#FUCKING DO U SEE ALL THAT CRINKLY FABRIC

[passumstars]

Try to keep up please

[unbridgeabledistances]

hi so @self-absorbed-pretty-boy (💖💖) sent me an AMAZING list of prompts a week ago and while i had truly no time this week to do as much writing as i wanted, here is a 4+1 thing i whipped up between classes that is pure husband fluff— i hope u all enjoy<3

prompt: the first time mickey calls ian his husband in front of a stranger (could be a cashier, a pharmacist, a cop, some weed buying college kids, you decide)

--

The first time that Mickey did it, he didn’t even really realize it— it was a slow Tuesday morning, just after their “honeymoon,” when he woke to the abrasive, slanted sunlight streaming in through the blinds. He immediately noticed that the house was silent, surprisingly quiet from any of the classic Gallagher clamor that usually bounced through the thin walls in the mornings, especially these days with Franny and Liam in their final weeks of the school year—and the absence of noise made Mickey curious enough to rub his eyes and open them, finally pulling himself out from the last warm dregs of sleep.

Ian’s arms were wrapped around him, a comforting spoon bear-hugging him in close, and Mickey took a moment just to take in the sensation of the solid, sleeping weight of him— he could feel the rise and fall of Ian’s ribcage pressed against his back and the soft fabric of the t-shirt that clung to Ian’s chest, the only barrier between him and Ian’s pink, sleep-warmed skin. Mickey rustled in Ian’s arms, reaching for his phone on the bedside table; and no wonder there were no cabinets slamming or lunches being packed or Debbie screaming that they had to get out the door— it was nearly noon for some fucking reason, and he and Ian were still sleeping like babies.

Which, okay, maybe that had to do with the fact that last night involved lots of tugs of hair and searing kisses and bodies pressed together until late into the night— Mickey felt his lips tick upward at the memory of it. But still— ever since returning a few days ago from their honeymoon in the dingy motel with the musty satin sheets, they had both been tired; the last few months had been compounded by a release from prison, a murdered P.O., the engagement shitshow, and a wedding to top it all off, and each incident had pushed a sense of normalcy more and more off-kilter, until finally they both just had to crash.

There was no mistaking that this was harder, more draining, for Ian; he was trying to sink back into a routine existence in the Gallagher house after all of the events of the past few months, and it was clear that he was still reeling from the shift— Mickey could see it now, in the way that Ian was so deeply sleeping well past noon, a dead weight pressed close against him.

Mickey scooted himself up to a seated position on the bed, letting Ian’s arm limply fall off of him and cascade onto the bedsheets with a muted thud—and again, he let himself take a moment to just look at Ian, his mouth parted and breathing steadily, the light coming in through the blinds illuminating the constellations of freckles smattered across his face and cheekbones, threads of sunlight weaving between the strands of bright, rusty hair on the top of his head that were partly splayed onto the pillow. Since getting home Ian had been slicking his hair back less now, and letting it grow wiry and wild and curled—Mickey fucking loved it, and he couldn’t resist reaching a gentle hand out to brush Ian’s hair back from his forehead, feeling its mossy give. He took it all in; the tides of Ian’s even breathing, his fully relaxed face, and the blossoming blue rings of exhaustion that were still there under his eyes, even in his sleep; and Mickey felt a swell of gratefulness that Ian was still sleeping soundly, that he could sleep all fucking day if he needed to, at least for now while they were just getting back and settling into a rhythm—if Ian deserved anything, he deserved to recharge.

Mickey silently sat beside him, absentmindedly scrolling through his phone and every so often running a hand through Ian’s hair—because, fuck it, his husband was sleeping next to him, soft and warm, and something about touching Ian always grounded him. He was leaning propped on a pillow he’d shoved between his back and the wall, and was just beginning to contemplate putting on the tattered robe he’d found in one of the stray bedroom drawers and dragging himself downstairs to make some coffee when he heard a buzz from Ian’s phone on the nightstand, and saw the screen flash with a silent alarm:

“PICK UP MEDS”

So ultimately that was the reason why Mickey forced himself to crawl out of bed that morning— or afternoon was more accurate— and detached himself from the cocoon of his husband’s warmth to go for what was usually Ian’s own Tuesday morning walk every month before his shitty shifts with Paula to go over to the pharmacy and get his meds. He bounded down the front steps of the Gallagher house, turning the corner to walk down a few blocks to where the sagging houses turned to the brick storefronts and neon signs of the few ramshackle businesses that were left on the Southside. Since getting back a few days ago, he and Ian had barely done anything except lounge around the house with everyone, settling in— and now Mickey realized how long it had been since he’d gone for a walk outside, breathing in the not-so-fresh Chicago air that smelled of gas exhaust and cigarette smoke, but also of something earthen and familiar. Sunbeams were radiating off of the sidewalk, and the air was cool, like the late spring weather had finally just broken into something crisp and clear— Mickey let his feet carry him over the pavement past the dingy corner store with the faded sign hanging crooked above the awning, and then two more doors down to the business with the glowing red and white sign that read “SAVE RITE PHARMACY.”

Mickey entered the pharmacy, hearing the tinkle of a bell as he pushed through the glass door.

There was no one really in the store on a Tuesday afternoon— his eyes adjusted to the waves of artificial light bouncing off the white shelves that contrasted with the soft glow outside. Mickey made his way through the aisles to the pharmacy counter at the back of the store, and was met with a middle aged woman in a lab coat typing on a computer.

“Hey. I’m, uh, pickin’ up for Gallagher.” Mickey slid his ID over the linoleum counter, quickly doing a double-take to make sure that this was a real ID and not one of his fake ones; not that it would really matter anyways, no one was getting high off of whatever shit Ian was taking on the daily.

The woman glanced at Mickey’s ID over the rim of her classes, then clicked the mouse a couple of times.

“Gallagher. Just one moment.”

She turned and filed through a few organized-looking bins, and retrieved a crinkly white paper bag and placed it on the countertop. Mickey stood there in silence, listening to the heavy thud of keys typing on the desktop computer.

“And who are you in relation to Mr. Gallagher?”

Mickey opened his mouth—and for just a millisecond, he let himself pause. Usually he just said “partner,” or sometimes “family” when the situation required him to be vague—but in this moment, he had a flashing realization. They were married—and today he got to drop that word, and all the weight of it, into the empty aisles of the drugstore on a Tuesday afternoon. Mickey cleared his throat.

“S’my husband.”

Mickey couldn’t help it—there was some weird, warm, giddy rush in his chest as he said it. It wasn’t natural yet, and he almost fumbled over the word as it fell out of his mouth, like a kid trying to swear for the first time— but he said it. And the pharmacist barely flinched—which, thank fuck for that, after the whole geriatric florist incident a few months ago. She just gave him a curt nod, a half-smile, and she handed Mickey the paper bag and a printed receipt and sent him on his way.

And so what if Mickey stopped at the grimy corner store on the way home and bought a pack of cigarettes for himself and a fucking Kind bar for Ian, because he knew he liked that shit— and so what if there was a little extra bounce in his step as he walked back from the store, his arms swinging by his sides in the cool, early summer breeze as his feet hit the sunwarmed pavement and he headed home to his husband who was curled up in the warm safety of their bed, sound asleep.

His husband.

**

The second time it also just sort of… tumbled out of Mickey’s mouth, a little more naturally this time. It was a day or two later, and he and Ian had finally rejoined the land of the living— and to Debbie, that meant that the two of them were now available to be drafted into a circuit of random chores and errands with lists of shit to pick up, tasks that Ian tried to squeeze in between shifts at his new warehouse job and that Mickey mostly just ignored. But much to Mickey’s dismay, there was no getting out of their assignment this afternoon; Debbie had some hotshot welding gig on the Northside and Frank was nowhere to be fucking found, and Liam needed a parent or guardian to come to his parent-teacher conference at the end of the school year. Liam had softly voiced this information in the swirling hurricane of conversation at dinner the evening before, and Ian couldn’t resist saying that he and Mickey would go, even though Mickey had repeatedly kicked his shins hard under the kitchen table and passed him a series of dagger-like glares. Mickey didn’t realize why Ian had volunteered the both of them to go to this shit— it was Ian’s brother, not his— but after lots of long glances and fucking puppy-dog eyes and some very intense manipulation the night before, when Ian whispered into the crook of Mickey’s neck at a very inconvenient time and said with a mischievous smile “C’mon Mick, I don’t want to go alone”—well, let’s just say that was how Mickey ended up weaving through the sweltering, barren hallways of Liam’s public school on some random muggy summer afternoon with Ian, trying to find Liam’s teacher’s classroom.

As much as Mickey did not want to be here right now, in the paint-chipped locker-lined halls of the public school that mostly just brought up a lot of angsty memories of dirt under his fingernails and cardboard signs written with sharpies and pasted up with duct tape, the whole thing also felt vaguely nostalgic— like those days before everything went to shit and he’d gotten married to Svet, just after he’d busted the fuck out of juvie and was trying with all of his might to force down all the tidal waves of feelings he had about gangly fucking teenage Gallagher with his crew cut and his camo pants—and walking through the halls next to Ian, feeling his tangible presence beside him, was enough to keep Mickey’s mind from veering into other darker places about his own wasted potential.  

“Where the fuck is this room, anyways?” Mickey huffed out. All the rows of lockers looked the fucking same, and all Mickey wanted to do right now was go home and lay back on the couch and sip a cold beer, instead of standing in this stuffy hallway with sweat dripping down his neck.

Ian playfully elbowed Mickey between his ribs. “We’re in Liam’s school, Mick. You’re not supposed to say ‘fuck.’”

“Fuck you.” He flipped Ian off for good measure.

Ian halted in front of a closed classroom door, glancing down at the slightly crumpled piece of paper that Liam had written his class number on.

“I think this is it.” Ian softly rapped his knuckles on the classroom door, and a young woman in a pencil skirt appeared to open it.

“Hi, lovely to meet you both. You must be Liam’s dads?”

Mickey spluttered out a laugh, a surprised noise catching in his throat. His first feeling was a flicker of annoyance at this random lady, that always popped up anytime someone so immediately knew he was gay, which probably had to do with some deeply internalized shit— but his second feeling was a warm sort of astonishment. Liam’s dads?

He and Ian could be someone’s fucking parents someday. Fuck.

Ian’s cheeks had turned slightly pink, like he was equally as affected by the assumption— so Mickey spoke up, trying not to sound like his insides were squirming as much as they were.

“Nah, man, you got it all wrong. I mean— not totally wrong, he is my husband. But we’re not his dads.”

Ian’s ears nearly perked up when he heard the word— this was the first time they’d called each other husbands so casually out in the world, while they were both in each other’s presence. A crooked smile crept onto Ian’s face, and he tentatively reached out to ensnare Mickey’s fingers in his.

“Yup. Husbands.”

Liam’s teacher just looked at them, raising her eyebrows expectantly, like she was slightly confused.

“Alright. So, who are you to Liam, then?”

Ian let out a quick breath of a laugh. “Oh, right. I’m Liam’s brother.”

And as Ian led him by the wrist to sit beside him in a fucking uncomfortable plastic chair meant for ten-year-olds, chattering away with Liam’s teacher, all Mickey could think about was the blood rushing hot, hotter than usual between his ears.

He didn’t know if he’d ever get tired of calling Ian his husband.

**

Mickey had never given much thought to pet names, or any sort of frilly bullshit like that, with Ian—every time that he called Ian something that wasn’t just “Ian” or “Gallagher,” it was some punchy and witty nickname that he’d concocted in the moment in an attempt to make a smile burst onto Ian’s face, with “sugar-tits” and “babyface” being his personal all-time favorites; but never any of that sappy bullshit that other couples called each other, like “babe” or “honey” or other garbage.

But, fuck. Fuck if Mickey didn’t love the fact that he could call Ian his “husband” now, that he was allowed to just do that, whenever anyone was in earshot.

It was a late night at the Alibi, the first time that most of the Gallaghers had been out of the house since the pandemic started; the mayor had finally loosened some restrictions, and Kev had sent a text to the Gallagher family group chat with way too many cork-popping emojis telling everyone to come by the Alibi after their respective evening shifts—and when he and Ian had walked through the door nearly half of the neighborhood was there, including Sandy and Debbie, and a bunch of random Southsiders that most of them hadn’t seen for weeks or months.

Kev had immediately handed Mickey a foamy beer as he walked through the door, and readily poured Ian a shot of Jameson—and now the room was pressed tight with bodies, full of random-ass neighbors puffing on cigarettes and some music playing low, the air hanging heavy with the fog of secondhand smoke and boisterous conversation. At one point, after taking one too many sips of something, Sandy had convinced Kev to give her control of the aux cord—and now the music turned more upbeat, and some of the younger people in the room had started dancing, which obviously caused his over-enthusiastic husband to grab Mickey’s wrist from where he was seated at the bar and pull him into the crowd. And maybe it was just the fact that Mickey hadn’t been around so many people for so long, or maybe it was the fact that he could see that Ian was having a good time, his cheeks flushed and glowing in the dim lights— or maybe it was just that he’d had one or two more beers than usual, if he was being totally honest, but Mickey was feeling happy and light, feeling a buzzing in his veins.

And now they were dancing, and Mickey was just kind of shuffling side-to-side and probably looked ridiculous but he didn’t really care, and the room was getting hazier with smoke, and he could feel the heat rushing to his cheeks and the bass of the speakers thrumming in his chest and the rising tide of his pulse and he felt alive, alive—

And Ian’s body was pressed next to his, doing that stupid fucking dance move he always did where he just kind of bopped up and down with his hands raised above his head with the energy of a golden retriever— and Mickey couldn’t fucking help but lean in, pressing his lips close to meet the shell of Ian’s ear; and yes, they’d been married for a couple of months now, but he couldn’t help the airy feeling rising up, bubbling up in his stomach from the heat of the flames licking at his insides that made him whisper:

“We’re fucking husbands.”

Mickey knew Ian could feel his hot breath in his ear, could smell the whiskey on his lips—and Ian’s eyes lit up, his mouth splitting open in a tipsy grin.

Ian hummed and tilted Mickey’s chin up and pressed their lips together— there was light dancing in his eyes, and Mickey loved him, and he was his husband.

“Yeah. Husbands.” Ian murmured the words against Mickey’s mouth under the music, into the air between their lips.

“Fuck.”

And in that moment, Mickey realized that he’d never really known happiness before, not really— because nothing could fucking compare to the feeling of having his hands wrapped tight around his husband’s warm hips, while Ian’s arms were slung over his shoulders and Mickey could burrow his face into the sweet skin at the crook of Ian’s neck…

And yeah, maybe Mickey could get into the idea of calling Ian his husband a lot more often.

**

It was the evening on some run-of-the-mill weeknight after their security runs, and they were at that fancy hotel gym they’d gotten a trial membership of weeks before— Ian had loved the fancy weight machines and the steamed towels so much (and let’s face it, Mickey had also definitely enjoyed the fact that he could check guys out in the steam room) that Mickey had used some cash he had on hand (of questionable origin, which just made Ian frustratedly roll his eyes) to get them both a membership at the place for a month— and Mickey had to be honest, working out under mood lighting and mirrored walls with a bunch of chiseled gay dudes beat hauling kegs around the musty back room of the Alibi any day.

So now, they made a habit of stopping by the gym after work, typically parting ways after stripping off their camo by the lockers to go do their own thing in the weight room. At the current moment, Mickey was standing off to the side of the open floor plan, leaning against a weight rack and curling a 40 pound dumbbell into his bicep— but more accurately what he was doing was drooling over his husband, who was across the room with his tank top sticking to his skin, energetically hitting a static punching bag hanging from the ceiling. Mickey let his eyes bore holes into Ian from across the room, watching the sweat gleam on Ian’s body, watching his muscles ripple—and fuck, he was married to a fucking Greek god, like those fucking sculptures he saw in textbooks at school that made his blood run hot when he stared too hard, wasn’t he?

Mickey was so fixated on watching Ian that he barely noticed when his upper arm started to burn, and he realized that he’d forgotten to keep track of how many times he’d curled upward. Fuck it. Mickey bent down to place the weight back on the rack—and that was when he noticed another guy, some scrawny, slender dude wearing a neon-green tank top and with fucking hot pink sweatbands on his wrists, who had his eyes locked in on Ian from across the room almost intently as Mickey did.

Tank Top noticed Mickey staring at him and sheepishly smiled, putting a hand on his hip—and then in the spirit of light gym-time chatter, something Mickey was definitely not interested in entertaining, the dude opened his mouth.

“You think he’s gay?”

The old Mickey, Mickey from a few years ago, would’ve pummeled this guy’s sorry ass for even looking at Ian the wrong way, and even Mickey from a few months ago would’ve felt some sort of anxious panic or jealous fear that someone other than him desired Ian— but today there was a heavy band of silver pressing into Mickey’s finger, and he could feel the solid weight of it. So Mickey just raised his eyebrows, and gave a passive reply as he placed his dumbbell down and strolled past Tank Top Dude to walk across the room towards Ian:

“He’s my husband, asswipe.”

**

It was late— all there was in the empty room was a half-deflated air mattress, sinking under their weight. The streetlight beamed in through the paper-thin curtains— they would definitely have to invest in a better pair to block out the light, but that was an issue for tomorrow.

Right now Mickey and Ian were just sprawling out on the mattress, letting themselves sink into it—their few boxes of belongings were stacked along the wall, the papers had been signed, and now they could let themselves breathe.

Ian cradled the back of Mickey’s head in his hands, giving him a quick peck just above his eyebrow. “I’m fucking exhausted.”

Mickey breathed out a low chuckle. “Yeah, man, me too.”

Ian rustled, turning onto his side on the wobbly mattress to face Mickey fully. “‘Man?’ You’re my fucking husband. I think we can do better than that.”

Mickey smirked, leaning in close to hover over him. “Whatever you say, husband.”

[hansoulo]

ain’t it a gentle sound (the rolling in the graves) - pt. 5

Pairing: Horacio Carrillo/f!Reader

Warnings: grief, heavy angst, mentions of Hard Emotions and Past Events. it’s not super specific and it’s in the context of healing/working through those things but ik reading that can be hard so pls take care!! also talks about hospitals? no gore or anything but :P reader and horacio have a mini therapy sesh and then make out for a bit >:)

Word Count: 2.6k

A/N: it’s taken almost a month but here u go 💀

masterlist  playlist  moodboard  gif by @el-cheung​

You’d been given time off from your shifts at the hospital, courtesy of the whole “kidnapped and experienced blunt trauma to the head” thing, but you were due back soon and knew you couldn’t keep dragging your feet. As much as you wanted to dig your heels in the sand, to bury your head in it until everything was muffled and coarse and static, you couldn’t. Not forever. You had a job and responsibilities and friends and a fucking life to get back to but everything still felt splintered and raw, pieces that were just starting to come together breaking apart again and leaving you, sitting on the cold tile of your bathroom floor heaving gulps of air like a drowning man and feeling just as desperate.

Everything had been too much, too slow and too fast at the same time and you just needed… space. To think. To try and not feel so fucking guilty and rotted from the inside. It had been eating at you, gnawing aimlessly for so long you hardly even noticed it before pushing it back down but now, now it was tearing you apart limb from limb with slow-snapping teeth, screaming everything and everyone you’d been trying to forget since this whole shitshow started. You used to be normal.

You used to make grocery lists and get called pet names and go to dinner parties. You used to gossip with the other military wives, sip wine with a warm hand on your knee and a chest against your back. You used to have so many things. Then… then you didn’t. And you were just starting to be okay with that because you could at least pretend you had him. For a moment, you did. You had him and he had you for a brief, sparking moment that felt like fire and tasted like blood but was the best thing you’d ever known.

Now you didn’t have anything. And it was your own damn fault.

You could hear Dr. Reyes’ voice in your head now, chiding you with a shake of her graying head. It’s not your fault, she’d say to you as you sat on the crinkly fake leather of her office couch, wringing a tissue in your hands until it chafed your palms. She’d called a few times since you’d come back - back, not home, because it wasn’t really home - concerned as to why you hadn’t been making it to your weekly sessions. Her voice was warm, familiar and grounding and a little pitying but you didn’t really mind. It was kind of in a therapist’s job description to pity. Maybe that wasn’t the right word but you appreciated the concern all the same, assuring her that no, you were alright and just not feeling very well. The last part wasn’t even a lie, because the ache knotting something awful in your head had yet to subside.

Horacio had taken you to the hospital after he got you out of the safe house, sitting in the waiting room and dwarfing the little plastic folding chair. He was still wearing his tactical vest, the gun holster digging into your hip as you leaned on him. You could barely string two sentences together with the bright fluorescent lights glaring in your eyes, so you’d screwed them shut and pressed your forehead into his chest, listening as he explained what happened to the receptionist.

You remembered her asking if you were married, feeling the shake of his head as his chin dipped slightly against your hair. Are you in a relationship? Another shake, Horacio’s arms sliding down to help prop you up on your feet. You didn’t really expect him to answer differently. It still stung a little bit, though. 

An hour later and you’d walked out with a mild concussion diagnosis and a prescription for some painkillers, pressing the heel of your hand to your temple as Horacio led you back to the Jeep. You tried not to think about the bullet holes in the passenger side door and how tightly his hands gripped the steering wheel.

He probably doesn’t have great memories of hospitals, you’d mused with your head lolling against the window, gaze bleary and unfocused as it swept over dusty backroads. With his wife and all. You hummed as the thoughts churned through your head, making your expression in the glass frown a little deeper. Maybe that’s why he always came back to his apartment so roughed up. Probably doesn’t like going if he can help it. I wouldn’t either, if I had to watch my wife die. I’d hate it.

⫸ -------- ⫷

Horacio sank deeper into the couch cushions, a hand cradling Isabella’s head as she lay across his chest. She was sleeping soundly for the first time in days and he let out a sigh, careful not to jostle her as he reached over to the phone on the table. He’d forgotten how difficult it could be, without you there.

He wanted to call. He wanted to see you, to talk to you, to do something. The plastic cord of the telephone tangled slightly when he held the receiver, thumbnail dragging over the buttons and catching on the shallow grooves of waxy plastic. It warmed under his hand, grown restless and waiting. He set it down again.

Your voicemail left two days prior still fogged his head like the static message of a radio, the signal too soft and too out of reach but still carrying over enough to whisper and root itself in every waking moment. It’s just- it’s just too much right now, Horacio. Maybe we can work it out. Maybe not. I- I don’t know. Take care, alright? I lo-

You’d ended the message then, the dial tone ringing mocking and sour in his ears.

⫸ -------- ⫷

It was Friday night. You were due back on Monday, but it was far enough away that you could pretend not to care. Things were a bit better now. You were eating and showering and doing laundry. Responsible-type things. You could finally sleep through the night, even if you were plagued by nightmares. Sleep was sleep, right?

He wasn’t sleeping much, though. Not tonight, at least. Undercut by the sound of Isabella’s fussy cries, you could hear him pacing. You laughed a bit, not because it was funny but because it was familiar.

Before you could realize what you were doing, you slowly padded over to the door, not caring that you hadn’t brushed your hair or were wearing old pajamas. He’d seen worse, anyways. You wordlessly took the baby from his arms. His eyes seemed sunken in, a bit darker and a bit more hollow. You didn’t say anything, though. Neither of you did. You just stood in the hallway, a quiet agreement to not look each other in the face blanketing the air in a way that made your tongue stick to the roof of your mouth.

She settled quickly against you, hiccuping breaths slowing underneath your touch. The air was hot, humid and sticky with the Colombian summer in a way that made your head soupy. You could hear cars in the distance, sirens and horns and all the violent things that had led him to you and you to him. You pressed a kiss to the top of Isabella’s head, smiling at the way she smelled like the color pink - the innocent softness that you’d grown to love like it was your own. You missed it.

Horacio’s eyes were downcast, broad shoulders taking up most of your field of vision in a way that had your throat closing up. You reached out to place her back in his arms, clearly your throat awkwardly when your hands brushed. He mumbled a thanks and you shook your head, stepping back towards your apartment. Your hand rested on the doorframe, tangible evidence of your hesitancy as you stood with your back still to him.

You turned, the ghost of your profile just catching the way he glanced up when you opened your mouth to speak. “I-” you began and then let the word drift off, hanging heavy and uncertain. A whispered goodbye finally escaped your lips as you turned the knob, the metal searing cold against your skin.

⫸ -------- ⫷

Still Friday night. Or Saturday morning. Hard to tell, in the witching hours when everything was dampened and tilted sideways. You felt tilted sideways. Off-balance. You didn’t even remember leaving your apartment.

Your steps faltered, the few yards from your door to his stretched out until it lay miles away, a distant exit on a road you’d been down before but couldn’t for the life of you remember when or why or how to get back on. Wrenching your eyes shut, you let your forehead fall against the plaster of the wall beside you, the stucco cool and pebbling hard beneath your skin. The air was tight in your chest, shallow breaths doing nothing to ease the choking feeling in your throat. It was like hands were wrapped around you, pushing down on everything until you felt ready to burst.

Legs moving of their own accord, you found yourself standing outside his apartment entrance, the painted wood staring back at you, impersonal. What were you even doing?

The door opened just as you were about to turn away, hinges creaking slightly and making you wince. He called your name, voice soft and slightly confused. It was late. Were you okay? Was everything alright? He didn’t get to finish the last question before you fell into him, arms thrown around his neck and gripping the fabric of his shirt so tight your knuckles paled. “I need you,” you whispered, your voice thick with tears.

You buried your face in his neck and his breath fanned out over your hairline, tickling your cheek when he looked down. “I’m sorry- I’m sorry but I- I just-”  He quieted you, whispering comfort into the shell of your ear until your hiccups slowed and the tears dried sticky on your cheeks. You could feel his hand on your back, the other braced against the doorway. Sniffling, you pulled away slightly. “I’m sorry.”

Horacio shifted to thread a hand through your hair, his touch gentle - almost hesitant. The front of his shirt was damp with your crying and you frowned at it slightly, moving your hands to his chest. He shook his head with a small smile, his own hands moving to rest atop yours and you were suddenly reminded of how big he was. It should’ve terrified you, standing there and being comforted by a man like that, a man capable of things you didn’t want to speak aloud, but it didn’t. It never had.

“Don’t worry about it,” Horacio  said. Oh. Right. The shirt. Hands reached up to cradle your face, rough fingertips smoothing over the curve of your jaw. You let your eyes fall closed, stepping closer until his feet widened. His thumb caught the downward drag of a tear, wiping it away across your cheekbones. “I’m sorry, too.”

⫸ -------- ⫷

He’d led you back into his apartment, your steps quiet and your voices hushed as you sat down by his kitchen table. Your eyes were still puffy and everything was fogged up, burning a little and blurry the way fighting sleep made you feel. It was dark outside. Your only witness was the moon.

You traced the rim of your glass of water as you spoke, a single finger circling until your nail caught its edge.

“We should talk,” he said as he drew up a chair. His voice was quiet, rounded out on the edges and tired. You laughed a bit as you took a sip.

“Yeah,” you agreed. “Yeah we should.”

So you talked.

“Are you alright?” Horacio asked after a few minutes where you both sort of said things but didn’t really say much at all. You nodded, resting your cheek on a propped hand, the grainy wood digging into your elbow.

“Yeah,” you looked back at him, smiling. You were trying to be, at least. “I think- I think I was just scared, y’know?”

He frowned slightly. “I would never let anything happen to you.”

You shook your head. You already knew that. “No, no, it’s not that.” you began, your eyes downcast and swimming murky in the water glass. “I was scared of myself. Of things all going to shit again. I didn’t want you to-” you blinked back tears, reaching to wipe them away with the heel of your palm. “I didn’t want what happened to him to happen to you. I don’t think I could, I- fuck,” you whispered, cradling your head in your hands. You closed your eyes. “Sometimes I can’t help feeling like it’s my fault. And I know it’s not, I know that it’s just- ”

“It’s easier to blame yourself,” Horacio whispered, his hands coming to your wrists. “Believe me, I know.”

Yeah, he would, wouldn’t he?

He brushed the hair back from your face and you remembered when he kissed you, thinking of spun sugar and amber and other sweet things that could still burn your tongue.

You entertained the idea of facades for a moment, the notion that you could somehow still manage to build something out of brick and mortar and silence and keep him out. He’d already seen you with all your walls crumbling down, though, so that wouldn’t accomplish much. A self-deluded exercise in futility, pretending like you didn’t need him and he didn’t need you. You were fighting a losing battle with yourself, a civil war of body and mind and heart that left you sick and dog-tired, just searching for someone to heal with.

It seems you’d found what you were looking for.

You moved your hands, threading your fingers into his. Ghosting your lips against the inside of his wrist, your words were hoarse and came out before you could stop to think. “Can I kiss you?”

A large palm came to your cheek, coaxing your face closer. Horacio’s chair scraped the tile as he moved but you barely noticed the sound, your eyes closing as his forehead fell against yours. You felt his smile instead of seeing it. His voice wrapped around you, all-encompassing and rushing in your ears like the roar of a heavy ocean wave. “If you want to.”

The first kiss had been nice. Hell, it’d been a lot more than nice but this… this was different. Somehow better. Slower. Quiet and soft but still kindling a smoke in your belly, gentle blue gas flames licking at every inch of your skin until you felt dizzy with heat and with touch. His hands had fallen to your waist, shifting your weight with no argument until you sat draped on his lap. He was strong underneath you, solid and warm and safe.

You recalled the feeling of stubble beneath your hands that first time in the hallway, so you moved to press a kiss to his jaw, over all the contours and shadows you never had the time nor the courage to map out before. You wanted to memorize him, everything from the way his fingers felt on your hip to the feeling of his mouth against the hollow of your throat. You didn’t want to run anymore.

“Stay here,” Horacio breathed as you shifted in his arms, reaching to card your hands through cropped hair at the nape of his neck. You nodded, still hiccuping leftover tears into his mouth as they bled into moans.

“Okay,” you whispered.

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[puckleisdreaming]

The bar was empty apart from one old man over by the slot machine in the corner. He’d been there all night as far as I could tell and hadn’t so much as gotten up to relieve himself in at least the two hours I’d been here. Every now and again he’d post another coin in and pull the big red lever on the side of the machine and it would light up and play a little tune as the wheels spun and then ‘thunk, thunk, thunk’. Sometimes this was followed by a metallic trickle of change as the machine begrudgingly vomited forth some coins only for them to find their way back inside as the man continued to play his games. I couldn’t understand it. They say the definition of madness is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results, I can’t remember where I’d heard that. But if that’s the case this guy had to be absolutely fricking nuts, like out of his mind crazy considering how many times he’d pulled that fucking lever. Again and again he’d yank it and the machine would make that noise like an old washing machine with a brick in it. I’d come to brood and here was this old nutcase throwing money away over and over and for what? What was he hoping would happen?

I was getting wound up over nothing, I turned back to my beer. It was a miserable night and the damp that the patrons of the evening had tramped in and out of the place had suffused the air with a nasty humidity that fugged up the back of my throat. I kept sipping this beer to try and clear it but it didn’t work.

“You must really hate yourself.” Anette took the stool next to me and looked right at me. The way she was staring it was like she could burn holes in my temple, I just kept staring straight down at the beer. Ca-chunk went the lever as the psycho in the corner pulled it again and tumble tumble tumble went the wheels.

“What do you want, I’m busy.” I took another sip and glanced at her through the corner of my eye. She must have been on a job dressed up the way she was. Her freckled face was framed by crinkly blue black hair. She’d died it a few months back and now it reminded me of the ribbon inside cassette tapes all scrunched up the way it caught the light sometimes. New glasses and boots too, someone was paying her good money. I wasn’t used to seeing her in a dress and the sleek black number stuck out painfully here, if it wasn’t so empty, the attention she was drawing would have made me feel sick. My palms started itching.

“I can see that, just like you’ve been busy every night for weeks.”

“You’ve been watching me?”

“I’ve got better things to do than watch you every night but you know we’ve got eye’s and ears, you weren’t going to be able to just stop calling us and hope to slip away”

“I don’t see why not, it’s not like you need my help.”

I dropped a handful of coppers on the bar for a tip and headed out leaving the beer half drunk, Anette cannoned it down before following me out the door. I pulled my collar up against the rain hoping the foul weather would dissuade her, she had a U-field up. No such luck. I stopped and turned to face her watching the rain as it got caught in the static field being projected by the small device attached to her wrist. The droplets got within a foot of her head before slowing to an eery stop about two inches from her hair. They vibrated slightly caught between their momentum carrying them forward and the static field pushing them away before they spat off the field like water splashed on a hot pan. She stood there fizzing and spitting water out in every direction forming strange rainbows caught in the neon light of the nearby bars and casinos.

“Wasn’t it you who told me only assholes use U-fields? Spraying every passerby without one in the face as you walk by.”

“That was before rain water became the leading cause of skin cancer. Got sick of stabbing myself with a syringe full of Oncoligon every time I got caught in a shower.”

“Rather that than give some poor sod ocular just for passing me in the street.”

“Are we going to do this all night? You’ve been in that bar every evening for three weeks. If you were drinking yourself to death I’d be less concerned but you’re not and you’re not returning our calls so tell me what’s going on with you.”

She was more pissed off than I thought she was, crackling there like a live wire out in the rain. I’d known Anette long enough to know not to get her too wound up, she had a tendency to lose it and like all Neomancers when she lost it people tended to end up needing retinal surgeries. It had been a while since I’d seen her at work but I was watching for the tell tale signs, flickering electrics nearby, a slight glow to her skin.

“We’re friends, I think I’ve been very generous with the time I’ve bought you, but people are starting to wonder when you’re coming back into the fold. I’ve told them all you’re good for it, that you’re just getting your head together but when you took off you made a few people look very stupid and you know what happens when certain people are made to look stupid.

“I told you Anette. I don’t have it. I don’t know what happened in that vault but I don’t have it. If I’d made it out of there with a mancy like that don’t you think I would have made use of it by now? A sorry sap like me I could have sold it for a fortune, paid everyone off, and still had money left over to make a break for it. If I’d collected what we were looking for that night and wanted to make a getaway I would be gone.”

She moved like lightening. The world exploded in agony as ice picks were smashed through my eyeballs and my brain burst with white. Lights out.

I came to on a cold concrete floor, as my eyes began to focus I was aware my clothes were still damp, couldn’t have been long since our little chat. The headache I had was splitting and my vision was fuzzy, my periphery dropping away to a hazy blackness like I had weird tunnel vision. From what I could make out I was in a small room with a steel door, the only light was a fluorescent tube up in the ceiling and there were no windows. Guess I was staying put. I crawled over to the wall and placed my forehead against the cool concrete hoping to curb the oncoming migraine. I hadn’t been hit by Anette before but I’d seen her wipe out others, I found a sudden deep well of sympathy for her victims. She’d been training with someone as well. She’d always been tougher than a carrier like me but I was quick at least and made a living off of being able to get out of trouble. Sure I was a few weeks out of practice but she had definitely gotten faster.

Without moving I considered my situation. Concrete walls, no windows, probably a basement. As it was Anette who picked me up it was most likely one of Desto’s spots but without more information I couldn’t guess where. There were hundreds of Desto’s places all over Avon and I could have been bundled to any one of them whilst I was out cold. Up until fairly recently Desto had been my employer and ever since Anette had joined two years ago she’d been Desto’s number two. Most of Desto’s income came from snatch jobs and implantation surgeries so she had plenty of carriers in her employ. Her mancer’s were always there for when she needed a little more muscle but she preferred to keep a low profile for most of her work. I found a small crack in the concrete wall next to my cheek and traced it with a finger, feeling the rough texture and waiting for the beating that would inevitably be coming. It was the best gig around if you could get into a boss’s good graces but pissing them off was verging on suicidal.

Thinking about that stupid man and his stupid slot machine, how many times had he been there in the weeks I’d been frequenting that place? Every time I’d gone I knew it was stupid to keep returning to the same spot but I’m a creature of habit. I don’t like change. What happened in the vault had shaken me and suddenly the dashing high life of working for a boss didn’t seem quite so desirable. I wanted out and I had let myself dream that word would get back to Desto that the job had gone to shit but all she’d lost was a carrier. She had hundreds of me in her employ, no skin off her nose if one got caught by the enemy and beaten to a bloody pulp. Maybe, just maybe, she’d decide to cut her losses and forget about it, forget about me.

It had been a risky job, we always knew that, but word had gotten out that Jacob had some crazy mancy stored down in his vault whilst he tried to find someone who could make an implant that could carry the thing. Mancies came in all shapes and sizes and the more powerful the mancy the more complex the implant you needed to integrate it. Any sucker can carry the thing around but to properly integrate a complex bit of Arch tech with the human nervous system took serious technology. Most bosses have vaults to keep mancies they find whilst their techs fabricate integrations for them. Even when the tech was done you had to pretty much just hope you were compatible with it. Different mancies integrated with different people. Anette was a neomancer, her little bit of Arch tech that sat in a chip at the base of her skull allowed her to project and control, to some extent, visible light. How? I don’t know, ask the techs, but it’s all because of that micro chip at the top of her spine.

I’m no mancer, I’m a carrier. Outfitted with an all purpose petabyte microdrive in my forearm I can carry pretty much any non integrated mancy as long as I can get close enough to download it. No one fully understands Arch tech but the one thing we do know is the file sizes are enormous. Stupid big. Even the flashest of new computers couldn’t come close to needing the kind of square footage these things needed in dataspace. So they load up people with massive drives, hook the drives up to our metabolics for fuel and send us around to carry them from place to place. Wireless would take years and a simple portable drive won’t do it. You need something with some serious horse power and you know what’s easier than lugging around a hard drive hooked up to a car battery? Knitting a microdrive into the cardiovascular system of a human being.

[storytaeme]

my wish list – taegi

Taehyung received the perfect Christmas miracle when he won a giveaway from his favorite camboy, sugar_d, who was willing to fulfill his wish list.

taegi week 2017 – taehyung x yoongi

❅ Prompt: Wish List

❅ Elements: Smut  |  Camboy AU    ↪ smut includes fingering, dildo, and camsex

❅ Word Count: 4,271 words

❅ A/N: Un-proofread lmao cause MERRY CHRISTMAS!!! it is still the 24th somewhere so i made it :’) anyway this is a quick smut, hope u like it!

Congratulations, kimchifriend! You have been selected as the winner of sugar_d’s holiday giveaway. Please respond promptly to this message if you are available next Thursday at 9PM KST for the appointment. Otherwise, I’ll be selecting a new winner. I hope you can make it, sugar!

Taehyung had never won a single thing in his entire life. All the shitty lotteries he’s joined in college, whether it be mini-mart scratch-offs or useful prizes during club events, all his raffle tickets seem to lead him to a dead end. Now, Taehyung might be a little reckless, but he only invested in things he truly, truly liked.

Like sugar_d’s regular show which costed him a good chunk of his paycheck but was worthwhile considering how relaxed he felt after every viewing. Sure, it included a fuck ton of wrist jerking on his side, but whatever it took to get him off, he would do it. Graduating college and being on a full-time job that paid generously yet took up a great portion of his daily life meant that he could barely find time to unwind and, you know, get his sex life back on track. Porn helped sometimes, but the huge dicks and forced moans had begun to wear out.

Hoseok was the one that led him to stumble upon this man’s show. It was sort of funny really. Taehyung had been cynical of the whole concept, had laughed at Hoseok for paying monthly to watch people get themselves off in front of a camera.

Oh, how the tables have turned.

While Hoseok subscribed to the standard plan of his favorite camgirl, Taehyung had unconsciously clicked the premium button in his moment of weakness with trembling knees. He hadn’t even considered dropping the subscription anytime soon.

So, every Wednesday after work and Sunday after doing the usual house chores, Taehyung would whip off his sweats, settle back comfortably on his bed, and prop open his laptop. Then he could beat himself off, slick sounds bouncing off the four walls without a care.

When sugar_d announced that he would be having a giveaway, Taehyung knew that the chances of him winning were slim to none. It was a charity thing—the more you donated to him, the higher the chances of winning. Taehyung had bought one balloon raffle on the site since he didn’t have the heart or rationality to purchase more. He had his own bills to pay after all. One balloon raffle against the millions of others. The odds smacked him in the face.

However, that was what startled him about the email. For so long, he stared at the words printed on the screen, scanning over every line and curve and wondering if this was some sort of prank. Did he really—

In his moment of crisis of deciding whether he should reply and risk his dignity, another message popped up.

sugar_d: hey there! i know the site sent you an automated message but figured i’d send you a personal one to wish you a congrats for winning my giveaway!

Holy shit.

Holy fucking shit.

Taehyung let out a holler which prompted Jeongguk just a few feet away from him to jump. “Fuck, Guk, I won something. I actually won something!”

“Uh, congrats?” Jeongguk looked at him, puzzled, and returned to his game.

With trembling, excited fingers, he typed in his response, mouthing the words to himself to make sure that it sounded right.

kimchifriend: hOLY SHIT!!!! thank you so much??? i’ve never won anything in my life but this is like the goddamn lottery ty @Jesus

The typing bubble appeared for a little while, disappearing, then reappearing. Taehyung wondered if that had been too much of a response for something as small as a camboy private show giveaway. While waiting, he quickly clicked the confirm button to accept his gift and the notification celebrated his win with confetti on his screen.

sugar_d: pffft, sorry, i was laughing too hard to type. but i’m glad you think so! i see that you’ve confirmed. i’ll send you a list of things i won’t do, and so please don’t request any of those. if you want me to prepare things ahead of time, do send me your list! it’ll be a two-hour long show so buckle up, big boy

Taehyung was going to nut so good.

When the day arrived, he had managed to kick Jeongguk out of the apartment for a good two hours so he could comfortably relax without the risk of Jeongguk walking in on him with his meat in his hand. Not that they hadn’t seen each other’s dicks before, it just seemed safer to avoid any strange possibility of sexual tension between roommates.

sugar_d, who usually went by Suga, had given him a Skype account to add days ago, throwing in a kiss emoji that shot an arrow right through his poor, little heart. Taehyung had worked on adding him, but despite all that he knew about the science of the body and nature (biology major problems), he wasn’t the best at handling technology. Thus, when the time came that Suga called him on the program, he clicked the accept button and—

Holy fuck, his poor dick.

As requested, the guy was all dressed up in the prettiest babydoll that Taehyung had purchased for him. It was white to complement his milky skin with pink lace trimming. The skirt fell halfway down his thighs to continue to the stretch of his thin legs. He was kneeling on the bed, hands placed elegantly over his creamy thighs. His hair was a little messy, looked fucked out before they even began. His lips—fuck, they were glistening tantalizingly.

“Holy shit,” he whispered to himself, pushing his face closer to his screen as if he could get a better look that way.

The chuckle that followed from the man on the other side had Taehyung’s dick twitching. “Hello, baby.” Taehyung wanted to cry. “I thought you wanted to be anonymous, but you’re pretty cute.”

His brows knitted in confusion at that until he searched the screen to find his face in a small corner of it. Oh shit, he forgot to turn off the camera. Taehyung fumbled around, flushing in embarrassment, “Sorry! Sorry! I didn’t mean to be a weirdo or anything, I know you don’t want to see faces. I’m new at this whole Skype thing.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Suga grinned, gummy teeth and crinkly eyes. Taehyung was in love. “I don’t think I’d mind watching you, if you don’t mind that is. I’ve never seen people react live to my shows so it would be a nice change.”

“Y-you want me to keep my cam on?”

Suga smiled, winking, “Only if you want to, baby.”

God, yeah, he definitely wanted to. A small part of him called him pathetic for imagining Suga to be some sort of boyfriend material that he was having camsex with. So sue him, he could let his imagination live if he wanted to. “Yeah,” Taehyung licked his lips, “but I can’t guarantee I won’t have, uh, a reaction.”

“Is it bad that I kind of want to see you play with yourself?” Suga’s pearly whites caught his bottom teeth, eyes looking up softly at the screen.

Taehyung felt all the blood rush south to press his hardening dick against the seam of his sweats. He wished he had put on something more attractive but he had on a ratty university tshirt and a pair of worn-out sweats. He hadn’t been expecting to be putting on a show for Suga in the first place. “I’m—shit, I’m really hard right now just from hearing you talk.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” Suga laughed, “so just to confirm your small list here, which by the way, I was expecting to be longer and more extreme.” He dangled a sheet of paper in front of the camera that printed down everything Taehyung had asked for. Taehyung hadn’t gotten the chance to get down and dirty with anyone with full-blown kinks so he wasn’t quite sure what to throw into the list. “I’m kind of grateful you kept it simple.”

“Sorry,” Taehyung replied sheepishly, “I wasn’t expecting to win so I just… didn’t think this thoroughly.”

Suga grinned again, leaning forward to give a close up of his pretty face. God, Taehyung was so, so in love. “Don’t worry, baby, your list is perfect. It’s everything I can do so I can make sure that I give you the perfect show.”

“I think anything you decide to do will be perfect,” Taehyung blurted out then proceeded to blush. Why was he trying to do smooth pick up lines? Taehyung wasn’t smooth pick up lines. He was smooth and suave hidden in a full package of awkward and clumsy.

The man paused on screen, his face flattening to an expression akin to surprise. “That’s cute,” he finally said, amusement lacing his voice. “So, baby, are you going to play with me?”

Taehyung swallowed thickly and ignored the sudden throbbing in his pants. “C-can I?”

“Mhm,” Suga hummed and began to tease the thin strap of his little dress. “Show me what you got.” Taehyung inhaled sharply and nodded, pushing his laptop back a little and pulling down his pants. When Suga laughed, he looked up in alarm. “You’re not much of a tease, are you?”

“No, sorry,” he laughed, “more of a direct kill kind of guy.”

Suga grins, letting the straps drape around his arms. “I like it, it’s refreshing. Now come up, baby, let me see your cock.”

Taehyung nodded and sat back against the pillows, laptop in between his legs so his cock could be seen.

“Wow,” he let out a whistle, lips curling into a slow lazy smirk. “You’re so hung, God, bet you’d fill me up so good. Your cock is so thick.” The man licked his lips, which in turn had Taehyung squeezing his shaft to stop himself from jerking it hard and fast.

“Y-you think so?”

“One of the thickest I’ve seen, baby,” Suga drawls, slowly hiking the skirt up his thighs. Taehyung’s lips parted as his eyes focused on the tantalizing skin being exposed bit by bit. It was almost hypnotizing the way his small fingers drew the fabric upwards, higher and higher until Taehyung could see the hint of another layer of clothing covering his privates.

Taehyung wished that he could be there, catch that fabric between his teeth and tug it up himself. It was a tempting offer and Suga seemed very keen after seeing his dick—but then again, that was the way he worked. He teased, pulled and pushed, until all his viewers were tossing online money in his direction. Suga was one of the big pullers in the site, raking in thousands with one go that allowed him to purchase more toys and lingerie to please his audience. Other times, he survived on donations for pretty things that he could use during the show, like roleplay outfits and pretty panties.

He was the best crowd pleaser.

Even then as he let the hem fall over his thighs again, all Taehyung could do was miserably throw his head back and let out a pained moan. Suga giggled, a cute lilted tease, “Don’t you make the sexiest sound? You sound like this every time you get hot and bothered, baby?”

“Mmph,” Taehyung whined, “yeah, always like this.”

“Why don’t you boss me around? You know I like a man with authority.” Suga bit his plump bottom lip and coyly twirled his finger around the string of his dress. This was what Taehyung had placed on his list. Fuck.

Taehyung took a deep breath, fingers tightening around his dick, “Slip that thing off, doll. Take it off for me.”

Suga nodded and tugged the thin silk up. It looked so smooth and neat, sliding up his skin all too easily before finally lifting up to his stomach. His stomach was soft and pudgy, a cute thing that added to his innocence. However, that certainly wasn’t the aspect of him that caught Taehyung’s eye. His cock, hard and leaking, was peeking off the top of his panties. A pair of cotton white ones.

Holy shit. Taehyung could practically feel his eyes roll back as he uncapped his lube and drizzled it all over his cock.

“Sorry, baby,” Suga said, looking far from apologetic, “I played with myself a little earlier. Got myself a little messy.” As if to make his point, he pressed his index finger against the tip of his cock and raised it up, letting a string of precum that connected his digit to his length stretch. Even in the shitty connection, Taehyung could see the line. His lips parted almost instinctively, tongue practically salivating for it.

“I-I can help you with that,” Taehyung gulped, eyes still glued on how fucking fantastic Suga looked with with the panties pressing his cock up against his stomach. It was such a pretty little thing. Although he had never seen the man live, Suga’s cock looked much, much smaller compared to Taehyung’s. Not that it was a bad thing. Taehyung most definitely could work with it and might even have a thing for smaller cocks. There was something almost endearing, almost taboo about the size that had his mouth watering and throat drying.

The man looked up at him from his lashes as he nudged his hips forward a little. The action creating a friction that dragged his panties back slightly, tightening it around his hips. Fuck, what a sight. “Yeah? You think so, baby?”

“Yeah, sugar, I can try,” Taehyung rasped, gritting his teeth as he worked his cock slower. He couldn’t go too fast. If he came quickly, it would be so, so embarrassing. “How about you turn around and pull those panties up more, hm? Want to see it in your ass, doll.”

Suga squirmed and his tongue darted out to wet his lips. Turning around, he slowly bent over, taking his time to allow Taehyung the opportunity to appreciate that unblemished ass. Christ, if he were there, he would’ve wanted to imprint his handprint on that snowy skin, would’ve nibbled on the skin until the back of his thighs were littered with purples and blues. The pretty boy gave a small shudder when he tugged the fabric up between his cheeks, grazing it over his tight hole. He even went as far as to push it aside and give Taehyung a glimpse of that puckered opening.

Taehyung’s tongue absentmindedly poked out as if seeking out that opening. God, he wanted to eat that ass. “Y-you’re so gorgeous,” he stammered nervously, wrist still flicking to stroke his cock. “Get your lube, doll, I want to see you open yourself up for me. Can you do that?”

The man didn’t even blink before he quickly reached for his lube and drenched his fingers in it. He rubbed his fingers together before arching his back more, sticking his ass towards the screen. Fuck. Then his fingers ghosted over the entrance, his body shivering at the coolness of the gel as he teased the rim with a single finger. Taehyung moaned painfully and circled his fingers around his cock, stopping his level of libido that was climbing much too fast.

“D-do you think I’m pretty?” Suga asked, throwing a sultry, sweet look over his shoulder. It was both adorable and sexy, the combination lethal when Taehyung was already biting his knuckle to hold back his sounds of pleasure.

“You’re fucking beautiful, pretty,” Taehyung breathed, the oxygen barely making it into his lungs. The world seemed to crumble around him in this heavenly bliss when Suga finally pushed a finger in—one miserable finger. The hole tightened around his finger, sucking it in. Fuck, his ass must be so, so tight. Taehyung could imagine how his tongue would feel inside there. He could probably stroke every inch of his wall and swirl the muscle around and have the man writhing underneath him within minutes. It was torturous to see Suga dance a finger around the rim, dipping it every once in a while but never fully fingering himself. “Come on, doll, don’t tease me like this,” Taehyung protested weakly.

He’d be lying if it wasn’t doing wonders to his dick. Suga finally showed some semblance of mercy when he slipped a finger in and then added another. The blonde pressed his face deeper into the sheets, letting out a curse when he started to slide his digits in and out. Taehyung wished he could record this moment, how fucking incredible he looked. His fingers seemed to be swallowed in, vacuumed into the thick skin. It wasn’t long before Suga was shuddering, fingers stuttering in his ass. Taehyung watched him curl his fingers inside of himself, the tips of his fingers scraping his insides.

“Fuck, fuck, you look so good like that, sugar,” Taehyung choked, eyes slamming shut as he pushed away the urge to fucking come. He wasn’t even halfway done and Taehyung was already on the edge. “B-but I don’t want to come like this. Turn around for me again, on your knees.”

Suga whimpered but did as was told. And—fuck, Taehyung didn’t think it could get any better. However, the contrast between the purity of the pair of panties against the tip of his reddened cock, dripping with come rolling down and staining his underwear, might just be the death of him. What a wonderful death that would be.

“Holy shit,” Taehyung clenched his jaw, “how are you so beautiful, doll? God, you’re so fuckin’ pretty. So fuckin’ sexy and sweet. Whoever’s fucking you must be having the time of their life. Bet they get to enjoy that tight ass whenever they want.”

“N-nobody—” Suga’s breath hitched “—nobody’s fucking me right now. I just play with myself, it gets a little lonely.”

Taehyung’s lip quivered. Christ, this man really was going to end him. “Nobody, doll? God, you’re so pretty you deserve to be fucked good every night.”

“Wish I had that,” Suga moaned.

“Bounce on your fingers for me, doll. Fuck yourself like how you’d imagine me fucking you,” Taehyung instructed in a grunt. Suga followed his orders religiously, lifting his body up and dropping back down. His lips parted every time he sank down on his fingers, the long digits slipping inside and generating electricity that coursed through him. Taehyung drank in the sight, memorized every inch of Suga’s smooth skin coated with a sheen layer of sweat that was barely visible in the camera. It was pretty nonetheless to see him glisten from time to time underneath the lights.

“Hnng, fuck that feels so good, so tight—aah, I c-can feel it,” Suga whined, finding the rhythm to his movements and exerting enough source to build up the bubbling pleasure inside of him. Taehyung himself could feel flame lick up his skin, setting his entire body alight with thrill at the sight of the pretty boy. “Fuck, w-want your cock inside me instead,” he groaned, head lolling back as he relished in the utter deliciousness of the sensations.

Taehyung cooed, pupils dilating as his gaze traced over the man’s lithe frame, “You’re so pretty, doll. Look at your cock dripping so wet for me, what a good boy.” Suga let out a small, satisfied whimper at that. “God, what a gorgeous thing you are. I bet you’re always like this, hm? Always so wet for any guy who gives you a little attention?”

Suga’s body tensed up and an apology was already hanging on the tip of his tongue but the man was already releasing a loud moan from his lips. Whines that had fire igniting in every inch of his body escaped his throat, had Taehyung shifting himself and fucking his hand faster.

“Y-you have your toy, sugar?” Taehyung choked, eyes still wide to take in every bit of Suga. “Do you have a cock there with you to fill you up?”

The boy nodded quietly, face scrunched up as if he was deeply hurt. Taehyung was on the same boat, he supposed. The incessant throbbing of his cock was beginning to hurt and all he wanted was that sweet release. But he wanted to make the most of his time with Suga while he could, even if that meant he had t to endure a major case of temporary blue balls.

When Suga finally pulled out the object, Taehyung could already feel the come rising in his dick. Holy shit. The thing was thick and tan, might even rival Taehyung’s. It was the perfect size and, without being instructed to do so, Suga stuck the silicone into his mouth.

“F-fuck,” Taehyung cursed under his breath, moving forward to get stare at Suga better as he took the toy deep into his mouth. His tongue swirled around the tip, he spat on it so he could move his fingers along the length. His eyes squeezed shut as he shoved it deep into his throat, nearly gagging on it. It really was such a pretty sight. Suga sucked on the thing like his entire life depended on it, taking almost the whole thing into his mouth and stroking the rest. Taehyung’s cock twitch with his imagining that it was his own length that Suga was swallowing. “Baby, please,” he begged pitifully, “please just—shit, just fuck it. I can’t—I don’t think I’ll last any longer.”

While before Taehyung felt in complete control of the situation, able to tell Suga exactly what he wanted, he was left a pleading mess in his hands at that moment. It was everything he could ever picture and more. He’s seen Suga take things into his mouth before—popsicles, lollipops, dildos, you name it—but it was different when he was doing it in a one-on-one show with a toy that looked almost identical to his dick. It was intimate, a private moment shared between the two. It really wasn’t fair to his dick nor his heart.

Suga, fortunately enough for the sake of his aching member, grinned wickedly and agreed. “How do you want me, baby?”

“On your back, lie on your back,” Taehyung panted desperately, twisting his fingers around his tender length. The friction provided some relief but it wasn’t enough, it really wasn’t. He wanted to see Suga come undone before him, needed it to reach the full extent of his climax.

The blonde laid down and slid his panties off, flicking them aside carelessly. Taehyung could only watch as he slowly pushed the toy inside of him. Every inch that fit into him provoked a whine or a squeak. He observed not so quietly as moans of his own tumbled from his lips. He jerked his cock, tugged it, squeezed it. Suga pushed the makeshift cock inside of him, nudging his hips so he could move it in tempo with his hand.

He kept fucking himself over and over, the cock had him whimpering on the bed, cock dripping a mess all over his sheets. Taehyung couldn’t breath, his breath choking up in his chest at the sight. His brain was going all haywire as he tried to control what remained of his self-restraint.

“Fuck, just like that, doll,” Taehyung grunted, thrusting his hips up. He could practically taste sex in the air, painting the picture of his cock sliding into the pretty boy in his mind. “Fuck yourself all good for me. Make yourself feel good. You’re so fuckin’ pretty, holy fuck.”

“Mm, hnnng, just like t-that,” Suga stammered to himself, pushing his body down against the dildo. “F-feels so good, wish it was actually you—shit, aaah—wish it was you fucking into me right now.”

“Me too, doll, me too,” Taehyung breathed, “fuck, I’m gonna come. M’gonna come so hard for you.”

Suga’s lips parted as he adjusted his position so he could see Taehyung. “Do it, baby, wanna see you spill all over your fingers. I want to see you—”

Before he could even finish, Taehyung was already pouring all over his hands, his wrists that had grown tired slowly doing to milk the last of his orgasm. It was a deliriously incredible high, a peak that had him muffling his groans into his voice. Taehyung let his head hit the back of his bed with a thump. “A-are you going to come with me, doll? Why don’t you do it? I-I wanna see you all over your hands, over your sheets, wanna know how fucking good it feels to get fucked like that.”

With a few more strokes, Suga was coming all over his stomach, panties still pushed aside and ripped at that point. It was a gorgeous sight and Taehyung swore that he could hear angels singing in the background.

“T-that was a good session,” Suga muttered afterwards, crinkling his nose as he wiped off the remnants of his desire from his body.

“Yeah,” he agreed, clearing his throat. His hand was still sticky but he couldn’t be bothered to move to clean himself up. He was feeling thoroughly fucked out without even doing the fucking. “Happy holidays, I guess.”

Suga snorted, “Happy holidays.”

sugar_d: hey, I know this is kind of weird but you wanna do that again sometime? Free of charge

sugar_d: just that i had a good time last time

kimchifriend: um??? Dude yes???? I mean im gonna keep subscribing to ur shit but a private show with you im always down

sugar_d: great :)

sugar_d: the name’s yoongi btw

kimchifriend: nice to meet ya, im tae