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gloomwitchwrites · 5 months

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Punch Bowl

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: established relationship / situationship, sharing, oral sex (male & female receiving), unprotected piv (wrap it up irl), multiple creampie, vaginal fingering, sex on top of and over a desk, cum swallowing, praise, anal sex, double penetration, multiple positions, light dom/sub dynamics, F/M/M/M/M

Word Count: 3k

At a required work holiday party, Captain Price leads you away to his office for a bit of fun. But the rest of Task Force 141 is interested, and for now, Price is willing to share you.

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // winter 2023 masterlist

Behind the drinks table, you stand with your arms crossed, watching the rest of the room. You’re on punch bowl duty because every fucking year someone manages to spike it. It’s never been on your watch, but over the years you’ve begun to suspect a few possible culprits.

But really you don’t give a shit, and you don’t want to be here anyway.

There is nothing you like less than being forced to attend a mandatory work holiday party. Your face always aches from smiling by the end of it, and you have no social battery. You’d much rather be at home with a glass of wine, greasy takeout, and a book.

Every time someone approaches the table, you snag a plastic cup, ladle in some of the bright red beverage, and hand it off only to do it all over again. The worst part are the extroverts who don’t know how to shut the fuck up and talk your ear off for fifteen minutes before they find another victim.

It is exhausting. And awful. And you’re about five minutes away from pretending to be sick so you can go home to that wine, takeout, and book.

A figure blocks the room out of the corner of your eye. You turn, and freeze, realizing who it is that’s stepped in front of you.

It’s Captain John Price.

When you make eye contact with him, he smiles, and it’s so sultry that you already know what he wants. That’s the thing about you and John. It’s a weird, friends with benefits situation that is quickly starting to fall into feelings. Which is absurd. The two of you shouldn’t get involved beyond what it already is, and yet every time the two of you come together, it’s more passionate than two people simply fucking.

“Captain Price,” you acknowledge, reaching for a plastic cup, pretending everything about this interaction is normal.

“I need to talk to you,” he replies.

I need to talk to you is just code for “I want to fuck you.”

You keep a straight face, even as Price’s mouth twitches with amusement. “What about?” you ask, ladling in some of the bright red punch into a plastic cup.

The upper half of Price’s body twists slightly, and then he’s reaching for a nearby recruit. Price grips their shoulder and spins them around.

“Cover the punch bowl.” There is a hint of a growl in his voice, and that surprises you.

“Yes, sir.” The recruit nearly stumbles around the side of the table, obviously flustered.

There is no negotiation with Price. Rarely do you ever push back when he wants to be inside you.

You simply step around the table and allow the nervous recruit to take your previous position. Price steps into your space and nods toward the exit. The two of you move casually, as if this is routine and not at all strange. You’ve done it plenty of times before, and so far, no one has said anything.

Even if they did, what would they say? You’re not even SAS, and he is not your superior. You’re stationed here for work, and you’ve had to interact with John on multiple occasions for your job. The two of you walking away to talk is normal. At least, on the surface.

You and Price move out into the connecting hallway. From there, the two of you head for his office. The moment he shuts the door behind you, Price pushes you up against it, trapping you with his body.

He plants one hand directly above your head while the other squeezes your hip. Price presses in, one knee slotting between your legs, forcing them to open to accommodate his muscled thigh.

“You want to talk?” you murmur as his lips move toward your mouth.

“We’re talking,” he replies, closing the distance.

Price’s tenderness is not a soft thing but a fiery heat that burns you from the inside out. His kisses are fierce, purposeful, and each one is a brand that you carry with you in the moments the two of you are separated. But there is a desperate, underlying movement to each of his touches and kisses. Price is wanton but never needy and rarely rushes.

Your hands go out to rest against his chest, but he’s bending down, sliding his hands over your ass and lifting you up.

“John,” you breathe, clinging to him as he deposits you on top of his desk.

“Fighting me on this?” he asks, sinking to his knees before you. Price lifts your bent knees, placing one over each of his shoulders.

Then his hands are sliding up your thighs to your hips. Once there, his fingers dig in and drag you to the very edge of the desk. The friction pushes on your skirt, forcing it to slide up to your hips where it bunches. At this angle, there is no way Price doesn’t see your red lacy underwear underneath.

“No,” you murmur as Price slides his index finger between the delicate fabric and your pussy. He lightly pulls, and then guides it to the side, revealing you to him.

Price lifts your hips one more time, guiding you a bit closer before his head dips to run his tongue along the soft flesh of your inner thigh. His tongue against your skin is divine, as if you’ve been apart for ages. Price licks, bites, and kisses until he leaves marks behind.

As he moves closer, the anticipation of Price tasting you begins to build. His warm breath is a caress against your skin, and it’s even more wanton when you feel it against your clit. Your fingers dig into the wood, and when you glance down between your legs, Price’s gaze moves upward, his mouth positioned at your opening.

You arch your back and flex your hips a bit to signal exactly what you want. But you know Price won’t deny you. He never does.

“Let your knees fall wider, love,” purrs Price. When you do, he licks your pussy from opening to clit.

It’s a deliberate, languid touch that lingers for a moment before Price does it again, this time swirling his tongue as he does so. Then, Price goes for it, flicking his tongue against your clit in quick, sharp bursts of movement that immediately make your toes curl.

Your orgasm blooms from nowhere, roaring forward as Price sucks your clit into his mouth. Falling back on your elbows, you moan loudly. One of your knees start to slip but Price is there to catch it, keeping your legs spread wide as he continues to lavish your clit.

You’re in absolute bliss as the orgasm hits in a series of waves that only dissipates once Price releases you.

“Do you want more?” he muses before teasing the opening of your vagina with the tip of his tongue. Your hips buck but Price’s hand presses down on your thigh, settling you back onto the table.

“Please,” you beg, voice a hoarse whisper.

“Only because you asked nicely,” he says, inserting two fingers inside you. Your body surrenders and you both groan with how nicely you take him. You almost collapse against the desk, your eyelids closing in pleasure at his touch.

Price bends his fingers to press upon that sensitive spot inside you and drags his fingers down and out, popping them into his mouth to suck them clean.

“Do any of you want a taste?” asks Price, his voice unusually loud for just the two of you. His fingers slip underneath the delicate lace as Price guides your underwear down your legs and past your heels.

Your eyes snap open and you push yourself up, the lazy haze of lust disappearing.

In front of you are Price, who kneels between your legs, and three other men. The door to the office is open, and a large man in a black balaclava shuts the door. It’s the rest of Task Force 141. John MacTavish, Kyle Garrick, and Simon Riley all linger near the door just behind Price.

You have no idea what Simon is thinking behind the balaclava, but Soap and Gaz have smirks on their faces. It’s not that you haven’t entertained the idea, because you have. All of them are sweet on you, even Ghost who is fucking terrifying to nearly everyone except you.

“I do, Captain,” replies Gaz, already moving to take Price’s place.

Price stands and steps out of the way, only for Gaz to immediately put his mouth on you.

“Oh, fuck,” you whimper, and you feel Gaz’s gentle laugh against your skin.

Price saddles up to the side of the desk. His hand grabs the back of your head, twisting in your hair, and then he guides you toward him, your body slightly bent. With his other hand, he undoes the front of his jeans.

Instinctually, you reach for him, grasping his cock the moment it’s free of the zipper.

“Just like that,” groans Price as you take him into your mouth.

You run your tongue along the underside of his cock before sucking him down again. With fist and mouth, you work Price until he’s murmuring your name. It’s growing more difficult to concentrate. Gaz is skilled, his tongue working in tandem with his fingers as he pumps them steadily in and out of you.

Soap and Ghost might be watching, waiting their turn, or both. But they’ll have their turn, and that excites you.

You choke around Price’s cock when it hits the back of your throat. Gaz swirls his tongue around your clit and that breaks you. The orgasm rises and you squeeze around Gaz’s fingers.

“That’s fucking beautiful,” says Gaz with a contented amusement that makes you feel gorgeous. It’s an appreciative comment, but you only have a moment to linger in it before Price’s hand on the back of your head keeps you in place.

“Can you swallow, love? For me?”

You nod, and then Price’s taste bursts on your tongue. He does not pull away, but makes you take all of it, and you are eager for every drop. Price draws away, his cock leaving your mouth in a wet pop. Some of your salvia sticks to the head of him, and he brushes it away along with whatever stays on your lips.

“Show me,” he says, and you open, revealing that you’ve swallowed every bit of him.

“Good girl. Good fucking girl.”

Gaz licks his lips, wiping off the bit of your release that still sits on his lips. He pushes up to standing, and then Ghost is right there, grabbing at you, dragging you off the desk. You nearly wobble when your feet hit the floor but he’s fast, making sure you don’t fall.

“I want you on your knees,” he says, and you immediately drop. “Eager. I like that,” purrs Ghost as he lightly traces the line of your jaw with his index finger.

When Ghost’s cock is free, you immediately wrap your fingers around the base, and you go for it. There is no teasing lick or kiss. You throat him, your lips hitting your hand as you do so.

“Fucking hell,” he groans. “You take it nicely. Don’t you?”

You moan around Ghost’s cock, basking in the praise. He is larger than Price, and you take as much as your throat will allow. The head presses roughly against the back of your throat, nearly causing you to gag. Instead of resisting, you relax into him, breathing through your nose, and that helps tremendously.

Your reward is another vocalization of Ghost’s pleasure. That deep, guttural moan of his goes straight to your pussy, and all you want to do is suck him dry. Fuck—suck all of them dry. Hollowing out your cheeks, you slide and bob your mouth along his shaft until Ghost nearly becomes a puddle at your feet. You may be on your knees before him, but you have all the control. It is thrilling. Having this power makes you bolder.

But the control is a fallacy, because the moment you begin to make this skull-faced man into a whimpering mess, someone is grabbing your wrists, pulling them behind your back as someone else latches onto the back of your neck.

You are held in place, and then Ghost does what he wants, fucking your mouth like you’re his little toy. With Price, the two of you usually share the control, switching the power between the two of you. But Ghost? He is completely domineering, steering this entire thing until you’re the one who is the whimpering mess.

“Fuck,” bites out Ghost, and then he’s yanking you off of him.

But he does not spill into his hand or on your face. Instead, he lifts you up, lightly plopping you down onto the desk. Your back hits the wood, and then Ghost is forcing your legs open, his hard cock sliding over your pussy.

“Eyes on me,” comes a voice near your head.

It’s Soap.

His large hand goes to your throat, then he’s tipping you back, and you’re opening wide, taking him down as Ghost pushes your legs wider to sink in. Your pussy flutters around Ghost, but your body is needy, and it greedily takes as much as he’s willing to give.

Ghost rolls his hips, pausing between each to help you accommodate to his size. Once you’ve taken him to the hilt, he begins to pound into you, every thrust bouncing you down Soap’s cock. Through the fabric of your oversized sweater, Soap palms your breasts, and this keeps you from sliding away from either of them.

You fall into a lust-filled haze. An orgasm roils up, passes through your body and out into your limbs. It sets every nerve alight, but neither of them stops. A second comes soon after, and it’s only then that you realize Ghost’s angle is the perfect alignment for him to rub on your clit as he thrusts into you.

Ghost’s thrusts become a stuttering thing that end with his own release. His hands go to your thighs. He guides them open, presses down on the insides, and Soap slips out of your mouth. He reaches over your body to also hold onto your thighs, keeping them open.

Everyone watches as Ghost fills you up, and when he slips out, he catches his release and presses it back inside. This is an act of ownership, but no one seems upset by it, which can only mean that they all plan to do this with you again. And that is something you’d never say no to.

All of you hang in the air for the moment, and then hands disappear only to be replaced by new ones. You’re flipped onto your stomach, and then dragged off until one foot is on the ground, one knee is on the top of the table, and you’re bent at the waist over the side of the desk.

Then Gaz is there, grasping your hips, taking Ghost’s place. He keeps you steady, thrusting upward in steady strokes that have you leaning back against him. Gaz’s head dips forward to rest against the side of your head, and the two of you is all there is until he comes, mixing himself inside you alongside Ghost.

But Soap does not take his place. Instead, Price steps up, sliding his hand to the back of your neck. He tugs gently, arching your neck and back so that you look into his face.

“How much more can you take, love?”

You lick your lips and consider. Already, you feel the soreness and ache slipping into your muscles, but it’s a good sensation, and you want more of it.

“Whatever you desire to give to me,” you answer softly, and Price’s expression is a pleased one.

With tenderness, Price eases your knee off the table, and releases his grip on your neck. “Go sit in Soap’s lap, love,” whisper’s Price, lightly smacking your ass as you wobble toward Soap.

Soap reclines in a chair in the corner. When you get close, he reaches out, grabbing you by the thighs, drawing you into his lap. You do not face him, but the room, your legs spread for everyone to see as Soap slides inside and starts bouncing you on his cock.

There is no embarrassment on your part. Your head falls back to lean against Soap’s shoulder as he takes control. Your eyes flutter, and you briefly glimpse Ghost kneeling between your legs. He pushes up his balaclava, and then your lids completely shut when his mouth comes down on your clit.

Ghost sucks it into his mouth, the tip of his tongue flicking against it at the same time. The contrast that is the two of them has you slipping into a whimpering mess. You cannot speak. There are only your fingers digging into someone’s flesh as the two of them bring you to yet another orgasm.

This orgasm has no end, and you don’t even realize Soap relinquishes control to Ghost until the large man is lifting you up, sliding his arms under your thighs to hold you aloft to fuck you while standing. The mix of them inside you begins to seep out around Ghost’s cock, and you can see everything happening between your bodies.

Your forehead rests against his shoulder, and then someone steps up behind you, pressing against your other entrance.

“Please?” It’s Price.

“Yes,” you groan as Ghost hits deep and it sends your back arching. It’s the only thing you manage to say, and it is a strangled sound.

Price is gentle as he eases in. The two of them take turns pumping in and out of you, until you’re a sweaty mess. Your sweater sticks to your skin, and you want it gone, but without the ability to form words, you simply deal with it, reveling in their shared taking

You surrender to them, allow them complete control. But you’re safe, protected, sandwiched between them. You slide one arm behind Price’s neck while the other rests on Ghost’s left shoulder. Removing your forehead from Ghost’s right shoulder, you lean back on Price and he turns his face into your neck, inhaling your scent.

“It could always be like this,” he murmurs into your ear. “Would you like that?”

You nod, and you feel his smile against the line of your throat.

taglist:

@glassgulls @km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @spicyspicyliving @childofyuggoth @tiredmetalenthusiast @coffeecaketornado @aykxz98 @kayden666 @36namey @pearljamislife @wrathofcats @keiva1000 @pertinentpostmortem @enfppixie @bbyfimmie

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suzukiblu · 6 months

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Day ten of fic NaNoWriMo, obligatory sugar daddy Tim/sugar baby Kon AU.

The waitress comes over with another steaming mug of hot chocolate for Kon and Tim awkwardly orders not-Robin's-coffee-order, which since he's panicking he defaults to Caroline Hill's usual for. She's a med student, she drinks enough caffeine for his tastes. And also she likes extremely sugary drinks, which is definitely to his taste.

Look, Robin can't drink an iced brown sugar oat milk espresso with six extra pumps of syrup and four extra shots of espresso, especially in front of the exact teammate who would tease him the most mercilessly for having a finicky drink order, but Caroline Hill can drink anything she wants, and Tim Drake is just gonna be channeling her for this conversation, he guesses. Her Twitter account already got him here to begin with, so he might as well.

“That is a concerning amount of caffeine in one drink, dude,” Kon observes with a raised eyebrow instead of teasing him over either the syrup or oat milk, which is not actually what Tim expected to hear. But, well, he's not Robin right now, so maybe Kon isn't feeling the same urge to start shit that he usually seems to.

Tim's not sure how to feel about that. But Robin is, technically, an “authority” figure and a fellow superhero, and Tim Drake is just some guy, so . . .

Actually, Tim doesn't really know how Kon gets along with civilian guys. He's seen him flirt up plenty of civilian girls, obviously, but he doesn't really seem to talk to all that many guys. Like . . . ever, actually.

Weird, he thinks, repressing a frown.

“How would you know, you're Kryptonian,” he says.

“Half-Kryptonian,” Kon says, then waves a hand around the café. “And like, you know, also this entire planet is full of people who can just tell me these things. Five thousand milligrams is the minimum lethal dose of caffeine for a healthy adult, which is something like seventy-five shots of espresso, but more than four or five shots in a day is still not gonna be great for you, and you just ordered six.”

“. . . how the hell do you just know that off the top of your head?” Tim asks, blinking at him in absolute bewilderment, and Kon smirks in smug amusement.

“Dude, I was programmed by exhausted grad students pulling six months straight of all-nighters,” he says, pointing at his own temple. “I know every possible thing there is to know about every possible caffeine delivery system. Including the illegal ones and the ones the government hasn't yet realized should be illegal.”

“Huh,” Tim says, still more than a little bewildered. That does make sense, he guesses, but since Kon's already told the team he has absolutely no useful background in any kind of science or math past the absolute kiddie-level basics when they were all exchanging information about all their personal training and experience, it's still a surprise to hear. Shouldn't Cadmus have prioritized an actual education over things like safe caffeine intake for baseline humans, especially since Kon's safe intake level is probably different from a baseline human's anyway? Which–well, he guesses Kon did get cracked out of his cloning tube early, but still. They at least should've been building up the basics for him. Like–more than the kiddie-level basics, he means.

Cadmus is definitely not capable enough to be in charge of Kon. Like, at all. Ever. Tim has fewer and fewer regrets about this whole plan every minute, in fact. If anything, he should've started drafting it the day he met Rex Leech, never mind the fact that Kon hadn't technically existed yet at the time. Or after the Poison Ivy incident, maybe. At the least he should've done up an outline or two after he and Kon and Bart had helped Suzie escape recapture and then collectively lied to the government about it.

“You work for those guys, right?” he “asks” as Kon takes a sip of his new hot chocolate, because while the best time to start this whole plan was months ago, the second-best time to start it is now. “Project Cadmus?”

"Yeah," Kon replies, looking a little surprised by the question. Tim reminds himself to con the team into brushing up on the superhero version of stranger danger, because Kon answered that question way too easily. "Well, just started to. I'm a field agent. How'd you know?”

"I've done some research on you since we first met," Tim says, which isn't even a lie; just some careful phrasing. "I really appreciated what you did for me. And to be honest, I think we'd get along."

"Oh yeah? Tell me all about it," Kon says as his posture shifts a little and he flashes him the kind of smirk he normally reserves for, well . . .

Huh, Tim thinks in vague bemusement.

Kon's flirting with him.

. . . huh.

Not actually the angle Tim was intending to take here, but . . . well, he's not above taking it. And anyway, Kon's just a flirt in general, so it's not like it means anything.

Admittedly Tim hasn't actually seen him flirt with a guy before, but presumably Kon's just feeling out an opportunity to experiment or not ready to be out to the team yet. Tim's not, so he'd hardly blame him for that. Tim's not even out to Steph.

And he's definitely, definitely not out to Bruce.

Well, ideally he'll be a supervillain before that becomes necessary, assuming his life goes to plan.

Robin was always going to be a temporary gig, after all.

"I don't know," he says, and lets the corners of his mouth curl up in amusement. "You just seem like my type of guy."

"Your type of guy?" Kon says, his smirk widening as he leans in towards Tim, who decides to pretend that particular bit of flirtatious implication was actually intentional. Tim is . . . not all that great at flirting, admittedly, but it's not like Kon has particularly high standards past “didn't explicitly tell me to fuck off”, so Tim figures he'll be able to get by for long enough to have this conversation.

Not much longer, but all the same. He has a plan to pitch, that's all that actually matters here.

“Yeah,” he says. “And I wanted to thank you for saving me, so . . .”

“You wanna thank me, Tim Drake?” Kon asks with a slower, wider smirk, leaning in a little more again, and Tim instantly turns bright red as he realizes how that actually sounded.

Yeah, okay, he is actually the worst at flirting. Fuck.

“Uh, yes!” he says quickly, very much needing to clarify that statement before his stupid fucking hormones try to talk him into maybe just . . . leaning into that particular miscommunication a little. Not the goal here. Definitely not. “I mean–being a field agent doesn't sound particularly lucrative? And I know being a superhero isn't.”

“Lucrative?” Kon blinks, expression turning puzzled. “I mean, I guess not. I don't need that much money or anything, though, I just live at Cadmus these days.”

“You live in a lab?” Tim says, letting himself sound as incredulously horrified as he felt the first time he heard that. “Why?”

“I dunno, saves me a commute,” Kon replies with a shrug. “Also, like, it's not like I have a credit score to get my own place with. Or a legal identity. Or, you know, money. Landlords tend to want those.”

“Hm,” Tim says. “Do you want one?”

“Huh?” Kon wrinkles his nose in confusion.

“Your own place,” Tim clarifies. “I really would like to thank you. I could help you get a place.”

“Uh, thanks? But I still couldn't afford rent, even if somebody cosigned for me or whatever,” Kon says, looking puzzled. “I really don't make that much.”

“No, I mean I'd pay your rent,” Tim explains, which is in fact an insane person thing to offer somebody, admittedly, but it's not like Kon has all that reliable a grasp of normal social mores. “Or just buy you a place outright and pay your property taxes. Whichever you'd prefer.”

Kon blinks. Tilts his head.

“So like, you're just a very extra dude, huh,” he says after a moment, his eyebrows slowly raising as he pushes his sunglasses up into his hair. “Like you're the guy who blows the budget on the friend group's Secret Santa out of the water every year.”

“Possibly,” Tim says, putting on a sheepish smile. Kon laughs and folds his arms on the table, looking amused.

“You wanna buy me an apartment?” he asks. “What, just for saving your life?”

“I really think you're undervaluing that particular achievement,” Tim says.

“I think you're overvaluing it,” Kon replies with another laugh. “No offense, but I didn't do anything but block one lousy bullet.”

“One lousy bullet is enough,” Tim says, and doesn't think of any bodies he's seen. Kon tilts his head again, then takes a sip of his hot chocolate.

“Okay, fair,” he allows. “But I'm bulletproof.”

“I'm not,” Tim says.

“You were as long as I was touching the same floor as you,” Kon replies with a shrug, and takes another sip. “It wasn't like I did anything hard.”

He hasn't actually said “no” to the apartment. Tim's pretty sure that's just because he thinks he's either ridiculous or just not being serious, but he's not above pressing the advantage anyway.

“You didn't have to do anything at all, though,” he says. "And buying you a place wouldn't be all that hard for me either. Besides, you deserve a little gratitude for your efforts, don't you think?”

"Sounds like supervillain talk, dude," Kon says, his mouth quirking in amusement around his next sip. Tim resolves to dial back on that at this point in his career. He's laying groundwork, yes, but subtlety is still the wiser course of action.

"You say that like you've never socialized with a supervillain before," he counters dryly.

"Well, usually ones who wear a bit less," Kon replies, lowering his mug to grin wickedly at him. Tim figures if a little more flirting might soften him up on this whole idea, well . . .

It's not the most altruistic thing he's ever done for a plan, admittedly, but if it works, it works.

"So you're telling me I should invest in a crop top before I try to take over the world and remake it in my own image?" he asks still more dryly as he raises an eyebrow at Kon with a little smirk, and Kon laughs and leans in a little closer again, giving him a not very subtle up-and-down with his eyes.

"Only if you're trying to recruit me for your evil plans, pretty boy," he says, grin turning sharp. Tim feels vaguely faint, and also wants to lick the bastard's stupid perfect teeth. Jesus. "So I dunno, what are your feelings on Daisy Dukes?"

"I'm going to be honest, I'm not actually that much of an exhibitionist so at this point we're just describing my ideal costume updates for you," Tim informs him.

"Oh yeah?" Kon asks with another laugh even as he straightens back up to visibly preen at the suggestion. Tim is all for that, personally. Both the preening and the theoretical updates, in fact. And, a little more weirdly, just the idea of having anything whatsoever to do with what Kon might ever decide to wear. Especially whatever he might decide to wear for his costume.

Yeah, that's probably a later thought, Tim decides. Like, a private-time kind of later thought. Specifically “behind locked doors in an empty house” private-time, actually.

"You're solar-powered, aren't you?" he says reasonably, because apparently he likes to suffer and also make himself low-key insane. "Showing a bit more skin can't hurt."

"I wonder if Superman would buy that excuse," Kon says musingly.

"Power Girl exists," Tim replies still more reasonably. "And Supergirl wears a miniskirt, last I checked."

"Valid," Kon says, putting on a mock-thoughtful expression and tapping the side of his jaw. "Maybe I'll put in some cutouts and go for a lower neckline, tell the big guy he's making the rest of us look like prudes. What do you think, bikini or high-cut bottoms?"

"I don't know the difference," Tim lies, desperately trying not to overheat and die at that question and every single accompanying mental image that his useless brain has so helpfully decided to supply. "You'll have to provide examples."

"Will I now," Kon says, grinning all over again and pointedly striking a very suggestive pose in his seat. Tim valiantly struggles not to melt. "What, pretty boy, you want a fashion show?"

"Well I did want to be a photographer when I was a kid," Tim says, although it was definitely never that kind of photography he had in mind. Kon laughs again and shifts in closer again, though, so it's worth it. Tim is mortified, but also undeniably into just . . . all of this, really, just everything about this conversation. Robin can't flirt with Superboy, but, well . . . Tim Drake still isn't Robin, now is he?

He's probably taking advantage of the situation a little, Tim can admit to himself, but it's still just . . . nice. He's wanted to flirt with Kon for way too long, at this point. Indulging in a little bit of it isn't the worst thing he could do.

And again, it's Kon, so it's not like it's serious or anything. The guy won't even remember this conversation tomorrow, much less anything about Tim Drake.

. . . admittedly that'd be counterproductive to Tim's long-term goals here, but still. He's willing to take his time on this. There's a plan. It has steps. Layers. Processes.

"I like you, man," Kon says with a wider grin, which is in absolutely no way whatsoever in the plan. "You're funny."

Tim stares blankly at him as it occurs to him, almost disbelievingly, that he might've . . . made a good impression on Kon? Somehow?

Well, that's weird.

"I'll never get a fashion show out of you if I'm not at least funny," he says on autopilot, as someone who's been well-taught both when and how to press an advantage. Kon, yet again, grins at him, and gives him another much brighter laugh than usual.

Actually, he kind of hasn't stopped grinning at him, has he.

Huh.

. . . huh.

Tim really did not plan for this. This is just . . . not at all what the plan was.

“Well, you definitely are funny,” Kon says, biting his lip around a warm little smile and ducking his head just enough to look at Tim from under his lashes, and Tim decides he can probably just amend the plan.

He's a Bat, isn't he? They know how to improvise when they have to.

#timkon #tim drake #kon el #conner kent #dc robin #superboy #long post #rinfic #wip: obligatory sugar baby kon

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maxybabyy · 4 months

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literally losing my mind over your frat boys au klllllljkkljkllkklljll

please know it has been living in my mind since yesterday, so here's part two, aka what i actually thought about when i saw the original ask (@gaycrunch) ...

part i (re: this)

He finds him outside, hunched over on the porch with his phone in his hand and a half-full bottle of vodka open between his thighs.

“What’s a pretty boy like you doing out here all by himself?” Daniel asks, teases as he drops down to sit next to him. “If only there was a party somewhere, with like, good people and shit.”

Max grunts, barely moves as Daniel hooks his knee over Max’s. He brings the bottle to his mouth, swallows a mouthful of vodka as his free hand comes to rest on Daniel’s knee. “You know already probably, this is why you are here,” he says, digs a finger into the scar on his kneecap, the faded line from when he cut himself on a beer can.

Daniel does, was pulled aside by at least five different dudes who told him where Max had gone, “But I’d rather you tell me, Maxy.”

Max pours another shot into his mouth, keeps the bottle by his lip as he talks. “What even is a rose? This makes no sense, Daniel,” he says, and to his credit, he does sound frustrated. He’s a little drunk too, always is these days when the night falls, but Daniel doesn’t know if it’s cause or consequence.

“It’s an old school thing,” Daniel relents. He steals the bottle from Max’s hands and takes a tiny sip just so he won’t keep drinking. “Reckon I’m plenty sweet for the lot of us, yeah? Don’t need a lady to tell me how to act.”

He didn’t know frats still did this kind of shit, thought they were all past it now, that men could be graceful and charitable too. Hadn’t even thought to mention it to this year’s pledges, but then maybe, Max could have used the lecture anyway.

“Did you really tell her to go suck a bunch of dicks? Because if so, Maxy –“

Max huffs. His leg shakes underneath Daniel’s knee, jostles loose the slide he wears on his foot. “I of course did not say this,” Max says, snappish, taut. “She said she was the best at sucking dick, and I said, ‘this probably is not true’. She showed me this thing she did with her tongue, with her straw you know, and it did not look good, Daniel.”

Daniel chokes down a laugh, relents easily when Max reaches for the bottle again. He watches with unbridled want as Max pretends to suck off the lip of the bottle, interrupted too frequently by his own commentary on the technique.

Daniel reckons he’s right, the tongue is too much, barely touches the bottle at all. Not like Max had done that night, lips heavy around his dick, his tongue firm against the underside of the head.

“So like, you didn’t tell her to suck a dick?”

Max jams his elbow into his side, jolts when Daniel clams his hand around the top of his thigh to keep him in place. “Always this was not – Daniel, I would not say this,” he says, glares at Daniel when he doesn’t relent. “I said maybe that she had to practice more. I have of course sucked a lot of dicks, if she wanted to be like me, then.”

Daniel laughs, loud and surprised, and suddenly Max laughs too.

The Kappa Alphas are dicks anyway. They wouldn’t lose anything if Daniel took them off the social calendar, isn’t really a party if the entire frat can’t go, is it?

“Why didn’t you go home?” He asks after a while. The lid has been put back on the bottle of vodka, and Max has been fed whatever was left in his cup of water.

Two weeks after officially becoming a pledge, Daniel had found Max passed out in a pool of tub juice, white tee soaked in sticky sweet alcohol. He hadn’t vomited – Daniel doesn’t know then if he wouldn’t have just left him there – but Daniel had dragged him upstairs and into the shower. Had scrubbed the marker off his face but left the blue marker in his hair to watch the botched, fucking dip dye his hair had held onto for almost a week.

Max had slept in his bed that night, does it at least every two weeks now, cuddled up between Daniel and the wall. They haven’t fucked since that first time, since Daniel realised Max would be pledging the frat. But sometimes they kiss, and it’s. It feels nice, feels easy, breezy even.

“I have to wait for Carlos,” Max says, shrugs.

Daniel had elected not to pair himself with Max, chose instead one of the legacies who seemed to find power in whatever fucking hazing ritual Daniel threw at him. He kinda regrets it now, knows how shit Carlos must be at this big brother stuff. Knows he left more than an hour ago with Max’s friend from the lacrosse team, apparently without saying shit to Max.

“Nah, Maxy. You’re fine,” he says, squeezes his thigh again when Max hesitates. “Let’s go back to the house, yeah? Maybe Carlos is waiting for you there or like, we can send him a text or something.”

Max doesn’t look convinced, sceptic, like he’s the one who’s on his third year in the frat. But he takes his hand when Daniel gets up, pulls him to his feet. “Lando has the dorm tonight,” he says, shows him a picture of a sock on a doorknob.

It looks fake, but Daniel hasn’t actually seen it for himself ever. Like with the rose, doubted it was even done anymore. But then, Lando’s always been an odd guy.

“There’s always the couch if you want,” Daniel offers, shivers. “Or like, there’s also my bed. Probably the best if you don’t wanna wake up when Scotty gets home.”

Daniel doesn’t hold his breath, he doesn’t, listens instead to the crunch of the road underneath them. It’s no more than ten minutes until they’re home, Greek row almost condensed down to one block.

“Okay, Daniel,” Max says, quiet in the dark night. His hand brushes against Daniel’s, and he tries not to jump, stays still in case Max does reach out. “I think that would be very lovely.”

#get ready for the next part where max doesn't have a date for the *mumble* ceremony #daniel: that's okay! (it's not) you don't have to :) (you literally do) it's more of a frat bro thing anyway (it's literally in the bylaws)#in an alternate universe max is the frat's rose #disclaimer: am not american. do not know this 'frat' thing you keep talking about :|#i've watched maybe one episode of greek but that's enough right?#if i keep writing at this speed my thesis may be done on time!!#frat bro au #maxiel #maxiel fic #max/daniel #my fic #my writing #fic #answered #.arturleclerc #frat bros au

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yelenasdiary · 1 year

Text

New Friend Request

Pairing: Gamer! Kate Bishop x Reader

Summary: After posting on a subreddit looking for people to play a new game with, you received a new friend request.

| Comfort? | 0.8K | No Warnings |

AC: Here is something a little different to my usual works! I hope you enjoy this, I found it pretty fun to write!

It was Friday night, you had a weekend off from work and had planned to sit down with plenty of snacks and binge play a new video game you just treated yourself too. The only downside was that all your friends that you played video games with were either busy this weekend or had no interest in playing the new game you'd been waiting so long to play.

With a sigh and nerves kicking around in your stomach you decide to post on a subreddit asking if anybody else would like somebody to play with over the weekend. It wasn't something you'd done before but you liked playing games with friends more than playing solo.

Hours had past and your phone was left dry, not a single notification from anybody reacting to your post. Another sigh left your body as you tossed your phone to the side and decided to turn your PS4 off.

*DING*

(LuckyArrow has sent a friend request)

The notification stared at you deeply as the feeling of excitement and relief soon filled you. You punched in your passcode and quickly accepted the strangers friend request.

LuckyArrow: Hey! are you still looking for somebody to play Dying Light 2 with? I saw your post on reddit! ☺️

yourusername: Hey, I am! I just thought the game and none of my friends want to play it with me 😩

LuckyArrow: agh! that sucks! I have a friend, Yelena, she doesn't play video games much and refuses to play with me! If you want, I'd love to play it with you. Have you played the first one?

yourusername: That would be great! Thanks! I'm assuming your user is LuckyArrow on PSN aswell? I have played the first, have you? Oh! btw, I'm Y/n!

LuckyArrow: Sure is! You have a cute name! I'm Kate, are you from New York?

yourusername: Oh wow! 😅 Don't take this the wrong way but I wasn't expecting you to be a girl! I actually just moved to NYC! Are you also from here?

LuckyArrow: You'd be surprised how many of us female gamers are out here ☺️ Where did you move from? if you don't mind me asking

yourusername: Just a small town that was hella boring! hence why I got into video games haha!

LuckyArrows: I hope you don't mind, I had a look at some of the game you play! You have good taste, how far are you into the story of Dying Light?

yourusername: Thanks! & not very far, I don't really like playing games solo most of the time. I've completed the first couple of missions though so I'm able to play co-op.

LuckyArrows: Awesome! Well, I have plenty of time tonight if you'd like to play now? If not, just let me know when you're free and we'll work something out ☺️

yourusername: Actually, I'm free all weekend so now would be great! Do you wanna play on my save or we can start one on your game? Whatever works ☺️

LuckyArrow: I've already completed it, let's just do a save on your game! Send me an invite x

LuckyArrow: Sorry about the x!!!! I'm just used to sending it to friends 😅😅

yourusername: Don't stress! it's okay ☺️ I'll send you an invite rn!

Friday night soon faded into the early hours of Saturday morning, plenty of laughs and jokes were made between you and your new friend, Kate. You learnt a lot about her, you felt comfortable with her even though she technically is still a stranger online, you both planned to meet for pizza for lunch.

Who knew that a simple post online would lead to you making a new friend.

2 months later

LuckyArrow: Hey! you free this weekend? sorry I couldn't play last weekend, I had a mission...I missed you though! 💜

yourusername: Hey!! Don't stress it, you get to actually kick some bad guys butts! it's pretty cool! I am free this weekend, I took work off, I need a break anyways. I missed you too, did your mission go well?

LuckyArrow: Meh, it was a pain (literally) but one less menace on the streets to deal with now! 💪🏼, I actually wanted to ask if you'd like to come over...I can order pizza and we can play video games or something, whatever you like! 😅

yourusername: Of course! it'll be so fun! Are you okay though? you seem a little off? x

LuckyArrow: I'm Fine ☺️ wanna come over Friday?

yourusername: Lock it in! Friday, date night haha!

LuckyArrow: Haha...😅

yourusername: Are you sure you're okay?

LuckyArrow: I'm not good this...but, I'm not asking you to just come over as a friend..😅

yourusername: Kate, are you asking me out on a date?

LuckyArrow: I am...we don't have to do something so causal, in fact I'd like to take you out on a real date but I don't want to scare you off or make things awkward between us..

yourusername: Oh thank god! Honeslty, I'm so glad you asked because I've really wanted to ask you out but I also didn't want to ruin anything

LuckyArrow: Well now that makes me feel a lot better! How about I pick you up at 6pm on Friday?

yourusername: it's a date! x

#Kate bishop #kate bishop x reader #marvel #fanfiction #hawkeye

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imahinatjon · 3 months

Note

MAYBEEEEE another version of them with an s/o who has adhd including fyodor sigma nikolai and MAYBEEE dazai? Lots of love ❤️

Thank you for another request ♡

2nd part to this one - https://www.tumblr.com/imahinatjon/738986103250485248/ok-hi-im-back-what-about-jouno-and-tecchou-with?source=share

I feel like since I've already done 2, I'll do some more. Even if it doesn't represent a reader with adhd perfectly, I like how they've been turning out.

That being said, Dazai isn't in this one, he'll be in a third one.

Hope its good. It took longer than expected :3

Fyodor/Nikolai/Sigma

Fyodor

• If he was a bit more considerate. If he was a BIT nicer. He'd probably be the best person for you to be around in like... the whole world.

• But he isn't, so he's not.

• Doesn't mean he doesn't love you and doesn't mean your going to be made to feel uncomfortable.

• Or... you will at first, until you realise that how he's acting is just typical Fyodor behaviour.

• I personally believe fyodor could and would talk a LOT. If there's a topic he's interested in, or thinks your interested in he'll talk about it until there is nothing else he can say. Doesn't care if you stop listening halfway through.

• He's having his monologue, thank you.

• Don't worry though, if your prone to doing that sort of thing too, he will listen to you talk also. It's only fair.

• He'll listen until you say something wrong. Like, get a fact wrong or if something you say doesn't quite make sense.

• He'll correct you. He means no harm (no real harm anyway), he just finds your embarrassment kinda cute, but he also thinks you should be informed, so you don't get embarrassed infront of other people.

• He doesn't like constant fidgeting. It IS annoying to him. But it's you, and given that he enjoys your company enough, he'll tolerate it. Won't even mention it.

• He likes to play cello for you, and it's so beautiful and enchanting sometimes that you'll sit infront of him watching and listening for hours.

• Even if you don't like that kind of music typically, there's just something about him playing for you that commands your attention.

• He won't keep you too long though.

• All in all? It's a good relationship. He MIGHT be controlling, and MAY be inconsiderate (at times) but he actually cares.

Nikolai

• You have an abundance of energy? So does he!

• Your easily distracted? So is he!

• He's not you, but, I feel like you match eachothers energy.

• Nikolai doesn't like it when you zone out. You aren't responding to him, which makes talking a little weird, but he talks anyway, about anything and everything. May even slip a few major secrets in here and there. He's not worried though, he knows you aren't listening.

• Nikolai likes to take you out, go to different places.

• Like an amusement Park.

• There's lots to do, plenty to see, assuming you don't have a crippling fear of rollercoasters.

• Neither of you are going to get bored.

• There are no breaks. Aside from one to go and get food - you'll have to insist on that though.

• He also takes you up to the Sky Casino.

• You two cause a lot of trouble for sigma.

• See, the guy doesn't recognise you, nikolai didn't exactly tell the others about your relationship status.

• So, you can get in the casino, with a little bit of money. Meaning, you can cause havoc.

• You have done it a few times. Riled up a few of the customers, caused a scene. Using the words nikolai has been feeding to you.

• You might end up on a ban list.

• But it's all in good fun!

Sigma

• So, Sigma is like... he's going to be there for you, always. Its one of his life goals.

• Priority = casino + you

• You spend most your time in the casino because of your relation to him, the manager.

• Also means he can keep a better eye on you.

• He knows you so well. He's not the best at the whole relationship thing, and he has a casino to manage. But he tries his hardest, and likes to be well informed.

• Because of him, you never get into any trouble.

• Like, you might say something a little uncouth or rude, but there's always someone there to stop others from lashing out at you.

• There's also always someone around for when you trip over something you did not see, or bump into someone you didn't realise.

• It's not always Sigma, but he tries to be there when he can be. He is a busy man afterall.

• But, you do spend a fair amount of time together.

• If you like crafts, and have many different projects on the go all at the same time. He's always happy to listen to what you have to say about it.

• He'll enthusiastically praise whatever it is you've done during these small projects.

• He even funds it sometimes. If it'll keep you happy and out of danger (some customers can be rather unkind), he'll get you all that's necessary, even if you don't finish it.

• You two also have 'calm time'

• That's what he calls it anyway.

• It's where you two sit down or lie down together, cuddling, and he listens to you talk about your day.

• Even if you go off track a bit, he likes listening to what you have to say, even better if you have no filter, because you hold nothing back and it's just so interesting!

• Plus your voice is nice.

• If you ask, he WILL tell you about his day, but it may take some coaxing. He doesn't want to bore you.

• Assure him it's not boring. Even if it's a lie.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Good? Hopefully 😅

#imagine #fanfic #bungou stray dogs #x reader #sigma x reader #fyodor x reader #nikolai x reader

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theminecraftbee · 2 years

Text

Grian paces in front of the Entity. “Okay, but it definitely kept me alive,” he says. “Right? I had feather falling boots but that was too much of a coincidence all at once, it definitely kept me alive.” There’s a track in the dirt. “If it kept me alive, then—well of course I don’t know why, it’s—we’re both concerned here! I’m not an idiot—"

“…Grian?” asks Mumbo. Grian snaps to attention and turns to look at Mumbo. “You good there buddy?”

“Yep! Everything’s peachy over here!” He leans over against the Entity, trying to put on a charming, disarming grin. He misjudges and ends up flapping around like a bird someone had pushed off of a tree for a moment instead before scrambling back to his unconcerned position.

“Okay,” Mumbo says slowly, “because it sounds awfully like you were talking to your rock.”

“What? Psshaw. No. Perish the thought! To a rock. Really.” It wasn’t that subtle. No, shut up, it was about as subtle as he’s ever been. It’s not that subtle though. Not that the Entity can talk. Well, it’s had much less time to practice being subtle about things well it can suck Grian’s—

“Are you absolutely certain you’re okay?” Mumbo asks. “If you aren’t, I can always, er. Well I’m not entirely certain, but Scar still has a standing offer about vex magic that—”

“Absolutely not!” Grian yelps at the same time as the Entity yells about absolutely not allowing that in his head.

“Okay, okay, geez. You just seem a bit off, is all. Did something happen?”

And the thing is—did something? It had definitely saved Grian’s life. Maybe it liked Grian! But it wasn’t supposed to do that. Not that Grian would know, the Entity just keeps dropping these things—well it’s not like the Entity realized Grian wouldn’t understand—look, if the Rift is broken that’s a problem because Grian’s already started pulling out more limbs of the Entity and if they have a conflict on their hands that’s Bad. But just because the Entity doesn’t think it’s supposed to happen doesn’t mean that it’s bad, right? Grian’s meddled with plenty of things beyond the mortal ken without a pushy rock! Even if he hasn’t meddled with this—

“Grian? Hello? That’s it, I’m going to get either Xisuma or Scar, whoever I run into first.”

“No! There’s nothing wrong at my megabase that’s concerning me and also any beings I may or may not have invited into my head and we should absolutely stay neighbors because there’s no danger to you at all!” Grian blurts out.

Everyone—including the Entity—is silent for several long, agonizing seconds.

“That’s… specific,” Mumbo says diplomatically.

Grian turns to the Entity, giving up. “This is entirely your fault,” he complains. “Now we’re going to have an elf poking around at us.”

A pause.

“Unless.”

He turns to Mumbo. He smiles. Mumbo steps back. “Uh, Grian. Not liking the expression there, I have to say. Maybe—maybe we will just forget this, how about? And I have another lump I can move to, really, this will all work out—”

The Entity whispers something in Grian’s ear. Grian listens.

If he can’t solve one problem, he can at least knock out another one. He’s not sure why he hadn’t thought of this sooner. Honestly, Mumbo won’t mind, will he? They’re friends! And, anyway, Mumbo won’t really remember until it’s done.

“I think it will all work out,” Grian says, and he opens his wings and steps towards Mumbo once more, cornering him against the side of his nearby base. “Don’t worry. I’m really excited to be neighbors!”

(Somewhere, Grian tries to reach to decide who’s thinking that, between him and the Entity. He gives up. It doesn’t matter, though. He has far too many other things going on to pay attention, right now.)

#a bee fic #hermitcraft #grian #mumbo jumbo #cosmic horror #kind. kind of?#mind manipulation #i would like the entity and grian to be partners in crime whose thoughts are sort of awkwardly mashed together currently #the problem is of course that neither of them have planned particularly well for their current situation #…and that enough extra dimensional magic is very good at making you forget the right decision.#anyway this started as a stupid joke and then VEERED in the ending #don’t invite space rocks or extra dimensional rifts to hitch a ride with you kids.#unreality #NOT REALLY it’s more of. what of Grian’s thoughts here are his and what are not #tell me if there’s a better tag for that I’ll tag it #i wrote this at 2:30 am so sorry if it’s incoherent anywhere #possession

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sea-owl · 9 months

Text

Been rereading AOFAG for older Penelope au ideas and this one came to mind.

Penelope was not expecting to see a pretty dark blonde girl dressed in Benedict's clothes when she came to My Cottage this morning, granted she was not expecting to see her best friend either but here they both were. Apparently, Mr and Mrs Crabtree were not expecting them either, nor did they know who the girl was.

She does have an impressive pair of lungs on her Penelope thought. Her ears were still ringing from the girl's scream upon waking up.

The girl turned out to be named Sophie. It also turns out Benedict had brought her here after rescuing her from the Cavendish party. The girl was a servant, easily told by her calloused hands, though you may not know upon first glance. Frankly, Penelope thinks she looks a little bit like that old Earl Gunningworth. They really should find the poor dear some proper clothes, Benedict's breeches stand no chance of staying up even I they got her a belt.

Benedict groaned, flopping onto the bed after the Crabtrees and Sophie left the room to grab breakfast. He looked up at her, trying to look pathetic.

Penelope rolled her eyes. "Do not expect any sympathy from me, Mr Bridgerton. I told you not to go to that party last night. Now look at you."

"But then I would haven't been able to play hero," Benedict joked. His voice was rough and hoarse from the coughing fits.

Penelope let out her own groan. "Your brother is already trying to play that role, you do not need to as well."

Benedict chuckeled. "And what has little Col done to deserve your ire?"

"How do you know it is not Anthony?" Penelope challenged.

"Because Anthony knows if he drives my best friend away, I shall be insufferable, and it will be his problem. Not to mention the potential reactions of our other siblings. Honestly, why were you not born a Bridgerton? I shall never know. You would look better in our family's colors anyway. I tested it on one of your portraits. You looked beautiful."

Penelope smiled, playfully shaking her head. "Maybe in the next life."

"This one is still possible," Benedict teased. "Colin is still unmarried."

Penelope tried not to blush. Benedict loved bringing up his little brother's past infatuation with her. If only he knew what said brother was up to yesterday.

"As are you," Penelope shot back. "Should I not marry you instead? After all I will have thoie wonderful property when you pass."

Benedict snorted. "And how do you know it won't go to our children?"

Penelope waved her hand. "They'll have it when I pass."

Benedict looked to say something else when a crash was heard from the hall. Penelope stood, taking a look.

"What is it?" Benedict asked.

"Oh, the poor girl," Penelope said. Sophie was struggling to juggle a tray, stocked to the very edges with food in one hand and holding her borrowed breeches up in another. "Benedict, why did you not give her a belt?"

Benedict groaned. The Crabtrees had already chewed him out on that. "Why don't you find her one?"

"I will."

With that, Penelope marched into the hall. "Mr and Mrs Crabtree, if you do not mind, I would like to find Sophie a proper dress. Benedict, the fool seemed to forget My Cottage has plenty."

Careful to hand off the tray Sophie was holding to Mr Crabtree Penelope led Sophie to a room down the hall.

"This is my room for when I visit," Penelope said as she opened up the closet.

Sophie gulped. "Are you the lady of the house."

Penelope choked on a laugh. "Oh no, never would I dream of that. Benedict is a childhood friend who is kind enough to give me a spare key for when I need a place to hide."

A child hood friend? This must be Penelope Featherington. Sophie had read about the odd friendship she and Benedict shared in Whistledown. Many servants from the Bridgerton and Featherington houses had also commented on how odd it was for a gentleman and lady to be so close but not courting.

"Aha!" Penelope pulled down a lilac colored dress with silver trimming and a matching silver belt. "The fit will be off," Penelope said. It couldn't be helped honestly, Penelope was several inches shorter than Sophie and rounder, especially in the chest area. "But it will be much better than what Benedict has you practically swimming in."

"Oh, I couldn't," Sophie waved her hands. "This is too fine-!" n her haste to do so she had forgotten her hold on the breeches.

Sophie blushed when they fell to her ankles. Penelope held back a giggle.

"Consider a thank you for taking care of Benedict. He is a right pain in the arse when he's sick. I should know. One would think he was dying when he simply had a headcold."

Try as Sophie might Penelope wouldn't take no as an answer. She eventually won when she pointed out it was her dress or Benedict's clothes. Sophie put on the dress.

The dress cut off above Sophie's ankles and they had to bunch up the bodice a little bit with the belt but it certainly was a better fit than what Sophie had on before. Especially for a temporary dress.

Benedict laughed when the two girls came back to his room.

"Laugh all you want Mr. Bridgerton," Penelope huffed. "At least I remembered a belt."

#bridgerton #older penelope au #older pen au #sophie beckett #penelope featherington #benedict bridgerton #hinted benophie #benophie #hinted polin #polin

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here2bbtstrash · 2 years

Text

look down on me like that - 5 (explicit)

genre: slow burn enemies to lovers hatefucking coworkers au, smut (w some eventual angst)

pairing: yoongi x reader

summary: your asshole coworker min yoongi has made it his personal mission to ruin your life.

word count: 11.4k (you're welcome 😌)

contains: ~explicit sexual content~ !! *deep breath in* YES THERE IS ACTUAL FUCKING HAPPENING - EVERYONE REMAIN CALM. also i promise this is the most unhinged reader gets lmao. alright let's go: one night stand/stranger sex, semi-public sex (bathroom of a bar), fingering, spanking, a truly gratuitous blowjob, orgasm denial, a smidge of dirty talk/namecalling, finger sucking?, protected sex, semi-awkward sex lmao, the hatefucking is HERE 🙌🏻 plenty of alcohol mentions as always,, so much alcohol. this chapter also features a couple fun cameos - kihyun of monsta x and wonho 💜

A/N: hope y'all enjoy this absolute CHAOS!! i have so many lovely friends who cheered me on while i was writing this, far too many to name, but i fucking adore you all 🥺🥺 and i do want to specifically shoutout @kiestrokes because the ~spicy twist~ in this chapter would not be HALF as good if it wasn't for her and her big beautiful brain. srsly she took a half-baked idea i had and made it insane. god i love that woman. ALRIGHT ENOUGH BABBLING - ENJOY!!!!!

read on AO3!

chapter four | masterlist | chapter six

~*~

“Try this.” Jimin yanks an emerald green dress off the hanger and chucks it over his shoulder, nearly hitting you.

“Ugh, I hate this one,” you groan as you hold the offending item up for inspection, pinched between index finger and thumb. “The fabric is so itchy.”

Your best friend whips around, hands on hips, when you question his taste. “I’m sorry, did I just hear you going back on our agreement? Is that what this is?”

You groan, flopping over onto your bedspread, doing your best not to mess up your hair. Jimin had, understandably, been pissed when you’d called him immediately upon leaving the office last night, hands still shaking as you cradled the phone against your cheek. You think you have permanent hearing damage from the anguished wails your best friend made as you finally admitted everything you hadn’t told him. And you certainly could have done without the appreciative noises he made after he forced you to describe Suga’s dick in explicit detail.

It’s not like you aren’t constantly thinking about it, anyway.

Especially now that Yoongi has specifically told you everything, everything he wants to do to you. The words swim back to you in pieces whenever you aren’t actively trying to suppress the memory. Finger that tight little pussy. Spank you until you bruise. Fuck you like the slut you so clearly are.

God. You’ve been horny for 24 hours straight. This can’t be good for your health.

Jimin had nearly disowned you for letting secrecy infiltrate your friendship for the first time in over a decade, but then he’d realized how truly distraught you were as you just kept babbling into the phone about Suga, too far gone to make any sense.

“Jesus fucking christ, it’s not the end of the world!” He’d finally interrupted with a frustrated groan. “You really think Suga is the only man in the world who can fuck you senseless? He was probably overselling it anyway. Having a pretty dick doesn’t guarantee he knows what to do with it.”

At this point you’d stumbled onto the bus home, and you remember smacking your forehead against the cold glass of the window with a whine at the words pretty dick, your mind already departing on another Yoongi spiral.

Jimin’s peal of laughter rang in your ears. “I’ve never heard you down this bad in my life, good god girl! We just need to get you laid so your fucking brain can work right again.”

“Please,” you’d grunted.

“Alright, I’m coming over tomorrow, and we’re going out.” He’d paused then, and you knew there was more even before he continued. It was like you could hear his evil smile. “And I get to pick your outfit.”

You’re snapped out of the memory as a second dress is tossed your way, this one hitting you square in the face.

“Either the green or this one. You’re still in the doghouse, ma’am,” Jimin reminds you.

You pull the second option up to examine it, already grateful for the softer feel of the material. Jimin loves to put you in shit that you’d never wear— usually dresses that he bought for you, or bullied you into buying. You think you already dress pretty racy when you go out, but Jimin likes to take it to another level, always encouraging you to show more skin, more tits, more ass. He’s definitely responsible for this number even being in your closet: dark burgundy in color, it’s tight, short, and the cutouts leave very little to the imagination.

You whine softly despite yourself. “Do I have to? I’m going to freeze to death.”

Jimin has already moved to sit at your desk, examining his hair in the mirror you use to do your makeup. He’s in one of his favorite going-out shirts, one he claims “makes even the straight boys look twice”, a blue and white striped button down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He doesn’t even bother making eye contact with you as he peers at his reflection, fiddling with the silver hoops in his ears. “I dunno. Depends on whether or not you value my friendship.”

You roll your eyes at his dramatics. “I can’t stand you.”

“Will you shut up and put your damn freakum dress on already?” He rummages through your makeup bag without asking until he finds what he’s looking for, a tube of Fenty gloss that he dabs in the center of his bottom lip.

“That is not what freakum dress means,” you say with a laugh as you stand to strip out of your sweats, but he’s already reaching for his phone that’s connected to your Bluetooth speaker, another requirement for the evening in order to keep your friendship intact. Beyoncé starts to blast as you pull your shirt over your head and suck in for dear life.

“So, what exactly is the plan?” You ask as soon as you swallow down another shot, nearly shouting to be heard over the noise of the bar. Jimin made you do a couple in your kitchen before you left, and though you haven’t even been out for an hour, you’re already straddling the line between tipsy and drunk.

He shoots you a look. “Don’t act so innocent, like I haven’t personally seen you go home with random dudes.”

Your gaze flits over the mass of bodies out on the dance floor. “I mean, yeah, but…” You shrug, grimacing slightly. “I don’t know, it’s been a while. And we’re not in college anymore.”

“What about him?” You look back at Jimin and he nods his head behind you. You do your best to be subtle as you glance over your shoulder to see two guys a couple of tables away.

“Which one?”

Jimin makes a face like it’s obvious. “Are you kidding me? The absolutely built daddy with the red hair?”

You examine them more closely, scrunching your nose up a little. He’s cute, big as hell, and you certainly notice his bubble butt in those tight pants. But it just doesn’t feel right. “I don’t know that he’s my type.” When your gaze lands on his friend, dressed in all black, dark hair skimming over his eyes as he leans in to say something, your heart flips in your chest. Now that could work.

Turning back to Jimin to say as much, you realize that he’s already brushing past you. “Well I’m not stupid,” he scoffs, and you scramble to follow after him as he stalks confidently across the room.

He’s already talking to them when you catch up. “Hi boys. Care for some company?”

They glance at each other, and you can tell Jimin’s presence is clearly unexpected but not unwelcome. He wasn’t wrong: nobody can resist him in that damn shirt.

“Sure,” red-haired daddy says with a shy giggle, and you have to bite back a smile. You were not expecting a guy that built to react so softly, and you already know your best friend is going feral on the inside. There is nothing Jimin loves more than a man he can fluster. Especially one who can make him pay for it.

His friend flags down a server and orders a round of shots for the table, then gives you a small wave as Jimin takes the liberty of giving his name and yours. “I’m Kihyun.”

“Hoseok,” Jimin's target is clearly squirming under his intense gaze. “But my friends call me Wonho.”

“Can I be your friend?” Jimin purrs. You’re nearly laughing at how quickly he lost the plot of trying to get you laid, but he’s also such an intense flirt that it nearly works as a wingman maneuver, in its own weird way.

You scoot a little closer to Kihyun as Jimin and Wonho disappear into their own conversation. Up close you can really admire how attractive he is, full lips and a wickedly sharp jawline.

“Hi,” you say with a smile, surprised to find yourself slightly nervous despite the alcohol coursing through your system.

“Hi,” he says back, and he looks like he’s about to say more when the server reappears with a tray of four shots.

“Thanks again for these,” you say as you reach for one, and he waves it off. You glance over at Jimin and Wonho, assuming they might want to toast as a group, but Jimin is already hooking his elbow around Wonho’s ridiculous bicep and making a not-at-all-subtle comment about how big he is, intertwining their arms before they each throw the shot back.

You look at Kihyun again, who is biting his lip nervously, and you can feel your face heat up. You’re no Jimin, so you settle for gently tapping your shot glass against his. “Cheers.”

He echoes the sentiment and you down your drinks simultaneously. You shiver a little as you swallow, but you’ve had enough that you don’t even feel the burn of the alcohol.

“So,” Kihyun’s eyes flit over to Jimin, then return to you. “Do you two come here a lot?”

You shrug. “We rotate. Jimin likes this place more than I do. You?”

He laughs softly. “Not really. Honestly, we’re both homebodies, but we try to get out every so often. Always nice to meet new people.” It’s so quick you nearly miss it, but you swear his eyes jump down your figure and back up again.

You try to ignore the little voice in your head reminding you of another pair of eyes; dark, calculating, wandering over your body. Not now.

“I couldn’t agree more,” you say, because it’s true: a new person is definitely what you need in this moment.

Before you can ask a follow-up question, you hear Jimin, talking loudly so that he’s audible over the music. “Your thighs look so good in those pants!” You have to resist the urge to smack your head against the table when you look over to see him attempting— and absolutely failing— to wrap his small hands around the circumference of Wonho’s leg, who is giggling like a schoolgirl.

You glance back at Kihyun, who is equally enraptured. “I’m so sorry,” you say quietly. “He is unfortunately always like this.”

“You know where else those thighs would look good?” Jimin’s voice lowers as he asks the question, and you watch Kihyun’s eyes go wide.

“Do you want to dance?” You say quickly, and he nods so fast you think his head might fall off. You start to break away from the group, his hand slipping to your waist, when Jimin smacks the table so loud that it makes you jump.

“Hey!” He yells, and you turn back, but he’s pointing at Kihyun, who instantly looks terrified. He leans in, as if to divulge confidential information, and Kihyun takes a tentative step towards him.

“Just so you’re aware,” Jimin starts, and you know it’s going to be bad. “She needs to get dicked down. Severely. Hope you’re ready.”

You close your hand around Kihyun’s wrist and drag him towards the dance floor, eager for a distraction to keep you from murdering your best friend.

Now that you’re actually in motion, you can feel the last couple of shots quickly catching up to you, the room blurring slightly at the edges. At the center of the dance floor, the thudding bass is loud enough to make it hard to think, which is exactly what you need right now.

You’re grateful not to have to force any more conversation, both of Kihyun’s hands slipping to your hips as you start to move in time to the music. It gives you free reign to admire him up close, and damn, he really is gorgeous. He’s only a little taller than you in your heels— probably about the same height as Yoongi, though his frame is slighter, smaller. You watch as his dark hair falls into his eyes again and he reaches up to sweep it off his forehead— Yoongi’s hair is a little longer, and he certainly has much better hands, but other than that—

You have to squeeze your eyes shut when you realize what the fuck you're doing. The whole point of this encounter is to stop thinking about Yoongi. Not pick apart this absolute stranger in comparison to him.

You desperately wish you could get another drink, but you know that would push you all the way into “drunk” territory. As much as you hate admitting it, Jimin was right: you really need to be able to consent to sex tonight. You’re gonna have to get through this the old-fashioned way, with sheer fucking willpower.

“Are you okay?”

Your eyes flutter open to meet Kihyun’s concerned gaze. “Yeah, yeah, sorry. Just, uh. Thinking about work.” Not a complete lie.

“Well, don’t,” he says with a soft laugh. “It’s the weekend. You should enjoy it.” His hands press a little tighter, pulling you close until your body is flush with his. His breath ghosts over your neck as you hear his voice in your ear. “That dress looks really good on you.”

A different voice echoes in your mind before you can stop it. Spread your legs for me. Show me what’s under that dress. You can’t help but wonder if this is what it feels like to literally go insane, and then you grab Kihyun’s face with both hands and kiss him in a desperate attempt to not think anymore.

You can feel him freeze, clearly not expecting it, but after a second his mouth starts to move against yours. His hands slip further down towards your ass, and fuck, it occurs to you that you are still incredibly horny. You need this to happen as soon as possible.

Pulling away and sliding your hands to Kihyun’s shoulders, you tilt up to speak into his ear. “Do you live near here?”

His eyes go wide for at least the third time tonight. “Y-yeah, not far.” You see his tongue dart out to lick his lips.

“I don’t know how to say this politely,” you admit with an embarrassed smile. “But my friend wasn’t wrong. About… what I need.”

He pauses for a moment, and your stomach twists as you prepare for rejection, the reasonable reaction considering you basically jumped this man like a crazy person. But then he smiles, leaning into you so he can keep his tone soft. “Come on, then.”

You follow Kihyun as he guides you towards the exit, keeping one hand pressed to the small of your back. It’s hard to miss the other half of your group making their way through the crowd— Wonho is large enough that people quickly shrink to get out of his way, but his gaze is entirely transfixed on Jimin’s ass in front of him. You nod in their direction and Kihyun follows as you push past bodies to reunite.

“Are you leaving?!” Jimin asks, and you can only nod. His eyes jump to Kihyun. “I told you, you better give it to her!” He shouts it so loudly that people standing behind him glance over their shoulders, but he is fully unfazed, now brandishing his cellphone. “And I always have her location on, so if you murder her, I will come find you!”

With a roll of your eyes, you lean across the circle so that Wonho can hear you. “Take good care of him, okay?” When you pull away, you swear he’s blushing as red as his hair, and he nods sheepishly.

You turn back to Kihyun. “Ready?”

The door to Kihyun’s apartment barely has time to close behind you before you find his lips with yours again. He presses you up against the wall of the entryway, and you waste no time in moving your hands over his body. His shirt and pants hit the floor in quick succession.

When he reaches for the hem of your dress, you cover his hands with yours to stop him. “Do you— is it okay if I keep it on?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, breathless. “Yeah, okay.”

He kisses you again and you let him guide you backwards through an open door into his bedroom until you feel the mattress hit the backs of your knees. You perch on the edge of the bed and glance around the room, taking it in. It’s clean, if minimally furnished, and your stomach flips when you see a nondescript work desk tucked into one corner.

You look at Kihyun when you feel his hand gently rub your thigh, encouraging you to spread your legs.

“Kihyun?”

“Yeah?”

Your gaze jumps to his desk, then back to him. “Do— uh… Do you think you could bend me over your desk?”

He seems a little dumbfounded, and takes a second to find words. “Wh— I— yeah, yes, I can do that. I just—” he clears his throat. “Do you need, like, foreplay, or…?”

You stand up again, knees shaking slightly. “I’ll tell you what to do, does that work?”

It must, because he kisses you, eventually starting to move towards the desk. When you’ve gotten far enough, you feel him tug at your hips, encouraging you to spin around so your back is flush with his chest. His hand slides up to your shoulders to gently press you forward, and you brace your forearms on the desk, already breathless.

“P-pull my dress up,” you manage to instruct. His hands caress over your thighs, then move to the hem of your dress, pushing up until your ass is fully exposed for him.

Get a good look at that ass you were tempting me with, the voice in your head finishes for you. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to focus on this moment, this man. Not any others.

You look back at Kihyun over your shoulder in an attempt to stay present, spreading your legs a little wider. “Touch me.”

He slowly moves a hand from your thigh up towards your core, and you feel his fingers just barely brush over the fabric of your underwear. The rush of contact after so much anticipation is enough to make you shiver slightly, but his touch is so light, so gentle.

Gentle is not what you need right now.

Keeping yourself held up on one arm, you reach the other behind you to forcefully tug your panties to the side. “Your fingers, Kihyun,” you hiss.

You tip your head forward and swallow down a whine of relief as he presses a digit into you and starts to rub circles. “How’s that?” His voice purrs in your ear, and you whimper as you nod.

It feels good, especially when he adds a second finger, but it’s not enough. He’s too soft, too tentative.

You look back at him again. “Can you spank me?”

You’ve officially lost count of the number of times you’ve surprised this man tonight. “I— what?”

“Like, smack my ass?”

“Like this?” He asks, but you barely feel it when he brings his hand down over your ass.

“Harder,” you say almost instantly, realizing after the fact that you could probably stand to be a little nicer to this random stranger. “Please.”

Kihyun’s second attempt is better, enough to make you groan softly as the sensation of the sting mixes with the movements of his fingers pressing against your front wall. He does it again, harder still, and you wiggle your ass back towards him— you need more, more than his hands can give.

“Kihyun,” you gasp, “want you to fuck me.”

“Yeah? I’ll fuck you right here,” he grunts. At least he seems to be genuinely into it, you think to yourself gratefully. He smacks your ass a final time and you bite down on your lip as he withdraws his fingers. “One second.”

You hear the sound of him opening a drawer somewhere in his room and retrieving a condom, and you let your eyes flutter closed until his hands brush over your hips again.

“Ready?”

“Yes, Kihyun, please,” you beg, your head dropping down onto your forearms. “Please fuck me.” Desire is wound up so tight inside you that you can’t think about anything else; you need this so fucking badly.

He makes a strangled whine as he presses into you, and you move your hips back onto him, gasping slightly at the stretch. “Fuck.”

“God, you feel so fucking good,” Kihyun groans, and he starts to roll into you with steady thrusts that brush the head of his cock right over your g-spot. You push backwards, matching his rhythm, and he’s not wrong: it feels good.

But it’s not enough.

“Harder,” you groan, your voice muffled in the crook of your elbow, and you hear Kihyun grunt as he picks up the pace, hips snapping against your ass. Better, but somehow still not what you need.

“Please, Kihyun,” you encourage again. “Fuck me like a slut.”

“Jesus,” he breathes, and for a second, you wonder if you’ve finally broken him. But then his hand cracks over your ass, hard enough to take you by surprise, and he starts to thrust even faster.

“Is this what you want?” He asks, and his voice is tense, almost angry; something about it makes your walls start to flutter. Your orgasm is so frustratingly close, yet somehow beyond your grasp.

And then you hear that all-too familiar voice in your head. I want to make you come so hard that your legs shake. Before you can help it, you moan a little at the memory. The way Yoongi leveled his gaze on you as he spoke so calmly, in a way that had you believing every single word. You can feel your core starting to tighten at the very thought, and once your brain realizes that’s what will get you there, it’s like the fucking floodgates open.

“Oh fuck,” you groan, and you can hear him grunt in agreement, like he’s close, too.

You’re helpless to stop it now, too desperate to come. Yoongi’s voice, his face, his tongue, his hands, his cock. It’s all you can think of. You gasp as everything inside you tightens and starts to pulse.

“Shit, shit, I’m gonna come,” you whine. So hard that you have no choice but to scream my name as I wreck you, the voice in your head finishes, and you dig your nails into the desk beneath you as you reach your climax.

Your back arches, pleasure washing over you, and you cry out. “Yes, Yoongi, yes!”

There’s a moment where his hips stutter, and then he pushes all the way into you one last time with a grunt of effort as he comes, too. Your heartbeat starts to slow.

And then it occurs to you that the man fucking you is absolutely not named Yoongi, and you smack a hand over your mouth.

“Oh my god,” you say softly, voice muffled, and you remove your hand as you start to straighten up. You can hear Kihyun still breathing heavily behind you, but he’s otherwise silent as he releases his grip on your hips and slides out of you.

“Kihyun,” you turn to watch him cross the room to the en-suite bathroom, where he briefly disappears to dispose of the condom. Face burning with embarrassment, you awkwardly maneuver to readjust your underwear and pull your dress back down over your ass.

When he reappears in the doorway, you try again. “Kihyun, I am so sorry. I—I don’t—” you fumble for what to say, knowing full well you don’t have a good explanation. At least not one that doesn’t make you sound insane.

“It’s cool,” he says, but he’s clearly uncomfortable. “I mean, you know. Shit happens.”

You glance around nervously for your phone before realizing it’s back on the table in the entryway where you tossed it in the throes of passion. You shoot Kihyun a weak smile. “I should— let me call Jimin. I can get a ride home.”

Kihyun laughs dryly. “Yeah, I’m gonna take a wild guess that he might be a little busy. I can take you home. It’s not a big deal.”

As much as your pride wants to refuse, you don’t exactly have a backup plan. “I would really appreciate that,” you murmur.

The drive is silent and painfully awkward, Kihyun turning up the music just loud enough that you get the indication that he doesn’t want to talk. As the lights of the city stream by, you can’t help but wonder how everything got so fucked up.

When Kihyun pulls up to your apartment complex, you indicate where he can drop you off, and he reaches over you as the car slows to a stop to politely open the door.

“Have a good night,” he says firmly, and you can barely manage a word of thanks before you slip out of his car and head up the stairs to die of embarrassment.

Jimin shows up at your door late Sunday afternoon, a takeout bag of haejangguk tucked under one arm, gushing incessantly about the various ways Wonho threw him around all night. It feels like he babbles for an hour, until he finally takes a break to sip from his own container of soup, and prompts you with a raise of his eyebrows.

“Your turn. Was your mission successful?”

You keep your gaze firmly planted on the floor as you recount what happened.

“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

~*~

Jimin decides that you’ll try again next weekend, promising he’ll be less distracted. You’re not positive you’ll survive that long. You preemptively text Jungkook asking to take the week off from boxing class - your stomach is such a fucking bundle of nerves that you barely sleep at all Sunday night, and you know the next five days spent in constant fear of running into Yoongi is only going to make it worse.

Those same nerves creep up into your throat when you unlock the doors Monday morning, Jungkook waiting patiently behind you with his hands wrapped around the straps of his backpack.

Dread blooms inside of you as you move to place your purse on your desk, and then you make a split-second decision, spinning back to face Jungkook.

“Hey, JK?” The nickname is unplanned, just sort of comes out, but you see him visibly brighten. “Are there any open desks on your side of the office? I think I need a change of scenery.”

He nods, eyes wide. “Yeah! I’m actually all by myself right now. Sunye is on maternity leave for the rest of the month. You can use her desk.”

You gesture for him to lead the way and he does, heading past the break room and walking backwards down the hallway to keep talking to you. “Is there something wrong with your normal desk? We can always put in a work order.”

“Uh, no,” you scramble, trying to find a good excuse. “It can just be a little distracting, you know. People coming in and out all day. I’ve got a lot of stuff I need to be heads-down on this week.”

The excuse sounds flimsy and false to you, but he seems to buy it. “Yeah, makes sense! I’ll try not to distract you too much.”

He does a full 360-degree spin on his heels as you turn the corner at the end of the hall, and it’s enough to make you laugh softly despite yourself. There’s a small alcove with a desk pressed against either wall, and you don’t even have to ask which one is Jungkook’s. The standing desk is dotted with tell-tale signs of Baby Star Candy: an empty shaker cup, a mini tub of protein powder, several fidget toys tucked beneath his monitor. A small collage of polaroids is taped to the wall where you see him smiling with friends, throwing up a peace sign in nearly every single one.

Sunye’s desk is mostly empty, save for a few framed photos of her with her husband and two young kids. You drop your purse down and take a seat as Jungkook chucks his backpack under his desk, both of you reaching to retrieve your laptops.

Outlook hasn’t even loaded before he’s turned around and talking to you again. “So how was your weekend?”

You grimace reflexively at memories you’d rather forget, and Jungkook misinterprets the look. “Oh, sorry, no distractions. I’ll be quiet.”

“No, no,” you shake your head. “It’s not you. My weekend was fine. What about yours?”

He laughs, looking a little embarrassed. “I mean, honestly? I’m super addicted to this new mobile game that just came out. I feel like I blinked and lost two days.” He’s already reaching for his cellphone. “Want to see?” You roll your chair across to his side of the room as Jungkook leans over to show you the little island world he’s nearly 500 levels into. After a few minutes, he seems to remember himself.

“Shit, you specifically said you came here to focus. I’m sorry, I really will leave you alone now.”

You bite down on your bottom lip. “No, it’s okay, JK. I— honestly, I wasn’t being entirely truthful when I said that. I don’t mind the distraction at all, actually. It’s kind of complicated, but… it would be nice if I could hide out here for the foreseeable future.”

He looks at you, clearly surprised. “Of course. Whatever you need. Is everything okay?”

You wince a little, with no idea how to answer that question.

His voice drops. “Is it Suga?”

“It’s complicated.” You repeat with a sigh.

An unfamiliar emotion flashes in Jungkook’s eyes. You’ve never seen him angry before, but you’d guess this is what it looks like. “Hey, seriously, if he’s being aggressive with you, we should do something about it. Report it or something.”

You have to suppress the urge to laugh in his face. Like Yoongi being aggressive with you isn’t exactly what you’ve been fantasizing about for days.

“No, it’s not like that,” you reassure him. “I think we’re just two people who are better off kept apart from each other. That’s all.”

Jungkook nods slowly, and it’s clear from his expression that he wants to pry more, but is forcing himself not to. “Okay.”

There’s a heaviness of unasked and unanswered questions in the air, but the two of you manage to lapse into corporate smalltalk as you roll back over to your desk and dive into your workday.

Jungkook eventually has to peel off for a few virtual meetings, and watching him work is its own source of entertainment. If it’s a meeting that requires his focus, you can tell because he leans in close to his monitor, staring at spreadsheets or data visualizations with a look on his face like he’s using every single brain cell he owns.

You can also tell when he’s put on calls where he clearly isn’t needed, because he’ll spin in a full circle at his desk with a glazed over look in his eye. There are even a few times where you glance up to see him silently doing what you vaguely recognize as TikTok dances, and you have to clap a hand over your mouth to keep from outright laughing.

The day rolls on, and you’re neck deep in drafting a communication when Jungkook’s voice breaks your concentration. “Do you like ramyeon?”

Your head snaps up to see him lean down under his desk to grab his backpack. He unzips it to retrieve two containers of instant noodles, and when he offers one to you, you give an approving nod. “I usually bring two in case I get extra hungry. I’ll make it, come meet me in the break room when you finish what you’re doing.”

You genuinely believe him on the first day, but when he just so happens to bring a second lunch on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, you start to get a little suspicious.

Friday has you stuck on a working session straight through your usual lunch hour, and Jungkook disappears without a word, returning as you’re pulling your headset off with two to-go salads in a plastic bag.

“I ordered one, and they gave me two. Crazy, right?”

You quirk an eyebrow at him to signal that you don’t believe a damn word, but you still thank him as you follow him down the hall to the break room.

“You’re coming out tonight, right?” He asks over lunch, and it takes you a second to remember the planned happy hour your boss has scheduled for the office. You’re torn between never wanting to see the inside of a bar again, and the overwhelming desire to drink as much as you can on the company’s dime. Ideally enough to obliterate the brain cells that store your memories of last weekend.

In the end, your cheapness wins out. Plus, given that it’s a social work event, you’d bet your entire salary that Yoongi will be nowhere to be found. You figure it might actually prove to be a good distraction. “Sure, yeah. At least for a couple drinks.”

“Cool,” Jungkook smiles a little as he spears a piece of chicken on his plastic fork. “Let me know when you’re done for the day, we can head over together.”

As much as you’d like to blow off early, a phone call that was supposed to take fifteen minutes ends up lasting over an hour. You mute your headset briefly to give a loud sigh, and shoot Jungkook a silent pout in apology when he meets your gaze, but he just flips his phone around to show you the progress he’s making on his island. At least he’s good at keeping himself entertained, you think with a smile.

Finally the person leading the call seems to come to the extremely delayed realization that no one is going to make any more progress on the issue after 5 PM on a Friday, and things wrap up pretty quickly after that. You and Jungkook gather your things and head for the front, and the office is a ghost town.

Your eyes drift down the opposite hallway towards the Genius Lab, your pulse quickening a little. You’ve checked the lab every evening this week and have luckily only found it empty, but you’re nearly an hour ahead of schedule today. And you don’t exactly have a great track record with Yoongi when it comes to Fridays.

“I should probably…”

“I can do it,” Jungkook cuts in softly. You’re hit with the automatic urge to say no, to shield him from this chaos in any way you can. But it would be really nice to not have to deal with Yoongi for one fucking day.

“I would appreciate that,” you reply, and Jungkook is already striding down the hall. You pretend to busy yourself on your phone as you hear a knock, then the electronic beeps of him punching the code into the door lock. When you glance up, you see him push the door open and stick his head inside, then promptly close it again.

“He’s gone. Let’s get out of here.”

The bar your boss has chosen is only a few blocks away from the office, and Jungkook holds the door open for you to enter first when you arrive. You don’t see your group right when you first walk in, and you have to round a bend in the layout of the building before you spot the long table of familiar faces.

You move to take a step forward, but Jungkook nearly imperceptibly brings a hand to your elbow to stop you. He says nothing, which is unlike him, and you start to ask a question.

“Wh—” the words die in your mouth when you see Yoongi smiling politely into a glass of whiskey, seated at the table next to your boss. His gaze flickers up to meet yours. Your stomach twists as you watch the smile immediately drop off his face.

“We can go,” Jungkook says quickly, but you know you can’t give him the satisfaction.

“It’s fine,” you say, and it comes out a little more harsh than you mean it to. “We don’t have to sit near him.” Jungkook follows your lead to the opposite end of the table. When you take your seats, he almost immediately gets sucked into a conversation with some of the audio engineers. You do your best to at least act like you’re following along, but it feels like the room is spinning despite the fact that you’re entirely sober.

That absolutely needs to change, you quickly determine. You’re sitting at the corner of the table, so it’s easy enough to slip out and get to your feet. Jungkook glances up when you do.

“I’ll be right back,” you say, and your tone must be direct enough that he doesn’t ask any follow-up questions or offer his company. Which is fine, you think to yourself as you cross the room. You’re perfectly capable of walking to the bar and ordering a drink on your own.

At least it feels that way until you sweep your gaze across the room, waiting on a bartender to acknowledge your presence, and realize Yoongi is headed straight towards you, empty glass in hand.

Fuck fuck fuck.

You set your jaw, determined not to let him smell your fear, and renew your conviction to flag someone down and get a drink as fast as possible. When Yoongi takes a seat at the barstool next to you, you will your face not to react. But you’re not quite fast enough to remember to tell your mouth to stay shut, too.

“What are you doing here?” You snap, refusing to look him in the eye.

“I wanted to talk to you,” he says, voice even, and you blink hard. You don’t know what you were expecting, but it wasn’t that. “I figured an event with free alcohol was a good place to start. Let’s hope no one wore their good shoes tonight.”

Setting your jaw has turned into fully gritting your teeth, and you’ve never been more grateful to see a bartender when one approaches. You order quickly, and see Yoongi silently lift his empty glass as a request in your periphery.

“What do you want, Yoongi?”

When he hums and doesn’t respond right away, you glance over to see him running a finger around the rim of his finished drink. Just his fucking hand is enough to send a shiver up your spine, and you tear your gaze away.

“Well, for one, I honestly have to say I was surprised when HR didn’t personally escort me out of the building Monday morning.”

Your head snaps up to look at him again as you parse out his meaning. “Really?”

Yoongi’s gaze meets yours, his brows slightly pinching together as if he’s surprised that you’re surprised. “Uh, yeah.”

You’re so shocked it takes you a minute to form words. “I— I mean, it’s not like it was unprovoked.”

He makes a face as if he’s considering it, shrugging a little. “I suppose.”

As you drop your gaze to the wood grain of the bar, you can’t help but wonder if that was meant to be an apology. You barely have time to process that thought before the bartender returns, setting your drinks down, and you reach for yours like a woman dehydrated. When you take a sip, it’s strong— exactly what you need in this moment.

You’re already halfway off the barstool, very ready to get back to your seat at the table, when Yoongi speaks up again.

“Do you want to hear a funny story?” Something in his tone makes you pause, and he keeps going.

“I heard from an old friend a few days ago. We used to be really close, but lately I don’t think we’ve talked in…” He shakes his head in disbelief, like he’s trying to think. “God, probably years. I’ve been so focused on work. You know how I get.”

You physically recoil at his strange candor, how comfortable he suddenly is with implying that you know him. Your stomach is already starting to turn, though you can’t put a finger on why. It just feels like he’s playing with you.

Yoongi rolls his glass between his palms as he continues. “So you know, we catch up, ask how life is going, all the usual shit. And then my friend— Kihyun, that’s his name— Kih starts telling me about this crazy hookup he had last weekend.”

You nearly drop your drink as your blood runs cold. Yoongi continues the charade, pretending like he’s telling you something you don’t already know first-hand.

“He said he got approached by this super hot girl out of nowhere, and that she was fucking desperate for it. Barely said two words to him before she was asking him to take her home. And once he did, he said the sex was wild. I mean, it definitely sounded great to me when he gave me the play-by-play.” He pauses for a moment, and when he speaks again, there’s a new tone to his voice, almost aggressive. “Straight out of one of my own fantasies, really.”

You take a nervous gulp of your drink in hopes that it might help cool down your burning face— whether it’s from shame or rage, you can’t tell.

“And get this.” Yoongi’s voice is grave now, all pretense of telling a funny story gone as he turns to fully face you. “You’re never gonna believe whose name she cried out when she came. Because it sure wasn’t Kih’s.”

The shock of his words, at the fact that he knows this, is enough to freeze you where you stand. You’re nearly shaking with the chaotic storm of emotions swirling in your brain, and it takes every ounce of willpower you can muster to keep your voice steady as you fix him in your gaze. “I don’t see that it’s any of your business who or how I fuck, Yoongi.”

“Oh, I think it’s absolutely my business when you’re calling them my fucking name. And I don’t understand why you’d settle for imitation when you could have the real thing.” Despite how livid you are, you don’t miss the way your pussy flutters at the smug look on his face.

“Maybe it’s because your friend doesn’t come with all the strings attached that you do.”

“Strings?” He quirks an eyebrow. “I wasn’t planning on dating you, sweetheart.”

You can’t believe how dense he is, and you slam your drink down on the bar. “No, Yoongi, but you’re my fucking coworker. Have you ever heard the phrase, ‘don’t shit where you eat’?” He chuckles dryly into the rim of his glass. “It’s a bad fucking idea.”

He examines you as he takes a sip of whiskey, then finally speaks again. “Here’s the way I see it. We are both sane, consenting adults, very capable of being rational about this.” You scoff in disbelief at how calmly he can say such a thing as you take another long pull from your drink. “There’s obviously a lot of pent-up feelings going on. I’m not saying we have to be friends. Hell, we don’t even have to like each other. Sometimes it’s more fun when you don’t.”

Not expecting that commentary, you nearly choke on the ice in your glass. Yoongi gives you a moment to recover before continuing.

“It seems to me like we could establish something that would be mutually beneficial. Get some of that energy out. If anything, I think it might help both of us actually focus on our work, and that would in turn benefit everyone. It’d certainly be a lot better than the two of us running around like a couple of horny teenagers the way we have been lately. It’s not a purely selfish thing.”

You hate that his stupid logical argument makes sense to you. You hate it so much that you finish your drink in one swallow.

“Look, I’ll make it easy for you,” he says, eyes locked on you, his voice dropping into a lower register. The tone immediately takes you back to the last time you were in his lab. The things he said to you. The things he wanted to do to you. Heat pools in your belly before you can tell it not to.

“I’m going to head back to the group. You get yourself another drink, come join us, and take some time to think about it.”

He leans in to speak the next part directly into your ear, his voice quiet. Every nerve ending in your body lights up at the feeling of his breath against your neck. “Then I’m going to get up and go to the restroom. I’ll give you three minutes to discreetly excuse yourself and join me. If you don’t show, I’ll drop all of this and leave you alone. Promise.”

Yoongi pulls away, shooting you that trademark smirk, knowing full well that he doesn’t have to explain what will happen if you do decide to join him. He already has. Then he slips off the barstool, glass of whiskey in hand, and strides back towards the table.

When you order the next round, you ask for a double.

You do your best to act like the world isn’t ending as you return to your seat at the table. The conversation continues around you, without you; you can only stare dumbly at the empty space between two of your coworkers as you take a long swig of your drink. You’re vaguely aware of discussions of upcoming mixtapes and the Grammy’s, but your brain can’t process anything over the roaring in your ears, the pounding of your heartbeat in your gut— and a little lower.

You feel insane, enraged, and deliriously aroused.

You have no concept of how quickly time is passing, no clue if it’s been an instant or an hour when you see movement from the other end of the table out of the corner of your eye. There’s no self-control left in your system to keep your jaw from going slack, to keep you from unabashedly watching as Yoongi gets up from the table and strides confidently across the bar toward the restroom. He doesn’t so much as glance in your direction.

“Are you alright?”

You whip around at Jungkook’s voice, having completely forgotten there was anyone else in the room. It takes a second for you to snap your mouth shut, and then you realize you have to open it to answer his question.

“I— uh—” You can barely string a sentence together. “My drink is really strong.”

“Do you need some water?”

When you nod, he’s up in a flash, heading towards the bar, and you realize as you watch him disappear that it might have been a bad idea to let yourself be left alone. Because now you have no distraction from the way every cell in your body is screaming at you.

It’s obvious that there is a right choice and a wrong choice here. And you’ve tried so hard, for so long, to be smart. To deny the truth, to say no and go home, to channel the energy out in any other way. But none of it has worked. You still want this terrible man to do terrible things to you, maybe now more than ever. And you’re so fucking tired of making the right choice.

So tonight, you resolve with a final sip of your drink, you’ll make the wrong one. Fuck it.

You slip away from the table before Jungkook returns, following the same path Yoongi did towards the back of the bar. When you reach for the handle of the restroom door, your pulse is racing, enough that you nearly jump out of your skin when the door swings open before you can even touch it. You glance up to find yourself face-to-face with an equally shocked looking Yoongi.

“Your three minutes are up,” he says dryly. Rather than bother with a response, you bring your hand to his chest and firmly shove him back inside the single stall room. You hear him laugh a little as you follow after, pulling the knob and turning the lock into place behind you.

When he takes a step toward you, there’s nowhere for you to go except flush against the door. You watch his eyes drop down your body and back up, taking his time, shameless. His gaze lingers on your mouth.

“Didn’t think you’d really do it,” he murmurs, eyes glinting.

“Call it a lapse in judgment.”

There’s something about the situation that makes you feel like Yoongi has the upper hand— like he expects every part of this to go according to his plan. That, you decide, simply will not do. And then you drop to your knees in front of him.

“Oh my god,” Yoongi breathes, taking a small step back to give you room. “You’re a whore.”

You do your best to shoot a death glare up at him. “I don’t have to do this.”

He smirks. “I meant it as a compliment, honestly. Respectfully.”

That’s it. You’re determined to suck that smug fucking look off his face. “Hands to yourself,” you say firmly. “If you touch me, this all ends.”

Yoongi’s eyes widen, as if he wasn’t expecting you to be giving any orders. But then he nods, raising both hands in the air as if to indicate compliance. You lower your gaze and realize he’s already straining against the fabric of his joggers, which do nothing to hide how hard he is, the thin material clinging to every inch.

In one swift motion, you tug both his pants and boxers down his hips, and you have to actively suppress a soft sigh of appreciation. Yoongi’s ego doesn’t need any more feeding, but damn, his dick is even better up close: long, pale, and pretty.

Glancing back up at him, you maintain eye contact as you lean forward to teasingly trace your tongue along one of the prominent veins that runs the length of his shaft. His eyes are dark with lust as he watches you. Despite being on your knees, a thrill of sheer power runs through you when you see him swallow hard, his Adam’s apple jerking in his throat.

It occurs to you that you are extremely ready to torture this man.

When you reach the tip, you just barely slide your lips over it in an open-mouthed kiss to the head of his cock, your tongue swirling in sloppy circles. You can hear Yoongi breathing now, clearly trying and failing to suppress his shaky exhales at your work.

Tilting your head to find the right angle, you take more of him into your mouth, then bring a hand to his shaft to guide the head of his dick to one side. You don’t miss the quiet groan you elicit from him as you let him press against the soft wall of your cheek to create a bulge. He makes the same sound again, louder, when you rub your tongue firmly along the underside of his shaft while you do it.

His hips jerk under your touch as you start to move the hand wrapped around him in slow, deliberate strokes. You recenter him in your mouth and bob your head along his length in time, now sucking firmly. Yoongi’s breath catches on a moan as you keep your tongue pressed tight to his shaft and match the movement of your head to the deliciously slow pace of your hand.

The sound only encourages you, and you lean forward to take even more of him until his cock briefly brushes against the back of your throat. You hold him there for a second, then swallow.

“Fuck,” Yoongi hisses. You can feel him twitch a little in your mouth, taste it as he leaks precum onto your tongue. You tip back for a few more shallow thrusts, just tormenting him, then repeat the action, humming this time as he hits your throat. His knees nearly buckle.

You glance up at Yoongi as you pull back again, lashes fluttering, and you have to keep yourself from laughing around his cock at the look of pure distress on his face. Now that you’re watching him, you realize his hands are flexing desperately at his sides— it’s clearly taking everything in his power to follow your no touching policy.

Good, you think, and then you lean forward to swallow him down and keep him there, taking as much as you can until your nose is nearly flush with his pelvis. You bob your head, guiding him up and down your throat, choking slightly but too determined to stop even as your eyes start to water.

“Oh my god,” you hear him groan, and your eyebrows raise at the sound of a loud smack. When you look up, still working him in your throat, you realize that he’s helplessly banged a fist on the bathroom door and is now bracing himself against it. You watch as he rakes his other hand through his hair, his head tipping back with a gasp as you increase your pace in response. His hips shudder as he starts to buck softly into your mouth. “Y-yeah, keep doing that, oh fuck, fuck—”

At what feels like the last possible second, you pull off his cock with a soft, wet pop, swallowing down the precum in your mouth. You wipe at the corners of your lips before getting to your feet, legs shaking a little more than you’d like from how long you’ve been on your knees. As you meet his gaze, now at eye-level, it seems you’ve certainly achieved your mission: Yoongi’s usual smug appearance has been replaced with a look of frustrated desperation, courtesy of one denied orgasm.

“Why should I let you get off that easy?” You ask simply, and he makes a noise low in his throat, something between a groan and a laugh.

“Fuck, you are such a bitch.” He advances towards you, and you find yourself backing up, this time until your ass is pressed against the countertop of the bathroom sink. He’s staring at your mouth again, looking at it with what seems to be a little more reverence now that he knows what it’s capable of.

“Am I allowed to touch you yet?” His voice is so low, his mouth so close to yours, that it makes your core ache. The noises you sucked out of him have unfortunately only turned you on even more. “Or are you going to make me beg?”

As much as you’d love to see that, the desperate throb that’s been steadily building between your legs has now overtaken your desire to tease. “Yes, Yoongi, you can touch me.”

The words have barely left your mouth and his hands are already on your hips, firmly spinning you around. You have to clutch the edge of the countertop just to stay upright, but you only feel yourself getting that much wetter at the rough way he handles you. You shiver as he shoves the hem of your dress up to expose your ass, and you can’t help yourself, leaning forward to give him the best possible angle, too desperate for anything less.

“Fuck,” Yoongi breathes, and you’d swear he almost sounds appreciative.

You don’t even have time to process that thought before his hand cracks down over your ass, so hard that it nearly knocks all the breath out of your lungs. You inhale a shaky gasp, your mind reeling in its attempt to catch up, but Yoongi is already pulling your panties to the side, perfect fingers sliding between your folds. There’s no hiding how drenched you are; your upper thighs are starting to stick together with arousal.

Without warning, he presses two fingers firmly into you, and it’s enough to make your jaw go slack. You outright moan when they find purchase against your g-spot, rubbing in tight, expert circles. He could make you come right now if he wanted to.

“You’re so wet for me,” Yoongi’s voice is low and smug, and you don’t need to see his expression to know that cocky smirk has returned to his face. “Been ready for it all night, huh?” You whimper a noise that isn’t disagreement.

“Good,” he says firmly, pairing the word with another smack to your ass. You’re too far gone to try and hold it back now, not with the way his fingers are working inside you, and you moan again. “Because we can’t take too long,” Yoongi continues. “Don’t want anyone getting suspicious. Which is really a damn shame, because there’s so much I want to do to you.”

When he smacks your ass one more time, even harder, and couples it with an insistent press of his fingers against your front wall, you have to grip the edge of the sink for dear life. Your cunt squeezes around him; the noise you make is practically a sob.

He huffs a laugh as he withdraws his fingers, and you glance up to see him retrieving a condom from his pocket and tearing it open. “Wrecked already? And I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

You try to compose yourself, but just watching the way his hands work as he rolls the condom over his leaking cock has you aching, clenching around nothing. You really are fucking wrecked— nothing has ever come close to this.

Yoongi’s hands come to your hips, pads of his fingers digging into your skin, and you feel the head of his cock against your entrance, sliding lazily through your folds but purposefully not pressing into you.

“Yoongi,” you whine. You’re too far gone for this teasing.

“You have to tell me what you want,” he says, his voice dark.

You can barely even think a sentence, and you try to push back on him instead, but he keeps you held firmly in place, hands squeezing into the flesh of your hips. “Tell me,” he insists.

“I want you to fuck me,” you manage, and you look up to meet his gaze in the bathroom mirror.

He licks his lips, and you realize that he’s having just as hard a time restraining himself. “That much is obvious,” he says, and you can hear the unsteadiness in his voice now. “How would you like to get fucked?”

You’ve had enough alcohol to brazenly tell the truth. “Like you hate me.”

It may be the first genuine smile of his you’ve ever seen.

“Gladly,” he replies, and then he thrusts all of himself into you at once. You collapse forward on the countertop, crying out at the feeling.

“Yeah,” Yoongi grunts, a little breathless. “You like that?” He pulls nearly all the way out and slams into you one more time, pressing his hips flush with your ass until you feel overwhelmingly full. Then he starts to properly thrust, moving at a pace that can only be described as ruthless.

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp, your head dropping down as you scramble to brace yourself against the counter. You practically yelp when his hand cracks over your ass again.

He leans forward; you can feel his chest graze over your back, his hips still snapping into you as he grabs your jaw with one hand and forces your gaze up to look at him in the mirror again. You watch as he runs two fingers along your bottom lip in an unasked question. You let your jaw go slack to allow him to slip into your mouth.

When your lips close around his fingers, you find yourself a little grateful to have something to keep you grounded to reality. Your eyes flit up to Yoongi’s face, and his gaze is piercing, eyes totally fixed on you.

“You look so good like this.” His voice is hoarse, strained from effort, and he continues to drive into you, never slowing. Your own hip bones dig into the bathroom counter, shocks of pleasure-pain rippling through you with each thrust. Little moans and whimpers spill out from your mouth around his fingers at the sensation, and you can feel your climax starting to build.

Yoongi withdraws from your mouth, that same hand moving down your body to slip into your panties and circle your clit, earning a gasp from you. His other hand keeps a death grip on your hip as he thrusts, and he straightens up again, the head of his cock now rubbing so perfectly over your g-spot that you hiss.

“Did Kihyun fuck you like this?”

The question catches you off-guard. “N-no,” you gasp, and the hot coil of your arousal tightens in your core. Yoongi’s cock stroking into you, his hand working your clit, the feeling is overwhelming, dizzying. “Oh, god.” Your head presses into your forearm as you give yourself over to the pleasure. You can only distantly hear Yoongi’s voice continue, somewhere between coaxing and demanding.

“I didn’t fucking think so. So why don’t you say it? Tell me who fucks you right. Tell me who you fucking hate.”

The fingers on your clit are unrelenting now, and your edge approaches fast and hard.

“Y-Yoongi,” you breathe, and it feels too good to say his name and mean it. “Yoongi, fuck, Yoongi.” A loud moan rips through you as your legs start to shake. “Oh fuck,” you gasp, “I’m coming, fuck, yes—” You nearly sob as your climax hits you hard, and your walls flutter around Yoongi’s cock over and over in what feels like an endless orgasm.

The pleasure rolls through you, and you look up in the mirror to see Yoongi grit his teeth as he picks up the pace of his hips. A look of desperation paints his face, not unlike the way he looked when you were blowing him, and you know he must be close.

“God fucking damnit,” he grunts, each word punctuated with a thrust, and then he tips his head back and pushes all the way into you with a moan as he comes.

For a moment he pauses like that, gazing up at the ceiling, chest heaving with effort as his dick twitches inside of you. “Holy shit,” he breathes, and then he starts to laugh softly in what appears to be disbelief. “Fuuuuck.”

You haven’t fully recovered, so you can only watch, still gripping the countertop for dear life, as he slips the condom off, chucks it into the trash can, and pulls his boxers and pants up. He gives his reflection a once-over in the mirror, running a hand through his hair, and you’re amazed at how quickly he’s put himself back together. The only indication that he was literally just railing you is the way he’s breathing heavily.

Yoongi notices you watching him and gives your ass one more firm slap, hard enough that you flinch a little.

“Wait a minute or two before you head out,” he instructs, and you nod dumbly. He crosses the room, opens the door, and slips out, all before you can even so much as think a coherent thought.

It takes several more minutes for you to get your shit together, but you eventually manage to readjust your underwear and smooth your dress down, though your legs are certainly still unsteady when you make your way back to the table. You can’t help but shoot a glance over at Yoongi as you pass, and you’re shocked to see him laughing and chatting it up with the group of coworkers seated around him. You see clear expressions of surprise on their faces, too— because he’s never like this. Except, apparently, mere minutes after fucking you.

You don’t even bother to sit down, instead grabbing your purse off the table and slinging the straps over your shoulder.

“Wow, there you are,” Jungkook’s voice drags you out of your thoughts, and the look of concern on his face just makes your stomach turn. You genuinely have no idea how long you were gone for. “Are you okay? Your face looks flushed.”

You don’t know how to answer his question, so you don't. “I think I’m gonna go home.”

“Do you need a ride?”

You shake your head quickly. “I’ll call a friend.”

Perched on the curb outside, you clutch your phone for dear life as you pull up Jimin’s contact to call him. The line rings and you realize you’re shivering; you don’t think it has anything to do with the weather.

You don’t even give him a chance to say hello when the call connects. “Can you come get me?”

He groans on the other end of the line. “Why? I already took my pants off for the night.”

“Baby mochi, please.” You whine, but you know only the full explanation will get him out of bed. You drop your voice a little. “I just hatefucked Suga in the bathroom at the company happy hour. I need you to come pick me up immediately.”

Jimin’s apartment is a ten minute drive away, but you swear he makes it in five.

“Well, well, well,” Your best friend’s voice is smug as you slide into his passenger seat. “If it isn’t the company whore.”

“Shut the fuck up, Jimin.”

~*~

Come Monday morning, you’re racing down the hallway to the conference room, quietly cursing yourself for being late. You’d seen the email from your boss moving the usual Tuesday pull-up to first-thing Monday, but then you’d gotten so tied up with other projects you’d forgotten about it entirely. It was only once you were in the break room, trying to get your caffeine fix in, that you’d glanced up at the wall clock and realized it was already ten after.

Focused as you are on getting to the meeting quickly— and just as importantly, not spilling any of your coffee— you’re completely unaware of your surroundings until it’s too late. You nearly smack directly into Yoongi as you approach the conference room simultaneously.

He smirks as you jump back in surprise. “We have got to stop meeting like this.”

It’s the first time you’ve seen him since Friday; you’ve been hiding out in Baby Star Candy’s corner all morning. “We’re late,” you say, flustered enough to state the obvious, and he shrugs like he can’t disagree.

“I got distracted.”

Yoongi must notice the way your eyes start to widen. “With work,” he clarifies quickly. He reaches around you to place a hand on the conference room door, and you hear his voice low in your ear. “Amazing how much easier it is to focus today, huh?”

Straightening up to put some space between you, he pushes the door open and gestures for you to go first. You swallow hard and try to keep your composure as you enter the room, briefly apologizing for being late. Yoongi follows behind you silently, slumping into the open seat across the table. You take a sip of your coffee to settle your nerves, which turns out to be a horrible idea when your boss speaks.

“There they are, perfect timing. You’re the very two people my next announcement concerns.”

You just barely manage to keep your drink in your mouth. When your gaze flits to Yoongi across from you, he looks similarly shell-shocked. You can’t help but wonder if you’re about to get fired in front of the entire team.

“We’ve managed to secure funding for the Grammy’s at the end of the month,” your boss says brightly. “We’ll be flying Suga out to do a press circuit as well as attend the award show and surrounding events in-person. We think it will be a great opportunity to network with American artists, try to get his name out there and work on our international appeal.”

“And of course,” your boss’ gaze lands on you, “we all know that our Suga isn’t the most extroverted, or good with schedules, for that matter. We figured he needs a wrangler, and who better than our very own admin?”

You swear your heart stops beating. Your boss keeps going, reminding the team to connect with you about temporarily taking back any deliverables you’ve been handling while you’ll be out of pocket for Grammy’s weekend and subsequent travel time, but you barely process a word. This can’t be happening.

An entire weekend of forced professionalism, in Los Angeles, with the man you just hatefucked in a bathroom. What could possibly go wrong?

chapter four | masterlist | chapter six

#yoongi smut #yoongi angst #yoongi x reader #bts fanfic #bts x reader #look down on me like that

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newartistgirl · 1 year

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Lu little details (1)

It’s the little details what make me hallucinate every single time there’s an update. Now, eventhough I may forget plenty of the ones I noticed while reading or thinking through (and some other I might have missed), I’m gonna try to list some of them.

Im going to focus more on reference-to-games details not little details about the dynamics between the group.

1. The first posts actually are full of references. Like really full. It would be endless to point out all of them. (Twilight and the soup, Legend and the seagulls, time being the one talking to the fairy, different views of the princess, Wind and the soup too, Twilight quoting Rusl (It’s not the only time), Legend thinking of “a separete world”) My favourite, probably, is Wind asking for Kaepora to repete what he had said. In this category I might add everything she took under consideration when decicing not just their personalities but also even their ages, and all the answers to some questions, being actually incredible the fact that Twi is ambidextrous (Tbh i don’t know what’s actually more impressive, the fact that jojo carefuly has in mind the dominant hand of each Link or the fact that someone, actually managed to notice Twilight would change hands) (Maybe I was not paying attention) (Now, I’m wondering if that drawing of Time shooting it was intentional. Because, if you look carefully, he is actually holding it like a right handed person would)

2. Wild not knowing about wallmasters. This is the most obvious and straight to the point one of the boys having lived in different Hyrules and having had different adventures, however, in the comics that follow the stroryline you can also get from what they say several times hints of this exact same thing. Anyway, my favourite example of this is Sky asking who Ganon was.

3. I would add here the different opinions of the Links on different matters (I’ve already mentioned the different views Hyrule and Wild have on the princess). Another example of this would be Wild and Wind “arguing” about Kings of Hyrule. It makes so much sense. (I’m not gonna go down that opinion/personlity lane, but it’s worth mentioning) And Twilight and Legend complaining about knights, all based on the game experiences.

4. That image of Twilight holding a puppy and Wild, completely unbothered, next to him. I really like that kind of sense of humour, and it’s a funny tiny irrelevant detail that I very much appreciate.

5. Warriors referencing his game. I think it’s happened three times. First, when they are talking and he hides himself from a lady and Hyrule laughs at him saying it’s the third time he’s done that, because being a lady’s man has already been proven as a danger .Second time, with the traitor little comic (I missed that one, ups). And third, while talking about the master sword and how “believing you are invencible” it’s a dangerous way of thinking. I know all Links actually make references to their respective games, but some other references feel more remarkable.

6. I almost forget about it. That conversation between Time and Wild about having entered Gerudo Town is another example of diference between the Links. It’s just that this one has a special place in my mind merely because I had never actually thought of that and it’s in fact wonderful how Wild reacts to hearing Time’s approach into granting himself respect and access to the town. Similar to this, due to the fact that it’s straight up linked to Wild, we have that scene where the gerudo outfit is descovered and he gets teased. (Fun fact; I had no actual clue that goron spice was actually a cooking item in botw until I red this. I had never shopped in the Goron City. And yeah, either I had already beaten Ganon or I was about to)

7. In Lon Lon Ranch, as expected, we also have several references. Being the most noticeable; Malon explaining Hyrule wht they keep sugar water bowls around, the couple’s mask hanging on the wall, or how sky loves cuccos. (A little also “innocent” one may be that Malon straight up mocks her husband’s nose? Being this a reference to the design of the hero of Time)

8. One that I also skipped (and very much love) is Twilight seeing some kind of resemblance between Time’s Captain’s hat and the Heroe’s Shade. We also see more Majora’s Mask references, being maybe the most obvious one Time saying: “Poor kid... He met a terrible fate”. Like, I can hear the Salesman’s laugh.

I`m gonna leave it here for now evethough there are plenty more nice details that show the attention to detail of this comics. However, maybe it’s better to divide this into more defined categories, such as the different games or even characters. And maybe, that way, I can stress how much I appreciate some of those, because, let me tell you that I could rant on about every single one of this nonstop, specially if it’s related to who they are as characters. There’s in my opinion just too many good things to say about this guys and how the whole group works.

(please, correct any spelling mistake. I’m not a native speaker)

#linkeduniverse #linked universe #linked universe rant #lu rambles #Lu rants #lu #lu time #LU Twilight #lu warriors #lu wild #lu hyrule #lu sky #LU Malon

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kotamagic · 4 months

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This week's Lore Olympus is PACKED, so strap yourself in, cuz shit's getting wild!

Starting off with Hebe, who ran to the Mortal Realm at Apollo's horrible suggestion. Immediately, she notices that something is very, VERY wrong there. It's not Spring, Summer, or Winter, but something in-between.

Today, we would call it Fall or Autumn, but given her reaction, that wasn't a thing in those days. Additionally, the scale of seasons is way off by her count. If the four seasons are split evenly across the span of the year, they'd be 90 days/3 months apiece.

Winter? Only five days? Pfft, I wish!

On another important note, the mortals are dying of plague. Starvation could absolutely be part of it. This is big trouble for the Olympians...

I had made a comparison in one of my previous LO posts to @neil-gaiman 's American Gods. In that narrative, the Gods wither away and die if there us no one to worship them. It seems not too different with what Hermes is saying here. No believers, no powers, no existence.

Apollo REALLY wants to get murdered at this meeting, doesn't he? Where's Psyche so that she can shoot his ass again?

(Fuck, she's in Leto's prison right now, damn it.)

Apollo's got a lot of nerve pointing fingers when he hasn't done jack-diddly-squat-shit to help. Hell, a big portion of this fuck-fest is his fault to begin with!

WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO HELP WITH THE KRONOS PROBLEM, APOLLO? OH, THAT'S RIGHT! NO SUN GODS ALLOWED IN THE UNDERWORLD.

Even if he could go to the Underworld, he'd just be a train wreck there as well. Honestly, before Ouranos was revealed to be the one helping Apollo, I would've suspected Kronos to be the culprit. Not sure which is worse.

Let me be clear. I have had A LOT of complaints about Demeter in Lore Olympus. The toxic, controlling behavior made me hate her because I have experience with someone much like her. And to be fair, Demeter still sits on my shit list.

But...

She has finally taken some difficult steps. She went to therapy with Persephone to try fixing their unhealthy relationship. She is struggling hard to be better, and it isn't a TOTAL loss.

This moment here, where she gets in Apollo's face, gives me another crumb of hope for her. First, she attacks his blatant disrespect of Persephone. (True, she has done plenty of her own, but I feel her putting a stop to it here is an important step forward.) Second, she voices how much she is against Apollo being anywhere near Persephone. I'm still not sure if she knows Apollo SA'd Persephone; I think that if she did, she'd be doing much worse than pulling his cape over his head.

Oh, hi Eris! It's been a hot minute since the last time that we saw you! Is this a mental conversation just between you and Apollo? The arrow through the chest bit brings back memories.

Part of me is confused as to why she appears to be beside Persephone in the Underworld in the 3rd shot. Maybe it's a visual in Apollo's head as well? The line "That sounds like something you would do." comes across as her saying it to Apollo, but for Persephone to hear.

Artemis already knows about what happened to Persephone. Her finding out that Apollo poisoned Zeus would NOT come off as farfetched to her at this point.

The blatant, unfiltered disrespect to Hera here is horrific. Hera has NEVER rested on her laurels for what she did to bring down Kronos. She has been mentally and emotionally suffering in silence for millenia. Persephone and... Hestia, I think? have worked to support her and lift her out of her depression. It has helped, but Hera still has a long way to go.

This fucknugget has BEYOND the FUCKING AUDACITY to not only put down the Queen of Olympus, but stab her where it hurts the most.

I hope that when everything falls apart for Apollo, he suffers HORRIBLY and for an extremely long time. I want him to suffer so badly that he begs for mortality and is DENIED so that he KEEPS suffering, just as his victims have suffered. ARGH!

Anyway, thanks for coming to my LO post!

#lore olympus #lo apollo #lo hades #lo persephone #lo hera #lo hebe #lo demeter #lo eris

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foster-the-moths · 9 months

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The Disappearance of Mark Heathcliff (Led Astray AU)

Mark is ten years old when he begins to wish he could disappear forever. God does not answer his prayers, but something else does.

Warnings: self-loathing, self-harm, vaguely suicidal thoughts, family issues, religious guilt, mentioned & attempted kidnapping, body horror, and gore.

(Can't believe I have to say this but don't reblog or like this if you are a 'proshipper' or break tmc creators' boundaries.)

6,464 Words. Ao3 Link.

Mark is nervous.

His parents have reassured him time and time again, but he’s still apprehensive about going to this new school at the start of fifth grade. His parents had bought a new house, and rather than delay moving until he finished elementary school, they decided it would be best to have him start fifth grade at a new school. They said this way he could make some friends in the area before going into middle school, but Mark hadn’t really liked the idea. He’d wanted to stay and graduate with the friends he already had, especially since he lived so far away from them now and would likely never see them again. He hadn’t even wanted to move in the first place, but he supposed he trusted his parents — and it’s not like he ever had a say in the matter anyways.

He sighs, adjusting the straps of his backpack as he waits for his father to unlock the car. He just hopes he makes some new friends quickly, this summer was lonely without anyone to talk to. He’s sure it’ll be fine, though, he had made plenty of friends at his old school, he’s sure he can make new ones here, too.

—

The other kids hate him.

Well, maybe they don’t hate him — hate is a strong word, afterall — but they certainly don’t like him, either. When he tries to talk to them, the conversation dies out, replaced with darting eyes and uncomfortable whispering. When he tries to play games with them, they stop and switch to another game they know he doesn’t like. He doesn’t know what he did wrong, he’s thought over every single thing he could have possibly done for them to dislike him, but he can’t pin down a reason why. Did he talk too loud? Speak too fast? Maybe he was just too much for them, he knows he gets a bit enthusiastic sometimes, but why didn’t they like him now that he was quieter?

He even stopped trying to talk to them for a bit, “giving them space,” as he’s heard before. He’s stopped trying to talk or play, and instead buries himself into a book during recess, but this only seems to make his classmates dislike him more. Everything he does to try and fit in just makes him stand out more, and he’s starting to lose hope he’ll ever make friends here. He’s even starting to believe they might truly hate him, because why else would they shun him every time he tries to be friends with them? He doesn’t understand, all he knows is that this is not the “fresh start” he was promised. He misses his old friends — his real friends, more and more each day.

—

He can’t find it.

He’s lost his math workbook, again, and he has an assignment in it due tomorrow, and he can’t find it anywhere. He rakes his hands through his short hair, and tries to take a deep breath, but still feels tears pricking at his eyes. His teacher had said if he kept failing to bring in his homework then it was going to become an issue, and Mark didn’t want that, couldn’t bear the thought of it. He’s always been a good kid, a good student, so why was everything falling apart now? This had never been a problem at his old school, he never got in trouble there, but there were new rules he didn’t understand — and not just with his peers. They were less patient with him, more demanding, and his parents said the pressure would only increase in later grades. He felt like he was drowning, sometimes, just barely able to make it through each day before something new was thrown at him.

He rifles through his backpack, binder, folders, and room for the fourth time tonight, his search still fruitless. He clasps his hands together, and once more he prays, prays that God would let him find it — it wasn’t really a huge request, so why wasn’t he getting an answer? Doubt trickles into his stomach, and it makes him feel sick. He shouldn’t be feeling this, shouldn’t be doubting God like this, but he couldn’t make it go away no matter what he does. This wasn’t good, Mark Heathcliff was supposed to be good, but he feels like he’s been doing a very bad job of that lately.

He grasps his hands together even tighter, fingers pressing into the space between bones so much it begins to ache a bit. Could God not hear him? He chews the inside of his cheek. This week they had taught about sacrifice in his religion class — about how God told Abraham to kill his only son, Isaac. About how Jesus suffered, how much pain He went through. Maybe that’s what Mark was missing, maybe he needed to show God that he was serious about how much He meant to him.

He swallows a lump in his throat, and brings his hands to his mouth. He bites down on the back of his hand, around the knuckle of his pointer finger, and it hurts. He cringes, stopping immediately. He hadn’t expected it to hurt that much, the area he had bitten down on burns faintly as the pain fades. There are condemning marks left on his hand from where teeth dug in, and he rubs the skin harshly, trying to make them fade quicker. Maybe that wasn’t such a great idea. He gingerly threads his hands together once more, and sends another prayer to God, hoping that this act would prove his devotion.

He repeats his cycle of rummaging through every place his workbook could be and praying, now with the addition of biting his hands, with more and more fervor each time. He grows frustrated, no, angry — why wouldn’t God listen to him? Why wouldn’t his parents and teachers listen? Why did nobody ever just listen to him? He finally gives up, tears in his eyes and hands aching as he gets ready for bed.

A few days later, his religion teacher reads aloud a passage from 1 Corinthians, about how the body is a temple, and must be taken care of. She reads another about the prophet Elijah defeating the false prophets of Baal, how they cut themselves with swords and spilled their own blood but their god did not answer. His teacher tells them that God didn’t listen to people that hurt themselves, and Mark feels sick. No wonder God hadn’t answered him, he was selfish. Shame roils in his gut for the rest of the day, but he can’t stop thinking about the feeling of teeth sinking into the flesh of his hands.

—

He can’t do this.

It’s been hours of staring at pieces of paper with words that swim in his head, trying to find ways to answer them but he can’t. He doesn’t know why, he’s trying so hard, and he knows the answers to these questions, but he just can’t. None of his sentences make sense, so he erases them and starts over, but he forgets what he was going to write, so he rereads his textbook, but he’s already read it, and he can’t read it again without losing focus, so the words swim off the page and he can’t make sense of it anymore, and by the time he figures out how to word what he wants to say, it’s hours later and he’s exhausted, and he knows it shouldn’t be like this; he knows something is wrong.

But when he tries to tell his parents, he never knows how to explain it, and they just tell him to keep trying because “it’s not that hard,” but it is. He knows he’ll never get them to understand, though, so he tries again anyway, hoping that maybe they’re right, and this time he’ll be able to do it right. He never manages it, no matter what he does differently. Now it’s 10:15 pm, he still has three whole assignments left, and they are all due tomorrow. He’s tired, his head keeps falling to the table and startling him awake, and he knows there’s no way he’s going to finish them all tonight. But his parents won’t let him give up.

They’ve gone to bed now, leaving him alone in the dining room, but he knows if he goes to bed now they won’t take any of the excuses he gives them in the morning. They will call him lazy, and a liar, and all the things that hurt him because it’s not true, but they don’t seem to care. They don’t care how much it hurts him, they don’t care if what he says is true, they don’t believe him. Anger burns in his throat, hotter than the shame he wears on his shoulders, filling the hollow pit in his stomach with a raging ocean. It isn’t fair. None of this is fair, he’s trying his best, and his parents always say that as long as he’s trying his best nothing else matters. But his best isn’t good enough for them anymore, and he hates it, hates himself, hates them. Maybe he doesn’t wish he could disappear, maybe he wishes they would disappear instead.

He wishes his parents would die.

He’s still, for a moment, so startled by the thought taking root in his mind that he loses awareness of everything else. In the blink of an eye, the shock gives way to a searing, all-encompassing guilt. How could he even ever think that towards another human being, let alone his own parents? He gasps for air, not realizing he had stopped breathing, and curls into himself tightly; drawing his feet up onto the chair and tucking his knees underneath his chin. Tears slip down his cheeks, and he can’t seem to catch his breath as he stifles his sobs so his parents won’t hear him. His fingernails leave indents on his knees from where he digs them into his skin, and he half-wishes he would bleed.

Mark is a terrible person. A terrible son. How could he wish for his parents to die?

He rips the sinful thought from his mind like uprooting a weed from a garden, and frantically replaces it with a haphazard, almost frenzied prayer.

He’s sorry, he loves his parents, he should be so grateful for everything they give him, he doesn’t deserve it, but they love him anyways, he didn’t mean it, he’s sorry, it wouldn’t happen again, he would never let himself think like that ever again, he would do anything, he’s sorry, he loves his parents, he would be lost without them, he would be lost without God, he’s sorry, he would do better, he just needs to try harder, just like his parents said, he just has to listen to them, he’s sorry, he deserves something horrible to happen to him, he’s been so ungrateful, he’s been so selfish, but he hopes God will forgive him anyways, even though he doesn’t deserve to ever be forgiven, because God loves him, and God would understand, and he’s sorry, he’s so sorry it hurts.

He knows, now, that hurting himself will not make God listen, but he cannot help biting into his palms and wrists. He is disgusted with himself, and he wants to never think those sorts of things ever again, so he will use the pain to remind himself not to. He digs his teeth into his skin, closing them tighter, and tighter, until he cannot bear the sting of pain anymore, and releases it with a choked whimper. As soon as the pain fades, he bites down again, somewhere new, and repeats his self-flagellation.

After what seems like an eternity, he calms down enough to breathe without his breath hitching, or new tears to shed, and he goes still. He looks down, eyes vacant, and sees his hands are littered with angry red indents left by his own teeth. He sniffles, and drags his gaze up to the clock, seeing it is now 12:08 am. Three hours past his bedtime. He feels hollow, drained of everything from the effort of feeling so many emotions at once, and he decides this simply isn’t worth it. He slides his chair back and stands up, flicking the lightswitch off and beelining it for his bedroom, barely able to keep his eyes open enough to see where he is going. He doesn’t bother to brush his teeth, or change his clothes, or do any of the things he usually does before bed. He just crawls onto his mattress, hides under the covers, and tries desperately to forget the past hour and just fall asleep, to have just a moment of peace before the disappointment and anger he will face tomorrow morning.

He does not succeed, and gets little sleep anyways.

—

His parents are fighting again, and as it usually is these days, their argument is centered around him.

He’s been lying recently. At first it was just a panicked fumble, a hasty, “Yes, I finished my homework,” or, “I forgot it at home, but I can bring it in tomorrow,” nothing more than a rushed excuse in hopes it would distract whichever adult he was talking to long enough for them to forget it. He hadn’t even realized it was a lie at first, because he was planning on finishing his homework and handing it in! He just… needed more time, and didn’t want to admit he wasn’t done with it yet.

It wasn’t until later that the realization he had actually lied dawned on him, dread flooding his veins with ice as he sat at the dining room table, fist clenched around a pencil, pressing lead into the paper so hard the point had broken off. His head felt scrambled by the barrage of thoughts that accompanied the revelation, running rampant through his head as he tried despairingly to think up a penance for his transgression, and a solution to his newfound problem. The mere thought of admitting it to his parents had made him flinch, his own scorching fear rendering that option impossible. So he had decided to hide it — if nobody found out he had lied, then it wasn’t hurting anyone, was it?

In the end, he had managed to finish the assignment and turn it in the next day, just as promised. No harm, no foul. It was almost vindicating it a way: he had proved he wasn’t a liar, not really. He knew he just needed more time, but the adults wouldn’t let him have it, so he took it himself. Was there really anything wrong with that? Was it lying if he delivered on his promise in the end? No, Mark decided, he was learning that adults weren’t always right about things, and when they were wrong he would take matters into his own hands. That’s what he told himself that night, shoulders hunched and wide eyes staring into the dark when he was supposed to be asleep. Liars are sinners, but he was no liar.

But the time he had spent working on that one assignment had cut into the time he had to work on the others, and after just a few days he found himself in the same position. He knew the solution, he knew he could lie, but this time he knew he was lying, and it made his skin crawl with a prickle of shame.

This repeated, until he had lied more times than he could count now, and he was finally caught. He had told his teacher he had, in fact, turned in his assignment, she must have just lost it. He had planned to turn it in the next day, to slip it into the assignments bin while nobody was looking. He had not expected his teacher to spend hours looking for it, only for her search to be futile. He had not expected her to hold him back after class, eyes narrowed into a glare of suspicion .

He had broken easily, immediately confessing with eyes fixed on his shoes, voice barely audible as he admitted he had lied to her. She was furious, hours wasted for him, she had said, and he had never felt so ashamed in himself, queasiness coiling in his gut as she chewed him out. He couldn’t even remember most of it, he felt sick to his stomach even recalling a moment of it. He had never considered that this might happen, that his lie could ever affect someone other than himself, and remorse poisoned every fiber of his body with blistering anguish. He had felt like the floor had vanished from beneath his feet when she had informed him she was telling his parents. Despite his despondent pleading, endless tears, and choked apologies, she had refused to change her mind, and dismissed him to go to his next class.

The rest of the day seemed to drag on infinitely, leaving Mark hollow besides a horrible buzz of shame and dread. He had almost considered hiding from his father when he came to pick him up, but decided that was much more trouble than it would ever be worth. From the moment he got home, he delayed the inevitable. He had half-hoped that maybe if he said nothing, and prayed hard enough, that his teacher would miraculously forget to call his parents, and they would never know. But she had not forgotten, and he was called later that night to the kitchen by his mother with a tight, almost pained expression, and his father with crossed arms and furrowed brows.

His parents had not been happy.

He curled up on his side even tighter as he heard the word liar be whisper-shouted by his father. They thought he was asleep, that he couldn’t hear them, but he could hear almost every word through the cracks in his bedroom door. His pillow was drenched with tears and snot, and he felt utterly pathetic. He prays for his parents to stop, for him to be able to fall asleep, for him to sink into his mattress and never wake up.

Then again, why would God answer the prayers of a sinner? His parents had been right: he was a liar, and God does not love liars.

—

There is a boogeyman in Mandela County.

That’s what the newspeople call him, at least. He steals children, they say, whisking them away into the night never to be seen again — and nobody knows how he does it, who he is, or if it’s even a human being at all. There have been all sorts of rumors from the kids at school: aliens, demons, even an evil laboratory kidnapping children for their experiments. Mark isn’t really sure what he thinks of it all — he’s far too old to believe in monsters under the bed, and he’s more of a skeptic to things that stray from his faith. Whatever the case, the adults don’t seem to know what it is either, keeping a closer eye on the younger kids, and sending out broadcasts that make Mark feel sick with worry.

They say it’s taking children as young as newborns to as old as six. Sarah is five, and their parents have talked in hushed whispers about moving again, for her safety. He sits with her now, using a binder as a surface to write on so he can keep an eye on her while he does his homework, just like his parents told him to. She plays with her dolls on the carpet in front of the television, chattering to them as she weaves a story only she can comprehend. As Mark watches her, he almost feels… jealous. She’s been the favorite since she was born, and it’s not that he wants her to disappear, no, he loves her far too much for that, it’s just that…

Mark is too old to be taken by the boogeyman. He’s ten years old, far beyond the target age-range. Yet every night he almost wishes it would take him anyways; away from school, away from his parents, and bring him somewhere he didn’t have to worry about anything. He doesn’t know what happens to the kids that are taken, nobody does, but at this point he doesn’t really care. If something terrible happens, then maybe he would deserve it. It isn’t fair, that it could take Sarah instead of Mark. Sarah doesn’t deserve to be taken, she’s never done anything wrong, but Mark deserves to disappear, he wants to disappear. He’s pretty sure his parents wouldn’t even miss a liar anyways, and they would still have Sarah, so really it would be the best for everyone, wouldn’t it? Mark would get to disappear, and nobody else would be upset by him ever again.

He watches over her, and he feels an envy for something he knows he shouldn’t want.

—

There is someone in the house.

Mark holds his breath as he hides under the dining room table, squeezing his knees to his chest so tightly his body aches. He had been staying up late again, working on homework he would never finish, when the television turned on by itself, and a far-too-large hand pushed itself through the screen. There was no time for him to do anything else but kill the lights, throw himself under the table, and pray.

His lungs burn, but he doesn’t dare to take a breath. He can’t risk making a single noise, not when a living shadow lumbers through his home, head nearly scraping on the ceiling as it trudges past his hiding spot, achingly slow, each step it takes feeling like it shakes the very foundations of the house. He cannot breathe, so instead he prays, pleads that whatever it is does not find him. He has no idea what the intruder even looks like, he hadn’t gotten a good look at it, but what little he did see is enough to set his pulse hammering against his ribs. His heartbeat is so violently loud that he’s already half convinced it will hear him anyways, and spindly arms will reach down to rip him out of his shelter and tear him to shreds.

Achingly slow, it claws its way past him, and Mark squeezes his eyes shut, too terrified to look at what might be his doom. His head is filled with images of monsters, demons, and a faceless Boogeyman that haunts his town like a phantom. He hears more shuffling, more thuds, each one makes him curl into himself even more, but they slowly sound further and further away. He just barely opens his eyes, and he nearly sobs in complete and utter relief. It has gone past him, shambling out of the dining room, and into the hallway. It had not noticed him. He finally allows himself a breath when he is sure it is out of earshot, stifling the sound with his hands. Joy floods his veins, he is alive. That relief crashes like a vase to the floor when he hears the click of a doorknob turning, and the accompanying creak of a door being opened.

It had gone to the hallway, he realizes. The hallway that leads to Sarah’s room.

He unfurls from his hiding spot stiffly, urgency thawing out the sheer panic that had kept him frozen. Whatever that thing is, he was not going to allow it to hurt her. What if it really was the Boogeyman, and it took Sarah away? He couldn’t let that happen, wouldn’t let that happen.

He creeps down the hallway, pulse pounding in his chest as he slides his sock-covered feet along the wooded floors. His legs are shaking, and he feels like he might fall to the floor at any moment, but he keeps going. He briefly looks to his parents’ room, considering waking them up, but if it’s already opened Sarah’s door, then by the time he wakes them she might be gone. He has to face it alone. He steels himself, placing a hand upon the doorframe of Sarah’s room as he looks inside, and has to choke back a scream at the sight of something far too tall to be human hunched over Sarah’s bed, reaching something that must be a hand towards her. He almost backs away, frightened out of his mind just by seeing something so obviously inhuman, but instead he steps into the room, and opens his mouth to speak.

“What are you doing?” he croaks, his voice strangled by fear.

It turns to face him, and what small amount of bravery Mark had mustered up is gone in an instant, replaced by a soul-devouring terror. Although it is dark, there is enough light seeping in through the window for him to make out the features of the monster clearly. It has no lips, just a gaping mouth carved into an uncanny smile, filled with far too many teeth. Its lower jaw is split into two, weaving together and undulating in a way that almost resembles an insect’s mandibles. Its face is smooth, catching light in a way that makes it look as if it has molded clay in place of skin, sculpted around a blank eye on one side of its face. The other eye is set within a void, a glowing pupil flickering to focus in on his face.

It cocks its head to the side, considering his question, before it speaks, “I am taking her away.”

He can’t breathe, he feels as though his ribcage has collapsed in on itself, and he’s forgotten how to even inhale. Its voice digs claws into his head, static erupting in a horrid cacophony of incomprehensible noise, and he would raise his hands to clamp over his ears if he wasn’t petrified, if his arms weren’t so weak. His gaze is locked on it, but he remembers the reason he ever entered the room in the first place, and his eyes flit over to her. Sarah is asleep still, clutching a stuffed animal as she slumbers peacefully, blissfully unaware of the danger looming above her. It strengthens his resolve, and he remembers how to breathe, wheezing in a weak breath, as he looks the monster in the eye once more.

“L-le-ave,” he demands, voice cracking, “Le-ave her alone. T-take someone el-se.”

Its pupil flickers, and it blinks its vacant eye, perplexed by his request. “Who else would I take?” it inquires.

Mark can feel its gaze burning a hole through him as it awaits his response, and he scrambles for something to say. He has a feeling if he does not answer its question correctly, something terrible will happen, and it will take Sarah anyways. This vague fear sends his mind racing, half-formed thoughts clambering around the inside of his head, as though his brain is overturning each of his memories for something, anything to save his little sister. He remembers many, many things at once, but the recollections he latches onto the most are those of guilt. Of shameful lies, clenched teeth, crushing despair, and unanswered prayers. He remembers coveting a fate he shouldn’t want and couldn’t have. He remembers a wish he made as his little sister puppeteered toys in front of the very television the demon before him had emerged from. He knows his answer. He hopes it is one the monster will accept.

“Me,” Mark breathes, “T-ake me inste-ad.”

The Boogeyman, for that’s what it must be, drags itself towards him — hands that are gnarled and twisted like the roots of a tree pulling its sunken body forwards. He notices its chest is see-through, and he can see what look like ribs, but on closer inspection appear to be segmented insect legs. He gawks at them as they twitch and writhe, before snapping his attention back to its face. He forces himself to stay still as it lowers its head, arms creaking as it bends itself down until its eyes are level with his own.

“Why?” it implores, voice still buzzing with static, but no longer unbearable.

“Be-because I-,” Mark swallows, trying to clear the lump in his throat. “I don’t want to-to be here anymore. I-,” his voice warbles, and his breath hitches, but he continues. “I w-want to dis-appear, I’m a-a bad person, and I d-don’t want to stay here,” he gasps, fully crying now. “I d-on’t deserve to sta-y here, I d-on’t w-ant to stay here, please,” he wails, voice muffled as he buries his face into his hands. His chest heaves as he trembles, barely holding himself together enough to stay upright. He had never admitted his wish to anyone else before, and it felt like the dam he had built around it had finally burst, forcing him to feel the full brunt of the emotions he had locked away for so long.

He feels something drape itself across his shoulders and back, and can’t even find it in himself to recoil. He leans into the touch, letting it guide him through the doorway, and out into the hall. The weight on his back distorts, shrinking until it feels more like a real, human hand, now resting on just one shoulder. He looks to the monster, and sees it has condensed itself into the form of a man, no longer craning down to fit under the ceiling. He crashes forwards, burying his face into its side and wrapping shaking arms around it. He doesn’t care anymore, if it’s going to take him then he’s going to be selfish, and take as much comfort from it as he can get. It pauses, evidently not expecting Mark to cling to it. He feels a trickle of dread, had he made a mistake? He expects to be shoved away, for it to change its mind, but instead he feels an arm wrap itself around his shoulders, resting upon his back tentatively. He sniffles, and leans further into it.

They stay like that for a moment, before the monster starts to walk, and Mark forces his legs to move along with it, stumbling to keep in step with the other. It does not rush him, simply waiting for him to match its movements, almost like it wants him to copy it. It leads him out of the hallway, and he follows it blindly, not bothering to check where it is taking him. He doesn’t care, as long as it’s away, far away.

After a short while it stops, and stays still — but they had not walked for nearly as long as Mark had expected, he’s pretty sure they hadn’t even left the house. Mark forces his head up, blinking tears out of his eyes to look at their surroundings. It has brought him to the living room, right in front of the television. It makes sense, that it would take him away through the same thing it had come from. He supposes this is it, then. Something crosses his mind, and he balks, suddenly, tugging on its arm.

“Where… where are you going to take me? What will… happen to me?” His voice is small, he is already resigned to his fate, but he wants to know what his doom will be before he commits to it.

It tilts its head, gaze boring into him. “I am going to make you like me. And then we will go to the others,” it states.

The words catch Mark off guard. He isn’t sure what he had been expecting it to say, but it certainly hadn’t been that. “So… I’m not going to die?” he asks haltingly, almost apprehensive. He isn’t even sure which answer he wants to hear.

“No,” it vows, “you will not die, but you will be different.”

Mark can’t help but feel a strange mixture of relief and disappointment. He doesn’t know exactly what it means by ‘different’ but he doesn’t care enough to question it. He can guess well enough what it means anyways, with the way that it had looked before he agreed to go with it. He shivers as he imagines his jaw breaking in two, and his eyes becoming blank and lifeless. He shoves the images out of his head, and reaches out to grasp one of its hands to ground himself. He can’t let himself second guess his decision now — he has a feeling it would not react kindly to that. Besides, he was doing this for Sarah, whatever was going to happen to him didn’t matter.

The thought makes him realize that he should probably make sure the monster understands what he wants from it in return. “...What about Sarah? You… aren’t going to take her, are you? Just me?” he rasps, barely able to even make his voice audible.

“No. Just you,” it affirms, “unless you want me to take her as well?”

“No! No, I don’t- I don’t want that,” he yelps. “Just me, not her.”

“Then I won’t,” it assures, turning its face towards the television. Before it can so much as step towards it, Mark stops it once more.

“Will it hurt?” he whispers, the question itself feeling like a condemnation.

It freezes, stiffening like a statue as it considers the question. “I don’t know,” it admits.

Mark looks down, staring at the floor as he considers asking more questions, before deciding he doesn’t want to know more. Instead, he grits his teeth and squeezes its hand, trying not to show how much its answer scares him. It seems to take this as a sign that he is ready to go with it. It squeezes his hand back, then pulls away, prying its hand from Mark’s as it steps forward. Mark takes his hand back, but watches with curiosity as something occurs to him. How did it even fit in the television? Even in its more ‘human’ form, it towered over him, surely it couldn’t just cram itself through, right? He supposes he’ll just have to wait and see.

It straightens itself out, and then its body lets out a series of cracks as it begins to jolt and shake, and it buckles forwards. Mark suppresses a shout at the sudden noise and movement, then stares, transfixed, as its body breaks apart even further.

Mark can see its bones bend, twist, and snap under the thin cloth covering its form — its very skeleton seeming to fold in on itself as though being pulled apart by invisible hands. It hardly even has a shape that could be considered close to human as it drops to the floor and crawls towards the screen, its form distorted and broken beyond recognition. It’s the most horrific thing Mark has ever seen, and although he hastily darts his hands up to cover his eyes, the afterimages of it flash in his mind’s eye. It is as mesmerizing as it is repulsive, like watching the inner workings of some ghastly machine. Mark cringes at each sharp crack and wet tear of muscle, until finally it goes quiet.

He peeks out from behind parted fingers, only to be met with an empty room, the television still blaring white noise. He blinks, bringing his hands back down as he slowly inspects the room for any sign of the creature, yet finds nothing.

Had it… left him?

Just as he feels his heart sink to the floor, the television’s static changes pitch, and something emerges from it. Mark feels a sense of deja-vu as he watches a hand claw itself out of the screen, but unlike before, it is turned upwards. Its palm is open, inviting him to take hold of it once more. An offer, waiting to be fulfilled.

He hesitates — how could he not? He knows, deep in his bones, that whatever was beyond the screen would change him; that the static would devour him wholly and his life would never be the same. If he would even have a life at all, the monster could very well be lying to him. He considers, briefly, going back on his promise. He imagines running down the hall, bursting into his parents’ room and waking them up, taking solace in the inherent safety adults provided. But this is what he had wanted, wasn’t it? If he went to them, things would just go back to the way they were before, and he couldn’t bear the thought of that.

He reaches out, and grasps its hand tightly, his palm tingling from where it touches the skin of the monster. It reminds him of static electricity. It tugs his hand through the screen ever so gently, and his hand is swallowed by prickling white noise.

Static ripples up and down his arm, electricity coiling in his tendons and nerves as it boils in his veins. It does not hurt, but it surges under his skin, overwhelming as it floods his nerves with noise and colors and all sorts of things that should not be held within human flesh. He can hear an endless cacophony of radio channels and transmissions, the signals reverberating with his skull and skittering into nothingness. His teeth ache as they buzz in their sockets, and he feels the need to clench them tightly, lest they rattle themselves out of his jaw.

He can no longer feel his own hand, as if his flesh and bones have unraveled into radio waves and beams of light, no longer bound to such a simple, human shape. Despite this, he can still feel the monster holding it, as if it is grasping the concept of his hand, rather than a physical object. He thinks it might be the only thing stopping him from falling apart into nothingness. It is reassuring, a beacon of stability amongst the overwhelming chaos he has plunged himself into, and he tries to hone his attention to it and it alone.

The sensation is unbearable, just barely bordering on a painless agony, but he surges forwards anyways. He shoves his head through the screen, and falls. Down through the screen, far away from his home and humanity, he falls, but there is something there to catch him. He has no body, no mind, he is nothing more than a tangled, writhing mass of channels and currents and light, but he does not fall apart. He is cosmic dust, held together only by the gravity of a star as he is remade anew, into something whole again. He opens his eyes, that are not quite eyes, and an angel stares back at him.

Mark Heathcliff disappears — leaving no trace other than unfinished homework on the dining room table, his little sister’s door left ajar, and a television pouring out an incessant hiss of static.

#the mandela catalogue #mark heathcliff #tmc six #self harm #body horror #tmc led astray au #foster's writing tag #VERY proud of how this turned out im sooo glad to have it finished

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