stuff that I'm working through, and it's nice to be able to complete them and either put them to use or give them away.

#crafting #sewing #making #tarot

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gayuu-the-necromancer · 1 year

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Chapter 2

Boundary Between Good And Evil

???: "Wait!!"

(.....!)

I see a little girl and an angry man leaped in front of me, entangled.

Little girl: "Ow!"

He shakes her wrist roughly and I see a small twinkle between her closed fist.

(Is she a thief?)

Man: "I'll make sure you can't use that arm of yours!"

The man raised a fire poker.

(If you hit her hard with that it will break her bones for sure!)

A moment unfolds before my eyes and----

Kate: "Wait!"

Unintentionally, I shouted.

Man: "Huh?! What do you want?"

(I didn't mean to step in, but...!)

Kate: "Hey, first return what you stole. After that, I'll listen to what you have to say."

Little girl: "Ngh!"

Man: "Ow!?"

(Huh!?)

The little girl took this opportunity to kick the man in the arm and disappeared into the crowd.

Man: "Come back, you bitch! And you, what the hell were you trying to do, huh!?"

Kate: "S-Sorry, I didn't mean to...."

(It didn't come to my mind that she would kick the man and run away)

I regret sticking my nose into other people's business, but I'm sure it will haunt me later.

Man: "She stole something very expensive from me! Of course, you're going to pay me for that, right?"

Kate: "Yes, I'll pay you!"

I can feel tears running down my face, as I took out my purse.

...........

Man with long black hair: ".....I see. So that's the cute little robin."

...........

Kate: "Haa....I did it again."

(Although to that jeweler, that little girl may have been an outright bad person, stealing things)

(But I also didn't think it was good to...hurt and blame the little girl who was so cornered that she had to steal)

Everyone knows that East London is full of people living in poverty.

I couldn't just stand by and watch a little girl get hurt without knowing what kind of feelings she was having about stealing.

(But in the end, the jeweler was victimized and the child got away with the crime)

Kate: "....I don't know if what I did was good or bad."

Kate: "All I know is I'm a little short on money for tickets to this month's play."

It is my humble hobby to go to the theater once every few months with the salary I have saved up.

(I was supposed to save up enough after today's delivery...looks like I won't be able to make it this month)

Kate: "Well, I guess there is no point in crying over the spilled milk. I'll just have to make some more money again!"

...........

Kate: "I'm back."

Postmaster: "Kate! Thank god you're here!.....No wait! On second thoughts maybe not, the streets at this hour would be dangerous..."

Kate: "What's wrong?"

Colleague: "Actually, we're understaffed. There is still a vacancy for night delivery."

(Night delivery...that's it!)

Kate: "I'll do it!"

Postmaster: "Are you sure, you will be safe? I appreciate the help...but."

Postmaster: "Okay look, the delivery block is a safe townhouse area, but don't wander off carelessly."

Kate: "Got it!"

(Great! Now can make up for the money I lost earlier!)

(It's my first time doing night delivery...as long as I'm cautious, I'll be fine)

..........

Man with long black: "Now, gentlemen, are you ready?"

Man that looks like a cat: "Of course, Victor. It's been a long time since we've all been on a mission together. It's very exciting."

Aloof man: "You're getting too excited. Too much excitement can backfire and you'll end up hurting yourself. So just chill."

Man with a gun: "I'll fix you up if you're not too badly hurt. If you die, then I'll have one less person to help me with my research."

Man that looks like a cat: "Thank you, Roger. As expected from a former doctor."

Man with blond hair and blue eyes: ".......Al, do I have to go too?"

Gentlemanly man: "Yes. It's a lovely evening and there may be something you're looking for in the target's mansion."

Man with blond hair and blue eyes: "Really....okay."

Best man: "If we're going anyway, get on with it quickly. Unlike the nobles, I don't have time for this."

Tall young man: "You don't have business meetings or collections scheduled for tonight."

Best man: "Tsk....Can't you just read the room and not be honest for once. Shut up."

Man with red eyes: "As you can see, the Crown is ready, Victor."

Man with long black hair: "Ahaha, as usual. You guys are so carefree. Well, let's get started then."

Man with long black hair: "Loyalty to your evil tonight."

Chapter 3 - Invitation To The Dark Night

#ikemen series #ikemen villain #ikemen villains #otome #cybird #cybird ikemen #cybird otome #ikemen mc

78 notes · View notes

theharrowing · 2 years

Text

Collateral 🗡️ 10: We know everything, dove

Your ex-boyfriend gets in over his head working for the local mafia, and Boss Min has come to collect his payment: You.

But was it simply a matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time? Or has he always had his sights on you?

PREVIOUS | INDEX | NEXT

🗡️ Yoongi x Female Reader x Namjoon 🗡️ word count: 12k 🗡️ mafia au, strangers to lovers, graphic violence, major character injury, poly, smut, angst, fluff, nsfw, explicit, 21+ 🗡️ warnings: daddy kink, fingering & oral sex, squirting, graphic depictions of violence with blood, vomiting, character injury

🗡️ beta read by @neoneunnajimin!

🗡️ posted sept. 2022 | read on ao3

Steam fogs up the ensuite quickly as Yoongi's large tub fills with hot water. Yoongi's bathroom is, quite frankly, ridiculous. Everything is black marble with gold accents and light wood cabinet doors. Along one wall is a sink with two large vessel bowls and a large mirror.

Past the sink and a modest toilet is a shower that is nearly a room of its own, with glass walls and doors, several ceiling-mounted shower heads, and tile shelves along one wall. On the other side is a spacious cabinet across from the sink, and near the shower is a square, black jacuzzi tub, which is large enough to fit four or five people.

Jimin sits on the closed lid of the toilet seat while you dig through Yoongi's cabinets, sighing at the lack of bath-related items. While a glittery bath bomb may not be the best idea for a tub with jets, you had hoped for a nice scented bubble bath to act as aromatherapy to ease Jimin's nerves.

"I'm going to run to my bathroom quickly, okay?" you ask, and Jimin nods, though his eyes stay glued to a fixed point ahead.

You move quickly, scurrying from Yoongi's room to yours. The mansion feels eerie with everyone gone or asleep and with most of the lights dimmed, so you opt not to linger and find out if it happens to be haunted as you run through your room to grab a bottle of eucalyptus-scented bubble bath from your bathroom shelf and run back.

When you return—slightly winded from your excursion—Jimin is still seated on the toilet, and you hold the bottle toward him. "Is this okay?" you ask, squeezing the open bottle enough to emit a burst of scented air. Jimin nods and cracks a smile.

You turn back to the tub, which is nearly full, and squeeze a single drop of liquid into the water stream. There is a marble platform beside the tub on which you set the bottle, then you shut off the faucet and switch on the jets.

"Is this too much?" you ask, and Jimin purses his split lips and moves them side to side in thought, then shrugs.

"Seems fine," he mutters. "We can always turn it off."

You smile wide. "He speaks."

Jimin chuckles and shakes his head. There is a sadness in his eyes, but at least he is attempting a smile. "Yeah, sorry. I get really in my head sometimes."

"Understandable."

"I, uh...this might be weird," Jimin says, tugging at the edge of his pastel pink fuzzy robe. He nibbles on his bottom lip, wincing when his teeth graze over a fresh wound. "Would you...can you join me?"

"In the tub?" you blurt out, unsure what he means.

Jimin looks timid, shoulders hunched and unsure. He shakes his head.

"Forget it. I'm sorry, I can't ask that of you."

"Of course I'll join you," you respond in a tone much softer. Jimin stares ahead and makes no indication that he has heard you, and you turn to the cabinet to find towels. "I'll give you some privacy, and when you're ready—"

Jimin stands slowly and unties the cord around his waist. Beneath the pink robe are tight black briefs, and you avert your gaze and busy yourself by grabbing two towels to place on the marble ledge beside the tub. Jimin enters the tub and slowly sits, hissing as he sinks into the warm water.

Unsure how to approach the situation, you shift on your feet nervously. Jimin is in his underwear, so it would not be weird for you to join him. You do not have a bra or bathing suit nearby, but you suppose it would be fine to get into the tub wearing Yoongi's shirt. It is not as if he doesn't own several, and you do not really want to make another excursion back to your room.

Slowly and carefully, you tug down the joggers you stole from Yoongi, making sure the shirt continues to give you as much coverage as possible and that your underwear stays around your hips. Not that Jimin is watching—his eyes are on his hands as he gathers bubbles and gently blows them away. And it would not be the end of the world if he did happen to see something because, if you are being honest, you feel pretty comfortable with him—and you are still fairly certain he watched Yoongi fuck you at the casino, anyway. More than anything, you are concerned with making him uncomfortable since he is already in a vulnerable state.

When you approach the tub, Jimin's eyes lift, and he smiles softly. Around him, the bubbles are practically to his shoulders—several inches above the water, and you begin to worry maybe even a drop of your bubble bath was too much for a tub with jets.

You step in with your right foot, hissing from the sudden warmth that you quickly acclimate to, and extend your leg out past the inner ledge meant for sitting. Jimin sits facing the shower, and he smiles and rests his head back, closing his eyes as if your company is helping to calm him.

Once you have your balance, holding onto the edge of the tub, you bring your left foot in and slowly sink down into the water, twisting to sit beside Jimin. As soon as your butt hits the seat, you realize the bubbles are up to your chin.

"Uh, I think I added too much of the bubble bath," you say nervously.

Jimin opens one eye in time for a sudsy peak to wiggle directly into your lips, and you spit and attempt to wipe your mouth off with your hand, absent-mindedly smearing more bubbles onto your face. Giggles echo around the room, and although you curse under your breath, feeling foolish, his happiness makes you smile—relieved to see some of his anguish melt away.

You stand and reach for a switch near the faucet to shut off the jets, then settle back down and stare in awe at the large layer of suds. With a cartoonish sound, you karate chop through a large mass of it with your hands, and Jimin's giggles turn into full-blown laughter.

"Imagine Yoongi returning, and his entire bathroom is a giant pile of bubbles," Jimin wheezes, eyes brimming with tears.

"And he finds us trapped in the tub calling for help," you respond through a chuckle.

You distract yourself by playing with the bubbles in your hands for a little while longer, blowing them gently around the tub, and smiling. Jimin's laughter has died down, and you look over, finding his eyes zeroed in on a spot before him, lost in thought. He must sense you watching, and he looks up with a soft smile.

"Thank you for being here for me, dove," Jimin mutters.

He lifts an arm and beckons you toward him with a bubble-covered hand, and you slide along the seat and into his grasp. Then, Jimin gently rests his arm behind you, giving your shoulder a squeeze, and you lean to the side and rest your head on his shoulder, seeing nothing but bubbles ahead.

"I'll always be here for you, Jimin," you respond, and you are certain that you mean it.

Though you and Jimin have not gotten close, you feel a strong desire to protect him. Perhaps it comes from your past experiences dealing with seedy people or because you are desperate to have a friend; the specifics are not important, and you would rather not dwell on it.

"And you don't ever have to tell me what happened," you continue, "but I'm here if you need someone to talk to, okay?"

Jimin hums and rests his head against your head, and you feel relaxed and calm as you close your eyes to take a deep breath in and out. It feels nice to be this close to him, having—as far as you can tell—nothing but friendly intentions, and you enjoy this serene slice of sudsy heaven that has been carved out for just the two of you.

"I do have so many questions for you, but now is probably not the time," Jimin mutters after a long moment of silence, in a dreamy voice.

"Questions? About what?" you ask genuinely.

Jimin scoffs. "Oh, please, honey. As if we all didn't notice you and Namjoon wearing Yoongi's clothing."

Ah, right. That.

"And Yoongi in a silk robe," Jimin continues with a giggle. "You kids were up to something. You must have had a great time on your date with Namjoon, hmm?"

"Uh, y-yeah," you respond, feeling shy. "I guess you could say we had fun."

Jimin sits up, and you do the same. The water is quite warm, making your flushed cheeks feel even hotter, and you scoot your butt to the edge of the seat and rest your head against the lip of the tub, creating a wall of suds around your face.

"What did you and Namjoon do?" Jimin asks as he shifts in a similar way and disappears behind the bubbles.

"Well, first we went to a warehouse to try to get some guys to confess to why a bunch of pills have gone missing," you begin, recalling the way the bones in the man's knee cracked loudly on impact with the baton. Your next words come out behind a shaken, uncomfortable laugh. "That was probably my least favorite part of the day."

Jimin scoffs and says, "I could imagine. Did any information come out of them?" Then, he quickly adds, "Actually, scratch that; I can talk to the guys about it. We don't need you rehashing trauma while in the tub."

You shrug and lift your hands out of the water, absent-mindedly playing with bubbles. "One of the guys said someone who goes by the name Jae had something to do with the missing drugs and that Jeongguk hired him."

Jimin hums. "Well, Jeongguk is the point man for anything related to drug manufacturing, dealing, and so on, so he hires everyone. That is not exactly a juicy detail."

"I figured," you respond.

"But hopefully he will know what Jae person they're talking about."

You hum in agreement. There is not much more to say about that, and the details of the torture flash unpleasantly in your mind, so you opt to change the topic.

"After that, we went to a boutique to change, since we smelled like that bloody, pissy warehouse, and then we got ice cream, I had an existential crisis, and Namjoon took me to an art museum where he talked at me for no less than an hour."

Jimin giggles beside you, and you can't help but smile back. "Existential crisis, huh?"

You clear your throat. "Yeah. I've been in my feelings a lot, and doing my best to adjust to everything, but...it's hard."

"Understandable. How do you like living here?"

With a sigh, you say, "Beats living on the streets. Or dealing with my idiot ex. Admittedly, I could have broken things off with him at any time, but...I guess hating someone still felt like a better alternative to being alone. So far, most of the people here are nice to me, and I am beginning to feel like maybe I fit in."

"And now you're engaged to a kingpin,” Jimin teases, “and you and his right-hand man are going on museum dates."

Anxiety pools in your tummy as you mutter, "Oh, god, I forgot about the engagement."

Jimin laughs loudly, splashing around a bit, and it forces you to crack a smile, but you still feel a bit unsettled by that entire thing. Despite the engagement being staged, there will be times when you have to put on the act of it being real, and that makes you nervous. You opt, once more, to change the subject.

"What is up with Yoongi and Namjoon," you ask, half expecting Jimin not to respond directly.

When you get no immediate response, you sit up while considering all of the other things you could discuss with Jimin instead, but then he clears his throat and says, "They have a long history."

"Oh?"

Jimin hums and also sits up. His face is rosy pink, and he has a soft smile tugging at his lips. "Everyone talks about childhood best friends Yoongi and Ryujin, how they grew up together, and that when they fell in love, it was expected. But for those of us who knew them back then, it wasn't Yoongi and Ryujin; it was Yoongi and Namjoon."

"Oh."

"Ryujin was more or less a means to an end, you know? Marry the crime families together to maximize control. And don't get me wrong, there was a time when we all believed Yoongi really loved her, but...she was no Namjoon."

“After we met her at the club, Hoseok said she was the love of Yoongi’s life.”

Jimin laughs as he says, “Hoseok tends to have his own version of the truth at times.”

You are unsure what to do with this information, and the anxiety grows. What if you are also simply a means to an end, and Yoongi will never love you the way he loves Namjoon? What if you do not even want Yoongi to love you the way that he loves Namjoon? You tell yourself that you adore Namjoon and that you could share Yoongi's affection if you had to, if you ever came to feel that way too, but is that the truth? Everything feels overwhelming.

"I have questions," you find yourself muttering. Jimin hums, allowing you to continue. "Does Yoongi have to keep Namjoon a secret? Like...is it an issue for them to be out as gay and in charge of the mafia family?"

Jimin hums again, a long pensive sound, and it makes you uneasy.

"I'm not entirely sure. Maybe some of the older cats in the other families would take offense to it, but honestly, I don't think it would matter."

"I guess I just..." you sigh, unsure if you should even voice what plagues you. Jimin feels like a safe person to talk to, but on the other hand, you do not really know him all that well. If he happened to betray you, it probably would not come as a huge surprise to you.

"You want to know what you're doing here?" Jimin suggests.

"Yeah," you respond meekly.

"This is probably a conversation to have with Yoongi, but I can say with certainty that he does want you here. You are not simply a strategic move to strengthen the families. For one, you have no family."

You scoff and respond, "True."

"You were chosen in part because of your background, though. Had it not been for the blood on your hands, Yoongi would not have brought you into this house. Anyone who joins this family has to have a body count."

Anxiety turns to nausea, and you find yourself sinking back into the tub as cold steel, tan skin, and pooled blood flash through your mind.

"I only killed one man," you mutter.

"You rallied the others to do the same, dove; do not forget that. An underground prostitution circuit unraveled because you had the courage to lead and the others followed. Some of the most disgusting men to roam Seoul in our lifetime are dead, all thanks to you. And businesses like mine are able to thrive because businessmen come fuck willing whores rather than going through seedy means to find people who want nothing to do with the lifestyle."

"How do you know about that?" you ask softly, staring ahead at the prominent yet slowly diminishing hill of bubbles.

An arm wraps around your shoulder, warm and inviting and pulling you from your daze. You lean into the feeling, resting your cheek against Jimin's chest.

"We know everything, dove."

Voices begin to echo from downstairs, filling the silent, once empty space. You begin to sit up, but Jimin holds you firmly in place and hums in dissent, so you give up and continue to rest in his arms. After the day you have had, the comfort is welcoming.

"Darling?" Yoongi's voice calls. It sounds like he may be walking up the stairs.

"In here!" you shout back, and Jimin finally releases his tight hold, allowing you to straighten out and sit up with his arm still slung over your shoulder.

The smell of blood hits you suddenly, feeling stifling in the steamy room, and you turn your head in time to find Yoongi entering in his black silk robe covered in large wet spots. Yoongi's hair sticks to the side of his head, and blood stains his face and neck. He smiles widely as if nothing is amiss.

"Oh, good, I was hoping you two were still up," Yoongi says as he walks through the room.

You have to breathe only through your mouth, thankful that the rusty smell of death does not seep further into your senses, and you do your best to smile in return as you watch Yoongi undo the silk cord around his waist. Without so much as a word, Yoongi shrugs out of the robe, dropping it to the floor, and approaches his shower in the nude. Jimin wolf-whistles, and Yoongi looks over his shoulder with a playful wink.

"How are you doing, Jimin?" Yoongi asks, stepping into his shower.

Jimin sighs and sinks down into the bubbles, resting his head on your shoulder. "Feeling better."

"Good. We took care of your problem, but he may have just been a messenger so we are going to need you to lay low for a while until we sort everything out."

The shower turns on, and Jimin mutters, "I was afraid he would say that," in a small, despondent voice.

More steam fills the room, and you begin to feel lightheaded from sitting in the hot bath. Jimin must feel the same, and he sighs heavily as he sits up and says, "I'm getting tired. I might head home."

"Nonsense," Yoongi says. "Grab a change of my clothes and stay here."

You wrap an arm around Jimin and give his shoulder a squeeze, offering for him to take your room, and Jimin does not protest, for which you are glad.

With a nod, he mutters, "Okay," and then gives you a kiss on the temple.

Water sloshes as Jimin gets out. You flip the tub drain, contemplating whether to also change and go to sleep or to join your bloody kingpin for a rinse.

"I'm coming in," Jimin announces as he enters the shower, past the glass door that Yoongi has left wide open. "Our dove tried to suffocate me with bubbles, and now I am covered in them."

You giggle and stand, wringing water out of Yoongi's shirt before exiting the tub. The floor is wet, and you grab a towel, place it down, and then step onto it.

A glance in the direction of the shower has you flustered as Yoongi and Jimin stand close to one another, slathered in soap—one fully nude and the other in very small briefs. It would almost be sexy if the water at their feet did not run red with blood.

"Darling," Yoongi calls, pulling your attention to find him smirking. "Come, rinse off."

You hesitate, then walk toward the shower, hair and shirt dripping. From the right, the sound of heavy panting pulls your attention, and you turn to find Namjoon standing in the doorway, sweating with blood and dirt smeared on his face and neck.

"Party in the bathroom," Namjoon announces with a smile, dimples appearing, somehow making him look even more grisly.

Namjoon approaches, pulls his shirt off, and tosses it onto Yoongi's discarded robe as he mutters, "Hey, sweetheart," with a smile.

Warmth floods to your cheeks, and Namjoon begins to remove his pants as he asks, "How are you feeling, Jimin?" and you avert your gaze and stare at the floor.

"Feeling better," Jimin responds with a sigh. "But still shaken. Thanks for taking care of him."

Namjoon enters the shower, and you try not to openly gawk at his ass and thighs, but damn, he looks good. Golden skin, thick and muscular with a bit of a jiggle—you are undoubtedly going to fantasize about this later.

Jimin seems unfazed to be sharing the shower with Yoongi and Namjoon, both of whom are nude. You remember what he said about knowing them for a long time and wonder what kind of a history they all share and whether they share much of that history with any of the others. Jimin wipes away dirt and blood from Namjoon's face, muttering something with a smile, and you consider going to your room to rinse off instead, but Yoongi's voice pulls your attention.

"Something the matter, darling?"

You shake your head and give Yoongi a soft smile, delighting in the way his face brightens. Yoongi mutters something to Jimin, who nods and begins to exit the shower, and you go over to the cabinet to grab three more towels, handing one to Jimin.

While Jimin dries off, Yoongi takes over the duty of helping Namjoon get any of the blood and dirt that he may have missed, giving him a once-over with his fingertips delicately touching and moving Namjoon's face while Namjoon bends a little to be at his eye-level. You glance at Jimin, who dramatically rolls his eyes and pretends to gag, making the two of you giggle.

Keeping your eyes off of their flaccid dicks is a task that you find incredibly difficult. But now does not seem like the time, and you do not want to stir up any feelings that you will be unable to deal with, so you keep your focus on everyone's faces.

As you turn toward the shower, Yoongi reaches out and asks, "One of those for me?"

"Oh," you say, confused by Yoongi exiting the shower suddenly, and you give him one of the two towels in your hand, muttering, "Of course."

"I need to speak with Jimin," Yoongi says softly, drying off his hair, and your gaze falls down over his body before you correct yourself and look back up to his pretty, pinkened cheeks. "It may take a while, so why don't you rinse off? You and Joonie can finish what we started before we were interrupted."

Yoongi's words take a moment to settle, and all you say is, "Wh-what?"

"Joonie, baby," Yoongi calls over his shoulder as he pats his torso dry, to which Namjoon responds, "Yes, dear?"

"Take care of our girl while I chat with Jimin? She still needs to cum."

"Yes, boss," Namjoon responds.

Your breath hitches and you search Yoongi's face for any hint of playfulness, but he looks stone serious, save for a crooked little grin. Yoongi wraps the towel around his hips and gives you a kiss on the forehead, muttering, "Enjoy your shower, darling," as he leaves.

It takes a moment for you to move. Of course, you want to shower with Namjoon—to finally see and touch Namjoon's body—but it feels a little wrong doing so without Yoongi around, and you worry, once more, that this is some kind of test.

"Hey," Namjoon says sweetly, and you look up to find his face sticking out from around the foggy shower wall. He smiles softly, and you instantly feel calm.

"Hey," you mutter back, holding the remaining towel tightly in your grasp.

"We don't have to do anything if you're not ready," Namjoon assures you. "But you should come rinse off, if you want to. I can turn away."

You chuckle, feeling a bit more loosened up, and you approach the tub to set the towel that you hold on top of the other on the ledge.

"You've already seen me almost naked," you mumble, feeling shy as the words come out of your mouth.

"True," Namjoon responds, and you turn in time to watch his eyes seemingly sparkle at the thought, "but it's different when we're not in the throes of passion. I can give you some privacy."

Why is it that Namjoon being considerate is what turns you on? You feel warm and fuzzy with a sudden need to be looked at and touched, and you grab the bottom hem of Yoongi's shirt and pull it over your head. Namjoon's mouth falls open as you fling the garment in the direction of his and Yoongi's discarded clothing, and you step closer to the shower while hooking your thumbs under the waistline of your black panties, noticing as his eyes follow the movement.

"Seems to me like daddy can't take his eyes off me," you tease, feeling more and more confident under Namjoon's gaze.

The nickname makes Namjoon's eyes widen and his mouth pulls into a grin. "How could I? You're gorgeous, baby."

Warmth rises up your neck to your cheeks, and you find yourself alternating between shy and confident. On one hand, Namjoon is naked, in the shower, and Yoongi has given him permission to make you cum—whatever that entails. But on the other hand, you are exhausted, and it would be really great to rinse off and crawl into bed.

Namjoon cocks his head and nibbles on his lip. He must have noticed you spacing out and changes his tone.

"At least rinse off. You look as tired as I feel."

So, it is settled. Namjoon ducks his head back into the shower, and you take the opportunity to slide off your panties, stepping out of them with less enthusiasm than you had when you tossed off the shirt. Then, you make your way to the warm shower and step into the open door.

Namjoon stands under one of the streams of water, rinsing off his face, and you finally take the opportunity to gawk at his body. All the most renowned sculptors of ancient Greece could capture Namjoon's likeness, and they would still fail to do him justice.

Peaks and valleys of muscle and skin make up Namjoon's form, and you find yourself wanting to trace your fingers over his topography. Not to mention his cock, which hangs heavy and long between his legs—you imagine what it would look like erect and feel a shiver run down your spine.

"Like what you see, sweetheart?"

You are broken from your trance and gasp as Namjoon turns and approaches, towering over you with a smile. All you can say in response is a weak, "Uh-huh," as you take several steps backward, out from under the water, until your calves bump into a tile shelf along the shower wall. Namjoon's cheeks break out into dimples as you shiver from suddenly being wet and nude in the open air.

"What kind of scents do you like?" Namjoon asks, reaching past you to the shelf just behind you. You allow Namjoon to crowd your space, only moving slightly so that he can reach the bottles.

"Nothing too sweet. Citrus or something bright and floral."

Namjoon hums, grazing your shoulder with his chest, then straightens out and brings a rag to your shoulders. His skin has a musky scent that you recognize from Yoongi, and you breathe deeply.

You have no choice but to stare at Namjoon's chest and neck as he lathers you up with a soap that has inviting, citrus notes—another scent you recognize from being close to Yoongi. From this distance, you can count the individual scales on his black dragon tattoo that snakes from Namjoon's pec to his belly, and you feel the urge to trace your fingers along its body.

You tilt your head to smile at Namjoon, and he smiles back—soft and warm and sweet. Namjoon seems to be enjoying dragging the washcloth down to your palms and fingertips until it tickles and makes you squirm, and you watch dimples crease and disappear.

"Now for your torso and legs," Namjoon says, deep and soft and thick like honey. "Stand nice and still for me, okay?"

"Oh-okay," you mumble in response as if Namjoon's proximity—his soft, warm skin—has you in a trance.

There is something so intimate in the way in which Namjoon washes you—gently placing a finger under your chin to tilt your head up and clean your neck and collar, down to your breasts and tummy, pulling your hair away to wash your neck, then lower to your back. Namjoon gets down on his knees to wash your legs, gently lifts your feet, and is delicate with your backside.

It feels nice but also strange, and you hug your arms tight around your torso as Namjoon finishes and stands before you. Yes, Yoongi has urged you to kiss and touch Namjoon, and has given him permission to get you off, but is this what he wishes for? Intimacy and delicacy? Would this upset him?

Namjoon takes you gently by the shoulders and tugs you under one of the streams of water. You loosen your grip around your ribs as you tilt your head back and close your eyes, letting the water rinse from your neck, down. Instinctively, you reach up and grab onto Namjoon for stability, and he takes a step closer, crowding your space as your breasts press into his skin.

Once you are rinsed, Namjoon steps away, and you feel your body sway, searching for him. You open your eyes, feeling heaviness tugging at your lids, and you blink away stray water drops as you glance over your shoulder and watch Namjoon squirt clear gel onto an exfoliating towel, which he begins to clean himself with.

As you turn away from Namjoon and continue to stand beneath a warm stream of water, you tell yourself that you have no reason to worry—that Yoongi sent the two of you on a date, and left you in the shower, knowing the kind of man Namjoon is. Yoongi, who has loved Namjoon for so long, should not be surprised to discover Namjoon is gentle and handles you with care. But what if he is?

Two warm, large hands gently touch your shoulders, and you gasp and lean back into the touch. Sleep is claiming every part of you, your poor fingertips have turned to prunes, and you want to dry off and lay down. Namjoon leans into your back, pressing his body flush against yours, and every inch of your skin breaks into goosebumps as his face lowers and he speaks into your ear.

"Shall we go to bed, sweetheart?"

Sweetheart, not baby. And honestly, you are relieved. The long day of physical and mental exertion is beginning to catch up to you quickly, and all you want is to curl into Yoongi's sheets and drift away to sleep.

You nod and lean back into Namjoon, and he rubs his hands down to your elbows, then wraps his arms around you in a gentle but firm hug. When Namjoon releases you, you turn and make your way to the exit, stepping onto the towel that you left on the floor. The entire bathroom is a cloud of steam, and you grab a towel from the tub and begin to dry from the feet, up.

Namjoon takes the last towel and dries himself off, and you wrap yours around your torso temporarily as you make your way to the sink to brush your teeth. Namjoon is close behind, and you should not be surprised to discover that when he opens a drawer and grabs a new toothbrush from a pack, he knows where spares are kept, but your eyes follow along with wonder.

Your movements are slow, and Namjoon finishes before you do, spitting and gargling in the sink beside yours. Namjoon sets his toothbrush into the empty spot where yours goes—with room for yours, still—and then he turns to the tall cabinet and begins to rummage through it before producing a small bottle and squirting some clear oil into his hands, which he blots onto his face and then hands to you. Namjoon was already kind enough to wash your body and now he is presenting you with an oil for your face, that you never would have known was there.

And you get it. You understand why Yoongi loves Namjoon so much.

Namjoon leaves a soft kiss on your shoulder before he exits the bathroom. Your toothbrush has been lodged into your cheek since the moment he set the little bottle of oil on the sink, and you pull it out and spit into the basin, gargling water and rinsing the toothbrush to slide it into the rectangular holder beside his.

You stare at the toothbrushes for a beat. Is this the way things are, now? You and Namjoon in a slot beside Yoongi, sharing a space that you thought was just your own, but where Namjoon has always had a place, as well?

With a soft sigh, you switch off the bathroom lights and feel cold as you leave the steam-fogged ensuite and step into the bedroom. Namjoon is already dressed in Yoongi's ill-fitting clothes, and he has a shirt and pants in his hands for you.

A terrible thought swirls inside you as you accept the clothes and set them onto the bed before tugging the clean shirt over your head: What if this is not how Namjoon really is, and he is only behaving this way to win your favor—to be close to Yoongi once more.

Surely, Namjoon cannot be so caring and gentle at all times—always one step ahead and thinking of everything. The same Namjoon who busted a man’s kneecap and used a stun baton to burn a hole into his chin. The same Namjoon who came running into the bathroom gleefully covered in another man’s blood.

Perhaps, this is a game Namjoon is playing, and sticking his toothbrush into your slot is just his first show of dominance. Or, perhaps that slot was never yours, to begin with, and he is easing you into the reality that your place is not beside Yoongi but in line behind Namjoon.

"Oh, you two are still up," Yoongi says cheerfully from the doorway as you grab the pair of pants and begin to step into them with your towel still tied around your chest, sticking out from beneath Yoongi's oversized black tee.

Namjoon advances, gently taking Yoongi by the jaw to place a soft kiss against his lips, and Yoongi smiles as his head tilts upward. Your gaze falls to the floor.

"I think we are both feeling the effects of the day, so we just washed up and got ready for bed," Namjoon says sweetly. "But if you were still feeling excited from earlier..."

Yoongi chuckles, and your eyes rise and search his face for the smile you adore. But the smile is not aimed at you, and you turn away quickly and yank the towel out from beneath the shirt, now that you are dressed and no longer need it. You walk to the bathroom and chuck the towel in the direction of the pile of discarded linen, and then turn with another sigh, resolved to excuse yourself to one of the guest rooms. After all, it does not seem like these two need a third.

You play it over and over in your head—It's been a long day, and I think bet the two of you would like some time alone to unwind—but Yoongi turns and intercepts you by the door, and as soon as you open your mouth to excuse yourself, his lips are on yours, gently sucking and kissing as he groans so sweetly. Hints of Namjoon's toothpaste linger on his lips.

"We don't have to do anything if you are too tired, darling," Yoongi mutters softly. "But we should get into bed."

And how could you possibly pull away when his scent fills your nose and his body feels so warm this close to yours? You hum and nod your head, and Yoongi smiles against your lips, leaving a soft peck as his hands fall from you, and he walks past you and into his bathroom.

Namjoon's eyes are on his hands, which fidget before him, and you watch the movements. He appears to be lost in thought, but when you take a step toward him, he looks up and smiles. It is a small smile that does not reach his eyes, but you return the gesture and close the distance between you, filled with the urge to figure out what seems to be bothering him.

"Everything alright, Joonie?" you ask, despite all trepidation you feel towards becoming closer to him. When it comes down to it, could you deny him anything—with those pretty dimples and soft smiles? Probably not.

"I'm...yeah," Namjoon mutters, shifting where he stands, clearly uncomfortable.

You shake your head softly and reach your arms around his neck, and Namjoon releases his grasp on his fidgeting hands, bends, and gently lifts you by the backs of your thighs. At eye level, settling your legs around his hips, you smile wide, and Namjoon returns it.

"Something is the matter," you insist softly.

"I just worry about imposing," Namjoon admits as he turns and carries you to the side of the bed. "I don't have to stay."

"Ah," you respond. You let your cheek fall to Namjoon's shoulder, and you twirl fingers in his damp hair, afraid to look him in the eye as you say, "If I'm being honest, part of me is scared of all of this. It's...happening so fast. But I do like you. You are very sweet, and I can tell why Yoongi loves you so much. And I would be happy if you stayed."

Your voice trembles as you finish your sentence, and you feel a rumble of sadness start from your chest and work its way to your throat. Because, of course, Yoongi loves Namjoon. But not you—not yet. And while you insist that you want Namjoon to be here, you are not entirely sure if you are telling the truth, or if you are doing all of this to make Yoongi happy. It is not as if you are ready to love Yoongi back, anyway.

Namjoon sets you on the bed and leans onto his hands, caging you between his arms. You keep your hands around his neck and search his face, but—save for a gentle smile—it appears blank.

"Always talk to me, okay?" Namjoon says softly. "If you have worries, if you need me to fuck off and give you alone time...I won't always be here, anyway, but even so, I can go to my house if you want me to."

You nod and allow yourself to feel positive about Namjoon's offer to give you space, though you will believe it when you see it. For tonight, you will allow yourself to be hypnotized by Namjoon's strong, warm body and deep, inviting voice, and worry about your treacherous heart another time.

"You can talk to me too," you mutter through a yawn. "I would like it if we are on the same page."

Namjoon leans in and places a soft peck on your nose, and you giggle from the gesture. Behind you, the bed dips, and another set of lips meet your neck.

With a sigh, you sink into the feeling and lean back against Yoongi, whose arms wrap around your ribs. Your hands slide from Namjoon's neck to his chest, and he leans and grazes his lips over the other side of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine to settle between your thighs.

"How tired are you, darling?" Yoongi asks as he nips gently at your skin.

A gasp falls between your lips as you whine, "Exhausted."

"Too tired for one orgasm, baby?" Namjoon groans beneath your ear, and you moan at the thought of him settling between your legs.

"M-maybe not too tired," you concede, feeling a frenzy of pleasure from the two sets of lips against your skin.

"Is that a yes, baby?"

Namjoon's voice is strong and commanding, and you find it impossible to say no when he hovers over you and makes you feel so good already from so little.

Your voice is weak as you whimper, "Yes, daddy."

The shirt is lifted over your head as the joggers are tugged down over your hips, and you can barely process any of it in real time—struggling to catch up to the quick, eager movements of both men. Yoongi scoots back a foot or so and urges you to follow, tugging at your armpits and pulling you against his chest, and Namjoon tosses the pants aside, spreads your legs wide as he leans against the edge of the bed, and closes his mouth on you with a long, sloppy lick over your clit.

Pleasure rocks through you, forcing you to collapse against Yoongi as you moan and tremble from Namjoon's eager mouth. He licks and sucks, devouring you with deep, needy groans, and you rock your hips against him, chasing the high that already builds at breakneck speeds.

Yoongi nips at your neck while he palms and squeezes your breasts, and Namjoon's hands hold your thighs open, pressing your legs toward the mattress while keeping them suspended over his shoulders. Beneath you, Yoongi's cock is hard and presses into your back, and if you were not so tired, you would beg him to let you suck it.

Even now, with Namjoon's tongue and lips working over your pussy, you feel as if you are teetering on the edge of sleep, relaxing into the feeling so much you worry you could disappear completely.

A finger prods gently at your entrance and twists as it penetrates you, stretching you just enough to make you gasp at the sudden fullness, igniting a fire inside you that you were certain your exhaustion had smothered. Namjoon's tongue laps across your clit to the steady rhythm of his finger, and your back arches as Yoongi's thumbs and forefingers twist and tweak your nipples just enough to spark a wildfire inside you.

You attempt to sit up as your hips rock into Namjoon's face and hand, and you are met with his dark gaze staring back at you as he pulls you closer to the edge of insanity. Namjoon's pupils are so blown out his eyes appear black—fierce like those of a dragon who has cornered his prey. He pulls his face back enough to give you a view of his thick pink tongue lapping through your folds, and you feel a strong wave of pleasure quake through you at the sight.

"Fuck, daddy, please," you moan as your head lolls back, and Yoongi captures your neck with his lips, sucking and nipping hard at your skin.

Mouths and hands devour and grip, and the flames that burst inside you consume you whole, drag you to the depths of hell, and you moan and tremble, wrapped in the hot embrace of pleasure as you cum so hard it knocks the air from your lungs.

Neither man eases up as you tremble and sob. Your body twists, only serving to drive Namjoon's finger and tongue into you harder. Before you can come down from your high, Namjoon slips a second finger inside, pulling a strangled moan from your throat as he stretches you open, and he fucks his fingers upward into your sweet spot.

Yoongi's tongue swirls over sensitive spots he has sucked and nibbled into your neck, fanning more small fires throughout you—spreading to the tips of your fingers and toes. It is dizzyingly intoxicating being in the grasp of both men, and when your second orgasm hits—fast and hard—it blindsides you.

Namjoon's fingers squelch inside you as his lips and tongue continue to work your sensitive clit, and you scream as suddenly the pleasure has built to such intense heights you feel as if you might explode. You attempt words, but nothing coherent falls from your lips as Namjoon grips your thigh tightly. He drills his fingers into your erogenous zone, and all sense of time and space burst.

Sobs and cries wail from deep within your chest as you cum. You are vaguely aware of words of praise from both men, and as you come down abruptly from your high—trembling and whimpering—Namjoon slowly removes his fingers as he leaves lazy kisses along the inside of your thigh. Beneath you, the comforter feels wet, and you shiver against Yoongi as the sheen of sweat that covers your skin turns cold.

"Holy fuck," you mutter. Your hands ache, and you release the blanket as the realization hits that you have been gripping it tight enough to cramp.

Yoongi gently cradles your shoulders as he raises you into a seated position, then Namjoon wraps his arms around you and lifts you from the bed. You do your best to wrap your limbs around him and nuzzle your nose into his neck. Behind you, there is a rustle of linen, and Namjoon sets you back onto the bed, this time close to your pillow.

You lay atop the sheets and roll away from Namjoon in a fetal position, wondering where the hell the blanket is. The bed dips behind you, and a warm body engulfs you in a hug—nude chest pressed flush to your back as an arm and leg wrap tight around you.

"Yoongi is getting a new blanket," Namjoon mutters into your neck between kisses.

"What's wrong with the other one?" you grumble, feeling yourself sink quickly to sleep as your body, mind, and soul all log out.

A deep rumble knocks warmly against your skin as Namjoon says, "You soaked a decent spot into the other one, baby. And you drenched my shirt."

"I—I what?"

Cool, thick linen covers you, and you shiver as you pull it close, warming it quickly from the body heat that you could swear moments ago that you did not have. You crack your eyes open to find Yoongi crawling into bed, and as he scoots close, you wrap yourself around his side much in the same way Namjoon is wrapped around your back.

"How are you feeling, darling?" Yoongi asks.

You groan and bury your face into his armpit, feeling too tired to will yourself to respond. Still, you manage to mutter, "Sleepy," in a whiny tone, and both men hug you tight.

Yoongi mutters something over your head, which Namjoon responds to, and both bodies shift around you as the soft sounds of lips smacking and throats groaning lull you to sleep.

An overwhelming sense of dread fills you as you approach his apartment. You steady your breath and rub your palms against the scratchy, mesh outer layer of your black column dress, touching the hard blade that rests just above the tall slit in your skirt as a reminder of why you are here.

It has been months since you have last seen him, and you have fantasized about this moment since the last time you were invited to his penthouse, but now that the night is here, all you feel is deep trepidation. But the honey bees have been buzzing that tonight is the night—that surveillance equipment in his building will have a mysterious outage during the next two hours—and you need to act fast.

You rap your knuckles against his door in a signature pattern—three quick and four slow—and stand for several minutes waiting for him to come. He always makes people wait—always being a huge fucking inconvenience simply because he has the power and influence to do so—and it pisses you off.

What is worse than waiting for him, however, is being invited in by him, and the moment he opens the door and you catch a suffocating whiff of stale cigar smoke and whiskey breath, you have to steel yourself and remember why you are here tonight.

"Kaori, come in, baby," he grunts in his gruff, haughty voice, and you cringe inwardly.

Kaori is a chosen name for this version of yourself, but it is not your name, and each time you hear it roll off the tongue of these despicable men—a reminder of you who you are to them—it makes you want to retch.

The man is just as ugly as you remember—unshaven, hair a mess, and, despite his high status, walking around with stains on his shirt. Rumor has it that he is in cahoots with a mob family that fights to control parts of the city, yet his name rings no bells anywhere but in the seediest parts of the underground.

You enter his apartment and step out of your shoes—flats, for ease of getaway—and drop your small bag beside the door. He instantly wraps his arm around your waist and yanks you into his body, throwing you off balance, and you grit your teeth as you fumble into him and grip onto his shoulder to steady yourself.

Sweat and smoke radiate from his grimy clothes, and you hold your breath for as long as you can as you are led into his place. His hand on your lower back feels sticky, and you fight the urge to flinch away.

You attempt to steer him straight to his bedroom, but he holds your waist tight and yanks you in the direction of his dining room. Being his client is bad enough, but his dinner guest? Hell on earth.

"I was hoping we could go straight to bed," you say as your fingertips graze over his chest, down to his waistband. "It's been so long since we have had a chance to fuck."

"That so?" he asks, leaning his face toward you and wafting his foul breath right into your nose.

You flinch away from the smell, and he spins you, slamming your chest and cheek into a nearby wall. "Such an eager whore? Maybe I should fuck you right here."

He begins to hike your skirt up, and you panic and shove it down, pushing his advancing hand away from your thigh and the knife strapped around it.

"Please," you whimper, "you know I like to be able to see you."

"Greedy whore won't kiss, but she likes to see my face?" he sneers.

Never have you tasted anything that has come close to the disgusting flavor of this man's tongue. His face is not the worst you have seen, but as a rule, men this deplorable should never be trusted to be behind you for any reason.

"Let's have a drink, yeah?" you offer hopefully.

With a grunt, he wraps his hand around your wrist and tugs you in the direction of his bedroom, holding onto you hard enough to bruise, and you stumble to keep up—bare feet slapping against cold hardwood floor.

Once you reach his bedroom, he shoves you through the threshold and begins undoing his belt. You nearly topple to the ground but right yourself and spin around, leaning against the edge of his bed and keeping him in front of you.

He chucks his belt to the floor in a loud clatter of metal and leather against wood, then he storms to the whiskey decanter on his dresser and pours two glasses, slamming one on the top of his dresser in your direction. The last thing you want to do is approach when he is in one of his moods, but drinking was your idea, and you do not want him to smell your fear.

You approach and reach for the glass, but he takes a step toward you, slaps your hand away, and grunts, "Undress, whore!"

"Sir—" you begin, but he takes another step forward and raises his hand as if to slap the back of his fingers against your cheek.

Instinctively, you reach for your knife, thankful that you correct yourself before he sees your hand hover inches above the high slit in your skirt. He does not follow through with his backhand, but he holds his position and leers down at you.

"Have I said something to anger you?" you try, hoping not to incur his rage.

He laughs and drops his hand to his side.

"You no longer fear me," he says as he turns back to his drink and grabs onto the glass with his sticky fingers. "Used to be I could put a little scare into you, but now you stand your ground. I like that about you."

Here he goes again, diving into what he likes about you. Lately, he has been offering to take you out of the brothel and make an honest woman out of you.

"I've been working with a very wealthy, connected man to overthrow the current mob boss," he likes to grumble in a drunken haze, followed by a brag you have never once believed. "Once the little boy is off the throne and it’s all mine, women will be throwing themselves at me."

The honey bees buzz from time to time with talk about the young kingpin, but he does not make himself known to the public, and lately, there have been rumors of internal fighting within the syndicate between his and another family. You do not care about gang activity and plan to separate yourself further from any syndicate goings-on after tonight, so details about the mob families and their drama do not interest you.

"I don't think Madame will so easily let me go," you say as you reach for the glass again. This time, he lets you have it, and you take a sip and hold the drink tight in your hand with an insincere smile plastered on your face.

He slams his drink back, brings his glass down against the wooden dresser in a loud thwack, and fills it to the brim with more caramel-colored liquor. "When I pay a handsome sum for you, Madame won't have shit to say."

Already his words have a slur at their tips, and you urge him to drink more, holding your glass out to clink against his. He takes the bait, raises a silent toast, and chugs back all eight or so ounces of whiskey. You have another sip of yours and watch as red slowly blooms over his chest and neck.

"Ready to fuck?" he snorts, and you smile sweetly.

"Of course I am, sir. Ready when you are."

First, he fumbles with his pants, undoes them quickly, and shoves them to the floor. His loose boxers hang over his thighs, and when he pushes them down and gets his foot caught on the waistband, you avert your eyes away from his dangling cock.

It is when he pulls his shirt over his head and attempts to yank his arm through the hole too soon—effectively making it catch and get stuck—that you reach below the high slit in your dress and pull the knife from a black lace garter on your thigh. You take a step backward, feel your butt hit the side of the mattress, and shove the knife beneath his blanket, then straighten out and hold your glass to your lips.

"Fuck," he mutters as his messy head comes free, and he stands nude before you, tossing his shirt to the floor.

You reach back and unclasp the halter neck of your dress and let it fall past your bare breasts and hang over your hips. With your thumb, you tug the material away from your skin and shimmy until it falls, standing only in a small black thong and lace garter.

"What a pretty whore," he grunts and approaches on unsteady feet.

You step aside and pat the mattress with your hand, purring, "Hop up, sir."

He throws himself onto his bed and crawls until he hovers over his pillow, then flings his body down, sprawled out on his back. You wonder if his cock could possibly get hard with the amount of whiskey that courses through him—not to mention the lines of cocaine he undoubtedly inhaled while making you wait in the hallway as you climb on top of him and begin grinding your clothed pussy against his lifeless length.

And as expected, he does not get hard. Not at first. So, you continue to grind and coo and almost allow yourself a silent celebration as he seems to drift off with his soft cock crushed beneath you. But then, he seems to jolt awake, and he grabs you by the hips and squeezes as he rocks himself against you until it hardens.

It is not long until he is tugging your panties aside and attempting to shove himself inside you, and you have to force him to stop and allow you to put a condom on him. It is in your contract, after all—no kissing on the lips and no raw sex.

"Once you're mine, I'll cum inside you all day," he mutters, and you shiver at the thought of something so terrible as your fingertips make quick work of rolling latex over him and gently shoving him inside of you.

You hate how good it feels to be penetrated by the half-hard cock of some disgusting low-life who makes you want to die. As you begin to rock your hips, you close your eyes and think of other men—handsome men with good hygiene and better manners—and you allow yourself to feel a moment of pleasure.

His groans pull you out of your reverie, and you bite back a scowl as you attempt to remember someone else again, but he is too worked up and making too much noise. You let out a sigh and attempt to compose yourself—you may as well just get the job done.

As you lean forward and place your palms down on the mattress, your right hand slowly feels around for the blade. It only takes a moment, and you watch his screwed-up, drunken face gasp and moan with his eyes squeezed tight and quickly dig your hand under the blanket for your trusty tool.

It is thin and long, and you cup it in your hand with the blade against your wrist as you reach forward and touch your fingertips to his ribs, softly searching for bone. Then, you move your hand away and twist the metal around until you have a firm grasp on the handle.

The whiskey must be hitting him even harder still as he grunts beneath you but keeps his eyes closed, lost on the rocking of your hips. He hardly flinches when you press the tip of the cold steel into his side, and as you exhale and shove the knife in deep, it takes him longer than you expect to open his eyes and investigate.

At first, you think he is going to try to fight you, but as you press the knife in deeper, he begins to gasp and shake, and he does not move enough to throw you off, so you pull the knife out and aim higher, near the heart. You stab him again, slowly still, working around bone and cartilage, until finally, he stills beneath you.

You tell yourself to run—to get out of there as quickly as you can and never look back—but you cannot seem to force yourself to move. You stare at the blood as it pools around him—gushes quickly as you slowly remove the blade—and when you look up to his face, it is to see the light fade from his drooping eyes.

Panic surges through you, but you move slowly as you lift your hips and drop his cock against his belly. You shake from head to toe and struggle to get your dress over your hips and fastened around your neck. Everything is foggy and distorted as you make your way from his bedroom to the front door, and you do not dare look back for fear of seeing his corpse coming to meet you.

At the door, you push your feet into your shoes, grab your small bag, which you shove your knife inside of, and leave so quickly, you practically trip. It is only now that adrenaline seems to surge through you, and you run down the hallway, to a staircase and begin to descend.

When you make it to the sidewalk and the cool night air hits your face, your ex holds onto the wrist of your faux fur leopard print jacket and tugs you toward a taxi. Confusion hits you—this is not the same night you were just experiencing—but before you can open your mouth, you are climbing into a car and finding Namjoon's smiling face in the rearview mirror.

Nothing makes sense, and you cannot sort out why Namjoon is here, but your ex tells him a familiar address, and with a dimpled smile, Namjoon drives.

You cannot find your voice, and when you look down, there is blood on your hands, and you worry that they will know—that everyone will know what you have done. As you look out the window and see your old apartment, the car pulls up to the curb, and your ex gets out.

"Wake up, sweetheart," Namjoon says, and you turn your eyes to the rearview mirror just in time to see Namjoon's face blend into the dead man's as he grunts, "Sweetheart! Time to wake up!"

You sit up with a start, surprised even by your own voice as a scream rips from your chest. It has been years since the last time you dreamt about that night, and the thought of his cold, dead eyes staring back at you makes you retch.

Namjoon mutters something, possibly asking if you are alright, but you can't quite make sense of his words as you fling yourself off the bed and sprint to the bathroom, throwing yourself to your bare knees in time to vomit into the toilet.

You squeeze your eyes shut, not eager to see the contents of your stomach—ramen and soybeans, no doubt—but you can taste it. Noodles, vegetables, and bitter death. The events of your dream were so close to what you remember that you cry as you squeeze your arms around the porcelain seat, which is cold against your chest.

Two hands pull your hair back and gather gently out of the way, and you shake your head, muttering, "No," as bile drips from your lips. You do not want to be seen like this—you would rather be left to die.

"It's okay," Namjoon mutters gently as a hand caresses your back.

Out in the main bedroom, the sound of footsteps come barreling in—socked but heavy, as Yoongi frantically shouts, "Darling! I heard screaming!"

"She's alright," Namjoon responds as Yoongi rushes into the room. "She woke up screaming, I'm guessing from a dream, and then she ran in here to vomit."

"A dream?" Yoongi asks.

You sit back against the cold tile floor feeling defeated, eyes drifting open just enough to let some of the morning light in and allow you to feel grounded to the real world—the real world in which he has been dead for years, and you are free from worrying about it.

The tap on one of the sinks runs briefly, and then you feel a warm cloth gently rubbing your chin before you process Yoongi wiping the remnants of your mess from your face. More hot tears spill and you gasp in a breath, suddenly feeling suffocated. Namjoon drops your hair and continues to rub big circles into your back.

And here you sit: Naked on the bathroom floor as two men attempt to soothe your worries. You feel pathetic, shivering like a small dog, and you make an attempt to push yourself to your feet with your palms against the toilet seat. The smell of your vomit is stifling but closing the lid and flushing the toilet requires too many motor skills.

Namjoon shifts behind you and scoops you up. It is haphazard at first, and you shout in surprise from being lifted, but as you spin in his arms and wrap yourself around his neck, everything feels warm and calm and safe. The toilet lid is closed, the toilet is flushed, and you are carried back into the bedroom.

"Want to talk about it?" Yoongi asks sweetly as Namjoon stands you beside the foot of the bed.

Yoongi pulls a long, fuzzy black robe over your shoulders and engulfs you in a firm, warm hug that makes tears fall again. You know in the depths of your heart that killing him was necessary, but each time you think about it—really think about it—you feel like a monster for spilling blood.

"I had a dream about him," you begin. "A-about S-Seungri."

Yoongi goes stiff in your arms, then pulls back from the hug and searches your face. His eyes are sad—sympathetic.

"Do you dream about him often?"

You shake your head and mutter, "No."

Silence falls, and Namjoon wraps himself around your back, pulling Yoongi into another hug that sandwiches you between the two of them. If you need any more confirmation that Yoongi knows, this is it. But you do not know how much, exactly, and there were details from the dream that you recalled—or subconsciously invented, you are not sure—that you would like to ask Yoongi about, though a part of you is afraid of the consequences.

"Yoongi," you mutter weakly.

"Yes, love?" Yoongi grumbles against your head.

"Can I ask you what you know about that night? Or, rather, that entire event. In my dream...maybe I made up some of the details, but...maybe there were things I blocked out until now."

Yoongi nods and leaves a kiss against your temple. "We can and will talk about this. I have meetings with the men for the next several hours, so I will not be able to give you my full attention until later, though. Is that okay, darling?"

You nod—what choice do you have? You would rather have an uninterrupted conversation than a fragmented one that takes place throughout the course of the day and leaves you mulling over more unanswered questions each time.

"Tonight, we will go to dinner and talk. Sound good?"

Another nod as you mutter, "Thank you, Yoongi."

As if on cue, the sound of a car honking comes from outside and Yoongi sighs. "Seokjin and Hoseok are here, which means Jeongguk will be rolling up soon. I gotta go. I'm sorry, darling."

Yoongi pulls from the hug, but Namjoon holds tight. With a soft, lingering kiss on your forehead, Yoongi leaves the two of you, and you close your eyes and let out a deep breath.

"I'll call for some breakfast before I get ready to meet with Yoongi and Jeongguk," Namjoon says. "What would you like?"

You turn in Namjoon's arms and wrap him in a tight hug. He is shirtless, wearing Yoongi's joggers that are much too small, and he smells like home—a mix of the soaps you have come to love, plus a musk of his own. You may have had your worries last night, but today all you can feel is gratitude to be cared for by not only one of these men but by both of them.

After your breakfast arrives and Namjoon is finished getting ready for his meeting with the guys, he sheepishly asks if he could join you and Yoongi for dinner. He insists that he respects your need for alone time and that he recognizes he has been around a lot in the past two days, but that he may have contributions to lend to the conversation and that he would also like to be around for moral support in case it becomes too difficult for you to talk about.

And he is so cute—cheeks flushed and shy, nibbling on his bottom lip. How could you possibly say no?

You stand in your room hours later, waiting for Namjoon and Yoongi to finish meeting with Taehyung and Hoseok. The sun is nearly set, and your stomach rumbles at the prospect of dinner.

For tonight, you chose a modest black a-line dress with a halter spaghetti top, and no makeup, in case you cry again. Jimin is not around to apply his trusty waterproof mascara, and you do not want to take any chances with your own stash.

Loud laughter precedes footsteps jogging up the stairs two at a time, and you peek from your open bedroom door to find Yoongi approaching with a smile.

“Ready, darling?” Yoongi asks, eyeing your dress as he nibbles his lip.

You nod and leave your room, closing the door behind you, then snake your arm through Yoongi’s bent elbow as you make your way down the stairs. Namjoon is leaning over the back of the couch, laughing about something with Hoseok and Taehyung, and the atmosphere is light and welcoming for once.

“How long does it take Seokjin to drive back here, for fuck’s sake?” Hoseok complains as he checks his watch. “He said he was picking up Jeongguk thirty-five minutes ago.”

Taehyung shrugs, but his mouth hangs in a frown as he mutters, “I’m sure they will return soon.”

“I’m getting sleepy,” Hoseok grumbles as he pulls a metal vial from beneath his shirt, which hangs on a thick silver chain around his neck. He unscrews the top, pulls the small attached spoon to his nose, and snorts a tiny pile of cocaine. His voice becomes nasally as he whines, “I need my teddy bear to return so we can go to sleep.”

Namjoon ruffles Hoseok’s hair, which earns him a pointed glare and a snarl, and you giggle, pulling their attention. When Namjoon’s eyes land on you, he straightens out and smiles widely. Namjoon looks like he is going to say something when the front door slams open, and Seokjin hobbles through the threshold with a body draped over his shoulder—all you see is legs and an arm, but you assume, based on the conversation you overheard, that it is Jeongguk.

"Taehyung," Seokjin mutters. "I think he's been stabbed. There doesn't seem to be a lot of blood loss; I think he's delirious from being high."

Beside you, both Yoongi and Namjoon let out a deep sigh. Taehyung stands from the couch, straightens out his slacks, and walks over to Seokjin to collect the dangling body. Seokjin gently deposits Jeongguk into Taehyung’s arms, and you notice a large hole in the back of his shirt near his shoulder blades, but while there is a presence of blood, it does not seem to be bleeding very much.

You are relieved to see Jeongguk promptly wrap his arms around Taehyung’s neck with a dopey smile on his face. Without another word, Taehyung waves a hand in the air as a silent goodbye and walks with Jeongguk out the front door.

“Never a dull moment,” Hoseok mutters, and Namjoon scoffs. “I was starting to think you were walking here from the city.”

Seokjin rolls his eyes and shakes his head, turning to exit the house without saying a word to anyone else as he exclaims to Hoseok, “He drove his fucking bicycle!”

Hoseok laughs—loud and hearty—as he waves to you, Yoongi, and Namjoon and walks out the door. As the front door closes, you hear another shout from Seokjin, "I had to drive him on his fucking bicycle!"

You feel stunned. Mainly by how nonchalantly everyone has handled the news that Jeongguk had been stabbed. Surely it did not seem like a great emergency if Seokjin did not bother to call someone with a car to pick them up, nor if their resident doctor seemed so nonplussed. Perhaps what surprises you most is how normal it all seems.

“Well,” Yoongi says. “Shall we?”

You nod and turn to find Namjoon smiling nervously as he says, “I’ll drive,” and the three of you make you make your way to the door, sliding on your shoes and heading out into the night.

Perhaps, if you were normal, all of this would worry you to the point of wanting to run far away. But you are clearly not normal, and you feel a swell of affection as the three of you leave, and the chaotic mansion is quiet once again.

Come unmask your thoughts with me I won’t let go, I won’t let go Catch you falling back to dark I’m there, I’m there You you you you, next (is) gonna be you

🎵 visit the playlist

sorry again for the spread out update! my life has spiraled into chaos during this new semester. as always, please don’t be a silent reader! feedback & reblogs do so much to help content creators!

apologies if your name is kaori! >.

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#yoongi x reader #yoongi mafia #yoongi smut #namjoon x reader #namgi #namjoon smut #namgi smut #bts mafia #bts poly #bts smut #fic: collateral

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beechersnope · 6 months

Text

short preview of a thing that's in itself a small part of a longer thing

***

They'd decided to do fully matching costumes this year instead of contrasting costumes with a similar theme. Lando had splurged on them, hiring someone on Etsy to handmake shimmering metallic bodysuits with glow-in-the-dark circuitry and fully functional LED buttons that littered the colored panels of both the front and back of the suit, along the breastplate and hips, down each arm, and along the length of the spine. The only difference between the two is the color: Lando’s bodysuit is a pearlescent fuchsia while Oscar’s is a shimmering teal.

The silvery face paint and white iris contact lenses pushes it over the top—in Oscar’s opinion, Lando has gone so far that even with the skintight bodysuits, they are firmly in the realm of scary versus sexy.

“I don’t think you’re going to get laid this year,” Oscar tells Lando honestly, turning to find a matching cyborg face staring back at her.

“There’s a zipper in the crotch,” Lando counters, the implication going miles over her head. “Easy access. I planned ahead.”

Oscar just turns back to Lando’s vanity and lets out a soft sigh.

The party is in full swing by the time they arrive at Daniel’s mountainside—well, Oscar still doesn’t like calling it a mansion, but calling it a McMansion seems worse, even if that’s exactly what it is. Regardless, they have to park halfway down the narrow street at the very end of a line of cars that spills out of Daniel’s already outrageously expansive driveway.

Oscar eyes Lando’s beat-up Toyota with a dubious frown, slightly worried that the parking brake won’t hold its own against a seven-percent incline.

Lando doesn’t seem similarly concerned, locking the doors with a carefree whistle and then tossing her keys as well as both their cellphones into her purse. Their bodysuits might have crotch access, but they sure as hell don’t have pockets.

By the time they ascend the foothill Daniel’s house sits atop, where it overlooks the tiny city in the valley below, Oscar is somehow sweating from exertion and yet freezing all at the same time.

The front door is wide open, and inside, the soft orange overhead lights that Oscar remembers from her previous visits have all been switched out with black light bulbs instead. The décor is different, too. It looks like Daniel plundered an entire warehouse full of Halloween kitsch to achieve the effect he’s gone for, which seems to be turning his entire house into a walk-through haunted house experience.

Oscar follows Lando closely as they move from the foyer—which has ghoulish portraits that shift between scenes, reminiscent of the Haunted Mansion at Disneyland—into the living room—which is now a museum of cryptid taxidermy, around which partygoers converse with glowing concoctions in their hands, though Oscar spies more than one couple with their hands down each other’s pants as she and Lando traverse the room.

They finally find Daniel in the kitchen: presently, a mad scientist’s laboratory, complete with bubbling potions and blinking machinery lining the walls. And of course, Daniel, as the host and de facto bartender, is dressed as none other than the mad scientist himself.

He looks elated when he glances up to find Lando and Oscar standing in front of him at the island in the middle of the room after waiting for the half-dozen people in front of them to be served first.

“Can I get you ladies something to drink?” he asks with a broad grin. “I don’t mean to brag, but I make a mean mojito.”

Oscar’s heart jumps a beat. It’s impossible to tell from Daniel’s expression or tone whether he meant to use the phrase they agreed upon previously, but just in case he had— “Yes,” Oscar says emphatically as she scoots a bit closer to the bar. “I’d love something to drink.” She’s aware of Lando giving her a strange look, but Oscar ignores it, focused entirely on the brief flash of recognition that crosses Daniel’s face. Even if he hadn’t intended to ask her permission, he now knows he has it.

#i'll post the rest before halloween #by rest i mean the rest of this larger scene taking place at the halloween party not the entire fic #which is another beast entirely #do not expect to see that anytime soon #there will be smut tho #my fic

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churchobones · 2 months

Text

DWC Day 4: Vengeance

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“And then... I remember...”

Bruce looked down at his arm. His skin was pale as the waning moonlight, black veins writhing with every weakened pulse of his heart. His head swam, vision dim and distant.

Bruce looked up. “The Red Witch. What do you know of her?”

The little lord pursed his lips.

“The legend of E’Andusore… The whore told you, did she?” The shards of whispering shadow framing his head began to spin, building momentum. “It’s a tale lost to most of my people.

“She was a vicious crone who haunted a powerful magic circle; she and her nightmare hound, Narral’thix. The sacred site held the key to Life after Death; the natural cycle made manifest in mana. A power she used to butcher innocents and turn farmland fallow.

“As the story goes,” the lord smiled grimly. “She ate the dog’s heart to tap into the circle’s power, raising a mighty tree surrounded by a bramble thicket miles wide that only she could pass through unscathed.

“Until the Lady came with fire. A mother desperate to save her son.”

“Three times I've asked about that story now. The first time I heard it, She shared Her memory with me-- that old Oak Tree.”

Bruce's jaw set as the plaintive mew of a kitten long passed echoed in his mind. In that mansion, where Zelion’s family portraits lined the walls and an Oak Tree split the marble floors, he'd heard her cries.

Her coat was mottled brown with camouflage not yet shed. Milk teeth flashed in the darkness. Paws too big for her scrambled, begging purchase.

Emerald magicks flared outwards from his touch, along the grooves of the Oak’s bark, scrawling up and down the trunk. A whistling shimmer grew twice as loud from below, a tremor taking the ballroom floor felt up through the soles of his feet to his knees; enough to require bracing but not enough to steal his legs out from beneath him. The floor splintered beneath the kit’s paws, a desperate cry falling away into the darkness below until there was nothing left to be heard but the burgeoning hum of the awakened tree.

She regarded him with a tingle that remained in his fingertips and pricked at his thumbs. The Oak spoke only by willing a single word to the forefront of his mind: Vengeance.

Her bark served him as second eyes, racing down Her formidable length past the vine covered, stone walls of the cellars, deeper still past crypts, dirt, stone, bone until they reached where Her strongest roots anchored. She was framed by a circle of fallen trees, Her roots wrapped protectively over an ancient altar of jasper. The dead lynx cub’s broken back never made it to the stone.

And then the Oak stood silent.

“I was wondering if I’m no better off than that kitten when Kallarel--”

The smell of sulfur filled the worgen's lungs. Hellfire: the scent which lingered as the bramble brands crawled into skin; the scent which pierced the air with every lit cigarette. He focused on the sickening sweetness alone.

One by one, the arch over his heart gave way as Kallarel tore into the hallway, a manifested monster hot on her high heels with a blazing green gem alight in a chest once empty.

By the third spout of blighted blood, the witch was upon them; beauty, beast and burden all.

By the fourth, her hands were alight with a green fire to match the flame licking the demon’s panting tongue.

By the fifth, the lord’s prone figure was cloaked in cold shadow, absconded without a trace apart from the faintest flicker of rot against the nostrils before the witch could claim him.

And as the last of Zelion’s void crystals burst in Bruce’s chest, the haphazardly placed shard split in two with a deafening crack.

“I can’t... I can’t have died that night. I didn’t. But I dreamed. I dreamed... I was in a house-- the house in Gilneas. With my wife-- with my dead wife, Sophia.”

It was shamefully small, that old cabin in Gilneas. Sophia had given up everything for him-- lands, titles and inheritance. In exchange, Bruce had built a shack with leaky walls and slept with her on the far side of the kitchen for fourteen years.

Now they sat across from one another at the dinner table.

“I thought it might come to this.”

Bruce felt sick. There was a teacup in front of him, which rattled quietly.

“I miss you,” he said. Her face was just as he remembered it; prominent cheeks smattered with freckles and a button nose.

She rolled her eyes-- big, stormy and blue. The same ones he saw every time he looked at his daughter. “You’re doing fine without me.”

“I’m sorry--”

“Don’t be. I mean it. I'm proud of how Lizzie turned out. But if you want, you can join me now. You can rest.”

The knot in his stomach twisted.

“You don’t have to,” she went on. “Not everyone gets a choice, but you will.”

The tips of his fingers felt cold as ice. The table trembled below.

She smiled. It was warm and remarkably genuine-- like a candle in the night. “I know this is what you want, Bruce.”

The support beams above his head cracked. Dust fell in a plume, rippling his tea.

“Just know--” she hesitated, expression soft-- “you’re messing with powers you don’t understand. The Gods may never forgive you for this.”

His chest squeezed. He couldn’t breathe.

“But I'll help guide you home,” she said.

@daily-writing-challenge

#dwc2024 #comorbid-insomnia #suntwistscribbles

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junkissed · 2 years

Text

boo to you, too

member — seungkwan x gn reader genre — fluff to angst/comfort to hurt, period piece, royal!au, ghost!au, mystery (kinda) word count — 3k warnings — mention of suicide (but it didn’t actually happen !!), implied murder by poison, reader wears a gown and makeup but no gendered terms are used, mingyu murderer conspiracy theory confirmed (sorry gyuldaengies) notes — lowercase intended, i’ve never written an angsty ending like this before ?? i'm not good with angst actually so this is pretty tame, very much inspired by bad clue/ego, the plot is kinda like haunted mansion, this is longer than i intended but it’s a genre i've never written before so i'm pretty proud of how this turned out. if you liked this and want to see more, consider leaving a reblog! it shows me what kinds of things people are interested in :) enjoy!

this fic is part of a collab with @svthub! check out our other talented authors' works here! *not all fics in the collab are sfw, minors dni with nsfw fics or you will be blocked*

one reblog = one spooky haunted candle

“excuse me, my dear, do you… need some help with that?”

the sound of a low voice appears suddenly next to you, startling you as you fumble with your purse. the intricate beading of your bag had become entangled in the intricate beading of your ball gown, making a complete mess of your costume you spent so much time putting together. you’re almost wishing you never even came to this damned masquerade ball.

you spin around, purse still dangling precariously from your dress, and find yourself face to face with a man in a black suit, velvet floral patterns embossed into the sleek silk fabric and perfectly tailored to his proportions. a glittery black mask sits perched on his nose, highlighting his features, somehow soft yet sharp at the same time. black and white feathers sprout from the top of the mask and seem to float above him, held in place by an array of gleaming black jewels and lace.

you’re so caught off guard by the gorgeous man in front of you that you stand there for a solid few seconds, jaw hanging open before you realize you’re embarrassing yourself further.

you stand up straight, clearing your throat. “hello. um, yes, some assistance would be wonderful,” you say, gesturing at the knotted beading as you feel your face heat.

he leans closer, enough to touch you but far enough to maintain your personal space. he picks up the top layer of fabric and holds it gingerly, studying it; almost in awe of its very existence. after a moment he begins working on untangling it, slender fingers moving gracefully across the material. and before you can blink, your clutch is separated from your dress and the man is carefully holding it out to you.

you reach out and take it, your fingers accidentally brushing against his for a split second, and he jumps, his eyes jerking up to your face. you swear you see disbelief in his expression, but you write it off; it’s hard to tell behind his mask.

you stand, both staring at each other, for what feels like years. finally the man offers his hand out, and you take it lightly. “i’m… boo,” he says, almost as if he’s uncertain of the words. “nice to meet you, uh-”

you cut in, telling him your name breathlessly. he smiles, and though you can’t see his whole face, you can see his smile light up. you hope this won’t be the last you see of him at the masquerade. but before you can express the sentiment, he brings it up himself.

“would- would you like to sit and eat with me?” he asks timidly, but there’s an air of rising confidence in his voice that doesn’t escape you.

“that would be lovely, mr. boo.”

you follow him to one of the round tables at the edge of the ballroom floor, careful to hold your purse away from the front of your gown so it doesn’t tangle again. like a perfect gentleman, he pulls your seat out for you, his hands lingering on the back of the chair for just a second too long.

“so, mr. boo, what brings you here tonight? do you know the family?” you ask, taking small sips from your water glass.

his gaze shifts. “i… suppose you could say that,” he says, a faraway look suddenly ghosting across his eyes. if you had to describe it, you’d say he looks… lonely. recognizing it may be a sensitive subject for him, you try to steer the conversation away.

“what do you think of the masquerade?” you say, looking around at the ballroom, lavishly decorated in black and deep red. “it’s an odd theme for a party, i must admit. hallow’s eve isn’t usually something i would see people celebrating elaborately like this.”

he glances back at you, eyes wandering over your face. “well, i… i don’t get to attend many parties anymore. i’m glad to be here tonight.”

oh god, you’ve made it even worse. you rush to apologize for making him uncomfortable, but thankfully a waiter arrives at your table with heaping plates of food, distracting you both from the conversation at hand.

you begin moving the food around on your plate, consciously trying to make yourself look graceful as you eat.

boo watches you for a minute, then seems to realize something. “oh! my apologies, my dear, i’ve been wearing my mask this whole evening. it’s terribly rude of me,” he says, and reaches up to slip the mask from his eyes. when his face is finally revealed to you, you have to hold back your gasp: he’s truly the most gorgeous man you’ve ever seen. his features even seem to shimmer under the chandelier light, as if he’s not really there.

“it’s… it’s alright,” you say distractedly, still struggling to process how a man as pretty as him is sitting at a table alone with you when he could easily have his pick of anyone in the mansion.

the clinking of a knife against glass calls both your attention to another man at the front of the ballroom. heads quietly swivel in his direction, a hush falling over the room as the band stops playing. you feel boo tense next to you, but your attention stays on the new figure.

“good evening everyone, and we thank you for being here tonight to celebrate hallow’s eve with us. my name is count mingyu, and i’m here on behalf of the royal family to welcome you to tonight’s masquerade.” his gaze sweeps over the crowd, brushing past you for just a moment.

“as they say, the magic is much stronger on this night, so don’t be alarmed if you run into any ghosts.” he chuckles at his own joke, and a light laughter bubbles up from the assembly in response. boo stays noticeably quiet.

“i'm very honored to have been able to step up and work so closely with our beloved royal family on some large projects these past few years, especially after such tragedies have befallen their name. however, we have much to celebrate this season, myself included," he continues, flashing a grin that sends an involuntary chill down your spine. "we hope you enjoy the festivities."

followed by polite applause, the count disappears behind a curtain, and the music and chatter resumes all at once. boo is still silent next to you, and you can practically see the waves of emotion radiating off of him. having learned from your previous blunders, you settle not to inquire about his relationship with mingyu. although your curiosity lingers, you decide it best not to bring it up.

eventually boo relaxes back into his seat, and you gradually resume your conversation, becoming more comfortable around each other as the night goes on. before you realize how late it’s become, you’ve spent hours at the table in the corner of the room, talking with him. you’re grateful for his company, and you’re more than a little interested in him; the way his cheeks puff out as he talks about things he enjoys, and the jokes he makes that have you covering your mouth to hide your smile.

you don’t miss the fact that his plate of food sits untouched the whole night. but you’re having such a wonderful time talking with him, you can’t bring yourself to care or ask why.

as the party begins to wind down, you’re dreading the moment you have to leave him. you’ve had more fun tonight than you’ve had in years, and you tell him as much.

“it was so lovely meeting you, mr. boo,” you say, walking slowly towards the ballroom doors at his side. “i had such a fantastic evening, i hope to see you again, someday soon.”

“as do i to you, too, my dear, but i’m afraid it won’t be possible.”

you frown. “are- are you sure? is it something about your family? i know it’s terribly forward of me to ask, but i really would like to see you again, boo.”

his eyes cloud with sadness. “it’s alright. but it just isn’t possible. for reasons out of my control, and i cannot explain to you. i’m afraid all i have to offer you is a thousand of my sincerest regrets.” his hand quavers at his side, showing his conflicting inner thoughts, but finally he reaches out and gently takes your hand. it’s much colder than you expect it to be, and you hold back a shudder, physically having to stop yourself from letting it show in your face. “i’m sorry.”

your gaze falls to the floor, feeling a lump building in your throat. how has this man you’ve only just met today managed to make you so enamored with him, that the thought of never seeing him again has you at the brink of tears?

you swallow, forcing your voice to steady. “i… i understand,” you say, your words coming out barely above a whisper. “i had a delightful evening with you, boo. i’m very thankful to have met you.”

“to you, too, my dear.” he sighs and tugs at the bottom of his suit jacket, inhaling slowly. “goodbye.” and in a second, he’s gone.

back in your guest room long after the party is over, feeling a bit like cinderella in the absence of your gown and masquerade makeup, you sit at the edge of the bed, hugging a cushion to your chest. no matter how you try, you can’t seem to drag your thoughts away from mr. boo and the night you shared. it was a moment unlike any other before in your life, and you know you’ll never forget it; you’re already replaying each scene over and over again in your mind, wishing you’d spent a little longer studying his soft features and the way the light gently touched his hair, the feeling of his cool hand in yours.

feeling restless, you grab a small candle and light it from the lamp in your room. you decide to roam the halls of the mansion for a while, thinking perhaps it’ll make you tired enough to want to fall asleep. but deep down you know the real reason is because you’re hoping you might run into mr. boo again. despite what he said, you’re hoping it won’t be the last time you see him.

as you trek down the dark corridors, shadows dancing on the walls from the light of the candle, an eerie feeling starts to overtake you. he never told you anything about himself; where he’s from, what he does, the kind of general small talk patrons of an event like tonight usually would’ve had. in fact, the more you think about it, the more you realize how cryptic and vague he was.

but before you can think too much about it, you find yourself in a long hallway, the walls completely bare excluding one massive painting. its gold gilding seems to give off an unearthly glow in the candlelight. like a moth to a flame you feel yourself gravitate towards it, needing to see what lies behind the frame.

as you move closer to it you gasp, suddenly recognizing a figure in the painting. a man in a suit with a distinct floral pattern you’ve seen before, a pattern you’ve seen recently.

it couldn’t be him. but even in the dim light his features are unmistakable, his eyes almost boring into you. it must be him.

your mr. boo must be someone quite important, you surmise, to have such a gorgeous portrait hanging in such a central spot in the mansion. you feel a sudden pang of guilt, realizing you took so much of his time tonight when he probably had many other guests to greet, guests more prestigious than you. no, you push the thought away; you enjoyed his company, and he seemed to enjoy yours. it may be selfish, but you’re glad you kept with him all night.

you stand silent, eyes transfixed on the mysterious man in the painting when you hear a soft scuff against the floor panels down the corridor. you tear your gaze away from the painting just in time to see count mingyu darting across the hall, keeping his head low.

“oh, pardon me, mingyu!” you call out, gathering up the folds of your nightgown with one hand to rush towards him, using your body to shield the candle’s flame from the wind.

the man spins around at the sound of his name, and for a split second you think you see a flash of guilt in his eyes, but it disappears before you have time to think about it.

you catch up to him, slightly out of breath. you let go of your gown, smoothing it down before clearing your throat. “count, might i ask, who is the man in the painting over there? he seems, um… familiar.”

“ah, the portrait in the great hall.” he exhales, a look creeping across his features that you can’t quite place in the dark. “it’s been many moons since lord seungkwan walked these halls. rather tragic, what happened.”

you pause, confused. this hadn’t been the answer you’d been expecting, not in the slightest. “if i may inquire… what happened?” you ask, leaning forward almost imperceptibly, as if you weren’t sure you’d heard his words correctly the first time.

“he took his own life, right here in this very house.”

you hold back a gasp, your eyes widening. “how… how did he-”

“poison.” mingyu answers immediately, and you notice, the words flowing too easily out of his mouth. “in his own cup.” you’re shocked at how he says the words so nonchalantly, how he could speak so freely of the dead without paying proper respects, especially to someone of a lord’s status. instantly the candle flame flares, growing bigger than twice its size and enveloping the room in a menacing yellow as it flickers wildly.

“such a great loss to the country. my lord was so young, too.” the count tsks and shakes his head. “but i suppose we’ll never understand why some people do the things they do.” he suddenly stands straighter and turns quickly, a little too quickly for your liking. “you must excuse me, counselor, i have a great many tasks to finish before the night is done. i must bid you adieu.”

you’re barely able to squeak out a parting goodbye before mingyu disappears around the corridor, gone in a flash. the second he leaves, the flame stops flickering and dies down, immediately restored to its gentle glow.

it’s blatantly obvious there’s something the count isn’t telling you, and a feeling in your gut tells you that something isn’t a good thing.

instantly you feel a weight on your shoulder, as if someone’s gently placed their hand there. you whip around to meet them, unaware you hadn’t been alone, but to your shock no one’s there. the dancing flame in your hand extinguishes suddenly, shrouding you in darkness. the room is pitch black, save for light of the moon that spills through cracks in the curtains, casting eerie patterns on the floor.

you shiver, pulling your shawl tighter around you and begin walking back to your room, no longer feeling safe in the mansion at night. the flame had been lit just moments ago and should still be warm to the touch, but now the weight is cold and dead in your hand.

if this was the man you’d gotten to know over the course of the masquerade ball, talked with, laughed with… no. he was real. you’d touched his sleeve, you’d even held his hand. he was as real as any other person in the room. you couldn’t even begin to fathom that the man you’d spent all night with had only been in your imagination, let alone that he could’ve taken his own life. you had only met him tonight, you couldn’t really know him, but something in your gut knew he wouldn’t have done that. no, if he really was dead as count mingyu had said, it wouldn’t have been by his own hand.

something ominous hides behind the mansion’s lavishly decorated walls, you know it, but if you decide to pursue the truth, you have a feeling that the secrets you dig up are dead set on staying buried, even if it means taking you with them.

placing your hand on the doorknob of your room, you begin turning it slightly, feeling a chill rush down your spine at the contact. a gust of cold air blows softly past your ear, as if someone is breathing beside you.

you scream and jump as the grandfather clock in the hall bongs, announcing the twelfth hour of the night. the chill in the air instantly dissipates, and the still candle in your hand suddenly flickers back to life, the comforting flame returning to normal and bathing the room in a warm glow. you swear you hear a voice whisper, its tone filled with longing, “goodbye…”

gasping, you shove the bedroom door open and fling it back shut behind you as fast as you can. your heart races as the slam reverberates down the halls, echoing into the dark before settling back into silence. whatever, whoever, is out there, you can deal with in the morning. the night must be playing tricks on you, the story you heard from mingyu warping your reality, and you prefer to deal with these kinds of things in the daytime with the comfort of the light.

as you slip off your slippers and climb under the bed sheets, your mind can’t help but wander back to your friend mr. boo once again. it must be a coincidence; it couldn’t have been anything else. this “lord seungkwan” must have a twin brother, or perhaps a cousin with similar features, right? it couldn’t have been seungkwan himself… right?

thank you for reading!

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angryteapott · 7 months

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However my most controversial mysterious lotus casebook opinion is that He Xiaohui is bad investor. That's a terrible real estate investment the costs to remodel alone sink it not to mention it's history you want a relaxing bath house in the haunted mansion in abducted maidens-ville ? In hell city? What about the MINES girl is the water potable? Will it stay clean being transported at the volume you need without being contaminated by those explosive rocks? Are some areas structurally unstable? It's a lawsuit waiting to happen watch them lose 20,000 taels over the lifetime of the asset. No sense of investment risk no due diligence her business plan doesn't match the asset whatsoever I genuinely think the only reason the Fang fam has money is that she has good patents and her accountant husband controls the purse strings

#now if she said bitches love a haunted house...#mysterious lotus casebook

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peachyteabuck · 2 years

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one for the money // fallon carrington x reader

↪ summary: after years away, you figure it’s time to explain to fallon why you left

a commission for @devillskettle

↪ pairing: fallon carrington x reader

↪ words: 3584

↪ trigger warnings: homophobia from a parent (blake is a shitty parent), blackmail, switch!fallon, switch!reader, focusing on top!reader, orgasm control, orgasm countdowns, hatefucking

Nothing in your life has gone according to plan. Your major? Changed six months into undergrad. Your career path? Abandoned for a graduate offer a few months after graduating. The outfit you planned last night? Peed on by your cat in the middle of the night, requiring you to wear the outfit you wore the day previous. Your breakfast order this morning? Messed up by the drive-thru employee. In your field, with your luck…hoping for predictability isn’t enough. You have to be able to find comfort in chaos or else you’d be screaming into every damn pillow you could get your hands on, and probably on a much higher dose of anxiety medication.

None of this, none of your years of preparation for “times your life has gone off the goddamn rails” seems to matter now. Not a single minute of the quick fixes and pivots and carefully constructed plans dashed could have prepared you for the moment to come. The long drive from your company-provided AirBnB certainly don’t help either – the two hours alone in your car in Atlanta traffic a full one hundred and twenty minutes of silence that have you itching to get out of your own skin. Still, when you arrive and park, you wish you had more time…hoping you could delay the inevitable task ahead of you.

You haven’t been at the Carrington mansion in a long while. Part of you feels it hasn’t been long enough, that centuries could pass between visits, and you’d regret stepping through the front door. Another part of you feels like it was yesterday; like you had merely stepped out for dinner and are returning home after a few hours away. Not much has changed either way, the statue that once sat in the immediate view of the front door is no longer there, and the carpeting in the front room has changed. But the twin staircases, the marble floors, the haunting feeling that settles into your bones…that’s just the same as the day you left. The family scent hound’s there, too, lounging on a dog bed you’re sure was prohibitively expensive while the rest of the world ignores him the same way it does them. You want to pet him, see if he remembers you; but the fear he doesn’t keeps you in your place.

The worst part is, the mansion is nearly silent. Nearly no one is home. Blake and his wife (which one is this? Four? Five?) fucked off to the Bahamas for a week-long vacation at an all-inclusive resort. The older Carrington sibling is similarly gone, his ex-boytoy luckily gone, too. Whether they’re in the same place is none of your concern, all you truly care about is that they’re not here with you. Even Anderson has taken a few days off, returning to New Zealand to do…whatever it is he does. All that’s left are the lower servants, who – if they do recognize you – say nothing as they hurry past to do whatever stupid chores Blake left for them. You are stagnant, listening to the sound of shoes walking past you occasionally. The non-slip sneakers make a distinct, soft squeak, a sound you’re nearly enjoying when you hear the harsh, sharp sound of stilettos. They start far off, a sound you hope is just an impending thunderstorm. As their tight, even pace continues, though, growing louder with every passing click…you know your fate.

So you stand, inert, staring straight ahead into nothingness, waiting for the voice of the woman whose heart you broke to ring through the empty corridor. And, Heavens above, does it ring.

“Get out of my house,” she hisses. You don’t need to see her face, you can imagine her pursed lips and narrowed eyes and brow furrowed with rage. It’s almost cute.

You keep your gaze straight ahead, not giving her the satisfaction of eye contact. “Your name doesn’t go on the deed until both Blake and Steven die and we both know it.” She gasps then stomps down the stairs, and only when you feel her body heat and can smell her signature perfume do you look at her. “Fallon,” you say, looking her up and down. “It’s so nice to see you again.”

She doesn’t respond, anger radiating off of her like heat rays from the sun. “You left me!” she growls through grit teeth. With her so close it’s easier for you to see her, truly, in all her glory. She looks almost the same as the day you left, with perfect makeup and perfect teeth and perfect nails and perfect jewelry that perfectly complements her perfect outfit. Really the only thing that’s changed is her bangs – these adorable, childlike bangs that once covered her forehead and now are gone. Her hair is still the same, slightly curly and a wonderful dark chocolate color you want to twirl around your fingers. If Fallon didn’t look like she’d bite your hand if you tried, you’d be threading your fingers through her locks and pulling her close.

“I-“

You aren’t able to defend yourself for your self-admitted misgivings before she’s pouncing on you like a cat, knocking you to the ground as she screams. “You fucked off to your fancy fucking college and left me here!”

You can’t tell what she’s trying to do, her fists balled but punches reminiscent of a toddler whose animal crackers were taken away. At least she doesn’t want to really hurt me, you think.

You scoff as she grabs ahold of your blazer lapels, shaking you back and forth. You keep your head angled to avoid the hard floors (blood would be very unbecoming on your cream shirt), but allow her to use you like a punching bag. “I didn’t leave you, I left this house.”

Fallon’s eyes narrow, her movements never ceasing. “And I fucking live here, asshole! You can’t leave this place without leaving me in it! You left me alone here!”

Tears – tears you ignore for her own dignity – prick at the corners of her eyes. Beneath her fiery outrage you know she’s upset, genuinely upset with you and what you did. You have no defense, really, and so you let her do what she needs to do until she tired herself out and stands back up. Though her heart races in her chest and her nostrils flare, she calmly moves the hair that covers her face back into its proper place. After a beat, you follow suit, getting back on your feet and facing her once more.

“I,” you sigh as she raises a single brow. Don’t lie to me, it says. Don’t you dare fucking lie to me. Not here. Not now. Not after what you did. “Let’s go up to your room where we can talk.”

Fallon considers your proposal, neither of you acknowledging the awkward housekeeper who dusts the paintings that hang a mere ten feet from the both of you. She doesn’t say anything when she accepts, simply exhales and turns on her heel to walk back where she came from. You follow, equally silently, until you’re both in her obnoxiously large bedroom and standing far enough apart to where you can’t count her eyelashes.

“Come back,” is all you tell her. Your heart aches for you to touch her again, to smell where she sprays perfume on the juncture of her neck, to nose at her hairline. She doesn’t move. “I’ve missed you.”

She merely raises her eyebrow once more. “How much?”

You move closer in the face of her stubbornness, tracing your hands down the seam of her top. “More than Romeo missed Juliet when he found her dead body at that casket…”

She fumes, silently. It’s a good answer, one much better than she was expecting. You take her silence, even as her jaw tenses, as the okay to continue. Your hands travel from her elbow to her shoulder, down the black edge of her cardigan thumbing at the expensive knitwork. You want to tease her, mockingly ask whether it was actually as hard as she wants to make it seem to let you near her again. But she’s skittish, like a newly rescued feral kitten. So you keep your voice low, focusing on small movements and quiet praises. “You look nice.”

Fallon gives you a little snort but doesn’t pull away. A good sign. “If you’re here to butter me up into not being upset, it’s not going to work.”

You shrug, tracing the outside of the matte black buttons. “Nah, honest. You look good in this.”

She’s wearing a sweater set – some knit houndstooth pattern that a cropped cardigan and skirt that falls mid-thigh share. She’s got a black shirt underneath, the style reminiscent of a t-shirt but made of a silk much nicer than any jersey fabric. It doesn’t really matter what she’s wearing, or even that she looks fucking delectable in it. What matters is that it grants you easy access to her pussy. Or, more accurately, the panties that cover it. You move your head ever so slightly, softly pressing your lips to hers.

“These are nice, too” you murmur into her lips, your smile only growing when she scowls.

Her eyes narrow, her jaw setting as she tenses. She doesn’t move away, though, just digs her manicured nails into your bare upper arm. “What did you expect, granny panties?”

You give her a little snort, but don’t stop tracing what you think are embroidered flowers. A small pool of dampness is starting to form, but you don’t give her the satisfaction as the pads of your fingers trace every petal. “No, I just sometimes forget that you’re the kind of stuck-up bitch that wears lingerie on a random Tuesday.”

You ignore your mother’s voice in your head telling you that only hussies forgo pantyhose as you move them to the side. Fallon’s breath hitches as the cool air brushes over her wetness, a similarly small gasp leaving her lips when you tease at her entrance. “How long as it been since someone touched you like this, pretty girl,” you whisper, raking your teeth ever so lightly against the shell of her ear. “Or has the rest of the world treated you like an antique, beautiful but untouched in some climate-controlled cabinet.”

You know the answer. Fallon’s a very particular woman, a particularity that also manifested in who she has sex with. Even the careless hookups were chosen with specificity, people she knew could be trusted (or at least blackmailed into silence if need be). You hadn’t been the first woman who fucked her (and who she fucked in return), but the way her body had reacted to yours during those hours-long sessions had you knowing that you were something special to her. Even if you were more object than human, there’d never be another you.

As you rub at her clit her beautiful sighs fill your ears like an award-winning symphony, her body becoming more pliant as pleasure replaces distaste in her veins. You use her acceptance, her letting herself go just a tad, to flip her around so that you and her both face her ridiculously large closet. Her moans are loud, lewd, like they had trapped themselves inside of her throat and just now were releasing themselves from their imprisonment. They go straight to your core, flint striking upon an already raging fire that burns inside of you. Flames lick at your organs as you rub loose, lazy circles, ignoring the frantic bucks of her hips.

“Be patient,” you tell her. The words are firm even though they have no edge. You’d give her anything she asked for in a heartbeat…you’re just trying to keep her from begging so that you can make up for lost time properly and at your own pace. “I’ll give you everything you need, princess. You just have to be patient.”

She whines, but obliges.

You can’t help but laugh when you go to palm at her breasts, untucking her shirt and moving the cup of her bra aside. A bra you can’t see – but can tell from the fabric and raised pattern matches her panties.

“What are you laughing about?” Fallon huffs, trying to shove her ass back to force your fingers deeper.

You ignore her actions, pulling her up so that her back is flush against your chest. “Nothing, just thinking about how you’re such an uptight control freak you wear matching sets when you know you have no plans.”

She has no retort to that. Partially because it’s true, and partially because you’ve got one hand plunging below her panties to insert a single finger inside of her. It’s not enough – for your little size queen it’ll never be enough – but it certainly has her moaning and chewing at her lip to suppress the desperate, slutty sounds.

“C’mon, baby,” you too. “Be loud for me…” You can tell she isn’t convinced, so you lower your voice just a tad and kiss at her neck as you speak. “C’mon, princess. I’ve missed you too much for my first time back to be so quiet.”

And, to her credit, she moans unabashedly. A smile plays on your lips as you realize it’s because she’s desperate to reach her own peak. No, you think. No, she can’t take the reins back like that so easily.

“You come when I tell you too,” you tell her, leaving no room for argument. “I’m gonna count down from five, and I want to feel you come around my fingers when I get to one. Understand?”

You can practically feel the clever retort forming on her lips, but it dies and is replaced by another moan when you fit three fingers inside of her, the other rubbing tight circles around her swollen clit. All she can do is nod.

“Good, princess,” you murmur. Part of you wants to start at a higher number, but you’ve denied yourself this pleasure for too long. Selfishly, you want to see her fall apart in your grasp – and to be the only thing there to catch her as she does so. “Five.”

She moans, tugging her bottom lip between her teeth and digging her hands into whatever skin of yours she can get ahold of. It hurts, the feeling of her nails breaking skin, but you don’t say anything. You deserve that pain – probably more, and she deserves an anchor. All you can do is be thankful she found it in you, and that you were here this time to provide it.

“F-fuck,” her words are strangled, and it’s a struggle to keep her upright. You love it.

“Four.”

You increase the pace of both hands, feeling her stomach tense and watching her hips fuck down onto your fingers. You wish you could record this, and watch it every time you got off. Nothing could be hotter than watching the effervescent, perfectly put together Fallon Carrington fall apart so effortlessly under your touch.

“Three.”

She chokes out a sob, desperate. Whether she wants more to please you or to come, though, is the question.

“Two…” you feel her fight against you, while grinding against the hand that circles her clit. The two parts of her, the one that wants to obey, and the one that wants to chase every bit of pleasure she can find, battle each other. Regardless of who wins, though, you’re determined to reward the champion.

“You okay, love?” you ask. It’s genuine, even if a touch of torture threads itself into your tone.

Fallon nods, breathing harder than you’ve ever seen her pant in her life. “F-fuck you, don’t you dare fucking s-stop,” she threatens through gritted teeth.

All you can do is smile. “One.”

You can feel her clamp down around you, tightening around your fingers like a vice. The most sensitive part her jumps under your fingertips as she screams, spasming under your grasp.

As she comes down from her high you maneuver her to the bed, crashing upon the thick duvet like waves upon a shore. You don’t say anything until her breathing evens out, her eyes closed as she curls around you.

“I didn’t leave you, you know…” you sigh as you say it, the gross feeling of expressing a genuine emotion making your teeth itch. Still, you manage to keep talking – even if it feels like your skin is covered in a thick, wet slime. She turns away, looking straight up as you speak. You don’t try to get her back. “Blake offered to pay for my education through a PhD and said he’d consider funding my research if I stayed away.”

Fallon doesn’t look at you, continuing to stare up at her ceiling. That indignant tone softens just a little as she speaks, her indignant facial expression set in stone. “That’s a lot,” she pauses. “Considering your field.”

You don’t say the quiet part out loud. You’re in engineering, focusing on green technology and environmental justice. Having a world-renowned advocate and scientist on his side would let Black get away with a Hell of a lot more than he is now. It would quell the Steven’s of the world – ones who want to feel good more than they want to be good. Ones who don’t go hunting for grant proposals or know how to use SourceWatch; ones who think straw bans work and bring their own tote bags everywhere they go. In the beginning, you felt guilty, for doing what you did under Blake’s watch. But nothing paid the bills better than oil barons, and when creditors started to come knocking, they didn’t much care for a piece of paper with “I’m doing important environmental research” in reply.

If there’s anyone were to understand what kind of spot you’re in…it’d be Fallon. She’s one of the few people who truly understand Blake’s influence on the world, how hard it is to get out from under his thumb. Which is why she stays silent – doesn’t try to fight you again, or question your choices like friends and colleagues did. She’s just…quiet, tracing your jaw with her right index finger and looking you up and down. “It’s really hard to be mad at you with my father manipulating reality like that.”

You shrug. “Rock and a hard place. Had to take it. Didn’t really have any other options.”

The next question she asks is one you knew was coming, but it still digs the knife deeper into your already scarred heart. “Why’d you come back? Why now?”

Because if I went another day without seeing you I think I’d explode. Because I love you. Because life doesn’t feel worth living if I can’t have you in my life.

You shrug once more. “Knew him and his snitches would be gone, so I took the chance. Figured it’d be better to see you now than at Blake’s funeral.”

She snorts, and you wish you could capture the smile on your face. You don’t want to grab your phone, though, don’t want to risk turning the location on and being found out. And you just burn the image into your memory, praying you see it every time you close your eyes for the rest of your days. “Is that when the contract ends?”

It’s hard not to sigh, to think about the lack of legal protections you have if Blake wanted to fuck you over. “Technically there isn’t a contract. He just checks in on me on the first of every month to hand me a check, ask if it’s enough, and remind me to stay away from you.”

The next question hangs in the air, unasked and unanswered. Why Blake’s always hated you matters less than why Blake wants you to stay away from Fallon. Steven being gay is one thing – he’s already a black sheep, and falls in line when necessary. Fallon’s too…unpredictable. She’s done too much to deserve happiness, to deserve what you can give her. Black would never say this, of course, not to her face or yours or anyone else’s. The excuse you were given was about her focusing on what matters, on restoring the Carrington name. Certainly more flimsy than the truth, but the near-ridiculous amount of zeros at the end of the first check he cut you filled in the gaps for him.

Money talks, just as much as it keeps people quiet.

The both of you are silent as Fallon processes what’s happened, and you watch her face as she does so. It’s been at least eight years since you’ve seen her in person, even if you’ve watched her career closely through a series of Google alerts and trashy magazine email lists. You have no idea whether she’s done the same for you (even though you know she didn’t read either your undergrad, master’s, or doctoral thesis…which you can’t really fault her for. Fallon Carrington is a lot of things, but she is not an expert in mechanical engineering). All you can do is hope she knows you still love her, even after all these years.

Fallon is the one to break the silence, getting up from the bed on shaky knees and opening the safe hidden in her nightstand. “That was a fun conversation. Now get on all fours, because I’m going to fuck you.”

Needless to say, you do as you’re told – even if it’s with a smirk tugging at one corner of your lips and bratty ideas sparkling on the inside of your skull.

#fallon carrington x reader #fallon carrington #lukis writes stuff #fallon carrington fanfic #fallon carrington x y/n #fallon carrington x you

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