#writing this fic and my feral cat is curled up next to me in bed we are WARM and DRINKING HOT CHOC (me not her) and FULL OF LOVE (and milk) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

alrightberries · 3 years

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dante’s inferno

request: wassup homie could you maybe write a college au fic where levi and reader are rommies, then one day reader brings home an adopted cat without levi's prior knowledge? You could decide what happens next lol. Tysm 🥺

❈ pairing: levi ackerman x reader

❈ genre: fluff, semi-crack ❈ word count: 4k

❈ summary: college au. in which you bring a stray cat to your dorm and your neat freak roommate won’t let you keep it.

alternatively: a compilation of college shenanigans where you and levi are best friends who are bad with feelings (ft. an unamused cat named dante)

❈ trigger warnings: profanity. mentions of alcohol and smoking. implied smut.

a/n: this was supposed to be loosely based on the nine circles of hell according to inferno by dante alighieri— hence the title— but i did my research wrong so now it’s loosely based on the seven terraces of purgatory according to divine comedy. i’m keeping the title tho.

Inspired by this art by @ryuichirou on tumblr.

Permission to repost art was granted by the artist. Do not repost/edit the art without explicit permission from the artist.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

i. first terrace: pride

“We’re not keeping it.”

“But why?”

“We’re not keeping it.”

“But why.”

Levi’s tongue clicks in annoyance. His eyes glance next you where the offending creature lay on your bed; tail curling, paws kneading at his your favorite fleece blanket. Quite frankly he’s a little offended when the little shit has the audacity to glare at him back.

He’ll never admit it, but his ego’s a bit bruised because the cat’s glare was slightly better than his.

“I said no,” he firmly replies, looking back to you. “It’s bad enough I have to share a room with an anarchist who has no respect for boundaries—“

“One time, I forgot to use a coaster that one time!”

“—and now you expect me to share a room with a dirty fur ball who does nothing but eat, shit, and sleep?”

“He’s a cat, Levi.” You murmur, scooping the cat into your arms. “And he has a name,” you give a nervous smile when you see your rommate grit his teeth. He feels a headache coming.

“You named it?”

“Dante is not an ‘it’.”

Levi makes a move to step closer but immediately stops when the ‘Dante’ hisses at him.

“Aw, he likes you.” You coo.

“Clearly,” he replies unenthusiastically. “Listen,” he sighs. “I respect your cat’s pronouns but that doesn’t mean he’s allowed to stay. Or do I need to remind you of the mac and cheese incident?”

Okay, maybe he was on to something. If you got caught with a pet in the dorms you’d breach your third and final warning, and you’d be forced to dorm off-campus. The fact that you were still here after the mac and cheese incident was solely because Levi pulled some strings (aka asked Erwin, golden boy of the campus who owed him a favor, to pull some strings).

But you couldn’t just let Dante go. There was something about him that felt so familiar; something about his black fur, thin silver eyes, unamused snarl, and overall grumpy demeanor. Especially endearing was the way he’d grumble and pretend to be annoyed whenever you tried to cuddle him but would complain if you stopped.

You just couldn’t figure out who or what he reminded you of.

Maybe you would’ve figured it out too if you weren’t so distracted with watching Levi and Dante stare at each other. Your eyes dart back and forth between the grouchy cat sitting on your bed and your grouchy roommate sitting on his desk. Both were slightly crouched over with their heads tilted up in a show of dominance; they were engaged in what seemed to be a glaring contest, gunmetal irises unamused and mouths taut in a snarl as they protected their territory.

You sigh. You really, for the life of you, couldn’t figure out why Dante felt so familiar.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

ii. second terrace: envy

Levi is not jealous. He’s not.

At least that’s what he tells himself as he sulks alone on his bed. His arms are crossed and his lips are in a pout, eyebrows knitted in distaste, occasionally glancing to your side of the room where you sat up on your bed. He’s sure whatever movie you chose to watch together is interesting and all, but right now all he could pay attention to was that stupid cat. Sitting on your stupid lap. Getting its fur stroked by your stupid hand. Getting all the love and affection his stupid self should be receiving.

It was him you should be cuddling, not Dante. Saturday nights were reserved for him and you, not you and a cat while he happened to be in the room. He’s been trying to make a move on you since high school and he can’t fucking believe he’s losing your attention to a cat. Sure, he’s always been too chicken to make a move and had to suffer seeing you get together with assholes— as per your type during your emo high school days— but this was a new low. He can’t wrap his head around the concept that he’s losing his longterm crush to a motherfucking cat.

When you coo at how adorable the fleabag was for what felt like the 50th time that night, Levi decides he’s had enough of the cuddle-hogging piece of shit.

Wordlessly, he crosses to your side of the room and lifts the cat from its perch, ignoring your protests as he sets it down on the floor and tells it to ‘scram, you little fuck.’ He uses a hand to dust your lap free of any microscopic cat particles Dante probably left behind before lying down his head down once he was satisfied. He grabs your hand to put it on his hair.

“Stroke.” He orders, eyes closing.

“What? No! You pushed off Dante.”

“He was in my spot.”

“You couldn’t have given up your lap pillow for one night?”

“One night?” He scoffs and turns to look at you. “You’ve been abandoning me for two weeks. That disgusting, tic-infested, rabies-carrying slob has no business sitting on your lap.”

“He’s not disgusting, you gave him a shower before you agreed to let me keep him. And I took him the vet to make sure he had all his shots. He’s clean, Levi.”

“Tch, good. Now throw him out and let him find someone else to freeload from.”

“Okay, what’s going on?” You guffaw. “You’ve been grumpier than usual. And why’re you being such an ass to Dante? He’s just a cat.”

“Don’t think he’s special in some way. I’m an ass to everyone.”

“Then why does it feel like you’re always extra mean to him?”

He doesn’t reply. His lips are downturned into a frown when he looks away with a click of his tongue, and you realize with a sigh you won’t be getting an answer from your cryptic roommate soon. Your fingers start mindlessly stroking his undercut when you get lost in your thoughts— a habit you developed through years of Levi using your lap as a pillow. He always complained the first few times you did it but you knew it calmed both him and you, and that it put both your minds at ease. Moreso Levi right now, apparently.

You’re keenly aware of how he seems to curl up into you the more you keep going. You watch as his shoulders slump down when you stroke the side of his face, and his eyebrows relax slightly. From your angle, you could even see the way his eyes close in content. Maybe even a tiny smile if you were being delusional.

Your lip twitches upward.

“Oh my god, Levi, are you jealous of a cat?”

“Shut up and play with my hair.”

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

iii. third terrace: wrath

“You owe me a new cravat.”

You blink up at your roommate. “What?”

“You owe me a new cravat.” He repeats. He pulls from his pocket a white piece of fabric— barely recognizable— torn into shreds, releases it mid-air. It gently lands on your open palm.

“Wait, did Dante do this?” You ask, eyeing the slik in your hands.

“Unless you went feral in the middle of the fucking night and decided to cut up my clothes, yes.”

“Oh my god, Levi, I’m so sorry. I swear Dante will never—“

“You actually owe me three cravats,” he interjects. “The first two I overlooked since they weren’t that expensive but I draw the line here.” His lips are downturned into a frown, eyes poorly concealing his clear distaste. “This one’s my favorite and it was made from silk.”

You eye the fabric in your hands once more before nodding in understanding, setting down the once beautiful cravat before taking out your wallet. It was only fair that you paid him back; he was being more than generous with letting your cat stay and keeping it a secret, and now you wonder how many bad things Dante’s done that Levi’s overlooked or simply never brought up with you.

“Sure, I’m really sorry. How much do I owe you?”

Levi doesn’t say anything. Instead he pulls out his phone and types something on what you could only assume was google, most likely looking for the same brand of the cravat your cat had just torn into shreds. You weren’t entirely sure how much those could cost, but surely you could afford—

“What the fuck!” You screech, eyeing the page with very, very hefty price tags listed. Holy fucking hell where did he even get the money to buy something so expensive. Gulping, you nervously look up at your unimpressed roommate. You already knew he was taking it easy on you; his aura was the only thing intimidating, at least he wasn’t giving you the murder eyes. And even though he was a man of his word, you were thankful he hasn’t reported Dante.

Still, it didn’t change the fact that Levi looked pissed beyond belief.

“Uhm... can I pay you with a check that’ll definitely bounce?”

“You will pay me in cash.”

“Fuck, fine!”

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

iv. fourth terrace: sloth

Levi silently works on his desk. His laptop’s open in fromt of him, numerous notes from classes and books from the library surrounding him. The gentle sounds of clicking and clacking echoe throughout the room as fingers typed at the keyboard, eyes concentrated and lips pulled taught as he focuses on his task. He’s on a roll. He’s almost done with this part of his research, nothing could snap him out of this, he just needs to—

“Levi, when do you think Dante will come back to me?”

He stops typing and grits his teeth.

This is how it’s been the entire night. Ten minutes of peace before you ask him some stupid questions that could’ve been answered with common sense.

“Fuck if I care.”

“Do you think it was something I did?”

He resumes typing. “Yes.”

“Do you think he’ll come back?”

“No.”

“Even after all we’ve been through?”

“Still no.”

“I miss him,” you sigh. “I miss him so much.”

“Then you shouldn’t have left the door open.”

It’s been a week since Dante escaped the dorm and Levi doesn’t understand why you’re still so depressed about it. I mean, you only lost a cat that you loved and treasured and treated like family. Surely a week of moping around in your pajamas and eating nothing but chips and soda was catharsis enough.

He hears you shift in your burrito blanket, presumably to turn away from him so you can sulk into the wall next to your bed. Good. Now he can get back to working on—

“Levi do you think Dante-“

“Enough.” He grits, slamming his laptop shut.

“Where’re you going?” You ask, eyeing the way he hurriedly stuffs papers and books into his bag along with his laptop.

“Out.” He replies, grabbing his keys and his coat. “I can’t stand this shit anymore.”

Your head is burried in your blankets when he slams the door shut and all you could do was slump down because great. You lost Dante, and now you’ve royally pissed off Levi.

Great. Just fucking great.

Unlike your cat, however, your roommate comes back hours later, just before curfew. He doesn’t bother with a hello— he never does— and neither do you, opting to stay hidden underneath the sheets. Though suddenly, there’s a dip in the mattress followed by a pur next to your head.

Could it be?

“Dante?” You murmur, lifting your head from underneath your cocoon of fabric. Small black paws and silver eyes meet your gaze. “Dante!” Immediately sitting up, you pulled him to your lap, scratching his little head and cooing about how much you missed him as he purred and curled into to you.

Levi would never say it, but he missed seeing you smile at the little fleabag.

You turn to look at your roommate. “How’d you find him?”

“Asked around the campus. He wandered into another dorm building and probably thought it was ours.”

“Well yeah but... I thought you hated him?”

“I do.” He replies instantly.

“Then why’d you find him?”

“I hate him, not you.”

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

v. fifth terrace: avarice

“I fucking hate both of you,” Levi grumbles, staring at the dorm.

Towers of boxes lined his supposed to be clean dorm room. He had a hard time prying the door open since it was blocked, and he wasn’t even sure how the boxes weren’t blocking out the light from how high they were piled. Dante’s sat on a stack of box directly next to the door, purring and flicking his tail around. Levi squints his eyes and glares at the little shit.

“You especially.”

“Mrow?”

Levi’s day had been, with no irony or sarcasm at all, amazing. He got a good grade on his research paper; the guy in front of him at the cafe accidentally ordered an extra serving of (coincidentally, Levi’s favorite) tea and gave it to him for free; and he got full marks for the presentation he’s been worrying about for weeks. His class even got dismissed early so he had an extra hour for lunch. He knew you didn’t have classes, so in honor of his great day he thought he’d do something nice and take you out for lunch. His treat, of course.

But any trace of his good mood vanished when he went back to the dorms and got greeted to a room that looked like it came from an episode of Hoarders.

This is what he gets for trying to be nice.

“Levi! Is that you?” You called out.

“What the fuck happened?”

You laugh sheepishly— at least Levi thinks you do. He couldn’t see you beyond the hundred boxes that took up your shared room. He hears some rustling and the sound of things being moved around before finally your head pops out from behind a wall of brown, smiling at him apologetically before walking towards him (and tripping a few times).

“Remember when I said I’d order some toys for Dante as a surprise?”

Levi’s eye twitches. “Don’t tell me—”

“I accidentally ordered 10,000 instead of 10. Online shopping struggles, am I right?” You nervously chuckle at his pissed off face. Levi was not in the mood.

Your smile widens as you make twinkly gestures with your hands. “So uh... surprise?”

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

vi. sixth terrace: gluttony

The clinic is still when you first entered.

The harsh smell of alcohol and sterile metal makes your nose grimace, and the coldness of the thermostat brings goosebumps to your arms. Behind the wall, somewhete in the waiting room, cats are hissing, dogs are barking, and you could even hear the sound of birds angrily chirping and rattling their cages.

Dante cowers in fear on the silver table, and your heart aches. His ears are down and his fur’s standing on its ends, but you couldn’t comfort him. Not right now, at least. The veterinarian still needed to do a few more checks.

You gulp, “how’s... how’s Dante looking, doc?”

“Not good,” she murmurs. Her eyebrows are furrowed, and she takes a deep sigh as she eyes the information on the chart. “It’ll take months before he can walk properly again, possibly more if we don’t do anything about it soon.”

“Don’t tell me... is he—-”

“I’m sorry, my dear,” she sighs. “But your cat is heavily obese.”

The corners of your lips twitch down into a frown, and your palm is warm when you start to stroke Dante’s fur. He calms down a bit from your touch, less on edge but still guarded as he warily eyes the doctor’s gloved hands.

“But I don’t understand,” you reply. “I’ve been following the recommended diet you put him on, and I haven’t been feeding him anything other than the cat food and vitamins you recommended. How’s he still obese?”

“Well, we could look into other solutions, but for now I think we ought to look at whether or not Dante has an underlying health problem.”

Levi tunes out the chatter between you and the vet, bored eyes staring into nothing. He’s leaning against a wall and he’s watching the cat carrier. Your bag’s slung over his shoulders and your coat’s in his arms, and he was sure you didn’t even need him to be here for “moral support.”

He mentally scoffs. You probably just needed a chauffeur to drive you for free, and honestly, Levi would rather feel like a chauffeur than a coat rack.

His eyes make contact with Dante’s, and all the fear in the cat’s eyes is suddenly gone, replaced with a steely glare and bared teeth. A warning, one no one else notices but him.

Levi gives him a solitary nod, understanding what Dante wanted to say.

Don’t tell Y/N I’ve been sneaking to the neighbors.

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vii. seventh terrace: desire

There’s something about the buzz of alcohol and nicotine that makes Levi confident—- the liquid courage in his veins and the smoke in his lungs clouding his judgement. Perhaps that’s where he finally gets the balls to cross the room, drunken eyes on your equally intoxicated ones, before he pulls you in for a kiss.

The kiss starts slow, with lips just interlocking and lightly testing the waters. But then he feels your tongue make its way inside his mouth and your fingers weave into his hair to tug him closer, and Levi loses the last threads of inhibition he has. His tongue massages yours and one of his arm wraps around your waist, the other comes down to grope and knead your ass. He feels you walk backwards and your hand pulls at his tie, dragging him with you. Suddenly he’s trapping you against a wall, lifting one of your legs up to wrap around his hips so he could grind his crotch into yours.

Levi doesn’t expect his first kiss with you to be like this; messy and full of tongue and spit, full of fingers clawing at clothes and small grunts escaping your lips. He was hoping it’d be more romantic, with warm cheeks and fingers softly intertwining, shy kisses exchanged through little smiles.

But he’s not about to complain—- he’s wanted to be with you for years, and god he loved having you like this. Loved having you all hot and desperate, trapped between his firm chest and the wall. His cock is hard in his pants, and he just about growls when he feels you start to undo his belt, the fly of his pants coming down as you got on your knees and stared up at him with innocent eyes as you pull out his aching boner. There’s a cheeky grin your face when you pump at his length, and your tongue peaks out of your mouth before—

“Levi, are you okay?”

His eyes snap open, and he’s greeted to the sight of your worried face directly above his.

“Fuck!” he yells, and his forehead slams into yours when he flinches away. “Sorry, sorry” he quickly ammends when you yelp in pain.

He’s covered in sweat, he notices. Chest heaving, heart beating a little too loud for his liking, and he silently pulls the blankets over his cum stained boxers when you sit beside him.

God, he was really hoping you wouldn’t notice the fact that he came in his pants like a high schooler. And it was before dream you even got to suck him off. How much more pathetic could he be.

“Are you okay?” He asks, and you nod.

“Yeah, m’fine, it’s just...” your eyes are distracted, staring off into space. Fingers trace his thighs, and you sigh. “You were having a nightmare,”

Levi blinks. “What?”

“You were having a nightmare,” you repeat. “Kept tossing and turning and groaning in your sleep. And you kept making these... funny faces,”

“...right,” he nods. Sure, a nightmare. A nightmare he never wanted to wake up from.

It takes about ten minutes to reassure you that yes, he was fine, don’t mind the way his cheeks are flushed, he was just... shaken up from his nightmare, is all. Then you’re back to bed, sleeping the night away, and twenty minutes later he’s on his way back to bed too; this time with a fresh pair of boxers and a content look on his face, all thanks to him finishing off his fantasies in the communal bathroom during his shower.

The door makes a quiet click when he shuts it behind him, and he freezes when he catches sight of Dante sat up on your bed, tail flicking behind him as he gives Levi a knowing look.

Levi squints his eyes, and he threateningly whispers, “you tell no one.”

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

epilogue

The half empty room brings a frown to your face, and all you could do was pout as you sealed up the last of the boxes.

“Why do you have to leave again?” you ask, and Levi turns around as he finishes folding the last of his clothes. He shrugs. “Cats aren’t allowed in the dorms.”

You owed him your entire college career, that much was sure. The RA’s found out about Dante, and Levi had taken the fall to spare you. He wasn’t required to move out since it was only his first strike, but he insisted on doing so so that Dante wouldn’t be alone, saying he already found an apartment nearby and he’ll never hear the end of it from you if he didn’t take Dante with him.

Bullshit. Levi had a soft spot for Dante, you knew that much. He wasn’t doing it for you, he was doing it for himself. Though normally you’d be overjoyed to know that Levi really did secretly like the cat he pretended to hate so much, this time, you were just pissed. You couldn’t believe a fucking cat was stealing away the guy you’ve been in love with since high school. Sure, you were too much of a coward to ask him out, but he was basically your boyfriend already—- the entire campus knew you inadvertently had dibs on each other.

“Yeah but... do you have to leave me alone?”

“I asked you to come with me, and you said no.” He points out. “I still don’t see why when we’ve been roommates since we were freshmen.”

“It’s different off-campus!”

“How?”

“Because it’s like... it’s like we’re moving in together, y’know?” you reply. “And it seemed wrong to move in with you when we’re not even dating.”

“Let’s do it, then.”

“What do you mean?”

He sighs, handing you a spare key to what you could only assume was his new apartment. You glance between him and the key in your hands, and he rolls his eyes when he realizes that you still don’t get it.

“I know we’re doing this backwards since couples don’t typically move in before the first date,” he says before gesturing to Dante. “But we already have a son, and I know you’re his favorite parent. We can share custody until you can move in with me.”

You blink. “What?” Your brain stopped working when Levi referred to you as a couple, and you’re pretty sure your heart stopped beating too. At this point, anything he said went in one ear and out the other. He flicks your forehead.

“Hey— ow! What was that for?”

“You weren’t listening.”

“And you’re being a prick!” you grumble. “It hurts, y’know.”

He scoffs. “What do you want me to do? Kiss it better?” he scoffs.

Your mouth moves faster than your brain, “I’d rather you kiss me.”

Wait. What?

Before you could go back on your words, Levi shrugs. Warm palms gently grab your cheeks, pulling your face closer to his. Your eyes widen and you momentarily freeze, brain definitely not working anymore. He hesitates when you don’t make a move, but then you’re shyly leaning forward, and that was all the confirmation Levi needs.

“If you insist,” he whispers, and suddenly your words die on your tongue when his lips interlock with yours.

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oftenderweapons · 3 years

Text

Hold Me Close — Jimin

Pairing: Jimin x reader (nicknamed Princess)

Wordcount: 1.1 k

Genre: fluff, dating!AU, idol!AU

Rating: GP (general public)

Hello, my daisies! I had to take a small pause (who would think I can only write a limited amount of fluff before I burn out LOL).

We’re back with the bedtime stories. Tonight I offer you sweet, very tired Jiminie trying to get special extra cuddles from Princess. Of course, it is a chance to unwind in a very loving, soft atmosphere.

Voting is open again! Check out the link in my bio!!!

If you want more fics like these, check out the event’s Masterlist over here!

And here’s the kinky masterlist for the spicy folks 🥴😉

Enjoy 💜✨

Jimin crawled on the bed, straddling your legs and sliding up, dragging his face further on, against the comforter, underneath the magazine you were currently holding in your hands as you read a bit before falling asleep.

His head nuzzled higher up, reaching your navel, his hand slapping at your wrist, trying to invite you to pat his head and comb his golden locks. For good measure, he whined cutely, still trying to get your attention.

As soon as you finished reading the sentence, you moved the magazine to the side, giving in to his bratty, silent request with a dismissive attitude.

He could be so brash and demanding, especially in terms of affection. He was really a cat, claiming your attention whenever he wanted and acting distant whenever he needed to be by himself. Or whenever he felt like acting petty because you didn’t pay attention to him.

While you went on reading with the corner of your eye, you heard him purr against your stomach before he planted his chin on your sternum and stared at you with alarming attention.

“What is it, my duckling?” You asked, looking at his pout, his behaviour suggesting that he was in a playful, childlike mood.

“Could you take me into consideration, please?” He asked, his lovely fingers linking together and resting under his face.

“I am, Jiminie.” You corrected him, fixing the short bangs on his forehead.

He pouted and huffed out, cocking his head to the side before pinching you.

“What!?” You exclaimed, confused, slightly irritated, but only as a joke.

He went full puppy eyes mode on you, making butterflies flutter in your stomach. “Princess…” He whined sweetly, trying to get all of your attention.

You closed the magazine and put it down. You’d rather appease him than deal with an upset Jimin, especially because he had been acting strange all night — not sad, not horny, not angry, not tired, but certainly something. Your instinct had been on full alert since he’d come home.

You held his head in your arms. “What is it, baby?”

He snuggled up. “I’m in a mood.” He said through a pout, acting so cute you wanted to bite his pretty cheeks.

“It’s okay, love. Thank you for telling me, duckling.” You praised him, feeling him giggle in reply while you stroked his back, testing the tight knots in his muscles.

He outright moaned.

“How would you like us to handle this?” You asked, making a careful work of phrasing the sentence correctly, choosing to address that as a shared matter rather that something you alone or him alone needed to face.

He looked at you with a light glimmer in his eyes — not mischief, but true gratitude.

“I was wondering… You know, uhm… Aftercare, right?”

You chuckled. “Yes, love.”

“I was wondering if we can do just… Aftercare. Without the rest — just that.” He mumbled quietly.

You combed his hair off his eyes. You loved his blonde hair. He looked three times prettier than ever. Your and his eyes met with that sober, mature intimacy that had become a silent agreement between the two of you. You would bet an arm and a leg on it, on the sacred secret it represented, on the devotion that no teasing, no flirting would ever undermine.

You were his safe place, his balance, his haven and his anchor. You were his home. He knew it and you felt it.

“Of course we can, my duckling.” You said, cupping his face and trying to join your mouths in a meaningful small kiss. “Have you already washed your face, love?”

You fed him pet name after pet name, knowing how much those relaxed him and bolstered his confidence, especially when it was going through a rough moment.

“I have. We can start from the tonic.” He said, his hands searching for yours, bringing them on his crown , pushing them to card his hair.

You obliged immediately, especially after you noticed how much he as struggling to lead you through the motion.

“Do you want me to grab the basket?” You asked, using your thumbs to feel the tendons of his nape.

“I’ll go.” He groaned theatrically as he rolled on his back and stood up clumsily. He looked head to toe adorable.

He came back lightning fast, a ridiculously expensive, fluffy headband in place and a small white basket in his hands.

“Lay down, duckling,” you told him gently, leaving him some space under the soft covers you had warmed.

He tucked himself in, the comforter hiding everything from his armpits down, his arms resting out of the blankets so that when you straddled him and started your work, he could easily reach for your behind, rubbing your ass and thighs.

“Which tonic do you want?” You asked, fixing your position.

“Rosehip.” He muttered letting his face relax as much as possible.

You grabbed the small bottle, spraying to concoction over his face, recapping the bottle and placing it down as you waited for his face to absorb the liquid.

“What happened today?” You asked rubbing your thumbs from his sternum up, along his collarbones. You had read it helps relax.

“The usual. They added stuff to our already packed schedule. Added work outs. Added rehearsals. Added filming. Photoshoots. Anything imaginable.” He said, his voice neutral and tired. The fact that he didn’t whine or act bratty about it told you how worried he was.

Tiger grass essence next. You let a few drops fall on his forehead. His cheeks. His chin. You pressed the edge of the glass pipette against the tip of his nose, making him curl it endearingly.

“Will we manage to spend at least twenty minutes together for Valentine’s?” You asked, setting the ampoule back in the basket before using your hands to spread the slightly sticky liquid over his skin.

“Dunno.” He spoke through a pout as you squeezed his cheeks together, giving small pats to his soft skin as you made the essence disappear. “Can I have the pineapple mask, please?”

You smiled and opened it, laying it on his skin evenly. You always kept that in stock, knowing it was his favourite.

It always made you want to lick his face since it smelled so sweet.

“It’s okay. I’ll take you away as soon as I can.” You said, adjusting it around his lips before bending down and pressing a butterfly kiss there. “I’ll steal you all to myself.”

“Please,” he spoke through straight lips, way too plump to fit in the outline of the mask. Just as your thumbs dug in the round muscles of his shoulders, his hands — more paws-like in the movement — found your backside, starting their usual kneading motion.

“I’ll steal you and take you away. I’ll kidnap you. Keep you well fed all day.” You murmured, closing your eyes as you basked in your domestic bliss. “We’ll have a delayed Valentine’s. Which is twice as good because I’ll have you feral with yearning.” You grinned.

His fingers pinched you powerfully, making you flinch — just a little.

“You’re a little demon.” You replied with a joyful lilt in your voice. “I love you.”

“I’m adorable, I know.” He said, confidence completely restored thanks to your devoted care.

With his eyes closed, he didn’t see your gaze became serious and fond, “Yes, you are.”

#park jimin fluff #jimin x reader #jimin scenario #thetruthuntoldnet #jimin one shot

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snowdice · 4 years

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Big Bang (Sort of) Editing Story [Day 11]

I started writing this fic while editing my Big Bang story, but am going to continue doing it for other things now that Kill Dear is out. I will write and publish 100 words of the story every time I finish doing whatever task I’m doing. If you’d like to block these proceedings, please feel free to block the tag proofread stories. I will reblog this post with the parts of the story I do today. Edited chapters 1 & 2 are linked; everything else I’ve done so far is under the cut.

My Master Post Part 1 Part 2

I was going to do the bingo fic, today but I haven’t been feeling 100% so didn’t start it in the morning. I kinda wanted to work on this one instead so I’m going to. :)

Chapter 3

The figure whose head Patton had just slammed a cookie sheet over tottered forward and fell to the floor; the knife fell limply from its hand onto the floor. Patton immediately stepped forward to kick the weapon away towards Logan. Logan stepped forward to grab it and stored it away quickly at the bottom of the chest at the foot of his bed.

He looked back up at Patton. “T-thank you,” he said.

“Um-huh,” Patton replied, still looking down at the fallen figure. It did not seem like it’d be getting up anytime soon. He slowly lowered the cookie sheet.

He cautiously knelt down next to the person.

“Patton, what are you doing?” Logan asked.

“I just want to see,” Patton said. He carefully shoved the figure over to its back so he could peer at his face. It was a young boy with a pale face and kinda squiggly dark hair that framed his face unevenly. “Oh,” Patton said softly. “He’s just a baby.”

“What are you talking about?” Logan asked.

“He’s like 12,” Patton said with a frown. “Maybe 13.”

“He also had a knife,” Logan stressed, but he did move closer to get a better look at him. “We should call the guards.”

“But...”

“No, Patton,” Logan said firmly.

“Maybe it’s just a misunderstanding?” Patton tried.

“A misunderstanding?” Logan scoffed. “What? Did he accidently sneak past the guards into the royal family’s private hallway and come into my bedroom in the middle of the night with a knife?”

Patton looked down at the kid. “Well…”

“He’s clearly an assassin,” Logan said. “We need to call the guards so they can deal with him appropriately.”

“Can we at least wait until he wakes up?” Patton said. “I want to talk to him. Maybe…”

“He’s not a feral cat you can tame.”

Patton bit his lip and looked up at Logan about to do something sorta mean. “But aren’t you curious?” Patton beseeched. “He’s so young. Who would have sent him? Who would have trained him if he’s really an assassin? How’d he get past the guards? Don’t you want to know? They probably wouldn’t tell you if we let the guards take him away.”

Patton could see Logan’s resolve breaking. He was weak to his own curiosity and whoever this kid was, was a curiosity. He sighed. “We’ll have to check him for any weapons before he wakes up, and we’ll have to restrain him.” Patton beamed up at him. “We’ll call the guards and tell Father as soon as we’re done or at the first sign of trouble.”

“Sure,” Patton readily agreed.

“Hmm,” Logan said. “Watch him closely for a couple of seconds.” He ducked through the door to his little work area and then ran back with a corked bottle. “May I borrow your bracelets?”

“Sure. Why?” Patton asked, already working them off his own wrists.

“This is a binding potion,” Logan explained, taking the bracelets and pouring a couple of drops carefully on them. “It keeps people locked in place. It’s rather strong though and if I applied it directly on his skin, it’d hurt him and be hard to take off. This way, the bracelets will just act like magical cuffs. They’ll hold his arms in place wherever we need them to be.” He waited for a moment and then tapped his own finger to where he’d applied the potion. “It’s dry” he said. “Help me get these on him.” Patton nodded and grabbed the boy’s thin wrists in his, pulling back the dark sleeves so Logan could snap the brackets on him. Then, Logan grabbed both of his hands and moved them above his head, so they laid against the ground. Patton shifted him around, so he was laying prone. “Okay, now we should make sure he doesn’t have any other weapons on him.”

Patton nodded and they both started awkwardly patting at his clothing, feeling for anything that could be a weapon. “He’s really skinny,” Patton said while his hands brushed across his rib cage.

“Strange,” Logan said. “You would think one would keep one’s assassins well fed.”

“And older,” Patton pointed out.

“It’ll be another question for when he wakes,” Logan said. “He doesn’t seem to have any other weapons on him.”

“Let’s get him sat up,” Patton suggested, “so he’s easier to talk to.”

Logan nodded, and they worked on pulling him into a sitting position against the wall. The boy made a slight sound at being moved and Logan met his eyes. They quickly finished setting him up and settled his hands next to him on the ground to pin them there.

Then, they both stood back to watch. The boy shifted a bit more and then sucked in a sudden breath. He went tense all over the second before his eyes opened. His head lifted to look at them with absolutely terrified eyes. Logan shifted beside him, clearly about to speak, but Patton’s hand struck out to grab Logan’s shoulder. Logan glanced at him and then stood back.

Patton moved forward to kneel in front of him. “Hey there,” he said with a slight smile. The boy seemed to try to curl away from him into the wall. Strangely, he didn’t seem to even attempt to pull against his restraints.

“What’s your name?” Patton asked. He paused but the boy didn’t respond. He just stared at him with scared eyes. “My name’s Patton,” he offered, “and that’s Logan.” The boy glanced at Logan, and then looked away, staring down at his lap. Patton waited, but he didn’t move. Eventually, Patton tilted his head so he could get a look at his face. “Oh, honey,” Patton said. “Are you crying?” Patton reached out to touch his cheek and he flinched back with a sharp inhale but there wasn’t very far for him to go. “Hey, it’s okay,” Patton soothed. He gently wiped away a few of the tears that had fallen onto his cheeks. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

The boy did not respond, and Patton settled back on his knees with a frown. He glanced at Logan who shrugged. Patton bit his lip in thought for a moment. They weren’t going to be able to speak to him until he calmed down. How could Patton calm him down? Patton’s eyes skirted around the room. The book Logan was reading? No. One of the old fancy crowns they’d borrowed from Thomathy? No. Cookies?

“Are you hungry?” Patton asked the boy. He didn’t confirm verbally, but his head did tilt up in interest. “We have some cookies,” Patton said. He stood, perhaps too quickly because he cowered into the wall as though he expected Patton to lunge at him. Patton smiled apologetically and walked over to the plate they’d luckily stacked the leftover cookies on before Patton had used the cookie sheet for different purposes.

With a smile, he selected a mint chocolate chip cookie from the plate and walked back over to the boy. He was slower this time with his movements, but the kiddo still tracked him carefully with his eyes as he knelt back in front of him. “Here,” Patton offered. “Try this one. It’s my favorite.”

The boy didn’t open his mouth. In fact, he pressed his lips even harder together.

“Come on,” Patton tempted. “They’re really good. It’s my mama’s own recipe and she made them herself. She’s one of the only two people who know how to make them perfect.”

Patton glanced over at Logan and smiled. He got a glare back in return. Patton leaned forward slightly like he was telling the boy a secret. “Logan’s the other person who knows how to make them,” he divulged. “When I was six, my mama got sick for a few days and I was really sad. He wanted to cook me my favorite cookies to cheer me up. He had no idea how to do it, but he was determined. He snuck into the kitchen in the middle of the night and tried to make them.” Patton laughed at the memory. “He did really, really bad. Logan hadn’t ever cooked anything before, let alone mint chocolate chip cookies. There was flour everywhere and he managed to break three wooden spoons. But, when mama got better, she taught him how to make them. That way, he can make them for me if she ever can’t.”

Patton offered the treat again. “Come on,” Patton said when he still didn’t move to eat it. “What’s wrong?”

Logan stepped forward suddenly and Patton blinked at him. He reached for the cookie and tore off a small piece of it before offering it to Patton. Patton opened his mouth, confused, and let him pop it into his mouth. He chewed it and swallowed.

“Try again,” Logan said, stepping away.

Patton turned back to the boy and held out the cookie. After a moment’s hesitation, the boy opened his mouth. Patton let him take a bite. “See!” he said. “It’s good, huh?”

He chewed and swallowed the bite of cookie. “W-what’s going on?” he finally spoke in a low scratchy tone. Hmm, maybe Patton should get him some water soon.

“We were hoping you could tell us that,” Patton said. “Lo and I were a bit startled by you showing up in his bedroom in the middle of the night.”

“I… was knocked unconscious,” the boy said.

“Well, you gave us quite the fright there with that knife of yours.”

The boy seemed to shrink at the reminder.

“Want to tell us what that was about?” Patton asked.

He shook his head, shoulders climbing.

“Let us rephrase,” Logan said calmly. “Clearly you were here to assassinate either my father, myself, or both. So, the relevant questions are who sent you to do so and why?” The boy shook his head and Logan frowned. “No?” he asked. “Apologies, but ‘no’ is not a sufficient answer.”

Chapter 4

Logan’s statement did not appear to go over well with the small assassin. He went still and curled over into himself as though to protect his more vulnerable areas. Honestly, Logan thought agitated, Logan hadn’t threatened any bodily harm. He’d even prefaced the statement with an apology even though he didn’t feel as though he had anything to apologize for! Just like father had taught him!

Patton shot him a glare, telling him he was somehow in the wrong despite the fact that he’d been the one who was almost assassinated. Logan grumbled and returned to quietly sulking in the background while Patton cooed at the assassin, trying to cajole him out of the ball he’d wrapped himself into.

Logan did have to admit the situation was odd. He was young. He didn’t even know anyone trained assassins so young. His kingdom did have a guild of trained assassins/spies, but one couldn’t even join the military until one was of age (though they could start training at 16 with special permission) and all assassins must have at least a year of military training before being considered. It would be years more before they were sent out on actual missions.

So, where had this young boy came from? Surely, he wasn’t acting of his own violation, especially considering his age and temperament. What was his or whoever had sent him’s greater purpose? One didn’t attempt the risky act of regicide without some reasoning. Why did he only have one weapon? Most hired killers would be provided with a backup at the very least and more than likely an arsenal. Why was he acting so skittish? It was a strange attitude for a trained killer.

He had piqued Logan’s curiosity and Logan wanted answers.

“There, see?” Patton was saying. He was hand feeding more of the cookie to the assassin who looked just as startled by this fact the second time around as the first. “How about a compromise?”

Logan eyed him suspiciously. He was willing to let Patton lead since Logan was well aware of his own shortcomings when it came to tact, but his friend also had a bit of a bleeding heart. Logan refused to let him put himself at risk.

Ironically, the assassin seemed to be on the same page as Logan. His eyes tracked Patton distrustfully. “Compromise?” he echoed.

“Yes!” Patton said, unconcerned with the blatant discomfort in the room.

“We’ll ask you a question and you answer it,” Patton said. “Then you can ask a question and we’ll answer that. Then we can keep going back and forth like that.”

The assassin seemed unsure about this, but he slowly nodded. “What’s your question?” he asked.

Patton looked back at Logan and inclined his head. Logan took a step forward. “Who are you?” Logan asked. The assassin hesitated.

“Maybe a more specific question,” Patton suggested. “We’ve got plenty of time and ‘who are you?’ is a bit of a big question. There are so many different answers!”

“Very well,” Logan agreed. “Let’s start with, what’s your name?”

The assassin considered him, looking overly cautious for such a mundane question. “It’s Virgil,” he said after a moment.

“Last name?” Logan prompted.

“I-” he hesitated, looking distressed. “I don’t have one.”

“You don’t have one?” Logan asked.

And… he was curling up into a ball again. “Sorry,” he said softly. He started to cry again.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, hey,” Patton soothed. “That was good.”

Logan frowned. It was not ‘good’. It had given them basically no information. “Why-”

“It’s Virgil’s turn to ask a question, Logan,” Patton said. Logan almost groaned. This was going to take forever, wasn’t it?

Virgil’s eyes bounced between them. “Why haven’t you called someone to take me away yet?” he asked.

“We wanted to ask you a few questions ourselves before getting the castle guards involved,” Logan answered.

“Are…” he shut his mouth, likely realizing he’d have to wait for his next question.

Logan considered him. “Why do you have no last name?” Logan asked.

Virgil looked away. “I’m an orphan. I don’t know who my parents were, and no one bothered to give me one.”

“Ah, that makes sense,” Logan acknowledged. “And your question?”

“Are…” Virgil said. “Are you going to torture me if I don’t answer something right?”

Patton let out a little pained exhale.

“Why would we do that?” Logan asked.

“Why wouldn’t you do that?” he replied.

“Where the hell are you from where that’s a question?”

“Why the hell should I tell you?”

“Why the hell would you be defending a place that makes you think that’s a normal question?”

“What the fuck are you even on about?”

“Okay,” Patton cut Logan off before he retorted in kind. “I think that’s enough of the question game at the moment.” He stood up and walked back over to the plate of cookies.

“He-” Logan started to grouse and got a sugar cookie pushed into his mouth to silence him.

Logan frowned around the cookie as Patton went back and offered the other cookie to Virgil. Virgil turned his head away from it. Logan’s eyes watched the assassin as Patton thought for a moment and then tore a bit of the cookie off. He ate the bite himself before offering the cookie again. This Virgil was a suspicious thing, Logan thought as the boy slowly ate a bite of cookie.

It made Logan’s curiosity itch even more, but at this rate he wasn’t going to get any answers. He polished off the sugar cookie and then walked over to sit on the floor next to where Patton was kneeling.

Virgil watched him move and Logan met his eyes. “No, by the way,” Logan thought to answer. “We aren’t going to hurt you.”

Logan tried not to bristle at the disbelieving look on his face. Logically that distrust had nothing to do with Logan personally, but with whatever his experiences were before this.

Logan tilted his head at him. “Why the one knife?”

Virgil blinked at that. “What?”

“The knife,” Logan reiterated. “You were clearly here to use it, but you only have one. It seems odd.”

“Uh…” Virgil said. “I don’t know. That’s all they gave me.”

Logan nodded. “Me or my dad?” he asked. “Or both?”

Virgil clearly didn’t want to answer. “The king,” he said.

Logan nodded, and it suddenly hit him exactly what would have occurred if he and Patton hadn’t happened to be awake. Virgil seemed to see the realization on his face. He braced himself as though expecting to be struck. Logan felt suddenly nauseous, the idea of a dead father hitting a bit too close to home after…

“And the guards?” Logan asked.

“I didn’t,” Virgil rushed to say. “Just a light sleeping potion. They probably didn’t even notice anything happen.”

“Okay,” Logan said. “Good.”

“What are you going to do with me?” Virgil asked.

“We’ll hand you over to the guards,” Logan said. “They’ll figure out what to do with you from there.”

He nodded, looking small, and Logan refused to feel guilty for it. Virgil had come here with the intention of killing Logan’s dad! Logan had no reason to feel guilty about turning him in. Besides, it wasn’t as though any of them were going to hurt or kill a literal child. Dad would never let them anyway. He’d be fine! There was no reason for his sad eyes that seemed almost too big for his face to make Logan want to squirm uncomfortably.

Logan sighed. “Are you still hungry?” he asked. “We do actually have more than just cookies in spite of Patton’s efforts.”

“We don’t have any more jam though because of Logan’s efforts earlier,” Patton said sweetly. Logan pursed his lips but didn’t deny it. Instead he just walked over to where they’d stored their extra snacks.

“How about some cheese?” Logan suggested, “and perhaps some milk to drink?”

“Why are you trying to feed me?” Virgil asked.

“Because you look hungry. Are you?”

He bit his lip and nodded. They split up the cheese between the three of them which seemed to soothe Virgil’s worry of poison. He ate what they offered him without complaint and drank most of the milk.

Logan managed to squeeze a few more answers out of the boy, but nowhere near enough to satiate his curiosity. Eventually, morning came, and Logan sighed. “We should probably…” he said, “turn you in.”

The boy looked like he might burst into sobs, but he just hung his head. Another stab of that unfounded guilt shot through Logan and the frown on Patton’s face just made it worse.

“I’ll talk to my father first,” Logan promised. “He’s a kind man. Nothing bad will happen to you.”

Virgil clearly didn’t believe him, but Logan knew it would be okay in the end.

“We should probably hide him before we leave though,” Logan told Patton. “Just in case.”

Patton nodded and looked around. “Closet?”

“That will be adequate,” Logan agreed. He turned to Virgil. “Those bracelets make your arms stay in place as you have seen, but I can move them at will. I’ll take your arms and guide you to the closet. You walk behind me. Understand?”

Virgil nodded and Logan picked up both of his wrists, pulling his arms in front of him and then using his grip to help the boy stand. He didn’t resist being pulled to his feet or led to the closet.

“Alright, let’s go,” Logan said. Patton had on his unhappy face, but Logan did his best to ignore it. This was the correct decision. He and Patton left his bedroom and crossed to his dad’s room. Logan knocked. He’d expected that he’d have to wake his father since it was still very early in the morning, so he was surprised when the door opened before Logan had even finished knocking.

“Logan,” Father said. “I was just coming to see you.” He was already dressed, and Logan raked his brain for any early morning appointments for today and came up blank.

“What about?” Logan asked.

“There’s been word that Lamir’s new Queen may be considering an alliance with Mocnejsi. Seeing as I knew her mother fairly well, I’m hoping I can talk her out of it,” he said.

“What should I do?” Logan asked.

Father turned back into the room. “You’ll stay here and oversee things while I’m gone,” he told Logan over his shoulder. “I’ll only be gone for three weeks and there is nothing major that will need to happen. Just make sure everything runs like usual.”

“You’re going to be gone for three weeks?” Logan asked.

“Yes,” Father confirmed.

Logan glanced at Patton who had turned to him, hands clasped and was shooting him his best pleading expression. “Okay,” Logan said, “have a nice trip.”

Chapter 5

Virgil sat as still as he could in the dark space he’d been put in. He could feel the warning tingle of the binding magic at his wrists telling him not to move too much or else. He was just lucky that they’d chosen to use metal instead of cloth to apply the potion and that he’d been unconscious until it dried. He knew from experience that there was no escaping the pain that type of potion brought until it dried no matter how still you were. Now, at least, if he didn’t try to struggle against his binding it wouldn’t hurt him. It sucked because all he wanted to do was move. He wanted to struggle and pull against the binding at his wrist, but he couldn’t. Even if it wouldn’t put him in crippling amounts of pain, he’d still not be able to get away.

So, instead he just shook. He was such a fuck up. He couldn’t even remember the right room and now he was going to die. No, he was probably going to be tortured and then he was going to die. His breath came quicker and quicker the longer he remained in the closet. He’d tried to murder their king. He’d come into their prince’s bedroom in the middle of the night wielding a knife. There was no way he wasn’t going to be made to suffer for that. It didn’t matter how gently the prince and his… person had treated him so far.

He heard the muffled sounds of people approaching the closet and curled into himself. Oh, god he was going to die. He had been breathing quickly, but now he couldn’t breathe at all. It felt like someone had poured tar into his lungs. The closet door opened, and he flinched, curled into a ball and choking on nothing.

“Hey, hey,” a familiar voice said. Patton, Virgil’s mind offered: the other guy with the prince. When Virgil managed to flick his eyes open, he saw Patton had gotten to his knees in front of him. He dully noted that the boy had reached out and touched his shoulder. “Oh sweetie, I’m sorry. Can you breathe for me?”

What was the point? He wondered, but after a few moments, he managed to suck in a couple of breaths.

When he managed to calm enough to look around, he noticed that instead of there being a bunch of castle guards standing around waiting to drag him off to some dungeon, it was just the prince and Patton again. He blinked up at them in confusion.

“There’s been a change of plans,” the prince explained.

“What?” Virgil asked dumbly. “What do you mean?”

“My father is going to be away for the next three weeks,” the prince said. “Considering you didn’t kill the guards and your only targets seems to be my father and perhaps myself, you are likely not a real danger to anyone if you escape and I’m willing to take the risk with myself. With that in mind, Patton and I have decided not to turn you in yet.”

Well what the hell did that mean? Was that good or bad? On one hand, it meant that he wouldn’t be executed yet, but what exactly did the prince want with him?

As Virgil began to freak out about the possibilities, the prince continued to speak, seemingly more to himself than to Virgil or Patton.

“We will need to figure out how to care for you in the interim. We’ll have to provide you with more food than just snacks as well as find you a place to sleep. At least one of us will have to be with you at all times, and with Father gone, I’ll have to attend to some royal duties. Luckily it isn’t strange for Patton to come into my quarters at will.” He considered Virgil with discerning eyes. “Also, your general health seems to be lacking, so I’ll have to account for preexisting conditions. First thing, first though. I imagine keeping you in those bracelets all the time would be impractical. We’ll need another solution, especially for sleep.”

Virgil did not like the sound of that. He assumed based on what the prince had done so far that he’d enact some sort of magical bondage. From Virgil’s experience, magical bondage ranged from unpleasant to legitimately agonizing.

“Patton, if you will watch him for the time being, I need to go work on a more precise binding potion then the one I’ve been using.”

“Sure,” Patton agreed, but the prince was wondering away before he’d even finished the word. Patton shook his head fondly before turning back to Virgil. “Wanna come out of the closet now?”

He really, really didn’t, but he was pretty sure he didn’t have a choice in the matter. He curled his legs into himself as much as he could and waited to be dragged out into the room, but he wasn’t touched.

“Okay,” Patton said. “That’s fine. It’s a pretty nice closet.” Virgil said nothing but did breathe a sigh of relief about being able to stay. It wasn’t very rational because in actuality he was no safer here than anywhere else in the room, but the closet felt more defensible even if they could drag him out of it whenever they wanted.

Patton seemed content to sit outside the closet and leave him in peace for the moment. A few minutes later Patton made a sound and Virgil looked over to see him yawn. He smiled when he saw Virgil watching. “It was a long night for all of us, I imagine,” he said. “Hmm… actually. Wait there.”

Like he could go anywhere else. He couldn’t get a good enough angle to see what Patton was doing, but he could here him moving around the room and rustling through a few things. He came back into view holding a comical number of pillows and blankets.

“Here,” Patton said. He offered Virgil one of the blankets and then seemed to remember that Virgil could not reach out to take it. “Hmm…” He spread out the blanket next to Virgil. “Do you mind if I touch you?”

“Why are you even asking?” Virgil asked. “You can do whatever you want with me.”

Patton frowned and Virgil scrunched into himself at the expression, but it lightened the next moment. “I know it’s a bit of a bad situation and you are technically a prisoner, but I don’t want to hurt you or make you feel bad,” Patton said.

Virgil didn’t know how to respond to that. There was no way that it wasn’t some sort of trick, but he didn’t dare outright say that he thought that.

“Can I touch you a bit?” Patton asked once again. “Just to help you get onto the blanket.”

“Sure,” Virgil agreed.

The other boy smiled sweetly and grabbed his wrists with gentle fingers. Virgil let his whole body follow Patton’s guidance until he was situated rather comfortably on an unbelievably soft blanket.

“Head,” Patton said, holding up a pillow. Virgil lifted his head slightly and the pillow was shoved underneath it.

Another blanket was settled over him the next. Patton was weird. “There you go!” Patton said. “Now you can take a nap.”

Virgil blinked up at him in confusion. That was… not happening. What exactly about this situation did Patton think was conducive to sleep?

“…Or rest comfortably at least,” Patton said after a moment. He arranged a pillow and blanket for himself and laid on his side, so he was facing Virgil. He yawned slightly again but didn’t close his eyes. They stared at each other for an uncomfortably long moment.

“What are we doing?” Virgil finally asked when he realized Patton was not planning to ever break the awkward silence.

“We’re resting,” Patton said, “and hanging out.”

“Hanging out?” Virgil asked.

“Mmm, yeah,” Patton said popping up onto his elbow to peer at him. “Let’s talk some! We can get to know each other.”

Virgil looked at him suspicious about where this was going. “Talk about what?” he asked, eyes narrowed.

Patton hummed a quiet tune and his fingers tapped against the side of his face as he wiggled a bit back and forth. “Do you like cats?”

“Cats?” Virgil asked. “Uh… sure?”

“I love cats,” Patton divulged. “There are a lot of cats in the castle. Not all of them like people very much, but I like to try to pet them! I even made up a game where I get points for every cat that lets me pet it. The grumpier they are, the more points I get!”

“You… try to pet wild cats?” Virgil asked.

“Uh huh!”

Virgil thought back to the few untamed cats he’d met in his life. “Don’t they… try to murder you.”

“Sometimes,” Patton said with a shrug. He moved his arm suddenly and Virgil startled, but he just rolled down his sleeve so Virgil could see a large, fairly fresh-looking scratch on his arm. “This one’s from Mr. Calico Man. He does not like his ears touched apparently, but he will let me give him chin scratchies!”

This boy was insane.

“I think I’ve pet every single cat in the castle at least once, except for Ghost Kitty.”

“Who is Ghost Kitty?”

“Oh, Ghost Kitty is the prettiest thing in the world,” Patton gushed. “She hangs out in the gardens a lot, but no one ever can get anywhere near it. She’s completely black and only started showing up about a year ago. I can’t even see her for more than 2 seconds at a time let alone try to pet her, but I will some day and on that day, I’ll get 1,000 points!”

“How many points are they usually?”

“For ones like Mittens and Cleo who I’ve known since they were babies, only 1. For Sandra it’s 5 since she can get a bit tetchy, but usually won’t run away. Lily Flower and Red Hot like to run away, but won’t try to scratch me if I do catch them so they’re 10. Ones like Mr. Calico Man are worth 100.”

“So, you are going to try to pet a cat that is 10x more feral than the one that slashed your arm?”

“She’s so pretty!”

“You have no survival instincts whatsoever, do you?” Virgil asked.

Patton smiled wryly at him. “I apparently have a couple,” he said.

Virgil blinked at him and thought back, connecting the dots. Only Patton and the prince knew he was here, and the prince had been in front of him when he’d came into the room… “You were the one to knock me unconscious,” he concluded.

“I’d say sorry, but you were coming in here with the intention of hurting someone I care about,” Patton said with a shrug.

Right. Virgil had almost forgotten amongst his soft tone and gentle countenance that the man laying docilly next to him definitely hated his guts, and would probably relish in whatever the prince had planned for him.

Virgil let his fists clench, but otherwise didn’t let onto his distress at the thought as Patton softly brought the conversation back to the previous topic and continued to ramble on about the different cats of the castle.

Chapter 6

Virgil had started to feign sleep about an hour after Logan had left to his potions lab. Patton could tell because his arms never relaxed. Patton kept talking to him in soft tones even though he was no longer responding.

He seemed exhausted, but he was also clearly not planning to sleep any time soon. Patton wondered what had led up to him being here both recently which had caused the dark circles under his eyes and long term that had caused the sunkenness of his cheeks.

Patton’s stomach growled reminding him of the passage of time. He had no idea how long whatever Logan was doing was going to take, but someone was going to have to go to the kitchen and get some breakfast soon. The snacks truly had not been enough to hold them through the night.

He felt secure enough even knowing Virgil wasn’t actually sleeping to push himself to his feet and walk over to the potions lab door. “Hey Lo,” Patton called. Virgil still hadn’t moved to indicate he was still awake.

“Yes?” he asked.

“How long are you going to take? I need to get food soon and maybe come up with an excuse for at least one of us to stay here all day.”

“It’ll be a little while longer,” Logan said.

Patton glanced back at Virgil. He caught the boy with his eyes open this time and saw him wince at being caught. “Maybe Virgil can stay in there with you well I go get things?”

“That would be fine,” Logan said, turning back to what he was working on. “Bring him in here if you’d like.”

“Okie dokie,” Patton chirped. He turned to Virgil who was looking up at him. “I’m going to take your arms and lead you to the other room, okay?”

He nodded and Patton leaned down and grabbed his wrists. He went tenser somehow when Patton moved his arms to his front and Patton frowned, but didn’t comment. He helped him get to his feet and led him into the other room.

“You can seat him over there,” Logan said pointing.

Virgil was looking around the room with wide eyes and Patton had to stop and think about what this room might look like to someone who hadn’t been enthusiastically introduced to every new potion ingredient and piece of equipment as they arrived. There were shelves of ingredients, all organized and labeled. He kept all powders in uniform glass vials and liquids in bulbous containers. Whole dried herbs hung from strings in one area and there were containers of fresh ones glowing a soft green; the preservation spells that Logan came up with himself kept them fresh for months longer than they would usually last.

Logan had three separate areas for potion making. There was one space for potions that required more dangerous ingredients which currently had something simmering at it, but the enchanted protective curtain wasn’t drawn around it, so Patton imagined it must not be doing anything that could be too harmful at the moment. The table he used for experiments was empty and thoroughly cleaned so he was clearly making something with an already well-established recipe. Currently, he was standing at his table reserved only for non-harmful substances. He was chopping up what appeared to be mint as two smaller pots boiled in front of him.

Patton led Virgil over to the indicated chair which was out of the way of even the non-dangerous ingredient zone. He still seemed to be trying to take in the room as Patton settled his wrists on the chair armrests.

“Any requests?” he asked Logan.

“Not really,” Logan replied. He glanced up at Patton. “Though if you can sneak me some of the leftover macaroni salad from dinner, that would be appreciated.”

“That’s not breakfast!” Patton chided.

“Which is why I requested that you to sneak it.”

Patton shook his head and turned back to Virgil. “What about you?” he asked.

He looked up at Patton and shook his head. Virgil looked a bit scared and out-of-sorts. He wanted to reach forward and pat him on the head or kiss his cheek to comfort him, but he imagined that would go over worse than badly. Instead, he flashed the boy a quick smile and then turned to leave the room.

He left Logan’s private chambers and closed the door behind him before walking down the hall.

“Good morning Patton,” one of the stationed guards greeted.

He smiled at her and the other guard. “Good morning Kalani. Hi Owen.”

“I see you and the prince had a sleepover,” Kalani said. “Should we be planning on him not making it to his royal duties until later today?”

“Actually,” said Patton. “Maybe all day. He was feeling a little sick. Had a headache.” It was… probably true. They hadn’t slept a wink last night.

“Hmm,” Kalani said. “Maybe there is something going around. Clover said she had a bit of a dizzy spell last night.”

“Oh,” Patton answered. Clover had been one of the two guards set to watch the door to the royal wing. At least Virgil had been telling the truth about not hurting anyone.

9783

“I hope she feels better. I’m going to go get Logan something to eat for breakfast since he can’t come himself, so I’ll see you again in a few minutes.”

The guards nodded to him and he turned to walk down the hall. The areas around the kitchens would be pretty busy at this point in the morning so instead of taking any of the busier paths to it, he walked past the dinning hall towards the guest hall and took the staircase that led straight outside. It was a longer path because he had to go around and through the garden, but it was worth not getting in anyone’s way.

Patton always did like the garden. It was pretty at every time of year. Even now as the flowers started to get sparser in the fall, it was still wonderful, and it smelt great. He took just the briefest moment to himself to splash a hand through one of the fountains with a giggle. He turned away to continue on his path to the kitchen which is when he saw her.

“Oh,” he said softly. “Hi kitty.”

Ghost Kitty was there and stared at him briefly before taking off into one of the bushes.

“Bye kitty,” he said just as soft. He smiled even though she’d ran away because that was the closest, he’d ever gotten to her.

#proofread stories #not writing

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howdoyousleep3 · 4 years

Text

it’s this sunrise

Here is yet another Ask response that has turned into a goddamn fic. I hope it’s the soft fluffy smut clothes sharing vibes that were desired. I tried to keep it soft af but honestly it got away from me. It also made me realize I rarely write in Steve’s point of view. Enjoy!

If there is ever a time when Bucky gets out of bed before Steve it will truly be the end of the world. Aside from maybe Christmas morning and the nights he spends working away on homework or essays, Steve is always the first one out of bed. Even on weekends when the two of them are free to sleep in and wake up at their leisure, Steve is the one waking at an earlier hour, the one out of bed earlier, the one starting his day earlier. That remains the case on this gorgeous Saturday morning. Steve feels like it’s the first time in months he hasn’t been woken by a call on his day off and he hadn’t realized how nice that was, or had forgotten at least. After kissing Bucky a few times on the forehead and cheek he wanders out of the bedroom in a pair of sweats.

He makes some coffee, spends a few minutes going around and opening all of the blinds and curtains (Bucky will hate him but it’s all fine), sips on said coffee and thinks about the things they need to do this weekend. They need to head to the market for a few items, maybe go out to lunch or dinner, not having gone out in so long. He’s sure Bucky has some homework to do, knows they need to do chores around the house. Maybe they can walk around the city some, leave the car at home.

He’s so wrapped up in his deliciously domestic thoughts when he decides to level up the domesticity and make some pancakes. Bucky loves pancakes. He thinks there are some peaches in the fridge that he could cut up too; Bucky loves peaches. Luckily, they have all the ingredients they need and Steve whips up a batter: eggs, flour, buttermilk, a hint of vanilla. He’s pouring the batter onto the griddle, swaying a little to an Adele song, when in walks Bucky. “Mornin’, sugar,” he sing-songs, setting the bowl back down on the counter, and he gets a grumble of a huff in response. Oh, so it’s a grumpy Bucky. Steve isn’t surprised; he learned the hard way that he should never force the younger man out of bed before he wanted to face the day. He hears Bucky pour himself some coffee and when he turns to face him his heart isn’t nearly prepared for what he sees. He knows Bucky being grumpy and sleepy shouldn’t be so goddamn cute but, fuck, it’s the most adorable thing Steve’s ever been witness to. Having showered the night before and just gone to sleep, Bucky’s hair is in all sorts of disarray, his natural curls free to move the way they wish. His cheeks are flushed a rosy color, always running hot when he sleeps but insisting on using a blanket, crease marks pressed into the skin of his face and arms. He’s got that grumpy eyebrow wrinkle probably a preface to the complaint of how bright it is in the house. The cherry on top is Bucky’s attire. He’s being swallowed up by one of Steve’s old shirts, an old volleyball tournament shirt of his, and it hits Bucky right above the knees, sleeves almost hitting his elbows. It makes him look damn near miniature, much smaller than his actual six-foot size, and Steve’s gut stirs. Bucky doesn’t seem to be wearing anything but briefs either and that…that’s nice. The entire picture Bucky paints makes Steve stir in his sweats, makes him chub up almost immediately. It brings him a sense of pride and ownership and so much fucking love that it almost makes the older man short of breath. “S’that my shirt you’re wearing?” Steve asks off-handedly as he flips a pancake and Bucky makes a noise in protest, already, mumbles out, “Yeah, so what?” and it makes Steve want to chuckle. Like a feisty kitten this one is. “Nothin’, baby, nothin’. Just sexy is all,” Steve explains in a low light tone, walking up to Bucky, pressing him back into the counter with a gentle nudge. Bucky huffs again, seems to be full of them this morning, rolls his eyes some, almost goes to push at Steve’s chest before he grabs Bucky’s hand. “S’not sexy, Steve. I just woke up, shut it,” Bucky protests in a gruff voice, brings the mug up to his mouth to take a sip as Steve brings Bucky’s hand up to his mouth, runs his lips across his knuckles. Bucky wiggles where he stands, a little movement in his toes and in his knees, and Steve’s heart feels like it’s in his throat on his next swallow. “No, honey I’m for real. Seein’ your sweet little grumpy ass in my clothes is…it’s somethin’ else,” Steve rumbles, pushes Bucky a tad harder into the counter, and the younger makes a feigned offended noise at the description of him. Steve doesn’t want to let Bucky’s hand go, doesn’t want to stop touching him now that he’s started, drops the hand at his mouth to grab at Bucky’s sides instead. “M’not…I’m not grumpy,” Bucky argues and this time Steve can’t help but let out a low chuckle, chide in response, “You gonna fight me on everything this morning, sweetheart?” Steve squeezes at his hips, runs his hands over the thin fabric of his shirt on Bucky’s body, decides he can get addicted to the way it feels under his grip. This morning might turn out differently than he had originally thought. “You wanna gimme a kiss?” Steve murmurs, tilting Bucky’s chin up with the touch of two fingers and he’s so physically close to the other man that he can feel the morning moody tension leave Bucky some, yields and moves for Steve without much reservation. The kiss is brief, so soft, a breath of a thing, and all it does is make Steve hungrier, make him grow a little harder in his pants. He knows Bucky can feel it, has to be aware of it, crotch pressed into his lower stomach, his hip, sighs heavily when Steve’s tongue dips against his lip in a tease of a movement. “Just woke up, Steve come on,” Bucky gasps when he pulls back, Steve’s lips moving gracefully down Bucky’s jaw, nipping and licking as he goes, movements unrushed and syrupy. He grabs for the coffee mug in Bucky’s hands, places it on the counter behind him. With his hands free, Steve is able to move with more freedom, rubs his hands up and down Bucky’s sides, squeezing a little roughly, sliding them down to cup his ass. “Steve, the pancakes. M’hungry,” Bucky whines into his mouth and it makes Steve hot all over, that tone of voice Bucky uses when he wants to put up a fight just so it seems like he isn’t being easy. Steve just hums in response, squeezes his fingers firmly around the handfuls of ass he’s got in his palms, movement making Bucky whimper and clutch at Steve’s chest. “I’m hungry too, Buck,” he purrs into his mouth, squeezes and pulls Bucky up until the younger realizes to jump a little, delightfully moving without any physical resistance, and Steve hauls him up onto the counter. “That was awful, Steve oh my god.” Steve nips at Bucky’s ear. “It’s true though. Was hungry for pancakes before you came out here lookin’ all sweet in my own goddamn clothes. God, baby what you do to me…” Steve’s voice is low, hands still moving and squeezing wherever he can, soaking in all the little noises and breaths Bucky lets out. He loves Daddy’s hands on his body, Steve knows this, that he can get a little overwhelmed by it even, such a sensitive littler thing. Seeing Bucky in his clothes is doing things to Steve, a number of different things, but something he couldn’t have anticipated was Bucky appearing so small. Bucky isn’t a physically small man, is above average in height, but he is smaller than Steve, the older man being even more above average in overall size. Bucky in his oversized shirt, draping off his shoulders a tad, grazing the tops of his thighs, makes him look so little, makes his physical appearance show the side of him that only Daddy gets to see, show the true sweet boy he is for Steve. It makes Steve want to go feral. It also makes his next squeeze a little harsh, makes his next kiss a little deeper, makes Bucky’s hands clutch for purchase at Steve’s torso, his chest. “I thought I was the one who was supposed to have the high sex drive as the younger one in this relationship. Sometimes this verges on ridiculous, Steve,” Bucky taunts a little breathlessly, nips at Steve’s chin when he gets the chance. What a brat. “Can’t help myself. And you’ve got some nerve complaining about how often you get fucked.” Steve nibbles at Bucky’s bottom lip in retaliation, his hands coming to rest on the smaller’s hips where he sits on the counter. For once, Bucky has nothing to say in response and that’s a goddamn miracle; Steve wants to mark the date on the calendar. He feels Bucky’s feet curl around the back of his knees, his arms coming up to also wrap around Steve’s torso, and it makes him want to purr like a goddamn cat. He pulls Steve in tight enough and it makes the older man’s erection entirely too obvious to ignore, his tented sweats rubbing a little lewdly against Bucky’s stomach, his own growing erection. Bucky feels it, the same time Steve does and lets out a loud exhale, he makes a warm noise, a purr of a thing right into Steve’s lips. “Daddy…” he coos, grins when Steve’s mouth drops open, gives his lips a few far too sensual kisses for someone who was grumbling about sex seconds before, “Is that all for me?” Steve might melt right through the goddamn floor. “A’course it is, kitten. What are you gonna do about it?” Steve asks, gives Bucky a few more filthy kisses, not bothering to close his eyes, not wanting to close his eyes. He bears witness to yet another adorable blush, one that makes Steve’s gut curl, loves how transparent Bucky is. Steve calls him a lot of things, too many things, but Bucky seems to be a sucker for “kitten”, being up there with “sugar” and “princess”. There’s a shift Steve can see in Bucky’s eyes, feel in his grip, one that has his dick perking up even more, the gleam in Bucky’s eyes having a mischievous edge to it. “Bet I won’t need much prep because of last night…” is what he ends up whispering, attempting to make it sound casual but failing, his suggestion ending a little too breathlessly. Steve is pulling at the waistband of his sweats without wasting another second, his eagerness making Bucky giggle some more. Steve wants to eat him alive. At just the mention of being inside of Bucky, Steve’s heartrate notches up, his hands twitch at the urge to pull him closer, his dick aches and throbs. He’s reaching for a drawer that he knows has to have a tiny bottle of lube shoved in the back, always prepared, and with success he finds it and tosses it onto the counter. When Bucky sees it, he huffs, Steve needs to do something with that mouth, mumbles, “Ridiculous,” as he hops off the counter. He begins to turn but Steve grabs his hips and turns him the rest of the way around by force. “Turnin’ into the Boy Who Cried Wolf, sweetheart. Pissy about how prepared I am and how often you get dicked down, but you’re damn near gagging for it, aren’t ya?” Steve murmurs into his ear, hand reaching around to cup the stiff erection contained in his briefs, Bucky gasping at the contact. Steve rolls the younger’s package around in his hand, squeezes and tugs on what he can, kisses at Bucky’s cheek as he lets out a low moan. “Just a spoiled fuckin’ brat is what you are,” Steve continues to taunt in a light tone, voice low as he moves to slowly peel Bucky’s briefs down his lithe thighs, dropping to pool around his ankles. Bucky goes to take his shirt off, but he stops him, whispers, “No—keep it on,”, his hand running up and under the shirt, up the soft skin of Bucky’s stomach. Bucky nods his head, exhaling shakily. There’s something about a weekend morning fuck that digs deep into Steve’s bones. The unhurried pace, no place to be and no rush, the serene quietness that fills the house and the neighborhood. There’s something about greeting the day and your partner in such an intimate way, almost ethereal, movements slow and savory, simply feeling the other person and the way they make you feel, the reactions to the way you make them feel. Steve loves it, needs it, can never get enough of it when it comes to Bucky, kisses him on the back of the neck as he wets a few fingers with lube, lifts his own shirt on Bucky’s body, and— “Oh,” Bucky sighs and Steve feels that noise in his core, in his center, that noise like Bucky is finally right because Steve is inside of him, like he isn’t whole until Steve is there pressing within. He can’t think to say anything, his tongue heavy in his mouth, just kisses the piece of Bucky’s shoulder that peeks out of the coverage of his shirt. His finger is met with not near as much resistance as it normally is, Steve able to press in with another finger within a few pumps of the first. This second one makes Bucky gasp a little, makes him whine, and it’s so goddamn beautiful to Steve’s ears that he can’t help but make a pleased noise of his own, a little sympathetic moan that he lets out into the skin behind Bucky’s ear. “Daddy…” Steve’s gut clenches. “Yeah, sugar s’feel good?” “Ngh, I…gimme a-another. Please?” Their voices are so low, hushed for no reason but it simply being that morning kind of vibe. Bucky’s eager, a little too, and Steve pumps his fingers a few times, curls them a little bit, finds that sweet little spot they’re both looking for, force of it making Bucky fall forward some, brace his hands on the edge od the counter. “Just greedy, baby. There’s no rush,” he whispers, his other hand coming around to give its best attempt at jacking Bucky off slowly. Bucky lets out such a long and low moan Steve swears he can feel it in his own teeth. “Fuck, Steve holy shit, feels so good,” Bucky whimpers with another moan, head falling back some which gives Steve easy access to run his lips along the line of Bucky’s neck. “So sensitive in the morning aren’t you, Bucky? Sensitive all the time but in the mornings especially, always have been.” Bucky has nothing to say in response to that, just bites his bottom lip and arches his neck into Steve’s mouth some, clenches down on Daddy’s fingers. “Alright, alright hush, sugar.” Steve gives Bucky the third finger he wants, pumps his other hand around the brunette’s cock and if he wasn’t right before, he’s right now—Bucky is damn near gagging for it. The third finger gives him the pressure and the fullness he craves, gives him the closest thing he can get to Daddy’s cock, makes his mouth drop open some and Steve can’t help but kiss and coo on Bucky’s cheek. His movements are deep and slow and delicious and he can only fathom to work his fingers a few more times, in and out, before removing them and smearing what is left of the lube onto his cock. Steve is moaning before he’s even entirely slid inside of Bucky, can’t help it when he’s so wrapped up in the feeling of the younger man in his arms, of how hot and wet he is around Daddy’s cock, of how pretty he sounds when Steve slides home. An arm around Bucky’s waist, one tucked under and arm and across his chest, it’s achingly intimate, so close, perfect for a slow morning fuck. Bucky arches back into him beautifully, feels so good against the line of Steve’s body, feels so small, just the way he looks in Daddy’s shirt. “Ohh, fuck that’s nice, baby so nice,” he coos gently into Bucky’s ear as his crotch comes to press snug up against Bucky’s bottom, that sweet little cushion that in engrained in Steve’s brain for the rest of time. Bucky gives him a weak moan in response, a few heavy exhales to follow, lets his neck go a little lax as it rolls back into Steve’s shoulder. He knows Bucky wants to grab onto something, knows he likes to hold and feel grounded, so Steve grabs his hands, presses them into the counter in front of them. Bucky’s a gift, a treasure, no other way to describe him when at a loss for words like this. His body was made for Steve, he’d bet his life and soul on it, has never felt anything like being inside of Bucky. He fits so perfectly against Steve’s body, so soft and supple against his harder and muscled one, feels sublime all around his cock, all warm and tight as sin. He rolls his hips in tight, slow, little movements, grinds and presses in balls-deep, Bucky whimpering softly at the feel. Steve takes it slow, let’s the feel of the morning take them away, lets the music in the background unintentionally sway his movements. He pulls out slowly, presses those hot open-mouthed kisses he knows make Bucky weak all along his neck, up to his ear, wraps an arm back tight around Bucky’s middle. “Oh shit,” is all he can choke out in response to Steve’s movements and that’s totally okay with Steve, is acceptable, presses back in just as slow and fuck that’s nice, that’s beautiful. He does this a few more times, keeps his mouth close to Bucky’s face, keeps the line of his body pressed in tight, movement only being in his hips. He feels like he’s high, like he’s hypnotized, is only pulled from his mind when Bucky whimpers, “More, Daddy more,” and he nods his head, brings his arm up to curl his hand loosely around the base of Bucky’s throat. “Yeah, baby yeah, of course,” he coos out, picks up his pace and pumps his hips a little harder, movement making Bucky lock his elbows for more support, forcing the two of them let out little noises of their own. “Always feel so fuckin’ good for Daddy don’t you, sugar? Yeah? So fuckin’ ready, so fuckin’ hungry aren’t you?” “God, Daddy. Shouldn’t feel so good but it does. Why…fuck, why does it feel so good all the fucking time?” Good fucking question. Like almost every other attempt at talking this morning, Steve isn’t sure what to say back, feels like that’s more of a rhetorical question when he can’t think of a valid answer to begin with. Instead he continues to fuck into Bucky’s body, the body that feels so small in his hands, pumps his hips harder and deeper than before. The little noises that seem to be inadvertently let out by Bucky are so fragile, so full of emotion, so delicate that it makes his grip on the younger man a little tighter, wants to ensure he’s safe and protected. Bucky moves to arch his back, a small movements with a large payoff, lets out a high-pitched whine after a heave of a gasp that Steve feels under his palm. He knows what that gasp means, knows what that change of angle has to be doing for him and it makes him want to do it more, makes him want to hit Bucky’s sweet spot over and over again, wants to send him soaring. He winds his other arm tight around Bucky’s slim waist, under his shirt, keeps the other hand curled about his neck, and Bucky sobs, that little overwhelmed noise. “Steve,” he mewls and fuck he loves that, loves how Bucky sounds saying his name, it making him fuck harder, deeper. He purses his lips at the hinge of Bucky’s jaw. “Yeah, sugar,” he breathes, not really a question but an acknowledgement, lets himself groan heartily on the next exhale. “I’m gonna come.” It makes Steve groan again, makes him thrust harder, the slow pointed sound of skin slapping skin merging with the noises of a Saturday morning. He isn’t surprised it’s taken such a short amount of time for Bucky to reach the point of climax; he’s such a sensitive thing when he wakes up. “Yeah?” “Uh-huh, yeah, you’re gonna make me…god, gonna make me come, Daddy.” Fuck yeah. Steve might say it out loud, he isn’t quite sure, but he is damn sure his vision and focus narrow in on those words, make it all Steve wants, wants Bucky’s pleasure more than his own quickly approaching orgasm. The hand under his shirt (still swallowing up Bucky’s body, fuck) reaches up, finds one of those perfect little nipples, pinches it softly at first, then with a little more bite to it. The younger lets out his loudest noise this morning, a shout of a moan, so good. Bucky loves having his nipples played with, always has. It makes his knees buckle a little which then has Steve holding onto him as Bucky’s hands come up to grab onto Daddy’s head, hands in his hair. “Yes, god j-just…uh-huh, yeah,” Bucky cries, finally passed the point of formulating words. Steve turns, sucks Bucky’s earlobe into his mouth, lets out a hearty groan at the feeling of hands in his hair, of that little bit of pain of Bucky getting carried away and not realizing it. He moves his fingers to the other nipple, twists the first before he leaves, gives the second the same treatment. His eyelids drop, a side effect of Bucky’s sweet little cunt eating him up, trying to keep him inside, so tight and so goddamn good. “You want me to touch that pretty cock? You want Daddy’s help, baby?” The way his own voice sounds to his ears makes him realize he’s close himself, a little frantic and a lot breathy. Bucky makes a pitiful noise, shakes his head and lets out another hefty moan, much louder than the last. The hands in Steve’s hair go taut, he hears a tiny, “No, I-I’m gonna come, oh Daddy, I’m gonna—” He feels it before anything else, feels that clench on his cock, feels that heave expand Bucky’s chest beneath his grip. He fucks in a little deeper, jars Bucky’s body forward with the force, grinds in tight on that perfect angle and Bucky’s coming and it’s so beautiful, always is. His little legs tremble at the force of his climax, said tremble running up his torso, and Steve can feel it, that’s his favorite part—when he can feel Bucky’s orgasm. His voice is so low, feeling so much, he bites out every syllable onto the side of Bucky’s slack face. “Fuck, sugar that’s so pretty, look at that, god you’re gonna make me come, that sweet little cunt squeezin’ and milkin’ me, oh shit—” He can’t hold Bucky close enough when his orgasm quite literally crashes through his body. It’s low and tight and he feels it everywhere, makes him dip his knees a little and take Bucky with him only to press back up firmly, lean forward and put a hand on the counter to hold them both up. His own torso trembles alongside Bucky’s, just like his own noises of pleasure are spouted from his mouth, groans mixing with whimpers. It’s the perfect way to start a morning. Steve finds his nose digging into Bucky’s hair, breathing him in, snuggling the other man there on his feet. Bucky reaches forward with both of his hands, takes them out of Steve’s hair and moves to place one of his smaller hands on top of Steve’s own. He can’t stop looking at it, the gesture, the two of them together, intertwined in a plethora of ways, but so very easily. It’s so easy loving this man. An uncomfortable grumble rips Steve out of his thoughts. “Don’t tell me you’re already grumblin’, Buck.” “No, no,” he starts to chuckle, moves his head in the movement to look down, “This just isn’t how I pictured this morning going. It’s…it’s nice.” Steve purrs, squeezes his arm tight around Bucky’s waist, kisses him loudly on the cheek. “Mmm, is nice. Too bad breakfast is ruined.” Steve has been smelling the burnt pancake for quite some time now, is honestly concerned about whether or not his smoke alarms work. “How about we go back to bed since you wore me out and then we go to lunch?” Steve smirks. What else are weekends for? “Sounds like a plan, sugar bear.”

Hope you loved. ILY. 💗

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outroshooky · 4 years

Text

whatever in heaven | knj

⇢ genre: series; part three (mafia!au) (angst, fluff, smut)

⇢ pairing: kim namjoon x reader

⇢ word count: 5.8k

⇢ warnings: smut (soft d/s dynamics. grinding, oral [m receiving], brief use of the word daddy, marking, gentler dirty talk [praise]) angst (implied usage and mention of knives, nightmare), some fluff. this fic is a bit of a mind-fuck; there are darker themes here, so please read with caution.

⇢ a/n: i’m so excited for you guys to read the next installment of verses & vibes! a huge, huge thank you to my beta readers @sunkoos (go check out nas’s work!) and @hobiswitch; an even bigger thank you to @guksheart for not only beta reading this fic but posting this for me because of laptop difficulties!

...which leads me into, unfortunately, some bad news. my laptop crashed permanently over the weekend and i may have lost all of my files. i’m working to get them back, but this also means i have to buy a new laptop. thus, verses and vibes (and my writing in general) may go on hiatus until i can figure out a way to keep writing and posting new content. more updates forthcoming— for now, enjoy whatever in heaven!

“i know not if i could have borne

to see thy beauties fade;

the night that follow’d such a morn

had worn a deeper shade:

thy day without a cloud hath pass’d,

and thou wert lovely to the last,

extinguish’d, not decay’d;

as stars that shoot along the sky

shine brightest as they fall from high.”

⤷ and thou art dead, as young and fair; lord byron (george gordon)

It is always the same in the beginning.

He is kneeling on a concrete floor that goes on as far as he can see, cold and callous against the skin that peeks from the stringy rips in his pajama pants. A single light flickers above his head, murky cream, faded with age. His arms are bound behind his back with braided rope, biting vengeance into his tender wrists. His exhalations wisp pale smoke, rushing from his lips to touch the folded legs of a woman sitting just out of the ring of wired lamplight.

The supports of the chair are metal; he momentarily ponders how her skin isn’t dotted with gooseflesh through the thin fabric of her dress, but her cherry-red heels catch the light in a way that has his breath hitching. Something in him presses to reach out to her but he can’t, straining against his bonds like a feral cat caged. He snarls, a gritting sound in the silence of the warehouse, and she hums something seductive in return.

It is a dark heat that kindles in the pit of Namjoon’s stomach when he realizes he is staring at temptation herself, clothed in cherry pumps and scarlet lipstick. She is the antithesis of everything he should have and yet, yet—

He craves her more and more with every second that goes past. He doesn’t need to see her face to know that she is hauntingly beautiful, a devil crafted from memory, sent from hell to tempt him in all the ways she knew how. The blooming lust in his veins climbs with viney fingers straight to his brain, his head spinning, flying high; he barely knows what to believe. Somehow, she’s pulling on the strings of his thoughts, a marionette and his master dancing on the brink. One wrong string and the puppet collapses in a heap of cloth and kindling.

He groans, the sound of frustration and need echoing on and on in the dim room. She laughs velvet rich, sickeningly sweet. He wishes he could rend the binds from his arms, crawl to her, worship her the way she deserves; he shuffles forward an inch, two—

A plain black combat knife skitters to a stop in front of him, twirling once before coming to rest, just grazing his left kneecap. Resting potential against the crook of his leg, and he sucks in a breath when he feels the chilled edge level against the puckered scar on his knee.

She doesn’t speak, but Namjoon knows exactly what she means to say.

Thoughts clamor at the base of his skull, hissing seduction like a writhing mass of coiled snakes snapping for attention. They strike at one another, seeking dominion, and he’s nearly consumed by the din. A choice, cut out for him by the hands of fate, burned in the ashes of every decision he’s ever made. It boils down to this, to him and her and everything in between.

At one pellucid flicker of insanity, his hands are freed.

The ropes fall frayed to the floor and he straightens, rubbing at the burn in his forearms, rolling his neck to loosen the strain. His eyes flicker to her mass in the darkness, the shape of her just touched by the faintest tendrils of light. She is just out of reach, but so close, so far when her head tilts, a hint of fascination. He is mortal, she is eternal— a man reduced at the end of the day, stripped of money and power and the demons that lick at his heels. Greed is his master, but she is his, coveted in the secrecy of this cushioned nightmare.

He knows though, in the deepest reaches of his twisted soul, that only one of them will leave the warehouse alive.

In this horrible, shattered husk of reality, only one of them is destined to live.

And somehow, the choice has fallen to him.

Pick up the knife. Pick it up, feel it in your hands, smooth and weighted, perfectly balanced. Everything you’ve ever wanted is in the palm of your hands. Make the right choice. Do it for me, baby. For me.

Namjoon is pitted against his own self-preservation, warped desires clamoring for attention, needy yet sick. Needy, he is so fucking needy, but for what? Anticipation itches the back of his neck; he can barely think when the handle melds into the curve of his palm with such a sinful fit. The metal glints promise of things yet to come, but when he tilts the blade towards himself, he sees only the industrial struts that crosshatch the ceiling, the dust that hovers thick in the clogged, choking air. Emptiness and fulfillment, hand in hand, only a breath away.

You know what the answer is, Kim Namjoon. Do it. Do it for me.

Does he know? He must know, deep in the recesses of his bones. Deep inside the fucked-up mind of his, playing tricks on him; a trickster, what trickster? The last of his sanity is threatening to drip, melting like liquid wax onto the cool, callous cement. It’s bubbling in his hands, pouring through the gaps between his fingers, but when he shakes his head, a mad dog, it solidifies molten silver, black titanium.

Do it for me.

Do it for her.

He must.

Namjoon’s eyes flicker to her calf, following the silk of her skin to the hem of her saccharine dress; it flutters scarlet just out of reach. He’s on his knees now; there’s something pulling at him, some indeterminable force dragging him through the floor. The blade slips; the knife twists in his hands as he falls forward, and—

The air rushes out of Namjoon’s lungs as he writhes himself awake, mouth agape in an silent scream. He’s wheezing with the first rush of oxygen into his lungs, his lips swollen with gnashing of teeth as he twists away from the warmth settled next to him in the sea of rippling sheets, curling in on himself.

“Namjoon, are you alright?”

The broken man lifts his head, taking in the naked form upright in bed beside him, hair awry, concern bleeding every word.

It’s you.

He’s safe.

Indeed, Namjoon has had many dreams, but none quite like this one.

It is as if the very breath was sucked from Namjoon’s lungs when he first wrested himself awake in a cold sweat. Control is something he craves, something he owns save the late night hours when it is ripped from his hands by the sick desires of his own brain, playing tricks on him. He exercises his grip on every minutiae of his life, but when his eyes flutter shut and his conscience takes hold, it wraps a silken tie around his thoughts and begs him to pay attention.

You’re calling his name in a voice burdened by drowsiness. He knows you were awoken because of him but he can’t seem to think, to do anything else but sit here in this bed, in these rippling creamy sheets, and feel his lungs fill, empty. Fill, empty.

“Namjoon, love, breathe with me, okay?”

Breathing. Breathing is all he has been reduced to, a creature of the night with oxygen in his lungs and demons in his head.

You take his hand in your own, feels the slim digits trembling against your skin. You rub gentle circles into his knuckles and it somehow grounds him in the midst of the chaos, the overwhelming flood conjured from his worst nightmares. He watches as you carefully trace every crooked angle of his fingers with your own.

It is this simple motion that produces new thoughts, a mental clamor not of his own demise but for his own safety, the protection that he seeks. You are so much more than the sum of your parts: you are safety in the midst of a den of ruby-eyed cobras simply begging for a chance to strike. He’s never thought of anybody the way he thinks of you; there is no one else who comes close to you, and that’s saying a lot when it comes to his line of work.

“Namjoon, you’re safe, okay? You’re safe with me. We’re in our bedroom. You’re still the head of the most feared crime ring in the country. Nothing has changed. Yoongi is just outside the door; I’m right here. Nothing has changed, baby. You’re safe.”

Your words are warm against his skin, dotted with the press of lips to his temple, his cheek. You’re burning up against him, sweat beading at the roots of his hair, the silver strands falling low into his eyes. Somehow, the heat only serves to make him cooler, and he’s nestling into your arms before his mind catches up to his body. He’s safe. Somehow, in the roaring din of his mind, he is safe. His demons won’t follow him here, locked outside the door, palms scrabbling at the windows. The windows. Namjoon’s eyes flick to the glass and find the shades drawn, blocking out the ambient light that hovers thick on the other side. Bulletproof, he insisted, and for good reason. But Yoongi would have called if there was a problem, and he’s got Seokjin at the front gate, and it begins to seep in, sweet relief, that he truly is safe.

He is cradled to you like a child, a position compromising for a man of his stature, but he knows you won’t judge. Your hand trails from his thigh to his hip, his ribs to his shoulders, and your fingers nest in his hair, gently scratching his scalp. Lord knows he won’t be able to close his eyes until daylight breaks over the dark oak floor of your shared bedroom, but he hums and noses at your neck. You smell like sage and lavender with a touch of his own cologne, a memory of last night, and he inhales deeply, tries to savor the muskiness.

“You’re okay baby, I promise.” A kiss to his temple, another grounding touch. “I’m not going anywhere. I love you; you’re safe right here with me. Just let me love you, okay baby?”

Love. Love, a concept Namjoon knew better by verbal parry than by any real, tangible memory. It was wielded by a father he barely knew, an absent mother who preferred the company of socialites to the company of her own son. It was really a wonder he found it in him to love at all, really; he’d assumed he’d leave such an emotion to those who built a life out of a 9-5 day and mediocre sex. He’d been proven wrong, however, when you came along— you, once a high-profile escort in the dirty underworld he’d built for himself, proved yourself a worthy companion when you stayed beyond his guttural moans and dirty secrets. It was in fact, a moment like this when he realized he quite enjoyed your company, and there was something more to it than just a good fuck, an easy pussy.

You were the closest thing to real love he’d ever experienced, a home to come back to that wasn’t a prowling security team and a clean gun barrel. He’d exposed the grittiest parts of himself to you, the most private secrets and still you came back for more. You were just as fucked up as he was, really, and that was his favorite thing about you. You’d killed for him and he knew you’d kill again, and that was, very plainly, the matter of things.

Plus, that mouth made him see the stars more times than he’d willingly brag about at the poker table.

He presses a kiss to your shoulder, exposed through the lip of your shirt (his shirt, actually). It’s a careful kiss, chaste for him. Your fingers rub comfort into the base of his skull and he swears he could purr, an alley cat sleek and pleasured.

“You doing okay, Joonie?” Your eyes tell him everything he needs to know and he nods, unsure if he trusts himself to speak. Fear still gnaws at his bones, muted terror of a red-heeled succubus and a silver blade that gleams in the lamplight. Somehow though, you know, scraping the blunt of your fingernails against his roots. “You don’t have to talk to me about it if you don’t want to. I’m here regardless of that, you know me.”

Namjoon noses the column of your neck in reply, folding his sizeable frame until it molds against yours. Some things he’d never let the boys know about, but some things, he thinks, they knew about already. He is hard and cold and calculated yet soft and warm and comforting, a living contradiction unto himself; you’d never believe it if you hadn’t seen it yourself. A complexity of men who prefers to live by the simplest of rules, but you’d learned long ago not to try to understand something that was fucked-up from the start. Some things in this world were just fucked up, and that was the way they were meant to be.

Neither of you know how long you sit there, adrift in messy sheets, dry eyes gritty with the lateness of the hour. Your hand weaves through Namjoon’s hair as the vines around his heart flex, their thorny stems unraveling. He stopped shaking minutes before, but if you know anything about him, the internal tremors never cease, not outside of the safety of this bedroom, impossible with the life he lives.

He stirs a little, murmurs your name against your neck, his lips brushing bare skin and the small freckle that dots just above your collarbone. There’s something so intimate, so human about it, screaming vulnerability that hangs open and aching in the silence. His hands slide smooth across the breadth of your back, your waist, palms settling atop your thighs as he draws back slowly, slowly.

There’s a question in his eyes, one you meet with your own.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He hesitates.

“Namjoon…”

He swallows, tilts his head, steals a kiss. “I’m sorry.” Then another.

With the third you’re pulling away, chest steady, finger to his lips. “Namjoon, you’re not thinking clearly. We can’t do this right now—”

“Says who?” He is breathless with the thought. “I wanna make you feel good, baby. You deserve that.”

The sweetest words wrap themselves around the breadth of your bones, melting between the gaps. He’s always been so good with his tongue.

“Namjoon, I wanna make you feel good too, but not when you’re like this.” You shake your head. “Not when you’re waking up screaming about death and knives and all sorts of horrible things.”

His hands brush your curves. “If this bed is an ocean, I wanna drown in you.”

“Joonie…”

It’s so easy to work at you, the sharper edges that he can dissect piece by piece. He knows exactly how far to push, what little to say to reel you in hook, line, and sinker. “Just go with it baby, alright? Just trust me.”

It’s easy to fall into Namjoon, collapsing every time as he folds around you. His head tilts to the side as he leans in, his nose brushing your own. He tastes like mint toothpaste and something uniquely him, an element you can never place but when he’s exposing the most vulnerable parts of himself to you like this. His mouth moves easy against yours, just tender lips, warm kisses. His hand smoothes up your spine to cradle your neck, thumb brushing at the nape, the soft hairs that tickle the back of his hand. “Just relax baby, relax.”

Once more. “Joonie, are you sure you’re okay with this?”

He nods. “I want this.”

He’s never been one for kissing but tonight he craves it, the simplicity of two mouths and hands that fit themselves perfectly against the curves and the edges. Musk curls under your nose as your eyelids flutter shut, dusting the apples of your cheeks a pinkish hue. Your hands meet his chest, burning with heat through the oversized Grateful Dead shirt he wears to bed with you, and they slide to his shoulders when he slips an arm underneath you to tug you closer.

You settle atop the apexes of his thighs, legs folding around him as he gazes up at you. The utmost adoration he has for you, written in the stars and in two hearts that beat as one, rattling against their cages with a need for closer, closer, closer. Fear melts underneath practiced fingertips and patience; he’ll be damned if he doesn’t return the favor. His eyes, usually tawny and mellow, burn blacker than charcoal but sweeter than syrup, running with emotion. It’s evident in every brush of his hands against your bare skin when his fingertips edge under the hem of your shorts, the gleam in his eye that warns of everything that is about to come. One hand supports your back as the other squeezes your thigh, and you can’t help but smirk down at him with the easy smile that tugs at his own kiss-bitten lips.

You aren’t smirking, however, when he leans in and nips a bite at your neck, teasing with his teeth, making you whimper and whine atop him. His tongue pokes between his lips, assuaging the pain, and your own mouth falls open as your fingers clench at his shoulders, nails sliding a lazy path along his spine. He licks once at the bite, then once more until he’s satisfied with the petaled violet that blossoms across the breadth of your throat. He nibbles a matching purple rose on the other side; you can feel the smile on his lips when your mouth shamelessly tips open and you stutter out his name.

“Hm, what is it?” When he draws back, you moan a singular complaint. “What do you want, love? I’ll give you anything you want.”

“W-Wanna make you feel good,” you pant, eyes fluttering. “Wanna make you feel so good.”

“I wanna make you feel good too, baby. Let’s just focus on the now, yeah?” Namjoon’s hand squeezes your thigh but you’re already pressing your body flush to his, kneeling over him. You cup his face and he strokes your wrist lightly, the most tentative of touches, thanking god that somehow, in the midst of the lion’s den, you’d found him. He had you and he knew he could trust you, trust the smell of your shampoo and the heat of your skin. “Focus on me.”

You lean down to kiss him, brushing his cheekbones, tangling your hands in his hair, but apparently, Namjoon had other plans. His lips graze your own, trailing the edge of your jaw to pepper the lightest kisses at your ear and move lower, lower. When his mouth lavishes the column of your neck with the utmost pleasure, you can’t help but feel your core ache, the purest whines permeating the thick air as you beg. He’s definitely hard now, weight against the inside of your thigh, and the temptation— no, the need to grind down on him sparked the fuzziest pleasures in your mind, the most sinful ideas.

“Please Joonie, please feels so good, please, w-wanna—”

When Namjoon mouths wet at the shell of your ear you writhe, losing control with each second that slips between your fingers like sand. His lips burn fire against your already heated skin, sizzling and crackling like a live wire under his touch. You hiss and he growls deep in the back of his throat, continues his ministrations.

“I forgot how much you liked that,” he breathes shakily.

“You’re so fucking hot,” you gasp, releasing your iron grasp on his roots. Luckily he’s unfazed; damn lucky you to be with someone who actually enjoyed their fair share of kinkiness. “So fucking hot and you’re so thick, I can feel it—”

When you grind down on him, pressing yourself onto the growing bulge in his slacks and swiveling your hips with practiced ease, he groans feverishly. With every brush of the head of his cock, he’s harder than before, memory weighty in the palm of his hand. He chokes on the breath in his lungs, his nails blunt on your back, and he moans once in content. Feels so fucking good.

“God, baby, you’re gonna ruin me like this,” Namjoon chuckles.

“Maybe that’s the intention,” you trill.

“Fuck.” The word lies heavy in the air, heavy on his bated breath.

You smirk, sinful seduction in his ear. “And what if I did this?”

As his eyebrows furrow, you ease yourself onto his thighs, so strong and sinewy. Your fingertips slip down his shoulders, trace every muscle that strains under his loose sleep shirt. Beneath the fabric is the coiled power of a lethal creature, a tiger poised to devour his prey. And he is utterly wrapped around your finger, letting his head tip back against the headboard with a sigh. He’s lost in your touches, an angel fallen from heaven, no idea which way is up or down.

You rub circles into his hip bones; he twists under you. Practically begging with his gasps, knowing what awaits him. Your fingers toy with the hem of his boxers and he’s hissing between his teeth. “Baby…”

You hum a response, press a kiss to the shell of his ear.

“Please…”

“Oh Namjoon,” you coo. “You’re a mess, baby.”

He is. Hair sticking to his forehead, sweat gleaming at his temple; he’s a model for destruction, the dirtiest of kinds. Hips arching underneath you, and there’s a wet spot that stains the fabric. He smiles somehow, teeth flashing in the low light. “All for you.”

You withdraw, spit into your palm. “Then you get all of me.”

Your hand slips beneath the waistband of his boxers, finds his cock, thick and hard. At the first stroke, lazy and full, he can’t stop the raspy grunt that leaves his throat. “Shit, baby. Feels so good.” When you lower your head to mouth at him over his sweats he practically writhes, begging, needy. So unlike him, but a welcome change to see him falling apart, falling apart over you. The fabric is soaked with saliva and dotted with a pearl of cum, a carnal work of art.

You rub slowly down his length, thumbing the swollen head leaking his seed. It’s messy and wet and he’s moaning and it’s all worth it, worth it to see him wrecked like this. His balls are heavy in your palm; when your eyes flutter up to meet his, wide and expectant, Namjoon hisses. That sound enough jolts burning heat between your thighs, twisting devilishly in your stomach. “B-Babygirl?”

There’s question in the word, question that makes you pause. You moan against his clothed cock; he chokes on his words.

“Can I make you feel good too?”

A sloppy kiss pressed to his member. “Later, okay? I wanna focus on you right now, Joonie.”

His hand strokes through your hair, flyaway, disheveled. “You’re so good to me. So fucking good—” He chokes on the downstroke, fingers tightening out of reflex. “Want you so bad.”

You press. “How bad? Bad enough to want my mouth?”

“Shit, your mouth,” he whines. “Want your mouth, want you—”

“Joonie,” you murmur.

His heartbeat resounds like gunfire in the ringing silence.

“Lift.”

He lifts his hips as you tug, pulling his sweats down to his thighs, the fabric ridged underneath your perch. His cock falls free, standing slightly crooked against his still-clothed abdomen, rippling with tension. It twitches under the heat of your gaze, steadily seeping liquid bliss, and your mouth waters at the thought. It’s been so long since you took him like this; when it’ll happen again, who’s to say.

You pepper kisses along his thighs just to hear him whimper, feel the predator writhe in his own constraints. His hands burn their own trails along the curves of your body, spreading heat in their wake as you cave to your own desire, slipping a hand between your thighs when you take him in your mouth with practiced ease. He’s firm under your fingertips, lithe and sleek and powerful in all the right ways, but he falls apart when it comes to you, crumbles like rock under the breath of the tidal wave. He grunts sin from between gritted teeth but whines complaint when you pull back to tease, to draw things out. He’s gentle in his touches but firm in his demands, even through the cottony billows of his neediness.

“I-I’m close,” Namjoon stutters, skin crimson from lavished attention. There’s saliva smeared down your chin and tears twinkle liquid starlight on your lashes, but you’ve never felt more electrified, burning up at the seams for him. From the heated confines of your throat you withdraw his cock with a firm touch at the base, his fingers running through your mussed locks.

“Where do you want to cum, baby?”

He squirms. “Fuck. Wherever you’ll take m-me—” He shudders, ribs heaving. Your fallen angel, shattering under your touch. “Oh shit, I’m gonna cum for you, babygirl.”

“Cum for me, angel. Cum for me...” you murmur, gaze level with his own as you wrap your lips around his member.

“Gonna cum for you, fuck—”

“Daddy.”

The cavernous heat of your mouth is a slick warmth, so wet and warm and utterly divine. He loses himself in it, lets himself go, pushing towards that edge of no return, riding the crest of the wave as it rolls faster, harder, heavier. “‘M gonna fucking cum. Oh god, fuck, shit, babygirl, I’m cumming, I’m—”

A drawn out groan fills the air, raspy and thick and throaty as he thrusts into your mouth once, twice, spills over. He’s bitter on your tongue, acrid but you take it, swallow it all. It’s worth it to see the pleasure overtake him, to see him let go of every capacity and capability to fall drowning, dizzy. Whatever in heaven, above or below, he’s tumbling headlong into it, collapsing into himself like a burning star falling from the cosmos.

He’s the first to break the silence that falls, withdrawing himself and tucking his softening cock back in his sweats with a remarkable amount of composition for a man who’d just seen the very sparks of the universe behind closed eyelids. He chuckles breathless, bated. “Fucking hell, angel.”

You try to speak but merely croak at first, throat grating dry. He hushes you soothingly, easing you back on the pillows now soaked with sweat. “Let me get you some water, yeah? Just stay here for now.”

You whine a complaint— shouldn’t you be taking care of him?— but he’s insistent and already on his feet, legs shaky as he heads towards the bathroom. There’s a pang in your chest watching him go, the reality of the situation settling in, and vulnerability flowers in your heart.

The tap squeaks; the faucet runs. Room temperature water, not too hot but not too cold to soothe the burn in your esophagus. He knows you better than anyone, knows how to take care of you when you fail to take care of yourself, life spent always on the run. You’re the one holding him when his nightmares consume him, the steel that he draws from his belt to wield before him, the ultimate weapon. Yin and yang, black and white, blooming nebula and neutron star. The water turns off, a grating complaint.

It’s been too long; you’ve delayed too much. Play to his fantasy; he has no idea what’s coming.

“If the water’s not enough, I can send Yoongi for some tea— oh.”

Oh.

You are no longer prostrate, the limp rag doll exhausted from her play. No, you are stretched out on the bed, ass up on your hands and knees, silver glinting between your teeth as a pair of handcuffs dangles in the air. You are looking at him with fire smouldering deep in your eyes, blazing a burning glare straight through him.

The predator has become the prey.

“Daddy,” you purr, right on cue. “Come here.”

It’s automatic, the way Namjoon moves towards you, glass forgotten on the nearby dresser. He’s completely transfixed, fascinated by the possibilities, and when he reaches the end of the bed, you stop him with one outstretched foot, bare with the lateness of the hour. “Turn around.”

He’s so submissive, so compliant simply by the force of his own surprise. It’s hard to keep going, hard to push through the adrenaline thrumming through your blood, the underlying current that threatens to sweep you away, too. But you mustn’t listen, mustn’t feel.

“Hands behind your back, Joonie, baby.”

He’s perfect, perfectly whole in the way he follows each command that falls from your lips like silk spun thread. He surrenders himself so willingly to you, it stings raw.

You rise to your feet, level with the back of him. Your fingers make quick work of the cuffs and with a firm click, the deed is done.

With a tender motion that surprises even you considering the brevity of the situation, you wrap your arms around your torso, bury your face in his skin, inhale his scent. Amber and citrus. Musk and spice. Whole contradictions that somehow manage to summarize him perfectly. You whisper against his spine like it’s a secret. “I’m so sorry.”

“What, baby?”

You can feel his heartbeat against your cheek, thudding rapid with excitement, wonder at what lies ahead of him. Guilt roars its ugly head and you beat it back with double the force.

You stiffen, step away from him. Four years you’d waited to formulate these words, to hear them drop from your lips, plummeting on high. Four years and now the moment is here, and you swallow past the lump in your sore throat.

“Kim Namjoon, you are under arrest for charges of extortion, murder, murder-for-hire, drug possession, and arms trafficking. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you…”

“...Do you understand the rights I have just read to you? With these rights in mind, do you wish to speak to me?”

You’re sitting in the open door of a police cruiser, more specifically a SWAT cruiser, an aluminum blanket wrapped around your bare shoulders. The air is warm, but you can’t stop shivering.

Seokjin paces fifteen feet away from you, ever more handsome in his suit and tie. Hoseok is finishing his interview of the conclusion, anticlimactic for the better. Yoongi’s legs dangle from the open doors of one of the ambulances called when your colleagues expected the worst. Thankfully, no casualties had occurred but a sprained ankle, a fight between one of your fellow law enforcement officers and that guy that manned the back gate. Everyone can go home, rest easy.

After Seokjin’s interview is yours, and you realize by the time Hoseok is asking the last question that you don’t remember a single word of what you’ve said. Elite agents taking down the biggest crime boss in the country are not supposed to feel so empathetic, so broken. Guilty. Regretful.

Four years, the longest and most dramatic chase of your career. Justice fell, a swift hammer; you’d saved the day once again, added another face to the chalkboard in your sterile office a thousand miles away. You’d won. Hadn’t you?

There’s a faraway look in your eyes that Hoseok somehow understands, a glimmer of something more than success. He straddles the age gap between the members of the team, incorporating Jeongguk’s youthfulness with his elders’ experience, the glue of it all handed the most important task. He calls your name. “You’ve been out of it the entire time I’ve been interviewing you. What’s going on?”

“It’s nothing.”

But there’s no bite to the words, no whet of passion. They fall flat below the crackle of radios, the mist that reflects red and blue through the evergreen trees scraping the stars winking high above.

Hoseok puts his pen and clipboard aside. “Hey,” he says. The kindness in his tone pierces daggers through your heart. You somehow would’ve been more comfortable if he had yelled at you. “You did the right thing. He hurt a lot of people. Killed many more, and did so without remorse.”

That’s what you think, you want to scream. Because to you, he is some foreign criminal, far removed from any last dregs of humanity. He is a monster and a crook and a fiend, twisted into something unrecognizable, but you didn’t see what I saw. Did you see the warmth in his eyes when he rolled over and buried himself in my arms all those mornings in bed? Did you see the way he saved those dogs about to be euthanized in a shelter, because those pups reminded him of how he used to feel, staring death in the eyes every day? Did you see the way he loved me?

Hoseok pats your shoulder. “I’ll put in a month and a half of vacation time for you when we get home. Lord knows you’ve earned it. And we can rest tonight, rest for the first time in a while. We’ve got a nice hotel an hour away from here, top floor. We’re not done flushing out the rest of his boys, but that can wait for now. We can handle that on our own; they’re scattered all over the continent anyways. It’ll take time.” He picks up his supplies, turns to move on to Yoongi. The look in the elder man’s eyes, the special ops agent thinks, is exactly the same as your own. What had you two seen in that hellhole?

You tuck the blanket tighter around yourself and nod once. It’s the most you can do.

Hoseok smiles, but it’s not quite the beaming, sunshine-filled glow he usually carries about himself. “You did good work and I’m proud of you. Get some sleep, agent.”

Sleep does not come for a long, long time.

When it does, it eats away behind your eyelids, filling your mind with visions of a man adrift in an ocean of bedsheets, rocking on the waves of an endless concrete floor that goes for miles and miles, whispering promises of things to come that never would be.

Kim Namjoon is sentenced to life in prison for six counts of murder, fifteen counts of extortion, three counts of murder-for-hire, six counts of drug trafficking, three counts of arms trafficking, and two counts of drug possession.

He never makes it to see his twenty-sixth birthday.

#bts #bts smut #bts fluff #kpop fluff #namjoon smut #namjoon angst #kpop fanfiction #bts au #verses and vibes #outroshooky

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emma-nation · 6 years

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In My Veins - KamilahXMC Fanfiction (Chapter 9)

Summary: Inspired by Lovestruck’s “Havenfall is For Lovers” (Antonio). Amy is a regular, small-town girl looking for her first job in New York City. When she gets kidnapped by the powerful CEO, Kamilah Sayeed, she’ll have to discover her true goals… before it’s too late.

Genre: Romance

Rating: T

Tag List: @begging-for-kamilah, @ilovekamilahsayeed, @lulu-the-cat

Notes:

- English is not my first language, so I apologize for any mistakes - This fanfic is slightly inspired by Lovestruck’s story Havenfall Is For Lovers - Antonio, but I intend to make it more interesting and steamier too :P

- I hope you enjoy it, your likes and reviews are always appreciated.

- I’m sorry for taking so long to update this fic. I caught a flu and I’ve feeling like crap ¬¬

Even the exhaustion caused by Adrian's serum wasn't capable of making Kamilah sleep. She was lying, in the same position and eyes wide open for the entire night. A sudden movement made her whole body stiffen. Asleep, Amy turned to her side, wrapping an arm around her body. Tightly. As if she was seeking for protection. Kamilah was willing to protect her but... her beating heart, the blood running in her veins, were the only thing that separated her from having her beloved brother back. She had spent her entire life searching for a way to bring him back to life and when she found it, she was giving up. Was it betrayal? Was she trying to replace her brother with a mortal lover? Her mind wouldn't stop making all these questions.

In the morning, when Amy woke up, she was still awake.

"Good morning," the girl smiled and kissed her cheek.

"Good morning, Amy."

"Are you feeling better?"

"Not much, I'm still tired."

"Okay," Amy quickly stood up. "Then stay here while I prepare us some breakfast."

As Amy left, she grabbed her phone to read that email one more time. She took a deep breath. Adrian mentioned he was searching for an alternative, but what if he wasn't capable to find? And there were more people that knew about Amy's blood properties. If she decided to do it, it had to be immediately.

The girl came back bringing a tray of food, where she placed a glass of milk and a plate of pancakes. She also decorated it with a small vase of flowers. Before Kamilah could stop herself, the corners of her mouth curled into a smile.

"I know you like flowers," Amy spoke. "So I added some to bright up your day.”

"Hmmm, gerbera daisies?"

"I know only rare flowers to make your heart beat faster, but... I thought it’d cheer you up."

"Thank you, Amy," Kamilah grinned. "It was lovely."

After eating and thinking for a long time under the shower, Kamilah made her decision. She followed to her office, grabbed a pen and a paper to write some instructions. Then, she called Amy.

"I need you to do me a favor," she said.

"Sure, what is it?"

"Do you know the Metropolitan Museum of Art?"

"It's my favorite museum."

"You'll enter a unobtrusive side entrance with a numeric keypad. You’ll type this code. Inside, you'll meet a man named Scholar Jameson. Tell him I sent you and hand him these instructions."

"Okay..." Amy looked at the envelope, intrigued. "Can I ask what is this about?"

Kamilah sighed, remembering how curious Amy could be.

"He'll perform you a ritual called... Debriefing."

"A ritual? What kind of ritual?"

"It's for your protection."

Amy trusted her and followed her way to Musea Sanguis. She'd never return. By the next day, after waking up in her hometown, she'd receive a call. A job opportunity in California. She wouldn't remember Kamilah or anything that happened between them. She'd be far, far away from Kamilah's sight. Where she wouldn't be reminded that was a possibility of bringing her brother back to life.

"Good bye, Amy," Kamilah whispered to herself. "It was good while it lasted."

Amy followed Kamilah's directions. It was easy to find the entrance to Musea Sanguis. As she told, Scholar Jameson came to meet her. While he read Kamilah's letter, she examined the rest of the library. The rare artifacts, the books... All about the mysteries of the supernatural world. Only a few months earlier she'd have thought all of that was fantasy.

She grabbed a book and started reading it. Vampires of America, 34th Edition. She flipped straight to Kamilah's page.

"Kamilah Sayeed, CEO of Ahmanet Financial. Turned by Gaius Augustine, the second son, in 30 BCE..."

Gaius Augustine. As she read that name she felt a shiver going through her spine. Kamilah didn't like talking about him. She mentioned he had done horrible things to her. Amy started feeling an uncontrollable rage. She closed the book. Something else in another aisle of the library got her attention, an old, strange looking sarcophagus. For some reason she felt drawn, attracted to it. She took a few steps in the sarcophagus direction.

"Amy?" Jameson appeared, touching her shoulder, "are you ready?"

Amy shook her head, coming back to reality.

"Of course. Let's do it."

Jameson placed her seated on a chair. He asked her to close her eyes and started massaging her temples. His massage conducted her to a state of relaxation where she was unable to feel the sharp pain on her jugular. The liquid that Jameson injected made her weak, unable to express any reaction. She tried to scream but no sound would come out from her mouth. Before she could fall on the ground, Jameson held her with a smirk on his face.

“It was easier than I planned.”

Solitude. Quietness. After weeks in Amy's presence, Kamilah was alone again in her mansion. There was no sound coming from the living room, where Amy usually played video games or watched her favorite TV shows. There wasn't the sound of her energetic laugh or of her footsteps running around the house whenever she wanted to show Kamilah silly videos or funny texts she received from Lily.

At the same time, she was still everywhere. In the clothes spread around the house, in the Flamin' Hot Cheetos bags in the kitchen, the scent of her hair was still in the pillows...

She turned on the radio and grabbed a glass of wine. Amy loved expensive wine, she remembered. The song that started playing also described exactly how she was feeling at the moment.

Kamilah rolled her eyes. She wasn’t supposed to be grieving Amy’s absence. She should be feeling nothing at all. Amy was just another mortal. But a mortal she was falling in love for.

"Didn't you hear the door bell?" The male voice made Kamilah jump out of her chair and turn off the radio.

"Adrian, my apologies. I got a little distracted."

"Hmmm, I never knew you liked this kind of music."

"Not all modern music is bad."

She offered him a glass of wine and sat beside him on the couch.

"This house is strangely quiet... where’s Amy?” Adrian asked, after spending the next couple minutes looking at different directions of the mansion, looking for the girl.

"I-I... I sent her away."

"Kamilah, why?!"

"We were getting too close and having her around reminds me all the time that she's the only thing stopping me from having my brother again."

Unable to hide her unhappiness, Adrian involved her in a comforting hug.

"I collected a sample of her blood," he told. "I'm studying it and who knows someday we can find an alternative. You should call her back, Kamilah. You like her, I can see it in your eyes."

"It's too late," Kamilah lamented. "I asked Jameson to debrief her."

Adrian's expression changed, his eyes widened in fear.

"Oh no, we need to go after her right now," he got up from the couch straight to the front door.

"Why?" Kamilah followed him, not understanding his reaction.

"The reason why I came here... Jameson is working for Gaius. He's behind the ferals and Lily's attack."

"A-Are you sure?"

Adrian nodded confirming. He also suspected Jameson could be responsible Amy’s capture a few weeks before.

As soon as they made to the library entrance, Kamilah desperately typed the password multiple times, getting only an error message as response.

"T-They have changed it..." she punched they keypad.

"1...3...2...8..." Adrian patiently tried to confirm what she said. "They did. We'll need Lily to crack the new password."

Kamilah returned to the car, feeling angry at herself. She acted selfish, immature. Afraid of facing her feelings, she sent Amy to a trap. She could be dead right now and the fault was entirely hers.

Not so far away, Amy attempted to open her eyes but she was too weak, too drowsy. She barely could see anything in front of her. Her vision was blurry and unfocused. At distance, she could hear two voices on a conversation.

“Has my plan come to fruition?”

“Yes, Master. We’ve got the girl as you asked. Now, after draining all her blood, we’ll extract her heart and we can finally bring our Majesty back to life.”

The two voices got even more distant, indicating they were moving away.

“I need to get out of here,” Amy thought, forcing to keep her eyes opened.

She tried to get up but she was unable to move. When her vision finally became stable, she looked down, realizing she was lying on a bed and both of her arms and legs were restrained. Looking to her side, she noticed her blood was being drained by a machine. Uselessly, she attempted to free herself from the restraints.

"I'm not going to die like this!" She said to herself, before starting screaming. "Help! Somebody help me!"

No answer.

“Please...” she started crying. “Somebody get me out of here...”

She gave up, tears streamed down her face. She wondered if Kamilah noticed she was taking too long to come home. It was her only hope.

Minutes later, a figure rushed through the door. Pulling a katana from his back, he easily freed Amy’s limbs.

“Hurry! Let’s get out of here,” he ordered while unplugging her from the machine that was draining her blood. “They’re coming back.”

“I can’t...” Amy moaned. “I’ve lost too much blood...”

“Okay.”

The male figure took Amy in his arms and streaked away in a advanced speed. A speed only vampires could reach.

In security inside a warehouse, Amy finally had opportunity to look better at him and confirm, he had fangs and his eyes were glowing red.

"W-Who are you?" She questioned, unsure if he was an enemy or an ally.

"Nice way to say thanks," he spoke. "I'm Jax Matsuo."

#playchoices #choices stories you play #bloodbound #kamilah sayeed #kamilah x mc #bloodbound fanfiction

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lumiereswig · 7 years

Note

Dear @lumiereswig, I don't have a tumblr account, so I just quickly want to tell you (through here) that your writing is heaven-sent for me and for this awesome fandom. You write perfectly in character (like, everyone) and are so freaking hilarious I die laughing. I come to your blog every day whenever I need to get feels or smile - and you've never dissappointed me. Also, I feel like I need to request a fic if I send an ask, so what if Plumiere goes to Paris? And maybe a Moulin Rouge x-over?

omg you are best person. hello, best person. you too are heaven sent and have made this small trash heap feel that perhaps all the garbage fics are, in the end, worth it

obviously a moulin rouge crossover would be amazing, but everytime i try to write one i fall over laughing and can’t get up, so here’s a PLUMIERE IN PARIS fic because you are best person and here you go

Paris is different from how Plumette remembers it. When she left, it was clouded by the smoke of burning bodies and the coughs of the dying: plague-filled Paris, a gloomy shadow of its former glory, swallowing itself up in its own smoke. Now, the sun shines on the cobblestones. Old women, bundled up in their knitting and their groceries, amble across the streets with no fear of disease. There are children running around.

Lumiere is relaxed, and easy, and smiling. He tucks her arm into his, and takes in his beloved city with one sweeping arm.

“How long has it been since you were here, Plumette? Do you remember the sweet sound of the café cantinas? Have you danced beneath the stars in le Marais?”

“It has been about eleven years, my love,” she says. “But...I was too young, then, to spend time in those streets. I stayed at home—until I couldn’t, any more.”

He doesn’t pick up on the reluctance in her tone, the slight fear that is still there. The plague left no scars on Plumette that anyone can see—but her heart still holds one, from the sickness that took her family and former life.

“Come, then! You must meet my family. You must see my street!” He is twenty-three, and overflowing with joy; he has his love on one arm, and his city on the other. No curse has crossed his life, as yet. All he has is vivacity, and Paris, and Plumette.

Lumiere’s fine, golden coat lights up the streets as they plunge away from the richer areas of town—les Champs Elysées, les Tuilieries—and into the working districts of the city, where the grand boulevards give way to bread-shops and feral cats. His wig, his best, bobs high; he looks the picture of the royal courtier, and Plumette feels a prick of pride to have him at her side.

The store they stop at is extremely ordinary. Bottles and jars of herbs and powders are stacked up in the paned window; broken barrels crowd the stoop, and the roof is lopsided. A crooked, ordinary apothecary shop, that smells of mothballs and camphor. Standing in front of the door, resplendent in embroidery and gold buttons, her Lumiere looks supremely out of place.

“Your ancestral home?” laughs Plumette. “Come! Let me meet your family!”

He throws open the shop door without even looking. Her graceful courtier would know his way around this poor apothecary with his eyes shut.

“Papa! Maman! Where are you? Ach, mon dieu—I forgot how much I hate the smell of castor oil—Papa!—”

“Lumiere!”

She would never, ever guess that these people were his family. They are dressed as ordinary as could be: brown vests, black bonnets, hair tied back without adornment, spectacles pinched onto long noses. Though wait, now: the woman hugging her now, she has bright blue eyes in her broad, happy face; and his father’s nose is just the same, and the way his hair flops toward his face is so familiar.

“Oh, you are so good, you are so lovely, oh he didn’t describe you nearly enough—” Lumiere’s mother, small and fussy and Scottish, is almost shaking her with approval. “Oh but how do you put up with him? Take off that coat, there we go, oh my word she is Parisian, I haven’t seen such elegance in years—”

“Maman, you live in Paris!”

“Now you shut up, dear, and take off that wig—let me see the hair I gave you—”

He takes off the wig and lets his russet curls bounce free. When his parents aren’t looking, he ruefully rolls his eyes at Plumette; but she can’t stop laughing, and is dragged into the shop by the rough, glad hands of the shopkeepers. Lumiere’s father is quiet and contained; his mother is wired with energy, and bustles around to get them ordinary tea and a few ramshackle, half-burned cookies.

It smells terrible, in here. The sun hardly enters in. Dust and flour coats the boxes of herbs, and it is too cramped to dance, and too damp to sing. Next door, the neighbors are shouting. A badly tuned accordion is playing out the window. It is all noise, all ordinary dust and must.

And Plumette loves it.

It takes them hours to get away, stuffed on terrible Scotch eggs (merci, maman) and dull anecdotes on the quartier’s political situation (non! papan!). Lumiere breathes easy when they are back in the city’s grand streets, and puts the wig on again.

“I love them, Plumette, you know I do—but oof! They are so...bourgeois. I lived out in their attic by dancing and singing and studying etiquette. We can love our roots, but not abide by them.”

“I know you love them, mon coeur.” Affection was obvious, despite the sighs and secret feeding of the cookies to the dog. “And they are good people! A little...stuffy. But good.”

“But come! You must show me where you grew up! Show me Paris: Plumette’s Paris.”

He has no idea how much her heart’s scar aches, just then. But she leads him on—away from the humdrum streets, with their grannies and their children, and down a boulevard.

“Is this a shortcut, ma chérie?”

“Keep going.”

The streets get quieter and quieter; the gates grow higher, the people better dressed. Soon they have outpaced the sounds of Paris, and walk down grand highways, lined with fine mansions. And still Plumette keeps going.

The grandest house is at the end of the street. Gardens surround it. A fine, arched iron gateway keeps them from going in. Emblazoned on the iron is a feather motif: the insignia of a fine, noble house.

“C'est ici,” says Plumette, and watches Lumiere stare.

“This?!”

“Mon chéri, don’t lose it.”

“Which window was yours?”

She doesn’t expect the question. Gasps about her wealthy childhood, maybe a startled inquiry or two about what her title truly is—but the touch of home, in this question, knocks at her heart with gentle hands.

“That one. On the second floor—do you see? With the jasmine climbing up the windows.”

Lumiere nods and holds her hand. She did not expect this. Words are flowing fast.

“It was a beautiful room; bright and sunny—I had a bed of my own, and a vase with daffodils by the window—”

“Excellent taste.”

“And somebody—my grand-mère, I think—she hung crystals up, little glass stones to show the light. I liked to look at them as I fell asleep.” She remembers her grandmother now, in her white dress, and sees her worn old hands, brown like mahogany, pointing to the portraits on the walls, saying: and he fought with Charlemagne. He courted the Princess of Austria. She stunned the Prussians with her wit and her grace. And I almost became the Queen of England!

“More.”

“My mother had the smallest shoes—but the most of any woman at court. 500 different pairs, I think?”

“Truly excellent taste.”

And Plumette talks, as they walk around her old home, and though its gates are barred and locked she feels something inside her uncurl, like a budding rose. She hasn’t thought of her family like this, as healthy and whole and loving, in eleven years. Lumiere listens, and Plumette’s eyes mist.

“I lost them,” she says at last. Sorrow, sorrow: to end so much happiness on such a bitter note. Plague deprives her of a happily ever after. “And I ran away, and came to Villeneuve. And I love it there, you know I do—but I miss my home.”

“Bien sûr, ma chérie.” His arm is tucked in hers, now. “But, now—if all your family was gone, then who maintains these gardens?”

She stops and starts and stops again. The gardens look magnificent. The windows of the house are sparkling in the light. A face peeps out the window.

“Do you—do you think I still...?”

“Your ancestral home, non?” says Lumiere. “No one can live there except someone of your family. Let us go and meet the family!” And he opens the gate with a sweeping gesture, to take in all of Paris—and Plumette’s heart, as well.

#Best Person #plumiere #batb fanfic #Lumiere #Plumette #fuck thank you friend

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