๐ญ๐๐๐๐ ๐ฎ๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐พ๐๐๐.
LOCATION: ilsung's home โ chernoff estate โ upper extremities
NOTES: it's literally just
ilsung: cooking for my beautiful, insane wife
seojun: who the fuck burned my kitchen
TAGS: #ilsungselfpara #seojun
written for my oc park il-sung in IVORY CITY. 2022.
CONTENT WARNING๏น hint of murder and cannibalism, suggestive, ilsung can't cook to save his life.
people think the job gets easier once you're seated on the top. they don't realize that the work only starts from there,
โ if they only know how much trouble a deprived bewitched can cause in a day.
leaving said alexandrian to his devices most of the time proved to be a challenge as much as enabling the aforementioned creature to all devices; namely, everything that belongs to and with ilsung.
he finds it the hardest ways about how fickle and tempestuous seojun's fleeting nature is, but then again, it hasn't been often that he comes across a bewitched that made no attempts to vanquish him.
sometimes, he supposes; looking between his legs, seojun always had other ideas for ruining him.
ใ not so bright, are you? leaving the foil in a microwave... are you setting for a new record this year? ใ
the alexandrian's mirth mirrors ilsung's annoyed scowl. a pretensive expression opposite of the lax recline against the pillows, as his hand reaches for seojun's nape; fingers running through black strands, tightening his fist to tug and slightly tilting the other's head back.
the lights flicker as if to prove his point and seojun grins wider with that mad look, which sends another wave of irritation to push him one more step towards the edge.
ใ i used to hunt in the Old World. ใ stern tone matches frigid gaze upon the man who currently laid on him; and his other hand has his thumb pressing on the corner of seojun's lips. lecturing a spoiled child. ใ i don't have the luxury to learn how to use fire, when i lived most of my life ten thousand meters down the oceans. it's only after The Fall that i learned how earthwalkers like you have to eat your meat burned. ใ
ใ excuses, excuses. ใ another laugh. ใ far as i know, you're the only one i've met who caused a blackout with heating up pizza. how tragic! ใ
his lip twitches, eyes glower further with brows furrowed; a click follows the line of his tongue slithering past his mouth, taunting. he pushes seojun's head down to kiss the metal of his belt.
ใ interesting, because i hope you're prepared to blackout soon. ใ ใ ค ใ ค ใ ค ใ ค ใ ค he remembers the first time he stepped in a kitchen to actually use it for cooking, instead for decorative purposes.
he remembers how the bewitched had been newly captured, recuperating on his bed as he deemed the company's laboratories will not be able to hold an enthralling siren that nearly costed his life, if not for the luck of how those powers can come in handy when it comes to messing with seojun's psyche at the best and worst times possible.
worst, when the alexandrian's chaos magic keep recklessly throwing him everywhere. best, when said chaos magic saves his life by kicking seojun's head into dreams and delusionsโโ
which is partly one of the reasons that sustains their relationship.
he remembers how the younger male scrunched his nose at the first chicken soup that ilsung cooked out of those convenient packets, and it was telling that seojun held back from saying something when he offered to cook for the both of them starting that day.
but, that courtesy did not last for long.
ใ who the fuck burned my kitchen? ใ
an angry tone rises from the doorway, and ilsung's head perks up from behind the marble counter.
for fuck's sake, he just tried to remake these goddamned pancakes for the fifth time.
ใ good morning. i'm cooking for my beautiful, insane wife. ใ
nevertheless, that was the last of that. ใ ค ใ ค ใ ค ใ ค ใ ค ใ i still need that guy, ใ ilsung comments on a night that seojun's mood points to a western cuisine. his fingers card through the other's hair, playing with the strands at the end. falling into routine as usual, with seojun languidly taking his space atop ilsung's body, and ilsung's arms holding him close.
going home to seojun, excitedly chattering about a new recipe with traces of ashes in his spare office in the house means only one thing.
a headache begins to bloom behind his eyelids, and he rolls his eyes.
ใ not anymore you don't. ใ
ใ you can't keep killing all the staff you see. ใ
ใ isn't this what firing them is about? ใ
ilsung sighs, brushing his palm over seojun's eyes before he kisses his forehead.
ใ not with their ashes on my floor. ใ
they both know it's useless to hold each other to their promises except for exceptional times that such promises do matter, but ilsung still believes him anyway.