#I hope you have the spoons to handle what ails you friend

[thisperfectmonsoon]

Sorry to hear that life sucks but I also understand it. I gave up trying to make the right choice because no matter what I do always seems wrong. So I keep head down and keep trying to move forward. Hopefully yours gets better for you

this is so real, thank u anon.

[jincherie]

four’s company | rapline [m]

✘ — pairing: boxer!rapline x male!reader ✘ — genre: smut!, boxer au, poly au ✘ — wc: 6.4k ✘ — rating: 18+ ✘ — warnings: minor injuries (occupational hazard kind), smut: mxm, light (accidental) voyeurism, light hand kink, baby boy reader, sub/bottom reader, dom/top members, foursome, anal sex, protected sex (don’t forget to wrap ‘em, lads and ladies!), fellatio ✘ — notes: part of a fic exchange within the ghostie network, i’m sorry it’s late!!!!! please accept my humblest apologies!!! @bangtanloverboys​ here you go!! i hope it’s not too shitty!!!

If accidentally walking in on your three crushes in a heated moment, not once, not twice, but thrice isn’t enough to capture their attention, then you don’t know what is. You’re about to find out that you’ve had their attention for a while, though.

— posted; 02.01.2021 || masterlist

For what is far from the first time tonight, you feel the weight of a certain gaze.

Well, to be more specific, it hasn’t just been one gaze you’ve felt on you tonight. More like… three. 

You know who they belong to, unfortunately. It’s the same three people that you found in an… interesting situation earlier. On that was, no doubt, not meant for outside eyes. 

Well, you say that, but you feel like that’s just because you, yourself, are mortified. To be honest, the three boxers you found locking lips and making out in the locker room didn’t seem to be all that ashamed about it.

In fact, when they caught you in the motion of fleeing, they’d had the audacity to grin about it! 

Utterly humiliating. You haven’t been able to bring your gaze anywhere near them all day. To make matters worse, you couldn’t even flee to the safety of your home or anywhere similar, because there is a match tonight and you’re needed as a qualified first aid officer. 

Which brings you to the current predicament; sitting ringside and attempting to avoid the gazes of the three boxers seated on the side adjacent. Try as you might, it’s actually a struggle to keep your eyes on the current match. It’s a rookie night, and you feel extra bad since one of the people in the ring is actually a close friend. 

Though, perhaps you should demote Jungkook from ‘close friend’ status considering he is the reason you started working here and subsequently, had the opportunity to stumble upon a certain scenario this morning. Were it not for him and his stupid, pleading puppy eyes, you wouldn’t have a particular embarrassing image burned into the back of your eyelids.

You know that despite his rookie status, Jungkook is quite a naturally talented boxer. Perhaps that is part of the reason that your brain thinks it’s okay to let your eyes stray from the match instead of watching attentively as you’re expected to. The subconscious certainty that Jungkook can handle himself seems to be your undoing, because in a moment of inattentiveness your eyes manage to reach the area you’d been trying so hard for them to avoid. 

As you’d both feared and expected, they are in fact already looking at you. Well, one of the three. It is the piercing gaze of the club's current lightweight champion, Min Yoongi, that bores a hole into you right now. The two accomplices to his side aren't joining him in drilling their eyes into you across the room for now, instead leaning into each other as though they're whispering amongst themselves. 

There's something about Yoongi's eyes, dark and piercing, that seem to always root you in place no matter where you are. His expression, as it usually tends to be, is unreadable. It's a certain kind of neutrality that graces his features, thin enough that you can tell there is something behind it but too opaque for you to be able to discern exactly what. 

You don't even realise you're trapped in his gaze until the sounding of the bell snaps you out of the spell that seemed to be cast over you. Your head whips back around and you see the referee signalling the end of the bout, and just beyond him Jungkook is standing slightly bent over as he offers a hand to his opponent on the canvas. To your alarm, it is only now that you notice the blood dribbling down the man’s face. The reasonable crowd that has gathered is still cheering (Jungkook was quick to rise as one of the fan favourites) and it’s a wonder you can hear the referee’s call above the ruckus.

“Medic!”

That’s your cue. 

x – x – x 

 “You look kind of on edge, man. Are you alright?”

You’re almost too busy staring into your coffee in a borderline dissociative state to hear Jungkook as he calls for your attention. It has to be about the thirteenth time in the past half hour, but you can’t find the energy to be ashamed about it. Mostly because all of your shame and embarrassment are focused on other areas right now.

It had happened again. 

Is it just your luck? You don’t know whether to dub it as rotten luck, because you feel it would be a bit of an insult to the boxers you’d once more found in a suggestive situation.  But considering it good luck feels kind of sleazy, because although you’re embarrassed as hell, all things considered what you walked in on wasn’t a bad view—

No, that thought is stopping there. Any further and you’ll only incriminate yourself and you’ll have to dose yourself with another fresh shot of shame. 

Realising that you still haven’t answered the concerned-looking boy sprawled in the chair to your side, you offer him a non-committal grunt. It’s the best you can do while you take another moment to form actual coherent thought. 

“I’ve never been better,” you say, and immediately Jungkook lets loose an abrupt snort.

“You look like shit, so don’t bother trying to lie. Are you having trouble sleeping again or something?”

You survey him for a moment, touched that he remembers the insomnia that had ailed you for a few months a while back. “Actually, I’ve been sleeping pretty good the past few months.”

Jungkook rolls his eyes, making you squint at him in question. “Oh, I’ll bet you have, considering the things you were saying in your sleep last time I stayed over.”

You simply look at him, wondering whether he’s going to be an ass and continue.  You don’t have to wait long for an answer.

“You were all like, ‘nngh, Namjoon,’ and ‘oh, Yoongi’, and then you said something about Hoseok too but I can’t quite remember, probably because it was so x-rated that my poor baby brain banished it from my memory—”

“Jungkook,” you cut him off, gripping the plastic spoon that came with your drink painfully tight. “Shut up.”

This is most definitely not the conversation to be having in the café barely a block away from the boxing gym where the two of you frequent, but Jungkook doesn’t seem to get the hint. Actually, you’re pretty sure he got the hint and he just doesn’t care enough to heed it.

“You really ought to do something about that crush of yours, bro. There’s three of them, so there’s three times the misery if you sit on your ass instead of—”

“Jungkook,” you attempt to warn him again, glaring slightly this time. You’ve scooped some of the whipped cream off of his plate of pancakes and hold the tip of the spoon back, threatening to fling it at him should he keep talking. 

“—doing something, you know? I’ve seen them practically undress you with their eyes enough times by now that I could fill out a diary with all the incidents I’ve witnessed. Plus, don’t tell me you haven’t noticed how often they ‘hurt’ themselves as an excuse to see you? I really don’t think you have much to lose, especially with an ass like yours—well, it’s nothing like the cake I’m serving, but still, it deserves some praise—ACK!”

Ah, so he has chosen death.

You discard the now-empty spoon onto a napkin, taking a long sip of your drink. It seems Jungkook has engaged his ape brain more today than usual as instead of wiping the cream off his face like any normal human would, he’s attempting to reach it with his tongue. His chances aren’t good, to be honest; though you reckon your mutual friend Jimin would be able to get it from that distance. Dude has a tongue like a lizard. 

“You have Seven Days,” you tell him, struggling not to let a smile through as the amateur boxer whines, unable to reach the cream.

“You have seven days,” he grumbles sulkily, reaching with a begrudging hand for a napkin. “Do something or I’ll expose your ass.”

You roll your eyes, ninety-nine percent sure that he’s kidding.

… 

That other one percent worries you a bit though.

x – x – x 

You take back what you decided earlier— something is definitely wrong with your luck.

“And how did you hurt your knee again?”

“I tripped on the stairs.”

Jung Hoseok, the club’s current star welterweight boxer, sits before you in your little medical office. There aren’t any matches on today, but you’re on shift because the club members are doing some of the more rigorous training; there is an important few matches coming up for a few members, and they all want to be as prepared as possible. As tends to be the occupational hazard, training can often lead to injuries that need to be immediately attended to. 

You can’t say, though, that this is the type you were expecting when you rocked up today.

Hoseok is beaming at you, all sincerity and sparkles. There’s a slight bit of dark regrowth in his hair that catches your eye as you survey him, the crimson ends sticking to his forehead lightly from sweat. He looks every bit earnest and honest as he sits in front of you, but you can’t help but suspect him just slightly.

Because you’re not sure any of the club members have ever made their way to your office for a graze that wouldn’t even phase a kindergartener.

“Well,” you say, trying to ignore what Jungkook had said barely a day or two ago that floats back into your head now. “The good news is, it’s not fatal.”

Hoseok lets out a great, dramatic huff in relief. “Oh, thank god. I was so scared this might have been the end.”

‘Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed how often they ‘hurt’ themselves as an excuse to see you?’

Is that what this is? An excuse to see you? A look spared for the man before you leads you to conclude: probably not. He’s a little too radiant to be seeking out lil’ ol’ you.

“Not this time,” you say, rummaging through your small box of mismatched bandages. Finding what you’re looking for, you turn back around and begin preparing it to place it on Hoseok’s knee. “You live to see another day.”

Hoseok shifts like he’s about to say something in response, but cuts himself off with a surprised laugh when he sees the band-aid you put on him. “Wh—you have Minions band-aids?!”

“I reserve them for special patients,” you say before you can stop yourself, promptly clamping your mouth shut a little too late. Your cheeks… you just hope the heat gathering there isn’t obvious.

Something shifts in Hoseok’s gaze as he surveys you for a moment, before hopping from the bed, testing his knee out like he’d sprained it instead of scratching it. The look is gone before you can fully decipher it and he’s back to grinning brightly once more. 

“Well, if that’s the case, I’ll have to come back often. Wouldn’t want them to go to waste.” Hoseok’s smile adopts a slightly cheeky edge as he makes his way to the door, lifting two fingers to his temple in a lazy salute. “See you later, doc!”

Then he’s gone before you can return the farewell, door closing definitively behind him and leaving the room in silence. 

Are you going crazy, or did Hoseok— one of the three boxers you’ve happened to walk in on twice now—just return your light flirting?

… God, you hope it wasn’t because of the minion band-aid.

x – x – x 

You wish that visit had been an isolated incident, but you had a repeat of it at least twice a week. Each time Hoseok would rock up grinning at your door with some other minor injury, all but demanding a minion band-aid for his troubles. You gave it to him, of course, but you still hope he doesn’t remember you as the minion band-aids guy. 

Surprisingly enough, it isn’t only Hoseok that has been cropping up more often in your day-to-day. You’ve had a few surprise encounters with Yoongi, who lately has taken to giving you a sly, unreadable look before turning away, leaving you in your own confusion. Sometimes you’ll get carried away watching him or one of the other boxers practice, and before you know it he has caught you staring red-handed and you’re forced to flee the room to escape the smug, intrigued look that slips into his eyes. 

It’s after such an occasion that you find yourself in the main locker room, attempting to multitask by looking for a box of first aid supplies hidden in the top shelves and giving your face a chance to cool down. It’s taken you so long to even find the damn box that your embarrassment has all but evaporated by now. By the time your eyes lock onto the scuffed white box peeking over the edge of the highest shelf in the corner of the room, you’re more than ready to snatch it down and escape back to the comfort of your dingy little office. 

Of course, it couldn’t ever be so easy for you. Not given your recent string of poor luck. 

You don’t consider your height to be remarkably anything, and normally you don’t have that much trouble reaching the cookie jar on the top shelf in your apartment but for some reason the shelves in this building are built to cater to giants, and try as you might you simply cannot reach. You’re literally about to abandon the last of your dignity and attempt jumping for it, when there is a light scuff on the floor from behind you and then a firm warmth pressing into your back. 

In all honesty, your brain short-circuits. For a second you think you might have even blacked out, because it takes at least three seconds for you to realise what is happening, and by that time the figure has already retreated back from your form. 

Somewhat dazed, you turn around to see one Kim Namjoon, the clubs leading middleweight champion and the third and final member of those racy scenarios you happened to walk in on oh-so long ago. In his hands is the box you’d been struggling so much to reach, and on his face is a look that somehow blends sheepishness and amusement into one attractive cocktail on his features. 

“Here you go,” he says, and for a shamefully long moment all you can do is stand and soak in the lovely timbre of his voice. By the time you snap out of it, a small smile has begun to curl on his lips. You pointedly avoid looking at the dimples that are beginning to show as a result. 

“Oh, uh, thanks,” you say, trying to make it as natural as possible as you reach and take the box from his hold. “Whoever put it up there seems to have a vendetta against me.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” he says, and there’s suddenly something a little secretive about the way he’s smiling. It makes you suspicious, and once more the words Jungkook prattled into your ear a week or so ago come rattling back into your brain. 

Is this something similar to what Hoseok had done? Did Namjoon put the box on a higher shelf?

“Are you calling me short?” For some reason, that’s what comes out of your mouth. There is a slight disconnect from what you said and what Namjoon had said previously, but he seems to make the connection. He tilts his head back and a rich laugh tumbles forth. It sounds nicer than you wish to admit to yourself. 

“Never,” he finally answers, grinning. “Though, feel free to come get me next time you lose against a shelf.”

Your mouth drops open in affront, but he makes a departure too quick for you to respond. His laughter echoes down the halls and you’re left reeling in your spot.

This isn’t what you expected to happen after walking in on a few intimate situations. In fact, this is quite the opposite.

What is happening?

x – x – x 

As the weeks go by, there are several big nights and several big matches. Hoseok and Yoongi, among a few others from the gym, emerge victorious. At this point you’re not too ashamed to say that you spent the entirety of their matches watching the way their muscles rippled as they dodged, swung and wove around the ring. If the last shred of dignity still clinging to you had disappeared, then you probably would have drooled like a dog. 

 The nights tend to go by weight classes, and the next upcoming night is to showcase the middleweight boxers. While Jungkook classifies for the class, as one of the newer recruits he isn’t the first choice for the match—much to his dismay.

It is approximately a week before this big match, in which Namjoon, one of the three men who live in your head rent-free these days, is participating, that you’re woken from your sleep and called into the gym.

It’s your night off, actually, so for you to be called in there must have been a pretty serious injury. You’re proven right when you enter the building and walk into the main room.

Before you can even assess the scene, Yoongi spots you and darts on over. He has a look on his face that you don’t think he’s ever sported before, and it fills you with a feeling of dread. It seems an appropriate feeling, considering what you see when you advance further into the room, towed by the frantic blonde who’d fetched you.

“Holy shit, what the hell happened?!” You dart forward, Yoongi’s grip slipping from your wrist as you move out of his reach. 

Namjoon is seated on the floor in a squat, cradling his left hand to his chest. A grimace twists his features, eyes glistening but face clear of tears. 

To your complete and utter surprise, the familiar tenor of Jungkook’s voice reaches your ears. You didn’t know he had stayed behind to practice tonight.

“We were leaving after practicing a bit later than normal, and some assholes drove past and picked a fight. I think—I think they were members from one of the rival clubs on the other side of the city but it was kind of dark and I didn’t get a good look.”

Your brows shoot up—that’s risky behaviour on their part, if it was actually members of a rival club that did this. Judges of this particular tournament don’t look kindly on foul play.

It would make sense if it’s true, though; a lot of local clubs tend to have boxers in the middleweight range, and Namjoon has emerged from enough matches victorious that he’s actually quite a threat. 

“Let me see,” you say, holding your hands out to Namjoon for him to rest his injured one in your hold. “Jungkook, go get the big tin box with the red cross from my office. Make sure it’s the one with antiseptic and bandages.”

You don’t even need to check he’s listened, because you can hear the frantic, obedient pattering of his feet fading away in the distance as you unwrap the blood-drenched towel from the hand in your hold. Namjoon’s busted up limb takes all of your attention the second you lay eyes on it properly, your stomach filling with an unpleasant, nameless cocktail of sensations. 

“Holy shit,” you say, unable to contain your wince.  “Tell me you didn’t get this from fighting them bare-knuckle.”

Namjoon has enough capacity for humour right now that he lets out a little huff. Yoongi fills you in before Namjoon has a chance. 

“No, though I almost did.” His expression is dark, the heat of his anger reaching you even when it’s not directed your way. “They were probably drinking before coming here, since they had a few bottles they threw into the mix.”

That explains the gashes you’re seeing on Namjoon’s palm— it seems he caught one of the bottles, though you’re not sure whether it was already broken or whether it broke on impact. Thankfully, from what you can see, the gashes and lacerations aren’t too deep and shouldn’t cause lasting damage, but they’ll definitely take a while to heal, and one or two of them look like they will need stitches. 

“Alright,” you begin, sighing softly. “I’ll do what I can to fix this up for now, but you’re going to have to go to the ER, because some of these will need stitches…”

You look up, reading the expressions of everyone in attendance and knowing that they have all reached the same conclusion regarding Namjoon’s immediate fate as a boxer.

“Sorry, Namjoon,” you start, watching his features crumble ever so slightly into a look of resignation. “This isn’t going to heal in time for next week, and you definitely won’t be able to train for a while.”

It’s just as you announce that, that Jungkook returns with your box of first-aid goodies. Hoseok, who has remained surprisingly silent the whole time this conversation has gone on, takes the box from his hold and delivers it next to you. Surprising all of you, Namjoon is quick to look up and pin Jungkook with a grin.

“Well, since I can’t participate—how do you feel about making your Big Boy Boxing Debut, Jungkookie?”

Your friend is rooted to the spot in shock for a solid few moments, before he snaps out of it and an excited if slightly nervous expression filters onto his face. 

“I will defend your honour, Namjoon!” he declares, saluting stupidly. “Count on me!”

Cheesy of him, but you can’t help the smile that tugs your lips. You just hope it’s not too late-notice for him, and that Namjoon’s injuries really aren’t that serious, as you surmise.

x – x – x 

 The week passes quicker than you anticipate, and before you know it, it’s the night of the big match—Jungkook’s first big match, that is. Namjoon had done his best over the days to coach Jungkook on the particular fighting styles of the opponents he normally faces, and to everyone’s pleasant surprise, Jungkook has picked it all up with ease. 

You’re more surprised to say that you’re not even that nervous, as you sit waiting for the match to begin. Jungkook stands in one corner, his opponent from one of the more renowned rival gyms in the other. You prepare to be on standby in case either boxer is injured enough to need aid, but cross your fingers that if anything at least Jungkook will be alright. 

In the blink of an eye, the match begins and the first bout kicks off. Jungkook’s opponent is slightly stockier, likely pushing the upper limits of the weight class, and is the first to make an offensive move. The familiar sound of cushioned gloves making impact rings in the air and you find yourself tensing in your seat as you watch the two interchange blows. 

It’s pretty much neck-and-neck for a majority of the bouts. Some of them go quick, and others seem to consist of the longest three minutes of your life. Still, the match goes on, and the night is filled with the siren song of the crowd and the ring of the bell.

After a night of close-call bouts and baited breath, Jungkook finally emerges victorious. 

Ever the fan favourite, the crowd that has amassed erupt into cheers as the referee declares the end of the final bout and Jungkook is held up as the victor. With the match decided, the club members that had been watching ringside burst up and swarm around the young boxer who brought pride to the gym on his very first big match. The three boxers that usually occupy your thoughts wriggle their way up there too, and it’s Hoseok’s bright tone that pierces the ruckus of the crowd.

“Drinks at ours to celebrate our victor, Jungkookie!” he caws, rubbing Jungkook on the back in something akin to pride. “Members of King Hit Gym, we better see you all there!”

You mightn’t be a technical member, but the way you suddenly feel three sets of eyes on you tells you that you’re still more than invited. 

x – x – x

It’s three hours since the end of the match, and you’re more than a little tipsy.

You can safely say that you haven’t ever been to the house where Namjoon, Hoseok and Yoongi live, but you’re nothing short of impressed. It’s a three-storey townhouse, with three rooms— presumably one for each of them, though from what you’d glimpsed on the way to the bathroom earlier only one of them appears regularly lived in.

It didn’t take you long to ponder exactly why, considering the things you’ve accidentally witnessed in the past month.

Most of your time tonight was spent celebrating with Jungkook as he made the rounds and received congratulations from the rest of the club members. Music thrums through the building, bass vibrating pleasantly through your chest every time you pass the expensive speakers in the living room.

You’ve paced yourself well, all things considered. All you had to do to avoid an early night ending in blackout drunkenness was steer clear of Jungkook whenever he made his way by the kitchen to refill— he’d learnt his mixing skills from Jimin, a verified alcoholic back in the day who spent his time in university trying to throw together his own signature cocktail with the same alcohol percentage as absinthe.

So you’re relatively proud of yourself to only be a little over tipsy at this point in the night. You can’t really say the same for the rest of the club members, though— even Jungkook has reached a point where he is stumbling and giggling. Which, of course, led to the event that splattered drink all over your shirt. 

You’re wandering up the stairs now, mind occupied with everything but what you’re doing as you absentmindedly seek the bathroom to clean your shirt. You haven’t seen any of the homeowners in a while, actually, which is kind of disappointing because you’re really longing for some eye candy right about now. They disappeared about ten minutes ago, and you figured it was just to socialise or maybe grab more snacks but you haven’t paid it much thought since then, and now you’re realising they hadn’t returned to the party yet. 

Reaching the top of the stairs, you pause for a moment to try and recall which room is the bathroom. There’s two of them, you remember being told, one ensuite and a main bathroom. There was also a third one on the first floor, but that was too far for you to attempt reaching it. Unable to remember which door is which, you simply decide to wing it and march on forward towards the first door to enter your line of sight. You’re pretty stable, but your head is kind of fuzzy, so your hand hovers by the wall as you walk just in case you stumble. 

Upon reaching the door in question, it takes you about a second and a half to realise the room you have reached is not the one you want, and another second for the shock to reach you.

Because, for the third time in a month, you have walked in on something you shouldn’t have. 

Except this time, you can’t seem to pull yourself away as fast as you should. 

It’s Hoseok and Namjoon tangled before you this time, in a position much more intimate than the last you’d seen. Their lips are locked, Hoseok straddling one of Namjoon’s thighs with one hand tangled in inky locks and the other rubbing over his crotch, where a prominent bulge makes itself known even to your eyes. Just when you remember that you should really be on your way, their lips break apart and Namjoon’s head tilts back, a sinful, velvet moan climbing from his throat as Hoseok leans to pepper it with kisses. It’s mesmerising, and you forget you’re even there as you watch the red-haired man’s hand climb up Namjoon’s stomach and then slip beneath the waistband of his jeans. 

You come back to yourself when you feel a familiar tightness in your own pants and a throb between your legs— of course, you’re hard. You’re too hazy-brained to even be ashamed of it right now. It does pierce through the fog, though, that you’re intruding on something you’re not meant to see. Like you’re trying to move limbs filled with lead, you start to drag your feet and turn around. 

You barely get a step in before you’re face to face with someone strikingly familiar, and your heart drops in your chest before kicking back into motion at double speed. 

“You always seem to enjoy watching, don’t you?” Yoongi’s question catches you off guard and puts you on the spot— before you can panic, though, his lips curl in a kittenish smile. “It’s alright, we already know you do, baby boy.”

Your heart stutters in your chest, stomach flipping giddily. Your eyes track it with surprising clarity as Yoongi’s hand— strong and sculpted and deliciously vascular, as you’d admired many times before— rises to caress your cheek, and he leans forward until his lips brush the sensitive skin of your earlobe.

“Why don’t you join us, this time?”

You find yourself nodding before you even realise it, but it’s definitely a decision you would make again any other day. 

You feel Yoongi smile against your ear, and then he is pressing a soft kiss to your cheek and pulling back. That same strong hand winds around your wrist and you’re tugged into the room, the door shutting behind you. The two on the bed barely bat an eye at the arrival of their third lover and an extra figure, merely smiling dazedly at the two of you. 

“Baby boy is finally gonna join us?” Hoseok asks, eyes lidded and dark to match the tousled look of his hair and clothes. His words are slightly slurred but the keenness to his gaze tells you he is still very much aware of everything he does. 

Yoongi hums in confirmation, coming up behind you to wind his arms lazily around your waist and rest his chin on your shoulder. “Mhmm. Don’t stop on our account— why don’t you give him a bit of a show to start, hm?”

Hoseok needs no further prompting, a grin all you glimpse before he is diving back to crash his lips into Namjoon’s, hand moving inside his pants and eliciting a deep, throaty groan. It makes your own cock throb in need, and almost as though he reads your mind, Yoongi's voice sounds in your ear once more. 

“You already hard, baby boy? Like what you see?”

Something about the husky quality of the boxer’s voice makes a shudder roll down your spine, a light whine slipping from your throat. Yoongi presses soft kisses to the skin of your neck as you watch the two on the bed undress each other between heated kisses. 

“Want me to touch you, baby boy?”

As though possessed, your head begins nodding before you even think to act on the urge. Yoongi requires no further prompting; he begins to kiss and suckle along the column of your neck while his hands move— one creeps up beneath your shirt to flick a thumb over your nipple, and the other slips down, down, down beneath the waistband of your pants and boxers, until that hand you admire so much is slipping around your cock and squeezing just enough to make you gasp out a moan. 

Pleasure and desire wind together to mix with the tipsy haze in your mind, and you’re more than happy to surrender yourself to the current situation. Slowly, you’re urged over to the bed, eyes still locked on the pair occupied there as Yoongi’s hand works magic on your length. You don’t even bother attempting to stem the gasps and moans tumbling forth because you know at this point it would probably be futile. 

Hoseok has now stripped Namjoon entirely and is making his way down his body with his mouth, pressing a kiss against every inch of golden skin he can reach. Namjoon is quite generously endowed, and you can’t tear your eyes away as Hoseok finally reaches the apex of his thighs and begins to lavish attention to Namjoon’s flushed cock. 

You can feel Yoongi grinding lightly against you as he strokes your own aching member, the two of you observing the show before you with rapt attention. At some point you’re rid of your shirt and the air feels cool against your flushed skin, your upper body leaning back against Yoongi contentedly. The noises spilling from Namjoon’s throat are downright sinful as Hoseok’s mouth sinks down on him with practiced ease.

It’s almost too much for you, really. Almost sensory overload. You’re urged ever so slowly to the bed, and as you sit on the plush mattress you happily oblige as Yoongi begins to undo and remove the jeans that are now uncomfortably tight. Your boxers follow soon after and then you’re joining the other two in their nudity. As though sensing the change in plans, Hoseok pulls off of Namjoon’s cock with a ‘pop’, licking his lips and ignoring the whine in protest that Namjoon lets out. “In a minute, bubs.”

Yoongi leans over to the bedside table to retrieve lube and something else you soon realise to be condoms as he tosses them on the bed between him and Hoseok. 

“Are you alright with this?”

You turn at the sound of Yoongi’s voice, eyes meeting his own— though heady and full of desire, they’re also determined. You don’t doubt that if you say no, he will stop things here.

“Yes,” you confirm, and you watch as a smile pulls over Yoongi’s face.

“Excellent. Now, lean forward, baby boy. This might be a little cold.”

Without question, you allow him to shift and bend your body as needed, knees digging into the plush bedding. Tilting your head up, you manage to meet the eyes of Namjoon, who is in a similar position to yourself, just in time for you to gasp at the sudden cold sensation at your ass. 

You’d think by now you would be used to the feeling of lube— you’re immediately distracted from that though at the sensation of Yoongi’s finger beginning to toy around your asshole. You allow yourself to relax as much as possible, turning your attention to Namjoon and Hoseok and simply enjoying the sensations Yoongi is eliciting. 

Namjoon’s hand raises, cupping your cheek and dragging down ever so gently. Hoseok catches the movement and lets out a coo, eyes boring into your own. 

“Wanna kiss him, baby boy? Go ahead, he’s good at it.”

You don’t need to be told twice, and neither does Namjoon. You find Hoseok definitely isn’t wrong as Namjoon’s lips meet your own, the kiss quickly turning heated as his mouth moves against your own. He swallows down your moans as Yoongi’s fingers begin to stretch you slowly, one by one.

You lose so much time in the hypnotic motion of bodies against your own that before you know it there is a gentle yet firm hand against your shoulder pulling you back from the man before you. 

“Ready, baby?”

You nod, and soon after hear the familiar tear of foil before the head of Yoongi’s cock is pressing against your hole. You take a deep breath in, allowing your eyes to flutter closed as he begins to press himself in and stretch you open bit by bit. The burn isn’t particularly painful tonight, and to be honest sometimes you’re partial to the sensation. 

By the time Yoongi is fully seated within you, you’re almost panting, soft moans escaping unwittingly. Through the fog of pleasure currently addling your brain, you hear similar noises in front of you and realise Namjoon must be in a similar state. Unconsciously, your hand stretches out, seeking contact, and manages to entwine with the large, warm one you identify as Namjoon’s good hand. 

As soon as Yoongi receives the green light from you, he begins to move. The sensations of him dragging against your walls are enough to almost drive you mad, especially at the slow pace he’s set. It isn’t long before he picks up though, and soon rough the slap of his hips against your ass is one of the many sinful noises echoing in the room, muffled by the loud music still booming beyond the bedroom walls. 

“O-oh, fuck,” you moan, barely coherent enough to respond to Namjoon’s seeking lips. Absently, you hear Yoongi’s soft groans and low murmured praises, and it makes your heart skip a beat. 

“Good boy,” he all but purrs, hand caressing down your spine before finding purchase at your hips. 

Time blurs and you’re wound so tight that it isn’t long before you feel yourself approaching that edge, your hand lowering to begin stroking your own cock again in an effort to reach your high faster. It’s one deep stroke that hits you in all the right places that is your undoing, and with a cry you’re cumming hard, spots appearing behind your eyes. 

The sudden tightness around his cock has Yoongi stilling, a low, drawn out groan sounding from his throat as he joins you in your high, throbbing inside you. Your arms are a little too weak to continue holding you, but he seems to be in tune enough that he notices and his own slip around you, easing you into his embrace as he adjusts on the mattress and hums into your skin. 

Namjoon and Hoseok aren’t far behind you, the two of them reaching their own end not long after. Namjoon flops against the bed, spent and Hoseok hops up to retrieve a bin and some wipes to clean up a bit before he too flops across the mattress, smacking Namjoon’s ass as he does and eliciting a brief whine in protest. 

“Well fuck,” you hum, staring absently at the ceiling. Yoongi snorts, pulling you closer, and like they all share a hive mind you’re very suddenly in the middle of a cuddle pile as the other two join in. 

“Beats just watching, doesn’t it?” One of them queries, probably Hoseok— you’re too tired to really discern it. 

“Mhm,” you respond, basking in content. “Four’s company, I suppose.”

There are a few hums of agreement, and then comfortable silence falls over the room. You find yourself smiling as you sink into the most content sleep you’ve had in a while, in the arms of the three boxers who have nestled their way into your heart one by one 

[lumiolivier]

The Good Old Days Chapter 29: A Walk of Shame Looks Good on You

A/N: Hi, friends! Look, I'm sitting here waiting for bleach to process, so I got a little time to kill. But before we get into anything fun, we need to take care of some business first. Nothing bad. It's just a little housekeeping before I leave for Michigan.

I know I said you'd be taken care of while I'm gone. Well, I lied. I thought you'd be taken care of, but I'm going to be away from my computer and away from my desk and you're going to have to wait a couple weeks until the next update, ok? I hope that's alright with you. I really did try, guys. I tried my damnedest. So, we'll be back in August. I promise. And I love you x

I’m pretty sure I left Veronica in capable hands. At least I sure as hell hope so. Once my shift came to an end, I wanted nothing more than to go home and crash. Granted, I knew I’d be up half the night, worrying about Veronica and hoping she made it home ok, but I’m sure she’ll be alright. If all else fails, she can kick ass with the best of them. And Tessa didn’t seem like the type to steal one of Veronica’s kidneys. I hope things work out with those two.

All I wanted now was to go home and crash, though. It’s been a long ass day. And a long ass night. And all I wanted was my bed. That sounded downright heavenly. And maybe a drink or two. Just a little something, something to cap off the night. It’s not like I got to have one with the Old Man. I was busy working the bar. Even though I wasn’t technically supposed to. But I digress. Still, a drink sounded nice. Both my brothers had their vices. César smoked like a chimney and I’m not sure how legal Tony’s vices were. I knew he kept them in the house, but I wasn’t going to tell anyone. I don’t think he even knew I knew.

Once I got home, I went straight into the bedroom and fell into my bed without a sound. Good. I could use about twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep. But I knew better than that. I took a quick hit from the tequila bottle and shut my eyes. In a perfect world, I wouldn’t just get that twelve hours of sleep, but I’d have something better in place of my body pillow. But I knew that wasn’t happening. Unless one of my brothers were stupid enough to try and be my little spoon. We were close, but we weren’t that close.

The next morning, I woke up to an empty house. Tony and César weren’t in their beds. Mama had already left for work. I wasn’t sure what to do with myself. The world was my oyster. At least this time, I didn’t wake up wanting to walk into oncoming traffic, so I got that going for me. And even with this new lease on life (despite me still wishing like hell that Vanessa as on the next flight home), I needed a way to kill the day before I had to go play in the Narrows.

Breakfast? Maybe I start with breakfast. And it happens to be eleven o’clock. I knew where I could get the best breakfast in the city. Just down the block. I threw my shoes on and headed toward that beautiful, bright green oasis in the middle of this concrete jungle. Dios los bendiga…I’m home. Well, I’d always feel at home in the city I loved, but this? This seemed a little more like home than I could’ve ever anticipated in my life.

“Buenos dias, niño!” Abuela greeted me. And right there. Right there was the cure for what ailed me. If only I had the energy to come here yesterday morning. Maybe I wouldn’t have been in the funk I’ve been in since a flight left JFK for Rome yesterday morning. But I digress. I still had Abuela.

“Morning,” I melted inside.

“Regular order then?” she assumed.

“Si, por favor,” I nodded, “And uh…You know how you’ve been making my horchata with…”

“Espresso in your horchata,” Abuela knew me all too well, “Of course, Frankie. I can tell when you had a rough night. I’m not going to ever say no to you and you should know better than to even think I would.”

“Sorry, Abuela,” I giggled a bit. Yep. This woman would always be the cure for whatever ailed me. In this case, it’s depression and a certain kind of homesickness I’ve never had before.

“It’s alright, mijo,” she let it go, “You seem off. And not like you went out with Tony and César last night and came home an hour after closing time. Is everything alright?”

“It’s been better,” I brushed her off, “But nothing you need to worry about.”

Because that was for me to worry about. I didn’t need to put that burden on Abuela’s shoulders. As good as a vent would probably do me, she didn’t need that. And I didn’t really feel like getting into it. Abuela had enough to take care of. And I needed a distraction more than anything. That’s half the reason why I liked coming here. I watch Abuela carefully craft my newborn baby burrito with love while I get to throw down horchata. Occasionally, I get some words of wisdom from her. It’s a good time. Besides, this food truck had more than just Abuela memories attached to it. It had…

BAM!

I felt a tiny pair of arms wrap around my waist and a face in the middle of my back, “We really need to stop running into each other like this, Frankie.”

Gracias a dios, she made it home ok. And I’m assuming with both kidneys. There’s the other memories Abuela’s food truck has…It’s where it all began again. If I never would’ve met the little spazz at my hip, who knows if I would’ve gotten my second shot with her sister? But I don’t know…I think I like her sister. Just a little bit. And…Well…She’s not too bad either. I spun Veronica around and got a decent look at her. And she looked like hell, but in the best way.

“Let’s see,” I teased her a bit, “Last night’s clothes, hair a mess, a hoody that does not belong to you, smudged mascara under your eyes…What? No broken heel, Veronica?”

“No,” Veronica rolled her eyes, “You’re mixing me up with my sister again, Frankie. That’s a Vanessa thing. I don’t wear heels. More of a platform leather boots type myself, but that’s just me.”

“Still,” I threw an arm around her, “Walks of shame look cute on you, Veronica.”

“Last night was fun,” Veronica leaned on me, stilling a drink from my horchata, “I fucking owe you.”

“For what?” I giggled, “I didn’t do anything.”

“My ass, you didn’t!” she squealed, “Dude, it’s not every day someone like Tessa walks into a bar that I just happen to be at for the night. That kind of serendipity doesn’t happen for someone like me.”

“I’d be careful about whose love story you’re poking at there, Veronica,” I argued, “Because…Uh…Didn’t we meet because of a relationship that started that very same way?”

“We met right here,” Veronica reminded me, “Because someone was too chicken shit to call Vanessa on his own and needed a wingman.”

“Call last night me paying you back,” I threw a ten on the window, “Abuela?”

“Si, Frankie?” she popped out, “Necesitas algo?”

“She does,” I ordered for her, “Before she slurps down all of my horchata.”

“I’m a thirsty bitch,” Veronica shrugged, “Sue me.”

“Gladly.”

“I got dibs on Vanessa.”

“Dammit…” I grumbled to myself, “Alright. I respectfully withdraw and I’ll just be over here doing other things. Don’t worry about me.”

“You’re just mad she’d represent me first,” Veronica laughed.

“And Abuela,” I added, “If you wanted to add extra spit to her taquitos, I wouldn’t say no.”

“Francisco!” Abuela snapped, “No! Sabes que nunca lo haría!”

“It’s a joke,” I backed off, “Just a little joke. A little ha, ha. Sorry…I know you wouldn’t.”

“Es verdad…” Abuela wrapped my burrito up and got started on Veronica’s taquitos, “Honestly, Frankie…I’m disappointed.”

“It’s alright, Abuela,” Veronica let it go, “I knew he meant it with love.”

“So,” I wondered, “What happened after you and Tessa left the Narrows?”

“We went out,” Veronica’s face lit up, “There’s a club about five blocks down from her apartment building. Her band played!”

“I didn’t know she was in a band.” But I could tell she at least played by the state of her fingers.

“I didn’t either until last night,” she swooned, “And she’s damn good at it! I’ve never seen someone jam like that. She’s much better than any of the local bands around here. Hell, at one point, I didn’t think she even needed the rest of the band. She was amazing on her own. But it’s more than just that. You should’ve seen it, Frankie. She’s…She’s too cool for me. I know I’m a pretty cool bitch, but she’s even cooler than I am.”

“Shut up,” I settled her, “There’s no way.”

“It’s true!” Veronica went on, “When we went back to her apartment, she showed me this big, beautiful bong that she blew herself! And it was so fucking pretty. It was probably a couple feet long, but it was black and hot pink and a neon green and this really pretty smoky electric blue and I have never wanted something more in my life. Dear god, it’s gorgeous. We burned one and went to sleep. No sex, no nothing. Just…Neither one of us wanted to sleep alone and Tessa wasn’t going to make me go back home. So, we didn’t. So, I laid there with her and…Frankie, I almost cried. It felt so fucking nice for a change.”

“Well, I’m happy for you, kiddo,” I kissed the top of her head, “And I’m glad I could help. But like I said. You helped me get Vanessa. Why shouldn’t you get Tessa, too?”

“I appreciate it,” Veronica threw her arms around me, “Seriously, Frankie…I’ve never had a serious girlfriend before. I’ve had casuals, but never anything serious.”

“Are you already thinking serious?” I gasped.

“Kind of…” a quick flash of red brushed across her cheeks, “But I don’t need your judgment, Mr. I’ve known Vanessa for six months and I damn near proposed to her the other night.”

“I never said there was any sort of judgment,” I assured her, grabbing her order from the window, “Gracias, Abuela.”

“De nada, cariño,” Abuela smiled, “Please. Go on. This is the most excitement I’ve gotten all morning. I’m invested.”

“I need to be getting home,” Veronica winced, “Before I end up playing into Victoria’s kidnapping fantasies, too.”

“Alright,” I hugged her tight, “And again, my offer still stands.”

“I know,” she nuzzled into me, “If Victoria becomes too much for me to handle and I can’t suppress the urge to choke her anymore, I know where you live. I know where you sleep. I know where you work when you’re working legit. And I’m more than welcome any time I want.”

“That’s my girl,” I kissed her forehead, “I love you, Veronica.”

“I love you, too, Frankie.” Don’t get me wrong. I love Vanessa dearly. But damn, having Veronica here is going to be a major help to my psyche while she’s gone. Mostly because I don’t think Veronica’s going to let me be depressed and beat myself up for letting Vanessa go to Italy. That wasn’t my decision to make. Hell, it was barely hers. Because there’s no way this doesn’t reek of Victoria’s meddling.

Instead of getting pissed like I probably should, I reveled in the fact that she was getting a whole different life experience. And if anyone could relate to what that experience was, it’d be me. My first time in Spain in my cognitive memory was the weirdest culture shock. I had grown up in New York. I knew nothing about life there except from what Mama and my brothers told me. But I had nothing firsthand. Until I was processing everything at four years old. Getting on the plane, making a layover in London, wondering why the hell everyone talked so weird. It’s not that I didn’t know the language. Mama made damn sure of that. To the point where I remember her bitching at Tony or César for speaking to me in English.

But Vanessa wasn’t dealing with Spain. Vanessa was in Italy. I didn’t even know if she was there yet. She had to be. Unless she had that same layover last a little longer than what she’d like. Than what I’d like. But they happen. It’s not like we had control over that. Still, I went home to an empty apartment and thumbed through the TV, hoping there’d be something on. Something to hold my attention long enough while I ate. I mean, Willow was on, but I’d rather not watch Willow for the millionth time just because it was on.

Ring, ring.

Huh…It’s not often the phone rings. I got up from the couch and grabbed it, just to shut it up, “Bueno…”

“Buona sera, amore mio…” a soft, husky voice greeted me on the other end. And I’m not too proud to admit I damn near broke down, “Quanto mi manchi così…”

“Vanessa…?” I could hardly get her name out of my mouth.

“Hi, baby…” her voice broke a bit. It’s good to know I’m not alone here, but that was one of the worst sounds in the world. I couldn’t tell if those were tears of joy or tears of pain. I’m going to go out on a limb, cross my fingers, and say it’s joy.

“Fuck, it does my heart good to hear your voice again,” I gushed, “Are you alright? You doing ok?”

“Ok as I can be, I suppose,” Vanessa reported, “I mean…It’d be nice if I was there with you, but…”

“I know, I know,” I settled her, “Can’t get what we want. But look on the bright side. We got this.”

“Yeah, we do…” I swear to God, I heard a smile in that girl’s voice. And in that moment, I knew everything was going to be ok.

[fibropdx]

6/20 morning

It's kind of weird to me how, after not eating anything for at least an hour, I can go to bed with zero intestinal cramping and then wake up halfway through the night with minor cramping. I take Magnesium and Turmeric at night before going to bed (along with a ton of water), so you'd think that would help do the opposite. Maybe it's the casing on the pills? I could always dissolve the Magnesium in water, but I've tried taking my Turmeric that way and ooh nooo is that not happening 😂 I've even tried spicing it up, making golden milk, etc. To get the 1,000mg I take daily is just too much for my taste buds to handle.

Breakfast today: I almost made my breakfast crumble again, but decided I wanted to switch it up so I don't get too bored with that. So, quesadilla with shredded mozzarella and cheddar cheese on two white corn tortillas, toasted in the toaster oven. I have nothing against the microwave, but sometimes waiting a few extra minutes for a nice crunch is worth it.

Having minor cramping at a level 3 about an hour after eating. Not really sure if it's from the quesadilla. I've had them recently with no cramps, so I'll put this on my "try again" list. Would really like to be able to eat cheese, please!

I'm going to my PCPs office today to try out FSM Therapy. For those of you Pastafarians, no, not that FSM, as much as I would love some kind of therapy to do with pasta. FSM Therapy is Frequency Specific Microcurrent Therapy. It sounds like my PCP has seen really great results for his Fibro patients who have taken the time to really do it, so I'm hoping it will help. I guess they can essentially tell the machine what is ailing a patient, and it sends microcurrents to the body specific to those ailments to treat it. It's different from a TENS/E-Stim unit (which I also use).

One of the huge reasons I stick with my PCPs clinic is because he created his practice to make it easy for people to receive treatment. In the US, it's expensive to be healthy if you have chronic illnesses or injuries. So, I'm very fortunate to have a PCP who charges these treatments as a copay to my insurance, which is much more affordable than the $200/session these can cost at other practices if insurance won't cover it.

Also, a break from my health. Can I introduce anyone reading this to the source of good in my life? In the picture is Max, my bearded dragon. He was rehomed to us by a good friend in January this year. He's the reason I get up in the morning and make the trek to the living room instead of staying in bed all day. This little scaley nugget is a cuddler, and he loves to take naps with me on the couch when I'm low on spoons and need to sleep most of the day. He's a stubborn little guy, but I think there's a lot to be said about mental health and having a pet. He's a good little guy and has gotten me through some rough days. He helps me focus on projects instead of thinking about my health all day (the hubby and I are currently working on setting up a new, super big enclosure for him to enjoy). Yay, pets!

[serenawsorrell]

The Tea Witch

[This piece of original fiction is a bit different. I asked Facebook friends for up to three words (I asked for nouns, but one misread and though verbs). Altogether I got twelve words. From these twelve words I had to make a story. I had a rough outline in two hours, and wrote the story in about four (there was more research involved than I expected). So, please enjoy this madlib-esque writing experiment! At the end of the post I’ll tag on the twelve words.]

The Tea Witch

by S.W. Wildwood (homepage) (facebook) (twitter) (goodreads)

Drinking tea at a quarter past one was an important part of Valentina’s daily routine. Of course, Winifred drank her tea as well, though being a hippopotamus calf, she drank mangrove root tea. After tea time, Valentina would tend to her garden. Oh, it was one of her greatest joys, aside from tea time itself. In her garden grew all kinds of plants in rows she had prepared with very much care. With that chore accomplished it would be time for her botany studies. A plant witch of her tender age had to start learning early in order to know every bloom and bark there could be. After studying, it would be time for tea once again, and dinner, followed by a bath and then bed for Winifred, who used such a large tub. Valentina would stay up a little later to look at the stars. From the roof of her cottage it was quite a sight, then she’d join Winifred in their bed of heather and lavender.

            Every day went much the same way and Valentina was glad. She had moved away, far from the bustling cities, with their lights and their noise and their never ending crowds. They frightened Winifred terribly, and Valentina too, had to admit they’d made her uneasy. Life in her valley was more splendid by far. The valley was the place proper a young witch could study in peace, and grow her plants without worry, aside from Winifred’s occasional frolicking. Out in the garden, in their neat, little rows grew, chamomile and mint, roses and lilies, jasmine and peonies, thistle and catnip, nettles and clover, even skullcap and yarrow. All around the garden, like stationed guards, stood trees of all sorts, the tea tree, of course, along with willow, spruce, and birch, and even some red fynbos bushes spread in between. They were all meant for the blending of tea. For nothing relaxed her nerves more and young Valentina, you see, was very experimental.

            Her porcelain teacup half-emptied Valentina was just pondering what sort of tea she’d prepare for dinner when there came a great thump! Bump! Galumph! And even a whumph! Winifred scurried from her bowl of mangrove tea, hid under the lacy tablecloth where she shivered like a nervous bride. It was very clear whatever was outside Valentina would have to face it alone. Though a little scared, she didn’t worry terrible much, for she knew all of those living in the (usually) quiet, peaceful valley. Valentina set her teacup down and stood. She straightened her pleats and her plaits and went for the door. The witch took a deep breath and opened the door. She very nearly closed it at once for what she saw on the other side. For all of those who made home in the valley this was a thing, a creature of terrible size, she’d never seen or known.

            The doorknob shuddered in her small shaking hand. The thing rampaged on the meadow, not so far from her front gate. It was covered in long white hairs and speckled in black, fuzz grew along its spine and there was no face to discern. Valentina, who had at least some practice with creatures of terror, gave out a small greeting and asked for its name. At this the beast raised up one end, maybe its head, turned for Valentina’s cottage and crashed through her gate. It tore through the roses and tramped over thistles. Well, that did it. Valentina’s fear snapped like the petals and stems. She grabbed up her besom and waved it about hurling curses and plagues to drive it away.

            Valentina’s curses bounced off the beast like wet sponges. Her plagues sparked off the white wiry hair and black spots like little fireworks. Well, she had only herself to blame really. Valentina never studied curses and plagues, only plants and all of their uses, primarily tea. Still this creeper and crusher of plants had to go! She raised her willow branch broom again and caught sight of a green eye under all the muck. She stopped and watched. The monster trampled her plants, but it went for the trees. There it rubbed and it scratched as though it itched all over on every bit. Valentina saw a tail, fat and spongy, still a little green not turned that ghastly white. It was– but how!?

            Sphag the moss dragon was her dear friend, but he was usually covered from snout to tail tip in plush, squishy moss, most soft. He had shown her this plot, for it’d be best to grow plants, being so near the river. Sphag had flown to gather the saplings she needed. Why, he’d even given her some moss to try to make tea from the back of his horns. Long, thin, white drooping fibers now hung from his horns. The stuff covered his ears and his eyes, it grow in fluffs from between his toes and scales. Sphag quieted his rampage while he itched all his itches along rough bark and Valentina leaned in. Sphag had a terrible case of mildew it seemed. And, Valentina owed it to him, and her studies, to see that he was cured. Her very self, as a plant witch, was at stake.

            Although it unnerved her to see Sphag in such a monstrous state she inched ever closer, over snapped branches and stems, crushed petals and stamens, and tired awfully hard not to cry. Sphag, the infected, lifted his head when she was in reach. Again she saw that green eye, undoubtedly Sphag’s, but ready to rampage all over again. She entreated to Sphag with her usual greeting, a curtsy and wave. It seemed to placate him, perhaps somewhere, under all of the mildew a remnant of the moss dragon remained. The thought gave her hope, even as crepuscular rays filtered through the pollen and debris from the trees. With twilight upon them she’d put Winifred to bed, no bath tonight. She asked Sphag in simple words and a spell to his mind to please wait, only a short while. She’d return in a moment and she cure this dreadful ail. The words and the spell seemed to reach him at last, for he slumped the ground, all energy spent.

            Valentina went to work at once. First, there was Winifred who had to be fed and put into bed, she moaned once she realized she’d get no bath that night, but after a kind explanation Winifred went to bed as the brave hippo calf she was, knowing Sphag needed help more than she needed suds. With Winifred tucked away into dreams Valentina scoured her books for some cure. While she read a book she began a kettle of water boiling with the wave of a hand; without even looking she mixed the tea blend Sphag always loved best. Several ideas now floated in her head, there were a few possible reasons which might explain Sphag’s dreadful condition. So she called him inside to her tea service, all beautifully spread. There were buttery crumpets with marmalade made of star snapdragons and, of course, clotted cream for the scones.

            Sphag dragged his bulk through the front door she magically enlarged to save her poor walls from crumbling. The end of his snout all covered in white, scraggly hairs sniffed to find the tea. There came a moan from inside the mass, Sphag must recognize the sprig of cinnamon, she gasped in hope. A single black speckled claw touched the delicate teacup’s thin handle and, like a wave, mildew rippled from Sphag to the tea, all of it spoiled, and the cup too, left covered in white hairs and black specks. Valentina did her best not to show her disgust, although she did not take up Sphag’s paw to reassure him she’d make this all right. She declared aloud, instead, she knew it was a curse. And that was a start, somewhere, somehow, at the very least.

            Gathering her most prized tea leaves, harvested by the moon rabbits and sent from the stars. This time she gathered water from the river outside, where the moon was reflected, for the best effect. The moon leaves steeped in the moon reflection water for precisely three minutes and thirty-three seconds, not a tick more, and not a tick less. While the tea cooled, for it had to be for its purpose, Valentina searched for her tea-telescope, a personal invention. She unscrewed the lens, making the tealescope look more odd than before. It was long and cylindrical of course, but with none of the segments, for that’d let the tea out. So her work began! With tealescope in one hand and a cup of moon tea in the other Valentina was never more careful. She poured the precious moon tea down the long tapering neck of the tealescope. It was filled to the rim, leaving only a spoonful of moon tea left, she lamented. Sometimes friends were more important than tea, she told herself as she screwed back the lens.

            With a quick sip of the last of the moon tea, divine even cool, Valentina lifted the tea-filled telescope and looked not at the sky, but at Sphag instead. Though her classmates and teacher had mocked her tealescope none could deny it was wonderfully useful in finding the nest of a nasty curse. Unblinking, Valentina looked through the porcelain tealescope and through the moon tea from Sphag’s tail to his back, from his throat to his snout, and from– there! In his lungs was the source. And what a terrible curse it was for one of Sphag’s kind: Draco Pulmo Spirare. More simply, dragon’s lung mildew, the more Sphag breathed the farther the mildew grew. Why, his lungs were full of the stuff! Valentina would have to work fast!

            Out to the poor garden she ran, basket on arm. She gathered the crushed chamomile heads, valerian and lavender, skullcap and lemon balm. These she crushed up, the tea would taste a bit grassy, but it’d do its job quick. That job, namely, was to put Sphag to sleep. In a blue glass bottle she gathered oil from the tea tree and shoved a handful of fresh peppermint into her pocket. Back inside Valentina took little time to prepare the sleeping draught and Sphag took it without any fight, nice but concerning and no doubt the mildew to blame. Water diluted the tea tree oil and she set the bottle in front of Sphag’s snoring open mouth and popped on an odd cap with a coiled string off the top. Then, mask tied to her face and stuffed with minty leaves, Valentina began to fold herself up, smaller and smaller.

            Witches, you see, are by law required to choose two area of study. Valentina had chosen plants, and for her second she chose paper and all the ways to use it, the simplest was folding. Though folding oneself was not nearly as pleasant, she folded as small as she could and grabbed a great toothbrush as a knight wields his sword. Brush in one hand Valentina grabbed the hose she’d attached to the blue bottle and ran into Sphag’s mildewy mouth. Inside on his tongue black spots lined the walls and white hairs grew from the floor, making it difficult to wade through. Yet, still she went on, down and down and down his long throat until at last was a door she could scarcely make out the plaque that read: Left Lung.

            Her first battle was freeing the door of all the little roots hairs that held it firmly closed, when working these doors swung free to and fro. Oh, poor Sphag, how difficult it must have been to get this far. She decided at once she’d really forgive him for mussing her garden. At last the door opened with a quick snap and noxious air rushed out to choke Valentina. She was ready! She had come prepared! She flipped the switch on the nozzle and the hose sprayed and Valentina breathed through her mint-filled mask. The inside of Sphag’s lung thoroughly soaked the Draco Pulmo Spirare shriveled and broke, but it wasn’t enough. She’d have to scrub every corner of Sphag’s enormous lungs to make sure neither hair nor spot were left.

            And so, she did. Valentina batted strings of the clumpy mildew down from the lung roof overhead. She scrubbed the ceiling first, for it would be most difficult. Once cleared she rinsed it with the hose and washed it clean. Then she trudged through the muck that came up to her knees. She began in the farthest corner and scrubbed hard with the toothbrush. She pulled all the mildew out, sweeping and sloshing through the boggy water until she brushed it all out the Left Lung door and out through Sphag’s snoring mouth. Well, that was half her work done, she admired as she wiped sweat from her brow, but one doesn’t leave a war half won.

            Back inside she tromped, right up to the Right Lung door. She began the whole process right over again, all the way from the start. By the time she had scooped and pushed all the mucky water out the right lung and down off Sphag’s tongue the black spots had faded and the white hairs gone. Once outside again Valentina washed her brush with a bit of the water and then decided, just to be safe, she ought to flood his whole system. So, although, no more mildew she saw she rinsed each lung once more. It’d be even more awful, negligent even, if she left any spore to sprout again. Satisfied at last, and overwhelmingly tired, Valentina left Sphag and unfolded herself. She burned the toothbrush over the stove and poured what little water was left down the sink’s drain.

            Tired and sore she turned to look at Sphag, still sleeping, but his moss had returned and was lush, soft, springy, and plush. No remnant of the dreadful mildew remained. She had saved her dear friend and the dragon was again healthy and green. Valentina conjured up some paper and scribbled a note. She set the table for two and prepared the tea leaves for hot water and then outside she stumbled.

            Sphag woke at half ‘fore nine and drew a deep breath, amazed there was no more pain. He searched the room to thank Valentina, who he knew he could count on to know just how to save him. Instead the table was laid with dandelion jelly and apricot scones, two cups waited with clover tea in their strainers, and a folded note was tucked under the kettle that sat cold. Sphag took out his spectacles for he was very near sighted and read Valentina’s letter, which read:

Dearest Sphag, my dear mossy friend, The mildew is gone. Never fear, I cleaned every corner. As of yet I am very tired from being so small and cleaning so much, so, if you’ll please have tea and         breakfast with Winifred. I will be asleep on the roof outside, please don’t wake me until just before noon. All my love, Valentina

            So, Sphag turned on the kettle and caught himself in the mirror. True to her word all his moss hung long where it ought, and was short and fuzzy where it should. Winifred came tottering in at precisely nine o’clock and squeaked a happy laugh to see Sphag whom she knew. Sphag in turn did his duty well, preparing tea and scone for the hippopotamus calf. While Winifred ate Sphag tried to create a satisfactory story of how he’d been cursed, for Valentina would definitely ask. And though Draco Pulmo Spirare was terrible indeed, if Valentina found out he’d been cursed for cheating at cards with the old warlock in the north caves Valentina would devise something much worse. He had less than three hours to worry and fret, and think of a way to thank the small tea witch.

[Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed it, please follow me somewhere and reblog/share the story. The words I had to use were “calf, valley, unnerve, drive, toothbrush, crepuscular rays, lily, telescope, mildew, moss, placate, and tea service”.]